The Elements Of Spellcrafting Miller Jason

download

https://ebookbell.com/product/the-elements-of-spellcrafting-
miller-jason-61561570

Explore and download more ebooks at ebookbell.com

Here are some recommended products that we believe you will be
interested in. You can click the link to download.

The Elements Of Spellcrafting Jason Miller

https://ebookbell.com/product/the-elements-of-spellcrafting-jason-
miller-10000624

The Elements Of Investing Easy Lessons For Every Investor 3rd Edition
Burton G Malkiel

https://ebookbell.com/product/the-elements-of-investing-easy-lessons-
for-every-investor-3rd-edition-burton-g-malkiel-44881252

The Elements Of Joint Learning And Optimization In Operations

Management Xi Chen

https://ebookbell.com/product/the-elements-of-joint-learning-and-
optimization-in-operations-management-xi-chen-46283896

The Elements Of Counseling Children And Adolescents 1st Edition

Catherine P Cookcottone

https://ebookbell.com/product/the-elements-of-counseling-children-and-
adolescents-1st-edition-catherine-p-cookcottone-46462560
The Elements Of Islam Shaykh Fadhlalla Haeri

https://ebookbell.com/product/the-elements-of-islam-shaykh-fadhlalla-
haeri-47072468

The Elements Of Style Workbook 1st Edition Michele T Poff

https://ebookbell.com/product/the-elements-of-style-workbook-1st-
edition-michele-t-poff-48923348

The Elements Of Avicennas Physics Greek Sources And Arabic Innovations

Andreas Lammer

https://ebookbell.com/product/the-elements-of-avicennas-physics-greek-
sources-and-arabic-innovations-andreas-lammer-49154096

The Elements Of Complex Analysis 3rd Edition B Choundhary

https://ebookbell.com/product/the-elements-of-complex-analysis-3rd-
edition-b-choundhary-49412282

The Elements Of Teaching James M Banner Harold C Cannon

https://ebookbell.com/product/the-elements-of-teaching-james-m-banner-
harold-c-cannon-50348428
Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
 “In truth, your Grace, I see no reason why you should not
pleasure your friends by making the attempt,” said Dr. Harford.
“Whither should I fly?” * said the Archbishop, sadly. “Should I go
to France, or any other Popish country, it would be to give some
seeming ground to that charge of Popery they have endeavoured
with so much industry, and so little reason, to fasten upon me. If I
should get into Holland I should expose myself to the insults of
those sectaries there to whom I am odious. No! I am resolved not to
think of flight, but continuing where I am, patiently expect and bear
what a good and wise Providence has appointed for me, of what
kind so ever it be.”

* These are Dr. Laud’s own words.

After that it seemed useless to urge the matter further, and indeed
the physician was doubtful whether the physical energies of the
Archbishop were sufficient to carry him through the toils and perils
of an escape. His day had passed, and having in the time of success
wielded the greatest power, not merely in the Church, but in secular
matters, he had now only the strength left to endure with patience.
Whether the past or the present was the time of his truest
greatness, was a question upon which men and angels probably held
different opinions.
Dr. Harford, being before all things a physician, and one who
absorbed himself in trying to relieve suffering of any sort, thought
mainly of the old man’s needs, suggested one or two remedies for
the ailments to which the prisoner was subject, and left him a good
deal cheered by the courtesy and consideration of his visitor.
It was late before he returned to Notting Hill Manor, and Gabriel,
refreshed by sleep and food, was eager to hear how he had
prospered.
“I should have been with you long ere this,” explained his father,
“but on leaving the Tower I found the city completely blocked by a
great concourse of people, proceeding from Mr. Stephen Marshall’s
sermon to Merchant Taylors’ Hall, where the Sheriffs and Aldermen
are giving a banquet to the Lords and Commons, the Scots
Commissioners and the Assembly of Divines. While you have been
lying ill here, a fresh plot of the King’s hath been discovered. It
seems that the very day after your escape from the Castle a letter
was despatched from Oxford which luckily fell into the hands of the
Committee of Safety.”
“What did it reveal?” asked Gabriel, eagerly.
“It revealed a plot by which Sir Basil Brooke, the well-known
papist, was to win over the City to the Royalist cause, and with it
was seized a copy of the King’s proclamation to those who supported
him, to come to what he terms a ‘Parliament’ at Oxford.”
“The plots seem endless,” said Gabriel. “Yet the King himself is no
papist. Humphrey Neal tells me that at Oxford not long since, he
interrupted the Communion Service, and expressly declared himself
a protestant.”
“Yes, very like,” said Dr. Harford; “but he intrigues with men of all
persuasions, promises everything, and holds faith with none. His
shifty dishonesty will prove his ruin. Truly, I believe that one main
cause of his failure to understand the people is that he lacks all
national feeling, and ’tis scarce to be wondered at. Himself half
Scotch, half Danish, and with a grandmother bred in France by a
French mother, why, there is absolutely nothing national about him!
The sturdy old English love of honest dealing will, however, in the
end baffle his intrigues, I think. Colonel Hutchinson has many fellow
countrymen who, rather than betray a trust, would refuse the King’s
bribe of £10,000 and a peerage. But this is overserious talk for a sick
man. I will tell you rather how, by good fortune, I came across an
old friend of my youth, Mr. John Milton. He hath returned some three
years from his tour in Italy, and as I perforce stood still in
Cheapside, where the people were burning a pile of popish trinkets
and pictures, I found myself pushed against him by the crowd.”
 “I remember him,” said old Madam Harford, “in the days before
your marriage, when he was a boy at St. Paul’s School, and truly the
most beautiful boy ever seen, I take it.”
“He keeps his comely face and long light hair yet,” said Dr.
Harford, “but hath grown sad and stern through the conduct of his
wife; she quitted him when they had but been wedded a few weeks,
and doth refuse to return.”
“Is it true, as the gossips say, that he wrote that ill-advised
pamphlet on divorce, published anonymously, which hath so
scandalised all people?”
“Ay, he wrote it in the first flush of his anger at his bride’s
desertion, and himself told me that he hath now a second edition in
the press, which will bear his name on the cover. I have some
compassion for the foolish young wife, however, for John Milton doth
not understand women. Maybe they will yet make up their quarrel,
for ’tis but a matter of lack of understanding—there hath been no
great offence on either side.”
“Had you much talk with him?”
“Yes, for he would have me go to his house in Aldersgale Street, I
having asked him if he yet had the Latin poem he wrote on the
death of Bishop Andrews. He hath also let me bring for your perusal
two manuscript poems, which seem to me so full of beauty that they
should, be published instead of lying unseen in his desk. Here is one,
Gabriel, that will delight you, for it hath the very breath of the
country about it, and will make you fancy yourself in Herefordshire
once more.”
“What of the Archbishop, sir?” asked Gabriel.
Dr. Harford told him what had passed.
“I fear,” he added, “from what Mr. Milton tells me, that the
discovery of Brooke’s Plot will make people the more determined to
proceed with the Archbishop’s impeachment. The plot, will, however,
tell favourably for the cause of freedom in this fashion, that it will
assuredly alienate many of those who have hitherto supported the
King.”
And how true this statement was, Gabriel had reason to discover
as time passed by, for the so-called “Oxford Parliament” failed
utterly, and a steady “stream of converts began to flow from Oxford
to London.”
Just at present, however, the convalescent was much more
inclined to enjoy the exquisite beauty of Milton’s “L’Allegro,” than to
vex his soul over the problems of the day, and as his father read him
the poem, he forgot war and strife and theological controversy, and
was once more transported to his beloved Herefordshire, and the
country life so dear to him.
After that first night of Dr. Harford’s arrival, Hilary’s name had not
once been mentioned between them. Gabriel’s rereserve was great;
moreover, he was not without an instinctive dread that further
questioning might disturb the relief and comparative peace he had
gained from those memorable words which had dragged him back
from the very door of death. And his father understood the silence,
and thought that it would be rash to break it. Only on the very eve
of Dr. Harford’s departure did they venture to approach the subject
which was seldom far from their thoughts.
Gabriel, now so far convalescent that he was able to sit in a great
armchair by the hearth, asked if his father would see Bishop Coke on
his return.
“Ay, I shall ride to Whitbourne and bear him the Archbishop’s
message,” said Dr. Harford. “Those two will never again meet in this
world, for Bishop Coke also grows old and infirm.”
“You will see Hilary?” said Gabriel, with an effort.
“Yes, if she is still at Whitbourne,” said the Doctor. “She is
sometimes there, and sometimes with her uncle, Dr. William Coke.”
 “I never met him,” said Gabriel. “When you see her, sir, tell her
that her message had more to do with my cure than the skill of Sir
Theodore Mayerne.”
Dr. Harford laughed.
“That is all the thanks we poor physicians get,” he said, lightly. “In
happier times, my son, when you yourself are in the profession, I’ll
recall that speech to you. Shall I tell Hilary that you wish to forsake
the Bar and to tread in my footsteps?”’
“I fear that work will not find much more favour in her eyes, than
my present work,” said Gabriel, ruefully. “She ever held that the Bar
was the only profession worthy of a gentleman. I seem fated to
displease her.”
“I should not trouble much on that score,” said the Doctor. “In
sorrow or need, or when her heart is really reached, trifles of that
sort make no difference to her, as I saw plainly enough at the time
of her mother’s death. So courage, my son! Wait and see what time
will bring forth. It seems likely that for those two young people
below, Hymen will shortly appear

In saffron robe, with taper clear,

and I yet hope, when this war is ended, that Whitbourne may be
the scene of such

Pomp, and feast, and revelry,

as now you scarce dare think on.”

 Gabriel did not reply, but a happier light dawned in his eyes, and
as he gazed into the glowing depths of the wood fire he saw visions
of a future that should make up for all the present suffering and
separation.
 CHAPTER XXVIII.
“True love’s the gift which God has given
To man alone beneath the heaven;
It is not fantasy’s hot fire,
Whose wishes, soon as granted, fly.
It liveth not in fierce desire,
With dead desire it doth not die;
It is the secret sympathy,
The silver link, the silken tie,
Which heart to heart, and mind to mind,
In body and in soul can bind.”
—Lay of the Last Minstrel.

M
eanwhile, in the withdrawing-room, Humphrey Neal was
asking Madam Harford to promote his suit with Helena.
“I will do what little I can for you, sir,” said the old lady,
who liked him and desired to see him wedded to her goddaughter.
“But first, I would bid you make sure of the maid’s own feeling in the
matter. Then, if she approves, you had best seek out her guardian,
Dr. Twisse, the Rector of Newbury.”
“Oh! is her guardian a parson?” said Humphrey with a groan. “I
shall never find favour in his eyes; he’ll be asking what view I take
of the Divine right of kings to break the law.”
“No; you will find him a liberal man, and a kind-hearted kinsman
to my god-daughter. Once assured that the marriage is for his
niece’s happiness, he will not, I think, trouble you with arguings.
Why should you not speak to Helena now, and ride to Newbury to-
morrow with my son. He could then say a word on your behalf.”
Humphrey caught at this idea, and asked where he should be
likely to find Helena.
“I left her but now in the south parlour,” said Madam Harford. And
with a smile she watched the hasty way in which Humphrey at once
quitted the room, eager to bring his wooing to a happy close.
“He is a tolerably well-assured lover,” thought the old lady. “I do
trust Nell will not prove uncertain of her own mind at the last
minute.”
Humphrey found the south parlour lighted only by the glow from
the fire; there was no sound but the soft whirr of the spinning-
wheel, and in the dim room the flax on the distaff and little Nell’s
yellow curls shone out brightly.
“You should keep blindman’s holiday,” he said, drawing up a stool
and seating himself beside her. “Pray idle for a few minutes, and talk
with me.”
“Why, sir, can I not talk and spin at the same time?” said Helena,
gaily.
“No, not when the talk is of a serious matter.”
“Is anything wrong? Is Mr. Harford worse?” asked Helena, in
alarm.
“Oh, no; he is much better, and already planning when to rejoin
Sir William Waller. You think of him, but never trouble your head
about me.”
 His sigh was too theatrical to deceive her. She laughed merrily.
“That reproach comes with an ill grace from your lips,” she
retorted. “Did I not walk with you, and talk with you, sir, this very
afternoon for an hour by the clock?”
“It will be our last walk,” said Humphrey, gloomily.
“What do you mean?” she asked, and somehow she dropped her
thread and let the wheel stand idle.
“I am going away to-morrow, with Dr. Harford,” said Humphrey,
intently watching the little girlish face, and hailing with great delight
the look of trouble that dawned in it.
“But why?” she faltered.
“It is because I love you that I go,” he said, eagerly. “Because I
must move heaven and earth to get into favour with your guardian.
Helena, tell me, could you ever wed one who, till this war ends, is
like to be a half-ruined man? I am ashamed to propose such a
marriage, but I love you with my whole heart. We are alike homeless
and forlorn. Give me the right to shield and protect you, and I will
spend my life in making you happy.”
She sat quite silent, with drooped head.
“Can you not trust one that so loves you?” pleaded Humphrey,
realising now that this little gentle maid was not, after all, to prove
an easy conquest.
She lifted her head for a minute, and looked shyly, yet searchingly
into his eyes. There was none of the fierce passion that had terrified
her in Norton’s gaze, nor was there the quiet friendliness she had
often seen in Gabriel’s hazel eyes; surely this was the love that
would satisfy her! And yet—yet—the pity of it!—could she honestly
say she loved him? All at once she hid her face and burst into tears.
 “Helena!” he cried, in dismay, kneeling beside her, “what have I
done? What have I said to grieve you?”
“Oh, I don’t know what to do!” she sobbed. “If my father were but
here!”
He drew down one of her hands, and held it in his tenderly. “Tell
me about him,” he said.
And Helena poured out all her pent-up grief, and did not draw
away her hand when now and again he kissed it.
“Tell me,” said Humphrey, “had your father still been here, do you
think he would have trusted you to me?”
“Yes,” said little Nell, with a sob. “Anyone would trust you. It was
not you that I doubted.”
“What, then, my beloved?”
“It was whether I loved you—enough.”
“Suppose,” said Humphrey, “I join Sir William Waller’s force when
Gabriel Harford returns, and then come back in a year and ask you
again. By that time you may know your own mind.”
But at this suggestion Nell had fresh light thrown on her innermost
heart.
“Oh, no,” she cried, clinging to his hand. “I could not bear that you
should go away for a year. They would kill you, as they killed my
father.”
“And you would care a little?” said Humphrey, smiling. “Perhaps,
after all, you do begin even now to love me.”
She did not reply, but she did not resist him when he clasped his
arms around her, and drawing the fair little head on to his shoulder
covered it with kisses.
 “To-morrow,” he said, “I will ride to Newbury, and if Dr. Twisse
gives his consent, who knows but he may be willing to return with
me, and himself tie the knot? For in days like these I am sure
Madam Harford will agree with the proverb, ‘Happy is the wooing
that’s not long a-doing.’”
Yet after all it was not till Humphrey Neal and Dr. Harford had
made their farewells the next morning, and had left the Manor
House to a most dreary quiet—a stillness which might be felt—that
Helena became quite sure of herself. The light of her life seemed to
have gone out, and she wondered how she had ever endured
existence at Notting Hill all through the previous autumn. The next
day her spirits sank still lower. What if Dr. Twisse would not consent
to the marriage? It was quite possible that he might consider
Humphrey Neal’s prospects too much injured by the war to make
him a desirable husband from the financial point of view.
And, indeed, this consideration was what chiefly filled the wooer
himself with anxiety as he journeyed down to Newbury, and Dr.
Harford had no little difficulty in cheering him in his depression. So
downhearted had he become when they actually reached their
destination, that the physician good-naturedly undertook to break
the ice for him, and leaving Humphrey at the inn, took the letter
from Madam Harford himself to the Rectory. He made a most
excellent ambassador, for very few could resist his charm of manner,
and his frank, clear way of stating a case. The Rector knew at once
that he was a man whose sound judgment could be trusted, and he
promised to call on them at the inn in an hour’s time to discuss the
matter with Mr. Neal.
Fortified by a good supper and by a cheery talk with Dr. Harford,
Humphrey underwent the ordeal with composure, and made a good
impression on Helena’s guardian. He found also, to his amusement,
that the mere fact that Dr. Twisse was a parson told after all in his
favour. For as the good man informed them, he had only that
morning been pondering over the church register, and had found
that it furnished sad food for reflection. The burials were many, but
the marriages had been few indeed since the war broke out.
“In truth, if the miserable strife goes on much longer, there will be
no men left in the country,” he said, with a sigh. “There is nothing
like a deadly war for the utter destruction of home life and
happiness.”
“Little Mistress Helena hath already suffered cruelly through the
war,” said Dr. Harford. “And to see her happily wedded to one able to
protect her and to safeguard her property would greatly please my
mother.”
Then the opinion of Sir Robert Neal was quoted as to the prospect
of recovering the Oxfordshire property, and before long Dr. Twisse
had consented to the marriage, and had agreed to return to London
with Humphrey Neal that he might discuss arrangements with
Helena and her godmother.
 CHAPTER XXIX.
“He is a friend, who treated as a foe,
Now even more friendly than before doth show;
Who to his brother still remains a shield,
Although a sword for him his brother wield;
Who of the very stones against him cast,
Builds friendship’s altar higher and more fast.”
—Trench.

H
aving left this matter happily settled, Dr. Harford rode back to
Herefordshire, finding sad evidence on every hand of the
truth of the Rector’s words, for though during the winter
there was not so much fighting, the distress of the country people
was even greater owing to the depredations of the soldiers on both
sides, and the enforced contributions to maintain them in winter
quarters.
It was on a clear, bright day, early in February, that the Doctor,
having dined at the house of a friend in Ledbury, rode along the
frozen lane which led to Bosbury Vicarage, thinking he would at least
inquire whether Hilary had returned from Whitbourne. The pretty
village street was deep in snow, and the black and white houses
with icicles fringing their dark eaves looked more picturesque than
ever. Rime glittered on the trees in the churchyard, and frosted the
ivy on the square brown tower of the church, while the steps round
the cross, where long ago Gabriel and Hilary had rested, were thickly
covered with a white, wintry carpet. By contrast the snug sitting-
room in the Vicarage, with its blazing fire of logs, looked all the more
warm and comfortable, and the Vicar’s hearty welcome left nothing
to be desired.
He was busy, as usual, with some of his beloved antiquities, and a
sound of girlish laughter arrested the Doctor’s attention as he was
ushered into the room.
Hilary had returned and had brought with her, for a few days’ visit,
her friend, Frances Hopton, of Canon Frome. The two girls sitting on
an oak settle by the hearth made so fair a picture that Dr. Harford
longed to transport Gabriel from his sick-room at the Manor to the
Vicarage, while the Vicar, never dreaming that there had been aught
but a boy and girl friendship between Gabriel and Hilary, inquired
most minutely after his welfare.
“I was right glad to hear of his escape from Oxford, though, as
you know, I hold aloof from taking any part in our unhappy divisions.
But ’tis grievous to me to think of one little older than Hilary cooped
up in so cruel a prison.”
“He hardly escaped with his life, sir,” replied the Doctor, “for the
fever had carried off many of the prisoners, and he was worn out
with trying to nurse the sick, and into the bargain was half starved;
but, thanks to Sir Theodore Mayerne, he hath been brought back
from the very gates of death. Gabriel himself ascribes the cure to
your kindly message,” he added, glancing at Hilary, “and in truth I
think it was the pleasure of hearing your words that recalled him
when we thought him sinking fast.”
He saw that he was not likely to have any chance of speaking to
her alone, and was obliged to risk this allusion.
The girl coloured, but kept her countenance marvellously.
“I am right glad he hath recovered,” she said, in an even,
carefully-controlled voice. “Hath he rejoined Sir William Waller?”
 “Not yet,” said the Doctor, admiring her self-command, yet longing
to know what her thoughts really were. “He hopes to be strong
enough to return next month, and, till then, remains at Notting Hill.”
Just then the sound of loud and angry voices in the entrance lobby
startled them all, and the next minute the door was opened by Mrs.
Durdle, who was installed as housekeeper at the Vicarage.
“Oh, sir,” she exclaimed, “here’s Zachary the clerk, beside himself,
with Peter Waghorn, and I do think, sir, they’ll soon come to blows.”
“What’s amiss?” said the Vicar, setting his college cap straight and
hastily rising from his elbow-chair. “I believe, sir, you know this man
Waghorn,” he added, glancing at the Doctor, who followed him out
of the room, thinking that perhaps he might help to pacify the
fanatic.
“That hateful Waghorn gives my uncle no peace,” said Hilary,
indignantly. “Let us come and hear what the dispute is about,
Frances.”
Now, if there was a man upon earth whom the girl cordially
detested it was this village wood-carver, for she had an instinctive
consciousness that he was their bitter enemy. Moreover, her earliest
dispute with Gabriel after their betrothal had been caused by him, as
well as the bitterness of their last interview in the parvise porch at
Hereford, an interview which she never recalled without pangs of
remorse.
“Hold your peace, Zachary,” said the Vicar, “an you rail at the man
like that I can understand nothing. What is the dispute betwixt
yourself and the clerk, Waghorn?”
“I have no dispute with him,” said Waghorn. “I did but cast a
stone at the idolatrous painted window in the church, when Zachary
fell upon me with railing and abuse and haled me to your presence.”
“You have broken the east window!” exclaimed the Vicar, in great
distress. “The only bit of old glass we have in the church! Man! how
could you do it?”
“The Parliament hath given orders for the destruction of all
idolatrous and popish windows,” said Waghorn, his stern, square-set
face utterly unmoved by the Vicar’s distress.
“How can you pretend to see aught popish or idolatrous in a
window that represented Michael, the archangel, vanquishing the
devil?” said the Vicar, despairingly. “Were Popes of Rome in
existence then? And as to idolatry, do you think so ill of your
neighbours as to fancy they would bow down to a window?”
“If they don’t at Bosbury, they do at Hereford; there’s plenty of
altar-ducking there, thanks to Archbishop Laud.”
“Have I not set my face against all such practices?” said the Vicar.
“You know right well that sooner than cause offence to one of
Christ’s flock I would willingly give up even ceremonies and uses that
I personally like. Yet you deliberately destroy a beautiful and
inoffensive window that we can never replace; such colours can,
alas! no longer be made, the art is lost.”
“Thank the Lord for that,” said Waghorn, fervently. “Just and holy
are all His works.”
“Oh!” ejaculated the poor Vicar, intensely exasperated; and,
turning aside, he paced the lobby in deep distress.
“In truth, Waghorn,” said Dr. Harford, “one can scarce say that
your works are just and holy. ’Tis true that Parliament hath very
rightly ordered the destruction of some windows wherein
blasphemous representations of sacred mysteries gave just offence.
But too many folk destroy recklessly; why did you object to the
window?”
“’Twas flat against the Second Commandment,” said Waghorn,
doggedly, “which forbids representation of anything in heaven above
or the earth beneath. The archangel’s above and the devil’s below,
and I did well to shatter their unlawful likenesses.”
 “The Commandment forbids bowing down to things that are
seen,” said the Doctor. “But, as the Vicar reminds you, no one here
thought of doing any such thing. Moreover, Waghorn, there is also
an eighth commandment, and I see not why you should break that
by the deliberate robbery of a glass window. Next Sunday you will
have the villagers complaining of a cold church.”
“I’ll put in good honest white glass at my own charge,” said
Waghorn, and at that the Vicar, suddenly perceiving the humour of
the words, gave something between a sob and a chuckle.
“But you would be well advised, sir,” resumed the wood-carver, “to
remove those popish saints out of the chancel, for I do sorely long
to dash their pates off with hammer and axe.”
“Heaven forefend!” said the Vicar. “Why man, they are no popish
saints, but the worthy ancestors of Dr. Bridstock Harford; what
possible objection can you have to their monuments?”
“And, moreover, Waghorn,” said the Doctor, “Parliament hath
ordered that all the monuments of the dead be unmolested and
treated with respect.”
“I like not such representations,” said Waghorn. “But being your
ancestors, Doctor, I’ll not molest them, for you were once good to
my father.”
“Ah! it comes back to that,” said the Vicar with a sigh. “We do but
reap to-day in these frenzied outbreaks of Puritanic zeal the harvest
of the far worse cruelties of the past. I mourn over a shattered
window, but this poor fellow mourns a father cruelly done to death. I
don’t forget, Waghorn, how greatly you have suffered in the past,
but for God’s sake, man, let us try to dwell in peace together.”
“There will be no peace in this land till the high places are cast
down and the images utterly destroyed,” said Waghorn. “How can
there be peace while corner-creepers still entice our countrymen to
Rome? Yea, the wrath of the Almighty will abide on us until we have
brought Canterbury to a just and righteous doom.”
“Come, Waghorn,” said the physician, laying his hand on the
fanatic’s shoulder, “I also am a Puritan, but we shall serve the good
cause but ill if fierce zeal overpowers Christian love and forgiveness.”
For a minute a gentler expression dawned in the stern face.
Waghorn turned to go.
Nevertheless, he shook his head dubiously over Dr. Harford’s
words.
“I’ll not deny that you’re a Christian, sir,” he muttered; “but you’re
half-hearted, one that calls evil good and good evil, a moderate,
betwixt-and-between believer, and Scripture tells us the fate of the
lukewarm. As for me and my house we will destroy and utterly root
out the accursed thing. And to you, sir,” turning severely to the Vicar,
“with your offers of peace and friendliness, I say in the words of the
prophet of old, there is no peace to the wicked. Therefore, prepare
yourself for trouble.”
With that he stalked out of the house, and the Vicar returned to
the hearth meditating sadly over what had passed. Yet there was, in
spite of his sadness, a humorous twinkle in his eye as he glanced at
the physician.
“Waghorn doesn’t mince matters, does he? There is a directness
in his attack which, like his stone-throwing, shows great vigour.”
“How dare he call you wicked, Uncle!” said Hilary, angrily.
“My dear, we acknowledge ourselves miserable offenders day by
day with perfect truth,” said the Vicar. “But I confess he seemed to
think more of my trespasses than of his own—a snare of the evil one
too apt to entrap all of us. I think, sir, if you will excuse me, I will go
across and see what the extent of the damage is.”
Dr. Harford begged to accompany him, and crossing the garden
and the churchyard, they entered the beautiful old church, followed
by the two girls.
At that time the east wall was pierced by three Early English
windows. The side lights being filled with what Waghorn called
“good honest white glass” remained intact, but the central light with
its matchless stained glass and rich jewel-like colouring was shivered
into a hundred pieces, while the icy wind blew drearily into the
building.
The Vicar’s eyes grew dim, the loveliness of the old twelfth
century church had been one of the joys of his life, but he spoke not
a word, only stooped down quietly and began carefully to gather up
the broken fragments from the chancel floor.
“You will cut yourself, sir,” said Hilary, gently. “And of what use are
these broken bits?”
“Nay, I’ll gather them up,” he said, sturdily, “and in happier times,
maybe, someone will piece them together; the picture is lost, but
the colours are fadeless.”
“Peter Waghorn little understood how much pain his stone-
throwing would give,” said Dr. Harford. “I think he was blindly feeling
after the truth which unites all who side with us, and is the pivot of
Puritanism—that the relationship betwixt God and man is direct, and
that no human ceremony, no glory of art, must ever stand between
as a barrier.”
“Yet you do not deem all such things as necessarily barriers?” said
the Vicar.
“Not when carefully safeguarded by a true and inward religion,”
said the Doctor. “Indeed, I have learnt that through nature God doth
oft reveal Himself, just as you have found that in His wonderful
works of old, and in the beauty of this place, He may teach us of His
ways. ’Twas but a few days since that I read words by my friend
John Milton the schoolmaster, a noteworthy Puritan pamphleteer, as
all will admit. Yet he wrote right lovingly of:
 ‘The high-embowèd roof,
With antique pillars massy proof,
And storied windows richly dight
Casting a dim religious light.’”

“Ay, and now I think of it,” said the Vicar, “our good neighbour, Mr.
Silas Taylor, a Puritan himself, but one that hath a regard for all that
is beautiful or of great antiquity, will sympathise with us as you do,
sir. After all, ’tis, in the main, lack of education that drives on such
fellows as Waghorn—the man is conscientious, but his conscience is
untrained—we must have patience.”
“Yet Gabriel would agree with his harsh words about the
Archbishop,” said Hilary, when for a minute she found herself alone
with Dr. Harford, her uncle lingering to lock up the church.
“Nay, there you wrong him,” said the Physician, quietly.
“He told me that in prison he had lost all his rancorous hatred
towards one who was also a prisoner. More and more we both tend
to the Independents, who desire the nearest approach to religious
toleration that is at present compatible with the safety of the
country.”
“I fear you will not tolerate us,” said the Vicar, joining them as
they re-entered the house.
“The Presbyterians certainly will not; and, indeed, I think that
Cromwell himself, who is by far the greatest soul now living, would
deem it impracticable to have in power again those ecclesiastics who
have truckled slavishly to the Court and laid an unbearable yoke on
the consciences of Englishmen. Were all prelates like the Bishop of
Hereford, and all parsons like yourself, sir, a reconciliation would be
easy enough; but as it is, I fear Waghorn is right in prophesying
trouble.”
Then he told them of his visit to the Tower, and Hilary’s face grew
tender and wistful as she learnt of the proposals for the Archbishop’s
flight.
After all, was not her Puritan lover one who merited deep respect?
However much they differed, did she not in her heart of hearts still
love him?
“And if I do, I’ll never, never admit it,” she reflected. “He can go
wed some strait-laced, prim, Puritan lady, and I will sing ‘God save
King Charles,’ and die a maid.”
As this grey future vision rose before her the haughty brown head
drooped a little, and the dark eyes were soft and sad as she made
her farewells to the physician.
“I am glad to have seen you,” he said, saluting her in his usual
fashion. “Perhaps you, with your womanly grace and sympathy, will
be able to win Peter Waghorn from his uncharitableness.”
Dr. Harford, like the “generous Christian” sung by the poet
Quarles, was blest with the necessary “ounce of serpent” to flavour
his “pound of dove.” The words of appreciation instantly appealed to
Hilary, and actually called up for a time those very qualities which
were too apt to lie dormant in her heart.
“I will try to feel more kindly to him,” she said; “and when you
write to Gabriel, pray tell him how glad I am that he hath
recovered.”
 CHAPTER XXX.
“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.

H
ilary 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 scarce safe for
you to be abroad in times like these.”
“Why, Zachary,” she replied, with a smile, “I do but go to the Hill
Farm, and who is like to molest me?”
 “They say the Parliament soldiers never misuse women,” said
Zachary. “But I wish the whole plaguey lot of soldiers were out of
Herefordshire, whether they be Cavaliers or Roundheads. There’s
sore news from Stoke Edith, they tell me.”
“What is that?” said Hilary, anxiously. “Have Massey’s soldiers
molested Dr. Rogers?”
“Well, mistress, they set out for Ledbury with no good will to him,
for, as you know, he has ever been severe to the Puritans, and I
reekon they thought their turn had come. But, as ill-luek would have
it, close by the wall at Stoke Edith they came upon an old parson
and, belike, took him for Dr. Rogers.”
“Well?” said Hilary, anxiously, as the man hesitated. “Did they
harm him?”
“It was old Parson Pralph walking back from Hereford to his
Vicarage at Tarrington.”
“I remember him, an old man of more than four-score years,” said
Hilary. “He had white hair and a long white beard.”
“That’s the man,” said Zachary, gloomily. “He’d been Vicar of
Tarrington over forty year. Well, one of Massey’s soldiers stopped
him, saying, ‘Who art thou for?’ On whieh he honestly answered,
‘For God and the King,’ and the soldier without more ado raised his
pistol and shot him dead.”
Hilary turned pale, the same sick horror that she had felt at Canon
Frome on hearing of Colonel Woodhouse’s barbarous conduct at
Hopton Castle overpowered her again, and as she walked on slowly
to the Hill Farm her eyes were dim with tears.
The summer brought them the news of the King’s defeat at
Marston Moor, but the more distant hostilities really affected them
less than the smaller troubles in their own near neighbourhood.
 In the autumn of 1644 there was once more grievous trouble at
Canon Frome, for, notwithstanding the protection of the King’s letter,
the Manor was attacked by a party of Royalists, who insisted on
converting the house into a garrison.
Sir Richard Hopton resisted this intolerable invasion of his rights,
but superior force triumphed, and the poor old knight was seized
and cast into prison, while the Manor was at once garrisoned by a
force whieh proved the scourge of the neighbourhood.
As the luckless farmers remarked, “God had sent them good
harvests of hay and corn, but what was the use when they had but
the labour of mowing and reaping?”
The crops had been safely gathered in, but the Canon Frome
garrison plundered the farms, and if any man was bold enough to
demand compensation, or to resist the seizure of his goods—well, he
found that silent acquiescence would have been more prudent.
The beautiful county, a very Garden of Eden for fertility and
loveliness, became a hell upon earth, and the pathetic loyalty of the
people to a wholly unworthy monarch was speedily changed to
active and determined resistance. The Herefordshire folk cared little
for the dispute between King and Parliament, but under the
intolerable wrongs they suffered they now began to band
themselves together into a neutral party, armed only for the
protection of their homes.
Hilary’s chief personal loss at this time was the companionship of
Frances Hopton, from whom she had not even the poor consolation
of a parting visit. A letter received from her soon after the
conversion of the Manor into a garrison explained what had passed.
It ran as follows:
“My dear Hilary,—You have ere this, I know, heard the ill news of
my father’s arrest. He lies once more in gaol, and indeed I can well-
nigh rejoice in his absence, for he would be heartbroken could he
see the havoc the Royalist soldiers are making here. Many of the
outhouses are burnt down, and they ruthlessly destroy and waste
the property in a fashion that it is piteous to behold. I am bound to
say, however, that the Governor is a most pleasant and courteous
gentleman, with so genial a manner that one might think all this
mischief carried out by his orders was but a pastime amid toys, and
not the wicked destruction of an Englishman’s house, which we were
wont to think his own and free from all assaults by outsiders. The
Governor has most considerately urged my mother to retain the
rooms in the right wing for our private use, and since she is ailing
and unfit to travel she remains here with one of my brothers and
three of the servants. But she thinks I am best away, therefore I am
to be sent with my sister to Garnons to stay with Mr. and Mrs. Geers,
you remember that Mr. Geers wedded recently Mistress Eliza Acton,
goddaughter to your Hereford friend, Mrs. Joyce Jefferies. Here
came a long pause in my letter, for who should come into the ante-
room where I am writing but the Governor. He made many pretty
speeches on hearing that I was to leave home. Maybe this is the
reason my brother doth not like him so well as we womenfolk do; I
often notice that my father and the boys particularly detest these
evil, pleasant-spoken gentlemen who know how to turn a neat
compliment. I forgot to tell you that the Governor—his name is
Colonel Norton—is a remarkably handsome man, very tall, and with
bright laughing eyes and auburn love-locks. Pray tell the vicar that I
will question Mr. Geers as to the antiquities in the neighbourhood of
Garnons, and when these troubles be ended seek to bring him some
treasures for his collection.—I rest, your affectionate friend,
“Frances Hopton.”
“My youngest brother is now with Governor Massey, and since he
is kept so actively at work against various regiments of the Royalists
now scattered over the country to seek winter quarters, you may
belike see him. Governor Massey doth seem much to affect the
neighbourhood of Ledbury, and since his great victory near by at
Redmarley last August, he will doubtless hold it in yet more loving
remembrance. They tell me that Colonel Edward Harley did there get
wounded, and that though he hath now recovered the bullet is yet in
him.”
Hilary folded the letter sadly.
Everything seemed to be passing away from her, and she began
faintly to understand how terrible a condition England was in.
Moreover, the closing in of the short autumn days, and the near
approach of the hard winter, depressed her. She wondered how she
should ever endure the long nights with their dreadful sense of
insecurity; she shuddered at the remembrance of the horrible tales
she had heard from the village folk of the wickedness and violence
of Prince Maurice’s troops, and she remembered with horror the fate
of the Vicar of Tarrington. If one of Massey’s men had shown such
brutality to him, what guarantee had she that the Viear of Bosbury
would fare any better?
Sitting by the hearth in the fast-gathering twilight, an unusual stir
in the village street suddenly attracted her attention; there was a
steady, ominous tramp of many feet, which could not be mistaken,
then the hoarse shout of an officer, “Plait!”
She sprang up and ran to the study, where the Vicar sat at a table
strewn with fossils, deeply absorbed in the contemplation of an
ammonite.
“Sir!” she said, “do you not hear that there are soldiers in the
village?”
“Look what a fine specimen Mr. Bartley hath to-day brought me
for the collection,” said Dr. Coke, looking up at her with a happy light
in his eyes. “’Tis the finest I have ever seen.”
“Yes, yes,” said Hilary, trying to be patient; “but, uncle, there are
soldiers halting in the village.”
She had at last brought him back from pre-historic times to the
seventeenth century. He pushed back his chair and, putting on his
college cap, rose to his feet.
 “Now I think of it,” he said, “I met a couple of scouts when I was
out—Massey’s men, judging by their ribbons.”
“Oh! don’t go then; you must not go, sir, if they are Massey’s
men,” she said in terror.
“Why, yes, child, of course I must go,” he said, patting her
shoulder caressingly. “’Tis my duty to try and keep the peace betwixt
the soldiers and the village folk; I only trust they do not mean to
stay here long. Let supper be made ready, for whether they be
friends or foes we are bound by holy writ to feed them if they
hunger. I’ll warrant, though, that you’d like to pepper the broth till it
choked them!”
And with a laugh he went out, his eyes twinkling with humour at
the thought of pretty Hilary with her vehement hatred of
Parliamentarians getting ready the best evening meal that the house
could provide.
Welcome to our website – the perfect destination for book lovers and
knowledge seekers. We believe that every book holds a new world,
offering opportunities for learning, discovery, and personal growth.
That’s why we are dedicated to bringing you a diverse collection of
books, ranging from classic literature and specialized publications to
self-development guides and children's books.

More than just a book-buying platform, we strive to be a bridge

connecting you with timeless cultural and intellectual values. With an
elegant, user-friendly interface and a smart search system, you can
quickly find the books that best suit your interests. Additionally,
our special promotions and home delivery services help you save time
and fully enjoy the joy of reading.

Join us on a journey of knowledge exploration, passion nurturing, and

personal growth every day!

ebookbell.com