Her Season in Bath: A Story of Bygone Days

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.

CHAPTER XVII.

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!"

CHAPTER XVIII

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.