Love and Life: An Old Story in Eighteenth Century Costume

“More of this another time,” said Mr. Belamour hastily. “What say the critics respecting this new aspirant?”

The ensuing conversation much interested Aurelia, as it was on the men of letters whose names had long been familiar to her, and whom the two gentlemen had personally known. She heard of Pope, still living at Twickenham, and of his bickerings with Lady Mary Wortley Montagu; of young Horace Walpole, who would never rival his father as a politician, but who was beginning his course as a dilettante, and actually pretending to prefer the barbarous Gothic to the classic Italian. However, his taste might be improved, since he was going to make the grand tour in company with Mr. Gray, a rising young poet, in whom Dr. Godfrey took interest, as an Etonian and a Cantab.

At nine o’clock Mr. Belamour requested Miss Delavie to let him depute to her the doing the honours of the supper table to his friend, who would return to him when she retired for the night.

Then it was that she first saw the guest, a fine, dignified clergyman, in a large grey wig, with a benignant countenance, reminding her of the Dean of Carminster. When she was little, the Dean had bestowed on her comfits and kisses; but since she had outgrown these attentions, he was wont to notice her only by a condescending nod, and she would no more have thought of conversing with him at table than in his stall in the cathedral. Thus it was surprising to find herself talked to, as Betty might have been, by this reverend personage, who kindly satisfied her curiosity about the King, Queen, and Princesses, but with a discretion which did not diminish that blind loyalty which saw no defects in “our good king,” though he was George II. She likewise answered a few questions about Mr. Belamour’s tastes and habits, put in a very different manner from those of the Mistress Treforth, and as soon as supper was over she rose and retired.

She did not see Dr. Godfrey again until he was ready for a late breakfast, having been up nearly the whole night with his friend. His horses were ordered immediately after the meal, as he had an appointment in London, and he presently looked up, and said,

“Madam, you must excuse me, I was silent from thinking how I can adequately express my respect and gratitude for you.”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” exclaimed Aurelia, thinking her ears mistaken.

“My gratitude,” he repeated, “for the inestimable blessing you have been to my dear and much valued friend, in rousing him from that wretched state of despondency in which no one could approach him.”

“You are too good, sir,” returned Aurelia. “It was he who sent for me.”

“I know you did it in all simplicity, my dear child—forgive the epithet, I have daughters of my own, and thankful should I be if one of them could have produced such effects. I tell you, madam, my dear friend, one of the most estimable and brilliant men of his day, was an utter wreck, both in mind and body, through the cruel machinations of an unprincipled woman. How much was to the actual injury from his wound, how much to grief and remorse, Heaven only knows, but the death of his brother, who alone had authority with him, left him thus to cut himself off entirely in this utter darkness and despair. I called at first monthly, then yearly, after the melancholy catastrophe, and held many consultations with good Mr. Wayland, but all in vain. It was reserved for your sweet notes to awaken and recall him to what I trust is indeed new life.”

Tears filled Aurelia’s eyes, and she could only murmur something about being very glad.

“Yes,” pursued Dr. Godfrey, “it is as if I saw him rising from his living tomb in all senses of the word. I find that your artless Sunday evening conversations have even penetrated the inner hopeless gloom, still more grievous than the outer darkness in which he lived.”

“Indeed, sir, I never meant to be presumptuous.”

“God’s blessing on such presumption, my good child! If you had been fully aware of his state of mind, you might never have ventured nor have touched the sealed heart, as you have done, as I perceive, in your ignorance, out of your obedient reverence to the Lord’s day. Am I not right?”

“Yes, sir, I thought one could not repeat plays and poems on Sunday, and I was frightened when I found those other things were strange to him; but he bade me go on.”

“For the sake of the music of your voice, as he tells me, at first; but afterwards because you became the messenger of hope to one who had long lain in the shadow of death, thinking pardon and mercy too much out of reach to be sought for. You have awakened prayer within him once more.”

She could not speak, and Dr. Godfrey continued, “You will be glad to hear that I am to see the curate on my way through Brentford, and arrange with him at times to read prayers in the outer room. What is it?” he added; “you look somewhat doubtful.”

“Only, sir, perhaps I ought not to say so, but I cannot think Mr. Belamour well ever care for poor Mr. Greaves. If he could only hear that gentleman who comes to Sedhurst! I never knew how much fire could be put into the service itself, and yet I have often been at Carminster Cathedral.”

“True, my dear young lady. These enthusiasts seem to be kindling a new fire in the Church, but I am not yet so convinced of their orthodoxy and wisdom as to trust them unreservedly; and zeal pushed too far might offend our poor recluse, and alienate him more than ever. He is likely to profit more by the direct words of the Church herself, read without personal meaning, than by the individual exhortations of some devout stranger.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, I never meant to question your judgment. Indeed I did not.”

The horses were here announced, and Dr. Godfrey said,

“Then I leave him to you with a grateful heart. I am beginning to hope that there is much hypochondriacism in his condition, and that this may pass away with his despondency. I hope before many weeks are over to come and visit him again, before I go to my parish in Dorsetshire.”

Then, with a fatherly blessing, the Canon took his leave.

He was scarcely gone before there was a great rustling in the hall, and Mrs. Phoebe and Mrs. Delia Treforth were announced. Aurelia was surprised, for she had been decidedly sensible of their disapproval when she made her visit of ceremony after her entertainment by them. She, however, had underrated the force of the magnet of curiosity. They had come to inquire about the visitor, who had actually spent a night at the Park. They knew who he was, for “Ned Godfrey” had been a frequent guest at Bowstead in the youth of all parties, and they were annoyed that he had not paid his respects to them.

“It would have been only fitting to have sent for us, as relations of the family, to assist in entertaining him,” said Mrs. Phoebe. “Pray, miss, did my eccentric cousin place you in the position of hostess?”

“It fell to me, madam,” said Aurelia.

“You could have asked for our support,” said Mrs. Phoebe, severely. “It would have become you better, above all then Sir Amyas Belamour himself was here.”

“He has only been here while I was with you, madam, and was gone before my return.”

“That is true,” but Mrs. Phoebe looked at the girl so inquisitively that her colour rose in anger, and exclaimed, “Madam, I know not what you mean!”

“There, sister,” said Mrs. Delia, more kindly. “She is but a child, and Bet Batley is a gossip. She would not know his Honour in the dark from the blackamoor going down to visit his sweetheart.”

Very glad was Aurelia when the ladies curtsied themselves out of her summer parlour, declaring they wished to speak to Mrs. Aylward, who she knew could assure them of the absurdity of these implied suspicions.

And Mrs. Aylward, who detested the two ladies, and repelled their meddling, stiffly assured them both of Miss Delavie’s discretion and her own vigilance, which placed visits from the young baronet beyond the bounds of possibility. Supposing his Honour should again visit his uncle, she should take care to be present at any interview with the young lady. She trusted that she knew her duty, and so did Miss Delavie.

CHAPTER XV. THE QUEEN OF BEAUTY

    O bright regina, who made thee so faire,    Who made thy colour vermeilie and white?    Now marveile I nothing that ye do hight    The quene of love.—CHAUCER.

Only a week had elapsed before the quiet of Bowstead was again disturbed by the arrival of two grooms, with orders that everything should be made ready the next day for the arrival of my Lady, who was on her way to Carminster for a few weeks, and afterwards to Bath. Forthwith Mrs. Aylward and her subordinates fell into a frenzy of opening shutters, lighting fires, laying down carpets and uncovering furniture. Scrubbing was the daily task for the maids, and there was nothing extra possible in that line, but there was hurry enough to exacerbate the temper, and when Aurelia offered her services she was tartly told that she could solely be useful by keeping the children out of the way; for in spite of all rebuffs, they persisted in haunting the footsteps of the housekeeper and maids, Fay gazing with delight at the splendours that were revealed, Amy proffering undesired aid, Letty dancing in the most inconvenient places, romancing about her mamma and little brother, and making sure that her big beautiful brother was also coming.

The were very unwilling to let Aurelia call them away to practise them in bridling, curtseying, and saying “Yes, madam,” according to the laws of good breeding so carefully inculcated by sister at home. So anxious was she that she tried them over and over again till they were wearied out, and became so cross and naughty that nothing restored good-homour except gathering blackberries to feast brother Archer.

The intelligence produced less apparent excitement in the dark chamber. When Aurelia, in an eager, awe-stricken voice began, “O sir, have you heard that my Lady is coming?” He calmly replied,

“The sounds in the house have amply heralded her, to say nothing of Jumbo.”

“I wonder what she will do!”

“You will not long have known her, my fair friend, without discovering that she is one of the most inscrutable of her sex. The mere endeavour to guess at her plans only produces harassing surmises and alarms.”

“Do you think, sir, she can mean to take me away?”

“I suppose that would be emancipation to you, my poor child.”

“I should dance to find myself going home,” said Aurelia, “yet how could I bear to leave my little girls, or you, sir. Oh! if you could only live at the Great House, at home, I should be quite happy.”

“Then you would not willingly abandon the recluse?”

“Indeed,” she said with a quivering in her voice, “I cannot endure the notion. You have been so kind and good to me, sir, and I do so enjoy coming to you. And you would be all alone again with Jumbo! Oh sir, could you not drive down if all the coach windows were close shut up? You would have my papa to talk to!”

“And what would your papa say to having a miserable old hermit inflicted on him?”

“He would be only too glad.”

“No, no, my gentle friend, there are other reasons. I could not make my abode in Lady Belamour’s house, while in that of my nephew, my natural home, I have a right to drag out what remains of the existence of mine. Nay, are you weeping, my sweet child? That must not be; your young life must take no darkness from mine. Even should Lady Belamour’s arbitrary caprice bear you off without another meeting, remember that you have given me many more happy hours than I ever supposed to be in store for me, and have opened doors which shall not be closed again.”

“You will get some one to recite to you?” entreated Aurelia, her voice most unsteady.

“Godfrey shall seek out some poor scholar or exhausted poetaster, with a proviso that he never inflicts his own pieces on me,” said Mr. Belamour, in a tone more as if he wished to console her than as it were a pleasing prospect. “Never fear, gentle monitress, I will not sink into the stagnation from which your voice awoke me. Neither Godfrey nor my nephew would allow it. Come, let us put it from our minds. It has always been my experience, that whatever I expected from my much admired sister-in-law, that was the exact reverse of what she actually did. Therefore let us attend to topics, though I wager that you have no fresh acquisitions for me to-day.”

“I am ashamed, sir, but I could not fix my mind even to a most frightful description of wolves in Mr. Thomson’s ‘Winter.’”

“That were scarcely a soothing subject; but we might find calm in something less agitating and more familiar. Perhaps you can recall something too firmly imprinted on your memory to be disturbed by these emotions.”

Aurelia bethought herself that she must not disappoint her friend on what might prove their last evening; she began very unsteadily:—

                 “’ Hence, loathed Melancholy.’”

However by the time “Jonson’s learned sock” was on, her mechanical repetition had become animated, and she had restored herself to equanimity. When the clock struck nine, her auditor added his thanks, “In case we should not meet again thus, let me beg of my kind visitor to wear this ring in memory of one to whom she has brought a breath indeed from L’Allegro itself. It will not be too large. It was made for a lady.”

And amid her tearful thanks she felt a light kiss on her fingers, revealing to her that the hermit must possess a beard, a fact, which in the close-shaven Hanoverian days, conveyed a sense of squalor and neglect almost amounting to horror.

In her own room she dropped many a tear over the ring, which was of course the Cupid intaglio, and she spent the night in strange mixed dreams and yearnings, divided between her father, Betty, and Eugene on the one hand, and Mr. Belamour and the children on the other. Home-sick as she sometimes felt, dull as Bowstead was, she should be sadly grieved to leave those to whom she felt herself almost necessary, though her choice must needs be for her home.

Early the next day arrived an old roomy berlin loaded heavily with luggage, and so stuffed with men and maids that four stout horses had much ado to bring it up to the door. The servants, grumbling heartily, declared that my Lady was only going to lie here for a single night, and that Sir Amyas was not with her.

Late in the afternoon, a couple of outriders appeared to say that the great lady was close at hand, and Aurelia, in her best blue sacque, and India muslin cap, edged with Flanders lace, had her three little charges, all in white with red shoes, red sashes, and red ribbons in their caps, drawn up in the hall to welcome their mother.

Up swept the coach with six horses, Mr. Dove behind—runners in fact, who at times rested themselves by an upright swing on the foot-board.

The door of the gorgeous machine was thrown open, and forth sprang a pretty little boy. Next descended the friendly form of Mrs. Dove, then a smart person, who was my Lady’s own woman, and finally something dazzlingly grand and beautiful in feathers, light blue, and silver.

Aurelia made her reverence, and so did the little triad; the great lady bent her head, and gave a light kiss to the brow of each child, and the boy sprang forward, crying: “You are my sisters. You must play with me, and do whatever I choose.” Amoret and he began kissing on the spot, but Fidelia, regarding must as a forbidden word, looked up at Aurelia with an inquiring protest in her eyes; but it was not heeded, in the doubt whether to follow Lady Belamour, who, with a stately greeting to Mrs. Aylward, had sailed into the withdrawing-room. The question was decided by Mrs. Aylward standing back to make room, and motioning her forward, so she entered, Letty preceding her and Fay clinging to her.

By the hearth stood the magnificent figure, holding out a long, beautiful, beringed hand, which Aurelia shyly kissed, bending as before a queen, while her forehead received the same slight salute as had been given to the little girls. “My cousin Delavie’s own daughter,” said the lady: “You have the family likeness.”

“So I have been told, madam.”

“Your father is well, I hope.”

“He was pretty well, I thank you Ladyship, when I heard from my sister ten days ago.”

“I shall see him in a week’s time, and shall report well of his little daughter,” said Lady Belamour kindly. “I am under obligations to you, my dear. You seem to have tamed my little savages.”

Aurelia was amazed, for the universal awe of my Lady had made her expect a harsh and sever Semiramis style of woman, whereas she certainly saw a majestic beauty, but with none of the terrors that she had anticipated. The voice was musical and perfectly modulated, the manner more caressing than imperious towards herself, and studiously polite to the house keeper. While orders were being given as to arrangements, Aurelia took in the full details of the person of whom she had heard so much. It seemed incredible that Lady Belamour could have been mother to contemporaries of Betty, for she looked younger than Betty herself. Her symmetry and carriage were admirable, and well shown by the light blue habit laced richly and embroidered with silver. A small round hat with a cluster of white ostrich feathers was placed among the slightly frizzed and powdered masses of mouse-coloured hair, surmounting a long ivory neck, whose graceful turn, the theme of many a sonnet, was not concealed by the masculine collar of the habit. The exquisite oval contour of the cheek, the delicate ear, and Grecian profile were as perfect in moulding as when she had been Sir Jovian’s bride, and so were the porcelain blue of the eyes, the pencilled arches of eyebrow, and the curve of the lips, while even her complexion retained its smooth texture, and tints of the lily and rose. Often as Aurelia had heard of her beauty, its splendour dazzled and astonished her, even in this travelling dress.

Archer, who was about a year older than his sisters, was more like Amoret than the other two, with azure eyes, golden curls, and a plump rosy face, full of fun and mischief. Tired of the confinement of the coach, he was rushing round the house with Amoret, opening the doors and looking into the rooms. The other little sisters remained beside Aurelia till their mother said, pointing to Fay: “That child seems to mean to eat me with her eyes. Let all the children be with Nurse Dove, Mrs. Aylward. Miss Delavie will do me the pleasure of supping with me at seven. Present my compliments to Mr. Belamour, and let him know that I will be with him at eight o’clock on particular business.” Then turning to the two children, she asked their names, and was answered by each distinctly, with the orthodox “madam” at the end.

“You are improved, little ones,” she said: “Did Cousin Aurelia teach you?”

“And Mammy Rolfe,” said constant Fay.

“She must teach you next not to stare,” said Lady Belamour. “I intend to take one to be a companion to my boy, in the country. When I saw them before, they were rustic little monsters; but they are less unpresentable now. Call your sister, children.” And, as the two left the room, she continued: “Which do you recommend, cousin?”

“Fidelia is the most reasonable, madam,” said Aurelia.

“But not the prettiest, I trust. She is too like her father, with those dark brows, and her eyes have a look deep enough to frighten one. They will frighten away the men, if she do not grow out of it.”

Here the door burst open, and, without any preliminary bow, Master Archer flew in, crying out “Mamma, mamma, we must stay here. The galleries are so long, and it is such a place for whoop-hide!”

His sisters were following his bad example, and rushing in with equal want of ceremony, but though their mother held the boy unchecked on her knee, Aurelia saw how she could frown. “You forget yourselves,” she said.

Amoret looked ready to cry, but at a sign from their young instructress, they backed and curtsied, and their mother reviewed them; Letitia was the most like the Delavies, but also the smallest, while Amoret was on the largest scale and would pair best with her brother, who besides loudly proclaimed his preference for her, and she was therefore elected to the honour of being taken home. Aurelia was requested as a favour to bid the children’s woman have the child’s clothes ready repaired to her own room.

The little wardrobe could only be prepared by much assistance from Aurelia herself, and she could attend to nothing else; while the children were all devoted to Archer, and she only heard their voices in the distance, till—as she was dressing for her tete-a-tete supper—Fay came to her crying, “Archer is a naughty boy—he said wicked words—he called her ugly, and had cuffed and pinched her!”

Poor child! she was tired out, and disappointed, and Aurelia could only comfort her by hearing her little prayers, undressing her, and giving her the highly-esteemed treat of sleeping in Cousin Aura’s bed; while the others were staying up as long as it pleased Master Archer. This actually was the cause of my Lady being kept waiting, and an apology was needful. “Fidelia was tired out, and was crying.”

“A peevish child! I am glad I did not choose her.”

“She is usually very good, madam,” said Aurelia, eagerly.

“Is she your favourite?”

“I try not to make favourites, madam.”

“Ah! there spoke the true Manor House tone,” said her Ladyship, rather mockingly. “Maybe she will be a wit, for she will never be a beauty, but the other little one will come on in due time after Amoret.”

“Your Ladyship will find Amoret a dear, good, affectionate child,” said Aurelia. “Only–”

“Reserve that for nurse, so please you, my good girl. It is enough for me to see the brats on their good manners now and then. You have had other recreations—shall I call them, or cares? I never supposed, when I sent you here to attend on the children, that the hermit of Bowstead would summon you! I assure you it is an extraordinary honour.”

“I so esteem it, madam,” said Aurelia, blushing.

“More honour than pleasure, eh?”

“A great pleasure, madam.”

“Say you so?” and the glittering blue eyes were keenly scanning the modest face. “I should have thought a young maid like you would have had the dismals at the mere notion of going near his dark chamber. I promise you it gives me the megrim [migraine—D.L.] to look forward to it.”

“I was affrighted at first, madam,” said Aurelia; “but Mr. Belamour is so good and kind to me that I exceedingly enjoy the hours I spend with him.”

“La, child, you speak with warmth! We shall have you enamoured of a voice like the youth they make sonnets about—what’s his name?”

“Narcissus, madam,” said Aurelia, put out of countenance by the banter.

“Oh, you are learned. Is Mr. Belamour your tutor, pray? And—oh fie! I have seen that ring before!”

“He gave it to me yesterday,” faltered Aurelia, “in case you should intend to take me away, and I should not see him again. I hope I was not wrong in accepting it, madam.”

“Wrong, little fool, assuredly not,” said my Lady, laughing. “It is an ensign of victory. Why, child, you have made a conquest worthy of—let me see. You, or the wits, could tell me who it was that stormed the very den of Cocytus and bore off the spoil!”

Aurelia liked the tone too little to supply the names; yet she felt flattered; but she said quietly, “I am happy to have been the means of cheering him.”

The grave artlessness of the manner acted as a kind of check, and Lady Belamour said in a different tone, “Seriously, child, the family are truly obliged for your share in rousing the poor creature from his melancholy. My good man made the attempt, but all in vain. What do you to divert him?”

In inquires of this kind the supper hour passed, and Lady Belamour was then to keep her appointment with her brother-in-law. She showed so much alarm and dread that Aurelia could not but utter assurances and encouragements, which again awoke that arch manner, partly bantering, partly flattering, which exercised a sort of pleasant perplexing fascination on the simple girl.

After being dismissed, Aurelia went in search of Mrs. Dove, whom she found with Molly, taking stock of Amoret’s little wardrobe. The good woman rose joyfully. “Oh, my dear missie! I am right thankful to see you looking so purely. I don’t know how I could have held up my head to Miss Delavie if I had not seen you!”