It was with a gasp of relief that Aurelia discovered what was required of her. “Marry Mr. Belamour? Is that all? Then why should they all think I should so much dislike it, my Lady, and my papa, and sister and all? Nobody ever was so good to me, and maybe I could make him a little happier, though it is not what I expected of him, to forget his Mary! Oh, no, I am not afraid; I might have been afraid six months ago, but now it is a different thing. I am not so foolish! And my dear papa will have the Manor House for ever! And Eugene will be able to go to a good school and have a pair of colours in good time! A fortunate girl! Yes, of course I am! Then Mrs. Phoebe and Mrs. Delia will not flout me any more, even if young Sir Amyas should come here! Ah! here are the little girls returning! Keep them here? Of course I will. What toys and books I will get for them!”
Yet, when the time for her summons drew nigh, a great dread and shyness overcame her, lest Mr. Belamour should begin on the subject; and she only nerved herself by recollecting that he could have had no one to read to him her father’s letter of reply, and that he was scarcely likely to speak without knowing the contents. Still, it was only shyness and embarrassment that made her advance timidly, but in one moment a new sensation, a strange tremor came over her, as instead of merely her finger-tips, her whole hand was grasped and fervently pressed, and in the silence that ensued the throbbing of her heart and the panting of her breath seemed to find an echo. However, the well-known voice began, “My fair visitor is very good in honouring me to-night.”
Was it coming? Her heart gave such a throb that she could only murmur something inarticulate, while there was a hasty repressed movement near her.
“You have heard from your father?” said Mr. Belamour.
“My father is ill, sir,” she faltered.
“Ah, yes, so I was sorry to understand. Has he not sent a message to you through your sister?”
“He has, sir,” Aurelia continued, with difficulty, to utter.
There was another silence, another space of tightened breath and beating heart, absolutely audible, and again a hushed, restless movement heralded Mr. Belamour’s next words, “Did I no tell you truly that my Lady devises most unexpected expedients?”
“Then would you not have it so, sir?” asked Aurelia, in a bewildered voice of perplexity. “Oh!” as again one of those echoes startled her, “tell me what it all means.”
“Hush! listen to me,” said Mr. Belamour, in a voice that added to her undefined alarm by what seemed to her imperious displeasure as uncalled for as it was unusual; but the usual fatherly gentleness immediately prevailed, “My child, I should never have entertained the thought for a moment but for—but for Lady Belamour. This sounds like no compliment,” he added, catching himself up, and manifesting a certain embarrassment and confusion very unlike his usual calm dignity of demeanour, and thus adding to the strange fright that was growing upon Aurelia. “But you must understand that I would not—even in semblance—have dreamt of your being apparently linked to age, sorrow, and infirmity, save that—strange as it may seem—Lady Belamour has herself put into my hands the best means of protecting you, and finally, as I trust, securing your happiness.”
“You are very good, sir,” she continued to breathe out, amid the flutterings of her heart, and the reply produced a wonderful outburst of ardour in a low but fervent voice. “You will! You will! You sweetest of angels, you will be mine!”
There was something so irresistibly winning in the sound, that it drew forth an answer from the maiden’s very heart. “Oh! yes, indeed—” and before she could utter another word she was snatched into a sudden, warm, vehement embrace, from which she was only partly released, as—near, but still not so near as she would have expected—this extraordinary suitor seemed to remonstrate with his ardent self, saying, “Now! now! that will do! So be it then, my child,” he continued. “Great will be the need of faith, patience, trust, ay, and of self-restraint, but let these be practised for a little space, and all will be well.”
She scarcely heard the latter words. The sense of something irrevocable and unfathomable was overpowering her. The mystery of these sudden alterations of voice, now near, now far off, was intolerable. Here were hands claiming her, fervent, eager breathings close upon her, and that serious, pensive voice going on all that time. The darkness grew dreadful to her, dizziness came over her; she dashed aside the hands, started up with a scream, and amid the strange noises and flashes of a swoon, knew no more till she heard Mrs. Aylward’s voice over her, found the horrid smell of burnt feathers under her nose, and water trickling down her face, dim candlelight was round her, and she perceived that she was on a low settee in the lobby.
“There, she is coming round. You may tell your master, Jumbo, ‘twas nothing but the mince pies.”
“Oh, no—” began Aurelia, but her own voice seemed to come from somewhere else, and being inexperienced in fainting, she was frightened.
“That is right, you are better. Now, a drop of strong waters.”
Aurelia choked, and put them aside, but was made to swallow the draught, and revived enough to ask, “How came I here?”
“Jumbo must have carried you out, ma’am, and laid you here before ever he called any one,” said Mrs. Aylward. “Dear, dear, to think of your being taken like that. But the tins of those mince-pies are over large! You must halve one next time.”
Aurelia was sensible enough to the reproof of greediness to begin to protest against the mince-pie theory, but she recollected that she could not account for her swoon, and thereupon became as red as she had been pale, thus confirming the housekeeper’s opinion. A sound of footsteps made her start up and cry, “What’s that?” in nervous fright; but Mrs. Aylward declared it was fancy, and as she was by this time able to walk, she was conducted to her own room. There she was examined on her recent diet, and was compelled to allow the housekeeper to ascribe her illness to neglect of autumnal blood-letting and medicine; and she only stave off the send for the barber and his lancet the next morning by promising to swallow a dose compounded of all that was horrible.
She was altogether much shaken, she dreamed strange dreams by night, was capable of little by day, was declared by the children to be cross, and was much inclined to plead indisposition as an excuse for not visiting that alarming room in the evening. Indeed for the greater part of the day she felt as if she must avail herself of the pretext, and as if she neither could nor would encounter that strange double creature in the dark; but somehow she had been as much fascinated as terrified, and, in spite of her resolve, she found herself mechanically following Jumbo, shuddering all over and as cold as ice.
The dark chambers were warmed by German stoves, so that the atmosphere was always equable, and it seemed to revive her, while a kind, warm hand led her as usual to her seat, and it was the usual gentle, courteous, paternal tone that addressed her, “How chill and trembling you are! My poor child, you were sadly alarmed last night.”
Aurelia murmured some excuse about being very foolish.
“It was not you who was foolish,” was the reply; and though her hand was retained it was evidently for the sake of warming it, and comforting her, not of caressing it in the startling mode of yesterday. There was a pause, during which her composure began to be restored, and some inquiries whether she were quite recovered; to which she replied with eager affirmatives, feeling indeed quite herself again, now that all was in its familiar state around her. Then this strange suitor spoke again. “It is a hard and cruel fate that my Lady has sought to impose on you.”
“Oh, do not say so, sir I—-”
“No,” he interrupted somewhat hastily, “do not try to deny it, my child; I know better than you can what it would amount to. Believe me, I only lend myself to her arrangement because I know no better means of guarding you and preserving you for better days.”
“I know how kind you are, sir.”
“And you trust me?”
“Indeed I do.”
“That is all I ask. I shall never be a husband to you more than in name, Aurelia, nor ask of you more than you give me now, namely, your sweet presence for a few hours in the evening, without seeing me. Can you bear thus to devote your young life, for a time at least?”
“You know, sir, how glad I always am to be with you,” said Aurelia, relieved yet half regretting that strange fervour. “I will do my very best to please you.”
“Ah! sweet child,” he began, with a thrill of deep feeling in his voice; but checking himself he continued, “All I ask is patience and trust for a time—for a time—you promise it!”
“With all my heart,” said Aurelia.
“I will use my best endeavours to requite that trust, my child,” he said. “Is not the Christian watchword faith, not sight? It must be yours likewise.”
“I hope so,” she said, scarcely understanding.
He then interrogated her somewhat closely as to the letters which had prepared her for the proposal; and as Aurelia was far too simple to conceal anything under cross-examination, Mr. Belamour soon found out what her Ladyship’s threats and promises had been.
“The Manor House?” he said. “That is the original nucleus of the property which had hitherto gone to the heir male?”
“So my sister told me,” said Aurelia.
“That letter, which Dr. Godfrey read to me, spoke of my poor brother’s discomfort in holding it. It is well if thus tardily she refund it, though not as your price, my poor child. It should have been as matter of justice, if not by her husband’s dying wish. So this is the alternative set before you! Has it been set before your father likewise?”
“Almost certainly she will have threatened to dismiss him if he do not consent. It was that which made my sister decide on sending me here, or what would become of him and Eugene? But I should think my Lady knew my father better than to seem to offer any kind of price, as you call it, for me.”
“Precisely. You have heard from this maternal sister of yours? Does he then give his consent?”
“They say they will not have my inclinations forced, and that they had rather undergo anything than that I should be driven to—to—”
“To be as much a sacrifice as Iphigenia,” he concluded the sentence.
“Indeed, sir,” said Aurelia, quite restored, “I cannot see why they should imagine me to have such objections, or want me to be so cautious and considerate. I shall write to my papa that it is not at all repugnant to me, for that you are very, very good to me; and if I can make your time pass ever so little more pleasantly, it is a delight to me. I am sure I shall like you better than if—-”
“Stay, stay, child,” he said, half laughing; “remember, it is as a father that I ask you to love and trust the old recluse.”
She thought she had been forward, crimsoned in the dark, and retired into her shell for the rest of the evening. She was glad when with his usual tact, Mr. Belamour begged for the recitation he knew she could make with the least effort of memory.
At the end, however, she ventured to ask—“Sir, shall I be permitted ever to see my father and sister?”
“Certainly, my child. In due time I hope you will enjoy full liberty, though you may have to wait for it.”
Aurelia durst not ask what was in her mind, whether they would not come to the wedding, but that one great hope began to outweigh all the strange future. She began to say something about being too young, ignorant, and foolish for him, but this was kindly set aside, she hardly knew how. Mr. Belamour himself suggested the formula in which she might send her consent to Lady Belamour, begging at the same time to retain the company of the little Misses Wayland. To her father she wrote such a letter as might satisfy all doubts as to the absence of all repugnance to the match, and though the Major had sacrificed all to love and honour himself, mariages de convenance were still so much the rule, and wives, bestowed in all passiveness with unawakened hearts, so often proved loving and happy matrons, that it would have been held unreasonable to demand more than absence of dislike on the part of the bride.
Therewith things returned to their usual course, and she was beginning to feel as if all had been a dream, when one evening, about a week later, her suitor appeared to have one of those embarrassing fits of youthful ardour; her hand was passionately seized, caressed, toyed with by a warm strong hand, and kissed by lips that left a burning impression and that were no longer hairy. Surely he had been shaving! Was the time for which he bade her wait, his full recovery, and the resumption of the youthfulness that seemed to come on him in fits and starts, and then to ebb away, and leave him the grave courteous old man she had first known? And why was it always in a whisper that he spoke forth all those endearments which thrilled her with such strange emotions?
When she came into the light, she found her fourth finger encircled with an exquisite emerald ring, which seemed to bind her to her fate, and make her situation tangible. Another time she was entreated to give a lock of her hair, and she of course did so, though it was strange that it should confer any pleasure on her suitor in the dark.
There was some coming and going of Mr. Hargrave in the ensuing weeks; and it began to be known that Miss Delavie was to become the wife of the recluse. Mrs. Aylward evidently knew it, but said nothing; Molly preferred a petition to be her waiting maid; Jumbo grinned as if over-powered with inward mirth; the old ladies in the pew looked more sour and haughty than ever to discourage “the artful minx,” and the little girls asked all manner of absurd and puzzling questions.
My Lady was still at Bath, and Aurelia supposed that the marriage would take place on her return; and that the Major and Betty would perhaps accompany her. The former was quite in his usual health again, and had himself written to give her his blessing as a good dutiful maiden, and declare that he hoped to be with her for her wedding, and to give himself to his honoured friend.
She was the more amazed and startled when, one Sunday evening in spring, Mr. Hargrave came to her as she sat in her own parlour, saying, “Madam, you will be amazed, but under the circumstances, the parson and myself being both here, Mr. Belamour trusts you will not object to the immediate performance of the ceremony.”
Aurelia took some moments to realise what the ceremony was; and then she cried, “Oh! but my father meant to have been here.”
“Mr. Belamour thinks it better not to trouble Major Delavie to come up,” said Mr. Hargrave; and as Aurelia stood in great distress and disappointment at this disregard of her wishes, he added, “I think Miss Delavie cannot fail to understand Mr. Belamour’s wishes to anticipate my Lady’s arrival, so that he may be as little harassed as possible with display and publicity. You may rely both on his honour and my vigilance that all is done securely and legally.”
“Oh! I know that,” said Aurelia, blushing; “but it is so sudden! And I was thinking of my father—-”
“Your honoured father has given full consent in writing,” said the steward. “Your doubts and scruples are most natural, my dear madam, but under the circumstances they must give way, for it would be impossible to Mr. Belamour to go through a public wedding.”
That Aurelia well knew, though she had expected nothing so sudden or so private; but she began to feel that she must allow all to be as he chose; and she remembered that she had never pressed on him her longing for her father’s presence, having taken it as a matter of course, and besides, having been far too shy to enter on the subject of her wedding. So she rose up as in a dream, saying, “Shall I go as I am?”
“I fear a fuller toilet would be lost upon the bridegroom,” said the lawyer with some commiseration, as he looked at the beautiful young creature about to be bound to the heart-broken old hermit. “You will have to do me the honour of accepting my services in the part of father.”
He was a man much attached to the family, and especially to Mr. Belamour, his first patron, and was ready to do anything at his bidding or for his pleasure. Such private weddings were by no uncommon up to the middle of the last century. The State Law was so easy as to render Gretna Green unnecessary, when the presence of any clergyman anywhere, while the parties plighted their troth before witnesses, was sufficient to legalise the union; nor did any shame or sense of wrong necessarily attach to such marriages. Indeed they were often the resource of persons too bashful or too refined to endure the display and boisterous merriment by which a public wedding was sure to be attended. Every one knew of excellent and respectable couples who had not been known to be married till the knot had been tied for several days or weeks—so that there was nothing in this to shock the bride. And as usual she did as she was told, and let Mr. Hargrave lead her by her finger-tips towards Mr. Belamour’s apartments. Mrs. Aylward was waiting in the lobby, with a fixed impassive countenance, intended to imply that though obedient to the summons to serve as a witness, it was no concern of hers. On the stairs behind her the maids were leaning over the balusters, stuffing their aprons into their mouths lest their tittering should betray them.
The sitting-room was nearly, but not quite, dark, for a lamp, closely shaded, cast a dim light on a Prayer-book, placed on a small table, behind which stood poor Mr. Greaves—a black spectre, whose white bands were just discernible below a face whose nervous, disturbed expression was lost in the general gloom. He carefully avoided looking at the bride, fearing perhaps some appeal on her part such as would make his situation perplexing. Contempt and poverty had brought his stamp of clergymen very low, and rendered them abject. He had been taken by surprise, and though assured that this was according to my Lady’s will, and with the consent of the maiden’s father, he was in an agony of fright, shifting awkwardly from leg to leg, and ruffling the leaves of the book, as a door opened and the bridegroom appeared, followed by Jumbo.
Aurelia looked up with bashful eagerness, and saw in the imperfect light a tall figure entirely covered by a long dark dressing-gown, a grey, tight curled lawyer’s wig on the head, and the upper part of the face sheltered from the scanty rays of the lamp by a large green shade.
Taking his place opposite to her as Mr. Hargrave arranged them, he bowed in silence to the clergyman, who, in a trembling voice, began the rite which was to unite Amyas Belamour to Aurelia Delavie. He intended to shorten the service, but his nervous terror and the obscurity of the room made him stumble in finding the essential passages, and blunder in dictating the vows, thus increasing the confusion and bewilderment of poor little Aurelia. Somehow her one comfort was in the touch of the hand that either clasped hers, or held the ring on her finger—a strong, warm, tender, trustworthy hand, neither as white nor as soft as she would have expected, but giving her a comfortable sense both of present support and affection, and of identity with that eager one which had sought to fondle and caress her. There was a certain tremor about both, but hers was from bashful fright, his, from scarcely suppressed eagerness.
The steward had a form of certificate ready for signature. When it was presented to the bridegroom he put up his hand for a moment as if to push back the shade, but, in dread of admitting even a feeble ray of light, gave up the attempt, took the pen and wrote Amyas Belamour where the clergyman pointed. Aurelia could hardly see what she was doing, and knew she had written very badly. The lawyer and housekeeper followed as witnesses; and the bridegroom, laying a fee of ten guineas on the desk, took his bride by the hand and led her within the door whence he had issued. It was instantly closed, and at the same moment she was enfolded in a pair of rapturous arms, and held to a breast whose throbs wakened response in her own, while passionate kisses rained on her face, mingled with ecstatic whispers and murmurs of “Mine! mine! my own!”
On a knock at the door she was hastily released, and Mr. Hargrave said, “Here are the certificates, sir.”—Mr. Belamour put one into her hand, saying “Keep it always about you; never part with it. And now, my child, after all the excitement you have gone through, you shall be subjected to no more to-night. Fare you well, and blessings attend your dreams.”
Strange that while he was uttering this almost peremptory dismissal, she should feel herself in a clinging grasp, most unwilling to let her go! What did it all mean? Could she indeed be a wife, when here she was alone treading the long dark stair, in looks, in habits, in externals, still only the little governess of my Lady’s children! However, she had hardly reached her room, before there was a knock at the door, and the giggling, blushing entrance of Molly with “Please, ma’am, Madam Belamour, I wishes you joy with all my heart. Please can’t I do nothing for you? Shall I help you undress, or brush your hair?”
Perhaps she expected a largesse in honour of the occasion, but Aurelia had spent all her money on Christmas gifts, and had nothing to bestow. However, she found on the breakfast-table a parcel addressed to Madam Belamour, containing a purse with a startling amount of golden guineas in it. She was rather surprised at the title, which was one generally conferred on dignified matrons whose husbands were below the rank of knighthood, such as the wives of country squires and of the higher clergy. The calling her mother Madam Delavie had been treated as an offence by Lady Belamour; and when the day had gone by, with nothing else to mark it from others, Aurelia, finding her recluse in what she mentally called his quiet rational mood, ventured, after thanking him, modestly to inquire whether that was what she was to be called.
“It is better thus,” hes said. “You have every right to the title.”
She recollected that he was a baronet’s younger son, a distinction in those days; and that she had been told that his patent of knighthood had been made out, though he had never been able to appear at court to receive the accolade, and had never assumed the title; so she only said “Very well, sir, I merely thought whether my Lady would think it presuming.”
He laughed a little. “My Lady will soon understand it,” he said. “Her husband will be at home in a few weeks. And now, my dear Madam Belamour,” he add playfully, “tell me whether there is any wish that I can gratify.”
“You are very kind, sir—-”
“What does that pause mean, my fair friend?”
“I fear it is too much to ask, sir, but since you inquire what would please me most, it would be if you could spare me to go to my sister Harriet’s wedding?”
“My child,” he said, with evident regret, “I fear that cannot be. It will not be prudent to make any move until Mr. Wayland’s return; but after that I can assure you of more liberty. Meantime, let us consider what wedding present you would like to send her.”
Aurelia had felt her request so audacious that she subsided easily; and modestly suggested a tea-service. She thought of porcelain, but Mr. Belamour’s views were of silver, and it ended in the lady giving the cups and saucers, and the gentleman the urn and the tea and coffee pots and other plate; but it was a drawback to the pleasure of this munificence that the execution of the order had to be entrusted to Mr. Hargrave. The daring hope Aurelia had entertained of shopping for a day, with Mrs. Aylward as an escort, and choosing the last fashions to send to her sisters was quashed by the grave reply that it was better not for the present. What was the meaning of all this mystery, and when was it to end? She felt that it would be ungrateful to murmur, for Mr. Belamour evidently was full of sorrow whenever he was obliged to disappoint her, and much was done for her pleasure. A charming little saddle-horse, two riding-habits, with a groom, and a horse for him, were sent down from London for her benefit; gifts showered upon her; and whenever she found her husband in one of those perplexing accesses of tenderness she was sure to carry away some wonderful present, a beautiful jewelled watch, an etui case, a fan, a scent-bottle, or patch-box with a charming enamel of a butterfly. The little girls were always looking for something pretty that she would show them in the morning, and thought it must be a fine thing to have a husband who gave such charming things. Those caressing evenings, however, always frightened Aurelia, and sent her away vaguely uneasy, often to lie awake full of a vague yearning and alarm; and several days of restlessness would pass before she could return to her ordinary enjoyment of her days with the children and her evenings with Mr. Belamour. Yet when there was any long intermission of those fits of tender affection, she missed them sorely, and began to fear she had given offence, especially as this strangely capricious man seemed sometimes to repel those modest, timid advances which at other times would fill him with ill-suppressed transport. Then came longings to see and satisfy herself as to what was indeed the aspect of him whom she was learning to love.
No wonder there was something unsettled and distressed about her, overthrowing much of that gentle duteous ness which she had brought from home. She wrote but briefly and scantily to her sister, not feeling as if she could give full confidence; she drifted away from some of the good habits enjoined on her, feeling that, as a married woman, she was less under authority. She was less thorough in her religious ways, less scrupulous in attending to the children’s lessons; and the general fret of her uncertainties told upon her temper with them. They loved her heartily still, and she returned their affection, but she was not so uniformly patient and good-humoured. Indeed since Amoret’s departure some element of harmony was missing, and it could not now be said that a whine, a quarrel, or a cry was a rare event. Even the giving up my lady’s wearisome piece of embroidery had scarcely a happy effect, for Aurelia missed the bracing of the task-work and the attention it required, and the unoccupied time was spent in idle fretting. A little self-consequence too began to set in, longing for further recognition of the dignities of Madam Belamour.
The marriage had been notified to Lady Belamour and to Major Delavie, and letters had been received from each. My Lady travelled to London early in April in company with Lady Aresfield, and, to the relief of the inmates of Bowstead, made no deviation thither. No one else was officially told that the wedding had taken place, but all the village knew it; and Mrs. Phoebe and Mrs. Delia so resented it that they abandoned the state pew to Madam Belamour and the children, made their curtsies more perpendicularly than ever, and, when formally invited to supper, sent a pointed and ceremonious refusal, so that Aurelia felt hurt and angered.
After numerous delays Mr. Arden had at length been presented to the living of Rundell Canonicorum, and in one of the last days of April Harriet Delavie had become his wife. After a fortnight of festivities amongst their old Carminster friends, the happy couple were to ride, pillion-wise, to take possession of tier new home, passing through London, and there spending time enough with some relations of the bridegroom to show Harriet the wonders of the City.
Thence Mrs. Arden sent an urgent invitation from her hospitable hostess to Mrs. Belamour, to come and spend some days in Gracechurch Street and share with her sister the pleasures of the first sight of London.
“I assure you,” wrote Harriet, “that though they be Woolstaplers, it is all in the Wholesale Line; and they are very genteel, and well-bred Persons, who have everything handsome about them. Indeed it is upon the Cards that the Alderman may, ere many years be passed, be my Lord Mayor; but yet he and his good Wife have a proper Appreciation of Family, and know how to esteem me as one of the Delavies. They would hold themselves infinitely honoured by your Visit; and if you were here, we might even be invited to Lady Belamour’s, and get Tickets for Ranelagh. I called at my Lady’s Door, but she was not within, nor has she returned my Visit, though I went in the Alderman’s own Coach; but if you were with me she would have no Colour for Neglect, you being now her Sister-in-law, though it makes me laugh to think of it. But as we poor married Ladies are compelled to obey our Lords and Masters; and as Mr. Belamour may chance to be too high in his Notions to permit you to be a Guest in this House (as I told our good Cousin Arden was very like), we intend to lie a Night at Brentford, and remain there for a Day, trusting that your Husband will not be so cruel as to prevent a Meeting, either by your coming to see us, or our coming to see you in your present Abode, which I long to do. It is a Year since we parted, and I cannot tell you how I long to clasp my beloved Sister in my Arms.”
Harriet could not long more for such a meeting than did Aurelia, and there was, it must be owned, a little relief, that it was Harriet, and not the severer judge, Betty, who thus awaited her. She could hardly brook the delay until the evening, and even wondered whether it were not a wife’s privilege to anticipate the hour; but she did not venture, and only hovered about impatient for Jumbo’s summons. She came in with a rapid movement that led Mr. Belamour to say, “Ha, my fair visitor, I perceive that you have some tidings to bring to-day.”
Everything was rapidly poured out, and she anxiously awaited the decision. She had little hope of being allowed to go to Gracechurch Street, and did not press for it; but she could not refrain from showing her earnest desire for the sight of her sister, so that it was plain that it would have been a cruel disappointment to her, if she had been prevented from meeting the newly-married couple. She detected a certain sound of annoyance or perplexity in the tones that replied, and her accents became almost plaintively imploring as she concluded, “Pray, pray, sir, do not deny me.”
“No, my child, I could not be cruel enough for a refusal,” he answered; “I was but considering how most safely the thing may be contrived. I know it would be your wish, and that it would seem more befitting that you should act as hostess for your sister, but I fear that must be for another time. This is not my house, and there are other reasons for which it would be wiser for you to receive no one here.”
“It will be quite enough for me if I may only go to Brentford to meet my dear, dear Harriet.”
“Then be it so, my child. Present my compliments to Mrs. Arden, and entreat her to excuse the seeming inhospitality of the invalid.”
Aurelia was overflowing with joy at the anticipated meeting, wrote a delighted letter to make the appointment, and skipped about the dark stairs and passages more like the butterfly she was than like Madam Belamour; while Fay and Letty found her a more delightful playfellow than ever, recovering all the animation she had lost during the last weeks. Her only drawback to the pleasure was that each intervening evening convinced her more strongly that Mr. Belamour was uneasy and dissatisfied about the meeting, which he could not prohibit. On the previous night he asked many questions about her sister, in especial whether she were of an inquisitive disposition.
“That rather depends on how much she has to say about herself,” returned Aurelia, after some reflection. “She likes to hear about other people’s affairs, but she had much rather talk of her own.”
This made Mr. Belamour laugh. “Considering,” he said, “how recently she has undergone the greatest event of a woman’s life, let us hope that her imagination and her tongue may be fully occupied by it during the few hours that you are to pass together. It seems hard to put any restraint on your ingenuous confidence, my sweet friend; but I trust to your discretion to say as little as you can contrive of your strange position here, and of the infirmities and caprices of him whose name you have deigned to bear.”
“Sir, do you think I could?”
“It is not for my own sake, but for yours, that I would recommend caution,” he continued. “The situation is unusual, and such disclosures might impel persons to interfere for what they thought your interest; but you have promised me your implicit trust, and you will, I hope, prove it. You can understand how painful would be such well-meaning interference, though you cannot understand how fatally mischievous it would be.”
“I had better say I can tell her nothing,” said Aurelia, startled.
“Nay, that would excite still greater suspicion. Reply briefly and carefully, making no mysteries to excite curiosity, and avert the conversation from yourself as much as possible.”
Man of the world and brilliant talker as he had been, he had no notion of the difficulty of the task he had imposed on the simple open-hearted girl, accustomed to share all her thoughts with her sister; and she was too gay and joyous to take full note of all his cautions, only replying sincerely that she hoped that she should say nothing amiss, and that she would do her best to be heedful of his wishes.
In spite of all such cautions, she was too happy to take in the notion of anxiety. She rose early in the morning, caring for the first time to array herself in the insignia of her new rank. Knowing that the bridle-path lay through parks, woodlands and heaths, so that there was no fear of dust, she put on a dainty habit of white cloth, trimmed and faced with blue velvet, and a low-crowned hat with a white feather. On her pretty grey horse, the young Madam Belamour was a fair and gracious sight, as she rode into the yard of the Red Lion at Brentford. Harriet was at the window watching for her, and Mr. Arden received her as she sprang off her steed, then led her up to the parlour, where breakfast was spread awaiting her.
“Aurelia, what a sweet figure you make,” cried Harriet, as the sisters unwound their arms after the first ecstasy of embracing one another again. “Where did you get that exquisite habit?”
“It came down from London with another, a dark blue,” said Aurelia. “I suppose Mr. Belamour ordered them, for they came with my horse. It is the first time I have worn it.”
“Ah! fine things are of little account when there is no one to see them,” said Mrs. Arden, shaking her head in commiseration.
She was attired in a grey riding-dress with a little silver lace about it, and looked wonderfully plump and well, full of importance and complacency, and with such a return of comeliness that Aurelia would hardly have recognised the lean, haggard, fretful Harriet of the previous year. Her sentiment and romance, her soft melancholy and little affectations had departed, and she was already the notable prosperous wife of a beneficed clergyman, of whose abilities she was very proud, though she patronised with good-humoured contempt his dreamy, unpractical, unworldly ways.
The questions poured forth from Aurelia’s heart-hunger about brother, sister and home, were answered kindly and fully over the breakfast-table; but as if Harriet had turned that page in her life, and expected Aurelia to have done the same, every now and then exclaiming: “La! you have not forgotten that! What a memory you have, child!”
She wanted much more to talk of the parsonage and glebe of Rundell Canonicorum, and of how many servants and cows she should keep, and showed herself almost annoyed when Aurelia brought her back to Carminster by asking whether Eugene had finished his Comenius, and if the speckled hen had hatched many chickens, whether Palmer had had his rheumatic attack this spring, or if the Major’s letter to Vienna had produced any tidings of Nannerl’s relation. Harriet seemed only to be able to reply by an effort of memory, and was far more desirous of expatiating on the luxuries at alderman Arden’s, and the deference with which she had been treated, in contrast to the indignity of Lady Belamour’s neglect.
It was disappointing to find that her father had heard nothing from my Lady about the settlement of the Manor House.
“Was the promise in writing?” asked Mr. Arden, who had been silent all this time.
“Certainly, in a letter to me.”
“I recommend you to keep it carefully until Mr. Wayland’s return,” said Mr. Arden: “he will see justice done to you.”
“Poor Mr. Wayland! When he does return, I pity him; but it is his own fault for leaving his lady to herself. Have you ever seen the gallant colonel, sister?”
“Never.”
“Ah! most like he is not much at Bowstead. But do not folk talk there?”
“My dear,” said Mr. Arden, “you would do well to imitate your honoured father’s discretion on certain points.”
“Bless me, Mr. Arden, how you startled me. I thought you were in a brown study.” She winked at Aurelia as if to intimate that she meant to continue the subject in his absence, and went on; “I assure you, I had to be on the alert all the way to take care he looked at the sign-posts, or we might have been at York by this time. And in London, what do you think was all my gentleman cared to go and see? Why, he must needs go to some correspondents of his who are Fellows of the Royal Society. I took it for granted they must be friends of his Majesty or of the Prince of Wales at the least, and would have had him wait for his new gown and cassock; but la! it was only a set of old doctors and philosophers, and he wished to know what musty discoveries they had been making. That was one thing he desired in London, and the other was to hear that crazy Parson Wesley preach a sermon hours long!”
“I was well rewarded in both instances,” said Mr. Arden gravely.
Aurelia did not take advantage of the opportunity of shining in the eyes of her new brother-in-law by showing her acquaintance with the discussions on electricity which she had studied for Mr. Belamour’s benefit, nor did she speak of Dr. Godfrey’s views of Wesley and Whitfield. Had she so ventured, her sister would have pitied her, and Mr. Arden himself been somewhat shocked at her being admitted to knowledge unbecoming to a pretty young lady. Intellect in ladies would have been a startling idea, and though very fond of his wife, he never thought of her as a companion, but only as the mistress of his house and guardian of his welfare.
The dinner was ordered at one, and at three Aurelia would ride home, while Mr. and Mrs. Arden went on about twelve miles to the house of a great grazier, brother to the Alderman’s wife, where they had been invited to make their next stage, and spend the next day, Sunday, when Harriet reckoned on picking up information about cattle, if she were not actually presented with a cow or a calf. They went out and walked a little about the town, where presently they met Mrs. Hunter. Aurelia met her puzzled stare with a curtsey, and she shouted in her hearty tone “Miss Delavie!—I mean Mrs. Belamour! Who would have thought of seeing you here!”
“I am here to meet my sister—Mrs. Arden. Let me—let me present you,” said Aurelia in obedience to an imperious sign from her sister, going through the form for the first time, while Harriet volubly declared her happiness in making Mrs. Hunter’s acquaintance, and explained how they were on their way to take possession of Mr. Arden’s rectory of Rundell Canonicorum, the words rolling out of her mouth with magnificent emphasis. “I congratulate you, ma’am,” said Mrs. Hunter, cordially, “and you too, my dear,” she added, turning to Aurelia. “I would have been out long ago to call on you—a sort of relation as you are now, as I may say—but it was kept all so mum, one never knew the time to drink your health; and my Cousins Treforth wouldn’t so much as give me a hint. But la! says I, why should you talk about artfulness? I’m right glad poor Mr. Amyas should find a sprightly young lady to cure him of his mopishness. Never mind them, my dear, if they do look sour on you. I’ll come over one of these days and talk to them. Now, I must have you come in to take your dinner with us. The Doctor will be right pleased to find you. I’ll take no excuse. I thank Heaven I’m always ready whoever may drop in. There’s spring chicken and sparrow-grass.”
However, on hearing their dinner was ordered at the inn, the good lady was satisfied that to dine with her was impossible; but she insisted on their coming in to partake of wine and cake in her best parlour.
This, however, was a little more than Mr. Arden could endure, he made an excuse about seeing to the horse, and escaped; while Mrs. Hunter led the two sisters to her closely shut-up parlour, wainscoted, and hung with two staring simpering portraits of herself and her husband, clean as soap could make it, but smelling like a long closed box. She went to a cupboard in the wall, and brought out a silver salver, a rich cake, glasses and wine, and pouring out the wine, touched the glass with her lips, as she wished health and happiness to the two brides before her.
“We shall soon have another wedding in the family, if report speaks true,” she added. “They say—but you should be the best informed, Madam Belamour—
“We hear nothing of the matter, ma’am,” said Aurelia.
“That’s odd, since Mr. Belamour is young Sir Amyas’s guardian; and they cannot well pass him over now he has begun life again as it were,” laughed Mrs. Hunter. “‘Tis said that my Lady is resolved the wedding shall be within six weeks.”
“There are two words to that question,” said Harriet, oracularly; “I know from good authority that young Sir Amyas is determined against the match.”
“But is it true, ma’am,” cried Mrs. Hunter, eagerly, “that my Lady and the Countess of Aresfield met at Bath, and that my Lady is to have 3,000 pounds down to pay off her debts before her husband comes home, the day her son is married to Lady Arabella?”
“Every word of it is true, ma’am,” said Harriet, importantly.
“Well now, that folk should sell their own flesh and blood!”
“How have you heard it, sister Harriet?” asked Aurelia.
“From a sure hand, my love. No other than Mrs. Dove. She is wife to my Lady’s coachman,” explained Mrs. Arden to her hostess, “and nurse to the two children it is her pleasure to keep with her.”
“Dear good Nurse dove!” cried Aurelia, “did she come to see you?”
“Yes, that did she! So I have it from the fountain-head, as I may say, that the poor young gentleman’s hand and heart are to be made over without his will, that so his mother may not have such a schedule of debts wherewith to face her husband on his return!”
“Her jewels have been all paste long ago, I know very well,” said Mrs. Hunter, not to be outdone; “though, would you believe it, Doctor Hunter is like all the men, and will believe nothing against her! But this beats all the rest! Why, I have it from my maid, who is sister to one of the servants at the boarding-school in Queen Square, whither they have sent the Lady Belle, that she is a regular little shrew. She flew at one of the young ladies like a wild cat, because she did not yield place to her at once, and scratched her cheeks till the blood ran down, and tore out whole handfuls of her hair. She was like one possessed, and they had to call the lackey before they could get her safe tied down in bed, where they kept her on bread and water, trying to get her to make her apology; but not a word could be got out of her, till they had to yield the point lest she should fall sick.”
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.