FORGIVENESS.
During the drive to Rock House the kind-hearted surgeon did his best to
divert Bryda from dwelling upon the past or the dreaded interview with
Mr Bayfield. He did not know how sharp was the pang his companion felt
as the old thorn tree came in sight, nor how she bit her lips and
clenched the rail of the high gig with a grasp that gave her physical
pain to deaden the terrible ache at her heart.
Mr Barrett talked of many things in all ignorance of the intensity of
her feelings, roused by the sight of the very spot where she had last
seen Jack and that rigid upturned face.
'You take an interest in the poor boy Chatterton, Miss Palmer, I know. I
am afraid the sunshine of his first weeks in London is a little
clouded.'
'I have seen his mother once or twice,' Bryda said. 'She showed me his
first letter, written in high spirits.'
'Ah, yes! and there have been others since, but they don't deceive
George Catcott, who is always thinking of him, having the notion that
there never was a poet like him since Shakespeare. He is making a
mistake now in rushing into politics in the _Middlesex Journal_. He
sends Catcott the papers. What will Lord Hillsborough or the Lord Mayor
care for all his violent reproaches anent this affair at Boston? Not a
brass farthing--not they! That's a fine letter to the freeholders of
Bristol, I own, in which he chronicles the speech of his glorious
Canynge, when he said, "dear as his family were, his country was
dearer," or something like that. It is all very fine, but Chatterton has
to earn his bread, and I don't think he is going the right way to do it.
He seems proud of his intimacy with the editor of the _Political
Register_, but I fear it won't do him much good.'
'He still writes poetry, sir,' Bryda said, 'so his sister tells me,' and
she added, with enthusiasm, 'his poetry is beautiful!'
'Yes, yes, you know, I take it, many folks think there never was such a
person as "Rowley the priest."'
'_Never!_' Bryda exclaimed, 'not all those hundreds of years ago.'
Mr Barrett smiled.
'Rowley the priest is one and the same with Thomas Chatterton, so some
say--not good George Catcott and not Mr Clayfield. I am in no position
to decide the question.'
Mr Barrett talked on, discussing Chatterton and his work, and Bryda grew
interested in spite of herself, and was almost surprised when the white
gates of Rock House came in sight, and the dreaded moment of the
interview was close at hand.
How well she recalled her first and only visit there, more than a year
before, the courage that then emboldened her to plead her grandfather's
cause, the despair with which she turned away and ran down the avenue of
firs, with Flick by her side, and had to confess to herself that her
errand was in vain. Then arose those questionings which torture us all
when we look back on the irrevocable, and she asked herself,--
'_If_ I had never come here that day, _if_ I had never tried to move his
hard heart to pity, all this misery and distress might--_would_ have
been saved. Oh! why did I ever come, why did I ever do it?'
These and other thoughts of the same kind filled Bryda's mind as she
waited in a dull room opposite the library, where Mr Barrett had left
her while he went to prepare the Squire for her coming.
The waiting seemed like hours instead of minutes, and yet when the door
opened and Mr Barrett beckoned her to follow him she drew back.
'Oh! I cannot--cannot come.'
Then the good doctor took her trembling, cold little hand in his, and
said,--
'Come, my dear, there is nothing to fear. Take courage, you will not
regret your visit I am sure.'
Then the door of the same room where Bryda had first seen the Squire
opened and closed behind, and she found herself alone with Mr Bayfield.
But _could_ it be he? There was scarcely a trace of the handsome,
stalwart young man of thirty left in that pale, emaciated form lying on
a couch before her.
'I cannot rise to greet you, madam,' were Mr Bayfield's first words.
'Come nearer, please; I have something to say to you, and my voice is
weak.'
Then a long thin hand was outstretched to Bryda, and her fears seemed to
vanish. She went up to the couch and said in low tones,--
'I am grieved, sir, to see you so--ill, and--'
The large wistful eyes fastened on Bryda's face had now nothing
offensive in their gaze. There was the far-off look in them of one who
had done with the world and all the world's sin and sorrow.
'Miss Palmer,' he said, 'I wished to see you to seek forgiveness. You
told me on that day long ago I had no mercy; it was true. I had no
mercy, and I deceived you cruelly.'
Then from a small pocket-book, worn with age and fastened with a ragged
strap, Mr Bayfield took out a paper--two papers.
One, that which he had shown to the old farmer on the night of his first
visit; the other dated only a few months before the old Squire's sudden
death. He put both into Bryda's hands and said,--
'Read them, and then grant me your pardon if you can.'
Bryda unfolded the papers with trembling fingers, and on the last
read:--
'I hereby wish to leave on record, should anything happen to
me, that Peter Palmer of Bishop's Farm is not to be pressed
for the discharge of his debt to me. The heir of my body, my
only son, is a wanderer on the face of the earth. He left me
shortly after his sainted mother's death, fifteen years ago,
and I have given up all hope of his return; but should he
return, I hereby instruct him that I discharge the said Peter
Palmer from his liability to me. He is an old man, and a man
of many troubles. The sum of money was borrowed in a time of
sore anguish, and I will not bring his grey hairs to the grave
in added sorrow by demanding payment. This for my son, if ever
he returns. And by my will my executors are bound to keep this
small estate intact for two years after my decease, and then,
should my son make no sign, let it be put into the market,
with all my goods and chattels, and the money divided amongst
certain poor folk and charities named in my last will and
testament.'
(Signed) 'CHARLES BAYFIELD.'
A profound silence reigned as Bryda read the rather illegible writing of
the old Squire. When she had finished she looked up, and, with a deep
sigh, said simply,--
'I am thankful for grandfather! Oh! if we had known this sooner!'
A spasm of pain passed over Mr Bayfield's face.
'Yes,' he said, 'and there rests my sin against you. This paper, dated
only a few months before my father's death, was in this pocket-book, the
other paper in the deed box, of which his executors took possession. No
one knew of this paper but me. I kept it back, granting the reprieve for
your sweet sake. If I had obtained possession of you I might have told
you of it--I do not know. I cannot answer for myself--my old self,' he
repeated. 'God forgive me, I am punished. Can _you_ forgive me?'
Then he paused again, silent, and Bryda to her latest day remembered how
in that profound stillness a thrush outside, in the glory of the summer
noontide, broke out into song, and ceasing, the deep sob of an oppressed
heart seemed to touch the two extremes of joy and grief, these
constantly recurring contrasts in this beautiful world, given to us by a
loving Father, richly to enjoy, and where sin is ever sounding its
strain of sorrow, and often of despair.
All the true woman awoke now in Bryda's heart. She knelt down by the
couch, and taking the Squire's hand in both hers, bent her face upon it,
and whispered,--
'Yes, I forgive you. I am so sorry,' and in a lower whisper still,
'Please forgive poor Jack; he is gone far away. I shall never, never see
him again, and it was all because he loved me. Please forgive him.'
'For _your_ sake, yes,' was the reply, 'for your sake, and pray for me
as I lie here alone. Your sister has tried to make me a better man. She
was as an angel of God sent to drive out the evil spirits in me. My
mother!--ah! my mother used to pray for me--and in this very room _I_
have prayed at her knee. Once, in my fits of passion and rage, she told
me of a king who like me had an evil spirit--Saul, yes, it must have
been Saul--and she prayed God that one of His angels might be sent to me
to drive it out. Two angels have come at last--_you_ and your
sister--and I shall never forget you. Kiss me on the forehead before
you go--a seal of forgiveness, of pardon.'
Bryda rose and did as he asked her, and then without another word left
the room.
* * * * *
Mr Barrett dropped her at the farm, where Betty received her, and,
flinging her arms round this gentle sister, she said,--
'Oh, Betty! dear Bet! take me upstairs. I can bear no more.'
No, she could bear no more--overwrought, and ill in mind and body, Bryda
lay down in her tent-bed in the upper chamber of Bishop's Farm; and Mrs
Lambert, to her intense surprise and vexation, was obliged to look for
someone else to supply Bryda's place, mend and clear starch her lace,
and prepare dainty dishes for Mr Lambert's friends, attend her to the
cathedral, and indulge all her whims.
It is never too late to mend, though, of all ugly weeds which grow
unchecked in the human heart, selfishness is the hardest to pluck up,
especially if for seventy years it has flourished unchecked.
* * * * *
Bryda lay in a state of feverish exhaustion on her bed for many weeks,
tended with loving care by Betty, who did her best to divert her mind
from sad thoughts.
Betty said very little about the time when the Squire lay in the parlour
below, and Bryda was too languid to ask many questions.
In the farm things seemed to have taken a turn for the better. Peter
Palmer, having been assured that he was delivered from debt, seemed to
take a new lease of life. The wheat harvest promised to be plentiful,
the berry crop had been good, and old Silas reported well of the sheep,
the last flock driven to Bristol market having fetched a fair price from
the dealers; and as to the poultry, Dorothy Burrow declared that, now
Goody Renton was dead, the later broods were all healthy, and that it
was her evil eye which had done to death so many in previous summers.
Mr Barrett was still in occasional attendance on the Squire, and never
failed to stop at Bishop's Farm when he passed, either going or coming.
He was always cheery and hopeful, and in advance of the general
practitioner of those days in many ways. He brought Bryda books and
newspapers; but when she asked news of Thomas Chatterton he would put
off a direct answer.
Another question, often on her lips, about the Squire he parried; and
when she asked, 'Is there any way of getting Jack Henderson back--of
letting him know?' Mr Barrett would shake his head.
'I am afraid not; but don't vex yourself, my dear. He may be making his
fortune, and come back one day a rich man.'
'Ah! but he will always have that face before him, lying dead, as he
thought. Even now I can't forget it.'
'Oh! come, come! the Squire is better. He was able to set his hand to a
document to-day, and Nurse says he is not so wandering in his sleep.
He'll do in time.'
And while these glowing August days of 1770 went on, and the golden corn
ripened, and the trees in the orchard were laden with rosy fruit, while
the hills wore their imperial robes of purple and gold, and partridges,
all unconscious of their coming fate, rose in covies from the stubble,
London streets were hot and dusty, and there, up and down, paced the boy
poet, nearing the tragic end of all his bright dreams and all his proud
aspirations.
The pathetic story need not be told in detail here. From the moment when
he left Mr Lambert's house, and went to try his fortune in the great
city of London, he drifted away from his Bristol friends and Bristol
ties.
Mr Barrett and his staunch friend Mr George Catcott had letters from
him, and it is plain that he applied to Mr Barrett for a certificate to
go out as a ship's surgeon.
But this request he could not honestly grant. Letters to his mother and
sister are also preserved, which are pathetic, indeed, as they are
evidently written with the one desire of keeping them in ignorance of
his real condition.
He sends them presents, and denies himself food that he may do so. He
writes of orders for copy for the reviews and magazines, and keeps up
the hope of the mother he loves so well, when his own hope was dying day
by day.
One hot morning Bryda was lying in her upper chamber in the old
farmhouse, paper and pens at her side, on a little table, where Betty,
her faithful sister, had placed a little jar of monthly roses and
mignonette. Life was returning to her, and she rose from her couch, and
throwing a shawl over her head, without telling Betty, she crept feebly
downstairs and went out into the orchard, the boughs of the old apple
trees, heavy with their rosy and russet load, touching her as she
passed. Bryda went through the wicket-gate and sank down on the boulder
where long ago she sat meditating on the dead lamb, and, hearing the
chime of the Bristol bells, was filled with desire to take flight to the
busy city, and had consented to write to Madam Lambert and let Jack
Henderson convey the letter to Bristol the next day.
Jack--where was Jack? An exile and a wanderer for her sake, and her
heart failed her when she thought she should never see him again, never
be able to atone to him for what he had suffered. The knights of old, of
whom Thomas Chatterton wrote, rescued their lady loves from the grasp of
lawless men, and, at the risk of life and limb, were ready to die in the
attempt. And poor Jack had done the deed worthy of the knights of old,
and how severely he had been punished.
As Bryda went over the past she heard quick footsteps behind her. The
wicket-gate opened and shut with a click, and Mr Barrett stood by her
side.
'Well done, my fair lady,' he said. 'I wanted to get you into the open
air. You have stolen a march on Betty, who is hastening after me with
another shawl and a cloak.'
Then, as Betty came up full of fear that Bryda should suffer, and
covering the ground with an old cloak that Bryda's feet might rest upon
it, Mr Barrett's cheery manner suddenly changed. With a deep sigh he
said,--
'I have had sad news to-day. The poor boy, poor Chatterton, is
dead--aye, and worse, died by his own hand.'
'Dead!' both girls exclaimed in an awe-struck tone.
'Yes, and we in Bristol have all been guilty in the matter. Poor George
Catcott is racked by self-reproach, and well he may be, well may I be.
He was starving and half-mad, that last letter to Catcott shows. We
should have sent someone to him, poor, poor boy. I shall find it hard to
forgive myself, I know that. And in that letter he said "I am no
Christian--"'
Mr Barrett's voice was choked with emotion, and, unable to say another
word, he went hastily down the lane, and very soon his horse's feet and
the wheels of his high gig were heard rattling on the highroad beyond.
'Oh, Bryda, don't fret,' Betty said, as poor Bryda covered her face with
her hands.
'I would like to be alone,' Bryda replied. 'Leave me, dear, just a
little while. Come back for me, but leave me now.'
Betty obeyed, and Bryda was left alone once more to face the great
mystery of death.
'Yes,' she thought, 'he was mad. He could not be taken to account for
his actions. How his eyes flamed, as if a fire burned in their depths.
How he would fall into silence all of a sudden. How he would burst out
into wild rage, and then how gentle and kind he could be. How gentle to
me that last night when he came to tell me about Jack.' Then Bryda
looked up into the clear sky above her head, as if to seek an answer to
her question there, as if there she could solve this mystery.
And although not in words, there came to her soul a great overpowering
sense of the Love of God; and in that Love alone we can find the key
which opens out the boundlessness of His mercy.
Like as a father pities! When man is pitiless and forgetful, when man
judges with a hard judgment, the All-loving One _remembers_ our frame,
and in His love and in His pity redeems and pardons.