CHAPTER XXV.
“Whatever harmonies of law
The growing world assume,
Thy work is Thine. The single note
From that deep chord which Hampden smote
Will vibrate to the doom.”
—Tennyson.
By the time they approached Magdalene Bridge the twilight had faded into darkness, but the stars shone brightly in the frosty atmosphere, and the snowy ground glimmered white through the pervading gloom. Some temporary fortifications, not of a very effective order, had lately been made to protect the bridge, and a strict guard was kept. It was the endeavour to pass through at this late hour of the afternoon which was like to prove their greatest peril.
More than once Humphrey Neal looked with anxiety at his two companions. From Sandy nothing but a dog-like obedience could be expected; and it seemed to him that Gabriel’s overbright eyes and feverishly flushed face told their own tale. The lieutenant, whose fortitude and intrepid courage had carried him in a masterly fashion through the escape from the Castle, stood now on the verge of utter collapse. Clearly it rested with him to take the initiative and to pioneer the others through this dangerous attempt to pass the sentries.
“Sing a snatch of some carol as we walk,” he suggested.
And Gabriel obeyed, chanting, to a tune he had known all his life, the words:
“The God of love doth give His Son,
The Prince of Peace, to quell
The sin and strife that mar man’s life;
With us He deigns to dwell.
On earth be peace,
Bid strife to cease,
To all men show goodwill.”
By this time they had reached the first sentry.
“Halt, there!” said the man. “None leaves the city after sunset.”
“Good master sentry, let us pass; the sun hath set but an hour, and we be bound to reach Cowley by supper-time,” said Humphrey in his countryman’s drawl.
The sentry summoned one of the guard.
“Leave the city!” said the burly fellow, with a laugh. “You’re too late, my man.”
“We should ha’ been here sooner, sir,” said Humphrey, “but we had to sing in the quad at Merton to Her Majesty. You’ll never be denying us when we tell you that we’ve been carol-singing to the King and Queen.”
“Well, well, you seem a harmless fellow, but I don’t remember your coming into the city.”
“I came in yesterday, sir; and for the love o’ heaven let us pass through now to the Cowley road, for it be cruel cold here, and we have but this night to earn a few coins by our minstrelsy.”
“Well, go through with you, then,” said the guard, carelessly, “and you may thank your stars that it be Christmas night, or I’d not have let you by.”
“God bless you, sir, for a good Christian,” said Humphrey, touching his hat. “Come, mates, we’ll e’en give them a tune as we go.”
Then raising the lute he sounded the refrain of the Bosbury carol, and they passed out of Oxford singing the old familiar words which for one of them had so many memories. Once Gabriel glanced back to the bridge, and the dim outline of the towers and spires of the beautiful city, with its lights shining out here and there like glowworms; and most fervently did he hope never again to enter the place where he had suffered such torments.
For some minutes they walked rapidly on, but when at length they were out of earshot the sense of their good fortune in escaping thus far successfully made them forget everything in a rapturous sense of relief. They laughed and shouted like schoolboys released from work, and it was as much as Sandy could do to keep pace with them.
“No more gruesome thoughts of racks and halters!” said Humphrey. “And for you no more months of slow starvation in that fever den. Farewell, a long farewell to Aaron and his rod!”
“I wonder if by now he has recovered his senses,” said Gabriel. “’Tis more like that our rope has been discovered by the guard and the escape found out in that fashion—I wish we could have brought it off with us.”
“We will press on as fast as may be for fear of pursuit,” said Humphrey. “There’s a house I know at Cowley where we can get food. ’Tis owned by an old retainer of ours who can be trusted.”
They toiled on as fast as might be over the rough road, with its treacherous ruts frozen hard, and all were thankful enough when they saw the outline of St. Bartholomew’s leper-house looming into sight, for the frosty air and the exercise had sharpened their appetites.
Old Nicholas, the farmer, gladly gave them food, and they were sitting in his chimney-corner feasting on cakes and hot ale, when to their dismay the tramp of horses and the voices of men without made them fear that already they were pursued.
“Never heed, Master Humphrey,” said old Nicholas. “I’ll put them on the wrong track, and do you all step up the stairs behind yon door, for maybe they’ll be thrusting their heads into the house place.”
They obeyed their host, and Humphrey, knowing well that he was a shrewd old man, had faith in his discretion. The others heard in no small trepidation the tramp of feet on the flagged path leading to the door; then came a peremptory knock.
Nicholas opened promptly enough, anxious to keep his questioners in a good temper.
“Have you seen aught of three carol singers here?” asked a voice which clearly reached the fugitives on the staircase.
“Bellringers did you say?” asked Nicholas, feigning deafness. “Up at the inn, sir, supping at the inn.”
“Three carol singers,” shouted the man.
“Oh! to be sure,” nodded Nicholas. “Yes, sir, and one of them had a lute, oh! yes to be sure, I saw them a while ago, and they was singing like archangels.”
“Which way did they take?” shouted the pursuer. “Are they like to be at the inn?”
“No, sir, not at the inn,” said Nicholas, shaking his head vigorously.
“Which way did they go?”
Nicholas stepped out into the garden and pointed and gesticulated with much energy.
“Where does that lead to?” questioned the officer.
“Where does it lead to?” repeated Nicholas, as though not quite sure that he had heard aright. “It leads to Thame, sir, you’ll soon get there; Thame the market town.”
“Oh, they have taken the road there, have they. The villains have escaped from Oxford Castle and one of them is a spy. Now then, my boys, set spurs to your horses, we shall soon run the quarry to earth, and the first that comes up with them shall have the hanging of the vile rebels. Keep to the left and press on.”
The sound of the horses’ hoofs died away in the distance; then Nicholas returned to the house place, and the three hunted men came out of hiding.
“That was a close shave, Nicholas,” said Humphrey Neal, shaking the old man’s hand gratefully. “Thanks to your ready wit we are safe, but we must press forward without delay or these wolves will be the death of us yet.”
“Where do you escape to, sir?” asked Nicholas.
“To London,” said Gabriel. “There will be a warm welcome for Mr. Neal at Notting Hill Manor, the home of my grand dame. ’Tis thanks to him I have escaped.”
“Thanks to your own courage,” said Humphrey. “But we will hasten on, Nicholas, without delay, and at Watlington I will get old Parslow to speed us on our journey.”
Nicholas with many good wishes bade them farewell, and, taking the precaution of leaving the road, they went across country, shortening the distance and running less risk of capture.
“I have hunted so often in this part of the country that I know every inch of the ground,” said Humphrey, as he pioneered his two companions across the snowy fields and frozen brooks. “’Tis not so pleasant a matter, though, to be hunted oneself, especially on foot. Perhaps at Watlington we can get a mount from Parslow, he is the landlord of the ‘Hare and Hounds,’ and I’ve known him all my life.”
The bitter wind blew in their faces as they toiled on; and, at length, Sandy began to whimper that he could go no farther. They tried their utmost to cheer the lad.
“We shall soon be at Watlington,” said Humphrey, “and I’ll get Parslow to give you a berth as stable boy; you shall be as happy as a King, and maybe happier, with plenty to eat and a motherly old cook who’ll see you’re not bullied. Oh! you’ll think yourself in paradise after the life you’ve led with Aaron.”
Sandy grinned placidly, but soon remarked again that he was “cruel footsore.”
“This is Chalgrove field, where Colonel Hampden got his death wound,” said Humphrey, and Gabriel looked over the snowy ground, gleaming white in the starlight, and tried to think how it had looked on that fatal day when a deadly fight had been fought, and the waving corn had been trampled underfoot and dyed crimson with the blood of the noblest of Englishmen.
By this time the excitement which had carried him on had subsided, and though he said nothing, it was evident to Humphrey that only dogged resolution and an indomitable will enabled him to drag one foot after the other. But he came of a stock that was not easily daunted, and it was not till they reached the “Hare and Hounds” at Watlington that he would admit that he was dead beat.
“Come round to the back entrance,” said Humphrey. “I’ll get a word with old Mogg the cook.”
Softly lifting the latch, he took them into the kitchen of the inn, where an old crone, with a most good-natured face, sat alone by the fire.
“Mogg,” said Humphrey, stealing across the room, “a happy Christmas to you, and of your charity take us into hiding, for we stand in peril of our lives.”
“Larka mercy, Master Humphrey, how you do startle a body,” exclaimed the old woman, beaming with pleasure at the sight of one she had known from babyhood. “What’s amiss with yonder gentleman? Methinks he is but ill-fitted for travelling. ’Tis in bed you should be, sir, with a good sack posset and warm blankets.”
“In truth, ’tis where I would fain be,” said Gabriel, dropping on to the nearest bench. “Yet I would crave leave to have a wash first.”
Sandy stared at him, that anyone should actually wish to be clean on this cold winter’s night seemed to him the most extraordinary thing he had ever heard.
“Ay, Mogg, the brutes have treated my friend most scurvily,” said Humphrey; “do you furnish him with one of your master’s shirts and a pair of hose, and look well to him, for he’s worn out and half-starved. But first take me to the master’s room and let me have speech of him in private, for we will keep our coming quiet if possible.”
Parslow, the landlord, who had known Squire Neal, of Chinnor, for many years, gladly undertook to help Humphrey, and Sandy was promised work in the stableyard on the understanding that the two gentlemen he had helped so greatly should start him in life with money for his outfit. By nine o’clock, thanks to Mogg’s kindly offices, Gabriel found himself in a state of drowsy cleanliness and comfort in a great four-post bed, and when Parslow ushered his friend into the room and stayed for awhile chatting he was too blissfully sleepy to open his eyes.
“Then, should there be any signs of pursuit, you will let us know,” said Humphrey, setting down his candle and pulling off his boots. “Meanwhile we’ll sleep.”
“’Tis the bed on which Colonel Hampden lay the night before Chalgrove fight,” said Parslow. “Well do I remember it.”
“And I’ve good cause to remember it, too, Robin, for ’twas the very night Prince Rupert’s men set our house ablaze and brought us to ruin. Well, good-night to you, and many thanks for your aid. We will be up by four, and, as you suggest, go with Jock the carrier to Henley. Once out of Oxfordshire we shall be safe. My friend sleeps already I see. Poor fellow, after lying for months on bare boards, I’ll warrant he thinks himself in clover.”
They slept soundly for some three hours, then Humphrey was roused by hearing a peremptory knocking without. He started up in bed and listened; someone was going downstairs to the front entrance, and again a thundering knock descended on the door.
Stealing across to the window, he looked cautiously down and descried the dark forms of four or five horsemen—there were sounds of unbolting the door, and then the question he had expected: “Have you seen a party of minstrels from Oxford pass through here?”
“No, sir,” said the landlord, with truth.
“Curse the fellows! How can we have missed them? Do you and a couple of men ride on, sergeant, you may yet overtake them on the London-road. Everton, you and I will get some food and a few hours’ sleep here.”
“I can give you food, gentlemen, but being Christmas night we are fuller than usual,” said Parslow.
“Oh, anything will do,” said the officer, dismounting. “Everton, see the horses fed and stabled while the landlord makes ready for us, it will be the quickest way in the end.” Humphrey whistled softly to himself, dismayed to think of the risk they now ran of being trapped. The notion of being taken in bed and being dragged back to Oxford to be hung was not to be borne. He groped in the dark for his clothes and hastily dressed. His companion still slept, though uneasily, now and again talking and moaning in a way which alarmed Humphrey, who thought it highly probable that the new fever had already attacked him.
Presently there was a soft knock at the door and the latch was lifted by the landlord, who stole in cautiously, candle in hand.
“Sir,” said Parslow, “you are not safe here. I’ve left the King’s officers down below supping, and have promised to make a room ready for them. I will put them in here if we can safely manage to take the two of you down to the stableyard. Once there I can hide you among the sacks in the carrier’s cart, and will rouse Jock when the officers are abed and bid him drive you with all speed to Henley.”
“’Tis our only hope,” said Humphrey; “yet I don’t know but my friend is too ill to travel. Look at him.”
In truth the sleeper’s flushed face and burning hands were not reassuring, but they were obliged to rouse him and try to explain matters.
He started up, staring at them in a dazed, bewildered way.
“We are within an ace of being caught,” whispered Humphrey. “Don your clothes with all speed and the landlord will help us to escape.”
With an effort Gabriel forced himself to attend, though it seemed to him that a couple of sledge-hammers were pounding remorselessly on his brain. He began to dress without a word, but staggered and all but fell when he attempted to cross the room. Humphrey took him by the arm.
“What of Sandy?” he asked. “Let us leave the money for him.”
“To be sure,” said Humphrey, placing some gold pieces in the landlord’s hand. “I know you’ll have the poor fellow provided for, Robin, and for your help to us you shall be well recompensed. We’ll follow you on tiptoe without more delay.”
The landlord had hurriedly re-arranged the bed, and now, candle in hand, crept down the stairs, pausing once or twice to make sure that the officers from Oxford were still chatting over their supper. Humphrey was relieved to see that the sense of danger had for the time restored Gabriel. With admirable selfcontrol he rallied his failing powers, stole softly after the landlord, and left the inn by the back door at which they had made their entrance a few hours earlier. In the stableyard stood a carrier’s cart piled up with sacks of corn. Into this the two fugitives climbed, the landlord arranging the sacks round them and covering the whole with a bit of sail-cloth.
“You lie there, gentlemen, and you’ll be safe enough,” he said, “and when the officers are abed I’ll rouse Jock and bid him put in the horses and drive to Henley.”
The waiting seemed endless, but at last they heard cautious steps approaching and whispered remarks between Parslow and Jock, and finally there came the grinding of the wheels and a shaking and jarring of the cart which made Gabriel feel as if his last hour was come. He gasped for breath; to move was impossible, for the corn sacks were piled on every side, and on the top of them.
“I can never endure twelve miles of this—we shall be here for hours,” he reflected, desperately.
But just then, as the cart rumbled out of the yard and passed into the street, there were sounds of a window being thrust open, and a man’s voice shouted out.
“Ho! there! Which way are you going?”
The fugitives held their breath to listen; clearly their pursuers had heard the sounds of departure—were they even at this last moment to fall into the hands of their captors?
“Why, what a fool I was,” reflected Gabriel. “I could endure for days in this carrier’s cart if needful. Anything—anything rather than to be again a prisoner in Oxford Castle!” Meanwhile Jock was conveniently deaf, and drove placidly along the snowy street.
“Stop, you fellow,” roared the officer. “Which way do you go, and what’s your errand?”
Jock drew up, swearing vehemently.
“Where be I a-goin?” he shouted, in a surly voice. “To Henley with a load of corn.”
And to the horror of the fugitives he got down from his place and began in a leisurely way to alter something in the harness, lugubriously singing meanwhile a snatch of a tune which Gabriel thought would ring in his ears for ever.
The cramp is in my purse full sore,
No money will bide therein—a,
And if I had some salve therefore,
O lightly then would I sing—a.
The officer at the window above burst into a laugh.
“In truth a shrewd fellow!—here’s a groat to mend the purse, and if on the road you come upon three soldiers bid them wait on me here as they return, and fail not to tell them if you have clapped eyes on any of these cursed wandering minstrels.-”
The window was closed, and with a cheery word to the horses Jock climbed back to his place. They heard him chuckle to himself as he resumed the reins, and soon the cart had rumbled out of Watlington and was rolling and swaying and grinding its way among the frozen ruts.
“How do you fare?” said Humphrey, anxiously.
“I shall last out,” said Gabriel, philosophically. “’Tis better than a halter anyway. Is the driver trustworthy?”
“Yes, an honest old man, he’ll stand by us, I know him well. But I thought that fellow at the window smelt a rat and would stop us at the last moment. Heavens! How this road doth churn one up! we shall be knocked black and blue by the time we have got to the end of the journey.”
Gabriel was past speaking. He could only lie there in torment, half fancying that he had been sentenced to be pressed to death, so increasingly intolerable grew the weight of the corn-sacks above him. The only relief was from a chink between the sacks which chanced to come just where a rent in the sail-cloth let through a breath of air, and now and then as the cart swayed brought into view a starry patch of the dark blue vault above. He wondered what Hilary would have thought could she know of his dilemma; and then with a rush of hope and a renewed sense of life and strength, he remembered that freedom meant at least the possibility of seeing her again. And spite of his present misery he smiled to himself, and even perceived the humour of Jock’s song about the cramp in his purse, with the monotonous chorus of
Ay ho, the cramp—a! ay ho, the cramp—a!
They must have travelled some eight or nine miles when the sound of horsemen in the distance roused him to fresh anxiety. Doubtless the soldiers, finding their errand at Henley hopeless, were riding back. Now was the time when Jock’s fidelity and ready wit would be put to the test. There was a breathless pause; the groaning of the wheels slowly ceased and a harsh voice rang out into the night.
“Stand, in the King’s name!” shouted the sergeant, while his men seized the horses. Instinctively Humphrey gripped the hand of his sick comrade. The two lay listening in an agony of suspense to hear what questions would be put.
CHAPTER XXVI.
May heaven ne’er trust my friend with happiness
Till it has taught him how to bear it well
By previous pain.
—Young.
Good Lord, deliver us!” ejaculated Jock. “I’m right glad to see ye wearing red ribbons, for in truth I took ye for highwaymen.”
“What are you doing in the King’s highway at this hour of the night?” said the sergeant, whose temper had not been improved by the ill-success of his errand.
“Why, sir, as you see, I be a carrier, and be a-drivin’ my cart to Henley, same as I’ve done this many a year.”
“What’s in the cart?”
“Corn, sir, an’t please you,” said Jock, with humility.
“Why, yes, it pleases me very well,” said the sergeant, grimly. “The corn, I take it, is going by barge to London, eh?”
“Why, that’s a fact, sir, it be,” said Jock, scratching his head thoughtfully, and sorely perplexed as to what he could do.
“Then you can just turn about, my good man, and drive it to Oxford; our granaries are none too full, and we’ll store it in them instead. I annex that corn in the King’s name.”
The blood ran cold in the fugitives’ veins; they listened intently to Jock’s pleading voice.
“Oh! sir! for heaven’s sake don’t do that,” he cried. “I’m a ruined man if you take the corn, for I be answerable for it to the owner. And I’ve other orders for carting back from Henley. Have mercy, sir, on a poor old carrier that’s old enough to be your grandsire.”
“Curse you, I say we need the corn in Oxford; why should it go to feed those rebel dogs in London?”
“Why, now I think of it,” said Jock, “you must be the very man I’ve a message for. Doth not your officer lie at Watlington?”
“Ay! what of him?”
“Well, sir, he bade me tell you to wait on him at the ‘Hare and Hounds’ as you returned, and if so be I clapped eyes on some wandering minstrels I was to tell ye.”
“Why, yes, to be sure; have you come across them?” said the sergeant eagerly.
“Well, sir, I did hear a man a-singin’ as he journeyed along the road a matter O’ five miles from here, singin’ a ballad, he was, about the cramp in his purse.”
“Well, well; and was he alone?”
“Nay, I think there was a couple o’ men with him, but I only heard the one a-singin’,” said Jock, his honest face boldly confronting his questioner.
“Five miles back! then we shall soon come up with them. Since you have told us this I’ll not force you to drive back to Oxford with your load, but my men shall take a couple of sacks before them on their saddles as toll.”
Jock grumbled, and the prisoners shuddered, for now, indeed, they feared discovery was certain. But the carrier was equal to the emergency. He folded back a bit of the sailcloth and handed his whip and reins to the sergeant.
“I’ll ask you to hold them, sir, for I need both my hands; if the wind once gets hold of this plaguey cloth, there’ll be the devil to pay.”
With that he cautiously dragged out first one sack and then a second, tucking the cloth carefully round the remainder. As the cold wind blew upon the fugitives a violent shivering fit seized Gabriel; his teeth chattered, and it was all he could do to stifle the cough which threatened to choke him. Nothing but the strong instinct of self-preservation carried him through the agony of the struggle. But at length came the welcome sound of the departure of the soldiers, and Jock, with a cheery word to his horses, drove on.
“That was a narrow escape,” muttered Humphrey, “but I shall not feel safe till the barge is under weigh.”
Another hour brought them to their destination, and Jock drew up at the wharf, and told them he would seek out the bargee and get him to start with as little delay as possible.
“You are worth your weight in gold, man,” said Humphrey, when the carrier returned with a couple of men to unload the cart. “Had it not been for your ready wit, we should now be on our way back to Oxford Castle.”
“Eh, Master Humphrey, I’d gladly do more than that for your father’s son. But have a care of your friend, sir, for I think he be sore spent.”
Glancing at Gabriel by the light of the carrier’s lantern on that dark winter morning, Humphrey saw that Jock was right. And all through the long, weary hours on the barge, only sheltered from the piercing wind by the sacks of corn and a load of wood which was already stacked up on board, he watched over his companion, feeling very doubtful whether he would survive to the end of the journey.
It was quite late in the afternoon when the bargee set them down at Chiswick, and after much trouble Humphrey succeeded in getting his friend borne to Notting Hill. Gabriel was by this time quite indifferent to all that passed, and it was only when they actually reached the Manor that he roused himself to speak to the astonished butler who appeared in answer to Humphrey’s knock at the front door.
“Is your mistress within? If so, tell her I have made my escape from Oxford and would fain speak with her,” he said.
“Let me help you, sir,” said the man, shocked to note the change which the war had made in one he had seen a little more than a year ago in full health and vigour. “An’ you’ll rest in this room for a while I’ll go and prepare my mistress. Beg pardon, Mistress Helena, I did not know you were here.”
Humphrey, as he helped his friend into the room, saw a little fair-haired maiden whose heavy mourning robe only enhanced the delicate beauty of her face. Her blue eyes lighted up joyously at the sight of Gabriel.
“Oh! Mr. Harford, have you indeed got your exchange at length?” she exclaimed, greeting him with an eagerness and warmth that instantly sent a jealous pang to Humphrey’s heart. “We Legan almost to despair of getting you released.”
“Don’t come too near me,” said Gabriel, “for I have the new fever on me, an’ I mistake not.”
“Then I am well-fitted to nurse you,” she said, gaily, “seeing that I myself had it last September. Here comes my godmother to welcome you.”
Madam Harford’s greeting was almost wordless, but in her smile, and in the clasp of her strong hand, there was a world of expression.
“Thanks to my friend and fellow-prisoner, Mr. Humphrey Neal, we have contrived to escape, madam,” said Gabriel. “He will tell you of our adventures, but in truth I am scarce fit to ask your hospitality.”
“Nonsense, lad,” said Madam Harford, promptly silencing him. “To whom should you come but your grand-dame! Why, you are little more than a skeleton, and in a burning fever! Helena, my child, go and see that the fires are lighted in the blue-room, and in the turret-chamber, and bid Mrs. Malony wait on me at once.”
Helena needed no second bidding, but flew off in the best of spirits to prepare all things for the comfort of her knight-errant. But her midsummer dream, nevertheless, came to a sudden end that very night.
Cousin Malvina, an excellent nurse, had been left in charge of the patient while the others supped, but later on Madam Harford and Helena relieved guard. They found that Gabriel already slept, and the old lady, taking Cousin Malvina’s chair by the bed, bade Helena in a whisper to set the room in order.
Little Mistress Nell stole gently across to the fireplace, and began to fold the clothes which lay in a heap on the floor; then her eye happened to fall on a belt evidently containing money, which, with a small shagreen case, lay on the mantelshelf. Opening a drawer she stowed these safely away, and only then perceived that under the case lay the miniature of a darkeyed girl, whose radiant beauty filled her with admiration.
For a moment she could think of nothing but the loveliness of the picture. But very soon, with a start, she awoke from her dream to find herself in a cold and lonely world. Her knight-errant had a lady-love of his own, and the marriage her father had hoped for would assuredly never come about.
Taking up the miniature she laid it gently in the drawer beside the belt and the shagreen case, and, turning the key, drew it from the lock and handed it to Madam Harford.
“I have locked up some money and private things of Mr. Harford’s,” she whispered.
Madam Harford, whose quick eyes instantly detected a change in the girl, sent her on some errand, and then looked to see what the said private things consisted of. Although she had never heard of Hilary’s existence, she gave a shrewd little nod as she caught sight of the miniature.
“If the lad loves that maid,” she thought to herself, “he’ll never do for a husband for my sweet little god-daughter. We must seek a match elsewhere.”
But, in truth, for many days it seemed doubtful whether Gabriel would live to wed any one, and the Manor was pervaded by an atmosphere of gloom and of deep anxiety, which did not help poor Helena to rise above her troubles.
Humphrey Neal, who had been pressed to stay by his kindly hostess, watched the girl with much more sympathy and comprehension than she guessed. He listened to her account of the way in which Gabriel and Captain Heyworth had rescued her in the spring; he told all the details of their escape from Oxford, and often succeeded in persuading her to walk in the grounds of the Manor.
One day it happened that they were walking together in the garden when they saw a coach, drawn by two powerful black horses, approaching the house.
“That must be Sir Theodore Mayerne, the great physician,” said Helena in an awestruck voice. “Madam Harford wrote begging him to come, but she feared he would not be willing to make the journey, for he seldom goes to any, being very corpulent and unwieldy.”
“‘If the mountain cannot come to Mahomet, Mahomet must go to the mountain,’” quoted Humphrey with a laugh. “Let us watch the great man dismount. In truth, report was right; he is a very Falstaff, and can scarce pass the door of his own coach.”
“But they say he is the greatest physician living,” said Helena. “If any one can save Mr. Harford’s life he is the man.”
“Madam Harford hopes that his own father, a noted physician of Hereford, will be here ere long,” said Humphrey. “She sent a messenger for him the very morning after our arrival. They would have done much better, in my opinion, if they had sent for this ‘Hilary’ he is ever calling for in his delirium—his brother, it may be.”
Helena blushed crimson.
“Nay, he hath but one brother—a mere child, named Brid-stock.”
“Ah! and now I think of it,” resumed Humphrey, “Hilary is a name that may be borne by either sex. Perchance he calls for the lady on whom his heart is set.”
“In truth I think he doth,” said little Nell, commanding her voice with an effort.
Humphrey walked for some paces in silence. He longed to make love to this little fair-haired maiden, with her pathetic eyes and her dainty air of womanly dignity and reserve, which somehow was scarcely in keeping with her girlish face and tiny figure. But he understood her well enough to hold his tongue for the present, treating her only with deference, and waiting upon her sedulously in a way which she soon learned to like.
They had just returned to the house when the physician’s voice was heard on the stairs talking to Madam Harford. Helena hastily retreated into the nearest room, but Humphrey, anxious to hear the latest report of his friend, lingered in the hall, and Madam Harford presented him to Sir Theodore Mayerne.
“This is Mr. Neal, who helped my grandson in his escape from Oxford,” she said.
“I wish the escape could have been made a couple of months sooner,” said the physician, glancing keenly at Humphrey. “The patient is worn out by want of food and air, and hath no strength left to fight this fever.”
“They told me in the prison that he did well enough till the last six weeks,” said Humphrey, “and that it was nursing those that fell sick of the fever that were him out. He went by the name of ‘doctor’ among them, and they told me that he saved several lives.”
“Brave fellow! I will do my utmost for him,” said the physician. “Let them try, madam, the remedies I have prescribed, and to-morrow I will see him again.”
With that he bowed himself out, leaving Madam Harford grateful for such an unusual concession, yet knowing well that it pointed to the gravity of the crisis.
All through the anxious days that followed, while Gabriel hung between life and death, subtle links were slowly forging themselves between the watchers at the Manor House. Instinctively they turned to those of their own generation for solace. Madam Harford found comfort in long confidential talks with Mistress Malvina, and Helena thought the only endurable hours of the day were those in which Humphrey Neal walked with her in the grounds. He was much in the sick room, but when released he invariably sought out little Mistress Nell, and with Lassie the retriever to act as duenna they would take a brisk walk, sometimes going to the village of Paddington, or visiting Kensington gravel pits, or now and then wandering as far as Hyde-park.
During those days Helena heard of the quiet times before the war, when the old house at Chinnor had been one of the happiest homes in England, and Humphrey, the only son of the house, had thought of little but hawking and hunting and fishing. His father, like many another squire, had taken neither side in the great dispute of the day, both parties had seemed to him in the wrong, and, as he truly said, he had not the knowledge to fit him to make choice betwixt them.
Helena heard now with indignation of Prince Rupert’s wanton cruelty in burning the entire village of Chinnor, and shed tears over Humphrey’s pitiful account of the way in which his parents both of them old and infirm, had been forced to fly from their burning house in the middle of the night. They had never recovered from the shock and from the ruin of the old family home. And Helena understood how much sadness was hidden beneath Humphrey’s cheerful manner, and knew that he assumed an air of light-hearted carelessness as a man dons a coat of mail in troubled times.
Another subject on which they liked to talk was of his kinsfolk at Katterham, and their mutual admiration of Sir Robert Neal’s granddaughter Clemency, now happily wedded to Captain Heyworth, proved a great bond of union. Humphrey was pleased and yet surprised to hear the girl’s warm tribute to Clemency’s charms, having the notion common to many men that one woman always tries to detract from another’s merits. He therefore set down Nell’s glowing words entirely to her credit, and thought they denoted a generosity altogether unique. In fact, day by day, he fell deeper and deeper in love with the god-daughter of his hostess, and Madam Harford watched the process contentedly, and left the two unmolested, hoping that Helena’s heart would be caught in the rebound.
But there came a day in January when the struggle to hold death at bay in the sick room absorbed every one’s thoughts. Sir Theodore, who took a special interest in the young lieutenant, had been for more than an hour at his bedside, and Helena had gathered that he had not much hope, when, about four o’clock, Madam Harford came downstairs to give some order to one of the servants.
“Yet I know the family constitution better even than this wise physician,” said the resolute old lady. “In all things the Harfords show wonderful tenacity, and I do not yet despair.”
“There is a horseman galloping up the avenue, ma’am,” said Helena, glancing from the window. “Could it be his father?” A gleam of joy and relief lit up the strong face of Madam Alice Harford; she walked firmly to the front door, regardless of custom, and quite ignoring the bitter cold, peered eagerly out into the twilight.
“My son,” she cried. “Now, indeed, shall we have good hope. He still lives, Bridstock—I can’t say more than that.”
“Thank God that I am in time to see him,” said the doctor, stooping to greet his mother with tender reverence. “Nay, in truth, ma’am, I fear to see you at the door in this nipping frost; come to the fire and tell me of Gabriel.”
“He is at death’s door with the new fever, and is terribly weakened by want of food all these months, and the poisonous air of his gaol. Sir Theodore Mayerne would have more hope were it not for his exhaustion; but, indeed, I still trust in his youth and his sound constitution.”
“Let me go to him now without delay,” said the doctor, and with a heavy heart he was led to the silent room above, where lay the son he had parted from in the spring, so wasted by starvation and suffering that his own father could scarcely recognise him. Gabriel was unconscious, and Dr. Mayerne was administering a strong stimulant, in the hope of fighting off death a little longer. He greeted Dr. Harford with kindly sympathy.
“Try if your voice will rouse him,” he said. “But I fear the pulse is failing.”
Dr. Harford knelt down by the bed and bent low over the dying man.
“Gabriel,” he sard, “I have reached you at last. Look up, my son.”
In terrible suspense they watched the eyelids quiver and slowly open; there was amazed recognition in the hazel eyes.
“Father,” he whispered, “you here in prison?”
“Here with you at Notting Hill Manor,” said the doctor. “Try to swallow this—it will strengthen you.”
Gabriel obeyed dreamily, glancing in some surprise at the portly form of Sir Theodore Mayerne, which certainly bore not the remotest likeness to any of the lean inhabitants of Oxford Castle. He began to grasp the idea that his father had journeyed from Hereford, and his lips framed the word, “Hilary!”
“She is well,” said Dr. Harford, quietly. “On my way here I saw her at Whitbourne, where she was keeping Christmas with the Bishop. She was grieved to hear of your sufferings, and hopes you will soon recover.”
A look of content came into the eager eyes. Gabriel asked no further questions, but lay in a state of dreamy peace. If Hilary hoped for his recovery, why then the worst of his suffering was over. His hold on life grew strong once more, and he fell into a profound sleep.
“I have hopes of him now,” whispered Sir Theodore, “tomorrow I will visit him again,” and he stole out of the room with a quietness which seemed magical in a man of such bulk.