Her Season in Bath: A Story of Bygone Days

ON THE TRACK.

Griselda had been much surprised at the applause which followed the reading of her verses. They were called for a second time, and elicited great praise.

"They are vastly pretty, and full of feeling!" exclaimed Lady Betty the next morning. "I declare, Griselda, you are without an atom of sentiment; you sat listening to them with a face like a marble statue. It is well for you that you are not a victim to sentiment as I am. I vow I could weep at the notion of the sorrowful soul who wrote those impassioned couplets which were read before the five stanzas, so much admired. Ah!" Lady Betty continued, with a yawn—for it was her yawning-time between her first and second visit to the Pump Room—"ah! it is well for some folks that they are callous. I am all impatience to get a copy of those rhymes for Lord Basingstoke; and—entre nous, ma chère, entre nous—when do you propose to accept Sir Maxwell Danby's suit? He formally asked my permission to address you. It would be a good match, and——"

"I have not the slightest intention, Aunt Betty, of listening to Sir Maxwell Danby's proposal."

Griselda always gave Lady Betty that title when angry.

"Oh! how high and mighty we are! But I would have you to know, miss, I cannot afford to keep you for ever. I am now embarrassed, and a dun has been here this very morning; so I advise you not to overlook Sir Maxwell Danby's offer."

"If there were not another man in the world I would not marry Sir Maxwell," Griselda said, rising. "I will consider other matters, and tell you of my decision."

"You silly child! Where are you going, pray?"

"To my own chamber."

"You must be powdered for the ball to-night. I promised Sir Maxwell he should have his opportunity at my Lady Westover's dance. Perkyns is coming at four o'clock. You must be powdered. It is not the mode to appear in full toilette, with your hair as it was dressed last night. That gold band may suit some faces, but not yours. Do you hear, miss?"

"I hear," Griselda said; "and I repeat I do not go with your ladyship to Lady Westover's ball."

"The minx!—the impudent little baggage! You shall repent your saucy words. But you'll come round, see if you don't, if you hear that pale-faced fellow Travers is to be of the company. Yes; go and ask his old mother about it—go!"

Griselda shut the door with a sharp bang, which made Lady Betty call loudly for her salts, and brought Graves from the inner room.

"Such impudence! I won't stand it—the little baggage! She shall marry Sir Maxwell Danby, or I wash my hands of her."

Graves calmly held the salts to her mistress's nose: they were strong, and Lady Betty called out:

"Not too near! Oh! oh! I am not faint;" and immediately went off into hysterical crying, which, for obvious reasons, was tearless.

Meanwhile, Griselda had gone to her room; and, putting on a long black pelisse and a wide hat with a drooping feather, set well over her eyes, she left the house, carrying in a large satchel, which was fastened to her side, the box containing the jewels she wanted to sell.

At first she thought she would go to consult Mrs. Travers in her difficulty. She was determined to run no risk of meeting Sir Maxwell Danby; and if Lady Betty persisted in backing up his suit, she would leave her; but where, where should she go?

An open door in King Street attracted her, and she saw Mr. and Miss Herschel passing in, each carrying some favourite and precious musical instrument. They were in all the bustle of removal, doing this, as they did everything else, with resolute determination to be as earnest as possible in accomplishing their purpose.

Miss Herschel, in her short black gown and work-a-day apron with wide pockets and her close black hood, did not see, or if she saw did not recognise, Griselda. She was giving directions to her servant, enforced with many strong expressions; and as she went backwards and forwards from the door to a cart lined with straw, she was wholly unconscious of anyone standing by.

Griselda could not help watching, with interest and admiration, the swift firm steps of this able and practical woman, as she went about her business, intent only on clearing the house in Rivers Street, and filling the house in King Street, as quickly as possible.

"She is too busy to speak to me now," Griselda thought.

Mr. Herschel now came hurriedly out, exclaiming:

"The two brass screws, Lina, for the seven-foot mirror! They are missing!" and then he disappeared in the direction of the house they were leaving.

Fortunately it was a bright winter noon, and everything favoured the flitting, which was accomplished in a very short time. But we who have in these days any experience of removals—and happy those who have not that experience—know how patience and temper are apt to fail, as the hopeless chaos of the new house is only a degree less hopeless than that of the old house we are leaving. We have vans, and packers, and helpers at command, unknown in the days of Mr. and Miss Herschel; for at the close of the last century few, indeed, were the removals from house to house. As a rule, people gathered round them their "household gods," and handed them down to their children in the house where they had been born and brought up. Removal from one part of England to another was not to be thought of at that time, when roads were bad and conveyances rare, and a distance of twenty miles more difficult to accomplish than that of two or three hundred in our own time. Mr. Herschel's reason for taking the house in King Street was that the garden behind it afforded room for the great experiment then always looming before him—the casting of the great mirror for the thirty-foot reflector.

Griselda passed on without even getting a smile of recognition from Miss Herschel, so thoroughly engrossed was she with the business in hand; and a sense of loneliness came over her, as she said to herself:

"How could I expect Miss Herschel to recognise me, especially in this thick pelisse and hat? I must not expect my concerns to be of importance to her or to anyone."

And as this thought passed through her mind, she became conscious that to someone, at least, her concerns were of importance; for Leslie Travers had seen her from the window of his mother's house, and had thrown his cloak over his shoulders without delay, and, with his hat looped up at one side in his hand, advanced, saying:

"This is a happy chance! I am anxious to see you; and, if you will, I would fain tell you more of a visit I paid to the poor people in Crown Alley. It is a pitiable case!"

"And I want to see them," Griselda said, "and to help the child with the angelic face. I have in my bag the trinkets I spoke of. Will you take me at once to a shop in the Abbey Churchyard, and inquire for me the price they will fetch? I want also," she said hurriedly, "to consult you, or rather your mother, as to what I should do. I cannot—I cannot live any longer with Lady Betty, unless she promises to protect me from the man I detest!"

Leslie Travers's face kindled with delight.

"Come at once to my mother, at No. 14 in this street. She will be proud to receive you," he said eagerly.

"I must not act hastily," Griselda said. "I left Lady Betty in anger this morning; but I have reason to be angry."

"You have indeed, if you are forced into the company of a man like Sir Maxwell Danby. From him I would fain protect you. But," he said, checking himself, "I am at your service now about the trinkets, or shall we pay a visit to the poor folks first? It is, I warn you, a sad spectacle—can you bear it? I have questioned Mr. Palmer of the theatre, and he says the man (Lamartine) is a man of genius, but a reprobate. He has for some time made his living on the stage, and when not in drink is a wonderful actor. But he is subject to desperate fits of drunkenness, and on his arrival here from Bristol he broke out in one, and falling down the stairs at the theatre after the second rehearsal, injured himself so terribly that he cannot live."

"And the child!—the sweet, innocent child?" Griselda asked.

"The child is the daughter of a young girl employed about the theatre, whom Lamartine married some years ago. She died of burns from her dress catching fire at the Bristol Theatre, where she was acting and getting a fair living. That is the story. The man is by no means a deserving character. Shall we visit him to-day?"

"Yes," Griselda said; "I wish to see the child."

It was now near the hour when it was fashionable to resort to the baths for the second time before the dinner hour, which was generally at two o'clock; and as Griselda and Mr. Travers passed the Pump Room they met several acquaintances.

It was no uncommon thing for the beaux to conduct the ladies to the baths, drink the water with them, and lounge away an hour or two while the band played; and, one by one, those who had been bathing came, well muffled in wraps, to the chairs waiting to convey them to their apartments.

But eyes, which were by no means kindly eyes, were upon Griselda, and as Sir Maxwell Danby stood at the entrance of the Pump Room he made a low bow, to which Griselda responded with a stately inclination of her head.

"Whither away, my fair lady, with that puppy?" thought he. "Ha! I will be on your scent, and maybe find out something. A silversmith's shop! Ah! to buy the ring, forsooth! Ah! ha!"

"What amuses you, Danby?" asked a man of the same type as Sir Maxwell. "Let me have the benefit of the joke, for I am bored to death dancing attendance on my wife and girls."

"Come down with me, and I will show you the finest girl in Bath and the biggest puppy. They have disappeared within that shop. We may follow."

"What are you turned spy for?" asked his companion.

"Who said I had turned spy?" asked Sir Maxwell angrily. "Please yourself!" and he went down the street, and turned into the jeweller's shop as if by accident just as Griselda had laid her trinkets on the counter and the master of the shop was examining them.

Sir Maxwell retired to the further end of the shop and asked to see some snuff-boxes, where he was presently joined by his friend. Sir Maxwell threw himself into one of his easy attitudes, and, while pretending to listen to the shopman, who had displayed a variety of little pocket snuff-boxes in dainty leather cases, he was taking in the fact that Griselda was selling her necklace and gold ornaments.

As soon as the transaction was over, Sir Maxwell made a sign to his companion, and, leaving all the snuff-boxes, he loftily waved away the master of the shop, who was advancing to inquire which he would prefer, and left in time to see which way Griselda went.

"To Crown Alley—a low place! By Jove! this is a queer notion. And with that jackanapes, too, who sets up for being so pious! We won't follow them further," he said, taking out an elaborately-chased snuff-box and offering it to his friend. "We won't follow them—this is enough."

"You are that fair lady's devoted slave, so report says. What are you about, Danby, to let another get before you? It is not like you!"

"No, it is not like me; you are right, sir. But I am not beaten out of the field yet. Crown Alley, forsooth! haunted by the scum of the theatre! Ah! ha! We must unearth this rat from its hole, and I am the man to do it!"

"You are well fitted for the business, I must say," was the rejoinder, with a laugh.

WATCHED!

Scenes of poverty and sickness are familiar now to many a good and fair woman, of whom it may be said in the words of the poet Lowell, that

But few indeed were the high-born ladies a hundred and twenty years ago who ever penetrated the dark places where their suffering brothers and sisters lived and died in penury and want.

Class distinction was then rigid, and the sun of womanly tenderness and compassion had not as yet risen on the horizon with healing on its wings.

Thus the two wretched attics, furnished with the barest necessities of life—to which she ascended by dark, narrow stairs—was indeed a new world to Griselda Mainwaring.

She shrank back when the door of the room was opened, and turned away her head from the pitiful sight before her. The sick man was propped up on his miserable bed, the child kneeling by him listening to, and trying to soothe, his incoherent mutterings.

Leslie Travers went in first and touched the child's shoulder.

"I have brought the lady to see you, and to ask what she can do for you."

Instead of answering, Norah held up her hand as if to beg Leslie to be silent, and continued to stroke her father's long thin hands with one of hers, while with the other she pressed the rag of vinegar and water on his burning brow.

Presently the muttering ceased, and the breathing became more regular, and then Norah rose, and said in a low voice:

"Nothing stops his wild talk till I kneel by him and hold his hand, and stroke his forehead; that is why I could not speak, sir." Then the child went up to the threshold of the door where Griselda still stood, and said: "I thought you would come—I felt sure, lady, you would come; but do not be afraid, he is asleep now, and may sleep for an hour."

Griselda felt ashamed of the disgust she could not conceal at what she saw. But the true womanly instinct asserted itself, and pointing to an open door leading into another garret, she said:

"May I go in there?"

"Yes, it is my room; it is where I put the clothes when I have mended them. The queen's gauze veil got torn, and I can mend gauze better than anyone, so Mrs. Betts gave it to me. Mrs. Betts is kind to me." Then seeing Griselda's puzzled look at the heterogeneous mass of finery heaped up on a table supported against the wall, as it was minus one leg, the child explained: "I mend the actresses' dresses. Mrs. Betts is the wardrobe keeper at the theatre, and she has had pity on me, or—or I think we should have starved."

"Well," Griselda said, "I have brought you money to buy food, and surely you want a fire; and where is your bed?"

The child pointed to a mattress in the corner under the sloping angle of the roof, and said:

"I sleep there most nights, but now he is so bad I watch by him."

Griselda opened her sachet and took from it a crimson silk purse.

"Here are two guineas," she said; "get all you want."

Norah clasped her hands in an ecstasy.

"Oh!" she said, "this is what I have prayed for. God has heard me, and it is come. My beautiful princess has come. You are my beautiful princess, and I shall always love you. I will get Brian to buy lots of things; he will be here after school. Does the gentleman know?"

"Yes, he brought me."

"Then I shall love him, too; you are both good. I shall try and make father know you brought the money; but he does not understand much now. Hark! he is calling—he is awake!"

Norah hastened back to her post, and Griselda followed her.

Leslie Travers had been standing by the sick man's bed, and Griselda, ashamed of her feelings of repulsion and shrinking, took her place by his side.

Suddenly a flash of intelligence came into those large dark eyes, and the man started up and gazed at Griselda, repeating:

"Who is she?—who is she?"

"The dear beautiful lady who has brought us all we want. Thank her, father—thank her!"

"Thank her!" he repeated. "Who is she?"

Then an exceeding bitter cry echoed through the rafters of the chamber as if it would pierce the very roof. And with that cry the man fell back on his pillow, saying:

"Phyllis—Phyllis! come back—come back!"

Griselda started towards the door, and Leslie Travers caught her, or she would have fallen down the steep, narrow stairs.

"Take me away—take me away! I cannot bear it! Oh, it is too dreadful! That face—those eyes—that cry!"

"Yes," he said, carefully guiding her downstairs, and shielding her as much as possible from the inquisitive stare of the dwellers in the same house, taking her hand in his, and drawing it into his arm: "You are not accustomed to such sad sights, the poverty and the squalor."

"It was the man who frightened me. What made him call Phyllis—Phyllis! that beautiful sacred name, for it was my mother's?"

"He was raving; he fancied he was on the stage. He will not live many days, and then we will see that the child is cared for."

The "we" escaped his lips before he was aware of it; but the time for reticence was past. He turned into the Abbey, and Griselda made no resistance. Then with impassioned earnestness Leslie Travers told his love, and often as the tale is told, it is seldom rehearsed with more simple manly fervour. For in the reality of his love Leslie Travers forgot all the flowery and fulsome love epithets which were the fashion of the day. He did not kneel at her feet and vow he was her slave; he did not call her by a thousand names of endearment; but he made her feel perfect confidence in his sincerity. This confidence ever awakes a response in the heart of a true woman, and makes her ready to trust her future in his hands who asks to guard it henceforth.

"Yes," she had answered in a low but clear tone; "yes, I thank you for the kindness you do me."

He tried to stop her, but she went on:

"It is a kindness to take a friendless and penniless orphan to your heart." Then she looked up at him, and reading in his clear pure eyes the story his lips had so lately uttered, she added with a smile, through the April mist of tears in her beautiful eyes: "Yes, it is a kindness, let me take it as such; but not leave myself your debtor, for I will give you in return all my heart, and be henceforth to you tender and true."

He seized her hands in rapture, and kissed them passionately.

"We are in a church," he said; "let us seal our betrothal here, and pray for God's blessing."

They were hidden from sight as they stood within the entrance of Prior Bird's Chantry Chapel, and there, hand clasped in hand, the young lovers knelt and silently prayed for God's blessing.

As they rose, Griselda looked round, and a blast of chill air came over her from the opening of a side door. She shuddered, and said:

"How cold it is!"

"Yes; cold and damp. Let us hasten out into the sunshine."

"Who opened that door?" she said.

"Some old woman, I dare say, who comes to dust and clean," he answered, as they walked down the nave, surrounded, as it there was, with many tombs, and the walls crowded with tablets in memory of the dead.

Lady Jane Waller's stately monument, and Bishop Montague's, were then, as now, conspicuous; and Griselda paused for a moment by the recumbent figure of the Lady Jane.

As she did so, a figure, well known and dreaded, was seen coming from behind the monument.

Griselda clasped Leslie Travers's arm with both hands, and said:

"Let us hasten away—we are watched."

But Leslie turned, and faced Sir Maxwell Danby.

"The shadow of the church is a better trysting-place than the shelter of the dwellings in Crown Alley," he said, hissing the words out in what was hardly more than a whisper.

Leslie was on the point of retorting angrily, when he controlled himself:

"This is not the time and place," he said, "to demand an apology for your words, Sir Maxwell Danby. I will seek it elsewhere."

But Griselda clung to his arm, and tried to advance towards the side door to get away from the man, who had dogged her steps.

"Come—come, I pray you," she said; "do not stay."

And Leslie Travers, saying in low but decided tones, "I will seek satisfaction elsewhere," let the door swing behind him, and he and Griselda passed out of the dim Abbey into the sunshine.

It was still bright and beautiful without, and the fair city lay under the shadow of the encircling hills, which were touched with the glory of a brilliant winter's day.

A slight fall of snow had defined the outline of church and houses, and the leafless trees were sparkling with ten thousand diamonds on their branches.

The keen, crisp wind had dried the footways, and there was nothing on the smooth-paved roads to make walking anything but delightful.

"I want to take you to my mother now," Leslie said. "Will you come?"

"Will she be kind to me?" Griselda asked. "Do you think she will be kind to me?"

"Kind! Pride in you is more likely to be her feeling, I should venture to say."

"But," Griselda said, casting anxious looks behind, "I am really afraid of Sir Maxwell Danby. He will go to the North Parade with all haste, or find Lady Betty in the Pump Room, and speak evil of me."

"Let him dare to do so!" Leslie said. "I will challenge him, if he dares to take your name on his lips!"

"Oh no, no!" Griselda said; "no! Promise you will not quarrel with him? He is a man who would be a dangerous foe."

"He is my foe already," Leslie said. "As to danger, sweet one, I do not recognise danger where honour is concerned. Do not talk more about this now, nor mar these first sweet hours of happiness. Say it is not a dream, those blessed words you spoke in the church, Griselda?"

She gave him a look which was more eloquent than any words, and then said, in a low voice:

"I feel as if I had found my rest."

"Dear white-winged dove," was the reply, "if you have been wandering over stormy waters tempest-tossed, let me love to think you have found your rest with me."

They were now at the door of Mrs. Travers's house; Leslie knocked, and it was opened by the old servant, who followed his young master wherever he went—a faithful retainer of the old type of servant, who, through every change and chance, would as soon think of cutting off a right hand as forsake his master's son.

Giles had a most comical face—a mass of furrows and wrinkles, a mouth which had very few teeth left, and small twinkling eyes. He wore a scratch yellow wig, and a long coat with huge buttons, on which was the crest of the Travers—a heron with a fish in its beak—a crest suggestive of the land of swamps and marshes, where herons had a good time, and swooped over their prey with but small fear of the aim of the sportsman—so few were the sportsmen who ever invaded those desolate wild tracks of water and peat-moss.

"Aye, Master Leslie," Giles said, "ye're late, and there's company at dinner."

"It is scarcely one o'clock, Giles. Where is my mother?"

"Up above with the company; and not well pleased you are not there, either."

"Oh!" Griselda said; "I do not wish to stay. Please take me back to the Parade! Let me see Mrs. Travers another day, please. I ask it as a favour."

She pleaded so earnestly, that old Giles interposed:

"There's room at my mistress's board for all that care to come. There never yet was a guest sent away for lack of room."

"It is not that—not that," Griselda said.

"Whatever it is," Leslie said, "I cannot let you leave us thus"—for Griselda had moved to the door. "Nay—now, nay—do not be so cruel!"

Here voices were heard on the stairs, and the next moment Mrs. Travers appeared, leaning on the arm of a man who wore a clerical dress, a black coat and bands, and a bag-wig tied with a black bow.

"My son, Mr. Relly," Mrs. Travers said; and then she looked with dismay at the figure by Leslie's side.

It was no time for explanation, and Leslie merely said:

"Miss Mainwaring will dine with us, mother."

"You are late, Leslie," Mrs. Travers replied, in a low, constrained voice; and she did not do more than bow to Griselda, adding: "Our mid-day meal has been waiting for some time. Shall we go to the dining-parlour at once?"

Surely no position could be more embarrassing for poor Griselda. All her dignity and gentle stateliness of manner seemed, under this new condition of things, to desert her. Her large hat scarcely concealed the distress which was so plainly marked on her face, and tears were in her eyes as she said, in a low, trembling voice to Mrs. Travers:

"I fear I intrude, madam?"

But Mrs. Travers was anxious to avoid what she called the hollow courtesies of the world of fashion, and thus she only replied:

"Will you be pleased to remove your warm pelisse? The air is very cold. Abigail," she said to a maid-servant who had appeared, "conduct this lady to the inner parlour, and assist her to lay aside her pelisse. Now, Mr. Relly, we will take our seats, and my son will do the honours."

Griselda hastily unfastened her pelisse, but instead of following the maid to the room, she held it towards her; and then, with a gesture which implied her trust in Leslie, she put her hand into his arm, and he led her to the dinner-table, where Giles had taken up his position behind his mistress's chair.

The meal was, as Giles had intimated it would be, very bountiful. Mr. Relly said a long grace, which was really a prayer, and which Griselda thought would never end.

During dinner the conversation lay between Mr. Relly and Mrs. Travers, if conversation it could be called. It was rather an exchange of religious sentiments, quotations of texts of Scripture, seasoned with denouncements of the vanities of the world, as Bath spread them out for the unwary. Griselda felt that many of Mr. Relly's shafts were directed at her, and she felt increasingly ill at ease and uncomfortable. It was only when she could summon courage to look at Leslie that her spirits rose to the occasion, and she answered him in low, sweet tones when he addressed her.

To the great relief of everyone except Mrs. Travers Mr. Relly took leave before the cloth was drawn, excusing himself on the plea of having to attend upon that aged servant of God, the Countess, who expected him to consult on important business.

"If I may be so bold, may I beg you to convey my dutiful remembrances to her ladyship?" Mrs. Travers said.

Mr. Relly assented, but in a manner which implied it was a very bold request to make, and then departed.

As soon as they were alone and Giles had left the room, Leslie rose, and going to his mother's chair, he said:

"I have brought you a daughter to-day, mother. You have often longed for her appearance, and it is with joy and pride that I tell you Miss Griselda Mainwaring has done me the honour to promise to be my wife and your dear daughter."

Mrs. Travers's face displayed varying emotion as her son went on. Surprise and disapproval were at first prominent; then the certainty that Leslie was in earnest, and that to turn him from his purpose was at all times hopeless, when his mind was set on any particular course of action, brought tears to her eyes.

"Oh, my son!" she began; but Griselda left her chair, and, coming to her side, she said:

"Madam, I pray you to receive me as your daughter. I will try to be a loving and true wife. Madam, I am alone in the world, and as I have been so happy as to win the love of your son, you must needs think kindly of me. I will strive to be worthy of him."

This avowal was so entirely unexpected that Mrs. Travers could not at first speak. This simple confession of love, this sad reference to her lonely condition, this promise to be a true and loyal wife—how unlike the coquettish and half-reluctant, half-triumphant manner which Mrs. Travers thought a Bath belle would assume under these circumstances!

"My dear," she said, after a pause, during which Leslie had thrown his arm protectingly round Griselda—"my dear, may I do my duty to you as my only son's wife? I pray that you may be kept safe in this evil world, and that we may mutually encourage each other to tread the narrow way leading to everlasting happiness."

Griselda bent, and said simply:

"Kiss me, dear madam, in token of your approval;" and Mrs. Travers rose, and very solemnly putting her arm round Griselda, and holding the hand which was locked in her son's, pressed a kiss on the fair forehead of her future daughter-in-law, and uttered a prayer for God's blessing on her. Then Griselda said, "I must return now to Lady Betty. Will you come, sir?"

"Give me my name," he said. "Let me hear you give me my name."

"There is time enough for that," she said, rallying with an arch smile. "We will come to that by-and-by."

And soon they were retracing their steps to the North Parade, joy in their hearts, and that sweet sense of mutual love and confidence, which in all times, whenever it is given, comes near to the bliss of the first love-story rehearsed in Paradise. Alas! that too often it should pass like a dream, and that the trail of the serpent should be ready to mar the beauty of the flowers of an Eden like Leslie Travers's, and Griselda Mainwaring's.

A PROPOSAL.

The door of the house in North Parade was opened by Graves.

"Where have you been?" she said anxiously. "Dinner is not only served, but just finished. There have been tantrums about it, I can tell you. You may prepare for a fuss. Her ladyship——"

"Perhaps," Griselda said, turning to Leslie—"perhaps you had better pay your visit to-morrow. Let me see Lady Betty alone."

Graves, who saw the hesitation, now said:

"Yes, Miss Griselda, her ladyship is in no mood to see a stranger. You had best bid the gentleman good-day, and come in."

"It may be it is best," Griselda said. "So good-bye—good-bye till to-morrow."

"Unless we meet in the Assembly Room," Leslie said, holding her hand; and bending over it, he pressed it to his lips again and again, as if he could not give it up.

She drew it gently away, and then ran with a light step to her own room. Graves followed her.

"What does it mean, my dear?" she asked.

"It means that I am no longer alone in the wide, cold world. Oh, be glad for me, Graves, be glad! I am to be the wife of a good man—Mr. Leslie Travers."

"Good! Well, there is none good—no, not one! He may be better in the eye of man than the rest, but good!—he may be a moral man."

"He is everything that is noble and good! Oh, Graves, I am so happy!"

"Poor child!—poor child!" the faithful woman said, as she smoothed the bow on the wide hat before putting it away—"poor child! Well, you'll need a protector. There's a great to-do in the dining-parlour. I heard your name again and again; and her ladyship and that man who is so often here—worse luck—were making free with it, I can tell you. There! that's her bell—ring-ring-ring! And here comes David."

David was the man-servant, and tapped sharply at the door.

"Mistress Graves, are you here? Is Miss Mainwaring here? She is wanted by her ladyship in the sitting-room—now," he added—"this instant. Do ye hear?"

"Yes, I am not deaf," was Graves' retort; "so you needn't make a noise like so many penny trumpets. You had better change your dress, my dear. Here is your blue skirt and flowered-chintz gown—and your hair is all falling down. Come!"

Griselda was putting away the money she had received for her jewels, and then submitted to Graves' hands, as she changed her morning-gown for a pretty toilette of chintz and under-skirt of blue brocade.

"I must be quick, or she will ring again," Graves said. "There! I thought so"—for again the querulous bell sounded, and hurrying feet were heard on the stairs.

"Her ladyship is in a regular passion," David said, through the door. "You'll repent it, Graves, as sure as you are alive."

"Hold your tongue, and be off," was the reply; "I can take care of myself, by your leave!"

David grumbled a reply, and again departed.

In other times, Griselda would have shown some sign of desire to avert the storm of Lady Betty's anger; but to-day she went through her toilette without any undue haste.

"Graves," she said, "I want you to go to Crown Alley for me, and see a poor, man who is dying, and take him some comforts. Surely there are plenty of wasted luxuries that might be of use to him! And, Graves, he has a dear little girl—such a clever child!—and as lovely as an angel, though half-starved. Graves, will you take some of that mock-turtle soup and a bottle of wine before night to No. 6, Crown Alley?"

"Well, to say the truth, Miss Griselda, I ain't partial to low places like Crown Alley, and——"

"But you might talk to the man of good things—you might tell him of the love of God."

Graves shrugged her shoulders.

"I must tell him first of the wrath of God—poor dying creature!—if he has been mixed up with theatre folk. It's awful to think of him!"

"Do go—to please me, dear Graves," Griselda said. With a sudden impulse, she stooped and kissed her rugged face as Graves bent down to arrange a knot of ribbon on the chintz bodice. "Oh, Graves, I am so happy! I want to make someone else happy. Don't you understand? Do go; and take what you can in your hand. Now, what do I care for scolding?" she said. "I feel as if I had wings to-day;" and in another moment Griselda had tripped downstairs, and was at the door of the sitting-room, where on a sofa reclined Lady Betty.

Lady Betty was fanning herself vigorously—always a sign of a coming storm; and Sir Maxwell Danby was leaning back in an armchair, toying with his snuff-box and the trifles hanging to his watch-chain. The ruffles on his coat were of the most costly lace, and so was the edge of the long cravat, which, however, was peppered with the snuff he was continually using.

There was a gleam of something very much the reverse of kindly intention in his little deep-set eyes, and cunning and malice were making curves round his thin lips, though, on Griselda's entrance, a smile, which was meant to be fascinating, parted them; and, rising in reply to her curtsey at the threshold of the door, he bowed low, advanced to her, and, offering his hand, said:

"May I beg leave to hand you to a chair?"

Then, as Griselda drew her hand away and turned on him a look of disgust, Lady Betty almost screamed out:

"What do you mean by flouncing like that, miss? Sit down at once, and hear of the honour this gentleman proposes to do you. He offers you what you little deserve."

"Nay—nay, my lady," Sir Maxwell began; "that is impossible for any man to offer. A diadem laid at this fair lady's feet would be all too little for her deserts. But may I venture to address a few words to your fair ward? and then I will take my leave, and await with anxiety a reply—say, to-morrow at this time. I would not hasten her. Madam," he began, with his hand on his heart—"madam, I pray you to listen to my poor words; and, as you listen, believe that they come from one weary of the hollow insincerities of a gay world, and longing to rest itself on something real and steadfast. I see in you the perfection of womanhood. I adore you; and Lady Betty favours my suit. I can offer you a position—a social rank—not to be lightly esteemed. Danby Hall is my ancestral home, and thither I crave leave to convey you, ere many months have passed, as its beautiful mistress, and——"

"Sir," Griselda interrupted, as this suitor bent on one knee, with due care not to cause a rupture between the silk stockings which met his knee-breeches by too sudden a genuflexion—"sir, I must beg you to desist. Surely, Aunt Betty, you have not encouraged this gentleman to pursue a suit which is distasteful to me?"

Then, as Lady Betty began to raise her voice, Griselda turned to Sir Maxwell, who was finding his position uneasy, for his joints were not as supple as they had been twenty years before:

"Sir Maxwell Danby," she said, her voice trembling, in spite of every effort she made to control it, "I thank you for the honour you do me, but I decline to accept the proposal you make me."

"She only means to put you off, Sir Maxwell; she will think better of it—she shall think better of it."

"Nothing will change my purpose—nothing can change it." Then, though it seemed almost sacrilege to bring to light what lay like a fount of hidden joy in her heart, she looked steadily into the face of the world-worn man, who quailed before the clear glance of those young pure eyes. "Nothing can change my purpose, sir; and for this reason—I am pledged to another."

"Ha! ha!" broke out almost involuntarily from Sir Maxwell "I understand. Lady Betty, let me warn you that this fair lady is in some danger from designing folk, who frequent the lowest purlieus of the city. I warn you; and now"—with a low bow—"I take my leave." And casting a Parthian arrow behind as he made another low bow at the door, he said: "And unless you receive my warning in good part, you will see cause to repent it. It may be you will have to repent it through another."

Griselda's face blanched with fear as she turned to Lady Betty:

"Tell me," she exclaimed, "what that bad man has been saying of—of me, and of another!"

"Saying! That you have misbehaved yourself, miss; and that you have been taken to Crown Alley by that canting hypocrite whom I detest. Speak to him again, and you leave this house. Dare to refuse Sir Maxwell Danby's offer, and I cast you off. You had better take care, for your poor mother disgraced herself, and——"

"Stop!" Griselda said; "not a word about my mother. I will not hear it. But, Aunt Betty, I will not listen to the proposal made me by Sir Maxwell Danby. I would not, as I have told you, marry him were there no other man in the world; but, as it is," she said proudly, the fire of her eyes being suddenly dimmed with the mist of gentle tears—"as it is, I am the promised wife of Mr. Leslie Travers. He will see you to-morrow on this matter, and——"

"I will not see him. You shall marry Sir Maxwell; he has a fine fortune, and a fine place. You are mad; you are an idiot—a fool! Go to your room, miss, and keep out of my sight till you come to your senses. Get out of my sight, I say!"

How long this tirade might have raged I cannot tell, had not David announced "Lord Basingstoke." Shallow waters are easily lashed into a storm, and as easily does the storm spend itself.

Lady Betty quickly recovered herself, and as Griselda left the room she heard her aunt's usual dulcet tones and the inevitable giggle as the young lord, who was sorely at a loss how to "kill time," sank down in the chair Sir Maxwell had so lately left, and the usual badinage went on and received an additional piquancy by the arrival of two or three more idle people who had been to the Pump Room for their afternoon glass of water, and missing Lady Betty, had come to inquire for her health, and to talk the usual amount of scandal, or harmless gossip, as the case might be.

The various love affairs on the tapis were discussed in their several aspects, and Mrs. Greenwood's plain daughters were made the target for the shafts of foolish satire.

"Could you fancy, my lady, that the vulgar mother asked young Mr. Beresford what his intentions were because he had danced twice with that fright, her daughter Bell, out of sheer pity? Lor', what fun young Beresford is making of her!"

"Ridiculous! vastly amusing!" exclaimed Lady Betty.

"But there is another marriage spoken of. I hear you are to give your beautiful ward"—Lady Betty's friends always took care to call Griselda a ward, not a niece—"to Sir Maxwell Danby. He has a fine place, upon my word," said an old beau, who posed as a young one. "He has a fine place, and a pretty fortune. I congratulate you, madam, and the young lady. For my part, I always have reckoned her the belle of Bath this season."

Lady Betty smiled, and accepted the congratulation and the admiration at the same time.

"Sir Maxwell had just left her," she said.

"Where is the young lady?" the old gentleman asked. "Upon my word, Danby is a lucky fellow. There are many who will envy him. I confess I am one."

"Yes. I say, where is Miss Mainwaring?" Lord Basingstoke asked.

And Lady Betty, flirting her fan vigorously, said:

"She has a headache, and will not be at the Assembly to-night, I fear."

A LETTER.

Griselda was glad to escape to her own room that she might have time to think over her position and decide what was best to do, and what was the next step to take.

She laid aside her dress and hoop, and put on a long morning-gown which Lady Betty had discarded because the colour was unbecoming; and then, opening her desk, chose a very smooth sheet of Bath-post paper, and sat with her quill pen in her hand as if uncertain what to write.

But her face was by no means troubled and anxious; on the contrary, it was happy, almost radiant, in its expression.

Griselda had not had an experience of many lovers; indeed, the sweet story had never been told to her till Leslie Travers told it; and there was a charm for her in thinking that her heart had responded so fully to him and given him her first love.

Foolish protestations like Sir Maxwell Danby's had indeed been made to Griselda since her arrival at Bath, but a certain stately dignity had kept triflers at a distance, and it might be said of Griselda, that she