“Could we forbear dispute, and practise love,
We should agree as angels do above.”
--Edmund Waller.
The churchyard, which during Norton’s visit had looked so peaceful, had
become, before the Colonel had ridden halfway back to Canon Frome, the
scene of an extraordinary gathering. With bewildered astonishment the
Vicar saw the villagers hurrying in from all directions--men in their
smock frocks, women fresh from their household work in cap and apron,
and eager children pressing to the front that they might the better see
the soldiers in their glittering steel helmets and corslets, their
buff coats and orange scarves. A cornet carried the blue banner of the
Parliament, with its motto, “God with us,” and the Captain brought up
the rear. The Vicar, glancing at him, saw that he was young, slight and
alert-looking; but his attention was quickly drawn away to Waghorn, who,
springing up on the steps of the cross, turned with a vehement gesture
towards the leader of the detachment.
“There it stands, Captain, just as I told you!” he cried. “There is the
accursed Popish idol! Down with it! Down with it! even to the ground! So
may all Thy enemies perish!”
Anything more violent and frenzied than his manner it was impossible to
conceive; his dark eyes blazed, his sombre face was transformed.
But the ludicrous inappropriateness of his quotation tickled Gabriel’s
sense of humour, and under the violence of the attack he grew restive.
“Your text seems to me ill-chosen,” he said. “But if this be indeed an
idol, then by all means let it come down. An idol is a visible object
which men bow down to or worship. Do any of you people of Bosbury bow
down to this cross?”
There was a quiet force in his tone which instantly arrested the
villagers’ full attention.
“No, sir,” they cried, unanimously.
And at that the Vicar hastened forward, courteously greeting the young
Parliamentarian, and exclaiming eagerly, “Sir, the answer of the people
of Bosbury is true. None of my people are so foolish as to bow to sticks
or stones. I humbly hope that they have learnt better than that.”
“’Tis a lie!” shouted Waghorn. “A lie! How about old Jock? How about
Billy Blunt?”
“Old Jock,” explained the Vicar to the Captain, “had been brought up
a Papist, and I admit that he did superstitiously nod his head when he
passed the cross; he is now bedridden. As for Billy, he, poor lad, is an
idiot, and ’tis impossible to reason with him.”
But explanations could not satisfy Waghorn.
“Down with all idolatrous symbols!” he shouted. “Down with the cross!”
And his vehemence and excitement proved infectious, for now the soldiers
and a few of the spectators caught up the cry, and the churchyard rang
with shouts of “Ay! down with it! down with it!” while the villagers
began to press forward in an uncertain way, scarcely knowing what to
think.
The Vicar rushed between the cross and the soldiers as though to guard
it from attack, and turned with outstretched arms to his parishioners.
“I tell you, good people,” he said, in his ringing, manly voice, “that
this cross was set up by early Christians. Beneath it there lies buried
the ancient stone which was worshipped in heathen times. This is no
idol, but a witness to the truth.”
“Don’t heed the Vicar! Obey the word of God!” shouted Waghorn. “Break it
in pieces like a potter’s vessel!”
Again the contagion of the fanatic’s excitement spread, and elicited
yet fiercer shouts of “Ay! Pull it down! Break it in pieces! Remember
Smithfield!”
Gabriel saw that a serious riot would ensue unless action were quickly
taken.
Shouting an order for silence, which was promptly obeyed by the
soldiers, he said to the Vicar, “Sir, ’tis true enough that Parliament
hath ordered the destruction of images and crosses. In many places the
people truly did bow down to them. We wish that God alone should be
glorified, and we dread homage to symbols. I fear that it will be my
duty to carry out the Parliamentary order.”
“In truth, sir,” pleaded the Vicar, “I assure you that I dislike acts of
homage to the cross as much as you do. I merely plead with you for our
right to keep the ensign of our faith. What is that blue banner yonder
officer holds?”
“’Tis the banner of the Parliament, sir,” said Gabriel.
“Well, sir, you do not worship your flag, but you would not lightly part
with it. That cross, sir, is my flag, and, unless your looks belie you,
I think you will refuse to destroy the witness of _our common faith._”
Gabriel had listened with respect and deep attention to this earnest
appeal. The long years of controversy and strife had accentuated every
religious difference. Hard words had been remorselessly hurled on both
sides; but here was a man who boldly appealed to “_our common faith_.”
In a sudden flash he seemed to realise how overwhelmingly great was this
faith they shared. All lesser differences were dwarfed. He no longer saw
the stone cross, the buff-coated men-at-arms and the villagers--he saw
instead a jeering rabble, and Roman soldiers and the Eternal Revelation
of God’s great love to the world. All that he had known from childhood,
and honestly striven to carry into practice, was flooded by one of those
inspiring gleams which make us understand how much nearer is the Unseen
than the Seen; so that for the time there seemed to him nothing in the
whole universe save that perfect Revelation of Love.
He was recalled from his Mount of Transfiguration by the urgent need of
help down below. Like a false note in a symphony, Waghorn’s voice broke
the silence which, to his violent zeal, had seemed unendurable.
“Don’t heed him, Captain! Don’t heed him! Down with the accursed idol!
So let all Thine enemies perish, O Lord!”
Gabriel strode towards him.
“Silence!” he cried, sternly. “The devil, as we all know, can quote
Scripture. Sir,” he continued, turning to the Vicar, with a look that
told of genuine respect, “your words stir my heart strangely. If you
will promise to have graven on the cross these words
Honour not the cross,
But honour God for Christ,
no man shall touch what you rightly call the witness of our common
faith.”
The Vicar grasped his hand with grateful warmth.
“I thank you from my heart, sir, and I promise right willingly. Zachary!
Go fetch Tim the mason, and bid him carve the words without delay. And,
good people,” he added, as the villagers crowded round him, two little
children plucking at his sleeve till he put his kindly hands caressingly
on their shoulders, “let us never allow the emblem of Divine Love to
become the target for bitterness and division. Above all the unhappy
strife of to-day, there is one thing which may yet unite us--it is love,
the bond of peace.”
All this time Hilary had obediently waited in the garden, but the garden
was separated from the churchyard only by a low hedge of clipped yews,
and in one place the trees had been allowed to grow higher and had been
cut into a sheltered arbour. Here, quite hidden from view, she had seen
and heard all that passed.
For a minute or two she had not recognised Gabriel, for his face had
been turned from her and she had only once before seen him with short
hair and in uniform. But when he stepped forward and spoke to the people
her heart gave such a bound of joy that in reality all her perplexed
musings as to the answer she should make to Colonel Norton were solved.
When she heard the word of command given to the soldiers to march from
the churchyard, and saw the crowd beginning to disperse, she hastened
from the arbour, and was just approaching the little gate in the hedge
when she saw the Vicar drawing near, and heard him warmly pressing the
Parliamentary Captain to dine with them.
“Uncle!” she said, opening the gate, “you do not know our old friend,
Mr. Gabriel Harford.”
Gabriel looked in amazement at the dear familiar face in the grey and
pink hood, at the trim erect figure in the old grey gown, outlined
against the arch of dark yew. Surely that white hand holding open the
gate was an emblem of hope? Surely he could read signs of love in the
bright eyes and in the glowing cheeks?
“Hilary!” he cried, with a choking sensation in his throat. “Are you
here?”
He bent down and kissed her hand, and they were both relieved when the
Vicar came to the rescue.
“Captain Harford! Why, this is excellent hearing. I had no notion, sir,
what your name was, but if aught could make my rejoicing greater, it
would be the knowledge that this kindly deed was done by one well
known to my dear sister now at rest, this child’s mother,” and he took
Hilary’s hand caressingly in his.
“I will see if dinner is ready,” she said, nervously.
“No, child, I must myself go in, and will speak to Durdle. Do you
entertain Captain Harford. You were children together and will have many
a matter to talk over, I’ll warrant.”
He went into the house, and Gabriel drew a little nearer to Hilary.
“Your uncle does not know, then, that we were ever more to one another
than just playmates?” he said; and as for an instant she glanced at him,
she saw how much he must have gone through since their last parting.
“No,” she replied, shyly. “He never heard about it. So much has passed
since then. You had tidings of my dear mother’s death, Gabriel?”
“Yes, I heard of it at Bath, before the fight at Lansdown. My thoughts
have always been with you, but you never replied to my letter.”
“No letter ever reached me,” she said.
“This miserable war too often makes writing useless,” said Gabriel, with
a sigh. “For nigh upon two years I have been hoping against hope for an
answer. Ah! here comes Mrs. Durdle.”
“Dinner is served, mistress,” said Durdle. “I hope I see you well, sir,”
she added, curtseying and beaming as her eyes fell on Gabriel.
“Why! Mrs. Durdle,” he said, laughing, as he shook her by the hand. “I
could fancy myself at home once more now that I see you again.”
“And it’s glad I am to welcome you to Bosbury, sir,” said the
housekeeper, blithely. “Begun your work you did by guarding me and that
silly wench Maria when the Parliament soldiers first came to Hereford;
and now here you be to guard Bosbury Cross from that crazy-pated
Waghorn.”
They entered the house and were soon dining together. Hilary, far too
much excited to eat, keeping up a gallant show with a mere fragment
of meat and a large helping of salad, but Gabriel making satisfactory
inroads on the cold stalled ox, which usually made the household dinner
on Sunday, Monday and Tuesday.
“I only hope that in the excitement of that scene in the churchyard,
Durdle hasn’t let my apple pasties burn to cinders in the oven,” said
Hilary, smiling. “You always used to have a liking for hot apple pasties
when we were children,” she said, glancing at him.
“And ’tis many a day since I had a chance of tasting one,” he said,
laughing. “Soldiers are supposed to keep alive and well on the strangest
fare.”
“Ah! sir, you have done a grand work to-day,” said the Vicar, with such
relief and happiness in his tone that Hilary found tears starting to her
eyes. “You have shown a generous forbearance which coming generations
will have cause to remember with gratitude.”
“In truth, sir,” said Gabriel, “’tis I that am indebted to you
for words that will often cheer me in these harsh times. Our rasping
differences are ever confronting us and shutting out all thought of what
we share.”
The talk turned on Dr. Harford’s visit more than a year before, and of
Waghorn’s attack on the East window. Gabriel had heard nothing about
it, for letters from Hereford had more than once failed to reach him.
Indeed, as he explained, he had imagined that Dr. Coke was still at
Bromyard.
Just then the Vicar was called away to speak to some one, and as Gabriel
could not be induced to eat a third pasty, Hilary proposed that they
should return to the garden.
“It was from this little arbour that I saw and heard all that passed
just now,” she said, as they sat down in the cosy little retreat. “I
hope you appreciated Durdle’s words of praise.”
“Durdle was kinder to me at Hereford than you were,” he said,
reproachfully.
“She urged me to see you, and so in truth did my mother,” said Hilary,
drooping her head.
“And you always refused. I wonder if you knew how cruelly you hurt me,”
he said, with that note of pain in his voice which always disturbed her.
“What would have been the use of inviting you to come in?” she replied.
“You know that it was worse than useless when we met in the cathedral
porch. We parted because of our great differences. Naught had changed.”
“Yet,” pleaded Gabriel, “the Vicar told us but now that there was one
thing which must always unite us.”
She drew up her head with all her old pride and hardness.
“I could never love a rebel,” she said, perversely.
Gabriel, bitterly disappointed, remained absolutely silent. A bee flew
humming loudly into the arbour, then roamed forth once more to the
apple blossom on a tree hard by. There was a faint stirring, too, in
the shrubs just behind them in the churchyard as Peter Waghorn, who
had followed the movements of the Parliamentary Captain with stealthy
malevolence, crouched down that he might hear what treason was being
plotted betwixt this half-hearted officer and the Vicar’s Royalist
niece. The two noticed nothing, for they were absorbed in their own
thoughts.
“Why are you a rebel, Gabriel?” said Hilary, more quietly, as she lifted
her face to his pleadingly. “Oh, think better of it! ’Tis not too
late. Many men have changed sides. Think how good our King is!”
Her appeal moved him painfully, a look of keen distress dawned in his
eyes.
“A good man, but an untrustworthy King,” he said, controlling his
agitation with difficulty. “Nay, we won’t argue. You well know that I
fight for the ancient rights and liberties of Englishmen, and even for
love of you, Hilary, I can’t turn back! I can’t turn back! And yet, oh!
my God! how hard it is!”
“I did not mean to pain you,” said Hilary, remorsefully. “Nay, I longed
to tell you how it pleased me to hear all that you said when Waghorn
would have pulled down the cross. Are you still in Sir William Waller’s
army?”
“No, at present I am serving under Colonel Massey, but I hope ere long
to be sent to Sir Thomas Fairfax at Windsor, where he is forming the New
Model Army.”
“You will serve under him?”
“My great wish is to follow in my father’s steps, but just now I am
to act as the bearer of important despatches. Enough, however, of my
affairs. Do tell me of yourself. If only you guessed how I had hungered
for news of you!”
“’Twere far better that you forgot me,” she said, beginning to play
with the little housewife that hung from her girdle.
“I can never forget,” he said, vehemently. “Surely you understand that
my love for you is unchanged.”
Suddenly there darted into her mind the remembrance of Norton’s words
about the pretty daughter of the Gloucestershire squire. When spoken
they had seemed to turn her love to hatred, yet in the sudden rapture of
Gabriel’s return she had absolutely forgotten all about them. He could
not understand the change that now came over her whole manner and
bearing.
“Don’t speak of your love,” she said, indignantly. “All that is at an
end--at best we can now be only friendly foes. More is impossible.”
“Why impossible?” he pleaded.
Then terror seizing him, he exclaimed, “Do you mean that someone else
loves you?”
“Why do you ask?” she said, with some embarrassment.
“Oh! have pity on me, Hilary,” he cried. “At least tell me one way or
the other. Is there some other lover?”
“Yes,” she owned. “There is one that loves me, and a right loyal
gentleman he is--the Governor of Canon Frome.”
He turned pale. The silence and the suffering in his face angered
Hilary.
“What right have you to be concerned?” she said, indignantly. “You have
not really been constant to me; I well know that you have been making
love to the heiress of a Gloucestershire squire.”
“Who told you so base a lie?” said Gabriel, starting to his feet.
“One whose word I trust,” she replied, quietly, “the loyal Governor of
Canon Frome.”
“His name?” asked Gabriel, eagerly.
“His name is Colonel Norton,” she said, triumphantly.
“_Norton!_” he cried, in horror. “He is the man you trust? The man who
has dared to speak of love to you?”
“Yes; why not? Is he not a brave soldier and active in the King’s
service?”
“Brave, no doubt. He is an Englishman. But surely you have heard that
even his own party are aghast at his doings?”
“I have heard naught against him,” said Hilary, indignantly. “You are
jealous, and if there is one thing on earth I despise ’tis jealousy.”
“The fellow is not worthy to touch the hem-of your garment,” said
Gabriel, sternly. “Listen to me. You shall hear the plain truth. ’Tis
well known that he is a Cavalier of the type of my Lord Goring. I would
sooner see you dead than in his power.”
“It would be unfair of me to heed your attack on the absent,” said
Hilary, coldly. “You are jealous, and ready to believe evil of Colonel
Norton.”
“You torture me!” cried Gabriel, desperately.
“Oh, you pretend that you are unchanged,” said Hilary, with scorn. “But
there is no smoke without fire, and the Gloucestershire heiress----”
“Hush!” he said, sitting down beside her once more, and his quietness of
manner and restrained force dominated her.
“Now I am resolved that you shall hear precisely what passed, for it is
due to Mistress Neal as well as to you and to myself.”
Very briefly he told of Norton’s interview with Major Locke at
Gloucester, of the interrupted duel, of the way in which he and Joscelyn
Heyworth had rescued Helena from the cruel trap that had been set for
her. In spite of herself Hilary’s sympathies were enlisted on the side
of the poor little maid, and perhaps she inclined to her all the more
when she heard that she was now happily married to Mr. Humphrey Neal.
“And her father?” she inquired. “What has become of him?”
“He died at Marlborough, mainly, I do believe, because Colonel Norton
forced him to travel when he was desperately wounded and refused him the
aid of a surgeon,” said Gabriel.
There was a silence. He would not speak of the way in which Norton had
treated him in the church.
“After all,” said Hilary, with a mutinous little toss of the head, “I
have but your word for this. You tell me one tale and Colonel Norton
another. Why should I trust a rebel and distrust a Royalist?”
A sigh of despair broke from Gabriel at her perversity.
“I can only repeat,” he said, “that I love you with all my heart and
soul, but if it were to save you from wedding this vile profligate I
could rejoice to see you the wife of any honourable man.”
“You leap to conclusions,” she said, relenting a little, “I am in no
haste to wed. There is not even a promise given yet. I merely said he
loved me. But enough! Let us come into the church and you shall see what
havoc Waghorn wrought there.”