Her Season in Bath Part 28

"Oh! you are very cruel--very hard-hearted!" Griselda said; and with a sob turned away.

As she was leaving the door, a young voice she knew greeted her.

It was Brian Bellis'.

"Madam," he said, "I have come to tell you that Norah--poor little Norah--is safe at my aunt's house in John Street. I took her there after the funeral, and she is made welcome; it would melt a heart of stone to see her. Will you come and comfort her?"

"Comfort her! I am in need of comfort myself. Yes, I will come. No one wants me--no one cares!"

"_I_ care, madam," Brian said. "Is the gentleman dead? It is said in the town that he is dead of his wound."

"No, no, he is alive, but dying," said Griselda. "Take me to poor little Norah--my poor little sister! And then will you go for me to North Parade--see, Graves, the good waiting-woman--and ask her to bring me my possessions, for I shall never return thither; I am homeless and helpless."

"No, madam--no," the boy said; "my aunts will receive you--I feel sure they will."

Then they walked on silently towards John Street, and there the Miss Hoblyns were awaiting her arrival. They had not reached the pinnacle of their fame at this time, for it was not till the d.u.c.h.ess of York, in 1795, visited their establishment that they became the rage. But they were kind-hearted women, of a superior type to the ordinary cla.s.s of mantua-maker and milliner of those times. Gentlewomen by nature, if not by birth.

Brian, the son of their dead sister, was their idol, and they found it hard to refuse any request he made. When the poor desolate child had been led to their home from her father's grave, their hearts had gone out to her, and they gave Brian leave to fetch the sister of whom he spoke.

Great, indeed, was these good women's surprise, when, as Griselda dropped her hood and cloak, they recognised the beautiful young lady, on whom they had waited at Lady Betty Longueville's, and who had done such credit to their skill in altering the white paduasoy which Lady Betty had discarded, and which Griselda wore when she had been the admired belle of the great ball in Wiltshire's Rooms. How was it possible she could be the sister of the orphan child, and the daughter of an actor, who had died sunk in the depths of misery and poverty?

But they asked no questions, and, taking poor Griselda's hand, led her to the room where, on a couch drawn near the fire, the child lay, asleep.

Worn out with watching and sorrow, this sufferer for the sins of another had fallen into a profound slumber, and Griselda, as she looked on the pale face, about which a tangle of golden curls lay in wild confusion, stooped and kissed her sister.

The child stirred--as she did so, opened her eyes for a moment, smiled, and said:

"My beautiful lady! I am _glad_ you are come."

Then Griselda lifted her in her arms, and pressing her close, shed the first tears which she had shed since the night before, when she had first heard of Leslie Travers's peril, incurred for her sake.

Norah was soon asleep again, and the kind women threw a covering over both sisters, and left them together with the tact and sympathy which is the outcome of a n.o.ble nature, whether it is found in a milliner or a marchioness.

It certainly was not found in Lady Betty Longueville.

When Graves went to her with the tidings that Brian Bellis brought, she flew into one of her "hysterical tantrums," as Graves and David called them.

"Yes, Graves," Lady Betty screamed, "pack up the minx's things; I am well quit of her. Let 'em all go," she said; "but take nothing of mine--I would not give her a groat--spoiling my Bath season like this--treating my friend, Sir Maxwell, with contempt--forcing him to send that insolent puppy a challenge. Disgracing me--disgracing her poor departed uncle--lowering me in the eyes of society--she, the child of a common actor, with whom her wretched mother ran away. Oh! I never wish to set eyes on her again!"

Graves coughed significantly.

"She was left to your ladyship for maintenance," she said.

"How dare you speak like that to me? Leave the room instantly. And, mind, I disown the baggage--the ungrateful hussy--when she might have been my Lady Danby--and--and--of use to me, repaying me for all my kindness these many years--for, let me tell you, Graves, Danby Place is a fine mansion, and she might have been mistress of it--the idiot--the fool! I wash my hands of her--she may go where she lists--but let me never see her face again!"

Graves listened to this tirade with her accustomed composure, and went to Griselda's room to do her lady's bidding.

She gathered together a few things which Griselda might immediately need, and gave them, with the violin, to Brian. The old leather case she would not trust out of her sight, and, hastily putting on her cloak and huge _caleche_, she said she would follow the boy to John Street.

As they left the house, Zach was peeping out from behind the door, and Brian shook his fist at him.

"I would like to thrash you--you wicked little spy--you!"

But Zach had the gold-pieces in his pocket, and only made a grimace in return to Brian's threatening gesture.

Graves' heart was touched, perhaps, as it had never been touched before, when she saw Griselda lying on the couch, with Norah asleep in her arms.

Griselda was not asleep, and looking up to Graves, said, in a piteous voice:

"Oh, dear Graves, I am alone now!--there is no one belonging to me but this child--we must hold together. Kiss her, Graves--gently, she may wake. Poor, poor little Norah! I have forgotten her in this day's misery. Speak to the kind people here, and ask them to let me stay with them--I can pay them. I can work for them--I was always clever with my needle."

"Here is your box of jewels, my poor dear, I brought them myself; the boy has brought your clothes and a gown for to-morrow."

"You forget, you forget, Graves--I must have a black gown for my father, and--for _him_--my only love. Oh! Graves--do hearts break? I feel as if mine must break--and that I must die."

Graves struggled in vain with her tears: they chased each other down her furrowed cheeks.

"Trust in the Lord, my dear. There may be a bow in the dark cloud--who can tell?"

Then Graves went to the Miss Hoblyns, who had considerately left Griselda and the child alone together, and she arranged a bedroom at the back of the house, and placed her young mistress's possessions in some order.

"The young lady will be able to pay for her lodgings and board, madam,"

Graves said, "and for the child's also. She has already sold some jewels, and----"

But Miss Hoblyn waved her hand, as if to say she wanted nothing else said just then, and Graves proceeded to light a fire, and make the room allotted to Griselda's use as comfortable as circ.u.mstances allowed; and then, wringing Miss Hoblyn's delicate hand in her large work-worn fingers, she hastened back to North Parade.

There was no immediate need for Griselda to put on a mourning garment.

Distress of mind, and the long, long walk in the cold chill air of January to Claverton Down, had the effect of throwing her into an illness--a fever--which attacked her brain, and rendered her unconscious of all troubles, past and present, for some time.

It was touching to see how the child, so prematurely old, and so well accustomed to privation and nursing of the sick, took up her place by her sister's bed, and proved the most efficient of little nurses--as nursing was understood in those days.

Griselda was certainly an instance of a patient suffering more from the remedy than the disease. The doctor--Mr. Cheyne--who was called in, let blood several times from her arm, cut off her beautiful hair, and blistered the back of her head, and brought her to the very verge of the grave. She took no heed of any one who came and went, or she would have seen Caroline Herschel by her bed every day, and would have known that many little delicacies were brought by her hand. She was immersed in ever-increasing musical engagements, for, besides the preparation for the oratorio to be performed during Lent, she actually copied with her own hand the scores of the "Messiah" and "Judas Maccabaeus" in parts for an orchestra of nearly one hundred performers; and in the vocal parts of Samson, Caroline Herschel instructed the treble singers, of whom she was now amongst the first.

Very few women of these days have gone through the amount of hard continuous labour which Caroline Herschel did; and when we are tempted to think highly of the increasing number of women, qualified by culture and natural gifts to fight the battle of life for themselves, we must not forget that the end of the eighteenth century produced a goodly list of able and distinguished women.

Perhaps Caroline Herschel has hardly received the prominent place she deserves in that list, and yet it would be hard to trace a life more useful and more loyally devoted to serve in the cause of science--a service which in her case, and that of her distinguished brother, was encompa.s.sed with difficulties, that would have daunted the courage of less steadfast souls.

While Leslie Travers lay on the borderland between life and death, all unconscious that the woman he loved so well was also treading the path through that dim mysterious valley of the shadow, the favourite scheme on which William Herschel set so many hopes failed!

The house in King Street had been taken with the view of building a furnace on the lower floor, which was on a level with the garden.

Here the musician, in the full tide of professional duties, would, between the lessons he was giving to the ladies of Bath, run in to see how the workmen were progressing. Here Sir William Watson, Colonel Walsh, and other philosophical friends would meet, and Sir William Watson was only disappointed that the n.o.ble-hearted musician and astronomer would not hear of any pecuniary a.s.sistance.

At last the day came when all was in readiness. The metal was in the furnace, and the mould prepared, when a leakage caused the red-hot metal to pour out on the floor, tearing up the stones, and scattering them in every direction, William and Alexander Herschel and the workmen having to rush away for their lives.

William Herschel fell exhausted on a heap of brickbats, and for the time the dearest scheme of his heart, in the construction of the large telescope, had to be abandoned.

"Success next time, and greater care to secure it," was all he said; and he hastened to have the rubbish cleared away, recompense the workmen for their lost labour, and that very night "sweep the heavens" with his old instrument, and enter into the most animated conversation on the nebulae with his chief and constant friend, Sir William Watson.