CHAPTER XXXVII.

“We must admit nothing which turns our worship from inward to outward, which tends to set the transitory in place of the eternal. Nothing external, however splendid and impressive, can bring us nearer to the Divine; but external things may engross and exhaust our powers of devotion. Veils of sense, no less than veils of intellect, may come between us and the spiritual, in which alone we can rest. To rest in forms is idolatry. Earth may hold us still under the guise of heaven.”

—Christian Aspects of Life.—Bishop Westcott.

When the two had passed through the little gate in the churchyard, and had disappeared inside the building, Peter Waghorn crept cautiously from his hiding place among the shrubs. Shaking his fist at the cross which was so obnoxious to him, he slowly made his way to his own house, his mind full of what he had overheard.

The long-delayed scheme for the destruction of the cross, upon which he had set his heart, had been frustrated at the very last moment by this young captain. Doubtless, Waghorn thought, he had been secretly persuaded beforehand by the soft blandishments of the Vicar’s niece. She had discreetly kept in the background throughout the scene, but, of course, it was all really her doing.

“Well, well,” he muttered grimly, as he sat down in his lonely room, “I have him in my power now, and can revenge myself on him! He baulked me as to the cross, and as good as called me a devil. The man’s a traitor! He’s one of the ungodly. I’ll unmask him even if for the nonce I have to play into Colonel Norton’s hands. I’ll take word to Canon Frome as to the despatches he is to bear to Windsor. Eh, eh! Captain Harford. I shall have you laid by the heels, and you shall bitterly rue the day when you set your hand to the plough and then turned back.”

With bitter vindictiveness he drew an inkhorn and pen towards him, and laboriously began to write the following words:

“I have a carpentering job in the ante-room at Canon Frome Manor this day, and shall be there at three of the clocke. If Colonel Norton wishes to gett tydings of a dangerous ryvall, who is moreover a rebel, he cann obtayne it on certaine con-dishuns.”

He had just sanded this document, and was about to fold and seal it, when the sound of the Old 113th in the village street made him pause. He stepped out into the road in front of the house, and saw that the Puritan soldiers were ready to march back to Ledbury, and, evidently at the Vicar’s request, were first joining the villagers in a Psalm. As the words floated towards him a look of wonder and hesitation crossed the stern face of the wood carver. It was as if he caught a momentary glimpse of a unity as yet far beyond his reach.


O children which do serve the Lord,

Praise ye His name with one accord,

Yea, blessed always be His name;

Who from the rising of the sun

Till it return where it begun,

Is to be praised with great fame,

The Lord all people doth surmount,

As for His glory we may count

Above the heavens high to be.

With God the Lord who may compare,

Whose dwellings in the heavens are;

Of such great power and force is He.


But the bitter memory of his father’s death returned to him, and when another psalm was started he closed his door and hardened his heart; as soon as the soldiers had left the village he resolved to set out for Canon Frome.

Meanwhile Gabriel and Hilary were viewing Waghorn’s work in the church.

“It was such a grief to my uncle,” said Hilary. “Often in former times I have seen him sitting here about sunset quietly enjoying the beauty of the place and the jewel-like colouring of the window.”

“I am sorry Waghorn destroyed it,” said Gabriel. “Yet it would be dishonest of me to let you think that I am wholly without the usual Puritan feeling. To paint an imaginary picture of the Christ seems to me taking an unwarrantable liberty, which we should not allow a painter to take with any other friend or kinsman.”

“Don’t you mind spoiling a beautiful thing?” she said, wonderingly.

“I never saw anything to complain of in the Bosbury window,” he replied, “but some representing the Trinity I gladly saw destroyed. At Abingdon, when Sir William Waller had the market cross hewn down, I helped to break in pieces the images of the saints surrounding it, for some folk still knelt to them. And though at Winchester we regretted the irreverence shown to the tombs of the dead, and did our utmost to check it, we found it well-nigh impossible to control the people, for they connect all pictures and sculpture with the hated tyranny of Popish times.”

“I don’t understand how you can endure such sights,” said Hilary.

“Perhaps you hardly understand that a soldier has to endure sights so much more dreadful. Human beings crushed, battered, mangled—homes destroyed, and families destitute and starving—all the horrors of war. When once you have learnt to love people, you can’t think so much of mere things.”

“I don’t think you ever really cared for what was beautiful,” she said, reproachfully.

He winced. For was not her radiant loveliness tugging at his heart—torturing him with an intolerable longing to have her for his own to all eternity?

Norton would skilfully have taken advantage of such an opening and used it for his selfish ends, but Gabriel’s voice only sounded a little constrained, as he replied:

“You are right in deeming me no artist.”

Into his mind there came a sudden recollection of the comfort that Hilary’s miniature had been to him through these years of pain and separation; and then a horrible memory of what had passed about it in the church at Marlborough, and the sickening thought that Norton was even now seeking to ensnare her.

What was he to do? How could he best serve her? Their differences in religion and politics seemed to loom up larger than ever, and hopelessly to part them.

The sound of the soldiers and the villagers joining in the thanksgiving psalm broke in upon his sad thoughts. When the verse ended, he turned to Hilary and there was again a look of hope in his eyes. He was standing beneath the beautifully carved old rood screen and she was strangely moved by the pathos of his expression.

“After all,” he said, cheerfully, “we may find a parable in this Bosbury window which will show us how small are our differences. You and the Vicar love to see through a coloured picture; we Puritans should, as a rule, prefer the clearest glass, but we are both looking through the same outlet to the same sunlight.”

The thought appealed to her; she smiled with something of her old comprehending sweetness.

“I am very glad you spared the cross,” she said, gently, as they paused for a minute in the south porch. “If—if I pained you just now, I am sorry, Gabriel.”

“Promise me that you will at least take counsel before you again speak to Colonel Norton,” he pleaded.

“What right have you to demand promises of me?” she asked proudly.

“No right,” he said, his voice faltering, “but by the memory of your mother I implore you, Hilary.”

“I will think of it,” she said. “What! are you going?”

“I distrust that fanatic Waghorn, he may stir up the soldiers once more,” he replied. Then, with an irrepressible sigh, “’Tis like enough, Hilary, that you and I may never meet again; will you not give me that one word of comfort?”

The sudden stab of pain at the thought that this might indeed be their last meeting, broke down her pride.

“Well—I promise,” she said, gently. Then, as he bent down and kissed her hand, the familiar notes of “In trouble and adversity,” fell upon her ear. “Do you hear what they are singing?” she cried. “’Tis our psalm that we sang years ago in the Cathedral, that day when——” she broke off in confusion.

“You still remember?” he said, tenderly, his eyes full of happiness as they met hers.

At that moment, to his bitter regret, they heard steps on the path, and looking up, saw a burly sergeant approaching. Gabriel went to give him his orders, then returned to the porch.

“We must march as soon as they have ended the psalm,” he said, stooping once more to press a passionate kiss on her hand. “I am glad you remember that day, Hilary. Remember always! Remember always!”

She heard his voice tremble, yet could not speak; she watched him walk rapidly down the path to the lych-gate, and then as the hearty voices of the soldiers and the villagers rose in the final verse, she sank down on one of the benches in the porch, and, hiding her face in her hands, burst into tears.

About three o’clock that afternoon Norton, waking from an after-dinner nap, sauntered out into one of the corridors at Canon Frome Manor.

“There is a carpenter-fellow, sir, at work in the house, and he bade me give this into your hands,” said his servant, approaching him.

Norton carelessly broke the seal and glanced at the laboriously-written lines. A smile began to flicker about his lips, and with some curiosity he made his way to the ante-room which led to Dame Elizabeth’s apartments. Here he found Waghorn busily engaged in mending a spinning-wheel.

“Good-day, Colonel,” said the fanatic, gloomily. “Hath my missive been delivered?”

“So this is from you!” said Norton, with a sarcastic smile. “You are the fellow I met once at Bosbury. Have you thought better of it, and are you going to change sides?”

“Nay, nay, I trow not,” replied Waghorn, his eyes gleaming. “But I would fain be used as the instrument of vengeance on the ungodly, even though for the time I do serve thee and thy cause.”

Norton gave one of his short scoffing laughs.

“I faith I scarce know if I could be served by one of such a vinegar aspect!”

“Dost thou love Mistress Hilary Unett?” asked the wood-carver, sternly.

The Colonel started.

“What is that to you, scarecrow?”

“I had heard gossip in the village as to thy wooing of her, and I thought mayhap a knowledge of the doings of her old lover, Captain Harford, might be worth something to thee.”

“Harford!” cried the Colonel, in surprise. “What do you know of him?”

Waghorn carefully adjusted a screw in the spinning-wheel, then looked up shrewdly.

“What would the knowledge be worth to thee?”

“Oh! You want money! Here! I’m as poor as a rook, but for the whole truth about this cursed lover I’ll give you a crown piece.”

He took a coin from his pocket and flung it on the floor. Waghorn, with an angry frown, pushed it from him.

“Thy money perish with thee! I want none of it. Nay, ’tis something more than money that I must have for the tidings. Promise to use me as the instrument of vengeance on this traitor.”

“Dost take me for a murderer hiring assassins?” said the Colonel, scornfully.

“I speak not of murder, but of bringing the ungodly and the traitorous to just punishment.”

“Well, I will use you if I can, but you must tell me more. Where is this Mr. Harford?”

“This very morning he yielded to the entreaty of the Vicar of Bosbury and spared the Popish cross in the churchyard. I vowed in my heart that he should suffer for that treachery, and, concealing myself, I heard all that passed later betwixt him and Mistress Hilary.”

“What did the fair lady say to him?”

“Why, she was just a second Eve, leading him on, and then the next minute sorely paining him; but methinks she hath a liking for him all the same, and left him some hope.”

“Hope of winning her?”

“That, doubtless, would follow: but what he urged on her was to walk warily with respect to you, sir.”

“What! Did my name pass betwixt them?”

Waghorn smiled grimly. “Ay, verily; and he plainly told her what you are, sir.”

“The devil he did! Pray, where can I find him?”

“He’ll be back at Ledbury by now, and I heard him say that he was to be sent off with important despatches to Sir Thomas Fairfax at Windsor.”

“You heard that?” cried Norton. “By the Lord Harry! we have him then! Waghorn, you are worth your weight in gold. Dog this fellow’s steps for me, have him waylaid with the despatches on him, and you may ask what you will of me. Ha, ha! We’ll have some sport with this outspoken young fool! He plainly told Mistress Hilary what I am, did he? I’ll be revenged on him for that, the prating, Puritanical marplot!”

“Only give me your orders, sir, and trust me he shall not escape. The ungodly shall be trapped in the work of his own hands!” said Waghorn, rubbing his hands with satisfaction.

Norton laughed. “Take care you don’t get trapped, Waghorn; you are not exactly what I should call a godly man yourself! A good deal of the old Adam in your thirst for vengeance, isn’t there?”

“Sir, Captain Harford hath treacherously spared a Popish idol, and he hath baulked me, although it was through my zeal and love for the truth that the Parliament soldiers were marched out from Ledbury for the pious work of destruction.”

“’Tis not pleasant to be baulked, I grant you,” said Norton, his eyes still twinkling. “But avenge yourself, and you’ll avenge me. How soon can you be in Ledbury?”

“As soon as this job is done, sir, and that will not be long.”

“Good! Let me know how you prosper, and see—you may be put to some charge in the town; so take this crown piece, and the devil send you luck!”

In high good humour at the prospect of getting Gabriel Harford into his power, the Colonel left the room, and Waghorn, having completed his work, packed up his tools and returned to Bosbury.

On the road he encountered the Vicar and his niece, for Hilary, ill at ease after her talk with Gabriel, had determined to seek advice from the motherly Dame Elizabeth, while the Vicar was anxious to see Sir Richard Hopton, and to congratulate him on his recent release from prison.

Fortune favoured the girl, for they encountered not only Sir Richard in the courtyard, but Mr. Geers, who had ridden over from Garnons to bring tidings of Frances and her sister, and to learn how Sir Richard fared. The gentlemen remained without, chatting together, and Hilary was ushered into the house, where, in the ante-room which Waghorn had just quitted, she found Dame Elizabeth, a stately, white-haired old lady, with kind far-seeing eyes.

Greeting her visitor warmly, she made her sit on a stool beside her, lamenting that Frances was still absent.

“In truth, dear madam, though it sounds unfriendly, I am glad she is not here,” said Hilary; “for I greatly want your help and counsel.”

“Now that is always a pleasant thing to hear,” said Dame Elizabeth, smiling. “There are many drawbacks to growing old, but the best part is that the maidens and the young matrons come to us with their joys and their sorrows.”

“They do well to come to you, dear madam, for you always understand so well. How the Queen can lay bare her heart to a priest is to me passing strange. But in sore need one might come to a mother-confessor.”

“What is your trouble, dear child?” said Dame Elizabeth, kindly. “How can I help you?”

“It all comes from this sad war,” said Hilary, with a sigh.

“In truth it hath brought sorrow to every home,” said Dame Elizabeth. “Think what it means for us to have one son fighting for the King and two for the Parliament! I love them alike, and there is never a moment’s ease or relief.”

“But you can rightly love all your sons, madam. My case is different. I—I am half ashamed to tell you how it is with me,” faltered Hilary, drooping her head.

“Perchance I can guess,” said Dame Elizabeth, caressing her. “Methinks, child, you do not know your own heart.”

“That is the very truth,” said Hilary, blushing, and lowering her voice. “This morning I thought—I fancied—that a loyal King’s officer had the chief place there; and now—now—I am half afraid that all the time my heart has been harbouring a rebel.”

“Try to forget their opinions, and think of them only as men. Believe me, child, love has naught to do with matters of State.”

“That is what Gabriel Harford always said—we were betrothed before the war began.”

“And then, I suppose, you quarrelled.”

“Yes—we—parted. I vowed I would never wed a man who was not loyal, and he protested that loyalty meant faithfulness to law.”

“’Tis what my sons said, too. The King had unlawfully imprisoned, unlawfully taxed and unlawfully governed without a Parliament for eleven years, and they said they must defend the ancient liberties of England. Tell me of this other lover, child.”

“Gabriel thinks him unfit to speak to me, and says that the Royalists themselves blame his way of life.”

“Have you known him long?”

“Not very long. But to Uncle Coke and to me he hath been all that is kind. I wish you would tell me the truth about him, dear madam.”

“Surely it is not possible that you mean Colonel Norton? Hath he dared to force himself upon you?”

“Why, he hath shown great attention to my uncle, and is ever bringing him rare antiquities that greatly please him, and many and many a time I have talked with him.”

“Oh, child! you are too inexperienced. I know Colonel Norton, for the officers of the Canon Frome garrison live here at free quarters. Have no more to do with him, Hilary, for, believe me, he is cruel and dissolute. At this very time, Sir Richard is writing to beg for the appointment of some other governor, and I am writing of our grievances to our kinsman, Lord Hopton, the noblest of all the King’s generals.”

“Were we, then, so deceived in Colonel Norton? I know that I am ignorant enough, but Uncle Coke——”

“My dear, the Vicar of Bosbury is the most genial and kind-hearted gentleman, and very slow to suspect that all men are not of a like disposition. You must warn him—you can tell him of our talk.”

“He ought to know, but, oh, dear madam! I cannot tell him,” said Hilary, blushing to the roots of her hair. “Why, only this morning I fancied—oh!” she cried, springing to her feet in a burst of indignation, “how dared that man trifle with me!—how dared he!”

“The best plan will be for me to say a word to Mr. Geers, he is your uncle’s friend, and he knows more of Colonel Norton than Sir Richard doth. Do not grieve your heart any more, my child,” said Dame Elizabeth, embracing her. “Stay to supper, and I will arrange matters for you. And as for Mr. Harford, remember this, ’tis not a man’s opinions that make him a good husband, but his life and character.”

With great tact, the hostess contrived in a few words to tell Mr. Geers the state of affairs, and the good-natured owner of Garnons undertook, in his cordial, friendly way, to talk matters over with the Vicar.

“It seems that I am predestined to plead the cause of my rival, the grapegulper,” he reflected, with a smile. “But I can do it this time with even more zeal than when I talked years ago with the Bishop, being myself an excellent example of the happy married man. Both for the sake of Mrs. Jefferies’ godson and of the pretty maid that rejected my suit, I will do my best to open the eyes of my friend the antiquary.”