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.
[1] 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.