Love and Life: An Old Story in Eighteenth Century Costume

“O, sir, I have only nursery ditties, caught from our old German maid,” cried Aurelia, in dismay.

“That might not diminish the charm to me,” he said. “In especial there was one song whose notes Jumbo caught as you accompanied yourself on the spinnet.”

And Jumbo, who seemed able to see in the dark, played a bar on his violin, while Aurelia trembled with shyness.

“The Nightingale Song,” she said. “My dear mother learnt the tune abroad. And I believe that she herself made the English words, when she was asked what the nightingales say.”

“May I hear it? Nightingales can sing in the dark.” Refusal was impossible, and Jumbo’s violin was a far more effective accompaniment than her own very moderate performance on the spinnet; so in a sweet, soft, pure, untrained and trembling voice, she sang—

“O Life and Light are sweet, my dear,   O life and Light are sweet;  But sweeter still the hope and cheer    When Love and Life shall meet.  Oh! then it is most sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet.“But Love puts on the yoke, my dear,   But Love puts on the yoke;  The dart of Love calls forth the tear,    As though the heart were broke.  The very heart were broke, broke, broke, broke, broke, broke.“And Love can quench Life’s Light, my dear,   Drear, dark, and melancholy;  Seek Light and Life and jocund cheer,    And mirth and pleasing folly.  Be thine, light-hearted folly, folly, folly, folly, folly, folly.“‘Nay, nay,’ she sang. ‘yoke, pain, and tear,    For Love I gladly greet;  Light, Life, and Mirth are nothing here,    Without Love’s bitter sweet.  Give me Love’s bitter sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet.’”

“Accept my fervent thanks, kind songstress. So that is the nightingale’s song, and your honoured mother’s?”

“Yes, sir. My father often makes us sing it because it reminds him of her.”

“Philomel could not have found a better interpreter,” said the grave voice, sounding so sad that Aurelia wished she could have sung something less affecting to his spirits.

“I gather from what you said that you are no longer blessed with the presence of the excellent lady, your mother,” presently added Mr. Belamour.

“No, sir. We lost her seven years ago.”

“And her husband mourns her still. Well he may. She was a rare creature. So she is gone! I have been so long in seclusion that no doubt time has made no small havoc, and my friends have had many griefs to bewail.”

Aurelia knew not what answer to make, and was relieved when he collected himself and said:—

“I will trespass no longer on my fair visitor’s complaisance, but if she have not found the gloom of this apartment insupportable, it would be a charitable action to brighten it once more with her presence.”

“O sir, I will come whenever you are pleased to send for me,” she exclaimed, all her doubts, fears, and scruples vanishing at his tone of entreaty. “My father would be so glad. I will practise my best song to sing to you to-morrow.”

“My best thanks are yours,” and her hand was taken, she was carefully conducted to the door and dismissed with a gentle pressure of her fingers, and a courteous: “Goodnight, madam; Au revoir, if I may venture to say so.”

By contrast, the hall looked almost light, and Aurelia could see the skip of joy with which Jumbo hurried to fetch a candle. As he gave it to her, he made his teeth flash from ear to ear, as he exclaimed: “Pretty missy bring new life to mas’r!”

Thus did a new element come into Aurelia’s life. She carefully prepared Harriet’s favourite song, a French romance, but Mr. Belamour did not like it equally well with the Nightingale, which he made her repeat, rewarding her by telling her of the charming looks and manners of her mother, so that she positively enjoyed her visit. The next night he made inquiries into her walks at Bowstead, asking after the favourite nooks of his childhood, and directing her to the glades where grew the largest dewberries and sweetest blackberries. This led to her recital of a portion of Midsummer Night’s Dream, for he drew her on with thanks at every pause: “I have enjoyed no such treat for many years,” he said.

“There are other pieces that I can recite another time,” said Aurelia timidly.

“You will confer a great favour on me,” he answered.

So she refreshed her memory by a mental review of Paradise Lost over her embroidery frame, and was ready with Adam’s morning hymn, which was much relished. Compliments on her elocution soon were turned by her into the praise of “sister,” and as she became more at ease, the strange man in the dark listened with evident delight to her pretty fresh prattle about sister and brother, and father and home. Thus it had become a daily custom that she should spend the time between half past seven and nine in the company of the prisoner of darkness, and she was beginning to look forward to it as the event of the day. She scarcely expected to be sent for on Sunday evening, but Jumbo came as usual with the invitation, and she was far from sorry to quit a worm-eaten Baxter’s Saints’ Rest which she had dutifully borrowed from Mrs. Aylward.

“Well, my fair visitor,” said the voice which had acquired a tone of pleased anticipation, “what mental repast has your goodness provided?”

“It is Sunday, sir.”

“Ah!” as if it had not occurred to him, and with some disappointment.

“I could say the Psalms by heart, sir, if you would like it, for it is the 20th day of the month.”

“Thank you. Your voice can make anything sweet.”

Aurelia was shocked, and knew that Betty would be more so, but she was too shy to do anything except to begin: “Praise thou the Lord, O my soul.”

It was a fortunate thing that it was a Psalm of such evident beauty, for it fell less familiarly on his ear than her passages from the poets. At the end he said: “Yes, that is true poetry. Praise fits well with happy young lips. You have been to church?”

“No, sir, Mr. Greaves does not come to-day.”

“Then how did the gentle saint perform her orisons?”

“Please do not so call me, sir! I tried to read the service, but I could not get the children to be still, so I had to tell them about Joseph, and I found a beautiful Bible full of pictures, like our Dutch one at home.”

“You found the old Bible? My mother used to show it to my brother and me—my poor mother!”

He mentioned one or two of the engravings, which he had never forgotten, but the evening was less of a success than usual, and Aurelia doubted whether we would wish for her that day se’nnight. All her dread of him was gone; she knew she had brought a ray of brightness into his solitary broken life, and her mind was much occupied with the means of affording him pleasure. Indeed she might have wearied of the lack of all companionship save that of the young children; and converse with a clever highly cultivated mind was stimulating and expanding all her faculties. When the stores or her memory were becoming exhausted, Jumbo was bidden to open a case of books which had lain untouched since they were sent sown from Mr. Belamour’s chambers at the Temple, and they were placed at her disposal. Here was Mr. Alexander Pope’s translation of the Iliad of Homer, which had appeared shortly before the fatal duel, and Aurelia eagerly learnt whole pages of it by heart for the evening’s amusement, enjoying extremely the elucidations and criticisms of her auditor, who would dwell on a passage all day, beg to have it repeated a second time in the evening, and then tell her what his memory or his reflection had suggested about it. Moreover, having heard some inexplicable report, through Jumbo, of the Porteous mob, Mr. Belamour became curious to learn the truth, and this led to his causing the newspapers to be sent weekly to be read and reported to him by Aurelia. It seemed incredible that a man of much ability should have been content to spend all these years in the negro’s sole society, but no doubt the injury done to the brain had been aggravated by grief and remorse, so that he had long lain, with suspended faculties, in a species of living death; whence he had only gradually, and as it were unconsciously, advanced to his present condition. Perhaps Mr. Wayland’s endeavours to rouse him had come too soon, or in a less simple and attractive form, for they had been reluctantly received and had proved entirely unsuccessful; while the child-like efforts of the girl, following his lead instead of leading him, were certainly awakening him, and renewing his spirits and interest in the world at large in an unlooked-for manner.

CHAPTER XI. A VOICE FROM THE GRAVE

    He hath a word for thee to speak.KEBLE.

No difference was made to Aurelia’s visits to Mr. Belamour on Sunday evenings, but he respected her scruples against indulgence in profane literature, and encouraged her to repeat passages of Scripture, beginning to taste the beauty of the grand cadences falling from her soft measured voice. Thus had she come to the Sermon on the Mount, and found herself repeating the expansion of the Sixth Commandment ending with, “And thou be cast into prison. Verily I say unto thee, thou shalt not come out thence until thou hast paid the uttermost farthing.”

A groan startled her. Then came the passage and the unhappy man’s history with a sudden stab. A horror of the darkness fell on her. She felt as if he were in the prison and she reproaching him, and cried out—“O sir, forgive me. I forgot; I did not say it on purpose.”

“No, my child, it was Mary speaking by your voice. No, Mary, I shall never come out. It will never be paid.”

She shook with fright as Jumbo touched her, saying, “Missee, go; mas’r bear no more;” but, as she rose to go away, a sweet impulse made her pause and say, “It is paid, He paid. You know Who did—in his own Blood.”

Jumbo drew her away almost by force, and when outside, exclaimed, “Missee never speak of blood or kill to mas’r—he not bear it. Head turn again—see shapes as bad as ever.”

The poor child cried bitterly, calling herself cruel, thoughtless, presumptuous; and for the next few days Jumbo’s eyes glared at her as he reported his master to be very ill; but, on the third day, he came for her as usual. She thought Mr. Belamour’s tones unwontedly low and depressed, but no reference was made to the Sunday, and she was glad enough to plunge into the council of Olympus.

A day or two later, Dame Wheatfield sent her husband with an urgent invitation to Miss Amoret with her sisters and cousin to be present at her harvest home. Mrs. Aylward, with a certain tone of contempt, gave her sanction to their going with Molly, by the help of the little pony cart used about the gardens. Aurelia, in high glee, told Mr. Belamour, who encouraged her to describe all her small adventures, and was her oracle in all the difficult questions that Fidelia’s childish wisdom was wont to start.

“To Wheatfield’s farm, did you say? That is in Sedhurst. There are but three fields between it and the church.”

Presently he added: “I am tempted to ask a great kindness, though I know not whether it will be possible to you.”

“Indeed, sir, I will do my utmost.”

“There are two graves in Sedhurst Church, I have never dared to inquire about them. Would it be asking too much from my gentle friend to beg of her to visit them, and let me hear of them.”

“I will, I will, sir, with all my heart.”

By eight o’clock the next evening she was again with him, apologizing for being late.

“I scarcely expected this pleasure to-night. These rural festivities are often protracted.”

“O sir, I was heartily glad to escape and to get the children away. The people were becoming so rude and riotous that I was frightened. I never would have gone, had I known what it would be like, but at home the people are fond of asking us to their harvest feasts, and they always behave well whilst we are there.”

“No doubt they hold your father in respect.”

“Yes,” said Aurelia, unwilling to tell him how much alarmed and offended she had been, though quite unintentionally. Dame Wheatfield only intended hospitality; but in her eyes “Miss” was merely a poor governess, and that to the little Waylands—mere interlopers in the eyes of the Belamour tenantry. So the good woman had no idea that the rough gallantry of the young farmer guests was inappropriate, viewing it as the natural tribute to her guest’s beauty, and mistaking genuine offence for mere coyness, until, finding it was real earnest, considerable affront was taken at “young madam’s fine airs, and she only a poor kinswoman of my Lady’s!” Quite as ill was it received that the young lady had remonstrated against the indigestible cakes and strange beverages administered to all her charges, and above all to Amoret. She had made her escape on the plea of early hours for the children, leaving Molly behind her, just as the boisterous song was beginning in which Jack kisses Bet, Joe kisses Sue, Tom kisses Nan, &c. down to poor Dorothy Draggletail, who is left in the lurch. The farewell had been huffy. “A good evening to you, madam; I am sorry our entertainment was not more to your taste.” She had felt guilty and miserable at the accusation of pride, and she could not imagine how Mrs. Aylward could have let her go without a warning; the truth being that Mrs. Aylward despised her taste, but thought she knew what a harvest supper was like.

All this was passed over in silence by Aurelia’s pride and delicacy. She only described the scene when the last waggon came in with its load, the horses decked with flowers and ribbons, and the farmer’s youngest girl enthroned on the top of the shocks, upholding the harvest doll. This was a little sheaf, curiously constructed and bound with straw plaits and ribbons. The farmer, on the arrival in the yard, stood on the horse-block, and held it high over the heads of all the harvesters, and the chorus was raised:

                 “A knack, a knack, a knack,                    Well cut, well bound,                    Well shocked, well saved from the ground,                  Whoop! whoop! whoop!”

After which the harvest doll displaced her last year’s predecessor over the hearth, where she was to hang till next year.

All this Aurelia described, comparing the customs with those of her own county, her heart beating all the time under the doubt how to venture on describing the fulfilment of her commission. At last Mr. Belamour said,

“In such a scene of gaiety, no doubt the recollection of sorrow had no place.”

“O sir, you could not think I should forget.”

“I thought I might have asked more than was possible to you.”

“It was the only part of the day that I enjoyed. I took little Fay with me, for no one seemed to care for her, while Amy was queening it with all the Wheatfields, and Letty was equally happy with her foster mother. I could see the church spire, so I needed not to ask the way, and we crossed the stubble fields, while the sun sent a beautiful slanting light through the tall elm trees that closed in the churchyard, but let one window glitter between them like a great diamond. It looked so peaceful after all the noise we left behind, even little Fay felt it, and said she loved the quiet walk along the green baulks [An unplowed strip of land—D.L.]. The churchyard has a wooden rail with steps to cross it on either side, and close under the church wall is a tomb, a great square simple block, surmounted by an urn.”

“Yes, let me hear,” said the voice, eager, though stifled.

“I thought it might be what you wished me to see and went up to read the names.”

“Do not spare. Never fear. Let me hear the very words.”

“On one face of the block there was a name—

                   ‘WILLIAM SEDHURST,                        AGED 27,                    DIED MAY 13, 1729.’

On the other side was this inscription:—

                        ‘MARY,        ONLY DAUGHTER OF GEORGE SEDHURST, ESQUIRE,                       AGED 19,                 DIED AUGUST 1st, 1729                Love is strong as Death         Sorrow not as others that have no Hope.’

In smaller letters down below, ‘This epitaph is at her own special request.’

“Sir,” continued Aurelia, “it was very curious. I should not have observed those words if it had not been that a large beautiful butterfly, with rainbow eyes on its wings, sat sunning itself on the white marble, and Fay called me to look at it.”

“Her message! May I ask you to repeat it again?”

“The texts? ‘Love is strong as death. Sorrow not as others that have no hope.’”

“Did you call them Scripture texts?”

“Yes, sir; I know the last is in one of the Epistles, and I will look for the other.”

“It matters not. She intended them for a message to me who lay in utter darkness and imbecility well befitting her destroyer.”

“Nay, they have come to you at last,” said Aurelia gently. “You really never knew of them before?”

“No, I durst not ask, nor did any one dare to speak to me. My brother, who alone would have done so, died, I scarcely know when; but ere the very consciousness of my own wretched existence had come back to me. Once again repeat the words, gentle messenger of mercy.”

She obeyed, but this time he mournfully murmured, “Hope! What hope for their destroyer?”

“They are God’s words, as well as hers,” the girl answered, with diffident earnestness, but in reply she only heard tightened breaths, which made her say, “You cannot bear more, sir. Let me call Jumbo, and bid you good night.”

Jumbo came at the mention of his name. Somehow he was so unlike other human beings, and so wholly devoted to his master, that it never seemed to be a greater shock to find that he had been present than if he had been a faithful dog.

A few days later he told Aurelia that Mas’r was not well enough to see her. He had set forth as soon as the moon had set, and walked with his trusty servant to Sedhurst, where he had traced with his finger the whole inscription, lingering so long that the sun was above the horizon before he could get home; and he was still lying on the bed where he had thrown himself on first coming in, having neither spoken nor eaten since. Jumbo could not but grumble out that Mas’r was better left to himself.

Yet when Aurelia on the third evening was recalled, there was a ring of refreshment in the voice. It was still melancholy, but the dejection was lessened, and though it was only of Achilles and Patroclus that they talked, she was convinced that the pressure of the heavy burthen of grief and remorse was in some degree lightened.

CHAPTER XII. THE SHAFTS OF PHOEBE

                  Her golden bow she bends,    Her deadly arrows sending forth.                         Greek Hymn (KEIGHTLEY).

On coming in from a walk, Aurelia was surprised by the tidings that Mistress Phoebe Treforth had come to call on her, and had left a billet. The said billet was secured with floss silk sealed down in the antiquated fashion, and was written on full-sized quarto paper. These were the contents:—

“Madam,

“My Sister and Myself are desirous of the Honour of you Acquaintance, and shall be happy if you will do use the Pleasure of coming to partake of Dinner at Three o’Clock  on Tuesday, the 13th instant.

 “I remain, “Yours to command,  “DELIA TREFORTH.”

Aurelia carried the invitation to her oracle.

“My cousins are willing to make your acquaintance?” said he. “That is well. Jumbo shall escort you home in the evening.”

“Thank you, sir, but must I accept the invitation?”

“It could not be declined without incivility. Moreover, the Mistresses Treforth are highly respected, and your father and sister will certainly think it well for you to have female friends.”

“Do you think those ladies could ever be my friends, sir?” she asked, with an intonation that made him reply, with a sound of amusement.

“I am no judge in such matters, but they are ladies connected and esteemed, who might befriend and counsel you in case of need, and at any rate, it is much more suitable that you should be on terms of friendly intercourse with them. I am heartily glad they have shown you this attention.”

“I do not mean to be ungrateful, sir.”

“And I think you have disproved that

                      Crabbed age and youth                        Cannot live together.”

“If they were only like you, sir!”

“What would they say to that?” he said with the slight laugh that had begun to enliven his voice. “I suppose your charges are not included in the invitation?”

“No; but Molly can take care of them, if my Lady will not object to my leaving them.”

“She cannot reasonably do so.”

“And, sir, shall I be permitted to come home in time for you to receive me?”

“I fear I must forego that pleasure. The ladies will insist on cards and supper. Jumbo shall come for you at nine o’clock.”

Aurelia submitted, and tripped down arrayed in the dress that recalled the fete at Carminster, except that only a little powder was sprinkled on her temples. The little girls jumped round her in admiring ecstasy, and, under Molly’s charge, escorted her to the garden gate, and hovered outside to see her admitted, while she knocked timidly at the door, in the bashful alarm of making her first independent visit.

The loutish man ushered her into a small close room, containing a cat, a little spaniel, a green parrot, a spinning-wheel, and an embroidery frame. There were also the two old ladies, dressed with old-fashioned richness, a little faded, and a third, in a crimson, gold-laced joseph [A long riding coat with a small cape, worn by women in the 18th century.—D.L.], stout, rubicund, and hearty, to whom Aurelia was introduced thus—

“Mrs. Hunter, allow me to present to you Miss Delavie, a relative of my Lady Belamour. Miss Delavie, Mrs. Hunter of Brentford.”

“I am most happy to make your acquaintance, Miss,” said the lady, in a jovial voice, and Aurelia made her curtsey, but at that moment the man announced that dinner was served, whereupon Mrs. Delia handed Mrs. Hunter in, and Mrs. Phoebe took the younger guest.

The ladies’ faces both bore token of their recent attention to the preparation of the meal, and the curious dishes would have been highly interesting to Betty, but there was no large quantity of any, and a single chicken was the piece de resistance, whence very tiny helps were dealt out, and there was much unnecessary pressing to take a little more, both of that and of the brace of partridges which succeeded it. As to conversation, there was room for none, except hospitable invitations from the hostesses to take the morsels that they cut for their guests, praises of the viands from Mrs. Hunter, and endeavours to fish at the recipes, which the owners guarded jealously as precious secrets. Aurelia sat perfectly silent, as was then reckoned as proper in a young lady of her age, except when addressed. A good deal of time was also expended in directing John Stiggins, the ladies’ own man, and George Brown, who had ridden with Mrs. Hunter from Brentford, in the disposal of the dishes, and the handing of the plates. George Brown was the more skilled waiter, and as the man who was at home did not brook interference, their disputes were rude and audible, and kept the ladies in agonies lest they should result in ruin to the best china.

At last, however, the cloth was removed, walnuts, apples, pears, and biscuits were placed on the table, a glass of wine poured out for each lady, and the quartette, with the cat and dog, drew near the sunny window, where there was a little warmth. It was a chilly day, but no one ever lighted a fire before the 5th of November, Old Style.

Then began one of those catechisms which fortunately are less unpleasant to youth and simplicity than they are to persons of an age to resent inquiry, and who have more resources of conversation. In truth, Aurelia was in the eyes of the Treforth sisters, descendants of a former Sir Jovian, only my Lady’s poor kinswoman sent down to act gouvernante to the Wayland brats, who had been impertinently quartered in the Belamour household. She would have received no further notice, had it not been reported through the servants that “young Miss” spent the evenings with their own cousin, from whom they had been excluded ever since his illness.

The subject was approached through interrogations on Miss Delavie’s home and breeding, how she had travelled, and what were her accomplishments, also whether she were quite sure that none of the triad was either imbecile nor deformed. Mrs. Hunter seemed to have heard wonderful rumours about the poor children.