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
It was tall and slight, youthfully undeveloped, yet with the grace of
personal symmetry, high breeding, and military training, upright without
stiffness, with a command and dexterity of movement which prevented the
sword and spurs from being the annoyance to his pew-mates that country
awkwardness usually made these appendages. The spurs were on cavalry
boots, guarding the knee, and met by white buckskins, both so little
dusty that there could have been no journey that morning. The bright
gold-laced scarlet coat of the Household troops entirely effaced the
Major’s old Austrian uniform; and over it, the hair, of a light golden
brown, was brushed back, tied with black ribbon, and hung down far
behind in a queue, only leaving little gold rings curling on the brow
and temples. The face was modelled like a cameo, faultless in the
outlines, with a round peach-like fresh contour and bloom on the fair
cheek, which had much of the child, though with a firmness in the lip,
and strength in the brow, that promised manliness. Indeed there was
a wonderful blending of the beauty of manhood and childhood about the
youth; and his demeanour was perfectly decorous and reverent, no small
merit in a young officer and London beau. Indeed Betty could almost have
forgotten his presence, if gleams from his glittering equipments had
not kept glancing before her eyes, turn them where she would, and if Mr.
Arden’s sermon had not been of Solomon’s extent of natural philosophy,
and so full of Hebrew, Greek, and Latin that she could not follow it at
all.
After the blessing, the young gentleman, with a bow, the pink of
courtesy, offered a hand to lead her out, nor could she refuse, though,
to use her own expression, she hated the absurdity of mincing down the
aisle with a fine young spark looking like her grandson; while her poor
father had to put up with Harriet’s arm. Outside came the greetings, the
flourish of the hat, the “I may venture to introduce myself, and to beg
of you, sir, and of my fair cousins to excuse my sudden intrusion.”
“No apology can be needed for your appearance in your own pew, Sir
Amyas,” said the Major with outstretched hand; “it did my heart good to
see you there!”
“I would not have taken you thus by surprise,” continued the youth, “but
one of my horses lost a shoe yesterday, and we were constrained to halt
at Portkiln for the night, and ride on this morning. Herries went on to
the Deanery, and I hoped to have seen you before church, but found you
had already entered.”
Portkiln was so near, that this Sabbath day’s journey did not scandalise
Betty, and her father eagerly welcomed his kinsman, and insisted that he
should go no farther. Sir Amyas accepted the invitation, nothing loth,
only asking, with a little courtly diffidence, if it might not be
convenient for him to sleep at the Great House, and begging the ladies
to excuse his riding dress.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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