It was the lily of pure unsullied womanly delicacy, which contact with the world of fashion in every town is too apt to touch, and even wither with its baleful breath.
It would not be fair to say that in the Bath assemblies this baleful influence was all-pervading. Then, as now, there were many who, by their own guilelessness and purity, repelled the approach of what was harmful in word or jest.
But what is now spread over a wide surface was—in those days of small centres like Bath and other places of fashionable resort in or near London—pressed within a narrower compass, and thus the evil and its results were more prominently brought forward.
But is not the canker at the root of many a fair flower of womanhood in the higher circles of our own time? Do not maidens and matrons, young and old, of our own day permit, nay, encourage, the discussion of scandal and improprieties in their presence, which by their very discussion tend to stain the pure white flower of maidenhood and motherhood? Is it not true that familiarity with any evil seems to lessen its magnitude, and that continual conversation about matters that are even perhaps condemned, has the effect of making the speaker and hearer less and less guarded in their remarks, and less and less "shocked," as they perhaps at first declared themselves to be, at some sad lapse from the straight path amongst their acquaintances and friends?
It would be distasteful to me, and it would not add to the interest of the story I have to tell, were I to draw a picture true to life of Sir Maxwell Danby. He was an utterly unscrupulous and base man. He had no standard of morality, except the standard of doing what best satisfied his own selfish and low aims. How it was that he had determined to win a woman like Griselda, I cannot say, so utterly different as she was from the many women who had fallen into his power. But the fact remained that he was determined to win her, and if he failed, his love—though I desecrate that word by applying it to any feeling of Sir Maxwell Danby's—would assuredly turn to hatred and determination to do what he could to destroy her happiness.
As Griselda sat that evening with the light of two tall candles in their massive brass candlesticks, shining on her beautiful face, there was no shadow over it.
What if Lady Betty renounced her, and turned her out of the house?—well, if the whole world were against her, she was no longer alone. She was his, who loved her, and was ready at any moment to take her to his heart and home. "I must write to him," she was saying as she stroked her cheek with the soft feather at the end of her quill; "I must write to him and tell him all—everything! and then he will know what to do."
Soon the pen began to move over the paper, and she smiled as she put it through the "sir," which had been written after "dear," and substituted "Leslie."
How strange and yet how sweet it was to look at it! And then she went on:
"I said you must wait till I called you by your name! You have not had to wait long."
She wrote on till she heard a bustle on the pavement below her window. She went to it, and looking down saw the link-boys with their torches and the chair in which Lady Betty was being carried off to the Assembly, and the chair was followed by another, and several dark figures shrouded in long cloaks were in attendance.
It was a clear frosty evening. The sky was studded with countless stars, and the fields and meadows then lying before North Parade, made a blank space of sombre hue where no distant forms of tree or dwelling could be traced; while beyond was the dim outline of the hills, which stand round about that City of the West. Lonely heights then!—now crowned by many stately terraces and houses, where a thousand lamps shine, and define the outline of the crescents and upward-reaching streets and roads. But gas was not known in that winter of 1780! It lay hidden in those strangely-mysterious places, with electricity and the power of steam, waiting to be called out into activity; for those hidden forces are old as the eternal hills, only waiting the magic touch of some master's hand, to be of service to men, who are but slow to recognise whence every good and perfect gift comes.
When the house was quiet, Griselda returned to her desk, and slowly and deliberately finished her letter. It was not long, and covered only one side of the sheet. Then it was folded with care to make the edges fit in nicely, and nothing remained but to seal it; and she was about to light the little taper, and get the old seal from the corner of her desk, when a tap at the door was followed by Graves's entrance with a tray.
"Your supper," she said shortly, "Miss Griselda."
Graves's voice and manner were so unusual that Griselda started up.
"What is the matter?" she asked. "Why do you look so miserable? Was she trying your patience—you poor dear old Graves—past bearing? Graves, why don't you speak?" But Graves's mouth was close shut, and she looked as if determined not to answer. "Look, Graves, I have written a letter to Mr. Travers, and told him what Lady Betty said to me; that is, I told him she said she would cast me off, unless I did as she chose in a matter which I could not explain in a letter, but connected with Sir Maxwell Danby."
"She can't cast you off! You were left to her in the will for maintenance. I do know that much."
"Yes!" Griselda said vehemently—"yes! like any other of my uncle's goods and chattels! Oh, I am free now!—I am free!—or shall be soon! I will not think of vexing matters to-night of all nights! What a dainty little supper! I like oyster-patties. Ah! that reminds me of your promise, Graves. Have you been to Crown Alley? Did you take the soup? and were you kind in your manner to the poor little girl? Graves, did you go?"
"Yes, Miss Griselda, I went."
"And what did you think? Had I made too much of the misery, and want, and wretchedness of that poor man?"
"No, Miss Griselda—no, my dear!" said Graves.
"I must go again in a day or two, and you shall come with me."
Graves relapsed into silence again, and then Griselda put the important seal on her letter, and addressed it, and gave it to Graves, with instructions to send it safely by the hand of David early the next morning.
"It is a comfort to have told him all!" she said, as Graves finally left the room. "And how happy I am to be no longer a chattel, but a part of the very life of another, and that other a man like my Leslie!"
Sweet were Griselda's dreams that night, all fears seemed to have vanished, and the image of Sir Maxwell Danby bore no part in them.
Women of Griselda's type, tasting the cup of happiness for the first time, are inclined to drink deep of its contents. Perhaps only those who have not felt the loneliness of heart like hers can tell how great was the reaction. Hitherto she had been plainly told she was an encumbrance, and that her business in coming to Bath was to get a settlement in life as soon as possible. It was this that had made her maintain the cold, reserved demeanour which was, as I have said, unlikely to make her popular in the mixed assemblies of Wiltshire's Rooms and the Pump Room. She had surrendered the citadel of her heart with a whole and perfect surrender; and while the gay crowd was bent on enjoyment, and beaux and belles were trying who could be first in the exchange of pleasantries and jokes not of the most refined character, Griselda dreamed her dreams, and slept in peace; while Graves, carrying the letter downstairs, stopped from time to time, and murmured:
"I have not the heart to tell her! I dare not tell her! Or, if I do, not to-night!—not to-night! How could I spoil her happiness to-night! May the Lord call her, and may she hear His voice, for I fear trouble lies before her, poor lamb!"
It is wonderful what perseverance and energy can effect! Even in the very prosaic and commonplace circumstances of a removal from Rivers Street to King Street, these qualities were conspicuous in the Herschels. Miss Herschel had worked with a will from daybreak to nightfall, and the stolid Welsh servant, Betty, had been infected with the general stir and bustle of the household.
By nine o'clock that evening Mr. Herschel was established in his observatory at the top of the house, without a single mischance happening to any of his mirrors or reflectors, and without the loss of a single instrument. It was a night when the temptation to sweep the heavens was too great to resist, and although he felt some compunction when he heard the running to and fro below-stairs, and his sister's voice raised certainly above concert-pitch in exhortations to Betty and entreaties to Alick to be sharp and quick, he had fixed one of his telescopes, and was lost in calculations and admiration at some previously unnoticed feature of the nebulæ, when his brother Alex came into the room.
"We have got supper ready," he said, "and Travers is below offering help—rather late in the day—and the only help he can give now is to help to eat the double Gloucester cheese and drink the Bristol ale. But come, Will; you have had no proper meal to-day!"
"Humph! what," Mr. Herschel said, "did I say? Nineteen millions of miles, or eighteen and three-quarter millions? Yes, Alex—yes. Can I be of any assistance? How about the violins and the harpsichord? There are several lessons down for to-morrow, and Ronzini will be here about the oratorio. I ought to have gone to Bristol, but it was impossible. There's the score of that quartette in G minor, Alex—is it safe?"
"Yes—yes. I pray you, brother, trust the sagacity of your workers, and repay them with a scrap of gratitude." Then yawning, "If you are not as tired as any tired dog, I am; and I am off to bed, such as it is, for there is only one bedstead put up—that is the four-post for you. Lina and I have decided to sleep on the floor."
"Nonsense! I shall not sleep to-night, I have too much to settle. Let good Lina take some rest for her weary limbs. And, Alex, to-morrow, we must see about the workshop in the garden and the casting for the thirty-foot reflector, for I can have no real peace of mind till that is an accomplished fact. The mirror for the thirty-foot reflector is to be cast in a mould of loam, prepared from horse dung. It will require an immense quantity; it must be pounded in a mortar; it must be sifted through a sieve."
Alex shrugged his shoulders, and made an exclamation in German which brought a laugh from his brother.
"Poor Alex, is the lowest yet most important step of the ladder distasteful to you? I will not trouble you, my boy, nor will I enlist Lina in the service against her wishes—do not fear."
"I fear no work for you, William," Alex said, "when music is concerned, you know that; but——"
"I know—I know," William Herschel said, patting his brother's shoulder; "but, remember, I make even music—yes, even music—that heaven-born gift, subservient to the better understanding of that goodly host of heaven, beyond and above all earthly consideration and mere earthly aims. But let us go to supper. We must eat to live—at any rate, young ones like you must. Come!"
The room below was not in such dire confusion as might have been expected. The harpsichord was pushed close to the wall, with a company of violin, violoncello, and double-bass cases, standing like so many sarcophagi in serried rows.
The table was spread with a clean cloth, and a large drinking-cup of delft ware, supported by three figures of little Cupids, with a bow for a handle, was full of strong ale.
A large brown loaf, and a Cheddar cheese, looked inviting; while a plate of Bath buns, with puffed shining tops, indented with a crescent of lemon-peel, showed the taste for sweet cakes which all Germans display.
"My good sister," Mr. Herschel said, "you are a wondrous housewife; we must not forget to give the mother far away a true and faithful report of your skill—eh, Alex?"
"Skill!" Caroline said. "There is not much skill required—only strength. Come, Mr. Travers, take what there is, and overlook deficiencies."
Then the legs of the mahogany chairs scraped on the bare boards, and the four sat down to their meal. The grace-cup was passed round. Miss Herschel, drawing a clean napkin through the handle, with which those who took a draught wiped their lips and the edge of the cup. The conversation was bright and lively, and Leslie Travers, who was in the first joy of Griselda's acceptance of his love, thought he had never before tasted such excellent bread and cheese, or drunk such beer.
"There is a ball at Lady Westover's to-night, Travers," Alex said. "You are absenting yourself from choice, I doubt not. I absent myself from necessity."
"You could have gone, Alex; only I warned you I had no time to get up your lace-ruffles to-day; and you are so reckless with your cravats—all were crumpled and dirty."
"My dear sister, I do not complain. I heard, by-the-bye, Travers, that the voice of the Assembly Room is unanimous in declaring Miss Mainwaring the reigning beauty; but——"
"But what?" Leslie asked.
"There are two or three men inclined to make too free with her name."
Leslie's brow darkened.
"I know of one," he said; "but, sir, if you should chance again to hear a word spoken of Miss Mainwaring, you may remind the speaker that she is my promised wife. She has, unworthy as I am, done me the honour to look favourably on my suit this very day."
"Indeed! you are a fortunate man," Alex said heartily.
"I came with the purpose, madam," Leslie said, turning to Miss Herschel, "to ask if you will, when agreeable to you, give Miss Mainwaring lessons in singing? I am," he said, colouring, "responsible for the price of the lessons, only I do not desire to let Miss Mainwaring know this."
"I must look in the book of engagements," Miss Herschel said; "we are over-full as it is. The days lost in the removal threw us back, but," she said, drawing a book with a marble-paper cover from her capacious pocket, "I will run my eye over the lists, and try to arrange it, William."
But Mr. Herschel had left the room; he returned in a few minutes to say:
"Lina, the men will be here as soon as it is light to-morrow about the furnace; and, Lina, I shall be glad to have the micrometer lamp and the fire in my room."
"Yes, William;" and the question of singing-lessons for Griselda Mainwaring, or anyone else, was for the time forgotten.
Far into the night did that loyal-hearted sister, tired with a hard day's work, assist her brother in the arrangement of his new study—his sanctum sanctorum, on the top-floor of the house, made memorable in the annals of Bath and the records of the country, to which he, William Herschel, came a stranger, as the spot where his labour received the crown of success in the discovery of Uranus.
Griselda shrank from meeting Lady Betty after the stormy scene of the previous day, and Graves brought her breakfast to her own room.
"Did you send my letter, Graves?"
"Yes."
"Surely, by a safe hand?"
"I hope you don't think David's unsafe!" was the short reply.
"Graves, why are you so gloomy—like the day? Oh!" she said, turning to the window, which was blurred with a driving mist of rain—"oh! there ought to be sunshine everywhere to suit me to-day."
"There's not likely to be a ray of sun to-day. Bath folks say that if the weather once sets in like this, it goes on rain, rain——"
"Well, it can't last for ever—nothing does."
"No; that's true," said Graves.
Griselda now settled herself to her breakfast with the appetite of youth; and, as Graves left the room, she said:
"Bring the letter the instant it comes, Graves—the answer to my letter, I mean; or perhaps Mr. Travers may come himself."
But the day wore on, and Griselda waited and watched in vain. She tried to occupy herself with her violin; she made a fair copy of her verses, and smiled as she thought, that waiting—her waiting—had at last been crowned with reward.
Then she fell into dreams of her past life; the dull dreary round at Longueville Park; her uncle's long illness; her dependence for education on the library and its store of books, and the good offices of the clergyman of the little parish, who gave her lessons in Latin, and such Italian as he knew. Needlecraft and embroidery she had learned from his wife; and she was an accomplished needlewoman.
It was a haphazard education, but Griselda's natural gifts made her able to adapt it to her needs; and she was a self-cultured woman, who lived her own life apart from the frivolity of Lady Betty, to whom, as she said, she was simply an appendage.
Then there was the closing of Longueville Park till the heir returned from the Grand Tour; for, in spite of Lady Betty's wiles and effusive letters, the heir made it very evident that he did not desire her to remain at the Park till his return in a year or two, as Lady Betty fondly hoped.
Then the little widow made the best of the circumstances, and set forth with David and Graves to see the world.
This was two years ago now, and the interval had been filled up with a few months in Dublin, a short sojourn at the Bristol Hot Wells, and then, in the October of 1779, the house on the North Parade, Bath, was taken, where Lady Betty emerged from her weeds, dropping them as the butterfly drops the chrysalis, and floating off into the world of fashion, with Griselda as her "sweet friend," and "pet," and protégée, but never as her "niece."
From time to time Griselda gave up meditation, and stationed herself at the window. The small panes, set in thick frames, were dim with moisture. The fields before her, which stretched to the hills, were reeking with damp. The hills themselves, and the houses and terraces which the day before had laughed in the sunshine, were now hidden, or only seen gray and black through the driving rain.
No grand chariots, with red-coated post-boys, swept round the corner from South Parade, drawing up with a flourish at a door near. Very few people were out in the dim wet streets, and only a few disconsolate patients were conveyed at intervals by drenched and surly chair-men to and from the Pump Room, the water dripping from the roofs of the chairs, and the men's feet making a dull sound on the wet pavements, or on the miry road below.
Soon a panic seized Griselda that perhaps that letter had been a little premature. Was it possible that Leslie Travers could think her unmaidenly to write as she had done?
The thought was torture, and the torture grew more and more hard to bear, as the leaden hours passed.
At the dinner-hour Graves appeared.
"Have you brought it—the letter?"
"No; I've brought a message from her ladyship—that Sir Maxwell Danby is below, and dines here; and you are to go downstairs."
"I will not go downstairs—I will not see him," Griselda said passionately. "Say, Graves, please, that I am unwell, and desire to remain in my room."
"My poor child!—my poor child!" Graves said. "I think you had best go—I do, indeed!"
"You would not say so if you knew. No; I will not go. Make my apologies, and say what is true-that I am not well. But, Graves, that letter—did you send it?"
"I have told you so, Miss Griselda. I speak the truth, as you ought to know."
"Did David take it?"
And now Graves hesitated a little:
"I gave it to his care as soon as I went down this morning; but——"
"But what?"
"The gentleman has been here, and David was ordered to refuse him admittance. I must take your message; there's the bell ringing again."
Griselda stood where Graves left her, her hands clasped together, and exclaimed:
"What shall I do?—wait till he writes? He will surely write! Oh, that I had someone to consult! Shall I leave the house?—shall I go to Mrs. Travers? No; I would not force myself on her—or anyone. I must wait. Surely my poor little rhymes were prophetic! Waiting and watching——"
Again Graves appeared with a tray, on which was Griselda's dinner. A little three-cornered note lay on the napkin.
Griselda snatched it up, and read, in Lady Betty's thin, straggling, pointed handwriting:
"Do not atempt to shew your face, miss, till you have made a propar apollgey, and have declared your readynes to meet the gentleman who has done you the honour of adressing you.
"B. L."
Lady Betty's spelling was, to say the least of it, eccentric; and Griselda smiled as she crumpled up the note and tossed it into the fire.
"Very well, I am a prisoner then till my true knight comes to set me free. Make my compliments to her ladyship, and say, Graves, that I am obedient to her orders, and have no intention of showing my face."
"My dear," Graves said, "pray to the Lord to help you; you will need His help."
"What do you mean? Speak out, Graves."
But again Graves left the room, murmuring to herself:
"I have not the heart to tell her, yet she must surely know; she must be told."
The long, slow hours passed, and twilight deepened early, for the sky only showed a lurid glow in the west for a few minutes at sunset, and then the rain and mist swept over the city, and nothing was to be seen from the window but the dim light of an oil-lamp here and there, and the flare of the link-boys' torches as they passed in attendance on chairs, or lighted pedestrians across the road for a fee of a halfpenny.
At the accustomed hour Lady Betty set off to the Assembly Room, and the house being quiet, Griselda came out of her room.
David was in attendance with his mistress, and only the woman who let the house and cooked for the family was at home with her daughter.
Griselda heard her voice raised to reproach her daughter, who acted as servant to the establishment, and she caught the words: "Shut the door, Sarah Anne! Send the young rascal away!—a little thief, no doubt!"
Griselda ran downstairs, impelled by some hidden instinct, and feeling sure that the messenger came from Crown Alley.
The door was partially open, and Sarah Anne was evidently trying to shut it against an effort to keep it open.
Then Griselda heard a voice pleading—a musical boyish voice:
"Let the young lady know I'm here; pray do."
And now Graves came from the back of the house, and exclaimed, as Griselda was trying to admit the boy:
"Go back into the dining-parlour, Miss Griselda. Go; I'll speak to the boy."
But Brian Bellis had pushed the door open, and now stood under the dull glow of the lamp hanging over the entrance.
"Madam," he said, addressing Griselda, "I am sent to tell you that Mr. Lamartine is dying; he can't last till morning, and he craves to see you. For Norah's sake, madam, I beg you to come. I am Brian Bellis, you know—Norah's only friend. I beg you to come."
"Yes, I will come."
"He has something to tell you. He says he cannot die till he has told you."
"I will come. Stand back, Graves; what do you mean?"
For Graves had laid her hand on Griselda's arm as she turned to go upstairs to get her cloak and hood.
"You must not go to Crown Alley at this time of night; wait till morning."
"No, I will not wait; it may be too late to-morrow."
Poor Graves almost groaned in the agony of her spirit. "My dear—my poor dear," she said, "you are not fit to go and see a man like him die."
"Do not listen to her," Brian Bellis said; "do not listen—for Norah's sake."
Griselda freed herself from Graves's hand and ran upstairs, returning presently in her long cloak and a calèche well pulled over her face.
All this time Mrs. Abbott and her daughter Sarah Anne had watched the scene with curious eyes, and a small boy who ran errands and turned the spit in the kitchen, cleaned knives, and performed a variety of such menial offices, had, all unperceived, been watching from the top of the stairs leading to the basement and offices.
The boy had his own reasons for watching. A bit of gold was already in his pocket which had been given him by a fine gentleman who had stopped him in the morning as he was running off at David's command, with Griselda's letter to King Street.
Another bit of gold was promised this hopeful young personage if he kept a watch on the proceedings of the beautiful young lady who lived with Lady Betty Longueville. This boy, who was familiarly called "Zach," was only too pleased to be thus employed. He had, in fact, given up the letter to this smart gentleman, who was Sir Maxwell Danby's valet, and who had also been well-paid for acting spy on many like occasions. It was the most natural thing in the world for him to stop Zach, ask to look at the letter, slip a half-guinea into his hand, and tell him he would convey it to Mr. Travers, as he had a message for him from his master, and that he might go about his daily business and hold his tongue. The letter would reach its destination—he need not trouble himself about it; and the bait held out of another piece of gold for further information if wanted, depended on his keeping silence; if he did this, his fortune was made.
So those little lynx eyes of Master Zach's were very wide open indeed, and he saw Graves make a final effort to prevent the young lady from going off with Brian Bellis.
It was ineffectual, for Griselda said proudly:
"Do not interfere, Graves; I will not suffer you to do so."
"Then I must come along with you," poor Graves said, and getting near to Griselda, she seized her hand, and putting her mouth close to her face, whispered something which seemed to turn the graceful figure standing ready for departure into stone.
She put out her hand and supported herself against the back of a tall chair which stood near, but beyond this she never moved, till poor Graves, in a duffle-cloak with many capes and a large black beaver bonnet, returned, ready to accompany her on her errand. Then she took the hand which hung passive at Griselda's side.
"I am ready, my dear—I am ready," Graves said. "Show the way, boy. Have you a torch handy?"
"No, madam; but I can find the way in the dark."
Then Mrs. Abbott called Zach.
"Quick, Zach! quick! light a torch, and light these ladies on their way; or shall he call a chair, madam?"
"No," Griselda said, starting as if from a dream; "no. Now, Graves!" Then pulling her hood over her face, and taking Graves's offered arm, she said to Brian: "Lead the way; I am ready."
Zach trotted along with the link in his hand, keeping close to Brian, and the two women followed. Neither spoke till they were well within the shadow of the Alley, from which a noisy party of women and girls were coming out.
Brian, who was in advance, stopped, and Griselda stopped also.
"Are you sure?" she asked in a low voice—"are you sure? Is there no mistake?"
"There is no mistake. I wish there was—oh! I wish there was!"
Griselda seemed to be gathering strength now, for she left Graves's arm, and followed Brian up the long narrow flight of stairs. The child Norah had heard the sound of coming feet on the creaking staircase, and opened the door of the attic, saying:
"He is quieter now." Then, with a sob: "Oh! Brian, Brian! you have been such a long, long time; and have you brought her—the lady—the young lady?"
"Yes, I am here," Griselda said; "yes. How is your——"
The word died away on her lips—that word that ought to bring with it nothing but tender feeling of respect and love—that word which we use when we speak of the highest and the best guardian for life and death—"Father!"
Yes, that wild haggard man, who had sunk back in a lethargy after long incoherent ravings, was the father of the beautiful woman who, unfastening her cloak, let it fall from her on the floor of that wretched room; and, kneeling, clasped her hands, and cried, in the bitterness of her soul:
"Oh, that it was not true! Can it be true? Graves—Graves, tell me it is a frightful dream, and not reality!"
"My poor dear!" said Graves, in a choked voice, kneeling by Griselda's side, and putting her strong arm round her to support her. "My poor dear! I wish I could tell you it was a dream; but bear up, and put your trust in the Lord. It may be that He may save yonder poor creature as He saved the thief, in the hour of death."
The money which Griselda had brought the day before had added some comfort to that bare room. A good fire was burning, and the bed on which the man lay was covered with blankets.
There was wine, too, and food; and thus, all unawares, the daughter had performed a daughter's duty, and had ministered to the comfort of the last sad hours of that wasted life.
But it were vain to try to tell how Griselda's whole nature shrank from this sudden revelation—how the impulse was strong to leave the room before consciousness returned to the dying man—so intensely did she dread the recognition which she knew must follow.
For Graves had risen from her knees; and, going to the table, had taken a small case, and a letter from it, saying:
"He showed me these last night; they tell their own tale."
Poor little Norah had resumed her place by the bedside, exhausted with her long watching. She had slipped down on the floor, and had fallen into a doze. When Graves touched the case, she sprang up:
"No; you must not. Father said I was to let no one touch it till she came. No——"
The movement, and the child's voice, roused the sick man. He opened his large eyes, and looked about him—at first with no expression in them; but presently those black, lack-lustre eyes became almost bright as he fastened them on Griselda, and said, in a collected manner:
"Yes; I am glad I have lived to see you. Look! there is the portrait of your mother, and a letter from her, in which is her wedding-ring. I would not bury it with her; I kept it for you—her child—her only child—my child. Let me hear you call me 'father!' I was so cruel—so base—she had to flee from me—my poor Phyllis!"
Griselda had opened the case, and stood irresolute with the portrait of her mother in her hand. A lock of light hair was twisted into a curl, fastened by a narrow band of small pearls.
The mother's face, lovely yet sad, looked up at the daughter's, and seemed to express sympathy and pity for her.
Deeply had the mother suffered—would her child be like her in this, as in outward form and semblance? The likeness was so unmistakable, that, except for the different style of dress, the miniature might have been painted as a portrait of Griselda herself.
"My mother!" she whispered softly; and, to the surprise of those who stood by, the sick man said, in a voice very different from the raving tones which had been ringing through the room and reaching to every part of the house:
"Yes; your mother. I remember you, little Griselda—little Griselda. I took you to Longueville, and left you there. You cried then to leave me; you weep now to find me. Well, it is just. I have been a wicked wretch; I have but little breath left—but take my poor little one out of this—this stage-life. Take her, and try to love her; she is your sister."
"I will," Griselda said. "I shall have a home soon—she shall share it."
"I thought as much—I hoped as much. He looks worthy of you, Griselda. Norah," he said, "this is your sister—your princess, as you call her; she will care for you. You will be a good little maid to her?"
"Yes, father," Norah said; and then, with touching simplicity, she put her little hand into Griselda's, and, looking up at her, she saw tears were coursing each other down her cheeks.
"Will you pray for me?" the dying man said. "Pray that I may be forgiven."
"Pray for yourself, father," Griselda whispered.
He heard the word fall from her lips; and, putting out his long, thin, wasted hand, he laid it on her head as she knelt by the bed, and said:
"I pray to be forgiven, and for blessings on you."
"For Christ's sake!"
The voice was from Graves, who, in broken accents, called upon the Master whom she loved to have mercy on the poor penitent who lay dying.
Then little Norah, nestling close to her father, repeated the 23rd Psalm; but before she had ended, her father became restless, and fumbled for the paper, and said:
"The ring—the ring—her mother's ring!"
Griselda put it into his feeble, uncertain grasp, and he murmured:
"Put it on—put it on; and forgive me for all the misery I caused your mother. I broke her heart; and then the flames—the cruel flames—took from me the other poor child who loved me. My wife—Norah's mother—well, if she had lived, I should have broken her heart, too."
After this there were no coherent words—all was confusion again; and before the Abbey clock had struck out eleven, the spirit had passed away. Who shall dare to limit the love and forgiveness of God in Christ?
With this sad story of a misspent and miserable life we have no more to do here. It rolls back into the mists of oblivion with tens of thousands like it in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, and in all the centuries since the world began. We dare not say such life-stories leave no trace behind, for true it is that the evil lives, when the doer of the evil is gone. The two daughters of this unhappy man were bearing the consequences of his sin. The child cast penniless on the cold world, the beautiful girl by her side suffering as only such a nature could suffer from the sense of humiliation and distress that her father had been a man whose very name must perish with him—for who would wish to keep it in remembrance? Oh for the good name which is better than riches to leave to our children! Surely, when troubled for the future of our sons and daughters, we may strive to leave them that which is better than silver and gold—the inheritance of a good name, of parents who have been honourable members of the great commonwealth, true to God, and true to man, and have scorned the paths of deceit and guile, as well as the ways of open sin and treacherous wickedness.
"We must get back, Miss Griselda. Her ladyship will be returned. We must go at once."
"Yes. But Norah—the child?"
"I will take care of her," Brian Bellis said. "See! she is almost stupefied with her grief—she will scarce heed your departure!"
"I cannot leave her—poor little girl! She has no one in the world but me!" Griselda said, in a tone of deep emotion.
While they were thus speaking, the stairs creaked under the weight of Mrs. Betts, who, with one of the actors from the theatre, came to inquire for Lamartine. Mrs. Betts was a coarse, loud-voiced woman, but her nature was kind, and she pitied the child who had done so much for her father with all her heart. She was a woman of decision too, and, with one glance at the bed, she lifted the almost unconscious Norah in her arms, and turning to the pale, haggard man, who had been acting in Lamartine's place, she said:
"You bide here while I take the child to my lodgings. And we must give notice of the death, and club to get him decently buried. Mr. Palmer will give a guinea, and we'll all follow in the same line. Harrison, do you hear?"
"Yes—yes," the man said hurriedly; "but don't leave me long alone here. I—I don't care to have the company of a dead man for long."
"You are an arrant coward, then, for your pains! There, go into the inner chamber, and I'll be back in half an hour. Turn the key in the lock," Mrs. Betts said, as she began to trudge down the dark stairs with Norah in her arms—"turn the key."
But the man sprang to the door:
"Don't—don't lock me in! I'll stay; but don't lock the door!"
A scornful laugh from Mrs. Betts was the answer, and Graves coolly turned the key as she was told.
Brian Bellis had gone down to look for Zach and the torch, but no Zach was to be found. He had made off to earn another gold-piece, and had performed his errand well, as the event proved.
Poor Griselda had need of the support of Graves's strong arm as she hurried her along to the North Parade. What if Lady Betty were before her! What if it should come to her being really refused admittance to the house! Graves trembled to think of it, and of what she would personally be made to suffer if she were not at her post in her mistress's bedroom at the appointed hour.
Griselda had really no thought about this. Her one longing was to get back—back to her room, where she could pour forth her trouble, and consider how she should tell him who had loved her so well, that she was the daughter of the man by whose bedside they had stood together, all unconscious that they were doing anything more than responding to the entreaty of a child who was almost starving, and who was the only friend the wretched man seemed to possess.
To Graves's intense relief, Mrs. Abbott opened the door, and, in reply to the anxious question, said:
"No, her ladyship is not come home. Nobody has been here since Zach returned to say you did not want him any more."
"I never said so!" Graves exclaimed. "We've groped home as best we could, for the rain and mist put out the lights, and as to the lamps, the glass is so thick with damp you can scarce see a spark in them."
While Graves was speaking, Griselda had gone wearily upstairs. Her cloak was saturated with rain, and as she unfastened her calèche the masses of her hair fell back. At the top of the first flight she stopped.
"Graves! ask if a messenger has brought a letter for me."
"No," Mrs. Abbott said, answering—"no. Not a soul has been near the house since you left it."
"No letter!—no letter!" Griselda murmured; and then, when she reached her room, she threw aside her cloak and seated herself, with folded hands, staring out into the embers of the fire with a look in her face which made Graves say, as she hastened towards her:
"My dear! my poor child! don't look like that. It is over now—and a mercy too. There will never be any need to tell—no one need know. It's safe with me, and no one else need know. Come, let me help you to bed before I am wanted elsewhere. Come!"
"I am not going to bed," Griselda said. "I must wait till he comes or sends again."
"We'll, the gentleman won't send at this time of night, that's certain! Come, they will be back at any minute now! Let me put you to bed. I declare," said Graves, shuddering, "a change in the weather like this is enough to give one rheumatism! I don't call the Bath climate so wonderful—frost one day, thaw and rain the next!"
Graves made up the fire, and then, finding Griselda quite determined to sit up, she left her to fetch some refreshment, wisely thinking that to urge her against her will was hopeless just then.
"She will come round, poor child! It is a dreadful shock! I almost wish I'd told her last night; but I hadn't the courage to do it. I make no doubt the Lord is leading her to Himself by a rough path. But I don't like that look in her face; it is not natural. She ought to cry; tears are always softening to grief. Not that one can call it grief to lose a father like him!"
No, it was not grief, but it was deep pity; and it was shame, and soreness of heart, and wounded pride.
Then that letter she had written in the fulness of her first joy—that letter, by which she cast herself upon Leslie Travers, and confided to him her trouble about Sir Maxwell. He had never answered it. He had come to the house, it is true, but he had been sent away. Hours had gone by since, and he made no sign. What could she think but that he had looked with an unfavourable eye upon that outpouring of her full heart—perhaps thought her reference to Sir Maxwell's hateful addresses unmaidenly, unwomanly?
Griselda went over all this again and again, sitting as Graves had left her, her head resting against the back of a high Chippendale chair, her feet on the brass fender, her hands clasped, and the wealth of her beautiful hair covering her as with a mantle.
"How shall I tell him?" she said at last. "I must tell him; he must know; he will not wish me to be his wife now, perhaps. There is little Norah; I cannot part from her. How selfish I am! I am not thinking of her, or of anybody but myself. Oh, what a cruel, cruel blow to all my hopes! Ah, mother! mother!" she exclaimed as she suddenly remembered the case she had dropped into her wide pocket with the ring and the letter. "Ah! mother!"
For as her cold hands drew out the case, and she pressed the spring, it flew open, and the mother's face seemed to have a living power for the daughter.
Sympathy and maternal love and tenderness were all seen on that beautiful countenance; and yet there was a strength in the lines of the lovely mouth, those rosy, curved lips, parting as if to say, "Be of good courage! the battle may be sore; but victory comes at length. Trust, and be not afraid!"
Then tenderly and reverently Griselda unfolded the yellow paper, to which a ring was fastened with many clumsy stitches of silk, and read the faint characters of the few lines which were traced there.
"I send you back the ring, as the tie between us is broken, Patrick. Keep it for our child; she is in safety at Longueville Park. Do not molest her; leave her to a better home than you can give her. You took her there by my request; leave her there. Before you read this I shall be no longer on earth; but I have forgiven you, dear, as I hope to be forgiven. Ours has been the wrong. Oh, do not let the child suffer! Leave her in the place where I was born and bred, and fulfil your vow, never, never to do aught which may turn her uncle's heart against her. It is my last request—my last hope! Adieu, Patrick!"
These words were so blurred that they were illegible; and Griselda sunk on her knees by the chair, and the tears, so long frozen, poured forth in a flood till her full heart was relieved.
Graves, coming in an hour later, found her with her fair head bowed on her arms, asleep. Youth had triumphed over sorrow of heart, and sleep had come, as it does come, with gentle power to blot out for a time the sorrows of the young. Graves's eyes filled with tears as she looked at her, and, taking a quilted cover from the bed, she threw it over her, putting a pillow under her head, and murmuring:
"Alas, poor dear! I fear the worst for her is not over. May God help her! for man's help is vain. I can only pray for her. I dare not wake her—not yet—not yet!"
Leslie Travers had received an answer from David when he called at North Parade that day, which had puzzled him not a little.
"Miss Mainwaring could not receive any visitor," David was commissioned to say.
"Was Miss Mainwaring ill?" Leslie asked.
"No, not that I know of, sir; but these are my orders."
Surely there was something behind David's calm exterior, and Leslie turned away dissatisfied.
"She will be at the Assembly to-night," he thought. "I must possess my soul in patience till then."
So he dressed, and went to the Assembly Room, arriving just as Lady Betty stepped out of her chair, in a new primrose-coloured sacque and sea-green brocade petticoat. Her hair was powdered as usual, and several brilliants flashed as she moved her head in answer to Leslie Travers's bow.
Where was Griselda? Lady Betty gave him no chance of asking the question, as she swept past with all the dignity her little person could command, and was soon forgetting her indignation against Griselda and her rejection of Sir Maxwell Danby's suit, in her own delight in having apparently captured Lord Basingstoke.
Leslie wandered from room to room, and was trying to make up his mind whether to brave all consequences, and boldly go to Lady Betty's house and inquire for Griselda, when he was met by Mr. Beresford, an acquaintance whom he had made at Mr. Herschel's house, who told him that he was going to Bristol the next day to play in the orchestra at the rehearsal for "Judas Maccabæus," and asking him to accompany him.
"There will be room," he said, "in the conveyance that is hired. Post-horses, and a large chariot, are engaged by the Herschels, who are making a pretty fortune by music, and spending it all in those jim-cracks of mirrors and tubes and micrometers."
"Jim-cracks!" Leslie repeated. "I could not give them such a name; they are like the steps in the ladder Mr. Herschel is climbing skyward."
Mr. Beresford laughed.
"I confess I am very well content to let the stars take their course without my interference—I mean without my looking into the matter. There is enough to do for me to consider my ways down below without star-gazing. By-the-bye, your star of beauty is not here to-night; has she set behind a cloud? Here come the two Miss Greenwoods, simpering and putting on fashionable airs which don't suit them. Like their gowns, such airs don't fit. Fancy their fat old mother asking me what my intentions were!"
Leslie could not help laughing at his friend's remarks on the various beaux and belles who passed in review before them.
Presently the young man said:
"Look! did you see that?"
"What?" Leslie Travers asked.
"Sir Maxwell was called out to speak to someone by his valet. He is brewing mischief, I'll take my oath. Let us go into the room next the lobby and find out."
"I decline to act spy. You may do so if you like," Leslie said.
And he turned away towards another part of the room, and began to talk for half an hour to a retiring gentle girl, who, when the "contre danse" was formed, had no partner. Leslie led her out to take a place in it, and found himself vis-a-vis with Sir Maxwell Danby and one of the most conspicuously dressed ladies who frequented Lady Miller's reunions at Batheaston.
She was attired in a loose white gown, supposed to be after the Greek pattern, and her arms were bare, the loose sleeves caught up with a large brooch. She wore her hair in a plain band with a fillet, and cut low on the forehead. This lady had sat for her portrait to Gainsborough in her youth, now long past, and she had become very stout since those days, when many reigning belles repaired to Gainsborough's studio in Ainslie's Belvedere.
She talked in a loud voice, and Leslie's attention was soon diverted from his companion, as he caught a name dear to him.
"Miss Mainwaring is a beauty, no doubt of that," the lady said; "but a trifle stiff and heavy in manner. Why is she absent to-night? You ought to know, Sir Maxwell."
Sir Maxwell stroked his chin, and said:
"Perhaps she is better engaged, from all I know. Miss Mainwaring's behaviour is a little eccentric."
"Is there a romance connected with her? I do love a bit of pretty romance. You know the on dit is that she is to be Lady Danby?"
"My dear lady," Sir Maxwell said, "it is not safe to trust to on dits. From what I have heard, Miss Mainwaring's tastes lie in a somewhat lower level of society than that in which you, for instance, live and move. There are, it seems, attractions for Miss Mainwaring in a quarter of the town where we look for actors and actresses, and such-like cattle—that is, supposing that we desire their acquaintance off the stage—which I, for one, do not!"
"I really hardly credit what you say; I vow I can't believe it. There's some mistake, Sir Maxwell."
"I wish I could agree with you," was the reply; "it is a matter which affects me very deeply. I do assure you——"
At this moment it was Sir Maxwell's turn to take the hand of Leslie's partner, and he repeated in a voice which he meant should reach his ear:
"Miss Mainwaring, the lady in question, pays daily and nighty visits to these low purlieus. Charity is made the pretext, of course."
The dance was over, and the hour for departure drew on.
Leslie Travers watched his opportunity, and lay in wait for Sir Maxwell in one of the lobbies.
He was passing him with a lady on his arm, when Leslie said:
"A word with you, sir, in private. I demand an apology for the shameful lies you are circulating. They are lies, and——"
"Softly, softly, my dear boy; let the presence of a lady be remembered."
"Oh! pray let us have no high words!" the lady said. "For mercy's sake, don't quarrel, gentlemen!"
"Madam," Leslie Travers said, in an excited voice, "you have heard the basest slanders uttered against—against one whom I would not name in such company. Look you, sir," Leslie said, seizing the velvet sleeve of Sir Maxwell's coat—"look you, sir; you have been a liar, and you are now a coward. I will prove it."
"Come, come, gentlemen; no brawling here," said the master of the ceremonies, bustling up. "Settle your matters elsewhere. A man of honour has his remedy."
"Precisely!" said Sir Maxwell, who was white with rage. "Precisely! And as to you, poor boy—poor insensate boy—I will send my answer to your private residence as befits a gentleman; but I decline to brawl here. Move off, sir, I say!"
A knot of people had collected, and young Beresford was one. He took Leslie's arm, and said:
"Come away, and cool yourself."
"I will not cool. I will throw the lie back in that fellow's throat; and——"
But Mr. Beresford drew Leslie away; but not before Lady Betty—cloaked and muffled, ready to step into her chair—pressed through the little crowd.
"What is it? Goodness! What is amiss, Sir Maxwell?"
"My dear lady, we have a madman to deal with—that's all. We will settle our affairs on Claverton Down, as others have done."
"Oh, mercy! don't fight a duel; it is too shocking, it's——"
But Sir Maxwell hurried Lady Betty away, saying in his cold, hard voice, which, however, trembled a little:
"That poor boy will repent insulting me; but let it not disturb you." And then Sir Maxwell resigned Lady Betty to David's care, and she was soon lost to sight in the recesses of the chair.
The ubiquitous Zach had been on the watch, and had reached North Parade before Lady Betty.
Graves, who, as we know, had been anxiously watching for Lady Betty's return, and congratulating herself that she had got Griselda safely to her own room before her ladyship arrived, heard Zach's voice below.
Mrs. Abbott loved news, and thus was ready to pardon the boy's late return to the little box where he slept below-stairs, dignified with the name of the "butler's pantry;" and Graves, at the sound of voices, went to the top of the kitchen stairs, and hearing Miss Mainwaring's name, went down two or three steps.
"Is anything wrong?" she asked.
"Dear bless me, Mrs. Graves, I don't know! This boy says he has been waiting for you all these hours down in Crown Alley."
"That's an untruth," said Graves; "but what do I hear him saying about the ladies?"
"There's been a brawl in the lobby of the Assembly Room, and they say the baronet and young Mr. Travers will fight afore they settle it."
Graves descended now to the kitchen, and asked with bated breath if Zach was telling the truth now, "for," she added, "the mouth of them that speak lies shall be stopped."
Zach's little eyes twinkled. He knew he had got his reward, so Mistress Graves might say what she liked.
"Yes," he whined, "it's a fine thing to keep a little chap like me, who works hard all day, awaiting in a place like Crown Alley."
Graves took Zach by the arm and shook him vehemently.
"You weren't there. You were gossiping by the Assembly Room door. What did you hear there?"
Zach made a face, and said:
"Let go, and I'll tell you." Graves relaxed her hold. "I heard the young gent tell Sir Maxwell he was a liar, and he'd fight him about Miss Mainwaring. There! you've told me I'm a liar, and I'd like to fight you" quoth Zach savagely.
When the first heat of passion was over, Leslie Travers went sorrowfully towards his home in King Street.
Mr. Beresford would not leave him till he saw him safely to the door, which was opened by Giles, who greeted his young master with a yawn, and said:
"The mistress has been a-bed these three hours. Ye are burning the candle at both ends, Master Leslie."
Something in Leslie's manner struck the old servant. He preceded his young master to the parlour, threw on a log, and lighted two candles, which stood like tall sentinels on either side of the mantelshelf, in heavy brass candlesticks.
"There's nothing like light and warmth if folks are down-hearted," he said to himself; "and really the young master looks down-hearted. Ah! it's the world and its ways. The mistress has the best of it."
Little did Giles's mistress think, as she slept peacefully that night, how the leaden hours dragged on in the room below, where Leslie Travers sat and wrestled with that most relentless foe—an uneasy conscience.
A hundred years ago duels were common enough, and any man who was challenged would have been scouted as a coward if he had not accepted the challenge.
Leslie knew he had thrown the lie back to Sir Maxwell Danby, and that he should be called upon to answer for it, perhaps by his life.
He was no coward, but this very life had become sweeter to him than ever before, during the last few days.
He had gained the love of the woman who was to him a queen amongst all women, and now in vindicating her from the tongue of the slanderer, he might perhaps be on the eve of leaving her for ever.
He had often looked death in the face when he had been lying ill at the Grange, and sometimes for utter weariness it had seemed no fearful thing to die. Since his mother had come under the influence of Lady Huntingdon's ministers, Leslie had heard a great deal of "the King of Terrors," as Death was termed in their phraseology, and he had often thought that it had not worn that guise to him in times of sore sickness—rather, as a friend's arm outstretched to lull his pain and give him peace. But now—now that the strength of his young manhood was renewed—now, when life was as a pleasant song in the possession of Griselda's love, in dreams of a useful happy life, with her to sympathize in all his hopes and aims—parting from life, and all that life holds dear, was very different.
As he sat by the fire, or left his chair and paced the room, he seemed to hear words spoken in the very inner recesses of his soul.
"I say unto you, love your enemies, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them that despitefully use you and persecute you."
"Yes," he argued, "yes; but it is not for myself, it is for her! That man's disappointment and disgust at her rejection of his suit will goad him to say all evil of her—my pure, beautiful Griselda! And yet——"
Then he went hopelessly over the past week. That child who had come to the Herschels' doorstep; the pity which she had called to life; that expedition for the relief of the suffering man—if—if only that had never been, all this had been averted. All for a stranger, a worthless stranger, who was probably neither deserving of pity or help.
If he had known how close between Griselda and this man the tie was, how far the poor dying actor was from being a stranger to her, would his feelings have been different? would the truth have changed the aspect of things for him—made the situation more or less painful? I cannot tell.
The gray January dawn, creeping in through the holes in the shutters, and penetrating the room where the fire had burned out, and the candles died in their sockets, found Leslie in a fitful doze in the chair, into which, after walking up and down the room during the night, he had sunk at last from sheer exhaustion. On first waking he could not recall what had happened. He stretched his stiff limbs, and then the faint pallor of the dawn showed him the familiar objects in the room, and the present with all its stern realities became vivid.
He tottered upstairs to his bed, not wishing his mother to find him dressed in his gay evening clothes, when she came down to breakfast.
As he passed her door he heard her voice raised in prayer.
To pray aloud, in pleading earnest tones, had become a habit of the good people with whom Mrs. Travers had cast in her lot, and Leslie paused as he heard his name.
"My son! my son! Convert him, turn him to Thee, for he is wandering far from Thee, in pursuit of the vain pleasures of a sinful world!"
"I need your prayers, sweet mother," the poor fellow murmured, as he passed on to his room near hers. "Perhaps to-morrow I shall be beyond their reach. Oh! that great mystery beyond!"
The message came, as he expected, brought by Mr. Dickinson, who was to be Sir Maxwell's second, and Leslie referred him to Mr. Beresford to act for him.
"It's a pity you can't square matters without fighting," Mr. Dickinson said.
He was the good-natured, easy-going man who had been in the jeweller's shop on that day when Sir Maxwell had first had his evil suspicions roused.
"It's a pity, but Sir Maxwell is bent upon fighting, so the sooner it is over, the better. He is an old hand—and you? Can you handle a sword?"
"Fairly well," Leslie said.
"It is proposed to have a round with swords. The place—Claverton Down, out Widcombe way; the time—dawn, to-morrow. It is Sunday, by-the-bye, and we are safe not to be hindered. What answer shall I take to Danby?"
"Say I am ready," Leslie said; "ready—aye, ready!"
"You don't feel inclined for a compromise, then?"
"No, I do not. He has heaped insults on me which I have overlooked, but he has dared to slander one whom I love better than life. Do you suppose I can brook that?"
"Dear! dear!" exclaimed Mr. Dickinson. "Women are the bottom of half the mischief that is brewed in the world, I do believe."
Mr. Dickinson had not been gone long before Mr. Beresford arrived. He ran in to the Herschels to excuse himself from accompanying them to Bristol, saying he had urgent business, and then returned to his friend.
All the arrangements were made, and the utmost secrecy agreed on.
"No one need know"—hesitating—"certainly not Miss Mainwaring or my mother. I will employ to-day in setting my house in order, and leave letters behind me."
"Don't say 'behind me,' man. Hundreds of people who fight do not get a scratch. You will be all right, and marry the lady, and live happy ever after."
"I am in no jesting mood, Beresford; and although you profess to look on the whole affair as a joke, you do not do so, in your secret heart. You do not forget, any more than I do, that last month we walked together to Claverton Down to see the spot where Viscount Barré asked for his life of Count Rice, not much over a year ago."[1]
"Ah! that was a different matter. We are to have no pistols, only a little sword-play. I hope one of Danby's evil eyes may be put out, and, better still, his tongue slit. Aim at his mouth, with that end in view. Yes, try for the mouth and eyes, Travers."
"Has the matter got wind in Bath?" Leslie asked.
"Oh! the gossips have got hold of the quarrel. But dear heart, man, there is seldom a day but there is a war of words in the Assembly or Pump Room."
Leslie Travers spent the rest of the day in his room, excusing himself to his mother on the plea of indisposition. And, indeed, she was too much occupied with a prayer-meeting at the Countess of Huntingdon's house to do more than pay Leslie a visit at intervals, see that his fire burned brightly, and exhort him to take the soup and wine she carried to him herself. Thus, all unconscious of the sword which was hanging over her, gentle Mrs. Travers went on her way.
Unconscious, too, of trouble affecting their near neighbour and friend, Mr. and Miss Herschel were at Bristol, rehearsing, amidst the congratulations of the audience privileged to be present, the great oratorio to be performed in a few days under the bâton of Ronzini, who was to conduct it.
Unconscious of the peril in which Leslie Travers stood, Griselda was occupied with the event of the previous night—her father's death—and the necessary confession to Leslie Travers, of her relationship to the dying man, by whose bedside they had watched together.
The house in North Parade was unusually quiet that day, for Lady Betty had caught cold, and kept Graves in perpetual attendance.
A few visitors arrived, but were refused admittance, and Griselda waited in vain for any message from Leslie Travers.
She had begun several letters to him, and then torn them into fragments.
Then there was the thought of poor desolate little Norah, as she saw her carried away from that attic where her father lay dead, in Mrs. Betts's arms.
Had she not promised to befriend her? and how could she fulfil her promise?
Graves kept out of her way; she had heard enough from Zach to make her fear the worst about the quarrel between Sir Maxwell Danby and Mr. Travers. She dreaded to be questioned, and yet she longed to speak.
Lady Betty was a fractious invalid, and she was constantly crying out that her illness was brought on by the conduct of that minx upstairs, telling Graves to let her know she never wished to see her face again—that she had disgraced her, and that she might beg her bread for all she cared; that she hoped Sir Maxwell would fight that young jackanapes, and get him out of the way. Then she cried that she had got the smallpox—her back ached, her eyes ached—she must have the doctor. Graves must send for the doctor—Mr. Cheyne, a young man who claimed to be a grandson of the great Dr. Cheyne, who had been a celebrated doctor in Bath in the days of Beau Nash.
Graves preserved a calm, not to say stolid, manner, and this could alone have carried her through that long, dull winter's day. Her anxiety did not centre in Lady Betty, nor the pimple on her cheek, which she thought might be the precursor of the dreaded smallpox, which the little lady awaited Mr. Cheyne's assurances to confirm, and professed to believe that she was smitten by that dreadful malady.
Graves's heart was occupied with the sorrow of the young mistress upstairs, not with the fancied illness of the lady who, propped up in bed in an elaborate nightgown, surmounted by a cap furbished with pink ribbons, was enough to wear out the patience even of her patient waiting-woman.
Mr. Cheyne was slow in making his appearance, and the long, dull day had nearly closed, and still he did not answer the summons sent to him by David at his mistress's request.
Graves had sent Mrs. Abbott's daughter up to Griselda's room with her dinner, and preferred waiting till it was nearly dark before she stood face to face with her. She dreaded lest her face should betray the fear at her heart.
It was nearly dark when she came to Griselda's room. She found the table covered with letters and papers, and the case with her mother's portrait and the old jewel-case standing on it.
"I thought you were never coming—never," Griselda said, in an injured voice. "Oh, dear Graves! do a kind thing for me this evening! Go to Crown Alley, and take this money for Norah's black dress. Oh, dear Graves! I must wear a black gown; he was my father. Look!" she said; "I have put on her little wedding-ring. There is a posy inside. I need those words now—'Patience and Hope.' Why won't you speak, Graves? It is as if you had not heard."
"I hear—I hear, my dear; but as to leaving her ladyship, I don't see how I can do it—not till she is off to sleep. If the doctor came, he might give her a draught to settle her."
"I do want you to go to Crown Alley, and to—to King Street, to take a letter to Mr. Travers. It is so odd; so unaccountable, that he never writes nor sends. I must know why. Perhaps he has heard that I am that poor man's daughter, and he feels he can't marry one so low-born. Yet it is not like him to cast me off, is it, Graves?"
"Well," said Graves, "I'll try what I can do; but, after all, I'd as lief you left the letter till to-morrow. Leave it till to-morrow."
"To-morrow! No; who can tell what to-morrow may bring? No; I cannot wait. Graves, I feel as if I should go mad, unless I hear soon if Mr. Travers is angry, and has cast me off."
"You may be sure he has not done that, my dear; you may be at rest on that score."
"How can I rest? Well, he must be told about my father—my father! I Do you think he has found it out, and that this keeps him away?"
"No; I don't," said Graves shortly.
"Hark! there's a ring! Run down—run down, and see who it is! Run, Graves!"
Graves departed, glad to be released, and returned presently:
"It's the boy, Miss Griselda."
"The boy! What boy?"
"The boy that came the night the man"—Graves corrected herself—"the gentleman, Mr. Mainwaring, was dying. He has a message for you."
"I will come down and see him. He shall take this letter to King Street. He shall wait and bring me an answer. I shall meet no one on the stairs. Let me pass you."
Brian Bellis was standing in the entrance-hall, and Griselda went eagerly towards him:
"Have you brought me tidings?"
And Brian replied:
"I have taken Norah home to my aunt's house. I've had a piece of work to do it; but they will keep her till after the funeral. He is to be buried to-morrow afternoon. I thought you would like to know this, madam."
"Yes—yes," Griselda said; "and I will reward you for your care of Norah."
"I want no reward, madam," Brian said quickly. "Have you any commands?—for it is late. The actors at the theatre have subscribed for the burial; but——"