Love and Life: An Old Story in Eighteenth Century Costume
Betty continued her watch, after hearing what her father knew of Mr.
Belamour. She was greatly struck with the self-devotion that had gone
with open eyes into so dreadful a snare as a madhouse of those days
rather than miss the least chance of saving Aurelia.
“If we go by perils dared, the uncle is the true knight-errant,” said
she to her father. “I wonder which our child truly loves the best!”
“Betty!” said her father, scandalised.
“Ay, I know, Sir Amyas is a charming boy, but what a boy he is! And she
has barely spoken with him or seen him, whereas Mr. Belamour has been
kind to her for a whole twelvemonth. I know what I should do if I were
in her place. I would declare that I intended to be married to the
uncle, and would keep it!”
“He would think it base to put the question.”
“He would; but indeed, dear sir, I think it would be but right and due
to the dear child herself that she should have here free choice, and
not be bound for ever by a deception! Yes, I know the poor boy’s despair
would be dreadful, but it would be better for them both than such a
mistake.”
“Hush! I hear him knocking at the door, you cruel woman.”
The bedroom opened into the parlour the party had hired, so that both
could come out and meet Sir Amyas with the door ajar, without relaxing
their watch upon the sleeper. The poor young man looked pale, shocked,
and sorrowful. “Well,” said he, after having read in their looks that
there was no change, “he knows the worst.” Then on a further token of
interrogation, “It may have been my fault; I took him, unannounced,
through the whole suite of rooms, and in the closet at the end, with all
the doors open, she was having an altercation with Mar. He was insisting
on knowing what she had done with”--(he signed towards the other room)
“she, upbraiding him with faithlessness. They were deaf to an approach,
till Mr. Wayland, in a loud voice, ordered me back, saying ‘it was no
scene for a son.’”
“I trust it will not end in a challenge?” asked the Major, gravely.
“No, my father’s infirmity renders him no fighting man, and I--I may not
challenge my superior officer.”
“But your uncle?” said Betty, much fearing that such a scene might have
led to his being forgotten.
“I should have told you. We had not made many steps from hence before
we met poor Jumbo wandering like a dog that had lost his master. Mr.
Belamour had taken the precaution of giving Jumbo the pass-key, and
not taking him into that house (some day I will pull every brick of it
down), so he watched till by and by he saw a coach come out with all the
windows closed, and as his master had bidden him in such a case, he
kept along on the pavement near, and never lost sight of it till he had
tracked it right across the City to a house with iron-barred windows
inside a high wall. There it went in, and he could not follow, but he
asked the people what place it was, and though they jeered at him, he
made out that it was as we feared. Nay, do not be alarmed, sister, he
will soon be with us. My poor father shut me out, and I know not what
passed with my mother, but just as I could wait no longer to return to
my dearest, he came out and told me that he had found out that my uncle
was in a house at Moorfields, and he is gone himself to liberate him.
He is himself a justice of the peace, and he will call for Dr. Sandys
by the way, that there may be no difficulty. He is gone in the
coach-and-four, with Jumbo on the box, so that matters will soon be
righted.”
“And a heroic champion set free,” said Betty moving to return to her
sister, when the others would not be denied having another look at the
sweet slumberer, on whose face there was now a smile as if her dreams
were marvellously lovely; or, as Betty thought, as if she knew their
voices even in her sleep.
Sir Amyas had not seen his mother again. He only knew that Mr. Wayland
had come out with a face as of one stricken to the heart, a sad contrast
to that which had greeted him an hour before, and while the carriage was
coming round, had simply said, “I did wrong to leave her.”
It would not bear being talked over, and both son and kinsman took
refuge in silence. Two hours more of this long day had passed, and
then a coach stopped at the door. Sir Amyas hurried down in his eager
anxiety, and came back with his uncle, holding him by the hand like a
child, in his gladness, and Betty came out to meet them in the outer
room with a face of grateful welcome and outstretched hands.
“Sir! sir! you have done more than all of us.”
“Yet you and your young champion here were the victors,” said Mr.
Belamour.
“Ah, we dared and suffered nothing like you.”
“I hope you did not suffer much,” said the major, looking at the calm
face and neatly-tied white hair, which seemed to have suffered no
disarrangement.
“No,” said Mr. Belamour, smiling, “my little friend Eugene, ay, and my
nephew himself, are hoping to hear I was released from fetters and a
heap of straw, but I took care to give them no opportunity. I merely
told them they were under a mistake, and had better take care. I gave
them a reference or two, but I saw plainly that was of no use, though
they promised to send, and then I did exactly as they bade me, so as to
deprive them of all excuse for meddling with me, letting them know that
I could pay for decent treatment so long as I was in their hands.”
“Did you receive it?”
“I was told in a mild manner, adapted to my intelligence, that if I
behaved well, I might eat at the master’s table, and have a room with
only one inmate. Of the former I have not an engaging experience, either
as to the fare, the hostess, or the company. Of the latter, happily
I know little, as I only know that my comrade was to be a harmless
gibbering idiot; of good birth, poor fellow. However, the sounds I
heard, and the court I looked into, convinced me that my privileges were
worth paying for.”
He spoke very quietly, but he shuddered involuntarily, and Betty, unable
to restrain her tears, retreated to her sister’s side.
CHAPTER XXXVI. WAKING.
So Love was still the Lord of all.--SCOTT.
The summer sun was sinking and a red glow was on the wall above
Aurelia’s head when she moved again, upon the shutting of the door,
while supper was being taken by the gentlemen in the outer room.
Presently her lips moved, and she said, “Sister,” not in surprise, but
as if she thought herself at home, and as Betty gently answered, “Yes,
my darling child,” the same voice added, “I have had such a dream;
I thought I was a chrysalis, and that I could not break my shell nor
spread my wings.”
“You can now, my sweet,” said Betty, venturing to kiss her.
Recollection came. “Sister Betty, is it you indeed?” and she threw her
arms round Betty’s neck, clinging tight to her in delicious silence,
till she raised her head and said: “No, this is not home. Oh, is it all
true?”
“True that I have you again, my dear, dearest, sweetest child,” said
Betty. “Oh, thank God for it.”
“Thank God,” repeated Aurelia. “Now I have you nothing will be dreadful.
But where am I? I thought once I was in a boat with you and Eugene,
and some one else. Was it a dream? I can’t remember anything since that
terrible old woman made me drink the coffee. You have not come there,
have you?”
“No, dear child, it was no dream that you were in a boat. We had been
searching everywhere for you, and we were bringing you back sound, sound
asleep,” said Betty, in her tenderness speaking as it to a little child.
“I knew you would,” said Aurelia; “I knew God would save me. Love is
strong as death, you know,” she added dreamily: “I think I felt it all
round me in that sleep.”
“That was what you murmured once or twice in your sleep,” said Betty.
“And now, oh! it is so sweet to lie here and know it is you. And wasn’t
_he_ there too?”
“Sir Amyas? Yes, my dear. He came for you. He and my father and the
others are in the other room waiting for you to wake.”
“I hear their voices,” cried Aurelia, with a start, sitting up. “Oh!
that’s my papa’s voice! Oh! how good it is to hear it!”
“I will call him as soon as I have set you a little in order. Are you
sure you are well, my dearest? No headache?”
“Quite, quite well! Why, sister, I have not been ill; and if I had, I
should skip to see you and hear their voices, only I wish they would
speak louder! That’s Eugene! Oh! they are hushing him. Let me make
haste,” and she moved with an alacrity that was most reassuring. “But I
can’t understand. Is it morning or evening?”
“Evening, my dear. They are at supper. Are not you hungry?”
“Oh, yes, I believe I am;” but as she was about to wash her hands: “My
rings, my wedding-ring? Look in my glove!”
“No, they are not there my dear, they must have robbed you! And oh!
Aurelia, what have you done to your hair?”
“My hair? It was all there this morning. Sister, it was that woman, I
remember now, I was not quite sound asleep, but I had no power to move
or cry out, and the woman was snipping and Loveday crying.”
“Vile creature!” burst out Betty.
“My hair will grow!” said Aurelia; “but I had so guarded my
wedding-ring--and what will he, Sir Amyas, think?”
Their voices were at this moment heard, and in another second Aurelia
was held against her father’s breast, as in broken words he sobbed out
thanks for her restoration, and implored her pardon for having trusted
her out of his care.
“Oh! sir, do not speak so! Dear papa, I have tried hard to do you no
harm, and to behave well. Please, sir, give me your blessing.”
“God bless you indeed, my child. He has blessed you in guarding you as
your innocence deserved, though I did not. Ah! others are impatient. The
poor old father comes second now.”
After a few minutes spent in repairing the disorder of her dress, and
her hands in those of her father and little brother, she was led to the
outer room where in the twilight there was a rapturous rush, an embrace,
a fondling of the hand in the manner more familiar to her than the
figure from before whom it proceeded. She only said in her gentle
plaintive tone, “Oh, sir, it was not my fault. They took away your
rings.”
“Nay,” said a voice, new to her, “here are your rings, Lady Belamour. I
must trust to your Christian charity to pardon her who caused you to be
stripped of them.”
The name of Lady Belamour made her start as that of her enemy, but a
truly familiar tone said, “You need not fear, my kind friend. This
is Mr. Wayland, who, to our great joy, has returned, and has come to
restore your jewels.”
“Indeed I am very glad yours is not lost,” said Aurelia, not a little
bewildered.
Mr. Wayland said a few words of explanation that his wife’s agent at
Greenwich had brought them back to her.
“Pray let me have them,” entreated Sir Amyas; “I must put them on
again!”
“Stay,” said Major Delavie; “I can have such things done only under true
colours and in the full light of day. The child is scarcely awake yet,
and does not know one from the other! Why neither of you so much as know
the colour of the eyes of the other! Can you tell me sir?”
“Heavenly,” exclaimed the youth, in an ecstatic tone of self-defence,
which set the Major laughing and saying, “My silly maid knows as little
which gentleman put on the ring.”
“I do, sir,” said Aurelia indignantly; “I know his voice and hand quite
well,” and in the impulse she quitted her father’s arm and put both
hands into those of her young adorer, saying, “Pray sir, pardon me, I
never thought to hurt you so cruelly.”
There was a cry of, “My own, my dearest life,” and she was clasped as
she had been immediately after her strange wedding.
However, the sound of a servant’s step made them separate instantly,
and Betty begged that the supper might not be removed, since it was many