He hath a word for thee to speak.
KEBLE.
No difference was made to Aurelia’s visits to Mr. Belamour on Sunday
evenings, but he respected her scruples against indulgence in profane
literature, and encouraged her to repeat passages of Scripture,
beginning to taste the beauty of the grand cadences falling from her
soft measured voice. Thus had she come to the Sermon on the Mount, and
found herself repeating the expansion of the Sixth Commandment ending
with, “And thou be cast into prison. Verily I say unto thee, thou shalt
not come out thence until thou hast paid the uttermost farthing.”
A groan startled her. Then came the passage and the unhappy man’s
history with a sudden stab. A horror of the darkness fell on her. She
felt as if he were in the prison and she reproaching him, and cried
out--“O sir, forgive me. I forgot; I did not say it on purpose.”
“No, my child, it was Mary speaking by your voice. No, Mary, I shall
never come out. It will never be paid.”
She shook with fright as Jumbo touched her, saying, “Missee, go; mas’r
bear no more;” but, as she rose to go away, a sweet impulse made her
pause and say, “It is paid, _He_ paid. You know Who did--in his own
Blood.”
Jumbo drew her away almost by force, and when outside, exclaimed,
“Missee never speak of blood or kill to mas’r--he not bear it. Head turn
again--see shapes as bad as ever.”
The poor child cried bitterly, calling herself cruel, thoughtless,
presumptuous; and for the next few days Jumbo’s eyes glared at her as he
reported his master to be very ill; but, on the third day, he came
for her as usual. She thought Mr. Belamour’s tones unwontedly low and
depressed, but no reference was made to the Sunday, and she was glad
enough to plunge into the council of Olympus.
A day or two later, Dame Wheatfield sent her husband with an urgent
invitation to Miss Amoret with her sisters and cousin to be present at
her harvest home. Mrs. Aylward, with a certain tone of contempt, gave
her sanction to their going with Molly, by the help of the little pony
cart used about the gardens. Aurelia, in high glee, told Mr. Belamour,
who encouraged her to describe all her small adventures, and was her
oracle in all the difficult questions that Fidelia’s childish wisdom was
wont to start.
“To Wheatfield’s farm, did you say? That is in Sedhurst. There are but
three fields between it and the church.”
Presently he added: “I am tempted to ask a great kindness, though I know
not whether it will be possible to you.”
“Indeed, sir, I will do my utmost.”
“There are two graves in Sedhurst Church, I have never dared to inquire
about them. Would it be asking too much from my gentle friend to beg of
her to visit them, and let me hear of them.”
“I will, I will, sir, with all my heart.”
By eight o’clock the next evening she was again with him, apologizing
for being late.
“I scarcely expected this pleasure to-night. These rural festivities are
often protracted.”
“O sir, I was heartily glad to escape and to get the children away. The
people were becoming so rude and riotous that I was frightened. I never
would have gone, had I known what it would be like, but at home the
people are fond of asking us to their harvest feasts, and they always
behave well whilst we are there.”
“No doubt they hold your father in respect.”
“Yes,” said Aurelia, unwilling to tell him how much alarmed and offended
she had been, though quite unintentionally. Dame Wheatfield only
intended hospitality; but in her eyes “Miss” was merely a poor
governess, and that to the little Waylands--mere interlopers in the eyes
of the Belamour tenantry. So the good woman had no idea that the rough
gallantry of the young farmer guests was inappropriate, viewing it as
the natural tribute to her guest’s beauty, and mistaking genuine offence
for mere coyness, until, finding it was real earnest, considerable
affront was taken at “young madam’s fine airs, and she only a poor
kinswoman of my Lady’s!” Quite as ill was it received that the young
lady had remonstrated against the indigestible cakes and strange
beverages administered to all her charges, and above all to Amoret. She
had made her escape on the plea of early hours for the children, leaving
Molly behind her, just as the boisterous song was beginning in which
Jack kisses Bet, Joe kisses Sue, Tom kisses Nan, &c. down to poor
Dorothy Draggletail, who is left in the lurch. The farewell had been
huffy. “A good evening to you, madam; I am sorry our entertainment
was not more to your taste.” She had felt guilty and miserable at the
accusation of pride, and she could not imagine how Mrs. Aylward could
have let her go without a warning; the truth being that Mrs. Aylward
despised her taste, but thought she knew what a harvest supper was like.
All this was passed over in silence by Aurelia’s pride and delicacy. She
only described the scene when the last waggon came in with its load, the
horses decked with flowers and ribbons, and the farmer’s youngest girl
enthroned on the top of the shocks, upholding the harvest doll. This was
a little sheaf, curiously constructed and bound with straw plaits
and ribbons. The farmer, on the arrival in the yard, stood on the
horse-block, and held it high over the heads of all the harvesters, and
the chorus was raised:
“A knack, a knack, a knack,
Well cut, well bound,
Well shocked, well saved from the ground,
Whoop! whoop! whoop!”
After which the harvest doll displaced her last year’s predecessor over
the hearth, where she was to hang till next year.
All this Aurelia described, comparing the customs with those of her own
county, her heart beating all the time under the doubt how to venture on
describing the fulfilment of her commission. At last Mr. Belamour said,
“In such a scene of gaiety, no doubt the recollection of sorrow had no
place.”
“O sir, you could not think I should forget.”
“I thought I might have asked more than was possible to you.”
“It was the only part of the day that I enjoyed. I took little Fay with
me, for no one seemed to care for her, while Amy was queening it with
all the Wheatfields, and Letty was equally happy with her foster mother.
I could see the church spire, so I needed not to ask the way, and we
crossed the stubble fields, while the sun sent a beautiful slanting
light through the tall elm trees that closed in the churchyard, but
let one window glitter between them like a great diamond. It looked so
peaceful after all the noise we left behind, even little Fay felt it,
and said she loved the quiet walk along the green baulks [An unplowed
strip of land--D.L.]. The churchyard has a wooden rail with steps to
cross it on either side, and close under the church wall is a tomb, a
great square simple block, surmounted by an urn.”
“Yes, let me hear,” said the voice, eager, though stifled.
“I thought it might be what you wished me to see and went up to read the
names.”
“Do not spare. Never fear. Let me hear the very words.”
“On one face of the block there was a name--
‘WILLIAM SEDHURST,
_AGED_ 27,
DIED MAY 13, 1729.’
On the other side was this inscription:--
‘MARY,
ONLY DAUGHTER OF GEORGE SEDHURST, ESQUIRE,
_AGED_ 19,
DIED AUGUST 1st, 1729.
_Love is strong as Death.
Sorrow not as others that have no Hope_.’
In smaller letters down below, ‘This epitaph is at her own special
request.’
“Sir,” continued Aurelia, “it was very curious. I should not have
observed those words if it had not been that a large beautiful
butterfly, with rainbow eyes on its wings, sat sunning itself on the
white marble, and Fay called me to look at it.”
“Her message! May I ask you to repeat it again?”
“The texts? ‘Love is strong as death. Sorrow not as others that have no
hope.’”
“Did you call them Scripture texts?”
“Yes, sir; I know the last is in one of the Epistles, and I will look
for the other.”
“It matters not. She intended them for a message to me who lay in utter
darkness and imbecility well befitting her destroyer.”
“Nay, they have come to you at last,” said Aurelia gently. “You really
never knew of them before?”
“No, I durst not ask, nor did any one dare to speak to me. My brother,
who alone would have done so, died, I scarcely know when; but ere the
very consciousness of my own wretched existence had come back to me.
Once again repeat the words, gentle messenger of mercy.”
She obeyed, but this time he mournfully murmured, “Hope! What hope for
their destroyer?”
“They are God’s words, as well as hers,” the girl answered, with
diffident earnestness, but in reply she only heard tightened breaths,
which made her say, “You cannot bear more, sir. Let me call Jumbo, and
bid you good night.”
Jumbo came at the mention of his name. Somehow he was so unlike other
human beings, and so wholly devoted to his master, that it never seemed
to be a greater shock to find that he had been present than if he had
been a faithful dog.
A few days later he told Aurelia that Mas’r was not well enough to see
her. He had set forth as soon as the moon had set, and walked with his
trusty servant to Sedhurst, where he had traced with his finger the
whole inscription, lingering so long that the sun was above the horizon
before he could get home; and he was still lying on the bed where he
had thrown himself on first coming in, having neither spoken nor eaten
since. Jumbo could not but grumble out that Mas’r was better left to
himself.
Yet when Aurelia on the third evening was recalled, there was a ring of
refreshment in the voice. It was still melancholy, but the dejection
was lessened, and though it was only of Achilles and Patroclus that
they talked, she was convinced that the pressure of the heavy burthen of
grief and remorse was in some degree lightened.