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.