“Here with you at Notting Hill Manor,” said the doctor. “Try to swallow this—it will strengthen you.”
Gabriel obeyed dreamily, glancing in some surprise at the portly form of Sir Theodore Mayerne, which certainly bore not the remotest likeness to any of the lean inhabitants of Oxford Castle. He began to grasp the idea that his father had journeyed from Hereford, and his lips framed the word, “Hilary!”
“She is well,” said Dr. Harford, quietly. “On my way here I saw her at Whitbourne, where she was keeping Christmas with the Bishop. She was grieved to hear of your sufferings, and hopes you will soon recover.”
A look of content came into the eager eyes. Gabriel asked no further questions, but lay in a state of dreamy peace. If Hilary hoped for his recovery, why then the worst of his suffering was over. His hold on life grew strong once more, and he fell into a profound sleep.
“I have hopes of him now,” whispered Sir Theodore, “tomorrow I will visit him again,” and he stole out of the room with a quietness which seemed magical in a man of such bulk.
CHAPTER XXVII.
“When the Established Church of England forsook the spirit of Hooker for that of Laud, it made a false step which could only lead to painful defeat. Presbyterianism, with still less excuse, made a like aggression, and with like result. To a certain extent, therefore, Milton is the spokesman of the bulk of his countrymen. Priest and Presbyter alike he forbade in the name of England to fetter by force her free development, her realisation of her chosen ideals for the time being.”—Ernest Myers.
In after days it often seemed to Gabriel that his gradual recovery at Notting Hill was one of the happiest times of his life. The words from Hilary, though few and vague, gave him more reason to hope for a future reconciliation than he had as yet possessed. While the wonderful relief of having his father as his constant companion, after the severe sufferings of body and mind which he had undergone at Oxford, was indescribable.