Bristol Bells. Marshall Emma
had become of you, but I kept you a currant dumpling in the oven, and a bit of hash. I'll go and fetch it.'
'Yes, I would rather have it here.'
However distressed the young are, and however perplexed, they do not lose their appetite.
Bryda ate everything Betty brought her with keen relish, and drank a cup of cider. Then she said—'I feel fit for anything now, and now I will tell you the whole story, and what I have resolved to do.'
Betty was a sympathetic listener, but she did not quite see why Bryda should go to Bristol.
'No one wants me here.'
'I want you,' Betty said, 'and if trouble is coming, and the stock sold, and that dreadful young Squire comes here, I shall be frightened without you.'
'He won't come here any more, Bet; he has made up his mind, and he will stick to it, and I want to hear what Mr. Lambert says about it all. I suppose it is lawful, if the paper was signed by grandfather, but I should like to tell the whole story to a man who knows about such things. Now, I am going to write my letter to Madam Lambert, and I shall be off to Bristol before the end of the week.'
There was in Bryda's determination a dash of romance as well as of keen desire to do something to help her grandfather in his sore strait.
Of course it may be questioned whether Betty, pursuing the even tenor of her way, and letting nothing interfere with her household work, was not more in the line of duty than her beautiful sister. But the two sisters were, as often happens, so entirely different in character that one cannot be judged by the same rules as the other. The impulsive enthusiast and the matter-of-fact, practical labourer in the field see things from a different standpoint.
In this case there was no division of heart between the two.
Betty believed in Bryda, and had for the whole of her short life looked on her as superior to herself, and to any of the few acquaintances of their own age whom the sisters knew, and she was quite content to take the subordinate place and sit at the feet of her beautiful sister.
Betty fetched an inkhorn and two quills from a cupboard by their bed, and placed them on a somewhat rickety table, where Bryda's few books lay—books well worn and studied, books which fed her romance—two volumes of the Rambler and Spectator, Pope's verses, and last, but not least, Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress.
On the style of these English classics Bryda had formed hers, and thus her expressions were somewhat quaint, and yet she was free from the stilted and flowery mannerism of the women of her time who had received a superficial education.
Bryda might be said to be self-educated. Her schooling had been of the narrow type afforded by a 'decayed gentlewoman' in a neighbouring large village, who had undertaken to instruct her pupils in reading, writing, and arithmetic, with fine needlework and the rudiments of French.
These rudiments seldom advanced beyond the auxiliary verbs and the pronouns, but Miss Darcy still kept school at Pensford, and spoke with pride of her late talented pupil Miss Palmer.
Bryda wrote her letter on a sheet of blue Bath post, and folding it, sealed it with a pink wafer, and addressed it to 'Mrs. Lambert, Dowry Square, Bristol,' and wrote in the corner, 'By the hand of Mr. J. Henderson.'
In the evening, when everyone was going or gone to bed, Bryda stepped out and placed the letter under the loose coping-stone of the wall, and then with a sense of relief went through the dewy orchard and out on the moor, where the purple hues of evening had gathered, and indulged in those castles in the air which were so dear to her.
'Perhaps I shall find ways in Bristol to make myself known. If that strange boy gets his verses printed in Felix Farley's Journal I may as well try to get mine there. Then people will ask who is Beta—for I shall call myself Beta. I know that is the Greek for B—and it sounds pretty. I have many verses in my old school book. Miss Darcy said they were elegant—at least the one I called "Farewell to Miss Darcy."
'I am sure I could write some verses about the dead lamb. Let me try, so many words which are appropriate would rhyme.
'Dear little lambkin lying on the grass
So stiff and cold while strangers careless pass,
Never again to frisk amongst the flowers,
Never again to skip in vernal bowers.
Oh, little lambkin, death is hard for thee,
Though many a weary wight would gladly flee
From all the trouble of this mortal life,
And bid Farewell to grief, and pain, and strife.
'Yet what is Death? We get no sure reply
As cold and stiff like thee our dear ones lie.
Say, whither does the spirit seek its home
When all the battle's o'er, the victory won?
Ah! whither are they flown?'
Bryda came to a full stop.
A soft breeze wandering through the orchard gently caressed her hair, making its own soft music as it whispered to the flowers and buds that the day was done and that all things must end.
'I must go in now,' the girl said, starting up. 'I will write those lines to-morrow, and take them with me to Bristol. I hope Jack will not forget to come for the letter. But I know he won't. Poor old Jack, he is kind and good, if he is stupid. But everyone can't be clever. The young Squire looked as if he knew a good deal; and he was very handsome. Though I hate him, I can't help seeing he is handsome, but cruel and hard—yes, hard as nails, as poor grandfather said. I might as well try to soften that big bit of rock.'
Then Bryda let the gate of the orchard close behind her, and went towards the house.
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