“A mighty pain to love it is,
And ’tis a pain to miss it;
But of all pains, the greatest pain
It is to love, but love in vain.”
--Cowley.
The city of Hereford, which had been evacuated by the last remnants
of Lord Stamford’s army shortly before Christmas, was once more in the
hands of the Royalists, and throughout the winter, reprisals had been
the order of the day. Price, the Mayor, who had admitted Stamford’s
troops, was thrown into gaol, his house was plundered, and there was a
keen desire to hang him in front of his own door, happily frustrated by
the more moderate citizens. Sir Richard Hopton, also, had his house at
Canon Frome plundered, while Dr. Harford would probably have suffered
imprisonment for his bold advocacy of the Parliamentary cause had not
the citizens been loth to lose the services of their first physician.
None needed these services more than Mrs. Unett, who all through the
cold weather had been grievously ill, and Hilary could not but feel
grateful for his skill and helpfulness, even when the virulent tongue
of Prebendary Rogers was kindling the flame of vindictive hatred in her
heart, and fanning that fierce resentment of Gabriel’s actions which had
made such havoc in her life.
On the morning of April the 24th she was roused by Mrs. Durdle’s
agitated voice, and, opening her drowsy eyes, started up in alarm as she
saw the genuine terror in the housekeeper’s fat face.
“Is my mother worse?” she asked, anxiously.
“Nay, mistress, she is still sleeping, but I stole up to bid you keep
the ill news from her as long as may be.”
“What news? What is amiss?” cried Hilary.
“The Parliament soldiers are marching from Ross to attack Hereford,”
said Durdle. “Hark to the ringing of the common bell! It summons all
citizens, my Valentine tells me, to come and help with making earthworks
at the gates and by the river.”
“Doth Lord Stamford come hither again, then?” asked Hilary.
“Nay, mistress, they do say ’tis Sir William Waller’s army--William
the Conqueror the folks do call un and they say the city can never hold
out.”
Hilary’s heart began to throb.
“We shall see about that,” she said, proudly, her face aflame as she
realised that Gabriel served under Waller. “We have gallant Sir Richard
Cave to defend us, and only last night the Bishop told me that he
had, to protect the city, a hundred of the King’s foot guards and many
dragoons, beside some three hundred soldiers under Colonel Conyngsby,
Colonel Price and Colonel Courtney. Depend upon it, we shall make the
rebels fly.”
Durdle shook her head despondently, this hopeful view was not shared by
many of the citizens; the very sound of Sir William Waller’s name made
them quake, and Sir Richard Cave found, to his dismay, that they would
not respond to the summons to help with the earth-works.
It was impossible to carry out his scheme of defence, and all that he
could contrive was to dam up Byster’s Gate, while his spirits were much
depressed by the arrival that afternoon of a letter from Sir William
Russell saying that he could spare no troops from Worcester, and that
no help could come from Prince Maurice, who had set out to march towards
His Majesty.
Few people slept much in Hereford on that Monday night, and when day
dawned on the 25th, Sir Richard Cave, making observations from the
Castle, found that Waller’s formidable army was within a mile of the
city.
The soldiers were at once summoned, and the place resounded with the
roll of the drums and with trumpets sounding the alarm. Hilary hastened
to her mother’s room, no longer able to keep from the invalid the danger
in which they stood.
“Child,” said Mrs. Unett, in terror, “what does it all mean?”
“Only that Sir William Waller is marching on Hereford, ma’am,” said
Hilary, “but as the citizens were too panic-stricken yesterday to cast
up earth-works near the bridge, as they were ordered to do, we run
little risk of bombardment in this house, I fancy.”
“Oh!” said Mrs. Unett, with a look of relief. “If it is Sir William
Waller’s army we shall be safe enough, for Gabriel Harford will, I well
know, protect us.”
Hilary flushed with anger at these words, and making an excuse to carry
the night lamp into the dressing-room, gave a little impatient stamp of
the foot the moment she was alone.
“Gabriel, indeed! Rather than be protected by him I would throw myself
on the mercy of any other man in England! Dr. Rogers says I did well and
loyally in vowing never to see ‘my old friend,’ as he calls him, again,
and if he dares to seek me out, I will make him suffer as he has not
suffered yet.”
Her eyes flashed as she conjured up a scene pleasing enough to the
perverse spirit of pride which at the moment dominated her; but soon all
the hardness died out of her face, and she was again her sweet womanly
self, for her mother called out to her in alarm as the first sound of
firing made itself heard.
“There is naught to fear, ma’am,” she said, running into the sick-room
and caressing the invalid like a child. “Oh! they must be a great
way off, and will not trouble us at all. To my mind”--and she laughed
gaily--“’tis not near so terrifying as a thunderstorm.”
Nevertheless, though her words were brave the sharp rattle of musketry
made her pulses beat uncomfortably. It was not for herself that she
feared, but from some dim recess of her heart there awoke a flicker of
the love she thought wholly extinguished, and a dumb cry began to ring
in her ears, “Gabriel is there in the thick of the fray. That shot, or
that, or that, may cause his death-wound.”
After a time there came a lull in the firing; then it was renewed, but
at a greater distance. While they were both longing to know what had
happened Durdle announced Dr. Harford, and the physician, who rarely
let a day pass without seeing his patient, entered with his usual quiet,
kindly manner and cheering smile.
“I trust all this commotion has not upset you, madam?” he said, “but I
think you will not be troubled with any close firing after this. I hear
that the main body of Sir William Waller’s army is drawn up without
Widemarsh Gate, but feints have been made in two or three other
quarters, and there has been a sharp little skirmish close by here at
the bridge.”
“Is it true that your son is with Sir William Waller?” asked Mrs. Unett,
revelling, poor lady, in the mere comfort of the good doctor’s presence.
“Ay, I have seen him in the distance,” said Dr. Harford, his eyes
lighting with a look of fatherly pride which could not be hid. “I was
standing in the south walk of our garden when he, with a detachment
of men in boats, rowed across towards the bridge, and made good their
landing hard by, but after a brisk fight Sir Richard Cave’s musketeers
beat them back to their boats. ’Twas clearly meant only as a feint.
You will not probably hear any more near firing and stand in no danger
here.”
“It must have been strange indeed for you to see your son in that
fashion, after a six months’ absence,” said the invalid, gently. “Hath
he greatly altered?”
“Yes; he hath grown from boy to man,” said Dr. Harford; and then,
happening to catch a glimpse of Hilary’s face, he hastily changed the
subject, for no one better understood her varying moods, and he saw that
directly she was assured of Gabriel’s safety her old resentment against
him had sprung to life again. Nevertheless, beneath all her faults
he could always discern the deeply-loving nature which she, in truth,
possessed, and held fast to his conviction that she would conquer the
arrogance that at present bid fair to wreck her happiness.
“If the city be taken,” he thought to himself as he quitted the sick
room, “and that pestilent priest, Dr. Rogers, called to account for
the mischief he hath done, then there will be very good hope that the
daughter of my old friend may come to take the same calm and just view
held by such Royalists as the Bishop and his son.”
Meanwhile Gabriel, greatly cheered by the glimpse he had caught of
his father, had returned from the skirmish at the Bridge to the
neighbourhood of St. Owen’s Gate, where, under a sharp fire from the
walls, they succeeded in taking St. Owen’s Church. This church being
within pistol shot of the gate was like to prove of great service to
the besiegers, and Captain Grey gave Gabriel orders to take a party of
musketeers up the tower.
The terrified verger was at first too much dazed to produce the keys
of the tower door, “and the men, annoyed at the delay, were disposed to
deal roughly with him.
“Here, you great oaf,” cried one, “unfasten the door, or we will hang
you to one of your own bell ropes.”
“Mercy! mercy!” cried the poor old man, as half-a-dozen stalwart
soldiers laid hold of him, hustling him in a fashion which scattered the
few wits he still retained.
“Stand back, there,” said a firm voice. “Why, Martin! don’t you remember
me?”
And Gabriel laid a kindly hand on the old man’s shoulder. “Oh, Mr.
Harford, don’t ye let them hang me,” said the verger, clutching at the
young lieutenant.
“No one shall touch a hair of your head,” said Gabriel, “but out with
the keys, my friend, for we must lose no time.”
Martin obeyed, trembling like a palsied man, and Gabriel, unlocking the
door, rushed at full speed up the crumbling and worn steps, then up
a crazy and tottering ladder which led to the trap-door in the leads.
Springing through this, he emerged on to the top of the tower and had
quickly arranged his musketeers on the side from which they could best
harass the men on the walls and at St. Owen’s Gate. The church stood
in the centre of the road which passed round it on the north and south
sides, and the musketeers not only carried on a very effective warfare
from the tower, but drew the attention of the besieged from the main
attack which was made by Massey on Widemarsh Gate.
His onslaught proved so vigorous that the terrified citizens ere long
sounded a parley, and, Waller consenting to treat, the rest of the day
passed in tedious arrangements about hostages, and proposals as to the
terms of surrender.
Gabriel had little fear that the citizens of Hereford would have any
just cause of complaint, for Sir William Waller was noted for his
forbearance and courtesy, and the people had no reason to fear the
looting or plundering too often the sequel to a victory. The entry was
made quietly enough that evening and two of the articles dictated by
Sir William Waller were specially pleasing to Gabriel: All ladies and
gentlewomen were to have honourable usage; and the Bishop, the Dean and
Chapter, and the collegiates were likewise to be free in their persons
from violence and in their goods from plunder.
That so ardent a Royalist as Hilary should be sore and angry at the easy
way in which the Parliamentary troops had taken possession of the place
was natural enough. She was in her hardest mood the next morning when
Durdle came up to the sick-room with a beaming face.
“Mr. Gabriel Harford is below, come to inquire after Mistress Unett’s
health,” she exclaimed, her little grey eyes beaming with the pleasure
of again seeing the lad she had known so long. “And he craves a word
with you, Mistress Hilary. I have shown him into the dining-room.”
Amazed at his temerity in calling, Hilary did not pause to think of the
long years of friendship that had preceded their betrothal.
“It is just like his audacity to come here now that his side has
conquered, and we are in trouble,” she reflected. “I will show him how
little I care for his rebel comrades and their chief.”
And with her coldest manner she turned to the housekeeper.
“Tell Mr. Harford that my mother hath had a disturbed night and that I
cannot leave her room.”
“My dear!” remonstrated Mrs. Unett, “you had best go down and thank Mr.
Harford for his courteous inquiries.”
“Pray, ma’am, send your thanks by Durdle,” said Hilary, holding her head
high. “I prefer not to leave you.”
So poor old Durdle had no choice but to go down again to the visitor,
and not being blessed with tact she could not even soften his
disappointment.
“’Tis sorry I am, sir,” she said, smoothing her apron, “but Mistress
Hilary will not leave her mother’s room.”
“Is Mistress Unett worse?” asked Gabriel, anxiously.
“Oh, no, sir. Maybe she did not sleep as well as usual, but she tried
hard to persuade Mistress Hilary to see you and thank you for your kind
inquiries. But, lor’, sir, you must remember well enough that when once
she was angered by aught, she was ever an ill-relished maid. Don’t you
take it to heart, sir,” said the good woman, grieved to see the look cf
pain in his eyes, “maybe some other day she will see you.”
He went away in very low spirits; for though it had been hard enough to
live through the long months of absence, there was a keener torture in
being so near to the woman he loved, yet, alas! so far removed from her
heart.
He took the old housekeeper’s advice and called to inquire again later
in the week, only to meet with a similar rebuff. Nor could he bring
himself to speak at home of the purgatory he was passing through. His
mother hoped from his silence that he had outgrown his love to Hilary.
His father guessed something of the true state of the case, but feared
that words, however well meant, might only increase his suffering.
Joscelyn Heyworth, however, rallied him on his depression, not knowing
that “the lady named Hilary” was a citizen of Hereford.
“Why are you in the dumps?” he asked, one sunshiny afternoon, as the
two walked together down Broad Street. “You should be in high spirits
now that you are among your old friends once more, and with your parents
as keenly interested in the campaign as you are yourself. I would give
something to stand in your shoes.” And for a moment his bright face was
clouded with bitter memories.
“Many of my old friends look on me as a traitor for whom hanging were
too good,” said Gabriel. “You forget that Hereford has ever been devoted
to the King’s cause, and that such of us as fight against his tyranny
are here but a small and unpopular minority.”
“’Tis to be hoped the army will not long be kept here,” said Joscelyn.
“The men need to be in active service; already they seem to be waxing
unruly,” and he glanced at some boisterous soldiers gathered about a
fanatical dark-browed man who harangued them from the vantage ground
of an inverted barrow, and with bawling voice and vehement gestures was
attracting quite a crowd.
“Why!” exclaimed Gabriel, “that is none other than Peter Waghorn, the
fellow I saw at Bosbury. What a frenzy the man is working himself into!
See how he points to the Cathedral as though he wished to destroy the
whole place!”
“Oh, don’t linger,” said Joscelyn Heyworth. “I loathe these fanatic
preachers. What was that he said? The pious work of destruction? Have
they been urging on the mob as they did at Winchester? Sir William
Waller will be ill pleased if they have done as much damage here. Let us
come in and see.”
Gabriel told him Waghorn’s story as they crossed the green, and
approached the beautiful parvise porch at the north-west. They had just
entered it when the inner door leading into the cathedral was hastily
opened, and the figure of a girl clad in pale puce, with a hat and cloak
of tan-coloured velvet, suddenly appeared. Her rich brown curls, her
exquisite colouring, but above all, her dark expressive eyes, made
Joscelyn look at her a second time; she was evidently in a state of
suppressed indignation, and when she caught sight of Gabriel Harford,
her wrath flashed into a sudden flame.
He saluted her with great respect, but averting her face she declined to
acknowledge him even by the most distant curtsey, and would have passed
rapidly through the porch had he not stood in front of her, blocking her
way.
Joscelyn saw the look of almost intolerable pain in his face, and
instantly knew that this must be Mistress Hilary. But for a moment it
seemed that her lover could not speak.
“Sir!” exclaimed the girl, indignantly, “let me pass.”
Only too well she knew that old gesture of his, when, with head thrown
back, he seemed to wrestle with words which would not be uttered. Only
too well she knew, moreover, the low, passion-choked voice, in which at
length he spoke.
“You cannot go that way,” he said. “There is a noisy crowd of men near
the west front.”
“Cannot!” she said, contemptuously. “Do you think I care for a few
rebels and traitors?”
By this time he had mastered himself, and in his manner there was all
the force which is gained by self-repression. “You had better go out by
the other door and through the Palace,” he said.
“I shall do no such thing,” she replied perversely. “I shall go the way
I choose, and see what these comrades of yours are like. Let me pass,
sir.”
“I cannot let you go alone,” he said. “If you insist on going through
the crowd, I shall attend you to your door.”
The quiet determination of his tone almost maddened her.
“And I utterly refuse your escort,” she said, with an angry scorn that
cut him to the heart. “Rather than walk with you I would have as escort
any other man in Hereford.”
“Then I will present to you my friend, Captain Heyworth,” said
Gabriel, steadily, but with an irrepressible note of pain in his voice.
“Joscelyn, do me the favour of attending Mistress Hilary Unett to her
home.”
Joscelyn saluted her gravely. She longed to decline his company, but
something in Gabriel’s tone made refusal impossible. She gave him one
last glance, half from defiance, half from curiosity. What was it that
still gave him his power over her? Physically he lacked the height and
the fine physique of his friend, mentally she felt that she was more
than his match, yet in moral and spiritual force he would always, as
she well knew, tower above her. Was it fair that he, a traitor, as she
honestly deemed him, both to Church and King, should yet live, as it
were, on the heights? The thought stung and irritated her, and so
did the unfading picture she carried away with her of that well-known
parvise porch, and Gabriel standing just beneath the finely-moulded
archway, his hazel eyes full of dumb suffering, his face sad but
resolute, and lit up by a radiance which seemed to her, not of this
earth at all.
However, her musings were quickly put to flight by the bawling of
the fanatic near the west front, whose violent tirade against what he
alternately termed, “this House of Dagon,” and “this den of thieves
crammed with popish idols,” made her lip curl scornfully.
“These are your comrades!” she said, with bitter contempt.
“No, madam,” replied Joscelyn Heyworth, with a little gleam of amusement
in his eyes. “I learn that this is a carpenter from a village in _your_
neighbourhood who was driven half demented by Dr. Laud’s cruelty to
his father. We come across a good many of these victims up and down the
country.”
The recollection of a day long ago in the first brief happiness of their
betrothal came back overpoweringly to Hilary. Oh! how she longed to be
sitting once more with Gabriel on the steps of Bosbury Cross before the
parting of the ways!
‘Joscelyn saw the more gentle look dawning in her face, and hazarded a
word on Gabriel’s behalf.
“’Tis a pity, madam,” he said, “if you will allow me to speak frankly
with you, that you so grievously pained my friend just now.”
But at this plain speaking Hilary’s pride was at once up in arms.
“’Tis a pity, sir, that you presume to speak on matters about which
you know absolutely nothing.”
“Pardon me, I know much as to Gabriel Harford’s past story,” said
Joscelyn, not in the least disconcerted by her snub.
“What!” she exclaimed, angrily. “He had the effrontery to tell you, a
perfect stranger, that we had been betrothed--when even my own uncle was
not admitted to the secret? Oh, it is unbearable! I did well to refuse
him a greeting.”
“No, madam,” said Joscelyn, bluntly. “In my opinion you did a very cruel
thing. And you misjudge him now as you evidently have done in the past.
He has never breathed your name to me. I found him almost in the last
extremity on the battlefield, the morning after Edgehill--only begging
to be allowed to die and quit a world that had dealt harshly with him.
I bore him back to Kineton, refused to let him give up his life, and
all through the next night kept watch over him. There are revelations,
madam, that come before the day of judgment, and in the feverish ravings
of a wounded soldier lying at death’s door, you may learn strange
truths. I learnt then the agony of a man who has been jilted by the only
woman he has ever loved.”
Hilary had grown white to the lips, but pride still held her love in
chains. Though this knowledge of what Gabriel had passed through, sent a
pang to her inmost heart, her self-love was ruffled and agitated by the
fearless, outspoken words which this Parliamentary Captain had dared to
speak.
“I thought, sir,” she said, with cold arrogance, “that one of
the conditions specially guaranteed by your General, was that all
gentlewomen should have honourable usage.”
“Madam, it is because I honour you and love my friend that I venture to
speak as I would fain have any other man speak to my sister were she in
like case,” said Joscelyn, marvelling at her hardness, but quite failing
to understand that she was strenuously keeping back her better nature,
which only longed to yield to his arguing.
“She is absolutely heartless, and Gabriel Harford has had a lucky
escape,” he reflected, too young and impulsive to understand Hilary’s
character. “If he had any sense he would wed pretty Mistress Nell, as
sweet a little maid as heart could wish, and worth a thousand of this
haughty, headstrong maiden.” Meanwhile the “haughty maiden” was pausing
at the door of a grey, gabled house. She lifted her beautiful eyes to
his, and swept him a stately curtsey.
“This is my home, sir. I regret that you should have been put to the
very unnecessary trouble of escorting me.”
“Madam,” he said, saluting her with grave respect, “any service I can
render to my friend is a pleasure; it was quite apparent to me, that at
the very moment you were tying
Sharp-toothed unkindness like a vulture
to his heart, he was seeking to shield you from a momentary
discomfiture. I wish you good-day.”
“Good-day, sir,” said Hilary, stung to the quick by the truth of his
words, and by the calm, unsparing severity of his manner. She was
well-used to devotion, and flattery, and admiration of every sort, but
here was a man undazzled by her beauty, and only repelled by what Dr.
Rogers termed her “high-spirited treatment of her old playmate, Dr.
Harford’s rebel son.”