Love doth unite and knit, both make and keep
Things one together, which were otherwise,
Or would be both diverse and distant.
--Christopher Harvey.
It was not until the latter part of October that Hilary and her mother
returned to Hereford. The news of the occupation of the city by the Earl
of Stamford had kept them longer at Whitbourne than had been expected;
but the cold of the country did not suit Mrs. Unett, and both mother and
daughter were glad to settle down once more in their own home.
Unfortunately, all the girl’s gentle thoughts had been banished by
hearing of the occupation of Hereford by the Parliament’s army. She was
once again a vehement little hater, and was revelling in the thought of
the resolute way in which she would keep Gabriel at a distance, refusing
even to notice him if they passed in the street.
As a matter of fact, the city looked exactly as usual on their return,
not a shot had been fired, no harm had been done to the cathedral, and
except for the discomfort of having soldiers in the place, few people
had complaints to make. Even Durdle shocked her young mistress by the
favourable way in which she spoke of the army.
“They do say there was some mischief done to Mrs. Joyce Jefferies’
house,” she admitted, “for she and Miss Acton they fled to Garnons in
a panic. But had they stayed here all would have been well, for Mr.
Gabriel Harford would have taken care of them as he did of us.”
Hilary’s face flamed, but she was too proud to question the housekeeper.
“He was down in the garden the night the soldiers was clamouring at
Byster’s Gate,” resumed Durdle, after a pause, “and hearing Maria
screaming, he came to the door to ask if aught was amiss, and no one
could have been kinder like, nor did he ever let a soldier come nigh the
house. And he came to bid me farewell on the fourth of October, when he
went away to Worcester to join the army, and spoke that civil and
pleasant just as though he’d been naught but a lad still.”
Hilary’s brain seemed to reel; she made a pretence of stooping to pick
up a tortoiseshell cat which dozed by the kitchen fire.
“Bad puss, have you been eating blackbeetles, to grow so thin?” she
exclaimed, stroking her pet with well-assumed indifference.
“What was that you were saying about Worcester, Durdle?”
The good-natured housekeeper gasped, her simple mind could not in the
least understand the subtle workings of Hilary’s more complex nature.
“Talk about pussy’s bowels being injured by beetles,” she said to
herself, “’tis my belief the lassie has no bowels at all. Was ever
such a heartless speech!”
“Well, Mistress, I was saying how Mr. Gabriel Harford had gone to join
the Earl of Essex’s army, along with his friend Mr. Edward Harley that
was at Oxford with him.”
“Oh, indeed,” said Hilary, carrying her head high. “Dr. Rogers tells
me the troopers stabled their horses in the nave and cloisters at
Worcester. Send up Maria to fetch my cape and hood, Durdle; they got
crushed in the coach, and had best be ironed.”
Then humming a cheerful song, she quitted the kitchen and sauntered out
into the garden, her heart throbbing as if it would choke her.
“He has joined the rebel army, and ’tis my fault,” she thought, in
anguish. “If he is killed, his death will be my doing! Oh, why was I so
cruel? Naught I could say would have changed his views, but at least he
would have gone quietly back to his studies had I not taunted him.”
Every nook in the garden seemed haunted by memories of lost happiness,
she could not pass the sunny wall to which the apricot trees were
fastened, or look towards the stone bench by the briar bush, without
seeing in fancy her lover’s face; and she knew very well why he had
wandered into that special place on the night of the servants’ alarm
about the soldiers.
The sound of the gardener singing, as he gathered the apples, smote
discordantly on her ear, and specially when drawing nearer she caught
the doleful words of an old ballad called “The Wife of Usher’s Well,”
in which the ghosts of the three dead sons return to their home, but can
only remain for the briefest of visits. The gardener sang with stolid
cheerfulness as he filled his basket:
“The cock doth craw, the day doth daw
The channerin’ worm doth chide;
Gin we be mist out o’ our place,
A sair pain we maun bide.
Fare ye weel, my mother dear!
Fareweel to barn and byre!
And fare ye weel, the bonny lass,
That kindles my mother’s fire.”
Turning hastily away to escape this dismal ditty she reentered the
house, and was glad to encounter her favourite uncle, Dr. William Coke,
who, during Gabriel’s absence in London, had been appointed to the
living of Bosbury, vacant on the death of old Mr. Wall. He had not been
among the very few who had been told of Hilary’s betrothal, and this
fact made her now more at ease with him than with her grandfather or her
mother. For a minute she forgot her troubles.
“We have but just returned from Whitbourne, sir,” she said, cheerfully.
“’Tis indeed good of you to come to us.”
“I thought, maybe, your mother would be disturbed at today’s news,
and rode over to have a chat with her,” said Dr. Coke, his genial face
clouding a little.
“We have heard no fresh news,” said Hilary, eagerly. “What has happened,
sir?”
“There has been a great battle in Warwickshire, nigh to Kineton, and
though at first all thought the King’s troops would be victorious, in
the end it proved but a drawn battle, both sides suffering grievously,
and naught gained to either. They tell me that thousands lie dead on the
field.”
His sorrowful face made Hilary realise more than she had yet done what
war meant; her head drooped as she remembered her exultation over the
fifty Parliament men killed at Powick Bridge, and recalled Gabriel’s
look of reproach. Very few details had as yet been learnt, and when she
had heard all her uncle could tell her she left him to talk with
Mrs. Unett, and for the sake of being free and undisturbed sought the
cathedral--the only place, save the garden, to which she was allowed to
go without an attendant.
Entering by the great north porch, she walked through the quiet,
deserted building to the north-east transept, and went to a little
retired nook by an arch in the north wall, where lay the effigy of
Bishop Swinfield. Here she had often come for quiet during the two years
of her betrothal, partly because it was a place where no one was likely
to notice her, and partly on account of her recollections of the snow
effigy which she and Gabriel had once fashioned after this pattern, in
honour of Sir John Eliot. Behind the tomb was a beautifully sculptured
bas-relief of the Crucifixion, and Hilary saw, with satisfaction, that
it had not been injured at all by the Earl of Stamford’s soldiers, who,
according to Durdle, had only visited the cathedral on Sunday morning,
when they had been somewhat disorderly, and had grumbled that prayers
were said for the King, but never a word for the Parliament.
She knelt long in the quiet, and when she once more turned her steps
homeward her remorse was less bitter and more practical, and at last,
after a hard struggle, she conquered her pride, and knocked at Dr.
Harford’s door, asking whether she could see Mrs. Harford.
Now Gabriel’s mother was one of those women whose affections are
strictly limited to their own families. In so far as outsiders were
useful to her husband or her son, she liked them; but if they caused her
beloved ones the least trouble or pain, she most cordially hated them.
So when Hilary conquered herself sufficiently to pay this visit, Mrs.
Harford, unable to see any point of view but her own, received the girl
in a most frigid way.
“We have but just returned from Whitbourne,” said Hilary, blushing, “and
I called to inquire after you, ma’am.”
“I am as well as any of us can hope to be in these troubled times,” said
Mrs. Harford, coldly.
There was an awkward pause, broken at last by an inquiry for Mrs.
Unett. Hilary tried desperately to prolong her answer. At the close came
another pause.
“We have but just heard from my uncle, Dr. Coke, of the great battle in
Warwickshire,” she said, falteringly. “Have you had any news, ma’am?”
The mother looked searchingly into the girl’s blushing face. “Yes,” she
replied, “only an hour or two since a messenger brought me a letter from
Lady Brilliana Harley, who had heard from her husband. He wrote the day
after the battle.”
The silence that followed almost maddened Hilary. “Were Sir Robert and
Mr. Harley safe?” she asked.
“Quite safe!” said Mrs. Harford, resolved not to spare the girl or help
her out in any way. It was some slight satisfaction to her to see this
proud maiden suffer.
“And Gabriel?” she faltered. “He was safe, too?”
“Alas, no!” said the mother, with a sigh.
Hilary turned white, but asked no more questions. As if from a great
distance she heard the silence at length broken by Mrs. Harford’s voice.
“They gave him up for lost that night, but the next morning a young
officer, Mr. Joscelyn Heyworth, found him on the field and there was
still life in him. They carried him to Kineton, and he lies there
grievously wounded.”
The girl rallied her failing powers and became obstinately hopeful. “He
is young and strong,” she said, with forced cheerfulness. “He is sure
to recover. My mother will be very sorry to hear your ill news,
and--and--if you should again have tidings, she would be glad to hear, I
know.”
“We cannot hope to hear again,” said Mrs. Harford. “It was only by great
good fortune that Sir Robert Harley was able to get a letter to Lady
Brilliana, and we are little like to hear from Gabriel himself, even if
he were well enough to write. This is the hard part of war, the terrible
waiting for news.” After formally polite farewells Hilary found herself
going down the broad oak staircase with dim eyes; but Neptune, Gabriel’s
favourite spaniel, stood wagging his tail in most friendly fashion in
the entrance-hall, and her sore heart was a little comforted when he
bounded up to lick her hand as if he recognised the fact that she was
still in some subtle way connected with his master.
Unwilling to pass through the street with eyes brimming over with tears,
she went back through the garden and by the little wicket gate. But the
sight of the sunny south walk did not raise her spirits, and with the
terror that even now Gabriel might be lying dead at Kineton, she could
hardly endure the sound of the gardener’s dismal ditty. He still toiled
away at the apple gathering, and still chanted, in lugubrious tones, the
gruesome words:
“The cock doth craw, the day doth daw,
The channerin’ worm doth chide-”
Hurrying away from this unbearable song and half blinded by tears, she
suddenly found herself brought to a pause by Dr. William Coke, who was
standing at the door that he might more closely inspect in the sunshine
a fossil which they had brought back from Whitbourne.
“Whither away so fast, little niece?” he said in his genial voice. Then
catching sight of the wet eyelashes, “Eh, what is amiss, my dear?”
“’Tis only that the stupid gardener will sing gruesome ballads about
graves and channerin’ worms just on this special day when we have heard
how thousands are dead and dying at Kineton,” said Hilary.
He sighed as he patted her shoulder, caressingly.
“True, child, it is indeed a dark day for England. May God send us
peace! But dwell not on that thought of the grave. Remember rather the
words, ‘The souls of the righteous are in the hands of God.’”
“But they were not all righteous,” said Hilary, in a choked voice.
“True, yet all belong to Him.”
“Many were rebels,” she said, “and Dr. Rogers thinks that all rebels
will burn for ever in hell.”
“My dear, though Dr. Rogers is a learned man, he knows no more than the
rest of us about the future state. I would even venture to say,” and
here Dr. Coke’s eyes twinkled, “that he knows less than many, for his
heart is not dominated by love but by zeal for orthodoxy, a thing which
some folk mistake for the following of Christ. And though, as you know,
I am loyal to His Majesty, I am bound to own that there has been much in
his rule which rightly roused the indignation of free Englishmen, and I
see that even in my own parish many of the best and the most God-fearing
men have felt it to be their duty to resist the King and to join the
Parliamentary forces.”
Hilary was comforted by these words, and through that weary autumn,
while they vainly hoped for news of Gabriel, she often thought of them,
and something of her uncle’s wider and nobler way of looking at things
began to dispel the bitter and contemptuous spirit which’ Dr. Rogers’s
teaching had fostered in her. Happily for her, he was not just then in
residence, and in his absence her heart had some chance of softening and
expanding.
At length Christmas came and with it the question whether, for the first
time in her life, she should ignore her next-door neighbours. She had
not dared to approach Mrs. Harford since the day she had heard that
Gabriel was wounded at Edgehill. But she had once or twice encountered
the doctor, and he had always paused to greet her kindly and to tell her
that, as yet, no further news had reached them. He quietly assumed that
she still took some interest in Gabriel, and by his tact and courtesy
steered her safely through the difficult renewal of friendly relations.
On Christmas Eve she summoned up her courage and carried to the
next-door house a basket full of orange cakes of her own making, which
for years she had been in the habit of taking to Dr. Harford for the
festival.
She found him in his study, looking less careworn than he had done of
late. “So you have not forgotten your old friend?” he said, saluting
her with more than his usual kindliness of manner. “Here are holly and
mistletoe to remind us of Pagan and Druid rites, now happily at an end,
and
‘Here’s rosemary; that’s for remembrance.’
I am right glad that the maiden I have known from cradle days hath a
kind remembrance of her old neighbour, who is yet not too old to enjoy
orange cakes of her making.”
“My mother sends you the season’s greeting, sir,” said Hilary; “and she
would have visited Mrs. Harford, but she keeps the house to-day with a
very great cold.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” said the doctor. “You must have a care of her
this winter, Hilary, and let her run no risks. She will, I know, rejoice
with us that we have at length heard good news of Gabriel.”
He carefully avoided looking at the girl, but was glad to hear the
tremor in her voice as she exclaimed, “Oh! have you indeed heard from
him? Then there is no need to wish you a happy Christmas, for I am sure
you have it.”
He turned away and made a pretence of searching for the letter, all the
time knowing perfectly well where it was. “Take this with you and read
it to Mrs. Unett,” he said, still avoiding the girl’s eyes. “She will be
glad to know that he hath made a good recovery.”
Hilary thanked him and made haste to depart. She did not pause to
analyse her feelings--life was more simple in those days; but in her
glowing face, and even in her quick, eager step as she entered the
withdrawing-room, Mrs. Unett read the truth. She had dismissed Gabriel
in hot anger, but love for him still lingered in her heart. Would its
flickering light kindle once more into lasting warmth and brightness,
or would the icy-cold breath of political strife in the end prevail, and
finally extinguish it?
She knelt in the ingle nook close to her mother’s armchair, and together
they read the letter:
“My Dear Sir,--You will doubtless have heard through Sir Robert Harley
that I was left at Kineton, with other wounded men, after the fight.
Thanks to the rescue of one Mr. Joscelyn Heyworth, and the care of
Tibbie Mills, wife of a worthy saddler of Kineton, my wound--a pike
wound through the right thigh--healed by the end of November, and
learning that my Lord of Essex’ army was in the neighbourhood of London,
I rode there by easy stages and sought out Sir Robert. I found that Ned,
who had been serving under Sir William Waller, hath himself now command
of a regiment of foot, and as fresh men were being sent down to Sir
William the second week in December, I was ordered to go with them.
This left me some days in London, which I spent at Nottinghill; my
grandmother gave me a very hearty welcome, and was glad to hear the
latest tidings of you and of my mother. Who should I find staying in
her house, and painting her portrait, but M. Jean Petitot, the miniature
painter? Whereupon she insisted that he should paint my portrait also on
enamel, and she intends, when a fit chance arrives, to send it by some
trusty bearer to you, for she was right glad, she said, that you had not
grudged your only son to the good cause. When you see the miniature, I
fear you will quote the scurrilous satire put forth by the Royalists:
This is a very Roundhead in good truth!’
For Tibbie acted the part of Delilah, and shaved off my long hair at
Kineton, to the great satisfaction of her husband, Manoah, a very strict
Puritan, and to my great comfort as I lay ill. However, she hath left
enough to curl over the head and round the nape of the neck, so that
I do not take after the fanatic section, who shave their locks in
a fashion that shows the very skin of the head, and reduces hair to
bristles. There was a man in the Farnham garrison--a vile, sanctimonious
hypocrite--who affected this style, and whose ears stuck out most
horridly from his close-cropped skull.
“We quitted London the second week in December, and by night march
reached Farnham Castle early one morning. You can judge how great my
pleasure was to encounter again Mr. Joscelyn Heyworth, now appointed
galloper to Sir William Waller. He is a little my senior, and a man
that would be after your own heart--strong and vigorous and of a merry
humour, though now somewhat downcast on account of family divisions,
all his kinsfolk being of the King’s party. Spite, however, of their
differing views, he remains on very loving terms with some of them,
though I learnt from one of Waller’s officers that his father, Sir
Thomas Heyworth, treated him with great harshness and severity,
disinheriting him and disowning him. His friendship is the greatest boon
I could have, and the sole thing in which I have found pleasure since
the day we heard of the rout of Powick Bridge. We rested for ten hours
at Farnham Castle, and then pushed on with the rest of Sir William
Waller’s force to Winchester, which yielded to us after a very short
siege. We are now marching to attack Chichester, and have had a rough
time, for the rain has come down in torrents for some days, and to lie
in the wet fields o’ nights doth not give much rest to such of us as
have old wounds much prone to making themselves felt. To-morrow I have
an opportunity of sending this to you, as a despatch-bearer is riding to
Colonel Massey at Gloucester. I hope it may reach you by Christmas, and
carry to you and my mother the season’s greetings, and remembrance
to any former friends who will receive such greeting from one of Sir
William Waller’s lieutenants.--I rest, dear sir,
“Your son to serve you,
“Gabriel Harford.
“Written this 17 th day of December, 1642, at Petersfield.”
Christmas, with its unfailing call to realise the unity of the one
great family, cannot be joyless, however sad its surroundings. Both to
Gabriel, marching to besiege Chichester, and to Hilary in the quiet of
the old home at Hereford, there came a sense of rest and peace which was
not to be marred even by the miseries of a civil war.
But, unfortunately, with Easter came Dr. Rogers’s term of residence,
and there is no influence so deadly as that of a bitter and unscrupulous
priest who, forgetting his ordination vow to _maintain and set forwards
quietness, peace, and love, among all Christian people_, fans the flame
of war, or upholds a tyranny that will ultimately ruin his nation.