It was a long and weary day--cold and stormy; and after Bryda had finished her domestic duties she could only sit in the parlour with Mrs Lambert, listening for the sound of every step upon the pavement, starting when the door bell rang, and relieved when Sam appeared in the parlour with some message or note for Mr Lambert, which was to be delivered to him on his return.

Even if Chatterton had still been at the office Bryda might have gained some news. She wondered if the story of the fray had reached Bristol, for birds of the air do carry a matter even from the loneliness of the upward path to the table-land of the Mendips. But the day dragged wearily on to evening, and still no news. Mrs Lambert was very fractious and fault-finding, and complained that a hole in a bit of lace had been so ill mended that she must have every thread unpicked. Then the water for the tea was smoked, and the 'muffin' too much buttered, with a dozen more grievances of a like character, which were simple torture to poor Bryda's heavy, anxious heart.

Just as the twilight of the spring evening was deepening, and Mrs Lambert ordered Bryda to fetch the candles and lay the cloth for supper, a very gentle ring at the bell was heard--so gentle this time that it did not attract Mrs Lambert's attention, and Bryda was in the hall before Sam had time to appear.

As he opened the door Bryda heard a voice she knew to be Chatterton's.

'I must see Miss Palmer,' he said. 'Let me in, you little fool.'

Sam made a grimace and said,--

'You ain't wanted here. They say you are a bad 'un--so be off.'

Then Bryda sprang forward.

'Let me speak to Mr Chatterton,' she said; and in another moment she was standing on the doorstep with him.

'I have brought you a message, Miss Palmer. I saw Jack Henderson aboard ship for America last night. He bid me say you need never trouble about him again, but that, wherever he goes, he will hold you in remembrance.

Poor fellow! he seemed in frightful misery about killing the man; but if, as he says, in fair fight, there is nothing so extraordinary in it--it happens every day--only last week, in Bath, a man was killed in a duel.'

'But it is dreadful--_dreadful_!' Bryda exclaimed, 'because it is all my fault. And Jack gone--do you say quite gone?'

'Yes, he is a long way down channel by this time. Now, Miss Palmer, do not take on; things are sure to brighten for you.'

'Oh! he ought to have waited till he knew more. It was cowardly of Jack--'

'Well you know he did not feel sure you cared for him--thought maybe it was the Squire after all.'

'Have you heard anything else?' Bryda asked. 'Is it the talk of Bristol what happened yesterday?'

'Well, it is known, because Mr Barrett has been sent for to the Squire to try to mend his broken head. It is a pity Henderson did not wait till he knew whether he was dead or alive. I should have thought you would have heard something from Corn Street, for no doubt there is a row there at Jack's absence from the silversmith's shop.'

'Mr Lambert is away for the day,' Bryda said. 'Oh, it has been such a long, long day. I am so miserable, so wretched. I dare not stay a minute longer. Good-bye.'

'A long good-bye, a _last_ good-bye, Miss Palmer. I am off to London by the coach to-morrow. Wish me better fortune than I have had here. If you could visit my poor mother sometimes I should be glad. She takes on at the idea of parting with me. You see you can't make a mother see that leaving her is for her son's benefit. No,' he said, 'it's gospel truth, there is no love to compare with a mother's;' and he added, 'Though I love the muse, and love and court her as a knight would court his ladye love, I love my mother, who, dear soul, never understood a word of poetry in her life--and sister is almost as bad. But, bless them both, they will be glad enough when I come back to Bristol famous.'

Then, with the courtesy of the knights of old of whom he spoke, Chatterton doffed his cap, bowed low, and, kissing Bryda's hand, was gone.

It was his last night in Bristol. He was off by the mail to London the next day, but scantily provided with clothes, though his mother had done her best, but scantily provided with money, but full to overflowing with high hope and enterprise. Of his bulky manuscripts--his much-cherished possession--he never lost hold throughout the long, cold journey. They were securely packed by his own hand in a canvas bag; his mother might pack his clothes, his sister might mend his stockings, and water them with her tears as she rolled them up and placed them in the heavy trunk, but no hand but his own should touch his manuscripts, for they represented to him, poor boy, silver and gold, and what he cared more for--Fame.

A few friends stood with his tearful mother and sobbing sister at the coach office at the Bush Inn to bid him farewell. He took both mother and sister in his arms and kissed them lovingly, said good-bye to the others, and then he sprang, still grasping his precious bag in his hand, into what was called 'the basket' of the mail coach, and cheaper, by reason of its low position outside the clumsy, lumbering vehicle, and then he was off.

Not one backward glance did he give of regret to Bristol. He was sore at what he conceived to be the ill treatment he had received from his native city, and burning with desire to avenge his wrongs by returning to it crowned with the laurel wreath of Fame, to be courted instead of spurned, to have at his feet those who had trampled on him, and to find his native City of the West awaking at last to the fact it had been so slow to recognise that he was a son of whom it might be justly proud.

The fulfilment of the last part of his high-set hope may perhaps have come, and now, at the distance of a hundred and twenty years, the figure of the marvellous boy stands out with a distinct personality which no 'animated bust' could give it. Time throws a veil of charity over his faults, and deep pity stirs in every heart, as in mine to-day as I write these fragments gathered from his short life, that he had no anchor of the soul on which to take firm hold in the troubled waters of that stormy sea on which he was launched on the 26th day of April 1770.

Deep pity, too, that no kindly hand was outstretched to help him in his hours of darkness, no voice to tell him of One to whom he might turn as of old one turned in his despair with the cry of 'My Father, I have sinned,' to find as he did pardon and peace.

Full tidings came to poor Bryda the day after she had parted with Chatterton--tidings from the farm. An ill-written and hurried letter from Betty was left at the office by the carrier that morning, and brought by Mr Lambert to Dowry Square when he returned for dinner.

Bryda opened the letter with trembling fingers. She could not dare to read it in the presence of others.

'DEAR BRYDA,'--Bet said,--'They brought the Squire here Sunday evening like to die. They could not get him further. The doctor said it would kill him outright. He is laid in the parlour, for they could not carry him upstairs. Two gentlemen justices have been here to-day, and the constables are on the search for him who did the deed. The doctor thinks he knew him. Oh, Bryda, it was Jack Henderson. Mr Barrett has come from Bristol, and shakes his head over the Squire. He neither speaks nor moves. It is dreadful. Can you come home? And, Bryda, you must know was it Jack--and where is Jack? If they catch him--oh, it will be more than we can bear. The doctor is not sure it was Jack. His face was covered with blood when he met him running downhill like a madman. Was it Jack?--Your sister, BET, in sorrow and love.'

Was it Jack? Ah, yes, she knew it only too well, and on her return to the parlour she found Mr Lambert telling the story in his short, concise, lawyer-like fashion, Madam Lambert nodding and ejaculating from time to time, 'Good Heavens!' and Sam listening with open mouth to the story as he waited at table.

'The young scapegrace's mother has been at Corn Street to-day. She is in a towering rage against you, Miss Palmer. She looks on you as the cause of the fray. The constables can hear naught of the boy, and he is got off scot-free, I daresay. Well, it's no use crying over spilt milk. You had best have taken my advice, Miss Palmer, and married the Squire.'

'Oh,' Bryda cried, with the cry of a hunted animal in pain, 'oh, spare me, sir, spare me. I--I cannot bear it.'

'Compose yourself, for goodness' sake, Miss Palmer, or you will make me ill. You agitate me, and before my footman, too. Pray, miss, be quiet.'

But poor Bryda had lost all self-control, and crying aloud 'Spare me,'

she left the parlour.

But her fate pursued her, for Sam opened the door to Mrs Henderson, who came hastily in, brushing past Sam, and saying, as Bryda was hastening upstairs,--

'Stop, Bryda Palmer. Let me at least tell you what I think of you, you minx. To draw my poor son into a mess like this, to ruin his prospects, to turn him into a hunted felon--he who never so much as hurt a worm, he who is my eldest son, like to make his fortune, come in for his uncle's business and his money. Oh, did I not warn him that you were a good-for-nothing hussy, thinking yourself clever, and a wit, and a poetess. Yes, you may well cry and moan.'

'My good woman,' said Mr Lambert, now coming into the hall, 'I can't have any brawling here. You must be so good as to leave the house. My mother is not fit for any agitating scene. Come now, why rage at poor Miss Palmer? Pretty girls like her are sure to get suitors and set them by the ears. I daresay you did the same in your day, may do it now you are a fair widow--eh?'

This soothing flattery had the desired effect. Mrs Henderson calmed down, and the torrent of her abuse was stemmed. Then the mother's love asserted itself, and she said, in a tone of real sorrow,--

'But if I have lost Jack, my fine, handsome boy, no one can give him back to me, and I was so proud of him. But I won't stay here. Why should I?' and then Mrs Henderson, covering her face with her handkerchief was gone.

Bryda felt as if the last straw had been laid on her heavy burden, the last drop in the bitter cup. She went to her room and lay down on her bed, worn out with misery. Should she go home? Was it kind to leave Betty with all this trouble alone, with no one to sympathise? And yet how she dreaded her aunt's tongue and the neighbours' gossip--and _how_ she dreaded to see the Squire's face, the face that haunted her night and day, lying on the road, with the hailstones dancing on it unheeded.

Perhaps, happily for Bryda, she was left no choice in the matter. When she went back to the parlour it was time for tea, of which she was sharply reminded.

Bryda went about the preparations as usual, washed the silver left from dinner, which no one but herself was ever allowed to touch, and listened in dumb patience to Mrs Lambert's tirade against the world in general and herself in particular.

Mrs Lambert was one of those people who do not concern themselves greatly about the misfortunes of others if they are allowed to see and hear of them at a distance. But it is quite a different thing if by any chance the misfortunes of another affect directly or indirectly their own particular comfort.

Thus, when Bryda said in a choked voice,--

'Will you grant me leave to go home, madam, and release me from my engagement in your service?'

'Go home! Leave me, after all my kindness to you, leave me with no one to take your place! A pretty thing indeed! No, miss, you will stay here till this day six months, according to agreement. Then, if it suits _me_, I may send you packing. Go home, indeed! You would not have a vastly warm welcome, methinks. No, stay here, do your duty in the station of life into which it has pleased God to call you, and you will find activity the best cure for any uneasiness,' Mrs Lambert concluded, with dignified emphasis.

Bryda was about to remonstrate, but she felt it would be useless. She must try to possess her soul in patience, and hope that after a little time Mrs Lambert might relent, and, at least, give her leave of absence for a few days.

But the efforts to keep up an appearance of cheerfulness, and to be at Madam Lambert's beck and call, was a very great strain on her.

Then the gossips who came in to supper or tea were for some days full of the event of the previous Sunday, and Bryda had to sit by and listen to various versions of the story--to reports which one day would be that the murderer had been caught, and the next that the Squire was dead. And then there were whispered questions not intended for Bryda's ear, which concerned her, she was sure, and ominous shakes of the head and glances of curiosity, till often Bryda was constrained to throw down her work and leave the parlour.

So passed the long and miserable weeks, with now and again a message from Bet, or a few lines hastily scrawled, and often scarcely legible.