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.