“I fear you will not tolerate us,” said the Vicar, joining them as they re-entered the house.
“The Presbyterians certainly will not; and, indeed, I think that Cromwell himself, who is by far the greatest soul now living, would deem it impracticable to have in power again those ecclesiastics who have truckled slavishly to the Court and laid an unbearable yoke on the consciences of Englishmen. Were all prelates like the Bishop of Hereford, and all parsons like yourself, sir, a reconciliation would be easy enough; but as it is, I fear Waghorn is right in prophesying trouble.”
Then he told them of his visit to the Tower, and Hilary’s face grew tender and wistful as she learnt of the proposals for the Archbishop’s flight.
After all, was not her Puritan lover one who merited deep respect? However much they differed, did she not in her heart of hearts still love him?
“And if I do, I’ll never, never admit it,” she reflected. “He can go wed some strait-laced, prim, Puritan lady, and I will sing ‘God save King Charles,’ and die a maid.”
As this grey future vision rose before her the haughty brown head drooped a little, and the dark eyes were soft and sad as she made her farewells to the physician.
“I am glad to have seen you,” he said, saluting her in his usual fashion. “Perhaps you, with your womanly grace and sympathy, will be able to win Peter Waghorn from his uncharitableness.”
Dr. Harford, like the “generous Christian” sung by the poet Quarles, was blest with the necessary “ounce of serpent” to flavour his “pound of dove.” The words of appreciation instantly appealed to Hilary, and actually called up for a time those very qualities which were too apt to lie dormant in her heart.
“I will try to feel more kindly to him,” she said; “and when you write to Gabriel, pray tell him how glad I am that he hath recovered.”