Books: Love and Life
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Charlotte M. Yonge >> Love and Life
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One went up readily to Aurelia and allowed herself to be kissed, and
lifted to a chair; the other clung to Dame Wheatfield, in spite of
coaxing entreaties. "Speak pretty, my dear; speak to the pretty lady.
Don't ye see how good your sister is? It won't do, miss," to Aurelia;
"she's daunted, is my pretty lamb. If I might just give her her
breakwist--for it is the last time I shall do it--then she might get
used to you before my good man comes for me."
Aurelia was only too glad to instal Dame Wheatfield in a chair with
her charge in her lap. The other child was feeding herself very
tidily and independently, and Aurelia asked her if she were the eldest.
"Yes," she said.
"And what shall I call you, my dear?"
"I'm Missy."
"No, Missy, me--me eldest," cried the other.
"Bless the poor children!" exclaimed Mrs. Wheatfield, laughing, "they
be both of 'em eldest, as one may say."
"They are twins, then?" said Aurelia.
"More than that--all three of them came together! I've heard tell of
such a thing once or twice, but never of all living and thriving. Folk
said it was a judgment on my Lady that she spoke sharp and hard to a
poor beggar woman with a child on each arm. It was not a week out
before my Lady herself was down, quite unexpected, as I may say, for
she was staying here for a week, with a lot of company, when these
three was born. They do say she was nigh beside herself that the like
of that should have happened to her. Mr. Wayland, he was not so ill
pleased, but the poor little things had to be got out of the house any
way, for she could not abear to hear of them. Mrs. Rolfe, as was an
old servant of the family, took that one, and I was right glad to have
you, my pretty one, for I had just lost my babe at a fortnight old,
and the third was sent to Goody Bowles, for want of a better. They
says as how my Lady means to bring them out one by one, and to make
as this here is bigger, and the other up stairs is lesser, and never
let on that they are all of an age."
The good gossip must have presumed greatly on the children's want of
comprehension if she did not suppose that they understood her at least
as well as the young lady to whom her dialect was strange.
"And has she not seen them?"
"Never till last Monday, if you'll believe me miss, when she drove
down in her coach, and the children were all brought home. I thought
she might have said something handsome, considering the poor little
babe as my Missy here was when I had her--not so long as my hand--and
scarce able to cry enough to show she was alive. The work I and my
good man had with her! He would walk up and down half the night with
her. Not as we grudged it. He is as fond of the child as myself;
and Mr. Wayland, he knew it. 'She has a good nurse, dame,' says he
to me, with the water in his eyes, before he went to foreign parts.
But my Lady! When the little one as had been with Goody Bowles--an
ignorant woman, you see--cried and clung to her, and kicked, 'Little
savages all,' says my Lady. There was thanks to them that had had
more work to rear her children than ever with one of her own! 'Perfect
little rustics!' she said, even when you made your curtsey as pretty
as could be, didn't you, my little lammie?"
"Mammy Rolfe taught me to make my curtsey like a London lady," said
the other child, the most advanced in manners.
"Aha! little pitchers have long ears; but, bless you, they don't know
what it means," said Dame Wheatfield, too glad to talk to check herself
on any account; "Not so much as a kiss for them, poor little darlings!
Folks say she does not let even Master Wayland kiss aught but her hands
for fear of her fine colours. A plague on such colours, I say."
"Poor little things!" whispered Aurelia.
"You'll be good to them, won't you miss?"
"Indeed I hope so! I am only just come from home, and they will be
all I have to care for here."
"Ay, you must be lonesome in this big place; but I'm right glad to
have seen you, miss; I can part with the little dear with a better
heart, for Mrs. Aylward don't care for children, and Jenny Bowles
is a rough wench, wrapped up in her own child, and won't be no good
to the others. Go to the lady, my precious," she added, trying to
put the little girl into her cousin's lap, but this was met with
struggles, and vehement cries of--
"No; stay with mammy!"
The little sister, who had not brought her nurse, was, however, well
contented to be lifted to Aurelia's knee, and returned her caresses.
"And have you not a name, my dear? We can't call you all missie."
"Fay," the child lisped; "Fayfiddly Wayland."
"Lawk-a-daisy!" and Mrs. Wheatfield fell back laughing. "I'll tell
you how it was, ma'am. When no one thought they would live an hour,
Squire Wayland he sent for parson and had 'em half baptised Faith,
Hope, and Charity. They says his own mother's was called Faith, and
the other two came natural after it, and would do as well to be buried
by as aught. So that's what she means by Fay, and this here is Miss
Charity."
"She said something besides Faith."
"Well, when my lady got about again, they say if she was mad at their
coming all on a heap, she was madder still at their name. Bible
wasn't grand enough for her! I did hear tell that she throwed her
slipper at her husband's head, and was like to go into fits. So to
content her he came down, and took each one to Church, and had a fine
London name of my Lady's choosing tacked on in parson's register for
them to go by; but to my mind it ain't like their christened name.
Mine here got called for her share Amoretta."
"A little Love," cried Aurelia. "Oh, that is pretty. And what can
your name be, my dear little Fay? Will you tell me again?"
When repeated, it was plainly Fidelia, and it appeared that Hope had
been also called Letitia. As to age, Mrs. Wheatfield knew it was five
years last Michaelmas since the child had been brought to her from
whom she was so loth to part that she knew not how to go when her
husband came for her in his cart. He was a farmer, comfortably off,
though very homely, and there were plenty of children at home, so that
she had been ill spared to remain at the Park till Aurelia's arrival.
Thus she took the opportunity of going away while the little one was
asleep.
Aurelia asked where she lived now. At Sedhurst, in the next parish,
she was told; but she would not accept a promise that her charge
should soon be brought to visit her. "Better not, ma'am, thank you
all the same, not till she's broke in. She'll pine the less if she
don't see nor hear nothing about the old place, nor Daddy and Sally
and Davie. If you bring her soon, you'll never get her away again.
That's the worst of a nurse-child. I was warned. It just breaks
your heart!"
So away went the good foster-mother sobbing; and Aurelia's charge
began. Fay claimed her instantly to explore the garden and house.
The child had been sent home alone on the sudden illness of her
nurse, and had been very forlorn, so that her cousin's attention
was a great boon to her. Hope was incited to come out; but Jenny
Bowles kept a jealous watch over her, and treated every one else
as an enemy; and before Aurelia's hat was on, came the terrible
woe of Amoret's awakening. Her sobs and wailings for her mammy
were entirely beyond the reach of Aurelia's soothings and caresses,
and were only silenced by Molly's asseveration that the black man
was at the door ready to take her into the dark room. That this
was no phantom was known to the poor child, and was a lurking
horror to Aurelia herself. No wonder that the little thing clung
to her convulsively, and would not let her hand go for the rest of
the day, every now and then moaning out entreaties to go home to
mammy.
With the sad little being hanging to her hand, Aurelia was led by Fay
round their new abiding place. The house was of brick, shaped like
the letter H, Dutch, and with a tall wing, at each end of the main
body, projecting, and finishing in fantastic gables edged with stone.
One of these square wings was appropriated to Aurelia and her charges,
the other to the recluse Mr. Belamour. The space that lay between
the two wings, on the garden front, was roofed over, and paved with
stone, descending in several broad shallow steps at the centre and
ends, guarded at each angle by huge carved eagles, the crest of the
builder, of the most regular patchwork, and kept, in spite of the
owner's non-residence, in perfect order. The strange thing was that
this fair and stately place, basking in the sunshine of early June,
should be left in complete solitude save for the hermit in the
opposite wing, the three children, and the girl, who felt as though
in a kind of prison.
The sun was too hot for Aurelia to go out of doors till late in the
day, when the shadow of the house came over the steps. She was
sitting on one, with Amoret nestled in her lap, and was crooning an
old German lullaby of Nannerl's, which seemed to have a wonderful
effect in calming the child, who at last fell into a doze. Aurelia
had let her voice die away, and had begun to think over her strange
situation, when she was startled by a laugh behind her, and looking
round, hardly repressed a start or scream, at the sight of Fay
enjoying a game at bo-peep, with--yes--it actually was--the negro--
over the low-sashed door.
"I beg pardon, ma'am," said Jumbo, twitching his somewhat grizzled
wool; "I heard singing, and little missy--"
Unfortunately Amoret here awoke, and with a shriek of horror cowered
in her arms.
"I am so sorry," said Aurelia, anxious not to hurt his feelings.
"She knows no better."
Jumbo grinned, bowed, and withdrew, Fay running after him, for she
had made friends with him during her days of solitude, being a
fearless child, and not having been taught to make a bugbear of
him. "The soot won't come off," she said.
Aurelia had not a moment to herself till Fay had said the Lord's
prayer at her knee, and Amoret, with much persuasion, had been
induced to lisp out--
"Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John,
Bless the bed I sleep upon;
Four corners to by bed,
Four angles round my head,
One to read and one to write,
And two to guard my soul at night."
Another agony for mammy ensued, nor could Aurelia leave the child till
sleep had hushed the wailings. Then only could she take her little
writing-case to begin her letter to Betty. It would be an expensive
luxury to her family, but she knew how it would be longed for; and
though she cried a good deal over her writing, she felt as if she
ought to make the best of her position, for had not Betty said it
was for her father's sake? No, her tears must not blot the paper,
to distress those loving hearts. Yet how the drops _would_ come,
gathering fast and blinding her! Presently, through the window,
came the sweet mysterious strains of the violin, not terrifying her
as before, but filling her with an inexpressible sense of peace and
calmness. She sat listening almost as one in a dream, with her pen
suspended, and when the spell was broken by Molly's entrance with
her supper, she went on in a much more cheerful strain than she had
begun. It was dull, and it was a pity that her grand wardrobe, to
say nothing of Betty's good advice, should be wasted, but her sister
would rejoice in her seclusion from the grand, fashionable world,
and her heart went out to the poor little neglected children, whose
mother could not bear the sight of them.
CHAPTER IX. THE TRIAD.
"I know sisters, sisters three."
Ere many days had passed Aurelia had drifted into what would now
be regarded as the duties of a nursery governess to her little
companions.
Fay and Amoret were always with her, and depended on her for everything.
Jenny Bowles, with a sort of animal jealousy, tried to monopolise her
charge, Letitia. The child was attracted by the sounds of her sister's
sports, and there was no keeping her from them, or from their cousin.
Then the rude untaught Jenny became cross, moped, showed spite to the
other children, and insolence to the young lady, and was fortunately
overheard by Mrs. Aylward, and dismissed. Letty did not seem to mind
the loss as Amoret had felt that of her foster-mother, for indeed
Jenny had been almost as disagreeable to her as to the others during
these days of jealousy.
The triad were not much alike: Amoret was the largest of the three,
plump, blue-eyed, golden-haired, rosy-cheeked, a picture of the
cherub-type of child; Letitia had the delicate Delavie features and
complexion; and Fidelia, the least pretty, was pale, and rather sallow,
with deep blue eyes set under a broad forehead and dark brows, with
hair also dark. Though the smallest, she was the most advanced, and
showed signs of good training. She had some notion of good manners,
and knew as much of her hornbook [a child's primer consisting of a
sheet of parchment or paper protected by a sheet of transparent horn
--D.L.] and catechism as little girls of five were wont to know. The
other two were perfectly ignorant, but Mrs. Aylward procured hornbooks,
primers, and slates, and Aurelia began their education in a small way.
It was a curious life. There was the great empty house, through whose
long corridors and vacant rooms the children might wander at will,
peeping at the swathed curtains of velvet pile, the rolls of carpet,
and the tapestry pictures on the walls, running and shouting in the
empty passages, or sometimes, in a fit of nameless fright, taking
refuge in Aurelia's arms. Or they might play in the stately garden,
provided they trod on no borders, and meddled with neither flower
nor fruit. The old gardener began by viewing them as his natural
enemies, but soon relaxed in amusement at their pretty sportive ways,
gave them many precious spoils, and forgave more than one naughty
little inroad, which greatly alarmed their guardian.
Or if the little party felt enterprising, there lay beyond, the park,
its slopes covered with wild strawberries, and with woods where they
could gather flowers unchecked. Further, there was no going, except
on alternate Sundays, when there was service in the tumble-down Church
at the park gate. It was in far worse condition than the Church at
home, and was served by a poor forlorn-looking curate, who lived at
Brentford, and divided his services between four parishes, each of
which was content to put up with a fortnightly alternate morning and
evening service. The Belamour seat was a square one, without the
comfortable appliances of the Delavie closet, and thus permitting
a much fuller view, but there was nothing to be seen except a row
of extremely gaudy Belamour hatchments, displaying to the full, the
saltir-wise sheafs of arrows on the shields or lozenges, supported
by grinning skulls. The men's shields preserved their eagle crest,
the women had only lozenges, and the family motto, _Amo et Amabo_,
was exchanged for the more pious "_Resurgam_."
Aurelia found that the family seat, whither she was marshalled by Mrs.
Aylward, was already occupied by two ladies, who rose up, and made her
stately curtsies with a decidedly disgusted air, although there was
ample space for her and Fidelia, the only one of her charges whom
she had ventured to take with her. They wore the black hoods, laced
boddices, long rolls of towering curl and open upper skirts, of Queen
Anne's day, and in the eyes of thirty years' later, looked so
ridiculous that Fay could not but stare at them the whole time, and
whenever Aurelia turned her glances from her book to see whether her
little companion was behaving herself, the big blue considering eyes
were always levelled full upon the two forms before her.
The ladies were in keeping with their dress, thin, stiff and angular,
with worn and lined faces, highly rouged, and enormous long-handled
fans, and Aurelia was almost as much astonished as the child.
There was a low curtseying again, and much ceremony before it was
possible to get out of the pew, and the two ladies mounted at the
door on lofty pattens which added considerably to their height, and,
attended by a loutish-looking man in livery, who carried their books,
stalked of into the village.
Aurelia found from the communicative Molly that they were Mistress
Phoebe and Mistress Delia Treforth, kinswomen of the Belamour family,
who had in consequence a life residence rent-free in a tall thin red
square house near the churchyard, where a very gay parrot was always
to be seen in the windows. They no doubt regarded Miss Delavie and
the little Waylands as interlopers at Bowstead, and their withering
glances made Church-going a trying affair--indeed the first time
that Aurelia took little Amoret, they actually drove the sensitive
child into a sobbing fit, so that she had to be carried out, begging
to know why those ladies looked so cross at her.
The life, on the whole, was not unhappy, except for fits of homesickness
and longing for letters. The arrival of the boxes from the carrier was
the first comfort, and then at last came a thick letter from home,
franked by Sir George Herries, and containing letters from everybody--
even a few roundhand lines from Eugene.
Her father wrote at length all the excellent moral and religious essay
which had stuck in his throat at the parting; neither was Betty's
letter deficient in good advice, though she let it appear that the
family were much amused at Lady Belamour's affliction in her triad
of daughters, the secret having been hitherto so carefully kept that
they supposed her to have only one.
"It will be your Charge," wrote Betty, "so far as in you lies, to
render them not merely the Graces, as my Father terms them, but the
true and faithful Guardian to these Infant Spirits. Though their
Mother has shown no Care or heed in entrusting them to you, yet
remember that it is truly the good Providence of their Heavenly
Father that has put these little Children of His in your Charge, to
receive from you the first Principles of Religion and Morals which
may mould their whole Lives; and I trust that you will do the Work
faithfully and successfully. It may be dull and tedious at Bowstead,
but I had much rather hear of you thus than exposed to the Glare of
My Lady's Saloon in London. No doubt Harriet has write to you of
the Visit of young Sir Amyas, the Sunday after your departure. We
have since heard that his expedition to Monmouthshire was with a View
to his marriage to Lady Aresfield's Daughter, and this may well be,
so that if he fall in your way, you will be warned against putting
any misconstruction on any Civil Attentions he may pay to you. Ever
since your Departure Mr. Arden has redoubled his Assiduities in a
certain Quarter, and as it is thought the Dean and Chapter are not
unlikely to present him to a good Vicarage in Buckinghamshire, it
is not unlikely that ere long you may hear of a Wedding in the
Family, although Harriet would be extremely angry with me for daring
to give such a Hint."
Certainly Aurelia would not have gathered the hint from Harriet's
letter, which was very sentimental about her own loneliness and lack
of opportunity, in contrast with Aurelia, who was seeing the world.
That elegant beau, Sir Amyas, had just given a sample to tantalise
their rusticity, and then had vanished; and here was that oddity,
Mr. Arden, more wearisome and pertinacious than ever. So tiresome!
CHAPTER X. THE DARK CHAMBER.
Or singst thou rather under force
Of some Divine command,
Commissioned to presage a course
Of happier days at hand?
COWPER.
Aurelia was coming down stairs in the twilight after singing her
charges to sleep about three weeks after her arrival, when she saw
Jumbo waiting at the bottom of the stairs.
She had long ceased to be afraid of him. Indeed he had quite amazed
her by his good-nature in helping to lift down naughty little Letitia,
who was clambering up to the window of his master's chamber to look
through the crevices of the shutters. He had given the children a
gaily dressed rag doll, and was as delighted as they were when he
played his fiddle to them and set them dancing.
Still, the whites of his eyes, his shining teeth, and the gold lace of
his livery had a startling effect in the darkness, and Aurelia wished
he would move away; but he was evidently waiting for her, and when she
came near he addressed her thus, "Mis'r Belamour present compliment,
and would Miss Delavie be good enough to honour him with her company
for a short visit?"
The girl started, dismayed, alarmed, yet unwilling to be unkind to the
poor recluse, while she hoped that decorum and propriety would put the
visit out of the question. She replied that she would ask Mrs. Aylward
whether she might, and Jumbo followed her to the still-room, saying on
the way, "Mas'r heard Miss Delavie sing. He always has the window
opened to hear her. It makes him hum the air--be merry. He has not
asked to speak with lady since he heard the bad news--long, long, ago."
Then Aurelia felt that nothing short of absolute impropriety ought to
make her gratify her shrinking reluctance. Mrs. Aylward seemed to
think her doubts uncalled for, and attributed her hesitation to fear
of the dark room.
"Oh, no I am not so childish," said the young lady with nervous dignity;
"but would it be proper?"
"Bless me, madam, he is as old as your father, and as civil a gentleman
as lives. I would come in with you but that I am expecting Mr. Potts
with the tallies. You need have no scruples."
There was no excuse nor escape, and Aurelia followed the negro in
trepidation. Crossing the hall, he opened for her the door of the
lobby corresponding to her own, and saying, "Allow me, ma'am,"
passed before her, and she heard another door unclosed, and a
curtain withdrawn. Beyond she only saw a gulf of darkness, but
out of it came a deep manly voice, subdued and melancholy, but
gentlemanlike and deferential.
"The young lady is so kind as to come and cheer the old hermit. A
thousand thanks, madam. Permit me."
Aurelia's hand was taken by one soft for want of use, and she was led
forward on a deep piled carpet, and carefully placed on a chair in the
midst of the intense black darkness. There was a little movement and
then the voice said, "I am most sensible of your goodness, madam."
"I--I am glad. You are very good, sir," murmured Aurelia, oppressed
by the gloom and the peculiar atmosphere, cool--for the windows were
open behind the shutters--but strangely fragrant.
"How does my excellent friend, Major Delavie?"
"I thank you, sir, he is well, though his wound troubles him from time
to time."
"Commend me to him when you write, if you are good enough to remember
it."
"I thank you, sir. He will be rejoiced to hear of you."
"He does me too much honour."
These conventionalities being exhausted, a formidable pause ensued,
first broken by Mr. Belamour, "May I ask how my fair visitor likes
Bowstead?"
"It is a fine place, sir."
"But somewhat lonely for so youthful a lady?"
"I have the children, sir."
"I often hear their cheerful voices."
"I hope we do not disturb you, sir, I strive to restrain them, but I
fear we are all thoughtless."
"Nay, the innocent sounds of mirth ring sweetly on my ears, like the
notes of birds. And when I have heard a charming voice singing to the
little ones, I have listened with delight. Would it be too presumptuous
to beg the air songstress to repeat her song for the old recluse?"
"O, sir, I have only nursery ditties, caught from our old German maid,"
cried Aurelia, in dismay.
"That might not diminish the charm to me," he said. "In especial
there was one song whose notes Jumbo caught as you accompanied
yourself on the spinnet."
And Jumbo, who seemed able to see in the dark, played a bar on his
violin, while Aurelia trembled with shyness.
"The Nightingale Song," she said. "My dear mother learnt the tune
abroad. And I believe that she herself made the English words, when
she was asked what the nightingales say."
"May I hear it? Nightingales can sing in the dark." Refusal was
impossible, and Jumbo's violin was a far more effective accompaniment
than her own very moderate performance on the spinnet; so in a sweet,
soft, pure, untrained and trembling voice, she sang--
"O Life and Light are sweet, my dear,
O life and Light are sweet;
But sweeter still the hope and cheer
When Love and Life shall meet.
Oh! then it is most sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet.
"But Love puts on the yoke, my dear,
But Love puts on the yoke;
The dart of Love calls forth the tear,
As though the heart were broke.
The very heart were broke, broke, broke, broke, broke, broke.
"And Love can quench Life's Light, my dear,
Drear, dark, and melancholy;
Seek Light and Life and jocund cheer,
And mirth and pleasing folly.
Be thine, light-hearted folly, folly, folly, folly, folly, folly.
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