'Yes, he is a long way down channel by this time. Now, Miss Palmer, do not take on; things are sure to brighten for you.'
'Oh! he ought to have waited till he knew more. It was cowardly of Jack—'
'Well you know he did not feel sure you cared for him—thought maybe it was the Squire after all.'
'Have you heard anything else?' Bryda asked. 'Is it the talk of Bristol what happened yesterday?'
'Well, it is known, because Mr Barrett has been sent for to the Squire to try to mend his broken head. It is a pity Henderson did not wait till he knew whether he was dead or alive. I should have thought you would have heard something from Corn Street, for no doubt there is a row there at Jack's absence from the silversmith's shop.'
'Mr Lambert is away for the day,' Bryda said. 'Oh, it has been such a long, long day. I am so miserable, so wretched. I dare not stay a minute longer. Good-bye.'
'A long good-bye, a last good-bye, Miss Palmer. I am off to London by the coach to-morrow. Wish me better fortune than I have had here. If you could visit my poor mother sometimes I should be glad. She takes on at the idea of parting with me. You see you can't make a mother see that leaving her is for her son's benefit. No,' he said, 'it's gospel truth, there is no love to compare with a mother's;' and he added, 'Though I love the muse, and love and court her as a knight would court his ladye love, I love my mother, who, dear soul, never understood a word of poetry in her life—and sister is almost as bad. But, bless them both, they will be glad enough when I come back to Bristol famous.'
Then, with the courtesy of the knights of old of whom he spoke, Chatterton doffed his cap, bowed low, and, kissing Bryda's hand, was gone.
It was his last night in Bristol. He was off by the mail to London the next day, but scantily provided with clothes, though his mother had done her best, but scantily provided with money, but full to overflowing with high hope and enterprise. Of his bulky manuscripts—his much-cherished possession—he never lost hold throughout the long, cold journey. They were securely packed by his own hand in a canvas bag; his mother might pack his clothes, his sister might mend his stockings, and water them with her tears as she rolled them up and placed them in the heavy trunk, but no hand but his own should touch his manuscripts, for they represented to him, poor boy, silver and gold, and what he cared more for—Fame.
A few friends stood with his tearful mother and sobbing sister at the coach office at the Bush Inn to bid him farewell. He took both mother and sister in his arms and kissed them lovingly, said good-bye to the others, and then he sprang, still grasping his precious bag in his hand, into what was called 'the basket' of the mail coach, and cheaper, by reason of its low position outside the clumsy, lumbering vehicle, and then he was off.