available at google books) bath and wells a sketch-book by d. s. andrews a and c black, ltd soho sq: london. w. [illustration: title-page. the roman bath, bath.] drawings. 1 title-page. the roman bath, bath. 2 the roman bath, bath. 3 the guildhall, and abby. bath. 4 the hight street, bath. 5 st michael's church, bath. 6 the pulteney bridge, bath. 7 the pulteney bridge, from the terrace, bath. 8 the north parade, bridge, bath. 9 southgate street, bath. 10 the mineral water fountain, before being overgrown. 11 the victoria memorial, victoria park, bath. 12 the doorway, beau nash's house, bath. 13 bath from beechen cliff. 14 bath & the canal from alexandra park. 15 wells cathedral from the south-west. 16 the market-place, wells. 17 the palace gateway (the "bishop's eye"), wells. 18 the cathedral, wells. 19 the chain gate, etc. wells; from the central tower. 20 the chain gate, wells. 21 gatehouse to vicar's close, wells. 22 the chapel door, vicar's close, wells. 23 the bishop's palace, wells. 24 wells cathedral from tor hill. [illustration: the roman bath, bath.] [illustration: the guildhall, and abby. bath.] [illustration: the hight street, bath.] [illustration: st michael's church, bath.] [illustration: the pulteney bridge, bath.] [illustration: the pulteney bridge, from the terrace, bath.] [illustration: the north parade, bridge, bath.] [illustration: southgate street, bath.] [illustration: the mineral water fountain, before being overgrown.] [illustration: the victoria memorial, victoria park, bath.] [illustration: the doorway, beau nash's house, bath.] [illustration: bath from beechen cliff.] [illustration: bath & the canal from alexandra park.] [illustration: wells cathedral from the south-west.] [illustration: the market-place, wells.] [illustration: the palace gateway (the "bishop's eye"), wells.] [illustration: the cathedral, wells.] [illustration: the chain gate, etc. wells; from the central tower.] [illustration: the chain gate, wells.] [illustration: gatehouse to vicar's close, wells.] [illustration: the chapel door, vicar's close, wells.] [illustration: the bishop's palace, wells.] [illustration: wells cathedral from tor hill.] note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see 13582-h.htm or 13582-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/3/5/8/13582/13582-h/13582-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/3/5/8/13582/13582-h.zip) on the excavations of the roman baths at bath. re-printed from the _transactions of the bristol and gloucestershire archæological society_, vol. viii., part i. [plate v: city of bath. plan of roman baths.] leland, on his visit to bath in the year 1530, with tolerable fulness describes the baths, and after completing his description of the king's bath goes on to say "ther goith a sluse out of this bath and servid in tymes past with water derivid out of it 2 places in bath priorie usid for bathes: els voide; for in them be no springes;" and further on he says "the water that goith from the kinges bath turnith a mylle and after goith into avon above bath-bridge." these two sentences have hitherto been difficult of explanation, but the excavations, which it has been my good fortune to superintend, and the discoveries i have made, have fully explained leland's meaning, at the same time that i have brought to light the great roman bath, which i purpose describing in detail in this paper, writing only of previous excavations and those i have conducted in connection with this work, so far as their description may the more fully render my account perfect of the great bath itself. i desire to confine my paper within such limits as the space afforded me in this journal necessarily imposes. some time during the last century the ruins of a mill wheel were found to the south of the king's bath. i have in my excavation discovered the _mediæval_ sluice that led to this wheel. leland speaks of "two places in bath priorie used for bathes els voide." in a map of bath preserved in the sloane collection of the british museum, drawn by william smith (_rouge dragon pursuivant at arms_) a few years previous to 1568,[1] is an open bath immediately to the south of the transept of the abbey called "the mild bathe."[2] this, or at any rate what i may consider was the "mild bath," i found in my explorations beneath the soil at a situation in york street, connected with the hot-water drains, the bath being still provided with a wooden hatch, and of the dimensions of a good sized room.[3] the other place mentioned by leland was discovered in 1755, and this discovery led the way to the excavations of a great bath (afterwards called lucas's bath), when the eastern wall of the great hall of the recently found bath was first laid open, although from its position not having been properly noted previous to its being covered up, its situation remained unknown for nearly 130 years. [footnote 1: mr. peach, in the preface to "the historic houses in bath," page 5, quotes 1572; but this is the date of the completion of mr. smith's book, the drawings of which occupied many years.] [footnote 2: mr. smith gives a list of "wonders in england": 1st. "the baths at ye citty of bath are accompted one although yet they are not so wonderfull seeing that ye sulphur and brimston in the earth is the cause thereof but this may pass well enough for one."] [footnote 3: evidently the ruin of a portion of the roman thermæ, repaired in the 12th or 13th century.] in dr. sutherland's "_attempts to revive ancient medical doctrines_," (page 16), _et infra_, he says: "in the year of our lord 1755[4] the old priory or abbey house was pulled down. in clearing away the foundations, stone coffins, bones of various animals, and other things were found. this moved curiosity to search still deeper. hot mineral waters gushed forth and interrupted the work. the old roman sewer was at last found; the water was drained off. foundations of regular buildings were fairly traced." an illustration of these discoveries is given in gough's "camden," and a plan of them was published by dr. lucas and again by dr. sutherland (_pl. v._) copied in 1822 by dr. spry with discoveries to that date (_pl. vi._), and by mr. phelps, the latter re-published by the rev. preb. scarth in his _aquæ solis_, 1864. i have, in part, myself and also when assisted by mr. t. irvine (the architect, under sir gilbert scott, of the restoration of the bath abbey), examined the small portion of these discoveries that are still left _in situ_. i quote dr. sutherland, 1763, p. 17, for an account. "assisted by mr. wood, architect," dr. lucas examined the ruins as they then appeared. he gives the following description: "under the foundations of the abbey house, full 10ft. deep, appear traces of a bath, whose dimensions are 43ft. by 34ft. within and adjoining to the walls are the remains of twelve pilasters, each measuring 3ft. 6in. on the front of the plinth by a projection of 2ft. 3in. these pilasters seem to have supported a roof.[5] this bath stood north and south. to the northward of this room, parted only by a slender wall with an opening of about 10in. in the middle, adjoined a semi-circular bath, measuring from east to west 14ft. 4in., and from the crown of the semi-circle to the partition wall that divides it from the square bath 18ft. 10in. the roof of this seems to have been sustained by four pilasters, one in each angle and two at the springing of the circle. this bath seems to have undergone some alterations, the base of the semi-circle is filled up to about the height of 5ft., upon which two small pilasters were set on either side from the area, between two separate flights of steps into the semi-circular part which seems to be all that was reserved for a bath. in this was placed a stone chair 18in. high and 16in. broad. the two flights of steps were of different dimensions, those to the west were 3ft. 9in. broad, those to the east 4ft. 2in. each flight consists of steps 6in. thick, and seem to have been worn by use 3½in. out of the square. these flights are divided by a stone partition on a level with the floor. along this division and along the west side of the area, a rude channel of about 3in. in depth was cut in the stone. the floor of this bath seems to be on a level with that of the square bath. eastward and westward from the area and stairs of this semi-circular bath stood an elegant room on each side, sustained by four pilasters. separated by a wall stood the _hypocausta laconica_, or _stoves_, to the eastward. these consisted of two large rooms, each measuring 39ft. by 22ft. each had a double floor, one of which lay 1ft. 9in. lower than the area round the square bath. on this lower floor stand rows of pillars composed of square bricks of about 1¾in. thick and 9in. square. these pillars sustain a second floor composed of tiles 2ft. square and 2in. thick, over which are laid two layers of firm cement mortar, each about 2in. thick, which compose the upper floor. [plate vi: facsimile of dr. sprys' plan published 1822 shewing discoveries to that date.] [footnote 4: monday, august 18, 1755, bath. a most valuable work of antiquity has been lately discovered here. under the foundation of the abbey house now taking down, in order to be rebuilt by the duke of kingston, the workmen discovered the foundations of more ancient buildings, and fell upon some cavities, which gradually led to further discoveries. there are now fairly laid open, the foundations and remains of very august roman baths and sudatories, constructed upon their elegant plans, with floors suspended upon square-brick pillars, and surrounded with tubulated bricks, for the equal conveyance of heat and vapour. their dimensions are very large, but not yet fully laid open, and some curious parts of their structure are not yet explained.--(_gentleman's magazine_.)] [footnote 5: in the library of the society of antiquaries is a drawing of this bath with an imaginary restoration.] "to the northward, separated by a wall of 3ft. 11in., stood the other _hypocaustum_, with a door of communication. the floor of this is about 18in. higher than the other. these two rooms are set round with square-brick tubes of different lengths, from 16in. to 20in. in length and 6¾in. wide. these flues have two lateral openings of about 2in. square, 5in. asunder. these open into the vacuum between the two floors and rise through the walls. the north wall of the last stove was filled with tubes of a lesser size, placed horizontally and perpendicularly. the stones and bricks between the pillars bear evident marks of fire, while the flues are strongly charged with soot, which plainly points out their uses. "heat was communicated to these flues by means of _praefurnia_. in the middle of the northern wall of the second stove, the ruins of one of these furnaces appear. it consists of strong walls of about 16ft. square, with an opening in the centre of about 3ft. wide, which terminates conically in the north wall of the stove 2 ft. wide where part of the broken arch bears evident marks of fire. about the mouth of the furnace there were scattered pieces of burnt wood, charcoal, &c., evident proofs of their use. "on each side of the furnace, adjoining to the wall of the northernmost stove, is a semi-circular chamber of about 10ft. 4in. by 9ft. 6in. their floors are nearly 2ft. 6in. lower than that of the next stove into which they both open. the pavements are tesselated with variegated rows of pebbles and red bricks. to the northward of these there appear ruins of two other square chambers of more ordinary work." thus far lucas. dr. sutherland goes on to say, "since the time of his (lucas's) publication the ground has been further cleared away. there now appears another semi-circular bath to the southward, of the same dimensions exactly with the first. what he calls the great bath, with its semi-circular _hypocausta laconica_, &c., forms only one wing of a spacious regular building. from a survey of these, our ruins, we may, with some certainty, determine the nature of these _balnea pensilia_.... the eastern vapour baths are now demolishing in order to make way for more modern improvements. whenever the rubbish that covers the eastern wing of the roman ruins comes to be removed similar _balnea pensilia_ will doubtless be found. "from each corner of the westernmost side of lucas's bath, a base of 68ft., there issues a wall of stone and mortar. these walls i have traced 6ft. or 8ft. westward under that causeway that leads from the churchyard to the abbey green. when, as we may suppose, they have run a length proportionable to the width, they compose a bath which may indeed be called _great_, 96ft. by 68ft. [plate vii: a ground plan of the antient roman bath lately discovered in the city of bath, somersetshire, with a section of the eastern wing.] "adjoining to the inside walls of this central bath, there are bases of pilasters, as in lucas's. between the wall and the bath there is a corridor paved with hard blue stone 8in. thick.[6] from the westernmost side of lucas's bath a subterranean passage has been traced 24ft., at the end of which was found a leaden cistern, raised about 3ft. above the pavement, constantly overflowing with hot water. from this a channel is visible in the pavement, in a line of direction eastward, conveying the water to lucas's bath.... assisted by mr. palmer, an ingenious builder, i have ventured to exhibit a complete ground plot of the roman baths,[7] a discovery of no less curiosity than instruction.... this ground plot is exhibited in the plate annexed (_pl. v._) as far as the earth is cleared away. the remainder is supposed and drawen out in dotted lines. the plate exhibits also an elevation of the section of the wing discovered, with references."[8] [footnote 6: a correspondent in the _bath chronicle, purporting to be richard mann_, the builder employed under me to excavate the greater portion of the discoveries, but whose services were dispensed with, quotes the above as follows: "adjoining to the inner walls of the central bath there are bases of pilasters, as in lucas's between the walls and the bath. there is a corridor paved with hard blue stone eight inches thick." the full-stop being placed at the word "bath," instead of before the word "between," gives to the quotation a totally different meaning from that conveyed by dr. sutherland.] [footnote 7: _fac-simile pl. v._] [footnote 8: in the plate the reference describes the bath to be 90ft., but in the text of sutherland the dimensions are given as 96ft. which agrees with the scale on the plan.] dr. sutherland published the plan of the bath with this description having "_drawen_ out in dotted lines" the supposed arrangement of the baths. to make the account of these discoveries of 1755 complete, i must explain that the _hypocausta laconica_, or stoves, to the eastward, which he described as each measuring 39ft. by 22ft., were, i believe, the _tepidarium_ and the _caldarium_. the two semi-circular recesses, or small rooms, to the north, i should consider were each a _sudatorium_ if the floors had not been 2ft. 6in. lower than the adjoining apartment. in the centre was the stove by which the system was heated (the _praefurnium_). to the north of these, dr. sutherland figures, in dotted lines, three chambers omitted in my plan. although i believe he had some authority for giving them, i am somewhat at a loss to assign a use to these rooms. they might be stoves, as, if the romans desired to have a bath artificially heated, this would be the correct position for the brazen vessels, described somewhat unintelligibly by vitruvius, as three in number. if this was the case, each semi-circular recess just described was a _calda lavatio, balneum or labrum_. [a similar _labrum_, but of smaller scale, was discovered at box, near bath, last year, and i have discovered on the property of mr. charles i. elton, f.s.a., m.p. (author of "origins of history") a similar one.] the floor being 2ft. 6in. lower than the adjoining apartment points to this belief. these, i have little doubt, were those artificially heated baths, and were cased either with lead, stone, marble, or small white tesseræ, as at box. to the south of the _tepidarium_, dr. sutherland gives a precisely similar suggested plan as that to the north, but here again i have not copied him, believing he had not sufficient data. in all probability here was an _apodyterium_ (which might or might not be heated with a _hypocaust_) where the bathers deposited their clothes. dr. sutherland thought that to the east of the discoveries which he described there would be found probably at some future day "similar _balnea pensilia_."[9] in opening the roman drains i found a branch one at this place, which induces me to think that a large cold or swimming bath occupied the eastern wing, the _baptisterium_ or _frigida lavatio_. still farther eastward are fragments of roman buildings which i have seen only in a very fragmentary way, as no excavations of any extent have been made. i believe the apartments necessary to complete the system of the modern turkish bath, or rather the ancient bath, with the requisite waiting rooms and corridors, stood there. [footnote 9: these baths and adjoining rooms occupied the block between church street and york street, including kingston buildings.] after these discoveries of the middle of the last century but very partial excavations were made in proximity to the baths, and those that were made were never sunk to a depth sufficient to reach the ruins. the flood of hot water had no drain to carry it off, and was maintained at such a height in the soil that whenever a sinking was made, it was impossible without pumping machinery to sufficiently overcome it. to my discovery of the roman drain, or rather to mr. irvine's, and the excavating, opening, and reconstructing it which followed (under my superintendence, at the charges of the corporation), enabling me to drain off the hot water from the soil, i owe the ability to reveal what had been hidden since the destruction of the city of bath in the year a.d. 577.[10] the stopping up and destruction of the drain prevented the water from flowing away, so that the buildings of the baths were filled with water of a height until it reached the level of the adjoining land, covering, as a guardian, the lead and other valuables. soil then gravitated into the ruins and thus further assisted in preserving the antiquities, so that they were altogether hidden from the people who re-built the ruined city of bath, and from those who in successive generations succeeded them. the subterranean "passage traced 24ft." from the western side of lucas's bath, "at the end of which was found a leaden cistern," was not in any way roman work, but mediæval, and was formed some time after the construction of the abbey house, as an aqueduct for the hot water with which the soil was saturated. this construction is the only evidence of an early discovery of this eastward wing of the bath, indeed the only evidence of mediæval work of any kind in connection with the baths, except the enclosure of the various springs or wells. the king's bath, the cross, and the lepers' bath were simply the wells or cisterns of the springs which were bathed in to the damage of the purity of the water, without dressing-rooms of any kind. [footnote 10: "but the old municipal independence seems to have been passing away. the record of the battle in the chronicle of the conquerors connects the three cities (bath, gloucester, and cirencester) with three kings; and from the celtic names of these kings, conmael, condidan, or kyndylan, and farinmael, we may infer that the roman town party, which had once been strong enough to raise aurelius to the throne of britain, was now driven to bow to the supremacy of native chieftains. it was the forces of these kings that met ceawlin at deorham, a village which lies northward of bath, on a chain of hill overlooking the severn valley, and whose defeat threw open the country of the three towns to the west saxon army."--_green's "making of england,"_ p. 128.] this concludes the particulars of the important discoveries which we possess of the last century, which were then correctly believed to be only portions of still greater baths.[11] in 1799 (or, as i believe, in 1809, the more correct date) a portion of what has proved to be the north-west semi-circular _exedra_ of the great bath was found, and six to nine years later a part of the south-west rectangular _exedra_ of the same bath. the discovery of 1799 (or rather 1809) is shown on the rev. prebendary scarth's map as being the northern apse of a bath on the western end of the great bath, as suggested by dr. sutherland's plan and was to correspond with lucas's bath. the semi-circular _exedra_ discovered subsequently to a deed dated sept. 1808 (therefore in that year or subsequently) is also figured by the rev. prebendary scarth, as on the south end of the same western bath and a piece of a rectangular _exedra_ as the eastern wall of this western bath and the boundary between it and the great bath. [footnote 11: as there have appeared in local papers considerable discussions as to these baths, i quote from one of the letters the following as being remarkably clear and explanatory:-"in 1755, dr. lucas discovered a roman bath, east of, and immediately adjoining, the great bath, which is now attracting so much attention. lucas's bath stood north and south--an important fact to bear in mind, as the great roman bath stands east and west--and measured 43ft. by 34ft. but this was not all. 'to the north of this room,' he says, 'parted only by a slender wall, adjoined a semi-circular bath, measuring from east to west, 14ft. 4in.' after the publication of lucas's 'essay on waters,' the ground was further cleared away, and there appeared another semi-circular bath to the south, of the same dimensions as that to the north. the extreme length of lucas's bath--including the n. and s. baths, exclusive of the central semi-circular recesses--would be, roughly speaking 69ft.; and this fact should be carefully borne in mind, as we shall see presently to what use it was turned. dr. lucas's discoveries were pushed one stage further by dr. sutherland, who in his work entitled 'attempts to revive ancient medical doctrines' (1763) clearly indicates (_pl. v._) that he was on the track of another bath, the great roman bath, in fact, with which we are now so familiar. his words are as follows: 'from each, corner of the westernmost side of lucas's bath, a base of 68ft., there issues a wall of stone and mortar. these walls i have traced six or eight feet westward under that causeway, which leads from the churchyard to the abbey green. when, as we may suppose, they have run a length proportionable to their width, they compose a bath which may indeed be called great, 96ft. by 68ft.... from the westernmost side of lucas's bath a subterraneous passage has been traced 24ft., at the end of which was found a leaden cistern, raised about 3ft. above the pavement, constantly overflowing with hot water. from this a channel is visible in the pavement, in a line of direction eastward, conveying the water to lucas's bath' (pp. 20-21). thus then in 1763 (1) the north and south walls of the great roman bath had been traced 6ft. or 8ft. west of lucas's bath. (2) furthermore, starting from the centre of the west side of lucas's bath, a line had been traced to the east steps of the great roman bath. these are plain historical facts, open to everyone who will look into the plans of our baths, as given by sutherland in 1763, and by prebendary scarth in his 'aquæ solis' in 1864. but our city architect has been charged with suppressing these facts for his own glorification. now, sir, i think no unprejudiced man, who has heard major davis's addresses and read his books, can justly bring this charge. if i mistake not, he fairly stated the case in 1880, both in his address before the society of antiquaries, and in his lecture at the bath literary institution. he has most certainly concealed nothing in his published works 'the bathes of bathe's ayde' and 'guide to the roman baths.' in the former work he says (p. 81), 'dr. sutherland indicates a large bath westward of that which had been discovered in his time, in fact there can be little doubt that the steps at the eastward end of a great bath had then been found;' in the latter, whilst alluding to the published plans of sutherland, he says (p. 10), 'these plans indicate a large bath westward of that discovered in 1754 (? 1755), in fact the eastward steps of a bath had then been found.' here then is a full and candid admission of all the facts known about the great roman bath in the middle of the last century; and this anyone can see by reference to the map in prebendary scarth's 'aquæ solis'--the diagram (copied from spry) there being almost similar to sutherland's conjectural plan of the baths, except that the section of lucas's bath, correctly represented in sutherland's map is figured upside-down by spry and scarth. it is quite clear what sutherland knew of the great roman bath; it is equally clear that when he proceeded, on the strength of his very limited observations, to draw a conjectural plan of the whole bath, he fell into absolute errors, such as, commonly enough, spring out of hasty generalisations based on scanty data. thus, he gives the dimensions of the enclosure of the great bath as 96ft. by 68ft.; whereas, as a matter of fact, they are 111ft. by 68ft. how is this discrepancy to be explained? 'a citizen' in your last weekly issue, says 'the alleged discrepancies in the measurements, which mr. davis has used to prove his case, are but the differentiations of the external measurements with the sinuous subterranean windings.' these are indeed brave words, indulged in rather to diminish major davis credit than to rescue sutherland; but a truer explanation of the real discrepancies stares any man in the face who will open dr. sutherland's work. there is no occasion to be wise beyond what is written: 'when, as we may suppose, they have run a length proportionable to their width, they compose a bath, which may indeed be called great, 96ft. by 68ft.' the fact is, sutherland supposed that the dimensions of the great roman bath would observe the same relative proportions as lucas's bath. the room of lucas's bath, let it be remembered, was 43ft. by 34ft., or rather 30ft. 6in. from the face of the pilasters. in other words, the length was equal to the diagonal of the square of the base. then, having observed that the base of the room of the great roman bath--formed by the length of lucas's bath--was 68ft., sutherland assumed that its length also would be equal to the diagonal of the square of base, namely 96ft. this patent error, assuming that the unknown would have a relative correspondence with the known quantities, was the fruitful source of many more. (1) the dimensions of the outer rectangular area formed by the room of the great roman bath being false, the dimensions of the inner rectangular area formed by the water surface of the bath were necessarily false also. (2) steps were observed at one end only of the water surface of lucas's bath; therefore it was inferred that steps would be found at one end only of the water surface of the great bath, the eastern end as figured in the maps of 1763 and 1864, whereas we now know that steps run all round. (3) the _exedrae_ at the back of the _schola_ having no existence in lucas's bath, were omitted from the conjectural plan of the great roman bath. (4) lucas's bath being a plain hall without piers, sutherland assumed the same form for the hall of the great roman bath, and altogether omitted the arcades that divide it into three aisles. (5) not to dwell on other errors built on the baseless fabric of conjecture, it is evident that sutherland imagined a system of baths existed west of the great roman bath similar in all respects to that known to exist east of the great roman bath. but here, again, theory has been upset by facts. and now is a fitting opportunity to draw attention to what has been actually discovered west of the great roman bath, namely, the octagon roman well, which i should be disposed to consider major davis's greatest discovery, though i observe that hostile critics take no notice of this, possibly because it is beyond the region of dispute. if any one, able to point what he reads, still believes that the great roman bath was ever practically opened up in the last century i would refer him to mr. moore's able and suggestive paper, entitled 'organisms from the recently discovered roman baths in bath,' read to the members of the bath microscopical society, in may, 1883. once more i insist that we must clearly separate what sutherland knew from what he conjectured. indeed, sutherland himself fairly draws the distinctions. on page 21 he says, 'this ground plot is exhibited in the plate annexed, as far as the earth is cleared away. the remainder is supposed, and drawn out in dotted lines.' these dotted lines represent a vast _terra incognita_ covering, practically, the whole of the ground recently opened up. that the existence of the great roman bath has been transferred from the region of conjecture to the region of fact we owe entirely to the enthusiasm and unwearied zeal of major davis, and no fair mind can deny him the credit of being the practical discoverer of the great roman bath. more credit than this he has never claimed; less than this only the churlish and envious will grudge him."] all these fragments i have lately proved to be portions of the great roman bath (_plates vii. and viii._), and being within instead of without that building. the rev. prebendary scarth omits altogether to figure the southern rectangular _exedra_, found at the same time as the last named discovery. he also omits the discoveries made in 1809 (?) beneath the houses at the north-western end of york street. in 1790 very valuable discoveries were made in digging the foundation of the present pump room. many writers have treated of them and expressed opinions as to the character of the work and the meaning of the design, and mr. scharf, in _archæologia_, vol. xxxvi., has done ample justice to these most interesting vestiges: they have been described by pownall, lysons, warner, collins, scharf, tite, and scarth, as being portions of a temple of the usual type, dedicated to sul minerva. whitaker, in a review of warner's history of bath, printed in the _anti-jacobin_, vol. x., 1801, differs from all these writers, although believing the remains to be a portion of a temple, and thought they were a part of a building of the form of "_a rotunda_," as the pantheon. "the _pantheon_ of minerva _medica_, an agnomen very similar in allusiveness to our prænomen _of sulinis_, for minerva is noticed expressly by ruius and victor in their short notes concerning the structures of rome, as then standing in the esquiline quarter. the form of a pantheon is made out by the multiplicity of niches,... and such, we believe, was our own temple of minerva at bath." it would occupy too much space were i to attempt to add to this paper my views of this discovery, but i may briefly say, that i am satisfied that they were not the remains of a temple, but a portion of the central portico and grand vestibule of the baths. i have not gone fully into the reasons that induced whitaker to believe that the discoveries showed that the building was a rotunda, but it is curious that he should have thought they had a similarity to the pantheon at rome, which antiquaries since his time have proved was not 'built for a temple, but that it was an entrance hall or vestibule of the baths of agrippa, although it is doubtful if the rotunda was built at the same time as the portico, which was, without doubt, erected b.c. 27. the grand roman enclosure of the hot well (_pl. vii[12]_) (which i have lately discovered and excavated, beneath the king's bath, on the south of this principal portico) is again utilised, and forms a tank for the mineral water, from which are fed the baths and fountains with water, pure as it rises from "depths unknown," and secured from any possibility of contamination in its passage, through the newly discovered water ducts and drains of the romans. [footnote 12: pl. vii. gives a correct plan of former discoveries as far as i have been able to ascertain, and these i have made up to april 19th, 1884.] in 1871, whilst making some necessary excavation to remedy a leak from the king's bath that apparently ran beneath abbey passage, i found that the hot water, that was reached through layers of mud, roman tiles, building materials, and mixed soil, was one and the same with the hot water of the kingston bath that then occupied the site of the bath called lucas's bath, discovered in 1755; and the levels were the same. i pumped out this water with powerful pumps, emptying by so doing the kingston baths. this enabled me to sink to a depth of 20ft., passing in so doing a flight of four steps at the point (a) on the plan (_pl. viii._), to the bottom of a bath which was coated with lead.[13] being compelled by the then owner of the kingston baths to discontinue pumping, i was obliged to abandon my work; and having little hope that i should ever be allowed to recommence it, i removed a portion of the lead, which proved to be a thickness of about 30lbs. to the foot, placed on a layer of brick concrete 2in. to 2¼in. thick, and this again on a layer of freestone 12in., or rather a roman foot 11-5/8in. in thickness, which was again bedded on rough stonework, the depth of which i could not ascertain. fortunately i did not again fill in the soil, but arched it in, building walls of masonry to keep it in position. the corporation having obtained possession of the hot water supplying the kingston baths, i should rather say, the right to the water that leaked from the king's springs, i again drained off the water, maintaining it at a low level by a laborious excavation and re-construction of the roman drain which was conducted at great expense for two or three years. this drain i followed several hundred feet until it reached the great well previously mentioned, making various and important discoveries; but, as i have already read a paper on this subject before the society of antiquaries of london, which will shortly be in the press, i will not repeat it here, but avail myself of the space allotted me in the transactions of this society for an account of the great bath, which i have, in great part, laid bare, soliciting a pardon if the account is somewhat tedious. [footnote 13: the water, on ceasing pumping, rose to a height above the lead of 7ft. 6in.] the bath, placed in a great hall 110ft. 4½in. long by 68ft. 5in. wide, is about 6ft. 8in. deep. the bottom, 73ft. 2in. by 29ft. 6in.[14] is formed as described in the last page.[15] [footnote 14: the dimensions must not be taken to be quite correct in all cases, as there are discrepancies and inaccuracies in the building that prevent measurements being always reliable.] [footnote 15: this bath is drawn to a large scale in pl. viii.] the lead in sheets (of about 10ft. by 5ft. square) was turned up at the edges and _burnt_, not soldered together, but these joints are in many cases now imperfect. this well secured bottom, or floor, appears to have been placed in position, rather to keep the hot water from ascending into the bath from the springs beneath than to make the bath water-tight. enclosing the bath all round the four sides are six steps, the sixth landing the bather on the _schola_, or platform. the riser of the bottom steps varies in depth from 15in. to 11in., with a tread of 14in., the next riser is 14in. with a tread of 11in., as also is the next step and the one following. the step above has a rise of 12in., and a tread of 14in. this step was scarcely covered with water, but it is evident the water flowed over it when bathers agitated it. the riser or the step above, 10in. to 12in., completes the flight and helped to keep the water within proper bounds, giving a total depth of 6ft. 8in. to the bath, and from 5ft. 9in. to 5ft. 11in. for the water. these steps are quite devoid of lead (except, in places, the riser of the lower step and at the north-west corner), and it is not clear whether they had at any time such a covering, although i am inclined to think so, as it evidently went beneath the piers and under the central pedestal. at the bottom step, in the north-east corner, was a bronze sluice. the frame of this sluice, with an opening of 13in. by 12in., i found in position when i excavated my way up the drain, but i was obliged to remove it in order to force my way into the bath. it has not been replaced, but is preserved in the pump room, and weighs more than 1 cwt. 2 qrs. an overflow was provided, immediately above the hatchway, by a grating 15in. wide that was doubtless of bronze also, but it had been removed, the stud-holes in the stones alone remaining.[16] the extreme surface of the water measured 82ft. 10in. by 40ft. 11in. and was a parallelogram, except that the north-western angle was cut off by the steps being carried obliquely in three tiers from the bottom a length of 7ft. at an angle of 39° with the western end. resting on the platform, formed by these three steps, is a quarter circle pedestal,[17] on which stands a large stone 6ft. 8in. long and 9in. thick, over-hanging its base, and presenting a concave line towards the bath with an _ovolo_ section in its thickness. this stone spans a large channel 2ft. 3in. wide, within which is fitted a very thick lead pipe, gradually narrowed _horizontally_ and turned up under the _ovolo_ concave stone. through this aperture the mineral water was thrown into the bath in a sort of spray, so that it might be cooled in its passage. a deposit from the water is incrusted over the stone and pipe several inches in thickness, until the petrification entirely stopped the flow of water, which was then compelled to flow _over_ instead of under the stone.[18] the water was conducted a distance of 38ft. in the thickness of the lower pavement (which i shall presently describe) of the _schola_, the stone being removed a width of 2ft., the bed being concreted. on this was laid a lead pipe which filled the whole orifice, but, unfortunately, a length of 25ft. of it has been removed. this conduit takes a diagonal direction, and leads direct to the north-west angle of the hall, turning beneath a large doorway in the western wall, when it again resumes its original direction (the pipe, where perfect, is 1ft. 9in. by 7in. deep), as far as the outer surface of the wall of the octagon well. at this point the wall of the well is not original work, and the pipe is cut off. i have no doubt that it was at one time carried up vertically until it reached the level of the surface of the water of the well, which was about 2ft. 6in. higher at the least, thus giving a sufficient elevation to the "spray" into the bath. another bronze hatchway, which must have been here, has been stolen in mediaeval times, its having been less than 2ft. below the bottom of the king's bath making it accessible, whilst the 25ft. length of the lead pipe beneath the _schola_ must have been stolen much earlier, and in all probability on the destruction of the baths in the sixth century. in addition to the arrangement for the supply of mineral water to the baths, which must have been capable of affording a flow of water, very nearly, if not exceeding, the yield of the spring, there was also another, which i have every reason to think was for the delivery of cold water, and conveyed in a lead tubular pipe of 2¼in. in diameter. a length of 25ft. 6in. of this pipe, in its original position, has been found and laid bare. it is made with a roll along the top, and burnt, as was usual before the invention of "drawn pipes." this pipe is particularly interesting as there are also in it two soldered joints at intervals of 9ft. in the method of making which we have clearly not improved on the work of our roman predecessors. this pipe starts from the same point in the north-west angle of the hall as the other supply, and is sunk in the lower pavement of the _schola_, which (wanting the pipe) is continued to the centre of the north side of the bath, where stands a stone pedestal 3ft. 3in. long, 1ft. 6in. wide, and 2ft. 6in. high. this pedestal has small vertical rails, or balusters, at the angles and on the shorter sides, and that towards the bath has some appearance of having once had a tablet of either bronze or marble inserted in it. at the top is a circular hole 3½in. in diameter, through which the pipe previously mentioned must have passed. the upper portion of this pedestal is sculptured, and much mutilated, and appears to me to be the drapery covering the feet of a figure that has perished. it is true that the work bears some resemblance to a small recumbent figure; but if so it is not worthy of the name of sculpture, as it is in the worst taste, and altogether out of keeping with the architecture or the other sculpture we have found.[19] there are several grooves in the _schola_ for branches of this pipe: 1st. the continuation of it to the northern semi-circular bath of 1755. 2nd. from the first soldered joint to baths on the north of the great bath. 3rd. along the western end of the latter to baths on the south, and along the _schola_ to the south circular bath of lucas's. beneath the mutilated sculpture is a second pedestal, or plinth, perfectly plain, with the upper surface sunk to a level corresponding with a similar indentation on the third step. within this must have stood a marble on bronze sarcophagus, the base of which was 6ft. 9in. long by 2ft. 5in. wide. the water flowing through the aperture previously described would run into the sarcophagus (i use the word in its modern sense) and from it into the bath. this water was not poured in sufficient volume to perceptibly cool the bath, but was provided for the thirst of the bathers. in the modern baths of bath there is no such provision. [footnote 16: the construction of the steps to the baths deserves remark (some of the stones being 10ft. long). the depth of the riser to the steps that were beneath the water is unusually deep, and the treads narrow. this is compensated by the increased buoyancy of a human body when immersed, or partially immersed, in water. the steps have, on the contrary, a shallower rise and a wider tread when they approach the top. the next notable point is the formation of the tread of the upper flooded step. this is grooved by a somewhat circular sinking, from 4 to 5in. wide, immediately against the riser of the topmost step. everyone frequenting a public bath must have noticed the dashing of the water against the wall or upper step, and the nuisance created from the breaking of the water against it. the grooving would remedy, i believe, this annoyance, as the little waves of water would be made to take a curved form before reaching the step; consequently the water would fall back into the bath instead of dashing over the surrounding platform. and in the ends of every upper step but one, and on the steps lower down, have been square sockets, cut in the stone and filled up again with pieces of stone. these mark the position of balusters to a hand-rail for the use of bathers that were removed some time previous to the abandonment of the baths, and the stones were inserted. these hand-rails were doubtless of bronze, and therefore of value.] [footnote 17: a statue of some size doubtless stood on this pedestal.] [footnote 18: this deposit must, from the thickness, have taken several years to form, and the fact of its being of precisely the same character as the present deposit from the mineral spring is an evidence of the unchanging nature of the water.] [footnote 19: with reference to the sculpture, one piece, of debased character, has been found--a minerva with a breast-plate, helmet, and shield in _alto relievo_ within a niche.] the hall enclosing the bath i have already spoken of as 110ft. 4½in. long by 68ft. 5in. wide. it has been completely thrown open since this paper was read at the british and gloucestershire archæological society, in 1884. these excavations are open to the sky, excepting on the east end (over which abbey street, at a height of 23ft. is carried on a viaduct, which i have erected).[20] the platform, or _schola_, surrounding the bath (measuring the original surface of the upper floor) is 13ft. 9in. wide on the four sides. this platform was formed by a layer of large freestone 9in. to 10in. thick, laid on the level of the top step but one, on a solid bed of concrete. above this was another layer of concrete, and possibly on this, when the baths were first erected, a mosaic of tesseræ; but that, if it ever was there, has all disappeared, and its place has been supplied with paving, mostly of freestone also, of inferior thickness to the lower paving. very little of this remains, and what there is is much fractured and worn; indeed not only is this paving much worn, but the lower paving also where the traffic was the greatest. i have given in the plan (_pl. viii._) almost every detail of these floors, and shall speak of them again further on. the general appearance of the place is symmetrical, but there are remarkable variations and inaccuracies that point to the fact that the juxta-position of this bath with other buildings, of which we have at present no knowledge, must have rendered these variations necessary, ultimately interfering with the completion, architecturally, of the building. [footnote 20: the house over the bath having been purchased by the corporation, the antiquities committee (of which mr. murch was chairman) with a liberal subscription from the society of antiquaries, the duke of cleveland, and many noblemen and gentlemen of bath and the neighbourhood, bore the expense of the removal of the soil from the bath and the general opening out of the rains, the arches beneath the poor law office and the viaduct supporting abbey street.] on either side, north and south, are three recesses, or _exedrae_, two of which are circular and one (the centre) rectangular. the south rectangular one is 17ft. wide by 7ft. deep; the north one is nearly a foot wider, and one foot less in depth. greater variations exist in the circular recesses; for, commencing in the western one, on the south side, the width is 17ft. 3in., and the depth 7ft. 6in.; the eastern one is 14ft. 3in. wide, and 6ft. 9in. deep; the _exedrae vis-a-vis_ on the north is 17ft. 3in. wide, and 8ft. 4in. deep; the remaining one, to the west, is 17ft. wide, and 7ft. deep. i give these dimensions irrespective entirely of the pilasters which are attached to the walls on either side the reveil of the recesses, and in the rectangular recesses in the enclosing angles also. piers are now standing on the margin of the bath, dividing the north and south sides each into seven bays. these piers are built with solid block freestone, but as there are continuous vertical joints on either side of the central division of each pier, it is clear that an alteration was made in the design either previous to its entire completion or subsequently. i will endeavour to describe the bath as originally designed. along the margin of the bath, north and south, stood six piers, equally divided (about 14ft. apart), as far as the length of the bath, but allowing a lesser distance from the attached pilaster at either end. these piers are cut out of a block (in plan, 2ft. 10½in. from east to west by 2ft. 8in. from north to south), so as to form a pilaster of three inches projection on either face. as the original pilasters on the north and south walls do not correspond with these piers, i am led to conclude that the _schola_ and _exedrae_, north and south, were not vaulted at first, and were the only portion of the hall that was roofed, and that the roof was only of timber, supported by an arcade, the arches not exceeding 17ft. in height, and that the eaves of the roof of about 22ft. in height dipped towards the bath. this was a very usual arrangement in the _atrium_ of a roman house with the _impluvium_ in the centre. a _crypto porticus_ would thus be formed on the two longer sides of the bath, but the _schola_ on the east and west ends was open to the sky. practical experience, either on the completion of this plan, or previously to its entire execution, led to its abandonment. at any rate a roof over the whole was found essential to the comforts of the bathers. the piers were accordingly strengthened. pilasters were erected, projecting 2ft. 9m. into the bath, with smaller pilasters on the other side projecting on the _schola_, 1ft. 4in. by 1ft. 11in. wide; and _vis-a-vis_ to these pilasters corresponding ones were affixed to the side walls. unfortunately this brought into prominence the irregularity of the size and position of the _exedrae_, and the pilasters were affixed correctly with reference to the arcade, as was absolutely necessary, but more or less trespassing on the width of the opening of these recesses, and notched into the original pilasters. none of the piers, or pilasters, at present exist to a height exceeding 6ft. to 7ft. the base is a rude form of the attic base; and we have found several fragments of the capital, or impost, of the smaller pilasters, from, which the arches sprang, but i have not been so fortunate as to recognise any of the larger capitals, and but few fragments of the cornices, and but one piece that i can identify as the frieze 1ft. 6in. deep by 2ft. 4in. long, on which are 5 incised letters 6¼in. long s sil. the _schola_ was then arched in north and south, and the bath spanned by an arch. the vaulting that spanned the side arcades, and the centre (where the abutment was not sufficient for arches formed in the ordinary way of tiles or stone), were built of brick boxes, open at the sides, and wedge-shaped, 1ft. long, 4¾in. thick, and 7¾in. wide at the wider end, set in the usual mortar, a greater or less number of rings of these boxes being used according to the span. these arches were made out by an extra quantity of concrete on the under side for decoration, and on the upper in the case of the great arch, so as to form a roof, the well-known roll and flat italian tiles being embedded in the mortar. many and large fragments of this roof were found lying on the deposit that had partially filled the ruins previous to the fall of the roof, and are still carefully preserved. a large fragment, 18ft. long by about 3ft. wide, and 1ft. 9in. thick, that has slipped down, as it were, from the western end, in the position in which it was discovered, was formed of solid tiles, with an arch of tiles 1ft. 8in. long,[21] the roof having sufficient abutment on this side for a solid construction.[22] this arch gives the form of the window that lighted the bath on the western end. [footnote 21: the arches in the adjoining apartment west of this were built of a sort of a tufa.] [footnote 22: on the falling of the roof one of the piers was thrust out of the perpendicular, the upper half toppling over, and the lower would have again returned to its original position had a stone not fallen into the vertical joint, catching the pilaster as a wedge. the pier is still fixed out of the perpendicular by the stone in the joint.] the vaulting of the side aisles, or rather that over the _schola_, was arched from pier to pier longitudinally and transversely, the quadrangular spaces being in all probability simply groined; but a fragment of box tiles found almost leads one to think that these spaces were vaulted by a domical vault, springing either from pendentives in the angles of the vaults, more common in later work, or from a slight cornice on a level with the apex of the arches. the vault, if there was one, over the semi-circular _exedrae_ must have been hemispherical. from the number of roofing tiles of local stone, shaped into hexagons, found, i think these arcades were roofed in with them, placed overlapping each other, giving a very good effect. similar tiles were dug up at wroxeter, and i have found slates of the same shape in the roman villa i have been excavating for mr. chas. i. elton, f.s.a., m.p., at whitestaunton manor. the form of these slates deserves copying; a roof covered by them is far lighter than that of rectangular slabs and more picturesque. the walls on the sides towards the hall, and externally, so far as i have been able to ascertain, are covered with the usual red plaster, shewing that they were internal walls; but from a piece of dentilled, or rather blocked, cornice, which fits the curve of one of the _exedrae_, i believe the walls were carried up on the north and south above the roofs of the adjoining rooms and corridors of the baths, so that they formed a feature in the elevation and afforded a broken skyline to the composition. the vault over the centre rose considerably above these walls, a portion of the centre of which may have been partially open for the emission of steam and the admission of light. some square blocks of lead, that were the yotting of bars of metal, rather favour this idea, and suggest that these metal bars were a portion of the machinery by which a brazen shield (_clipeus_) was suspended, or secured, so that by raising or lowering it the temperature of the hall might be regulated as described by vitruvius. in the excavations we found an _ante-fixa_ that must have fallen from some portion of the roof. it appears to be intended for a lion, but it is much broken. i have prepared a sketch section of the bath (which i hope to communicate on a future occasion), transversely and a part longitudinally, in order that a description may the more readily be understood, adopting, in my restoration, the established rules of proportion of classical architecture, which may, more or less, have been strictly adhered to when the baths were built; indeed, in the best specimens of roman work a licence was given to the architect as to detail and proportion, that was refused him on the classical revival. the pilasters of these baths spring, as i have said before, from an attic base, of somewhat coarse proportions, 14in. high.[23] the attached pilasters that supported the arcade that was carried longitudinally along the bath are without a base; they must have been, within a few inches, more or less, not lower than 10ft. in height, including the impost moulding, of which there are fragments. the arches springing from them would be about 14ft. wide. i have not been able to find any fragments of the archivolt. the pilasters that supported the arches which crossed the _schola_ have bases similar to the larger pilasters. i can hardly speak positively of their elevation or that of the arches, but i am inclined to think the height of the impost moulding was raised, so that the arch, although a smaller span, was the same in height as the longitudinal arches. [footnote 23: the bases of the columns found, on the contrary, are most carefully designed and of most delicate proportions, which appear to justify the belief that the bases of the pilasters were never completely _worked_, or that they were coated with plaster and decorated as in the western bath, now being excavated.] the great pilasters, fronting the bath, stand on plain pedestals, breaking forward into the water, on which rested the attic base, the shaft with doric (?) capital rising 18ft. above. a complete cornice, the architrave (which we have) and frieze, gave an additional height of nearly 5ft. this cornice ran over the arcade horizontally, but breaking forward the projection of the pilasters about 2ft. 7in. over this cornice, i conclude, were semi-circular openings, of the same span as the arch beneath, with an architrave of 5 in. to 6 in. a circular vault crossed the bath from pilaster to pilaster, groined with the semi-circular arches just mentioned. light may have been admitted divisionally in the centre of this great vault, as i previously mentioned, as well, as by the semi-circular arches in the "_clear storey_." the extreme height from the floor of the _schola_ to the under side of the vaulting may have been as much as 23ft., whilst the height of the central vault above the floor of the bath could not, i estimate, have been less than 48ft. 2in., exceeding by 5ft. the height of the famous ball rooms of the bath assembly rooms, and by 14ft. that of the grand pump room. many architectural fragments have been found during the excavations of the great bath, several portions of columns 2ft. 6in. diameter at base, and several sections of corinthian foliage with the volute of a capital, of unusually artistic and powerful work; some smaller columns, a fluted shaft, and a composite capital of debased character; but the four most remarkable fragments are pieces carved on both sides out of blocks about 1ft. 9in. thick, by 1ft. 6in. high. they are each from 2ft. 6in. to 2ft. 9in. long, and are curved, the chord being about 1-9/16in., in a length of 2ft. 6in. the first fragment is a cornice, or impost, carved on both sides, in three tiers: the upper, a _cima_ with a leaf; the middle division, a greek fret, not quite similar on each side the stone, and below is a running ornament. the cornice does not project sufficiently to be the cornice of a building, and, as it is decorated on either side, it could not have been intended for a string-course, as none of the walls are so thin as these stones, although i at first thought it might belong to one of the semi-circular _exedrae_. the curve is struck with a shorter radius than even the smallest recess. i think it is the capping of the back of one of the semi-circular stone seats, called by the later romans a _stibadium_. if this formed the seat in the north-western recess, there would be ample room behind it (3ft. 9in.) to pass by. the next fragment must have been fixed beneath this or a similar capping, and is also carved on each side; the convex side having an adaptation of the well-known honeysuckle fairly drawn, whilst the convex side of it, with the exception of a floriated panelled pilaster in the centre, is the work of an accomplished sculptor. on the right of this pilaster, slightly recessed to admit of relief, is the naked right thigh and leg of a figure that must have stood 1ft. 6in. high. although only a fragment, this is a most charming piece of work, the action and anatomy of the limb being perfect. on the left side is a similar panel, a headless draped figure, with feet bare, holding a circular shield which rests on the thigh, whilst the limb is bent as if ascending a rock that is slightly indicated. on the third fragment the honeysuckle pattern is on the concave side, whilst the sculpture is on the convex, the arc of which corresponds with the last described. on this there are two niches only, and the figures are much more mutilated. the left figure has a flowing mantle, the only leg remaining being bare from the thigh downwards; the foot and the head are gone. the figure on the right is fully draped, the head is lost, and the right hand much mutilated; a musical instrument, like a guitar,[24] or rather a mandolin, rests against the left breast, held in position by the left hand. the fourth fragment has the honeysuckle on both sides, with the flower well carved on one of them. it is a great pity that so little of this superb work is left, and that what there is should be so mutilated.[25] [footnote 24: professor middleton considers this a cornucopia.] [footnote 25: a small drawing of these pieces i shall also on a future occasion communicate.] this account of the great bath will, i hope, be sufficiently complete if i describe the entrances and conclude with a few particulars of the pavement (although many discoveries of considerable interest might be made, i have no doubt, in the latter), omitting a detailed examination as being tedious. i believe there were five entrances to this bath, two of which remain. in the western wall, on the south, is one leading from other apartments (a hypocaust, hall and bath), which i shall on a future occasion describe. it is 4ft. 3in. wide. double doors and hinges have been inserted in this doorway, and the base and a portion of a pilaster cut away most barbarously to receive them. on the north, on the same wall, and fronting the northern _schola_, is a doorway similar to the last, which has been walled up in roman times, the wall which closed it being covered with the red plaster that covers all the work not being faced freestone. a third doorway, similar in every respect, was at the eastern end of the northern _schola_, as i infer from the lower paving being much worn in that direction. a fourth doorway was in the eastern wall to the south, but not south enough to face the southern _schola_, and a fifth was between these two. of these three doorways, the first of them is still hidden by soil, and the second and third are obliterated with modern walling; a portion of the architrave of one was found near, but their position is well marked by the footmarks in the stone. [plate viii: plan of great roman bath, bath. discovered 1880-81 and measured 1884, by charles e. davis, f.s.a.] i should not omit mentioning the mark of a wooden seat in the northern rectangular recess, and the place of a wooden rail for clothes, that was let into the pilaster at one end with the _slot_ in a pilaster at the other. in my plan (_pl. viii._) i have endeavoured to show the massive lower paving and the fragmentary upper pavement. both are much worn; and, where the upper pavement has disappeared against the upper step of the bath, especially the step on the western _schola_, it has been worn down on the inside to the depth of several inches. the lower pavement through the south-western door is worn in holes, and across by the angular fountain are similar wearings, marking "a short cut" into the northern _schola_; and this is continued in a less degree to the other doors,--save the north-western one, where the upper paving in part exists, showing that this doorway was closed before the baths were allowed to get so shamefully out of repair. this sadly dilapidated pavement must have caused considerable inconvenience to the bathers, and could only have been put up with by those too poor to incur the expenses of repair; the baths therefore were continued to be used by less prosperous citizens than those who provided them. is not this a strong argument that the romans left behind them, when they abandoned britain (a.d. 420), a people almost as great lovers of the baths as themselves, with, however, less ability to maintain them; and that the residents of aquæ sulis daily frequented them during the 150 years that succeeded until the city was overthrown by our more immediate ancestors, who destroyed before abandoning it to desolation? the springs flooded the courts and corridors of the thermæ until the washings of the land filled them. rushes, withies, and trees grew beneath the shadow of its ruins. bathancastra (akemancastra) was founded;[26] the memory of the baths was lost; its architectural magnificence was the quarry of the builders, who little dreamt that beneath the soil was buried the rich treasure which we in this century, and those who have preceded us in the last, have had the privilege of laying bare. [footnote 26: "the foundation of a monastery by an under-king of the hwiccas [osric, nov. 6, a.d. 676,] within its walls, reveals to us the springing up of a new life in another of the cities which had been wrecked by ceawlin's inroad, the city of bath."--_green's "making of england_," p. 356. professor earle throws some doubt on the authenticity of the record.] the romans left behind them in bath a palace of health and luxury unequalled except in italy. * * * * * in making some excavations (1885) beneath the cross bath, the walls of the roman well were found, and at a considerable depth two altars, which are placed for exhibition in the great bath. one of these is a plain rectangular altar; the other is carved on three sides, having on the front face two figures (æsculapius offering a lamb to hegiea), on another side a serpent coiled round the trunk of a tree, and on the third sculptured side a dog with a curly tail (see professor sayce and rev. preb. scarth). * * * * * [illustration] hot mineral springs of bath, vested in the corporation of the city. * * * * * founded by the romans in the first century. bathers during 1889, 104,597. daily yield 507,600 gallons at 120° fah. * * * * * these waters are beneficial in all forms of gout, sub-acute, chronic and muscular rheumatism--neuralgias, sciatica, lumbago, certain forms of paralysis, nervous debility, diseases of women, disorders of the digestive system, tropical anoemia, metallic poisoning, eczema, lepra, psoriasis, and all the scaly diseases of the skin. some surgical diseases of the joints, general weakness of limbs after injury, and diseases of the throat and air passages. upwards of £40,000 have been lately expended by the corporation of the city to enlarge and perfect the various appliances, rendering them, in the words of one of the greatest hygienic physicians of the day, the most perfect in europe. thermal vapour, douche with massage by doucheurs and doucheuses from continental spas, pulverised and vapour douche, spray, dry and moist heat, and shower, with luxurious cooling rooms. band daily in the pump room. last return of the medical officer of health for bath 17'9 per 1000. * * * * * charges for baths. new royal baths, adjoining the grand hotel. prices. first class deep bath.. 2 6 ditto with douche or shower.. 3 0 first class reclining bath.. 2 0 ditto with douche or shower.. 2 6 dry douche.. 2 0 attendant's fee.. 0 3 first class reclining bath with massage (1 doucher) 3s. 6d., attendant's fee, 6d. attached to these baths is a * * * * * swimming bath, temp. 82 to 84 fahrt., daily supplied with fresh mineral water. for ladies' use on mondays, wednesdays, and fridays. with use of private room for 1 person, 1s.; 2 persons, 1s. 6d.; 3 persons, 2s. public room, 6d. bathing dresses, 2d. attendant's fee, 1d. this bath is available for gentlemen on tuesdays, till 1 p.m., thursdays, saturdays, and on sunday mornings up to 9.30 a.m., at 1s. each person. * * * * * the royal baths, bath street. first class deep bath. 2 0 ditto ditto with douche. 2 6 second class deep bath. 1 6 ditto ditto with douche. 2 0 reclining bath. 1 6 ditto with douche. 2 0 shower bath 1 6 attendant's fees. 2d. & 3d. * * * * * tepid swimming bath, for gentlemen only. with use of private room .. 0 9 with use of public room .. 0 6 no attendant's fees. this bath is closed on thursdays at 1 p.m. * * * * * cross bath, open daily (fridays excepted), sunday till 9 a.m. open public bath 0 1 open public bath, with towel 0 2 this bath is available for females on thursdays, under the charge of a female attendant. fee, including bathing dress, 2d. * * * * * king's and queen's baths, stall street. prices. first class deep bath 2 6 ditto with douche or shower 3 0 first class reclining bath 2 0 ditto with douche, or shower, or lumbar douche, or douche ascendante 2 6 ditto with special douche 3 0 needle douche (or douche en cercle) 2 0 ditto with deep bath 3 6 vertebral douche 1s. extra moist and dry heat per hour 2 6 ditto with deep bath 3 6 attendant's fee 0 3 first class reclining bath with massage (1 doucher) 3s. attendant's fee, 6d. ground floor. first class reclining bath 1 6 ditto with scottish douche 2 6 reclining bath with massage 1 9 attendant's fee 0 6 massage bath 1 6 scottish douche alone 1 0 attendant's fee 0 3 second class reclining baths 6d. & 1s. king's public baths 6d. & 1s. attendant's fee 0 1 massage & vapour baths, bouillon & pulverising room. special medicated baths 3 6 massage douche bath, aix-les-bains system (2 doucheurs) 3 6 berthollet with massage (1 doucheur) 3 0 massage, in reclining bath and douche (1 doucheur) 2 6 attendant's fee 0 6 massage douche bath (aix-les-bains system) 1 doucheur 2 6 berthollet-natural vapour bath 2 6 bouillon room, if taken alone 1 0 pulverization for the nose, ears, eyes, face, or throat 1 0 sitz bath (special) 2 0 attendant's fee 0 3 portable baths, at a temperature not exceeding 106°, fahrt., can be supplied at private residences, by arrangement. also mineral water in bottles. * * * * * arrangements for drinking the waters. the grand pump room is open each week-day from 8.30 a.m. till 6 p.m., and on sundays after the morning service till 2 p.m. charges- single glass 2d. per book of 20 coupons 1 6 one coupon must be given up each time of drinking the water, at either the grand pump room or the hetling pump room. ticket for drinking the water for 12 months, for one person £1. for a family £2. tickets for bathing must in all cases be obtained at the ticket office adjoining the grand hotel, and all baths are booked by the clerk in charge; and such baths must be paid for at the time of booking. all fees to attendants are included in the charge paid for tickets. any irregularities or incivility on the part of any of the attendants should at once be reported to the general manager. beckford*** transcribed from the 1893 edition by david price, email ccx074@pglaf.org recollections of the late william beckford of fonthill, wilts and lansdown, bath the manuscript of the following letters, written by my father, has been in my possession fifty years. he intended to publish it at the time of mr. beckford's death, in 1844, but delayed the execution of the work, and sixteen years afterwards was himself called to enter on the higher life of the spiritual world. mr. beckford and my father were kindred spirits, conversant with the same authors, had visited the same countries, and were both gifted with extraordinary memories. mr. beckford said that he had never met with a man possessed of such a memory as my father; and many a time has my father told me that he never met a man who possessed such a memory as mr. beckford. if my father had published the reminiscences himself i think that much misconception in the public mind respecting the character of mr. beckford would have been prevented. for instance, i remember, when a child, being warned that this great man was an infidel. when he showed my father the sarcophagus in which his body was to be placed, he remarked, "there shall i lie, lansdown, until the trump of god shall rouse me on the resurrection morn." charlotte lansdown. 8 lower east hayes, bath; july, 1893. recollections of the late william beckford. bath, august 21, 1838. my dear charlotte,--i have this day seen such an astonishing assemblage of works of art, so numerous and of so surprisingly rare a description that i am literally what lord byron calls "dazzled and drunk with beauty." i feel so bewildered from beholding the rapid succession of some of the very finest productions of the great masters that the attempt to describe them seems an impossible task; however, i will make an effort. the collection of which i speak is that of mr. beckford, at his house in lansdown-crescent. besides all this i have this day been introduced to that extraordinary man, the author of "vathek" and "italy," the builder of fonthill, the contemporary of the mighty and departed dead, the pupil of mozart; in fact, to the formidable and inaccessible vathek himself! i have many times passed the house, and longed to see its contents, and often have i wondered how a building with so plain and unostentatious an exterior could suit the reception of the works it contains, and the residence of so magnificent a personage. i first called by appointment on his ingenious architect, mr. goodridge (to whom i am indebted for this distinguished favour), and he accompanied me to the house, which we reached at half-past twelve o'clock. we were shown upstairs, passing many fine family pictures, and were ushered into the neat library, where mr. beckford was waiting to receive us. i confess i did at first feel somewhat embarrassed, but a lovely spaniel ran playfully towards us, licking our hands in the most affectionate and hospitable manner; "you are welcome" was the silent language. i assure you i judge much, and often truly, of the character of individuals from the deportment of their favourite dogs. i often find them exactly indicative of their master's disposition. when you are attacked by snarling, waspish curs is it at all wonderful if you find them an echo of the proprietor? but this beautiful animal reassured me, and gave me instantly a favourable idea of its master. my astonishment was great at the spaciousness of the room, which had in length a magnificent and palatial effect, nor did i immediately discover the cause of its apparent grandeur. it opens into the gallery built over the arch connecting the two houses, at the end of which an immense mirror reflects the two apartments. the effect is most illusive, nor should i have guessed the truth had i not seen the reflection of my own figure in the glass. the library, which is the whole length of the first house, cannot be much less than fifty feet long. it has on one side five lofty windows, the gallery having three on the same side. you have the light streaming through eight consecutive openings; these openings, with their crimson curtains, doubled by the reflection, produce a most charming perspective. from the ceiling hangs a splendid ormolu chandelier, the floor is covered with a persian carpet (brought i believe from portugal), so sumptuous that one is afraid to walk on it, and a noble mosaic table of florentine marble, bought in at an immense price at fonthill, is in the centre of the room. several rows of the rarest books cover the lower part of the walls, and above them hang many fine portraits, which mr. beckford immediately, without losing any time in compliments, began to show us and describe. first we were shown a portrait by de vos of grotius; next to it one of rembrandt, painted by himself. "you see," said mr. beckford, "that he is trying to assume an air of dignity not natural to him, by throwing back his head, but this attempt at the dignified is neutralized by the expression of the eyes, which have rather too much of sly humour for the character which he wishes to give himself." to praise individual pictures seems useless when everyone you meet has excellencies peculiar to itself; in fact, whatever our ideas of the great masters may be, and we certainly do gain from prints and pictures a tolerable idea of their style and different beauties (and i have myself seen the louvre and many celebrated pictures) there is in mr. beckford's _chef d'oeuvres_ something still more lovely than our imagination, than our expectation. i speak not now of the st. catherine, the claud, the titian, &c., but all the pictures, whether historical, landscape, or low life, have this unique character of excellence. you look at a picture. you are sure it is by gaspar, but you never saw one of poussin's that had such an exquisite tone of colour, so fresh and with such free and brilliant execution. but i digress. i forgot that it was the library and its pictures i was attempting to describe. well, at the other end hangs a portrait of pope gregory, by passerotti; the expression of the face italian, attitude like raphael. over the door a portrait of cosmo de medici by bronzino allori, fresh as if painted yesterday. "the works of that master," i said, "are rare, but a friend of mine, mr. day, had a noble one at his rooms in piccadilly, st. john in the wilderness. the conception of the figure and poetical expression of the face always seemed to me astonishingly fine. pray, sir, do you know that picture?" "perfectly, it partakes of the sublime and is amazingly fine." "your portrait of cosmo has the expression of a resolute, determined man, and i think it conveys well the idea of the monstrous parent, who could with his own hand destroy his only surviving son after discovering he had murdered his brother. what a horrible piece of business! the father of two sons, one of whom murdered the other, and that father is himself the executioner of the survivor." "it was dreadful certainly," said mr. beckford. "however, we have the consolation of knowing that two broods of vipers were destroyed." mr. beckford next showed us a titian, a portrait of the constable montmorency, in armour richly chased with gold; a fine picture, but sadly deficient in intellectual expression. and no wonder, for as mr. beckford observed, "he could neither read nor write, but he was none the worse for that." "there is, then, before us," i rejoined, "the portrait of the man of whom his master, henri quatre, said: 'avec un counetable qui re sait pas ecrire, et un chancelier qui ne sait pas le latin, j'ai reussi dans toutes mes entreprises.' it is the very portrait for which he sat." "the face," i said, "has no great pretensions to intellect, but then titian knew nothing of the refined flattery so fashionable now-a-days that throws a halo of mind and expression over faces more stupid than montmorency's, and whose possessors never performed the chivalrous deeds of the constable." "witness sir thomas lawrence's fine picture of sir wm. curtis, where the court painter has thrown a poetical expression over a personage that never in his life betrayed any predilection for anything but turtle soup and gormandizing." mr. beckford burst out laughing. "well," said he, "here is a picture that will perhaps please you. holbein has certainly not been guilty of the refined flattery you complain of here; it is the portrait of bishop gardiner, painted at the time he was in holland and in disgrace. what think you of it?" "it is admirably painted, and has scarcely anything of his dry and hard manner, the hands are done inimitably, but the eyes are small, and the expression cold-hearted and brutal. it conveys to my mind the exact idea of the cold-blooded wretch, who consigned so many of his innocent countrymen to the flames." i did not express all i thought, but i certainly wondered how the effigy of such a monster should have found an asylum in this palace of taste. smithfield and its horrors rose vividly before me, and i turned, not without a shudder, from this too faithful portrait to copies by phillips of some family pictures in the royal collection, painted by permission expressly for mr. beckford, and looking more like originals than mere copies. but the picture of pictures in this room is a velasquez, an unknown head, the expression beyond anything i have ever seen. such light and shade, such expressive eyes; the very epitome of spanish character. "is it not amazingly like lord byron?" "it certainly is very like him, but much more handsome." this room is devoted entirely to portraits. mr. beckford opened a door and we entered the duchess drawing room; a truly royal room, the colour of the curtains, carpet, and furniture being crimson, scarlet, and purple. over the fireplace is a full length portrait of the duchess of hamilton by phillips, painted in the rich and glowing style of that sweet colourist. it represents a beautiful and truly dignified lady. the sleeves of the dress are close and small, as worn in 1810 (quel bonheur! d'etre jeune, jolie, et duchesse), so truly becoming to a finely formed woman, and so much superior to the present horrid fashion of disfiguring the shape by gigot and bishop's sleeves, which seem to have been invented expressly to conceal what is indeed most truly beautiful, a woman's arm. we were next shown a glorious sir joshua, a beautiful full length portrait of mrs. peter beckford, afterwards lady rivers, and the "nouronchar" of vathek. she is represented approaching an altar partially obscured by clouds of incense that she may sacrifice to hygeia, and turning round looking at the spectator. the background is quite titianesque; it is composed of sky and the columns of the temple, the light breaking on the pillars in that forcible manner you see on the stems of trees in some of titian's backgrounds. the colouring of this picture is in fine preservation, a delicate lilac scarf floats over the dress, the figure is grace and elegance itself, and the drawing perfect; the general effect is brilliancy, richness, and astonishing softness. "sir joshua took the greatest pleasure and delight in painting that picture, as it was left entirely to his own refined taste. the lady was in ill-health at the time it was done, and sir joshua most charmingly conceived the idea of a sacrifice to the goddess of health. vain hope! her disorder was fatal." there is a portrait of mr. beckford's mother painted by west, with a view of fonthill in the background. never was there a greater contrast in this and the last picture; west certainly knew nothing of portrait painting. the _tout ensemble_ of the portrait in question is as dry and hard as if painted by a chinese novice. there is also a portrait of the countess, of effingham, mr. beckford's aunt. on one side is the original portrait by reynolds of the author of vathek engraved as the frontispiece of the "excursions to the monasteries." the character of the original picture is much superior in expression to the print, less stout, eyes very intellectual; in fact, you are convinced it must be the portrait of a poet or of a poetical character. the face is very handsome, so is the print, but that has nothing in it but what you meet with in a good looking young man of fashion. this, on the contrary, has an expression of sensibility, deeply tinged with melancholy, which gives it great interest. on the other side of lady rivers's portrait is the duke of hamilton when a boy. a sweet child, with the hair cut straight along the forehead, as worn by children some fifty years ago, and hanging luxuriantly down his neck on the same side of the room, behind a bronze of the laocoon, is a wonderful sketch by paolo veronese, the drawing and composition in the grand style, touched with great sweetness and juiciness. two small upright bassans, painted conjointly by both, bearing their names; the point of sight is immensely high. we were then led down the north staircase. fronting us was a portrait of mr. beckford's father, the alderman and celebrated lord mayor of london. mr. goodridge asked him if he knew a book, just published, denying the truth of his father's famous speech to george iii. he seemed astonished, and stood still on the staircase. "not true! what in the world will they find out next? garrick was present when my father uttered it, heard the whole speech, repeated it word for word to me, and what is more, acted it in my father's manner." "that is the portrait of my great grandfather, colonel peter beckford. it was painted by a french artist, who went to jamaica for the purpose, at the time he was governor of the island." it is a full length portrait, large as life, the colonel dressed in a scarlet coat embroidered richly with gold. there is also a lovely portrait by barker of the present marquis of douglas, mr. beckford's grandson; it was painted when lord douglas was twelve or thirteen years old. there is also a charming picture by reynolds, two beautiful little girls, full length and large as life, they are the present duchess of hamilton and her sister, mrs general ord. we now entered the lovely dining room, which in point of brilliancy and cheerfulness has more the character of a drawing than of a dining room. opposite the window is an upright grand pianoforte. it is the largest ever made, with the exception of its companion made at the same time, and its richness and power of sound are very great. over the fire is what is seldom seen in a dining room, a large looking glass. the paintings in this room have been valued at upwards of 20,000 pounds. on the right as you enter are five pictures that once adorned the aldsbrandini palace, namely, the st. catherine by raphael, a claude, a garofalo, two by ferrara, and several smaller ones. but how shall i attempt to describe to you the st. catherine? this lovely picture combines all the refined elegance of the venus de medici, in form, contour, and flowing lines, with an astonishing delicacy of colour, and masterly yet softened execution. the eyes are turned upwards with an expression of heavenly resignation, the neck, flesh and life itself, the hands, arms, and shoulders so sweetly rounded, while the figure melts into the background with the softness of corregio. and fills the air around with beauty, we inhale the ambrosial aspect, which beheld instils part of its immortality; the veil of heaven is half withdrawn, within the pale we stand, and in that form and face behold what mind can make, when nature's self would fail. i can only convey to you a very slight idea of the impression produced by the contemplation of this admirable painting. such grace and sweetness, such softness and roundness in the limbs. she seems the most beautiful creature that ever trod this earthly planet; in short it is no earthly beauty that we gaze upon, but the very beau ideal of italian loveliness. eve of the land which still is paradise. italian beauty! didst thou not inspire raphael? "how different," said mr. beckford, "is that lovely creature from mr. etty's beauties. they are for the most part of a meretricious character, would do well enough for a mistress; but there," pointing to the st. catherine, "there are personified the modesty and purity a man would wish to have in a wife, and yet frenchmen find fault with it. c'est un assez joli tableau, say they, mais la tete manque, de l'expression, si elle avait plus d'esprit, plus de vivacite! mais raphael, il n'avait jamais passe les alpes." we burst out laughing, and i added, "le pauvre raphael quel dommage, de ne savoir rien du grand. monarque! ni de la grande nation." "yet," i continued, "there is a painter, stotherd, who has come nearer to the great italian, in the grace and elegance of his women and children, than perhaps any other, and merits well the proud appellation of the english raphael. what a shame that he never met with encouragement." "but i understood that he was tolerably successful. he painted many things for me at fonthill. you are surely mistaken." "by no means," i replied. "latterly he seldom sold a picture, and supported himself on the paltry income of 200 pounds a year, raised by making little designs for booksellers. yet what a noble painting is chaucer's pilgrimage to canterbury." "it is indeed," said mr. beckford. "but, sir, there is another painter, howard, whose conceptions are most poetical. do you remember his painting at somerset house in 1824, representing the solar system, from milton's noble lines- hither as to their fountain, other stars repairing, in their golden urns draw light?" "i remember it perfectly; 'twas a most beautiful picture." "milton's original idea, that of the planets drawing light from their eternal source, as water from a fountain, is certainly a glorious, a golden one; but who beside howard could have so tangibly, so poetically developed the poet's idea in colour. the personifying the planets according to their names, as venus, mercury, and so forth, was charming, and the splendour of the nearer figures, overwhelmed as it were with excess of light, and the gloom and darkness of the distant, were admirably managed. what a wonderful picture!" "he never painted a finer." mr. beckford then pointed out his claude. it is a cool picture, the colouring grey and greenish, the time of day, early morning just before sunrise: but words fail to express its beauties. there is a something in it, a je ne sais quoi. such clearness in the colouring; the trees are all green, but so tenderly green; the sky and distance of such an exquisite tone that you are at once in imagination transported to those "southern climes and cloudless skies" that inspired claude lorraine. i can give no possible idea in writing of the tone of colour in this picture, except by comparing it to the semi-transparency of mosaic, such are the clearness of the tints and pearliness of the sky and distance. as to chiaro-oscure, it is breadth and simplicity itself. nothing but the purest ultramarine could ever produce such a green as that which colours the trees. on the same side of the room are two small vander meulens, landscapes. they are very highly finished, and the colouring is delicious; the trees are grouped with all the grandeur of claude or poussin. above are two of the finest vernets; they are both sea pieces. the colouring has a depth and richness i never before saw in anything attributed to him. in the louvre are his most famous pictures, and what i now say is the result of calm and mature reflection. i had the louvre pictures constantly before my eyes for three months. they are very large, and certainly have great merit; but had i my choice i would prefer mr. beckford's to any of the set. west's original sketch for his great picture of king lear, painted for boydell's shakspeare gallery--"blow, blow, thou winter wind." a most wonderful performance. the expression of face of the poor mad king is astonishing; the colouring rich and mellow--nothing of west's usually hard outline. the whole picture is full of energy and fire, and seems to have been struck off with the greatest ease and rapidity. "do observe the face of edgar," said mr. beckford. "under his assumed madness you trace a sentiment of respect and anxiety for the monarch; he could not forget that it was his sovereign." "i have seen," i said, "most of west's great pictures, but there is more genius in that sketch than in anything i ever saw of his. i think he took too much pains with his sketches. the consequence was that the original spirit evaporated long before the completion of the great tame painting, where his men and women too often look like wooden lay figures covered with drapery." "sir, did you ever see his sketch of death on the pale horse? the large picture is certainly very fine, but i have heard the best judges say that the original sketch is one of the finest things in existence. the president himself considered it his best and refused 100 pounds, offered for it by the prince regent; yet afterwards, being distressed for money, he parted with it, i believe, to mr. thompson, the artist, for 50 pounds." "is it possible? i wish i had known that he wanted to dispose of it. i should have liked it beyond anything. it was most wonderful." above the picture of king lear hangs a noble picture by titian, the composition of which reminded me much of raphael. the virgin's face is extremely beautiful, but it is the sort of beauty we sometimes meet with, that we sometimes may have seen. the st. catherine is of a more elevated style of beauty, more intellectual; in short, it possesses a combination of charms that has never yet fallen to the lot of any mortal. the infant is extremely fine. on this side is also a portrait of himself exquisitely coloured and finished. near these paintings is a canaletti, not a real view, but an assemblage of various fine buildings; in fact, a sort of union of rome and venice. in the centre is the mole of hadrian, round which he has amused himself by putting an elegant colonnade; on the right hand is a bridge. the colouring is clear, the shadows rich, and the water softly painted and extremely transparent. this is the most beautiful canaletti i ever saw. i observed that the generality of his pictures had a hardness, dryness, and blackness that we saw nothing of here. "you are quite right," he said, "and the reason is that very few of those generally attributed to him are really genuine, but of mine there can be no doubt, as this painting and several others that i have were got directly from the artist himself by means of the english consul at venice; but not a quarter of the pictures that one sees and that are called his were ever painted by canaletti." there were several very fine pictures by this master destroyed in the lifetime of alderman beckford at the fire which consumed the old mansion at fonthill nearly a hundred years ago. this canaletti partakes of the same character of high excellence that mr. beckford's other pictures possess; in fact, as with so many of his pictures, you see the hand of the master, whose common works you know, but in this house you find paintings still finer, which give you more elevated and correct ideas of the style and manner of the genuine productions of the great masters. there really seems some charm, some magic in the walls, so great is the similarity of colouring in these _chefs d'oeuvres_, the clear, the subdued, the pearly tints, a variety of delicious colour, and none of the dirty hues you see in mediocre old paintings. over the sofa is a constellation of beauties which we merely glanced at as we passed, but which i hope another day to examine. they are some of the rarest specimens by g. poussin, wouvermans, berghem, van huysum, polemberg, and others. on a small table was placed an elegantly cut caraffe of carnations of every variety of colour that you can possibly imagine. there is nothing in which mr. beckford is more choice than in his bouquets. at every season the rarest living flowers adorn the house. next to the dining room is a small salon, which we now entered. here is a noble drawing by turner of the abbey, according to a plan proposed, but never carried out. the tower is conical, and would have been even higher than the one that was completed. "i have seen," i said, "a fine drawing of fonthill by turner, originally in your possession, but now belonging to mr. allnutt, of clapham. it is prodigiously fine. the scenery there must be magnificent. the hills and beautiful lake in the drawing give one an idea of cumberland." "it is a very fine drawing, but rather too poetical, too ideal, even for fonthill. the scenery there is certainly beautiful, but turner took such liberties with it that he entirely destroyed the portraiture, the locality of the spot. that was the reason i parted with it. there were originally six drawings of the abbey; three were disposed of at the sale, and i still have the remaining ones." "are they going to rebuild the tower, sir? for when i was last in london, papworth, the architect, was gone down to fonthill to do something there." "impossible," he said, "unless it were to be made a national affair, which indeed is not very likely. it would cost at least 100,000 pounds to restore it. but what can papworth have done there? it must i should think be something to the pavilion. i assure you i had no idea of parting with fonthill till farquhar made me the offer. i wished to purge it, to get rid of a great many things i did not want, but as to the building itself i had no more notion of selling it than you have (turning to his architect) of parting with anything, with--with the clothes you have on." on the chimney piece, protected by a glass, is a precious japan vase. we examined it for some time under its envelope. it seemed to me (for i know nothing of japan work) a bronze vessel, richly and most elaborately chased, and i could not help joining in the praises due to its exquisite finish. mr. beckford took off the glass, and desired me to take it to the window. "i am really afraid to touch it," said i, but he forced it into my hands. i prepared them to receive a massive and (as it seemed to me) very weighty vessel, when lo it proved as light as a feather. we were afterwards shown another japan vase, the exterior of which exactly resembled the pompeian designs, elegant scrolls, delicate tracery of blue, red, green, &c. these colours strongly opposed as in the remains of paintings at pompeii. here are some other precious little pictures, a small gerard dow, a watteau, a moucheron, and a polemberg. he merely noticed them, and then led us into the next room. a noble library. it is an elegant and charming apartment, very chastely ornamented. here are no pictures; it is devoted entirely to books and ponderous folios of the most rare and precious engravings. the sides of the library are adorned by scagliola pilasters and arched recesses, which contain the books. the interstices between the arches and the ceiling are painted in imitation of marble, so extremely like that though they touch the scagliola it is next to impossible to distinguish any difference. the ceiling is belted across and enriched with bands of grecian tracery in relief, delicately painted and slightly touched with gold. on the walls are some gilded ornaments, enough to give to the whole richness of effect without heaviness. between the windows is what i suppose may be termed a table, composed of an enormous slab of the rarest marble, supported by elegantly cast bronze legs. over this a small cabinet (manufactured in bath from drawings by mr. goodridge) full of extremely small books; it is carved in oak in the most elaborate manner. the fireplace, of devonshire marble, is perfect in design and in its adaptation to the rest of the room; in fact, everything in this lovely chamber is in unison, everything soft, quiet, and subdued. new wonders awaited me. next to the library is a sort of vestibule leading to a staircase, which from its mysterious and crimson light, rich draperies, and latticed doors seemed to be the sanctum sanctorum of a heathen temple. to the left a long passage, whose termination not being seen allowed the imagination full play, led for aught i know to the fortress of akerman, to the montagne du caf or to the halls of argenti. ou sout peintes toutes les createures raissonables, et les animaux qui ont habite la terre. to the right two latticed doors, reminding you of grand cairo or persepolis, ingeniously conceal the commonplace entrance from the crescent. the singular and harmonious light of this mysterious vestibule is produced by crimson silk strained over the fanlight of the outer door. "this place," i observed, "puts one in mind of the hall of eblis." "you are quite right," he observed, "this is unquestionably the hall of eblis." "those latticed doors," i continued, "seem to lead to the small apartment where the three princes, alasi, barkiarokh, and kalilah, related to vathek and nouronchar their adventures." he seemed amused at my observations, and said, "then you have read 'vathek.' how do you like it?" "vastly. i read it in english many years ago, but never in french." "then read it in french," said mr. beckford. "the french edition is much finer than the english." we mounted the staircase. above you in open niches are etruscan vases. the ceiling is arched and has belts at intervals. "i wished to exclude the draughts," said mr. beckford, "and to do away with the cold and uncomfortable appearance you generally have in staircases." the effect of the whole is so novel that you lose all idea of stairs, and seem merely going from one room to another. as you stand on the landing the vaulted and belted ceiling behind you has the appearance of a row of arches in perspective. the same solemn and mysterious gloom pervades the staircase. the architect has frequently entreated to be allowed to introduce a little more light, but in vain. the author of "vathek" will not consent to the least alteration of the present mystical effect, and he is quite right. this warm and indefinite light produces not only the effect of air, but also of space, and makes the passage before noticed, seen through the latticed doors, apparently of lines of real dimensions. mr. beckford drew aside a curtain. we entered the smaller of two lovely drawing rooms lately fitted up. before us, over the mantelpiece, was suspended a magnificent full length portrait by gaspar de crayer of philip ii. of spain. just then my head was too full of the hall of eblis, of "vathek" and its associations, for mere ordinary admiration of even one of the finest portraits painted, and on mr. beckford pointing out the whitefaced monarch i almost involuntarily ejaculated "pale slave of eblis." he burst out laughing. "eh! eh! what? his face is pale indeed, but he was very proud of his complexion." this is a very fine group. philip is represented dressed in a suit of black armour, elaborately chased in gold, standing on a throne covered with a crimson carpet. near him is his dwarf, dressed in black, holding the helmet, adorned with a magnificent plume of feathers, and turning towards his master (the fountain of honour) a most expressive and intelligent face. "that dwarf," said mr. beckford, "was a man of great ability and exercised over his master a vast influence." lower down you discover the head of a mexican page, holding a horse, whose head, as well as that of the page, is all that is visible, their bodies being concealed by the steps of the throne. this is a noble picture; but in my eyes the extreme plainness of the steps of the throne and the unornamented war boots of the king have a bare and naked appearance. they contrast rather too violently with the whole of the upper part of the picture. over the steps are painted in roman letters rx. ps. 4s. (rex philippus quartos). many who have hardly heard the painter's name will of course not admire it, being done neither by titian nor vandyke; but mr. beckford's taste is peculiar. he prefers a genuine picture by an inferior painter to those attributed to the more celebrated masters, but where originality is ambiguous, or at least if not ambiguous where picture cleaner, or scavengers, as he calls them, have been at work. in this room, suspended from the ceiling by a silken cord, is the silver gilt lamp that hung in the oratory at fonthill. its shape and proportion are very elegant, and no wonder; it was designed by the author of "italy" himself. how great was my astonishment some time after, on visiting fonthill, at perceiving, suspended from the _cul de lamp_, the very crimson cord that once supported this precious vessel! the lamp had been hastily cut down, and the height of the remains of the cord from the floor was probably the reason of its preservation. mr. beckford next pointed out a charming sketch by rubens, clear and pearly beyond conception. it is st. george and the dragon, the dragon hero and his horse in the air, and the dragon must certainly have been an african lion. mr. beckford called the beast, or reptile, a mumpsimus (_sic_). "do look at the pontimeitos in the beautiful sketch," said he, "there is a bit from his pencil certainly his own. don't imagine that those great pictures that bear his name are all his pictures. he was too much of a gentleman for such drudgery, and the greatest part of such pictures (the luxembourg for instance) are the works of his pupils from his original designs certainly; they were afterwards retouched by him, and people are silly enough to believe they are all his work. but mark well the difference in execution between those great gallery pictures and such a gem as this." mr. beckford then showed me a "ripon" by polemberg, a lovely classic landscape, with smooth sky, pearly distance, and picturesque plains; the holy family in the foreground. "do take notice of the st. joseph in this charming picture," he said. "the painters too often pourtray him as little better than a vagabond jew or an old beggar. polemberg had too much good taste for such caricaturing, and you see he has made him here look like a decayed gentleman." mr. beckford drew aside another curtain, and we entered the front drawing room, of larger dimensions, but fitted up in a similar style. the first thing that caught my eye was the magnificent effect produced by a scarlet drapery, whose ample folds covered the whole side of the room opposite the three windows from the ceiling to the floor. mr. beckford's observation on his first view of mad. d' aranda's boudoir instantly recurred to my mind. these are his very words: "i wonder architects and fitters-up of apartments do not avail themselves more frequently of the powers of drapery. nothing produces so grand and at the same time so comfortable an effect. the moment i have an opportunity i will set about constructing a tabernacle larger than the one i arranged at ramalhad, and indulge myself in every variety of plait and fold that can be possibly invented." "i never was so convinced," i said, "of the truth of your observations as at the present moment. what a charming and comfortable effect does that splendid drapery produce!" "i am very fond of drapery," he replied, "but that is nothing to what i had at fonthill in the great octagon. there were purple curtains fifty feet long." here was a cabinet of oak, made in bath, in form most classical and appropriate. on one side stood two massive and richly chased silver gilt candlesticks that formerly were used in the moorish palace of the alhambra. "then you have visited granada?" i inquired. "more than once." "what do you think of the alhambra?" "it is vastly curious certainly, but many things there are in wretched taste, and to say truth i don't much admire moorish taste." mr. beckford next pointed out a head in marble brought from mexico by cortez, which was for centuries in the possession of the duke of alba's family, and was given to the present proprietor by the duchess. "her fate was very tragical," he observed. in a small cupboard with glass in front is a little ivory reliquior, four or five hundred years old. it was given to mr. beckford by the late mr. hope. it is in the shape of a small chapel; on opening the doors, the fastenings of which were two small dogs or monkeys, you found in a recess the virgin and child, surrounded by various effigies, all carved in the most astonishingly minute manner. the mention of mr. hope's name produced an observation about "anastasius," of which mr. beckford affirmed he was confident mr. hope had written very little; he was, he positively asserted, assisted by spence. my companion here observed, "had mr. beckford heard of the recent discoveries made of the ruins of carthage?" "of carthage?" he said, "it must be new carthage. it cannot be the old town, that is impossible. if it were, i would start to-morrow to see it. i should think myself on the road to babylon half-way." "babylon must have been a glorious place," observed my companion, "if we can place any reliance on mr. martin's long line of distances about that famous city." "oh, martin. martin is very clever, but a friend of mine, danby, in my opinion far surpasses him." i cannot agree with mr. beckford in this. martin was undoubtedly the inventor of the singular style of painting in question, and i do not believe that danby ever produced anything equal to some of the illustrations of "paradise lost," in particular "the fall of the apostate angels," which is as fine a conception as any painter, ancient or modern, ever produced. mr. beckford then, taking off a glass cover, showed us what is, i should imagine, one of the greatest curiosities in existence, a vase about ten inches high, composed of one entire block of chalcedonian onyx. it is of greek workmanship, most probably about the time of alexander the great. the stone is full of veins, as usual with onyxes. "do observe," said he, "these satyrs' heads. imagine the number of diamonds it must have taken to make any impression on such a hard substance. rubens made a drawing of it, for it was pawned in his time for a large sum. i possess an engraving from his drawing," and opening a portfolio he immediately presented it to my wondering eyes. over the fireplace is a magnificent picture by roberts, representing the tombs of ferdinand and isabella in the alhambra. what i had always imagined a small chapel is, i find, really of gigantic proportions, and looks like a cathedral in solemn grandeur and softness; the two sarcophagi are of white marble. the light streams through enormous painted windows, and at the extremity of the edifice is an altar surrounded by figures in different attitudes. "i should never have dreamt, from what washington irving says of the chapel of ferdinand and isabella, that it was such a plan as this." "oh, washington irving," he replied, "is very poor in his descriptions; he does not do justice to spain." i wished he had spoken with a little more enthusiasm of a favourite author, but i imagine that the author of the "sketch book" is scarcely aristocratic enough for mr. beckford. on the right hand of the fireplace is a very large landscape by lee, which mr. beckford eulogised warmly. "that silvery stream," he observed, "winding amongst those gentle undulating hills must be intended to represent berkshire," or he pronounced it barkshire. with all due deference to the taste of the author of "vathek," and his admiration of this picture, which he compared to a wouvermann, it is in my eyes a very uninteresting scene, though certainly strictly natural. "i don't in general like lee's pictures," he said, "but that is an exception." in the corresponding recess is a fine sea piece by chambers. on the opposite side of the room are rows of the most valuable books, which almost reach the ceiling. i hinted that i was really afraid we were trespassing on his leisure, as our visit was lengthened out most prodigiously. "not at all," he replied, "i am delighted to see you. it is a pleasure to show these things to those who really appreciate them, for i assure you that i find very few who do." we now returned through the apartments. he accompanied us as far as the dining room door, when he inquired if i had seen the tower? on my answering in the negative he said, "then you must come up again." he shook hands with my friend, and bowing politely to me was retiring, when stepping back he held out his hand in the kindest manner, repeating the words "come up again." we found we had spent three hours in his company. we paused an instant before leaving the dining room to admire a lovely bit of perspective. it is a line of open doors, exactly opposite each other (never seen but in large houses), piercing and uniting the three lower rooms. the effect is vastly increased by a mirror placed in the lobby leading to the second staircase, which mirror terminated the view. "l'une perspective bien menagee charmait la vue; ici, la magic de l'optique la trompoit agreablement. en un mot, le plus curieux des hommes n'avait rien omis dans ce palais de ce qui pouvait contenter la curiosite de ceux qui le visitait." you may imagine i did not forget mr. beckford's invitation, nor cease pestering my friend till he at length fixed a day for accompanying me again to lansdown. my curiosity to see the tower was excited. i longed to behold that extraordinary structure, but still more to see again the wonderful individual to whom it belonged. we proceeded in the first place to the house, and i had an opportunity of examining the pictures and curiosities in the ante-room. here are two cabinets, containing curious china, and small golden vessels. most of the china was, i believe, painted at sevres expressly for mr. beckford, as the ornaments on several pieces indicate, being formed of his arms, so arranged as to produce a rich and beautiful effect without the slightest formality. i counted in one cabinet ten vessels of gold, in the other five: these were small teapots, caddies, cups, saucers, plates. i am told that they are used occasionally at tea-time. over the door is a magnificent drawing of the abbey, by turner, taken i should imagine at a distance of two miles. the appearance of the building with its lofty tower is grand and imposing. the foreground seems to have been an old quarry. the great lake glitters in the middle distance, from the opposite banks of which the ground gradually rises, and the eminence is crowned by the stately structure. here are also a fine interior by van ostade from fonthill, representing a noble picture gallery; a drawing of the interior of st. paul's; one by rubens, representing christ and the two disciples at emmaus; a fine swaneveldt; a glorious weeninx, game and fruit; with a lovely bit by lance, and many smaller pictures. i was informed that mr. beckford intended meeting us at the tower, and that a servant was in readiness to conduct us thither by the walk through the grounds. we therefore issued by a private door, and presently entered the spacious kitchen garden, containing, i believe, seven or eight acres. a broad gravel walk, bordered by lovely flowers and fruit trees, leads to a magnificent terrace, which bounds the northern side of this beautiful enclosure, the view from which is enchanting. this noble terrace is screened from the north by a luxuriant shrubbery, from which arises an archway of massive proportions, erected chiefly to shut out the view of an unpicturesque object. the _tout ensemble_ reminds one of florence. you pass this gigantic portal, and ascend the hill by a winding pathway through the fields, the grass being always kept clipped and short. at the distance of half a mile from the house we crossed a lane, and our guide unlocking a gate entered the grounds at the brow of the hill. we again ascended, till we reached a broader way between two flourishing plantations, branching off to the left, and leading by a gently winding walk to a rustic sort of bungalow, which was discovered about a quarter of a mile off. "you must walk along here," said my friend, "and behold the prospect before we mount higher, for you will find the view repay you." it did indeed repay us: the grassy pathway extends along the side of the southern brow of lansdown, and the view from this spot is unrivalled. the whole valley of the doon stretches beneath you. looking towards the east you discover in extreme distance the marlborough downs; then somewhat nearer kingsdown, bathford, the hills above warleigh, with hampton cliffs and the neighbouring woods, where gainsborough, wilson, and barker studied nature so well, and where is shown the flat rock called gainsborough's table, on which the first of this picturesque triumvirate so often ate his rustic meal. to the south bladud's splendid city, with its towers and stately buildings, backed by the long line of wiltshire hills, and alfred's tower is faintly traced in the clear, grey haze. the little conical hill of englishcombe, where the unfortunate duke of monmouth drew up his army during his rash and fatal enterprise, awoke a thousand recollections, whilst the lovely river flashed occasionally in the noontide sun. to the west are seen newton park, the mendip hills, dundry tower, and the welsh hills, whilst the hazy atmosphere marked the position of another great city, bristol. at the extreme western point, too, are seen the waters of the bristol channel, glittering under the glowing rays of the setting sun, and shining like a vast plateau of burnished gold. after feasting our eyes on this lovely panorama and tracing out well known places, at one moment lost in obscurity from the shadow of a passing cloud and the next moment appearing in the full blaze of sunshine, we retraced our steps towards the path to the tower. we again ascended the hill, and soon reached the sort of tableland on the top, which seems to me to have been once an immense quarry, and no doubt furnished stone in vast quantities for the building of the splendid city at the foot of the eminence. the remains of these quarries are most picturesque. at a little distance they seem to present the wrecks of stately buildings, with rows of broken arches, and vividly recall the idea of roman ruins. i afterwards mentioned my impressions on seeing them to mr. beckford, who replied, "they do indeed put one in mind of the campagna of rome, and are vastly like the ruins of the baths of caracalla." we were now on the brow of the hill, and soon felt the influence of the genial breezes from the bristol channel. we quitted the open down, and passing under a low doorway entered a lovely shrubbery. the walk (composed of small fossils) winds between graceful trees, and is skirted by odoriferous flowers, which we are astonished to find growing in such luxuriance at an elevation of nearly a thousand feet above the vale below. in many places the trees meet, and form a green arcade over your head, whilst patches of mignonette, giant plants of heliotrope, and clusters of geranium perfume the air. we next enter a beautiful kitchen garden, and are presented with a broad and noble straight walk fully ten feet in width and nearly four hundred feet long, between beds of flowers, and on either side beyond fruit trees and vegetables. the garden terminates with a picturesque building, pierced by a lofty archway, through which the walk passes. this garden is about eighty feet wide and about twelve feet below the level of the down, being formed in an old quarry, besides which a lofty wall on either side shelters it. one cannot describe one's sensations of comfort at finding so delicious a spot in so unexpected a place. i said to the gardener, "i understood mr. beckford had planted everything on the down, but you surely found those apple trees here. they are fifty years old." "we found nothing here but an old quarry and a few nettles. those apple trees were great trees when we moved them, and moving them stopped their bearing. they blossom in the spring and look pretty, and that is all master cares about." we left this charming enclosure, passing under the archway before mentioned. and here i must pause a moment and admire the happy idea of placing this pretty building at the end of this cultivated spot. it closes the kitchen garden, and as its front is similar on either side, it harmonizes with the regular garden we have left, as well as with the wilder spot which we next approach. this building forms a complete termination to one of that succession of lovely scenes with which we are presented on our walk to the tower. each scene is totally distinct in character from the others, and yet with matchless taste they are united by some harmonious link, as in the present case. having then passed through the archway of this building, we observed before us a grotto, into which we entered. on the right is a pond of gold and silver fish, which are fed every morning by the hands of the gifted possessor of this charming place. on the opposite side thirty or forty birds assemble at the same time to hail the appearance of st. anthony's devotee, and chirrup a song of gratitude for their morning meal. the grotto is formed under a road, and is so ingeniously contrived that hundreds have walked over it without ever dreaming of the subterranean passage beneath. the grotto-like arch winds underground for perhaps sixty or seventy feet. when coming to its termination we are presented with a flight of rustic steps, which leads us again directly on to the down. looking back you cannot but admire the natural appearance of this work of art. the ground over the grotto is covered with tangled shrubs and brambles. there is nothing formed, nothing apparently artificial, and a young ash springs as if accidentally from between the stones. we pursued our way to the tower by a path of a quarter of a mile on the down, along a walk parallel to the wall of the public road, gently curved to take off the appearance of formality, yet so slightly that you can go on in a straight line. on our right hand venerable bushes of lavender, great plants of rosemary, and large rose trees perfume the air, all growing as if indigenous to the smooth turf. in one place clusters of rare and deeply crimsoned snapdragons, in another patches of aromatic thyme and wild strawberries keep up the charm of the place. as we draw nearer to the tower the ground is laid out in a wilder and more picturesque manner, the walks are more serpentine. we turned a corner, and mr. beckford stood before us, attended by an aged servant, whose hairs have whitened in his employment, and whose skill has laid out these grounds in this beautiful manner. mr. beckford welcomed me in the kindest way, and immediately began pointing out the various curious plants and shrubs. how on this happy spot specimens of the productions of every country in the world unite! shrubs and trees, whose natural climates are as opposite as the antipodes, here flourish in the most astonishing manner. we were shown a rose tree brought from pekin and a fir tree brought from the highest part of the himalaya mountains; many have been brought to this country, but mr. beckford's is the only one that has survived. here are pine trees of every species and variety--a tree that once vegetated at larissa, in greece, italian pines, siberian pines, scotch firs, a lovely specimen of irish yew, and other trees which it is impossible to describe. my astonishment was great at witnessing the size of the trees, and i could scarcely believe my ears when told that the whole of this wood had been raised on the bare down within the last thirteen years. the ground is broken and diversified in the most agreeable manner: here a flight of easy and water worn steps leads to an eminence, whence you have a view of the building and an old ruin overgrown with shrubs, which looks as if it had seen five hundred summers, but in reality no older than the rest of this creation. on ascending the easy though ruined steps of this building, passing under an archway, the view of the tower burst upon us, and a long, straight walk led us directly to the entrance. from this point the view is most imposing. on your right is a continuation of the shrubberies i spoke of, at the end of which is a lovely pine, most beautiful in form and colour, which by hiding some of the lower buildings thus makes a picture of the whole. the effect of the building is grand and stately beyond description. the long line of flat distance and the flatness of the down here come in contact with the perpendicular lines of the tower and lower buildings, producing that strikingly peculiar combination which never fails to produce a grand effect. this is the real secret of claude's seaports. his stately buildings, moles, and tall towers form a right angle with the straight horizon; thus the whole is magnificent. nothing of the sort could be produced in the interior of a country but in a situation like the present. who but a man of extraordinary genius would have thought of rearing in the desert such a structure as this, or creating such an oasis? the colouring of the building reminded me of malta or sicily, a rich mellow hue prevails; the ornaments of the tower are so clean, so distinct, such terseness. the windows, small and few compared with modern buildings, give it the appearance of those early florentine edifices reared when security and defence were as much an object as beauty. from every part of the ground the pile looks grand, the lines producing the most beautiful effect. the windows have iron gratings, which give it an oriental character. we entered, and immediately ascended the tower. a circular staircase was round the wall. the proportion of the interior is beautiful; you see from the bottom to the top. from the apparent size of the three or four loopholes seen from the outside i imagined it would be dark and gloomy from within, but i was agreeably surprised to find the whole extremely light. the balustrade is egyptian in form, and banisters bronze. on reaching the top you find a square apartment containing twelve windows, each a piece of plate glass, the floor covered with red cloth and crimson window curtains. the effect of distance seen through these apertures unobstructed by framework, contrasted with the bronze balustrade without and crimson curtains within, is truly enchanting. we were not happy in the weather. the morning was sunny and promising, but at noon clouds obscured the heavens; therefore we wanted that glow and splendour sunshine never fails to give the landscape. the height is so great that everything looks quite diminutive. the road running in a straight line across the down reminds one of a roman work, and the whole expanse of country surrounding recalls the campagna. two more flights of stairs, most ingeniously contrived and to all appearance hanging on nothing, lead to two other apartments, the top one lighted by glass all round, concealed on the outside by the open ornament that runs round the very top of the cupola. on descending the staircase, the door opening showed us at the end of a small vaulted corridor a beautiful statue by rossi of st. anthony and the infant jesus. at the back, fixed in the wall, is a large slab of red porphyry, circular at the top and surrounded by an elegant inlay of sienna verd, antique border surrounding the whole figure of the saint, and has a most rich effect; it is difficult to believe that the sienna is not gold. the light descending from above gives that fine effect which sets off statues so much. on the left hand of the figure is a picture by pietro perugino, which for centuries was in the cathedral of sienna, having been painted for that building and never removed till mr. beckford (i suppose by making an offer too tempting to be resisted) succeeded in obtaining it. it is the virgin and two pretty boys, admirably drawn, very like raphael, and in as fine preservation as the st. catherine. the execution is masterly, and though not so free as the raphael still it is forcible. the figure of the left hand boy is very graceful, face beautiful and sweetly dimpled. opposite are a francesco mola and a steinwych. the mola is exceedingly fine, the sky and landscape much like mr. beckford's gaspar poussin in colour and execution; the steinwych, interior of a cathedral, one of the most wonderful finished pictures i ever beheld. this picture was painted for an ancestor of mr. beckford's. here there is a little cabinet full of rare and curious manuscripts. we were shown a small bible in ms., including the apocrypha, written 300 years before printing was introduced, and a very curious missal. we then entered a gorgeous room containing pictures and curiosities of immense value. its proportions seem exactly the same as the one on the floor below, and decorations with its furniture pretty similar. the windows in both are in one large plate, and the shutters of plain oak. the colour of curtains and carpet crimson. in these rooms are a portrait of the doge out of the grimaldi palace, purchased by mr. beckford from lord cawdor, who got it out of the palace by an intrigue; this is a splendid portrait; he has on the dalmatica and the phrygian cap worn by the doges on occasions of state, and two lovely polembergs, infinitely finer and more like claude than anything i ever saw; in fact, they were ascribed to claude by the german waagen, architecture grand, foliage light and elegant; the figures are by le soeur. two fine portraits by de vos, wonderfully painted, execution and colouring reminded me of vandyke, particularly the latter, and not unlike the gavertius in the national gallery. then there is a magnificent houdekoeta, the landscape part painted by both most inimitably. a beautiful cabinet designed by bernini, another with sculptured paintings, in the centre the story of adam and eve. two more candlesticks from the alhambra, in shape and execution similar to those at the house; two gold candlesticks after designs by holbein; some curious specimens of china; an asiatic purple glass vase, brought by st. louis from the holy land, which contained at st. denis some holy fragments; a piece of china, the centre of which is ornamented in a style totally different from the generality of china, in eight or ten compartments, and painted in such a manner that the festoon of leaves fall over and hide the fruit most picturesquely; two ivory cups, one in alto, the other in basso relievo; the latter the finer and most charmingly carved; a small group in bronze by john bologna, "dejanira and the centaur," admirably done. here are tables of the rarest marbles, one composed of a block from the himalaya mountains. in one of the windows is a piece of african marble brought to this country for george iv; also a small bath of egyptian porphyry. in the lower room was a vase containing the most lovely flowers, that perfumed the apartment. in this room, from the judicious introduction of scarlet and crimson, you have the effect of sunshine. the ceilings are belted; the interstices painted crimson. it is impossible to give any idea of the splendour of these two rooms, the finishing touch being cabinet looking glasses, introduced most judiciously. we now took leave of mr. beckford. his horses were waiting in the courtyard, with two servants standing respectfully and uncovered at the door, whilst two more held the horses. the stately and magnificent tower, the terrace on which we lingered a few moments, whilst this extraordinary man mounted his horse, all, all conspired to cast a poetical feeling over the parting moment which i shall never forget. i was reminded most forcibly of similar scenes in scott's novels. in particular the ancient tower of tillietudleni was presented to my mind's eye, and i gazed for a moment on this gifted person with a melancholy foreboding that it was for the last time, and experienced an elevation of feeling connected with the scene which it is impossible to describe. such moments are worth whole years of everyday existence. we turned our heads to look once more on a man who must always create the most intense interest, and i repeated those lines of petrarch, introduced by mr. beckford himself in his "italy" on a similar occasion- o ora, o georno, o ultimo momento, o stelle conjurate ad impoverime, &c. i forgot to mention a cluster of heliotrope in blossom on the down, growing in such wild luxuriance that i could not believe it to be my little darling flower. however, on stooping down i soon perceived by its fragrance it was the same plant that i had been accustomed to admire in greenhouses or in small pots. october, 1838. i have had another peep at the tower. the day was auspicious. i ran up the staircase and wonderfully enjoyed the prospect. looking through the middle window towards the west you have a delicious picture. the hills undulate in the most picturesque manner, the motion of the clouds at one moment threw a line of hills into shadow, which were the next minute illumined by the sun, the avon glittering in the sunbeams, the village of weston embedded in the valley, a rich cluster of large trees near the town, variegated by the tints of autumn, united to form a charming picture. the pieces of plate-glass that compose the twelve windows of this beautiful room cannot be less than 5.5ft. high and 18in. wide. on descending i was struck with the lovely effect of the corridor, at the end of which is the statue of st. anthony; on the pedestal (a block of sienna) are engraved in letters of gold these words, "dominus illuminatio mio." the francesco mola (the magdalen in the desert) is a lovely landscape indeed; the rocks and their spirited execution, lightness of the foliage, &c., in the foreground remind one of st. rosa. a cluster of cherubs hovers over the head of mary. in the smaller room on the upper floor is the picture by west of the installation of the knights of the garter. from the contemplation of this picture i entertain a higher opinion of the genius of west than i ever did before. you can scarcely believe it is his painting; there is nothing of his usual hard outline, the shadows are rich, the background soft and mellow, the lights unite sweetly, and it is touched in the free and juicy manner of the sketches of rubens or paolo veronese. it is difficult to believe that this picture is not 200 years old. the head of a child by parmigiano; a large picture by breughel. the enameled glass vase brought to europe by st. louis; this must be of arabian manufacture, for the figures on horseback have turbans. a large cabinet by franks, the panels most highly finished, different passages in the history of adam and eve form small pictural subjects. in the larger room is the cabinet by bernini, inlaid with mosaic work in the most finished manner, surrounded by three brass figures; bellini's two pictures of the doges of venice. over bernini's cabinet a large piece of looking glass is most judiciously introduced. in this and the lower room are two lovely crimson wilton carpets; the ceilings of both are painted purple and red. holbein's candlesticks are really gold! the chasing is elegance itself; an inscription states that they were made in 1800 for the abbey at fonthill. a fine picture of the infant st. john by murillo; a curious one of st. anthony by civoli; an exquisite interior, by steynwich, very small, and being a night effect, the shadows are amazingly rich. in the passage leading to the garden are the two ivory cups by frainingo. one is much better carved than the other; it is copied from an antique vase. the figures are bacchanalian. the effect of this lower room from the vestibule, illumined by the rays of the glorious sun, was more beautiful than anything of the sort i had ever witnessed. nothing can be more happy than the way the colour of this apartment is managed. the walls are covered with scarlet cloth; the curtains on each side of the window being a deep purple produce a striking contrast, the colouring of the ceiling, crimson, purple and gold, is admirable. in one window is a large table formed of a block of egyptian porphyry, on which were flowers in a large vase of ivory; in the other recess, or rather tribune, is the small round himalaya block. over the fireplace is a charming little dietrich, and on either hand a polemberg. on this side of the room the two de vos, two singularly shaped cabinets of oak finely carved; on one is a gold teapot. on the right hand of the door is a simonini: sky and distance admirable, the colouring of two large trees very rich and mellow, one a dark green, the other pale yellow. a picture on the other side of the door by canaletti. on the opposite side of the room a large pastel, ruins of foliage fine but figures lanky. i had not before to-day seen the tower from the road entrance. the effect of the whole building is grand, and improved by the arches which support the terrace. on the left the ground is admirably broken and the foliage rich. november 3rd, 1838. mr. beckford showed me some sketches of st. non's sicily and harbour of malta, forty drawings, given by st. non himself, each bearing the name in pencil; he also showed me a ms. "arabian nights." he studied arabic very deeply in paris, and had a mussulman master. he read to me part of a tale never put into the ordinary edition, translated into english tersely and perspicuously. he is much indebted to arabic ms. for "vathek," and reads arabic to this day. he says lord byron and others are quite mistaken as to the age when he wrote "vathek," not seventeen but twentythree years of age. "sir," says he, "if you want a description of persepolis read 'vathek.'" he laughed heartily at the different sorts of praise bestowed by lord byron on "vathek," equal to rasselas, like mackenzie. lord byron tried many times to get a sight of the eps [?], often intreated the duchess to intercede with her father. he once called with "vathek" in his pocket, which he styled "his gospel." moore's "lallah rookh" has too much western sentimentality for an oriental romance, the common fault of most writers of such stories. beckford prefers moore's melodies, and likes the "loves of angels" least of all. "fudge family" he thinks admirable. speaking of the triumph he achieved in writing as an englishman a work which was supposed for years to be by a frenchman, he said: "oh, my great uncle did more than me. did you never read 'memories of the duke of grammont?' voltaire told me he was entirely indebted to my great uncle for whatever beauty of style he might possess. french is just the same as english to me. he showed me the eps." october 31.--went out and accidentally met mr. beckford speaking in praise of his west, who painted expressly for mr. beckford. i said, "how did you get him to paint it so soft? i suppose you particularly requested him to do so." "oh no. mr. west was a man who would stand no dictation; had i uttered such a thought he would have kicked me out of the house! oh no, that would never have done. the only way to get him to avoid his hard outline would be to entreat him to paint harder. west came one day laughing to me, and said, "all london is in ecstasy beholding the lazarus in sebo deltz, painted they say by m. a. ha! ha! they don't know it is my painting. l., who brought the picture over, came to me in the greatest distress, 'the set is ruined by the salt water; you must try and restore the lazarus.' i was shut up for two days, and painted the lazarus." on my asking if he believed it true, mr. beckford replied, "perfectly true, for i saw it lying on the floor and the figure of lazarus was quite gone." "then you don't value that picture much?" "all the rest is perfect, and i offered 12,000 pounds for that and four more. i saw in the escurial the marriage of isaac and rebecca, now belonging to the duke of wellington. in fact, of all the pictures in the collection there is not more than one in ten that has escaped repainting. the picture given by h. carr i cannot admire, the outline of the hill is so hard. it is just the picture satan would show poor claude, if he has him, which we charitably hope he has not." november 10th, 1838. how poor dear mozart would be frightened (moralised mr. beckford) could he hear some of our modern music! my father was very fond of music, and invited mozart to fonthill. he was eight years old and i was six. it was rather ludicrous one child being the pupil of another. he went to vienna, where he obtained vast celebrity, and wrote to me, saying, "do you remember that march you composed which i kept so long? well, i have just composed a new opera and i have introduced your air." "in what opera?" asked i. "why in the 'nozze di figaro.'" "is it possible, sir, and which then is your air?" "you shall hear it." mr. beckford opened a piano, and immediately began what i thought a sort of march, but soon i recognized "non piu andrai." he struck the notes with energy and force, he sang a few words, and seemed to enter into the music with the greatest enthusiasm; his eye sparkled, and his countenance assumed an expression which i had never noticed before. mr. beckford showed me some very fine original drawings by gaspar poussin, exceedingly delicate. on the back a profile most exquisitely finished, another just begun, and another by his brother in admirable style, sketch of a peacock by houdekoeta. "when i was in portugal," said mr. beckford, "i had as much influence and power as if i had been the king. the prince regent acknowledged me in public as his relation (which indeed i was). i had the privilege of an entrance at all times, and could visit the royal family in ordinary dress. of course, on grand occasions i wore court costume." he showed me a letter from a rich banker in lisbon, a man in great esteem at the palace; another letter from one of the first noblemen in portugal, entreating him to use his influence with the prince regent for the reversion of the decree of confiscation of some nobleman's estate; another from the grand prior of aviz (in french). mr. beckford was treated as a grandee of the first rank in germany; he showed me an autograph of the emperor joseph. voltaire said to him, "je dois tout a votre oncle, count anthony h. the duchess was acknowledged in paris by the bourbon as duchess de chatelrault. on going to court i saw her sitting next the royal family with the duchess, whilst all the court was standing. the duchess has fine taste for the arts, quite as strong a feeling as i have. the duke also is amazingly fond of the arts. the marquis of d. has a spice of my character." the claude looked more blooming and pearly than ever. i observed that i had never seen such a tone in any claude in existence. i know many pictures which had that hue, but they have been so daubed and retouched that they are no longer the same. he showed me the episodes. one begins, "mes malheurs, o caliphe sont encore plus grands que les votres, aussi bien que mes crimes, tu a ete trompe en ecoutant un navis malheureux; mais moi, pour me desobir d'une amitie la plus tendre, je suis precipite dans ce lieu d'horreur." the origin of beckford's "lives of extraordinary painters" was very odd. when he was fifteen years old the housekeeper came to him, and said she wished he would tell her something about the artists who painted his fine pictures, as visitors were always questioning her, and she did not know what to answer. "oh, very well; i'll write down some particulars about them." he instantly composed "lives of extraordinary painters." the housekeeper studied the manuscript attentively, and regaled her astonished visitors with the marvellous incidents it contained; however, finding many were sceptical, she came to her young master and told him people would not believe what she told them. "not believe? ah, that's because it is only in manuscript. then we'll have it printed; they'll believe when they see it in print." he sent the manuscript to a london publisher, and inquired what the expense of printing it would be. the publisher read it with delight, and instantly offered the youthful author 50 pounds for the manuscript. the housekeeper was now able to silence all cavilers by producing the book itself. having left an umbrella in lansdown-crescent, i inquired of the gentleman to whom i am indebted for my introduction to mr. beckford if he thought it would be taking a liberty if i sent in my name when i called for it. "i really don't know what to say" was the answer, "you must do as you think proper. i will only say that for my part i am always looking out for squalls, but i daresay he will be glad to see you." i accordingly determined to make a bold stroke and call on him, remembering the old adage, "quidlibet audendum picturis atque poetis." the weather was most delightful. a wet and cold summer had been succeeded by warm autumnal days, on which the sun shone without a cloud; it was one of those seasons of settled fair so uncommon in our humid country, when after witnessing a golden sunset you might sleep secure he'd rise to-morrow. i therefore called at the great man's house, and found the umbrella in the exact corner in the ante-room where it had been left a fortnight before, and told the porter to announce my name to his master. i waited in anxiety in the hall a few moments. the footman returned, saying his master was engaged, but if i would walk upstairs mr. beckford would come to me. the servant led the way to the duchess drawing room, opened the door, and on my entering he retired, leaving me alone in this gorgeous apartment, wondering what the dickens i did there. you may suppose i was not a little delighted at this mark of confidence, and spent several minutes examining the pictures till the author of "vathek" entered, his countenance beaming with good nature and affability. he extended his hand in the kindest manner, and said he was extremely glad to see me. i instantly declared the purport of my visit, that i had some copies of pictures that were once in his possession, and that it would give me the greatest possible pleasure to show them to him. "i shall be delighted to see them" was the reply, "but for some days i am rather busy; i will come next week." "you have had a visit from the author of 'italy'," i observed; "people say that you like mr. r.'s poem." "oh yes, some passages are very beautiful. he is a man of considerable talent; but who was that person he brought with him? what a delightful man! i suppose it was mr. l." i replied, "i believe they are great friends." "what an awful state the country is in (he observed)! one has scarcely time to think about poetry or painting, or anything else, when our stupid, imbecile government allows public meetings of 150,000 men, where the most inflammatory language is used and the common people are called on to arm, beginning, too, with solemn prayer. their prayer will never succeed. no, no, their solemn prayer is but a solemn mockery. they seemed to have forgotten the name of the only mediator, without whose intercession all prayer is worse than useless. well, well (said mr. beckford), depend upon it we shall have a tremendous outbreak before long. the ground we stand on is trembling, and gives signs of an approaching earthquake. then will come a volcanic eruption; you will have fire, stones, and lava enough. afterwards, when the lava has cooled, there will be an inquiry for works of art. i assure you i expect everything to be swept away." i ventured to differ from him in that opinion, and said i was convinced that whatever political changes might happen, property was perfectly secure. "some reforms," i said, "would take place, and many pensions perhaps be swept away, but such changes would never affect him or his, and after all it was but a matter of pounds, shillings, and pence." "there you are right," he exclaimed. "if anything can save us 'twill be pounds, shillings, and pence," meaning, i suppose, a union of all classes who possessed property, from the pound of the peer to the penny of the plebeian. "but the present times are really very critical. have you time to go through the rooms with me?" he demanded. i replied that nothing would give me greater pleasure. "but perhaps you are going somewhere?" i answered that i was perfectly disengaged. passing along the landing of the stairs he paused before the alderman's portrait, and observed, "had my father's advice been taken we should not now be in danger of starvation." i ventured to say that in those days there was more reciprocal feeling between the poor and the rich than at present; now a-days classes are so divided by artificial barriers that there is little or no sympathy between any. "you are mistaken," he replied. "as long as i remember anything there was always discontent, always heartburning; but at the time of my father's speech dissatisfaction had risen to such a pitch that i assure you these people were on the point of being sent back to the place they came from." (he alluded to the present royal family). mr. beckford opened the door of the great library, and on entering i immediately discovered the cause of my being so much puzzled as to its architecture. there are two doors in this magnificent room; one leads to the duchess drawing room, the other to the landing, and to produce the air of privacy so delightful to a bookworm the latter is covered with imitative books, exactly corresponding with the rest of the library. i remembered on my first entering the room from the staircase, and when the servant had closed the door, there appeared but one entrance, which was that by which we left this noble room, passing thence into the duchess's room. i puzzled my brains in vain to make out the geography of the place, but could make neither top nor tail, and should never have solved the enigma but for this third visit. "i have been to fonthill," he said, "since i saw you. i don't think much of what papworth has done there. i rode thirty-eight miles in one day without getting out of the saddle. that was pretty well, eh?" i thought so indeed for a man in his seventyninth year. * * * * * on the 28th of october, 1844, we left bath determined to examine the once far-famed abbey of fonthill, and to see if its scenery was really as fine as report had represented. the morning was cold and inauspicious, but when we reached warminster the sun burst out through the mists that had obscured him, and the remainder of the day was as genial and mild as if had been may. we procured the aid of a clownish bumpkin to carry our carpet bag, and left warminster on foot. about four miles from that town those barren and interminable downs are reached which seem to cover the greater part of wiltshire. the country is as wild as the mountain scenery of wales, and the contrast between it and the polished city we had left in the morning was truly singular. we took the road to _hindon_, but a worthy old man, of whom we asked particulars, pointed out a pathway, which cut off at least a mile and a half. we followed his direction, and left the high road. mounting the hill by a steep and chalky road we reached a considerable elevation; before us extended a succession of downs, and in the extreme distance a blue hill of singular form, at least nine miles off, was crowned by buildings of very unusual appearance. curiosity as to the place was at its utmost stretch, but our ignorant bumpkin could tell nothing about it. it surely cannot be fonthill was the instant suggestion? impossible. can we see the remains at this distance? we continued our walk for about two miles, without losing sight of this interesting edifice, and at length all doubts were cleared in the certainty that the long wished-for object was absolutely before us. it is impossible to describe the feelings of interest experienced by the sight of these gigantic remains. the eastern transept still rises above the woods, a point, pinnacle, and round tower. descending the hill towards hindon we lost sight of the abbey. a most singular specimen of country life was presented by an old shepherd, of whom we inquired the way. "how far is it to hindon?" "about four miles." "is this the right road?" "yes, you cannot miss it, but i haven't been there these forty years. naa, this is forty years agone save two that i went to hindon: 'twas in 1807." this place, which once sent members to parliament, and which the author of "vathek" himself represented for many years, is not so large as the village of batheaston! there are neither lamps nor pavement, but it possesses a most picturesque little church. it was one of the rotten boroughs swept away, and properly enough, by the reform bill. here our rustic relinquished his burden to a hindon lad, who acted as our future cicerone, and undertook to show us the way to the inn called the beckford arms. soon after leaving hindon the woods of fonthill were reached. we mounted a somewhat steep hill, and here met with a specimen of the gigantic nature of the buildings. a tunnel about 100 feet long passed under the noble terrace, reaching from knoyle to fonthill bishop, at least three miles in length; the tunnel was formed to keep the grounds private. the beech trees, now arrayed in gaudy autumnal tints, seen through this archway have a lovely effect. emerging from the tunnel, the famous wall, seven miles long, was just in front. to the left you trace the terrace, on a charming elevation, leading to fonthill gardens, and here and there you have glimpses of the great lake. the ground is broken and varied in the most picturesque fashion. you pass some cottages that remind you of ryswick, and soon come to the church of fonthill gifford. this church is perfectly unique in form, its architecture purely italian; one would think it was designed by palladio. there is a pretty portico supported by four tall doric columns, and its belfry is a regular cupola. we at last gained the inn, and were shown into a lovely parlour that savoured of the refined taste that once reigned in this happy solitude. it is lofty, spacious, and surrounded by oak panels; it has a charming bow window, where are elegantly represented, in stained glass on distinct shields, the arms of alderman beckford, his wife, and their eccentric son. the evening was most lovely. a soft haze had prevailed the whole afternoon, and as there was still an hour's daylight i determined on instantly visiting the ruins. just without the sacred enclosure that once prevented all intrusion to this mysterious solitude is the lovely little village of fonthill gifford; its charming cottages, with their neat gardens and blooming roses, are a perfect epitome of english rusticity. a padlocked gate admits the visitor within the barrier; a steep road, but gently winding so as to make access easy, leads you to the hill, where once stood "the gem and the wonder of earth." the road is broad and entirely arched by trees. emerging suddenly from their covert an astonishing assemblage of ruins comes into view. before you stands the magnificent eastern transept with its two beautiful octangular towers, still rising to the height of 120 feet, but roofless and desolate; the three stately windows, 60 feet high, as open to the sky as glastonbury abbey; in the rooms once adorned with choicest paintings and rarities trees are growing. oh what a scene of desolation! what the noble poet said of "vathek's" residence in portugal we may now literally say of fonthill. here grown weeds a passage scarce allow to halls deserted, portals gaping wide. fresh lessons, ye thinking bosoms, how vain are the pleasures by earth supplied, swept into wrecks anon by time's ungentle tide. of all desolate scenes there are none so desolate as those which we now see as ruins, and which were lately the abode of splendour and magnificence. ruins that have been such for ages, whose tenants have long since been swept away, recall ideas of persons and times so far back that we have no sympathy with them at all; but if you wish for a sight of all that is melancholy, all that is desolate, visit a modern ruin. we passed through briars and brambles into the great octagon. straight before us stands the western doorway of the noble entrance hall; but where is its oaken roof, with its proud heraldic emblazonments, where its lofty painted windows, where its ponderous doors, more than 30 feet high? the cross still remains above, as if symbolical that religion triumphs over all, and st. anthony still holds out his right hand as if to protect the sylvan and mute inhabitants of these groves that here once found secure shelter from the cruel gun and still more cruel dog. but he is tottering in his niche, and when the wind is high is seen to rock, as if his reign were drawing to a close. of the noble octagon but two sides remain. looking up, but at such an amazing elevation that it makes one's neck ache, still are seen two windows of the four nunneries that adorned its unique and unrivalled circuit. and what is more wonderful than all, the noble organ screen, designed by "vathek" himself, has still survived; its gilded lattices, though exposed for twenty years to the "pelting of the pitiless storm," yet glitter in the last rays of the setting sun. we entered the doorway of the southern entrance hall, that door which once admitted thousands of the curious when fonthill was in its glory. this wing, though not yet in ruins, not yet entirely dismantled, bears evident signs of decay. standing on the marble floor you look up through holes in the ceiling, and discover the once beautifully fretted roof of st. michael's gallery. we entered the brown parlour. this is a really noble room, 52 feet long, with eight windows, painted at the top in the most glorious manner. this room has survived the surrounding desolation, and gives you a slight idea of the former glories of the place. each window consists of four gigantic pieces of plate-glass, and in the midst of red, purple, lilac, and yellow ornaments are painted four elegant figures, designed by the artist, hamilton, of kings and knights, from whom mr. beckford was descended. as there are eight windows there are thirty-two figures, drawn most correctly. what reflections crowd the mind on beholding this once gorgeous room! there stood the sideboard, once groaning beneath the weight of solid gold salvers. in this very room dined frequently the magnificent "vathek" on solid gold, and there, where stood his table, covered with every delicacy to tempt the palate, is now a pool of water, for the roof is insecure, and the rain streams through in torrents. on the right hand is the famous cedar boudoir, whose odoriferous perfume is smelt even here. we entered the fountain court, but sought in vain the stream that was once forced up, at vast expense, from the vale below and trickled over its marble bason. for the stream has shrunk from its marble bed, where the weeds and desolate dust are spread. one would almost imagine byron had written his lines in the "giaour" describing hassan's residence amidst the ruins of fonthill, so striking, so tangible, is the resemblance. he says of the fountains- 'twas sweet of yore to hear it play and chase the sultriness of day, as springing high the silver dew in whirls fantastically flew and flung luxurious coolness round the air, and verdure o'er the ground. 'twas sweet, when cloudless stars were bright, to view the wave of watery light and hear its melody by night. but the shades of evening, now rapidly advancing, warned us to depart while there was yet light enough to trace our path through the gloomy wood. we entered its thick and umbrageous covert, and were near losing our road before we reached the barrier gate. the road was strewed with dry leaves, which reminded me of the earthly hopes of man. he builds too low who builds beneath the skies, and he who wishes for solid happiness must rest on a broader base than that afforded by momentary enjoyment, tempting and blooming as the foliage of summer, but evanescent as its withered leaves. the next morning was finer than our most sanguine wishes could have anticipated. we were not long dispatching our comfortable breakfast, and hastened to the barrier gate. we here met a venerable woman, whose noble features and picturesque dress would have served as a splendid model for gainsborough or ben barker. stopping to inquire a nearer road to the abbey, as she seemed indigenous to the place, i was tempted to ask if she knew mr. beckford. "i have seen him, sir, many, many times; but he is gone, and i trust--i do trust--to rest. he was a good man to the poor, never was there a better." "you astonish me; i had heard that he never gave away anything." "good gracious, sir, who could have invented such lies? there never was a kinder friend to the poor, and when he left they lost a friend indeed. not give away anything! why, sir, in the winter, when snow was on the ground and firing dear, he used to send wagons and wagons for coal to warminster, and make them cut through the snow to fetch it, and gave the poor souls plenty of firing, besides money, blankets, and clothing, too, and as for me i can answer for three halfsovereigns he gave me himself at different times with his own hand." "you surprise me." "i saw him coming once with his servants. i had my baby in my arms--that's she that lives in that cottage yonder, she's grown a woman now--and i was shuffling along to get out of his way, when he called out, 'what a beautiful little babe, let me look at it,' and then he smiled and made as though he would shake hands with the child, and, bless you, he slipped half-a-sovereign into my hand." i confess i was delighted at the little anecdote, and i am sure the good woman's praise was perfectly disinterested. those who know anything of the poor are convinced they never flatter those from whom they can never again derive any benefit. i had almost expected to hear curses, if not loud at least deep. a bailiff resides in the abbey stables, who has charge of the place, but the "steeds are vanished from the stalls." we inquired if we could see the remaining apartments, but found the bailiff was gone to hindon, and had taken the keys with him. here was a difficulty indeed. "perhaps," said his daughter, "you can get into the great tower staircase; i think the door is open." we proceeded thither, but alas! a ponderous door and locked most unequivocally denied all entrance. "perhaps father has left the key in his old coat; i will run and see" said our interesting young cicerone. she scuttled off, and we waited in anxiety, till in five minutes she returned with a large bunch of keys, the passport to the extraordinary apartments still remaining. my joy was as great at hearing the lock turn as was ever "vathek's" when he discovered the indian at the gate of the hall of eblis with his _clef d'or_. the great circular staircase survived the shock of the falling tower. the stairs wind round a massive centre, or newel, three feet in diameter; the ascent is gentle, the stairs at least six feet broad. they form an approach light, elegant, and so lofty that you cannot touch with the hand the stairs above your head. numerous small windows make the staircase perfectly light, and the inside is so clean that it is difficult to believe it is not continually scoured and whitened, but this i was assured was not the case. two hundred and ten steps lead to a leaden roof, the view from which beggars description. you have here a bird's eye view of the lovely estate. majestic trees, hanging woods, and luxuriant plantations cover the ground for two or three miles round, whilst beyond this begin those immense and interminable downs for which wiltshire is so noted; they are dreary and barren enough in themselves, but at such a point as this, where the foreground and middle distance are as verdant and richly clad with trees as can possibly be desired, their effect is very beautiful. the absence of enclosures produces breadth and repose, and the local colour melts gradually into the grey distance in the most charming manner. looking westward the great avenue, a mile in length, presents itself; to the south the beacon-terrace, a green road more than two miles long, leads to a high hill, where the alderman commenced, but never finished, a triangular tower. this road, or rather avenue, has a most charming effect; the trees that bound its sides are planted in a zigzag direction, so as to destroy the appearance of formality, whilst in reality it is a straight road, and you walk at once in a direct line, without losing the time you would if the road were more tortuous. on the south side the view is most fascinating. in a deep hollow not half-amile off, enbosomed, nay almost buried amidst groves of pine and beech, are discovered the dark waters of the bittern lake. the immense plantations of dark pines give it this sombre hue, but in reality the waters are clear as crystal. beyond these groves, still looking south, you discover the woods about wardour castle, and amongst them the silvery gleam of another sheet of water. to the south-west is the giant spire of salisbury, which since the fall of fonthill tower now reigns in solitary stateliness over these vast regions of down and desert. stourton tower presents itself to the north, whilst to the west, in the extreme distance, several high hills are traced which have quite a mountainous character- naveled in the woody hills, and calm as cherished hate, its surface wears a deep, cold, settled aspect nought can shake. the north wing of the abbey, containing the oratory, does not seem to have suffered from the fall of the tower, and we next proceeded to inspect it. a winding staircase from the kitchen court leads you at once to that portion of the gallery called the vaulted corridors. the ceilings of four consecutive rooms are beautiful beyond all expectation. prepared as i was by the engravings in rutter and britton to admire these ceilings, i confess that the real thing was finer than i could possibly have imagined. king edward's ceiling of dark oak (and its ornaments in strong relief) is as fresh as if just painted, and the beautiful cornice round the four walls of this stately gallery is still preserved, with its three gilded mouldings, but the seventy-two emblazoned shields that formed an integral part of the frieze have been ruthlessly torn off. the roof of the vaulted corridor with its gilded belts is the most perfect of the series of rooms, and that of the sanctum is beautifully rich; it is fretted in the most elegant way with long drops, pendants, or hangings like icicles, at least nine inches deep. here alas! the hands of vandals have knocked off the gilded roses and ornaments that were suspended. these three apartments are painted in oak, and gold is most judiciously introduced on prominent parts. but the ceiling of the last compartment is beyond all praise; it gleams as freshly with purple, scarlet, and gold as if painted yesterday. five slender columns expand into and support a gilded reticulation on a dark crimson ground. in the centre of the ceiling is still hanging the dark crimson cord which formerly supported the elegant golden lamp i had formerly admired in lansdown-crescent; it seemed to have been hastily cut down, and its height from the floor and its deep colour, the same as the ceiling, has probably prevented its observation and removal. the southern end of the gallery has been stripped of its floor, and it was with difficulty, and not without danger, i got across a beam; and, standing with my back against the brick wall that has been built up at the end, where were once noble glazed doors opening into the grand octagon, i surveyed the whole lovely perspective; the length from this spot is 120 feet. the beautiful reddish alabaster chimney-piece still remains, but it is split in the centre, whether from the weight of wall or a fruitless attempt to tear it out i know not. the recesses, once adorned with the choicest and rarest books, still retain their sliding shelves, but the whole framework of the windows has been removed, and they are open to the inclemency of the weather, or roughly boarded up. the stove, once of polished steel, is now brown and encrusted with rust as if the iron were 500 years old. it is impossible for an architect or artist to survey the ruthless and wanton destruction of this noble wing, unscathed and uninjured but by the hands of barbarous man, without feelings of the deepest regret and sorrow. how forcibly do the lines of the noble bard recur to the mind on surveying these apartments, still magnificent, yet neglected, and slowly and surely falling into ruin- for many a gilded chamber's here, which solitude might well forbear, within this dome, ere yet decay hath slowly worked her cankering way. i ran up the circular staircase, and entered the noble state bedroom. the enormous plate glasses still remain; the ceiling is of carved oak relieved by gold ornaments. with what emotion did i turn through the narrow gallery, leading to the state room, to the tribune, which looked into the great octagon. a lofty door was at the extremity. i attempted to open it; it yielded to the pressure, and i stood on the very balcony that looked into the octagon. here the whole scene of desolation is surveyed at a glance. how deep were my feelings of regret at the destruction of the loftiest domestic apartment in the world. twenty years ago this glorious place was in all its splendour. high in the air are still seen two round windows that once lighted the highest bedrooms in the world. what an extraordinary idea! on this lofty hill, 120 feet from the ground, were four bedrooms. below these round windows are the windows of two of the chambers called nunneries. landing on this balcony i quickly conjured up a vision of former glory. there were the lofty windows gleaming with purple and gold, producing an atmosphere of harmonious light peculiar to this place, the brilliant sunshine covering everything within its influence with yellow quatrefoils. from that pointed arch once descended draperies 50 feet long! the very framework of these vast windows was covered with gold. there was the lovely gallery opening to the nunneries, through whose arches ceilings were discovered glittering with gold, and walls covered with pictures. exactly opposite was another tribune similar to this; below it the immense doors of st. michael's gallery, whose crimson carpet, thickly strewed with white roses; was seen from this place, whilst far, far above, at an elevation of 130 feet, was seen the lofty dome, its walls pierced with eight tall windows, and even these were painted and their frames gilded. the crimson list to exclude draught still remained on these folding doors, but the lock was torn off! i closed the doors, not without a feeling of sadness, and returning to the small gallery again ran up the lancaster gallery to another noble bedroom. finding the stairs still intact i mounted them, and found a door, which opened on to the roof. we were now on the top of the lancaster tower. though not so extensive as the view from the platform of the great staircase, there is a peep here that is most fascinating; it is the extreme distance seen through the ruined window of the opposite nunnery. the glimpse i had of the bittern lake having sharpened my appetite to see it, i descended the staircase of the lancaster turret, and marching off in a southerly direction hastened towards its shores. but it is so buried in wood that it was not without some difficulty we found it. never in happy england did i see a spot that so forcibly reminded me of switzerland. though formed by art, so happily is it concealed that nature alone appears, and this lovely lake seems to occupy the crater of an extinct volcano. it is much larger than i anticipated. a walk runs all round it; i followed its circuit, and soon had a glorious view of the abbey, standing in solitary stateliness on its wooded hill on the opposite side. the waters were smooth as a mirror, and reflected the ruined building; its lofty towers trembled on the crystal wave, as if they were really rocking and about to share the fate of the giant tower that was once here reflected. we followed the banks of the lake. passing some noble oaks that were dipping their extended boughs in the water, we soon gained the opposite side. here is a labyrinth of exotic plants, a maze of rhododendrons, azaleas, and the productions of warmer climes, growing as if indigenous to the soil. we passed between great walls of rhododendrons, in some places 15 feet high, and reached a seat, from whence you see the whole extent of this lovely sheet of water. what i had seen and admired so much on lansdown was here carried to its utmost perfection; i mean the representation of a southern wilderness. in this spot the formality of gardening is absolutely lost. these enormous exotic plants mingle with the oak, the beech, and the pine, so naturally that they would delight a landscape painter. these dark and solemn groves of fir, contrasting so strikingly with the beech woods, now arrayed in their last gaudiest dress, remind me forcibly of switzerland and the jura mountains, which i saw at this very season. nature at this period is so gaudily clad that we may admire her for her excessive variety of tints, but cannot dare to copy her absolutely. in this sheltered and sequestered spot the oaks, though brown and leafless elsewhere, are still verdant as july. every varied shade of the luxuriant groves--yellow, red, dark, and light green--every shade is reflected in these clear waters. three tall trees on the opposite shore have, however, quite lost their leaves, and their reflection in the wave is so exactly like gothic buildings, that one is apt to imagine you see beneath the waters the fairy palace of the naiads, the guardians of this terrestrial paradise. _the bath comedy_ _by_ _agnes & egerton castle_ _authors of 'the pride of jennico,' &c._ _london macmillan and co., limited 1900_ _all rights reserved_ glasgow: printed at the university press by robert maclehose and co. dedicated to our sister mrs. francis blundell of crosby ("m. e. francis") who, over the ms. of this frivolous drama, was the first to give us the kindly criticism of laughter _contents_ preface scene i. scene ii. scene iii. scene iv. scene v. scene vi. scene vii. scene viii. scene ix. scene x. scene xi. scene xii. scene xiii. scene xiv. scene xv. scene xvi. scene xvii. scene xviii. scene xix. scene xx. scene xxi. scene xxii. scene xxiii. scene xxiv. scene xxv. _preface_ _the royal crescent--_ "_open we here on a spring day fine..._" _the first scene of this bath comedy._ _the precise year, however, may not be given. a sufficient reason for reticence in the matter of exact date will be found in the unfortunate predicament of the then bishop of bath and wells: undoubtedly a most mortifying episode in the life of an invariably dignified divine. now there were several bishops of bath and wells during the second half of the 18th century, and this trifling lack of circumstantiality will do away with the least trace of scandal._ _the second half of the century, however, is admitted. the fact, indeed, would be revealed at once to the curious in the matter, by the mention, on the one hand, of the king's circus (which dates from the last years of second george), and on the other by the reference to bathwick meadows as a solitary site and still fitted at the time to an honourable meeting, whereas it has been known as a place of popular resort (under the name of sydney gardens) since the year 1795._ _a few other points, again (should anyone think worth his while to consider so trifling a question), might serve to fix within a few lustres the date of mrs. kitty bellairs' cantrips as they affected, among other things, lady standish's domestic happiness, mr. o'hara's connubial hopes, and my lord verney's sentimental education._ _it may be noticed, for instance, that the gentlemen wear their swords. that was, as most people know, a distinction strenuously denied them so long as the immortal master of ceremonies, mr. richard nash, reigned as king of bath. now, his autocratic rule came to an end before george the third was king. as another landmark it will be recalled that the notorious and indecorous encounter between richard brinsley sheridan and that unpleasant personage, captain matthews, was the last duel with swords fought in the kingdom: and it was fought in 1772._ _furthermore, our captain spicer (whether veraciously or not) claims to have been a favoured pupil of the famous angelo--and such a perfecting course in the noble art could not have been acquired before the early sixties. then, again, there is still a good deal of powder in our actors' head-dress. the slippers of our actresses are still delicious and high-heeled: the sandal of the nineties has not yet made its dreadful appearance. and the ladies visard, if not so universal as it once had been, is still an accepted institution._ _it will suffice, in short, to say of our characters (if once more we may be allowed to paraphrase some of mr. austin dobson's dainty verses) that_ _they lived in that past georgian day, when men were less inclined to say that "time is gold" and overlay with toil their pleasure...._ _those were, on the whole, rather more joyous times than our own, and more different than the mere lapse of one century seems to account for. the gentlemen then, dressed almost as handsomely, prinked and plumed themselves as elaborately, as the ladies. gallantry in both senses and ready wit were their most precious claim: a fight was considered a full remedy to a slight, a sharp epigram to an injury. heavy drinking was held an indispensable accompaniment to good-fellowship; and love-making was a far suppler art than seems known to this more earnest century--a pastime for "the quality," something on par with the gambling passion. "virtue" not modesty, was woman's fair fame. a forcible abduction would at a pinch be argued as an undeniable compliment. life ran like a dance then, with merry, tapping heels and light-hearted interchange of partner: those old-world days were much younger than ours._ _so much for the times, and for the characters. for scenery we have this gem among prosperous towns. the grey stone city of wealthy, sedate residences, arranged with noble architectural effect in broad straight streets, wide open squares, parades, terraces, crescents; tier upon tier on the slope of a hill down to the water's edge; set serenely in a wooded valley, with much green in perspective beyond the lazy, slowly winding avon._ _indeed, of its kind, bath is unique among the cities of europe: deprived as it is, by modern conditions, of its former social attractions, it is still one of the most beautiful._ _like so many very old towns, it has had a long roman existence; its luxurious baths and other remains testify to its splendour when it was known as aquae solis. it filled, also, an important place in the land as a mediaeval borough, wall-girt and defensible: of that period the abbey church, the "lantern of england" remains a handsome bequest. but, on the surface at least, there is now nothing to recall vividly any older past than the days of periwig, of powder and patches, of "wine and walnut" wit. its characteristic charm, one which, happily, the present age has had little power to efface, is par excellence that of the 18th century; for it was in early and middle georgian years that, with a strange suddenness "the bath" became an accepted centre of fashion and pleasure, and assumed its special physiognomy of leisure, wealth and exclusiveness._ _this old-world air still hangs about the residential part of the town and in a singularly haunting way. in those broad streets, calm and silent and almost deserted at most hours, in those high-windowed houses, typical of stateliness and cold elegance rather than of lolling comfort, the very atmosphere seems to this day redolent of "chippendale" notions. the sordidly plain modern dress of man is painfully incongruous. the rattling cab is a discord. it would be a relief, much more than an astonishment, to note an obvious three-cornered hat, a broad-skirted coat, on one's fellow man, to hear on the flags the regular tramp of chairmen swinging along some dainty charge deliciously powdered and rouged!_ _the course of an hundred and odd years has obliterated some scenes, and modified all to some extent. orange grove has lost, 'tis true, much of its discreet character; and its neighbouring chocolate rooms, so handy to intrigues, are now only memories. the assembly rooms are shorn of all fashion. the new great pump room is not quite a replica of the old, though it has retained its general air--but the crescents, royal and lansdowne, the circus, gay street and queen square, the parades, and the flags of abbey place, are still for us. at certain hours, if we have the mood, we can readily people them again in our mind's eye with notable guests of "the bath" in its great days.... dr. johnson and my lord chesterfield, pops, oliver goldsmith, sheridan, smollett, chatham, gainsborough, fanny burney, according to the fleeting thought--all "faithfuls of the spa"--greatness, literature, art, mere fashion--or, again, shall we say squire bramble, or lydia languish, or sir anthony absolute; or blushing, too ingenuous evelina...?_ _why, the place is alive with suggestion! here a house front, with its carved stone wreaths and urns and bosses, with its pedimented windows or its shell-canopied door (still provided with its long since honorary link-extinguisher) if you look at it enquiringly, seems ready to tell its tale of by-gone life. but, unlike that of so many buildings of a past age, the tale of a house in bath rarely takes the earnest romantic turn: it is irresistibly a "comedy," comedy of intrigue and manners, of fashion and all its consequent frivolity (with perhaps just a little pathos, but never beyond the limits of elegance) comedie à la française mostly. je trompe, tu trompes, nous trompons...!_ _in this guise the first stately building at the western extremity of the royal crescent, its pilasters, its stone steps, curvetting iron-work, clamoured to tell of lady standish's so nearly disastrous experiment on her husband's credulity. the corner house of gay street near george street (opposite the alluring old-book store of mr. meehan--the genial bath antiquary) proclaimed at all the pores of its crumbling stones, as clearly as if the commemorative tablet had duly been erected, that the warm-hearted irishman, the honble. denis o'hara, had dwelt there in the year 17--. there is another house, at the southern corner of queen square, adorned with cupid's heads and cornucopiae, which beyond all manner of doubt in that same year was the "lodging" (fashion spoke of lodgings then!) of the ingenious young widow bellairs. in the same manner the middle building, facing west, of pierrepont's street, one of the most correct in bath, has still all the conscious air of having sheltered once that most excellent young man, lord verney._ _one of the drawbacks of setting down a comedy in narrative form is the necessary curtailing of all descriptive passages and explanatory ethical disquisitions: in such a frame, pen and ink pictures of scenery, and the rendering of atmosphere, are out of place._ _let it therefore be borne in mind that, in this butterfly drama, with the exception of the penultimate scene enacted at the inn in devizes, the scenery is altogether cast in or about the handsome old grey town; in its lofty-ceiled, polished-floored rooms, rather bare; on its broad pavement, clean and trim and as little crowded as any conventional stage. of the rest it must be understood that we are in the midst of what has been extolled as "the bath manner" and that throughout, as was said of another, but world-wide known, bath comedy,_ "_love gilds the scene, and woman guides the plot._" _a. & e. c._ 49 sloane gardens, s.w., _april_, 1900. the bath comedy scene i "what? my sweet lady standish in tears!" mistress kitty bellairs poised her dainty person on one foot and cast a mocking, somewhat contemptuous, yet good-humoured glance at the slim length of sobbing womanhood prone on the gilt-legged, satin-cushioned sofa. "tears," said mistress kitty, twirling round on her heel to look at the set of her new sacque in the mirror and admire its delicate flowered folds, as they caught the shafts of spring sunshine that pierced into the long dim room from the narrow street. "tears, my dear, unless you cry becomingly, which i would have you know not one in the thousand can, are a luxury every self-respecting woman ought to deny herself. now i," said mistress kitty, and tweaked at a powdered curl and turned her head like a bird for a last glimpse at the mirror before sinking into an arm-chair and drawing closer to her afflicted friend, "have not shed a tear since i lost my first lover, and that is--i will not say how many years ago. i was a mightily precocious child! when i say a tear, mind you, 'tis a figure of speech. far be it from me to deny the charm of a pearly drop--just one: enough to gather on the tip of the finger, enough just to suffuse the pathetic eye. oh, that is not only permissible, 'tis to be cultivated. but such weeping as yours--sobs that shake you, tears that drench the handkerchief, redden the eyes, not to speak of the nose--fie! fie! it is clean against all reason. come!" with a sudden gentle change of tone, putting her hand on the abased head, where fair curls luxuriated in all their native sunshine, "what is it all about?" lady standish slowly and languidly drew herself into a sitting posture, and raised a countenance marred out of its delicate beauty by the violent passion of her grief. swimming blue eyes she fixed upon the mistress kitty's plump dimpling face. "alas!" she breathed upon the gust of a sigh that was as wet as an april breeze, and tripped up by a belated sob. "alas! you see in me the most miserable of women. alas! my heart is broken!" here the kerchief, soaked indeed beyond all possible utility, was frantically held to streaming eyes once more. "mercy!" cried the pretty widow, "you could not take on worse if you had the smallpox: you a three-months' wife!" "ah me!" moaned lady standish. "so," said mistress kitty, "he has been a brute again, has he? come, julia, weep on my bosom. what is it now? did he kiss you on the forehead instead of on the lips? or did he say: 'zounds, madam!' when you upset a dish of tea over his waistcoat? or yet did he, could he, the monster!--nay it is not possible, yet men are so--could he have whispered that lady caroline looked--passable last night?" lady standish rose to her feet, crumpled her kerchief in one small hand and faced her friend with tragic passion. "it is useless to blind myself," she said. "cease to gibe at me, pray, mistress bellairs; i must face the truth! my husband loves me no longer. oh! kitty, kitty," dropping from her height of tragedy very quickly and landing on a whimper again, "is it not sad? i have tried, heaven is my witness, to win him back by the tenderest love, by the most pitiful pleading. he has seen me weep and pine. 'rob me of your love,' i have told him, 'and you rob me of life.' and he, he--oh, how shall i tell you! as the days go by he is with me less and less. he walks abroad with others. his evenings he gives to strangers--ay, and half his nights--while i may sob myself to sleep at home. i saw him to-day but for two minutes--'twas half an hour ago. he entered here upon me, looking, ah kitty! as only he can look, the most elegant and beautiful of men. i was singing, piping as a poor bird may to strive and call its mate to the nest. he passed through the room without a word, without a sign; he that used to say 'twas heaven to sit and listen to my voice. 'what!' i exclaimed as he reached the door, 'not a word for poor julia?' kitty, at the sound of that cry, wrung from my heart, he turned and frowned, and said--- (oh, oh, oh.)" "ha!" cried mistress kitty, "what said he?" ("heaven help him," said she aside; "the woman's a fountain.") "he said," sobbed julia, "'mayn't a man even go for a stroll?' oh, had you but heard the cold indifferent tone, you would have understood how it cut me to the heart. i ran to him and laid my hand upon his sleeve, and he said----" again grief overcame her. "well, what said he?" "he said--oh, oh--he said, 'julia don't paw me.'" mistress kitty bellairs, the reigning toast of bath, the prettiest woman, in the estimation of her admirers, in all england, and the wittiest, laughed low to herself, then rose from her chair, took her tall friend by the shoulders, and walked her up to the mirror. "look at yourself," said she, "and look at me." lady standish winced. the contrast between her own dishevelled hair, her marbled swollen countenance, her untidy morning gown, and the blooming perfection of the apparition beside her, was more than she could contemplate. kitty bellairs--as complete in every detail of beauty as a carnation--smiled upon herself sweetly. "my dear," said she, "i have had thirty-seven _declared_ adorers these three years, and never one tired of me yet. poor bellairs," she said with a light sigh, "he had two wives before me, and he was sixty-nine when he died, but he told me with his last breath that 'twas i gave him all the joy he ever knew." lady standish ceased weeping as suddenly as if her tears had been mechanically turned off. she regarded the widow earnestly. "now, child," said mistress bellairs, with all the authority of her twenty-six years, "here we have been four weeks acquainted, and you have more than once done me the honour of saying that you considered me your friend." "'tis so," said lady standish. "then listen to me. there are three great rules to be observed in our dealings with men. the first rule comprises an extraordinary number of minor details, but briefly and comprehensively it runs thus: _never be monotonous_! second rule: _never let a man be too sure of you_! oh that is a wonderful wise maxim: reflect upon it. third: _never, never let a man see how--well, how far from lovely you can look_! tush, tush, you are a better-looking woman than i am, but not when you have been blubbering and not when you are fretful." lady standish suddenly sat down as if her limbs could support her no more. she looked up at the ceiling with tear-dimmed eyes. "pray," said mistress kitty inquisitorially _ex cathedra_, "how many times a day do you tell that unfortunate man that you love him? and, worse still, how many times a day do you want him to say that he loves you? i vow 'tis enough to drive him to cards, or wine, or something infinitely worse that also begins with a w! and, pray, if you spend all you have, and empty your purse, do you think your purse becomes a very valuable possession? 'tis a mere bit of leather. nay, nay, keep your gold, and give it out piece by piece, and do not give it at all unless you get good change for it. oh," cried kitty, a fine flush of indignation rising scarlet behind her rouge, "i marvel that women should be such fools!--to act the handmaid where they should ever rule as mistress; to cast forth unsought what they should dole out only to the supplicant on bended knee. hath a man ever had from _me_ an unsolicited avowal? have i ever thrown the most ardent lover more than a 'perhaps' and 'it may be,' a smile, a dimple, a finger-tip? (what they have stolen i have not given, that is obvious! and, besides, 'tis neither here nor there.) and pray, lady standish, since when have you left off putting on rouge and having your hair tired and powdered, and wearing a decent gown of mornings and a modish sacque, and a heel to that pretty foot, a jewel in the ear and a patch beneath the lip?" lady standish had ceased contemplating the ceiling; she was looking at her friend. "but, madam," she said, "this is strange advice. would you have me coquette with my husband, as if--god forgive me for even saying such a thing--as if i were not wife, but mistress?" "la, you there," said mistress bellairs, and clapped her hands, "there is the whole murder out! you are the man's lawful, honest wife, and therefore all tedium and homeliness, all fretful brow and tearful eye. god save us! who shall blame him if he seek a pleasant glint of vice to change him of you?" there fell a silence. lady standish rose indignant, grew red, grew pale, caught a glimpse of herself again in the mirror, shrank from the sight, and crept back to the sofa with a humble and convicted air. then she cast a look of anguished pleading at mistress bellairs's bright unfeeling countenance. "tell me," she said with a parched lip, "what shall i do?" "do!" cried the widow, rising with a brisk laugh, "get some powder into your hair, and some colour into those cheeks! and when sir jasper returns (he left you in tears, he will be sullen when he comes home; 'tis a mere matter of self-defence) let him find you gay, _distraite_; say a sharp thing or two if you can; tell him you do not need his company this afternoon. ah, and if you could make him jealous! 'tis a very, very old trick, but then, you see, love is a very old game, the oldest of all. make him jealous, my dear, make him jealous and you'll win the rubber yet!" "jealous!" cried the three-months' wife, and all the blood of the innocent country girl leapt to her brow. "oh, madam, how could that be?" "look out a beau, nay, two or three, 'tis safer! talk discreetly with them in the pump-room, let them fan you at the ball, let them meet you in orange-grove. or, if you have not spirit enough--and indeed, my sweet life, you sadly lack spirit--start but an imaginary one, merely for the use of your lord and master: i wager you he will rise to the fly." "i am afraid sir jasper could be _very_ jealous," said the other uneasily. "i remember before we were wed, when my cousin harry would ride with me to the meet, oh, how angry sir jasper was! he swore he would shoot himself, ay, and he was all for shooting harry too." "but he was not the less ardent with you on the score of it, i'll warrant him," said the experienced mistress bellairs. "ah, no," said lady standish, and her lip trembled over a smile, while the ready water sprang to her eyelashes, and: "ah, no!" she said again. "indeed, he loved me then very ardently." "and he'll love you so still if you have but a spark of courage. get you to your room," said the widow, goodhumouredly, "bustle up and play your part. where is that woman of yours?" she pushed lady standish before her as she spoke, herself rang the call-bell for the tire-woman, and gave a few pregnant suggestions to that worthy, who advanced all sour smiles and disapproving dips. then she strolled back into the drawing-room and paused a moment as she slipped on her long gloves. next she drew a letter from her pocket and began to read it with a thoughtful brow. "no, no, sir jasper," she said half aloud, "you're a fine gentleman, and a pretty fellow, you have a neat leg, and an eloquent turn of speech, but i will not have the child's heart broken for the amusement of an idle day." she took the letter between each little forefinger and thumb as if to tear it, thought better of it, folded it again and thrust it back into its place of concealment. presently she smiled to herself, and walked out of the long open window across the little strip of garden, and so through the iron gate into the shady back street. scene ii sir jasper standish halted on the flags of the royal crescent in front of his own door and his face darkened. he took a pinch of snuff. "now! i shall find my lady in tears. what a strange world it is! the girl you woo is as merry as a may day: the wife you wed is like naught but early november. equinoctial gales and water enough to drown the best spirits that ever were stilled. 'tis a damp life," said sir jasper, "and a depressing." he sighed as the door was thrown open by the footman, and crossed the hall into the morning-room, where he had left his lady weeping. he beheld a flowered brocade, a very shapely back, and a crisp powdered head outlined against the window, and thought he had come upon a visitor unawares. "i crave ten thousand pardons," quoth he, and swept from his gallant head his knowing three-cornered hat. but slowly the figure at the window turned and he saw his wife's eyes strangely brilliant over two pink cheeks, beneath the snow of her up-piled hair. "julia!" said he in amaze, and stared and stared again. ("and did i doubt my own taste?" thought he to himself. "why, she is the prettiest woman in bath!") "expecting visitors, julia?" he smiled as he spoke: in another minute that arm, shining pearl-like from the hanging lace of her sleeve, would be round his neck, and those lips (how red they were, and what a curve!) would be upon his. well, a loving woman had her uses. "no," said lady standish to his query. she dropped the word with a faintly scornful smile, and a dimple came and went at the corner of her lip. there was a patch just above the dimple. then she turned away and looked forth into the still, solemn, grey and green crescent as before. sir jasper stood bewildered. then he put his hat upon a table and came up to his wife and placed his arm round her waist. "my sweet life," said he, "your gown is vastly becoming." "sir jasper," said lady standish, "you do me proud." she slipped from his embrace, sketched a curtesy, and moved to the next window. sir jasper passed his hand across his brow. that was julia, julia his wife, sure enough; and yet, faith, it was a woman he did not know! "you are mightily interested in the crescent," said he, with some humour. my lady shrugged her shoulders. "i believe you were vexed with me this morning, love," said he. "i, vexed?" said she. "nay, why should i be vexed?" and then she tapped her foot and looked at the clock. "these servants grow monstrous unpunctual," she said; "are we not to dine to-day?" he glanced down at the tapping shoe, its little pointing toe and curving heel. 'twas a smart shoe, and boasted a diamond buckle in a knot of rose-coloured ribbon. "egad!" said he, "i doubt if there is another foot in bath that could slip into that case." and sir jasper was a connoisseur! his opinion of himself, his faith in his own discrimination (which had waned sadly these last days) began to rise again, not disagreeably. he smirked. my lady standish, who, after a way that only women can practise, seemed absorbed in the contemplation of the empty crescent the while she was intent upon each shade of expression upon her husband's countenance, felt a sudden glow of confidence in her own powers that she had never known before. the game she had started with a beating heart and a dry throat began to have a certain charm of its own. was it so easy really? was a man so lightly swayed? there was contempt in the thought, and yet pleasure. was all a woman's loving heart to count for so little, and a pretty gown, a new shoe, a coquettish manner for so much? ah, there was bitterness in that! but yet the immediate result of this new method: that look in his eye, that softening of his lip, it was too sweet to be forborne. kitty was right! sir jasper took her hand. "it wants," said he, "full half-an-hour to dinner-time, love. nay, do not draw your hand away. you are vexed with me? i left you weeping, 'twas unkind." "weeping?" said julia, and her heart fluttered to her throat, so that she could hardly speak, and kitty's maxims kept dancing before her eyes as if written in letters of fire. "make him jealous--oh, if you make him jealous you will win the rubber yet!" "if i wept," said she, "must my tears have been for you?" "how now?" said sir jasper, and dropped the little hand that struggled so gently yet determinedly to be free. "oh, dear me," said lady standish, "how droll you men are!" she shrugged her shoulders and laughed affectedly. like all budding actresses she over-did the part. but sir jasper was too much stirred, too much bewildered to be critical. moreover his armour was not without vulnerable joints, and with a wanton word she had found one at the first pass. "how now?" said he. "madam, and what might that mean?" lady standish trilled the bar of a song, and again directed her attention to the view. "julia," said her husband in a deep voice. "julia," he repeated with a threatening growl of passion. "sir?" she said, and tilted her little head. "who then were your tears for, if they were not for me? what signify these manners? what do these insinuations mean? by jupiter, i will have the truth!" his face flushed, the veins on his temples swelled, his nostrils became dilated. lady standish lifted the hanging lace of her sleeve with one hand and examined it minutely. "i would rather," she said, and her voice shook, "i would rather you did not question me, sir jasper." then she flashed upon him in anger, swift and lovely, as he had never seen her flash before. "you go your own way free enough," she said. "these last three weeks you have not spent one evening in my company, and half your days are given to others of whom i know nothing, oh, i am not complaining, sir! i did complain, but that is over. i was wrong, for i see adversities have their advantages." here she smiled. (had the man but known how near she was to tears!) "your neglect leaves me free." "free!" cried sir jasper, and choked. "free! good heavens, free! what in the name of god do you mean? free, madam?" "sir jasper," said lady standish, looking at him very earnestly, "you will never hear me ask again whose society it is you find so much more attractive than your wife's." "indeed," cried sir jasper, and hesitated upon a gust of anger, at a loss in which direction to drive it forth. "no," said my lady, "and i expect the same good taste from you. 'tis not too much to ask. indeed you should rejoice if i have found consolation for your absence." he broke out with a fearful oath, and almost leaped upon her. "consolation!" he plunged his hands into his powdered hair, and quivered into silence for the very impotence of words. "i said 'if,'" said she. she was surprised to find how readily the words came to her; and yet her hands were clammy with fright, and her breath ran short between her rouged lips. "let us leave it at the 'if.'" she turned to the window and leant against it, drew her kerchief and fanned herself. passing along the railings opposite the crescent, not twelve yards distant, a tall, slender young gentleman of attractive appearance, though very dark in complexion, caught sight of her lovely glowing face, stared first in unconscious admiration, then with recognition, and finally, blushing swarthily, saluted with some appearance of agitation. lady standish, aware that her husband had approached close behind her, and hearing in every creak of his satin coat the flattering emotion of his senses, felt herself driven more and more by the unknown demon of mischief that had taken possession of her. she fluttered her little handkerchief back at the young gentleman with a gesture that almost indicated the wafting of a kiss. "death and damnation," cried sir jasper, "before my very eyes!" he seized her by the wrist and flung her down upon the settee. "nay," he cried, "there may be husbands that would put up with this, but i am not of them. so that is the consoler! that is the beau for whom you prink yourself with such fine feathers, whom you lie in wait for at the window to make signals to and smirk at! oh, my innocent country daisy! faugh! i might have known you were too fond--hypocrite!" he dashed at the window and burst its fastenings. "hey! you, you my lord verney, a word with you!" sir jasper was already foaming at the mouth. the slim gentleman paused, surprised. "oh, heavens!" cried lady standish, "what have i done? sir jasper! my husband!" she threw herself upon him. "sir jasper, what do you suspect? oh, heavens!" she was half fainting and scarce could articulate a coherent word. "it was all to tease you. it was but the sport of an idle moment. oh, i implore you, believe me, believe me!" "ay, deny!" cried he. "deny what i have seen with my own eyes! let me go, madam." he thrust her aside, and, bareheaded, dashed down the stairs and out of the house towards lord verney, who, with a bashful, yet a pleasant smile, began to retrace his steps. "'tis a fair day, sir jasper," said he courteously, and then became aware of sir jasper's convulsed face, and noted that lady standish, whom but a moment before he had beheld all smiling beauty, now clung despairingly to the window-post, her countenance ghastly behind her rouge. lord verney was a shy young man. "ah--ah, good morning," said he, bowed politely, and turned with celerity. sir jasper flung a look of infinite derision and contempt towards his wife. "you have chosen," it seemed to say, "a pretty hare!" then he arrested the slim swift figure with an aggressive shout: "stand--stand, lord verney--lord verney--a word with you." the youth stopped, wheeled round, and: "i am at your service," said he. a certain pallor had replaced the ingenuous young blushes upon his cheek, but into his eye there sprang a fine spark of spirit. sir jasper marched upon him and only halted when his six feet of sinewy bulk were within a yard of the stripling's willowy shape. his hot red-brown eyes shot fire and fury, death and annihilation upon the innocent young peer. his full lips endeavoured to sneer, but rage distorted them to a grimace through which his white teeth shone forth ferociously. "come, come, we understand each other," said he; "will you walk with me? there is no time like the present and a couple of friends are easy to come by." "'tis vastly well," said lord verney with an attempt at dignity that betrayed the boy in every line of him. then all at once colour flushed into his face again, and his rigid demeanour was broken up. "come, devil take it all, sir jasper," said he, "and what is it about?" sir jasper threw bloodshot eyes upwards. "this fellow," quoth he, appealing to heaven--"oh! this pretty fellow! you want reasons, my lord verney?" lord verney blushed and stammered. gad, he'd like to know what he had done. he was at sir jasper's disposition, of course, but before drawing swords on a man---sir jasper uttered a sound which was between a groan and a roar. he indicated with sweeping gesture the figure of lady standish strained in anguish watching, clinging still to the window-post. then he hissed: "i know!" "sir jasper!" "i know, i tell you," repeated sir jasper, "let that suffice." "good heavens," gasped lord verney, "here is some most grievous mistake. do you mean, sir--am i to understand, sir jasper--? 'tis monstrous." white dismay and crimson confusion chased each other across his candid brow. "surely you do not mean me to understand that lady standish has any connection with this extraordinary scene?" sir jasper's trembling hand was furiously uplifted, then blindly sought his sword hilt, and then dropped in impotent disgust at his side. "my lord," said he, "lady standish is the pearl of womanhood, i would have you know it! there never breathed a female more virtuously attached to her husband and her duty--i would have you know it!" his face was quite horrible to look at in its withering sarcasm. "my quarrel with you, sir, is--" he paused and cast a roving eye upon the young gentleman, who now began to show unequivocal signs of fear. a jealous husband, a contingency that may have to be met any day--but a raving maniac! ... "'tis the shape of your leg that mispleases me, sir. you have a vile calf, i cannot endure that so offensive an outline should pass and repass my windows." "i understand, sir jasper, yes, yes," said lord verney soothingly, backing as he spoke and casting nervous eyes round the empty street. "and so, good-morning." he bowed and turned. "rat!" cried sir jasper, and shot forth a clutching hand. "i will bear it in mind," cried lord verney. "good-morning, good-morning!" he was fleeing away on a swift foot. "rat! rat!" screamed the enraged baronet, starting in pursuit. but his passion made him clumsy. he stumbled, lurched, struck his foot against a stone, fell upon his knee and rose in another mood: one of darkling sullen determination for revenge. lord verney was a timid young man. had it been with anyone else that this scene in the royal crescent had taken place all bath would have known within the hour that sir jasper standish had been seized with sudden lunacy. but lord verney was of those who turn a word over three times before they speak and then say something else. moreover, he was not sure that he himself had cut a brilliant figure in the amazing duologue, so he held his tongue upon it. as the day grew, however, he began to have a curious recollection of lady standish's lovely smiling greeting and of that little gesture with the white handkerchief, which had almost seemed like the blowing of a kiss (here his very ears would grow hot), then of sir jasper's inexplicable wrath, and of the stricken figure by the window! could it be? twas impossible! nay, but such things had been. when the dusk fell he made up his mind and sought the counsels of that fashionable friend who was kind enough to pilot his inexperience through the first shoals and rocks of bath life. this gentleman's name was spicer. he called himself captain: of what regiment no one knew. scene iii sir jasper came striding back to the house. in the morning-room he passed his wife without a word. "sir jasper," quoth she, and shot out a timid hand. "oh, sir jasper, will you not listen to me? this is the most terrible mistake. sir jasper, i swear i am true to you, not only in deed but in every inmost thought." "do not swear, madam," said he, and shut the door in her face. ten minutes later he sallied forth again. she heard his steps ring out: they sounded very desperate. she sat on the pink-striped settee in a misery too deep this time for tears. how puerile, how far away, seemed the morning's storm. she sat with her hands locked and her eyes starting, revolving terrible possibilities, and fruitless plans for preventing them. dinner was served in vain. her ladyship's woman brought her a dish of tea. this poor julia drank, for she felt faint and weary. then a sudden thought struck her. "'tis mistress bellairs who made the mischief," she thought, "now she must mend it." she dashed off a despairing note to the lady and dispatched her black page with all possible celerity. "i have followed your advice, to my undoing. you told me to make sir jasper jealous; i tried to make him jealous, and succeeded far too well. he fancies there is something between me and lord verney. poor young man, i have spoken to him but three times in my life! there will be a duel and they will both be killed. come to me, dear mistress bellairs, and see what is to be done, for i am half dead with fear and anguish." the dusk was falling when, with incredible celerity, the sedan-chair of mistress bellairs rounded the corner at a swinging pace; her bell-like voice might be heard from within rating the chairmen with no gentle tone for their sluggishness. "'tis snails ye are--snails, not men. la! is there one of you that is not a great-grandfather? it is not, i would have you know, a coffin that you are carrying, but a chair. oh, gad, deliver me from such lazy scoundrels!" in a storm she burst open the door; in a whirlwind tore through the passage. lady standish's obsequious footmen she flounced upon one side. into that afflicted lady's presence she burst with undiminished vigour. "so," said she, "these are fine goings on! and why lord verney, may i inquire?" "oh, mistress bellairs," ejaculated her friend, with a wail, "'tis indeed terrible. think of sir jasper's danger, and all because of my folly in listening to your pernicious advice." "my advice!" cried mistress kitty. "my advice--this is pretty hearing! here, where is that woman of yours, and where are those stuffed owls you keep in the hall. what is the use of them if they do not do their business? light up, light up--who can speak in the dark?" she ran from one door to another calling. "oh, dear," sighed lady standish, and leant her distraught head against the cushions. "come, come," cried mistress bellairs, heedless of the presence of footmen with tapers, and lady's-maid with twinkling curl paper. "sit up this minute, julia, and tell me the whole from the beginning. it is no use your trying to extenuate, for i will know all that has happened." but before her friend, whose back was beginning to stiffen under this treatment, had had time to collect her thoughts sufficiently for a dignified reply, mistress kitty herself proceeded with great volubility: "and so, madam, not content with having a new young husband of your own, you must fix upon lord verney for your manoeuvres. why, he has never so much as blinked the same side of the room as you. why, it was but yester-night he vowed he hardly knew if you were tall or short. put that out of your head, my lady standish, lord verney is not for you. oh, these country girls!" lady standish rose, quivering with rage. "be silent, madam," she said, "your words have neither sense nor truth. i was ill-advised enough to listen to your unwomanly counsels. i tried to deceive my husband, and god has punished me." "ah," said mrs. kitty, "deceit is a very grievous sin. i wonder at you, that you must fix upon lord verney. oh, julia!" here her voice grew melting and her large brown eyes suffused. "you had all bath," she said, "and you must fix upon lord verney. the one man i thought ... the one man i could have.... oh, how did you dare? nay! it is a blind," she cried, flaming again into indignation and catching her friend by the wrist. "there was more in your game than you pretend, you sly and silken hypocrite! if he is killed, how will you feel then?" "oh," exclaimed lady standish, "cruel woman! is this your help? sir jasper killed!" "sir jasper? sir fiddle!" cried mistress kitty, with a fine scorn. "who cares for sir jasper? 'tis my harry i think of. oh, oh!" cried the widow, and burst into tears. lady standish stood confounded. "what!" cried she, "_you_ love lord verney?" "'tis the only man of them," sobbed kitty, "who does not pester me with his devotion--the only one who does not come to my call like a lap-dog. if i look at him he blushes for bashfulness, and not for love; if his hand shakes it is because he is so sweetly timid, not because my touch thrills him. i had set my heart," said mistress kitty through her clenched teeth--"i had set my heart upon lord verney, and now you must needs have him ki--ki--killed before i have even had time to make him see the colour of my eyes." "oh, oh!" sighed julia standish, still beyond tears. and: "oh!" sobbed kitty bellairs, quite forgetful of red noses and swollen lids. there was a silence broken only by the sobs of the widow and the sighs of the wife. then said mistress kitty, in a small, strangled voice: "let this be a lesson to you never to deceive." "i never told a single lie before," moaned lady standish. "ah!" said kitty, "there never was a single lie, madam. a lie is wed as soon as born, and its progeny exceeds that of abraham." the two women rose from their despairing postures, and, mutually pushed by the same impulse, approached each other. "what is to be done now?" said lady standish. "what is to be done?" said mistress bellairs. "let us seek sir jasper," said his wife, "and tell him the whole truth." kitty, through wet eyelashes, shot a glance of withering scorn upon her friend. "ay," she said sarcastically, "that would be useful truly. why, child, let you and me but go and swear your innocence to sir jasper, and it will be enough to establish you steeped in guilt in the eyes of every sensible person for the rest of your life. no," said she, "better must be thought of than that. we must act midwife to the lie and start the little family as soon as possible." "i will lie no more," said lady standish. "i am told," said mistress kitty musingly, "that lord verney has learned swordsmanship abroad." "oh, cruel!" moaned the other. mistress kitty paused, bit a taper finger, scratched an arch eyebrow, drew white brows together, pondered deeply. suddenly her dimples peeped again. "i have it!" said she. "'tis as easy as can be. will you leave it to me?" lady standish began to tremble. she had wept much, she had not eaten, her heart was full of terror. faintness she felt creep upon her. "what will you do?" she said, grasping after the vanishing powers of reflection with all her failing strength. "do?" said mistress bellairs. "first of all, prevent the duel. will that serve you?" "oh, yes," cried julia, and grew livid behind her paint. "she has got the vapours again," thought the other. "what a poor weak fool it is!" but these vapours came in handy to her plans; she was not keen to restore lady standish too promptly. she called her woman, however, and helped her to convey the sufferer to her room and lay her on the couch; then she advised _sal volatile_ and sleep. "leave it all to me," she murmured into the little ear uppermost upon the pillow; "i will save you." lady standish groped for her friend's hand with her own that was cold and shaking. the ladies exchanged a clasp of confidence, and mistress bellairs tripped down to the drawing-room. "now," said she to herself, "let us see." sudden inspiration sparkled in her eye. she plunged her hand into the depth of the brocade pocket dangling at her side, drew forth sundry letters, and began to select with pursed lips. there was sir jasper's own. those gallant well-turned lines, that might mean all or nothing, as a woman might choose to take them--that was of no use for the present. back it went into the brocade pocket. there was a scrawl from harry verney declining her invitation to a breakfast party because he had promised (with two "m's") my lord scroop to shoot (with a "u" and an "e"). kitty bellairs looked at it very tenderly, folded it with a loving touch, and replaced it in its nest. here was a large folded sheet, unaddressed, filled inside with bold black writing. a crisp auburn curl was fastened across the sheet by an emerald-headed pin. "most cruel, most beautiful, most kind!" ran the ardent lines, "most desired, most beloved! was it last night or a hundred years ago that we met? this is the lock of hair the loveliest hand in all the world deigned to caress. it became upon that moment far too precious a thing for its poor owner. he ventures, therefore, to offer it at the shrine of the goddess who consecrated it. will she cast it from her? or will she keep it and let it speak to her, every hair a tongue, of the burning flame of love that she has kindled in this mortal breast? did i dream, or can it be true?--there was a patch above the dimple at the corner of your lip. i kissed it. oh, it must have been a dream! one word, fairest:--when may i dream again? "your own and ever your own. "p.s.--the lock was white before you touched it, but you see you have turned it to fire!" mistress kitty read and smiled. "the very thing!" then she paused. "but has the woman a dimple?" said she. "has she? never mind, something must be risked. now, if i know men, sir jasper will spend the whole night prowling about, trying to discover confirmation of his suspicions." the letter was folded up. "it must seem as if it dropped from my lady's bosom. here, at the foot of the sofa, just peeping from behind the foot-stool! a jealous eye cannot miss it!" the deed was done. she caught up her cloak and hood, glanced cheerfully round the room, satisfied herself that the letter showed itself sufficiently in the candle light to attract a roving eye and, bustling forth, summoned her chair for her departure in a far better humour than that which had marked her arrival. "they could not fight till morning," she said to herself, as she snuggled against the silken sides. "now heaven speed my plan!" she breathed a pious prayer as her bearers swung her onwards. scene iv for the first time for over a fortnight sir jasper returned to the very fine mansion he had taken for the bath season, before the small hours. it was about ten o'clock of the evening that his impatient hand upon the knocker sent thunder through the house, startled the gambling footmen in the hall below and the fat butler from his comfortable nook at the housekeeper's fireside and his fragrant glass of punch. the nerves of the elder footman were indeed so shaken that he dropped an ace from his wide cuff as he swung back the door. breathing hot lemon peel, the butler hurried to receive his master's cloak and cane. the ribbons of mistress tremlet's cap quivered over the staircase: the whole household was agog with curiosity, for her ladyship's woman had told them to a tear the state of her ladyship's feelings. sir jasper cursed freely as he entered, struck the younger footman with his cane over the calves for gaping, requested a just creator to dispose of his butler's soul with all possible celerity, and himself obligingly suggested the particular temperature most suitable to it; then strode he to the drawing-room with the brief announcement that he expected the visit of some gentlemen. he looked round scowlingly for his wife. the room was empty and desolate in spite of bright chandeliers. he paused with a frowning brow, stood a moment irresolute, then shaped his course for the stairs and mounted with determined foot. in my lady's dressing-room, by one dismal candle, sat her woman, reading a book of sermons. she had a long pink face, had been her ladyship's mother's own attendant; and much sir jasper hated her. she rose bristling, dropped him a curtesy eloquent of a sense of his reprobation; and he felt that with every line of the homily she laid by on his appearance she had just damned him as comfortably as he the butler. oh, lud, lud! (thus she prayed sir jasper in a frightful whisper) would he in mercy walk softer? my lady was asleep. her ladyship had been so unwell, so indisposed, that she, megrim, had seen the moment when she must send for the apothecary, and have sir jasper looked for all over bath. sir jasper did not seem to realise it, but my lady was of a delicate complexion: a tender flower! a harsh look from sir jasper, an unkind word, much less cruel treatment, and she would slip through his fingers. ay, that she would. sir jasper cast a lowering suspicious look around. he glared at the woman, at the corners of the room, at the closed door. he felt his hot jealousy sicken and turn green and yellow within him. he stretched out his hand towards the lock of his wife's door; but mistress megrim came between him and his purpose with determined movement, her stout bust creaking in its tight stays. "no," said she, "no, sir jasper, unless it be across my dead corpse!" here she trembled very much and grew red about the eyes and nose. "pshaw!" said sir jasper, and walked away down the stairs again and into the empty, lighted drawing-room. first he halted by the window, where lady standish had stood and smiled upon lord verney. then he went to her writing-desk, and laid his hand upon the casket where she kept her correspondence, then withdrawing it with a murmured curse, turned to the chair where she sat, and lifted up her bag of silks. but this he tossed from him without drawing the strings. another moment and his eye caught the gleam of the letter so artfully hidden and exposed by mistress bellairs. he picked it up and surveyed it; it bore no address, was vaguely perfumed and fell temptingly open to his hand. he spread the sheet and saw the ruddy curl. then his eyes read in spite of himself. and as he read the blood rushed to his brain and turned him giddy, and he sank on the settee and tore at the ruffles at his neck. for a moment he suffocated. with recovered breath came a fury as voluptuous as a rapture. he brought the paper to the light and examined the love-lock. "red!" said he, "red!" he thought of lord verney's olive face, and looked and glared at the hair again as if he disbelieved his senses. red! were there two of them, a black and a ruddy? stay; oh! women were sly devils! lord verney was a blind. this, _this_ carrot judas was the consoler! "there was a patch above the dimple at the corner of your lip. i dreamed i kissed it." sir jasper gave a sort of roar in his soul, which issued from his lips in a broken groan. the dimple and the patch! ay, he had seen them! only a few short hours ago he had thought to kiss that dimple with a husband's lordly pleasure, that dimple, set for another man! "blast them! blast them!" cried sir jasper and clenched his hands above his head. the world went round with him, and everything turned the colour of blood. the next instant he was cold again, chiding himself for his passion. he must be calm, calm, for his vengeance. this lock he must trace to its parent head, no later than to-night, if he had to scour the town. he sat down, stretched the fatal missive before him, and sat staring at it. it was thus that a visitor, who was announced as captain spicer, presently found him. captain spicer was an elongated young gentleman, had a tendency to visual obliquity and was attired in the extreme of fashion. he minced forward, bowing and waving white hands with delicately crooked fingers. his respects he presented to sir jasper. he had not up to this had the pleasure and honour of sir jasper's acquaintance, but was charmed of the opportunity--any opportunity which should afford him that pleasure and honour. might he, might he? he extended a snuff-box, charmingly enamelled, and quivered it towards his host. sir jasper had risen stiffly, in his dull eye there was no response. "you do not, then?" said captain spicer, himself extracting a pinch and inhaling it with superlative elegance and the very last turn of the wrist. "and right, my dear sir! a vicious habit. yet positively," said he, and smiled engagingly, "without it, i vow, i could not exist from noon to midnight. but then it must be pure macabaw. anything short of pure macabaw, fie, fie!" sir jasper shook himself and interrupted with a snarl: "to what, sir, do i owe the honour?" "i come," said captain spicer, "of course you have guessed, from my lord verney. there was a trifle, i believe about--ha--the shape of his nether limbs. upon so private a matter, sir, as his, ahem, nether limbs, a gentleman cannot brook reflection. you will comprehend that my lord verney felt hurt, sir jasper, hurt! i myself, familiar as i am with his lordship, have never ventured to hint to him even the name of a hosier, though i know a genius in that line, sir, a fellow who has a gift--a divine inspiration, i may say--in dealing with these intimate details! but gad, sir, delicacy, delicacy!" sir jasper, meanwhile, had lifted the letter from the table, and was advancing upon captain spicer, ponderingly looking from the lock of hair in his hand to that young gentleman's head, which, however, was powdered to such a nicety that it was quite impossible to tell the colour beneath. "sir," interrupted he at this juncture, "excuse me, but i should be glad to know if you wear your hair or a wig?" captain spicer leaped a step back, and looked in amaze at the baronet's earnest countenance. "egad!" thought he to himself, "verney's in the right of it, the fellow's mad. ha! ha!" said he aloud, "very good, sir jasper, very good. a little conundrum, eh? 'rat me, i love a riddle." he glanced towards the door. sir jasper still advanced upon him as he retreated. "i asked you, sir," he demanded with an ominous rise in his voice, "if you wore your own hair?" ("the fellow looks frightened," he argued internally--"'tis monstrous suspicious!") "i," cried the captain, with his back against the door fumbling for the handle as he stood. "fie, fie, who wears a peruke now-a-days, unless it be your country cousin? he, he! how warm the night is!" sir jasper had halted opposite to him and was rolling a withering eye over his countenance. "his mealy face is so painted," said the unhappy baronet to himself, "that devil take him if i can guess the colour of the fellow." his hand dropped irresolute by his side. beads of perspiration sprang on captain spicer's forehead. "if ever i carry a challenge to a madman again!" thought he. "your hair is very well powdered," said sir jasper. "oh, it is so, it is as you say--poudre à la maréchale, sir," said the captain, while under his persevering finger the door-handle slowly turned. an aperture yawned behind him; in a twinkling his slim figure twisted, doubled, and was gone. "hey, hey!" cried sir jasper, "stop, man, stop, our business together has but just begun." but captain spicer had reached the street-door. "look to your master," said he to the footman, "he is ill, very ill!" sir jasper came running after him into the hall. "stop him, fools!" cried he to his servants, and then in the next breath, "back!" he ordered. and to himself he murmured, "'tis never he. that sleek, fluttering idiot never grew so crisp a curl nor wrote so sturdy a hand, no, nor kissed a dimple! _kissed a dimple_! s'death!" scene v as he stood turning the seething brew of his dark thoughts, there came a pair of knowing raps upon the street-door, and in upon him strode with cheery step and cry the friends he was expecting. "ah, jasper, lad," cried tom stafford, and struck him upon his shoulder, "lying in wait for us? gad, you're a blood-thirsty fellow!" "and quite right," said colonel villiers, clinking spurred legs, and flinging off a military cloak. "zounds, man, would you have him sit down in his dishonour?" sir jasper stretched a hand to each; and holding him by the elbows they entered his private apartment and closed the door with such carefulness that the tall footman had no choice but to take it in turns to listen and peep through the key-hole. "tom," said sir jasper, "colonel villiers, when i begged you to favour me with this interview, i was anxious for your services because, as i told you, of a strong suspicion of lady standish's infidelity to me. now, gentlemen, doubt is no longer possible, i have the proofs!" "come, come, jasper, never be down-hearted," cried jovial tom stafford. "come, sir, you have been too fond of the little dears in your day not to know what tender yielding creatures they are. 'tis their nature man; and then, must they not follow the mode? do you want to be the only husband in bath whose wife is not in the fashion? tut, tut, so long as you can measure a sword for it and let a little blood, why, 'tis all in the day's fun!" "swords?" gurgled colonel villiers. "no, no, pistols are the thing, boy. you are never sure with your sword: 'tis but a dig in the ribs, a slash in the arm, and your pretty fellow looks all the prettier for his pallor, and is all the more likely to get prompt consolation in the proper quarter. ha!" "consolation!" cried sir jasper, as if the word were a blow. "ay, consolation! damnation!" "whereas with your bullet," said the colonel, "in the lungs, or in the brain--at your choice--the job is done as neat as can be. are you a good hand at the barkers, jasper?" "oh, i can hit a haystack!" said sir jasper. but he spoke vaguely. "i am for the swords, whenever you can," cried comely stafford, crossing a pair of neat legs as he spoke and caressing one rounded calf with a loving hand. "'tis a far more genteel weapon. oh, for the feel of the blades, the pretty talk, as it were, of one with the other! 'ha, have i got you now, my friend?'--'ha, would you step between me and my wife? or my mistress? or my pleasure?'--as the case may be. 'would you? i will teach you, sa--sa!' now--now one in the ribs! one under that presuming heart! let the red blood flow, see it drop from the steel: that is something like! pistols, what of them! pooh! snap, you blow a pill into the air, and 'tis like enough you have to swallow it yourself! 'tis for apothecaries, say i, and such as have not been brought up to the noble and gentlemanly art of self-defence." "silence, tom," growled the colonel; "here is no matter for jesting. this friend of ours has had a mortal affront, has he not? 'tis established. shall he not mortally avenge himself upon him who has robbed him of his honour? that is the case, is it not? and, blast me, is not the pistol the deadlier weapon and therefore the most suited? hey?" sir jasper made an inarticulate sound that might have passed for assent or dissent, or merely as an expression of excessive discomfort of feeling. "to business then," cried colonel villiers. "shall i wait upon lord verney and suggest pistols at seven o'clock to-morrow morning in hammer's fields? that is where i generally like to place such affairs: snug enough to be out of disturbers' way, and far enough to warm the blood with a brisk walk. gad, 'twas but ten days ago that i saw poor ned waring laid as neatly on his back by lord tipstaffe (him they call tipsy tip, you know) as ever it was done; as pretty a fight! six paces, egad, and ned as determined a dog as a fellow could want to second. 'villiers,' said he, as i handed him his saw-handle, 'if i do not do for him, may he do for me! one of us must kill the other,' said he. 'twas all about mistress waring, you know, dashed pretty woman! poor ned, he made a discovery something like yours, eh? faith! ha, ha! and devil take it, sir, tip had him in the throat at the first shot, and ned's bullet took off tipstaffe's right curl! jove, it was a shave! ned never spoke again. ah, leave it to me; see if i do not turn you out as rare a meeting." "but stay," cried stafford, as sir jasper writhed in his arm-chair, clenched and unclenched furious hands and felt the curl of red hair burn him where he had thrust it into his bosom. "stay," cried stafford, "we are going too fast, i think. do i not understand from our friend here that he called lord verney a rat? sir jasper is therefore himself the insulting party, and must wait for lord verney's action in the matter." "i protest," cried the colonel, "the first insult was lord verney's in compromising our friend's wife." "pooh, pooh," exclaimed stafford, recrossing his legs to bring the left one into shapely prominence this time, "that is but the insult incidental. but to call a man a rat, that is the insult direct. jasper is therefore the true challenger; the other has the choice of arms. it is for lord verney to send to our friend!" "sir!" exclaimed the colonel, growing redder about the gills than nature and port wine had already made him. "sir, would you know better than i?" "gentlemen," said sir jasper, sitting up suddenly, "as i have just told you, since i craved of your kindness that you would help me in this matter, i have made discoveries that alter the complexion of the affair very materially. i have reason to believe that if lord verney be guilty in this matter it is in a very minor way. you know what they call in france _un chandelier_. indeed it is my conviction--such is female artfulness--that he has merely been made a puppet of to shield another person. it is this person i must find first, and upon him that my vengeance must fall before i can attend to any other business. lord verney indeed has already sent to me, but his friend, captain spicer, a poor fool (somewhat weak in the head, i believe), left suddenly without our coming to any conclusion. indeed, i do not regret it--i do not seek to fight with lord verney now. gentlemen," said sir jasper, rising and drawing the letter from his breast--"gentlemen, i shall neither eat nor sleep till i have found out the owner of this curl!" he shook out the letter as he spoke, and fiercely thrust the tell-tale love-token under the noses of his amazed friends. "it is a red-haired man, you see! there lives no red-haired man in bath but him i must forthwith spit or plug lest the villain escape me!" colonel villiers started to his feet with a growl like that of a tiger aroused from slumber. "zounds!" he exclaimed. "an insult." "how!" cried jasper, turning upon him and suddenly noticing the sandy hue of his friend's bushy eyebrows. "you, good god! you? pooh, pooh, impossible, and yet.... colonel villiers, sir!" cried sir jasper, in awful tones, "did you write this letter? speak! yes or no, man! speak, or must i drag the words from your throat?" purple and apoplectic passion well-nigh stifled colonel villiers. "stafford, stafford," he spluttered, "you are witness. these are gross affronts, affronts which shall be wiped out." "did you write that letter? yes or no!" screamed sir jasper, shaking the offending document in the colonel's convulsed countenance. "i?" cried the colonel, and struck away sir jasper's hand with a furious blow, "i? i write such brimstone nonsense? no, sir! now, damn you body and soul, sir jasper, how dare you ask me such a question?" "no," said sir jasper, "of course not! ah, i am a fool, villiers. forgive me. there's no quarrel between us! no, of course it could not be you! with that nose, that waistcoat, your sixty years! gad, i am going mad!" "why, man," said stafford, as soon as he could speak for laughing, "villiers has not so much hair on all his head as you hold in your hand there. off with your wig, villiers, off with your wig, and let your bald pate proclaim its shining innocence." the gallant gentleman thus addressed was by this time black in the face. panting as to breath, disjointed as to speech, his fury had nevertheless its well-defined purpose. "i have been insulted, i have been insulted," he gasped; "the matter cannot end here. sir jasper, you have insulted me. i am a red-haired man, sir. i shall send a friend to call upon you." "nay, then," said sir jasper, "since 'tis so between us i will even assure myself that tom has spoken the truth and give you something to fight for!" he stretched out his hand as he spoke, and plucked the wig from colonel villiers' head. before him indeed spread so complete an expanse of hairless candour, that further evidence was not necessary; yet the few limp hairs that lingered behind the colonel's ears, if they had once been ruddy, shone now meekly silver in the candle-light. "i thank you," said sir jasper, "that is sufficient. when you send your friend to call upon me, i shall receive him with pleasure." he handed back the colonel's wig with a bow. the colonel stood trembling, his knotted hand instinctively fumbled for his sword. but remembering perhaps that this was eminently a case for pistols, he bethought himself, seized his wig, clapped it on defiantly, settled it with minute care, glared, wheeled round and left the room, muttering as he went remarks of so sulphurous a nature as to defy recording. sir jasper did not seem to give him another thought. he fell into his chair again and spread out upon his knee the sorely crumpled letter. "confusion!" said he. who can it be? "tom, you scamp, i know your hair is brown. thou art not the man, tom. oh, tom, oh, tom, if i do not kill him i shall go mad!" stafford was weak with laughter, and tears rolled from his eyes as he gasped: "let us see, who can the judas be? (gad, this is the best joke i have known for years. oh, lord, the bald head of him! oh, jasper, 'tis cruel funny! stab me, sir, if i have known a better laugh these ten years!) nay, nay, i will help thee. come, there's his lordship the bishop of bath and wells, he is red, i know, for i have seen him in the water. gad, he was like a boiled lobster, hair and all. could it be he, think you? they have a way, these divines, and lady standish has a delicate conscience. she would like the approval of the church upon her deeds. nay, never glare like that, for i will not fight you! have you not got your rosary of red polls to tell first. ha! there is o'hara, he is irish enough and rake enough and red enough. oh, he is red enough!" "o'hara," cried sir jasper, struck. there came a fine rat-tat-tat at the door, a parley in the hall, and the servant announced mr. denis o'hara. "talk of the devil," said stafford. sir jasper rose from his armchair with the air of one whose enemy is delivered into his hands. scene vi the honourable denis o'hara, son and heir of viscount kilcroney in the peerage of ireland, entered with a swift and easy step, and saluted airily. he had a merry green eye, and the red of his crisp hair shone out through the powder like a winter sunset through a mist. "sir jasper," said he, "your servant, sir. faith, tom, me boy, is that you? the top of the evening to ye." uninvited he took a chair and flung his careless figure upon it. his joints were loose, his nose aspired, his rich lace ruffles were torn, his handsome coat was buttoned awry; irishman was stamped upon every line of him, from his hot red head to his slim alert foot; irishman lurked in every rich accent of his ready tongue. sir jasper made no doubt that now the lothario who had poached on his preserves, had destroyed his peace, had devastated his home, was before him. he turned to stafford and caught him by the wrist. "tom," whispered he, "you will stand by me, for by my immortal soul, i will fight it out to-night!" "for god's sake, be quiet," whispered the other, who began to think that the jealous husband was getting beyond a joke. "let us hear what the fellow has got to say first. the devil! i will not stand by to see you pink every auburn buck in the town. 'tis stark lunacy." "but 'tis you yourself," returned sir jasper, in his fierce undertone--"you yourself who told me it was he. see, but look at this curl and at that head." "oh, flummery!" cried stafford. "let him speak, i say." "when you have done your little conversation, gentlemen," said mr. o'hara good-naturedly, "perhaps you will let me put in a word edgeways?" sir jasper, under his friend's compelling hand, sank into a chair; his sinews well-nigh creaked with the constraint he was putting upon himself. "i have come," said denis o'hara, "from me friend captain spoicer. i met him a whoile ago, fluttering down gay street, leaping like a hare with the hounds after him, by st. patrick! 'you're running away from someone, spoicer,' says i. and says he, 'i'm running away from that blithering madman sir jasper standish.' excuse me, sir jasper, those were his words, ye see." "and what, sir," interrupted sir jasper in an ominous voice--"what, sir, may i ask, was your purpose in walking this way to-night?" "eh," cried the irishman, "what is that ye say?" "oh, go on, o'hara," cried stafford impatiently, and under his breath to standish, "faith, jasper," said he, "keep your manners, or i'll wash my hands of the whole matter." "oh, is that the way with him," said o'hara, behind his hand to stafford, and winked jovially. "well, i was saying, gentlemen, that to see a man run, unless it be a frenchman, is a thing that goes against me. 'why, what did he do to you?' said i (meaning you, sir jasper). 'oh,' says me gallant captain, 'i went to him with a gentlemanly message from a friend and the fellow insulted me so grossly with remarks about my hair, that sure,' says he, 'tis only fit for bedlam he is.' 'insulted you,' says i, 'and where are you running to? to look for a friend, i hope,' says i. 'insults are stinking things.' 'sure,' says he, 'he is mad,' says he. 'well, what matter of that?' says i. 'sure, isn't it all mad we are more or less? come,' says i, 'spoicer, this will look bad for you with the ladies, not to speak of the men. give me the message, me boy, and i will take it; and sure we will let sir jasper bring his keepers with him to the field, and no one can say fairer than that.'" sir jasper sprang to his feet. "now, curse your irish insolence," he roared; "this is more than i would stand from any man! and, if i mistake not, mr. o'hara, we have other scores to settle besides." "is it we?" cried o'hara, jumping up likewise. "'tis the first i've heard of them--but, be jabers, you will never find me behind hand in putting me foot to the front! i will settle as many scores as you like, sir jasper--so long as it is me sword and not me purse that pays them." "draw then, man, draw!" snarled sir jasper, dancing in his fury. he bared his silver-hilted sword and threw the scabbard in a corner. "heaven defend us!" cried stafford, in vain endeavouring to come between the two. "sure, you must not contradict him," cried o'hara, unbuckling his belt rapidly, and drawing likewise with a pretty flourish of shining blade. "'tis the worst way in the world to deal with a cracked man. sure, ye must soothe him and give in to him. don't i know! is not me own first cousin a real raw lunatic in kinsale asylum this blessed day? come on, sir jasper, i'm yer man. just pull the chairs out of the way, tom, me dear boy." "now sir, now sir!" said sir jasper, and felt restored to himself again as steel clinked against steel. and he gripped the ground with his feet, and knew the joy of action. "well, what must be, must be," said stafford philosophically, and sat across a chair; "and a good fight is a good fight all the world over! ha! that was a lunge! o'hara wields a pretty blade, but there is danger in jasper's eye. i vow i won't have the irish boy killed. ha!" he sprang to his feet again and brandished the chair, ready to interpose between the two at the critical moment. o'hara was as buoyant as a cork; he skipped backwards and forwards, from one side to another, in sheer enjoyment of the contest. but sir jasper hardly moved from his first position except for one or two vicious lunges. stafford had deemed to see danger in his eye; there was more than danger--there was murder! the injured husband was determined to slay, and bided his time for the fatal thrust. the while, o'hara attacked out of sheer lightness of heart. now his blade grazed sir jasper's thigh; once he gave him a flicking prick on the wrist so that the blood ran down his fingers. "stop, stop," cried stafford, running in with his chair, "sir jasper's hit!" "no, dash you!" cried sir jasper. and click, clank, click, it went again, with the pant of the shortening breath, and the thud of the leaping feet. sir jasper lunged a third time, o'hara waved his sword aimlessly, fell on one knee, and rolled over. "halt!" yelled stafford. it was too late. sir jasper stood staring at his red blade. "you have killed him!" cried stafford, turning furiously on his friend, and was down on his knees and had caught the wounded man in his arms the next second. "devil a bit," said o'hara, and wriggled in the other's grasp, too vigorously indeed for a moribund, found his feet in a jiffy and stood laughing with a white face and looking down at his dripping shirt. "'tis but the sudden cold feel of the steel, man! sure i'm all right, and ready to begin again! 'tis but a rip in the ribs, for i can breathe as right as ever." he puffed noisily as he spoke to prove his words, slapped his chest, then turned giddily and fell into a chair. stafford tore open the shirt. it was as o'hara had said, the wound was an ugly surface rip, more unpleasant than dangerous. "let us have another bout," said o'hara. "no, no," said stafford. "no, no," said sir jasper advancing and standing before his adversary. "no. mr. o'hara, you may have done me the greatest injury that one can do another, but gad, sir, you have fought like a gentleman!" "ah!" whispered o'hara to stafford, who still examined the wound with a knowing manner, "'tis crazed entoirely he is, the poor dear fellow." "not crazed," said stafford rising, "or if so, only through jealousy.--jasper, let us have some wine for mr. o'hara, and one of your women with water and bandages. a little sticking plaister will set this business to rights. thank god, that i have not seen murder to-night!" "one moment, stafford." said jasper, "one moment, sir. let us clear this matter. am i not right, mr. o'hara, in believing you to have written a letter to my wife?" "is it me?" cried o'hara in the most guileless astonishment. "he thinks you are her lover," whispered stafford in his ear. "zooks, i can laugh again now! he knows she has got a red-haired lover, and says he will kill every red-haired man in bath!" "sure i have never laid eyes on lady standish," said o'hara to sir jasper, "if that is all you want. sure, i'd have been proud to be her lover if i'd only had the honour of her acquaintance!" "mr. o'hara," said sir jasper, "will you shake hands with me?" "with all the pleasure in loife!" cried the genial irishman. "faith, 'tis great friends we will be, but perhaps ye had better not introjuce me to ye'r lady, for i'm not to be trusted where the dear creatures are concerned, and so 'tis best to tell you at the outset." the opponents now shook hands with some feeling on either side. the wound was attended to and several bottles of wine were thereafter cracked in great good-fellowship. "there is nothing like canary," vowed o'hara, "for the power of healing." * * * * * it was past midnight when, on the arm of mr. stafford, denis o'hara set out to return to his own lodgings. the streets were empty and the night dark, and they had many grave consultations at the street corners as to which way to pursue. if they reeled a little as they went, if they marched round king's circus, and round again more than once, and showed a disposition to traverse gay street from side to side oftener than was really required by their itinerary, it was not, as o'hara said, because of the canary, but all in the way of "divarsion." "sir jasper's a jolly good fellow," said lord kilcroney's heir as he propped himself against his own door-post, and waggled the knocker with tipsy gravity. "and so are you," said he to stafford. "i like ye both." here he suddenly showed a disposition to fall upon stafford's neck, but as suddenly arrested himself, stiffened his swaying limbs and struck his forehead with a sudden flash of sobriety. "thunder and 'ouns," said he, "if i did not clean forget about spoicer!" he was with difficulty restrained by stafford (who, having a stronger head, was somewhat the soberer), with the help of the servants who now appeared, from setting forth to repair his negligence. by a tactful mixture of persuasion and force, the wounded gentleman was at length conducted to bed, sleepily murmuring: "won't do at all--most remiss--affair of honour--never put off!" until sleep overtook him, which was before his head touched the pillow. meanwhile sir jasper sat, with guttering candles all around him, in the recesses of an armchair, his legs extended straight, his bandaged wrist stuffed into his bosom, his head sunk upon his chest, his spurious flash of gaiety now all lost in a depth of chaotic gloom. dawn found him thus. at its first cold rays he rose sobered, and could not have said whether the night had passed in waking anguish or in hideous nightmare. he looked round on the cheerless scene, the blood-stained linen, the empty wine-glasses with their sickening reek, the smoking candles, the disordered room; then he shuddered and sought the haven of his dressing-room, and the relief of an hour's sleep with a wet towel tied round his throbbing head. scene vii mistress bellairs was up betimes. in truth she had slept ill, which was a strange experience for her. what her thirty-seven lovers had never had the power to wring from her--a tear and a sleepless night--this had she given to the one man who loved her not. she was tortured with anxiety concerning the danger which her caprice (or, as she put it, lady standish's inconceivable foolishness) might have brought upon lord verney. at daybreak she rang for her maid, and with the eight o'clock chocolate demanded to be posted with all the news of the town. she was of those who possess the talent of making themselves served. the chocolate was to the full as perfumed and creamy as ever, and miss lydia was bursting with tidings of importance, as she stood by her lady's couch. "well, lydia, well?" cried her mistress, sharply. "oh, lud, ma'am, the whole town's ringing with it! my lady standish has been found out. there, i for one never trust those solemn prudes that ever keep their eyes turned up or cast down, and their mouths pursed like cherries. you would not be so proper if there was not a reason for it, i always think." "lydia," said mistress bellairs, "do not be a fool. go on; what has lady standish been found out in, pray?" "oh, ma'am," said lydia, "it ain't hard to guess. 'tis what a woman's always found out in, i suppose. but, lud, the shamelessness of it! i hear, ma'am," she came closer to her mistress and bent to whisper, almost trembling with the joy of being tale-bearer to such purpose, "i hear, ma'am, sir jasper found colonel villiers there yesterday afternoon. oh, ma'am, such goings on!" "pshaw!" said mistress kitty. "well, they're going to fight, anyhow," cried the girl, "and sir jasper tore off the colonel's wig and beat him about the face with it, ma'am, and the colonel's been like a madman ever since, and he vows he will shoot him this morning." mistress bellairs gave a sigh of relief. "let them shoot each other," said she, sinking back on her pillows and stirring her chocolate calmly. "i do not find the world any better for either of them." "but that is not all, ma'am, for poor sir jasper no sooner had he thrashed the colonel, than he finds mr. denis o'hara behind the curtains." "denis o'hara!" exclaimed mistress bellairs, sitting up in amaze. "you're raving!" "no, ma'am, for i have it from mr. o'hara's own man; and did not he and sir jasper fight it out then and there, and was not mr. o'hara carried home wounded by the watch!" "mercy on us!" exclaimed the lady. "and that is not all, ma'am," said the maid. "you frighten me, child." "there is captain spicer too, whom you can't a-bear, and lord verney." "lord verney!" cried mistress kitty. "ay, ma'am; he and sir jasper are going to fight this morning. sir jasper's going to fight them all, but lord verney is to be the first, for sir jasper found him kissing lady standish yesterday at noon; the others were later on. so it's my lord comes first you see, ma'am." "la, girl," cried mistress bellairs with a scream, and upset her chocolate, "going to fight this morning? 'tis not true!" her pretty face turned as white as chalk under its lace frills. "yes, ma'am," pursued the maid, gabbling as hard as she could. "yes, ma'am, first there's lord verney. sir jasper, they say, behaved so oddly to captain spicer who brought the first challenge, that lord verney sent another by a chairman this morning. and then colonel villiers. of course, as mr. mahoney says (that's mr. o'hara's man, ma'am), sir jasper is safe to kill lord verney, and colonel villiers is safe to kill sir jasper. but if the colonel do not kill sir jasper, then sir jasper will fight captain spicer! la! ma'am, the chocolate's all over the bed." "oh, get out of that, you silly wench," cried mistress bellairs, "let me rise! there is not a moment to lose. and where is sir jasper supposed to fight my lord verney? (give me my silk stockings, useless thing that you are!) i don't believe a word of your story. how dare you come and tell me such a pack of nonsense? but where are they supposed to fight? of course you must have heard the hour?" she was pulling silk stockings over her little arched foot, and up her little plump leg as fast as her trembling hands would obey her. "i do not know where, ma'am," said the maid demurely, "but the colonel is to meet sir jasper in hammer's fields at noon, so i suppose my lord verney and he will be fighting about this time." "oh, hold your tongue," cried her mistress; "you're enough to drive one mad with your quacking!" not a dab of rouge did the widow find time to spread upon pale cheeks, not a dust of powder upon a black curl. the pretty morning hood was drawn round a very different face from that which it usually shaded; but who shall say that kitty, the woman, running breathless through the empty streets with the early breeze playing with her loose hair, was not as fair in her complete self-abandonment, as the fashionable lady, powdered, painted, patched and laced, known under the name of mrs. bellairs? her small feet hammered impatiently along, her skirts fluttered as she went. she would not wait for a coach; a chair would have sent her crazy. at the turning of the crescent, another fluttering woman's figure, also hooded, also cloaked, also advancing with the haste that despises appearances, passed her with a patter and a flash. they crossed, then moved by the same impulse halted with dawning recognition. "mistress bellairs!" cried lady standish's flute-like voice. "julia standish!" screamed mistress bellairs. they turned and caught at each other with clinging hands. "oh, heavens," said mistress bellairs, "is what i hear true? is that devil sir jasper going to fight lord verney this morning? why, verney's but a child; 'tis rank murder. you wicked woman, see what you have done!" "ah, mistress bellairs," cried julia, and pressed her side, "my heart is broken." "but what has happened, woman, what has happened?" cried kitty, and shook the plaintive julia with a fierce hand. "sir jasper will not see me," sobbed julia, "but i have found out that he is to meet my lord verney in an hour in bathwick meadows. there have been messages going backwards and forwards since early dawn. oh, heaven have pity on us!" "where are you going?" cried kitty, and shook her once more. "i was going to lord verney to plead for my husband's life," said lady standish, and the tears streamed down her face like the storm-rain upon lily flowers. "the lord keep you," cried mistress bellairs with feelings too deep for anger; "i believe you are no better than an idiot!" the most heroic resolves are often the work of a second! "now go back home again, you silly thing," said kitty. "'tis i--yes, lady standish, you do not deserve it of me--but i will sacrifice myself! i will prevent this duel, i will go to my lord verney!" "you," said julia, and wondered, and but half understood the meaning of the words. "go home, go home," said mistress kitty, "and i tell you that if i do not make lord verney fail at the meeting, my name is not kitty bellairs!" lady standish hesitated, and meekly bowed her head, turned and began to retrace her steps, her slim figure bending and swaying as if the fresh morning wind were too stern for her. mistress bellairs looked at her watch. "did she say an hour?" murmured she to herself. "then, ten minutes before the looking-glass, and ten minutes to get to my lord's lodgings, and i will find him about to start. 'tis his first affair of honour, poor boy, and he is sure to be as early at it as a country cousin to a dinner-party." the sun broke out from a cloudy sky, and mrs. bellairs shook herself and felt her spirits rise. a dimple peeped in either cheek. "after all," said she as she tripped along, and the dimples deepened as the smile broadened, "who knows? 'tis an ill wind that blows nobody good." * * * * * my lady standish returned home. the servants stared at her curiously as she crossed the hall. mistress tremlet, the housekeeper, passed her with pursed lips. her own maid, she knew, was dissolved in tears and plunged in doctor persel's discourses against heresy. white as new fallen snow was her conscience, nevertheless she felt herself smirched in the eyes of all these people. yet she cared not. outside sir jasper's dressing-room she listened. she could hear him stamp about as he made his toilet, and curse his man. she put out her hand to knock, but the memory of his stern repulse to her last appeal robbed her of all courage. "i will not go in upon him," thought she, "but when he comes out i will speak." "these swords," said sir jasper within, "i will take in the carriage. i expect mr. stafford and a friend to call for me in half-an-hour. do you understand, sirrah! and hark ye, where are the pistols?" "pistols!" echoed lady standish, and her heart beat to suffocation. there was a pause. "here, sir jasper," said the valet then. "now, mark what i say," said jasper impressively. "lord markham will call at eleven. let the curricle be in waiting; tell my lord that i will meet him five minutes before the half-hour at hammer's fields. forget at your peril! you are to take these pistols there yourself. stay, tell my lord markham that if i am not at the _rendezvous_, 'twill only be because i have not life enough left to take me there, and he must make it straight with colonel villiers. have you understood, rascal? nay--damn you!--i will give you a letter for my lord markham." "oh god! oh god!" cried poor lady standish, and felt her knees tremble, "what is this now? another meeting! the colonel! ... in god's name how comes he upon colonel villiers? why, this is wholesale slaughter! this is insanity! this must be prevented!" she caught her head in her hands. "sir jasper's mad," she said. "what shall i do? what shall i do? they will kill him, and i shall have done it. why now, if kitty prevents the first duel, cannot i prevent the second? oh, i am a false wife if i cannot save my husband. heaven direct me!" she prayed, and to her prayer came inspiration. there was the bishop, the bishop of bath and wells! that reverend prelate had shown her much kindness and attention; he would know how to interfere in such a crisis. he was a man of authority. between them could they not enforce the peace at hammer's fields, and could not sir jasper be saved in spite of himself, were it by delivering him into the hands of the law? lady standish flew into her room and called the sniffing megrim. "paper and ink," cried she, "and get you ready to run on a message. 'tis a matter of life and death." "my lady," said megrim primly, "i will serve your ladyship in all things that are right; but i hope i know my dooty to my creator; and stoop to connive at irregularities, my lady, i won't and never will." she had been ready to condemn her master overnight, but the talk in the servants' hall had, as she expressed it, "opened her eyes." and what woman is not ready to judge her sister woman--above all, what maid to condemn her mistress? lady standish stared. "what means this?" said she. "you shall do as i bid you, mistress megrim. how dare you!" cried lady standish with a sudden flash of comprehension. "why, woman, my letter is to the bishop!" "oh," quoth mistress megrim, still with reserve, yet condescending to approval, "that is another matter! shall i," she sniffed, "be stricter than becomes a christian? shall i refuse aid to the bruised sinner or to the smoking lamp whose conscience is awakened? may his lordship be a tower of strength to your ladyship along the rocky paths of penitence--amen!" scene viii in ten minutes a fair lady may do much to enhance her fairness. as mistress bellairs took a last look at her mirror, while lydia bustled out to call a hired chair, she bestowed upon her reflection a smile of approval which indeed so charming an image could not fail to call forth. then she huddled herself in a mysterious and all enveloping cloak, caught up a little velvet mask from the table, and sped upon her errand. she sallied forth as the gallant soldier might to battle, with a beating heart yet a high one. lord verney and captain spicer had just finished breakfast at the former's lodgings in pierrepoint street, near north parade. captain spicer, babbling ineptly of his own experience as a duellist, of his scorn of sir jasper's lunacy, yet of his full determination to slay the vile madman, had done ample justice to his young principal's table. but lord verney, his cheek now darkly flushed, now spread with an unwholesome pallor, found it hard to swallow even a mouthful of bread, and restlessly passed from the contemplation of the clock and the setting of his watch to the handling of his pistols, or the hasty addition of yet another postscript to the ill-spelt, blotted farewell epistle he had spent half the night in inditing to the dowager his mother: "in case, you know..." he had said to his friend, with a quiver in his voice. captain spicer had earnestly promised to carry out his patron's last wishes in the most scrupulous manner. "my dear lord," he had said, grasping him by the hand, "rely upon me. gad, sir jasper is a devil of a shot i hear, and of course, he, he! we all know the saying--the strength of a madman. but no sooner has he laid you, harry, than i vow, upon my honour, i shall hold him at my sword's point. i will revenge thee, harry, never fear of that. 'twill be a mighty genteel story, and the world will ring with it. egad, he will not be the first i have spitted as easy as your cook would spit a turkey. have i not learnt of the great angelo malevolti himself? he, he--'a woman's hand,' he would say, 'and the devil's head!'" here captain spicer shook out his bony fingers from the encumbering ruffles and contemplated them with much satisfaction. "oh, hang you, spicer, be quiet, can't you!" cried lord verney petulantly. the captain leant back on his chair and began to pick his teeth with a silver toothpick. "pooh, these novices!" said he, as if to himself. "keep your nerves steady, my lord, or, stab me, i may as well order the mourning-coach before we start. he, he! 'tis well, indeed, you have a friend to stand by you!" a discreet tap was heard at the door, and lord verney's impassive new servant (especially engaged on his behalf by the captain, who indeed, some ill-natured wag had it, shared his wages and perquisites) stood in the doorway. "there is a lady downstairs, my lord," he said in his mechanical voice. "she particularly requests to see your lordship and will take no denial, although i informed her that your lordship was like to be engaged until late in the morning." lord verney merely stared in amazement; but captain spicer sprang up from his chair, his pale eyes starting with curiosity. "a lady, gad! verney, you dog, what is this? a lady, ned? stay, is she tall and fair and slight?" "no, sir, she is under-sized, and seems plump, though she is wrapt in so great a cloak i could hardly tell." "pretty, man?" "cannot say, sir, she wears a mask." "a mask? he, verney, verney, this is vastly interesting! and she won't go away, eh, ned?" "no, sir, she must see his lordship, she said, if only for five minutes." "plump, under-sized, masked," ejaculated captain spicer in burning perplexity. "gad, we have ten minutes yet, we will have her up, eh, verney? show her up, ned." the servant withdrew, unheeding lord verney's stammered protest. "really, captain spicer," said he, "i would have liked to have kept these last ten minutes for something serious. i would have liked," said the lad with a catch in his voice and a hot colour on his cheek, "to have read a page of my bible before starting, were it only for my mother's sake, afterwards." the led captain threw up hand and eye in unfeigned horror. "a page of your bible! zounds! if it gets out, we are the laughing-stock of bath. a page of your bible! 'tis well no one heard you but i." "hush!" said lord verney, for in the doorway stood their visitor. 'twas indeed a little figure, wrapt in a great cloak, and except for the white hand that held the folds, and the glimpse of round chin and cherry lip that was trembling beneath the curve of the mask, there was naught else to betray her identity, to tell whether she were young or old, well-favoured or disinherited. but it was a charming little hand, and an engaging little chin. lord verney merely stood and stared like the boy he was. but captain spicer leaped forward with a spring like a grasshopper, and crossing his lean shanks, he presented a chair with the killing grace of which he alone was master. the lady entered the room, put her hand on the back of the chair, and turned upon captain spicer. "i would see lord verney alone, sir," she said. it was a very sweet voice, but it was imperious. the masked lady had all the air of one who was accustomed to instant obedience. in vain captain spicer leered and languished; the black eyes gleamed from behind the disguise very coldly and steadily back at him. forced to withdraw, he endeavoured to do so with wit and elegance, but he was conscious somehow of cutting rather a poor figure; and under the unknown one's hand the door closed upon him with so much energy as to frustrate utterly his last bow. kitty bellairs deliberately turned the key in the lock, and put it in her pocket. lord verney started forward, but was arrested by the sound of his own name, pronounced in the most dulcet and plaintive tone he thought he had ever heard. "lord verney," said kitty, flinging back her cloak and hood and allowing her pretty brown curls, and a hint of the most perfect shape in bath, to become visible to the young peer's bewildered gaze. "lord verney," said she, and clasped her hands, "a very, very unhappy woman has come to throw herself upon your compassion." "madam," said lord verney, "what can i do for you?" his boyish soul was thrilled by these gentle accents of grief; he thought he saw a tear running down the white chin; the rounded bosom heaved beneath its bewitching disorder of lace. he glanced at the clock and back at the suppliant in a cruel perplexity. "madam," said he, "time presses; i have but a few minutes to give you. tell me, madam, how can i serve you? to do so will be a comfort to me in what is perhaps the last hour of my life." the lady gave a cry as soft as a dove's, and as plaintive. "oh," said she, "it is true, then, what i heard?" and the white hands were wrung together as in extremest anguish. "madam," cried he, with outspread arms, and, though without daring to touch her, drawing closer, so close as to hear the quick catch of her breath and to inhale the subtle fragrance of violets that emanated from her. "oh," said she, "it is true!" she staggered and caught at the fastenings of her cloak and threw it open. "you are faint," he cried, strangely moved; "let me call." but she caught him by the hand. her fingers were curiously warm for one seized with faintness, but the touch of them was pleasant to the young man as never woman's touch had been before. out flew the fellow hand to keep his prisoner, and they clung round his great boy's wrist. he never knew how, but suddenly he was on his knees before her. "you are going to fight," said she, "to fight with sir jasper. oh, my god, you do not know, but it is because of me, and if you fight it will break my heart." she leant forward to look eagerly at him as he knelt. her breath fanned his cheek. through her mask he saw beautiful black eyes, deep, deep. how white the skin was upon her neck and chin--how fine its grain! what little wanton curls upon her head! what a fragrance of flowers in the air! how he longed to pluck that mask away--and yet how the very mystery lured him, held him! "who are you?" said he, in a low quick whisper. "let me see your face." she forbade his indiscreet hand with a little shriek. "no, no, no, you must never see, never know; that would be terrible." then he placed both his hands, all unconsciously, upon hers, and then she caught them both and held them, and he felt that her weak grasp was to him as strong as iron. "why do you fight?" said she. "tell me." he blushed. "'tis for nothing, the merest misunderstanding. sir jasper is mad, i think." "sir jasper is jealous," breathed she, and nearer came the gaze of the eyes. "is it true that you love lady standish?" "i?" cried he vehemently, and rapped out a great oath--so eager was he to deny. "i? no! god is my witness. no!" "then do not fight," said she. he wanted to look at the clock; he wanted to spring up and rush to the door; he was conscious that spicer was knocking gently, and that it was time to go where the conventions of honour called him. the soft clasp held him, and the mysterious eyes. he was a very boy, and had never loved before, and--she was masked! "let me advise you," said she. "believe me, your welfare is dearer to me than you can imagine--dearer to me than i ought to tell you. believe me, if you give up this duel you will live to be glad of it. sir jasper will thank you no later than this very day, as never man thanked man before. and you will make me so happy! oh, believe me, your honour is safe with me." "only let me see your face," said he, while spicer knocked louder. "i will see her, and kiss her," he thought to himself, "and that will be something to carry to my death." "how dare you ask it?" she said. "must i grant your request when you refuse me mine?" "and if i grant you yours," said he, as his heart beat very fast, "what will you give me?" "oh, give," said she, "give! who cares for gifts? a man must take." her red lip beneath the mask here became arched so bewitchingly over a row of the whitest teeth in all the world, that harry verney, whose head had been rapidly going, lost it and his heart together. "that is a challenge," said he, as he drew a hand away and lifted it to the mask. "ah, traitor!" she cried, and made a dainty start of resistance. his fingers trembled on the soft scented locks. "you shall not," said she, and bent her head to avoid his touch, so that as he knelt their faces were closer together than ever. "oh!" cried he, and kissed her on the chin beneath the mask. scene ix "my lord," clamoured captain spicer at the door, "the coach is waiting and we have but half an hour to reach bathwick meadows. egad, lord verney, would you be last at the meeting?" lord verney sprang to his feet. the words, the impatient raps penetrated to his dizzy brain with sudden conviction. "heavens!" cried he, and glanced at the clock, and made a leap for the door. "and will you go," said the stranger, "without having seen my face?" he ran back to her and then back to the door again, distracted, as you may see a puppy dog between two calls. finally he came back to the lady with a new and manly dignity upon him. "i must go," he said. "would you show yourself as kind as you seem, madam, remove your mask that i may see you before i go." outside captain spicer was dancing a sort of hornpipe of impotent impatience, and filling the air with shrill strange oaths. mistress bellairs put the lean swarthy boy very composedly on one side by the merest touch of her hand, then she went over to the door, unlocked it and admitted captain spicer, green and sweating. "i am coming, spicer," cried lord verney desperately, and made a plunge for his hat and cloak, murmuring as he passed the lady: "oh cruel!" kitty bellairs nibbled her little finger and looked at the clock. "it will not take you, you know," said she, "more than five minutes to drive down to the bathwick ferry, therefore if you start in three you will still have twenty-six to spare. my lord verney, will you give me those three minutes?" lord verney flung aside hat and cloak again, his face glowing with a dark flush. "oh," cried he, like a school-boy, "for god's sake, spicer, wait outside." "nay," said mistress kitty, smiling to herself under her mask, "nay, i have need of captain spicer." lord verney's face fell, "come hither," said she, and took him crestfallen by the hand and brought him to the table, where lay the writing materials he had been using but a little while ago. "here," said she, "is a sheet of paper. sit down, my lord, and write, write," she said, and tapped his shoulder; "write, sir--thus:-/# 'lord verney begs to inform sir joseph standish that he understands the grounds of the quarrel between them to lie in a gross misconception of lord verney's feelings for lady standish.' #/ "write, write!" she leaned over him, dictating. half spell-bound, yet protesting incoherently, he began to cover the page with his awkward scrawl. "quick," said she. "(child, how do you spell quarrel?) never mind, on with you:-/# 'lord verney begs to assure sir jasper that, so far from presuming to entertain any unlawful sentiments for lady standish, he has never addressed more than three words to her or as many glances at her in his-life; that his whole heart is given to another lady, the only woman he has ever loved and ever will love.'" #/ the pen nearly dropped from lord verney's fingers. he started and turned round on his chair to graze in amaze into the countenance of his mysterious visitor, and again was at once attracted and foiled by her mask. "surely you would not contradict a lady?" she whispered in his ear; "haste, we have but one minute more. here, give me the pen, i will finish." she snapped the quill from his hand, her curls touched his cheek as she bent forward over him to the page. swiftly her little hand flew:-/# "if upon this explanation sir jasper does not see his way to retract all the offensive observations he made to lord verney, lord verney will be ready to meet him as arranged without an instant's delay. the truth of all these statements is guaranteed by the woman lord verney loves." #/ she seized the sheet and folded it. "now, captain spicer," said she, "take your coach and hie you to sir jasper's house, and if you bring back an answer before the clock strikes, i will let you take off my mask, and that will save you from dying of curiosity and, also, give you something to tattle about for the next month. oh, you will find sir jasper," she said; "he is a seasoned hand, and does not, like your virgin duellist, make it a point of honour to bring his high valour to the rendezvous twenty minutes before the time." within his meagre body captain spicer carried the soul of a flunkey. he would have given worlds to rebel, but could not. "so long as it is not a put-off," said he. "not even for a fair one's smile could i barter a friend's honour." kitty held the letter aloft tantalizingly and looked at the clock. "if you won't be the bearer," said she, "i will send it by the chairman, and then you will never know what is in it. moreover," said she, and smiled archly, "if sir jasper apologises to lord verney, which, upon receipt of this letter, i make no doubt he will, you can take his place, you know, and will not be done out of a gallant meeting." "of course, ha, of course!" cried spicer with a yellow smile. laughing, mistress kitty closed the door behind his retreating figure. "now," said she. "oh, what have you done, what have you made me do?" cried harry verney in a sudden agony. "hush," said mistress kitty. "did i not tell you your honour was safe with me? do you not believe me?" said she meltingly. "ah, verney!" she put her hand to her head, and at her touch the mask fell. he looked at her face, blushing and quivering upon him, and once more fell on his knee at her feet. "oh, tell me your name!" cried he, pleadingly. "why, lord verney," she said, "how ungallant!" she smiled and looked bewitchingly beautiful; looked serious and reproachful, and he fell beyond his depths in rapture. "why, you know me, you know me well," said she, "am i not mistress bellairs, kitty bellairs--am i not, kitty?" "no, no," cried he, "i never knew you till this hour, madam, mistress bellairs kitty! i see you," he cried, "for the first time! oh, god, be kind to me, for i love her!" "and yet," she whispered archly, "they say that love is blind." upon this he kissed her as he had kissed her beneath the mask; and if anything could have been sweeter than the first kiss it was the second. ah, love, how easy an art to learn, how hard to unlearn! while harry verney thus forgot the whole world, his first duel, and the code of honour. sir jasper sat inditing an answer to his communication:-/# "sir jasper standish has received my lord verney's explanation in the spirit in which it is offered. he is quite ready to acknowledge that he has acted entirely under a misapprehension, and begs lord verney to receive his unreserved apologies and the expression of his admiration for lord verney's gallant and gentlemanly behaviour, together with his congratulations to him and the unknown lady upon their enviable situation." #/ captain spicer did not offer to supply his principal's place in the field. indeed, he displayed to sir jasper, who received him with the most gloomy courtesy, the extreme suppleness of his spine, and pressed his unrivalled snuff upon him with a fluttering and ingratiating air. when he returned to pierrepoint street he found the mysterious stranger already in her sedan, lord verney leaning through the window thereof, engaged in an earnest whispering conversation. captain spicer jocularly pulled him back by the coat-tails and inserted his own foolish face instead. the lady was masked and cloaked as he had left her. "madam, i have done your errand," said he. "it was," said he, "a matter of difficult negotiation, requiring--ahem--requiring such tact as i think i may call my own. sir jasper was vastly incensed, one might as well have tried to reason with a bull. 'but gad, sir,' said i, 'would i, i, captain spicer, come with this message if it were not in accordance with the strictest rule of honourable etiquette?' that floored him, madam----" here mistress kitty snatched the letter flickering in his gesticulating hand with scant ceremony, turned her shoulder upon him, read it and handed it out to lord verney, who had lost no time in coming round to the other window. "now," said she, "bid the man take me to the pump room." she leaned her head out and lord verney put his close to hers, and there followed another conclave. "madam, madam, i demand the fulfilment of your promise!" from the other side came captain spicer's clamouring thin voice.--"verney, my good fellow, i must request you to retire, there is a compact between this lady and me----" "a compact?" said the mask turning her head. "oh, madam, the vision of that entrancing countenance!" he strove to unfasten the chair door, when: "what?" cried she, "and rob you of all the charm of uncertainty and all the joy of guessing and all the spice of being able to take away the character of every lady in bath. oh," she said, "i hope i have been better taught my duty to my neighbour!" out went her head again to lord verney; there was another whisper, a silver laugh. "on men!" she cried. lord verney skipped round and in his turn dragged the discomfited captain out of the window and restrained him by main force from running after the retreating chairman and their fair burden. scene x lord markham was a person of indefinite appearance, indefinite age and indefinite manners. he wore an ill-fitting wig, but he had a high reputation as a man of honour. he sat beside sir jasper on the front seat, while on the back sat tom stafford; and the curricle sped cheerily along through the up-and-down bath streets out into the country budding with green, down, down the hill, to hammer's fields by the winding avon. sir jasper's face bespoke great dissatisfaction with life at large, and with his own existence in particular. tom stafford was beginning to feel slightly bored. "'tis an early spring," said lord markham, in the well-meant endeavour to beguile away the heavy minutes and distract his principal's mind. "'tis very mild weather for the time of year; and the lambs are forward." "ugh!" said sir jasper. "speak not to him of lambs," whispered stafford; "do not you see he is all for blood and thunder?" then he added maliciously; "there is but one animal in the whole fauna that sir jasper takes an interest in at present; and that's not easy, it seems, to find in these purlieus, though we know it does haunt them: 'tis the red dear!" he chuckled, vastly delighted with the conceit. "let us hope we shall not have rain," said lord markham; "these clouds are menacing." "nay, they will hold up for half-an-hour. enough to serve our purpose," growled sir jasper, and tipped the horses with the lash so that they spurned the slope. "but we shall get wet returning," pleaded the well-meaning earl, "i said so all along; 'twould have been better to have gone in a coach." "i vow," cried sir jasper with a sudden burst of spleen, "i vow that i have it in my heart to wish that villiers' ball may speed so well that i may feel neither rain nor shine, coming home again. home again," said he with a withering smile; "blast it, a pretty home mine is!" "and a pretty cheerful fellow you are to bring out to a merry meeting," quoth stafford from the back, "and a nice pair of fools you and the colonel be, plague on you both! and when you are shot, 'twill be a fine satisfaction to think that your wife can console herself with the owner of the red curl, eh? what are you going to fight old villiers about, i should like to know?" "you do know," growled sir jasper, then he exploded. "you goad me, sir; do _i_ want to fight villiers? is not this business the merest fooling; sheer waste of time when the real fellow--villain!--has eluded me?" his hold on the reins tightened, he laid on the whip, and the curricle swayed as the horses leaped and plunged. "really," said lord markham, "i wish i had come in a coach." and: "hold on," cried stafford, "hold on, jasper; we don't all want to leave our bones in this business." there came a pause in the conversation. they bowled alone a more level road with the wind humming in their ears, and the rhythmic trot of the greys beating a tune. then stafford remarked vaguely: "i have a notion there will be no duel to-day at hammer's fields, jasper, that you will be able to return with undiminished vigour to the hunt of the unknown culprit." "how now," cried sir jasper fiercely, "have you heard from villiers? are they all rats now-a-days? verney first, then that spicer, then the colonel! no, no, the fellow was mad with me, sir; and--gad!--the offence was mine!" "nevertheless," said stafford unmoved, "i happen to know that colonel villiers' man was sent in all haste for his physician, sir george waters, at such an unconscionable hour this morning that sir george despatched the apothecary in his stead, and the apothecary found our fire-eating colonel roaring in a fit of the most violent gout 'tis possible to imagine. so violent, indeed, that poor mr. wigginbotham was soundly beat by the colonel for not being sir george. villiers' foot is as large as a pumpkin, old foulks tells me; i had it all from foulks over a glass of water in the pump room this morning, and zooks, sir, his false teeth rattled in his head as he tried to describe to me the awful language colonel villiers was using. he's to be villiers' second, you know, but he swore 'twas impossible, rank impossible, for any man to put such a foot to the ground." they were rounding the corner of hammer's fields as he spoke, and stafford's eyes roaming over the green expanse of grass rested upon the little group drawn up towards the entrance gate. "unless," he went on, "the colonel comes upon crutches. no, zounds! ha, ha! jasper i will always love you, man, for the capital jokes you have provided of late. strike me ugly if the old fellow has not come--_in a bath-chair_!" "really," said lord markham, "this is very irregular. i have never before been privy to a duel where one of the combatants fought in a chair. and i am not sure that i can undertake the responsibility of concluding arrangements in such circumstances." "blasted nonsense!" said sir jasper with all his former urbanity of demeanour. he flung the reins to his man as he spoke, and clambered down from the curricle. stafford had gone before him to the gate and was now stamping from one foot to another in exquisite enjoyment of the situation. "(ha, ha, ha!) hello! morning, colonel, sorry to see you this way! (ha, ha!) have you brought another bath-chair for our man? oh come, yes. 'twon't be fair if he do not sit in a bath-chair too! say, foulks, you wheel one chair, i'll wheel the other, and we will run them one at the other and let them fire as soon as they please. gad, what a joke!" colonel villiers turned upon his volatile friend a countenance the colour of which presented some resemblance to a well-defined bruise on the third day; it was yellow and green with pain where it was not purple with fury. "mr. stafford, sir, these jokes, sir, are vastly out of place. (curse this foot!) mr. foulks, have the kindness to explain.... major topham, explain to these gentlemen that i have come out to fight, sir, and that fight i will, by the living jingo!" he struck the arm of the chair in his fury, gave his suffering foot a nasty jar and burst into a howl of rage and agony. "stap me," said stafford, "i'd as soon fight an old bear! whisper, foulks, is he going to shoot in his cage--beg pardon, i mean his chair?" "such is his intention," said mr. foulks, grinning nervously as he spoke, and showing the set of fine bond street ivory already referred to by mr. stafford. "but it strikes me it is somewhat irregular." "somewhat irregular?" ejaculated lord markham; "it is altogether irregular. i decline to have anything to say to it." sir jasper remained standing, gloomily looking at the ground and driving his gold-headed malacca into the soft mud as if all his attention were directed to the making of a row of little tunnels. "what is the difficulty, what is the difficulty?" bellowed colonel villiers. "you wheel me into position, and you mark the paces, eight paces, foulks, not a foot more, and you give me my pistol. what is the difficulty--hang me, hang you all, i say! what _is_ the difficulty?" "the combatants will not be equal," suggested major topham. "i told villiers that i will gladly take his place." "no no, no!" screamed the old man turning round, and then, "oh," cried he, and screwed up his face. and then the gout had him with such fury that he gripped the arms of his chair and flung back his head, displaying a ghastly countenance. "i remember," champed old foulks, "the dear duke of darlington insisted upon fighting basil verney (that's verney's father, you know) with his left arm in splints, but as my lord marquis of cranbroke, his grace's second, remarked to me at the time----" "oh, spare us the marquis!" interrupted stafford brutally. "let us keep to the business on hand, if you please. the whole thing is absurd, monstrous! look here, jasper, look here, colonel, you two cannot fight to-day. how could you be equally matched even if we got another bath-chair for jasper. we cannot give him the gout, man, and 'twould be too dashed unfair. gad, colonel you would shoot too well or too ill, 'twon't do! come, come, gentlemen, let us make a good business out of a bad one. why should you fight at all? here's jasper willing to apologise. (yes you are, jasper, hold your tongue and be sensible for once; you pulled off his wig, you know. gad, it was not pretty behaviour, not at all pretty!) but then, colonel, did not he think you had cut him out with his wife, and was not that a compliment? the neatest compliment you'll ever have this side the grave! he was jealous of you, colonel; faith, i don't know another man in bath that would do you so much honour, now-a-days." "oh, take me out of this," cried the colonel, suddenly giving way to the physical anguish that he had been struggling against so valiantly. "zounds, i will fight you all some day! take me out of this. where is that brimstone idiot, my servant? take me out of this, you devils!" between them they wheeled his chair into the road and his screams and curses as he was lifted into the coach were terrible to hear. "lord, if he could but call out the gout!" cried stafford. "look at him, gentlemen! ha, he has got his footman by the periwig! oh, 'tis as good as a play, he is laying it on to the fellow like a trojan! why, the poor devil has escaped, but his wig is in the colonel's hands. ha, ha, he has sent it flying out of the coach! off they go; what a voice the old boy has got, he is trumpeting like the elephant at the fair! well, jasper, what did i say? no duel to-day." "do not make so sure of that," said sir jasper. he was moving towards the curricle as he spoke, and turned a sinister face over his shoulder to his friend. "oh," cried the latter, and fell back upon markham, "the fellow's look would turn a churn-full of cream! no, i will not drive back with ye, thankye, sir jasper; i will walk. devil take it," said stafford, "i don't mind a little jealousy in reason myself; but if i were to drive home in that company, i'd have no appetite for dinner. come, gentlemen, 'tis a lovely day, let us walk." so sir jasper rolled home alone, and, as his coachman observed a little later as he helped to unharness the sweating horses, "drove them cruel!" scene xi lady standish was one of those clinging beings who seem morally and physically to be always seeking a prop. before adversity she was prostrate, and when his lordship the bishop of bath and wells was ushered into her sitting-room, half-an-hour after sir jasper's departure for hammer's fields, he found the poor lady stretched all her length upon the sofa, her head buried in the cushions. "dear me," said his lordship, and paused. he was a tall, portly, handsome gentleman with sleek countenance, full eye, and well-defined waistcoat. could human weakness have touched him, he would have felt a pride in those legs which so roundly filled the silk stockings. but that human weakness could ever affect the bishop of bath and wells was a thing that dignitary (and he gave his maker thanks for it) felt to be utterly inconceivable. "lady standish," said the bishop; then he waved his hand to the curious servants. "leave us, leave us, friends," said he. lady standish reared herself with a sort of desperate heart-sickness into a sitting posture and turned her head to look dully upon her visitor. "you come too late," she said; "my lord. sir jasper has gone to this most disastrous meeting." "my dear lady standish," said dr. thurlow, "my dear child," he took a chair and drew it to the sofa, and then lifted her slight languid hand and held it between his two plump palms. "my dear lady standish," pursued he in a purring, soothing tone. if he did not know how to deal with an afflicted soul (especially if that afflicted soul happened to belong to the aristocracy and in preference inhabited a young female body), who did? "i came upon the very moment i received your letter. i might perhaps have instantly done something to help in this matter, had you been more explicit, but there was a slight incoherence ... very natural!" here he patted her hand gently. "a slight incoherence which required explanations. now tell me--i gather that your worthy husband has set forth upon an affair of honour, eh? shall we say a duel?" lady standish gave a moaning assent. "some trifling quarrel. hot-headed young men! it is very reprehensible, but we must not be too hard on young blood. young blood is hot! well, well, trust in a merciful providence, my dear lady standish. you know, not a sparrow falls, not a hair of our heads, that is not counted. was the, ah--quarrel about cards, or some such social trifle?" "it was about me," said the afflicted wife in a strangled voice. "about you, my dear lady!" the clasp of the plump hand grew, if possible, a trifle closer, almost tender. lady standish was cold and miserable, this warm touch conveyed somehow a vague feeling of strength and comfort. "about me," she repeated, and her lip trembled. "ah, is it so? and with whom does sir jasper fight?" "with colonel villiers," said she, and shot a glance of full misery into the benign large-featured face bending over her. "colonel villiers," repeated the bishop in tones of the blankest astonishment. "not--eh, not--er, old colonel villiers?" "oh, my lord," cried lady standish, "i am the most miserable and the most innocent of women!" "my dear madam," cried the bishop, "i never for an instant doubted the latter." his hold upon her hand relaxed, and she withdrew it to push away the tears that now began to gather thick and fast on her eyelashes. the bishop wondered how it was he had never noticed before what a very pretty woman lady standish was, what charming eyes she had, and what quite unusually long eyelashes. it was something of a revelation to him too, to see so fair and fine a skin in these days of rouge and powder. "and yet," sobbed lady standish, "'tis my fault too, for i have been very wrong, very foolish! oh, my lord, if my husband is hurt, i cannot deny 'tis i shall bear the guilt of it." "come, tell me all about it," said the bishop, and edged from his chair to her side on the sofa, and re-possessed himself of her hand. she let it lie in his; she was very confiding. "we are all foolish," said dr. thurlow, "we are all, alas, prone to sin." he spoke in the plural to give her confidence, not that such a remark could apply to any bishop of bath and wells. "oh, i have been very foolish," repeated the lady. "i thought, my lord, i fancied that my husband's affection for me was waning." "impossible!" cried his lordship. but he felt slightly bewildered. "and so, acting upon inconsiderate advice, i--i pretended--only pretended indeed, my lord--that i cared for someone else, and sir jasper got jealous and so he has been calling everybody out thinking that he has a rival." "nevertheless," said the bishop, "he has no rival. do i understand you correctly, my dear child? these suspicions of his are unfounded? colonel villiers?" "colonel villiers," cried she, "that old stupid red-nosed wretch! no, my lord, indeed, there is no one. my husband has my whole heart!" she caught her breath and looked up at him with candid eyes swimming in the most attractive tears. "colonel villiers!" cried she. "oh, how can you think such a thing of me? but my husband will not believe me; indeed, indeed, indeed i am innocent! he was jealous of lord verney too, and last night fought mr. o'hara." the bishop smiled to himself with the most benign indulgence. his was a soul overflowing with charity, but it was chiefly when dealing with the foibles of a pretty woman that he appreciated to the full what a truly inspired ordinance that of charity is. "my dear child, if i may call you so, knowing your worthy mother so well, you must not grieve like this. let me feel that you look upon me as a friend. let me wipe away these tears. why, you are trembling! shall we not have more trust in the ruling of a merciful heaven? now i am confident that sir jasper will be restored to you uninjured or with but a trifling injury. and if i may so advise, do not seek, my dear lady standish, in the future to provoke his jealousy in this manner; do not openly do anything which will arouse those evil passions of anger and vengeance in him!" "oh, indeed, indeed," she cried, and placed her other little hand timidly upon the comforting clasp of the bishop's, "indeed i never will again!" "and remember that in me you have a true friend, my dear lady standish. allow me to call myself your friend." here there came a sound of flying wheels and frantic hoofs without, and the door-bell was pealed and the knocker plied so that the summons echoed and re-echoed through the house. "oh, god!" screamed lady standish springing to her feet, "they have returned! oh, heavens, what has happened? if he is hurt i cannot bear it, i cannot--i cannot!" she clasped her head wildly and swayed as if she would have fallen. what could a christian do, a gentleman and a shepherd of souls, but catch her lest she fall? half mad with terror she turned and clung to him as she would have clung to the nearest support. "have courage," he purred into the little ear; "i am with you, dear child, have courage." so they stood, she clasping the bishop and the bishop clasping her, patting her shoulder, whispering in her ear, when sir jasper burst in upon them. it was his voice that drove them apart, yet it was neither loud nor fierce, it was only blightingly sarcastic. "so!" said he. what was it stafford had said: "there's the bishop of bath and wells. he's red, as red as a lobster, from top to toe! they have a way, these divines." oh, stafford knew doubtless: all bath knew! sir jasper cursed horribly in his heart, but aloud only said: "so!" lady standish flew half across the room to him with a joyful cry, but was arrested midway by his attitude, his look. the bishop said "ahem," and "ahem" again, and then said he: "i rejoice, i rejoice, sir jasper, to see you return unscathed. lady standish has been greatly distressed." "and you," said sir jasper, drily, "have been consoling her." "to the best of my poor power," said the bishop, and felt, he knew not why (if indeed it were possible for him to feel that way!) a shade uncomfortable. sir jasper closed the door and bowed. "i think," said he, "i ought to crave pardon for this intrusion." "oh jasper!" cried my lady. her husband turned towards her for a second. she wilted beneath his eye and sank into a chair. "oh, sir jasper," said she, floundering. "the bishop has been very kind. i have been so unhappy about you." "i see," said sir jasper, "that his lordship has been very kind. his lordship, as i said, has been administering consolation." here all at once his stoniness gave way. he walked towards the bishop and bent a ghastly face close to the florid uneasily smiling countenance. "my lord," said sir jasper, "your cloth will not protect you." "sir!" ejaculated the divine. "your cloth will not protect you!" repeated sir jasper in that voice of strenuous composure that seems to tremble on a shriek. "oh, shepherd, _you_!" "sir!" cried the bishop, "do you mean to insinuate----" "i insinuate nothing," cried the other and sneered. "so madam," he turned again to his wife, "this is your choice, eh? you were always a pious woman, were you not? you would like to have the approval of the church upon your acts, would you not?" indescribable was the sarcasm upon his lip. "really," said the bishop, "i am seriously annoyed." he looked reproachfully at lady standish. "madam," said he, "i came to you, as you know, in pure charity, in unsuspecting friendship. i was not prepared for this." "ha, ha," said sir jasper with a hideous laugh. "no, sir, i have no doubt you were not prepared for this. pure, ha--unsuspecting--this is pleasant! be silent, madam, these groans, these crocodile tears have no effect upon me. come, my lord bishop, your sanctimonious airs cannot take me in. have i not read your letter? oh, you have got a very fine head of hair, but i know ... _there is a curl missing_! ha, julia, you should take better care of your love-tokens." "i vow," said dr. thurlow, majestically, "that your behaviour, your words are quite beyond my poor comprehension.--madam, i pity you from my heart!--sir jasper, sir," folding his arms fiercely, "your servant. i wish you good-morning." he strode to the door, his fine legs quivering with indignation beneath their purple silk meshes. "no!" said sir jasper, and seized him roughly by the skirts. "no, you do not escape me thus!" "how now!" cried the bishop, the veins on his forehead swelling, and the nostrils of his handsome roman nose dilating. "would you lay hands upon the lord's anointed? let go my coat, sir jasper!" he struck at sir jasper's retaining hand with his own plump fist clenched in a fashion suggestive of pulpit eloquence. "ha! you would, would you?" exclaimed sir jasper, and leaped at the episcopal throat. the next instant, to his intense astonishment, sir jasper found himself in an iron grip; lifted into the air with an ease against which all his resistance was as that of a puppet; shaken till his teeth rattled, and deposited on the flat of his back upon the floor. "oh, help, help, help!" screamed lady standish. "really," said the bishop, "i don't know when i have been so insulted in my life. 'tis the whole church, sir, the church of england, the state itself, that you have assaulted in my person!" he stood glaring down on the prostrate foe, breathing heavy rebuke through his high dignified nose. "you have committed blasphemy, simony, sacrilege, rank sacrilege," thundered dr. thurlow. sir jasper gathered himself together like a panther, and sprang to his feet; like a panther, too, he took two or three stealthy steps and, half crouching, measured the muscular bishop with bloodshot eyes, selecting the most vulnerable portion of anatomy. he panted and foamed. the air was thick with flying powder. lady standish flung herself between them. "in mercy, my lord," she cried, "leave us--leave us!" here the door opened and butler and delighted footmen burst into the room. the bishop turned slowly. the grace of his vocation prevailed over the mere man. "may heaven pardon you," he said. "may heaven pardon you, sir, and help you to chasten this gross violence of temper. and you, madam," said he, turning witheringly upon the unfortunate and long-suffering lady, "may you learn womanly decorum and circumspection!" "you shall hear from me again," growled sir jasper, murderously--"toombs," cried he to the butler with a snarl, "show the bishop the door!" the bishop smiled. he wheeled upon them all a stately back, and with short deliberate steps withdrew, taking his cane from the footman with a glassy look that petrified thomas, and refusing mr. toombs' proffered ministrations as he might have waved aside a cup of poison. "_vade retro satanas_," he seemed to say; and so departed, leaving his pastoral curse voicelessly behind him. scene xii "how beautiful you are!" said lord verney. he was sitting on a stool at mrs. bellairs' feet. she had abandoned to him one plump taper-fingered hand. the gay little parlour of the queen square house was full of sunshine and of the screeching ecstasy of mistress kitty's canary bird. "how beautiful you are!" said he; it was for the fourth time within the half-hour. conversation between them had languished somehow. kitty bellairs flung a sidelong wistful look upon her lover's countenance. his eyes, gazing upwards upon her, devoured her beauty with the self-same expression that she had found so entrancing earlier in the day. "deep wells of passion," she had told herself then. now a chill shade of misgiving crept upon her. "his eyes are like a calf's," she said to herself suddenly. * * * * * "how beautiful----" thus he began to murmur once again, when his mistress's little hand, twitching impatiently from his grasp, surprised him into silence. "oh dear! a calf in very truth," thought she. "baah--baa ooh.... what can i have seen in him? 'twas a sudden pastoral yearning....!" "may i not hold your hand?" said he, shifting himself to his silken knees and pressing against her. yet he was a pretty boy and there was a charm undoubted in the freshness of this innocence and youth awakening to the first glimmer of man's passion. "delightful task----" she quoted under her breath, and once more vouchsafed him, with a sweep like the poise of a dove, her gentle hand. as it lay in his brown fingers, she contemplated it with artistic satisfaction and played her little digits up and down, admiring the shape and colour of the nails, the delicate dimples at the knuckles. but lord verney's great boy's paw engulfed them all too quickly, and his brown eyes never wavered from their devout contemplation of her countenance. "how----" mistress kitty sprang to her feet. "i vow," she cried, "'tis my hour for the waters, and i had clean forgot them!" she called upon her maid: "lydia, child, my hat!--lord verney, if it please you, sir, your arm as far as the pump room." ("at least," she thought to herself, "all bath shall know of my latest conquest") she tied her hat ribbons under her chin. "how like you the mode?" said she. and, charmed into smiles again by the rosy vision under the black plumes, she flashed round upon him from the mirror. "is it not, perhaps, a thought fly-away? yet 'tis the latest. what says my verney?" the poor youth vainly endeavoured to discriminate and criticise. "it is indeed a very fine hat," said he ... "and there seem to be a vast number of feathers upon it." he hesitated, stammered. "oh, what care i for modes! 'tis you, you----" "what are you staring at, girl?" cried mistress bellairs sharply, to her abigail. "out with you!" "well, my verney?" said she. "mercy, how you look, man! is anything wrong with my face?" she tilted that lovely little piece of perishable bloom innocently towards him as she spoke. and the kiss she had read in his eyes landed with unprecedented success upon her lips. "why, who knows?" thought she, with a little satisfied smile, as she straightened her modish hat. "there may be stuff in the lad, after all!" she took his arm. dazed by his own audacity, he suffered her to lead him from the room. they jostled together down the narrow stairs. "how beautiful you are!" said he; and kissed her again as they reached the sombre dark-panelled vestibule. "fie!" said she with a shade of testiness and pushed him back, as her little black page ran to open the door. the kiss, like his talk, lacked any heightening of tone--and what of a lover's kiss that shows no new ardour, what of a vow of love that has no new colour, no fresh imagery? but the trees in queen square were lightly leafed with pale, golden-green. the sunshine was white-gold, the breeze fresh and laughing; the old grey town was decked as with garlands of young love. "he is but new to it," she argued against her fleeting doubts, "and he is, sure, the prettiest youth in all bath." love and spring danced in mistress kitty's light heart and light heels as she tripped forth. and love and spring gathered and strove and sought outlet in verney's soul as inevitably, and irresistibly, and almost as unconsciously as the sap in the young shoots that swayed under the caress of the breeze and amorously unfurled themselves to the sunlight. * * * * * the pump room was cool and dim after the grey stone street upon which the young year's sunshine beat as fierce as its youth knew how. the water droned its little song as it welled up, faintly steaming. "listen to it," quoth mistress kitty. "how innocent it sounds, how dear it looks!" with a smile she took the glass transferred to her by verney, and: "ugh!" said she, "how monstrous horrid it tastes, to be sure! 'tis, i fear," she said, again casting a glance of some anxiety at her new lover's countenance, "a symbol of life." "yet," said he, "these waters are said to be vastly wholesome." "wholesome!" cried mistress kitty, sipping again, and again curling her nose upwards and the corners of her lips downwards, in an irresistibly fascinating grimace. "wholesome, my lord! heaven defend us! and what is that but the last drop to complete their odiousness! wholesome, sir? i would have you know 'tis not for wholesomeness i drink." she put down her glass, undiminished save by the value of a bird's draught. "do i look like a woman who needs to drink waters for 'wholesomeness?'" "indeed, no," floundered he in his bewildered way. "there are social obligations," said she, sententiously. "a widow, sir, alone and unprotected, _must_ conform to common usage. and then i have another reason, one of pure sentiment." she cocked her head and fixed her mocking eye upon him. "my poor bellairs," said she, "how oft has it not been my pleasure and my duty to fill such a glass as this and convey it to his lips? in his last years, poor angel, he had quite lost the use of his limbs!" lord verney had no answer appropriate to these tender reminiscences; and mistress kitty, having, it seemed, sufficiently conformed to the usage of bath, as well as sacrificed to the manes of the departed, turned briskly round, and, leaning against a pilaster, began to survey the room. "la! how empty!" quoth she. "'tis your fault if i am so late, my lord. nobody, i swear, but that flyte woman, your odious spicer, sir--ha, and old general tilney. verily, i believe these dreadful springs have the power of keeping such mummies in life long after their proper limit. 'tis hardly fair on the rest of the world. why, the poor thing has scarce a sense or a wit left, and yet it walks! heaven preserve us! why, it runs!" she cried suddenly with a little chirp, as the unfortunate veteran of dettingen, escaping from the guiding hands of his chairman, started for the door with the uncontrolled trot of semi-paralytic senility. "and that reminds me," said mistress kitty, "that sir george is most particular that i should walk five minutes between every glass. here comes your estimable aunt, lady maria, and her ear-trumpet, and the unfortunate miss selina. i protest, with that yellow feather she is more like my dear dead toto than ever. "was that your pet name for your husband?" murmured lord verney, in a strangled whisper. "fie, sir!" cried the widow. "my cockatoo--i referred to my cockatoo." she sighed profoundly. "i loved him," she said. he looked at her, uncertain to which of the lamented bipeds she referred. "selina," cried lady maria, in the strident tones of the deaf woman persuaded of her own consequence (the voice of your shy deaf one loses all sound in her terror of being loud)--"selina, how often must i tell you that you must clip in my glass yourself! who's that over there? where are my eyeglasses? who's that, did you say? mistress bellairs? humph! and who's she got with her in tow now? who did you say? louder, child, louder. what makes you mumble so? who? verney--lord verney? why, that's my nevvy. tell him to come to me this minute. do you hear, selina, this minute! i won't have him fall into the net of widow bellairs!" the cockatoo top-knot nodded vehemently. poor miss selina, agitated between consciousness that the whole pump room was echoing to lady maria's sentiments and terror of her patroness, took two steps upon her errand, and halted, fluttering. lord verney had flushed darkly purple. mistress kitty hung with yet more affectionate weight upon his arm and smiled with sweet unconsciousness. for the moment she was as deaf as lady maria. the latter's claw-like hand had now disengaged a long-stemmed eyeglass from her laces. "'tis indeed," she pronounced in her commanding bass, "my nevvy verney with that vile bellairs!---nevvy! here, i say!--selina, fool, have you gone to sleep?" an echo, as of titters, began to circle round the pump room. the painted face of lady flyte was wreathed into a smile of peculiar significance, as she whispered over her glass to her particular friend of the moment, captain spicer. this gentleman's pallid visage was illumined with a radiance of gratified spite. his lips were pursed as though upon a plum of superdelicious gossip. he began to whisper and mouthe. young squire greene approached the couple with an eager ear and an innocent noddy face that strove to look vastly wise. "i assure you," mouthed the captain. "was i not there?" "in his bedroom?" cried lady flyte, with a shrill laugh. lady maria's cockatoo crest rose more fiercely. it seemed to kitty bellairs as if she heard the old lady's jaws rattle. it was certain that in her wrath she squawked louder than even the late lamented toto. then mistress kitty, who, to say the truth, began to find the scene a little beyond enjoyment, felt the young arm upon which she leaned stiffen, the young figure beside her rear itself with a new manliness. "pray, mistress bellairs," said my lord verney, he spoke loudly and, to her surprise, with perfect facility, even dignity, "will you allow me to introduce you to my aunt, lady maria prideaux?--aunt maria," said he, and his voice rang out finely, imposing a general silence, "let me present mistress bellairs. this lady has graciously condescended to accept me as her future husband. i am the happiest and the most honoured of men." the last sentence he cried out still more emphatically than the rest, and then repeated it with his eye on kitty's suddenly flushed cheek, almost in a whisper and with a quiver of strong emotion. the astounded mistress kitty rose from her deep curtesy with a swelling heart. "the dear lad," she said to herself. "the dear, innocent chivalrous lad!" there was almost a dimness in her brilliant black eye. her emotion was of a kind she had never known before: it was almost maternal. under stress of sudden genuine emotion, the wit of intrigue in the cleverest woman falls in abeyance. mistress bellairs found no word out of the new situation. lady maria's deafness had increased to an alarming extent. "gratified, i'm sure," she mumbled, stuck out her dry hand and withdrew it before mistress bellairs had time to touch it. "my future wife," bawled the budding peer, in his aged relative's ear. it was curious to note how old lady maria seemed suddenly to have become. huddled in herself she nodded vacantly at her nephew. "thank ye for asking, child," said she, "but the waters try me a good deal." lord verney attempted another shout in vain. "so sir george says," remarked my lady. "'tis the very eye of my poor dear toto," thought mistress bellairs. lord verney looked round in despair. miss selina thought him monstrous handsome and gallant, and her poor old-maid's heart warmed to the lover in him. she approached lady maria and gently lifted her trumpet. lady maria, glad enough of a diversion, applied it to her ear with unwonted affability. "what is it, my dear? any sign of the duchess?" "your nephew," said miss selina in modest accents, "your nephew, my lord verney, wishes to inform you that he is about to contract a matrimonial alliance with the lady he has just introduced to you." miss selina blushed behind the mouthpiece as she made this announcement. then she cried: "oh," with an accent of suffering, for lady maria had rapped her over the knuckles with the instrument. "matrimonial fiddlesticks!" said lord verney's aunt. "selina, you're a perfect fool!--madam," remarked the wraith of the departed cockatoo, inclining her crest with much dignity towards the blooming kitty, "i wish you good-morning." scene xiii there must have been a curious magic in the words, "my future wife," for no sooner had he pronounced them than lord verney became several inches taller, a distinct span broader and quite unreasonably older. in fact, from boyhood he had stepped to man's estate. he looked down protectingly at the little woman hanging on his arm. the seriousness of responsibility settled upon his brow. "ah! verney," quoth mr. stafford, flicking a hot brow, as he dashed in out of the sunshine, powdered with white dust from his walk and still bubbling with laughter. "ah, verney, playing butterfly in the golden hours while other fellows toil in the sweat of their brow! jingo! lad, but you've lit on the very rose of the garden.--mistress kitty bellairs, i kiss your hand." at this mistress kitty felt her future lord's arm press her fingers to his ribs, while he straightened his youthful back. "mr. stafford," began he in solemn tones, "this lady----" but she, knowing what was coming, interrupted ruthlessly. "and pray, mr. stafford," quoth she, cocking her head at him with those birdlike airs and graces that were as natural to her as to any mincing dove--mistress kitty being of those that begin by making eyes in their nurses' arms, before they can speak, and end in a modish lace nightcap for the benefit of the doctor--"and whence may you come so late, and thus heated?" "whence?" cried mr. stafford, and overcome by the humour of his recollections, roused the solemn echoes of the pump room by his jovial laugh. "ah, you may well ask! from the merriest meeting it has ever been my fate to attend. oh, the face of him in his chair, between his gout and his temper! and fire-eating jasper all for bullets; and old foulks' teeth ready to drop out of his head at the indecorousness of it all!--spicer, man, aha! hold me up.--oh, madam," cried mr. stafford, wiping tears of ecstasy from his eyes and leaning as unceremoniously against spicer as if the latter's lank figure were a pilaster specially intended for his support--"oh, madam, i could make you laugh had i the breath left for it." "indeed," cried mistress kitty, plunging in again, as it became evident to her that lord verney, with the gentle obstinacy that was part of his character, was once more preparing to make his nuptial statement. "mr. stafford, please speak then, for in sooth it seems to me a vastly long time since i have laughed." "gad! you actually make me curious," put in mr. stafford's prop. "oh dear, oh dear!" sighed mr. stafford, in a fresh fit, "ha, ha! by the way, verney, weren't you also to have walked with the jealous husband this morning!--ah, by the same token, and you too, spicer? gad. i'm glad you didn't, for if either of you had put lead in him i'd have missed the best joke of the season. gad, i may say so. he, he, aha-ha, ho, ho!" "mr. stafford," said my lord verney, as solemn as any owl, while mistress kitty, caught by the infection of the genial stafford's mirth, tittered upon his arm, "i have deeper reason than you think of to rejoice that the absurd misunderstanding was cleared up between sir jasper and myself. this lady and i----" "oh dear, the joke, the joke!" cried mistress bellairs, with loud impatience, and stamped her little foot. "oh, my fair bellairs," gasped mr. stafford, "had you but been there to share it with me!" "this lady----" quoth lord verney. "i wish indeed i had been!" cried she. and in very truth she did. "mrs. bellairs," said the determined lover, "has consented to make me the happiest of men." "eh?" cried mr. stafford, and stopped on the edge of another guffaw. mistress kitty cast down her eyelids. she felt she looked demure and almost bashful, and she hated herself in this character. mr. stafford was one of the thirty-seven lovers of whom the lady had spoken so confidently, and as such was far from realising the solemn meaning of lord verney's announcement. "ah, madam," cried he reproachfully, "is't not enough to keep me for ever in hades, must you needs add to my torture by showing me another in paradise? but, my little verney," he went on, turning good-naturedly to his young rival, "it is but fair to warn you that you will be wise to pause before getting yourself measured for your halo: the paradise of this lady's favour is (alack, do i not know it?) of most precarious tenure." "this lady, sir," said lord verney, with rigid lips, "has promised to be my wife." it was fortunate that mr. stafford had a prop: under the shock he staggered. man of the world as he was, the most guileless astonishment was stamped on his countenance. oh, how demure looked mistress kitty! spicer, a trifle yellow, became effusive in congratulations which were but coldly received by his patron. "ah, kitty," whispered mr. stafford in mistress bellairs' shell-like ear, "do you like them so tender-green? why, my dear, the lad's chin is as smooth as your own. what pleasantry is this?" kitty scraped her little foot and hung her head. mistress kitty coy! and yon poor innocent with his air of proprietorship--'twas a most humorous spectacle! "i'm sure, verney," cried mr. stafford, "i wish you joy, ha, ha! with all my heart! and you madam, he, he!--forgive me, friends--the thought of sir jasper's duel is still too much for me. ha, ha! support me, spicer." "she'll marry him, she'll marry him," cried spicer with bilious vindictiveness, looking over his shoulder at the couple, as they moved away. "marry him!--never she!" cried stafford. "kitty's no fool. why, man, the little demon wouldn't have _me_! she loves her liberty and her pleasures too well. did you not see? she could not look up for fear of showing the devilment in her eye. cheerily, cheerily, my gallant captain!" cried the spark, and struck the reedy shoulders that had buttressed him, in contemptuous good-natured valediction. "you need not yet cast about for a new greenhorn to subsist upon." * * * * * mistress kitty, glancing up at her calf, found, something to her astonishment and further displeasure, a new expression in his eyes. ardour had been superseded by an unseasonable gravity. "the creature is a complete menagerie!" she thought to herself, indignantly. "i vow he looks like nothing but an owl in the twilight!" they wandered together from the pump room on to the abbey flags, and so, slowly, into the cool and shady orange grove; and in a sequestered spot they sat them down on a stone bench. "when a man," said he, "has been, as i have, brought face to face, within the space of one short morning, with the great events of existence, death and love, how hollow and how unworthy do the mock joys and griefs of society appear to him!" "oh la!" said she. "you alarm me. and when did you see death, my lord?" "why," said he, with his innocent gravity, "had you not intervened, my dearest dear, between sir jasper and me, this morning, who knows what might have happened?" "oh, that!" said she, and her lip curled. "ay," said he, "where should i be now, kitty? the thought haunts me in the midst of my great happiness. had i killed sir jasper, could i have looked upon myself other than as a murderer?" "oh, fie, fie," interpolated his mistress impatiently, "who ever thinks of such things in little matters of honour!" in her heart she told herself that the young man showed a prodigious want of _savoir-vivre_. in all candour he proceeded to display a still greater lack of that convenient quality. "on the other hand, had i fallen, and that indeed was the more likely contingency, it being my first affair of the kind, i tremble to think in what state my soul would have appeared before its maker." his voice quivered a moment. "my lord verney," cried kitty, turning upon him a most distressed countenance, "you have no idea how you shock me!" and indeed he had not. he took her distress for the sweetest womanly sympathy, and was emboldened to further confidence. "i blush to tell you," he said, "that since i came to this gay society of bath, my life has not been all my conscience could approve of. the pious practices, the earnest principles of life so sedulously inculcated in me by my dear mother, have been but too easily cast aside." "oh dear!" cried kitty in accents of yet greater pain. "when we are married, my dear love," pursued lord verney, quietly encircling his mistress's little waist with his arm as he spoke, but, absorbed as he was in his virtuous reflections, omitting to infuse any ardour into his embrace, "we shall not seek the brilliant world. we shall find all our happiness with each other, shall we not? oh, how welcome my dear mother will make you at verney hall! it has always been her dream that i should marry early and settle on the estate." little shivers ran down kitty's spine. "is it your intention to live with your mother when you are married?" she faltered, and leaned weakly against the inert arm. enthusiastically he cried that the best of mothers and he could never be parted long. "oh, how you will love her!" he said, looking fondly at the kitty of his imagination. "from your tenderest years she sedulously inculcated in you earnest principles and pious practices, did she not?" murmured the kitty of reality, with what was almost a moan. "she did indeed," cried the youth. mistress kitty closed her eyes and let her head droop upon his shoulder. "i fear i am going to have the vapours," said she. "'tis, maybe, the spring heats," said he, and made as if he would rise. "maybe," said mistress kitty, becoming so limp all at once that he was forced to tighten his clasp. he glanced at her now in some alarm. she half opened bright eyes, and glimmered a languid little smile at him. "at least," thought the widow, "if we must part (and part we must, my calf and i) we shall part on a sweet moment. what--in a bower, every scent, every secret bird and leaf and sunbeam of which calls on thought of love, and i by his side--he to prate of his mother! an at least he does not bleat of my beauty again, my name is not kitty!" she sighed and closed her eyes. the delicate face lay but a span from his lips. "i fear indeed you are faint," said he with solicitude. "my mother has a sovereign cordial against such weakness." mistress bellairs sat up very energetically for a fainting lady. "your mother..." she began with a flash of her eye, then checked herself abruptly. "adieu, verney," said she, and stretched out her hand to him. "adieu!" he repeated, all bewilderment. "ay," said she, "there chimes the abbey its silly old air. how long have i been with you, sir, alone? fie, fie, and must i not think of my reputation?" "surely, as my future wife..." said he. "why then the more reason," she said, cutting him short; "must i not show myself duly discreet? think of your lady mother! come, sir, take your leave." a moment she was taunting; a moment all delicious smiles. "i'll make him bleat!" she thought, and stamped her foot upon it. "as far as your door?" said he. "not a step," she vowed. "come, sir, adieu." he took her hand; bent and kissed her sedately. "i will," said he, "go write the news to my mother." "oh go!" said she, and turned on her heel with a flounce and was out of his sight, round the corner of an ally, with a whisk and flutter of tempestuous petticoats, before his slow boy's wits had time to claim the moment for the next meeting. there were actually tears in mistress kitty's eyes as she struck the gravel with her cane. she rubbed her cherry lips where his kiss had rested with a furious hand. "'twas positively matrimonial," she cried within herself, with angry double-threaded reminiscence--"the calf! did ever woman spend a more ridiculous hour--and in heaven's name, what's to be done?" scene xiv denis o'hara appropriately lived in gay street. as all the world knows, gay street runs steeply from the green exclusiveness of queen square, to the lofty elegance, the columnal solemnity of the king's circus. being a locality of the most fashionable, gay street was apt to be deserted enough at those hours when fashion, according to the unwritten laws of bath, foregathered in other quarters. towards eight o'clock of the evening of the day after his duel with sir jasper, mr. denis o'hara, seated at his open window, disconsolate in a very gorgeous dressing-gown and a slight fever fit, found it indeed so damnably deserted that the sight of a sedan-chair and two toiling chairmen coming up the incline became quite an object of interest to him. "to be sure," thought he, "don't i know it's only some old hen being joggled home to roost, after losing sixpence and her temper at piquet? but what's to prevent me beguiling myself for a bit by dreaming of some lovely young female coming to visit me in me misfortune? sure it's the rats those fellows are, that not one of them would keep me company to-night! there's nobody like your dear friends for smelling out an empty purse. musha!" said mr. o'hara, putting his head out of the window, "if the blessed ould chair isn't stopping at me own door!" a bell pealing through the house confirmed his observation. "it's a woman! by the powers, it's a woman! tim, tim, ye devil!" roared mr. o'hara, "come to me this minute, or i'll brain ye." conscious of his invalid _negligé_, he rose in his chair; but, curiosity proving stronger than decorum, was unable to tear himself from his post of vantage at the window. "oh! the doaty little foot!" he cried in rapture, as arched pink-silk instep and a brocade slipper of daintiest proportion emerged, in a little cloud of lace, from the dim recesses of the chair, upon his delighted vision. he turned for a moment to bellow again into the room: "tim, you limb of satan, where are you at all? sure, i'm not fit to be seen by any lady, let alone such a foot as that!" when he popped his head once more through the window, only the chairmen occupied the street. "it's for the ground floor, of course; for the french marquis," said o'hara, and sat down, feeling as flat as a pancake. the next instant a knock at the door sent the quick blood flying to the red head. the "limb of satan," more generally known as tim mahoney, an ingratiating, untidy fellow, with a cunning leer and a coaxing manner, stood ogling his master on the threshold; then he jerked with his thumb several times over his shoulder, and grinned with exquisite enjoyment. "what is it?" said o'hara fiercely. tim winked, and jerked his thumb once more. "speak, ye ugly divil, or by heavens i'll spoil your beauty for you!" "your sisther!" cried tim, with a rumbling subterraneous laugh. "me sisther, man?" "ay, yer honour," said the scamp, who, as o'hara's foster-brother, was well aware that his master boasted no such gentle tie. "sure she's heard your honour's wounded, and she's come to visit you. 'i'm misther o'hara's sister,' says she----" "and am i not?" cried a sweet voice behind him, "or, if not, at least a very, very dear cousin, and, in any case, i must see mr. o'hara at once, and alone." "to be sure," cried o'hara, eagerly rising in every way to the situation, and leaping forward. "show in the lady, you villain!--oh, my darling!" cried the irishman, opening generous arms, "but i am glad to see ye!--tim, you scoundrel, shut the door behind you!" the visitor was much enveloped, besides being masked. but there was not a moment's hesitation in the ardour of mr. o'hara's welcome. "sir, sir!" cried a faint voice from behind the folds of lace, "what conduct is this?" "oh, sisther darling, sure, me heart's been hungering for you! another kiss, me dear, dear cousin!" "mr. o'hara!" cried mistress bellairs, in tones of unmistakable indignation; tore off her mask, and stood with panting bosom and fiery eye. "tare and ages!" exclaimed the ingenuous irishman. "if it isn't me lovely kitty!" "mistress bellairs, if you please, mr. o'hara," said the lady with great dignity. "i am glad to see, sir, that that other passion of which i have heard so much has not interfered with the strength of your family affections." she sat down, and fanned herself with her mask, and, looking haughtily round the room, finally fixed her gaze, with much interest, upon the left branch of the chandelier. for a second, mr. o'hara's glib tongue seemed at a loss; but it was only for a second. with a graceful movement he gathered the skirts of his fine-flowered damask dressing-gown more closely over the puce satin small clothes, which, he was sadly conscious, were not in their first freshness, besides bearing the trace of one over-generous bumper of what he was fond of calling the ruby-wine. then, sinking on one knee, he began to pour a tender tale into the widow's averted ear. "and it's the fine ninny ye must think me, kitty darling--i beg your pardon, darling; ma'am it shall be, though i vow to see ye toss your little head like that, and set all those elegant little curls dancing, is enough to make anyone want to start you at it again. oh, sure, it's the divine little ear you have, but, be jabers, kitty, if it's the back of your neck you want to turn on me--there now, if i was to be shot for it, i couldn't help it--with the little place there just inviting my lips." "keep your kisses for your sister, sir, or your cousin!" "what in the world--- and d'ye think i didn't know you?" "a likely tale!" "may i die this minute if i didn't know you before ever you were out of the ould chair!" "pray, sir," with an angry titter, "how will even your fertile wits prove that?" "sure, didn't i see the little pink foot of you step out, and didn't i know it before ever it reached the ground?" "lord forgive you!" said mistress kitty gravely. but a dimple peeped. he had now possessed himself of her hand, which he was caressing with the touch of the tentative lover, tenderer than a woman's, full of mute cajoling inquiry. "i hope the lord may forgive me for setting up and worshipping an idol. i believe there's something against that in the commandments, darling, but sure, maybe, old moses wouldn't have been so hard on those israelites if they'd had the gumption to raise a pretty woman in the midst of them, instead of an old gilt calf." at this word, mistress kitty gave a perceptible start. "oh, dear," said she, "never, never speak to me of that dreadful animal again! oh, denis," she said, turning upon him for the first time her full eyes, as melting and as pathetic just then as it was in their composition to look, "i am in sad, sad trouble, and i don't know what to do!" here she produced a delicate handkerchief, and applied it to her eyelashes, which she almost believed herself had become quite moist. "me jewel!" cried mr. o'hara, preparing to administer the first form of consolation that occurred to him. "be quiet," said mistress kitty testily. "get up, sir! i have to consult you. there, there, sit down. oh, i am in earnest, and this is truly serious." mr. o'hara, though with some reluctance, obeyed. he drew his chair as near to the widow's as she would permit him, and pursed his lips into gravity. "you know my lord verney," began the fascinating widow. "i do," interrupted the irrepressible irishman, "and a decent quiet lad he is, though, devil take him, he makes so many bones about losing a few guineas at cards that one would think they grew on his skin!" "hush," said she. "_i can't abide him!_" mr. o'hara half started from his armchair. "say but the word," said he, "and i'll run him through the ribs as neat as----" "oh, be quiet," cried the lady, in much exasperation. "how can you talk like that when all the world knows he is to be my husband!" "your husband!" mr. o'hara turned an angry crimson to the roots of his crisp red hair. then he stopped, suffocating. "but i don't _want_ to marry him, you gaby," cried mistress kitty, with a charming smile. her lover turned white, and leaned back against the wing of his great chair. the physician had blooded him that morning by way of mending him for his loss of the previous night, and he felt just a little shaky and swimming. mistress kitty's eye became ever more kindly as it marked those flattering signs of emotion. "the noodle," said she vindictively, "mistook the purport of some merely civil words, and forthwith went about bleating to all bath that he and i were to be wed." "i'll soon stop his mouth for him," muttered mr. o'hara, moved to less refinement of diction than he usually affected. "oh, kitty," said he, and wiped his pale brow, "sure, it's the terrible fright you've given me!" here mistress bellairs became suddenly and inexplicably agitated. "you don't understand," said she, and stamped her foot. "oh, how can i explain? how are people so stupid! i was obliged to go to his rooms this morning--a pure matter of friendship, sir, on behalf of my lady standish. who would have conceived that the calf would take it for himself and think it was for _his_ sake i interfered between him and that madman, sir jasper! 'tis very hard," cried mistress kitty, "for a lone woman to escape calumny, and now there is my lord verney, after braying it to the whole of bath, this moment writing to his insufferable old mother. and there is that cockatoo aunt of his looking out her most ancient set of garnets and strass for a wedding-gift. and, oh dear, oh dear; what _am_ i to do?" she turned over the back of her chair, to hide her face in her pocket-handkerchief. in a twinkling, o'hara was again at her feet. "soul of my soul, pulse of my heart!" cried he. "sure, don't cry, kitty darling, i'll clear that little fellow out of your way before you know where you are." "indeed, sir," she said, flashing round upon him with a glance surprisingly bright, considering her woe. "and is that how you would save my reputation? no, i see there's nothing for it," said mistress kitty with sudden composure, folding up her handkerchief deliberately, and gazing up again at the chandelier with the air of an early martyr, "there's nothing for it but to pay the penalty of my good-nature and go live at verney hall between my virtuous lord verney and that paragon of female excellence and domestic piety, his mother." "now, by saint peter," cried o'hara, springing to his feet, "if i have to whip you from under his nose at the very altar, and carry you away myself, i'll save you from that, me darling!" "say you so?" cried the lady with alacrity. "then, indeed, sir," she proceeded with sweetest coyness, and pointed her dimple at him, "i'll not deny but what i thought you could help me, when i sought you to-night. there was a letter, sir," she said, "which yester morning i received. 'twas signed by a lock of hair----" "ah, kitty!" cried the enraptured and adoring irishman, once more extending wide his arms. "softly, sir," said she, eluding him. "let us to business." * * * * * scene xv "but you must understand," said the lady, "that you carry me off against my will." "to be sure," said he. "isn't poor denis o'hara to run away with you merely to save your reputation?" "so if i scream, sir, and give you a scratch or two, you will bear me no malice?" "bear you malice, is it?" said he, stopping to kiss each finger-tip of the hand which he contrived somehow should never be long out of his clasp. "me darling, sure, won't i love to feel your little pearls of nails on my cheek?" "and spare no expense upon chaise or horses," said she. "eh?" cried mr. o'hara, while a certain vagueness crept into his gaze. "me dear love, the best that money can produce--that money can produce," said mr. o'hara, and his eye rolled under the stress and strain of an inward calculation: ("there's my grandfather's watch; i'm afeared the works are not up to the gold case, but it might run to four guineas. and there's my jewelled snuff-box that the chevalier gave my father--no dash it, that's gone! there's my silver-hilted sword--i could exchange it for a black one and perhaps five guineas. and there's my three sets of mechlin...") while he cogitated, the lady smiled upon him with gentle raillery; then she popped her hand in her pocket and drew forth a well-filled case. "and did you think," said she, laying the case on the table, "that i would have the face to ask a _rich_ lover to elope with me?" "faith," said he, pursuing now aloud his silent addition, "there's the gold punch-bowl, too! i vowed as long as i'd a drop to mix in it i'd never part with the thing; but, sure, i little guessed what was in store for me--that will make twenty guineas or more. put up your money, kitty; i'll not consent to be paid for carrying you off, except," said he, "by your sweet lips." "now listen, sir," she cried, lifting up her finger, "you're a poor man." "i am that," said he. "and i," said she, "am a rich woman." "oh!" cried he, "kitty, my darling, and sure that's the last thing in the world i'd ever be thinking of now. when i laid my heart at your feet, my dear, 'twas for your own sweet sake, with never a thought of the lucre. what's money to me," said he, snapping his fingers, "not _that_, kitty darling! i despise it. why," he went on with his charming infectious smile, "i never had a gold piece in my pocket yet, but it burned a hole in it." she listened to him with a curious expression, half contemptuous, half tender. then she nodded. "i well believe you," said she. "come, come denis, don't be a fool. since the money is there, and we know for what purpose, what matters it between you and me who puts it down." "ah," he cried, with a sort of shame, abandoning his light tone for one of very real emotion, "you're an angel! i'm not worthy of you, but i'll try, kitty, i'll try." the lady looked slightly embarrassed. "i protest, sir; i cannot have you going on your knees again," she cried sharply, "and it's getting late, and the business is settled, i think." "leave it to me," said he; "sure, i could do it blindfold." "have the post-chay at the corner of bond street and quiet street, 'tis the darkest in bath, i think." "ay, and the relay at devizes, for we'll have to push the first stage." "and after?" said she, and looked at him doubtingly. "and after that--london. and sure i know an old boy in covent garden that will marry us in a twinkle." she nibbled her little finger. the rapture evoked on his countenance by this last prospect was not reflected upon hers. "but you forget," said she, "that i am to be abducted against my will, and what will people say if i marry you at the end of the journey without more ado?" "oh, faith," said he, without a shade of uneasiness, "shouldn't i be a poor fellow if i did not contrive to persuade you on the way? and then, what would the world say if you did not marry me after travelling all night with such a wild irish devil? sure," said he, with a wink, "what else could a poor woman do to save her reputation?" "true," said she, musingly, and tapped her teeth. she tied on her mask once more and drew up her hood, passive, in her mood of deep reflection, to his exuberant demonstrations. at the door she paused and looked back at him, her eyes strangely alluring through the black velvet peep-hole, her red lips full of mysterious promise beneath the black lace fall. "and i never asked," said she, in a melting tone, "after your wound? does it hurt you? will you be able, think you, to face the fatigues to-morrow night?" "ah, i have but one complaint, kitty," he cried, "and that's my mortal passion for you. and when a man's weak with love," he said, "sure it's then he's the strength of twenty." "not a step further," said she, "than this door. think of the chairmen and bath gossip. good-night." scene xvi "and now, child, what's the town talk?" said mistress bellairs. the nights were chilly, and a log crackled on the hearth. kitty, in the most charming _déshabillé_, stretched a pink slippered foot airily towards the blaze. "la, ma'am," said miss lydia, as with nervous fingers she uncoiled one powdered roll and curl after another, "all the morning the gossip was upon sir jasper's meeting with colonel villiers at hammer's fields. and all the afternoon----" she paused and poised a brush. "all the afternoon? speak, child. you know," said her mistress piously, "that i had to spend my evening by the side of a dear sick friend." "well, ma'am," said the maid, "the talk is all about your own marriage with the young lord verney." "mercy, girl," cried the lady with a little scream, "you needn't hit my head so hard with those bristles! what's taken you? and what do people think of that?" "why, ma'am," said the abigail, wielding her brush more tenderly, and permitting her irritation to betray itself only in the sharp snap of her voice, "my lord verney's man says he pities anyone that will have to go and live with her old la'ship at verney hall." "ha!" said kitty, and gave herself a congratulatory smile in the handglass. "and mr. burrell, ma'am, that's lady maria's butler, and a wise old gentleman he is, he says the marriage'll never take place, ma'am, for neither his own la'ship, nor the lady at verney hall, would allow of it, ma'am." "oh, indeed?" exclaimed mistress bellairs, stiffening herself, "that's all they know about it! lydia, you untruthful, impertinent girl, how dare you tell me such a story?" "i'm sure i beg your pardon, ma'am," said lydia, sniffing. "i'm sure i up and told mr. burrell that if you'd set your heart on wedding such a poor ninny as lord verney--i beg pardon, ma'am, i'm sure he'll be a very nice young nobleman, when his beard begins to grow--'twas not likely a deaf old cat like his mistress could prevent him. and i told lord verney's man, ma'am--and an impudent fellow he is--that you'd soon teach the dowager her place, once you were mistress in verney hall." "well, well," said the lady, mollified, "and what says the rest of your bath acquaintance?" "squire juniper's head coachman says his master'll drink himself to death, as sure as eggs, on the day that sees you another's, ma'am. he's been taking on terrible with madeira ever since he's heard the news. and the marquis' running footman, he says 'that lady flyte'll have it all her own way with his lordship now, and mores the pity, for,' says he, 'her la'ship's not fit to hold a candle to the widow'; excuse the language, he knows no better, his strength is mostly in his legs, ma'am. and mr. stafford's jockey says, ma'am, that in his opinion you're a lady as will never be drove again in double harness." "did he say so, indeed!" said mistress bellairs, reflectively. "well, my good creature, and what say you?" "la!" said the maid, and the brush trembled over her mistress's curls, "i say, ma'am, that if you was to make such a sacrifice, you so young, and lovely, and so much admired, i humbly hopes you might pick out someone livelier than my lord verney." "now, whom," said mistress bellairs, in a tone of good-humoured banter, "would you choose, i wonder? what would you say to the marquis, lydia?" "oh, ma'am! his lordship is a real nobleman--as the prize-fighters all say--and a better judge in the cockpit, mr. bantam, the trainer, says, never breathed, drunk or sober; and no doubt when he's sober, ma'am, he'd make as good a husband as most." "well, well, girl, enough of him. what of mr. stafford, now?" "oh, mr. stafford, ma'am, that's a comely gentleman; not one bit of padding under his stockings, and an eye 'twould wheedle the very heart out of one's bosom! and, no doubt, if you ever thought of him, ma'am, you'd see that he paid off the little french milliner handsome. he's a very constant gentleman," said miss lydia, with a suspicion of spite. "pooh," cried the lady, and pushed her chair away from the fire, "what nonsense you do talk! and pray what thinks your wisdom of mr. o'hara?" "lud! ma'am," cried the guileless maiden, "that's the gentleman as was found behind lady standish's curtains." "if you were not a perfect idiot," cried the widow, "you would not repeat _that_ absurd tale, much less expect me to believe it. mr. o'hara has never even spoken to lady standish." the unusual warmth in her mistress's tone struck the girl's sharp wits. she glanced quickly at the lady's reflection in the glass, and made no reply. "come," said mistress bellairs, "what else have you against him? is he not handsome, child?" "why, ma'am, handsome enough for such as like red hair." "and merry, and good company?" "oh, ma'am, none better, as half the rogues in bath know." "tush--you mean he is good-natured, i suppose?" "he never said 'no' in his life, ma'am, i do believe, to man or woman." "well, then?" cried her mistress testily. "and generous," gabbled lydia, charmed by the cloud she beheld gathering on the brow reflected in the glass, "open-handed, ma'am. mr. mahoney--that queer peculiar servant of his--many a time he's told me, ma'am, that his only way to keep his wages for himself, and seldom he sees the sight of them, is to spend them at once, for his good master is that free-handed, ma'am, he'd give the coat off his servant's back." "i'm quite aware," said the lady loftily, "that mr. o'hara's estates in ireland are slightly embarrassed." "i don't know what they call it, ma'am," cried lydia shrilly. "it's not a ha'porth of rent the old lord's seen these twelve months. last year they lived on the pictures. and now it's the plate, i'm told. but, indeed, ma'am, as mr. mahoney says, what does it matter to a gay gentleman like mr. o'hara? sure, he's the sort, as he says to me only yesterday, that would come to a fortune on monday and be sending to the pawnshop on saturday." "you may go to bed, lydia," cried mistress bellairs, rising hastily; "you've half deafened me with your chatter." left alone the little lady sat down by the fire in a melancholy mood. "the sort that would come to a fortune on monday, and be sending to the pawnshop on saturday.... i'm afraid it's true. yet, i believe, he loves me, poor denis! i vow," she said to herself, "'tis the only one of them all that i could _endure_. yes, i could endure denis, vastly well ... for a while at least. and now," said she, "what's to be done! oh, i'd be loath to baulk him of the pleasure of running away with me! 'tis the only decent way indeed of breaking with my lord verney. and it certainly struck me that master stafford was mighty cool upon the matter. i've been too quiet of late, and that odious bab flyte thinks she can have everything her own way.... but, i'll be rescued," she said, "at devizes--i shall have to be rescued at devizes. my poor dear; he may be happy at least for an hour or two ... as far as devizes!" her brow cleared; the dimples began to play. "we shall see," she smiled more broadly, "if we cannot prod his calfship into a night trot. 'twill do his education a vastness of service.... but the poor creature," she reflected further, "is scarce to be depended on. who knows whether his mother would approve of his breathing the night air.... i must," mistress kitty's pretty forehead became once more corrugated under the stress of profound thought--"i must," she murmured, "have another string to my bow, or my sweet o'hara will marry me after all. dear fellow, how happy we should be from monday ... till saturday! who? who, shall it be? ... my lord marquis might take the _rôle_ in earnest and spoil my pretty fellow's beauty. squire juniper? he would sure be drunk. and master stafford? oh, _he_ may stay with the french milliner for me!" suddenly the lady's perplexed countenance became illumined. "sir jasper?" she said. "sir jasper--the very man! the good julia--i owe it to her to bring matters to an _éclaircissement_. and, sir jasper--oh, he richly deserves a midnight jolt, for 'tis owing to his monstrous jealousy that i am put to all this trouble. 'twill be a fine thing indeed," thought mistress bellairs with a burst of self-satisfied benevolence, "if i can demonstrate to sir jasper, once for all, the folly into which this evil passion may lead a man." scene xvii "if you please, my lady," said mistress megrim, "i should like to quit your ladyship's service." "how?" cried lady standish, waking with a start out of the heavy sleep of trouble, and propping herself upon her elbow, to gaze in blinking astonishment at the irate pink countenance of her woman. lady standish looked very fair and young, poor little wife, with her half-powdered curls of hair escaping in disorder from the laces of her nightcap, and her soft blue eyes as full of uncomprehending grief as a frightened baby's. mistress megrim gazed upon her coldly and her old-maid's heart hardened within her. "no, your ladyship," said she, with a virtuous sniff, "i shouldn't feel as i was doing my duty to her ladyship, your mother, nor to my humble self, were i to remain an hour longer than i could help, the handmaid of sin." "oh, dear," said lady standish, letting herself fall back on her pillows with a weary moan, "i do wish you'd hold your tongue, woman, and allow me to rest! pull the curtain again; oh, how my head aches!" "very well, my lady," ejaculated megrim, all at once in a towering passion. "since you're that hardened, my lady, that a sign from heaven couldn't melt your heart--i allude to that man of god, his lordship the bishop (oh, what a holy gentleman that is!); and, my lady, me and mistress tremlet saw him out of the pantry window as he shook the dust of this house of iniquity from his shoes; if that vessel of righteousness could not prevail with your ladyship, what hopes have i that you'll hear the voice of the lord through me?" "megrim, hold your tongue," said her mistress in unwontedly angered tones, "pull the curtains and go away!" with a hand that trembled with fury mistress megrim fell upon the curtains and rattled them along their pole. then she groped her way to lady standish's bedside and stood for some seconds peering malevolently at her through the darkness. "i wouldn't believe it, my lady," she hissed in a ghastly whisper, "although indeed i might have known that such a gentleman as sir jasper would never have taken on like that if he hadn't had grounds. but you've mistaken your woman, when you think you can make an improper go-between of me! oh," cried she, with a rigid shudder, "i feel myself defiled as with pitch, that these fingers should actually have touched sich a letter!" "for goodness sake," moaned the lady from her pillows, "what are you talking about now?" "my lady," said megrim sepulchrally, "when that minx with her face muffled up in a hood, came and had the brazen boldness to ask for me this morning, saying she had some lace of your ladyship's from the mender's, and that it was most particular and must be given into my hands alone, my mind misgave me. 'twas like an angel's warning. the more so as there isn't a scrap of your ladyship's lace as has been to the mender's since we came here." "mercy, megrim, how you do ramble on! i can't make head or tail of your stupid story." even a dove will peck. "ho, do i, my lady! can't you indeed? perhaps your ladyship will understand better when i tell her, that that same bold thing had no lace at all--but a letter. 'give it to your mistress,' says she, 'in secret, and for your life don't let sir jasper see it.'" "well, give it to me," said lady standish, "and hold your tongue, and go and pack your trunks as soon as you like." "ho, my lady," cried the incorruptible megrim, with an acid laugh, "i hope i know my christian duty better. i brought the letter to my master, according to the voice of conscience. and now," she concluded, with a shrill titter, "i'll go and pack my trunks." yet she paused, expecting to enjoy lady standish's outburst of terror and distress. there was no sign from the bed, however, not even a little gasp. and so mistress megrim was fain to depart to her virtuous trunks without even that parting solace. meanwhile, with the pillow of her spotless conscience to rest upon, and deadened to fresh disturbances by the despairing reflection that nothing for the present could make matters much worse between her and her husband, lady standish, without attempting to solve the fresh problem, determinedly closed her weary eyes upon the troubles of the world and drifted into slumber again. * * * * * "i shall catch them red-handed," said sir jasper. this time all doubt was over: in his hand lay the proof, crisp and fluttering. he read it again and again, with a kind of ghastly joy. unaddressed, unsealed, save by a foolish green wafer with a cupid on it, the document which mistress megrim's rigid sense of duty had delivered to him instead of to his guilty wife, was indited in the self-same dashing hand as marked the crumpled rag that even now burned him through his breast-pocket like a fly-blister. "i never got a wink of sleep, dreaming of you, dearest dear, so soon to be my own at last! the chay shall be drawn by horses such as phoebus himself, my darling, would have envied. and, so you fail me not, we shall soon be dashing through the night--a world of nothing but happiness and love before us. i could find it in my heart to bless the poor foolish individual who shall be nameless, since, had it not been for my lovely one's weariness of him, she might never have turned to the arms of her own devoted, red curl! p.s.--i'll have as good a team as there is in england (barring the one that shall bring us there), waiting for us at the black bear, devizes. we ought to arrive before midnight, and there shall be a dainty trifle of supper for your beautyship--while the nags are changed. ah, my dear, _what_ rapture!" indescribable were the various expressions that crossed sir jasper's countenance upon the perusal and re-perusal of this artless missive. now he gnashed his teeth; now snorts of withering scorn were blown down the channels of his fine aquiline nose; now smiles of the most deadly description curled and parted luridly his full lips. "ha, ha!" said sir jasper, "and perhaps the poor foolish individual may give you cause for something less than blessings, master carrots! and i think, madam, your beautyship may find at devizes something harder to digest than that trifle of supper! till then, patience!" he folded the letter, placed it beside its fellow, and once more, with a sort of bellow, he cried, "_patience!_" * * * * * "well, lydia?" said bellairs. she had but just finished her chocolate, and looked like a rose among her pillows. "well, madam," said lydia, still panting from her hurried quest, "'tis safe delivered. i gave it into mistress megrim's own hands, and----" "and can you reckon," said the lady, smiling at the amusing thought, "upon her bringing it straight to sir jasper?" "ah, lud, ma'am, yes. i told the sour, ugly old cat, that if her master caught sight of it, lady standish would be ruined. you should have seen how she grabbed at it, ma'am!" "lydia," said her mistress, looking at her admiringly, "i question whether i'd have risked it myself; you're a bold girl! but there, if anything fail, you know that rose-coloured pelisse remains hanging in my closet." "never fear, ma'am," said lydia, smiling quietly to herself, as she pulled her mistress's long pink silk stocking over her hand, and turned it knowingly from side to side, looking for invisible damage, "the pelisse is as good as mine already." "but, think you, was sir jasper at home?" said mistress bellairs, after a few moments' reflection. "i am sure of that," said lydia triumphantly, peeling off the stocking. "i thought it best to go in by the mews, ma'am, and i heard that sir jasper had not left the house since that little--that little affair with the bishop, you know, ma'am. but all the night, and all the morning, he kept william and joseph (those are the grooms, ma'am) going backwards and forwards with challenges to the bishop's lodgings." "oh!" cried kitty, and kicked her little toes under the silk counterpane with exquisite enjoyment, "and what does the bishop answer, i wonder?" "sends back the letter every time unopened, ma'am, with a fresh text written on the back of it. the texts it is, william says, that drive sir jasper mad." "oh! oh! oh!" cried mistress kitty faintly, rolling about her pillows. "child, you'll be the death of me! ... well, then, to business. you know what you are to do to-night?" "no sooner are you gone to the assembly rooms this evening, ma'am, than i take a letter from you for lady standish, and this time deliver it myself to her own hand, and, if needs be, persuade her to follow your advice, ma'am." "right, girl; thou shalt have the gold locket with the turkey stones----" "thank you, ma'am. well, then, i'm to scurry as fast as i can to the corner of bond street and quiet street, and watch you being carried off by the gentleman. and then----" "be sure you wait till the chaise has well started." "yes, ma'am, of course! when you're safely on the london road, i'll go and give the alarm at the assembly rooms." "remember, you ask first for lord verney." "oh, ay, ma'am. 'my mistress is carried off, is carried off! help, help, my lord!' i'll say. oh, ma'am, i'll screech it well out, trust me." "don't forget," said her mistress, whose mood became every moment merrier, "don't forget to say that you heard the ravisher mention london, by devizes." "well, ma'am," said lydia, "i thought of saying that he first flung you swooning upon the cushions of the chay; then, stepping in himself, cried out to the coachman, with an horrible oath, 'if you're not in devizes before twelve, i'll flay you with your own whip, and then hang you with it to the shaft!'" "aha, ha, lydia," laughed her mistress. "i see i must give you a gold chain to hang that locket upon. but pray, child," she added warningly, "be careful not to overdo it." scene xviii the livelong day lady standish had not beheld the light of her lord's countenance. upon their last meeting, his behaviour to the bishop having roused in her gentle bosom a feeling as nearly akin to resentment as it was capable of harbouring, she would not be (she had resolved) the one to seek him first. she had, therefore, passed the day in her own apartment in writing to her mother, and in practising her last song to the harp--a piece of audacity and independence which she expected would have goaded sir jasper into an instant interview with herself. when the dusk rose, however, and the candles were brought in by the round-eyed handmaid, whose ministrations replaced those of megrim (the latter was still packing, and seemed like to take some weeks in the process), and the said round-eyed damsel immediately began to inform her mistress that sir jasper had set forth in his coach, lady standish's small flame of courage began to flicker woefully. "alone?" she asked in white dismay. "please, my lady, mr. bowles was driving, and there was mr. thomas behind, my lady." "pshaw, girl! did sir jasper take any luggage?" "oh yes, my lady; there was his yellow bag, mr. toombs says, and a small wooden case." "heavens!" cried lady standish, with increasing alarm. "and whither went they?" "please, my lady, mr. toombs says they took the london road." fain would the round-eyed maid have lingered and told more, but lady standish waved her hand faintly, and so dismissed her. an hour later, lydia, brisk with importance, and sparkling with conscious power, found the much-tried soul sunk in a sort of apathetic weariness of misery. "mistress bellairs' love, my lady, and will you read this letter at once?" lady standish took the letter from the black-mittened hand. "please my lady, 'tis of the utmost importance," said lydia, "and i was to wait and see if i could not be of use to you." something magnetic in the girl's lively tone gave impetus to lady standish's suspended energies. she broke the seal. "my sweet child," wrote mistress kitty. "if you want to know what has become of your husband, you will instantly take a chaise and start off for the black bear at devizes. "your true friend, "k. b. "postscriptum.--do not go alone. get some old hag (if possible lady maria prideaux) to accompany you. you will find her in the assembly rooms. she's as curious as our first mother--you can easily persuade her. _this is good advice!_" "i am much too ill," cried lady standish, upon a moan. "tell your mistress," said she, looking vaguely in lydia's direction, "that indeed 'tis quite impossible i should do as she suggests." "very well, my lady," said lydia cheerfully. "i'm sure i shouldn't trouble myself if i was you. gentlemen _must_ have their diversions, i always say. if ladies would but shut their eyes a little more, 'twould be for the peace of all parties. indeed, my lady, though my mistress would be angry to hear me say so, i'd go to bed, for you look sorely tired, and sir jasper'll be glad enough to come home bye-and-bye." "wretched girl," cried julia, and her eyes flashed, "what dost thou mean?" "la, now!" said lydia, all innocence, "how my tongue do run away with me, to be sure! why, my lady, what can a poor servant-maid like me know of the goings on of gentles? 'tis but a few words of gossip here and there." "oh, merciful heavens, _what_ gossip mean you?" "my lady, have a sip of _volatile_, do! oh, my mistress would be like to kill me if she knew what i've been saying! 'poor julia,' she cried when she got the news. 'poor julia, my poor confiding julia! oh, the villain, the monster!'" "good god, and whom did she refer to?" "lud, madam, how can i tell? '_it shall not be!_' cries my mistress, and down she sits and writes off to you, as if for bare life." lady standish, rising from her seat, rushed to the light, and with starting eyes and bristling hair began to read afresh her fond kitty's missive. "la, my lady," cried the guileless lydia, "you're all of a shake! i'd never be that upset about sir jasper. why, if your la'ship'll allow me to say so, all bath knows how jealous he is of your la'ship; and, certain that shows a husband's affection." "true," cried julia, "that's true, girl!" "and as for those who say, my lady, that some men are so artful that they put on a deal of jealousy to cover a deal of fickleness, i'd despise myself if i was to pay heed to such mean suspiciousness." "my cloak!" cried lady standish. "megrim, susan!" she flew to the hall. "my cloak, let a post-chaise be ordered immediately!" "if i may make so bold, my lady," said lydia, retiring gracefully upon the conviction of a well-accomplished errand, "don't forget to take lady maria with you, if you can. the gentlemen have such a way of turning tables on us poor women--at least," said the damsel demurely, "so i've heard said. and 'tis a long lonely road, my lady!" scene xix mistress bellairs took her departure early. attired in unusually sober colours, floating in an atmosphere of chastened, matronly dignity, she had shown herself this evening, thought lord verney, quite worthy to be his mother's daughter-in-law. "monstrous dull," lady flyte called the pretty widow's demeanour. beyond a _gavotte_ with lord verney, she had not danced, but sat for half-an-hour on the chair next to lady maria, who presented her with the vision of a shoulder-blade which had seen better days, and an impenetrability of hearing which baffled even kitty's undaunted energy. when verney had tucked her up in her sedan she insisted upon the young peer allowing her to proceed home unescorted. "indeed," said she, "i pray you, nay, i order you. people talk so in this giddy place, and have you not your aged aunt to wait upon? i am sure," said mistress kitty piously, "that your dear mother would wish it thus." he submitted. he had no doubt that his mother would indeed entirely concur with such sentiments, and blessed his kitty for her sweet reasonableness. "good-night, then," she said, thrusting her pretty face out of the window with a very tender and gentle smile. "good-night," he replied, with his young, gracefully-awkward bow. she fully expected to hear his footstep pursue the chairman, for she had not been able to refrain from throwing her utmost fascination into that parting look. but nothing broke the silence of the parade save the measured slouching tramp of the bearers. at once disappointed and relieved, she threw herself back in her seat. "what, not a spark left," said she, "of the fine flame 'twas so easy to kindle this morning! 'tis the very type of the odious british husband. let him be but sure of you, and the creature struts as confident of his mastery as the cock among his hens. lord!" she shuddered, "what an escape i have had! we women are apt to fancy that very young men are like very young peas, the greener, the tenderer, the better; whereas," said the lady, with a sigh, "they are but like young wine, crude where we look for strength, all head and no body, and vastly poor upon the palate." she sighed again, and closed her eyes, waiting for the moment of the impending catastrophe with a delicate composure. in truth, mr. o'hara conducted the performance with so much _brio_ as to convince mistress bellairs that he must have had previous experience of the kind. at the dark appointed corner the two muffled individuals who, each selecting his own astonished chairman, enlaced him with overwhelming brotherly affection, seemed such thorough-paced ruffians in the dim light, that mistress kitty found it quite natural to scream--and even had some difficulty in keeping her distressful note down to the pitch of necessary discretion. and her heart fluttered with a sensation of fear, convincing enough to produce quite a delightful illusion, when she found herself bodily lifted out of her nest and rapidly carried through the darkness in an irresistibly close and strong embrace. "oh, oh, oh!" cried the lady, in a modulated sequence of little shrieks. "merciful heavens!" she thought to herself, with a great thump of the heart, astonished at her ravisher's silence, "what if it should be someone else after all?" but the next instant the rich brogue of a tender whisper in her ear dispelled all doubt. "you've forgotten the scratches, my darling," said o'hara, as he laid her preciously upon the cushions of the chaise. here mr. mahoney and his comrade--which latter bore a curious resemblance in build and gait to one of the sporting marquis's own celebrated gladiators--came running up to take their seats. in leaped o'hara--the coachman lifted his whip, and the team that phoebus might have envied started up the length of milsom street in style. * * * * * the chairmen, drawing their breath with some difficulty after their spell of strangulation, stared in amazement at the clattering shadow as it retreated up the steep street; and then back, and in fresh amazement, at the yellow guinea which had been pressed, and now glinted, in the palm of their hands. presently a simultaneous smile overspread their honest countenances. "a queer go," said the first, easing and readjusting his necklace. "lud, the little madam did squeak!" "i'd let them all squeak at the same price," said the other, pocketing his coin, and resuming his place in rear of the sedan. "but come, bill, we must go report this 'orrible crime. rabbit me!--what's that?" a blood-curdling wail had risen out of the night, from his very elbow it seemed. it circled in frightful cadence, and died away in ghost-like fashion. "'t--'tis but a sick cat, i hope," stammered the first chairman, and dived for the chair-poles in marked hurry. "o--o--o--o," moaned the voice, "oh, my mistress!" there was a flutter, a patter, and: "merciful heavens, you wretches!" cried mistress bellairs's devoted woman, emerging like a gust of wind from the blackest shadow of bond street and falling upon the nearest chairman with a well-aimed flap of her shawl, followed up by a couple of scratches. "wretches, monsters, you've let my mistress be carried away! oh heavens, my unhappy mistress!" cried lydia, and rent the night with her cries. * * * * * mistress kitty's chair had no sooner left the precincts of the assembly rooms when my lady standish's post-chaise came clattering round the corner. lord verney, who was just about to go in again, arrested by curiosity, turned to wonder at a visitor who arrived in so unwonted a conveyance. recognising lady standish he was somewhat abashed and somewhat disconcerted, but felt he could do no less than advance through the crowd of foot and chair men and offer his hand. "o, pray, lord verney," said she in a strenuous whisper, "conduct me to your aunt, for i have great need of her help and counsel. take me to her at once," said the poor lady, in ever-increasing agitation. they passed through the elegant throng, she unconscious alike of recognition, comment, or titter, he feeling to his boy's marrow, the sensation created by her travelling gear and distraught appearance. "would i were back at verney hall," thought he, and found that this wish had been long gathering in his heart. no need of an ear-trumpet for lady maria now. the dowager recovered her powers of hearing with almost miraculous celerity. "oh, lady maria!" said lady standish, holding out both her hands. and incontinently she burst into tears. "oh, lady maria, sir jasper has left me, i am in sad trouble! i'm told he has gone to devizes. i must follow him. you are my mother's oldest friend; will you give me the support of your company and protection?" there was quite a buzz in the interested circle. lady maria nodded round, charmed with the situation; bristling with delighted curiosity, she was more like mistress kitty's cockatoo than ever. "poor young thing, poor young thing," she said, patting lady standish's hand; "your mother's oldest friend, quite so--quite right and proper to come to me. and so sir jasper's left you; so sir jasper's gone; and with whom, my dear?" lady maria fondly believed that she spoke these last words in a gentle aside; but never had her sepulchral bass resounded more sonorously. lady standish's faint cry of shocked disclaimer was, however, completely drowned in the fresh rumour, lacerated by shrill feminine shrieks, which now arose in the vestibule of the assembly rooms and rapidly advanced. "my lord verney! my mistress! where is my lord verney?" wailed the distraught lydia, who thoroughly enjoyed her _rôle_. a hundred voices took up the cry; the astounding news passed from group to group: "the pretty widow has been carried off!" "mistress bellairs has been abducted!" and then, in counter clamour and antiphone: "and my lady standish is looking for sir jasper!" meanwhile, before lord verney, dumb and suffocating under a variety of emotions, lydia wringing her hands and with the most thrilling notes of tragic woe (as nearly copied from mistress susanna cibber as she could remember), narrated her tristful tale. "he flung my unhappy mistress, swooning and shrieking, into the chaise. and 'drive like the devil,' cries he in a voice of thunder to the coachman. 'i'll flay you with your own whip and hang you to your own shaft,' says he, 'if you're not in devizes before midnight!'" "devizes!" cried lady standish with a scream. hanging on lydia's utterance, every word of which confirmed the awful suspicion that had entered her heart, she now could no longer doubt the real extent of her misfortune. "oh, lord verney, save my mistress!" lydia's pipe dominated the universal chorus with piercing iteration. and now lady maria's bass struck in again. "what did i say?" cried she triumphantly. "nevvy, you'd better go to bed! you're well out of her. julia, my dear, don't faint, we can catch them at devizes yet. someone tell that wench to stop that screeching! julia, come! you've got the chay, i understand. fortunately, my house is near; we shall just call for burrell and make him ride behind with his blunderbuss. child, if you faint i wash my hands of the whole affair. we'll nip them, i tell you, if you'll only brisk up." "i won't faint," said lady standish setting her teeth. * * * * * lord verney suddenly awoke to the fact that he had been grievously injured, and that he was in a towering passion. spluttering, he demanded vengeance of gods and men. post-chaise, ho, and pistols, forthwith! "my sword!" cried he, feeling for the blade which, however, according to the regulations enforced by the immortal master of the bath ceremonies, was absent from its natural post on his noble hip in this polite assembly. "come with me," cried captain spicer, clapping his patron on the shoulder in a burst of excitement. "i'll stand to you, of course, lad! you'll want a witness. gad!" exclaimed the amiable captain, "we'll have sir jasper's liver on the spit before crow of cock!" scene xx the side-rays of the chaise-lamps played on the widow's soft, saucy face, threw beguiling shadows under her eyes, and fleeting dimples round those lips that seemed perpetually to invite kisses. cosily nestling in the corner of the carriage, her head in its black silk hood tilted back against the cushions, in the flickering uncertain gleam, there was something almost babyish in her whole appearance; something babyish, too, in her attitude of perfect confidence and enjoyment. denis o'hara, with one arm extended above her head, his hand resting open on the panel, the other hand still clasping the handle of the door, gazed upon the woman who had placed herself so completely in his power, and felt smitten to the heart of him with a tenderness that was well-nigh pain. hitherto his glib tongue had never faltered with a woman that his lips were not ready to fill the pause with a suitable caress. but not so to-day. "what's come to me at all?" said he to himself, as, frightened by the very strength of his own passion, he could find no word at once ardent and respectful enough in which to speak it. and, indeed, "what had come to him?" was what mistress kitty was thinking about the same time. "and what may his arm be doing over my head?" she wondered. "how beautiful you are!" babbled the irishman at last. mistress bellairs sat up with an angry start. it was as if she had been stung. "heavens!" cried she, thrusting her little forefingers into her ears. "mr. o'hara, if you say that again, i shall jump out of the chay." her eyes flashed; she looked capable of fulfilling her threat upon the spot. "me darling heart," said he, and had perforce to lay his hands upon her to keep her still. "sure what else can i say to you, with my eyes upon your angel face?" apparently the lady's ears were not so completely stopped but that such words could penetrate. "'tis monstrous," said she in hot indignation, "that i should go to all this trouble to escape from the bleating of that everlasting refrain, and have it buzzed at me," she waxed incoherent under the sense of her injuries, "thus at the very outset!" "my dear love," said he, humbly, capturing the angry, gesticulating hand, "sure me heart's so full that it's just choking me." she felt him tremble beside her as he spoke. now the trembling lover was not of those that entered into mistress kitty's scheme of existence. she had, perhaps, reckoned, when planning her escapade, upon being made to tremble a little herself. she had certainly reckoned upon a journey this evening that should be among the most memorable in the annals of her impressions. o'hara bashful! o'hara tongue-tied! o'hara with cold fingers that hardly dared to touch hers! o'hara, the gay rattler, with constrained lips! this was an o'hara whose existence she had not dreamed of, and for whose acquaintance, to say the truth, she had small relish. "what has come to you?" she cried aloud, with another burst of petulance. "faith," said he, "and i hardly know myself, kitty darling. oh, kitty," said he, "'tis vastly well to laugh at love, and play at love; but when love comes in earnest it takes a man as it were by the throat, and it's no joke then." "so i see," said she, with some dryness. o'hara clenched his hand and drew a laboured breath. * * * * * straining, slipping now and again, breaking into spurts of trot, to fall into enforced walking pace once more, the gallant team had dragged the chaise to the summit of the great rise at a speed quite unprecedented, yet comparatively slow. now the way lay down-hill. the coachman waved his whip. bounding along the fair road the wheels hummed; the night-wind blowing in through the half-opened window, set mistress kitty's laces flapping on her bosom, and a stray curl of mr. o'hara's dancing on his pale forehead. the exhilaration of the rapid flight, the crack of the whip, the mad rhythm of the hoofs, the witchery of the night hour, the risks of the situation, the very madness of the whole enterprise, all combined to set the widow's gay blood delightfully astir, mounting to her light brain like sparkling wine. what! were all the accessories of the play to be so perfect, and was the chief character to prove such a lamentable failure in his part? what! was she, kitty bellairs, to be carried off by the most notorious rake in bath, only to find him as awkward, as dumb, as embarrassed with the incomparable situation as the veriest greenhorn? "it shall not, and it cannot be," said she to herself. and thereupon she changed her tactics. "why," said she aloud, with the cooing note of her most melting mood, "i protest one would think, sir, that you were afraid of me." "aye, kitty," said he, simply; "and so i am." "oh, fie!" she laughed. "and how have i alarmed you? think of me," said she, and leaned her face towards him with a smile of archest wit, "not as a stranger, but as a sisther, as a dear, dear cousin." his eye flamed back at her. her merry mood was as incongruous to his sudden, storm-serious growth of passion as the gay lilt of a tambourine might be to a solemn chant. "i think of you," he said, and there was a deep thrill in his voice, "as my wife that is to be." and so saying he fell upon his knees in the narrow space, and tenderly kissed a fold of her lace, as one, from the knowledge of his own fire, afraid of a nearer touch. the word "wife" had never a pleasing sound in the lovely widow's ears. from neither the past nor the future did it evoke for her an attractive picture. coming from those lips, by which it was the very last name she desired to hear herself called, it aroused in her as pretty a fit of fury as ever she had indulged in. "now, indeed, is the murder out!" she cried. "oh, you men are all alike. as lovers--all fire, capsicums indian suns! bottles of sillery always bursting! torrents not to be stemmed.... but, lo you! let the lover once fancy himself the husband, let the vision of the coveted mistress but merge into the prospect of the secured wife.... merciful heavens, what a change! for fire we have ice; for the red, biting capsicum, the green, cool cucumber; for joyous, foaming sillery, the smallest ale; small ale--nay, toast and water!" cried mistress kitty, lashing herself to finer frenzy. "and if the mere sense of your security thus transforms the lover in you, what a pleasing prospect, indeed, lies before the wedded wife! no, thank you, sir," said the lady, and pushed the petrified o'hara with an angry foot, "i have had one wintry, toast-and-water husband, and that shall be enough for my lifetime. thank god, it is not too late yet!" she fumed. "i am not yet, sir, mistress o'hara." and in the very midst of her indignation: "this will," she thought, "simplify the parting at devizes." but no whit was her wrath thereby abated, that the fool should have spoiled her pretty ride. for a moment, after the angry music of her voice had ceased to ring, there was a breathless silence, broken only by the straining progress of horses and chaise up the sides of another hill. then o'hara broke forth into a sort of roar of wounded tenderness, passion, and ire. flinging himself back upon the seat, he seized her wrist in a grip, fierce, yet still gentle under its fierceness. "how dare ye!" cried the man, "how dare ye doubt my love! sure the flames of hell are cold compared to me this minute. may my tongue wither in my mouth, may it be cut out of my jaws and never speak a word of sense again, may i be struck dead at your feet, kitty, for the rest of my life, if it's not gospel truth! listen to my heart," he cried, with yet greater vehemence, pressing her captive hand against his breast, "isn't it _kitty, kitty, kitty_ ... that it's saying? sure it's nothing but a bell, and your name is the clapper in it! ... and you to be railing at me because it's so much i have to say that never a word can i bring out! oh," pursued mr. o'hara, waxing louder and more voluble still, "sure what could i say, with my heart in my mouth stopping the way? look at it, you cruel woman; isn't it all yours, and aren't you sticking pins into it for sheer devilment, this minute? god forgive me, that i should say such a thing of an angel! look at it, now, kitty! is that the heart of a cucumber? ... if you had said a love-apple itself.... och, indeed, it's the real cool cucumber i am, and it's toast and water that's running through my veins like fire! ... laugh, madam, laugh, it's a grand joke entirely! make a pin-cushion of the cucumber! see, now, is that small ale that bursts from the wounds? upon my soul," he cried, arrived at the height of his tempest, "i have a mind to show you the colour of it!" he reached violently towards the back seat for his sword as he spoke, and mistress bellairs, suddenly arrested in her delighted paroxysm, was sufficiently convinced of the strength of his feelings to stop him with clinging hands and clamouring little notes of terror: "o'hara! madman!--for god's sake, denis!" "ah!" cried he. "it's not hot enough i was for ye. it's the cold husband you're afraid of. ah, kitty, you've stirred the sleeping dog, you mustn't complain now if you can't put out the fire!" so saying, he turned and clasped her in an embrace that left her scarcely breath to scream, had she so wished, and had indeed the kisses which he rained upon her lips allowed her space in which to place a protest. her light soul, her easy shallow nature, was carried as it were off its feet in the whirlwind of a passion the mere existence of which, with all her experience, she had never even guessed. to say the truth, so much as she had deemed him vastly too cold, so now she found him vastly too hot. she was a woman of niceties, an epicure in life and love, and nothing met with her favour but the delicate happy mean. this was a revelation, with a warning. "mr. o'hara," she gasped, at length released, fluttering like a ruffled dove, all in anger and fear, "such treatment! for a gentleman, sir, you strangely forget yourself." she laid her hand on the window strap. "not a word, sir, or i will instantly give the order to turn back." "oh," cried the unhappy lover, and tore at his hair with desperate fingers, filling the ambient air with flakes of powder which shone silvery in the moonlight. "you drove me to it. ah, don't be frightened of me, my darling; that hurts me the worst of all! i'm quiet now, kitty." his labouring breath hissed between his words, and his satin coat creaked under each quivering muscle. "i'm as quiet as a lamb," said he; "sure a baby might put its head in my jaws--the devil's gone out of me, kitty." "i'm glad to hear it, sir," said she, unappeased. she sat, swelling with ruffled plumes, looking out of the window and biting her lips. "a moon, too," she thought, and the tears almost started to her eyes, for the vexation of the wasted opportunity and the complete failure of a scene so excellently staged. "how wise, oh, how wise i was, to have secured my exit at devizes!" "i frightened her," thought o'hara; and in the manly heart of him he lamented his innate masculine brutality and formed the most delicate chivalrous plans for the right cherishing in the future of the dear lady who had confided herself to him. scene xxi in the white moonlight sir jasper standish paced up and down the cobble-stoned yard with as monotonous a restlessness as if he had been hired this night to act the living sign at the bear inn, devizes. each time he passed the low open window of the inn parlour, in which sat mr. stafford by the dim yellow light of two long-tongued tallow candles, the baronet would pause a moment to exchange from without a few dismal words with his friend. the latter, puffing at a long clay pipe, endeavoured in the intervals to while away the heavy minutes in the perusal of some tome out of mine host's library--a unique collection and celebrated on the bath road. "tom stafford," said sir jasper, for the twentieth time, "how goes the hour?" "damned slowly, friend," said stafford, consulting with a yawn the most exact of three watches at his fob. "to be precise, 'tis two minutes and one third since i told you that it wanted a quarter of midnight." sir jasper fell once more to his ursine perambulation, and stafford, yawning again, flicked over a page. he had not reached the bottom of it, however, before sir jasper's form returned between him and the moonlight. "what," said the injured husband, "what if they should have taken another road?" "then," cried stafford, closing his book with a snap between both his palms, tossing it on to the table and stretching himself desperately, "i shall only have to fight you myself for this most insufferably dull evening that you have made me spend, when i was due at more than one rendezvous, and had promised pretty bellairs the first minuet." "it shall be pistols," said sir jasper, following his own thoughts with a sort of gloomy lust, "pistols, tom. for either he or i shall breathe our last to-night." "pistols with all my heart," said stafford, stopping his pipe with his little finger. "only do, like a good fellow, make up your mind--just for the sake of variety. i think the last time we considered the matter, we had decided for this"--describing a neat thrust at sir jasper's waistcoat through the window with the long stem of his churchwarden. "there's more blood about it, jasper," he suggested critically. "true," murmured the other, again all indecision. "but pistols at five paces----." "well--yes, there's a charm about five paces, i admit," returned the second with some weariness, dropping back again into his chair. "and we can reload, you know." "if i fall," said sir jasper, with the emotion which generally overtakes a man who contemplates a tragic contingency to himself, "be gentle with her. she has sinned, but she was very dear to me." "she'll make a deuced elegant widow," said stafford, musingly, after a little pause, during which he had conjured up lady standish's especial points with the judgment of a true connoisseur. "you must conduct her back to her home," gulped sir jasper, a minute later, slowly thrusting in his head again. "alack, would that i had never fetched her thence.... had you but seen her, when i wooed and won her, tom! a country flower, all innocence, a wild rose.... and now, deceitful, double-faced!" "'tis the way of the wild rose," said stafford, philosophically. "let you but transplant it from the native hedgerow, and before next season it grows double." here the speaker, who was always ready with a generous appreciation of his own conceits, threw his head back and laughed consumedly, while sir jasper uttered some sounds between a growl and a groan. the volatile second in waiting wiped his eyes. "go to, man," cried he, turning with sudden irascibility upon his friend, "for pity's sake take that lugubrious countenance of thine out of my sight. what the devil i ever saw in thee, jasper, to make a friend of, passes my comprehension: for, of all things, i love a fellow with a spark of wit. and thou, lad, lackest the saving grace of humour so wofully, that, in truth, i fear--well--thou art in a parlous state: i fear damnation waits thee, for 'tis incurable. what! in god's name cannot a man lose a throw in the game of happiness and yet laugh? cannot a husbandman detect a poacher on his land and yet laugh as he sets the gin? why," cried mr. stafford, warming to his thesis, and clambering lightly out of the window to seat himself on the outer sill, "strike me ugly! shall not a gentleman be ever ready to meet his fate with a smile? i vow i've never yet seen death's head grin at me, but i've given him the grin back--split me!" "hark--hark!" cried sir jasper, pricking his strained ear, "d'ye hear?" "pooh!" said mr. stafford, "only the wind in the tree." "nay," cried sir jasper; "hush man, listen!" an unmistakable rumbling grew upon the still night air--a confused medley of sounds which gradually unravelled themselves upon their listening ears. it was the rhythmical striking of many hoofs, the roll of wheels, the crack of a merciless whip. "faith and faith," cried stafford, pleasantly exhilarated, "i believe you're right, jasper; here they come!" the moonlight swam blood-red before sir jasper's flaming eye. "pistols or swords?" questioned he again of himself, and grasped his hilt as the nearest relief, pending the decisive moment. out slouched a couple of sleepy ostlers, as master lawrence, mine host, rang the stable bell. betty, the maid, threw a couple of logs on the fire, while the dame in the bar, waking from her snooze, demanded the kettle, selected some lemons, and ordered candlesticks and dips with reckless prodigality. * * * * * mistress kitty, peering out of the carriage window, her shoulder still turned upon the unhappy and unforgiven swain, hailed the twinkling lights of the _bear inn_ with lively eyes. while the chaise described an irreproachable curve round the yard, her quick glance had embraced every element of the scene. sir jasper's bulky figure, with folded arms, was leaning against the post of the inn door, awaiting her approach--retribution personified--capriciously illumined by the orange rays of the landlord's lantern. out in the moonlight, shining in his pearl gray satin and powdered head, all silver from crest to shoe-buckle, like the prince of fairy lore, sat stafford on his window-ledge, as gallant a picture to a woman's eye, the widow had time to think, as one could wish to see on such a night. "oh," she thought, "how we are going to enjoy ourselves at last!" and being too true an artist to consider her mere personal convenience upon a question of effect, she resolved to defer the crisis until the ripe moment, no matter at what cost. accordingly, even as o'hara cried out, in tones of surprise and disgust: "thunder and turf! my darling, if there isn't now that blethering ox, sir jasper!" mistress kitty instantly covered her face with her lace and swooned away on the irishman's breast. sir jasper charged the coach door. "blethering ox!" he bellowed. "i'll teach you, sir, what i am! i'll teach that woman--i'll, i'll----" here stafford sprang lightly to the rescue. "for heaven's sake," said he, "think of our names as gentlemen; let it be swords or pistols, jasper, or swords and pistols, if you like, but not fistycuffs and collaring. be quiet, jasper! and you, sir," said he to o'hara, as sternly as he could for the tripping of his laughter, "having done your best to add that to a gentleman's head which shall make his hats sit awry for the remainder of his days, do you think it generous to give his condition so precise a name?" "o hush," cried o'hara, in too deep distress to pay attention either to abuse or banter, "give me room, gentlemen, for god's sake. don't you see the lady has fainted?" with infinite precaution and tenderness he emerged from the chay with his burden, elbowing from his path on one side the curious and officious landlord, on the other the struggling husband. "oh, what have i done at all!" cried the distracted lover, as the inertness of the weight in his arms began to fill him with apprehension for his dear. "sure, alanna, there's nothing to be afraid of! sure, am i not here? och, me darling, if----" but here sir jasper escaped from his friend's control. "i'll not stand it," cried he. "'tis more than flesh and blood can endure. give her up to me, sir. how dare you hold her?" he fell upon o'hara in the rear and seized him, throttling, round the neck. "i'll dare you in a minute, ye mad divil!" yelled o'hara, in a fury no whit less violent than that of his assailant. thus cried he, then choked. in the scuffle they had reached the parlour. "oh, jasper, jasper, in the name of decency!" protested stafford, vainly endeavouring to pluck the baronet from the irishman's back. "and you, denis lad, i entreat of you, cease to provoke him. zooks, my boy, remember he has some prior claim--what shall i say? some little vested interest----" "i'll stuff him with his own red hair!" asseverated sir jasper, foaming at the mouth as, under a savage push from o'hara's elbow he fell back, staggering, into stafford's power. "prior claims--vested interest is it! some of you will have to swallow those words before i'll be got to swallow anything here," swore denis o'hara, almost gaily, in the exaltation of his celtic rage. "sure, 'tis mad, i know ye are, lepping mad, sir jasper, but ought you not to be ashamed of yourself before the lady? she's quivering with the fright.... lie here, my angel," said he, vibrating from the loudest note of defiance to the tenderest cooing. "lie here; there's not a ha'porth to frighten ye, were there fifty such twopenny old crazy weathercocks crowing at you!" so saying, he deposited his burthen tenderly in the leather-winged arm-chair by the fire-place, and turned with a buoyant step towards sir jasper. "come out," said he, "come out, sir. sure, leave him alone, tom, 'tis the only way to quiet him at all. sure, after our little game the other night, wasn't he that dove-like, poor fellow, a child might have milked him?" the quivering form in the chair here emitted a scale of hysterical little notes that seemed wrung from her by the most irrepressible emotion. and: "oh, oh," exclaimed mr. stafford, unable, in the midst of his laughter, to retain any further grip upon his friend. "my darling," once more began the solicitous o'hara, turning his head round towards the arm-chair, but: "judas!" hissed sir jasper, and furiously interposed his bulk between the irishman and his intention. "faith," cried stafford, "can't you cover that head of yours, somehow, o'hara? i vow the very sight of it is still the red rag to the bull.... the bull, aha!" "ha! ha! ha!" broke in, this time uncontrolled, the merriment from the chair. the three men were struck into silence and immobility. then, on tip toe, mr. stafford approached and peeped round the wing of the arm-chair. he looked, and seemed blasted with astonishment; looked again and made the rafters ring with his sonorous laugh, till the apprehensive landlord in the passage and the trembling dame in the bar were comforted and reassured by the genial sound. the high feminine trill of mistress kitty's musical mirth rang in sweetly with his. "oh, kitty bellairs, kitty bellairs!" gasped mr. stafford, shook his finger at her, felt blindly for a support, and rolled up against sir jasper. the baronet straightway fell into an opportunely adjacent chair and there remained--his legs extended with compass stiffness, his eyes starting with truly bovine bewilderment--staring at the rosy visage, the plump little figure, that now emerged from the inglenook. "oh dear, oh dear!" faintly murmured stafford. and with a fresh breath he was off again. "aha ha ha! for an ox, my jasper, thou hast started on a lovely wild goose chase--as friend o'hara might say." while: "mercy on us!" rippled the lady. "i protest, 'tis the drollest scene. oh, sir jasper, sir jasper, see what jealousy may bring a man to!" "musha, it's neither head nor tail i can make of the game," said o'hara, "but sure it's like an angel choir to hear you laugh again, me darling." the guileless gentleman approached his mistress as he spoke, and prepared to encircle her waist. but with a sudden sharpness she whisked herself from his touch. "pray, sir," she said, "remember how we stand to each other! if i laugh 'tis with relief to know myself safe." "safe?" he echoed with sudden awful misgiving. "aye," said she, and spoke more tartly for the remorseful smiting of her own heart, as she marked the change in his face. "you would seem to forget, sir, that you have carried me off by violence--treacherously seized me with your hired ruffians." her voice grew ever shriller, as certain rumours, which her expectant ears had already caught approaching, now grew quite unmistakable without, and hasty steps resounded in the passage. "oh, mr. o'hara, you have cruelly used me!" cried the lady. "oh, sir jasper, oh, mr. stafford, from what a fate has your most unexpected presence here to-night thus opportunely saved me!" at this point she looked up and gave a scream of most intense astonishment: for there, in the doorway, stood my lord verney; and, over his shoulder, peered the white face of captain spicer, all puckered up with curiosity. scene xxii o'hare drew himself up. he had grown all at once exceedingly still. mr. stafford, gradually recovering from his paroxysms, had begun to bestow some intelligent interest upon the scene. there was a mist of doubt in his eyes as he gazed from the victimised, but very lively, lady to her crestfallen "violent abductor," and thence to the gloomy countenance of the new-comer on the threshold. there seemed to be, it struck him, a prodigious deliberation in mistress kitty's cry and start of surprise. "what is my pretty bellairs up to now? well, poor irish denis, with all his wits, is no match for her anyhow, and, faith, she knows it," thought he. aloud he said, with great placidity: "fie, fie, this is shocking to hear!" and sat, the good-humoured chorus to the comedy, on the edge of the table, waiting for the development of the next scene. sir jasper, wiping a beaded brow and still staring, as if by the sheer fixing of his bloodshot eye he could turn these disappointing puppets into the proper objects of his vengeance, was quite unable to follow any current but the muddy whirl of his own thoughts. lord verney alone it was, therefore, who rose at all to mistress kitty's situation. "are _you_ the scoundrel, then," said he, marching upon o'hara, "who dared to lay hands upon an unprotected lady in the very streets of bath?" "monstrous!" remarked captain spicer behind him. then jogging his patron's elbow, "'twas well spoke, verney, man. at him again, there's blood in this." mr. o'hara looked steadily at lord verney, glancing contemptuously at captain spicer, and then gazed with long, full searching at the beguiling widow. she thought to scent danger to herself in the air; and, womanlike, she seized unscrupulously upon the sharpest weapon in her armoury. "perhaps," she said, with an angry, scornful laugh, "mr. o'hara will now deny that he and his servants attacked my chairmen in the dark, threw me, screaming with terror, into his carriage, and that his intention was avowedly to wed me by force in london to-morrow." all eyes were fixed on the irishman, and silence waited upon his reply. he had grown so pale that his red head seemed to flame by contrast. he made a low bow. "no, kitty," said he, in a very gentle voice, "i deny nothing." then sweeping the company with a haughty glance. "this lady," said he, "has spoken truth; as for me, i am ready to meet the consequences of my conduct." his eye finally rested once more on lord verney. the latter grew white and then scarlet; while spicer whispered and again jogged. "of course," blustered the youth, and wished that he had the curious digestion of his contemporaries, that his stomach did not so squeamishly rebel at the prospect of a dose of steel, "of course, sir, you must be aware----" "it shall be swords," interrupted the irrepressible spicer; "and gad, sir, what my noble friend will have left of your body i will myself make mince of this night! aye, sir," said the captain, beginning to squint as was his wont under excitement, and slapping his bony chest; "i will fight you myself, sir." "fight _you_!" exclaimed o'hara, suddenly stung into magnificent contempt. "fight you, sir?" he ran a withering eye over the grasshopper anatomy of the toady as he spoke, "you, sir, you, the writer of that dirty note this morning, bidding me apologise--apologise!" cried denis, with his most luscious brogue, "to the man, sir jasper there, for having insulted you on the subject of your miserable mealy head--fight you, sir? sure, rather than fight you," said mr. o'hara, searching for the most emphatic asseveration conceivable, "i'd never fight again for the rest of my life! but i'll tell you what i'll do for you: next time you thrust that ugly face of yours within the reach of me arm oi'll pull your nose till it's as long as your tongue, and as slender as your courage, damme!" "oh, gad! what a low scoundrel," murmured captain spicer, withdrawing quickly several paces, and with an intensified cast in his eye; "'tis positive unfit for a gentleman to speak to him!" "now, my lord?" said o'hara, resuming his easy dignity. but that her comedy should drift into tragedy was none of mistress kitty's intentions. briskly stepping between the laboriously pugnacious verney and the poor irishman, whose eye (for all his present composure) shone with the lust of the fray, she thus addressed them collectively and in turn: "shame, shame, gentlemen, i protest! is it not enough that a poor woman's heart should be set a-fluttering by over-much love, must it now go pit-a-pat again for over-much hate? my lord verney, think of your mother. think of her, of whose declining years you are the sole prop and joy; recall to mind those principles of high morality, of noble christian duty, which that paragon of women so sedulously inculcated in you!" her voice quivered on the faintest note of mockery. "oh, what would that worthy lady's feelings be, were you to be brought home to her--a corse! what, ah what indeed! would _your_ feelings be if, by some accident," here she shot involuntarily what was almost the suspicion of a wink in the direction of o'hara, "you had to answer for the life of a fellow-creature before to-morrow's dawn? why, you could never open your bible again without feeling in your bosom the throbbing heart of a cain!" she stopped to draw breath. mr. stafford, one delighted grin, slid the whole length of the table on which he sat with dangling legs, to get a fuller view of the saucy face: "incomparable bellairs," he murmured to himself with keen appreciation, and: "so, ho, my noble friend," thought he, as he shot a glance at the solemn verney, "now do i know what has closed to you for ever the gates of paradise." "and you, mr. o'hara," resumed the lady, turning her eye, full of indefinable and entrancing subtleties upon the honest gentleman, "would you have me forgive you this night's work? do not, then, do not force this impetuous young man to an unnecessary quarrel. allow him to withdraw his challenge. do that in _atonement_, sir," said she, with much severity of accent; but her eye said sweetly enough, "do that for me" and gave further promise of unutterable reward. "madam," said o'hara, glancing away as if the sight of her beauty were now more pain than pleasure to him, "'tis for my lord verney to speak; i am entirely at his orders. i understand," and here, for all his chivalrousness, he could not refrain him from a point of satire, "i understand, ma'am, that you have given him the right to espouse your quarrels." "most certainly," said the crimson verney, who had been monstrously uneasy during his lady's sermon, not only because every word of it hit some tender point of his abnormally developed conscience, but also because of an indefinable sensation that he was being held up to ridicule, "most certainly, sir, it is as mistress bellairs's future husband that i find it incumbent--that i find myself forced, reluctantly--no, i mean----" here he floundered and looked round for spicer, who, however, was ostentatiously turning his back upon the proceedings and gazing at the moon. "in fact," resumed the poor youth, falling back on his own unguided wits, "i have no alternative but to demand satisfaction for an attempt on the honour of the future lady verney." "mercy on us!" cried mistress kitty, with a shrill indignant little scream. "oh fie, my lord, who would have deemed you so bloodthirsty? before heaven," she cried piously, glancing at the raftered ceiling, "before heaven, it would be the death of me, were there to be quarrelling, strife, contention for me--for _me_! who am i," she said with the most angelic humility, "that two such gallant gentlemen should stake their lives for me? rather," said she, "will i give you back your word, my lord. indeed," this with a noble air of sacrifice, "i feel providence has but too clearly shown me my duty. hush, hush, verney, bethink yourself! how could i ever face your mother (were you indeed to survive the encounter) with the knowledge that i had exposed you to danger; that for me you had loaded your soul with blood-guiltiness!" she shuddered and looked delicious. "child," said she meltingly, as lord verney faintly protested, "it must be so. i have felt it more than once; you are too young." there was a conviction in her voice that gave no hope of reprieve, and lord verney, who had already found out that mistress bellairs was too dangerous a delight to pursue with comfort, accepted his sentence with a christian resignation that did justice to his mother's training. "all, all must now be over between us," said kitty pathetically, "save a gentle friendship! your hand, my lord." she reached for his clumsy paw with her determined little fingers. "mr. o'hara," said she, turning round. "_i forgive you_. your hand also, sir." if the clasp she extended to verney was purely official, that with which she now seized o hara's cold right hand was eloquent enough with quick and secret pressure. but, for the first time in his life, perhaps, o'hara was slow in returning a woman's token. "shake hands," ordered mistress bellairs decisively, and joined the belligerents' palms. here stafford sprang jovially to the assistance of the pretty peacemaker. "right, right," cried he. "shake hands on it like good fellows. fie! who could keep up a feud under those beaming eyes?--never be downcast, verney, lad! what did i tell thee, only yesterday, in the pump room, about thy halo?--denis, my boy, i've always loved thee, but now i'll love thee more than ever, if only thou wilt mix us a bowl of punch in right good irish fashion, so that in it we may drown all enmity and drink good friendship--and above all toast the divine kitty bellairs!" "hurroosh," cried o'hara, and with a valiant gulp determined to swallow his own bitter disappointment and flood in a tide of warm gaiety the cold ache in his heart. "by all means," cried he, wrung verney's hand with feverish cordiality, and gave one last sadly-longing look at kitty and his lovely delusive dream. then spinning round upon himself he demanded loudly of the willing landlord, lemons and "the craythur--a couple of bottles, my friend--a bowl of sugar and a trifle of wather--the smaller the kittle the better it boils." and: "wake up, man," cried he, slapping sir jasper on the back so that the powder flew from that baronet's queue. "sure we're all happy, now." "where's my wife, sir?" said the gloomy husband, springing to his feet fiercely. "i've been made a fool of between you, but all this does not tell me where my wife is! stafford, man, i see it now: this has been a blind." he struck his forehead. "ha, yes i have it now, it was a false scent--the villain, the fox is off with her on another road, with his tongue in his cheek, grinning to think of me sitting and waiting for them at devizes!--tom, the chaise, the horses! there's not a moment to be lost!" "devil a horse or chay for me, sir," cried his friend. and nodding at kitty: "i know when i'm in good company," he pursued, "if you don't.--sit down, man, there's punch brewing. your vengeance will keep hot enough, ha, ha, but the punch won't." "glory be to god," cried o'hara, staring at sir jasper as if he were a natural curiosity, "i've known many a madman, but i never knew one mad enough yet to run away from a punch-bowl!" with lace ruffles neatly turned back from his deft hands, o'hara began to peel the lemons. "do you," now said captain spicer with an ingratiating chirp. "do you really care for _quite_ so much peel in the bowl ... ahem?" the speaker stopped suddenly and seemed to wither quite away under a sudden look from the punch-brewer (who had made a movement as though to put his knife and lemons down and employ his fingers differently) and the next instant found him whispering in stafford's ear: "you're a man of the world, i know, friend stafford," said he. "no doubt you will laugh at my over-nice sense of delicacy, but just now, in his ravings, poor o'hara made a kind of threat, i believe, about pulling my nose. what would _you_ advise me to do in the matter? look over it, eh?" "certainly," cried the spark, with a glance of the most airy contempt. "look over it, _as straight as you can_. look over it, by all means, but as you value the symmetry of that ornament to your countenance, captain spicer--if i were you i should keep it well-buttered." * * * * * with an art of which he alone was master, captain spicer hereupon vanished from the company, without being missed. scene xxiii "'tis an orgy!" exclaimed lady maria. "oh, jasper!" sobbed lady standish. "'twould be interesting to know," further trumpeted lady maria, "which of these gentlemen is supposed to have run away with the widow bellairs?" "oh, kitty!" sobbed lady standish. "my god!" said sir jasper, laying down his reeking glass and hardly believing his eyes. mistress kitty (seated between o'hara and stafford at the end of the table, while lord verney and sir jasper faced each other), continued, unmoved, to sip her fragrant brew and cocked her wicked eye at the newcomers, enjoying the situation prodigiously. she laid an arresting hand upon the cuffs of her neighbours, who, all polite amazement, were about to spring to their feet. "keep still," said she, "keep still and let sir jasper and his lady first have their little explanation undisturbed. never intermeddle between husband and wife," she added demurely: "it has always been one of my guiding axioms!" "well, sir jasper standish, these are pretty goings on!" cried lady maria, "for a three months' husband.... (hold up, my poor dear julia!) profligate!" snorted the old lady, boring the baronet through with one gimlet eye. "dissolute wretch! highwayman!" "i demand," fluted lady standish's plaintive treble (in her gentle obstinate heart she had come to the fixed resolution of never allowing sir jasper out of her sight again), "i demand to be taken back to my mother, and to have an immediate separation." "running away with women out of the streets of bath!--a lady," (sniff) "supposed to be engaged to my nevvy! poor deluded boy----" "and my dearest friend!--oh, jasper! _how could you_?" sir jasper broke in upon his wife's treble with the anguished roar of the goaded: "the devil take me," cried he, "if i don't think the whole world's going mad! _i_ elope with the widow bellairs, lady maria, ma'am? _i_ treacherous, my lady? ha!" he positively capered with fury and wounded feeling and general distraction, as he drew the incriminating documents from his breast, and flourished them, one in each hand, under the very nose of his accusers. "what of _red curl_, madam? what of the man who kissed the dimple, madam? what of your lover, madam!" in his confusion he hurled the last two demands straight in lady maria's face, who, with all the indignation of outraged virtue, exclaimed in her deepest note: "vile slanderer, i deny it!" here mistress bellairs deemed the moment ripe for her delicate interference. "my lovely standish," she cried, "you look sadly. indeed i fear you will swoon if you do not sit. pray mr. stafford, conduct my lady standish to the arm-chair and make her sip a glass of cordial from the bowl yonder." "oh, kitty!" cried lady standish, and devoured the widow's face with eager eyes to see whether friend or enemy was heralded there. "my dear," whispered kitty, "nothing could be going better. sit down, i tell you, and i promise you that in ten minutes you will have sir jasper on his knees." then running up to sir jasper and speaking with the most childlike and deliberate candour: "pray, sir jasper," said she, "and what might you be prating of letters and red curls? strange now," she looked round the company with dewy, guileless eyes, "_i_ lost a letter only a day or two ago at your house--a," she dropped her lids with a most entrancing little simper, "a rather private letter. i believe i must have lost it in dear julia's parlour, near the sofa, for i remember i pulled out my handkerchief----" "good god!" said sir jasper, hoarsely, and glared at her, all doubt, and crushed the letters in his hand. "could you--could _you_ have _found_ it, sir jasper, i wonder? mercy on me! and then this morning ... 'tis the strangest thing ... i get another letter, another rather private letter, and after despatching a few notes to my friends, for the life of me, i could not find the letter any more! and i vow i wanted it, for i had scarce glanced at it." "oh, mistress bellairs!" cried sir jasper. "tell me," cried he panting, "what did these letters contain?" "la!" said she, "what a question to put to a lady!" "for god's sake, madam!" said he, and in truth he looked piteous. "then, step apart," said she, "and for dear julia's sake i will confide in you, as a gentleman." she led him to the moonlit window, while all followed them with curious eyes--except verney, who surreptitiously drank his punch, and slid away from the table, with the fear of his aunt in his heart. and now mistress kitty hung her head, looked exceedingly bashful and exceedingly coy. she took up a corner of her dainty flowered gown and plaited it in her fingers. "was there," she asked, "was there anything of the description of a--of a trifling lock of hair, in the first letter--'twas somewhat of an auburn hue?" "confusion!" exclaimed the baronet, thrust the fateful letters into her hand, and turning on his heel, stamped his foot, muttering furiously: "curse the fool that wrote them, and the feather-head that dropped them!" "and what of the fool that picked them up and read them?" whispered mistress kitty's voice in his ears, sharp as a slender stiletto. she looked him up and down with a fine disdainful mockery. "why will you men write?" said she meaningly. "letters are dangerous things!" he stood convicted, without a word. "la! what a face!" she cried aloud now. "i protest you quite frighten me. and how is it you are not overjoyed, sir jasper? here is your julia proved whiter than the driven snow and more injured than griselidis, and you not at her feet!" "where is she?" said sir jasper, half strangled by contending emotions. "why, there, in that arm-chair in the inglenook." mistress kitty smoothed her restored treasures quite tenderly, folded them neatly and slipped them into the little brocade bag that hung at her waist. * * * * * "indeed, lady standish," said mr. stafford, "a glass of punch will do you no harm." "punch?" echoed lady maria--then turning fiercely on her nephew: "what, my lord!" said she, "would your mother say? why you are positively reeking with the dissolute fumes!" "my dear lady maria," interposed the urbane stafford, "a mere cordial, a grateful fragrance to heighten the heart after fatigue and emotions, a sovereign thing, madam, against the night air--the warmest antidote! a sip of it, i assure you, would vastly restore you." "i," she said, "i, drink with the profligate and the wanton! the deceiving husband and the treacherous friend!" she gave the fiercer refusal for that she felt so strongly in her old bones the charm of his description. "pooh, pooh! my dear ladies, if that is all," said mr. stafford, "then, by heaven, let the glass circulate at once! indeed, your la'ship," turning to lady standish, "so far from our good jasper having anything to say to mistress bellairs's presence here to-night, let me assure you that he and i set out alone at an early hour this evening, with no other object but to be of service to your ladyship--whom your anxious husband had been led to believe was likely to come this way ... somewhat--ah--unsuitably protected, as he thought." then he bent down and whispered into lady standish's pretty ear (which she willingly enough lent to such consoling assurances): "as for your friend," he went on, "our delightful if volatile bellairs--she came here with a vastly different person to sir jasper: poor o'hara yonder--who's drinking all the punch! she will tell you herself how it happened.... but, gracious stars, my _dear_ lady maria, have you not yet been given a glass of the--of mr. o'hara's restorative!" "allow me," cried kitty, who, having just settled sir jasper's business for him, had now freedom to place her energies elsewhere. "dearest lady maria--how sweet of you to join us in our little reconciliation feast!" she took a brimming glass from o'hara's hands and held it, with a winning smile, for lady maria's acceptance. "madam," responded the matron, scowled, drew her voluminous skirts together and became impenetrably deaf. "ah," cried the widow in her topmost notes, "madam, how i should have revered such a relative as yourself! next to the joy of calling my lord verney's mother, _my_ mother, would have been that of calling his aunt, _my_ aunt! but the dream is over. lord verney and i can never be more to each other than we are now." "eh?" and the dowager recovered her hearing. "what's that, what's that, nevvy?" "'tis, alas, true," said lord verney, with great demureness. "mistress bellairs has given me back my word." "forgive me, dear lady maria," trilled the widow. "mercy on us!" ejaculated the old lady; then, as if unconsciously, groped for the glass in mistress kitty's hand. "sit down, sit down all!" cried mistress bellairs. stafford echoed with a jovial shout. there was a call for a fresh bowl. o'hara's eyes began to dance, his tongue to resume its glibness. and lady maria was surprised to find how long her tumbler took to empty, but, curiously, never failed to be looking the other way when mistress bellairs with tenderest solicitude plied the silver ladle in her direction. "i hope," said the ancient lady, now wreathed in smiles, "i hope that mr. o'hara's cordial is not really stronger than madeira wine--which my physician, that charming sir george, says is all i ought to drink." "madeira?" cried mr. o'hara, "madeira wine is a very fair drink ... it is a fine stirring dhrink. but 'tis apt, i'm afraid, to heat the blood overmuch. now claret," he went on, pursuing the thesis, "claret's the wine for gentlemen--only for the divil of a way it has of lying cold upon the stomach ... after four or five bottles.... do i hear you say: 'port,' over there, tom, me boy? i'll not deny but that port has qualities. it's strong, it's mellow--but it's heavy. it sends a fellow to sleep, and that's a tirrible bad mark against it; for 'tis near as bad for a man to sleep when he has a bottle going, as when he has a lady coming. then there's champagne for you: there's exhilaration in champagne, 'tis the real tipple for a gentleman when he's alone--in a _tête-à-tête_--but 'tis not the wine for great company. now, my dear friends," said o'hara, stirring his new brew with the touch of a past master, "if you want to know a wine that combines the fire of the madeira with the elegance of the claret, the power and mellowness of the port with the exhilaration of the champagne--there's nothing in the world can compare to a fine screeching bowl of brandy punch!" scene xxiv when mistress kitty had sipped half a glass with great show of relish and rakishness, and lady standish, under protest, had sucked a few spoonfuls; when lady maria, stuck in the middle of her fourth helping, protested that she really could not finish the tumbler and forthwith began to show signs of incoherence and somnolence; when o'hara broke into snatches of song, and lord verney began to make calf's eyes afresh at the lost mistress kitty; when sir jasper, hanging round his wife's chair, showed unequivocal signs of repentance and a longing for reconciliation: when stafford himself became more pointed in his admiration of mistress kitty and a trifle broader in his jests than was quite consistent with his usual breeding, the little widow deemed it, at last, time to break up the party. there was a vast bustle, a prodigious ordering and counter-ordering. "never mind me," whispered stafford, ever full of good humour and tact, into sir jasper's ear, "take your wife home, man, i'll sleep here if needs be." "not a foot," asserted o'hara, apparently quite sober, and speaking with the most pleasant deliberation in the world, "not a foot will i stir from this place, so long as there is a lemon left." "the cursed scoundrel," cried lord verney, babbling with fury as he returned from the stables, "the scoundrel, spicer, has driven off with my curricle!" "then shall we be a merry trio to drink daylight in," said stafford, and cheered. "come, _dear_ lady maria," said kitty. "i shall take care of you. i will give you a seat in my chaise; we shall drive home together." "certainly, my dear, certainly," mumbled the dowager. "who is that remarkably agreeable person?" she requested to know of stafford in her prodigiously audible whisper. "my dear," she turned again to kitty, "i like you wonderfully. i cannot quite remember your name, my dear, but we will go home together." "dear, _dear_ lady maria!" cried mistress kitty, honey sweet. "my lord verney, give your arm to your revered relative--mind you lead her carefully," she said, with all the imps in her eyes dancing, "for i fear mr. stafford's cordial has proved a little staggering--_after the night air_! and warn her ladyship's attendant to be ready to escort us back in my carriage." then, taking advantage of sir jasper's absence--that gentleman might even then be heard cursing his sleepy servants in the yard--mistress kitty ran over to lady standish, who stood wistful and apart at the inglenook. "my dear," she murmured, "the game is now in your hands." "ah, no!" returned the other. "oh, kitty, you have been an evil counsellor!" "is this your gratitude?" retorted kitty, and pinched her friend with vicious little fingers. "why, woman, your husband never thought so much of you in his life as he does to-day! why, there has never been so much fuss made over you since you were born. are these your thanks?" "oh, for the moment when i can fly to his bosom and tell him all! my foolish endeavour to make him jealous, my sinful pretence that he had a rival in my heart!" "what?" exclaimed the widow, and her whisper took all the emphasis of a shriek. "fly to his bosom? then i have done with you! bring him to his knees you mean, madam. tell him all? tell him all, forsooth, let him know you have made a fool of him, all for nothing; let him think that you had never had an idea beyond pining for his love; that no other man ever thought of you, that he has never had a rival, never will have one, that you are merely his own uninteresting julia whom nobody wants. why, lady standish, 'tis laying down the arms when the battle is yours. sheer insanity! prodigious, prodigious!" cried mistress kitty. "is it possible that you and i are of the same sex?" bewildered, yet half convinced, lady standish listened and wondered. "be guided by me," whispered kitty again. "indeed, my dear, i mean well by you. keep your secret if you love your husband. keep it more preciously than you would keep jour youth and your beauty; for i tell you 'tis now your most valuable possession. here," said she, and took a letter from her famous bag and thrust it into julia's hands, "here is what will bring him to his knees! oh, what a game you have upon this drive home if you know how to play it!" "what is this, now?" cried lady standish. "hush!" ordered kitty, and clapped her friend's hand over the letter. "promise, promise! here comes your lord!" sir jasper had approached them as she spoke; he now bowed confusedly and took his wife's hand. but: "a word in your ear," said mistress kitty, arresting him as they were about to pass out. "a word in your ear, sir. if a man has a treasure at home he would keep for himself, he will do well to guard it! an unwatched jewel, my good sir, invites thieves. good-night!" * * * * * and now in the great room of the _bear inn_ were left only three: the two gallant gentlemen, o'hara and stafford, and mistress kitty. mistress kitty's game had been successfully played out; and yet the lady lingered. "good night," she began, then shot a glance at stafford. "i wonder," she said innocently, "if my carriage be ready, and whether lady maria is well installed?" "i will see," said stafford simply, and vanished. o'hara stood by the table, slowly dipping the ladle into the punch and absently pouring the liquor back into the bowl again. she sidled round to him. "denis!" said she. he turned his wildly-bright eyes upon her, but made no answer. "i'm going back," said she, and held out her hand. he carefully put down the ladle, took the tips of her little fingers and kissed them. but his hands and his lips were cold. "glory be to god," said he, "it's a grand game you played with me ... the bath comedy entirely, kitty." then he dropped her hand and took up the punch-ladle again with downcast looks. "will you not give me your arm to my carriage?" said she, after a slight pause. "ah, kitty, sure haven't you broke my heart for me ... and has not the punch robbed me of my legs!" his wild bright eyes were deeply sad as he turned them on her, and he was pale as death. she drew back quickly, frowned, hesitated, frowned again, and then brightened up once more. "then, sir," said she, "when your legs are restored to you, pray let them conduct your heart round to my lodgings, and we shall see what can be done towards mending it." she dropped him a curtsey and was gone. as stafford folded her into the chaise, he whispered: "if ever _i_ have a chance of running away with you, kitty, i'll take very good care not to let you know which road i mean to choose!" * * * * * scene xxv as the carriage rolled homewards on the bath road, lady standish, both hands folded over the mysterious letter, sat staring out of the window with unseeing eyes. the dawn had begun to break upon a cloudless sky; the air was chill and brisk; mists wreathed white scarves over the fields. she felt conscious in every fibre of her being that sir jasper was eagerly contemplating her in the cold grey light. heart and brain were in a turmoil; the anguish, the violent emotions, the successive scenes of the last forty-eight hours passed again before her mind like a phantasmagoria. partly because of mistress bellairs's advice and partly because of a certain womanly resentment, which, gentle as she was, still reared itself within her, she did not even cast a look upon her husband, but sat mutely, gazing at the land. presently she became aware that he had slid an arm behind her waist. she trembled a little, but did not turn to him. "julia," said he, in a muffled uncertain tone, "julia, i--i have done you injustice." then, for jealousy is as ill to extinguish as a fire that smoulders, a flame of the evil passion leaped up again with him. "but you must admit," said he, "that i had cause. your own words, i may say your own confession----" lady standish turned her head, lifted heavy lids and for a moment fixed upon him the most beautiful eyes in the world. "nay," said she, "i made no confession." her tongue trembled upon other protestations, yet kitty's warning carried the day. "tell me," said he, and bent to her, "tell me was it lord verney after all?" lady standish again raised her eyes to his face, and could such a thing have been possible in a creature whose very being was all tenderness, he would have sworn that in her gaze there was contempt. "sir jasper," said she, "it never was lord verney!" and then she added: "has there not been enough of this?" as she spoke she moved her hands and involuntarily looked down at the letter she held. then she sat as if turned to stone. the letter was in sir jasper's writing and addressed to mistress bellairs! "what have you there?" cried he. "nay," said she, "i know not, for 'tis not my letter. but you will know." and she held it up to him, and her hand did not tremble, yet was a cold fear upon her. "you wrote it," she said. he stared and his countenance changed, utter discomposure fell upon him. "julia," cried he, "julia, upon my honour! i swear 'twas nothing, less than nothing, a mere idle bit of gallantry--a jest!" as he spoke he fell upon one knee in the chaise, at her feet. "then i may read it?" said she. "ah, julia!" cried he, and encircled her with his arms. she felt the straining eagerness of his grasp, she felt his heart beat stormily. with a sudden warmth she knew that after all his love was hers. then she had an inspiration, one worthy of a cleverer woman: but love has his own geniuses. she disengaged herself from his embrace and put the letter into his hand. "take it," said she. "julia," he cried, and shook from head to foot, and the tears sprang to his eyes, "i never gave her a serious thought. i vow i hate the woman." "then tear it up," said lady standish, with a superhuman magnanimity that almost turned her faint. he rose and tore the letter in shreds (quickly, lest she should repent) and flung them out of the window. she watched the floating pieces flutter and vanish. in her secret soul she said to herself: "mistress bellairs and i shall be very good friends at a distance!" her husband was kneeling at her feet again. "angel," cried he pleadingly, and once more she was in his arms; and yet his jealous heart kept growling within him, like a surly dog that will not be silenced. "julia," said he in her ear, "but one word, one word, my love! julia, is there anyone, anything between us?" "oh, that," she said, and smiled archly, "that, sir, you must discover for yourself." her head sank on his shoulder as she spoke. "you torture me!" he murmured. but she knew that he had never kissed her with such passion in all his life before. * * * * * as her chaise followed on the road, some hundred yards or so behind sir jasper's, mistress bellairs, sitting beside lady maria (who snored the whole way with rhythmic steadiness) gazed across the livid fields towards the low horizon where the slow fires of dawn were pulsing into brightness. she was in deeply reflective mood. in her excited, busy brain she revolved many important questions and weighed the gains and losses in her game of "love and hazard" with all the seriousness of the gambler homeward bound after a heavy night. "at least," she thought, with a little sigh, but with some complacency, "i did a vastly good turn to my lady standish. but the woman is a fool, if a sweet one, and fools are past permanent mending. i did well," thought she, "to condemn the calf--there is no doubt of that." she glanced at lady maria's withered countenance, unlovely and undignified in her stupor--- "the menagerie would have been the death of me, promptly.... but, my poor o'hara! how could i ever have called him a cucumber? _there_ was love for the taking, now--yet no! worshipper, vastly well; but husband? not for me, not for me! bless me," she cried to herself testily; "is a woman to have no choice between mid-winter, green spring, or the dog days? if i ever allow myself to be abducted again, 'twill be with your man of the world--one with palate enough to _relish me_ without wanting to swallow me at a gulp." she paused in her train of thought to laugh at the recollection of mr. stafford's parting speech. "there is an easy heart for you!" she murmured. "a gallant gentleman, with as pretty a wit as o'hara himself, and every whit as good a leg. perhaps," thought mistress kitty, yawned and grew sleepy; nodded her delicate head; dreamed then a little dream and saw a silver beau in the moonlight, and woke up with a smile. the spires of bath cathedral pierced silver grey through a golden mist; far beneath her gaze, as the chaise began to tip the crest of the great hill, like a silver ribbon ran the river. "perhaps.... we shall see," said the widow. glasgow: printed at the university press by robert maclehose and co by egerton castle young april. consequences. the light of scarthey. la bella and others. marshfield the observer. the pride of jennico. [_with agnes castle._] the jerningham letters. [_with portraits and illustrations._] english book-plates, ancient and modern. [_illustrated._] schools and masters of fence, from the middle ages to the xixth century. [_illustrated._] le roman du prince othon. [_a rendering in french of r. l. stevenson's prince otto._] etc. her season in bath _a story of bygone days_ by emma marshall author of "bristol diamonds," "the tower on the cliff," etc., etc. "one loving hour full many years of sorrow can dispense. a dram of sweet is worth a pound of sour." spenser london seeley & co., essex street, strand 1889 [illustration] contents. i. coiffeur ii. the tide of fashion iii. another side of the picture iv. music v. griselda! griselda! vi. grave and gay vii. the vase of parnassus viii. on the track ix. watched! x. a proposal xi. a letter xii. discovered xiii. the plot thickens xiv. brawls xv. challenged xvi. in the early morning xvii. the bitter end xviii. in the valley of the shadow xix. ten years later--1790 her season in bath chapter i. coiffeur. it was the height of the bath season in 1779, and there was scarcely any part of the city which did not feel the effect of the great tide of amusement and pleasure, which set in year by year with ever-increasing force, and made the streets, and parades, and terraces alive with gaily-dressed fashionable ladies and their attendant beaux. the chair-men had a fine trade, so had the mantua-makers and dressmakers, to say nothing of the hairdressers, who were skilled in the art of building up the powdered bastions, which rose on many a fair young head, and made the slender neck which supported them bend like a lily-stalk with their weight. such head-gear was appropriate for the maze of the stately minuet and saraband, but would be a serious inconvenience if worn now-a-days, when the whirl of the waltz seems to grow ever faster and faster, and the "last square" remaining in favour is often turned into a romp, which bears the name of "polka lancers." there was a certain grace and poetry in those old-world dances, and they belonged to an age when there was less hurry and bustle, and all locomotion was leisurely; when our great-grandmothers did not rush madly through the country, and through europe, as if speed was the one thing to attain in travelling, and breathless haste the great charm of travel. and not of travel only. three or four "at homes" got through in one afternoon, is a cause of mighty exultation; and a dinner followed by an evening reunion, for which music or recitations are the excuse, to wind up with a ball lasting till day-dawn, is spoken of as an achievement of which any gentlewoman, young or old, may feel proud. the two ladies who were seated with their maid in attendance in a large well-furnished apartment in north parade on a chill december morning in the year 1779, awaiting the arrival of the hairdresser, had certainly no sign of haste or impatience in their manner. the impatience was kept in reserve, in the case of the elder lady, for mr. perkyns and his attendant, for lady betty had now passed her _première jeunesse_, and was extremely careful that every roll should be in its right place, and every patch placed in the precise spot which was most becoming. lady betty's morning-gown was of flowered taffety, and open in front displayed a short under-skirt of yellow satin, from which two very small feet peeped, or rather were displayed, as they were crossed upon a high square footstool. "griselda, can't you be amusing? what are you dreaming about, child?" the young lady thus addressed started as if she had indeed been awakened from a dream, and said: "i beg your pardon, lady betty; i did not hear what you said." "no, you never hear at the right moment. your ears are sharp enough at the wrong. i never saw the like last evening at mrs. colebrook's reunion. you looked all ears, then." "it was lovely music--it was divine!" griselda said earnestly, and then, almost instantly checking the burst of enthusiasm which she knew would find no response, she said: "will you carry out your intention of paying a visit in king street? mr. and miss herschel receive guests to-morrow forenoon." "indeed, i vow i have but little inclination that way, but we will see. but, griselda, take my word for it, you are playing your cards ill--staring like one daft at that singer who is no beauty, and forgetting to acknowledge sir maxwell danby last evening when he made you that low bow. why, child, don't you know he is a great catch?" griselda's cheeks flushed crimson. "your ladyship forgets we are not alone." "ha! ha! as if my waiting-maid was not in all my little secrets. no love-story is new to her, is it, graves?" the person thus referred to, who had been engaged in plaiting ruffles with a small iron, and sprinkling the fine lace with a few drops of starched water as she did so, on hearing her name, turned her head in the direction of her mistress, and said: "did you speak, my lady?" "_you_ know--_you_ know, graves. you know all about my billets-doux, and my pretty gentlemen." if melia, otherwise amelia graves, knew, her face showed no sign of intelligence. it was a stolid face, hard and plain-featured, and she was a strange mixture of devotion to her frivolous mistress, and strong disapproval of that mistress's ways and behaviour. the real devotion and affection for a family she had served for many years, often gained the day, when she turned over in her mind the possibility of leaving a service which involved so much of the world and its customs, which she was the indirect means of encouraging by her continuous attention to all the finery and gauds, in which lady betty longueville delighted. lady betty was the widow of a rich gentleman, to whom she had been married but a few years, when death ended what could not have ever been more than a _mariage de convenance_. an orphan niece of mr. longueville's, the child of a sister who had made what was considered a _mésalliance_, had been left to lady betty as a legacy, and was particularly mentioned in mr. longueville's concise will. his estate in ireland devolved on the next heir, but mr. longueville had accumulated a pretty little fortune, which he had the power to settle on his wife. the estate was entailed, but the money was his to leave as he chose. lady betty had fully grasped the situation before she had accepted mr. longueville's proposal, and the understanding that griselda mainwaring was to be thrown into the bargain was rather agreeable than otherwise. strange to say, mr. longueville did not leave griselda any money, and simply stated that his niece, griselda mainwaring, the only issue of the unhappy marriage of his sister, dorothy mainwaring, _née_ longueville, was to be companion to his widow, and maintained by her, lady betty longueville, for the term of her natural life. it did not seem to have struck mr. longueville that either lady betty or griselda might marry, and griselda was thus left as one of the bits of blue china or old plate, which, being not included in the entail, fell to lady betty with the "household effects, goods and chattels." perhaps the feeling that she was a mere "chattel" weighed at times on the tall and stately griselda, whose grave eyes had ever a wistful expression in them, as if they were looking out on some distant time, where, behind the veil, the hopes and fears of youth, lay hidden. griselda was outwardly calm and even dignified in her manner. she moved with a peculiar grace, and formed a marked contrast in all ways to the little vivacious lady betty, whose grand ambition was to be thought young, and who understood only too well how to cast swift glances from behind her fan upon the gay beaux, who haunted the city of bath at that time. for although the palmiest days of the pump room, under the dominion of beau nash, were now long past, still in 1779 bath held her own, and was frequented by hundreds for health, to be regained by means of its healing waters, and by thousands for pleasure and amusement. amongst these thousands, lady betty longueville was one of the foremost in the race; and she spent her energies and her talents on "making a sensation," and drawing to her net the most desirable of the idle beaux who danced, and flirted, and led the gay and aimless life of men of fashion. graves was presently interrupted by a tap at the door; and, putting down the lace, she went to open it, and found the hairdresser and his assistant waiting on the landing for admission. the hairdresser made a low bow, and begged ten thousand pardons for being late; but her ladyship must know that the ball to-night in wiltshire's rooms was to be _the_ ball of the season, and that he and his man had been dressing heads since early dawn. "that is no news to me, perkyns. am i not one of the chief patronesses of the ball? have i not been besieged for cards? tell me something more like news than that." the assistant having spread out a large array of bottles, and brushes, and flasks on a side-table cleared for the purpose, mr. perkyns wasted no more time in excuses; he began operations at once on the lady's head, while griselda was left to the hands of the assistant. lady betty was far too much engrossed with her own appearance to take much heed of griselda's; and it was not till something like a discussion was heard between the young lady and the "artist" that she said sharply: "what are you talking about, griselda? pray, make no fuss!--you will look well enough. a little less curl on the right side, perkyns. oh! that bow is awry; and i will _not_ have the knot of ribbon so low. i said so last week." "the top-knots are not worn so high, my lady. lady cremorne's is quite two inches lower than the point you indicate." "folly to talk of _her_!--a giant who might be a female goliath! as if _her_ mode was any rule for mine! i am _petite_, and need height. thank goodness, i am not a huge mass of bone and flesh, like my lady cremorne!" "as you please, my lady--as you please. but it is my duty to keep my patronesses up to the high-water mark of fashion." "i dare say folks with no taste may need your advice; but as i am blessed with the power of knowing what i like--and with the will to have it, too--i insist on the top-knot being at least two inches higher." "very good--very good, my lady. what is it, samuel?"--for the assistant now approached. "shall i proceed to sydney place, sir? i have finished this young lady's coiffure." "finished!--impossible! why, child, come here; let me see! why, you are not made up!--no rouge, nor a touch to your eyebrows!" "i do not desire it, madam; i do not desire to be painted. i have requested the hairdresser to refrain----" "well, you will look a fright for your pains by night! nonsense, child! powder must have paint. however, take your own way, you wilful puss! i have no more to say." "i have done my best to persuade the lady," sam said; "but it is useless--it is in vain;" and, with a sigh, he began to gather together the cosmetics and the little pots and bottles, and prepared for departure. mr. perkyns turned from the contemplation of the top-knots to give a passing glance at mistress mainwaring. he shrugged his shoulders, and murmured: "a pity that what is so fair should not be made still fairer! but do not stand wasting precious time, samuel; proceed to sydney place, and announce my speedy arrival. you can leave me what is needful, and i will follow and bring the smaller bag. be quick, samuel; and do not go to sleep--on a day like this, of all days!" samuel obeyed, and took leave; while griselda, after a passing glance at her head and shoulders in the mirror, retired to her own room on the upper story, and, taking a violin from a case, began to draw the bow over the strings. "if only i could make you sing to me as their fiddles sang last night! if only i had a voice like that sister of mr. herschel's! ah! that song from the 'messiah'--if only i could play it!" and then, after several attempts, griselda did bring out the air of the song which, perhaps of all others, fastens on ear and heart alike in that sublime oratorio: "he shall feed his flock like a shepherd." "so poor it sounds!" griselda said; "so poor! i _will_ get to mr. herschel's, and ask if he will teach me to play and sing. i will. why not? ah, it is the money! she dresses me, and keeps me; and that is all. she would do nothing else. but i have bought you, you dear violin!" griselda said, pressing her lips to the silent instrument, where the music, unattainable for her, lay hidden. "i have bought you, and i will keep you; and, who knows? i may one day make you tell me all that is in your heart. oh that i were not at her beck and call to do her bidding; speak to those she chooses; and have nothing to say to those she thinks beneath her! ah me! alack! alack!" griselda's meditations were interrupted by a sharp knock at the door; and graves came in with a bouquet in her hand, tied with pale primrose ribbon. "that is for you, mistress griselda. the gentleman brought it himself; 'and,' says he, 'give it to the young lady in private.' and then he had the impudence to offer me a crown-piece! says i, 'i don't hold, sir, with sly ways; and i don't want your money.' then he looked uncommon foolish, and said i was quite right; he hated sly ways. he only meant--well, _i_ knew what he meant--that i was not to let my lady know you had the '_buket_;' but i just took it straight into the room, and said, 'here's a _buket_ for mistress grisel;' and, what do you think? she was in one of her tantrums with mr. perkyns, who vowed he would not take down her hair again; and there she was, screaming at him, and you might have had fifty _bukets_, and she wouldn't have cared. ah, my dear mistress griselda, these vanities and sinful pleasures are just satan's yoke. they bring a lot of misery, and his slaves are made to feel the pricks. better be servants to a good master--better be children of the lord--than slaves of sin. it's all alike," as she gave the violin-case a touch with her foot; "it's all sin and wickedness--plays, and balls, and music, and----" "nonsense, graves! never tell me music is wrong. why, you sing hymns at lady huntingdon's chapel--_that_ is music!" "i don't hold with _that_ altogether; but hymns is one thing, and foolish love-songs another. i am trembling for you, my dear; i am trembling for you, with your flowers and your finery. the service of the world is hard bondage." griselda had now put away her violin, and had taken up the flowers which she had allowed to lie on the table, till her treasured possession was in safety; and, as graves departed, she said, as she saw a note hidden in the centre of the bouquet: "i am sure i don't care for these flowers; you may take them down to her ladyship, if you please." but graves was gone. a girl of twenty was not likely to be absolutely without curiosity, and, though griselda tore the scented, three-cornered billet open, and read the contents with some eagerness, her face was flushed and her lip curled as she did so. "to the fairest of the fair! these poor flowers came from one who lives on her smile and hungers for her presence, with the prayer that she will grant him one dance to-night--if but _one_----" then there was a curious tangle of letters, which were twisted in the form of a heart, the letter "g" being in the shape of a dart which had pierced it. griselda tore the note in pieces, and said: "why does he not send his ridiculous billets to the person who wants them? i hate him, and his finery, and his flattery. i know not which is worse." hours were early in the eighteenth century, and by seven o'clock the two ladies met in the dining-parlour of the house in north parade ready for the ball, and awaiting the arrival of the sedan-chairs, which were attended by lady betty's own man. lady betty had recovered her good temper, and her rose-coloured sacque, with its short-elbow sleeves and long puckered gloves, was quite to her mind. the satin skirt was toned down by lamp-light, and the diamond buckles on her dainty shoes glistened and gleamed as she went through a step of the minuet, with her fan held in the most approved fashion. "upon my word, we are a pretty pair to-night! but, do you know, carteret vowed he thought i was younger than you were at the last ball! fancy! i, a widow, not quite fat, fair, and forty, but in my thirties i freely allow! child, you look as pale as a ghost! but it is a vastly pretty gown. lucky for you it did not suit my complexion; dead white never does. but perhaps you are too white--all white. for my part i vow i like colour. your servant, madam! how do you fancy my new curtshey?" and the little lady went through elaborate steps with her tiny twinkling feet, and made a bow, which, however, she was careful should not be too low to run any risk of disarranging her high coiffure, the erection of which had cost so much trouble and sorrow of heart. chapter ii. the tide of fashion. wiltshire's rooms were illuminated by many wax-candles, shedding a softened and subdued light over the gay crowd which assembled there on this december night. lady betty was soon surrounded by her admirers, and showing off her dainty figure in the minuet and saraband. there were three apartments in wiltshire's rooms--one for cards and conversation or scandal, as the case might be, and one for refreshments, and the larger one for dancing. griselda was left very much to herself by her gay chaperon, and it was well for her that she had so much self-respect, and a bearing and manner wonderfully composed for her years. she was anxious to make her escape from the ball-room to the inner room beyond; and she was just seating herself on a lounge, as she hoped, out of sight, when a young man made his way to her, and, leaning over the back of the sofa, said: "i could not get near you at the concert at mrs. colebrook's last evening. nor could i even be so happy as to speak to you afterwards. less happy than another, madam, i accounted myself." though the speaker was dressed like the other fashionable beaux who haunted the balls and reunions at bath, and adopted the usual formality of address as he spake to griselda, there was yet something which separated him a little from the rest. his clear blue eyes knew no guile, and there was an air of refinement about him which inspired griselda with confidence. while she shrank from the bold flatteries and broad jests of many of the gentlemen to whom she had been introduced by lady betty, she did not feel the same aversion to this young mr. travers. he had come for his health to take the bath waters, and a certain delicacy about his appearance gave him an attraction in griselda's eye. lady betty longueville called him dull and stupid, and had declared that a man whose greatest delight was scraping on a violoncello, ought to have respect to other folk's feelings who detested the sound. music accompanied by a good voice, or music like the band at wiltshire's and the pump room, was one thing, but dreary moans and groans on the violoncello another. "you were pleased with the music last evening, mistress mainwaring?" mr. travers was saying. "yes; oh yes! do you think, sir, lady betty and myself might venture to pay our respects to mr. and miss herschel?" "indeed, i feel sure they will be proud to receive your visit. to-morrow afternoon there is a rehearsal and a reception in rivers street. i myself hope to be present; and may i hope to have the honour of meeting you there?" "i will do my best, sir. but i am by no means an independent personage; i am merely an appendage--a chattel, if you like the word better." "nay, i like neither word," the young man said; "they do not suit you. but to return to the visit to-morrow. could you not make it alone?" griselda shook her head, and then laughing, said: "it depends on the temperature." "but a chair is at your disposal. i can commend to you two steady men who would convey you to rivers street." but griselda shook her head. "i was not thinking of wind and weather, sir; but of the mood in which my lady finds herself!" a bright smile seemed to show that griselda's point was understood. "the lady betty is your aunt?" "hush, sir!--not that word. i am forbidden to call her 'aunt,' it smacks of age and does not seem appropriate. i was mr. longueville's niece, and, as i told you, i am a chattel left to lady betty for the term of--well, my natural life, i suppose." "nay, that word might be well altered to the term of your unmarried life, mistress griselda." griselda grew her calm, almost haughty, self at once, and her companion hastened to say: "you must see and know mr. and miss herschel. now, at this moment, while all this gaiety goes on, they are in silence--their eyes, their thoughts far away from all this folly and babble." "are they so wrapt in their production of music?" griselda asked. "i said they were at this moment engrossed in silence, for the music of the spheres is beyond the hearing of mortal ears; it is towards this, their whole being--brother and sister alike--is concentrated, at this very moment, i will dare to say. mr. herschel and his sister lead a double existence--the one in making music the power to uplift them towards the grand aim of their lives, which is to discover new glories amongst the mysteries of the stars, new worlds, it may be. what do i say? these things are not new, only new to eyes which are opened by the help of science, but in themselves old--old as eternity!" "i am a stranger in bath," griselda said. "i have never heard of these things--never. i listened enchanted to miss herschel's voice last night, to her brother's solo performance on the harpsichord, but of the rest i knew nothing. it is wonderful all you say; tell me more." but while leslie travers and griselda had been so engrossed with their conversation as to be oblivious of anything beside, a stealthy step had been skirting the card-room, passing the tables where dowagers and old beaux sat at écarté, and other card games, with fierce, hungry eagerness, till at last sir maxwell danby wheeled round, and, bowing low before griselda, begged to lead her to the minuet now being formed in the ball-room. "i do not dance to-night, sir," griselda said. "i thank you for the honour you do me." down came sir maxwell's head, bowing lower than before, as he murmured: "then if i may not have the felicity of a dance, at least give me the pleasure of conducting you to supper. several tables are occupied already, and let me hope that this request will not be refused." while sir maxwell had been speaking mr. travers had left his position at the back of the lounge, and had also come to the front and faced griselda. the two men exchanged a cold and formal salutation, and then sir maxwell seated himself carelessly on the vacant place by griselda's side, which mr. travers would not have thought he was on sufficiently intimate terms to do, and throwing his arm over the elbow of the sofa with easy grace, and crossing his silk-stockinged legs, so that the brilliants on the buckles of his pointed shoe flashed in the light, he said: "i will await your pleasure, fair lady, and let us have a little agreeable chat before we repair to supper." "i think, sir," said griselda, rising, "i will rejoin lady betty." "the minuet is formed by this time, and her ladyship is performing her part to perfection, i doubt not. let me advise you to remain here, or allow me to take you to supper." griselda gave a quick glance towards mr. travers, but he was gone. she felt she must do one of two things: remain where she was till the dance was over, or repair to the refreshment-room with her companion. on the whole it seemed better to remain. two ladies whom she knew slightly were seated at the card-table nearest her, and there might perhaps be a chance of joining them when the game was over. for another quartette was waiting till the table was free. "you look charming," sir maxwell began; "but why no colour to relieve this whiteness? i vow i feel as if i, a poor mortal, full of sins and frailties, was not worthy to touch so angelic a creature." griselda was one of those women who do not soften and melt, nor even get confused, under flattery. it has the very opposite effect, and she said in a low, but decided voice: "there are topics less distasteful to me than personalities, sir; perhaps you may select one." "ah! you are cruel, i see. well, i will only touch one more personality. why--why do i see no choice exotics in your hand, or on your breast? the colour would have enhanced your beauty, and relieved my heart of a burden." griselda made no reply to this, but, rising with the dignity she knew so well how to command, she walked towards the open door of the next room, and said: "mr. travers, will you be so good as to take me to the ball-room that i may rejoin lady betty longueville?" the young man's face betrayed his pleasure at the request made to him, and the discomfiture of his rival--rather i should say the hoped-for discomfiture, for sir maxwell danby was not the man to show that he had the worst in any encounter. he was at griselda's side in an instant, and was walking, or rather i should say ambling, towards lady betty, and, ignoring mr. travers's presence, said: "your ladyship's fair ward is weary, nay, pining for your company, my lady." lady betty shrugged her shoulders, and said: "i vow, sir, she has enough of my company, and i of hers! now, griselda, do not look so mightily affronted; it is the truth. let us all go to supper; and make up a pleasant little party. you won't refuse, mr. travers, i am sure." "with all my heart i accede to your plan, lady betty," sir maxwell said, "though i see your late partner is darting shafts of angry jealousy at me from his dark eyes." so saying, sir maxwell led the way with lady betty on his arm, and griselda and mr. travers followed, but not before griselda caught the words: "upon my honour, she acts youth to perfection; but she is forty-five if she is a day. did you ever behold such airs and graces?" griselda felt her cheek burn with shame and indignation also, for had she not heard lady betty say that young lord basingstoke was one of her most devoted admirers? and yet she was clearly only a subject of merriment, and the cause of that loud unmusical laughter which followed the words. but griselda had passed out of hearing before lord basingstoke's friend inquired: "who is the other? she looks like a 'millerite' and an authoress. he would be a brave man to indulge in loose talk with her. upon my word, she walks like a tragedy queen!" "there'll be the story of wilson and macaulay told over again. we shall have her statue put up to worship!" "i don't know what you are talking about," said the young lord, with a yawn. "my dear fellow, have you never heard of madam macaulay, the writer of nine huge volumes of history, who deserted the reverend dr. wilson and married a young spark named graham? she is mrs. graham now; has retired from the gay scenes of bath with her young scot, who feeds on oat-cakes and such-like abominations." "lady betty will be following suit--not the white lady," said the young lord. "i think i'll try and get an introduction," he said, "and lead her through the 'contre danse.'" "you won't get the introduction from lady betty. i'll lay a wager she will be too wary to give it; but i must look after my partner, so ta-ta!" truly the world is a stage, across which the generations of men come and go! assemblies of to-day at bath and clifton, and other places of fashionable resort, may wear a different aspect in all outward things, but the salient points are the same. idle men and foolish women vie with each other in the parts they play. age wears the guise of youth, and vanity hopes that the semblance passes for the reality. literary women may not write as mrs. macaulay did nine volumes of ill-digested and shallow history, and become thereby famous, and it would be hard to match the profane folly of a clergyman like dr. wilson, who in his infatuation erected a statue to this woman in his own church of st. stephen's, walbrook, adorned as the goddess of liberty--an infatuation which we must charitably suppose was madness. nor would such a woman be the rage now at bath or anywhere else. lady miller was of a higher order of womanhood. she created a literary circle in a beautiful villa at batheaston, inviting her friends to contribute poems and deposit them in a vase from frascati. it may seem to us ridiculous that successful contributors should be crowned by lady miller with all due solemnity with myrtle wreaths. but there is surely the same spirit abroad at the close of the nineteenth as marked the last years of the eighteenth century. the pretenders are not dead. they have not vanished out of the land. there are the lady bettys who put on the guise of youth, and the mrs. macaulays who put on the appearance of great literary talent. they pose as authorities on literature and politics, and they are often centres of a _côterie_ who are fully as subservient as that which lady miller gathered round her in her villa at batheaston. they may not kneel to receive a laurel crown from the hands of their patroness; but, none the less, they carry themselves with the air of those who are superior to common folk, and can afford to look down from a vantage-ground on their brothers and sisters in the field of literature, who, making no effort to secure a hearing, sometimes gain one, and win hearts also. it may be when the memory of many has perished with their work, that those who have laboured with a true heart for the good of others, and not for their own praise and fame, may, being dead, yet speak to generations yet to come. chapter iii. another side of the picture. there was not a cloud in the sky on that december night, and the "host of heaven" shone with extra-ordinary brilliancy. the moon, at her full, was shedding her pure silvery light upon the terraces and crescents of the fair city of the west, and there were yet many people passing to and fro in the streets. the link-boys had but scant custom that night, and the chair-men found waiting for the ladies at wiltshire's rooms less irksome than when, as so often happened, they had to stand in bitter cold and darkness long after the hour appointed for them to take up their burdens and carry them to their respective homes. in a room in rivers street a woman sat busily at work, with a mass of papers before her--musical scores and printed matter, from which she was making swift copy with her firm, decided hand. she was so absorbed in the business in hand, that she did not feel the weariness of the task before her. copying catalogues and tables could not be said to be an interesting task; but caroline herschel never weighed in the balance the nature of her work, whether it was pleasant or the reverse. it was her work, and she must do it; and it was service for one she loved best in the world, and therefore no thought of her own likes or dislikes was allowed to enter into the matter. presently a voice was heard calling her name: "caroline--quick!" the pen was laid down at once, and miss herschel ran upstairs to the upper story to her brother. "help me to carry the telescope into the street. the moon is just in front of the houses. carry the stand and the instrument. be careful! i will follow with the rest." "in the street?" caroline asked. "will you not be disturbed by passers-by?" "nothing disturbs me," was the reply. "i answer no questions, so folks tire of putting them. it is such a glorious night--there may not be another like it for months; and the moon is clearer than i have seen her since i had the seven-foot reflector." as william herschel spoke, he was preparing to carry the precious reflector downstairs--that outcome of many a night-watch, and many a weary hour of purely manual labour. turning the lathe and polishing mirrors was, however, but a small part of his unflagging perseverance. this perseverance had evolved the larger instrument from a small telescope, bought for a trifle from an optician at bath. that telescope had first kindled the desire in william herschel's mind to produce one which should surpass all its predecessors, and help him to scan more perfectly those "star-strewn skies," and discover in them treasures to make known to future ages, and be linked for ever with his name. caroline herschel was his right hand. she was his apprentice in the workshop--his reader when the polishing went on; and often, when william had not even a moment to spare for food, she would stand over him, and feed him as he worked with morsels of some dish prepared by her own hand. "you have copied the score for ronzini, caroline?" "i have nearly finished it." "and you have practised that quick passage in the song in 'judas maccabæus'?" "yes; but i will do so again before to-morrow. it is our reception-day, you remember." "yes; where is alexander?" "he is at the ball at wiltshire's. he was at work all the morning, you know," caroline said, in an apologetic tone. "work is not alex's meat and drink; he likes play." in a few minutes the telescope was adjusted on the pavement before the house; and the faithful sister, having thrown a thick shawl over her head, stood patiently by her brother's side, handing him all he wanted, writing down measurements, though her fingers were blue with cold, and the light of the little hand-lanthorn she had placed on the doorstep scarcely sufficed for her purpose. at last all was ready, and then silence followed--profound silence--while the brother's eyes swept the heavens, and scanned the surface of that pale, mysterious satellite of our earth, whose familiar face looks down on us month by month, and by whose wax and wane we measure our passing time by a sure and unfailing guide. caroline herschel took no notice of the few bystanders who paused to wonder what the gentleman was doing. she stood waiting for his word to note down in her book the calculation of the height of the particular mountain in the moon to which the telescope was directed. presently he exclaimed, "i have it!--write." and as caroline turned to enter the figures dictated to her, a gentleman who was passing paused. "may i be allowed to look into that telescope, madam?" he asked. caroline only replied in a low voice: "wait, sir; he has not finished. he is in the midst of an abstruse problem." "i have it--i have it!" was the next exclamation. "write. it is the highest of the range. there is snow on it--and--yes, i am pretty sure. now, caroline, we will mount again, and i will make some observations on the nebulæ--the night is so glorious." "william, this gentleman asks if he may be allowed to look into the telescope." "certainly--certainly, sir. have you never seen her by the help of a reflector before?" "no, never; that is to say, by the help of any instrument so gigantic as this." william herschel tossed back his then abundant hair, and said: "gigantic!--nay, sir; the giant is to come. this is the pigmy, but now stand here, and i will adjust the lens to your sight--so! do you see?" "wonderful!" was the exclamation after a minute's silence. "wonderful! may i, sir, introduce myself as dr. watson, and may i follow up this acquaintance by a call to-morrow?" "you will do me great honour, sir; and if you care for music, be with us to-morrow at three o'clock, when my sister there will discourse some real melody, if so it should please you. is it not so, caroline?" "there will be more attractive music than mine, brother," miss herschel said. "i doubt it, if, as i hear," said dr. watson, with a low bow, "the musical world finds in miss herschel a worthy successor to the fair linley, who has made sheridan happy--maybe happier than he deserves!" caroline herschel bowed in acknowledgment of the compliment, and said: "miss farinelli carries the palm, sir. now, brother, shall we return to the top of the house?" she was almost numb with cold, but she made no complaint; and when the telescope with all the instruments had been conveyed to the top story, she patiently stood far into the night, while her brother swept the heavens, and took notes of all he said, as his keen glances searched the star depths, and every now and then exchanged an expression of wonder and delight with his faithful friend, and the sharer of all his toils and all his joys. so, while the gay world of bath wore away the night in the hot chase for pleasure, this brother and sister pursued their calm and earnest way towards the attainment of an end, which has made their names a watch-word for all patient learners and students of the great mysteries of the universe, for all time. "the thirty-foot reflector, caroline! that is the grand aim. shall i ever accomplish it? we must make our move at once, for i must have a basement where i can work undisturbed. i find the pounding of the loam will be a work of patience." "like all work," caroline said, as she retired, not to bed, but to the copying of the score, from which occupation she had been disturbed when her brother called her. "expenses are ahead," she said to herself. "money--money, we shall want money for this thirty-foot; and, after all, it may be a vain hope that we shall produce it. thirty-foot! well, music must find the money. music is our handle, our talisman which is to turn the common things into gold." "well, alex, is that you? have you been playing as usual?" "playing, yes; and you had better play too, you look quite an old frau, lina." "i don't doubt it--not i; a contrast to your painted dames at wiltshire's." "one, at least, was not painted. she is a queen!--she is lovely." caroline laughed a little ironical laugh. "another flame! poor alex! you will sure be consumed ere long." "you won't laugh when you see her, lina; and she is coming to-morrow to listen to your singing. travers has told me she was raving about your singing at madam colebrook's the other evening, and he is to be here to-morrow and introduce her." "he is very obliging, i am sure," said caroline with another little laugh. "there is a letter to ronzini which should be sent by a messenger early to-morrow to bristol. can you write it?" "it is early to-morrow now," replied alex. "stay, good sister. i must to bed, and you should follow, or you will not be in trim to sing to the lady fair to-morrow. come!" "the bees make the honey, alex; it would not answer if all were butterflies. you are one of those who think that folks were made to make your life pleasant." "bees can sting, i see," was alexander's remark. "but give me a kiss, lina; we don't forget our old home-love, do we? let us hold together." "i am willing, dear alex; if i am crabbed at times, make excuses. these servants are a pest. i could fancy this last is a thief: the odds and ends vanish, who knows how? oh! i do long for the german households which go on oiled wheels, and don't stop and put everyone out--time and temper too--like these english ones." "we will all hasten back to hanover, sister, with the telescopes at our backs, when----" "when the thirty-foot mirror is made. ah!--a----" this last interjection was prolonged, and turned into a sigh, almost a groan. when alex was gone his sister got up and walked two or three times round the room, drank a glass of cold water, opened the shutters, and looked out into the night. the moon had passed out of the ken of rivers street now, but its light was throwing sharp blue shadows from the roofs of the houses, and the figure of the watch-man with his multitude of capes as he stood motionless opposite the window from which caroline herschel was looking out into the night. presently the dark shadow of the watchman's figure moved. he sounded his rattle and walked on, calling in his ringing monotone: "it is just two o'clock, and a fine frosty morning. all well." as the sound died away with the watchman's heavy footsteps, caroline herschel closed the shutter, and saying, "i am wide awake now," reseated herself at the table, and wrote steadily on till the clock from the abbey church had struck four, when at last she went to bed. her naturally strong physique, her unemotional nature, and her calm and quiet temper, except when pestered by her domestics' misdemeanours, were in caroline herschel's favour. her head had scarcely touched the pillow before she was in a sound refreshing sleep, while many of the votaries of fashion tossed on their uneasy beds till day-dawn. chapter iv. music. griselda mainwaring was up very much earlier than lady betty on all occasions, but on the morning after the ball in wiltshire's rooms she was dressed and in the sitting-room before her ladyship had made any sign of lifting her heavy head from the pillow. heavy, indeed, as she had been too cross and too tired to allow graves to touch the erection of powder and puff, which had cost mr. perkyns so many sighs. griselda had taken down her own hair without help, and had shaken the powder out of its heavy masses--no easy task, and requiring great patience. "i will forswear powder henceforth," she said, as she looked at herself in the glass. "lady betty says truly, powder must go with paint. i will have neither." so the long, abundant tresses were left to their own sweet will, their lustre dimmed by the remains of the powder at the top, but the under tresses were falling in all their rippling beauty over her shoulders. amelia graves brought her a cup of chocolate and some finger-biscuits, saying: "her ladyship has already had two breakfasts, and after the last has gone off to sleep again." "i hope she will remember she promised to go to mr. herschel's musical reunion," griselda said. "if not, graves, i must go alone; i must indeed. you will send the boy zack for a chair, won't you?" "more of the gay world! ah, my dear, i do pity you." "gay world! well, i know nothing that lifts one above it as music does. i am no longer the pleasure-seeker then?" graves shook her head, and, getting a long wrapper, she covered griselda with it, and began to comb and brush the hair which nearly touched the floor as it hung over the back of the chair. "come, i will gather the hair up for you. well, it's a natural gift coming from god, and the word says long hair is a glory to a woman, or i'd say it ought to be cut close. it is like your poor mother's, poor lady!" it was very seldom that graves or anyone else referred to the sister of mr. longueville, who had disgraced herself by a _mésalliance_. "poor thing!--ah, poor thing! it all came of her love of the world and the lust of the flesh." griselda's proud nature always felt a pain like a sword-thrust when her dead mother was spoken of. "don't talk of her, graves, unless you can speak kindly. you know i told you this the other day." "well, i don't wish to be unkind; but when a lady of high birth marries a wretched playwright, a buffoon----" "stop!" griselda exclaimed. "no more of this. if you can be neither respectful nor kind, say no more." "well, my dear, there are times when i see your mother over again in you, and i tremble," said poor graves, "yes, i shudder. if a bad man got hold of you, what then? i have my fears. it's out of love i speak." griselda was touched at once. "i know it--i know, dear old graves," she said. "there are few enough to care about me, or whether bad or good men are in my company. that is true, and i am glad you care," she added, springing up, and, throwing off the wrapper, she bent her stately head and kissed the lined, rugged cheek, down which a single tear was silently falling. "dear old 'melia, i am sure you love me, and i will keep out of the hands of bad men and women too. i want to go to-day to see a good, brave woman who sings divinely, and whose whole life is devoted to her brother--a wonderful musician." "musician, yes. music--music----" "but, to other things also; mr. herschel studies the wonders of the heavens, and is measuring the mountains in the moon and searching star-depths." "a pack of nonsense!" said graves, recovering herself from the passing wave of sentiment which had swept over her. "a pack of nonsense! i take the stars as god set them in the heavens--to give light with the moon--and i want to know no more than the word teaches me. the sun to rule by day, the moon and stars to rule by night. there! i hear her ladyship. yes, i'll order the chair--maybe two; but you'll dine first? her ladyship said she should dine at two--late enough." "well, make haste and get her up, and stroke her the right way." "ah, that's not easy. there's always a crop of bristles sticking up after a night's work like the last. it's the way of the natural man, and we must just put up with it." there could be no doubt that when lady betty at last presented herself from the room opening from the drawing-room she was in a bad mood, and griselda said "her chance of getting to the herschels' was remote if it depended on her will." lady betty yawned and grumbled, and taxed griselda with stupidity; and said by her airs she had affronted one of the best friends she, a poor widow, had. "sir maxwell won't stand to be flouted by you, miss--a man of _ton_ like him; and _you_--well, i do not tell tales, or i might ruin your chance of matrimony." griselda's eyes flashed angrily; and then, recovering herself, she said: "at what hour shall we order the chairs?" "the chairs?--who said i wanted a chair? i am too worn out--too tired. i vow i can scarcely endure myself. however, it might kill time to go to listen to 'too-ti-toos' on that horrid big instrument. when mr. herschel played on it the other night, i could think of nothing but a wretch groaning in limbo. ah, dear! come, read the news; there ought to be something droll in the bath paper. i have no appetite. i am afraid i am no better for the waters. but i must drag my poor little self up to-morrow, and be at the pump room early. one is sure to hear a little gossip there, thank goodness." it was by no means an easy task to prepare the drawing-room at the herschels' house for a rehearsal. instruments of every kind blocked the way, and these were not all musical instruments. then there was the arranging of the parts; the proper disposal of the music; the seats for the guests who might happen to drop in, for these receptions answered, perhaps, to the informal "at home" days of our own society of these later times, when "at home," written on the ordinary visiting-card, signifies that all who like to come are supposed to be welcome. caroline herschel went about her preparations with the same steady perseverance which characterized everything she did. her servant was one of her trials--i must almost say her greatest trial--at this time. if ever her temper failed her, it was at some misdemeanour of the handmaiden who, for the time, filled the part of general helper in miss herschel's household. like most of her countrywomen, neatness and order were indispensable to her comfort; and think, then, what the constant intrusion into every corner of the house of lathes and turning-machines, of compasses and glasses, and mirrors and polishing apparatus must have been! no wonder that the english or welsh servant, however willing, failed to meet her mistress's requirements. on this occasion she had, with the best intention, bustled about; but had always done precisely the reverse of what she was told to do. at last, breaking out into german invective, her mistress had given her a rather decided push from the room, and had called alexander to come to her rescue. "the slut! look at the dust on the harpsichord! did i not tell her to remove every speck before it was placed by the window? i would fifty times sooner do all the work myself. what would our mother say at all this?" "heaven knows!" alex said, laughing. "but, sister, the room looks spick and span; and here is an arrival." "it is only mr. travers; he is to play the second violin. entertain him, alex, while i go and make my toilette." repairing to the humble bedroom, which was really the only space allotted to her--or, rather, that she allotted to herself--she changed her morning-wrapper for a sacque of pale blue, and twisted a ribbon to match it in her fair hair. as she was descending again to the drawing-room, she heard her brother william's voice. "i have concluded the business about the removal to king street, and we must make the move as soon as possible." "now--at once?" "yes; the garden slopes well to the river. there will be a magnificent sky-line, and room for the great venture. the casting of the great thirty-foot----" "yes, william--yes; but the people are arriving, and you must be in your place downstairs." then mr. herschel, with the marvellous power of self-control which distinguished him, laid aside the astronomer and became the musician, playing a solo on the harpsichord to a delighted audience; and then accompanying his sister in the difficult songs in "judas maccabæus," which hitherto only the beautiful miss linley had attempted in bath society. in one of the pauses in the performance the door opened, and alex herschel went forward to meet lady betty longueville and miss mainwaring. he presented them to his brother and sister; and lady betty passed smiling and bowing up the room, while griselda moved behind her with stately grace and dignity. but lady betty was not the greatest lady in the company; for the marchioness of lothian was present, and was making much of miss herschel, and complimenting her on the excellence, not only of her singing, but of her pronunciation of english. the huge lady cremorne was also amongst the audience, and flattered the performers; and lady betty, wishing to be in the fashion, began to talk of the music as "ravishing," and especially that "dear, delicious violoncello" of mr. herschel's. mr. travers had some difficulty in keeping his place in the trio which he played with the two herschels, so attracted was he by the face of the rapt listener who sat opposite him, drinking in the strains of those wonderful instruments, which, under skilful hands, wake the soul's melodies as nothing else has the power to wake them. they called miss linley "saint cecilia." mr. travers thought "sure there never was one more like a saint than she who is here to-day." it was a dream of bliss to him, till a dark shadow awoke him to the reality of a hated presence. sir maxwell danby and young lord basingstoke had appeared, and stood at the farther end of the room--sir maxwell fingering his silver snuff-box, and shaking out his handkerchief, edged with lace and heavily perfumed; while lord basingstoke looked round as if seeking someone; and lady betty, taking it for granted that she was the person he sought, stood up, and beckoned with her fan for him to take a vacant place by her side. this suited sir maxwell's purpose, and he said: "go forward when the siren calls or beckons. don't be modest, dear boy! what! must i make the way easy?" whereupon sir maxwell bowed, and elbowed his way to the top of the room; and lord basingstoke found himself left to lady betty, while sir maxwell dropped on a chair by griselda's side. miss herschel was just beginning to sing the lovely song "rejoice greatly;" and griselda, spell-bound, became unconscious of the presence of sir maxwell, or of anyone else. there was only one person for her just then in the world--nay, it was scarcely the person, but the gift which she possessed. caroline herschel had at this time attained a very high degree of excellence in her art, and mr. palmer, the proprietor of the bath theatre, had pronounced her likely to be an ornament to the stage. she never sang in public unless her brother was the conductor, and resolutely declined an engagement offered her for the birmingham festival. anything apart from him lost its charm, and nothing could tempt her to leave him. her singing was but a means to an end, and that end was to help her brother in those aspirations, which reached to the very heavens themselves. it is the most remarkable instance on record of a love which was wholly pure and unselfish, and yet almost entirely free from anything like romance or sentiment, for caroline herschel was an eminently practical person! at the close of the performance, mr. herschel told the audience that he should not be able to receive his friends till january, and then he hoped to resume his reunions in his new house in king street. "but," he added, "my sister and myself can still give lessons to our pupils at their own homes, if so they please." "what marvellous people you are!" said lady cremorne in her loud, grating voice. "most folks when they change their houses are all in a fuss and worry. you talk of it as if you carried your household gods on your back." "so we do, your ladyship," william herschel said, with a smile. "i doubt whether my sister or myself would allow any hands but our own to touch some of our possessions." "your telescopes, and those wonderful mirrors. ah! here comes dr. watson. i saw him in the pump room this forenoon, and says he, 'i vow i saw the mountains in the moon through a wonderful instrument last night.'" "and the little man in the moon dancing on the top of it, no doubt," said a voice. william herschel turned upon the dandy, with his lace ruffles and his elegant coat, a look that none might envy, as he said: "sir maxwell, when you have studied the wonders of the heavens, you will scarce turn them into a childish jest." the room was thinning now, and griselda lingered. lady betty was too much engrossed with trying to ingratiate herself with the marchioness to take any heed of her, and she had gone down to her chair, conducted by alexander herschel, without noticing that griselda was not following her. this was griselda's opportunity. she went up to miss herschel and said: "i want--i long to learn to play on some instrument. i could never sing like you, but i feel i could make the violin speak. will you ask your brother if i may have lessons?" caroline herschel was not a demonstrative person, and she said quietly: "my brother will, no doubt, arrange to attend you. as you heard, miss mainwaring, we are soon to be involved in a removal to a house better suited to his purpose." "but sure this is a charming room for music, and----" "i was not then speaking of music, but of my brother's astronomical work." "ah! i had heard of that for the first time last night. it was you, sir"--turning to mr. travers--"who spoke of the wonders mr. herschel discovered in the sky. but where is lady betty? i must not linger," griselda said, looking round the room, now nearly empty. "her ladyship has taken leave, i think. may i have the honour of seeing you to north parade?" "i thank you, sir; but i have a chair in attendance." mr. travers bowed. "then i will act footman, and walk by the side of the chair, with your permission, and feel proud to do so." "then may i hope that mr. herschel will give me lessons?" griselda said. "but," she hesitated, "there is one thing i ought to say--i am poor." "poor!" caroline herschel allowed the word to escape unawares. "yes, you may be astonished; but it is true. i am a dependent on lady betty longueville. i was," with a little ironical laugh, which had a ring of bitterness in it--"i was left by my uncle, mr. longueville, to lady betty for maintenance. i am an orphan, and often very lonely. the world of bath is new to me. i know nothing of the ways of fine people such as i meet here. but i have some trinkets which were my mother's, and i would gladly sell them, if only," and she clasped her hands as if praying for a favour to be conferred--"if only i could gain what i most covet--lessons in music. i have a violin. i bought it with the money i received for a pearl-brooch. the necklace which matches this brooch is still mine. its price would pay for many lessons. i would so thankfully sell it to attain this end." griselda, usually so calm and dignified, was changed into an enthusiast by the strong desire kindled within her, to be instructed in the practice of music. "here is my brother alex!" caroline herschel said. "i will refer the matter to him. this lady, alex, wishes to become a pupil on the violin." "and to sing also," griselda said eagerly. "it can be arranged certainly. i will let you know more, madam, when i have consulted my brother." "there are loud voices below, alex. is anything amiss?" "two gentlemen have had an unseemly wrangle," alex said, "and in the midst dr. watson arrived, and a poor child begging. it is over now, and your chair waits, miss mainwaring." chapter v. griselda! griselda! when griselda went down to the little lobby, she found mr. travers with a flushed and excited face, and mr. herschel trying to calm him. "take my word for it, my young friend, there are always two necessary to make a quarrel, and i should beware of yonder dandy, who bears no good character." "i will take your advice as far as in me lies, sir; but if he ever dares to speak again, as just now--in the presence of others, too!--to dare to speak lightly of her----i will not pick the quarrel, but if he picks it, then i am no coward." dr. william watson, who had come for a second time that day to visit the "moon-gazer" of the night before, had been a somewhat unwilling witness of the high words which had passed between sir maxwell danby and leslie travers, and now seemed impatient to be taken upstairs to inspect the process of grinding and polishing the reflector for great twenty and thirty foot mirrors, which was then achieved by persistent manual labour. dr. william watson was a fellow of the royal society, and had come to invite mr. herschel to join the philosophical society in bath, which invitation he accepted, and by this means came more prominently before the world. mr. travers led griselda to her chair, and as the boy lighted the torch at the door--for it was quite dark--a small and piteous voice was heard: "oh, madam! cannot you do something for us? i heard mr. herschel was kind, but he is hard and stern." "mr. herschel never gives alms," leslie travers said; "be off!" "nay, sir; wait. the child looks wretched and sad. what is it?" griselda asked. "oh, madam! my father was engaged to play at the theatre, and he has fallen down and cannot perform the part. mr. palmer is hard, so hard, he says"--the child's voice faltered--"he says it was drink that made him fall--and he has no pity; and we are starving." the group on the steps of that house in king street was a study for an artist. the shuddering, weeping child; the stolid chairman; the link-boy, with the torch, which cast a lurid light upon the group; the young man holding the hand of the tall and graceful lady, hooded and cloaked in scarlet, edged with white fur; then the open door behind, where an oil lamp shone dimly, and the maid's figure, in her large white cap and apron, made a white light in the gloom. it was a picture indeed, suggestive of the sharp contrasts of life, and yet no one could have divined that in that scene lay concealed the elements of a story so tragic and sorrowful, yet to be developed, and then unsuspected and unknown. "wait," griselda said. "tell me, child, if i can help you." "we are starving, madam, and my father is so ill!" "i have no money," griselda exclaimed. "mr. travers, if you can help her, please do so." "it is at your desire, for i can refuse you nothing; but i know mr. herschel is right, and that alms given like this, is but the throwing of money into a bottomless pit." as he was speaking the young man had taken a leathern purse from the wide side-pocket of his blue coat, and had singled out a sixpence and a large heavy penny with the head of the king in his youth upon it--big old-fashioned penny-pieces, of which none are current now. mr. travers put the money into griselda's hand, and she held it towards the child. "what brought you to mr. herschel's?" she asked. "brian bellis sings at the octagon every sunday; he told me mr. herschel was kind, but he was wrong; it is you who are kind." "tell me where you live, and i will come, perhaps; or at any rate send someone to give you help." "we live in crown alley; but brian bellis will tell you, madam. oh!" the child said, "you are beautiful as the princess in the play; and you are good too, i know." "come, be off, you little wretch. we don't care to stay here all night for you, and orders waiting," said one of the chair-men. "will you find out brian bellis for me? will you discover from miss herschel if the tale is true--now--i mean now? i will pay you extra for waiting," griselda said to the men. "can't wait to obleege you, miss; if you don't step in we shall have to charge double fare." then griselda got into the chair; the lid was let down with a jerk; the men took up the poles, and set off at a quick trot to north parade. the child was still standing on the doorstep, and leslie travers said: "you must not stand here. the lady will keep her promise, you may be sure. now then!" the child turned sorrowfully away, and the click of her pattens was heard on the stone pavement getting fainter and fainter in the distance. leslie travers was thoughtful beyond the average of the young men of his type in those days, and as miss herschel's servant shut the door--much wondering what all the delay had been about--he gathered his loose cloak round him, and walked towards the house his mother had taken in king street, pondering much on the inequalities of life. "some star-gazing," he thought, "and with their chief aims set above the heavens; some singing and dancing; some working mischief--deadly mischief--by their lives; and some, like that poor child, dying of starvation. yes, and some are praying to god for the safety of their own souls, or thanking him that they are safe, and forgetting, as it seems, the souls of others--nay, that they have souls at all! and others, like that angel, whose face is like the fair lady of dante's dream, or vision, seem to draw the beholder upward by the very force of their own purity and beauty." this may sound very high-flown language for a lover, but leslie travers lived in a day of ornate expression of sentiment, as the effusions in lady miller's vase at batheaston abundantly testified. leslie travers was the son of a lincolnshire squire, who owned a few acres, and had lived the isolated life of the country gentlemen of those times. leslie was the only son, and he had been sent to cambridge; but his health failed before he had finished his course there, and he had returned to his old home just in time to see his father die of the ague, which haunted the neighbourhood of the fens before any attempt at proper drainage had been thought of, much less made. mrs. travers was urged to shut up the grange--which answered very well to the description of a moated grange of a later time--and resort to bath, for the healing waters might take their effect on her son's health. mrs. travers had now been resident in bath for a whole year, and her figure in widow's-weeds was familiar in the bath-room waiting for her son's appearance after his morning douche. but not only was her figure familiar in the bath-room, there was another place where she constantly took up her position, and where she could not persuade her son to follow her, and that place was the chapel which had been built by selina, countess of huntingdon. mrs. travers was at this time greatly exercised in mind about her son. since his health had improved, he had entered more into the gaieties of the city of bath, and made friends of whom she could not approve. the pump room was a place where many idlers and votaries of fashion found a convenient resort after the morning bath; and here many introductions were exchanged between the new-comers and those who had been frequenters of bath for many previous seasons. the present master of the ceremonies did not hold the sway of his famous predecessor; but outward decorum was preserved; and it was in the master's power to refuse or grant an introduction if it was objected to by any parent or guardian. mrs. travers was one of those sweet and gentle women, who are themselves a standing rebuke to the harsh and iron creed which they profess to hold by. mrs. travers had lived in an atmosphere all her life of utter indifference and neglect of even the outward observances of religion. the clergyman of the lincolnshire parish where the grange stood was a fair type of the country parsons of the time. he hunted with the squire, drank freely of his wine, and was "hail fellow! well met!" with those of his parishioners who had like tastes with himself. a service in the church when it suited him, baptisms when the parents pressed it, funerals, a necessity no one can put aside, and administration of the holy communion on the three prescribed festivals of the year, were the limit of his parochial labours. who can wonder that a sympathetic and emotional woman, brought to hear for the first time a burning and eloquent appeal to turn to god, should very soon yield herself, heart and soul, to what was indeed to her a _new_ religion! she accepted the doctrine of her teacher without reservation, and the offer made her in god's name of salvation--a salvation which drew a circle round the recipient, into which no worldly thing must enter--a circle narrower and ever narrower, which, as it closed like an iron band at last, round many a true-hearted man and woman, had all unawares shut in the very essence of that world they had in all good faith believed they had renounced. for "the world's" chief idol is self, and there may be worship and slavery to this idol in the closest conventual cloister, and in the hardest and most ascetic life that was ever led in this, or any other age. but, as i said, no creed could make mrs. travers hard or austere. her sweet, pale face in its widow's cap, and straight black gown with the long "weepers" and linen bands, gave her almost a saint-like appearance; and the smile with which she greeted her boy was like sunshine over the surface of a little tarn hidden in some mountain-side. "late--am i late, mother? i am sorry, ma'am; but i was detained at mr. herschel's by--by a child begging for money at the door as we were leaving. she spoke of starvation and deep distress. she had a lovely face, and it sounded like truth." "poor little creature! can we help, leslie?" "one of the singers at the octagon chapel will direct me to the place--crown alley, a low street enough, by the abbey churchyard." "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 fashionable 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 god does not reveal." leslie stamped his foot impatiently, and then said: "we cannot agree there, mother. every gift of god 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 god." 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 grasshopper 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 fashion 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 noble 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, impassioned 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 flashing--"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. "meat-pies are bad for sick folks," he said, shaking his head. "very bad! he mustn't touch it." "i'll keep the bun then, and p'raps that may tempt him with a drop of the wine you brought yesterday. but, brian, he is very ill!" "well, eat your pie, and then we'll talk," the boy said. "not loud, or he may wake." "i have something to tell you. there's a young gentleman who plays the violoncello grandly! he comes to the octagon, you know, and i believe it was that very gentleman you saw at mr. herschel's yesterday. i'm going to hunt him up; and i'll bring him here, and he is certain to be good to you." "i don't want to beg! oh, brian, i do not like to beg, and be spurned like mr. herschel spurned me yesterday!" "he was in a hurry--he did not mean anything unkind. but i have got to sing a solo at a rehearsal, and i must be gone. cheer up, norah! what's all this rubbish?" "it's the theatre dresses. mrs. betts, the keeper of the wardrobe, gave me the job. she will pay me, you know." brian nodded, and then left the room. his quaint little figure, in knee-breeches and swallow-tail short coat, with a wide crimped frill falling over the collar and the wrist-bands, would excite a smile now if seen in the streets of bath. heavy leather shoes, tied with wide black ribbon, and dull yellow stockings, which met the legs of the breeches, and were fastened with buckles, completed his attire. but the fine open face, with its winning smile, and white forehead shaded by clustering curls, could not be disguised. brian had a charm about him few people could resist. he lived with his aunts, who were fashionable mantua-makers and milliners in john street, and their rooms were frequented by many of the _élite_, who came to them to consult about the fashion and the mode, although the miss hoblyns' fame was not, in 1779, what it became when the duchess of york consulted them as to her "top-gear" a few years later. at this time they were young women, and had only laid the foundation of the large fortune which the patronage of the royal duchess is said to have built up at last. brian bellis was therefore lifted far above anything like poverty, and his aunts gave him a trifle for his pocket, as well as his schooling, and were proud of his prominence in the choir of the octagon chapel, where on sundays the sisters always appeared in the latest fashions. indeed their dress on sundays was eagerly scanned by ladies of the fashionable congregation as we might scan a fashion-book in these days. brian had seen norah several times with a burden he thought too heavy for her to carry, and he had gallantly taken the basket from her hand and carried it for her. those were the days when there was money to pay for marketings, and before the accident happened which had laid her father low. but brian was not a fair-weather friend, and that meat-pie and bun were not the first that he had bought out of his pocket-money for the now forlorn child. he was running away to the rehearsal for next sunday's music, when he jostled against leslie travers, who was coming out of the pump room. brian came to a dead stop, and said respectfully: "sir, there is a man and a little girl in great want in crown alley; the child was at mr. herschel's door last night." "this is a lucky chance," leslie travers said, "for i am looking for brian bellis. are you brian bellis? i know your face amongst the singers in the octagon"--adding to himself, "a face not likely to forget." it was lighted now with the fire of enthusiasm, as he said: "oh! sir; yes, i am brian bellis, and i can show you the way to crown alley; not now, for i have to be at the rehearsal. but, sir, i will come to the pump room this afternoon, and i will go with you then. i wish i could stay now, but i dare not. mr. herschel never overlooks absence from a rehearsal for sunday." "very good; i will be there. come to the lobby about four, and you will find me." the pump room was full that afternoon. lady betty was of course there, laying siege to the young lord basingstoke, and laughing her senseless little laugh, and flirting her fan as she lounged on a sofa, with the young man leaning over her. sir maxwell danby had had a twinge of gout, and was in an ill temper. he did not care two straws for lady betty, but he did not like to see his territory invaded, knowing, too, that a peer weighed heavily in the balance against a baronet. griselda had rebuffed him too decidedly for him to risk another public manifestation of her repugnance to him, and he watched her with his small close-set eyes with anything but a benign expression. griselda was surrounded by a mother and two smart, gawky daughters, who were strangers at bath, and were of the veritable type of "country-cousins," which was so distinct a type in the society of those days. now refinement, or what resembles it, has penetrated into country towns and villages, and the farmers' wives and daughters of to-day are more successful in presenting themselves in what is called "good society," than were the squires' and small landed proprietors' families when "the country" districts were separated by impassable roads from frequent intercourse with the gay world beyond. these good people talked in loud resonant tones, with a decided provincial twang. "la, ma! what a fine lady that is!" said one of the girls. "did you ever see such a hat?" "and look at the gentleman courting her!" "hush now, my dear! he is a lord, and the t'other is a baronet." "well, we _are_ in fine company. i wish we knew some of 'em. i say, ma----" at this moment the very stout mamma dropped her fan, and griselda, who was nearest to it, picked it up and handed it to her with a gracious smile. "thank you, my dear, i am sure. won't you take a seat here?" she continued, gathering together the ample folds of her moreen pelisse trimmed with fur, and edging up to her daughters, who were on the same bench. a quick glance showed griselda that sir maxwell was meditating a raid on her, so she accepted the offer, and almost at the same moment the marchioness of lothian appeared, and sir maxwell advanced to her, bowed low, and led her to a seat. at least he would show griselda, that if she chose to slight him, a live marchioness was of a different mind. the band now struck up, and mrs. greenwood beat time with her large foot, and nodded her head till the plume of feathers in her hat waved like the plumes of a palm-tree in the tropics. her daughters did not allow the band to hinder their remarks on the company, as some promenaded up and down, and others reclined, like lady betty, on the crimson-covered lounges. presently griselda received a nudge from one of the young ladies' rather sharp elbows: "pray, miss, who's that fine gentleman walking with? he is looking this way. bab, don't giggle, i think he was speaking of us." "who is the lady?" "the marchioness of lothian," griselda said. "lor', ma; do you hear?" miss barbara exclaimed, leaning across griselda, "that's a marchioness!" it really gave these good people intense pleasure to be in the same room with those who rejoiced in titles. it gave mrs. greenwood a sense of added importance, and made her even dream of the possibility of some lord falling in love with bab. thus a return to the remote country town of widdicombe episopi, where mr. greenwood farmed his own acres, and lived in a house which had come down to the greenwoods from the time of charles ii., would be a triumphal return indeed. "i shouldn't wonder, miss, if you was a titled lady," mrs. greenwood said, as the music stopped, and conversation in more subdued tones was possible. griselda smiled. "no, i have no title of honour," she said. "ah, well! you _look_ as if you might have, and that's something. i do like to see a genteel air; as i say to bab and bell, it's half the battle--it's more than a pretty face. we are come to bath for bell's health. she has been so peaky and puling of late. do you take the waters, miss?" "no," griselda said. "i am quite well." "then you came for pleasure?" "yes," griselda replied. "well, i am very proud to have made your acquaintance. we have apartments in the circus. there's no stint as to money. mr. greenwood said--that's the squire, you know--'go and enjoy yourselves. but i thank my stars i've not to go along with you, that's all.'" at this moment leslie travers entered the room, and looking round with the quick glance of love saw griselda, and griselda alone. but who were the people she was seated with? lady betty called him by name, and stopped giggling behind her fan to do so. "here, mr. travers; go, i beseech you, and rescue griselda from those goths, into whose hands she has fallen. what a set! goodness! it's as fine as a play!" leslie crossed the room, and bowing before griselda, said: "lady betty would be pleased if you joined her, miss mainwaring." griselda rose, and, bowing to her three companions, walked towards the opposite side of the room. "i knew she was somebody," mrs. greenwood exclaimed. "lady betty--did you hear? and what a vastly genteel young man!--one of her admirers, no doubt. well, girls, shall we take a turn? for my part i am getting sleepy;" and a prolonged yawn, which was heard as well as seen, announced the fact to those who were near that mrs. greenwood had had enough of the pump room for that day. "my dear girl!" lady betty exclaimed when griselda joined her. "who will you take up with next? those vulgar folks! did you ever see anything like the feet of the young one? i declare i'd wear a longer gown if i had such duck's feet!--and the waddle matches--look!" lady betty's giggle was a well-known sound in any society she honoured with her presence, and when she could get a companion like the empty-headed lord basingstoke, she delighted to sit and "quiz" those whom she thought beneath her in the social scale. "griselda! she is offended. look how she is strutting off! he! he! he!" and lord basingstoke echoed the laugh in a languid fashion, lady betty leaning back and looking up at him with what she thought her most bewitching smile. "i think it is very ill-bred to make remarks on people!" griselda said, "and very unkind to hurt their feelings, as you must have hurt that lady's." griselda spoke with some vehemence, which she was apt to do, when her feelings were strongly moved. "you see how i'm lectured," lady betty said, with the usual accompaniment--"the giggling fugue," as her enemies called it. "griselda," she said, trying to hide her vexation, "you are very good to look after my behaviour. poor little me! i want someone, don't i, mr. travers? it is news to hear i am 'ill-bred.' what next, i wonder?" but griselda held her own, and repeated: "i must think it ill-bred in any society to turn other folks into ridicule, and i am quite sure no one can call it kind!" "my dear, may i ask you to mind your own business?" was said _sotto voce_ as lady betty rose, declaring it was time for her third glass of water, and lord basingstoke escorted her to the inner room, where the invalids assembled to drink the waters. chapter vii. the vase of parnassus. "i am glad to be allowed the chance of speaking to you, miss mainwaring," leslie travers began. "i wanted to tell you that i have found a clue to your poor little protégée of last evening. i am going to visit her, guided by the boy, to whom she referred me." "that is good news!" griselda said. "will you be sure to let me know if i can do aught for her? oh, i would that i was not dependent on others! i do long to help the poor and sad! i must try once more to get lady betty to make me ever so small an allowance. but," she added, with sudden animation, "i have many jewels and trinkets which were my grandmother's, and came to me at her death. will you sell some for me? i had thought of selling a necklace to pay mr. herschel for his lessons; but it will be better to feed the starving than learn music." "you must let me make all due inquiries first, madam," leslie travers said. "i do not desire that your charity should be ill-placed, and many beggars' tales are false." "that child was telling the truth!" griselda said. "i knew it! i felt it!" "you can then judge of truth or falseness by the unerring instinct which is one of the gifts of true womanhood? i would hope--i would venture to hope--that, tried by that instinct, you would trust me, and believe that all i say is true. may i dare to hope it is so?" "yes," griselda said, looking straight into the pure, clear eyes which sought hers. "yes; i could trust _you_." "could? change that word to _do_. say you _do_ trust me." his voice trembled with emotion, and griselda's eyes fell beneath his ardent admiring gaze. the story of his love was written on his face, and griselda mainwaring could not choose but read it. the compact between them might have been sealed then, had not a quiet, gentle voice near pronounced mr. travers' name. "leslie, my dear son!" griselda turned her face, flushed with crimson, towards leslie's mother. he hastened to relieve griselda's evident embarrassment by saying: "may i have the honour of presenting you to my mother, miss mainwaring? i have promised to meet my guide to the house we were speaking of. i will return hither, mother; meantime, may i hope you and miss mainwaring will have some conversation which will be agreeable to both?" "i will await your return, leslie. but do not exceed half an hour, for the dark streets are not pleasant, especially for old folk like me, who have to pick my way carefully. have you been long a visitor to bath, madam?" mrs. travers said, as she seated herself with griselda on one of the benches. "we arrived in november, madam." "have you a mother and sister?" "no, no!" griselda said passionately. "i am alone in the world--an orphan." "ah, may the god of the fatherless be your friend. you will make him your friend, my dear? this is a place fraught with danger. i feel it for my son--and how much more is it full of danger for you?" "there are many beautiful things and interesting people in bath. do you know mr. and miss herchel, madam?" "i know them by report," was the reply. "my son is a musician, and attends mr. herschel's classes." "it is not only music for which mr. herschel is famous. he is an astronomer, and reads the star-lit heavens like a book--a poem--a poem more wonderful than any written by earthly hands." mrs. travers was surprised. she did not expect a child of the world--a fashionable young lady--to speak so seriously on any subject. but it was her duty to improve the occasion, and she said: "i would rather read the word of god than the star-lit skies, since the safety of the soul is surely a more important duty than to pry into the secret things of god." "but he stretched out the heavens. he raises our thoughts above by their contemplation." "ah, my dear young lady, this is the vain tradition of men. let me urge you to come to our chapel in the vineyards on the next sabbath, and hear the truth rightly divided by mr. relly. do not be affronted at my boldness!" "oh no! i am obliged to you for caring about me. i have so few who do so care." "i can scarcely believe it!" mrs. travers said. "so young and fair. surely there are those who stand in the place of parents to you?" "no; i know of none such. but here comes my aunt, lady betty longueville. she will desire me to return, as we are expected at a small party to-night at lady miller's." sir maxwell danby, who had been watching his opportunity, now came forward: "if you have quite done with yonder niobe, will you permit me to escort you to your chair? no? you are walking? that is better; i shall have more of your company. let me place your hood over your head--so! what a wealth of loveliness it hides!" griselda turned away impatiently; but as lady betty was in advance with lord basingstoke, she was obliged to follow them. sir maxwell made the best of his opportunity, and held griselda's hand as it rested on his arm, though she drew back from such familiarity. "that old gentlewoman," he said, "was reading you a lecture on the sins of the world and its frivolities. i could see it; i have been watching you from afar." "i am sorry, sir, you had no better subject of contemplation," was the reply. it was but a step to north parade; and, just as they reached it, leslie travers turned the corner from south parade. it gave him a thrill of disgust to see griselda on the arm of a man who he knew was no fit companion for any pure-minded woman, and a pang of jealousy shot through him, and got the better of his discretion. "if you had waited, miss mainwaring, i should have returned at the time i appointed, and i could have told you of what i had seen." "you did find her? you know, then, her story was true?" "yes, but the half had not been told; but more of this hereafter." "i should be obliged to you, sir," sir maxwell began, "not to hinder this young lady any longer. she is under my charge, and i must move on." "who hinders you, sir?" was the answer. "not i. your goings and comings are matters of supreme indifference to me." sir maxwell laughed. "boys are always outspoken, i know; and, like puppy dogs, have to be licked into shape." "you shall be made to apologize for this insult, sir; and were you not in the lady's presence----" "oh, pray, mr. travers, do not be angry; no harm is meant. i shall look for you to-morrow to tell me the whole story of the poor little girl. good-afternoon." then griselda stepped on quickly to the door, and sir maxwell bowed his "good-bye," taking her hand and kissing it. "why so cruel to me," he asked, "when i would be your slave? nay, i _am_ your slave, and do your bidding." "if so, sir maxwell, you will allow me to pass into the house, and i wish to do so alone." "i dare not disobey your orders, though i am invited to a dish of tea by her ladyship; only"--and he hissed the words out between his thin lips--"beware of puppy dogs--they show their teeth sometimes. adieu--adieu!" lady betty was in high good-humour in the drawing-room. a dainty tea-service had been set out--delicate cups with no handles--and a silver tea-pot and cream-jug; and lord basingstoke had taken up his favourite lounging attitude by the fire. "what have you done with sir maxwell danby, child?" "he left me at the door." "where are your manners, not to invite him to come in?" lady betty said sharply. "i shall never teach you the proper behaviour, i believe." "you might spare me before witnesses," griselda said angrily. "if, indeed, i offend you, i will not inflict my company any longer on you." then, with a dignified curtsey, griselda swept out of the room. it was terribly irritating to catch the sound of lady betty's laugh as she did so, and the words, "a very tragedy queen--a real stage 'curtshey.'" griselda hastened to her room, where she found graves getting her change of toilette ready for the evening, and kindling a fire in the small grate. "oh dear, graves! what a weariful world it is! graves, tell me--now, do tell me--something about my mother." "i have told you all i know many a time, my dearie. she was a fair flower, nipped and withered by the breath of this same world you speak of. may god preserve you in it!" griselda had thrown herself into a chair, and laid aside her cloak and hood. all her beautiful hair fell over her shoulders like rippling waves of gold. "dear graves, i have met a gentleman often, who is not like the rest of the world's votaries. his name is travers; his mother frequents the chapel in the vineyards. take me thither with you next sunday! say you will, graves!" "i will take you if her ladyship is up in good time; but i can't get off early if she chooses to lie a-bed. but you would not go to scoff, miss griselda?" "nay; i have done with scoffing. but, graves, do you ever think of the miserable poor who have no food and no clothing, like a poor child i saw on mr. herschel's doorstep t'other night? this mr. travers has tracked her at my desire, and i want to sell some trinkets to feed and clothe her. hand me the large box; i rarely open it. i did sell the amethyst-brooch to buy my violin, and now there are the two necklets my grandmother left my mother, and which came to me by will; and there are some other trinkets--a silver scent-box and golden ear-drops. make haste, dear graves, and let me do what i wish." "well," said graves, "i suppose you can do what you will with your own; but, all the same, i don't hold with selling property--you may want it yourself some day." "true--ah, that is true! i wonder how it came about that i had no maintenance!" "your poor dear mamma had her portion on her marriage with that good-for-nothing, and he made away with every penny. then mr. longueville took you as you know, and gave you a home." "yes; he was good to me. i remember coming, i think, when i was four years old." "you poor little thing!" graves exclaimed. "yes, i can see you now, in your black pelisse, so shy and so strange! if your poor uncle had never married, it would have been all right; but there, my lady could draw water out of a stone by her wiles and ways. it's no use moaning over spilt milk. here's the box. now, don't be in a hurry to sell, as i tell you these trinkets are all you've got in the world. i must go and look after her ladyship's buckles; she wants a blue rosette sewn on her shoes, and the buckles taken off. it is all vanity and vexing of spirit. she'll be as cross as two sticks to-night; she always is, when she has been to the pump room, drinking these waters for fidgets and fancies--they upset folks' stomachs, and then other folks have to put up with their tantrums." when graves was gone, griselda pulled the little table towards her; and, taking a small key from her chatelaine, unlocked the box. "yes," she thought, "it is as graves says, i have nothing in the world but these jewels. it seemed till to-day that i had no one in the world to care for me; but now i think _he_ does care for me. he is not like those gay, foolish men who treat women as if they were dolls to be dressed up, or puppets to move at their bidding. no, _he_ is of another sort, i think." and the swift blush came to her fair cheek. "what if he loves me! it would be sweet to be taken from this hollow existence--dressing and dancing, and looking out for flattery and admiration. if _he_ were near, that dreadful man would not dare to talk to me as he does--he would _not_ dare if i were not an orphan; and my only protector--that silly creature who drives me nearly wild with her folly----well, let me hope better times are coming. now for the jewels." the box was lined with cedar, and as the cover was raised a faint, sweet odour of cedar mingled with otto of roses came with a message from the past. through the dim haze of long years that scent recalled to griselda a room, where a tall dark man had sat by the embers of a fire, the box before him, and some words which the fragrance mysteriously seemed to bring back. "it was her wish, and the child must go." the child! what child?--and whither did she go? it was herself--it must have been herself--the man meant. then it was all haze again. the light that had penetrated the mists of the past, and brought the scene before her, was obscured once more. that man must have been her father; but she had no memories of him either before or after that day, which had risen like a phantom before her, called up by the faint sweet scent of the old jewel-box. the necklets were very fair to look at--one of pearls, with a diamond clasp, and initials on the gold at the back, which were her dead mother's. no, she could not sell that; but there were heavy ear-drops of solid gold, and a set of gold buttons--these would surely fetch something. the amethyst necklace, with its lovely purple hue, had never belonged to her mother; and she put it, with the gold buttons and ear-rings, into a small leather box, and was pressing down one of the compartments, when a drawer flew open she had never noticed before. in the drawer were some diamond ornaments and rings; a piece of yellow paper was fastened to one of the rings: "deserted by the husband i trusted, i, phyllis mainwaring, leave to my only child, griselda, these diamonds. i place them out of sight, safe from dishonest hands. when i left him to get bread he knew nothing of them, or he would have sold them. they are my poor darling's only inheritance, and i leave them secure that one day she will find them. let her take with them her unhappy mother's blessing." this was indeed a discovery. griselda had always remembered that this box had stood in her room at longueville house. she remembered her uncle bidding her bring it to him, and that he placed in it the trinkets left to her by her grandmother, but never had anyone suspected the existence of the diamonds. no one knew, that when the man whom she had married was running through her little fortune, the unhappy wife had, in her despair, converted a few hundreds into diamonds, and hidden them away from all eyes in that old jewel-box. griselda's eyes filled with tears. she pressed the bit of paper to her lips, and, wholly unconscious of the worth of those precious stones, she closed the drawer again upon that unexpected discovery, and, putting the small box safely in the drawer of the bureau, she took her violin from its case, and tried to wake from it the music which lay hidden in it. as she played--imperfectly enough, yet with the ear of a musician--her spirit was soothed and comforted; and these verses, written in a thin, pointed hand, were dropped into lady miller's vase that evening with no name or cypher affixed, and the mystery of the author was not solved: "waiting. "loveliest strains are lying, waiting to awake, till a master's hand shall sweetest music make. "life's best gifts are waiting till a magic power calls them from their hiding, in some happy hour. "brightest hopes are watching for their time of bliss, when a kindred spirit greets them with a kiss. "dreams of purest joys shadows still remain, till the day-star rises, and loss is turned to gain. "sadness, grief, and sorrow, like clouds shall pass away, if only we in patience wait till dawns the perfect day." "this author may claim a wreath," lady miller said, "but perhaps she likes best to be uncrowned." there was endless discussion as to the author of what seemed to be considered a poem of unusual merit, and one and another looked conscious, and blushed and simpered, for no one was unwilling to take the honour to herself. lady betty was sure it was only the dear marchioness who could have written them, only she was too modest to declare herself. "mock modesty i call it!" said lady miller, who was a bright, jovial woman, and had nothing of the grace or sentimental air which the verse-makers of those days wore as their badge. not a single person thought of taxing griselda with the verses, so quiet had she been in these assemblies, seldom expressing any opinion as to the poems of other people. griselda was not in the charmed circle of the _élite_ of parnassus, who had a right to wear one of lady miller's laurel crowns, and yet the verses, such as they were and poor as they may seem to us, were superior to the _bouts rimés_ on a "buttered muffin," which, report says, were once dropped into the roman vase at batheaston. at the time of which i write, lady miller's sun was declining. scarcely two years later, she died at the clifton hot wells, at a comparatively early age. but in her day her reputation spread far and wide; and some of the contributions, notably one from sheridan's able pen, were full of real, and not, as was too often the case, affected feeling. this reunion to which lady betty and griselda went on this december night was not one of the fairs of parnassus which were held every thursday. it was a soirée, to which only a select few--such as marchionesses, and embryo duchesses, and future peeresses--were bidden. lady miller's health was failing, though she tried to hide it; and even now a cough, which was persistent, though not loud, prevented her from reading the effusions which were taken haphazard from the vase, dressed with its pink ribbons, and with crowns of myrtle hanging from it. six judges were generally chosen to decide on the best poems, and the authors were only too proud to come forward and kneel to receive the wreath from the hand of this patroness of _les belles lettres._ how old-world this all seems to us now! and how we think we can afford to sneer at such folly and such deplorably bad taste as the poems then thought worthy display! "siren charms" and "bright-eyed enchantress," "soft zephyrs" and "gentle poesies," might be the stock expressions always ready to lend themselves to rhymes, with a hundred others of the like nature. but these reunions had their better side; for reading verses was better than talking scandal, and apostrophes to bright eyes and ladies' auburn locks better than the discussion of the last duel or elopement, which, in the absence of "society papers," were too apt to form the favourite topic of the _beau monde_. lady miller may have won her myrtle crown for attempting to set the minds and brains of her friends at work, even if only to produce doubtful _bouts rimés_ where sense was sacrificed to rhyme, and sound triumphed over subject. we have our lady millers of to-day, although there are no pink-ribboned vases in which contributors drop their poetical efforts. chapter viii. on the track. griselda had been much surprised at the applause which followed the reading of her verses. they were called for a second time, and elicited great praise. "they are vastly pretty, and full of feeling!" exclaimed lady betty the next morning. "i declare, griselda, you are without an atom of sentiment; you sat listening to them with a face like a marble statue. it is well for you that you are not a victim to sentiment as i am. i vow i could weep at the notion of the sorrowful soul who wrote those impassioned couplets which were read before the five stanzas, so much admired. ah!" lady betty continued, with a yawn--for it was her yawning-time between her first and second visit to the pump room--"ah! it is well for some folks that they are callous. i am all impatience to get a copy of those rhymes for lord basingstoke; and--_entre nous, ma chère, entre nous_--when do you propose to accept sir maxwell danby's suit? he formally asked my permission to address you. it would be a good match, and----" "i have not the slightest intention, aunt betty, of listening to sir maxwell danby's proposal." griselda always gave lady betty that title when angry. "oh! how high and mighty we are! but i would have you to know, miss, i cannot afford to keep you for ever. i am now embarrassed, and a dun has been here this very morning; so i advise you not to overlook sir maxwell danby's offer." "if there were not another man in the world i would not marry sir maxwell," griselda said, rising. "i will consider other matters, and tell you of my decision." "you silly child! where are you going, pray?" "to my own chamber." "you must be powdered for the ball to-night. i promised sir maxwell he should have his opportunity at my lady westover's dance. perkyns is coming at four o'clock. you must be powdered. it is not the mode to appear in full toilette, with your hair as it was dressed last night. that gold band may suit some faces, but not yours. do you hear, miss?" "i hear," griselda said; "and i repeat i do _not_ go with your ladyship to lady westover's ball." "the minx!--the impudent little baggage! you shall repent your saucy words. but you'll come round, see if you don't, if you hear that pale-faced fellow travers is to be of the company. yes; go and ask his old mother about it--go!" griselda shut the door with a sharp bang, which made lady betty call loudly for her salts, and brought graves from the inner room. "such impudence! i won't stand it--the little baggage! she _shall_ marry sir maxwell danby, or i wash my hands of her." graves calmly held the salts to her mistress's nose: they were strong, and lady betty called out: "not too near! oh! oh! i am not faint;" and immediately went off into hysterical crying, which, for obvious reasons, was tearless. meanwhile, griselda had gone to her room; and, putting on a long black pelisse and a wide hat with a drooping feather, set well over her eyes, she left the house, carrying in a large satchel, which was fastened to her side, the box containing the jewels she wanted to sell. at first she thought she would go to consult mrs. travers in her difficulty. she was determined to run no risk of meeting sir maxwell danby; and if lady betty persisted in backing up his suit, she would leave her; but where, where should she go? an open door in king street attracted her, and she saw mr. and miss herschel passing in, each carrying some favourite and precious musical instrument. they were in all the bustle of removal, doing this, as they did everything else, with resolute determination to be as earnest as possible in accomplishing their purpose. miss herschel, in her short black gown and work-a-day apron with wide pockets and her close black hood, did not see, or if she saw did not recognise, griselda. she was giving directions to her servant, enforced with many strong expressions; and as she went backwards and forwards from the door to a cart lined with straw, she was wholly unconscious of anyone standing by. griselda could not help watching, with interest and admiration, the swift firm steps of this able and practical woman, as she went about her business, intent only on clearing the house in rivers street, and filling the house in king street, as quickly as possible. "she is too busy to speak to me now," griselda thought. mr. herschel now came hurriedly out, exclaiming: "the two brass screws, lina, for the seven-foot mirror! they are missing!" and then he disappeared in the direction of the house they were leaving. fortunately it was a bright winter noon, and everything favoured the flitting, which was accomplished in a very short time. but we who have in these days any experience of removals--and happy those who have not that experience--know how patience and temper are apt to fail, as the hopeless chaos of the new house is only a degree less hopeless than that of the old house we are leaving. we have vans, and packers, and helpers at command, unknown in the days of mr. and miss herschel; for at the close of the last century few, indeed, were the removals from house to house. as a rule, people gathered round them their "household gods," and handed them down to their children in the house where they had been born and brought up. removal from one part of england to another was not to be thought of at that time, when roads were bad and conveyances rare, and a distance of twenty miles more difficult to accomplish than that of two or three hundred in our own time. mr. herschel's reason for taking the house in king street was that the garden behind it afforded room for the great experiment then always looming before him--the casting of the great mirror for the thirty-foot reflector. griselda passed on without even getting a smile of recognition from miss herschel, so thoroughly engrossed was she with the business in hand; and a sense of loneliness came over her, as she said to herself: "how could i expect miss herschel to recognise me, especially in this thick pelisse and hat? i must not expect my concerns to be of importance to her or to anyone." and as this thought passed through her mind, she became conscious that to someone, at least, her concerns were of importance; for leslie travers had seen her from the window of his mother's house, and had thrown his cloak over his shoulders without delay, and, with his hat looped up at one side in his hand, advanced, saying: "this is a happy chance! i am anxious to see you; and, if you will, i would fain tell you more of a visit i paid to the poor people in crown alley. it is a pitiable case!" "and i want to see them," griselda said, "and to help the child with the angelic face. i have in my bag the trinkets i spoke of. will you take me at once to a shop in the abbey churchyard, and inquire for me the price they will fetch? i want also," she said hurriedly, "to consult you, or rather your mother, as to what i should do. i cannot--i cannot live any longer with lady betty, unless she promises to protect me from the man i detest!" leslie travers's face kindled with delight. "come at once to my mother, at no. 14 in this street. she will be proud to receive you," he said eagerly. "i must not act hastily," griselda said. "i left lady betty in anger this morning; but i have reason to be angry." "you have indeed, if you are forced into the company of a man like sir maxwell danby. from him i would fain protect you. but," he said, checking himself, "i am at your service now about the trinkets, or shall we pay a visit to the poor folks first? it is, i warn you, a sad spectacle--can you bear it? i have questioned mr. palmer of the theatre, and he says the man (lamartine) is a man of genius, but a reprobate. he has for some time made his living on the stage, and when not in drink is a wonderful actor. but he is subject to desperate fits of drunkenness, and on his arrival here from bristol he broke out in one, and falling down the stairs at the theatre after the second rehearsal, injured himself so terribly that he cannot live." "and the child!--the sweet, innocent child?" griselda asked. "the child is the daughter of a young girl employed about the theatre, whom lamartine married some years ago. she died of burns from her dress catching fire at the bristol theatre, where she was acting and getting a fair living. that is the story. the man is by no means a deserving character. shall we visit him to-day?" "yes," griselda said; "i wish to see the child." it was now near the hour when it was fashionable to resort to the baths for the second time before the dinner hour, which was generally at two o'clock; and as griselda and mr. travers passed the pump room they met several acquaintances. it was no uncommon thing for the beaux to conduct the ladies to the baths, drink the water with them, and lounge away an hour or two while the band played; and, one by one, those who had been bathing came, well muffled in wraps, to the chairs waiting to convey them to their apartments. but eyes, which were by no means kindly eyes, were upon griselda, and as sir maxwell danby stood at the entrance of the pump room he made a low bow, to which griselda responded with a stately inclination of her head. "whither away, my fair lady, with that puppy?" thought he. "ha! i will be on your scent, and maybe find out something. a silversmith's shop! ah! to buy the ring, forsooth! ah! ha!" "what amuses you, danby?" asked a man of the same type as sir maxwell. "let me have the benefit of the joke, for i am bored to death dancing attendance on my wife and girls." "come down with me, and i will show you the finest girl in bath and the biggest puppy. they have disappeared within that shop. we may follow." "what are you turned spy for?" asked his companion. "who said i had turned spy?" asked sir maxwell angrily. "please yourself!" and he went down the street, and turned into the jeweller's shop as if by accident just as griselda had laid her trinkets on the counter and the master of the shop was examining them. sir maxwell retired to the further end of the shop and asked to see some snuff-boxes, where he was presently joined by his friend. sir maxwell threw himself into one of his easy attitudes, and, while pretending to listen to the shopman, who had displayed a variety of little pocket snuff-boxes in dainty leather cases, he was taking in the fact that griselda was selling her necklace and gold ornaments. as soon as the transaction was over, sir maxwell made a sign to his companion, and, leaving all the snuff-boxes, he loftily waved away the master of the shop, who was advancing to inquire which he would prefer, and left in time to see which way griselda went. "to crown alley--a low place! by jove! this is a queer notion. and with that jackanapes, too, who sets up for being so pious! we won't follow them further," he said, taking out an elaborately-chased snuff-box and offering it to his friend. "we won't follow them--this is enough." "you are that fair lady's devoted slave, so report says. what are you about, danby, to let another get before you? it is not like you!" "no, it is _not_ like me; you are right, sir. but i am not beaten out of the field yet. crown alley, forsooth! haunted by the scum of the theatre! ah! ha! we must unearth this rat from its hole, and i am the man to do it!" "you are well fitted for the business, i must say," was the rejoinder, with a laugh. chapter ix. watched! scenes of poverty and sickness are familiar now to many a good and fair woman, of whom it may be said in the words of the poet lowell, that "stairs, to sin and sorrow known, sing to the welcome of her feet." but few indeed were the high-born ladies a hundred and twenty years ago who ever penetrated the dark places where their suffering brothers and sisters lived and died in penury and want. class distinction was then rigid, and the sun of womanly tenderness and compassion had not as yet risen on the horizon with healing on its wings. thus the two wretched attics, furnished with the barest necessities of life--to which she ascended by dark, narrow stairs--was indeed a new world to griselda mainwaring. she shrank back when the door of the room was opened, and turned away her head from the pitiful sight before her. the sick man was propped up on his miserable bed, the child kneeling by him listening to, and trying to soothe, his incoherent mutterings. leslie travers went in first and touched the child's shoulder. "i have brought the lady to see you, and to ask what she can do for you." instead of answering, norah held up her hand as if to beg leslie to be silent, and continued to stroke her father's long thin hands with one of hers, while with the other she pressed the rag of vinegar and water on his burning brow. presently the muttering ceased, and the breathing became more regular, and then norah rose, and said in a low voice: "nothing stops his wild talk till i kneel by him and hold his hand, and stroke his forehead; that is why i could not speak, sir." then the child went up to the threshold of the door where griselda still stood, and said: "i thought you would come--i felt sure, lady, you would come; but do not be afraid, he is asleep now, and may sleep for an hour." griselda felt ashamed of the disgust she could not conceal at what she saw. but the true womanly instinct asserted itself, and pointing to an open door leading into another garret, she said: "may i go in there?" "yes, it is my room; it is where i put the clothes when i have mended them. the queen's gauze veil got torn, and i can mend gauze better than anyone, so mrs. betts gave it to me. mrs. betts is kind to me." then seeing griselda's puzzled look at the heterogeneous mass of finery heaped up on a table supported against the wall, as it was minus one leg, the child explained: "i mend the actresses' dresses. mrs. betts is the wardrobe keeper at the theatre, and she has had pity on me, or--or i think we should have starved." "well," griselda said, "i have brought you money to buy food, and surely you want a fire; and where is your bed?" the child pointed to a mattress in the corner under the sloping angle of the roof, and said: "i sleep there most nights, but now he is so bad i watch by him." griselda opened her sachet and took from it a crimson silk purse. "here are two guineas," she said; "get all you want." norah clasped her hands in an ecstasy. "oh!" she said, "this is what i have prayed for. god has heard me, and it is come. my beautiful princess has come. you are my beautiful princess, and i shall always love you. i will get brian to buy lots of things; he will be here after school. does the gentleman know?" "yes, he brought me." "then i shall love him, too; you are both good. i shall try and make father know you brought the money; but he does not understand much now. hark! he is calling--he is awake!" norah hastened back to her post, and griselda followed her. leslie travers had been standing by the sick man's bed, and griselda, ashamed of her feelings of repulsion and shrinking, took her place by his side. suddenly a flash of intelligence came into those large dark eyes, and the man started up and gazed at griselda, repeating: "who is she?--who is she?" "the dear beautiful lady who has brought us all we want. thank her, father--thank her!" "thank her!" he repeated. "_who is she?_" then an exceeding bitter cry echoed through the rafters of the chamber as if it would pierce the very roof. and with that cry the man fell back on his pillow, saying: "phyllis--phyllis! come back--come back!" griselda started towards the door, and leslie travers caught her, or she would have fallen down the steep, narrow stairs. "take me away--take me away! i cannot bear it! oh, it is too dreadful! that face--those eyes--that cry!" "yes," he said, carefully guiding her downstairs, and shielding her as much as possible from the inquisitive stare of the dwellers in the same house, taking her hand in his, and drawing it into his arm: "you are not accustomed to such sad sights, the poverty and the squalor." "it was the man who frightened me. what made him call phyllis--phyllis! that beautiful sacred name, for it was my mother's?" "he was raving; he fancied he was on the stage. he will not live many days, and then we will see that the child is cared for." the "_we_" escaped his lips before he was aware of it; but the time for reticence was past. he turned into the abbey, and griselda made no resistance. then with impassioned earnestness leslie travers told his love, and often as the tale is told, it is seldom rehearsed with more simple manly fervour. for in the reality of his love leslie travers forgot all the flowery and fulsome love epithets which were the fashion of the day. he did not kneel at her feet and vow he was her slave; he did not call her by a thousand names of endearment; but he made her feel perfect confidence in his sincerity. this confidence ever awakes a response in the heart of a true woman, and makes her ready to trust her future in his hands who asks to guard it henceforth. "yes," she had answered in a low but clear tone; "yes, i thank you for the kindness you do me." he tried to stop her, but she went on: "it _is_ a kindness to take a friendless and penniless orphan to your heart." then she looked up at him, and reading in his clear pure eyes the story his lips had so lately uttered, she added with a smile, through the april mist of tears in her beautiful eyes: "yes, it _is_ a kindness, let me take it as such; but not leave myself your debtor, for i will give you in return all my heart, and be henceforth to you tender and true." he seized her hands in rapture, and kissed them passionately. "we are in a church," he said; "let us seal our betrothal here, and pray for god's blessing." they were hidden from sight as they stood within the entrance of prior bird's chantry chapel, and there, hand clasped in hand, the young lovers knelt and silently prayed for god's blessing. as they rose, griselda looked round, and a blast of chill air came over her from the opening of a side door. she shuddered, and said: "how cold it is!" "yes; cold and damp. let us hasten out into the sunshine." "who opened that door?" she said. "some old woman, i dare say, who comes to dust and clean," he answered, as they walked down the nave, surrounded, as it there was, with many tombs, and the walls crowded with tablets in memory of the dead. lady jane waller's stately monument, and bishop montague's, were then, as now, conspicuous; and griselda paused for a moment by the recumbent figure of the lady jane. as she did so, a figure, well known and dreaded, was seen coming from behind the monument. griselda clasped leslie travers's arm with both hands, and said: "let us hasten away--we are watched." but leslie turned, and faced sir maxwell danby. "the shadow of the church is a better trysting-place than the shelter of the dwellings in crown alley," he said, hissing the words out in what was hardly more than a whisper. leslie was on the point of retorting angrily, when he controlled himself: "this is not the time and place," he said, "to demand an apology for your words, sir maxwell danby. i will seek it elsewhere." but griselda clung to his arm, and tried to advance towards the side door to get away from the man, who had dogged her steps. "come--come, i pray you," she said; "do not stay." and leslie travers, saying in low but decided tones, "i will seek satisfaction elsewhere," let the door swing behind him, and he and griselda passed out of the dim abbey into the sunshine. it was still bright and beautiful without, and the fair city lay under the shadow of the encircling hills, which were touched with the glory of a brilliant winter's day. a slight fall of snow had defined the outline of church and houses, and the leafless trees were sparkling with ten thousand diamonds on their branches. the keen, crisp wind had dried the footways, and there was nothing on the smooth-paved roads to make walking anything but delightful. "i want to take you to my mother now," leslie said. "will you come?" "will she be kind to me?" griselda asked. "do you think she will be kind to me?" "kind! pride in you is more likely to be her feeling, i should venture to say." "but," griselda said, casting anxious looks behind, "i am really afraid of sir maxwell danby. he will go to the north parade with all haste, or find lady betty in the pump room, and speak evil of me." "let him dare to do so!" leslie said. "i will challenge him, if he dares to take your name on his lips!" "oh no, no!" griselda said; "no! promise you will not quarrel with him? he is a man who would be a dangerous foe." "he is my foe already," leslie said. "as to danger, sweet one, i do not recognise danger where honour is concerned. do not talk more about this now, nor mar these first sweet hours of happiness. say it is not a dream, those blessed words you spoke in the church, griselda?" she gave him a look which was more eloquent than any words, and then said, in a low voice: "i feel as if i had found my rest." "dear white-winged dove," was the reply, "if you have been wandering over stormy waters tempest-tossed, let me love to think you have found your rest with me." they were now at the door of mrs. travers's house; leslie knocked, and it was opened by the old servant, who followed his young master wherever he went--a faithful retainer of the old type of servant, who, through every change and chance, would as soon think of cutting off a right hand as forsake his master's son. giles had a most comical face--a mass of furrows and wrinkles, a mouth which had very few teeth left, and small twinkling eyes. he wore a scratch yellow wig, and a long coat with huge buttons, on which was the crest of the travers--a heron with a fish in its beak--a crest suggestive of the land of swamps and marshes, where herons had a good time, and swooped over their prey with but small fear of the aim of the sportsman--so few were the sportsmen who ever invaded those desolate wild tracks of water and peat-moss. "aye, master leslie," giles said, "ye're late, and there's company at dinner." "it is scarcely one o'clock, giles. where is my mother?" "up above with the company; and not well pleased you are not there, either." "oh!" griselda said; "i do not wish to stay. please take me back to the parade! let me see mrs. travers another day, _please_. i ask it as a favour." she pleaded so earnestly, that old giles interposed: "there's room at my mistress's board for all that care to come. there never yet was a guest sent away for lack of room." "it is not that--not that," griselda said. "whatever it is," leslie said, "i cannot let you leave us thus"--for griselda had moved to the door. "nay--now, nay--do not be so cruel!" here voices were heard on the stairs, and the next moment mrs. travers appeared, leaning on the arm of a man who wore a clerical dress, a black coat and bands, and a bag-wig tied with a black bow. "my son, mr. relly," mrs. travers said; and then she looked with dismay at the figure by leslie's side. it was no time for explanation, and leslie merely said: "miss mainwaring will dine with us, mother." "you are late, leslie," mrs. travers replied, in a low, constrained voice; and she did not do more than bow to griselda, adding: "our mid-day meal has been waiting for some time. shall we go to the dining-parlour at once?" surely no position could be more embarrassing for poor griselda. all her dignity and gentle stateliness of manner seemed, under this new condition of things, to desert her. her large hat scarcely concealed the distress which was so plainly marked on her face, and tears were in her eyes as she said, in a low, trembling voice to mrs. travers: "i fear i intrude, madam?" but mrs. travers was anxious to avoid what she called the hollow courtesies of the world of fashion, and thus she only replied: "will you be pleased to remove your warm pelisse? the air is very cold. abigail," she said to a maid-servant who had appeared, "conduct this lady to the inner parlour, and assist her to lay aside her pelisse. now, mr. relly, we will take our seats, and my son will do the honours." griselda hastily unfastened her pelisse, but instead of following the maid to the room, she held it towards her; and then, with a gesture which implied her trust in leslie, she put her hand into his arm, and he led her to the dinner-table, where giles had taken up his position behind his mistress's chair. the meal was, as giles had intimated it would be, very bountiful. mr. relly said a long grace, which was really a prayer, and which griselda thought would never end. during dinner the conversation lay between mr. relly and mrs. travers, if conversation it could be called. it was rather an exchange of religious sentiments, quotations of texts of scripture, seasoned with denouncements of the vanities of the world, as bath spread them out for the unwary. griselda felt that many of mr. relly's shafts were directed at her, and she felt increasingly ill at ease and uncomfortable. it was only when she could summon courage to look at leslie that her spirits rose to the occasion, and she answered him in low, sweet tones when he addressed her. to the great relief of everyone except mrs. travers mr. relly took leave before the cloth was drawn, excusing himself on the plea of having to attend upon that aged servant of god, the countess, who expected him to consult on important business. "if i may be so bold, may i beg you to convey my dutiful remembrances to her ladyship?" mrs. travers said. mr. relly assented, but in a manner which implied it was a very bold request to make, and then departed. as soon as they were alone and giles had left the room, leslie rose, and going to his mother's chair, he said: "i have brought you a daughter to-day, mother. you have often longed for her appearance, and it is with joy and pride that i tell you miss griselda mainwaring has done me the honour to promise to be my wife and your dear daughter." mrs. travers's face displayed varying emotion as her son went on. surprise and disapproval were at first prominent; then the certainty that leslie was in earnest, and that to turn him from his purpose was at all times hopeless, when his mind was set on any particular course of action, brought tears to her eyes. "oh, my son!" she began; but griselda left her chair, and, coming to her side, she said: "madam, i pray you to receive me as your daughter. i will try to be a loving and true wife. madam, i am alone in the world, and as i have been so happy as to win the love of your son, you must needs think kindly of me. i will strive to be worthy of him." this avowal was so entirely unexpected that mrs. travers could not at first speak. this simple confession of love, this sad reference to her lonely condition, this promise to be a true and loyal wife--how unlike the coquettish and half-reluctant, half-triumphant manner which mrs. travers thought a bath belle would assume under these circumstances! "my dear," she said, after a pause, during which leslie had thrown his arm protectingly round griselda--"my dear, may i do my duty to you as my only son's wife? i pray that you may be kept safe in this evil world, and that we may mutually encourage each other to tread the narrow way leading to everlasting happiness." griselda bent, and said simply: "kiss me, dear madam, in token of your approval;" and mrs. travers rose, and very solemnly putting her arm round griselda, and holding the hand which was locked in her son's, pressed a kiss on the fair forehead of her future daughter-in-law, and uttered a prayer for god's blessing on her. then griselda said, "i must return now to lady betty. will you come, sir?" "give me my name," he said. "let me hear you give me my name." "there is time enough for that," she said, rallying with an arch smile. "we will come to that by-and-by." and soon they were retracing their steps to the north parade, joy in their hearts, and that sweet sense of mutual love and confidence, which in all times, whenever it is given, comes near to the bliss of the first love-story rehearsed in paradise. alas! that too often it should pass like a dream, and that the trail of the serpent should be ready to mar the beauty of the flowers of an eden like leslie travers's, and griselda mainwaring's. chapter x. a proposal. the door of the house in north parade was opened by graves. "where have you been?" she said anxiously. "dinner is not only served, but just finished. there have been tantrums about it, i can tell you. you may prepare for a fuss. her ladyship----" "perhaps," griselda said, turning to leslie--"perhaps you had better pay your visit to-morrow. let me see lady betty alone." graves, who saw the hesitation, now said: "yes, miss griselda, her ladyship is in no mood to see a stranger. you had best bid the gentleman good-day, and come in." "it may be it is best," griselda said. "so good-bye--good-bye till to-morrow." "unless we meet in the assembly room," leslie said, holding her hand; and bending over it, he pressed it to his lips again and again, as if he could not give it up. she drew it gently away, and then ran with a light step to her own room. graves followed her. "what does it mean, my dear?" she asked. "it means that i am no longer alone in the wide, cold world. oh, be glad for me, graves, be glad! i am to be the wife of a good man--mr. leslie travers." "good! well, there is none good--no, not one! he may be better in the eye of _man_ than the rest, but _good_!--he may be a _moral_ man." "he is everything that is noble and good! oh, graves, i am so happy!" "poor child!--poor child!" the faithful woman said, as she smoothed the bow on the wide hat before putting it away--"poor child! well, you'll need a protector. there's a great to-do in the dining-parlour. i heard your name again and again; and her ladyship and that man who is so often here--worse luck--were making free with it, i can tell you. there! that's her bell--ring-ring-ring! and here comes david." david was the man-servant, and tapped sharply at the door. "mistress graves, are you here? is miss mainwaring here? she is wanted by her ladyship in the sitting-room--_now_," he added--"this instant. do ye hear?" "yes, i am not deaf," was graves' retort; "so you needn't make a noise like so many penny trumpets. you had better change your dress, my dear. here is your blue skirt and flowered-chintz gown--and your hair is all falling down. come!" griselda was putting away the money she had received for her jewels, and then submitted to graves' hands, as she changed her morning-gown for a pretty toilette of chintz and under-skirt of blue brocade. "i must be quick, or she will ring again," graves said. "there! i thought so"--for again the querulous bell sounded, and hurrying feet were heard on the stairs. "her ladyship is in a regular passion," david said, through the door. "you'll repent it, graves, as sure as you are alive." "hold your tongue, and be off," was the reply; "i can take care of myself, by your leave!" david grumbled a reply, and again departed. in other times, griselda would have shown some sign of desire to avert the storm of lady betty's anger; but to-day she went through her toilette without any undue haste. "graves," she said, "i want you to go to crown alley for me, and see a poor, man who is dying, and take him some comforts. surely there are plenty of wasted luxuries that might be of use to him! and, graves, he has a dear little girl--such a clever child!--and as lovely as an angel, though half-starved. graves, will you take some of that mock-turtle soup and a bottle of wine before night to no. 6, crown alley?" "well, to say the truth, miss griselda, i ain't partial to low places like crown alley, and----" "but you might talk to the man of good things--you might tell him of the love of god." graves shrugged her shoulders. "i must tell him first of the wrath of god--poor dying creature!--if he has been mixed up with theatre folk. it's awful to think of him!" "do go--to please _me_, dear graves," griselda said. with a sudden impulse, she stooped and kissed her rugged face as graves bent down to arrange a knot of ribbon on the chintz bodice. "oh, graves, i am so happy! i want to make someone else happy. don't you understand? do go; and take what you can in your hand. now, what do i care for scolding?" she said. "i feel as if i had wings to-day;" and in another moment griselda had tripped downstairs, and was at the door of the sitting-room, where on a sofa reclined lady betty. lady betty was fanning herself vigorously--always a sign of a coming storm; and sir maxwell danby was leaning back in an armchair, toying with his snuff-box and the trifles hanging to his watch-chain. the ruffles on his coat were of the most costly lace, and so was the edge of the long cravat, which, however, was peppered with the snuff he was continually using. there was a gleam of something very much the reverse of kindly intention in his little deep-set eyes, and cunning and malice were making curves round his thin lips, though, on griselda's entrance, a smile, which was meant to be fascinating, parted them; and, rising in reply to her curtsey at the threshold of the door, he bowed low, advanced to her, and, offering his hand, said: "may i beg leave to hand you to a chair?" then, as griselda drew her hand away and turned on him a look of disgust, lady betty almost screamed out: "what do you mean by flouncing like that, miss? sit down at once, and hear of the honour this gentleman proposes to do you. he offers you what you little deserve." "nay--nay, my lady," sir maxwell began; "that is impossible for any man to offer. a diadem laid at this fair lady's feet would be all too little for her deserts. but may i venture to address a few words to your fair ward? and then i will take my leave, and await with anxiety a reply--say, to-morrow at this time. i would not hasten her. madam," he began, with his hand on his heart--"madam, i pray you to listen to my poor words; and, as you listen, believe that they come from one weary of the hollow insincerities of a gay world, and longing to rest itself on something real and steadfast. i see in you the perfection of womanhood. i adore you; and lady betty favours my suit. i can offer you a position--a social rank--not to be lightly esteemed. danby hall is my ancestral home, and thither i crave leave to convey you, ere many months have passed, as its beautiful mistress, and----" "sir," griselda interrupted, as this suitor bent on one knee, with due care not to cause a rupture between the silk stockings which met his knee-breeches by too sudden a genuflexion--"sir, i must beg you to desist. surely, aunt betty, you have not encouraged this gentleman to pursue a suit which is distasteful to me?" then, as lady betty began to raise her voice, griselda turned to sir maxwell, who was finding his position uneasy, for his joints were not as supple as they had been twenty years before: "sir maxwell danby," she said, her voice trembling, in spite of every effort she made to control it, "i thank you for the honour you do me, but i decline to accept the proposal you make me." "she only means to put you off, sir maxwell; she will think better of it--she _shall_ think better of it." "nothing will change my purpose--nothing _can_ change it." then, though it seemed almost sacrilege to bring to light what lay like a fount of hidden joy in her heart, she looked steadily into the face of the world-worn man, who quailed before the clear glance of those young pure eyes. "nothing can change my purpose, sir; and for this reason--i am pledged to another." "ha! ha!" broke out almost involuntarily from sir maxwell "i understand. lady betty, let me warn you that this fair lady is in some danger from designing folk, who frequent the lowest purlieus of the city. i warn you; and now"--with a low bow--"i take my leave." and casting a parthian arrow behind as he made another low bow at the door, he said: "and unless you receive my warning in good part, you will see cause to repent it. it may be you will have to repent it through _another_." griselda's face blanched with fear as she turned to lady betty: "tell me," she exclaimed, "what that bad man has been saying of--of me, and of another!" "saying! that you have misbehaved yourself, miss; and that you have been taken to crown alley by that canting hypocrite whom i detest. speak to him again, and you leave this house. _dare_ to refuse sir maxwell danby's offer, and i cast you off. you had better take care, for your poor mother disgraced herself, and----" "stop!" griselda said; "not a word about my mother. i will not hear it. but, aunt betty, i will not listen to the proposal made me by sir maxwell danby. i would not, as i have told you, marry him were there no other man in the world; but, as it is," she said proudly, the fire of her eyes being suddenly dimmed with the mist of gentle tears--"as it is, i am the promised wife of mr. leslie travers. he will see you to-morrow on this matter, and----" "i will not see him. you shall marry sir maxwell; he has a fine fortune, and a fine place. you are mad; you are an idiot--a fool! go to your room, miss, and keep out of my sight till you come to your senses. get out of my sight, i say!" how long this tirade might have raged i cannot tell, had not david announced "lord basingstoke." shallow waters are easily lashed into a storm, and as easily does the storm spend itself. lady betty quickly recovered herself, and as griselda left the room she heard her aunt's usual dulcet tones and the inevitable giggle as the young lord, who was sorely at a loss how to "kill time," sank down in the chair sir maxwell had so lately left, and the usual badinage went on and received an additional piquancy by the arrival of two or three more idle people who had been to the pump room for their afternoon glass of water, and missing lady betty, had come to inquire for her health, and to talk the usual amount of scandal, or harmless gossip, as the case might be. the various love affairs on the tapis were discussed in their several aspects, and mrs. greenwood's plain daughters were made the target for the shafts of foolish satire. "could you fancy, my lady, that the vulgar mother asked young mr. beresford what his intentions were because he had danced twice with that fright, her daughter bell, out of sheer pity? lor', what fun young beresford is making of her!" "ridiculous! vastly amusing!" exclaimed lady betty. "but there is another marriage spoken of. i hear you are to give your beautiful ward"--lady betty's friends always took care to call griselda a ward, not a niece--"to sir maxwell danby. he has a fine place, upon my word," said an old beau, who posed as a young one. "he has a fine place, and a pretty fortune. i congratulate you, madam, and the young lady. for my part, i always have reckoned her the belle of bath this season." lady betty smiled, and accepted the congratulation and the admiration at the same time. "sir maxwell had just left her," she said. "where is the young lady?" the old gentleman asked. "upon my word, danby is a lucky fellow. there are many who will envy him. i confess _i_ am one." "yes. i say, where is miss mainwaring?" lord basingstoke asked. and lady betty, flirting her fan vigorously, said: "she has a headache, and will not be at the assembly to-night, i fear." chapter xi. a letter. griselda was glad to escape to her own room that she might have time to think over her position and decide what was best to do, and what was the next step to take. she laid aside her dress and hoop, and put on a long morning-gown which lady betty had discarded because the colour was unbecoming; and then, opening her desk, chose a very smooth sheet of bath-post paper, and sat with her quill pen in her hand as if uncertain what to write. but her face was by no means troubled and anxious; on the contrary, it was happy, almost radiant, in its expression. griselda had not had an experience of many lovers; indeed, the sweet story had never been told to her till leslie travers told it; and there was a charm for her in thinking that her heart had responded so fully to him and given him her first love. foolish protestations like sir maxwell danby's had indeed been made to griselda since her arrival at bath, but a certain stately dignity had kept triflers at a distance, and it might be said of griselda, that she "held a lily in her hand- gates of brass could not withstand one touch of that enchanted wand." it was the lily of pure unsullied womanly delicacy, which contact with the world of fashion in every town is too apt to touch, and even wither with its baleful breath. it would not be fair to say that in the bath assemblies this baleful influence was all-pervading. then, as now, there were many who, by their own guilelessness and purity, repelled the approach of what was harmful in word or jest. but what is now spread over a wide surface was--in those days of small centres like bath and other places of fashionable resort in or near london--pressed within a narrower compass, and thus the evil and its results were more prominently brought forward. but is not the canker at the root of many a fair flower of womanhood in the higher circles of our own time? do not maidens and matrons, young and old, of our own day permit, nay, encourage, the discussion of scandal and improprieties in their presence, which by their very discussion tend to stain the pure white flower of maidenhood and motherhood? is it not true that familiarity with any evil seems to lessen its magnitude, and that continual conversation about matters that are even perhaps condemned, has the effect of making the speaker and hearer less and less guarded in their remarks, and less and less "shocked," as they perhaps at first declared themselves to be, at some sad lapse from the straight path amongst their acquaintances and friends? it would be distasteful to me, and it would not add to the interest of the story i have to tell, were i to draw a picture true to life of sir maxwell danby. he was an utterly unscrupulous and base man. he had no standard of morality, except the standard of doing what best satisfied his own selfish and low aims. how it was that he had determined to win a woman like griselda, i cannot say, so utterly different as she was from the many women who had fallen into his power. but the fact remained that he _was_ determined to win her, and if he failed, his love--though i desecrate that word by applying it to any feeling of sir maxwell danby's--would assuredly turn to hatred and determination to do what he could to destroy her happiness. as griselda sat that evening with the light of two tall candles in their massive brass candlesticks, shining on her beautiful face, there was no shadow over it. what if lady betty renounced her, and turned her out of the house?--well, if the whole world were against her, she was no longer _alone_. she was his, who loved her, and was ready at any moment to take her to his heart and home. "i must write to him," she was saying as she stroked her cheek with the soft feather at the end of her quill; "i must write to him and tell him all--everything! and then he will know what to do." soon the pen began to move over the paper, and she smiled as she put it through the "sir," which had been written after "dear," and substituted "leslie." how strange and yet how sweet it was to look at it! and then she went on: "i said you must wait till i called you by your name! you have not had to wait long." she wrote on till she heard a bustle on the pavement below her window. she went to it, and looking down saw the link-boys with their torches and the chair in which lady betty was being carried off to the assembly, and the chair was followed by another, and several dark figures shrouded in long cloaks were in attendance. it was a clear frosty evening. the sky was studded with countless stars, and the fields and meadows then lying before north parade, made a blank space of sombre hue where no distant forms of tree or dwelling could be traced; while beyond was the dim outline of the hills, which stand round about that city of the west. lonely heights then!--now crowned by many stately terraces and houses, where a thousand lamps shine, and define the outline of the crescents and upward-reaching streets and roads. but gas was not known in that winter of 1780! it lay hidden in those strangely-mysterious places, with electricity and the power of steam, waiting to be called out into activity; for those hidden forces are old as the eternal hills, only waiting the magic touch of some master's hand, to be of service to men, who are but slow to recognise whence every good and perfect gift comes. when the house was quiet, griselda returned to her desk, and slowly and deliberately finished her letter. it was not long, and covered only one side of the sheet. then it was folded with care to make the edges fit in nicely, and nothing remained but to seal it; and she was about to light the little taper, and get the old seal from the corner of her desk, when a tap at the door was followed by graves's entrance with a tray. "your supper," she said shortly, "miss griselda." graves's voice and manner were so unusual that griselda started up. "what is the matter?" she asked. "why do you look so miserable? was she trying your patience--you poor dear old graves--past bearing? graves, why don't you speak?" but graves's mouth was close shut, and she looked as if determined not to answer. "look, graves, i have written a letter to mr. travers, and told him what lady betty said to me; that is, i told him she said she would cast me off, unless i did as she chose in a matter which i could not explain in a letter, but connected with sir maxwell danby." "she can't cast you off! you were left to her in the will for maintenance. i do know that much." "yes!" griselda said vehemently--"yes! like any other of my uncle's goods and chattels! oh, i am free now!--i am free!--or shall be soon! i will not think of vexing matters to-night of all nights! what a dainty little supper! i like oyster-patties. ah! that reminds me of your promise, graves. have you been to crown alley? did you take the soup? and were you kind in your manner to the poor little girl? graves, did you go?" "yes, miss griselda, i went." "and what did you think? had i made too much of the misery, and want, and wretchedness of that poor man?" "no, miss griselda--no, my dear!" said graves. "i must go again in a day or two, and you shall come with me." graves relapsed into silence again, and then griselda put the important seal on her letter, and addressed it, and gave it to graves, with instructions to send it safely by the hand of david early the next morning. "it is a comfort to have told him all!" she said, as graves finally left the room. "and how happy i am to be no longer a chattel, but a part of the very life of another, and that other a man like my leslie!" sweet were griselda's dreams that night, all fears seemed to have vanished, and the image of sir maxwell danby bore no part in them. women of griselda's type, tasting the cup of happiness for the first time, are inclined to drink deep of its contents. perhaps only those who have not felt the loneliness of heart like hers can tell how great was the reaction. hitherto she had been plainly told she was an encumbrance, and that her business in coming to bath was to get a settlement in life as soon as possible. it was this that had made her maintain the cold, reserved demeanour which was, as i have said, unlikely to make her popular in the mixed assemblies of wiltshire's rooms and the pump room. she had surrendered the citadel of her heart with a whole and perfect surrender; and while the gay crowd was bent on enjoyment, and beaux and belles were trying who could be first in the exchange of pleasantries and jokes not of the most refined character, griselda dreamed her dreams, and slept in peace; while graves, carrying the letter downstairs, stopped from time to time, and murmured: "i have not the heart to tell her! i dare not tell her! or, if i do, not to-night!--not to-night! how could i spoil her happiness to-night! may the lord call her, and may she hear his voice, for i fear trouble lies before her, poor lamb!" * * * * * it is wonderful what perseverance and energy can effect! even in the very prosaic and commonplace circumstances of a removal from rivers street to king street, these qualities were conspicuous in the herschels. miss herschel had worked with a will from daybreak to nightfall, and the stolid welsh servant, betty, had been infected with the general stir and bustle of the household. by nine o'clock that evening mr. herschel was established in his observatory at the top of the house, without a single mischance happening to any of his mirrors or reflectors, and without the loss of a single instrument. it was a night when the temptation to sweep the heavens was too great to resist, and although he felt some compunction when he heard the running to and fro below-stairs, and his sister's voice raised certainly above concert-pitch in exhortations to betty and entreaties to alick to be sharp and quick, he had fixed one of his telescopes, and was lost in calculations and admiration at some previously unnoticed feature of the nebulæ, when his brother alex came into the room. "we have got supper ready," he said, "and travers is below offering help--rather late in the day--and the only help he can give now is to help to eat the double gloucester cheese and drink the bristol ale. but come, will; you have had no proper meal to-day!" "humph! what," mr. herschel said, "did i say? nineteen millions of miles, or eighteen and three-quarter millions? yes, alex--yes. can i be of any assistance? how about the violins and the harpsichord? there are several lessons down for to-morrow, and ronzini will be here about the oratorio. i ought to have gone to bristol, but it was impossible. there's the score of that quartette in g minor, alex--is it safe?" "yes--yes. i pray you, brother, trust the sagacity of your workers, and repay them with a scrap of gratitude." then yawning, "if you are not as tired as any tired dog, i am; and i am off to bed, such as it is, for there is only one bedstead put up--that is the four-post for you. lina and i have decided to sleep on the floor." "nonsense! i shall not sleep to-night, i have too much to settle. let good lina take some rest for her weary limbs. and, alex, to-morrow, we must see about the workshop in the garden and the casting for the thirty-foot reflector, for i can have no real peace of mind till that is an accomplished fact. the mirror for the thirty-foot reflector is to be cast in a mould of loam, prepared from horse dung. it will require an immense quantity; it must be pounded in a mortar; it must be sifted through a sieve." alex shrugged his shoulders, and made an exclamation in german which brought a laugh from his brother. "poor alex, is the lowest yet most important step of the ladder distasteful to you? i will not trouble you, my boy, nor will i enlist lina in the service against her wishes--do not fear." "i fear no work for you, william," alex said, "when music is concerned, you know that; but----" "i know--i know," william herschel said, patting his brother's shoulder; "but, remember, i make even music--yes, even music--that heaven-born gift, subservient to the better understanding of that goodly host of heaven, beyond and above all earthly consideration and mere earthly aims. but let us go to supper. we must eat to live--at any rate, young ones like you must. come!" the room below was not in such dire confusion as might have been expected. the harpsichord was pushed close to the wall, with a company of violin, violoncello, and double-bass cases, standing like so many sarcophagi in serried rows. the table was spread with a clean cloth, and a large drinking-cup of delft ware, supported by three figures of little cupids, with a bow for a handle, was full of strong ale. a large brown loaf, and a cheddar cheese, looked inviting; while a plate of bath buns, with puffed shining tops, indented with a crescent of lemon-peel, showed the taste for sweet cakes which all germans display. "my good sister," mr. herschel said, "you are a wondrous housewife; we must not forget to give the mother far away a true and faithful report of your skill--eh, alex?" "skill!" caroline said. "there is not much skill required--only strength. come, mr. travers, take what there is, and overlook deficiencies." then the legs of the mahogany chairs scraped on the bare boards, and the four sat down to their meal. the grace-cup was passed round. miss herschel, drawing a clean napkin through the handle, with which those who took a draught wiped their lips and the edge of the cup. the conversation was bright and lively, and leslie travers, who was in the first joy of griselda's acceptance of his love, thought he had never before tasted such excellent bread and cheese, or drunk such beer. "there is a ball at lady westover's to-night, travers," alex said. "you are absenting yourself from choice, i doubt not. i absent myself from necessity." "you could have gone, alex; only i warned you i had no time to get up your lace-ruffles to-day; and you are so reckless with your cravats--all were crumpled and dirty." "my dear sister, i do not complain. i heard, by-the-bye, travers, that the voice of the assembly room is unanimous in declaring miss mainwaring the reigning beauty; but----" "but what?" leslie asked. "there are two or three men inclined to make too free with her name." leslie's brow darkened. "i know of _one_," he said; "but, sir, if you should chance again to hear a word spoken of miss mainwaring, you may remind the speaker that she is my promised wife. she has, unworthy as i am, done me the honour to look favourably on my suit this very day." "indeed! you are a fortunate man," alex said heartily. "i came with the purpose, madam," leslie said, turning to miss herschel, "to ask if you will, when agreeable to you, give miss mainwaring lessons in singing? i am," he said, colouring, "responsible for the price of the lessons, only i do not desire to let miss mainwaring know this." "i must look in the book of engagements," miss herschel said; "we are over-full as it is. the days lost in the removal threw us back, but," she said, drawing a book with a marble-paper cover from her capacious pocket, "_i_ will run my eye over the lists, and try to arrange it, william." but mr. herschel had left the room; he returned in a few minutes to say: "lina, the men will be here as soon as it is light to-morrow about the furnace; and, lina, i shall be glad to have the micrometer lamp and the fire in my room." "yes, william;" and the question of singing-lessons for griselda mainwaring, or anyone else, was for the time forgotten. far into the night did that loyal-hearted sister, tired with a hard day's work, assist her brother in the arrangement of his new study--his _sanctum sanctorum_, on the top-floor of the house, made memorable in the annals of bath and the records of the country, to which he, william herschel, came a stranger, as the spot where his labour received the crown of success in the discovery of uranus. chapter xii. discovered. griselda shrank from meeting lady betty after the stormy scene of the previous day, and graves brought her breakfast to her own room. "did you send my letter, graves?" "yes." "surely, by a safe hand?" "i hope you don't think david's unsafe!" was the short reply. "graves, why _are_ you so gloomy--like the day? oh!" she said, turning to the window, which was blurred with a driving mist of rain--"oh! there ought to be sunshine everywhere to suit me to-day." "there's not likely to be a ray of sun to-day. bath folks say that if the weather once sets in like this, it goes on rain, rain----" "well, it can't last for ever--nothing does." "no; that's true," said graves. griselda now settled herself to her breakfast with the appetite of youth; and, as graves left the room, she said: "bring the letter the instant it comes, graves--the answer to _my_ letter, i mean; or perhaps mr. travers may come himself." but the day wore on, and griselda waited and watched in vain. she tried to occupy herself with her violin; she made a fair copy of her verses, and smiled as she thought, that waiting--_her_ waiting--had at last been crowned with reward. then she fell into dreams of her past life; the dull dreary round at longueville park; her uncle's long illness; her dependence for education on the library and its store of books, and the good offices of the clergyman of the little parish, who gave her lessons in latin, and such italian as he knew. needlecraft and embroidery she had learned from his wife; and she was an accomplished needlewoman. it was a haphazard education, but griselda's natural gifts made her able to adapt it to her needs; and she was a self-cultured woman, who lived her own life apart from the frivolity of lady betty, to whom, as she said, she was simply an appendage. then there was the closing of longueville park till the heir returned from the grand tour; for, in spite of lady betty's wiles and effusive letters, the heir made it very evident that he did not desire her to remain at the park till his return in a year or two, as lady betty fondly hoped. then the little widow made the best of the circumstances, 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 butterfly drops the chrysalis, and floating off into the world of fashion, with griselda as her "sweet friend," and "pet," and protégée, 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 passed. 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 passionately. "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 snatched 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 passed, 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 passed 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 assembly 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." poor graves almost groaned in the agony of her spirit. "my dear--my poor dear," she said, "you are not fit to go and see a man like him die." "do not listen to her," brian bellis said; "do not listen--for norah's sake." griselda freed herself from graves's hand and ran upstairs, returning presently in her long cloak and a _calèche_ well pulled over her face. all this time mrs. abbott and her daughter sarah anne had watched the scene with curious eyes, and a small boy who ran errands and turned the spit in the kitchen, cleaned knives, and performed a variety of such menial offices, had, all unperceived, been watching from the top of the stairs leading to the basement and offices. the boy had his own reasons for watching. a bit of gold was already in his pocket which had been given him by a fine gentleman who had stopped him in the morning as he was running off at david's command, with griselda's letter to king street. another bit of gold was promised this hopeful young personage if he kept a watch on the proceedings of the beautiful young lady who lived with lady betty longueville. this boy, who was familiarly called "zach," was only too pleased to be thus employed. he had, in fact, given up the letter to this smart gentleman, who was sir maxwell danby's valet, and who had also been well-paid for acting spy on many like occasions. it was the most natural thing in the world for him to stop zach, ask to look at the letter, slip a half-guinea into his hand, and tell him he would convey it to mr. travers, as he had a message for him from his master, and that he might go about his daily business and hold his tongue. the letter would reach its destination--he need not trouble himself about it; and the bait held out of another piece of gold for further information if wanted, depended on his keeping silence; if he did this, his fortune was made. so those little lynx eyes of master zach's were very wide open indeed, and he saw graves make a final effort to prevent the young lady from going off with brian bellis. it was ineffectual, for griselda said proudly: "do not interfere, graves; i will not suffer you to do so." "then i must come along with you," poor graves said, and getting near to griselda, she seized her hand, and putting her mouth close to her face, whispered something which seemed to turn the graceful figure standing ready for departure into stone. she put out her hand and supported herself against the back of a tall chair which stood near, but beyond this she never moved, till poor graves, in a duffle-cloak with many capes and a large black beaver bonnet, returned, ready to accompany her on her errand. then she took the hand which hung passive at griselda's side. "i am ready, my dear--i am ready," graves said. "show the way, boy. have you a torch handy?" "no, madam; but i can find the way in the dark." then mrs. abbott called zach. "quick, zach! quick! light a torch, and light these ladies on their way; or shall he call a chair, madam?" "no," griselda said, starting as if from a dream; "no. now, graves!" then pulling her hood over her face, and taking graves's offered arm, she said to brian: "lead the way; i am ready." zach trotted along with the link in his hand, keeping close to brian, and the two women followed. neither spoke till they were well within the shadow of the alley, from which a noisy party of women and girls were coming out. brian, who was in advance, stopped, and griselda stopped also. "are you sure?" she asked in a low voice--"are you sure? is there no mistake?" "there is no mistake. i wish there was--oh! i wish there was!" griselda seemed to be gathering strength now, for she left graves's arm, and followed brian up the long narrow flight of stairs. the child norah had heard the sound of coming feet on the creaking staircase, and opened the door of the attic, saying: "he is quieter now." then, with a sob: "oh! brian, brian! you have been such a long, long time; and have you brought her--the lady--the young lady?" "yes, i am here," griselda said; "yes. how is your----" the word died away on her lips--that word that ought to bring with it nothing but tender feeling of respect and love--that word which we use when we speak of the highest and the best guardian for life and death--"father!" yes, that wild haggard man, who had sunk back in a lethargy after long incoherent ravings, was the father of the beautiful woman who, unfastening her cloak, let it fall from her on the floor of that wretched room; and, kneeling, clasped her hands, and cried, in the bitterness of her soul: "oh, that it was not true! can it be true? graves--graves, tell me it is a frightful dream, and not reality!" "my poor dear!" said graves, in a choked voice, kneeling by griselda's side, and putting her strong arm round her to support her. "my poor dear! i wish i could tell you it was a dream; but bear up, and put your trust in the lord. it may be that he may save yonder poor creature as he saved the thief, in the hour of death." chapter xiii. the plot thickens. the money which griselda had brought the day before had added some comfort to that bare room. a good fire was burning, and the bed on which the man lay was covered with blankets. there was wine, too, and food; and thus, all unawares, the daughter had performed a daughter's duty, and had ministered to the comfort of the last sad hours of that wasted life. but it were vain to try to tell how griselda's whole nature shrank from this sudden revelation--how the impulse was strong to leave the room before consciousness returned to the dying man--so intensely did she dread the recognition which she knew must follow. for graves had risen from her knees; and, going to the table, had taken a small case, and a letter from it, saying: "he showed me these last night; they tell their own tale." poor little norah had resumed her place by the bedside, exhausted with her long watching. she had slipped down on the floor, and had fallen into a doze. when graves touched the case, she sprang up: "no; you must not. father said i was to let no one touch it till she came. no----" the movement, and the child's voice, roused the sick man. he opened his large eyes, and looked about him--at first with no expression in them; but presently those black, lack-lustre eyes became almost bright as he fastened them on griselda, and said, in a collected manner: "yes; i am glad i have lived to see you. look! there is the portrait of your mother, and a letter from her, in which is her wedding-ring. i would not bury it with her; i kept it for you--her child--her only child--_my_ child. let me hear you call me 'father!' i was so cruel--so base--she had to flee from me--my poor phyllis!" griselda had opened the case, and stood irresolute with the portrait of her mother in her hand. a lock of light hair was twisted into a curl, fastened by a narrow band of small pearls. the mother's face, lovely yet sad, looked up at the daughter's, and seemed to express sympathy and pity for her. deeply had the mother suffered--would her child be like her in this, as in outward form and semblance? the likeness was so unmistakable, that, except for the different style of dress, the miniature might have been painted as a portrait of griselda herself. "my mother!" she whispered softly; and, to the surprise of those who stood by, the sick man said, in a voice very different from the raving tones which had been ringing through the room and reaching to every part of the house: "yes; your mother. i remember you, little griselda--little griselda. i took you to longueville, and left you there. you cried then to leave me; you weep now to find me. well, it is just. i have been a wicked wretch; i have but little breath left--but take my poor little one out of this--this stage-life. take her, and try to love her; she is your sister." "i will," griselda said. "i shall have a home soon--she shall share it." "i thought as much--i hoped as much. he looks worthy of you, griselda. norah," he said, "this is your sister--your princess, as you call her; she will care for you. you will be a good little maid to her?" "yes, father," norah said; and then, with touching simplicity, she put her little hand into griselda's, and, looking up at her, she saw tears were coursing each other down her cheeks. "will you pray for me?" the dying man said. "pray that i may be forgiven." "pray for yourself, father," griselda whispered. he heard the word fall from her lips; and, putting out his long, thin, wasted hand, he laid it on her head as she knelt by the bed, and said: "i pray to be forgiven, and for blessings on you." "for christ's sake!" the voice was from graves, who, in broken accents, called upon the master whom she loved to have mercy on the poor penitent who lay dying. then little norah, nestling close to her father, repeated the 23rd psalm; but before she had ended, her father became restless, and fumbled for the paper, and said: "the ring--the ring--her mother's ring!" griselda put it into his feeble, uncertain grasp, and he murmured: "put it on--put it on; and forgive me for all the misery i caused your mother. i broke her heart; and then the flames--the cruel flames--took from me the other poor child who loved me. my wife--norah's mother--well, if she had lived, i should have broken her heart, too." after this there were no coherent words--all was confusion again; and before the abbey clock had struck out eleven, the spirit had passed away. who shall dare to limit the love and forgiveness of god in christ? with this sad story of a misspent and miserable life we have no more to do here. it rolls back into the mists of oblivion with tens of thousands like it in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, and in all the centuries since the world began. we dare not say such life-stories leave no trace behind, for true it is that the evil lives, when the doer of the evil is gone. the two daughters of this unhappy man were bearing the consequences of his sin. the child cast penniless on the cold world, the beautiful girl by her side suffering as only such a nature could suffer from the sense of humiliation and distress that her father had been a man whose very name must perish with him--for who would wish to keep it in remembrance? oh for the good name which is better than riches to leave to our children! surely, when troubled for the future of our sons and daughters, we may strive to leave them that which is better than silver and gold--the inheritance of a good name, of parents who have been honourable members of the great commonwealth, true to god, and true to man, and have scorned the paths of deceit and guile, as well as the ways of open sin and treacherous wickedness. "we must get back, miss griselda. her ladyship will be returned. we must go at once." "yes. but norah--the child?" "i will take care of her," brian bellis said. "see! she is almost stupefied with her grief--she will scarce heed your departure!" "i cannot leave her--poor little girl! she has no one in the world but me!" griselda said, in a tone of deep emotion. while they were thus speaking, the stairs creaked under the weight of mrs. betts, who, with one of the actors from the theatre, came to inquire for lamartine. mrs. betts was a coarse, loud-voiced woman, but her nature was kind, and she pitied the child who had done so much for her father with all her heart. she was a woman of decision too, and, with one glance at the bed, she lifted the almost unconscious norah in her arms, and turning to the pale, haggard man, who had been acting in lamartine's place, she said: "you bide here while i take the child to my lodgings. and we must give notice of the death, and club to get him decently buried. mr. palmer will give a guinea, and we'll all follow in the same line. harrison, do you hear?" "yes--yes," the man said hurriedly; "but don't leave me long alone here. i--i don't care to have the company of a dead man for long." "you are an arrant coward, then, for your pains! there, go into the inner chamber, and i'll be back in half an hour. turn the key in the lock," mrs. betts said, as she began to trudge down the dark stairs with norah in her arms--"turn the key." but the man sprang to the door: "don't--don't lock me in! i'll stay; but don't lock the door!" a scornful laugh from mrs. betts was the answer, and graves coolly turned the key as she was told. brian bellis had gone down to look for zach and the torch, but no zach was to be found. he had made off to earn another gold-piece, and had performed his errand well, as the event proved. poor griselda had need of the support of graves's strong arm as she hurried her along to the north parade. what if lady betty were before her! what if it should come to her being really refused admittance to the house! graves trembled to think of it, and of what she would personally be made to suffer if she were not at her post in her mistress's bedroom at the appointed hour. griselda had really no thought about this. her one longing was to get back--back to her room, where she could pour forth her trouble, and consider how she should tell him who had loved her so well, that she was the daughter of the man by whose bedside they had stood together, all unconscious that they were doing anything more than responding to the entreaty of a child who was almost starving, and who was the only friend the wretched man seemed to possess. to graves's intense relief, mrs. abbott opened the door, and, in reply to the anxious question, said: "no, her ladyship is not come home. nobody has been here since zach returned to say you did not want him any more." "i never said so!" graves exclaimed. "we've groped home as best we could, for the rain and mist put out the lights, and as to the lamps, the glass is so thick with damp you can scarce see a spark in them." while graves was speaking, griselda had gone wearily upstairs. her cloak was saturated with rain, and as she unfastened her _calèche_ the masses of her hair fell back. at the top of the first flight she stopped. "graves! ask if a messenger has brought a letter for me." "no," mrs. abbott said, answering--"no. not a soul has been near the house since you left it." "no letter!--no letter!" griselda murmured; and then, when she reached her room, she threw aside her cloak and seated herself, with folded hands, staring out into the embers of the fire with a look in her face which made graves say, as she hastened towards her: "my dear! my poor child! don't look like that. it is over now--and a mercy too. there will never be any need to tell--no one need know. it's safe with me, and no one else need know. come, let me help you to bed before i am wanted elsewhere. come!" "i am not going to bed," griselda said. "i must wait till he comes or sends again." "we'll, the gentleman won't send at this time of night, that's certain! come, they will be back at any minute now! let me put you to bed. i declare," said graves, shuddering, "a change in the weather like this is enough to give one rheumatism! i don't call the bath climate so wonderful--frost one day, thaw and rain the next!" graves made up the fire, and then, finding griselda quite determined to sit up, she left her to fetch some refreshment, wisely thinking that to urge her against her will was hopeless just then. "she will come round, poor child! it is a dreadful shock! i almost wish i'd told her last night; but i hadn't the courage to do it. i make no doubt the lord is leading her to himself by a rough path. but i don't like that look in her face; it is not natural. she ought to cry; tears are always softening to grief. not that one can call it grief to lose a father like him!" no, it was not grief, but it was deep pity; and it was shame, and soreness of heart, and wounded pride. then that letter she had written in the fulness of her first joy--that letter, by which she cast herself upon leslie travers, and confided to him her trouble about sir maxwell. he had never answered it. he had come to the house, it is true, but he had been sent away. hours had gone by since, and he made no sign. what could she think but that he had looked with an unfavourable eye upon that outpouring of her full heart--perhaps thought her reference to sir maxwell's hateful addresses unmaidenly, unwomanly? griselda went over all this again and again, sitting as graves had left her, her head resting against the back of a high chippendale chair, her feet on the brass fender, her hands clasped, and the wealth of her beautiful hair covering her as with a mantle. "how shall i tell him?" she said at last. "i must tell him; he must know; he will not wish me to be his wife now, perhaps. there is little norah; i cannot part from her. how selfish i am! i am not thinking of her, or of anybody but myself. oh, what a cruel, cruel blow to all my hopes! ah, mother! mother!" she exclaimed as she suddenly remembered the case she had dropped into her wide pocket with the ring and the letter. "ah! mother!" for as her cold hands drew out the case, and she pressed the spring, it flew open, and the mother's face seemed to have a living power for the daughter. sympathy and maternal love and tenderness were all seen on that beautiful countenance; and yet there was a strength in the lines of the lovely mouth, those rosy, curved lips, parting as if to say, "be of good courage! the battle may be sore; but victory comes at length. trust, and be not afraid!" then tenderly and reverently griselda unfolded the yellow paper, to which a ring was fastened with many clumsy stitches of silk, and read the faint characters of the few lines which were traced there. "i send you back the ring, as the tie between us is broken, patrick. keep it for our child; she is in safety at longueville park. do not molest her; leave her to a better home than _you_ can give her. you took her there by my request; leave her there. before you read this i shall be no longer on earth; but i have forgiven you, dear, as i hope to be forgiven. ours has been the wrong. oh, do not let the child suffer! leave her in the place where i was born and bred, and fulfil your vow, never, never to do aught which may turn her uncle's heart against her. it is my last request--my last hope! adieu, patrick!" these words were so blurred that they were illegible; and griselda sunk on her knees by the chair, and the tears, so long frozen, poured forth in a flood till her full heart was relieved. graves, coming in an hour later, found her with her fair head bowed on her arms, asleep. youth had triumphed over sorrow of heart, and sleep had come, as it does come, with gentle power to blot out for a time the sorrows of the young. graves's eyes filled with tears as she looked at her, and, taking a quilted cover from the bed, she threw it over her, putting a pillow under her head, and murmuring: "alas, poor dear! i fear the worst for her is _not_ over. may god help her! for man's help is vain. i can only pray for her. i dare not wake her--not yet--not yet!" chapter xiv. brawls. leslie travers had received an answer from david when he called at north parade that day, which had puzzled him not a little. "miss mainwaring could not receive any visitor," david was commissioned to say. "was miss mainwaring ill?" leslie asked. "no, not that i know of, sir; but these are my orders." surely there was something behind david's calm exterior, and leslie turned away dissatisfied. "she will be at the assembly to-night," he thought. "i must possess my soul in patience till then." so he dressed, and went to the assembly room, arriving just as lady betty stepped out of her chair, in a new primrose-coloured sacque and sea-green brocade petticoat. her hair was powdered as usual, and several brilliants flashed as she moved her head in answer to leslie travers's bow. where was griselda? lady betty gave him no chance of asking the question, as she swept past with all the dignity her little person could command, and was soon forgetting her indignation against griselda and her rejection of sir maxwell danby's suit, in her own delight in having apparently captured lord basingstoke. leslie wandered from room to room, and was trying to make up his mind whether to brave all consequences, and boldly go to lady betty's house and inquire for griselda, when he was met by mr. beresford, an acquaintance whom he had made at mr. herschel's house, who told him that he was going to bristol the next day to play in the orchestra at the rehearsal for "judas maccabæus," and asking him to accompany him. "there will be room," he said, "in the conveyance that is hired. post-horses, and a large chariot, are engaged by the herschels, who are making a pretty fortune by music, and spending it all in those jim-cracks of mirrors and tubes and micrometers." "jim-cracks!" leslie repeated. "i could not give them such a name; they are like the steps in the ladder mr. herschel is climbing skyward." mr. beresford laughed. "i confess i am very well content to let the stars take their course without my interference--i mean without my looking into the matter. there is enough to do for me to consider my ways down below without star-gazing. by-the-bye, _your_ star of beauty is not here to-night; has she set behind a cloud? here come the two miss greenwoods, simpering and putting on fashionable airs which don't suit them. like their gowns, such airs don't fit. fancy their fat old mother asking me what my intentions were!" leslie could not help laughing at his friend's remarks on the various beaux and belles who passed in review before them. presently the young man said: "look! did you see that?" "what?" leslie travers asked. "sir maxwell was called out to speak to someone by his valet. he is brewing mischief, i'll take my oath. let us go into the room next the lobby and find out." "i decline to act spy. you may do so if you like," leslie said. and he turned away towards another part of the room, and began to talk for half an hour to a retiring gentle girl, who, when the "contre danse" was formed, had no partner. leslie led her out to take a place in it, and found himself _vis-a-vis_ with sir maxwell danby and one of the most conspicuously dressed ladies who frequented lady miller's reunions at batheaston. she was attired in a loose white gown, supposed to be after the greek pattern, and her arms were bare, the loose sleeves caught up with a large brooch. she wore her hair in a plain band with a fillet, and cut low on the forehead. this lady had sat for her portrait to gainsborough in her youth, now long past, and she had become very stout since those days, when many reigning belles repaired to gainsborough's studio in ainslie's belvedere. she talked in a loud voice, and leslie's attention was soon diverted from his companion, as he caught a name dear to him. "miss mainwaring is a beauty, no doubt of that," the lady said; "but a trifle stiff and heavy in manner. why is she absent to-night? _you_ ought to know, sir maxwell." sir maxwell stroked his chin, and said: "perhaps she is better engaged, from all i know. miss mainwaring's behaviour is a little eccentric." "is there a romance connected with her? i do love a bit of pretty romance. you know the _on dit_ is that she is to be lady danby?" "my dear lady," sir maxwell said, "it is not safe to trust to _on dits_. from what i have heard, miss mainwaring's tastes lie in a somewhat lower level of society than that in which you, for instance, live and move. there are, it seems, attractions for miss mainwaring in a quarter of the town where we look for actors and actresses, and such-like cattle--that is, supposing that we desire their acquaintance off the stage--which i, for one, do not!" "i really hardly credit what you say; i vow i can't believe it. there's some mistake, sir maxwell." "i wish i could agree with you," was the reply; "it is a matter which affects me very deeply. i do assure you----" at this moment it was sir maxwell's turn to take the hand of leslie's partner, and he repeated in a voice which he meant should reach his ear: "miss mainwaring, the lady in question, pays daily and nighty visits to these low purlieus. charity is made the pretext, of course." the dance was over, and the hour for departure drew on. leslie travers watched his opportunity, and lay in wait for sir maxwell in one of the lobbies. he was passing him with a lady on his arm, when leslie said: "a word with you, sir, in private. i demand an apology for the shameful lies you are circulating. they are lies, and----" "softly, softly, my dear boy; let the presence of a lady be remembered." "oh! pray let us have no high words!" the lady said. "for mercy's sake, don't quarrel, gentlemen!" "madam," leslie travers said, in an excited voice, "you have heard the basest slanders uttered against--against one whom i would not name in such company. look you, sir," leslie said, seizing the velvet sleeve of sir maxwell's coat--"look you, sir; you have been a liar, and you are now a coward. i will prove it." "come, come, gentlemen; no brawling here," said the master of the ceremonies, bustling up. "settle your matters elsewhere. a man of honour has his remedy." "precisely!" said sir maxwell, who was white with rage. "precisely! and as to you, poor boy--poor insensate boy--i will send my answer to your private residence as befits a gentleman; but i decline to brawl here. move off, sir, i say!" a knot of people had collected, and young beresford was one. he took leslie's arm, and said: "come away, and cool yourself." "i will not cool. i will throw the lie back in that fellow's throat; and----" but mr. beresford drew leslie away; but not before lady betty--cloaked and muffled, ready to step into her chair--pressed through the little crowd. "what is it? goodness! what is amiss, sir maxwell?" "my dear lady, we have a madman to deal with--that's all. we will settle our affairs on claverton down, as others have done." "oh, mercy! don't fight a duel; it is too shocking, it's----" but sir maxwell hurried lady betty away, saying in his cold, hard voice, which, however, trembled a little: "that poor boy will repent insulting me; but let it not disturb you." and then sir maxwell resigned lady betty to david's care, and she was soon lost to sight in the recesses of the chair. the ubiquitous zach had been on the watch, and had reached north parade before lady betty. graves, who, as we know, had been anxiously watching for lady betty's return, and congratulating herself that she had got griselda safely to her own room before her ladyship arrived, heard zach's voice below. mrs. abbott loved news, and thus was ready to pardon the boy's late return to the little box where he slept below-stairs, dignified with the name of the "butler's pantry;" and graves, at the sound of voices, went to the top of the kitchen stairs, and hearing miss mainwaring's name, went down two or three steps. "is anything wrong?" she asked. "dear bless me, mrs. graves, i don't know! this boy says he has been waiting for you all these hours down in crown alley." "that's an untruth," said graves; "but what do i hear him saying about the ladies?" "there's been a brawl in the lobby of the assembly room, and they say the baronet and young mr. travers will fight afore they settle it." graves descended now to the kitchen, and asked with bated breath if zach was telling the truth now, "for," she added, "the mouth of them that speak lies shall be stopped." zach's little eyes twinkled. he knew he had got his reward, so mistress graves might say what she liked. "yes," he whined, "it's a fine thing to keep a little chap like me, who works hard all day, awaiting in a place like crown alley." graves took zach by the arm and shook him vehemently. "you weren't there. you were gossiping by the assembly room door. what did you hear there?" zach made a face, and said: "let go, and i'll tell you." graves relaxed her hold. "i heard the young gent tell sir maxwell he was a liar, and he'd fight him about miss mainwaring. there! you've told me _i'm_ a liar, and i'd like to fight _you_" quoth zach savagely. chapter xv. challenged. when the first heat of passion was over, leslie travers went sorrowfully towards his home in king street. mr. beresford would not leave him till he saw him safely to the door, which was opened by giles, who greeted his young master with a yawn, and said: "the mistress has been a-bed these three hours. ye are burning the candle at both ends, master leslie." something in leslie's manner struck the old servant. he preceded his young master to the parlour, threw on a log, and lighted two candles, which stood like tall sentinels on either side of the mantelshelf, in heavy brass candlesticks. "there's nothing like light and warmth if folks are down-hearted," he said to himself; "and really the young master looks down-hearted. ah! it's the world and its ways. the mistress has the best of it." little did giles's mistress think, as she slept peacefully that night, how the leaden hours dragged on in the room below, where leslie travers sat and wrestled with that most relentless foe--an uneasy conscience. a hundred years ago duels were common enough, and any man who was challenged would have been scouted as a coward if he had not accepted the challenge. leslie knew he had thrown the lie back to sir maxwell danby, and that he should be called upon to answer for it, perhaps by his life. he was no coward, but this very life had become sweeter to him than ever before, during the last few days. he had gained the love of the woman who was to him a queen amongst all women, and now in vindicating her from the tongue of the slanderer, he might perhaps be on the eve of leaving her for ever. he had often looked death in the face when he had been lying ill at the grange, and sometimes for utter weariness it had seemed no fearful thing to die. since his mother had come under the influence of lady huntingdon's ministers, leslie had heard a great deal of "the king of terrors," as death was termed in their phraseology, and he had often thought that it had not worn that guise to him in times of sore sickness--rather, as a friend's arm outstretched to lull his pain and give him peace. but now--now that the strength of his young manhood was renewed--now, when life was as a pleasant song in the possession of griselda's love, in dreams of a useful happy life, with her to sympathize in all his hopes and aims--parting from life, and all that life holds dear, was very different. as he sat by the fire, or left his chair and paced the room, he seemed to hear words spoken in the very inner recesses of his soul. "_i_ say unto you, love your enemies, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them that despitefully use you and persecute you." "yes," he argued, "yes; but it is not for myself, it is for her! that man's disappointment and disgust at her rejection of his suit will goad him to say all evil of her--my pure, beautiful griselda! and yet----" then he went hopelessly over the past week. that child who had come to the herschels' doorstep; the pity which she had called to life; that expedition for the relief of the suffering man--if--if only that had never been, all this had been averted. all for a stranger, a worthless stranger, who was probably neither deserving of pity or help. if he had known how close between griselda and this man the tie was, how far the poor dying actor was from being a stranger to her, would his feelings have been different? would the truth have changed the aspect of things for him--made the situation more or less painful? i cannot tell. the gray january dawn, creeping in through the holes in the shutters, and penetrating the room where the fire had burned out, and the candles died in their sockets, found leslie in a fitful doze in the chair, into which, after walking up and down the room during the night, he had sunk at last from sheer exhaustion. on first waking he could not recall what had happened. he stretched his stiff limbs, and then the faint pallor of the dawn showed him the familiar objects in the room, and the present with all its stern realities became vivid. he tottered upstairs to his bed, not wishing his mother to find him dressed in his gay evening clothes, when she came down to breakfast. as he passed her door he heard her voice raised in prayer. to pray aloud, in pleading earnest tones, had become a habit of the good people with whom mrs. travers had cast in her lot, and leslie paused as he heard his name. "my son! my son! convert him, turn him to thee, for he is wandering far from thee, in pursuit of the vain pleasures of a sinful world!" "i need your prayers, sweet mother," the poor fellow murmured, as he passed 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. dickinson, 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. dickinson 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. dickinson. "women are the bottom of half the mischief that is brewed in the world, i do believe." mr. dickinson 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 barré 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 assembly 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 _bâton_ 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 relationship 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 assurances 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 ladyship, 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." "i will come down and see him. he shall take this letter to king street. he shall wait and bring me an answer. i shall meet no one on the stairs. let me pass you." brian bellis was standing in the entrance-hall, and griselda went eagerly towards him: "have you brought me tidings?" and brian replied: "i have taken norah home to my aunt's house. i've had a piece of work to do it; but they will keep her till after the funeral. he is to be buried to-morrow afternoon. i thought you would like to know this, madam." "yes--yes," griselda said; "and i will reward you for your care of norah." "i want no reward, madam," brian said quickly. "have you any commands?--for it is late. the actors at the theatre have subscribed for the burial; but----" "not enough--i understand. follow me upstairs--gently--softly," she said, as she led the way to a small room at the head of the stairs where graves worked. griselda pointed to the door; and then going to her own room on the upper story, she took up the letter she had at last written to leslie travers, and the packet of money she had sealed for graves to take to crown alley. when she rejoined brian, she said: "i entrust you with these two packets. i had them ready. the money is for the--for my sister. let her have decent black, and proper mourning; and there are two guineas for the funeral of--her father. but," griselda said, with a strange pang of self-reproach she could not have defined, as she felt how little the death of her father and her sister's sorrow weighed in the balance against an aching fear and anxiety about mr. travers--"but this letter i want you to put into the hands of mr. leslie travers in king street. for this--oh! i would reward you in any way that you desire. bring me an answer back, and i will owe you eternal gratitude. do you hear?" yes, brian heard. it seemed all but impossible that this tall, beautiful lady should clasp her hands as a suppliant to him. his large, honest eyes sought hers, and the appeal in them touched his boyish heart. "i will do what you wish, madam, and as quickly as i can." "thank you--i thank you, dear boy, with all my heart. oh, that you may bring back a word to comfort me!--for i am shadowed with the cloud of coming, as well as past, misfortune; and i scarce know how to be patient till the pain of suspense is relieved." then, laying her hand on brian's shoulder, she said: "promise to see mr. travers, and put the letter in his hand." and brian promised, and kept his promise faithfully. chapter xvi. in the early morning. griselda returned to her room to watch the timepiece, and listen for the striking of the abbey clock, as the slow hours passed, and she paced the floor in her restlessness from the fireplace to the window, and then back again from the window to the fire. about ten o'clock graves came in with a cup of chocolate, and to tell her that mr. cheyne, the doctor, had seen lady betty, and pronounced her really ill this time. she was to keep in bed, and if not better on the following day, he must let blood from her arm. "do you know the doctor, miss griselda--this young doctor cheyne?" "i may have spoken to him. yes, i have seen him; but what is he to me?" "he asked for you, that's all," said graves; "how you did, and whether----" graves stopped. it was a habit of hers to break off suddenly in her speech, and griselda scarcely noticed it. "_is_ the boy, brian bellis, come back?" "no, miss griselda; he won't be here again to-night. i hear he is nephew to the miss hoblyns, the mantua-makers, and that they look sharp after him; they would not let him run about the streets at midnight." "midnight! it's not midnight! oh, graves, i am so tired!" "go to bed, and sleep till morning; that is my advice to you, and read a verse in god's word to go to sleep on. you'll never know rest till you find it in the lord, my dear. let me help you to undress." "no, i am not going to bed. promise, graves, if brian bellis comes to the door with a letter you will bring it here. promise----" graves nodded her head in token of assent, and departed. there are few troubles, and few anxieties, which do not find a temporary balm in the sleep of youth. and griselda, worn out at last, threw herself on her bed, and fell, against her will, into a deep and dreamless slumber. the abbey clock had struck eleven when graves, softly opening the door, found the fire low, and the candles burned out; while on the bed lay griselda, dressed, but with the coverlet drawn over her under the canopy of the old-fashioned tent-bed, which was the bed then commonly in use for rooms which were not spacious enough to receive a stately four-poster. graves had a small tin candlestick in one hand, and a letter. she carefully shielded the light, and, looking down at the sleeping girl, murmured: "i cannot wake her. i will leave the letter on the bed; she will see it in the morning the first thing--better she should not see it till then. i promised to bring it, but i did not promise to rouse her if she was asleep. poor child! poor dear! may the lord pity her and draw her to himself!" graves moved gently about the room, and put the tinder-box near the candlestick, and then softly closed the door, and went downstairs to sit by the side of the fractious invalid, who declared she could not be left for a moment, and who kept her patient handmaiden awake for hours, till at last she, too, sunk into a heavy sleep. never a night passes but in the silent watches some hearts are aching, some sick and weary ones are tossing in their uneasy beds, some suffering ones are racked with pain, either of body or mind! our own turn must surely come; but till it does come, we are so slow to realize that for us, too, the night that should hush us to repose, and bring on its wings the angel of sleep for our refreshing, will bring instead sorrowful vigils by the dying, mourning for the dead, or cruel and biting anxiety for the living, so that tears are our meat, as we cry, "where is now our god?" griselda slept on, and it was in the chill of the early morning before the dawn that she awoke. she started up, and at first could not remember what had happened. it was quite dark, and she sprang from the bed, and, groping for the tinder-box, struck a spark, and lighted a candle. she was still scarcely awake, and it was only by slow degrees that she recalled how the evening before she had waited, and waited in vain, for a letter--his letter! an answer to hers--in which in a few words she had told him of her father, and asked him to release her from her promise if so he pleased. then she had asked if his silence since the letter she had written two days before, meant that he desired her to think no more of him. only to _know_, and not to be kept in uncertainty, she craved for a reply--she begged for it--by the hand of brian bellis, who had brought this, her last appeal. "no answer, no answer!" she exclaimed; "and hark! that is the clock striking--three--four. no answer--it is all over!" and as the words escaped her lips she saw lying on the floor a letter, which had fallen from the bed when she had sprung from it. she picked it up, and became quiet and like herself at once. she saw by the address it was from leslie travers, for in the corner was written: "by the hand of brian bellis." the tall candle cast its light on the sheet of bath post, which had been carefully sealed, and threw a halo round the young head which bent over it. "i have received no message from you"--so the letter began--"but, dearest love, sweetheart, could you dream that any circumstance could alter my love for you? nay, griselda, i will not permit such a possibility to enter my head, or wake a sorrowful echo in my heart. "my only love, i am yours till death--and death may be near! i go to-morrow to meet the man on claverton down who has first persecuted you with his suit, and then, rejected, has vilely slandered you. i gave him the lie, and he has challenged me to fight, and as a man of honour i cannot draw back. if i live--i live for you; if i die--i die for you. i would there were any other way whereby i could vindicate your honour and my own. i am no coward, nor do i fear death; but i think these duels are a remnant of barbarism, meet for the old romans, perchance, over whose buried city we move day by day, but unworthy of men who call themselves by the name of christ. "my love, when you read this letter, be not too much dismayed. "when the dawn breaks over the city, we shall have met--that base man and i--and it may be that i shall fall under his more practised hand. if it is so, i commend you, in a letter, to my poor mother. you will weep together, and you shall have a home with her, and you will be united in sorrow. the child--your sister--shall be her care, as she would have been mine. "i have made my last will and testament--duly attested; and in that you are mentioned as if you had been my wife. "and so i say farewell, my only love. "l. t." a strange calm seemed to have come over griselda as she read these words. the restlessness and feverish anxiety of the preceding days were gone. in their place was the firm resolve--immediately taken--to stop this duel with her own hand. that resolution once taken, she did not falter. but claverton down!--how should she reach it? there was no time to lose. the dawn broke between seven and eight--it was now four o'clock and past. the bible lay open on the table, and her eye fell upon the words: "they that wait on the lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up on wings like eagles; they shall walk and not be weary; they shall run and not faint." i do not think that griselda had ever known up to this moment what it was to wait on the lord. perhaps faithful graves's words had struck deeper than she knew! "i want strength now," she said. "give it to me, lord! direct me--help me--for i must go on this quest alone." then she made ready for her departure, wrapping herself in the long cloak she had worn when she went to her father's dying bed, and covering her face with a thick veil under her hood. the few hours' sleep had refreshed her, and she felt strong to perform her mission. "only not to be too late," she said; "not too late!" the courage of many a woman would have failed in prospect of a walk in the dark through the suburbs of bath. there were watchmen here and there, and she might ask the way of one, perhaps; but no one must know her errand, or she might be stopped from performing it. the clock struck five, in deep sonorous tones just as griselda crept noiselessly downstairs, and with trembling hands drew back the bolts of the door, turned the key in the lock, and, closing it behind her, went out into the winter's morning. the sky had cleared, and the rain of the past two days had ceased. there were breaks in the clouds, and in a rift venus, in full beauty, seemed to smile on griselda with the smile of a friend. widcombe hill had to be climbed, and then beyond, at some distance, claverton down stretched away in gentle undulations. in 1790, it was a desolate and unfrequented tract of moorland, with here and there a few trees, but no sign of habitation except a lonely cottage or hut, at long distances apart. griselda's figure, in its black garments, did not attract attention from a boisterous party who had just turned out from a night's revel. their coarse songs and laughter jarred on her ear, and she shrank under the shadow of a church portico till they had passed. presently the watchman's voice broke the stillness as he ascended widcombe hill. "it's just six o'clock, and a fine star-lit morning." * * * * * yes, it was a fine morning. the rift in the clouds had widened, and above, the sky was clear, and the host of heaven was shining in full glory. after two or three nights, when dull lowering skies had made astronomical observations impossible, the change in the weather was welcome to those who "swept the heavens," and found in them the grand interest and beauty of their lives. the herschels had returned to their new home, after a long and fatiguing day in bristol. there had been not a little worry connected with the arrangements for the oratorio, the proper distribution of the parts, jealousies amongst the performers, and missing sheets of score. but caroline herschel immediately recommenced the arrangement of the new house, which a day's absence in bristol had interrupted. the sorting of books and music, the instruction of betty in her duties, with not a little scolding for the neglect of the work she had been left to get through during her mistress's absence. mr. herschel, after taking slight refreshment, went to his new observatory at the top of the house, and began to arrange all his instruments and draw a plan for the furnace, which he intended to make in the workshop below, where the tube for the great reflector was to be cast. a stand, too, for the large instrument would have to be carefully constructed, and william herschel was in the midst of his calculations for this, and preparation of a plan to give the workmen early on the ensuing week, when a tap at the door announced caroline. "william!" she said, "the sky is clear. venus is shining gloriously. can i help to arrange the telescope?" "yes--yes," william herschel said, going to the window and throwing it up. "yes; lose no time, for it is getting on for morning." presently caroline said, as she looked out: "there is a chaise waiting at the end of the street, with post-horses." but her brother's eyes were directed upwards, and he scarcely noticed her remark. "well," he said, "get the micrometer." caroline's feminine curiosity was roused, and presently she saw a figure muffled in a long cloak glide down the street to the opening where the carriage stood. this was followed by another, and then, after some delay, the chariot drove off. alexander herschel did not generally take part in these nightly vigils, although he lent his assistance in the daytime in the workshop, and in the correspondence about the music, which was very frequently necessary. but about six o'clock alexander appeared, and said: "did you hear carriage-wheels roll off not long ago?" william herschel did not answer. he had just brought a double star into the proper focus, and caroline stood by with note-book and pencil, ready to write at his dictation. "yes," she said, in a low voice; "i heard carriage-wheels. what of that?" "there is a rumour in the town that leslie travers is to fight a duel on claverton down--with that beast, sir maxwell danby--this morning." "i do not believe it is true," caroline answered. "hush, alex!" for william herschel called out: "write! attend!" the necessary figures were jotted down, and then caroline said: "do you think leslie travers was going off in that carriage?" "i have no doubt of it. i shall follow and find out." "take care, alex--do not get mixed up in any quarrel; and there is the new anthem of spohr's at the octagon this morning. you will be wanted." "well, what if i am?" alexander said. "surely, caroline, the life or death of a friend is of more importance than an anthem?" "you do not know that it is life or death; you are conjecturing. yes, william, i am ready!" this was characteristic of caroline herschel. it was not really that she had no human sympathies or affections; on the contrary, her love for her brother was absorbing, and she had but one aim--to soar with him to the unexplored regions of space; and to effect this, the business in hand, whether it was music, or mixing loam for the mould of the new tube, or in giving a lesson in singing, or in singing herself at a concert, was paramount with her. such characters, persistent, and with single aims, are often misunderstood by natures like alexander herschel's, who love to skim the surface, and pass from one thing to another, as their mood changes. "you take it mighty coolly," he said, "that the life of a man we call our friend is in peril. i confess i am not so hardened." and then he closed the door with a bang, and ran downstairs. chapter xvii. the bitter end. meanwhile the lonely woman, shrouded in her long cloak, pursued her way. she missed it again and again, and was forced to inquire if she was right, first of a countryman she met, and once at a cottage at widcombe of a woman who was standing at the door with a lanthorn in her hand. "two miles further," she said. "what are you going there for, pray, if i may be so bold?" "on an errand of life or death," griselda said, the words escaping her lips almost unawares. "if that's it, and a duel is to be fought, it most like is death to one of 'em. i am watching for my husband; he has never come home, and i fear something has happened. he is often in liquor, and may have stumbled into the quarry. i call _mine_ real troubles, i do. what do the gentry want with stabbing one another to the heart about paltry quarrels? why, the french lord was killed out on claverton down by count rice a few months ago, and all about a trumpery pack of cards--a pack of lies, more like! i've no patience with folks who quarrel with no reason. you look very wan, my dear," the woman said, as griselda turned away. "i can give you a cup of milk." but griselda shook her head. to eat or drink at that moment was impossible to her. "tell me," she asked, "how i shall know the spot where the men fight." "oh! you'll see four tall fir-trees, and a big stone. it won't be light yet. i'll tell you what. i'll lend you my lanthorn. here, it's trimmed! you can carry it along." griselda hesitated as the woman went on: "take the road straight as a line from the church. then you'll come to cross-roads. you follow on with the one which leads to the right hand, and you'll come to the firs and the big stone. the ground where the fine lord's body lay for hours is just hard by. will you have the lanthorn; you can leave it as you come back?" "no, i think not--i think not; but thank you kindly." and then griselda pressed on--on to the church, on, as she was directed, along a lonely road, till the tall sign-post was reached, with the four arms painted white, stretching out in four directions. on then to the right, eastward, for the first faint pallor of the dawn was in the sky. it was clear now, and the moon in its last quarter was hanging low in the horizon. griselda's feet ached, and when she saw the tall fir-trees, and the large rough stone, she hastened towards it, and sat down to rest. all was still; the silence broken only by the murmur in the dark plumes of the fir-trees as the crisp cold air wandered through the branches. the silence was so profound that griselda could almost hear the beating of her heart. here alone, unprotected, she could hardly realize her own position. whatever happened to her, she thought, there was no one who would care so very much, except him whom she had come to save. lady betty would cry hysterically, but be more angry than sorry; little norah--poor little norah--perhaps she loved her; and graves--faithful graves. presently there was a rumbling sound as of distant wheels. griselda started up, but she saw nothing. then she advanced from the shadow of the trees, and looked over the open space. the dawn was breaking now, and she saw two figures stooping over the ground, and apparently marking it. in breathless anxiety she waited and watched. she was too far off to distinguish the men, but she presently discerned four more figures appearing at the ridge of rising ground, where the down dipped rather sharply to the valley below. then there were two figures isolated a little from the rest. they seemed to meet and part again, and then griselda waited no longer. she ran forward and skimmed the turf with fleet steps--steps that were quickened by a great fear. breathless and voiceless she reached the spot just as the two combatants' swords had clashed, and the seconds on either side had given the signal for another round. griselda went up to leslie travers and seized his arm. "stop!" she said, "for my sake." her appearance seemed to paralyze both combatants. "it is for your sake," leslie said in a low voice. "let go, my love--let go! i must carry this on to the bitter end." "you shall not! desist, sir!" she said, turning upon sir maxwell danby. then the seconds drew near, and the doctor, mr. cheyne. "i will have no blood shed for me," griselda said, gathering strength in the emergency of the moment. "i will stand here till you give up this conflict." "unfortunately, fair lady, we have no intention of giving up till we have settled our little affair as men of honour should," said sir maxwell. "stand back, griselda--stand back!" leslie cried in despairing tones. "there is only one condition on which i will give in; yonder base man knows what that condition is. he must withdraw the lies he has uttered concerning you." "i know not what the lies are," griselda said; "but if lies, will the death of him who uttered them, or of you who resent them, convince those who believe them that they _are_ lies? nay," she said, her breast heaving and her voice trembling, though every slowly-uttered word was distinctly heard. "nay, wrong-doing can never, never make evil good, or set wrong right." "pardon me, fairest of your sex," said sir maxwell; "permit me to ask you to withdraw. we will prove our strength once more; and, unwilling as i am to do so in the presence of a lady, i must, as your--your noble friend says, carry this matter through." "can't you come to an understanding, gentlemen?" mr. dickinson said. "upon my soul, i wish i could wash my hands of the whole business. a miserable business it is!" "beresford," leslie said to his second, "help me to get free from her, or she may be hurt in the conflict." but griselda still clung to his arm; and how it might have ended who can tell, had not sir maxwell said in his satirical, bitter voice: "it is new in the annals of the world's history for a woman to be used as a shield by a man! coward--poltroon is a more fitting phrase for such an one." mr. beresford caught griselda as with a desperate effort leslie unclasped the long white fingers which were clasped round his arm, and saying: "guard her carefully," the signal was again given, and a fierce struggle ensued, which ended in leslie travers lying motionless on the ground with a sword-thrust through his breast; and sir maxwell, binding his hand, which was bleeding, with a lace handkerchief, asked coolly of mr. cheyne, who was bending over leslie: "he is alive, i think?" "yes, he is alive; but i doubt if he will live ten minutes unless i stop the bleeding. this, sir, is a pretty piece of business for you." for a moment, sir maxwell's face blanched with fear; then, recovering himself, he made a sign to his servant, who ran on towards the dip in the moor, and presently another servant appeared with two horses. the valet mounted one, and sir maxwell the other; and before the doctor or mr. beresford had time to consider what course to take, sir maxwell danby was galloping off in the direction of the high-road which led to london. * * * * * griselda knew no more till she found herself in a strange room, and with an unfamiliar face bending over her. "where am i?" she asked, sitting up, and looking round bewildered. "you are safe with us, my dear young lady. you must take this glass of reviving mixture, made from a receipt of my mother's." and caroline herschel held the glass to griselda's lips. "how did i get here?" "my brother alexander brought you; but do not ask further questions, but lie still." the draught seemed to restore poor griselda to consciousness, and with consciousness the memory of what had happened came back. "oh!" she said; "did--did he die? i saw him fall. yes; i remember now. for pity's sake, answer me!" it was well for griselda that she was in the hands of a person at once so sincere and so really kind-hearted. while many well-meaning people would have fenced the question, and put it off, she answered quietly: "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 _élite_ 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!" "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 duchess 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 class 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 noble 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 _calêche_, 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 circumstances 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 maccabæus" 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 encompassed 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 noble-hearted musician and astronomer would not hear of any pecuniary assistance. 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 nebulæ with his chief and constant friend, sir william watson. everyone must have noticed how quickly events, whether sorrowful or joyful, are forgotten. the wonder-wave which rolls over a city or town, at the report of any great mercantile failure, or the discovery of dishonest dealing in a man who has held a responsible position, soon ebbs! this is even more true of private griefs affecting families and individuals. griefs which leave a lifelong scar on the few, or on _one_ sufferer, are speedily forgotten by the outside world. this ebb and flow, a poet has well said, is the law to which we must all bow. none can escape from it. pity, however sincere, is soon exhausted, and fresh cares of bereavement and loss, or sorrow, start up to excite a passing sympathy, while others are crowded out and forgotten. the duel between sir maxwell danby and leslie travers was a nine days' wonder. it was the favourite topic in the pump room for that time, but scarcely longer. at first it was reported that leslie travers was dead; then, indeed, there were conjectures about sir maxwell's escape, and wonderment as to whether he would be pursued and captured, as count rice had been, and tried for murder. but when it was found that leslie travers was likely to live, the interest in the matter visibly declined. lady betty reappeared in the pump room and at the balls, and to all inquiries said miss mainwaring had left her, that she was no relation to her, and that she had very properly considered it better to return to the station in life whence dear mr. longueville, in the nobleness of his heart, had rescued her! lent came, and was followed by a bright easter. the bath season was over, and the principal event of that season was almost forgotten. the _élite_ left the city of the west, or if they remained, there were no public assemblies at which they might display their jewels and varied costumes. it is needless to say that lady betty took her departure, as it was considered "the mode" to do so; and report said young lord basingstoke had made it evident that he had no serious intentions, by leaving bath some time before the vivacious little widow deserted no. 6, north parade. perhaps few noticed, or made more than a passing remark of wonder, when a paragraph in the _bath gazette_ announced the marriage of leslie travers, of the grange, county lincoln, to griselda, daughter of adolphus mainwaring, and phyllis, his wife. the bride had walked to the abbey church one fair may morning in her ordinary dress, accompanied by her faithful friend miss herschel, and the miss hoblyns, and norah. there were present with the bridegroom his mother and brian bellis. thus so small a wedding-party was not likely to attract attention. a great change had passed over both bride and bridegroom since that january day when they had sealed their betrothal in the old abbey church. the brilliant beauty of griselda had faded, and there were traces of long illness on her sweet face. leslie travers's lithe figure was bent, and he walked slowly and with none of the elasticity of youth. he had been given back to his mother's prayers, contrary to the hopes or expectations of the surgeons, who had watched over him with unremitting care; but the duel had left an indelible mark on him. the chariot to take the bride and bridegroom was waiting at the door, and here the "good-byes" were said. mrs. travers felt griselda's clinging arms round her as she whispered: "i will try to be a good daughter to you, madam. i pray you love me a little, for his sake!" "i love you for your own, my child," was the reply; "and i will cherish and comfort this little one till we meet again"--for poor norah was convulsed with weeping, and only the promise of a home at the grange with her sister could console her. and so the curtain falls, and the bridegroom and the bride pass out of our sight; but we must take one farewell look at them when years have gone by, and see how the promise of their early love had been fulfilled. chapter xix. ten years later--1790. there is no country, however flat and uninteresting, which does not respond to the glory of a real english summer's day. the moated grange, near louth, was no exception to the rule. the moat itself had been drained, and was now covered with turf, and studded with countless daisies, with their golden eyes looking up into the blue, clear sky. even the old-fashioned, low-roofed house, with its many gables and the heron carved in stone over the porch, was laughing in the sunshine; and on the well-kept lawn was a group, on which the eye of an artist might have loved to linger. a sweet and gracious mother was seated on a low garden bench with a baby on her knee, while on either side stood two children--twin boys--who were the joy and pride of her heart. the little sister of ten months old had come to put the last jewel in the crown of griselda travers's happy wifehood and motherhood. the place where she sat was under the shadow of a row of tall whispering poplars, which made the pleasant "sound as of falling showers," as the summer breeze stirred the leaves. at the back of the house was a plantation of fir-trees, where the turtle-doves were cooing, and the murmur as of "far seas" in the dark topmost branches made a low undertone of melody. in the old-fashioned garden, or pleasaunce to the right of the house, bees were humming at their work, and gay butterflies dancing over the lavender-bushes and large trees of york and lancaster roses, which made the air sweet with their fragrance. a wide gravel-path divided the pleasaunce, and there a pair of happy lovers were pacing, forgetful of everything but their own happiness. presently one of griselda's boys left her side, and ran across the grass to a little gate which led from a copse, and bounded the lawn on that side. "father!" the boy exclaimed; and his brother followed him, echoing the joyful cry. griselda also rose, and went across the lawn with the same graceful movement which had distinguished her in the bath assemblies of old. "i hope the gig came to meet the coach, dear husband?" she said. "it must have been a hot walk from louth." he put his arm round her, and kissed the mother first, and then the little daughter, of whom he was so proud, saying: "yes; i left the gig at the corner; and walked across the field. how delightful the country seems after london! and as to the boys, they seem in rude health. have you taken care of your mother, william and alex?" "yes; and we have said our latin verbs every day, and done our parsing and spelling out of the grammars and dictionaries," said will. "i hate spelling," said alex; "but i love sums." "that's good. your godfather was asking how you got on with that branch of your education. your godfather is a great man, boys; you may be proud to feel he is your godfather." "was it very charming at slough, leslie?" "it was, indeed; and wonderful! 'the sweeping of the sky' is a nightly business; and the wife is as much devoted to it as the sister. you must take the journey to london ere long, my dearest, and see for yourself. the twenty-foot newtonian telescope is a marvel; and there sits caroline, as of old, writing down calculations and observations. i went to bed at one o'clock; but even on that night william herschel had discovered four or five new nebulæ." "and he is now quite a great man?" "great in everyone's eyes but his own. royal favour has not turned his head, nor caroline's either. she has sent your boys a case of little mathematical instruments, and she says you are to go to slough next visit i pay." "and little phyllis, too, father?" "yes, when she is old enough. so you have two happy people still here, i see?" "yes. brian got an extra week's holiday from the law office at bristol; and i knew you would not mind. mother is so pleased to have him here." at this moment brian bellis and norah awoke to the fact that they were not the only people in that flowery garden; and nora, now a beautiful girl of nineteen, leaving brian's arm, came springing to her brother-in-law, with a face flushed with welcome, to receive her accustomed kiss. then from the low french window at the side of the house mrs. travers appeared, and greeted her son with a tender welcome. mrs. travers took the baby from her mother's arms, saying: "she is too heavy for you, my dear; she grows such a great girl. is not phyllis glad to see father safely back again?" the baby cooed as a sign of contentment, but whether this was the result of the contemplation of her silver rattle, or of her father's return, may not be told. then the happy party turned into the house, and leslie drew from the wide pocket of his blue coat with brass buttons a sheaf of letters. he singled one from the rest, and said gravely: "i got the letters at louth. this tells sad news. it has been written for amelia graves." "dear graves!" griselda exclaimed; "what does she say?" she took the letter, written in a round clerkly hand from her husband, and read: "dear and honoured sir: "this leaves me well; but i have to inform you my poor mistress departed this life yesterday. i prayed by her, and asked the lord to pardon her. honoured sir--and you, dear madam travers--that bad man, sir maxwell danby, behaved so ill, that she had to leave his home. he is gone to foreign parts again, and let us hope never to return. he treated my poor mistress shameful, and she was made miserable. we went to bath for last season, but she was too ill to enter into gaieties, and sank into a sad state--mind and body. "i send my duty to you, honoured sir, and the dear lady, your wife, and remain, "your humble servant, "amelia graves." griselda's sweet face became very grave as she read this letter. then she folded it and returned it to her husband. "i should like graves to come and live with us, and take care of her in her old age. might i ask her?" then leslie bent over his wife, and kissing her, said: "i knew that would be your wish. i will write by next post to bath, and bid her come hither. she was good to you when you were in trouble, and won my lasting gratitude." "poor lady betty! oh that she ever was so blind--so foolish--as to marry that dreadful man! i never see his name without a shudder!" the news this letter contained had brought back to the happy wife and mother many sad memories; but the past did not long cloud her present. as she put her hand into her husband's arm that evening when the children were asleep, and no sound broke the silence as they paced the garden walk, she stopped suddenly, and said: "dearest, you have made my life so beautiful. you have taught me so much. you said once--do you remember?--you would die for me, or live for me! you have lived for me, and i----" "and you have kept your promise, sweetheart," he said. "do you remember that promise?" "yes," she said. "it has been so easy to keep it. all joy and pleasure to give you what you asked for that day in the abbey church." so, with interchange of loving words, the husband and wife saw the shadows of the night steal over the woods and far-stretching level country round their home. the lovers were also enjoying their twilight walk, and talking, as lovers will, of the bliss of the future they are to spend together. a happy dream is that dream of young love; but is there anything in this mutable life more beautiful than the deepening of that young love into the serene and blessed sympathy of a husband and wife who, through the changes and chances of ten years, can feel, as leslie and griselda felt, more secure in each other's loyalty and truth as time rolls on; who can feel that if all other earthly props and joys vanish, their love will remain, that sorrow is shared and grief softened, that all good will be intensified and all happiness doubled, because felt by _two_, who are yet _one_ in the highest sense? this is the true marriage, which has been taken as a type of the highest and the holiest union. why is it that it is so often missed? why does the reality of love so often flee away, and only a ghost-like shadow and pale semblance remain? there is a solution of this problem, but it is not for me to give it here. the hearts of many who read the story of leslie and griselda will, if they are true and honest, answer the question each one for herself, and it may be with tears and unavailing regret, yes! and of self-reproach also, that this full cup of bliss has never reached their lips, but that the honeyed sweetness of the elixir of youth has, long ere old age is reached, been as an exceeding bitter cup given them to drink! as the husband and wife of whom i write, went into their peaceful home, they looked up at the sky where the stars were shining in all their majesty, and their thoughts turned to their friends who were far away, and probably making their accustomed preparation for sweeping the sky. many and many a summer night has come and gone since then; many and many eyes have been raised to the star-lit sky, and keen intellects and abstruse calculations have brought to light much for which the great astronomer, william herschel, prepared the way. but i doubt if even amongst them all has been found a more single-hearted and reverent contemplation of the mysteries of that illimitable space which he thus describes: "this method of viewing the heavens seems to throw them into a new kind of light. they are now seen to resemble a luxuriant garden which contains the greatest variety of productions in different flourishing beds, and one advantage we may at least reap from it is, that we can, as it were, extend the image of our experience to an immense duration. for is it not almost the same thing whether we live successively to witness the germination, blooming, foliage, fecundity, fading, withering and corruption of a plant, or whether a vast number of specimens selected from every stage through which the planet passes in the course of its existence be brought at once to our view?" this is a finely-expressed and profound thought, and the mind which originated it must indeed win our admiration and respect. surely the house in king street, bath, and the association with it, may well consecrate it as a shrine which all who appreciate true and honest labour, and brave struggles with difficulties, should visit. the discovery of the planet uranus in that house was a grand achievement. the light thrown on the mysteries of double stars, and of the perpetual motion and marvellous evolutions of the milky way was scarcely a less memorable step towards the better understanding of the star-depths which mortals may well scan with bated breath, so infinite is the infinite! but it almost seems to me that pilgrims to the house where the great astronomer and musician lived and worked, may do well to think most of the faithful performance of duty, the unflinching perseverance, the courageous struggle with untold difficulties which was carried on by william and caroline herschel while the bath season was at its height, and the butterflies of fashion and the votaries of pleasure danced and chattered, and sang and made merry in the assemblies, where a hundred years ago so many people whose names are now forgotten, flocked in the pursuit of health and amusement! there will always be these contrasts sharply defined. the bees and the butterflies go forth together over the same flowery pastures. there are countless hidden workers, unknown to fame, who yet do their part--if a humble part, in life--in the place appointed them by god. but there are some who by force of an indomitable will and the highest gifts of intellect and culture leave behind them a name which to all time shall be honoured, and bath may think herself favoured that in the long list of distinguished men and women who have frequented that fair city and queen of the west, she may write in letters of gold the names of william herschel and his sister caroline. duelling on claverton down. in the year 1778 many foreign nobles made bath their residence. the viscount du barré and two ladies of great beauty and accomplishments, and count rice, an irish gentleman who had borne arms in the service of france, lived in the royal crescent. a quarrel at cards between du barré and rice resulted in an immediate challenge--given and accepted. at one o'clock in the morning of november 18, 1778, a coach was procured from the three tuns in stall street, and claverton down was reached at day-dawn. "each man," says a contemporary, "was armed with two pistols and a sword, the ground being marked out by the seconds. du barré fired first, and lodged a ball in count rice's thigh, which penetrated to the bone. count rice fired, and wounded du barré in the breast. afterwards the pistols were thrown away, and the combatants took to their swords. "the viscount du barré fell, and cried out, 'je vous demande ma vie!' to which count rice answered, 'je vous la donne!' and in a few moments du barré fell back and expired. count rice was brought with difficulty to bath, being dangerously wounded; and was found guilty, at the coroner's inquest held on the viscount's body, of manslaughter. "du barré's body was left exposed on claverton down the whole day, and was subsequently buried in bathampton churchyard. count rice recovered; he was tried at taunton for murder, and acquitted. he died in spain in 1809. a stone slab in a wall skirting claverton down marks the spot where du barré fell. the ivory hilt of the sword once belonging to count rice is now attached to the city seal in the town clerk's office."--condensed from r. e. peach's "rambles about bath." works by mrs. marshall. on the banks of the ouse; or, life in olney a hundred years ago. "no better story than this has been written by mrs. marshall."--_guardian._ in four reigns: recollections of althea allingham from george iii. to victoria. "a most charming tale of bygone days. the tone of the book is eminently high and refined."--_literary world._ under the mendips: a tale. "one of mrs. marshall's charming stories, told with all the wonted freshness and grace which characterize her books."--_westminster review._ the tower on the cliff. "the old dead time lives once more in her pages."--_saturday review._ the mistress of tayne court. in the east country with sir thomas brown, kt. "a singularly delightful and interesting work."--_spectator._ mrs. willoughby's octave. "we have seldom read anything more pathetic."--_spectator._ in colston's days. "extremely well written."--_morning post._ constantia carew: an autobiography. "much superior to ordinary religious fiction."--_spectator._ two swords: a tale of old bristol. "the lesson of the book is excellent, and the story is gracefully told."--_literary world._ christabel kingscote. "as fascinating a tale, and as prettily told, as the reader can wish for. we remember no book which we have more pleasure in recommending."--_athenæum._ bristol diamonds; or, the hotwells in the year 1773. "mrs. marshall's stories are always first-rate."--_church bells._ benvenuta; or, rainbow colours. "a pleasant story of family life."--_athenæum._ dorothy's daughters: a tale. "this interesting and well-written volume."--_record._ dame alicia chamberlayne: of ravenshome, gloucestershire. "most pleasant reading."--_academy._ the rochemonts: a story of three homes. "a pleasant and wholesome story."--_scotsman._ helen's diary; or, thirty years ago. millicent legh: a tale. brook silvertone, and the lost lilies: two stories for children. "we can heartily recommend this attractive little volume. the stories are genuine, life-like, and entertaining. the lessons are skilfully interwoven with the narrative."--_record._ violet douglas; or, the problems of life. "a pleasant, healthy story of english life, full of sound religious teaching."--_standard._ the old gateway; or, the story of agatha. "it is pleasant and gracefully written, and roland bruce is a character of no ordinary beauty."--_guardian._ edward's wife; or, hard judgments. a tale. "this is a very charming" story, fresh, natural, and touching."--_christian advocate._ job singleton's heir, and other stories. lady alice; or, two sides of a picture. joanna's inheritance: a story of young lives. life's aftermath: a story of a quiet people. "the story is admirably told, and the interest well sustained throughout. the descriptions of english scenery are in many instances beautiful."--_christian observer._ a history of france: adapted from the french, for the use of english children. now-a-days; or, king's daughters. a tale. "we have seldom met with a more pleasing specimen of what a wholesome work of light literature should be."--_record._ a lily among thorns. "this volume is clever, and very naturally written. it is a book to read and to recommend."--_watchman._ mrs. mainwaring's journal. "rarely have we come across a more touching volume. it appeals to everyone who has the least feeling."--_john bull._ heights and valleys: a tale. brothers and sisters; or, true of heart. "the hopes and fears of a large family in a cathedral city are drawn with much spirit. the dialogue is easy, and the tale above the average."--_guardian._ tales by miss winchester. pearl of the sea. 'a charming conception.'--_saturday review._ a crippled robin. 'a pretty story, and there is fun as well as feeling in many of the chapters.'--_times._ a city violet. 'miss winchester, whose power of delineating character is giving her an honourable place among the writers of serious fiction, has never done anything better than this.'--_spectator._ a nest of sparrows. 'miss winchester not only writes with skill, but writes from the heart, and with full knowledge of her subject. her story is most genuine, pathetic, without being sad.'--_pall mall gazette._ under the shield. a tale. 'we wish all religious stories were written in the same simple and natural way. we can conceive no more healthy reading for children.'--_academy._ 'we welcome with real pleasure another book by the author of "a nest of sparrows." "under the shield" is to be noted for its purity of tone and high aspirations.... there is true fun in the book, too.'--_athenæum._ the cabin on the beach. a tale. 'this tender story cannot fail to charm and delight the young.'--_guardian._ the wayside snowdrop. a tale. 'a bright flower indeed. with all her tenderness and grace miss winchester narrates one of those pathetic stories of a poor london waif that at once arouse the loving sympathy of children.'--_guardian._ chirps for the chicks. 'the book is worthy to be a nursery favourite.'--_guardian._ 'the merriest, most amusing, and infinitely the most rhythmical book of poetry for young people produced this season.... others besides children may read the "chirps" with pleasure and amusement. the illustrations are very happy.'--_standard._ recently published. forest outlaws; or, st. hugh and the king. by the rev. e. gilliat. "distinctly one of the very best books of the season."--_standard._ belt and spur: stories of the knights of old. "a very high-class gift-book of the spirit-stirring kind."--_spectator._ "a sort of boy froissart with admirable illustrations."--_pall mall gazette._ the city in the sea: stories of the old venetians. "very stirring are the tales of the long struggle between genoa and venice ... boys will read with keen interest the desperate battles between the rival fleets of galleys."--_standard._ stories of the italian artists: from vasari. "the book is full of delightful reading, carefully chosen from a rich treasury of curiosities."--_spectator._ "another very charming volume."--_saturday review._ border lances: a romance of the northern marches. by the author of "belt and spur." "the book is a good one ... the illustrations are excellent."--_spectator._ father aldur: the story of a river. by a. giberne. "the nature of tides, the formation of clouds, the sources of water, and other kindred subjects are discussed with much freshness and charm."--_saturday review._ sun, moon, and stars: a book on astronomy for beginners. by a. giberne. "ought to have a place in village libraries and mechanics' institutions; would also be welcome as a prize-book."--_pall mall gazette._ among the stars; or, wonderful things in the sky. by a. giberne. "we may safely predict that if it does not find the reader with a taste for astronomy, it will leave him with one."--_knowledge._ the world's foundations: geology for beginners. by a. giberne. "the exposition is clear, the style simple and attractive."--_spectator._ sue; or, wounded in sport. by e. vincent briton, author of 'amyot brough.' 'we do not know when we have been so charmed as we are by this modest volume.... over and over again one is reminded of some of george eliot's best scenes in english country life; and though it may seem exaggeration to say so, there are some points in which mr. briton has surpassed george eliot.'--_guardian._ amyot brough. by e. vincent briton. 'with national pride we dwell on a beautiful english historical novel ... this sweet unpretending story, with its pretty engravings.'--_academy._ a canterbury pilgrimage. ridden, written, and illustrated by joseph and elizabeth pennell. 'the most wonderful shillingsworth that modern literature has to offer.'--_daily news._ an italian pilgrimage. by mrs. pennell. 'this charming book.'--_academy._ early flemish artists, and their predecessors on the lower rhine. by w. m. conway. 'an altogether admirable book.'--_graphic._ the artistic development of reynolds and gainsborough. by w. m. conway. 'a contribution to the subject which no student can afford to miss.' _saturday review._ 