Jack stood motionless as one in a dream. Blood was streaming down his cheeks from a cut in the temple, and his face was almost as wan and livid as that which was turned up to the darkened sky, on which the pitiless hailstones danced and leaped, unheeded and unfelt.

Thus they stood, when steps were heard plodding down the hill, and old Silas, the shepherd from Bishop's Farm, came up.

'What's to do?' he said. 'Miss Biddy, my dear, what's to do?'

'Get a doctor,' she gasped. 'They have had a fight, and--he is--hurt.'

'Dead,' Silas said, looking down at Mr Bayfield as he had looked down on the lamb a year ago, 'dead. His skull is cracked, I'll warrant.'

'Oh, go for a doctor, Jack. Run quick to Bristol and send a doctor. Oh, Jack! Jack!'

Her voice seemed to wake Jack from his stupor.

'Yes,' he said, 'I'll send a doctor. Yes. Good-bye, Bryda, good-bye, and--' Jack covered his face with his hands, and sobs shook his large frame. 'He angered me past bearing, Bryda. I did it for your sake,' he sobbed. 'Say one word to me before I go.'

'Oh, Jack! Jack! What can I say except God forgive you?' She laid her little hand tenderly on Jack's fingers, through which the tears were trickling, and repeated, 'Yes, God forgive you and help _me_.'

It fell out that Jack Henderson, running headlong down the hill, met a village doctor, in his high gig, returning from a long and weary round of country visits.

Jack hailed him, and the doctor drew up his tired nag.

'There's a man lying on the hill half a mile up the road. Go to him quick--it's life or death.'

'Why, you are covered with blood, young man,' the doctor said, as Jack flew past on his downward way to Bristol. 'I say,' he shouted, 'come back. I may want help.'

But Jack took no heed, and the doctor, whipping up his old mare, soon reached the place where Mr Bayfield lay.

The storm-cloud had passed, and again there was a gleam of sunshine flooding the country side with fitful radiance.

When the doctor leaped down from his gig he found Bryda alone, kneeling by the motionless form. Silas had gone, at her bidding, down the by-road which branched off the highway, where she remembered she had heard Mr Bayfield say a horse and gig were waiting.

'Is he dead? Oh, say he is not dead!' Bryda moaned. 'Say he is not dead!'

But the doctor did not reply. He unfastened the high cravat, with its lace ends, unbuttoned the two-fold waistcoats, one of cherry colour the other of buff, the deep red edge showing against the paler hue. He flung back the frilled shirt and put his head against Mr Bayfield's side, took the long, limp hands in his, put his finger on the pulse, and finally drew his large watch from his fob and looked narrowly down at its round white-rimmed dial.

'No, he is not dead,' he said shortly to Bryda; 'go to my gig, open the well behind, and bring me a black case--make haste.'

Bryda staggered to her feet and did as she was bid. The doctor unstrapped the case, and taking out a small bottle, dropped some of its contents between the Squire's lips.

A slight movement of the eyelids followed just as old Silas returned with the horse and gig, which had been waiting with a servant till Mr Bayfield joined them about a quarter of a mile down the lane.

'Who did it?' the servant asked. 'Whose work is this?'

'It was a fight,' Bryda faltered; 'it was a fight.'

'A fair fight--eh? Who began it?'

Poor Bryda burst into weeping.

'Oh, do not ask me--do not ask me,' she murmured.

'Poor little dear!' said the doctor. 'Was it a fight about you--eh? Why, it's one of old Farmer Palmer's grand-daughters, I declare. Cheer up, my pretty one, yours is not the first pretty face which has made mischief between two suitors. There! there! he isn't dead yet, and he may live. I can't say yet, but we must get him home. How far is it?'

'A matter of twelve miles, sir.'

'Well, we must lay him across my shandry, it's more roomy than his gimcracky gig. And you,' he said, turning to the servant, 'must lead the horse. I'll watch him, and we can make a roughish sort of bed with the cushions from the gig. And what shall I do with you, my dear?' the doctor asked.

'Nothing! nothing! I must go back to Bristol. Madam will be so angry.

Silas, give my love to Betty, and tell her I will write to her. I dare not go home--no, I dare not, Silas. Aunt Dorothy would say it was all my fault, and so it is! so it is!' Then Bryda turned away, saying, 'He is not dead, you are sure?'

'Quite certain sure,' Silas replied. 'But lor' bless you, Miss Biddy, come along home; you look like a ghost!'

'No, no, I must go back, and I must see--' She dared not mention the name even to Silas. 'I must tell him the Squire is not dead.'

Then, with a terror at her heart, and a nameless dread as if a phantom of evil were pursuing her, Bryda fled downhill with a speed which surprised herself, and reached the ferry just as the Bristol clocks struck six.

When she found herself at Dowry Square she first recognised how faint and worn out she was--she had not tasted food since breakfast. She could hardly totter into the little lobby, and when she tried to tell the footboy to let Mrs Lambert know she was too tired to come into the parlour, she fell prone upon the floor, and remembered nothing till she found herself on the couch in the parlour, the twilight deepening, and Madam Lambert sitting by her like a gaoler, with a glass of brandy on the little table, which she insisted on Bryda sipping.

It was all like a dreadful dream. Bryda's head ached, and she was too bewildered to say much.

Madam Lambert poured out a string of questions. Had she seen her sister?

What was the bad news? Was the poor old man dead, or had he had a stroke? Had the Squire put bailiffs into the house? What was wrong at the farm?

But Bryda had just presence of mind enough to keep back the real facts of the case. It had struck her that Jack Henderson would be in danger of his life if, indeed, it turned out that the Squire was dead--in danger, too, if he were seriously hurt. So she parried all questions, and went feebly to the door murmuring,--

'I am so tired. May I go to bed?'

'To bed, sure you may, and I will get Mrs Symes to bring you up some hot posset. I don't wish to pry, Miss Palmer, but I should like to hear what has upset you? I think it is my due.'

'To-morrow--to-morrow,' Bryda said. 'I cannot talk now. I cannot--'

'There is some mystery, depend upon it,' Mrs Lambert said, as she folded her mittened hands and twirled her thumbs one over the other, in a meditative mood; 'but I'll ring for Symes to get her a hot posset, poor thing.'

CHAPTER XV

THE LAST EVENING.

Bryda rose and went about her accustomed duties the next day with a wan, white face and wistful, anxious eyes.

She was longing for news, and yet dare not ask a question lest she should betray Jack Henderson's share in the scene on the hillside the day before. She was haunted by the memory of that rigid upturned face on which the hail beat so mercilessly. It was always before her; and there was no one near with whom to share her fears. It happened that Mr Lambert was called away on business to Bath, and bustled off to the coach office immediately after breakfast, and had only time to say to Bryda,--

'You look as if you had seen a ghost, Miss Palmer.' Then, with a laugh, 'Ah! I remember it was at Easter you were to make your decision. Well, well, don't take it too much to heart. Good-bye, mother. Don't expect me till you see me,' and then the little lawyer, bristling with importance, was gone.