And gibbets keep the lifted hand in awe1;
To murder thousands takes a specious2 name,
War’s glorious art, and gives immortal3 fame.”
—Young.
Hilary found great pleasure throughout the next few months in her friendship with Frances Hopton, and her sympathies gradually widened, not only from constant intercourse4 with her uncle, but from her frequent visits to Canon Frome Manor5. The house was about two miles from Bosbury, one of those fine old moated residences often found in the counties bordering on Wales, strongly built and almost like small fortresses6.
The Hoptons, like many another household in those days, were divided on the subject of the war, Sir Richard himself sided with the Parliament, but was too old to take any active part in the strife7. He had suffered severely8, however, for the action he had taken in marching to Hereford with the Earl of Stamford when the city had first been besieged9 in the early days of the war, and the Royalists on returning to power had plundered10 Canon Frome, and carried off or ruthlessly destroyed all the furniture and valuables they could seize. Sir Richard had been cast into prison, but later on, owing to the representations of his son Edward, who had joined the King’s army, he was released and allowed to return to his home, which was safe-guarded from further molestation12 by one of those letters of protection which were granted both by the King and the Parliament under certain circumstances.
So for a time all went well with them, and Hilary learnt to love Dame13 Elizabeth, who, feeling sorry for the motherless girl, did what she could for her and always gave her the warmest of welcomes at Canon Frome.
One cold March day she had ridden over at noon with her uncle to dine with the Hoptons, and, the meal being over, the ladies of the party were sitting with their needlework in Dame Elizabeth’s withdrawing-room, when Sir Richard and Dr. Coke rejoined them with grave faces.
“Hath any news come from the boys?” asked Dame Elizabeth anxiously, for with one son fighting for the King and two fighting for the Parliament, the poor lady knew little ease.
“No, but there is very grievous news of the capture of Mr. Wallop’s place—Hopton Castle—by the Royalists,” said Sir Richard. “The entire garrison14 hath been massacred.”
The ladies exclaimed in horror, and Dame Elizabeth asked the details.
“In truth they are too shocking to repeat,” said Dr. Coke, sighing. “It seems that the place was held for the owner, who was absent, by Governor More, brother to Mr. Richard More, Member of Parliament for Bishop’s Castle. They held out gallantly16 when attacked by Colonel Woodhouse and five hundred men, but were at length obliged to capitulate, being utterly17 worn out and the castle well-nigh battered18 to pieces.
“But did not they sue for quarter?” asked Hilary.
“Yes, and were told that they should be referred to Colonel Woodhouse’s mercy. Governor More and Major Phillips were taken before him to a house at some little distance, and More wondered after a while why his men did not follow, only then learning that they had been stripped, tied back to back and put to death with circumstances of revolting barbarity. The poor old steward19 of eighty, being weak and not able to stand, they put him into a chair while they cut his throat.”
Hilary felt sick with horror.
“Who is this Colonel Woodhouse?” she asked.
“He is the Governor of Ludlow Castle, and it is only fair to say,” remarked Sir Richard, “that when remonstrated20 with he alleged21 that he had orders from Oxford22.”
“His Majesty23 is surrounded by evil counsellors,” said the Vicar. “But if that be indeed true, and sheer butchery was ordered, then it is all over with the King’s cause. After that it will never prosper24.”
This seemed to be the beginning of a much fiercer and more cruel epoch25 of the struggle. At first both sides had acted with a certain dignity, but the evil passions always kindled26 by war grew stronger and stronger, and those who, like Hilary, had been inclined to enjoy the excitement of the contest, and to dwell on the “glory” and “romance” of the campaign, began to understand how cruel and devilish was the grim reality.
Hopton Castle was only just over the borders of Herefordshire, and but four miles from Brampton Bryan, and when Hilary heard of the great peril27 in which the Harleys found themselves her sympathies turned to the orphaned28 children of Lady Brilliana, and to their friend and guardian29, Dr. Wright, who had been kind to her in her own trouble during Mrs. Unett’s last illness.
Fresh from the diabolical30 cruelties perpetrated on the Hopton Castle garrison, Colonel Woodhouse took his men to Brampton Bryan, and the castle underwent a second siege, with no brave-hearted mistress to cheer the unhappy garrison and the luckless children. The tragedy of Hopton Castle would have been enacted31 once again, for a letter from Prince Rupert was actually on its way to Colonel Woodhouse with such orders; but, after a long and brave resistance, Dr. Wright, desperate at the knowledge of the barbarities so lately committed by these very soldiers, and fearing such a fate for his garrison, sent out to treat, and Colonel Woodhouse, having granted them their lives, they surrendered just before the arrival of the Prince’s letter, and were carried away prisoners to Shrewsbury.
“Their lives are happily spared,” said Dr. Coke, when he was recounting the story to his niece one evening, “but the splendid castle has been burnt, down by Colonel Woodhouse, and with it one of the finest libraries in the country. ’Tis pitiful to think of the loss, for there were manuscripts there which can never be replaced. For generations the Harleys have been noted32 for their love of literature.”
“I have heard Gabriel Harford speak of the library,” said Hilary. “He was a friend and schoolfellow of the eldest33 son, and will grieve over this sad tale.”
“That reminds me,” said the Vicar, “that to-day, near Castle Frome, I met Dr. Harford. He told me that they had just heard from his son, who had rejoined Sir William Waller, and had fought in the battle of Cheriton.”
Hilary’s heart began to throb34 uncomfortably. She turned away, and made a pretence35 of rearranging the logs on the hearth36.
“He escaped without hurt?” she asked, in a voice that might have betrayed her had the Vicar in the least guessed her story.
“Ay, and hath been promoted to a captaincy. I gathered, however, that he is only longing37 for the end of hostilities38, being now determined39 to become a physician, like his father, and desiring to heal men rather than to slay40.”
Hilary was silent, hardly knowing whether she approved this new development or not. With a little shudder41, she remembered the flash of indignation in Gabriel’s eyes when she had gleefully recounted that fifty of the rebels had been killed at Powick Bridge. Certainly in those early days, before she had in the least realised the horrors of war, it had been possible to speak in a careless fashion that would now have been out of the question.
Indeed, by the end of April the grim shadow of war drew yet closer to Bosbury, for the Parliamentarians under Massey, Governor of Gloucester, began to make inroads and to do their utmost to clear out small garrisons42 and to raise money for the troops. It was far from pleasant to realise that Massey and his soldiers were quartered at Ledbury, barely four miles off, and Hilary began to picture to herself what would happen if their peaceful village should be invaded.
Musing43 on this one afternoon, she set off to visit old Farmer Kendrick’s wife at the Hill Farm, and to carry her certain remedies for her rheumatism44 which Mrs. Durdle had made.
“Tell her,” said the housekeeper45, “that she’d never have had the rheumatics had she taken my advice and carried a potato all winter in her pocket. But folk will be thinking there’s no cure without eating or drinking summat, and the worse the taste the better the medicine, they believe. So, my dear, I’ve flavoured this with camomile, as nasty a herb as grows, and do you tell her to drink it hot first thing in the mornin’, she’ll have a most powerful belief in that.”
Hilary laughed and promised. Crossing the churchyard she encountered Zachary, the parish clerk, who was also the gardener and general factotum46 at the Vicarage; his ruddy face looked less cheerful than was its wont47, and, resting on his mattock, he said, earnestly:
“Don’t you be a’goin’ far from home, mistress; it be scarce safe for you to be abroad in times like these.”
“Why, Zachary,” she replied, with a smile, “I do but go to the Hill Farm, and who is like to molest11 me?”
“They say the Parliament soldiers never misuse48 women,” said Zachary. “But I wish the whole plaguey lot of soldiers were out of Herefordshire, whether they be Cavaliers or Roundheads. There’s sore news from Stoke Edith, they tell me.”
“What is that?” said Hilary, anxiously. “Have Massey’s soldiers molested49 Dr. Rogers?”
“Well, mistress, they set out for Ledbury with no good will to him, for, as you know, he has ever been severe to the Puritans, and I reekon they thought their turn had come. But, as ill-luek would have it, close by the wall at Stoke Edith they came upon an old parson and, belike, took him for Dr. Rogers.”
“Well?” said Hilary, anxiously, as the man hesitated. “Did they harm him?”
“It was old Parson Pralph walking back from Hereford to his Vicarage at Tarrington.”
“I remember him, an old man of more than four-score years,” said Hilary. “He had white hair and a long white beard.”
“That’s the man,” said Zachary, gloomily. “He’d been Vicar of Tarrington over forty year. Well, one of Massey’s soldiers stopped him, saying, ‘Who art thou for?’ On whieh he honestly answered, ‘For God and the King,’ and the soldier without more ado raised his pistol and shot him dead.”
Hilary turned pale, the same sick horror that she had felt at Canon Frome on hearing of Colonel Woodhouse’s barbarous conduct at Hopton Castle overpowered her again, and as she walked on slowly to the Hill Farm her eyes were dim with tears.
The summer brought them the news of the King’s defeat at Marston Moor50, but the more distant hostilities really affected51 them less than the smaller troubles in their own near neighbourhood.
In the autumn of 1644 there was once more grievous trouble at Canon Frome, for, notwithstanding the protection of the King’s letter, the Manor was attacked by a party of Royalists, who insisted on converting the house into a garrison.
Sir Richard Hopton resisted this intolerable invasion of his rights, but superior force triumphed, and the poor old knight52 was seized and cast into prison, while the Manor was at once garrisoned53 by a force whieh proved the scourge54 of the neighbourhood.
As the luckless farmers remarked, “God had sent them good harvests of hay and corn, but what was the use when they had but the labour of mowing55 and reaping?”
The crops had been safely gathered in, but the Canon Frome garrison plundered the farms, and if any man was bold enough to demand compensation, or to resist the seizure56 of his goods—well, he found that silent acquiescence57 would have been more prudent58.
The beautiful county, a very Garden of Eden for fertility and loveliness, became a hell upon earth, and the pathetic loyalty59 of the people to a wholly unworthy monarch60 was speedily changed to active and determined resistance. The Herefordshire folk cared little for the dispute between King and Parliament, but under the intolerable wrongs they suffered they now began to band themselves together into a neutral party, armed only for the protection of their homes.
Hilary’s chief personal loss at this time was the companionship of Frances Hopton, from whom she had not even the poor consolation61 of a parting visit. A letter received from her soon after the conversion62 of the Manor into a garrison explained what had passed. It ran as follows:
“My dear Hilary,—You have ere this, I know, heard the ill news of my father’s arrest. He lies once more in gaol63, and indeed I can well-nigh rejoice in his absence, for he would be heartbroken could he see the havoc64 the Royalist soldiers are making here. Many of the outhouses are burnt down, and they ruthlessly destroy and waste the property in a fashion that it is piteous to behold65. I am bound to say, however, that the Governor is a most pleasant and courteous66 gentleman, with so genial67 a manner that one might think all this mischief68 carried out by his orders was but a pastime amid toys, and not the wicked destruction of an Englishman’s house, which we were wont to think his own and free from all assaults by outsiders. The Governor has most considerately urged my mother to retain the rooms in the right wing for our private use, and since she is ailing69 and unfit to travel she remains70 here with one of my brothers and three of the servants. But she thinks I am best away, therefore I am to be sent with my sister to Garnons to stay with Mr. and Mrs. Geers, you remember that Mr. Geers wedded71 recently Mistress Eliza Acton, goddaughter to your Hereford friend, Mrs. Joyce Jefferies. Here came a long pause in my letter, for who should come into the ante-room where I am writing but the Governor. He made many pretty speeches on hearing that I was to leave home. Maybe this is the reason my brother doth not like him so well as we womenfolk do; I often notice that my father and the boys particularly detest73 these evil, pleasant-spoken gentlemen who know how to turn a neat compliment. I forgot to tell you that the Governor—his name is Colonel Norton—is a remarkably74 handsome man, very tall, and with bright laughing eyes and auburn love-locks. Pray tell the vicar that I will question Mr. Geers as to the antiquities75 in the neighbourhood of Garnons, and when these troubles be ended seek to bring him some treasures for his collection.—I rest, your affectionate friend,
“Frances Hopton.”
“My youngest brother is now with Governor Massey, and since he is kept so actively76 at work against various regiments77 of the Royalists now scattered78 over the country to seek winter quarters, you may belike see him. Governor Massey doth seem much to affect the neighbourhood of Ledbury, and since his great victory near by at Redmarley last August, he will doubtless hold it in yet more loving remembrance. They tell me that Colonel Edward Harley did there get wounded, and that though he hath now recovered the bullet is yet in him.”
Hilary folded the letter sadly.
Everything seemed to be passing away from her, and she began faintly to understand how terrible a condition England was in. Moreover, the closing in of the short autumn days, and the near approach of the hard winter, depressed79 her. She wondered how she should ever endure the long nights with their dreadful sense of insecurity; she shuddered80 at the remembrance of the horrible tales she had heard from the village folk of the wickedness and violence of Prince Maurice’s troops, and she remembered with horror the fate of the Vicar of Tarrington. If one of Massey’s men had shown such brutality81 to him, what guarantee had she that the Viear of Bosbury would fare any better?
Sitting by the hearth in the fast-gathering twilight82, an unusual stir in the village street suddenly attracted her attention; there was a steady, ominous83 tramp of many feet, which could not be mistaken, then the hoarse84 shout of an officer, “Plait!”
She sprang up and ran to the study, where the Vicar sat at a table strewn with fossils, deeply absorbed in the contemplation of an ammonite.
“Sir!” she said, “do you not hear that there are soldiers in the village?”
“Look what a fine specimen85 Mr. Bartley hath to-day brought me for the collection,” said Dr. Coke, looking up at her with a happy light in his eyes. “’Tis the finest I have ever seen.”
“Yes, yes,” said Hilary, trying to be patient; “but, uncle, there are soldiers halting in the village.”
She had at last brought him back from pre-historic times to the seventeenth century. He pushed back his chair and, putting on his college cap, rose to his feet.
“Now I think of it,” he said, “I met a couple of scouts86 when I was out—Massey’s men, judging by their ribbons.”
“Oh! don’t go then; you must not go, sir, if they are Massey’s men,” she said in terror.
“Why, yes, child, of course I must go,” he said, patting her shoulder caressingly87. “’Tis my duty to try and keep the peace betwixt the soldiers and the village folk; I only trust they do not mean to stay here long. Let supper be made ready, for whether they be friends or foes88 we are bound by holy writ72 to feed them if they hunger. I’ll warrant, though, that you’d like to pepper the broth15 till it choked them!”
And with a laugh he went out, his eyes twinkling with humour at the thought of pretty Hilary with her vehement89 hatred90 of Parliamentarians getting ready the best evening meal that the house could provide.
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1
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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2
specious
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| adj.似是而非的；adv.似是而非地 | |
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3
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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4
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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5
manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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6
fortresses
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| 堡垒，要塞( fortress的名词复数 ) | |
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7
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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8
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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9
besieged
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| 包围，围困，围攻( besiege的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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10
plundered
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| 掠夺，抢劫( plunder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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11
molest
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| vt.骚扰，干扰，调戏 | |
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12
molestation
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| n.骚扰，干扰，调戏；折磨 | |
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13
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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14
garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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15
broth
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| n.原(汁)汤(鱼汤、肉汤、菜汤等) | |
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16
gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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17
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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18
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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19
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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20
remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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21
alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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22
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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23
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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24
prosper
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| v.成功，兴隆，昌盛；使成功，使昌隆，繁荣 | |
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25
epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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26
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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27
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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28
orphaned
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| [计][修]孤立 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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30
diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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31
enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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32
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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33
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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34
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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35
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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36
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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37
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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hostilities
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| n.战争；敌意(hostility的复数)；敌对状态；战事 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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40
slay
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| v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮 | |
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41
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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42
garrisons
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| 守备部队，卫戍部队( garrison的名词复数 ) | |
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43
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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44
rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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45
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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46
factotum
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| n.杂役；听差 | |
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47
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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48
misuse
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| n.误用，滥用；vt.误用，滥用 | |
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49
molested
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| v.骚扰( molest的过去式和过去分词 )；干扰；调戏；猥亵 | |
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50
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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51
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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52
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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53
garrisoned
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| 卫戍部队守备( garrison的过去式和过去分词 )； 派部队驻防 | |
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54
scourge
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| n.灾难，祸害；v.蹂躏 | |
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55
mowing
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| n.割草，一次收割量，牧草地v.刈，割( mow的现在分词 ) | |
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56
seizure
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| n.没收；占有；抵押 | |
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57
acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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58
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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59
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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60
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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61
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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62
conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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63
gaol
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| n.(jail)监狱；(不加冠词)监禁；vt.使…坐牢 | |
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64
havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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65
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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66
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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67
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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ailing
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| v.生病 | |
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70
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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71
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72
writ
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| n.命令状，书面命令 | |
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73
detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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74
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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75
antiquities
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| n.古老( antiquity的名词复数 )；古迹；古人们；古代的风俗习惯 | |
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76
actively
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| adv.积极地，勤奋地 | |
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77
regiments
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| （军队的）团( regiment的名词复数 )； 大量的人或物 | |
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78
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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79
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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80
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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81
brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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82
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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83
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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84
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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85
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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86
scouts
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| 侦察员[机，舰]( scout的名词复数 )； 童子军； 搜索； 童子军成员 | |
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87
caressingly
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| 爱抚地，亲切地 | |
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88
foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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89
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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90
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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