Marshall Emma
Her Season in Bath: A Story of Bygone Days

CHAPTER XI.
A LETTER

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

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

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

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

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

 
"Held a lily in her hand —
Gates of brass could not withstand
One touch of that enchanted wand."
 

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.

CHAPTER XII.
DISCOVERED

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."