“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 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.”