"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.