He turned away and made a pretence of searching for the letter, all the time knowing perfectly well where it was. “Take this with you and read it to Mrs. Unett,” he said, still avoiding the girl’s eyes. “She will be glad to know that he hath made a good recovery.”
Hilary thanked him and made haste to depart. She did not pause to analyse her feelings—life was more simple in those days; but in her glowing face, and even in her quick, eager step as she entered the withdrawing-room, Mrs. Unett read the truth. She had dismissed Gabriel in hot anger, but love for him still lingered in her heart. Would its flickering light kindle once more into lasting warmth and brightness, or would the icy-cold breath of political strife in the end prevail, and finally extinguish it?
She knelt in the ingle nook close to her mother’s armchair, and together they read the letter:
“My Dear Sir,—You will doubtless have heard through Sir Robert Harley that I was left at Kineton, with other wounded men, after the fight. Thanks to the rescue of one Mr. Joscelyn Heyworth, and the care of Tibbie Mills, wife of a worthy saddler of Kineton, my wound—a pike wound through the right thigh—healed by the end of November, and learning that my Lord of Essex’ army was in the neighbourhood of London, I rode there by easy stages and sought out Sir Robert. I found that Ned, who had been serving under Sir William Waller, hath himself now command of a regiment of foot, and as fresh men were being sent down to Sir William the second week in December, I was ordered to go with them. This left me some days in London, which I spent at Nottinghill; my grandmother gave me a very hearty welcome, and was glad to hear the latest tidings of you and of my mother. Who should I find staying in her house, and painting her portrait, but M. Jean Petitot, the miniature painter? Whereupon she insisted that he should paint my portrait also on enamel, and she intends, when a fit chance arrives, to send it by some trusty bearer to you, for she was right glad, she said, that you had not grudged your only son to the good cause. When you see the miniature, I fear you will quote the scurrilous satire put forth by the Royalists:
This is a very Roundhead in good truth!’
For Tibbie acted the part of Delilah, and shaved off my long hair at Kineton, to the great satisfaction of her husband, Manoah, a very strict Puritan, and to my great comfort as I lay ill. However, she hath left enough to curl over the head and round the nape of the neck, so that I do not take after the fanatic section, who shave their locks in a fashion that shows the very skin of the head, and reduces hair to bristles. There was a man in the Farnham garrison—a vile, sanctimonious hypocrite—who affected this style, and whose ears stuck out most horridly from his close-cropped skull.
“We quitted London the second week in December, and by night march reached Farnham Castle early one morning. You can judge how great my pleasure was to encounter again Mr. Joscelyn Heyworth, now appointed galloper to Sir William Waller. He is a little my senior, and a man that would be after your own heart—strong and vigorous and of a merry humour, though now somewhat downcast on account of family divisions, all his kinsfolk being of the King’s party. Spite, however, of their differing views, he remains on very loving terms with some of them, though I learnt from one of Waller’s officers that his father, Sir Thomas Heyworth, treated him with great harshness and severity, disinheriting him and disowning him. His friendship is the greatest boon I could have, and the sole thing in which I have found pleasure since the day we heard of the rout of Powick Bridge. We rested for ten hours at Farnham Castle, and then pushed on with the rest of Sir William Waller’s force to Winchester, which yielded to us after a very short siege. We are now marching to attack Chichester, and have had a rough time, for the rain has come down in torrents for some days, and to lie in the wet fields o’ nights doth not give much rest to such of us as have old wounds much prone to making themselves felt. To-morrow I have an opportunity of sending this to you, as a despatch-bearer is riding to Colonel Massey at Gloucester. I hope it may reach you by Christmas, and carry to you and my mother the season’s greetings, and remembrance to any former friends who will receive such greeting from one of Sir William Waller’s lieutenants.—I rest, dear sir,
“Your son to serve you,
“Gabriel Harford.
“Written this 17 th day of December, 1642, at Petersfield.”