CHAPTER XXXI.

“Nor tasselled silk, nor epaulette,

Nor plume, nor torse;

No splendour gilds, all sternly met,

Our foot and horse.

“In vain your pomp, ye evil powers

Insult the land;

Wrongs, vengeance, and the cause are ours,

And God’s right hand!”

—Elliott.


The entry of Massey’s men had been watched with eager eyes by one inhabitant of Bosbury. The moment he learnt that the soldiers were at hand, Peter Waghorn laid aside his tools and hasting down the street, eagerly awaited the approach of the officers who brought up the rear.

There was a brief delay of the cavalcade just as the officers rode up to the place where he stood, and Waghorn, with a heartfelt ejaculation of thanks, raised his eyes to heaven. His breast heaved with emotion, though his strong, square-set face betrayed nothing but quiet determination.

“Sir,” he said, approaching Massey, “may I crave your help, and entreat that you will spare your men for the pious work of destruction. There stands a cross, sir, in yonder churchyard—a popish cross. Bid your soldiers throw it down.”

“My good fellow,” said Massey, “I have other work on hand just now, and the men need food and rest.”

“It will not take long,” pleaded Waghorn. “It stands hard by, and, sir, as you know, Parliament hath expressly ordered the destruction of crosses, because the people do idolatrously bow down to them.”

“Yes, ’tis true,” said Massey, who, as a matter of fact, cared for none of these things, and was more or less a soldier of fortune. “It shall be done some day, but not now. I am certain to be in the neighbourhood again. Ask me when I have more leisure.”

Waghorn drew back, grievously disappointed.

“He is not whole-hearted; my soul hath no pleasure in such. Yet he did help to defend the godly city of Gloucester, and maybe some other day I shall prevail with him. I must bide my time,” and, with a deep sigh, he returned to his house, and, falling on his knees, prayed fervently that he might be spared to do the Lord’s work, and to cast down every high thing that exalted itself against truth and righteousness.

The man was no hypocrite, his character was absolutely genuine, he hated whatever he deemed likely to lead people astray; but sorrow and loneliness had warped his nature. Since his father’s death no spark of love had been kindled in his heart, and incessant brooding over one great grievance had distorted his powers of judgment. His zeal had degenerated into fanaticism, his Christianity had faded into that longing to call down fire from heaven on all who disagreed with him, which has often marred the career of great saints and honest disciples.

Meanwhile, the kindly Vicar—a man who loathed strife and ill-will—made his way out into the village, and with just a comforting remembrance of the splendid ammonite, his newest treasure, to linger in the recesses of his troubled heart with a sort of grateful glow, went from one to another of his parishioners, gathering by degrees the state of affairs. At the door of the “Bell Inn” he saw Massey and two of his officers dismount, and with the quick glance of one who is always studying his surroundings recognised in the stream of bright lamplight coming from the open door, one of Sir Richard Hopton’s sons.

“Good evening to you, Mr. Hopton,” he said, pleasantly. “I am sorry to learn of the trouble that has befallen Sir Richard.”

The young man gave him a cordial greeting; somehow with Dr. Coke everyone’s first thought was of the matters they had in common. The Vicar held to his own opinions, and had his likes and his dislikes, but there was nothing combative about him.

“Truth to tell, we are about to march towards Canon Frome,” said Sir Richard’s son. “We shall not trouble you long in Bosbury, but the men need food and a few hours’ sleep. A good many of them can be quartered in the Old Palace. I must go round there and see to the arrangements.”

“I will come with you,” said the Vicar. “A word to the caretaker may smooth matters. You will find few comforts there, for, as you know, the place was dismantled in the days of good Queen Bess. But here, I see, comes Mr. Silas Taylor, who hath a special love for the old building, and will be able to serve you better than I can. And when you have bestowed your men, come and sup with us at the Vicarage, and bring one of your friends with you; ’tis bitter cold, and you will be glad to sit by a comfortable hearth.”

“Good evening to you, Vicar,” said Mr. Taylor, joining them. “You and I are, maybe, on the same errand, for though I am all for the Parliament, I should be sorely grieved were any of our much-prized antiquities to be marred by the troops.”

“To be sure you would,” said the Vicar, with his genial laugh. “I was but saying as much to Mr. Hopton here. For the sake of old times you will, I know, have a care of the Old Palace, and we will seek to quarter as many as can be well stowed there, for it will put the villagers to less trouble.”

Sounds of a vehement altercation at a little distance made the Vicar hasten down the street.

“What is amiss now?” said Silas Taylor, straining his eyes to see what was passing.

The purple-grey gloom of the wintry twilight, broken here and there by the glimmer of candles in the windows, or the glare of torches kindled in the road by the newcomers, just revealed the picturesque houses on either side, and the confused mass of weary buff-coated soldiers, girt with orange scarves; while the inhabitants, divided between alarm and curiosity, stood about their doors eager to learn with what intentions these men had come.

“Save us from the dastardly robbers at Canon Frome garrison and we’ll give you the best supper we have,” cried one good woman, vehemently.

“Ay, down with the vile thieves that pillage every farm around,” shouted a man.

“Fool!” roared another burly fellow, “down with both lots, say I; starve ’em both out, and let’s keep our homes free from such vermin.”

This provoked a perfect babel of retorts of every description, except “the retort courteous.”

Happily, at that moment the Vicar pushed his way through the throng, and taking a torch from one of the bystanders, said in his mellow, hearty voice:

“My friends, while we stand here idle our visitors are waiting cold and supperless after a long march; for the honour of Bosbury let us each do what we can to feed the hungry. I have yet to learn that there is anything political in a stomach, and you’ll be following the only true Leader if you do as you’d be done by. I’ll be bound you fellows feel the pangs of appetite beneath your orange scarves just the same as if they were red—eh?”

His hearty, cheerful manner took the men’s fancy; they laughed, the villagers laughed, and, as if by magic, harmony prevailed. Before long not a soldier was to be seen save the sentries, who were bound to keep guard in case of an attack.

Meanwhile, Hilary was hard at work with Mrs. Durdle, preparing something more sustaining than the simple fare that was to have sufficed for their evening meal. To own the truth she would have complied less willingly with her uncle’s request had not a wild hope that Gabriel might possibly be with this regiment, begun to stir in her heart. She had no reason to think he would be with Governor Massey, but to youth all desirable things seem possible, and her sadness, and the sense of desolation that had expressed her all the afternoon, made her crave the support of her lover’s strength and quiet fortitude.

So she took keen interest in the supper; did not, as the Vicar had naughtily suggested, pepper the broth, but, on the contrary, thickened it with oatmeal in a way which Gabriel specially liked. She robbed the store-room of several eggs, and bade Durdle make a large dish of eggs and bacon; and, finally, herself prepared the bread and cheese from which, at the last moment, the housekeeper was to make that particularly favourite dainty of their childhood—“Welsh rarebit.”

Then she flew back to the sitting-room, and piled fresh wood on the dogs in the fireplace, and by the time everything was ready, had become convinced that all would soon be well, and that her lover would really appear.

And now the Vicar’s steps were heard without, and his pleasant voice. Hilary’s heart throbbed wildly, for surely the courteous reply spoken by his companion was in Gabriel’s very tone.

The door was thrown open.

“My dear,” said the Vicar, “I have brought in Captain Bayly; this, sir, is my niece, Mistress Unett.”

Hilary curtseyed, but she really could not speak, so great was her disappointment.

“We shall be joined in a minute or two by one of Sir Richard Hopton’s sons,” said the Vicar; “I will speak a word to Durdle. Draw your chair to the hearth, sir, for you look half frozen.”

He withdrew to speak to the housekeeper as to arrangements for the two guests, and then lingered for a while in the study with his precious ammonite, so that Hilary was forced to speak civilly to the Parliamentarian, whether she would or no.

“’Tis a frosty night,” she remarked, somewhat icily.

“Yes, but ’tis nothing to compare with the severe weather we had after Newbury fight, the other day.”

“Were you in the second battle of Newbury then?” asked Hilary, interested in spite of herself.

“Yes, and we lingered on at Newbury for three miserable weeks after, though the men were dying by scores from sickness, want of food, and lack of physicians and surgeons. There was one of Waller’s officers that well-nigh threw up his commission then and there, and vowed that he’d turn surgeon, for he saw his best friend maimed for life all for lack of skilled aid when wounded.”

“Was he not from Herefordshire?” said Hilary, remembering Dr. Harford’s words when he had met the Vicar near Castle Frome.

“I can’t tell you, but his name was Captain Harford.”

“I thought so,” said Hilary, blushing. “His father and my father were old friends, and I heard of his wish to turn physician.”

“Cromwell took a great liking to him,” said Captain Bayly; “and was himself well-nigh distracted to see the cruel suffering of the men, and angry, too, at the disgraceful mismanagement of those in authority. ’Tis strange how often you find that the bravest soldiers are the most tender-hearted men, and have the greatest loathing of war.”

“What did this Cromwell advise Mr. Harford to do?” asked Hilary, trying to disguise her eagerness to learn more about Gabriel.

“He said that no man could judge for another, but it seemed to him that, for the time being, the country was in no condition to spare a man of his calibre, for the training which would be needful ere he could practise the healing art. Harford told me that he could never forget the words he spoke to him, as to avoiding all self-formed plans in life, and seeking at each step the direct guidance of God Himself. All the counsel he would give Captain Harford was to wait until light should come to guide him to a decision as to his next step.”

At that moment they were interrupted by the arrival of Frances Hopton’s brother, and during supper the talk naturally turned to matters connected with Sir Richard’s imprisonment, and Canon Frome Manor. Hilary resigned herself to the inevitable, and felt something of the satisfaction of a hostess mingling with the rueful, yet half humorous reflection that the two young officers evidently appreciated the “Welsh rarebit” as much as Gabriel would have done, and had made a most ravenous assault on the eggs and bacon.

They were thankful after supper to snatch a few hours’ sleep, but about midnight Hilary heard the steady tramp of soldiers without, and knew that the Parliamentarians were marching to Canon Frome. The next morning Zachary brought word that an attack had been made on one of the Royalist quarters in that neighbourhood. But Bosbury saw Massey’s men no more, and for the present Waghorn had to bide his time.

All went on quietly enough for some days, and Hilary had only too much leisure to feel the loss of Frances Hopton’s companionship. One morning Mrs. Durdle, seeing that she looked pale and dispirited, contrived an excuse to make a little variety for her.

“My dear,” said the old housekeeper, “I wish you’d be so kind as to save my old bones, and just step over to the Hill Farm to bespeak the Christmas turkey. Zachary, he tells me Mrs. Kendrick has some first-rate birds. But I’ll not be trusting to a man’s judgment in a matter o’ that sort. Men be first-rate judges o’ cooking, but for judging a bird uncooked give me a woman.”

Hilary laughed.

“I quite allow the superiority of the male palate,” she said, “and will do my best to choose a good Christmas dinner. Moreover, to please you, I will take Don with me for protection, for I believe you will never learn to think these quiet country lanes as safe as Hereford streets.”

She had not left the village far behind her, when she found that she had been well-advised in taking the dog, for a small party of horsemen, gay with ribbons, encountered her on the Worcester road, and the words of two of them made her face flame; nor did the stern reprimand of one of the officers greatly mend matters, as she passed swiftly on, trying to seem quite unconscious of the insult.

Meanwhile the officer in command, having reproved his soldiers, looked back thoughtfully once or twice, and noticed that the girl turned to the left through a field gate. It was clear that she was on her way to the picturesque gabled house plainly visible through the leafless trees.

On reaching Bosbury, he bade his lieutenant ride on with the men to Canon Frome, saying that he had business in the village; and, having left his horse at the “Bell Inn,” he returned leisurely on foot along the Worcester road, and sat down to wait on a sunny bank beside the gate through which Hilary had passed.

“It is the face that has haunted me for more than a year,” he reflected. “That exquisite face I saw in the miniature at Marlborough hanging from that rogue’s stubborn neck. Would that I had a halter round the throat of him now! What on earth was the name on his precious love-letter? I was a fool to tear it at Marshfield, for ’twas fully directed. Hang it, though, if I can remember a single word save that the lady lived at the Palace, Hereford. Well, I can soon find out all now, for, in spite of her dignity, she is as simple and inexperienced a country maid as little Nell herself. Nell, I understand, hath wedded one Mr. Neal. Never mind! News of the event is not likely to have reached Herefordshire, and she will serve me excellently well in the game I mean to play with Mr. Harford’s high-spirited lady-love. There is deadly need of some diversion in this country hole.”

Meanwhile Hilary had gone on her way not a little troubled and disconcerted by what had passed. It was not so much that the rude admiration of these soldiers was of any real consequence, as that she knew it would annoy her uncle, and perhaps lead to her walks being restricted entirely to the garden, a prospect that tried her not a little.

She was thankful when she reached the field gate leading to the farm, but in the anxious selection of the Christmas turkey, on which she felt that her reputation for womanly wisdom rested, she speedily forgot the passing annoyance.

Then, after the turkey review was ended and the fateful choice made, she gave the farmer’s wife a red ribbon to tie about the leg of the loyal bird, and having had a friendly gossip over Mrs. Kendrick’s rheumatism, called Don and ran gaily down the sloping field, racing the dog, and arriving at the gate almost breathless.

She gave a start of dismay when she suddenly discovered at the other side of the hedge a gentleman in a red doublet with a short fawn-coloured cloak thrown back over one shoulder, and an officer’s red feather in his fawn-coloured hat.

At sight of her he sprang up from the bank on which he had been resting, and Don growled so savagely at him that she was obliged to call the dog to heel.

“Pardon me, madam,” said the stranger in the most musical voice she had ever heard, “I only wish to apologise for the impertinence of my men, who deserve to be thrashed for so rudely troubling you with their ill-bred staring and admiration.”

She glanced up at him quickly, and was relieved to find that he was unmistakably the Governor of the new garrison at Canon Frome so graphically described in Frances Hopton’s farewell letter.

“It was of no consequence, sir,” she said with a stately little bow, which delighted him. “I was chiefly annoyed because it will vex my uncle, and he may forbid me to visit the farm again.”

“Let me see him,” pleaded Norton, boldly, “and express my regrets at what passed. Doth he live far from here?”

“No, at Bosbury Vicarage,” said Hilary. “’Tis not far.” Without directly asking to accompany her, Norton moved quietly on, talking as he went, so that it seemed perfectly natural, and, indeed, inevitable that they should walk together. Even Don, after a subdued growl and a disdainful sniff at the officer’s riding boots, accepted the situation with philosophical calm.

“I fear you, like most people, have suffered great inconvenience from the war?” said Norton, “but ere long we shall have crushed the rogues and all will be well. Have you many friends and kinsfolk in arms?”

“No kinsfolk,” replied Hilary. “We know several gentlemen serving under my Lord Hopton, and in truth almost all our Herefordshire friends are for the King, save two of Sir Richard Hopton’s sons and Mr. Hall and Mr. Freeman, near Ledbury, and two or three gentlemen in Hereford who sided with the Parliament.”

“One of the most staunch Parliamentarians I ever met hailed from Hereford,” said Norton. “I came across him when Waller’s army was in Gloucestershire—my own county. However, this young Lieutenant Harford, though as keen on sermons as the rest of his comrades, had, nevertheless, time to carry on a most promising love affair with the pretty daughter of a Puritan squire whose estate adjoins mine.”

He avoided looking at his companion, but from the tone of her voice he knew that his arrow had gone home.

“Mr. Harford’s sympathies have ever been with the Puritans,” she said, haughtily. “’Tis long since he was in Herefordshire, but I learn that he is now a prime favourite with Cromwell.”

“He would be a man after his own heart,” said Norton. “Prince Rupert dubbed Cromwell ‘Ironside’ at Marston Moor, and from all accounts there never was a more unyielding, stubborn fighter. They say his power over all whom he comes across is amazing—men are like wax in his hands.”

Hilary walked on in a dazed, bewildered way, determined only that she would keep outwardly calm, and hearing all that the stranger said, though as if from a great distance. It seemed to her that the world had suddenly collapsed, and for the first time she fully understood what perfect confidence she had hitherto felt in Gabriel’s constancy. Only by a great effort could she keep up the absolutely necessary show of interest in her companion’s talk. At length she caught sight of the Vicar coming out of a cottage at a little distance, and awoke to the realisation that she had better overtake him before gaining the village street.

“See, Don!” she cried to the dog, “your master!”

Don bounded on and soon attracted the Vicar’s notice. He turned at once, and perceiving Hilary and the stranger, walked rapidly towards them.

“I must ask your pardon, sir,” said Norton, bowing low. “I waited to apologise to your niece for the discourtesy of my men, and begged her to let me wait upon you at the Vicarage. I am but newly appointed Governor of the Canon Drome garrison—my name is Lionel Norton.”

“Why then, sir, I heard of you many years ago, for I think you wedded the Lady Lucy Powell,” said the Vicar, genially.

Hilary, who had not even glanced at Norton since their first encounter at the gate, now looked at him searchingly, and instantly noted the lines of pain about his lips. The pain was genuine—it at once drew her to him.

“My wife died when we had but been wedded a year,” he replied, and his musical voice faltered a little.

The Vicar had not heard of this, but his sympathy and his warm praise of Lady Lucy’s gentle sweetness of character seemed to touch Norton.

“Will you not come in and dine with us?” he said, in his hospitable way.

For a moment the Colonel hesitated. “I fear I cannot accept your kind invitation,” he said at length, with a swift glance at Hilary. “But if you will permit me I will call on you another day.”

And at the eastern gate of the churchyard they parted, Norton to call for his horse at the “Bell,” the Vicar to see a parishioner who had come home crippled from the war, and Hilary to hasten to her room at the Vicarage, where at last she could permit the tears which had half choked her to over-flow.

All was indeed over—Gabriel’s love was a thing of the past!