THE LETTER DELIVERED.
Jack Henderson was up before the sun the next morning. He had thought it
better not to take a horse and cart from his mother's stable, but trust
to his own powers of locomotion.
He made his way across the meadows, where the cowslips hung their
graceful heads, yet heavy with the dew of the short summer night. As the
light strengthened in the east, and lines of pink and gold announced the
approach of the sun, the birds began to sing in full chorus. A lark
soared high above Jack's head, and lost itself in the blue ether in an
ecstasy of rejoicing.
The sleepy cows raised their clumsy forms and began to chew the grass. A
company of rooks, in a black line, winged their way, cawing as they
went, to seek a breakfast for their young ones, yet in their nests in
the mass of elms which stood dark against the sky in the direction of
Binegar.
From afar came the gentle coo of the wood-pigeon, and the bleating of
the lambs in a fold, awaiting the shepherd's voice to go forth with
their mothers to try their newly acquired strength on the soft turf of
the uplands.
Jack's honest heart was filled with an emotion he could not have put
into words. He only knew that Bryda reigned there supreme. All these
sights 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 that
it 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 be
stirring. He approached the wall which skirted the farmyard very
cautiously, 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 upper
part of the short corduroys, which were met at the knee by coarse
stockings, and fastened by large metal buttons.
For a moment Jack paused. He looked up at the old farm, and at the open
casement 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 a
hand 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 the
window. 'I say, God bless her, and keep her safe!'
And Bryda, all unconscious of this benediction, murmured in her sleep
the last lines of the stanza of her elegy on the lamb which she had
composed the night before, and which was interrupted by the vain hunt
for 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 no
rhyme and no answer.
Jack Henderson knew his way about Bristol, and found himself in Dowry
Square just as the deep-toned cathedral clock struck seven from afar.
The townspeople were not so early in their rising as those in the
country and Dowry Square was wrapt in repose when Jack Henderson entered
it. The blinds in the upper windows, and the shutters, with their
heart-shaped holes, were still closed.
A door in one of the houses opened quickly, and a woman came out in a
large frilled nightcap and a big apron. She had a broom in her hand, and
began to raise a great dust by sweeping out the entrance and the dirty
steps. She watched Jack curiously as he knocked at the door of one of
the 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, leaned
against the side of the door and resigned himself to waiting and
patience.
Presently footsteps were heard and the bolts withdrawn and the key
turned in the lock.
The face that appeared as the door was partially opened was a remarkable
one. The eyes that met Jack's were literally blazing with anger, and
the mass of hair tossed back from the wide white brow gave the
appearance of a young lion at bay.
'Curse you, Jack Henderson, for knocking like that at this time of the
day.'
'Keep a civil tongue in your head, Tom. Time of day, indeed! You ought
to be up and half-way to the office by this time. I know Bristol folks
are lie-a-beds, but I didn't think past seven o'clock was thought early
even by them.'
'Well, what do you want? Out with it. Dogs are loth to quit their
kennels 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 to
beg, like a poltroon, to be taken back to that precious office in Corn
Street. Get Lambert to intercede for you--eh?'
'I'm not dismissed that I know of. It's nothing of the sort, so hold
your tongue; but I have got a letter here for Madam Lambert, and I want
to 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 in
the afternoon.'
'Who is it from?'
'Ah, that's another matter. I sha'n't tell you; but I say, Tom, if ever
you set eyes on the writer, remember what I tell you. If ever an
angel--'
And now the young men's conversation was abruptly ended. A loud,
strident voice was heard from the head of the wide oak staircase, which
was at some distance from the narrow lobby.
'Chatterton, what do you mean, gossiping like any old woman at the
street door? Where's Sam?'
'Asleep,' was the short reply.
'Wake him, then. Bid him attend to the door. It's not your business that
I know of.'
'I should have thought it was, as I share his bed in the cellar. I
should have thought it was share and share alike.'
This was said with infinite scorn, betrayed in the tone of the musical
voice as well as by the contemptuous tossing back of the thick hair and
shrug of the shoulders, which were seen in sharp outline under a
threadbare coat hastily thrown on.
'Hold your tongue or I'll find means to make you. Who is it at the
door?'
'Come down and see for yourself, sir,' was the final reply, as Thomas
Chatterton departed whence he came and disappeared in the lower regions
of the house.
The door was still open, and Jack Henderson still stood there. He
ventured to advance to the foot of the stairs, and looking up he could
dimly discern the figure of a gentleman in a long nightgown, his head
surmounted by a huge nightcap, with a tassel dangling from its crown.
Mr Lambert held to the banister of the second flight of wide stairs, and
peered down at Jack, who looked up at him.
'I have brought a letter, sir, from a young lady to Madam Lambert. She
is 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 plague
than 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 will
see my mother has it, though I don't promise you she will think anything
of 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 now
have a chance of breakfast.'
The open door now admitted a large and portly personage, who came every
morning to perform the duties of the household, assisted by the footboy
Sam, who wore a suit of livery and answered the door to clients who
might prefer to see lawyer Lambert at his private house rather than in
the somewhat cramped office in Corn Street.
Mr Lambert disappeared upstairs as the woman began to throw open
shutters and draw up blinds and let the light of the morning into the
house.
Jack Henderson was not invited to breakfast, and after his early walk he
was very hungry. He was just turning out of the square, towards the
river, 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 is
treated like a cur one is apt to snarl like one. Where are you going to
break your fast? At your uncle's--eh?'
'No,' Jack said,' I leave well alone there. I am not in high favour, and
don't go near him till next Monday, when I hope to bring Miss Palmer
along 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 roll
and a draught of water somewhere at a shop near by. Come with me and
share the frugal repast.'
Then the two young men turned into the road by the river, where the
early frequenters of the Spa were returning from drinking the waters in
sedan chairs or wrapped up in fur. A band was playing before the door of
the 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 and
his companion turned in to satisfy their hunger several gaily dressed
beaux and young gentlewomen, probably relatives of the sick people who
were drinking the waters, were laughing and chatting as if there was no
such thing as death or sickness or sorrow in the world.
The group formed a sharp contrast indeed to the patients leaning on the
arms of their attendants, who came forth in melancholy procession from
the baths, coughing continuously, and with faces where consumption had
too plainly left its mark. On some the bright hectic burned, on others
the pallor of the last stages of that fell disease was seen.
Thomas Chatterton seemed wholly unconscious of what was passing before
him. He threw down his penny for a roll, and drank a glass of water, and
then stalked out of the shop, while Jack demolished a pork pie and two
rolls, asking for a mug of cider to complete his breakfast. Having
settled his account with the smart young woman behind the counter, he
hastened 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 Corn
Street?'
But Chatterton did not answer. He stood like one in a dream, staring
with his wonderful eyes at the giant rocks ahead of him, and seemed
unconscious of any presence.
Something in Chatterton already struck Jack Henderson with a strange
awe.
Now, as he stood on the bank of the river, where the tide had just
turned its dun-coloured waters, rushing swiftly towards the sea, his
head bare, his hair tossed back from his capacious brow, his hands
clasped and his lips moving, though no sound escaped them, he looked as
if he belonged to a different race from the big stalwart youth beside
him, whose honest face was all aglow with health and vigour, and who
towered 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 and
injustice and hate to the great ocean. I see them as they go--the evil
spirits which make Bristol a hell on earth--drown them in the
flood--free the city from their presence--and then--'
'Are you not going to the office, Chatterton?' Jack ventured to say at
last. 'You will not be there at eight, I say,' and Jack touched the
boy's arm.
The human touch seemed to break the spell, and Chatterton laughed a
strange unnatural laugh.
'Oh, is it you, old Jack? Late, do you say? Yes, I am late for
everything--too late--always too late. Farewell. I must away with all
speed. Tell your angel she is coming to a place where she will find no
good company.' And then, before Jack could say another word,
Chatterton's slight boyish form was speeding along the road with
incredible swiftness, and had disappeared at a turn leading from the Hot
Wells to Bristol.
'I believe they are right,' Jack thought; 'he is mad. I must warn Bryda
to 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. Hang
that jeweller's shop! I think I will cut it, and go off in one of these
big ships--make a fortune in America--and then--then--'
Ah! Jack Henderson, what then? Your simple soul has its dreams as you
stand by that mighty rushing river, under the giant rocks, and your
dreams are sweet, sweeter than those of the marvellous boy who has just
left you to return to the hated drudgery of Mr Lambert's office in Corn
Street.