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
_elite_ 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!"