“One to destroy is murder by the law,

And gibbets keep the lifted hand in awe;

To murder thousands takes a specious name,

War’s glorious art, and gives immortal fame.”

—Young.


Hilary found great pleasure throughout the next few months in her friendship with Frances Hopton, and her sympathies gradually widened, not only from constant intercourse with her uncle, but from her frequent visits to Canon Frome Manor. The house was about two miles from Bosbury, one of those fine old moated residences often found in the counties bordering on Wales, strongly built and almost like small fortresses.

The Hoptons, like many another household in those days, were divided on the subject of the war, Sir Richard himself sided with the Parliament, but was too old to take any active part in the strife. He had suffered severely, however, for the action he had taken in marching to Hereford with the Earl of Stamford when the city had first been besieged in the early days of the war, and the Royalists on returning to power had plundered Canon Frome, and carried off or ruthlessly destroyed all the furniture and valuables they could seize. Sir Richard had been cast into prison, but later on, owing to the representations of his son Edward, who had joined the King’s army, he was released and allowed to return to his home, which was safe-guarded from further molestation by one of those letters of protection which were granted both by the King and the Parliament under certain circumstances.

So for a time all went well with them, and Hilary learnt to love Dame Elizabeth, who, feeling sorry for the motherless girl, did what she could for her and always gave her the warmest of welcomes at Canon Frome.

One cold March day she had ridden over at noon with her uncle to dine with the Hoptons, and, the meal being over, the ladies of the party were sitting with their needlework in Dame Elizabeth’s withdrawing-room, when Sir Richard and Dr. Coke rejoined them with grave faces.

“Hath any news come from the boys?” asked Dame Elizabeth anxiously, for with one son fighting for the King and two fighting for the Parliament, the poor lady knew little ease.

“No, but there is very grievous news of the capture of Mr. Wallop’s place—Hopton Castle—by the Royalists,” said Sir Richard. “The entire garrison hath been massacred.”

The ladies exclaimed in horror, and Dame Elizabeth asked the details.

“In truth they are too shocking to repeat,” said Dr. Coke, sighing. “It seems that the place was held for the owner, who was absent, by Governor More, brother to Mr. Richard More, Member of Parliament for Bishop’s Castle. They held out gallantly when attacked by Colonel Woodhouse and five hundred men, but were at length obliged to capitulate, being utterly worn out and the castle well-nigh battered to pieces.

“But did not they sue for quarter?” asked Hilary.

“Yes, and were told that they should be referred to Colonel Woodhouse’s mercy. Governor More and Major Phillips were taken before him to a house at some little distance, and More wondered after a while why his men did not follow, only then learning that they had been stripped, tied back to back and put to death with circumstances of revolting barbarity. The poor old steward of eighty, being weak and not able to stand, they put him into a chair while they cut his throat.”

Hilary felt sick with horror.

“Who is this Colonel Woodhouse?” she asked.

“He is the Governor of Ludlow Castle, and it is only fair to say,” remarked Sir Richard, “that when remonstrated with he alleged that he had orders from Oxford.”

“His Majesty is surrounded by evil counsellors,” said the Vicar. “But if that be indeed true, and sheer butchery was ordered, then it is all over with the King’s cause. After that it will never prosper.”

This seemed to be the beginning of a much fiercer and more cruel epoch of the struggle. At first both sides had acted with a certain dignity, but the evil passions always kindled by war grew stronger and stronger, and those who, like Hilary, had been inclined to enjoy the excitement of the contest, and to dwell on the “glory” and “romance” of the campaign, began to understand how cruel and devilish was the grim reality.

Hopton Castle was only just over the borders of Herefordshire, and but four miles from Brampton Bryan, and when Hilary heard of the great peril in which the Harleys found themselves her sympathies turned to the orphaned children of Lady Brilliana, and to their friend and guardian, Dr. Wright, who had been kind to her in her own trouble during Mrs. Unett’s last illness.

Fresh from the diabolical cruelties perpetrated on the Hopton Castle garrison, Colonel Woodhouse took his men to Brampton Bryan, and the castle underwent a second siege, with no brave-hearted mistress to cheer the unhappy garrison and the luckless children. The tragedy of Hopton Castle would have been enacted once again, for a letter from Prince Rupert was actually on its way to Colonel Woodhouse with such orders; but, after a long and brave resistance, Dr. Wright, desperate at the knowledge of the barbarities so lately committed by these very soldiers, and fearing such a fate for his garrison, sent out to treat, and Colonel Woodhouse, having granted them their lives, they surrendered just before the arrival of the Prince’s letter, and were carried away prisoners to Shrewsbury.

“Their lives are happily spared,” said Dr. Coke, when he was recounting the story to his niece one evening, “but the splendid castle has been burnt, down by Colonel Woodhouse, and with it one of the finest libraries in the country. ’Tis pitiful to think of the loss, for there were manuscripts there which can never be replaced. For generations the Harleys have been noted for their love of literature.”

“I have heard Gabriel Harford speak of the library,” said Hilary. “He was a friend and schoolfellow of the eldest son, and will grieve over this sad tale.”

“That reminds me,” said the Vicar, “that to-day, near Castle Frome, I met Dr. Harford. He told me that they had just heard from his son, who had rejoined Sir William Waller, and had fought in the battle of Cheriton.”

Hilary’s heart began to throb uncomfortably. She turned away, and made a pretence of rearranging the logs on the hearth.

“He escaped without hurt?” she asked, in a voice that might have betrayed her had the Vicar in the least guessed her story.

“Ay, and hath been promoted to a captaincy. I gathered, however, that he is only longing for the end of hostilities, being now determined to become a physician, like his father, and desiring to heal men rather than to slay.”

Hilary was silent, hardly knowing whether she approved this new development or not. With a little shudder, she remembered the flash of indignation in Gabriel’s eyes when she had gleefully recounted that fifty of the rebels had been killed at Powick Bridge. Certainly in those early days, before she had in the least realised the horrors of war, it had been possible to speak in a careless fashion that would now have been out of the question.

Indeed, by the end of April the grim shadow of war drew yet closer to Bosbury, for the Parliamentarians under Massey, Governor of Gloucester, began to make inroads and to do their utmost to clear out small garrisons and to raise money for the troops. It was far from pleasant to realise that Massey and his soldiers were quartered at Ledbury, barely four miles off, and Hilary began to picture to herself what would happen if their peaceful village should be invaded.

Musing on this one afternoon, she set off to visit old Farmer Kendrick’s wife at the Hill Farm, and to carry her certain remedies for her rheumatism which Mrs. Durdle had made.

“Tell her,” said the housekeeper, “that she’d never have had the rheumatics had she taken my advice and carried a potato all winter in her pocket. But folk will be thinking there’s no cure without eating or drinking summat, and the worse the taste the better the medicine, they believe. So, my dear, I’ve flavoured this with camomile, as nasty a herb as grows, and do you tell her to drink it hot first thing in the mornin’, she’ll have a most powerful belief in that.”

Hilary laughed and promised. Crossing the churchyard she encountered Zachary, the parish clerk, who was also the gardener and general factotum at the Vicarage; his ruddy face looked less cheerful than was its wont, and, resting on his mattock, he said, earnestly:

“Don’t you be a’goin’ far from home, mistress; it be............