CHAPTER VII.
“A ROSE OF A HUNDRED LEAVES.”
One morning in spring Aspatria stood in a balcony overlooking the principal thoroughfare of Rome,—the Rome of papal government, mythical, mystical, mediæval in its character. A procession of friars had just passed; a handsome boy was crying violets; some musical puppets were performing in the shadow of the opposite palace; a party of brigands were going to the Angelo prison; the spirit of Cæsar was still abroad in the black-browed men and women, lounging and laughing in their gaudy, picturesque costumes; and the spirit of ecclesiasticism lifted itself above every earthly object, and touched proudly the bells of a thousand churches. Aspatria was weary of all.
She had that morning an imperative nostalgia. She could see nothing but the 209 mountains of Cumberland, and the white sheep wandering about their green sides. Through the church-bells she heard the sheep-bells. Above the boy crying violets she heard the boy whistling in the fresh-ploughed furrow. As for the violets, she knew how the wild ones were blowing in Ambar wood, and how in the garden the daffodil-beds were aglow, and the sweet thyme humbling itself at their feet, because each bore a chalice. Oh for a breath from the mountains and the sea! The hot Roman streets, with their ever-changing human elements of sorrow and 210 mirth, sin and prayer, riches and poverty, made her sad and weary.
Sarah came toward her with a letter in her hand. “Ria,” she said, “this is from Lady Redware. Your husband will be in England very shortly.”
It was the first time Sarah had ever called Ulfar Aspatria’s husband. In conversation the two women had always spoken of him as “Ulfar.” The change was significant. It implied that Sarah thought the time had come for Aspatria to act decisively.
“I shall be delighted to go back to England. We have been twenty months away, Sarah. I was just feeling as if it were twenty years.”
Sarah looked critically at the woman who was going to cast her last die for love. She was so entirely different from the girl who had first won that love, how was it possible for her to recapture the same sweet, faithless emotion? She had a swift memory of the slim girl in the plain black frock whom she had seen sitting under the 211 whin-bushes. And then she glanced at Aspatria standing under the blue-and-red awning of the Roman palace. She was now twenty-six years old, and in the very glory of her womanhood, tall, superbly formed, graceful, calm, and benignant. Her face was luminous with intellect and feeling, her manner that of a woman high-bred and familiar with the world. Culture had done all for her that the lapidary does for the diamond; travel and social advantages had added to the gem a golden setting. She was so little like the sorrowful child whom Ulfar had last seen in the vicar’s meadow that Sarah felt instantaneous recognition to be almost impossible.
After some hesitation, Aspatria agreed to accept Sarah’s plan and wait in Richmond the development of events. At first she had been strongly in favour of a return to Seat-Ambar. “If Ulfar really wants to see me,” she said, “he will be most likely to seek me there.”