Love and Life: An Old Story in Eighteenth Century Costume

Aurelia mentally applauded her own discretion in not capping this with Mrs. Dove’s former tale, and only observing that the marriage could not take place before the young baronet was of age, without the consent of his personal guardian, Mr. Belamour.

“You will excuse me, my dear, in speaking of your husband, but he has so long been incapable of acting, that they say his consent can be dispensed with.”

“Aye, poor cousin Amyas Belamour!” said Mrs. Hunter. “He was the only man who ever durst resist my Lady’s will before, and you see to what she has brought him!”

“Her son is resisting her now,” said Harriet; “and our good Dove says it makes her blood boil to see the way the poor young gentleman is treated. He, who was the darling for whom nothing was good enough a while ago, has now scarce a place in his mother’s own house. She is cold and stately with him, and Colonel Mar, the Lady Belle’s brother, being his commanding officer, there is no end to the vexations and annoyances they give him, both at home and in his quarters. Mrs. Dove says his own man, Grey, tells her it is a wonder how he stands out against it all! And a truly well-bred young gentleman he is. He came to pay me his call in Gracechurch Street only yesterday, knowing our kindred, and most unfortunate was it that I was stepped out to the office to speak as to our boxes being duly sent by the Buckingham wain; but he left his ticket, and a message with the servant, ‘Tell my cousin, Mrs. Arden,’ he said, ‘that I much regret not having seen her, and I should have done myself the honour of calling sooner to inquire for her good father, if I had known she was in town.”

“Well, I have never seen the young gentleman since he was a mere child,” said Mrs. Hunter. “His mother has bred him to neglect his own home and relations, but I am sorry for him.”

“They say,” continued Harriet significantly, “that they are sure there is some cause for his holding out so stiffly—I verily believe My Lady suspected—”

“O hush, Harriet!” cried Aurelia, colouring painfully.

“Well, it is all over now, so you need not be offended,” said Harriet, laughing. “Besides, if my Lady had any such notion when she brought about your marriage, she must be disappointed, for the young spark is as resolute as ever.”

“And no wonder, if he knows what the lady is like,” said Aurelia.

“Ah! he has admitted as much to the King.”

“To the King!” cried both auditors.

“Oh yes! you know my Lady is very thick with my Lady Suffolk, and she persuaded the King to speak to him at the levee. ‘Comment’, says his majesty in French, ‘are you a young rebel, sir, that refuse the good things your mother provides you?’ Not a whit was my young gentleman moved. He bowed, and answered that he was acting by the desire of his guardian. Excuse me, sister, but the King answered—‘A raving melancholic! That will not serve your turn, sir. Come to your senses, fulfil your mother’s bond, and we’ll put you on the Duke’s staff, where you may see more of service than of home, or belike get into gay quarters, where you may follow any other fantaisie if that is making you commit such betises!’ At that Sir Amyas, who is but an innocent youth, flamed up in his cheeks till they were as red as his coat, and said his honour was engaged; on which his majesty swore at him for an idiot, and turned his back. Every word of this Mrs. Dove heard Colonel Mar tell my Lady—and then they fell to rating the poor youth, and trying to force out who this secret flame may be; but his is of the same stuff as his mother, adamantine and impervious. And now the Colonel keeps him on hard duty continually, and they watch him day and night to find out what places he haunts. But bless me, Mrs. Hunter, is the church clock striking? We must be gone, or my good man will be wondering where we are.”

Mrs. Hunter would fain have kept them, and the last words and compliments were of long duration, while Aurelia looked on in some surprise at the transformation of all Harriet’s languishing affected airs into the bustling self-importance of Mrs. Arden. She was however much occupied with all she had heard, and was marvelling how her sister began again as soon as they were in the street again. “You are very discreet, Aurelia, as it becomes a young married lady, but have you no notion who this innamorata of the baronet may be?”

“No, indeed, how should I?”

“I thought he might have confided in your husband, since he makes so sure of his support.”

“He has only once come to visit Mr. Belamour, and that was many months ago.”

“It is strange,” mused Harriet; “Mrs. Dove says she would have taken her Bible oath that it was you, and my Lady believed as much, or she would not have been in such haste to have you wedded. Nay, I’ll never believe but he made his confidences to Betty when he came to the Manor House the Sunday after you were gone, though not a word could I get from her.”

“It must have been all a mistake,” said Aurelia, not without a little twinge at the thought of what might have been. “I wish you would not talk of it.”

“Well he could have been but a fickle adorer—‘tis the way of men, my dear, for he must have found some new flame while his mother and the Colonel were both at the Bath. They have proof positive of his riding out of town at sundown, but whither he goes is unknown, for he takes not so much as a groom with him, and he is always in time for morning parade.”

“Poor young man, it is hard to be so beset with spies and watchers,” said Aurelia.

“Most true,” said Harriet, “but I am monstrous glad you are safe married like me, child, so that no one can accuse us. Such romantic affairs are well enough to furnish a course of letters to the Tatler, or the Gentlewomen’s Magazine, but I am thankful for a comfortable life with my good man.”

Therewith they reached their inn, where Harriet, having satisfied herself that the said good man was safe within, and profiting by the unwonted calm to write his inaugural sermon, took Aurelia to her bedroom to prepare for dinner, and to indulge in further confidences.

“So, Aurelia, I can report to my father that you are looking well, and as cheerful as can be expected.”

“Nay, I have always told you I am happy as the day is long.”

“What, when you have never so much as seen your husband?”

“Only at our wedding, and then he was forced to veil his face from the light.”

“Nor has he ever seen you?”

“Not unless he then saw me.”

“If he were not then charmed enough to repeat the view, you are the most cruelly wasted and unworthily matched—”

“Hush, sister!” broke out Aurelia in eager indignation.

“What! is a lovely young creature, almost equal to what I was before my cruel malady, to waste her bloom on a wretched old melancholic, who will not so much as look at her!”

“Harriet, I cannot hear this—you know not of what you are talking! What is my poor skin-deep beauty—if beauty it be—compared with the stores of goodness and wisdom I find in him?”

“La! child, what heat is this? One would really think you loved him.”

“Of course I do! I love and honour him more than any one I ever met—except my dear father.”

“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.