CHAPTER XIV

ON THE HILLSIDE.

The next week was spent by Chatterton in bidding his friends good-bye, presenting some young ladies of his acquaintance with gingerbread, the boyish side of his nature coming to the front, and with it a loving tenderness to his mother and sister.

Full of hope since the money had been collected for him, and glad to be turning his back on Bristol, Chatterton was in one of his most winning moods.

The soft spring weather had changed, cold winds blew, and instead of soft April showers hail fell, blown in little heaps along Dowry Square by the breath of the keen north-west wind.

Bryda was standing by the parlour window, looking out into the square, just before dinner was served on Sunday.

It was somewhat of a relief to her to think Jack would not come to-day, or, if he came, she could make the excuse of cold and a headache and decline to take a Sunday stroll.

The remembrance of poor Jack's sad face as they parted haunted her, and she said to herself she wished she had been kinder to him, and she wished, oh! how she wished he had loved Betty instead of her. Bryda had written to Betty as she had determined, and sent the letter by the carrier, folded in thick paper and fastened by a string. The post in the rural districts was very irregular in those days, and the carrier's charge for delivering a parcel was even less than the postage of a letter. Bryda wondered she had received no answer yet from Betty. She had told her to reply on the return of the carrier on Saturday, and she knew that if the letter was left at the office in Corn Street she would be sure to get it on Saturday evening.

But no reply had come. Bryda had spoken to Mr Lambert that morning about the affairs at Bishop's Farm, and he had advised that before the Squire could take any decided steps an appraiser, in the old man's interests, should be dispatched to the farm to value the stock and the furniture, and find out how far it would cover the debt and the expenses.

'I must wait till I hear from my sister,' Bryda had said. 'I dare not take them by surprise; it would frighten poor grandfather, and upset him again. I hope Betty will soon answer my letter.'

'Well,' Mr Lambert had replied, 'young ladies must please themselves, as they take care to do; but if I might presume to advise, I should say accept the Squire's proposal. I should have thought he was a likely fellow to gain a fair maiden's favour.'

Bryda had no reply to make to this, and now, as she stood looking out on the square, she saw a boy crossing it and looking at the houses, as if uncertain at which to stop. Presently he came up to the door and rang the bell, giving also a great thud with the knocker. The footboy hastened up to open the door, and Bryda, going into the passage, heard her name.

'Does Miss Palmer live here?'

Bryda advanced and said,--

'Yes; I am Miss Palmer.'

'This is for you, miss,' the boy said. 'I was to say it was _urgent_.'

Bryda took from the boy's hand a crumpled bit of paper, on which was written,--

'Come at once to the old thorn tree half-way up the hill--great distress, I must see you. I will be there at three o'clock.

BETTY.'

The paper was so crumpled that it was hard to decipher the writing, but it was Betty's, of that Bryda felt sure. She went hastily to the parlour.

'Madam Lambert,' she said, 'I am come to ask leave to start at once to meet my sister. She is in great trouble--give me leave--'

'To meet her--where? You agitate me, Miss Palmer.'

'Oh! I pray you let me go,' and Bryda, scarcely waiting for an answer, ran upstairs, threw on her cloak and covered her head with its hood, and then was out of the house and on her way towards Rownham Ferry.

'The shortest way, oh! which is the shortest way. Shall I be able to get to the thorn tree by three o'clock. I know the tree, and the road when I am once out of Bristol.'

At this moment she met Chatterton, whom she stopped, waking him from one of his dreams.

'Oh, Miss Palmer, I was on my way towards the square, hoping I might be so happy as to meet you and your true knight. But what ails you?'

'I have had a summons to meet Bet, my sister. She is in great trouble, something has happened. Put me in the way to get to the road to Dundry.'

'I will show you the way, and glad to do so,' Chatterton said. 'I am sorry for your distress, Miss Palmer, but let us hope things are not so bad as you fear. I am in good heart to-day,' he said, his fine face shining with hope and boyish gladness, 'let me give you some of my "Holy sister's" influence.'

Then he walked with Bryda to the ferry. When once on the other side of the river she could find her way to the foot of the winding road which led up to Dundry.

Bryda held the crumpled piece of paper in her hand and scanned it again.

'Bet has written it so ill I can scarce read it,' she said. 'That word is _distress_, is it not, Mr Chatterton?'

Chatterton took the paper and examined it closely.

'It is the hand of one who can write well if she choose--and do you know your sister's handwriting?'

'Yes, I know she takes a long time to write, but I expect she was hurried and distressed, and these are tears which have blotted the paper. What can it be? Oh, what can the trouble be? Good-bye, and thank you. I must go, as it is full three miles to the old thorn tree.'

'I know it,' Chatterton said, 'I know it. It is where a by-road turns off towards Bath. I wish you good luck, Miss Palmer.'

Then Chatterton turned, and went back with his swift pace the way he came.

He met, as he expected, Jack Henderson, who had been to Dowry Square and heard that Miss Palmer had been called away on some business, but where the footboy did not know.

When Chatterton met Jack, he was walking with a downcast air, and Chatterton had slapped him on the back before he was aware of his presence.

'Whither away, Master Jacques the melancholy?'

'I am in no mood for jests. Tom, let me go.'

'Yes, but let me tell you something first. A certain fair damsel you know, has crossed the ferry, and is wandering unprotected up the road to Dundry. Be a good knight and follow her, for it strikes me she may need your presence.'

'What do you mean?' Jack said.

'What I say. Your fair lady is in trouble, summoned to the old thorn tree half-way up the hill by her sister, who is in dire need. I have my suspicions that the paper she showed me is not wrote by her by whom it is pretended. Speed away, honest Jack, and see what you will see.'

But Jack stood still; he was always slow of perception, and never took up any idea hastily. 'She may not want me,' he thought; 'she may be angry, as she was last Sunday, but--' As Chatterton gave him another sharp slap on his back, as a parting encouragement to set off, he said aloud,--

'Well, I may as well walk that way as any other; it's no odds to me.'

Chatterton then left him. He was on his way to his good friend Mr Clayfield's, and was to meet there several of the friends who had been kind to him and stood by him in the distress of Easter eve.

Jack Henderson pulled himself together and began his walk, crossed the ferry, and went on in the direction which Chatterton had pointed out, greatly wondering what Betty could possibly have to say to Bryda which she could not have put down on paper.

'Perhaps that brute has put an execution in the farm, turning out the old man into the road, like enough. Well, I may as well follow, for it's a lonely road for her, and there's lots of ill-looking fellows lurking about birds nesting and ratting on Sundays.' Then Jack heaved a deep sigh as he said, 'P'r'aps she won't mind my taking care of her for once, though a week ago she just treated me as if I was naught to her.' And as Jack recalled the scene on the summit of St Vincent's Rocks he felt a pain at his heart, which, as he thought, time would never cure.

Meantime Bryda pressed bravely on, though the storms of hail often beat on her face, and then the cloud breaking, great fields of deepest blue sky appeared in the rifts, and now and again the sun shone out brightly on the young leaves and primrose banks, as if to reassure them that the present cold was but an afterthought of winter, and that spring and May would soon reign again.

Bryda's way led along a lonely road. There were no villages, only here and there a shepherd's hut, and not a house to be seen. A few ragged boys foraging in the hedges for birds' nests, or paddling in a little wayside stream for tadpoles, were the only people she saw. The ascent was long and steep, but Bryda stepped quickly on, and at last the thorn tree, with its rugged, gnarled trunk, came in sight.

Here the road branched off in two directions; that to the left led across the side of the hill towards Bath, the other down to the village of Bower Ashton, and following straight on led to Dundry, beyond which was Bishop's Farm.

When Bryda reached the old crooked thorn, which was but scantily covered with blossoms in its old age, she looked in vain for Betty.

The Bristol bells were ringing for evensong as she was climbing the hill, and she had quickened her step fearing she might be late.

Bryda sat down to rest on an old milestone which stood close by and waited, but still no Betty appeared. Presently she was conscious of footsteps approaching, and turning her head, sprang to her feet to meet, not Betty, but Mr Bayfield.

'What is the matter, sir, at the farm? Betty sent for me--she is in great distress--can you tell me?'

'I am come instead of your sister,' Mr Bayfield said, and pitying Bryda's face of alarm, he said, 'Nothing is wrong. I am only come here to claim your promise. Easter has come and is nearly gone. I am prepared to bury the very remembrance of the debt. I am prepared to leave your grandfather a free man for the rest of his life, and give him a written pledge of this, if you will consent to be mine.'

Bryda started back. The helplessness of her position came over her. Alone on that lonely hillside--alone, and with no hope of escape.

'Hearken, fairest and dearest,' Mr Bayfield began, 'I am not one to be turned from anything I have set my heart on. I _mean_ to have you, and so,' he said with emphasis, 'you had best come to me graciously.'

'I did _not_ promise,' Bryda said firmly. 'It is cowardly in you, sir, to try to put me thus in the wrong.'

'Now, now, fair lady, that is going too far. I made certain conditions, you accepted them. I have been true to my part of the agreement--you must, nay shall, reward me. I have a horse and gig a little further up yonder by-road. I shall drive you to Bath, and then I will marry you to-morrow morning. Come. You shall reign like a queen in my old home, and I will do all you desire. Come.'

And Mr Bayfield laid a firm hand on Bryda's arm, looking down into her terror-struck face with eyes in which his determination and his passion shone almost fiercely.

Bryda did not scream or cry, or even struggle. The spirit that was in her rose above her fears, and looking steadily at Mr Bayfield she said,--

'I will not be forced to marry you, sir. Let me go. Every penny of your claim shall be paid, but I will not marry you.'

A laugh greeted these words, and yet when Bryda said, after a momentary pause, 'I trust in God, and He will deliver me,' the laugh was changed into a tone of entreaty. Something in this girl there was which, in spite of himself, commanded respect. So small, so fragile as she looked in his power, in his hands, lured thither by his treachery, as a bird is lured to the snare, he yet quailed as Bryda repeated, 'He will deliver me.'

'Nay, Bryda,' he began in a gentler tone, 'I love you. I offer you all I have. I make you honourable proposals, when some men might--'

A loud voice was now heard.

'What are you doing here--eh?' And in another moment Jack Henderson strode up, and putting his arm round Bryda, said defiantly, 'Touch her again if you dare.'

'Touch her!' Mr Bayfield said, with cool irony, 'touch her! I am to marry her to-morrow morning at Bath, so, my good fellow, I advise you to go back the way you came, and remember the old adage and mind your own business.'

'Is this true, Bryda?' Jack said, still holding her with his strong arm, 'is this true?'

'No, Jack, no, it is not true--it is false.'

Then Jack sprang upon the Squire and struck him across the face.

'Leave her!' he shouted, 'leave go this instant, you scoundrel!'

'Yes, to give you your deserts, you young rascal.'

The two men closed in a deadly struggle, and Jack, the lion roused within him, got the mastery, though his adversary fought in a more scientific way, as one who had been well accustomed to such conflicts.

Bryda stood by the old thorn tree too terrified to move, only entreating Jack to stop for her sake, only crying aloud in her despair to Mr Bayfield to stop.

But the fight grew ever fiercer and fiercer, and at last, with one mighty blow of his huge arm, Jack had his adversary at his feet, his knee on his chest, his hand at his throat.

So tremendous was the force with which the young giant had felled the Squire that his fall made a heavy thud on the hard road.

Just at this moment a storm-cloud came sweeping over the hillside, and hail fell in a thick, sharp shower.

'Swear you will leave her, swear you will not touch her again,' Jack gasped out, for he was breathless with rage and exertion.

But there was no answer. Suddenly Jack relaxed his hold, and rising, stood staring down at the inanimate form before him, on which the hail beat with blinding fury.

Bryda drew near, and clasping her hands, said,--

'You have killed him, Jack Henderson, you have killed him! Oh, God have mercy on you and on me!'

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.'

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