“He seemed

For dignity composed, and high exploit,

But all was false and hollow; though his tongue

Dropt manna, and could make the worse appear

The better reason, to perplex and dash

Maturest counsels: for his thoughts were low—

To vice industrious;—Yet he pleased the ear.”

—Milton.

Throughout the winter and the early spring Herefordshire was in a state of misery and unrest. The people, frantic at the ill-treatment they received from the Royalist garrisons at Hereford, Canon Frome and other places, rose in open insurrection. The sturdy men in the Forest of Dean, seeing their country wasted with fire and sword, their sons impressed to serve in the King’s army, and their wives and daughters brutally ill-used by the merciless troops of Rupert, and by such well-known tyrants as Lunsford and Langdale, would endure such doings no longer, and the rising of the Clubmen became a new and serious element in the strife.

Massey, the Governor of Gloucester, sought to win them over definitely to the Parliament, and entered into negotiations with the leaders at Ledbury, where some 2,000 of them had gathered; but they would bind themselves to neither party, and in the end were dispersed by Prince Rupert, who, having hanged three of the leading men, withdrew to Hereford.

Hilary’s heart had been also in the strangest state of unrest; it was impossible to be in the immediate neighbourhood of all these cruelties and confusions and to remain unmoved. She grieved over the horrible sufferings of the people, and yet now and then the false glamour of war and the halo of romance which invested Norton and the brave and fiery Rupert, resumed its sway over her. Moreover, though no thought of love had entered into her mind, her pride was subtly gratified by the attentions Norton paid her. That a man of his age and standing should hang upon her words, should show her every mark of respect, and even consult her on occasion, was pleasant enough. From open compliments, from praise of her beauty, she would at once have shrunk, but this more delicate flattery ministered to the weakest point in her character—her unconquerable pride.

It was on the morning of the 20th April, nearly two years after her mother’s death, that she laid aside her black garments and took from the big oak chest, where it had been all this time laid up in lavender, the grey gown, with its grey and pink hood and cape, which had for her so many memories of the past. She sighed a little as she donned them, but Durdle looked well pleased when she appeared in the kitchen in her spring attire.

“How many eggs do you want this morning?” asked the girl, lightly. “I shall start early and gather primroses on the way.”

“Bring me two dozen, dearie, an’ Mrs. Kendrick can spare as many,” said Durdle. “Ay, but you look as fresh as a daisy—it does my heart good to see you. But to think that here you be unwed at two-and-twenty all through this weary war—it fair breaks my heart.”

“It doesn’t break mine,” said Hilary, laughing and tossing her head as she quitted the Vicarage.

She had passed the last house in the village when, catching sight of a bank by the roadside starred over with primroses, she lingered to gather them. The day was fresh and sunny, the sky intensely blue, the early apple blossom in the orchards exquisite in its colouring; for the sheer joy of being alive in such a lovely world she could not help singing softly to herself. The words of Autolycus’ song rose to her lips, while a worse deceiver than that mendacious thief and pedlar quietly pursued her.

“When daffodils begin to peer,

With heigh! the doxy over the dale,

Why, then comes in the sweet o’ the year,

For the red blood reigns in the winter’s pale.”

She started a little when Norton’s mellow tones fell on her ear.

“A beautiful song for a beautiful spring day, and chanted by a radiant vision of spring!” he exclaimed, feasting his eyes on her loveliness.

She laughed as she curtseyed in response to his profound bow.

“Sir, you are of a very different opinion to Peter Waghorn, the wood-carver in the tiled house yonder. He frowned on me and my gown, and thought doubtless that grey and pink should be left for the skies at dawn, not worn by a worm of earth, as he deems me. I do detest that talk of earthworms.”

“You should never wear any colours save those of the sky,” said Norton, gazing into the comely face and dark grey eyes. “May you never again need to wear mourning robes!”

“In truth, when I last donned them,” she said, strolling on towards the farm, “I thought I should never be happy again. Yet to-day I am happy once more—I can’t help it—the world is so beautiful.”

“You who make others happy should be always happy yourself,” he said.

“I don’t make others happy,” she said, drooping her head a little as a memory of her treatment of Gabriel returned unbidden. “I make the people who care for me unhappy.”

“Let me be the exception, then,” he said, boldly. “I have had sorrow enough in my life; don’t give me more.”

She glanced at him doubtfully, then turned aside to gather some more primroses.

“Have you seen the Vicar?” she inquired.

“No, but I have a matter to talk over with him,” said Norton, “and, with your permission, will return to the Vicarage with you and carry your egg-basket.”

“Eggs are fragile things,” she said, laughingly. “I am not sure that I can trust you.”

“I assure you my hand is as steady a one as you will find, and well practised at tilting at the bucket.”

“But mine is more practised at carrying eggs,” she said, gaily.

“Ah, but my greatest pleasure is to serve you,” said Norton, persuasively, “and you promised never to add to my sorrow.”

“Indeed, I never made so rash a promise,” she protested. “Still, if carrying the egg basket will satisfy you, I will yield. Have you brought us a newsbook this morning?”

“No, only a legal document just issued by Prince Rupert. I saw him not long since at Hereford.”

“How I envy you!” she cried. “I would give the world to see one so brave.”

“The Prince hath not a monopoly of courage.”

“No, no; all the King’s soldiers are brave, of course.”

“Yet you will hardly trust this soldier with aught. You hold him eternally at an icy distance.”

His tone was that of a dejected lover. Yet even now she was unsuspicious. Her thoughts were of the war, and not in the least of love.

“I think you are very much to be envied,” she cried. “Oh! it must be a grand thing to fight for the King, to defend the weak, to make the rebels fly before you.”

“Shall I tell you the truth?” said Norton, with a sudden modulation in his musical voice which made her heart stir strangely. “’Tis only when I am in your presence that I know what enjoyment means.”

They had passed through the gate and were walking up the grassy slope to the gabled house. At last Hilary could not help understanding in part what he meant. She blushed crimson, and was silent.

“Don’t you see that this long campaign means for me privation, tedium, loneliness?” said Norton, with meaning emphasis on the last word. “I can never know happiness without you.”

He watched her furtively, but very keenly. Surely she would help him out with some word, some gesture, some glance! He was a well-practised wooer, but never had his advances been met with such baffling silence. It seemed to him that all at once she was far, far away from him, and, in truth, her spirit had flown to the little wood where, nearly five years before, Gabriel had told her of his love. The eager, boyish face, the clear, honest eyes, like wells of light, drew her irresistibly away from the man who walked now beside her. And yet all the time she was aware that over her lower nature Norton’s influence was great. His handsome face, his soldierly bearing, his alternations of high spirits and of deep sadness fascinated her; there was something, too, in his audacity and force of character which filled her with admiration.

“If only this thrice-accursed field were a grove I could prevail with her,” reflected Norton. “But here!”

And at that moment Don came to the rescue of his mistress by racing with all the ardour of youth among a stately flock of geese, which fled helter-skelter, with much hissing and indignant cackling.

Hilary broke out into a peal of laughter, and, thankful for the interruption, ran after the terrier.

“Don! Don!” she cried. “You wicked dog! Come to heel this moment.”

And with a merry glance at the discomfited Norton, she hastened into the garden of the Hill Farm, leaving him to pace up and down savagely among the agitated geese.

Mrs. Kendrick came to the door with a troubled face.

“Good morning, mistress,” she said, curtseying. “You find a sad house here. I have two of my poor lads sorely wounded upstairs, and the master be only now getting back his wits. He was that cruelly beaten about the head!”

“Why, when was that?” said Hilary. “Had they joined the Clubmen?”

“Ay, to be sure. They went to Ledbury, and near by Prince Rupert, as you know, made short work of them.”

This was the sorry side of war, and Hilary, as she entered the great kitchen and saw the white face and bandaged head of Farmer Kendrick, and the dazed look of suffering in his eyes, felt sad at heart. She crossed the room to the chimney-corner and spoke to him, but he took no heed.

“’Tis no use,” said the poor wife. “He’s been deaf as a post ever since, and dithered besides. He’ll never be fit for work any more, and what’s to become of us, God only knows, for the soldiers from Canon Frome have taken all our hay and corn, and every beast on the farm save the old lame horse. We’ve naught left but the geese and fowls.”

“I will tell the Vicar of your trouble,” said Hilary. “Why did you not send to him?”

“Well,” said Mrs. Kendrick, “we thought it best to hide the men-folk till the country is quieter. And they told me the Governor of Canon Frome was much at the Vicarage. It seems hard when the place has been ours for generations to have strangers making free with all our goods. I do hear folk say that ere long there’ll be a battle in these parts, and that Governor Massey be coming from Gloucester again.” Hilary went away with a grave face, not thinking so much of the future battle as of the unpleasant fact that Norton’s visits to the Vicarage were beginning to be commented on. She was grieved, too, that the poor wounded men had not had the comfort of a visit from her uncle.

Norton at once noticed the change in her expression when she rejoined him.

“You are troubled,” he said, gently, taking the basket from her.

“The times are sad,” said she, evasively. “I wish this war were ended. I wish we were quite away from ever hearing of it any more.”

“I wish,” he said, drawing nearer to her, “that I could spirit you right away to a country where all would be peace and sunshine. If I had the right to protect you, all should be as you would have it. Let us build castles in the air of a happy life in sunny France away from all these troubles.”

She laughed at such a notion. “Why, I have never been farther than Bristol in all my life,” she said, lightly. “And the mere sight of the ships sailing away to foreign parts made me feel a craving to be at home again in Herefordshire.”

“But Gloucestershire is a right homelike county,” said Norton, “and not far off. Do you understand how I love you, how I long to have you in my home there?”

She shook her head. “I do not want to leave my uncle,” she said, feeling round for some excuse.

“Well, well, but he cannot live for ever,” said Norton, impatiently. “It is in the natural order of things that you should leave him; and, spite of his white hair, he is but in middle life, and may yet himself marry.”

“Then I should go back to Hereford, and try to grow like dear Mrs. Joyce Jefferies, who lives to make others happy.”

“You can make others happy now,” said Norton, and she was forced to listen to his impassioned appeal the whole way home. Half-frightened and wholly perplexed as to her own mind; she was thankful to gain the village, and avoiding the street, opened the south-east gate of the churchyard that they might cross to the Vicarage garden unobserved. But to her discomfort she found on approaching the old stone cross that Peter Waghorn was standing in the path apparently wrapt in contemplation of the symbol to which he so much objected.

As they passed he turned his gleaming eyes full upon them, and though she gave him a cheerful “Good morning,” he made no reply, only touching his hat in a grudging and reluctant fashion.

“A plague on that fellow,” said Norton; “he is enough to give any one a fit of the ague only to look on. But, for heaven’s sake, take pity on me and give me what I have pleaded for so humbly.”

“Indeed, sir,” said Hilary, “I do not know what to say, but I think you ask what I cannot give.”

They had entered the Vicarage, and she led the way to the sitting-room, hoping to find her uncle there. The room, however, was empty.

“Give me my answer a few days hence,” said Norton, setting down the basket, “and to-day I will only ask a few of these flowers as a pledge. Will you fasten them in my doublet?”

She could not well refuse this, and as she slipped the slender pink stalks through the button-hole, Norton suddenly threw his arms around her and kissed her passionately on the lips.

“Let me go!” she cried, indignantly. “How dare you?” And with a half incoherent sentence as to his wishing to see the Vicar, she hurried from the room.

“Now I have frightened her!” reflected Norton. “The one pretty maid in all this dull countryside. Dear innocent little soul! The pursuit grows interesting. I dare swear no man save St. Gabriel ever touched her lips before! Dame Elizabeth Hopton is a she-dragon, but thank the Lord there’s no mother here, and that fat housekeeper is a noodle, who will soon be at my beck and call.”

As if summoned by his thought of her, Durdle at that moment entered with a tray of cakes and some excellent cider.

“You will take something, sir, after your walk,” she said, looking with approval at his long, glossy auburn curls and gay attire.

“Thank you, Mrs. Durdle, there’s no better cider in all Herefordshire than yours,” he said, with his genial smile. “Everything from this house is good, and ’tis due to your careful management.”

Durdle beamed with pleasure at this praise.

“Oh, sir, you flatter me,” she protested.

“Not at all, ’tis naught but truth. What are these heartshaped cakes? They should be prophetic.”

“They be queen cakes, sir,” said Durdle. “Do please to try one, for they be Mistress Hilary’s making.”

“Ha! then certainly I must have one, for, as no doubt you perceive, Mrs. Durdle, I am playing a well-known game—‘I love my love with an H.’ Will you keep my secret and lend me your aid, for in these matters a man sadly needs an ally?”

“Why to be sure, sir; to be sure I will!” cried Durdle, with delight. “’Twas but this very morning I was grieving at the thought that so sweet a lady should be unwed. Oh, she’ll not be saying no to a King’s officer, sir, and I know the very best recipe for bride cakes.”

She bustled off to look for the Vicar, leaving Norton with a mocking smile playing al>out his lips.

“Bride cakes, indeed,” he muttered. “But she will doubtless prove useful.” And with that he tasted the dainty morsel which the housekeeper had handed to him. “Pah! ’tis sweet and insipid. Here, Don!” he said, whistling to the dog, “this heart may be to your liking.”

The terrier swallowed it at one gulp, and was still licking his lips when Hilary returned. There was a certain coldness in her manner.

“My uncle is out, sir,” she said, “and Zachary tells me he hath gone to visit a dying man at some distance; perhaps you will leave the papers for his signature.”

“No, I will come again; let me see, to-morrow will be Tuesday, I will come before noon,” said Norton. “Tell Mrs. Durdle the queen cakes are irresistible.”

She laughed, but was relieved that he did not attempt to linger, and that he made no further allusion to what had passed on their walk from the farm.