Her Season in Bath Part 23

"I need your prayers, sweet mother," the poor fellow murmured, as he pa.s.sed on to his room near hers. "Perhaps to-morrow I shall be beyond their reach. Oh! that great mystery _beyond_!"

The message came, as he expected, brought by Mr. d.i.c.kinson, who was to be Sir Maxwell's second, and Leslie referred him to Mr. Beresford to act for him.

"It's a pity you can't square matters without fighting," Mr. d.i.c.kinson said.

He was the good-natured, easy-going man who had been in the jeweller's shop on that day when Sir Maxwell had first had his evil suspicions roused.

"It's a pity, but Sir Maxwell is bent upon fighting, so the sooner it is over, the better. He is an old hand--and you? Can you handle a sword?"

"Fairly well," Leslie said.

"It is proposed to have a round with swords. The place--Claverton Down, out Widcombe way; the time--dawn, to-morrow. It is Sunday, by-the-bye, and we are safe not to be hindered. What answer shall I take to Danby?"

"Say I am ready," Leslie said; "ready--aye, ready!"

"You don't feel inclined for a compromise, then?"

"No, I do not. He has heaped insults on me which I have overlooked, but he has dared to slander one whom I love better than life. Do you suppose I can brook that?"

"Dear! dear!" exclaimed Mr. d.i.c.kinson. "Women are the bottom of half the mischief that is brewed in the world, I do believe."

Mr. d.i.c.kinson had not been gone long before Mr. Beresford arrived. He ran in to the Herschels to excuse himself from accompanying them to Bristol, saying he had urgent business, and then returned to his friend.

All the arrangements were made, and the utmost secrecy agreed on.

"No one need know"--hesitating--"certainly not Miss Mainwaring or my mother. I will employ to-day in setting my house in order, and leave letters behind me."

"Don't say 'behind me,' man. Hundreds of people who fight do not get a scratch. You will be all right, and marry the lady, and live happy ever after."

"I am in no jesting mood, Beresford; and although you profess to look on the whole affair as a joke, you do not do so, in your secret heart. You do not forget, any more than I do, that last month we walked together to Claverton Down to see the spot where Viscount Barre asked for his life of Count Rice, not much over a year ago."[1]

[Footnote 1: See "DUELLING ON CLAVERTON DOWN." ]

"Ah! that was a different matter. We are to have no pistols, only a little sword-play. I hope one of Danby's evil eyes may be put out, and, better still, his tongue slit. Aim at his mouth, with that end in view.

Yes, try for the mouth and eyes, Travers."

"Has the matter got wind in Bath?" Leslie asked.

"Oh! the gossips have got hold of the quarrel. But dear heart, man, there is seldom a day but there is a war of words in the a.s.sembly or Pump Room."

Leslie Travers spent the rest of the day in his room, excusing himself to his mother on the plea of indisposition. And, indeed, she was too much occupied with a prayer-meeting at the Countess of Huntingdon's house to do more than pay Leslie a visit at intervals, see that his fire burned brightly, and exhort him to take the soup and wine she carried to him herself. Thus, all unconscious of the sword which was hanging over her, gentle Mrs. Travers went on her way.

Unconscious, too, of trouble affecting their near neighbour and friend, Mr. and Miss Herschel were at Bristol, rehearsing, amidst the congratulations of the audience privileged to be present, the great oratorio to be performed in a few days under the _baton_ of Ronzini, who was to conduct it.

Unconscious of the peril in which Leslie Travers stood, Griselda was occupied with the event of the previous night--her father's death--and the necessary confession to Leslie Travers, of her relations.h.i.+p to the dying man, by whose bedside they had watched together.

The house in North Parade was unusually quiet that day, for Lady Betty had caught cold, and kept Graves in perpetual attendance.

A few visitors arrived, but were refused admittance, and Griselda waited in vain for any message from Leslie Travers.

She had begun several letters to him, and then torn them into fragments.

Then there was the thought of poor desolate little Norah, as she saw her carried away from that attic where her father lay dead, in Mrs. Betts's arms.

Had she not promised to befriend her? and how could she fulfil her promise?

Graves kept out of her way; she had heard enough from Zach to make her fear the worst about the quarrel between Sir Maxwell Danby and Mr.

Travers. She dreaded to be questioned, and yet she longed to speak.

Lady Betty was a fractious invalid, and she was constantly crying out that her illness was brought on by the conduct of that minx upstairs, telling Graves to let her know she never wished to see her face again--that she had disgraced her, and that she might beg her bread for all she cared; that she hoped Sir Maxwell would fight that young jackanapes, and get him out of the way. Then she cried that she had got the smallpox--her back ached, her eyes ached--she must have the doctor.

Graves must send for the doctor--Mr. Cheyne, a young man who claimed to be a grandson of the great Dr. Cheyne, who had been a celebrated doctor in Bath in the days of Beau Nash.

Graves preserved a calm, not to say stolid, manner, and this could alone have carried her through that long, dull winter's day. Her anxiety did not centre in Lady Betty, nor the pimple on her cheek, which she thought might be the precursor of the dreaded smallpox, which the little lady awaited Mr. Cheyne's a.s.surances to confirm, and professed to believe that she was smitten by that dreadful malady.

Graves's heart was occupied with the sorrow of the young mistress upstairs, not with the fancied illness of the lady who, propped up in bed in an elaborate nightgown, surmounted by a cap furbished with pink ribbons, was enough to wear out the patience even of her patient waiting-woman.

Mr. Cheyne was slow in making his appearance, and the long, dull day had nearly closed, and still he did not answer the summons sent to him by David at his mistress's request.

Graves had sent Mrs. Abbott's daughter up to Griselda's room with her dinner, and preferred waiting till it was nearly dark before she stood face to face with her. She dreaded lest her face should betray the fear at her heart.

It was nearly dark when she came to Griselda's room. She found the table covered with letters and papers, and the case with her mother's portrait and the old jewel-case standing on it.

"I thought you were never coming--never," Griselda said, in an injured voice. "Oh, dear Graves! do a kind thing for me this evening! Go to Crown Alley, and take this money for Norah's black dress. Oh, dear Graves! I must wear a black gown; he was my father. Look!" she said; "I have put on her little wedding-ring. There is a posy inside. I need those words now--'Patience and Hope.' Why won't you speak, Graves? It is as if you had not heard."

"I hear--I hear, my dear; but as to leaving her ladys.h.i.+p, I don't see how I can do it--not till she is off to sleep. If the doctor came, he might give her a draught to settle her."

"I _do_ want you to go to Crown Alley, and to--to King Street, to take a letter to Mr. Travers. It is so odd; so unaccountable, that he never writes nor sends. I _must_ know why. Perhaps he has heard that I am that poor man's daughter, and he feels he can't marry one so low-born. Yet it is not like him to cast me off, is it, Graves?"

"Well," said Graves, "I'll try what I can do; but, after all, I'd as lief you left the letter till to-morrow. Leave it till to-morrow."

"To-morrow! No; who can tell what to-morrow may bring? No; I cannot wait. Graves, I feel as if I should go mad, unless I hear soon if Mr.

Travers is angry, and has cast me off."

"You may be sure he has not done that, my dear; you may be at rest on that score."

"How can I rest? Well, he must be told about my father--my _father_! I Do you think he has found it out, and that this keeps him away?"

"No; I don't," said Graves shortly.

"Hark! there's a ring! Run down--run down, and see who it is! Run, Graves!"

Graves departed, glad to be released, and returned presently:

"It's the boy, Miss Griselda."

"The boy! What boy?"

"The boy that came the night the man"--Graves corrected herself--"the gentleman, Mr. Mainwaring, was dying. He has a message for you."