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.
Not one backward glance did he give of regret to Bristol. He was sore at what he conceived to be the ill treatment he had received from his native city, and burning with desire to avenge his wrongs by returning to it crowned with the laurel wreath of Fame, to be courted instead of spurned, to have at his feet those who had trampled on him, and to find his native City of the West awaking at last to the fact it had been so slow to recognise that he was a son of whom it might be justly proud.
The fulfilment of the last part of his high-set hope may perhaps have come, and now, at the distance of a hundred and twenty years, the figure of the marvellous boy stands out with a distinct personality which no 'animated bust' could give it. Time throws a veil of charity over his faults, and deep pity stirs in every heart, as in mine to-day as I write these fragments gathered from his short life, that he had no anchor of the soul on which to take firm hold in the troubled waters of that stormy sea on which he was launched on the 26th day of April 1770.
Deep pity, too, that no kindly hand was outstretched to help him in his hours of darkness, no voice to tell him of One to whom he might turn as of old one turned in his despair with the cry of 'My Father, I have sinned,' to find as he did pardon and peace.
Full tidings came to poor Bryda the day after she had parted with Chatterton--tidings from the farm. An ill-written and hurried letter from Betty was left at the office by the carrier that morning, and brought by Mr Lambert to Dowry Square when he returned for dinner.
Bryda opened the letter with trembling fingers. She could not dare to read it in the presence of others.
'DEAR BRYDA,'--Bet said,--'They brought the Squire here Sunday evening like to die. They could not get him further. The doctor said it would kill him outright. He is laid in the parlour, for they could not carry him upstairs. Two gentlemen justices have been here to-day, and the constables are on the search for him who did the deed. The doctor thinks he knew him. Oh, Bryda, it was Jack Henderson. Mr Barrett has come from Bristol, and shakes his head over the Squire. He neither speaks nor moves. It is dreadful. Can you come home? And, Bryda, you must know was it Jack--and where is Jack? If they catch him--oh, it will be more than we can bear. The doctor is not sure it was Jack. His face was covered with blood when he met him running downhill like a madman. Was it Jack?--Your sister, BET, in sorrow and love.'