Love and Life: An Old Story in Eighteenth Century Costume
“Missie Madam never knew,” chimed in Jumbo. “All in the dark. She
thought it old mas’r.”
Lady Belamour looked contemptuously incredulous; but the negro’s
advocacy gave a kind of courage to Aurelia, and availing herself of
a slight relaxation of the fingers she withdrew her hand, and coming
forward, said, “Indeed, madam, I know nothing, I was entirely deceived.
Only hearing two voices in the dark alarmed me, so that I listened to my
sister, and struck a light to discover the truth. Then all caught fire,
and blazed up, and--”
“Then you are an incendiary as well as a traitor,” said her Ladyship,
with cold, triumphant malignity. “This is work for the constable. Here,
Loveday,” to her own woman, who was waiting in the outer room, “take this
person away, and lock her into her own room till morning, when we can
give her up to justice.”
“Oh, my Lady,” cried Aurelia, crouching at her feet and clinging to her
dress, “do not be so cruel! Oh! let me go home to my father!”
“Madam!” cried a voice from the bed, “let alone my wife! Come, Aurelia.
Oh!”
Then starting up in bed had wrenched his broken arm, and he fell back
senseless again, just as Aurelia would have flown back to him, but his
mother stood between, spurning her away.
Another defender, if she could so be called, spoke for her. “It is true,
please your Ladyship,” said Mrs. Aylward, “that Mr. Belamour called her
the wife of this poor young gentleman.”
Jumbo too exclaimed, “No one knew but Jumbo; His Honour marry pretty
missie in mas’r’s wig and crimson dressing-gown.”
“A new stratagem!” ironically observed the incensed lady. “But your game
is played out, miss, for madam I cannot call you. Such a marriage cannot
stand for a moment; and if a lawyer like Amyas Belamour pretended it
could, either his wits were altogether astray or he grossly deceived
you. Or, as I believe, he trafficked with you to entrap this unhappy
youth, whose person and house you have, between you, almost destroyed.
Remove her, Loveday, and lock her up till we can send for a magistrate
to take depositions in the morning. Go quietly, girl I will not have my
son disturbed with your outcries.”
Poor Aurelia’s voice died in her throat. Oh! why did not Mr. Belamour
come to her rescue? Ah! he had bidden her trust and be patient; she had
transgressed, and he had abandoned her! There was no sign of life or
consciousness in the pallid face on the bed, and with a bleeding heart
she let the waiting-maid lead her through the outer apartment, still
redolent of the burning, reached her own chamber, heard the key turn in
the lock, and fell across her bed in a sort of annihilation.
The threat was unspeakably frightful. Those were days of capital
punishment for half the offences in the calendar, and of what was to her
scarcely less dreadful, of promiscuous imprisonment, fetters, and gaol
fever. Poor Aurelia’s ignorance could hardly enhance these horrors, and
when her perceptions began to clear themselves, her first thought was of
flight from a fate equally dreadful to the guilty or not guilty.
Springing from the bed, she tried the other door of her room, which
was level with the wainscoting, and not readily observed by a person
unfamiliar with the house. It yielded to her hand, and she knew there
was a whole suite of empty rooms thus communicating with one another. It
was one of those summer nights that are never absolutely dark, and
there was a full moon, so that she had light enough to throw off her
conspicuous white habit, all scorched and singed as it was, and to put
on her dark blue cloth one, with her camlet cloak and hood. She made up
a small bundle of clothes, took her purse, which was well filled with
guineas and silver, and moved softly to the door. Hide and seek had
taught her all the modes of eluding observation, and with her walking
shoes in her hand, and her feet slippered, she noiselessly crept through
one empty room after another, and descended the stair into her own
lobby, where she knew how to open the sash door.
One moment the thought that Mr. Belamour would protect her made her
pause, but the white phantom she had seen seemed more unreal than the
voice she was accustomed to, and both alike had vanished and abandoned
her to her fate. Nay, she had been cheated from the first. Everything
had given way with her. My Lady might be coming to send her to prison.
Hark, some one was coming! She darted out, down the steps, along the
path like a wild bird from a cage.
CHAPTER XXIV. THE WANDERER.
Widowed wife and wedded maid,
Betrothed, betrayer, and betrayed.--SCOTT.
Aurelia’s first halt was in a moss-grown summer-house at the end of
the garden, where she ventured to sit down to put on her stout leather
shoes. The children’s toys, a ball and a set of ninepins lay on the
floor! How many ages ago was it that she had made that sarcastic reply
to Letty?--perhaps her last!
A nightingale, close overhead, burst into a peal of song, repeating his
one favourite note, which seemed to her to cry out “Although my heart
is broke, broke, broke, broke.” The tears rushed into her eyes, but at
a noise as of opening doors or windows at the house, terror mastered her
again, and she hurried on to hide herself from the dawning light, which
was beginning to increase, as she crossed the park, on turf dank with
Maydew, and plunged deep into the thick woods beyond, causing many a
twittering cry of wondering birds.
Day had fully come, and slanting golden beams were shining through the
tender green foliage, and illuminating the boles of the trees, ere she
was forced by failing strength again to pause and sit on a faggot, while
gathering breath and considering where she should go. Home was her first
thought. Who could shield her but her father and sister? How she longed
for their comfort and guardianship! But how reach them? She had money
but could do little for her. England never less resembled those days
of Brian Boromhe when the maiden with the gems, rich and rare wandered
unscathed form sea to sea in Ireland. Post chaises, though coming into
use, had not dawned on the simple country girl’s imagination. She knew
there was a weekly coach from London to Bath, passing through Brentford,
and that place was also a great starting-place for stage waggons, of
which one went through Carminster, but her bewildered brain could not
recall on what day it started, and there was an additional shock of
despair when she remembered that it was Sunday morning. The chill of the
morning dew was on her limbs, she was exhausted by her fatigues of the
night, a drowsy recollection of the children in the wood came over her,
and she sank into a dreamy state that soon became actual sleep. She was
wakened by a strong bright sunbeam on her eyes, and found that this was
what had warmed her limbs in her sleep. A sound as of singing was also
in her ears, and of calling cows to be milked. She did not in the least
know where she was, for she had wandered into parts of the wood quite
strange to her, but she thought she must be a great way from home, and
quite beyond recognition, so she followed the voice, and soon came out
on a tiny meadow glade, where a stout girl was milking a great sheeted
cow.
She knew now that she was faint with hunger and thirst, and must take
food before she could go much farther, so taking out a groat, her
smallest coin, she accosted the girl, and offered it for a draught
of milk. To her dismay the girl exclaimed “Lawk! It be young Madam!
Sarvice, ma’am!”
“I have lost myself in the wood,” said Aurelia. “I should be much
obliged for a little milk.”
“Well to be sure. Think of that! And have ee been out all night? Ye
looks whisht!” said the girl, readily filling a wooden cup she had
brought with her, for in those days good new milk was a luxury far more
easily accessible than in ours. She added a piece of barley bread, her
own intended breakfast, and was full of respectful wonder, pity, and
curiosity, proposing that young Madam should come and rest in mother’s
cottage in the wood, and offering to guide her home as soon as the cows
were milked and the pigs fed. Aurelia had some difficulty in shaking her
off, finding also that she had gone round and round in the labyrinthine
paths, and was much nearer the village of Bowstead than she had
intended.
Indeed, she was obliged to deceive the kindly girl by walking off in the
direction she pointed out, intending to strike afterwards into another
path, though where to go she had little idea, so long as it was out of
reach of my Lady and her prison.
Oh! if Harriet were only at Brentford, or if it were possible to reach
the Lea Farm where she was! Could she ask her way thither, or could
she find some shelter near or in Brentford till the coach or the waggon
started? This was the most definite idea her brain, refreshed somewhat
by the food, could form; but in the meantime she was again getting
bewildered in the field paths. It was a part she did not know, lying
between the backs of the cottages and their gardens, and the woods
belonging to the great house; and the long sloping meadows, spangled
with cowslips were much alike. The cowslips seemed to strike her with
a pang as she recollected her merry day among them last spring, and how
little she then thought of being a homeless wanderer. At last, scarce
knowing where she was, she sat down on the step of a stile leading to a
little farmyard, leant her head on the top bar and wept bitterly.
Again she startled by hearing a voice saying, “Sister, what is that in
the field?” and starting up, she saw Mrs. Delia in high pattens, and her
Sunday silk tucked up over her quilted petticoat, with a basket of corn
in her hand, surrounded by her poultry, while Mrs. Phoebe was bending
over a coop. She had stumbled unawares on their back premises, and with
a wild hope, founded on their well-known enmity to Lady Belamour, she
sprang over the stile. Mrs. Delia retreated in haste, but Mrs. Phoebe
came to the front.
“Oh! Mrs. Phoebe,” she cried, “I ask your pardon.”
“Mrs. Belamour! Upon my word! To what are we indebted for this visit?”
“Oh! of your kindness listen to me, madam,” said Aurelia. “My Lady is
come, and there is some dreadful mistake, and she is very angry with me;
and if you would only take me in and hide me till the waggon goes and I
can get home!”
“So my Lady has found you out, you artful hussy,” returned Mrs. Phoebe.
“I have long guessed at your tricks! I knew it was no blackamoor that
was stealing into the great house.”
“I do not know what you mean.”
“Oh! it is of no use to try your feigned artlessness on us. I wonder at
your assurance, after playing false with uncle and nephew both at once.”
“If you would but hear me!”
“I have heard enough of you already. I wonder you dare show your face
at a respectable house. Away with you, if you would not have me send the
constable after you!”
The threat renewed Aurelia’s terror, and again she fled, but this time
she fell into a path better known to her, that leading to Sedhurst, and
ultimately to Brentford.
The recollection of Dame Wheatfield’s genial good nature inspired her
with another hope, and she made her way towards the farm. The church
bells were ringing, and she saw the farmer and his children going
towards the church, but not the mistress, and she might therefore hope
to find her at home and alone. As she approached, a great dog began a
formidable barking, and his voice brought out the good woman in person.
“Down, Bouncer! A won’t hurt’ee, my lass. What d’ye lack that you bain’t
at church?”
“May I speak to you, Mrs. Wheatfield?”
“My stars, if it bain’t young Miss--Madam, I mean! Nothing ain’t wrong
with the child?”
“O no, she is quite well, but--”