'His mother is not communicative respecting them. Ladies who love power seek to preserve it by making little mysteries.'
'It was to see you, sir, that he came.'
'Yes. He ingenuously avowed that he had always been urged to do so by his stepfather, but his mother has always put obstacles in the way, and assured him that he would not gain admission. I have certainly refused to see her, but this is a very different matter- my brother's only child, my godson, and my ward!'
'I am very glad he has come to see you, sir, and I am sure it has given you pleasure.'
'Pleasure in seeing that he is a lad of parts, and of an ingenuous, affectionate, honest nature, but regret in perceiving how I failed in the confidence that his father reposed in me.'
'But, sir, you could not help it!'
'Once I could not. It was, I know not how long, before I knew that my brother was no more; and thinking myself dead to the world and the world to me, I took no heed to what, it now seems to me, I was told of guardianship to the boy. I was incapable of fulfilling any such charge, and I shunned the pain of hearing of it,' he continued, rather as if talking to himself than to his auditor. 'When I could, I gave them my name and they asked no more. Yet what did they tell me of a sealed letter from my brother, addressed to me? True, I heard of it more than once, but I could ask no one to read it to me, and I closed my ears. In Wayland's hands I knew the youth was well cared for, and only now do I feel that I have ill requited my brother's confidence.'
'Indeed, sir, I cannot see how you could have done otherwise,' said Aurelia, who could not bear to hear his tone of self-reproach.
'My amiable visitor!' he exclaimed, as though recalled to a sense of her presence. 'Excuse the absence of mind which has inflicted on you the selfish murmurs of the old recluse. Tell me how you prospered with my cousins, whom I remember as sprightly maidens. Phoebe had somewhat of the prude, Delia of the coquette.'
'I could imagine what you say of Mistress Phoebe, sir, better than of Mistress Delia.'
'Had they any guests to meet you?'
'A Mrs. Hunter, sir, from Brentford, a doctor's wife I suppose.'
'You are right. She was a cousin of theirs on the other side of the house, a loud-voiced buxom lass, who was thought to have married beneath here when she took Dr. Hunter; but apparently they have forgiven her.'
Mr. Belamour was evidently much interested and amused by Aurelia's small experiences and observations, such as they were. In spite of the sense of past omission which had been aroused by his nephew's visit, it had evidently raised his spirits, for he laughed when Aurelia spiced her descriptions with a little playful archness, and his voice became more cheery.
So, too, it was on the ensuing evening when Aurelia, to compensate for the last day's neglect, came primed with three or four pages of the conversation between Priam and Achilles, which she rehearsed with great feeling, thinking, like Pelides himself, of her own father and home. It was requited with a murmured 'Bravo,' and Mr. Belamour then begged of her, if she were not weary, to favour him with the Nightingale Song, Jumbo as usual accompanying her with his violin. At the close there was again a 'Bravo! Truly exquisite!' in a tone as if the hermit were really finding youth and life again. Once more at his request, she sang, and was applauded with even more fervour, with a certain tremulous eagerness in the voice. Yet there was probably a dread of the excitement being too much, for this was followed by 'Thank you, kind songstress, I could listen for ever, but it is becoming late, and I must not detain you longer.'
She found herself handed out of the room, with somewhat curtailed good nights, although nine o'clock, her usual signal, had not yet struck. When she came into the lamplit hall, Jumbo was grinning and nodding like a maniac, and when she asked what was the matter, he only rolled his eyes, and said, 'Missie good! Mas'r like music!'
The repressed excitability she had detected made her vaguely nervous (not that she would have so called herself), and as the next day was the blank Sunday, she appeased and worked off her restlessness by walking with the children to Sedhurst church. It was the sixteenth Sunday after Trinity, and the preacher, who had caught somewhat of the fire of Wesley and Whitfield, preached a sermon which arrested her attention, and filled her with new thoughts. Taking the Epistle and Gospel in connection, he showed the death-in-life of indifference, and the quickening touch of the Divine Love, awakening the dead spirit into true life. On that life, with its glow of love, hope, and joy, the preacher dwelt with enthusiasm such as Aurelia had never heard, and which carried her quite out of herself. Tears of emotion trembled in her eyes, and she felt a longing desire to walk on in that path of love to her Maker, whom she seemed to have never known before.
She talked with a new fervour to the children of the birds and flowers, and all the fair things they loved, as the gifts of their Father in Heaven; and when she gathered them round the large pictured Bible, it was to the Gospel that she turned as she strove to draw their souls to the appreciation of the Redeeming Love there shown. She saw in Fay's deep eyes and thoughtful brow that the child was taking it in, though differently from Amy, who wanted to kiss the picture, while Letty asked those babyish material questions about Heaven that puzzle wiser heads than Aurelia's to answer.
So full was she of the thought, that she forgot her sense of something strange and unaccountable in Mr. Belamour's manner before the evening, nor was there anything to remind her of it afresh, for he was as calmly grave and kindly courteous as ever; and he soon led her to pour forth all her impressions of the day. Indeed she repeated to him great part of the sermon, with a voice quivering with earnestness and emotion. He was not stirred in the same way as she had been, saying in his pensive meditative way, 'The preacher is right. Love is life. The misfortune is when we stake our all on one love alone, and that melts from us. Then indeed there is death-living death!'
'But there is never-failing love, and new life that never dies!' cried Aurelia, almost transported out of herself.
'May you ever keep hold of both unobscured, my sweet child,' he returned, with a sadness that repressed and drove her back into herself again, feeling far too childish and unworthy to help him to that new life and love; though her young heart yearned over him in his desolation, and her soul was full of supplication for him.
CHAPTER XIV. THE CANON OF WINDSOR.
Turn, gentle hermit of the dale.-GOLDSMITH.
'My child, will you do me a favour?' said Mr. Belamour the next evening, in a tone no longer formal, but paternal. 'Take this packet' (he put one into the girl's hand) 'to the light and inform me what is the superscription.'
It was a thick letter, with a large red wax seal, bearing the well known arms of Belamour and Delavie, and the address was
To AMYAS BELAMOUR, ESQ., K.C.,
OF THE INNER TEMPLE, LONDON. To be opened after my death.]
JOVIAN BELAMOUR.
Dec. 14th, 1727.
'I thought so,' said Mr. Belamour, when she returned to him with intelligence. 'Little did my poor brother guess how long it would be unopened! Will my gentle friend confer another obligation on me?'
Aurelia made her ready assent, hoping to be asked to read the letter, when he continued, 'I cannot read this myself. Even could I bear the light, the attempt to fix my eyes sends darts shooting through my brain, which would take away my very power of comprehension. But,' he continued, 'there are only two men living to whom I could entrust my brother's last words to me. One, your own good father, is out of reach; the other has frequently proffered his good offices and has been rejected. Would you add to your kindness that of writing to entreat my old friend, Dr. Godfrey, to favour with a visit one who has too often and ungratefully refused him admission.'
Feminine curiosity felt balked, but Aurelia was ashamed of the sensation, and undertook the task. Instructions were given her that she was to write-
'If Amyas Belamour's old Schoolfellow and Friend can overlook and
pardon the undeserved Rebuffs to His Constancy and Solicitude for
a lonely and sullen Wretch, and will once more come and spend a
Night at Bowstead, he will confer an inestimable Favour upon one
who is more sensible of his Goodness than when it has been
