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--