CHAPTER III.
This is the time when bit by bit
The days begin to lengthen sweet,
And every minute gained is joy,
And love stirs in the heart of a boy.
This is the time the sun, of late
Content to lie abed till eight,
Lifts up betimes his sleepy head,
And love stirs in the heart of a maid.
—Katherine Tynan Hinkson.
It was in the spring of 1640, just when King Charles had dissolved the Short Parliament, after its three weeks’ existence, that Hilary made a discovery. She possessed a voice, a voice which, after a few lessons from the Cathedral organist, proved to be a source of real pleasure to herself and others. This event meant much more to her than the fact that England had again relapsed into the woeful plight of the last eleven years, and was once more without a Parliament. At every spare minute she was practising her guitar, or singing scales and songs, and thus it very naturally fell about that Gabriel, returning from Oxford that summer, was greeted, as he hastened along the south walk to the little gate which made the boundary between the two gardens, by a song “more tuneable than lark to shepherd’s ear.” Stealing quietly forward, he could catch the words, which were set to the pathetic air of “Bara Fostus’ Dream”;
Come, sweet love, let sorrow cease,
Banish frowns, leave off dissension,
Love’s wars make the sweetest peace,
Hearts uniting by contention.
Sunshine follows after rain,
Sorrows ceasing, this is pleasing,
All proves fair again,
After sorrow soon comes joy;
Try me, prove me, trust me, love me,
This will cure annoy.
The voice was a mezzo-soprano, with that strange gift of individual charm, without which far finer voices fail to please. It seemed to witch the very heart of the listener, and Gabriel, determined as he was not to disturb the song, was all on fire to see the singer.
As she played the interlude on the guitar at the end of the first verse he stole over the grass, and, climbing up the old filbert tree, swung himself noiselessly on to the wall, and looked down eagerly through the leafy branches. Not far off, at the opposite end of a grassy glade, sat Hilary, her soft brown curls, held back by a snood of pink ribbon, but falling nevertheless about her comely face as she bent over the guitar. She wore a pale grey gown with dainty trimmings of pink, and the delicate colouring of her sweet womanly face made one think of apple-blossom.
Gabriel’s heart throbbed fast. Was this the child he had once teased? The companion he had sometimes wished a boy to share his rougher sports? The playmate he had quarrelled with so often, and kissed with careless kindliness when the dispute had ended? How had he ever dared to do it all? Then again the song thrilled him
Winter hides his frosty face,
Blushing now to be more viewed:
Spring return’d with pleasant grace,
Flora’s treasures are renewed;
Lambs rejoice to see the spring,
Skipping, leaping, sporting, playing,
Birds for joy do sing.
So let the spring of joy renew,
Laughing, colling, kissing, playing,
And give love his due.
Gabriel’s longing to see the singer’s downcast eyes almost overcame him but he waited while once more the bird-like voice rang through the quiet garden—
Then, sweet love, disperse this cloud,
That obscures this scornful coying;
When each creature sings aloud,
Filling hearts with over-joying.
As every bird doth choose her mate,
Gently billing, she is willing
Her true love to take.
With such words let us contend
(Laughing, colling, kissing, playing),
So our strife shall end.
Gabriel swung himself down by the filbert tree, brushed the dust from his dark green doublet, set his broad-brimmed hat at the correct angle with unusual care, and made his way through the gate as though he had never climbed a tree or lounged upon a wall in his life.
Who would have dreamed that to walk down that familiar glade to greet Hilary, would ever have caused his throat to grow dry and his breath to come in so strange a fashion, for all the world as though he were running a race! At last she looked up, and with a glad cry rose to welcome him; the guitar slipped unheeded on to the grass, and both her hands caught his, while her dark grey eyes smiled in a way that fairly dazzled the youth, who had but just realised that he was her lover.
“So you have come from Oxford at last,” she cried. “How long it is since we met!” He stooped to kiss her hand.
“Surely it was in some other life!” he said, with a strange feeling that suddenly all things had become new.
She laughed gaily as they sat down side by side. “Here, at any rate, is the same old stone bench where you and I used to learn our lessons,” she said. “And yonder is the stump to which you tied my puppet the day you played at Smithfield martyrs.”
“What a little brute I was.”
“You were a rare hand at teasing; but I’ll never forget it to you that you rescued my Bartholomew babe from the power of the dog. How the wretch bit your arm!”
“I am much indebted to him,” said Gabriel, smiling, “and would not for the world lose that honourable scar. Nothing would please me more than to suffer again in your service.”
His face was aglow, and Hilary, with a little stirring of the heart, turned from him and plucked a rose from the great hush of sweet-briar growing near the bench.
There was a minute’s silence, broken by the snapping of one of her guitar strings. She took a fresh string from the case, and was about to put it on, when she found the guitar quietly taken from her.
“Let me do that,” said Gabriel, pleadingly; and Hilary, with a novel sense of pleasure in being helped, allowed him to have his way, glancing now and again at his intent face, which was the same, yet not the the same, she had known all her life.
Truth to tell, Gabriel was no lover of books; he had not at all the look of the pallid student, and had burnt no midnight oil at Oxford. But the University life had changed him from boy to man, his chest was a good two inches broader from rowing; he had an air of health and vigour, and the clearly-cut features, which were of the Roman type, had kept their refinement, but had lost the stamp of physical delicacy they had once borne.
“How well I remember Nero’s onslaught that day,” said Hilary. “It was the day we heard of Sir John Eliot’s death in the Tower.”
“Did you hear that Mr. Valentine and Mr. Strode, who were imprisoned at the same time as Sir John Eliot, were released last January? They had been in gaol nigh upon eleven years,” said Gabriel; and as he looked up from the guitar, Hilary saw an indignant gleam in his hazel eyes which startled her.
“Now you look as you used to look when we quarrelled,” she said, smiling. “By the bye, what did we quarrel about the day the dog bit you? I have quite forgot.”
“We wrangled over something in the sun-trap,” said Gabriel, his eyes growing tender once more. “What was it?”
Laughingly they both turned their minds back to the days when they had been children together, and presently, in a flash, the whole scene came back to them. Once again Hilary saw her father’s look of amusement as she gave her childish explanation of the dispute, “I said I wouldn’t be Gabriel’s wife, but we have made it up again, and I have given him my promise.”
The colour surged up into her face as for an instant she met Gabriel’s eyes, for in their liquid depths she could read love and eager hope, and withal just a touch of the mirthful expression which she knew so well of old. She knew that he, too, had heard that voice from the past.
Dropping the briar rose and hastily taking the guitar, she began to tune the string he had just fixed. The sound awoke Gabriel to the consciousness that they were not alone in the world, that the garden was no Garden of Eden, and that lovemaking was not so simple as in the days of their childhood. He remembered Mrs. Unett and Bishop Coke, who would assuredly have much to say as soon as this Midsummer’s dream had formed itself into words. “Sing to me,” he said, when the string at length was in tune. “So far I have but heard Bara Fostus from the other side of the wall—a sweet air, but somewhat melancholy.”
Hilary racked her brain for a song which was not a love song, but failed to find anything better than “Phyllis on the New-Mown Hay,” which she sang with a spirit so gay and debonnair, and a voice so exquisitely fresh, that Gabriel’s passion was increased ten-fold. Like the lover in the song, he bid fair to be a most “faithful Damon,” and Hilary knew it, and wondered how it had come to pass that but an hour before they had been well content to think of each other merely as old friends and playfellows.
They were deep in conversation when, looking up, Hilary saw her grandfather slowly pacing down the garden. The Palace was not far from Mrs. Unett’s house, and the old man loved to escape from the state and ceremony that surrounded him, and to enjoy the quiet of his daughter’s home. Gabriel, who had been much away from Hereford, had only met the Bishop occasionally. But when at Oxford he had heard complaints of the tyranny, the mischief-making and the political intrigues of bishops in general, he had always looked on their own Bishop as a remarkable exception to the general rule. Glancing now at the stately old man, whose scholarly face bore a striking resemblance to that of his brother, Sir John Coke, the recently-dismissed Secretary of State, he knew that he was confronting the arbiter of his fate, and noted with relief the kindly look in the Bishop’s eyes as he caught sight of them.
“So, Mr. Harford, you are returned to us once more,” said the old man, giving him a courteous greeting. “I heard my granddaughter’s voice, but did not know of your arrival.”
“The plague is increasing at Oxford, my lord,” said Gabriel; “and it was thought best that we should not remain there. I returned to Brampton Bryan with Ned Harley.”
The name of Harley brought a shadow over the Bishop’s face, for Sir Robert’s Puritanism met with little favour in the county. He reflected with some uneasiness that Gabriel Harford was of the same persuasion, in all probability, and not altogether a good companion for Hilary.
“Sing to us, child,” he said, glancing at his granddaughter and Hilary, who had noted his change of expression, began his favourite air
“Hark, hark, the lark at heaven’s gate sings!”
The song soon lulled the old Bishop into tranquility; he had taken out his ivory tablets with the intention of making some such entry as this: “Mem: to warn my daughter not to countenance any matrimonial proposal in respect of G. H. and Hilary.” For was it not well known that Dr. Harford had spoken strongly against the war in Scotland—“the Bishops’ war,” now in progress—and who could tell what difficulties might arise in the future? But somehow, as the song proceeded, he slid into a state of dreamy content, and noted instead on the tablets a fresh idea for his treatise on the Epistle to the Colossians, which was suggested in part by the music and in part by the faces of Gabriel and Hilary. He looked benevolently across at the two young people, his mind hovering betwixt heaven and earth and the grievous divisions of his day all forgot.
Thus it chanced that through the halcyon days of that wonderful summer, Gabriel wooed Hilary in peace until, one morning, early in September, he found the present not sufficient for him, but must needs try to ensure the future, and hear from her own lips the promise that would set him at rest.
They had been out riding with the doctor, but had found the day hot, and, leaving the horses with the groom, had wandered across a bit of wild country bordering the road, to find rest and shelter in a little wood. Great beech trees made a solemn shade over the russet carpet of last year’s leaves, and here and there the sunbeams slanting through the branches turned the russet to gold and threw a silvery sheen over the brake fern growing around. The robins sang cheerfully overhead, and now and then a squirrel would dance from branch to branch scampering the faster as it caught sight of the two intruders resting in the shade beneath.
The very quiet of the place made Gabriel think involuntarily of the strange contrast to be found in “towered cities” amid “the busy hum of men.” Surely never again would he find so sweet a paradise in which to speak his love. The audacity of his childhood filled him now with amaze. What would he not have given for the easy flow of words which had then been at his command?
“This is perfection,” said Hilary, taking off her hat and fanning herself leisurely with a great fern.
“There is one thing wanting,” said Gabriel.
“You are exacting,” said Hilary, with a little rippling laugh. “What more can heart desire?”
“A bliss that would last,” said Gabriel, his voice trembling.
“Ah! but that is asking too much,” she answered, musingly. “Nothing lasts.”
“Nothing but love,” he said, in a tone that made her lift her eyes to his, and speedily drop them.
The colour rushed to her face, but her confusion seemed to cheer him.
“Hilary,” he exclaimed, “do you not know that I love you? You who first wakened love in me—who first made me truly live—surely you must know? I love you with all my being; only be mine—be mine.”
“I am your friend,” she faltered—“have ever been your friend.”
“Friendship is not enough,” he said, eagerly; “that was for childish days, but now—now—it is death to me to be without you. I am yours, body and soul. Give me hope, Hilary; give me hope!”
She raised her head and looked into his eager, hazel eyes, reading there the utter devotion of a first genuine passion, “I give you my heart,” she said in a voice so soft that the words seemed more breathed than spoken, and the robin which had been the sole spectator of this love scene ventured a little nearer, even as she spoke, only taking flight when Gabriel caught her in his arms for what seemed the first kiss he had ever given her, so strangely did it differ from the careless salute of their childhood.
The robin sang overhead now, and sang so blithely that even the happy lovers gave heed to the song.
“’Tis the sweetest I ever heard,” said Hilary. “Or is it that all things seem more beautiful because of love?”
“That must be it. Hitherto we have but dreamed; now we are awake, and this is the joy that lasts.”
So they lived through that exquisite dawn of love, and their bliss knew no alloy until the ruthless groom strode into the wood.
“I ha’ tethered the horses to the gibbet, sir,” he said to Gabriel, “and ha’ come to tell ye that the doctor is in sight.”
The lovers started to their feet. Suddenly to see Simon’s uncomprehending face; suddenly to hear the ill-omened word “gibbet,” roused them roughly enough from their paradise. They hurriedly left the little wood, not once even looking back, for was not Simon tramping heavily behind them, driving them forth into the thorns and thistles of the world just as effectually as if he had been the angel with the flaming sword!
CHAPTER IV.
He cannot lie a perfect man
Not being tried and tutored in the world.
Two Gentlemen of Verona.
In the seventeenth century marriages, as a rule, were arranged in a very formal fashion by parents or guardians; then, after letters relating to money matters had passed on both sides, the young people were encouraged to meet. But the lifelong intimacy between Gabriel and Hilary had set ordinary customs aside, and before Mrs. Unett had in the least awakened to the idea that the old friendship had changed and developed, the morning in the wood had altered the whole course of her daughter’s life.
In the Palace at Hereford it chanced strangely enough that on that very day another matrimonial project was being discussed, for late in the previous evening Dr. William Coke, of Bromyard, one of Hilary’s uncles, had unexpectedly arrived to see the Bishop, bringing with him a formal letter of proposal for the hand of his niece from one Mr. Geers, of Garnons, a rich squire who had long been his friend. At the precise moment when Gabriel was confessing his love in the uninterrupted quiet of the coppice, and Simon the groom shrewdly guessing as he waited at the gibbet that “young maister was lommaking in the ripple,” a grave discussion was going on in the Bishop’s study.
“You see, daughter,” said the old man, persuasively, “this proposal deserves consideration. Mr. Geers is a worthy man, and the settlement he would make is altogether satisfactory.”
“Yet he is over old for Hilary,” sighed the mother. “He would wish to wed without delay, and how can I spare my child?”
“She would still be in the county,” said her brother cheerily; “however, I don’t wish to plead for the gentleman, I am but his ambassador, not his advocate.”
Mrs. Unett looked with relief at the speaker. The parson had always been her favourite brother. He had appreciated her husband and had shared to a certain extent in his views, which had not been the case with any other member of the Coke family. Then, too, he was so kindly, so genial; he had such a keen enjoyment of life and contrived to make his antiquarian pursuits so extremely amusing to other people. Unlike some hobby-riders, he was never a bore, and to see his good-natured face beam with satisfaction when he discovered a treasure for his collection was a thing to remember. His rare visits to Hereford never failed to delight both Hilary and her mother.
“Tell me what you advise, brother,” said Mrs. Unett.
The parson laughed.
“You could not appeal to a worse man,” he said. “I am an indifferent good judge of old oak, and know something of fossils, but of love matters I am as ignorant as a child of seven. It seems that worthy Mr. Geers wants a wife, he is not blessed as I am with the love of antiquities, and he finds his country mansion wondrous dull. If Hilary pines for a husband, why, then, I should advise you to let the gentleman woo her.”
“I am very sure she is in no haste to wed,” said Mrs. Unett, “she is not yet eighteen, and would be loth to leave her home.”
“My dear, ’tis a good offer, and should not lightly be disregarded,” said the Bishop. “In many ways it would be well that Hilary should be established, and her future happiness secured.”
“Is that so easily done?” said Dr. Coke, with a quizzical smile. “Future happiness comes not with broad lands and a full purse. Perchance pretty Hilary would find the great mansion dull; or, again, she might, like a dame I once met, confess that the estate was all that could be wished, and that for the man—why, he was but a passing evil, and came of a short-lived family.”
Mrs. Unett smiled at his droll voice as he quoted the philosophical wife.
“Hilary is not made after that pattern,” she said. “Truth to tell, the maid has a will of her own, and is a trifle fastidious.”
“My dear,” said the Bishop, “she is a good, obedient maid, and if we show her that this arrangement is for her good, I make no doubt she will accept Mr. Geers’ suit.”
Dr. Coke smiled at his sister’s dubious expression.
“Are we so sure it is for her good?” he said. “Let the little maid see her suitor and judge for herself. But I must not stay talking any longer of marrying and giving in marriage, for I am to visit Sir Richard Hopton at Canon Frome on my way home. Do you entrust me with a message to the owner of Garnons? He comes to stay with me to-morrow.”
“Thank him for his courtesy, and say that we shall gladly receive him as a guest next week, if it suits his convenience,” said the Bishop. “The two had best meet as you suggest, and we shall see what time will bring forth.”
He returned to his treatise on the Colossians, and William Coke ordered his horse, kissed his sister, and, noticing her wistful expression, racked his kindly brain for some word that would cheer her.
“I am a doited old bachelor,” he said, smoothing back his grizzled hair and adjusting his wide felt hat. “But I somehow fancy Hilary will be in no haste to leave her mother for this worthy gentleman.”
Mrs. Unett sighed. Her voice had a mournful tone in it as she replied, “It is, after all, the way of the world, and what mothers must expect.”
He moved towards the door, but suddenly returned to her side with a broad smile on his ruddy face, and a world of fun in his twinkling eyes.
“Make yourself easy,” he said, “I don’t think she will accept him. I am the man’s ambassador, but there is one trifle I had forgot—I honestly admit that he squints.”
He rode off laughing to himself, and gave little more thought to the matter, for, as he had very truly remarked, love affairs were not at all in his line, and some interesting relics at Canon Frome drove both Hilary and her suitor from his mind.
The poor Bishop, however, was not long allowed to dwell on the spiritual characteristics of the men of Colosse; for in the late afternoon Dr. Harford craved an audience of him, and after due apologies for Gabriel’s impetuous love-making, told Hilary’s grandfather of Mr. Unett’s words in the past, and begged his consent to the union of the two old playmates.
The Bishop was dismayed at the proposal, and ruefully remembered that the dangers of constant intercourse had struck him when Gabriel returned from Oxford, but that a sudden idea as to the position of “Tychicus, a beloved brother and faithful minister,” had driven out the prudent reflection. His treatise had prospered wonderfully that summer, but meanwhile his granddaughter had been free to see as much as she pleased of the physician’s son.
“To be frank with you, sir,” he said, “I have other plans for Hilary, and am at this moment in treaty with Mr. Geers of Garnons. But even if she declines his suit, I am fain to confess that a marriage with your son is not what I should wish for her.”
“My lord, it was her father’s wish,” said Dr. Harford.
“Ay, but times have changed since the death of my son-inlaw. We do not think alike, either in religion or in politics, sir; and I should hesitate to give my grandchild in marriage to one likely to oppose me in matters both of Church and State.”
“The lad is scarce eighteen,” said Dr. Harford, “and is as yet a mere observer of current events. He hath, I am well assured, nought but respect and affection for you, my lord, and his whole heart is set on wedding Hilary. Other proposals may be in a worldly way more desirable, but the children have loved each other, if I mistake not, all their lives, and ’tis ill meddling with hearts.”
“The matter shall be referred to my daughter,” said the Bishop, rising. “Personally, I have nothing against your son; on the contrary, I think him full of promise. But he is over young to marry, and there are many objections to a long betrothal.”
Dr. Harford could only withdraw, and the Bishop, chafing a little at having to spend his time on these mundane matters, went to his daughter’s house to tell her what had passed.
Mrs. Unett had, however, already heard Hilary’s version of the story, and the thought of giving her daughter to Gabriel was so much more congenial to her than any notion of entertaining Mr. Geer’s proposal, that the Bishop found an opponent where he had looked for an ally. After a prolonged discussion, Mrs. Unett—never well able to resist the opinion of a man—sent for her daughter by way of support, and Hilary, who, after telling her mother of the events of the morning, had gone to her own chamber to dream it all over again, came down to the withdrawing room in no small trepidation.
“Child,” said the Bishop, “I have had a proposal for your hand.”
“Yes, my lord,” she said, curtseying as she approached him.
“Sit down, my dear, and let me tell you of the gentleman.”
Hilary’s eyes widened. Was Gabriel a gentleman she needed telling about? She could have laughed at the notion had not good manners obliged her to wait dutifully for the next remark.
“His estate is very large, and is in this county; although some years your senior, he is still only in middle life, and will, I am assured, make you an excellent husband.”
“Mother!” gasped Hilary, in dismay. “What does it mean?”
“Your grandfather refers to an offer from Mr. Geers, of Garnons, which he received before that of Mr. Harford. I think, my dear, you must at least see the gentleman next week when he stays at the Palace.”
“Certainly,” said the Bishop, with decision. “And I must tell you, Hilary, that his offer is not to be lightly refused. I cannot approve of any betrothal between you and Gabriel Harford, though very naturally some idle thoughts of love may have arisen from your being so much together.”
Hilary’s breath came fast. There was a choking feeling in her throat, nothing but pride kept her from tears—pride and a determination that, cost what it might, she would never yield.
“My lord,” she said, quietly; “I will certainly see Mr. Geers if it is your wish, but do not lead him to think that I shall accept his offer—that were impossible.”
“I very much wish you to accept the offer, but of course, I will not compel you, my child,” said the Bishop. “As to this other offer, however, I altogether disapprove of the notion, and I beg that you will discontinue all intercourse with Gabriel Harford.”
“My lord, he is the man my father wished me to marry,” said Hilary. “Does that count for nothing? He is the man to whom I have given my heart, does that weigh nought with you?”
There was a break in her voice, and a quivering of her lip as she spoke. The Bishop took her hand caressingly.
“Child, you are young—you are young,” he said, tenderly. “’Tis an easy matter to let the heart go to the first handsome face and the first flattering tongue that appeals to you. Believe me you have not yet seen enough of the world to judge. Gabriel Harford has a winsome way with him, but he is as yet wholly unformed, you cannot tell what he will grow into.”
“I love him—and can afford to trust the future,” said the girl, confidently.
The old Bishop shook his head sadly; nevertheless, the depth and reality of Hilary’s love had touched his heart.
“Let us leave it in this way,” he said. “See no more of the young man while he remains in Hereford. Give Mr. Geers a fair and unprejudiced hearing, and let us see what time will bring forth.” He rose to take leave of them, pausing at the door to counsel Mrs. Unett to send a letter without delay to Dr. Harford, acquainting him with their decision.
“It is better so, my child,” said the mother, when once more the two were by themselves. “Your grandfather is no doubt right. Gabriel is very young, and you cannot tell what manner of man he will be. I must write to his father. To do that does not rob you of all hope, it merely means that we must have good proof of Gabriel’s constancy before making promises as to the future.”
“We can wait,” said Hilary, firmly. But then she remembered the rapture of the morning, and the confident tone of Gabriel’s voice, as he said: “This is the joy that lasts.”
Alas! How soon had their day been over-clouded! She turned aside to the window and looked out at the cathedral through a mist of tears, hearing the scratching of her mother’s pen with a dull heartache. Presently down in the street below she saw a very carefully-dressed, spruce little lady, with grey curls and a benevolent face. It was kind-hearted Mrs. Joyce Jefferies, speaking to a little bare-footed lad and making him happy with a penny. In taking out her purse she dropped her handkerchief, and Hilary, running swiftly out of the room, threw open the front door and hastened to restore the handkerchief to its owner, The old maiden lady thanked her, but noticed the sad look in her eyes. “What is amiss, child?” she asked, stroking the girl’s cheek. “I met you riding this morning with a very different face.”
“Nothing lasts!” said Hilary, with tears in her voice.
“Yes, one thing,” said Mrs. Joyce Jefferies, a light dawning in her kind eyes. “There is an old poem in which you will find a truer saying, ‘All goeth but Godde’s will.’” The gentle little lady walked on, but although she said nothing, she was able to make a shrewd guess that her god-son, Gabriel Harford, was in some way the cause of Hilary’s trouble, and on reaching her house in Widemarsh street, she penned him a note inviting him to dine with her one day in the next week.
Hilary did not return to the withdrawing-room for fully half-an-hour, and then found that her mother was only just folding the formal letter, which had been hard to write. “May I enclose this to Gabriel, ma’am?” said the girl, putting a tiny sealed packet on the table.
“I do not think your grandfather would approve of a correspondence between you,” said Mrs. Unett, hesitating.
“’Tis not a letter—I will show it to you, if you wish, mother.”
The mother looked up into the dark eyes, saw the traces of tears, and forgot the Bishop’s prudent objections.
“I will send it, child,” she said, kissing her tenderly. “Do not think that I have forgot my own young days. And bear not so sad a face, Hilary, for I have great confidence in Gabriel, and would spare you to him in the future, more willingly than to any other man.”
Hilary’s face lighted up at these comfortable words. Surely time would prove to everyone’s satisfaction that they were indeed well suited to each other.
To fill up the hours of waiting Gabriel had gone out fishing, and when the light failed he lay on the bank of the river watching the dark trees as they stood out russet, grey and purple against the mellow evening sky, their heavy summer foliage hardly moving, so still was the air. All the world seemed beautiful, and he was far too happy to have any doubts. What could stand in his way when Hilary herself had owned her love? Not all the bishops in England could really interfere between them! And over and over in his mind there rang her softly spoken words, “I give you my heart.”
By this time surely his father’s visit to the palace would be well over, and the consent won? He sprang to his feet, shouldered his rod, and, with a glance at the fish he had caught, closed the basket, resolving to carry it to old Durdle, the housekeeper, for Mrs. Unett’s breakfast.
As he walked through the fields he whistled, “Phyllis on the New Mown Hay,” for sheer light-heartedness, and had some difficulty in pacing gravely through the streets when he reached the city. Old Nat, the sailor, meeting him in High Town, noticed his blithe face.
“Good e’en to you, sir,” he said, “you’re looking piert and heartful. Have ye had good luck?”
“Ay!” he replied, “it has been a lucky day with me. Look!” and he opened the basket. “You must have one of these fellows for your supper.”
With a cheery “Good night!” he passed on, leaving the old sailor divided between admiration of the trout and its donor.
“Takes after his father, he does,” muttered the old man, “an open hand and a good heart. But it’ll go hard with him in times like these, for he’s independent, and none too fond of knocking under to great folk.”
Twilight reigned in the house when Gabriel closed the front door behind him, but a streak of lamp-light came from the region of the study-door, and on entering the room he found his father and mother gravely discussing an open letter. Something in their faces struck a chill to his heart.
“Did you see the Bishop, sir?” he asked, eagerly.
“Sit down, lad,” said the doctor, pointing to a chair by the table which his patients were wont to occupy while he interviewed them. “Yes, I saw him; our talk was not satisfactory. Still, I would not have you lose heart altogether.”
The reaction from the morning was too great, however. Gabriel turned deathly white; he could not frame his lips to the question he longed, yet dreaded to put. The pain carried him back curiously to a former scene in that very room, when in an agony of nervous anticipation he had waited for the hot iron to be put on his mangled arm, and again he seemed to hear the words: “Nothing could daunt Sir John Eliot; cost what it might, he was ever true!” With an effort he pulled himself together.
“May I hear, sir, what actually passed?” he said.
And the doctor hastened to tell him all, then placed Mrs. Unett’s letter in his hands.
It was a kind, incoherent, weak letter, but Gabriel saw with relief that the writer did not at all favour the suit of Mr. Geers of Garnons. His mother, however, quickly dispelled what little consolation he had gained. There had never been much love lost between the two ladies.
“Never mind, my son,” she said. “In my opinion, you are very well out of the whole affair. Hilary is an only daughter, and has been spoilt and indulged by an over-fond parent, till she thinks everything must give way to her whims. Depend upon it, she would have been ill to live with.”
“I will wed none other,” said Gabriel, passionately, and, finding the discussion intolerable, he rose to go.
The doctor put a little packet into his hand. “It is for you,” he said. “Courage, lad! After all, the Bishop can but enforce a certain time of waiting on you if you are true to each other.”
The words carried some comfort with them, and hope rose again in his heart as he strode hurriedly through the garden to the south walk, where he eagerly opened the packet directed to him in Hilary’s somewhat laboured handwriting. The moon had just risen, and by its soft light he saw a curl of dark hair tied with a narrow ribbon, on which some letters were traced. With no little difficulty he made out the motto, “All goeth but Godde’s will.”
The message brought him fresh courage. It seemed to put everything in a true light. After all, what were differences of opinion on religious matters when words such as these could be their mutual comfort? He had never troubled to think whether they differed or not. The mere fact that the Bishop was one of the Laudian prelates, and that his father objected to the tendency to revert to Mediævalism in the English Church, could not surely affect the question of his marriage with Hilary? It was sheer nonsense to think that such a thing could part them when they were united already by love, and by trust in the Divine will, which could not fail. So, although he was sore-hearted and downcast, he was far from hopeless, and after a while was ready to throw himself with ardour into his father’s plans for his future.
CHAPTER V.
Let my voice swell out through the great abyss
To the azure dome above,
With a chord of faith in the harp of bliss:
Thank God for love!
Let my voice thrill out beneath and above
The whole world through,
O my love and life, O my life and love,
Thank God for you!
—James Thomson.
It seemed so doubtful whether Oxford was doing Gabriel much good, and the unhealthiness of the place was so great just then, that Dr. Harford decided to send his son to London and to enter him as a student at one of the Inns of Court. Sir Robert Harley had arranged to do the same with his eldest son, and as the two were friends, Gabriel was greatly pleased with the notion, and began to look forward to his new life. He discussed his prospects with Mrs. Joyce Jefferies a few days later when he dined with her at her pretty house in Widemarsh Street, but having known him all his life, she quickly detected the sadness that lurked beneath all his cheerful talk.
“Eliza,” she said, turning to her god-daughter, Miss Acton, who lived with her, “will you take this biscuit out to Tray, he has been barking and whining the last half-hour.”
“And what does Hilary Unett say to your leaving the University ere taking your degree?” she said to Gabriel when they were alone.
“She knows naught about it,” he replied, colouring. “We are no longer allowed to meet. The Bishop does not approve of our love.”
“Ah! that accounts for the change I noticed in her,” said the little lady. “I grieve for you both. But you are young; matters may right themselves in a year or two.”
They had reached the dessert stage, and Mrs. Joyce Jefferies had just put a bunch of grapes on her godson’s plate, when she was startled by a loud knock at the door. Miss Acton, returning from her mission to the low-spirited dog in the garden, met the visitor in the entrance-hall, and with heightened colour ushered him into the dining-room.
“Godmother, here is Mr. Geers,” she said, her pretty eyes bright with pleasure.
Now Mrs. Joyce Jefferies, having the kindest of hearts, loved nothing better than to set the course of true love running in safe and smooth channels. It had long been her desire to see Mr. Geers and Eliza Acton wedded. Unfortunately, Mr. Geers at present showed no signs of making any proposal for Miss Acton’s hand, and since the godmother was no matchmaker, she dared not even hint at what she so greatly wished.
“This is my godson, Mr. Gabriel Harford,” she said, having received the visitor with a warm welcome. “Gabriel, you have not, I think, met my cousin, Mr. Geers, of Carnons.”
Gabriel bowed, but his whole face seemed to stiffen, much to the astonishment of his godmother.
Mr. Geers would take nothing but a cup of sack, having already dined. He was a most quaint-looking person, but spite of the wandering eye which Dr. Coke had mentioned, there was something not unpleasing in his good-natured, shrewd expression and in his wide mouth, about which there lurked a kind of satirical smile.
“I have come to you, cousin,” he said, “to be cheered and heartened before going through a great ordeal. The fact is, I am going a-wooing.”
“Indeed,” said Mrs. Joyce Jefferies, feeling perplexed.
“I have only once glimpsed the fair lady, and have not yet been introduced to her. The ceremony is to take place this afternoon at three o’ the clock, and I have a sinking feeling here already.” He placed his hand on his heart. Then taking out a watch from a shagreen case that hung at his fob, “There are yet two hours, and I pray you to hearten me up.”
The hostess laughed cheerfully, but all the time her kinsman had been speaking she had observed with discomfort the pallor of her goddaughter’s face, and the extraordinary way in which Gabriel was swallowing the grapes she had put on his plate—certainly a most terrible fit of indigestion must be the result.
“We will do our best to hearten you, but could do so better did we know the fair lady’s name,” she said.
“Her name,” said Mr. Geers, with a humorous gleam in the well-regulated eye and profound gravity in the squinting one, “her name is the worst part of the whole affair. They christened her ‘Hilary,’ which is a name that may be borne by man as well as woman. Now I desire a very womanly woman, no masculine she, and Hilary smacks somewhat of lawyers and their terms. But the surname is still worse, for that would lead one to believe that the lady means to die single and hath no intention of going in double harness. I confess that the name of Mistress Hilary Unett discourages me mightily.”
Mrs. Joyce Jefferies, feeling convinced that in another minute Gabriel would choke, bethought her of a plan which would relieve them all.
“You amuse me greatly,” she said, with a well-feigned laugh. “I must have a confidential talk with you. Let us send off these young people and enjoy a tête-à-tête. Eliza, my dear, take Mr. Harford to see my throstle in the twiggen cage; I see he has finished his fruit.”
The two accepted the suggestion with alacrity, Mr. Geers watching them thoughtfully as they left the room.
“What’s amiss with that young man?” he said, “is he in love with pretty Eliza?”
“Oh! my dear Francis, do you really imagine Eliza would think twice of a lad younger than herself?” said Mrs. Joyce, marvelling at the dense stupidity of men. “But you are right in one way; the lad is in love, and, as ill-luck will have it, with the very same lady you are going to court.”
“What! with Mistress Hilary Unett? Great heavens! and I made merry over her name in his presence. Now tell me all about it, cousin, for hang it! the lady won’t look at a plainfaced man like me if that young spark has spoken to her.”
“Dear Cousin Francis, we all know that you would make the very kindest of husbands, but as you wish me to speak the bare truth I do not think Hilary Unett will accept your suit unless her grandfather forces her to do so.”
“She likes this handsome godson of yours?”
“Well, it is not for me to say yes or no to that question; but they have been playmates ever since they could walk, and next-door neighbours. You can judge for yourself whether it is likely or not.”
“I am greatly obliged to you for your sensible way of heartening me ere I go courting,” said Mr. Geers, smiling broadly. “I am bound to go through with the matter, but if the lady is true to herself nought will come of it, and young Mr. Harford need not again come so near to choking himself with burning rage and gulped grapes.”
The good-natured rival laughed till the tears ran down his sunburnt cheeks.
“But it was hard on the poor fellow,” he said, after a while. “Clearly he knew all about my proposals, for his face grew flint-like as you told him my name. Give him a comforting hint when I am gone, or he may seek a grave in the Wye and afterwards haunt me, which would make Garnons a yet more unpleasant home.”
“Garnons is over-lonely for you,” said Mrs. Joyce. “Yet I cannot think that Hilary Unett is well fitted to be its mistress.”
Perhaps Mr. Geers agreed with this shrewd remark when he had been introduced to the bishop’s granddaughter. Her reception was so grave, her manner so distant, that, as he confessed afterwards, it would have been easier to woo an iceberg. Fortunately, his cousin’s words had given him the clue to the girl’s manner and bearing, and on the third day of his visit to the Palace he called at Mrs. Unett’s house, and finding Hilary in the garden, resolved to speak out boldly, and make an end of this highly unsatisfactory courtship.
“Mistress Unett,” he said, “the Bishop has been very good in allowing me to propose an alliance with you, but I can scarcely flatter myself that the idea is pleasing in your eyes. I am a plain-spoken man and will not try your patience with further compliments or professions of my high esteem and sincere admiration, but will ask you truthfully to tell me whether you think you could honour me with your hand?”
“Sir, you have done me great honour by the proposal,” said Hilary, nervously. “But I should only wrong you did I consent to be your wife. You ask me to tell you the truth, and you have been so kindly a suitor that I will do exactly as you bid me. The truth, sir, is that my heart belongs to another.”
Mr. Geers bowed. “You honour me by your confidence, madam,” he said, gallantly. “I withdraw at once in favour of the lucky man who has won so great a treasure.”
“Alas! he is not lucky at all,” said Hilary, her eyes filling with tears. “They say he is over-young, and will not allow us to meet.”
“For that, dear madam, there is a sure remedy. Have patience; we grow old only too fast in these harassing days.”
And after that the good-natured suitor, with a pitying remembrance of Gabriel Harford’s unhappy face, tried to do him a good turn with the Bishop, by showing how utterly hopeless it was to woo a maid whose heart had been given to another man since nursery days, and how extremely probable it was that the lady’s health would suffer if she were too severely tried.
The words made no apparent impression on the Bishop, but they returned to him uncomfortably one Sunday morning in the cathedral, when his eye happened to rest for a minute on Hilary’s face. It suddenly struck him that she had grown curiously pale and thin during the last fortnight, and glancing across at the place usually occupied by Gabriel Harford, he noticed that in him, also, there was a change; the lad looked much older, his sunburnt face had lost its boyish carelessness, his eyes seemed larger and more sad. Yet there was a curious vigour about him in spite of his trouble, and as he joined in the metrical Psalm something in his expression appealed to the Bishop. The cathedral rang with the sweet voices of the choristers as they sang to the tune of the old 137th, Sternhold and Hopkins’ quaint version of King David’s words:
“In trouble and adversity,
The Lord God hear thee still;
The majesty of Jacob’s God
Defend thee from all ill.
And send thee from His holy place
His help in every need;
And so in Sion stablish thee
And make thee strong indeed.
“According to thy heart’s desire
The Lord grant unto thee,
And all thy counsel and device
Full well perform may He.
The Lord will His anointed save,
I know well by His grace;
And send him help by His right hand
Out of His holy place.”
It was Gabriel’s last Sunday in Hereford. On Tuesday night he was to lie at Brampton Bryan; on the following day to set off, in company with Sir Robert Harley and his son for London. His heart was heavy as he wondered when he should again see Hilary, yet, although they were not allowed to meet, there was no small comfort in this glimpse of her at morning service, from which no one had the right to debar him; there was comfort, too, in the words they were singing together, and hope and confidence began to possess his heart, and to bring a look of strength to his face.
The Bishop noted it, and bethought him of what Mr. Geers had said. After all, was he perhaps giving these two unnecessary pain? Was it, indeed, useless to try to put an end to love which had grown with their growth and strengthened with their strength?
By the end of the service Gabriel had decided that to leave home without a word of farewell to Hilary was intolerable, and being too honourable to steal an interview without leave, he waited in the Bishop’s cloisters hoping to see the prelate as he returned to the Palace, and to make his request. The sunshine blazed on the grass and daisies without, but the cloisters with their vaulted roof and exquisitely sculptured figures and foliage were cool and sheltered; Gabriel leant against one of the mullions of the great windows, glad to feel the fresh September air on his heated forehead. At length steps were heard, and looking up he saw the Bishop approaching, with his chaplain in attendance. Wishing the attendant anywhere else he stepped forward, and bowing low, said, “My lord, may I have a word with you?”
Gabriel’s manner was good, and the worthy Bishop, taking the deference in the tone for awe of his office, though it was in truth merely reverence for his age and his learning, felt that he had misjudged Hilary’s lover. Moreover, those who have just joined their prayers and praises see each other in a clearer atmosphere, raised somewhat above the fogs of prejudice and the murky smoke of differing opinions.
“You need not wait,” said the Bishop, glancing at his chaplain.
“I am glad to see you, Mr. Harford, for I have just learnt from Mrs. Joyce Jefferies that you are about to leave Hereford.”
“I am to be entered as a student at Lincoln’s-inn, my lord, and I crave your leave to say farewell to Hilary.”
The mere use of the Christian name at such a time reminded the Bishop of the closeness of the intimacy between the two. Although he himself had only lived four years in Hereford, Gabriel and Hilary had spent their lives in the place as near neighbours. It had been easy enough to discuss the betrothal as a mere matter of business with Dr. Harford, but it was hard to the kindly old man to resist the appeal of the lover himself.
“Merely to grant you a farewell would be a cruel kindness,” he said, thoughtfully. “You are just leaving for a much wider and more varied life; mayhap you will in London find others that will please your fancy more than my granddaughter.”
“My lord, if I cannot wed Hilary, I will wed no other,” said Gabriel. “We Harfords do not lightly change.”
Something in the confidence of his tone was so full of youth and inexperience that the Bishop felt a fatherly compassion taking possession of him.
“My lad,” he said, quietly, “you think thus in all honesty, but you are going to live in one of the most wicked cities in the world. You know not how great are the temptations you will have to face.”
“Yet if love be in truth akin to love Divine, it will ‘defend us from all ill,’” said Gabriel, musingly; and to both of them it seemed that the music of the old Psalm echoed Softly through the cloisters.
It was not very often that the Bishop turned from his theological studies to direct talk with one of Gabriel’s stamp; he began now to think that, after all, poor Frank Unett’s notion had been right, and that a Harford would make a good husband.
“Lad,” he said, “believe me, I desire only what is best for you and my grandchild. If I were to consent to a betrothal now on the understanding that it is not publicly announced, would you on your part undertake to avoid Hereford for the next two years? Time would then test and try you both.” Gabriel’s face fairly shone.
“My lord,” he said, breathlessly, “I will gladly bear any waiting if only we are permitted to be betrothed; and no one need be aware of it except my parents, and, if you will permit it, my godmother, Mrs. Joyce Jefferies.”
The Bishop smiled. “Yes, let Mrs. Jefferies know, for, in truth, it was a few words she spoke to me that inclined me to listen to your appeal. Go now, and talk over matters with your father, and I will prepare Mrs. Unett and Hilary for your call.” All this time Hilary had seen no member of the next-door household save little Bridstock, the brother born during Gabriel’s school days, who had, of course, no notion of keeping aloof from her and knew nothing of their trouble. Her face grew radiant when the Bishop told her of his interview with Gabriel. Nevertheless, the call—a state visit, paid in company with his father—was a rather formidable affair for the lovers, who left most of the talking to their elders, but their spirits rose when Dr. Harford proposed a ride for the following day.
“I have to go over to Bosbury to see a patient,” he said, “and if the day is fine I hope Mrs. Unett will entrust you to me.”
That Hilary should often accompany Gabriel and his father had long been a custom, and the enforced home-keeping of the past fortnight had been hard to bear. The girl’s face was radiant when once again she found herself riding with her lover through St. Owen’s Gate and out into the lovely country beyond. The unexpected relief after those weary days of sorrow made it wholly impossible to trouble as to the future. To-morrow there would indeed be parting, but for this one day they were as happy and light-hearted as children, and with an added rapture which no child can feel. On they rode past hedges bright with briony berries and brambles, or veiled with feathery traveller’s joy; past hopyards where the pickers were hard at work, their many-coloured raiment making patches of brightness in the long green avenues; past orchards where the trees were bending under their load of rosy or golden apples; while ever and anon would come glimpses of the Malvern hills with their exquisite colouring, not to be surpassed in richness by any other hills in existence. At length the pretty village of Bosbury was reached, and Dr. Harford pointed out to Hilary the old house of the Harfords in which some of the happiest days of his childhood had been spent—a fine gabled mansion with heavily mullioned windows. It had passed now into other hands, and the doctor never willingly entered it, being a man who disliked seeing his sacred places under new conditions.
“I have to see old Mr. Wall, the vicar,” he said to his son, “and as my visit is likely to be a long one we will bait the horses at the Bell, and you may show Hilary the monuments if she is disposed to look at them.”
Hilary did not much mind what she looked at so long as Gabriel was her cicerone, and the lovers, dismounting at the gate, walked through the churchyard.
“What a strange tower it is standing quite separate from the church,” said Hilary. “Why was it built in that fashion?”
Gabriel glanced up at the solid brown old tower with its mantling ivy.
“No one precisely knows, but some say it was that it might be used as a place of refuge,” he replied.
They entered the south porch and found the door open and the fresh air blowing through the beautiful church; from the lovely little chantry chapel at the end of the south aisle came a flood of golden sunshine mellowing the white pillars, while the wonderful dark oak chancel screen, which was the special feature of the place, lifted its rare fan tracery and rich carving in sombre contrast. There was something in the quiet of this country church and in its beauty which appealed strongly to Hilary, while to Gabriel, also, though he was much less responsive to mere loveliness, the place had a homelike feeling, so often had he been there with his father, and so vividly had Dr. Harford described to him his own childish days at Bosbury.
The Harford monuments in the style of the early Renascence were on either side of the sacrarium, and Gabriel, with a smile, pointed out to Hilary a mistake in one of the inscriptions, which stated that there lay Richard Harford, of the parish of Bosbury, Armiger, and Martha his wife.
“This lady in Elizabethan dress who rests beside my great uncle, is, in truth, his first wife, Katherine Purefoy; and Mrs. Martha does not rest here at all, but had two more husbands—to wit, Michael Hopton, of Canon Frome, and John Berrow, of Awre.”
“I did not know you were connected with the Hoptons.”
“Yes, in this fashion, besides by a close friendship betwixt my father and Sir Richard Hopton, and that again is cemented by their political views being of the same order.”
“Have politics aught to do with friendship?”
“With friendship, yes, but with love nothing at all.”
“That is well, for you and I, perchance, might not agree,” said Hilary.
“We could always agree to differ, but in truth we neither of us as yet know enough of matters of State to have any opinions,” he replied.
“I don’t quite understand your ancestry yet,” said Hilary, laughing. “There is great-grandfather John, and here is great-uncle Richard, but where is the grandfather?”
“He was Henry Harford, of Warminster,” said Gabriel. “But my father, being the son of his second wife, Madame Alice Harford, inherits none of the Harford property. Madame Harford still lives near London, and I am to visit her. They say she is a most formidable personage, and has never forgiven my father and mother for marrying when they were mere boy and girl. For my part I am glad they did, for it makes my father understand our case.”
“Yes, he understands well, and has been most kind to us. Had it not been for him and for Mrs. Joyce Jefferies, we should have had sad hearts to-day.”
They wandered back into the churchyard and sat down to rest on the steps of the old stone cross which for many generations had stood there. So quiet and peaceful was all around that it was hard to believe that the village street was within a stone’s-throw, and the lovers, absorbed in their own happiness, did not hear the quiet footsteps of a man approaching them, did not dream that just as surely as time advanced with cares and sorrows in his train, so did this austere-looking figure come into their lives, bringing with him the shadow of a coming agony.
They both started when upon their love-making was cast the sudden shade of the new-comer’s presence. Gabriel rose hurriedly, responding to the man’s grave salute in some confusion.
“I understand that Dr. Harford is at the vicarage; can I leave with you, sir, a message for him?”
“Certainly; what name?” said Gabriel, looking at the questioner’s sombre, deep-set eyes, in which there smouldered a strange fire. A look of resentment, indeed, darkened the whole face, which, though full of strength and purpose, was far from pleasing.
“My name is Peter Waghorn, and yonder to the east of the church, in the house with the tiled roof, my father, some years ago Vicar of Miltoncleve, lies at the point of death.”
“I will tell Dr. Harford directly he leaves Mr. Wall,” said Gabriel. Then with a thought of Hilary, “It is nought of an infectious kind, I suppose?”
Peter Waghorn smiled grimly.
“My father is dying of a disease that has been over-rife in the country since Dr. Laud got the upper hand. He was driven from his living in Devon and imprisoned by the Bishop of Exeter for speaking against Dr. Laud’s preaching. They then sent him to the Court of High Commission, and he was deprived, degraded and fined.”
“But for what offence?” asked Gabriel. “Merely for disapproving of the Archbishop’s doings? The prisons would be full of the gentry and the most learned men of the day were all sent to gaol who disliked Dr. Laud.”
“’Twas for preaching against decorations and images in the churches,” said Peter Waghorn, a gleam of fierce wrath flashing across his face. “So little do the punishments of the Archbishop match the offence, that for this my father suffered the loss of all things, and for daring now and again to preach afterwards, he was sent to Bridewell, mercilessly flogged, and for a whole winter chained to a post with irons on his hands and feet in a dark dungeon. ’Twas the cruel cold and damp that ruined his health, for he had nought but a pad of straw to lie on, and was kept on bread and water.”
“Truly they may well say that the oppressions and cruelties of the prelates are enough to drive a wise man mad,” said Gabriel. “But surely he may yet be saved? My father has brought many back to health that other physicians despaired of.”
“’Tis over-late,” said Waghorn, bitterly; “he lies sick of a wasting fever, and his limbs are stiff and useless with rheumatism. Yet his end may perchance be eased by a skilled physician.”
At that moment Dr. Harford came out from the vicarage, and Peter Waghorn, anxious to lose no more time, hastened forward to meet him. In close conversation they walked down the village street, and Gabriel returned to his place on the steps of the cross.