Something in the confidence of his tone was so full of youth and inexperience that the Bishop felt a fatherly compassion taking possession of him.
“My lad,” he said, quietly, “you think thus in all honesty, but you are going to live in one of the most wicked cities in the world. You know not how great are the temptations you will have to face.”
“Yet if love be in truth akin to love Divine, it will ‘defend us from all ill,’” said Gabriel, musingly; and to both of them it seemed that the music of the old Psalm echoed Softly through the cloisters.
It was not very often that the Bishop turned from his theological studies to direct talk with one of Gabriel’s stamp; he began now to think that, after all, poor Frank Unett’s notion had been right, and that a Harford would make a good husband.
“Lad,” he said, “believe me, I desire only what is best for you and my grandchild. If I were to consent to a betrothal now on the understanding that it is not publicly announced, would you on your part undertake to avoid Hereford for the next two years? Time would then test and try you both.” Gabriel’s face fairly shone.
“My lord,” he said, breathlessly, “I will gladly bear any waiting if only we are permitted to be betrothed; and no one need be aware of it except my parents, and, if you will permit it, my godmother, Mrs. Joyce Jefferies.”
The Bishop smiled. “Yes, let Mrs. Jefferies know, for, in truth, it was a few words she spoke to me that inclined me to listen to your appeal. Go now, and talk over matters with your father, and I will prepare Mrs. Unett and Hilary for your call.” All this time Hilary had seen no member of the next-door household save little Bridstock, the brother born during Gabriel’s school days, who had, of course, no notion of keeping aloof from her and knew nothing of their trouble. Her face grew radiant when the Bishop told her of his interview with Gabriel. Nevertheless, the call—a state visit, paid in company with his father—was a rather formidable affair for the lovers, who left most of the talking to their elders, but their spirits rose when Dr. Harford proposed a ride for the following day.
“I have to go over to Bosbury to see a patient,” he said, “and if the day is fine I hope Mrs. Unett will entrust you to me.”
That Hilary should often accompany Gabriel and his father had long been a custom, and the enforced home-keeping of the past fortnight had been hard to bear. The girl’s face was radiant when once again she found herself riding with her lover through St. Owen’s Gate and out into the lovely country beyond. The unexpected relief after those weary days of sorrow made it wholly impossible to trouble as to the future. To-morrow there would indeed be parting, but for this one day they were as happy and light-hearted as children, and with an added rapture which no child can feel. On they rode past hedges bright with briony berries and brambles, or veiled with feathery traveller’s joy; past hopyards where the pickers were hard at work, their many-coloured raiment making patches of brightness in the long green avenues; past orchards where the trees were bending under their load of rosy or golden apples; while ever and anon would come glimpses of the Malvern hills with their exquisite colouring, not to be surpassed in richness by any other hills in existence. At length the pretty village of Bosbury was reached, and Dr. Harford pointed out to Hilary the old house of the Harfords in which some of the happiest days of his childhood had been spent—a fine gabled mansion with heavily mullioned windows. It had passed now into other hands, and the doctor never willingly entered it, being a man who disliked seeing his sacred places under new conditions.
“I have to see old Mr. Wall, the vicar,” he said to his son, “and as my visit is likely to be a long one we will bait the horses at the Bell, and you may show Hilary the monuments if she is disposed to look at them.”