'It is the hand of one who can write well if she choose--and do you know your sister's handwriting?'

'Yes, I know she takes a long time to write, but I expect she was hurried and distressed, and these are tears which have blotted the paper. What can it be? Oh, what can the trouble be? Good-bye, and thank you. I must go, as it is full three miles to the old thorn tree.'

'I know it,' Chatterton said, 'I know it. It is where a by-road turns off towards Bath. I wish you good luck, Miss Palmer.'

Then Chatterton turned, and went back with his swift pace the way he came.

He met, as he expected, Jack Henderson, who had been to Dowry Square and heard that Miss Palmer had been called away on some business, but where the footboy did not know.

When Chatterton met Jack, he was walking with a downcast air, and Chatterton had slapped him on the back before he was aware of his presence.

'Whither away, Master Jacques the melancholy?'

'I am in no mood for jests. Tom, let me go.'

'Yes, but let me tell you something first. A certain fair damsel you know, has crossed the ferry, and is wandering unprotected up the road to Dundry. Be a good knight and follow her, for it strikes me she may need your presence.'

'What do you mean?' Jack said.

'What I say. Your fair lady is in trouble, summoned to the old thorn tree half-way up the hill by her sister, who is in dire need. I have my suspicions that the paper she showed me is not wrote by her by whom it is pretended. Speed away, honest Jack, and see what you will see.'

But Jack stood still; he was always slow of perception, and never took up any idea hastily. 'She may not want me,' he thought; 'she may be angry, as she was last Sunday, but--' As Chatterton gave him another sharp slap on his back, as a parting encouragement to set off, he said aloud,--

'Well, I may as well walk that way as any other; it's no odds to me.'

Chatterton then left him. He was on his way to his good friend Mr Clayfield's, and was to meet there several of the friends who had been kind to him and stood by him in the distress of Easter eve.

Jack Henderson pulled himself together and began his walk, crossed the ferry, and went on in the direction which Chatterton had pointed out, greatly wondering what Betty could possibly have to say to Bryda which she could not have put down on paper.

'Perhaps that brute has put an execution in the farm, turning out the old man into the road, like enough. Well, I may as well follow, for it's a lonely road for her, and there's lots of ill-looking fellows lurking about birds nesting and ratting on Sundays.' Then Jack heaved a deep sigh as he said, 'P'r'aps she won't mind my taking care of her for once, though a week ago she just treated me as if I was naught to her.' And as Jack recalled the scene on the summit of St Vincent's Rocks he felt a pain at his heart, which, as he thought, time would never cure.

Meantime Bryda pressed bravely on, though the storms of hail often beat on her face, and then the cloud breaking, great fields of deepest blue sky appeared in the rifts, and now and again the sun shone out brightly on the young leaves and primrose banks, as if to reassure them that the present cold was but an afterthought of winter, and that spring and May would soon reign again.

Bryda's way led along a lonely road. There were no villages, only here and there a shepherd's hut, and not a house to be seen. A few ragged boys foraging in the hedges for birds' nests, or paddling in a little wayside stream for tadpoles, were the only people she saw. The ascent was long and steep, but Bryda stepped quickly on, and at last the thorn tree, with its rugged, gnarled trunk, came in sight.

Here the road branched off in two directions; that to the left led across the side of the hill towards Bath, the other down to the village of Bower Ashton, and following straight on led to Dundry, beyond which was Bishop's Farm.

When Bryda reached the old crooked thorn, which was but scantily covered with blossoms in its old age, she looked in vain for Betty.

The Bristol bells were ringing for evensong as she was climbing the hill, and she had quickened her step fearing she might be late.

Bryda sat down to rest on an old milestone which stood close by and waited, but still no Betty appeared. Presently she was conscious of footsteps approaching, and turning her head, sprang to her feet to meet, not Betty, but Mr Bayfield.

'What is the matter, sir, at the farm? Betty sent for me--she is in great distress--can you tell me?'

'I am come instead of your sister,' Mr Bayfield said, and pitying Bryda's face of alarm, he said, 'Nothing is wrong. I am only come here to claim your promise. Easter has come and is nearly gone. I am prepared to bury the very remembrance of the debt. I am prepared to leave your grandfather a free man for the rest of his life, and give him a written pledge of this, if you will consent to be mine.'

Bryda started back. The helplessness of her position came over her.

Alone on that lonely hillside--alone, and with no hope of escape.

'Hearken, fairest and dearest,' Mr Bayfield began, 'I am not one to be turned from anything I have set my heart on. I _mean_ to have you, and so,' he said with emphasis, 'you had best come to me graciously.'

'I did _not_ promise,' Bryda said firmly. 'It is cowardly in you, sir, to try to put me thus in the wrong.'

'Now, now, fair lady, that is going too far. I made certain conditions, you accepted them. I have been true to my part of the agreement--you must, nay shall, reward me. I have a horse and gig a little further up yonder by-road. I shall drive you to Bath, and then I will marry you to-morrow morning. Come. You shall reign like a queen in my old home, and I will do all you desire. Come.'

And Mr Bayfield laid a firm hand on Bryda's arm, looking down into her terror-struck face with eyes in which his determination and his passion shone almost fiercely.

Bryda did not scream or cry, or even struggle. The spirit that was in her rose above her fears, and looking steadily at Mr Bayfield she said,--

'I will not be forced to marry you, sir. Let me go. Every penny of your claim shall be paid, but I will not marry you.'

A laugh greeted these words, and yet when Bryda said, after a momentary pause, 'I trust in God, and He will deliver me,' the laugh was changed into a tone of entreaty. Something in this girl there was which, in spite of himself, commanded respect. So small, so fragile as she looked in his power, in his hands, lured thither by his treachery, as a bird is lured to the snare, he yet quailed as Bryda repeated, 'He will deliver me.'

'Nay, Bryda,' he began in a gentler tone, 'I love you. I offer you all I have. I make you honourable proposals, when some men might--'

A loud voice was now heard.

'What are you doing here--eh?' And in another moment Jack Henderson strode up, and putting his arm round Bryda, said defiantly, 'Touch her again if you dare.'

'Touch her!' Mr Bayfield said, with cool irony, 'touch her! I am to marry her to-morrow morning at Bath, so, my good fellow, I advise you to go back the way you came, and remember the old adage and mind your own business.'

'Is this true, Bryda?' Jack said, still holding her with his strong arm, 'is this true?'

'No, Jack, no, it is not true--it is false.'

Then Jack sprang upon the Squire and struck him across the face.

'Leave her!' he shouted, 'leave go this instant, you scoundrel!'

'Yes, to give you your deserts, you young rascal.'

The two men closed in a deadly struggle, and Jack, the lion roused within him, got the mastery, though his adversary fought in a more scientific way, as one who had been well accustomed to such conflicts.

Bryda stood by the old thorn tree too terrified to move, only entreating Jack to stop for her sake, only crying aloud in her despair to Mr Bayfield to stop.

But the fight grew ever fiercer and fiercer, and at last, with one mighty blow of his huge arm, Jack had his adversary at his feet, his knee on his chest, his hand at his throat.

So tremendous was the force with which the young giant had felled the Squire that his fall made a heavy thud on the hard road.

Just at this moment a storm-cloud came sweeping over the hillside, and hail fell in a thick, sharp shower.

'Swear you will leave her, swear you will not touch her again,' Jack gasped out, for he was breathless with rage and exertion.

But there was no answer. Suddenly Jack relaxed his hold, and rising, stood staring down at the inanimate form before him, on which the hail beat with blinding fury.

Bryda drew near, and clasping her hands, said,--

'You have killed him, Jack Henderson, you have killed him! Oh, God have mercy on you and on me!'