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 she
should betray Jack Henderson's share in the scene on the hillside the
day before. She was haunted by the memory of that rigid upturned face on
which the hail beat so mercilessly. It was always before her; and there
was no one near with whom to share her fears. It happened that Mr
Lambert was called away on business to Bath, and bustled off to the
coach office immediately after breakfast, and had only time to say to
Bryda,--
'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 me
till 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 had
finished her domestic duties she could only sit in the parlour with Mrs
Lambert, listening for the sound of every step upon the pavement,
starting when the door bell rang, and relieved when Sam appeared in the
parlour with some message or note for Mr Lambert, which was to be
delivered to him on his return.
Even if Chatterton had still been at the office Bryda might have gained
some 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 the
upward path to the table-land of the Mendips. But the day dragged
wearily on to evening, and still no news. Mrs Lambert was very fractious
and fault-finding, and complained that a hole in a bit of lace had been
so ill mended that she must have every thread unpicked. Then the water
for the tea was smoked, and the 'muffin' too much buttered, with a dozen
more grievances of a like character, which were simple torture to poor
Bryda's heavy, anxious heart.
Just as the twilight of the spring evening was deepening, and Mrs
Lambert 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 it
did not attract Mrs Lambert's attention, and Bryda was in the hall
before 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 was
standing on the doorstep with him.
'I have brought you a message, Miss Palmer. I saw Jack Henderson aboard
ship for America last night. He bid me say you need never trouble about
him again, but that, wherever he goes, he will hold you in remembrance.
Poor fellow! he seemed in frightful misery about killing the man; but
if, as he says, in fair fight, there is nothing so extraordinary in
it--it happens every day--only last week, in Bath, a man was killed in a
duel.'
'But it is dreadful--_dreadful_!' Bryda exclaimed, 'because it is all my
fault. And Jack gone--do you say quite gone?'
'Yes, he is a long way down channel by this time. Now, Miss Palmer, do
not take on; things are sure to brighten for you.'
'Oh! he ought to have waited till he knew more. It was cowardly of
Jack--'
'Well you know he did not feel sure you cared for him--thought maybe it
was the Squire after all.'
'Have you heard anything else?' Bryda asked. 'Is it the talk of Bristol
what happened yesterday?'
'Well, it is known, because Mr Barrett has been sent for to the Squire
to try to mend his broken head. It is a pity Henderson did not wait till
he knew whether he was dead or alive. I should have thought you would
have heard something from Corn Street, for no doubt there is a row there
at Jack's absence from the silversmith's shop.'
'Mr Lambert is away for the day,' Bryda said. 'Oh, it has been such a
long, long day. I am so miserable, so wretched. I dare not stay a minute
longer. Good-bye.'
'A long good-bye, a _last_ good-bye, Miss Palmer. I am off to London by
the coach to-morrow. Wish me better fortune than I have had here. If you
could visit my poor mother sometimes I should be glad. She takes on at
the idea of parting with me. You see you can't make a mother see that
leaving 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 I
love the muse, and love and court her as a knight would court his ladye
love, I love my mother, who, dear soul, never understood a word of
poetry 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, was
gone.
It was his last night in Bristol. He was off by the mail to London the
next day, but scantily provided with clothes, though his mother had done
her best, but scantily provided with money, but full to overflowing with
high hope and enterprise. Of his bulky manuscripts--his much-cherished
possession--he never lost hold throughout the long, cold journey. They
were securely packed by his own hand in a canvas bag; his mother might
pack his clothes, his sister might mend his stockings, and water them
with 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 they
represented to him, poor boy, silver and gold, and what he cared more
for--Fame.
A few friends stood with his tearful mother and sobbing sister at the
coach office at the Bush Inn to bid him farewell. He took both mother
and sister in his arms and kissed them lovingly, said good-bye to the
others, and then he sprang, still grasping his precious bag in his hand,
into what was called 'the basket' of the mail coach, and cheaper, by
reason of its low position outside the clumsy, lumbering vehicle, and
then he was off.
Not one backward glance did he give of regret to Bristol. He was sore at
what he conceived to be the ill treatment he had received from his
native city, and burning with desire to avenge his wrongs by returning
to it crowned with the laurel wreath of Fame, to be courted instead of
spurned, to have at his feet those who had trampled on him, and to find
his native City of the West awaking at last to the fact it had been so
slow 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 have
come, and now, at the distance of a hundred and twenty years, the figure
of the marvellous boy stands out with a distinct personality which no
'animated bust' could give it. Time throws a veil of charity over his
faults, and deep pity stirs in every heart, as in mine to-day as I write
these fragments gathered from his short life, that he had no anchor of
the soul on which to take firm hold in the troubled waters of that
stormy 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 his
hours of darkness, no voice to tell him of One to whom he might turn as
of old one turned in his despair with the cry of 'My Father, I have
sinned,' to find as he did pardon and peace.
* * * * *
Full tidings came to poor Bryda the day after she had parted with
Chatterton--tidings from the farm. An ill-written and hurried letter
from Betty was left at the office by the carrier that morning, and
brought by Mr Lambert to Dowry Square when he returned for dinner.
Bryda opened the letter with trembling fingers. She could not dare to
read 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 to
the parlour she found Mr Lambert telling the story in his short,
concise, lawyer-like fashion, Madam Lambert nodding and ejaculating from
time to time, 'Good Heavens!' and Sam listening with open mouth to the
story as he waited at table.
'The young scapegrace's mother has been at Corn Street to-day. She is in
a towering rage against you, Miss Palmer. She looks on you as the cause
of the fray. The constables can hear naught of the boy, and he is got
off scot-free, I daresay. Well, it's no use crying over spilt milk. You
had best have taken my advice, Miss Palmer, and married the Squire.'
'Oh,' Bryda cried, with the cry of a hunted animal in pain, 'oh, spare
me, sir, spare me. I--I cannot bear it.'
'Compose yourself, for goodness' sake, Miss Palmer, or you will make me
ill. 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, who
came hastily in, brushing past Sam, and saying, as Bryda was hastening
upstairs,--
'Stop, Bryda Palmer. Let me at least tell you what I think of you, you
minx. 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, he
who is my eldest son, like to make his fortune, come in for his uncle's
business and his money. Oh, did I not warn him that you were a
good-for-nothing hussy, thinking yourself clever, and a wit, and a
poetess. Yes, you may well cry and moan.'
'My good woman,' said Mr Lambert, now coming into the hall, 'I can't
have any brawling here. You must be so good as to leave the house. My
mother is not fit for any agitating scene. Come now, why rage at poor
Miss Palmer? Pretty girls like her are sure to get suitors and set them
by the ears. I daresay you did the same in your day, may do it now you
are a fair widow--eh?'
This soothing flattery had the desired effect. Mrs Henderson calmed
down, and the torrent of her abuse was stemmed. Then the mother's love
asserted itself, and she said, in a tone of real sorrow,--
'But if I have lost Jack, my fine, handsome boy, no one can give him
back to me, and I was so proud of him. But I won't stay here. Why should
I?' and then Mrs Henderson, covering her face with her handkerchief was
gone.
Bryda felt as if the last straw had been laid on her heavy burden, the
last drop in the bitter cup. She went to her room and lay down on her
bed, worn out with misery. Should she go home? Was it kind to leave
Betty with all this trouble alone, with no one to sympathise? And yet
how 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 night
and day, lying on the road, with the hailstones dancing on it unheeded.
Perhaps, happily for Bryda, she was left no choice in the matter. When
she went back to the parlour it was time for tea, of which she was
sharply reminded.
Bryda went about the preparations as usual, washed the silver left from
dinner, which no one but herself was ever allowed to touch, and listened
in dumb patience to Mrs Lambert's tirade against the world in general
and herself in particular.
Mrs Lambert was one of those people who do not concern themselves
greatly about the misfortunes of others if they are allowed to see and
hear of them at a distance. But it is quite a different thing if by any
chance the misfortunes of another affect directly or indirectly their
own particular comfort.
Thus, when Bryda said in a choked voice,--
'Will you grant me leave to go home, madam, and release me from my
engagement in your service?'
'Go home! Leave me, after all my kindness to you, leave me with no one
to take your place! A pretty thing indeed! No, miss, you will stay here
till this day six months, according to agreement. Then, if it suits
_me_, I may send you packing. Go home, indeed! You would not have a
vastly warm welcome, methinks. No, stay here, do your duty in the
station of life into which it has pleased God to call you, and you will
find 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. She
must try to possess her soul in patience, and hope that after a little
time Mrs Lambert might relent, and, at least, give her leave of absence
for a few days.
But the efforts to keep up an appearance of cheerfulness, and to be at
Madam 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 of
the event of the previous Sunday, and Bryda had to sit by and listen to
various versions of the story--to reports which one day would be that
the murderer had been caught, and the next that the Squire was dead. And
then there were whispered questions not intended for Bryda's ear, which
concerned her, she was sure, and ominous shakes of the head and glances
of curiosity, till often Bryda was constrained to throw down her work
and leave the parlour.
So passed the long and miserable weeks, with now and again a message
from 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 is
true, out of reach and safe whatever happened; but, as is often the
case, the faithful lover of her youth was, by separation, raised to a
very much higher level than when he was with her every Sunday, and poor
Bryda's heart ached with self-reproach and vain longings that she had
been kinder to poor Jack who loved her so well.
It was one day in June, when all Nature was rejoicing in the freshness
of early summer, that Mr Barrett called at 6 Dowry Square and asked to
see Miss Palmer.
Bryda was in the kitchen, doing her best to prepare a particular dish to
please Mr Lambert for his supper-party that night, when Sam came down to
say Mr Barrett wanted to see her on business. Bryda threw off her large
apron, pulled her sleeves over her elbows, and with a hasty glance at
the little bit of square glass, which distorted her face beyond
recognition, she hastened upstairs with a beating heart. She found Mr
Barrett 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 superintended
the removal. He has something on his mind which he says he must tell
you, and none but you. Poor fellow, he is a mere wreck of a man. You had
better take pity and hear what he has to say, for his position is very
forlorn in that rambling old place. I have provided him with an
experienced woman as nurse, and his father's friends look in on him, but
it is a pitiable case. I will drive you to Rock House. Let me advise you
not 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 dread
it.'
'Well, there's nothing to fear. The poor fellow can scarcely lift a
finger. Not only his head but his back has had a sharp concussion. He
can never be the same man again, unless by a miracle, and we doctors
can't work miracles.'
Mrs Lambert gave a very reluctant permission to Bryda, and began to
wonder what she should do about the 'chayney' the next day. It was the
day 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! how
inconsiderate you are! I suppose you think a gentlewoman like me can
take Mrs Symes' arm?'
Bryda thought nothing about it, but left the room to tell Mr Barrett she
would 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 ill
next,' and taking Bryda's little thin hand in his the doctor felt her
pulse. 'You are weak as a fly,' he said. 'Give up here and go home. We
will talk more of it to-morrow. Good-day.'