AN UNSUCCESSFUL SUIT.
Never once in all the months that Bryda had spent under Mr Lambert's
roof had Jack Henderson failed to appear at the door of the house in
Dowry Square on Sunday afternoons to inquire if Miss Palmer was disposed
for a walk. But he had often to turn away dejected and sorrowful.
Sometimes Bryda could not leave Mrs Lambert, sometimes she had promised
to take a dish of tea with one or other of the friends of the old lady
who frequented her parlour, and praised the girl, who was, as they said,
so notable and obliging, and who was really quite the young gentlewoman
though country bred and born in a farmhouse.
But Jack had worse misgivings than could be caused by Mrs Lambert's
disappointing him of his Sunday treat--looked forward to with hungry
eagerness from Monday morning to Saturday night--he heard from
Chatterton that the suitor whom he had seen in Dowry Square in the
autumn was frequently known to be hanging about the place, that he
visited Mr Lambert's office, that he had been invited more than once to
the midday dinner, and that he had on these occasions made himself
generally agreeable.
Jack attempted once or twice to question Bryda about the Squire, but she
always resented it, and the pleasure of his walk was consequently
spoiled.
Mrs Lambert, though she never asked Jack Henderson to cross the
threshold, was abundantly gracious to Mr Bayfield, and he, taking his
cue, flattered the good lady to the top of her bent, sympathised about
the crazy apprentice, and declared hanging was too good for him. After
the meal was over, Bryda would sit silently by with her work, and the
Squire left her alone. But on this memorable Saturday, when the
apprentice had finally been dismissed, and his iniquities fully
discussed, 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_,' she
repeated.
'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 his
addresses to you, it is my duty to express a hope that they are
honourable.'
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 a
friend rather than a serving-maid, and allow my particular friends to
show you kindness, I must remind you that you are not in the class of
life 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 and
indignation, and she determined to lose no time in writing to Bet, and
telling her the sale must at once be thought of, for Mr Bayfield was
inexorable, and he must have the money.
The next morning was fair and bright.
The bells of the Bristol churches were ringing a joyous peal, telling
out the glad tidings that the Lord was risen, and Mrs Lambert, arrayed
in her best gown, leaning on her gold-headed walking-stick, with Bryda
at her side carrying her big books, went to the service at the
cathedral.
The anthem had again a message for Bryda, as on that first Sunday long
ago. _Even so in Christ shall all be made alive_, sounded the triumphal
strain, and then there came into her young heart the question, had she
any part or lot in the risen Christ? Bryda had never been confirmed.
Confirmations in those days were of rare occurrence, and the remote
country districts were reached by the Bishop of the diocese at long
intervals. But Mrs Lambert, being a rigid observer of times and seasons,
went up to the altar, at the conclusion of the morning prayer and short
dry sermon, to receive the Holy Communion, as it is set forth in the
prayer book that such is the duty of all members of the Church three
times a year at least, of which Easter is one.
Mrs Lambert put out her hand to Bryda as she left the pew, as if she
needed 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, seeing
her 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 way
through her fingers. She felt outside, poor child, and uncared for, and
so sorely in need of some help in what was likely to be a crisis in her
life.
If the Squire persisted, what should she do? Then, with a great longing
of prayer, she asked for wisdom to do what was best and right--and to
marry the Squire could never be best and right. Better let everything at
the farm be sold. Better let her grandfather suffer than consent to what
would be a sin. Then the remembrance of Mrs Lambert's words the day
before made her cheeks burn, and she rose up at last determined to let
Betty know that immediate steps must be taken and the large sum raised
to pay off the debt.
That afternoon Jack Henderson was not disappointed of his walk. He
appeared dressed in his best, with a large bunch of primroses, bought in
the market the day before in his hand, and two or three in his
buttonhole.
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 little
table where the volume of sermons lay.
'Mr Henderson brought them for me, madam,' she said. 'It is too large a
posy 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's
nephew a very respectable young man. I have no objections to your
keeping his company--he is, of course, in your own class of life,' she
said 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 in
water. Now let us go up on the Downs. I am in the mood for a long
stroll. 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 at
last, on the vantage ground where the old snuff-mill stood, now the
well-known observatory, the two sat down on a boulder of limestone to
rest. There were no houses near, thus nothing interrupted the view in
any direction. The budding woods on the other side of the great gorge,
now spanned by the famous Suspension Bridge, were just wearing their
first delicate veil of emerald. Away, far away, the blue mountains of
the Welsh coast stood out against the clear sky, and the sloping sides
of the Mendips, where Dundry Tower stands like a sentinel on guard over
the city, were bathed in the soft radiance of the April day, while now
and again the chime of bells was borne on the breeze.
For some minutes both were silent, Jack toying with the small pebbles at
his feet, Bryda gazing out at the hills where her home lay hid, and
forgetting poor Jack's presence in her own meditation. Jack was the
first to break the silence. There had sprung up between him and Bryda,
since Christmas, a certain reserve which seemed to raise a barrier
between him and his fondest hopes.
'I say, Bryda,' he began, 'I am very unhappy. Can't you give me a kind
word?'
'Why, Jack, what is the matter?' she said carelessly. 'I thought I was
unhappy this morning, but now I think no one ought to be sad to-day. So
the bells tell me. Hearken!'
'I am sad, though,' poor Jack rejoined. 'I love you, Bryda. You must
know it. I have loved you all my life--I shall love you till I die. I am
tied to this silversmith's business--but my uncle has no children, he
takes more kindly to me than he did, and the last year I have pleased
him better. When he dies I shall come into the business, and then--'
Bryda turned and looked straight into Jack's frank, honest face. She
tried to speak lightly.
'So after all, Jack, your mother was right, and you will be a Bristol
alderman 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 care
for me? Can you love me? That's the real question.'
'Jack, I have always cared for you, you know that. Now let us talk of
something else.'
'No,' Jack said, 'I am not to be put off like this. Give me a plain
answer. When I can give you all you ought to have, you know, will you be
my wife? I love you so that if you can't promise to be my wife I don't
care what becomes of me. I shall be off in one of the ships from the
quay, and get drowned--drown myself, I daresay.'
'Nonsense, Jack; be sensible. I do not feel as if I could promise to
marry anybody. There is trouble at home, and I am thinking more of that
just now than anything else,' and in spite of herself her colour
deepened 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, curse
him.'
'Hush, Jack. On this beautiful day--Easter day--don't have wicked
feelings. 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 had
gone you would have heard the words which tell us to put away the leaven
of malice and wickedness, Jack. I have thought so much more of religion
since 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 passions
such as we have seen possess poor Tom Chatterton. I could cry when I
think that when he was only a little boy of eleven he could write those
beautiful verses on "Christmas Day," and not long ago the lines on
"Faith," and yet get so mastered by his passion that he could actually
write a will to be read when he had sinned against God by killing
himself to-day. And he is now cast out on the world, which will break
his poor mother's heart.'
But Jack Henderson did not care to hear about the mad apprentice just
then. He rose from his seat with a gesture of impatience.
'I don't want to hear about Tom Chatterton,' he said. 'I asked you a
plain question, and I want a plain answer.'
'Well, then, dear Jack, we shall always be friends, I hope. But I could
not--no, I could not promise more.'
'Very well,' he said moodily. 'But look here, Bryda, if I thought that
scoundrel Bayfield had anything to do with this I'd break every bone in
his body--I swear I would!'
'You have no right to speak to me like this,' Bryda replied. 'You have
no right to suppose that the Squire has anything to do with what I say
to you.'
'Haven't I, then? What did he mean by sneaking in last Christmas with
presents, and daring to--' Jack stopped, and then in a choked voice he
said, '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 would
have used to soothe a child, 'and now let us go round by the village and
down by Bristol to the Hot Wells.'
Yes, Clifton was then only a village, and Chatterton had already sung
its charms in lines which ought to be known and prized by those who live
in the Clifton of these days. It is true Clifton is no longer 'the sweet
village' 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 city
of mansions and stately crescents, of colleges and schools, than a
village. Full of the busy workers in literature and art, of
philanthropists and philosophers, of churches and chapels, looking down
from the elevation of her rocky fastnesses over the yellow Avon creeping
below, 'its sullen billows rolling a muddy tide.'
The poet who sang its praises, and with his wonderful eagle glance over
the page of Bristol history seized the salient points to introduce into
his ode, is at once one of the most famous and the saddest memories
lingering round this City of the West, from which her younger sister of
to-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 long
and 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. She
is too far above me, too good, too clever, but'--and poor Jack tore the
primroses from his coat and threw them away--'oh, Heaven! how I love
her!'