Love and Life: An Old Story in Eighteenth Century Costume. Yonge Charlotte Mary

became Mesdemoiselles Elisabeth, Henriette, and Aurelie, and conversed in French over their spinning, seams, lace, or embroidery; nor was Aurelia yet emancipated from reciting Racine on alternate days with Milton and Shakespeare.

      Betty could likewise talk German with the old Austrian maid, Nannerl, who had followed the family from Vienna; but the accomplishment was not esteemed, and the dialect was barbarous. From the time of her mother’s death, Betty had been a strict and careful, though kind, ruler to her sisters; and the long walk was a greater holiday to Aurelia than to Eugene, releasing her from her book and work, whereas he would soon have been trundling his hoop, and haunting the steps of Palmer, who was gardener as well as valet, butler, and a good deal besides, and moreover drilled his young master. Thus Eugene carried his head as erect as any Grenadier in the service, and was a thorough little gentleman in miniature; a perfect little beau, as his sisters loved to call the darling of their hearts and hopes.

      Even Harriet could not be cross to him, though she made Aurelia carry the eggs, and indulged in sundry petulant whisks of the fan which she carried by way of parasol. “Now, why does Betty do this?” she exclaimed, as soon as they were out of hearing. “Is it to secure to herself the whole enjoyment of your beau?”

      “You forget,” said Aurelia. “You promised to fetch the eggs, when we met Mrs. Jewel jogging home from market on her old blind white horse last Saturday, because you said no eggs so shaken could ever be hatched.”

      “You demure chit!” exclaimed Harriet; “would you make me believe that you have no regrets for so charming a young gentleman, my Lady’s son and our kinsman.”

      “If he spoke to me I should not know how to answer. And then you would blame my rudeness. Besides,” she added, with childish sagacity, “he can be nothing but a fine London macaroni. Only think of the cowslips! A whole morning to make cowslip balls,” she added with a little frisk. “I would not give one for all the macaronies in England, with their powder and their snuff-boxes. Faugh!”

      “Ah, child, you will sing another note perhaps when it is too late,” said her sister, with a sigh between envy and compassion.

      It floated past Aurelia unheeded, as she danced up one side of a stile, and sprang clear down into a green park, jumped Eugene down after her by both hands, and exclaimed, “Harriet is in her vapours; come, let us have a race!”

      She was instantly careering along like a white butterfly in the sunshine, flitting on as the child tried to catch her, among the snowy hawthorn bushes, or sinking down for very joy and delight among the bank of wild hyacinths. Life and free motion were joy and delight enough for that happy being with her childish heart, and the serious business of the day was all delight. There lay the rich meadows basking in the sun, and covered with short grass just beginning its summer growth, but with the cowslips standing high above it; hanging down their rich clusters of soft, pure, delicately-scented bells, from their pinky stems over their pale crinkled leaves, interspersed here and there with the deep purple of the fool’s orchis, and the pale brown quiver-grass shaking out its trembling awns on their invisible stems. No flower is more delightful to gather than the cowslip, fragrant as the breath of a cow. And Aurelia darted about, piling the golden heap in her basket with untiring enjoyment; then, producing a tape, called on Harriet, who had been working in a more leisurely fashion, to join her in making a cowslip ball, and charged Eugene not to nip off the heads too short.

      The sweet, soft, golden globe was made, and even Harriet felt the delicious intoxication. The young things tossed it aloft, flung from one to the other, caught it, caressed it, buried their faces in it, and threw it back with shrieks of glee.

      Suddenly Harriet checked her sister with a peremptory sign. She heard horse-hoofs in the lane, divided from the field by a hedge of pollard willows, so high that she had never thought of being overlooked, till the cessation of the trotting sound struck her; and looking round she saw that a horseman had halted at the gate, and was gazing at their sports. It was from the distance of a field, but this was enough to fill Harriet with dismay. She drew herself up in a moment, signing peremptorily to Aurelia, who was flying about, her hat off, her one long curl streaming behind as she darted hither and thither, evading Eugene who was pursuing her.

      As she paused, and Eugene clutched her dress with a shout of ecstasy, Harriet came up, glancing severely toward the gate, and saying, as she handed her sister the hat, “This comes of childishness! That we should be seen thus! What a hoyden he will think you!” as the hoofs went on and the red coat vanished.

      “He! Who? Not the farmer?” said Aurelia. “This is not laid up for hay.”

      “No indeed. I believe it is he,” said Harriet, mysteriously.

      “He?” repeated Aurelia. “Not Mr. Arden, for he would be in black,” and at Harriet’s disgusted gesture, “I beg your pardon, but I did not know you had a new he. Oh! surely you are not thinking of the young baronet?”

      “I am sure it was his figure.”

      “You did not see him yesterday?”

      “No, but his air had too much distinction for any one from these parts.”

      “Could you see what his air was from this distance? I should never have guessed it, but you have more experience, being older. Come, Eugene, another race!”

      “No, I will have no more folly. I was too good-natured to allow it. I am vexed beyond measure that he should have seen such rusticity.”

      “Never mind, dear Harriet. Most likely it was no such person, for it was not well-bred to sit staring at us; and if it were he, you were not known to him.”

      “You were.”

      “Then he must have eyes as sharp as yours are for an air of distinction. Having only seen me in my blue and primrose suit, how should he know me in my present trim? Besides, I believe it was only young Dick Jewel in a cast coat of Squire Humphrey’s.”

      The charm of the cowslip gathering was broken. Eugene found himself very hungry, and the noonchin was produced, after which the walk was continued to the farm-house, where the young people were made very welcome.

      Farmers were, as a rule, more rustic than the present labourer, but they lived a life of far less care, if of more toil, than their successors, having ample means for their simple needs, and enjoying jocund plenty. The clean kitchen, with the stone floor, the beaupot of maythorn on the empty hearth, the shining walnut-wood table, the spinning-wheel, wooden chairs, and forms, all looked cool and inviting, and the visitors were regaled with home-made brown bread, delicious butter and honey, and a choice of new milk, mead, and currant wine.

      Dame Jewel, in a white frill under a black silken hood, a buff turnover kerchief, stout stuff gown and white apron, was delighted to wait on them; and Eugene’s bliss was complete among the young kittens and puppies in baskets on opposite sides of the window, the chickens before their coops, the ducklings like yellow balls on the grass, and the huge family of little spotted piglings which, to the scandal of his sisters, he declared the most delightful of all.

      Their hostess knew nothing of the young baronet being in the neighbourhood, and was by no means gratified by the intelligence.

      “Lack-a-day! Miss Harriet, you don’t mean that the family is coming down here! I don’t want none of them. ‘Tis bad times for the farmer when any of that sort is nigh. They make nothing of galloping their horses a hunting right through the crops, ay, and horsewhipping the farmer if he do but say a word for the sweat of his brow.”

      “O Mrs. Jewel!” cried Aurelia, in whose ear lingered the courteous accents of her partner, “they would never behave themselves so.”

      “Bless you, Miss Orreely, I’ll tell you what I’ve seen with my own eyes. My own good man, the master here, with the horsewhip laid about his shoulders at that very thornbush, by one of the fine gentlefolks, just because he had mended the gap in the hedge they was used to ride through, and my Lady sitting by in her laced scarlet habit on her fine horse, smiling like a painted picture, and saying, ‘Thank you, sir, the rascals need to learn not to interfere with our sport,’ all in that gentle sounding low voice of hers, enough to drive one mad.”

      “I thought