“Could we forbear dispute, and practise love,
We should agree as angels do above.”
—Edmund Waller.
The churchyard, which during Norton’s visit had looked so peaceful, had become, before the Colonel had ridden halfway back to Canon Frome, the scene of an extraordinary gathering. With bewildered astonishment the Vicar saw the villagers hurrying in from all directions—men in their smock frocks, women fresh from their household work in cap and apron, and eager children pressing to the front that they might the better see the soldiers in their glittering steel helmets and corslets, their buff coats and orange scarves. A cornet carried the blue banner of the Parliament, with its motto, “God with us,” and the Captain brought up the rear. The Vicar, glancing at him, saw that he was young, slight and alert-looking; but his attention was quickly drawn away to Waghorn, who, springing up on the steps of the cross, turned with a vehement gesture towards the leader of the detachment.
“There it stands, Captain, just as I told you!” he cried. “There is the accursed Popish idol! Down with it! Down with it! even to the ground! So may all Thy enemies perish!”
Anything more violent and frenzied than his manner it was impossible to conceive; his dark eyes blazed, his sombre face was transformed.
But the ludicrous inappropriateness of his quotation tickled Gabriel’s sense of humour, and under the violence of the attack he grew restive.
“Your text seems to me ill-chosen,” he said. “But if this be indeed an idol, then by all means let it come down. An idol is a visible object which men bow down to or worship. Do any of you people of Bosbury bow down to this cross?”
There was a quiet force in his tone which instantly arrested the villagers’ full attention.
“No, sir,” they cried, unanimously.
And at that the Vicar hastened forward, courteously greeting the young Parliamentarian, and exclaiming eagerly, “Sir, the answer of the people of Bosbury is true. None of my people are so foolish as to bow to sticks or stones. I humbly hope that they have learnt better than that.”
“’Tis a lie!” shouted Waghorn. “A lie! How about old Jock? How about Billy Blunt?”
“Old Jock,” explained the Vicar to the Captain, “had been brought up a Papist, and I admit that he did superstitiously nod his head when he passed the cross; he is now bedridden. As for Billy, he, poor lad, is an idiot, and ’tis impossible to reason with him.”
But explanations could not satisfy Waghorn.
“Down with all idolatrous symbols!” he shouted. “Down with the cross!”
And his vehemence and excitement proved infectious, for now the soldiers and a few of the spectators caught up the cry, and the churchyard rang with shouts of “Ay! down with it! down with it!” while the villagers began to press forward in an uncertain way, scarcely knowing what to think.
The Vicar rushed between the cross and the soldiers as though to guard it from attack, and turned with outstretched arms to his parishioners.
“I tell you, good people,” he said, in his ringing, manly voice, “that this cross was set up by early Christians. Beneath it there lies buried the ancient stone which was worshipped in heathen times. This is no idol, but a witness to the truth.”
“Don’t heed the Vicar! Obey the word of God!” shouted Waghorn. “Break it in pieces like a potter’s vessel!”
Again the contagion of the fanatic’s excitement spread, and elicited yet fiercer shouts of “Ay! Pull it down! Break it in pieces! Remember Smithfield!”
Gabriel saw that a serious riot would ensue unless action were quickly taken.
Shouting an order for silence, which was promptly obeyed by the soldiers, he said to the Vicar, “Sir, ’tis true enough that Parliament hath ordered the destruction of images and crosses. In many places the people truly did bow down to them. We wish that God alone should be glorified, and we dread homage to symbols. I fear that it will be my duty to carry out the Parliamentary order.”
“In truth, sir,” pleaded the Vicar, “I assure you that I dislike acts of homage to the cross as much as you do. I merely plead with you for our right to keep the ensign of our faith. What is that blue banner yonder officer holds?”
“’Tis the banner of the Parliament, sir,” said Gabriel.
“Well, sir, you do not worship your flag, but you would not lightly part with it. That cross, sir, is my flag, and, unless your looks belie you, I think you will refuse to destroy the witness of our common faith.”
Gabriel had listened with respect and deep attention to this earnest appeal. The long years of controversy and strife had accentuated every religious difference. Hard words had been remorselessly hurled on both sides; but here was a man who boldly appealed to “our common faith.”
In a sudden flash he seemed to realise how overwhelmingly great was this faith they shared. All lesser differences were dwarfed. He no longer saw the stone cross, the buff-coated men-at-arms and the villagers—he saw instead a jeering rabble, and Roman soldiers and the Eternal Revelation of God’s great love to the world. All that he had known from childhood, and honestly striven to carry into practice, was flooded by one of those inspiring gleams which make us understand how much nearer is the Unseen than the Seen; so that for the time there seemed to him nothing in the whole universe save that perfect Revelation of Love.
He was recalled from his Mount of Transfiguration by the urgent need of help down below. Like a false note in a symphony, Waghorn’s voice broke the silence which, to his violent zeal, had seemed unendurable.
“Don’t heed him, Captain! Don’t heed him! Down with the accursed idol! So let all Thine enemies perish, O Lord!”
Gabriel strode towards him.
“Silence!” he cried, sternly. “The devil, as we all know, can quote Scripture. Sir,” he continued, turning to the Vicar, with a look that told of genuine respect, “your words stir my heart strangely. If you will promise to have graven on the cross these words
Honour not the cross,
But honour God for Christ,
no man shall touch what you rightly call the witness of our common faith.”
The Vicar grasped his hand with grateful warmth.
“I thank you from my heart, sir, and I promise right willingly. Zachary! Go fetch Tim the mason, and bid him carve the words without delay. And, good people,” he added, as the villagers crowded round him, two little children plucking at his sleeve till he put his kindly hands caressingly on their shoulders, “let us never allow the emblem of Divine Love to become the target for bitterness and division. Above all the unhappy strife of to-day, there is one thing which may yet unite us—it is love, the bond of peace.”
All this time Hilary had obediently waited in the garden, but the garden was separated from the churchyard only by a low hedge of clipped yews, and in one place the trees had been allowed to grow higher and had been cut into a sheltered arbour. Here, quite hidden from view, she had seen and heard all that passed.
For a minute or two she had not recognised Gabriel, for his face had been turned from her and she had only once before seen him with short hair and in uniform. But when he stepped forward and spoke to the people her heart gave such a bound of joy that in reality all her perplexed musings as to the answer she should make to Colonel Norton were solved.
When she heard the word of command given to the soldiers to march from the churchyard, and saw the crowd beginning to disperse, she hastened from the arbour, and was just approaching the little gate in the hedge when she saw the Vicar drawing near, and heard him warmly pressing the Parliamentary Captain to dine with them.
“Uncle!” she said, opening the gate, “you do not know our old friend, Mr. Gabriel Harford.”
Gabriel looked in amazement at the dear familiar face in the grey and pink hood, at the trim erect figure in the old grey gown, outlined against the arch of dark yew. Surely that white hand holding open the gate was an emblem of hope? Surely he could read signs of love in the bright eyes and in the glowing cheeks?
“Hilary!” he cried, with a choking sensation in his throat. “Are you here?”
He bent down and kissed her hand, and they were both relieved when the Vicar came to the rescue.
“Captain Harford! Why, this is excellent hearing. I had no notion, sir, what your name was, but if aught could make my rejoicing greater, it would be the knowledge that this kindly deed was done by one well known to my dear sister now at rest, this child’s mother,” and he took Hilary’s hand caressingly in his.
“I will see if dinner is ready,” she said, nervously.
“No, child, I must myself go in, and will speak to Durdle. Do you entertain Captain Harford. You were children together and will have many a matter to talk over, I’ll warrant.”
He went into the house, and Gabriel drew a little nearer to Hilary.
“Your uncle does not know, then, that we were ever more to one another than just playmates?” he said; and as for an instant she glanced at him, she saw how much he must have gone through since their last parting.
“No,” she replied, shyly. “He never heard about it. So much has passed since then. You had tidings of my dear mother’s death, Gabriel?”
“Yes, I heard of it at Bath, before the fight at Lansdown. My thoughts have always been with you, but you never replied to my letter.”
“No letter ever reached me,” she said.
“This miserable war too often makes writing useless,” said Gabriel, with a sigh. “For nigh upon two years I have been hoping against hope for an answer. Ah! here comes Mrs. Durdle.”
“Dinner is served, mistress,” said Durdle. “I hope I see you well, sir,” she added, curtseying and beaming as her eyes fell on Gabriel.
“Why! Mrs. Durdle,” he said, laughing, as he shook her by the hand. “I could fancy myself at home once more now that I see you again.”
“And it’s glad I am to welcome you to Bosbury, sir,” said the housekeeper, blithely. “Begun your work you did by guarding me and that silly wench Maria when the Parliament soldiers first came to Hereford; and now here you be to guard Bosbury Cross from that crazy-pated Waghorn.”
They entered the house and were soon dining together. Hilary, far too much excited to eat, keeping up a gallant show with a mere fragment of meat and a large helping of salad, but Gabriel making satisfactory inroads on the cold stalled ox, which usually made the household dinner on Sunday, Monday and Tuesday.
“I only hope that in the excitement of that scene in the churchyard, Durdle hasn’t let my apple pasties burn to cinders in the oven,” said Hilary, smiling. “You always used to have a liking for hot apple pasties when we were children,” she said, glancing at him.
“And ’tis many a day since I had a chance of tasting one,” he said, laughing. “Soldiers are supposed to keep alive and well on the strangest fare.”
“Ah! sir, you have done a grand work to-day,” said the Vicar, with such relief and happiness in his tone that Hilary found tears starting to her eyes. “You have shown a generous forbearance which coming generations will have cause to remember with gratitude.”
“In truth, sir,” said Gabriel, “’tis I that am indebted to you for words that will often cheer me in these harsh times. Our rasping differences are ever confronting us and shutting out all thought of what we share.”
The talk turned on Dr. Harford’s visit more than a year before, and of Waghorn’s attack on the East window. Gabriel had heard nothing about it, for letters from Hereford had more than once failed to reach him. Indeed, as he explained, he had imagined that Dr. Coke was still at Bromyard.
Just then the Vicar was called away to speak to some one, and as Gabriel could not be induced to eat a third pasty, Hilary proposed that they should return to the garden.
“It was from this little arbour that I saw and heard all that passed just now,” she said, as they sat down in the cosy little retreat. “I hope you appreciated Durdle’s words of praise.”
“Durdle was kinder to me at Hereford than you were,” he said, reproachfully.
“She urged me to see you, and so in truth did my mother,” said Hilary, drooping her head.
“And you always refused. I wonder if you knew how cruelly you hurt me,” he said, with that note of pain in his voice which always disturbed her.
“What would have been the use of inviting you to come in?” she replied. “You know that it was worse than useless when we met in the cathedral porch. We parted because of our great differences. Naught had changed.”
“Yet,” pleaded Gabriel, “the Vicar told us but now that there was one thing which must always unite us.”
She drew up her head with all her old pride and hardness.
“I could never love a rebel,” she said, perversely.
Gabriel, bitterly disappointed, remained absolutely silent. A bee flew humming loudly into the arbour, then roamed forth once more to the apple blossom on a tree hard by. There was a faint stirring, too, in the shrubs just behind them in the churchyard as Peter Waghorn, who had followed the movements of the Parliamentary Captain with stealthy malevolence, crouched down that he might hear what treason was being plotted betwixt this half-hearted officer and the Vicar’s Royalist niece. The two noticed nothing, for they were absorbed in their own thoughts.
“Why are you a rebel, Gabriel?” said Hilary, more quietly, as she lifted her face to his pleadingly. “Oh, think better of it! ’Tis not too late. Many men have changed sides. Think how good our King is!”
Her appeal moved him painfully, a look of keen distress dawned in his eyes.
“A good man, but an untrustworthy King,” he said, controlling his agitation with difficulty. “Nay, we won’t argue. You well know that I fight for the ancient rights and liberties of Englishmen, and even for love of you, Hilary, I can’t turn back! I can’t turn back! And yet, oh! my God! how hard it is!”
“I did not mean to pain you,” said Hilary, remorsefully. “Nay, I longed to tell you how it pleased me to hear all that you said when Waghorn would have pulled down the cross. Are you still in Sir William Waller’s army?”
“No, at present I am serving under Colonel Massey, but I hope ere long to be sent to Sir Thomas Fairfax at Windsor, where he is forming the New Model Army.”
“You will serve under him?”
“My great wish is to follow in my father’s steps, but just now I am to act as the bearer of important despatches. Enough, however, of my affairs. Do tell me of yourself. If only you guessed how I had hungered for news of you!”
“’Twere far better that you forgot me,” she said, beginning to play with the little housewife that hung from her girdle.
“I can never forget,” he said, vehemently. “Surely you understand that my love for you is unchanged.”
Suddenly there darted into her mind the remembrance of Norton’s words about the pretty daughter of the Gloucestershire squire. When spoken they had seemed to turn her love to hatred, yet in the sudden rapture of Gabriel’s return she had absolutely forgotten all about them. He could not understand the change that now came over her whole manner and bearing.
“Don’t speak of your love,” she said, indignantly. “All that is at an end—at best we can now be only friendly foes. More is impossible.”
“Why impossible?” he pleaded.
Then terror seizing him, he exclaimed, “Do you mean that someone else loves you?”
“Why do you ask?” she said, with some embarrassment.
“Oh! have pity on me, Hilary,” he cried. “At least tell me one way or the other. Is there some other lover?”
“Yes,” she owned. “There is one that loves me, and a right loyal gentleman he is—the Governor of Canon Frome.”
He turned pale. The silence and the suffering in his face angered Hilary.
“What right have you to be concerned?” she said, indignantly. “You have not really been constant to me; I well know that you have been making love to the heiress of a Gloucestershire squire.”
“Who told you so base a lie?” said Gabriel, starting to his feet.
“One whose word I trust,” she replied, quietly, “the loyal Governor of Canon Frome.”
“His name?” asked Gabriel, eagerly.
“His name is Colonel Norton,” she said, triumphantly.
“Norton!” he cried, in horror. “He is the man you trust? The man who has dared to speak of love to you?”
“Yes; why not? Is he not a brave soldier and active in the King’s service?”
“Brave, no doubt. He is an Englishman. But surely you have heard that even his own party are aghast at his doings?”
“I have heard naught against him,” said Hilary, indignantly. “You are jealous, and if there is one thing on earth I despise ’tis jealousy.”
“The fellow is not worthy to touch the hem-of your garment,” said Gabriel, sternly. “Listen to me. You shall hear the plain truth. ’Tis well known that he is a Cavalier of the type of my Lord Goring. I would sooner see you dead than in his power.”
“It would be unfair of me to heed your attack on the absent,” said Hilary, coldly. “You are jealous, and ready to believe evil of Colonel Norton.”
“You torture me!” cried Gabriel, desperately.
“Oh, you pretend that you are unchanged,” said Hilary, with scorn. “But there is no smoke without fire, and the Gloucestershire heiress——”
“Hush!” he said, sitting down beside her once more, and his quietness of manner and restrained force dominated her.
“Now I am resolved that you shall hear precisely what passed, for it is due to Mistress Neal as well as to you and to myself.”
Very briefly he told of Norton’s interview with Major Locke at Gloucester, of the interrupted duel, of the way in which he and Joscelyn Heyworth had rescued Helena from the cruel trap that had been set for her. In spite of herself Hilary’s sympathies were enlisted on the side of the poor little maid, and perhaps she inclined to her all the more when she heard that she was now happily married to Mr. Humphrey Neal.
“And her father?” she inquired. “What has become of him?”
“He died at Marlborough, mainly, I do believe, because Colonel Norton forced him to travel when he was desperately wounded and refused him the aid of a surgeon,” said Gabriel.
There was a silence. He would not speak of the way in which Norton had treated him in the church.
“After all,” said Hilary, with a mutinous little toss of the head, “I have but your word for this. You tell me one tale and Colonel Norton another. Why should I trust a rebel and distrust a Royalist?”
A sigh of despair broke from Gabriel at her perversity.
“I can only repeat,” he said, “that I love you with all my heart and soul, but if it were to save you from wedding this vile profligate I could rejoice to see you the wife of any honourable man.”
“You leap to conclusions,” she said, relenting a little, “I am in no haste to wed. There is not even a promise given yet. I merely said he loved me. But enough! Let us come into the church and you shall see what havoc Waghorn wrought there.”
“We must admit nothing which turns our worship from inward to outward, which tends to set the transitory in place of the eternal. Nothing external, however splendid and impressive, can bring us nearer to the Divine; but external things may engross and exhaust our powers of devotion. Veils of sense, no less than veils of intellect, may come between us and the spiritual, in which alone we can rest. To rest in forms is idolatry. Earth may hold us still under the guise of heaven.”
—Christian Aspects of Life.—Bishop Westcott.
When the two had passed through the little gate in the churchyard, and had disappeared inside the building, Peter Waghorn crept cautiously from his hiding place among the shrubs. Shaking his fist at the cross which was so obnoxious to him, he slowly made his way to his own house, his mind full of what he had overheard.
The long-delayed scheme for the destruction of the cross, upon which he had set his heart, had been frustrated at the very last moment by this young captain. Doubtless, Waghorn thought, he had been secretly persuaded beforehand by the soft blandishments of the Vicar’s niece. She had discreetly kept in the background throughout the scene, but, of course, it was all really her doing.
“Well, well,” he muttered grimly, as he sat down in his lonely room, “I have him in my power now, and can revenge myself on him! He baulked me as to the cross, and as good as called me a devil. The man’s a traitor! He’s one of the ungodly. I’ll unmask him even if for the nonce I have to play into Colonel Norton’s hands. I’ll take word to Canon Frome as to the despatches he is to bear to Windsor. Eh, eh! Captain Harford. I shall have you laid by the heels, and you shall bitterly rue the day when you set your hand to the plough and then turned back.”
With bitter vindictiveness he drew an inkhorn and pen towards him, and laboriously began to write the following words:
“I have a carpentering job in the ante-room at Canon Frome Manor this day, and shall be there at three of the clocke. If Colonel Norton wishes to gett tydings of a dangerous ryvall, who is moreover a rebel, he cann obtayne it on certaine con-dishuns.”
He had just sanded this document, and was about to fold and seal it, when the sound of the Old 113th in the village street made him pause. He stepped out into the road in front of the house, and saw that the Puritan soldiers were ready to march back to Ledbury, and, evidently at the Vicar’s request, were first joining the villagers in a Psalm. As the words floated towards him a look of wonder and hesitation crossed the stern face of the wood carver. It was as if he caught a momentary glimpse of a unity as yet far beyond his reach.
O children which do serve the Lord,
Praise ye His name with one accord,
Yea, blessed always be His name;
Who from the rising of the sun
Till it return where it begun,
Is to be praised with great fame,
The Lord all people doth surmount,
As for His glory we may count
Above the heavens high to be.
With God the Lord who may compare,
Whose dwellings in the heavens are;
Of such great power and force is He.
But the bitter memory of his father’s death returned to him, and when another psalm was started he closed his door and hardened his heart; as soon as the soldiers had left the village he resolved to set out for Canon Frome.
Meanwhile Gabriel and Hilary were viewing Waghorn’s work in the church.
“It was such a grief to my uncle,” said Hilary. “Often in former times I have seen him sitting here about sunset quietly enjoying the beauty of the place and the jewel-like colouring of the window.”
“I am sorry Waghorn destroyed it,” said Gabriel. “Yet it would be dishonest of me to let you think that I am wholly without the usual Puritan feeling. To paint an imaginary picture of the Christ seems to me taking an unwarrantable liberty, which we should not allow a painter to take with any other friend or kinsman.”
“Don’t you mind spoiling a beautiful thing?” she said, wonderingly.
“I never saw anything to complain of in the Bosbury window,” he replied, “but some representing the Trinity I gladly saw destroyed. At Abingdon, when Sir William Waller had the market cross hewn down, I helped to break in pieces the images of the saints surrounding it, for some folk still knelt to them. And though at Winchester we regretted the irreverence shown to the tombs of the dead, and did our utmost to check it, we found it well-nigh impossible to control the people, for they connect all pictures and sculpture with the hated tyranny of Popish times.”
“I don’t understand how you can endure such sights,” said Hilary.
“Perhaps you hardly understand that a soldier has to endure sights so much more dreadful. Human beings crushed, battered, mangled—homes destroyed, and families destitute and starving—all the horrors of war. When once you have learnt to love people, you can’t think so much of mere things.”
“I don’t think you ever really cared for what was beautiful,” she said, reproachfully.
He winced. For was not her radiant loveliness tugging at his heart—torturing him with an intolerable longing to have her for his own to all eternity?
Norton would skilfully have taken advantage of such an opening and used it for his selfish ends, but Gabriel’s voice only sounded a little constrained, as he replied:
“You are right in deeming me no artist.”
Into his mind there came a sudden recollection of the comfort that Hilary’s miniature had been to him through these years of pain and separation; and then a horrible memory of what had passed about it in the church at Marlborough, and the sickening thought that Norton was even now seeking to ensnare her.
What was he to do? How could he best serve her? Their differences in religion and politics seemed to loom up larger than ever, and hopelessly to part them.
The sound of the soldiers and the villagers joining in the thanksgiving psalm broke in upon his sad thoughts. When the verse ended, he turned to Hilary and there was again a look of hope in his eyes. He was standing beneath the beautifully carved old rood screen and she was strangely moved by the pathos of his expression.
“After all,” he said, cheerfully, “we may find a parable in this Bosbury window which will show us how small are our differences. You and the Vicar love to see through a coloured picture; we Puritans should, as a rule, prefer the clearest glass, but we are both looking through the same outlet to the same sunlight.”
The thought appealed to her; she smiled with something of her old comprehending sweetness.
“I am very glad you spared the cross,” she said, gently, as they paused for a minute in the south porch. “If—if I pained you just now, I am sorry, Gabriel.”
“Promise me that you will at least take counsel before you again speak to Colonel Norton,” he pleaded.
“What right have you to demand promises of me?” she asked proudly.
“No right,” he said, his voice faltering, “but by the memory of your mother I implore you, Hilary.”
“I will think of it,” she said. “What! are you going?”
“I distrust that fanatic Waghorn, he may stir up the soldiers once more,” he replied. Then, with an irrepressible sigh, “’Tis like enough, Hilary, that you and I may never meet again; will you not give me that one word of comfort?”
The sudden stab of pain at the thought that this might indeed be their last meeting, broke down her pride.
“Well—I promise,” she said, gently. Then, as he bent down and kissed her hand, the familiar notes of “In trouble and adversity,” fell upon her ear. “Do you hear what they are singing?” she cried. “’Tis our psalm that we sang years ago in the Cathedral, that day when——” she broke off in confusion.
“You still remember?” he said, tenderly, his eyes full of happiness as they met hers.
At that moment, to his bitter regret, they heard steps on the path, and looking up, saw a burly sergeant approaching. Gabriel went to give him his orders, then returned to the porch.
“We must march as soon as they have ended the psalm,” he said, stooping once more to press a passionate kiss on her hand. “I am glad you remember that day, Hilary. Remember always! Remember always!”
She heard his voice tremble, yet could not speak; she watched him walk rapidly down the path to the lych-gate, and then as the hearty voices of the soldiers and the villagers rose in the final verse, she sank down on one of the benches in the porch, and, hiding her face in her hands, burst into tears.
About three o’clock that afternoon Norton, waking from an after-dinner nap, sauntered out into one of the corridors at Canon Frome Manor.
“There is a carpenter-fellow, sir, at work in the house, and he bade me give this into your hands,” said his servant, approaching him.
Norton carelessly broke the seal and glanced at the laboriously-written lines. A smile began to flicker about his lips, and with some curiosity he made his way to the ante-room which led to Dame Elizabeth’s apartments. Here he found Waghorn busily engaged in mending a spinning-wheel.
“Good-day, Colonel,” said the fanatic, gloomily. “Hath my missive been delivered?”
“So this is from you!” said Norton, with a sarcastic smile. “You are the fellow I met once at Bosbury. Have you thought better of it, and are you going to change sides?”
“Nay, nay, I trow not,” replied Waghorn, his eyes gleaming. “But I would fain be used as the instrument of vengeance on the ungodly, even though for the time I do serve thee and thy cause.”
Norton gave one of his short scoffing laughs.
“I faith I scarce know if I could be served by one of such a vinegar aspect!”
“Dost thou love Mistress Hilary Unett?” asked the wood-carver, sternly.
The Colonel started.
“What is that to you, scarecrow?”
“I had heard gossip in the village as to thy wooing of her, and I thought mayhap a knowledge of the doings of her old lover, Captain Harford, might be worth something to thee.”
“Harford!” cried the Colonel, in surprise. “What do you know of him?”
Waghorn carefully adjusted a screw in the spinning-wheel, then looked up shrewdly.
“What would the knowledge be worth to thee?”
“Oh! You want money! Here! I’m as poor as a rook, but for the whole truth about this cursed lover I’ll give you a crown piece.”
He took a coin from his pocket and flung it on the floor. Waghorn, with an angry frown, pushed it from him.
“Thy money perish with thee! I want none of it. Nay, ’tis something more than money that I must have for the tidings. Promise to use me as the instrument of vengeance on this traitor.”
“Dost take me for a murderer hiring assassins?” said the Colonel, scornfully.
“I speak not of murder, but of bringing the ungodly and the traitorous to just punishment.”
“Well, I will use you if I can, but you must tell me more. Where is this Mr. Harford?”
“This very morning he yielded to the entreaty of the Vicar of Bosbury and spared the Popish cross in the churchyard. I vowed in my heart that he should suffer for that treachery, and, concealing myself, I heard all that passed later betwixt him and Mistress Hilary.”
“What did the fair lady say to him?”
“Why, she was just a second Eve, leading him on, and then the next minute sorely paining him; but methinks she hath a liking for him all the same, and left him some hope.”
“Hope of winning her?”
“That, doubtless, would follow: but what he urged on her was to walk warily with respect to you, sir.”
“What! Did my name pass betwixt them?”
Waghorn smiled grimly. “Ay, verily; and he plainly told her what you are, sir.”
“The devil he did! Pray, where can I find him?”
“He’ll be back at Ledbury by now, and I heard him say that he was to be sent off with important despatches to Sir Thomas Fairfax at Windsor.”
“You heard that?” cried Norton. “By the Lord Harry! we have him then! Waghorn, you are worth your weight in gold. Dog this fellow’s steps for me, have him waylaid with the despatches on him, and you may ask what you will of me. Ha, ha! We’ll have some sport with this outspoken young fool! He plainly told Mistress Hilary what I am, did he? I’ll be revenged on him for that, the prating, Puritanical marplot!”
“Only give me your orders, sir, and trust me he shall not escape. The ungodly shall be trapped in the work of his own hands!” said Waghorn, rubbing his hands with satisfaction.
Norton laughed. “Take care you don’t get trapped, Waghorn; you are not exactly what I should call a godly man yourself! A good deal of the old Adam in your thirst for vengeance, isn’t there?”
“Sir, Captain Harford hath treacherously spared a Popish idol, and he hath baulked me, although it was through my zeal and love for the truth that the Parliament soldiers were marched out from Ledbury for the pious work of destruction.”
“’Tis not pleasant to be baulked, I grant you,” said Norton, his eyes still twinkling. “But avenge yourself, and you’ll avenge me. How soon can you be in Ledbury?”
“As soon as this job is done, sir, and that will not be long.”
“Good! Let me know how you prosper, and see—you may be put to some charge in the town; so take this crown piece, and the devil send you luck!”
In high good humour at the prospect of getting Gabriel Harford into his power, the Colonel left the room, and Waghorn, having completed his work, packed up his tools and returned to Bosbury.
On the road he encountered the Vicar and his niece, for Hilary, ill at ease after her talk with Gabriel, had determined to seek advice from the motherly Dame Elizabeth, while the Vicar was anxious to see Sir Richard Hopton, and to congratulate him on his recent release from prison.
Fortune favoured the girl, for they encountered not only Sir Richard in the courtyard, but Mr. Geers, who had ridden over from Garnons to bring tidings of Frances and her sister, and to learn how Sir Richard fared. The gentlemen remained without, chatting together, and Hilary was ushered into the house, where, in the ante-room which Waghorn had just quitted, she found Dame Elizabeth, a stately, white-haired old lady, with kind far-seeing eyes.
Greeting her visitor warmly, she made her sit on a stool beside her, lamenting that Frances was still absent.
“In truth, dear madam, though it sounds unfriendly, I am glad she is not here,” said Hilary; “for I greatly want your help and counsel.”
“Now that is always a pleasant thing to hear,” said Dame Elizabeth, smiling. “There are many drawbacks to growing old, but the best part is that the maidens and the young matrons come to us with their joys and their sorrows.”
“They do well to come to you, dear madam, for you always understand so well. How the Queen can lay bare her heart to a priest is to me passing strange. But in sore need one might come to a mother-confessor.”
“What is your trouble, dear child?” said Dame Elizabeth, kindly. “How can I help you?”
“It all comes from this sad war,” said Hilary, with a sigh.
“In truth it hath brought sorrow to every home,” said Dame Elizabeth. “Think what it means for us to have one son fighting for the King and two for the Parliament! I love them alike, and there is never a moment’s ease or relief.”
“But you can rightly love all your sons, madam. My case is different. I—I am half ashamed to tell you how it is with me,” faltered Hilary, drooping her head.
“Perchance I can guess,” said Dame Elizabeth, caressing her. “Methinks, child, you do not know your own heart.”
“That is the very truth,” said Hilary, blushing, and lowering her voice. “This morning I thought—I fancied—that a loyal King’s officer had the chief place there; and now—now—I am half afraid that all the time my heart has been harbouring a rebel.”
“Try to forget their opinions, and think of them only as men. Believe me, child, love has naught to do with matters of State.”
“That is what Gabriel Harford always said—we were betrothed before the war began.”
“And then, I suppose, you quarrelled.”
“Yes—we—parted. I vowed I would never wed a man who was not loyal, and he protested that loyalty meant faithfulness to law.”
“’Tis what my sons said, too. The King had unlawfully imprisoned, unlawfully taxed and unlawfully governed without a Parliament for eleven years, and they said they must defend the ancient liberties of England. Tell me of this other lover, child.”
“Gabriel thinks him unfit to speak to me, and says that the Royalists themselves blame his way of life.”
“Have you known him long?”
“Not very long. But to Uncle Coke and to me he hath been all that is kind. I wish you would tell me the truth about him, dear madam.”
“Surely it is not possible that you mean Colonel Norton? Hath he dared to force himself upon you?”
“Why, he hath shown great attention to my uncle, and is ever bringing him rare antiquities that greatly please him, and many and many a time I have talked with him.”
“Oh, child! you are too inexperienced. I know Colonel Norton, for the officers of the Canon Frome garrison live here at free quarters. Have no more to do with him, Hilary, for, believe me, he is cruel and dissolute. At this very time, Sir Richard is writing to beg for the appointment of some other governor, and I am writing of our grievances to our kinsman, Lord Hopton, the noblest of all the King’s generals.”
“Were we, then, so deceived in Colonel Norton? I know that I am ignorant enough, but Uncle Coke——”
“My dear, the Vicar of Bosbury is the most genial and kind-hearted gentleman, and very slow to suspect that all men are not of a like disposition. You must warn him—you can tell him of our talk.”
“He ought to know, but, oh, dear madam! I cannot tell him,” said Hilary, blushing to the roots of her hair. “Why, only this morning I fancied—oh!” she cried, springing to her feet in a burst of indignation, “how dared that man trifle with me!—how dared he!”
“The best plan will be for me to say a word to Mr. Geers, he is your uncle’s friend, and he knows more of Colonel Norton than Sir Richard doth. Do not grieve your heart any more, my child,” said Dame Elizabeth, embracing her. “Stay to supper, and I will arrange matters for you. And as for Mr. Harford, remember this, ’tis not a man’s opinions that make him a good husband, but his life and character.”
With great tact, the hostess contrived in a few words to tell Mr. Geers the state of affairs, and the good-natured owner of Garnons undertook, in his cordial, friendly way, to talk matters over with the Vicar.
“It seems that I am predestined to plead the cause of my rival, the grapegulper,” he reflected, with a smile. “But I can do it this time with even more zeal than when I talked years ago with the Bishop, being myself an excellent example of the happy married man. Both for the sake of Mrs. Jefferies’ godson and of the pretty maid that rejected my suit, I will do my best to open the eyes of my friend the antiquary.”