“Trouthe is the heighest thing that men may kepe.”

—Chaucer.

“Truth is God’s child, and the fortunes of truth are God’s care as well

as ours.”

—Bishop Phillips Brooks.

The little room in the church tower had become curiously dear to Gabriel. Its bare walls, its bell ropes, its dusty rafters and the narrow window half veiled by ivy, were associated with those happy days when life and health gradually returned, and Hilary, with all her old winsomeness, and with that new and half-wistful humility which changed her from a self-willed child to a noble woman, grew hourly more precious to him.

One day, however, nearly six weeks after the Battle of. Ledbury, he noticed how thin her hands were growing, and, looking more searchingly into her face, thought less of its beauty and more of the dark shadows round her eyes.

“You are pale and weary, dear heart,” he said, caressing the hand that had done so much for him. “These long weeks have overtaxed you.”

“No, no; I shall be well enough when you are quite safe,” said Hilary, her voice faltering. “But—don’t laugh at me, Gabriel!—I feel as if you would be called on to suffer for my sin.”

“Your sin?” he questioned.

“’Tis no idle superstition,” she said, her eyes filling, “’tis an instinct that my punishment will come that way.”

“But what sin? That of playing good Samaritan to a rebel?” said Gabriel, smiling.

“I mean the lie that I told in the orchard,” she said, drooping her head.

“That was as much my fault as yours,” said Gabriel, tenderly. “I moved, and that affrighted you; but to listen to that villain was more than I could endure.”

“Oh, you’ll never know what it was to feel when you were carried here that, but for my cowardice, the duel need never have been fought,” said Hilary. “Had I only kept silence, Waghorn would have been present, and would at least have saved me from Colonel Norton.”

“You were not cowardly!” he protested.

“Yes; to lie is cowardly,” she said. “And it is the one thing I thought I never could do.”

“Dearest,” he said, drawing her nearer to him, “you are not the first who in a moment of peril has lost faith. Though silence would have been best, who would dare to judge you?”

“And yet silence might often betray—might seem to give consent,” she said, musingly.

“God has charge of consequences,” he said, quietly. “And I suppose we always do amiss when we take into human hands the guidance that belongs to Him alone.”

“You mean that at all costs we must be true?”

“Yes, dear heart. But a truce to disputations.”

“You and I have done with disputes,” she said, tenderley. “Love and danger and the shadow of death have lifted us above our old arguings.”

“We are somewhat nearer than the day you suggested that we might be friendly foes,” said Gabriel, putting his arm round her.

She laughed softly.

“The day when Mistress Helena roused my jealousy! No; you shall be a friendly foe to every honourable Royalist, but to me you are—all the world!

“Dearest, then must I share your troubles, but I fear you are keeping them back from me. Zachary tells me the Vicarage hath been searched!”

“Yes, the Governor of Canon Frome sent to search for you, but that was no great matter. He did not dare to come himself.”

“There is something else, then, that makes you anxious. What is it?”

“Only that on Saturday an order came from the High Sheriff for my uncle to go to-day to Hereford and sign Prince Rupert’s Protestation. Of course he refuses to go, but I fear it may lead to trouble.”

“I trust not,” said Gabriel, gravely. “We seem so nearly through our difficulties. To-morrow night my father and mother coming, and on Wednesday our marriage and escape. By-the-bye, what of Waghorn?”

“He has been quite quiet since the Directory was adopted. My uncle cannot make him out.”

Even as they spoke of him, Peter Waghorn, in the tiled cottage by the churchyard, was musing over the Vicar’s words the last time he had heard him preach. Against his will the man had been impressed by the way in which Dr. Coke had behaved during the past few weeks under great provocation; and now as he sat carving the delicate pattern of vine leaves on the cupboard door, he remembered how on the previous day the Vicar had made his carving into a parable, and had shown in the sermon that just as no two branches, and even no two leaves were precisely alike, yet all grew from the parent vine, so it was with Christians.

This was an astonishing notion to Waghorn; he doubted whether it was sound doctrine, yet it haunted him curiously. As he sat brooding over it that Monday afternoon, there came a peremptory knock, and his door was flung open by no less a person than the Governor of Canon Frome.

Norton was now quite recovered, and evidently in a very bad humour; the wood-carver noticed that the lines of cruelty about his mouth were much more clearly marked.

“Well, scarecrow,” he observed, flinging himself into a chair. “You have news, I hope, at last of Captain Harford.”

“No news, sir,” said Waghorn. “I have watched the Vicarage and have made close inquiry in the village, but can learn naught.”

“Yet I am certain he can’t be far,” said Norton. “And find him I will. If only you’d a head on your shoulders you would have trapped him long ago.”

“I have done my best, sir,” said Waghorn.

“I greatly doubt it,” sneered the Colonel. “But I have every intention of spurring you on to the work. Find out Captain Harford’s whereabouts, and you may ask what you will of me. Fail, and some fine night you mustn’t be surprised to find your house too hot to hold you. These little accidents will happen in war time.”

And with a mocking laugh he quitted the cottage, leaving Waghorn to uneasy thoughts.

The threat about the house had touched him to the quick, for if there was one thing on earth that he prized, it was this old home in which his father had died.

“I must bestir myself,” he reflected. “That malapert young captain shall not escape. Maybe Zachary can help me. I will ply him with cider this evening and worm out his secrets.”

Now, through all those weeks the old sexton had been most discreet, but unfortunately he was one of those who as success draws nigh grow less cautious. Having baffled Colonel Norton and Waghorn for nearly six weeks, it seemed unlikely that failure should now overwhelm him.

He, therefore, accepted the wood carver’s invitation to drink at the “Bell,” and Waghorn plied him with cider so lavishly that he became most cheerful and communicative.

“There’s no drink in the world like cider,” he maintained, smiling benevolently. “You can’t take it too late nor begin it too early. Did I ever tell you the riddle that the painter gave me—him as did Mistress Hilary’s portrait? ‘What’s the difference,’ says he, ‘betwixt a tankard o’ morning cider and a pig’s tail?’ Give it up?”

Waghorn nodded.

“The pig’s tail’s twirly, and the morning cider ain’t too early,” said the sexton, laughing boisterously.

“Talking of Mistress Hilary,” said Waghorn, “I understand that she’s betrothed to Captain Harford. When is the marriage to be?”

“Are you looking to be bidden as a wedding guest?” chuckled Zachary. “I thought you bore neither o’ them any goodwill.”

“Truth to tell I thought the Captain was dead,” observed Waghorn.

Zachary emptied his tankard and laughed foolishly.

“I’ve not had the digging of his grave, and yet he ain’t far from the grave,” he said, with the air of one who could say more if he would.

“Zachary!” called the landlord. “You’re wanted at the Vicarage, there’s the housekeeper looking for you.”

“These women! these women! they never can let a man have a minute’s peace,” growled the sexton. “Well, goodnight to you, Peter, good-night. We’ve had a rare pleasant chat together.”

Waghorn smiled grimly.

“It has served my turn,” he muttered, and fell into deep thought.

Zachary meanwhile was despatched to the tower with Gabriel’s supper and the next day’s breakfast, and was still talking in the dusk with the two lovers when Dr. Coke’s summons was heard below. The sexton admitted him, and was surprised to find that Mrs. Durdle stole in on tiptoe after her master.

“Gabriel,” said the Vicar in an agitated voice, “I greatly fear your hiding-place is known, and I have come to urge you to escape.”

“How hath it chanced, sir?” said Gabriel, starting to his feet in dismay.

“All the fault, sir, o’ that fool Zachary with his long tongue,” said Durdle, indignantly.

“Why, Zachary is a kindly old soul, he would never betray me,” said Gabriel, incredulously.

At that moment the sexton came up the ladder, and with an angry exclamation Mrs. Durdle flew at him and dragged him forward.

“Here, you zany! Come and tell the Vicar what you said just now at the inn, you silly old man to go mag, mag, mag, over your cider, bringing trouble on us all.”

“Gracious goodness, Mrs. Durdle! and what have I been about to fluster you like a turkey cock in a tearing temper?” protested the sexton.

“Gently, gently!” said the Vicar, “remember that walls may have ears. The truth is, Zachary, I learn from Bettington, of the ‘Bell,’ that you and Waghorn were drinking together, and that he heard you let fall words as to Captain Harford being above ground still, but not far from the grave.”

Zachary scratched his head. “I do mind me now that we jested about graves, and that ’twas mighty pleasant to think how little he knew, for all he looked so wise.”

“I fear, Zachary, the man was too wily for you, he plied you with cider till you all but told him where Captain Harford lay. You should drink less, man, you should drink less.”

“The fall o’ man came from that same plaguey apple-tree that’s been my undoing!” said the sexton, ruefully.

“Nay, Zachary,” said the Vicar, with a smile, “both falls came from lack of self-control. Don’t blame the apple-tree. But we must not waste time. I think, Gabriel, I had best not wait for the arrival of your father and mother, but wed you at daybreak, and speed you on your journey before Bosbury is astir.”

“Can you be ready, dear heart?” said Gabriel, glancing at Hilary.

She did not reply, her eyes were fixed on the narrow window, and a look of horror was on her face.

“What is it, child?” said the Vicar, puzzled by her expression.

“We are watched,” she faltered. “I saw eyes peering betwixt the ivy leaves.”

“I see naught,” said Gabriel. “But, maybe ’twas the white owl that lives among the bells, it flies past often enough.”

“It was Waghorn,” she said, shivering.

“I’ll catch the villain, then, and pound his cropped head for him,” said Zachary, scrambling down the ladder. “Spiteful, scheming gossip that he is! I’ll teach him what comes of playing tricks on the parish clerk.”

“We must surely have heard him had he climbed up by the ivy,” said Gabriel.

But Hilary was not to be comforted.

“I know it was Waghorn! He will betray us,” she said, tears gathering in her eyes.

“There be no sign of him, mistress,” said Zachary, climbing the stairs once more. “You need have no fear, ’twas naught but the hoolet. What about your horse, sir?”

“Why, that’s at Farmer Chadd’s, and had best be fetched, I suppose,” said Gabriel.

“Yes, fetch it, Zachary,” said the Vicar, “when the villagers are asleep, and do you keep watch here to-night in the tower. I shall not breathe comfortably till we have you both safely started for London. Come, Hilary, my child, you have all your preparations to make, and we must not linger.”

Zachary and Durdle went down the ladder arguing about the pillion and the saddle-bags, while the Vicar endeavoured to quiet them, pointing out the need of special caution.

And Hilary clung to her lover, bidding him a last goodnight, and vainly striving to imitate the brave cheerfulness of his manner.

The only comfort was in the feeling of his strong arms around her, and the happy consciousness that, having made a perfect recovery, he was fit to travel.