THE VASE OF PARNASSUS.
"I am glad to be allowed the chance of speaking to you, Miss
Mainwaring," Leslie Travers began. "I wanted to tell you that I have
found a clue to your poor little protegee of last evening. I am going to
visit her, guided by the boy, to whom she referred me."
"That is good news!" Griselda said. "Will you be sure to let me know if
I can do aught for her? Oh, I would that I was not dependent on others!
I do long to help the poor and sad! I must try once more to get Lady
Betty to make me ever so small an allowance. But," she added, with
sudden animation, "I have many jewels and trinkets which were my
grandmother's, and came to me at her death. Will you sell some for me? I
had thought of selling a necklace to pay Mr. Herschel for his lessons;
but it will be better to feed the starving than learn music."
"You must let me make all due inquiries first, madam," Leslie Travers
said. "I do not desire that your charity should be ill-placed, and many
beggars' tales are false."
"That child was telling the truth!" Griselda said. "I knew it! I felt
it!"
"You can then judge of truth or falseness by the unerring instinct
which is one of the gifts of true womanhood? I would hope--I would
venture to hope--that, tried by that instinct, you would trust me, and
believe that all I say is true. May I dare to hope it is so?"
"Yes," Griselda said, looking straight into the pure, clear eyes which
sought hers. "Yes; I could trust _you_."
"Could? Change that word to _do_. Say you _do_ trust me."
His voice trembled with emotion, and Griselda's eyes fell beneath his
ardent admiring gaze. The story of his love was written on his face, and
Griselda Mainwaring could not choose but read it. The compact between
them might have been sealed then, had not a quiet, gentle voice near
pronounced Mr. Travers' name.
"Leslie, my dear son!"
Griselda turned her face, flushed with crimson, towards Leslie's mother.
He hastened to relieve Griselda's evident embarrassment by saying:
"May I have the honour of presenting you to my mother, Miss Mainwaring?
I have promised to meet my guide to the house we were speaking of. I
will return hither, mother; meantime, may I hope you and Miss Mainwaring
will have some conversation which will be agreeable to both?"
"I will await your return, Leslie. But do not exceed half an hour, for
the dark streets are not pleasant, especially for old folk like me, who
have to pick my way carefully. Have you been long a visitor to Bath,
madam?" Mrs. Travers said, as she seated herself with Griselda on one of
the benches.
"We arrived in November, madam."
"Have you a mother and sister?"
"No, no!" Griselda said passionately. "I am alone in the world--an
orphan."
"Ah, may the God of the fatherless be your Friend. You will make Him
your Friend, my dear? This is a place fraught with danger. I feel it for
my son--and how much more is it full of danger for you?"
"There are many beautiful things and interesting people in Bath. Do you
know Mr. and Miss Herchel, madam?"
"I know them by report," was the reply. "My son is a musician, and
attends Mr. Herschel's classes."
"It is not only music for which Mr. Herschel is famous. He is an
astronomer, and reads the star-lit heavens like a book--a poem--a poem
more wonderful than any written by earthly hands."
Mrs. Travers was surprised. She did not expect a child of the world--a
fashionable young lady--to speak so seriously on any subject. But it was
her duty to improve the occasion, and she said:
"I would rather read the Word of God than the star-lit skies, since the
safety of the soul is surely a more important duty than to pry into the
secret things of God."
"But He stretched out the heavens. He raises our thoughts above by their
contemplation."
"Ah, my dear young lady, this is the vain tradition of men. Let me urge
you to come to our chapel in the Vineyards on the next Sabbath, and hear
the truth rightly divided by Mr. Relly. Do not be affronted at my
boldness!"
"Oh no! I am obliged to you for caring about me. I have so few who do so
care."
"I can scarcely believe it!" Mrs. Travers said. "So young and fair.
Surely there are those who stand in the place of parents to you?"
"No; I know of none such. But here comes my aunt, Lady Betty
Longueville. She will desire me to return, as we are expected at a small
party to-night at Lady Miller's."
Sir Maxwell Danby, who had been watching his opportunity, now came
forward:
"If you have quite done with yonder Niobe, will you permit me to escort
you to your chair? No? You are walking? That is better; I shall have
more of your company. Let me place your hood over your head--so! What a
wealth of loveliness it hides!"
Griselda turned away impatiently; but as Lady Betty was in advance with
Lord Basingstoke, she was obliged to follow them.
Sir Maxwell made the best of his opportunity, and held Griselda's hand
as it rested on his arm, though she drew back from such familiarity.
"That old gentlewoman," he said, "was reading you a lecture on the sins
of the world and its frivolities. I could see it; I have been watching
you from afar."
"I am sorry, sir, you had no better subject of contemplation," was the
reply.
It was but a step to North Parade; and, just as they reached it, Leslie
Travers turned the corner from South Parade. It gave him a thrill of
disgust to see Griselda on the arm of a man who he knew was no fit
companion for any pure-minded woman, and a pang of jealousy shot through
him, and got the better of his discretion.
"If you had waited, Miss Mainwaring, I should have returned at the time
I appointed, and I could have told you of what I had seen."
"You did find her? You know, then, her story was true?"
"Yes, but the half had not been told; but more of this hereafter."
"I should be obliged to you, sir," Sir Maxwell began, "not to hinder
this young lady any longer. She is under my charge, and I must move on."
"Who hinders you, sir?" was the answer. "Not I. Your goings and comings
are matters of supreme indifference to me."
Sir Maxwell laughed.
"Boys are always outspoken, I know; and, like puppy dogs, have to be
licked into shape."
"You shall be made to apologize for this insult, sir; and were you not
in the lady's presence----"
"Oh, pray, Mr. Travers, do not be angry; no harm is meant. I shall look
for you to-morrow to tell me the whole story of the poor little girl.
Good-afternoon."
Then Griselda stepped on quickly to the door, and Sir Maxwell bowed his
"Good-bye," taking her hand and kissing it.
"Why so cruel to me," he asked, "when I would be your slave? Nay, I _am_
your slave, and do your bidding."
"If so, Sir Maxwell, you will allow me to pass into the house, and I
wish to do so alone."
"I dare not disobey your orders, though I am invited to a dish of tea by
her ladyship; only"--and he hissed the words out between his thin
lips--"beware of puppy dogs--they show their teeth sometimes.
Adieu--adieu!"
Lady Betty was in high good-humour in the drawing-room. A dainty
tea-service had been set out--delicate cups with no handles--and a
silver tea-pot and cream-jug; and Lord Basingstoke had taken up his
favourite lounging attitude by the fire.
"What have you done with Sir Maxwell Danby, child?"
"He left me at the door."
"Where are your manners, not to invite him to come in?" Lady Betty said
sharply. "I shall never teach you the proper behaviour, I believe."
"You might spare me before witnesses," Griselda said angrily. "If,
indeed, I offend you, I will not inflict my company any longer on you."
Then, with a dignified curtsey, Griselda swept out of the room. It was
terribly irritating to catch the sound of Lady Betty's laugh as she did
so, and the words, "A very tragedy queen--a real stage 'curtshey.'"
Griselda hastened to her room, where she found Graves getting her change
of toilette ready for the evening, and kindling a fire in the small
grate.
"Oh dear, Graves! what a weariful world it is! Graves, tell me--now, do
tell me--something about my mother."
"I have told you all I know many a time, my dearie. She was a fair
flower, nipped and withered by the breath of this same world you speak
of. May God preserve you in it!"
Griselda had thrown herself into a chair, and laid aside her cloak and
hood. All her beautiful hair fell over her shoulders like rippling waves
of gold.
"Dear Graves, I have met a gentleman often, who is not like the rest of
the world's votaries. His name is Travers; his mother frequents the
chapel in the Vineyards. Take me thither with you next Sunday! Say you
will, Graves!"
"I will take you if her ladyship is up in good time; but I can't get off
early if she chooses to lie a-bed. But you would not go to scoff, Miss
Griselda?"
"Nay; I have done with scoffing. But, Graves, do you ever think of the
miserable poor who have no food and no clothing, like a poor child I saw
on Mr. Herschel's doorstep t'other night? This Mr. Travers has tracked
her at my desire, and I want to sell some trinkets to feed and clothe
her. Hand me the large box; I rarely open it. I did sell the
amethyst-brooch to buy my violin, and now there are the two necklets my
grandmother left my mother, and which came to me by will; and there are
some other trinkets--a silver scent-box and golden ear-drops. Make
haste, dear Graves, and let me do what I wish."
"Well," said Graves, "I suppose you can do what you will with your own;
but, all the same, I don't hold with selling property--you may want it
yourself some day."
"True--ah, that is true! I wonder how it came about that I had no
maintenance!"
"Your poor dear mamma had her portion on her marriage with that
good-for-nothing, and he made away with every penny. Then Mr.
Longueville took you as you know, and gave you a home."
"Yes; he was good to me. I remember coming, I think, when I was four
years old."
"You poor little thing!" Graves exclaimed. "Yes, I can see you now, in
your black pelisse, so shy and so strange! If your poor uncle had never
married, it would have been all right; but there, my lady could draw
water out of a stone by her wiles and ways. It's no use moaning over
spilt milk. Here's the box. Now, don't be in a hurry to sell, as I tell
you these trinkets are all you've got in the world. I must go and look
after her ladyship's buckles; she wants a blue rosette sewn on her
shoes, and the buckles taken off. It is all vanity and vexing of spirit.
She'll be as cross as two sticks to-night; she always is, when she has
been to the Pump Room, drinking these waters for fidgets and
fancies--they upset folks' stomachs, and then other folks have to put up
with their tantrums."
When Graves was gone, Griselda pulled the little table towards her; and,
taking a small key from her chatelaine, unlocked the box.
"Yes," she thought, "it is as Graves says, I have nothing in the world
but these jewels. It seemed till to-day that I had no one in the world
to care for me; but now I think _he_ does care for me. He is not like
those gay, foolish men who treat women as if they were dolls to be
dressed up, or puppets to move at their bidding. No, _he_ is of another
sort, I think." And the swift blush came to her fair cheek. "What if he
loves me! It would be sweet to be taken from this hollow
existence--dressing and dancing, and looking out for flattery and
admiration. If _he_ were near, that dreadful man would not dare to talk
to me as he does--he would _not_ dare if I were not an orphan; and my
only protector--that silly creature who drives me nearly wild with her
folly----Well, let me hope better times are coming. Now for the jewels."
The box was lined with cedar, and as the cover was raised a faint, sweet
odour of cedar mingled with otto of roses came with a message from the
past. Through the dim haze of long years that scent recalled to Griselda
a room, where a tall dark man had sat by the embers of a fire, the box
before him, and some words which the fragrance mysteriously seemed to
bring back.
"It was her wish, and the child must go." The child! What child?--and
whither did she go? It was herself--it must have been herself--the man
meant.
Then it was all haze again. The light that had penetrated the mists of
the past, and brought the scene before her, was obscured once more.
That man must have been her father; but she had no memories of him
either before or after that day, which had risen like a phantom before
her, called up by the faint sweet scent of the old jewel-box.
The necklets were very fair to look at--one of pearls, with a diamond
clasp, and initials on the gold at the back, which were her dead
mother's. No, she could not sell that; but there were heavy ear-drops of
solid gold, and a set of gold buttons--these would surely fetch
something. The amethyst necklace, with its lovely purple hue, had never
belonged to her mother; and she put it, with the gold buttons and
ear-rings, into a small leather box, and was pressing down one of the
compartments, when a drawer flew open she had never noticed before. In
the drawer were some diamond ornaments and rings; a piece of yellow
paper was fastened to one of the rings:
"Deserted by the husband I trusted, I, Phyllis Mainwaring, leave to my
only child, Griselda, these diamonds. I place them out of sight, safe
from dishonest hands. When I left him to get bread he knew nothing of
them, or he would have sold them. They are my poor darling's only
inheritance, and I leave them secure that one day she will find them.
Let her take with them her unhappy mother's blessing."
This was indeed a discovery. Griselda had always remembered that this
box had stood in her room at Longueville House. She remembered her uncle
bidding her bring it to him, and that he placed in it the trinkets left
to her by her grandmother, but never had anyone suspected the existence
of the diamonds. No one knew, that when the man whom she had married was
running through her little fortune, the unhappy wife had, in her
despair, converted a few hundreds into diamonds, and hidden them away
from all eyes in that old jewel-box.
Griselda's eyes filled with tears. She pressed the bit of paper to her
lips, and, wholly unconscious of the worth of those precious stones, she
closed the drawer again upon that unexpected discovery, and, putting the
small box safely in the drawer of the bureau, she took her violin from
its case, and tried to wake from it the music which lay hidden in it. As
she played--imperfectly enough, yet with the ear of a musician--her
spirit was soothed and comforted; and these verses, written in a thin,
pointed hand, were dropped into Lady Miller's vase that evening with no
name or cypher affixed, and the mystery of the author was not solved:
"WAITING.
"Loveliest strains are lying,
Waiting to awake,
Till a master's hand
Shall sweetest music make.
"Life's best gifts are waiting
Till a magic power
Calls them from their hiding,
In some happy hour.
"Brightest hopes are watching
For their time of bliss,
When a kindred spirit
Greets them with a kiss.
"Dreams of purest joys
Shadows still remain,
Till the day-star rises,
And loss is turned to gain.
"Sadness, grief, and sorrow,
Like clouds shall pass away,
If only we in patience wait
Till dawns the perfect day."
"This author may claim a wreath," Lady Miller said, "but perhaps she
likes best to be uncrowned."
There was endless discussion as to the author of what seemed to be
considered a poem of unusual merit, and one and another looked
conscious, and blushed and simpered, for no one was unwilling to take
the honour to herself. Lady Betty was sure it was only the dear
Marchioness who could have written them, only she was too modest to
declare herself.
"Mock modesty I call it!" said Lady Miller, who was a bright, jovial
woman, and had nothing of the grace or sentimental air which the
verse-makers of those days wore as their badge.
Not a single person thought of taxing Griselda with the verses, so quiet
had she been in these assemblies, seldom expressing any opinion as to
the poems of other people. Griselda was not in the charmed circle of the
_elite_ of Parnassus, who had a right to wear one of Lady Miller's
laurel crowns, and yet the verses, such as they were and poor as they
may seem to us, were superior to the _bouts rimes_ on a "buttered
muffin," which, report says, were once dropped into the Roman vase at
Batheaston.
At the time of which I write, Lady Miller's sun was declining. Scarcely
two years later, she died at the Clifton Hot Wells, at a comparatively
early age. But in her day her reputation spread far and wide; and some
of the contributions, notably one from Sheridan's able pen, were full of
real, and not, as was too often the case, affected feeling.
This reunion to which Lady Betty and Griselda went on this December
night was not one of the Fairs of Parnassus which were held every
Thursday. It was a soiree, to which only a select few--such as
marchionesses, and embryo duchesses, and future peeresses--were bidden.
Lady Miller's health was failing, though she tried to hide it; and even
now a cough, which was persistent, though not loud, prevented her from
reading the effusions which were taken haphazard from the vase, dressed
with its pink ribbons, and with crowns of myrtle hanging from it. Six
judges were generally chosen to decide on the best poems, and the
authors were only too proud to come forward and kneel to receive the
wreath from the hand of this patroness of _les belles lettres._
How old-world this all seems to us now! and how we think we can afford
to sneer at such folly and such deplorably bad taste as the poems then
thought worthy display! "Siren charms" and "bright-eyed enchantress,"
"soft zephyrs" and "gentle poesies," might be the stock expressions
always ready to lend themselves to rhymes, with a hundred others of the
like nature. But these reunions had their better side; for reading
verses was better than talking scandal, and apostrophes to bright eyes
and ladies' auburn locks better than the discussion of the last duel or
elopement, which, in the absence of "society papers," were too apt to
form the favourite topic of the _beau monde_.
Lady Miller may have won her myrtle crown for attempting to set the
minds and brains of her friends at work, even if only to produce
doubtful _bouts rimes_ where sense was sacrificed to rhyme, and sound
triumphed over subject.
We have our Lady Millers of to-day, although there are no pink-ribboned
vases in which contributors drop their poetical efforts.