_MY LORD AND MY LADY._
I have spoken of other matters first; but it must not be thought that
the affairs of Mistress Mary and my lord had been forgotten all this
time.
Both, however, were in safe hiding; and until the wicked Judge had left
for London, and till peace and tranquillity had settled down upon our
distracted country, it was better that they should remain there. No
one knew exactly what turn might be taken by affairs from day to day;
and especially until Mr. Blewer had left Taunton, I was in continual
anxiety as to Mistress Mary's safety, being haunted by a fear that he
would get wind somehow of the trick played upon him, and discover the
maid in her hiding-place.
Not that I thought now he could do aught to molest her, for all the
place was hot against him; but the Judge's words were that he had
liberty to wed the maid, and who could tell what steps he might not
take in order to obtain possession of her once more?
So Mistress Mary lay in hiding, whilst her towns-folk talked of her as
dead; and so the days slipped by. I heard also good news of my lord
at Ilminster, when I rode Blackbird across to ask for him. I had but
a short while to stay; but I saw him for a few minutes, and told him
that Mistress Mary was safe, albeit I gave him not the whole history
of her peril, fearing that he would incontinently come forth from his
hiding-place to defend her, and perhaps put both their lives in peril
thereby.
For the pardon, although talked of, had not yet reached us; and it was
scarce safe for one of my lord's rank to show himself openly, though
others might venture to do so, as Master Simpson had done.
I think it was two days after this visit that Mistress Mary Bridges
sent for me on some excuse about her pony--for I had chosen one for her
not long since, and had helped to break it in. When I arrived she took
me into the paddock, dismissing all others; and whilst we stood there
seeming to be talking of the pony, who came and stood beside us, she
began, in her quick, eager fashion,--
"Dicon, what are we to do next?"
I knew what she meant, and I had asked myself the question many a time
before, but I had never found the answer. Mistress Mary continued, in
her quick, imperious fashion,--
"Mary cannot stay where she is much longer. It is no fit place for her
when the winter days come. Only those born in the marshes can live
there, and they ofttimes suffer from ague and marsh fever. Mary cannot
stand it much longer. But where can she go? Mary Mead is dead. I know
not whether she would suffer some penalty--or her friends--if she came
to life again; and Lord Lonsdale hath her money, for he is her heir.
And how can we get it back for her without telling all? And I fear Lord
Lonsdale. He is not like my father; and he is a King's man every inch.
What are we to do for her next, Dicon? Methinks that thou and I have
this secret to ourselves. Sometimes I half fear at what we have done,
and then again I say that were it to do over again I would do just
the same. But Mary cannot always lie hidden; and how is she to appear
again? That is what is perplexing me. Dicon, what shall we do?"
"Marry her to my lord!" I cried suddenly, struck by an unexpected
inspiration. "So she will be my Lady Vere, and Mistress Mary Mead no
longer. If she has lost one name, let her have another bestowed upon
her. Let her be married to my lord!"
Mistress Mary's eyes brightened like stars.
"Ah, Dicon, a good thought!" she cried, clasping her hands over the
pony's neck; "but how may that be accomplished?"
I was not quite so ready with an answer; but after a pause I said,--
"Mistress Mary, suppose you tell your lady mother all, and ask for her
advice; and I will think over a notion which has but just now entered
my head. Let us meet again upon the third day from this, and speak of
what we have done. If you could get Mistress Mary safely to Ilminster
in a secret fashion, perchance the rest might be managed; but until the
pardon be issued, my lord cannot openly show himself, for he does not
know that his own father might not give him up to justice, so grieved
and wroth was he at seeing his son in arms against the King."
"Ah no; he is not so bad as that!" answered Mistress Mary. "And men
talk very differently of the King from what they did a few weeks back.
He has lost many of his friends, and will likely lose more."
"Then things will be all the better for us and our plans, Mistress," I
said; and after some more conversation of no especial moment, I left
her and returned to Taunton full of my own plan, which was indeed one
of much boldness, seeing how humble mine own birth was, and that it was
something bold of me to think of speaking with the great ones of the
earth.
Yet my idea was nothing less than to strive to win the good Bishop Ken
to stand our friend; and as he had always given me a friendly smile and
nod since the day when he had seen me in the prison, I thought I might
even presume to seek speech of him, since all men said how gentle and
courteous he was to all who approached him, and how he was striving to
bring back peace and prosperity to his distracted diocese.
Moreover, he was still in Taunton at this time; and I had heard it said
that he was shortly going to visit Mr. Speke of White Lackington House,
near to Ilminster, of which mention has been made before. Mr. Speke
had lost a son in the rebellion, executed at Ilminster, and he himself
lay under charges to pay a very heavy fine for his supposed or real
share in the rebellion. The Bishop's visit was one of condolence and
friendship, and was likely to last a week or more. If I could but get
speech of him before he started, I felt hopeful of bringing this matter
of my lord's to a happy conclusion.
Fortune favoured me; for I met the Bishop the very next morning,
walking and meditating quite alone in some of the meadows beside the
stream. I had heard that he had been seen to leave the town, but I
scarce hoped to light upon him thus easily. He gave me a smile and
a nod as usual, and then paused to ask how Will Wiseman fared, and
was pleased to hear that he had been released and taken back to his
master's house, where he was treated now as a son. And when we had
spoken a few minutes of him, and the Bishop would have passed on, I
plucked up my courage and said,--
"My lord, may I speak a word to you concerning something that lies
heavy upon my heart?"
He gave me a quick, keen look, and then motioned me to walk beside him;
and although he was so high and great a man, before whom all men bowed
as he went along the streets, yet I am very sure that he told me as he
walked that he was my servant, and that I need not fear to speak openly
of what was burdening me. And I have thought, both then and since,
that the holier and greater men are, the humbler and gentler they show
themselves. Sure no man could have listened with so much kindliness to
my story had not his heart been as full of the love of God as our good
Bishop's was.
And I told him everything from first to last--all that I have been
laboriously striving to set forth in these pages--all of it, at least,
that in any way concerned my lord and Mistress Mary; and how that
she was living all the while, though held dead by her towns-folk and
acquaintance; and how my lord was in hiding with mine aunt, and that I
believed it was commonly reported that he had died of his wounds in the
prison, though of that I could not speak certainly. But I spoke of the
love those twain had ever borne one another, and how that death would
be more welcome to either than to be sundered through this life; and
at last, with tears starting to my eyes (for I had worked myself up to
a state of great excitement), I stopped short and threw myself at the
Bishop's feet, and cried through my sobs,--
"And, O my lord, if you would but be their friend and marry them, so
that none could sunder them more, they would bless you for ever, and I
trow you never would repent it; and methinks even Lord Lonsdale would
rejoice to have his son given back to him--with so fair and sweet a
bride at his side. He loves Mistress Mary--he always loved her; and
sure to have them both brought back as if from the grave would gladden
any father's heart! O my lord, think of it--think of it, I pray you on
my bended knees!"
"Nay, nay, lad," answered the Bishop, laying a kindly hand upon my
head; "it is to God alone that prayers must be addressed upon our
bended knee. I am thy brother and fellow-servant; no such prayers
should thy lips frame or my ears listen to. Get upon thy feet, lad,
and calm thyself. I can make thee no promise as to what I will or will
not do in this strange case that thou hast laid before me, but I will
at least relieve thy young shoulders from the burden they bear, see
Lord Vere myself, and that right soon, and hear what he has to say of
all this. I knew him as a fair child, and I have some knowledge of his
father. I am deeply interested in thy tale. I say not that all has
been well done; but I will not condemn thee, because thou hast been
sorely tempted, and in these dark days of fear the best and strongest
are ofttimes led to swerve from the straight path of virtue. There,
boy, go home with thee. I would think more of this. And if thou knowest
what becomes of Mistress Mary, let me hear it ere I leave for Ilminster
three days hence."
I raced homewards with a heart wonderfully lightened of the load which
had begun to press sorely upon it. And it was still more lightened when
I next saw Mistress Mary Bridges, who told me that she had whispered
her story of Mary's escape into her mother's ear; and that although
the mother was rather disturbed and uneasy at the daring scheme, she
had not chidden her daughter overmuch, and was helping now to get the
other Mary conveyed away to Ilminster, where her face was not known,
and where she might remain in safe obscurity until something had been
decided. Lady Bridges had a sister living in that town, and was about
to send her daughter to her on a visit, the elder Mary accompanying
her as her maid. It was no longer safe for her to remain amid the
unwholesome marshes, and as soon as Sir Ralph should return from town
the matter was to be laid before him, and he would advise the next step.
My heart bounded with joy when I heard that Ilminster was to be the
place of Mistress Mary's residence; for was not my lord there? and if
he were there and the good Bishop too, what might not happen to bring
all things to a happy conclusion? I did not tell Mistress Mary of my
talk with the Bishop, fearing lest I should stir up hopes which might
not be fulfilled later; but I hugged the knowledge in my heart, and I
thought of little else during the days which followed. My heart was in
Ilminster, but I was kept at Taunton by my work in my uncle's house.
Life was beginning to move in its accustomed grooves again, and I had
my set duties to attend to, and could not rove about almost at will, as
I had done during the months of distraction and excitement during which
life seemed to have entirely changed its conditions. I could run to and
fro in the town, and visit friends there at leisure moments; read or
tell the news to poor Will; and make a little boyish love to Lizzie,
who grew dearer and dearer to me every week. But I could not get off
to Ilminster for some while, and no letter reached me from thence.
Mistress Mary Bridges, as I heard, was still with her aunt; and that
was all I knew.
The house next door stood blank and empty. Poor Miss Blake had died in
prison of jail fever or small-pox (as was severally reported) very soon
after her admission there. Mrs. Musgrave, who had always kept much more
in the background, had now retired, and the school which had obtained
such a sudden notoriety ceased to exist.
The general pardon, so anxiously waited for by the still half-fearful
people, came at last; and we were glad when it did so that Miss Blake
was no longer in this world, for her name had been excepted from it,
and figured upon the list of those whom the King refused to pardon.
The Maids who had presented the colours (or rather their parents and
friends) were still being harried by the Maids of Honour for the
fine-money, and the negotiation was long of settlement. The rapacious
Court ladies demanded seven thousand pounds; but after long wrangling
I believe they were forced to content themselves with less than half.
From time to time I used to hear from the indignant Lizzie that the
matter was still under negotiation; but how it was finally adjusted I
cannot now remember, nor is it of any moment to these pages.
The arrival of the general pardon was the signal for a public holiday.
Bonfires blazed, bells rang joyfully from the church steeples, and I
asked and obtained leave to take myself off and ride to Ilminster to
see how my kinswoman there fared.
All the town was astir and in holiday guise, as Taunton had been when
Blackbird and I rode forth in the morning. Although the wind was sharp
and keen, the sun shone merrily, and all faces looked beaming and
happy. At my aunt's house I saw an appearance of stir and festivity
by no means usual there; and when I stopped at the door and asked for
her, I was told that she was at the church, and that I had best follow
her there. This I was ready to do, for I took it to be some special
thanksgiving service that was going on, and I was willing enough to
add my voice to that of a glad and happy people, relieved from a long
oppression and fear. But when I neared the church, I saw few persons
going in or coming out, and concluded that my aunt must have gone to
repeat her private thanksgivings there.
Nevertheless having come so far, I was not to be turned back, and I
entered the building with bent head and hushed footfall, hearing a
voice at the upper end reciting some office, though the seats about the
lower end of the church were all empty.
Treading cautiously so as not to be heard, I advanced towards the
choir, when I was suddenly arrested by a sight that sent the blood
surging into my head till I felt that I must grasp something solid
or I should surely fall. For the service going on was a wedding. The
bride and the bridegroom were even now joining hands, and speaking
the irrevocable word which made them man and wife. I did not need to
look to recognize the clear tones of my lord's voice, nor the soft
sweetness of Mistress Mary's, nor yet the beautiful mellowness of the
good Bishop's. Yet when the mist had cleared from my eyes, I gazed and
gazed as though I could never satisfy myself. Yes, there was my lord,
looking more beautiful than ever with his golden hair, his deep-blue
eyes, his face still pale from sickness and confinement, but with a
look of restored health, that made my heart bound. And there beside
him, in a long trailing gown of white that gave to her the air and
dignity of an empress, was Mistress Mary Mead--though that name had
but now passed from her keeping for ever--a veil just shading her fair
face, but unable to hide the beautiful features and the glories of the
dark unfathomable eyes.
Close beside her, as being the one who had given her in marriage, was
Sir Ralph Bridges, tall, upright, and soldier-like; whilst clinging
to her mother's hand, sparkling, kindling, brimming over with joyful
excitement, was the younger Mistress Mary, who can henceforth claim
exclusive right to that title; and behind them, some paces distant, my
aunt, looking proud and happy beyond all words; and some score or more
of persons who had heard the romantic story, and were anxious to be
present at the nuptials.
The marriage over, the Bishop gave a fatherly blessing; and soon the
little procession moved down the long aisle to the door, to which I had
now retreated.
As they came out, my lord's eyes suddenly fell upon me, and at once
kindled with such a look as sent the hot blood surging into my face.
"Dicon--it is good Dicon!" he cried, and held out his hand; whilst
over Mistress--I mean the Viscountess Vere's face there flashed such
a sweet, tender smile, that I cherish the memory of it to this very
day. "Good Dicon, my only sorrow to-day was that thou wert not here to
see it," said my lord. "What fairy messenger brought thee here in time
after all?"
I could not reply categorically to the question. My lord in his
white-and-silver suit, his golden locks flowing over his shoulders, the
sunlight streaming upon him, his face full of light and unspeakable
happiness, was a vision so bright and so beautiful that my eyes were
dazzled, and my heart too full for speech. I think they understood, for
the lady smiled at me and then at her husband, and she said in a gentle
tone,--
"We will see him again anon, Reginald.--For the present, good Dicon,
farewell. Come to us again another time."
Bowing low before them as they moved towards the coach that awaited
them, I could only exclaim in a gasping voice,--
"My dear lord! my gracious lady!"