IN THE EARLY MORNING.

Griselda returned to her room to watch the timepiece, and listen for the striking of the Abbey clock, as the slow hours passed, and she paced the floor in her restlessness from the fireplace to the window, and then back again from the window to the fire.

About ten o'clock Graves came in with a cup of chocolate, and to tell her that Mr. Cheyne, the doctor, had seen Lady Betty, and pronounced her really ill this time. She was to keep in bed, and if not better on the following day, he must let blood from her arm.

"Do you know the doctor, Miss Griselda—this young Doctor Cheyne?"

"I may have spoken to him. Yes, I have seen him; but what is he to me?"

"He asked for you, that's all," said Graves; "how you did, and whether——"

Graves stopped. It was a habit of hers to break off suddenly in her speech, and Griselda scarcely noticed it.

"Is the boy, Brian Bellis, come back?"

"No, Miss Griselda; he won't be here again to-night. I hear he is nephew to the Miss Hoblyns, the mantua-makers, and that they look sharp after him; they would not let him run about the streets at midnight."

"Midnight! It's not midnight! Oh, Graves, I am so tired!"

"Go to bed, and sleep till morning; that is my advice to you, and read a verse in God's Word to go to sleep on. You'll never know rest till you find it in the Lord, my dear. Let me help you to undress."

"No, I am not going to bed. Promise, Graves, if Brian Bellis comes to the door with a letter you will bring it here. Promise——"

Graves nodded her head in token of assent, and departed.

There are few troubles, and few anxieties, which do not find a temporary balm in the sleep of youth.

And Griselda, worn out at last, threw herself on her bed, and fell, against her will, into a deep and dreamless slumber.

The Abbey clock had struck eleven when Graves, softly opening the door, found the fire low, and the candles burned out; while on the bed lay Griselda, dressed, but with the coverlet drawn over her under the canopy of the old-fashioned tent-bed, which was the bed then commonly in use for rooms which were not spacious enough to receive a stately four-poster.

Graves had a small tin candlestick in one hand, and a letter. She carefully shielded the light, and, looking down at the sleeping girl, murmured:

"I cannot wake her. I will leave the letter on the bed; she will see it in the morning the first thing—better she should not see it till then. I promised to bring it, but I did not promise to rouse her if she was asleep. Poor child! Poor dear! May the Lord pity her and draw her to Himself!"

Graves moved gently about the room, and put the tinder-box near the candlestick, and then softly closed the door, and went downstairs to sit by the side of the fractious invalid, who declared she could not be left for a moment, and who kept her patient handmaiden awake for hours, till at last she, too, sunk into a heavy sleep.

Never a night passes but in the silent watches some hearts are aching, some sick and weary ones are tossing in their uneasy beds, some suffering ones are racked with pain, either of body or mind! Our own turn must surely come; but till it does come, we are so slow to realize that for us, too, the night that should hush us to repose, and bring on its wings the angel of sleep for our refreshing, will bring instead sorrowful vigils by the dying, mourning for the dead, or cruel and biting anxiety for the living, so that tears are our meat, as we cry, "Where is now our God?"

Griselda slept on, and it was in the chill of the early morning before the dawn that she awoke.

She started up, and at first could not remember what had happened. It was quite dark, and she sprang from the bed, and, groping for the tinder-box, struck a spark, and lighted a candle.

She was still scarcely awake, and it was only by slow degrees that she recalled how the evening before she had waited, and waited in vain, for a letter—his letter! an answer to hers—in which in a few words she had told him of her father, and asked him to release her from her promise if so he pleased. Then she had asked if his silence since the letter she had written two days before, meant that he desired her to think no more of him. Only to know, and not to be kept in uncertainty, she craved for a reply—she begged for it—by the hand of Brian Bellis, who had brought this, her last appeal.

"No answer, no answer!" she exclaimed; "and hark! that is the clock striking—three—four. No answer—it is all over!" And as the words escaped her lips she saw lying on the floor a letter, which had fallen from the bed when she had sprung from it.

She picked it up, and became quiet and like herself at once. She saw by the address it was from Leslie Travers, for in the corner was written: "By the hand of Brian Bellis."

The tall candle cast its light on the sheet of Bath post, which had been carefully sealed, and threw a halo round the young head which bent over it.

"I have received no message from you"—so the letter began—"but, dearest love, sweetheart, could you dream that any circumstance could alter my love for you? Nay, Griselda, I will not permit such a possibility to enter my head, or wake a sorrowful echo in my heart.

"My only love, I am yours till death—and death may be near! I go to-morrow to meet the man on Claverton Down who has first persecuted you with his suit, and then, rejected, has vilely slandered you. I gave him the lie, and he has challenged me to fight, and as a man of honour I cannot draw back. If I live—I live for you; if I die—I die for you. I would there were any other way whereby I could vindicate your honour and my own. I am no coward, nor do I fear death; but I think these duels are a remnant of barbarism, meet for the old Romans, perchance, over whose buried city we move day by day, but unworthy of men who call themselves by the name of Christ.

"My love, when you read this letter, be not too much dismayed.

"When the dawn breaks over the city, we shall have met—that base man and I—and it may be that I shall fall under his more practised hand. If it is so, I commend you, in a letter, to my poor mother. You will weep together, and you shall have a home with her, and you will be united in sorrow. The child—your sister—shall be her care, as she would have been mine.

"I have made my last will and testament—duly attested; and in that you are mentioned as if you had been my wife.

"And so I say farewell, my only love.

"L. T."

A strange calm seemed to have come over Griselda as she read these words.

The restlessness and feverish anxiety of the preceding days were gone. In their place was the firm resolve—immediately taken—to stop this duel with her own hand. That resolution once taken, she did not falter. But Claverton Down!—how should she reach it? There was no time to lose. The dawn broke between seven and eight—it was now four o'clock and past.

The Bible lay open on the table, and her eye fell upon the words: "They that wait on the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up on wings like eagles; they shall walk and not be weary; they shall run and not faint." I do not think that Griselda had ever known up to this moment what it was to wait on the Lord. Perhaps faithful Graves's words had struck deeper than she knew!

"I want strength now," she said. "Give it to me, Lord! Direct me—help me—for I must go on this quest alone."

Then she made ready for her departure, wrapping herself in the long cloak she had worn when she went to her father's dying bed, and covering her face with a thick veil under her hood.

The few hours' sleep had refreshed her, and she felt strong to perform her mission.

"Only not to be too late," she said; "not too late!"

The courage of many a woman would have failed in prospect of a walk in the dark through the suburbs of Bath.

There were watchmen here and there, and she might ask the way of one, perhaps; but no one must know her errand, or she might be stopped from performing it.

The clock struck five, in deep sonorous tones just as Griselda crept noiselessly downstairs, and with trembling hands drew back the bolts of the door, turned the key in the lock, and, closing it behind her, went out into the winter's morning.

The sky had cleared, and the rain of the past two days had ceased. There were breaks in the clouds, and in a rift Venus, in full beauty, seemed to smile on Griselda with the smile of a friend.

Widcombe Hill had to be climbed, and then beyond, at some distance, Claverton Down stretched away in gentle undulations. In 1790, it was a desolate and unfrequented tract of moorland, with here and there a few trees, but no sign of habitation except a lonely cottage or hut, at long distances apart.

Griselda's figure, in its black garments, did not attract attention from a boisterous party who had just turned out from a night's revel. Their coarse songs and laughter jarred on her ear, and she shrank under the shadow of a church portico till they had passed.

Presently the watchman's voice broke the stillness as he ascended Widcombe Hill.

"It's just six o'clock, and a fine star-lit morning."

Yes, it was a fine morning. The rift in the clouds had widened, and above, the sky was clear, and the host of heaven was shining in full glory.

After two or three nights, when dull lowering skies had made astronomical observations impossible, the change in the weather was welcome to those who "swept the heavens," and found in them the grand interest and beauty of their lives.

The Herschels had returned to their new home, after a long and fatiguing day in Bristol. There had been not a little worry connected with the arrangements for the oratorio, the proper distribution of the parts, jealousies amongst the performers, and missing sheets of score. But Caroline Herschel immediately recommenced the arrangement of the new house, which a day's absence in Bristol had interrupted. The sorting of books and music, the instruction of Betty in her duties, with not a little scolding for the neglect of the work she had been left to get through during her mistress's absence.

Mr. Herschel, after taking slight refreshment, went to his new observatory at the top of the house, and began to arrange all his instruments and draw a plan for the furnace, which he intended to make in the workshop below, where the tube for the great reflector was to be cast.

A stand, too, for the large instrument would have to be carefully constructed, and William Herschel was in the midst of his calculations for this, and preparation of a plan to give the workmen early on the ensuing week, when a tap at the door announced Caroline.

"William!" she said, "the sky is clear. Venus is shining gloriously. Can I help to arrange the telescope?"

"Yes—yes," William Herschel said, going to the window and throwing it up. "Yes; lose no time, for it is getting on for morning."

Presently Caroline said, as she looked out:

"There is a chaise waiting at the end of the street, with post-horses."

But her brother's eyes were directed upwards, and he scarcely noticed her remark.

"Well," he said, "get the micrometer."

Caroline's feminine curiosity was roused, and presently she saw a figure muffled in a long cloak glide down the street to the opening where the carriage stood.

This was followed by another, and then, after some delay, the chariot drove off.

Alexander Herschel did not generally take part in these nightly vigils, although he lent his assistance in the daytime in the workshop, and in the correspondence about the music, which was very frequently necessary.

But about six o'clock Alexander appeared, and said:

"Did you hear carriage-wheels roll off not long ago?"

William Herschel did not answer. He had just brought a double star into the proper focus, and Caroline stood by with note-book and pencil, ready to write at his dictation.

"Yes," she said, in a low voice; "I heard carriage-wheels. What of that?"

"There is a rumour in the town that Leslie Travers is to fight a duel on Claverton Down—with that beast, Sir Maxwell Danby—this morning."

"I do not believe it is true," Caroline answered. "Hush, Alex!" for William Herschel called out: "Write! Attend!"

The necessary figures were jotted down, and then Caroline said:

"Do you think Leslie Travers was going off in that carriage?"

"I have no doubt of it. I shall follow and find out."

"Take care, Alex—do not get mixed up in any quarrel; and there is the new anthem of Spohr's at the Octagon this morning. You will be wanted."

"Well, what if I am?" Alexander said. "Surely, Caroline, the life or death of a friend is of more importance than an anthem?"

"You do not know that it is life or death; you are conjecturing. Yes, William, I am ready!"

This was characteristic of Caroline Herschel. It was not really that she had no human sympathies or affections; on the contrary, her love for her brother was absorbing, and she had but one aim—to soar with him to the unexplored regions of space; and to effect this, the business in hand, whether it was music, or mixing loam for the mould of the new tube, or in giving a lesson in singing, or in singing herself at a concert, was paramount with her. Such characters, persistent, and with single aims, are often misunderstood by natures like Alexander Herschel's, who love to skim the surface, and pass from one thing to another, as their mood changes.

"You take it mighty coolly," he said, "that the life of a man we call our friend is in peril. I confess I am not so hardened."

And then he closed the door with a bang, and ran downstairs.

THE BITTER END.

Meanwhile the lonely woman, shrouded in her long cloak, pursued her way. She missed it again and again, and was forced to inquire if she was right, first of a countryman she met, and once at a cottage at Widcombe of a woman who was standing at the door with a lanthorn in her hand.

"Two miles further," she said. "What are you going there for, pray, if I may be so bold?"

"On an errand of life or death," Griselda said, the words escaping her lips almost unawares.

"If that's it, and a duel is to be fought, it most like is death to one of 'em. I am watching for my husband; he has never come home, and I fear something has happened. He is often in liquor, and may have stumbled into the quarry. I call mine real troubles, I do. What do the gentry want with stabbing one another to the heart about paltry quarrels? Why, the French lord was killed out on Claverton Down by Count Rice a few months ago, and all about a trumpery pack of cards—a pack of lies, more like! I've no patience with folks who quarrel with no reason. You look very wan, my dear," the woman said, as Griselda turned away. "I can give you a cup of milk."

But Griselda shook her head. To eat or drink at that moment was impossible to her.

"Tell me," she asked, "how I shall know the spot where the men fight."

"Oh! you'll see four tall fir-trees, and a big stone. It won't be light yet. I'll tell you what. I'll lend you my lanthorn. Here, it's trimmed! You can carry it along." Griselda hesitated as the woman went on: "Take the road straight as a line from the church. Then you'll come to cross-roads. You follow on with the one which leads to the right hand, and you'll come to the firs and the big stone. The ground where the fine lord's body lay for hours is just hard by. Will you have the lanthorn; you can leave it as you come back?"

"No, I think not—I think not; but thank you kindly."

And then Griselda pressed on—on to the church, on, as she was directed, along a lonely road, till the tall sign-post was reached, with the four arms painted white, stretching out in four directions. On then to the right, eastward, for the first faint pallor of the dawn was in the sky. It was clear now, and the moon in its last quarter was hanging low in the horizon.

Griselda's feet ached, and when she saw the tall fir-trees, and the large rough stone, she hastened towards it, and sat down to rest. All was still; the silence broken only by the murmur in the dark plumes of the fir-trees as the crisp cold air wandered through the branches.

The silence was so profound that Griselda could almost hear the beating of her heart. Here alone, unprotected, she could hardly realize her own position. Whatever happened to her, she thought, there was no one who would care so very much, except him whom she had come to save. Lady Betty would cry hysterically, but be more angry than sorry; little Norah—poor little Norah—perhaps she loved her; and Graves—faithful Graves.

Presently there was a rumbling sound as of distant wheels. Griselda started up, but she saw nothing.

Then she advanced from the shadow of the trees, and looked over the open space. The dawn was breaking now, and she saw two figures stooping over the ground, and apparently marking it.

In breathless anxiety she waited and watched. She was too far off to distinguish the men, but she presently discerned four more figures appearing at the ridge of rising ground, where the Down dipped rather sharply to the valley below.

Then there were two figures isolated a little from the rest. They seemed to meet and part again, and then Griselda waited no longer. She ran forward and skimmed the turf with fleet steps—steps that were quickened by a great fear.

Breathless and voiceless she reached the spot just as the two combatants' swords had clashed, and the seconds on either side had given the signal for another round. Griselda went up to Leslie Travers and seized his arm.

"Stop!" she said, "for my sake."

Her appearance seemed to paralyze both combatants.

"It is for your sake," Leslie said in a low voice. "Let go, my love—let go! I must carry this on to the bitter end."

"You shall not! Desist, sir!" she said, turning upon Sir Maxwell Danby.

Then the seconds drew near, and the doctor, Mr. Cheyne.

"I will have no blood shed for me," Griselda said, gathering strength in the emergency of the moment. "I will stand here till you give up this conflict."

"Unfortunately, fair lady, we have no intention of giving up till we have settled our little affair as men of honour should," said Sir Maxwell.

"Stand back, Griselda—stand back!" Leslie cried in despairing tones. "There is only one condition on which I will give in; yonder base man knows what that condition is. He must withdraw the lies he has uttered concerning you."

"I know not what the lies are," Griselda said; "but if lies, will the death of him who uttered them, or of you who resent them, convince those who believe them that they are lies? Nay," she said, her breast heaving and her voice trembling, though every slowly-uttered word was distinctly heard. "Nay, wrong-doing can never, never make evil good, or set wrong right."

"Pardon me, fairest of your sex," said Sir Maxwell; "permit me to ask you to withdraw. We will prove our strength once more; and, unwilling as I am to do so in the presence of a lady, I must, as your—your noble friend says, carry this matter through."

"Can't you come to an understanding, gentlemen?" Mr. Dickinson said. "Upon my soul, I wish I could wash my hands of the whole business. A miserable business it is!"

"Beresford," Leslie said to his second, "help me to get free from her, or she may be hurt in the conflict."

But Griselda still clung to his arm; and how it might have ended who can tell, had not Sir Maxwell said in his satirical, bitter voice:

"It is new in the annals of the world's history for a woman to be used as a shield by a man! Coward—poltroon is a more fitting phrase for such an one."

Mr. Beresford caught Griselda as with a desperate effort Leslie unclasped the long white fingers which were clasped round his arm, and saying: "Guard her carefully," the signal was again given, and a fierce struggle ensued, which ended in Leslie Travers lying motionless on the ground with a sword-thrust through his breast; and Sir Maxwell, binding his hand, which was bleeding, with a lace handkerchief, asked coolly of Mr. Cheyne, who was bending over Leslie:

"He is alive, I think?"

"Yes, he is alive; but I doubt if he will live ten minutes unless I stop the bleeding. This, sir, is a pretty piece of business for you."

For a moment, Sir Maxwell's face blanched with fear; then, recovering himself, he made a sign to his servant, who ran on towards the dip in the moor, and presently another servant appeared with two horses. The valet mounted one, and Sir Maxwell the other; and before the doctor or Mr. Beresford had time to consider what course to take, Sir Maxwell Danby was galloping off in the direction of the high-road which led to London.

Griselda knew no more till she found herself in a strange room, and with an unfamiliar face bending over her.

"Where am I?" she asked, sitting up, and looking round bewildered.

"You are safe with us, my dear young lady. You must take this glass of reviving mixture, made from a receipt of my mother's."

And Caroline Herschel held the glass to Griselda's lips.

"How did I get here?"

"My brother Alexander brought you; but do not ask further questions, but lie still."

The draught seemed to restore poor Griselda to consciousness, and with consciousness the memory of what had happened came back.

"Oh!" she said; "did—did he die? I saw him fall. Yes; I remember now. For pity's sake, answer me!"

It was well for Griselda that she was in the hands of a person at once so sincere and so really kind-hearted. While many well-meaning people would have fenced the question, and put it off, she answered quietly:

"Mr. Leslie Travers is very dangerously hurt. He is lying in his mother's house hard by; and all that care and tenderness can do will be done."

"Can I go to him?" Griselda said piteously.

"No; not yet—not yet. You are exhausted with all you have gone through. Your duty is to lie quiet."

Duty was ever first with Caroline Herschel herself, and she thought it should be first with others also.

Griselda struggled to her feet; but a deadly faintness overcame her, and she sank back again, crying:

"His life for me—for me! Oh! I am not worthy——" and then she burst into hysterical weeping.

"My dear Miss Mainwaring," her friend said, "the doctors say that Mr. Travers's only chance of life is to be kept quiet. If the wound bleeds again, he must die. If he is kept motionless and calm, he may live. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Griselda said; "it is always waiting with me. Look! that is my mother's wedding-ring! There is a posy inside—'Patience and Hope.' But I can only have patience; I dare not hope. Did you know that my father was the actor who died in Crown Alley?—that Norah, the beggar-child at your door in Rivers Street, is—is my sister?"

"No; I did not know it. But why should you be distressed?"

"Because I know it has been the root of all this trouble. I know it is so! That bad man's evil eye was on us in the church that day—that bright, beautiful day—when was it?"

Caroline Herschel thought she was wandering, and stroked her head, and said gently:

"I will draw down the blind, and you must try to sleep."

"Hark to the bells!" Griselda said. "They sound like joy-bells—joy-bells. They ought to be funeral bells."

"It is Sunday afternoon! They ring for service in the churches."

Then Griselda turned her head away, saying:

"Sunday! What a Sunday this has been! Sunday—Sabbath, Graves calls it—a day of rest—rather, a day of strife, and sin, and sorrow."

Yes; it had been a Sunday never to be forgotten by those who were concerned in that day's work.

Long before the evening shadows fell over the city, the story of Sir Maxwell Danby's duel with Leslie Travers was circulating in the various coteries of Bath society.

The gay world expressed pity and surprise.

The gossips' tongues were busy about the beautiful lady, who had been the cause of the melancholy affair.

That she was the daughter of an actor, who was on that very afternoon laid in his hastily-dug grave, was a shock to the feelings of the élite amongst whom Griselda Mainwaring had been considered worthy to be reckoned, by the unwritten laws of social etiquette.

The daughter of an actor—a mere playwright—who by hard drinking had reduced himself to poverty, and finally killed himself by his evil habits!

What a fall was this for the stately beauty who had held herself a little apart from the crowd, and had often been secretly complained of as one who thought herself mighty good, and vastly superior to many who now could hold their heads with pride and talk of her as their inferior!

The religious clique who frequented the Countess of Huntingdon's Chapel, of which Mrs. Travers was an esteemed member, were filled with horror; and the terrible event was alluded to, or rather made the basis of the sermon, in the Vineyards Chapel that evening.

In many hearts there was awakened real sympathy for the stricken mother, and the sad condition of the girl who must feel that she had, even if unwittingly, been the cause of the duel.

Lady Betty, when she was told by Mr. Cheyne of what had happened, suddenly recovered from her indisposition, and sent off several three-cornered notes to her friends to say the lamentable occurrence had, of course, separated her from the unhappy girl, to whom she was no real relation, and with whom she was sure the dear departed Mr. Longueville would not wish her to have any further dealings. It was not to be expected that a woman of rank and family could be mixed up with one of low birth who had made herself notorious.

Graves, who was commissioned to despatch these notes, one of which was addressed to Lord Basingstoke, handed them to Zach, to whom she said:

"There have been letters given to your hand that have never been delivered. Let me tell you that you may deliver these or not, as you choose, you little spy!"

And Zach grinned, and said:

"Give me a crown, and I'll take them safe enough."

"I'd as lief give you a crack on the crown of your head!" said Graves wrathfully; "you little wretch!"

IN THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW.

It was late on that memorable Sunday evening when Griselda watched her opportunity, and rising from her bed, dressed, and went downstairs.

Only the servant was in the house, for the Herschels were gone to the evening service in the Octagon Chapel, and had not yet returned.

Griselda let herself quietly out, and, with slow and faltering steps, reached the door of the house, where, as everyone believed, Leslie Travers lay dying of his wounds.

It was with a trembling hand that she knocked at the door, which was after a pause opened by old Giles.

"I am come," she faltered, "to see Mrs. Travers."

Giles shook his head.

"My lady can see no one," he said; "she is in sore trouble."

"Tell me, please, how the gentleman is who was—who was wounded in a duel."

"As bad as he can be," was the short reply; "he won't live till morning."

"I want to see Mrs. Travers, if only for a moment—I want to see Mrs. Travers. I am Miss Mainwaring," she urged.

Giles had not known up to this moment whom he was addressing, for Griselda had only been in that house once, and she had drawn her hood over her face.

When he heard the name, Giles made an exclamation of horror, and said:

"My lady won't see you! You are the last one she'd wish to look upon. It was an evil day for my young master that he ever looked on your face!"

"Oh! you are very cruel—very hard-hearted!" Griselda said; and with a sob turned away.

As she was leaving the door, a young voice she knew greeted her.

It was Brian Bellis'.

"Madam," he said, "I have come to tell you that Norah—poor little Norah—is safe at my aunt's house in John Street. I took her there after the funeral, and she is made welcome; it would melt a heart of stone to see her. Will you come and comfort her?"

"Comfort her! I am in need of comfort myself. Yes, I will come. No one wants me—no one cares!"

"I care, madam," Brian said. "Is the gentleman dead? It is said in the town that he is dead of his wound."

"No, no, he is alive, but dying," said Griselda. "Take me to poor little Norah—my poor little sister! And then will you go for me to North Parade—see, Graves, the good waiting-woman—and ask her to bring me my possessions, for I shall never return thither; I am homeless and helpless."

"No, madam—no," the boy said; "my aunts will receive you—I feel sure they will."

Then they walked on silently towards John Street, and there the Miss Hoblyns were awaiting her arrival. They had not reached the pinnacle of their fame at this time, for it was not till the Duchess of York, in 1795, visited their establishment that they became the rage. But they were kind-hearted women, of a superior type to the ordinary class of mantua-maker and milliner of those times. Gentlewomen by nature, if not by birth.

Brian, the son of their dead sister, was their idol, and they found it hard to refuse any request he made. When the poor desolate child had been led to their home from her father's grave, their hearts had gone out to her, and they gave Brian leave to fetch the sister of whom he spoke.

Great, indeed, was these good women's surprise, when, as Griselda dropped her hood and cloak, they recognised the beautiful young lady, on whom they had waited at Lady Betty Longueville's, and who had done such credit to their skill in altering the white paduasoy which Lady Betty had discarded, and which Griselda wore when she had been the admired belle of the great ball in Wiltshire's Rooms. How was it possible she could be the sister of the orphan child, and the daughter of an actor, who had died sunk in the depths of misery and poverty?

But they asked no questions, and, taking poor Griselda's hand, led her to the room where, on a couch drawn near the fire, the child lay, asleep.

Worn out with watching and sorrow, this sufferer for the sins of another had fallen into a profound slumber, and Griselda, as she looked on the pale face, about which a tangle of golden curls lay in wild confusion, stooped and kissed her sister.

The child stirred—as she did so, opened her eyes for a moment, smiled, and said:

"My beautiful lady! I am glad you are come."

Then Griselda lifted her in her arms, and pressing her close, shed the first tears which she had shed since the night before, when she had first heard of Leslie Travers's peril, incurred for her sake.

Norah was soon asleep again, and the kind women threw a covering over both sisters, and left them together with the tact and sympathy which is the outcome of a noble nature, whether it is found in a milliner or a marchioness.

It certainly was not found in Lady Betty Longueville.

When Graves went to her with the tidings that Brian Bellis brought, she flew into one of her "hysterical tantrums," as Graves and David called them.

"Yes, Graves," Lady Betty screamed, "pack up the minx's things; I am well quit of her. Let 'em all go," she said; "but take nothing of mine—I would not give her a groat—spoiling my Bath season like this—treating my friend, Sir Maxwell, with contempt—forcing him to send that insolent puppy a challenge. Disgracing me—disgracing her poor departed uncle—lowering me in the eyes of society—she, the child of a common actor, with whom her wretched mother ran away. Oh! I never wish to set eyes on her again!"

Graves coughed significantly.

"She was left to your ladyship for maintenance," she said.

"How dare you speak like that to me? Leave the room instantly. And, mind, I disown the baggage—the ungrateful hussy—when she might have been my Lady Danby—and—and—of use to me, repaying me for all my kindness these many years—for, let me tell you, Graves, Danby Place is a fine mansion, and she might have been mistress of it—the idiot—the fool! I wash my hands of her—she may go where she lists—but let me never see her face again!"

Graves listened to this tirade with her accustomed composure, and went to Griselda's room to do her lady's bidding.

She gathered together a few things which Griselda might immediately need, and gave them, with the violin, to Brian. The old leather case she would not trust out of her sight, and, hastily putting on her cloak and huge calêche, she said she would follow the boy to John Street.

As they left the house, Zach was peeping out from behind the door, and Brian shook his fist at him.

"I would like to thrash you—you wicked little spy—you!"

But Zach had the gold-pieces in his pocket, and only made a grimace in return to Brian's threatening gesture.

Graves' heart was touched, perhaps, as it had never been touched before, when she saw Griselda lying on the couch, with Norah asleep in her arms.

Griselda was not asleep, and looking up to Graves, said, in a piteous voice:

"Oh, dear Graves, I am alone now!—there is no one belonging to me but this child—we must hold together. Kiss her, Graves—gently, she may wake. Poor, poor little Norah! I have forgotten her in this day's misery. Speak to the kind people here, and ask them to let me stay with them—I can pay them. I can work for them—I was always clever with my needle."

"Here is your box of jewels, my poor dear, I brought them myself; the boy has brought your clothes and a gown for to-morrow."

"You forget, you forget, Graves—I must have a black gown for my father, and—for him—my only love. Oh! Graves—do hearts break? I feel as if mine must break—and that I must die."

Graves struggled in vain with her tears: they chased each other down her furrowed cheeks.

"Trust in the Lord, my dear. There may be a bow in the dark cloud—who can tell?"

Then Graves went to the Miss Hoblyns, who had considerately left Griselda and the child alone together, and she arranged a bedroom at the back of the house, and placed her young mistress's possessions in some order.

"The young lady will be able to pay for her lodgings and board, madam," Graves said, "and for the child's also. She has already sold some jewels, and——"

But Miss Hoblyn waved her hand, as if to say she wanted nothing else said just then, and Graves proceeded to light a fire, and make the room allotted to Griselda's use as comfortable as circumstances allowed; and then, wringing Miss Hoblyn's delicate hand in her large work-worn fingers, she hastened back to North Parade.

There was no immediate need for Griselda to put on a mourning garment. Distress of mind, and the long, long walk in the cold chill air of January to Claverton Down, had the effect of throwing her into an illness—a fever—which attacked her brain, and rendered her unconscious of all troubles, past and present, for some time.

It was touching to see how the child, so prematurely old, and so well accustomed to privation and nursing of the sick, took up her place by her sister's bed, and proved the most efficient of little nurses—as nursing was understood in those days.

Griselda was certainly an instance of a patient suffering more from the remedy than the disease. The doctor—Mr. Cheyne—who was called in, let blood several times from her arm, cut off her beautiful hair, and blistered the back of her head, and brought her to the very verge of the grave. She took no heed of any one who came and went, or she would have seen Caroline Herschel by her bed every day, and would have known that many little delicacies were brought by her hand. She was immersed in ever-increasing musical engagements, for, besides the preparation for the oratorio to be performed during Lent, she actually copied with her own hand the scores of the "Messiah" and "Judas Maccabæus" in parts for an orchestra of nearly one hundred performers; and in the vocal parts of Samson, Caroline Herschel instructed the treble singers, of whom she was now amongst the first.

Very few women of these days have gone through the amount of hard continuous labour which Caroline Herschel did; and when we are tempted to think highly of the increasing number of women, qualified by culture and natural gifts to fight the battle of life for themselves, we must not forget that the end of the eighteenth century produced a goodly list of able and distinguished women.

Perhaps Caroline Herschel has hardly received the prominent place she deserves in that list, and yet it would be hard to trace a life more useful and more loyally devoted to serve in the cause of science—a service which in her case, and that of her distinguished brother, was encompassed with difficulties, that would have daunted the courage of less steadfast souls.

While Leslie Travers lay on the borderland between life and death, all unconscious that the woman he loved so well was also treading the path through that dim mysterious valley of the shadow, the favourite scheme on which William Herschel set so many hopes failed!

The house in King Street had been taken with the view of building a furnace on the lower floor, which was on a level with the garden.

Here the musician, in the full tide of professional duties, would, between the lessons he was giving to the ladies of Bath, run in to see how the workmen were progressing. Here Sir William Watson, Colonel Walsh, and other philosophical friends would meet, and Sir William Watson was only disappointed that the noble-hearted musician and astronomer would not hear of any pecuniary assistance.

At last the day came when all was in readiness. The metal was in the furnace, and the mould prepared, when a leakage caused the red-hot metal to pour out on the floor, tearing up the stones, and scattering them in every direction, William and Alexander Herschel and the workmen having to rush away for their lives.

William Herschel fell exhausted on a heap of brickbats, and for the time the dearest scheme of his heart, in the construction of the large telescope, had to be abandoned.

"Success next time, and greater care to secure it," was all he said; and he hastened to have the rubbish cleared away, recompense the workmen for their lost labour, and that very night "sweep the heavens" with his old instrument, and enter into the most animated conversation on the nebulæ with his chief and constant friend, Sir William Watson.

Everyone must have noticed how quickly events, whether sorrowful or joyful, are forgotten.

The wonder-wave which rolls over a city or town, at the report of any great mercantile failure, or the discovery of dishonest dealing in a man who has held a responsible position, soon ebbs!

This is even more true of private griefs affecting families and individuals. Griefs which leave a lifelong scar on the few, or on one sufferer, are speedily forgotten by the outside world.

This ebb and flow, a poet has well said, is the law to which we must all bow. None can escape from it.

Pity, however sincere, is soon exhausted, and fresh cares of bereavement and loss, or sorrow, start up to excite a passing sympathy, while others are crowded out and forgotten.

The duel between Sir Maxwell Danby and Leslie Travers was a nine days' wonder. It was the favourite topic in the Pump Room for that time, but scarcely longer. At first it was reported that Leslie Travers was dead; then, indeed, there were conjectures about Sir Maxwell's escape, and wonderment as to whether he would be pursued and captured, as Count Rice had been, and tried for murder.

But when it was found that Leslie Travers was likely to live, the interest in the matter visibly declined.

Lady Betty reappeared in the Pump Room and at the balls, and to all inquiries said Miss Mainwaring had left her, that she was no relation to her, and that she had very properly considered it better to return to the station in life whence dear Mr. Longueville, in the nobleness of his heart, had rescued her!

Lent came, and was followed by a bright Easter. The Bath season was over, and the principal event of that season was almost forgotten.

The élite left the City of the West, or if they remained, there were no public assemblies at which they might display their jewels and varied costumes.

It is needless to say that Lady Betty took her departure, as it was considered "the mode" to do so; and report said young Lord Basingstoke had made it evident that he had no serious intentions, by leaving Bath some time before the vivacious little widow deserted No. 6, North Parade.

Perhaps few noticed, or made more than a passing remark of wonder, when a paragraph in the Bath Gazette announced the marriage of Leslie Travers, of the Grange, county Lincoln, to Griselda, daughter of Adolphus Mainwaring, and Phyllis, his wife.

The bride had walked to the Abbey church one fair May morning in her ordinary dress, accompanied by her faithful friend Miss Herschel, and the Miss Hoblyns, and Norah. There were present with the bridegroom his mother and Brian Bellis. Thus so small a wedding-party was not likely to attract attention.

A great change had passed over both bride and bridegroom since that January day when they had sealed their betrothal in the old Abbey church.

The brilliant beauty of Griselda had faded, and there were traces of long illness on her sweet face. Leslie Travers's lithe figure was bent, and he walked slowly and with none of the elasticity of youth. He had been given back to his mother's prayers, contrary to the hopes or expectations of the surgeons, who had watched over him with unremitting care; but the duel had left an indelible mark on him.

The chariot to take the bride and bridegroom was waiting at the door, and here the "Good-byes" were said.

Mrs. Travers felt Griselda's clinging arms round her as she whispered:

"I will try to be a good daughter to you, madam. I pray you love me a little, for his sake!"

"I love you for your own, my child," was the reply; "and I will cherish and comfort this little one till we meet again"—for poor Norah was convulsed with weeping, and only the promise of a home at the Grange with her sister could console her.

And so the curtain falls, and the bridegroom and the bride pass out of our sight; but we must take one farewell look at them when years have gone by, and see how the promise of their early love had been fulfilled.

TEN YEARS LATER—1790.

There is no country, however flat and uninteresting, which does not respond to the glory of a real English summer's day.

The moated Grange, near Louth, was no exception to the rule. The moat itself had been drained, and was now covered with turf, and studded with countless daisies, with their golden eyes looking up into the blue, clear sky.

Even the old-fashioned, low-roofed house, with its many gables and the heron carved in stone over the porch, was laughing in the sunshine; and on the well-kept lawn was a group, on which the eye of an artist might have loved to linger.

A sweet and gracious mother was seated on a low garden bench with a baby on her knee, while on either side stood two children—twin boys—who were the joy and pride of her heart.

The little sister of ten months old had come to put the last jewel in the crown of Griselda Travers's happy wifehood and motherhood.

The place where she sat was under the shadow of a row of tall whispering poplars, which made the pleasant "sound as of falling showers," as the summer breeze stirred the leaves. At the back of the house was a plantation of fir-trees, where the turtle-doves were cooing, and the murmur as of "far seas" in the dark topmost branches made a low undertone of melody.

In the old-fashioned garden, or pleasaunce to the right of the house, bees were humming at their work, and gay butterflies dancing over the lavender-bushes and large trees of York and Lancaster roses, which made the air sweet with their fragrance.

A wide gravel-path divided the pleasaunce, and there a pair of happy lovers were pacing, forgetful of everything but their own happiness.

Presently one of Griselda's boys left her side, and ran across the grass to a little gate which led from a copse, and bounded the lawn on that side.

"Father!" the boy exclaimed; and his brother followed him, echoing the joyful cry.

Griselda also rose, and went across the lawn with the same graceful movement which had distinguished her in the Bath assemblies of old.

"I hope the gig came to meet the coach, dear husband?" she said. "It must have been a hot walk from Louth."

He put his arm round her, and kissed the mother first, and then the little daughter, of whom he was so proud, saying:

"Yes; I left the gig at the corner; and walked across the field. How delightful the country seems after London! and as to the boys, they seem in rude health. Have you taken care of your mother, William and Alex?"

"Yes; and we have said our Latin verbs every day, and done our parsing and spelling out of the grammars and dictionaries," said Will.

"I hate spelling," said Alex; "but I love sums."

"That's good. Your godfather was asking how you got on with that branch of your education. Your godfather is a great man, boys; you may be proud to feel he is your godfather."

"Was it very charming at Slough, Leslie?"

"It was, indeed; and wonderful! 'The sweeping of the sky' is a nightly business; and the wife is as much devoted to it as the sister. You must take the journey to London ere long, my dearest, and see for yourself. The twenty-foot Newtonian telescope is a marvel; and there sits Caroline, as of old, writing down calculations and observations. I went to bed at one o'clock; but even on that night William Herschel had discovered four or five new nebulæ."

"And he is now quite a great man?"

"Great in everyone's eyes but his own. Royal favour has not turned his head, nor Caroline's either. She has sent your boys a case of little mathematical instruments, and she says you are to go to Slough next visit I pay."

"And little Phyllis, too, father?"

"Yes, when she is old enough. So you have two happy people still here, I see?"

"Yes. Brian got an extra week's holiday from the law office at Bristol; and I knew you would not mind. Mother is so pleased to have him here."

At this moment Brian Bellis and Norah awoke to the fact that they were not the only people in that flowery garden; and Nora, now a beautiful girl of nineteen, leaving Brian's arm, came springing to her brother-in-law, with a face flushed with welcome, to receive her accustomed kiss.

Then from the low French window at the side of the house Mrs. Travers appeared, and greeted her son with a tender welcome.

Mrs. Travers took the baby from her mother's arms, saying:

"She is too heavy for you, my dear; she grows such a great girl. Is not Phyllis glad to see father safely back again?"

The baby cooed as a sign of contentment, but whether this was the result of the contemplation of her silver rattle, or of her father's return, may not be told.

Then the happy party turned into the house, and Leslie drew from the wide pocket of his blue coat with brass buttons a sheaf of letters.

He singled one from the rest, and said gravely:

"I got the letters at Louth. This tells sad news. It has been written for Amelia Graves."

"Dear Graves!" Griselda exclaimed; "what does she say?" She took the letter, written in a round clerkly hand from her husband, and read:

"Dear and Honoured Sir:

"This leaves me well; but I have to inform you my poor mistress departed this life yesterday. I prayed by her, and asked the Lord to pardon her. Honoured sir—and you, dear Madam Travers—that bad man, Sir Maxwell Danby, behaved so ill, that she had to leave his home. He is gone to foreign parts again, and let us hope never to return. He treated my poor mistress shameful, and she was made miserable. We went to Bath for last season, but she was too ill to enter into gaieties, and sank into a sad state—mind and body.

"I send my duty to you, honoured sir, and the dear lady, your wife, and remain,

"Your humble servant,

"Amelia Graves."

Griselda's sweet face became very grave as she read this letter. Then she folded it and returned it to her husband.

"I should like Graves to come and live with us, and take care of her in her old age. Might I ask her?"

Then Leslie bent over his wife, and kissing her, said:

"I knew that would be your wish. I will write by next post to Bath, and bid her come hither. She was good to you when you were in trouble, and won my lasting gratitude."

"Poor Lady Betty! Oh that she ever was so blind—so foolish—as to marry that dreadful man! I never see his name without a shudder!"

The news this letter contained had brought back to the happy wife and mother many sad memories; but the past did not long cloud her present.

As she put her hand into her husband's arm that evening when the children were asleep, and no sound broke the silence as they paced the garden walk, she stopped suddenly, and said:

"Dearest, you have made my life so beautiful. You have taught me so much. You said once—do you remember?—you would die for me, or live for me! You have lived for me, and I——"

"And you have kept your promise, sweetheart," he said. "Do you remember that promise?"

"Yes," she said. "It has been so easy to keep it. All joy and pleasure to give you what you asked for that day in the Abbey church."

So, with interchange of loving words, the husband and wife saw the shadows of the night steal over the woods and far-stretching level country round their home.

The lovers were also enjoying their twilight walk, and talking, as lovers will, of the bliss of the future they are to spend together.

A happy dream is that dream of young love; but is there anything in this mutable life more beautiful than the deepening of that young love into the serene and blessed sympathy of a husband and wife who, through the changes and chances of ten years, can feel, as Leslie and Griselda felt, more secure in each other's loyalty and truth as time rolls on; who can feel that if all other earthly props and joys vanish, their love will remain, that sorrow is shared and grief softened, that all good will be intensified and all happiness doubled, because felt by two, who are yet one in the highest sense?

This is the true marriage, which has been taken as a type of the highest and the holiest union. Why is it that it is so often missed? Why does the reality of love so often flee away, and only a ghost-like shadow and pale semblance remain?

There is a solution of this problem, but it is not for me to give it here. The hearts of many who read the story of Leslie and Griselda will, if they are true and honest, answer the question each one for herself, and it may be with tears and unavailing regret, yes! and of self-reproach also, that this full cup of bliss has never reached their lips, but that the honeyed sweetness of the elixir of youth has, long ere old age is reached, been as an exceeding bitter cup given them to drink!

As the husband and wife of whom I write, went into their peaceful home, they looked up at the sky where the stars were shining in all their majesty, and their thoughts turned to their friends who were far away, and probably making their accustomed preparation for sweeping the sky.

Many and many a summer night has come and gone since then; many and many eyes have been raised to the star-lit sky, and keen intellects and abstruse calculations have brought to light much for which the great astronomer, William Herschel, prepared the way. But I doubt if even amongst them all has been found a more single-hearted and reverent contemplation of the mysteries of that illimitable space which he thus describes:

"This method of viewing the heavens seems to throw them into a new kind of light. They are now seen to resemble a luxuriant garden which contains the greatest variety of productions in different flourishing beds, and one advantage we may at least reap from it is, that we can, as it were, extend the image of our experience to an immense duration. For is it not almost the same thing whether we live successively to witness the germination, blooming, foliage, fecundity, fading, withering and corruption of a plant, or whether a vast number of specimens selected from every stage through which the planet passes in the course of its existence be brought at once to our view?"

This is a finely-expressed and profound thought, and the mind which originated it must indeed win our admiration and respect.

Surely the house in King Street, Bath, and the association with it, may well consecrate it as a shrine which all who appreciate true and honest labour, and brave struggles with difficulties, should visit. The discovery of the planet Uranus in that house was a grand achievement. The light thrown on the mysteries of double stars, and of the perpetual motion and marvellous evolutions of the milky way was scarcely a less memorable step towards the better understanding of the star-depths which mortals may well scan with bated breath, so infinite is the infinite! But it almost seems to me that pilgrims to the house where the great astronomer and musician lived and worked, may do well to think most of the faithful performance of duty, the unflinching perseverance, the courageous struggle with untold difficulties which was carried on by William and Caroline Herschel while the Bath season was at its height, and the butterflies of fashion and the votaries of pleasure danced and chattered, and sang and made merry in the assemblies, where a hundred years ago so many people whose names are now forgotten, flocked in the pursuit of health and amusement! There will always be these contrasts sharply defined. The bees and the butterflies go forth together over the same flowery pastures. There are countless hidden workers, unknown to fame, who yet do their part—if a humble part, in life—in the place appointed them by God. But there are some who by force of an indomitable will and the highest gifts of intellect and culture leave behind them a name which to all time shall be honoured, and Bath may think herself favoured that in the long list of distinguished men and women who have frequented that fair city and Queen of the West, she may write in letters of gold the names of William Herschel and his sister Caroline.