Love doth unite and knit, both make and keep

Things one together, which were otherwise,

Or would be both diverse and distant.

—Christopher Harvey.


It was not until the latter part of October that Hilary and her mother returned to Hereford. The news of the occupation of the city by the Earl of Stamford had kept them longer at Whitbourne than had been expected; but the cold of the country did not suit Mrs. Unett, and both mother and daughter were glad to settle down once more in their own home.

Unfortunately, all the girl’s gentle thoughts had been banished by hearing of the occupation of Hereford by the Parliament’s army. She was once again a vehement little hater, and was revelling in the thought of the resolute way in which she would keep Gabriel at a distance, refusing even to notice him if they passed in the street.

As a matter of fact, the city looked exactly as usual on their return, not a shot had been fired, no harm had been done to the cathedral, and except for the discomfort of having soldiers in the place, few people had complaints to make. Even Durdle shocked her young mistress by the favourable way in which she spoke of the army.

“They do say there was some mischief done to Mrs. Joyce Jefferies’ house,” she admitted, “for she and Miss Acton they fled to Garnons in a panic. But had they stayed here all would have been well, for Mr. Gabriel Harford would have taken care of them as he did of us.”

Hilary’s face flamed, but she was too proud to question the housekeeper.

“He was down in the garden the night the soldiers was clamouring at Byster’s Gate,” resumed Durdle, after a pause, “and hearing Maria screaming, he came to the door to ask if aught was amiss, and no one could have been kinder like, nor did he ever let a soldier come nigh the house. And he came to bid me farewell on the fourth of October, when he went away to Worcester to join the army, and spoke that civil and pleasant just as though he’d been naught but a lad still.”

Hilary’s brain seemed to reel; she made a pretence of stooping to pick up a tortoiseshell cat which dozed by the kitchen fire.

“Bad puss, have you been eating blackbeetles, to grow so thin?” she exclaimed, stroking her pet with well-assumed indifference.

“What was that you were saying about Worcester, Durdle?”

The good-natured housekeeper gasped, her simple mind could not in the least understand the subtle workings of Hilary’s more complex nature.

“Talk about pussy’s bowels being injured by beetles,” she said to herself, “’tis my belief the lassie has no bowels at all. Was ever such a heartless speech!”

“Well, Mistress, I was saying how Mr. Gabriel Harford had gone to join the Earl of Essex’s army, along with his friend Mr. Edward Harley that was at Oxford with him.”

“Oh, indeed,” said Hilary, carrying her head high. “Dr. Rogers tells me the troopers stabled their horses in the nave and cloisters at Worcester. Send up Maria to fetch my cape and hood, Durdle; they got crushed in the coach, and had best be ironed.”

Then humming a cheerful song, she quitted the kitchen and sauntered out into the garden, her heart throbbing as if it would choke her.

“He has joined the rebel army, and ’tis my fault,” she thought, in anguish. “If he is killed, his death will be my doing! Oh, why was I so cruel? Naught I could say would have changed his views, but at least he would have gone quietly back to his studies had I not taunted him.”

Every nook in the garden seemed haunted by memories of lost happiness, she could not pass the sunny wall to which the apricot trees were fastened, or look towards the stone bench by the briar bush, without seeing in fancy her lover’s face; and she knew very well why he had wandered into that special place on the night of the servants’ alarm about the soldiers.

The sound of the gardener singing, as he gathered the apples, smote discordantly on her ear, and specially when drawing nearer she caught the doleful words of an old ballad called “The Wife of Usher’s Well,” in which the ghosts of the three dead sons return to their home, but can only remain for the briefest of visits. The gardener sang with stolid cheerfulness as he filled his basket:


“The cock doth craw, the day doth daw

The channerin’ worm doth chide;

Gin we be mist out o’ our place,

A sair pain we maun bide.


Fare ye weel, my mother dear!

Fareweel to barn and byre!

And fare ye weel, the bonny lass,

That kindles my mother’s fire.”


Turning hastily away to escape this dismal ditty she reentered the house, and was glad to encounter her favourite uncle, Dr. William Coke, who, during Gabriel’s absence in London, had been appointed to the living of Bosbury, vacant on the death of old Mr. Wall. He had not been among the very few who had been told of Hilary’s betrothal, and this fact made her now more at ease with him than with her grandfather or her mother. For a minute she forgot her troubles.

“We have but just returned from Whitbourne, sir,” she said, cheerfully. “’Tis indeed good of you to come to us.”

“I thought, maybe, your mother would be disturbed at today’s news, and rode over to have a chat with her,” said Dr. Coke, his genial face clouding a little.

“We have heard no fresh news,” said Hilary, eagerly. “What has happened, sir?”

“There has been a great battle in Warwickshire, nigh to Kineton, and though at first all thought the King’s troops would be victorious, in the end it proved but a drawn battle, both sides suffering grievously, and naught gained to either. They tell me that thousands lie dead on the field.”

His sorrowful face made Hilary realise more than she had yet done what war meant; her head drooped as she remembered her exultation over the fifty Parliament men killed at Powick Bridge, and recalled Gabriel’s look of reproach. Very few details had as yet been learnt, and when she had heard all her uncle could tell her she left him to talk with Mrs. Unett, and for the sake of being free and undisturbed sought the cathedral—the only place, save the garden, to which she was allowed to go without an attendant.

Entering by the great north porch, she walked through the quiet, deserted building to the north-east transept, and went to a little retired nook by an arch in the north wall, where lay the effigy of Bishop Swinfield. Here she had often come for quiet during the two years of her betrothal, partly because it was a place where no one was likely to notice her, and partly on account of her recollections of the snow effigy which she and Gabriel had once fashioned after this pattern, in honour of Sir John Eliot. Behind the tomb was a beautifully sculptured bas-relief of the Crucifixion, and Hilary saw, with satisfaction, that it had not been injured at all by the Earl of Stamford’s soldiers, who, according to Durdle, had only visited the cathedral on Sunday morning, when they had been somewhat disorderly, and had grumbled that prayers were said for the King, but never a word for the Parliament.

She knelt long in the quiet, and when she once more turned her steps homeward her remorse was less bitter and more practical, and at last, after a hard struggle, she conquered her pride, and knocked at Dr. Harford’s door, asking whether she could see Mrs. Harford.

Now Gabriel’s mother was one of those women whose affections are strictly limited to their own families. In so far as outsiders were useful to her husband or her son, she liked them; but if they caused her beloved ones the least trouble or pain, she most cordially hated them.

So when Hilary conquered herself sufficiently to pay this visit, Mrs. Harford, unable to see any point of view but her own, received the girl in a most frigid way.

“We have but just returned from Whitbourne,” said Hilary, blushing, “and I called to inquire after you, ma’am.”

“I am as well as any of us can hope to be in these troubled times,” said Mrs. Harford, coldly.

There was an awkward pause, broken at last by an inquiry for Mrs. Unett. Hilary tried desperately to prolong her answer. At the close came another pause.

“We have but just heard from my uncle, Dr. Coke, of the great battle in Warwickshire,” she said, falteringly. “Have you had any news, ma’am?”

The mother looked searchingly into the girl’s blushing face. “Yes,” she replied, “only an hour or two since a messenger brought me a letter from Lady Brilliana Harley, who had heard from her husband. He wrote the day after the battle.”

The silence that followed almost maddened Hilary. “Were Sir Robert and Mr. Harley safe?” she asked.

“Quite safe!” said Mrs. Harford, resolved not to spare the girl or help her out in any way. It was some slight satisfaction to her to see this proud maiden suffer.

“And Gabriel?” she faltered. “He was safe, too?”

“Alas, no!” said the mother, with a sigh.

Hilary turned white, but asked no more questions. As if from a great distance she heard the silence at length broken by Mrs. Harford’s voice.

“They gave him up for lost that night, but the next morning a young officer, Mr. Joscelyn Heyworth, found him on the field and there was still life in him. They carried him to Kineton, and he lies there grievously wounded.”

The girl rallied her failing powers and became obstinately hopeful. “He is young and strong,” she said, with forced cheerfulness. “He is sure to recover. My mother will be very sorry to hear your ill news, and—and—if you should again have tidings, she would be glad to hear, I know.”

“We cannot hope to hear again,” said Mrs. Harford. “It was only by great good fortune that Sir Robert Harley was able to get a letter to Lady Brilliana, and we are little like to hear from Gabriel himself, even if he were well enough to write. This is the hard part of war, the terrible waiting for news.” After formally polite farewells Hilar............