The good-natured housekeeper gasped, her simple mind could not in the least understand the subtle workings of Hilary’s more complex nature.
“Talk about pussy’s bowels being injured by beetles,” she said to herself, “’tis my belief the lassie has no bowels at all. Was ever such a heartless speech!”
“Well, Mistress, I was saying how Mr. Gabriel Harford had gone to join the Earl of Essex’s army, along with his friend Mr. Edward Harley that was at Oxford with him.”
“Oh, indeed,” said Hilary, carrying her head high. “Dr. Rogers tells me the troopers stabled their horses in the nave and cloisters at Worcester. Send up Maria to fetch my cape and hood, Durdle; they got crushed in the coach, and had best be ironed.”
Then humming a cheerful song, she quitted the kitchen and sauntered out into the garden, her heart throbbing as if it would choke her.
“He has joined the rebel army, and ’tis my fault,” she thought, in anguish. “If he is killed, his death will be my doing! Oh, why was I so cruel? Naught I could say would have changed his views, but at least he would have gone quietly back to his studies had I not taunted him.”
Every nook in the garden seemed haunted by memories of lost happiness, she could not pass the sunny wall to which the apricot trees were fastened, or look towards the stone bench by the briar bush, without seeing in fancy her lover’s face; and she knew very well why he had wandered into that special place on the night of the servants’ alarm about the soldiers.
The sound of the gardener singing, as he gathered the apples, smote discordantly on her ear, and specially when drawing nearer she caught the doleful words of an old ballad called “The Wife of Usher’s Well,” in which the ghosts of the three dead sons return to their home, but can only remain for the briefest of visits. The gardener sang with stolid cheerfulness as he filled his basket:
“The cock doth craw, the day doth daw
The channerin’ worm doth chide;