Her Season in Bath Part 27

"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!"

CHAPTER XVIII.

IN THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW.

It was late on that memorable Sunday evening when Griselda watched her opportunity, and rising from her bed, dressed, and went downstairs.

Only the servant was in the house, for the Herschels were gone to the evening service in the Octagon Chapel, and had not yet returned.

Griselda let herself quietly out, and, with slow and faltering steps, reached the door of the house, where, as everyone believed, Leslie Travers lay dying of his wounds.

It was with a trembling hand that she knocked at the door, which was after a pause opened by old Giles.

"I am come," she faltered, "to see Mrs. Travers."

Giles shook his head.

"My lady can see no one," he said; "she is in sore trouble."

"Tell me, please, how the gentleman is who was--who was wounded in a duel."

"As bad as he can be," was the short reply; "he won't live till morning."

"I want to see Mrs. Travers, if only for a moment--I want to see Mrs.

Travers. I am Miss Mainwaring," she urged.

Giles had not known up to this moment whom he was addressing, for Griselda had only been in that house once, and she had drawn her hood over her face.

When he heard the name, Giles made an exclamation of horror, and said:

"My lady won't see _you_! You are the last one she'd wish to look upon.

It was an evil day for my young master that _he_ ever looked on your face!"