CHAPTER XIV.

“A mighty pain to love it is,

And ’tis a pain to miss it;

But of all pains, the greatest pain

It is to love, but love in vain.”

—Cowley.


The city of Hereford, which had been evacuated by the last remnants of Lord Stamford’s army shortly before Christmas, was once more in the hands of the Royalists, and throughout the winter, reprisals had been the order of the day. Price, the Mayor, who had admitted Stamford’s troops, was thrown into gaol, his house was plundered, and there was a keen desire to hang him in front of his own door, happily frustrated by the more moderate citizens. Sir Richard Hopton, also, had his house at Canon Frome plundered, while Dr. Harford would probably have suffered imprisonment for his bold advocacy of the Parliamentary cause had not the citizens been loth to lose the services of their first physician.

None needed these services more than Mrs. Unett, who all through the cold weather had been grievously ill, and Hilary could not but feel grateful for his skill and helpfulness, even when the virulent tongue of Prebendary Rogers was kindling the flame of vindictive hatred in her heart, and fanning that fierce resentment of Gabriel’s actions which had made such havoc in her life.

On the morning of April the 24th she was roused by Mrs. Durdle’s agitated voice, and, opening her drowsy eyes, started up in alarm as she saw the genuine terror in the housekeeper’s fat face.

“Is my mother worse?” she asked, anxiously.

“Nay, mistress, she is still sleeping, but I stole up to bid you keep the ill news from her as long as may be.”

“What news? What is amiss?” cried Hilary.

“The Parliament soldiers are marching from Ross to attack Hereford,” said Durdle. “Hark to the ringing of the common bell! It summons all citizens, my Valentine tells me, to come and help with making earthworks at the gates and by the river.”

“Doth Lord Stamford come hither again, then?” asked Hilary.

“Nay, mistress, they do say ’tis Sir William Waller’s army—William the Conqueror the folks do call un and they say the city can never hold out.”

Hilary’s heart began to throb.

“We shall see about that,” she said, proudly, her face aflame as she realised that Gabriel served under Waller. “We have gallant Sir Richard Cave to defend us, and only last night the Bishop told me that he had, to protect the city, a hundred of the King’s foot guards and many dragoons, beside some three hundred soldiers under Colonel Conyngsby, Colonel Price and Colonel Courtney. Depend upon it, we shall make the rebels fly.”

Durdle shook her head despondently, this hopeful view was not shared by many of the citizens; the very sound of Sir William Waller’s name made them quake, and Sir Richard Cave found, to his dismay, that they would not respond to the summons to help with the earth-works.

It was impossible to carry out his scheme of defence, and all that he could contrive was to dam up Byster’s Gate, while his spirits were much depressed by the arrival that afternoon of a letter from Sir William Russell saying that he could spare no troops from Worcester, and that no help could come from Prince Maurice, who had set out to march towards His Majesty.

Few people slept much in Hereford on that Monday night, and when day dawned on the 25th, Sir Richard Cave, making observations from the Castle, found that Waller’s formidable army was within a mile of the city.

The soldiers were at once summoned, and the place resounded with the roll of the drums and with trumpets sounding the alarm. Hilary hastened to her mother’s room, no longer able to keep from the invalid the danger in which they stood.

“Child,” said Mrs. Unett, in terror, “what does it all mean?”

“Only that Sir William Waller is marching on Hereford, ma’am,” said Hilary, “but as the citizens were too panic-stricken yesterday to cast up earth-works near the bridge, as they were ordered to do, we run little risk of bombardment in this house, I fancy.”

“Oh!” said Mrs. Unett, with a look of relief. “If it is Sir William Waller’s army we shall be safe enough, for Gabriel Harford will, I well know, protect us.”

Hilary flushed with anger at these words, and making an excuse to carry the night lamp into the dressing-room, gave a little impatient stamp of the foot the moment she was alone.

“Gabriel, indeed! Rather than be protected by him I would throw myself on the mercy of any other man in England! Dr. Rogers says I did well and loyally in vowing never to see ‘my old friend,’ as he calls him, again, and if he dares to seek me out, I will make him suffer as he has not suffered yet.”

Her eyes flashed as she conjured up a scene pleasing enough to the perverse spirit of pride which at the moment dominated her; but soon all the hardness died out of her face, and she was again her sweet womanly self, for her mother called out to her in alarm as the first sound of firing made itself heard.

“There is naught to fear, ma’am,” she said, running into the sick-room and caressing the invalid like a child. “Oh! they must be a great way off, and will not trouble us at all. To my mind”—and she laughed gaily—“’tis not near so terrifying as a thunderstorm.”

Nevertheless, though her words were brave the sharp rattle of musketry made her pulses beat uncomfortably. It was not for herself that she feared, but from some dim recess of her heart there awoke a flicker of the love she thought wholly extinguished, and a dumb cry began to ring in her ears, “Gabriel is there in the thick of the fray. That shot, or that, or that, may cause his death-wound.”

After a time there came a lull in the firing; then it was renewed, but at a greater distance. While they were both longing to know what had happened Durdle announced Dr. Harford, and the physician, who rarely let a day pass without seeing his patient, entered with his usual quiet, kindly manner and cheering smile.

“I trust all this commotion has not upset you, madam?” he said, “but I think you will not be troubled with any close firing after this. I hear that the main body of Sir William Waller’s army is drawn up without Widemarsh Gate, but feints have been made in two or three other quarters, and there has been a sharp little skirmish close by here at the bridge.”

“Is it true that your son is with Sir William Waller?” asked Mrs. Unett, revelling, poor lady, in the mere comfort of the good doctor’s presence.

“Ay, I have seen him in the distance,” said Dr. Harford, his eyes lighting with a look of fatherly pride which could not be hid. “I was standing in the south walk of our garden when he, with a detachment of men in boats, rowed across towards the bridge, and made good their landing hard by, but after a brisk fight Sir Richard Cave’s musketeers beat them back to their boats. ’Twas clearly meant only as a feint. You will not probably hear any more near firing and stand in no danger here.”

“It must have been strange indeed for you to see your son in that fashion, after a six months’ absence,” said the invalid, gently. “Hath he greatly altered?”

“Yes; he hath grown from boy to man,” said Dr. Harford; and then, happening to catch a glimpse of Hilary’s face, he hastily changed the subject, for no one better understood her varying moods, and he saw that directly she was assured of Gabriel’s safety her old resentment against him had sprung to life again. Nevertheless, beneath all her faults he could always discern the deeply-loving nature which she, in truth, possessed, and held fast to his conviction that she would conquer the arrogance that at present bid fair to wreck her happiness.

“If the city be taken,” he thought to himself as he quitted the sick room, “and that pestilent priest, Dr. Rogers, called to account for the mischief he hath done, then there will be very good hope that the daughter of my old friend may come to take the same calm and just view held by such Royalists as the Bishop and his son.”

Meanwhile Gabriel, greatly cheered by the glimpse he had caught of his father, had returned from the skirmish at the Bridge to the neighbourhood of St. Owen’s Gate, where, under a sharp fire from the walls, they succeeded in taking St. Owen’s Church. This church being within pistol shot of the gate was like to prove of great service to the besiegers, and Captain Grey gave Gabriel orders to take a party of musketeers up the tower.

The terrified verger was at first too much dazed to produce the keys of the tower door, “and the men, annoyed at the delay, were disposed to deal roughly with him.

“Here, you great oaf,” cried one, “unfasten the door, or we will hang you to one of your own bell ropes.”

“Mercy! mercy!” cried the poor old man, as half-a-dozen stalwart soldiers laid hold of him, hustling him in a fashion which scattered the few wits he still retained.

“Stand back, there,” said a firm voice. “Why, Martin! don’t you remember me?”

And Gabriel laid a kindly hand on the old man’s shoulder. “Oh, Mr. Harford, don’t ye let them hang me,” said the verger, clutching at the young lieutenant.

“No one shall touch a hair of your head,” said Gabriel, “but out with the keys, my friend, for we must lose no time.”

Martin obeyed, trembling like a palsied man, and Gabriel, unlocking the door, rushed at full speed up the crumbling and worn steps, then up a crazy and tottering ladder which led to the trap-door in the leads. Springing through this, he emerged on to the top of the tower and had quickly arranged his musketeers on the side from which they could best harass the men on the walls and at St. Owen’s Gate. The church stood in the centre of the road which passed round it on the north and south sides, and the musketeers not only carried on a very effective warfare from the tower, but drew the attention of the besieged from the main attack which was made by Massey on Widemarsh Gate.

His onslaught proved so vigorous that the terrified citizens ere long sounded a parley, and, Waller consenting to treat, the rest of the day passed in tedious arrangements about hostages, and proposals as to the terms of surrender.

Gabriel had little fear that the citizens of Hereford would have any just cause of complaint, for Sir William Waller was noted for his forbearance and courtesy, and the people had no reason to fear the looting or plundering too often the sequel to a victory. The entry was made quietly enough that evening and two of the articles dictated by Sir William Waller were specially pleasing to Gabriel: All ladies and gentlewomen were to have honourable usage; and the Bishop, the Dean and Chapter, and the collegiates were likewise to be free in their persons from violence and in their goods from plunder.

That so ardent a Royalist as Hilary should be sore and angry at the easy way in which the Parliamentary troops had taken possession of the place was natural enough. She was in her hardest mood the next morning when Durdle came up to the sick-room with a beaming face.

“Mr. Gabriel Harford is below, come to inquire after Mistress Unett’s health,” she exclaimed, her little grey eyes beaming with the pleasure of again seeing the lad she had known so long. “And he craves a word with you, Mistress Hilary. I have shown him into the dining-room.”

Amazed at his temerity in calling, Hilary did not pause to think of the long years of friendship that had preceded their betrothal.

“It is just like his audacity to come here now that his side has conquered, and we are in trouble,” she reflected. “I will show him how little I care for his rebel comrades and their chief.”

And with her coldest manner she turned to the housekeeper.

“Tell Mr. Harford that my mother hath had a disturbed night and that I cannot leave her room.”

“My dear!” remonstrated Mrs. Unett, “you had best go down and thank Mr. Harford for his courteous inquiries.”

“Pray, ma’am, send your thanks by Durdle,” said Hilary, holding her head high. “I prefer not to leave you.”

So poor old Durdle had no choice but to go down again to the visitor, and not being blessed with tact she could not even soften his disappointment.

“’Tis sorry I am, sir,” she said, smoothing her apron, “but Mistress Hilary will not leave her mother’s room.”

“Is Mistress Unett worse?” asked Gabriel, anxiously.

“Oh, no, sir. Maybe she did not sleep as well as usual, but she tried hard to persuade Mistress Hilary to see you and thank you for your kind inquiries. But, lor’, sir, you must remember well enough that when once she was angered by aught, she was ever an ill-relished maid. Don’t you take it to heart, sir,” said the good woman, grieved to see the look cf pain in his eyes, “maybe some other day she will see you.”

He went away in very low spirits; for though it had been hard enough to live through the long months of absence, there was a keener torture in being so near to the woman he loved, yet, alas! so far removed from her heart.

He took the old housekeeper’s advice and called to inquire again later in the week, only to meet with a similar rebuff. Nor could he bring himself to speak at home of the purgatory he was passing through. His mother hoped from his silence that he had outgrown his love to Hilary. His father guessed something of the true state of the case, but feared that words, however well meant, might only increase his suffering.

Joscelyn Heyworth, however, rallied him on his depression, not knowing that “the lady named Hilary” was a citizen of Hereford.

“Why are you in the dumps?” he asked, one sunshiny afternoon, as the two walked together down Broad Street. “You should be in high spirits now that you are among your old friends once more, and with your parents as keenly interested in the campaign as you are yourself. I would give something to stand in your shoes.” And for a moment his bright face was clouded with bitter memories.

“Many of my old friends look on me as a traitor for whom hanging were too good,” said Gabriel. “You forget that Hereford has ever been devoted to the King’s cause, and that such of us as fight against his tyranny are here but a small and unpopular minority.”

“’Tis to be hoped the army will not long be kept here,” said Joscelyn. “The men need to be in active service; already they seem to be waxing unruly,” and he glanced at some boisterous soldiers gathered about a fanatical dark-browed man who harangued them from the vantage ground of an inverted barrow, and with bawling voice and vehement gestures was attracting quite a crowd.

“Why!” exclaimed Gabriel, “that is none other than Peter Waghorn, the fellow I saw at Bosbury. What a frenzy the man is working himself into! See how he points to the Cathedral as though he wished to destroy the whole place!”

“Oh, don’t linger,” said Joscelyn Heyworth. “I loathe these fanatic preachers. What was that he said? The pious work of destruction? Have they been urging on the mob as they did at Winchester? Sir William Waller will be ill pleased if they have done as much damage here. Let us come in and see.”

Gabriel told him Waghorn’s story as they crossed the green, and approached the beautiful parvise porch at the north-west. They had just entered it when the inner door leading into the cathedral was hastily opened, and the figure of a girl clad in pale puce, with a hat and cloak of tan-coloured velvet, suddenly appeared. Her rich brown curls, her exquisite colouring, but above all, her dark expressive eyes, made Joscelyn look at her a second time; she was evidently in a state of suppressed indignation, and when she caught sight of Gabriel Harford, her wrath flashed into a sudden flame.

He saluted her with great respect, but averting her face she declined to acknowledge him even by the most distant curtsey, and would have passed rapidly through the porch had he not stood in front of her, blocking her way.

Joscelyn saw the look of almost intolerable pain in his face, and instantly knew that this must be Mistress Hilary. But for a moment it seemed that her lover could not speak.

“Sir!” exclaimed the girl, indignantly, “let me pass.”

Only too well she knew that old gesture of his, when, with head thrown back, he seemed to wrestle with words which would not be uttered. Only too well she knew, moreover, the low, passion-choked voice, in which at length he spoke.

“You cannot go that way,” he said. “There is a noisy crowd of men near the west front.”

“Cannot!” she said, contemptuously. “Do you think I care for a few rebels and traitors?”

By this time he had mastered himself, and in his manner there was all the force which is gained by self-repression. “You had better go out by the other door and through the Palace,” he said.

“I shall do no such thing,” she replied perversely. “I shall go the way I choose, and see what these comrades of yours are like. Let me pass, sir.”

“I cannot let you go alone,” he said. “If you insist on going through the crowd, I shall attend you to your door.”

The quiet determination of his tone almost maddened her.

“And I utterly refuse your escort,” she said, with an angry scorn that cut him to the heart. “Rather than walk with you I would have as escort any other man in Hereford.”

“Then I will present to you my friend, Captain Heyworth,” said Gabriel, steadily, but with an irrepressible note of pain in his voice. “Joscelyn, do me the favour of attending Mistress Hilary Unett to her home.”

Joscelyn saluted her gravely. She longed to decline his company, but something in Gabriel’s tone made refusal impossible. She gave him one last glance, half from defiance, half from curiosity. What was it that still gave him his power over her? Physically he lacked the height and the fine physique of his friend, mentally she felt that she was more than his match, yet in moral and spiritual force he would always, as she well knew, tower above her. Was it fair that he, a traitor, as she honestly deemed him, both to Church and King, should yet live, as it were, on the heights? The thought stung and irritated her, and so did the unfading picture she carried away with her of that well-known parvise porch, and Gabriel standing just beneath the finely-moulded archway, his hazel eyes full of dumb suffering, his face sad but resolute, and lit up by a radiance which seemed to her, not of this earth at all.

However, her musings were quickly put to flight by the bawling of the fanatic near the west front, whose violent tirade against what he alternately termed, “this House of Dagon,” and “this den of thieves crammed with popish idols,” made her lip curl scornfully.

“These are your comrades!” she said, with bitter contempt.

“No, madam,” replied Joscelyn Heyworth, with a little gleam of amusement in his eyes. “I learn that this is a carpenter from a village in your neighbourhood who was driven half demented by Dr. Laud’s cruelty to his father. We come across a good many of these victims up and down the country.”

The recollection of a day long ago in the first brief happiness of their betrothal came back overpoweringly to Hilary. Oh! how she longed to be sitting once more with Gabriel on the steps of Bosbury Cross before the parting of the ways!

‘Joscelyn saw the more gentle look dawning in her face, and hazarded a word on Gabriel’s behalf.

“’Tis a pity, madam,” he said, “if you will allow me to speak frankly with you, that you so grievously pained my friend just now.”

But at this plain speaking Hilary’s pride was at once up in arms.

“’Tis a pity, sir, that you presume to speak on matters about which you know absolutely nothing.”

“Pardon me, I know much as to Gabriel Harford’s past story,” said Joscelyn, not in the least disconcerted by her snub.

“What!” she exclaimed, angrily. “He had the effrontery to tell you, a perfect stranger, that we had been betrothed—when even my own uncle was not admitted to the secret? Oh, it is unbearable! I did well to refuse him a greeting.”

“No, madam,” said Joscelyn, bluntly. “In my opinion you did a very cruel thing. And you misjudge him now as you evidently have done in the past. He has never breathed your name to me. I found him almost in the last extremity on the battlefield, the morning after Edgehill—only begging to be allowed to die and quit a world that had dealt harshly with him. I bore him back to Kineton, refused to let him give up his life, and all through the next night kept watch over him. There are revelations, madam, that come before the day of judgment, and in the feverish ravings of a wounded soldier lying at death’s door, you may learn strange truths. I learnt then the agony of a man who has been jilted by the only woman he has ever loved.”

Hilary had grown white to the lips, but pride still held her love in chains. Though this knowledge of what Gabriel had passed through, sent a pang to her inmost heart, her self-love was ruffled and agitated by the fearless, outspoken words which this Parliamentary Captain had dared to speak.

“I thought, sir,” she said, with cold arrogance, “that one of the conditions specially guaranteed by your General, was that all gentlewomen should have honourable usage.”

“Madam, it is because I honour you and love my friend that I venture to speak as I would fain have any other man speak to my sister were she in like case,” said Joscelyn, marvelling at her hardness, but quite failing to understand that she was strenuously keeping back her better nature, which only longed to yield to his arguing.

“She is absolutely heartless, and Gabriel Harford has had a lucky escape,” he reflected, too young and impulsive to understand Hilary’s character. “If he had any sense he would wed pretty Mistress Nell, as sweet a little maid as heart could wish, and worth a thousand of this haughty, headstrong maiden.” Meanwhile the “haughty maiden” was pausing at the door of a grey, gabled house. She lifted her beautiful eyes to his, and swept him a stately curtsey.

“This is my home, sir. I regret that you should have been put to the very unnecessary trouble of escorting me.”

“Madam,” he said, saluting her with grave respect, “any service I can render to my friend is a pleasure; it was quite apparent to me, that at the very moment you were tying


Sharp-toothed unkindness like a vulture


to his heart, he was seeking to shield you from a momentary discomfiture. I wish you good-day.”

“Good-day, sir,” said Hilary, stung to the quick by the truth of his words, and by the calm, unsparing severity of his manner. She was well-used to devotion, and flattery, and admiration of every sort, but here was a man undazzled by her beauty, and only repelled by what Dr. Rogers termed her “high-spirited treatment of her old playmate, Dr. Harford’s rebel son.”