CHAPTER XIII

AN UNSUCCESSFUL SUIT.

Never once in all the months that Bryda had spent under Mr Lambert's roof had Jack Henderson failed to appear at the door of the house in Dowry Square on Sunday afternoons to inquire if Miss Palmer was disposed for a walk. But he had often to turn away dejected and sorrowful.

Sometimes Bryda could not leave Mrs Lambert, sometimes she had promised to take a dish of tea with one or other of the friends of the old lady who frequented her parlour, and praised the girl, who was, as they said, so notable and obliging, and who was really quite the young gentlewoman though country bred and born in a farmhouse.

But Jack had worse misgivings than could be caused by Mrs Lambert's disappointing him of his Sunday treat--looked forward to with hungry eagerness from Monday morning to Saturday night--he heard from Chatterton that the suitor whom he had seen in Dowry Square in the autumn was frequently known to be hanging about the place, that he visited Mr Lambert's office, that he had been invited more than once to the midday dinner, and that he had on these occasions made himself generally agreeable.

Jack attempted once or twice to question Bryda about the Squire, but she always resented it, and the pleasure of his walk was consequently spoiled.

Mrs Lambert, though she never asked Jack Henderson to cross the threshold, was abundantly gracious to Mr Bayfield, and he, taking his cue, flattered the good lady to the top of her bent, sympathised about the crazy apprentice, and declared hanging was too good for him. After the meal was over, Bryda would sit silently by with her work, and the Squire left her alone. But on this memorable Saturday, when the apprentice had finally been dismissed, and his iniquities fully discussed, he leaned over Bryda as he took leave and said,--

'The morrow is Easter day. Did we not agree for Easter or Whitsuntide?'

'For neither, sir,' was the reply, in a low voice, 'for _neither_,' she repeated.

'Then I may put in an execution on the farm next week. Is it so?'

And Bryda answered,--

'If you are minded to be so cruel, sir.'

And so Mr Bayfield left her.

'Miss Palmer,' Mrs Lambert said, 'if that gentleman is paying his addresses to you, it is my duty to express a hope that they are honourable.'

Bryda's eyes flashed, and she answered,--

'The Squire has a matter of business connected with my grandfather, beyond this I have no dealings with him, madam.'

'I am happy to hear it, for although, Miss Palmer, I consider you as a friend rather than a serving-maid, and allow my particular friends to show you kindness, I must remind you that you are not in the class of life from which a country squire would choose a _wife_.'

Mr Lambert had left the parlour with the Squire, and Bryda felt that he, at least, knew the real position of affairs.

Mrs Lambert's words made her heart beat fast with mingled fear and indignation, and she determined to lose no time in writing to Bet, and telling her the sale must at once be thought of, for Mr Bayfield was inexorable, and he must have the money.

The next morning was fair and bright.

The bells of the Bristol churches were ringing a joyous peal, telling out the glad tidings that the Lord was risen, and Mrs Lambert, arrayed in her best gown, leaning on her gold-headed walking-stick, with Bryda at her side carrying her big books, went to the service at the cathedral.

The anthem had again a message for Bryda, as on that first Sunday long ago. _Even so in Christ shall all be made alive_, sounded the triumphal strain, and then there came into her young heart the question, had she any part or lot in the risen Christ? Bryda had never been confirmed.

Confirmations in those days were of rare occurrence, and the remote country districts were reached by the Bishop of the diocese at long intervals. But Mrs Lambert, being a rigid observer of times and seasons, went up to the altar, at the conclusion of the morning prayer and short dry sermon, to receive the Holy Communion, as it is set forth in the prayer book that such is the duty of all members of the Church three times a year at least, of which Easter is one.

Mrs Lambert put out her hand to Bryda as she left the pew, as if she needed her support, but poor Bryda shook her head and whispered,--

'I cannot come, madam.'

Mrs Lambert gave her a reproving glance, and one of her friends, seeing her dilemma, came forward and gave the old lady an arm to the altar.

Bryda sank down on her knees, and all unbidden tears forced their way through her fingers. She felt outside, poor child, and uncared for, and so sorely in need of some help in what was likely to be a crisis in her life.

If the Squire persisted, what should she do? Then, with a great longing of prayer, she asked for wisdom to do what was best and right--and to marry the Squire could never be best and right. Better let everything at the farm be sold. Better let her grandfather suffer than consent to what would be a sin. Then the remembrance of Mrs Lambert's words the day before made her cheeks burn, and she rose up at last determined to let Betty know that immediate steps must be taken and the large sum raised to pay off the debt.

That afternoon Jack Henderson was not disappointed of his walk. He appeared dressed in his best, with a large bunch of primroses, bought in the market the day before in his hand, and two or three in his buttonhole.

The bunch he presented to Bryda, who returned with them, for a minute, to the parlour, and filling a vase with water, placed them on the little table where the volume of sermons lay.

'Mr Henderson brought them for me, madam,' she said. 'It is too large a posy to carry, so I will beg you to accept them.'

Mrs Lambert was pleased to sniff the flowers and say,--

'I am much obleeged to you, my dear. Mr Lambert considers Mr Henderson's nephew a very respectable young man. I have no objections to your keeping his company--he is, of course, in your own class of life,' she said significantly.

'What have you done with the posy, Bryda,' Jack asked.

'It was far too big to carry with me, so I put the poor flowers in water. Now let us go up on the Downs. I am in the mood for a long stroll. Don't be cross about the posy, Jack.'

'I am not cross that I know of,' was the reply.

Then there was a long climb to the heights above the Hot Wells, and at last, on the vantage ground where the old snuff-mill stood, now the well-known observatory, the two sat down on a boulder of limestone to rest. There were no houses near, thus nothing interrupted the view in any direction. The budding woods on the other side of the great gorge, now spanned by the famous Suspension Bridge, were just wearing their first delicate veil of emerald. Away, far away, the blue mountains of the Welsh coast stood out against the clear sky, and the sloping sides of the Mendips, where Dundry Tower stands like a sentinel on guard over the city, were bathed in the soft radiance of the April day, while now and again the chime of bells was borne on the breeze.

For some minutes both were silent, Jack toying with the small pebbles at his feet, Bryda gazing out at the hills where her home lay hid, and forgetting poor Jack's presence in her own meditation. Jack was the first to break the silence. There had sprung up between him and Bryda, since Christmas, a certain reserve which seemed to raise a barrier between him and his fondest hopes.

'I say, Bryda,' he began, 'I am very unhappy. Can't you give me a kind word?'

'Why, Jack, what is the matter?' she said carelessly. 'I thought I was unhappy this morning, but now I think no one ought to be sad to-day. So the bells tell me. Hearken!'

'I am sad, though,' poor Jack rejoined. 'I love you, Bryda. You must know it. I have loved you all my life--I shall love you till I die. I am tied to this silversmith's business--but my uncle has no children, he takes more kindly to me than he did, and the last year I have pleased him better. When he dies I shall come into the business, and then--'

Bryda turned and looked straight into Jack's frank, honest face. She tried to speak lightly.

'So after all, Jack, your mother was right, and you will be a Bristol alderman some day, or perhaps mayor.'

Jack's foot gave an impatient kick against the pebbles beneath it.

'What has that to do with the question?' he said. 'Bryda, can you care for me? Can you love me? That's the real question.'

'Jack, I have always cared for you, you know that. Now let us talk of something else.'

'No,' Jack said, 'I am not to be put off like this. Give me a plain answer. When I can give you all you ought to have, you know, will you be my wife? I love you so that if you can't promise to be my wife I don't care what becomes of me. I shall be off in one of the ships from the quay, and get drowned--drown myself, I daresay.'

'Nonsense, Jack; be sensible. I do not feel as if I could promise to marry anybody. There is trouble at home, and I am thinking more of that just now than anything else,' and in spite of herself her colour deepened on her cheeks and the tears dimmed her eyes.

'Look here, Bryda, has that villain Bayfield anything to do with this?

Do you care for _him_? I hear he has been gallivanting after you, curse him.'