May heaven ne’er trust my friend with happiness
Till it has taught him how to bear it well
By previous pain.
--Young.
Good Lord, deliver us!” ejaculated Jock. “I’m right glad to see ye
wearing red ribbons, for in truth I took ye for highwaymen.”
“What are you doing in the King’s highway at this hour of the night?”
said the sergeant, whose temper had not been improved by the ill-success
of his errand.
“Why, sir, as you see, I be a carrier, and be a-drivin’ my cart to
Henley, same as I’ve done this many a year.”
“What’s in the cart?”
“Corn, sir, an’t please you,” said Jock, with humility.
“Why, yes, it pleases me very well,” said the sergeant, grimly. “The
corn, I take it, is going by barge to London, eh?”
“Why, that’s a fact, sir, it be,” said Jock, scratching his head
thoughtfully, and sorely perplexed as to what he could do.
“Then you can just turn about, my good man, and drive it to Oxford; our
granaries are none too full, and we’ll store it in them instead. I annex
that corn in the King’s name.”
The blood ran cold in the fugitives’ veins; they listened intently to
Jock’s pleading voice.
“Oh! sir! for heaven’s sake don’t do that,” he cried. “I’m a ruined man
if you take the corn, for I be answerable for it to the owner. And I’ve
other orders for carting back from Henley. Have mercy, sir, on a poor
old carrier that’s old enough to be your grandsire.”
“Curse you, I say we need the corn in Oxford; why should it go to feed
those rebel dogs in London?”
“Why, now I think of it,” said Jock, “you must be the very man I’ve a
message for. Doth not your officer lie at Watlington?”
“Ay! what of him?”
“Well, sir, he bade me tell you to wait on him at the ‘Hare and Hounds’
as you returned, and if so be I clapped eyes on some wandering minstrels
I was to tell ye.”
“Why, yes, to be sure; have you come across them?” said the sergeant
eagerly.
“Well, sir, I did hear a man a-singin’ as he journeyed along the road
a matter O’ five miles from here, singin’ a ballad, he was, about the
cramp in his purse.”
“Well, well; and was he alone?”
“Nay, I think there was a couple o’ men with him, but I only heard
the one a-singin’,” said Jock, his honest face boldly confronting his
questioner.
“Five miles back! then we shall soon come up with them. Since you have
told us this I’ll not force you to drive back to Oxford with your load,
but my men shall take a couple of sacks before them on their saddles as
toll.”
Jock grumbled, and the prisoners shuddered, for now, indeed, they feared
discovery was certain. But the carrier was equal to the emergency. He
folded back a bit of the sailcloth and handed his whip and reins to the
sergeant.
“I’ll ask you to hold them, sir, for I need both my hands; if the wind
once gets hold of this plaguey cloth, there’ll be the devil to pay.”
With that he cautiously dragged out first one sack and then a second,
tucking the cloth carefully round the remainder. As the cold wind blew
upon the fugitives a violent shivering fit seized Gabriel; his teeth
chattered, and it was all he could do to stifle the cough which
threatened to choke him. Nothing but the strong instinct of
self-preservation carried him through the agony of the struggle. But
at length came the welcome sound of the departure of the soldiers, and
Jock, with a cheery word to his horses, drove on.
“That was a narrow escape,” muttered Humphrey, “but I shall not feel
safe till the barge is under weigh.”
Another hour brought them to their destination, and Jock drew up at the
wharf, and told them he would seek out the bargee and get him to start
with as little delay as possible.
“You are worth your weight in gold, man,” said Humphrey, when the
carrier returned with a couple of men to unload the cart. “Had it not
been for your ready wit, we should now be on our way back to Oxford
Castle.”
“Eh, Master Humphrey, I’d gladly do more than that for your father’s
son. But have a care of your friend, sir, for I think he be sore spent.”
Glancing at Gabriel by the light of the carrier’s lantern on that dark
winter morning, Humphrey saw that Jock was right. And all through the
long, weary hours on the barge, only sheltered from the piercing wind
by the sacks of corn and a load of wood which was already stacked up on
board, he watched over his companion, feeling very doubtful whether he
would survive to the end of the journey.
It was quite late in the afternoon when the bargee set them down at
Chiswick, and after much trouble Humphrey succeeded in getting his
friend borne to Notting Hill. Gabriel was by this time quite indifferent
to all that passed, and it was only when they actually reached the Manor
that he roused himself to speak to the astonished butler who appeared in
answer to Humphrey’s knock at the front door.
“Is your mistress within? If so, tell her I have made my escape from
Oxford and would fain speak with her,” he said.
“Let me help you, sir,” said the man, shocked to note the change which
the war had made in one he had seen a little more than a year ago in
full health and vigour. “An’ you’ll rest in this room for a while I’ll
go and prepare my mistress. Beg pardon, Mistress Helena, I did not know
you were here.”
Humphrey, as he helped his friend into the room, saw a little
fair-haired maiden whose heavy mourning robe only enhanced the delicate
beauty of her face. Her blue eyes lighted up joyously at the sight of
Gabriel.
“Oh! Mr. Harford, have you indeed got your exchange at length?” she
exclaimed, greeting him with an eagerness and warmth that instantly
sent a jealous pang to Humphrey’s heart. “We Legan almost to despair of
getting you released.”
“Don’t come too near me,” said Gabriel, “for I have the new fever on me,
an’ I mistake not.”
“Then I am well-fitted to nurse you,” she said, gaily, “seeing that I
myself had it last September. Here comes my godmother to welcome you.”
Madam Harford’s greeting was almost wordless, but in her smile, and in
the clasp of her strong hand, there was a world of expression.
“Thanks to my friend and fellow-prisoner, Mr. Humphrey Neal, we have
contrived to escape, madam,” said Gabriel. “He will tell you of our
adventures, but in truth I am scarce fit to ask your hospitality.”
“Nonsense, lad,” said Madam Harford, promptly silencing him. “To whom
should you come but your grand-dame! Why, you are little more than a
skeleton, and in a burning fever! Helena, my child, go and see that the
fires are lighted in the blue-room, and in the turret-chamber, and bid
Mrs. Malony wait on me at once.”
Helena needed no second bidding, but flew off in the best of spirits
to prepare all things for the comfort of her knight-errant. But her
midsummer dream, nevertheless, came to a sudden end that very night.
Cousin Malvina, an excellent nurse, had been left in charge of the
patient while the others supped, but later on Madam Harford and Helena
relieved guard. They found that Gabriel already slept, and the old lady,
taking Cousin Malvina’s chair by the bed, bade Helena in a whisper to
set the room in order.
Little Mistress Nell stole gently across to the fireplace, and began to
fold the clothes which lay in a heap on the floor; then her eye happened
to fall on a belt evidently containing money, which, with a small
shagreen case, lay on the mantelshelf. Opening a drawer she stowed
these safely away, and only then perceived that under the case lay
the miniature of a darkeyed girl, whose radiant beauty filled her with
admiration.
For a moment she could think of nothing but the loveliness of the
picture. But very soon, with a start, she awoke from her dream to find
herself in a cold and lonely world. Her knight-errant had a lady-love of
his own, and the marriage her father had hoped for would assuredly never
come about.
Taking up the miniature she laid it gently in the drawer beside the belt
and the shagreen case, and, turning the key, drew it from the lock and
handed it to Madam Harford.
“I have locked up some money and private things of Mr. Harford’s,” she
whispered.
Madam Harford, whose quick eyes instantly detected a change in the girl,
sent her on some errand, and then looked to see what the said private
things consisted of. Although she had never heard of Hilary’s existence,
she gave a shrewd little nod as she caught sight of the miniature.
“If the lad loves that maid,” she thought to herself, “he’ll never do
for a husband for my sweet little god-daughter. We must seek a match
elsewhere.”
But, in truth, for many days it seemed doubtful whether Gabriel would
live to wed any one, and the Manor was pervaded by an atmosphere of
gloom and of deep anxiety, which did not help poor Helena to rise above
her troubles.
Humphrey Neal, who had been pressed to stay by his kindly hostess,
watched the girl with much more sympathy and comprehension than she
guessed. He listened to her account of the way in which Gabriel and
Captain Heyworth had rescued her in the spring; he told all the details
of their escape from Oxford, and often succeeded in persuading her to
walk in the grounds of the Manor.
One day it happened that they were walking together in the garden when
they saw a coach, drawn by two powerful black horses, approaching the
house.
“That must be Sir Theodore Mayerne, the great physician,” said Helena
in an awestruck voice. “Madam Harford wrote begging him to come, but she
feared he would not be willing to make the journey, for he seldom goes
to any, being very corpulent and unwieldy.”
“‘If the mountain cannot come to Mahomet, Mahomet must go to the
mountain,’” quoted Humphrey with a laugh. “Let us watch the great man
dismount. In truth, report was right; he is a very Falstaff, and can
scarce pass the door of his own coach.”
“But they say he is the greatest physician living,” said Helena. “If any
one can save Mr. Harford’s life he is the man.”
“Madam Harford hopes that his own father, a noted physician of Hereford,
will be here ere long,” said Humphrey. “She sent a messenger for him the
very morning after our arrival. They would have done much better, in my
opinion, if they had sent for this ‘Hilary’ he is ever calling for in
his delirium--his brother, it may be.”
Helena blushed crimson.
“Nay, he hath but one brother--a mere child, named Brid-stock.”
“Ah! and now I think of it,” resumed Humphrey, “Hilary is a name that
may be borne by either sex. Perchance he calls for the lady on whom his
heart is set.”
“In truth I think he doth,” said little Nell, commanding her voice with
an effort.
Humphrey walked for some paces in silence. He longed to make love to
this little fair-haired maiden, with her pathetic eyes and her dainty
air of womanly dignity and reserve, which somehow was scarcely in
keeping with her girlish face and tiny figure. But he understood her
well enough to hold his tongue for the present, treating her only with
deference, and waiting upon her sedulously in a way which she soon
learned to like.
They had just returned to the house when the physician’s voice was heard
on the stairs talking to Madam Harford. Helena hastily retreated into
the nearest room, but Humphrey, anxious to hear the latest report of
his friend, lingered in the hall, and Madam Harford presented him to Sir
Theodore Mayerne.
“This is Mr. Neal, who helped my grandson in his escape from Oxford,”
she said.
“I wish the escape could have been made a couple of months sooner,” said
the physician, glancing keenly at Humphrey. “The patient is worn out by
want of food and air, and hath no strength left to fight this fever.”
“They told me in the prison that he did well enough till the last six
weeks,” said Humphrey, “and that it was nursing those that fell sick of
the fever that were him out. He went by the name of ‘doctor’ among them,
and they told me that he saved several lives.”
“Brave fellow! I will do my utmost for him,” said the physician. “Let
them try, madam, the remedies I have prescribed, and to-morrow I will
see him again.”
With that he bowed himself out, leaving Madam Harford grateful for such
an unusual concession, yet knowing well that it pointed to the gravity
of the crisis.
All through the anxious days that followed, while Gabriel hung between
life and death, subtle links were slowly forging themselves between the
watchers at the Manor House. Instinctively they turned to those of
their own generation for solace. Madam Harford found comfort in long
confidential talks with Mistress Malvina, and Helena thought the only
endurable hours of the day were those in which Humphrey Neal walked with
her in the grounds. He was much in the sick room, but when released
he invariably sought out little Mistress Nell, and with Lassie the
retriever to act as duenna they would take a brisk walk, sometimes going
to the village of Paddington, or visiting Kensington gravel pits, or now
and then wandering as far as Hyde-park.
During those days Helena heard of the quiet times before the war, when
the old house at Chinnor had been one of the happiest homes in England,
and Humphrey, the only son of the house, had thought of little but
hawking and hunting and fishing. His father, like many another squire,
had taken neither side in the great dispute of the day, both parties
had seemed to him in the wrong, and, as he truly said, he had not the
knowledge to fit him to make choice betwixt them.
Helena heard now with indignation of Prince Rupert’s wanton cruelty in
burning the entire village of Chinnor, and shed tears over Humphrey’s
pitiful account of the way in which his parents both of them old and
infirm, had been forced to fly from their burning house in the middle of
the night. They had never recovered from the shock and from the ruin of
the old family home. And Helena understood how much sadness was hidden
beneath Humphrey’s cheerful manner, and knew that he assumed an air
of light-hearted carelessness as a man dons a coat of mail in troubled
times.
Another subject on which they liked to talk was of his kinsfolk
at Katterham, and their mutual admiration of Sir Robert Neal’s
granddaughter Clemency, now happily wedded to Captain Heyworth, proved a
great bond of union. Humphrey was pleased and yet surprised to hear the
girl’s warm tribute to Clemency’s charms, having the notion common to
many men that one woman always tries to detract from another’s merits.
He therefore set down Nell’s glowing words entirely to her credit, and
thought they denoted a generosity altogether unique. In fact, day by
day, he fell deeper and deeper in love with the god-daughter of his
hostess, and Madam Harford watched the process contentedly, and left
the two unmolested, hoping that Helena’s heart would be caught in the
rebound.
But there came a day in January when the struggle to hold death at bay
in the sick room absorbed every one’s thoughts. Sir Theodore, who took a
special interest in the young lieutenant, had been for more than an hour
at his bedside, and Helena had gathered that he had not much hope, when,
about four o’clock, Madam Harford came downstairs to give some order to
one of the servants.
“Yet I know the family constitution better even than this wise
physician,” said the resolute old lady. “In all things the Harfords show
wonderful tenacity, and I do not yet despair.”
“There is a horseman galloping up the avenue, ma’am,” said Helena,
glancing from the window. “Could it be his father?” A gleam of joy and
relief lit up the strong face of Madam Alice Harford; she walked firmly
to the front door, regardless of custom, and quite ignoring the bitter
cold, peered eagerly out into the twilight.
“My son,” she cried. “Now, indeed, shall we have good hope. He still
lives, Bridstock--I can’t say more than that.”
“Thank God that I am in time to see him,” said the doctor, stooping to
greet his mother with tender reverence. “Nay, in truth, ma’am, I fear to
see you at the door in this nipping frost; come to the fire and tell me
of Gabriel.”
“He is at death’s door with the new fever, and is terribly weakened by
want of food all these months, and the poisonous air of his gaol. Sir
Theodore Mayerne would have more hope were it not for his exhaustion;
but, indeed, I still trust in his youth and his sound constitution.”
“Let me go to him now without delay,” said the doctor, and with a heavy
heart he was led to the silent room above, where lay the son he had
parted from in the spring, so wasted by starvation and suffering that
his own father could scarcely recognise him. Gabriel was unconscious,
and Dr. Mayerne was administering a strong stimulant, in the hope of
fighting off death a little longer. He greeted Dr. Harford with kindly
sympathy.
“Try if your voice will rouse him,” he said. “But I fear the pulse is
failing.”
Dr. Harford knelt down by the bed and bent low over the dying man.
“Gabriel,” he sard, “I have reached you at last. Look up, my son.”
In terrible suspense they watched the eyelids quiver and slowly open;
there was amazed recognition in the hazel eyes.
“Father,” he whispered, “you here in prison?”
“Here with you at Notting Hill Manor,” said the doctor. “Try to swallow
this--it will strengthen you.”
Gabriel obeyed dreamily, glancing in some surprise at the portly form of
Sir Theodore Mayerne, which certainly bore not the remotest likeness to
any of the lean inhabitants of Oxford Castle. He began to grasp the idea
that his father had journeyed from Hereford, and his lips framed the
word, “Hilary!”
“She is well,” said Dr. Harford, quietly. “On my way here I saw her at
Whitbourne, where she was keeping Christmas with the Bishop. She was
grieved to hear of your sufferings, and hopes you will soon recover.”
A look of content came into the eager eyes. Gabriel asked no further
questions, but lay in a state of dreamy peace. If Hilary hoped for his
recovery, why then the worst of his suffering was over. His hold on life
grew strong once more, and he fell into a profound sleep.
“I have hopes of him now,” whispered Sir Theodore, “tomorrow I will
visit him again,” and he stole out of the room with a quietness which
seemed magical in a man of such bulk.