THE ORCHARD GATE.
Jack Henderson found the morning very long, and finally stretched
himself 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 him
with their attendant beaux, for Clifton Hot Springs was now becoming a
very fashionable resort, and the houses lying under the shadow of the
huge rocks were in great demand.
Now but little is left to tell of the glory of the past. The pump-room
has long since been pulled down, and instead of gaily dressed bevies of
fashionable folk disporting themselves under a row of trees in the May
sunshine, heavy trams, drawn by patient horses at an even jog-trot, pass
along at stated intervals, at all times and seasons, connecting the
traffic of the busy, populous city with Avonmouth which is just beyond
the graceful Suspension Bridge which spans the gorge between the
Gloucestershire and Somersetshire banks of the Avon.
But the grand old rocks do not change. The black-winged daws fly in and
out of their nests in the crevices, where the yellow wallflower and
large golden-eyed daisies still grow in profusion where no hand can
reach them, and flourishing with the scant nourishment that the crevices
in the rocks afford them, fill the air with their fragrance. Generations
of men come and go, and the face of Nature remains as it was when the
boy poet first gazed in a rapt vision at the grey bastions of St
Vincent's Rocks, and down at the river at his feet rushing out to the
sea.
Jack Henderson fortified himself with another meal at the
confectioner's, and then pursued his way back to Dowry Square.
The aspect of things was changed there since the early morning. The
brass handle of the door was polished and bright, the steps clean, and
Jack's pull at the bell and rap at the door was answered by Sam, in neat
livery, who conducted him immediately to a pleasant parlour where Mrs
Lambert was sitting; an old lady of a past time, her grey curls fastened
back from her forehead by two combs, surmounted by a large cap something
between a turban and a mob. Her black paduasoy gown, full at the waist
and only touching her ankles, was covered with a spotless white apron
with deep pockets.
Over the low bodice of her dress Mrs Lambert wore a thick white
kerchief, fastened close to the throat by a gold pin. On her arms she
wore thick mittens, which reached the elbow of her short sleeves, and on
her thin but shapely fingers she wore two or three handsome rings.
Jack made his best bow, and advanced to Mrs Lambert's chair, unhappily
treading as he did so on the paw of a tabby cat, who resisted the
indignity by a very prolonged yell and an angry spit at her enemy.
'Poor puss,' said her mistress. 'I expect, sir, your foot is no light
weight. I believe you brought me this letter,' laying her hand on the
precious 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 a
foolish match, the other died--both old servants. I have made efforts to
replace them, and have failed. Is this young woman known to you, sir?'
'Well known, madam, but--' Jack paused. 'She isn't a servant. I believe
she 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_ distant
connection. However, it is a pretty note, take it altogether, and she
speaks of trouble at home--her father in money difficulty. I showed my
son the letter, and from all he can make out the sum borrowed will have
to be repaid. He will speak more of that hereafter, but I will send my
answer to Miss Palmer's request. Writing is difficult to me, for my
fingers are a little stiff with rheumatism, therefore I am glad to spare
them. First, are you the accepted lover of Miss Palmer?'
Again poor Jack felt the hot blushes rise to his face, again he shrank
from the rough touch of the secret in his heart which he held sacred.
'Because,' Mrs Lambert continued, 'I do not permit sweethearts in the
house. It is on this ground that I have dismissed several young
serving-maids and depend on the services of Mrs Symes. I don't quite
know what your views may be about Miss Palmer, but as I hear you are
apprenticed in Bristol to a respectable goldsmith I should wish to make
it plain that I can have no gallivanting or--'
'Madam,' Jack said, interrupting this long speech,' I have known Miss
Bryda Palmer all my life. I am anxious to serve her, but I am not her
accepted suitor.' Then, rising to his full height, Jack asked, 'What are
your 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 either
party at a month's not a quarter's notice.'
'Miss Palmer will come next Monday,' Jack said. Then, his voice
faltering, he went on with some hesitation. 'She has been much cared for
and--and loved. I hope you will be good to her, and remember she has
never been used to hard words.'
'She has been very fortunate, then; but I think, sir, you forget
yourself when you remind me of my duty. Good-day.'
Jack bowed, or rather ducked his head, which nearly reached the thick
oak beam across the ceiling of the parlour, and as he was leaving the
room, 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 poor
ambassador, departed on his way to scale those heights which rise above
Bristol in a straight unbroken line, where the tower of Dundry stands
out against the sky.
Jack plodded on. His stalwart frame knew little of fatigue, and he was
not nearly as tired, when at last Bishop's Farm came in sight, as he
often felt when sitting with his long legs tucked under him on the high
stool in his uncle's workshop in Corn Street. When he reached the gate
of the farmyard he paused and determined to go round by the lane, and
then 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 which
cropped out of the turf.
The sound of his steps brought Flick to inspect him. Flick was
satisfied, for he gave a low whine of welcome and rubbed his nose
against 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 the
gate in an easy attitude; Bryda, on the other side, with her face
flushed, 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 your
interference.'
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 speaking
to 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, 'If
it were not for this wish of Miss Palmer's, sir, I would _not_ wait your
pleasure; but her word is law to me. If it weren't,' he muttered, 'I'd
knock you down.'
An ironical laugh, with the words, 'Come, sir, be off!' was the only
rejoinder, 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 he
to do it?'
Presently Betty's face appeared above the low wall which skirted the
farmyard.
'Oh! Jack,' she exclaimed, 'Bryda has been talking to the young Squire
ever so long. She sent me away. I do so wish she would come. It is all
about that money and grandfather; but I don't like her to be alone with
that man; he has a bad face. She has got Flick, but still I wish she
would come.'
'Hang it all!' Jack said, 'I won't stand this another minute,' and he
retraced 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 in
farewell 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 pale
as death.
'What has he been saying to you?' Jack demanded, almost fiercely. 'Has
he 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 have
something good to-night to try and tempt grandfather.'
Jack was wondering when Bryda would ask what had been the result of his
journey to Bristol. He had walked some twenty miles in her service, and
yet she asked no questions about the letter.
'I have been to Bristol,' he began, 'and delivered your letter. Don't
you want to know what Madam Lambert said?'
'Oh, my letter! Yes--will she have me?' But Bryda did not seem eager for
an answer.
'Yes, you can ride with me on Monday in the cart, and I will put you
down 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--and
you will see all the fine folks at the pump-room, and hear the band
play. Won't you like that--eh, Bryda?'
'Oh, yes, of course I shall. I thank you, Jack, for taking all this
trouble for me.'
But the thanks were not so warm as Jack expected, and he could not
understand what made Bryda seem so different from the eager, restless
girl of the previous day, whose whole heart seemed then set on going to
Bristol.
The supper was silent, and old Mr Palmer could not be persuaded to taste
the 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 not
have a crust to gnaw before the year's out. Take it away, take it
away--I don't want it.'
Jack took leave as soon as supper was over, and made his way with a
heavy heart to his own home.
Then he found his mother in a very captious mood, upbraiding him for his
long 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 brother
Jim is worth six of you after all. You don't know how to take advantage
of 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 the
farm.'
'No. I know what's what, and the eldest shall have the first chance. For
the sake of your widowed mother and six innocent little sisters you
ought 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 of
old 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 remembered
that if Bryda was in Dowry Square, within reach, even the little
workshop and the pain in his back would be tolerable.
Mrs Henderson was seated by the wide lattice window, with her feet on a
stool, dressed much more smartly than the farmers' wives in the
neighbourhood. She was sprigging fine muslin for a cap, and she wore
large rings on the finger of her left hand, as well as her wedding ring
on the other.
The rings were of doubtful quality, like Falstaff's of old, but they
were family heirlooms, and had been worn by her mother before her.
Mrs Henderson prided herself on her ancestry, her mother being the
daughter of a draper and haberdasher in Bath. She was generally supposed
to be a cut above her neighbours, and she left the farm to the
serving-man she dignified with the name of bailiff, and her six little
girls to tumble up as best they could. It was thought by Dorothy Burrow
and others, ridiculous to try to make Jack into a Bristol tradesman and
Jim the farmer. But Jim was no favourite with his mother. She set great
store on appearances, and Jim had a squint and a wide mouth, a freckled
face, with carroty hair, while Jack was in his mother's eyes, and in the
eyes of other people also, a fine handsome fellow, with eyes of a deep
blue, and chestnut hair curling lightly on his shapely head.
Mrs Henderson trusted to Jack to set the family up by becoming a partner
at last in Mr Henderson's business, he being a bachelor, and with no son
to 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 he
borrowed of old Squire Bayfield has to be paid back. And it all came
from that worthless son of his years agone having to leave the country
to escape the gallows. Farmer Short was here to-day and was telling me
all about it. A nice come down for these two girls, especially the
eldest, who thinks herself a wit and a beauty. She'll have to go to
service, if anybody will take such a useless piece of goods!'
'Good-night, mother,' was Jack's only reply. 'I'm tired, and off to
roost--good-night.'