“Could we forbear dispute, and practise love,

We should agree as angels do above.”

—Edmund Waller.

The churchyard, which during Norton’s visit had looked so peaceful, had become, before the Colonel had ridden halfway back to Canon Frome, the scene of an extraordinary gathering. With bewildered astonishment the Vicar saw the villagers hurrying in from all directions—men in their smock frocks, women fresh from their household work in cap and apron, and eager children pressing to the front that they might the better see the soldiers in their glittering steel helmets and corslets, their buff coats and orange scarves. A cornet carried the blue banner of the Parliament, with its motto, “God with us,” and the Captain brought up the rear. The Vicar, glancing at him, saw that he was young, slight and alert-looking; but his attention was quickly drawn away to Waghorn, who, springing up on the steps of the cross, turned with a vehement gesture towards the leader of the detachment.

“There it stands, Captain, just as I told you!” he cried. “There is the accursed Popish idol! Down with it! Down with it! even to the ground! So may all Thy enemies perish!”

Anything more violent and frenzied than his manner it was impossible to conceive; his dark eyes blazed, his sombre face was transformed.

But the ludicrous inappropriateness of his quotation tickled Gabriel’s sense of humour, and under the violence of the attack he grew restive.

“Your text seems to me ill-chosen,” he said. “But if this be indeed an idol, then by all means let it come down. An idol is a visible object which men bow down to or worship. Do any of you people of Bosbury bow down to this cross?”

There was a quiet force in his tone which instantly arrested the villagers’ full attention.

“No, sir,” they cried, unanimously.

And at that the Vicar hastened forward, courteously greeting the young Parliamentarian, and exclaiming eagerly, “Sir, the answer of the people of Bosbury is true. None of my people are so foolish as to bow to sticks or stones. I humbly hope that they have learnt better than that.”

“’Tis a lie!” shouted Waghorn. “A lie! How about old Jock? How about Billy Blunt?”

“Old Jock,” explained the Vicar to the Captain, “had been brought up a Papist, and I admit that he did superstitiously nod his head when he passed the cross; he is now bedridden. As for Billy, he, poor lad, is an idiot, and ’tis impossible to reason with him.”

But explanations could not satisfy Waghorn.

“Down with all idolatrous symbols!” he shouted. “Down with the cross!”

And his vehemence and excitement proved infectious, for now the soldiers and a few of the spectators caught up the cry, and the churchyard rang with shouts of “Ay! down with it! down with it!” while the villagers began to press forward in an uncertain way, scarcely knowing what to think.

The Vicar rushed between the cross and the soldiers as though to guard it from attack, and turned with outstretched arms to his parishioners.

“I tell you, good people,” he said, in his ringing, manly voice, “that this cross was set up by early Christians. Beneath it there lies buried the ancient stone which was worshipped in heathen times. This is no idol, but a witness to the truth.”

“Don’t heed the Vicar! Obey the word of God!” shouted Waghorn. “Break it in pieces like a potter’s vessel!”

Again the contagion of the fanatic’s excitement spread, and elicited yet fiercer shouts of “Ay! Pull it down! Break it in pieces! Remember Smithfield!”

Gabriel saw that a serious riot would ensue unless action were quickly taken.

Shouting an order for silence, which was promptly obeyed by the soldiers, he said to the Vicar, “Sir, ’tis true enough that Parliament hath ordered the destruction of images and crosses. In many places the people truly did bow down to them. We wish that God alone should be glorified, and we dread homage to symbols. I fear that it will be my duty to carry out the Parliamentary order.”

“In truth, sir,” pleaded the Vicar, “I assure you that I dislike acts of homage to the cross as much as you do. I merely plead with you for our right to keep the ensign of our faith. What is that blue banner yonder officer holds?”

“’Tis the banner of the Parliament, sir,” said Gabriel.

“Well, sir, you do not worship your flag, but you would not lightly part with it. That cross, sir, is my flag, and, unless your looks belie you, I think you will refuse to destroy the witness of our common faith.”

Gabriel had listened with respect and deep attention to this earnest appeal. The long years of controversy and strife had accentuated every religious difference. Hard words had been remorselessly hurled on both sides; but here was a man who boldly appealed to “our common faith.”

In a sudden flash he seemed to realise how overwhelmingly great was this faith they shared. All lesser differences were dwarfed. He no longer saw the stone cross, the buff-coated men-at-arms and the villagers—he saw instead a jeering rabble, and Roman soldiers and the Eternal Revelation of God’s great love to the world. All that he had known from childhood, and honestly striven to carry into practice, was flooded by one of those inspiring gleams which make us understand how much nearer is the Unseen than the Seen; so that for the time there seemed to him nothing in the whole universe save that perfect Revelation of Love.

He was recalled from his Mount of Transfiguration by the urgent need of help down below. Like a false note in a symphony, Waghorn’s voice broke the silence which, to his violent zeal, had seemed unendurable.

“Don’t heed him, Captain! Don’t heed him! Down with the accursed idol! So let all Thine enemies perish, O Lord!”

Gabriel strode towards him.

“Silence!” he cried, sternly. “The devil, as we all know, can quote Scripture. Sir,” he continued, turning to the Vicar, with a look that told of genuine respect, “your words stir my heart strangely. If you will promise to have graven on the cross these words

Honour not the cross,

But honour God for Christ,

no man shall touch what you rightly call the witness of our common faith.”

The Vicar grasped his hand with grateful warmth.

“I thank you from my heart, sir, and I promise right willingly. Zachary! Go fetch Tim the mason, and bid him carve the words without delay. And, good people,” he added, as the villagers crowded round him, two little children plucking at his sleeve till he put his kindly hands caressingly on their shoulders, “let us never allow the emblem of Divine Love to become the target for bitterness and division. Above all the unhappy strife of to-day, there is one thing which may yet unite us—it is love, the bond of peace.”

All this time Hilary had obediently waited in the garden, but the garden was separated from the churchyard only by a low hedge of clipped yews, and in one place the trees had been allowed to grow higher and had been cut into a sheltered arbour. Here, quite hidden from view, she had seen and heard all that passed.

For a minute or two she had not recognised Gabriel, for his face had been turned from her and she had only once before seen him with short hair and in uniform. But when he stepped forward and spoke to the people her heart gave such a bound of joy that in reality all her perplexed musings as to the answer she should make to Colonel Norton were solved.

When she heard the word of command given to the soldiers to march from the churchyard, and saw the crowd beginning to disperse, she hastened from the arbour, and was just approaching the little gate in the hedge when she saw the Vicar drawing near, and heard him warmly pressing the Parliamentary Captain to dine with them.

“Uncle!” she said, opening the gate, “you do not know our old friend, Mr. Gabriel Harford.”

Gabriel looked in amazement at the dear familiar face in the grey and pink hood, at the trim erect figure in the old grey gown, outlined against the arch of dark yew. Surely that white hand holding open the gate was an emblem of hope? Surely he could read signs of love in the bright eyes and in the glowing cheeks?

“Hilary!” he cried, with a choking sensation in his throat. “Are you here?”

He bent down and kissed her hand, and they were both relieved when the Vicar came to the rescue.

“Captain Harford! Why, this is excellent hearing. I had no notion, sir, what your name was, but if aught could make my rejoicing greater, it would be the knowledge that this kindly deed was done by one well known to my dear sister now at rest, this child’s mother,” and he took Hilary’s hand caressingly in his.

“I will see if dinner is ready,” she said, nervously.

“No, child, I must myself go in, and will speak to Durdle. Do you entertain Captain Harford. You were children together and will have many a matter to talk over, I’ll warrant.”

He went into the house, and Gabriel drew a little nearer to Hilary.

“Your uncle does not know, then, that we were ever more to one another than just playmates?” he said; and as for an instant she glanced at him, she saw how much he must have gone through since their last parting.

“No,” she replied, shyly. “He never heard about it. So much has passed since then. You had tidings of my dear mother’s death, Gabriel?”

“Yes, I heard of it at Bath, before the fight at Lansdown. My thoughts have always been with you, but you never replied to my letter.”

“No letter ever reached me,” she said.

“This miserable war too often makes writing useless,” said Gabriel, with a sigh. “For nigh upon two years I have been hoping against hope for an answer. Ah! here comes Mrs. Durdle.”

“Dinner is served, mistress,” said Durdle. “I hope I see you well, sir,” she added, curtseying and beaming as her eyes fell on Gabriel.

“Why! Mrs. Durdle,” he said, laughing, as he shook her by the hand. “I could fancy myself at home once more now that I see you again.”

“And it’s glad I am to welcome you to Bosbury, sir,” said the housekeeper, blithely. “Begun your work you did by guarding me and that silly wench Maria when the Parliament soldiers first came to Hereford; and now here you be to guard Bosbury Cross from that crazy-pated Waghorn.”

They entered the house and were soon dining together. Hilary, far too much excited to eat, keeping up a gallant show with a mere fragment of meat and a large helping of salad, but Gabriel making satisfactory inroads on the cold stalled ox, which usually made the household dinner on Sunday, Monday and Tuesday.

“I only hope that in the excitement of that scene in the churchyard, Durdle hasn’t let my apple pasties burn to cinders in the oven,” said Hilary, smiling. “You always used to have a liking for hot apple pasties when we were children,” she said, glancing at him.

“And ’tis many a day since I had a chance of tasting one,” he said, laughing. “Soldiers are supposed to keep alive and well on the strangest fare.”

“Ah! sir, you have done a grand work to-day,” said the Vicar, with such relief and happiness in his tone that Hilary found tears starting to her eyes. “You have shown a generous forbearance which coming generations will have cause to remember with gratitude.”

“In truth, sir,” said Gabriel, “’tis I that am indebted to you for words that will often cheer me in these harsh times. Our rasping differences are ever confronting us and shutting out all thought of what we share.”

The talk turned on Dr. Harford’s visit more than a year before, and of Waghorn’s attack on the East window. Gabriel had heard nothing about it, for letters from Hereford had more than once failed to reach him. Indeed, as he explained, he had imagined that Dr. Coke was still at Bromyard.

Just then the Vicar was called away to speak to some one, and as Gabriel could not be induced to eat a third pasty, Hilary proposed that they should return to the garden.

“It was from this little arbour that I saw and heard all that passed just now,” she said, as they sat down in the cosy little retreat. “I hope you appreciated Durdle’s words of praise.”

“Durdle was kinder to me at Hereford than you were,” he said, reproachfully.

“She urged me to see you, and so in truth did my mother,” said Hilary, drooping her head.

“And you always refused. I wonder if you knew how cruelly you hurt me,” he said, with that note of pain in his voice which always disturbed her.

“What would have been the use of inviting you to come in?” she replied. “You know that it was worse than useless when we met in the cathedral porch. We parted because of our great differences. Naught had changed.”

“Yet,” pleaded Gabriel, “the Vicar told us but now that there was one thing which must always unite us.”

She drew up her head with all her old pride and hardness.

“I could never love a rebel,” she said, perversely.

Gabriel, bitterly disappointed, remained absolutely silent. A bee flew humming loudly into the arbour, then roamed forth once more to the apple blossom on a tree hard by. There was a faint stirring, too, in the shrubs just behind them in the churchyard as Peter Waghorn, who had followed the movements of the Parliamentary Captain with stealthy malevolence, crouched down that he might hear what treason was being plotted betwixt this half-hearted officer and the Vicar’s Royalist niece. The two noticed nothing, for they were absorbed in their own thoughts.

“Why are you a rebel, Gabriel?” said Hilary, more quietly, as she lifted her face to his pleadingly. “Oh, think better of it! ’Tis not too late. Many men have changed sides. Think how good our King is!”

Her appeal moved him painfully, a look of keen distress dawned in his eyes.

“A good man, but an untrustworthy King,” he said, controlling his agitation with difficulty. “Nay, we won’t argue. You well know that I fight for the ancient rights and liberties of Englishmen, and even for love of you, Hilary, I can’t turn back! I can’t turn back! And yet, oh! my God! how hard it is!”

“I did not mean to pain you,” said Hilary, remorsefully. “Nay, I longed to tell you how it pleased me to hear all that you said when Waghorn would have pulled down the cross. Are you still in Sir William Waller’s army?”

“No, at present I am serving under Colonel Massey, but I hope ere long to be sent to Sir Thomas Fairfax at Windsor, where he is forming the New Model Army.”

“You will serve under him?”

“My great wish is to follow in my father’s steps, but just now I am to act as the bearer of important despatches. Enough, however, of my affairs. Do tell me of yourself. If only you guessed how I had hungered for news of you!”

“’Twere far better that you forgot me,” she said, beginning to play with the little housewife that hung from her girdle.

“I can never forget,” he said, vehemently. “Surely you understand that my love for you is unchanged.”

Suddenly there darted into her mind the remembrance of Norton’s words about the pretty daughter of the Gloucestershire squire. When spoken they had seemed to turn her love to hatred, yet in the sudden rapture of Gabriel’s return she had absolutely forgotten all about them. He could not understand the change that now came over her whole manner and bearing.

“Don’t speak of your love,” she said, indignantly. “All that is at an end—at best we can now be only friendly foes. More is impossible.”

“Why impossible?” he pleaded.

Then terror seizing him, he exclaimed, “Do you mean that someone else loves you?”

“Why do you ask?” she said, with some embarrassment.

“Oh! have pity on me, Hilary,” he cried. “At least tell me one way or the other. Is there some other lover?”

“Yes,” she owned. “There is one that loves me, and a right loyal gentleman he is—the Governor of Canon Frome.”

He turned pale. The silence and the suffering in his face angered Hilary.

“What right have you to be concerned?” she said, indignantly. “You have not really been constant to me; I well know that you have been making love to the heiress of a Gloucestershire squire.”

“Who told you so base a lie?” said Gabriel, starting to his feet.

“One whose word I trust,” she replied, quietly, “the loyal Governor of Canon Frome.”

“His name?” asked Gabriel, eagerly.

“His name is Colonel Norton,” she said, triumphantly.

“Norton!” he cried, in horror. “He is the man you trust? The man who has dared to speak of love to you?”

“Yes; why not? Is he not a brave soldier and active in the King’s service?”

“Brave, no doubt. He is an Englishman. But surely you have heard that even his own party are aghast at his doings?”

“I have heard naught against him,” said Hilary, indignantly. “You are jealous, and if there is one thing on earth I despise ’tis jealousy.”

“The fellow is not worthy to touch the hem-of your garment,” said Gabriel, sternly. “Listen to me. You shall hear the plain truth. ’Tis well known that he is a Cavalier of the type of my Lord Goring. I would sooner see you dead than in his power.”

“It would be unfair of me to heed your attack on the absent,” said Hilary, coldly. “You are jealous, and ready to believe evil of Colonel Norton.”

“You torture me!” cried Gabriel, desperately.

“Oh, you pretend that you are unchanged,” said Hilary, with scorn. “But there is no smoke without fire, and the Gloucestershire heiress——”

“Hush!” he said, sitting down beside her once more, and his quietness of manner and restrained force dominated her.

“Now I am resolved that you shall hear precisely what passed, for it is due to Mistress Neal as well as to you and to myself.”

Very briefly he told of Norton’s interview with Major Locke at Gloucester, of the interrupted duel, of the way in which he and Joscelyn Heyworth had rescued Helena from the cruel trap that had been set for her. In spite of herself Hilary’s sympathies were enlisted on the side of the poor little maid, and perhaps she inclined to her all the more when she heard that she was now happily married to Mr. Humphrey Neal.

“And her father?” she inquired. “What has become of him?”

“He died at Marlborough, mainly, I do believe, because Colonel Norton forced him to travel when he was desperately wounded and refused him the aid of a surgeon,” said Gabriel.

There was a silence. He would not speak of the way in which Norton had treated him in the church.

“After all,” said Hilary, with a mutinous little toss of the head, “I have but your word for this. You tell me one tale and Colonel Norton another. Why should I trust a rebel and distrust a Royalist?”

A sigh of despair broke from Gabriel at her perversity.

“I can only repeat,” he said, “that I love you with all my heart and soul, but if it were to save you from wedding this vile profligate I could rejoice to see you the wife of any honourable man.”

“You leap to conclusions,” she said, relenting a little, “I am in no haste to wed. There is not even a promise given yet. I merely said he loved me. But enough! Let us come into the church and you shall see what havoc Waghorn wrought there.”