“There is no time so miserable but a man may be true.”
--Timon of Athens.
How Gabriel lived through the next few days he never clearly
remembered. Afterwards it seemed to him as if he had been struggling up
some huge mountain, crawling inch by inch with no very definite aim, but
simply because he thought it would be the part of a coward to lie down
and die. He rode with his father, he went fishing, he read Burton’s
“Protestation Protested,” and tried to grasp the tolerant notion of a
National Church surrounded by voluntary Churches which had occurred
to Dr. Laud’s victim during his long imprisonment. He read, too, Lord
Brooke’s “Discourse on Episcopacy,” and got a further glimpse of that
toleration which was as yet so little understood by either side in the
great struggle. But, through all, the grievous wound in his heart made
itself constantly felt, and the dreary emptiness of the world seemed to
offer him no grain of comfort.
One night he remembered that the life, which seemed so unbearable as
well as so useless, might at least be laid down for the country. Hilary
had rejected him, but was not the Lord General at Worcester, and only
too glad to accept any able-bodied man who would volunteer? It was well
known that the Earl of Essex, Sir William Waller, Hampden, Cromwell--all
the leading Parliamentarians, in fact--were profiting by the first
repulse at Powick Bridge, and were straining every nerve to get soldiers
of a spirit that would control such panic as had disorganised the men
when they had unexpectedly encountered Prince Rupert.
Gabriel was alone in his father’s study when this thought first came
to him. The evening had closed in; his mother, weary with a long day’s
work, had retired early, and the doctor had been summoned to see a dying
man in St. Owen’s street.
It was characteristic of him that the very thought of temporising had
never crossed his mind. He had not dreamed in London that public matters
could possibly separate him from Hilary, but now that he had found
how dearly he was to pay for his views, he was never even for a moment
tempted to shrink back. The Harfords, as he had said, to the Bishop,
did not change. Having once fairly studied the questions of the day, he
would be true to the cause he adopted, cost what it might; and having
once given his heart to a woman nothing could make him untrue to her.
On this Saturday evening, just a week after their unhappy dispute and
parting, there came to him for the first time the sense of returning
life. Of life, and even of a certain sweetness in life--for was it not
his to lay down in a good cause? Soon, too, perhaps within a few days or
weeks, it might all be over, and the pain which was making each hour a
misery would be ended; his body would lie on some distant battlefield,
and he would be free and at rest.
Stormy and wet as the night was he could not stay in the house, but
wrapping his cloak about him strode down the garden and paced rapidly
up and down the south walk. The place was haunted by memories of Hilary.
How they had played and quarrelled and kissed and made it up again in
the old times! How little they had dreamed in those happy, careless days
what the joys and pangs of love really meant! And how very vague had
been his childish notion of patriotism in the dusk of that December day
when he had whispered to Sir John Eliot’s snow effigy, the words, “I
wish to be like you; I wish to give my life for the country’s freedom!”
Well, his chance had come. Here was the very opportunity he had ardently
desired, but it had brought with it an agony that no child would have
had the power to imagine.
At last a deluge of rain drove him into the little arbour and, impelled
by some association of place, he drew forth the small leathern case
which for the last two years he had always carried and looked at the
dark glossy curl which Hilary had sent him. It was a rash thing to do,
for the very touch of the soft hair broke down the stern self-control he
had kept up through the week, while nature herself seemed to feel with
him as the wild wind swayed the branches to and fro and the rain came
down in torrents.
Lying there on the floor of the arbour he sobbed his heart out, tortured
by the words of Hilary’s last message--tortured more cruelly still by
the memory of her relentless face as he had last seen it. At length a
lull in the tempest began to influence him; he struggled to his feet
again and looked out into the night. The rain had ceased for a few
minutes; the cold, wet air revived him, and he stood watching the stormy
sky and the bleak-looking moon which shone out now and again through
rifts in the hurrying black clouds.
Cold and careless as the moon is of all the sorrow’s she looks down on,
no lover could ever resist the fascinations of her mysterious light. He
thought he would look to-night for the last time at that grassy glade
and at the old stone bench by the sweetbriar, where Hilary had been
singing to her guitar on the day he first realised his love. Quietly
opening the wicket-gate, he walked with sad steps over the soaking turf,
wondering--as the young always must wonder--how it was possible that a
joy such as theirs had been could have turned to such bitter anguish.
And then all at once the invincible hopefulness of youth came to his
aid. It could not all be over! This love that he knew to be pure and
true, was it possible that it should be wasted--cast away as a thing
of little worth? To think that it could end would be to doubt God the
Giver. In this world or the next they would yet be united.
He went to the bush of sweetbriar and gathered a spray, recalling as he
did so the old folk-tale of the prince who at the right time had fought
his way through the thorn hedge, and how the thorns had turned to roses,
and the sleeping princess had been wakened at length by his kiss of
love.
Perhaps Hilary’s love was, after all, not dead, but only sleeping;
perhaps his Princess Briar-rose would be wakened one day by a love which
would fight its way to her, be the obstacles never so great.
At that moment screams coming distinctly from the direction of Mrs.
Unett’s house fell upon his ear. He knew well that Hilary and her mother
were still at Whitbourne, and fearing that something must have gone
amiss during their absence, he walked up to the door which led to the
back premises, and knocked. At this, however, the screams only grew more
piercing.
He called to Mrs. Durdle, asking what was the matter, and at last she
was persuaded to open the door a few inches, and to peer cautiously out,
her fat face almost the colour of the guttering tallow candle which she
grasped in her capacious hand.
“Oh, Master Gabriel! I be glad to see you, we be _that_ frightful!”
She used the Herefordshire phrase for being frightened, but Gabriel
could hardly restrain a smile, for her terror had certainly not improved
her looks.
“What has frightened you?” he asked, following her into the house. “And
who in the world is making that noise?”
“Aw, sir, ’tis naught but Maria, she’s always timbersome, and to-night
there’s good cause with the soldiers clamouring at Byster’s Gate.”
“What soldiers?” exclaimed Gabriel in astonishment. “I had heard
naught.”
“Parliament soldiers, sir,” said Durdle, trembling. “Mick Thompson, my
Valentine, he told me they’ve been standing outside these two hours,
and he do think Price, the mayor, be going to let ’em in. Peace, you
hussy!” she added, turning to shake the hysterical maid who had come out
into the passage at the sound of a man’s voice.
“Oh, sir! Oh, sir!” cried Maria, “don’t let ’em kill us!”
“No, Master Gabriel, say a good word for me,” said Durdle, imploringly.
“For if I have called ’em Roundheads and traitors, ’tis the tongue
which, as the Scripture says, is a deadly evil. You’ll be witness, sir,
that I always had a tongue that would be wagging; some are born that
way, and others they be as mum as mice, but the quiet ones is often the
most dangerous, being you don’t know what to expect of ’em.”
“Why, Durdle, do you take them for savages? They won’t molest you,” said
Gabriel, with a smile.
“I’ll never say another word agin the Parliament if only the soldiers
will let me be and not come nigh the house,” said Durdle. “But if they
was to come here, and me left with naught but that screeching hussy for
company, I should go stark mad with fright.”
“I am joining the Parliamentary army myself,” said Gabriel, “and my
first piece of work shall be to guard this house, Durdle. And now let me
out by the front door and bolt it after me; I must go across to Byster’s
Gate and see what has come to pass.”
“Blessings on you, sir, for promising help to the defenceless,” said
Durdle, fervently. “I always did say there was a wonderful comfort in
havin’ a man to protect you.”
Gabriel, not a little amused by the old housekeeper’s confidence,
hurried across the city to see what truth there was in her tale. The
streets boasted no lamps, but there were lights in most of the windows,
and a stir and bustle in the place which was certainly unusual at such
an hour. Bye Street was thronged with people when at length he reached
it, nor did anyone heed the heavy rain which once more came pouring
down.
“Shame on the Mayor, say I,” exclaimed a burly citizen.
“Nay, ’tis Alderman Lane that’s the traitor,” retorted another. “They
do say he has persuaded the Mayor.”
“What has chanced?” asked Gabriel.
“Why, sir, the Earl of Stamford is marching to besiege Hereford, and his
advance guard has been parleying these two hours at the gate, standing
knee-deep in the mud and mire.”
“Here they come!” shouted a bystander. “Plague take the Mayor, he’s
letting in the cursed rebels.”
And amid groans and jeers the men of the advance guard filed through
Byster’s Gate, so wet and weary that they were almost ready to drop.
Scanning them closely as they formed up within the gateway, preparing to
stand on guard through the night, Gabriel caught sight of a well-known
face, and hastened forward to greet Ned Harley.
“Welcome to Hereford!” he said, greeting him warmly.
“There are not many that will join with you there,” said Ned laughing.
“My father is with the main body; they will enter, no doubt, to-morrow
morning, and will at least be spared standing to the mid-leg in dirty
water, as we have been for the last two hours.”
“You are half frozen,” said Gabriel.
“Ay, and half-starved to boot,” said Ned Harley. “Such foul weather
never was! We have had naught but snow and rain since we started, and
one of our soldiers died on the march so bitter was the cold.”
Gabriel tried to picture Lady Brillianas dismay could she have seen her
favourite son in his forlorn plight, for Ned, at the best of times, was
far from strong. Meantime, the citizens, having had a good look at the
soldiers, withdrew, bolting and barring their doors; and it was with
much difficulty that fuel was procured for the great fires which the
officers ordered to be kindled in the street. Gabriel was doing his best
to help with these when he was joined by his father, and they worked
with a will to get food for the weary men, retiring after midnight, and
taking Ned Harley with them for the rest he sorely needed.
When his friend had been fed and warmed, and left to the blissful quiet
of a great four-post bed in the guest chamber, Gabriel followed his
father to the study. The doctor was smoking his short clay pipe beside
the fire, and he looked with a certain expectancy at his son, whose
change of expression was noteworthy.
“Sir,” said Gabriel, “I crave your leave to join the Parliamentary Army.
I had determined to ask it before the arrival of Lord Stamford’s force,
but this will make matters still easier and to-morrow Sir Robert Harley
himself will be here.”
The doctor’s face was sad, and he sighed heavily.
“I am not surprised that you wish to serve,” he said. “I will try not
to grudge you to the good cause, my son. But God grant that this
fratricidal war may be a brief one.”
“Were it not a war in defence of our rightful liberties, I would never
draw sword, sir,” said Gabriel. “But since the discovery of the Army
Plots I know you also hold that there was naught for the Parliament to
do but in defence of the country’s rights to seize on the Militia and
prepare us to face foes from without and from within. The King makes
specious promises ‘on the word of a King,’ but his word has been proved
to be wholly untrustworthy. They say he is swayed by evil counsellors,
and if so, let us fight to deliver both King and country from that
curse. I for one would gladly enough die.”
“Lad,” said Dr. Harford, reading his thoughts, “you are sore-hearted
and in great heaviness, but forget not that your life is a sacred trust;
fight like a brave soldier, but give me your promise that you will not
rashly plunge into peril for the sake of ending a pain which you should
live to conquer.”
Gabriel was silent, he leant his head on the carved wooden chimney-piece
and looked down into the glowing embers.
“Remember,” said Dr. Harford, “that thousands have to bear just what you
are bearing, and that some weakly succumb or sink to lower levels, while
others, like your hero, Sir John Eliot, make pain and harsh treatment
and contumely so many stepping stones in their career.”
“I see not how pain of this sort is to be conquered,” said Gabriel,
still watching the embers in which his fancy could picture Hilary’s
face.
“Live on bravely, and you will find that it will be conquered by life,”
said the doctor. “Remember the poet’s saying:
‘He life’s war knows,
Whom all his passions follow as he goes.’
And may God Almighty spare you to me, my son.”
With those words to hearten him Gabriel volunteered his services to Sir
Robert Harley, who entered the city with the Earl of Stamford and Sir
Richard Hopton on the Sunday morning, taking up his quarters in the
Bishop’s Palace. It was hard to enter the place associated so much with
Hilary under these strange new conditions.
“I will write you a recommendation to Sir Philip Stapleton,” said Sir
Robert. “Hundreds of gentlemen have volunteered, and though you begin as
many of them do in the ranks, you are certain to get promotion.”
Gabriel thanked him, but as he stood waiting for the letter a sharp stab
of pain went to his heart, for he caught sight of a painting of Hilary
as a child, her eyes looking straight into his with that curious
dignity, that “touch me if you dare!” expression which she had always
been wont to assume when confronted by strangers.
On the following Tuesday he bade farewell to his father and mother, and
in company with Edward Harley and the forlorn hope, left Hereford for
Worcester, where the Earl of Essex with a military committee of twelve
noblemen of the county was endeavouring to bring the neighbourhood into
thorough subjection to the Parliament. Before long, as all realised,
the two armies were bound to find that opportunity for a pitched battle
which they both eagerly desired. And in the meanwhile Gabriel, amid the
duties of drilling, and the work which fell to his share, fought out his
own private battle in manly fashion, not forgetting his father’s words
as to the sacredness of life, yet not wholly without a lingering hope
that the coming fight might end a life that had grown distasteful.