'What poor boy?' Jack asked.

'Tom Chatterton, of course, the poet. I _do_ pity him so much. He is miserable and unhappy, and you know, Jack, so am I, and therefore I understand how he feels. Besides, I want to get far away from Mr Lambert this afternoon, for the cruel Squire has followed me, and is now talking to Mr Lambert. I know what he is saying. I dread him, I am afraid of him.'

'Afraid of him? How can you be afraid of him? I will soon show him what I can do if he dares to molest you. Let him try, that's all.'

'Oh, don't quarrel with him, Jack, that would only make matters worse.

Don't talk of him. I want to forget him, and see the poor boy's grand church he says is so beautiful, and his mother and his sister.'

'They are quite poor folks,' Jack said, 'but come along. I would take you to the end of the world if you wanted. But will Madam Lambert be angry at you for coming out?'

'She said I was to have time to myself on Sundays, and I have been to church with her this morning. She gave me her books to carry. Such big heavy books.'

'The poor boy,' as Bryda called him, had been pacing up and down on the wide open space before St Mary's Redcliffe for some time.

He had been unwilling to go too near Dowry Square to meet Bryda, for fear of a reprimand if he chanced to be seen by his master or Mrs Lambert.

At the same time he was doubtful as to Bryda finding her way alone, and he had asked Jack Henderson to go to Dowry Square and bring her to his mother's house.

The apprentice in his workaday dress presented a very different appearance from the apprentice in his holiday attire.

Chatterton always liked to do his best to cut a respectable figure amongst his associates.

His coat of mulberry cloth had, it is true, been bought second-hand with some difficulty, but it set off his slight, boyish figure to advantage.

His knee-breeches and waistcoat, with embroidered flowers, were the handiwork of his mother and sister, and so was the white neckerchief, with lace at the ends, which was tied in a careless bow at his neck.

His massive curls were brushed and combed back from his wide brow, and there was about him that indescribable 'something' which separated him from the throng of youths who collected in Bristol streets on Sundays, some on the College Green and many in Redcliffe Meadows, talking and laughing with the girls who were, like themselves, occupied in the week in shops and warehouses or in domestic service.

The contributions to _Felix Farley's Journal_ had by this time attracted attention to Chatterton, but he was entirely believed in by respectable people when he said he had discovered the works of one Rowley, a priest of St John, in the time of Canynge,[A] and had reproduced them for the wonder and benefit of all lovers of ancient lore, especially when the author of these works had been an inhabitant of the City of the West, which had been famous in the history of the country from very early times.

When at last Jack Henderson and Bryda came in sight Chatterton did not hasten to meet them.

He chose to be offended that Bryda was so much later than he had expected, and for the first few minutes he was moody and gloomy.

The three took the accustomed turn in Redcliffe Meadows, where presently Chatterton's sister joined them, and Bryda was introduced in due form.

'My mother bids me say, Miss Palmer, she will be vastly glad if you will take a dish of tea with us, and you also, Mr Henderson.'

Jack could only express his gratitude for the invitation, and walk by Miss Chatterton's side, while her brother and Bryda were left together.

'That church is fine, is it not, miss?' Chatterton began. 'I consider it a marvel of the builder's art, and a casket which contains precious treasure. In yonder muniment room above the porch lay concealed for centuries the works of a man, as wonderful in their way as yonder pinnacles and buttresses. Will you take a turn in the meadows--there are not so many fools prancing about here to-day as sometimes. The river begins to attract them at this season.'

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote A: William Canynge was five times Mayor of Bristol. He generously contributed to the work of rebuilding and ornamenting the Church of St Mary Redcliffe, and built and endowed an almshouse and hospital in the parish. He took holy orders on the death of his wife to avoid a second marriage pressed on him by King Henry VI., who speaks of him as 'his beloved, eminent merchant of Bristol.' William Canynge was made Dean of the College of Westbury, which he rebuilt with his usual munificence. He died in 1474.]

CHAPTER VIII

THE SONGS OF ROWLEY THE PRIEST.

And now Bryda listened to the song of Rowley, the priest of St John, as Chatterton poured it in her ear with almost fiery eloquence. She could scarcely believe the apprentice taking his meals with the footboy in the dingy kitchen at Dowry Square could be one with the young man who walked by her side in his holiday attire.

All the latent romance in Bryda's nature was stirred by the history which her companion told her of the old parchments, used forsooth as covers of books, or cut up into thread papers, and yet of priceless value--a value which he alone had discovered.

'Listen,' he said, stopping short, 'and I will recite to you an elegy or minstrel's song from the "Tragedy of aella," then tell me whether Rowley the priest was not a king amongst men. A poor priest--aye, and a poor apprentice, brought up on the charity of Colston's School, has brought him to light, and in due time we shall see his memory receive the laurel crown, denied him perhaps in his life. It is only these dull trading Bristol folk who are blind as bats and deaf as adders. Curse them! I hate Bristol and its people for Rowley's sake, and for my own. Yet I will rise above them, and they shall find they cannot trample on me with impunity.'

Bryda began to feel frightened at the increased vehemence of her companion, and looking back, saw they had left Jack Henderson and Miss Chatterton far behind.

But suddenly his manner changed, and he said,--

'No. I will not sing to you of death, you who are so full of life and beauty. The minstrel sang in a sad refrain,--

My love is dead, Gone to his deathbed All under the willow tree.

Your love shall have a happier fate. Hark!' he said, 'you shall have a song of springtime, not of the grave--the dark grave, where I wish myself a dozen times a day.'

'Do not say so. Life is so sweet and beautiful,' Bryda exclaimed.

'Though I have many cares at this time, yet I love life, and even in Dowry Square I think it is good to be alive.'

'Aye, to you, doubtless,' was the reply. 'But now for the verse from the "History of Painting."

When spring came dancing on a flowery bed, Clothed in green raiment of a changing kind, The leaves of hawthorn budding o'er his head, And with fair primroses waving in the wind, Then did the shepherd his white garment spread Upon the green bank, and danced all around, Whilst the sweet flowerets nodded on his head, And his fair lambs were scattered on the ground; Beneath his foot the brooklet ran along, Which strolleth round the vale to hear his joyous song.

'There, Miss Palmer, you have a song of spring, wrote hundreds of years ago. I tell it to you in the language of to-day, but it is ten times sweeter in the beauteous rhythm of the olden time.'

'It would not be sweeter to me,' Bryda said; 'for though I found the "History of the Opening of the Bristol Bridge" full of beauty, yet it teased me to scan the words though I made out their meaning at last. How could you find them out--who helped you?'

Chatterton laughed.

'My dear young lady I helped myself to the Saxon language as to most other things. If I trusted to other help I should be worse off than I am. When first it dawned on me that the friend and confessor of Canynge had wrote all these poems for the edifying of his patron, I toiled night and day till I was able to interpret them for this perverse generation.

But I had my friends. Mr Catcott is one, Mr Barrett, a surgeon, another, and now let me count as a friend one fairer than they, your sweet self.'

'As we live under the same roof, we may well be friends, but if, as you say, you are yet but sixteen years old, you are so much younger than I am.'

'Nay, older by a score of years,' Chatterton interrupted. 'For age is not counted by years, but by the strife and the struggle and the misery through which the soul passes. In this I am your senior.'

'Nay,' Bryda said gently, 'we cannot enter into each other's secret heart. We all know our own troubles. I have mine, and I am now parted from a sister I love, and I am, after a week's absence, hungering for her tender care.'

And now Bryda became conscious that they were observed by a party of girls who were returning through the meadows from a Sunday ramble with their lovers.

Several of the girls nodded and laughed at Chatterton. One stopped and said,--

'A new flame, Tom? Oh, fie for shame! Do you know, miss, whoever you may be, that Master Tom is a terrible one to shoot from Cupid's bow. He seldom misses his aim.'