It was one evening early in June, when the days were almost at their longest, that Mrs Chatterton sprang to the door of her modest little dwelling in Redcliffe Street to greet her son.
'Welcome, my dear boy, welcome!' And the embrace between mother and son was as fervent as if they had been parted for a month instead of only four days. 'Where was you the last evening, Tom?' his mother asked.
'I was walking to and fro in the streets,' was the reply, 'too restless to come hither to trouble you and sister. By-the-bye, where is Sis?'
'Gone to take a bit of supper with Mrs Edkins, sure, but she will be returning ere long. You will bear me company till she returns. Have you had a letter from the grand gentleman in London, Tom?' his mother asked.
Instantly the sunshine on Chatterton's face, which the loving greeting of his mother had kindled there, was gone; his whole bearing changed. His eyes flashed, and he exclaimed,—
'Don't weary me with questions, mother. When the great or little man deigns to reply to me I'll tell you.' Then muttered imprecations followed, and the boy paced the little room, with his hands at his back, his head bent, not uttering another word for ten minutes. Presently he shook off his ill mood, and laughing, said, 'There has been an arrival at the mansion in Dowry Square. I came to tell you of it, only you put it out of my head.'
'An arrival? A new serving-maid?'
'Yes; but that word does not suit her. I am taking her out on Sunday, and I shall bring her here, poor soul! I pity her as I pity anyone who has to deal with the family of Lambert. You know that big fellow Henderson—I brought him here once.'
'Yes, sure, I remember him, and his pleasant face.'
'His stupid face, rather. Well, to proceed—a cart lumbered up to Lambert's house Monday at noon, and with a mighty thump the said Henderson descended. Then he put a bundle on the pavement, next a box, next a big bunch of gillyflowers and roses, and next he helped out a young woman. What do I say?—a young lady, beautiful as an angel—just such an one as I have seen in dreams.'
'Like Miss Rumsey, Tom.'
'Pshaw! Miss Rumsey is of the earth earthy, but this one is of another race. In she came just as I was returning from a message sent by Mr Lambert, and I stood aside to let her pass. She smiled, and yet there were tears in her eyes as she turned to Henderson, and says she, "Good-bye, Jack. Come and see me soon, and—" Then came a voice from the parlour, "Sam, takethe young woman's box to her chamber, and walk in here, Miss Palmer." Then the vision passed, and I was in the street bidding Jack Henderson good day as he clambered up to his seat to drive round to Corn Street and put up the horse for the night at the White Hart. I'll bring her here on Sunday, and you'll judge for yourself and sister also. She will admire her as much as I do, if she don't look at her through the green eyes of jealousy.'
'Whatever has brought her to Mr Lambert's?'
'She is a cousin of the old lady's, in poor plight from some loss of money. Poor! How pretty that word sounds from Madam Lambert's lips. Well, the poverty will make a bond between this young lady and me; and when I asked her if she would like to see my mother she said she would fain see anyone who would be kind to her, so expect us on Sunday.'
'In the forenoon, Tom?'
'I think not. She will have her slaving to get through first.'
Then Chatterton went to a door leading up a flight of narrow stairs to the upper storey of his mother's house.
'You are not going up there for long, Tom?' his mother asked, with a sigh.
But there was no reply as Chatterton's light steps were heard ascending to the garret where he kept all his old parchments, his charcoal, his books, and various possessions, all as necessary to him, or indeed more necessary than his daily bread.
It was in this year of 1769 that Chatterton's hopes had risen on rainbow coloured wings, when his 'TheRyse of Peyncteyne in England, written by T. Rowlie, in 1469, for Master Canynge,' had been favourably received by no less a personage than Horace Walpole. The spring of that year had been the springtime of Chatterton's fairest hopes. In April a letter from Mr Walpole fired the boy with the desire to do more than ever with his strange conceits and imitations of old documents.
If Mr Walpole could be deceived, who might not follow his example?
But that courteous, nay deferential, letter on the receipt of 'The Ryse of Peyncteyne' was the first of its kind and the last. For now June had come, and other specimens of Rowley's extraordinary gifts were not even acknowledged, nor could his repeated requests for the return of the manuscripts avail, and his heart was full of bitterness and indignation against everyone.
It is hard to realise that the author of 'Ælla' and all the other fictions was scarcely more than a child; that the boy of one of our public schools, in the sixth form, is the age of this poor lawyer's apprentice, whose short life was filled with the dreams and aspirations of a man while as yet he had scarcely emerged from childhood, and was but a boy in years.
Bryda Palmer's arrival at Mrs Lambert's house in Dowry Square was exactly as Chatterton had described it to his mother.
A great wave of desolation had swept over her as she heard the cart rumble off, and took up her posy of gillyflowers and her small basket as she obeyed Mrs Lambert's summons to the parlour.
Mrs Lambert looked her down from head to foot, and was apparently satisfied.
'Take care not to drop the flowers about, if you please,' she said. 'You can put them in a pot by the grate, but I like no litters made by flowers or anything else. You may sit down while I talk to you,' Mrs Lambert added. 'You look very delicate; I hope you are not in a decline.'
'I am very well, madam. It is only that I have felt the pain of leaving home a little. I shall soon get used to it; and I am much obliged to you for taking me in, I will try to please you.'
'I want a maid-servant who can attend to me—crimp my lace borders, clear starch, iron aprons, make bows, and do needlework, also help below stairs when fine cooking is needed. My son brings in a friend to supper sometimes, for cribbage, and he is very particular about the pastry being light, and the Welsh rabbit done to a turn. Have you ever made a Welsh rabbit—toasted cheese, you know, wetted with a little ale?'
'I daresay I can do it,' Bryda said.
'Well, added to this, you must dust the chayney. I have very fine chayney. And you'll have to rub the oak bureaus and clean the brass. If you serve my purpose I shall get no more sluts as maids, but keep going with Mrs Symes, who comes every morning, and Sam the footboy. Then I expect you to be pretty, trim, and neat in the afternoon, and sit here and read to me, darn stockings—my son's and mine—and mend fine lace, and—well—a hundred other jobs which I need not count up now. There is no one in the house butyourself and an apprentice, who is bound to my son—worse luck—an idle good-for-nothing, with whom you may just civilly pass the time of day, but no more. He is not a companion fit for any young woman—a wild scapegrace. Mr Lambert would be glad to be quit of him. Now, if your box is taken to your chamber, you may go and lay aside your hood. I suppose you have more gowns than that you stand up in?'
'Yes, I have changes of gowns and aprons.'
'Very well, I think you will suit me. Mr Lambert comes into his dinner at half after one o'clock; it is near that now. You can take your meals with us, and see my friends when they visit me. There, now, I think you are a very lucky young person—be off to your chamber—first door on the second flight.'
Bryda hastened to obey, and was thankful to get a few minutes to herself.
Mrs Lambert seemed satisfied, but it was Mr Lambert whom she wanted to see, and she dare not address him before his mother.
On the second day after her arrival Mrs Lambert said there would be friends to sup, and Bryda must make a cake and some apple pies, and Mrs Symes had her orders to put things ready for her in the kitchen.
Up to this time the glimpse Bryda had of the apprentice at the door was all she had seen of him.
But when she went down into the kitchen at twelve o'clock she found him seated at a very untempting meal, with Sam the footboy and Mrs Symes.
But whether the repast was tempting or not made but little difference to Chatterton. He had a book openbefore him, and only now and then swallowed a bit of the unsavoury morsels provided, and preserved a haughty silence when Mrs Symes questioned him as to any of the gossip current in Bristol.
Presently she pushed back her chair, and before departing to the back kitchen with Sam she placed, with rather a bad grace, a rolling pin and flour and butter on a board at a side-table, some apples and a jar of raisins and spice and coarse sugar, saying,—
'Will that suit your fine cookery, miss? Lor' bless me, I could die of laughing to think a pair of hands like yours could make better paste than mine! You'd best be careful or you'll catch it. If ever there was a fidget about his food it's Master Lambert. Come, now, Tom, I am going to clear away, so you must budge. Why, you've left half your victuals on the platter. I'll feed the cat with them.'
Chatterton now looked up from his book, and said,—
'You're welcome, or rather the cat is welcome.'
He had an hour allowed for his dinner, and was not due at the office again till one o'clock, when Mr Lambert left it to return to Dowry Square for his midday repast at half-past one.
Chatterton rose as he spoke, and sat down on a stool by the fire, his book still in his hand.
But he was not reading now, he was watching the lithe, graceful figure at the side-table.
Bryda had rolled up her short sleeves above the elbow, and her pretty rounded arms were seen to advantage as she mixed the flour and kneaded it, and then passed the rolling pin lightly over it.
She was conscious of Chatterton's presence, but her back was turned to him.
Presently she turned her head, and saw a pair of extraordinary eyes fixed on her. It was not an impertinent gaze like that of Squire Bayfield's, it was simply one of almost wistful earnestness.
'I am wondering, miss,' he began, 'what made you come to this hole?'
'I came because I am poor, and wish to help them at home.'
Chatterton's eyes flashed.
'Poor!Aye, to be poor is a curse.'
'No,' Bryda said, 'it need not be a curse.'
Then she went on with her rolling and kneading. Presently she said again,—
'Are you a lawyer, sir?'
'A lawyer's apprentice, worse luck.'
'I have a question about law to ask Mr Lambert and I am afraid to approach him.'
'I don't wonder. Well, what is the question?'
'If a person promised to pay back a debt, and put his hand to a bond, and the man to whom he owed the money died before it was paid, would the son of that man have a right to it?'
'If it had been so set down in the bond that the heirs of his body should have it, yes, he'd have to pay it.'
'Then there is no hope,' Bryda said, with a sigh, and Chatterton saw her wipe a tear away with the corner of her apron.
'Hark, miss,' he said, 'I am poor, and treated here like a dog because I am poor. I have a good mother,and if you would like to see her she would be proud to see you. I can escort you there on Sunday, and show you a thing or two.'
'If I may, I will come,' Bryda said.
'May? Sunday is everyone's holiday. I should feel it an honour to guide you to St Mary's grand church. It is there my father found all these fine poems, you know, up in the muniment room.'
'I knew you were very learned. I have the story of the "Fryars passing over the old Bridge" in my pocket-book. I cut it out of the newspaper.'
'But I can read you better things than that, if you care to hear them. I have a splendid poem called the "Tragedy of Ælla." The minstrel's song would be to your taste, perhaps. But I must away now. Count me as your friend in this miserable hole should you need one.'
'I do need a friend,' poor Bryda said; 'I am friendless in Bristol except for one,' she added. 'You know him—Mr Jack Henderson.'
'Yes, I know him, a big country lout and bumpkin, whom his uncle is trying to polish as he polishes his silver goods, poor fool for his pains.'
But Bryda rose on the defensive for Jack.
'Mr Henderson is a good and true friend, sir, nor can I hear him ill-spoken of.'
'Nay, I meant no harm,' Chatterton said, and the next minute Bryda was left to her pastry making and cake mixing.
'If Jack should ask me to go out on Sunday he will be angered against me for promising to go with thatstrange boy, but what fire there is in his eyes, what a noble mien he has when he answers Mrs Symes.'
Here Bryda's soliloquy was abruptly broken in on by Mrs Symes' voice.
'Seasoning your pastry with gossip, I hear. Have a care of yon fellow. I think an evil spirit is in him, and so do many beside me, let me tell you, miss.'
Bryda watched her opportunity, and finding Mr Lambert alone in the parlour, on the first Sunday morning of her residence in Dowry Square, she laid before him her grandfather's troubles. Mr Lambert's advice was soon given.
'Let him sell goods to the value of three hundred pounds, and pay down the money, or he may be clapped into the debtors' prison.'
'Oh! sir, anything would be better than that. I have got a month's delay, and I have some hope of the Squire's relenting.'
'I have none,' said Mr Lambert. 'You ask my advice, and I give it. Let your grandfather employ some trustworthy auctioneer to value stock, to the amount of the debt, then employ him to effect a sale, and the matter is settled. A debt like that is a chain round a man's neck, and he had better live on a loaf a day than go down to his grave burdened by the thought of making a legacy of it to his descendants.'
Bryda could only murmur her thanks. She waswondering if Mr Lambert knew the whole story of her father's disgrace, and she shrank from alluding to it. Presently Mrs Lambert came in with some papers in her hand.
'Look here!' she said, 'I picked up this rubbish in the backyard. It is some of that mad apprentice's stuff.Thatis how he wastes his time, and robs you of what he is bound to give you. The sooner you are rid of him the better,' and Mrs Lambert held out some fragments of parchment to her son, covered with black hieroglyphics and stained with charcoal.
'I think the fellow is in league with the devil,' Mrs Lambert said. 'What can all this mean?'
'Give the papers to me, mother; I will show them to Barrett and Catcott. They look like trumpery not worth a thought.'
'Now, miss,' Madam Lambert said sharply, 'I am ready to go to church. You must accompany me and carry my books; make haste.'
When Bryda had left the room Mr Lambert said,—
'A pretty girl this new maid of yours, mother. Look sharp after her or you will have the fellows at her heels.'
'She is as quiet as a mouse,' was the reply. 'A bit too quiet, but she is none the worse for that; and I will say she makes the best pastry I ever tasted.'
'Well, have a care,' Mr Lambert said. 'Henderson says that his bright nephew Jack is one of her beaux, and I daresay there will be a dozen more before long.'
A few minutes later Bryda was sedately walking by Mrs Lambert's side, carrying her large prayer book andBible, while Mrs Lambert had a gold-headed cane in one of her hands, on which she leaned as it tapped on the pavement, and in the other a black silk reticule, which contained her handkerchief, a fan, and a scent-bottle of somewhat gigantic proportions.
She wore her best Sunday black paduasoy, and a hood over the frills of her lace cap, which was tied with whimples under her chin, fastened by a small diamond brooch.
Mrs Lambert was looked upon as 'quality,' and as she passed into the cathedral she curtsied with a patronising air to several of her acquaintances.
It was a long walk for Mrs Lambert from Dowry Square, but she liked to worship where, as she expressed it, the clergy and congregation were composed of 'gentry,' and where the visitors at the Hot Wells were to be seen in a variety of smart costumes.
There was scant reverence for the house of God in these days—days when the Church was asleep, and the fervour of religious zeal was just beginning to burn outside her pale, kindled by the teaching of the Wesleys and Whitfields.
There was a buzz of talk as the congregation reached the choir, and engagements were made and civilities exchanged with almost as much freedom as at the door of the pump-room under St Vincent's Rocks.
Bryda had never been inside a large church before, and she was struck with wonder as she looked up into the vaulted roof and watched the morning sunshine illuminating the pillars with transient radiance.
Bristol Cathedral is not remarkable for statelyproportions, and in the eye of many is but an insignificant building, which cannot bear comparison with the noble church of St Mary Redcliffe.
But to Bryda that morning in the cathedral seemed to begin a new era in her life. The Past, with its stories, the stories that Mr Lambert's apprentice told her had been found in the muniment room at St Mary's, seemed to live before her.
The men that had raised those walls and carved the devices on the pillars, who were they?
Was there no record left, no voice to tell of the labour, and the toil, and the spirit which had moved them to do their work well?
Bryda's small figure was hidden in the deep pews which then disfigured the choir, and it was only when she stood up, and was raised above the ledge of the seat by a green baize hassock, that she could see the congregation or could be seen by them.
Mrs Lambert sat through the service, fanning herself at intervals and smelling her salts, though she whispered the prayers after the clergyman and made the responses in an audible voice.
Bryda was in a dream, and thinking alternately of her grandfather, Betty, and the young Squire. Poor child, she had never been taught that the burden of all troubles and anxieties and sorrows can be laid at the feet of the Father who pities His children. He was a God very far off to Bryda Palmer, as to the great majority of girls in her position of life, and, indeed, in any position of life, in the last decades of the eighteenth century.
The sermon was a dry dissertation to which no one listened, to judge by the number of sleepers in the pews, who woke with a start when the organ pealed forth the welcome tidings that the service was over.
At the door of the cathedral Bryda saw, to her great discomforture, Mr Bayfield.
He smiled and made a low bow, which Bryda returned by a curtsey, and then was passing on laden with her heavy books, when the Squire said, 'Permit me,' putting his hand on the heavy Bible.
'No; I thank you, sir,' Bryda said, and Mrs Lambert turned sharply round.
'Miss Palmer, you will oblige me by attending to your duties.'
'Indeed, madam,' Mr Bayfield said, 'I think Miss Palmer is scarce fitted to bear these heavy books. I venture to take them from her, by your leave.'
'Sir,' Mrs Lambert said, bridling, 'I have not the honour of your acquaintance.'
'This is Mr Bayfield,' poor Bryda said, a blush suffusing her fair face and a look of almost terror in her eyes.
'Is he a friend of yours, Miss Palmer?'
'Oh, no,' Bryda said fervently; 'no.'
'Nay. That is cruel, too cruel, Miss Palmer.' Then in a lower voice he said, 'The month expires on this day three weeks. I shall expect, nay demand my reply at that date.'
Then, with another bow, his three-cornered hat in his hand, Mr Bayfield turned away.
But Bryda had not seen the last of him. Themidday dinner was not over when the large brass knocker on Mr Lambert's door thundered against it, and took Sam to open it in hot haste. He returned quickly to say,—
'A gentleman wishes to see you, sir, on business.'
'Then tell him I don't see clients on Sunday, but at my office in Corn Street on week days. What does he mean by bringing the house down like that?'
Sam disappeared, but returned again to say,—
'The gentleman desires to see you, sir, on a private matter.'
'Tell him to walk into the study and wait my convenience. I am eating my dinner, if he must know.'
Bryda felt certain the visitor was Mr Bayfield, who must have followed her and Mrs Lambert home from the cathedral, and so discovered where she lived.
She was determined to escape another interview with the Squire, and as soon as she had helped Sam to clear away the glass and china, she gave Mrs Lambert her footstool as she retired to an easy-chair, with a glass of port wine, on a little table at her side, and a volume of Blair's sermons, which were both agreeable sedatives, and conducive to a prolonged sleep. Bryda then went hastily upstairs, and tying on her high poke bonnet, slipped out at the front door, and found, as she expected, Jack awaiting her at the corner of the square. The sight of his friendly, honest face had never been so welcome before, and she showed her pleasure by the warmth of her greeting.
'Oh, Jack,' she said, 'will you take me to see that poor boy's mother?'
'What poor boy?' Jack asked.
'Tom Chatterton, of course, the poet. Idopity him so much. He is miserable and unhappy, and you know, Jack, so am I, and therefore I understand how he feels. Besides, I want to get far away from Mr Lambert this afternoon, for the cruel Squire has followed me, and is now talking to Mr Lambert. I know what he is saying. I dread him, I am afraid of him.'
'Afraid of him? How can you be afraid of him? I will soon show him what I can do if he dares to molest you. Let him try, that's all.'
'Oh, don't quarrel with him, Jack, that would only make matters worse. Don't talk of him. I want to forget him, and see the poor boy's grand church he says is so beautiful, and his mother and his sister.'
'They are quite poor folks,' Jack said, 'but come along. I would take you to the end of the world if you wanted. But will Madam Lambert be angry at you for coming out?'
'She said I was to have time to myself on Sundays, and I have been to church with her this morning. She gave me her books to carry. Such big heavy books.'
'The poor boy,' as Bryda called him, had been pacing up and down on the wide open space before St Mary's Redcliffe for some time.
He had been unwilling to go too near Dowry Square to meet Bryda, for fear of a reprimand if he chanced to be seen by his master or Mrs Lambert.
At the same time he was doubtful as to Bryda finding her way alone, and he had asked Jack Henderson to go to Dowry Square and bring her to his mother's house.
The apprentice in his workaday dress presented a very different appearance from the apprentice in his holiday attire.
Chatterton always liked to do his best to cut a respectable figure amongst his associates.
His coat of mulberry cloth had, it is true, been bought second-hand with some difficulty, but it set off his slight, boyish figure to advantage. His knee-breeches and waistcoat, with embroidered flowers, were the handiwork of his mother and sister, and so was the white neckerchief, with lace at the ends, which was tied in a careless bow at his neck.
His massive curls were brushed and combed back from his wide brow, and there was about him that indescribable 'something' which separated him from the throng of youths who collected in Bristol streets on Sundays, some on the College Green and many in Redcliffe Meadows, talking and laughing with the girls who were, like themselves, occupied in the week in shops and warehouses or in domestic service.
The contributions toFelix Farley's Journalhad by this time attracted attention to Chatterton, but he was entirely believed in by respectable people when he said he had discovered the works of one Rowley, a priest of St John, in the time of Canynge,[A]and had reproducedthem for the wonder and benefit of all lovers of ancient lore, especially when the author of these works had been an inhabitant of the City of the West, which had been famous in the history of the country from very early times.
When at last Jack Henderson and Bryda came in sight Chatterton did not hasten to meet them.
He chose to be offended that Bryda was so much later than he had expected, and for the first few minutes he was moody and gloomy.
The three took the accustomed turn in Redcliffe Meadows, where presently Chatterton's sister joined them, and Bryda was introduced in due form.
'My mother bids me say, Miss Palmer, she will be vastly glad if you will take a dish of tea with us, and you also, Mr Henderson.'
Jack could only express his gratitude for the invitation, and walk by Miss Chatterton's side, while her brother and Bryda were left together.
'That church is fine, is it not, miss?' Chatterton began. 'I consider it a marvel of the builder's art, and a casket which contains precious treasure. In yonder muniment room above the porch lay concealed for centuries the works of a man, as wonderful in their way as yonder pinnacles and buttresses. Will you take a turn in the meadows—there are not so many fools prancing about here to-day as sometimes. The river begins to attract them at this season.'
[A]William Canynge was five times Mayor of Bristol. He generously contributed to the work of rebuilding and ornamenting the Church of St Mary Redcliffe, and built and endowed an almshouse and hospital in the parish. He took holy orders on the death of his wife to avoid a second marriage pressed on him by King Henry VI., who speaks of him as 'his beloved, eminent merchant of Bristol.' William Canynge was made Dean of the College of Westbury, which he rebuilt with his usual munificence. He died in 1474.
[A]William Canynge was five times Mayor of Bristol. He generously contributed to the work of rebuilding and ornamenting the Church of St Mary Redcliffe, and built and endowed an almshouse and hospital in the parish. He took holy orders on the death of his wife to avoid a second marriage pressed on him by King Henry VI., who speaks of him as 'his beloved, eminent merchant of Bristol.' William Canynge was made Dean of the College of Westbury, which he rebuilt with his usual munificence. He died in 1474.
And now Bryda listened to the song of Rowley, the priest of St John, as Chatterton poured it in her ear with almost fiery eloquence. She could scarcely believe the apprentice taking his meals with the footboy in the dingy kitchen at Dowry Square could be one with the young man who walked by her side in his holiday attire.
All the latent romance in Bryda's nature was stirred by the history which her companion told her of the old parchments, used forsooth as covers of books, or cut up into thread papers, and yet of priceless value—a value which he alone had discovered.
'Listen,' he said, stopping short, 'and I will recite to you an elegy or minstrel's song from the "Tragedy of Ælla," then tell me whether Rowley the priest was not a king amongst men. A poor priest—aye, and a poor apprentice, brought up on the charity of Colston's School, has brought him to light, and in due time we shall see his memory receive the laurel crown, denied him perhaps in his life. It is only these dull trading Bristol folk who are blind as bats and deaf as adders. Curse them!I hate Bristol and its people for Rowley's sake, and for my own. Yet I will rise above them, and they shall find they cannot trample on me with impunity.'
Bryda began to feel frightened at the increased vehemence of her companion, and looking back, saw they had left Jack Henderson and Miss Chatterton far behind.
But suddenly his manner changed, and he said,—
'No. I will not sing to you of death, you who are so full of life and beauty. The minstrel sang in a sad refrain,—
My love is dead,Gone to his deathbedAll under the willow tree.
Your love shall have a happier fate. Hark!' he said, 'you shall have a song of springtime, not of the grave—the dark grave, where I wish myself a dozen times a day.'
'Do not say so. Life is so sweet and beautiful,' Bryda exclaimed. 'Though I have many cares at this time, yet I love life, and even in Dowry Square I think it is good to be alive.'
'Aye, to you, doubtless,' was the reply. 'But now for the verse from the "History of Painting."
When spring came dancing on a flowery bed,Clothed in green raiment of a changing kind,The leaves of hawthorn budding o'er his head,And with fair primroses waving in the wind,Then did the shepherd his white garment spreadUpon the green bank, and danced all around,Whilst the sweet flowerets nodded on his head,And his fair lambs were scattered on the ground;Beneath his foot the brooklet ran along,Which strolleth round the vale to hear his joyous song.
'There, Miss Palmer, you have a song of spring, wrote hundreds of years ago. I tell it to you in the language of to-day, but it is ten times sweeter in the beauteous rhythm of the olden time.'
'It would not be sweeter to me,' Bryda said; 'for though I found the "History of the Opening of the Bristol Bridge" full of beauty, yet it teased me to scan the words though I made out their meaning at last. How could you find them out—who helped you?'
Chatterton laughed.
'My dear young lady I helped myself to the Saxon language as to most other things. If I trusted to other help I should be worse off than I am. When first it dawned on me that the friend and confessor of Canynge had wrote all these poems for the edifying of his patron, I toiled night and day till I was able to interpret them for this perverse generation. But I had my friends. Mr Catcott is one, Mr Barrett, a surgeon, another, and now let me count as a friend one fairer than they, your sweet self.'
'As we live under the same roof, we may well be friends, but if, as you say, you are yet but sixteen years old, you are so much younger than I am.'
'Nay, older by a score of years,' Chatterton interrupted. 'For age is not counted by years, but by the strife and the struggle and the misery through which the soul passes. In this I am your senior.'
'Nay,' Bryda said gently, 'we cannot enter into each other's secret heart. We all know our own troubles. I have mine, and I am now parted from a sister I love, and I am, after a week's absence, hungering for her tender care.'
And now Bryda became conscious that they were observed by a party of girls who were returning through the meadows from a Sunday ramble with their lovers.
Several of the girls nodded and laughed at Chatterton. One stopped and said,—
'A new flame, Tom? Oh, fie for shame! Do you know, miss, whoever you may be, that Master Tom is a terrible one to shoot from Cupid's bow. He seldom misses his aim.'
'Come on,' said a gruff voice, 'and don't talk such foolery, Sally. Leave the boy to look after his own business.'
'Or rather the girl after hers,' was the saucy reply, as the pair moved away.
Jack Henderson began to think that Miss Chatterton purposely avoided joining company with her brother and Bryda.
He now said,—
'Miss Palmer has a long walk to Dowry Square. I think, by your leave, I will join her, and advise her to take advantage of Mrs Chatterton's offer to rest a while at her house.'
'Certainly, sir, if you desire it; but my brother would fain take her into the church, I fancy, before it is closed.'
Chatterton at once became moody and distrait when histête-à-têtewith Bryda was at an end. He had been annoyed, too, by the remarks of the free-spoken young lady, who had rallied him on his 'new conquest,' and when they entered the church the evil spirit was again dominant.
But Bryda forgot him, forgot Rowley the priest, andthe wonderful story of his poems, in the feeling of awe with which the noble church inspired her.
There was in her, as I have said, a quick response to all sights and sounds of beauty. Then, as the organ rolled its waves of melody above her head, as the last Amen of the choir rose to the vaulted roof, her whole soul was wrapt in that feeling which has no other name but devotion. The unseen Presence of what was holy and pure seemed to encompass her, and as she leaned against one of the pillars, close to the monument of the great Canynge, her fair face wore on it an expression those who saw it were not likely to forget.
And, as if in sharp contrast, a little in the background was seen the grand outline of Chatterton's head, thrown back with a strangely defiant air, his lips curled with contempt, his hands clasped at his back, and his whole bearing that of one full of resentment and hatred against what might or might not be imaginary foes.
There is nothing more sorrowful than the story of Chatterton's genius, misdirected, and, as it were, preparing its own doom. The lawyer's apprentice, who had this rare gift of poetry, was to know only broken hopes and unfulfilled desires, and soon to fall beyond the reach of help, of human love, or Christian charity.
There he stood, on that bright summer afternoon, as the procession of clergy passed out and the organ pealed forth its melodious strains, there he stood in the church, where his father had stood before him, chafing against his lot, and conscious, who shall say how bitterly conscious, that like the baseless fabric of a dream the poemsof the priest of St John would vanish, and he, Thomas Chatterton, the true poet, stand exposed as an unskilful forger. Sixteen summers had barely passed over his head, and yet in moments like these he looked as if the storms of twice sixteen years had left their mark upon him.
Mrs Chatterton received Bryda with kindly warmth, rather overdoing her apologies for her humble fare and poor cottage. It was evident that Chatterton chafed at this, and he scarcely spoke a word during tea. Jack Henderson and Chatterton's mother made an attempt at conversation, but honest Jack was not skilled in finding subjects for small talk, and he was, moreover, so engrossed with Bryda that he had little room for any other thought.
When tea was over Bryda said she must return to Mr Lambert's, as Sam the footboy was to have his turn for a holiday after six o'clock. Jack was only too glad to get Bryda off, and as they walked away together he said,—
'Don't have too much to say to Tom Chatterton, Bryda.'
She looked up at him and laughed.
'It was he who had so much to say to me,' she said.
'Well, he is not the man for you to make a friend of, mind that.'
'Man!' she said. 'Jack, he is only a boy—just sixteen. You did not call yourself a man then when you were at the Grammar School at Wells. But, Jack—' she said more seriously.
'I don't want to talk any more about the apprentice,though I pity him just as I should pity a young eagle shut up in a close cage, and feeling all his strength to rise to the sun of no use. Oh, yes, I do pity him, and so ought you.'
'I shall pity myself more if you give him all your company another Sunday and shut me out.'
'Don't be silly, Jack; I am not one to cast off old friends for new. But, Jack, I am so frightened when I think the Squire is in Bristol. What did he come for?'
'What was he saying to you by the orchard gate that evening I came upon you?'
'Oh, that I could not tell you; it was all meant to flatter me, and I hate him.'
'Why did he say he would give your grandfather a month before he sold off?'
Bryda hesitated.
'He said something about he would have me instead of the money.'
Jack Henderson's honest face flushed with indignation.
'The villain—the cursed villain! I see what he is driving at, but I will be quits with him.'
Bryda grew calm as Jack waxed more and more vehement, and his loud voice attracted the passers-by.
'Hush, Jack, people are staring at you! Do you suppose I would be bought like that? No! What would Bet say? I would sooner die than strike a bargain like that!'
'I'd sooner see you dead,' Jack replied.
Bryda was afraid to say more that would rouse Jack's wrath, so she asked him to be sure to let her hear any news of home.
'I sha'n't hear any news. No one ever writes to me. When the farm produce comes in once a month on market days the old carter asks if I am in good health—with the missus' love—that's about all.'
'I am writing to Bet, little bits every day. I have got an ink-pot and a quill pen up in the garret, and Mr Chatterton gave me some paper from the office, but I don't think that is quite honest, so please buy me a little. I can give you a shilling,' she said, putting her hand in the large pocket which was fastened to her waist under the short skirt.
Jack pushed her hand away.
'I don't want your shilling,' he said.
'Oh, Jack, why are you so cross-grained,' Bryda said, 'it is not like you.'
'I don't feel like myself neither,' poor Jack said, 'but I'll be in a better temper when I see you next Sunday, and don't have that mad boy at your heels. Take care what you do in Bristol; it is full of people, and some of them are bad enough. So take care, for you know you are—well, you have only to look in a glass to see. Good-bye, Bryda, I won't come up to the door.'
Bryda found Mrs Lambert only half awake in her easy-chair, with the best china teacups and a small teapot before her. Blair's sermons and the port wine together had caused a prolonged slumber, and Sam had brought in the tray all unobserved at five o'clock. Mr Lambert generally spent his Sunday afternoons with a friend at Long Ashton, and sometimes one of Mrs Lambert's cronies looked in on her for a dish of tea anda gossip. But no one had arrived on this afternoon, and the good lady had thus slept on undisturbed.
'What is the time, Miss Palmer? It must be time for tea.'
'Oh, yes, madam; it is six o'clock. I will go and boil the kettle, and make the tea; please give me the keys of the caddy.'
Bryda took the large tortoiseshell caddy from the shelf in the glass cupboard, and Mrs Lambert solemnly unlocked it. Tea was precious in those days, and Mrs Lambert took a teaspoon and carefully measured the precise quantity, saying,—
'One for each person, and one for the pot.'
'I have had my tea, madam,' Bryda said.
'Oh! Well you can take another cup, I daresay,' Mrs Lambert said graciously. 'I am getting a little faint,' she added, yawning, 'so I shall be obliged to you to hasten to brew the tea.'
Bryda lost no time, and descending to the lower regions, set Sam at liberty till nine o'clock, and very soon had tea and crisp toast ready for her mistress.
All her handy ways were rapidly winning her favour, and Mrs Lambert called her 'a very notable young person, not at all like one brought up in a farmhouse!'
When the tea was over Bryda cleared it away, and carefully washing the handleless cups, replaced them in the corner cupboard. Then she took a seat by the window, at Mrs Lambert's request, and read to her—a dry sermon first, and then Mrs Lambert told her she might go to the bookcase and choose a book for her own reading.
Bryda's eyes kindled with delight, and she joyfully accepted the offer.
'May I choose any book, madam?'
'Any book that is not a novel. There are some there not for Sunday reading, or indeed for workaday reading for a young person.'
'Milton'sParadise Lost,' Bryda said, 'may I take that?'
'Yes, but be careful not to finger the binding, and remember no book leaves this room. I found the apprentice had dared to abstract a volume of an old poet—which I am sure he could not read—by name Chaucer, for the poems are wrote in old English. He had a deserved reprimand, and a box on the ears for his pains.'
'Old English,' thought Bryda, 'old English, Tom Chatterton can read old English, for I suppose Rowley the priest's poems are in old English.'