Love and Life: An Old Story in Eighteenth Century Costume

CHAPTER XVIII. THE PROPOSAL

 
    Love sweetest lies concealed in night.—T. MOORE.
 

The Major rode up to the Great House to announce that he would only give his answer after having conferred with both his daughter and the suitor.

With tears in her beautiful blue eyes, Lady Belamour demanded why her dear cousin Harry could not trust the Urania he had known all her life to decide what was for the happiness of the sweet child whom she loved like her own.

She made him actually feel as if it were a cruel and unmerited suspicion, but she did not over come him. “Madam,” he said, “it would be against my orders, as father of a family, to give my child away without doing my poor best for her.”

There, in spite of all obstacles suggested and all displeasure manifested, he stuck fast, until, without choosing to wait till a shower of sleet and rain was over. Vexation and perplexity always overset his health, and the chill, added to them, rendered him so ill the next morning that Betty knew there was no chance of his leaving his room for the next month or six weeks; and she therefore sent a polite and formal note to the Great House explaining that he could not attend to business.

This brought upon her the honour of a visit from the great lady herself. Down came the coach-and-four, and forth from it came Lady Belamour in a magnificent hoop, the first seen in those parts, managing it with a grace that made her an overwhelming spectacle, in contrast with Betty, in her close-fitting dark-grey homespun, plain white muslin apron, cap, kerchief, and ruggles, scrupulously neat and fresh, but unadorned. The visit was graciously designed for “good cousin Harry,” but his daughter was obliged, not unwillingly, though quite truly, to declare him far too suffering with pain and fever.

“La, you there, then,” said the lady, “that comes of the dear man’s heat of temper. I would have kept him till the storm was over but he was far too much displeased with his poor cousin to listen to me. Come, cousin Betty, I know you are in all his counsels. You will bring him to hear reason.”

“The whole affair must wait, madam, till he is able to move.”

“And if this illness be the consequence of one wet ride, how can he be in a condition to take the journey?”

“You best know, madam whether a father can be expected to bestow his daughter in so strange a manner without direct communication either with her or with the other party.”

“I grant you the idea is at first sight startling, but surely he might trust to me; and he knows Amyas Belamour, poor man, to be the very soul of honour; yes, and with all his eccentricity to have made no small impression on our fair Aurelia. Depend upon it, my dear Betty, romance carried the day; and the damsel is more enamoured of the mysterious voice in the dark, than she would be of any lusty swain in the ordinary light of day.”

“All that may be, madam, but she is scarce yet sixteen, and it is our duty to be assured of her inclinations and of the gentleman’s condition.”

“You will not trust me, who have watched them both,” said Lady Belamour, with her most engaging manner. “Now look here, my dear, since we are two women together, safe out of the hearing of the men, I will be round with you. I freely own myself imprudent in sending your sister to Bowstead to take charge of my poor little girls, but if you had seen the little savages they were, you would not wonder that I could not take them home at once, nor that I should wish to see them acquire the good manners that I remembered in the children of this house; I never dreamt of Mr. Belamour heeding the little nursery. He has always been an obstinate melancholic lunatic, confined to his chamber by day, and wandering like a ghost by night, refusing all admission. Moreover my good Aylward had appeared hitherto a paragon of a duenna for discretion, only over starched in her precision. Little did I expect to find my young lady spending all her evenings alone with him, and the solitary hermit transformed into a gay and gallant bachelor like the Friar of Orders Gray in the song. And since matters have gone to such a length, I, as a woman who has seen more of the world than you have, my dear good Betty, think it expedient that the Friar and his charmer should be made one without loss of time. We know her to be innocence itself, and him for a very Sidney for honour, but the world—”

“It is your doing, madam,” exclaimed Betty, passionately, completely overset by the insinuation; “you bid us trust you, and then confess that you have exposed my sweet sister to be vilely slandered! Oh my Aurelia, why did I let you out of my sight?” she cried, while hot tears stood in her eyes.

“I know your warmth, my dear,” said Lady Belamour with perfect command of temper; “I tell you I blame myself for not having recollected that a lovely maiden can tame even a savage brute, or that even in the sweet rural country walls have ears and trees have tongues. Not that any harm is done so far, nor ever will be; above all if your good father do not carry his romantic sentiments so far as to be his ruin a second time. Credit me, Betty, they will not serve in any world save the imaginary one that crazed Don Quixote. What advantage can the pretty creature gain? She is only sixteen, quite untouched by true passion. She will obtain a name and fortune, and become an old man’s idol for a few years, after which she will probably be at liberty by the time she is of an age to enjoy life.”

“He is but five-and-forty!” said Betty.

“Well, if she arouse him to a second spring, there will be few women who will not envy her.”

“You may colour it over, madam,” said Betty, drawing herself up, “but nothing can conceal the fact that you confess yourself to have exposed my innocent helpless sister to malignant slander; and that you assure me that the only course left is to marry the poor child to a wretched melancholic who has never so much as seen her face.”

“You are outspoken, Miss Delavie,” said Lady Belamour, softly, but with a dangerous glitter in her blue eyes. “I pardon your heat for your father’s sake, and because I ascribe it to the exalted fantastic notions in which you have been bred; but remember that there are bounds to my forbearance, and that an agent in his state of health, and with his stubborn ideas, only remains on sufferance.”

“My father has made up his mind to sacrifice anything rather than his child,” cried Betty.

“My dear girl, I will hear you no more. You are doing him no service,” said Lady Belamour kindly. “You had better be convinced that it is a sacrifice, or an unwilling one, before you treat me to any more heroics.”

Betty successfully avoided a parting kiss, and remained pacing up and down the room to work off her indignation before returning to her father. She was quite as angry with herself, as with my Lady, for having lost her temper, and so given her enemy an advantage, more especially as when her distress became less agitating, her natural shrewdness began to guess that the hint about scandal was the pure fruit of Lady Belamour’s invention, as an expedient for obtaining her consent. Yet the mere breath of such a possibility of evil speaking was horror to her, and she even revolved the question of going herself to Bowstead to rescue her sister. But even if the journey had been more possible, her father was in no condition to be left to Harriet’s care, and there was nothing to be done except to wait till he could again attend to the matter, calm herself as best she could, so as not to alarm him, and intercept all dangerous messages.

Several days had passed, and though the Major had not left his bed, he had asked whether more had been heard from my Lady, and discussed the subject with his daughter, when a letter arrived in due course of post. It was written in a large bold hand, and the signature, across a crease in the paper, was in the irregular characters that the Major recognised as those of Mr. Belamour.

“DEAR AND HONOURED SIR,

“Proposals have been made to you on my Behalf for the Hand of your fair and amiable Daughter, Miss Aurelia Delavie. I am well aware how preposterous and even shocking they may well appear to you; yet, let me assure you, on the Faith of a Man of Honour that if you will entrust her to me, wretched Recluse though I be, and will permit her to bear my Name, I will answer for her Happiness and Welfare. Situated as I am, I cannot enter into further explanations; but we are old Acquaintance, though we have not met for many Years, and therefore I venture to beg of you to believe me when I say that if you will repose Confidence in me, and exercise Patience, I can promise your admirable Daughter such Preferment as she is far from expecting. She has been the Blessing of my darkened Life, but I would never have presumed to ask further were it not that I have no other Means of protecting her, nor of shielding her from Evils that may threaten her, and that might prove far worse than bearing the Name of

“Your obedient Servant to command,

“AMYAS BELAMOUR.

“Bowstead Park, Dec. 3rd, 1737.”

“Enigmatical!” said Betty.

“It could hardly be otherwise if he had to employ a secretary” said her father. “Who can have written for him?”

“His friend, Dr. Godfrey, most probably,” said Betty. “It is well spelt as well as indited, and has not the air of being drawn up by a lawyer.”

“No, it is not Hargrave’s hand. It is strange that he says nothing of the settlements.”

“Here is a postscript, adding, ‘Should you consent, Hargrave will give you ample satisfaction as to the property which I can settle on your daughter.’”

“Of that I have no doubt,” said the Major. “Well, Betty, on reflection, if I were only secure that no force was put on the child’s will, and if I could exchange a few words face to face with Amyas Belamour, I should not be so utterly averse as I was at first sight. She is a good child, and if she like him, and find it not hard to do her duty by him, she might be as happy as another. And since she is out of our reach it might save her from worse. What say you, child?”

“That last is the strongest plea with me,” said Betty, with set lips.

They took another evening for deliberation, but there was something in the tone of the letter that wrought on them, and it ended in a cautious consent being given, on the condition of the father being fully satisfied of his daughter’s free and voluntary acquiescence.

“After all,” he said to Betty, “I shall be able to go up to Bowstead for the wedding, and if I find that her inclinations have been forced, I can take her away at all risks.”

CHAPTER XIX. WOOING IN THE DARK

You may put out my eyes with a ballad-maker’s pen, and hang me up for the sign of blind Cupid.—Much Ado About Nothing.

Aurelia had been walking in the park with her two remaining charges, when a bespattered messenger was seen riding up to the door, and Letitia dropped her hoop in her curiosity and excitement.

Lady Belamour, on obtaining the Major’s partial acquiescence, had felt herself no longer obliged to vegetate at Carminster, but had started for Bath, while the roads were still practicable; and had at the same time sent off a courier with letters to Bowstead. Kind Mrs. Dove had sent a little packet to each of the children, but they found Cousin Aura’s sympathy grievously and unwontedly lacking, and she at last replied to their repeated calls to here to share their delight, that they must run away, and display their treasures to Molly and Jumbo. She must read her letters alone.

The first she had opened was Betty’s, telling her of her father’s illness, which was attributed in great part to the distress and perplexity caused by Lady Belamour’s proposal. Had it not been for this indisposition, both father and sister would have come to judge for themselves before entertaining it for a moment; but since the journey was impossible, he could only desire Betty to assure her sister that no constraint should be put on her, and that if she felt the least repugnance to the match, she need not consider her obliged to submit. More followed about the religious duty of full consideration and prayer before deciding on what would fix her destiny for life, but all was so confusing to the girl, entirely unprepared as she was, that after hastily glancing on in search of an explanation which she failed to find, she laid it aside, and opened the other letter. It began imperially

“MY COUSIN,

“No doubt you are already informed of the Honour that has been done you by the Proposal that Mr. Amyas Belamour has made to your Father for your Hand. It is no slight Compliment to a young Maid like you, from one of the most noted Wits about Town in the last Reign; and you will no doubt shew the Good Sense to esteem yourself fortunate beyond all reasonable Expectations or Deserts of your own, as well as to act for the Advantage of your Family. Be assured that I shall permit no foolish Flightiness nor Reluctance to interfere with you true Welfare. I say this, because, as you well know, your Father’s Affection is strong and blind, and you might easily draw him into a Resistance which could but damage both his Health and his Prospects. On receiving the tidings of your Marriage, I promise to settle on him the Manor House with an Annuity of Three hundred Pounds; but if he should support you in any foolish Refusal, I shall be obliged to inform him that I can dispense with his Services; therefore you will do wisely to abstain from any childish expressions of Distaste.

“On your Marriage, you will of course have the enjoyment of the Pin Money with which Mr. Belamour will liberally endow you, and be treated in all Respects as a Married Lady. My Daughters shall be sent to School, unless you wish to make them your Companions a little longer. Expecting to hear from you that you are fully sensible to the good Fortune and the Obligations you are under to me,

“I remain

“Yours &c.

“URANIA BELAMOUR.”

It was with a gasp of relief that Aurelia discovered what was required of her. “Marry Mr. Belamour? Is that all? Then why should they all think I should so much dislike it, my Lady, and my papa, and sister and all? Nobody ever was so good to me, and maybe I could make him a little happier, though it is not what I expected of him, to forget his Mary! Oh, no, I am not afraid; I might have been afraid six months ago, but now it is a different thing. I am not so foolish! And my dear papa will have the Manor House for ever! And Eugene will be able to go to a good school and have a pair of colours in good time! A fortunate girl! Yes, of course I am! Then Mrs. Phoebe and Mrs. Delia will not flout me any more, even if young Sir Amyas should come here! Ah! here are the little girls returning! Keep them here? Of course I will. What toys and books I will get for them!”

Yet, when the time for her summons drew nigh, a great dread and shyness overcame her, lest Mr. Belamour should begin on the subject; and she only nerved herself by recollecting that he could have had no one to read to him her father’s letter of reply, and that he was scarcely likely to speak without knowing the contents. Still, it was only shyness and embarrassment that made her advance timidly, but in one moment a new sensation, a strange tremor came over her, as instead of merely her finger-tips, her whole hand was grasped and fervently pressed, and in the silence that ensued the throbbing of her heart and the panting of her breath seemed to find an echo. However, the well-known voice began, “My fair visitor is very good in honouring me to-night.”

Was it coming? Her heart gave such a throb that she could only murmur something inarticulate, while there was a hasty repressed movement near her.

“You have heard from your father?” said Mr. Belamour.

“My father is ill, sir,” she faltered.

“Ah, yes, so I was sorry to understand. Has he not sent a message to you through your sister?”

“He has, sir,” Aurelia continued, with difficulty, to utter.

There was another silence, another space of tightened breath and beating heart, absolutely audible, and again a hushed, restless movement heralded Mr. Belamour’s next words, “Did I no tell you truly that my Lady devises most unexpected expedients?”

“Then would you not have it so, sir?” asked Aurelia, in a bewildered voice of perplexity. “Oh!” as again one of those echoes startled her, “tell me what it all means.”

“Hush! listen to me,” said Mr. Belamour, in a voice that added to her undefined alarm by what seemed to her imperious displeasure as uncalled for as it was unusual; but the usual fatherly gentleness immediately prevailed, “My child, I should never have entertained the thought for a moment but for—but for Lady Belamour. This sounds like no compliment,” he added, catching himself up, and manifesting a certain embarrassment and confusion very unlike his usual calm dignity of demeanour, and thus adding to the strange fright that was growing upon Aurelia. “But you must understand that I would not—even in semblance—have dreamt of your being apparently linked to age, sorrow, and infirmity, save that—strange as it may seem—Lady Belamour has herself put into my hands the best means of protecting you, and finally, as I trust, securing your happiness.”

“You are very good, sir,” she continued to breathe out, amid the flutterings of her heart, and the reply produced a wonderful outburst of ardour in a low but fervent voice. “You will! You will! You sweetest of angels, you will be mine!”

There was something so irresistibly winning in the sound, that it drew forth an answer from the maiden’s very heart. “Oh! yes, indeed—” and before she could utter another word she was snatched into a sudden, warm, vehement embrace, from which she was only partly released, as—near, but still not so near as she would have expected—this extraordinary suitor seemed to remonstrate with his ardent self, saying, “Now! now! that will do! So be it then, my child,” he continued. “Great will be the need of faith, patience, trust, ay, and of self-restraint, but let these be practised for a little space, and all will be well.”

She scarcely heard the latter words. The sense of something irrevocable and unfathomable was overpowering her. The mystery of these sudden alterations of voice, now near, now far off, was intolerable. Here were hands claiming her, fervent, eager breathings close upon her, and that serious, pensive voice going on all that time. The darkness grew dreadful to her, dizziness came over her; she dashed aside the hands, started up with a scream, and amid the strange noises and flashes of a swoon, knew no more till she heard Mrs. Aylward’s voice over her, found the horrid smell of burnt feathers under her nose, and water trickling down her face, dim candlelight was round her, and she perceived that she was on a low settee in the lobby.

“There, she is coming round. You may tell your master, Jumbo, ‘twas nothing but the mince pies.”

“Oh, no—” began Aurelia, but her own voice seemed to come from somewhere else, and being inexperienced in fainting, she was frightened.

“That is right, you are better. Now, a drop of strong waters.”

Aurelia choked, and put them aside, but was made to swallow the draught, and revived enough to ask, “How came I here?”

“Jumbo must have carried you out, ma’am, and laid you here before ever he called any one,” said Mrs. Aylward. “Dear, dear, to think of your being taken like that. But the tins of those mince-pies are over large! You must halve one next time.”

Aurelia was sensible enough to the reproof of greediness to begin to protest against the mince-pie theory, but she recollected that she could not account for her swoon, and thereupon became as red as she had been pale, thus confirming the housekeeper’s opinion. A sound of footsteps made her start up and cry, “What’s that?” in nervous fright; but Mrs. Aylward declared it was fancy, and as she was by this time able to walk, she was conducted to her own room. There she was examined on her recent diet, and was compelled to allow the housekeeper to ascribe her illness to neglect of autumnal blood-letting and medicine; and she only stave off the send for the barber and his lancet the next morning by promising to swallow a dose compounded of all that was horrible.

She was altogether much shaken, she dreamed strange dreams by night, was capable of little by day, was declared by the children to be cross, and was much inclined to plead indisposition as an excuse for not visiting that alarming room in the evening. Indeed for the greater part of the day she felt as if she must avail herself of the pretext, and as if she neither could nor would encounter that strange double creature in the dark; but somehow she had been as much fascinated as terrified, and, in spite of her resolve, she found herself mechanically following Jumbo, shuddering all over and as cold as ice.

The dark chambers were warmed by German stoves, so that the atmosphere was always equable, and it seemed to revive her, while a kind, warm hand led her as usual to her seat, and it was the usual gentle, courteous, paternal tone that addressed her, “How chill and trembling you are! My poor child, you were sadly alarmed last night.”

Aurelia murmured some excuse about being very foolish.

“It was not you who was foolish,” was the reply; and though her hand was retained it was evidently for the sake of warming it, and comforting her, not of caressing it in the startling mode of yesterday. There was a pause, during which her composure began to be restored, and some inquiries whether she were quite recovered; to which she replied with eager affirmatives, feeling indeed quite herself again, now that all was in its familiar state around her. Then this strange suitor spoke again. “It is a hard and cruel fate that my Lady has sought to impose on you.”

“Oh, do not say so, sir I–”

“No,” he interrupted somewhat hastily, “do not try to deny it, my child; I know better than you can what it would amount to. Believe me, I only lend myself to her arrangement because I know no better means of guarding you and preserving you for better days.”

“I know how kind you are, sir.”

“And you trust me?”

“Indeed I do.”

“That is all I ask. I shall never be a husband to you more than in name, Aurelia, nor ask of you more than you give me now, namely, your sweet presence for a few hours in the evening, without seeing me. Can you bear thus to devote your young life, for a time at least?”

“You know, sir, how glad I always am to be with you,” said Aurelia, relieved yet half regretting that strange fervour. “I will do my very best to please you.”

“Ah! sweet child,” he began, with a thrill of deep feeling in his voice; but checking himself he continued, “All I ask is patience and trust for a time—for a time—you promise it!”

“With all my heart,” said Aurelia.

“I will use my best endeavours to requite that trust, my child,” he said. “Is not the Christian watchword faith, not sight? It must be yours likewise.”

“I hope so,” she said, scarcely understanding.

He then interrogated her somewhat closely as to the letters which had prepared her for the proposal; and as Aurelia was far too simple to conceal anything under cross-examination, Mr. Belamour soon found out what her Ladyship’s threats and promises had been.

“The Manor House?” he said. “That is the original nucleus of the property which had hitherto gone to the heir male?”

“So my sister told me,” said Aurelia.

“That letter, which Dr. Godfrey read to me, spoke of my poor brother’s discomfort in holding it. It is well if thus tardily she refund it, though not as your price, my poor child. It should have been as matter of justice, if not by her husband’s dying wish. So this is the alternative set before you! Has it been set before your father likewise?”

“Almost certainly she will have threatened to dismiss him if he do not consent. It was that which made my sister decide on sending me here, or what would become of him and Eugene? But I should think my Lady knew my father better than to seem to offer any kind of price, as you call it, for me.”

“Precisely. You have heard from this maternal sister of yours? Does he then give his consent?”

“They say they will not have my inclinations forced, and that they had rather undergo anything than that I should be driven to—to—”

“To be as much a sacrifice as Iphigenia,” he concluded the sentence.

“Indeed, sir,” said Aurelia, quite restored, “I cannot see why they should imagine me to have such objections, or want me to be so cautious and considerate. I shall write to my papa that it is not at all repugnant to me, for that you are very, very good to me; and if I can make your time pass ever so little more pleasantly, it is a delight to me. I am sure I shall like you better than if–”

“Stay, stay, child,” he said, half laughing; “remember, it is as a father that I ask you to love and trust the old recluse.”

She thought she had been forward, crimsoned in the dark, and retired into her shell for the rest of the evening. She was glad when with his usual tact, Mr. Belamour begged for the recitation he knew she could make with the least effort of memory.

At the end, however, she ventured to ask—“Sir, shall I be permitted ever to see my father and sister?”

“Certainly, my child. In due time I hope you will enjoy full liberty, though you may have to wait for it.”

Aurelia durst not ask what was in her mind, whether they would not come to the wedding, but that one great hope began to outweigh all the strange future. She began to say something about being too young, ignorant, and foolish for him, but this was kindly set aside, she hardly knew how. Mr. Belamour himself suggested the formula in which she might send her consent to Lady Belamour, begging at the same time to retain the company of the little Misses Wayland. To her father she wrote such a letter as might satisfy all doubts as to the absence of all repugnance to the match, and though the Major had sacrificed all to love and honour himself, mariages de convenance were still so much the rule, and wives, bestowed in all passiveness with unawakened hearts, so often proved loving and happy matrons, that it would have been held unreasonable to demand more than absence of dislike on the part of the bride.

Therewith things returned to their usual course, and she was beginning to feel as if all had been a dream, when one evening, about a week later, her suitor appeared to have one of those embarrassing fits of youthful ardour; her hand was passionately seized, caressed, toyed with by a warm strong hand, and kissed by lips that left a burning impression and that were no longer hairy. Surely he had been shaving! Was the time for which he bade her wait, his full recovery, and the resumption of the youthfulness that seemed to come on him in fits and starts, and then to ebb away, and leave him the grave courteous old man she had first known? And why was it always in a whisper that he spoke forth all those endearments which thrilled her with such strange emotions?

When she came into the light, she found her fourth finger encircled with an exquisite emerald ring, which seemed to bind her to her fate, and make her situation tangible. Another time she was entreated to give a lock of her hair, and she of course did so, though it was strange that it should confer any pleasure on her suitor in the dark.