Her Season in Bath: A Story of Bygone Days

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.

CHAPTER XIX.

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.

1

DUELLING ON CLAVERTON DOWN.

In the year 1778 many foreign nobles made Bath their residence. The Viscount du Barré and two ladies of great beauty and accomplishments, and Count Rice, an Irish gentleman who had borne arms in the service of France, lived in the Royal Crescent.

A quarrel at cards between Du Barré and Rice resulted in an immediate challenge – given and accepted. At one o'clock in the morning of November 18, 1778, a coach was procured from the Three Tuns in Stall Street, and Claverton Down was reached at day-dawn.

"Each man," says a contemporary, "was armed with two pistols and a sword, the ground being marked out by the seconds. Du Barré fired first, and lodged a ball in Count Rice's thigh, which penetrated to the bone. Count Rice fired, and wounded Du Barré in the breast. Afterwards the pistols were thrown away, and the combatants took to their swords.