"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.