'Chatterton, what do you mean, gossiping like any old woman at the street door? Where's Sam?'

'Asleep,' was the short reply.

'Wake him, then. Bid him attend to the door. It's not your business that I know of.'

'I should have thought it was, as I share his bed in the cellar. I should have thought it was share and share alike.'

This was said with infinite scorn, betrayed in the tone of the musical voice as well as by the contemptuous tossing back of the thick hair and shrug of the shoulders, which were seen in sharp outline under a threadbare coat hastily thrown on.

'Hold your tongue or I'll find means to make you. Who is it at the door?'

'Come down and see for yourself, sir,' was the final reply, as Thomas Chatterton departed whence he came and disappeared in the lower regions of the house.

The door was still open, and Jack Henderson still stood there. He ventured to advance to the foot of the stairs, and looking up he could dimly discern the figure of a gentleman in a long nightgown, his head surmounted by a huge nightcap, with a tassel dangling from its crown.

Mr Lambert held to the banister of the second flight of wide stairs, and peered down at Jack, who looked up at him.

'I have brought a letter, sir, from a young lady to Madam Lambert. She is a relative of yours, and wants to find a place in Bristol.'

'Relative, relative--tut, tut. Ah! I see you are Henderson's nephew.

Well, judging from his experience, relatives are like to be more plague than profit.'

'Miss Palmer's mother was first cousin of Madam Lambert's, sir.'

'Oh! Well, I know nothing about it, but hand up the letter, and I will see my mother has it, though I don't promise you she will think anything of it.'

'I will call back for an answer, sir, about one o'clock.'

'Very well, very well. Here comes Mrs Symes, and I suppose we shall now have a chance of breakfast.'

The open door now admitted a large and portly personage, who came every morning to perform the duties of the household, assisted by the footboy Sam, who wore a suit of livery and answered the door to clients who might prefer to see lawyer Lambert at his private house rather than in the somewhat cramped office in Corn Street.

Mr Lambert disappeared upstairs as the woman began to throw open shutters and draw up blinds and let the light of the morning into the house.

Jack Henderson was not invited to breakfast, and after his early walk he was very hungry. He was just turning out of the square, towards the river, when he heard footsteps behind him.

Presently a hand was laid on his arm, and a voice said,--

'I was vastly uncivil half an hour ago, Henderson, but when one is treated like a cur one is apt to snarl like one. Where are you going to break your fast? At your uncle's--eh?'

'No,' Jack said,' I leave well alone there. I am not in high favour, and don't go near him till next Monday, when I hope to bring Miss Palmer along with me.'

'Your sweetheart--eh?'

Jack blushed to the roots of his hair.

'I can't joke about _her_,' he said.

'I crave pardon,' was the answer. 'Don't be sulky, Jack. I snatch a roll and a draught of water somewhere at a shop near by. Come with me and share the frugal repast.'

Then the two young men turned into the road by the river, where the early frequenters of the Spa were returning from drinking the waters in sedan chairs or wrapped up in fur. A band was playing before the door of the pump-room, and the whole scene was at once festive and melancholy.

The bun shop was not a dozen yards from the pump-room, and when Jack and his companion turned in to satisfy their hunger several gaily dressed beaux and young gentlewomen, probably relatives of the sick people who were drinking the waters, were laughing and chatting as if there was no such thing as death or sickness or sorrow in the world.

The group formed a sharp contrast indeed to the patients leaning on the arms of their attendants, who came forth in melancholy procession from the baths, coughing continuously, and with faces where consumption had too plainly left its mark. On some the bright hectic burned, on others the pallor of the last stages of that fell disease was seen.

Thomas Chatterton seemed wholly unconscious of what was passing before him. He threw down his penny for a roll, and drank a glass of water, and then stalked out of the shop, while Jack demolished a pork pie and two rolls, asking for a mug of cider to complete his breakfast. Having settled his account with the smart young woman behind the counter, he hastened to rejoin Chatterton.

He had walked away in the direction of St Vincent's Rocks, and Jack, with his long strides, soon overtook him.

'I am ready now,' he said; 'shall I walk back with you as far as Corn Street?'

But Chatterton did not answer. He stood like one in a dream, staring with his wonderful eyes at the giant rocks ahead of him, and seemed unconscious of any presence.

Something in Chatterton already struck Jack Henderson with a strange awe.

Now, as he stood on the bank of the river, where the tide had just turned its dun-coloured waters, rushing swiftly towards the sea, his head bare, his hair tossed back from his capacious brow, his hands clasped and his lips moving, though no sound escaped them, he looked as if he belonged to a different race from the big stalwart youth beside him, whose honest face was all aglow with health and vigour, and who towered a head and shoulders above the slight boyish form at his side.

Presently Chatterton spoke, but not to Jack.

'Rushing on to the sea--rush on--and bear the tidings of wrong and injustice and hate to the great ocean. I see them as they go--the evil spirits which make Bristol a hell on earth--drown them in the flood--free the city from their presence--and then--'

'Are you not going to the office, Chatterton?' Jack ventured to say at last. 'You will not be there at eight, I say,' and Jack touched the boy's arm.

The human touch seemed to break the spell, and Chatterton laughed a strange unnatural laugh.

'Oh, is it you, old Jack? Late, do you say? Yes, I am late for everything--too late--always too late. Farewell. I must away with all speed. Tell your angel she is coming to a place where she will find no good company.' And then, before Jack could say another word, Chatterton's slight boyish form was speeding along the road with incredible swiftness, and had disappeared at a turn leading from the Hot Wells to Bristol.

'I believe they are right,' Jack thought; 'he is mad. I must warn Bryda to be careful. All the queer stories about him are true, I daresay; but, after all, he is only a boy--sixteen at the most--and I am twenty. Hang that jeweller's shop! I think I will cut it, and go off in one of these big ships--make a fortune in America--and then--then--'

Ah! Jack Henderson, what then? Your simple soul has its dreams as you stand by that mighty rushing river, under the giant rocks, and your dreams are sweet, sweeter than those of the marvellous boy who has just left you to return to the hated drudgery of Mr Lambert's office in Corn Street.

CHAPTER V

THE ORCHARD GATE.

Jack Henderson found the morning very long, and finally stretched himself on one of the benches of the pump-room and slept away the time, rousing himself at intervals as a group of laughing girls passed him with their attendant beaux, for Clifton Hot Springs was now becoming a very fashionable resort, and the houses lying under the shadow of the huge rocks were in great demand.

Now but little is left to tell of the glory of the past. The pump-room has long since been pulled down, and instead of gaily dressed bevies of fashionable folk disporting themselves under a row of trees in the May sunshine, heavy trams, drawn by patient horses at an even jog-trot, pass along at stated intervals, at all times and seasons, connecting the traffic of the busy, populous city with Avonmouth which is just beyond the graceful Suspension Bridge which spans the gorge between the Gloucestershire and Somersetshire banks of the Avon.

But the grand old rocks do not change. The black-winged daws fly in and out of their nests in the crevices, where the yellow wallflower and large golden-eyed daisies still grow in profusion where no hand can reach them, and flourishing with the scant nourishment that the crevices in the rocks afford them, fill the air with their fragrance. Generations of men come and go, and the face of Nature remains as it was when the boy poet first gazed in a rapt vision at the grey bastions of St Vincent's Rocks, and down at the river at his feet rushing out to the sea.

Jack Henderson fortified himself with another meal at the confectioner's, and then pursued his way back to Dowry Square.