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 protegee,
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 _caleche_ 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."