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When the service was ended, Fenwick turned to Aspatria and offered her his hand. She put hers into his, and so he led her down the aisle, and through the churchyard, to her own carriage. William had followed close. He wondered if Fenwick meant to take his wife with him, and he resolved to give him the opportunity to do so. But as soon as he perceived that the bridegroom would carry out his threat, and desert his bride at the church gates, he stepped forward and said, —

“That is enough, Sir Ulfar Fenwick. I have made you keep your word. I will care for your wife. She shall neither bear your name nor yet take anything from your bounty.”

Fenwick paid no heed to his brother-in-law. He looked at Aspatria. She was whiter than snow; she had the pallor of death. He lifted his hat and said, —

“Farewell, Lady Fenwick. We shall meet no more.”

“Sir Ulfar,” she answered calmly, “it is not my will that we met here to-day.”

“And as for meeting no more,” said Brune, with passionate contempt, “I will warrant that is not in your say-so, Ulfar Fenwick.”

As he spoke, Fenwick’s friend handed Will Anneys a card; then they drove rapidly away. Will was carefully wrapping his sister for her solitary ride back to Seat-Ambar; and he did this with forced deliberation, trying to appear undisturbed by what had occurred; for, since it had happened, he wished his neighbours to think he had fully expected it. And while so engaged he found opportunity to whisper to Aspatria: “Now, my little lass, bear up as bravely as may be. It is only one hour. Only one hour, dearie! Don’t you try to speak. Only keep your head high till you get home, darling!”

So the sad procession turned homeward, Aspatria sitting alone in her carriage, William and Brune riding on either side of her, the squires and dames bidden to the ceremony following slowly behind. Some talked softly of the affair; some passionately assailed William Anneys for not felling the villain where he stood. Gradually they said good-by, and so went to their own homes. Aspatria had to speak to each, she had to sit erect, she had to bear the wondering, curious gaze not only of her friends, but of the hinds and peasant-women in the small hamlets between the church and Seat-Ambar; she had to endure her own longing and disappointment, and make a poor attempt to smile when the children flung their little posies of late flowers into the passing carriage.

To the last moment she bore it. “A good, brave girl!” said Will, as he left her at her own room door. “My word! it is better to have good blood than good fortune: good blood never was beat! Aspatria is only a little lass, but she is more than a match for yon villain! A big villain he is, a villain with a latchet!”

The miserable are sacred. All through that wretched afternoon no one troubled Aspatria. Will and Brune sat by the parlour fire, for the most part silent. The rain, which had barely held off until their return from the church, now beat against the window-panes, and drenched and scattered even the hardy Michaelmas daisies. The house was as still as if there had been death instead of marriage in it. Now and then Brune spoke, and sometimes William answered him, and sometimes he did not.

At last, after a long pause, Brune asked: “What was it Fenwick’s friend gave you? A message?”

“A message.”

“You might as well say what, Will.”

“Ay, I might. It said Fenwick would wait for me a week at the Sceptre Inn, Carlisle.”

“Will you go to Carlisle?”

“To be sure I will go. I would not miss the chance of ‘throwing’ him, – no, not for ten years’ life!”

“Dear me! what a lot of trouble has come with just taking a stranger in out of the storm!”

“Ay, it is a venturesome thing to do. How can any one tell what a stranger may bring in with him?”

CHAPTER IV.
FOR MOTHER’S SAKE

In the upper chamber where Will had left his sister, a great mystery of sorrow was being endured. Aspatria felt as if all had been. Life had no more joy to give, and no greater grief to inflict. She undressed with rapid, trembling fingers; her wedding finery was hateful in her sight. On the night before she had folded all her store of clothing, and laid it ready to put in a trunk. She had been quite in the dark as to her destiny; the only thing that appeared certain to her was that she would have to leave home. Perhaps she would go with Ulfar from the church door. In that case Will would have to send her clothing, and she had laid it in the neatest order for the emergency.

On the top of one pile lay a crimson Canton crape shawl. Her mother had worn it constantly during the last year of her life; and Aspatria had put it away, as something too sacred for ordinary use. She now folded it around her shoulders, and sat down. Usually, when things troubled her, she was restless and kept in motion, but this trouble was too bitter and too great to resist; she was quiet, she took its blows passively, and they smote her on every side.

Could she ever forget that cruel ride home, ever cease to burn and shiver when she remembered the eyes that had scanned her during its progress? The air seemed full of them. She covered her face to avoid the pitying, wondering, scornful glances. But this ride through the valley of humiliation was not the bitterest drop in her bitter cup; she could have smiled as she rode and drank it, if Ulfar had been at her side. It was his desertion that was so distracting to her. She had thought of many sorrows in connection with this forced marriage, but this sorrow had never suggested itself as possible.

Therefore, when Ulfar bade her farewell she had felt as if standing on the void of the universe. It was the superhuman woman within her that had answered him, and that had held up her head and had strengthened her for her part all through that merciless ride. And the sight of her handsome, faithless lover, the tones of his voice, the touch of his hand, his half-respectful, half-pitying kindness, had awakened in her heart a tenfold love for him.

For she understood then, for the first time, her social and educational inferiority. She felt even that she had done herself less than justice in her fine raiment: her country breeding and simple beauty would have appeared to greater advantage in the white merino she had desired to wear. She had been forced into a dress that accentuated her deficiencies. At that hour she thought she could never see Mrs. Frostham again.

To these tempestuous, humiliating, heart-breaking reflections the storm outside made an angry accompaniment. The wind howled down the chimney and wailed around the house, and the rain beat against the window and pattered on the flagged walks. The darkness came on early, and the cold grew every hour more searching. She was not insensible to these physical discomforts, but they seemed so small a part of her misery that she made no resistance to their attack. Will and Brune, sitting almost speechless downstairs, were both thinking of her. When it was quite dark they grew unhappy. First one and then the other crept softly to her room door. All was as still as death. No movement, no sound of any kind, betrayed in what way the poor soul within suffered. No thread of light came from beneath the door: she was in the dark, and she had eaten nothing all day.

About six o’clock Will could bear it no longer. He knocked softly at her door, and said: “My little lass, speak to Will! Have a cup of tea! Do have a cup of tea, dearie!”

The voice was so unlike Will’s voice that it startled Aspatria. It told her of a suffering almost equalling her own. She rose from the chair in which she had been sitting for hours, and went to him. The room was dark, the passage was dark; he saw nothing but the denser dark of her figure, and her white face above it. She saw nothing but his great bulk and his shining eyes. But she felt the love flowing out from his heart to her, she felt his sorrow and his sympathy, and it comforted her. She said: “Will, do not fret about me. I am over-getting the shame and sorrow. Yes, I will have a cup of tea, and tell Tabitha to make a fire here. Dear Will, I have been a great care and shame to you.”

“Ay, you have, Aspatria; but I would rather die than miss you, my little lass.”

This interview gave a new bent to Aspatria’s thoughts. As she drank the tea, and warmed her chilled feet before the blaze, she took into consideration what misery her love for Ulfar Fenwick had brought to her brothers’ once happy home, the anxiety, the annoyance, the shame, the ill-will and quarrelling, the humiliations that Will and Brune had been compelled to endure. Then suddenly there flashed across her mind the card given to Will by Ulfar’s friend. She was not too simple to conceive of its meaning. It was a defiance of some kind, and she knew how Will would answer it. Her heart stood still with terror.

She had seen Will and Ulfar wrestling; she had heard Will say to Brune, when Ulfar was absent, “He knows little about it; when I had that last grip, I could have flung him into eternity.” It was common enough for dalesmen quarrelling to have a “fling” with one another and stand by its results. If Will and Ulfar met thus, one or both would be irremediably injured. In their relation to her, both were equally dear. She would have given her poor little life cheerfully for the love of either. Her cup shook in her hand. She had a sense of hurry in the matter, that drove her like a leaf before a strong wind. If Will got to bed before she saw him, he might be away in the morning ere she was aware. She put down her cup, and while she stood a moment to collect her strength and thoughts, the subject on all its sides flashed clearly before her.

A minute afterward she opened the parlour door. Brune sat bent forward, with a poker in his hands. He was tracing a woman’s name in the ashes, though he was hardly conscious of the act. Will’s head was thrown back against his chair; he seemed to be asleep. But when Aspatria opened the door, he sat upright and looked at her. A pallor like death spread over his face; it was the crimson shawl, his mother’s shawl, which caused it. Wearing it, Aspatria closely resembled her. Will had idolized his mother in life, and he worshipped her memory. If Aspatria had considered every earthly way of touching Will’s heart, she could have selected none so certain as the shawl, almost accidentally assumed.

She went direct to Will. He drew a low stool to his side, and Aspatria sat down upon it, and then stretched out her left hand to Brune. The two men looked at their sister, and then they looked at each other. The look was a vow. Both so understood it.

“Will and Brune,” the girl spoke softly, but with a great steadiness, – “Will and Brune, I am sorry to have given you so much shame and trouble.”

“It is not your fault, Aspatria,” said Brune.

“But I will do so no more. I will never name Ulfar again. I will try to be cheerful and to make home cheerful, try to carry on life as it used to be before he came. We will not let people talk of him, we will not mind it if they do. Eh, Will?”

“Just now, dear, in a little while.”

“Will, dear Will! what did that card mean, – the one Ulfar’s friend gave? You will not go near Ulfar, Will? Please do not!”

“I have a bit of business to settle with him, Aspatria, and then I never want to see his face again.”

“Will, you must not go.”

“Ay, but I must. I have been thought of with a lot of bad names, but no one shall think ‘coward’ of me.”

“Will, remember all I have suffered to-day.”

“I am not likely to forget it.”

“That ride home, Will, was as if I was going up Calvary. My wedding-dress was heavy as a cross, and that foolish wreath of flowers was a wreath of cruel thorns. I was pitied and scorned, till I felt as if my heart – my real heart – was all bruised and torn. I have suffered so much, Will, spare me more suffering. Will! Will! for your little sister’s sake, put that card in the fire, and stay here, right here with me.”

“My lass! my dear lass, you cannot tell what you are asking.”

“I am asking you to give up your revenge. I know that is a great thing for a man to do. But, Will, dear, you stand in father’s place, you are sitting in father’s chair; what would he say to you?”

“He would say, ‘Give the rascal a good thrashing, Will. When a man wrongs a woman, there is no other punishment for him. Thrash him to within an inch of his cruel, selfish, contemptible life!’ That is what father would say, Aspatria. I know it, I feel it.”

“If you will not give up your revenge for me, nor yet for father, then I ask you for mother’s sake! What would mother say to-night if she were here? – very like she is here. Listen to her, Will. She is saying, ‘Spare my little girl any more sorrow and shame, Will, my boy Will!’ – that is what mother would say. And if you hurt Ulfar you hurt me also, and if Ulfar hurts you my heart will break. The fell-side is ringing now with my troubles. If I have any more, I will go away where no one can find me. For mother’s sake, Will! For mother’s sake!”

The strong man was sobbing behind his hands, the struggle was a terrific one. Brune watched it with tears streaming unconsciously down his cheeks. Aspatria sunk at Will’s feet, and buried her face on his knees.

“For mother’s sake, Will! Let Ulfar go free.”

“My dear little lass, I cannot!”

“For mother’s sake, Will! I am speaking for mother! For mother’s sake!”

“I – I – Oh, what shall I do, Brune?”

“For mother’s sake, Will!”

He trembled until the chair shook. He dared not look at the weeping girl. She rose up. She gently moved away his hands. She kissed his eyelids. She said, with an irresistible entreaty: “Look at me, Will. I am speaking for mother. Let Ulfar alone. I do not say forgive him.”

“Nay, I will never forgive him.”

“But let him alone. Will! Will! let him alone, for mother’s sake!”

Then he stood up. He looked into Aspatria’s eyes; he let his gaze wander to the crimson shawl. He began to sob like a child.

“You may go, Aspatria,” he said, in broken words. “If you ask me anything in mother’s name, I have no power to say no.”

He walked to the window and looked out into the dark stormy night, and Brune motioned to Aspatria to go away. He knew Will would regain himself better in her absence. She was glad to go. As soon as Will had granted her request, she fell to the lowest ebb of life. She could hardly drag herself up the long, dark stairs. She dropped asleep as soon as she reached her room.

It was a bitter awakening. The soul feels sorrow keenest at the first moments of consciousness. It has been away, perhaps, in happy scenes, or it has been lulling itself in deep repose, and then suddenly it is called to lift again the heavy burden of its daily life. Aspatria stood in her cold, dim room; and even while shivering in her thin night-dress, with bare feet treading the polished oak floor, she hastily put out of her sight the miserable wedding-garments. A large dower-chest stood conveniently near. She opened it wide, and flung dress and wreath and slippers and cloak into it. The lid fell from her hands with a great clang, and she said to herself, “I will never open it again.”

The storm still continued. She dressed in simple household fashion, and went downstairs. Brune sat by the fire. He said: “I was waiting for you, Aspatria. Will is in the barn. He had his coffee and bacon long ago.”

“Brune, will you be my friend through all this trouble?”

“I will stand by you through thick and thin, Aspatria. There is my hand on it.”

About great griefs we do not chatter; and there was no further discussion of those events which had been barely turned away from tragedy and death. Murder and despairing love and sorrow might have a secret dwelling-place in Seat-Ambar, but it was in the background. The front of life went on as smoothly as ever; the cows were milked, the sheep tended, the men and maids had their tasks, the beds were made, and the tables set, with the usual order and regularity.

And Aspatria found this “habit of living” to be a good staff to lean upon. She assumed certain duties, and performed them; and the house was pleasanter for her oversight. Will and Brune came far oftener to sit at the parlour fireside, when they found Aspatria there to welcome them. And so the days and weeks followed one another, bringing with them those commonplace duties and interests which give to existence a sense of stability and order. No one spoke of Fenwick; but all the more Aspatria nursed his image in her heart and her imagination. He had dressed himself for his marriage with great care and splendour. Never had he looked so handsome and so noble in her eyes, and never until that hour had she realized her social inferiority to him, her lack of polish and breeding, her ignorance of all things which a woman of birth and wealth ought to know and to possess.

This was a humiliating acknowledgment; but it was Aspatria’s first upward step, for with it came an invincible determination to make herself worthy of her husband’s love and companionship. The hope and the object gave a new colour to her life. As she went about her simple duties, as she sat alone in her room, as she listened to her brothers talking, it occupied, strengthened, and inspired her. Dark as the present was, it held the hope of a future which made her blush and tingle to its far-off joy. To learn everything, to go everywhere, to become a brilliant woman, a woman of the world, to make her husband admire and adore her, – these were the dreams that brightened the long, sombre winter, and turned the low dim rooms into a palace of enchantment.

She was aware of the difficulties in her way. She thought first of asking Will to permit her to go to a school in London. But she knew he would never consent. She had no friends to whom she could confide her innocent plans, she had as yet no money in her own control. But in less than two years she would be of age. Her fortune would then be at her disposal, and the law would permit her to order her own life. In the mean time she could read and study at home: when the spring came she would see the vicar, and he would lend her books from his library. There was an Encyclopædia in the house; she got together its scattered volumes, and began to make herself familiar with its mélange of information.

In such efforts her heart was purified from all bitterness, wounded vanity, and impatience. Life was neither lonely nor monotonous, she had a noble object to work for. So the winter passed, and the spring came again. All over the fells the ewes and their lambs made constant work for the shepherds; and Aspatria greatly pleased Will by going out frequently to pick up the perishing, weakly lambs and succour them.

One day in April she took a bottle of warm milk and a bit of sponge and went up Calder Fell. On the first reach of the fell she found a dying lamb, and carried it down to the shelter of some whin-bushes. Then she fed it with the warm milk, and the little creature went to sleep in her arms.

The grass was green and fresh, the sun warm; the whins sheltered her from the wind, and a little thrush in them, busy building her nest, was making sweet music out of air as sweet. All was so glad and quiet: she, too, was happy in her own thoughts. A wagon passed, and then a tax-cart, and afterward two old men going ditching. She hardly lifted her head; every one knew Aspatria Anneys. When the shadows told her that it was near noon, she rose to go home, holding the lamb in her arms. At that moment a carriage came slowly from behind the hedge. She saw the fine horses with their glittering harness, and knew it was a strange vehicle in Ambar-Side, so she sat down again until it should pass. The lamb was in her left arm. She threw back her head, and gazed fixedly into the whin-bush where the thrush had its nest. Whoever it was, she did not wish to be recognized.

Lady Redware, Sarah Sandys, and Ulfar Fenwick were in the carriage. At the moment she stood with the lamb in her arms, Ulfar had known his wife. Lady Redware saw her almost as quickly, and in some occult way she transferred, by a glance, the knowledge to Sarah. The carriage was going very slowly; the beauty of the thrown-back head, the simplicity of her dress, the pastoral charm of her position, all were distinct. Ulfar looked at her with a fire of passion in his eyes, Lady Redware with annoyance. Sarah asked, with a mocking laugh, “Is that really Little Bo Peep?” The joke fell flat. Ulfar did not immediately answer it; and Sarah was piqued.

“I shall go to Italy again,” she said. “Englishmen may be admirable en masse, but individually they are stupid or cross.”

“In Italy there are the Capuchins,” answered Ulfar. He remembered that Sarah had expressed herself strongly about the order.

“I have just passed a week at Oxford among the Reverends; all things considered, I prefer the Capuchins. When you have dined with a lord bishop, you want to become a socialist.”

“Your Oxford friends are very nice people, Sarah.”

“Excellent people, Elizabeth, quite superior people, and they are all sure not only of going to heaven, but also of joining the very best society the place affords.”

“Best society!” said Ulfar, pettishly. “I am going to America. There, I hope, I shall hear nothing about it.”

“America is so truly admirable. Why was it put in such an out-of-the-way place? You have to sail three thousand miles to get to it,” pouted Sarah.

“All things worth having are put out of the way,” replied Ulfar.

“Yes,” sighed Sarah. “What an admirable story is that of the serpent and the apple!”

“Come, Ulfar!” said Lady Redware, “do try to be agreeable. You used to be so delightful! Was he not, Sarah?”

“Was he? I have forgotten, Elizabeth. Since that time a great deal of water has run into the sea.”

“If you want an ill-natured opinion about yourself, by all means go to a woman for it.” And Ulfar enunciated this dictum with a very scornful shrug of his shoulders.

“Ulfar!”

“It is so, Elizabeth.”

“Never mind him, dear!” said Sarah. “I do not. And I have noticed that the men who give bad characters to women have usually much worse ones themselves. I think Ulfar is quite ready for American society and its liberal ideas.” And Sarah drew her shawl into her throat, and looked defiantly at Ulfar.

“The Americans are all socialists. I have read that, Ulfar. You know what these liberal ideas come to, – always socialism.”

“Do not be foolish, Elizabeth. Socialism never comes from liberality of thought: it is always a bequest of tyranny.”

“Ulfar, when are you going to be really nice and good again?”

“I do not know, Elizabeth.”

“Ulfar is a standing exception to the rule that when things are at their worst they must mend. Ulfar, lately, is always at his worst, and he never mends.”

There was really some excuse for Ulfar; he was suffering keenly, and neither of the two women cared to recognize the fact. He had just returned from Italy with his father’s remains, and after their burial he had permitted Elizabeth to carry him off with her to Redware. In reality the neighbourhood of Aspatria drew him like a magnet. He had been haunted by her last, resentful, amazed, miserable look. He understood from it that Will had never told her of his intention to bid her farewell as soon as she was his wife, and he was not devoid of imagination. His mind had constantly pictured scenes of humiliation which he had condemned the woman he had once so tenderly loved to endure.

And that passing glimpse of her under the whin-bushes had revived something of his old passion. He answered his sister’s and Sarah’s remarks pettishly, because he wanted to be left alone with the new hope that had come to him. Why not take Aspatria to America? She was his wife. He had been compelled, by his sense of justice and honour, to make her Lady Fenwick; why should he deny himself her company, merely to keep a passionate, impulsive threat?

To the heart the past is eternal, and love survives the pang of separation. He thought of Aspatria for the next twenty-four hours. To see her! to speak to her! to hear her voice! to clasp her to his heart! Why should he deny himself these delights? What pleasure could pride and temper give him in exchange? Fenwick had always loved to overcome an obstacle, and such people cannot do without obstacles; they are a necessary aliment. To see and to speak with Aspatria was now the one thing in life worthy of his attention.

It was not an easy thing to accomplish. Every day for nearly a week he rode furiously to Calder Wood, tied his horse there, and then hung about the brow of Calder Cliff, for it commanded Seat-Ambar, which lay below it as the street lies below a high tower. With his glass he could see Will and Brune passing from the house to the barns or the fields, and once he saw Aspatria go to meet her brother Will; he saw her lift her face to Will’s face, he saw Will put her arm through his arm and so go with her to the house. How he hated Will Anneys! What a triumph it would be to carry off his sister unknown to him and without his say-so!

One morning he determined if he found no opportunity to see Aspatria that day alone he would risk all, and go boldly to the house. Why should he not do so? He had scarcely made the decision when he saw Will and Brune drive away together. He remembered it was Dalton market-day; and he knew that they had gone there. Almost immediately Aspatria left the house also. Then he was jealous. Where was she going as soon as her brothers left her? She was going to the vicar’s to return a book and carry him a cream cheese of her own making.

He knew then how to meet her. She would pass through a meadow on her way home, and this meadow was skirted by a young plantation. Half-way down there was a broad stile between the two. He hurried his steps, and arrived there just as Aspatria entered the meadow. There was a high frolicking wind blowing right in her face. It had blown her braids loose, and her tippet and dress backward; her slim form was sharply defined by it, and it compelled her to hold up both her hands in order to keep her hat on her head.

She came on so, treading lightly, almost dancing with the merry gusts to and fro. Once Ulfar heard a little cry that was half laughter, as the wind made her pirouette and then stand still to catch her breath. Ulfar thought the picture bewitching. He waited until she was within a yard or two of the stile, ere he crossed it. She was holding her hat down: she did not see him until he could have put his hand upon her. Then she let her hands fall, and her hat blew backward, and she stood quite still and quite speechless, her colour coming and going, all a woman’s softest witchery beaming in her eyes.

“Aspatria! dear Aspatria! I am come to take you with me. I am going to America.” He spoke a little sadly, as if he had some reason for feeling grieved.

She shook her head positively, but she did not, or she could not, speak.

“Aspatria, have you no kiss, no word of welcome, no love to give me?” And he put out his hand, as if to draw her to his embrace.

She stepped quickly backward: “No, no, no! Do not touch me, Ulfar. Go away. Please go away!”

“But you must go with me. You are my wife, Aspatria.” And he said the last words very like a command.

“I am not your wife. Oh, no!”

“I say you are. I married you in Aspatria Church.”

“You also left me there, left me to such shame and sorrow as no man gives to the woman he loves.”

“Perhaps I did act cruelly in two or three ways, Aspatria; but people who love forgive two or three offences. Let us be lovers as we used to be.”

“No, I will not be lovers as we used to be. People who love do not commit two or three such offences as you committed against me.”

“I will atone for them. I will indeed! Aspatria, I miss you very much. I will not go to America without you. How soon can you be ready? In a week?”

“You will atone to me? How? There is but one way. You shall, in your own name, call every one in Allerdale, gentle and simple, to Aspatria Church. You shall marry me again in their presence, and go with me to my own home. The wedding-feast shall be held there. You shall count Will and Brune Anneys as your brothers. You shall take me away, in the sight of all, to your home. Of all the honour a wife ought to have you must give me here, among my own people, a double portion. Will you do this in atonement?”

“You are talking folly, Aspatria. I have married you once.”

“You have not married me once. You met me at Aspatria Church to shame me, to break my heart with love and sorrow, to humble my good brothers. No, I am not your wife! I will not go with you!”

“I can make you go, Aspatria. You seem to forget the law – ”

“Will says the law will protect me. But if it did not, if you took me by force to your house or yacht, you would not have me. You could not touch me. Aspatria Anneys is beyond your reach.”

“You are Aspatria Fenwick.”

“I have never taken your name. Will told me not to do so. Anneys is a good name. No Anneys ever wronged me.”

“You refused my home, you refused my money, and now you refuse my name. You are treating me as badly as possible. The day before our marriage I sent to your brother a signed settlement for your support, the use of Fenwick Castle as a residence, and two thousand pounds a year. Your brother Will, the day after our marriage, took it to my agent and tore it to pieces in his presence.”

“Will did right. He knew his sister would not have your home and money without your love.”

She spoke calmly, with a dignity that became well her youth and beauty. Ulfar thought her exceedingly lovely. He attempted to woo her again with the tender glances and soft tones and caressing touch of their early acquaintance. Aspatria sorrowfully withdrew herself; she held only repelling palms toward his bending face. She was not coy, he could have overcome coyness; she was cold, and calm, and watchful of him and of herself. Her face and throat paled and blushed, and blushed and paled; her eyes were dilated with feeling; her pretty bow-shaped mouth trembled; she radiated a personality sweet, strong, womanly, – a piquant, woodland, pastoral delicacy, all her own.