“We must admit nothing which turns our worship from inward to outward, which tends to set the transitory in place of the eternal. Nothing external, however splendid and impressive, can bring us nearer to the Divine; but external things may engross and exhaust our powers of devotion. Veils of sense, no less than veils of intellect, may come between us and the spiritual, in which alone we can rest. To rest in forms is idolatry. Earth may hold us still under the guise of heaven.”
—Christian Aspects of Life.—Bishop Westcott.
When the two had passed through the little gate in the churchyard, and had disappeared inside the building, Peter Waghorn crept cautiously from his hiding place among the shrubs. Shaking his fist at the cross which was so obnoxious to him, he slowly made his way to his own house, his mind full of what he had overheard.
The long-delayed scheme for the destruction of the cross, upon which he had set his heart, had been frustrated at the very last moment by this young captain. Doubtless, Waghorn thought, he had been secretly persuaded beforehand by the soft blandishments of the Vicar’s niece. She had discreetly kept in the background throughout the scene, but, of course, it was all really her doing.
“Well, well,” he muttered grimly, as he sat down in his lonely room, “I have him in my power now, and can revenge myself on him! He baulked me as to the cross, and as good as called me a devil. The man’s a traitor! He’s one of the ungodly. I’ll unmask him even if for the nonce I have to play into Colonel Norton’s hands. I’ll take word to Canon Frome as to the despatches he is to bear to Windsor. Eh, eh! Captain Harford. I shall have you laid by the heels, and you shall bitterly rue the day when you set your hand to the plough and then turned back.”
With bitter vindictiveness he drew an inkhorn and pen towards him, and laboriously began to write the following words:
“I have a carpentering job in the ante-room at Canon Frome Manor this day, and shall be there at three of the clocke. If Colonel Norton wishes to gett tydings of a dangerous ryvall, who is moreover a rebel, he cann obtayne it on certaine con-dishuns.”
He had just sanded this document, and was about to fold and seal it, when the sound of the Old 113th in the village street made him pause. He stepped out into the road in front of the house, and saw that the Puritan soldiers were ready to march back to Ledbury, and, evidently at the Vicar’s request, were first joining the villagers in a Psalm. As the words floated towards him a look of wonder and hesitation crossed the stern face of the wood carver. It was as if he caught a momentary glimpse of a unity as yet far beyond his reach.
O children which do serve the Lord,
Praise ye His name with one accord,
Yea, blessed always be His name;
Who from the rising of the sun
Till it return where it begun,
Is to be praised with great fame,
The Lord all people doth surmount,
As for His glory we may count
Above the heavens high to be.
With God the Lord who may compare,
Whose dwellings in the heavens are;
Of such great power and force is He.
But the bitter memory of his father’s death returned to him, and when another psalm was started he closed his door and hardened his heart; as soon as the soldiers had left the village he resolved to set out for Canon Frome.
Meanwhile Gabriel and Hilary were viewing Waghorn’s work in the church.
“It was such a grief to my uncle,” said Hilary. “Often in former times I have seen him sitting here about sunset quietly enjoying the beauty of the place and the jewel-like colouring of the window.”
“I am sorry Waghorn destroyed it,” said Gabriel. “Yet it would be dishonest of me to let you think that I am wholly without the usual Puritan feeling. To paint an imaginary picture of the Christ seems to me taking an unwarrantable liberty, which we should not allow a painter to take with any other friend or kinsman.”
“Don’t you mind spoiling a beautiful thing?” she said, wonderingly.
“I never saw anything to complain of in the Bosbury window,” he replied, “but some representing the Trinity I gladly saw destroyed. At Abingdon, when Sir William Waller had the market cross hewn down, I helped to break in pieces the images of the saints surrounding it, for some folk still knelt to them. And though at Winchester we regretted the irreverence shown to the tombs of the dead, and did our utmost to check it, we found it well-nigh impossible to control the people, for they connect all pictures and sculpture with the hated tyranny of Popish times.”
“I don’t understand how you can endure such sights,” said Hilary.
“Perhaps you hardly understand that a soldier has to endure sights so much more dreadful. Human beings crushed, battered, mangled—homes destroyed, and families destitute and starving—all the horrors of war. When once you have learnt to love people, you can’t think so much of mere things.”
“I don’t think you ever really cared for what was beautiful,” she said, reproachfully.
He winced. For was not her radiant loveliness tugging at his heart—torturing him with an intolerable longing to have her for his own to all eternity?
Norton would skilfully have taken advantage of such an opening and used it for his selfish ends, but Gabriel’s voice only sounded a little constrained, as he replied:
“You are right in deeming me no artist.”
Into his mind there came a sudden recollection of the comfort that Hilary’s miniature had been to him through these years of pain and separation; and then a horrible memory of what had passed about it in the church at Marlborough, and the sickening thought that Norton was even now seeking to ensnare her.
What was he to do? How could he best serve her? Their differences in religion and politics seemed to loom up larger than ever, and hopelessly to part them.
The sound of the soldiers and the villagers joining in the thanksgiving psalm broke in upon his sad thoughts. When the verse ended, he turned to Hilary and there was again a look of hope in his eyes. He was standing beneath the beautifully carved old rood screen and she was strangely moved by the pathos of his expression.
“After all,” he said, cheerfully, “we may find a parable in this Bosbury window which will show us how small are our differences. You and the Vicar love to see through a coloured picture; we Puritans should, as a rule, prefer the clearest glass, but we are both looking through the same outlet to the same sunlight.”
The thought appealed to her; she smiled with something of her old comprehending sweetness.
“I am very glad you spared the cross,” she said, gently, as they paused for a minute in the south porch. “If—if I pained you just now, I am sorry, Gabriel.”
“Promise me that you will at least take counsel before you again speak to Colonel Norton,” he pleaded.
“What right have you to demand promises of me?” she asked proudly.
“No right,” he said, his voice faltering, “but by the memory of your mother I implore you, Hilary.”
“I will think of it,” she said. “What! are you going?”
“I distrust that fanatic Waghorn, he may stir up the soldiers once more,” he replied. Then, with an irrepressible sigh, “’Tis like enough, Hilary, that you and I may never meet again; will you not give me that one word of comfort?”
The sudden stab of pain at the thought that this might indeed be their last meeting, broke down her pride.
“Well—I promise,” she said, gently. Then, as he bent down and kissed her hand, the familiar notes of “In trouble and adversity,” fell upon her ear. “Do you hear what they are singing?” she cried. “’Tis our psalm that we sang years ago in the Cathedral, that day when——” she broke off in confusion.
“You still remember?” he said, tenderly, his eyes full of happiness as they met hers.
At that moment, to his bitter regret, they heard steps on the path, and looking up, saw a burly sergeant approaching. Gabriel went to give him his orders, then returned to the porch.
“We must march as soon as they have ended the psalm,” he said, stooping once more to press a passionate kiss on her hand. “I am glad you remember that day, Hilary. Remember always! Remember always!”
She heard his voice tremble, yet could not speak; she watched him walk rapidly down the path to the lych-gate, and then as the hearty voices of the soldiers and the villagers rose in the final verse, she sank down on one of the benches in the porch, and, hiding her face in her hands, burst into tears.
About three o’clock that afternoon Norton, waking from an after-dinner nap, sauntered out into one of the corridors at Canon Frome Manor.
“There is a carpenter-fellow, sir, at work in the house, and he bade me give this into your hands,” said his servant, approaching him.
Norton carelessly broke the seal and glanced at the laboriously-written lines. A smile began to flicker about his lips, and with some curiosity he made his way to the ante-room which led to Dame Elizabeth’s apartments. Here he found Waghorn busily engaged in mending a spinning-wheel.
“Good-day, Colonel,” said the fanatic, gloomily. “Hath my missive been delivered?”
“So this is from you!” said Norton, with a sarcastic smile. “You are the fellow I met once at Bosbury. Have you thought better of it, and are you going to change sides?”
“Nay, nay, I trow not,” replied Waghorn, his eyes gleaming. “But I would fain be used as the instrument of vengeance on the ungodly, even though for the time I do serve thee and thy cause.”
Norton gave one of his short scoffing laughs.
“I faith I scarce know if I could be served by one of such a vinegar aspect!”
“Dost thou love Mistress Hilary Unett?” asked the wood-carver, sternly.
The Colonel started.
“What is that to you, scarecrow?”
“I had heard gossip in the village as to thy wooing of her, and I thought mayhap a knowledge of the doings of her old lover, Captain Harford, might be worth something to thee.”
“Harford!” cried the Colonel, in surprise. “What do you know of him?”
Waghorn carefully adjusted a screw in the spinning-wheel, then looked up shrewdly.
“What would the knowledge be worth to thee?”
“Oh! You want money! Here! I’m as poor as a rook, but for the whole truth about this cursed lover I’ll give you a crown piece.”
He took a coin from his pocket and flung it on the floor. Waghorn, with an angry frown, pushed it from him.
“Thy money perish with thee! I want none of it. Nay, ’tis something more than money that I must have for the tidings. Promise to use me as the instrument of vengeance on this traitor.”
“Dost take me for a murderer hiring assassins?” said the Colonel, scornfully.
“I speak not of murder, but of bringing the ungodly and the traitorous to just punishment.”
“Well, I will use you if I can, but you must tell me more. Where is this Mr. Harford?”
“This very morning he yielded to the entreaty of the Vicar of Bosbury and spared the Popish cross in the churchyard. I vowed in my heart that he should suffer for that treachery, and, concealing myself, I heard all that passed later betwixt him and Mistress Hilary.”
“What did the fair lady say to him?”
“Why, she was just a second Eve, leading him on, and then the next minute sorely paining him; but methinks she hath a liking for him all the same, and left him some hope.”
“Hope of winning her?”
“That, doubtless, would follow: but what he urged on her was to walk warily with respect to you, sir.”
“What! Did my name pass betwixt them?”
Waghorn smiled grimly. “Ay, verily; and he plainly told her what you are, sir.”
“The devil he did! Pray, where can I find him?”
“He’ll be back at Ledbury by now, and I heard him say that he was to be sent off with important despatches to Sir Thomas Fairfax at Windsor.”
“You heard that?” cried Norton. “By the Lord Harry! we have him then! Waghorn, you are worth your weight in gold. Dog this fellow’s steps for me, have him waylaid with the despatches on him, and you may ask what you will of me. Ha, ha! We’ll have some sport with this outspoken young fool! He plainly told Mistress Hilary what I am, did he? I’ll be revenged on him for that, the prating, Puritanical marplot!”
“Only give me your orders, sir, and trust me he shall not escape. The ungodly shall be trapped in the work of his own hands!” said Waghorn, rubbing his hands with satisfaction.
Norton laughed. “Take care you don’t get trapped, Waghorn; you are not exactly what I should call a godly man yourself! A good deal of the old Adam in your thirst for vengeance, isn’t there?”
“Sir, Captain Harford hath treacherously spared a Popish idol, and he hath baulked me, although it was through my zeal and love for the truth that the Parliament soldiers were marched out from Ledbury for the pious work of destruction.”
“’Tis not pleasant to be baulked, I grant you,” said Norton, his eyes still twinkling. “But avenge yourself, and you’ll avenge me. How soon can you be in Ledbury?”
“As soon as this job is done, sir, and that will not be long.”
“Good! Let me know how you prosper, and see—you may be put to some charge in the town; so take this crown piece, and the devil send you luck!”
In high good humour at the prospect of getting Gabriel Harford into his power, the Colonel left the room, and Waghorn, having completed his work, packed up his tools and returned to Bosbury.
On the road he encountered the Vicar and his niece, for Hilary, ill at ease after her talk with Gabriel, had determined to seek advice from the motherly Dame Elizabeth, while the Vicar was anxious to see Sir Richard Hopton, and to congratulate him on his recent release from prison.
Fortune favoured the girl, for they encountered not only Sir Richard in the courtyard, but Mr. Geers, who had ridden over from Garnons to bring tidings of Frances and her sister, and to learn how Sir Richard fared. The gentlemen remained without, chatting together, and Hilary was ushered into the house, where, in the ante-room which Waghorn had just quitted, she found Dame Elizabeth, a stately, white-haired old lady, with kind far-seeing eyes.
Greeting her visitor warmly, she made her sit on a stool beside her, lamenting that Frances was still absent.
“In truth, dear madam, though it sounds unfriendly, I am glad she is not here,” said Hilary; “for I greatly want your help and counsel.”
“Now that is always a pleasant thing to hear,” said Dame Elizabeth, smiling. “There are many drawbacks to growing old, but the best part is that the maidens and the young matrons come to us with their joys and their sorrows.”
“They do well to come to you, dear madam, for you always understand so well. How the Queen can lay bare her heart to a priest is to me passing strange. But in sore need one might come to a mother-confessor.”
“What is your trouble, dear child?” said Dame Elizabeth, kindly. “How can I help you?”
“It all comes from this sad war,” said Hilary, with a sigh.
“In truth it hath brought sorrow to every home,” said Dame Elizabeth. “Think what it means for us to have one son fighting for the King and two for the Parliament! I love them alike, and there is never a moment’s ease or relief.”
“But you can rightly love all your sons, madam. My case is different. I—I am half ashamed to tell you how it is with me,” faltered Hilary, drooping her head.
“Perchance I can guess,” said Dame Elizabeth, caressing her. “Methinks, child, you do not know your own heart.”
“That is the very truth,” said Hilary, blushing, and lowering her voice. “This morning I thought—I fancied—that a loyal King’s officer had the chief place there; and now—now—I am half afraid that all the time my heart has been harbouring a rebel.”
“Try to forget their opinions, and think of them only as men. Believe me, child, love has naught to do with matters of State.”
“That is what Gabriel Harford always said—we were betrothed before the war began.”
“And then, I suppose, you quarrelled.”
“Yes—we—parted. I vowed I would never wed a man who was not loyal, and he protested that loyalty meant faithfulness to law.”
“’Tis what my sons said, too. The King had unlawfully imprisoned, unlawfully taxed and unlawfully governed without a Parliament for eleven years, and they said they must defend the ancient liberties of England. Tell me of this other lover, child.”
“Gabriel thinks him unfit to speak to me, and says that the Royalists themselves blame his way of life.”
“Have you known him long?”
“Not very long. But to Uncle Coke and to me he hath been all that is kind. I wish you would tell me the truth about him, dear madam.”
“Surely it is not possible that you mean Colonel Norton? Hath he dared to force himself upon you?”
“Why, he hath shown great attention to my uncle, and is ever bringing him rare antiquities that greatly please him, and many and many a time I have talked with him.”
“Oh, child! you are too inexperienced. I know Colonel Norton, for the officers of the Canon Frome garrison live here at free quarters. Have no more to do with him, Hilary, for, believe me, he is cruel and dissolute. At this very time, Sir Richard is writing to beg for the appointment of some other governor, and I am writing of our grievances to our kinsman, Lord Hopton, the noblest of all the King’s generals.”
“Were we, then, so deceived in Colonel Norton? I know that I am ignorant enough, but Uncle Coke——”
“My dear, the Vicar of Bosbury is the most genial and kind-hearted gentleman, and very slow to suspect that all men are not of a like disposition. You must warn him—you can tell him of our talk.”
“He ought to know, but, oh, dear madam! I cannot tell him,” said Hilary, blushing to the roots of her hair. “Why, only this morning I fancied—oh!” she cried, springing to her feet in a burst of indignation, “how dared that man trifle with me!—how dared he!”
“The best plan will be for me to say a word to Mr. Geers, he is your uncle’s friend, and he knows more of Colonel Norton than Sir Richard doth. Do not grieve your heart any more, my child,” said Dame Elizabeth, embracing her. “Stay to supper, and I will arrange matters for you. And as for Mr. Harford, remember this, ’tis not a man’s opinions that make him a good husband, but his life and character.”
With great tact, the hostess contrived in a few words to tell Mr. Geers the state of affairs, and the good-natured owner of Garnons undertook, in his cordial, friendly way, to talk matters over with the Vicar.
“It seems that I am predestined to plead the cause of my rival, the grapegulper,” he reflected, with a smile. “But I can do it this time with even more zeal than when I talked years ago with the Bishop, being myself an excellent example of the happy married man. Both for the sake of Mrs. Jefferies’ godson and of the pretty maid that rejected my suit, I will do my best to open the eyes of my friend the antiquary.”
We wait beneath the furnace-blast
The pangs of transformation,
Not painlessly doth God re-cast
And mould anew the nation.
Hot burns the fire
Where wrongs expire;
Nor spares the hand
That from the land
Uproots the ancient evil.
—Whittier.
On returning to Ledbury, Gabriel seized the opportunity of writing to his father, begging that, if possible, he might see him before he left the neighbourhood; and by the time he had found a messenger to despatch to Hereford, Massey had returned from reconnoitring the surrounding country. The Governor of Gloucester was in excellent spirits, for he had reason to believe that Prince Rupert, having learnt of his arrival at Ledbury, had halted in his march to join the King, and would probably return and give him battle.
“I only wish it were possible to fortify this town,” he remarked as he and his officers supped at the ‘Feathers,’ “but it is out of the question.”
“Do you think we shall have a night attack, sir?” asked Gabriel.
“’Tis possible, for Prince Rupert ever loves that device. Yet he could scarce be here to-night. Some of the men had best, however, bivouac in the High Street: your detachment has had light work to-day, Captain Harford, and shall be told off for this under Captain Bayly; I may need you anon for the work of which we spoke.”
“In truth the men have had lighter work than we thought for, sir,” said Gabriel, “for the desire to pull down Bosbury Cross seemed to be only on the part of that fanatic Waghorn, and the Vicar pleaded for it with such excellent good arguments that, under certain conditions, I gave leave that it should be spared. I think, had you been there you would have done the same, sir, and I trust you don’t disapprove of what I did.”
Massey laughed good-humouredly. “If you choose to incur the wrath of that mad fellow ’tis no affair of mine,” he said. “And now I think of it, the Vicar of Bosbury was a sensible and kindly man.”
“Ay, and hospitable,” said Captain Bayly. “He gave us a good supper when we halted last winter at Bosbury. There was a pretty niece, too, I remember.”
This remark brought upon Gabriel much laughter and raillery, which he took in good part.
“Were you not there with one of the Hoptons?” he asked.
“Ay, to be sure, the younger one, that tried to defend Castle, Ditch near Eastnor. He was worsted, and thrown into gaol at Hereford, but managed to escape by leaping a wall, and rejoined us at Gloucester. I don’t know where he is serving now.”
Supper being ended Massey retired to finish his despatches, and Gabriel had orders to supervise the barricading of the streets with carts, which kept the men hard at work throughout the evening.
The moon had risen, and the picturesque High Street with its gabled black and white houses would have looked like a place in fairyland had it not been for the grim preparations for defence and for the busy soldiers moving to and fro, some carrying torches which threw a fitful glare over the scene and made the bright helmets and gorgets glitter. Everyone was far too hard at work to notice the silent spectator who, wrapped in a long cloak and a hood of the sort much worn by aged men, noiselessly shadowed Captain Harford wherever he went.
Waghorn’s hatred only increased when he saw how remarkably active in the cause Gabriel could be, how swiftly the orders he shouted were carried out, and what an excellent officer he made. It was impossible to conceive one more in touch with his men, and the fanatic gnashed his teeth when he reflected that one authoritative word from this young fellow of two or three and twenty would have been sufficient to level the cross with the ground.
By the time all was in readiness it was growing late, and Gabriel and his successor, Captain Bayly, walked down the High Street to the “Feathers,” at the door of which Massey lounged smoking his pipe.
“Bid them sound the bugle for the evening psalm,” he said, as the two officers joined him. “The men had best sleep while they may.”
As the bugle rang through the little town and the men assembled in front of the market-house, Waghorn, stepping forward like a bent and aged man, stealthily approached Gabriel.
“Now will this sparer of crosses join in a psalm with the godly,” he reflected, wrathfully. “Let his days be few! Even in the midst of his sin shall he be stricken!”
Little dreaming that one of his worst foes stood close behind him, Gabriel joined with rather a heavy heart in the psalm which seemed to haunt him at every crisis in his life. Standing now in the street at Ledbury with the manly voices of the soldiers ringing out into the night, he remembered how the same words
In trouble and adversity
The Lord God hear thee still
had strengthened him as he stood waiting for the first attack at Edgehill; how in the Cathedral long ago with his eyes on Hilary’s pale face, the same words had fallen on his ears, and how in the porch at Bosbury the psalm had on this very day been to them a bond of union. No thought of personal danger came to him now, though Waghorn’s cloak brushed his sleeve. It was of Hilary he thought, and of the peril that threatened her.
At the close of the psalm the bugle sounded the “Last post,” and such of the men as had quarters marched off; those who were to bivouac in the street scattering into groups about the market-house, and a detachment moving torch in hand to the upper end of the town where four ways met.
Massey invited Gabriel and Captain Bayly to have a cup of mulled claret with him at the “Feathers.”
“Well, sir, if you will pardon me,” said Gabriel, who longed to be alone, “I will ask to be excused. Truth to tell, I am dog-tired, and would fain sleep.”
Massey slapped him on the shoulder with a laugh.
“Art sick, or in love? Eh? Beshrew me, but I believe you did leave your heart at Bosbury to-day. I’ll be with you anon, Bayly.”
Then, drawing Gabriel aside, he moved with him to the further end of the market-house just at the corner of the narrow alley which led steeply up to the church. Against the pale moonlit sky they could see the dark outline of the spire betwixt the gables of the houses.
“I have written both despatches,” he said, in a low voice, “and as we can’t tell what the next four-and-twenty hours will bring forth I will give them now into your keeping, yet do not start until you can bear tidings of Prince Rupert’s doings.”
“I may take part in the battle, sir?” asked Gabriel.
“Yes, if you are minded to volunteer. I will give you word when you had best go. And remember this: a despatch-bearer needs something more than mere courage. He needs dexterity, diplomacy and caution. If I cannot get speech with you, and the fighting goes against us, lose no time in escaping and make whatever circuit you deem best to reach Windsor in safety. I’ faith, I think we have no eyes upon us now in the dark alley, and at the ‘Feathers’ we are over-tightly packed for privacy. Stow these safely away, and give the Commander-in-Chief all the details I am unable to set down. But at all costs see that both despatches are delivered. More hangs on it than you wot of.”
Under the shelter of their military cloaks the transfer of the despatches was easily effected, and Gabriel thrust them into the inner pocket of his coat.
“I will guard them with my life, sir,” he said, in a low voice. “And I thank you for trusting me with the work.”
Massey laughed.
“Small matter for thanks! ’Tis ever a risky and troublesome business. Well, good-night to you, Captain. May your affair of love prosper!”
“Good-night, sir,” said Gabriel, forcing a laugh, as he paced slowly up the narrow alley.
Alas! was it not a very one-sided affair of love? he thought to himself, with a sigh. If for a moment he ventured to hope that Hilary still cared for him, the next he remembered with a pang the way in which she had permitted Norton to dangle about her. He wondered, uneasily, what the Vicar could be dreaming of to allow it. Dr. Coke had seemed a shrewd as well as a generous man, yet had evidently no notion that the Governor of Canon Frome was playing the mischief in his very household. And then he remembered how plausible and fascinating Norton could be, recollected, too, that strange glimpse of a noble nature which he had now and then seen in him, and realised that very probably the Vicar and Hilary only knew the Colonel at his very best.
A storm of despair swept over him as more and more plainly he saw the great danger which threatened her.
“’Tis enough to madden a man!” he said to himself, writhing at the sense of his powerlessness to help. “It may be months or years ere I see her again, while all the time Norton can prowl round in his devilish fashion! Yet, if I rave like this, I shall lose all control over myself. After all, she gave me her promise to speak—I know she will keep her promise.”
The thought calmed him, and, pausing at the head of the alley, he stood for a minute praying silently in his usual brief, formless, but thoroughly heartfelt way, “God of Justice! grant her Thy help and guidance, and keep us from all evil this night.”
The wind blew softly down the narrow alley, the dark spire pointed silently towards heaven, and in the stillness the soul of the Puritan grew once more strong and undaunted.
As he paced back again to the High street he did not notice the dark figure standing in the shade of a doorway, but in the manner of one well used to bivouacking for the night he laid his sword on the ground, put his helmet and gorget in place of a pillow, and, with his military cloak wrapped about him, was soon sleeping soundly in one of the shallow recesses betwixt the wooden posts on which the market-house was raised.
At some little distance a sentry paced to and fro; Waghorn, watching his movements with a keen and wary eye, waited patiently in his sheltered nook until he was assured that all the soldiers slept. Then seizing his opportunity as the sentry marched back to the farthest point of his beat, he glided noiselessly out of the shadow, heartening himself with fierce inward ejaculations.
“Let destruction come upon him at unawares! I dread that sentinel. But courage! I will remember Jael, the wife of Heber, the Kenite, and my part is not to slay, merely to filch!”
Crouching down beside Gabriel he saw that he slept profoundly. In the cold clear moonlight it was easy to trace marks of care and suffering in the face, and, as the fanatic stealthily unbuttoned the coat, he reflected with grim satisfaction that worse would be in store for the sleeper when he woke.
Just then, to his dismay, he heard the footsteps of the sentry drawing steadily nearer, and hastily stretching himself out beside his victim he lay motionless until the danger was past and the footsteps were once more retreating.
Then in trembling haste he partly raised himself, thrust his hand with the control and caution that he had acquired in his wood-carving within the pocket of the buff coat, and had actually got hold of the despatches when the barking of a dog in a neighbouring house roused Gabriel.
“Hullo!” he cried, sitting up and gripping Waghorn by the arm. “What are you about, fellow?”
Waghorn in vain tried to escape; he was held as in a vice. Fortunately for him his face was in shadow, and he was completely disguised by his cloak and hood. With ready tact he began to whimper and moan like one half-witted.
“’Tis naught but daft Lubin, sir; naught but daft Lubin,” he pleaded.
“Daft Lubin, indeed!” said Gabriel, impatiently. “I should think you were daft to wake up a tired man in the dead of night. Ho! sentry! call the guard and let this crazy fellow be taken up, or he’ll be disturbing the men again.”
Waghorn whimpering, struggling and protesting all the way up the street that he was “naught but daft Lubin,” was remorselessly hurried away by the guard.
Yawning and shivering with the discomfort of one roused in his first sleep, Gabriel stretched his stiff limbs.
“What was the row?” muttered Captain Bayly, drowsily.
“Naught but an old half-witted beggar,” said Gabriel. Then suddenly noticing that his coat was unbuttoned, he felt in consternation for the packet, and gave an ejaculation of relief on finding the despatches safe.
“The night grows cold,” said the other, wrapping his cloak more closely about him.
“’Tis naught to some of the nights we had in Waller’s time,” said Gabriel. “He took no heed of frost or damp, though now and again he was sorry for the horses.”
With another prolonged yawn he stretched himself out face downwards, and was soon once more wrapped in profound sleep.
Towards morning he had a curiously vivid dream. He thought he was swimming across a blood-red lake, and he knew that he bore despatches which should warn Cromwell of a dastardly attempt about to be made on his life. He had nearly gained the shore when the dark hull of a boat loomed into sight, and Norton leaned over the bows with a mocking smile on his lips and dealt him a blow which sent him down—gaspingly down—through the red depths. Yet he rose again to the surface, and flung the despatches with a last dying effort to the shore; and when for the second time he rose, the packet was being lifted from the ground by his father. Then he finally sank and was vainly fighting for breath when a bugle sounded “To arms!”
He sprang up instantly on the alert; the red light heralding the sunrise suffused Ledbury, drums beat the alarm, the guard shouted, “To arms! to arms!” and Massey’s soldiers came pouring out of their night quarters in every direction. In two minutes Gabriel was in the stable saddling Harkaway with his own hands, and learning with a thrill of excitement that Prince Rupert, by a forced march through the night, was now close to the town, and was resolved to give them battle.
Colonel Massey, in excellent spirits, came riding out of the courtyard of the “Feathers,” and rapidly gave directions to his officers. To Captain Bayly fell the work of defending the market-house and the entrance to Church-alley, and soon from the upper end of the town came sounds of incessant firing, and the hoarse cry of the contending watchwords, “St. George!” and “Queen Mary!” from the Royalists, and “God with us!” from the Parliament soldiers. The chief barricade higher up the street kept the Prince’s troops at bay for some time, but in the meanwhile an attempt was made by a detachment of the Royalists to enter the town by Church-alley at right angles with the High Street, and some sharp skirmishing took place there, in which Gabriel bore a part.
Scarcely had they beaten back the attack from this quarter when shouts and uproar warned them that the main barricade had been broken down after a resistance of about half-an-hour. This opened the High Street for the Prince’s horse to charge, and though Massey made a gallant counter-charge and his men fought bravely, they were borne down. Rallying for a time by the market-house, he endeavoured to protect the retreat of his foot, and signing to Gabriel to approach, spoke a few hurried words to him.
“Seize your chance now,” he said, “and ride off. With a circuit you should be able to bear them safely. We shall charge again and fall back in good order on Gloucester.”
Without further delay he urged his men forward against the approaching Royalists. And Gabriel obediently, but with not unnatural reluctance, turned Harkaway’s head in the opposite direction, and was about to ride from the town when a loud outcry made him glance to the right.
Down Church-alley rode once more a detachment of Prince Rupert’s men, and he saw the figure of “daft Lubin” wildly accosting the leader, and heard him shout the words: “Fire on yon officer! He bears despatches! Fire in the King’s name!”
Urging on Harkaway, Gabriel rode like the wind. A sudden crash and a numbness which made the reins fall from his left hand and his arm drop powerless at his side warned him that a ball had struck him; for a moment his eyesight threatened to fail him, but with an effort he recovered himself, gathered up the reins in his right hand and set spurs to his horse.
Waghorn at the corner of the alley stood staring after him in blank astonishment.
“Curse him! how can he ride after that?” he exclaimed. “Ha! he reels in the saddle! Fire again, men! fire again! Now he clings to the horse’s neck—he must fall—he is ours! he is ours! Evil shall hunt the wicked person to overthrow him!”
At that instant one of the Prince’s troopers, finding his way blocked by the fanatic, pushed roughly past.
“Out of the way, you prating Puritan!” he cried, “or I’ll dash your brains out!” And with that he dealt Waghorn a blow on the head which left him groaning on the ground.
One loving howre
For many years of sorrow can dispence;
A dram of sweete is worth a pound of sowre.
. . . true is, that true love hath no powre,
To looken backe; his eyes be fixt before.
—Spenser.
Meanwhile Massey, with great coolness and ability, retreated in good order with the remainder of his men to Gloucester, but many had been made prisoners, and about a hundred and twenty had been killed in the street and in the hot pursuit.
Had it not been for Waghorn’s words to the Royalists, Gabriel might have made his escape as easily as the Governor of Gloucester had anticipated. But, learning that important despatches were so nearly within their reach, some four or five troopers gave chase to him with a heat and determination that only increased with each mile traversed. Bullets whistled about his ears, but on he sped, every nerve strained in the wild excitement of the ride, all pain for the time overcome by the intense desire to carry out his task.
A second ball struck the already injured arm, making a ghastly flesh wound. Still he galloped on, but, alas! with the horrible consciousness that his pursuers were gaining on him.
His strength was fast failing when the sound of church bells fell on his ear; surely they were the bells of Bosbury? Hardly conscious of the direction he had taken, only galloping madly across country to baffle his pursuers, he had indeed approached within a short distance of the village, which lay in the valley below embosomed in trees.
For the time being he was out of sight of the Royalist troopers, and, with a word to Harkaway, he put the horse at a hedge which seemed a little off the course he had ridden.
The horse did his part gallantly, and alighted in a field which sloped steeply down to a tiny brook, but the agony of the leap was too much for the rider. With a stifled groan he fell to the ground, and Harkaway, not understanding his grievous plight, but thankful to find the desperate gallop at an end, unconsciously served his master by going quietly down to drink at the brook.
The pursuers were puzzled at suddenly losing all trace of the despatch-bearer. They paused to listen, but no sound of distant horse-hoofs fell upon their ear, only somewhat further on they could hear children’s voices. Riding forward, they came into sight of an orchard in which two little girls with their skipping-ropes were playing on the daisy-flecked grass. As they skipped they sang an old May-pole song, their childish voices rising high and clear in the country quiet:
Come, ye young men, come along,
With your music, dance and song;
Bring your lasses in your hands,
For ’tis that which love commands.
Then to the May-pole haste away,
For ’tis now a holiday.
It is the choice time of the year,
For the violets now appear;
Now the rose receives its birth,
And pretty primrose decks the earth.
Then to the May-pole haste away,
For ’tis now a holiday.
Suddenly they broke off, and the elder child cried out: “Look! Look, Meg. There be soldiers yonder.”
“Three, four, five of them!” said the little one, counting with keen interest.
“And two of them have left their horses and be coming this way,” said Nan. “See their red ribbons; they be King’s soldiers.”
“Oh, Nan, I’m frightened! They said they would hang the boys and drown the girls!” cried Meg, clinging to her sister.
“That was because the children of Broxash sang
If you offer to plunder, or take our cattle,
Be assured we will bid you battle.’”
said Nan, reassuringly. “We were only singing the May-pole song.”
Nevertheless her eyes grew large with fright as the soldier approached.
“Here, you brats!” he shouted. “Have you seen a Puritan officer gallop by this way?”
“No, we have been skipping,” she replied, sturdily.
“A wounded man on a bay horse.”
“We have not seen him—he hath not been here,” said Nan.
“Curse him! What a dance he hath led us! How a man that’s been twice hit can ride across country that fashion, beats me. The devil must be in him. Come, mate, we must to horse again, and push on—the plaguey fellow shan’t give us the slip.”
They hastened back to rejoin their comrades, and Nan looked wistfully after them.
“I hope they won’t find him,” she said, shivering. “If they do they’ll kill him.”
“I’m glad we’re not men,” said Meg, picking up her skipping-rope. “We shall never have to kill folk.”
By this time Gabriel had recovered his senses, and the sight of the Malvern Hills roused him to the remembrance that he was near Bosbury; with a vague idea of getting Hilary to bind up his wounds for him, and then of somehow reaching his father, he staggered to his feet, hoping to find Harkaway at no great distance. The horse, however, was nowhere to be seen, and, with faltering steps, he made his way with great difficulty across the field to a gap which he saw in the hedge. The children’s voices reached him, and helped him to persevere.
“Here each bachelor may choose
One that will not faith abuse,
Nor repay with coy disdain
Love that should be loved again.”
It was the same maypole song that he had listened to years ago at Bosbury just after their betrothal.
Utterly spent with pain and loss of blood, the effort of making his way through the gap in the hedge proved more than flesh could bear.
“’Tis no use—no use!” he thought, despairingly as he entered the orchard. “I can’t go another step! My God! Must I be so near to Hilary, and yet die like a dog in a ditch?” He reeled back, and, with a groan, fell senseless to the ground, to the horror and dismay of the children, who dropped their skipping-ropes and fled in terror.
“The Puritan!” they screamed; “he has fallen down dead!” But before very long curiosity conquered terror; they stole back hand-in-hand, and gazed at him with awe-struck faces.
“He looks as if he were asleep,” said little Meg.
“That’s how folks do look,” explained Nan, “just asleep, you know. But all the time they’re really awake up in the sky.”
“Wondering, perhaps, why we don’t understand,” said Meg, dreamily.
“Oh, see!” cried Nan, in great excitement, “he’s down here still, he’s not dead. His hand is moving!”
Gabriel tried to get up, but fell back again.
“Oh! what hellish pain!” he moaned.
“What can we do for you, sir?” said Nan.
“Who is it?” he asked, looking up in a dazed way. “Where?”
“We be Farmer Chadd’s children, sir, and this is our orchard nigh to Bosbury,” replied the little girl.
“How far from Bosbury?”
“’Tis but a little way across the hop-yards, sir.”
“If I could see Hilary before I die!” he muttered. “I will see her! I will see her! What became of Harkaway? Children, do you see a riderless horse near?”
They ran off and soon returned with beaming faces.
“There be a strange horse down by the brook,” said Nan. “A bay with two white feet.”
“He is gentle enough; could you bring him here for me? I am sorely hurt.”
They gladly promised and ran down the sloping field, leaving Gabriel in a curious borderland of semi-consciousness.
“I shall remember it all if I try,” he reflected. “My head is getting clearer. There was something I had to do! What on earth was it? Massey trusted me with something. If the Prince overpowered him I was to go—where? This agony makes all else a blank! I shall be no better than that daft vagabond who woke me last night. Ha! the despatches! I remember all now!”
With intense anxiety he felt for them. They were bloodstained but safe, and exhausted with the effort of concealing them once more, he sank back in a dead faint.
Now it chanced that on this Wednesday morning the Litany being ended, Dr. Coke and Hilary left the church and went to see Farmer Chadd, who was in great distress because his horses had been seized by the Canon Frome garrison. They were talking to him in the farmyard when his two little daughters came running up to beg his help.
“There’s a horse, father, down by the brook,” they explained breathlessly, “and the wounded Puritan officer in the orchard asked us to fetch it, but it won’t let us come near.”
“A Puritan officer? One of the fugitives from Ledbury, I reckon,” said Farmer Chadd.
“He is wounded, do you say, child?” asked the Vicar.
“Ay, sir,” said Nan, dropping a curtsey. “Wounded and well-nigh dead.”
“I wish you would stable the horse and say naught about it in the village, Chadd, as likely as not the poor fellow will be haled to prison if the Canon Frome folk hear of this,” said Dr. Coke.
“I’d do aught that would go against them” said the farmer, thinking wrathfully of the looting and plundering he had had to endure.
“I will give help to the officer, then, and you will put up the horse,” said the Vicar. “Come, children, show us where this poor Puritan lies.”
Hilary, with a horrible presentiment of coming sorrow, hastened across the orchard, and, with a low cry, knelt down on the grass beside the wounded man.
“Uncle,” she said, looking up with wild eyes, “see who it is!”
“Poor boy! poor boy!” said the Vicar, with deep concern. “What a change since yesterday, when he stood bold and strong at the head of his soldiers. He has swooned. Help me, dear, to remove his armour.”
Hilary obeyed, and, giving the helmet to Nan and Meg, asked them to fetch water from the brook. The Vicar, who had some little knowledge of surgery, managed, for the time, to staunch the wounds, and, presently, feeling a woman’s soft fingers at his throat unfastening his gorget, Gabriel regained consciousness, and lay watching the sweet, grave face which bent over him.
“Hilary!” he said, faintly. “Thank God! Now I can die in peace!”
“No, no,” she said, smoothing back the hair from his forehead. “You must live, Gabriel, I—we—cannot spare you. Uncle Coke is half a leech, he will bind up your wounds.”
The Vicar gave a rueful smile. “I may be half a leech, but I’m not a whole conjuror, and can’t make a couple of handkerchiefs into bandages that will serve. No, Hilary, you must get me some linen from Mrs. Chadd. Here come the children with the water; take them with you.”
The Vicar went to rescue the helmet full of water which Nan in her haste was spilling by the way, and Hilary bent over her lover.
“I will be back again very soon, Gabriel; promise not to move rashly. I wish I need not leave you—I can’t bear to go.”
He raised her hand to his lips. “What a nightmare these years of war have been! If we could but wake and forget them!” he said, with a tired sigh.
But before anything further could be said the Vicar interposed, cheerfully, “Come, my dear, the children will help to carry the things, and not even Prince Rupert’s Protestation forbids me to obey the commandment and give a thirsty enemy a cup of water to drink.”
While Hilary and the children ran to the farm he held the helmet to the wounded man’s lips.
Gabriel drank thirstily. “If you have signed the Protestation, sir, the less you have to do with me the better,” he said, reviving a little.
“I have not signed it,” said the Vicar, sturdily, “and I have every intention of taking you to my house that you may be properly tended.”
“Sir, indeed I dare not let you run such a risk; if aught should befall you what would become of Hilary?” said Gabriel, his eyes full of anxiety.
“You are right to think of her; you two were old friends at Hereford.”
“More than friends—we were betrothed before this war divided us.”
“Yet, did we not agree yesterday when you spared Bosbury Cross that, spite of the war, there was one bond which still united us?”
“You would not object to my suit?” said Gabriel, eagerly.
“On the contrary, I should welcome it. The friendship betwixt the Harfords and the Unetts is a two generation friendship, and truth to tell, I have just learnt that my niece is in some danger from the attentions of Colonel Norton—a man in whom I have been much deceived.”
Gabriel lay musing for a minute, then asked abruptly—“How soon could I be fit to ride, sir?”
“It will be a matter of a month at least,” said the Vicar.
“Surely, I could ride as far as Hereford—to my father?”
“Nay, ’tis out of the question. Oh, we will hide you safely somehow. Hilary hath a ready wit and will doubtless hit on some device.”
“If I could but have speech with my father,” said Gabriel, restlessly.
“Well, I could myself ride over for him, and he could dress your wounds,” suggested the Vicar.
With an effort Gabriel rallied his failing powers.
“I will be true with you,” he said, firmly. “’Tis not for that I would see him, but I bear despatches to Fairfax and Cromwell, and am in honour bound to see them in safe hands.”
“Despatches!” exclaimed the Vicar with a troubled look. “This is a grave matter. Yet ’twas honest of you to tell me. I think I might at least bring your father to-night to see you.”
“And should I die ere he comes—promise to give them to him,” said Gabriel, pleadingly. “Dying folk must often have asked your aid, Vicar. I ask that—nothing but that?”
“Now, may God forgive me if I do amiss,” muttered the Vicar. Then, turning to meet the eager hazel eyes which watched him so intently, “I promise you, my poor boy. Be at rest.”
After this Gabriel lay with closed eyes until he heard Hilary’s voice.
“I fear we have seemed long,” she said, “and you are suffering so much.”
He smiled. “Not now,” he replied, reviving for a while from sheer happiness in the change that had come over her.
“You little folk run over and play under the apple trees,” said the Vicar to Nan and Meg, “while I tend my patient.”
And with Hilary’s help he rapidly bound up the wounds in a somewhat rough and ready fashion, and put the arm in a sling.
“Captain Harford has told me much, my dear, while you have been gone,” he remarked. “Do you feel disposed to take on you the duties of nurse?”
Hilary blushed and glanced shyly at her lover. “Yes,” she replied. “Where can we best shelter Gabriel?”
“He thinks that his presence at the Vicarage could not be hid from the villagers. We must not risk awakening Colonel Norton’s suspicions.”
“Uncle! Why should we not use the room in the Church tower? The bell-ringers never go up the steps. No one but Zachary ever goes, and Zachary must be taken into the secret.”
“’Tis well thought of, child; Captain Harford would be safe enough there if we can once carry him up unseen.”
“Why should you not give out that you mean to use the tower room for your antiquities?”
“You can truthfully say that you are making a study of bones,” said Gabriel, smiling in the midst of his pain.
“The notion is not amiss, but yet it will be hard to take him there in broad daylight,” said the Vicar, securing the last bandage.
Hilary’s face lighted up. “Why,” she cried, eagerly, “you and Zachary might carry him in a hop-pocket? If you go by way of the hop-yards you would scarce be likely to meet a soul, and if you did, ’tis easily explained that you are carrying something you have just discovered. The villagers will only think ’tis what Mrs. Durdle calls one of Parson’s ‘antics.’”
The Vicar turned with a smile to Gabriel. “Did I not tell you she would hit on some device? But before I go I will help you to move to the other side of the hedge, for there is a right of way through this orchard to Ledbury, and you had best not risk being seen.”
“The pursuit was hot, but I think it must be over by now,” said Gabriel, allowing himself to be helped to a place where he was sheltered from the orchard by an elm tree and a low hedge.
“There! now don’t stir till I return,” said the Vicar. “I will go home and bid Mrs. Durdle prepare the room, and bring Zachary back with me, as soon as may be. And you little people, let Mistress Hilary know if anyone comes in sight.”
“Ay, sir,” said the children, curtseying.
“You are like two good little watchmen,” he added, smiling and patting their heads. “See that you don’t fall asleep at your posts, for the sun is hot. Now,”—he thought to himself with a humorous gleam in his eyes—“if Hilary and her lover do not patch up their ancient quarrel I shall wish I had sent her on this errand instead of going myself.”
“Duelling, in this country at least, is no longer legal, and we believe that war, which has been aptly styled international duelling, is alike doomed.. . . It is certain that the time must assuredly come (for is not this the darkness before the dawn?), and it will be probably sooner than we can conceive, when there will be a tremendous upheaval and revulsion of feeling with regard to it.” —J. J. Green.
For some little time Gabriel lay back in perfect silence against the grassy bank, and, spite of the acute pain he was in, he nevertheless felt ready to echo the children’s chorus which floated to them from beneath the apple trees—For it is now a holiday.
Hilary sat on the grass beside him, and from time to time he opened his eyes to watch the tender womanly hand as it ministered to his needs, or to look into the sweet face, as it bent over him. He realised, too, with a happy sense of homecoming, that he was indeed in his native county every time he caught sight of the lovely Malvern Hills which, in the morning light, seemed to take all the hues to be seen on a pigeon’s neck, and formed a fitting background for Hilary’s rare beauty.
“Ought I to let you do all this for a ‘friendly foe’?” he said, looking up at her with a hint of the old mirth in his eyes.
“Forget what I said yesterday, Gabriel. I did not mean half of it,” she said, blushing.
“I knew you meant to keep your promise—that was my sole comfort last night at Ledbury,” he replied, with a sigh.
Hilary continued nervously, but yet with no little force: “I went that very afternoon to see Dame Elizabeth, and you were right, it was just as you said. Oh! I hope I may never again see the false face that deceived me.”
“God grant you never may!” said Gabriel. And then a silence fell between them, and the merry talk of the children could be heard.
Hilary mused sadly over her shortcomings, but presently, noticing a change in her lover’s face, gave an exclamation of dismay.
“Gabriel! how white your lips are growing! Is the pain so great?”
“’Tis very bearable while you are near,” he said, his eyes resting on her with indescribable tenderness. “I was thinking how love can lift one out of all that is worst in the world.”
She instantly responded to his thought as in the first days of their betrothal. “’Tis stronger than war, or differing views,” she said, gently.
“Ay, or death,” he replied.
“Don’t talk of death!” she cried, shuddering. “Oh! when we heard of the battle this morning, and I remembered the cruel words I had spoken to you, I thought my heart would break.”
“My beloved,” he said. And in the strong emphasis of the word there seemed to lurk all the pent-up passion of the long years of separation.
For the first time since that September morning when they had talked in the garden at Hereford, before hearing of Powick fight, their lips met in a kiss that was like a sacrament, and each knew that nothing could ever again part them.
But their happiness was short-lived, for the children ran through the gap in the hedge, and Little Meg said, breathlessly, “Mistress Hilary! there be someone coming into the orchard.”
“It looks like one of the officers from Canon Frome,” said Nan, uneasily, her mind dwelling on cattle-lifting and plundering.
“What if it should be Norton!” said Gabriel, trying to get up.
“You must not show yourself,” said Hilary, earnestly.
“All will be ruined if you are seen. Dear love, promise me, and then I shall have no fear.”
“’Tis true I should be worse than no defence,” said Gabriel, reluctantly.
Hilary hastily placed her cloak so as to screen him a little better from view, and made the children sit in the gap to block the way.
“Nan and Meg, you will not betray him, I know,” she said.
“Sit there and weave daisy chains.”
Glancing at the approaching figure, she saw that it was indeed Norton, and, anxious to prevent him from drawing too near to the hedge, she went forward to meet him. She wondered now how she could ever have been deceived by him, and hated herself for having allowed him for a moment to make her distrust Gabriel’s love.
Norton’s greeting was eager and full of charm.
“This is clearly a red-letter day in my calendar, Mistress Hilary. First, I have news of Prince Rupert’s success at Ledbury, and then I have the crowning happiness of meeting you.”
“’Tis indeed a fair morning,” said Hilary. “You are doubtless going by the field-path to Ledbury to gain further tidings. I will not detain you. Good day, sir,” and she curtseyed, hoping to dismiss him.
“Oh! I am in no haste; my horse has cast a shoe, and I have sent it on to Diggory, the smith. Prince Rupert is sure to pursue Massey most of the way to Gloucester, ’tis ever his failing to press the chase too far. I will rest awhile in this pleasant orchard.”
Poor Hilary, only longing for him to go, felt that she was indeed being punished for having allowed him in former times to be too much with her.
“I wonder whether you have thought over what I said to you the day before yesterday,” observed Norton, eagerly watching her.
“The day before yesterday,” she said, with a puzzled look. “What happened then?”
“You are not complimentary,” he replied, laughing. “Perhaps you have forgotten all about it. But I remember very well that I had the happiness of walking with you from the Hill Farm to the Vicarage, and of offering you——”
“Was that only the day before yesterday? To me it seems half a lifetime ago,” said Hilary.
“You were not altogether kind to me; in fact, when we got to the Vicarage you followed Colonel Massey’s example, and beat a hasty retreat.”
She made a brave effort to divert him from the subject, observing with a smile: “And I am going to beg you, sir, not to follow the example of Prince Rupert; pray do not push the pursuit any further.”
“Pardon me,” said Norton more gravely, “but I have every intention of carrying it to a successful end. Don’t you understand that I love you?”
“Sir, it is of no use,” she replied. “I cannot listen to your suit. Pray, pray leave me.”
“I will not leave you,” he said, fiercely, “till I clearly understand why you are thus cold and indifferent.”
“Sir, I have no love to give you,” she said, with quiet dignity.
“Never mind that, my love is hot enough to serve for both.”
“I do not want your love,” she said, emphatically.
His eyes gleamed with an anger that made him look devilish.
“The meaning of which is, that you love another. Rumour spoke truly, and the young Parliamentary captain who spared Bosbury Cross—:—”
Hilary started, and a wave of colour suffused her face.
“You see I know all about it.”
She remained quite silent, with drooped head.
“Do you love this Captain Harford? Speak—for I will know the truth!” he said, savagely.
Hilary raised her head. There was such suffering and pathos in her face that any man not the thrall of passion would have been touched. “Sir, all our lives we have loved each other. Oh! if you understood, you would be generous,” she said.
“Why did you not tell me the truth on Monday?”
“Our betrothal had ended at the beginning of the war. I vowed I would not love a rebel. But yesterday, when we met again, I found that war was weaker than love, that it could not really part us.”
“So you became disloyal to your King?”
“No, no; I shall always honour His Majesty; but in truth I can think of only one man in all the world, and that”—her face lighted up—“that is Gabriel Harford, for he is all the world to me. I have told you the whole truth, sir, and now, by your honour as a gentleman, I ask you to leave me.”
“Shall I tell you what you have done?” said Norton, speaking low and rapidly. “You have made me all the more in love with you—all the more determined to win you. What is this Captain Harford? A mere boy, your old playmate, perchance a pleasant comrade, but wholly unfit to be your lord and master.”
“Sir,” she said, with a new dignity in her manner, “he is the man I love.”
Norton muttered an impatient oath.
“Had he been of our party I might have left you to him with a good grace. But nothing shall make me yield to a miserable Roundhead, a strait-laced Puritan, who glories in self-control, and keeps a conscience on his premises. Much good may his conscience do him! I have him like a rat in a trap!”
The words almost paralysed her with terror. What did he know? What did he mean? Had he caught sight of Gabriel?
“And you!” cried Norton, passionately. “You are in my power. Do you understand that?”
Beside himself with wrath, Gabriel dragged himself up on to his knees and drew his sword from the scabbard. Meg and Nan glanced round at him uneasily; and Hilary, conscious of the movement though her back was turned to the hedge, grew desperate in her anxiety.
“No, no!” she panted. “You are too brave a man to take so base an advantage.”
“Pshaw!” said Norton, sneeringly. “The man’s a fool who neglects to use his advantages. You think only of the dear Puritan. You only fear what I may do to him. Well, I will confide in you. I have sent a trusty ambassador to Ledbury, and he is sure to make Captain Harford prisoner. Then, when he is in my power—well, there are many ways of exterminating rats—and rebels.”
Hilary choked back a sob, and moved a few steps from the hedge.
“I am told,” said Norton with a cruel smile, “that Sir Francis Doddington hung fourteen rebels at Andover t’other day. And elsewhere twelve of them were strung up to one apple-tree. We might hang Captain Harford from one of those apple-trees yonder; it would be a fitting death for a Herefordshire man.”
With a wild hope of getting him out of the orchard she moved as though to go, trusting that he might follow’. But Norton was too quick for her.
“Come! cheer up and don’t be so silent,” he said, throwing his arm round her waist. “We’ll talk no more of the Puritan. Let us kiss and be friends.”
“Don’t touch me!” she cried, indignantly, wrenching herself from his embrace. “You are worse than a murderer.”
Norton laughed mockingly.
“Now that was a foolish speech, for as I warned you, the game is in my hands.”
“Thank God! there is someone coming,” cried Hilary, catching sight of a man slowly approaching by the path from Ledbury, and running swiftly towards him. “Why, Waghorn! is it you?” she exclaimed, recognising the well-known face of the wood-carver beneath a bandage tied about his forehead. “You have little liking for us, but I know you will help me now.”
“Mistress!” said Waghorn grimly, “I have a word to speak with yonder Governor of Canon Frome, and I cannot serve you.”
Norton strode angrily towards him.
“A word to speak, indeed! What have you been about? Where is your prisoner?”
Hilary in great astonishment stood by, glancing from one to the other. Waghorn, then, had been the Colonel’s ambassador! Had he suddenly turned Royalist, or was it merely to revenge himself on Gabriel that he had become a spy?
“Sir,” said Waghorn, “I did all that you told me. Last night, having changed my outward man, I followed Captain Harford wherever he went in Ledbury. As the shadow followeth the wayfaring man when the sun shineth, so did I follow him. I saw Colonel Massey give him the despatches.”
“Well! Well! did you take them?” asked Norton, impatiently.
Not heeding the interruption, Waghorn stolidly resumed his tale.
“He hid them in his buff coat and lay down to sleep by the market-house. I well-nigh took the packet from him, but a cur barked and he roused up, gripped me by the arm and called the guard.”
“Idiot! I might have known that you would bungle the business. How was it you did not get him disabled in the skirmish instead of being knocked on the head yourself?”
“I adjured Prince Rupert’s men to fire on him,” said Waghorn, with solemn vindictiveness, “and the ball of the avenger entered into his arm; but he still galloped on, clinging to the neck of his steed. Then one of the ungodly clouted me on the head and I saw him no more.”
His slow speech, and the failure of the enterprise irritated Norton past endurance.
Seizing him by the coat-collar, he gave him a sound shaking.
“You prating, pig-headed, sour-faced lunatic! I wish I had managed the matter myself. Did you not ask which way he rode? Was there no pursuit by the Prince’s troopers?”
Waghorn groaned. “Mercy! Mercy! Oh, my head! My head! Remember I’ve a sore head.”
“You’ve no head at all, you gaping fool, or you wouldn’t have made such a cursed mess of this matter. Did you not ask, I say? Could no man give you news of him?”
Freeing himself and groaning as he adjusted his bandages, the wood-carver replied, sullenly, “I have news of him. When you will leave me time to speak, I will tell you all.”
“Speak then,” said Norton, impatiently.
“I am a righteous avenger,” said Waghorn, with an air of offended dignity, “and, though thrice baulked, I will yet lay hands on the ungodly man that dallies with malignants, and doth not destroy graven images. ‘Let his days be few, and let another take his office!’”
“Go to! You are not preaching on a tub, you fool, but speaking to a King’s officer,” said Norton, with an angry frown.
Waghorn continued deliberately. “When I could think of aught but my clouted head, I sought to pursue Captain Harford, asking from one and another if they had seen a wounded Parliament officer on a bay horse. At length I fell in with some troopers who vowed they had pursued him in this direction, but had lost all trace of him and were returning to Prince Rupert.”
“They had seen him this way?” said Norton, musingly.
Waghorn turned his piercing eyes on Hilary and looked at her fixedly. She tried bravely to keep an unmoved face.
“Doubtless he had his reasons for riding towards Bosbury,” said the spy, with scornful emphasis.
“A good notion,” cried Norton. “After all, you have a head on your shoulders, Waghorn. Methinks the lady’s face hath an anxious look.”
“Sir,” said Hilary, drawing herself up, “no maiden could listen to such words as you have forced me to hear to-day without showing some sign of anxiety.”
Waghorn watched her with the eyes of a hawk, and his solemn voice broke the brief silence which had fallen upon them.
“I adjure you, Mistress, by all you hold most sacred, to speak the truth. Have you seen Captain Gabriel Harford?”
The girl breathed hard, but kept silence, gazing like one transfixed into Waghorn’s keen eyes.
“Speak, Mistress,” he repeated. “Have you seen Captain Gabriel Harford?”
“I saw him—yesterday,” gasped Hilary.
“We know that. Have you seen him this morning?”
There was a minute’s pause, while in agony she tried to see some way out of the dilemma. But way there was none.
“You have seen him?” urged Waghorn, merciless as any Inquisitor.
“Yes,” she replied, a sob rising in her throat.
Norton, with fury in his eyes, stepped nearer to her.
“You dare to protect this rebel, and yet you knew that he carried despatches to the rebel army?”
Hilary bowed her head in assent, then turned away.
“When did you see him?” urged Norton, wrathfully.
She looked up, and her terrible distress was evident.
“I saw him—anon,” she said, in a broken voice.
“How long ago?”
“A little while before you came,” she faltered.
“Which way did he ride?” cried Norton, maddened at the thought that this girl was thwarting them and making them lose precious time. “Tell me at once.”
Utter despair seized her.
“Oh!” she sobbed, “have pity on me!”
“Pity!” said Norton, savagely. “Have you pitied me? Tell me which way he went, or I’ll——”
At this, Gabriel, driven desperate, struggled to his feet, but, turning faint, was forced for a while to lean against one of the hedge-row elms. The children, terrified by his movement and by the dispute in the orchard, dropped their daisy-chains and ran at full speed down the field, while the Colonel, becoming aware of a stir behind him, glanced round.
That was too much for Hilary. She sprang forward and diverted Norton’s attention by pointing to the hills. Her voice was the voice of one goaded beyond all endurance.
“He rode yonder!” she cried, “to Malvern!”
Norton turned to the wood-carver. “Haste, Waghorn! Take word to my servant at the blacksmith’s, and do you ride with him in pursuit. I have a word to say to this lady.” Waghorn was only too ready to undertake such congenial work, and the moment he was gone Norton seized Hilary roughly by the wrists.
“By your tears and your pretences,” he said, with fierce scorn, “you have done your best to hinder me; but I would have you know, Mistress, that I am not one to be baffled. You are wholly at my mercy now.”
In wild terror, she felt the pitiless brute force of the man.
“Let me go!” she panted, struggling to free herself.
“No, by Heaven! you shall not,” said Norton, passionately. “Waghorn can settle matters with your lover, and I will make sure of you.”
In the agony of her resistance she forgot everything else, and was as much startled as Norton when suddenly an indignant voice rang out close to them.
“Coward!” cried Gabriel, and his tone made the Colonel wince as he released Hilary, and stood staring at the wounded man, who, apparently almost at his last gasp, nevertheless confronted him with drawn sword.
His left arm was bandaged and in a sling, the sleeve of his buff coat had been ripped from wrist to shoulder, and hung down soaked in blood; his face was ghastly pale, with eyes like a flaming fire. Norton felt that he could not fight one in such extremity.
“What, the Puritan here, after all!” he cried. “I’faith, this is excellent. I arrest you, sir, in the King’s name.”
Gabriel’s breath came in gasps, but with a gesture he urged Hilary to stand back under the trees, and, with flashing eyes, turned upon her assailant.
“Defend yourself!” he cried.
“Nay, an’ you will fight,” said Norton, drawing his sword. “Your blood be on your own head.”
Hilary, with hands clasped on her breast, stood by frozen with horror, every shade of colour gone from her lovely face. In awful contrast to the peaceful orchard with its grass and daisies, its pink-and-white apple blossom, its glimpses of the Malvern hills, was the unequal fight in the foreground, the deadly thrust of the flashing swords, the clash of the steel, the gasping, sobbing breath of her lover.
Everything seemed against Gabriel; not only was he exhausted by pain and loss of blood, but he was a shorter, slighter man than the Colonel, and a less practised swordsman. He had nothing in his favour but a good cause, and a dauntless courage, and these will not ensure success.
Although he made a brave fight it was before long only too evident that he was failing; twice he staggered and almost fell, and though each time recovering himself, Norton was convinced that in another minute he must succumb. And now the better side of the Colonel’s nature once more asserted itself; he felt a certain admiration for his foe, an uneasy consciousness that there had been truth in that indignant cry of “Coward!” The thought disturbed him, so did the panting, agonising gasps of the Puritan, and an uncomfortable chill went to his heart when, in the heat of the combat, he felt a ring which he specially valued slip from his left hand.
Suddenly he was taken off his guard; with a desperate thrust Gabriel ran him through the body, and in the same instant both duellists fell to the ground, the one severely wounded, the other wholly exhausted by the rescue of the woman whom he loved, and in the defence of whose honour he had spent the last remnants of his failing strength.
“Yet since that loving Lord
Commanded us to love them for His sake,
Even for His sake, and for his sacred Word,
Which in His last bequest He to us spake,
We should them love, and with their needs partake;
Knowing that, whatsoe’er to them we give,
We give to Him by Whom we all doe live.”
—Spenser.
There was no more skipping that day for Nan and Meg; frightened out of their senses, they made their way home, and were just crossing the stable-yard when their father caught sight of them.
“I have stabled that bay horse as Vicar said,” he remarked, “and do you two little maids keep a still tongue in your heads or we may get into trouble. Why, what’s amiss with you both?”
“Oh, father,” said Nan, sobbing, “our wounded Puritan is going to fight the officer from Canon Frome, who is in the orchard threatening Mistress Hilary.”
“I’ll teach un to mind his manners in my orchard!” said Farmer Chadd, hastily picking up a stout cudgel. “Threatening did you say? and the lady there with no better protection than a wounded soldier! Good Lord! but these evil living Cavaliers will be the ruin o’ the land! Run in to your mother, my maids, and say I’ll be back soon for dinner.”
Just as he reached the orchard by one entrance the Vicar and Zachary entered at the opposite side, and all three men gazed in horror at the sight before them. The Governor of Canon Frome was stretched out on the grass, bleeding and unconscious, and Gabriel Harford, to all appearance lifeless, lay with his head on Hilary’s lap.
The Vicar bent over him and felt his heart.
“He still lives! but how can he possibly have fought Colonel Norton when in such a plight?”
“It was to save me, sir,” said Hilary. “Oh! let us take him quickly to shelter before it is too late.”
“There’s life in this plaguey Governor o’ Canon Frome, sir,” said Farmer Chadd, “What be we to do with un?”
“If you and your wife could bind up his wound; the best way would be to take word to his men, and get them to bear him hence on a litter. Could you do that, Chadd, and say naught as to Captain Harford? He is the son of Dr. Bridstock Harford, of Hereford.”
“Then I’ll do anything in the world for un, for Dr. Harford saved my good woman’s life,” said Farmer Chadd. “You shelter the young gentleman, sir, and me and the missus will see to this here plaguey Colonel.”
With Zachary’s help the Vicar lifted Gabriel on to the bier which they had brought from the church, and carefully covering him with sacking they bore him down through the hopyards to Bosbury. Fortunately, it was the dinner-hour, and they did not encounter a single person, but were able to cress the churchyard and to carry their burden up the step-ladder to the first floor of the tower. Here they found Mrs. Durdle hard at work; she had already laid a mattress on the floor, and was bustling about with a broom in despair at the dust and the cobwebs which had accumulated.
“I do wish I had time to scrub the place down, sir,” she lamented. “It bean’t fit for a dog to lay in, let alone a Christian.”
“Never mind,” said the Vicar, “I’ll warrant ’tis cleaner than Oxford Castle, and the main thing is to hide him and save his life. Zachary, can you fix boards in three of the windows, or at night the villagers may see our light?”
Leaving the wounded man to the kindly offices of Mrs. Durdle and Hilary, both of them well skilled in sick-nursing, the Vicar hastened back to his house, returning before long with a box full of pre-historic bones under one arm and a flagon of Hollands under the other.
“If anyone chances to ask you why we come to and fro to this tower, Zachary,” he remarked, toiling up the ladder and setting down his burden, “you can tell them I am keeping my antiquities here, and can say you’ve seen them. What! hath Captain Harford not yet regained his senses? Try to get a little of this down his throat, Hilary. That’s better; he will soon revive, and I will then set off for Hereford.”
The last word seemed to reach Gabriel. He opened his eyes for a moment and caught a misty glimpse of Dr. Coke and Hilary with a rough stone tower wall and a deeply splayed narrow window in the background. Was he once more a prisoner in St. George’s Tower at Oxford? The horror of the thought roused him. Then he noticed that he was lying in a bed on the floor, and that they had removed his buff coat, a perception which vaguely troubled him. ..
“My coat?” he said, anxiously, yet still not knowing why he wanted it.
“Are you cold,” said Hilary, spreading another blanket over him. But the Vicar understood, and fetched the buff coat from the corner where Durdle had thrown it.
“The inner pocket is here,” he said, placing it within reach of Gabriel’s right hand. And then, with a look of relief, the wounded man drew out the despatches.
“Will you give them to my father?” he said, pleadingly,
“Yes,” replied the Vicar; “but I shall beg him to come here first and dress your wounds. Will you give them to him yourself?”
“He may not come in time,” said Gabriel, faintly.
And the Vicar, seeing that he longed to have the anxiety off his mind thrust the despatches into his black doublet, and bidding them keep the tower door locked, set off with Zachary to the stable, where the old servant saddled the cob for him, and, promising to be about the premises ready to give Mrs. Durdle help should she need him, watched his master ride off in the direction of Hereford.
Dr. Coke was not a man to shirk anything which he had promised, but he could not help feeling that in this despatchbearing he had undertaken work which he would have preferred to leave alone. To stand quite aloof from the strife and never to forget that he was before all things pledged to the service of the Prince of Peace had been his aim throughout the Civil War; but to refuse the request of one who lay apparently at the point of death, seemed to him impossible, while Gabriel’s gallant rescue of Hilary increased the desire he felt to give him whatever ease of mind was possible.
On reaching Hereford he rode straight to the physician’s house and, learnt from the servant that her master was about to ride out into the country. However, he was shown into the study.
“I will not detain you many minutes, sir,” he said, after the greetings had passed. “I know how precious time is to such a busy man.”
“Nay, ’tis not on an urgent matter of life and death that I am riding out this afternoon,” said Dr. Harford. “I had last night a letter from my son, who, it seems, is at Ledbury, and I hope to meet him.”
“Alas!” said the Vicar, “I bring you bad news of him. There was a sharp fight this morning at Ledbury, and your son is sorely wounded. We have hidden him from his pursuers in the tower at Bosbury, and he begged me to give you these despatches which he was bearing from Massey to Fairfax and Cromwell.”
Dr. Harford took the blood-stained packet, but for a minute could not speak. At length he asked further particulars as to Gabriel’s wounds, and when he, heard of the desperate ride across country and the duel with Colonel Norton, hope died out of his face. But, as usual, he was full of consideration for his visitor.
“I am inclined to think, sir,” he said, “that you have been hurrying to and fro in aid of my son and have not yet dined. I will bid them prepare a meal, and then, when your horse is rested and my arrangements for leaving home made, we might, an’ you will, ride together to Bosbury.”
The Vicar, being in truth extremely hungry after his arduous work, did not decline the offer of food, and was soon discussing a fat capon in the dining-room, while the doctor saw his wife and his assistant, made hasty arrangements for a week’s absence, and put into his bag such things as he thought likely to prove needful for Gabriel’s case.
His wife, only longing to go herself to Bosbury, watched the preparations with tearful eyes.
“I cannot bear to feel that the headstrong girl who is to blame for it all should have the nursing of him,” she sighed.
“Well, my dear, had you seen his face at Notting Hill when he was at death’s door, and I merely gave him her message, you would understand that Hilary Unett is the only woman in the world who has a chance of nursing him back to life. ’Tis hard, dear wife, but there comes a time when a man is bound to leave even his father and mother and cling to his——”
“Well,” said the poor mother, wiping her eyes, “she is not his wife yet, and if he dies, I for one shall account her his murderess.”
The physician stooped and kissed her tenderly.
“Keep up your heart,” he said, with assumed cheerfulness. “And I know that the kindly Vicar will bring you word how he fares, and if need arises fetch you to him. But if possible we must avoid that, since he cannot be safe when once his hiding-place hath been discovered. The Canon Frome garrison will know that he is not far off, and we may be sure will seek to lay hands on him.”
They were interrupted by little Bridstock, who came running into the room to show them a toy sword which the groom had made for him.
“At any rate, you shall never be a soldier,” said the mother, catching him up in her arms and kissing him. “And you can’t marry that headstrong maid!”
“I shall marry little Betty Brydges,” said the child, with decision, “and be Member of Parliament like Sir Robert Harley.”
The sublime confidence of his tone made the parents laugh.
“’Tis a great thing to know one’s own mind,” said the doctor, patting the child’s curly head. “We have had our troubles, but at any rate our two sons will not vex our souls by weak and unstable characters. There is grit in both of them.”
“I would we had the choosing of their wives,” said Mrs. Harford, ruefully.
“Yet you didn’t think that the best plan years ago,” replied Dr. Harford, with a mirthful glance.
And recalling their own extremely early and rash marriage, his wife could but smile and own that he was right.
Her heart relented a little towards Hilary, and when Dr. Coke told her from what peril Gabriel had that day rescued her, and spoke words of warm gratitude and praise as to her son’s courage and sterling character, her face brightened, and she watched the two riders mount their horses with a more hopeful spirit than might have been expected.
Yet could Dr. Harford have looked at that moment into the tower room where his son lay, he would certainly have taken his wife with him.
“Ruined love, when it is built anew,
Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater.”
—Romeo and Juliet, Act I., Scene I.
As Hilary kept guard over her lover through those long hours of waiting, seeing the pain which she could do nothing to relieve, fearing, as she watched his failing strength, that the end was indeed drawing near, it seemed to her that the punishment of all her pride and perversity was falling on her with overwhelming force.
When conscious, he lay absolutely still, too much exhausted to speak, and when drifting back into a semi-conscious state his moans tore her heart, and filled her, moreover, with terror lest some villager crossing the churchyard should possibly hear the sound.
At last, when it was growing dusk, she heard horsemen on the road, and, after an interval, when doubtless the travellers were leaving their horses with Zachary in the stable-yard, came the welcome summons from below which had been agreed upon. Durdle clambered down the step-ladder and unbolted the door, and in another minute the Vicar and Dr. Harford made their way into the dim tower room.
Looking up into the physician’s strong, calm face, Hilary felt as if a load of care had been suddenly lifted from her shoulders. He greeted her with more than his usual cordiality, understanding well enough how sore her heart must be. Then he knelt down beside the mattress and looked with keen anxiety at his son.
“Will there be any risk in having a light?” he asked.
The Vicar thought not, and, producing a tinder-box, began to strike a flint and steel and to kindle the lantern that had been brought from the house.
Then when the light fell on the white face drawn with pain, the doctor regretted that he had not brought Gabriel’s mother, for not even at Notting Hill had he seemed so near death.
Hilary saw the change in his manner and her heart sank. Yet it comforted her a little when Dr. Harford proceeded to examine the shattered arm, for surely, she argued to herself, had there been no hope he would have left his son’s last moments undisturbed.
“I did the best I could for him in the orchard,” said the Vicar; “but fear it was but rough-and-ready treatment.”
“The duel would have been enough to defeat the most skilful surgery,” said the Doctor; “and clearly the bone must have been broken as he fell. But he hath great rallying power, and I don’t despair of him yet.”
On those words Hilary stayed her failing heart all through that terrible night, while Gabriel passed from one fainting fit to another, and it seemed as if the angel of death hovered above him ready at any moment to bear him away from her.
At length towards daybreak he slept for a time, and woke with a look of renewed life in his face which cheered them.
“The despatches?” he asked, looking from his father to the Vicar.
“Dr. Coke has given them to me,” said the physician.
“And you will bear them without delay?” said Gabriel, anxiously.
Dr. Harford’s face clouded.
“To leave you now may mean your death,” he replied. “I do not think I can leave you.”
“But I promised to guard them with my life, and they are urgent,” pleaded Gabriel. “Let me still serve.”
Hilary’s eyes grew dim, but she spoke in a low, steady voice.
“I will do all that you bid me, sir,” she said. “Surely good nursing may save him.”
“Well, my dear,” said the physician, “if anyone can keep him in life, I verily believe ’tis you; and if he urges me to go, I cannot say him nay.”
“You will see them both yourself,” said Gabriel.
“Ay, the despatches shall be placed in their own hands.”
“And tell General Cromwell,” said Gabriel, “that if I recover, I more than ever desire to serve the wounded.”
With many last directions, the physician at length tore himself away, well knowing that it was doubtful whether he should ever again look on his son.
The Vicar went to see him mount, glad that he should leave Bosbury before the village was astir, and as they quitted the tower Gabriel turned to Hilary with a look that made her heart bound.
“Now do you repay a hundredfold all the suffering of these years,” he said. “Living or dying, I am content.”
She bent down and kissed him tenderly. And long before the Vicar rejoined them he had sunk into a dreamless sleep.
Cheering himself with the old family motto, Dr. Harford rode with all speed to Windsor, where he was able to deliver the despatches to Sir Thomas Fairfax and to give him an account of Prince Rupert’s doings in Herefordshire. He found, however, that Cromwell had quitted Windsor, and, after taking Blechington House, was sweeping round Oxford, taking possession of all the draught horses in the neighbourhood, and thus disorganising the King’s plan of campaign by preventing Prince Maurice from removing the heavy guns from Oxford. It was not until the night of the 28th April that the physician was able to overtake him near Farringdon, as he was on his way to rejoin Fairfax, after defeating Sir Henry Vaughan at Bampton.
The troops had halted for a couple of hours beside the Lambourn, and the physician on asking to be taken to Cromwell, was conducted by a burly corporal to a pollard willow beside the stream. Here, with his armour removed, and a little gilt-edged volume in his hand, rested the tired leader, his back against the tree trunk, the expression of his face more that of a prophet than a soldier. Clearly what Massey would have termed the “Enoch” side of his character was now uppermost, and the “David” side no longer visible.
As the corporal mentioned the name of the physician, he promptly slipped the little volume into his pocket, and with a brief and not particularly ceremonious greeting, received from Dr. Harford’s hands the blood-stained despatches.
“Pray be seated, sir,” he said, resuming his place under the tree, with the fatigued air of one who has for many days known scant rest. Then without comment he broke the seal and hastily read Massey’s communication.
“You have done me a greater service than you know by bearing this,” he said, glancing up from the closely-written sheet.
“Sir, I am but my son’s ambassador,” said the physician. “He would have delivered the despatch himself, but was attacked and grievously wounded as he rode from Ledbury.”
Cromwell glanced at the blood-stained letter, which told its own tale.
“I remember Captain Harford well,” he said. “He did excellent work at Newbury, and again, two months ago, when we were in Wiltshire.”
“’Twas only through his great wish to serve you that I have consented to leave him in a risky hiding-place, and in grave peril of death from his wounds,” said the physician.
“Poor lad!” said Cromwell, his stern face softened to such tenderness as amazed Dr. Harford. “The moral courage of his nature is a thousandfold more needed in England than mere animal bravery. There is one of my troopers, Passey by name, who was his fellow prisoner in Oxford Castle, and he hath told me how no skilled physician could have shown a more tender care for the fever-stricken inmates.”
“Should he recover, he more than ever longs to serve the sick and wounded,” said Dr. Harford.
“Then in God’s name bid him do it,” cried Cromwell. “I urged him at Newbury to wait for clearer guidance, bidding him beware of men and to look up to the Lord, letting Him be free to speak and command in his heart, and without consulting flesh and blood to do valiantly for God and His people. And here, doubtless, in this pain he hath passed through, his guidance hath come.”
“Should I find him living on my return, I will repeat your words to him,” said Dr. Harford.
“God grant that he may be spared to you, sir,” said Cromwell. “I know too well what the loss of a first-born son means to the heart of a father. Look you, an’ it should chance that Parliament still desires to retain my services in the Army, let your son act as one of the mates to the surgeon of my troop, thus would he gain knowledge whilst still serving the Cause.”
Dr. Harford welcomed the suggestion, and anxious to lose no time on his return journey, took leave of the great leader, understanding better than he had done before what it was that gave this man his extraordinary power. He had the insight to perceive what the greatest of modern historians has called Cromwell’s “all-embracing hospitality of soul,” and to understand that this, combined with a rare sagacity in seeing what was practically possible and a matchless faith and courage, marked him out as the true steersman in those troubled times.
During these days Peter Waghorn had in deep depression brooded over the utter defeat of his schemes. His fruitless search for Gabriel in Malvern had not improved his temper, and on going next day to Canon Frome Manor to interview Norton he learnt to his dismay that the Governor had been carried home from Bosbury desperately wounded and was raving in delirium. Nobody knew how he had met with his wound, but Farmer Chadd had found him lying unconscious in his orchard, and it was conjectured that the mishap must have occurred while he was seeking to arrest some of Massey’s men in their flight.
Waghorn kept his thoughts to himself and trudged back to Bosbury, guessing shrewdly that Captain Harford had all the time been within earshot, and, in spite of his wound, had managed to fight his rival. Had he encountered Hilary he would probably have asked her some direct question, but the villagers reported that she was ill and obliged to keep the house, a rumour which was confirmed by her non-appearance at church on the following Sunday.
On the Thursday a soldier rode up to the wood-carver’s house, and Waghorn, in some trepidation, went out to him.
“The Governor bids you come with all speed to him at Canon Frome Manor to report on some work undertaken for him,” said the messenger, looking with some curiosity at the austere Puritan.
“Good; I will come anon,” said Waghorn. “Doth the Colonel recover him of his wound?”
“Ay, ’tis healing, and his head is clear, but I counsel you to come with all speed, for he’s in a devilish ill-humour, and to be kept waiting is what he can’t abide.”
Waghorn laid aside his work, and in very low spirits tramped over to Canon Frome. To do him justice, he was ill at ease, and detested his alliance with an officer of Norton’s type. It might be permissible to use the ungodly as tools, but as he recalled Hilary’s appeal to him in the orchard, and reflected that he had left her wholly at the mercy of the Colonel, his conscience pricked him. He had, as a matter of fact, forgotten everything in the burning desire to prevent Gabriel Harford’s escape.
Evidently the soldier had drawn a truthful picture of Norton’s state, for, as the wood-carver was ushered into his room, he peremptorily ordered his servant to quit him, and beckoning Waghorn to come near to the bed, looked up at him with an angry scowl.
“Well, scarecrow! What news do you bring?”
“No news, sir,” said Waghorn, gloomily.
“You great bungling idiot! Of course, I know you didn’t find Captain Harford in Malvern; he was lying within a stone’s throw of us behind the hedge.”
“And challenged you in order to save Mistress Hilary?—I guessed as much,” said the wood-carver. “I like your doings very ill, sir, and you well deserve what you got.”
“You vile hypocrite! Do you sit in judgment on me?” said Norton. “You! a turncoat—a spy! Why, you can’t even carry out the dirty work you undertake. Prate no more, but tell me what they did with Captain Harford. We fell at the same moment, and he, as I well remember, had death in his face as he ran me through.”
“I know not where they bore him, sir, and had there been a burial at Bosbury I must surely have known of it.”
“Maybe, then, he still lives, and they have hidden him away somewhere. Doubtless the Vicar hath sheltered him; he is one of those soft-hearted fools who seek to overcome evil with good, and models his life after the Sermon on the Mount, not in your fashion, on the cursing Psalms.”
There was enough truth in this remark to cause Waghorn another twinge of conscience.
“I may have been ill-advised to leave you in the orchard with Mistress Hilary,” he admitted. “But the flesh is weak, and I remembered only the duty of securing that half-hearted sparer of crosses. The lady told a most shameless lie, and if her lover was slain in the duel his blood will be on her head.”
“That may be a very soothing reflection for you,” said Norton, with a grim smile, “but it doth not better my case. Now, look you here, I will do anything in reason for you if you discover this man’s whereabouts. You think, had he died, you would have heard of it. Well, by hook or by crook, you can surely find out where they have stowed him away. Have you seen aught of Mistress Hilary?”
“Nay; she keeps the house, I hear, and is ill.”
“A blind! A mere trick!” cried Norton, angrily. “Depend upon it, she keeps the house to nurse that accursed lover of hers. Oh! if I had but the strength to mount my horse, I would soon track him down.”
“I could keep watch on the house, sir,” said Waghorn, “and let you know who comes and goes.”
“Well, do that, it may serve,” said Norton; “for I will not live to be thwarted by that Puritan Captain. And, look you, Waghorn, you might do me a service by worrying the Vicar. Go and seize the Prayer-book in the church, and bid him obey the Parliamentary order and use this blessed Directory they have concocted. ’S life! what wouldn’t I give to see his face when you confront him with it.”
And he broke into a laugh, which was cut short by a paroxysm of pain.
“I could do that,” said Waghorn, sternly, a gleam of satisfaction kindling in his eyes. “I reckon he would take it even more to heart than the breaking of his painted window. Ay, I could do that.”
“Do it then,” said Norton, mockingly, “and serve the Cause that you are for ever prating about. I care not a jot, for it will serve me.”
With that he dismissed the wood-carver, and Waghorn walked straight to Ledbury, where he had the good fortune to find a trusty waggoner who was willing to carry a letter for him to Gloucester and bear back the reply. He then adjourned to a small alehouse, where he laboriously wrote an order to one of his Puritan friends for a copy of the Directory, which was already in use in Gloucester, but had not yet been enforced in Herefordshire.
Having accomplished this work to his entire satisfaction, he tramped back in the dusk of the evening to Bosbury, but had only gone about half the distance when the sound of a horseman following him made him look round. He saw with a start of surprise that it was none other than Dr. Bridstock Harford.
“Good e’en to you, sir,” he said, touching his hat.
“Good evening,” said the doctor, as he galloped past.
“Now what should that bode?” muttered Waghorn. “Where hath he been? And whither doth he ride now? I’ll light my lantern when I reach home, and see if the hoof-prints stop at the Vicarage.”
“But true religion, sprung from God above,
Is like her fountain, full of charity,
Embracing all things with a tender love!
Full of goodwill and meek expectancy;
Full of true justice and sure verity,
In heart and voice free, large, even infinite;
Not wedged in strict particularity,
But grasping all in her vast active spright;
Bright lamp of God! that men would joy in thy
pure light.”
—Henry More, 1642.
There was something indescribably desolate in the blank silence of the tiled house when Waghorn unlocked the door, and fumbled in the dusk for the tinder-box. No human being shared his dreary home, no animal kept him company or enlivened his solitary hours. It was undoubtedly owing to his loneliness that his tendency to gloomy fanaticism had, since his father’s death, so greatly increased. The one joy left him appeared to be this morbid and exaggerated desire to root out all that he deemed wrong, and to punish all those who withstood his fiery zeal.
Without pausing to eat or drink, he kindled his lantern and stole quickly out into the street. Early hours were kept in those days, and all seemed still in the village; stepping cautiously, he soon descried in the dust the prints of horse-hoofs, and was eagerly following them up to see whether they turned in at the Vicarage, when Zachary suddenly emerged from the gate.
“Good e’en to you, Waghorn,” said the clerk, in a more friendly tone than he usually employed towards the wood-carver. “Ha’ ye lost summat, that ye go groping like the woman that dropped her tenth bit o’ silver?”
“Ay,” said Waghorn, “that’s just what I have done, but I shall find what I seek yet, never fear.”
Zachary with apparent good nature swept his broad foot energetically to and fro among the dust, effectually wiping out all trace of the hoof-prints.
“Better search by daylight,” he suggested. “And come now to the ‘Bell’ and have a pint o’ home brewed.”
Waghorn deemed it prudent to accept the invitation, for he desired to get into Zachary’s confidence, and hoped that some day he might gather from the garrulous old man the information he eagerly sought. But on this particular night the clerk was on his guard, and the fanatic gained nothing by his plot.
Meanwhile, in the tower room, Dr. Harford, to his great joy, found his son in far better case than he had dared to expect. Hilary’s good nursing and the patient’s healthy life and sound constitution had triumphed over all the other drawbacks, and although some weeks must pass before he really recovered, all danger to his life was practically over.
The Vicar and Hilary listened with intense relief to the doctor’s verdict.
“The question now is, whether we shall try to remove him,” said his father. “It seems unfair to let you any longer run the risk of sheltering a rebel. Yet I scarce know where we could take him; we should never get him to Hereford without his being made prisoner.”
“Sir, don’t think of moving him. ’Tis hard, indeed, if the church tower may not afford him sanctuary,” said the Vicar. “If, indeed, there be any risk in the matter, I gladly take it.”
“And how about his nurse? What hath she to say?” asked the physician, looking into the girl’s beautiful face.
“Sir,” said Hilary, blushing vividly, “I am his betrothed wife, and only this very day we were saying that we wished the Vicar would wed us.”
Gabriel took her hand in his, and looked with eager hope at the kindly antiquary who had done so much for him.
“In the orchard as I lay in even worse plight, sir, you made no objection to my suit, and if, indeed, you will make us man and wife before I go, I should be for ever your debtor.”
The Vicar and the physician glanced at each other.
“This comes, sir, an’ I mistake not,” said Dr. Harford, “from your words in the churchyard when Waghorn would have had the cross pulled down. I have heard that those who hearkened to you could never forget your plea for love, which is the bond of peace.”
“In truth, sir,” said the Vicar with a twinkle in his eye, “I trow it comes from the quiet days in this tower of refuge, when my niece had in your absence to nurse the wounded. Very gladly will I wed you, my children, and some fine morning we will steal across to the church before the villagers are astir. In the meanwhile I can read your banns in here each Sunday, with Durdle and Zachary for congregation.”
Then Dr. Harford told of his interview with Cromwell, and of the suggestion for Gabriel’s future.
“An you could spare your niece, sir, it would perchance be no bad plan for our bride and bridegroom to journey to London, for possibly the Governor of Canon Frome may yet give some trouble. Hath anyone heard whether he recovers?”
“Farmer Chadd heard that, though still kept to his bed, he mends apace,” said the Vicar. “Your plan seems an excellent one, sir, and though I shall sorely miss Hilary, it would take a load off my mind to know that she was in safety.”
“Then by the earliest opportunity I will write to my mother at Notting Hill Manor,” said the physician. “I well know that her house will be at your disposal, and that you, sir, would be an honoured guest there.”
The Vicar gave a courteous little bow, then turned with a mischievous glance to the invalid.
“Nothing will please me more than to meet Madam Harford, yet don’t make yourself uneasy, Gabriel, I shall not ride with you on the wedding journey, but shall visit you later on, when you are settled down into the prose of everyday life.”
There was a general laugh, and before long, the Vicar suggested that they had better return for the night to the Vicarage, leaving Dr. Harford to talk matters over with his son.
Far into the small hours the two discussed future plans, and it was arranged that the Doctor should not again risk drawing attention to the hiding-place by a visit, unless actually sent for. Early in June, when the arm was likely to be quite sound again, he proposed to ride over at night, bringing Gabriel’s mother with him, that she might be present at the private marriage, and see her son before he left the west. In the meantime he impressed on the wounded man the need of the greatest caution and secrecy, and then, stifling the anxiety he could not but feel, bade him farewell just as dawn was breaking, and saddling his horse, rode quietly back to Hereford before anyone else in Bosbury was stirring.
Waghorn, with a grim smile on his sleeping face, dreamt of the bonfire he would make of the great Prayer-book in the church. The Vicar wandered in a happy valley where wonderful remains of pre-historic times delighted his astonished eyes. Hilary had visions of standing beside Gabriel in the porch, where in those days weddings were celebrated, and softly breathing the “I will,” which should make her indeed his wife. And Gabriel, in wakeful happiness, lay watching the light as it stole softly through the narrow window of his hiding-place, musing over the words the Vicar had daily used when he visited him:
O Lord, save Thy servant; which putteth his trust in Thee.
Send him help from Thy holy place: and evermore mightily defend
him.
Let the enemy have no advantage of him; nor the wicked approach to
hurt him.
Be unto him, O Lord, a strong tower; from the face of his enemy.
Such a strong tower, such a helper and defender, must be, in his degree, prove to his promised wife; and he looked the future in the face far more soberly than in the first days of their betrothal long ago, but with a calm manliness which augured well for their new life.
The Vicar’s anxieties, though lessened by Dr. Harford’s reassuring report as to Gabriel’s health, were by no means over. He went about continually with the uneasy consciousness that Waghorn was not only a dangerous fanatic, but actually a spy, and, as Hilary had discovered in the orchard, a spy who had not scrupled to aid such a man as Colonel Norton.
One evening, when as usual he had repaired to the tower at dusk, taking with him the food Gabriel would need during the night, he found himself a prey to the most unwonted nervousness. He unlocked the door and summoned Hilary from her day’s watching in the tower room, waiting with restless impatience while she bade her lover good-night and crept down the ladder.
But the sight of the girl’s happy face cheered him, and he greeted her with a smile.
“I believe you revel in these ghostly crossings of the churchyard,” he said, wrapping her long cloak more closely about her. “I will be with you anon when I have had a word with Gabriel.”
He watched her till she had disappeared in the Vicarage garden, then paid a visit to the invalid, who was far from sharing Hilary’s enjoyment of her risky journeys to and fro, and always liked to hear that she had gained the Vicarage in safety.
“When I think of all that you are doing for me, and of the danger of discovery, it makes me eager to be gone,” he said, watching his kindly host as he placed within reach all that he could need.
“Nay, I’m in no haste to get rid of you,” said the Vicar, with a smile. “You forget that I shall be left a lonely old bachelor when you and Hilary fare forth on your wedding journey.”
“It seems unfair, sir, that I should rob your home of its brightness,” said Gabriel.
“Ay, and not only that, but rouse in me a certain dissatisfaction with my lot,” said the Vicar, his eyes twinkling. “I have serious thoughts of entering upon the holy estate of matrimony myself, an I can prevail on Sir Richard Hopton to accept my proposal for the hand of his daughter.”
“Hilary’s friend, Mistress Frances?” said Gabriel, with keen interest.
“Ay, but say naught about it till I learn my fate,” said the Vicar. “The lady, for aught I know, may refuse me as decidedly as Hilary refused Squire Geers, of Garnons.”
The recollection of this made them both laugh, and in much better spirits the Vicar quitted the tower, locking the door and putting the key in his pocket as he groped his way across the graveyard to the garden gate.
It was now dark, save for the stars which just revealed here and there a white gravestone or the dim outline of bush or tree. Suddenly the Vicar became conscious of the presence of some living creature; though as yet he could see nothing he felt that he was not alone, and, pausing to listen intently, he distinctly heard the sound of breathing.
“Who goes there?” he said, in a hearty voice which belied his real anxiety.
“’Tis I, sir, Peter Waghorn,” said the fanatic, gloomily.
“What, man! still longing to cast down the cross?” said the Vicar. “I had hoped you had come to see that we look on it with no superstition. But I know well ’tis a hard matter for all of us to see with each other’s eyes. I should make a rare bungle did I try my hand at wood-carving, and you would make nothing at all of the pre-historic tooth which I am carrying from my museum room in the tower to show to Mistress Hilary.”
It was too dark for him to see the expression on Waghorn’s face, and he remained in ignorance of the man’s intentions. Did he suspect that they used the tower to shelter Gabriel? Or did he merely keep a watchful eye on the Vicarage? Either surmise was disquieting. Dr. Coke fell back on his usual kindly sympathy, hoping to reach the heart of this strange and complex character.
“Come in and see me some night,” he said, genially, “for I have some rare old oak which you would be interested in. I’ve a great mind to get you to carve me a corner cupboard for my study, an you think the wood will serve.”
“I will come, sir,” said Waghorn. “But before you order the cupboard belike you had best be sure in your own mind that you’ll be staying on at the Vicarage. Good-night to you, sir.”
With this vague and most discomforting speech the wood-carver quitted the churchyard, while the Vicar made his way home to ponder over the dark saying with growing uneasiness.
On the following Saturday morning he was busy with his sermon when a knock at the door and the furious voice of the parish clerk recalled him from the study of St. Paul’s words about charity to the difficulties of the present.
“Sir!” cried Zachary, crimson with anger, his face making the most strange contrast to Waghorn’s grim pallor. “Look what this pestilent fellow hath done now! ’Tis the Prayer-book, sir, from the church—he’s slashed and torn it to bits!”
The Vicar looked with indignation at the ruthlessly-torn pages, and hastily rising, paced the room, wrestling with a burning desire to kick the fanatic out of the house. When he had conquered himself, he returned once more to the writing-table.
“By what right do you destroy the parish property?” he said, gravely.
“I am a parishioner, and do intend to see the law of the land obeyed,” replied Waghorn.
“I have yet to learn that the law of the land orders the tearing up of books,” said the Vicar.
“It orders the disuse of the Book of Common Prayer, and that’s the same thing,” retorted Waghorn.
“Not at all,” said the Vicar. “If Parliament ordered you to cease from carving wood, it would not be lawful for me to come and burn your tools. Leave us, Zachary; I must discuss this matter alone with Waghorn.”
With keen anxiety he recalled his encounter in the dark with the spy, and wondered how much he really knew.
“I warned you, sir,” said the wood-carver, “that you might not be staying on at the Vicarage.”
“Hath Parliament, then, abolished me, as well as the Prayer-book?” inquired the Vicar, with a humorous gleam in his grey eyes.
“It will turn you out unless you use the Directory as the law orders,” said Waghorn, grimly, handing him a copy of the document. “There be those at Gloucester that will see it is enforced; you must not look again to have a half-hearted officer, like Captain Harford, sent.”
Dr. Coke glanced with a sigh at the mangled prayer-book, wondering why it had become hateful to so many men.
“It must be that they identify it with the harsh dealings of Archbishop Laud and Bishop Wren, and others who tried to enforce a system rather than to follow Christ,” he thought to himself; and then he carefully read through the Directions which had been issued as to public worship. If he refused to obey he must leave his people as sheep without a shepherd just at a time when their distress was greatest, owing to the war and the constant harassing of the Canon Frome garrison. He must also imperil Gabriel’s life by moving him from his present place of refuge.
Dearly as he loved the liturgy he could not hesitate as to the right course of action. The thought of having to pray in public without a book was a nightmare to him, but with a moral courage that gave a curious new dignity to his manner and bearing, he said, quietly:
“I shall give my father all the facts of the case, and for the present shall endeavour to follow the directions here given. Chapters shall be read from each Testament. Prayer, and especially the Lord’s Prayer, shall be used. There shall be thanksgiving and singing of psalms. The Communion shall be frequently celebrated, and children shall be baptized only in church. Here are all the essentials of Christian worship, and though I sorely grieve to lose for a time the book that is far dearer to me than you guess, I see that for the present distress it is the only way.”
“And the surplice—that rag of popery—it must go also,” said Waghorn.
“Oh! Is it a rag of popery?” said the Vicar with a smile. “I had a notion that it was meant to represent the fine linen which is the righteousness of the saints. But though to my thinking ’tis a seemly garb, and I like things done as St. Paul advised, ‘decently and in order,’ yet doubtless I can minister as well in my black doublet and hose.”
“Much better,” said Waghorn, emphatically.
The Vicar sighed.
“Maybe ’tis a more appropriate garb,” he reflected, “for a man that well-nigh flew into a towering passion at sight of a torn Prayer-book.”.
“We will discuss the matter no more,” he said, presently, “but to-morrow in church let us try to meet in all sincerity as fellow-worshippers. Now I will show you the piece of oak we spoke of, and you shall take the measurements for the corner cupboard.”
There was no sleep that night for Dr. Coke, but, as Durdle often remarked, he was one of those whose looks did not pity them, and no one seeing the ruddy face and the long white hair had a notion what the man was undergoing when he took his place in the reading-desk on Sunday morning.
“Dearly beloved brethren,” he began, “owing to the present troubles in Church and State, it is not to-day in my power to use the Book of Common Prayer. I would remind you, however, that greatly as many of us love our liturgy, and helpful as we find it, God may be worshipped by us all in spirit and in truth, though our prayers be but halting and imperfect. I ask you, therefore, to kneel and to make after me, sentence by sentence, supplication to our Heavenly Father.”
The startled people knelt, and very earnestly repeated the brief petitions for a more perfect faith, for a wider hope, for a more self-sacrificing love. They prayed for peace and for the needs of soul and body, and then with a gasp of relief the Vicar began the Lord’s Prayer.
The ordeal was over, and with a most thankful heart he gave out the Hundredth Psalm, which was valiantly played by flute and fiddle and heartily sung by all the congregation.
After which, with the reading of che lessons, more psalm-singing and a sermon, the service came to an end.
“Well,” remarked Farmer Chadd, “Vicar may not ha’ spoken with the tongue o’ angels as the text said, but he certainly did make folk see what charity means.”
“Ay,” said Farmer Mutlow, “and though I’m with him in preferrin’ the Prayer-book, yet I will say it cheered my heart wonderful to pray for a good apple year, and above all to ask straight out for a blessin’ on the hops. Parson he knows well enough what plaguey uncertain things they be, and though the liturgy lumps ’em all in with ‘fruits o’ the earth that in due time we may enjoy them,’ yet I always did hold with prayer for each child by name, and if for children why not for crops?”
“Quite right, neighbour, quite right,” said Farmer Chadd. “We’ll ask him to say a word for the hops every Sunday.”
“Trouthe is the heighest thing that men may kepe.”
—Chaucer.
“Truth is God’s child, and the fortunes of truth are God’s care as well
as ours.”
—Bishop Phillips Brooks.
The little room in the church tower had become curiously dear to Gabriel. Its bare walls, its bell ropes, its dusty rafters and the narrow window half veiled by ivy, were associated with those happy days when life and health gradually returned, and Hilary, with all her old winsomeness, and with that new and half-wistful humility which changed her from a self-willed child to a noble woman, grew hourly more precious to him.
One day, however, nearly six weeks after the Battle of. Ledbury, he noticed how thin her hands were growing, and, looking more searchingly into her face, thought less of its beauty and more of the dark shadows round her eyes.
“You are pale and weary, dear heart,” he said, caressing the hand that had done so much for him. “These long weeks have overtaxed you.”
“No, no; I shall be well enough when you are quite safe,” said Hilary, her voice faltering. “But—don’t laugh at me, Gabriel!—I feel as if you would be called on to suffer for my sin.”
“Your sin?” he questioned.
“’Tis no idle superstition,” she said, her eyes filling, “’tis an instinct that my punishment will come that way.”
“But what sin? That of playing good Samaritan to a rebel?” said Gabriel, smiling.
“I mean the lie that I told in the orchard,” she said, drooping her head.
“That was as much my fault as yours,” said Gabriel, tenderly. “I moved, and that affrighted you; but to listen to that villain was more than I could endure.”
“Oh, you’ll never know what it was to feel when you were carried here that, but for my cowardice, the duel need never have been fought,” said Hilary. “Had I only kept silence, Waghorn would have been present, and would at least have saved me from Colonel Norton.”
“You were not cowardly!” he protested.
“Yes; to lie is cowardly,” she said. “And it is the one thing I thought I never could do.”
“Dearest,” he said, drawing her nearer to him, “you are not the first who in a moment of peril has lost faith. Though silence would have been best, who would dare to judge you?”
“And yet silence might often betray—might seem to give consent,” she said, musingly.
“God has charge of consequences,” he said, quietly. “And I suppose we always do amiss when we take into human hands the guidance that belongs to Him alone.”
“You mean that at all costs we must be true?”
“Yes, dear heart. But a truce to disputations.”
“You and I have done with disputes,” she said, tenderley. “Love and danger and the shadow of death have lifted us above our old arguings.”
“We are somewhat nearer than the day you suggested that we might be friendly foes,” said Gabriel, putting his arm round her.
She laughed softly.
“The day when Mistress Helena roused my jealousy! No; you shall be a friendly foe to every honourable Royalist, but to me you are—all the world!
“Dearest, then must I share your troubles, but I fear you are keeping them back from me. Zachary tells me the Vicarage hath been searched!”
“Yes, the Governor of Canon Frome sent to search for you, but that was no great matter. He did not dare to come himself.”
“There is something else, then, that makes you anxious. What is it?”
“Only that on Saturday an order came from the High Sheriff for my uncle to go to-day to Hereford and sign Prince Rupert’s Protestation. Of course he refuses to go, but I fear it may lead to trouble.”
“I trust not,” said Gabriel, gravely. “We seem so nearly through our difficulties. To-morrow night my father and mother coming, and on Wednesday our marriage and escape. By-the-bye, what of Waghorn?”
“He has been quite quiet since the Directory was adopted. My uncle cannot make him out.”
Even as they spoke of him, Peter Waghorn, in the tiled cottage by the churchyard, was musing over the Vicar’s words the last time he had heard him preach. Against his will the man had been impressed by the way in which Dr. Coke had behaved during the past few weeks under great provocation; and now as he sat carving the delicate pattern of vine leaves on the cupboard door, he remembered how on the previous day the Vicar had made his carving into a parable, and had shown in the sermon that just as no two branches, and even no two leaves were precisely alike, yet all grew from the parent vine, so it was with Christians.
This was an astonishing notion to Waghorn; he doubted whether it was sound doctrine, yet it haunted him curiously. As he sat brooding over it that Monday afternoon, there came a peremptory knock, and his door was flung open by no less a person than the Governor of Canon Frome.
Norton was now quite recovered, and evidently in a very bad humour; the wood-carver noticed that the lines of cruelty about his mouth were much more clearly marked.
“Well, scarecrow,” he observed, flinging himself into a chair. “You have news, I hope, at last of Captain Harford.”
“No news, sir,” said Waghorn. “I have watched the Vicarage and have made close inquiry in the village, but can learn naught.”
“Yet I am certain he can’t be far,” said Norton. “And find him I will. If only you’d a head on your shoulders you would have trapped him long ago.”
“I have done my best, sir,” said Waghorn.
“I greatly doubt it,” sneered the Colonel. “But I have every intention of spurring you on to the work. Find out Captain Harford’s whereabouts, and you may ask what you will of me. Fail, and some fine night you mustn’t be surprised to find your house too hot to hold you. These little accidents will happen in war time.”
And with a mocking laugh he quitted the cottage, leaving Waghorn to uneasy thoughts.
The threat about the house had touched him to the quick, for if there was one thing on earth that he prized, it was this old home in which his father had died.
“I must bestir myself,” he reflected. “That malapert young captain shall not escape. Maybe Zachary can help me. I will ply him with cider this evening and worm out his secrets.”
Now, through all those weeks the old sexton had been most discreet, but unfortunately he was one of those who as success draws nigh grow less cautious. Having baffled Colonel Norton and Waghorn for nearly six weeks, it seemed unlikely that failure should now overwhelm him.
He, therefore, accepted the wood carver’s invitation to drink at the “Bell,” and Waghorn plied him with cider so lavishly that he became most cheerful and communicative.
“There’s no drink in the world like cider,” he maintained, smiling benevolently. “You can’t take it too late nor begin it too early. Did I ever tell you the riddle that the painter gave me—him as did Mistress Hilary’s portrait? ‘What’s the difference,’ says he, ‘betwixt a tankard o’ morning cider and a pig’s tail?’ Give it up?”
Waghorn nodded.
“The pig’s tail’s twirly, and the morning cider ain’t too early,” said the sexton, laughing boisterously.
“Talking of Mistress Hilary,” said Waghorn, “I understand that she’s betrothed to Captain Harford. When is the marriage to be?”
“Are you looking to be bidden as a wedding guest?” chuckled Zachary. “I thought you bore neither o’ them any goodwill.”
“Truth to tell I thought the Captain was dead,” observed Waghorn.
Zachary emptied his tankard and laughed foolishly.
“I’ve not had the digging of his grave, and yet he ain’t far from the grave,” he said, with the air of one who could say more if he would.
“Zachary!” called the landlord. “You’re wanted at the Vicarage, there’s the housekeeper looking for you.”
“These women! these women! they never can let a man have a minute’s peace,” growled the sexton. “Well, goodnight to you, Peter, good-night. We’ve had a rare pleasant chat together.”
Waghorn smiled grimly.
“It has served my turn,” he muttered, and fell into deep thought.
Zachary meanwhile was despatched to the tower with Gabriel’s supper and the next day’s breakfast, and was still talking in the dusk with the two lovers when Dr. Coke’s summons was heard below. The sexton admitted him, and was surprised to find that Mrs. Durdle stole in on tiptoe after her master.
“Gabriel,” said the Vicar in an agitated voice, “I greatly fear your hiding-place is known, and I have come to urge you to escape.”
“How hath it chanced, sir?” said Gabriel, starting to his feet in dismay.
“All the fault, sir, o’ that fool Zachary with his long tongue,” said Durdle, indignantly.
“Why, Zachary is a kindly old soul, he would never betray me,” said Gabriel, incredulously.
At that moment the sexton came up the ladder, and with an angry exclamation Mrs. Durdle flew at him and dragged him forward.
“Here, you zany! Come and tell the Vicar what you said just now at the inn, you silly old man to go mag, mag, mag, over your cider, bringing trouble on us all.”
“Gracious goodness, Mrs. Durdle! and what have I been about to fluster you like a turkey cock in a tearing temper?” protested the sexton.
“Gently, gently!” said the Vicar, “remember that walls may have ears. The truth is, Zachary, I learn from Bettington, of the ‘Bell,’ that you and Waghorn were drinking together, and that he heard you let fall words as to Captain Harford being above ground still, but not far from the grave.”
Zachary scratched his head. “I do mind me now that we jested about graves, and that ’twas mighty pleasant to think how little he knew, for all he looked so wise.”
“I fear, Zachary, the man was too wily for you, he plied you with cider till you all but told him where Captain Harford lay. You should drink less, man, you should drink less.”
“The fall o’ man came from that same plaguey apple-tree that’s been my undoing!” said the sexton, ruefully.
“Nay, Zachary,” said the Vicar, with a smile, “both falls came from lack of self-control. Don’t blame the apple-tree. But we must not waste time. I think, Gabriel, I had best not wait for the arrival of your father and mother, but wed you at daybreak, and speed you on your journey before Bosbury is astir.”
“Can you be ready, dear heart?” said Gabriel, glancing at Hilary.
She did not reply, her eyes were fixed on the narrow window, and a look of horror was on her face.
“What is it, child?” said the Vicar, puzzled by her expression.
“We are watched,” she faltered. “I saw eyes peering betwixt the ivy leaves.”
“I see naught,” said Gabriel. “But, maybe ’twas the white owl that lives among the bells, it flies past often enough.”
“It was Waghorn,” she said, shivering.
“I’ll catch the villain, then, and pound his cropped head for him,” said Zachary, scrambling down the ladder. “Spiteful, scheming gossip that he is! I’ll teach him what comes of playing tricks on the parish clerk.”
“We must surely have heard him had he climbed up by the ivy,” said Gabriel.
But Hilary was not to be comforted.
“I know it was Waghorn! He will betray us,” she said, tears gathering in her eyes.
“There be no sign of him, mistress,” said Zachary, climbing the stairs once more. “You need have no fear, ’twas naught but the hoolet. What about your horse, sir?”
“Why, that’s at Farmer Chadd’s, and had best be fetched, I suppose,” said Gabriel.
“Yes, fetch it, Zachary,” said the Vicar, “when the villagers are asleep, and do you keep watch here to-night in the tower. I shall not breathe comfortably till we have you both safely started for London. Come, Hilary, my child, you have all your preparations to make, and we must not linger.”
Zachary and Durdle went down the ladder arguing about the pillion and the saddle-bags, while the Vicar endeavoured to quiet them, pointing out the need of special caution.
And Hilary clung to her lover, bidding him a last goodnight, and vainly striving to imitate the brave cheerfulness of his manner.
The only comfort was in the feeling of his strong arms around her, and the happy consciousness that, having made a perfect recovery, he was fit to travel.
Revenge, at first though sweet,
Bitter ere long back on itself recoils.
But mercy, first and last, shall brightest shine.
—Milton.
Zachary was the only member of the household who slept that night. Hilary and Mrs. Durdle were too busy preparing what would be needed for the journey; the Vicar, full of anxiety, looked at his watch every quarter of an hour, and failed to find comfort even in ammonites or elephants’ teeth, while Gabriel, in the tower room, lay listening to the soft hooting of the white owl, and the unearthly stamping and knocking made down below by Harkaway. At the first glimmer of light he hastily put on the plum-coloured costume which had been laid by at Hereford since the early days of the war, and brought over by Dr. Coke for his journey. Then he filled his saddle-bags, and with a last look round the place which had made him so secure a refuge, stole down the ladder to feed and fondle his horse and saddle it in readiness for the journey. Zachary, with his head on the pillion, snored serenely, and Gabriel let him remain in peace till the first sparrow began to chirp, then cruelly roused him, unable to endure another minute’s delay.
“Lord! Lord! I’d but just closed my eyes,” groaned the old man. “You can’t be married in the dark, sir.”
“’Tis morning, Zachary. Come, fix on the pillion; we shall have the Vicar here in a minute.”
Yawning and stretching, the sexton struggled to his feet, and by the time the pillion had been strapped on, steps were indeed heard without, and on opening the door Gabriel was greeted by Mrs. Durdle in the choicest of white neckerchiefs, and her best Lincoln green hood.
“Good day to you and good luck to you, sir,” she said. “Vicar and Mistress Hilary be crossing the churchyard.”
His face was aglow.
“We have seen no more of Waghorn,” he said, blithely, breathing the delicious morning air with rapture after his long imprisonment. “But the owl hath hooted most dolefully. I have not slept a wink.”
Then catching sight of the Vicar in his college cap and black doublet and hose leading Hilary in the grey and pink gown he had specially begged her to wear, he hastened forward to greet them, and together they walked to the south porch, where, according to the old custom, the actual marriage was to take place.
Suddenly an ominous sound—the tramp of many feet close by made them pause and listen anxiously.
“Oh, sir, what is it?” cried Durdle, in great terror.
“Be still; let us hearken,” said Dr. Coke, holding up his hand.
Hilary, with widening eyes, clung to Gabriel.
“Don’t be afraid, dearest,” he said, reassuringly; “soldiers often pass through the village. They are not like to molest us here.”
The Vicar went forward a few paces, and, catching sight of the uniform worn by the men of the Canon Frome garrison, realised the peril they were in.
“Shelter in the church!” he cried. “’Tis you they seek.”
But even as he spoke he saw that it was too late. Another file of soldiers rushed round from the west of the church, where they had lain in ambush till the rest of the men arrived, and Norton, with a contemptuous smile on his face, shouted his orders: “Seize the Vicar! Arrest the rebel!”
Amid a scene of wild confusion Hilary was torn from her lover, while, with unnecessary roughness, which turned her faint and sick, the soldiers bound Gabriel’s arms. He saw that resistance was useless, and in the sudden revulsion from happiness to despair anguish overwhelmed him. Like one turned to stone, Hilary stood watching while the Vicar was also bound; and, roused by Durdle’s screams and the unusual confusion of voices in the churchyard, men, women, and children came hurrying from the neighbouring houses to see what was amiss.
As for Waghorn, in the excitement all his worst characteristics had started into view again, and like a maniac he stood shouting on the steps of the cross: “Now am I avenged on mine enemy! They that dally with malignants shall rot in dungeons! No longer shall they hinder the work of the godly!”
The Vicar turned indignantly to the Governor of Canon Frome. “What is the meaning of this outrage, Colonel Norton? You are interfering with me in the discharge of my duty!”
“Your duty, sir, was to sign Prince Rupert’s Protestation, and to refrain from aiding the King’s enemies,” said Norton, with a sneer.
“Sir, you are wrong,” replied the Vicar, firmly. “I hold the King in all due reverence, but my first duty was to tend the wounded and shelter the homeless. And my next duty was to shield my niece from your wicked schemes.”
“I’ faith, you are a bold and outspoken man,” said Norton, chuckling. “But I can bide my time, Vicar.”
He turned to watch Waghorn, who, in wild excitement, had sprung down from the cross and was shaking his fist derisively in Gabriel’s face.
“Ha! young bridegroom! I’ll warrant you wish now that you’d pulled down Bosbury Cross!”
The taunt had the effect of restoring Gabriel to a quiet dignity of manner which impressed the soldiers. He made no reply whatever, but looked Waghorn in the face till, with an uneasy sense of guilt, the man withdrew a little. But the fanatic’s place was quickly taken by Norton, and there was something in the malevolence of his smile which made the blood boil in Gabriel’s veins. He remembered what this man had made him endure at Marlborough.
“I am sorry, sir,” said the Colonel, with a sneer, “to spoil your highly virtuous device of holy matrimony, but as the proverb hath it, ‘Marriages are made in heaven,’ and we intend to send you there. Sergeant! the halter!”
A murmur of surprise and horror ran through the crowd. Gabriel felt as if a grisly hand had suddenly clutched his heart. He glanced anxiously at Hilary. Her face was marble white, she seemed scarcely conscious.
“Nay, sir, will you proceed so far?” cried Waghorn, with a troubled look. “This can be no hanging matter.”
“What is it to you, fellow?” said Norton, haughtily. And with satisfaction he saw the sergeant slip a rope about Gabriel’s neck, and noted that a spasm of pain passed over the prisoner’s face. He was too young and healthy to be without a most ardent love of life.
“Sir, sir,” cried the Vicar, with passionate indignation, “you cannot take so cruel a revenge! Captain Harford may lawfully be a prisoner of war, but——”
“He is a rebel, and I know for a certainty that he bore about him traitorous despatches. Is it not so?” said Norton, sharply turning towards the parliamentarian.
“If you know, why ask?” said Gabriel.
“Answer me!” cried the Colonel, angrily. “Did you not bear despatches?”
“Your own spy hath already answered you. And for the despatches,” said Gabriel, triumphantly, “you’ll not get them. They are long ere now delivered.”
“Away with him, sergeant! String him up to yonder tree,” said Norton.
But with a wild cry of despair Hilary rushed forward “Oh! no! no!” and she threw her arms round Gabriel. “You shall not take him! You shall not!”
The soldiers were touched by her anguish, the villagers made indignant murmurings, some of the women began to sob. As for Waghorn, he turned away, muttering: “Alack, poor lady! But nay, let me not falter! No weakness, Peter Waghorn! No weakness!”
Gabriel kissed the weeping girl with passionate tenderness; then, unable to endure the sight of her grief, began to crave only for an end of this torture.
“Go, my dearest!” he said, his voice faltering. “I pray you—go!”
But the Vicar stepped towards Norton.
“Sir,” he said, “I appeal to your better nature. As prisoner of war you have it in your power to send Captain Harford to gaol, but——”
“Why, that would be to make him your companion, dear sir,” said Norton, lightly. “No, no; I have quite other plans. You go to prison, he goes to Paradise. Come, you, as a parson, must own that I am giving him promotion.”
Waghorn meanwhile paced to and fro wrestling with himself, and muttering like a madman through his teeth: “Nay, nay; I will not relent. The enemies of truth must be punished. Let their habitation be desolate, and let none dwell in their tents! Add iniquity unto their iniquity.”
He was suddenly jostled aside by old Zachary, who, in deep distress, approached the Colonel.
“For pity’s sake, sir, hang me instead,” he pleaded, “’twas my silly old tongue betrayed him—that and the fourth tankard of cider—hang me instead, for I deserve it.”
Norton laughed noisily.
“Not at all—you have been a most useful tool. Come, get you gone! There will be work for you yet. You shall dig the grave, and Waghorn shall preach the funeral sermon. Why do you tarry, sergeant?”
They tarried because it was no easy thing for Englishmen forcibly to part the sobbing girl from her lover.
“Dearest,” said Gabriel, controlling his voice with an effort, “you must go. Let some of the women take you to the Vicarage.”
But as she raised her head and saw the rope about his throat, a new strength of resistance awoke within her. He should not die! She ran to Waghorn, and caught his hand in hers in eager entreaty.
“Waghorn! you are not wicked like that man—you mean well—I know you mean well—help us now! Show mercy!”
For a moment the wood-carver wavered. Then a grim expression settled down upon his features.
“Nay, nay,” he said, “Captain Harford hath but met with his deserts. What saith the Psalmist, ‘Let there be none to extend mercy unto him! Let the iniquity of his fathers be remembered!’”
“Oh, that was said by them of old time! But now we are bidden to be kind to one another—and tender-hearted,” pleaded Hilary.
But Waghorn, with a scornful look, exclaimed indignantly: “Do not teach me, Mistress! I well know that you are of a carnal mind. Did you not deceive us in the orchard? You are a liar!”
The villagers made angry protests at this plain speaking. Hilary, however, with a look that would have melted the hardest heart, continued her eager appeal.
“Yes, yes, I did speak falsely that day. But, oh—have you never sinned?”
The Puritan started back as if she had struck him. “I?” He hung his head, and in a flash it seemed as though his life with its bitter unforgiving lovelessness rose before him—a hideous vision. He crossed over to the Colonel, and put a hand on his sleeve.
“How now, scarecrow? What is it?” said Norton.
“You promised me that if I secured the despatches and Captain Harford, I might ask what I would of you.”
“Well, what do you want?”
“I ask for the life of yonder Captain.”
Norton stared at him. “Are you sure you don’t mean his head in a charger? That, I think, is more in your line.”
“I ask you to spare his life,” said Waghorn, sturdily, while all the people waited breathlessly for the reply.
Norton gave a short scoffing laugh.
“Well, well, you may ask what you will, but I shall not grant such a request. You shall be reasonably paid for your services, and must content yourself with that.”
Then the Puritan’s wrath burst forth. “Shame on thee for a promise-breaker! Dost think I served thee in this matter for filthy lucre? Nay, but to avenge the cause of truth, to save the land from the curse of those that break not down the high places, that destroy not the graven images!”
He walked a few paces from the group and stood silently watching Hilary, who had again forced her way to her lover. Clinging to Gabriel, she sobbed, pitifully, while he whispered in her ear words of love and comfort.
“Hearken, Mistress Hilary,” said Norton, striding across towards them, “with one word you can save Captain Harford’s life.”
“What must I do?” sobbed Hilary.
“Only promise to be mine,” he said, his eager eyes scanning her intently.
“I cannot!” she replied, clinging closer to Gabriel.
“Very well,” said Norton, with a shrug of the shoulders. “Sergeant, proceed!”
Hilary looked round at him in terrible agitation—then turned again to Gabriel, “What am I to do?” she cried, wildly.
“Dear heart!” he said, quietly, “remember what we agreed. Cost what it may—be true!”
“But—your life—oh, my dearest!—your life!”
“It will not be ended by the hangman,” he replied, with a strange vibration in his voice, “it will go on elsewhere. We have but to wait.”
Norton stamped his foot impatiently.
“Well, is your choice made?” he asked.
“Go, my beloved!” said Gabriel, tenderly, but with a firmness which steadied her failing powers. Then he gave her a long, lingering kiss, and she slowly took her arms from about his neck and staggered towards the Vicar, hiding her face on his shoulder.
Gabriel watched her in heart-broken silence, understanding for the first time what the bitterness of death meant. An awful stillness reigned in the churchyard. He turned towards Norton.
“Sir, I am ready,” he said, in a low, firm voice.
Norton watched him with mingled feelings. It was impossible not to admire his courage and dignity, yet never had he hated the man more.
“Fool! You would die in your youth?” he said, sneeringly.
Then into Gabriel’s eyes there suddenly came a light that was Divine.
“Why,” he cried, “I would live in hellish torments to save her from such as you—and shall I fear death? You think that when I am hung and the Vicar cast into gaol, you will be free to carry out your vile schemes—but I tell you, in spite of all, evil will not triumph. There is a God who hates tyranny, who loves mercy and justice!”
His whole face was transfigured. It was Norton whose cheek paled and who looked like the man about to die.
“String him up, sergeant. I loathe this cant,” he said. “Be quick, you fools—hang the rebel and have done with it!”
The soldiers threw the end of the rope over a branch of the tree under which they stood; the sergeant adjusted the noose more carefully round the prisoner’s neck, and Gabriel gave one last glance at the familiar scene—the tower of refuge clearly outlined against the roseate sky, the green churchyard, the old cross so curiously linked with his fate, the gabled houses in the village street, and the Vicar’s white head bent down over Hilary’s brown curls. Then the rope tightened about his throat, he closed his eyes and prayed, while through his brain there floated the old Psalm which he had last heard in Ledbury High Street
“In trouble and adversity,
The Lord God hear thee still.
The Majesty of Jacob’s God
Defend thee from all ill.”
Suddenly an exclamation and a sound of tramping feet made him open his eyes again. He saw that another detachment of Royalist soldiers was marching through the lych gate, but close at hand, having evidently approached quietly from another quarter, stood an officer whom he at once recognised as Lord Hopton.
“Hold, in the King’s name!” shouted the new-comer, and the sickening pressure about the prisoner’s neck was relaxed.
Hilary rushed forward and threw herself at the General’s feet.
“Oh, my lord,” she pleaded, “help us! Do not let them take his life.”
“Madam,” he said, raising her courteously, “be of good cheer. I heard your lover’s brave words. I also heard your words, Colonel Norton,” and he glanced sternly at the Governor of Canon Frome.
“Sir, if you had heard the whole case against Captain Harford——” stammered Norton.
“What! ’tis Captain Harford?” cried Lord Hopton. “Ay, to be sure I recognise you now, sir, and remember that ’tis to your kindly offices when I lay wounded at Lansdown that I owe my life. Sergeant, remove that halter and unbind Captain Harford.”
Hilary, radiant with joy, ran to her lover, and—his bonds removed—he clasped her in his arms with a rapture which made them utterly oblivious of the thronged churchyard. They only felt that life laid down had been wonderfully renewed, and that every heartbeat was a wordless thanksgiving.
Lord Hopton meanwhile had turned to the other prisoner.
“What! you also bound, sir?” he exclaimed, indignantly.
“What is the meaning of this, Colonel Norton?”
“The Vicar of Bosbury,” said Norton, sullenly, “hath for weeks, sir, sheltered this rebel, and he is but a lukewarm supporter of His Majesty.”
“His Majesty would fare better were all parsons such kindly peacemakers,” said Lord Hopton, himself cutting the cords which bound the Vicar’s arms. “’Tis men like you, Colonel, who are the ruin of the King’s cause. Oh, I have heard of your cruelties, and I know how the whole country-side has cause to hate you.”
“If you give ear, sir, to the complaints of an aged gentlewoman like Dame Elizabeth Hopton, and the murmurs of a pack of peasants, you will hear strange tales.”
Lord Hopton frowned.
“I intend to examine into matters later on, and you can then make your defence. Meanwhile I hold a letter from the King depriving you of your Governorship, and appointing Colonel Barnold. And I shall be obliged to you now, Colonel Barnold, if you and a detachment of the soldiers from the garrison will escort the ex-Governor to Canon Frome. I shall be with you anon.”
“You pardon a rebel despatch-bearer, sir, and overlook the persistent way in which Dr. Coke hath refused to sign Prince Rupert’s Protestation,” said Norton bitterly, “but give me scant justice.”
“I hope to show you not only justice but clemency,” said Lord Hopton. “What of your despatches, Captain Harford?”
“Massey entrusted me with letters, my lord, to Fairfax and Cromwell,” said Gabriel, “but as I was sorely wounded they were borne to Windsor by another hand some weeks ago.”
A shade of relief was visible about the General’s lips.
“That matter is ended, then,” he said, “and with regard to what you say against Dr. Coke, I hold, sir, that he was bound to set the safety and honour of his niece before any matters of State, and that as a Christian he had a perfect right to shelter and tend a wounded man, whatever his political views.”
Norton was led away, and the Vicar eagerly thanked Lord Hopton for all that he had done for them. Then, seeing the expectation in the faces of the villagers, he added, “Betwixt Hilary and Captain Harford, my lord, there was an attachment of long standing, and this very morning I was to have wedded them.”
The women in the crowd smiled and nodded at each other, and Lord Hopton, catching sight of the radiant faces of the lovers, smiled too.
“Now what a happy thing it was,” he said, “that I chose to make a night march, and reached Canon Frome at dawn! Finding the Governor absent, I was minded to see for myself what pranks he was after, and arrived in the nick of time.”
“You were in time to save a life, my lord,” said the Vicar, “and now, an you will, may witness a wedding; we keep to the old custom here and wed at the church door.”
“I’ll not only witness it, but will give away the bride if that is agreeable to you, sir,” he said, glancing at Gabriel.
“My lord, the memory of your kindly dealing will long outlast the bitterness I have just passed through,” said Gabriel.
His face aglow with happiness, and still shining with that spiritual light which had arrested even Norton’s notice, touched the Royalist general.
“I very well know,” he said, laying a kindly hand on his shoulder, “that you were the first to show considerateness in the matter of Bosbury Cross, and till people of widely differing views act with the good sense and moderation shown by you and the Vicar, we shall never have true peace in England.”
He turned to offer his arm to Hilary, when she suddenly perceived Waghorn gravely watching them from a little distance. Running towards him, she took his hand gratefully in hers.
“I shall never forget, Waghorn, that you tried to save Captain Harford,” she said, warmly.
“Mistress,” said Waghorn, earnestly, and with a quiet manliness wholly unlike his former manner, “he was right. In spite of all, evil did not triumph.”
And now the psalm which had rung in Gabriel’s ears as he awaited death, sounded indeed through the churchyard as Hilary walked towards the porch between Lord Hopton and her lover.
The villagers drew together in a group close by them, but little Nan and Meg being on the outskirts chanced to look back, and saw Waghorn standing afar off as though he had no part or lot in the service. With a kindly impulse they ran towards him.
“Don’t stand there so all alone,” said Nan, coaxingly, “come nearer!”
“Yes,” echoed Meg, “come nearer!”
Waghorn’s stern face relaxed. He sighed, but let them take him by the hand and draw him in with the rest.
EPILOGUE.
“I pray God our zeal in these times may be so kindled with pure fire from God’s altar that it may rather warm than burn, enliven rather than inflame, and that the spirits of good men may truly be qualified with Gospel principles, true fruits of the Divine Spirit. And truly I believe that the members of the Church, if not the leaders—notwithstanding all the perfections of times before us, so much pictured or applauded—have very much yet to learn. For I am persuaded that Christian love and affection is a point of such importance that it is not to be prejudiced by supposals of difference in points of religion in any ways disputable, though thought weighty as determined by the parties on either side; or by particular determinations beyond Scripture, which, as some have observed, have enlarged divinity, but have lessened charity and multiplied divisions. For the maintenance of truth is rather God’s charge, and the continuance of charity ours.”—Letters of Benjamin Whichcote, 1651.
And were they married here in this very porch where we’re sitting, grandfather?” said little Bobbie Coke, looking up into the Vicar’s kindly face, which the forty-five years had made only somewhat thinner and paler.
“Here in this very porch, Bobbie,” he replied, his arm about the lad, while on his knee sat little Mollie Harford, the orphan daughter of Gabriel’s brother, Bridstock, who had died seven years before.
“Never was there such a happy wedding before or since, for it is not often that the bridegroom is rescued at the last moment from the jaws of death. The villagers were ready to cry for joy, and the soldiers—brave fellows!—why, they were only too glad to be let off the horrid piece of work their Colonel had set them to do.”
“And when did my grandfather come?” asked Mollie.
“He came that evening, and Mrs. Harford with him, and they all stayed at the Vicarage a couple of days, rejoicing. Then the bride and bridegroom went to say farewell to the Bishop at Whitbourne, and thence to London, where Madam Harford gave them a right loving welcome, and took good care of Hilary, while her husband joined Cromwell, and began his career as mate to the surgeon of his regiment. It was in that fashion that he again saw Colonel Norton. For after the great battle at Naseby, when he was going about the field succouring the wounded, he came upon the Colonel lying there half dead, and was able to bind up his wounds, and bring him the water he cried out for. When the Colonel had drunk it, he looked up with startled eyes at his helper.
“‘Why, God bless my soul! Is it you?’ he cried. ‘What are you doing?’
“‘Helping the sick and wounded,’ said Gabriel.
“‘Confounded queer work for a gentleman,’ said Norton.
“‘It was good enough for Christ,’ said the other.
“Then up came the surgeon, said ’twas no use spending time over one that couldn’t live an hour, and bade his mate come and rest. But Gabriel, saying that he knew the wounded officer, asked to remain with him.
“‘Why should I lie shivering here for an hour?’ said Norton, in his devil-may-care tone. ‘It will be quicker work if I die on my feet, and I’ll be bound you think I shall be hot enough in the next world.’
“‘Lie still,’ said Gabriel. ‘Here’s the cloak Lord Falkland gave me at Marlborough. We’ll wrap it about you.’
“Now at the word Marlborough, the face of the dying man changed, and he fell a-thinking.
“‘Say the words you said that night,’ he gasped.
“Gabriel, unable to think what he meant, said the first words that came to his mind:
“‘Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us, and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil, for thine is the kingdom, and the power and the glory, for ever.’
“And after that the dying man lay in his arms fighting hard for breath, but never speaking, only once he gripped Gabriel’s hand and looked in his eyes, as though he would have thanked him. Then, as darkness fell on the blood-stained field, he passed away.”
“And what happened to my uncle Gabriel?” asked Mollie.
“The war ended not long after that, and he went to London, and studied for two years under Sir Theodore Mayerne, and then for two years more at Paris. In 1650 he settled finally in London, and there became a celebrated physician, and all went well with him. He had twenty years of happy wedded life, marred only by some trouble at the time of the Restoration for the part he had played in the Civil War. However, that was no very serious matter, and there were few happier homes in the country till the year of the Great Plague.
“Knowing that his duty lay with the poor sick folk in London, he parted from his wife and four children, sending them, as he hoped, out of all risk to Katterham, a country place some eighteen miles off. But it fell about that, as they halted at Croydon to bait the horses, some that were also flying from the plague, sat with them at the common table in the inn, and even as they dined one of these fellow-travellers was seized with illness. Spite of all precautions, my dear niece herself sickened the next day, and ere twenty-four hours had passed she and her children were dead.
“An old comrade, Sir Joscelyn Hey worth, travelled to London to break the news to his friend, who seemed for the time wholly crushed. But as they sat together talking very sadly, there came in Sir William Denham, who for many years had known them both.
“‘Doctor,’ he said. ‘I scarce like to break in upon your sorrow, but my friend Judge Wharncliffe and his wife have just died of the plague, and their two sons are at death’s door, with no one but an old man-servant to care for them, and the doctor who had attended them hath now died in the very house.”
“At that Gabriel put aside his own trouble, and went forth to see what he could do. He found the elder lad, a fine fellow of one and twenty, beginning to rally, but the younger, a tiny, delicate child of but two or three years, lay at the point of death. He fought for its life, and never left it till it had passed the crisis, and by that time, as he afterwards told me, life had again become bearable to him, and he found what the joy of battle meant; it was not the brutal love of bloodshed, it was the God-like desire to overcome evil with good, disease with health, and death with life.”
“And did the little boy get quite strong?” asked Mollie, eagerly.
“Ay, to be sure, he’s alive to this day, and has lived a right noble life. Few men have suffered with a better courage than Hugo Wharncliffe, and one day I’ll tell you his story.”
“And now tell me the rest about Uncle Gabriel,” said Mollie. “Did he live much longer?”
“Only five years more, but they were five years full of good Work. It was in 1670, I remember, that he wrote to say he was advised to take a few weeks’ rest and hoped to pay us a visit at Bosbury on his way home to his father. Now Dr. Harford was attending some sick folk at the Grange, and chanced to be here the very day he arrived. As we all dined together Gabriel told us with much interest of certain people called Quakers that he had lately come to know. Their way of thought had great attraction for him, especially the effort they made to obey literally the teaching of Christ as to using no oath, and avoiding all war and violence.”
“‘Seeing the quiet way in which they laid down their lives for their peace principles,’ he said, ‘set me wondering whether Christ must not be grieved to find the war spirit so strong still among His followers, and that 1670 years after his birth the bulk of us still demand an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.’
“We found that in addition to all his usual work he had been visiting many of these Quakers, who, under the persecuting laws of those times, were imprisoned in Newgate, Bishopsgate Gaol and the New Prison. It was in this fashion that he had taken a fever, for gaol fever raged among these prisoners for conscience’ sake; but he said he grudged not having taken the infection from them, for he hoped that he had caught from them, also, some of their noble and true thoughts. He spoke, too, of Lord Falkland’s craving for peace, and thought that, like him, the Quakers were in advance of the times, and were to lead the nation to truer and nobler ways of thought, particularly on this point about peace, which one day all men would see to be the only true Christ-following.
“We were still talking of the Society of Friends when Dr Harford said he must go out again to visit two more patients. I remember we all three stood for a minute at the garden-gate, and can almost hear your uncle’s voice still as he said, ‘When they spoke of the duty of Christians to take no part in war, I used to feel as on the day when Waghorn would have pulled down the cross, and you spoke of love which is the bond of peace, and then coming hither we found Hilary standing beneath the yew tree holding open the gate for us.’
“His eyes grew wistful, and I noticed that his hand rested for a minute on the gate, as though anything she had touched was sacred to him. Then, his cheerfulness returning, he said he must pay a visit to the Tower of Refuge, and so we parted, for I knew that the place was full of memories to him and that he would fain be alone.
“In about an hour your grandfather returned, and we went across the churchyard to find your uncle, talking as we went of the way in which the fever and the overwork had changed him.
“‘He will need a long rest,’ said Dr. Harford. ‘He hath worn himself out with the woes of others and with the noisome air of those pestilent gaols.’
“I said it was after all natural enough, for he had ever had a special feeling for prisoners since his time in Oxford Castle, and Herefordshire was the very best place he could have come to for a rest and change.
“Well, by that we had drawn near to the porch, and saw that he was sitting on this western bench and must have fallen asleep, for he had taken off the long curled wig that all gentlemen wore then much as they do now, and with his short hair he looked curiously like the Captain Harford who had saved Bosbury Cross.
“But something in his perfect stillness struck Dr. Harford with sudden anxiety. We bent close down to him—he had ceased to breathe, and from his face death had smoothed away all the lines of sorrow, so that he looked once more young. I wish I could describe to you the wonderful serene dignity of his expression—but that is not to be put into words. Here in this porch where five-and-twenty years before I had wedded him to my dear niece, God had once more united the husband and wife.”
“It is such a pity people have to die,” said Bobbie, kicking the flagstones with energy, because he saw tears in Mollie’s eyes and wished to keep them from his own.
“You think so?” said his grandfather, with a smile. “And quite right too at your age. But when like me you are an old man of four-score years and ten, there’ll be so many waiting for you on the other side of the river that you’ll be glad when you are told to cross over. I hear your grandfather’s step on the path, Mollie, and when we two old friends chat over old times together, ’tis hard for you young ones to get in a word, so you had best go in and see the Harford monuments, and Bishop Swinfield’s head which was rescued from Hereford Cathedral.”
“There’s no monument to Uncle Gabriel,” said Mollie, wiping away her tears.
“My child, his body lies in the chancel, but Bosbury Cross is his monument, and he could not have a better,” said the Vicar.
As the two children entered the church he took from the pocket of his doublet a small note-book, and added a line to an epitaph he had been trying to write, smiling to himself over Bobbie’s notion that it was a pity anybody died.
I lay me down at expectation’s door;
Weary and worn with age I crave no more. But
Christus Jesus meus est omnia.
—Will. Coke, 1690.
As he finished the verse, Dr. Harford, marvellously erect and active for his eighty-five years, crossed the churchyard and sat down beside him in the porch.
“I have come across a curious link with the past,” he said. “Chancing to be at Farmer Chadd’s just now where Meg is laid up, as you know, she gave me this ring which her husband had found yesterday when digging in the orchard. I fancy it must have dropped from Colonel Norton’s finger on the day of the duel, and have lain there unnoticed these five-and-forty years. The initials as you see are L. and N.”
“Ay,” said the antiquary, putting up his glass and scrutinising the letters carefully; “two L’s for Lionel and Lucy. It must have been his wife’s wedding-ring. And here is the posy
‘Till death us departe—
Nay not so deare harte—
Death shall us more truly unite.’”
“Poor Norton!” said the Vicar. “He was a man who might have lived such a different life! Well, who knows but that on Naseby Field God’s grace may, indeed, have delivered him from evil?”
“I am always glad to think that he was one of Gabriel’s first patients,” said Dr. Harford, “and that those poor imprisoned Quakers, suffering so bravely in the cause of peace, were his last. We may say truly that in helping them he gave up his own life.”
“And God be thanked that since our peaceful Revolution there are no more persecutions for opinion,” observed the Vicar. “We have passed through rough waters, doctor, yet have each of us been blessed with a loving wife, and have lived to see our children and our children’s children blessed in their career. But to my mind the noblest race was run by your son, Gabriel, who, indeed, died a hero of peace.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE.
To the kindness of Mr. Joseph J. Green, of Tunbridge Wells, the Quaker antiquary and genealogist, and a collateral descendant of the Harfords, I am indebted for some of the particulars relating to my hero’s family. Dr. Bridstock Harford is also mentioned by the historian, Webb, and in Duncomb’s “History of the County of Hereford,” as one of the few residents in Hereford who sided with the Parliament, and there is a reference to him in the interesting old account-book of Mrs. Joyce Jefferies, of Widemarsh Street. The celebrated physician lived until 1695, surviving both his sons; the elder one is buried at Bosbury; the second son, Bridstock, was M.P. for Hereford in the reign of Charles II., and died in 1683. Dr. Bridstock Harford is buried in Hereford Cathedral, and a long Latin epitaph speaks of the ancient and honourable family from which he was descended, and of the way in which the city grieved for the loss of its greatest physician, whose skill had rescued so many from death, and who had never taken fees from the poor.
Particulars as to Sir Robert Harley and his household have been gathered from the “Letters of Lady Brilliana Harley” (Camden Society). The Archbishop’s visitation at Hereford is mentioned in Baine’s “Life of Laud,” and details of the fines and penalties, described in Chapters II. and V., are given in Dr. S. R. Gardiner’s “History of England from the Accession of James I. to the Outbreak of the Civil War,” Vols. VII.-X., and in Brook’s “Lives of the Puritans.” The words as to the proposed escape from the Tower of London in Chapter XXVI. were really spoken by Laud to his friend Pococke.
For the sketch of Lord Falkland’s character the books consulted were Gardiner’s “History of the Great Civil War,” Tulloch’s “Rational Theology in the Seventeenth Century,” “History of the Falklands” (Longmans), Falkland’s “Discourse on Infallibility,” with a memoir by Dr. Triplet, Whitelocke’s “Memorials,” and Clarendon.
With regard to Bishop Coke, “Even Prynne could find nothing to say against the Bishop of Hereford save that he had a hand in the canons.” He is described by a contemporary as “A serene and quiet man above the storm” (see Webb’s “Memorials of the Civil War in Herefordshire,” Vol. I., p. 51). Of his son, William Coke, Vicar of Bosbury, tradition says that Bosbury Cross owes its preservation to the considerateness of a Parliamentary Captain who yielded to his entreaty to spare it, the condition being made that the words “Honour not the cross, but honour God for Christ,” should be graven on it. These words may still be read on the cross. The fact that William Coke held the living of Bosbury continuously from 1641 to 1690 speaks for itself as to his tact and his tolerant spirit. His epitaph, partly effaced, is as follows:
I lay me down at expect.. . .
I crave no more. But
Christus Jesus meus est omn.
Will: Coke, 1690.
The sufferings of the prisoners of war at Oxford under Provost-Marshal Smith are mentioned by many contemporary writers, and an account of their hardships will be found in Nehemiah Wallington’s “Memoirs,” also details of the way in which prisoners were treated on the march, and of the use of churches as prisons. The escape of forty of the prisoners at one time from Oxford Castle really happened. Sir William Waller’s letter to Sir Ralph Hopton is taken from Webb’s “Memorials,” Vol. I., p. 261. See also Dr. S. R. Gardiner’s “History of the Great Civil War,” Vol. I., p. 197, footnote. Webb also mentions Prince Rupert’s saying, “We will have no law in England henceforward but of the sword.”
A letter from Sir Richard Hopton, of Canon Frome, has been preserved, in which he complains of the misdoings of the garrison and the harsh treatment and great loss of property he had been forced to endure at the hands of the Governor. Norton appears to have been succeeded by Colonel Barnold as Governor of Canon Frome, but of his personal character nothing is known. With regard to the siege of Hereford in 1643, and many other local matters, I am indebted to the kind help of Prebendary Michael Hopton, of Canon Frome, and of Miss Hopton, of Clehonger. The clemency of Lord Hopton, in Chapter XLV., though in accord with his character, is not historic. But some time after writing this scene I came, across a very similar incident in Nehemiah Wallington’s “Memoirs”—a Royalist officer named Tarverfield intervening in much the same way.
The latter part of this novel was first written by me in the form of a play, which was produced by the Ben Greet Company under the direction of Mr. A. S. Homewood, at Eastbourne, on January 4th, 1900, and was subsequently given at Cambridge and at the Comedy Theatre, London.
Edna Lyall.
The End