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 was wondering 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. That is 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 and Bible, 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 stately proportions, 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.  The midday dinner was not over when the large brass knocker on Mr Lamberts 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.  I do pity 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 to Felix Farley’s Journal had 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, and had reproduced them 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.’