Revenge, at first though sweet,
Bitter ere long back on itself recoils.
But mercy, first and last, shall brightest shine.
--Milton.
Zachary was the only member of the household who slept that night.
Hilary and Mrs. Durdle were too busy preparing what would be needed
for the journey; the Vicar, full of anxiety, looked at his watch every
quarter of an hour, and failed to find comfort even in ammonites or
elephants’ teeth, while Gabriel, in the tower room, lay listening to the
soft hooting of the white owl, and the unearthly stamping and knocking
made down below by Harkaway. At the first glimmer of light he hastily
put on the plum-coloured costume which had been laid by at Hereford
since the early days of the war, and brought over by Dr. Coke for his
journey. Then he filled his saddle-bags, and with a last look round the
place which had made him so secure a refuge, stole down the ladder to
feed and fondle his horse and saddle it in readiness for the journey.
Zachary, with his head on the pillion, snored serenely, and Gabriel let
him remain in peace till the first sparrow began to chirp, then cruelly
roused him, unable to endure another minute’s delay.
“Lord! Lord! I’d but just closed my eyes,” groaned the old man. “You
can’t be married in the dark, sir.”
“’Tis morning, Zachary. Come, fix on the pillion; we shall have the
Vicar here in a minute.”
Yawning and stretching, the sexton struggled to his feet, and by the
time the pillion had been strapped on, steps were indeed heard without,
and on opening the door Gabriel was greeted by Mrs. Durdle in the
choicest of white neckerchiefs, and her best Lincoln green hood.
“Good day to you and good luck to you, sir,” she said. “Vicar and
Mistress Hilary be crossing the churchyard.”
His face was aglow.
“We have seen no more of Waghorn,” he said, blithely, breathing the
delicious morning air with rapture after his long imprisonment. “But the
owl hath hooted most dolefully. I have not slept a wink.”
Then catching sight of the Vicar in his college cap and black doublet
and hose leading Hilary in the grey and pink gown he had specially
begged her to wear, he hastened forward to greet them, and together
they walked to the south porch, where, according to the old custom, the
actual marriage was to take place.
Suddenly an ominous sound--the tramp of many feet close by made them
pause and listen anxiously.
“Oh, sir, what is it?” cried Durdle, in great terror.
“Be still; let us hearken,” said Dr. Coke, holding up his hand.
Hilary, with widening eyes, clung to Gabriel.
“Don’t be afraid, dearest,” he said, reassuringly; “soldiers often pass
through the village. They are not like to molest us here.”
The Vicar went forward a few paces, and, catching sight of the uniform
worn by the men of the Canon Frome garrison, realised the peril they
were in.
“Shelter in the church!” he cried. “’Tis you they seek.”
But even as he spoke he saw that it was too late. Another file of
soldiers rushed round from the west of the church, where they had
lain in ambush till the rest of the men arrived, and Norton, with a
contemptuous smile on his face, shouted his orders: “Seize the Vicar!
Arrest the rebel!”
Amid a scene of wild confusion Hilary was torn from her lover, while,
with unnecessary roughness, which turned her faint and sick, the
soldiers bound Gabriel’s arms. He saw that resistance was useless, and
in the sudden revulsion from happiness to despair anguish overwhelmed
him. Like one turned to stone, Hilary stood watching while the Vicar was
also bound; and, roused by Durdle’s screams and the unusual confusion
of voices in the churchyard, men, women, and children came hurrying from
the neighbouring houses to see what was amiss.
As for Waghorn, in the excitement all his worst characteristics had
started into view again, and like a maniac he stood shouting on the
steps of the cross: “Now am I avenged on mine enemy! They that dally
with malignants shall rot in dungeons! No longer shall they hinder the
work of the godly!”
The Vicar turned indignantly to the Governor of Canon Frome. “What is
the meaning of this outrage, Colonel Norton? You are interfering with me
in the discharge of my duty!”
“Your duty, sir, was to sign Prince Rupert’s Protestation, and to
refrain from aiding the King’s enemies,” said Norton, with a sneer.
“Sir, you are wrong,” replied the Vicar, firmly. “I hold the King in all
due reverence, but my first duty was to tend the wounded and shelter
the homeless. And my next duty was to shield my niece from your wicked
schemes.”
“I’ faith, you are a bold and outspoken man,” said Norton, chuckling.
“But I can bide my time, Vicar.”
He turned to watch Waghorn, who, in wild excitement, had sprung down
from the cross and was shaking his fist derisively in Gabriel’s face.
“Ha! young bridegroom! I’ll warrant you wish now that you’d pulled down
Bosbury Cross!”
The taunt had the effect of restoring Gabriel to a quiet dignity of
manner which impressed the soldiers. He made no reply whatever, but
looked Waghorn in the face till, with an uneasy sense of guilt, the man
withdrew a little. But the fanatic’s place was quickly taken by Norton,
and there was something in the malevolence of his smile which made the
blood boil in Gabriel’s veins. He remembered what this man had made him
endure at Marlborough.
“I am sorry, sir,” said the Colonel, with a sneer, “to spoil your
highly virtuous device of holy matrimony, but as the proverb hath
it, ‘Marriages are made in heaven,’ and we intend to send you there.
Sergeant! the halter!”
A murmur of surprise and horror ran through the crowd. Gabriel felt as
if a grisly hand had suddenly clutched his heart. He glanced anxiously
at Hilary. Her face was marble white, she seemed scarcely conscious.
“Nay, sir, will you proceed so far?” cried Waghorn, with a troubled
look. “This can be no hanging matter.”
“What is it to you, fellow?” said Norton, haughtily. And with
satisfaction he saw the sergeant slip a rope about Gabriel’s neck, and
noted that a spasm of pain passed over the prisoner’s face. He was too
young and healthy to be without a most ardent love of life.
“Sir, sir,” cried the Vicar, with passionate indignation, “you cannot
take so cruel a revenge! Captain Harford may lawfully be a prisoner of
war, but----”
“He is a rebel, and I know for a certainty that he bore about him
traitorous despatches. Is it not so?” said Norton, sharply turning
towards the parliamentarian.
“If you know, why ask?” said Gabriel.
“Answer me!” cried the Colonel, angrily. “Did you not bear despatches?”
“Your own spy hath already answered you. And for the despatches,” said
Gabriel, triumphantly, “you’ll not get them. They are long ere now
delivered.”
“Away with him, sergeant! String him up to yonder tree,” said Norton.
But with a wild cry of despair Hilary rushed forward “Oh! no! no!” and
she threw her arms round Gabriel. “You shall not take him! You shall
not!”
The soldiers were touched by her anguish, the villagers made indignant
murmurings, some of the women began to sob. As for Waghorn, he turned
away, muttering: “Alack, poor lady! But nay, let me not falter! No
weakness, Peter Waghorn! No weakness!”
Gabriel kissed the weeping girl with passionate tenderness; then, unable
to endure the sight of her grief, began to crave only for an end of this
torture.
“Go, my dearest!” he said, his voice faltering. “I pray you--go!”
But the Vicar stepped towards Norton.
“Sir,” he said, “I appeal to your better nature. As prisoner of war you
have it in your power to send Captain Harford to gaol, but----”
“Why, that would be to make him your companion, dear sir,” said Norton,
lightly. “No, no; I have quite other plans. _You_ go to prison, _he_
goes to Paradise. Come, you, as a parson, must own that I am giving him
promotion.”
Waghorn meanwhile paced to and fro wrestling with himself, and muttering
like a madman through his teeth: “Nay, nay; I will _not_ relent. The
enemies of truth must be punished. Let their habitation be desolate, and
let none dwell in their tents! Add iniquity unto their iniquity.”
He was suddenly jostled aside by old Zachary, who, in deep distress,
approached the Colonel.
“For pity’s sake, sir, hang me instead,” he pleaded, “’twas my silly
old tongue betrayed him--that and the fourth tankard of cider--hang me
instead, for I deserve it.”
Norton laughed noisily.
“Not at all--you have been a most useful tool. Come, get you gone! There
will be work for you yet. You shall dig the grave, and Waghorn shall
preach the funeral sermon. Why do you tarry, sergeant?”
They tarried because it was no easy thing for Englishmen forcibly to
part the sobbing girl from her lover.
“Dearest,” said Gabriel, controlling his voice with an effort, “you must
go. Let some of the women take you to the Vicarage.”
But as she raised her head and saw the rope about his throat, a new
strength of resistance awoke within her. He should not die! She ran to
Waghorn, and caught his hand in hers in eager entreaty.
“Waghorn! you are not wicked like that man--you mean well--I know you
mean well--help us now! Show mercy!”
For a moment the wood-carver wavered. Then a grim expression settled
down upon his features.
“Nay, nay,” he said, “Captain Harford hath but met with his deserts.
What saith the Psalmist, ‘Let there be none to extend mercy unto him!
Let the iniquity of his fathers be remembered!’”
“Oh, that was said by them of old time! But now we are bidden to be kind
to one another--and tender-hearted,” pleaded Hilary.
But Waghorn, with a scornful look, exclaimed indignantly: “Do not teach
_me_, Mistress! I well know that you are of a carnal mind. Did you not
deceive us in the orchard? You are a liar!”
The villagers made angry protests at this plain speaking. Hilary,
however, with a look that would have melted the hardest heart, continued
her eager appeal.
“Yes, yes, I did speak falsely that day. But, oh--have _you_ never
sinned?”
The Puritan started back as if she had struck him. “I?” He hung his
head, and in a flash it seemed as though his life with its bitter
unforgiving lovelessness rose before him--a hideous vision. He crossed
over to the Colonel, and put a hand on his sleeve.
“How now, scarecrow? What is it?” said Norton.
“You promised me that if I secured the despatches and Captain Harford, I
might ask what I would of you.”
“Well, what do you want?”
“I ask for the life of yonder Captain.”
Norton stared at him. “Are you sure you don’t mean his head in a
charger? That, I think, is more in _your_ line.”
“I ask you to spare his life,” said Waghorn, sturdily, while all the
people waited breathlessly for the reply.
Norton gave a short scoffing laugh.
“Well, well, you may ask what you will, but I shall not grant such
a request. You shall be reasonably paid for your services, and must
content yourself with that.”
Then the Puritan’s wrath burst forth. “Shame on thee for a
promise-breaker! Dost think I served thee in this matter for filthy
lucre? Nay, but to avenge the cause of truth, to save the land from the
curse of those that break not down the high places, that destroy not the
graven images!”
He walked a few paces from the group and stood silently watching Hilary,
who had again forced her way to her lover. Clinging to Gabriel, she
sobbed, pitifully, while he whispered in her ear words of love and
comfort.
“Hearken, Mistress Hilary,” said Norton, striding across towards them,
“with one word you can save Captain Harford’s life.”
“What must I do?” sobbed Hilary.
“Only promise to be mine,” he said, his eager eyes scanning her
intently.
“I cannot!” she replied, clinging closer to Gabriel.
“Very well,” said Norton, with a shrug of the shoulders. “Sergeant,
proceed!”
Hilary looked round at him in terrible agitation--then turned again to
Gabriel, “What am I to _do_?” she cried, wildly.
“Dear heart!” he said, quietly, “remember what we agreed. Cost what it
may--be true!”
“But--your life--oh, my dearest!--your life!”
“It will not be ended by the hangman,” he replied, with a strange
vibration in his voice, “it will go on elsewhere. We have but to wait.”
Norton stamped his foot impatiently.
“Well, is your choice made?” he asked.
“Go, my beloved!” said Gabriel, tenderly, but with a firmness which
steadied her failing powers. Then he gave her a long, lingering kiss,
and she slowly took her arms from about his neck and staggered towards
the Vicar, hiding her face on his shoulder.
Gabriel watched her in heart-broken silence, understanding for the first
time what the bitterness of death meant. An awful stillness reigned in
the churchyard. He turned towards Norton.
“Sir, I am ready,” he said, in a low, firm voice.
Norton watched him with mingled feelings. It was impossible not to
admire his courage and dignity, yet never had he hated the man more.
“Fool! You would die in your youth?” he said, sneeringly.
Then into Gabriel’s eyes there suddenly came a light that was Divine.
“Why,” he cried, “I would live in hellish torments to save her from such
as you--and shall I fear _death?_ You think that when I am hung and
the Vicar cast into gaol, you will be free to carry out your vile
schemes--but I tell you, _in spite of all_, evil will not triumph. There
is a God who hates tyranny, who loves mercy and justice!”
His whole face was transfigured. It was Norton whose cheek paled and who
looked like the man about to die.
“String him up, sergeant. I loathe this cant,” he said. “Be quick, you
fools--hang the rebel and have done with it!”
The soldiers threw the end of the rope over a branch of the tree under
which they stood; the sergeant adjusted the noose more carefully round
the prisoner’s neck, and Gabriel gave one last glance at the familiar
scene--the tower of refuge clearly outlined against the roseate sky, the
green churchyard, the old cross so curiously linked with his fate, the
gabled houses in the village street, and the Vicar’s white head bent
down over Hilary’s brown curls. Then the rope tightened about his
throat, he closed his eyes and prayed, while through his brain there
floated the old Psalm which he had last heard in Ledbury High Street
“In trouble and adversity,
The Lord God hear thee still.
The Majesty of Jacob’s God
Defend thee from all ill.”
Suddenly an exclamation and a sound of tramping feet made him open his
eyes again. He saw that another detachment of Royalist soldiers was
marching through the lych gate, but close at hand, having evidently
approached quietly from another quarter, stood an officer whom he at
once recognised as Lord Hopton.
“Hold, in the King’s name!” shouted the new-comer, and the sickening
pressure about the prisoner’s neck was relaxed.
Hilary rushed forward and threw herself at the General’s feet.
“Oh, my lord,” she pleaded, “help us! Do not let them take his life.”
“Madam,” he said, raising her courteously, “be of good cheer. I heard
your lover’s brave words. I also heard your words, Colonel Norton,” and
he glanced sternly at the Governor of Canon Frome.
“Sir, if you had heard the whole case against Captain Harford----”
stammered Norton.
“What! ’tis Captain Harford?” cried Lord Hopton. “Ay, to be sure I
recognise you now, sir, and remember that ’tis to your kindly offices
when I lay wounded at Lansdown that I owe my life. Sergeant, remove that
halter and unbind Captain Harford.”
Hilary, radiant with joy, ran to her lover, and--his bonds removed--he
clasped her in his arms with a rapture which made them utterly oblivious
of the thronged churchyard. They only felt that life laid down had
been wonderfully renewed, and that every heartbeat was a wordless
thanksgiving.
Lord Hopton meanwhile had turned to the other prisoner.
“What! you also bound, sir?” he exclaimed, indignantly.
“What is the meaning of this, Colonel Norton?”
“The Vicar of Bosbury,” said Norton, sullenly, “hath for weeks,
sir, sheltered this rebel, and he is but a lukewarm supporter of His
Majesty.”
“His Majesty would fare better were all parsons such kindly
peacemakers,” said Lord Hopton, himself cutting the cords which bound
the Vicar’s arms. “’Tis men like you, Colonel, who are the ruin of
the King’s cause. Oh, I have heard of your cruelties, and I know how the
whole country-side has cause to hate you.”
“If you give ear, sir, to the complaints of an aged gentlewoman like
Dame Elizabeth Hopton, and the murmurs of a pack of peasants, you will
hear strange tales.”
Lord Hopton frowned.
“I intend to examine into matters later on, and you can then make your
defence. Meanwhile I hold a letter from the King depriving you of your
Governorship, and appointing Colonel Barnold. And I shall be obliged to
you now, Colonel Barnold, if you and a detachment of the soldiers from
the garrison will escort the ex-Governor to Canon Frome. I shall be with
you anon.”
“You pardon a rebel despatch-bearer, sir, and overlook the
persistent way in which Dr. Coke hath refused to sign Prince Rupert’s
Protestation,” said Norton bitterly, “but give me scant justice.”
“I hope to show you not only justice but clemency,” said Lord Hopton.
“What of your despatches, Captain Harford?”
“Massey entrusted me with letters, my lord, to Fairfax and Cromwell,”
said Gabriel, “but as I was sorely wounded they were borne to Windsor by
another hand some weeks ago.”
A shade of relief was visible about the General’s lips.
“That matter is ended, then,” he said, “and with regard to what you say
against Dr. Coke, I hold, sir, that he was bound to set the safety and
honour of his niece before any matters of State, and that as a Christian
he had a perfect right to shelter and tend a wounded man, whatever his
political views.”
Norton was led away, and the Vicar eagerly thanked Lord Hopton for all
that he had done for them. Then, seeing the expectation in the faces of
the villagers, he added, “Betwixt Hilary and Captain Harford, my lord,
there was an attachment of long standing, and this very morning I was to
have wedded them.”
The women in the crowd smiled and nodded at each other, and Lord Hopton,
catching sight of the radiant faces of the lovers, smiled too.
“Now what a happy thing it was,” he said, “that I chose to make a night
march, and reached Canon Frome at dawn! Finding the Governor absent, I
was minded to see for myself what pranks he was after, and arrived in
the nick of time.”
“You were in time to save a life, my lord,” said the Vicar, “and now, an
you will, may witness a wedding; we keep to the old custom here and wed
at the church door.”
“I’ll not only witness it, but will give away the bride if that is
agreeable to you, sir,” he said, glancing at Gabriel.
“My lord, the memory of your kindly dealing will long outlast the
bitterness I have just passed through,” said Gabriel.
His face aglow with happiness, and still shining with that spiritual
light which had arrested even Norton’s notice, touched the Royalist
general.
“I very well know,” he said, laying a kindly hand on his shoulder, “that
you were the first to show considerateness in the matter of Bosbury
Cross, and till people of widely differing views act with the good sense
and moderation shown by you and the Vicar, we shall never have true
peace in England.”
He turned to offer his arm to Hilary, when she suddenly perceived
Waghorn gravely watching them from a little distance. Running towards
him, she took his hand gratefully in hers.
“I shall never forget, Waghorn, that you tried to save Captain Harford,”
she said, warmly.
“Mistress,” said Waghorn, earnestly, and with a quiet manliness wholly
unlike his former manner, “he was right. In spite of all, evil did not
triumph.”
And now the psalm which had rung in Gabriel’s ears as he awaited death,
sounded indeed through the churchyard as Hilary walked towards the porch
between Lord Hopton and her lover.
The villagers drew together in a group close by them, but little Nan
and Meg being on the outskirts chanced to look back, and saw Waghorn
standing afar off as though he had no part or lot in the service. With a
kindly impulse they ran towards him.
“Don’t stand there so all alone,” said Nan, coaxingly, “come nearer!”
“Yes,” echoed Meg, “come nearer!”
Waghorn’s stern face relaxed. He sighed, but let them take him by the
hand and draw him in with the rest.
EPILOGUE.
“_I pray God our zeal in these times may be so kindled with pure fire
from God’s altar that it may rather warm than burn, enliven rather than
inflame, and that the spirits of good men may truly be qualified with
Gospel principles, true fruits of the Divine Spirit. And truly I believe
that the members of the Church, if not the leaders--notwithstanding all
the perfections of times before us, so much pictured or applauded--have
very much yet to learn. For I am persuaded that Christian love and
affection is a point of such importance that it is not to be prejudiced
by _supposals_ of difference in points of religion in any ways
disputable, though thought weighty as determined by the parties on
either side; or by particular determinations beyond Scripture, which,
as some have observed, have enlarged divinity, but have lessened charity
and multiplied divisions. For the maintenance of truth is rather God’s
charge, and the continuance of charity ours.”--Letters of Benjamin
Whichcote, 1651._
And were they married here in this very porch where we’re sitting,
grandfather?” said little Bobbie Coke, looking up into the Vicar’s
kindly face, which the forty-five years had made only somewhat thinner
and paler.
“Here in this very porch, Bobbie,” he replied, his arm about the lad,
while on his knee sat little Mollie Harford, the orphan daughter of
Gabriel’s brother, Bridstock, who had died seven years before.
“Never was there such a happy wedding before or since, for it is not
often that the bridegroom is rescued at the last moment from the jaws of
death. The villagers were ready to cry for joy, and the soldiers--brave
fellows!--why, they were only too glad to be let off the horrid piece of
work their Colonel had set them to do.”
“And when did my grandfather come?” asked Mollie.
“He came that evening, and Mrs. Harford with him, and they all stayed at
the Vicarage a couple of days, rejoicing. Then the bride and bridegroom
went to say farewell to the Bishop at Whitbourne, and thence to London,
where Madam Harford gave them a right loving welcome, and took good care
of Hilary, while her husband joined Cromwell, and began his career as
mate to the surgeon of his regiment. It was in that fashion that he
again saw Colonel Norton. For after the great battle at Naseby, when
he was going about the field succouring the wounded, he came upon the
Colonel lying there half dead, and was able to bind up his wounds, and
bring him the water he cried out for. When the Colonel had drunk it, he
looked up with startled eyes at his helper.
“‘Why, God bless my soul! Is it you?’ he cried. ‘What are you doing?’
“‘Helping the sick and wounded,’ said Gabriel.
“‘Confounded queer work for a gentleman,’ said Norton.
“‘It was good enough for Christ,’ said the other.
“Then up came the surgeon, said ’twas no use spending time over
one that couldn’t live an hour, and bade his mate come and rest. But
Gabriel, saying that he knew the wounded officer, asked to remain with
him.
“‘Why should I lie shivering here for an hour?’ said Norton, in his
devil-may-care tone. ‘It will be quicker work if I die on my feet, and
I’ll be bound you think I shall be hot enough in the next world.’
“‘Lie still,’ said Gabriel. ‘Here’s the cloak Lord Falkland gave me at
Marlborough. We’ll wrap it about you.’
“Now at the word Marlborough, the face of the dying man changed, and he
fell a-thinking.
“‘Say the words you said that night,’ he gasped.
“Gabriel, unable to think what he meant, said the first words that came
to his mind:
“‘Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us,
and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil, for thine is
the kingdom, and the power and the glory, for ever.’
“And after that the dying man lay in his arms fighting hard for breath,
but never speaking, only once he gripped Gabriel’s hand and looked in
his eyes, as though he would have thanked him. Then, as darkness fell on
the blood-stained field, he passed away.”
“And what happened to my uncle Gabriel?” asked Mollie.
“The war ended not long after that, and he went to London, and studied
for two years under Sir Theodore Mayerne, and then for two years more
at Paris. In 1650 he settled finally in London, and there became a
celebrated physician, and all went well with him. He had twenty years
of happy wedded life, marred only by some trouble at the time of the
Restoration for the part he had played in the Civil War. However, that
was no very serious matter, and there were few happier homes in the
country till the year of the Great Plague.
“Knowing that his duty lay with the poor sick folk in London, he parted
from his wife and four children, sending them, as he hoped, out of all
risk to Katterham, a country place some eighteen miles off. But it fell
about that, as they halted at Croydon to bait the horses, some that were
also flying from the plague, sat with them at the common table in the
inn, and even as they dined one of these fellow-travellers was seized
with illness. Spite of all precautions, my dear niece herself sickened
the next day, and ere twenty-four hours had passed she and her children
were dead.
“An old comrade, Sir Joscelyn Hey worth, travelled to London to break
the news to his friend, who seemed for the time wholly crushed. But as
they sat together talking very sadly, there came in Sir William Denham,
who for many years had known them both.
“‘Doctor,’ he said. ‘I scarce like to break in upon your sorrow, but my
friend Judge Wharncliffe and his wife have just died of the plague, and
their two sons are at death’s door, with no one but an old man-servant
to care for them, and the doctor who had attended them hath now died in
the very house.”
“At that Gabriel put aside his own trouble, and went forth to see what
he could do. He found the elder lad, a fine fellow of one and twenty,
beginning to rally, but the younger, a tiny, delicate child of but two
or three years, lay at the point of death. He fought for its life, and
never left it till it had passed the crisis, and by that time, as he
afterwards told me, life had again become bearable to him, and he found
what the joy of battle meant; it was not the brutal love of bloodshed,
it was the God-like desire to overcome evil with good, disease with
health, and death with life.”
“And did the little boy get quite strong?” asked Mollie, eagerly.
“Ay, to be sure, he’s alive to this day, and has lived a right noble
life. Few men have suffered with a better courage than Hugo Wharncliffe,
and one day I’ll tell you his story.”
“And now tell me the rest about Uncle Gabriel,” said Mollie. “Did he
live much longer?”
“Only five years more, but they were five years full of good Work. It
was in 1670, I remember, that he wrote to say he was advised to take a
few weeks’ rest and hoped to pay us a visit at Bosbury on his way home
to his father. Now Dr. Harford was attending some sick folk at the
Grange, and chanced to be here the very day he arrived. As we all dined
together Gabriel told us with much interest of certain people called
Quakers that he had lately come to know. Their way of thought had great
attraction for him, especially the effort they made to obey literally
the teaching of Christ as to using no oath, and avoiding all war and
violence.”
“‘Seeing the quiet way in which they laid down their lives for their
peace principles,’ he said, ‘set me wondering whether Christ must not be
grieved to find the war spirit so strong still among His followers, and
that 1670 years after his birth the bulk of us still demand an eye for
an eye and a tooth for a tooth.’
“We found that in addition to all his usual work he had been visiting
many of these Quakers, who, under the persecuting laws of those times,
were imprisoned in Newgate, Bishopsgate Gaol and the New Prison. It was
in this fashion that he had taken a fever, for gaol fever raged among
these prisoners for conscience’ sake; but he said he grudged not having
taken the infection from them, for he hoped that he had caught from
them, also, some of their noble and true thoughts. He spoke, too, of
Lord Falkland’s craving for peace, and thought that, like him, the
Quakers were in advance of the times, and were to lead the nation to
truer and nobler ways of thought, particularly on this point
about peace, which one day all men would see to be the only true
Christ-following.
“We were still talking of the Society of Friends when Dr Harford said
he must go out again to visit two more patients. I remember we all three
stood for a minute at the garden-gate, and can almost hear your uncle’s
voice still as he said, ‘When they spoke of the duty of Christians to
take no part in war, I used to feel as on the day when Waghorn would
have pulled down the cross, and you spoke of love which is the bond of
peace, and then coming hither we found Hilary standing beneath the yew
tree holding open the gate for us.’
“His eyes grew wistful, and I noticed that his hand rested for a minute
on the gate, as though anything she had touched was sacred to him. Then,
his cheerfulness returning, he said he must pay a visit to the Tower of
Refuge, and so we parted, for I knew that the place was full of memories
to him and that he would fain be alone.
“In about an hour your grandfather returned, and we went across the
churchyard to find your uncle, talking as we went of the way in which
the fever and the overwork had changed him.
“‘He will need a long rest,’ said Dr. Harford. ‘He hath worn himself
out with the woes of others and with the noisome air of those pestilent
gaols.’
“I said it was after all natural enough, for he had ever had a special
feeling for prisoners since his time in Oxford Castle, and Herefordshire
was the very best place he could have come to for a rest and change.
“Well, by that we had drawn near to the porch, and saw that he was
sitting on this western bench and must have fallen asleep, for he had
taken off the long curled wig that all gentlemen wore then much as they
do now, and with his short hair he looked curiously like the Captain
Harford who had saved Bosbury Cross.
“But something in his perfect stillness struck Dr. Harford with sudden
anxiety. We bent close down to him--he had ceased to breathe, and from
his face death had smoothed away all the lines of sorrow, so that he
looked once more young. I wish I could describe to you the wonderful
serene dignity of his expression--but that is not to be put into words.
Here in this porch where five-and-twenty years before I had wedded him
to my dear niece, God had once more united the husband and wife.”
* * * * *
“It is such a pity people have to die,” said Bobbie, kicking the
flagstones with energy, because he saw tears in Mollie’s eyes and wished
to keep them from his own.
“You think so?” said his grandfather, with a smile. “And quite right too
at your age. But when like me you are an old man of four-score years and
ten, there’ll be so many waiting for you on the other side of the
river that you’ll be glad when you are told to cross over. I hear your
grandfather’s step on the path, Mollie, and when we two old friends
chat over old times together, ’tis hard for you young ones to get in
a word, so you had best go in and see the Harford monuments, and Bishop
Swinfield’s head which was rescued from Hereford Cathedral.”
“There’s no monument to Uncle Gabriel,” said Mollie, wiping away her
tears.
“My child, his body lies in the chancel, but Bosbury Cross is his
monument, and he could not have a better,” said the Vicar.
As the two children entered the church he took from the pocket of his
doublet a small note-book, and added a line to an epitaph he had been
trying to write, smiling to himself over Bobbie’s notion that it was a
pity anybody died.
I lay me down at expectation’s door;
Weary and worn with age I crave no more. But
Christus Jesus meus est omnia.
--Will. Coke, 1690.
As he finished the verse, Dr. Harford, marvellously erect and active for
his eighty-five years, crossed the churchyard and sat down beside him in
the porch.
“I have come across a curious link with the past,” he said. “Chancing
to be at Farmer Chadd’s just now where Meg is laid up, as you know, she
gave me this ring which her husband had found yesterday when digging in
the orchard. I fancy it must have dropped from Colonel Norton’s
finger on the day of the duel, and have lain there unnoticed these
five-and-forty years. The initials as you see are L. and N.”
“Ay,” said the antiquary, putting up his glass and scrutinising the
letters carefully; “two L’s for Lionel and Lucy. It must have been his
wife’s wedding-ring. And here is the posy
‘Till death us departe--
Nay not so deare harte--
Death shall us more truly unite.’”
“Poor Norton!” said the Vicar. “He was a man who might have lived such
a different life! Well, who knows but that on Naseby Field God’s grace
may, indeed, have delivered him from evil?”
“I am always glad to think that he was one of Gabriel’s first patients,”
said Dr. Harford, “and that those poor imprisoned Quakers, suffering so
bravely in the cause of peace, were his last. We may say truly that in
helping them he gave up his own life.”
“And God be thanked that since our peaceful Revolution there are no more
persecutions for opinion,” observed the Vicar. “We have passed through
rough waters, doctor, yet have each of us been blessed with a loving
wife, and have lived to see our children and our children’s children
blessed in their career. But to my mind the noblest race was run by your
son, Gabriel, who, indeed, died a hero of peace.”
THE END.
AUTHOR’S NOTE.
To the kindness of Mr. Joseph J. Green, of Tunbridge Wells, the Quaker
antiquary and genealogist, and a collateral descendant of the Harfords,
I am indebted for some of the particulars relating to my hero’s family.
Dr. Bridstock Harford is also mentioned by the historian, Webb, and
in Duncomb’s “History of the County of Hereford,” as one of the few
residents in Hereford who sided with the Parliament, and there is
a reference to him in the interesting old account-book of Mrs.
Joyce Jefferies, of Widemarsh Street. The celebrated physician lived
until 1695, surviving both his sons; the elder one is buried at Bosbury;
the second son, Bridstock, was M.P. for Hereford in the reign of
Charles II., and died in 1683. Dr. Bridstock Harford is buried in
Hereford Cathedral, and a long Latin epitaph speaks of the ancient and
honourable family from which he was descended, and of the way in which
the city grieved for the loss of its greatest physician, whose skill had
rescued so many from death, and who had never taken fees from the poor.
Particulars as to Sir Robert Harley and his household have been gathered
from the “Letters of Lady Brilliana Harley” (Camden Society). The
Archbishop’s visitation at Hereford is mentioned in Baine’s “Life of
Laud,” and details of the fines and penalties, described in Chapters II.
and V., are given in Dr. S. R. Gardiner’s “History of England from the
Accession of James I. to the Outbreak of the Civil War,” Vols. VII.-X.,
and in Brook’s “Lives of the Puritans.” The words as to the proposed
escape from the Tower of London in Chapter XXVI. were really spoken by
Laud to his friend Pococke.
For the sketch of Lord Falkland’s character the books consulted were
Gardiner’s “History of the Great Civil War,” Tulloch’s “Rational
Theology in the Seventeenth Century,” “History of the Falklands”
(Longmans), Falkland’s “Discourse on Infallibility,” with a memoir by
Dr. Triplet, Whitelocke’s “Memorials,” and Clarendon.
With regard to Bishop Coke, “Even Prynne could find nothing to say
against the Bishop of Hereford save that he had a hand in the canons.”
He is described by a contemporary as “A serene and quiet man above the
storm” (see Webb’s “Memorials of the Civil War in Herefordshire,” Vol.
I., p. 51). Of his son, William Coke, Vicar of Bosbury, tradition says
that Bosbury Cross owes its preservation to the considerateness of
a Parliamentary Captain who yielded to his entreaty to spare it, the
condition being made that the words “Honour not the cross, but honour
God for Christ,” should be graven on it. These words may still be read
on the cross. The fact that William Coke held the living of Bosbury
continuously from 1641 to 1690 speaks for itself as to his tact and his
tolerant spirit. His epitaph, partly effaced, is as follows:
I lay me down at expect.. . .
I crave no more. But
Christus Jesus meus est omn.
Will: Coke, 1690.
The sufferings of the prisoners of war at Oxford under Provost-Marshal
Smith are mentioned by many contemporary writers, and an account of
their hardships will be found in Nehemiah Wallington’s “Memoirs,” also
details of the way in which prisoners were treated on the march, and of
the use of churches as prisons. The escape of forty of the prisoners at
one time from Oxford Castle really happened. Sir William Waller’s letter
to Sir Ralph Hopton is taken from Webb’s “Memorials,” Vol. I., p. 261.
See also Dr. S. R. Gardiner’s “History of the Great Civil War,” Vol. I.,
p. 197, footnote. Webb also mentions Prince Rupert’s saying, “We will
have no law in England henceforward but of the sword.”
A letter from Sir Richard Hopton, of Canon Frome, has been preserved,
in which he complains of the misdoings of the garrison and the harsh
treatment and great loss of property he had been forced to endure at the
hands of the Governor. Norton appears to have been succeeded by Colonel
Barnold as Governor of Canon Frome, but of his personal character
nothing is known. With regard to the siege of Hereford in 1643, and
many other local matters, I am indebted to the kind help of Prebendary
Michael Hopton, of Canon Frome, and of Miss Hopton, of Clehonger. The
clemency of Lord Hopton, in Chapter XLV., though in accord with his
character, is not historic. But some time after writing this scene
I came, across a very similar incident in Nehemiah Wallington’s
“Memoirs”--a Royalist officer named Tarverfield intervening in much the
same way.
The latter part of this novel was first written by me in the form of a
play, which was produced by the Ben Greet Company under the direction
of Mr. A. S. Homewood, at Eastbourne, on January 4th, 1900, and was
subsequently given at Cambridge and at the Comedy Theatre, London.
Edna Lyall.