Love and Life: An Old Story in Eighteenth Century Costume
said the Major. “I know my daughter was here yesterday.”
“And what do I know of where she be gone? She went off in a sedan-chair
this morning before seven o’clock, and if you was to put me to the rack
I couldn’t say no more.”
As to which way or with whom she had gone, the old woman was,
apparently, really ignorant.
The poor Major had to return home baffled and despairing, still taking
the tipstaff with him, in case, on consultation with Mr. Belamour, it
should be deemed expedient to storm Hanover Square itself, and examine
Lady Belamour and her servants upon oath.
Behold, the parlour was empty. Even Betty and Eugene were absent. The
Major hastened to knock at Mr. Belamour’s door. There was no answer; and
when he knocked louder it was still in vain. He tried the door and
found it locked. Then he retreated to the sitting-room, rang, and made
inquiries of the waiter who answered the bell.
Mr. Belamour had received a note at about ten o’clock, and had gone out
with him “in great disorder,” said the waiter.
At the same moment there was a knock at the door, and a billet was
brought in from Lady Belamour. The Major tore it open and read:--
“MY DEAR COUSIN,
“I grieve for you, but my Suspicions were correct. We have all
been completely hoodwinked by that old Villain, my Brother-in-law. I
can give him no other Name, for his partial Aberration of Mind has only
sharpened his natural Cunning. Would you believe it? He had obtained
access to Delavie House, and had there hidden the unfortunate Object of
your Search, while he pretended to be assisting you, and this Morning
he carried her off in a Sedan. I have sent the good Doves to Bowstead in
case he should have the Assurance to return to his old Quarters, but I
suspect that they are on the Way to Dover. You had better consult with
Hargrave on the means of confirming the strange Marriage Ceremony that
has passed between them, since that affords the best Security for your
Daughter’s Maintenance and Reputation. Believe me, I share in your
Distress. Indeed I have so frightful a Megrim that I can scarcely tell
what I write, and I dare not admit you to-day.
“I remain,
“Your loving and much-grieved Cousin,
“URANIA BELAMOUR.”
Poor Major! His horror, perplexity, and despair were indescribable. He
had one only hope--that Sir Amyas and Betty might be on the track.
CHAPTER XXX. THE FIRST TASK.
After all these there marcht a most faire dame,
Led of two gryslie villains, th’ one Despight,
The other cleped Crueltie by name.
SPENSER.
The traces of occupation had not deceived Major Delavie; Aurelia had
been recently in Delavie House, and we must go back some way in our
narrative to her arrival there.
She had, on her return from Sedhurst on that Sunday, reached Bowstead,
and entered by the lobby door just as Lady Belamour was coming down the
stairs only attended by her woman, and ready to get into the carriage
which waited at the hall door.
Sinking on her knees before her with clasped hands, Aurelia exclaimed,
“O madam, I ought not to have come away. Here I am, do what you will
with me, but spare my father. He knew nothing of it. Only, for pity’s
sake, do not put me among the poor wicked creatures in gaol.”
“Get into that carriage immediately, and you shall know by decision,”
said Lady Belamour, with icy frigidness, but not the same fierceness
as before; and Aurelia submissively obeyed, silenced by an imperious
gesture when she would have asked, “How is it with _him_?” whom she
durst not name.
Lady Belamour waited a minute or two while sending Loveday on a last
message to the sick room, then entered the large deep carriage, signing
to her captive to take a corner where she could hardly be seen if any
one looked through the window. Loveday followed, the door was shut by a
strange servant, as it was in fact Lady Aresfield’s carriage, borrowed
both for the sake of speed, and of secrecy towards her own household.
A few words passed by which Aurelia gathered something reassuring as
to the state of the patient, and then Lady Belamour turned on her,
demanding, “So, young miss, you tried to escape me! Where have you
been?”
“Only as far as Sedhurst Church, madam. I would have gone home, but I
feared to bring trouble on my father, and I came back to implore you to
forgive.”
There was no softening of the terrible, beautiful face before her, and
she durst put no objective case to her verb. However, the answer was
somewhat less dreadful than she had anticipated.
“I have been shamefully duped,” said Lady Belamour, “but it is well that
it is no worse; nor shall I visit our offences on your father if you
show your penitence by absolute submission. The absurd ceremony you went
through was a mere mockery, and the old fool, Belamour, showed himself
crazed for consenting to such an improper frolic on the part of my son.
Whether your innocence be feigned or not, however, I cannot permit you
to go out of my custody until the foolish youth or yourself be properly
bestowed in marriage elsewhere. Meantime, you will remain where I
place you, and exactly fulfil my commands. Remember that any attempt to
communicate with any person outside the house will be followed by your
Father’s immediate dismissal.”
“May I not let him know that I am safe?”
“Certainly not; I will see to your father.”
It was a period when great ladies did not scruple to scold at the top
of their voices, and sometimes proceed to blows, but Lady Belamour never
raised her low silvery tones, and thus increased the awfulness of her
wrath and the impressiveness of her determination. Face to face with
her, there were few who did not cower under her displeasure; and poor
Aurelia, resolute to endure for her father’s sake, could only promise
implicit obedience.
She only guessed when the entered London by the louder rumbling, and for
one moment the coach paused as a horse was reined up near it, and with
plumed hat in hand the rider bent forward to the window, exclaiming,
“Successful, by all that is lovely! Captured, by Jove!”
“You shall hear all another time,” said lady Belamour. “Let us go on
now.”
They did so, but the horseman continued to flash across the windows, and
when the coach, after considerable delay, had entered the walled court,
rumbled over the pavement, and stopped before a closed door, he was
still there. When, after much thundering, the door was opened, Aurelia
had a moment’s glimpse of a splendid figure in gold and scarlet handing
out Lady Belamour, who stood talking with him on the steps of the house
for some moments. Then, shrugging his shoulders, he remounted, and
cantered off, after which my Lady signed to Aurelia to alight, and
followed her into the hall.
“Madge,” said Lady Belamour to the witch-like old woman who had admitted
her, “this young lady is to remain here. You will open a bedroom and
sitting-room for her at the back of the house. Let her be properly cared
for, and go out in the court behind, but on no account approach the
front gates. Let no one know she is here.”
Madge muttered some demands about supplies and payments, and Lady
Belamour waved her to settle them with Mrs. Loveday, turning meantime to
the prisoner and saying, “There, child, you are to remain here on
your good behaviour. Do your best to merit my good will, so that I may
overlook what is past. Recollect, the least attempt to escape, or to
hold intercourse with the young, or the old, fool, and it shall be the
worse with them and with your father.”
Therewith she departed, followed by Loveday, leaving Aurelia standing in
the middle of the hall, the old hag gazing on her with a malignant
leer. “Ho! ho’! So that’s the way! He has begun that work early, has he?
What’s your name, my lass? Oh, you need give yourself airs! I cry you
mercy,” and she made a derisive curtsey.
Poor Aurelia, pride had less to do with her silence than absolute
uncertainty what to call herself. The wedding ring was on her finger,
and she would not deny her marriage by calling herself Delavie, but
Belamour might be dangerous, and the prefix was likewise a difficulty,
so faltered, “You may call me Madam Aurelia.”
“Madam Really. That’s a queer name, but it will serve while you are
here.”
“Pray let me go to my room,” entreated the poor prisoner, who felt as
ineffable disgust at her jailor, and was becoming sensible to extreme
fatigue.
“Your room, hey? D’ye think I keep rooms and beds as though this were
an inn, single-handed as I am? You must wait, unless you be too fine to
lend a hand.”
“Anything will do,” said Aurelia, “if I may only rest. I would help, but
I am so much tired that I can hardly stand.”
“My Lady has given it to you well, Mistress Really or Mistress Falsely,
which ever you may be,” mumbled Madge, perhaps in soliloquy, fumbling
at the lock of a room which at last she opened. It smelt very close and
fusty, and most of the furniture was heaped together under a cloth in
the midst, dimly visible by the light of a heart-shaped aperture in the
shutters. Unclosing one of the leaves, the old woman admitted enough
daylight to guide Aurelia to a couch against the wall, saying, “You can
wait there till I see to your bed. And you’ll be wanting supper too!”
she added in a tone of infinite disgust.
“O never mind supper, if I can only go to bed,” sighed Aurelia, sinking
on the couch as the old woman hobbled off. Lassitude and exhaustion had
brought her to a state like annihilation--unable to think or guess, hope
or fear, with shoes hurting her footsore feet, a stiff dress cramping
her too much for sleep, and her weary aching eyes gathering a few
impressions in a passive way. On the walls hung dimly seen portraits
strangely familiar to her. The man in a green dressing gown with
floating hair had a face she knew; so had the lady in the yellow ruff.
And was that not the old crest, the Delavie butterfly, with the motto,
_Ma Vie et ma Mie_, carved on the mantelpiece? Thus she knew that
she must be in Delavie House, and felt somewhat less desolate as she
recognised several portraits as duplicates of those at the Great House
at Carminster, and thought they looked at her in pity with their eyes
like her father’s. The youngest son in the great family group was, as
she knew, an Amyas, and he put her in mind of her own. Oh, was he her
own, when she could not tell whether those great soft, dark-grey eyes
that looked so kindly on her had descended to the young baronet? She
hoped not, for Harriet and she had often agreed that they presaged the
fate of that gallant youth, who had been killed by Sir Bevil Grenville’s
side. He must have looked just as Sir Amyas did, lying senseless after
the hurt she had caused.
No more definite nor useful thought passed through the brain of the
overwearied maiden as she rest on the couch, how long she knew not; but
it was growing dark by the time Madge returned with a guttering candle,
a cracked plate and wedge of greasy-looking pie, a piece of dry bread,
a pewter cup of small beer, and an impaired repulsive steel knife with
a rounded end, and fork with broken prong. The fact of this being steel
was not distressing to one who had never seen a silver fork, but the
condition of both made her shudder, and added to the sick sense of
exhaustion that destroyed her appetite. She took a little of the bread,
and, being parched with thirst, drank some of the beer before Madge came
back again. “Oh ho, you’re nice I see, my fine Dame Really!”
“Thank you, indeed I can’t eat, I am so much tired,” said Aurelia
apologetically.
“You’ll have to put up with what serves your betters, I can tell you,”
was all the reply she received. “Well be ye coming to your bed?”