Her Season in Bath Part 10

"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 pa.s.s 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 att.i.tude 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 G.o.d 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 b.u.t.tons--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 b.u.t.tons 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."