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, the
boyish side of his nature coming to the front, and with it a loving
tenderness to his mother and sister.
Full of hope since the money had been collected for him, and glad to be
turning his back on Bristol, Chatterton was in one of his most winning
moods.
The soft spring weather had changed, cold winds blew, and instead of
soft April showers hail fell, blown in little heaps along Dowry Square
by 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 and
decline to take a Sunday stroll.
The remembrance of poor Jack's sad face as they parted haunted her, and
she said to herself she wished she had been kinder to him, and she
wished, oh! how she wished he had loved Betty instead of her. Bryda had
written to Betty as she had determined, and sent the letter by the
carrier, folded in thick paper and fastened by a string. The post in the
rural districts was very irregular in those days, and the carrier's
charge for delivering a parcel was even less than the postage of a
letter. Bryda wondered she had received no answer yet from Betty. She
had told her to reply on the return of the carrier on Saturday, and she
knew that if the letter was left at the office in Corn Street she would
be sure to get it on Saturday evening.
But no reply had come. Bryda had spoken to Mr Lambert that morning about
the affairs at Bishop's Farm, and he had advised that before the Squire
could 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 not
take them by surprise; it would frighten poor grandfather, and upset him
again. I hope Betty will soon answer my letter.'
'Well,' Mr Lambert had replied, 'young ladies must please themselves, as
they take care to do; but if I might presume to advise, I should say
accept the Squire's proposal. I should have thought he was a likely
fellow to gain a fair maiden's favour.'
Bryda had no reply to make to this, and now, as she stood looking out on
the square, she saw a boy crossing it and looking at the houses, as if
uncertain at which to stop. Presently he came up to the door and rang
the bell, giving also a great thud with the knocker. The footboy
hastened up to open the door, and Bryda, going into the passage, heard
her 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 was
written,--
'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, but
it was Betty's, of that Bryda felt sure. She went hastily to the
parlour.
'Madam Lambert,' she said, 'I am come to ask leave to start at once to
meet 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, and
then 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 get
to the thorn tree by three o'clock. I know the tree, and the road when
I am once out of Bristol.'
At this moment she met Chatterton, whom she stopped, waking him from one
of his dreams.
'Oh, Miss Palmer, I was on my way towards the square, hoping I might be
so 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 am
sorry for your distress, Miss Palmer, but let us hope things are not so
bad as you fear. I am in good heart to-day,' he said, his fine face
shining with hope and boyish gladness, 'let me give you some of my "Holy
sister's" influence.'
Then he walked with Bryda to the ferry. When once on the other side of
the river she could find her way to the foot of the winding road which
led 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 word
is _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 know
your sister's handwriting?'
'Yes, I know she takes a long time to write, but I expect she was
hurried and distressed, and these are tears which have blotted the
paper. What can it be? Oh, what can the trouble be? Good-bye, and thank
you. 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 turns
off towards Bath. I wish you good luck, Miss Palmer.'
Then Chatterton turned, and went back with his swift pace the way he
came.
He met, as he expected, Jack Henderson, who had been to Dowry Square and
heard that Miss Palmer had been called away on some business, but where
the footboy did not know.
When Chatterton met Jack, he was walking with a downcast air, and
Chatterton had slapped him on the back before he was aware of his
presence.
'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 you
know, has crossed the ferry, and is wandering unprotected up the road to
Dundry. Be a good knight and follow her, for it strikes me she may need
your presence.'
'What do you mean?' Jack said.
'What I say. Your fair lady is in trouble, summoned to the old thorn
tree half-way up the hill by her sister, who is in dire need. I have my
suspicions that the paper she showed me is not wrote by her by whom it
is pretended. Speed away, honest Jack, and see what you will see.'
But Jack stood still; he was always slow of perception, and never took
up any idea hastily. 'She may not want me,' he thought; 'she may be
angry, as she was last Sunday, but--' As Chatterton gave him another
sharp slap on his back, as a parting encouragement to set off, he said
aloud,--
'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 Mr
Clayfield's, and was to meet there several of the friends who had been
kind to him and stood by him in the distress of Easter eve.
Jack Henderson pulled himself together and began his walk, crossed the
ferry, and went on in the direction which Chatterton had pointed out,
greatly wondering what Betty could possibly have to say to Bryda which
she could not have put down on paper.
'Perhaps that brute has put an execution in the farm, turning out the
old man into the road, like enough. Well, I may as well follow, for it's
a lonely road for her, and there's lots of ill-looking fellows lurking
about birds nesting and ratting on Sundays.' Then Jack heaved a deep
sigh 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 as
Jack recalled the scene on the summit of St Vincent's Rocks he felt a
pain at his heart, which, as he thought, time would never cure.
Meantime Bryda pressed bravely on, though the storms of hail often beat
on her face, and then the cloud breaking, great fields of deepest blue
sky appeared in the rifts, and now and again the sun shone out brightly
on the young leaves and primrose banks, as if to reassure them that the
present cold was but an afterthought of winter, and that spring and May
would soon reign again.
Bryda's way led along a lonely road. There were no villages, only here
and there a shepherd's hut, and not a house to be seen. A few ragged
boys foraging in the hedges for birds' nests, or paddling in a little
wayside stream for tadpoles, were the only people she saw. The ascent
was long and steep, but Bryda stepped quickly on, and at last the thorn
tree, with its rugged, gnarled trunk, came in sight.
Here the road branched off in two directions; that to the left led
across the side of the hill towards Bath, the other down to the village
of Bower Ashton, and following straight on led to Dundry, beyond which
was Bishop's Farm.
When Bryda reached the old crooked thorn, which was but scantily covered
with blossoms in its old age, she looked in vain for Betty.
The Bristol bells were ringing for evensong as she was climbing the
hill, and she had quickened her step fearing she might be late.
Bryda sat down to rest on an old milestone which stood close by and
waited, but still no Betty appeared. Presently she was conscious of
footsteps 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 in
great distress--can you tell me?'
'I am come instead of your sister,' Mr Bayfield said, and pitying
Bryda's face of alarm, he said, 'Nothing is wrong. I am only come here
to claim your promise. Easter has come and is nearly gone. I am prepared
to bury the very remembrance of the debt. I am prepared to leave your
grandfather a free man for the rest of his life, and give him a written
pledge 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 be
turned from anything I have set my heart on. I _mean_ to have you, and
so,' 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--you
must, nay shall, reward me. I have a horse and gig a little further up
yonder by-road. I shall drive you to Bath, and then I will marry you
to-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 her
terror-struck face with eyes in which his determination and his passion
shone almost fiercely.
Bryda did not scream or cry, or even struggle. The spirit that was in
her rose above her fears, and looking steadily at Mr Bayfield she
said,--
'I will not be forced to marry you, sir. Let me go. Every penny of your
claim shall be paid, but I will not marry you.'
A laugh greeted these words, and yet when Bryda said, after a momentary
pause, 'I trust in God, and He will deliver me,' the laugh was changed
into a tone of entreaty. Something in this girl there was which, in
spite of himself, commanded respect. So small, so fragile as she looked
in his power, in his hands, lured thither by his treachery, as a bird is
lured to the snare, he yet quailed as Bryda repeated, 'He will deliver
me.'
'Nay, Bryda,' he began in a gentler tone, 'I love you. I offer you all I
have. 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 Henderson
strode up, and putting his arm round Bryda, said defiantly, 'Touch her
again if you dare.'
'Touch her!' Mr Bayfield said, with cool irony, 'touch her! I am to
marry her to-morrow morning at Bath, so, my good fellow, I advise you to
go back the way you came, and remember the old adage and mind your own
business.'
'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 roused
within him, got the mastery, though his adversary fought in a more
scientific way, as one who had been well accustomed to such conflicts.
Bryda stood by the old thorn tree too terrified to move, only entreating
Jack to stop for her sake, only crying aloud in her despair to Mr
Bayfield to stop.
But the fight grew ever fiercer and fiercer, and at last, with one
mighty blow of his huge arm, Jack had his adversary at his feet, his
knee on his chest, his hand at his throat.
So tremendous was the force with which the young giant had felled the
Squire that his fall made a heavy thud on the hard road.
Just at this moment a storm-cloud came sweeping over the hillside, and
hail fell in a thick, sharp shower.
'Swear you will leave her, swear you will not touch her again,' Jack
gasped 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 hail
beat with blinding fury.
Bryda drew near, and clasping her hands, said,--
'You have killed him, Jack Henderson, you have killed him! Oh, God have
mercy on you and on me!'
Jack stood motionless as one in a dream. Blood was streaming down his
cheeks from a cut in the temple, and his face was almost as wan and
livid as that which was turned up to the darkened sky, on which the
pitiless hailstones danced and leaped, unheeded and unfelt.
Thus they stood, when steps were heard plodding down the hill, and old
Silas, 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 on
the 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 large
frame. 'He angered me past bearing, Bryda. I did it for your sake,' he
sobbed. 'Say one word to me before I go.'
'Oh, Jack! Jack! What can I say except God forgive you?' She laid her
little hand tenderly on Jack's fingers, through which the tears were
trickling, and repeated, 'Yes, God forgive you and help _me_.'
* * * * *
It fell out that Jack Henderson, running headlong down the hill, met a
village doctor, in his high gig, returning from a long and weary round
of 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 him
quick--it's life or death.'
'Why, you are covered with blood, young man,' the doctor said, as Jack
flew past on his downward way to Bristol. 'I say,' he shouted, 'come
back. I may want help.'
But Jack took no heed, and the doctor, whipping up his old mare, soon
reached the place where Mr Bayfield lay.
The storm-cloud had passed, and again there was a gleam of sunshine
flooding the country side with fitful radiance.
When the doctor leaped down from his gig he found Bryda alone, kneeling
by the motionless form. Silas had gone, at her bidding, down the by-road
which branched off the highway, where she remembered she had heard Mr
Bayfield say a horse and gig were waiting.
'Is he dead? Oh, say he is not dead!' Bryda moaned. 'Say he is not
dead!'
But the doctor did not reply. He unfastened the high cravat, with its
lace ends, unbuttoned the two-fold waistcoats, one of cherry colour the
other of buff, the deep red edge showing against the paler hue. He flung
back the frilled shirt and put his head against Mr Bayfield's side, took
the long, limp hands in his, put his finger on the pulse, and finally
drew his large watch from his fob and looked narrowly down at its round
white-rimmed dial.
'No, he is not dead,' he said shortly to Bryda; 'go to my gig, open the
well behind, and bring me a black case--make haste.'
Bryda staggered to her feet and did as she was bid. The doctor
unstrapped the case, and taking out a small bottle, dropped some of its
contents between the Squire's lips.
A slight movement of the eyelids followed just as old Silas returned
with the horse and gig, which had been waiting with a servant till Mr
Bayfield 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, my
pretty one, yours is not the first pretty face which has made mischief
between two suitors. There! there! he isn't dead yet, and he may live. I
can'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 his
gimcracky gig. And you,' he said, turning to the servant, 'must lead the
horse. I'll watch him, and we can make a roughish sort of bed with the
cushions from the gig. And what shall I do with you, my dear?' the
doctor 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 dare
not go home--no, I dare not, Silas. Aunt Dorothy would say it was all
my fault, and so it is! so it is!' Then Bryda turned away, saying, 'He
is 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 the
name 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 phantom
of evil were pursuing her, Bryda fled downhill with a speed which
surprised herself, and reached the ferry just as the Bristol clocks
struck six.
When she found herself at Dowry Square she first recognised how faint
and worn out she was--she had not tasted food since breakfast. She could
hardly totter into the little lobby, and when she tried to tell the
footboy to let Mrs Lambert know she was too tired to come into the
parlour, she fell prone upon the floor, and remembered nothing till she
found herself on the couch in the parlour, the twilight deepening, and
Madam Lambert sitting by her like a gaoler, with a glass of brandy on
the little table, which she insisted on Bryda sipping.
It was all like a dreadful dream. Bryda's head ached, and she was too
bewildered 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 a
stroke? Had the Squire put bailiffs into the house? What was wrong at
the farm?
But Bryda had just presence of mind enough to keep back the real facts
of the case. It had struck her that Jack Henderson would be in danger of
his 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 went
feebly 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 hot
posset. I don't wish to pry, Miss Palmer, but I should like to hear what
has 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 folded
her mittened hands and twirled her thumbs one over the other, in a
meditative mood; 'but I'll ring for Symes to get her a hot posset, poor
thing.'