“Who like an April morn appears,

Sunshine and rain, hopes clouded o’er with fears,

Pleased and displeased by starts, in passion warm,

In reason weak.”

—Churchill.


Now, whether it was due to the kitchen fire or to the war fever, it would be hard to say, but Mrs. Durdle on that cool September morning gasped with heat, and as she digested the news of the Powick fight and put her pastry into the oven, she hailed with relief any excuse for leaving her domain.

“I’ll see how they young folk be getting on with the apricots,” she said to herself, wiping her hot face and setting her cap straight. “There’ll be more lommaking than stoning, an I’m not mistaken. And, Lord love ’em! they do make a fine, handsome couple, nobody can’t deny it.”

She had just bustled out into the passage when, to her astonishment, she saw Gabriel Harford closing the door of the still-room behind him, with a face which had suddenly lost all its boyishness. Haggard and pale, with wide eyes that seemed to see nothing of his surroundings, he strode by the housekeeper and passed rapidly down the garden path.

Mrs. Durdle stood quite still, staring after him.

“Lack-a-day!” she cried. “Now what should that bode? He passed me by and never so much as saw me—me that am of a pertly presence, and was never overlooked before in all my born days. Save us! But’tis clear as day they have had their first quarrel—that is, their first lovers’ quarrel, for they was always at it like hammer and tongs as children, bless ’em, though their greatest punishment was to be apart.”

The next question was—who should make the peace? They were now past the days of cuffing and scolding; indeed, Durdle fairly quaked at the thought of addressing either of them, and feeling that discretion was the better part of valour, she stole on tip-toe to the still-room door, and made careful and noiseless preparation to look through the keyhole. First, she hitched up her gown, then, supporting herself by the doorpost, she slowly lowered her massive form on to one knee and, crouching forward, applied a sharp, twinkling, little grey eye to the keyhole.

Alas! the apricots were pushed aside, and Hilary, with her face hidden, was sobbing in that silent, restrained fashion which always alarmed the housekeeper.

To get up from her crouching posture without making a sound was even harder than the descent had proved. However, Durdle valiantly gripped both doorposts, and with a tremendous effort heaved herself on to her feet, and tiptoed across the hall to the dining-room.

“Oh, ma’am! do pray come to Mistress Hilary,” she exclaimed, addressing poor Mrs. Unett in the most startling fashion. “She is crying her heart out alone, and Mr. Gabriel he’s gone off with a face the colour of a monument and eyes as big as egg-cups, and I am certain sure that they have had a desperate quarrel.”

“Say nothing to anybody else, Durdle,” said Mrs. Unett, hurriedly rising, and making her way with an anxious face to the still-room.

Hilary sprang to her feet as the door opened, and became engrossed in the withered rose petals on the window-sill.

“When shall we make the pot pourri, ma’am?” she said with averted face.

But Mrs. Unett was not to be deceived or repulsed. She put her arm about the girl, and gently turned the tear-stained face to her own, kissing her daughter without a word.

That was more than Hilary’s pride could withstand, she sank down on her knees and clung to her mother, sobbing anew.

“It’s all over,” she said, piteously; “I have been quite—quite deceived. Oh, mother! he has sided with the Parliament.”

“We might have expected it, after all,” said Mrs. Unett; “for his father hath ever inclined to that side, yet I never thought—never dreamt that if it actually came to war he could be disloyal.”

“Oh, he has some fine arguing about being faithful to the Great Charter,” said Hilary, bitterly. “But I told him I would never love a rebel—and I bid him choose between me and the country.”

“And he?” said Mrs. Unett.

“He chose the country, and I said I would see him no more,” said Hilary, with a rush of tears.

Little by little Mrs. Unett gathered most of what had passed, and her kindly heart was rent with conflicting feelings. After all, Gabriel had spoken truly when he said their love could not really be touched by any matters of State; Hilary was too young to understand the full truth of that thought. And yet, in spite of all, how could the Bishop give her in marriage to one agreeing with those who had just turned the Bishops out of the House of Lords?

“If only I had some man to counsel me,” thought poor Mrs. Unett. “But I can’t consult Dr. Harford, and the Dean must not know of the betrothal. I must go to Whitbourne and get my father’s advice—how is a lonely woman to judge in so difficult a matter?”

“Hilary,” she said, in a tone of relief. “We will drive over this very day to Whitbourne and consult your grandfather. Dry your eyes, child; he will be sure to tell us what it is right to do.”

Now Hilary was quite without her mother’s tendency to consult a man in every difficulty, nevertheless she hailed with no small satisfaction this notion of going to Whitbourne, for Whitbourne was twenty-three miles from Hereford, and with every inch she felt that she would be stronger to harden her heart against Gabriel. Nothing would have induced her to confess this thought to anybody, but deep down in her own consciousness she was aware of a great dread. If she met Gabriel, and if again he were to give her that look of reproachful love she feared he might break down her power of resistance.

There was a certain comfort, moreover, in the hurried preparations for departure; they would inevitably stay for a few days, for a journey over the proverbially bad roads of Herefordshire was not by any to be taken in hand lightly or unadvisedly, but required a little breathing time in which fragile ladies of Mrs. Unett’s constitution might recover from the severe shaking undergone.

By the time the coach was at the door Hilary had contrived to wash away all traces of her tears, and only a very careful observer would have noticed that her smile was forced, and that her laugh did not ring true.

Great rejoicings were going on in the city, and the cheers of the crowd excited her, until suddenly the shouting began to form itself into actual words, and a man who had been loyally drinking himself drunk in honour of the victory of Powick Bridge, hung on to the coach door, wildly waving his hat and bawling at the top of his voice, “God save King Charles, and hang up the Roundheads!”

Hilary, in deep disgust, promptly drew the leathern curtain across the window, but though she could thus shut out the hideous leering face of the pseudo-patriot, she could not banish his words, which persistently rang in her ears as the coach lumbered out through Byster’s Gate and along the rough road to Whitbourne; nor could she shut out the mental picture which the words conjured up, the picture of Gabriel Harford with a rope about his neck.

“I wish I had not used the term ‘Roundhead’ this morning; ’tis only fit for such people as that drunken wretch in Bye-street,” she thought. And, having once begun to see something amiss in her words, she continued the salutary, but depressing, occupation all through the drive, ending with the humiliating perception that she had defended the cause she believed to be right in the wrong way, and that although nothing would induce her to be betrothed to a rebel, she had certainly by her harshness done much to confirm him in his convictions.

It was quite dusk when they arrived at the Bishop’s country residence, the evening air had grown cold, and the two ladies, stiff and weary with their drive, were glad to see the lights within the pretty gabled house, and the door flung wide to welcome them. The Bishop’s surprise and pleasure at their unexpected arrival touched Hilary, who was always at her best when with her grandfather, and Mrs. Unett’s explanation that she had come to talk over a family matter, having been made, the Bishop, possibly guessing from his grandchild’s face what the “family matter” was, deferred the talk till the morning.

They supped quietly with Bishop Coke and his chaplain, and the name of Harford was never once mentioned, but the talk turned inevitably to the news of Powick Fight, until the Bishop, with a sigh, used the very same words which Gabriel had used in the morning as to hoping that all would be swiftly decided by one great battle. Then, rising from table, he led the way to the hall, where the household assembled for evening prayers, read by the chaplain, after which Hilary, in a much softened mood, was glad to go to bed.

She woke the next morning with an aching head and a sore heart, wondering whether every future awakening would be so full of misery and desolation.

“It shall not be!” she determined, vigorously; “I will not allow my life to be spoilt in that fashion.” And springing out of bed she dressed rapidly, hurried through her prayers—because she found that on her knees tears were somehow apt to come into her eyes—and without waiting for food hastened out of the house.

The fresh morning air was a relief, and she hailed with joy the sight of a visitor riding up the approach. On nearer view she recognised him as Dr. Rogers, one of the Cathedral canons and rector of Stoke Edith.

“Why, Mistress Hilary!” he exclaimed, “I had not thought to find you here; you are a sight to cheer a downhearted man on a sad morn.”

“But we had good news, sir, yesterday, of the victory,” said Hilary. “They brought us the news at Hereford.”

“Ay, my dear, but I come from Worcester with yet later news of defeat. My Lord Essex, who is in command of the rebel army, entered Worcester and has taken possession of the city. With my own eyes I saw his vile troops quartered in the cathedral; the knaves had no sort of reverence, and have stabled their horses in the cloisters. But there! I could not offend your ear by describing the scene. Would that I had the hanging of them! They should have but short shrift!”

The worthy canon was an ardent—even a bitter—Royalist, and his burning words added fuel to the fire already kindled in Hilary’s heart. She listened eagerly to all he had to tell of the occupation of Worcester, and received passively and contentedly the exaggerated doctrine of the unquestioning obedience which was the sole duty of the subject, and the supreme, divinely-given authority which was the prerogative of the King—the King who, according to Dr. Rogers could do no wrong.
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