“Nor tasselled silk, nor epaulette,
Nor plume, nor torse;
No splendour gilds, all sternly met,
Our foot and horse.
“In vain your pomp, ye evil powers
Insult the land;
Wrongs, vengeance, and the cause are ours,
And God’s right hand!”
--Elliott.
The entry of Massey’s men had been watched with eager eyes by one
inhabitant of Bosbury. The moment he learnt that the soldiers were at
hand, Peter Waghorn laid aside his tools and hasting down the street,
eagerly awaited the approach of the officers who brought up the rear.
There was a brief delay of the cavalcade just as the officers rode up to
the place where he stood, and Waghorn, with a heartfelt ejaculation
of thanks, raised his eyes to heaven. His breast heaved with emotion,
though his strong, square-set face betrayed nothing but quiet
determination.
“Sir,” he said, approaching Massey, “may I crave your help, and entreat
that you will spare your men for the pious work of destruction. There
stands a cross, sir, in yonder churchyard--a popish cross. Bid your
soldiers throw it down.”
“My good fellow,” said Massey, “I have other work on hand just now, and
the men need food and rest.”
“It will not take long,” pleaded Waghorn. “It stands hard by, and,
sir, as you know, Parliament hath expressly ordered the destruction of
crosses, because the people do idolatrously bow down to them.”
“Yes, ’tis true,” said Massey, who, as a matter of fact, cared for
none of these things, and was more or less a soldier of fortune.
“It shall be done some day, but not now. I am certain to be in the
neighbourhood again. Ask me when I have more leisure.”
Waghorn drew back, grievously disappointed.
“He is not whole-hearted; my soul hath no pleasure in such. Yet he did
help to defend the godly city of Gloucester, and maybe some other day I
shall prevail with him. I must bide my time,” and, with a deep sigh, he
returned to his house, and, falling on his knees, prayed fervently that
he might be spared to do the Lord’s work, and to cast down every high
thing that exalted itself against truth and righteousness.
The man was no hypocrite, his character was absolutely genuine, he
hated whatever he deemed likely to lead people astray; but sorrow and
loneliness had warped his nature. Since his father’s death no spark
of love had been kindled in his heart, and incessant brooding over
one great grievance had distorted his powers of judgment. His zeal
had degenerated into fanaticism, his Christianity had faded into that
longing to call down fire from heaven on all who disagreed with him,
which has often marred the career of great saints and honest disciples.
Meanwhile, the kindly Vicar--a man who loathed strife and ill-will--made
his way out into the village, and with just a comforting remembrance of
the splendid ammonite, his newest treasure, to linger in the recesses
of his troubled heart with a sort of grateful glow, went from one to
another of his parishioners, gathering by degrees the state of affairs.
At the door of the “Bell Inn” he saw Massey and two of his officers
dismount, and with the quick glance of one who is always studying his
surroundings recognised in the stream of bright lamplight coming from
the open door, one of Sir Richard Hopton’s sons.
“Good evening to you, Mr. Hopton,” he said, pleasantly. “I am sorry to
learn of the trouble that has befallen Sir Richard.”
The young man gave him a cordial greeting; somehow with Dr. Coke
everyone’s first thought was of the matters they had in common. The
Vicar held to his own opinions, and had his likes and his dislikes, but
there was nothing combative about him.
“Truth to tell, we are about to march towards Canon Frome,” said Sir
Richard’s son. “We shall not trouble you long in Bosbury, but the men
need food and a few hours’ sleep. A good many of them can be quartered
in the Old Palace. I must go round there and see to the arrangements.”
“I will come with you,” said the Vicar. “A word to the caretaker may
smooth matters. You will find few comforts there, for, as you know, the
place was dismantled in the days of good Queen Bess. But here, I see,
comes Mr. Silas Taylor, who hath a special love for the old building,
and will be able to serve you better than I can. And when you have
bestowed your men, come and sup with us at the Vicarage, and bring one
of your friends with you; ’tis bitter cold, and you will be glad to
sit by a comfortable hearth.”
“Good evening to you, Vicar,” said Mr. Taylor, joining them. “You and I
are, maybe, on the same errand, for though I am all for the Parliament,
I should be sorely grieved were any of our much-prized antiquities to be
marred by the troops.”
“To be sure you would,” said the Vicar, with his genial laugh. “I was
but saying as much to Mr. Hopton here. For the sake of old times you
will, I know, have a care of the Old Palace, and we will seek to quarter
as many as can be well stowed there, for it will put the villagers to
less trouble.”
Sounds of a vehement altercation at a little distance made the Vicar
hasten down the street.
“What is amiss now?” said Silas Taylor, straining his eyes to see what
was passing.
The purple-grey gloom of the wintry twilight, broken here and there by
the glimmer of candles in the windows, or the glare of torches kindled
in the road by the newcomers, just revealed the picturesque houses on
either side, and the confused mass of weary buff-coated soldiers, girt
with orange scarves; while the inhabitants, divided between alarm and
curiosity, stood about their doors eager to learn with what intentions
these men had come.
“Save us from the dastardly robbers at Canon Frome garrison and we’ll
give you the best supper we have,” cried one good woman, vehemently.
“Ay, down with the vile thieves that pillage every farm around,” shouted
a man.
“Fool!” roared another burly fellow, “down with both lots, say I; starve
’em both out, and let’s keep our homes free from such vermin.”
This provoked a perfect babel of retorts of every description, except
“the retort courteous.”
Happily, at that moment the Vicar pushed his way through the throng, and
taking a torch from one of the bystanders, said in his mellow, hearty
voice:
“My friends, while we stand here idle our visitors are waiting cold and
supperless after a long march; for the honour of Bosbury let us each
do what we can to feed the hungry. I have yet to learn that there is
anything political in a stomach, and you’ll be following the only true
Leader if you do as you’d be done by. I’ll be bound you fellows feel the
pangs of appetite beneath your orange scarves just the same as if they
were red--eh?”
His hearty, cheerful manner took the men’s fancy; they laughed, the
villagers laughed, and, as if by magic, harmony prevailed. Before long
not a soldier was to be seen save the sentries, who were bound to keep
guard in case of an attack.
Meanwhile, Hilary was hard at work with Mrs. Durdle, preparing something
more sustaining than the simple fare that was to have sufficed for their
evening meal. To own the truth she would have complied less willingly
with her uncle’s request had not a wild hope that Gabriel might possibly
be with this regiment, begun to stir in her heart. She had no reason
to think he would be with Governor Massey, but to youth all desirable
things seem possible, and her sadness, and the sense of desolation that
had expressed her all the afternoon, made her crave the support of her
lover’s strength and quiet fortitude.
So she took keen interest in the supper; did not, as the Vicar had
naughtily suggested, pepper the broth, but, on the contrary, thickened
it with oatmeal in a way which Gabriel specially liked. She robbed the
store-room of several eggs, and bade Durdle make a large dish of eggs
and bacon; and, finally, herself prepared the bread and cheese from
which, at the last moment, the housekeeper was to make that particularly
favourite dainty of their childhood--“Welsh rarebit.”
Then she flew back to the sitting-room, and piled fresh wood on the
dogs in the fireplace, and by the time everything was ready, had become
convinced that all would soon be well, and that her lover would really
appear.
And now the Vicar’s steps were heard without, and his pleasant voice.
Hilary’s heart throbbed wildly, for surely the courteous reply spoken by
his companion was in Gabriel’s very tone.
The door was thrown open.
“My dear,” said the Vicar, “I have brought in Captain Bayly; this, sir,
is my niece, Mistress Unett.”
Hilary curtseyed, but she really could not speak, so great was her
disappointment.
“We shall be joined in a minute or two by one of Sir Richard Hopton’s
sons,” said the Vicar; “I will speak a word to Durdle. Draw your chair
to the hearth, sir, for you look half frozen.”
He withdrew to speak to the housekeeper as to arrangements for the two
guests, and then lingered for a while in the study with his
precious ammonite, so that Hilary was forced to speak civilly to the
Parliamentarian, whether she would or no.
“’Tis a frosty night,” she remarked, somewhat icily.
“Yes, but ’tis nothing to compare with the severe weather we had after
Newbury fight, the other day.”
“Were you in the second battle of Newbury then?” asked Hilary,
interested in spite of herself.
“Yes, and we lingered on at Newbury for three miserable weeks after,
though the men were dying by scores from sickness, want of food, and
lack of physicians and surgeons. There was one of Waller’s officers that
well-nigh threw up his commission then and there, and vowed that he’d
turn surgeon, for he saw his best friend maimed for life all for lack of
skilled aid when wounded.”
“Was he not from Herefordshire?” said Hilary, remembering Dr. Harford’s
words when he had met the Vicar near Castle Frome.
“I can’t tell you, but his name was Captain Harford.”
“I thought so,” said Hilary, blushing. “His father and my father were
old friends, and I heard of his wish to turn physician.”
“Cromwell took a great liking to him,” said Captain Bayly; “and was
himself well-nigh distracted to see the cruel suffering of the men,
and angry, too, at the disgraceful mismanagement of those in authority.
’Tis strange how often you find that the bravest soldiers are the most
tender-hearted men, and have the greatest loathing of war.”
“What did this Cromwell advise Mr. Harford to do?” asked Hilary, trying
to disguise her eagerness to learn more about Gabriel.
“He said that no man could judge for another, but it seemed to him that,
for the time being, the country was in no condition to spare a man
of his calibre, for the training which would be needful ere he could
practise the healing art. Harford told me that he could never forget the
words he spoke to him, as to avoiding all self-formed plans in life, and
seeking at each step the direct guidance of God Himself. All the counsel
he would give Captain Harford was to wait until light should come to
guide him to a decision as to his next step.”
At that moment they were interrupted by the arrival of Frances Hopton’s
brother, and during supper the talk naturally turned to matters
connected with Sir Richard’s imprisonment, and Canon Frome Manor.
Hilary resigned herself to the inevitable, and felt something of the
satisfaction of a hostess mingling with the rueful, yet half humorous
reflection that the two young officers evidently appreciated the
“Welsh rarebit” as much as Gabriel would have done, and had made a most
ravenous assault on the eggs and bacon.
They were thankful after supper to snatch a few hours’ sleep, but about
midnight Hilary heard the steady tramp of soldiers without, and knew
that the Parliamentarians were marching to Canon Frome. The next morning
Zachary brought word that an attack had been made on one of the Royalist
quarters in that neighbourhood. But Bosbury saw Massey’s men no more,
and for the present Waghorn had to bide his time.
All went on quietly enough for some days, and Hilary had only too much
leisure to feel the loss of Frances Hopton’s companionship. One morning
Mrs. Durdle, seeing that she looked pale and dispirited, contrived an
excuse to make a little variety for her.
“My dear,” said the old housekeeper, “I wish you’d be so kind as to
save my old bones, and just step over to the Hill Farm to bespeak the
Christmas turkey. Zachary, he tells me Mrs. Kendrick has some first-rate
birds. But I’ll not be trusting to a man’s judgment in a matter o’
that sort. Men be first-rate judges o’ cooking, but for judging a bird
uncooked give me a woman.”
Hilary laughed.
“I quite allow the superiority of the male palate,” she said, “and will
do my best to choose a good Christmas dinner. Moreover, to please you, I
will take Don with me for protection, for I believe you will never learn
to think these quiet country lanes as safe as Hereford streets.”
She had not left the village far behind her, when she found that she had
been well-advised in taking the dog, for a small party of horsemen, gay
with ribbons, encountered her on the Worcester road, and the words of
two of them made her face flame; nor did the stern reprimand of one of
the officers greatly mend matters, as she passed swiftly on, trying to
seem quite unconscious of the insult.
Meanwhile the officer in command, having reproved his soldiers, looked
back thoughtfully once or twice, and noticed that the girl turned to the
left through a field gate. It was clear that she was on her way to the
picturesque gabled house plainly visible through the leafless trees.
On reaching Bosbury, he bade his lieutenant ride on with the men to
Canon Frome, saying that he had business in the village; and, having
left his horse at the “Bell Inn,” he returned leisurely on foot along
the Worcester road, and sat down to wait on a sunny bank beside the gate
through which Hilary had passed.
“It is the face that has haunted me for more than a year,” he reflected.
“That exquisite face I saw in the miniature at Marlborough hanging from
that rogue’s stubborn neck. Would that I had a halter round the throat
of him now! What on earth was the name on his precious love-letter? I
was a fool to tear it at Marshfield, for ’twas fully directed. Hang
it, though, if I can remember a single word save that the lady lived at
the Palace, Hereford. Well, I can soon find out all now, for, in spite
of her dignity, she is as simple and inexperienced a country maid as
little Nell herself. Nell, I understand, hath wedded one Mr. Neal. Never
mind! News of the event is not likely to have reached Herefordshire, and
she will serve me excellently well in the game I mean to play with
Mr. Harford’s high-spirited lady-love. There is deadly need of some
diversion in this country hole.”
Meanwhile Hilary had gone on her way not a little troubled and
disconcerted by what had passed. It was not so much that the rude
admiration of these soldiers was of any real consequence, as that she
knew it would annoy her uncle, and perhaps lead to her walks being
restricted entirely to the garden, a prospect that tried her not a
little.
She was thankful when she reached the field gate leading to the farm,
but in the anxious selection of the Christmas turkey, on which she felt
that her reputation for womanly wisdom rested, she speedily forgot the
passing annoyance.
Then, after the turkey review was ended and the fateful choice made, she
gave the farmer’s wife a red ribbon to tie about the leg of the loyal
bird, and having had a friendly gossip over Mrs. Kendrick’s rheumatism,
called Don and ran gaily down the sloping field, racing the dog, and
arriving at the gate almost breathless.
She gave a start of dismay when she suddenly discovered at the
other side of the hedge a gentleman in a red doublet with a short
fawn-coloured cloak thrown back over one shoulder, and an officer’s red
feather in his fawn-coloured hat.
At sight of her he sprang up from the bank on which he had been resting,
and Don growled so savagely at him that she was obliged to call the dog
to heel.
“Pardon me, madam,” said the stranger in the most musical voice she had
ever heard, “I only wish to apologise for the impertinence of my men,
who deserve to be thrashed for so rudely troubling you with their
ill-bred staring and admiration.”
She glanced up at him quickly, and was relieved to find that he
was unmistakably the Governor of the new garrison at Canon Frome so
graphically described in Frances Hopton’s farewell letter.
“It was of no consequence, sir,” she said with a stately little bow,
which delighted him. “I was chiefly annoyed because it will vex my
uncle, and he may forbid me to visit the farm again.”
“Let me see him,” pleaded Norton, boldly, “and express my regrets at
what passed. Doth he live far from here?”
“No, at Bosbury Vicarage,” said Hilary. “’Tis not far.” Without
directly asking to accompany her, Norton moved quietly on, talking as he
went, so that it seemed perfectly natural, and, indeed, inevitable
that they should walk together. Even Don, after a subdued growl and a
disdainful sniff at the officer’s riding boots, accepted the situation
with philosophical calm.
“I fear you, like most people, have suffered great inconvenience from
the war?” said Norton, “but ere long we shall have crushed the rogues
and all will be well. Have you many friends and kinsfolk in arms?”
“No kinsfolk,” replied Hilary. “We know several gentlemen serving under
my Lord Hopton, and in truth almost all our Herefordshire friends are
for the King, save two of Sir Richard Hopton’s sons and Mr. Hall and Mr.
Freeman, near Ledbury, and two or three gentlemen in Hereford who sided
with the Parliament.”
“One of the most staunch Parliamentarians I ever met hailed from
Hereford,” said Norton. “I came across him when Waller’s army was in
Gloucestershire--my own county. However, this young Lieutenant
Harford, though as keen on sermons as the rest of his comrades, had,
nevertheless, time to carry on a most promising love affair with the
pretty daughter of a Puritan squire whose estate adjoins mine.”
He avoided looking at his companion, but from the tone of her voice he
knew that his arrow had gone home.
“Mr. Harford’s sympathies have ever been with the Puritans,” she said,
haughtily. “’Tis long since he was in Herefordshire, but I learn that
he is now a prime favourite with Cromwell.”
“He would be a man after his own heart,” said Norton. “Prince Rupert
dubbed Cromwell ‘Ironside’ at Marston Moor, and from all accounts there
never was a more unyielding, stubborn fighter. They say his power over
all whom he comes across is amazing--men are like wax in his hands.”
Hilary walked on in a dazed, bewildered way, determined only that she
would keep outwardly calm, and hearing all that the stranger said,
though as if from a great distance. It seemed to her that the world had
suddenly collapsed, and for the first time she fully understood what
perfect confidence she had hitherto felt in Gabriel’s constancy. Only
by a great effort could she keep up the absolutely necessary show of
interest in her companion’s talk. At length she caught sight of the
Vicar coming out of a cottage at a little distance, and awoke to the
realisation that she had better overtake him before gaining the village
street.
“See, Don!” she cried to the dog, “your master!”
Don bounded on and soon attracted the Vicar’s notice. He turned at once,
and perceiving Hilary and the stranger, walked rapidly towards them.
“I must ask your pardon, sir,” said Norton, bowing low. “I waited to
apologise to your niece for the discourtesy of my men, and begged her to
let me wait upon you at the Vicarage. I am but newly appointed Governor
of the Canon Drome garrison--my name is Lionel Norton.”
“Why then, sir, I heard of you many years ago, for I think you wedded
the Lady Lucy Powell,” said the Vicar, genially.
Hilary, who had not even glanced at Norton since their first encounter
at the gate, now looked at him searchingly, and instantly noted the
lines of pain about his lips. The pain was genuine--it at once drew her
to him.
“My wife died when we had but been wedded a year,” he replied, and his
musical voice faltered a little.
The Vicar had not heard of this, but his sympathy and his warm praise of
Lady Lucy’s gentle sweetness of character seemed to touch Norton.
“Will you not come in and dine with us?” he said, in his hospitable way.
For a moment the Colonel hesitated. “I fear I cannot accept your kind
invitation,” he said at length, with a swift glance at Hilary. “But if
you will permit me I will call on you another day.”
And at the eastern gate of the churchyard they parted, Norton to call
for his horse at the “Bell,” the Vicar to see a parishioner who had
come home crippled from the war, and Hilary to hasten to her room at the
Vicarage, where at last she could permit the tears which had half choked
her to over-flow.
All was indeed over--Gabriel’s love was a thing of the past!