“In truth it hath brought sorrow to every home,” said Dame Elizabeth. “Think what it means for us to have one son fighting for the King and two for the Parliament! I love them alike, and there is never a moment’s ease or relief.”
“But you can rightly love all your sons, madam. My case is different. I—I am half ashamed to tell you how it is with me,” faltered Hilary, drooping her head.
“Perchance I can guess,” said Dame Elizabeth, caressing her. “Methinks, child, you do not know your own heart.”
“That is the very truth,” said Hilary, blushing, and lowering her voice. “This morning I thought—I fancied—that a loyal King’s officer had the chief place there; and now—now—I am half afraid that all the time my heart has been harbouring a rebel.”
“Try to forget their opinions, and think of them only as men. Believe me, child, love has naught to do with matters of State.”
“That is what Gabriel Harford always said—we were betrothed before the war began.”
“And then, I suppose, you quarrelled.”
“Yes—we—parted. I vowed I would never wed a man who was not loyal, and he protested that loyalty meant faithfulness to law.”
“’Tis what my sons said, too. The King had unlawfully imprisoned, unlawfully taxed and unlawfully governed without a Parliament for eleven years, and they said they must defend the ancient liberties of England. Tell me of this other lover, child.”
“Gabriel thinks him unfit to speak to me, and says that the Royalists themselves blame his way of life.”