Her Season in Bath Part 7

"Ah!" and his mother sighed; "a low place, doubtless."

"The child's father is an actor--he was hired to play here--and has had a fall, and is helpless."

"An actor!" Mrs. Travers' pale face flushed with crimson. "An actor! Ah, my dear son, one engaged in the devil's work cannot claim charity from Christians."

"I do not take your meaning, ma'am. An actor may suffer, and his child starve as well as other folk, and need help."

"I grieve for suffering, dear son, as you know; but----"

"But you condemn all actors wholesale. Nay, my sweet mother"--and Leslie changed his tone--"nay, my sweet mother, it is not you who steel your heart; it is the doctrine taught you in the fas.h.i.+onable chapel yonder of lords and ladies, who reserve for themselves the right to the kingdom of heaven."

"My son, do not speak thus; nor scoff at what you cannot yet understand.

If prayers avail for your conversion, constant and persevering, mine will at last be heard."

"I thank you for your prayers, dear mother--they come from a true heart.

And now to supper, and then to my violoncello. The Herschels are removing at once to this street--almost will their music be within ear-shot; and there will be great works in the garden, and the largest mirror in the kingdom will be cast. Who can tell what may be discovered?

Now, mother, you do not see sin and wickedness in star-gazing, surely?"

Mrs. Travers shook her head.

"I would not care for myself to be too curious as to the secrets which G.o.d does not reveal."

Leslie stamped his foot impatiently, and then said:

"We cannot agree there, mother. Every gift of G.o.d is good; and if He has given the gift of mathematical precision, and earnestness in applying it for the better development of the grandest of all sciences, who shall dare to say the man who exercises that gift is wrong? For my own part, I feel uplifted in the presence of that great and good man--Mr.

Herschel--and his wonderful sister."

"'When I consider Thy heavens the work of Thy fingers,'" Mrs. Travers quoted from the Psalms, "I say, with David, 'What is man, that Thou art mindful of him? or the son of man, that Thou considerest him?' Such knowledge, my dear son, as that, after which you tell me Mr. and Miss Herschel seek, is too wonderful for me, nor do I wish to attain it. Mr.

Relley delivered a very powerful discourse on this matter last Sunday. I would you had heard it, instead of listening to the music at the Octagon, where the world gathers its votaries every Sabbath-day to admire music, and forget G.o.d."

Leslie knew, by past experience, that to argue with his mother was hopeless, and he therefore remained silent. Something told him, when all was said, that he needed something that he did not possess. When first threatened with consumption, and the gra.s.shopper of his young life had become a burden, he had looked death in the face, and shuddered. Life was sweet to him--music, and the beautiful things which were to him as a strain of music, were dear to his heart.

At a time when the natural beauties of field, and flower, and over-arching sky were far less to many than the coteries of fas.h.i.+on and the haunts of pleasure, so called, Leslie Travers had higher tastes, and yet he would fain have been other than he was. Religion, as offered to him by his mother's teachers, repelled him; and he cherished a secret bitterness against the grand ladies who sat on either side of the _haut pas_--described by Horace Walpole, in balconies reserved for "the elect"

of n.o.ble birth--in Lady Huntingdon's Chapel in the Vineyards.

The waters of Bath had worked wonders on Leslie's bodily ailments. He began to feel strong again, with the strength of young manhood; and now there had risen upon his horizon that bright particular star--that, to him, marvel of perfect womanhood--Griselda Mainwaring. He had scarcely dared to take her name on his lips--it was a sacred name to him; and _yet_, in the lobby of Mr. Herschel's house, he had heard the man, who had so broadly flattered her that she had shrunk from his words as a sensitive plant shrinks from a rough touch of a hand--say, in answer to a question from a casual acquaintance:

"Who is she? Low-born I hear, and a mere poor dependent on the bounty of Lady Betty."

"Heaven help her!" had been the reply, "if that is all her dependence."

Then with a laugh, as he tapped his little silver snuff-box, Sir Maxwell Danby had said:

"She will easily find another maintenance. A beauty--true; but a beauty of no family can't afford to be particular."

It was at these words--insulting in their tone as well as in themselves--that Leslie Travers had raised his voice, and angrily demanded what the speaker meant, or how he could dare to speak lightly of a lady who had no father or brother to be her champion.

"She has _you_!" had been the reply, with a sneer. "Poor boy!"

How the quarrel might have ended even then, I cannot tell, had not the master of the house, Mr. Herschel, tried to throw oil on the troubled waters. But the bitterness was left--a bitterness which Leslie Travers felt was hatred; and yet, if his mother's Bible told true, hatred was a seed which might grow into an awful upas-tree, shadowing life with its deadly presence. With that strangely mysterious power, which words from the great code of Christian morals are sometimes forced, as it were, to be heard within, Leslie heard: "He that hateth his brother is a _murderer_, and we know that no murderer hath eternal life!"

Again and again, as Sir Maxwell Danby's figure rose before him, and his narrow though finely-chiselled face seemed to mock him with its scornful smile, so did the words echo in his secret heart: "He that hateth his brother is a murderer, and we know that no murderer hath eternal life!"

Late into the night the strains of Leslie's violoncello rose and fell.

The largo of Haydn seemed to soothe him into calm, calling up before him the beautiful face of Griselda Mainwaring, as with rapt, impa.s.sioned gaze she had drank in the music of Caroline Herschel's voice, as she sang, "Come unto Me ... and I will give you rest."

"I love her! I adore her! I will win her if I serve for her as Jacob served for Rachel! My queen of beauty! Griselda! Griselda!"

CHAPTER VI.

GRAVE AND GAY.

"The quality" of Bath and of other towns and cities in England, a hundred years ago, knew nothing--and, except in rare and isolated instances, cared less--of those who were reduced to the lowest depths of poverty, and whose struggle for daily bread was often in vain.

It was in a low, unhealthy quarter of Bath--that queen of the West--that the child, who had begged for money at Mr. Herschel's door the evening before, was seated in an attic-chamber, with a heap of finery before her. Her little slender fingers were busy mending rents in gaudy gowns, sewing beads on high collars, and curling feathers with a large bodkin.

Stretched on a bed in the corner of the room lay a man, whose pale face, sunken eyes, and parched white lips, told of suffering and want. A sigh, which was almost a groan, broke from the man, and the child got up and left her work for a minute that she might wet a rag in vinegar and water and lay it on her father's forehead.

"Is it your leg pains, father, or is your head worse?"

"Both, child; but my heart pains most. I am fallen very low, Norah, and there is nothing but misery before us. Child! what will you do when I am gone?"

Norah shook her head.

"We will not talk of that, father. You will get well, and then you will act Hamlet again, and----"

"Never! The blow to my head has clean taken away my memory. 'To be or not to be!'"--then followed a harsh laugh--"I could not get the next line to save my life! But, Norah, it is your condition which eats like a canker into my heart. You spoke of a kind gentleman and a beautiful lady yesterday, who did not spurn you. Find them again, implore them to come here, and I will move their very heart to pity by the tale of my sorrows! They will, sure, put out a hand to you."

"The lady was beautiful as an angel, father; but I don't think grand folks like her will care for us. But," she said, brightening, "I shall get some money for this job Mrs. Betts gave me; and I am to go to the green-room and help the ladies to dress."

"No!" the man said, his eyes flas.h.i.+ng--"No! I command you not to enter the theatre! Do you hear?"

The child knew when her father's dark eyes flashed like that, and he spoke in the tones of tragedy, that remonstrance was useless; and the doctor said he was never to be excited or contradicted, or he might lose his senses altogether.

"As you please, father," Norah said meekly, and then returned to her needlework; and the heavy breathing in the corner where the bed was placed told that her father slept.

About noon there was a sound of feet on the stairs, and a tap at the door, and a curly head was thrust in. Norah held up her finger and pointed to the bed, but said in a low whisper:

"Come in, Brian."

"I've brought you my dinner," the boy said. "I did not want it. It's a meat-pie and a bun. I don't care for meat-pies and--come, Norah, eat it!"

Norah's blue eyes filled with tears. She was so hungry, but she knew her father might be hungry too. She glanced at the bed, and Brian understood the glance.