Widowed wife and wedded maid,
Betrothed, betrayer, and betrayed.--SCOTT.
Aurelia’s first halt was in a moss-grown summer-house at the end of
the garden, where she ventured to sit down to put on her stout leather
shoes. The children’s toys, a ball and a set of ninepins lay on the
floor! How many ages ago was it that she had made that sarcastic reply
to Letty?--perhaps her last!
A nightingale, close overhead, burst into a peal of song, repeating his
one favourite note, which seemed to her to cry out “Although my heart
is broke, broke, broke, broke.” The tears rushed into her eyes, but at
a noise as of opening doors or windows at the house, terror mastered her
again, and she hurried on to hide herself from the dawning light, which
was beginning to increase, as she crossed the park, on turf dank with
Maydew, and plunged deep into the thick woods beyond, causing many a
twittering cry of wondering birds.
Day had fully come, and slanting golden beams were shining through the
tender green foliage, and illuminating the boles of the trees, ere she
was forced by failing strength again to pause and sit on a faggot, while
gathering breath and considering where she should go. Home was her first
thought. Who could shield her but her father and sister? How she longed
for their comfort and guardianship! But how reach them? She had money
but could do little for her. England never less resembled those days
of Brian Boromhe when the maiden with the gems, rich and rare wandered
unscathed form sea to sea in Ireland. Post chaises, though coming into
use, had not dawned on the simple country girl’s imagination. She knew
there was a weekly coach from London to Bath, passing through Brentford,
and that place was also a great starting-place for stage waggons, of
which one went through Carminster, but her bewildered brain could not
recall on what day it started, and there was an additional shock of
despair when she remembered that it was Sunday morning. The chill of the
morning dew was on her limbs, she was exhausted by her fatigues of the
night, a drowsy recollection of the children in the wood came over her,
and she sank into a dreamy state that soon became actual sleep. She was
wakened by a strong bright sunbeam on her eyes, and found that this was
what had warmed her limbs in her sleep. A sound as of singing was also
in her ears, and of calling cows to be milked. She did not in the least
know where she was, for she had wandered into parts of the wood quite
strange to her, but she thought she must be a great way from home, and
quite beyond recognition, so she followed the voice, and soon came out
on a tiny meadow glade, where a stout girl was milking a great sheeted
cow.
She knew now that she was faint with hunger and thirst, and must take
food before she could go much farther, so taking out a groat, her
smallest coin, she accosted the girl, and offered it for a draught
of milk. To her dismay the girl exclaimed “Lawk! It be young Madam!
Sarvice, ma’am!”
“I have lost myself in the wood,” said Aurelia. “I should be much
obliged for a little milk.”
“Well to be sure. Think of that! And have ee been out all night? Ye
looks whisht!” said the girl, readily filling a wooden cup she had
brought with her, for in those days good new milk was a luxury far more
easily accessible than in ours. She added a piece of barley bread, her
own intended breakfast, and was full of respectful wonder, pity, and
curiosity, proposing that young Madam should come and rest in mother’s
cottage in the wood, and offering to guide her home as soon as the cows
were milked and the pigs fed. Aurelia had some difficulty in shaking her
off, finding also that she had gone round and round in the labyrinthine
paths, and was much nearer the village of Bowstead than she had
intended.
Indeed, she was obliged to deceive the kindly girl by walking off in the
direction she pointed out, intending to strike afterwards into another
path, though where to go she had little idea, so long as it was out of
reach of my Lady and her prison.
Oh! if Harriet were only at Brentford, or if it were possible to reach
the Lea Farm where she was! Could she ask her way thither, or could
she find some shelter near or in Brentford till the coach or the waggon
started? This was the most definite idea her brain, refreshed somewhat
by the food, could form; but in the meantime she was again getting
bewildered in the field paths. It was a part she did not know, lying
between the backs of the cottages and their gardens, and the woods
belonging to the great house; and the long sloping meadows, spangled
with cowslips were much alike. The cowslips seemed to strike her with
a pang as she recollected her merry day among them last spring, and how
little she then thought of being a homeless wanderer. At last, scarce
knowing where she was, she sat down on the step of a stile leading to a
little farmyard, leant her head on the top bar and wept bitterly.
Again she startled by hearing a voice saying, “Sister, what is that in
the field?” and starting up, she saw Mrs. Delia in high pattens, and her
Sunday silk tucked up over her quilted petticoat, with a basket of corn
in her hand, surrounded by her poultry, while Mrs. Phoebe was bending
over a coop. She had stumbled unawares on their back premises, and with
a wild hope, founded on their well-known enmity to Lady Belamour, she
sprang over the stile. Mrs. Delia retreated in haste, but Mrs. Phoebe
came to the front.
“Oh! Mrs. Phoebe,” she cried, “I ask your pardon.”
“Mrs. Belamour! Upon my word! To what are we indebted for this visit?”
“Oh! of your kindness listen to me, madam,” said Aurelia. “My Lady is
come, and there is some dreadful mistake, and she is very angry with me;
and if you would only take me in and hide me till the waggon goes and I
can get home!”
“So my Lady has found you out, you artful hussy,” returned Mrs. Phoebe.
“I have long guessed at your tricks! I knew it was no blackamoor that
was stealing into the great house.”
“I do not know what you mean.”
“Oh! it is of no use to try your feigned artlessness on us. I wonder at
your assurance, after playing false with uncle and nephew both at once.”
“If you would but hear me!”
“I have heard enough of you already. I wonder you dare show your face
at a respectable house. Away with you, if you would not have me send the
constable after you!”
The threat renewed Aurelia’s terror, and again she fled, but this time
she fell into a path better known to her, that leading to Sedhurst, and
ultimately to Brentford.
The recollection of Dame Wheatfield’s genial good nature inspired her
with another hope, and she made her way towards the farm. The church
bells were ringing, and she saw the farmer and his children going
towards the church, but not the mistress, and she might therefore hope
to find her at home and alone. As she approached, a great dog began a
formidable barking, and his voice brought out the good woman in person.
“Down, Bouncer! A won’t hurt’ee, my lass. What d’ye lack that you bain’t
at church?”
“May I speak to you, Mrs. Wheatfield?”
“My stars, if it bain’t young Miss--Madam, I mean! Nothing ain’t wrong
with the child?”
“O no, she is quite well, but--”
“What, ye be late for church? Come in and sit ye down a bit and sup
after your walk. We have been and killed Spotty’s calf, though ‘twas but
a staggering Bob, but us couldn’t spare the milk no longer. So we’ve got
the l’in on un for dinner, and you’re kindly welcome if you ain’t too
proud. Only I wish you had brought my little missie.”
“O Mrs. Wheatfield! Shall I ever see the dear little girl again? Oh! can
you help me? Do you know where Lea Farm is? I’d pay anything for a horse
and man to take me there, where my sister is staying.”
“Well, I don’t know as my master would hire a horse out of a Sunday,
unless ‘twere very particler--illness or suchlike. Lea Farm did you say
ma’am? Is it the Lea out by Windmill hill--Master Brown’s; or Lea Farm,
down by the river--Tom Smith’s?”
“No, this is Mr. Meadows’s, a grazier.”
“Never heard tell on him, ma’am, but the master might, when he comes
in. But bless me,” she added, after a moment’s consideration, “what will
your master say? He’ll be asking how it comes that a lady like you, with
a coach and horses of her own, should be coming after a horse here. You
ain’t been and got into trouble with my Lady, my dear?”
“Oh! Dame, indeed I have; pray help me!”
It was no wonder that Mrs. Wheatfield failed to gather more than that
young Madam had almost burnt the house, and had fallen under grievous
displeasure, so as even to fear the constable.
“Bless your poor heart! Think of that now! But I’m afeard we can’t do
nothing for you. My master would be nigh about killing me if I harboured
you and got him into trouble, with the gentry.”
“If you could only hide me in some loft or barn till I could meet the
coach for Bath! Then I should be almost at home.”
“I dare not. The children are routing about everywhere on a Sunday
afternoon; and if so be as there’s a warrant out after you” (Aurelia
shuddered) “my man would be mad with me. He ain’t never forgot how his
grandfather was hanged up there in that very walnut for changing clothes
with a young gentleman in the wars long ago.”
“Then I must go! Oh, what will become of me?”
“Stay a bit! It goes to my heart to turn you from the door, and you so
white and faint. And they won’t be out of church yet a while. You’ve ate
nothing all this time! What was you thinking of doing, my dear?”
“I don’t know. If I could only find out the right Lea Farm, and get
a man and horse to take me there--but my sister goes on Monday, and I
might not find her, and nobody knows where it is. And nobody will take
me in or hide my till the coach goes! Oh, what will become of me?”
“It is bitter hard,” said the Dame. “I wish to my heart I could take
you in, but you see there’s the master! I’ll tell you what: there’s my
cousin, Patty Woodman; she might take you in for a night or two. But
you’d never find your way to her cot; it lies out beyond the spinneys.
I must show you the way. Look you here. Nobody can’t touch you in a
church, they hain’t got no power there, and if you would slip into that
there empty place as opens with the little door, as the ringers goes in
by, afore morning prayers is over I’ll make an excuse to come to evening
prayer alone, or only with little Davy, as is lying asleep there. If
Patty is there I’ll speak, and you can go home with her. If not, I must
e’en walk with you out to the spinney. Hern is a poor place, but her’s a
good sort of body, and won’t let you come to no harm; and her goes into
Brentford with berries and strawberries to meet the coaches, so may be
she’ll know the day.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you, dear Mrs. Wheatfield! If I can only get safe
home!”
“Come, don’t be in haste. You’ll take a bit of bread and cheese, and
just a draught of ale to hearten you up a bit.”
Aurelia was too sick at heart for food, and feared to delay, lest she
should meet the congregation, but Mrs. Wheatfield forced on her a little
basket with some provisions, and she gladly accepted another draught of
milk.
No one came out by the little door she was told; all she had to do would
be to keep out of sight when the ringers came in before the afternoon
service. She knew the way, and was soon close to Mary Sedhurst’s grave.
“Ah! why was he not constant to her,” she thought; “and oh! why has he
deserted me in my need?”
The little door easily yielded, and she found herself--after passing the
staircase-turret that led by a gallery to the belfry in the centre of
the church--in an exceedingly dilapidated transept; once, no doubt, it
had been beautiful, before the coloured glass of the floriated window
had been knocked out and its place supplied with bricks. The broken
effigy of a crusading Sedhurst, devoid of arms, feet, and nose was
stowed away in the eastern sepulchre, in company with funeral apparatus,
torn books, and moth-eaten cushions. But this would not have shocked her
even in calmer moments. She only cared to find a corner where she was
entirely sheltered, between a green stained pier and the high wall and
curtain of a gigantic pew, where no doubt sweet Mary Sedhurst had
once worshipped. The lusty voices of the village choir in some exalted
gallery beyond her view were shouting out a familiar tune, and with some
of Betty’s mild superstition about “the singing psalms,” she heard--
“Since I have placed my trust in God
A refuge always nigh,
Why should I, like tim’rous bird
To distant mountains fly?
“Behold the wicked bend their bow,
And ready fix their dart,
Lurking in ambush to destroy
The man of upright heart.
“When once the firm assurance fails
Which public faith imparts,
‘Tis time for innocence to flee
From such deceitful arts.
“The Lord hath both a temple here
And righteous throne above,
Whence He surveys the sons of men,
And how their counsels move.”
Poor timorous bird, whom even the firm assurance of wedded faith had
failed, what was left to her but to flee from the darts levelled against
her? Yet that last verse brought a sense of protection. Ah! did she
deserve it? A prayerless night and prayerless morning had been hers, and
no wonder, since she had never gone to bed nor risen with the ordinary
forms; but it was with a pang that she recollected that the habit of
calling out in her heart for guidance and help had been slipping from
her for a long time past, and she had never asked for heavenly aid when
her judgment was perplexed by Harriet, no, nor for protection in her
flight.
She resolved to say her morning prayers with full attention so soon as
the church was empty, and meantime to follow the service with all her
powers, though her pulses were still throbbing and her head aching.
In the far distance she heard the Commandments, and near to her the
unseen clerk responding, and then followed a gospel of love and comfort.
She could not catch every word, but there was a sense of promised peace
and comfort, which began to soothe the fluttering heart, for the first
time enjoying a respite from the immediate gripe of deadly terror.
The sermon chimed in with these feelings, not that she could have any
account of it, nor preserved any connected memory, but it was full of
the words, Faith, Love, Sacrifice, so that they were borne in on her ear
and thought. Heavenly Love surrounding as with an atmosphere those who
had only faith to “taste and see how gracious the Lord is,” believing
that which cannot be seen, and therefore having it revealed to their
inmost sense, and thus living the only real life.
This was the chief thought that penetrated to her mind as she crouched
on the straw hassock behind the pew, and shared unseen in the blessing
of peace. No one saw her as the hob-nailed shoes trooped out of church,
and soon she was entirely alone, kneeling still in her hiding-place,
and whispering half-aloud the omitted morning prayer, whose heartfelt
signification had, she felt, been neglected for a long, long time.
Since when? Ah! ever since those strange mysterious voices and caresses
had come to charm and terrify her, and when her very perplexity should
have warned her to cling closer to the aid of her Heavenly Father.
Vague yearnings, uplifted feelings, discontents, and little tempers had
usurped the place of higher feelings, and blinded her eyes. And through
it all, her heart began to ache and long for tidings of him on whose
pale features she had gazed so long and who had ventured and suffered
so much for her, nay, who had started into a moment’s life for her
protection! All the tumult of resentment at the deception practised on
her fell on the uncle rather than the nephew; and in spite of this long
year of tender kindness and consideration from the recluse, there was a
certain consideration from the recluse, there was a certain leaping
of heart at finding herself bound not to him but to the youth whose
endearments returned with a flood of tender remembrance. And she had
fled just as he had claimed her as his wife, had fled just as he had
claimed her as his wife, unheeding whether he died of the injury she had
caused him! All that justified her alarm was forgotten, her heartstrings
had wound themselves round him, and began to pull her back.
Then she thought of the danger of directing Lady Belamour’s wrath on her
father, and leading to his expulsion and destitution. She had been sent
from home, and bestowed in marriage to prevent his ruin, and should
she now ensure it? Her return to him or even her disappearance would
no doubt lead to high words from him, and then he would be cast out to
beggary in his old age. No, she could only save him by yielding herself
up, exonerating him from all knowledge of her strange marriage, far more
of the catastrophe, and let my Lady do her worst! She had, as she knew,
not been going on well lately, but she had confessed her faults, and
recovered her confidence that her Heavenly Father would guard her as
long as she resolutely did her duty. And her duty, as daughter and a
wife, if indeed she was one, was surely to return, where her heart was
drawing her. It might be very terrible, but still it was going nearer to
_him_, and it would save her father.
The door was still open; she wrote a few words of gratitude and
explanation to Dame Wheatfield, on a piece of a torn book, wrapped a
couple of guineas in it, and laid it in the basket, then kneeling again
to implore protection and safety, and if it might be, forgiveness and
reconciliation, she set forth. “Love is strong as death,” said Mary
Sedhurst’s tomb. She knew better what that meant than when her childish
eyes first fell upon it. A sense of Divine Love was wrapping her round
with a feeling of support and trust, while the human love drew her
onwards to confront all deadly possibilities in the hope of rejoining
her husband, or at least of averting misfortune from her father.