Her Season in Bath Part 18

Then the little widow made the best of the circ.u.mstances, 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 b.u.t.terfly 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 pa.s.sed.

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 pa.s.sionately. "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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 pa.s.sed, 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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sembly 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."