Under the Mendips: A Tale

"Missus is like somebody else; can't believe it is missus at all," the maids said, when Joyce returned with the orders for poor Susan to remain all night, and to be cared for till the morning.

The poor girl was so utterly exhausted that she had fallen asleep, her face hidden on her arm, her elbows on the kitchen table; and her attitude of utter helplessness touched Joyce.

"Be kind to her," she said; "she is very unhappy. Be kind to her, Sarah. I know you will be kind to her as I wish it."

Then Joyce ran to her room and took the letter from her pocket.

The evening was closing in fast, but kneeling on the window-seat, she opened the lattice, and all the daylight yet lingering in the west fell upon the clearly written page of Bath post paper.

The letter was dated: "Sion Hill, Clifton, near Bristol," and began:

"If I have delayed sending you an expression of my sympathy in your trouble, dear Miss Falconer, it has been that I feared to intrude upon you in your grief, and feared, too, that I should touch it with too rough a hand. But I remember your parting words, your kind promise not to forget me. Thus I venture to tell you that I bear you ever in my mind, and that the time may come, will come, when I shall beg you to hear more from me than I can say now, and grant me a very earnest petition. But not now would I speak of myself or of my hopes and fears. Rather would I tell you how I pray God to comfort you for the loss of a father, whom I count it an honour to have known. I would ask you to believe that I, who have had the privilege of watching the happy home-life – now, alas! so sadly broken up – can, at least, understand what the wreck must be. Please present my regards and sympathy to Mrs. Falconer, and assure her of my remembrance of her kindness to me while her guest at Fair Acres, if indeed you think I may venture so far.

"I remain, dear Miss Falconer,

"Your very faithful and true

"Gilbert DeCourcy Arundel."

There was a postscript written on the blank part of the sheet of Bath post, which was folded over.

"My mother is likely to visit the Palace, at Wells, in November. I have charged her, if possible, to see you at Fair Acres. I have heard nothing from your brother, but I am well satisfied that he is out of England, for reasons which you know. – G. DeC. A."

The reserved style of this letter, so different from the random shots of the present day, when young men and maidens seem to think the form of a telegram the most appropriate way of expressing their thoughts, may provoke a smile, and be pronounced priggish and formal. But in Joyce's eyes it was a perfect letter, and she felt it to be a support and comfort to her in her loneliness. Words which come from the heart seldom miss their aim; and Joyce felt that, underlying those carefully written lines, there was the certainty that if her promise to him was fulfilled, and that she thought, even in her sorrow, of him continually, he, on his part, did not forget her.

In the simplicity of her young heart, she had never dreamed that Gilbert could really care for her, and his long silence had made her think of him only as of someone who had passed out of her life, and was to be in future but a memory. Now the fluttering hope became almost a certainty, and she repeated to herself many times that evening, as a bird repeats its song over and over with the same rapture of content —

"I bear you ever in my mind, and the time may come, will come, when I will beg you to hear more from me than I dare to say now, and grant me a very earnest petition."

"The time will come – the time will come, and, meanwhile, I can wait," she thought. "Yes, the time will come, and I can wait."

CHAPTER X.

THE FIFTH OF NOVEMBER

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 latter part 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, you are 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; I must see 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 hastened to 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, if not a 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 about anything. 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! I thought you would not be able to resist it, Mr. Dacres," Gratian said. "I knew you 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 along which 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.

"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 the élite of the county and neighbourhood. 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 great finale of 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.

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 shouting and 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 and half 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 wonted aspect. 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, the débris cleared 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 the shops. 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 I trust him."

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.