Love and Life: An Old Story in Eighteenth Century Costume

She knew now that she was faint with hunger and thirst, and must take food before she could go much farther, so taking out a groat, her smallest coin, she accosted the girl, and offered it for a draught of milk. To her dismay the girl exclaimed “Lawk! It be young Madam! Sarvice, ma’am!”

“I have lost myself in the wood,” said Aurelia. “I should be much obliged for a little milk.”

“Well to be sure. Think of that! And have ee been out all night? Ye looks whisht!” said the girl, readily filling a wooden cup she had brought with her, for in those days good new milk was a luxury far more easily accessible than in ours. She added a piece of barley bread, her own intended breakfast, and was full of respectful wonder, pity, and curiosity, proposing that young Madam should come and rest in mother’s cottage in the wood, and offering to guide her home as soon as the cows were milked and the pigs fed. Aurelia had some difficulty in shaking her off, finding also that she had gone round and round in the labyrinthine paths, and was much nearer the village of Bowstead than she had intended.

Indeed, she was obliged to deceive the kindly girl by walking off in the direction she pointed out, intending to strike afterwards into another path, though where to go she had little idea, so long as it was out of reach of my Lady and her prison.

Oh! if Harriet were only at Brentford, or if it were possible to reach the Lea Farm where she was! Could she ask her way thither, or could she find some shelter near or in Brentford till the coach or the waggon started? This was the most definite idea her brain, refreshed somewhat by the food, could form; but in the meantime she was again getting bewildered in the field paths. It was a part she did not know, lying between the backs of the cottages and their gardens, and the woods belonging to the great house; and the long sloping meadows, spangled with cowslips were much alike. The cowslips seemed to strike her with a pang as she recollected her merry day among them last spring, and how little she then thought of being a homeless wanderer. At last, scarce knowing where she was, she sat down on the step of a stile leading to a little farmyard, leant her head on the top bar and wept bitterly.

Again she startled by hearing a voice saying, “Sister, what is that in the field?” and starting up, she saw Mrs. Delia in high pattens, and her Sunday silk tucked up over her quilted petticoat, with a basket of corn in her hand, surrounded by her poultry, while Mrs. Phoebe was bending over a coop. She had stumbled unawares on their back premises, and with a wild hope, founded on their well-known enmity to Lady Belamour, she sprang over the stile. Mrs. Delia retreated in haste, but Mrs. Phoebe came to the front.

“Oh! Mrs. Phoebe,” she cried, “I ask your pardon.”

“Mrs. Belamour! Upon my word! To what are we indebted for this visit?”

“Oh! of your kindness listen to me, madam,” said Aurelia. “My Lady is come, and there is some dreadful mistake, and she is very angry with me; and if you would only take me in and hide me till the waggon goes and I can get home!”

“So my Lady has found you out, you artful hussy,” returned Mrs. Phoebe. “I have long guessed at your tricks! I knew it was no blackamoor that was stealing into the great house.”

“I do not know what you mean.”

“Oh! it is of no use to try your feigned artlessness on us. I wonder at your assurance, after playing false with uncle and nephew both at once.”

“If you would but hear me!”

“I have heard enough of you already. I wonder you dare show your face at a respectable house. Away with you, if you would not have me send the constable after you!”

The threat renewed Aurelia’s terror, and again she fled, but this time she fell into a path better known to her, that leading to Sedhurst, and ultimately to Brentford.

The recollection of Dame Wheatfield’s genial good nature inspired her with another hope, and she made her way towards the farm. The church bells were ringing, and she saw the farmer and his children going towards the church, but not the mistress, and she might therefore hope to find her at home and alone. As she approached, a great dog began a formidable barking, and his voice brought out the good woman in person. “Down, Bouncer! A won’t hurt’ee, my lass. What d’ye lack that you bain’t at church?”

“May I speak to you, Mrs. Wheatfield?”

“My stars, if it bain’t young Miss—Madam, I mean! Nothing ain’t wrong with the child?”

“O no, she is quite well, but—”

“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 could reach it; but his greeting and inquiry were cut short by the young man’s breathless question: “Is she here?”

“Who?”

“My wife—my love. Your daughter, sweet Aurelia! Ah! it was my one hope.”

“Come in, come in, sir,” entreated Betty, seeing how fearfully pale he grew. “What has befallen you, and where is my sister?”

“Would that I knew! I trusted to have found her here; but now, sir, you will come with me and find her!”

“I do not understand you, sir,” said the Major severely, “nor how you are concerned in the matter. My daughter is the wife of your uncle, Mr. Belamour, and if, as I fear, you bear the marks of a duel in consequence of any levity towards her, I shall not find it easy to forgive.”

“On my word and honour it is no such thing,” said the youth, raising a face full of frank innocence: “Your daughter is my wife, my most dear and precious wife, with full consent and knowledge of my uncle. I was married to her in his clothes, in the darkened room, our names being the same!”

“Was this your promise?” Betty exclaimed.

“Miss Delavie, to the best of my ability I have kept my promise. Your sister has never seen me, nor to her knowledge spoken with me.”

“These are riddles, young man,” said the Major sternly. “If all be not well with my innocent child, I shall know how to demand an account.”

“Sir,” said the youth: “I swear to you that she is the same innocent maiden as when she left you. Oh!” he added with a gesture of earnest entreaty, “blame me as you will, only trace her.”

“Sit down, and let us hear,” said Betty kindly, pushing a chair towards him and pouring out a glass of wine. He sank into the first, but waved aside the second, becoming however so pale that the Major sprang to hold the wine to his lips saying: “Drink, boy, I say!”

“Not unless you forgive me,” he replied in a hoarse, exhausted voice.

“Forgive! Of course, I forgive, if you have done no wrong by my child. I see, I see, ‘tis not wilfully. You have been hurt in her defence.”

“Not exactly,” he said: “I have much to tell,” but the words came slowly, and there was a dazed weariness about his eye that made Betty say, in spite of her anxiety—“You cannot till you have eaten and rested. If only one word to say where she is!”

“Oh! that I could! My hope was to find her here,” and he was choked by a great strangling sob, which his youthful manhood sought to restrain.

Betty perceived that he was far from being recovered from the injury he had suffered, and did her best to restrain her own and her father’s anxiety till she had persuaded him to swallow some of the excellent coffee which Nannerl always made at sight of a guest. To her father’s questions meantime, he had answered that he had broken his arm ten days ago, but he could not wait, he had posted down as soon as he could move.

“You ought to sleep before you tell us farther,” said the Major, speaking from a strong sense of the duties of a host; but he was relieved when the youth answered, “You are very good, sir, but I could not sleep till you know all.”

“Speak, then,” said the Major, “I cannot look at your honest young countenance and think you guilty of more than disobedient folly; but I fear it may have cost my poor child very dear! Is it your mother that you dread?”

“I would be thankful even to know her in my mother’s keeping!” he said.

“Is there no mistake?” said the Major; “my daughter, Mrs. Arden, saw her at Brentford, safe and blooming.”

“Oh, that was before—before—” said Sir Amyas, “the day before she fled from my mother at Bowstead, and has been seen no more.”

He put his hand over his face, and bowed it on the table in such overpowering grief as checked the exclamations of horror and dismay and the wrathful demands that were rising to the lips of his auditors, and they only looked at one another in speechless sorrow. Presently he recovered enough to say, “Have patience with me, and I will try to explain all. My cousin, Miss Delavie, knows that I loved her sweet sister from the moment I saw her, and that I hurried to London in the hope of meeting her at my mother’s house. On the contrary, my mother, finding it vain to deny all knowledge of her, led me to believe that she was boarded at a young ladies’ school with my little sisters. I lived on the vain hope of the holidays, and meantime every effort was made to drive me into a marriage which my very soul abhorred, the contract being absolutely made by the two ladies, the mothers, without my participation, nay, against my protest. I was to be cajoled or else persecuted into it—sold, in fact, that my mother’s debts might be paid before her husband’s return! I knew my Uncle Belamour was my sole true personal guardian, though he had never acted further than by affixing his signature when needed. I ought to have gone long before to see him, but as I now understand, obstacles had been purposely placed in my way, while my neglectful reluctance was encouraged. It was in the forlorn hope of finding in him a resource that took me to Bowstead at last, and then it was that I learnt how far my mother could carry deception. There I found my sisters, and learnt that my own sweetest life had been placed there likewise. She was that afternoon visiting some old ladies, but my uncle represented that my meeting her could only cause her trouble and lead to her being removed. I was forced then to yield, having an engagement in London that it would have been fatal to break, but I came again at dark, and having sworn me to silence, he was forced to let me take advantage of the darkness of his chamber to listen to her enchanting voice. He promised to help me, as far as he had the power, in resisting the hateful Aresfield engagement, and he obtained the assistance of an old friend in making himself acquainted with the terms of his guardianship, and likewise of a letter my father had left for him. He has given me leave to show a part of it to you, sir,” he added, “you will see that my father expressed a strong opinion that you were wronged in the matter of the estates, and declared that he had hoped to make some compensation by a contract between one of your daughters and my brother who died. He charged my uncle if possible to endeavour to bring about such a match between one of your children and myself. Thus, you see, I was acting in the strictest obedience. You shall see the letter at once, if I may bid my fellow Gray bring my pocket-book from my valise.”

“I doubt not of your words, my young friend; your father was a gentleman of a high and scrupulous honour. But why all this hide-and-seek work?—I hate holes and corners!”

“You will see how we were driven, sir. My mother came in her turn to see my uncle, and obtain his sanction to her cherished plan, and when he absolutely refused, on account of Lady Aresfield’s notorious character, if for no other, she made him understand that nothing would be easier than to get him declared a lunatic and thus to dispense with his consent. Then, finding how the sweet society of your dear daughter had restored him to new life and spirit, she devised the notable expedient of removing what she suspected to be the chief cause of my contumacy, by marrying the poor child to him. He scouted the idea as a preposterous and cruel sacrifice, but it presently appeared that Colonel Mar was ready to find her a debauched old lieutenant who would gladly marry—what do I say?—it profanes the word—but accept the young lady for a couple of hundred pounds. Then did I implore my uncle to seem to yield, and permit me to personate him at the ceremony. Our names being the same, and all being done in private and in the dark, the whole was quite possible, and it seemed the only means of saving her from a terrible fate.”

“He might—or you might, have remembered that she had a father!” said the Major.

“True. But you were at a distance, and my mother’s displeasure against you was to be deprecated.”

“I had rather she had been offended fifty times than have had such practices with my poor little girl!” said Major Delavie. “No wonder the proposals struck me as strange and ambiguous. Whose writing was it?”

“Mine, at his dictation,” said the youth. “He was unwilling, but my importunity was backed by my mother’s threats, conveyed through Hargrave, that unless Aurelia became his wife she should be disposed of otherwise, and that his sanity might be inquired into. Hargrave, who is much attached to my uncle, and is in great awe of my Lady, was thoroughly frightened, and implored him to secure himself and the young lady by consenting, thinking, too, that anything that would rouse him would be beneficial.”