Bristol diamonds or the Hot Wells of the year 1773

Front matter

AT THF, BRISTOL HOT WELLS. Bristol Diamonds OR THE HOT WELLS IN THE TEAR 1773 A STORY BY EMMA AUTHOR OF 'THE TOWER ON THE CLIFF,' 'THE TWO SWORDS,' ETC, F.TC. LONDON SEELEY & CO., 46, 47 6* 48, ESSEX STREET, STRAND {Late of 54, FLEET STREET) TO JOSEPH LEECH, Esquire, WHO HAS BROUGHT TO LIGHT MANY HIDDEN TREASURES FROM THE ANNALS OF OLD BRISTOL, AND TO WHOM I AM INDEBTED FOR VALUABLE INFORMATION RELATING TO THE CLIFTON OF THE PAST, I DEDICATE THE STORY OF 'BRISTOL DIAMONDS.' April, 1888. CONTENTS

Chapter 1

'AGE I. SIGNS AND TOKENS - - - I II. ON THE ROAD - - - - - - Ij III. THE DIAMOND HEART - - - - - 26 IV. MISS MORE ENTERTAINS A HERO - - - 39 V. A MESSENGER POST-HASTE - - - 52 VI. A PRINCE BISHOP - - - - - 64 VII. IN THE PUMP-ROOM - - - - - 75 VIII. THE BEAUX OF THE ASSEMBLY- - - 90 IX. EXPLANATIONS - - - - - - 102 X. FINE FEATHERS - - - - - - I 13 XI. THE RIVER'S SONG - - - - - 1 3° XII. OUT IN THE DARKNESS - - - - - 142 XIII. INTO THE LIGHT - - - - 1 54 XIV. THE WAITING-TIME ENDS - - - - 168 XV. 'THREE CHEERS FOR SAPPHO !' - - - 1

CHAPTER I. SIGNS AND TOKENS.

There was not a cloud in the sky on an early autumn day in the year '1773. The sun was as warm as in June, and the soft south wind whispered its secret to the leaves of the stately elms, which stood before the old house whose walls, mellowed by time, had all the beauty of old age, which some houses, like some people, miss ! Wonderful weather it was for September, golden as September often is, and the motto cut in quaint characters beneath the sun-dial over the square porch seemed to tell the story of that day, ' I mark the sunny hours.' The flowers — common flowers — in the borders of the enclosed garden, showed not a sign of decay, and the radiant sunshine brought a warmer glow to the crimson hollyhocks, and deepened the blush on the monthly roses, and made +he sunflowers almost dazzling with golden brightness.

That garden, with its gravel walks sloping gently upwards from behind the house, with its well-stocked beds, and long row of beehives and its tall dovecot, whence came murmurs and coos, which sounded drowsily in the still air, was a garden in harmony with the house. It looked like a home— an English home — where children's voices had echoed in their mirth, and fair young maidens had gone forth as happy brides, and stalwart boys had scarcely cast a lingering look behind when called to fight for king and country. The house had many square lattice bays and a gabled roof. It stood rather near the road, and a door, always kept locked, opened in a wall of many inches thick, which shut in the front garden. A deer's foot dangled at the end of the wire which rang the bell to warn the household of visitors who wished to enter.

There was a small grating in the door, through which those within could inspect those without, and a tall man, standing on the third of the stone steps which raised the gate from the road, could take a peep into the garden if so he pleased. Apparently, a young man dressed in the fashion of a country squire at the close of the last century — in blue coat and nankeen trousers, with high riding-boots, and a jaunty hat set askance on his thick curls — did find pleasure in looking into the garden before he pulled the deer's foot and summoned a servant to open the gate. Perfect stillness reigned, broken only, or perhaps enhanced by, the murmur of the bees, the hum of a gnat, or the song of a bird in the laurel fence which hid the rugged surface of the old wall on the side next the house. Presently, as Miles Huntley watched, another sound fell on his ear — a little silvery laugh ; and in another moment a girl of eighteen or twenty came in sight, followed by a man, who was carrying a large shawl over his arm ; and Miles heard the little laugh repeated, with the words : ' Indeed, I shall not put on the shawl, and I shall sit here as long as I choose. .

You are a croaking old raven. And I mean to dance at Boxwell on the fourteenth — yes, and have plenty of sport, I can tell you, Mr. Soberface.' As she spoke, the girl threw herself on the rough wooden bench just under the porch, and when the shawl was unfolded, and about to be wrapped round her shoulders, she threw it from her indignantly. ' Don't, Rupert. I won't have it ; I am so hot. There, sir, you have spoiled my dear pansies !' and Phyllis's slender fingers caressed the deep-purple blossoms which nestled in her kerchief, and which Rupert Congreve's attempt to throw the shawl over her shoulders had disarranged. He turned away and went into the hall, kicking impatiently with his foot the old spaniel that lay on the mat. The dog gave a faint whine, and Phyllis sprang up. ' How cruel you are !

Dear, dear Ponto, did he hurt you ? Come and sit with me, Ponto.' But Ponto pricked his ears and waddled to the gate, while at the same moment the deer's foot was sharply pulled, and the iron tongue of the bell brought out another spaniel, leaping and barking, followed by an old man-servant, who shuffled to the gate and admitted a not unfrequent visitor, Miles Huntley. Phyllis did not advance to meet him, but reseated herself on the wooden bench. A little short cough i — struck on Miles's ear, and sent a sharp pain through his heart. ' So you have not lost your cough,' he said, seating himself on the bench beside her. ' Oh, Mistress Phyllis, you told me in your letter it was gone !' ' So it is ; it's only that I can't clear my throat with out a fuss. But, sir, I would have you to know I am getting ready for the ball at Boxwell, and I command you to find me the best partners in the minuet and contre danse.' ' That I will gladly, Mistress Phyllis.

One partner, I warrant, will scarce spare you to others. My mother bid me say you will be welcome at Boxwell with your sister Cecilia next week, and we will bring the chariot over for you.' 'That will be as my mother likes,' Phyllis said. ' That dull piece of goods, Rupert Congreve, has been talking such folly, and making, or trying to make, my mother believe him. They say I am to go to the Bristol Hot Wells and be physicked by Dr. Ford. But I will not go ; or, if I do, I will come to Boxwell first.' ' That is kind and amiable indeed !' exclaimed Miles; and he looked down on the fair creature by his side with the eyes of admiring love. ' I am quite well, am I not ?' she said, looking up at him, and then dropping her eyes as they met his for an instant. ' Of course you are. I never saw you look so beau— I mean so well before.' Phyllis Bassett had taken her friends and the little world of Wotton-under-Edge by surprise when, after a childhood remarkable for no particular attraction, she had suddenly grown tall and slender, her com plexion like one of the China roses climbing up to the very feet of the sun-dial, and her features changed from the uncertain form of the round face of the child, into the refined and delicate contour of early woman hood.

Her hair — such a wealth of hair ! — was the colour of the chestnut in the sunshine, and her clear hazel eyes were fringed with curled lashes of the same hue. The hair was piled up, after the fashion of the time, into many intricate bows ; but a light fringe of wavy curls shaded her pure pale brow, where the blue lines on either temple were seen too distinctly traced for health. Phyllis had suddenly dawned upon the horizon of her little world as a ' beauty,' and her elder sister, who had always looked upon Phyllis as a rough, ungainly child, was obliged to confess that she was a fair and beautiful woman. Cecilia Bassett was the only daughter by her father's first marriage, and separated in age by eight or nine years from Phyllis. It was generally thought in the neighbourhood that Cecilia Bassett was scarcely well pleased to find a rival near her throne, and her manner towards her fair young sister was not marked with any great degree of kindness or affection. ' If she has the beauty, I have the wit,' Cecilia had been heard to say ; adding, ' It is an equal division.

Phyllis is a pretty little fool, and makes fools of others, which is to be regretted — and amongst them all there is not a greater fool than Miles Huntley.' When Rupert Congreve left the garden, he entered the hall — a square room panelled with oak. The green parlour opened from the side opposite the porch, and was the general meeting-place of the family. A some what narrow staircase abutted on the hall, and the ceiling above it was one of the most curious specimens of carving, or moulded plaster, and is still remaining. In the centre was a large rose with rays to represent the sun, and from this an oil lamp was hung by chains. The moon in crescent, and attendant planets, and more distant stars, were not forgotten; and there was a richly moulded cornice round the ceiling. On the square landing there was a latticed bay over the porch, and here Rupert found the third of the three children of Sir Robert Bassett lying, as he lay day after day, month after month, on a couch from which he seldom rose.

It was usual in the neighbourhood to speak of Lady Bassett's ' afflicted son ;' and he was kept very much in retirement. In these days, the boy would have been taken to some of the best surgeons of the time, and his treatment would have been widely different. Everyone was resigned to his fate. His mother always spoke of him as ' my poor boy,' and Leonard was left very much to himself. Not from any un kindness or neglect — he had all he wanted, and certain old-fashioned nostrums were applied to ease his pain, resulting from the spinal disease which had hindered his growth and made him look more like the ghost of a boy than a boy of flesh and blood. He bore a very strong resemblance to his beautiful sister. It was her face lengthened and pinched — instead of her roses, a sickly pallor ; and instead of her wealth of hair, a few thin and straggling locks which were often falling over his eyes.

Those eyes were marvellous in their far-away expression. ' He sees a good deal more than we see,' his faithful nurse and friend, Nance Bartrum, would say. ' I never like to hear him tell his dreams ; they are queer enough to make a body feel creepy, I can tell you. SIGATS AND TOKENS. 7 He is all spine and brain ; and as to his poor body, he is a bag of bones, and no wonder, for he lives on air.' As Rupert Congreve passed Leonard he said care lessly : 'Well, my boy, don't you find it hot to-day, lying here with the sun pouring in at that window ?' Leonard shook his head. ' I love light and sunshine,' he said. ' I say, Rupert ' But Rupert had passed on into the sitting-room, where he felt pretty sure he should find Dame Aline Bassett — Madam Bassett the people called her some times in Wotton ; but she was the widow of a knight who had won military honours early in life and had retired invalided to his own country house, to spend the remainder of his days, with a bullet in his thigh which no surgical skill could extract, and a medal on his breast which had won for him the honour of knight hood from the hands of his gracious majesty King George the Second.

Madam Bassett was seated at a table covered with papers. She was a small, alert woman who had always some scheme on hand. Had she lived in this century, she would have been secretary to that society known by the three mystic letters of G.F.S. ; or she would have hunted up lecturers to enlighten the be nighted inhabitants of Wotton-under-Edge ; or she would have got up entertainments for the amusement of school-teachers ; or she would have organized large teas in connection with mothers' meetings and ' school treats.' But the county ladies of seventeen hundred and seventy-three had no such safety-valves to let off superfluous energy. Thus it is not to be wondered at that she busied herself in such matters as lay nearest home. I do not blame her for this ; but, at the same time, I allow Rupert Congreve had some cause to bite his lips with impatience as his aunt continued her search amongst the papers which she had turned out of her escritoire, and kept up a lamentation over the loss of a receipt for a medicine which never failed to cure whooping-cough . ' Such a valuable receipt it was — signed by a doctor about the Court.

I feel sure it would stop that little nervous cough of Phyllis's. Ah ! I declare, here is the receipt for Indian curry Lady Maude gave me. And, — wonders never cease ! — the prescription itself. No, it is not ! this is for rheumatism of the joints. Ah ! yes ! a doctor at the Bath gave it to poor Sir Robert. Yes, Rupert — do you want to speak to me ? Wait till I have been downstairs with this receipt to Woodward. She can't read a word, of course, but ' ' Aunt Aline,' Rupert said, plunging straight into the subject nearest his heart, ' I am very uneasy about Phyllis — I am indeed ! You must follow Dr. Carr's advice and take her to Bristol Hot Wells. Winter is at hand.' ' Winter, my dear Rupert ? Winter ? Why, it is like midsummer — my poor boy is lying basking in the sun ! Winter?' ' Appearances are deceitful,' Rupert said. ' The wind may change to-morrow, and a chill mist cover these hills.

If you delay, it will be too late to undertake the journey.' ' Too late !' Lady Bassett exclaimed. ' Nonsense, Rupert ! The child looks lovelier to-day than I ever saw her. Such a colour ! — such spirits ! Hark, that is her laugh !' ' Aunt Aline, you will repent if you do not follow Dr. Carr's advice. You will indeed.' ' Alack-a-day !' exclaimed the little lady. 'How you threaten me ! I tell you what, Nephew Rupert ; I have a "light heart that lives long" — you know who said that. I am not going to mope, or let the child mope, either. She wants rousing. Why, when she first got up this morning, and Nance took her the warm goat's milk, she said it made her sick. And then she cried, and vowed she would lie a-bed all day. But when I went to her with that fine new chintz gown, and bid her try it on, she was up like a lark, and danced and pirouetted before the looking glass.

And now hark !' Again that laugh, rippling and silvery ; and again the little short cough ! ' Anyhow, I'll wait a bit. Phyllis has set her heart on going to the rout at Boxwell ; and I have ordered her gown and hat from the milliner who makes my cousin's dresses — she who is about the Court, you know. And so we will wait till your next visit. They ought to serve dinner. It is near upon one o'clock. I must go and stir up the servants. I marvel how folks get on at all, who leave things to haphazard. I am not one of that sort, thank Heaven !' ' I cannot stay to dine, Aunt Aline ; I must find my horse at the White Hart, in the town, and ride towards Bristol. The days are shortening, and the last few miles between Yate and the city are somewhat lonely. So I will take leave now, Aunt Aline.' ' Well, obstinate folks must have their way.

Com mend me to your father. I hope all goes well with him.' ' Times are not very hopeful for merchants,' Rupert said. ' But more of this anon. By your leave, Aunt Aline, I will inquire as to the rent of a house near the springs, opposite the Woods of Leigh, kept by a decent woman Aunt Sarah knows, and let you have tidings of it.' ' So do— so do ! But I don't promise to hire the house, mind. Such a journey ! And think of our numbers !' Then Lady Bassett tripped away with a light step, her keys jingling as she went, her high heels tapping on the oak stairs as she descended to the hall. Rupert was about to follow her, and bid his good-bye to Phyllis, when from an inner room, hardly more than a closet, with a window in it, Cecilia appeared. ' She has heard all I have been saying to Aunt Aline,' Rupert thought ; and then he said aloud : ' You will agree with me, Cecilia, about Phyllis, I am sure.

Dr. Carr told me after his visit last evening that unless great care was taken, the complaint would make way, and get beyond the reach of the greatest and most skilful doctors in the country.' ' The complaint ?" Cecilia asked, in slow, deliberate tones. ' What complaint ?' Rupert shrugged his shoulders. ' Don't feign ignorance, Cecilia. You know as well as I do that Phyllis is threatened with consumption.' Cecilia was standing by the open half of the lattice window ; and, leaning against the stone-work of the centre mullion, said : ' She is threatened with another complaint now — look there !' Rupert placed himself by Cecilia's side, so that he, too, could command the view of the garden under the window. Phyllis was fastening a flower — one of the fair monthly roses, so like herself, Rupert thought — in Miles Huntley 's coat.

It fell out of its place, and Miles, stooping, picked it up and pressed it to his lips. Then Phyllis laughed and tried to snatch it away, which he resisted, catching her hand and kissing it, instead of the rose. 'A pretty little scene,' Cecilia said, in her slow, languid tones. ' What fools women are ! — and men are worse ! Poor child ! Cousin Rupert, I think you may make yourself easy about her;' and then she turned away from the window, saying : ' I am vastly afraid your scheme will not succeed. It would be agreeable to install us in lodgings in the Colonnade. Those charming houses, where there is scarce elbow-room, and where the sun beats down like fire reflected from the rocks, and where the marks on the walls tell a tale of coffins which could scarce be got down the narrow stairs ! How often you could look in on us ; and Uncle James could preach to us ; and your Aunt Sarah ' But Rupert heard no more.

He strode away, and was passing Leonard unnoticed, when the boy called to him: ' Cousin Rupert ! Are you going away ?' ' Yes, my boy.' ' Come here. Stoop down ; I want to whisper some thing. I know Phyllis is ill ; I can hear her cough when no one else does. But that is not all. I have dreams about her, and — take care she does not hear — about the locked-up room — you know. I go there in my sleep. I feel I am there, and — some one else is there — not always ; but she is there.' ' Don't listen to idle tales, Leonard ; put your trust in God, and do not heed dreams ; they mean nothing.' ' I don't feel sure. Jacob had dreams, and so had other men in the Bible. They meant something.' Rupert stroked the boy's forehead with a kindly hand, and, saying ' Good-bye ; I shall be here again soon,' he went quickly downstairs.

There was no one in the front garden now. The wooden bench was empty, and the shawl he had tried to wrap round Phyllis lay on the turf. The sun had gone round from the front of the house, and there was a certain crispness in the air which told that, after all, summer was past and autumn had come. Rupert paused for a moment, looking back at the old house, where the black shadow of the sun-dial struck sharply across the hour after noon. A bright golden leaf floated down from the elm-tree which shadowed the gate, and rested on his sleeve. Yes, the summer was over — decay was very near. All this radiance was but the forerunner ofthe dim and gloomy winter. The golden leaf seemed a token of this, and with a sudden impulse he drew out his pocket book and placed it between the leaves. As he did so he was startled by hearing his name called, and, leaving Miles Huntley's side, Phyllis came quickly towards him. ' Not going ?' she said, with an arch smile. ' What ! really going, and affronted ?

Poor old Rupert ! I will be ever so amiable next time you come. I'll muffle up just as Aunt Sarah does, when I have danced at Box well.' Then she tripped away, and as Rupert closed the gate he heard the short, quick cough. Was it, like the golden leaf, a token of decay ?

Chapter II. On The Road

Rupert Congreve was the only son of a Bristol merchant, who had accumulated a fair fortune, and traded successfully with foreign ports. Rupert's mother had been Sir Robert Bassett's half-sister, but she had died when Rupert was an infant, and he never remem bered any other mistress of his father's house than his aunt, Miss Sarah Congreve. The spacious house in Portland Square was not a cheerful home, and Rupert had very little to vary the monotony of his life. His education had been begun and ended at the Cathedral School in College Green, and at eighteen he had entered his father's office, and become very valuable to him. Mr. Congreve was held in repute as a merchant and citizen, whose opinion had weight in the Council Chamber, where he had a seat as justice of the peace for the city and county of Bristol.

Now, Miss Sarah Congreve was one of those good and excellent people who have all virtues but that of making themselves agreeable. ' I don't lay myself out to please folks ; I have learned the vanity of all earthly things,' was a favourite speech of Miss Sarah's. She was exceedingly well satisfied with herself, and her religion was of that exclusive and selfish type which centres in the little spot where personal salvation lies. All who did not see precisely as Miss Congreve saw were beyond the pale, and Rupert was amongst them. During the past two years there had been an addition to Mr. Congreve's household — the daughter of a poor relation who had been unsuccessful in business and died penniless. She was made useful to Miss Congreve, and had to bear a great many ' quips and quirks,' which she seldom resented.

Ruth Southwood had learned, young as she was, that silence was golden, and it was seldom that she answered again, though often sorely tempted to do so. Rupert was kind to his little kinswoman, because it was not in his nature to fail in courtesy to anyone. He had not the fine airs of the beaux who collected in the Pump-room at the Hot Wells and lounged about, lisping pretty compliments to the belles whom health or pleasure brought there; but he had that charm about him the outcome of which is — - 'The manners which make the man,' and such manners, not being put on with fine clothes and fashionable attire, were ever ready for gentle and simple alike. Rupert's horse was led out from the White Hart at Wotton-under-Edge about two o'clock, and he rode at a leisurely pace through the street of the quaint old town.

A pair of loaded pistols was concealed in the large pockets of his saddle, for no traveller on the king's highway in country districts dare be without the means of self-defence in those days, when the gentlemen ot the road were always on the alert. Rupert rode past the old buildings of the Chantry School, founded in 1384 by the Lady Katharine Berkley, who left funds for the maintenance and education of two scholars chosen from the town, who, with the priest, should daily sing a mass for the repose of her soul. Lady Katharine did not foresee how soon the light would break in on the darkness, and the fresh air of God's free mercy sweep away the cobwebs of super stition which had gathered round the Church of those days, obscuring the vision of many an earnest soul. But good remains, though prayers are no longer offered by the Chantry boys of Wotton-under-Edge for the Lady Katharine.

The scholarships are left as her memorial, and the school has lately been quickened into life by fresh efforts to meet the needs of the time. Two boys are yearly elected on the foundation, as in early times, while the townspeople can get an excellent education for their sons at a very low rate, under a master more efficient than the Chantry priest of Lady Katharine's day. On leaving Wotton, Rupert's road lay through bowery lanes, where the bramble leaves were taking a rich russet colour, and the blackberries shining like coral and ebony in the sun. The hills which stood round about Wotton were bathed in the golden light. Before Rupert rose the irregular outline of the Edge, under the shelter of which the town nestles. Presently Rupert reined in his steady horse, and turned to look at the view behind him.

The Knoll at North Nibley rose clear against the sky, and the majestic outline of Stinchcombe Hill, where the remains of an old Roman encampment are distinctly traced, swept round towards Dursley. I will not say that it was the loveliness of the scene which kept him, as it were, spellbound. He was thinking how light-hearted he had felt only two days before as the familiar objects came in sight — every step taking him nearer to Phyllis, of whom her mother had reported that she was ' near well and in fine spirits.' Alas ! he found her on his arrival languid and tearful — a mood which changed to an excited and feverish desire to seem well, and to talk eagerly of the ball at Boxwell, her gown ordered in London, and her anxiety to get Cecilia to let her wear a set of pearls and opals which were her property, as they had belonged to her own mother.

Rupert's heart misgave him as he watched these varying moods, the tears as swift to come as the little silvery laugh and the short, quick cough. Dr. Carr had not attempted to conceal his grave view of the case, and when Rupert followed him to the gate he had shaken his head and said, ' Try Dr. Ford and Bristol Hot Wells — it's the best chance.' The best chance ! Did he mean the only chance ? And no one seemed in the least uneasy but himself. Cecilia could scoff at the little scene with Miles Hunt ley, and Lady Bassett could talk as if her household concerns were the main business of life. Leonard, poor Leonard, with his feeble health and excitable brain, seemed concerned about Phyllis ; but who was Leonard ? No one took much heed of him — the poor crippled son, who lived his own sad life patiently for the most part, neither expecting, nor perhaps wishing for more attention than the passing inquiry as to his health, and due care that he had all that was necessary in the way of nourishment, and such medical help as cases like his could command in those days.

As Rupert rode steadily onwards towards Bristol, his thoughts were so full of the past and the present that it was .fortunate his horse knew the road well, for he made no attempt to guide it. He stopped to bait at a small roadside inn at Yate, and then, in the gathering twilight, made for Bristol at a quicker pace. It was nearly dark when he reached Frenchay, and there was a long stretch of lonely common between it and Stapleton. He was conscious that he was fol lowed by another horseman, and though he quickened his own pace the rider was soon abreast with him. ' Good-night,' said Rupert, expecting the horseman to pass ; but, on the contrary, the horse was reined in, and a voice which sounded like that of an educated man exclaimed : ' I'll join company with you, sir. I have no liking for these lonely roads on dark nights.