“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.


Having 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 sai............