Griselda : a novel

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G R I S E L D A

A NOVEL.

BY

THE AUTHOR OF "THE GARDEN OF EDEN,"

ETC., ETC.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. 1 1.

LONDON : R V. WHITE & CO.,
31 SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND, W.C.

1886.

\All Rights reserved. ^

"SELECT" NOVELS.

Crown Svo, clothe y. 6d. each.
AT ALL BOOKSELLERS AND BOOKSTALLS.

FACING THE FOOTLIGHTS.

A BROKEN BLOSSOM.

MY SISTER THE ACTRESS.

By FLORENCE MARRYAT.

THE HEART OF JANE WARNER. \ PEERESS AND PLAYER.

UNDER THE LILIES & ROSES.

MY OWN CHILD.

HER WORLD AGAINST A LIE.

By ANNIE THOMAS (Mrs Pender Cudlip).
FRIENDS AND LOVERS. I ALLERTON TOWERS.

JENIFER. I KATE VALLIANT.

By LADY CONSTANCE HOWARD.
MATED WITH A CLOWN. I SWEETHEART AND WIFE.

MOLLIE DARLING. | ONLY A VILLAGE MAIDEN.

By MRS HOUSTON, Author of " Recommended to Mercy.'"

Barbara's warning.

By MRS ALEXANDER FRASER.

A PROFESSIONAL BEAUTY. | THE MATCH OF THE SEASON.

A FATAL PASSION.
By IZA DUFFUS HARDY.
LOVE, HONOUR AND OBEY. | NOT EASILY JEALOUS.

ONLY A LOVE STORY.
By JEAN MIDDLEMASS.
POISONED ARROWS.
By H. LOVETT-CAMERON.
A NORTH COUNTRY MAID. | A DEAD PAST.

By DORA RUSSELL. I By LADY VIOLET GREVILLE.

OUT OF EDEN. | KEITH's WIFE.

By NELLIE FORTESCUE HARR ISON, Author of " So Runs my Dream.
FOR ONE man's PLEASURE.
By EDMUND LEATHES.

THE A C T O R'S WIFE.

COLSTON AND COMPANY, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.

G R I S E L D A.

CHAPTER I

was a glorious morninsr in
Goarshausen. Griselda awoke.

wondering where she was.
When she remembered, she went to
the window. Beyond the garden, with
its clumps of acacias and laurels, the
Rhine rippled placidly. To the left,
to the right, were those round-backed
hills, all variegated and changing tints,

VOL. II. A

2 Griselda.

from the palest green to the deepest
violet, as the morning sunbeams or the
flitting shadows touched them.

One minute of wondering admiration,
then her thoughts fled to facts. She
rang her bell, and sent a scribbled
message by the chambermaid to Hugh.

* How is he '^. Are we to breakfast
together ? '

While she was brushing and plaiting
her fair locks, a pencilled message was
brought back, —

' He has passed a most tranquil night,-
and seems almost himself. At the same
time, we must be strictly on guard. We
had better breakfast in the garden, in
about a half-an-hour from this. I trust
In you to remember that our talk must
exclude any and all reference to dis-
turbing events. H. B.'

Griselda, 3

Griselda felt relief, — peace. She put
on her prettiest dress. This was a
green-spotted muslin, trimmed with lace.
With her fair rose-tinted skin, she
looked a sweet siren, — even as the siren
of the dangerous Lorelei hard by might
have looked, could she have been
dressed in modern costume.

Going down, she saw her father
leaning on Hugh's arm, just reaching
the bottom of the staircase. ' Dear
pfood fellow that Hueh is!' she grate-
fully thought, with moistened eyes. * I
don't mind showing him my letters' —
she had them in her pocket — ' one bit.
And, if he does not like them, they
shall not go.'

However, when Hugh, after their
pleasant little out - of - door breakfast,
asked Griselda apart whether she had

4 Griselda,

accomplished her correspondence, and
she, in mute reply, handed him the
three letters, she greatly doubted
whether those specimens of her literary
' incompetence ' — she called it — would
ever be sent to England.

Sitting by her father on a bench
under the waving acacias, she watched
Hugh pace the narrow garden walks
reading her letters. He walked slowly
to the end of one path, then stood still,
carefully fastening the thin envelopes.
Then she felt an instinct to jump up and
run after him — he was stamping them.
Then, worse than all, he went to the
post-box that belonged to the hotel, and
dropped them in, without any further
ceremony.

He returned to them, and began or-
dinary talk with Mr Black. She did

Griselda. 5

not dare to remark upon her letters,
lest her father should remember and
grow furious again. So she sat and
quietly endured her misgivings, while
the Vicar, who was growing steadily-
better, told them stories of the Rhine, —
how the fortress on Rheinfels opposite
them had bravely held out against
General Tallard and his twenty-four
thousand Frenchman in 1692, — how Tal-
lard had gone to his king previously,
and had boastfully capped the boastful
speeches of other courtiers by saying,
* My new-year's offering to your Majesty
shall be the fortress of Rheinfels,' — how
the famous whirlpool beneath the
Lorelei rock lay hard by ; and how
many had been drawn to destruction
while gazing at the supposed vision of
the maiden and listening to the mystical

6 Griselda.

songs that were presumably uttered b)r
her Hps.

Here the Vicar sighed.

* It would seem that each one of us
had our special Lorelei,' he said dreamily.
*We are lured and lured on, only to
find ourselves vainly struggling in a
whirlpool.'

His two young companions exerted
themselves to change the current of his
thoughts. They pretended to disagree
as to whom should walk, and whether
Mr Black could accompany them in
the pony-chair belonging to the hotel.
Their squabble ended by Hugh going
off seemingly in a huff with Griselda,
and after whispering to her aside,
* Talk about anything but his affairs.
I will come back and mount guard in
an hour or two. Then you can go.

Griselda. 7

Isn't that the best way ? ' Griselda
nodded significantly, then turned round
to her father, with a vexed expression.

* Don't be angry with poor Hugh,'
he said, taking her arm, and walking
feebly towards the river bank.

Griselda protested that she was not
angry, but managed to say rather sharply
that she did not like ' prigs ' and ' dicta-
torial people.'

' But you two were such good friends
till I got ill,' said John Black, in mild
expostulation. ' Sometimes I almost
thought — but that doesn't matter.'

She flushed up. She knew very well
what her father meant.

* Griselda,' he began again, ' I have
often wondered what you — would do —
if I died ? Tom and Harry are good
fellows, I believe ; but I have always

8 Griselda.

fancied that your organisation was supe-
rior to theirs, — that you would not be
happy making your home with them.'

* Don't talk of things which are not
likely to happen/ said his daughter,
fondly pressing his arm. ' You are not
hkely to die, father.'

* But if I were to die soon — answer
me, Griselda — do you care for any one
person more than another ? '

Had his brain been in good working
order, he would scarcely have talked
thus. His speech took Griselda entirely
by surprise.

' Oh dear, no ! ' she cried, her face
aflame. ' You, and the boys, and
Jemima, of course, I love you all ; but
I only like other people.'

Then she stopped short, drew his
attention to a vineyard on the opposite

G^'iselda. 9

bank, and chattered on till, when Hugh
came back, she was almost at the end
of her conversational resources.

They had luncheon together, then
Hugh showed Griselda the map of the
excursions in the neighbourhood that
hung in the hall.

' If you take my advice, you will
stroll towards the Swiss Valley,' he
said. ' You have four hours before
dinner, and you will see something of
the scenery, at all events. By-the-way,
dear,' he added, looking with fond ad-
miration into her eyes, ' those letters
were admirable, — capital ! I don't mean
that they were fine specimens of com-
position or caligraphy ; but they were
just w^hat was wanted at this point.'

Griselda looked almost distressed. At
no time did she like praise. And

lo G rise Ida.

Hugh's kind manner cut her to the
quick, she could not tell why. She
left him hastily, and hurriedly began
her walk.

At first this lay among the grey pebbles
of dry watercourses, or along goat-paths
at the edges of the crags. The ground
steadily rose, and presently she found her-
self on a hill. Behind her, tiers of hills,
until the highest were actual mountains
faintly wreathed in pale mist ; beneath her,
the gleaming Rhine, with the ruin-crowned
gloomy hill, the Rheinfels ; and all around
was silence, In which the goat-bells were
distinctly heard tinkling here, there, above,
to the right and to the left.

She paused, delighting in the luxuri-
ous silence ; then she followed the path
through a young forest of delicate larches.

She did not know which way she was

Griselda, 1 1

going, for the footpath wound from left
to right fantastically. She only knew she
was steadily ascending, and that after at
least half- an -hour's carefully stepping
aside from old trunks that lay about and
across the path like bundles of petrified
snakes, and after manfully making her way
through twisted boughs that showered
their tiny green needles plentifully upon
her as she passed, she came to the top
of the wooded hill.

It was a green, fern-clad, circular clear-
ing. Great trunks of trees lay here and
there, green moss and fragile lichen
clinging to their peeling bark, ferns and
tender weeds springing up about them
from the fragrant earth.

The grassy knoll was deserted. There
were no footprints in the soft turf. With a
species of joy, Griselda felt that her kind

1 2 G rise Ida.

— those odd creatures, as she thought
them, ordinary men and women — did not
generally deign to haunt this beautiful
spot.

It was the first time she had been alone
for so long ; yet no one loved solitude
better than Griselda. She had been
tauofht to love it in that curious childhood
when her mother was a confirmed invalid,
her father seldom at home, her brothers
cruel with the natural unchid cruelty of
boys running wild. That life among
them was a dull, sad solitude.

This solitude in this green ferny spot,
encircled by tender beautiful trees, with
God's blue heaven above, and nothing to
suggest wrong-doing, or suffering, or sus-
pense, or savagery anywhere — this solitude
was heavenly.

She sat on an old trunk carefully, that

Griselda. 1 3.

not one frail weed should be disturbed ;
then she began to think.

She felt grateful that her father had
recovered so far, — that those letters were
safely despatched. But she felt uneasy
about Hugh.

She was but sixteen, and no man had as
yet dared to speak to her of love. But,
when Hugh looked so tenderly into her
eyes to-day, she had felt a certain sensa-
tion of dismay.

What this was, or why she felt it, she
could not have told. But what did her
father really mean when he asked her
whether she ' cared for any one person
more than another ? '

Surely — he could not think — that she
could ever — marry — Hugh ?

She felt ashamed of having even thought
of such a thing, and began thinking of her

1 4 G rise Ida.

brothers. They had never, at any time,
been particularly kind to herself and
Jemima. But she had no doubt they
would get better as time went on.

While she was consoling- herself with
this thought, she saw a man come leisurely
out of the wood opposite — a grey figure.

' Hal ! '

The joyous cry was hardly out of her
lips before he was bounding towards her
over fallen trunks.

' Griselda ! '

Their hands were clasped. They could
almost hear each other's hearts beat.

Griselda's lips quivered, her eyes were
wet, she hardly knew whether she was
sorry or glad, laughing or crying — and
he ? — oh, when he arrived at Goarshausen
and found out all about them, and that he
had been terrified about the Vicar without

Griselda. 1 5

much reasonable cause, when one written
line — even one messao^e left for him —
would have spared him the pain — he had
been in a rage with this sweet, trembling,
little beauty !

' Oh, you wretched little minx ! ' he said,
devouring her with his eyes ; ' you —
worse than horrible little mortal ! '

And he closed his hands warmly, tightly
round her slim wrists. She, feeling, know-
ing that this was lover's passion, shrank
almost with fear for what he would do
next.

He felt one fierce desire to take her in
his arms there and then, and tell her that,
from the first moment he saw her again in
the old cathedral, he had known that she
was his love, the mistress of his thoughts,
and the dictator of his life and fortunes,
and that no one should come between

1 6 Griselda.

them — neither her father nor his parents
— that, if she were not eventually his wife^
then, as he had been restlessly repeating
to himself during his journey in pursuit, in
the words of an old rhyme, * He'd know
the reason why.'

But such rough and ready wooing might
frighten this simple maiden, though she
was daring as well as timid.

* Why did you not write ? '

' Oh, I couldn't ! It was such a scene
— poor father ! '

I know all about it ; * I heard at the hotel
here. But he is all right now. Men of his
age do get brain fits like that when they
are overworked. He ought not to over-
work. But we'll talk about him presently.
We've got ourselves to think about now.
Oh, Griselda, if you were only half a quarter
as kind to me as you are to other people!'

G rise Ida. 1 7

•' What have I done ? '

* Leaving me — running away Hke that —
surely — you must know what I felt!
Have you forgotten that, long ago, you
promised to — '

* Hal ! Loose my hands ! That was
silly nonsense ; we were children.'

' All the more reason that we meant
what we said ; children and fools speak
the truth, they say,' said Hal, encouraged
by the flood of crimson that rushed to
Griselda's face, ears, neck. ' I spoke the
truth as a child then. I may be going to
speak it as a fool now ; but I'll speak it, all
the same. Come here, Griselda ! ' Still
holding her hands, he led her back to the
mossy trunk under a tree from which she
had sprung up to meet him. * Sit down.
No, not so far away. I am going to be
masterful, and I am going to catechise

VOL. II. B

1 8 Griselda.

you. First of all, what made you tremble
and half cry when you saw me ? '

' You startled me.'

Griselda collected herself, and prepared
to be on the defensive.

* Unpleasantly ? '

* How can I tell ? '

* Come ' — Hal tried to see her face,
which she steadily turned from him, —
* Griselda, you must answer me one ques-
tion— straight out. Do you hate me ? '

' Certainly not.'

* Are you indifferent to me ? '

A moment's pause ; then a feeble ' No.'
' Then there is only one thing left,
Griselda. If you do not hate me, and
are not indifferent to me, you must' —
he drew a deep breath before he took
the plunge — ' you must feel just a little
towards me as I feel towards you.'

G rise Ida. 19

Griselda said nothing, but tried gently
to withdraw her hands.

* Don't you want to know what I feel
for you ?'

* Perhaps — most Hkely you do not know
yourself ! ' Griselda said.

She felt danger. This young lover sud-
denly appearing and pouncing upon her
out of the bushes in tigerish fashion was
unnerving.

* It is so many years since we met;
I have only seen you now and then ; you
don't even know me ; how can you .-^ *
It was but a poor, stumbling apology
for a speech. But Griselda felt she must
say something. ' Oh, do be sensible !
Are you all here ? Your mother and
father and sisters, I mean.'

* All,' said Hal contemptuously. * Ah,
Griselda, you have a great deal to answer

20 Grzselda.

for. When I went to your inn next
day, the landlord told me to ^' get
out " — simply that ; something had hap-
pened to your father — but what ? I felt
frenzied. I actually went to the heads
of the Polizei, fearing those "" Weisse
Rose " people had misbehaved in some
way, then an interpreter explained, and
I looked a fool, and the Polizei frowned
disgustedly at me as a warning not to
trifle with their dignity again. Then I
got into a rage, and quarrelled with my
mother and the courier, and made my
sister cry, and Sir Hubert thoroughly
uncomfortable ; and then a lucky in-
spiration brought me here.'

* How — curious ! '

*We]l, not altogether so, for one of
the only speeches that surly Blunt chose
to honour me with that day we all met

Griselda. 2 1

in the cathedral was, whether I did not
think St Goar a good place to stop at.
I remembered that, and went to St Goar.
I inquired at the hotels ; you were not
there. Someone suggested you might
be at Goarshausen ! I took the ferry
across, and found you. I saw Blunt and
your father in the distance sitting in the
garden. I got hold of one of the waiters,
and found out which way you had gone,
and here I am, Griselda! If you won't
tell me what you feel for me, I don't
care, I will tell you what I feel for you.
I don't say I have pined for you since
we said good-bye, and I gave you my
chain, years ago. Boys don't pine, or,
if they do, they are not worthy to be
called boys at all. But, whenever I did
see you while we were both growing up,
all that love I had for you came back

2 2 G^'iselda.

and did not leave me again ; each time
it grew stronger. Then, when I came
upon you, so beautiful, so simple, so
good, standing at that altar, all the feel-
ing that had smouldered these long years
seemed to burst into a flame ; I wonder
I did not go down on my knees to you
there and then. Oh, don't snatch away
your hands ! You have been taught to
think, perhaps, that nothing sudden can
last ; perhaps the thing itself does not
last, but its effects are for ever. Is not
the sudden the most powerful ? Think of
electricity, of volcanic explosion.'

* Hal — pray — please ! '

' I will have my say out ! ' said the
impetuous young man, emboldened by
Griselda's pallor, and feeling all the keen
pleasure of subjugation. ' I have been
a fool to let my mother keep us apart

Griselda. 23

so long, for I believe it is she who has
done it ; but I will be a fool no longer
in that regard. I shall be of age directly,
and my own master ; now I am my own
master so far that I dare tell you that I
love you.'

Griselda sprang up and away from him.

* Hal ! ' she cried, with a sudden out-
burst which astonished even herself,
turning her glistening eyes full upon
him. 'Oh, Hal, do not break my heart!
You have been a sort of king to me for
all these years, but getting farther and
farther away. I never thought to hear
you talk to me like you do ; I never
dreamt it could happen. Don't come off
your throne and put your sceptre on my
poor neck and take me up to share it
with you for a while, and then cast
me off ! '

24 GiHselda.

' My darling ! ' Hal was down on his
knees before her on the grass. Sitting
there, pleading, her lovely face lit up with
a passion new to Griselda, she seemed to
him divine, and he honestly believed that
from that moment no other woman could,
would, or should have any beauty In his
eyes. ' I ever let you go when I have
once got you ? You, my Ideal, ever
since I first saw you sitting there, so
pretty and patient, In the orchard at
Crowsfoot ! I let you go ? Not very
likely ! Does a man let a big diamond
go when he succeeds in getting it ?
Don't — don't look at me like that, as If
you cannot believe a word I say ! Shall
I swear — promise — vow — '

' No, no ! Oh, Hal, it makes me so
happy ; but how can I believe you ?
Think 'of what I am and what you are !

^ Griselda. 2 5

We are poor, and, I fear, almost In
disgrace because of that book my father
wrote ; and you — you will be Sir Henry
Romayne and very rich, with Feather's
Court, and the town-house, and a lot of
other places. Then your father and
mother — what would they say ? Oh, it
is Impossible — impossible ! Let me go,
Hal, dearest Hal, now, once and for
all, and let us forget this — this folly ! '

' You forget, Griselda ; I promised your
mother — '

Griselda hid her face and sobbed. It
was hard — oh, so hard ! This great prize
to be laid at her feet — this young man
whom she knew now to have been her
most fondly, though secretly, loved hero, to
be pleading and insisting at her feet — and
she must turn away and resist — she must
dare to say no word but a strong, firm * No.'

26 Griselda.

But she could not say it. Hal took
her in his arms and kissed her — kissed
her with that first kiss of love so holy,
so pure, that it rises above and kills all
other emotion.

* You are mine now,' he said — ' mine,
Griselda, for ever. Look at me, and say,
" Yes." '

She raised her head and looked straight
into his eyes with an earnest, wistful look.

' I am yours as far as this,' she said —
' you will do as you please, take me or
leave me. But I — I will never marry
anyone but you. I am bound, but you
are free ! '

' We were both bound, long ago,' said
Hal, * since that day when you gave me
this.*

He took a worn little leathern purse
from his breast-pocket, and showed her

G rise Ida. 2/

that little sprig of musk she gave him
years ago, when they parted at her
mother's grave. He might not have
thought of his little love for many months
sometimes. He had had his escapades^
like other young men with plenty of
money to fling about, and great expecta-
tions in the future. But he had kept
that as superstitiously as a heathen keeps
some hideous little idol.

And Griselda confessed that she had
Hal's chain locked up in three differently-
sized boxes, from which it came out on
great occasions.

As they left the hill-top and went
slowly down the narrow overhung path
into the valley, Hal, as he carefully
guided Griselda's footsteps over the
gnarled tree-trunks, feeling a thrill in
his first hot young love when her little

2 8 Griselda,

hand lightly rested on his arm or his
shoulder, disclosed his brilliant plans —
plans as bright and cloudless as the
grand sunset sky which turned the noble
Rhine into a blood-red river and gleamed
between the fir branches like red lamps.

There should be no more trouble for
the Vicar. It would be a privilege to
pay his debts. Sir Hubert would per-
suade him to listen to reason on this
point ; Hal would see to that. Then the
Vicar must write a second book, not in
refutation of his theories, but ' pitching
into everybody all round, like Byron did
in his English Bards and Scotch Re-
viewers!

' The reviewers once settled — and
your father can settle them with a few
strokes of his pungent pen,' went on
Hal, — ' we can take high ground with

Grisdlda, 29

the bishop. In point of fact, we might
ignore the bishop altogether. What will
a man of mark like your father want with
a doddering old fellow like that } There
are always dozens of appointments open
to men like him and Colenso, and fellows
that aren't afraid to speak out. That'll
be all right. Then — then I shall claim
you, Griselda! I'll sell out, If you wish
it, or you will have to put up with
barrack life— Hallo ! What's that ? '

A man came leaping up the path as
they turned a corner.

He stared, as if amazed. It was Hugh.
He slightly saluted Romayne, then, turn-
ing to Griselda, said that Mr Black had
been uneasy, and he had volunteered to
go to meet her.

* Shall I go first ? ' he said, for the path
was too narrow to admit of more than two

so Griselda,

walking, or, rather, picking their way
among the stones, abreast.

He had seen Griselda's bright smile,
her beautiful blush, her hand on Hal's
shoulder ; and, not having overheard
young Romayne's sanguine talk about
the Vicar, naturally attributed her beam-
ing happiness entirely to her preference
for her old playfellow.

So he went first, with a new bitterness
of heart, the sunset reflected upon his pale
sad face almost as if in mockery.

CHAPTER I I.

lOULD a new version of the
old, old story be retold in a
lovelier spot than Goarshausen
that brio^ht summer time, when Griselda,
in spite of her sad childhood and serious
youth, was buoyant with the elasticity of
girlhood, — girlhood crowned with a happy
love ?

In itself the spot was so romantic.
Below the windows of the stone hotel,
the garden with its white paths among
the turf and flower-beds, with its straieht
rows of acacias with their round bushy

32 Griselda,

green heads and slim stems, sloped down
to the broad, rapid-running Rhine. The
river was a marvel of loveliness. As it
streamed by the vine-clad mountains and
rocky heights, it had a fresh beauty each
hour of the day. Pale and mystic, it
murmured on in the grey light of dawn.
When the first red rays caught the
dancing wavelets, it changed from silvery
white to blood-red, then shone all colours,
like a gleaming pigeon's breast in the
sunshine ; at noon it surged onwards,
deeply blue, calmly unfathomable ; later,
its wavelets would foam into snowy
featherets, delightful to eyes that turned
from the afternoon sun-glare ; at even-
ing tide, it floated away into the distant
shadows with a soft murmur, as if echo-
ing its own tales and legends — legends
of hundreds of wonderful years, before

Griselda. 3 3

romance fled at the sound of the sullen roar
of the anti-romantic, ruthless steam-engine.

The river told different tales to different
minds. It was all things to all men. The
Vicar gazed from the window of his quiet
room, and gradually his harassed brain
and shattered nerves were refreshed. The
lovers, Hal and Griselda, read stories of
wonderful joys, of happiness undreamt of
by any human beings from Adam and
Eve until the very moment when they
met and loved.

Hal Romayne, his handsome dark face
aglow with success, his whole being
radiant with a certain insolence of the
conqueror which is so easy to forgive,
wandered through those green gardens
shading Griselda — who leant half timidly
on his arm — with a huge white parasol
he had purchased from one of the waiter

VOL. II. c

34 Griselda.

tribe who were always on the look-out
for unconsidered trifles when they scented
spooning or honeymooning. And Heaven
alone knows how many lovely lies were
cast off like beauteous bubbles under the
shade of that white parasol, which that
very season a bride had lost and had not
cared to reclaim, lest she might lessen
herself in the esteem of a young husband
who was still in possession of the proud
position of demi-god. Lovely lies, all of
which Griselda, with the patient beautiful
eyes, heard reverently, if wonderingly,
as she heard gospel truth. How Sir
Hubert Romayne, the bluff and proud,
would not only accept her as his son's
bride, but make her his darling. (He did
not think much of the girls, Hal added
parenthetically.) How Lady Romayne
would delight in supplying the place, as

G rise Ida. 35

far as she could — naturally, she could not
be expected to work mfracles — of the
dear young mother Griselda had lost.
How Griselda's father, when his thoughts
were occupied with his daughter's engage-
ment and subsequent marriage, would
quite forget his fads about not being able
to believe this or that doctrine, and would
become, like any other reasonable incum-
bent of a pretty country parish, in favour
with the powers that be and those whose
affairs those powers regulated.

' I am so afraid he will mind ! '
Griselda ventured to say one afternoon,
as they were sitting under a spreading
tree on a grassy bank in the hotel gar-
den. Hall occupied in throwing a hand-
ful of smooth white pebbles into the
river one by one. ' I am so afraid —
he — will mind ! '

36 Grzselda.

'He! Who?'

Hal stopped and stared in astonishment,

' My father.'

'Mind— what?'

' My — being — engaged to you/
faltered Griselda, blushing.

It had been agreed upon, at Griselda's
instance, that her father was not to be
spoken to on the subject of her and Hal's
mutual love until a certain day. To-
morrow was that day. Griselda's reason
for the postponement was that Mr Black
was not well enough to think of serious
matters for some little time, after that
sudden, strange illness at Cologne.

' Do I — understand — that you think
your father will not be pleased to give
you to me?' said Hal, astounded; and,
although he spoke gently, there was a
dangerous light in his dark eyes. ' It

G rise Ida. 2)7

is awfully bad form to talk of one's
position in the world, of course. But
you are such a simple-minded darling !
You quite Ignore what your status in
society will be as my wife. Of course
there Is the title ; then Feather's Court
is not the only estate. The rent-
roll—'

' Hal ! ' cried Griselda imploringly.
* Pray, pray don't ! It is not that !
You don't understand ! It is just your
title and your money and your estates
that my father will object to — '

' Then he is utterly unlike all other
fathers.'

' He Is,' said Griselda simply. ' At
least, he Is unlike all other fathers who
want worldly dross for their children.
His heart is with the people — '

' Excuse me, my dear, if I interrupt

38 G rise Ida.

you,' said Hal cynically. 'You are the
dearest girl, but you are utterly inex-
perienced. I cannot allow you to lay
down the law to me about what this
man thinks or the other man does — '

'No, no, dear Hal — of course not!'
Griselda laid her pretty white hand on
his coat - sleeve, almost dismayed. * I
should not have doubted, I should not
have dreamt of such a thing — only — '

She hesitated. Hal threw a stone
viciously into the river.

' Only what ? Don't hang your head
like that, Griselda ! ' he cried. ' Out
with it ! Only — what } '

' Only — Hugh spoke to me,' faltered
Griselda. ' You know, since he came
to the vicarage as a pupil, he has been
so kind and good, looking after my
father and advising me. Well, he

Griselda. 39

saw — at least — he got an idea into his
head how things were going with us —
I'm sure I don't know how or why, for
father hasn't noticed anything, I know.
Well, he spoke to me yesterday — '

'Very kind of Mr Blunt, I am sure,
to interfere with my affairs!' muttered
Hal, his cheek paling with jealous

ancrer.

' Hal ! He never mentioned you.
He merely reminded me of my father's
opinions — of his painful position, with
the odium attached to that book and
the bishop's suspension ; then he talked
of Sir Hubert and Lady Romayne —
how proud they were — '

* And you listen to an impertinent
jackanape's opinion of my father and
mother, — the opinion of a fellow who
never spoke to either of them in his

40 Griselda.

life, and who, thank Heaven, is never
hkely to ; upon my word, it's too
much ! '

Hal sprang up, went away, and leant
disgustedly against the tree. Griselda
followed him, anxious and penitent.

' Poor Hugh ! All the time he has
been like a brother. I don't know —
what I should have done without him ! '

A tear fell on his hand, which she
had seized. Melted at once — what very
young man as wildly, passionately in
love as Hal was, would not be moved
at the touch of his adored one's tears ?
— he said, with mild sarcasm, —

' Brother ? A brother like Tom and
Harry ? '

' Oh no, Hal ! Quite, quite different !

• Like young men generally are to
other people's sisters, I suppose .-^ '

G^nselda. 41

Hal felt relieved by this sneer. He
had suspected that the Vicar's faithful
pupil, Hugh Blunt, was In love with
Griselda. Who could talk to her and
watch her sweet candid face for a whole
hour without being bewitched aud en-
chanted ?

' The man who could see her, not
only day after day, but week after week,
and month after month, and not adore
her, would be a stock or a stone,' he told
himself. ' I must not be hard on the
poor unfortunate devil for his miserable
attempt at prevention of the inevitable.
I should have done worse in his
case.'

He was gazing half - fiercely, half-
lovingly at Griselda, and she was
wondering what the look meant.

' You have no reason to be angry

42 Griselda.

with me, Hal,' she said, with gentle
dignity.

' I know that. But, darling, you
must give me your promise, your word,
that no one shall come between us.
You owe It to me.'

' I could not go against my father,.
Hal. And, even if he consents, and Is
pleased, as you seem to think he will
be, I could not go against your
parents.'

* You are very complimentary, I must
say ! ' said Hal, all the more Irritably,
because Griselda's words embodied some
vague forebodings of his own. ' I never
have been contradicted and interfered
with, and I never mean to be. You
seem to forget that my will is pretty
well law In my family.'

' Oh no, I don't ! '

Griselda. 43

Grlselda spoke as if the fact were a
dreadful one. Hal laughed ; Griselda's
awe of his spoilt state flattered him.

' I see you know the family have made
to themselves a god, and that they bow
down to it,' he said good-humouredly.
* Well, the god is generous. I am not half
so tyrannical as some family deities. But
it is ridiculous to talk of my father and
mother opposing any wish of mine. And,
as this is the case, you can imagine how
incensed I am at the daring of a rank out-
sider presuming to meddle. Don't look
at me reproachfully, Griselda ! I shall take
no more notice of your Mr Blunt than I
should of a Cologne street cur who flew
out of the gutter and barked at me. But
matters must be placed on a secure footing
at once, so that I don't have a repetition of
this sort of thing.'

44 Griselda.

Hal did not let the grass grow under his
feet. Early next morning he knocked at
the Vicar's bedroom door.

Mr Black was reading in bed, propped
up with pillows. He looked worn and
thin, but smiled at Hal and laid down his
book. He liked talking with this bright,
handsome young fellow, who was so pecu-
liarly respectful and sympathetic.

Hal began the conversation cautiously.
Somehow the Vicar was expansive with
him. It was easy to steer the talk till it
reached the very core of John Black's
worries. Hal even gently introduced the
subject of the sceptical book. He re-
peated conversations he had heard at his
father's dinner-table, which, because of the
Griselda interest, he had remembered.

' Some were quite for you,' he went on.
* One old fellow, a quaint pedantic scholar

Griselda. 45

— I daresay you know him — Professor
Blackett, of Cambridge, who wrote those
celebrated Comparisons between Plato and
Aristotle — said, quite excitedly — I recol-
lect it well, because the fellows present
said they had never seen Blackett so
roused, before — '' How dare a man be a
preacher at all, if he does not intend to
encourage thought in others ? It is not
the thought, but the want of thought,
which is the mischief. No man who thinks
will ever do much harm." I remember
that speech very well, because it set me
thinking in my small way.'

' So Blackett said a good word for me,
did he ? ' said the Vicar contentedly.
* Well, now, there is something odd about
that. He is a man I revere for his learn-
ing and his intense devotion to the sub-
jects he chose for his life-work. But,

46 Griselda.

although he is known to receive men in-
terested in science whenever they choose
to seek him, I have never succeeded in
meeting him. When I was first appointed
to Crowsfoot, I was invited to dine and
sleep at the bishop's, '* to meet Blackett."
I went, full of expectation. At the last
moment came a telegram from the pro-
fessor. He could not come. Some years
later, Serjeant Slowman, the Q.C., was to
have some men at his rooms. He invited
me. Blackett was to be there. I was
in an ante-room, looking at some micro-
scopes Slowman had recently bought,
when a tall old man passed through.
They said it was Blackett. I got into
the larger room just in time to see him
pass out. He had started all in a hurry,
suddenly — remembering some engage-
ment, not a surprising thing at all in so

G rise Ida. 47

absent a man, of course ! Well, the third
time, a young fellow I had helped a little
before his exams, came out first in the
Tripos, and insisted upon my going to
stay with him at his rooms at C. College.
Well, he found out this fancy of mine to
have a talk with Blackett, and left no
stone unturned to manage it for me. Of
course the prize-men, the mental athletes
who have been crowned at the contest,
carry all before them during the first
bloom of their triumph. So one of the
dons gave a dinner, and invited Blackett.
Would you believe it ? At the last mo-
ment he sent an excuse. So we were
thirteen at table, and drank to the thir-
teenth, who was to be promoted before
the year was out. It is curious, is it not
— I mean the coincidence ? '

* If it had been anyone else, I

48 G ins e Ida.

should have said he purposely avoided
you.'

* But in my case that could not be.
Blackett does not know me from Adam.
He sees hundreds of insignificant fellows
such as I am.'

' But he certainly took great interest in
you,' said Hal musingly. ' I recollect now
he said that you should not defend your
opinions, either privately by letter or con-
versation, or publicly by articles or letters in
the ecclesiastical papers. He thought you
ought to write another book strengthening
your position and establishing your views.'

' I thought of that,' said the Vicar, sigh-
ing.

How lightly this young man spoke of
writing and publishing! There was the
cost, and, even if all went well, there was
that close heavy work. This brought

Griselda. 49

Griselda to his thoughts — Griselda, with-
out whose patient, constant help another
book — and a book which would require
such mental labour as well as tact and re-
search— could not be among the possi-
bilities. And he spoke of her to the
young man, little dreaming of what he
did, till Hal began. . . .

He told him of their childish friend-
ship ; he lauded Griselda to the skies ;
he said that, whatever hope of lofty aims
and pure feelings he had, he owed to
the ideal she had given him of what a
human creature might be. He even went
so far as to say that, but for Griselda, he
should have followed the fast fellows in
his regiment, and have * gone to the bad.'

' Now, now, my dear boy ! You are
extravagant ! '

But Hal would or could not see it just

VOL. II. D

50 Griselda,

then. For some months past his Hfe had
moved along dully, quietly, and he had
felt bored. The reaction had set in ; he
was the old passionate, impetuous Hal,
brooking no interference with, or contra-
diction to, his wishes.

* But you have not seen Griselda for
months ! ' The Vicar, for whom Griselda's
affairs had always a tinge of ' play ' about
them — she was but such a child after all !
— was almost amused. ' Ah ! my dear
boy, live a few years longer, then talk as
you have talked just now about some fairer
and fitter damsel than my one little —
lamb ! ' Beginning his speech almost
jocosely, he felt suddenly touched v/hen
he thought of his devoted daughter.

Had he not been Griselda's father, Hal
would have resented John Black's talking
to him as if he were a raw lad in his teens.

G rise Ida. 5 1

But, being this — being in possession of
Griselda, as it were, — he repressed his
annoyance, he suppressed his turbulence.

But he sat down by the Vicar, and
pleaded long and earnestly. He said he
knew Griselda was not averse to accept-
ing him as her future husband.

He was detailing his plans for her
comfort, her pleasure, her happiness, when
a gentle knock came at the door, and
Griselda came in.

She wore a cotton dress, with a forget-
me-not pattern. Her fair cheeks, often
as pale as a white rose, bloomed pink
and fresh ; her golden hair was knotted
into a large soft yellow knot upon her
long slim neck.

To her boyish lover she looked like
some wood nymph coming straight from
the dewy woods with all the fragrance

LIBRARY

IIISil\/ci;>«iTV nr ii i iMni

52 G rise Ida.

of the opening flowers, the sweetness of
the morning air, the gHnt of the early
sunhght about her as an atmosphere.

She had a cup of tea in her hand. She
started and looked somewhat anxiously
at Hal before she took this to her father's
bedside. Then she looked still more
anxiously at the Vicar.

Oh, Hal had told! There was a look
in her father's eyes, half grave, half sym-
pathetic, which convinced her of that.

She sat down by the bed, and turned
her face as far away from both of them
as she could.

Hal went up to her eagerly.

* I could not help telling your father,'
he said, almost apologetically.

' Oh ! So you two have been talking
nonsense together as well ? Is it so,
Griselda ? '

Griselda. 53

' Whatever has been talked of — I mean,
I talked against her wish — did I not,
Griselda ? '

' If I had not wished to listen to you,
I should not have listened,' said Griselda.
' Papa, is he wrong or right ?'

' You are neither of you wrong or
right ; you are a foolish boy, Hal — and
Griselda — oh, I should not have thought
you so silly ! We may venture to talk of
such things, seriously — if we are still in
the same mind, remember — some years
hence. But now — well, children must
have their play, I suppose, like puppies
and kittens. There — go — both of you —
no, you go first, please, Mr Romayne.'

Hal was compelled to accept the Vicar's
banter, and to console himself with the
reflection that perhaps it was not all
banter ; only that, considering his and

54 Griselda,

Griselda's youth, and his position as
eldest of the young Romaynes, Mr Black
did not like to commit himself.

But, banter or no banter, the instant
the door closed upon him, the Vicar
began to interrogate his child. While
Hal was speaking, John Black had
thought somewhat bitterly of his poor
child's motherless position. He had
thought how Griselda would have gone
to her mother, and how the two would
have talked of a new love, a new care
coming into their lives, just as women
talked of their little pink babies, or
toddling children, or young broods of
yellow chicks and ducklings.

It was a dreadful responsibility for a
man to have to deal with a young
daughter's first love. He felt nonplussed.
It would have been easier to him, weak

Griselda. 55

though he was at that moment, to fire
off the cannon at the rock hard by, or
to deliver an extempore oration, in ele-
gant Latin about the beauties of the
Rhine from his bedroom window. As
the instants went on, he grew more
nervous. He felt he must say something,
so he blundered out with, —

' Now — Griselda — what — what does all
this mean ? '

Griselda had recovered her composure,
and answered at once,

* My best way will be to tell you all
from the beofinninor.'

Then she gave an accurate account of
her meeting and conversation with Hal
on the hill yesterday — at least, with the
one exception of the betrothal kiss.

* Well,' said the Vicar judicially, ' do
you not think you are very foolish ? '

56 Griselda,

Grlselda paused, then said, * No.'
' What ? My Griselda losing her com-
mon sense ! '

' Do you not think I could ever — -oh,
father, might I not be Hal's wife some
day?'

' I cannot say I wish to see that day,'
said the Vicar gravely. ' The Romaynes
rank far above us in the social scale, and
are as purse-proud as any persons I ever
met. Depend upon it, dear, it is best to
mate with equals. And for a man — I
know nothing about women — it would be
better, if he must do one or the other,
to marry beneath him rather than that
his wife and her family should look down
upon him.'

' Then — then — you say — -no ? '
' My dearest child, how can I say either
" yes " or " no '' until I have been asked ?

G7dselda. 57

I cannot listen to an offer of marriage
to you from a young man under age.
You, such a child! You are talking
absurdities. There — kiss me and go —
and — Griselda ' — she returned somewhat
reluctantly — ' not one word to Mr Ro-
mayne till I come down — do you hear ? '

'Yes, father.'

Griselda flew upstairs to her room with
burnlne cheeks. On the landlnof she
came face to face with Hugh Blunt.

'What is the matter?' he asked.

' Not much.'

She would have passed him and gone
on to her room ; but he detained her.

' I would not pry into your secrets but
that I am still, so to say, on guard.'

* There is nothing that you may not
know.'

* I think I can cruess,' said Hugh, seri-

58 Griselda,

ously but kindly. ' I have eyes. Sa
have others — so you must take care. Mr
Romayne has asked your father to let
you marry him, has he not .^ Ah — I see
— yes! Well — he is very young. But
some are for young marriages. What
does your father say '^. '
' Laughs.'

* Laughs — does he ? '

Hugh, who looked pale and tired,
gazed down the corridor, with its patches
of light coming from the side-windows,
and thought half stupidly that the passage
of life was something like that. First
a bit of dark shadow, then a patch of
light, then shadow again.

* Laughs — does he ? ' he repeated ab-
sently. ' Well, I don't think I should
laugh, if I were he.'

* What would you do ? '

Griselda. 59

* I think I should be very angry at his
daring to speak to you on such a subject
— don't shrink, Griselda! I may be
wrong. I must not hurt you — although
— well, I may as well tell you — this has
hurt me very much. I did not expect
you to be so rash, so precipitate. But
you — what do you say in the matter '^. '

If she had looked at him — if she had
seen his drawn face, the anxious, pained,
loving look in his eyes — instinct would
have checked the words before they left
her lips.

' If I do not marry Mr Romayne, I
shall never marry.'

Hugh felt for the moment as if he
had received an ugly stab. Then, with
a slight shiver, he rallied himself.

*That is the right spirit,' he said
kindly. ' But excuse me if I say you are

6o Griselda.

very young, Griselda. Now, I want you
to promise me one thing — will you ? '

* Certainly.'

Griselda started when she saw his ashen
face.

* If you are in any trouble — I don't
care what the trouble may be — but any
trouble — whether it be night or day —
that you may want help — you will send
for me ? '

Griselda, wondering, sorry, promised.
Then she went to her room, worried,
perplexed, scarcely happy, as she had
expected to be.

Presently, when she thought her father
would be downstairs, she went down.

A waiter was hovering about the stair-
case, watching for her. He beckoned
her mysteriously aside, and placed a
sealed envelope in her hands.

Griselda.

6i

' For my father ? ' she asked.

Oh no! Of that he was certain. It
was most certainly for the Fraulein from
the Herr who had just left by the steam-
boat.

Griselda gazed vaguely at the man,
then at the envelope. Tearing it open,
she saw — foreign bank-notes ! She knew
the blue, greasy papers well.

Her heart sank. What did it mean ?
Collecting herself, she went into the break-
fast-room.

CHAPTER III.

HE ' Spelse-Saal' of the Goar-
shausen Hotel was quite a fine
saloon for a tourist halting-place
on the Rhine. It had the usual slippery
floor, huge mirrors, and somewhat gaudy
painting and gilding.

Griselda, glancing rapidly round the
long table, saw many strange faces —
scarcely one that she had noticed before
— ladies well dressed, vulgarly dressed,
ill-dressed ; a sprinkling of bald-headed
Englishmen, a few Heidelberg students
with well-gashed faces — not one young

Griselda. 63

Englishman that looked like Hal Ro-
mayne or Hugh Blunt.

Before her father came in, she must
know the contents of that envelope.

She had been too giddy and sick with
apprehension to see the name on the card
enclosed. As she sat growing paler and
paler — she had sunk into the corner of one
of the giant red velvet sofas — she twisted
the envelope with her trembling fingers.

One of them had gone away, and had
left her — yes, it was a horrid truth — had
left her, money.

Which one ?

She tore open the envelope desperately.
The notes and the card fell to the ground.
As the card fell she saw the name ' Hugh
Blunt'

In that instant of fear, lest the name
should be * Henry Romayne/ Griselda

64 Griselda,

knew that men might come and men
might go for ever ; but that there ex-
isted but one man in the world she could
love, beside her father and brothers, and
that his name was Henry Romayne.

Her joy ! Her elation! Her passion-
ate inward thanksgiving ! She was down
on her knees, picking up that ' miserable
card,' as she thought it, and ' those
wretched German notes,' declining the
aid of old gentlemen and waiters alike
so sweetly that they felt quite annoyed
that so lovely a girl would not let them
help her.

One of the Heidelberg students, who
had noticed that * something went not
well with die Kleine' as they had nick-
named Griselda, looked benignly at her
through his spectacles, and was preparing
to leave the table and blandly afford his

Griselda. 65

assistance — a Heidelberg student would
scarcely go through the farce, to him, of
offering It — when Hal opened the door
of the Spelse-Saal, looked astonished to
see Griselda fumbling about under the
sofa for the .last fluttering dirty old note^
and went towards her.

' What Is it ? ' he said, while the student,
— who had taken an inveterate dislike
to the young milord who was ordering
champagne and rhelnwein last night, and
actually leaving half-bottles for the un-
appreciative Kellners while he remained
a thirsty student — sat down again la
disgust.

' I don't know,' said Griselda vaguely.

' Give me those papers, and come out.'

Hal gave her his arm, and, crunching
the notes In his unoccupied hand, took her
out, through the hall, Into a sort of con-

VOL. II. E

66 Griselda.

servatory, where there were some shrubs
in clay pots and a rustic seat. Then he
released her, faced her, and stretched out
his hand.

' Give me that — rubbish,' he said.
' Who sent— it ? '

' Mr Blunt.'

*What for?'

This was quite another Hal, speaking
with the assumed calm of growing- temper.

' I — can't tell — till I have looked at the
card ; you have it there — among the
notes.'

Hal unclenched his fingers, carefully
taking out the card so that Griselda
might not see it, and read poor Hugh's
pencilled message.

'Griselda dear, — Do not think harshly
of me for leaving you ; but, seeing that
you have so able a protector, I feel my

G rise Ida. 67

place is at home with my mother, who is
ill, and to whom I ought to have gone
before. Use the enclosed, your father's
hardly-earned money. Accept nothing,
and remember your promise to me.'

Hal read the carefully-pencilled tiny
writing.

* You have read this ? ' he said, in a
voice that was so unlike his own ; it hurt
Griselda, innocent as she felt.

'No.'

'Then the unpleasant duty of telling
you you have been grossly insulted de-
volves upon me,' said Hal. ' Come,
Griselda, before you and I can make
any arrangements about the journey, or
your father, or anything, I must know
what — this — means.'

* Means?'

* I must know on what terms you have

68 Griselda,

been with this fellow. Have you been
engaged to him, and thrown him over ? *

'Hal! I engaged!'

'Well, then, this is a very serious affair
— that is all I can say,' said Hal, hand-
ing her the card.

Griselda read it. The tears rose to
her eyes.

' Poor — kind — Hugh ! ' she said.

Hal's attitude and expression would
have done credit to any of the warlike
Heidelbergers in the Speise-Saal. At
first his wrath bid fair to burst out. If
it had — if that fair little head had bowed
down to the storm of Hal's anger — then
Griselda's patient pilgrimage through life
might have been a very, very different
one.

But that pure Marguerite-like girl look-
ing straight up at him with those fearless.

Griselda, 69

innocent, loving eyes, had the power in
these early days to tame the lion of ill-
temper within him. He softened.

* I — I love you so,' he said, raising her
cold hand and kissing it, ' I cannot bear
anyone to think a rude, rough thought
about you, my darling.'

Then he took her in his arms and
looked at her with anxious inquiry. And,
while he tried to interpret her expression,
he spoke gently of the necessity of her
confiding in him absolutely and entirely,
and of his being head of the three until
the Vicar was safely back again in Eng-
land, his affairs settled, and he himself
once again in good health. He found out
that Hugh Blunt had told Griselda he
owed her father a great deal of money.

* Then he can settle his accounts with
your father another time, Griselda/

70 Griselda.

* You won't send those notes back un-
kindly, Hal?' He has been so good, so
thoughtful, all through that dreadful time !
It seems so ungrateful.'

' I will do all that is just and right,' said
Hal, almost grinding his teeth as he took
Griselda back to the Speise-Saal. And
with that promise she had to be satisfied.

Mr Black was awaiting them, sitting
alone where his party usually sat. The
waiters had ' known nothing' of the Frau-
lein's movements when the Vicar inquired
for his daughter, gifted as they were
with the peculiar discretion that seems
part of the nature of a German waiter
of the superior class.

So John Black was waiting. He was
leaning back in his crimson-covered chair
with the gilt nails, outwardly in con-
templation of the fan - leafed plant in

G rise Ida. 7 1

the plated cooler before him, inwardly
thinking over the events of yesterday
and of this morning. His eyes were
partially open to the fact that Hugh
Blunt's devotion to him personally meant
interest in Griselda. Hal Romayne's
youthful enthusiasm had helped to this
conclusion. He could not quite com-
prehend Griselda's attractiveness ; but
in this paternal denseness he was not
alone.

Of course he did not actually in-
tend to allow, of all persons, a mere
boy to mend his affairs. But Hal's
talk this morning had roused him.

' Where is Blunt ? ' asked the Vicar,
as Romayne and Griselda seated them-
selves.

Hal shrugged his shoulders. The
waiter who had secretly conveyed

72 Griselda.

Hugh's sealed envelope to Griselda
and the waiter who had offered to
help her pick up the bank-notes ex-
changed glances, as, a few minutes
ago, they had exchanged confidences
outside the Saal.

' Sare ? ' said one, pretending not to
understand.

' Gone out, I suppose,' said Hal,
reddening ; he noticed, or thought he
noticed, the waiter who had brought
that letter, manceuvering to catch
Griselda's eve ; and it was bitter to
him to have * a low fellow like that '
makinor sipfns to his future wife.

Griselda drank her coffee in peace.
She had been accustomed to Tom's
overbearing ways towards herself and
Jemima, and those rows between the
brothers, when good - tempered Harry

G rise Ida, 73

usually gave in. So, with her ideas
of male temper, she had not thought
Hal as annoyed as he really was.

She was congratulating herself on
her father's evident improvement — he
was talking quite cheerfully to Ro-
mayne. Even Hugh Blunt's sudden
departure and Hal's temper could not
prevent that being a real joy.

* Still, I must not expect such happi-
ness to continue,' she was telling her-
self. ' I must make the best of it
while it lasts, for how well I know
those troubles that come down upon
one suddenly, when one feels like
some nail that was just struck by the
hammer.'

She had barely come to the end of
her little moralising when a waiter,
seemingly flicking a wasp from the

74 Griselda.

table hard by, slid a twisted note
close to Griselda's plate, and pretended
to pursue the uncaptured Insect.

She saw 'Urgent — Private' written
In pencil, then slipped away so quietly
out of the room among some people
who had finished breakfast, and were
leaving the Spelse-Saal, that neither the
Vicar nor Hal Romayne noticed her.

' A milady Anglalse waits to see
mademoiselle,' whispered the principal
waiter - intrigant, pointing mysteriously
upstairs. ' I take meess to milady when
she read the note.'

Then he turned his back upon this
calm young English ' meess,' who seemed
such a strange centre to these mys-
terious proceedings, and to make her
feel at ease began moving cups and
saucers upon a side-table, although

Griselda. 75

there was not the remotest reason for
his doing so, while Griselda read, —

' If you have any regard for Mr
H. Romayne see me at once.

' A Friend/

She did not recognise the handwriting,
which was a trembling scrawl ; so she
asked the conspirator if the lady had
left her name. And, to the little man's
horror — he was a neat, dapper, little
man, with white shirt, spotless tie, and
sleek, short hair — she asked the question
in her clear penetrating treble, which
might easily be heard in the Speise-
Saal, and without a shade of the
* English milady's ' agitation when she
had slipped half- a- sovereign into his
hand, and had almost pathetically im-

76 G rise Ida.

plored him to take her to some saloit
not In use, and to persuade Miss Black
to come to her unknown *to anyone.

' Hush-sh-sh ! ' he said, frowning ;
then he ran upstairs, beckoning so
energetically that Griselda followed.

Who could it be — Lady Romayne ?

The conspirator opened the door of
a hot, stuffy room with crimson walls,
carpeting, and those ruddy velvet chairs,
and, closing it upon his captured
* English meess,' stood waiting In the
corridor, as he had promised the mi-
lady to do, to prevent the ladies being
disturbed.

The mysterious dame rose from her
seat as Griselda came in. She was
stout, with her grey hair well dressed
under a matronly bonnet, and gorgeous
skirts of pale Indian silken material.

G rise Ida. yj

She lifted her veil, and Griselda saw
the angry face of Lady Romayne.

Lady Romayne had been struggling
to be cool and composed with Griselda.
But, when she saw the fair beauty of
this self-possessed, innocent-faced girl,
and felt what a peculiar power this
combination of so many qualities in
one woman must necessarily have over
her son's ardent, tempestuous tempera-
ment, it was difficult to be calm, and
her voice trembled as she said, —

'My son is here. Miss Black?'

' Yes,' said Griselda. ' I hope nothing
is wrong ; do sit down.'

Then she seated herself quietly on a
chair near Hal's mother, accepting Lady
Romayne's actual rudeness of manner,
and folding her hands as quietly in
her lap as if she were talking to Doctor

yS Griselda.

Mayne at home at Crowsfoot, or to his
kind old wife.

Was this girl's behaviour daring, or
impertinence, or ignorance, or defiance ?
Lady Romayne trembled with mingled
fear and vindictiveness.

Her lips were so dry she could scarcely
articulate.

' You ask me what Is wrong, Miss
Black ? Are you so lost to all sense of
propriety, or have you never learnt It ?
Our son leaves us, without a word,
without explanation or notice, and runs
away after you. If It had not been for
the sagacity of our good, honest courier,
we should have employed detectives to
find him. Think of the disgrace — our
son, who is to be Sir Henry Romayne
some of these days, and will marry Into
some old family — being run after by de-

Griselda. 79

tectives, and everyone in society hearing
of it ! I wonder at you turning temptress
when you and your father ought to be
hiding your faces somewhere, after he
has behaved as he has — writing that
horrible book — '

Griselda, who had stared and had bitten
her lip during Lady Romayne's tirade,
rose at the mention of her father's name,
and peremptorily said ' Stop ! ' Then,
before Lady Romayne had had time to
see what Griselda was about, she had
rung the bell — a peal that could be
heard down below.

' The remainder of our conversation had
better be with my father and Mr Romayne
here,' said Griselda quietly ; then the door
was opened, and the conspirator appeared,
somewhat scared by his sudden summons.
He had barely walked a few yards up and

8o G rise Ida.

down outside in the corridor, wondering
what this mystery all meant, before the
ring came, and Griselda said, as soon as
he appeared, —

' Please tell Mr Black and Mr Romayne
that Lady Romayne is here.'

' You audacious girl ! ' sard milady, too
taken aback to negative the order.

She could have burst into hysterical
tears ; but with a superlative effort, con-
trolled herself, and only said falteringly, —
' To think — that your good little mother's
daughter should turn out — thus ! '

Griselda paled. It was a hard thrust.
As Lady Romayne moved restlessly to
the window, two large, cold tears rose into
her eyes. She remembered that scene
at her mother's grave, and Hal, a little
boy, standing at her side, so chivalrous
and reverent. She wiped those tears

Griselda. 8 1

away as if they were sacred. And,
sitting there, still as some marble monu-
ment, she told her sad soul that no part
of her being must disgrace that dear lost
mother, that dear living father, or her
promised husband, Hal ; and she said
' God teach me ! ' in her heart, as she used
to say it years ago, at night, kneeling up
in her little bed, and wondering which
of the stars were mother's eyes watching
her to see if she took care of father and
the boys.

Then in came — first Hal, then John
Black — happily by no means dismayed by
his distinguished visitor. The Vicar bowed
gravely. Hal — pale, with a curious light
in his eyes — went across to his mother,
after a survey of Griselda which told him
at least a little of what her interview
with Lady Romayne had been.

VOL. II. F

82 Griselda.

* What is this ? ' he said.

' A charming way to receive me, your
mother, after all we have suffered ! ' and
at last Lady Romayne buried her face
in her pocket-handkerchief and sobbed
out an incoherent complaint — running
away after people — leaving his family —
scandal — detectives — the talk of the
county — loss of position, et ccetera — Lady
Maria Wick's hand could not possibly be
asked for by Sir Hubert, and so on.

* My mother is hysterical,' said Hal
contemptuously, turning to the Vicar.
' This is no place for Griselda, Mr
Black.' Then he went to Griselda, and
said imploringly, * Dear love, you will
go with your father — just for a little
while, will you not .^ As soon as my
mother is better, I will bring her to
your room.'

Griselda. '^-^

' Thank you,' said Griselda, with a
grateful look. But she did not take his
offered arm. She went to her father, who
was standing by the excited Lady Ro-
mayne, and said, 'Father, what am I to do.^'

* Stay a while,' said John Black, in his
old, firm, resonant tones. As he stood
there, his strength seemed to have re-
turned to him. He was the truthful out-
spoken pastor of Crowsfoot, rough to some,
tender to others. Those dark, grave eyes
were fixed upon the sobbing woman pene-
tratingly. He understood what this meant
at once, and at once he acted as he
had intended to act — when he had thought
what might come.

' So soon ! ' he muttered. * Poor child !
But perhaps it is best so.'

Then he put his arm round Griselda, and
spoke firmly but not unkindly to Lady Ro-

84 Griselda.

mayne. He expressed no regret that Hal
had left his parents, and had joined himself
and Griselda at Goarshausen, because he felt
none. He merely said that he was sorry
to see her so distressed, and wished to
know what he could do for her ladyship.
Meanwhile Hal, his hands thrust into his
pockets, was pacing the room and kicking
aside the chairs when they happened to
be in his way with such boyish rage that
the Vicar could not help smiling.

* Do ? ' said Lady Romayne, with a
bitter glance at Griselda. ' You have
done enough already, Mr Black ! I will
not allude to painful matters. I will
merely state that you cannot expect Sir
Hubert and myself to consider you a
fitting acquaintance for our son. At
all events, until our good friend the
bishop — '

G rise Ida. 85

Here Hal, muttering an oath between
his teeth, sprang forward.

His eyes blazed, his hands were clenched.
He looked dangerous. Lady Romayne
sprang up with a little shriek. But the
Vicar had quickly stepped between them.

' Don't behave like a schoolboy, or
worse/ he said, firmly grasping Romayne's
arm. ' Remember this Is your mother.
Remember what I said to you but an
hour or two ago. Only with your parents'
consent can you have anything to do with
me and mine.'

* And that consent you will never have,'
cried Lady Romayne, less afraid of Hal
while John Black's thin but powerful hand
gripped his arm. ' Your father and I have
spent our lives planning and arranging
that you may occupy a foremost place in
society. Putting aside your ingratitude,

86 Griselda.

we are scarcely likely to allow ourselves
to fall at the last moment.' Then she
added, with a spiteful sneer, ' How can you
expect to be accepted into any noble family
when it is known that you ran all over
Germany after some girl ? '

All this time Griselda had stood close
to her father, pale but not unnerved.
Only when her lover's mother spoke her
taunt with such withering emphasis, she
gave a little shudder, and involuntarily
clasped her father's arm.

' You had better not insult my future
wife,' cried Hal.

Here he stopped short, for Lady Ro-
mayne actually screamed and put her hands
over her ears.

' Oh, I see it all ! ' she went on. ' Oh,
the wicked, wicked plot ! I must — I must
claim your father's protection — '

Griselda. Z'j

' Pray, accept mine meanwhile,' said
John Black, with a smile. There
seemed something- so childish and piti-
ful to him in this mother's altercation
with her son. ' And be perfectly at
ease on our account. Lady Romayne.
If my daughter should ever marry — which
is not very likely, for we have other
thoughts and aims in this life, she and
I — she will have to be asked for by
the parents of the man she loves with as
much ceremony as if she were a princess.
Her mother's daughter is too precious in
my sight to be lightly treated.'

John Black was thoroughly roused.
His temporarily clouded brain was
almost strong and clear as of old.

As he stood there, tall, with a certain
proud presence which was seldom seen
except by those he held in just con-

88 Griselda.

tempt, Lady Romayne's temper began
to subside. She even had an uncom-
fortable sensation that she had not
made these people feel her grandeur
and her dignity as she had intended that
they should feel them.

She accepted the Vicar's arm, just
touching it with the tips of her fingers,
and said, more calmly, —

'Come, Hal!'

Hal started as if he had been stung.

'With you?' he said bitterly. 'Not if
I know it ! '

' You cannot stay here, Mr Romayne.
If you stay, my daughter and I leave
by the next boat.'

'Griselda' — Hal went up to her —
* what do you wish me to do ? '

Lady Romayne flushed a deep red.
He was her idol, that Hal of hers.

G rise I da. 89

When she heard his voice, full of love
and tenderness, a few moments after it
had been insolently pitched when he
spoke to her — she had that acute pun-
ishment of idol-makers when their living
idols turn upon them.

Oh, how she hated Griselda — even
when the girl gently said, ' You must
not stay, Hal!' What right had that
girl to look at her son with those big
eyes of hers, and to call him ' Hal '
before her very face ?

Then she gave a little jump, and
cried ' Ah ! ' For, after a long look at
Griselda, Hal came to her fiercely.

' Do you see what you have done ? '
he cried. ' You have turned the only
being I really love against me. Are
you a fool — or are you playing into the
hands of Satan ? — if there be a Satan.

90 Griselda.

She would have made a good man
of me ; she would have kept me right.'

* To think of leaning upon a woman is
confessing oneself a broken reed, Hal.'

The Vicar spoke kindly.

* Were you a broken reed, sir ? Did
you not tell me what Mrs Black was
to you ? But it did not need telling !
Everyone knew — '

' Yes,' said the Vicar hurriedly. ' But
— but — I was a lone man, with no
responsibilities of wealth, of — of — old
family. You have these — and more.
Parents, sisters, younger brother — '

' Then how do you explain that " a
man should leave father and mother and
cleave to his wife " } '

' We will not open such a discussion,'
said John Black.

* Scripture ! I should think not in-

Griselda, 9 1

deed ! ' said Lady Romayne emphatically.
She did not really mean to remind the
Vicar of his unfortunate treatise ; but
Griselda saw her father wince.

' Father, let us go ! ' she said almost
passionately ; then she said ' Good-bye '
to Hal.

Heaven knew whether he would not
have kissed her there and then ; but
she was out of the room and away
before the three realised that she was
gone.

Hal sprang to follow her ; but John
Black stood in the doorway, and almost
thrust him back.

' Understand,' he sternly said, ' both
you, Henry Romayne, and you, my
lady. If any communication be made
to my daughter by, or by the agency of,
any member of your family, I will never

92 Griselda,

allow her to speak to one of you — on
this earth again. Something tells me —
God knows what ! — some instinct — that
the day will come, Lady Romayne,
when you will perhaps be begging my
daughter of me as wildly, maybe as
hopelessly, as the rich man begged
that drop of water of the beggar
Lazarus. Therefore remember my

words, and be advised not to widen
the gulf — for it is a gulf rather than a
breach — which will lie between myself
and my daughter — and you Romaynes
— from this moment.'

He bowed, and left them.

' That man is a prophet,' said Hal.
He was checked, impressed — therefore
collected. * Madam — for to call you
mother would be a mockery — I am
ready to accompany you as soon as you

G rise I da. 93

please along that broad and pleasant
road which leads, in any case, to a
better place than this red room has
been since I entered it. Do you wish
to stay here. Lady Romayne, as you
have succeeded in hunting out as well
as insulting my friends ? '

His mother took refuge in tears.

Hal rung the bell, ordered rooms for
his mother, and notified their departure
the following morning. Then, taking
no further notice of Lady Romayne, he
sent for his despatch - box and wrote
letters — -business letters to England — in
furtherance of the plans he was rapidly
making to be of assistance to John
Black and Griselda. The last letter
was for the Vicar himself.

' My dear Sir, — I forgot to forward

94 G rise Ida.

you enclosed notes, which Mr Blunt — -
who was suddenly summoned home —
says, are your property. You were not
considered well enough to be told that
Mr Blunt had left Goarshausen so
suddenly. I had hoped to have been a
shield to you now. I may be — even
yet. Meanwhile, may God bless you,
and keep and cherish the one so inex-
pressibly dear to us both — is the most
earnest prayer ever uttered by your
grateful Henry Romayne.'

Griselda came into the sitting-room,
her boxes packed, her little cloak on,
ready to start, when this letter of Hal's
was brought to Mr Black.

She had kept her composure well till
he handed it to her. Then she gave a
sad little cry.

Griselda. 95

' Oh, father, what shall I do ? '

John Black drew the slender crea-
ture on his knee, and held her head on
his shoulder. He heard her sob ; but
he merely stroked her head and let her
cry.

' My lamb has taught me a lesson,'
he said caressingly. ' I faced the storm,
too self-reliant, and it beat me down,
ay, to the very ground. But she bends
to it — so it w411 pass over.'

' Oh, I am glad, glad because you are
stronger ! ' said Griselda, raising her head,
and smiling through her tears. * Though
I do love Hal — father, ever since the
boys used to tell me that, if I waited
patiently, a prince would come for me ;
and one day, in the orchard, I was sit-
ting waiting, as usual, and Hal came,
so fine in his velvet and lace and finery,

96 Griselda.

that I thought he was a prince.' Then
she told the remainder of the childish
story, ending with — ' I would never,
never marry anyone else ! But it would
be wicked to mind Lady Romayne's talk
while I ought to be saying thanksgivings
all the time, for you are better, dear !
Oh, 1 know you are going to be well
now ! ' she went on, kneeling down, and
looking up into his face.

* Your nursing — Hal's good-nature,
poor lad ! — and Blunt's devotion,' said
the Vicar musingly ; ' then that arrogant
woman — one thing with another — has
brought about a reaction, thank God,
Griselda ! I was delirious ? Yes ! I
said nothing anyone could understand ?
Well, they might have heard whatever
I had to say. I must be careful, though,
my child. But we will go home, you

Griselda. 97

and I ? We will be peaceful and quiet,
and I will battle through. There may-
be hard times — but I will shield my
darling — by thinking of her first, even
as she thought of me.'

Then there was a bustle outside, and
shouting, whistling ; the steamer had
arrived.

It was a hard moment when the last
bell rang, and John Black and his daughter
stepped on board to begin their return
journey. Griselda resolutely sat with
her face towards St Goar, her back to-
wards Goarshausen. She had given one
pitiful glance at the beautiful spot where
she had joyed and sorrowed' so sharply,
so rapidly. The sun was shining ; the
people were sitting under the trees in
the hotel garden. Beyond lay the nar-
row valley, the wooded hill, and above

VOL. II. G

98 G rise I da.

was the tall mountain she and Hal had
talked of climbing together.

She saw it all, and knew she most
likely would never see it again, except
in her dreams.

And Hal saw her. He had chosen
a shady corner where he would not be
noticed. He felt very dejected, forlorn,
miserable. It would have been some
consolation, he thought, if she would
have looked back and waved her hand-
kerchief. How quickly the steamer went !
Wind and tide both in her favour,
she was almost shooting down stream.
In a few minutes she would steam
past that dark grey mountain where the
trailing vineyards looked like green trellis-
work. She had reached the first cottao^e
of that hamlet nestling below the pass.
Now her funnels were black against a

Griselda. 99

white bridge — now she was being covered
by a rocky prominence on the bank he
stood upon — then his eyes grew misty —
the vessel was gone. Griselda was — gone !

A gun was fired, and the echoes of
the shots reverberated from hill to hill
all along the valley, like a parting salute.

He turned away, and went uphill. He
got to the clearing where they had been
so gloriously happy together. The sun-
shine played about the waving boughs. It
was all so peaceful — so beautiful — and he ?

He was, he told himself, more forlorn,
miserable, and forsaken than the poorest
beggar that ever picked up a living in
the gutter.

It was a bad half-hour. But what
would it have been if he could have
seen a vision of himself — as he would
be — but a few years later ?

^^^^^^^^^^^^p%^m

CHAPTER IV.

ROWSFOOT again — ten years
ago, when Griselda was a
child, a mere straggling,
tumble-down village. Now the autumn
sunshine poured down upon pleasant,
wholesome dwelling-houses. There was
a whole new lane of red-brick, picturesque
cottages, each standing in its own neat
garden, each with its porch and verandah,
yet honest sanitary dwellings for the poor.
This was called ' the Vicar's street.' He
it was who had not rested till, by dint of
saving, scraping, subscription-getting, and

G rise Ida. loi

working in with building-funds, he saw
his old friends and their children ' de-
cently housed, as Christians should be.'
When he first became their pastor — young,
strong, with his beloved wife, healthy and
sound, at his side — he had valiantly
attacked the many-headed dragon of
Crowsfoot deficiencies. Ponds were filled
in, cesspools discovered and destro)'ed,
ventilation insisted upon. The Vicar —
' our Vicar,' as his humble friends proudly
called him — had taught his people physical
as well as moral lessons. The result was
— a thriving, neat population ; a school-
house known amonorst schoolhouses as
the one which produced the best scholars.
A church, a model of simplicity, crammed
full at each service till late-comers sub-
sided into the porch. A rapid increase
in numbers, for the Vicar advocated early

I02 Griselda.

marriages, and always smiled upon honest
attachments, even among the very young.
And last, but not least, a whole crop of
enemies — sprung from John Black's suc-
cess. One-third of the whispers that
had reached the bishop's palace were
the whispers of clergy and parishes who
envied John Black, and said, *A man
might easily create a model village who
had somebody to back him up.' Who
the ' somebody ' was, no one knew. If
they had been told that the 'somebody'
was the Vicar's steadfast will and un-
flagging energy, they would have smiled
incredulously.

In ten years the great chestnuts had
grown more spreading still, and the
village green kept its green beneath
their stately shade. The schoolmaster
and mistress were aged. Their school-

Griselda. 1 03

house was barely visible, covered by
a great wistaria. The blacksmith was
darker, tougher, and brawnier. The
forge was enlarged, and some of those
who toddled to the infant-school ten
years ago were now his apprentices,
beating the glowing red iron till the
sparks flew around the busy anvils.
Doctor Mayne was bent and old, and
drove a pony-chaise instead of a gig.
He kept an assistant now, a young
fellow who had passed his second M.B.,
who could hardly hide his contempt
for country practice, and who took care
to let the ' educated people ' among
Doctor Mayne's patients be well aware
that he would not have temporarily
accepted the position but that ' in the
M.D. examination they had a way of
asking you questions which you could

I04 Griselda,

not answer, however good a theorist
you might be, unless you had practice.'
Mrs Mayne took good care of this Lon-
don Hght of the profession, but could
not help disparaging him to her femi-
nine friends, especially when they took
a stroll in the churchyard, after Sunday-
morning church — a favourite time for
the tit-bits of village confidences.

And the vicarage ? But little change
there. The quaint little ' front garden '
neat as ever. Within, the Vicar's coats,
hats, guns, fishing-tackle, and curiosities
all in their places. The old clock ticked
solemnly in the passage, its round white
face reflected in the glass of the baro-
meter opposite. The ' red parlour ' or
dining-room, looking upon the lane, was
more cheerfully arranged than it used
to be when the young house-mistress

Griselda. 105

Griselda was a mere baby, her mother
a hopeless invaHd, and Jemima house-
keeper. There was a modern easy-chair
for the Vicar, and a Hbrary table ; and
the table near the crimson sofa had an
embroidered cover, and held books and
a vase of flowers.

The little drawing-room looking upon
the garden was left as it was when
Mrs Black lay for the last time on the
sofa under the window ; Griselda had
made white covers for the furniture.
But her mother's work-box was on the
table by the sofa ; the footstool on which
Griselda used to sit, watching the invalid,
was in its place. Also the screen which
the schoolmistress and some of the head-
scholars had worked, and all the little
knicknacks offered by sympathisers to the
poor lady who died with such sad slowness.

1 06 Gi'iselda.

John Black had avoided this room,
Griselda went in dally, to dust and re-
place fresh flowers and rearrange, as if
this were a domestic chapel and she
the sacristan.

This early September day was bright ;
soft breezes played gently with the nod-
ding dahlias. A young robin hopped
about the gnarled old apple-trees in the
orchards, twittering snatches of songs,
as if he were not yet sure of what he
really thought of the world. The apples
were mostly gathered. Some late plums
were still ripening on the brick walls,
and now and then a ripe pear fell from
the laden boughs into the long grass.
The figures moving in the field beyond
the garden were Griselda and Jemima.
Part of the field was mown for a dry-
ing-ground. The old cow and the

G rise Ida, 107

rector's horse looked on gravely from
a distance. They were accustomed to
those rows of white flapping linen now.
Griselda and her faithful old servant
had been waiting for Tom and Harry
to depart their several ways to ' get
through their wash.' A woman came
to do the hard part of the work, and
Jemima, who was lame and purblind,
hated to see Griselda helping with the
drying and folding, and would have
done it all herself; but since her young
lady had come back from ' furrin' parts,
she'd been changed like,' Jemima would
tell her gossip and crony over the way,
the wife of old James, the captain's
farm-bailiff. * She's got a queenly way
wi' her, which ain't like her blessed
mother one bit, and which takes a
rheumatic old body like me aback like.

io8 Griselda,

And I can't say yea and nay in the
right places. But she's as beautiful as
a brand-new shining pin, and as straight ;
only she don't look to me, so to say,
strong. And, there — I do object to her
carryin' about those heavy linen sheets,
and a pegging them on the line! I've
often a mind to get up at dawn, just
when the birds begin to twitter, and do
it all myself. But, Lor' bless you ! my
old bones ain't what they was, nor never
will be ! '

Griselda, in her blue frock, her sleeves
rolled up, was ' queening ' now — she was
unpegging some fine things into a small
basket, and sent off Jemima with it indoors.

* You get those nicely starched, and,
when I've got this lineful done, I'll
come in and make that plum-pie for
father's dinner.'

Griselda. 109

Jemima went meekly. Yes, there was
a change in Griselda, even in three
short weeks. There were those two
lines about the mouth which tell of
drooping- and compressed lips. Her eyes
were hazy, her cheek-bones were sharp,
her skin pale, and her pretty bare
arms far less softly plump than they
had ever been. She worked away
packing the dry linen into the baskets
all the more briskly because she was
anxious.

When they first returned, John Black
heard that the bishop was shooting
grouse in the North ; that all the
heads of the Everest firm were holiday-
making, and that the tormenting pub-
lisher was shortly expected home from
Norway.

So he waited to see those enemies of

1 1 o Griselda.

his, and went about his parish, where
he found that the cloud that hung over
him was well known.

His people received him so warmly.
It was welcome to every house, to each
cottage. But, though they were full of
talk, and were loth to let him depart,
following him to the door and gazing
after him wistfully, no one asked any
questions about himself. They told him
that the mild curate who was doing his
church-work, and who lodged at the
mill, was ' well enow as young parsons
w^ent ' ; but they did not inquire whether
his throat was better, or when he would
preach them one of his old stirring
sermons again.

* No, they think me a blasphemer,' he
said bitterly to himself; 'they, whom
I have cherished as brethren — ay, even

Griselda. 1 1 1

as my very own children in flesh and
blood — pity me, my God ! I see it in
their faces ! '

He went home ; and Griselda, coaxing
and cosseting him as she had dared to
do since they were so closely brought
together at Goarshausen, heard his com-
plaint, and tried to talk him out of his
ideas.

' Ah, well ! ' he said with a sigh.
' Time mends all.' But Crowsfoot was
a painful pleasure now. Each landmark
— each familiar face, the cottages, the
schoolhouse, the church he had restored,
his wife's green grave — were so many
reproaches. As he went about, he
seemed to hear, 'Why have you for-
saken us ? Why could you not live and
love on in simple faith, and not turn to
the *' strange woman" of Doubt — not only

112 Griselda.

telling, but publishing to the world her
sayings — which you can never recall ? '

No, that was where the shoe pinched.
He had run up a flag, and he must stick
to it.

* Time — time will bring us through,' he
almost feverishly repeated. He waited
eagerly to hear that the bishop had re-
turned. Then he was off to town. He
had been in town nearly a week when
Griselda was busy with her linen in the
drying-ground. She was thinking, half in
fear, half in hope, of what news he might
bring. When the lines were empty^only
a peg or two hanging here and there — she
paused before carrying in the baskets, and
took the letter she had received from her
father that morning from her pocket.

' Dearest, — I hope to be back with you

Griselda. 113

to-night, perhaps this afternoon. Then I
will tell you as much as I can of my
doings in this man-made metropolis, which
I would willingly turn my back upon once
and for all. Your Father.'

She had read it many times, trying to
guess facts from the spirit — the tone — of
the sentences. Was he sad — angered ?
He had so often said that old saying,
* God made the country, man made the
town,' and hated bricks and mortar in
masses so, that his sentence about London
was no key to his frame of mind.

No ; she must be patient.

Then she read another letter, which had
arrived at the same time.

It was from Hugh Blunt. Her father
had told her to open all letters ; so she
opened this. It was the first they had

VOL. II. H

1 1 4 Griselda.

heard of Hugh Blunt since he left them so
suddenly at Goarshausen, and the letter
was to the Vicar.

' My dear Sir, — I have been told you
are back at Crowsfoot. When can I
return to you ? And could you receive a
friend of mine who is very anxious to read
with you ? He does not mind about
quarters ; you could stow him away any-
where, or he could share my room. He
is Lord Lisle's youngest son, and has
unmistakable ability for abstract science.
A line in return would oblige ; but, if this
finds you busy, we will take silence as
consent, and appear on the usual day. —
Always your grateful pupil,

' Hugh Blunt.'

' P.S. — It will be a chaiity to rid young

Griselda. 1 1 5

Bray of as much of his superfluity as you
will, for he is one of those uncomfortable
wealthy persons who do not know the
value of money till they can learn it. I
promise that, if you take Bray, he shall
not be the slightest trouble.'

Griselda thoughtfully folded and re-
folded that letter. She had 'seen through'
kind Hugh's proposal. A rich pupil would
be a useful crutch just now. Would her
father take him ? She could detect that
Hugh, naturally rather rough and devoid
of tact, had worded that letter with minute
care, lest he should offend the Vicar's
sensibilities.

She replaced the letter in her pocket,
stroked the nose of the old horse, who
not having quite conquered his horror of
those oddly-shaped white things called
shirts, came up to salute her when the

1 1 6 Griselda.

clothes-lines were empty — then she bravely
lifted her basket and went staggering up
the garden-walks with it, brushing the
dewy cobwebs from the overgrown clumps
of fuchsia with her blue skirts, and, as she
panted, her pale face flushing till she
looked as ruddy as one of the tall holly-
hocks, her heart-beats were loud, and the
heavy basket creaked, so she did not hear
her father's footstep in the passage.

* Griselda ! '

His cry startled her, she dropped
the basket. All the white linen went
tumbling down, some upon the gravel
walks, some upon the beds — crushing the
yellow escholtzias and the tender little
heartseases.

' There — she will do it, sir, and there's
no a saying of her nay ! '

Jemima, following her master, saw her

Griselda. 117

opportunity, and made a clean breast of
Griselda's self-will there and then.

' There's many a strong lass in the
village as 'ud be thankful to earn a few-
honest pence ; look at miss, sir. She'll
be having a twisted spine of the back,
like poor Maria Brown.'

' I will arrange all that, Jemima.'
' I hope and trust that you will, sir.'
Jemima sniffed, and retired to the
kitchen. She had her own ideas as to
the Vicar's position in his own house.
' Will you come to the parlour,

father

-i '

John Black said ' No, no ! ' emphati-
cally. He wanted no tea, he said, nor
dinner either — at least, not then.

* I want air,' he said, eoine out into the
sunlit garden, Griselda following, unroll-
ing her sleeves, and Jemima left picking

1 1 8 Griselda,

up the linen. ' Air — and home, and you.
Come, let us go into the orchard. Oh,.
Griselda ' — he stood still in the long grass,
looking haggardly round at those trees,
each one a familiar friend, at the quiet
September sky, the blue background of
the foliage — ' if you could only know the
difference between this and that great
awful city — the roughness, the turbulence,
the riot ! Lies beset you and follow you,
and, beat them away as you might a cloud
of summer flies, they return and pester
doubly. The only honest thing is bare
open sin ; swearing, fighting — at' least,
these are true. But, if a man be civil to
you, he is secretly lying and thieving; if
help be offered you, it is capital offered
you at one hundred per cent. Thank God
for every acre of ground untrodden by
man ! If air did not blow up from the

Ginselda. 1 1 9

great ocean and from unpolluted wilds,
we should be poisoned ; the end of the
world would be that all must be suffo-
cated and smothered by sin.'

Griselda never commented upon her
father's outbursts. Now she merely led
him silently to a rustic bench which of late
years had been removed from the garden
into the orchard ; and, sitting by him on
the very spot where Tom had been digging
when Hal Romayne came stepping down
upon the grass like a fairy-tale prince, she
said, —

* How was it ? Good, bad, or in-
different ? '

The Vicar hesitated.

' Well — indifferent.'

' Did you go to the bishop ? '

' First of all. He was stopping at his
usual hotel. I thought to catch him at

I20 Griselda.

about eleven. He was not ''about." I
had to wait while he breakfasted.'
' Was he — kind ? '

* A little starchy and stand-off, until
he mentioned your letter. He said,
" Don't look guilty ; it is all right. A
man who possesses a daughter like
yours, Black, ought to consider he
has enough." He said your letter
*' touched him." Then, of course, we
had a discussion.'

* What was settled '^. '

' That matters are to remain in statu
qtio for the present, until I have tried a
second book. You must help me, darling,
as you did before, with those interminable
references. Then, whether I leave or stay
will be decided.'

' Leave — or stay '^ ' Griselda did not
understand.

G rise Ida, 1 2 1

' Leave the Church of England or stay
in it.'

* You, so fit to care for everyone ! Oh,
father, the bishop cannot know, he cannot
dream of what you really are ! '

' I thoucrht of reslofnine before, Gris-
elda, when they were first down upon
me.'

* But, if you resigned, what then ? '

* I should be an ordinary layman, taking
pupils.'

Griselda produced Hugh Blunt's letter.
The Vicar read it carefully, twice.

' Hugh is very kind,' he began ; then
he looked at Griselda. She was perfectly
unconscious of the meaning of his inquir-
inor crjance.

' I cannot make it out,' he went on
thoughtfully. ' You and I have a secret
friend, do you know ? '

12 2 G^Hselda.

Grlselda's face and neck flushed crim-
son. She turned her head away.

' I will tell you/ went on the Vicar.
' I have as yet only told you about my
interview with the bishop. My next
important piece of business was to see
the Everests. I had no difficulty in find-
ing them. They were far more civil
than I expected. They acknowledged
that they were still agreed to remain in
the same position towards me in regard
to the '* treatise which had caused so
much controversy." But they said that
a client of theirs was willing to supply
me with the ready money I required, at
a moderate percentage.'

' Oh, father ! ' Griselda, knowing the
low state of the Vicar's finances, bright-
ened up. ' Oh, I am glad ! You can pay
those wretched publishers.'

Griselda. 123

' But I could not accept it, dear.'

' Why not ? '

' They refused to tell me the name of
their amiable client. That settled the
affair.'

Griselda had learnt a little of her
father's position. She never wondered
when he exclaimed against subterfuge
and deceit. She knew he had never
rightly known who he was, or under
what parental tree he might battle with
his fellows.

She shook her head unconsciously. Oh,
that money! If only human beings could
grow out of the ground and bear their
fruit calmly, nourished by their mother
earth, and by rain out of the pure sky !

' I am sure the earth must think far less
of us than of the trees and shrubs,' she
said, speaking her thoughts aloud.

124 Griselda.

'Why?'

' They grow from her ; they are pure
and fresh and sweet. But, when we
human creatures mingle with her, we are
nothing but rottenness and corruption.'

' Griselda, you have a curious way of
thinking. I shall not come to you for
similes.'

She shrugged her shoulders.

' Are you going to take this rich young
man, father ? I don't know^ how it is ; but
he reminds me of the "rich young man"
who went sorrowfully away.'

' I hope he will not. I hope they will
both come, darling. Then I can pay
those publishers.'

' Do they refuse to wait ? '

' I crave them a bill.'

o

* What is that ? '

' It is equivalent to paying them the

Griselda. 1 2 5

money. But the less you know of these
things the better I shall be pleased. Only
I may tell you this for your comfort,
darling. If Hugh and his friend do come,
I do not see any reason why we shall not
steer through quite comfortably.'

' Then with all my heart I wish they
may come ! ' said priselda devoutly. ' I
will do all I can to make them happy ; I
shall only be overwhelmed with gratitude
to them for coming ! '

If she could have known, poor inno-
cent child ! of what complications were
in store — of what would arise out of all
this, those words would have been the
very last she would have spoken — she
would have indeed been at her very wit's
end.

But she had no misgiving, she felt no
strange warning. No single black bird

126

G^Hselda.

flew over her head; no warning wind
howled in the chimney, when she went
to her tiny bed-chamber that night ; no
dream even troubled her young mind as
she lay calmly sleeping. She was as un-
troubled by presentiments of her coming
sufferings as a new-born infant is un-
troubled by thoughts of death.

CHAPTER V.

CTOBER — clear, frosty, the col-
umns of smoke rising straight
into the air from the chimneys
of Crowsfoot village, the woods around
growing wet in the morning sunshine,
masses of gold, red — every shade from
pale yellow to ruddy chesnut — the spark-
ling white veil that lay upon the meadows
at early dawn melting gradually away.

Breakfast-time at the Vicarage ; a small
wood fire burning pleasantly In the crim-
son parlour ; the bright copper kettle
hissing away on its trivet ; a few logs and

128 G rise Ida,

the tiny bellows lying just inside the old-
fashioned brass fender ; the great tabby
cat Tim sitting up on the tiger-skin rug,
purring and blinking contentedly at the
first fire of autumn, and at his beloved
mistress Griselda, alternately.

Griselda was flitting about arranging
the breakfast-table. She wore a brown
woollen dress, and looked less careworn,
in spite of her hard work the last few
weeks. The young men — the Vicar's old
pupil Hugh Blunt, and his new pupil
Mervyn Bray, the youngest son of the
rich Lord Lisle — arrived a month ago.
There was more housekeeping for Gris-
elda in consequence, and she was working
hard to help her father with that second
treatise on certain Epistles. She was up
early, to arrange household matters with
Jemima for the day. Then, while Blunt

Ginselda. 129

and Bray were shut up with the Vicar in
his study all the morning, she would ferret
out passages from the learned tomes —
some of them ancient ecclesiastical works
in Latin and Greek — which her father
would require for his next few pages. In
the afternoon she visited in the parish, or
took a class in the school, or presided at
a Dorcas meeting with her old friend Mrs
Mayne, or had a hard afternoon's mending
and darning at home ; for Jemima's eyes
had to be spared. Griselda often told
herself with a sigh that she was one of
those whose lifework was rather to save
than make. But in the evenings, when
Hugh — who never alluded to the events
that happened during that German tour,
but was the same cheerful brotherly friend
as of old — would smoke and play cards
with young Bray in their rooms upstairs,

VOL. II. I

1 30 G rise Ida.

or go for a stroll with him, GriseLda
worked with her father in the study. She
knew the first — the condemned treatise by
heart. She not only knew the letter, but
the spirit of it, only too well. She had a
clear brain. The Vicar found her a great
help. Her thoughts marched alongside
his, as it were, and fell out of their ranks
when wanted. Last night John Black had
encountered a knotty point. He ran his
fingers through his hair, he leant back
in his chair and closed his eyes, thinking
deeply, to no purpose. He closed the
books. * I can do no more,' he said,
with a sigh, ' until I see a passage, which
I believe to be in a certain work of
Thomas Aquinas. I must wait. I can-
not leave those young fellows and go up
to town — to the Museum — they have it
there. I must wait.'

Griselda. 1 3 1

' Don't you know anyone who has the
book ? ' Griselda asked.

The vicar thought that perhaps one of
the antiquarian booksellers might lend it
to him. But this little check had dis-
couraged him. Hard work accompanied
by anxiety was not a tonic.

Griselda had lain tossing, dreaming ;
then thinking, half asleep and half awake,
of her father's difficulty.

When she awoke in the morning, her
first thought was that Mrs Mayne was
going to London to-day on some busi-
ness with her trustees. Why not ac-
company her, and see if she could get
Aquinas' treatises ? She had her mother's
trinkets, too sacred to be worn, but not
too sacred to be used for such a purpose
as this ; she might leave them with the
bookseller as some sort of guarantee.

132 Griselda.

She was thinking of this as she flitted
round the breakfast-table, when her
father entered, drooping, preoccupied.
He kissed her, then went silently to the
fire and warmed his hands.
' Those boys not down yet ? '

* I expect they will be directly,' said
Griselda.

Then she asked her father, point-blank,
whether she might accompany Mrs Mayne
to town.

' What for ? '

He looked surprised.

* Shopping.'

* I never care for you to be away with-
out me.'

Here the young men came in, followed
by Jemima with the ham and eggs.
Hugh looked older and thinner, perhaps
because he had let hair and beard grow

Griselda. 133

as they would. Mervyn Bray was a
short, awkwardly-made young man, with
a large head for so poorly developed a
body, with a white face carefully shaven,
short thin hair carefully cut and smoothed,
and watery blue eyes.

' Ith a beauthiful morning, Mith Black,'
he vouchsafed, standing awkwardly be-
hind his chair — he spoke with a lisp, and
held both the Vicar and his daughter in
considerable awe ; ' and — dear me —
thereth the pothman ! '

He sat down as the old man with the
leathern bag announced himself by rap-
ping sharply at the Vicarage door with his
staff, comforted by the fact that he would
now escape notice. He was shyer here than
anywhere in his own particular little world.

There were several letters with coronets
and monograms for himself; one or two

1 34 G rise Ida.

more practical-looking envelopes directed
to Blunt, and one letter for the Vicar.

Griselda was pouring out the tea, after one
glance that assured her that this letter was
not a disagreeable business communication.

If she could have seen the contents of
the neat little envelope !

* Will no amount of teaching make the
present Vicar of Crowsfoot into an honour-
able man ? Ask yourself, sir, how you are
treating your motherless daughter, allowing
her, as you do, to reside under the same
roof as young men who are known to be
her admirers, without even an older lady to
guarantee the commonest respectability.'

This note, or message, was carefully
written in printed characters, on a slip of
paper without watermark.

It was the first personal anonymous
letter John Black had received. At first,.

Griselda. 135

he could hardly believe the testimony of
his own eyes. Then he suddenly smiled
to himself.

'Hal!' he said. 'Poor lad! It has
not done him good, as I thought it would.
But how could he ? He cannot help
being his mother's son, of course. That
coarse-minded woman ! '

Nevertheless, the communication had its
effect. As he put it carefully away among
other papers in his pocket, he uneasily
wondered whether others had had simi-
lar ideas, — whether, indeed, his presence
only were sufficient shield for his darling's
purity and honour.

' Did you not say you wanted to go to
London with Mrs Mayne.'^'

' Yes.'

' By what train '^. '

' The io"20, I think.

136 Griselda,

' Then you had better make haste, and
I will walk to the station with you.'

This brief conversation set Griselda
wondering. Hugh Blunt was astonished;
and, as he saw Griselda's bright cheeks
and her eagerness to get away, he grew
grave.

He hung about the hall till she came
down, dressed for travelling, and holding a
small black bag.

' Are you going to stay '^, ' he asked
casually, as they walked out and stood on
the doorstep, waiting for the Vicar.

' Oh no ! '

Again that flush as Griselda nervously
clutched the handle of her bag.

' Could I not, by any possibility, save
you the journey ? I should be so glad of
a run up to town.'

' Oh no ; thank you all the same ! '

Griselda. 137

' Supposing I were to escort you and
Mrs Mayne ? Supposing that, when you
reached the terminus, you saw me jumping
out of the next carriage ? '

Griselda looked at him with a sort of
hunted look, as if she asked, ' No peace —
not even from you ? '

While the Vicar came out, and both
father and daughter went briskly up the
road towards the station, Hugh uneasily
asked himself what this meant.

Mr Black was o-enerally so averse to his
daughter's going out alone. Hugh could
scarcely indeed recall a time when he met
her walking by herself since Goarshausen.
Trusting her with kindly, good-natured,
but unworldly Mrs Mayne, who suspected
no one, could not be brought to believe
ill of anybody, and said, ' Poor soul, poor
soul ! ' when she heard of the hanging of

138 Griselda.

some notorious criminal. Trusting Gris-
elda with a woman who had once refused
to give a pickpocket in charge, although
he had possessed himself of her purse con-
taining twenty pounds !

' It is not like the Vicar,' he said to him-
self. He would be wretchedly uneasy till
Griselda was safely home again. Hugh
loved her more dearly than ever — perhaps
all the more dearly because he buried that
love so deep down in his heart. He had
heard of the break with the Romaynes»
And, although he did not know it himself,
he hoped that perhaps some day Griselda's
heart would dethrone its idol and incline
towards him.

Mrs Mayne was at the station when
Griselda walked in, and the Vicar, follow-
ing, came up to her.

' Can I have a word with you ? ' he

G rise Ida. 139

asked. ' Griselda will take the tickets — go,
dear ; ' he had given Griselda money for
her shopping as they walked along, little
dreaming what that shopping was to be.

Mrs Mayne, red-faced, a little anxiously
peeping into her bag, or pinching her reti-
cule, or fumbling in her pockets to be quite
sure she had not forgotten anything, said, — ■

'Certainly, Mr Black! I am to have
dear Griselda with me. Delightful ! '

But her face changed when the Vicar
drew her aside and abruptly spoke to her
of a rumour he had heard that Griselda
was too young to preside at the Vicarage
while he received young men as pupils.

' Goodness gracious, Mr Black ! Who-
ever can have said that .^ '

' Then it has never occurred to you ? '

' I should think not ! Griselda of all
girls!'

1 40 G rise Ida.

Then Mrs Mayne suddenly thought that,
after all, there was something in this. All
who knew Mr Black and Griselda could not
somehow possibly think of them in the
same hour with impropriety; and one of the
pupils was Mr Hugh Blunt, that earnest,
staid fellow who was such a favourite, and
the other that poor little Mervyn Bray!
Still outsiders miorht think and talk.

' Do you think there is any admiration
— at least, there must be for a beautiful
girl like Griselda — I mean, do you think
either of them is in love with her ? '

' Mrs Mayne, both these boys are
gentlemen.'

' Hush — here she comes ! We must
talk this over another time ! ' said Mrs
Mayne hurriedly, and rapidly changing
the conversation.

But Griselda's thoughts were fixed upon

Griselda. 1 4 1

her errand ; and she kissed her father, and
helped Mrs Mayne arrange her parcels and
cloak and umbrella in the carriage so calmly,
in spite of the roar of the engine and the
bustle there always was at Crowsfoot Station
when a train condescended to stop there,
that the doctor's wife felt quite angry with
the author of that slur upon the Vicarage.

' If the Queen herself had said such a
thing, I wouldn't forgive her, ' indignantly
thought the old lady, as — loyal subject
that she was — the very strongest inward
expression of her feelings she could ^\v^.

There were other passengers — three
ladies — in the compartment the first half
of the journey, so Griselda and her chape-
ron did not converse.

Griselda sat quietly gazing out upon the
autumn landscape. In her — until lately —
uneventful life, a railway journey was quite

142 Griselda.

an incident. And she loved the fair country
she was born in ; she was never tired of
watching the changes of the seasons.

Mrs Mayne was watching her. Once
or twice Griselda, looking up, saw a new
expression, a curious look on her old
friend's face ; but she did not suspect the
cause. The second or third time she
blushed, and, leaning across, asked Mrs
Mayne whether her hat was crooked, and
on Mrs Mayne's ' Oh dear, no!' she asked
if she were really tidy — she had hurried
her dressing rather not to miss the train.

* My dear, I have never seen you
untidy yet.'

Mrs Mayne spoke a little sharply.
At that moment she felt annoyed with
Nature for having made this young
creature so beautiful. Her loveliness,
placed as she was, with only the protec-

Griselda. 143

tlon of ' that eccentric father of hers,'
was Hterally but a drawback. It was of
no use. ' If she were awkward and
ugly, or even merely plain, life would
really be much easier for her,' thought
the doctor's wife.

A few stations farther on, their travel-
ling-companions got out, and then Mrs
Mayne began to talk, and to ' probe '
Griselda with ereat wariness. She led
the conversation gradually towards the
subject of the vicarage, the Vicar, and
his pupils.

After twenty minutes' cross-question-
ing, Mrs Mayne's conclusion was that,
whatever might be the condition of the
affections of Messrs Hugh Blunt and
Mervyn Bray, Griselda was heart-whole
so far as they were concerned.

' What shopping is it you are

1 44 Griselda.

going to do ? ' asked the lady, after her
mind was relieved so far. 'My dear!
Do you mean to say you have only
come to run about London after some
musty old book ? Dear, dear ! I shall
pass half-a-dozen of those old library-
shops that no one ever goes into, and
who are always said to be buying
ancient books at ridiculous prices, while
you never hear of their selling anything.
I could have got it for you directly.'

Griselda explained that this particular
book might not be to be had at all.

Mrs Mayne shook her head. She
had heard of Thomas Aquinas, but
thought the name sounded Popish. Her
Bible and Prayer-book were enough for
her, she said aloud — inwardly adding that
it would have been a good thing for Griselda
if they had been enough for the Vicar.

Griselda. 1 4 5

Accustomed to have her own way to
a certain extent, she then insisted, after
she had concluded her City shoppings
upon going to Paternoster Row.

* My dear,' she said in a tone which
was intended to be conclusive, ' if you
want a book, Paternoster Row is the
place to go to.'

So they spent a weary hour in that
narrow way which eventually leads many
a book to the only eternity letter-press
can have, going in and out of the
endless counting-houses through swinging
doors, and their questioning being an-
swered in various ways — gradations
between excessive politeness and the
reverse.

* Never mind ! Never say die ! ' said
Mrs Mayne, manfully dodging a heavy
dray-cart which was struggling to get

VOL. II. K

146 Griselda.

out of the Row, and which, according to
the driver of a hansom with a kicking
horse, who looked as if he meant back-
ing into an adjacent plate -glass win-
dow, ' hadn't got no business to be
there at all.' ' As somebody says
somewhere, it's dogged that does it.
Let us be dogged, Griselda.'

* Yes, where it is of use,' said Gris-
elda quite meekly. But she wanted to
tell what she thought the truth, that
they were wasting their time.

However, the hour in Paternoster
Row was not altogether wasted, al-
though, if Mrs Mayne and Griselda had
not paused for that superfluous search
for an ancient book among the world of
new works, it is quite possible that that
which came to pass that day might not
have happened.

Griselda, 147

At the last counting-house they
visited, a civil young clerk advised them
to go to the great antiquarian book-
seller, Mr Quatrefoil.

* He knows — at least they say he
knows — the title and contents of all the
great works in the Museum, let alone
the Bodleian and the Vatican,' said the
young man in the vague way of the
general knower, as he bowed Griselda
and her companion out, with a glance of
admiration at the unconsciously beauti-
ful girl.

' Let us go, dear Mrs Mayne,' said
Griselda, so fervently that the good
old lady hurried through a hasty lun-
cheon at a pastrycook's and drove off
with her charge in a four-wheeled cab
to the West End, where the learned
bibliomaniac interviewed customers in a

148 Griselda.

quiet bookshop which looked like a
great library in miniature.

Mr Quatrefoil, a grey - haired old
gentleman, who wore blue spectacles —
his eyes had been sorely tried by de-
ciphering manuscript and staring too
eagerly at thousands of title - pages —
happened to come into the shop from
his countinor-house as Griselda and Mrs
Mayne entered.

The literary antiquarian was the very
reverse of a ' ladies' man,' but when he
heard Griselda asking for Aquinas'
treatise, he came forward, and somewhat
coldly said, —

' There is no — good — translation.'

Griselda said eagerly she was seeking
the original.

' It is difficult Latin, ' said Mr
Quatrefoil, with a slight smile.

G7Hselda. 1 49

' Then you have the book ? '

Griselda was breathless. Her cheek
was flushed, her eyes sparkled.

This enthusiastic young lady was a
strange customer. Mr Quatrefoil was
puzzled, for this was before the advent
of the strong-minded sex, of Newnham
and Girton. He said he would see,
but it would take some little time. If
they were in a hurry, perhaps they
would leave their address ; he would let
them know. He spoke with the most
innocent look he could assume, knowing
as he did — the sinner ! — that within
thirty seconds he might hold it in
his hand, and went into his office —
although, of course, the book was not
there.

Griselda waited eagerly till he came
back, and, looking at her rather oddly,

150 G7'iselda.

inquired if this book were required by
an ordinary customer.

' I know my father has bought books
of you.'

Then Griselda told her story. Mr
Quatrefoil Hstened with a new interest.
When she came to the end, he said, —

' Pray come into my office, Miss
Black,' so respectfully and kindly that
Griselda felt hopeful.

' Your father shall have the book for
as long as he likes, with pleasure,' he
said, waiving Griselda's offer of security
with a ' My dear young lady, certainly
not ! ' Then he stroked his beard
thoughtfully, wondering if it would be
prudent or right to tell Griselda what a
curious coincidence her visit was.

' What harm can there be .'^ ' he thought.
* The man said nothing about secrecy^

Griselda. 151

and he has gone over to the majority.'
So he said, ' I had heard something of
your father's book, Miss Black. But
of course I hear of so many books that
I should not have paid much attention
to it had not my interest been claimed
for the book by Professor Blackett,
who is, I presume, a great friend of
Mr Black's?'

Griselda shook her head.

' My father has his books,' she said
doubtfully. ' But I have never heard him
speak of the professor as an acquaintance
even.'

' Dear me, well, that is odd ! ' Mr
Quatrefoil seemed taken aback. * It was
only eight or nine days ago that Mr
Blackett was here — sitting on the corner
of that table — he is, or rather was, a lean,
lanky sort of man, and had that habit of

152 Griselda.

perching himself high — and talking of
your father's book. I can see him now,
his arms folded, and he swaying himself
backwards and forwards, a trick of his.
Why, I thought he must be an Intimate
friend, or that, at the very least, Mr Black
must have been a favourite pupil, such
was the animation, the keen interested
way In which he spoke. He even went
so far as to ask me to read it. Then,
after he had said good-bye, he came back
to say, '' Oh, Quatrefoll, if Black should
come to you for reference-books, let him
have them, will you ? " Which meant
asking a favour — the first time I have
known him do such a thing, although he
has been one of my best friends and
patrons. Ah, poor fellow, I litde thought
those would be the very last words I
should hear him speak ! '

Griselda. 153

' He is surely not dead ? '

' A telegram was sent to our club from
Cambridge last night to say he was found
dead in his chair a few hours previously.
Well, Miss Black, you see I have good
foundation for my readiness to lend you
the Thomas Aquinas.'

A few minutes later Griselda was on
her way to join Mrs Mayne — wondering,
but greatly pleased. She hugged that
volume. She anticipated her father's
expression when he saw it with eager
satisfaction.

Opening Messrs Rogers & Sandley's
door, she looked around. Ladies thronged
the counters. There was a buzz of many
voices.

' Can I serve you, madam .'^ '

Griselda explained that she was seeking
an old lady — describing Mrs Mayne.

154 Griselda.

She did not know in which department
she would be Hkely to find her. The
shop-walker escorted her on a fruitless
voyage of discovery. To all seeming,
Mrs Mayne had left the shop.

' Would the young lady wait ? '

No. Griselda remembered that Mrs
Mayne had told her in the morning that,
should they by chance happen to miss
each other, they were to meet at the
bookstall at the railway-station. There
were two trains — the 4.45 and the
6.20.

She might catch the 4.45. Of course
Mrs Mayne must be at the station. She
took a cab, and, arriving at the station,
walked through. Plenty of people at the
bookstall buying papers — but still no Mrs
Mayne.

Presently the gates were shut, there

Griselda. 155

was a whistle, a slamming of doors, and
the 4.45 was gone.

Nearly two hours to wait ! How should
she spend the time ? She walked up and
down and about for a time, till people
began to stare at her, and she saw two
porters look at her, then at each other,
and laugh. Then she went into the
waiting-room. But it was full and stuffy ;
so out she went again, and came upon a
little recess in a corner where there was
a bench. Here she sat, and, opening the
old volume, began to read. The Latin
was old and crabbed and strange. But
Griselda had inherited the taste for re-
search and the spirit of literary venture
from her father. She forgot her journey,
Mrs Mayne, everything. She might have
been hundreds of miles away from the
noisy, busy railway station.

156 Griselda.

She was recalled by hearing her name
spoken in a husky whisper. She glanced
up, but she saw no one. It must have
been fancy, she thought, or there might
be plenty of other girls that were named
Griselda.

But, all the same, the reading spell was
broken. She closed the precious book,
and amused herself watching the men
beginning to light the lamps. Looking
at the clock, she saw it was drawing
nearer the time of departure. Should she
not go and see if Mrs Mayne were at the
trysting-place ?

She rose — when some one clutched her
arm.

She gave a little shriek of fright, then
turned.

It was Hal! At first she hardly knew
him. He was pale ; but it was not that

Griselda. 1 5 7

which altered him. It was the expression
of his face which had changed him. He
used to look careless, triumphant, defiant,
throuorh his smiles. Now he looked —
well, the word ' wicked ' flashed through
Griselda's mind. Common-place greetings
died on her lips. She stared at him, her
eyes wet with grief and love.

He looked her over coolly, almost ab-
sently. Then he asked whom she expected.

She stammered out about losing Mrs
Mayne, and waiting for the 6.20 train,
somewhat incoherently.

He stood twisting his moustache, as if
he hardly heard. Then he offered her his
arm. Griselda drew back.

' Come with me,' he said.

* Oh, but I cannot — I must not ! ' she
said. ' Let us talk here, if you want to
talk to me.'

158 Griselda.

He sneered slightly, but merely said
' Come ! ' more impatiently.

Griselda looked round and about hope-
lessly, helplessly ; and then, as if she were
in a dream or mesmerised, she found
herself walking out of the station and into
the London streets with Hal Romayne.

Hal Romayne led Griselda silently but
quickly out into the street. It had been
raining. The lamps were reflected on
the wet pavement. There was the in-
creased bustle and hurry that follows a
shower. Hal made his way among the
clusters of umbrellas, hailed a hansom,
then said to Griselda, —

' Will you get in, if you please ? '

For one moment she hesitated. Then
again the feeling of submission was upper-
most, and presently she was driving away
with Hal, whither she could not tell.

Griselda, 159

She glanced at him timidly from time
to time. But he sat sternly silent with
folded arms. At last she ventured to
say pleadingly, —

* Where are you taking me to ? You
will take me back in time for the 6.20
train, will you not ? Mrs Mayne will
be so frightened ! '

He laughed slightly.

'Oh, certainly ! ' he said. ' Your anxiety
about Mrs Mayne is superfluous, I
can assure you. The little I have
to say will take but a short time in
saying.'

He opened the little trap-door and
gave some directions to the driver,
while Griselda wondered — wondered what
had happened to change the impetuous,
excitable Hal, whose storms of passion
had even admitted of gleams of sun-

i6o Griselda.

shine, into this gloomy, sarcastic young
man.

She was nerving herself for an un-
pleasant interview when the cab drew
up at a flight of wide steps ; and,
glancing through the window at her
right, she saw the rows of pillars,
the porticoes and facades, the grand
blackened stone pile surmounted by the
great dome — St Paul's.

Hal sprang out, paid the driver, held
out his hand peremptorily, and Griselda
alighted. What was he bringing her
here for ? It was a side-entrance.
One of the cathedral doors stood half
open. No one was on the steps, none
were passing in and out.

Hal offered her his arm, they ascended
the flight, he opened the inner baize
door for her to pass, and Griselda stood

Griselda. 1 6 1

in the vast solemn building, where the
sound and rays of light that travel in
seem captured, never again to know
the outer air and life.

Strange to say, she had not been
here before. John Black had not
cared to take his little daughter with
him when he paid his brief, busy visits
to the metropolis.

There was to be evening service
later on. Some of the lamps were
lighted. There were moving figures
in the chancel.

' Why did you bring me here ? '

Griselda, reassured by the passive
protection of the place, grew braven
She spoke to Hal coldly, as he spoke
to her, and held her Thomas Aquinas
tightly. Hal might try her, might
make her suffer ; but she determined

VOL. II. L

1 62 G rise Ida.

not to forget her fathers book of re-
ference, not to be ' off guard ' and to
lose It.

' What book is that ? '

Griselda opened the volume at the
title-page. Hal stooped and glanced
at it, then drew himself up contemptu-
ously. Since that scene at Goarshausen,
he had disliked and tormented his
parents. He had taken a savage
pleasure in exaggerating the dissipation
into which he had undoubtedly plunged,
to his mother. Her tears and prayers
had merely augmented his enjoyment
of his revenge — that evil passion in-
herent in most human natures, especially
in spoilt human natures. Now he was
trying to hate Griselda's father. But
this was more difficult, for he respected
him deeply, and Hal the ill-regulated

Griselda. 163

could not really love where he could
not respect. However, he sarcastically-
said, —

* Then Mr Black Is still floundering
in feeble Atheism ? Does he think
St Thomas will pull him out?'

Griselda made no reply.

Hal waited for her to reply. But
Griselda stood, motionless as one of
the sculptured figures on the monu-
ments that loomed blackly in the dim-
ness. Then there came a wailing musi-
cal sound as if from afar, and the
great organ began to play, a simple
hymn that was to be sung at the
coming service, played softly through
by the organist. It touched Griselda,
but it aggravated Hal, who had a sense
of wrong done, of sin committed, who
had no honoured and respected con-

1 64 Griselda.

science as his staff, shield, belt — that
which a moral warrior wants. He
said to her, almost savagely, —

' You asked me why I brought you
here. Because I fancied, in spite of
your vile behaviour to me, that you
had enough reverence left not to tell
lies here.'

' What lies have I ever told you,
Hal?' she asked, in an undertone.

* Your conduct proves that you have
never told me anything else.'

' What conduct ? '

* First, accepting me ; then throwing
me over at once, without a look or a
word, in the most heartless manner I
ever heard of; then rushing into the
arms of your former lover, Hugh
Blunt—'

'Hal!' Griselda drew herself up,

G7Hselda. 165

and her eyes flashed. ' I cannot hear
your evil thoughts in a church.' And
she was moving to the door, when he
— somewhat taken aback by the first
wrath — and he knew well enough justi-
fiable wrath — of the o^irl he loved —
went quickly after and caught her hand.

' Come and sit down, and we will
talk quietly. Griselda ' — he looked
piteously at her.

' If I do, will you say a little prayer
first?'

' Griselda, forgive me ! '
' I meant a real prayer. Oh, Hal,'
she said suddenly, forgetting all but
that this was her dearest, her adored,
who made the light of her life, and
for whose loss she had been sorrowing
each day, each hour, almost every
minute, ' if it had not been for the

1 66 Griselda.

mercy of God, I could not have borne
leaving you ! I had to — it was right
— I knew God would help me ; but if
you could know how I have missed
you since Goarshausen — how I have
pined, and longed, and wearied just to
see you, even without your seeing me
— how I have loathed everyone and
everything — how I was sorry when I
woke up in the morning, because there
was another day to work through, and
how I groaned when the work was
done, because there was the long dreary
night, when 1 tossed or turned or was
tormented by cruel dreams ! Oh, Hal,
after all that, how can you be unkind ? *
Her voice faltered. She bent forward
to hide her emotion. Great tears
welled up and overflowed. Hal, re-
morseful and gentle once more, made

G rise I da. 167

her seat herself on one of the chairs ;
then — his manner changed and softened
— he pleaded for himself.

^ Griselda, darling, forgive me ! ' he
began.

Then he made a full confession,
almost without reserve, only too certain
of his pardon. His life since their
parting had been a disgraceful episode
in his career ; Griselda, innocent as she
was, felt that. He had accompanied
his family back as far as Calais, where,
at the last moment, he announced his
intention of starting for Paris alone.

* They were aghast,' he said. ' But I
think my mother consoled herself with
the idea that even Paris was better than
England — where she had taken the
trouble to find out that you already
were. I had of course been over to

1 68 Griselda,

Paris before — several times — but not
in the devilish humour I was in then.
Well, some fellows I knew were there —
a fast lot — even for the — th, which is
considered a fast regiment. I lived their
life, which is saying much. I lived their
life, but could not feel as they profess
to feel — that there is no such thing as
Good anywhere. Wherever I went,
whatever I did, in the wildest, noisiest
scenes — or alone and wretched in the
dead of the night — my memory was
haunted by you — you in the side-chapel
of the old cathedral — you pitying that
poor old dog — you as I found you at
the top of that hill — you promising to
be my wife — you rushing away from
me when my mother behaved so dis-
gracefully— your face, your touch, your
voice. I could not stand it ; I left

G rise Ida. 1 69

again suddenly for London. London
was a little better. I was getting more
patient when my mother announced to me
that she had heard you were re-engaged
to a Mr Blunt. *' I understood there was
a disagreement," she said, '' but that
Miss Black's father wisely asked Mr
Blunt to overlook his daughter's conduct.
If she will only keep straight now, she
has a fair chance of leading a respect-
able life." I won't tell you about the
row we had. I am ashamed of it. But
she has paid for that speech hand-
somely. She is ill now ; they have
taken her to Bournemouth.'

* Don't tell me any more ! ' Griselda's
heart was in her mouth. And this was
her doing! 'But how could you believe
me to be bad — false — horrible?' — with
a shudder. ' Did I not promise you

1 70 G rise Ida.

that, if I could not marry you ' — she
looked at him with a world of love in
her earnest eyes — ' I would never marry
anyone else ? '

'It is a common thing for women to
promise ' — scornfully.

' But I am not a woman — I am only a
girl/ said Griselda earnestly. ' And that
reminds me — you won't understand
what my worst torment has been, perhaps.
Well, it was thinking that I was a plain
ordinary country girl, just dressed any-
how, the best way I could ; but that
you were among all the beautiful ladies
— beings I have often imagined — tall,
small-waisted, with flowing silk or satin
dresses, and their hair beautifully done
up, and wearing necklets and rings and
bracelets. Oh, when I thought of those,
I was unhappy ! '

Griselda. 1 7 1

'You had no faith in me, then?'

'Hal!'

An irrepressible smile glinted upon
both their young faces. The strained,
ugly look had already left Hal's coun-
tenance.

' Now, Griselda, you know what
jealousy means ! '

'Have you been jealous?' whispered
Griselda. ' Oh dear, oh dear, if I had
only known that, I would have told you
everything at once ! '

' What — everything ? '

'That — everything — when I cannot
see you — is — hateful.'

' My darling, we must understand each
other, once and for all,' said Hal. ' We
are promised to each other, and as soon
as circumstances will permit, you and I
will be husband and wife. Meanwhile,

172 Griselda.

I have only one favour to ask you. Be
firm with your father, and demand that
he shall send those young-men pupils of
his away. You cannot understand, nor
do I wish you to understand, why I
insist upon this. But I can tell you
this much : If your father were not a
self-absorbed, opinionated man — you
would not be the lady of the house
where two strange young men are two
of the small family of four.'

Then he told Griselda that people
who studied conventionalities had talked
about the Vicar's neglect of her. Now
that he was softened, comforted, that
Griselda was true and pure-hearted, still
his ideal woman, he was gentler, and
said nothing absolutely to wound her
feelings. Still, while he talked, she felt
that something must be done, and a

Griselda. 173

vague idea of what she might do arose
in her mind. She determined to consult
Mrs Mayne.

That lady had proceeded to the
draper's, and had partly got through her
shopping, when she saw an old friend
just leaving the shop by another door —
a former schoolfellow she had an affec-
tion for, but had not seen for years.
She stood just outside talking to her,
and thus missed Griselda. As time
went on, she thought her charge was
a long time at Mr Quatrefoll's inquiring
for Aquinas' treatise, so she ordered
her purchases to be securely packed and
she went to Quatrefoll's, which was but
a few doors from the great emporium.
The bookseller himself was out ; but his
assistant told her that the young lady
left ' nearly an hour ago.'

174 Griselda.

Mrs Mayne could hardly believe this,
her arrangement with Griselda that the
latter should join her at the draper's was
so clear. She felt puzzled. Returning
to the shop, she found on inquiry that
Griselda had been there. It was evident
that they had missed each other. * She
is waiting for me at the station,' thought
Mrs Mayne, and thither she proceeded
in a cab ; with her purchases. When
she did not see Griselda waiting at the
bookstall, she thought she must be in
the waiting-room ; and, while she was
going from one to the other, Hal had
succeeded in persuading the girl whose
love was so strong that she could not
resist him to leave the station for a
while with him.

If Mrs Mayne could have known this!
Without the knowledge, she was fidgety

Griselda. 175

and anxious enough. Where could the
girl be ? Griselda was behaving so un-
like Griselda. Poor Mrs Mayne, in her
distracted frame of mind, was a perfect
nuisance to the officials. She implored
the ticket-collectors to remember if a
young lady answering to Griselda's de-
scription had started by the 4.45 train.
She cross-questioned all the porters, and
made the life of the young man who
served newspapers at the bookstall a
perfect burden to him. Whispers went
about that the old lady was an escaped
lunatic, with a delusion, and the glances
that followed her became so unpleasant
to the poor doctor's wife that she had
just given her search up in despair, and
had seated herself on the very bench
which Griselda had occupied shortly
before, when, looking across the station,

176 G rise Ida.

she saw the young lady walk calmly In
on the arm of a young man.

'Oh!'

Words could not describe that ' oh ' of
Mrs Mayne's. She rubbed her eyes,
hurried up to the couple who were going
towards the bookstall, and positively
clutched at Griselda's arm.

Hal turned, and, seeing who It was,
Mrs Mayne said, ' Oh ! ' again, and for
a moment or two was speechless.

Then she said, ' Well, Griselda ! ' and
her tone meant much. Hal gave a
short account of their meeting and visit
to St Paul's, ending with, —

* It Is too strange not to be true,
Mrs Mayne ! Fancy, that our meeting
came about by a chance In a million.
I was carrying this cane, not an um-
brella. It began to rain. I had a new

Griselda. 177

hat. I actually tossed up whether I
should take a hansom or wait in the
station, and chance decided I should
wait'

Mrs Mayne could not help thinking"
her credulity was somewhat hardly
taxed. Still, she did not really doubt
the veracity of either of the young-
people. She had always liked Hal Ro-
mayne — and who could doubt Griselda
who had known her, as Mrs Mayne
had — ever since she was born ?

So she accepted the situation, heard
Griselda's explanation, and allowed Hal
to carry her small parcels and to
summon a porter for the larger ones,
to find them a compartment, to settle
them comfortably therein, and to wait
until the train started, when he stood,
lifting his hat from his curly head, and

VOL. II. M

178 Griselda.

fixing his eyes upon Griselda with so
wistful, tender, and passionate a gaze,
that Mrs Mayne remembered her young
days and felt quite touched.

' Poor young things ! ' she thought.
But she speedily repressed her overflow
of sympathy. Griselda was a mother-
less girl, with a pedantic father, who
* knew about as much of the world as
a baby.' She was, moreover, under her
own guardianship, and this meeting had
come about while she was responsible.
The old lady had gathered somewhat
from Griselda of the Goarshausen busi-
ness. But she was not rightly in pos-
session of the facts.

' My dear,' she said to Griselda, kindly
but sternly, as soon as they were fairly
on their journey homewards, * I am seri-
ously concerned about this meeting of

Gr is el da. 179

yours with Mr Romayne. In fact, I
hardly know what I ought to do about
it. I must consult the Doctor this very
night.'

Then Griselda began from the be-

einnino^ and told her all, from the ro-

mantic childish affection which Mrs

Mayne remembered well — she fancied

she could see the pretty boy Hal now —

that day years ago when he came and

talked about Griselda to her, — to the

interview but an hour ago in St Paul's,

which had left them more closely bound

to each other than they had as yet

been.

Mrs Mayne's heart bid fair to bias
her judgment. It was all so romantic,
the love between these handsome young
people. Then Griselda told her tale so
artlessly, and looked so sweet, and in

1 80 Griselda.

the background there was Feather's Court,
the title, the town-house, and the other
estates. Surely a marriage such as this
might rank among the ' marriages made
in heaven ' ! Then she called herself to
order. Although she did not like Sir
Hubert and Lady Romayne, and had
much fault to find with the Vicar, her
first duty was to the parents.

' I wish you both happiness together
with my whole heart,' she said. ' But,
my dear, that happiness cannot be un-
less Sir Hubert and Lady Romayne
relent.'

Griselda agreed with her. Then she
told her of Hal's dislike to the present
arrangements at the vicarage.

Mrs Mayne admitted that dislike to
be very natural. Still, she could not see
what Griselda was to do.

Griselda.

i«i

Then the girl confided her idea to her
old friend.

' I thought perhaps Jemima could man-
age for them, with a girl under her,'
she suo^orested. ' And I could take a
resident governess's situation — to teach
young boys. I know I could prepare
them for school thoroughly. And I
think I understand boys.'

' You have had experience enough, I
am sure, with those brothers of yours,'
said Mrs Mayne, somewhat taken aback.
* But, my dear, if you were really to do
this, I fear it would be a lasting stumbl-
ing-block in the way of marrying into
the Romayne family. Lady Romayne
mio^ht be brought to acknowledee a
clergyman's daughter as her daughter-in-
law, but a governess! Never!'

' It cannot be helped.'

i82 G rise I da.

* Well, I will think it over. Go orr
as usual for a few days, Griselda ; then
come up to tea with me, and we will
talk it over.'

The Doctor and his wife sat up very
late that night talking of the Blacks''
affairs. Meanwhile, Griselda had had
the delight of seeing her father greatly
pleased with the book she had brought.
He was interested to hear that the pro-
fessor, so lately dead, had interested
himself so deeply In his writings.

' Poor fellow,' he said ; ' I should
liked to have thanked him ! What an
eccentric man he was ! '

He told Griselda of the efforts he had
made, and others had made, for him to
meet and converse with the celebrated
Professor Blackett, and how curiously and
signally those efforts had failed.

Griselda. 183

Then, every available moment, John
Black was at work upon his new book.
It was his daughter's triumph to find the
required quotation. Griselda was hard
at work those next days, but the work
did not seem hard. The sight of her be-
loved betrothed husband, his loving words
and looks, had been new life to her. Her
faith and trust in him were complete.
Sometimes she said to herself, * I am
too happy, too blest.' After that came
a morning that the Vicar received a
curious letter from Messrs Everest &
Everest. He said nothing to Griselda
at the breakfast-table. But, later on,
he came to her in the garden, where
she was trailing some late convolvulus
on a wire basket, and asked her what
she thought of it. The letter ran as
follows : —

1 84 Ginselda.

'Dear Sir, — If you will favour us with
an interview at your earliest convenience,
to discuss matters relating to yourself and
to your sons and daughter, which are of
the utmost importance, you will greatly
oblige, — Your most obedient servants,
' Everest & Everest.'

* What can it mean ? ' said the Vicar,
half to himself, half to Griselda.

' Perhaps ' — she hesitated a little — ' the
bishop has felt sorry for being so — so —
intolerant, and wishes you to begin preach-
ing again — no, don't shake your head, you
dear father, and don't look so sad.' She
clung to him. ' Sometimes I feel almost
sure that some great good is going to
happen to you — that it must come sooner
or later. I did so the other day, when I
was in St Paul's, and the organ was play-

Griselda. 185

ing, and the hymn reminded me of you —
so true — so firm — so good — '

'St Paul's! Did Mrs Mayne take you
to St Paul's ? '

Griselda told her father about her meet-
ing with Hal.

' There was no harm ? she added,
slightly alarmed, for he looked grave
and troubled.

' No harm,' he said ; 'but I am sorry —
sorry — oh, Griselda, child,' he said, with
sudden passion, ' you are all I have now
— you seem to be more hers than the
boys! You are like her too, I know you
are, in heart and soul, my darling ; and to
think of a word against you being said !
I cannot bear it ! And I am so tied and
bound,' he went on, shaking aside his
shaggy grey hair, and stroking his brow
with his thin hand. ' I cannot take care

1 86 G rise Ida.

of you as I would. That illness — that
ill-success — our poverty — they are so
many drags upon each step I take, so
many chains upon my hands. Griselda,
a few nights before your mother died I
had a dream. I dreamt I saw a big white
lily and a tiny one on the same stalk, and
as I looked at them, the big lily withered
and shrivelled as if it had been burnt, and
I had only the tiny one left. It was pro-
phetic, but not prophetic of how I should
grow to love and depend upon my white
blossom ! ' He took her face tenderly
between his hands. ' Nor did it prophesy
that I should first be careless, worse than
careless. Child, can you forgive me 1 ' he
said, in a slow dull way ; and there was a
look of anguish in his eyes which made
her heart ache. ' Can you forgive me for
having once, in my misery, thought that — '

Griselda. 187

He turned away. He could not say
it, this confession which had so often
risen to his Hps. His remorse for having
shunned the child Griselda as the inno-
cent and indirect cause of her mother's
death had been frequent and cruel.

' Father ' — she could not bear to hear
him speak thus — ' I know ; it was so
natural ! How could you help it ? If I
had not been born, she might not have
died. I cannot talk about forgiving you,
for I have such a feeling you have never
done wrong.'

' And I to-day feel as if I were the
greatest sinner in the whole world,' said
John Black, his arms falling at his sides.
* What this presentiment of some blow —
some sudden ending to this life of ours,
with nothing beyond — means to-day, I
cannot tell ; but there it is, weighing me

1 88 G rise Ida,

down. I once had a terrible interview
with those Everests, Griselda ! I was a
very young man, and I had lived as
worse than an orphan — for at least or-
phans knew where their parents' bodies
rest, and can stand by their graves and
hope to meet them again — but no one
could ever tell me who I was, or who it
was that gave me my daily bread till I
could earn it for myself. Well, I went
to those lawyers and asked them boldly,
*' Who am I ? " Men ? They were as
stone. Could they be flesh and blood ;
could they be husbands with wives cling-
ing to them, fathers with children babbling
to them and climbinor about their knees ?
They nearly broke my spirit and crushed
my life ; my child, they absolutely refused
to tell me one word ; they sent me out
into the world — utterly alone.'

G rise Ida. 189

It was the first time he had shown such
emotion to Griselda — the first time he
had spoken to her of his boyhood, his Hfe.
She bent her head, and, raising his hand,
reverently kissed it ; she could not speak.

' I dread to-day,' he went on, with a
shuddering sob. ' Can it be because I
am physically weak ? I am a coward. I
cannot meet this blow — I fear It.'

' Darling ! ' cried Griselda, as with a
sudden inspiration seizing his hand and
looking brightly into his face, ' I know,
I am sure this is only good news ! Oh,
do believe me — what else could It be ?
Why should they write about Tom and
Harry and me; and use the word ''im-
portant ? " And, even If It were not
altogether good news, you have us all to
love you and stick by you, and do every
mortal possible thing to make you bear

1 90 Griselda.

it. There, you must soon be going, or
you will have to wait till the two o'clock
train, and the offices will be shut before
you get there ; ' and she hurried him into
the house and brushed his coat, and hung
about him tenderly ; then, after he said
good-bye, stood smiling, and waving her
hand till he turned the corner of the lane,
and she saw him no more.

Then she felt suddenly lonesome and
miserable. Her spirits fell ; there had been
something in John Black's manner to-day
which his daughter had never — sensitive to
the slightest variation in her father's looks,
tones, and attitudes — noticed before.

* Will — something — happen } ' she asked
herself, feeling dazed and strange.

At that moment she saw Hugh Blunt
hastening up the lane. When he saw her,
he ran, to save her from waiting at the door.

CHAPTER VI

jHAT is wrong?' blurted out
Hugh Blunt to Griselda.
' Your father met me just
now — stopped a moment — shook my hand
— was going to speak — then turned away,
and went off with his fastest stride. It is
— bad news ? '

' It is — everything,' said Griselda, lean-
ing against the parlour door. ' Or —
excuse me — I am not fit to talk.'

Her voice faltered, and she turned away
her head.

'Nonsense!' said Hugh, in a bantering

192 G rise Ida,

tone, though he sympathised with her
deeply. * Come, let me hear all about it.'

Then he simply took her hand and led
her into the parlour, closed the door, and
stirred the logs on the hearth, which were
smouldering into grey ashes. After which
he stood on the hearthrug, and in a way
peculiarly his own contrived to find out
what he wanted to know, and a little
more — for, unnerved as Griselda was, she
somehow mentioned her intention to leave
home and to take a situation as governess.

'What?' cried Hugh, surprised into
vehemence. 'You — leave home — leave
us — what does it mean ? Griselda, are we
— is poor Bray — or am I — hateful to you ?
If so, it is we who ought to leave — not
you. Oh, this cannot be serious ! Some
one has put this nonsensical notion into
your head. It cannot be yours ! Tell me — '

Griselda. 193

He walked uneasily to the window, and
back to the fireplace — uneasily, because he
felt certain that there was something un-
pleasant at the root of this unexpected
whim of the girl he so fondly loved.

* No one put the Idea into my head,'
said Griselda. ' It came there quite by
Itself, and I mean It to stay.'

' You mean to leave — your father ? '
' I mean to give my Idea consideration
and to discuss it.'

' With your father, of course ? '
' No ; with Mrs Mayne. I am going
to tea with her this afternoon.'

' You — with your knowledge — are going
to be led by that good-natured old lady,
who is the embodiment of narrow Crows-
foot opinions ! What can have happened
to bring about this 't '

* Nothing but facts.'

VOL. II. N

1 94 Griselda,

Hugh was disturbed, worried. Of
course, if Griselda had not been the
mainspring of his feehngs, thoughts, and
actions, he might have regretted had she
gone into the world as a governess, but
would scarcely have cared. But, as he
loved her, he was stung to the quick.

' Let me speak to you,' he began, in a
low earnest voice, going towards the little
red sofa where she was sitting, her elbow
on the sofa-arm, her head supported by
her hand. ' Let me — '

' No, no ! ' Griselda, detecting some-
thing that reminded her of Hugh as he
was at Goarshausen, sprung up, her cheeks
rosy red. ' Please not ; do you know I
have ever so much to do ? We dine
early, as usual, and I am going to tea
with Mrs Mayne, and poor Jemima will
not '' get through," as she calls it ; ' and,

G rise I da. 195

taking her key-basket, she abruptly left
him.

Hugh thought, rapidly and decisively.

' This shall not be,' he said to himself.
' I must speak. When she knows how
utterly unworthy of her he is — how the
very fact that such a fellow dared to make
love to her blemishes her sweet purity —
surely she will be persuaded, if not to care
for me, at least to let me care for and
protect her.'

He made some resolutions, then quietly
joined Mervyn Bray, who was at work,
stupefying himself with a seemingly in-
soluble problem, in the little sitting-room
under the sloping roof upstairs.

At the early dinner Hugh was quiet and
helpful, but showed no trace of the morn-
ing's mental disturbance. Griselda had
leisurely dressed, had started, and had

196 Griselda.

nearly reached the cross-roads at the end
of the vicarage lane, when she heard
quick footsteps behind her. It was Hugh.
As he came up, he said,

* I will walk with you to Mrs Mayne's.'
Griselda halted in consternation.

' Oh, but you can't ! ' she said.

' Why not ? '

She looked this way and that.

* You see, Mrs Mayne does not exactly
expect you. I mean, she has not asked
you to tea to-day, although I am sure she
will be delighted to see you any other
day you choose to go.'

* I only meant to accompany you to the
door.*

* But that means going through the
village.'

* I have been through the village with
you often before.'

G rise I da. 197

* Yes,' began Griselda ; then she red-
dened, and stammered out. ' but not —
not without Mr Bray — or my father — or
both.'

' Why this sudden prudery '^. I can call
it nothing else.'

* I have reasons — or rather a reason —
which I do not intend to tell you.'

' That is very wrong — it is cruel,
Griselda!' said Hugh warmly. 'After
all these months that I have lived under
your father's roof — after our being together
as we were abroad — after the numbers of
times that I have walked to church or to
the school with you — you suddenly are
capricious, and take away a simple
privilege for nothing at all ! It is un-
worthy of you.'

' Come, then, if you please,' said
Griselda.

198 Griselda.

At first he walked by her side In
silence ; but then he began to speak.
He would not be stayed ; he would
have his say out. He told her of his
love. He promised her long unbroken
happiness If she would promise to be
his wife some day. He assured her of
a warm welcome from ' his people ' — this
passion made him eloquent. Griselda's
heart beat faintly — her face was chill —
she was pale — she could not check that
torrent of words.

' Don't ! ' she feebly said at last. ' I
cannot bear It;' and she looked as if she
would faint. One stormy interview after
another seemed to overwhelm her.

' You are obdurate ? You steadily set
yourself against me, then?' said Hugh,
with rising anger. ' All my love — all my
devotion — go for nothing!'

Griselda. 199

^ Do not say that,' dear friend,' said
Griselda, supporting herself against a
tree, and looking pleadingly at him. ' Do
you think I am ungrateful ? Do you
think I have not seen and known how
good, how thoughtful you have been for
us ? But ' — she looked down, her voice
faltered — she was so unused to speak of
the one dominant presence in her mind
— ' you remember what I told you at
Goarshausen ? I may not, indeed most
likely I never shall, marry — but I — could
never — marry — anyone — but — Hal.'

Hu^h hesitated. He looked at the
slight graceful creature, so modest, so
gentle, who spoke of reckless — in his
opinion, bad — Hal Romayne half with
awe, as if she talked of some ineffably
sacred subject. He battled with his
anger and disgust. He struggled to feel

200 G rise Ida. .

pity, sympathy. But a stern sensation
rose and got the ascendency — a dogged
determination to enhghten Griselda. It
was not really rivalry or any mean feel-
ing which made him speak out, and tell
the girl whose ideal was Hal Romayne
of what clay her idol was made ; how
he had been the fastest youth among
a fast set of young fellows, first and
foremost in any devilry ; how the worst
conduct which could be attributed to a
young man who was not openly going to
perdition had been attributed to him ;
how, worst of all, since she had given
him her maiden affection at Goarshausen,
he had returned to wallow in the mire
with redoubled carelessness as to past,
present, and future. It was justice — un-
scrupulous justice, perhaps, but still jus-
tice to himself, to her, to her father — to

G rise I da. 201

tell his story, which was true in a manner
in all its naked ugliness.

When he stopped, he felt he had said
too much. He had talked to this girl
as if she were a man ; but what was to
be done ? He could not eloss over vice.

He looked eagerly at Griselda. At
last, at last he had opened her eyes !

But Griselda merely said very quietly,
* Thank you, Mr Blunt. Please leave
me ' — as if they had been discussing the
most ordinary question.

She had listened, and she had heard.
But Hal had anticipated his enemy by
his free confession ; therefore Griselda
felt that he was injured by Hugh Blunt,
that she was his natural champion, and
that the prodigal who morally flung him-
self at her feet a few days since in the
old church was as far superior to mali-

202 Griselda.

clous and maligning Hugh Blunt as the
Publican was to the Pharisee.

Before Blunt had rallied from his as-
tonishment, she had left him, and was
many yards along the lane.

He stood gazing after her, almost stupe-
fied. He had not anticipated this. He
could not understand how one so pure
could love one so vile.

* Why are fellows of that sort born ? '
he asked himself, with sudden rage. ' Of
no use, but to torment, to drag others
down to their miserable level — to pollute
their womankind — for they degrade them
to the level of carrion hovering about
garbage — vice is spiritual garbage — they
are like that toad,' he went on, turning
round, and pursuing a path across a corn-
field which led to a copse, and pushing a
misshapen green and yellow toad into the

Griselda. 203

ditch with his stick. * What are those
noisome creatures for in the economy of
nature ? '

He looked vaguely about, as if for an
answer. The clear autumn sky was
patched with sunlit clouds ; the gold and
brown leaves went fluttering down, as if
they meant to play with their withered
brethren that lay in heaps about the
grassy hedgerows rather than to die. A
field-mouse flashed along and fled into a
hole ; then, as Hugh trod the stubble, a
covey of partridges flew up with a whirr.
Nature was smiling about him, and he saw
her not. For she — and natures such as
his, — who reason, calculate, and govern, —
are scarcely at one. The wild, passion-
ate, loving, and repentant are the chil-
dren of Nature, who is all furious storm,
raving and raging, casting her children

204 Griselda.

wildly hither and thither, hunting them
from her — even to death — one day ; while
the next she will be all stillness and sun-
shine, drawing up the beaten flowers,
coaxinor the storm-ridden creatures back
to bask upon her warm bosom, never
consistent in her moods except in their
inconsistency.

Hugh went on to the copse, and there
he flung himself upon the grass under
the nut-trees, and gave himself up to
anxious thought. Tiny insects crept in
and out of the grass ; the rabbits were
scudding about a green bank a little dis-
tance away ; doves cooed now and then.
It was so still he could hear the heavy
breathing of a cart-horse munching in a
grassfield beyond the hedge.

He thought — for long. Then he rose,
shook himself free of fallen leaves and

Griselda. 205

twigs, and went away, sternly but securely
comforted by a long course of reasoning.

If, he considered — if he waited and
hoped, and was constant in the role of
faithfully devoted pupil to the Vicar and
brotherly friend to Griselda — he would
tire out circumstances. The Romayne
complications must come to an end, and
the continued resistance of Sir Hubert
and Lady Romayne would at last kill
Hal's passion for Griselda, who would
then be free.

He calculated for all continuing on the
same level. Chances, as we term sudden
occurrences that shake and overthrow all
humanity's judgments of what will be
met with to-morrow or any to-morrow in
the future, — he forgot. Therefore he was
as one tossing on the sea without a
compass.

2o6 G rise I da.

He went home to be reproached by
Mervyn Bray for having forgotten his
promise that they two should take a
long walk together.

' Well, it is not too late now,' he said.

So they started out, went to the near-
est hill of the chain which was the back-
ground to Feather's Court, watched a
beautiful golden autumn sunset, and re-
turned in the gloaming.

' We might meet the Vicar, if we
went back by the station,' said Hugh,
glancing at his watch by the light of
the full moon, as they passed the first
cottage of the straggling village of Crows-
foot. * The 6. 20 will not be so very
long now.'

Bray assented ; so they turned down
the station-lane. Here there was some
excitement going on. Mothers with

G rise Ida. 207

babies in their arms and young children
clinging to their skirts, were standing
about in groups, all looking in one direc-
tion. Men and boys were running and
shouting.

' Fire ! ' suggested Mervyn Bray,
whose ideas were somewhat straggling,
especially when he was fatigued — and he
was more than that now ; after pounding
along the roads and rushing up and
downhill with Hugh, he was positively
footsore.

' The sky looks so red, doesn't it,
old man ? ' said Hugh sarcastically.
He was not particular as to his say-
ings when he was alone with good-
natured Bray. ' No ; most probably it
is a row^ There is not the sliofhtest
doubt that, since the Vicar has left off
lecturing in the schoolroom as well as

2o8 GiHselda.

preaching, those wretched public-houses
have done double business.'

They walked quickly down the lane.
If there really were a row, it was
on the station platform. There was a
surging crowd there. The murmur
could be heard some distance away.

' A prize-fight, no doubt,' said Bray,
with pride at his brilliant inspiration.

But just then they reached the station,
and a man rushed out, wild, ghastly, clutch-
ing madly at his hair, and shrieking, —

' My only girl — my only girl ! '

' Stop him, stop him ; he will kill
himself!' shouted a man and some
women, rushing after him.

The pursued and the pursuers went by
like a whirlwind. Bray gave a curious
little cry; he was frightened. Hugh
stood still and said hoarsely, —

G7nselda. 209

* No, no ; It is some accident ! '
The little booking - office was fulL
The policeman was carried hither and
thither, vaguely, by the crowd. He
was powerless. Hugh heard sobbing
and short sad cries on the platform
beyond. There was a continuous low
moan, such as the storm-wind utters in
a pine-forest. Everyone vociferated, but
no one took notice of any other. It
might have been a gathering of the
inmates of some lunatic asylum. But
suddenly the door of the waiting-room
opened, sending the people near reeling
back among the crowd, and Doctor
Mayne came out with the station-master,
who was blanched and trembling.

Hugh gave a vigorous push, and made
his way to their side.

* The 6.20 run Into by the express, and

VOL. II. o

2IO Griselda.

smashed,' said the station-master. * If we
could only clear the station ! Nothing can
be done till they will move.'

Hugh heard passively, as if in some
awful dream. Doctor Mayne clutched
his arm.

* It has been telegraphed a quarter of
an hour,' he said, ' and look at the scene
now — what shall we do ? There is poor
Sir Hubert lying there in the waiting-
room ; he came in the dog-cart to meet
his son ; we sent it off to Armchurch for
Doctor Strong there. He fainted. I fear
it is slight apoplexy.'

' Sir — Hubert — Romayne ? ' Hugh
spoke strangely, as if he were drugged.

* Yes — oh, poor fellow — poor Hal ! He
was in the train expected.'

' Oh — but — my God ! — the Vicar ! ' cried
Hugh distractedly.

Griselda. 211

'Hush, hush!' Doctor Mayne had
seemed to live ten years in those last
minutes. The accident and its impend-
ing horrors were familiar to him, as if
he had known nothing but all this for
months. * Hush ! There she comes ! '

Hugh turned, and saw Griselda, who
came in, pale, staggering, as one buried
alive and released, into the outer air.

Hugh made one step towards her,
reeled, and leant back against the wall.
It was the worst moment of his life.

CHAPTER VII.

HE Vicar had gone on to Lon-
don, still in depressed spirits.
Yet London had seldom looked
to such advantage as on this bright, clear
autumn day. Last week's rain had dashed
the pavements white. Pure sunshine lay
upon the freshened roofs, and glinted on
the fast-falling foliage of the imprisoned
trees with the blackened trunks that grew
in the old City churchyards. The men
thronging the streets seemed to walk
more lightly, for a good two-thirds of the
busy crowd had just returned invigorated

Griselda, 213

by their annual holiday. Lincoln's Inn
Fields was unusually quiet. The many
windows, whose uncurtained, unblinded
condition meant offices on every floor,
had always seemed to look blank and
discouraging to John Black, perhaps be-
cause hereabouts was the one great mys-
tery of his life, locked up, it might be,
in some old deed-box in Messrs Everests'
safes, or perhaps in the legal minds of
those gentlemen only. To-day, the staid,
empty look of the houses oppressed him
more than ever. He walked round the
square before he mounted the narrow
flight of stone steps leading to Messrs
Everests' office, thinking of that day
when he went to them to ask for a mone-
tary advance, soon after Doctor Mayne
had told him that his beloved wife must
shortly die. Those practical business

214 Griselda.

men had proposed an arrangement ta
him then which seemed to him most un-
lawyer-Hke — to advance him money with-
out charging him interest, this money to
be paid back when convenient to himself,.
and not to affect his three thousand
pounds which they had invested for him,
the interest of which he was to con-
tinue to draw as usual. He had never
understood that. Now they no longer
had any money of his, for, after insisting
a few years ago upon refunding the sum
they had so freely and generously lent
him, he had withdrawn and used the little
capital he had left — and not a shilling
of it remained.

Presently he chided himself for his ' cow-
ardice,' and went into the clerk's office.

He was immediately taken upstairs into
the great gaunt room. Here the lanky

Griselda. 215

Mr Walter Everest and his smaller but
senior brother and partner, Mr Henry,
were standing talking near the fireplace
to a bland old gentleman with white hair,
dressed in deep mourning, who, saluting
them with subdued but smiling deference,
immediately bowed himself out when he
saw the Vicar. Evidently his interview
with these representatives of the well-
known firm had been by no means an
unpleasant one.

The brothers turned, and shook hands
with John Black.

' Be seated, I beg,' said Mr Henry.
' I hope you have half-an-hour to spare ? '

* Yes,' said the Vicar wonderingly, look-
ing towards Mr Walter, who had re-
sumed his chair at his office-table, and
who at once saw something out of win-
dow which attracted his attention.

2 1 6 Griselda.

' That Is well,' said the brisk Mr
Henry, who had grown very bald these
years, but who was as sharp In manner
as ever — * that Is well ; for this chat of
ours to-day Is not exactly — Indeed, I
think I may say, Mr Walter ' — appealing
to his brother — ' can scarcely come under
the category of business at all — eh ? '

* No — not — not exactly,' said Mr Walter,
who was arranging the neat piles of docu-
ments and papers, in all stages of dusty
age, on his table.

' No ; doubtless you noticed that — my
dear Vicar — from my letter.'

John shook his head.

' It was, as usual, mystifying,' he said,
with a tinge of sarcasm.

' Oh, my dear sir, we must not say
** mystifying," we must not indeed!' said
the little man, with a short laugh, cross-

Griselda. 217

ing and uncrossing his legs. ' We lawyers
never mystify. It is you clients who per-
sist in being mystified. The affairs we
take in hand are as clear as daylight.
If you clients cannot see in the daylight,
that is not our fault. However, hold to
your bad opinion of us by all means.
It does not harm us, and amuses you.
But I wish that you thought as well of
us, for instance, as the old gentleman
who has just left us, with a heavy cheque,
drawn in his favour by the firm, in his
pocket-book. I daresay you recognised
him. No .^ Not the celebrated under-
taker, Gillfly ? He has just buried a
very old and valued client of ours in
the good, honest, old-fashioned way, — no
foolery of flowers and gewgaws, — Pro-
fessor Blackett,' went on Mr Everest
loudly and slowly, gazing up at the ceil-

2 1 8 Griselda.

ing as if he were deciphering the name
there. ' Yes ; Professor Blackett.'

* Ah, I was so sorry to hear of his
death ! ' said the Vicar, the memory of
the dead professor's interest in his con-
demned book rousing him. ' He was a
learned man — ay, a very great man.
Was he really a client of yours ? '

* He was,' said Mr Henry Everest,
coughing slightly, and then rubbing his
eyeglass softly and slowly with his bandana
handkerchief. ' And he did us the honour
to repose the greatest confidence in us.
My brother and I attended his funeral,
being, with the exception of his medical
adviser, the only mourners. His wish
was that it should be so.'

' Surely he had relatives — friends ? '

* He was quite a recluse — quite a re-
cluse,' said the little lawyer, pursing up

Griselda. 219

his lips — ' a philosopher, a peculiar man.
I should say now — if it be not irreverent
— that one might paraphrase a certain
Scriptural sentence, and say of the pro-
fessor, his books were his mother, his
father, and his brethren. He had a
unique library — unique.'

' So I have heard,' said the Vicar
wondering- if there would be a sale, and
if so, if he could, by hook or by crook
manage to buy one or two books he
knew were in the collection — books
which would be everything to him. ' I
suppose — considering his public spirit —
that he has left his collection to his
college ? '

* No,' said Mr Henry, settling his
collar. 'No. I cannot say that he has.
Hfs wull was a simple one, and will
create a certain surprise. He has left

220 Griselda.

everything, money, houses — he had in-
vested in house-property, — library, un-
published manuscripts, all — to one person/

' A great, a very great proof of his
belief in that one person,' said the Vicar,
slightly disappointed that the chance of
the sale was gone. ' He must indeed
have been deeply attached to — to — the
person, and have had unlimited con-
fidence in him, or perhaps — her.'

The last suggestion was an after-
thought. The gaunt, grey-haired pro-
fessor, as the Vicar remembered him,
was scarcely one to charm the fair sex,
or to care whether he charmed or not.

* I agree with you,' said Mr Henry
energetically. ' To my mind, the pro-
fessor has done a very noble thing. He
has lived frugally, has saved and amassed
for the sake of this person whom he has

Griselda, 221

made his heir. But I am forgetting ' — •
he rang the bell — ' I ordered a bottle of
some particular dry sherry to be opened
for you, to refresh you after your journey/

The Vicar disclaimed needing any such
stimulant. He was just beginning to
wonder what this new aspect of the
Messrs Everest meant, and an uneasy
dread of he knew not what had come to
him as a sudden chill, when a neat maid-
servant entered with a tray, decanters,
glasses, sandwiches, plates. The quick-
ness suggested that she mj'ght have been
waiting her summons in an ante-room,
which was the fact.

John Black stood up. He was getting
thoroughly uncomfortable. He wanted
neither their wine nor their sandwiches,
nor their new friendliness. One word
of truth, one word of kindliness, years

2 22 Griselda.

ago, would have altered his life. Now
they might do as they pleased. It was
too late.

* Come, my dear sir,' said the little
man, pouring out three glasses of sherry,
and taking up his glass with a festive
air, as if he were at a wedding or a
christening — ' come ! I am sure you
will not refuse, as you seem interested
in the late lamented professor's affairs,
to drink the health of his heir, lucky
man ! '

The Vicar shook his head.

' I am not a man who cares for these
customs,' he said. ' Custom has been set
aside so entirely in my life that you can
scarcely be surprised.'

Mr Walter, who had been very fidgety
during the conversation, looked at his
brother, who remained perfectly unem-

G rise I da. 223

iDarrassed, and who went on, while he
almost forced a glass of wine upon John
Black,—

* Then I will propose a toast you can
scarcely refuse to drink, my friend. Long
life to your sons and daughter, and may
you also live to enjoy their happiness ! '

It was a neatly managed little speech.
But like other innocent-seeming things,
it brought about a convulsion — it led to
the overturning and resettling of a life.

John Black grew deadly pale. The
wine-glass fell from his hand, the glass
shivered into glistening powder on the
faded hearthrug.

' Stop ! ' he said, in a low, desperate
voice. ' I know now what your business
with me is. I know ! I see it in your
faces ! Don't speak,' he went on fiercely ;
' I will not hear you ! You have

2 24 Griselda.

brought me here to offer me money, ta
tempt me with books — to forgive the
accursed man who has damned me with
disgrace. Now I see ! Now I under-
stand why he dare not look me in
the face. Devil ! ' he cried, throwing
up his arms as he seemed to see the
gaunt, white-haired man as he had seen
him once, hurrying through his friend's
rooms. ' It is well for you that you are
dead ! .... It is well for you that
you are dead ! '

Here he dropped heavily into a chair.
All grew dark before his eyes. But Mr
Walter Everest, who, outside his office^
was the worn and meek father of a
dozen obstreperous children, forgot he was
within the legal precincts, and tended
the Vicar quite fraternally till he had
slightly recovered.

Grisclda. 225

* My dear Mr Blackett — for there Is no
need of further ceremony, since you have
arrived at the truth so cleverly — you
really must not allow yourself to be over-
come like this — you really must not,' said
Mr Henry, who was hovering uneasily
about this uncomfortable client who trans-
gressed all rule and precedent. ' You are
too emotional — indeed, far too emotional..
Do consider. Be reasonable. Your re-
spected father was in a singular position.
No one knew of his marriage, and your
mother, to whom he was much attached,
lived but a few minutes after your birth.
■ All was strictly lawful and regular.'

The Vicar was leaning back. His face
was of an ashen tint. His cold deathlike
hands lay one on each knee.

' Proofs,' he said, turning his languid
eyes towards Mr Henry — ' proofs ! '

VOL. II.

2 26 G rise Ida.

* Certainly, certainly,' said Mr Henry
reassuringly, while Mr Walter's long legs
made one stride to his table, and with one
movement of his long arm clutched a
packet of papers. ' You shall see them,
all in order, in the most satisfactory
manner.'

Here Mr Walter seated himself by the
Vicar, and sympathetically explained.

* This,' he said, unfolding a sheet of
letter-paper, ' is the document wherein
John Blackett and Margaret Baird estab-
lished their marriage according to the law
of Scotland.'

The Vicar took the paper. His awak-
ened filial feeling for an unknown mother,
who had paid for his earthly existence with
her own, was urging him at least to pro-
tect her memory. He scornfully turned
his eyes from the masculine declaration

G rise Ida, 227

lieading the sheet, to fix them upon the un-
certain feminine handwriting below — Mar-
garet Baird's declaration. It was almost
a horrible minute — that minute when John
Blackett gazed at the faint, faded writing
which had been traced by the hand of his
mother. The closest tie united him to the
being who had penned those words ; yet,
until to-day, he had not even known her
name.

' This is the certificate of the English
marriage.'

The Vicar saw that on a certain date,
very shortly after the Scottish marriage,
John Blackett and Margaret Baird were
married by licence at a certain church in
a London suburb. Then he glanced at
the certificate of his baptism two years
later, and that of his mother's death. But
he refused to look at the certificates

2 28 Gi'iselda.

connected with his father, the late
professor.

' I will have nothing to do with him or
his legacy,' he said. ' My one effort will be
to forget that he ever existed. But these/
he said, looking towards Mr Walter with
so sad a smile, that the lawyer, hopelessly
off duty, felt a lump gather in his throat —
' these, if you please, I will keep and be-
queath to my children as my most precious
possession.'

He folded the legal proofs of his
mother's wifehood with a reverent touch.
Meanwhile, Mr Walter suggested, in an
undertone to his brother, the advisability of
summoning a doctor. He did not like the
Vicar's death-like appearance.

' We must ask him first,' was Mr
Henry's cautious whisper, looking at their
client as if he were a torpedo, and might

Griselda. 229

suddenly explode and scatter that quiet
legal dwelling to the four winds. Then he
gingerly suggested — did Mr Blackett feel
a little better ? He must remember that
it was not so very long since his conval-
escence. Now there was a sharp young
practitioner just round the corner, a friend
of theirs, who would come in and pre-
scribe with the greatest pleasure in life.

' A client of yours ? ' said the Vicar, with
a scornful glance. ' Thanks, Mr Everest'
— heavily staggering to his feet — ' but —
but I have had experience with one client
of yours which does not encourage me to
have anything to do with the others.'

John Black, or legally speaking, Blackett,

was struggling to be himself; but his

breath left him as he spoke, and he clutched

at the mantelpiece.

Mr Walter suororested that he would
00

230 Griselda.

himself take the Vicar to his own home ta
be nursed by his wife, and that Miss
Blackett should be sent for, then matters
might be discussed quietly in a few
days. But the uncomfortable client was
an obstinate man. He negatived all
suggestions.

Still the brothers Everest were deter-
mined not to trust him. Once, long ago,
a man had gone from their office and had
poisoned himself at his chambers.

When it came in their way now to make
private disclosures of a startling kind to a
client, they looked after him, and did not
let him go scot-free. So they suggested
that some friend should be sent for.

' I have none,' grimly said John. * At
least none in your fine city — except Messrs
Cotton & Woolstone, of course. I am
sure * — sarcastically — ' they would leave

Griselda. 231

business of the most pressing character to
attend upon me.'

Then there was a discussion. John
Blackett insisted upon departing-, and
they almost barred his way.

At last there was a compromise. Mr
Walter Everest would accompany him
and leave him in safety — somewhere —
but would only leave him with safety
guaranteed.

So they two departed in a hansom to
seek out an old college friend of the Vicar's
who had chambers in the Temple. They
alighted ; and while Mr Walter made in-
quiries here and there about the tall,
quiet buildings, the Vicar sat on one of
the benches near the fountain. Children
were playing in a subdued fashion, lest
they should be turned out by the awful
* gentleman in uniform ' who came saunter-

232 Griselda.

ing about. The feathery spray ghttered
in the sunhght. The Thames rippled a
few hundred yards away. Picturesque
barges moved slowly by. Then came a
puffing steamer. A dog came up to the
Vicar, and, putting his head on his knee,
looked up wistfully in his face. Such a
look, he sadly thought, might have been
given to the dead professor in time gone
by — by his mother — the unacknowledged
wife. On parting, Mr Henry Everest had
placed in his hands a few private letters,
which, he said, would explain the situa-
tion. He touched them as they lay in the
lettercase in his breast-pocket — he longed,
yet dreaded to see them.

Then back came Mr Walter, unsuccess-
ful. He had found the friend's chambers,
but he was still out of town, and not ex-
pected to return for weeks.

G rise Ida. 233

' You must really come home with me ;
there is nothing else I can suggest, un-
less you will allow me to accompany you
to Crowsfoot.'

But this the new legatee would not
hear of. What was to be done? In his
dilemma, John Black thought of Hal Ro-
mayne, and, following the thought of Hal,
came the overwhelming recollection that,
if he accepted his father's legacy and the
situation altogether, Griselda could no
longer be Hal's inferior in the eyes of
the world.

He thrust the idea away, as a temp-
tation. But he mentioned Hal to Mr
Everest.

* The very thing,' said that gentleman
' We are no distance from Pall Mall.
If he is a young man about town, he will
scarcely have tubbed or breakfasted yet'

2 34 G rise Ida.

They drove to Pall Mall. Mr Henry
Romayne occupied a first floor. He
was at home, his ' man ' informed Mr
Everest, who went down and fetched the
Vicar, greatly relieved in his mind.

'That was a nasty bit of business/
thought the lawyer, as he returned in
the hansom to tell his brother he had left
their eccentric client with one of the
' most genial young fellows ' he had ever
met — ' a remarkably crooked and awkward
bit of business ! But Henry w^as quite up
to the mark ; he always is.' The lanky
Walter had a fatuous admiration for his
sharper brother. ' The man has such a
queer, exceptional character. Great ability
— sound moral foundation, certainly, but
no common sense! No worldly wisdom !
Henry said that. He has always thought
less of John Black — Blackett, since he

G rise Ida. 235

took that one *'No" of ours, and made
no effort to find out his real status. Of
course he could have done so, if he had
gone about it in the right way ! '

He remembered well how irritated his
brother had been with the young man
whose peculiar father had determined not
to acknowledge him as his son, since the
day when he was born, and the young
wife, whose existence no one suspected,
died. In those days neither the profes-
sor nor his son was a straightforward, satis-
factory client. Both were outside ordin-
ary calculation. Mr Henry Everest had
formed a pretty correct estimate when he
said to his brother, —

* The professor thought his private
marriage justifiable, because, as a married
man, he must lose his fellowships and
cripple his income. He thought his re-

236 G^nselda.

pudiation — for that is the correct term —
of his legitimate son justifiable for the
same reason. I daresay he feels he is
right. But the plain fact is, that he is
wrapt up in himself till all natural feeling
is dead. His passion for Margaret Baird
was utterly selfish, and, speaking as man
to man, his treatment of his son amounts
to a moral crime.'

Henry Everest had tried his best to
induce the professor at least to adopt the
child, or to see him from time to time.
But Professor Blackett meant to return to
his old life, and to keep the memory of
Margaret Baird, his sweet Scotch lassie,
buried in the ossified organ he called his
heart. The blooming blue-eyed young
creature had awakened that heart to life and
love ; but with her the life and love died
too. And he feared to have those feelings

G rise Ida. 237

reawakened by her child, the child he had
refused to look at and intended never to
see.

He had provided for John. He had
inquired now and then as to his welfare
and progress. When he read the crush-
ing condemnations of his son's book, he
was angry — angry with the critics for
their excessive severity, angry with John
for embarking upon troubled waters
among dangerous mental shoals ; angry
with the Everests because he had not
been told beforehand ; and, although he
did not know it, angry with himself when
he saw that his son had inherited his
power of thought, and that, if he had
been under his own guidance, that power
might have developed and shone upon
the world quite differently.

At first he went to the Everests to say,

238 Griselda.

' No more money from me,' to stop John's
controversial tendency in the most effec-
tual way. But then he read John's book,
and was so possessed with admiration,
longing, regret, remorse, that his troubled,
obstinate mind wore upon his feeble body,
and his end was hastened.

It was true that he had saved from his
income, rigidly. The Vicar was heir to a
capital which, safely invested, would bring
him an income of betw^een two and three
thousand pounds yearly. Then there
were houses in Cambridge, and, above all,
that choice library of books and valuable
manuscripts.

Hal Romayne was astonished, over-
whelmed, when Chancell, his valet, an-
nounced that the Reverend Mr Black
was below, and wished to see him. Wild

G rise I da. 239

hopes — vague imaginations — Griselda
sending for him — the Vicar on their side
— Sir Hubert and his mother relenting
— made his blood course at fever-speed.
His shout, * Bring him up at once!' as-
tonished Chancell, who had of late seen
his young master gloomy, or savage, or
irritable. He was just out of his bath ;
he rubbed and scrubbed and hustled on
his clothing, brushed his damp curly hair,
and came rushing through the folding-
doors into his sitting-room all glowing,
bright, animated.

His eager inquiry, * All right at home ?'
answered, he invited both lawyer and
client to breakfast ; and, before he gave
them time to say nay, he sent Chancell
flying to order everything, anything —
whatever could be had and as soon as
possible, and particularly some of those

240 G rise Ida.

pints of champagne, ' you know — those
the Marquis d'Estrees sent me, Chancell ! '
Little wonder that homely Walter Everest,
although declining his hospitality, thought
Hal Romayne one of the most genial young
fellows he had ever met, and left him feeling
safe that the Vicar was in the best possible
hands. Hal, too, was going to Feather's
Court that very night by the 6.20 train.

Poor, short-sighted human nature I
Poor Walter Everest ! Before that day
would be dead for ever — what was he
not destined to suffer at being the inno-
cent cause of his client's intent to jour-
ney by that fated train !

As soon as Walter Everest left those
two — Griselda's father and Griselda's
lover — alone, Hal was struck by the
Vicar's pallor. Was he ill, or merely
disturbed, worried ? All the young

Griselda. 241

man's innate tenderness sprang up.
This was the father of his betrothed
wife, his cherished love. He had come
to him — to him — in his trouble. It
must be a trouble ! Hal gently insisted
upon the Vicar's resting in a large easy-
chair.

He drew another chair close, and
talked, agreeably, as he knew how.
The Vicar gradually re-animated, as far
as he could, after that ugly shock.

Hal's room was a change of scene
indeed !

' I should scarcely have guessed this to
be a bachelor's chamber,' said John Black,
presently looking round with a faint smile.
' It is more like a fine lady's boudoir. Ah,
Hal, it is well that you are your father's
heir ! You would miss the purple and the
fine linen, my boy.'

VOL. II. Q

244 G rise I da,

'A fit of effeminacy ! ' said John Black
bitterly. ' Hal, It Is not your fault that
you lack In manliness, that you are fitful
as a passionate woman. But, If you
were but a bit stronger — rude and
rough, If you please, but with the pro-
mise of a man In you — I could give you
Griselda with some hope that you two
would be happy. I would make sacri-
fices even which would secure your
parents' consent.'

Hal saw his advantage and seized It.
At this juncture Chancell and a maid-
servant brought In the two-o'clock
'breakfast.' So, while the Vicar was re-
luctantly partaking of the delicacies pro-
vided for him, there was no further
conversation on the subject of a nearer
and stronger tie between host and guest.
After Hal had insisted on John Black's

G rise Ida, 245

making somewhat of a meal, their talk
was resumed. The Vicar gradually suc-
cumbed to his young friend's indefinable
charm. While he was coaxed into con-
cessions, he knew he was being coaxed ;
but he admired the handsome, winning
young fellow the more for that very
fact. Certainly Hal Romayne had not
the qualities he would wish to see in
Griselda's husband. He was erratic,
passionate, capricious ; but he was
generous, loving, and thoughtful when
he chose to be thoughtful. And, last,
but most important — so important as to
fairly outweigh all other considerations
— Griselda loved him.

While Chancell packed his master's
portmanteaux in ^the adjoining room, the
Vicar and Hal still talked 'Griselda'
over their coffee.

246 G rise I da.

A soft mellow autumn haze was-
settling about St James's Park as they
started for the station in Hal's tilbury,
Chancell and the luggage following in a
cab. The Vicar's mornine storm was
succeeded by a calm. He felt peaceful.
He was at rest, as it were, he told
himself. The time had not yet come
for him to act. He enjoyed the old
city, so beautiful in her evening garb
of subdued lights, murmurs, subsiding
activity, and over all the glitter of tiny
fires, the lamps. The tide of life was
ebbing under the quiet starry sky.

Even London had her hour of peace^
thought John Black. Perhaps his halt-
ing-place in life was reached ; there
would be no more turmoil for him !

Of course, if he chose to accept the
position of Professor Blackett's post-

G rise Ida. 247

humously-acknowledged son and heir,
all or most of his difficulties would be
over ; and Griselda and the boys —

He shrank from active thought.

' To-morrow, to-morrow ! ' he said to
himself.

And he said the same to Hal Romayne,
who broke the silence by some leading
question meant to probe the Vicar's
intentions with regard to his and
Griselda^s affairs.

' To - morrow, my boy ! ' he said.
* There is plenty of time. You have
your life before you.'

*What if I had not.^' said Hal, half
in jest, half in earnest. ' Do you know,
when I am shutting my eyes at night,
I often think I may not awake — of late
particularly .^

* Since you have been more reckless ^

248 Griselda.

If you had really thought seriously, it
would have been a bad moment, Hal.'

Hal shook his head.

' There is such a thing as being
desperate,' he said. ' You may talk to
one then of death and hell or heaven,
but they are mere words. They run
through the mind like water runs down
one's throat in fever, with as little
effect. I have often felt that, if I must
live in the humour I have been in
lately— feeling no pleasure, only sick of
life — I would rather die.'

' But we have not the choice,' said
John Black gravely. * In a moment a
wave of Eternity rushes upon us and
sweeps us away — all chances of doing
good, of helping others, of executing
our tiny atom of the great mosaic,
past recall.'

Griselda, 249

* And those who wish to go are left
high and dry upon the shore,' said Hal.
' Say what you will, it is an awful
puzzle.'

Here they drove up to the station.
The 6.20 train, which had travelled
safely to its destination day by day for
so many years, quietly dropping its
living freight at intervals along the way,
was drawn up at the platform. The
ticket-collectors were busily clipping the
tickets of the crowd that was hurrying
past the open gates, each one eagerly
rushing to his or her doom. It was
such an every - day affair, this going
home or down the line by the 6.20,
that the idea that so steady and sober
a means of locomotion — not only steady,
but so well-tried — would come to grief
on that particular day occurred to none,

250 G rise Ida.

to no passenger, to no official. No warn-
ing ghost, no bad omen, no difficulty,
no ' coincidence ' gave a saving hint.
Those careless chatty passengers, — one
calling out for an evening paper, another
* chaffing ' a guard, a third looking
for an own particular corner, others-
regular passengers — seeking the 'set'
they liked to travel with, — were presently
to be shot out of life into eternity as
suddenly and unceremoniously as if they
were a load of sand.

There were two minutes only before
the train started. Chancell was having
Hal's luggage labelled. Hal rushed
off to the ticket - office. The Vicar
compared his watch with the illuminated
station - clock. His watch was a few
minutes slow.

The guard was impatiently pacing the

Griselda. 251

platform. The men were about to shut
the gates. ' Time's up, sir,' shouted one.
Hal Romayne came running up. He
and the Vicar hurried. They got into
a first-class smoking compartment, they
and the others to whom those carriages
would be the instruments of death.
Then the guard shut the door, and —
locked it.

END OF VOL. II.

COLSTON AND COMPANY, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.

a