THE LAST.
Ten years had passed away, and Peter Palmer had long been laid to rest
under the yew tree shade in the village churchyard.
Dorothy Burrow had found a soft place in the heart of a neighbouring
farmer, and had taken to herself a second husband, and gone to live near
Bath.
The old farm had passed into other hands, and little fair-haired
children played under the boughs of the orchard, whence many of the old
trees had been cleared and young ones planted in their stead.
The lichen-covered roof of the homestead had been repaired, and the
appearance of the place bespoke prosperity and comfort.
It was a May evening in 1780 when heavy footsteps were heard coming
slowly up the lane at the side of the farm, and a tall athletic man went
to the wicket-gate and leaned upon it with folded arms.
Presently a woman, with a child in her arms, came up to him and said,--
'Good evening. Fine weather, isn't it? There was a sharp shower this
morning, and we can almost see the things growing.'
'Who lives here at Bishop's Farm?'
'_I_ do,' was the prompt reply. 'My husband bought the place when Peter
Palmer died four years ago. Are you a stranger in these parts?'
'Yes; that is, I knew the place once, years ago--ten years ago.'
'Ah, there's many changes in ten years! I can scarce believe it is
twelve since I married, only for the children,' looking fondly down on a
crowd of little boys and girls who were under the care of a tall girl of
ten, 'only the children tell me it's true.'
'Do you happen to know where the Miss Palmers are? Are they--married?'
'One is married to the Squire at Rock House--a grand match it was. But
she was a pretty, notable girl, and nursed him, so I hear, in an
illness; but it was all before we came from the other side of Bath.'
'What do you mean? What is the Squire's name?'
'Bayfield, of course, of Rock House, six or seven miles off Binegar way.
The other sister lives with Mrs Henderson, who had a seizure just about
the time Farmer Palmer died. She was a fine ladyish person, and things
would have gone to wrack and ruin if Miss Palmer had not gone to her.
She has been like a mother to the girls, and taught them lots of things.
Two are out in service, and one in Mrs Hannah More's school.' Jack
turned away, the woman calling after him,--
'Come in and rest, sir, and take a cup of cider. You look very tired.'
But Jack shook his head and set off at a quick pace towards his mother's
house.
No one recognised him; he was bronzed with exposure to the air, and his
face was deeply lined with care, so that he looked prematurely old. His
thick curly hair was streaked with grey, and his huge frame was a little
bent, as he leaned heavily on his stick. The news he had heard filled
his heart with strangely mixed feelings. The Squire was alive, the great
burden of manslaughter, which had lain so heavily upon him for ten long
years of exile, was removed. But Bryda had married him.
Of course he saw it all--desire in her part to atone for what he had
done for her sake. Did not the woman say she had nursed him through an
illness? Yes, it was all plain--Bryda was lost to him for ever.
He could not make up his mind to see _her_, but he would like to see
Betty, and so he walked on slowly towards his mother's house.
He felt more like a man in a dream as he passed all the familiar objects
on the road--all associated with the love of his whole life.
A high gig passed him at a quick trot. Looking up, he recognised his
brother, his red hair gleaming in the sunshine; but he did not see him,
or, if he saw him, did not recognise him.
'He looks prosperous, anyhow,' Jack thought, as he looked back at the
cart wheeling swiftly down the road. The children at a few cottage doors
looked up from their play to gaze at the traveller. 'They don't know
me. No one knows,' he thought bitterly. Then he remembered that the
children of ten years ago were men and women now. 'How could these
little things know him? Betty won't know me,' he said, 'like as not.
Well, I must see her. I must hear what she can tell me, and then I shall
be off again. I could never, never look on _her_ face--the wife of that
man--never.'
He was at the garden gate of his old home now, against which two large
lilac bushes grew, and, now in full blossom, scented the air with their
fragrance.
Jack took up his position so that he was shielded from observation by
the overhanging boughs of one of the bushes, and looked up the straight
path to the house.
Everything was apparently well cared for, and the borders on either side
of the path were full of spring flowers. Flowers, too, were in boxes on
the ledges of the windows, and the diamond panes of the lattices bright
and clear.
Jack noticed all these little details, and the gambols of two grey
kittens in the porch, an old dog lying, with his nose on his paws,
entirely regardless of his frisky neighbours.
Presently a maid-servant brought out an easy-chair and a cushion, and
was followed by two figures--his mother, leaning heavily on the arm
of--Betty, her poor head shaking tremulously, and her querulous voice
raised in some complaint about the position of the chair.
Betty! But was it Betty? There had been many changes in ten years, but
as Jack's eyes, shaded by his hand, examined the figure leaning over
his mother's chair and gently arranging the cushions, his heart gave a
great bound, and then seemed to stop beating. He clenched the gate for
support, and knew that he was looking at his lost love--Bryda.
The gate gave a sharp click as his heavy hand grasped it, and Bryda
looked up. She came swiftly down the path and said,--
'Can I do anything for you? You look--' Then, with a sudden radiance
illuminating her beautiful face, she exclaimed, 'Jack, I am so glad!'
Jack was still mastered by the strength of his emotion, and was
speechless, his broad chest heaving, and the words he would have spoken
refused to be uttered.
Yes, it was Bryda. The girl had changed into the woman, but except an
added sweetness and refinement in her face she was the idol of Jack's
dreams.
'Come outside, please,' she said, laying her little hand on his and
pushing open the gate. 'Your mother could not bear the shock of joy your
return would give her. I must prepare her for it. Come round to the
garden behind and sit down in the arbour. You look so ill, Jack, I must
fetch you something.'
He found his voice at last.
'Are you married, Bryda?'
'Married! Oh, no. I will tell you all if you will only come and rest.
Married! No, Jack, I came here to take care of your mother and sister,
because it was through me they lost you. Your poor mother had no one to
nurse her, and I have been so happy here. The children love me, I
think; and as to Tim, he is a very good fellow, and takes me as a
sister.' She did not add how often the said Tim had asked her to marry
him, nor how many other suitors had in vain tried to win her favour.
'And Betty, then, is the fine lady. The woman at the farm told me it was
_you_ who had married the Squire.'
A cloud of sadness passed over Bryda's face as that name was mentioned.
'Betty is not a fine lady,' she said; 'she is still the same dear
unselfish Betty she ever was. She is very happy, and David Bayfield is a
good husband. Betty is the mistress of Rock House, and the gentry all
around respect her, for she never takes airs on herself--she is far, far
above that.'
'I never knew he was alive till an hour ago,' Jack said, with a deep
sigh; 'it is a burden lifted, it is a chain loosed from my neck--that it
is, Bryda.'
Bryda's beautiful eyes were full of tears.
'Yes, dear,' she said gently, 'I know how great the relief must be. And
now, Jack, let us forget the sad past. The Squire, David Bayfield, is
not a strong man, and cannot hunt or ride to cover, but he has done much
for the estate, and Bet and he are good to the poor, and kind--how
kind--to the sad and sorrowful. Now I must go and tell your mother I
have heard of you.'
'But first--first, Bryda, tell me, can you love me? It is too much to
ask, I know; but I have made money out in America, and if you can care
for a stupid fellow like me--you are so clever and so beautiful. Oh,
Bryda, can you care for me at last?'
'I think I can, Jack,' she said, with a sweet smile. 'Ten years of
separation have taught me many things, and one is--' He put his arm
round her and drew her towards him. 'And one is,' she whispered, 'that I
have always loved you, and that, though you never knew it, I should
never, never have married any man but you.'
Sweet were the mutual happiness and thankfulness of that May day to Jack
Henderson and Bryda; and as they sat for a few blissful minutes in the
arbour, which had been Mrs Henderson's pride in earlier days, Bryda
said,--
'All through these long years I have never lost hope, and although, as
poor Chatterton said, "She did seem to take her high flight, shrouded in
mist, and with her blinded eyes," I always knew I should greet her some
day--"the holy sister, sweeping through the sky in crown of gold and
robe of lily white." I shall have to make you love Chatterton's poetry,
Jack. Poor boy, I never forget him. You _must love_ poetry now, Jack.'
'I shall love you,' Jack said firmly. 'Won't that be enough for a
dullard like me?'
'No, not _quite_ enough,' she said, laughing. 'And now wait here while I
go and tell your mother that the wanderer is come home.'
THE END.
COLSTON AND COMPANY, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.
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| Transcriber's Note: |
| |
| Inconsistent hyphenation, punctuation and |
| spelling in the original document have been |
| preserved. |
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| Typographical errors corrected in the text: |
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| Page 36 neeedlework changed to needlework |
| Page 37 missing quotes added |
| Page 41 whether changed to whither |
| Page 53 missing quote added |
| Page 54 tonight changed to to-night |
| Page 61 Dorory changed to Dowry |
| Page 62 auther changed to author |
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