When Griselda went down to the little lobby, she found Mr. Travers with a flushed and excited face, and Mr. Herschel trying to calm him.
"Take my word for it, my young friend, there are always two necessary to make a quarrel, and I should beware of yonder dandy, who bears no good character."
"I will take your advice as far as in me lies, sir; but if he ever dares to speak again, as just now—in the presence of others, too!—to dare to speak lightly of her——I will not pick the quarrel, but if he picks it, then I am no coward."
Dr. William Watson, who had come for a second time that day to visit the "moon-gazer" of the night before, had been a somewhat unwilling witness of the high words which had passed between Sir Maxwell Danby and Leslie Travers, and now seemed impatient to be taken upstairs to inspect the process of grinding and polishing the reflector for great twenty and thirty foot mirrors, which was then achieved by persistent manual labour.
Dr. William Watson was a Fellow of the Royal Society, and had come to invite Mr. Herschel to join the Philosophical Society in Bath, which invitation he accepted, and by this means came more prominently before the world.
Mr. Travers led Griselda to her chair, and as the boy lighted the torch at the door—for it was quite dark—a small and piteous voice was heard:
"Oh, madam! cannot you do something for us? I heard Mr. Herschel was kind, but he is hard and stern."
"Mr. Herschel never gives alms," Leslie Travers said; "be off!"
"Nay, sir; wait. The child looks wretched and sad. What is it?" Griselda asked.
"Oh, madam! my father was engaged to play at the theatre, and he has fallen down and cannot perform the part. Mr. Palmer is hard, so hard, he says"—the child's voice faltered—"he says it was drink that made him fall—and he has no pity; and we are starving."
The group on the steps of that house in King Street was a study for an artist. The shuddering, weeping child; the stolid chairman; the link-boy, with the torch, which cast a lurid light upon the group; the young man holding the hand of the tall and graceful lady, hooded and cloaked in scarlet, edged with white fur; then the open door behind, where an oil lamp shone dimly, and the maid's figure, in her large white cap and apron, made a white light in the gloom. It was a picture indeed, suggestive of the sharp contrasts of life, and yet no one could have divined that in that scene lay concealed the elements of a story so tragic and sorrowful, yet to be developed, and then unsuspected and unknown.
"Wait," Griselda said. "Tell me, child, if I can help you."
"We are starving, madam, and my father is so ill!"
"I have no money," Griselda exclaimed. "Mr. Travers, if you can help her, please do so."
"It is at your desire, for I can refuse you nothing; but I know Mr. Herschel is right, and that alms given like this, is but the throwing of money into a bottomless pit."
As he was speaking the young man had taken a leathern purse from the wide side-pocket of his blue coat, and had singled out a sixpence and a large heavy penny with the head of the King in his youth upon it—big old-fashioned penny-pieces, of which none are current now.
Mr. Travers put the money into Griselda's hand, and she held it towards the child.
"What brought you to Mr. Herschel's?" she asked.
"Brian Bellis sings at the Octagon every Sunday; he told me Mr. Herschel was kind, but he was wrong; it is you who are kind."
"Tell me where you live, and I will come, perhaps; or at any rate send someone to give you help."
"We live in Crown Alley; but Brian Bellis will tell you, madam. Oh!" the child said, "you are beautiful as the princess in the play; and you are good too, I know."
"Come, be off, you little wretch. We don't care to stay here all night for you, and orders waiting," said one of the chair-men.
"Will you find out Brian Bellis for me? Will you discover from Miss Herschel if the tale is true—now—I mean now? I will pay you extra for waiting," Griselda said to the men.
"Can't wait to obleege you, miss; if you don't step in we shall have to charge double fare."
Then Griselda got into the chair; the lid was let down with a jerk; the men took up the poles, and set off at a quick trot to North Parade.
The child was still standing on the doorstep, and Leslie Travers said:
"You must not stand here. The lady will keep her promise, you may be sure. Now then!"
The child turned sorrowfully away, and the click of her pattens was heard on the stone pavement getting fainter and fainter in the distance.
Leslie Travers was thoughtful beyond the average of the young men of his type in those days, and as Miss Herschel's servant shut the door—much wondering what all the delay had been about—he gathered his loose cloak round him, and walked towards the house his mother had taken in King Street, pondering much on the inequalities of life.
"Some star-gazing," he thought, "and with their chief aims set above the heavens; some singing and dancing; some working mischief—deadly mischief—by their lives; and some, like that poor child, dying of starvation. Yes, and some are praying to God for the safety of their own souls, or thanking Him that they are safe, and forgetting, as it seems, the souls of others—nay, that they have souls at all! And others, like that angel, whose face is like the fair lady of Dante's dream, or vision, seem to draw the beholder upward by the very force of their own purity and beauty."
This may sound very high-flown language for a lover, but Leslie Travers lived in a day of ornate expression of sentiment, as the effusions in Lady Miller's vase at Batheaston abundantly testified.
Leslie Travers was the son of a Lincolnshire squire, who owned a few acres, and had lived the isolated life of the country gentlemen of those times.
Leslie was the only son, and he had been sent to Cambridge; but his health failed before he had finished his course there, and he had returned to his old home just in time to see his father die of the ague, which haunted the neighbourhood of the fens before any attempt at proper drainage had been thought of, much less made.
Mrs. Travers was urged to shut up the Grange—which answered very well to the description of a moated Grange of a later time—and resort to Bath, for the healing waters might take their effect on her son's health. Mrs. Travers had now been resident in Bath for a whole year, and her figure in widow's-weeds was familiar in the bath-room waiting for her son's appearance after his morning douche.
But not only was her figure familiar in the bath-room, there was another place where she constantly took up her position, and where she could not persuade her son to follow her, and that place was the chapel which had been built by Selina, Countess of Huntingdon.
Mrs. Travers was at this time greatly exercised in mind about her son. Since his health had improved, he had entered more into the gaieties of the city of Bath, and made friends of whom she could not approve. The Pump Room was a place where many idlers and votaries of fashion found a convenient resort after the morning bath; and here many introductions were exchanged between the new-comers and those who had been frequenters of Bath for many previous seasons. The present master of the ceremonies did not hold the sway of his famous predecessor; but outward decorum was preserved; and it was in the master's power to refuse or grant an introduction if it was objected to by any parent or guardian.
Mrs. Travers was one of those sweet and gentle women, who are themselves a standing rebuke to the harsh and iron creed which they profess to hold by. Mrs. Travers had lived in an atmosphere all her life of utter indifference and neglect of even the outward observances of religion.
The clergyman of the Lincolnshire parish where the Grange stood was a fair type of the country parsons of the time. He hunted with the squire, drank freely of his wine, and was "Hail fellow! well met!" with those of his parishioners who had like tastes with himself. A service in the church when it suited him, baptisms when the parents pressed it, funerals, a necessity no one can put aside, and administration of the Holy Communion on the three prescribed festivals of the year, were the limit of his parochial labours.
Who can wonder that a sympathetic and emotional woman, brought to hear for the first time a burning and eloquent appeal to turn to God, should very soon yield herself, heart and soul, to what was indeed to her a new religion!
She accepted the doctrine of her teacher without reservation, and the offer made her in God's name of salvation—a salvation which drew a circle round the recipient, into which no worldly thing must enter—a circle narrower and ever narrower, which, as it closed like an iron band at last, round many a true-hearted man and woman, had all unawares shut in the very essence of that world they had in all good faith believed they had renounced. For "the world's" chief idol is self, and there may be worship and slavery to this idol in the closest conventual cloister, and in the hardest and most ascetic life that was ever led in this, or any other age.
But, as I said, no creed could make Mrs. Travers hard or austere. Her sweet, pale face in its widow's cap, and straight black gown with the long "weepers" and linen bands, gave her almost a saint-like appearance; and the smile with which she greeted her boy was like sunshine over the surface of a little tarn hidden in some mountain-side.
"Late—am I late, mother? I am sorry, ma'am; but I was detained at Mr. Herschel's by—by a child begging for money at the door as we were leaving. She spoke of starvation and deep distress. She had a lovely face, and it sounded like truth."
"Poor little creature! Can we help, Leslie?"
"One of the singers at the Octagon Chapel will direct me to the place—Crown Alley, a low street enough, by the Abbey churchyard."
"Ah!" and his mother sighed; "a low place, doubtless."
"The child's father is an actor—he was hired to play here—and has had a fall, and is helpless."
"An actor!" Mrs. Travers' pale face flushed with crimson. "An actor! Ah, my dear son, one engaged in the devil's work cannot claim charity from Christians."
"I do not take your meaning, ma'am. An actor may suffer, and his child starve as well as other folk, and need help."
"I grieve for suffering, dear son, as you know; but——"
"But you condemn all actors wholesale. Nay, my sweet mother"—and Leslie changed his tone—"nay, my sweet mother, it is not you who steel your heart; it is the doctrine taught you in the fashionable chapel yonder of lords and ladies, who reserve for themselves the right to the kingdom of heaven."
"My son, do not speak thus; nor scoff at what you cannot yet understand. If prayers avail for your conversion, constant and persevering, mine will at last be heard."
"I thank you for your prayers, dear mother—they come from a true heart. And now to supper, and then to my violoncello. The Herschels are removing at once to this street—almost will their music be within ear-shot; and there will be great works in the garden, and the largest mirror in the kingdom will be cast. Who can tell what may be discovered? Now, mother, you do not see sin and wickedness in star-gazing, surely?"
Mrs. Travers shook her head.
"I would not care for myself to be too curious as to the secrets which God does not reveal."
Leslie stamped his foot impatiently, and then said:
"We cannot agree there, mother. Every gift of God is good; and if He has given the gift of mathematical precision, and earnestness in applying it for the better development of the grandest of all sciences, who shall dare to say the man who exercises that gift is wrong? For my own part, I feel uplifted in the presence of that great and good man—Mr. Herschel—and his wonderful sister."
"'When I consider Thy heavens the work of Thy fingers,'" Mrs. Travers quoted from the Psalms, "I say, with David, 'What is man, that Thou art mindful of him? or the son of man, that Thou considerest him?' Such knowledge, my dear son, as that, after which you tell me Mr. and Miss Herschel seek, is too wonderful for me, nor do I wish to attain it. Mr. Relley delivered a very powerful discourse on this matter last Sunday. I would you had heard it, instead of listening to the music at the Octagon, where the world gathers its votaries every Sabbath-day to admire music, and forget God."
Leslie knew, by past experience, that to argue with his mother was hopeless, and he therefore remained silent. Something told him, when all was said, that he needed something that he did not possess. When first threatened with consumption, and the grasshopper of his young life had become a burden, he had looked death in the face, and shuddered. Life was sweet to him—music, and the beautiful things which were to him as a strain of music, were dear to his heart.
At a time when the natural beauties of field, and flower, and over-arching sky were far less to many than the coteries of fashion and the haunts of pleasure, so called, Leslie Travers had higher tastes, and yet he would fain have been other than he was. Religion, as offered to him by his mother's teachers, repelled him; and he cherished a secret bitterness against the grand ladies who sat on either side of the haut pas—described by Horace Walpole, in balconies reserved for "the elect" of noble birth—in Lady Huntingdon's Chapel in the Vineyards.
The waters of Bath had worked wonders on Leslie's bodily ailments. He began to feel strong again, with the strength of young manhood; and now there had risen upon his horizon that bright particular star—that, to him, marvel of perfect womanhood—Griselda Mainwaring. He had scarcely dared to take her name on his lips—it was a sacred name to him; and yet, in the lobby of Mr. Herschel's house, he had heard the man, who had so broadly flattered her that she had shrunk from his words as a sensitive plant shrinks from a rough touch of a hand—say, in answer to a question from a casual acquaintance:
"Who is she? Low-born I hear, and a mere poor dependent on the bounty of Lady Betty."
"Heaven help her!" had been the reply, "if that is all her dependence."
Then with a laugh, as he tapped his little silver snuff-box, Sir Maxwell Danby had said:
"She will easily find another maintenance. A beauty—true; but a beauty of no family can't afford to be particular."
It was at these words—insulting in their tone as well as in themselves—that Leslie Travers had raised his voice, and angrily demanded what the speaker meant, or how he could dare to speak lightly of a lady who had no father or brother to be her champion.
"She has you!" had been the reply, with a sneer. "Poor boy!"
How the quarrel might have ended even then, I cannot tell, had not the master of the house, Mr. Herschel, tried to throw oil on the troubled waters. But the bitterness was left—a bitterness which Leslie Travers felt was hatred; and yet, if his mother's Bible told true, hatred was a seed which might grow into an awful upas-tree, shadowing life with its deadly presence. With that strangely mysterious power, which words from the great code of Christian morals are sometimes forced, as it were, to be heard within, Leslie heard: "He that hateth his brother is a murderer, and we know that no murderer hath eternal life!"
Again and again, as Sir Maxwell Danby's figure rose before him, and his narrow though finely-chiselled face seemed to mock him with its scornful smile, so did the words echo in his secret heart: "He that hateth his brother is a murderer, and we know that no murderer hath eternal life!"
Late into the night the strains of Leslie's violoncello rose and fell. The largo of Haydn seemed to soothe him into calm, calling up before him the beautiful face of Griselda Mainwaring, as with rapt, impassioned gaze she had drank in the music of Caroline Herschel's voice, as she sang, "Come unto Me ... and I will give you rest."
"I love her! I adore her! I will win her if I serve for her as Jacob served for Rachel! My queen of beauty! Griselda! Griselda!"
"The quality" of Bath and of other towns and cities in England, a hundred years ago, knew nothing—and, except in rare and isolated instances, cared less—of those who were reduced to the lowest depths of poverty, and whose struggle for daily bread was often in vain.
It was in a low, unhealthy quarter of Bath—that queen of the West—that the child, who had begged for money at Mr. Herschel's door the evening before, was seated in an attic-chamber, with a heap of finery before her. Her little slender fingers were busy mending rents in gaudy gowns, sewing beads on high collars, and curling feathers with a large bodkin.
Stretched on a bed in the corner of the room lay a man, whose pale face, sunken eyes, and parched white lips, told of suffering and want. A sigh, which was almost a groan, broke from the man, and the child got up and left her work for a minute that she might wet a rag in vinegar and water and lay it on her father's forehead.
"Is it your leg pains, father, or is your head worse?"
"Both, child; but my heart pains most. I am fallen very low, Norah, and there is nothing but misery before us. Child! what will you do when I am gone?"
Norah shook her head.
"We will not talk of that, father. You will get well, and then you will act Hamlet again, and——"
"Never! The blow to my head has clean taken away my memory. 'To be or not to be!'"—then followed a harsh laugh—"I could not get the next line to save my life! But, Norah, it is your condition which eats like a canker into my heart. You spoke of a kind gentleman and a beautiful lady yesterday, who did not spurn you. Find them again, implore them to come here, and I will move their very heart to pity by the tale of my sorrows! They will, sure, put out a hand to you."
"The lady was beautiful as an angel, father; but I don't think grand folks like her will care for us. But," she said, brightening, "I shall get some money for this job Mrs. Betts gave me; and I am to go to the green-room and help the ladies to dress."
"No!" the man said, his eyes flashing—"No! I command you not to enter the theatre! Do you hear?"
The child knew when her father's dark eyes flashed like that, and he spoke in the tones of tragedy, that remonstrance was useless; and the doctor said he was never to be excited or contradicted, or he might lose his senses altogether.
"As you please, father," Norah said meekly, and then returned to her needlework; and the heavy breathing in the corner where the bed was placed told that her father slept.
About noon there was a sound of feet on the stairs, and a tap at the door, and a curly head was thrust in. Norah held up her finger and pointed to the bed, but said in a low whisper:
"Come in, Brian."
"I've brought you my dinner," the boy said. "I did not want it. It's a meat-pie and a bun. I don't care for meat-pies and—come, Norah, eat it!"
Norah's blue eyes filled with tears. She was so hungry, but she knew her father might be hungry too. She glanced at the bed, and Brian understood the glance.
"Meat-pies are bad for sick folks," he said, shaking his head. "Very bad! He mustn't touch it."
"I'll keep the bun then, and p'raps that may tempt him with a drop of the wine you brought yesterday. But, Brian, he is very ill!"
"Well, eat your pie, and then we'll talk," the boy said.
"Not loud, or he may wake."
"I have something to tell you. There's a young gentleman who plays the violoncello grandly! He comes to the Octagon, you know, and I believe it was that very gentleman you saw at Mr. Herschel's yesterday. I'm going to hunt him up; and I'll bring him here, and he is certain to be good to you."
"I don't want to beg! Oh, Brian, I do not like to beg, and be spurned like Mr. Herschel spurned me yesterday!"
"He was in a hurry—he did not mean anything unkind. But I have got to sing a solo at a rehearsal, and I must be gone. Cheer up, Norah! What's all this rubbish?"
"It's the theatre dresses. Mrs. Betts, the keeper of the wardrobe, gave me the job. She will pay me, you know."
Brian nodded, and then left the room. His quaint little figure, in knee-breeches and swallow-tail short coat, with a wide crimped frill falling over the collar and the wrist-bands, would excite a smile now if seen in the streets of Bath.
Heavy leather shoes, tied with wide black ribbon, and dull yellow stockings, which met the legs of the breeches, and were fastened with buckles, completed his attire. But the fine open face, with its winning smile, and white forehead shaded by clustering curls, could not be disguised. Brian had a charm about him few people could resist.
He lived with his aunts, who were fashionable mantua-makers and milliners in John Street, and their rooms were frequented by many of the élite, who came to them to consult about the fashion and the mode, although the Miss Hoblyns' fame was not, in 1779, what it became when the Duchess of York consulted them as to her "top-gear" a few years later.
At this time they were young women, and had only laid the foundation of the large fortune which the patronage of the Royal Duchess is said to have built up at last. Brian Bellis was therefore lifted far above anything like poverty, and his aunts gave him a trifle for his pocket, as well as his schooling, and were proud of his prominence in the choir of the Octagon Chapel, where on Sundays the sisters always appeared in the latest fashions. Indeed their dress on Sundays was eagerly scanned by ladies of the fashionable congregation as we might scan a fashion-book in these days.
Brian had seen Norah several times with a burden he thought too heavy for her to carry, and he had gallantly taken the basket from her hand and carried it for her.
Those were the days when there was money to pay for marketings, and before the accident happened which had laid her father low. But Brian was not a fair-weather friend, and that meat-pie and bun were not the first that he had bought out of his pocket-money for the now forlorn child.
He was running away to the rehearsal for next Sunday's music, when he jostled against Leslie Travers, who was coming out of the Pump Room.
Brian came to a dead stop, and said respectfully:
"Sir, there is a man and a little girl in great want in Crown Alley; the child was at Mr. Herschel's door last night."
"This is a lucky chance," Leslie Travers said, "for I am looking for Brian Bellis. Are you Brian Bellis? I know your face amongst the singers in the Octagon"—adding to himself, "a face not likely to forget."
It was lighted now with the fire of enthusiasm, as he said:
"Oh! sir; yes, I am Brian Bellis, and I can show you the way to Crown Alley; not now, for I have to be at the rehearsal. But, sir, I will come to the Pump Room this afternoon, and I will go with you then. I wish I could stay now, but I dare not. Mr. Herschel never overlooks absence from a rehearsal for Sunday."
"Very good; I will be there. Come to the lobby about four, and you will find me."
The Pump Room was full that afternoon.
Lady Betty was of course there, laying siege to the young Lord Basingstoke, and laughing her senseless little laugh, and flirting her fan as she lounged on a sofa, with the young man leaning over her.
Sir Maxwell Danby had had a twinge of gout, and was in an ill temper. He did not care two straws for Lady Betty, but he did not like to see his territory invaded, knowing, too, that a peer weighed heavily in the balance against a baronet.
Griselda had rebuffed him too decidedly for him to risk another public manifestation of her repugnance to him, and he watched her with his small close-set eyes with anything but a benign expression.
Griselda was surrounded by a mother and two smart, gawky daughters, who were strangers at Bath, and were of the veritable type of "country-cousins," which was so distinct a type in the society of those days. Now refinement, or what resembles it, has penetrated into country towns and villages, and the farmers' wives and daughters of to-day are more successful in presenting themselves in what is called "good society," than were the squires' and small landed proprietors' families when "the country" districts were separated by impassable roads from frequent intercourse with the gay world beyond.
These good people talked in loud resonant tones, with a decided provincial twang.
"La, ma! what a fine lady that is!" said one of the girls. "Did you ever see such a hat?"
"And look at the gentleman courting her!"
"Hush now, my dear! He is a lord, and the t'other is a baronet."
"Well, we are in fine company. I wish we knew some of 'em. I say, ma——"
At this moment the very stout mamma dropped her fan, and Griselda, who was nearest to it, picked it up and handed it to her with a gracious smile.
"Thank you, my dear, I am sure. Won't you take a seat here?" she continued, gathering together the ample folds of her moreen pelisse trimmed with fur, and edging up to her daughters, who were on the same bench.
A quick glance showed Griselda that Sir Maxwell was meditating a raid on her, so she accepted the offer, and almost at the same moment the Marchioness of Lothian appeared, and Sir Maxwell advanced to her, bowed low, and led her to a seat.
At least he would show Griselda, that if she chose to slight him, a live Marchioness was of a different mind.
The band now struck up, and Mrs. Greenwood beat time with her large foot, and nodded her head till the plume of feathers in her hat waved like the plumes of a palm-tree in the tropics.
Her daughters did not allow the band to hinder their remarks on the company, as some promenaded up and down, and others reclined, like Lady Betty, on the crimson-covered lounges.
Presently Griselda received a nudge from one of the young ladies' rather sharp elbows:
"Pray, miss, who's that fine gentleman walking with? He is looking this way. Bab, don't giggle, I think he was speaking of us."
"Who is the lady?"
"The Marchioness of Lothian," Griselda said.
"Lor', ma; do you hear?" Miss Barbara exclaimed, leaning across Griselda, "that's a Marchioness!"
It really gave these good people intense pleasure to be in the same room with those who rejoiced in titles. It gave Mrs. Greenwood a sense of added importance, and made her even dream of the possibility of some lord falling in love with Bab. Thus a return to the remote country town of Widdicombe Episopi, where Mr. Greenwood farmed his own acres, and lived in a house which had come down to the Greenwoods from the time of Charles II., would be a triumphal return indeed.
"I shouldn't wonder, miss, if you was a titled lady," Mrs. Greenwood said, as the music stopped, and conversation in more subdued tones was possible.
Griselda smiled.
"No, I have no title of honour," she said.
"Ah, well! you look as if you might have, and that's something. I do like to see a genteel air; as I say to Bab and Bell, it's half the battle—it's more than a pretty face. We are come to Bath for Bell's health. She has been so peaky and puling of late. Do you take the waters, miss?"
"No," Griselda said. "I am quite well."
"Then you came for pleasure?"
"Yes," Griselda replied.
"Well, I am very proud to have made your acquaintance. We have apartments in the Circus. There's no stint as to money. Mr. Greenwood said—that's the squire, you know—'Go and enjoy yourselves. But I thank my stars I've not to go along with you, that's all.'"
At this moment Leslie Travers entered the room, and looking round with the quick glance of love saw Griselda, and Griselda alone.
But who were the people she was seated with? Lady Betty called him by name, and stopped giggling behind her fan to do so.
"Here, Mr. Travers; go, I beseech you, and rescue Griselda from those Goths, into whose hands she has fallen. What a set! Goodness! it's as fine as a play!"
Leslie crossed the room, and bowing before Griselda, said:
"Lady Betty would be pleased if you joined her, Miss Mainwaring."
Griselda rose, and, bowing to her three companions, walked towards the opposite side of the room.
"I knew she was somebody," Mrs. Greenwood exclaimed. "Lady Betty—did you hear? And what a vastly genteel young man!—one of her admirers, no doubt. Well, girls, shall we take a turn? For my part I am getting sleepy;" and a prolonged yawn, which was heard as well as seen, announced the fact to those who were near that Mrs. Greenwood had had enough of the Pump Room for that day.
"My dear girl!" Lady Betty exclaimed when Griselda joined her. "Who will you take up with next? Those vulgar folks! Did you ever see anything like the feet of the young one? I declare I'd wear a longer gown if I had such duck's feet!—and the waddle matches—look!"
Lady Betty's giggle was a well-known sound in any society she honoured with her presence, and when she could get a companion like the empty-headed Lord Basingstoke, she delighted to sit and "quiz" those whom she thought beneath her in the social scale.
"Griselda! She is offended. Look how she is strutting off! He! he! he!"
And Lord Basingstoke echoed the laugh in a languid fashion, Lady Betty leaning back and looking up at him with what she thought her most bewitching smile.
"I think it is very ill-bred to make remarks on people!" Griselda said, "and very unkind to hurt their feelings, as you must have hurt that lady's."
Griselda spoke with some vehemence, which she was apt to do, when her feelings were strongly moved.
"You see how I'm lectured," Lady Betty said, with the usual accompaniment—"the giggling fugue," as her enemies called it. "Griselda," she said, trying to hide her vexation, "you are very good to look after my behaviour. Poor little me! I want someone, don't I, Mr. Travers? It is news to hear I am 'ill-bred.' What next, I wonder?"
But Griselda held her own, and repeated:
"I must think it ill-bred in any society to turn other folks into ridicule, and I am quite sure no one can call it kind!"
"My dear, may I ask you to mind your own business?" was said sotto voce as Lady Betty rose, declaring it was time for her third glass of water, and Lord Basingstoke escorted her to the inner room, where the invalids assembled to drink the waters.
"I am glad to be allowed the chance of speaking to you, Miss Mainwaring," Leslie Travers began. "I wanted to tell you that I have found a clue to your poor little protégée of last evening. I am going to visit her, guided by the boy, to whom she referred me."
"That is good news!" Griselda said. "Will you be sure to let me know if I can do aught for her? Oh, I would that I was not dependent on others! I do long to help the poor and sad! I must try once more to get Lady Betty to make me ever so small an allowance. But," she added, with sudden animation, "I have many jewels and trinkets which were my grandmother's, and came to me at her death. Will you sell some for me? I had thought of selling a necklace to pay Mr. Herschel for his lessons; but it will be better to feed the starving than learn music."
"You must let me make all due inquiries first, madam," Leslie Travers said. "I do not desire that your charity should be ill-placed, and many beggars' tales are false."
"That child was telling the truth!" Griselda said. "I knew it! I felt it!"
"You can then judge of truth or falseness by the unerring instinct which is one of the gifts of true womanhood? I would hope—I would venture to hope—that, tried by that instinct, you would trust me, and believe that all I say is true. May I dare to hope it is so?"
"Yes," Griselda said, looking straight into the pure, clear eyes which sought hers. "Yes; I could trust you."
"Could? Change that word to do. Say you do trust me."
His voice trembled with emotion, and Griselda's eyes fell beneath his ardent admiring gaze. The story of his love was written on his face, and Griselda Mainwaring could not choose but read it. The compact between them might have been sealed then, had not a quiet, gentle voice near pronounced Mr. Travers' name.
"Leslie, my dear son!"
Griselda turned her face, flushed with crimson, towards Leslie's mother. He hastened to relieve Griselda's evident embarrassment by saying:
"May I have the honour of presenting you to my mother, Miss Mainwaring? I have promised to meet my guide to the house we were speaking of. I will return hither, mother; meantime, may I hope you and Miss Mainwaring will have some conversation which will be agreeable to both?"
"I will await your return, Leslie. But do not exceed half an hour, for the dark streets are not pleasant, especially for old folk like me, who have to pick my way carefully. Have you been long a visitor to Bath, madam?" Mrs. Travers said, as she seated herself with Griselda on one of the benches.
"We arrived in November, madam."
"Have you a mother and sister?"
"No, no!" Griselda said passionately. "I am alone in the world—an orphan."
"Ah, may the God of the fatherless be your Friend. You will make Him your Friend, my dear? This is a place fraught with danger. I feel it for my son—and how much more is it full of danger for you?"
"There are many beautiful things and interesting people in Bath. Do you know Mr. and Miss Herchel, madam?"
"I know them by report," was the reply. "My son is a musician, and attends Mr. Herschel's classes."
"It is not only music for which Mr. Herschel is famous. He is an astronomer, and reads the star-lit heavens like a book—a poem—a poem more wonderful than any written by earthly hands."
Mrs. Travers was surprised. She did not expect a child of the world—a fashionable young lady—to speak so seriously on any subject. But it was her duty to improve the occasion, and she said:
"I would rather read the Word of God than the star-lit skies, since the safety of the soul is surely a more important duty than to pry into the secret things of God."
"But He stretched out the heavens. He raises our thoughts above by their contemplation."
"Ah, my dear young lady, this is the vain tradition of men. Let me urge you to come to our chapel in the Vineyards on the next Sabbath, and hear the truth rightly divided by Mr. Relly. Do not be affronted at my boldness!"
"Oh no! I am obliged to you for caring about me. I have so few who do so care."
"I can scarcely believe it!" Mrs. Travers said. "So young and fair. Surely there are those who stand in the place of parents to you?"
"No; I know of none such. But here comes my aunt, Lady Betty Longueville. She will desire me to return, as we are expected at a small party to-night at Lady Miller's."
Sir Maxwell Danby, who had been watching his opportunity, now came forward:
"If you have quite done with yonder Niobe, will you permit me to escort you to your chair? No? You are walking? That is better; I shall have more of your company. Let me place your hood over your head—so! What a wealth of loveliness it hides!"
Griselda turned away impatiently; but as Lady Betty was in advance with Lord Basingstoke, she was obliged to follow them.
Sir Maxwell made the best of his opportunity, and held Griselda's hand as it rested on his arm, though she drew back from such familiarity.
"That old gentlewoman," he said, "was reading you a lecture on the sins of the world and its frivolities. I could see it; I have been watching you from afar."
"I am sorry, sir, you had no better subject of contemplation," was the reply.
It was but a step to North Parade; and, just as they reached it, Leslie Travers turned the corner from South Parade. It gave him a thrill of disgust to see Griselda on the arm of a man who he knew was no fit companion for any pure-minded woman, and a pang of jealousy shot through him, and got the better of his discretion.
"If you had waited, Miss Mainwaring, I should have returned at the time I appointed, and I could have told you of what I had seen."
"You did find her? You know, then, her story was true?"
"Yes, but the half had not been told; but more of this hereafter."
"I should be obliged to you, sir," Sir Maxwell began, "not to hinder this young lady any longer. She is under my charge, and I must move on."
"Who hinders you, sir?" was the answer. "Not I. Your goings and comings are matters of supreme indifference to me."
Sir Maxwell laughed.
"Boys are always outspoken, I know; and, like puppy dogs, have to be licked into shape."
"You shall be made to apologize for this insult, sir; and were you not in the lady's presence——"
"Oh, pray, Mr. Travers, do not be angry; no harm is meant. I shall look for you to-morrow to tell me the whole story of the poor little girl. Good-afternoon."
Then Griselda stepped on quickly to the door, and Sir Maxwell bowed his "Good-bye," taking her hand and kissing it.
"Why so cruel to me," he asked, "when I would be your slave? Nay, I am your slave, and do your bidding."
"If so, Sir Maxwell, you will allow me to pass into the house, and I wish to do so alone."
"I dare not disobey your orders, though I am invited to a dish of tea by her ladyship; only"—and he hissed the words out between his thin lips—"beware of puppy dogs—they show their teeth sometimes. Adieu—adieu!"
Lady Betty was in high good-humour in the drawing-room. A dainty tea-service had been set out—delicate cups with no handles—and a silver tea-pot and cream-jug; and Lord Basingstoke had taken up his favourite lounging attitude by the fire.
"What have you done with Sir Maxwell Danby, child?"
"He left me at the door."
"Where are your manners, not to invite him to come in?" Lady Betty said sharply. "I shall never teach you the proper behaviour, I believe."
"You might spare me before witnesses," Griselda said angrily. "If, indeed, I offend you, I will not inflict my company any longer on you."
Then, with a dignified curtsey, Griselda swept out of the room. It was terribly irritating to catch the sound of Lady Betty's laugh as she did so, and the words, "A very tragedy queen—a real stage 'curtshey.'"
Griselda hastened to her room, where she found Graves getting her change of toilette ready for the evening, and kindling a fire in the small grate.
"Oh dear, Graves! what a weariful world it is! Graves, tell me—now, do tell me—something about my mother."
"I have told you all I know many a time, my dearie. She was a fair flower, nipped and withered by the breath of this same world you speak of. May God preserve you in it!"
Griselda had thrown herself into a chair, and laid aside her cloak and hood. All her beautiful hair fell over her shoulders like rippling waves of gold.
"Dear Graves, I have met a gentleman often, who is not like the rest of the world's votaries. His name is Travers; his mother frequents the chapel in the Vineyards. Take me thither with you next Sunday! Say you will, Graves!"
"I will take you if her ladyship is up in good time; but I can't get off early if she chooses to lie a-bed. But you would not go to scoff, Miss Griselda?"
"Nay; I have done with scoffing. But, Graves, do you ever think of the miserable poor who have no food and no clothing, like a poor child I saw on Mr. Herschel's doorstep t'other night? This Mr. Travers has tracked her at my desire, and I want to sell some trinkets to feed and clothe her. Hand me the large box; I rarely open it. I did sell the amethyst-brooch to buy my violin, and now there are the two necklets my grandmother left my mother, and which came to me by will; and there are some other trinkets—a silver scent-box and golden ear-drops. Make haste, dear Graves, and let me do what I wish."
"Well," said Graves, "I suppose you can do what you will with your own; but, all the same, I don't hold with selling property—you may want it yourself some day."
"True—ah, that is true! I wonder how it came about that I had no maintenance!"
"Your poor dear mamma had her portion on her marriage with that good-for-nothing, and he made away with every penny. Then Mr. Longueville took you as you know, and gave you a home."
"Yes; he was good to me. I remember coming, I think, when I was four years old."
"You poor little thing!" Graves exclaimed. "Yes, I can see you now, in your black pelisse, so shy and so strange! If your poor uncle had never married, it would have been all right; but there, my lady could draw water out of a stone by her wiles and ways. It's no use moaning over spilt milk. Here's the box. Now, don't be in a hurry to sell, as I tell you these trinkets are all you've got in the world. I must go and look after her ladyship's buckles; she wants a blue rosette sewn on her shoes, and the buckles taken off. It is all vanity and vexing of spirit. She'll be as cross as two sticks to-night; she always is, when she has been to the Pump Room, drinking these waters for fidgets and fancies—they upset folks' stomachs, and then other folks have to put up with their tantrums."
When Graves was gone, Griselda pulled the little table towards her; and, taking a small key from her chatelaine, unlocked the box.
"Yes," she thought, "it is as Graves says, I have nothing in the world but these jewels. It seemed till to-day that I had no one in the world to care for me; but now I think he does care for me. He is not like those gay, foolish men who treat women as if they were dolls to be dressed up, or puppets to move at their bidding. No, he is of another sort, I think." And the swift blush came to her fair cheek. "What if he loves me! It would be sweet to be taken from this hollow existence—dressing and dancing, and looking out for flattery and admiration. If he were near, that dreadful man would not dare to talk to me as he does—he would not dare if I were not an orphan; and my only protector—that silly creature who drives me nearly wild with her folly——Well, let me hope better times are coming. Now for the jewels."
The box was lined with cedar, and as the cover was raised a faint, sweet odour of cedar mingled with otto of roses came with a message from the past. Through the dim haze of long years that scent recalled to Griselda a room, where a tall dark man had sat by the embers of a fire, the box before him, and some words which the fragrance mysteriously seemed to bring back.
"It was her wish, and the child must go." The child! What child?—and whither did she go? It was herself—it must have been herself—the man meant.
Then it was all haze again. The light that had penetrated the mists of the past, and brought the scene before her, was obscured once more.
That man must have been her father; but she had no memories of him either before or after that day, which had risen like a phantom before her, called up by the faint sweet scent of the old jewel-box.
The necklets were very fair to look at—one of pearls, with a diamond clasp, and initials on the gold at the back, which were her dead mother's. No, she could not sell that; but there were heavy ear-drops of solid gold, and a set of gold buttons—these would surely fetch something. The amethyst necklace, with its lovely purple hue, had never belonged to her mother; and she put it, with the gold buttons and ear-rings, into a small leather box, and was pressing down one of the compartments, when a drawer flew open she had never noticed before. In the drawer were some diamond ornaments and rings; a piece of yellow paper was fastened to one of the rings:
"Deserted by the husband I trusted, I, Phyllis Mainwaring, leave to my only child, Griselda, these diamonds. I place them out of sight, safe from dishonest hands. When I left him to get bread he knew nothing of them, or he would have sold them. They are my poor darling's only inheritance, and I leave them secure that one day she will find them. Let her take with them her unhappy mother's blessing."
This was indeed a discovery. Griselda had always remembered that this box had stood in her room at Longueville House. She remembered her uncle bidding her bring it to him, and that he placed in it the trinkets left to her by her grandmother, but never had anyone suspected the existence of the diamonds. No one knew, that when the man whom she had married was running through her little fortune, the unhappy wife had, in her despair, converted a few hundreds into diamonds, and hidden them away from all eyes in that old jewel-box.
Griselda's eyes filled with tears. She pressed the bit of paper to her lips, and, wholly unconscious of the worth of those precious stones, she closed the drawer again upon that unexpected discovery, and, putting the small box safely in the drawer of the bureau, she took her violin from its case, and tried to wake from it the music which lay hidden in it. As she played—imperfectly enough, yet with the ear of a musician—her spirit was soothed and comforted; and these verses, written in a thin, pointed hand, were dropped into Lady Miller's vase that evening with no name or cypher affixed, and the mystery of the author was not solved: