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!"