CHAPTER XXXV.

“The real test of a man is not what he knows but what he is in himself, and in his relation to others. For instance, can he battle against his own bad inherited instincts, or brave public opinion in the cause of truth?”

—Tennyson.

On this bright, mild Tuesday morning, Mrs. Durdle was bustling about in the sitting-room at the Vicarage, armed with a goose-wing and a duster, weapons wherewith she waged a daily battle with the dust. Spite of her unwieldy proportions, she was a most active person, but even the energetic are not sorry to pause a little in their work on a balmy spring day, and when Zachary crossed the little lawn and approached the open casement, she willingly went to the window, nominally to shake her duster, but in reality to enjoy a gossip.

“Mornin’, Mrs. Durdle!” said Zachary. “A fine growin’ day this!”

Zachary was somewhat bent and old, yet his face, though wrinkled, had still a youthful ruddiness, and bore that benevolent expression which comes when the grinders cease because they are few, and the lips take an infantine and gentle smile as a recompense.

“Well, for me, I say, ’tis a day when workin’ is none so easy,” said Durdle. “Folk talk a deal about the peace and quiet of a country life, but I had a heap more quiet at Hereford before I came to keep house for the Vicar. Look you there!” and she pointed with fine scorn to an untidy table, “he’s been and got out them nasty bones again! If they wasn’t as dry as an empty cider-press I’d give them all to the dog!”

With laugh Zachary suddenly held up and brandished in the air a long bone which he had hitherto concealed.

Mrs. Dundle gave a horrified exclamation.

“My patience, man! Don’t bring that here! Vicar would never take bones from the churchyard. ’Tis animals’ bones he’s all agog for, and then only when they be as old as Noah’s ark.”

“I’ll put it back in the mould when parson’s seen it; but I tell you, Mrs. Durdle, ’tis a marvel. That’s a giant’s shank bone, and he must ha’ stood nine feet high—poor chap, think o’ that! I’m glad there’s not so much o’ me. Think o’ nine feet o’ rheumatics!”

“Well, rheumatics or no rheumatics, I’m sorry for his wife,” said Durdle, laughing. “She must have needed to be a rare good knitter to keep him in hose! If you must leave the thing for the Vicar, let me give it a good dustin’ out o’ window first. Ah! Zachary, after all, ’tis ill work jesting over bones when England’s strewn with the bones o’ them as has been killed in this weary war.”

“You’re right, Mrs. Durdle—you’re right. ’Twill be three years come Lammastide since the King set up his standard at Nottingham, and ever since naught but battles and sieges, plunderings and threatenings. And now there’s this plaguey garrison hard by at Canon Frome, with a Governor that sticks at nothing.”

“What! Colonel Norton?” said the housekeeper, raising her eyebrows. “Why, he be always comin’ to see Vicar. But between you and me, Zachary, ’tis Mistress Hilary’s pretty face, I take it, that draws him.”

“Then, Mrs. Durdle, for pity’s sake have a care o’ your young lady, for I hear little enough to his credit. But I thought Mistress Hilary had been courted by a young spark at Hereford?”

“Eh, to be sure, so she was. She and young Mr. Gabriel Harford were like lovers since they were no higher than this table. But the war put a stop to that, and from being fast friends they became foes, the more’s the pity.”

“Well, like master, like man, as the proverb hath it,” said the sexton, stooping to root up a plantain from the turf. “Vicar he says, he’ll have nought to do with wars and fightings, for he be a man o’ peace. And so be I, Mrs. Durdle, so be I. But beware of yon Governor o’ Canon Frome, for there’s many a wench will have cause to rue the day when he came to Herefordshire.”

“For my part, I like the gentleman well enough. He’s a fine, handsome officer, and the Vicar always enjoys his visits,” said Durdle, pouncing like a bird of prey on the laboriously-woven spider’s web which she just then saw in a corner of the window.

“Ah, you women! you women! ’Tis always the same. A handsome spark will ever find you ready to give him a good word,” said Zachary, shaking his head.

“And are you so sure, Zachary, that a pretty wench can’t turn you round her fingers?” retorted the housekeeper, with a smile.

“Handsome is as handsome does,” quoted the sexton, shrewdly. “Give me the woman who knows how to brew good cider; grave-diggin’ all among bones and dust is terribly dry work, Mrs. Durdle.”

“Well, well, come round to the kitchen, man, though ’tis over early for your noonings,” said Durdle, with a laugh, “but, by-the-bye, what was the tale I heard in the village last night about the doings at Drybrook?”

“’Tis o’er true,” said Zachary, “though ’twas not the Canon Frome men that plundered there, but a troop of Colonel Lunsford’s horse that were serving in Prince Rupert’s forces. At Drybrook, when a poor fellow refused to give up a flitch o’ bacon to the foraging party, they struck him down and knocked out his eyes.”

“Good gracious, Zachary; now don’t you be telling that gruesome tale to Mistress Hilary, for she can’t abide hearing tell o’ such doings, though she do pretend to be so fond o’ war and fighting and glory and the rest. There’s not much glory in havin’ your eyes put out, I’ll warrant!”

Zachary lounged off towards the back premises, and Durdle was about to retire to the kitchen, and resume her gossip there, when she heard a knock at the front door.

“Now I do believe that’s Colonel Norton’s knock,” she muttered, bustling out in reply to the summons.

Her surmise was right enough; there he stood, booted and spurred, in all the glory of his gay attire, and with a sparkle in his dark eyes, which instantly banished from Durdle’s mind all Zachary’s warnings. She ushered him into the room she had just quitted, and though he had only asked for the Vicar his glance had so plainly bade her tell her mistress as well of his arrival, that she promptly sought Hilary, who had just finished making apple pasties in the kitchen.

“I’ll clap those in the oven, dearie,” said the housekeeper, “and do you doff your apron and tell the Vicar Colonel Norton is waiting to see him.”

Hilary departed on the errand, unable to determine whether she wished to see her admirer or not.

“I will leave you to have your chat with the colonel,” she said when she had with some difficulty roused the Vicar from a treatise on ancient coins which Mr. Silas Taylor had lent him.

“Nay, nay, child,” said the Vicar, retaining her hand in his. “I have scarce clapped eyes on you this morning; come in too, and hear the news.”

And to Norton’s satisfaction the uncle and niece entered the room together. The Vicar’s greeting was always cordial, yet this morning Norton fancied that there was a certain depression about his host which he could not fathom.

“Do you bring us any news, sir?” asked the antiquary wistfully.

“No news, sir, and no treasures for the collection, unluckily,” said Norton. “I called mainly on business. You have not been disturbed here, I hope, by Governor Massey? I hear he is hovering about again near Ledbury.”

“Nay, we have heard naught of him here,” said the Vicar. “I have been up this morning seeing the owner of the Hill Farm. There is sore trouble there, sir, and I wish you would consider the people more than you do. These foraging parties are growing unbearable.”

“Believe me, I do what I can, sir,” said Norton in his most winning tone. “I dislike the work of plundering as much as you would, but how else are we to keep the army alive?”

The Vicar sighed heavily.

“May God send us the blessing of peace!” he said. “I tell you, sir, it fairly breaks my heart to go about among the people of Bosbury. There is scarce a family but has lost a man in this cruel war, or else hath been well-nigh ruined by marauders.”

“Well, Vicar, we must all take the fortune of war. Of course, the rustics grumble when hungry soldiers seize their goods—but how are the officers to check starving men? That is what I was last night urging on old Sir Richard Hopton, who does naught but complain of the Canon Frame garrison. ‘Good Sir,’ I said to him, ‘What would you have me do? If the King gave me money I would pay for what we consume. But we are fighting for the divine right of Kings, and have surely a divine right to feed on something more satisfying than air.’”

“’Tis not alone the taking of gear that I complain of,” said the Vicar gravely, “but of cruelties perpetrated by the soldiers—abominable cruelties which did not spare even women and children.”

“Such things will happen in time of war, sir,” replied

Norton. “What can you expect? Soldiers are but human. ’Tis only the Roundheads that set up for being saints. However, we must not scare Mistress Hilary with talk of cruelties. Believe me,” he said, turning to her, “these tales of the village folk never lose in the telling, and we are not so black as we’re painted. Prince Rupert——”

“Prince Rupert is one of a thousand!” said Hilary, enthusiastically. “How I should like to see him! Do you think there is a chance that he may come this way?”

“You are of a more martial spirit than the Vicar. That is generally the way. We poor soldiers mostly find favour with the fair sex—’tis one of our few compensations,” said Norton, venturing nearer to her and lowering his voice as he noticed that Dr. Coke had moved over to the table and taken up the bone brought in by the sexton. “Yet do not make me jealous of the Prince by dwelling overmuch on his merits. Am I to have my answer to-day?”

She shook her head, and blushed deliciously. Norton had every intention of furtively kissing her hand, when the Vicar suddenly turned round and showed them his latest treasure.

“Most curious! Most interesting! Why, the fellow must have been a giant. Hilary, look here! In life this man must have stood at least eight feet high. Where did it come from?”

“I don’t know, Uncle,” said Hilary, shuddering. “Ugh! how gruesome it looks! I can’t bear skulls and bones!”

Norton with a smile watched the two. “What a contrast,” he reflected. “That old bone collector and a maid whose cheeks are like a wild rose! I wonder if the parson will get in the way of my designs?”

He was roused from his reverie by the entrance of Mrs. Durdle and the customary tray of cakes and cider.

The Vicar re-crossed the room with an eager question on his lips.

“Where did this come from, Mrs. Durdle? To whom am I indebted for this very rare bone?”

“Why, sir, ’twas Zachary brought it, and do now let me take it back to him. It gives me the creeps to see churchyard bones lying round loose.”

“Well, I suppose if Zachary dug it up we ought to give it Christian burial,” said the Vicar regretfully, “but it does seem a pity. A most rare and interesting bone.”

“Yes, sir, yes,” said the housekeeper, receiving it carefully in her apron, “very interesting, but do now let it be buried decentlike. ’Tis impossible to keep the place tidy—let alone clean—when your antics are littering all over the house.”

There was a general laugh as she left the room.

“No more antics for you, Uncle dear, if Mrs. Durdle has her way,” said Hilary blithely.

“She is a most orderly person,” said the Vicar, with a good-humoured smile, “and to have as master an untidy old antiquary must be a sore trial to her. But pardon me, Colonel, all this time I have been rambling on about my own affairs, and I understand that you had some special matter to talk over with me.”

“To tell the truth, sir, I walked over from Canon Frome this morning to ask you to sign your name to the Protestation framed by Prince Rupert. He commands the signatures of the people of this neighbourhood, and I shall be glad to have yours.”

He handed a paper to the Vicar, who, with some reluctance, took it, and began to read it to himself.

“Hey! What!” he exclaimed, presently, “the Prince commands? Why, Colonel, he has no right to extort oaths from free Englishmen. He fancies himself back in Germany. Listen to this! ‘I do strictly enjoin, without exception, all commanders and soldiers, gentry, citizens, freeholders, and others within the county and city of Hereford to take this Protestation.‘ I’faith, he goes too far, Colonel, too far! Look at this! I must swear that all the Parliamentarians ought to be brought to condign punishment—I must swear that I will help His Majesty to the utmost of my skill and power and with the hazard of my life and fortune; I must swear not to hold any correspondency or intelligence with Parliamentarians, and to discover all their plans that I may chance to know; and all these particulars I must vow and protest sincerely to observe without equivocation or mental reservation.”

“Well, but, Vicar, we all know that you honour the King,” said Norton, reassuringly. “No man could dare to call your loyalty in question—why, you are the son of one of the twelve bishops who signed the Remonstrance.”

“Very true,” said the Vicar “but the signing of that ill-judged and illegal document was, to my mind, my father’s great mistake. No, no, Colonel; I try to do my best to honour the King and to love and honour all men; therefore I loathe this unlawful Protestation, and will not say, ‘I willingly vow and protest,’ as here enjoined.”

Norton watched him intently; this was a side of the antiquary’s character which had not before been revealed to him.

“But, sir, you scarce realise, I think, what a serious matter this may be,” he said. “The Prince has expressly ordered that all who refuse to sign shall be seized without delay and kept in custody. It was enacted, as you see, on the second of this month.”

The Vicar again examined the paper, then looked up with an astute expression. “So it seems, sir, but you will also note that this Protestation is ordered to be tendered to all by the High Sheriff and Commissioners of the county, assisted by a Divine.”

Norton veiled his annoyance by a laugh.

“Of course if you want to keep to the letter of the law, we must bring over the whole posse from Hereford, but I thought as we were friends——”

The Vicar smiled genially, and held out his hand.

“We are friends, certainly—very good friends. But as to keeping to the letter of the law—I don’t acknowledge this document to be law at all, ’tis grossly illegal. You see, sir,” he added reverently, “I must try to remember that at Ordination I vowed to maintain and set forwards quietness, peace and love among Christian people.”

As though the words had cost him something to utter in what he knew would be a hostile atmosphere, he turned away and stood for a minute by the window, looking out at the church he loved so well, and the strong tower of refuge and the quiet graveyard.

Norton stroked his moustache to conceal a scornful smile, then bent low over Hilary’s hand and kissed it, conveying to her by look and touch much more than the customary salute.

“I am not without hope, Mistress Hilary, that where I have failed you will succeed,” he said gently. “Try if you can to persuade your uncle, for his refusal places him in some danger. I know well how much influence your sweet words have over men, and trust you will permit me to wait on you before long to learn of your success.”

With one of his sweeping bows he turned to take leave of the Vicar, who accompanied him to the door and bade him farewell very cordially, but being pre-occupied with the thought of the Protestation, forgot to give him the usual invitation to stay to dinner.

Hilary, with a restlessness which she had never before felt, paced up and down the room unhappily. Did this man indeed love her as he professed to do? And did she in truth care for him? That he was handsome, clever and fascinating was beyond dispute—she thought she did care for him—certainly she was far from being indifferent to him—and yet? Yet it was not like that day years ago when Gabriel had spoken to her in the wood, and a whole new world had opened to them.

“Nothing can be like first love, of course,” she said to herself dreamily, and then bitterness overwhelming her, “but my first love was all a miserable mistake! Gabriel cared more for this phantom of parliamentary government—loved that better than he loved me.”

She impatiently dashed from her eyes the tears that had started at this thought, and with sudden energy caught up her lute and began vigorously to tune it.

“I won’t be a fool!” she thought, resolutely forcing back the old memories that tried to rise. “I will wed this loyal Colonel Norton. He said my words had power over men, and I see they have over him. They had none over Gabriel!”

At that moment the Vicar returned to the sitting-room.

“Well, my child,” he said, stroking her hair, “yonder is a pleasant-spoken man, but I can never sign that paper he brought. We will talk no more of it, the very thought of it chafes me. Sing me one of your songs, dear, let us have ‘Come, sweet love, let sorrow cease!”

Hilary winced, for the plaintive sweetness of “Bara Fostus Dream” was for ever associated with the summer days when Gabriel had wooed her; but she could not refuse her uncle’s request, and sang the song in a more subdued frame of mind.

She had just begun the last verse—

“Then, sweet love, disperse this cloud—”

when sounds of confusion in the village street and an uproar of voices brought her to a sudden pause. Running to the window, she called eagerly to the Vicar.

“See, Uncle, the people are thronging this way. What can have happened?”

And as the Vicar joined her and looked forth, Durdle and Zachary rushed without ceremony into the room, breathless with haste, but each eager to give the news.

“Oh, sir, come out and stop it, for pity’s sake,” panted Durdle.

“Yes, sir, do’ee now. Mayhap they’ll hearken to you,” said Zachary.

“What is wrong?” asked the Vicar, looking from one to the other.

“The soldiers, sir—they’ve marched from Ledbury!”

“Parliament soldiers, sir,” panted Zachary. “Fetched by Waghorn a-purpose to pull down the cross.”

“And they’re a-goin’ to do it, too,” put in Durdle, determined to have the last word.

The Vicar’s indignant amaze almost choked him.

“What!” he cried. “Pull down Bosbury Cross! Why, Hilary, ’tis one of the oldest in all England—one of our most valued antiquities. God grant I may be able to save it.”

He hastily crossed the room towards the door.

“Ay, sir,” said Zachary, “you speak to the captain, he be a pleasant-looking young officer. But as for Waghorn, I do think he be gone stark mad.”

“Don’t come into the crowd, Hilary,” said the Vicar, excitedly, as he hurried from the house. “Wait in the garden and leave me to plead for this treasure of the past.”