Love and Life: An Old Story in Eighteenth Century Costume
at Portkiln for the night, and ride on this morning. Herries went on to
the Deanery, and I hoped to have seen you before church, but found you
had already entered.”
Portkiln was so near, that this Sabbath day’s journey did not scandalise
Betty, and her father eagerly welcomed his kinsman, and insisted that he
should go no farther. Sir Amyas accepted the invitation, nothing loth,
only asking, with a little courtly diffidence, if it might not be
convenient for him to sleep at the Great House, and begging the ladies
to excuse his riding dress.
His eyes wandered anxiously as though in search of something in the
midst of all his civility, and while the Major was sending Eugene to
bring Mr. Arden--who was hanging back at the churchyard gate, unwilling
to thrust himself forward--the faltering question was put, while the
cheeks coloured like a girl’s, “I hope my fair partner, my youngest
cousin, Miss Aurelia Delavie, is in good health?”
“We hope so, sir, thank you,” returned Betty; “but she left us six days
ago.”
“Left you!” he repeated, in consternation that overpowered his
courtliness.
“Yes, sir,” said Harriet, “my Lady, your mother, has been good enough to
send for her to London.”
“My Lady!” he murmured to himself; “I never thought of that! How and
when did she go?”
The answer was interrupted by the Major coming up “Sir Amyas Belamour,
permit me to present to you the Reverend Richard Arden, the admirable
divine to whom we are beholden for the excellent and learned
discourse of this morning. You’ll not find such another scholar in all
Carminster.”
“I am highly honoured,” returned the baronet, with a bow in return for
Mr. Arden’s best obeisance, such as it was; and Harriet, seeing Peggy
Duckworth in the distance, plumed herself on her probable envy.
Before dinner was served Sir Amyas had obtained the information as to
Aurelia’s departure, and even as to the road she had taken, and he had
confessed that, “Of course he had write to his mother that he had danced
with the most exquisitely beautiful creature he had ever seen, and that
he longed to know his cousins better.” No doubt his mother, having been
thus reminded of her connections, had taken the opportunity of summoning
Aurelia to London to give her the advantages of living in her household
and acquiring accomplishments. The lad was so much delighted at the
prospect of enjoying her society that he was almost consoled for not
finding her at the Manor House; and his elaborate courtesy became every
moment less artificial and more affectionate, as the friendly atmosphere
revealed that the frankness and simplicity of the boy had not been lost,
captain in the dragoon guards as he was, thanks to interest, though
he had scarcely yet joined his troop. He had been with a tutor in the
country, until two years ago, when his stepfather, Mr. Wayland, had
taken him, still with his tutor, on the expedition to the Mediterranean.
He had come home from Gibraltar, and joined his regiment only a few
weeks before setting out with his friend Captain Herries, to visit
Battlefield, Lady Aresfield’s estate in Monmouthshire. He was quartered
in the Whitehall barracks, but could spend as much time as he pleased at
his mother’s house in Hanover Square.
Betty’s mind misgave her as she saw the brightening eye with which he
said it; but she could not but like the youth himself, he was so bright,
unspoilt, and engaging that she could not think him capable of doing
wilful wrong to her darling. Yet how soon would the young soldier,
plunged into the midst of fashionable society, learn to look on the fair
girl with the dissipated eyes of his associates? There was some comfort
in finding that Mr. Wayland was expected to return in less than a year,
and that his stepson seemed to regard him with unbounded respect, as
a good, just, and wise man, capable of everything! Indeed Sir Amyas
enlightened Mr. Arden on the scientific construction of some of Mr.
Wayland’s inventions so as to convince both the clergyman and the
soldier that the lad himself was no fool, and had profited by his
opportunities.
Major Delavie produced his choice Tokay, a present from an old Hungarian
brother-officer, and looked happier than since Aurelia’s departure. He
was no match-maker, and speculated on no improbable contingencies for
his daughter, but he beheld good hopes for the Delavie property and
tenants in an heir such as this, and made over his simple loyal heart
to the young man. Presently he inquired whether the unfortunate Mr.
Belamour still maintained his seclusion.
“Yes, sir,” was the reply. “He still lives in two dark rooms with
shutters and curtains excluding every ray of light. He keeps his bed for
the greater part of the day, but sometimes, on a very dark night, will
take a turn on the terrace.”
“Poor gentleman!” said Betty. “Has he no employment or occupation?”
“Mr. Wayland contrived a raised chess and draught board, and persuaded
him to try a few games before we went abroad, but I do not know whether
he has since continued it.”
“Does he admit any visits?”
“Oh no. He has been entirely shut up, except from the lawyer, Hargrave,
on business. Mr. Wayland, indeed, strove to rouse him from his
despondency, but without success, except that latterly he became willing
to receive him.”
“Have you ever conversed with him?”
There was an ingenuous blush as the young man replied. “I fear I must
confess myself remiss. Mr. Wayland has sometimes carried me with him to
see my uncle, but not with my good will, and my mother objected lest it
should break my spirits. However, when I left Gibraltar, my good
father charged me to endeavour from time to time to enliven my uncle’s
solitude, but there were impediments to my going to him, and I take
shame to myself for not having striven to overcome them.”
“Rightly spoken, my young kinsman,” cried the Major. “There are no such
impediments as a man’s own distaste.”
“And pity will remove that,” said Betty.
Soon after the removal of the cloth the ladies withdrew, and Eugene was
called to his catechism, but he was soon released, for the Tokay had
made her father sleepy, while it seemed to have emboldened Mr. Arden,
since he came forth with direct intent to engross Harriet; and Sir Amyas
wandered towards Betty, apologising for the interruption.
“It is a rare occasion,” said she as her pupil scampered away.
“Happy child, to be taught by so good a sister,” said the young baronet,
regretfully.
“Your young half-brothers and sisters must be of about the same age,”
said Betty.
“My little brother, Archer, is somewhat younger. He is with my mother in
London, the darling of the ladies, who think him a perfect beauty, and
laugh at all his mischievous pranks. As to my little sisters, you will
be surprised to hear that I have only seen them once, when I rode with
their father to see them at the farm houses at which they are nursed.”
“No doubt they are to be fetched home, since Mrs. Dove is gone to wait
on them, and my Lady said something of intending my sister to be with
her young children.”
“Nay, she must have no such troublesome charge. My mother cannot intend
anything of the kind. I shall see that she is treated as---”
Betty, beginning to perceive that he knew as little of his own mother as
did the rest of his sex, here interrupted him. “Excuse me, sir, I doubt
not of your kind intentions, but let me speak, for Aurelia is a very
precious child to me, and I am afraid that any such attempt on your part
might do her harm rather than good. She must be content with the lot of
a poor dependant.”
“Never!” he exclaimed. “She is a Delavie; and besides, no other ever
shall be my wife.”
“Hush, hush!” Betty had been saying before the words were out of his
“You are but a silly boy, begging your Honour’s pardon, though you
speak, I know, with all your heart. What would your Lady mother say or
do to my poor little sister if she heard you?”
“She could but send her home, and then flood and fire could not hold me
from her.”
“I wish that were the worst she could do. No, Sir Amyas Belamour, if you
have any kindness for the poor helpless girl under your mother’s roof,
you will make no advance to excite alarm or anger against her. Remember
it is she who will be the sufferer and not yourself. The woman, however
guiltless, is sure to fall under suspicion and bear the whole penalty.
And oh! what would become of her, defenceless, simple, unprotected as
she is?”
“Yet you sent her!” said he.
“Yes,” said Betty, sadly, “because there was no other choice between
breaking with my Lady altogether.”
He made an ejaculation under his breath, half sad, half violent, and
exclaimed, “Would that I were of age, or my father were returned.”
“But now you know all, you will leave my child in peace,” said Betty.
“What, you would give me no hope!”
“Only such as you yourself have held out,” said Betty. “When you are
your own master, if you keep in the same mind till then, and remain
truly worthy, I cannot tell what my father would answer.”
“I am going to speak to him this very day. I came with that intent.”
“Do no such thing, I entreat,” cried Betty. “He would immediately think
it his duty to inform my Lady. Then no protestation would persuade her
that we had not entrapped your youth and innocence. His grey head would
be driven out without shelter, and what might not be the consequence to
my sister? You could not help us, and could only make it worse. No,
do nothing rash, incautious, or above all, disobedient. It would be
self-love, not true love that would risk bringing her into peril and
trouble when she is far out of reach of all protection.”
“Trust me, trust me, Cousin Betty,” cried the youth. “Only let me hope,
and I’ll be caution itself; but oh! what an endless eternity is two
years to wait without a sign!”
But here appeared the Major, accompanied by Captain Herries and Dean
Churchill, who had ordered out his coach, Sunday though it were, to pay
his respects to my Lady’s son, and carry him and his hosts back to sup
at the Deanery. It was an age of adulation, but Betty was thankful that
perilous conversations were staved off.
CHAPTER VII. ALL ALONE.
By the simplicity of Venus’ doves.
_Merchant of Venice_.
That Sunday was spent by Aurelia at the Bear Inn, at Reading. Her
journey had been made by very short stages, one before breakfast,
another lasting till noon, when there was a long halt for dinner and
rest for horse and rider, and then another ride, never even in these
longest summer days prolonged beyond six or seven o’clock at latest,
such was the danger of highwaymen being attracted by the valuable
horses, although the grooms in charge were so well armed that they might
almost as well have been troopers.
The roads, at that time of year, were at their best, and Aurelia and
Mrs. Dove were mounted on steady old nags, accustomed to pillions.
Aurelia could have ridden single, but this would not have been thought
fitting on a journey with no escort of her own rank, and when she
mounted she was far too miserable to care for anything but hiding her
tearful face behind Mr. Dove’s broad shoulders. Mrs. Dove was perched
behind a wiry, light-weighted old groom, whom she kept in great order,
much to his disgust.
After the first wretchedness, Aurelia’s youthful spirits had begun to
revive, and the novel scenes to awaken interest. The Glastonbury thorn
was the first thing she really looked at. The Abbey was to her only an
old Gothic melancholy ruin, not worthy of a glance, but the breezy
air of the Cheddar Hills, the lovely cliffs, and the charm of the open
country, with its strange islands of hills dotted about, raised her
spirits, as she rode through the meadows where hay was being tossed, and