Kitobni o'qish: «Love and Life: An Old Story in Eighteenth Century Costume», sahifa 7
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.
“Has their lady mother seen them?”
“Yes, madam. She had been there with them shortly before my arrival.”
“Only once in their lives!” There was a groan of censure such as would have fired the loyal Major in defence.
“No wonder, Sister Phoebe, my Lady Belamour does not lead the life of a tender mother.”
“She has the little boy, Archer, with her in London,” Aurelia ventured to say.
“And a perfect puppet she makes of the poor child,” said Mrs. Hunter. “My sister Chetwynd saw him with his mother at a masquerade, my Lady Belamour flaunting as Venus, and he, when he ought to have been in his bed, dressed in rose-colour and silver, with a bow and arrows, and gauze wings on his shoulders!”
“What will that child come to?”
“Remember, Sister Delia, he is no kin of ours. He is only a Wayland!” returned Mrs. Phoebe, in an accent as if the Waylands were the most contemptible of vermin.
“I hope,” added Mrs. Delia, “that these children are never permitted to incommode our unfortunate cousin, Mr. Belamour.”
“I trust not, madam,” said Aurelia. “Their rooms are at a distance from his; they are good children, and he says he likes to hear young voices in the gardens.”
“You have, then, seen Mr. Belamour?”
“I cannot say that I have seen him,” said Aurelia, modestly; “but I have conversed with him.”
“Indeed! Alone with him?”
“Jumbo was there.”
The two old ladies drew themselves up, while Mrs. Hunter chuckled and giggled. “Indeed!” said Mrs. Phoebe; “we should never see a gentleman in private without each other’s company, or that of some female companion.”
“I consulted Mrs. Aylward,” returned Aurelia, “and she said he was old enough to be my father.”
“Mrs. Aylward may be a respectable housekeeper, though far too lavish of butcher’s meat, but I should never have recourse to her on a matter of decorum,” said Mrs. Phoebe.
Aurelia’s cheeks burnt, but she still defended herself. “I have heard from my father and my sister,” she said, “and they make no objection.”
“Hoity-toity! What means this heat, miss?” exclaimed Mrs. Phoebe; “I am only telling you, as a kindness, what we should have thought becoming with regard even to a blood relation of our own.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” said Aurelia; “but, you see, you are so much nearer his age, that the cases are not alike.”
She said it in all simplicity, and did not perceive, at first, why the two sisters drew themselves up in so much offence, or why Mrs. Hunter cried, “Oh, fie, for shame, you saucy chit! Bless me!” she continued, more good-naturedly, “Cousin Phoebe, times are changed since we were young, and poor Sir Jovian and his brother were the county beaux. The child is right enough when one comes to think of it; and for my part, I should be glad that poor Mr. Amyas had some one young and cheerful about him. It is only a pity his nephew, the young baronet, never comes down to see him.”
“Like mother like son,” said Mrs. Phoebe; “I grieve to think what the old place will come to.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Hunter, “I do not hear the young gentleman ill spoken of; though, more’s the pity, he is in a bad school with Colonel Mar for his commanding officer, the fine gallant who is making his mother the talk of the town!”
The gossip and scandal then waxed fast and furious on the authority of Mrs. Hunter’s sister, but no one paid any more attention to Aurelia, except that when there was an adjournment to the next room, she was treated with such double stiffness and ceremony as to make her feel that she had given great offence, and was highly disapproved of by all but Mrs. Hunter. And Aurelia could not like her, for her gossip had been far broader and coarser than that of the Mistresses Treforth, who, though more bitter were more of gentlewomen. Happily much of what passed was perfectly unintelligible to Betty’s carefully shielded pupil, who sat all the time with the cat on her lap, listening to its purring music, but feeling much more inclined to believe nothing against my Lady, after her father’s example, than to agree with those who were so evidently prejudiced. Tea was brought in delicate porcelain cups, then followed cards, which made the time pass less drearily till supper. This consisted of dishes still tinier than those at dinner, and it was scarcely ended when it was announced that Jumbo had come for Miss Delavie.
Gladly she departed, after an exchange of curtsies, happily not hearing the words behind her:—
“An artful young minx.”
“And imagine the impudence of securing Jumbo’s attendance, forsooth!”
“Nay,” said Mrs. Hunter, “she seemed to me a pretty modest young gentlewoman enough.”
“Pretty! Yes, she comes of my Lady’s own stock, and will be just such another.”
“Yes; it is quite plain that it is true that my Lady sent her here because she had been spreading the white apron for the young baronet.”
“And now she is trying her arts on poor cousin Amyas Belamour. You heard how she would take no advice, and replied with impertinence.”
“Shall you give my Lady a hint?”
“Not I. I have been treated with too much insolence by Lady Belamour to interfere with her again,” said Mrs. Phoebe, drawing herself up; “I shall let things take their course unless I can remonstrate with my own kinsman.”
