Love and Life: An Old Story in Eighteenth Century Costume
Aurelia found that the family seat, whither she was marshalled by Mrs.
Aylward, was already occupied by two ladies, who rose up, and made her
stately curtsies with a decidedly disgusted air, although there was
ample space for her and Fidelia, the only one of her charges whom
she had ventured to take with her. They wore the black hoods, laced
boddices, long rolls of towering curl and open upper skirts, of Queen
Anne’s day, and in the eyes of thirty years’ later, looked so ridiculous
that Fay could not but stare at them the whole time, and whenever
Aurelia turned her glances from her book to see whether her little
companion was behaving herself, the big blue considering eyes were
always levelled full upon the two forms before her.
The ladies were in keeping with their dress, thin, stiff and angular,
with worn and lined faces, highly rouged, and enormous long-handled
fans, and Aurelia was almost as much astonished as the child.
There was a low curtseying again, and much ceremony before it was
possible to get out of the pew, and the two ladies mounted at the door
on lofty pattens which added considerably to their height, and, attended
by a loutish-looking man in livery, who carried their books, stalked of
into the village.
Aurelia found from the communicative Molly that they were Mistress
Phoebe and Mistress Delia Treforth, kinswomen of the Belamour family,
who had in consequence a life residence rent-free in a tall thin red
square house near the churchyard, where a very gay parrot was always
to be seen in the windows. They no doubt regarded Miss Delavie and the
little Waylands as interlopers at Bowstead, and their withering glances
made Church-going a trying affair--indeed the first time that Aurelia
took little Amoret, they actually drove the sensitive child into a
sobbing fit, so that she had to be carried out, begging to know why
those ladies looked so cross at her.
The life, on the whole, was not unhappy, except for fits of homesickness
and longing for letters. The arrival of the boxes from the carrier
was the first comfort, and then at last came a thick letter from
home, franked by Sir George Herries, and containing letters from
everybody--even a few roundhand lines from Eugene.
Her father wrote at length all the excellent moral and religious essay
which had stuck in his throat at the parting; neither was Betty’s letter
deficient in good advice, though she let it appear that the family were
much amused at Lady Belamour’s affliction in her triad of daughters, the
secret having been hitherto so carefully kept that they supposed her to
have only one.
“It will be your Charge,” wrote Betty, “so far as in you lies, to render
them not merely the Graces, as my Father terms them, but the true and
faithful Guardian to these Infant Spirits. Though their Mother has shown
no Care or heed in entrusting them to you, yet remember that it is truly
the good Providence of their Heavenly Father that has put these little
Children of His in your Charge, to receive from you the first Principles
of Religion and Morals which may mould their whole Lives; and I trust
that you will do the Work faithfully and successfully. It may be dull
and tedious at Bowstead, but I had much rather hear of you thus than
exposed to the Glare of My Lady’s Saloon in London. No doubt Harriet
has write to you of the Visit of young Sir Amyas, the Sunday after your
departure. We have since heard that his expedition to Monmouthshire was
with a View to his marriage to Lady Aresfield’s Daughter, and this may
well be, so that if he fall in your way, you will be warned against
putting any misconstruction on any Civil Attentions he may pay to you.
Ever since your Departure Mr. Arden has redoubled his Assiduities in
a certain Quarter, and as it is thought the Dean and Chapter are not
unlikely to present him to a good Vicarage in Buckinghamshire, it is not
unlikely that ere long you may hear of a Wedding in the Family, although
Harriet would be extremely angry with me for daring to give such a
Hint.”
Certainly Aurelia would not have gathered the hint from Harriet’s
letter, which was very sentimental about her own loneliness and lack of
opportunity, in contrast with Aurelia, who was seeing the world. That
elegant beau, Sir Amyas, had just given a sample to tantalise their
rusticity, and then had vanished; and here was that oddity, Mr. Arden,
more wearisome and pertinacious than ever. So tiresome!
CHAPTER X. THE DARK CHAMBER.
Or singst thou rather under force
Of some Divine command,
Commissioned to presage a course
Of happier days at hand?
COWPER.
Aurelia was coming down stairs in the twilight after singing her charges
to sleep about three weeks after her arrival, when she saw Jumbo waiting
at the bottom of the stairs.
She had long ceased to be afraid of him. Indeed he had quite amazed her
by his good-nature in helping to lift down naughty little Letitia, who
was clambering up to the window of his master’s chamber to look through
the crevices of the shutters. He had given the children a gaily dressed
rag doll, and was as delighted as they were when he played his fiddle to
them and set them dancing.
Still, the whites of his eyes, his shining teeth, and the gold lace of
his livery had a startling effect in the darkness, and Aurelia wished he
would move away; but he was evidently waiting for her, and when she
came near he addressed her thus, “Mis’r Belamour present compliment, and
would Miss Delavie be good enough to honour him with her company for a
short visit?”
The girl started, dismayed, alarmed, yet unwilling to be unkind to the
poor recluse, while she hoped that decorum and propriety would put the
visit out of the question. She replied that she would ask Mrs. Aylward
whether she might, and Jumbo followed her to the still-room, saying on
the way, “Mas’r heard Miss Delavie sing. He always has the window opened
to hear her. It makes him hum the air--be merry. He has not asked to
speak with lady since he heard the bad news--long, long, ago.”
Then Aurelia felt that nothing short of absolute impropriety ought to
make her gratify her shrinking reluctance. Mrs. Aylward seemed to think
her doubts uncalled for, and attributed her hesitation to fear of the
dark room.
“Oh, no I am not so childish,” said the young lady with nervous dignity;
“but would it be proper?”
“Bless me, madam, he is as old as your father, and as civil a gentleman
as lives. I would come in with you but that I am expecting Mr. Potts
with the tallies. You need have no scruples.”
There was no excuse nor escape, and Aurelia followed the negro in
trepidation. Crossing the hall, he opened for her the door of the lobby
corresponding to her own, and saying, “Allow me, ma’am,” passed before
her, and she heard another door unclosed, and a curtain withdrawn.
Beyond she only saw a gulf of darkness, but out of it came a deep manly
voice, subdued and melancholy, but gentlemanlike and deferential.
“The young lady is so kind as to come and cheer the old hermit. A
thousand thanks, madam. Permit me.”
Aurelia’s hand was taken by one soft for want of use, and she was led
forward on a deep piled carpet, and carefully placed on a chair in the
midst of the intense black darkness. There was a little movement and
then the voice said, “I am most sensible of your goodness, madam.”
“I--I am glad. You are very good, sir,” murmured Aurelia, oppressed by
the gloom and the peculiar atmosphere, cool--for the windows were open
behind the shutters--but strangely fragrant.
“How does my excellent friend, Major Delavie?”
“I thank you, sir, he is well, though his wound troubles him from time
to time.”
“Commend me to him when you write, if you are good enough to remember
it.”
“I thank you, sir. He will be rejoiced to hear of you.”
“He does me too much honour.”
These conventionalities being exhausted, a formidable pause ensued,
first broken by Mr. Belamour, “May I ask how my fair visitor likes
Bowstead?”
“It is a fine place, sir.”
“But somewhat lonely for so youthful a lady?”
“I have the children, sir.”
“I often hear their cheerful voices.”
“I hope we do not disturb you, sir, I strive to restrain them, but I
fear we are all thoughtless.”
“Nay, the innocent sounds of mirth ring sweetly on my ears, like the
notes of birds. And when I have heard a charming voice singing to the
little ones, I have listened with delight. Would it be too presumptuous
to beg the air songstress to repeat her song for the old recluse?”
“O, sir, I have only nursery ditties, caught from our old German maid,”
cried Aurelia, in dismay.
“That might not diminish the charm to me,” he said. “In especial there
was one song whose notes Jumbo caught as you accompanied yourself on the
spinnet.”
And Jumbo, who seemed able to see in the dark, played a bar on his
violin, while Aurelia trembled with shyness.
“The Nightingale Song,” she said. “My dear mother learnt the tune
abroad. And I believe that she herself made the English words, when she
was asked what the nightingales say.”
“May I hear it? Nightingales can sing in the dark.” Refusal was
impossible, and Jumbo’s violin was a far more effective accompaniment
than her own very moderate performance on the spinnet; so in a sweet,
soft, pure, untrained and trembling voice, she sang--
“O Life and Light are sweet, my dear, O life and Light are sweet;
But sweeter still the hope and cheer
When Love and Life shall meet.
Oh! then it is most sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet.
“But Love puts on the yoke, my dear, But Love puts on the yoke;
The dart of Love calls forth the tear,
As though the heart were broke.
The very heart were broke, broke, broke, broke, broke, broke.
“And Love can quench Life’s Light, my dear, Drear, dark, and melancholy;
Seek Light and Life and jocund cheer,
And mirth and pleasing folly.
Be thine, light-hearted folly, folly, folly, folly, folly, folly.
“‘Nay, nay,’ she sang. ‘yoke, pain, and tear,
For Love I gladly greet;
Light, Life, and Mirth are nothing here,
Without Love’s bitter sweet.
Give me Love’s bitter sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet.’”
“Accept my fervent thanks, kind songstress. So that is the nightingale’s
song, and your honoured mother’s?”
“Yes, sir. My father often makes us sing it because it reminds him of
her.”
“Philomel could not have found a better interpreter,” said the grave
voice, sounding so sad that Aurelia wished she could have sung something
less affecting to his spirits.
“I gather from what you said that you are no longer blessed with the
presence of the excellent lady, your mother,” presently added Mr.
Belamour.
“No, sir. We lost her seven years ago.”
“And her husband mourns her still. Well he may. She was a rare creature.
So she is gone! I have been so long in seclusion that no doubt time has
made no small havoc, and my friends have had many griefs to bewail.”
Aurelia knew not what answer to make, and was relieved when he collected
himself and said:--
“I will trespass no longer on my fair visitor’s complaisance, but if she
have not found the gloom of this apartment insupportable, it would be a
charitable action to brighten it once more with her presence.”
“O sir, I will come whenever you are pleased to send for me,” she
exclaimed, all her doubts, fears, and scruples vanishing at his tone of
entreaty. “My father would be so glad. I will practise my best song to
sing to you to-morrow.”
“My best thanks are yours,” and her hand was taken, she was carefully
conducted to the door and dismissed with a gentle pressure of her
fingers, and a courteous: “Goodnight, madam; _Au revoir_, if I may
venture to say so.”