Faith can raise earth to heaven, or draw down
Heaven to earth, make both extremes to meet,
Felicity and misery, can crown
Reproach with honour, season sour with sweet.
Nothing’s impossible to Faith: a man
May do all things that he believes he can.
--Christopher Harvey.
He hath but swooned,” said the Colonel, after a brief pause “Come,
Harry, the game is up and we’ll e’en be off to bed. Lord! but this
Hereford maid hath thrice the beauty of Nell. I’ve a mind to woo her
myself!”
With a last glance at the miniature he turned haughtily to the sentry.
“Bolt the church door after us and then dash some water over this
prisoner; he will soon come round. And look that you leave him bound, as
he is; none of your cursed Irish sentiment. If you loose him I’ll have
you flogged within an inch of your life.”
He walked rapidly down the aisle, Lord Harry blundering after him and
protesting that it had been rare sport, but that he was heavy with sleep
and would like to snore the clock round.
When Gabriel came to himself all was very still. The night had closed
in, but, by the light of a lantern in the angle of a high pew hard by,
he saw the little side chapel and the outline of the windows. His head
ached miserably, and the sharp pain caused by the cords which bound him
reminded him of all that had passed. Glancing round he gave a sigh of
relief on finding his tormentors gone. There was no one but the sentry,
and he stood as though watching gravely a rare and unusual spectacle. In
his hand he held a chalice full of water, and he now lifted this to the
prisoner’s lips.
“God save you kindly,” he said, with a friendly look in his Irish blue
eyes. “I’d be glad to unloose you, sir, if the Colonel hadn’t forbidden
it.”
Gabriel drank thirstily, and thanked his friendly guard.
“Are you a Scot?” he asked, puzzled by the man’s accent.
“No, sir. Praised be St. Patrick! I am Irish,” said the soldier, with a
good-natured smile.
“Irish!” exclaimed Gabriel in amazement. For to his fancy all the Irish
were wild, bloodthirsty Papists, whose chief amusement was the wholesale
massacre of Protestants. The incident did more to widen his mind than
the study even of such a broad-minded book as Lord Brooke’s “Treatise on
Toleration.”
“How is Major Locke?” he asked, anxiously.
“I have given him water, sir,” said the man; “but there’s death in his
face--he’ll not last long.”
And with that he went on his round, leaving the prisoner to reflect over
the events of the day, and to endure as best he could the increasing
torture of his position.
Slowly the hours crept on, and when at length the sentry opened
the great door and admitted Captain Tarverfield and two others that
accompanied him, Gabriel was too much exhausted to take any notice of
the sounds which echoed distinctly enough through the quiet church.
“Take the surgeon to Major Locke,” said Captain Tarverfield. “Is he
still living?”
“Yes, sir,” said the Irishman, “he lies in the chancel. And perhaps,
sir, you’ll do something for Lieutenant Harford up yonder--as for me,
yer honour, the Colonel vowed he’d half murther me if I unloosed him.”
“If ’tis the Colonel’s doing I must ask your help, my Lord,” said the
Captain, turning to his worn and weary-looking companion.
“Lieutenant Harford is the gentleman you mentioned to me anon?” said
Lord Falkland. “He told you I saved his life at Edgehill? Well, let us
see what the sentry means.”
While the Irishman lighted the surgeon up the middle aisle to the
chancel, Tarverfield, carrying his own lantern, led the way up the
south aisle, wondering what trick Norton’s malice had devised. A sudden
ejaculation from Falkland made him pause.
“Look!” said the Secretary of State, his pale, melancholy face
transfigured by a glow of wrathful indignation, as he pointed to the
pillar and to the slight form of the lieutenant. The Captain, familiar
as he was with the horrors of the battle-field, could hardly understand
why the sight of this piece of wanton cruelty should anger them both so
strangely. Perhaps it was the boyish face of the victim, or some subtle
contrast between the nobility and strength of his expression and the
cruel helplessness of his attitude.
As they drew nearer, the prisoner, whose head had drooped on his breast,
looked up with a gleam of hope in his wide, weary eyes.
“Have you brought help for Major Locke?” he asked, eagerly.
“The surgeon is now with him,” said Tarverfield. “What devil’s trick
have the Colonel and Lord Harry been up to? Have you been bound all
these hours?”
Gabriel assented, but his eyes were fixed on Falkland’s face; the
indignation in it had changed to a look of rare delight, the delight of
one who has at last found congenial work.
“Hold the lantern nearer, Captain,” cried the Secretary of State,
drawing his sword; and going to the farther side of the pillar he
severed the cords and the rope, then stepped swiftly back.
“Have a care,” he said, as Gabriel, in the first agony of moving his
stiffened muscles, gave an involuntary exclamation, and then hastily
apologised.
“The rope was pressing all the time on that old wound got at Edgehill
the day you rescued me, my lord,” he said, colouring. “You have twice
made me your debtor.”
“’Tis I that would thank you, sir,” said Falkland, “for twice giving me
an opportunity of doing work in this distracted time without scruple or
misgiving. Here comes the surgeon. ’Twere well he should see to your
wrists.”
“Major Locke?” asked Gabriel, looking anxiously at the surgeon’s face.
“’Twas too late,” he replied, gravely. “The Major drew his last breath
just as we approached.”
Gabriel made a step or two forward in the direction of the chancel, then
suddenly reeled and would have fallen to the ground had not the surgeon
caught him.
“He hath swooned,” said Tarverfield; “and no wonder, after the way in
which his muscles have been cramped all these hours.”
“With your leave he had best be carried to the vestry,” said the
surgeon, and, lighted by the Irishman, they carried the lieutenant out
of the church.
Falkland, with a sigh, picked up the lantern and walked slowly on,
glancing now and then into the high pews where lay the wretched
prisoners, roped in couples, and most of them sleeping from sheer
fatigue, in spite of hunger and discomfort. Reaching the chancel, he
paused for some minutes beside the body of the Major. The dead face,
with its majestic calm and its strange smile, contrasted curiously with
the faces of the sleeping prisoners.
“Happy man!” murmured Falkland. “He is free, and has died for what he
deemed his country’s good, like my old friend John Hampden.” Then, with
a deep sigh that was almost a groan, he passed on, breathing the cry
that was ever now in his heart, and often on his lips, “Peace! peace!”
When he entered the vestry he found that the leech had dressed the
wounds on Gabriel’s wrists, but had not yet succeeded in reviving the
prisoner.
“’Tis food the poor fellow stands in need of,” said Tarver-field.
“I can testify that he has had nothing since sunrise yesterday, and
doubtless little enough since early the day before, for Waller was too
busy preparing to attack Devizes.”
“With your permission, my lord, I will fetch him food from my own
house,” said the surgeon, who, like most of the inhabitants of
Marlborough, sympathised with the Parliament. Indeed, since many of the
houses had been burnt and plundered in December by the Royalists,
and the town had been constantly harassed on market days by bodies of
plundering Cavaliers from Oxford, it was natural enough that the feeling
was all in favour of the prisoners and against Prince Maurice’s men.
“I will wait here,” said Falkland, as the Captain prepared to follow the
surgeon, “I wish to speak to the prisoner when he comes to himself.”
The Irishman, whose guard had just been relieved, was about to follow
Captain Tarverfield, when Falkland detained him, putting a few brief
questions as to what he had heard while Lord Harry Dalblane and Captain
Norton were with the prisoner. From the replies of the sentry he
gathered enough to enable him to judge pretty accurately what had
really passed, and when the man had gone he stood beside the unconscious
prisoner, watching him intently and with compassion, for he was able to
guess at much of his story. Presently he took a small gold pin from his
lace cravat, and stooping over the prisoner restored the miniature to
its place and pinned together the shirt collar.
Gabriel, opening his eyes, looked in bewilderment at the pale, sad-eyed
face bending over him; then recognising it as he regained his faculties,
sat up and looked round the dimly-lighted vestry in a dazed way.
Some one had laid him down on a long wooden chest, the same which the
Irishman had rifled for the cope. On the opposite wall hung an old
board on which were painted the ten commandments, and the light from the
lantern shone specially upon the words, “Thou shalt do no murder.”
He shivered, for that night he had for the first time felt the deadly
hatred that is akin to murder, and he knew that he had longed for the
chance of taking Norton’s life.
“You are cold,” said Falkland. “Take this,” and he put a short brown
cloak he was wearing about the prisoner’s shoulders. “Nay,” as Gabriel
thanked him, but hesitated to accept the loan, “I have no need of it,
and it will be of service to you in Oxford Castle, where I fear your
quarters will be comfortless enough.”
“My lord,” said Gabriel, “you have shown me such kindness that I will
make bold to ask your help in letting Mistress Helena Locke know of her
father’s death.”
“Where doth the lady live?” asked Falkland.
“She is at Gloucester, at the house of Alderman Pury.”
“I will see that the news is sent to her, and I will do what I can,
Mr. Harford, to obtain your release, for they have treated you very
scurvily, and I shall see that his Majesty hears all the details. Here
comes the friendly surgeon with food for you.”
“You are fatigued, my lord,” said Tarverfield, looking at Falkland’s
haggard face. “Will you not sleep before the day dawns?”
“Sleep, sir, hath long forsaken me,” said Falkland, wearily. “I shall
sleep when peace is declared in this unhappy country. Leave me to see
Mr. Harford discuss his supper; and do you retire, for doubtless you
will be early on the march.”
The kindly captain, who was a good soldier, but one who rarely troubled
to think of the right or wrong of the cause he defended, gladly enough
returned to his quarters at the nearest inn; and the surgeon, having
promised to make arrangements for the Major’s burial, for which Gabriel
advanced the money, walked back to his house, his mind haunted by
Falkland’s weary, sleepless eyes.
“’Tis not for me to ‘minister to a mind diseased,’” he reflected. “As
the poet hath it--
‘Therein the patient
Nust minister to himself,’
But I fear ’tis over late; the sorrows of this war have broken his
heart--he is far gone in melancholy.”
His reflections were only too true, yet for a brief time something of
the old geniality and charm insensibly returned to the Secretary of
State as he watched the hungry young lieutenant forgetting his troubles
in the relief of a good meal. In the rare delight of such sympathy as
Falkland knew well how to bestow, Gabriel’s reserve was broken down, and
before the supper was ended he had revealed to his companion the story
of his gradual awakening in London, had spoken of Bishop Coke’s kindness
to him, of one connected with the Bishop to whom he had been betrothed,
and of the havoc the war had wrought in his happiness.
Instinctively his hand went to Hilary’s miniature as he recalled with
a shudder what had passed about it a few hours before; and then finding
the way in which his shirt had been fastened, his eyes sought Falkland’s
with a gratitude that touched the State Secretary. With the incomparable
gentleness characteristic of him, he said a few words to the boy, which
by their reverent sympathy seemed to blot out the memory of the moral
torture he had undergone.
Then, promising to do what he could for the prisoner in the future, he
left him to sleep, and slowly paced down the street to his quarters. He
had merely joined Lord Wilmot’s expedition for the relief of Devizes
as a volunteer, and now in his restless mood grudged the delay at
Marlborough, and by break of day was riding with a couple of his
servants to Oxford, leaving the two troops of cavalry and the long train
of prisoners to follow later.