Let my voice swell out through the great abyss
To the azure dome above,
With a chord of faith in the harp of bliss:
Thank God for love!
Let my voice thrill out beneath and above
The whole world through,
O my love and life, O my life and love,
Thank God for you!
--James Thomson.
It seemed so doubtful whether Oxford was doing Gabriel much good, and
the unhealthiness of the place was so great just then, that Dr. Harford
decided to send his son to London and to enter him as a student at one
of the Inns of Court. Sir Robert Harley had arranged to do the same with
his eldest son, and as the two were friends, Gabriel was greatly pleased
with the notion, and began to look forward to his new life. He discussed
his prospects with Mrs. Joyce Jefferies a few days later when he dined
with her at her pretty house in Widemarsh Street, but having known him
all his life, she quickly detected the sadness that lurked beneath all
his cheerful talk.
“Eliza,” she said, turning to her god-daughter, Miss Acton, who lived
with her, “will you take this biscuit out to Tray, he has been barking
and whining the last half-hour.”
“And what does Hilary Unett say to your leaving the University ere
taking your degree?” she said to Gabriel when they were alone.
“She knows naught about it,” he replied, colouring. “We are no longer
allowed to meet. The Bishop does not approve of our love.”
“Ah! that accounts for the change I noticed in her,” said the little
lady. “I grieve for you both. But you are young; matters may right
themselves in a year or two.”
They had reached the dessert stage, and Mrs. Joyce Jefferies had just
put a bunch of grapes on her godson’s plate, when she was startled by
a loud knock at the door. Miss Acton, returning from her mission to the
low-spirited dog in the garden, met the visitor in the entrance-hall,
and with heightened colour ushered him into the dining-room.
“Godmother, here is Mr. Geers,” she said, her pretty eyes bright with
pleasure.
Now Mrs. Joyce Jefferies, having the kindest of hearts, loved nothing
better than to set the course of true love running in safe and smooth
channels. It had long been her desire to see Mr. Geers and Eliza Acton
wedded. Unfortunately, Mr. Geers at present showed no signs of making
any proposal for Miss Acton’s hand, and since the godmother was no
matchmaker, she dared not even hint at what she so greatly wished.
“This is my godson, Mr. Gabriel Harford,” she said, having received the
visitor with a warm welcome. “Gabriel, you have not, I think, met my
cousin, Mr. Geers, of Carnons.”
Gabriel bowed, but his whole face seemed to stiffen, much to the
astonishment of his godmother.
Mr. Geers would take nothing but a cup of sack, having already dined. He
was a most quaint-looking person, but spite of the wandering eye which
Dr. Coke had mentioned, there was something not unpleasing in his
good-natured, shrewd expression and in his wide mouth, about which there
lurked a kind of satirical smile.
“I have come to you, cousin,” he said, “to be cheered and heartened
before going through a great ordeal. The fact is, I am going a-wooing.”
“Indeed,” said Mrs. Joyce Jefferies, feeling perplexed.
“I have only once glimpsed the fair lady, and have not yet been
introduced to her. The ceremony is to take place this afternoon at three
o’ the clock, and I have a sinking feeling here already.” He placed his
hand on his heart. Then taking out a watch from a shagreen case that
hung at his fob, “There are yet two hours, and I pray you to hearten me
up.”
The hostess laughed cheerfully, but all the time her kinsman had
been speaking she had observed with discomfort the pallor of her
goddaughter’s face, and the extraordinary way in which Gabriel was
swallowing the grapes she had put on his plate--certainly a most
terrible fit of indigestion must be the result.
“We will do our best to hearten you, but could do so better did we know
the fair lady’s name,” she said.
“Her name,” said Mr. Geers, with a humorous gleam in the well-regulated
eye and profound gravity in the squinting one, “her name is the worst
part of the whole affair. They christened her ‘Hilary,’ which is a name
that may be borne by man as well as woman. Now I desire a very womanly
woman, no masculine she, and Hilary smacks somewhat of lawyers and
their terms. But the surname is still worse, for that would lead one to
believe that the lady means to die single and hath no intention of going
in double harness. I confess that the name of Mistress Hilary Unett
discourages me mightily.”
Mrs. Joyce Jefferies, feeling convinced that in another minute Gabriel
would choke, bethought her of a plan which would relieve them all.
“You amuse me greatly,” she said, with a well-feigned laugh. “I must
have a confidential talk with you. Let us send off these young people
and enjoy a _tête-à-tête_. Eliza, my dear, take Mr. Harford to see my
throstle in the twiggen cage; I see he has finished his fruit.”
The two accepted the suggestion with alacrity, Mr. Geers watching them
thoughtfully as they left the room.
“What’s amiss with that young man?” he said, “is he in love with pretty
Eliza?”
“Oh! my dear Francis, do you really imagine Eliza would think twice of
a lad younger than herself?” said Mrs. Joyce, marvelling at the dense
stupidity of men. “But you are right in one way; the lad is in love,
and, as ill-luck will have it, with the very same lady you are going to
court.”
“What! with Mistress Hilary Unett? Great heavens! and I made merry over
her name in his presence. Now tell me all about it, cousin, for hang it!
the lady won’t look at a plainfaced man like me if that young spark has
spoken to her.”
“Dear Cousin Francis, we all know that you would make the very kindest
of husbands, but as you wish me to speak the bare truth I do not think
Hilary Unett will accept your suit unless her grandfather forces her to
do so.”
“She likes this handsome godson of yours?”
“Well, it is not for me to say yes or no to that question; but they have
been playmates ever since they could walk, and next-door neighbours. You
can judge for yourself whether it is likely or not.”
“I am greatly obliged to you for your sensible way of heartening me
ere I go courting,” said Mr. Geers, smiling broadly. “I am bound to go
through with the matter, but if the lady is true to herself nought will
come of it, and young Mr. Harford need not again come so near to choking
himself with burning rage and gulped grapes.”
The good-natured rival laughed till the tears ran down his sunburnt
cheeks.
“But it was hard on the poor fellow,” he said, after a while. “Clearly
he knew all about my proposals, for his face grew flint-like as you told
him my name. Give him a comforting hint when I am gone, or he may seek a
grave in the Wye and afterwards haunt me, which would make Garnons a yet
more unpleasant home.”
“Garnons is over-lonely for you,” said Mrs. Joyce. “Yet I cannot think
that Hilary Unett is well fitted to be its mistress.”
Perhaps Mr. Geers agreed with this shrewd remark when he had been
introduced to the bishop’s granddaughter. Her reception was so grave,
her manner so distant, that, as he confessed afterwards, it would have
been easier to woo an iceberg. Fortunately, his cousin’s words had given
him the clue to the girl’s manner and bearing, and on the third day of
his visit to the Palace he called at Mrs. Unett’s house, and finding
Hilary in the garden, resolved to speak out boldly, and make an end of
this highly unsatisfactory courtship.
“Mistress Unett,” he said, “the Bishop has been very good in allowing me
to propose an alliance with you, but I can scarcely flatter myself that
the idea is pleasing in your eyes. I am a plain-spoken man and will not
try your patience with further compliments or professions of my high
esteem and sincere admiration, but will ask you truthfully to tell me
whether you think you could honour me with your hand?”
“Sir, you have done me great honour by the proposal,” said Hilary,
nervously. “But I should only wrong you did I consent to be your wife.
You ask me to tell you the truth, and you have been so kindly a suitor
that I will do exactly as you bid me. The truth, sir, is that my heart
belongs to another.”
Mr. Geers bowed. “You honour me by your confidence, madam,” he said,
gallantly. “I withdraw at once in favour of the lucky man who has won so
great a treasure.”
“Alas! he is not lucky at all,” said Hilary, her eyes filling with
tears. “They say he is over-young, and will not allow us to meet.”
“For that, dear madam, there is a sure remedy. Have patience; we grow
old only too fast in these harassing days.”
And after that the good-natured suitor, with a pitying remembrance of
Gabriel Harford’s unhappy face, tried to do him a good turn with the
Bishop, by showing how utterly hopeless it was to woo a maid whose heart
had been given to another man since nursery days, and how extremely
probable it was that the lady’s health would suffer if she were too
severely tried.
The words made no apparent impression on the Bishop, but they returned
to him uncomfortably one Sunday morning in the cathedral, when his eye
happened to rest for a minute on Hilary’s face. It suddenly struck him
that she had grown curiously pale and thin during the last fortnight,
and glancing across at the place usually occupied by Gabriel Harford,
he noticed that in him, also, there was a change; the lad looked much
older, his sunburnt face had lost its boyish carelessness, his eyes
seemed larger and more sad. Yet there was a curious vigour about him in
spite of his trouble, and as he joined in the metrical Psalm something
in his expression appealed to the Bishop. The cathedral rang with the
sweet voices of the choristers as they sang to the tune of the old
137th, Sternhold and Hopkins’ quaint version of King David’s words:
“In trouble and adversity,
The Lord God hear thee still;
The majesty of Jacob’s God
Defend thee from all ill.
And send thee from His holy place
His help in every need;
And so in Sion stablish thee
And make thee strong indeed.
“According to thy heart’s desire
The Lord grant unto thee,
And all thy counsel and device
Full well perform may He.
The Lord will His anointed save,
I know well by His grace;
And send him help by His right hand
Out of His holy place.”
It was Gabriel’s last Sunday in Hereford. On Tuesday night he was to lie
at Brampton Bryan; on the following day to set off, in company with Sir
Robert Harley and his son for London. His heart was heavy as he wondered
when he should again see Hilary, yet, although they were not allowed
to meet, there was no small comfort in this glimpse of her at morning
service, from which no one had the right to debar him; there was
comfort, too, in the words they were singing together, and hope and
confidence began to possess his heart, and to bring a look of strength
to his face.
The Bishop noted it, and bethought him of what Mr. Geers had said. After
all, was he perhaps giving these two unnecessary pain? Was it, indeed,
useless to try to put an end to love which had grown with their growth
and strengthened with their strength?
By the end of the service Gabriel had decided that to leave home without
a word of farewell to Hilary was intolerable, and being too honourable
to steal an interview without leave, he waited in the Bishop’s cloisters
hoping to see the prelate as he returned to the Palace, and to make his
request. The sunshine blazed on the grass and daisies without, but the
cloisters with their vaulted roof and exquisitely sculptured figures
and foliage were cool and sheltered; Gabriel leant against one of the
mullions of the great windows, glad to feel the fresh September air on
his heated forehead. At length steps were heard, and looking up he saw
the Bishop approaching, with his chaplain in attendance. Wishing the
attendant anywhere else he stepped forward, and bowing low, said, “My
lord, may I have a word with you?”
Gabriel’s manner was good, and the worthy Bishop, taking the deference
in the tone for awe of his office, though it was in truth merely
reverence for his age and his learning, felt that he had misjudged
Hilary’s lover. Moreover, those who have just joined their prayers and
praises see each other in a clearer atmosphere, raised somewhat above
the fogs of prejudice and the murky smoke of differing opinions.
“You need not wait,” said the Bishop, glancing at his chaplain.
“I am glad to see you, Mr. Harford, for I have just learnt from Mrs.
Joyce Jefferies that you are about to leave Hereford.”
“I am to be entered as a student at Lincoln’s-inn, my lord, and I crave
your leave to say farewell to Hilary.”
The mere use of the Christian name at such a time reminded the Bishop of
the closeness of the intimacy between the two. Although he himself had
only lived four years in Hereford, Gabriel and Hilary had spent their
lives in the place as near neighbours. It had been easy enough to
discuss the betrothal as a mere matter of business with Dr. Harford,
but it was hard to the kindly old man to resist the appeal of the lover
himself.
“Merely to grant you a farewell would be a cruel kindness,” he said,
thoughtfully. “You are just leaving for a much wider and more varied
life; mayhap you will in London find others that will please your fancy
more than my granddaughter.”
“My lord, if I cannot wed Hilary, I will wed no other,” said Gabriel.
“We Harfords do not lightly change.”
Something in the confidence of his tone was so full of youth and
inexperience that the Bishop felt a fatherly compassion taking
possession of him.
“My lad,” he said, quietly, “you think thus in all honesty, but you are
going to live in one of the most wicked cities in the world. You know
not how great are the temptations you will have to face.”
“Yet if love be in truth akin to love Divine, it will ‘defend us from
all ill,’” said Gabriel, musingly; and to both of them it seemed that
the music of the old Psalm echoed Softly through the cloisters.
It was not very often that the Bishop turned from his theological
studies to direct talk with one of Gabriel’s stamp; he began now to
think that, after all, poor Frank Unett’s notion had been right, and
that a Harford would make a good husband.
“Lad,” he said, “believe me, I desire only what is best for you and my
grandchild. If I were to consent to a betrothal now on the understanding
that it is not publicly announced, would you on your part undertake to
avoid Hereford for the next two years? Time would then test and try you
both.” Gabriel’s face fairly shone.
“My lord,” he said, breathlessly, “I will gladly bear any waiting if
only we are permitted to be betrothed; and no one need be aware of it
except my parents, and, if you will permit it, my godmother, Mrs. Joyce
Jefferies.”
The Bishop smiled. “Yes, let Mrs. Jefferies know, for, in truth, it was
a few words she spoke to me that inclined me to listen to your appeal.
Go now, and talk over matters with your father, and I will prepare Mrs.
Unett and Hilary for your call.” All this time Hilary had seen no member
of the next-door household save little Bridstock, the brother born
during Gabriel’s school days, who had, of course, no notion of keeping
aloof from her and knew nothing of their trouble. Her face grew radiant
when the Bishop told her of his interview with Gabriel. Nevertheless,
the call--a state visit, paid in company with his father--was a rather
formidable affair for the lovers, who left most of the talking to their
elders, but their spirits rose when Dr. Harford proposed a ride for the
following day.
“I have to go over to Bosbury to see a patient,” he said, “and if the
day is fine I hope Mrs. Unett will entrust you to me.”
That Hilary should often accompany Gabriel and his father had long been
a custom, and the enforced home-keeping of the past fortnight had been
hard to bear. The girl’s face was radiant when once again she found
herself riding with her lover through St. Owen’s Gate and out into the
lovely country beyond. The unexpected relief after those weary days of
sorrow made it wholly impossible to trouble as to the future. To-morrow
there would indeed be parting, but for this one day they were as happy
and light-hearted as children, and with an added rapture which no
child can feel. On they rode past hedges bright with briony berries and
brambles, or veiled with feathery traveller’s joy; past hopyards where
the pickers were hard at work, their many-coloured raiment making
patches of brightness in the long green avenues; past orchards where the
trees were bending under their load of rosy or golden apples; while ever
and anon would come glimpses of the Malvern hills with their exquisite
colouring, not to be surpassed in richness by any other hills in
existence. At length the pretty village of Bosbury was reached, and Dr.
Harford pointed out to Hilary the old house of the Harfords in which
some of the happiest days of his childhood had been spent--a fine gabled
mansion with heavily mullioned windows. It had passed now into other
hands, and the doctor never willingly entered it, being a man who
disliked seeing his sacred places under new conditions.
“I have to see old Mr. Wall, the vicar,” he said to his son, “and as my
visit is likely to be a long one we will bait the horses at the _Bell_,
and you may show Hilary the monuments if she is disposed to look at
them.”
Hilary did not much mind what she looked at so long as Gabriel was her
cicerone, and the lovers, dismounting at the gate, walked through the
churchyard.
“What a strange tower it is standing quite separate from the church,”
said Hilary. “Why was it built in that fashion?”
Gabriel glanced up at the solid brown old tower with its mantling ivy.
“No one precisely knows, but some say it was that it might be used as a
place of refuge,” he replied.
They entered the south porch and found the door open and the fresh air
blowing through the beautiful church; from the lovely little chantry
chapel at the end of the south aisle came a flood of golden sunshine
mellowing the white pillars, while the wonderful dark oak chancel
screen, which was the special feature of the place, lifted its rare fan
tracery and rich carving in sombre contrast. There was something in the
quiet of this country church and in its beauty which appealed strongly
to Hilary, while to Gabriel, also, though he was much less responsive to
mere loveliness, the place had a homelike feeling, so often had he been
there with his father, and so vividly had Dr. Harford described to him
his own childish days at Bosbury.
The Harford monuments in the style of the early Renascence were on
either side of the sacrarium, and Gabriel, with a smile, pointed out to
Hilary a mistake in one of the inscriptions, which stated that there lay
Richard Harford, of the parish of Bosbury, Armiger, and Martha his wife.
“This lady in Elizabethan dress who rests beside my great uncle, is, in
truth, his first wife, Katherine Purefoy; and Mrs. Martha does not rest
here at all, but had two more husbands--to wit, Michael Hopton, of Canon
Frome, and John Berrow, of Awre.”
“I did not know you were connected with the Hoptons.”
“Yes, in this fashion, besides by a close friendship betwixt my father
and Sir Richard Hopton, and that again is cemented by their political
views being of the same order.”
“Have politics aught to do with friendship?”
“With friendship, yes, but with love nothing at all.”
“That is well, for you and I, perchance, might not agree,” said Hilary.
“We could always agree to differ, but in truth we neither of us as yet
know enough of matters of State to have any opinions,” he replied.
“I don’t quite understand your ancestry yet,” said Hilary, laughing.
“There is great-grandfather John, and here is great-uncle Richard, but
where is the grandfather?”
“He was Henry Harford, of Warminster,” said Gabriel. “But my father,
being the son of his second wife, Madame Alice Harford, inherits none of
the Harford property. Madame Harford still lives near London, and I am
to visit her. They say she is a most formidable personage, and has never
forgiven my father and mother for marrying when they were mere boy and
girl. For my part I am glad they did, for it makes my father understand
our case.”
“Yes, he understands well, and has been most kind to us. Had it not
been for him and for Mrs. Joyce Jefferies, we should have had sad hearts
to-day.”
They wandered back into the churchyard and sat down to rest on the steps
of the old stone cross which for many generations had stood there. So
quiet and peaceful was all around that it was hard to believe that the
village street was within a stone’s-throw, and the lovers, absorbed
in their own happiness, did not hear the quiet footsteps of a man
approaching them, did not dream that just as surely as time advanced
with cares and sorrows in his train, so did this austere-looking figure
come into their lives, bringing with him the shadow of a coming agony.
They both started when upon their love-making was cast the sudden shade
of the new-comer’s presence. Gabriel rose hurriedly, responding to the
man’s grave salute in some confusion.
“I understand that Dr. Harford is at the vicarage; can I leave with you,
sir, a message for him?”
“Certainly; what name?” said Gabriel, looking at the questioner’s
sombre, deep-set eyes, in which there smouldered a strange fire. A look
of resentment, indeed, darkened the whole face, which, though full of
strength and purpose, was far from pleasing.
“My name is Peter Waghorn, and yonder to the east of the church, in
the house with the tiled roof, my father, some years ago Vicar of
Miltoncleve, lies at the point of death.”
“I will tell Dr. Harford directly he leaves Mr. Wall,” said Gabriel.
Then with a thought of Hilary, “It is nought of an infectious kind, I
suppose?”
Peter Waghorn smiled grimly.
“My father is dying of a disease that has been over-rife in the country
since Dr. Laud got the upper hand. He was driven from his living in
Devon and imprisoned by the Bishop of Exeter for speaking against Dr.
Laud’s preaching. They then sent him to the Court of High Commission,
and he was deprived, degraded and fined.”
“But for what offence?” asked Gabriel. “Merely for disapproving of the
Archbishop’s doings? The prisons would be full of the gentry and the
most learned men of the day were all sent to gaol who disliked Dr.
Laud.”
“’Twas for preaching against decorations and images in the churches,”
said Peter Waghorn, a gleam of fierce wrath flashing across his face.
“So little do the punishments of the Archbishop match the offence, that
for this my father suffered the loss of all things, and for daring now
and again to preach afterwards, he was sent to Bridewell, mercilessly
flogged, and for a whole winter chained to a post with irons on his
hands and feet in a dark dungeon. ’Twas the cruel cold and damp that
ruined his health, for he had nought but a pad of straw to lie on, and
was kept on bread and water.”
“Truly they may well say that the oppressions and cruelties of the
prelates are enough to drive a wise man mad,” said Gabriel. “But surely
he may yet be saved? My father has brought many back to health that
other physicians despaired of.”
“’Tis over-late,” said Waghorn, bitterly; “he lies sick of a wasting
fever, and his limbs are stiff and useless with rheumatism. Yet his end
may perchance be eased by a skilled physician.”
At that moment Dr. Harford came out from the vicarage, and Peter
Waghorn, anxious to lose no more time, hastened forward to meet him.
In close conversation they walked down the village street, and Gabriel
returned to his place on the steps of the cross.
“How you do hate Archbishop Laud,” said Hilary, with a gleam of
amusement in her eyes as she looked at him. “For my part, if the older
Waghorn is like the younger I think he can have been no great loss to
the Church. Come, why vex yourself thus over the misfortunes of this
poor vicar? I thought you had no great liking for parsons.”
Her tone jarred on him. “I don’t understand,” he said, “how you can
be so little moved by a tale like that. It makes one’s blood boil;
and ’tis not only parsons who suffer. Remember how Mr. Shirfield, a
bencher of Lincoln’s Inn, was treated by the Star Chamber.”
“What was his crime?” asked Hilary.
“Merely that as Recorder of Salisbury he permitted the taking down of a
blasphemous window in St. Edmund’s Church--its removal had been agreed
to by a vestry when six justices of the peace were present.”
“But a window cannot be blasphemous,” said Hilary, looking perplexed.
“Indeed it can,” replied Gabriel. “Why, this one had seven pictures of
God the Father in the form of a little old man in a blue and red coat,
with a pouch by his side and an elbow chair. The people used to bow to
this as they went in and out. Merely to speak of it sickens one.”
Hilary still looked puzzled. She could not feel that it mattered much.
“And what did Dr. Laud do to Mr. Shir-field?” she asked, anxious to
understand why Gabriel’s indignation was so hot.
“He stood up and moved the Court that the Recorder should be fined
£1,000, removed from the Recordership and thrown into the Fleet Prison
till the fine was paid. And still worse was the fate of my father’s
friend Gellibrand, Professor of Astronomy at Trinity College, Oxford,
who, for encouraging the printing of an almanack in which the names of
the martyrs from Foxe’s book were mentioned and the black letter saints
omitted, was literally hounded to death by Dr. Laud. My father was
present at the trial in the Court of High Commission, and the Professor
was acquitted by Archbishop Abbott and the whole Court except Dr. Laud,
who was full of wrath at the acquittal, and urged that the Queen desired
him to prosecute the author and to suppress the book. Then when the
Court still persisted in acquitting the accused, Dr. Laud turned upon
him in fury, saying that he ought to be punished for making a faction in
the Court, and vowing that he would sit in his skirts, for he heard that
he kept conventicles at Gresham College after his lectures. Afterwards
a second prosecution in the High Commission was ordered, and this so
affected the Professor’s health and spirits that it brought a complaint
on him, of which he afterwards died.”
“Oh,” said Hilary, with a little impatient sigh, “let us have no more
doleful tales; these things have nought to do with us. Let us enjoy this
happy day while we can.”
Gabriel’s whole face changed at her appeal. The indignation gave place
to love and tenderness, and a mirthful look came into his eyes; when,
as if in response to her words, they heard the voices of some little
village children singing,
“Then to the maypole let us away,
For it is now a holiday.”
The ardent, generous spirit which made him quick to resent any sort
of cruelty or oppression also gave him the power to be such a lover as
might well content the most exacting of maidens, and there were probably
no happier people in England that day than these two lovers as they sat
under the shadow of Bosbury Cross.
Meanwhile in the tiled cottage to the east of the churchyard an old
clergyman, in the last throes of a lingering and painful death, faintly
gasped the words, “Lord, how long?”
The physician sorrowfully watched the havoc wrought by man-inflicted
ill, from time to time speaking a word or two of comfort and good cheer,
or gently raising the dying man into an easier posture. And at the foot
of the bed, his face buried in his hands, knelt Peter Waghorn, his frame
shaken with sobs, his heart consumed with hatred of Dr. Laud, and in his
mind the psalmist’s passionate cry, “Let there be none to extend mercy
unto _him!_ . .. Because that he remembered not to show mercy, but
persecuted the poor and needy man, that he might even slay the broken in
heart.” A last faint gasping sigh made him raise his head. The physician
was gently laying down the worn-out body and closing the sightless eyes.
From the open casement the wind wafted into the quiet room the glad
sound of children’s voices, and as the little people ran down the road
the words and the clear high notes floated back to the lovers by the
cross, and to the bereaved, sore-hearted man:
“. . . let us away!
For it is now a holiday.”
Dr. Harford noted the strange contrast within the room and without. He
laid his hand kindly on Peter Waghorn’s shoulder.
“Your father, too, keeps holiday,” he said; “be comforted, he has
entered into rest.”