Love and Life: An Old Story in Eighteenth Century Costume

“Come, Aura, you are talking by rote out of the marriage service. You may be open with me, you know, it will go no further; and I do long to know whether you can be truly content at heart,” said Harriet with real affection.

“Dear sister,” said Aurelia, touched, “believe me that indeed I am. Mr. Belamour is kindness itself. He is all he ever promised to be to me, and sometimes more.”

“Yet if he loved you, he could never let you live moped up there. Are you never frighted at the dark chamber? I should die of it!”

“The dark does not fright me,” said Aurelia.

“You have a courage I have not! Come, now, were you never frighted to talk with a voice in the dark?”

“Scarcely ever!” said aurelia.

“Scarcely—when was that?”

“You will laugh, Harriet, but it is when he is most—most tender and full of warmth. Then I hardly know him for the same.”

“What! If he be not always tender to my poor dear child, he must be a wretch indeed.”

“O no, no, Harriet! How shall I ever make you understand?” cried Aurelia. “Never for a moment is he other than kind and gentle. It is generally like a father, only more courtly and deferential, but sometimes something seems to come over him, and he is—oh! I cannot tell you—what I should think a lover would be,” faltered Aurelia, colouring crimson, and hiding her face on her sister’s shoulder, as old habits of confidence, and need of counsel and sympathy were obliterating all the warnings of last night.

“You silly little chit! Why don’t you encourage these advances? You ought to be charmed, not frightened.”

“They would ch–I should like it if it were not so like two men in one, the one holding the other back.”

Harriet laughed at this fancy, and Aurelia was impelled to defend it. “Indeed, Harriet, it is really so. There will be whispers—oh, such whispers!”—she sunk her voice and hid her face again—“close to my ear, and—endearments—while the grave voice sounds at the other end of the room, and then I long for light. I swooned for fright the first time, but I am much more used to it now.”

“This is serious,” said Harriet, with unwonted gravity. “Do you really think that there is another person in the room?”

“I do not feel as if it could be otherwise, and yet it is quite impossible.”

“I would not bear it,” said her sister. “You ought not to bear it. How do you know that it is not some vile stratagem? It might even be the blackamoor!”

“No, no, Harriet! I know better than that. It is quite impossible. Besides, I am sure of this—that the hands that wedded me are the same hands that caress me,” she added, with another blushing effort, “strong but delicate hands, rather hard inside, as with the bridle. I noticed it because once I thought his hands soft with doing nothing and being shut up.”

“That convinces me the more, then, there is some strange imposition practised upon you,” said Harriet, anxiously.

“Oh, no!” said Aurelia, inconsistently; “Mr. Belamour is quite incapable of doing anything wrong by me. I cannot let you have such shocking notions. He told me I must be patient and trust him, though I should meet with much that was strange and inexplicable.”

“This is trusting him much too far. They are playing on your inexperience, I am sure. If you were not a mere child, you would see what a shocking situation this is.”

“I wish I had not told you,” said Aurelia, tears rushing into her eyes. “I ought not! He bade me be cautious how I talked, and you have made me quite forget!”

“Did he so? Then it is evident that he fears disclosure! Something must be done. Why not write to our father?”

“I could not! He would call it a silly fancy.”

“And it might embroil him with my Lady,” added Harriet. “We must devise another mode.”

“You will not—must not tell Mr. Arden,” exclaimed Aurelia, peremptorily.

“Never fear! He heeds nothing more sublunary than the course of the planets. But I have it. His device will serve the purpose. Do you remember Eugene confounding him with Friar Bacon because he was said to light a candle without flint or steel? It was true. When he was a bachelor he always lit his own candle and fire, and he always carries the means. I was frighted the first time he showed me, but now I can do it as well as he. See,” she said, opening a case, “a drop of this spirit upon this prepared cotton;” and as a bright flame sprang up and made Aurelia start, she laughed and applied a taper to it. “There, one such flash would be quite enough to prove to you whether there be any deception practised on you.”

“I could never do it! Light is agony to Mr. Belamour, and what would he think?”

“He would take it for lightning, which I suppose he cannot keep out.”

“One flash did come through everything last summer, but I was not looking towards him.”

“You will be wiser this time. Here, I can give you this little box, for Mr. Arden compounded a fresh store in town.”

“I dare not, sister. He has ever bidden me trust without sight; and you cannot guess how good he is to me, and how noble and generous. I cannot insult him by a doubt.”

“Then he should not act as no true woman can endure.”

“And it would hurt him.”

“Tut, tut, child; if the lightning did not harm him how can this flash? I tell you no man has a right to trifle with you in this manner, and it is your duty to yourself and all of us to find out the truth. Some young rake may have bribed the black, and be personating him; and some day you may find yourself carried off you know not where.”

“Harriet, if you only knew either Mr. Belamour or Jumbo, you would know that you are saying things most shocking!”

“Convince me, then! Look here, Aurelia, if you cannot write to me and explain this double-faced or double-voiced husband of yours, I vow to you that I shall speak to Mr. Arden, and write to my father.”

“Oh! do not, do not, sister! Remember, it is of no use unless this temper of affection be on him, and I have not heard it this fortnight, no, nor more.”

“Promise me, then, that you will make the experiment. See, here is a little chain-stitch pouch—poor Peggy Duckworth’s gift to me—with two pockets. Let me fasten it under your dress, and then you will always have it about you.”

“If the bottle broke as I rode home!”

“Impossible; it is a scent-bottle of strong glass.”

Here Mr. Arden knocked at the door, regretting to interrupt their confidences, but dinner awaited them; and as, immediately after, Mrs. Hunter brought her husband in his best wig to call on Madame Belamour and her relations, the sisters had no more time together, till the horses were at the door, and they went to their room together to put on their hats.

A whole mass of refusals and declarations of perfect confidence were on Aurelia’s tongue, but Harriet cut them all short by saying, “Remember, you are bound for your own honour and ours, to clear up this mystery!”

Then they rode off their several ways, Madame Belamour towards Bowstead, Mr. and Mrs. Arden on their sturdy roadster towards Lea Farm.

CHAPTER XXII. A FATAL SPARK

    And so it chanced; which in those dark      And fireless halls was quite amazing,    Did we not know how small a spark      Can set the torch of love ablazing.                                       T. MOORE.

Aurelia rode home in perplexity, much afraid of the combustibles at her girdle, and hating the task her sister had forced on her. She felt as if her heedless avowals had been high treason to her husband; and yet Harriet was her elder, and those assurances that as a true woman she was bound to clear up the mystery, made her cheeks burn with shame, and her heart thrill with the determination to vindicate her husband, while the longing to know the face of one who so loved her was freshly awakened.

She was strongly inclined to tell him all, indeed she knew herself well enough to be aware that half a dozen searching questions would draw out the whole confession of her own communication and Harriet’s unworthy suspicions; and humiliating as this would be, she longed for the opportunity. Here, however, she was checked in her meditations by a stumble of her horse, which proved to have lost a shoe. It was necessary to leave the short cut, and make for the nearest forge, and when the mischief was repaired, to ride home by the high road.

She thus came home much later than had been expected; Jumbo, Molly, and the little girls were all watching for her, and greeted her eagerly. The supper was already on the table for her, and she had only just given Fay and Letty the cakes and comfits she had bought at Brentford for them when Jumbo brought the message that his master hoped that madam, if not too much fatigued, would come to him as soon as her supper was finished.

Accordingly, she came without waiting to change her dress, having only taken off her hat and arranged her hair.

She felt guilty, and dreaded the being questioned, yet longed to make her avowal and have all explained. The usual greetings passed, and then Mr. Belamour said, “I heard your horse hoofs come in late. You were detained?”

She explained about the shoe, and a few sentences were passing about her sister when she detected a movement, as if a step were stealing towards her, together with a hesitation in the remark Mr. Belamour was making about Mrs. Hunter’s good nature.

Quite irrelevantly came in the whispering voice, “Where is my dearest life?”

“Sir, sir!” she cried, driven at last to bay, “what is this? Are you one or two?”

“One with you, my sweetest life! Your own—your husband!”

Therewith there was a kind of groan further off, and as Aurelia felt a hand on her dress, her fight and distress at the duality were complete. While, in the dark, the hands were still groping for her, she eluded them, and succeeded in carrying out Harriet’s manoeuvre so far that a quick bright flame leapt forth, lighting up the whole room, and revealing two—yes, two! But it did not die away! In her haste, and in the darkness, she had poured the whole contents of the bottle on the phosphoric cotton, and dropped both without knowing it on a chintz curtain. A fresh evening breeze was blowing in from the window, open behind the shutters, and in one second the curtain was a flaming, waving sheet. Some one sprang up to tear it down, leaping on a table in the window. The table overbalanced, the heavy iron curtain-rod came out suddenly, and there was a fall, the flaming mass covering the fallen! The glare shone on a strange white face and head as well as on Jumbo’s black one, and with a trampling and crushing the fire died down, quenched as suddenly as it began, and all was obscurity again.

“Nephew, dear boy, speak,” exclaimed Mr. Belamour; and as there was no answer, “Open the shutters, Jumbo. For Heaven’s sake let us see!”

“Oh! what have I done?” cried poor Aurelia, in horror and misery, dropping by him on the ground, while the opened shutters admitted the twilight of a May evening, with a full moon, disclosing a strange scene. A youth in a livery riding coat lay senseless on the ground, partly covered by the black fragments of the curtain, the iron rod clenched in one hand, the other arm doubled under him. A face absolutely white, with long snowy beard and hair hung over him, and an equally white pair of hands tried to lift the head. Jumbo had in a second sprung down, removed the fallen table, and come to his masters help. “Struck head with this,” he said, as he tried to unclasp the fingers from the bar, and pointed to a grazed blow close to the temple.

“We must lay him on my bed,” said Mr. Belamour. Then, seeing the girl’s horror-stricken countenance, “Ah, child, would that you had been patient; but it was overtasking you! Call Aylward, I beg of you. Tell her he is here, badly hurt. What, you do not know him,” as her bewildered eyes and half-opened lips implied the question she could not utter, “you do not know him? Sir Amyas—my nephew—your true husband!”

“Oh! and I have killed him!” she cried, with clasped hands.

“Hush, child, no, with God’s mercy! Only call the woman and bring a light.”

She rushed away, and appeared, a pale terrified figure, with the smell of fire on her hair and white dress, in the room where Mrs. Aylward was reading her evening chapter. She could scarcely utter her message as she stood under the gaze of blank amazement; but Mrs. Aylward understood enough to make her start up without another word, and hurry away, candle in hand.

Aurelia took up the other, and followed, trembling. When she reached the outer room the rush of air almost blew out her light, and pausing, afraid to pass on, she perceived that Mr. Belamour and Jumbo were carrying the insensible form between them into the inner apartment, while a moan or two filled her heart with pangs of self-reproach.

She hung about, in terrible anxiety, but not daring to come forward while the others were engaged about the sufferer, for what seemed a very long time before she heard Mrs. Aylward say, “His arm is broke, sir. We must send for Dr. Hunter. The maids are all in their beds, but I will go and wake one, and send her to the stables to call the groom.”

“I had best go,” said Mr. Belamour. “You are of more use than I. He sleeps at the stables, you say?” Then, seeing the waiting, watching form of Aurelia, he said, “Come in, my poor child. Perhaps your voice may rouse him.” Every one, including himself, seemed to have forgotten Mr. Belamour’s horror of the light, for candles were flaring on all the tables, as he led the you girl in, saying, “Speak to him.”

At the death-like face in its golden hair, Aurelia’s voice choked in her throat, and it was in an unnatural hoarse tone that she tried to say, “Sir—Sir Amyas—”

“I trust he will soon be better,” said Mr. Belamour, marking her dismay and grief with his wonted kindness, “but his arm needs the surgeon, and I must be going. Let Lady Belamour sit here, Mrs. Aylward. I trust you with the knowledge. It was my nephew, in disguise, who wedded her, unknown to her. She is entirely blameless. Let Jumbo fetch her a cordial. There, my child, take this chair, so that his eyes may fall on you when he opens them. Bathe his head if you will. I shall return quickly after having sped the groom on his journey.”

Gloomy and doubtful were the looks cast on Aurelia by the housekeeper, but all unseen by the wondering, bewildered, remorseful eyes fixed on the white face on the pillow, heedless of its perfect symmetry of feature, and knowing only that this was he who had thrilled her heart with his tender tones, who had loved her so dearly, and dared so much for her sake, but whom her impatience and distrust had so cruelly injured. Had she seen him strong, well, and ardent, as she had so lately heard him, her womanhood would have recoiled indignantly at the deception which had stolen her vows; but the spectacle of the young senseless face and prostrate form filled her with compassion, tenderness, and remorse, for having yielded to her sister’s persuasions. With intense anxiety she watched, and assisted in the fomentations, longing for Mr. Belamour’s return; but time passed on and still he came not. No words passed, only a few faint sighs, and one of the hands closed tight on Aurelia’s.

CHAPTER XXIII. WRATH AND DESOLATION

    Straight down she ran.... and fatally did vow    To wreake her on the mayden messenger    Whom she had caused be kept as prisonere.                                          SPENSER.

Hark! there was the trampling of horses and thundering of wheels at the door! Could the doctor be come already, and in such a fashion?

Jumbo hurried to admit him, and Mrs. Aylward moved to arrange matters, but the clasp that was on Aurelia’s hand would not let her go.

Presently there came, not Dr. Hunter’s tread, but a crisp, rustling sound, and the tap of high heels, and in the doorway stood, tall, erect, and terrible, Lady Belamour, with a blaze of wrath in her blue eyes, and concentrated rage in her whole form, while in accents low, but coming from between her teeth, she demanded, “Miserable boy, what means this?”

“Oh! madam, take care! he is sadly hurt!” cried Aurelia, with a gesture as if to screen him.

“I ask what this means?” repeated Lady Belamour, advancing, and seeming to fill the room with her majestic figure, in full brocaded dress, with feathers waving in her hair.

“His Honour cannot answer you, my Lady,” said Mrs. Aylward. “He has had a bad fall, and Mr. Belamour is gone to send for the doctor.”

“This is the housekeeping in my absence!” said Lady Belamour, showing less solicitude as to her son’s condition than indignation at the discovery, and her eyes and her diamonds glittering fearfully.

“My Lady,” said Mrs. Aylward, with stern respectfulness, “I knew nothing of all this till this lady called me an hour ago telling me Sir Amyas was hurt. I found him as you see. Please your Ladyship, I must go back to him.”

“Speak then, you little viper,” said Lady Belamour, turning on Aurelia, who had risen, but was held fast by the hand upon hers. “By what arts have you well nigh slain my son? Come here, and tell me.”

“None, madam!” gasped Aurelia, trembling, so that she grasped her chair-back with her free hand for support. “I never saw him till to-night.”

“Lies will not serve you, false girl. Come here this instant! I know that you have been shamelessly receiving my son here, night after night.”

“I never knew!”

“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.