Love and Life: An Old Story in Eighteenth Century CostumeYonge, Charlotte M. (Charlotte Mary)
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Love and Life: An Old Story in Eighteenth Century Costume
Yonge, Charlotte M. (Charlotte Mary)
English fiction -- 19th century
Springing from the bed, she tried the other door of her room, which
was level with the wainscoting, and not readily observed by a person
unfamiliar with the house. It yielded to her hand, and she knew there
was a whole suite of empty rooms thus communicating with one another. It
was one of those summer nights that are never absolutely dark, and
there was a full moon, so that she had light enough to throw off her
conspicuous white habit, all scorched and singed as it was, and to put
on her dark blue cloth one, with her camlet cloak and hood. She made up
a small bundle of clothes, took her purse, which was well filled with
guineas and silver, and moved softly to the door. Hide and seek had
taught her all the modes of eluding observation, and with her walking
shoes in her hand, and her feet slippered, she noiselessly crept through
one empty room after another, and descended the stair into her own
lobby, where she knew how to open the sash door.
One moment the thought that Mr. Belamour would protect her made her
pause, but the white phantom she had seen seemed more unreal than the
voice she was accustomed to, and both alike had vanished and abandoned
her to her fate. Nay, she had been cheated from the first. Everything
had given way with her. My Lady might be coming to send her to prison.
Hark, some one was coming! She darted out, down the steps, along the
path like a wild bird from a cage.
CHAPTER XXIV. THE WANDERER.
Widowed wife and wedded maid,
Betrothed, betrayer, and betrayed.--SCOTT.
Aurelia’s first halt was in a moss-grown summer-house at the end of
the garden, where she ventured to sit down to put on her stout leather
shoes. The children’s toys, a ball and a set of ninepins lay on the
floor! How many ages ago was it that she had made that sarcastic reply
to Letty?--perhaps her last!
A nightingale, close overhead, burst into a peal of song, repeating his
one favourite note, which seemed to her to cry out “Although my heart
is broke, broke, broke, broke.” The tears rushed into her eyes, but at
a noise as of opening doors or windows at the house, terror mastered her
again, and she hurried on to hide herself from the dawning light, which
was beginning to increase, as she crossed the park, on turf dank with
Maydew, and plunged deep into the thick woods beyond, causing many a
twittering cry of wondering birds.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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