By all hope thou hast to see again
Our aged father and to soothe his pain,
I charge thee, tell me, hast thou seen the thing
Thou callst thine husband?—MORRIS.
After numerous delays Mr. Arden had at length been presented to the living of Rundell Canonicorum, and in one of the last days of April Harriet Delavie had become his wife. After a fortnight of festivities amongst their old Carminster friends, the happy couple were to ride, pillion-wise, to take possession of tier new home, passing through London, and there spending time enough with some relations of the bridegroom to show Harriet the wonders of the City.
Thence Mrs. Arden sent an urgent invitation from her hospitable hostess to Mrs. Belamour, to come and spend some days in Gracechurch Street and share with her sister the pleasures of the first sight of London.
“I assure you,” wrote Harriet, “that though they be Woolstaplers, it is all in the Wholesale Line; and they are very genteel, and well-bred Persons, who have everything handsome about them. Indeed it is upon the Cards that the Alderman may, ere many years be passed, be my Lord Mayor; but yet he and his good Wife have a proper Appreciation of Family, and know how to esteem me as one of the Delavies. They would hold themselves infinitely honoured by your Visit; and if you were here, we might even be invited to Lady Belamour’s, and get Tickets for Ranelagh. I called at my Lady’s Door, but she was not within, nor has she returned my Visit, though I went in the Alderman’s own Coach; but if you were with me she would have no Colour for Neglect, you being now her Sister-in-law, though it makes me laugh to think of it. But as we poor married Ladies are compelled to obey our Lords and Masters; and as Mr. Belamour may chance to be too high in his Notions to permit you to be a Guest in this House (as I told our good Cousin Arden was very like), we intend to lie a Night at Brentford, and remain there for a Day, trusting that your Husband will not be so cruel as to prevent a Meeting, either by your coming to see us, or our coming to see you in your present Abode, which I long to do. It is a Year since we parted, and I cannot tell you how I long to clasp my beloved Sister in my Arms.”
Harriet could not long more for such a meeting than did Aurelia, and there was, it must be owned, a little relief, that it was Harriet, and not the severer judge, Betty, who thus awaited her. She could hardly brook the delay until the evening, and even wondered whether it were not a wife’s privilege to anticipate the hour; but she did not venture, and only hovered about impatient for Jumbo’s summons. She came in with a rapid movement that led Mr. Belamour to say, “Ha, my fair visitor, I perceive that you have some tidings to bring to-day.”
Everything was rapidly poured out, and she anxiously awaited the decision. She had little hope of being allowed to go to Gracechurch Street, and did not press for it; but she could not refrain from showing her earnest desire for the sight of her sister, so that it was plain that it would have been a cruel disappointment to her, if she had been prevented from meeting the newly-married couple. She detected a certain sound of annoyance or perplexity in the tones that replied, and her accents became almost plaintively imploring as she concluded, “Pray, pray, sir, do not deny me.”
“No, my child, I could not be cruel enough for a refusal,” he answered; “I was but considering how most safely the thing may be contrived. I know it would be your wish, and that it would seem more befitting that you should act as hostess for your sister, but I fear that must be for another time. This is not my house, and there are other reasons for which it would be wiser for you to receive no one here.”
“It will be quite enough for me if I may only go to Brentford to meet my dear, dear Harriet.”
“Then be it so, my child. Present my compliments to Mrs. Arden, and entreat her to excuse the seeming inhospitality of the invalid.”
Aurelia was overflowing with joy at the anticipated meeting, wrote a delighted letter to make the appointment, and skipped about the dark stairs and passages more like the butterfly she was than like Madam Belamour; while Fay and Letty found her a more delightful playfellow than ever, recovering all the animation she had lost during the last weeks. Her only drawback to the pleasure was that each intervening evening convinced her more strongly that Mr. Belamour was uneasy and dissatisfied about the meeting, which he could not prohibit. On the previous night he asked many questions about her sister, in especial whether she were of an inquisitive disposition.
“That rather depends on how much she has to say about herself,” returned Aurelia, after some reflection. “She likes to hear about other people’s affairs, but she had much rather talk of her own.”
This made Mr. Belamour laugh. “Considering,” he said, “how recently she has undergone the greatest event of a woman’s life, let us hope that her imagination and her tongue may be fully occupied by it during the few hours that you are to pass together. It seems hard to put any restraint on your ingenuous confidence, my sweet friend; but I trust to your discretion to say as little as you can contrive of your strange position here, and of the infirmities and caprices of him whose name you have deigned to bear.”
“Sir, do you think I could?”
“It is not for my own sake, but for yours, that I would recommend caution,” he continued. “The situation is unusual, and such disclosures might impel persons to interfere for what they thought your interest; but you have promised me your implicit trust, and you will, I hope, prove it. You can understand how painful would be such well-meaning interference, though you cannot understand how fatally mischievous it would be.”
“I had better say I can tell her nothing,” said Aurelia, startled.
“Nay, that would excite still greater suspicion. Reply briefly and carefully, making no mysteries to excite curiosity, and avert the conversation from yourself as much as possible.”
Man of the world and brilliant talker as he had been, he had no notion of the difficulty of the task he had imposed on the simple open-hearted girl, accustomed to share all her thoughts with her sister; and she was too gay and joyous to take full note of all his cautions, only replying sincerely that she hoped that she should say nothing amiss, and that she would do her best to be heedful of his wishes.
In spite of all such cautions, she was too happy to take in the notion of anxiety. She rose early in the morning, caring for the first time to array herself in the insignia of her new rank. Knowing that the bridle-path lay through parks, woodlands and heaths, so that there was no fear of dust, she put on a dainty habit of white cloth, trimmed and faced with blue velvet, and a low-crowned hat with a white feather. On her pretty grey horse, the young Madam Belamour was a fair and gracious sight, as she rode into the yard of the Red Lion at Brentford. Harriet was at the window watching for her, and Mr. Arden received her as she sprang off her steed, then led her up to the parlour, where breakfast was spread awaiting her.
“Aurelia, what a sweet figure you make,” cried Harriet, as the sisters unwound their arms after the first ecstasy of embracing one another again. “Where did you get that exquisite habit?”
“It came down from London with another, a dark blue,” said Aurelia. “I suppose Mr. Belamour ordered them, for they came with my horse. It is the first time I have worn it.”
“Ah! fine things are of little account when there is no one to see them,” said Mrs. Arden, shaking her head in commiseration.
She was attired in a grey riding-dress with a little silver lace about it, and looked wonderfully plump and well, full of importance and complacency, and with such a return of comeliness that Aurelia would hardly have recognised the lean, haggard, fretful Harriet of the previous year. Her sentiment and romance, her soft melancholy and little affectations had departed, and she was already the notable prosperous wife of a beneficed clergyman, of whose abilities she was very proud, though she patronised with good-humoured contempt his dreamy, unpractical, unworldly ways.
The questions poured forth from Aurelia’s heart-hunger about brother, sister and home, were answered kindly and fully over the breakfast-table; but as if Harriet had turned that page in her life, and expected Aurelia to have done the same, every now and then exclaiming: “La! you have not forgotten that! What a memory you have, child!”
She wanted much more to talk of the parsonage and glebe of Rundell Canonicorum, and of how many servants and cows she should keep, and showed herself almost annoyed when Aurelia brought her back to Carminster by asking whether Eugene had finished his Comenius, and if the speckled hen had hatched many chickens, whether Palmer had had his rheumatic attack this spring, or if the Major’s letter to Vienna had produced any tidings of Nannerl’s relation. Harriet seemed only to be able to reply by an effort of memory, and was far more desirous of expatiating on the luxuries at alderman Arden’s, and the deference with which she had been treated, in contrast to the indignity of Lady Belamour’s neglect.
It was disappointing to find that her father had heard nothing from my Lady about the settlement of the Manor House.
“Was the promise in writing?” asked Mr. Arden, who had been silent all this time.
“Certainly, in a letter to me.”
“I recommend you to keep it carefully until Mr. Wayland’s return,” said Mr. Arden: “he will see justice done to you.”
“Poor Mr. Wayland! When he does return, I pity him; but it is his own fault for leaving his lady to herself. Have you ever seen the gallant colonel, sister?”
“Never.”
“Ah! most like he is not much at Bowstead. But do not folk talk there?”
“My dear,” said Mr. Arden, “you would do well to imitate your honoured father’s discretion on certain points.”
“Bless me, Mr. Arden, how you startled me. I thought you were in a brown study.” She winked at Aurelia as if to intimate that she meant to continue the subject in his absence, and went on; “I assure you, I had to be on the alert all the way to take care he looked at the sign-posts, or we might have been at York by this time. And in London, what do you think was all my gentleman cared to go and see? Why, he must needs go to some correspondents of his who are Fellows of the Royal Society. I took it for granted they must be friends of his Majesty or of the Prince of Wales at the least, and would have had him wait for his new gown and cassock; but la! it was only a set of old doctors and philosophers, and he wished to know what musty discoveries they had been making. That was one thing he desired in London, and the other was to hear that crazy Parson Wesley preach a sermon hours long!”
“I was well rewarded in both instances,” said Mr. Arden gravely.
Aurelia did not take advantage of the opportunity of shining in the eyes of her new brother-in-law by showing her acquaintance with the discussions on electricity which she had studied for Mr. Belamour’s benefit, nor did she speak of Dr. Godfrey’s views of Wesley and Whitfield. Had she so ventured, her sister would have pitied her, and Mr. Arden himself been somewhat shocked at her being admitted to knowledge unbecoming to a pretty young lady. Intellect in ladies would have been a startling idea, and though very fond of his wife, he never thought of her as a companion, but only as the mistress of his house and guardian of his welfare.
The dinner was ordered at one, and at three Aurelia would ride home, while Mr. and Mrs. Arden went on about twelve miles to the house of a great grazier, brother to the Alderman’s wife, where they had been invited to make their next stage, and spend the next day, Sunday, when Harriet reckoned on picking up information about cattle, if she were not actually presented with a cow or a calf. They went out and walked a little about the town, where presently they met Mrs. Hunter. Aurelia met her puzzled stare with a curtsey, and she shouted in her hearty tone “Miss Delavie!—I mean Mrs. Belamour! Who would have thought of seeing you here!”
“I am here to meet my sister—Mrs. Arden. Let me—let me present you,” said Aurelia in obedience to an imperious sign from her sister, going through the form for the first time, while Harriet volubly declared her happiness in making Mrs. Hunter’s acquaintance, and explained how they were on their way to take possession of Mr. Arden’s rectory of Rundell Canonicorum, the words rolling out of her mouth with magnificent emphasis. “I congratulate you, ma’am,” said Mrs. Hunter, cordially, “and you too, my dear,” she added, turning to Aurelia. “I would have been out long ago to call on you—a sort of relation as you are now, as I may say—but it was kept all so mum, one never knew the time to drink your health; and my Cousins Treforth wouldn’t so much as give me a hint. But la! says I, why should you talk about artfulness? I’m right glad poor Mr. Amyas should find a sprightly young lady to cure him of his mopishness. Never mind them, my dear, if they do look sour on you. I’ll come over one of these days and talk to them. Now, I must have you come in to take your dinner with us. The Doctor will be right pleased to find you. I’ll take no excuse. I thank Heaven I’m always ready whoever may drop in. There’s spring chicken and sparrow-grass.”
However, on hearing their dinner was ordered at the inn, the good lady was satisfied that to dine with her was impossible; but she insisted on their coming in to partake of wine and cake in her best parlour.
This, however, was a little more than Mr. Arden could endure, he made an excuse about seeing to the horse, and escaped; while Mrs. Hunter led the two sisters to her closely shut-up parlour, wainscoted, and hung with two staring simpering portraits of herself and her husband, clean as soap could make it, but smelling like a long closed box. She went to a cupboard in the wall, and brought out a silver salver, a rich cake, glasses and wine, and pouring out the wine, touched the glass with her lips, as she wished health and happiness to the two brides before her.
“We shall soon have another wedding in the family, if report speaks true,” she added. “They say—but you should be the best informed, Madam Belamour—
“We hear nothing of the matter, ma’am,” said Aurelia.
“That’s odd, since Mr. Belamour is young Sir Amyas’s guardian; and they cannot well pass him over now he has begun life again as it were,” laughed Mrs. Hunter. “‘Tis said that my Lady is resolved the wedding shall be within six weeks.”
“There are two words to that question,” said Harriet, oracularly; “I know from good authority that young Sir Amyas is determined against the match.”
“But is it true, ma’am,” cried Mrs. Hunter, eagerly, “that my Lady and the Countess of Aresfield met at Bath, and that my Lady is to have 3,000 pounds down to pay off her debts before her husband comes home, the day her son is married to Lady Arabella?”
“Every word of it is true, ma’am,” said Harriet, importantly.
“Well now, that folk should sell their own flesh and blood!”
“How have you heard it, sister Harriet?” asked Aurelia.
“From a sure hand, my love. No other than Mrs. Dove. She is wife to my Lady’s coachman,” explained Mrs. Arden to her hostess, “and nurse to the two children it is her pleasure to keep with her.”
“Dear good Nurse dove!” cried Aurelia, “did she come to see you?”
“Yes, that did she! So I have it from the fountain-head, as I may say, that the poor young gentleman’s hand and heart are to be made over without his will, that so his mother may not have such a schedule of debts wherewith to face her husband on his return!”
“Her jewels have been all paste long ago, I know very well,” said Mrs. Hunter, not to be outdone; “though, would you believe it, Doctor Hunter is like all the men, and will believe nothing against her! But this beats all the rest! Why, I have it from my maid, who is sister to one of the servants at the boarding-school in Queen Square, whither they have sent the Lady Belle, that she is a regular little shrew. She flew at one of the young ladies like a wild cat, because she did not yield place to her at once, and scratched her cheeks till the blood ran down, and tore out whole handfuls of her hair. She was like one possessed, and they had to call the lackey before they could get her safe tied down in bed, where they kept her on bread and water, trying to get her to make her apology; but not a word could be got out of her, till they had to yield the point lest she should fall sick.”
Aurelia mentally applauded her own discretion in not capping this with Mrs. Dove’s former tale, and only observing that the marriage could not take place before the young baronet was of age, without the consent of his personal guardian, Mr. Belamour.
“You will excuse me, my dear, in speaking of your husband, but he has so long been incapable of acting, that they say his consent can be dispensed with.”
“Aye, poor cousin Amyas Belamour!” said Mrs. Hunter. “He was the only man who ever durst resist my Lady’s will before, and you see to what she has brought him!”
“Her son is resisting her now,” said Harriet; “and our good Dove says it makes her blood boil to see the way the poor young gentleman is treated. He, who was the darling for whom nothing was good enough a while ago, has now scarce a place in his mother’s own house. She is cold and stately with him, and Colonel Mar, the Lady Belle’s brother, being his commanding officer, there is no end to the vexations and annoyances they give him, both at home and in his quarters. Mrs. Dove says his own man, Grey, tells her it is a wonder how he stands out against it all! And a truly well-bred young gentleman he is. He came to pay me his call in Gracechurch Street only yesterday, knowing our kindred, and most unfortunate was it that I was stepped out to the office to speak as to our boxes being duly sent by the Buckingham wain; but he left his ticket, and a message with the servant, ‘Tell my cousin, Mrs. Arden,’ he said, ‘that I much regret not having seen her, and I should have done myself the honour of calling sooner to inquire for her good father, if I had known she was in town.”
“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.”
“And it might embroil him with my Lady,” added Harriet. “We must devise another mode.”
“You will not—must not tell Mr. Arden,” exclaimed Aurelia, peremptorily.
“Never fear! He heeds nothing more sublunary than the course of the planets. But I have it. His device will serve the purpose. Do you remember Eugene confounding him with Friar Bacon because he was said to light a candle without flint or steel? It was true. When he was a bachelor he always lit his own candle and fire, and he always carries the means. I was frighted the first time he showed me, but now I can do it as well as he. See,” she said, opening a case, “a drop of this spirit upon this prepared cotton;” and as a bright flame sprang up and made Aurelia start, she laughed and applied a taper to it. “There, one such flash would be quite enough to prove to you whether there be any deception practised on you.”
“I could never do it! Light is agony to Mr. Belamour, and what would he think?”
“He would take it for lightning, which I suppose he cannot keep out.”
“One flash did come through everything last summer, but I was not looking towards him.”
“You will be wiser this time. Here, I can give you this little box, for Mr. Arden compounded a fresh store in town.”
“I dare not, sister. He has ever bidden me trust without sight; and you cannot guess how good he is to me, and how noble and generous. I cannot insult him by a doubt.”
“Then he should not act as no true woman can endure.”
“And it would hurt him.”
“Tut, tut, child; if the lightning did not harm him how can this flash? I tell you no man has a right to trifle with you in this manner, and it is your duty to yourself and all of us to find out the truth. Some young rake may have bribed the black, and be personating him; and some day you may find yourself carried off you know not where.”
“Harriet, if you only knew either Mr. Belamour or Jumbo, you would know that you are saying things most shocking!”
“Convince me, then! Look here, Aurelia, if you cannot write to me and explain this double-faced or double-voiced husband of yours, I vow to you that I shall speak to Mr. Arden, and write to my father.”
“Oh! do not, do not, sister! Remember, it is of no use unless this temper of affection be on him, and I have not heard it this fortnight, no, nor more.”
“Promise me, then, that you will make the experiment. See, here is a little chain-stitch pouch—poor Peggy Duckworth’s gift to me—with two pockets. Let me fasten it under your dress, and then you will always have it about you.”
“If the bottle broke as I rode home!”
“Impossible; it is a scent-bottle of strong glass.”
Here Mr. Arden knocked at the door, regretting to interrupt their confidences, but dinner awaited them; and as, immediately after, Mrs. Hunter brought her husband in his best wig to call on Madame Belamour and her relations, the sisters had no more time together, till the horses were at the door, and they went to their room together to put on their hats.
A whole mass of refusals and declarations of perfect confidence were on Aurelia’s tongue, but Harriet cut them all short by saying, “Remember, you are bound for your own honour and ours, to clear up this mystery!”
Then they rode off their several ways, Madame Belamour towards Bowstead, Mr. and Mrs. Arden on their sturdy roadster towards Lea Farm.
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