There are exceptions to every rule, and this applies to cities as well as to individuals. The meek man may be excited to fierce anger, the quietest and most undemonstrative, may suddenly be moved to enthusiasm. So with Wells, that little city of peace, under the Mendips; had anyone visited it for the first time on the fifth of November, in the year of grace eighteen hundred and twenty-four, they must have been struck by the uproar and confusion which reigned in the usually quiet streets.
Although Mrs. Arundel had been warned by her courteous host, the Bishop, not to be alarmed if the sound of a tumultuous crowd should even reach the seclusion of the palace itself, neither he nor she were at all prepared for the hubbub and uproar, which, beginning before the sun was well above the horizon, lasted till midnight, and, indeed, into the early hours of the next day.
It was the Bishop's first year at Wells, and therefore his first experience of the great demonstration of the fifth of November in his cathedral town; and neither he nor his son had been at all aware that the only place of safety for the whole day, would be within the battlemented walls of the palace, outside of which the tumult and shouting gathered force hour by hour, till the supreme moment of the bull-baiting in the market-place arrived.
The bull-baiting was stopped in 1839, but the fifth of November was for many years later marked in Wells, by the most extravagant expressions of Protestant zeal. Enough gunpowder was let off in the market-place to blow up Bishop, Deans, and Canons! A huge bonfire was piled up in the market-square, saturated with tar, of which large barrels were rolled to the scene of the conflagration from time to time during the day, kindled at last as the final outburst of enthusiastic hatred, which the people of Wells thus showed of that ill-contrived plot, which was to have made an end with one fell swoop of the sagacious King James, and his parliament.
It always seemed a strange form for such zeal to take; for the law-abiding folk in the little city suffered greatly during the demonstration. The windows overlooking the market-place were boarded up at dusk, and all business suspended in the latterpart of the day. The whole population seemed to be gathered in the market-square. Effigies of Guy Fawkes were paraded about the streets, accompanied by those of any persons, who had unhappily incurred public displeasure during the year; to be consigned to the flames with shouts and execrations as soon as the big bonfire was lighted.
A company of guests met at the Bishop's hospitable breakfast table on this particular fifth of November, amongst whom were Mrs. Arundel, on the Bishop's right hand, and Gratian Anson, who was levelling her shafts at the chaplain, and declaring her delight at having been so fortunate as to be in Wells at the time of the bull-baiting.
"You were so kind to invite us to see it, my lord," she said; "for, of course, I mean to see it."
"My dear young lady, I am sure you must not venture forth to-day. We must make the time pass as pleasantly as we can, within the precincts of the palace, unless you like to step over to the cloister-door and attend the cathedral service."
"And do you mean to say, my lord,youare not going to see the bull-baiting? Why, Mr. Dacres tells me that the last Dean used to assemble a large party on purpose to see the spectacle; Imustsee it!"
The gentle bishop seemed a little taken aback by Gratian's determination to have her own way.
"Well," he said, "I leave you in the hands of your guardian, Mrs. Arundel, and you could not be in better keeping."
"Mr. Dacres, Mr. Law, you will take me. I should so love to see the fun, and I can't go alone."
"Gratian," Mrs. Arundel said, "it is not safe to think of it. There will be such a crowd, you must not attempt it."
Gratian smiled, and, turning to Mr. Dacres, said:
"I mean to go; it will be like a scene in Spain."
How the discussion would have ended, and whether Gratian would have carried her point or not, I do not know, had not the bishop's servant approached him with a card, which was followed almost immediately by Lord Maythorne.
"Pray pardon an early visit, my lord, but I am come to see my sister, and conduct her to the bull-baiting, for which, I hear, your city is celebrated."
Mrs. Arundel coloured with vexation as the bishop rose from his chair at the head of the table, and said, reading the name on the card:
"Pardon me, my lord, I have not the honour of your acquaintance."
"My step-brother, my lord." Mrs. Arundel hastenedto say. "I do not know whether you ever heard of my father's second marriage."
"My sister will give you my imprimatur, you see, my lord, ifnota welcome."
This was said with the insolent assurance which the courtly bishop at once discerned.
"My lord," he said, "any relation of my dear friend, Mrs. Arundel, is welcome to the palace. Now, ladies, will you adjourn to the gallery; for I have some pressing matters of business to-day after cathedral service, for which a special form is provided; but if you desire to brave the tumults without, horses and carriages are at your disposal."
Gratian meantime had gone up to Lord Maythorne, saying:
"The very thing I wanted. I will go and prepare for the bull-baiting now. Come, Miss Dacres, come, Mrs. Pearsall," turning to two quietly dressed ladies, "won't you come with us?"
"Well, we must be quick if we want to secure our places. The windows are commanding a good price, I assure you," said Lord Maythorne.
"I wish you had not come here, Maythorne;" Mrs. Arundel said, "you gave me no warning of your intention."
"My dear Bella, I never give any warning aboutanything. I thought you knew that. I suppose I have as much right to look at a bull-baiting as his lordship. Evidently he is not going to offer me hospitality. What a party of old fogies he has assembled; no one worth looking at! By-the-bye, does not Gilbert's innamorata live near Wells?"
Mrs. Arundel evaded a reply by turning to Gratian, who had speedily got ready for the expedition.
"I fear it is very imprudent, Gratian, to go out in the crowd. Mr. Dacres thinks so."
"Well, if under good care, I do not know that there is much fear," said Mr. Dacres, "in fact; I will accompany Miss Anson, if she will allow me, and just point out the best place to see the bull pass down under the Chain Gate from East Wells."
"Ah! Ithoughtyou would not be able to resist it, Mr. Dacres," Gratian said. "Iknewyou wanted to see the fun, though you were afraid to say so."
"Really," began poor Mr. Dacres; "really, I—I am only desirous of being of service."
"Of course, I know that," Gratian said, laughing. "Good-bye, Aunt Bella;" and away she tripped, Lord Maythorne following, and Mr. Dacres leading the way under Penniless Porch to the Cathedral-green, where all kinds of people were congregated by the wall, separating the green from the road alongwhich the bull was to pass. The rabble were at this time collected in East Wells, and the more respectable part of the spectators were admitted here. The bell was chiming for service, and as Mr. Dacres ambled across the grass, the Dean, preceded by his verger, was coming out of his gate to the cathedral. Unlike his predecessor, Dean Lukin, who is reported to have made the bull-baiting a festal occasion at the Deanery, even inviting guests to be present at it, the Dean demurred a little at the bull passing under the Chain Gate at all, thus entering the precincts of the cathedral.
The Deanery Wells.The Deanery, Wells.
"How do, Dacres, how do?" the Dean said; "the crowd is very orderly at present."
"Yes, Mr. Dean, so far; the great proportion of people are in East Wells. This young lady is a guest at the palace, and would like to see the bull pass. Might I escort her and Lord—Lord Hawthorne to the terrace?"
The Dean bowed rather stiffly. He would have thought better both of the young lady and her companion, if they had come to the service and joined in the thanksgiving for the happy deliverance of King James I. and the three estates of England from the most traitorous and bloody-intended massacre by gunpowder; and—looking on some years—as the inscription at the head of the Form of Prayer also went on to say—
"For the happy arrival of His Majesty King William on this day, for the deliverance of our church and nation."
"By all means, Mr. Dacres. I think in future I shall prohibit the procession passing this way. It is scarcely seemly while service is going on within the cathedral walls."
With this the Dean passed on, and Gratian, laughing, said:
"The Dean is hardly as gracious as the Bishop. Let us stand here, because we shall get away sooner to the market-place after the bull has passed."
Mr. Dacres was rather glad to retrieve his character with the Dean, by hastening to the cathedral, after having placed Lord Maythorne and Gratian, in a good place by the wall; and then, after some trial of patience, the sound of shouts and a brass band heralded the approach of the bull.
Decked with ribbons, and with his head well set forward, led by his keepers by a ring passed through the nose, the bull stepped proudly on, followed by the dogs, all in charge of their respective owners.
There was always something pathetic in the sight of a huge animal brought out, not to fight in a fair field, but to be worried almost to death by the onslaught of persistent dogs, all goaded on to make their attack, all backed by betting men, who had an interest in their success or failure.
In Pepys' celebrated 'Diary' there is a description of a bull-baiting to which he seems to have gone to divert his mind from the furious letter which a friend told him was on his way to him from Lord Peterborough, which letter seems to have preyed upon him more than the news recorded on a previous page of three people in one house "dead of the plague."
The bull-baiting, however, was pronounced, even by the sight-loving Samuel Pepys, as a "very rude and very nasty pleasure."
Yet, more than a century and a half later, we find the usually quiet and peaceful city of Wells all agog to witness the bull-baiting in the market square.
It was as Lord Maythorne said; every window was engaged, and the tradespeople commanded high prices for the day.
Ladies in smart dresses, with gentlemen in attendance, were to be seen sitting at the old lattice bay windows, all along the line of houses in the square.
Lord Maythorne had engaged places over the principal draper's shop, where Joyce and Charlotte had made their purchases, on the day of Gilbert Arundel's arrival at Fair Acres.
It was with some difficulty that Lord Maythorne and Gratian made their way through the turnstile by Penniless Porch, and gained the door of the shop to the left, which was kept guarded by a stalwart son of the owner. It was a good position, and if a bull-baiting were worth seeing, perhaps on the principle of comparative value, the place was worth the five guineas which Lord Maythorne had paid for it.
His style and title being known, great respect was shown him and Gratian, and the circular bay window was appropriated to them, while less distinguished people thought themselves honoured to take their position behind them, further back in the room.
The space where the bull was baited was railed off, and the kennels for the dogs prepared behind it.
It was some time before the bull could be got into position, and he showed at first no signs of fight.
Presently Gratian exclaimed:
"There is little Mr. Dacres elbowing through the crowd; I knew he was dying to come. Now he has said his prayers, I suppose he thinks he is free to do so. And do look at that little woman in the yellow hood, pushing and fighting to get a place on the window-sill of the house by Penniless Porch. What a crowd! Who could have believed so many people lived in Wells? There is seldom a creature to be seen. When we drove through the market-place the other day there was only an old woman by the 'Cross,' selling potatoes."
"Ah! madam," exclaimed an old gentleman, who was standing behind Gratian's chair, and heard her remark, "the best days of the spectacle are over—quite over. Now, in Dean Lukin's time, I have known lords and ladies and their suite present, and a really genteel crowd assembled, instead of the riff-raff of to-day." The old man sighed, and taking a pinch of snuff from his tortoiseshell snuff-box, handed it to Lord Maythorne. "The bull-baiting at Wells, sir, was sought after by theéliteof the county andneighbourhood. Why, sir, I have seen coaches with four horses come in from Bath full of lords and ladies and great folks. But the times are changing—the times are changing! And, sir, when a Bishop and a Dean are 'loo warm' about a great spectacle, we can't expect others to be hot!—eh?"
Lord Maythorne laughed cynically; and the old man, a veteran of Wells, whose memory went back to at least sixty fifths of Novembers, felt his sleeve sharply pulled by the master of the shop.
"Have a care—have a care what you say, Mr. Harte. Don't be so free; you are talking to a real lord, who is visiting at the palace."
The poor old man was fairly silenced by the news; he retired to a remote corner, trembling and abashed, and the glory of the bull-baiting was over for him.
"A real lord!" he murmured, "and I've been talking to him as if he were just nobody. Dear,dear—dear me!"
The sport began in good earnest about one o'clock. The backers pricked up the dogs to the onslaught, and cries and shouts resounded.
The bull, at first strangely stoical and unmoved, with its large brown eyes staring calmly at the yelping, bounding dogs, was at length lashed to fury.With a loud and angry bellow he tossed his assailants hither and thither, and again and again the mangled bodies of the dogs were hurled by the horns of the bull outside the barriers amongst the shrieking crowd.
At last, after a pause, while the bull stood, covered with blood and foam, watching for the attack of the next adversary, a brindled terrier, after receiving some cruel thrusts from the tortured animal, sprang with unerring aim at its throat, and clung there with such a desperate grip, that its giant strength, exhausted by the long conflict, gave way. The bull rolled over on his side with a roar of agony, and the victorious dog, with his eyes starting out of his head, and his tongue lolling out of his mouth, was borne off by his backer, amidst the cheers and acclamations of the excited crowd.
"Ah!" Lord Maythorne said, "I had a heavy bet on that dog, so I am in luck's way for once. Now, Gratian, as the play is played out, for the bull will show no more fight to-day, if ever again, shall we make our way back to the palace?"
Even Gratian felt a little sickened and disgusted. She clung to Lord Maythorne's arm, and was thankful when she found herself once more within the palace grounds.
The noise and uproar in the market-place after the bull-baiting had scarcely ceased when the space was cleared for the bonfire, and preparations began for the greatfinaleof the day.
As soon as it was dark, squibs and crackers were flying in every direction, while those who ventured forth were in some danger of having their clothes set on fire by the scattered sparks. A party from the palace went forth about eight o'clock to see the illumination of the bonfire, gaining easy access to the offices of the Bishop's secretary, which were situated between the two gateways, one called Penniless Porch, the other the Palace Eye, both at the top of the market square. Those who had turned away with disgust from the bull-fight, yet felt it almost their duty to be present at the great Protestant demonstration of fire and burning. So that the windows of the office were filled by the palace party, amongst whom were members of the Bishop's family.
Penniless Porch. Wells.Penniless Porch, Wells.
It was indeed a sight never to be forgotten when the huge bonfire was lighted, and the flames leaped up to the sky. The quaint old houses in the market square were illuminated with a ruddy glow, and the cathedral towers caught the fitful radiance, and stood up against the murky November sky with a flush of crimson on their hoary heads. The shoutingand the tumult reached its height when Guy Fawkes' great effigy fell into the burning mass, and cries of "No Popery!" "Down with the Catholics!" were taken up, by every little screaming urchin, who, with burned fingers and scorched cheeks, thought he was doing good service to some cause, though, if he andhalf that seething crowd had been questioned as to why they came together, the "more part," as in times of old, could not have given an answer.
A great wrong once done, which fastens on the mind of a nation, and is handed down as a subject of everlasting indignation from generation to generation, must be expected to demand outward demonstration. Thus the fires of Smithfield, and the secret plot of the conspirators beneath the hall at Westminster, have never been forgotten.
The people still hunger for some expression of their wrath, and do not wait to ask if that expression takes a wholesome form.
Although like demonstrations have been very much moderated of late years, and nearly stopped altogether by the authorities in Wells, still there is yet a city of the West whose motto is "Ever faithful," where the same scene is acted even on a larger scale; and woe to the unhappy man who may have incurred the displeasure of the good people of Exeter during the current year. His effigy is still paraded through the streets, followed by mummers in gay attire, and, amidst general execrations, his image tumbles down into the fiery furnace, as a meet companion for that, of the never-to-be-forgotten Guy Fawkes.
Two days later, and Wells had resumed its wontedaspect. The November day was one of exceptional beauty. The sky was blue, the air soft and balmy, and the sunshine lay upon the peaceful city, once more the City of Rest, which the good Bishop had called it when he first viewed the scene of his future labours as chief pastor of the diocese of Bath and Wells.
The noise and tumult of the fifth of November seemed now like a troubled dream. Once more the only sounds which broke the silence were the chime of bells for service, the trickling of streams of water, the cawing of rooks in the elm trees by the moat, the chatter of the Jackdaws as they swung in and out of their nests on the cathedral towers. All within and around the Palace was calm and quiet.
And in the market square every sign of the late uproar was removed, thedébriscleared away; the cry of a child, the foot-fall of a pedestrian, or the low rumble of a distant cart, was heard with that wonderful distinctness which is born of surrounding stillness. Here and there a word was exchanged with a customer by the master of a shop, who, standing at the door, looked out upon the world with that quiet patient expectation of custom, unknown in busy, populous towns.
As the Bishop's carriage drove through the market-place, several figures appeared at the doors of theshops. The carriage was watched out of sight, the heads of the watchers were turned right and left, and then the figures disappeared again, like those weather-wise men and women in the old-fashioned barometers now, like many other quaint devices almost unknown.
If the day were fair and beautiful in Wells, it was doubly beautiful in the country. Joyce felt its influence, and, for the first time since her father's death, she sang gently to herself as she went about her household duties.
Since she had received Gilbert Arundel's letter, a ray of brightness had pierced the cloud. She had not answered it, for he had asked for no answer. And Joyce, in the sweet simplicity of her faith in him told herself, that she had given her promise not to forget him, and that in that promise he was resting till the time came for him to ask her that question, which he said he must ask, and to present the petition which he hoped she would grant.
Of course she was ready to give him what he asked for, but there was to her nature, always trusting and transparent, no hardship in waiting.
"If I doubted him I could not wait so patiently," she thought, "but Itrusthim."
As these thoughts were passing through her mind,she was tying up some branches of a pink China rose which grew against the porch.
"Give me another bit of cloth and a nail, Piers," she called to her brother.
The tap of Piers' crutches was heard in the hall as he went to do her bidding.
As she stood in the sunshine, with her arm raised to secure the truant branch of the trailing rose, waiting for her brother to bring the nail, a figure cast a shadow against the porch, and, turning her head, she saw a gentleman standing near her. Instantly she dropped the branch, and, with a bright colour in her cheek, waited till the stranger spoke.
"Miss Falconer, I think?" he said, his eyes fastening upon her fair young face.
"Yes," she said, simply. "Do you want to see my mother?"
"Nay," he said, "I came to seeyou. I have heard much of you; I am your brother's friend."
Joyce looked inquiringly at her visitor, and said, with a little quiver in her voice:
"I hope, sir, you have brought no ill news. We have had so much sorrow of late."
"I know it, indeed," the gentleman said. "I bring no bad news of your brother's health; he is abroad, I think."
"Yes, at Genoa; he was at Genoa when we heard last; we have not heard from him since our father's death."
"Ah! that was a sad loss for him and for you all. What a lovely place you have here, but very far removed from 'the world'—the world where you would shine as a bright star of beauty."
This broad flattery was received very differently from what the speaker expected. Joyce's face underwent an instant change, as she said:
"I think, sir, if you please, I must ask you to excuse me, for I have some things which are needing my attention this morning; perhaps," fearing she might seem deficient in courtesy, "you would like to rest a little while."
"You are very kind, fair lady; I will accept your offer, I shall be glad to rest. What a noble hall!" he exclaimed, as he stepped across the threshold, where Piers was leaning against the old oak table, his crutches under his arm.
"Piers," Joyce said, "this gentleman wishes to rest; will you ask Sarah to fetch him some refreshment?" She was thus dismissing the guest to the care of her brother, glad to escape from his prolonged and embarrassing scrutiny of her face, when Lord Maythorne said:
"Pardon me, I want to speak to you on a serious matter. I ought to have introduced myself earlier. I am Lord Maythorne; you will have heard of me?"
"Yes," Joyce said, calmly; "yes, I have heard of you."
"No good report, I will venture to affirm, guessing, as I do with some certainty, from whom the report came. If you tell that little boy—lame, I see, poor fellow!—to leave us, I will briefly relate the circumstances of my friendship with your brother. Come, Miss Falconer, do not be unjust to me, but hear what I have to say. I prefer that our conversation should be private; it is of great importance that you should hear what I have to say,alone."
Joyce hesitated; that instinctive dread of men who are neither honourable nor good, which all pure-minded maidens feel, made Joyce shrink back from the very touch of Lord Maythorne's hand, as he tried to take hers, with a gesture of profound reverence and raise it to his lips.
"I little thought," he murmured, "that I should find in Melville's sister any one so charming, and I confess that I ambouleverséat once. Nay, do not look so sternly at me."
"I do not know what right you have, my lord, to come here to alarm and annoy me. If the matteryou have to tell me is important about Melville, I would refer you to my brother Ralph, and Mr. Paget, who is my dear father's executor."
Piers, who had been watching the whole scene, now came hastily forward.
"Ralph has gone into the Wells market, and Joyce has no one at home but me to take care of her. She does not wish you to stay, and you ought to see that, and go away."
"You had better try the effect of one of your crutches on me, my boy! I am not going away, at present."
Piers reddened, and was beginning an angry rejoinder, when Joyce said, in a low tone:
"Go and stand at the further end of the hall, Piers, and I will go into the porch. If I want you I will call, but do not let mother know anyone is here. Now," she said, turning to Lord Maythorne, "we will go into the porch, if you please, and you can tell me about Melville."
"Well," Lord Maythorne said. "I had an interest in your brother, and I should have pulled him through his troubles, if it had not been for the meddling interference of a kinsman of mine, a young fellow—great in his own eyes—who cants like any old woman, and can turn up the whites of his eyes with anyMethodist in the land. He made a nice mess of it for your brother owes me the money, and if he had left us alone we should have arranged matters. As it was the whole story came out, your brother was 'sent down' and those sharks the tradespeople, poured bills upon your father's head."
"Yes," Joyce said, "which my father, my dear father, paid. What does Melville owe you?"
"A pretty round sum, but I would let it rest at five hundred pounds."
"Five hundred! Oh! it is impossible we could pay that. I will ask Mr. Watson and Mr. Paget——"
"Pray do nothing of the sort," said Lord Maythorne, with lofty superiority; "it is a mere trifle, but just now it happens to be a little inconvenient. The debts are such, as nohonourableman would leave unpaid. I promised Melville to keep them secret, and I have no wish to let the town crier go about with the news, but I naturally judged that on the death of his father, your brother would come into his fortune, and repay me."
"I do not think it is possible," Joyce said. "My dear father had so many sons, and it was hard to provide for them. Please let me think about it, and give you an answer. I must consult Ralph, who is in charge here now, till Melville comes home."
"Nay, I would ask as a great favour that you consult no one. If, when your brother returns, you can come to any arrangement, let me know. I would not wish topressmy claim unduly. I think you have seen my young nephew, Gilbert Arundel; he got a pitiable hold over your brother. It is not the best taste to abuse one's own relations, so I will forbear giving you Arundel's characterin extenso; suffice it to say, he is a hypocrite. He has been playing fast and loose ever since he was a boy, with a fair lady much older than himself; he fancies himself in love with her, and she is so foolish as to believe it. The ten years which separate them in age is a trifle in his eyes. She is handsome enough, and fascinating; knows the world and its ways, and, resents my good sister's pious exhortations, rather laughs at them, in fact. Am I speaking in riddles? Arundel's mother is my step-sister; my father taking it into his head to marry for the second time, when no one expected him to do so. But it was a lucky thing for the world at large that he did marry, for I am the result!" The low satirical laugh had a ring of bitterness in it, and the face that was really handsome, was clouded by a most disagreeable expression.
It was a hard ordeal for Joyce to be thus, as itwere, in the hands of a keen-witted man of the world, who, when he had finished his own story, began to pour out the most fulsome flattery, and to appear to take it for granted that Joyce would be won by it. He little knew the strength and courage which the "rustic beauty," as he inwardly called her, could show.
As soon as she could get a word in, she rallied herself, and said, in a low, determined voice:
"I do not wish to hear any more, my lord. I do not think you have any right to come here and offend me by saying what you cannot mean. I will take advice about my brother's debts to you, and, if you please, I will let you know the result."
"What a charming woman of business!" exclaimed Lord Maythorne. "A veritable Portia. A little indignant protest is so becoming. Well, well, we will leave the matter for the present."
And now a figure, clothed in deepest mourning, appeared from the hall behind, and Mrs. Falconer with a curtsey which was profoundly respectful, said:
"May I ask, sir, what brings you to the house of a poor widow? My daughter is very young and very inexperienced; I cannot allow you to remain to annoy her."
"My good lady, I am your daughter's slave. I am ready to lie at her feet. Annoy her, forsooth!"
Joyce, who had endured bravely up to this moment, sprang towards her mother as if instinctively for protection, and Mrs. Falconer took her hand in hers.
"What is it, my dear, what is it? Piers came to call me; I thought you were distressed."
This was really the first time since her sorrow that Mrs. Falconer had roused herself to take an interest in anything; but Piers' summons, with the announcement that there was a man in the porch talking to Joyce, and that he knew by the sound of her voice she was frightened, had not been in vain. The maternal love, deep in Mrs. Falconer's heart, asserted itself, and put to flight for the time the selfish brooding over her sorrow, in which for so many weeks she had indulged.
"Joyce is very young," she said, tenderly, "and she has been left to bear a burden too heavy for her years. I beg you, sir, to say no more to hurt her and annoy her, but to leave the premises."
"My dear madam," Lord Maythorne said, "I came in a friendly spirit to discuss a little business about your elder and very hopeful son. He owes me some eight hundred pounds—a debt of honour, but at thesame time a debt;" and, setting his teeth, "One I mean to have paid!It may seem a trifle to the owner of these broad acres, and to the inhabitants of this grand ancestral home, but to me it happens to be no trifle. Good morning."
Lord Maythorne turned away, raising his hat to Joyce, and saying:
"Adieu, mia bella! adieu!butau revoir! au revoir!"
Mrs. Falconer pressed Joyce, trembling and frightened to her side, saying, in a low voice:
"What does he mean? Who is he?"
"He means that Melville has lost money to him by gambling; I think he is Lord Maythorne."
"What is to be done? What is to be done, Joyce?" Mrs. Falconer said.
"We must consult Mr. Paget, dear mother. Oh! how glad I was when you came; he is such a bold, bad man."
"Poor child! Poor Sunshine!" Mrs. Falconer said; "I have been very much to blame to leave you all the burden; I willtryto do differently now. Kiss me, Joyce."
"And here is a carriage coming up the road," was Piers' next exclamation; "a carriage full of people."
"Oh! there is an old gentleman in a wig and shovel hat, and—"
"It must be the Bishop," exclaimed Mrs. Falconer; "what shall we do?"
It was too late for Mrs. Falconer to retreat, for the carriage had driven up before the door, and the footman had the handle of the bell in his hand.
"The Lord Bishop," he said, addressing Piers, "Mrs. Arundel, and Miss Anson. Is Mrs. Falconer at home?"
And now Joyce advanced out of the shadow, and stood under the roses by the porch.
The late encounter with Lord Maythorne had heightened her colour, and tears were still upon her long lashes—the tears of vexation she had tried so hard to keep back.
One glance, and Mrs. Arundel felt sure she saw before her her son's "Joyce, Sunshine, Birdie! for they call her all those names," he had said.
She looked just now, with her head drooping, and the traces of tears on her cheeks, very like one of the China roses above her, hanging its head after a shower.
Gratian also examined her critically.
She isbeautiful, she thought, but she has no style; while the Bishop leaned forward, and asked:
"May we alight?"
"Yes, my lord," Joyce said, in a low, gentle voice. "My mother has seen no visitors for a long time; but she will be pleased to see you, and—"
"Mrs. Arundel, I hope, also, and Miss Gratian Anson," the Bishop said, by way of introduction, "Madam," he continued, as he went into the hall, "Madam, I have heard of your good husband; I had once the pleasure—I may say the honour—of seeing him at the palace, and I desire to express to you my condolences. My son," he added, addressing a young gentleman in clerical dress, who was as much like his father as youth can resemble age, "my son is also anxious to pay his respects. My wife, Mrs. Law, is yet absent on account of her health, but returns to the palace next week."
Both the Bishop and his son were courtly gentlemen of what we call now "the old school," and they had peculiarly clear and sonorous voices; the old man's set in rather a lower key than his son's.
"Pray, my lord," Mrs. Falconer said, "walk in, and I beg you to excuse a desolate sitting room," opening a door to the right of the hall; "I have never had courage to sit here since—since our trouble. Joyce draw up the blinds and set the chairs." Mrs. Falconer said this, with something of her old quickness.
"Our little parlour would be warmer, mother; this room feels cold," Joyce said, in a low tone, as she obeyed her mother, and noticed the cold, damp, unused atmosphere, which always clings to a room that has been closed for some time.
That room, with its three windows set in thick frames, with deep window-seats beneath, had been Mrs. Falconer's pride. As she looked round now, the furniture seemed dull, and the whole aspect of things changed.
"Yes," she said, sadly, "yes, you are right, Joyce; this room is not fit to sit down in; we will go to our own sitting room, if his lordship will follow me."
The whole party adjourned there, and Piers, with unusual forethought, had already ordered a tray to be brought in; for it was alwaysen règlein country houses in those days to offer refreshment of wine and cake, as calls were paid early, just as afternoon tea is brought in now for visitors later in the day.
Mrs. Arundel left the Bishop to talk to Mrs. Falconer, and Gratian won Piers' heart by professing the deepest interest in his drawer full of birds' eggs, which happened to be opened. That was one of Gratian's strongest weapons; she took, or appeared to take, an interest in everybody's particular hobby, and yet she was listening with one ear to every wordthat passed between Mrs. Arundel and Joyce. Poor Piers was quite unconscious that he had not her whole attention. When Mr. Law joined the discussion she withdrew and said to Joyce, "I should like to see the grounds, would you show me round." Piers wondered at her abrupt departure from the contemplation of the wren's eggs, and his animated story of the way the little wrens huddle together in a nest in the winter, under ground, in a hedge facing south, and come out to try the air in the first warm days in February, retiring again if it is too cold for them.
Joyce led the way, thankful to see how much more her mother looked like herself, as she told to the sympathetic ear of the Bishop the story of her grief.
Gratian took pains to suit herself to her company; she always did. She linked her arm through Joyce's, and talked in a low voice, instead of her wonted high pitched rattle. She told her how grieved she felt for her; she could easily imagine what such a sorrow must be; for she, a "poor orphan" herself, could indeed sympathise with her.
So she talked, as they paced the gravel walk under the sunny south wall of the old-fashioned garden, where the arms of a huge pear-tree were still heavily laden with brown fruit, and where bushes of pale lilac, Michaelmas daisies, and lavender, still attracted anumber of late bees and errant wasps, who, like all the rest of the world, found it hard to believe that this was the November sunshine of a short winter's day, and not the long drawn out heat of July.
"I should like to know more of you; to see more," Gratian was saying. "Of course, I expected you were charming from what Gilbert told me. Gilbert and I aregreatfriends; he tells me everything."
A scarcely perceptible recoil, in the little figure by her side, was not lost on Gratian.
"Yes," she said, "he is a dear boy—a little spoiled by the notions he has taken up lately; but they are spreading everywhere. The Cambridge men are even worse than the Oxford men. However, I won't quarrel with Gilbert about that, and I can take a little preachment from him. Aunt Bella is pleased with anything Gilbert says or does; and as to Maythorne——"
Joyce started, very visibly this time, at that name, and said, withdrawing her hand from her companion's arm, and stooping to gather some sprigs of lavender:
"I suppose Lord Maythorne is a relation of yours?"
"Distant; very distant," was the reply. "A connection is nearer the truth."
"Because," Joyce said, "I think he is a very bad andwicked man, and I wish you could tell him never to come here again."
"Come here! Has he been here," Gratian exclaimed. "What on earth did he come here for?"
"He had not been gone half-an-hour before the Bishop's carriage drove up. He has, as you know, done my eldest brother a great deal of mischief; and, though my dear father thought he had cleared all his debts, this Lord Maythorne says that he still owes him a great deal, and we cannot pay it."
"And is that what he came to say; very kind and pleasant of him, I must confess. I expect he said a great deal more."
Joyce blushed scarlet.
"He was very impertinent," she said, "and talked in a very free way to me, but it is over now, and I wish to forget it. Only, if you can, will you prevent him from coming again; or as he is Mrs. Arundel's brother, could you askherto prevent him. When I have consulted Mr. Paget, dear father's executor and our trustee, I will try if any of the money can be paid."
"Don't think of paying a farthing," Gratian said, "pray; I will see what I can do in the matter. I will talk to Gilbert. Gilbert is certain to do what I ask him, and I know how much he cared about yourbrother. Yes, you may depend upon my doing my best, you darling!" Gratian said, stooping down and kissing Joyce's rounded cheek.
Joyce made no response, as Gratian expected, and then they walked silently to the house.
As they drove towards Wells, Gratian, after a pause suddenly said:
"Aunt Bella, Maythorne is still in this neighbourhood. He has been at Fair Acres to-day."
"Maythorne!" Mrs. Arundel exclaimed. Then to herself, but not aloud, she said:
"I must let Gilbert know at once."
From the time of the Bishop's visit, Mrs. Falconer began to resume her usual employments. She covered her crape with a large apron, and pinned back the long "weepers" of her large widow's cap, and went about the house again, with none of her old sprightly manner, but still going through her duties in regular order.
It was a time which needed much patience, for, as was natural, Mrs. Falconer saw many things which she considered neglected, and Joyce felt herself held responsible for the misdemeanours of the maids, especially of Susan Priday.
The schoolmistress at Mendip had given Susan an excellent character, and Mrs. More had dictated a note to Joyce from her sick bed, telling her that she believed Susan might really prove a friend as well as a servant, for gratitude would be the spring of all her work, gratitude to Joyce for taking her, and holding her free from all blame in her father's ill-doings andbad life, which had apparently been the cause of the great sorrow which had fallen upon Fair Acres.
Mrs. Falconer had consented with the cold apathetic consent which was discouraging enough. She had taken little or no notice of Susan's presence in the kitchen and dairy till she began to come forth from her seclusion. Then, indeed, poor Susan had a hard time of it; but love, and gratitude to Joyce, were too strong for her to show any resentment for the many unjust suspicions and sharp reproofs which she had to bear.
"It's only what I must look for, Miss Joyce," she said one day, when the breaking of a plate, which she had never touched, was at once laid to her charge. "It's only what I must look for. My dear mother always used to say, when poor father beat and ill-used her, that she remembered some words of St. Peter, that if you were buffeted for doingwell, that is, doing your best, and took it patiently, it was acceptable in God's sight. Besides, Miss Joyce, I have been used to hard words, and I know how brokenhearted the poor mistress is; why, she is even a bit cross to Master Piers and you, which is more than I can understand, for you are next door to an angel, Miss Joyce."
"No, Susan I don't feel at all angelic. That is amistake. I feel angry and discontented sometimes, if I don't show it. There are so many troubles which can't be talked of."
"Yes, miss, I know that well enough; but you can tell them to God, and that's a rare comfort. Dozens of times in the day I tell Him of my biggest trouble, that I have a father who——"
Susan stopped, threw her coarse apron over her head, and ran away to scour the pans in the dairy till they shone like silver.
The bright November weather soon vanished, and the winter closed in rapidly. Except for a visit of a few days from Miss Falconer and Charlotte, nothing occurred to break the monotony of this dead time of the year. Farming and gardening operations were suspended, and Ralph got out his beloved books again, and Piers arranged and re-arranged his large collection of curiosities, and Christmas drew near.
Joyce had given up listening for a footstep on the road, or looking anxiously for the old postman, who trudged from Wells, on fine days, with the letters, but in bad weather pleased himself as to the length of his rounds.
Mrs. Falconer worked, and knitted, and darned, and, when the wind blew fiercely round the house on the dark winter nights, thought of her little Middies tossingabout on the wide sea; and of Melville in that far-off land, which she knew more by its shape of a boot on the map Piers had hung up in his room, than by any distinct notion of what was to be seen there.
Rome, Florence, Naples, were but names to her, and as dim and distant as Haiphong or Hong Kong are to many in the present day.
'Melville was in Italy,' and her interest in the country was expressed in these words. Melville's letter, written on hearing of his father's death, was sad enough. Weak natures like his, always find relief in trouble by many words, and give vent to grief by vain protestations of affection and of remorse.
Mrs. Falconer treasured the letter, and read it many times, and thought Joyce unfeeling in expressing so little sympathy with her brother. There could be no doubt that all his wilful disregard of his father's wishes started up before Melville, now that it was too late to atone for them, and for the time, as he said, "he was distracted with grief." But there was no word of a desire to redeem the past by coming to Fair Acres and doing his best to perform his duties there. Selfish people are not cured by trouble of their selfishness. It commonly happens that they are more selfish in their grief than in their joy, more self-absorbed by pain than pleasure.
While Melville could write of his distracted condition, of his love for his father, of his burning indignation against the wretch who had caused his death, and of his determination to have him brought to justice, Joyce was silent; only sometimes, when kneeling by Piers' bed, would she allow her grief full vent; only when alone in the seat under the fir trees would she cry out in the bitterness of her heart for the lost father who had been so dear to her.
And there were other causes of trouble, which she could scarcely confess to herself. Not another word had Gilbert Arundel written, not another sign had he made of remembrance. She knew now, as the time went on, that she loved him, and that, after all, she was nothing to him. How could she have been so foolish? How often she had laughed at Charlotte's fancied admirers, at her continual discovery that some one was in love with her, but was kept back by circumstances from declaring his devotion! For the minor canon was one of a long list of visionary admirers, and he had been followed by the pale-faced clergyman she had met at Barley Wood, about whom, during the few days Charlotte had spent at Fair Acres, she had talked, till Joyce grew weary of the theme.
"Such nonsense!" she had said. "Besides, no girl ought to acknowledge herself to be in love tillshe has had good reason given her. It is not nice; it is not womanly."
And as day by day passed, and night after night, when she leaned against the casement of her window, when the stars were throbbing and shining in the deep-blue of the winter's sky, she had to confess, with deep abasement of spirit, that she had been as weak as poor Charlotte, nay, weaker; for as Charlotte's heroes fell from their pedestals, or vanished into thin air like the mirage in the desert, she could always replace them, and pour forth her romantic soul in verses addressed to new objects, as if the old had never existed.
But Joyce told herself she must suffer the consequences of her weakness for ever and a day. No one could ever again be to her what Gilbert had been, in that first happy time of awakening love.
Joyce's pale cheeks and wistful eyes at last attracted her mother's notice. In these days she would have been taken to see a doctor, ordered change of air and scene, and put upon somerégimeas to food. But, except in cases of severe illness, people did not resort to doctors as they do now-a-days, and the nervous patients and chronic invalids, resigned themselves to unlimited home physic, and took their poor health as a matter of course.
"Joyce," Mrs. Falconer said, one day, early in February, when the season of Christmas they had all dreaded so much was past; "Joyce, I think it would do you good to spend a few days with Aunt Letitia at Wells."
Joyce tried to smile.
"I don't want to be done good to, mother; besides, I can't leave you."
"Yes, you can. Mr. Paget said yesterday you looked as if you wanted a change. It's a wonder Mrs. More has not asked you to Barley Wood again."
"She has been so ill," Joyce said; "it is not likely she could invite me."
"And then there is Mrs. Arundel and her niece that came here last fall; not a word have we heard of them."
"Yes, mother; you forget. I have heard twice, about—about Lord Maythorne. Mrs. Arundel has kept him from coming here again. Besides, she is busy settling into a home, and besides——"
"I think it is very odd, Mr. Arundel has never written, or come here again."
"He wrote to me once," Joyce said, in a low voice.
"Did you answer the letter?"
"No, mother," Joyce said, springing up quickly, and,with a great effort, throwing off her sadness. "No; there was nothing to answer. But Iwillgo and stay a day or two with Aunt Letitia, if you want to get rid of me. Ralph can take a note in to Wells to-morrow, when he goes in to the market. I shall only stay two days, but we must find out whether Aunt Letitia wants me first."
Miss Falconer was really pleased that Joyce should propose a visit, and the little guest-chamber in the Vicar's Close was made ready with willing hands, and Charlotte hailed Joyce's appearance, that she might tell her of all her hopes and fears.
Charlotte had been twice at the Palace during the winter. Mrs. Law, gentle and kindly, had taken an interest in the young people in Wells, and had invited Charlotte, amongst others, to tea. Tea at six o'clock, on some day when the bishop and his chaplain and Mr. Henry Law, were absent on some business in the diocese.
If it had been a great thing to visit Mrs. Hannah More at Barley Wood, it was a greater to take tea at the palace. With the wigs of the last and preceding century, the bishops have thrown off a great deal of the episcopal state, which was once considered a part of the duty of the peer spiritual. And a certain air of solemnity pervaded the Wells palace,even when presided over by such true "gentlefolks" as the bishop and Mrs. Law. That old-fashioned word seems to suit the host and hostess at the Wells palace far better than any other term I could use. That innate grace and refinement of feeling is sometimes, it is true, acquired, but it is a plant of slow growth, especially amongst those, who suddenly raised to a position of importance in the Church, feel the elevation makes them a little dizzy. The Bishop's wife, then presiding over the palace, had always moved in the higher circles of society, and, therefore, neither at Carlisle nor Wells did she find it necessary to impress upon humbler people that she stood on a vantage ground to which few could approach. She was dignified, though she was gentle, and no one would ever pass the barrier which divides familiarity, from free and pleasant intercourse. Mrs. Law, like everyone else, was greatly taken with Joyce Falconer; and again poor Charlotte began to feel that with no effort at all her cousin was winning her way, and making an impression which, with all her efforts, she felt she did not succeed in doing.
Miss Falconer was surprised when, the day after the girls had spent an evening at the palace, Mrs. Law sent a little three-cornered note of invitation to Joyce to spend Sunday at the palace before shereturned to Fair Acres. The footman waited for a reply, and the discussion of Mrs. Law's note caused no little excitement in the parlour, of which the servant, if he had been so minded, could have heard every word.
"My dear Joyce, what will you do? You have no suitable dress for such a visit; and yet it is a pity to miss it. I really do not know what to advise."
"I think I should like to go to the palace, Aunt Letitia," Joyce said.
"Like! yes; but are you prepared for such a visit?"
"Oh! yes; I have my best frock, the black bombazine, and my crape bonnet. That need not hinder me."
"But, my dear, people in Mrs. Law's position wear evening gowns, with low necks and short sleeves.Ihave moved in these circles, and of course——"
"We must not keep the servant waiting, Aunt Letitia; if you give me leave, I should like to accept the invitation."
"Very well," said Miss Falconer; "there is my writing-case; take care how you write; begin, 'Miss Joyce Falconer presents her respects.'"
"But Mrs. Law addresses me as, 'Dear Miss Falconer'; had I not better begin, 'Dear Madam, or dear Mrs. Law'?"
"Oh!not'Dear Mrs. Law.' My dear child, how ignorant you are of etiquette."
Joyce seated herself, and wrote a few words accepting the invitation from Saturday to the Monday following, and took it herself to the footman.
"You should have rung for Phœbe, really Joyce, mydear!" But it was too late. Charlotte, who had been "composing" in the sitting-room upstairs, had heard voices, and now came down just as Joyce had closed the door on the footman from the palace.
"An invitation tostayat the palace! Oh! Joyce, how fortunate you are. Mrs. Law might have asked me!"
"She knows you live in the place, my love," said Miss Falconer.
Charlotte sighed. "If I didnotlive here it would be all the same."
But Charlotte was really an amiable girl, and her devotion to Joyce was sincere and true.
"Well," she said, "what will you wear, dear? Can I lend you any pretty things? My amber beads—or—my filigree comb. Oh! I forgot! Of course, you are still in deep black."
"It is very kind of you, Charlotte," Joyce said; "you always are kind; but I don't want anything."
The whole of that day Joyce's visit to the palaceengrossed the little party in the Vicar's Close. Some cronies of Miss Falconer came in for a gossip by the fireside, and were duly informed of the invitation, and were duly congratulatory and a little jealous, although there was a certain amount of satisfaction, that it was not Charlotte whom Mrs. Law had delighted to honour.
It was a memorable visit to Joyce, and in a way she little expected. The first evening passed pleasantly; and with a white muslin fichu, which Miss Falconer insisted upon making for her, crossed over her black gown, Joyce looked her best. The sleeves of best gowns in those days were cut rather short, and Joyce wore on her round, white arms a pair of black lace mittens, which Charlotte had lent her.
Her beautiful hair needed no adornment; it fell round her forehead in natural curls, and was piled up without the help of cushions or frizzettes, a natural crown of chesnut and gold. As at Barley Wood, so at the palace; Joyce was too simple-minded to be stiff or constrained in manner, and she conversed so pleasantly with a young son of the bishop, who gave her his arm when they went to dinner, that he, in his turn, did his best to be agreeable, and she was soon telling him of her little sailor brothers, of Piers and his collection of butterflies, of Ralph and his love ofstudy, and the brave way in which he had come to live at Fair Acres and do his best to turn into a farmer.
If the Saturday evenings were pleasant, how delightful was the Sunday, when, in the sunshine of the early February day, the party from the palace crossed to the cloister door, and went to the morning service in the cathedral. It has been said of Wells that it is always Sunday there; no sounds but the ringing of bells for service; no business, and no traffic in the streets. But certain it is, that nowhere is the real Sabbath stillness more profound, nor more refreshing to the tired in spirit, on a day like that February day, when Joyce was seated in the high pew belonging to the Bishop. The cathedral is always a vision of beauty, and when the swelling of the organ and the voices of the choristers are hushed, and a pause occurs after the benediction has been pronounced, the sounds without the building seem in direct harmony with those within; for the Lady Chapel abuts on the lawn of the Sub-Dean's residence, where the waters of St. Joseph's Well lie deep; and there is the murmur of the streams, the chirp of birds, the soft coo of pigeons, and the distinct chatter of the jackdaw from the West front.
Joyce went out of the cathedral filled with peaceful thoughts of the temple, of which this was but thefaint shadow, the temple which has no need of the sun to lighten it, for the Lamb is the light thereof.
Quite forgetting that she ought to turn towards the cloisters, Joyce walked on down the nave before the Bishop's party had missed her. The sweet seriousness of her face as she went out into the sunshine almost held back the welcome, which was trembling on the lips of someone who was standing near the porch, and had watched her coming down the wide nave.
She was passing out, wrapt in her own meditations when Gilbert Arundel put out his hand:
"Joyce!"
She started, and blushed rosy red.
"You did forget me, then!" he exclaimed, reproachfully.
"Forget you, no."
"You did not reply to my letter?"
"You did not ask me to write."
They now found themselves by the turnstile under the old clock, that quaint clock which, it is said, was made to strike many times in succession for the amusement of that gracious and sagacious King James, who laughed till his sides ached, as the old knights, in their black armour, hit the bell with their battle-axes, beneath the suggestive motto, "Nequid pereat." They hit it now with, all their wonted vigour four times, and then the clock struckone.