Love and Life: An Old Story in Eighteenth Century Costume
“Mammy Rolfe taught me to make my curtsey like a London lady,” said the
other child, the most advanced in manners.
“Aha! little pitchers have long ears; but, bless you, they don’t know
what it means,” said Dame Wheatfield, too glad to talk to check herself
on any account; “Not so much as a kiss for them, poor little darlings!
Folks say she does not let even Master Wayland kiss aught but her hands
for fear of her fine colours. A plague on such colours, I say.”
“Poor little things!” whispered Aurelia.
“You’ll be good to them, won’t you miss?”
“Indeed I hope so! I am only just come from home, and they will be all I
have to care for here.”
“Ay, you must be lonesome in this big place; but I’m right glad to have
seen you, miss; I can part with the little dear with a better heart, for
Mrs. Aylward don’t care for children, and Jenny Bowles is a rough wench,
wrapped up in her own child, and won’t be no good to the others. Go to
the lady, my precious,” she added, trying to put the little girl into
her cousin’s lap, but this was met with struggles, and vehement cries
of--
“No; stay with mammy!”
The little sister, who had not brought her nurse, was, however, well
contented to be lifted to Aurelia’s knee, and returned her caresses.
“And have you not a name, my dear? We can’t call you all missie.”
“Fay,” the child lisped; “Fayfiddly Wayland.”
“Lawk-a-daisy!” and Mrs. Wheatfield fell back laughing. “I’ll tell you
how it was, ma’am. When no one thought they would live an hour, Squire
Wayland he sent for parson and had ‘em half baptised Faith, Hope, and
Charity. They says his own mother’s was called Faith, and the other two
came natural after it, and would do as well to be buried by as aught. So
that’s what she means by Fay, and this here is Miss Charity.”
“She said something besides Faith.”
“Well, when my lady got about again, they say if she was mad at their
coming all on a heap, she was madder still at their name. Bible wasn’t
grand enough for her! I did hear tell that she throwed her slipper at
her husband’s head, and was like to go into fits. So to content her he
came down, and took each one to Church, and had a fine London name of my
Lady’s choosing tacked on in parson’s register for them to go by; but
to my mind it ain’t like their christened name. Mine here got called for
her share Amoretta.”
“A little Love,” cried Aurelia. “Oh, that is pretty. And what can your
name be, my dear little Fay? Will you tell me again?”
When repeated, it was plainly Fidelia, and it appeared that Hope had
been also called Letitia. As to age, Mrs. Wheatfield knew it was five
years last Michaelmas since the child had been brought to her from whom
she was so loth to part that she knew not how to go when her husband
came for her in his cart. He was a farmer, comfortably off, though very
homely, and there were plenty of children at home, so that she had been
ill spared to remain at the Park till Aurelia’s arrival. Thus she took
the opportunity of going away while the little one was asleep.
Aurelia asked where she lived now. At Sedhurst, in the next parish, she
was told; but she would not accept a promise that her charge should soon
be brought to visit her. “Better not, ma’am, thank you all the same,
not till she’s broke in. She’ll pine the less if she don’t see nor hear
nothing about the old place, nor Daddy and Sally and Davie. If you
bring her soon, you’ll never get her away again. That’s the worst of a
nurse-child. I was warned. It just breaks your heart!”
So away went the good foster-mother sobbing; and Aurelia’s charge began.
Fay claimed her instantly to explore the garden and house. The child had
been sent home alone on the sudden illness of her nurse, and had been
very forlorn, so that her cousin’s attention was a great boon to her.
Hope was incited to come out; but Jenny Bowles kept a jealous watch over
her, and treated every one else as an enemy; and before Aurelia’s
hat was on, came the terrible woe of Amoret’s awakening. Her sobs and
wailings for her mammy were entirely beyond the reach of Aurelia’s
soothings and caresses, and were only silenced by Molly’s asseveration
that the black man was at the door ready to take her into the dark room.
That this was no phantom was known to the poor child, and was a lurking
horror to Aurelia herself. No wonder that the little thing clung to her
convulsively, and would not let her hand go for the rest of the day,
every now and then moaning out entreaties to go home to mammy.
With the sad little being hanging to her hand, Aurelia was led by Fay
round their new abiding place. The house was of brick, shaped like the
letter H, Dutch, and with a tall wing, at each end of the main body,
projecting, and finishing in fantastic gables edged with stone. One
of these square wings was appropriated to Aurelia and her charges, the
other to the recluse Mr. Belamour. The space that lay between the two
wings, on the garden front, was roofed over, and paved with stone,
descending in several broad shallow steps at the centre and ends,
guarded at each angle by huge carved eagles, the crest of the builder,
of the most regular patchwork, and kept, in spite of the owner’s
non-residence, in perfect order. The strange thing was that this fair
and stately place, basking in the sunshine of early June, should be left
in complete solitude save for the hermit in the opposite wing, the three
children, and the girl, who felt as though in a kind of prison.
The sun was too hot for Aurelia to go out of doors till late in the day,
when the shadow of the house came over the steps. She was sitting on
one, with Amoret nestled in her lap, and was crooning an old German
lullaby of Nannerl’s, which seemed to have a wonderful effect in calming
the child, who at last fell into a doze. Aurelia had let her voice die
away, and had begun to think over her strange situation, when she was
startled by a laugh behind her, and looking round, hardly repressed
a start or scream, at the sight of Fay enjoying a game at bo-peep,
with--yes--it actually was--the negro--over the low-sashed door.
“I beg pardon, ma’am,” said Jumbo, twitching his somewhat grizzled wool;
“I heard singing, and little missy--”
Unfortunately Amoret here awoke, and with a shriek of horror cowered in
her arms.
“I am so sorry,” said Aurelia, anxious not to hurt his feelings. “She
knows no better.”
Jumbo grinned, bowed, and withdrew, Fay running after him, for she had
made friends with him during her days of solitude, being a fearless
child, and not having been taught to make a bugbear of him. “The soot
won’t come off,” she said.
Aurelia had not a moment to herself till Fay had said the Lord’s prayer
at her knee, and Amoret, with much persuasion, had been induced to lisp
out--
“Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John,
Bless the bed I sleep upon;
Four corners to by bed,
Four angles round my head,
One to read and one to write,
And two to guard my soul at night.”
Another agony for mammy ensued, nor could Aurelia leave the child till
sleep had hushed the wailings. Then only could she take her little
writing-case to begin her letter to Betty. It would be an expensive
luxury to her family, but she knew how it would be longed for; and
though she cried a good deal over her writing, she felt as if she ought
to make the best of her position, for had not Betty said it was for her
father’s sake? No, her tears must not blot the paper, to distress
those loving hearts. Yet how the drops _would_ come, gathering fast and
blinding her! Presently, through the window, came the sweet mysterious
strains of the violin, not terrifying her as before, but filling her
with an inexpressible sense of peace and calmness. She sat listening
almost as one in a dream, with her pen suspended, and when the spell was
broken by Molly’s entrance with her supper, she went on in a much more
cheerful strain than she had begun. It was dull, and it was a pity that
her grand wardrobe, to say nothing of Betty’s good advice, should be
wasted, but her sister would rejoice in her seclusion from the grand,
fashionable world, and her heart went out to the poor little neglected
children, whose mother could not bear the sight of them.
CHAPTER IX. THE TRIAD.
“I know sisters, sisters three.”
Ere many days had passed Aurelia had drifted into what would now be
regarded as the duties of a nursery governess to her little companions.
Fay and Amoret were always with her, and depended on her for everything.
Jenny Bowles, with a sort of animal jealousy, tried to monopolise her
charge, Letitia. The child was attracted by the sounds of her sister’s
sports, and there was no keeping her from them, or from their cousin.
Then the rude untaught Jenny became cross, moped, showed spite to the
other children, and insolence to the young lady, and was fortunately
overheard by Mrs. Aylward, and dismissed. Letty did not seem to mind the
loss as Amoret had felt that of her foster-mother, for indeed Jenny had
been almost as disagreeable to her as to the others during these days of
jealousy.
The triad were not much alike: Amoret was the largest of the three,
plump, blue-eyed, golden-haired, rosy-cheeked, a picture of the
cherub-type of child; Letitia had the delicate Delavie features and
complexion; and Fidelia, the least pretty, was pale, and rather sallow,
with deep blue eyes set under a broad forehead and dark brows, with hair
also dark. Though the smallest, she was the most advanced, and showed
signs of good training. She had some notion of good manners, and knew
as much of her hornbook [a child’s primer consisting of a sheet of
parchment or paper protected by a sheet of transparent horn--D.L.] and
catechism as little girls of five were wont to know. The other two were
perfectly ignorant, but Mrs. Aylward procured hornbooks, primers, and
slates, and Aurelia began their education in a small way.
It was a curious life. There was the great empty house, through whose
long corridors and vacant rooms the children might wander at will,
peeping at the swathed curtains of velvet pile, the rolls of carpet, and
the tapestry pictures on the walls, running and shouting in the empty
passages, or sometimes, in a fit of nameless fright, taking refuge in
Aurelia’s arms. Or they might play in the stately garden, provided they
trod on no borders, and meddled with neither flower nor fruit. The old
gardener began by viewing them as his natural enemies, but soon relaxed
in amusement at their pretty sportive ways, gave them many precious
spoils, and forgave more than one naughty little inroad, which greatly
alarmed their guardian.
Or if the little party felt enterprising, there lay beyond, the park,
its slopes covered with wild strawberries, and with woods where they
could gather flowers unchecked. Further, there was no going, except on
alternate Sundays, when there was service in the tumble-down Church at
the park gate. It was in far worse condition than the Church at home,
and was served by a poor forlorn-looking curate, who lived at Brentford,
and divided his services between four parishes, each of which was
content to put up with a fortnightly alternate morning and evening
service. The Belamour seat was a square one, without the comfortable
appliances of the Delavie closet, and thus permitting a much fuller
view, but there was nothing to be seen except a row of extremely gaudy
Belamour hatchments, displaying to the full, the saltir-wise sheafs of
arrows on the shields or lozenges, supported by grinning skulls. The
men’s shields preserved their eagle crest, the women had only lozenges,
and the family motto, _Amo et Amabo_, was exchanged for the more pious
“_Resurgam_.”