But when the King knew that the thing must be,
And that no help there was in this distress,
He bade them have all things in readiness
To take the maiden out.--MORRIS.
The second Sunday of suspense had come. The Sundays of good young ladies
little resembled those of a century later, though they were not devoid
of a calm peacefulness, worthy of the “sweet day, so cool, so calm, so
bright.” The inhabited rooms of the old house looked bright and festal;
there were fresh flowers in the pots, honey as well as butter on
the breakfast table. The Major and Palmer were both in full uniform,
wonderfully preserved. Eugene, a marvel of prettiness, with his curled
hair and little velvet coat, contrived by his sisters out of some
ancestral hoard. Betty wore thick silk brocade from the same store;
Harriet a fresh gay chintz over a crimson skirt, and Aurelia was in
spotless white, with a broad blue sash and blue ribbons in her hat, for
her father liked to see her still a child; so her hair was only tied
with blue, while that of her sisters was rolled over a cushion, and
slightly powdered.
The church was so near that the Major could walk thither, leaning on
his stout crutch-handled stick, and aided by his daughter’s arm, as
he proceeded down the hawthorn lane, sweet with the breath of May,
exchanging greetings with whole families of the poor, the fathers in
smock frocks wrought with curious needlework on the breast and back,
the mothers in high-crowned hats and stout dark blue woollen gowns, the
children, either patched or ragged, and generally barefooted, but by no
means ill-fed.
No Sunday school had been invented. The dame who hobbled along in
spectacles, dropping a low curtsey to the “quality,” taught the hornbook
and the primer to a select few of the progeny of the farmers and
artisans, and the young ladies would no more have thought of assisting
her labours than the blacksmith’s. They only clubbed their pocket money
to clothe and pay the schooling of one little orphan, who acknowledged
them by a succession of the lowest bobs as she trotted past, proud as
Margery Twoshoes herself of the distinction of being substantially shod.
The church was small, and with few pretensions to architecture at
the best. It had been nearly a ruin, when, stirred by the Major, the
church-wardens had taken it in hand, so that, owing to Richard Stokes
and John Ball, as they permanently declared in yellow letters on a blue
ground, the congregation were no longer in danger of the roof admitting
the rain or coming down on the congregation. They had further beautified
the place with a huge board of the royal arms, and with Moses and Aaron
in white cauliflower wigs presiding over the tables of the Commandments.
Four long dark, timber pews and numerous benches, ruthlessly constructed
out of old carvings, occupied the aisle, and the chancel was more than
half filled with the lofty “closet” of the Great House family. Hither
the Delavie family betook themselves, and on her way Betty was startled
by the recognition, in the seat reserved for the servants, of a broad
back and curled wig that could belong to no one but Jonah Dove. She did
her utmost to keep her mind from dwelling on what this might portend,
though she followed the universal custom by exchanging nods and curtsies
with the Duckworth family as she sailed up the aisle at the head of the
little procession.
There was always a little doubt as to who would serve the church. One
of the Canons was the incumbent, and the curate was Mr. Arden, the
scientific minor canon, but when his services were required at the
cathedral, one of his colleagues would supply his place, usually in a
sadly perfunctory manner. However, he was there in person, as his voice,
a clear and pleasant one, showed the denizens of the “closet,” for they
could not see out of it, except where Eugene had furtively enlarged
a moth-eaten hole in the curtain, through which, when standing on the
seat, he could enjoy an oblique view of the back of an iron-moulded
surplice and a very ill-powdered wig. This was a comfort to him. It
would have been more satisfactory to have been able to make out whence
came the stentorian A-men, that responded to the parson, totally
unaccompanied save by the good Major, who always read his part almost as
loud as the clerk, from a great octavo prayer-book, bearing on the lid
the Delavie arms with coronet, supporters, and motto, “_Ma Vie et ma
Mie_.” It would have been thought unladylike, if not unscriptural,
to open the lips in church; yet, for all her silence, good Betty was
striving to be devout and attentive, praying earnestly for her little
sister’s safety, and hailing as a kind of hopeful augury this verse from
the singers--
“At home, abroad, in peace, in war
Thy God shall thee defend,
Conduct thee through life’s pilgrimage
Safe to the journey’s end.”
Much cannot be said for the five voices that sang, nor for the two
fiddles that accompanied them. Eugene had scarcely outgrown his terror
at the strains, and still required Aurelia to hold his hand, under
pretext of helping him to follow the words, not an easy thing, since the
last lines were always repeated three or four times.
Somehow the repetition brought them the more home to Betty’s heart, and
they rang consolingly in her ears, all through the sermon, of which
she took in so little that she never found out that it was an elaborate
exposition of the Newtonian philosophy, including Mr. Arden’s views of
the miracle at the battle Beth-horon, in the Lesson for the day.
The red face and Belamour livery looked doubly ominous when she came
out of church, but she had to give her arm to her father till they were
overtaken by Mr. Arden, who always shared the Sunday roast beef and plum
pudding. Betty feared it was the best meal he had in the week, for he
lived in lodgings, and his landlady was not too careful of his comforts,
while he was wrapped up in his books and experiments. There was a hole
singed in the corner of his black gown, which Eugene pointed out with
great awe to Aurelia as they walked behind him.
“See there, Aura. Don’t you think he has been raising spirits, like
Friar Bacon?”
“What do you know about Friar Bacon?” asked Harriet.
“He is in a little book that I bought of the pedlar. He had a brazen
head that said--
‘Time is,
Time was,
Time will be.’
I wonder if Mr. Arden would show me one like it.”
“You ridiculous little fellow to believe such trash!” said Harriet.
“But, Hatty, he can really light a candle without a tinder-box,” said
Eugene. “His landlady told Palmer so; and Palmer says the Devil flew
away with Friar Bacon; but my book says he burnt all his books and gave
himself to the study of divinity, and dug his grave with his own nails.”
“Little boys should not talk of such things on Sundays,” said Harriet,
severely.
“One does talk of the Devil on Sunday, for he is in the catechism,”
returned Eugene. “If he carries Mr. Arden off, do you think there will
be a great smoke, and that folk will see it?”
Aurelia’s silvery peal of laughter fell sadly upon Betty’s ears in
front, and her father and Mr. Arden turned to ask what made them so
merry. Aurelia blushed in embarrassment, but Harriet was ready.
“You will think us very rude, Sir, but my little brother has been
reading the life of Friar Bacon, and he thinks you an equally great
philosopher.”
“Indeed, my little master, you do me too much honour. You will soon be a
philosopher yourself. I did not expect so much attention in so young an
auditor,” said mr. Arden, thinking this the effect of his sermon on the
solar system.
Whereupon Eugene begged to inspect the grave he was digging with his own
nails.
They were at home by this time, and Betty was aware that they had been
followed at a respectful distance by Palmer and the coachman. Anxious as
she was, she could not bear that her father’s dinner should be spoilt,
or that he, in his open-hearted way, should broach the matter with Mr.
Arden; so she repaired to the garden gate, and on being told that Mr.
Dove had a packet from my Lady for the Major, she politely invited him
to dinner with the servants, and promised that her father should see him
afterwards.
This gave a long respite, since the servants had the reversion of the
beef, so the Mr. Arden had taken leave, and gone to see a bedridden
pauper, and the Major had time for his forty winks, while Betty, though
her heart throbbed hard beneath her tightly-laced boddice, composed
herself to hear Eugene’s catechism, and the two sisters, each with a
good book, slipped out to the honeysuckle arbour in the garden behind
the house. Harriet had _Sherlock in Death_, her regular Sunday study,
though she never got any further than the apparition of Mrs. Veal, over
which she gloated in a dreamy state; Aurelia’s study was a dark-covered,
pale-lettered copy of the _Ikon Basilike_, with the strange attraction
that youth has to pain and sorrow, and sat musing over the resigned
outpourings of the perplexed and persecuted king, with her bright eyes
fixed on the deep blue sky, and the honeysuckle blossoms gently waving
against it, now and then visited by bee or butterfly, while through the
silence came the throbbing notes of the nightingale, followed by its
jubilant burst of glee, and the sweet distant chime of the cathedral
bells rose and fell upon the wind. What peace and repose there was in
all the air, even in the gentle breeze, and the floating motions of the
swallows skimming past.
The stillness was first broken by the jangle of their own little church
bell, for Mr. Arden was a more than usually diligent minister, and
always gave two services when he was not in course at the cathedral. The
young ladies always attended both, but as Harriet and Aurelia crossed
the lawn, their brother ran to meet them, saying, “We are not to wait
for sister.”
“I hope my papa is well,” said Aurelia.
“Oh yes,” said Eugene, “but the man in the gold-laced hat has been
speaking with him. Palmer says it is Mrs. Dove’s husband, and he is
going to take Lively Tom and Brown Bet and the two other colts to
London. He asked if I should like to ride a-cockhorse there with him.
‘Dearly,’ I said, and then he laughed and said it was not my turn, but
he should take Miss Aurelia instead.”
Aurelia laughed, and Harriet said, “Extremely impudent.”
Little she guessed what Betty was at that moment reading.
“I am astonished,” wrote Lady Belamour to her cousin, “that you should
decline so highly advantageous an Offer for your Daughter. I can only
understand it as a Token that you desire no further Connection with,
nor Favour from me; and I shall therefore require of you to give up the
Accounts, and vacate the House by Michaelmas next ensuing. However, as I
am willing to allow some excuse for the Weakness of parental Affection,
if you change your Mind within the next Week and send up your Daughter
with Dove and his Wife, I will overlook your first hasty and foolish
Refusal, ungrateful as it was, and will receive your Daughter and give
her all the Advantages I promised. Otherwise your Employment is at
an end, and you had better prepare your Accounts for Hargrave’s
Inspection.”
“There is no help for it then,” said Betty.
“And if it be for the child’s advantage, we need not make our moan,”
said her father. “‘Tis like losing the daylight out of our house, but we
must not stand in the way of her good.”
“If I were only sure it is for her good!”
“Why, child, there’s scarce a wench in the county who would not go down
on her knees for such a chance. See what Madam Duckworth would say to it
for Miss Peggy!”
Betty said no more. The result of her cogitations had been that since
Aurelia must be yielded for the sake of her father and Eugene, it was
better not to disturb him with fears, which would only anger him at the
moment and disquiet him afterwards. She was likewise reassured by Mrs.
Dove’s going with her, since that good woman had been nurse to the
little Belamour cousins now deceased, and was well known as an excellent
and trustworthy person, so that, if she were going to act in the same
capacity to my Lady’s second family, Aurelia would have a friend at
hand. So the Major cheated his grief by greeting the church-goers with
the hilarious announcement--
“Here’s great news! What says my little Aura to going London to my
Lady’s house.”
“O Sir! are you about to take us.”
“Not I! My Lady wants pretty young maidens, not battered old soldiers.”
“Nor my sisters? O then, if you please, Sir, I would rather not go!”
“Silly children cannot choose! No, no, Aura, you must go out and see the
world, and come back to us such a belle that your poor old father will
scarce know you.”
“I do not wish to be a belle,” said the girl. “O Sir, let me stay with
you and sister.”
“Do not be so foolish, Aura,” put in Harriet. “It will be the making of
you. I wish I had the offer.”
“O Harriet, could not you go instead?”
“No, Aurelia,” said Betty. “There is no choice, and you must be a good
girl and not vex my father.”
The gravity of her eldest sister convinced Aurelia that entreaties would
be vain, and there was soon a general outburst of assurances that she
would see all that was delightful in London, the lions in the Tower, the
new St. Paul’s, the monuments, Ranelagh, the court ladies, may be,
the King and Queen themselves; until she began to feel exhilarated and
pleased at the prospect and the distinction.
Then came Monday and the bustle of preparing her wardrobe. The main body
of it was to be sent in the carrier’s waggon, for she was to ride on
a pillion behind Mr. Dove, and could only take a valise upon a groom’s
horse. There was no small excitement in the arrangement, and in
the farewells to the neighbours, who all agreed with Harriet in
congratulating the girl on her promotion. Betty did her part with all
her might, washed lace, and trimmed sleeves, and made tuckers, giving
little toilette counsels, while her heart ached sorely all the time.
When she could speak to Mrs. Dove alone, she earnestly besought that old
friend to look after the child, her health, her dress, and above all to
supply here lack of experience and give her kind counsel and advice.
“I will indeed, ma’am, as though she were my own,” promised Mrs. Dove.
“O nurse, I give my sweet jewel to your care; you know what a great
house in London is better than I do. You will warn her of any danger.”
“I will do my endeavour, ma’am. We servants see and hear much, and if
any harm should come nigh the sweet young miss, I’ll do my best for
her.”
“Thank you, nurse, I shall never, never see her more in her free artless
childishness,” said Betty, sobbing as if her heart would break; “but oh,
nurse, I can bear the thought better since I have known that you would
be near her.”
And at night, when her darling nestled for the last time in her arms,
the elder sister whispered her warnings. Her knowledge of the great
world was limited, but she believed it to be a very wicked place, and
she profoundly distrusted her brilliant kinswoman; yet her warnings took
no shape more definite than--“My dearest sister will never forget her
prayers nor her Bible.” There was a soft response and fresh embrace at
each pause. “Nor play cards of a Sunday, nor ever play high. And my Aura
must be deaf to rakish young beaux and their compliments. They never
mean well by poor pretty maids. If you believe them, they will only
mock, flout, and jeer you in the end. And if the young baronet should
seek converse with you, promise me, oh, promise me, Aurelia, to grant
him no favour, no, not so much as to hand him a flower, or stand
chatting with him unknown to his mother. Promise me again, child, for
naught save evil can come of any trifling between you. And, Aurelia, go
to Nurse Dove in all your difficulties. She can advise you where your
poor sister cannot. It will ease my heart if I know that my child will
attend to her. You will not let yourself be puffed up with flattery,
nor be offended if she be open and round with you. Think that your poor
sister Betty speaks in her. Pray our old prayers, go to church, and
read your Psalms and Lessons daily, and oh! never, never cheat your
conscience. O may God, in His mercy, keep my darling!”
So Aurelia cried herself to sleep, while Betty lay awake till the early
hour in the morning when all had to be prepared for the start. There was
to be a ride of an hour and a half before breakfast so as to give the
horses a rest. It was a terrible separation, in many respects more
complete than if Aurelia had been going, in these days, to America;
for communication by letter was almost as slow, and infinitely more
expensive.
No doubt the full import of what he had done had dawned even on Major
Delavie during the watches of that last sorrowful night, for he came out
a pale, haggard man, looking as if his age had doubled since he went to
bed, wrapped in his dressing gown, his head covered with his night-cap,
and leaning heavily on his staff. He came charged with one of the long
solemn discourses which parents were wont to bestow on their children
as valedictions, but when Aurelia, in her camlet riding cloak and hood,
brought her tear-stained face to crave his blessing, he could only utter
broken fragments. “Bless thee my child! Take heed to yourself and your
ways. It is a bad world, beset with temptations. Oh! heaven forgive me
for sending my innocent lamb out into it. Oh! what would your blessed
mother say?”
“Dear sir,” said Betty, who had wept out her tears, and was steadily
composed now, “this is no time to think of that. We must only cheer up
our darling, and give her good counsel. If she keep to what her Bible,
her catechism and her conscience tell her, she will be a good girl, and
God will protect her.”
“True, true, your sister is right; Aura, my little sweetheart, I had
much to say to you, but it is all driven out of my poor old head.”
“Aura! Aura! the horses are coming! Ten of them!” shouted Eugene. “Come
along! Oh! if I were but going! How silly of you to cry; _I_ don’t.”
“There! there! Go my child, and God in His mercy protect you!”
Aurelia in speechless grief passed from the arms of one sister to the
embrace of the other, hugged Eugene, was kissed by Nannerl, who forced
a great piece of cake into her little bag, and finally was lifted to her
pillion cushion by Palmer, who stole a kiss of her hand before Dove put
his horse in motion, while Betty was still commending her sister to his
wife’s care, and receiving reiterated promises of care.