[Illustration: THE MUNIMENT ROOM, S. MARY REDCLIFFE. ]

 Bristol Bells

 _A STORY OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY_

 BY

 EMMA MARSHALL

 AUTHOR OF 'BRISTOL DIAMONDS, ' 'THE TOWER ON THE CLIFF, ' 'HER SEASON IN BATH, ' ETC. 

 The budding floweret blushes at the light, The meads are dappled with the yellow hue, In daisied mantle is the mountain dight, The tender cowslip bendeth with the dew. 

 CHATTERTON. 

 LONDON SEELEY AND CO. LIMITED ESSEX STREET, STRAND 1892

_PREFACE_

The incidents in the life of Thomas Chatterton which are introduced intothis story are gathered chiefly from Mr Masson's exhaustive essay and abiography of the poet by Mr Chatterton Dix. 

In these books full details may be found of the pathetic life, misdirected genius, and tragic death of the boy poet. 

Several citizens of Bristol, who are connected with his sad history, appear in the following tale; the other characters are wholly imaginary. 

 WOODSIDE LEIGH WOODS, CLIFTON, _February 1892. _

_CONTENTS. _

 CHAP. PAGE

 I. LONGING FOR FLIGHT, 1

 II. THE SQUIRE, 13

 III. AN ELEGY, 28

 IV. THE LETTER DELIVERED, 39

 V. THE ORCHARD GATE, 48

 VI. THE SYMPATHY OF POVERTY, 58

 VII. CONSULTATION, 68

 VIII. THE SONGS OF ROWLEY THE PRIEST, 77

 IX. THE POET'S FRIENDS, 87

 X. A LONG RESPITE, 99

 XI. CHRISTMAS AT THE FARM, 109

 XII. THE FINAL BLOW, 118

 XIII. AN UNSUCCESSFUL SUIT, 128

 XIV. ON THE HILLSIDE, 137

 XV. THE LAST EVENING, 152

 XVI. FORGIVENESS, 164

 XVII. THE LAST, 176

Bristol Bells

CHAPTER I

LONGING FOR FLIGHT. 

'Grandfather! I want to speak to you; please listen. '

'Well, who said I would not listen? But speak up, Biddy. '

The old man put his hand to his ear, and his granddaughter leaned overthe back of his chair. 

'Don't call me Biddy, grandfather. I am Bryda. '

'Bryda! Phew! Your poor mother was called Biddy, and you ain't betterthan she was that I know of. '

'Well, never mind; but this is what I want to say, and Betty is quite ofmy mind. Do let me go to Bristol. Jack Henderson heard old Mrs Lambertsay she would like a bright, sharp girl to help her in the house, and Iam bright and sharp, grandfather!'

'I daresay, and make you a drudge!'

'No; I shouldn't be a drudge. I should be treated well, and you know MrsLambert is a relation. '

'Relation! that's very pretty, when she has taken no heed of you foryears. No, no; stay at home, Biddy, and put such silly stuff out of yourhead. Goody Lambert may find somebody else--not my granddaughter. Come!it's about supper-time. Where's Bet? She doesn't want to gad about; sheknows when she is well off. '

Bryda pouted, and darted out of the large parlour of Bishop's Farm intothe orchard, where the pink-and-white blossoms of the trees were allsmiling in the westering sunshine of the fair May evening. 

The level rays threw gleams of gold between the thickly-serried ranks ofthe old trees--many of them with gnarled, crooked branches, covered withwhite lichen--some, more recently planted, spreading out straightboughs--the old and young alike all covered with the annual miracle ofthe spring's unfailing gift of lovely blossoms, which promised a fullguerdon of fruit in after days. 

In and out amongst the trees Bryda threaded her way, sometimes brushingagainst one of the lower boughs, which shed its pink-and-white petals onher fair head as she passed. 

'Betty!' she called. 'Bet, are you here? Bet!'

Bryda had come to a wicket-gate opening on a space of rugged down, golden with gorse, and from which could be seen an extensive view ofBristol in one direction, and of the village of Langholm and the woodsof Leigh on the other. 

Bishop's Farm was on the high ground of the Mendips, not a mile distantfrom the church of Dundry, whose tower is a landmark of this district, and is seen as a beacon to the country-side for many miles. 

'Yes, here I am. Bryda, what is the matter?'

Betty was seated on a bit of rock, anxiously looking down on a lambwhich the shepherd had brought from the fold, as it seemed, to die. 

'It's just dying, that's what it. It's no use making a to-do Miss Betty. Lor'! the master can afford to lose one lamb, and it's no fault ofmine. '

'It should have been brought in last evening, Silas. I'll carry it inmyself, poor dear little thing. '

'Better not, better not; let it die in peace, miss. No mortal power cansave it now. The mother is all but dying, too, and if I save her it's asmuch as I can do. There, I told you so. It's gone, poor dumb thing. '

For the lamb give one little feeble moan rather than a bleat, drew itsthick legs together convulsively, and then lay still. 

'Dead! Oh, take it away, Silas, ' Bryda exclaimed; 'I cannot bear to seeanything dead. Come away, Betty, ' she entreated. 

'There, there, Miss Biddy, don't take on. I'll carry it off, and don'ttrouble your heads no more about it. We've all got to die, and the lambis no worse off than we. Can't say but I am sorry though, ' Silas said, in a softer tone, as he picked up the dead lamb. 'I'd sooner see itfrisking about in the meadow yonder than lying so cold and quiet. '

And then Silas, in his smock frock and wide hat, strode away over gorseand heather, and left the sisters alone. 

Of these sisters Betty was the younger of the two by one year, butolder in many ways--older in her careful thought for others, in herunselfish life, in her patience and tender forbearance with her somewhatirascible old grandfather. 

Bryda and Betty had lived with their grandfather at Bishop's Farm eversince they could remember anything. 

Their aunt, their father's sister by the farmer's first marriage, awidow, took the charge of the house after her husband's death, when shehad come to her old home at her father's bidding rather than at hisinvitation. 

He had been angry with her for marrying a sailor, had prophesied fromthe first that no good could come of it, and he was more triumphant thansorry that his prophecy had proved true. 

There are some people who feel a keen satisfaction when they are able tosay with Peter Palmer of the Bishop's Farm, 'I told you so, and I knewhow it would be. ' Peter certainly repeated this often in the ears of hisdaughter, a stolid, heavy woman, whom it was difficult to rouse to anykeen emotion, either of joy or sorrow. 

Mrs Burrow was one of those slow people to whom stagnation is life. Shecould scarcely read, and her writing was so much like hieroglyphics thaton the rare occasions when she had to sign her name she used to get oneof her nieces to write, 'Dorothy Burrow, her mark, ' and then she wouldadd the cross. 

She did not neglect the homely duties which devolved on her as head ofher father's house. She managed the dairy and the poultry, and kept thefarm servants up to the mark. 

Her world was a wholly different world from that of her young nieces, and the imaginative and enthusiastic Bryda especially had nothing incommon with her. 

Biddy, who undertook the plain cooking and baking of the establishment, and had a light hand for pastry and cakes, and who mended the linen withunexampled neatness, was Mrs Burrow's favourite. She was useful, and hadno new-fangled ways like Biddy, and would make a good wife when her turncame, but as to that flighty Biddy, the man who married her would repentit to his last hour. 

'Do ask grandfather, Bet, to let me go to Mrs Lambert's. '

'I wonder you are in such a hurry to leave me, ' was the reply. 

'It's not _you_, it's this humdrum life. Here we live, with no books andno fun, day after day, month after month, year after year. Why, I shallbe twenty at midsummer, and I have only been to Bristol twice, and toWells once by the coach. Oh, Bet, I might as well be a turnip or--'

A laugh from someone near made the girls spring up. 

'So Bryda is like a turnip. That's good, I must say. '

'Jack, how you frightened me, ' Betty said. 'I thought you was gone backto Bristol. '

'No, I have got another week's holiday. Uncle Antony sent word by thecarrier that he would as lieve have my room as my company. '

'Oh, Jack, have you quarrelled with Mr Henderson?'

'Not exactly; but I am no favourite of his. Well, aren't you going toask me to supper, Betty? I am hungry enough, I can tell you. '

'I must go and find out if there is enough supper for you, ' Betty said, laughing. 'You and Bryda can follow when you like, but, Jack, don't fillher head with nonsense about going to Bristol. She will only bemiserable if she goes to old Madam Lambert. '

And then Betty let the wicket-gate click behind her, and went singingthrough the orchard. 

Jack Henderson was a giant in stature, with large ungainly hands and asomewhat slouching gait. 

If ever a man was cut out for a country life it was Jack Henderson. Buthis mother was a little of the fine lady, and when her husband's brotheroffered to take Jack as an apprentice in his jeweller's shop in CornStreet, Bristol, she eagerly accepted the proposal, or rather, I shouldsay, Mr Henderson at last gave a somewhat reluctant consent to receiveJack and polish him up as he polished his old silver and chased gold inhis Bristol shop. 

'You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, ' had been MrHenderson's remark when the bargain was finally struck, 'so don't expectit, Molly, ' he said to his sister-in-law. 'But as you are a widow, and Ipromised poor Jim to do something for his children, I'll hold to thebargain. '

The bargain was this. Mrs Henderson was to supply vegetables, cream andbutter, and cider from her farm in return for her son's board, lodging, and learning the trade in her brother-in-law's shop in Corn Street. 

Jack Henderson threw his huge form on the ground at Bryda's feet, andsaid, --

'What are you doleful about, Bryda--eh?'

'Don't ask me, ' Bryda said. 'I might as well cry for the moon as askgrandfather to let me go to Mrs Lambert. He won't give me leave. '

'Go without, ' was the prompt reply. 'I'll manage it. '

Bryda shook her head. 

'It would vex poor Bet if I did. '

'Well, it will vex me if you stay here. I'd give something to see youonce a week, and if you stay here I sha'n't see you till nextWhitsun'--p'r'aps not then. '

Bryda made no answer to this. She was leaning forward, and looking pastJack to the lovely landscape stretched before her, listening intently, her eyes full of wistful longing, her small hands clasped round herknees, and a pair of little feet, which the thick, clumsy shoes of thevillage shoemaker could not altogether disguise, crossed one over theother close to Jack Henderson's large hand. 

'Hush. ' she said, 'there are the bells, Bristol bells calling--theyalways seem to call me--but it's no use. '

Then, rallying, Bryda said, --

'Tell me about that boy--you know who I mean. '

'Oh! the mad fellow at Lambert's, he is as mad as ever, writing andscribbling verses. But, all the same, he is not a bad sort of chap. OldLambert hates him, but masters always hate their apprentices, just asUncle Tom hates me. '

'Have you brought me any more poems, Jack?'

'No. You must come for 'em. I'll lay a wager Chatterton will give you alot of stuff like the "Friar's Bridge" when he sees you. '

'You might send me _Felix Farley's Journal_ when you go back tobusiness. '

'Look here, Bryda, you must come for it. I shall be off in the cart nextMonday morning. I'll wait at the turn by the church till you come. Onlyold Tim will know, and he is as blind as a mole and deaf as a post. Now, come, there's a good girl. '

'But Mrs Lambert may not want me. '

'You are quick with your pen, write to the old lady and tell her youwill come to be a grandchild to her, or what you like. Come, Bryda, sayyes. '

But Bryda still hesitated. 

The flight to Bristol was to the country-bred village maiden of ahundred and twenty years ago a serious matter. Just as she had seen theyoung swallows stretching their wings on the nests under the eaves, andfluttering and trembling before they followed their twittering parents, so did Bryda pause, before she could make up her mind to take thisearnestly desired flight into the heart of the city from the heart ofthe hills. 

Bryda had few books, for books, of which there were not many in thosedays, did not find their way to the Mendip villages. But the girl livedin her own world of romance, and peopled it with airy phantoms, as manya maiden has done before her. Her prosaic aunt and the two or threecronies who paid visits to Bishop's Farm were much more unreal to herthan the creations of her own brain. 

She loved Betty with the love that is born of dependence, for Bettyexercised a half maternal care over the sister of whose beauty she wasso proud, and who seemed to her simple soul so far superior to herselfand to any of her neighbours. 

That Bryda should have the best of everything was a recognised fact withBetty--the best clothes, the brightest ribbons, the choicest food. 

Many a time had Betty stood as a shield between their Aunt Dorothy andthe spoiled child, her sister, and skilfully covered any of Bryda'sdelinquencies by the garment which loving hands know so well how tothrow over those who are dearest to them. 

Betty was very pretty, but she had no acknowledged admirers, while therewas not a young man in the district who did not show signs of adorationfor Bryda--mute signs, perhaps, but not the less sincere--a flowerpresented as she passed under the porch of the village church, or afairing brought from Bristol, left with no words on the stone seat underthe porch. 

But none had dared to make a formal declaration of love, except JackHenderson, perhaps, who, on his not frequent visits to his old home atthe Mendips, found Bryda more and more irresistible, and gave her reasonto know, as at this time, that the sight of her was indispensable to hishappiness. Poor Jack, he was to find out that the very temptation he putin Bryda's way--to take flight to the busy, toiling city, now lying atthe distance of some miles below them, wrapt in the gathering blue hazeof the May evening--was to widen and not lessen the distance betweenthem. 

'Well, ' he said, drawing his huge ungainly form from the soft cushion ofmoss, where the daisies and golden cistus flowers had shut their eyesfor the night, 'well, take my word for it, you'll find a lot of thingsyou care for in Bristol, and I tell you, if I were you, I should writeto Madam Lambert at once. You can send it by the carrier, tied up inbrown paper. He baits his horse in Corn Street, close to Lambert'soffice, and he'll take it direct to Dowry Square. You'll get heaps ofthings you want. Books--why, bless you, Bristol is a mighty learnedplace. The folks there do nothing else than write histories, and readtill they are blind. You'll get a lot of things there, and so you'll saywhen you are once there. '

'Bryda, Bryda, ' it was Betty's voice calling in the orchard, 'Bryda, pray come; Aunt Dorothy is as cross as two sticks. '

'Is that anything new?' Bryda said, with a little laugh, as she sprangto her feet, waved her hand to Jack Henderson, and disappeared under theblossoming apple trees. He longed to follow her, but as she did not askhim to do so, he turned towards his home two miles away. 

That night, when Betty was quietly sleeping in the white-curtainedtent-bed which the sisters shared, Bryda went to the lattice and openedit gently, and looked out into the calm of the summer night. Theold-fashioned garden below sent up from its bushes of lavender androsemary, and sweet-scented thyme and wallflower, a dewy fragrance. Ahoneysuckle just coming into full flower clasped the mullion of the oldstone framework by the lattice with clinging tendrils. Above, the starslooked down, giving the sense of the infinite and eternal, which willstrike at times the dullest heart with awe and reverence. The soundswere subtle and scarcely defined. The rustle of a bird in the nest, where she was guarding her newly-fledged young ones, a whisper of thebreeze faintly stirring the leaves of a silver birch, whose white trunkshone out in the dim twilight, for the days were nearing midsummer andMay was just melting into June. 

'Yes, ' Bryda said, 'I might gain much, but should I not lose more? Andyet there is life, life in the city, and here it is sameness, and life, real life, is scarce felt. I wonder how it will be. '

Bryda was about to close the lattice when her ear caught sounds moreaudible than the faint whisper of the breeze and the rustle of theleaves. Voices low and angry came from the kitchen, which was below herwindow. 

The voices grew louder, then a door was sharply shut, and Flick, the bigwatch-dog, gave a low growl and the gate of the farmyard clicked againand again as it swung violently backwards and forwards before it finallyclosed. 

The dwellers in farmhouses a hundred and twenty years ago on the heightof the Mendips were early to bed and early to rise. It was thereforeunusual to hear anyone coming or going between nine and ten o'clock. 

'I wonder who it was?' Bryda thought. 'And there is grandfather comingup to bed. How slowly he comes, and--what can be the matter?'

For, as the heavy footsteps reached the landing by the girl's bedroom, there was a pause, and then a prolonged sigh, which was more like agroan. 

Bryda stood transfixed, her hand on the latch of the door, which she hadnot courage to lift. 

Another heavy sigh, and then the slow footsteps were heard gettingfainter and fainter as the old man passed along the passage to his room. 

Then all was quiet, and Bryda, still haunted with the fear of somethingunusual and strange, lay down by Betty's side and was soon asleep. 

How often some cherished wish when fulfilled comes to us, not as thephantom of delight, as we pictured it, but with a grave and sober mienwhich makes us scarcely recognise that the desire which is granted is'the tree of life, ' for the fruit too often has a bitter taste, or erewe can grasp it is turned to dust and ashes. Bryda's longings were to besatisfied, but not as she had imagined. The way was to be made plain forher departure from Bishop's Farm; the home of her childhood and earlygirlhood was to be hers no longer. 

Her grandfather went up to his bed that night a ruined man. 

CHAPTER II

THE SQUIRE. 

The next morning the poor old farmer came down to the plentifulbreakfast prepared by Dorothy Burrow looking ten years older than whenhe had left the kitchen the night before. He refused all food, and satin the settle by the fire, holding his thin hands over the smoulderingembers, and shuddering every now and then and moaning to himself. 

'You ain't cold now, father?' Dorothy bawled in his ear. 'It is hot enowin the fields, even now, I can tell you. Do you want a bigger fire--eh?'

The old man shook his head. 

'What _do_ you want then? Don't sit there as if you was crazy--sighingand muttering. '

'Here, grandfather, ' Betty said, approaching the settle and sitting downby her grandfather's side, 'here. I've put a drop of rum in the newmilk, now take a draught of it, do, and you will feel quite spry andlively. Come!'

Betty always took a common sense view of things, and she added, --

'You can't feel well if you don't break your fast. '

She succeeded in making the old man swallow half the contents of thethick-lipped mug. Then she put another faggot on the fire, not heedingDorothy's remark that they should all be smothered with heat, and satdown on the bench at the table, by Bryda's side, to discuss her ownbreakfast with a keen appetite. 

Bryda, who was thinking over the loud, angry voices she had heard on theprevious night, connected her grandfather's appearance with somemysterious visitor, who had evidently left the house in anger. So shedid not do justice to the particular griddle cake, done to a turn, whichBetty had put on her plate. 

'Something is wrong, ' she whispered to Betty. 'I know there is. I wishwe knew what it is. '

They were not left long in doubt. As soon as the scraping of the heavyboots of the farm servants was heard on the brick floor of the backkitchen, where they took their meals, and the benches pushed back by thegeneral servant of the farm, Mr Palmer spoke, jerking his thumb in thedirection of the open door. 

'Shut yonder door, ' he said, 'and come here all of you. '

The girls obeyed, Bryda and Betty seating themselves on either side oftheir grandfather, while Dorothy Burrow stood before him, her stout redarms uncovered, her elbows stuck on either side of her thick waist, andthe frills of her big calico cap blown back from her stolid face. 

'Well, ' she said, 'what's up, father?'

The old man shook his head, and thumped his fist irritably. 

'Didn't I say I was going to tell you summat?' he said. 'Hold yourtongue till I've done it. Years agone, ' he began, 'I had a son--yourfather, Biddy and Bet. You don't remember him--how should you. He andyour poor silly mother died when you were babes. '

'I remember him well enow, ' Dorothy began; 'I had cause for he disgracedthe family. '

'Hold you tongue, Doll. '

'Yes, Aunt Dorothy, do be quiet, ' Bryda said in a trembling voice. 

'Well, he went wrong, very wrong, and I wanted to get him out of thecountry, to escape the justices. It was a big sum, and I borrowed it ofSquire Bayfield up Binegar way. I put my name to a paper that I'd besurety it should be paid on demand. The old Squire was a kind-heartedchap, and he never pressed me. I spoke to him last fall, when he was outwith the beagles, as stout and as strong as ever, I thought. I told himtimes were bad, and the crops scarce, and I had lost a lot of sheep inthe hard winter. And says he, "All right, I'll not come down on you. " SoI was easy in my mind, and if he had lived it would have been all right;but he dropped down dead last Candlemas, and his son, who has come backfrom foreign parts, says he will have the cash or sell me up. '

'How much is it?' Betty asked, with white trembling lips. 

'Three hundred pounds. I paid interest, I did, but this chap, cursehim, says he will have the lump sum or he'll put the bailiffs in. '

'Are you bound to pay him the sum?' Bryda asked. 'I expect not. '

'Yes, the paper says, or heirs of his body. '

'Ask a lawyer about it. Ask Mr Lambert, ' Betty said. 

'It ain't no good. The young fellow was here blustering last night. Hesays he is in want of cash, and he must have it. That's the long and theshort of it. No, there's no hope. So the stock must go, and the bits offurniture that have stood here since I was no higher than the table. '

'Lor'!' the old man said, wandering back into the past, 'I can see mymother now a-polishing and rubbing yonder bureau till I could see myface in it. Well, well, it's not for myself I grieve, it's for youchildren. '

Bryda had risen, and stood with one hand on her grandfather's shoulderand the other grasping the carved elbow of the old oak settle. Her lipswere firmly shut, and her whole bearing determined, almost defiant. Presently she said, --

'I never knew before it was as bad as this. I never knew my father waswhat Aunt Dorothy says--a disgrace. But did _you_ know it, Betty?'

'I guessed something, not much; but, Bryda, it is all over now. '

'All over, ' the girl said, with flashing eyes, 'all over! Such a staincan never be wiped away. ' Then, with a sudden impulse of pity andtenderness, Bryda stooped, and kissing the furrowed brow of the old man, she said, --

'Ah, poor grandfather!'

'He was such a fine, handsome boy, was our Phil. There was not one tomatch him--straight as a dart, and that strong, he could get the betterof the strongest in the wrestling matches. Oh, he was a fine fellow wasPhil! To see him on horseback was a treat. '

'What did he do? I wish to know now, grandfather. '

But the old father shook his head. 

'It is so long ago, now--near nineteen years. Yes, nineteen years. Bettywas born just after, and her mother died of a broken heart, they said. Hearts don't break. '

'Do you know, Aunt Dorothy, what my father did?'

'Well, if you must know--he forged a cheque. If he hadn't been got offto America he would have been--hung. Father scraped up a hundred pounds, and sent him packing, and borrowed the three hundred to pay the man Philhad robbed. That's the long and short of it. I wasn't here, but that'swhat father told me, and I suppose it's gospel truth. It's over and donewith now, and no one need have been the wiser if that fool, youngBayfield, had not come and stormed at father. Shameful, I call it. ' ThenDorothy threw her apron over her face, and leaving the kitchen, calledBetty to come and look after the butter. 'It is churning day, ' she said, 'and to spoil pounds of good butter won't mend matters. '

Betty obeyed, and Bryda was left with her grandfather. 

'Is my father dead?' she asked, putting her mouth close to the old man'sear. 

'Dead? Yes. I never heard a word of him since the ship sailed fromBristol one dark night. I put him aboard. No one knew. When I got backthere was Bet wailing. She was born--and your poor silly mother died. Poor thing! poor thing! She said, "I am glad to die, take care of mybabes. " And I said I would, and so I did--eh, Biddy?'

'Yes, yes, grandfather; and now we will take care of you. I'll go andearn my keep at any rate; but first I shall go and see Mr Bayfield. '

'No, no; it's like a lamb running into the jaws of a lion. He will onlystorm at you. There's nought to be done but sell up, and pay the cashdown. But I'll do it myself. He sha'n't send his fellows here to knockabout the things. The stock must go. The sheep will fetch summat--andthere's two fine young heifers, beside the milch cows. '

Three hundred pounds looked an enormous sum in the eyes of theSomersetshire maiden, but she was determined to make an appeal to thehard-hearted young Squire. 

Binegar was some miles from the hamlet of Upton, where Bishop's Farmstood; but Bryda was well used to long rambles over hill and dale, andshe ran up to her room full of her scheme. 

'I will tell no one--no, not even Bet, ' she thought. 'They shall see foronce I can be of use. And then I will go to Bristol and see Mr Lambert, and tell him I will come and be the useful girl about the place hismother wants. '

Bryda took some pains with her appearance, as she stood before a littleglass, which gave but a distorted reflection of the fair face whichgazed into it. 

Bryda exchanged her blue homespun skirt for a red camlet, a materialthen much used for women's dress. It was made with short elbow sleeves, and the bodice cut low. Over this Bryda pinned a white kerchief, confining the ends at the waist with a silver buckle which had belongedto her mother. Then she tied back her bright hair, which was the colourof a cornfield rippling in the sunshine, with a blue ribbon, and perchedon the top of her pretty head a bonnet of Dunstable straw which wouldhave disguised most faces so ugly was its shape. But Bryda's face couldnot lend itself to any disguise. Her luminous eyes seemed to shine thebrighter under the shadow of the peak. Her clear rose-and-whitecomplexion was set off by the clumsy knot of faded ribbon strings whichpassed under the high crown of the bonnet was tied under Bryda's dimpledchin, and defined its beautiful outline. 

Thus equipped, Bryda stepped quietly downstairs, and went out at theback door of the farm. 

In the yard, on a barrel turned up for a seat, sat Silas the shepherd. 

He was cutting huge slices of coarse bread with a clasp knife, andcrowding them into his mouth, with morsels of Cheddar cheese. 

'I want to take one of the dogs for a walk, Silas. Which can you spare?'

'Neither, ' was the short response. 

'Oh, let me have one, Silas. Let me have Flick. Here, Flick, will youcome?'

'Where be thee going?'

'For a long walk, that's all. '

'You'll find it nearly broiling 'cross the hill. The old ewe died earlythis morning. There's another loss for the master. But, lor', he's dazedlike. If I told him the whole flock was dead he wouldn't care. Master isqueerish this morning. '

'He is not well, ' Bryda said. 'Don't trouble him, Silas, if you canhelp, and let me have Flick. '

Flick was only waiting the word of command from his master, with anxiousupturned nose and eyes scanning Silas's rugged face. 

'Get along with you, ' was the not very gracious dismissal. 

And the old dog leaped for joy, gave his low, deep-mouthed bay, scuttledround the yard twice, sending two sedate cats clambering up the oldwall, with its high lichen-covered coping, where they turned at bay, with swelled tails and arched backs, to spit at their enemy. 

So bright was the sky, and so full of life was everything around her, that as Bryda tripped lightly on her way she had almost forgotten whatwas her errand. 

The church clock of Dundry struck ten as she passed. The village wasquiet, almost deserted. 

The people were out at their daily toil on the hills, and only a fewwhite-headed children were making dust pies by the churchyard gate, twoor three women, with babies in their arms, gossiping at their cottagedoors. 

'Where's she off to, I wonder? That's Peter Palmer's girl, she is mightyproud, and never passes good-morning or the time of day, not she. '

'Pride must have a fall, ' said another. 'Look at her in her fine redgown as if 'twere a Fair day. '

And then the women hushed their squalling babies with somewhat roughvehemence and turned to other subjects. 

Bryda was a little doubtful of the nearest road to Rock House when shecame to the place where four roads met. 

The old sign-post had lost one of its arms, and the lettering on anotherwas defaced. Bryda knew Rock House was several miles nearer Dundry thanthe town of Binegar, but she could not feel sure which of the four roadsthat looked so much alike was the right one. 

As she stood hesitating, a young man, with a gun under his arm, leapedover the hedge into the road. 

Flick growled as he approached, and Bryda, putting her hand through hiscollar, said, --

'Down, Flick. '

Then, addressing the young man, she said, --

'Please, sir, can you tell me the way to Rock House, Squire Bayfield's?'Then she added demurely, 'I have business with him. '

'Well, ' was the reply, 'the Squire is a lucky man, that's all I have tosay. '

Bryda's colour rose, for this young man's gaze was a little too openlyadmiring. 

She curtsied, with a grace which was very different from the low bob ofthe country maiden generally, and said, --

'I beg you, sir, to be so good as to tell me which road I am to take, right or left. '

'It's right ahead, ' was the reply; 'I am going the same way. Your dog isnot a very pleasant companion; he looks as if he would fly at my throatif he could. '

'He knows his manners, sir, ' Bryda said, 'and he will not fly at anyonewithout reason. Down!' she said, 'quiet, Flick. '

This, with a pat on his shaggy head, was taken as a sign that Bryda'scompanion was not the foe Flick had at first imagined, and he walkedgravely by her side, as if unconscious of a third person's presence. 

Bryda volunteered no conversation, and for some minutes there wassilence. Presently the man asked, --

'Have you any acquaintance with Squire Bayfield?'

'No, sir; not with the young Squire. He has been in foreign parts foryears. '

'Yes, that's true; he came home a week ago to find his father dead andburied, and the old place a ruin for him to build up, and money short todo it. '

Again there was silence, till a pair of large gates came in sight and along avenue of firs leading up to a house, of which the low front wasseen at the end of the drive. 

'Is this Squire Bayfield's house, sir?'

'Yes, and I have business there also, so we will walk up to the doortogether. '

Bryda hesitated, and then said, --

'I have business with the Squire, sir; but it is of a private nature, and I must see him alone. '

'That I'll warrant you shall do, madam, ' and insensibly the man's mannerbecame more respectful. 

This was no country maiden to whom he might offer any familiarity, praise her beauty, or rally her on her charms. Bryda had always abouther that innate purity and refinement, which acts as a shield againstthe shafts of impertinent admiration which men of a certain type in theeighteenth century were apt to offer to win favour with the belles oftown or country. 

A short flight of stone steps led to the front entrance of the house, and here the young man paused. After a moment's hesitation he opened thedoor, and a parcel of dogs of all shapes and sizes came rushing out, whining and capering with delight. 

Immediately Flick stood at bay, and a scrimmage seemed imminent, whenthe young man took a short whip from a peg in the hall, and thrashingright and left, with a great many oaths and curses, exclaimed, 'Thebrutes--the underbred brutes, ' as the dogs went whining and yelping backto the place whence they came. 

'Now, madam, ' the young man said, after apologising for this uproar, 'let me show you into the only habitable room in the place where you canhave your desired interview with the Squire. '

He pushed open a door as he spoke, and holding it for Bryda to pass, closed it again, and left her alone. 

Bryda was in the old library, which was full of deed boxes and papers. Books lined the walls, and a big chair at the farther end by the baywindow was the magistrate's seat, where Mr Bayfield had, after thecustom of the time, tried prisoners for poaching, petty larceny, andother offences. 

Bryda felt frightened, and yet gathered up all her courage to meet MrBayfield when he appeared. 

The summer sunshine, lying on the wide expanse of open country, did nottouch this gloomy room, which looked full north, and only caught a gleamof brightness later in the day for a short space. 

Bryda walked to the window and looked out. Flick was lying on theterrace, his nose on his big ungainly paws, his ears pricked up--onguard, and watching for a return of the yapping crew which the youngman's whip had so summarily dismissed. 

The aspect of everything was dreary and cheerless. The dark firs, thedecayed urns, which flanked either side of the stone steps, the roughterrace of loose stones, the long grass of the pleasance below, where afew flowers were bravely struggling to show themselves underdifficulties. 

'What a dreary place!' Bryda exclaimed. 'But, oh, I wish the Squirewould come. I wish Betty was here; but I must make the best of it now Ihave come here. No gentleman would be cruel to an old man likegrandfather, and--'

She stopped, for the door opened and the same man whom she had met onthe road came in. He made a low bow, and advancing, said, --

'The Squire, otherwise David Bayfield, is at your service, madam. I prayyou be seated, and let me ask you to take such refreshment as thismiserable house can afford. I have ordered it to be brought. '

But Bryda stood like a fawn at bay, and said with all the calmness shecould command, --

'I do not understand, sir. I am at a loss to know whether--'

'I am the Squire? Yes, fair lady, I have the misfortune to bear thatill-starred title, and I beg you to be seated and open out yourbusiness. '

But Bryda, though trembling from head to foot, repressed all outwardsign of fear, and still stood, her hand on the back of the old carvedoak chair, which, when she had turned from the window, she had graspedat the entrance of the young Squire. 

'My business, sir, will not detain you long, ' she said. 'My poorgrandfather, Mr Palmer, to save a son, _my father_'--this was said withinfinite sadness--'yes, my father, from disgrace, borrowed a sum ofmoney, a very large sum, from the old Squire. He never pressed him forpayment, and indeed it is doubtful that he ever expected it. I came toask you, sir, to be pitiful, and give my grandfather time, at least. Hehas had years of poor crops, and many losses of stock. He is alreadybehind hand. If you press him, as I heard you did last night, you willruin him, you will kill him, ' she added with vehemence--'yes, you willkill an old man, who is over seventy, and, ' clasping her hands, 'make usall wretched and miserable. '

'Madam, ' David Bayfield began, coming nearer, while Bryda, with theshield of the old magistrate's chair before her, felt secure, 'madam, Ifeel like a poacher on trial, you the judge. Listen to a prisonerpleading; I pray you, be merciful. You speak of ruin--the money I claimby right of your respected grandfather it is absolutely necessary Ishould have. I hold the note of hand. I showed it to the old man lastnight. It sets forth that the money is payable on demand to my father, or heirs of his body. I _must have_ the money. '

Bryda looked straight into the face before her, and with flashing eyes, drawing her small figure up to its full height, she said, --

'Very good, sir; I need detain you no longer, but return whence I camefrom my bootless errand. I do not envy you, sir; it is always better tobe the injured than the injurer. Permit me to pass, sir, as I must loseno time. '

The door opened at this moment, and an old man-servant came shufflingin, a tray in his hand, loaded with a silver goblet of spiced wine and afew wheaten cakes. He eyed Bryda curiously, and placing the tray on asmall table covered with dust, he put a chair before it, and wasretiring, when Bryda seized the moment for escape. She came swiftlyround from the chair, and before the servant could close the door shehad gone out into the hall. 

'Nay, madam, I pray you, do not leave my house thus. It will put me inthe position of an inhospitable brute. I beseech you take somerefreshment ere you depart. '

'I did not come here for refreshment, sir, ' Bryda said. 'I came in thehope of finding a merciful gentleman, who would not hasten an old man tohis grave by cruelty and hard usage. This hope is at an end. There isnothing left for me but to repent I ever came hither. '

'But, my dear madam, hearken. I would fain win your favour. I am notone to make fair speeches, but I am not cruel. Right is right, and--'

'Mercy is mercy, ' Bryda said. 'Good-day to you, sir. Flick, Flick!'

The dog was at her side in an instant. He gave an ominous growl as theSquire tried to follow, and then Mr Bayfield stood like a statue on thetop step of the cracked flight and watched Bryda's light figure as itpassed under the sombre firs, Flick striding at her side as she walkedswiftly, at a pace which was nearly running, towards the white gates, and then vanished out of sight. 

The Squire clenched his teeth and muttered a string of oaths, turnedinto the house, swallowed the contents of the silver mug at one draught, and then sat down before the table, with its many pigeon-holes andsecret drawers, to curse his stupidity in allowing Bryda to departwithout another attempt to detain her. 

She was so entirely different from any woman he had met. There was amingling of dignity and sweetness which he was not slow to recognise. Her beauty was not her only attraction. He read in her clear eyespurity, and strength of purpose in her round, determined chin, with itsslightly upward curve. David Bayfield felt ashamed of himself as he hadnever felt before, and unable to settle to any business matters, he wentto the stable, saddled one of the horses, which had been eating offtheir heads there since his father's death, and galloped at a furiouspace to Wells to consult his man of business there as to what stepsshould be taken. 

CHAPTER III

AN ELEGY. 

Bryda had just reached the cross roads where she had met the Squire whena heavy lumbering cart came slowly in sight, which she recognised as MrsHenderson's. If Jack was driving it, she would at once tell him what hadhappened; but Jack was not likely to be driving at that snail pace. 

It was Jack, however, indulging in a slumber as the old horse, who knewhis way in the district as well or better than his master, ploddedsoberly along to his destination. 

'Oh! it is Jack!' Bryda exclaimed. 'Jack, Jack, do stop!'

Jack Henderson opened his sleepy eyes and called 'Wo, wo!' to the horse. 

'Oh, Jack, will you take me up, I am so tired and so--'

Jack brought his huge frame down into the dirty road with a mighty thud, and said, --

'Why, Bryda, what's up? What are you doing here? Lor'! don't take onlike this, ' for poor Bryda's self-possession suddenly forsook her, andshe began to cry helplessly, like a tired and frightened child. 

'There, get up, ' Jack said, 'and I'll take you home, but for mercy'ssake don't cry. '

Bryda climbed up the steps of the waggon, and Flick, looking highlysatisfied with the arrangement, rubbed his nose against Jack's leg, andwhined as if to say, 'I know she will be safe now, ' waited with his redtongue lolling out of his big mouth, panting hard after the manner ofdogs on a hot day, till Jack gathered the slack reins in his hand andmounted to the seat by Bryda's side. 

'Well, ' he said, 'I was amazed to see you. Why, you are six miles fromDundry. Come along home with me, and--'

'No, no; I must get back. If you will wait I will tell youeverything--and, Jack, I want to go to Bristol, to Madam Lambert's. Thatwill be a help. I am no use at the farm, Aunt Dolly is always telling meso; and now, now they will have a hard fight to get through at all. Grandfather has got to sell up all the stock to pay a debt. '

'Nonsense, get along, I don't believe it, ' Jack said. 'What do youmean?'

'What I say. '

And then Bryda poured the whole story into Jack's sympathetic ears, which he received with sundry ejaculations, which were anything butcomplimentary to Squire Bayfield. 

But Jack, however sympathetic, had only one thing to advise. 

'Don't pay the money to the young scoundrel, don't you do it, and go toBristol and get out of all the bother. '

'It is not that I want to get out of the bother, Jack, ' Bryda said. 'Howcan you think so? I want to help by going away. Why, yesterday, I wantedto go for my own pleasure, now I _must_ go to try and help. PerhapsMadam Lambert will give me wages in time, then I can be a real help, andsend Bet some money, and get comforts for poor grandfather. '

'You must get comforts for yourself first, ' Jack said. 

He was so pleased that his favourite scheme of getting Bryda to Bristolwas to be carried out that he forgot everything else. 

'I am going back Monday, ' he said, 'and you can come along with me. '

'No, ' Bryda said decidedly, as Jack drew a little nearer to her. 'No, Jack, I shall go before Monday. I shall try to make Madam Lambert takeme. She is a sort of relation, you know; and if she won't, well, I musttry to get into a haberdasher's shop--or be a servant--or--'

'You stop that, ' Jack said. 'I'll never see you a servant while I'malive. You are too good and too beautiful to be a servant. '

Jack laid emphasis on the last word, with a sharp slap of the whip onthe drowsy old horse's fat back. Not that Jack Henderson wished tohasten on his way, he would have been content to jog along thus withBryda at his side for days. To this simple-hearted young man whom Naturehad designed for a farmer, but whose ambitious mother had willed that heshould be a silversmith and jeweller, in the fond hope that he mightsucceed his childless uncle in his Bristol business, Bryda was an idolat whose shrine he worshipped, and whose smile sent him on his wayrejoicing, while her frown, or a sharp word from her, made himmiserable, and conscious that he was too dull and stupid and clumsy everto win her as his wife. 

Jack's education had been of the scantiest. It had been begun at avillage dame school, and finished at the Wells Grammar School. It is tobe doubted if any school could have raised Jack Henderson above theordinary type of the Somersetshire farmer's son. He had shut his Latinprimer and his English grammar when he left Wells, and had never openeda book since, except his prayer book on Sundays, and then he couldscarcely spell out the verse of the psalms, and shouted Tate and Bradyto the accompaniment of scraping fiddle and trombone in the gallery ofthe church, with a refreshing disregard of words, though he supplieddeficiencies by mystic utterances which filled in doubtful passages andcould be interpreted according to the wishes of the hearer. 

Such was Jack Henderson, with his true Somersetshire dialect, where 'Zwas, and is still preferred before 'S, making the speech of the goodpeople on the Mendips somewhat difficult to understand. 

But beneath Jack Henderson's rough exterior beat a true and honestheart. He was upright in word and deed. Shams were hateful to him, andhe would not try to seem other than he was for all the gold and silverin his uncle's shop in Corn Street. 

He set Bryda down close by the entrance to Bishop's Farm, and said, --

'Look ye here, Bryda, I'll jog off to Bristol to-morrow, and take yourletter myself to Madam Lambert. You put it under the loose stone in yonwall, and I'll be here at daybreak and trudge off. I'll bring an answerback in the evening. Come, will this suit you--eh?'

Bryda had already jumped down into the road, and Jack was standing, withthe reins in his hand, anxiously peering into her face. 

'Eh, Bryda, will that suit you?'

'Thank you, Jack. Yes, I will have the letter ready. But will yourmother be angry?'

'Lor'! why should she? But if she is, it's no odds to me. I say, Bryda, give me--'

But before Jack could finish his sentence Bryda was gone. 

She found things at the farm going on much as usual. 

The butter was made, the noonday dinner cleared away, Dorothy 'cleanedup' for the afternoon, and seated at the table cutting up some bits ofold printed calico for a patchwork quilt. 

When she caught sight of Bryda at the open door she called out, --

'Where have you been to? Dinner is done an hour ago. P'r'aps you havehad yours at Mistress Henderson's?' This with a sniff of contempt. 'Youare mighty partial to these Hendersons, I know I can't abide them. '

Instead of taking any notice of these remarks, Bryda asked, --

'Where's grandfather?'

'At his business, of course. Another lamb is dead, and another ewe pasthope. Everything is gone crooked. The last brood of chicks are dyingfast as they can. It's all along with Goody Fenton's evil eye. I said sowhen she sat in the porch Lady-day. I told you you was feeding a bad oldwoman, and I was right. '

Bryda gave a little incredulous laugh. 

'I should feed her again, ' she said, 'if she came this way, poormiserable old creature!'

'Wicked old wretch, she'll end in the ducking stool, and serve herright. I'd like to be by and see it, that's all. '

Bryda's imaginative nature had a vein of superstition in it. She was notaltogether sure that witchcraft had died out of the land, and she ratherliked to hear the stories of elves and fairies, good spirits which madethose dark rings on the turf by their dances, when all the rest of theworld were asleep. 

There was a fascination for her in the notion of a world of littlemysterious fairies, who cradled themselves in the deep blue bells of thecampanules, and lay in the heart of the tall white lilies, powderingtheir airy garments with gold, and flying through the air of the stillsummer nights on the backs of the shy, spotted moths which blunderedover the moor, when none were there to see, in chase of awill-of-the-wisp, whose lantern, darting hither and thither, lured themon. She stood thinking for a moment over all the run of ill luck towhich Dorothy referred, and then her thoughts went back to the cause ofall this trouble, a crime of which she had never known before--herfather's sin. 

'The sins of the fathers are visited on the children. ' Was it to be soin her case and Betty's--Betty, whose wailing cry struck hergrandfather's ear when he returned from his sad errand at Bristol, andhad parted from his only son for ever?

Then there came over Bryda that strange regret for the ignorance ofyesterday, as bliss when compared with the bitter knowledge of to-day. But with the knowledge came tender regret, the longing to remedy theevil and efface the stain of disgrace from the name she bore. 

She said no more to Dorothy, whose huge scissors clipped the square ofgay stuff lying before her as if to make the gaudy quilt was the oneobject of her life, but she ran upstairs to the bedroom she shared withBetty, and found her there, as she expected, exchanging her workinggown, with its large apron, for what was called an afternoon frock, witha dainty kerchief and white apron. 

'I have seen him, ' Bryda exclaimed. 

'Seen who?' Bet asked. 

'The Squire. He is as hard as nails. He will have the money. '

'Why, Bryda, how did you get to the house?'

'I'll tell you, Bet; but, ' she said, 'do get me a bit of something toeat and drink. I am so famished. '

'I wondered what had become of you, but I kept you a currant dumpling inthe oven, and a bit of hash. I'll go and fetch it. '

'Yes, I would rather have it here. '

However distressed the young are, and however perplexed, they do notlose their appetite. 

Bryda ate everything Betty brought her with keen relish, and drank a cupof cider. Then she said, --'I feel fit for anything now, and now I willtell you the whole story, and what I have resolved to do. '

Betty was a sympathetic listener, but she did not quite see why Brydashould go to Bristol. 

'No one wants me here. '

'_I_ want you, ' Betty said, 'and if trouble is coming, and the stocksold, and that dreadful young Squire comes here, I shall be frightenedwithout you. '

'He won't come here any more, Bet; he has made up his mind, and he willstick to it, and I want to hear what Mr Lambert says about it all. Isuppose it is lawful, if the paper was signed by grandfather, but Ishould like to tell the whole story to a man who knows about suchthings. Now, I am going to write my letter to Madam Lambert, and I shallbe off to Bristol before the end of the week. '

There was in Bryda's determination a dash of romance as well as of keendesire to do something to help her grandfather in his sore strait. 

Of course it may be questioned whether Betty, pursuing the even tenor ofher way, and letting nothing interfere with her household work, was notmore in the line of duty than her beautiful sister. But the two sisterswere, as often happens, so entirely different in character that onecannot be judged by the same rules as the other. The impulsiveenthusiast and the matter-of-fact, practical labourer in the field seethings from a different standpoint. 

In this case there was no division of heart between the two. 

Betty believed in Bryda, and had for the whole of her short life lookedon her as superior to herself, and to any of the few acquaintances oftheir own age whom the sisters knew, and she was quite content to takethe subordinate place and sit at the feet of her beautiful sister. 

Betty fetched an inkhorn and two quills from a cupboard by their bed, and placed them on a somewhat rickety table, where Bryda's few bookslay--books well worn and studied, books which fed her romance--twovolumes of the _Rambler_ and _Spectator_, Pope's verses, and last, butnot least, Bunyan's _Pilgrim's Progress_. 

On the style of these English classics Bryda had formed hers, and thusher expressions were somewhat quaint, and yet she was free from thestilted and flowery mannerism of the women of her time who had receiveda superficial education. 

Bryda might be said to be self-educated. Her schooling had been of thenarrow type afforded by a 'decayed gentlewoman' in a neighbouring largevillage, who had undertaken to instruct her pupils in reading, writing, and arithmetic, with fine needlework and the rudiments of French. 

These rudiments seldom advanced beyond the auxiliary verbs and thepronouns, but Miss Darcy still kept school at Pensford, and spoke withpride of her late talented pupil Miss Palmer. 

Bryda wrote her letter on a sheet of blue Bath post, and folding it, sealed it with a pink wafer, and addressed it to 'Mrs Lambert, DowrySquare, Bristol, ' and wrote in the corner, 'By the hand of Mr J. Henderson. '

In the evening, when everyone was going or gone to bed, Bryda steppedout and placed the letter under the loose coping-stone of the wall, andthen with a sense of relief went through the dewy orchard and out on themoor, where the purple hues of evening had gathered, and indulged inthose castles in the air which were so dear to her. 

'Perhaps I shall find ways in Bristol to make myself known. If thatstrange boy gets his verses printed in _Felix Farley's Journal_ I may aswell try to get mine there. Then people will ask who is Beta--for Ishall call myself Beta. I know that is the Greek for B--and it soundspretty. I have many verses in my old school book. Miss Darcy said theywere elegant--at least the one I called "Farewell to Miss Darcy. "

'I am sure I could write some verses about the dead lamb. Let me try, somany words which are appropriate would rhyme. 

 'Dear little lambkin lying on the grass So stiff and cold while strangers careless pass, Never again to frisk amongst the flowers, Never again to skip in vernal bowers. Oh, little lambkin, death is hard for thee, Though many a weary wight would gladly flee From all the trouble of this mortal life, And bid Farewell to grief, and pain, and strife. 

 'Yet what is Death? We get no sure reply As cold and stiff like thee our dear ones lie. Say, whither does the spirit seek its home When all the battle's o'er, the victory won? Ah! whither are they flown?'

Bryda came to a full stop. 

A soft breeze wandering through the orchard gently caressed her hair, making its own soft music as it whispered to the flowers and buds thatthe day was done and that all things must end. 

'I must go in now, ' the girl said, starting up. 'I will write thoselines to-morrow, and take them with me to Bristol. I hope Jack will notforget to come for the letter. But I know he won't. Poor old Jack, he iskind and good, if he is stupid. But everyone can't be clever. The youngSquire looked as if he knew a good deal; and he was very handsome. Though I hate him, I can't help seeing he is handsome, but cruel andhard--yes, hard as nails, as poor grandfather said. I might as well tryto soften that big bit of rock. '

Then Bryda let the gate of the orchard close behind her, and wenttowards the house. 

CHAPTER IV

THE LETTER DELIVERED. 

Jack Henderson was up before the sun the next morning. He had thought itbetter not to take a horse and cart from his mother's stable, but trustto his own powers of locomotion. 

He made his way across the meadows, where the cowslips hung theirgraceful heads, yet heavy with the dew of the short summer night. As thelight strengthened in the east, and lines of pink and gold announced theapproach of the sun, the birds began to sing in full chorus. A larksoared high above Jack's head, and lost itself in the blue ether in anecstasy of rejoicing. 

The sleepy cows raised their clumsy forms and began to chew the grass. Acompany of rooks, in a black line, winged their way, cawing as theywent, to seek a breakfast for their young ones, yet in their nests inthe mass of elms which stood dark against the sky in the direction ofBinegar. 

From afar came the gentle coo of the wood-pigeon, and the bleating ofthe lambs in a fold, awaiting the shepherd's voice to go forth withtheir mothers to try their newly acquired strength on the soft turf ofthe uplands. 

Jack's honest heart was filled with an emotion he could not have putinto words. He only knew that Bryda reigned there supreme. All thesesights and sounds of beauty, and the youth of the day and of the year, were in harmony with his love for her, though he was only conscious thatit was a fine morning and he was glad to be astir early to serve her. 

When Jack Henderson reached the Bishop's Farm no one seemed to bestirring. He approached the wall which skirted the farmyard verycautiously, and lifting the loose stone of the coping, found the letter. He placed it carefully in the large pocket of his long buff waistcoat, which reached far below the waist of his blue coat, and hid the upperpart of the short corduroys, which were met at the knee by coarsestockings, and fastened by large metal buttons. 

For a moment Jack paused. He looked up at the old farm, and at the opencasement of the room where he knew Bryda and Betty slept. 

His heart beat with mingled feelings of hope and fear. 

'If any harm should come to her from going to Bristol I shall have had ahand in it. Yet it's what she wants, and I have done it for her sake. Oh, bless her!' he continued, taking off his hat and gazing at thewindow. 'I say, God bless her, and keep her safe!'

And Bryda, all unconscious of this benediction, murmured in her sleepthe last lines of the stanza of her elegy on the lamb which she hadcomposed the night before, and which was interrupted by the vain huntfor a rhyme to 'won. '

 'When all the battle's o'er, the victory won, Ah! whither are they flown?'

Bryda awoke with the question on her lips to which she could find norhyme and no answer. 

Jack Henderson knew his way about Bristol, and found himself in DowrySquare just as the deep-toned cathedral clock struck seven from afar. 

The townspeople were not so early in their rising as those in thecountry and Dowry Square was wrapt in repose when Jack Henderson enteredit. The blinds in the upper windows, and the shutters, with theirheart-shaped holes, were still closed. 

A door in one of the houses opened quickly, and a woman came out in alarge frilled nightcap and a big apron. She had a broom in her hand, andbegan to raise a great dust by sweeping out the entrance and the dirtysteps. She watched Jack curiously as he knocked at the door of one ofthe opposite houses twice and three times with no apparent effect. 

'You may knock there till you are tired. Nobody is stirring there yet, I'll lay a wager. Folks who keep no women servants always lie late. '

Jack only nodded in reply to this, and knocking once more, leanedagainst the side of the door and resigned himself to waiting andpatience. 

Presently footsteps were heard and the bolts withdrawn and the keyturned in the lock. 

The face that appeared as the door was partially opened was a remarkableone. The eyes that met Jack's were literally blazing with anger, andthe mass of hair tossed back from the wide white brow gave theappearance of a young lion at bay. 

'Curse you, Jack Henderson, for knocking like that at this time of theday. '

'Keep a civil tongue in your head, Tom. Time of day, indeed! You oughtto be up and half-way to the office by this time. I know Bristol folksare lie-a-beds, but I didn't think past seven o'clock was thought earlyeven by them. '

'Well, what do you want? Out with it. Dogs are loth to quit theirkennels when they can dream of the game they never catch when awake. Come, Henderson, I sha'n't parley any longer. I suppose you are come tobeg, like a poltroon, to be taken back to that precious office in CornStreet. Get Lambert to intercede for you--eh?'

'I'm not dismissed that I know of. It's nothing of the sort, so holdyour tongue; but I have got a letter here for Madam Lambert, and I wantto see it in safe custody before I leave it. '

'Well, hand it over. '

'You swear to give it to madam, and say I'll call back for an answer inthe afternoon. '

'Who is it from?'

'Ah, that's another matter. I sha'n't tell you; but I say, Tom, if everyou set eyes on the writer, remember what I tell you. If ever anangel--'

And now the young men's conversation was abruptly ended. A loud, strident voice was heard from the head of the wide oak staircase, whichwas at some distance from the narrow lobby. 

'Chatterton, what do you mean, gossiping like any old woman at thestreet door? Where's Sam?'

'Asleep, ' was the short reply. 

'Wake him, then. Bid him attend to the door. It's not your business thatI know of. '

'I should have thought it was, as I share his bed in the cellar. Ishould have thought it was share and share alike. '

This was said with infinite scorn, betrayed in the tone of the musicalvoice as well as by the contemptuous tossing back of the thick hair andshrug of the shoulders, which were seen in sharp outline under athreadbare coat hastily thrown on. 

'Hold your tongue or I'll find means to make you. Who is it at thedoor?'

'Come down and see for yourself, sir, ' was the final reply, as ThomasChatterton departed whence he came and disappeared in the lower regionsof the house. 

The door was still open, and Jack Henderson still stood there. Heventured to advance to the foot of the stairs, and looking up he coulddimly discern the figure of a gentleman in a long nightgown, his headsurmounted by a huge nightcap, with a tassel dangling from its crown. 

Mr Lambert held to the banister of the second flight of wide stairs, andpeered down at Jack, who looked up at him. 

'I have brought a letter, sir, from a young lady to Madam Lambert. Sheis a relative of yours, and wants to find a place in Bristol. '

'Relative, relative--tut, tut. Ah! I see you are Henderson's nephew. Well, judging from his experience, relatives are like to be more plaguethan profit. '

'Miss Palmer's mother was first cousin of Madam Lambert's, sir. '

'Oh! Well, I know nothing about it, but hand up the letter, and I willsee my mother has it, though I don't promise you she will think anythingof it. '

'I will call back for an answer, sir, about one o'clock. '

'Very well, very well. Here comes Mrs Symes, and I suppose we shall nowhave a chance of breakfast. '

The open door now admitted a large and portly personage, who came everymorning to perform the duties of the household, assisted by the footboySam, who wore a suit of livery and answered the door to clients whomight prefer to see lawyer Lambert at his private house rather than inthe somewhat cramped office in Corn Street. 

Mr Lambert disappeared upstairs as the woman began to throw openshutters and draw up blinds and let the light of the morning into thehouse. 

Jack Henderson was not invited to breakfast, and after his early walk hewas very hungry. He was just turning out of the square, towards theriver, when he heard footsteps behind him. 

Presently a hand was laid on his arm, and a voice said, --

'I was vastly uncivil half an hour ago, Henderson, but when one istreated like a cur one is apt to snarl like one. Where are you going tobreak your fast? At your uncle's--eh?'

'No, ' Jack said, ' I leave well alone there. I am not in high favour, anddon't go near him till next Monday, when I hope to bring Miss Palmeralong with me. '

'Your sweetheart--eh?'

Jack blushed to the roots of his hair. 

'I can't joke about _her_, ' he said. 

'I crave pardon, ' was the answer. 'Don't be sulky, Jack. I snatch a rolland a draught of water somewhere at a shop near by. Come with me andshare the frugal repast. '

Then the two young men turned into the road by the river, where theearly frequenters of the Spa were returning from drinking the waters insedan chairs or wrapped up in fur. A band was playing before the door ofthe pump-room, and the whole scene was at once festive and melancholy. 

The bun shop was not a dozen yards from the pump-room, and when Jack andhis companion turned in to satisfy their hunger several gaily dressedbeaux and young gentlewomen, probably relatives of the sick people whowere drinking the waters, were laughing and chatting as if there was nosuch thing as death or sickness or sorrow in the world. 

The group formed a sharp contrast indeed to the patients leaning on thearms of their attendants, who came forth in melancholy procession fromthe baths, coughing continuously, and with faces where consumption hadtoo plainly left its mark. On some the bright hectic burned, on othersthe pallor of the last stages of that fell disease was seen. 

Thomas Chatterton seemed wholly unconscious of what was passing beforehim. He threw down his penny for a roll, and drank a glass of water, andthen stalked out of the shop, while Jack demolished a pork pie and tworolls, asking for a mug of cider to complete his breakfast. Havingsettled his account with the smart young woman behind the counter, hehastened to rejoin Chatterton. 

He had walked away in the direction of St Vincent's Rocks, and Jack, with his long strides, soon overtook him. 

'I am ready now, ' he said; 'shall I walk back with you as far as CornStreet?'

But Chatterton did not answer. He stood like one in a dream, staringwith his wonderful eyes at the giant rocks ahead of him, and seemedunconscious of any presence. 

Something in Chatterton already struck Jack Henderson with a strangeawe. 

Now, as he stood on the bank of the river, where the tide had justturned its dun-coloured waters, rushing swiftly towards the sea, hishead bare, his hair tossed back from his capacious brow, his handsclasped and his lips moving, though no sound escaped them, he looked asif he belonged to a different race from the big stalwart youth besidehim, whose honest face was all aglow with health and vigour, and whotowered a head and shoulders above the slight boyish form at his side. 

Presently Chatterton spoke, but not to Jack. 

'Rushing on to the sea--rush on--and bear the tidings of wrong andinjustice and hate to the great ocean. I see them as they go--the evilspirits which make Bristol a hell on earth--drown them in theflood--free the city from their presence--and then--'

'Are you not going to the office, Chatterton?' Jack ventured to say atlast. 'You will not be there at eight, I say, ' and Jack touched theboy's arm. 

The human touch seemed to break the spell, and Chatterton laughed astrange unnatural laugh. 

'Oh, is it you, old Jack? Late, do you say? Yes, I am late foreverything--too late--always too late. Farewell. I must away with allspeed. Tell your angel she is coming to a place where she will find nogood company. ' And then, before Jack could say another word, Chatterton's slight boyish form was speeding along the road withincredible swiftness, and had disappeared at a turn leading from the HotWells to Bristol. 

'I believe they are right, ' Jack thought; 'he is mad. I must warn Brydato be careful. All the queer stories about him are true, I daresay; but, after all, he is only a boy--sixteen at the most--and I am twenty. Hangthat jeweller's shop! I think I will cut it, and go off in one of thesebig ships--make a fortune in America--and then--then--'

Ah! Jack Henderson, what then? Your simple soul has its dreams as youstand by that mighty rushing river, under the giant rocks, and yourdreams are sweet, sweeter than those of the marvellous boy who has justleft you to return to the hated drudgery of Mr Lambert's office in CornStreet. 

CHAPTER V

THE ORCHARD GATE. 

Jack Henderson found the morning very long, and finally stretchedhimself on one of the benches of the pump-room and slept away the time, rousing himself at intervals as a group of laughing girls passed himwith their attendant beaux, for Clifton Hot Springs was now becoming avery fashionable resort, and the houses lying under the shadow of thehuge rocks were in great demand. 

Now but little is left to tell of the glory of the past. The pump-roomhas long since been pulled down, and instead of gaily dressed bevies offashionable folk disporting themselves under a row of trees in the Maysunshine, heavy trams, drawn by patient horses at an even jog-trot, passalong at stated intervals, at all times and seasons, connecting thetraffic of the busy, populous city with Avonmouth which is just beyondthe graceful Suspension Bridge which spans the gorge between theGloucestershire and Somersetshire banks of the Avon. 

But the grand old rocks do not change. The black-winged daws fly in andout of their nests in the crevices, where the yellow wallflower andlarge golden-eyed daisies still grow in profusion where no hand canreach them, and flourishing with the scant nourishment that the crevicesin the rocks afford them, fill the air with their fragrance. Generationsof men come and go, and the face of Nature remains as it was when theboy poet first gazed in a rapt vision at the grey bastions of StVincent's Rocks, and down at the river at his feet rushing out to thesea. 

Jack Henderson fortified himself with another meal at theconfectioner's, and then pursued his way back to Dowry Square. 

The aspect of things was changed there since the early morning. Thebrass handle of the door was polished and bright, the steps clean, andJack's pull at the bell and rap at the door was answered by Sam, in neatlivery, who conducted him immediately to a pleasant parlour where MrsLambert was sitting; an old lady of a past time, her grey curls fastenedback from her forehead by two combs, surmounted by a large cap somethingbetween a turban and a mob. Her black paduasoy gown, full at the waistand only touching her ankles, was covered with a spotless white apronwith deep pockets. 

Over the low bodice of her dress Mrs Lambert wore a thick whitekerchief, fastened close to the throat by a gold pin. On her arms shewore thick mittens, which reached the elbow of her short sleeves, and onher thin but shapely fingers she wore two or three handsome rings. 

Jack made his best bow, and advanced to Mrs Lambert's chair, unhappilytreading as he did so on the paw of a tabby cat, who resisted theindignity by a very prolonged yell and an angry spit at her enemy. 

'Poor puss, ' said her mistress. 'I expect, sir, your foot is no lightweight. I believe you brought me this letter, ' laying her hand on theprecious document, which was placed on a little table by her side. 

Jack murmured an assent. 

'I have been much troubled by the loss of servants of late. One made afoolish match, the other died--both old servants. I have made efforts toreplace them, and have failed. Is this young woman known to you, sir?'

'Well known, madam, but--' Jack paused. 'She isn't a servant. I believeshe is a relative of yours. '

Mrs Lambert gave a little incredulous laugh. 

'I see she subscribes herself as my cousin, but this is a _very_ distantconnection. However, it is a pretty note, take it altogether, and shespeaks of trouble at home--her father in money difficulty. I showed myson the letter, and from all he can make out the sum borrowed will haveto be repaid. He will speak more of that hereafter, but I will send myanswer to Miss Palmer's request. Writing is difficult to me, for myfingers are a little stiff with rheumatism, therefore I am glad to sparethem. First, are you the accepted lover of Miss Palmer?'

Again poor Jack felt the hot blushes rise to his face, again he shrankfrom the rough touch of the secret in his heart which he held sacred. 

'Because, ' Mrs Lambert continued, 'I do not permit sweethearts in thehouse. It is on this ground that I have dismissed several youngserving-maids and depend on the services of Mrs Symes. I don't quiteknow what your views may be about Miss Palmer, but as I hear you areapprenticed in Bristol to a respectable goldsmith I should wish to makeit plain that I can have no gallivanting or--'

'Madam, ' Jack said, interrupting this long speech, ' I have known MissBryda Palmer all my life. I am anxious to serve her, but I am not heraccepted suitor. ' Then, rising to his full height, Jack asked, 'What areyour commands, madam? What answer am I to take to Miss Palmer?'

'I will take her on trial, and give a wage, say ten pounds per annum. This is only an arrangement, as I say, on trial, to be broken by eitherparty at a month's not a quarter's notice. '

'Miss Palmer will come next Monday, ' Jack said. Then, his voicefaltering, he went on with some hesitation. 'She has been much cared forand--and loved. I hope you will be good to her, and remember she hasnever been used to hard words. '

'She has been very fortunate, then; but I think, sir, you forgetyourself when you remind me of my duty. Good-day. '

Jack bowed, or rather ducked his head, which nearly reached the thickoak beam across the ceiling of the parlour, and as he was leaving theroom, Mrs Lambert said, --

'Will you take a cup of cider before you leave, sir?'

'No, I am obliged to you. I have dined, and must hasten homewards. '

And then Jack, inwardly conscious that he had been but a poorambassador, departed on his way to scale those heights which rise aboveBristol in a straight unbroken line, where the tower of Dundry standsout against the sky. 

Jack plodded on. His stalwart frame knew little of fatigue, and he wasnot nearly as tired, when at last Bishop's Farm came in sight, as heoften felt when sitting with his long legs tucked under him on the highstool in his uncle's workshop in Corn Street. When he reached the gateof the farmyard he paused and determined to go round by the lane, andthen pass through the orchard to the house if he did not, as he hoped, find Bryda on her favourite seat on the rough bit of limestone whichcropped out of the turf. 

The sound of his steps brought Flick to inspect him. Flick wassatisfied, for he gave a low whine of welcome and rubbed his noseagainst Jack's hand. 

At the gate of the orchard Jack saw two figures--Bryda's and a man's;the man, with a liver-and-white pointer at his feet, leaning against thegate in an easy attitude; Bryda, on the other side, with her faceflushed, and a look in her eyes like a frightened fawn. 

Jack strode up to the gate, and said in a rough tone, --

'Let me pass, sir. I have business with Miss Bryda. '

'So have I, sir, and I will despatch it, by your leave, without yourinterference. '

Jack put his hand on the gate and pushed it towards Bryda, but a hand, apparently as strong as his, pulled it back, with an oath. 

'Wait one minute, Jack, wait till this gentleman is gone. He is speakingto me about--about--'

Poor Bryda's voice broke down, and she hid her face in her hands. 

'If _you_ wish it I _will_ wait, ' Jack said. 'Do you wish me to wait?'

A faint 'Yes' was the reply. 

'Then I'll wait, ' Jack said, but, glancing at the Squire, he added, 'Ifit were not for this wish of Miss Palmer's, sir, I would _not_ wait yourpleasure; but her word is law to me. If it weren't, ' he muttered, 'I'dknock you down. '

An ironical laugh, with the words, 'Come, sir, be off!' was the onlyrejoinder, and then Jack strode away out of sight. 

'Will that big sulky fellow eavesdrop?' he heard as he was departing, and the question was not likely to allay his wrath. 

The conversation lasted for more minutes than Jack's patience held out, and he fumed and chafed at the indignity passed on him. 

'To be warned off by a brute like that!' he murmured. 'What right has heto do it?'

Presently Betty's face appeared above the low wall which skirted thefarmyard. 

'Oh! Jack, ' she exclaimed, 'Bryda has been talking to the young Squireever so long. She sent me away. I do so wish she would come. It is allabout that money and grandfather; but I don't like her to be alone withthat man; he has a bad face. She has got Flick, but still I wish shewould come. '

'Hang it all!' Jack said, 'I won't stand this another minute, ' and heretraced his steps up the lane, reaching the down just as the Squire, with a pointer at his heels, was bowing low and waving his hand infarewell to Bryda. 

Jack was at her side in an instant. 

'What does that fellow want?'

Bryda had recovered her self-possession. 

'He has promised to stay proceedings against grandfather for a month, 'and the swift colour came to her face, and then vanishing, left it paleas death. 

'What has he been saying to you?' Jack demanded, almost fiercely. 'Hashe been frightening you to death--it looks like it. '

'Don't be angry, Jack; you should be glad. I have got a month's respite. I am tired, that is all. Come in to supper; Betty is sure to havesomething good to-night to try and tempt grandfather. '

Jack was wondering when Bryda would ask what had been the result of hisjourney to Bristol. He had walked some twenty miles in her service, andyet she asked no questions about the letter. 

'I have been to Bristol, ' he began, 'and delivered your letter. Don'tyou want to know what Madam Lambert said?'

'Oh, my letter! Yes--will she have me?' But Bryda did not seem eager foran answer. 

'Yes, you can ride with me on Monday in the cart, and I will put youdown at number six Dowry Square. Madam will give you ten pounds a year, and you will get a lot of books--I saw shelves full in the parlour--andyou will see all the fine folks at the pump-room, and hear the bandplay. Won't you like that--eh, Bryda?'

'Oh, yes, of course I shall. I thank you, Jack, for taking all thistrouble for me. '

But the thanks were not so warm as Jack expected, and he could notunderstand what made Bryda seem so different from the eager, restlessgirl of the previous day, whose whole heart seemed then set on going toBristol. 

The supper was silent, and old Mr Palmer could not be persuaded to tastethe little meat pie made expressly for him. He pushed the plate away, saying, --

'What business have I to be eating dainties like that, when I may nothave a crust to gnaw before the year's out. Take it away, take itaway--I don't want it. '

Jack took leave as soon as supper was over, and made his way with aheavy heart to his own home. 

Then he found his mother in a very captious mood, upbraiding him for hislong absence, and asking what he had been about all day. 

'That's my concern, I suppose, in my holidays, ' he replied. 

'I shall be glad when your holidays are over, vastly glad. Your brotherJim is worth six of you after all. You don't know how to take advantageof the place in uncle's shop, which many would give their ears for. '

'Let Jim go to be a silversmith, ' Jack said, 'and I'll come on thefarm. '

'No. I know what's what, and the eldest shall have the first chance. Forthe sake of your widowed mother and six innocent little sisters youought to be willing to do anything to raise you in the world. '

'Raise me! Pshaw! it's the other way, ' Jack said. 'It's fine "raising, "indeed, to be cooped up in a little workshop, peering into the works ofold watches, with a glass in my eye and my back ready to break. However, I'm off again on Monday, ' he said, altering his tone, for he rememberedthat if Bryda was in Dowry Square, within reach, even the littleworkshop and the pain in his back would be tolerable. 

Mrs Henderson was seated by the wide lattice window, with her feet on astool, dressed much more smartly than the farmers' wives in theneighbourhood. She was sprigging fine muslin for a cap, and she worelarge rings on the finger of her left hand, as well as her wedding ringon the other. 

The rings were of doubtful quality, like Falstaff's of old, but theywere family heirlooms, and had been worn by her mother before her. 

Mrs Henderson prided herself on her ancestry, her mother being thedaughter of a draper and haberdasher in Bath. She was generally supposedto be a cut above her neighbours, and she left the farm to theserving-man she dignified with the name of bailiff, and her six littlegirls to tumble up as best they could. It was thought by Dorothy Burrowand others, ridiculous to try to make Jack into a Bristol tradesman andJim the farmer. But Jim was no favourite with his mother. She set greatstore on appearances, and Jim had a squint and a wide mouth, a freckledface, with carroty hair, while Jack was in his mother's eyes, and in theeyes of other people also, a fine handsome fellow, with eyes of a deepblue, and chestnut hair curling lightly on his shapely head. 

Mrs Henderson trusted to Jack to set the family up by becoming a partnerat last in Mr Henderson's business, he being a bachelor, and with no sonto succeed him. 

'There's a great talk about these poor Palmers, Jack, ' his mother said, dropping her work as the light failed. 'The old man is ruined. Money heborrowed of old Squire Bayfield has to be paid back. And it all camefrom that worthless son of his years agone having to leave the countryto escape the gallows. Farmer Short was here to-day and was telling meall about it. A nice come down for these two girls, especially theeldest, who thinks herself a wit and a beauty. She'll have to go toservice, if anybody will take such a useless piece of goods!'

'Good-night, mother, ' was Jack's only reply. 'I'm tired, and off toroost--good-night. '

CHAPTER VI

THE SYMPATHY OF POVERTY. 

It was one evening early in June, when the days were almost at theirlongest, that Mrs Chatterton sprang to the door of her modest littledwelling in Redcliffe Street to greet her son. 

'Welcome, my dear boy, welcome!' And the embrace between mother and sonwas as fervent as if they had been parted for a month instead of onlyfour days. 'Where was you the last evening, Tom?' his mother asked. 

'I was walking to and fro in the streets, ' was the reply, 'too restlessto come hither to trouble you and sister. By-the-bye, where is Sis?'

'Gone to take a bit of supper with Mrs Edkins, sure, but she will bereturning ere long. You will bear me company till she returns. Have youhad a letter from the grand gentleman in London, Tom?' his mother asked. 

Instantly the sunshine on Chatterton's face, which the loving greetingof his mother had kindled there, was gone; his whole bearing changed. His eyes flashed, and he exclaimed, --

'Don't weary me with questions, mother. When the great or little mandeigns to reply to me I'll tell you. ' Then muttered imprecationsfollowed, and the boy paced the little room, with his hands at his back, his head bent, not uttering another word for ten minutes. Presently heshook off his ill mood, and laughing, said, 'There has been an arrivalat the mansion in Dowry Square. I came to tell you of it, only you putit out of my head. '

'An arrival? A new serving-maid?'

'Yes; but that word does not suit her. I am taking her out on Sunday, and I shall bring her here, poor soul! I pity her as I pity anyone whohas to deal with the family of Lambert. You know that big fellowHenderson--I brought him here once. '

'Yes, sure, I remember him, and his pleasant face. '

'His stupid face, rather. Well, to proceed--a cart lumbered up toLambert's house Monday at noon, and with a mighty thump the saidHenderson descended. Then he put a bundle on the pavement, next a box, next a big bunch of gillyflowers and roses, and next he helped out ayoung woman. What do I say?--a young lady, beautiful as an angel--justsuch an one as I have seen in dreams. '

'Like Miss Rumsey, Tom. '

'Pshaw! Miss Rumsey is of the earth earthy, but this one is of anotherrace. In she came just as I was returning from a message sent by MrLambert, and I stood aside to let her pass. She smiled, and yet therewere tears in her eyes as she turned to Henderson, and says she, "Good-bye, Jack. Come and see me soon, and--" Then came a voice from theparlour, "Sam, take the young woman's box to her chamber, and walk inhere, Miss Palmer. " Then the vision passed, and I was in the streetbidding Jack Henderson good day as he clambered up to his seat to driveround to Corn Street and put up the horse for the night at the WhiteHart. I'll bring her here on Sunday, and you'll judge for yourself andsister also. She will admire her as much as I do, if she don't look ather through the green eyes of jealousy. '

'Whatever has brought her to Mr Lambert's?'

'She is a cousin of the old lady's, in poor plight from some loss ofmoney. Poor! How pretty that word sounds from Madam Lambert's lips. Well, the poverty will make a bond between this young lady and me; andwhen I asked her if she would like to see my mother she said she wouldfain see anyone who would be kind to her, so expect us on Sunday. '

'In the forenoon, Tom?'

'I think not. She will have her slaving to get through first. '

Then Chatterton went to a door leading up a flight of narrow stairs tothe upper storey of his mother's house. 

'You are not going up there for long, Tom?' his mother asked, with asigh. 

But there was no reply as Chatterton's light steps were heard ascendingto the garret where he kept all his old parchments, his charcoal, hisbooks, and various possessions, all as necessary to him, or indeed morenecessary than his daily bread. 

It was in this year of 1769 that Chatterton's hopes had risen on rainbowcoloured wings, when his 'The Ryse of Peyncteyne in England, written byT. Rowlie, in 1469, for Master Canynge, ' had been favourably received byno less a personage than Horace Walpole. The spring of that year hadbeen the springtime of Chatterton's fairest hopes. In April a letterfrom Mr Walpole fired the boy with the desire to do more than ever withhis strange conceits and imitations of old documents. 

If Mr Walpole could be deceived, who might not follow his example?

But that courteous, nay deferential, letter on the receipt of 'The Ryseof Peyncteyne' was the first of its kind and the last. For now June hadcome, and other specimens of Rowley's extraordinary gifts were not evenacknowledged, nor could his repeated requests for the return of themanuscripts avail, and his heart was full of bitterness and indignationagainst everyone. 

It is hard to realise that the author of 'Ælla' and all the otherfictions was scarcely more than a child; that the boy of one of ourpublic schools, in the sixth form, is the age of this poor lawyer'sapprentice, whose short life was filled with the dreams and aspirationsof a man while as yet he had scarcely emerged from childhood, and wasbut a boy in years. 

Bryda Palmer's arrival at Mrs Lambert's house in Dowry Square wasexactly as Chatterton had described it to his mother. 

A great wave of desolation had swept over her as she heard the cartrumble off, and took up her posy of gillyflowers and her small basket asshe obeyed Mrs Lambert's summons to the parlour. 

Mrs Lambert looked her down from head to foot, and was apparentlysatisfied. 

'Take care not to drop the flowers about, if you please, ' she said. 'Youcan put them in a pot by the grate, but I like no litters made byflowers or anything else. You may sit down while I talk to you, ' MrsLambert added. 'You look very delicate; I hope you are not in adecline. '

'I am very well, madam. It is only that I have felt the pain of leavinghome a little. I shall soon get used to it; and I am much obliged to youfor taking me in, I will try to please you. '

'I want a maid-servant who can attend to me--crimp my lace borders, clear starch, iron aprons, make bows, and do needlework, also help belowstairs when fine cooking is needed. My son brings in a friend to suppersometimes, for cribbage, and he is very particular about the pastrybeing light, and the Welsh rabbit done to a turn. Have you ever made aWelsh rabbit--toasted cheese, you know, wetted with a little ale?'

'I daresay I can do it, ' Bryda said. 

'Well, added to this, you must dust the chayney. I have very finechayney. And you'll have to rub the oak bureaus and clean the brass. Ifyou serve my purpose I shall get no more sluts as maids, but keep goingwith Mrs Symes, who comes every morning, and Sam the footboy. Then Iexpect you to be pretty, trim, and neat in the afternoon, and sit hereand read to me, darn stockings--my son's and mine--and mend fine lace, and--well--a hundred other jobs which I need not count up now. There isno one in the house but yourself and an apprentice, who is bound to myson--worse luck--an idle good-for-nothing, with whom you may justcivilly pass the time of day, but no more. He is not a companion fit forany young woman--a wild scapegrace. Mr Lambert would be glad to be quitof him. Now, if your box is taken to your chamber, you may go and layaside your hood. I suppose you have more gowns than that you stand upin?'

'Yes, I have changes of gowns and aprons. '

'Very well, I think you will suit me. Mr Lambert comes into his dinnerat half after one o'clock; it is near that now. You can take your mealswith us, and see my friends when they visit me. There, now, I think youare a very lucky young person--be off to your chamber--first door on thesecond flight. '

Bryda hastened to obey, and was thankful to get a few minutes toherself. 

Mrs Lambert seemed satisfied, but it was Mr Lambert whom she wanted tosee, and she dare not address him before his mother. 

On the second day after her arrival Mrs Lambert said there would befriends to sup, and Bryda must make a cake and some apple pies, and MrsSymes had her orders to put things ready for her in the kitchen. 

Up to this time the glimpse Bryda had of the apprentice at the door wasall she had seen of him. 

But when she went down into the kitchen at twelve o'clock she found himseated at a very untempting meal, with Sam the footboy and Mrs Symes. 

But whether the repast was tempting or not made but little difference toChatterton. He had a book open before him, and only now and thenswallowed a bit of the unsavoury morsels provided, and preserved ahaughty silence when Mrs Symes questioned him as to any of the gossipcurrent in Bristol. 

Presently she pushed back her chair, and before departing to the backkitchen with Sam she placed, with rather a bad grace, a rolling pin andflour and butter on a board at a side-table, some apples and a jar ofraisins and spice and coarse sugar, saying, --

'Will that suit your fine cookery, miss? Lor' bless me, I could die oflaughing to think a pair of hands like yours could make better pastethan mine! You'd best be careful or you'll catch it. If ever there was afidget about his food it's Master Lambert. Come, now, Tom, I am going toclear away, so you must budge. Why, you've left half your victuals onthe platter. I'll feed the cat with them. '

Chatterton now looked up from his book, and said, --

'You're welcome, or rather the cat is welcome. '

He had an hour allowed for his dinner, and was not due at the officeagain till one o'clock, when Mr Lambert left it to return to DowrySquare for his midday repast at half-past one. 

Chatterton rose as he spoke, and sat down on a stool by the fire, hisbook still in his hand. 

But he was not reading now, he was watching the lithe, graceful figureat the side-table. 

Bryda had rolled up her short sleeves above the elbow, and her prettyrounded arms were seen to advantage as she mixed the flour and kneadedit, and then passed the rolling pin lightly over it. 

She was conscious of Chatterton's presence, but her back was turned tohim. 

Presently she turned her head, and saw a pair of extraordinary eyesfixed on her. It was not an impertinent gaze like that of SquireBayfield's, it was simply one of almost wistful earnestness. 

'I am wondering, miss, ' he began, 'what made you come to this hole?'

'I came because I am poor, and wish to help them at home. '

Chatterton's eyes flashed. 

'_Poor!_ Aye, to be poor is a curse. '

'No, ' Bryda said, 'it need not be a curse. '

Then she went on with her rolling and kneading. Presently she saidagain, --

'Are you a lawyer, sir?'

'A lawyer's apprentice, worse luck. '

'I have a question about law to ask Mr Lambert and I am afraid toapproach him. '

'I don't wonder. Well, what is the question?'

'If a person promised to pay back a debt, and put his hand to a bond, and the man to whom he owed the money died before it was paid, would theson of that man have a right to it?'

'If it had been so set down in the bond that the heirs of his bodyshould have it, yes, he'd have to pay it. '

'Then there is no hope, ' Bryda said, with a sigh, and Chatterton saw herwipe a tear away with the corner of her apron. 

'Hark, miss, ' he said, 'I am poor, and treated here like a dog because Iam poor. I have a good mother, and if you would like to see her shewould be proud to see you. I can escort you there on Sunday, and showyou a thing or two. '

'If I may, I will come, ' Bryda said. 

'May? Sunday is everyone's holiday. I should feel it an honour to guideyou to St Mary's grand church. It is there my father found all thesefine poems, you know, up in the muniment room. '

'I knew you were very learned. I have the story of the "Fryars passingover the old Bridge" in my pocket-book. I cut it out of the newspaper. '

'But I can read you better things than that, if you care to hear them. Ihave a splendid poem called the "Tragedy of Ælla. " The minstrel's songwould be to your taste, perhaps. But I must away now. Count me as yourfriend in this miserable hole should you need one. '

'I do need a friend, ' poor Bryda said; 'I am friendless in Bristolexcept for one, ' she added. 'You know him--Mr Jack Henderson. '

'Yes, I know him, a big country lout and bumpkin, whom his uncle istrying to polish as he polishes his silver goods, poor fool for hispains. '

But Bryda rose on the defensive for Jack. 

'Mr Henderson is a good and true friend, sir, nor can I hear himill-spoken of. '

'Nay, I meant no harm, ' Chatterton said, and the next minute Bryda wasleft to her pastry making and cake mixing. 

'If Jack should ask me to go out on Sunday he will be angered against mefor promising to go with that strange boy, but what fire there is inhis eyes, what a noble mien he has when he answers Mrs Symes. '

Here Bryda's soliloquy was abruptly broken in on by Mrs Symes' voice. 

'Seasoning your pastry with gossip, I hear. Have a care of yon fellow. Ithink an evil spirit is in him, and so do many beside me, let me tellyou, miss. '

CHAPTER VII

CONSULTATION. 

Bryda watched her opportunity, and finding Mr Lambert alone in theparlour, on the first Sunday morning of her residence in Dowry Square, she laid before him her grandfather's troubles. Mr Lambert's advice wassoon given. 

'Let him sell goods to the value of three hundred pounds, and pay downthe money, or he may be clapped into the debtors' prison. '

'Oh! sir, anything would be better than that. I have got a month'sdelay, and I have some hope of the Squire's relenting. '

'I have none, ' said Mr Lambert. 'You ask my advice, and I give it. Letyour grandfather employ some trustworthy auctioneer to value stock, tothe amount of the debt, then employ him to effect a sale, and the matteris settled. A debt like that is a chain round a man's neck, and he hadbetter live on a loaf a day than go down to his grave burdened by thethought of making a legacy of it to his descendants. '

Bryda could only murmur her thanks. She was wondering if Mr Lambertknew the whole story of her father's disgrace, and she shrank fromalluding to it. Presently Mrs Lambert came in with some papers in herhand. 

'Look here!' she said, 'I picked up this rubbish in the backyard. It issome of that mad apprentice's stuff. _That_ is how he wastes his time, and robs you of what he is bound to give you. The sooner you are rid ofhim the better, ' and Mrs Lambert held out some fragments of parchment toher son, covered with black hieroglyphics and stained with charcoal. 

'I think the fellow is in league with the devil, ' Mrs Lambert said. 'What can all this mean?'

'Give the papers to me, mother; I will show them to Barrett and Catcott. They look like trumpery not worth a thought. '

'Now, miss, ' Madam Lambert said sharply, 'I am ready to go to church. You must accompany me and carry my books; make haste. '

When Bryda had left the room Mr Lambert said, --

'A pretty girl this new maid of yours, mother. Look sharp after her oryou will have the fellows at her heels. '

'She is as quiet as a mouse, ' was the reply. 'A bit too quiet, but sheis none the worse for that; and I will say she makes the best pastry Iever tasted. '

'Well, have a care, ' Mr Lambert said. 'Henderson says that his brightnephew Jack is one of her beaux, and I daresay there will be a dozenmore before long. '

A few minutes later Bryda was sedately walking by Mrs Lambert's side, carrying her large prayer book and Bible, while Mrs Lambert had agold-headed cane in one of her hands, on which she leaned as it tappedon the pavement, and in the other a black silk reticule, which containedher handkerchief, a fan, and a scent-bottle of somewhat giganticproportions. 

She wore her best Sunday black paduasoy, and a hood over the frills ofher lace cap, which was tied with whimples under her chin, fastened by asmall diamond brooch. 

Mrs Lambert was looked upon as 'quality, ' and as she passed into thecathedral she curtsied with a patronising air to several of heracquaintances. 

It was a long walk for Mrs Lambert from Dowry Square, but she liked toworship where, as she expressed it, the clergy and congregation werecomposed of 'gentry, ' and where the visitors at the Hot Wells were to beseen in a variety of smart costumes. 

There was scant reverence for the house of God in these days--days whenthe Church was asleep, and the fervour of religious zeal was justbeginning to burn outside her pale, kindled by the teaching of theWesleys and Whitfields. 

There was a buzz of talk as the congregation reached the choir, andengagements were made and civilities exchanged with almost as muchfreedom as at the door of the pump-room under St Vincent's Rocks. 

Bryda had never been inside a large church before, and she was struckwith wonder as she looked up into the vaulted roof and watched themorning sunshine illuminating the pillars with transient radiance. 

Bristol Cathedral is not remarkable for stately proportions, and in theeye of many is but an insignificant building, which cannot bearcomparison with the noble church of St Mary Redcliffe. 

But to Bryda that morning in the cathedral seemed to begin a new era inher life. The Past, with its stories, the stories that Mr Lambert'sapprentice told her had been found in the muniment room at St Mary's, seemed to live before her. 

The men that had raised those walls and carved the devices on thepillars, who were they?

Was there no record left, no voice to tell of the labour, and the toil, and the spirit which had moved them to do their work well?

Bryda's small figure was hidden in the deep pews which then disfiguredthe choir, and it was only when she stood up, and was raised above theledge of the seat by a green baize hassock, that she could see thecongregation or could be seen by them. 

Mrs Lambert sat through the service, fanning herself at intervals andsmelling her salts, though she whispered the prayers after the clergymanand made the responses in an audible voice. 

Bryda was in a dream, and thinking alternately of her grandfather, Betty, and the young Squire. Poor child, she had never been taught thatthe burden of all troubles and anxieties and sorrows can be laid at thefeet of the Father who pities His children. He was a God very far off toBryda Palmer, as to the great majority of girls in her position of life, and, indeed, in any position of life, in the last decades of theeighteenth century. 

The sermon was a dry dissertation to which no one listened, to judge bythe number of sleepers in the pews, who woke with a start when the organpealed forth the welcome tidings that the service was over. 

At the door of the cathedral Bryda saw, to her great discomforture, MrBayfield. 

He smiled and made a low bow, which Bryda returned by a curtsey, andthen was passing on laden with her heavy books, when the Squire said, 'Permit me, ' putting his hand on the heavy Bible. 

'No; I thank you, sir, ' Bryda said, and Mrs Lambert turned sharplyround. 

'Miss Palmer, you will oblige me by attending to your duties. '

'Indeed, madam, ' Mr Bayfield said, 'I think Miss Palmer is scarce fittedto bear these heavy books. I venture to take them from her, by yourleave. '

'Sir, ' Mrs Lambert said, bridling, 'I have not the honour of youracquaintance. '

'This is Mr Bayfield, ' poor Bryda said, a blush suffusing her fair faceand a look of almost terror in her eyes. 

'Is he a friend of yours, Miss Palmer?'

'Oh, no, ' Bryda said fervently; 'no. '

'Nay. That is cruel, too cruel, Miss Palmer. ' Then in a lower voice hesaid, 'The month expires on this day three weeks. I shall expect, naydemand my reply at that date. '

Then, with another bow, his three-cornered hat in his hand, Mr Bayfieldturned away. 

But Bryda had not seen the last of him. The midday dinner was not overwhen the large brass knocker on Mr Lambert's door thundered against it, and took Sam to open it in hot haste. He returned quickly to say, --

'A gentleman wishes to see you, sir, on business. '

'Then tell him I don't see clients on Sunday, but at my office in CornStreet on week days. What does he mean by bringing the house down likethat?'

Sam disappeared, but returned again to say, --

'The gentleman desires to see you, sir, on a private matter. '

'Tell him to walk into the study and wait my convenience. I am eating mydinner, if he must know. '

Bryda felt certain the visitor was Mr Bayfield, who must have followedher and Mrs Lambert home from the cathedral, and so discovered where shelived. 

She was determined to escape another interview with the Squire, and assoon as she had helped Sam to clear away the glass and china, she gaveMrs Lambert her footstool as she retired to an easy-chair, with a glassof port wine, on a little table at her side, and a volume of Blair'ssermons, which were both agreeable sedatives, and conducive to aprolonged sleep. Bryda then went hastily upstairs, and tying on her highpoke bonnet, slipped out at the front door, and found, as she expected, Jack awaiting her at the corner of the square. The sight of hisfriendly, honest face had never been so welcome before, and she showedher pleasure by the warmth of her greeting. 

'Oh, Jack, ' she said, 'will you take me to see that poor boy's mother?'

'What poor boy?' Jack asked. 

'Tom Chatterton, of course, the poet. I _do_ pity him so much. He ismiserable and unhappy, and you know, Jack, so am I, and therefore Iunderstand how he feels. Besides, I want to get far away from Mr Lambertthis afternoon, for the cruel Squire has followed me, and is now talkingto Mr Lambert. I know what he is saying. I dread him, I am afraid ofhim. '

'Afraid of him? How can you be afraid of him? I will soon show him whatI can do if he dares to molest you. Let him try, that's all. '

'Oh, don't quarrel with him, Jack, that would only make matters worse. Don't talk of him. I want to forget him, and see the poor boy's grandchurch he says is so beautiful, and his mother and his sister. '

'They are quite poor folks, ' Jack said, 'but come along. I would takeyou to the end of the world if you wanted. But will Madam Lambert beangry at you for coming out?'

'She said I was to have time to myself on Sundays, and I have been tochurch with her this morning. She gave me her books to carry. Such bigheavy books. '

'The poor boy, ' as Bryda called him, had been pacing up and down on thewide open space before St Mary's Redcliffe for some time. 

He had been unwilling to go too near Dowry Square to meet Bryda, forfear of a reprimand if he chanced to be seen by his master or MrsLambert. 

At the same time he was doubtful as to Bryda finding her way alone, andhe had asked Jack Henderson to go to Dowry Square and bring her to hismother's house. 

The apprentice in his workaday dress presented a very differentappearance from the apprentice in his holiday attire. 

Chatterton always liked to do his best to cut a respectable figureamongst his associates. 

His coat of mulberry cloth had, it is true, been bought second-hand withsome difficulty, but it set off his slight, boyish figure to advantage. His knee-breeches and waistcoat, with embroidered flowers, were thehandiwork of his mother and sister, and so was the white neckerchief, with lace at the ends, which was tied in a careless bow at his neck. 

His massive curls were brushed and combed back from his wide brow, andthere was about him that indescribable 'something' which separated himfrom the throng of youths who collected in Bristol streets on Sundays, some on the College Green and many in Redcliffe Meadows, talking andlaughing with the girls who were, like themselves, occupied in the weekin shops and warehouses or in domestic service. 

The contributions to _Felix Farley's Journal_ had by this time attractedattention to Chatterton, but he was entirely believed in by respectablepeople when he said he had discovered the works of one Rowley, a priestof St John, in the time of Canynge, [A] and had reproduced them for thewonder and benefit of all lovers of ancient lore, especially when theauthor of these works had been an inhabitant of the City of the West, which had been famous in the history of the country from very earlytimes. 

When at last Jack Henderson and Bryda came in sight Chatterton did nothasten to meet them. 

He chose to be offended that Bryda was so much later than he hadexpected, and for the first few minutes he was moody and gloomy. 

The three took the accustomed turn in Redcliffe Meadows, where presentlyChatterton's sister joined them, and Bryda was introduced in due form. 

'My mother bids me say, Miss Palmer, she will be vastly glad if you willtake a dish of tea with us, and you also, Mr Henderson. '

Jack could only express his gratitude for the invitation, and walk byMiss Chatterton's side, while her brother and Bryda were left together. 

'That church is fine, is it not, miss?' Chatterton began. 'I consider ita marvel of the builder's art, and a casket which contains precioustreasure. In yonder muniment room above the porch lay concealed forcenturies the works of a man, as wonderful in their way as yonderpinnacles and buttresses. Will you take a turn in the meadows--there arenot so many fools prancing about here to-day as sometimes. The riverbegins to attract them at this season. '

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote A: William Canynge was five times Mayor of Bristol. Hegenerously contributed to the work of rebuilding and ornamenting theChurch of St Mary Redcliffe, and built and endowed an almshouse andhospital in the parish. He took holy orders on the death of his wife toavoid a second marriage pressed on him by King Henry VI. , who speaks ofhim as 'his beloved, eminent merchant of Bristol. ' William Canynge wasmade Dean of the College of Westbury, which he rebuilt with his usualmunificence. He died in 1474. ]

CHAPTER VIII

THE SONGS OF ROWLEY THE PRIEST. 

And now Bryda listened to the song of Rowley, the priest of St John, asChatterton poured it in her ear with almost fiery eloquence. She couldscarcely believe the apprentice taking his meals with the footboy in thedingy kitchen at Dowry Square could be one with the young man who walkedby her side in his holiday attire. 

All the latent romance in Bryda's nature was stirred by the historywhich her companion told her of the old parchments, used forsooth ascovers of books, or cut up into thread papers, and yet of pricelessvalue--a value which he alone had discovered. 

'Listen, ' he said, stopping short, 'and I will recite to you an elegy orminstrel's song from the "Tragedy of Ælla, " then tell me whether Rowleythe priest was not a king amongst men. A poor priest--aye, and a poorapprentice, brought up on the charity of Colston's School, has broughthim to light, and in due time we shall see his memory receive the laurelcrown, denied him perhaps in his life. It is only these dull tradingBristol folk who are blind as bats and deaf as adders. Curse them! Ihate Bristol and its people for Rowley's sake, and for my own. Yet Iwill rise above them, and they shall find they cannot trample on me withimpunity. '

Bryda began to feel frightened at the increased vehemence of hercompanion, and looking back, saw they had left Jack Henderson and MissChatterton far behind. 

But suddenly his manner changed, and he said, --

'No. I will not sing to you of death, you who are so full of life andbeauty. The minstrel sang in a sad refrain, --

 My love is dead, Gone to his deathbed All under the willow tree. 

Your love shall have a happier fate. Hark!' he said, 'you shall have asong of springtime, not of the grave--the dark grave, where I wishmyself a dozen times a day. '

'Do not say so. Life is so sweet and beautiful, ' Bryda exclaimed. 'Though I have many cares at this time, yet I love life, and even inDowry Square I think it is good to be alive. '

'Aye, to you, doubtless, ' was the reply. 'But now for the verse from the"History of Painting. "

 When spring came dancing on a flowery bed, Clothed in green raiment of a changing kind, The leaves of hawthorn budding o'er his head, And with fair primroses waving in the wind, Then did the shepherd his white garment spread Upon the green bank, and danced all around, Whilst the sweet flowerets nodded on his head, And his fair lambs were scattered on the ground; Beneath his foot the brooklet ran along, Which strolleth round the vale to hear his joyous song. 

'There, Miss Palmer, you have a song of spring, wrote hundreds of yearsago. I tell it to you in the language of to-day, but it is ten timessweeter in the beauteous rhythm of the olden time. '

'It would not be sweeter to me, ' Bryda said; 'for though I found the"History of the Opening of the Bristol Bridge" full of beauty, yet itteased me to scan the words though I made out their meaning at last. Howcould you find them out--who helped you?'

Chatterton laughed. 

'My dear young lady I helped myself to the Saxon language as to mostother things. If I trusted to other help I should be worse off than Iam. When first it dawned on me that the friend and confessor of Canyngehad wrote all these poems for the edifying of his patron, I toiled nightand day till I was able to interpret them for this perverse generation. But I had my friends. Mr Catcott is one, Mr Barrett, a surgeon, another, and now let me count as a friend one fairer than they, your sweet self. '

'As we live under the same roof, we may well be friends, but if, as yousay, you are yet but sixteen years old, you are so much younger than Iam. '

'Nay, older by a score of years, ' Chatterton interrupted. 'For age isnot counted by years, but by the strife and the struggle and the miserythrough which the soul passes. In this I am your senior. '

'Nay, ' Bryda said gently, 'we cannot enter into each other's secretheart. We all know our own troubles. I have mine, and I am now partedfrom a sister I love, and I am, after a week's absence, hungering forher tender care. '

And now Bryda became conscious that they were observed by a party ofgirls who were returning through the meadows from a Sunday ramble withtheir lovers. 

Several of the girls nodded and laughed at Chatterton. One stopped andsaid, --

'A new flame, Tom? Oh, fie for shame! Do you know, miss, whoever you maybe, that Master Tom is a terrible one to shoot from Cupid's bow. Heseldom misses his aim. '

'Come on, ' said a gruff voice, 'and don't talk such foolery, Sally. Leave the boy to look after his own business. '

'Or rather the girl after hers, ' was the saucy reply, as the pair movedaway. 

Jack Henderson began to think that Miss Chatterton purposely avoidedjoining company with her brother and Bryda. 

He now said, --

'Miss Palmer has a long walk to Dowry Square. I think, by your leave, Iwill join her, and advise her to take advantage of Mrs Chatterton'soffer to rest a while at her house. '

'Certainly, sir, if you desire it; but my brother would fain take herinto the church, I fancy, before it is closed. '

Chatterton at once became moody and distrait when his _tête-à-tête_ withBryda was at an end. He had been annoyed, too, by the remarks of thefree-spoken young lady, who had rallied him on his 'new conquest, ' andwhen they entered the church the evil spirit was again dominant. 

But Bryda forgot him, forgot Rowley the priest, and the wonderful storyof his poems, in the feeling of awe with which the noble church inspiredher. 

There was in her, as I have said, a quick response to all sights andsounds of beauty. Then, as the organ rolled its waves of melody aboveher head, as the last Amen of the choir rose to the vaulted roof, herwhole soul was wrapt in that feeling which has no other name butdevotion. The unseen Presence of what was holy and pure seemed toencompass her, and as she leaned against one of the pillars, close tothe monument of the great Canynge, her fair face wore on it anexpression those who saw it were not likely to forget. 

And, as if in sharp contrast, a little in the background was seen thegrand outline of Chatterton's head, thrown back with a strangely defiantair, his lips curled with contempt, his hands clasped at his back, andhis whole bearing that of one full of resentment and hatred against whatmight or might not be imaginary foes. 

There is nothing more sorrowful than the story of Chatterton's genius, misdirected, and, as it were, preparing its own doom. The lawyer'sapprentice, who had this rare gift of poetry, was to know only brokenhopes and unfulfilled desires, and soon to fall beyond the reach ofhelp, of human love, or Christian charity. 

There he stood, on that bright summer afternoon, as the procession ofclergy passed out and the organ pealed forth its melodious strains, there he stood in the church, where his father had stood before him, chafing against his lot, and conscious, who shall say how bitterlyconscious, that like the baseless fabric of a dream the poems of thepriest of St John would vanish, and he, Thomas Chatterton, the truepoet, stand exposed as an unskilful forger. Sixteen summers had barelypassed over his head, and yet in moments like these he looked as if thestorms of twice sixteen years had left their mark upon him. 

Mrs Chatterton received Bryda with kindly warmth, rather overdoing herapologies for her humble fare and poor cottage. It was evident thatChatterton chafed at this, and he scarcely spoke a word during tea. JackHenderson and Chatterton's mother made an attempt at conversation, buthonest Jack was not skilled in finding subjects for small talk, and hewas, moreover, so engrossed with Bryda that he had little room for anyother thought. 

When tea was over Bryda said she must return to Mr Lambert's, as Sam thefootboy was to have his turn for a holiday after six o'clock. Jack wasonly too glad to get Bryda off, and as they walked away together hesaid, --

'Don't have too much to say to Tom Chatterton, Bryda. '

She looked up at him and laughed. 

'It was he who had so much to say to me, ' she said. 

'Well, he is not the man for you to make a friend of, mind that. '

'Man!' she said. 'Jack, he is only a boy--just sixteen. You did not callyourself a man then when you were at the Grammar School at Wells. But, Jack--' she said more seriously. 

'I don't want to talk any more about the apprentice, though I pity himjust as I should pity a young eagle shut up in a close cage, and feelingall his strength to rise to the sun of no use. Oh, yes, I do pity him, and so ought you. '

'I shall pity myself more if you give him all your company anotherSunday and shut me out. '

'Don't be silly, Jack; I am not one to cast off old friends for new. But, Jack, I am so frightened when I think the Squire is in Bristol. What did he come for?'

'What was he saying to you by the orchard gate that evening I came uponyou?'

'Oh, that I could not tell you; it was all meant to flatter me, and Ihate him. '

'Why did he say he would give your grandfather a month before he soldoff?'

Bryda hesitated. 

'He said something about he would have me instead of the money. '

Jack Henderson's honest face flushed with indignation. 

'The villain--the cursed villain! I see what he is driving at, but Iwill be quits with him. '

Bryda grew calm as Jack waxed more and more vehement, and his loud voiceattracted the passers-by. 

'Hush, Jack, people are staring at you! Do you suppose I would be boughtlike that? No! What would Bet say? I would sooner die than strike abargain like that!'

'I'd sooner see you dead, ' Jack replied. 

Bryda was afraid to say more that would rouse Jack's wrath, so she askedhim to be sure to let her hear any news of home. 

'I sha'n't hear any news. No one ever writes to me. When the farmproduce comes in once a month on market days the old carter asks if I amin good health--with the missus' love--that's about all. '

'I am writing to Bet, little bits every day. I have got an ink-pot and aquill pen up in the garret, and Mr Chatterton gave me some paper fromthe office, but I don't think that is quite honest, so please buy me alittle. I can give you a shilling, ' she said, putting her hand in thelarge pocket which was fastened to her waist under the short skirt. 

Jack pushed her hand away. 

'I don't want your shilling, ' he said. 

'Oh, Jack, why are you so cross-grained, ' Bryda said, 'it is not likeyou. '

'I don't feel like myself neither, ' poor Jack said, 'but I'll be in abetter temper when I see you next Sunday, and don't have that mad boy atyour heels. Take care what you do in Bristol; it is full of people, andsome of them are bad enough. So take care, for you know you are--well, you have only to look in a glass to see. Good-bye, Bryda, I won't comeup to the door. '

Bryda found Mrs Lambert only half awake in her easy-chair, with the bestchina teacups and a small teapot before her. Blair's sermons and theport wine together had caused a prolonged slumber, and Sam had broughtin the tray all unobserved at five o'clock. Mr Lambert generally spenthis Sunday afternoons with a friend at Long Ashton, and sometimes one ofMrs Lambert's cronies looked in on her for a dish of tea and a gossip. But no one had arrived on this afternoon, and the good lady had thusslept on undisturbed. 

'What is the time, Miss Palmer? It must be time for tea. '

'Oh, yes, madam; it is six o'clock. I will go and boil the kettle, andmake the tea; please give me the keys of the caddy. '

Bryda took the large tortoiseshell caddy from the shelf in the glasscupboard, and Mrs Lambert solemnly unlocked it. Tea was precious inthose days, and Mrs Lambert took a teaspoon and carefully measured theprecise quantity, saying, --

'One for each person, and one for the pot. '

'I have had my tea, madam, ' Bryda said. 

'Oh! Well you can take another cup, I daresay, ' Mrs Lambert saidgraciously. 'I am getting a little faint, ' she added, yawning, 'so Ishall be obliged to you to hasten to brew the tea. '

Bryda lost no time, and descending to the lower regions, set Sam atliberty till nine o'clock, and very soon had tea and crisp toast readyfor her mistress. 

All her handy ways were rapidly winning her favour, and Mrs Lambertcalled her 'a very notable young person, not at all like one brought upin a farmhouse!'

When the tea was over Bryda cleared it away, and carefully washing thehandleless cups, replaced them in the corner cupboard. Then she took aseat by the window, at Mrs Lambert's request, and read to her--a drysermon first, and then Mrs Lambert told her she might go to the bookcaseand choose a book for her own reading. 

Bryda's eyes kindled with delight, and she joyfully accepted the offer. 

'May I choose any book, madam?'

'Any book that is not a novel. There are some there not for Sundayreading, or indeed for workaday reading for a young person. '

'Milton's _Paradise Lost_, ' Bryda said, 'may I take that?'

'Yes, but be careful not to finger the binding, and remember no bookleaves this room. I found the apprentice had dared to abstract a volumeof an old poet--which I am sure he could not read--by name Chaucer, forthe poems are wrote in old English. He had a deserved reprimand, and abox on the ears for his pains. '

'Old English, ' thought Bryda, 'old English, Tom Chatterton can read oldEnglish, for I suppose Rowley the priest's poems are in old English. '

CHAPTER IX

THE POET'S FRIENDS. 

When Chatterton left his mother's house soon after Bryda and JackHenderson had gone away together he was in one of his most depressedmoods. 

What did anyone care for him or his disappointments and continuallydeferred hope that Mr Walpole would at least return the manuscripts, atfirst so graciously received, and now it would seem thrown aside asworthless?

Everything seemed against him, and the gay throng of pleasure seekers onthe fair summer evening was an offence to him. 

As he passed over Bristol Bridge he looked down into the river with astrange longing that he could find rest there, and be free from thetorments of disappointed life and fruitless aims. 

As he leaned over the parapet, gazing down into the dun-coloured waters, a hand was laid on his shoulder, and a cheery voice said, --

'Eh, Tom, my lad, what are you dreaming about? Come with me to sup at MrBarrett's and meet my brother Alexander, the parson. I'll warrant youhave got some more bits of history for him to put into his big book. Come, come, don't look so glum, and we'll take a glass at the tavern inWine Street on the way. '

'No, ' was the reply; 'you are very good sir, but I am in no mood fortaverns to-night. '

'Well, a little bird whispered in my ear that you were seen in RedcliffeMeadows walking with a mighty pretty young lady, with a figure like asylph and a face like an angel. Now then, Tom, don't be shy, but outwith it, and tell the truth. '

'There's nothing to tell, sir. Miss Palmer is so unfortunate as to beunder the same roof with me in Dowry Square, and misfortunes make usakin. She has great literary taste, and--'

'Ah, can see the beauties of Rowley's poems! Well, I am glad to hear it. They are wonders--wonders, and, Tom, you are a wonder for bringing themto light. ' 'Then you are a poet, you know, a real poet, and Bristol willbe proud of you some day. Why, there is not a lad of your age who canboast of his verses being taken by a London magazine and printed andadmired. Come, Tom, don't be downcast; you should hear what my brotherthe reverend Alexander says of you, and he is a judge. A man who canwrite a book about the Deluge must be a judge--eh?'

Mr Catcott was a pewterer by trade, and a simple-hearted, kindly man, astaunch friend of Chatterton from first to last, never wavering in hisallegiance nor in his faith in Rowley the priest; no, not even when notlong after the great Dr Johnson asserted that the poems were a forgery, though at the same time he acknowledged that it was wonderful how the_whelp_ had written such things. The honest pewterer now put his armthrough Chatterton's, and soon his sympathy and perfect faith dispelledthe cloud, and by the time they reached Mr Barrett's house Chattertonwas his most winning self again. 

Mr Barrett was a surgeon in good practice, and a man of culture, whofound time to pursue his historical studies without neglecting hisprofessional duties. In this he was very different from the ordinarygeneral country practitioners of his times, who were for the most partmen of scant education. Mr Barrett's introduction to Thomas Chattertonwas brought about by the boy assuring Mr Burgum, Mr Catcott's partner inthe pewtering business, that he came of a noble race, and that he haddiscovered a full account of the family of the De Bergheims, and at oncepresented Mr Burgum with a manuscript copy of the original document onparchment. 

Mr Burgum had been so pleased that he gave the boy, then scarcelyfourteen years old, in Colston's School, five shillings. 

This success was followed by further particulars of the family, and apoet was found amongst the pewterer's ancestors, one John de Bergheim, aCistercian monk, and a poem called the _Romaunt of the Cnyghte_ wasinserted in the second document to give the good pewterer a specimen ofhis skill. 

To make the poem more intelligible to the puzzled pewterer a modernEnglish version was appended, and very soon the boy at Colston's Schoolattracted attention and became celebrated amongst a small circle of themore educated and literary Bristol people. 

Mr Barrett received Chatterton on this particular Sunday evening withmuch cordiality, and the conversation over the supper-table was easy andpleasant. 

'Any news of the manuscripts?' Mr Barrett asked. 

'No, sir, nor ever will be. I fear now they are lost beyond recall. '

'Nonsense; that cannot be allowed. Mr Walpole shall be forced to returnthem--if he is forced to do nothing else. '

'Sir, ' Chatterton said, 'you know full well that Mr Walpole's wholemanner changed when he discovered I was the son of a poor widow, and wassmall, and of no repute. '

'The very information which should have secured his heart and made yourliterary zeal of more value in his eyes. But means shall not be wantingto come to the bottom of this conduct of Mr Walpole's. Your friends willrally round you, ' exclaimed Mr Catcott vehemently. 

'Gently, gently, George, ' exclaimed his more wary brother Alexander: 'Wemust first know that Mr Walpole has any dishonest intentions, which in aperson of quality like him is scarce reasonable to suppose, ' and thenthe author of _The History of the Deluge_ pulled from his capaciouswaistcoat pocket a bit of fossil, which he handed round for inspectionin support of one of his theories. 

When the clock chimed the quarter to ten o'clock Chatterton hastilyrose, saying, --

'I am late as it is, sir. Permit me to bid you good evening. '

Mr Barrett followed Chatterton to the door, and laying his hand kindlyon his arm, he slipped into his hand half-a-guinea. 

'This is a small acknowledgment for the last curious bit of informationyou handed me on Bristol antiquities. Be of good courage, my boy; yourtime will come, and your industry in adding to the history of past ageswill meet its reward. '

Chatterton pressed Mr Barrett's hand fervently. 

'I thank you, sir, ' he said; 'you are my good friend, and were thereothers like you I might be delivered from the chains which gall me. 'Then Chatterton took a flying leap down the steps before Mr Barrett'shouse and sped on his way to Dowry Square. 

'Poor boy!' the kindly surgeon said, 'poor boy! he is not made to bearthe frowns of the rich and great, nor the buffets which all must meet inlife. Poor boy! I would fain be of some use to him, but it is a hardmatter to help such as he. '

In his better moments Chatterton had a longing to throw aside all shams, and be true. 

As he stood at the door of the house in Dowry Square, waiting the firststroke of ten before he gave the single knock which should announce hisarrival, he, looking up at the starlit sky, felt there was somethinggreater and nobler to strive after than mere fame and recognition of hispowers by those around him. 

The silent majesty of the heavens has often brought a message, as to thepsalmist of old, 'When I consider Thy heaven the work of Thy fingers, the moon and the stars which Thou hast created, what is man that Thouart mindful of Him, or the son of man that Thou visitest him. ' That thispoor boy had moments when he felt after God as the supreme good is shownby his poem which he calls 'The Resignation. '

 O God, whose thunder shakes the sky, Whose eye this atom globe surveys, To Thee, my only Rock, I fly, Thy mercy in Thy justice praise. 

 The mystic mazes of Thy will, The shadows of celestial light Are past the power of human skill, But what the Eternal does is right. 

 Then why, my soul, dost thou complain, Why drooping, seek the dark recess? Shake off the melancholy chain, For God created all to bless. 

We, who read these verses after the lapse of a hundred and twenty years, may well feel as sorrowful as if it were but a story of yesterday, thatfor Chatterton the last verse of this fine poem was, as far as our poorhuman judgment can go, never fulfilled, when he says, --

 The gloomy mantle of the night Which on my sinking spirit steals, Will vanish at the morning light Which God, my East, my Sun, reveals. 

The next day Mr Lambert, standing at the door of his study with hishands full of papers, called Bryda as she passed. 

'Step in a moment, Miss Palmer, ' the lawyer said, surveying her with hiskeen eyes, which gleamed under bushy eyebrows. 

As Bryda obeyed and followed Mr Lambert into the room he shut the door. 

'Mr Bayfield was here yesterday, as you may be aware. '

'I knew he was in Bristol, sir, ' Bryda said, her voice faltering. 

'Well, he has consented to await your decision before proceeding torecover the debt which your grandfather is unable to pay. '

'My decision, sir, ' Bryda said, with some dignity, 'is made, and cannever be altered. '

'Well, well, Bayfield is not the only man who has been taken at firstsight with a pretty face. He says, if you will marry him, he will letyour grandfather go scot-free. He has told you as much, I believe. '

Bryda's crimson cheeks was sufficient answer, but she said firmly, --

'I told the Squire my decision was made. I will not marry him. '

'That is your own affair, but it seems to me, you'll excuse me forsaying so, you are throwing away a good chance. Young Bayfield seems tohave got a great deal of practical knowledge in America, and I do notdoubt will soon retrieve his fortunes. But he wants ready money, andthis three hundred pounds is of importance to him. Still, he will waivehis claim, it seems, if you consent to his proposal, and put in thescale with the gold you appear to weigh a good deal more. That is all Ihave to say. I felt bound to tell you what passed yesterday between meand Mr Bayfield. And, Miss Palmer, pardon me, but do not encourage thatapprentice of mine to talk to you. You may find him troublesome. He ishalf mad, I think, and he does the most preposterous things, aiming theshafts of his so-called wit at those above him in station--his oldmaster at Colston's School for one, and I thrashed him for his pains. Iam seriously thinking I must break the indentures and be quit of him, with his rubbish and nonsense about old parchments, wasting his timewhen he ought to be learning his business. My mother seems very wellsatisfied with _you_, Miss Palmer, and I hope you will remain with us, unless you give the Squire the preference!' This was said with a laughwhich made Bryda's heart swell with indignation as the lawyer bustledoff to his office, where Chatterton had been an hour and more beforehim. 

Bryda clasped her hands, and exclaimed, --

'He would not dare to speak to me like this if I were not poor. Theapprentice is right, poverty is a curse, though Betty will not have itso; and how shameful of the Squire to speak of private affairs to MrLambert--about _me_. No, not even to save poor old grandfather will Ihave any more to do with him. After all, if the stock is sold, therewill be the garden and the poultry and the dairy. I forget, though, ifthere are no cows there will be no milk--still there will be a roof overgrandfather's head, and Silas will stand by him. '

Bryda continued to win favour with Mrs Lambert, and she snatched many anodd half-hour to read, taking a book from the cedar-lined bookcase andreading while Mrs Lambert dosed in her chair, or was engaged with somecrony who looked in for a gossip, when Bryda had only eyes for herbook, not ears for what was being said by the furthest window of thelittle parlour. 

_The Vicar of Wakefield_ fed Bryda's romance, and Milton fired herenthusiasm by his lofty strain. With the book on her knee, and some finelace of Mrs Lambert's in her hand, which she was supposed to be darning, Bryda committed to heart 'Lycidas, ' and 'L'Allegro, ' while the faithfulAbdiel in the larger poem became a living personage to her. 

Writing to Bet was more difficult to achieve, but she used to kneel atthe window seat in her little attic and set down the thoughts of everyday as they occurred to her. As the month passed she felt someuneasiness for fear Mr Bayfield should make any further sign. 

To take a stroll at a slow and measured pace with Mrs Lambert was one ofher duties. Sometimes the old lady would go to the pump-room and drink aglass of the water, and Bryda was quietly amused to watch the gay crowdflitting here and there in the sunshine of the beautiful summer weather. 

Sometimes a short cough struck upon her ear, and her heart would go outin sympathy with some hectic invalids who, with the invariable desire ofconsumptive patients to appear better than they are, would sinkexhausted on one of the benches, and then start up again to walk with agaily dressed beau to the strains of the band playing under the row oftrees before the houses. 

'She will die before July is out, ' Bryda heard someone near her say of agirl who had just recovered from a violent fit of coughing, and wasplaced in a sedan chair by her mother, resisting it and saying, --

'I had much rather walk. Don't make a fuss, pray. '

'Death so near, and life so sweet, ' thought Bryda, and then she recalledthe elegy on the dead lamb, and the same shrinking from the unknown andthe inevitable oppressed her. 

One morning, when the dreaded month had nearly expired, Bryda wasdispatched on a message to a shop celebrated for Bath buns, to buy ashilling's worth for the 'tea company' Mrs Lambert expected thatafternoon. And she was also to call in at the grocer's and buy someallspice and orange peel for a tasty pudding which Mr Lambert wanted fora supper he was to give to some friends. Bryda looked as fresh as a rosejust gathered as she set out on her errand, Mrs Lambert's large leatherpurse in her hand, and the directions as to her purchases in her mind, which had been repeated at least a dozen times. 

'Mind you insist on having the buns puffy at the top. Don't let thempress on you those with a sink in the middle where the comfits lie. Theyare sure to be heavy; and take care you get the narrow blue ribbon froma roll that is not faded outside at the haberdasher's in the CollegeGreen. '

'Mrs Lambert ought to think twice before she sends out that girla-shopping, ' Mrs Symes said to Sam the footboy. 'She is a vast deal toodainty to walk Bristol streets alone. I've seen the fellows turn andstare at her as she crosses the square, and as to Chatterton, he haseyes for nothing when she is by. I declare if ever eyes were like evileyes they are that mad boy's. '

Then Mrs Symes wiped her face with her apron, and said the kitchen wasenough to stifle her, proceeded to pursue her scrubbing and cleaningwith great vehemence. 

Meanwhile Bryda went gaily on her way. She was very susceptible of thecircumstances of the moment, and the summer air playing amongst thesails of the ships, as she got to the quay, and the water rippling attheir sides, where the sunbeams danced and sparkled, gave her a sense oflife and gladness which for the moment made her forget how near she wasstanding to the day when the Squire would again put before her thealternative of seeing her grandfather's stock sold, and so ruining himfor the future as a farmer--or marrying him. 

The idea seemed preposterous to her, and she shrank from it with theshrinking of a pure, high-minded girl. 

She had finished her purchases, and carefully counted the change in thelarge leather purse, when the cathedral bells, chiming as she passed, made her think she would go in for the service. 

There were not more than half-a-dozen straggling worshippers, and theprayers were made as short as possible by the irreverent fashion inwhich they were hurried over. But Bryda's ear caught the words of theanthem, which, by the care of the organist, was really the onlydevotional part of the service. 

It was but a fragment from Handel's _Messiah_, but it was well sung, andthe words struck home to Bryda's heart. 

_As in Adam all die, even so in Christ shall all be made alive. For asby man came death, by man came also the resurrection from the dead. _

Death, on which she had so often meditated--death, which had for her somuch of darkness and fear--death could be changed by Him who hadconquered death--'_All be made alive_. '

The beauty of the music and the words acted like a spell on her, and sheforgot the passing of time, till, as the half-dozen old men and womentottered away to their homes, she raised her head to see the vergerbeckoning to her. 

'Service over, we clear the church, ' he said, and Bryda rose hastily, and with heightened colour went out again into the summer noontide. 

CHAPTER X

A LONG RESPITE. 

Bryda had nearly reached the entrance to Dowry Square, fearing she mightbe reprimanded for delay, when her heart beat fast as she recognised theSquire, Mr Bayfield, crossing over it to meet her. 

His manner had changed, and he was gentle and even deferential as hebowed low and addressed Bryda. 

'Good-day to you, Miss Palmer. I have come, by your leave, to hear yourdecision. '

'My decision was made, sir, when I last saw you. I have no more to say. '

'Hearken, fair lady, I am not one to be beaten in the race. See here, Ihad determined, as you know, to get that money, my lawful due. When Isaw you standing at the cross roads like an incarnation of spring'sloveliness my courage forsook me. In our future interviews it grewfainter and ever fainter. I love you, madam, and if you will promise tobe my wife I swear I will never press that old man again for the money. I will work honestly to redeem the neglect of the past, at my poor home, and I swear further I will see you its fair mistress ere another year isout. 

'Nay, sir, ' Bryda said, gathering up all her strength, 'nay, sir, do notswear what is impossible to perform. Not even to save those I love frompenury will I accept your proposal. '

'Another suitor is more favoured, I presume. Who is he?'

'Nay, sir, ' Bryda said, with heightened colour and flashing eyes, 'thereis a limit to such questions. I decline to answer them. '

'Now, see here, ' Mr Bayfield went on, 'I give you a proof of my ardentaffection. Name a time for the further consideration of this matter, andas I ride back to-day I will give them warning at Bishop's Farm that Iextend the time for claiming my dues. Name the time, and I grant it, foryour sweet sake, and for yours alone. Speak, and I obey--command me asyour slave. '

Bryda hastily went over in her mind the probability that after all thiswas but a subterfuge, and that Mr Bayfield would not be true to hisword. Then she thought of what the joy and relief at the farm would bewhen a long delay was granted--much might happen in six months--thewinter might be hard, and there would be a terrible pinch, perhaps, forthe necessaries of life at Bishop's Farm. 

But could she trust Mr Bayfield?

She felt a strange recoil from him, and yet something like admiration, for he was a distinctly handsome man, and had an air and bearing farabove good Jack Henderson, or any of her old admirers in her nativevillage. After a moment's pause, while she nervously pinched the cornersof the paper bag containing the Bath buns, she looked up with her clearguileless eyes into the Squire's face. 

'Will you grant a delay of a year, sir?' she asked. 

'A year--_no_! I am not made of the stuff of patient Job, ' he replied, with a little laugh. 'No, madam, I will _not_ wait a year. '

'Till Eastertide next year, then?'

'Well, you are a little witch. I think you have cast a spell over me. Iwill wait till then. Come, thank me--give me a sign of gratitude. '

Bryda put out her little hand, and the Squire took it, bowed over it, raised it to his lips, and then said, --

'If I keep this hand your grandfather shall keep the money. '

'But I do not promise, sir--mind, I do not promise. I only crave fordelay--understand me, sir. '

'I do understand, ' was the reply, and then there were steps along thepavement of the square, as the apprentice hurried home for his middaymeal in the kitchen. 

Bryda reached the door at the same moment, but Chatterton made noremark. 

He was in one of his unquiet moods. No news from Horace Walpole--noreply to his repeated demands for his manuscripts--nothing butcomplaints of him at the office--nothing but indignities in the housewhere he lived as a servant. What was it to him that Bryda's sweet facewas clouded by distress--that tears stood on her long curled lashes--andthat Mrs Lambert's voice was heard from the parlour door, raised in nopleasant tones?

'Miss Palmer, you are late in returning. Unpunctuality I cannottolerate. Remember, miss, you are bound to follow my instructions, and--'

Then the door closed, and Chatterton heard no more. 

But that afternoon he went into Mr Antony Henderson's office in CornStreet, where poor Jack Henderson sat on his low stool, with his longlegs bent up under the watchmaker's counter, pulling to pieces a largewatch in a pinchbeck case, and thinking more of Bryda than the wheels ofthat cumbrous bit of mechanism. 

Chatterton bent over him, and whispered in his ear, --

'Look about you, Henderson. Your fair lady has another suitor. He waswith her in the square to-day at noon. A fine fellow, too, I swear hewas. '

Jack started so that the pinchbeck watch had a narrow escape of fallingfrom the counter, and the man who had the care of the apprentices at MrHenderson's exclaimed, --

'Take care, you clumsy lout. You spoil more things than you mend. You'llnever be fit for the trade. You might as well put one of your mother'sheifers in here to learn the business. '

Jack paid little heed to this taunt, and bent his head lower over thewatch. 

Chatterton laughed a low laugh. 

'Well, ' he said, 'I advise you to look out or your fair one will slipthrough your fingers. '

And then he was gone. 

Jack had to wait till the following Sunday before he could see Bryda. Everything was against him, for a heavy rain was falling, and there wasno chance of Bryda coming out for a Sunday walk. But he went boldly upthe steps before Mr Lambert's house and gave a heavy thud on the doorwith the knocker. 

The footboy opened it, and Jack said, --

'Can I see Miss Palmer?'

'I don't know. She is reading to the missis. But, ' said the boy, with aknowing wink, 'the missis takes a nap after dinner, and if she is goneoff Miss Palmer may get out on the sly. I'll peep in and see. You areMiss P. 's beau, ain't you?'

'Hold your tongue, ' Jack said wrathfully, 'you impudent young villain. '

'Oh, that's it, is it? Then I sha'n't do no more for you. You may standthere till the "crack of doom" the 'prentice is always talking about. '

The voices in the little lobby attracted Bryda's attention. Mrs Lambertwas comfortably asleep, and Bryda opened the door softly, and saw Jackstanding near it, arrayed in his Sunday best--blue coat, bright buttons, and large buff waistcoat. 

Bryda closed the door behind her and said, --

'I cannot come out to-day, Jack, it is raining so hard. '

'I know that. Can't I speak to you here a minute?'

'Mr Lambert is gone out for the day. Yes, you may come into his study. Is anything wrong, Jack?' she asked, looking anxiously into his face. 

'What have you got to do with that brute of a Squire Bayfield? I know itwas he you were talking to t'other day. Don't have aught to do with himor you'll rue it, I tell you. You will--'

'I don't know why you should be so cross, Jack, ' Bryda said, assuming ajesting air. 'I shall sing you the old rhyme, --

 Crosspatch, draw the latch, Sit by the fire and spin. '

'Don't be silly, Bryda. It is no laughing matter. '

'No, perhaps it isn't, ' Bryda replied, 'but I have had a letter from mydear Bet, which the carrier brought, which will please you, or _ought_to please you. '

Bryda plunged her little hand into her deep pocket and drew out Betty'sletter. Betty had not the gift of either penmanship or composition, andthis letter had cost her much trouble. 

'Here, read what Bet says, ' Bryda exclaimed, holding out the letter toJack. 

'No, thank you. I don't want to read it. '

'Then I shall read it for you, ' Bryda exclaimed, 'you stupid old Jack. '

How pretty she looked as she stood before Jack with the open letter, herface flushed with the most delicate crimson, her eyes sparkling as shebegan, --

 'DEAR BRYDA, --This leaves me well, as I hope it finds you at present. Dear Bryda, the young Squire, Mr Bayfield, came over here last evening. He was as kind as he could be. Grandfather is not to trouble about the money for another few months. The Squire says he won't press it, and so we can go on as we are till next Easter. Dear Bryda, I think the Squire was tender-hearted when he saw grandfather so old and broken. I don't wonder. He looks ten years older since it came out about the money and our poor father. That's what cuts him to the heart--'

Bryda sighed as she read these words, and Jack was touched. He had beencross-grained, he knew, but nevertheless he would gladly have got theSquire at that moment in his hands and thrashed him without mercy. 

'That's all in the letter, ' Bryda said. 'There's only love and kisses, and a few words written below to say grandfather had eaten a good supperand was more like himself for this good news. '

'It's all very well, ' Jack said, 'but it seems to me if the Squire getsthe money at Easter he might as well have it now. What's the odds?'

'Oh, Jack, they will have the winter to look about them. It does make adifference. '

'Well, ' Jack said, 'I would not trust that man. He has got some reasonfor this, depend on it. '

But poor Jack dare not trust himself to ask what that reason might be. His was a mind slow to reach any conclusion. He was filled with a subtleuneasiness as to what might be the relations between Bryda and theSquire, and yet he dared not come to the point and ask the plainquestion. Bryda would resent it, and he might lose what was so preciousto him--the Sunday walks and the sight of her who was the light of hiseyes. He only repeated, --

'He has got some reason, I'll warrant. '

'Kindness to an old man of seventy-six years is not that a reason enoughto please you, ' Bryda said, and then she added, 'I must go back to theparlour now. Mrs Lambert will awake and be angry if I am not at hand. Good-bye, Jack, good-bye. I hope it will be fair weather next Sunday, and then we'll go to the Redcliffe Meadows again. Good-bye. '

Jack turned away sorrowful and uneasy, determined to watch the movementsof the Squire and question Chatterton about him. 'And yet I should notlike to act spy to _her_, ' he sighed, as he went out into the relentlessrain, which pattered on his best Sunday coat and dimmed the glory of thelarge gilt buttons with moisture. 

In a city like Bristol, then as now, many stories of love and hatred, ofvain aspirations and blighted hopes, are told out, of which thepasser-by in the busy streets knows nothing. 

To-day, as yesterday, our hermit spirits dwell apart, and even thosewith whom we live in daily intercourse but dimly guess what reason wehave to smile or sigh. 

Perhaps there never has been anyone, dwelling apart in the dreams ofromance, and the world of the past peopled by his own fervidimagination, whose short, sad story can be compared with that of MrLambert's apprentice. 

At this time of which I write--when Bryda Palmer was full of her owntroubles, and with many misgivings tried to persuade herself she hadgiven Mr Bayfield no promise, yet dreading lest he should interpret heracquiescence in the delay as a promise--Chatterton was brooding over hiswrongs, and in August was in a frenzy of indignation when he receivedhis cherished manuscripts back from Mr Walpole in a blank cover. Thiswas the unkindest cut of all, for we all know that the wound to prideis, to a sensitive nature, the sorest and the slowest to heal. 

But Bristol took but little heed of the slender figure of Mr Lambert'sapprentice as he paced the street, with hands clenched and brows knit, nursing his wrath against the great man who had once raised his hopes, and by his moody and fitful temper turning even his friends against him, or at any rate tending to make them indifferent to his woes. For Bristolcitizens had many more important subjects claiming their attention atthis particular time than the angry disappointment of a self-consciousand irritable boy. 

Mr Wilkes was with some the hero of the hour, and the rebellious feelingin America, of which Bristol had perhaps the earliest intelligence, excited the popular feeling, and roused the sympathy of many for thosewho resisted the enforcement of the Stamp Act, and the indignation ofothers who were of the old Tory faction and thought that submission wasthe duty of their brethren on the further side of the great dividingocean. 

Chatterton was too much occupied with his own grievances to be keenlyinterested in what he heard discussed at Mr Barrett's supper-table or MrCatcott's tavern. This good, simple-hearted man was faithful in hisallegiance to the boy, and never doubted but the great work Chattertonhad done in unearthing the poems of Rowley the priest would in time meetits reward. 

'A fig for Mr Walpole!' he said. 'Never you fear, my lad, you'll findyour level, and it will be a good deal above the level of Mr Walpole, with all his grand relations and riches. Go on, go on, and write forthe _Town and Country Magazine_. Why, what a feather that is in yourcap. There's not another fellow in Bristol to match you. Bless you, mybrother Alexander's history of the Deluge is mighty dry reading though awatery subject, ' and Mr Catcott sipped the large tankard before him, andsetting it down with a loud thud on the tavern table, he laughed at hisown wit. 'And then there's Barrett, his history is learned and all therest of it, but I'd sooner read one of your own poems, my lad, let alonehear you recite from Rowley's 'Tragedy of Ælla, ' than I would readtwenty pages of history. It suits my tastes, ' the worthy man said, 'andI have some taste and discernment, though my brother won't allow it. IfI had none I should never have valued you as I do, my boy, ' and then MrCatcott flung down his money for his pot of beer, and clappingChatterton on the back, went out with him into the streets of the cityagain, his arm linked in his, and his portly figure contrasting with theslight boyish form at his side. 

CHAPTER XI

CHRISTMAS AT THE FARM. 

Mrs Lambert became more and more dependent on Bryda. She was an utterlyselfish old lady, and selfish people have a strange power of getting allthey want out of those who minister to their particular weaknesses andfoster their self-love and self-indulgence. Bryda was allowed to go homefor two days at Christmas, having first made the puddings, and pastryfor the mince pies, and cut the citron and orange peel into theprescribed portions for the rum punch which would be brewed for theChristmas supper. 

Bryda was driven home in the cart which brought in some turnips andpotatoes to Mr Henderson and produce for the Christmas market. Jack, tohis great satisfaction, was allowed to return for Christmas, and includeboxing day, not then as now the recognised holiday, but still a day offeasting and general jollification amongst the people. 

Bryda's spirits rose when she reached the farm once more. She had beenvery quiet during the ride, and Jack was not a person of many words, butwhen Bet came out to clasp her in her arms, and her friend Flick wentnearly mad with joy, she felt a thrill of satisfaction that by her meansthose she loved were still left in peaceful enjoyment of the old home. 

Her grandfather was more like himself, and when she arrived had justreturned from an inspection of the stock with Silas, with a colour onhis cheek like that of russet apple, and leaning less heavily on hisstaff. 

'Well, my lass, ' he said, 'town air has taken some of your colour fromyour cheeks, but you look like a wild rose all the same. Well--' andthen the old man sank down on the settle and surveyed his grandchildwith some admiring glances. 

'Quite the town miss!' Dorothy Burrow said. 'I hope you ain't puttingall your earnings on your back, Biddy?'

'No, aunt, not I. Madam Lambert gave me this sacque which makes me sosmart, and some lace ruffles, beside my half-year's wages. Oh, I amquite rich, I can tell you. '

Bryda had time to hear all Bet's news in their own room before theevening meal. 

'The Squire comes here sometimes, ' Bet said; 'he is wonderfully kind. Ican't help thinking he will never take the money, and leave grandfatherin peace for the rest of his days. '

Bryda, who was opening her box to bring out her presents for Bet--alarge crimson neckerchief with a border, a bow of ribbon to match forher cap, and a pair of long mittens--did not reply. 

'What do you think, Bryda? Shall we have all the trouble back again atEaster?'

'Oh, no; let's hope not, ' Bryda said carelessly. 'See, do you like thesethings? They are all for you. '

'Oh! they _are_ beautiful! But, dear, you must have spent too much moneyon me. '

'Not I. Why, child, I had five pounds wages, and I have got a lot left, and I am going to give Aunt Doll this warm shawl, and the dear old daddya pipe, and yet I have three pounds left to last me till midsummer. '

'Ah, midsummer!' Betty said. 'We shall know by then. '

'Know what?' Bryda said sharply. 

'Know whether we are sold up or not. '

'Well, let us have peace now, and forget everything but how we love eachother; and oh! Bet, I have so much to tell you. I have read so manybooks while madam is asleep. The _Vicar of Wakefield_, and _ParadiseLost_, and Mr Pope's poetry, and history--and then there is poor TomChatterton, his verses are lovely!'

'Chatterton!' Betty said, 'who is he? Oh, yes, I remember--theapprentice who lives in the kitchen, and you went to see his mother. '

'Of course he is very strange and queer sometimes, ' Bryda went on, 'buthe is what is called a genius. '

'Is he in love with you?' Betty asked. 

'Not that I know of. He is too full of Rowley the priest, and MrWalpole's horrible rudeness to him, to be much in love. Of course hetalks about my eyes, and my grace, and all such rubbish, but that is not_love_, little Bet. '

'Jack Henderson's is love, ' Bet ventured to say. 'He has time to thinkof nothing but you, anyhow. '

'Poor fellow!' Bryda said. 'I am afraid I have a great many other thingsto think of besides him. Let us go down. There's Aunt Doll screechingfor you as usual. '

It was a pleasant Christmas in the old homestead. There seemed to be atacit understanding in the family not to forecast the changes thatEaster might bring. Everything went smoothly till the last evening ofBryda's holiday, when Jack Henderson came to supper, the board spreadwith the remains of the fine turkey cooked on Christmas day, and thelarge mince pie, pricked out with holly, which stood in the middle ofthe table. 

The log fire sparkled merrily up the wide chimney, and Bryda, seatednext her grandfather, felt a sense of happiness which had no cloud overit. Betty and Jack were happy in the joy of looking at her, for it wouldbe difficult to say whether sister or lover was the most devotedworshipper at her shrine. 

The dish of snap-dragon, just placed on the table, was waiting to be setalight, when a tap at the door made Flick start, rise warily on hisforelegs, and growl ominously. 

Betty, who was nearest the door, opened it, and with difficulty keptFlick back, who seemed determined to fly at the intruder. 

'Down, Flick; be quiet, ' the farmer thundered. 'Friend or foe, it ain'tthe thing to fly at folk's throats. '

'Friend or foe?' said a voice Bryda knew too well, and Mr Bayfield, hislong riding-coat peppered with snow, which had touched his thick hairwith a fringe of white, came in. 'Mr Palmer, I hope you will tell yourhound I am a friend--eh, Miss Bryda?'

'Sit down, sir, sit ye down, ' said the farmer. 'And, Doll there, takethe gentleman's coat and shake it. '

'I came to wish you a merry Christmas, ' the Squire said, 'a merryChristmas and a happy New Year. I have brought some trifles for theladies, if they will honour me by accepting them. '

All this time Jack Henderson had not spoken. His honest heart was filledwith jealous hatred of the visitor, who seemed to be unconscious of hispresence and took no notice of him. 

Apparently Flick and Jack had some sympathy with each other, for the dogretreated from the hearth and went to Jack's side, crouching at hisfeet, with his nose on his paws and his watchful eyes fixed on theguest, with no very amiable expression in them. 

'Light the snap-dragon dish, ' Mr Bayfield exclaimed, 'and let me have adip for a raisin. It is many a long year since I burnt my fingers insuch a quest. The old customs have a charm, ' he added. 'Do you not sayso, Miss Bryda?'

Betty now carried away the two tallow candles, which stood in largepewter candlesticks on the high mantel-shelf, and the spirit was set onfire by Jack Henderson. 

Then the hands were dipped in and the usual amount of exclamationsfollowed. 

Jack, who had looked forward to this episode of the Christmas supper, supplied Bryda with more plums than she could eat. The ladies of theparty, on these occasions, were supposed to give their spoil, snatchedfrom the burning mass amidst much screaming and laughing, to the mostfavoured gentlemen of the company. 

Bryda studiously avoided bestowing a single raisin on Mr Bayfield, andfed her grandfather with the hot morsels, and tossed one now and then toJack Henderson. 

Then there came the final scene, when most of the plums were secured, and Dorothy sprinkled the dish with salt. The ghastly light thatflickered on the hot faces round the table was a part of the amusement. 

The last flicker had died out, and the wide kitchen was nearly indarkness, for the fire had burnt low, when Bryda felt her hand seizedand pressed to Mr Bayfield's lips. 

'Remember Easter, ' he said. 

His words smote her with sudden fear. She snatched her hand away, andexclaimed, --

'Bring back the candles, Betty, and we will mix the punch. '

Again the low voice said, in tones which were almost a whisper, --

'Unless your promise is kept, this will be the last Christmas here foryonder old man. '

'I made no promise, sir, ' was the reply; 'the promise was yours. '

'Come, sir, come, ' the old farmer said, 'draw closer to the hearth, andlet us drink to your health. Yon old punch bowl, ' he said, with a sigh, 'belonged to my father, and his father before him. I would not care topart with it, nor of nothing they called their own. '

'Part!' Mr Bayfield exclaimed; 'no, by George! why should you. We won'ttalk of parting to-night, though you know, sir, the most precious thingsyou possess will have to be parted with sooner or later. '

'Ah, that's true; we can't carry aught out of the world with us, and webrought nothing into it. But let's fill the mugs to the brim and drinkto the Squire's health, for I don't forget you have treated mehandsomely, sir, in giving me breathing time. So here's to your healthand happiness. '

Dorothy Burrows had thrown on more logs, and the genial blaze shone onthe dark leaves of the evergreens and the scarlet holly berries, andbrought out the dull white beads of the great mistletoe bough which hungsuspended from the thick oaken beam of the kitchen. 

The firelight made a bright light round Bryda's fair head, on which themasses of her hair were gathered and surmounted by a dainty top-knot ofblue ribbon. Jack's eyes fed on her with a hungry longing to possessher. He saw visions of future Christmastides, when he should be aprosperous silversmith and live in one of the houses in the CollegeGreen, as his uncle did, with Bryda its mistress, with all she likedbest about her--plenty of books, and music, and everything she askedfor. Lost in the contemplation of that halcyon time, Jack forgot thepresent, and was only awoke to it by the old man's exclamation of wonderas Mr Bayfield laid the gifts of which he spoke on the table. 

'Lor', to be sure, what a pretty necklace! Shells do you say, sir? Inever saw such shells in my born days--green and white; and what a grandsilver comb--that will please Biddy and no mistake--and a brooch for mydaughter--well, to be sure! But I favour the shells most, ' and the oldman fingered the necklace made of the pearly shells, shot with green, which are to be found on the shores of the South Pacific ocean. 'Andboth of 'em for Biddy--and Bet a brooch like aunt's and a pin for hercap. Well, ' said the old man, in whose veins the punch was circulating, and giving a comfortable sense of warmth and contentment, 'you areturning out a good friend, sir, after all, Mr Bayfield, sir. I thoughtyou must have something of your good father in you, though at first youseemed a bit rough--you'll excuse me for saying so. '

Meanwhile, there lay the gifts on the table. Dorothy took up her brooch, and making a bob-curtsy, said, --

'I'm greatly obleeged to you, sir, I am sure. '

Betty, uncertain whether to speak before Bryda did, looked questioninglyat her sister. 

Bryda stood motionless, feeling the Squire's eyes were on her. 

Presently he took up the necklace and said, --

'Permit me to clasp it on a neck which is fair as--'

But Bryda put up her hand to prevent it, and started back. Suddenly thenecklace became like a fetter which would bind her to the man who gaveit. But Mr Bayfield was not to be baffled. As Bryda retreated headvanced, the necklace in his hand, till Bryda stood under the mistletoebough. 

Then he caught her hand, and saying, 'I take my privilege here, ' he puthis arm round her and kissed her on the lips as he clasped the necklaceround her slender throat. 

Like a lion from his lair Jack Henderson sprang on the Squire, andshouted, --

'You villain! how dare you?'

Instead of an angry retort the Squire only laughed ironically, --

'My good fellow, you may have your turn now. All is fair under themistletoe bough at Christmas. '

Then, with a bow and a 'Good-night to you all, ' the Squire departed, whistled to his groom, who had been holding his horse under cover in oneof the farm sheds, and was gone. 

Bryda, with burning cheeks, unfastened the hateful necklace, flung itdown, and rushed out of the kitchen, regardless of her grandfather'srepeated exclamations, --

'What are you about, you saucy baggage? And you, you lout, Jack, go andwait on the Squire, and see to his horse. What ails you--eh? It is notoften a gentleman like that crosses our threshold and behaves so affablelike and friendly. '

'Curse him!' was all that Jack could reply. 'If you think he is agentleman, I say he is a villain. Good-night, ' and then poor Jack, fumingand helpless, went out into the snowy night. 

CHAPTER XII

THE FINAL BLOW. 

Betty found that to question Bryda as to the cause of her wrath againstMr Bayfield was useless. 

To Betty's simple soul a kiss under the mistletoe bough was of nofurther significance. She had been kissed by Jack, and even her AuntDorothy had received a kiss from a neighbouring farmer who had visitedthem on Christmas day. 

Betty pleaded that if the Squire was disposed to be kind and friendly tothe old grandfather it was a risk to anger him. If they could keep thefarm during his life times might improve, and there might be savinginstead of loss, and the debt paid back. 

Both girls felt that the debt itself had a peculiar interest for them. It had been originally incurred to save their father from death, fordeath by hanging was then the punishment awarded to forgery. Bryda, however, preserved silence as to the Squire, and when she had returnedto Bristol Betty found the necklace and the silver comb hidden away in adeep drawer in a bureau. 

Betty was suddenly struck with an idea. 

'Perhaps the Squire is really in love with her, and if he is, why shouldshe be so angry? It would be a fine thing for Bryda, who sets such storeby pretty things, and is so much more of the lady than I am. Dear Bryda, I should love to see her happy--but oh, poor Jack! what would he say?'And as she recalled his fierce looks as he sprang upon Mr Bayfield sheadded, 'And what might he not _do_?'

It is always difficult to realise how swiftly a certain period which wefix for any great decision in our lives, or any event which is toseriously affect us, will come. We look forward, especially in youth, tosix or nine months and think there is time yet, we need not determine_yet_ on any particular course of action, or make any definite plan yet. And then, even while we are thinking that there is yet delay, the daysand weeks and months, perhaps years, have passed, and we find ourselveschanging 'not yet' changed into the inexorable _now_. 

It was thus with Bryda when she had pleaded for delay from Mr Bayfield. The hour for decision looked far away, and she had tried to put offthinking about it, and, trust with the hopefulness of youth, that allwould be well. 

Her life at Mrs Lambert's was not uncongenial to her, and she rose dailyin the old lady's favour. Her hunger for books was in a measuresatisfied, and she found good pasturage in the standard works of thosetimes, with which Mr Lambert's library was well furnished. 

Though the lace mending and lace cleaning for Mrs Lambert's caps andwhimples and neckerchiefs and aprons went on, and though the preparationof dainty dishes to please the lawyer's appetite when he came home afterhours spent in his office gave more and more satisfaction, Bryda found, and made time for her favourite pursuit. She was now allowed to take thebooks from the shelves and study them at leisure, and an old edition ofShakespeare's plays filled her with a strange thrill of delight. Theywere to Bryda, as to many another novice, like an introduction into anew world. 

For all her aspirations and longings, and for all her secret misgivingsand fears for the future, for all her dreams of beauty and love of thegood and true, she found the right expression and the right word. 

'How wonderful, ' she thought, 'that he should know everything I feel. '

The master's hand was recognised, and the recognition quickened hersympathy for poor Chatterton, who at this time--this Eastertide of1770--was so greatly in need of it. 

The storm that had long been in the air now broke over the head of MrLambert's apprentice. 

Bryda heard angry voices in Mr Lambert's study before he went to hisoffice one morning, and presently Madam Lambert came out bridling withrage, and declaring she would not sleep another night under the sameroof with 'the young rascal. '

'No, no, I will not run the risk. What are you standing there for, MissPalmer?' she said as, trembling with suppressed indignation, she put outher hand to Bryda to support her into her own parlour. 

'Take care of my mother, Miss Palmer, ' the lawyer said. 'Give her aglass of wine. She is too old to work herself into a frenzy like this. '

Bryda, frightened at the old lady's pale face and trembling lips, hastened to get something to revive her, and placing her in her chair inthe parlour, held a glass of port wine to her mouth, and fanned her witha large green fan lying on her little table. 

'What has he done? What has Mr Chatterton done?'

'Tried to kill himself. Why, we might have had the house streaming withblood, and the crowner's inquest held here. '

'He threatened to kill himself, in a letter which Mr Barrett put into myhands, ' Mr Lambert said, as he stood at the parlour door lookinganxiously at his mother. 'Come, come, mother, no harm is done. The boyis mad, and a lot of people here have turned his head by flattering himtill he is puffed up, and, like the frog in the fable, is all butbursting with conceit. I'll soon settle matters. He must take away whatbelongs to him; there's not much, I'll warrant, except his manuscriptsin their outlandish trashy language. Now, keep her quiet, Miss Palmer, and don't let her fume and fret. '

Madam Lambert took her son's advice, and Bryda, seeing her inclined totake a nap, quietly left the room, and went downstairs to pursue herusual domestic duties. Mrs Symes was gone to market, and the footboy hadbeen sent with her to carry the basket of purchases, so that Bryda wasalone in the kitchen regions. 

Presently a quick step was heard coming down the stairs, and Chattertonappeared. 

'I am free, ' he said, 'Miss Palmer, I am free, and Bristol chains willhold me no longer. Do they think I am sorry? Not I! And yet'--the boypaused--'there is my mother. Poor soul, it will vex her sorely--and poorsister also. Well, I shall be off to London, and then--why, Miss Palmer, _then_ you may live to hear of me as famous. '

Bryda raised her eyes to the boy's glowing face as he repeated the word_famous_, and said gently, --

'You would not, sure, think of taking your own life? Oh, it is verydreadful--it is a sin!'

'A sin!' he repeated. 'Well, I have not done it yet. I feel vastly fullof life to-day. Old Lambert's rating at me put some spirit into me, andI shall not die yet. '

'Death is so solemn, ' Bryda said, 'even when God calls us to die--theleaving of the sun and all the beauty of the world for the dark grave. Ialways shudder to see even a little bird dead, to think its songs aresilent for ever, and its happy flights into the blue sky, and its sleepin its warm nest--'

'Ah!' Chatterton said, 'you have a breath of poetry in you. You canunderstand!'

'But what will you do in London? It is such a big place. And how willyou live?'

'I shall _try_ to live, and if I can't--well, I will do what I meant todo to-morrow--_die_. But, ' he went on, throwing back his head with theproud gesture peculiar to him, 'I can turn a penny to more purpose inLondon than here. I have been paid for my contributions to the _Townand Country Magazine_, and the _Middlesex Journal_ will take what Iwrite and be glad. Then I have all my "Ælla"--"_Ælla_, "' he repeated, 'Iset great store by "Ælla"--money will be sure to come for that and "TheTournament. " But come and see my mother, Miss Palmer, next week, and wewill have a parting visit together to the grand old church, and I willtell you more. Oh, I am not crushed yet--not I! I have heaps of literarystuff which may turn into gold, and I can say, --

 Hope, holy sister, sweeping through the sky, In crown of gold and robe of lily white, Which far abroad in gentle air doth fly, Meeting from distance the enjoyous sight, Albeit oft thou takest thy high flight Shrouded in mist and with thy blinded eyne. 

'Yes, holy sister, ' he repeated, 'I clasp thee to my heart, and away andaway to London. '

'These are beautiful words, ' Bryda said; 'are they yours?'

'Mine? yes, they are mine. Despair came to me in black guise when I wentto old Burgum, and he vowed he had not sixpence to give me. And as tolend money--who would lend to a beggar? Not Burgum; he is a thrifty soulthough he comes of the grand race of De Bergheim, of which he is mightyproud, poor fool!' And Chatterton indulged in a fit of laughter, probably remembering how easily the honest pewterer had been gulled bythe story of his noble ancestry, for which he had given him a crownpiece. 

The laugh was strange, and not a melodious sound, and almost at the samemoment Mrs Symes and the footboy came into the kitchen. 

'Laughing, are you?' she said. 'You will have to laugh on the wrong sideof your mouth, young man. Why, the folks are all talking of you and yourwickedness. Come, I hear you have notice to quit--be off. And as to you, Miss Palmer, I would take care what you have to do with this _limb_, forhe is a limb and no mistake--a real limb of the Evil One. '

Chatterton did not seem much affected by Mrs Symes' tirade. He made agraceful bow as he left the kitchen for the last time, and with 'Weshall meet again, Miss Palmer, so whispers the holy maid we spoke ofjust now, ' he was gone. 

But although Chatterton could be indifferent to the gibes of Mrs Symeshe was by no means indifferent to the censure of his best friend MrBarrett. The good surgeon sent for him to his house, and then said that, after a consultation with all his friends, there seemed no alternativebut to agree to Mr Lambert's giving up the indentures, and getting ridof him. 

Mr Barrett had ever a kindly feeling for the wild, undisciplined boy, whose genius he recognised although he had not measured the extent ofhis powers. Perhaps he knew how to awake in the boy poet his best andhigher nature, for instead of receiving his reproofs and advice in adefiant manner he melted into tears, confessed that pride, hisunconquerable pride, was his worst enemy, and that he would try to learnhumility. The mention of his mother's distress affected him more thananything, and Mr Barrett, saw him depart with a sad heart. 

Of all his other friends, perhaps the kindly good-natured George Catcottwas the most sorely troubled. But this Easter week in Bristol was one ofgreat excitement, and the worthy citizens were all much occupied withtheir views of the great event of the time. 

On Tuesday, the 17th of April, Mr Wilkes was released from prison, andall the advanced Liberals of the ancient city were to make themselvesmerry at the Crown Inn in honour of their hero's triumphant release. 

Bristol has always been foremost in hero-worship, though too often theDagon at whose feet it has lain has, like Mr Wilkes, been a poorcreature after all, and has fallen from his pedestal and broken himselfto pieces. 

As Chatterton was pacing the familiar streets, and with alternate fitsof hope and the most cruel despair thinking out his future, he passedthe Crown Inn, in the passage from Bond Street to Gower Lane. 

Sounds of revelry and merry voices struck his ear, and he paused tolisten. 

There were several other hangers-on in the precincts of the inn, andthey were discussing Wilkes and liberty, and the freedom of the subject, with all the keen zest of those within. 

A woman jostled against Chatterton, and raised herself on tiptoe, hopingto see something through the crack in the red curtain which hung overthe window of the large room where the revellers were gathered. She waspoor and ragged, and the goodly smell of the viands made her exclaim, --

'What a dinner they be having, while hundreds are starving. Ah! starvingis hard work!'

Chatterton heard the words and said, --

'Aye, my good woman, you are right, ' and then he put his hand in hispocket and pulled out one of the very few copper coins which were leftthere and gave it to the woman. 

'Lord bless you, my dear, ' she said, 'you've a kind heart, and you lookas thin as a rod yourself. I hear, ' she said confidentially, 'they'vegot forty-five pounds of meat in there, and puddin' and punch and baccy. Ah! it's a queer world, that it is!' and then she passed on, the smellof the viands becoming more tantalising every minute. 

There is something very pathetic in the position of the Bristol poet onthat spring evening--alone, and as he thought deserted, and driven todespair by what he believed to be the ill-treatment of the people ofBristol. 

After the lapse of a hundred and twenty years the memory of that boyishfigure still haunts the streets of Bristol, and there comes a vain andhelpless longing that at that critical moment of Chatterton's life somehand of blessed charity had been stretched out to him, some word ofloving counsel and sympathy offered him. 

It was the young eagle chafing against the bars of his cage, woundinghis wings in every vain attempt to soar above his prison house; it wasthe prisoner held captive by chains, of his own forging, it may be, butnot the less galling. The gift bestowed by the hand of God was soiled byits contact with earthly desires, and the Giver altogether unrecognised, and His divinity unfelt. 

Chatterton, on this evening, was drifting on a sea of doubt andperplexity, nursing within angry passions of hate and revenge, and yetthrough all was to be seen the better self trying to assist itself, aswhen he gave his poor mite to the starving woman, and going to his homemade his mother's heart sing for joy as he cast off his gloom, praisedthe frugal supper she set before him, and told her the day was sooncoming when she should feast with him in London, whither he was bent ongoing as soon as possible. The very next day this scheme was renderedcomparatively easy of accomplishment. 

Mr Barrett, probably when discussing Chatterton's story over the punchbowl at the Crown, got up a little subscription for him, and sent forhim to communicate the intelligence on the next morning. 

And now indeed Hope, holy sister, swept through the poet's sky in crownof gold and robe of lily white. Dire despondency was changed intoraptures of joy, and his mother, though with a pain at her heart, busiedherself to enter into all the little preparations for her son's start toLondon--London, which meant for him a new bright world, the world ofGoldsmith and Garrick, of Johnson and Burke, and who could tell if, whenwith the laurel crown of success on his brow, he might not meet HoraceWalpole as an equal and repay his coldness with disdain. Who could tell?Alas that this exultant happiness in promised good should be doomed toend in the wail of sadness which was to know no note of triumphhenceforth. 

CHAPTER XIII

AN UNSUCCESSFUL SUIT. 

Never once in all the months that Bryda had spent under Mr Lambert'sroof had Jack Henderson failed to appear at the door of the house inDowry Square on Sunday afternoons to inquire if Miss Palmer was disposedfor a walk. But he had often to turn away dejected and sorrowful. Sometimes Bryda could not leave Mrs Lambert, sometimes she had promisedto take a dish of tea with one or other of the friends of the old ladywho frequented her parlour, and praised the girl, who was, as they said, so notable and obliging, and who was really quite the young gentlewomanthough country bred and born in a farmhouse. 

But Jack had worse misgivings than could be caused by Mrs Lambert'sdisappointing him of his Sunday treat--looked forward to with hungryeagerness from Monday morning to Saturday night--he heard fromChatterton that the suitor whom he had seen in Dowry Square in theautumn was frequently known to be hanging about the place, that hevisited Mr Lambert's office, that he had been invited more than once tothe midday dinner, and that he had on these occasions made himselfgenerally agreeable. 

Jack attempted once or twice to question Bryda about the Squire, but shealways resented it, and the pleasure of his walk was consequentlyspoiled. 

Mrs Lambert, though she never asked Jack Henderson to cross thethreshold, was abundantly gracious to Mr Bayfield, and he, taking hiscue, flattered the good lady to the top of her bent, sympathised aboutthe crazy apprentice, and declared hanging was too good for him. Afterthe meal was over, Bryda would sit silently by with her work, and theSquire left her alone. But on this memorable Saturday, when theapprentice had finally been dismissed, and his iniquities fullydiscussed, he leaned over Bryda as he took leave and said, --

'The morrow is Easter day. Did we not agree for Easter or Whitsuntide?'

'For neither, sir, ' was the reply, in a low voice, 'for _neither_, ' sherepeated. 

'Then I may put in an execution on the farm next week. Is it so?'

And Bryda answered, --

'If you are minded to be so cruel, sir. '

And so Mr Bayfield left her. 

'Miss Palmer, ' Mrs Lambert said, 'if that gentleman is paying hisaddresses to you, it is my duty to express a hope that they arehonourable. '

Bryda's eyes flashed, and she answered, --

'The Squire has a matter of business connected with my grandfather, beyond this I have no dealings with him, madam. '

'I am happy to hear it, for although, Miss Palmer, I consider you as afriend rather than a serving-maid, and allow my particular friends toshow you kindness, I must remind you that you are not in the class oflife from which a country squire would choose a _wife_. '

Mr Lambert had left the parlour with the Squire, and Bryda felt that he, at least, knew the real position of affairs. 

Mrs Lambert's words made her heart beat fast with mingled fear andindignation, and she determined to lose no time in writing to Bet, andtelling her the sale must at once be thought of, for Mr Bayfield wasinexorable, and he must have the money. 

The next morning was fair and bright. 

The bells of the Bristol churches were ringing a joyous peal, tellingout the glad tidings that the Lord was risen, and Mrs Lambert, arrayedin her best gown, leaning on her gold-headed walking-stick, with Brydaat her side carrying her big books, went to the service at thecathedral. 

The anthem had again a message for Bryda, as on that first Sunday longago. _Even so in Christ shall all be made alive_, sounded the triumphalstrain, and then there came into her young heart the question, had sheany part or lot in the risen Christ? Bryda had never been confirmed. Confirmations in those days were of rare occurrence, and the remotecountry districts were reached by the Bishop of the diocese at longintervals. But Mrs Lambert, being a rigid observer of times and seasons, went up to the altar, at the conclusion of the morning prayer and shortdry sermon, to receive the Holy Communion, as it is set forth in theprayer book that such is the duty of all members of the Church threetimes a year at least, of which Easter is one. 

Mrs Lambert put out her hand to Bryda as she left the pew, as if sheneeded her support, but poor Bryda shook her head and whispered, --

'I cannot come, madam. '

Mrs Lambert gave her a reproving glance, and one of her friends, seeingher dilemma, came forward and gave the old lady an arm to the altar. 

Bryda sank down on her knees, and all unbidden tears forced their waythrough her fingers. She felt outside, poor child, and uncared for, andso sorely in need of some help in what was likely to be a crisis in herlife. 

If the Squire persisted, what should she do? Then, with a great longingof prayer, she asked for wisdom to do what was best and right--and tomarry the Squire could never be best and right. Better let everything atthe farm be sold. Better let her grandfather suffer than consent to whatwould be a sin. Then the remembrance of Mrs Lambert's words the daybefore made her cheeks burn, and she rose up at last determined to letBetty know that immediate steps must be taken and the large sum raisedto pay off the debt. 

That afternoon Jack Henderson was not disappointed of his walk. Heappeared dressed in his best, with a large bunch of primroses, bought inthe market the day before in his hand, and two or three in hisbuttonhole. 

The bunch he presented to Bryda, who returned with them, for a minute, to the parlour, and filling a vase with water, placed them on the littletable where the volume of sermons lay. 

'Mr Henderson brought them for me, madam, ' she said. 'It is too large aposy to carry, so I will beg you to accept them. '

Mrs Lambert was pleased to sniff the flowers and say, --

'I am much obleeged to you, my dear. Mr Lambert considers Mr Henderson'snephew a very respectable young man. I have no objections to yourkeeping his company--he is, of course, in your own class of life, ' shesaid significantly. 

'What have you done with the posy, Bryda, ' Jack asked. 

'It was far too big to carry with me, so I put the poor flowers inwater. Now let us go up on the Downs. I am in the mood for a longstroll. Don't be cross about the posy, Jack. '

'I am not cross that I know of, ' was the reply. 

Then there was a long climb to the heights above the Hot Wells, and atlast, on the vantage ground where the old snuff-mill stood, now thewell-known observatory, the two sat down on a boulder of limestone torest. There were no houses near, thus nothing interrupted the view inany direction. The budding woods on the other side of the great gorge, now spanned by the famous Suspension Bridge, were just wearing theirfirst delicate veil of emerald. Away, far away, the blue mountains ofthe Welsh coast stood out against the clear sky, and the sloping sidesof the Mendips, where Dundry Tower stands like a sentinel on guard overthe city, were bathed in the soft radiance of the April day, while nowand again the chime of bells was borne on the breeze. 

For some minutes both were silent, Jack toying with the small pebbles athis feet, Bryda gazing out at the hills where her home lay hid, andforgetting poor Jack's presence in her own meditation. Jack was thefirst to break the silence. There had sprung up between him and Bryda, since Christmas, a certain reserve which seemed to raise a barrierbetween him and his fondest hopes. 

'I say, Bryda, ' he began, 'I am very unhappy. Can't you give me a kindword?'

'Why, Jack, what is the matter?' she said carelessly. 'I thought I wasunhappy this morning, but now I think no one ought to be sad to-day. Sothe bells tell me. Hearken!'

'I am sad, though, ' poor Jack rejoined. 'I love you, Bryda. You mustknow it. I have loved you all my life--I shall love you till I die. I amtied to this silversmith's business--but my uncle has no children, hetakes more kindly to me than he did, and the last year I have pleasedhim better. When he dies I shall come into the business, and then--'

Bryda turned and looked straight into Jack's frank, honest face. Shetried to speak lightly. 

'So after all, Jack, your mother was right, and you will be a Bristolalderman some day, or perhaps mayor. '

Jack's foot gave an impatient kick against the pebbles beneath it. 

'What has that to do with the question?' he said. 'Bryda, can you carefor me? Can you love me? That's the real question. '

'Jack, I have always cared for you, you know that. Now let us talk ofsomething else. '

'No, ' Jack said, 'I am not to be put off like this. Give me a plainanswer. When I can give you all you ought to have, you know, will you bemy wife? I love you so that if you can't promise to be my wife I don'tcare what becomes of me. I shall be off in one of the ships from thequay, and get drowned--drown myself, I daresay. '

'Nonsense, Jack; be sensible. I do not feel as if I could promise tomarry anybody. There is trouble at home, and I am thinking more of thatjust now than anything else, ' and in spite of herself her colourdeepened on her cheeks and the tears dimmed her eyes. 

'Look here, Bryda, has that villain Bayfield anything to do with this?Do you care for _him_? I hear he has been gallivanting after you, cursehim. '

'Hush, Jack. On this beautiful day--Easter day--don't have wickedfeelings. If you went to church this morning--'

'I didn't. I was too miserable, ' Jack interrupted. 

'Well, I am sorry for that, ' she said very gently, 'because if you hadgone you would have heard the words which tell us to put away the leavenof malice and wickedness, Jack. I have thought so much more of religionsince I came to Bristol, I don't quite know why, but I have thought how, if we really love God, He will keep us safe--safe from evil passionssuch as we have seen possess poor Tom Chatterton. I could cry when Ithink that when he was only a little boy of eleven he could write thosebeautiful verses on "Christmas Day, " and not long ago the lines on"Faith, " and yet get so mastered by his passion that he could actuallywrite a will to be read when he had sinned against God by killinghimself to-day. And he is now cast out on the world, which will breakhis poor mother's heart. '

But Jack Henderson did not care to hear about the mad apprentice justthen. He rose from his seat with a gesture of impatience. 

'I don't want to hear about Tom Chatterton, ' he said. 'I asked you aplain question, and I want a plain answer. '

'Well, then, dear Jack, we shall always be friends, I hope. But I couldnot--no, I could not promise more. '

'Very well, ' he said moodily. 'But look here, Bryda, if I thought thatscoundrel Bayfield had anything to do with this I'd break every bone inhis body--I swear I would!'

'You have no right to speak to me like this, ' Bryda replied. 'You haveno right to suppose that the Squire has anything to do with what I sayto you. '

'Haven't I, then? What did he mean by sneaking in last Christmas withpresents, and daring to--' Jack stopped, and then in a choked voice hesaid, 'Don't be angry with me, Bryda; that would be worse than all. '

'No, I won't be angry if you are good, ' she said, in a tone she wouldhave used to soothe a child, 'and now let us go round by the village anddown by Bristol to the Hot Wells. '

Yes, Clifton was then only a village, and Chatterton had already sungits charms in lines which ought to be known and prized by those who livein the Clifton of these days. It is true Clifton is no longer 'the sweetvillage' which the boy poet describes, though it may still be

 The loved retreat of all the rich and gay, it is not the Clifton of a century and more ago. Now it is rather a cityof mansions and stately crescents, of colleges and schools, than avillage. Full of the busy workers in literature and art, ofphilanthropists and philosophers, of churches and chapels, looking downfrom the elevation of her rocky fastnesses over the yellow Avon creepingbelow, 'its sullen billows rolling a muddy tide. '

The poet who sang its praises, and with his wonderful eagle glance overthe page of Bristol history seized the salient points to introduce intohis ode, is at once one of the most famous and the saddest memorieslingering round this City of the West, from which her younger sister ofto-day has sprung, and to which she owes her origin and her wealth. 

Jack and Bryda parted at the entrance of Dowry Square, and with a longand wistful gaze at the face he loved so well he turned sadly away. 

'I am a rough suitor, ' he said to himself, 'I shall never win her. Sheis too far above me, too good, too clever, but'--and poor Jack tore theprimroses from his coat and threw them away--'oh, Heaven! how I loveher!'

CHAPTER XIV

ON THE HILLSIDE. 

The next week was spent by Chatterton in bidding his friends good-bye, presenting some young ladies of his acquaintance with gingerbread, theboyish side of his nature coming to the front, and with it a lovingtenderness to his mother and sister. 

Full of hope since the money had been collected for him, and glad to beturning his back on Bristol, Chatterton was in one of his most winningmoods. 

The soft spring weather had changed, cold winds blew, and instead ofsoft April showers hail fell, blown in little heaps along Dowry Squareby the breath of the keen north-west wind. 

Bryda was standing by the parlour window, looking out into the square, just before dinner was served on Sunday. 

It was somewhat of a relief to her to think Jack would not come to-day, or, if he came, she could make the excuse of cold and a headache anddecline to take a Sunday stroll. 

The remembrance of poor Jack's sad face as they parted haunted her, andshe said to herself she wished she had been kinder to him, and shewished, oh! how she wished he had loved Betty instead of her. Bryda hadwritten to Betty as she had determined, and sent the letter by thecarrier, folded in thick paper and fastened by a string. The post in therural districts was very irregular in those days, and the carrier'scharge for delivering a parcel was even less than the postage of aletter. Bryda wondered she had received no answer yet from Betty. Shehad told her to reply on the return of the carrier on Saturday, and sheknew that if the letter was left at the office in Corn Street she wouldbe sure to get it on Saturday evening. 

But no reply had come. Bryda had spoken to Mr Lambert that morning aboutthe affairs at Bishop's Farm, and he had advised that before the Squirecould take any decided steps an appraiser, in the old man's interests, should be dispatched to the farm to value the stock and the furniture, and find out how far it would cover the debt and the expenses. 

'I must wait till I hear from my sister, ' Bryda had said. 'I dare nottake them by surprise; it would frighten poor grandfather, and upset himagain. I hope Betty will soon answer my letter. '

'Well, ' Mr Lambert had replied, 'young ladies must please themselves, asthey take care to do; but if I might presume to advise, I should sayaccept the Squire's proposal. I should have thought he was a likelyfellow to gain a fair maiden's favour. '

Bryda had no reply to make to this, and now, as she stood looking out onthe square, she saw a boy crossing it and looking at the houses, as ifuncertain at which to stop. Presently he came up to the door and rangthe bell, giving also a great thud with the knocker. The footboyhastened up to open the door, and Bryda, going into the passage, heardher name. 

'Does Miss Palmer live here?'

Bryda advanced and said, --

'Yes; I am Miss Palmer. '

'This is for you, miss, ' the boy said. 'I was to say it was _urgent_. '

Bryda took from the boy's hand a crumpled bit of paper, on which waswritten, --

 'Come at once to the old thorn tree half-way up the hill--great distress, I must see you. I will be there at three o'clock. 

 BETTY. '

The paper was so crumpled that it was hard to decipher the writing, butit was Betty's, of that Bryda felt sure. She went hastily to theparlour. 

'Madam Lambert, ' she said, 'I am come to ask leave to start at once tomeet my sister. She is in great trouble--give me leave--'

'To meet her--where? You agitate me, Miss Palmer. '

'Oh! I pray you let me go, ' and Bryda, scarcely waiting for an answer, ran upstairs, threw on her cloak and covered her head with its hood, andthen was out of the house and on her way towards Rownham Ferry. 

'The shortest way, oh! which is the shortest way. Shall I be able to getto the thorn tree by three o'clock. I know the tree, and the road whenI am once out of Bristol. '

At this moment she met Chatterton, whom she stopped, waking him from oneof his dreams. 

'Oh, Miss Palmer, I was on my way towards the square, hoping I might beso happy as to meet you and your true knight. But what ails you?'

'I have had a summons to meet Bet, my sister. She is in great trouble, something has happened. Put me in the way to get to the road to Dundry. '

'I will show you the way, and glad to do so, ' Chatterton said. 'I amsorry for your distress, Miss Palmer, but let us hope things are not sobad as you fear. I am in good heart to-day, ' he said, his fine faceshining with hope and boyish gladness, 'let me give you some of my "Holysister's" influence. '

Then he walked with Bryda to the ferry. When once on the other side ofthe river she could find her way to the foot of the winding road whichled up to Dundry. 

Bryda held the crumpled piece of paper in her hand and scanned it again. 

'Bet has written it so ill I can scarce read it, ' she said. 'That wordis _distress_, is it not, Mr Chatterton?'

Chatterton took the paper and examined it closely. 

'It is the hand of one who can write well if she choose--and do you knowyour sister's handwriting?'

'Yes, I know she takes a long time to write, but I expect she washurried and distressed, and these are tears which have blotted thepaper. What can it be? Oh, what can the trouble be? Good-bye, and thankyou. I must go, as it is full three miles to the old thorn tree. '

'I know it, ' Chatterton said, 'I know it. It is where a by-road turnsoff towards Bath. I wish you good luck, Miss Palmer. '

Then Chatterton turned, and went back with his swift pace the way hecame. 

He met, as he expected, Jack Henderson, who had been to Dowry Square andheard that Miss Palmer had been called away on some business, but wherethe footboy did not know. 

When Chatterton met Jack, he was walking with a downcast air, andChatterton had slapped him on the back before he was aware of hispresence. 

'Whither away, Master Jacques the melancholy?'

'I am in no mood for jests. Tom, let me go. '

'Yes, but let me tell you something first. A certain fair damsel youknow, has crossed the ferry, and is wandering unprotected up the road toDundry. Be a good knight and follow her, for it strikes me she may needyour presence. '

'What do you mean?' Jack said. 

'What I say. Your fair lady is in trouble, summoned to the old thorntree half-way up the hill by her sister, who is in dire need. I have mysuspicions that the paper she showed me is not wrote by her by whom itis pretended. Speed away, honest Jack, and see what you will see. '

But Jack stood still; he was always slow of perception, and never tookup any idea hastily. 'She may not want me, ' he thought; 'she may beangry, as she was last Sunday, but--' As Chatterton gave him anothersharp slap on his back, as a parting encouragement to set off, he saidaloud, --

'Well, I may as well walk that way as any other; it's no odds to me. '

Chatterton then left him. He was on his way to his good friend MrClayfield's, and was to meet there several of the friends who had beenkind to him and stood by him in the distress of Easter eve. 

Jack Henderson pulled himself together and began his walk, crossed theferry, and went on in the direction which Chatterton had pointed out, greatly wondering what Betty could possibly have to say to Bryda whichshe could not have put down on paper. 

'Perhaps that brute has put an execution in the farm, turning out theold man into the road, like enough. Well, I may as well follow, for it'sa lonely road for her, and there's lots of ill-looking fellows lurkingabout birds nesting and ratting on Sundays. ' Then Jack heaved a deepsigh as he said, 'P'r'aps she won't mind my taking care of her for once, though a week ago she just treated me as if I was naught to her. ' And asJack recalled the scene on the summit of St Vincent's Rocks he felt apain at his heart, which, as he thought, time would never cure. 

Meantime Bryda pressed bravely on, though the storms of hail often beaton her face, and then the cloud breaking, great fields of deepest bluesky appeared in the rifts, and now and again the sun shone out brightlyon the young leaves and primrose banks, as if to reassure them that thepresent cold was but an afterthought of winter, and that spring and Maywould soon reign again. 

Bryda's way led along a lonely road. There were no villages, only hereand there a shepherd's hut, and not a house to be seen. A few raggedboys foraging in the hedges for birds' nests, or paddling in a littlewayside stream for tadpoles, were the only people she saw. The ascentwas long and steep, but Bryda stepped quickly on, and at last the thorntree, with its rugged, gnarled trunk, came in sight. 

Here the road branched off in two directions; that to the left ledacross the side of the hill towards Bath, the other down to the villageof Bower Ashton, and following straight on led to Dundry, beyond whichwas Bishop's Farm. 

When Bryda reached the old crooked thorn, which was but scantily coveredwith blossoms in its old age, she looked in vain for Betty. 

The Bristol bells were ringing for evensong as she was climbing thehill, and she had quickened her step fearing she might be late. 

Bryda sat down to rest on an old milestone which stood close by andwaited, but still no Betty appeared. Presently she was conscious offootsteps approaching, and turning her head, sprang to her feet to meet, not Betty, but Mr Bayfield. 

'What is the matter, sir, at the farm? Betty sent for me--she is ingreat distress--can you tell me?'

'I am come instead of your sister, ' Mr Bayfield said, and pityingBryda's face of alarm, he said, 'Nothing is wrong. I am only come hereto claim your promise. Easter has come and is nearly gone. I am preparedto bury the very remembrance of the debt. I am prepared to leave yourgrandfather a free man for the rest of his life, and give him a writtenpledge of this, if you will consent to be mine. '

Bryda started back. The helplessness of her position came over her. Alone on that lonely hillside--alone, and with no hope of escape. 

'Hearken, fairest and dearest, ' Mr Bayfield began, 'I am not one to beturned from anything I have set my heart on. I _mean_ to have you, andso, ' he said with emphasis, 'you had best come to me graciously. '

'I did _not_ promise, ' Bryda said firmly. 'It is cowardly in you, sir, to try to put me thus in the wrong. '

'Now, now, fair lady, that is going too far. I made certain conditions, you accepted them. I have been true to my part of the agreement--youmust, nay shall, reward me. I have a horse and gig a little further upyonder by-road. I shall drive you to Bath, and then I will marry youto-morrow morning. Come. You shall reign like a queen in my old home, and I will do all you desire. Come. '

And Mr Bayfield laid a firm hand on Bryda's arm, looking down into herterror-struck face with eyes in which his determination and his passionshone almost fiercely. 

Bryda did not scream or cry, or even struggle. The spirit that was inher rose above her fears, and looking steadily at Mr Bayfield shesaid, --

'I will not be forced to marry you, sir. Let me go. Every penny of yourclaim shall be paid, but I will not marry you. '

A laugh greeted these words, and yet when Bryda said, after a momentarypause, 'I trust in God, and He will deliver me, ' the laugh was changedinto a tone of entreaty. Something in this girl there was which, inspite of himself, commanded respect. So small, so fragile as she lookedin his power, in his hands, lured thither by his treachery, as a bird islured to the snare, he yet quailed as Bryda repeated, 'He will deliverme. '

'Nay, Bryda, ' he began in a gentler tone, 'I love you. I offer you all Ihave. I make you honourable proposals, when some men might--'

A loud voice was now heard. 

'What are you doing here--eh?' And in another moment Jack Hendersonstrode up, and putting his arm round Bryda, said defiantly, 'Touch heragain if you dare. '

'Touch her!' Mr Bayfield said, with cool irony, 'touch her! I am tomarry her to-morrow morning at Bath, so, my good fellow, I advise you togo back the way you came, and remember the old adage and mind your ownbusiness. '

'Is this true, Bryda?' Jack said, still holding her with his strong arm, 'is this true?'

'No, Jack, no, it is not true--it is false. '

Then Jack sprang upon the Squire and struck him across the face. 

'Leave her!' he shouted, 'leave go this instant, you scoundrel!'

'Yes, to give you your deserts, you young rascal. '

The two men closed in a deadly struggle, and Jack, the lion rousedwithin him, got the mastery, though his adversary fought in a morescientific way, as one who had been well accustomed to such conflicts. 

Bryda stood by the old thorn tree too terrified to move, only entreatingJack to stop for her sake, only crying aloud in her despair to MrBayfield to stop. 

But the fight grew ever fiercer and fiercer, and at last, with onemighty blow of his huge arm, Jack had his adversary at his feet, hisknee on his chest, his hand at his throat. 

So tremendous was the force with which the young giant had felled theSquire that his fall made a heavy thud on the hard road. 

Just at this moment a storm-cloud came sweeping over the hillside, andhail fell in a thick, sharp shower. 

'Swear you will leave her, swear you will not touch her again, ' Jackgasped out, for he was breathless with rage and exertion. 

But there was no answer. Suddenly Jack relaxed his hold, and rising, stood staring down at the inanimate form before him, on which the hailbeat with blinding fury. 

Bryda drew near, and clasping her hands, said, --

'You have killed him, Jack Henderson, you have killed him! Oh, God havemercy on you and on me!'

Jack stood motionless as one in a dream. Blood was streaming down hischeeks from a cut in the temple, and his face was almost as wan andlivid as that which was turned up to the darkened sky, on which thepitiless hailstones danced and leaped, unheeded and unfelt. 

Thus they stood, when steps were heard plodding down the hill, and oldSilas, the shepherd from Bishop's Farm, came up. 

'What's to do?' he said. 'Miss Biddy, my dear, what's to do?'

'Get a doctor, ' she gasped. 'They have had a fight, and--he is--hurt. '

'Dead, ' Silas said, looking down at Mr Bayfield as he had looked down onthe lamb a year ago, 'dead. His skull is cracked, I'll warrant. '

'Oh, go for a doctor, Jack. Run quick to Bristol and send a doctor. Oh, Jack! Jack!'

Her voice seemed to wake Jack from his stupor. 

'Yes, ' he said, 'I'll send a doctor. Yes. Good-bye, Bryda, good-bye, and--' Jack covered his face with his hands, and sobs shook his largeframe. 'He angered me past bearing, Bryda. I did it for your sake, ' hesobbed. 'Say one word to me before I go. '

'Oh, Jack! Jack! What can I say except God forgive you?' She laid herlittle hand tenderly on Jack's fingers, through which the tears weretrickling, and repeated, 'Yes, God forgive you and help _me_. '

 * * * * *

It fell out that Jack Henderson, running headlong down the hill, met avillage doctor, in his high gig, returning from a long and weary roundof country visits. 

Jack hailed him, and the doctor drew up his tired nag. 

'There's a man lying on the hill half a mile up the road. Go to himquick--it's life or death. '

'Why, you are covered with blood, young man, ' the doctor said, as Jackflew past on his downward way to Bristol. 'I say, ' he shouted, 'comeback. I may want help. '

But Jack took no heed, and the doctor, whipping up his old mare, soonreached the place where Mr Bayfield lay. 

The storm-cloud had passed, and again there was a gleam of sunshineflooding the country side with fitful radiance. 

When the doctor leaped down from his gig he found Bryda alone, kneelingby the motionless form. Silas had gone, at her bidding, down the by-roadwhich branched off the highway, where she remembered she had heard MrBayfield say a horse and gig were waiting. 

'Is he dead? Oh, say he is not dead!' Bryda moaned. 'Say he is notdead!'

But the doctor did not reply. He unfastened the high cravat, with itslace ends, unbuttoned the two-fold waistcoats, one of cherry colour theother of buff, the deep red edge showing against the paler hue. He flungback the frilled shirt and put his head against Mr Bayfield's side, tookthe long, limp hands in his, put his finger on the pulse, and finallydrew his large watch from his fob and looked narrowly down at its roundwhite-rimmed dial. 

'No, he is not dead, ' he said shortly to Bryda; 'go to my gig, open thewell behind, and bring me a black case--make haste. '

Bryda staggered to her feet and did as she was bid. The doctorunstrapped the case, and taking out a small bottle, dropped some of itscontents between the Squire's lips. 

A slight movement of the eyelids followed just as old Silas returnedwith the horse and gig, which had been waiting with a servant till MrBayfield joined them about a quarter of a mile down the lane. 

'Who did it?' the servant asked. 'Whose work is this?'

'It was a fight, ' Bryda faltered; 'it was a fight. '

'A fair fight--eh? Who began it?'

Poor Bryda burst into weeping. 

'Oh, do not ask me--do not ask me, ' she murmured. 

'Poor little dear!' said the doctor. 'Was it a fight about you--eh? Why, it's one of old Farmer Palmer's grand-daughters, I declare. Cheer up, mypretty one, yours is not the first pretty face which has made mischiefbetween two suitors. There! there! he isn't dead yet, and he may live. Ican't say yet, but we must get him home. How far is it?'

'A matter of twelve miles, sir. '

'Well, we must lay him across my shandry, it's more roomy than hisgimcracky gig. And you, ' he said, turning to the servant, 'must lead thehorse. I'll watch him, and we can make a roughish sort of bed with thecushions from the gig. And what shall I do with you, my dear?' thedoctor asked. 

'Nothing! nothing! I must go back to Bristol. Madam will be so angry. Silas, give my love to Betty, and tell her I will write to her. I darenot go home--no, I dare not, Silas. Aunt Dorothy would say it was allmy fault, and so it is! so it is!' Then Bryda turned away, saying, 'Heis not dead, you are sure?'

'Quite certain sure, ' Silas replied. 'But lor' bless you, Miss Biddy, come along home; you look like a ghost!'

'No, no, I must go back, and I must see--' She dared not mention thename even to Silas. 'I must tell him the Squire is not dead. '

Then, with a terror at her heart, and a nameless dread as if a phantomof evil were pursuing her, Bryda fled downhill with a speed whichsurprised herself, and reached the ferry just as the Bristol clocksstruck six. 

When she found herself at Dowry Square she first recognised how faintand worn out she was--she had not tasted food since breakfast. She couldhardly totter into the little lobby, and when she tried to tell thefootboy to let Mrs Lambert know she was too tired to come into theparlour, she fell prone upon the floor, and remembered nothing till shefound herself on the couch in the parlour, the twilight deepening, andMadam Lambert sitting by her like a gaoler, with a glass of brandy onthe little table, which she insisted on Bryda sipping. 

It was all like a dreadful dream. Bryda's head ached, and she was toobewildered to say much. 

Madam Lambert poured out a string of questions. Had she seen her sister?What was the bad news? Was the poor old man dead, or had he had astroke? Had the Squire put bailiffs into the house? What was wrong atthe farm?

But Bryda had just presence of mind enough to keep back the real factsof the case. It had struck her that Jack Henderson would be in danger ofhis life if, indeed, it turned out that the Squire was dead--in danger, too, if he were seriously hurt. So she parried all questions, and wentfeebly to the door murmuring, --

'I am so tired. May I go to bed?'

'To bed, sure you may, and I will get Mrs Symes to bring you up some hotposset. I don't wish to pry, Miss Palmer, but I should like to hear whathas upset you? I think it is my due. '

'To-morrow--to-morrow, ' Bryda said. 'I cannot talk now. I cannot--'

'There is some mystery, depend upon it, ' Mrs Lambert said, as she foldedher mittened hands and twirled her thumbs one over the other, in ameditative mood; 'but I'll ring for Symes to get her a hot posset, poorthing. '

CHAPTER XV

THE LAST EVENING. 

Bryda rose and went about her accustomed duties the next day with a wan, white face and wistful, anxious eyes. 

She was longing for news, and yet dare not ask a question lest sheshould betray Jack Henderson's share in the scene on the hillside theday before. She was haunted by the memory of that rigid upturned face onwhich the hail beat so mercilessly. It was always before her; and therewas no one near with whom to share her fears. It happened that MrLambert was called away on business to Bath, and bustled off to thecoach office immediately after breakfast, and had only time to say toBryda, --

'You look as if you had seen a ghost, Miss Palmer. ' Then, with a laugh, 'Ah! I remember it was at Easter you were to make your decision. Well, well, don't take it too much to heart. Good-bye, mother. Don't expect metill you see me, ' and then the little lawyer, bristling with importance, was gone. 

It was a long and weary day--cold and stormy; and after Bryda hadfinished her domestic duties she could only sit in the parlour with MrsLambert, listening for the sound of every step upon the pavement, starting when the door bell rang, and relieved when Sam appeared in theparlour with some message or note for Mr Lambert, which was to bedelivered to him on his return. 

Even if Chatterton had still been at the office Bryda might have gainedsome news. She wondered if the story of the fray had reached Bristol, for birds of the air do carry a matter even from the loneliness of theupward path to the table-land of the Mendips. But the day draggedwearily on to evening, and still no news. Mrs Lambert was very fractiousand fault-finding, and complained that a hole in a bit of lace had beenso ill mended that she must have every thread unpicked. Then the waterfor the tea was smoked, and the 'muffin' too much buttered, with a dozenmore grievances of a like character, which were simple torture to poorBryda's heavy, anxious heart. 

Just as the twilight of the spring evening was deepening, and MrsLambert ordered Bryda to fetch the candles and lay the cloth for supper, a very gentle ring at the bell was heard--so gentle this time that itdid not attract Mrs Lambert's attention, and Bryda was in the hallbefore Sam had time to appear. 

As he opened the door Bryda heard a voice she knew to be Chatterton's. 

'I must see Miss Palmer, ' he said. 'Let me in, you little fool. '

Sam made a grimace and said, --

'You ain't wanted here. They say you are a bad 'un--so be off. '

Then Bryda sprang forward. 

'Let me speak to Mr Chatterton, ' she said; and in another moment she wasstanding on the doorstep with him. 

'I have brought you a message, Miss Palmer. I saw Jack Henderson aboardship for America last night. He bid me say you need never trouble abouthim again, but that, wherever he goes, he will hold you in remembrance. Poor fellow! he seemed in frightful misery about killing the man; butif, as he says, in fair fight, there is nothing so extraordinary init--it happens every day--only last week, in Bath, a man was killed in aduel. '

'But it is dreadful--_dreadful_!' Bryda exclaimed, 'because it is all myfault. And Jack gone--do you say quite gone?'

'Yes, he is a long way down channel by this time. Now, Miss Palmer, donot take on; things are sure to brighten for you. '

'Oh! he ought to have waited till he knew more. It was cowardly ofJack--'

'Well you know he did not feel sure you cared for him--thought maybe itwas the Squire after all. '

'Have you heard anything else?' Bryda asked. 'Is it the talk of Bristolwhat happened yesterday?'

'Well, it is known, because Mr Barrett has been sent for to the Squireto try to mend his broken head. It is a pity Henderson did not wait tillhe knew whether he was dead or alive. I should have thought you wouldhave heard something from Corn Street, for no doubt there is a row thereat Jack's absence from the silversmith's shop. '

'Mr Lambert is away for the day, ' Bryda said. 'Oh, it has been such along, long day. I am so miserable, so wretched. I dare not stay a minutelonger. Good-bye. '

'A long good-bye, a _last_ good-bye, Miss Palmer. I am off to London bythe coach to-morrow. Wish me better fortune than I have had here. If youcould visit my poor mother sometimes I should be glad. She takes on atthe idea of parting with me. You see you can't make a mother see thatleaving her is for her son's benefit. No, ' he said, 'it's gospel truth, there is no love to compare with a mother's;' and he added, 'Though Ilove the muse, and love and court her as a knight would court his ladyelove, I love my mother, who, dear soul, never understood a word ofpoetry in her life--and sister is almost as bad. But, bless them both, they will be glad enough when I come back to Bristol famous. '

Then, with the courtesy of the knights of old of whom he spoke, Chatterton doffed his cap, bowed low, and, kissing Bryda's hand, wasgone. 

It was his last night in Bristol. He was off by the mail to London thenext day, but scantily provided with clothes, though his mother had doneher best, but scantily provided with money, but full to overflowing withhigh hope and enterprise. Of his bulky manuscripts--his much-cherishedpossession--he never lost hold throughout the long, cold journey. Theywere securely packed by his own hand in a canvas bag; his mother mightpack his clothes, his sister might mend his stockings, and water themwith her tears as she rolled them up and placed them in the heavy trunk, but no hand but his own should touch his manuscripts, for theyrepresented to him, poor boy, silver and gold, and what he cared morefor--Fame. 

A few friends stood with his tearful mother and sobbing sister at thecoach office at the Bush Inn to bid him farewell. He took both motherand sister in his arms and kissed them lovingly, said good-bye to theothers, and then he sprang, still grasping his precious bag in his hand, into what was called 'the basket' of the mail coach, and cheaper, byreason of its low position outside the clumsy, lumbering vehicle, andthen he was off. 

Not one backward glance did he give of regret to Bristol. He was sore atwhat he conceived to be the ill treatment he had received from hisnative city, and burning with desire to avenge his wrongs by returningto it crowned with the laurel wreath of Fame, to be courted instead ofspurned, to have at his feet those who had trampled on him, and to findhis native City of the West awaking at last to the fact it had been soslow to recognise that he was a son of whom it might be justly proud. 

The fulfilment of the last part of his high-set hope may perhaps havecome, and now, at the distance of a hundred and twenty years, the figureof the marvellous boy stands out with a distinct personality which no'animated bust' could give it. Time throws a veil of charity over hisfaults, and deep pity stirs in every heart, as in mine to-day as I writethese fragments gathered from his short life, that he had no anchor ofthe soul on which to take firm hold in the troubled waters of thatstormy sea on which he was launched on the 26th day of April 1770. 

Deep pity, too, that no kindly hand was outstretched to help him in hishours of darkness, no voice to tell him of One to whom he might turn asof old one turned in his despair with the cry of 'My Father, I havesinned, ' to find as he did pardon and peace. 

 * * * * *

Full tidings came to poor Bryda the day after she had parted withChatterton--tidings from the farm. An ill-written and hurried letterfrom Betty was left at the office by the carrier that morning, andbrought by Mr Lambert to Dowry Square when he returned for dinner. 

Bryda opened the letter with trembling fingers. She could not dare toread it in the presence of others. 

 'DEAR BRYDA, '--Bet said, --'They brought the Squire here Sunday evening like to die. They could not get him further. The doctor said it would kill him outright. He is laid in the parlour, for they could not carry him upstairs. Two gentlemen justices have been here to-day, and the constables are on the search for him who did the deed. The doctor thinks he knew him. Oh, Bryda, it was Jack Henderson. Mr Barrett has come from Bristol, and shakes his head over the Squire. He neither speaks nor moves. It is dreadful. Can you come home? And, Bryda, you must know was it Jack--and where is Jack? If they catch him--oh, it will be more than we can bear. The doctor is not sure it was Jack. His face was covered with blood when he met him running downhill like a madman. Was it Jack?--Your sister, BET, in sorrow and love. '

Was it Jack? Ah, yes, she knew it only too well, and on her return tothe parlour she found Mr Lambert telling the story in his short, concise, lawyer-like fashion, Madam Lambert nodding and ejaculating fromtime to time, 'Good Heavens!' and Sam listening with open mouth to thestory as he waited at table. 

'The young scapegrace's mother has been at Corn Street to-day. She is ina towering rage against you, Miss Palmer. She looks on you as the causeof the fray. The constables can hear naught of the boy, and he is gotoff scot-free, I daresay. Well, it's no use crying over spilt milk. Youhad best have taken my advice, Miss Palmer, and married the Squire. '

'Oh, ' Bryda cried, with the cry of a hunted animal in pain, 'oh, spareme, sir, spare me. I--I cannot bear it. '

'Compose yourself, for goodness' sake, Miss Palmer, or you will make meill. You agitate me, and before my footman, too. Pray, miss, be quiet. '

But poor Bryda had lost all self-control, and crying aloud 'Spare me, 'she left the parlour. 

But her fate pursued her, for Sam opened the door to Mrs Henderson, whocame hastily in, brushing past Sam, and saying, as Bryda was hasteningupstairs, --

'Stop, Bryda Palmer. Let me at least tell you what I think of you, youminx. To draw my poor son into a mess like this, to ruin his prospects, to turn him into a hunted felon--he who never so much as hurt a worm, hewho is my eldest son, like to make his fortune, come in for his uncle'sbusiness and his money. Oh, did I not warn him that you were agood-for-nothing hussy, thinking yourself clever, and a wit, and apoetess. Yes, you may well cry and moan. '

'My good woman, ' said Mr Lambert, now coming into the hall, 'I can'thave any brawling here. You must be so good as to leave the house. Mymother is not fit for any agitating scene. Come now, why rage at poorMiss Palmer? Pretty girls like her are sure to get suitors and set themby the ears. I daresay you did the same in your day, may do it now youare a fair widow--eh?'

This soothing flattery had the desired effect. Mrs Henderson calmeddown, and the torrent of her abuse was stemmed. Then the mother's loveasserted itself, and she said, in a tone of real sorrow, --

'But if I have lost Jack, my fine, handsome boy, no one can give himback to me, and I was so proud of him. But I won't stay here. Why shouldI?' and then Mrs Henderson, covering her face with her handkerchief wasgone. 

Bryda felt as if the last straw had been laid on her heavy burden, thelast drop in the bitter cup. She went to her room and lay down on herbed, worn out with misery. Should she go home? Was it kind to leaveBetty with all this trouble alone, with no one to sympathise? And yethow she dreaded her aunt's tongue and the neighbours' gossip--and _how_she dreaded to see the Squire's face, the face that haunted her nightand day, lying on the road, with the hailstones dancing on it unheeded. 

Perhaps, happily for Bryda, she was left no choice in the matter. Whenshe went back to the parlour it was time for tea, of which she wassharply reminded. 

Bryda went about the preparations as usual, washed the silver left fromdinner, which no one but herself was ever allowed to touch, and listenedin dumb patience to Mrs Lambert's tirade against the world in generaland herself in particular. 

Mrs Lambert was one of those people who do not concern themselvesgreatly about the misfortunes of others if they are allowed to see andhear of them at a distance. But it is quite a different thing if by anychance the misfortunes of another affect directly or indirectly theirown particular comfort. 

Thus, when Bryda said in a choked voice, --

'Will you grant me leave to go home, madam, and release me from myengagement in your service?'

'Go home! Leave me, after all my kindness to you, leave me with no oneto take your place! A pretty thing indeed! No, miss, you will stay heretill this day six months, according to agreement. Then, if it suits_me_, I may send you packing. Go home, indeed! You would not have avastly warm welcome, methinks. No, stay here, do your duty in thestation of life into which it has pleased God to call you, and you willfind activity the best cure for any uneasiness, ' Mrs Lambert concluded, with dignified emphasis. 

Bryda was about to remonstrate, but she felt it would be useless. Shemust try to possess her soul in patience, and hope that after a littletime Mrs Lambert might relent, and, at least, give her leave of absencefor a few days. 

But the efforts to keep up an appearance of cheerfulness, and to be atMadam Lambert's beck and call, was a very great strain on her. 

Then the gossips who came in to supper or tea were for some days full ofthe event of the previous Sunday, and Bryda had to sit by and listen tovarious versions of the story--to reports which one day would be thatthe murderer had been caught, and the next that the Squire was dead. Andthen there were whispered questions not intended for Bryda's ear, whichconcerned her, she was sure, and ominous shakes of the head and glancesof curiosity, till often Bryda was constrained to throw down her workand leave the parlour. 

So passed the long and miserable weeks, with now and again a messagefrom Bet, or a few lines hastily scrawled, and often scarcely legible. The Squire was alive, but light in his head, and seemed to know nothing, nor heed nothing. There seemed no comfort anywhere. Jack was, it istrue, out of reach and safe whatever happened; but, as is often thecase, the faithful lover of her youth was, by separation, raised to avery much higher level than when he was with her every Sunday, and poorBryda's heart ached with self-reproach and vain longings that she hadbeen kinder to poor Jack who loved her so well. 

It was one day in June, when all Nature was rejoicing in the freshnessof early summer, that Mr Barrett called at 6 Dowry Square and asked tosee Miss Palmer. 

Bryda was in the kitchen, doing her best to prepare a particular dish toplease Mr Lambert for his supper-party that night, when Sam came down tosay Mr Barrett wanted to see her on business. Bryda threw off her largeapron, pulled her sleeves over her elbows, and with a hasty glance atthe little bit of square glass, which distorted her face beyondrecognition, she hastened upstairs with a beating heart. She found MrBarrett in the hall. 

'Can you come with me to-morrow to Rock House, Miss Palmer? The Squire, Mr Bayfield, was moved to his own home yesterday, and I superintendedthe removal. He has something on his mind which he says he must tellyou, and none but you. Poor fellow, he is a mere wreck of a man. You hadbetter take pity and hear what he has to say, for his position is veryforlorn in that rambling old place. I have provided him with anexperienced woman as nurse, and his father's friends look in on him, butit is a pitiable case. I will drive you to Rock House. Let me advise younot to delay. '

'I must get leave, ' Bryda said, with trembling lips, 'I must get leave. And oh, ' she exclaimed, clasping her hands, 'I do dread it--I do dreadit. '

'Well, there's nothing to fear. The poor fellow can scarcely lift afinger. Not only his head but his back has had a sharp concussion. Hecan never be the same man again, unless by a miracle, and we doctorscan't work miracles. '

Mrs Lambert gave a very reluctant permission to Bryda, and began towonder what she should do about the 'chayney' the next day. It was theday for washing and dusting the best 'chayney' in the glass cupboard, but she supposed she must suffer inconvenience--it always was her fate. 

'Pray when will you return, miss?' she asked. 

'I should like to stay at home for Sunday, madam. '

'Sunday! And who is to walk with me to church? Dear me! howinconsiderate you are! I suppose you think a gentlewoman like me cantake Mrs Symes' arm?'

Bryda thought nothing about it, but left the room to tell Mr Barrett shewould be ready at the hour he was pleased to name. 

'It must be early--say eight o'clock, Miss Palmer;' and he added, looking anxiously into her face, 'don't fret, or we shall have you illnext, ' and taking Bryda's little thin hand in his the doctor felt herpulse. 'You are weak as a fly, ' he said. 'Give up here and go home. Wewill talk more of it to-morrow. Good-day. '

CHAPTER XVI

FORGIVENESS. 

During the drive to Rock House the kind-hearted surgeon did his best todivert Bryda from dwelling upon the past or the dreaded interview withMr Bayfield. He did not know how sharp was the pang his companion feltas the old thorn tree came in sight, nor how she bit her lips andclenched the rail of the high gig with a grasp that gave her physicalpain to deaden the terrible ache at her heart. 

Mr Barrett talked of many things in all ignorance of the intensity ofher feelings, roused by the sight of the very spot where she had lastseen Jack and that rigid upturned face. 

'You take an interest in the poor boy Chatterton, Miss Palmer, I know. Iam afraid the sunshine of his first weeks in London is a littleclouded. '

'I have seen his mother once or twice, ' Bryda said. 'She showed me hisfirst letter, written in high spirits. '

'Ah, yes! and there have been others since, but they don't deceiveGeorge Catcott, who is always thinking of him, having the notion thatthere never was a poet like him since Shakespeare. He is making amistake now in rushing into politics in the _Middlesex Journal_. Hesends Catcott the papers. What will Lord Hillsborough or the Lord Mayorcare for all his violent reproaches anent this affair at Boston? Not abrass farthing--not they! That's a fine letter to the freeholders ofBristol, I own, in which he chronicles the speech of his gloriousCanynge, when he said, "dear as his family were, his country wasdearer, " or something like that. It is all very fine, but Chatterton hasto earn his bread, and I don't think he is going the right way to do it. He seems proud of his intimacy with the editor of the _PoliticalRegister_, but I fear it won't do him much good. '

'He still writes poetry, sir, ' Bryda said, 'so his sister tells me, ' andshe added, with enthusiasm, 'his poetry is beautiful!'

'Yes, yes, you know, I take it, many folks think there never was such aperson as "Rowley the priest. "'

'_Never!_' Bryda exclaimed, 'not all those hundreds of years ago. '

Mr Barrett smiled. 

'Rowley the priest is one and the same with Thomas Chatterton, so somesay--not good George Catcott and not Mr Clayfield. I am in no positionto decide the question. '

Mr Barrett talked on, discussing Chatterton and his work, and Bryda grewinterested in spite of herself, and was almost surprised when the whitegates of Rock House came in sight, and the dreaded moment of theinterview was close at hand. 

How well she recalled her first and only visit there, more than a yearbefore, the courage that then emboldened her to plead her grandfather'scause, the despair with which she turned away and ran down the avenue offirs, with Flick by her side, and had to confess to herself that hererrand was in vain. Then arose those questionings which torture us allwhen we look back on the irrevocable, and she asked herself, --

'_If_ I had never come here that day, _if_ I had never tried to move hishard heart to pity, all this misery and distress might--_would_ havebeen saved. Oh! why did I ever come, why did I ever do it?'

These and other thoughts of the same kind filled Bryda's mind as shewaited in a dull room opposite the library, where Mr Barrett had lefther while he went to prepare the Squire for her coming. 

The waiting seemed like hours instead of minutes, and yet when the dooropened and Mr Barrett beckoned her to follow him she drew back. 

'Oh! I cannot--cannot come. '

Then the good doctor took her trembling, cold little hand in his, andsaid, --

'Come, my dear, there is nothing to fear. Take courage, you will notregret your visit I am sure. '

Then the door of the same room where Bryda had first seen the Squireopened and closed behind, and she found herself alone with Mr Bayfield. 

But _could_ it be he? There was scarcely a trace of the handsome, stalwart young man of thirty left in that pale, emaciated form lying ona couch before her. 

'I cannot rise to greet you, madam, ' were Mr Bayfield's first words. 'Come nearer, please; I have something to say to you, and my voice isweak. '

Then a long thin hand was outstretched to Bryda, and her fears seemed tovanish. She went up to the couch and said in low tones, --

'I am grieved, sir, to see you so--ill, and--'

The large wistful eyes fastened on Bryda's face had now nothingoffensive in their gaze. There was the far-off look in them of one whohad done with the world and all the world's sin and sorrow. 

'Miss Palmer, ' he said, 'I wished to see you to seek forgiveness. Youtold me on that day long ago I had no mercy; it was true. I had nomercy, and I deceived you cruelly. '

Then from a small pocket-book, worn with age and fastened with a raggedstrap, Mr Bayfield took out a paper--two papers. 

One, that which he had shown to the old farmer on the night of his firstvisit; the other dated only a few months before the old Squire's suddendeath. He put both into Bryda's hands and said, --

'Read them, and then grant me your pardon if you can. '

Bryda unfolded the papers with trembling fingers, and on the lastread:--

 'I hereby wish to leave on record, should anything happen to me, that Peter Palmer of Bishop's Farm is not to be pressed for the discharge of his debt to me. The heir of my body, my only son, is a wanderer on the face of the earth. He left me shortly after his sainted mother's death, fifteen years ago, and I have given up all hope of his return; but should he return, I hereby instruct him that I discharge the said Peter Palmer from his liability to me. He is an old man, and a man of many troubles. The sum of money was borrowed in a time of sore anguish, and I will not bring his grey hairs to the grave in added sorrow by demanding payment. This for my son, if ever he returns. And by my will my executors are bound to keep this small estate intact for two years after my decease, and then, should my son make no sign, let it be put into the market, with all my goods and chattels, and the money divided amongst certain poor folk and charities named in my last will and testament. '

 (Signed) 'CHARLES BAYFIELD. '

A profound silence reigned as Bryda read the rather illegible writing ofthe old Squire. When she had finished she looked up, and, with a deepsigh, said simply, --

'I am thankful for grandfather! Oh! if we had known this sooner!'

A spasm of pain passed over Mr Bayfield's face. 

'Yes, ' he said, 'and there rests my sin against you. This paper, datedonly a few months before my father's death, was in this pocket-book, theother paper in the deed box, of which his executors took possession. Noone knew of this paper but me. I kept it back, granting the reprieve foryour sweet sake. If I had obtained possession of you I might have toldyou of it--I do not know. I cannot answer for myself--my old self, ' herepeated. 'God forgive me, I am punished. Can _you_ forgive me?'

Then he paused again, silent, and Bryda to her latest day remembered howin that profound stillness a thrush outside, in the glory of the summernoontide, broke out into song, and ceasing, the deep sob of an oppressedheart seemed to touch the two extremes of joy and grief, theseconstantly recurring contrasts in this beautiful world, given to us by aloving Father, richly to enjoy, and where sin is ever sounding itsstrain of sorrow, and often of despair. 

All the true woman awoke now in Bryda's heart. She knelt down by thecouch, and taking the Squire's hand in both hers, bent her face upon it, and whispered, --

'Yes, I forgive you. I am so sorry, ' and in a lower whisper still, 'Please forgive poor Jack; he is gone far away. I shall never, never seehim again, and it was all because he loved me. Please forgive him. '

'For _your_ sake, yes, ' was the reply, 'for your sake, and pray for meas I lie here alone. Your sister has tried to make me a better man. Shewas as an angel of God sent to drive out the evil spirits in me. Mymother!--ah! my mother used to pray for me--and in this very room _I_have prayed at her knee. Once, in my fits of passion and rage, she toldme of a king who like me had an evil spirit--Saul, yes, it must havebeen Saul--and she prayed God that one of His angels might be sent to meto drive it out. Two angels have come at last--_you_ and yoursister--and I shall never forget you. Kiss me on the forehead beforeyou go--a seal of forgiveness, of pardon. '

Bryda rose and did as he asked her, and then without another word leftthe room. 

 * * * * *

Mr Barrett dropped her at the farm, where Betty received her, and, flinging her arms round this gentle sister, she said, --

'Oh, Betty! dear Bet! take me upstairs. I can bear no more. '

No, she could bear no more--overwrought, and ill in mind and body, Brydalay down in her tent-bed in the upper chamber of Bishop's Farm; and MrsLambert, to her intense surprise and vexation, was obliged to look forsomeone else to supply Bryda's place, mend and clear starch her lace, and prepare dainty dishes for Mr Lambert's friends, attend her to thecathedral, and indulge all her whims. 

It is never too late to mend, though, of all ugly weeds which growunchecked in the human heart, selfishness is the hardest to pluck up, especially if for seventy years it has flourished unchecked. 

 * * * * *

Bryda lay in a state of feverish exhaustion on her bed for many weeks, tended with loving care by Betty, who did her best to divert her mindfrom sad thoughts. 

Betty said very little about the time when the Squire lay in the parlourbelow, and Bryda was too languid to ask many questions. 

In the farm things seemed to have taken a turn for the better. PeterPalmer, having been assured that he was delivered from debt, seemed totake a new lease of life. The wheat harvest promised to be plentiful, the berry crop had been good, and old Silas reported well of the sheep, the last flock driven to Bristol market having fetched a fair price fromthe dealers; and as to the poultry, Dorothy Burrow declared that, nowGoody Renton was dead, the later broods were all healthy, and that itwas her evil eye which had done to death so many in previous summers. 

Mr Barrett was still in occasional attendance on the Squire, and neverfailed to stop at Bishop's Farm when he passed, either going or coming. 

He was always cheery and hopeful, and in advance of the generalpractitioner of those days in many ways. He brought Bryda books andnewspapers; but when she asked news of Thomas Chatterton he would putoff a direct answer. 

Another question, often on her lips, about the Squire he parried; andwhen she asked, 'Is there any way of getting Jack Henderson back--ofletting him know?' Mr Barrett would shake his head. 

'I am afraid not; but don't vex yourself, my dear. He may be making hisfortune, and come back one day a rich man. '

'Ah! but he will always have that face before him, lying dead, as hethought. Even now I can't forget it. '

'Oh! come, come! the Squire is better. He was able to set his hand to adocument to-day, and Nurse says he is not so wandering in his sleep. He'll do in time. '

And while these glowing August days of 1770 went on, and the golden cornripened, and the trees in the orchard were laden with rosy fruit, whilethe hills wore their imperial robes of purple and gold, and partridges, all unconscious of their coming fate, rose in covies from the stubble, London streets were hot and dusty, and there, up and down, paced the boypoet, nearing the tragic end of all his bright dreams and all his proudaspirations. 

The pathetic story need not be told in detail here. From the moment whenhe left Mr Lambert's house, and went to try his fortune in the greatcity of London, he drifted away from his Bristol friends and Bristolties. 

Mr Barrett and his staunch friend Mr George Catcott had letters fromhim, and it is plain that he applied to Mr Barrett for a certificate togo out as a ship's surgeon. 

But this request he could not honestly grant. Letters to his mother andsister are also preserved, which are pathetic, indeed, as they areevidently written with the one desire of keeping them in ignorance ofhis real condition. 

He sends them presents, and denies himself food that he may do so. Hewrites of orders for copy for the reviews and magazines, and keeps upthe hope of the mother he loves so well, when his own hope was dying dayby day. 

One hot morning Bryda was lying in her upper chamber in the oldfarmhouse, paper and pens at her side, on a little table, where Betty, her faithful sister, had placed a little jar of monthly roses andmignonette. Life was returning to her, and she rose from her couch, andthrowing a shawl over her head, without telling Betty, she crept feeblydownstairs and went out into the orchard, the boughs of the old appletrees, heavy with their rosy and russet load, touching her as shepassed. Bryda went through the wicket-gate and sank down on the boulderwhere long ago she sat meditating on the dead lamb, and, hearing thechime of the Bristol bells, was filled with desire to take flight to thebusy city, and had consented to write to Madam Lambert and let JackHenderson convey the letter to Bristol the next day. 

Jack--where was Jack? An exile and a wanderer for her sake, and herheart failed her when she thought she should never see him again, neverbe able to atone to him for what he had suffered. The knights of old, ofwhom Thomas Chatterton wrote, rescued their lady loves from the grasp oflawless men, and, at the risk of life and limb, were ready to die in theattempt. And poor Jack had done the deed worthy of the knights of old, and how severely he had been punished. 

As Bryda went over the past she heard quick footsteps behind her. Thewicket-gate opened and shut with a click, and Mr Barrett stood by herside. 

'Well done, my fair lady, ' he said. 'I wanted to get you into the openair. You have stolen a march on Betty, who is hastening after me withanother shawl and a cloak. '

Then, as Betty came up full of fear that Bryda should suffer, andcovering the ground with an old cloak that Bryda's feet might rest uponit, Mr Barrett's cheery manner suddenly changed. With a deep sigh hesaid, --

'I have had sad news to-day. The poor boy, poor Chatterton, isdead--aye, and worse, died by his own hand. '

'Dead!' both girls exclaimed in an awe-struck tone. 

'Yes, and we in Bristol have all been guilty in the matter. Poor GeorgeCatcott is racked by self-reproach, and well he may be, well may I be. He was starving and half-mad, that last letter to Catcott shows. Weshould have sent someone to him, poor, poor boy. I shall find it hard toforgive myself, I know that. And in that letter he said "I am noChristian--"'

Mr Barrett's voice was choked with emotion, and, unable to say anotherword, he went hastily down the lane, and very soon his horse's feet andthe wheels of his high gig were heard rattling on the highroad beyond. 

'Oh, Bryda, don't fret, ' Betty said, as poor Bryda covered her face withher hands. 

'I would like to be alone, ' Bryda replied. 'Leave me, dear, just alittle while. Come back for me, but leave me now. '

Betty obeyed, and Bryda was left alone once more to face the greatmystery of death. 

'Yes, ' she thought, 'he was mad. He could not be taken to account forhis actions. How his eyes flamed, as if a fire burned in their depths. How he would fall into silence all of a sudden. How he would burst outinto wild rage, and then how gentle and kind he could be. How gentle tome that last night when he came to tell me about Jack. ' Then Brydalooked up into the clear sky above her head, as if to seek an answer toher question there, as if there she could solve this mystery. 

And although not in words, there came to her soul a great overpoweringsense of the Love of God; and in that Love alone we can find the keywhich opens out the boundlessness of His mercy. 

Like as a father pities! When man is pitiless and forgetful, when manjudges with a hard judgment, the All-loving One _remembers_ our frame, and in His love and in His pity redeems and pardons. 

CHAPTER XVII

THE LAST. 

Ten years had passed away, and Peter Palmer had long been laid to restunder the yew tree shade in the village churchyard. 

Dorothy Burrow had found a soft place in the heart of a neighbouringfarmer, and had taken to herself a second husband, and gone to live nearBath. 

The old farm had passed into other hands, and little fair-hairedchildren played under the boughs of the orchard, whence many of the oldtrees had been cleared and young ones planted in their stead. 

The lichen-covered roof of the homestead had been repaired, and theappearance of the place bespoke prosperity and comfort. 

It was a May evening in 1780 when heavy footsteps were heard comingslowly up the lane at the side of the farm, and a tall athletic man wentto the wicket-gate and leaned upon it with folded arms. 

Presently a woman, with a child in her arms, came up to him and said, --

'Good evening. Fine weather, isn't it? There was a sharp shower thismorning, and we can almost see the things growing. '

'Who lives here at Bishop's Farm?'

'_I_ do, ' was the prompt reply. 'My husband bought the place when PeterPalmer died four years ago. Are you a stranger in these parts?'

'Yes; that is, I knew the place once, years ago--ten years ago. '

'Ah, there's many changes in ten years! I can scarce believe it istwelve since I married, only for the children, ' looking fondly down on acrowd of little boys and girls who were under the care of a tall girl often, 'only the children tell me it's true. '

'Do you happen to know where the Miss Palmers are? Are they--married?'

'One is married to the Squire at Rock House--a grand match it was. Butshe was a pretty, notable girl, and nursed him, so I hear, in anillness; but it was all before we came from the other side of Bath. '

'What do you mean? What is the Squire's name?'

'Bayfield, of course, of Rock House, six or seven miles off Binegar way. The other sister lives with Mrs Henderson, who had a seizure just aboutthe time Farmer Palmer died. She was a fine ladyish person, and thingswould have gone to wrack and ruin if Miss Palmer had not gone to her. She has been like a mother to the girls, and taught them lots of things. Two are out in service, and one in Mrs Hannah More's school. ' Jackturned away, the woman calling after him, --

'Come in and rest, sir, and take a cup of cider. You look very tired. '

But Jack shook his head and set off at a quick pace towards his mother'shouse. 

No one recognised him; he was bronzed with exposure to the air, and hisface was deeply lined with care, so that he looked prematurely old. Histhick curly hair was streaked with grey, and his huge frame was a littlebent, as he leaned heavily on his stick. The news he had heard filledhis heart with strangely mixed feelings. The Squire was alive, the greatburden of manslaughter, which had lain so heavily upon him for ten longyears of exile, was removed. But Bryda had married him. 

Of course he saw it all--desire in her part to atone for what he haddone for her sake. Did not the woman say she had nursed him through anillness? Yes, it was all plain--Bryda was lost to him for ever. 

He could not make up his mind to see _her_, but he would like to seeBetty, and so he walked on slowly towards his mother's house. 

He felt more like a man in a dream as he passed all the familiar objectson the road--all associated with the love of his whole life. 

A high gig passed him at a quick trot. Looking up, he recognised hisbrother, his red hair gleaming in the sunshine; but he did not see him, or, if he saw him, did not recognise him. 

'He looks prosperous, anyhow, ' Jack thought, as he looked back at thecart wheeling swiftly down the road. The children at a few cottage doorslooked up from their play to gaze at the traveller. 'They don't knowme. No one knows, ' he thought bitterly. Then he remembered that thechildren of ten years ago were men and women now. 'How could theselittle things know him? Betty won't know me, ' he said, 'like as not. Well, I must see her. I must hear what she can tell me, and then I shallbe off again. I could never, never look on _her_ face--the wife of thatman--never. '

He was at the garden gate of his old home now, against which two largelilac bushes grew, and, now in full blossom, scented the air with theirfragrance. 

Jack took up his position so that he was shielded from observation bythe overhanging boughs of one of the bushes, and looked up the straightpath to the house. 

Everything was apparently well cared for, and the borders on either sideof the path were full of spring flowers. Flowers, too, were in boxes onthe ledges of the windows, and the diamond panes of the lattices brightand clear. 

Jack noticed all these little details, and the gambols of two greykittens in the porch, an old dog lying, with his nose on his paws, entirely regardless of his frisky neighbours. 

Presently a maid-servant brought out an easy-chair and a cushion, andwas followed by two figures--his mother, leaning heavily on the armof--Betty, her poor head shaking tremulously, and her querulous voiceraised in some complaint about the position of the chair. 

Betty! But was it Betty? There had been many changes in ten years, butas Jack's eyes, shaded by his hand, examined the figure leaning overhis mother's chair and gently arranging the cushions, his heart gave agreat bound, and then seemed to stop beating. He clenched the gate forsupport, and knew that he was looking at his lost love--Bryda. 

The gate gave a sharp click as his heavy hand grasped it, and Brydalooked up. She came swiftly down the path and said, --

'Can I do anything for you? You look--' Then, with a sudden radianceilluminating her beautiful face, she exclaimed, 'Jack, I am so glad!'

Jack was still mastered by the strength of his emotion, and wasspeechless, his broad chest heaving, and the words he would have spokenrefused to be uttered. 

Yes, it was Bryda. The girl had changed into the woman, but except anadded sweetness and refinement in her face she was the idol of Jack'sdreams. 

'Come outside, please, ' she said, laying her little hand on his andpushing open the gate. 'Your mother could not bear the shock of joy yourreturn would give her. I must prepare her for it. Come round to thegarden behind and sit down in the arbour. You look so ill, Jack, I mustfetch you something. '

He found his voice at last. 

'Are you married, Bryda?'

'Married! Oh, no. I will tell you all if you will only come and rest. Married! No, Jack, I came here to take care of your mother and sister, because it was through me they lost you. Your poor mother had no one tonurse her, and I have been so happy here. The children love me, Ithink; and as to Tim, he is a very good fellow, and takes me as asister. ' She did not add how often the said Tim had asked her to marryhim, nor how many other suitors had in vain tried to win her favour. 

'And Betty, then, is the fine lady. The woman at the farm told me it was_you_ who had married the Squire. '

A cloud of sadness passed over Bryda's face as that name was mentioned. 

'Betty is not a fine lady, ' she said; 'she is still the same dearunselfish Betty she ever was. She is very happy, and David Bayfield is agood husband. Betty is the mistress of Rock House, and the gentry allaround respect her, for she never takes airs on herself--she is far, farabove that. '

'I never knew he was alive till an hour ago, ' Jack said, with a deepsigh; 'it is a burden lifted, it is a chain loosed from my neck--that itis, Bryda. '

Bryda's beautiful eyes were full of tears. 

'Yes, dear, ' she said gently, 'I know how great the relief must be. Andnow, Jack, let us forget the sad past. The Squire, David Bayfield, isnot a strong man, and cannot hunt or ride to cover, but he has done muchfor the estate, and Bet and he are good to the poor, and kind--howkind--to the sad and sorrowful. Now I must go and tell your mother Ihave heard of you. '

'But first--first, Bryda, tell me, can you love me? It is too much toask, I know; but I have made money out in America, and if you can carefor a stupid fellow like me--you are so clever and so beautiful. Oh, Bryda, can you care for me at last?'

'I think I can, Jack, ' she said, with a sweet smile. 'Ten years ofseparation have taught me many things, and one is--' He put his armround her and drew her towards him. 'And one is, ' she whispered, 'that Ihave always loved you, and that, though you never knew it, I shouldnever, never have married any man but you. '

Sweet were the mutual happiness and thankfulness of that May day to JackHenderson and Bryda; and as they sat for a few blissful minutes in thearbour, which had been Mrs Henderson's pride in earlier days, Brydasaid, --

'All through these long years I have never lost hope, and although, aspoor Chatterton said, "She did seem to take her high flight, shrouded inmist, and with her blinded eyes, " I always knew I should greet her someday--"the holy sister, sweeping through the sky in crown of gold androbe of lily white. " I shall have to make you love Chatterton's poetry, Jack. Poor boy, I never forget him. You _must love_ poetry now, Jack. '

'I shall love you, ' Jack said firmly. 'Won't that be enough for adullard like me?'

'No, not _quite_ enough, ' she said, laughing. 'And now wait here while Igo and tell your mother that the wanderer is come home. '

THE END. 

COLSTON AND COMPANY, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH. 

 +-----------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Note: | | | | Inconsistent hyphenation, punctuation and | | spelling in the original document have been | | preserved. | | | | Typographical errors corrected in the text: | | | | Page 36 neeedlework changed to needlework | | Page 37 missing quotes added | | Page 41 whether changed to whither | | Page 53 missing quote added | | Page 54 tonight changed to to-night | | Page 61 Dorory changed to Dowry | | Page 62 auther changed to author | | | +-----------------------------------------------+