“Well, I have never seen the young gentleman since he was a mere child,” said Mrs. Hunter. “His mother has bred him to neglect his own home and relations, but I am sorry for him.”
“They say,” continued Harriet significantly, “that they are sure there is some cause for his holding out so stiffly--I verily believe My Lady suspected--”
“O hush, Harriet!” cried Aurelia, colouring painfully.
“Well, it is all over now, so you need not be offended,” said Harriet, laughing. “Besides, if my Lady had any such notion when she brought about your marriage, she must be disappointed, for the young spark is as resolute as ever.”
“And no wonder, if he knows what the lady is like,” said Aurelia.
“Ah! he has admitted as much to the King.”
“To the King!” cried both auditors.
“Oh yes! you know my Lady is very thick with my Lady Suffolk, and she persuaded the King to speak to him at the levee. ‘_Comment_’, says his majesty in French, ‘are you a young rebel, sir, that refuse the good things your mother provides you?’ Not a whit was my young gentleman moved. He bowed, and answered that he was acting by the desire of his guardian. Excuse me, sister, but the King answered--‘A raving melancholic! That will not serve your turn, sir. Come to your senses, fulfil your mother’s bond, and we’ll put you on the Duke’s staff, where you may see more of service than of home, or belike get into gay quarters, where you may follow any other _fantaisie_ if that is making you commit such _betises!_’ At that Sir Amyas, who is but an innocent youth, flamed up in his cheeks till they were as red as his coat, and said his honour was engaged; on which his majesty swore at him for an idiot, and turned his back. Every word of this Mrs. Dove heard Colonel Mar tell my Lady--and then they fell to rating the poor youth, and trying to force out who this secret flame may be; but his is of the same stuff as his mother, adamantine and impervious. And now the Colonel keeps him on hard duty continually, and they watch him day and night to find out what places he haunts. But bless me, Mrs. Hunter, is the church clock striking? We must be gone, or my good man will be wondering where we are.”
Mrs. Hunter would fain have kept them, and the last words and compliments were of long duration, while Aurelia looked on in some surprise at the transformation of all Harriet’s languishing affected airs into the bustling self-importance of Mrs. Arden. She was however much occupied with all she had heard, and was marvelling how her sister began again as soon as they were in the street again. “You are very discreet, Aurelia, as it becomes a young married lady, but have you no notion who this innamorata of the baronet may be?”
“No, indeed, how should I?”
“I thought he might have confided in your husband, since he makes so sure of his support.”
“He has only once come to visit Mr. Belamour, and that was many months ago.”
“It is strange,” mused Harriet; “Mrs. Dove says she would have taken her Bible oath that it was you, and my Lady believed as much, or she would not have been in such haste to have you wedded. Nay, I’ll never believe but he made his confidences to Betty when he came to the Manor House the Sunday after you were gone, though not a word could I get from her.”
“It must have been all a mistake,” said Aurelia, not without a little twinge at the thought of what might have been. “I wish you would not talk of it.”
“Well he could have been but a fickle adorer--‘tis the way of men, my dear, for he must have found some new flame while his mother and the Colonel were both at the Bath. They have proof positive of his riding out of town at sundown, but whither he goes is unknown, for he takes not so much as a groom with him, and he is always in time for morning parade.”
“Poor young man, it is hard to be so beset with spies and watchers,” said Aurelia.
“Most true,” said Harriet, “but I am monstrous glad you are safe married like me, child, so that no one can accuse us. Such romantic affairs are well enough to furnish a course of letters to the _Tatler_, or the _Gentlewomen’s Magazine_, but I am thankful for a comfortable life with my good man.”
Therewith they reached their inn, where Harriet, having satisfied herself that the said good man was safe within, and profiting by the unwonted calm to write his inaugural sermon, took Aurelia to her bedroom to prepare for dinner, and to indulge in further confidences.
“So, Aurelia, I can report to my father that you are looking well, and as cheerful as can be expected.”
“Nay, I have always told you I am happy as the day is long.”
“What, when you have never so much as seen your husband?”
“Only at our wedding, and then he was forced to veil his face from the light.”
“Nor has he ever seen you?”
“Not unless he then saw me.”
“If he were not then charmed enough to repeat the view, you are the most cruelly wasted and unworthily matched--”
“Hush, sister!” broke out Aurelia in eager indignation.
“What! is a lovely young creature, almost equal to what I was before my cruel malady, to waste her bloom on a wretched old melancholic, who will not so much as look at her!”
“Harriet, I cannot hear this--you know not of what you are talking! What is my poor skin-deep beauty--if beauty it be--compared with the stores of goodness and wisdom I find in him?”
“La! child, what heat is this? One would really think you loved him.”
“Of course I do! I love and honour him more than any one I ever met--except my dear father.”
“Come, Aura, you are talking by rote out of the marriage service. You may be open with me, you know, it will go no further; and I do long to know whether you can be truly content at heart,” said Harriet with real affection.
“Dear sister,” said Aurelia, touched, “believe me that indeed I am. Mr. Belamour is kindness itself. He is all he ever promised to be to me, and sometimes more.”
“Yet if he loved you, he could never let you live moped up there. Are you never frighted at the dark chamber? I should die of it!”
“The dark does not fright me,” said Aurelia.
“You have a courage I have not! Come, now, were you never frighted to talk with a voice in the dark?”
“Scarcely ever!” said aurelia.
“Scarcely--when was that?”
“You will laugh, Harriet, but it is when he is most--most tender and full of warmth. Then I hardly know him for the same.”
“What! If he be not always tender to my poor dear child, he must be a wretch indeed.”
“O no, no, Harriet! How shall I ever make you understand?” cried Aurelia. “Never for a moment is he other than kind and gentle. It is generally like a father, only more courtly and deferential, but sometimes something seems to come over him, and he is--oh! I cannot tell you--what I should think a lover would be,” faltered Aurelia, colouring crimson, and hiding her face on her sister’s shoulder, as old habits of confidence, and need of counsel and sympathy were obliterating all the warnings of last night.
“You silly little chit! Why don’t you encourage these advances? You ought to be charmed, not frightened.”
“They would ch---I should like it if it were not so like two men in one, the one holding the other back.”
Harriet laughed at this fancy, and Aurelia was impelled to defend it. “Indeed, Harriet, it is really so. There will be whispers--oh, such whispers!”--she sunk her voice and hid her face again--“close to my ear, and--endearments--while the grave voice sounds at the other end of the room, and then I long for light. I swooned for fright the first time, but I am much more used to it now.”
“This is serious,” said Harriet, with unwonted gravity. “Do you really think that there is another person in the room?”
“I do not feel as if it could be otherwise, and yet it is quite impossible.”
“I would not bear it,” said her sister. “You ought not to bear it. How do you know that it is not some vile stratagem? It might even be the blackamoor!”
“No, no, Harriet! I know better than that. It is quite impossible. Besides, I am sure of this--that the hands that wedded me are the same hands that caress me,” she added, with another blushing effort, “strong but delicate hands, rather hard inside, as with the bridle. I noticed it because once I thought his hands soft with doing nothing and being shut up.”
“That convinces me the more, then, there is some strange imposition practised upon you,” said Harriet, anxiously.
“Oh, no!” said Aurelia, inconsistently; “Mr. Belamour is quite incapable of doing anything wrong by me. I cannot let you have such shocking notions. He told me I must be patient and trust him, though I should meet with much that was strange and inexplicable.”
“This is trusting him much too far. They are playing on your inexperience, I am sure. If you were not a mere child, you would see what a shocking situation this is.”
“I wish I had not told you,” said Aurelia, tears rushing into her eyes. “I ought not! He bade me be cautious how I talked, and you have made me quite forget!”
“Did he so? Then it is evident that he fears disclosure! Something must be done. Why not write to our father?”
“I could not! He would call it a silly fancy.”