CHAPTER XLI.
“Yet since that loving Lord
Commanded us to love them for His sake,
Even for His sake, and for his sacred Word,
Which in His last bequest He to us spake,
We should them love, and with their needs partake;
Knowing that, whatsoe’er to them we give,
We give to Him by Whom we all doe live.”
—Spenser.
There was no more skipping that day for Nan and Meg; frightened out of their senses, they made their way home, and were just crossing the stable-yard when their father caught sight of them.
“I have stabled that bay horse as Vicar said,” he remarked, “and do you two little maids keep a still tongue in your heads or we may get into trouble. Why, what’s amiss with you both?”
“Oh, father,” said Nan, sobbing, “our wounded Puritan is going to fight the officer from Canon Frome, who is in the orchard threatening Mistress Hilary.”
“I’ll teach un to mind his manners in my orchard!” said Farmer Chadd, hastily picking up a stout cudgel. “Threatening did you say? and the lady there with no better protection than a wounded soldier! Good Lord! but these evil living Cavaliers will be the ruin o’ the land! Run in to your mother, my maids, and say I’ll be back soon for dinner.”
Just as he reached the orchard by one entrance the Vicar and Zachary entered at the opposite side, and all three men gazed in horror at the sight before them. The Governor of Canon Frome was stretched out on the grass, bleeding and unconscious, and Gabriel Harford, to all appearance lifeless, lay with his head on Hilary’s lap.
The Vicar bent over him and felt his heart.
“He still lives! but how can he possibly have fought Colonel Norton when in such a plight?”
“It was to save me, sir,” said Hilary. “Oh! let us take him quickly to shelter before it is too late.”
“There’s life in this plaguey Governor o’ Canon Frome, sir,” said Farmer Chadd, “What be we to do with un?”
“If you and your wife could bind up his wound; the best way would be to take word to his men, and get them to bear him hence on a litter. Could you do that, Chadd, and say naught as to Captain Harford? He is the son of Dr. Bridstock Harford, of Hereford.”
“Then I’ll do anything in the world for un, for Dr. Harford saved my good woman’s life,” said Farmer Chadd. “You shelter the young gentleman, sir, and me and the missus will see to this here plaguey Colonel.”
With Zachary’s help the Vicar lifted Gabriel on to the bier which they had brought from the church, and carefully covering him with sacking they bore him down through the hopyards to Bosbury. Fortunately, it was the dinner-hour, and they did not encounter a single person, but were able to cress the churchyard and to carry their burden up the step-ladder to the first floor of the tower. Here they found Mrs. Durdle hard at work; she had already laid a mattress on the floor, and was bustling about with a broom in despair at the dust and the cobwebs which had accumulated.
“I do wish I had time to scrub the place down, sir,” she lamented. “It bean’t fit for a dog to lay in, let alone a Christian.”
“Never mind,” said the Vicar, “I’ll warrant ’tis cleaner than Oxford Castle, and the main thing is to hide him and save his life. Zachary, can you fix boards in three of the windows, or at night the villagers may see our light?”
Leaving the wounded man to the kindly offices of Mrs. Durdle and Hilary, both of them well skilled in sick-nursing, the Vicar hastened back to his house, returning before long with a box full of pre-historic bones under one arm and a flagon of Hollands under the other.
“If anyone chances to ask you why we come to and fro to this tower, Zachary,” he remarked, toiling up the ladder and setting down his burden, “you can tell them I am keeping my antiquities here, and can say you’ve seen them. What! hath Captain Harford not yet regained his senses? Try to get a little of this down his throat, Hilary. That’s better; he will soon revive, and I will then set off for Hereford.”
The last word seemed to reach Gabriel. He opened his eyes for a moment and caught a misty glimpse of Dr. Coke and Hilary with a rough stone tower wall and a deeply splayed narrow window in the background. Was he once more a prisoner in St. George’s Tower at Oxford? The horror of the thought roused him. Then he noticed that he was lying in a bed on the floor, and that they had removed his buff coat, a perception which vaguely troubled him. ..
“My coat?” he said, anxiously, yet still not knowing why he wanted it.
“Are you cold,” said Hilary, spreading another blanket over him. But the Vicar understood, and fetched the buff coat from the corner where Durdle had thrown it.
“The inner pocket is here,” he said, placing it within reach of Gabriel’s right hand. And then, with a look of relief, the wounded man drew out the despatches.
“Will you give them to my father?” he said, pleadingly,
“Yes,” replied the Vicar; “but I shall beg him to come here first and dress your wounds. Will you give them to him yourself?”
“He may not come in time,” said Gabriel, faintly.
And the Vicar, seeing that he longed to have the anxiety off his mind thrust the despatches into his black doublet, and bidding them keep the tower door locked, set off with Zachary to the stable, where the old servant saddled the cob for him, and, promising to be about the premises ready to give Mrs. Durdle help should she need him, watched his master ride off in the direction of Hereford.
Dr. Coke was not a man to shirk anything which he had promised, but he could not help feeling that in this despatchbearing he had undertaken work which he would have preferred to leave alone. To stand quite aloof from the strife and never to forget that he was before all things pledged to the service of the Prince of Peace had been his aim throughout the Civil War; but to refuse the request of one who lay apparently at the point of death, seemed to him impossible, while Gabriel’s gallant rescue of Hilary increased the desire he felt to give him whatever ease of mind was possible.
On reaching Hereford he rode straight to the physician’s house and, learnt from the servant that her master was about to ride out into the country. However, he was shown into the study.
“I will not detain you many minutes, sir,” he said, after the greetings had passed. “I know how precious time is to such a busy man.”
“Nay, ’tis not on an urgent matter of life and death that I am riding out this afternoon,” said Dr. Harford. “I had last night a letter from my son, who, it seems, is at Ledbury, and I hope to meet him.”
“Alas!” said the Vicar, “I bring you bad news of him. There was a sharp fight this morning at Ledbury, and your son is sorely wounded. We have hidden him from his pursuers in the tower at Bosbury, and he begged me to give you these despatches which he was bearing from Massey to Fairfax and Cromwell.”
Dr. Harford took the blood-stained packet, but for a minute could not speak. At length he asked further particulars as to Gabriel’s wounds, and when he, heard of the desperate ride across country and the duel with Colonel Norton, hope died out of his face. But, as usual, he was full of consideration for his visitor.
“I am inclined to think, sir,” he said, “that you have been hurrying to and fro in aid of my son and have not yet dined. I will bid them prepare a meal, and then, when your horse is rested and my arrangements for leaving home made, we might, an’ you will, ride together to Bosbury.”
The Vicar, being in truth extremely hungry after his arduous work, did not decline the offer of food, and was soon discussing a fat capon in the dining-room, while the doctor saw his wife and his assistant, made hasty arrangements for a week’s absence, and put into his bag such things as he thought likely to prove needful for Gabriel’s case.
His wife, only longing to go herself to Bosbury, watched the preparations with tearful eyes.
“I cannot bear to feel that the headstrong girl who is to blame for it all should have the nursing of him,” she sighed.
“Well, my dear, had you seen his face at Notting Hill when he was at death’s door, and I merely gave him her message, you would understand that Hilary Unett is the only woman in the world who has a chance of nursing him back to life. ’Tis hard, dear wife, but there comes a time when a man is bound to leave even his father and mother and cling to his——”
“Well,” said the poor mother, wiping her eyes, “she is not his wife yet, and if he dies, I for one shall account her his murderess.”
The physician stooped and kissed her tenderly.
“Keep up your heart,” he said, with assumed cheerfulness. “And I know that the kindly Vicar will bring you word how he fares, and if need arises fetch you to him. But if possible we must avoid that, since he cannot be safe when once his hiding-place hath been discovered. The Canon Frome garrison will know that he is not far off, and we may be sure will seek to lay hands on him.”
They were interrupted by little Bridstock, who came running into the room to show them a toy sword which the groom had made for him.
“At any rate, you shall never be a soldier,” said the mother, catching him up in her arms and kissing him. “And you can’t marry that headstrong maid!”
“I shall marry little Betty Brydges,” said the child, with decision, “and be Member of Parliament like Sir Robert Harley.”
The sublime confidence of his tone made the parents laugh.
“’Tis a great thing to know one’s own mind,” said the doctor, patting the child’s curly head. “We have had our troubles, but at any rate our two sons will not vex our souls by weak and unstable characters. There is grit in both of them.”
“I would we had the choosing of their wives,” said Mrs. Harford, ruefully.
“Yet you didn’t think that the best plan years ago,” replied Dr. Harford, with a mirthful glance.
And recalling their own extremely early and rash marriage, his wife could but smile and own that he was right.
Her heart relented a little towards Hilary, and when Dr. Coke told her from what peril Gabriel had that day rescued her, and spoke words of warm gratitude and praise as to her son’s courage and sterling character, her face brightened, and she watched the two riders mount their horses with a more hopeful spirit than might have been expected.
Yet could Dr. Harford have looked at that moment into the tower room where his son lay, he would certainly have taken his wife with him.
CHAPTER XLII.
“Ruined love, when it is built anew,
Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater.”
—Romeo and Juliet, Act I., Scene I.
As Hilary kept guard over her lover through those long hours of waiting, seeing the pain which she could do nothing to relieve, fearing, as she watched his failing strength, that the end was indeed drawing near, it seemed to her that the punishment of all her pride and perversity was falling on her with overwhelming force.
When conscious, he lay absolutely still, too much exhausted to speak, and when drifting back into a semi-conscious state his moans tore her heart, and filled her, moreover, with terror lest some villager crossing the churchyard should possibly hear the sound.
At last, when it was growing dusk, she heard horsemen on the road, and, after an interval, when doubtless the travellers were leaving their horses with Zachary in the stable-yard, came the welcome summons from below which had been agreed upon. Durdle clambered down the step-ladder and unbolted the door, and in another minute the Vicar and Dr. Harford made their way into the dim tower room.
Looking up into the physician’s strong, calm face, Hilary felt as if a load of care had been suddenly lifted from her shoulders. He greeted her with more than his usual cordiality, understanding well enough how sore her heart must be. Then he knelt down beside the mattress and looked with keen anxiety at his son.
“Will there be any risk in having a light?” he asked.
The Vicar thought not, and, producing a tinder-box, began to strike a flint and steel and to kindle the lantern that had been brought from the house.
Then when the light fell on the white face drawn with pain, the doctor regretted that he had not brought Gabriel’s mother, for not even at Notting Hill had he seemed so near death.
Hilary saw the change in his manner and her heart sank. Yet it comforted her a little when Dr. Harford proceeded to examine the shattered arm, for surely, she argued to herself, had there been no hope he would have left his son’s last moments undisturbed.
“I did the best I could for him in the orchard,” said the Vicar; “but fear it was but rough-and-ready treatment.”
“The duel would have been enough to defeat the most skilful surgery,” said the Doctor; “and clearly the bone must have been broken as he fell. But he hath great rallying power, and I don’t despair of him yet.”
On those words Hilary stayed her failing heart all through that terrible night, while Gabriel passed from one fainting fit to another, and it seemed as if the angel of death hovered above him ready at any moment to bear him away from her.
At length towards daybreak he slept for a time, and woke with a look of renewed life in his face which cheered them.
“The despatches?” he asked, looking from his father to the Vicar.
“Dr. Coke has given them to me,” said the physician.
“And you will bear them without delay?” said Gabriel, anxiously.
Dr. Harford’s face clouded.
“To leave you now may mean your death,” he replied. “I do not think I can leave you.”
“But I promised to guard them with my life, and they are urgent,” pleaded Gabriel. “Let me still serve.”
Hilary’s eyes grew dim, but she spoke in a low, steady voice.
“I will do all that you bid me, sir,” she said. “Surely good nursing may save him.”
“Well, my dear,” said the physician, “if anyone can keep him in life, I verily believe ’tis you; and if he urges me to go, I cannot say him nay.”
“You will see them both yourself,” said Gabriel.
“Ay, the despatches shall be placed in their own hands.”
“And tell General Cromwell,” said Gabriel, “that if I recover, I more than ever desire to serve the wounded.”
With many last directions, the physician at length tore himself away, well knowing that it was doubtful whether he should ever again look on his son.
The Vicar went to see him mount, glad that he should leave Bosbury before the village was astir, and as they quitted the tower Gabriel turned to Hilary with a look that made her heart bound.
“Now do you repay a hundredfold all the suffering of these years,” he said. “Living or dying, I am content.”
She bent down and kissed him tenderly. And long before the Vicar rejoined them he had sunk into a dreamless sleep.
Cheering himself with the old family motto, Dr. Harford rode with all speed to Windsor, where he was able to deliver the despatches to Sir Thomas Fairfax and to give him an account of Prince Rupert’s doings in Herefordshire. He found, however, that Cromwell had quitted Windsor, and, after taking Blechington House, was sweeping round Oxford, taking possession of all the draught horses in the neighbourhood, and thus disorganising the King’s plan of campaign by preventing Prince Maurice from removing the heavy guns from Oxford. It was not until the night of the 28th April that the physician was able to overtake him near Farringdon, as he was on his way to rejoin Fairfax, after defeating Sir Henry Vaughan at Bampton.
The troops had halted for a couple of hours beside the Lambourn, and the physician on asking to be taken to Cromwell, was conducted by a burly corporal to a pollard willow beside the stream. Here, with his armour removed, and a little gilt-edged volume in his hand, rested the tired leader, his back against the tree trunk, the expression of his face more that of a prophet than a soldier. Clearly what Massey would have termed the “Enoch” side of his character was now uppermost, and the “David” side no longer visible.
As the corporal mentioned the name of the physician, he promptly slipped the little volume into his pocket, and with a brief and not particularly ceremonious greeting, received from Dr. Harford’s hands the blood-stained despatches.
“Pray be seated, sir,” he said, resuming his place under the tree, with the fatigued air of one who has for many days known scant rest. Then without comment he broke the seal and hastily read Massey’s communication.
“You have done me a greater service than you know by bearing this,” he said, glancing up from the closely-written sheet.
“Sir, I am but my son’s ambassador,” said the physician. “He would have delivered the despatch himself, but was attacked and grievously wounded as he rode from Ledbury.”
Cromwell glanced at the blood-stained letter, which told its own tale.
“I remember Captain Harford well,” he said. “He did excellent work at Newbury, and again, two months ago, when we were in Wiltshire.”
“’Twas only through his great wish to serve you that I have consented to leave him in a risky hiding-place, and in grave peril of death from his wounds,” said the physician.
“Poor lad!” said Cromwell, his stern face softened to such tenderness as amazed Dr. Harford. “The moral courage of his nature is a thousandfold more needed in England than mere animal bravery. There is one of my troopers, Passey by name, who was his fellow prisoner in Oxford Castle, and he hath told me how no skilled physician could have shown a more tender care for the fever-stricken inmates.”
“Should he recover, he more than ever longs to serve the sick and wounded,” said Dr. Harford.
“Then in God’s name bid him do it,” cried Cromwell. “I urged him at Newbury to wait for clearer guidance, bidding him beware of men and to look up to the Lord, letting Him be free to speak and command in his heart, and without consulting flesh and blood to do valiantly for God and His people. And here, doubtless, in this pain he hath passed through, his guidance hath come.”
“Should I find him living on my return, I will repeat your words to him,” said Dr. Harford.
“God grant that he may be spared to you, sir,” said Cromwell. “I know too well what the loss of a first-born son means to the heart of a father. Look you, an’ it should chance that Parliament still desires to retain my services in the Army, let your son act as one of the mates to the surgeon of my troop, thus would he gain knowledge whilst still serving the Cause.”
Dr. Harford welcomed the suggestion, and anxious to lose no time on his return journey, took leave of the great leader, understanding better than he had done before what it was that gave this man his extraordinary power. He had the insight to perceive what the greatest of modern historians has called Cromwell’s “all-embracing hospitality of soul,” and to understand that this, combined with a rare sagacity in seeing what was practically possible and a matchless faith and courage, marked him out as the true steersman in those troubled times.
During these days Peter Waghorn had in deep depression brooded over the utter defeat of his schemes. His fruitless search for Gabriel in Malvern had not improved his temper, and on going next day to Canon Frome Manor to interview Norton he learnt to his dismay that the Governor had been carried home from Bosbury desperately wounded and was raving in delirium. Nobody knew how he had met with his wound, but Farmer Chadd had found him lying unconscious in his orchard, and it was conjectured that the mishap must have occurred while he was seeking to arrest some of Massey’s men in their flight.
Waghorn kept his thoughts to himself and trudged back to Bosbury, guessing shrewdly that Captain Harford had all the time been within earshot, and, in spite of his wound, had managed to fight his rival. Had he encountered Hilary he would probably have asked her some direct question, but the villagers reported that she was ill and obliged to keep the house, a rumour which was confirmed by her non-appearance at church on the following Sunday.
On the Thursday a soldier rode up to the wood-carver’s house, and Waghorn, in some trepidation, went out to him.
“The Governor bids you come with all speed to him at Canon Frome Manor to report on some work undertaken for him,” said the messenger, looking with some curiosity at the austere Puritan.
“Good; I will come anon,” said Waghorn. “Doth the Colonel recover him of his wound?”
“Ay, ’tis healing, and his head is clear, but I counsel you to come with all speed, for he’s in a devilish ill-humour, and to be kept waiting is what he can’t abide.”
Waghorn laid aside his work, and in very low spirits tramped over to Canon Frome. To do him justice, he was ill at ease, and detested his alliance with an officer of Norton’s type. It might be permissible to use the ungodly as tools, but as he recalled Hilary’s appeal to him in the orchard, and reflected that he had left her wholly at the mercy of the Colonel, his conscience pricked him. He had, as a matter of fact, forgotten everything in the burning desire to prevent Gabriel Harford’s escape.
Evidently the soldier had drawn a truthful picture of Norton’s state, for, as the wood-carver was ushered into his room, he peremptorily ordered his servant to quit him, and beckoning Waghorn to come near to the bed, looked up at him with an angry scowl.
“Well, scarecrow! What news do you bring?”
“No news, sir,” said Waghorn, gloomily.
“You great bungling idiot! Of course, I know you didn’t find Captain Harford in Malvern; he was lying within a stone’s throw of us behind the hedge.”
“And challenged you in order to save Mistress Hilary?—I guessed as much,” said the wood-carver. “I like your doings very ill, sir, and you well deserve what you got.”
“You vile hypocrite! Do you sit in judgment on me?” said Norton. “You! a turncoat—a spy! Why, you can’t even carry out the dirty work you undertake. Prate no more, but tell me what they did with Captain Harford. We fell at the same moment, and he, as I well remember, had death in his face as he ran me through.”
“I know not where they bore him, sir, and had there been a burial at Bosbury I must surely have known of it.”
“Maybe, then, he still lives, and they have hidden him away somewhere. Doubtless the Vicar hath sheltered him; he is one of those soft-hearted fools who seek to overcome evil with good, and models his life after the Sermon on the Mount, not in your fashion, on the cursing Psalms.”
There was enough truth in this remark to cause Waghorn another twinge of conscience.
“I may have been ill-advised to leave you in the orchard with Mistress Hilary,” he admitted. “But the flesh is weak, and I remembered only the duty of securing that half-hearted sparer of crosses. The lady told a most shameless lie, and if her lover was slain in the duel his blood will be on her head.”
“That may be a very soothing reflection for you,” said Norton, with a grim smile, “but it doth not better my case. Now, look you here, I will do anything in reason for you if you discover this man’s whereabouts. You think, had he died, you would have heard of it. Well, by hook or by crook, you can surely find out where they have stowed him away. Have you seen aught of Mistress Hilary?”
“Nay; she keeps the house, I hear, and is ill.”
“A blind! A mere trick!” cried Norton, angrily. “Depend upon it, she keeps the house to nurse that accursed lover of hers. Oh! if I had but the strength to mount my horse, I would soon track him down.”
“I could keep watch on the house, sir,” said Waghorn, “and let you know who comes and goes.”
“Well, do that, it may serve,” said Norton; “for I will not live to be thwarted by that Puritan Captain. And, look you, Waghorn, you might do me a service by worrying the Vicar. Go and seize the Prayer-book in the church, and bid him obey the Parliamentary order and use this blessed Directory they have concocted. ’S life! what wouldn’t I give to see his face when you confront him with it.”
And he broke into a laugh, which was cut short by a paroxysm of pain.
“I could do that,” said Waghorn, sternly, a gleam of satisfaction kindling in his eyes. “I reckon he would take it even more to heart than the breaking of his painted window. Ay, I could do that.”
“Do it then,” said Norton, mockingly, “and serve the Cause that you are for ever prating about. I care not a jot, for it will serve me.”
With that he dismissed the wood-carver, and Waghorn walked straight to Ledbury, where he had the good fortune to find a trusty waggoner who was willing to carry a letter for him to Gloucester and bear back the reply. He then adjourned to a small alehouse, where he laboriously wrote an order to one of his Puritan friends for a copy of the Directory, which was already in use in Gloucester, but had not yet been enforced in Herefordshire.
Having accomplished this work to his entire satisfaction, he tramped back in the dusk of the evening to Bosbury, but had only gone about half the distance when the sound of a horseman following him made him look round. He saw with a start of surprise that it was none other than Dr. Bridstock Harford.
“Good e’en to you, sir,” he said, touching his hat.
“Good evening,” said the doctor, as he galloped past.
“Now what should that bode?” muttered Waghorn. “Where hath he been? And whither doth he ride now? I’ll light my lantern when I reach home, and see if the hoof-prints stop at the Vicarage.”
CHAPTER XLIII.
“But true religion, sprung from God above,
Is like her fountain, full of charity,
Embracing all things with a tender love!
Full of goodwill and meek expectancy;
Full of true justice and sure verity,
In heart and voice free, large, even infinite;
Not wedged in strict particularity,
But grasping all in her vast active spright;
Bright lamp of God! that men would joy in thy
pure light.”
—Henry More, 1642.
There was something indescribably desolate in the blank silence of the tiled house when Waghorn unlocked the door, and fumbled in the dusk for the tinder-box. No human being shared his dreary home, no animal kept him company or enlivened his solitary hours. It was undoubtedly owing to his loneliness that his tendency to gloomy fanaticism had, since his father’s death, so greatly increased. The one joy left him appeared to be this morbid and exaggerated desire to root out all that he deemed wrong, and to punish all those who withstood his fiery zeal.
Without pausing to eat or drink, he kindled his lantern and stole quickly out into the street. Early hours were kept in those days, and all seemed still in the village; stepping cautiously, he soon descried in the dust the prints of horse-hoofs, and was eagerly following them up to see whether they turned in at the Vicarage, when Zachary suddenly emerged from the gate.
“Good e’en to you, Waghorn,” said the clerk, in a more friendly tone than he usually employed towards the wood-carver. “Ha’ ye lost summat, that ye go groping like the woman that dropped her tenth bit o’ silver?”
“Ay,” said Waghorn, “that’s just what I have done, but I shall find what I seek yet, never fear.”
Zachary with apparent good nature swept his broad foot energetically to and fro among the dust, effectually wiping out all trace of the hoof-prints.
“Better search by daylight,” he suggested. “And come now to the ‘Bell’ and have a pint o’ home brewed.”
Waghorn deemed it prudent to accept the invitation, for he desired to get into Zachary’s confidence, and hoped that some day he might gather from the garrulous old man the information he eagerly sought. But on this particular night the clerk was on his guard, and the fanatic gained nothing by his plot.
Meanwhile, in the tower room, Dr. Harford, to his great joy, found his son in far better case than he had dared to expect. Hilary’s good nursing and the patient’s healthy life and sound constitution had triumphed over all the other drawbacks, and although some weeks must pass before he really recovered, all danger to his life was practically over.
The Vicar and Hilary listened with intense relief to the doctor’s verdict.
“The question now is, whether we shall try to remove him,” said his father. “It seems unfair to let you any longer run the risk of sheltering a rebel. Yet I scarce know where we could take him; we should never get him to Hereford without his being made prisoner.”
“Sir, don’t think of moving him. ’Tis hard, indeed, if the church tower may not afford him sanctuary,” said the Vicar. “If, indeed, there be any risk in the matter, I gladly take it.”
“And how about his nurse? What hath she to say?” asked the physician, looking into the girl’s beautiful face.
“Sir,” said Hilary, blushing vividly, “I am his betrothed wife, and only this very day we were saying that we wished the Vicar would wed us.”
Gabriel took her hand in his, and looked with eager hope at the kindly antiquary who had done so much for him.
“In the orchard as I lay in even worse plight, sir, you made no objection to my suit, and if, indeed, you will make us man and wife before I go, I should be for ever your debtor.”
The Vicar and the physician glanced at each other.
“This comes, sir, an’ I mistake not,” said Dr. Harford, “from your words in the churchyard when Waghorn would have had the cross pulled down. I have heard that those who hearkened to you could never forget your plea for love, which is the bond of peace.”
“In truth, sir,” said the Vicar with a twinkle in his eye, “I trow it comes from the quiet days in this tower of refuge, when my niece had in your absence to nurse the wounded. Very gladly will I wed you, my children, and some fine morning we will steal across to the church before the villagers are astir. In the meanwhile I can read your banns in here each Sunday, with Durdle and Zachary for congregation.”
Then Dr. Harford told of his interview with Cromwell, and of the suggestion for Gabriel’s future.
“An you could spare your niece, sir, it would perchance be no bad plan for our bride and bridegroom to journey to London, for possibly the Governor of Canon Frome may yet give some trouble. Hath anyone heard whether he recovers?”
“Farmer Chadd heard that, though still kept to his bed, he mends apace,” said the Vicar. “Your plan seems an excellent one, sir, and though I shall sorely miss Hilary, it would take a load off my mind to know that she was in safety.”
“Then by the earliest opportunity I will write to my mother at Notting Hill Manor,” said the physician. “I well know that her house will be at your disposal, and that you, sir, would be an honoured guest there.”
The Vicar gave a courteous little bow, then turned with a mischievous glance to the invalid.
“Nothing will please me more than to meet Madam Harford, yet don’t make yourself uneasy, Gabriel, I shall not ride with you on the wedding journey, but shall visit you later on, when you are settled down into the prose of everyday life.”
There was a general laugh, and before long, the Vicar suggested that they had better return for the night to the Vicarage, leaving Dr. Harford to talk matters over with his son.
Far into the small hours the two discussed future plans, and it was arranged that the Doctor should not again risk drawing attention to the hiding-place by a visit, unless actually sent for. Early in June, when the arm was likely to be quite sound again, he proposed to ride over at night, bringing Gabriel’s mother with him, that she might be present at the private marriage, and see her son before he left the west. In the meantime he impressed on the wounded man the need of the greatest caution and secrecy, and then, stifling the anxiety he could not but feel, bade him farewell just as dawn was breaking, and saddling his horse, rode quietly back to Hereford before anyone else in Bosbury was stirring.
Waghorn, with a grim smile on his sleeping face, dreamt of the bonfire he would make of the great Prayer-book in the church. The Vicar wandered in a happy valley where wonderful remains of pre-historic times delighted his astonished eyes. Hilary had visions of standing beside Gabriel in the porch, where in those days weddings were celebrated, and softly breathing the “I will,” which should make her indeed his wife. And Gabriel, in wakeful happiness, lay watching the light as it stole softly through the narrow window of his hiding-place, musing over the words the Vicar had daily used when he visited him:
O Lord, save Thy servant; which putteth his trust in Thee.
Send him help from Thy holy place: and evermore mightily defend
him.
Let the enemy have no advantage of him; nor the wicked approach to
hurt him.
Be unto him, O Lord, a strong tower; from the face of his enemy.
Such a strong tower, such a helper and defender, must be, in his degree, prove to his promised wife; and he looked the future in the face far more soberly than in the first days of their betrothal long ago, but with a calm manliness which augured well for their new life.
The Vicar’s anxieties, though lessened by Dr. Harford’s reassuring report as to Gabriel’s health, were by no means over. He went about continually with the uneasy consciousness that Waghorn was not only a dangerous fanatic, but actually a spy, and, as Hilary had discovered in the orchard, a spy who had not scrupled to aid such a man as Colonel Norton.
One evening, when as usual he had repaired to the tower at dusk, taking with him the food Gabriel would need during the night, he found himself a prey to the most unwonted nervousness. He unlocked the door and summoned Hilary from her day’s watching in the tower room, waiting with restless impatience while she bade her lover good-night and crept down the ladder.
But the sight of the girl’s happy face cheered him, and he greeted her with a smile.
“I believe you revel in these ghostly crossings of the churchyard,” he said, wrapping her long cloak more closely about her. “I will be with you anon when I have had a word with Gabriel.”
He watched her till she had disappeared in the Vicarage garden, then paid a visit to the invalid, who was far from sharing Hilary’s enjoyment of her risky journeys to and fro, and always liked to hear that she had gained the Vicarage in safety.
“When I think of all that you are doing for me, and of the danger of discovery, it makes me eager to be gone,” he said, watching his kindly host as he placed within reach all that he could need.
“Nay, I’m in no haste to get rid of you,” said the Vicar, with a smile. “You forget that I shall be left a lonely old bachelor when you and Hilary fare forth on your wedding journey.”
“It seems unfair, sir, that I should rob your home of its brightness,” said Gabriel.
“Ay, and not only that, but rouse in me a certain dissatisfaction with my lot,” said the Vicar, his eyes twinkling. “I have serious thoughts of entering upon the holy estate of matrimony myself, an I can prevail on Sir Richard Hopton to accept my proposal for the hand of his daughter.”
“Hilary’s friend, Mistress Frances?” said Gabriel, with keen interest.
“Ay, but say naught about it till I learn my fate,” said the Vicar. “The lady, for aught I know, may refuse me as decidedly as Hilary refused Squire Geers, of Garnons.”
The recollection of this made them both laugh, and in much better spirits the Vicar quitted the tower, locking the door and putting the key in his pocket as he groped his way across the graveyard to the garden gate.
It was now dark, save for the stars which just revealed here and there a white gravestone or the dim outline of bush or tree. Suddenly the Vicar became conscious of the presence of some living creature; though as yet he could see nothing he felt that he was not alone, and, pausing to listen intently, he distinctly heard the sound of breathing.
“Who goes there?” he said, in a hearty voice which belied his real anxiety.
“’Tis I, sir, Peter Waghorn,” said the fanatic, gloomily.
“What, man! still longing to cast down the cross?” said the Vicar. “I had hoped you had come to see that we look on it with no superstition. But I know well ’tis a hard matter for all of us to see with each other’s eyes. I should make a rare bungle did I try my hand at wood-carving, and you would make nothing at all of the pre-historic tooth which I am carrying from my museum room in the tower to show to Mistress Hilary.”
It was too dark for him to see the expression on Waghorn’s face, and he remained in ignorance of the man’s intentions. Did he suspect that they used the tower to shelter Gabriel? Or did he merely keep a watchful eye on the Vicarage? Either surmise was disquieting. Dr. Coke fell back on his usual kindly sympathy, hoping to reach the heart of this strange and complex character.
“Come in and see me some night,” he said, genially, “for I have some rare old oak which you would be interested in. I’ve a great mind to get you to carve me a corner cupboard for my study, an you think the wood will serve.”
“I will come, sir,” said Waghorn. “But before you order the cupboard belike you had best be sure in your own mind that you’ll be staying on at the Vicarage. Good-night to you, sir.”
With this vague and most discomforting speech the wood-carver quitted the churchyard, while the Vicar made his way home to ponder over the dark saying with growing uneasiness.
On the following Saturday morning he was busy with his sermon when a knock at the door and the furious voice of the parish clerk recalled him from the study of St. Paul’s words about charity to the difficulties of the present.
“Sir!” cried Zachary, crimson with anger, his face making the most strange contrast to Waghorn’s grim pallor. “Look what this pestilent fellow hath done now! ’Tis the Prayer-book, sir, from the church—he’s slashed and torn it to bits!”
The Vicar looked with indignation at the ruthlessly-torn pages, and hastily rising, paced the room, wrestling with a burning desire to kick the fanatic out of the house. When he had conquered himself, he returned once more to the writing-table.
“By what right do you destroy the parish property?” he said, gravely.
“I am a parishioner, and do intend to see the law of the land obeyed,” replied Waghorn.
“I have yet to learn that the law of the land orders the tearing up of books,” said the Vicar.
“It orders the disuse of the Book of Common Prayer, and that’s the same thing,” retorted Waghorn.
“Not at all,” said the Vicar. “If Parliament ordered you to cease from carving wood, it would not be lawful for me to come and burn your tools. Leave us, Zachary; I must discuss this matter alone with Waghorn.”
With keen anxiety he recalled his encounter in the dark with the spy, and wondered how much he really knew.
“I warned you, sir,” said the wood-carver, “that you might not be staying on at the Vicarage.”
“Hath Parliament, then, abolished me, as well as the Prayer-book?” inquired the Vicar, with a humorous gleam in his grey eyes.
“It will turn you out unless you use the Directory as the law orders,” said Waghorn, grimly, handing him a copy of the document. “There be those at Gloucester that will see it is enforced; you must not look again to have a half-hearted officer, like Captain Harford, sent.”
Dr. Coke glanced with a sigh at the mangled prayer-book, wondering why it had become hateful to so many men.
“It must be that they identify it with the harsh dealings of Archbishop Laud and Bishop Wren, and others who tried to enforce a system rather than to follow Christ,” he thought to himself; and then he carefully read through the Directions which had been issued as to public worship. If he refused to obey he must leave his people as sheep without a shepherd just at a time when their distress was greatest, owing to the war and the constant harassing of the Canon Frome garrison. He must also imperil Gabriel’s life by moving him from his present place of refuge.
Dearly as he loved the liturgy he could not hesitate as to the right course of action. The thought of having to pray in public without a book was a nightmare to him, but with a moral courage that gave a curious new dignity to his manner and bearing, he said, quietly:
“I shall give my father all the facts of the case, and for the present shall endeavour to follow the directions here given. Chapters shall be read from each Testament. Prayer, and especially the Lord’s Prayer, shall be used. There shall be thanksgiving and singing of psalms. The Communion shall be frequently celebrated, and children shall be baptized only in church. Here are all the essentials of Christian worship, and though I sorely grieve to lose for a time the book that is far dearer to me than you guess, I see that for the present distress it is the only way.”
“And the surplice—that rag of popery—it must go also,” said Waghorn.
“Oh! Is it a rag of popery?” said the Vicar with a smile. “I had a notion that it was meant to represent the fine linen which is the righteousness of the saints. But though to my thinking ’tis a seemly garb, and I like things done as St. Paul advised, ‘decently and in order,’ yet doubtless I can minister as well in my black doublet and hose.”
“Much better,” said Waghorn, emphatically.
The Vicar sighed.
“Maybe ’tis a more appropriate garb,” he reflected, “for a man that well-nigh flew into a towering passion at sight of a torn Prayer-book.”.
“We will discuss the matter no more,” he said, presently, “but to-morrow in church let us try to meet in all sincerity as fellow-worshippers. Now I will show you the piece of oak we spoke of, and you shall take the measurements for the corner cupboard.”
There was no sleep that night for Dr. Coke, but, as Durdle often remarked, he was one of those whose looks did not pity them, and no one seeing the ruddy face and the long white hair had a notion what the man was undergoing when he took his place in the reading-desk on Sunday morning.
“Dearly beloved brethren,” he began, “owing to the present troubles in Church and State, it is not to-day in my power to use the Book of Common Prayer. I would remind you, however, that greatly as many of us love our liturgy, and helpful as we find it, God may be worshipped by us all in spirit and in truth, though our prayers be but halting and imperfect. I ask you, therefore, to kneel and to make after me, sentence by sentence, supplication to our Heavenly Father.”
The startled people knelt, and very earnestly repeated the brief petitions for a more perfect faith, for a wider hope, for a more self-sacrificing love. They prayed for peace and for the needs of soul and body, and then with a gasp of relief the Vicar began the Lord’s Prayer.
The ordeal was over, and with a most thankful heart he gave out the Hundredth Psalm, which was valiantly played by flute and fiddle and heartily sung by all the congregation.
After which, with the reading of che lessons, more psalm-singing and a sermon, the service came to an end.
“Well,” remarked Farmer Chadd, “Vicar may not ha’ spoken with the tongue o’ angels as the text said, but he certainly did make folk see what charity means.”
“Ay,” said Farmer Mutlow, “and though I’m with him in preferrin’ the Prayer-book, yet I will say it cheered my heart wonderful to pray for a good apple year, and above all to ask straight out for a blessin’ on the hops. Parson he knows well enough what plaguey uncertain things they be, and though the liturgy lumps ’em all in with ‘fruits o’ the earth that in due time we may enjoy them,’ yet I always did hold with prayer for each child by name, and if for children why not for crops?”
“Quite right, neighbour, quite right,” said Farmer Chadd. “We’ll ask him to say a word for the hops every Sunday.”