CHAPTER V.

Let my voice swell out through the great abyss

To the azure dome above,

With a chord of faith in the harp of bliss:

Thank God for love!

Let my voice thrill out beneath and above

The whole world through,

O my love and life, O my life and love,

Thank God for you!

—James Thomson.


It seemed so doubtful whether Oxford was doing Gabriel much good, and the unhealthiness of the place was so great just then, that Dr. Harford decided to send his son to London and to enter him as a student at one of the Inns of Court. Sir Robert Harley had arranged to do the same with his eldest son, and as the two were friends, Gabriel was greatly pleased with the notion, and began to look forward to his new life. He discussed his prospects with Mrs. Joyce Jefferies a few days later when he dined with her at her pretty house in Widemarsh Street, but having known him all his life, she quickly detected the sadness that lurked beneath all his cheerful talk.

“Eliza,” she said, turning to her god-daughter, Miss Acton, who lived with her, “will you take this biscuit out to Tray, he has been barking and whining the last half-hour.”

“And what does Hilary Unett say to your leaving the University ere taking your degree?” she said to Gabriel when they were alone.

“She knows naught about it,” he replied, colouring. “We are no longer allowed to meet. The Bishop does not approve of our love.”

“Ah! that accounts for the change I noticed in her,” said the little lady. “I grieve for you both. But you are young; matters may right themselves in a year or two.”

They had reached the dessert stage, and Mrs. Joyce Jefferies had just put a bunch of grapes on her godson’s plate, when she was startled by a loud knock at the door. Miss Acton, returning from her mission to the low-spirited dog in the garden, met the visitor in the entrance-hall, and with heightened colour ushered him into the dining-room.

“Godmother, here is Mr. Geers,” she said, her pretty eyes bright with pleasure.

Now Mrs. Joyce Jefferies, having the kindest of hearts, loved nothing better than to set the course of true love running in safe and smooth channels. It had long been her desire to see Mr. Geers and Eliza Acton wedded. Unfortunately, Mr. Geers at present showed no signs of making any proposal for Miss Acton’s hand, and since the godmother was no matchmaker, she dared not even hint at what she so greatly wished.

“This is my godson, Mr. Gabriel Harford,” she said, having received the visitor with a warm welcome. “Gabriel, you have not, I think, met my cousin, Mr. Geers, of Carnons.”

Gabriel bowed, but his whole face seemed to stiffen, much to the astonishment of his godmother.

Mr. Geers would take nothing but a cup of sack, having already dined. He was a most quaint-looking person, but spite of the wandering eye which Dr. Coke had mentioned, there was something not unpleasing in his good-natured, shrewd expression and in his wide mouth, about which there lurked a kind of satirical smile.

“I have come to you, cousin,” he said, “to be cheered and heartened before going through a great ordeal. The fact is, I am going a-wooing.”

“Indeed,” said Mrs. Joyce Jefferies, feeling perplexed.

“I have only once glimpsed the fair lady, and have not yet been introduced to her. The ceremony is to take place this afternoon at three o’ the clock, and I have a sinking feeling here already.” He placed his hand on his heart. Then taking out a watch from a shagreen case that hung at his fob, “There are yet two hours, and I pray you to hearten me up.”

The hostess laughed cheerfully, but all the time her kinsman had been speaking she had observed with discomfort the pallor of her goddaughter’s face, and the extraordinary way in which Gabriel was swallowing the grapes she had put on his plate—certainly a most terrible fit of indigestion must be the result.

“We will do our best to hearten you, but could do so better did we know the fair lady’s name,” she said.

“Her name,” said Mr. Geers, with a humorous gleam in the well-regulated eye and profound gravity in the squinting one, “her name is the worst part of the whole affair. They christened her ‘Hilary,’ which is a name that may be borne by man as well as woman. Now I desire a very womanly woman, no masculine she, and Hilary smacks somewhat of lawyers and their terms. But the surname is still worse, for that would lead one to believe that the lady means to die single and hath no intention of going in double harness. I confess that the name of Mistress Hilary Unett discourages me mightily.”

Mrs. Joyce Jefferies, feeling convinced that in another minute Gabriel would choke, bethought her of a plan which would relieve them all.

“You amuse me greatly,” she said, with a well-feigned laugh. “I must have a confidential talk with you. Let us send off these young people and enjoy a t锚te-脿-t锚te. Eliza, my dear, take Mr. Harford to see my throstle in the twiggen cage; I see he has finished his fruit.”

The two accepted the suggestion with alacrity, Mr. Geers watching them thoughtfully as they left the room.

“What’s amiss with that young man?” he said, “is he in love with pretty Eliza?”

“Oh! my dear Francis, do you really imagine Eliza would think twice of a lad younger than herself?” said Mrs. Joyce, marvelling at the dense stupidity of men. “But you are right in one way; the lad is in love, and, as ill-luck will have it, with the very same lady you are going to court.”

“What! with Mistress Hilary Unett? Great heavens! and I made merry over her name in his presence. Now tell me all about it, cousin, for hang it! the lady won’t look at a plainfaced man like me if that young spark has spoken to her.”

“Dear Cousin Francis, we all know that you would make the very kindest of husbands, but as you wish me to speak the bare truth I do not think Hilary Unett will accept your suit unless her grandfather forces her to do so.”

“She likes this handsome godson of yours?”

“Well, it is not for me to say yes or no to that question; but they have been playmates ever since they could walk, and next-door neighbours. You can judge for yourself whether it is likely or not.”

“I am greatly obliged to you for your sensible way of heartening me ere I go courting,” said Mr. Geers, smiling broadly. “I am bound to go through with the matter, but if the lady is true to herself nought will come of it, and young Mr. Harford need not again come so near to choking himself with burning rage and gulped grapes.”

The good-natured rival laughed till the tears ran down his sunburnt cheeks.

“But it was hard on the poor fellow,” he said, after a while. “Clearly he knew all about my proposals, for his face grew flint-like as you told him my name. Give him a comforting hint when I am gone, or he may seek a grave in the Wye and afterwards haunt me, which would make Garnons a yet more unpleasant home.”

“Garnons is over-lonely for you,” said Mrs. Joyce. “Yet I cannot think that Hilary Unett is well fitted to be its mistress.”

Perhaps Mr. Geers agreed with this shrewd remark when he had been introduced to the bishop’s granddaughter. Her reception was so grave, her manner so distant, that, as he confessed afterwards, it would have been easier to woo an iceberg. Fortunately, his cousin’s words had given him the clue to the girl’s manner and bearing, and on the third day of his visit to the Palace he called at Mrs. Unett’s house, and finding Hilary in the garden, resolved to speak out boldly, and make an end of this highly unsatisfactory courtship.

“Mistress Unett,” he said, “the Bishop has been very good in allowing me to propose an alliance with you, but I can scarcely flatter myself that the idea is pleasing in your eyes. I am a plain-spoken man and will not try your patience with further compliments or professions of my high esteem and sincere admiration, but will ask you truthfully to tell me whether you think you could honour me with your hand?”

“Sir, you have done me great honour by the proposal,” said Hilary, nervously. “But I should only wrong you did I consent to be your wife. You ask me to tell you the truth, and you have been so kindly a suitor that I will do exactly as you bid me. The truth, sir, is that my heart belongs to another.”

Mr. Geers bowed. “You honour me by your confidence, madam,” he said, gallantly. “I withdraw at once in favour of the lucky man who has won so great a treasure.”

“Alas! he is not lucky at all,” said Hilary, her eyes filling with tears. “They say he is over-young, and will not allow us to meet.”

“For that, dear madam, there is a sure remedy. Have patience; we grow old only too fast in these harassing days.”

And after that the good-natured suitor, with a pitying remembrance of Gabriel Harford’s unhappy face, tried to do him a good turn with the Bishop, by showing how utterly hopeless it was to woo a maid whose heart had been given to another man since nursery days, and how extremely probable it was that the lady’s health would suffer if she were too severely tried.

The words made no apparent impression on the Bishop, but they returned to him uncomfortably one Sunday morning in the cathedral, when his eye happened to rest for a minute on Hilary’s face. It suddenly struck him that she had grown curiously pale and thin during the last fortnight, and glancing across at the place usually occupied by Gabriel Harford, he noticed that in him, also, there was a change; the lad looked much older, his sunburnt face had lost its boyish carelessness, his eyes seemed larger and more sad. Yet there was a curious vigour about him in spite of his trouble, and as he joined in the metrical Psalm something in his expression appealed to the Bishop. The cathedral rang with the sweet voices of the choristers as they sang to the tune of the old 137th, Sternhold and Hopkins’ quaint version of King David’s words:


“In trouble and adversity,

The Lord God hear thee still;

The majesty of Jacob’s God

Defend thee from all ill.

And send thee from His holy place

His help in every need;

And so in Sion stablish thee

And make thee strong indeed.


“According to thy heart’s desire

The Lord grant unto thee,

And all thy counsel and device

Full well perform may He.

The Lord will His anointed save,

I know well by His grace;

And send him help by His right hand

Out of His holy place.”


It was Gabriel’s last Sunday in Hereford. On Tuesday night he was to lie at Brampton Bryan; on the following day to set off, in company with Sir Robert Harley and his son for London. His heart was heavy as he wondered when he should again see Hilary, yet, although they were not allowed to meet, there was no small comfort in this glimpse of her at morning service, from which no one had the right to debar him; there was comfort, too, in the words they were singing together, and hope and confidence began to possess his heart, and to bring a look of strength to his face.

The Bishop noted it, and bethought him of what Mr. Geers had said. After all, was he perhaps giving these two unnecessary pain? Was it, indeed, useless to try to put an end to love which had grown with their growth and strengthened with their strength?

By the end of the service Gabriel had decided that to leave home without a word of farewell to Hilary was intolerable, and being too honourable to steal an interview without leave, he waited in the Bishop’s cloisters hoping to see the prelate as he returned to the Palace, and to make his request. The sunshine blazed on the grass and daisies without, but the cloisters with their vaulted roof and exquisitely sculptured figures and foliage were cool and sheltered; Gabriel leant against one of the mullions of the great windows, glad to feel the fresh September air on his heated forehead. At length steps were heard, and looking up he saw the Bishop approaching, with his chaplain in attendance. Wishing the attendant anywhere else he stepped forward, and bowing low, said, “My lord, may I have a word with you?”

Gabriel’s manner was good, and the worthy Bishop, taking the deference in the tone for awe of his office, though it was in truth merely reverence for his age and his learning, felt that he had misjudged Hilary’s lover. Moreover, those who have just joined their prayers and praises see each other in a clearer atmosphere, raised somewhat above the fogs of prejudice and the murky smoke of differing opinions.

“You need not wait,” said the Bishop, glancing at his chaplain.

“I am glad to see you, Mr. Harford, for I have just learnt from Mrs. Joyce Jefferies that you are about to leave Hereford.”

“I am to be entered as a student at Lincoln’s-inn, my lord, and I crave your leave to say farewell to Hilary.”

The mere use of the Christian name at such a time reminded the Bishop of the closeness of the intimacy between the two. Although he himself had only lived four years in Hereford, Gabriel and Hilary had spent their lives in the place as near neighbours. It had been easy enough to discuss the betrothal as a mere matter of business with Dr. Harford, but it was hard to the kindly old man to resist the appeal of the lover himself.

“Merely to grant you a farewell would be a cruel kindness,” he said, thoughtfully. “You are just leaving for a much wider and more varied life; mayhap you will in London find others that will please your fancy more than my granddaughter.”

“My lord, if I cannot wed Hilary, I will wed no other,” said Gabriel. “We Harfords do not lightly change.”

Something in the confidence of his tone was so full of youth and inexperience that the Bishop felt a fatherly compassion taking possession of him.

“My lad,” he said, quietly, “you think thus in all honesty, but you are going to live in one of the most wicked cities in the world. You know not how great are the temptations you will have to face.”

“Yet if love be in truth akin to love Divine, it will ‘defend us from all ill,’” said Gabriel, musingly; and to both of them it seemed that the music of the old Psalm echoed Softly through the cloisters.

It was not very often that the Bishop turned from his theological studies to direct talk with one of Gabriel’s stamp; he began now to think that, after all, poor Frank Unett’s notion had been right, and that a Harford would make a good husband.

“Lad,” he said, “believe me, I desire only what is best for you and my grandchild. If I were to consent to a betrothal now on the understanding that it is not publicly announced, would you on your part undertake to avoid Hereford for the next two years? Time would then test and try you both.” Gabriel’s face fairly shone.

“My lord,” he said, breathlessly, “I will gladly bear any waiting if only we are permitted to be betrothed; and no one need be aware of it except my parents, and, if you will permit it, my godmother, Mrs. Joyce Jefferies.”

The Bishop smiled. “Yes, let Mrs. Jefferies know, for, in truth, it was a few words she spoke to me that inclined me to listen to your appeal. Go now, and talk over matters with your father, and I will prepare Mrs. Unett and Hilary for your call.” All this time Hilary had seen no member of the next-door household save little Bridstock, the brother born during Gabriel’s school days, who had, of course, no notion of keeping aloof from her and knew nothing of their trouble. Her face grew radiant when the Bishop told her of his interview with Gabriel. Nevertheless, the call—a state visit, paid in company with his father—was a rather formidable affair for the lovers, who left most of the talking to their elders, but their spirits rose when Dr. Harford proposed a ride for the following day.

“I have to go over to Bosbury to see a patient,” he said, “and if the day is fine I hope Mrs. Unett will entrust you to me.”

That Hilary should often accompany Gabriel and his father had long been a custom, and the enforced home-keeping of the past fortnight had been hard to bear. The girl’s face was radiant when once again she found herself riding with her lover through St. Owen’s Gate and out into the lovely country beyond. The unexpected relief after those weary days of sorrow made it wholly impossible to trouble as to the future. To-morrow there would indeed be parting, but for this one day they were as happy and light-hearted as children, and with an added rapture which no child can feel. On they rode past hedges bright with briony berries and brambles, or veiled with feathery traveller’s joy; past hopyards where the pickers were hard at work, their many-coloured raiment making patches of brightness in the long green avenues; past orchards where the trees were bending under their load of rosy or golden apples; while ever and anon would come glimpses of the Malvern hills with their exquisite colouring, not to be surpassed in richness by any other hills in existence. At length the pretty village of Bosbury was reached, and Dr. Harford pointed out to Hilary the old house of the Harfords in which some of the happiest days of his childhood had been spent—a fine gabled mansion with heavily mullioned windows. It had passed now into other hands, and the doctor never willingly entered it, being a man who disliked seeing his sacred places under new conditions.

“I have to see old Mr. Wall, the vicar,” he said to his son, “and as my visit is likely to be a long one we will bait the horses at the Bell, and you may show Hilary the monuments if she is disposed to look at them.”

Hilary did not much mind what she looked at so long as Gabriel was her cicerone, and the lovers, dismounting at the gate, walked through the churchyard.

“What a strange tower it is standing quite separate from the church,” said Hilary. “Why was it built in that fashion?”

Gabriel glanced up at the solid brown old tower with its mantling ivy.

“No one precisely knows, but some say it was that it might be used as a place of refuge,” he replied.

They entered the south porch and found the door open and the fresh air blowing through the beautiful church; from the lovely little chantry chapel at the end of the south aisle came a flood of golden sunshine mellowing the white pillars, while the wonderful dark oak chancel screen, which was the special feature of the place, lifted its rare fan tracery and rich carving in sombre contrast. There was something in the quiet of this country church and in its beauty which appealed strongly to Hilary, while to Gabriel, also, though he was much less responsive to mere loveliness, the place had a homelike feeling, so often had he been there with his father, and so vividly had Dr. Harford described to him his own childish days at Bosbury.

The Harford monuments in the style of the early Renascence were on either side of the sacrarium, and Gabriel, with a smile, pointed out to Hilary a mistake in one of the inscriptions, which stated that there lay Richard Harford, of the parish of Bosbury, Armiger, and Martha his wife.

“This lady in Elizabethan dress who rests beside my great uncle, is, in truth, his first wife, Katherine Purefoy; and Mrs. Martha does not rest here at all, but had two more husbands—to wit, Michael Hopton, of Canon Frome, and John Berrow, of Awre.”

“I did not know you were connected with the Hoptons.”

“Yes, in this fashion, besides by a close friendship betwixt my father and Sir Richard Hopton, and that again is cemented by their political views being of the same order.”

“Have politics aught to do with friendship?”

“With friendship, yes, but with love nothing at all.”

“That is well, for you and I, perchance, might not agree,” said Hilary.

“We could always agree to differ, but in truth we neither of us as yet know enough of matters of State to have any opinions,” he replied.

“I don’t quite understand your ancestry yet,” said Hilary, laughing. “There is great-grandfather John, and here is great-uncle Richard, but where is the grandfather?”

“He was Henry Harford, of Warminster,” said Gabriel. “But my father, being the son of his second wife, Madame Alice Harford, inherits none of the Harford property. Madame Harford still lives near London, and I am to visit her. They say she is a most formidable personage, and has never forgiven my father and mother for marrying when they were mere boy and girl. For my part I am glad they did, for it makes my father understand our case.”

“Yes, he understands well, and has been most kind to us. Had it not been for him and for Mrs. Joyce Jefferies, we should have had sad hearts to-day.”

They wandered back into the churchyard and sat down to rest on the steps of the old stone cross which for many generations had stood there. So quiet and peaceful was all around that it was hard to believe that the village street was within a stone’s-throw, and the lovers, absorbed in their own happiness, did not hear the quiet footsteps of a man approaching them, did not dream that just as surely as time advanced with cares and sorrows in his train, so did this austere-looking figure come into their lives, bringing with him the shadow of a coming agony.

They both started when upon their love-making was cast the sudden shade of the new-comer’s presence. Gabriel rose hurriedly, responding to the man’s grave salute in some confusion.

“I understand that Dr. Harford is at the vicarage; can I leave with you, sir, a message for him?”

“Certainly; what name?” said Gabriel, looking at the questioner’s sombre, deep-set eyes, in which there smouldered a strange fire. A look of resentment, indeed, darkened the whole face, which, though full of strength and purpose, was far from pleasing.

“My name is Peter Waghorn, and yonder to the east of the church, in the house with the tiled roof, my father, some years ago Vicar of Miltoncleve, lies at the point of death.”

“I will tell Dr. Harford directly he leaves Mr. Wall,” said Gabriel. Then with a thought of Hilary, “It is nought of an infectious kind, I suppose?”

Peter Waghorn smiled grimly.

“My father is dying of a disease that has been over-rife in the country since Dr. Laud got the upper hand. He was driven from his living in Devon and imprisoned by the Bishop of Exeter for speaking against Dr. Laud’s preaching. They then sent him to the Court of High Commission, and he was deprived, degraded and fined.”

“But for what offence?” asked Gabriel. “Merely for disapproving of the Archbishop’s doings? The prisons would be full of the gentry and the most learned men of the day were all sent to gaol who disliked Dr. Laud.”

“’Twas for preaching against decorations and images in the churches,” said Peter Waghorn, a gleam of fierce wrath flashing across his face. “So little do the punishments of the Archbishop match the offence, that for this my father suffered the loss of all things, and for daring now and again to preach afterwards, he was sent to Bridewell, mercilessly flogged, and for a whole winter chained to a post with irons on his hands and feet in a dark dungeon. ’Twas the cruel cold and damp that ruined his health, for he had nought but a pad of straw to lie on, and was kept on bread and water.”

“Truly they may well say that the oppressions and cruelties of the prelates are enough to drive a wise man mad,” said Gabriel. “But surely he may yet be saved? My father has brought many back to health that other physicians despaired of.”

“’Tis over-late,” said Waghorn, bitterly; “he lies sick of a wasting fever, and his limbs are stiff and useless with rheumatism. Yet his end may perchance be eased by a skilled physician.”

At that moment Dr. Harford came out from the vicarage, and Peter Waghorn, anxious to lose no more time, hastened forward to meet him. In close conversation they walked down the village street, and Gabriel returned to his place on the steps of the cross.

“How you do hate Archbishop Laud,” said Hilary, with a gleam of amusement in her eyes as she looked at him. “For my part, if the older Waghorn is like the younger I think he can have been no great loss to the Church. Come, why vex yourself thus over the misfortunes of this poor vicar? I thought you had no great liking for parsons.”

Her tone jarred on him. “I don’t understand,” he said, “how you can be so little moved by a tale like that. It makes one’s blood boil; and ’tis not only parsons who suffer. Remember how Mr. Shirfield, a bencher of Lincoln’s Inn, was treated by the Star Chamber.”

“What was his crime?” asked Hilary.

“Merely that as Recorder of Salisbury he permitted the taking down of a blasphemous window in St. Edmund’s Church—its removal had been agreed to by a vestry when six justices of the peace were present.”

“But a window cannot be blasphemous,” said Hilary, looking perplexed.

“Indeed it can,” replied Gabriel. “Why, this one had seven pictures of God the Father in the form of a little old man in a blue and red coat, with a pouch by his side and an elbow chair. The people used to bow to this as they went in and out. Merely to speak of it sickens one.”

Hilary still looked puzzled. She could not feel that it mattered much. “And what did Dr. Laud do to Mr. Shir-field?” she asked, anxious to understand why Gabriel’s indignation was so hot.

“He stood up and moved the Court that the Recorder should be fined 拢1,000, removed from the Recordership and thrown into the Fleet Prison till the fine was paid. And still worse was the fate of my father’s friend Gellibrand, Professor of Astronomy at Trinity College, Oxford, who, for encouraging the printing of an almanack in which the names of the martyrs from Foxe’s book were mentioned and the black letter saints omitted, was literally hounded to death by Dr. Laud. My father was present at the trial in the Court of High Commission, and the Professor was acquitted by Archbishop Abbott and the whole Court except Dr. Laud, who was full of wrath at the acquittal, and urged that the Queen desired him to prosecute the author and to suppress the book. Then when the Court still persisted in acquitting the accused, Dr. Laud turned upon him in fury, saying that he ought to be punished for making a faction in the Court, and vowing that he would sit in his skirts, for he heard that he kept conventicles at Gresham College after his lectures. Afterwards a second prosecution in the High Commission was ordered, and this so affected the Professor’s health and spirits that it brought a complaint on him, of which he afterwards died.”

“Oh,” said Hilary, with a little impatient sigh, “let us have no more doleful tales; these things have nought to do with us. Let us enjoy this happy day while we can.”

Gabriel’s whole face changed at her appeal. The indignation gave place to love and tenderness, and a mirthful look came into his eyes; when, as if in response to her words, they heard the voices of some little village children singing,


“Then to the maypole let us away,

For it is now a holiday.”


The ardent, generous spirit which made him quick to resent any sort of cruelty or oppression also gave him the power to be such a lover as might well content the most exacting of maidens, and there were probably no happier people in England that day than these two lovers as they sat under the shadow of Bosbury Cross.

Meanwhile in the tiled cottage to the east of the churchyard an old clergyman, in the last throes of a lingering and painful death, faintly gasped the words, “Lord, how long?”

The physician sorrowfully watched the havoc wrought by man-inflicted ill, from time to time speaking a word or two of comfort and good cheer, or gently raising the dying man into an easier posture. And at the foot of the bed, his face buried in his hands, knelt Peter Waghorn, his frame shaken with sobs, his heart consumed with hatred of Dr. Laud, and in his mind the psalmist’s passionate cry, “Let there be none to extend mercy unto him! . .. Because that he remembered not to show mercy, but persecuted the poor and needy man, that he might even slay the broken in heart.” A last faint gasping sigh made him raise his head. The physician was gently laying down the worn-out body and closing the sightless eyes.

From the open casement the wind wafted into the quiet room the glad sound of children’s voices, and as the little people ran down the road the words and the clear high notes floated back to the lovers by the cross, and to the bereaved, sore-hearted man:


“. . . let us away!

For it is now a holiday.”


Dr. Harford noted the strange contrast within the room and without. He laid his hand kindly on Peter Waghorn’s shoulder.

“Your father, too, keeps holiday,” he said; “be comforted, he has entered into rest.”