CHAPTER I.

Many loved Truth, and lavished life’s best oil

Amid the dusk of books to find her.

But these our brothers fought for her,

At life’s dear peril wrought for her,

So loved her that they died for her,

Tasting the raptured fleetness Of her divine completeness:

Their higher instinct knew

Those love her best who to themselves are true,

And what they dare to dream of dare to do.

They followed her and found her Where all may hope to find—

Not in the ashes of the burnt-out mind,

But beautiful with danger’s sweetness round her,

Where faith made whole with deed

Breathes its awakening breath

Into the lifeless creed;

They saw her plumed and mailed,

With sweet, stem face unveiled,

And all-repaying eyes look proud on them in death.

—Lowell.


There had been a heavy fall of snow in Hereford during the night, but the south walk in Dr. Harford’s garden had been swept, and the still, frosty air and mid-day sunshine made the place as pleasant a playground as could be wished. The merry voices of a boy and girl had rung for the last half-hour in the pleasance, and the joys of snowballing were far too keen to allow the little couple to notice even for a moment the beauty of the wintry scene, with the rime-covered trees and bushes bordering the river, and in the background the cathedral, its massive tower surmounted in those seventeenth century days by a lofty spire covered with lead which glittered in the bright sunshine.

Presently the two playmates grew tired of snowballing and retired to a little arbour, commonly called the sun-trap, for here on the coldest days warmth could generally be found. There was a lull in the merry sounds, but it was only the calm which precedes a storm, for before long came a vehement expostulation, “Gabriel! Gabriel! let me have it. I will have it.”

“Not till you have promised,” was the teasing retort, and from the arbour there sprang out a small boy, with the most winsome and mischievous face, his hazel eyes sparkling with elfish mirth, while he held high above his head a wooden puppet, as dear to its small owner as the loveliest of modern dolls.

The bereft mother refused to enter into the game; it might be sport to him, but it was death to her.

“I won’t promise!” she said, angrily. “Give me my babe.”

“No,” said Gabriel, laughing. “I can’t have you chopping and changing. You said yesterday you would, and now you have changed your mind. Come, promise, Hilary, and I’ll give you the puppet.”

“Never!” said Hilary, furiously.

With a teasing laugh he tossed the puppet high in the air, intending to catch it as it fell; but, Hilary, frantic at this treatment of her Bartholomew babe, charged him with fury like a little goat, and the next minute both children were rolling in the snow..

By the time they had picked themselves up the whole situation had changed, for, much to their astonishment, a huge mastiff came bounding through the garden and, seizing the puppet on the path, began to worry it.

For a minute both paused, the girl aghast, the boy with knitted brows. It was well enough to tease his small playmate now and then, but he had not reckoned on this four-footed intruder. A sob from Hilary made him fly to the rescue.

“Leave go, you brute!” he shouted, trying in vain to drag back the mastiff by his collar.

This was clearly hopeless. He pulled and tugged with all his might, but the dog unconcernedly chewed the doll.

“Oh, my babe—my poor babe!” wailed Hilary.

Whereupon Gabriel, pricked at heart, made a valiant snatch at the puppet, got it firmly by the head and succeeded in wrenching it from the very jaws of death.

“There!” he said, flinging it towards the little girl in triumph; but the triumph was short-lived, for it was now the turn of the dog, who, defrauded thus unceremoniously of his toy, seized angrily on the arm of the knight-errant.

A scream of genuine terror from Hilary brought Dr. Harford rushing from the house, and in his wake followed a grave, stately gentleman whom the little girl at once recognised as Sir Robert Harley, of Brampton Bryan. Apparently the mastiff belonged to him, for at his stern summons it came to heel obediently, while Dr. Harford began to examine his son’s arm.

“How did you anger him, child?” he asked, deftly unfastening Gabriel’s dripping sleeve.

“It was my fault, sir,” replied the boy, trying bravely to stiffen his lip. “I threw up the puppet, and then the dog worried it.”

“I trust Nero has not hurt him much,” said Sir Robert, concerned to see the wound on the small, shapely arm.

“Oh, we’ll soon set it right,” said Dr. Harford, leading the child to the house; “but with dog-bites you should never take half-measures. I must put a hot iron to it, so screw up your courage, laddie, and think how brave Cranmer thrust his hand into the flames.”

Gabriel’s heart sickened at the prospect before him, but he held up his head and stepped out more briskly, while Hilary crept after him with tearful eyes.

“You will excuse me, Sir Robert, if I see to this matter at once,” said the doctor, “for delays are dangerous. I ran forth in such haste on hearing little Hilary Unett’s scream that I have not yet even asked whether you will not lie here this night.”

“Nay, I am to be the guest of Sir Richard Hopton at Canon Frome,” said Sir Robert, seating himself by the fire in the doctor’s study and watching his host’s rapid movements as he prepared to dress the child’s wound.

“I did but come to bear to you and to Doctor Wright the news of Sir John Eliot’s death.”

“What! Is he indeed gone?” said Dr. Harford, sorrow clouding his fine, thoughtful face.

“Here is a letter I received last night from London,” said Sir Robert. “An you will I will read it.”

“Sir John Eliot, one of the Members for Cornwall in the last Parliament, died this 27th day of November, after nigh upon four years’ imprisonment in the Tower, for refusing to answer for his conduct in Parliament anywhere but in Parliament itself, this being, he maintained, one of the inalienable rights of the English people, without which a just liberty would be impossible. Having incurred the displeasure of His Majesty on this account, and for his fearless unveiling of divers other Court abuses and irregularities, the King refused to release him, and, indeed, for the last year did keep him close prisoner in a dark, cold and wretchedly uncomfortable room, denying him, even at his physician’s request, air and exercise, and forbidding him to see any save his sons. His health was thus undermined, and a fortnight since, when he did petition for a temporary release to recover from his sickness, the request was refused by His Majesty, and now that he lies dead the King will not grant his sons’ petition to carry the body for burial to Port Eliot, but orders that Sir John shall be buried in the church within the walls of the Tower. This harshness hath greatly angered all who knew the late Member for Cornwall, and, knowing him, could but admire his integrity, his courage and his patriotic devotion.”

“A brave man—a truly great man,” said Dr. Harford. “Sir John Eliot is the martyr who by his blood will safeguard our Parliamentary rights.”

As he spoke he took the hot iron from the fire and drew Gabriel gently towards him.

“Now, my son,” he said, in the voice which by its tender but firm cheerfulness had nerved many a sufferer, “what a joy it will be to your father if you follow in that great man’s steps. Nothing could daunt Sir John; cost what it might he was ever true.”

The boy being of a highly-strung, nervous temperament turned deathly white, but never flinched as the hot iron seared his flesh; only a stifled moan escaped him, and Hilary through her tears saw the strangest look of triumph in his dilated eyes—a look that made her heart throb with love and admiration. In a few minutes more the arm was carefully bandaged, the two gentlemen continuing meantime their grave talk.

“I will send word to Frank Unett that you are here, sir,” said Dr. Harford, “for he, too, is one that deplores the present illegal rule without a Parliament; he will mourn Sir John’s death.”

“We call it a death,” said Sir Robert, “but he has been as surely murdered by the rigours of imprisonment as though he had been stabbed in the Tower. Well,” with a sigh, “the day of reckoning cannot long be delayed.”

“There, laddie,” said the doctor, drawing the sleeve gently over the bandage, “you have borne it like an Englishman; now run off into the fresh air and forget your troubles.”

With respectful salutes to their elders the children returned to the garden; Hilary, with her pretty eyes still tender and subdued, slipped her arm caressingly round her playmate’s neck. “I’m sorry, Gabriel,” she said, in a tremulous voice, “and all the time I didn’t really mean it. I will be your little wife.”

Gabriel turned and kissed her soft, rosy cheek with great frankness and warmth. “If you will,” he said, “I’ll promise not to worry your puppets any more. I don’t know how it is,” he continued reflectively, “but there’s something that makes a boy feel to a puppet like a dog does to a cat—he must worry it.”

“There was the one you roasted last Lammastide,” said Hilary, sadly.

“But you know it did make a glorious bonfire, and you enjoyed that part of it,” said Gabriel, with mirth in his eyes.

“But I wanted the puppet back again afterwards.”

“Well, well, I must try to remember you like the wretches. And you must really remember your promise, and not chop and change any more!”

“What does chop mean?”

“Go up and down like the sea; don’t you know how old Nat the sailor says the sea was a bit choppy?”

“I won’t be like the sea,” said Hilary, her lovely little face flushing and her eyes shining. “I give you my real true promise to be your wife.”

Gabriel did not repeat the kiss, for at that moment there flashed into his mind a fresh idea.

“Hilary,” he exclaimed, “let us build a snow monument to Sir John Eliot; he shall lie in effigy like Bishop Swinfield in the cathedral.”

“But your arm?”

“I can work with the right one,” he replied, cheerfully, and the two were soon as happy as could be fashioning their recumbent snow man.

Later on Dr. Harford, passing down the south walk arm-inarm with Hilary’s father, and still discussing the sad news brought by Sir Robert Harley, drew his friend’s attention to the busy little pair.

“They make excellent playmates,” said Frank Unett. “What would I not give for the hope of living to see my little maid grow up! But it will not be; Sir John Eliot’s malady will carry me off long ere that.”

Dr. Harford knew only too well that his companion spoke the truth, but he answered cheerfully, “You cannot look forward to long life, but with care you will be spared to us for some years, I trust.”

“I should not dread leaving my wife and child behind were not the times so dark,” said the invalid. “’Tis true my father-in-law is a learned and worthy man, but his views are not mine. Do what you can for them, Bridstock, they will need staunch friends.”

“Sir, sir,” said Gabriel, running towards them, “pray do come and see the monument we have made to Sir John Eliot.”

The two gentlemen praised the work.

“And what do you know of Sir John?” said Mr. Unett, with a smile.

“I know how brave he was,” said Gabriel, “and that he died to save us from being made slaves.”

“He heard Sir Robert reading the news-letter,” said Dr. Harford, putting his hand tenderly on Gabriel’s head. “Somehow a child always contrives to go straight to the mark and grasp the essential point of a tale.”

“Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings,” murmured Frank Unett, glancing from the eager-faced children to the snow effigy—the only monument brave John Eliot was like to have in the land for which he died. “But what’s amiss with your arm, lad?”

“Sir Robert’s dog bit it, but my father has cured it again,” said Gabriel, sturdily.

“It was my fault, father,” said Hilary; “we were quarrelling.”

“Eh? What was the disputed point? You two are for ever arguing.”

“Yet their greatest punishment is to be apart,” said Dr. Harford, with his genial laugh.

“I said I wouldn’t be Gabriel’s wife,” said Hilary, hanging her head. “But we’ve made it up again, and I have given him my promise.”

“Oh, you have, have you?” said her father, laughing; “and without so much as a ‘by your leave’ to me? Well, I could wish you no better lot. He will make a rare good husband, an I am not much mistaken.”

“Come, Frank, you ought not to stand still this cold day,” said the doctor; “’tis time you were in the house again.” They moved on, the invalid still smiling over his daughter’s words.

“The little minx!” he continued. “How innocently she said it. I should be heartily glad should their childish notion be carried out later on.”

“Stranger things have happened, Frank,” said the doctor, with a smile; “and I should be glad to have pretty Hilary for a daughter-in-law.”

“I wonder what she will grow up?” said the invalid. “Well,” with a sigh, “I shall not be here to see.”

“Look, here comes that bustling housekeeper of yours,” said the doctor, not sorry to turn the conversation. “Well, Mrs. Durdle, are you come to upbraid the physician for keeping your master out of doors?”

A stout, buxom, cheery-looking woman came hurrying towards them through the wicket-gate which led into the adjoining garden.

“Why, no, sir,” she said, breathlessly, “though if I may make bold to say so, I think master would be a deal better by the hearth than out in the sun this December day; but the Christmas puddings, sir, are ready for stirring, and I was coming to bid the children take their turn, or they will have no luck at all next year.”

“Heathen superstition, Mrs. Durdle,” said the doctor, with a smile. “But make not over-much of the bite Gabriel hath received, for in this case, truly, least said soonest mended. Tell him no tales about those that die of a dog-bite.” The housekeeper promised and went in search of the children.

“Not but what I know many a tale,” she reflected. “And, Lord! what a terrible thing it would be if the doctor should lose his son that way. They would bury the little lad in the cathedral, doubtless, for the Harfords, they come of a great family, as old as any in the county. I should go myself to help lay him out—that servant of theirs is a feckless wench. Oh, gracious me! Why, they’re already making his tomb!” and in amaze she looked at the two children, who were putting the last touches to their snow monument.

“Lor’ bless my heart, dearies!” exclaimed Mrs. Durdle, “what do you make that corpse-like thing for? Why couldn’t you keep to an honest Jack Frost with a pipe in his mouth?”

“Why, Durdle, ’tis Sir John Eliot, the Parliament man. We’re making his monument.”

“Well, what can put such an idea into the child’s head as to make a monument to a Parliament man? We’re not going to have no more Parliaments they tell me, and a good job, too. Done without them these many years well enough, says I. Come in now, my dearies. Come and stir the Christmas puddings—here’s nigh upon a week past since ‘Stir-up Sunday.’”

The children were always glad of an excuse to visit the kitchen, where Durdle, a cheerful, chatty soul, ever gave them a hearty welcome. They wanted no second bidding, and were soon perched on the table with the huge pudding-crock between them and two strong wooden spoons.

“Wish, Hilary; it’s no good stirring unless you wish,” said Gabriel, swinging his legs, while he meditated what gift to ask of fortune.

“I wish for a beautiful new puppet at Christmas,” said Hilary, without the smallest hesitation.

A flush rose to Gabriel’s forehead; he felt pricked at heart, and was on the point of assuring her that he himself would make that wish true. But the old loathing of puppets died hard. He remained prudently silent.

Next came Mrs. Durdle herself with a wish about her valentine in the coming year, which the children thought profoundly uninteresting. What could a widow of thirty have to do with valentines, indeed?

“And now, Master Gabriel, for your wish,” said Durdle, as the boy still hesitated.

“Yes, Gabriel, yours—be quick!” adjured Hilary.

He grasped the spoon and stirred the pudding vigorously, with an odd, far-away look on his intent face.

“Well,” asked his companions, “what did you wish?”

“Oh, that,” said Gabriel, colouring as he slipped down from the table—“that’s my secret.”

And neither Durdle’s cajoling nor Hilary’s earnest entreaties could make him say another word about the matter.

Before long, moreover, Hilary was summoned to her mother’s room, and Gabriel ran home through the garden, pausing for one last look at the snow monument by the south walk.

“I wish to be like you,” he whispered to the effigy of Sir John Eliot; “I wish to give my life for the country’s freedom.” Then, without a thought of what his wish might involve, he ran cheerfully home along the frosty paths singing a snatch of the old Bosbury carol:


“Oh! praise the Lord with one accord,

All you that present be;

For Christ, God’s Son, has brought pardon

All for to make us free.”