The Squire was alive, but light in his head, and seemed to know nothing, nor heed nothing. There seemed no comfort anywhere. Jack was, it is true, out of reach and safe whatever happened; but, as is often the case, the faithful lover of her youth was, by separation, raised to a very much higher level than when he was with her every Sunday, and poor Bryda's heart ached with self-reproach and vain longings that she had been kinder to poor Jack who loved her so well.

It was one day in June, when all Nature was rejoicing in the freshness of early summer, that Mr Barrett called at 6 Dowry Square and asked to see Miss Palmer.

Bryda was in the kitchen, doing her best to prepare a particular dish to please Mr Lambert for his supper-party that night, when Sam came down to say Mr Barrett wanted to see her on business. Bryda threw off her large apron, pulled her sleeves over her elbows, and with a hasty glance at the little bit of square glass, which distorted her face beyond recognition, she hastened upstairs with a beating heart. She found Mr Barrett in the hall.

'Can you come with me to-morrow to Rock House, Miss Palmer? The Squire, Mr Bayfield, was moved to his own home yesterday, and I superintended the removal. He has something on his mind which he says he must tell you, and none but you. Poor fellow, he is a mere wreck of a man. You had better take pity and hear what he has to say, for his position is very forlorn in that rambling old place. I have provided him with an experienced woman as nurse, and his father's friends look in on him, but it is a pitiable case. I will drive you to Rock House. Let me advise you not to delay.'

'I must get leave,' Bryda said, with trembling lips, 'I must get leave.

And oh,' she exclaimed, clasping her hands, 'I do dread it--I do dread it.'

'Well, there's nothing to fear. The poor fellow can scarcely lift a finger. Not only his head but his back has had a sharp concussion. He can never be the same man again, unless by a miracle, and we doctors can't work miracles.'

Mrs Lambert gave a very reluctant permission to Bryda, and began to wonder what she should do about the 'chayney' the next day. It was the day for washing and dusting the best 'chayney' in the glass cupboard, but she supposed she must suffer inconvenience--it always was her fate.

'Pray when will you return, miss?' she asked.

'I should like to stay at home for Sunday, madam.'

'Sunday! And who is to walk with me to church? Dear me! how inconsiderate you are! I suppose you think a gentlewoman like me can take Mrs Symes' arm?'

Bryda thought nothing about it, but left the room to tell Mr Barrett she would be ready at the hour he was pleased to name.

'It must be early--say eight o'clock, Miss Palmer;' and he added, looking anxiously into her face, 'don't fret, or we shall have you ill next,' and taking Bryda's little thin hand in his the doctor felt her pulse. 'You are weak as a fly,' he said. 'Give up here and go home. We will talk more of it to-morrow. Good-day.'

CHAPTER XVI

FORGIVENESS.

During the drive to Rock House the kind-hearted surgeon did his best to divert Bryda from dwelling upon the past or the dreaded interview with Mr Bayfield. He did not know how sharp was the pang his companion felt as the old thorn tree came in sight, nor how she bit her lips and clenched the rail of the high gig with a grasp that gave her physical pain to deaden the terrible ache at her heart.

Mr Barrett talked of many things in all ignorance of the intensity of her feelings, roused by the sight of the very spot where she had last seen Jack and that rigid upturned face.

'You take an interest in the poor boy Chatterton, Miss Palmer, I know. I am afraid the sunshine of his first weeks in London is a little clouded.'

'I have seen his mother once or twice,' Bryda said. 'She showed me his first letter, written in high spirits.'

'Ah, yes! and there have been others since, but they don't deceive George Catcott, who is always thinking of him, having the notion that there never was a poet like him since Shakespeare. He is making a mistake now in rushing into politics in the _Middlesex Journal_. He sends Catcott the papers. What will Lord Hillsborough or the Lord Mayor care for all his violent reproaches anent this affair at Boston? Not a brass farthing--not they! That's a fine letter to the freeholders of Bristol, I own, in which he chronicles the speech of his glorious Canynge, when he said, "dear as his family were, his country was dearer," or something like that. It is all very fine, but Chatterton has to earn his bread, and I don't think he is going the right way to do it.

He seems proud of his intimacy with the editor of the _Political Register_, but I fear it won't do him much good.'

'He still writes poetry, sir,' Bryda said, 'so his sister tells me,' and she added, with enthusiasm, 'his poetry is beautiful!'

'Yes, yes, you know, I take it, many folks think there never was such a person as "Rowley the priest."'

'_Never!_' Bryda exclaimed, 'not all those hundreds of years ago.'

Mr Barrett smiled.

'Rowley the priest is one and the same with Thomas Chatterton, so some say--not good George Catcott and not Mr Clayfield. I am in no position to decide the question.'

Mr Barrett talked on, discussing Chatterton and his work, and Bryda grew interested in spite of herself, and was almost surprised when the white gates of Rock House came in sight, and the dreaded moment of the interview was close at hand.

How well she recalled her first and only visit there, more than a year before, the courage that then emboldened her to plead her grandfather's cause, the despair with which she turned away and ran down the avenue of firs, with Flick by her side, and had to confess to herself that her errand was in vain. Then arose those questionings which torture us all when we look back on the irrevocable, and she asked herself,--

'_If_ I had never come here that day, _if_ I had never tried to move his hard heart to pity, all this misery and distress might--_would_ have been saved. Oh! why did I ever come, why did I ever do it?'

These and other thoughts of the same kind filled Bryda's mind as she waited in a dull room opposite the library, where Mr Barrett had left her while he went to prepare the Squire for her coming.

The waiting seemed like hours instead of minutes, and yet when the door opened and Mr Barrett beckoned her to follow him she drew back.

'Oh! I cannot--cannot come.'

Then the good doctor took her trembling, cold little hand in his, and said,--

'Come, my dear, there is nothing to fear. Take courage, you will not regret your visit I am sure.'

Then the door of the same room where Bryda had first seen the Squire opened and closed behind, and she found herself alone with Mr Bayfield.

But _could_ it be he? There was scarcely a trace of the handsome, stalwart young man of thirty left in that pale, emaciated form lying on a couch before her.

'I cannot rise to greet you, madam,' were Mr Bayfield's first words.

'Come nearer, please; I have something to say to you, and my voice is weak.'

Then a long thin hand was outstretched to Bryda, and her fears seemed to vanish. She went up to the couch and said in low tones,--

'I am grieved, sir, to see you so--ill, and--'

The large wistful eyes fastened on Bryda's face had now nothing offensive in their gaze. There was the far-off look in them of one who had done with the world and all the world's sin and sorrow.

'Miss Palmer,' he said, 'I wished to see you to seek forgiveness. You told me on that day long ago I had no mercy; it was true. I had no mercy, and I deceived you cruelly.'

Then from a small pocket-book, worn with age and fastened with a ragged strap, Mr Bayfield took out a paper--two papers.

One, that which he had shown to the old farmer on the night of his first visit; the other dated only a few months before the old Squire's sudden death. He put both into Bryda's hands and said,--

'Read them, and then grant me your pardon if you can.'

Bryda unfolded the papers with trembling fingers, and on the last read:--

'I hereby wish to leave on record, should anything happen to me, that Peter Palmer of Bishop's Farm is not to be pressed for the discharge of his debt to me. The heir of my body, my only son, is a wanderer on the face of the earth. He left me shortly after his sainted mother's death, fifteen years ago, and I have given up all hope of his return; but should he return, I hereby instruct him that I discharge the said Peter Palmer from his liability to me. He is an old man, and a man of many troubles. The sum of money was borrowed in a time of sore anguish, and I will not bring his grey hairs to the grave in added sorrow by demanding payment. This for my son, if ever he returns. And by my will my executors are bound to keep this small estate intact for two years after my decease, and then, should my son make no sign, let it be put into the market, with all my goods and chattels, and the money divided amongst certain poor folk and charities named in my last will and testament.'

(Signed) 'CHARLES BAYFIELD.'

A profound silence reigned as Bryda read the rather illegible writing of the old Squire. When she had finished she looked up, and, with a deep sigh, said simply,--

'I am thankful for grandfather! Oh! if we had known this sooner!'