CHAPTER IX.

“There is no time so miserable but a man may be true.”

—Timon of Athens.

How Gabriel lived through the next few days he never clearly remembered. Afterwards it seemed to him as if he had been struggling up some huge mountain, crawling inch by inch with no very definite aim, but simply because he thought it would be the part of a coward to lie down and die. He rode with his father, he went fishing, he read Burton’s “Protestation Protested,” and tried to grasp the tolerant notion of a National Church surrounded by voluntary Churches which had occurred to Dr. Laud’s victim during his long imprisonment. He read, too, Lord Brooke’s “Discourse on Episcopacy,” and got a further glimpse of that toleration which was as yet so little understood by either side in the great struggle. But, through all, the grievous wound in his heart made itself constantly felt, and the dreary emptiness of the world seemed to offer him no grain of comfort.

One night he remembered that the life, which seemed so unbearable as well as so useless, might at least be laid down for the country. Hilary had rejected him, but was not the Lord General at Worcester, and only too glad to accept any able-bodied man who would volunteer? It was well known that the Earl of Essex, Sir William Waller, Hampden, Cromwell—all the leading Parliamentarians, in fact—were profiting by the first repulse at Powick Bridge, and were straining every nerve to get soldiers of a spirit that would control such panic as had disorganised the men when they had unexpectedly encountered Prince Rupert.

Gabriel was alone in his father’s study when this thought first came to him. The evening had closed in; his mother, weary with a long day’s work, had retired early, and the doctor had been summoned to see a dying man in St. Owen’s street.

It was characteristic of him that the very thought of temporising had never crossed his mind. He had not dreamed in London that public matters could possibly separate him from Hilary, but now that he had found how dearly he was to pay for his views, he was never even for a moment tempted to shrink back. The Harfords, as he had said, to the Bishop, did not change. Having once fairly studied the questions of the day, he would be true to the cause he adopted, cost what it might; and having once given his heart to a woman nothing could make him untrue to her.

On this Saturday evening, just a week after their unhappy dispute and parting, there came to him for the first time the sense of returning life. Of life, and even of a certain sweetness in life—for was it not his to lay down in a good cause? Soon, too, perhaps within a few days or weeks, it might all be over, and the pain which was making each hour a misery would be ended; his body would lie on some distant battlefield, and he would be free and at rest.

Stormy and wet as the night was he could not stay in the house, but wrapping his cloak about him strode down the garden and paced rapidly up and down the south walk. The place was haunted by memories of Hilary. How they had played and quarrelled and kissed and made it up again in the old times! How little they had dreamed in those happy, careless days what the joys and pangs of love really meant! And how very vague had been his childish notion of patriotism in the dusk of that December day when he had whispered to Sir John Eliot’s snow effigy, the words, “I wish to be like you; I wish to give my life for the country’s freedom!” Well, his chance had come. Here was the very opportunity he had ardently desired, but it had brought with it an agony that no child would have had the power to imagine.

At last a deluge of rain drove him into the little arbour and, impelled by some association of place, he drew forth the small leathern case which for the last two years he had always carried and looked at the dark glossy curl which Hilary had sent him. It was a rash thing to do, for the very touch of the soft hair broke down the stern self-control he had kept up through the week, while nature herself seemed to feel with him as the wild wind swayed the branches to and fro and the rain came down in torrents.

Lying there on the floor of the arbour he sobbed his heart out, tortured by the words of Hilary’s last message—tortured more cruelly still by the memory of her relentless face as he had last seen it. At length a lull in the tempest began to influence him; he struggled to his feet again and looked out into the night. The rain had ceased for a few minutes; the cold, wet air revived him, and he stood watching the stormy sky and the bleak-looking moon which shone out now and again through rifts in the hurrying black clouds.

Cold and careless as the moon is of all the sorrow’s she looks down on, no lover could ever resist the fascinations of her mysterious light. He thought he would look to-night for the last time at that grassy glade and at the old stone bench by the sweetbriar, where Hilary had been singing to her guitar on the day he first realised his love. Quietly opening the wicket-gate, he walked with sad steps over the soaking turf, wondering—as the young always must wonder—how it was possible that a joy such as theirs had been could have turned to such bitter anguish.

And then all at once the invincible hopefulness of youth came to his aid. It could not all be over! This love that he knew to be pure and true, was it possible that it should be wasted—cast away as a thing of little worth? To think that it could end would be to doubt God the Giver. In this world or the next they would yet be united.

He went to the bush of sweetbriar and gathered a spray, recalling as he did so the old folk-tale of the prince who at the right time had fought his way through the thorn hedge, and how the thorns had turned to roses, and the sleeping princess had been wakened at length by his kiss of love.

Perhaps Hilary’s love was, after all, not dead, but only sleeping; perhaps his Princess Briar-rose would be wakened one day by a love which would fight its way to her, be the obstacles never so great.

At that moment screams coming distinctly from the direction of Mrs. Unett’s house fell upon his ear. He knew well that Hilary and her mother were still at Whitbourne, and fearing that something must have gone amiss during their absence, he walked up to the door which led to the back premises, and knocked. At this, however, the screams only grew more piercing.

He called to Mrs. Durdle, asking what was the matter, and at last she was persuaded to open the door a few inches, and to peer cautiously out, her fat face almost the colour of the guttering tallow candle which she grasped in her capacious hand.

“Oh, Master Gabriel! I be glad to see you, we be that frightful!”

She used the Herefordshire phrase for being frightened, but Gabriel could hardly restrain a smile, for her terror had certainly not improved her looks.

“What has frightened you?” he asked, following her into the house. “And who in the world is making that noise?”

“Aw, sir, ’tis naught but Maria, she’s always timbersome, and to-night there’s good cause with the soldiers clamouring at Byster’s Gate.”

“What soldiers?” exclaimed Gabriel in astonishment. “I had heard naught.”

“Parliament soldiers, sir,” said Durdle, trembling. “Mick Thompson, my Valentine, he told me they’ve been standing outside these two hours, and he do think Price, the mayor, be going to let ’em in. Peace, you hussy!” she added, turning to shake the hysterical maid who had come out into the passage at the sound of a man’s voice.

“Oh, sir! Oh, sir!” cried Maria, “don’t let ’em kill us!”

“No, Master Gabriel, say a good word for me,” said Durdle, imploringly. “For if I have called ’em Roundheads and traitors, ’tis the tongue which, as the Scripture says, is a deadly evil. You’ll be witness, sir, that I always had a tongue that would be wagging; some are born that way, and others they be as mum as mice, but the quiet ones is often the most dangerous, being you don’t know what to expect of ’em.”

“Why, Durdle, do you take them for savages? They won’t molest you,” said Gabriel, with a smile.

“I’ll never say another word agin the Parliament if only the soldiers will let me be and not come nigh the house,” said Durdle. “But if they was to come here, and me left with naught but that screeching hussy for company, I should go stark mad with fright.”

“I am joining the Parliamentary army myself,” said Gabriel, “and my first piece of work shall be to guard this house, Durdle. And now let me out by the front door and bolt it after me; I must go across to Byster’s Gate and see what has come to pass.”

“Blessings on you, sir, for promising help to the defenceless,” said Durdle, fervently. “I always did say there was a wonderful comfort in havin’ a man to protect you.”

Gabriel, not a little amused by the old housekeeper’s confidence, hurried across the city to see what truth there was in her tale. The streets boasted no lamps, but there were lights in most of the windows, and a stir and bustle in the place which was certainly unusual at such an hour. Bye Street was thronged with people when at length he reached it, nor did anyone heed the heavy rain which once more came pouring down.

“Shame on the Mayor, say I,” exclaimed a burly citizen.

“Nay, ’tis Alderman Lane that’s the traitor,” retorted another. “They do say he has persuaded the Mayor.”

“What has chanced?” asked Gabriel.

“Why, sir, the Earl of Stamford is marching to besiege Hereford, and his advance guard has been parleying these two hours at the gate, standing knee-deep in the mud and mire.”

“Here they come!” shouted a bystander. “Plague take the Mayor, he’s letting in the cursed rebels.”

And amid groans and jeers the men of the advance guard filed through Byster’s Gate, so wet and weary that they were almost ready to drop.

Scanning them closely as they formed up within the gateway, preparing to stand on guard through the night, Gabriel caught sight of a well-known face, and hastened forward to greet Ned Harley.

“Welcome to Hereford!” he said, greeting him warmly.

“There are not many that will join with you there,” said Ned laughing. “My father is with the main body; they will enter, no doubt, to-morrow morning, and will at least be spared standing to the mid-leg in dirty water, as we have been for the last two hours.”

“You are half frozen,” said Gabriel.

“Ay, and half-starved to boot,” said Ned Harley. “Such foul weather never was! We have had naught but snow and rain since we started, and one of our soldiers died on the march so bitter was the cold.”

Gabriel tried to picture Lady Brillianas dismay could she have seen her favourite son in his forlorn plight, for Ned, at the best of times, was far from strong. Meantime, the citizens, having had a good look at the soldiers, withdrew, bolting and barring their doors; and it was with much difficulty that fuel was procured for the great fires which the officers ordered to be kindled in the street. Gabriel was doing his best to help with these when he was joined by his father, and they worked with a will to get food for the weary men, retiring after midnight, and taking Ned Harley with them for the rest he sorely needed.

When his friend had been fed and warmed, and left to the blissful quiet of a great four-post bed in the guest chamber, Gabriel followed his father to the study. The doctor was smoking his short clay pipe beside the fire, and he looked with a certain expectancy at his son, whose change of expression was noteworthy.

“Sir,” said Gabriel, “I crave your leave to join the Parliamentary Army. I had determined to ask it before the arrival of Lord Stamford’s force, but this will make matters still easier and to-morrow Sir Robert Harley himself will be here.”

The doctor’s face was sad, and he sighed heavily.

“I am not surprised that you wish to serve,” he said. “I will try not to grudge you to the good cause, my son. But God grant that this fratricidal war may be a brief one.”

“Were it not a war in defence of our rightful liberties, I would never draw sword, sir,” said Gabriel. “But since the discovery of the Army Plots I know you also hold that there was naught for the Parliament to do but in defence of the country’s rights to seize on the Militia and prepare us to face foes from without and from within. The King makes specious promises ‘on the word of a King,’ but his word has been proved to be wholly untrustworthy. They say he is swayed by evil counsellors, and if so, let us fight to deliver both King and country from that curse. I for one would gladly enough die.”

“Lad,” said Dr. Harford, reading his thoughts, “you are sore-hearted and in great heaviness, but forget not that your life is a sacred trust; fight like a brave soldier, but give me your promise that you will not rashly plunge into peril for the sake of ending a pain which you should live to conquer.”

Gabriel was silent, he leant his head on the carved wooden chimney-piece and looked down into the glowing embers.

“Remember,” said Dr. Harford, “that thousands have to bear just what you are bearing, and that some weakly succumb or sink to lower levels, while others, like your hero, Sir John Eliot, make pain and harsh treatment and contumely so many stepping stones in their career.”

“I see not how pain of this sort is to be conquered,” said Gabriel, still watching the embers in which his fancy could picture Hilary’s face.

“Live on bravely, and you will find that it will be conquered by life,” said the doctor. “Remember the poet’s saying:


‘He life’s war knows,

Whom all his passions follow as he goes.’


And may God Almighty spare you to me, my son.”

With those words to hearten him Gabriel volunteered his services to Sir Robert Harley, who entered the city with the Earl of Stamford and Sir Richard Hopton on the Sunday morning, taking up his quarters in the Bishop’s Palace. It was hard to enter the place associated so much with Hilary under these strange new conditions.

“I will write you a recommendation to Sir Philip Stapleton,” said Sir Robert. “Hundreds of gentlemen have volunteered, and though you begin as many of them do in the ranks, you are certain to get promotion.”

Gabriel thanked him, but as he stood waiting for the letter a sharp stab of pain went to his heart, for he caught sight of a painting of Hilary as a child, her eyes looking straight into his with that curious dignity, that “touch me if you dare!” expression which she had always been wont to assume when confronted by strangers.

On the following Tuesday he bade farewell to his father and mother, and in company with Edward Harley and the forlorn hope, left Hereford for Worcester, where the Earl of Essex with a military committee of twelve noblemen of the county was endeavouring to bring the neighbourhood into thorough subjection to the Parliament. Before long, as all realised, the two armies were bound to find that opportunity for a pitched battle which they both eagerly desired. And in the meanwhile Gabriel, amid the duties of drilling, and the work which fell to his share, fought out his own private battle in manly fashion, not forgetting his father’s words as to the sacredness of life, yet not wholly without a lingering hope that the coming fight might end a life that had grown distasteful.