Love and Life: An Old Story in Eighteenth Century Costume
“What, ye be late for church? Come in and sit ye down a bit and sup
after your walk. We have been and killed Spotty’s calf, though ‘twas but
a staggering Bob, but us couldn’t spare the milk no longer. So we’ve got
the l’in on un for dinner, and you’re kindly welcome if you ain’t too
proud. Only I wish you had brought my little missie.”
“O Mrs. Wheatfield! Shall I ever see the dear little girl again? Oh! can
you help me? Do you know where Lea Farm is? I’d pay anything for a horse
and man to take me there, where my sister is staying.”
“Well, I don’t know as my master would hire a horse out of a Sunday,
unless ‘twere very particler--illness or suchlike. Lea Farm did you say
ma’am? Is it the Lea out by Windmill hill--Master Brown’s; or Lea Farm,
down by the river--Tom Smith’s?”
“No, this is Mr. Meadows’s, a grazier.”
“Never heard tell on him, ma’am, but the master might, when he comes
in. But bless me,” she added, after a moment’s consideration, “what will
your master say? He’ll be asking how it comes that a lady like you, with
a coach and horses of her own, should be coming after a horse here. You
ain’t been and got into trouble with my Lady, my dear?”
“Oh! Dame, indeed I have; pray help me!”
It was no wonder that Mrs. Wheatfield failed to gather more than that
young Madam had almost burnt the house, and had fallen under grievous
displeasure, so as even to fear the constable.
“Bless your poor heart! Think of that now! But I’m afeard we can’t do
nothing for you. My master would be nigh about killing me if I harboured
you and got him into trouble, with the gentry.”
“If you could only hide me in some loft or barn till I could meet the
coach for Bath! Then I should be almost at home.”
“I dare not. The children are routing about everywhere on a Sunday
afternoon; and if so be as there’s a warrant out after you” (Aurelia
shuddered) “my man would be mad with me. He ain’t never forgot how his
grandfather was hanged up there in that very walnut for changing clothes
with a young gentleman in the wars long ago.”
“Then I must go! Oh, what will become of me?”
“Stay a bit! It goes to my heart to turn you from the door, and you so
white and faint. And they won’t be out of church yet a while. You’ve ate
nothing all this time! What was you thinking of doing, my dear?”
“I don’t know. If I could only find out the right Lea Farm, and get
a man and horse to take me there--but my sister goes on Monday, and I
might not find her, and nobody knows where it is. And nobody will take
me in or hide my till the coach goes! Oh, what will become of me?”
“It is bitter hard,” said the Dame. “I wish to my heart I could take
you in, but you see there’s the master! I’ll tell you what: there’s my
cousin, Patty Woodman; she might take you in for a night or two. But
you’d never find your way to her cot; it lies out beyond the spinneys.
I must show you the way. Look you here. Nobody can’t touch you in a
church, they hain’t got no power there, and if you would slip into that
there empty place as opens with the little door, as the ringers goes in
by, afore morning prayers is over I’ll make an excuse to come to evening
prayer alone, or only with little Davy, as is lying asleep there. If
Patty is there I’ll speak, and you can go home with her. If not, I must
e’en walk with you out to the spinney. Hern is a poor place, but her’s a
good sort of body, and won’t let you come to no harm; and her goes into
Brentford with berries and strawberries to meet the coaches, so may be
she’ll know the day.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you, dear Mrs. Wheatfield! If I can only get safe
home!”
“Come, don’t be in haste. You’ll take a bit of bread and cheese, and
just a draught of ale to hearten you up a bit.”
Aurelia was too sick at heart for food, and feared to delay, lest she
should meet the congregation, but Mrs. Wheatfield forced on her a little
basket with some provisions, and she gladly accepted another draught of
milk.
No one came out by the little door she was told; all she had to do would
be to keep out of sight when the ringers came in before the afternoon
service. She knew the way, and was soon close to Mary Sedhurst’s grave.
“Ah! why was he not constant to her,” she thought; “and oh! why has he
deserted me in my need?”
The little door easily yielded, and she found herself--after passing the
staircase-turret that led by a gallery to the belfry in the centre of
the church--in an exceedingly dilapidated transept; once, no doubt, it
had been beautiful, before the coloured glass of the floriated window
had been knocked out and its place supplied with bricks. The broken
effigy of a crusading Sedhurst, devoid of arms, feet, and nose was
stowed away in the eastern sepulchre, in company with funeral apparatus,
torn books, and moth-eaten cushions. But this would not have shocked her
even in calmer moments. She only cared to find a corner where she was
entirely sheltered, between a green stained pier and the high wall and
curtain of a gigantic pew, where no doubt sweet Mary Sedhurst had
once worshipped. The lusty voices of the village choir in some exalted
gallery beyond her view were shouting out a familiar tune, and with some
of Betty’s mild superstition about “the singing psalms,” she heard--
“Since I have placed my trust in God
A refuge always nigh,
Why should I, like tim’rous bird
To distant mountains fly?
“Behold the wicked bend their bow,
And ready fix their dart,
Lurking in ambush to destroy
The man of upright heart.
“When once the firm assurance fails
Which public faith imparts,
‘Tis time for innocence to flee
From such deceitful arts.
“The Lord hath both a temple here
And righteous throne above,
Whence He surveys the sons of men,
And how their counsels move.”
Poor timorous bird, whom even the firm assurance of wedded faith had
failed, what was left to her but to flee from the darts levelled against
her? Yet that last verse brought a sense of protection. Ah! did she
deserve it? A prayerless night and prayerless morning had been hers, and
no wonder, since she had never gone to bed nor risen with the ordinary
forms; but it was with a pang that she recollected that the habit of
calling out in her heart for guidance and help had been slipping from
her for a long time past, and she had never asked for heavenly aid when
her judgment was perplexed by Harriet, no, nor for protection in her
flight.
She resolved to say her morning prayers with full attention so soon as
the church was empty, and meantime to follow the service with all her
powers, though her pulses were still throbbing and her head aching.
In the far distance she heard the Commandments, and near to her the
unseen clerk responding, and then followed a gospel of love and comfort.
She could not catch every word, but there was a sense of promised peace
and comfort, which began to soothe the fluttering heart, for the first
time enjoying a respite from the immediate gripe of deadly terror.
The sermon chimed in with these feelings, not that she could have any
account of it, nor preserved any connected memory, but it was full of
the words, Faith, Love, Sacrifice, so that they were borne in on her ear
and thought. Heavenly Love surrounding as with an atmosphere those who
had only faith to “taste and see how gracious the Lord is,” believing
that which cannot be seen, and therefore having it revealed to their
inmost sense, and thus living the only real life.
This was the chief thought that penetrated to her mind as she crouched
on the straw hassock behind the pew, and shared unseen in the blessing
of peace. No one saw her as the hob-nailed shoes trooped out of church,
and soon she was entirely alone, kneeling still in her hiding-place,
and whispering half-aloud the omitted morning prayer, whose heartfelt
signification had, she felt, been neglected for a long, long time.
Since when? Ah! ever since those strange mysterious voices and caresses
had come to charm and terrify her, and when her very perplexity should
have warned her to cling closer to the aid of her Heavenly Father.
Vague yearnings, uplifted feelings, discontents, and little tempers had
usurped the place of higher feelings, and blinded her eyes. And through
it all, her heart began to ache and long for tidings of him on whose
pale features she had gazed so long and who had ventured and suffered
so much for her, nay, who had started into a moment’s life for her
protection! All the tumult of resentment at the deception practised on
her fell on the uncle rather than the nephew; and in spite of this long
year of tender kindness and consideration from the recluse, there was a
certain consideration from the recluse, there was a certain leaping
of heart at finding herself bound not to him but to the youth whose
endearments returned with a flood of tender remembrance. And she had
fled just as he had claimed her as his wife, had fled just as he had
claimed her as his wife, unheeding whether he died of the injury she had
caused him! All that justified her alarm was forgotten, her heartstrings
had wound themselves round him, and began to pull her back.
Then she thought of the danger of directing Lady Belamour’s wrath on her
father, and leading to his expulsion and destitution. She had been sent
from home, and bestowed in marriage to prevent his ruin, and should
she now ensure it? Her return to him or even her disappearance would
no doubt lead to high words from him, and then he would be cast out to
beggary in his old age. No, she could only save him by yielding herself
up, exonerating him from all knowledge of her strange marriage, far more
of the catastrophe, and let my Lady do her worst! She had, as she knew,
not been going on well lately, but she had confessed her faults, and
recovered her confidence that her Heavenly Father would guard her as
long as she resolutely did her duty. And her duty, as daughter and a
wife, if indeed she was one, was surely to return, where her heart was
drawing her. It might be very terrible, but still it was going nearer to
_him_, and it would save her father.
The door was still open; she wrote a few words of gratitude and
explanation to Dame Wheatfield, on a piece of a torn book, wrapped a
couple of guineas in it, and laid it in the basket, then kneeling again
to implore protection and safety, and if it might be, forgiveness and
reconciliation, she set forth. “Love is strong as death,” said Mary
Sedhurst’s tomb. She knew better what that meant than when her childish
eyes first fell upon it. A sense of Divine Love was wrapping her round
with a feeling of support and trust, while the human love drew her
onwards to confront all deadly possibilities in the hope of rejoining
her husband, or at least of averting misfortune from her father.
CHAPTER XXV. VANISHED.
Where there is no place
For the glow-worm to lie,
Where there is no space
For receipt of a fly,
Where the midge dares not venture
Lest herself fast she lay,
If Love come, he will enter
And find out the way.--OLD SONG.
Major Delavie and his eldest daughter were sitting down to supper in the
twilight, when a trampling of horses was heard in the lane a carriage
was seen at the gate, and up the pathway came a slender youthful figure,
in a scarlet coat, with an arm in a sling.
“It is!--yes, it is!” exclaimed Betty: “Sir Amyas himself!”
In spite of his lameness, the Major had opened the door before Palmer