“He seemed
For dignity composed, and high exploit,
But all was false and hollow; though his tongue
Dropt manna, and could make the worse appear
The better reason, to perplex and dash
Maturest counsels: for his thoughts were low—
To vice industrious;—Yet he pleased the ear.”
—Milton.
Throughout the winter and the early spring Herefordshire was in a state of misery and unrest. The people, frantic at the ill-treatment they received from the Royalist garrisons at Hereford, Canon Frome and other places, rose in open insurrection. The sturdy men in the Forest of Dean, seeing their country wasted with fire and sword, their sons impressed to serve in the King’s army, and their wives and daughters brutally ill-used by the merciless troops of Rupert, and by such well-known tyrants as Lunsford and Langdale, would endure such doings no longer, and the rising of the Clubmen became a new and serious element in the strife.
Massey, the Governor of Gloucester, sought to win them over definitely to the Parliament, and entered into negotiations with the leaders at Ledbury, where some 2,000 of them had gathered; but they would bind themselves to neither party, and in the end were dispersed by Prince Rupert, who, having hanged three of the leading men, withdrew to Hereford.
Hilary’s heart had been also in the strangest state of unrest; it was impossible to be in the immediate neighbourhood of all these cruelties and confusions and to remain unmoved. She grieved over the horrible sufferings of the people, and yet now and then the false glamour of war and the halo of romance which invested Norton and the brave and fiery Rupert, resumed its sway over her. Moreover, though no thought of love had entered into her mind, her pride was subtly gratified by the attentions Norton paid her. That a man of his age and standing should hang upon her words, should show her every mark of respect, and even consult her on occasion, was pleasant enough. From open compliments, from praise of her beauty, she would at once have shrunk, but this more delicate flattery ministered to the weakest point in her character—her unconquerable pride.
It was on the morning of the 20th April, nearly two years after her mother’s death, that she laid aside her black garments and took from the big oak chest, where it had been all this time laid up in lavender, the grey gown, with its grey and pink hood and cape, which had for her so many memories of the past. She sighed a little as she donned them, but Durdle looked well pleased when she appeared in the kitchen in her spring attire.
“How many eggs do you want this morning?” asked the girl, lightly. “I shall start early and gather primroses on the way.”
“Bring me two dozen, dearie, an’ Mrs. Kendrick can spare as many,” said Durdle. “Ay, but you look as fresh as a daisy—it does my heart good to see you. But to think that here you be unwed at two-and-twenty all through this weary war—it fair breaks my heart.”
“It doesn’t break mine,” said Hilary, laughing and tossing her head as she quitted the Vicarage.
She had passed the last house in the village when, catching sight of a bank by the roadside starred over with primroses, she lingered to gather them. The day was fresh and sunny, the sky intensely blue, the early apple blossom in the orchards exquisite in its colouring; for the sheer joy of being alive in such a lovely world she could not help singing softly to herself. The words of Autolycus’ song rose to her lips, while a worse deceiver than that mendacious thief and pedlar quietly pursued her.
“When daffodils begin to peer,
With heigh! the doxy over the dale,
Why, then comes in the sweet o’ the year,
For the red blood reigns in the winter’s pale.”
She started a little when Norton’s mellow tones fell on her ear.
“A beautiful song for a beautiful spring day, and chanted by a radiant vision of spring!” he exclaimed, feasting his eyes on her loveliness.
She laughed as she curtseyed in response to his profound bow.
“Sir, you are of a very different opinion to Peter Waghorn, the wood-carver in the tiled house yonder. He frowned on me and my gown, and thought doubtless that grey and pink should be left for the skies at dawn, not worn by a worm of earth, as he deems me. I do detest that talk of earthworms.”
“You should never wear any colours save those of the sky,” said Norton, gazing into the comely face and dark grey eyes. “May you never again need to wear mourning robes!”
“In truth, when I last donned them,” she said, strolling on towards the farm, “I thought I should never be happy again. Yet to-day I am happy once more—I can’t help it—the world is so beautiful.”
“You who make others happy should be always happy yourself,” he said.
“I don’t make others happy,” she said, drooping her head a little as a memory of her treatment of Gabriel returned unbidden. “I make the people who care for me unhappy.”
“Let me be the exception, then,” he said, boldly. “I have had sorrow enough in my life; don’t give me more.”
She glanced at him doubtfully, then turned aside to gather some more primroses.
“Have you seen the Vicar?” she inquired.
“No, but I have a matter to talk over with him,” said Norton, “and, with your permission, will return to the Vicarage with you and carry your egg-basket.”
“Eggs are fragile things,” she said, laughingly. “I am not sure that I can trust you.”
“I assure you my hand is as steady a one as you will find, and well practised at tilting at the bucket.”
“But mine is more practised at carrying eggs,” she said, gaily.
“Ah, but my greatest pleasure is to serve you,” said Norton, persuasively, “and you promised never to add to my sorrow.”
“Indeed, I never made so rash a promise,” she protested. “Still, if carrying the egg basket will satisfy you, I will yield. Have you brought us a newsbook this morning?”
“No, only a legal document just issued by Prince Rupert. I saw him not long since at Hereford.”
“How I envy you!” she cried. “I would give the world to see one so brave.”
“The Prince hath not a monopoly of courage.”
“No, no; all the King’s soldiers are brave, of course.”
“Yet you will hardly trust this soldier with aught. You hold him eternally at an icy distance.”
His tone was that of a dejected lover. Yet even now she was unsuspicious. Her thoughts were of the war, and not in the least of love.
“I think you are very much to be envied,” she cried. “Oh! it must be a grand thing to fight for the King, to defend the weak, to make the rebels fly before you.”
“Shall I tell you the truth?” said Norton, with a sudden modulation in his musical voice which made her heart stir strangely. “’Tis only when I am in your presence that I know what enjoyment means.”
They had passed through the gate and were walking up the grassy slope to the gabled house. At last Hilary could not help understanding in part what he meant. She blushed crimson, and was silent.
“Don’t you see that this long campaign means for me privation, tedium, loneliness?” said Norton, with meaning emphasis on the last word. “I can never know happiness without you.”
He watched her furtively, but very keenly. Surely she would help him out with some word, some gesture, some glance! He was a well-practised wooer, but never had his advances been met with such baffling silence. It seemed to him that all at once she was far, far away from him, and, in truth, her spirit had flown to the little wood where, nearly five years before, Gabriel had told her of his love. The eager, boyish face, the clear, honest eyes, like wells of light, drew her irresistibly away from the man who walked now beside her. And yet all the time she was aware that over her lower nature Norton’s influence was great. His handsome face, his soldierly bearing, his alternations of high spirits and of deep sadness fascinated her; there was something, too, in his audacity and force of character which filled her with admiration.
“If only this thrice-accursed field were a grove I could prevail with her,” reflected Norton. “But here!”
And at that moment Don came to the rescue of his mistress by racing with all the ardour of youth among a stately flock of geese, which fled helter-skelter, with much hissing and indignant cackling.
Hilary broke out into a peal of laughter, and, thankful for the interruption, ran after the terrier.
“Don! Don!” she cried. “You wicked dog! Come to heel this moment.”
And with a merry glance at the discomfited Norton, she hastened into the garden of the Hill Farm, leaving him to pace up and down savagely among the agitated geese.
Mrs. Kendrick came to the door with a troubled face.
“Good morning, mistress,” she said, curtseying. “You find a sad house here. I have two of my poor lads sorely wounded upstairs, and the master be only now getting back his wits. He was that cruelly beaten about the head!”
“Why, when was that?” said Hilary. “Had they joined the Clubmen?”
“Ay, to be sure. They went to Ledbury, and near by Prince Rupert, as you know, made short work of them.”
This was the sorry side of war, and Hilary, as she entered the great kitchen and saw the white face and bandaged head of Farmer Kendrick, and the dazed look of suffering in his eyes, felt sad at heart. She crossed the room to the chimney-corner and spoke to him, but he took no heed.
“’Tis no use,” said the poor wife. “He’s been deaf as a post ever since, and dithered besides. He’ll never be fit for work any more, and what’s to become of us, God only knows, for the soldiers from Canon Frome have taken all our hay and corn, and every beast on the farm save the old lame horse. We’ve naught left but the geese and fowls.”
“I will tell the Vicar of your trouble,” said Hilary. “Why did you not send to him?”
“Well,” said Mrs. Kendrick, “we thought it best to hide the men-folk till the country is quieter. And they told me the Governor of Canon Frome was much at the Vicarage. It seems hard when the place has been ours for generations to have strangers making free with all our goods. I do hear folk say that ere long there’ll be a battle in these parts, and that Governor Massey be coming from Gloucester again.” Hilary went away with a grave face, not thinking so much of the future battle as of the unpleasant fact that Norton’s visits to the Vicarage were beginning to be commented on. She was grieved, too, that the poor wounded men had not had the comfort of a visit from her uncle.
Norton at once noticed the change in her expression when she rejoined him.
“You are troubled,” he said, gently, taking the basket from her.
“The times are sad,” said she, evasively. “I wish this war were ended. I wish we were quite away from ever hearing of it any more.”
“I wish,” he said, drawing nearer to her, “that I could spirit you right away to a country where all would be peace and sunshine. If I had the right to protect you, all should be as you would have it. Let us build castles in the air of a happy life in sunny France away from all these troubles.”
She laughed at such a notion. “Why, I have never been farther than Bristol in all my life,” she said, lightly. “And the mere sight of the ships sailing away to foreign parts made me feel a craving to be at home again in Herefordshire.”
“But Gloucestershire is a right homelike county,” said Norton, “and not far off. Do you understand how I love you, how I long to have you in my home there?”
She shook her head. “I do not want to leave my uncle,” she said, feeling round for some excuse.
“Well, well, but he cannot live for ever,” said Norton, impatiently. “It is in the natural order of things that you should leave him; and, spite of his white hair, he is but in middle life, and may yet himself marry.”
“Then I should go back to Hereford, and try to grow like dear Mrs. Joyce Jefferies, who lives to make others happy.”
“You can make others happy now,” said Norton, and she was forced to listen to his impassioned appeal the whole way home. Half-frightened and wholly perplexed as to her own mind; she was thankful to gain the village, and avoiding the street, opened the south-east gate of the churchyard that they might cross to the Vicarage garden unobserved. But to her discomfort she found on approaching the old stone cross that Peter Waghorn was standing in the path apparently wrapt in contemplation of the symbol to which he so much objected.
As they passed he turned his gleaming eyes full upon them, and though she gave him a cheerful “Good morning,” he made no reply, only touching his hat in a grudging and reluctant fashion.
“A plague on that fellow,” said Norton; “he is enough to give any one a fit of the ague only to look on. But, for heaven’s sake, take pity on me and give me what I have pleaded for so humbly.”
“Indeed, sir,” said Hilary, “I do not know what to say, but I think you ask what I cannot give.”
They had entered the Vicarage, and she led the way to the sitting-room, hoping to find her uncle there. The room, however, was empty.
“Give me my answer a few days hence,” said Norton, setting down the basket, “and to-day I will only ask a few of these flowers as a pledge. Will you fasten them in my doublet?”
She could not well refuse this, and as she slipped the slender pink stalks through the button-hole, Norton suddenly threw his arms around her and kissed her passionately on the lips.
“Let me go!” she cried, indignantly. “How dare you?” And with a half incoherent sentence as to his wishing to see the Vicar, she hurried from the room.
“Now I have frightened her!” reflected Norton. “The one pretty maid in all this dull countryside. Dear innocent little soul! The pursuit grows interesting. I dare swear no man save St. Gabriel ever touched her lips before! Dame Elizabeth Hopton is a she-dragon, but thank the Lord there’s no mother here, and that fat housekeeper is a noodle, who will soon be at my beck and call.”
As if summoned by his thought of her, Durdle at that moment entered with a tray of cakes and some excellent cider.
“You will take something, sir, after your walk,” she said, looking with approval at his long, glossy auburn curls and gay attire.
“Thank you, Mrs. Durdle, there’s no better cider in all Herefordshire than yours,” he said, with his genial smile. “Everything from this house is good, and ’tis due to your careful management.”
Durdle beamed with pleasure at this praise.
“Oh, sir, you flatter me,” she protested.
“Not at all, ’tis naught but truth. What are these heartshaped cakes? They should be prophetic.”
“They be queen cakes, sir,” said Durdle. “Do please to try one, for they be Mistress Hilary’s making.”
“Ha! then certainly I must have one, for, as no doubt you perceive, Mrs. Durdle, I am playing a well-known game—‘I love my love with an H.’ Will you keep my secret and lend me your aid, for in these matters a man sadly needs an ally?”
“Why to be sure, sir; to be sure I will!” cried Durdle, with delight. “’Twas but this very morning I was grieving at the thought that so sweet a lady should be unwed. Oh, she’ll not be saying no to a King’s officer, sir, and I know the very best recipe for bride cakes.”
She bustled off to look for the Vicar, leaving Norton with a mocking smile playing al>out his lips.
“Bride cakes, indeed,” he muttered. “But she will doubtless prove useful.” And with that he tasted the dainty morsel which the housekeeper had handed to him. “Pah! ’tis sweet and insipid. Here, Don!” he said, whistling to the dog, “this heart may be to your liking.”
The terrier swallowed it at one gulp, and was still licking his lips when Hilary returned. There was a certain coldness in her manner.
“My uncle is out, sir,” she said, “and Zachary tells me he hath gone to visit a dying man at some distance; perhaps you will leave the papers for his signature.”
“No, I will come again; let me see, to-morrow will be Tuesday, I will come before noon,” said Norton. “Tell Mrs. Durdle the queen cakes are irresistible.”
She laughed, but was relieved that he did not attempt to linger, and that he made no further allusion to what had passed on their walk from the farm.
“Just in so far as we have love which shall survive, though that to which it clings be taken away from us,... in so far as our sorrow has brought us into the wide fellowship of human suffering and anguish, and given us a tenderness that shall endure though years of placid comfort should flow over us—in so far as we have reached a life not subject to change or the workings of Time—so far we have some sense of the eternal realities, so far we may feel that we see God, and may, though with awe-struck humility, ask whether, haply, in some measure, we are seeing as God sees. Infinitesimal as our attainment may be, we shall, nevertheless, know what it is to enjoy, and shall not only strive after, but shall, in some measure, have the life eternal.”
It was on the Saturday preceding Norton’s walk with Hilary that Gabriel Harford rode once more from Gloucester to the scene of his rescue of Major Locke’s daughter. His recovery from his severe illness had long ago been complete, and the open-air life had fortunately proved the best cure for the mischief done to his constitution by the long months in Oxford Castle. Though thin and a trifle gaunt-looking after the severe campaign and the insufficient food, the indomitable pluck and manliness which had carried him through so much had stood him in good stead through all the quarrels and discussions and difficulties which had prevailed of late among the Parliamentary generals, to the great discomfort of the whole party.
Sir William Waller had, some time before, perceived, with the sagacity which made him the greatest tactician possessed by either Royalists or Parliamentarians, that an entire reorganisation of the army was needed and that, with the Earl of Essex at the head, nothing but disaster lay before them. The new model army was at length being formed, and, by the self-denying ordinance, Waller retired to his work in the House of Commons and his soldiers were dispersed, some being sent to serve in the new army, others despatched to various garrisons in the South of England.
It was with no little amusement that Gabriel recognised again the scenes of his moonlight adventure two years before, and old Amos, the gatekeeper, gave him a warm greeting.
“Eh, sir!” he exclaimed. “These be better times for the Manor, and ’tis you we have to thank for it all.”
“Why, man! you did quite as much to save your mistress,” said Gabriel, heartily. “We could never have found our way to her without you for guide. Well! All’s well that ends well! Are Mr. and Mrs. Neal within?”
“Yes, sir, and main glad they’ll be to see you.”
The trim bowling-green, over which Joscelyn Heyworth had helped him to escort Helena in such unceremonious haste, was now in a blaze of sunshine, and on the steps where they had nearly betrayed themselves by laughing, as they drew off their riding-boots, a large tortoiseshell cat lay basking. From within the house came a cheerful sound of voices, and when the servant ushered him into the hall, he found Humphrey Neal and his pretty little wife so absorbed in playing with their baby son and heir on the hearthrug, that they had not noticed the rare arrival of a visitor.
“Captain Harford!” announced the servant, and both host and hostess came eagerly to meet the newcomer with a warmth of welcome which was unmistakable.
“I thought Sir William Waller was in the New Forest!” exclaimed Humphrey. “What good fortune brings you here?”
“We were at Ringwood about Easter, pretty well worn out with long marches and the worst weather of the whole winter, in our journey for the relief of Taunton,” said Gabriel. “But now Sir William Waller’s army is disbanded, and I was sent for a time to Gloucester with a contingent of the men to serve under Massey in Herefordshire.”
“They certainly work you hard and don’t overfeed you. Why, you are well-nigh as lean and hollow-cheeked as when I first saw you in that pestilent gaol at Oxford.”
“We have in truth been half-starved these many months,” said Gabriel. “What else can one expect when the country has been laid waste and plundered for nigh upon three years? And even if provisions were to be had for money, we had naught to pay with, thanks to the mismanagement of the authorities.”
Helena, determined that he should at least have all that the Manor would provide in the way of a banquet, hastened off to interview her housekeeper, while Gabriel, with a secret pang, watched the fatherly pride with which Humphrey showed off the perfections of the blue-eyed, curly-locked son and heir, who rolled and kicked in perfect bliss on the hearthrug, quite indifferent to the fact that he was in a most distracted country.
“He is the image of Helena,” said Humphrey. “All save his hands; did you ever see such a fist in a brat of his age? You should feel how hard he can grip. Soon we shall have him at work with the dumb bells!”
“You have been reading Mr. John Milton’s letter on Education,” said Gabriel, with a laugh, “and mean to have him as well skilled in athletics as an ancient Greek. I found my friend, Captain Heyworth, deep in the treatise the other day.”
“Oh! you mean the gentleman that married my pretty cousin Clemency. I have heard naught of them since old Sir Robert Neal’s death. How do they fare?”
“Sadly enough; you probably didn’t hear that he lost his arm at the second battle of Newbury. It came about through sheer lack of surgeons, and through the scandalously inadequate aid for the wounded. Each regiment was supposed to have its surgeon and two mates, but at Newbury the supply had fallen into arrears, and Heyworth’s wound gangrened, and many other men lost their lives just from neglect and from the severe privations we had to put up with.”
“And you have seen the Heyworths in their home since then?”
“Yes, I was at Katterham about two months ago. It is piteous to see that poor fellow suffering, and like to suffer all his life long, Sir Theodore Mayerne says. We are speaking of my friend, Captain Heyworth,” he explained as Helena rejoined them.
She listened to his account with eager sympathy in her gentle eyes.
“I remember him well,” she said, “both here and at Gloucester; he was ever cheerful and light-hearted. Doth he keep up his spirits even now?”
“He makes a gallant effort to do so,” said Gabriel, “but you can guess what it would be for a man of his active habits to be a helpless invalid at three-and-twenty.”
“The crippled soldiers need to be the bravest of all, for the dead have at least due honour accorded to them, and rest in peace, and the victors have praise and glory and success to crown them, but most people forget those who have to drag on a maimed life year after year,” said Helena. “How doth his wife fare? She was very good to me when I was in trouble.”
“She hath a son of her own, but not such a healthy and fine child as yours, and the anxiety of her husband hath told upon her. Still, brighter times may dawn for them. When I saw him, poor fellow, he was clearly longing to be back again with Sir William Waller. Indeed, he hath been sorely missed, for in February, when the men broke into mutiny, he would have been better able to cope with them than any other officer.”
“What made them mutiny?”
“Partly the endlessness of the campaign and the privations, partly that Sir William Waller, though much liked by his officers, fails to tackle his men just in the right way. Then the pay was terribly in arrears, though that was no fault of his.”
“Sir Thomas Fairfax is to be Commander-in-Chief of the New Model Army, I hear,” said Humphrey Neal.
“Yes, and Skippon Major-General. There is a strong desire that, spite of his remaining in Parliament, Cromwell should be appointed to the vacant post of Lieutenant-General, but I know not how that will be.”
There was so much to hear and to tell that the time sped quickly, and when Gabriel was obliged to return to Gloucester he carried with him a very happy picture of his friend and pretty Helena in their home, and felt that Major Locke would have been content to see the daughter whose future had filled his dying moments with anxiety, in the old Manor with husband and child to cheer her.
Partly in the hope of winning over those recently engaged in the affair of the Clubmen, but mainly with the intention of diverting Prince Rupert from his journey northward, Massey set out from Gloucester at dawn on the 20th April, having been reinforced by the contingent from Waller’s army, which brought up his strength to about five thousand foot and three hundred and fifty horse.
It was with no little delight that Gabriel found himself marching back once more to his own well-loved county, and his spirits rose when, during the halt at Newent, he heard that his regiment was to remain there for the night, marching early the next day to Bromyard, where Massey had expectation of winning recruits from the dispersed Clubmen.
Bromyard was, he believed, the benefice held by Dr. William Coke, and unless Hilary should happen to be at Whitbourne he might be able to see her. It chanced that, owing to his long and frequent absences from Hereford, he had never heard of the death of old Mr. Wall, at Bosbury, and had no notion that Dr. Coke had been promoted to the vacant living during his two years’ probation in London.
His annoyance was therefore unspeakable when, at the last moment, Massey changed his plans, ordering his guards to undertake the expedition to Bromyard, and the rest of the troops to press on to Ledbury. With bitter regret Gabriel had to endure the sight of the blue regiment left behind for the work he so ardently longed to set about, and with the obedience of a soldier to tramp on precisely where he did not wish to go.
The picturesque town of Ledbury was bathed in the glow of the spring sunset as the Parliamentary troops emerged from the narrow cross street into the spacious main thoroughfare with its beautiful black and white timbered houses and, at the further end, the quaint town hall raised on massive black posts, between which on market days the countrywomen set their stalls. Massey and his officers dismounted at the door of the chief inn, a well-managed hostelry known as “The Feathers,” and, hungry with their long march, they were chiefly intent on ordering supper when they were checked by a curious-looking man, who, in spite of his short stature, forced his way through them, elbowing a passage without so much as a “by your leave,” until he reached Colonel Massey.
Gabriel looked at him intently. Where had he before seen that strong square face with its air of gloomy austerity, its smouldering, resentful eyes?
“Sir,” said the man, plucking at Massey’s sleeve, “by the mercy of a good Providence I chanced to be in Ledbury this evening; I am sent to remind you of your promised aid.”
“Eh!” exclaimed Massey; “who are you, and what aid did I promise?”
“I am one Peter Waghorn, of Bosbury, and last autumn you bade me wait till you came hither again. You broke your word, sir, and never aided us when you were here in March, but this time I beg you to fulfil your promise and cast down the Popish cross which stands in our churchyard.”
“To be sure! I remember you now,” said Massey, and Gabriel with a sudden flash of recollection instantly recalled both the man and his story. He had last seen him at Hereford, vehemently addressing the people outside the cathedral. He listened with some interest to Waghorn’s words.
“Do not neglect this second call, sir,” he said, solemnly; “for as I prayed at noonday, I heard a voice bidding me to rise and haste to Ledbury. Like Abraham, I set forth in faith, and now I well understand why I was sent. Come back with me, sir, I implore you, and cast down the cross.”
There was no insincerity about this man, he evidently spoke from his heart and with intense anxiety awaited the officer’s answer. Massey, a good-natured soldier of fortune, caring more for the fighting than the cause, regarded him with no little amusement.
“The people desire its destruction?” he said, carelessly.
“It would be for their souls’ good,” said Waghorn. “Some do idolatrously bow to it.”
“Well, well, that’s a foolish practice. Moreover, Parliament hath ordered the crosses to be broken down,” said Massey. “I will send over some of the soldiers to-morrow morning.”
The gloomy face of the fanatic brightened, and without actual thanks, but with the air of one who has gained his heart’s desire, he touched his hat and withdrew.
Massey turned to Gabriel Harford.
“I want a word with you in private,” he said. “Come to my room while supper is making ready.”
Gabriel, wondering what was to happen, followed the Colonel to a room overlooking the High Street, and, at Massey’s invitation, took a place in the deep window-seat.
“I think you know Cromwell, do you not?” said the Governor of Gloucester.
“Yes, sir, I was serving under Waller when he acted with him last autumn in the Newbury campaign, and again last month in the Western campaign,” said Gabriel.
“There is a very important and secret matter that I must make known to him,” said Massey. “I can’t entrust the despatch to an ordinary man, but if you will undertake to carry it to him you will be doing him a greater service than I can explain to you. Would you be willing to resign your temporary post in my force and undertake this, even though I can give you no explanation of the signal importance of the work?”
“Yes, sir, I will gladly undertake it,” said Gabriel. “Am I to ride at once?”
“Nay, not yet,” said Massey, smiling at his ardour. “For I will at the same time send a despatch to the Commander-in-Chief, who, I understand, is still at Windsor organising the New Model with Cromwell’s aid. I can’t complete that till I have learnt what Prince Rupert is about, and if possible turned him back. But I wanted to know if you were willing to turn despatch-bearer for the nonce.”
“There is nothing I should like better than to do a service for Cromwell,” said Gabriel, his eyes kindling. “For in truth he seems to me the greatest man I ever met.”
“Humph!” said Massey. “There’s little doubt that he is an able leader, but he’s too religious by half. The man’s a mystic, a seventeenth-century Enoch, with the soldierly zeal of a David to boot. By the bye, you may as well take over a detachment of the men from Waller’s army to Bosbury to-morrow. I’m as likely as not to forget that fellow’s request, and I think you have done that sort of business before, eh?”
“Yes, sir, we hewed down Abingdon Cross,” said Gabriel. And when the next day he found that the rest of the forces were to witness the hanging of an unhappy scout of Prince Rupert’s, who had shot a sentry in the early morning, he was glad to have had the Bosbury work entrusted to him.
“I would rather hew down fifty crosses than stand by and see a poor wretch hanged,” he reflected, as they marched along the rough country lanes. “A fair fight is one thing—every man takes his chance, but hanging is a hateful business.”
Then he remembered with deep regret that this despatchbearing that Massey meant to entrust to him would probably rob him of the eagerly-desired glimpse of Hilary, and also of the visit to his home at Hereford. He wondered whether it would not be possible to let his father know of his near neighbourhood, longing sorely to see him and to learn from him more than the few and long-delayed letters he had received could tell. Even if he did not see Hilary he might learn through Dr. Harford how she fared. After all if he did see her, she might possibly refuse to speak to him, as she had done in very cruel fashion at Hereford two years ago. His heart ached even now at the memory of the scene in the Cathedral porch. How was it that although the pain of his wound at Edgehill could never be vividly recalled, the anguish of remembering that last interview remained always so keen? Was it because the body was a mere garment presently to be laid aside, while love, which belonged to the soul and spirit, was eternal and changeless?
But to serve Cromwell in some real, though unknown fashion, was worth suffering for; moreover, he should see Sir Thomas Fairfax, the Commander-in-Chief, and he was naturally eager to learn more about this New Model Army, which was the main hope of his party.
He fell to thinking of the three men who had most influenced his life; his father, Falkland and Cromwell. What was it that had specially attracted him to such opposite types? He tried to think what characteristics they shared, and came to the conclusion that it was a certain breadth of mind and a habit of looking at the inner realities, not the externals, of religion.
He was curiously free from the usual habit of judging men by mere outward appearance, and the fact that both Falkland and Cromwell had been handicapped by nature, and were without form or comeliness had from the first been no hindrance to him. Their largeness of soul had irresistibly drawn him to them; for Falkland, with his wide charity, his philosophic Christianity, had been centuries in advance of his contemporaries; while Cromwell stood now revealed as the foremost of that band of Independents who most nearly reached the level of toleration for those of other religious views. He was ready to tolerate all sorts and conditions of men, save only the Papists and the rigid Episcopalians; the former because they would fain have handed England over once more to the Pope’s jurisdiction, the latter because the recent tyranny of Laud and the servile adulation with which the bulk of the clergy justified the King’s misrule had made them for the time a danger to the State.
But his musings were cut short by a sudden glimpse of an orchard by the roadside, and the first sight they had yet had of apple-trees in blossom.
“What an early spring!” he thought to himself. “’Tis but the 21 st of April and here’s apple blossom! And there are the poplars at Bosbury already green, and the old tower which Hilary asked me about all those years ago. Well! ’tis a mercy we can’t see in life what lies before us. And to point the moral of that reflection here comes Peter Waghorn, like a blot on the fair picture.”
“Good-day, sir, good-day!” said the wood-carver, his dark face lighted by a gleam of triumph. “I thank the Lord you have come. My prayers have been heard, and we shall accomplish His work!”
“The real test of a man is not what he knows but what he is in himself, and in his relation to others. For instance, can he battle against his own bad inherited instincts, or brave public opinion in the cause of truth?”
—Tennyson.
On this bright, mild Tuesday morning, Mrs. Durdle was bustling about in the sitting-room at the Vicarage, armed with a goose-wing and a duster, weapons wherewith she waged a daily battle with the dust. Spite of her unwieldy proportions, she was a most active person, but even the energetic are not sorry to pause a little in their work on a balmy spring day, and when Zachary crossed the little lawn and approached the open casement, she willingly went to the window, nominally to shake her duster, but in reality to enjoy a gossip.
“Mornin’, Mrs. Durdle!” said Zachary. “A fine growin’ day this!”
Zachary was somewhat bent and old, yet his face, though wrinkled, had still a youthful ruddiness, and bore that benevolent expression which comes when the grinders cease because they are few, and the lips take an infantine and gentle smile as a recompense.
“Well, for me, I say, ’tis a day when workin’ is none so easy,” said Durdle. “Folk talk a deal about the peace and quiet of a country life, but I had a heap more quiet at Hereford before I came to keep house for the Vicar. Look you there!” and she pointed with fine scorn to an untidy table, “he’s been and got out them nasty bones again! If they wasn’t as dry as an empty cider-press I’d give them all to the dog!”
With laugh Zachary suddenly held up and brandished in the air a long bone which he had hitherto concealed.
Mrs. Dundle gave a horrified exclamation.
“My patience, man! Don’t bring that here! Vicar would never take bones from the churchyard. ’Tis animals’ bones he’s all agog for, and then only when they be as old as Noah’s ark.”
“I’ll put it back in the mould when parson’s seen it; but I tell you, Mrs. Durdle, ’tis a marvel. That’s a giant’s shank bone, and he must ha’ stood nine feet high—poor chap, think o’ that! I’m glad there’s not so much o’ me. Think o’ nine feet o’ rheumatics!”
“Well, rheumatics or no rheumatics, I’m sorry for his wife,” said Durdle, laughing. “She must have needed to be a rare good knitter to keep him in hose! If you must leave the thing for the Vicar, let me give it a good dustin’ out o’ window first. Ah! Zachary, after all, ’tis ill work jesting over bones when England’s strewn with the bones o’ them as has been killed in this weary war.”
“You’re right, Mrs. Durdle—you’re right. ’Twill be three years come Lammastide since the King set up his standard at Nottingham, and ever since naught but battles and sieges, plunderings and threatenings. And now there’s this plaguey garrison hard by at Canon Frome, with a Governor that sticks at nothing.”
“What! Colonel Norton?” said the housekeeper, raising her eyebrows. “Why, he be always comin’ to see Vicar. But between you and me, Zachary, ’tis Mistress Hilary’s pretty face, I take it, that draws him.”
“Then, Mrs. Durdle, for pity’s sake have a care o’ your young lady, for I hear little enough to his credit. But I thought Mistress Hilary had been courted by a young spark at Hereford?”
“Eh, to be sure, so she was. She and young Mr. Gabriel Harford were like lovers since they were no higher than this table. But the war put a stop to that, and from being fast friends they became foes, the more’s the pity.”
“Well, like master, like man, as the proverb hath it,” said the sexton, stooping to root up a plantain from the turf. “Vicar he says, he’ll have nought to do with wars and fightings, for he be a man o’ peace. And so be I, Mrs. Durdle, so be I. But beware of yon Governor o’ Canon Frome, for there’s many a wench will have cause to rue the day when he came to Herefordshire.”
“For my part, I like the gentleman well enough. He’s a fine, handsome officer, and the Vicar always enjoys his visits,” said Durdle, pouncing like a bird of prey on the laboriously-woven spider’s web which she just then saw in a corner of the window.
“Ah, you women! you women! ’Tis always the same. A handsome spark will ever find you ready to give him a good word,” said Zachary, shaking his head.
“And are you so sure, Zachary, that a pretty wench can’t turn you round her fingers?” retorted the housekeeper, with a smile.
“Handsome is as handsome does,” quoted the sexton, shrewdly. “Give me the woman who knows how to brew good cider; grave-diggin’ all among bones and dust is terribly dry work, Mrs. Durdle.”
“Well, well, come round to the kitchen, man, though ’tis over early for your noonings,” said Durdle, with a laugh, “but, by-the-bye, what was the tale I heard in the village last night about the doings at Drybrook?”
“’Tis o’er true,” said Zachary, “though ’twas not the Canon Frome men that plundered there, but a troop of Colonel Lunsford’s horse that were serving in Prince Rupert’s forces. At Drybrook, when a poor fellow refused to give up a flitch o’ bacon to the foraging party, they struck him down and knocked out his eyes.”
“Good gracious, Zachary; now don’t you be telling that gruesome tale to Mistress Hilary, for she can’t abide hearing tell o’ such doings, though she do pretend to be so fond o’ war and fighting and glory and the rest. There’s not much glory in havin’ your eyes put out, I’ll warrant!”
Zachary lounged off towards the back premises, and Durdle was about to retire to the kitchen, and resume her gossip there, when she heard a knock at the front door.
“Now I do believe that’s Colonel Norton’s knock,” she muttered, bustling out in reply to the summons.
Her surmise was right enough; there he stood, booted and spurred, in all the glory of his gay attire, and with a sparkle in his dark eyes, which instantly banished from Durdle’s mind all Zachary’s warnings. She ushered him into the room she had just quitted, and though he had only asked for the Vicar his glance had so plainly bade her tell her mistress as well of his arrival, that she promptly sought Hilary, who had just finished making apple pasties in the kitchen.
“I’ll clap those in the oven, dearie,” said the housekeeper, “and do you doff your apron and tell the Vicar Colonel Norton is waiting to see him.”
Hilary departed on the errand, unable to determine whether she wished to see her admirer or not.
“I will leave you to have your chat with the colonel,” she said when she had with some difficulty roused the Vicar from a treatise on ancient coins which Mr. Silas Taylor had lent him.
“Nay, nay, child,” said the Vicar, retaining her hand in his. “I have scarce clapped eyes on you this morning; come in too, and hear the news.”
And to Norton’s satisfaction the uncle and niece entered the room together. The Vicar’s greeting was always cordial, yet this morning Norton fancied that there was a certain depression about his host which he could not fathom.
“Do you bring us any news, sir?” asked the antiquary wistfully.
“No news, sir, and no treasures for the collection, unluckily,” said Norton. “I called mainly on business. You have not been disturbed here, I hope, by Governor Massey? I hear he is hovering about again near Ledbury.”
“Nay, we have heard naught of him here,” said the Vicar. “I have been up this morning seeing the owner of the Hill Farm. There is sore trouble there, sir, and I wish you would consider the people more than you do. These foraging parties are growing unbearable.”
“Believe me, I do what I can, sir,” said Norton in his most winning tone. “I dislike the work of plundering as much as you would, but how else are we to keep the army alive?”
The Vicar sighed heavily.
“May God send us the blessing of peace!” he said. “I tell you, sir, it fairly breaks my heart to go about among the people of Bosbury. There is scarce a family but has lost a man in this cruel war, or else hath been well-nigh ruined by marauders.”
“Well, Vicar, we must all take the fortune of war. Of course, the rustics grumble when hungry soldiers seize their goods—but how are the officers to check starving men? That is what I was last night urging on old Sir Richard Hopton, who does naught but complain of the Canon Frame garrison. ‘Good Sir,’ I said to him, ‘What would you have me do? If the King gave me money I would pay for what we consume. But we are fighting for the divine right of Kings, and have surely a divine right to feed on something more satisfying than air.’”
“’Tis not alone the taking of gear that I complain of,” said the Vicar gravely, “but of cruelties perpetrated by the soldiers—abominable cruelties which did not spare even women and children.”
“Such things will happen in time of war, sir,” replied
Norton. “What can you expect? Soldiers are but human. ’Tis only the Roundheads that set up for being saints. However, we must not scare Mistress Hilary with talk of cruelties. Believe me,” he said, turning to her, “these tales of the village folk never lose in the telling, and we are not so black as we’re painted. Prince Rupert——”
“Prince Rupert is one of a thousand!” said Hilary, enthusiastically. “How I should like to see him! Do you think there is a chance that he may come this way?”
“You are of a more martial spirit than the Vicar. That is generally the way. We poor soldiers mostly find favour with the fair sex—’tis one of our few compensations,” said Norton, venturing nearer to her and lowering his voice as he noticed that Dr. Coke had moved over to the table and taken up the bone brought in by the sexton. “Yet do not make me jealous of the Prince by dwelling overmuch on his merits. Am I to have my answer to-day?”
She shook her head, and blushed deliciously. Norton had every intention of furtively kissing her hand, when the Vicar suddenly turned round and showed them his latest treasure.
“Most curious! Most interesting! Why, the fellow must have been a giant. Hilary, look here! In life this man must have stood at least eight feet high. Where did it come from?”
“I don’t know, Uncle,” said Hilary, shuddering. “Ugh! how gruesome it looks! I can’t bear skulls and bones!”
Norton with a smile watched the two. “What a contrast,” he reflected. “That old bone collector and a maid whose cheeks are like a wild rose! I wonder if the parson will get in the way of my designs?”
He was roused from his reverie by the entrance of Mrs. Durdle and the customary tray of cakes and cider.
The Vicar re-crossed the room with an eager question on his lips.
“Where did this come from, Mrs. Durdle? To whom am I indebted for this very rare bone?”
“Why, sir, ’twas Zachary brought it, and do now let me take it back to him. It gives me the creeps to see churchyard bones lying round loose.”
“Well, I suppose if Zachary dug it up we ought to give it Christian burial,” said the Vicar regretfully, “but it does seem a pity. A most rare and interesting bone.”
“Yes, sir, yes,” said the housekeeper, receiving it carefully in her apron, “very interesting, but do now let it be buried decentlike. ’Tis impossible to keep the place tidy—let alone clean—when your antics are littering all over the house.”
There was a general laugh as she left the room.
“No more antics for you, Uncle dear, if Mrs. Durdle has her way,” said Hilary blithely.
“She is a most orderly person,” said the Vicar, with a good-humoured smile, “and to have as master an untidy old antiquary must be a sore trial to her. But pardon me, Colonel, all this time I have been rambling on about my own affairs, and I understand that you had some special matter to talk over with me.”
“To tell the truth, sir, I walked over from Canon Frome this morning to ask you to sign your name to the Protestation framed by Prince Rupert. He commands the signatures of the people of this neighbourhood, and I shall be glad to have yours.”
He handed a paper to the Vicar, who, with some reluctance, took it, and began to read it to himself.
“Hey! What!” he exclaimed, presently, “the Prince commands? Why, Colonel, he has no right to extort oaths from free Englishmen. He fancies himself back in Germany. Listen to this! ‘I do strictly enjoin, without exception, all commanders and soldiers, gentry, citizens, freeholders, and others within the county and city of Hereford to take this Protestation.‘ I’faith, he goes too far, Colonel, too far! Look at this! I must swear that all the Parliamentarians ought to be brought to condign punishment—I must swear that I will help His Majesty to the utmost of my skill and power and with the hazard of my life and fortune; I must swear not to hold any correspondency or intelligence with Parliamentarians, and to discover all their plans that I may chance to know; and all these particulars I must vow and protest sincerely to observe without equivocation or mental reservation.”
“Well, but, Vicar, we all know that you honour the King,” said Norton, reassuringly. “No man could dare to call your loyalty in question—why, you are the son of one of the twelve bishops who signed the Remonstrance.”
“Very true,” said the Vicar “but the signing of that ill-judged and illegal document was, to my mind, my father’s great mistake. No, no, Colonel; I try to do my best to honour the King and to love and honour all men; therefore I loathe this unlawful Protestation, and will not say, ‘I willingly vow and protest,’ as here enjoined.”
Norton watched him intently; this was a side of the antiquary’s character which had not before been revealed to him.
“But, sir, you scarce realise, I think, what a serious matter this may be,” he said. “The Prince has expressly ordered that all who refuse to sign shall be seized without delay and kept in custody. It was enacted, as you see, on the second of this month.”
The Vicar again examined the paper, then looked up with an astute expression. “So it seems, sir, but you will also note that this Protestation is ordered to be tendered to all by the High Sheriff and Commissioners of the county, assisted by a Divine.”
Norton veiled his annoyance by a laugh.
“Of course if you want to keep to the letter of the law, we must bring over the whole posse from Hereford, but I thought as we were friends——”
The Vicar smiled genially, and held out his hand.
“We are friends, certainly—very good friends. But as to keeping to the letter of the law—I don’t acknowledge this document to be law at all, ’tis grossly illegal. You see, sir,” he added reverently, “I must try to remember that at Ordination I vowed to maintain and set forwards quietness, peace and love among Christian people.”
As though the words had cost him something to utter in what he knew would be a hostile atmosphere, he turned away and stood for a minute by the window, looking out at the church he loved so well, and the strong tower of refuge and the quiet graveyard.
Norton stroked his moustache to conceal a scornful smile, then bent low over Hilary’s hand and kissed it, conveying to her by look and touch much more than the customary salute.
“I am not without hope, Mistress Hilary, that where I have failed you will succeed,” he said gently. “Try if you can to persuade your uncle, for his refusal places him in some danger. I know well how much influence your sweet words have over men, and trust you will permit me to wait on you before long to learn of your success.”
With one of his sweeping bows he turned to take leave of the Vicar, who accompanied him to the door and bade him farewell very cordially, but being pre-occupied with the thought of the Protestation, forgot to give him the usual invitation to stay to dinner.
Hilary, with a restlessness which she had never before felt, paced up and down the room unhappily. Did this man indeed love her as he professed to do? And did she in truth care for him? That he was handsome, clever and fascinating was beyond dispute—she thought she did care for him—certainly she was far from being indifferent to him—and yet? Yet it was not like that day years ago when Gabriel had spoken to her in the wood, and a whole new world had opened to them.
“Nothing can be like first love, of course,” she said to herself dreamily, and then bitterness overwhelming her, “but my first love was all a miserable mistake! Gabriel cared more for this phantom of parliamentary government—loved that better than he loved me.”
She impatiently dashed from her eyes the tears that had started at this thought, and with sudden energy caught up her lute and began vigorously to tune it.
“I won’t be a fool!” she thought, resolutely forcing back the old memories that tried to rise. “I will wed this loyal Colonel Norton. He said my words had power over men, and I see they have over him. They had none over Gabriel!”
At that moment the Vicar returned to the sitting-room.
“Well, my child,” he said, stroking her hair, “yonder is a pleasant-spoken man, but I can never sign that paper he brought. We will talk no more of it, the very thought of it chafes me. Sing me one of your songs, dear, let us have ‘Come, sweet love, let sorrow cease!”
Hilary winced, for the plaintive sweetness of “Bara Fostus Dream” was for ever associated with the summer days when Gabriel had wooed her; but she could not refuse her uncle’s request, and sang the song in a more subdued frame of mind.
She had just begun the last verse—
“Then, sweet love, disperse this cloud—”
when sounds of confusion in the village street and an uproar of voices brought her to a sudden pause. Running to the window, she called eagerly to the Vicar.
“See, Uncle, the people are thronging this way. What can have happened?”
And as the Vicar joined her and looked forth, Durdle and Zachary rushed without ceremony into the room, breathless with haste, but each eager to give the news.
“Oh, sir, come out and stop it, for pity’s sake,” panted Durdle.
“Yes, sir, do’ee now. Mayhap they’ll hearken to you,” said Zachary.
“What is wrong?” asked the Vicar, looking from one to the other.
“The soldiers, sir—they’ve marched from Ledbury!”
“Parliament soldiers, sir,” panted Zachary. “Fetched by Waghorn a-purpose to pull down the cross.”
“And they’re a-goin’ to do it, too,” put in Durdle, determined to have the last word.
The Vicar’s indignant amaze almost choked him.
“What!” he cried. “Pull down Bosbury Cross! Why, Hilary, ’tis one of the oldest in all England—one of our most valued antiquities. God grant I may be able to save it.”
He hastily crossed the room towards the door.
“Ay, sir,” said Zachary, “you speak to the captain, he be a pleasant-looking young officer. But as for Waghorn, I do think he be gone stark mad.”
“Don’t come into the crowd, Hilary,” said the Vicar, excitedly, as he hurried from the house. “Wait in the garden and leave me to plead for this treasure of the past.”