.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 50978
   :PG.Title: The Lion's Whelp
   :PG.Released: 2016-01-19
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Amelia E. Barr
   :MARCREL.ill: Lee Woodward Zeigler
   :DC.Title: The Lion's Whelp
              A Story of Cromwell's Time
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1901
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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THE LION'S WHELP
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   .. _`"'NOW LET GOD ARISE!'"`:

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      :alt: "'NOW LET GOD ARISE!'"

      "'NOW LET GOD ARISE!'"

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      *The
      Lion's Whelp*

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      *A Story of Cromwell's Time*

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      *By
      Amelia E. Barr*

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      *Author of
      "The Bow of Orange Ribbon," "I, Thou, and the
      Other One," "The Maid of Maiden Lane," etc.*

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      *With Illustrations by
      Lee Woodward Zeigler*

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      *New York
      Dodd, Mead & Company
      1901*

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      *Copyright, 1901, by
      DODD, MEAD & COMPANY*

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      *All rights reserved*

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      THE CAXTON PRESS
      NEW YORK.

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   Contents

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   CHAP.

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I.  `SWAFFHAM AND DE WICK`_
II.  `DOCTOR JOHN VERITY`_
III.  `WOVEN OF LOVE AND GLORY`_
IV.  `SO SWEET A DREAM`_
V.  `SHEATHED SWORDS`_
VI.  `ON THE TIDE TOP`_
VII.  `TWO LOVE AFFAIRS`_
VIII.  `UPON THE THRESHOLD`_
IX.  `CROMWELL INTERFERES`_
X.  `RUPERT AND CLUNY`_
XI.  `OLIVER PROTECTOR`_
XII.  `HOLD THOU MY HANDS`_
XIII.  `CHANGES AT DE WICK`_
XIV.  `A LITTLE FURTHER ON`_
XV.  `THE FATE OF LORD CLUNY NEVILLE`_
XVI.  `OLIVER THE CONQUEROR`_

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   List of Illustrations

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`"'Now let god arise!'"`_ Frontispiece

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`"When he came again it was harvest time."`_

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`"Then he dropped his blade into the sheathe with a clang."`_

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`"Beheld Cromwell standing upon the threshold."`_

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`"The hawthorns were in flower."`_

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`"Rupert stood still, and bowed gravely."`_

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`"Three ominous-looking papers."`_

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`"'Lift up your heads, O ye gates, and the King of
Glory shall come in.'"`_

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.. _`SWAFFHAM AND DE WICK`:

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   *BOOK I*

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   *The Hour and The Man*

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   |  "Unknown to Cromwell as to me,
   |  Was Cromwell's measure or degree.
   |
   |     \*      \*      \*      \*      \*
   |
   |  He works, plots, fights, in rude affairs,
   |  With 'squires, lords, kings, his craft compares,
   |  Till late he learned, through doubt and fear,
   |  Broad England harbored not his peer."
   |                                    —*Emerson*.

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   The Lion's Whelp

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   CHAPTER I

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   SWAFFHAM AND DE WICK

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"Sway the tide of battle which way it will, human existence is
held together by its old, and only tenure of earnest thoughts, and
quiet affections."

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During the seventeenth century Swaffham Manor House
was one of the most picturesque dwellings in Cambridgeshire.
It was so old that it had a sort of personality.  It
was Swaffham.  For as the Yorkshireman, in speaking of
his beloved rivers, disdains the article "the" and calls them
with proud familiarity, Aire, Ure, Ribble, so to the men of
the country between Huntingdon and Cambridge, this
ancient dwelling was never the Manor House; it was the
synonym of its builders, and was called by their
name—Swaffham.  For it was the history of the Swaffham family
in stone and timber, and no one could enter its large, low
rooms without feeling saturated and informed with the
spiritual and physical aura of the men and women who had
for centuries lived and died under its roof.

The central tower—built of the white stone of the
neighbourhood—-was the fortress which Tonbert Swaffham erected
A.D. 870, to defend his lands from an invasion of the
Danes; and five generations of Tonbert's descendants
dwelt in that tower, before William of Normandy took
possession of the crown of England.  The Swaffham of
that date became a friend of the Conqueror; the Manor
was enriched by his gifts; and the Manor House—enlarged
and beautified by various holders—had the singular
fortune to be identified with the stirring events of every
dynasty.

In the middle of the seventeenth century it still retained
this character.  Puritan councils of offense and defense
had been held in its great hall, and parliamentary soldiers
drilled in its meadows.  For Captain Israel Swaffham was
the friend of General Cromwell, and at the time this story
opens was with Cromwell in Scotland.  Nothing of good
in the old race was lacking in Captain Israel.  He was a
soldier going forth on a holy errand, hurrying to serve God
on the battle-field; faithful, as a man must be who could
say after a hard day's fighting,

"Tired!  No.  It is not for me to let my right hand
grow tired, if God's work be half-done."

A great fighter, he had no parliamentary talent, and no
respect for parliaments.  He believed England's religious
and civil liberties were to be saved by the sword, and the
sword in the hand of his great leader, Oliver Cromwell;
and when the King's fast-and-loose proposals had been
discussed by the men of Cambridgeshire, in Swaffham, he
had closed the argument with this passionate declaration:

"There is no longer disputing with such a double mind
as the mind of Charles Stuart.  The very oath of God
would not bind him.  Out, instantly, all of you who can!"

His three sons rose at his words and the rest of the
council followed, for all felt that the work was but half
done—there was to be a Second Civil War.  Then home was
again deserted for the battle-field, and Captain Swaffham's
wife and daughter were once more left alone in the old
Manor House.

Mrs. Swaffham was the child of a Puritan minister, and
she had strong Puritan principles; but these were subject
to passing invasions of feeling not in accord with them.
There were hours when she had pitied the late King, excused
his inexcusable treacheries, and regretted the pomps and
ceremonies of royal state.  She had even a feeling that
England, unkinged, had lost prestige and was like a
dethroned nation.  In such hours she fretted over her absent
husband and sons, and said words hard for her daughter
Jane to listen to with any sympathy or patience.

For Jane Swaffham was of a different spirit.  She had a
soul of the highest mettle; and she had listened to those
English mystics, who came out of the steel ranks of
triumphant Puritanism, until she had caught their spirit and
been filled through and through with their faith.  The
Swaffhams were a tall race; but Jane was a woman of
small stature and slender frame, and her hair, though
abundant, wanted the rich brown hue that was the heritage
of the Swaffham beauties.  No one spoke of Jane as a
beauty; the memory of her sister Amity—who had
married Lord Armingford—and of her aunt, Cicely Compton,
both women of rare loveliness, qualified Jane's claim to
this family distinction.  And yet she had a fresh, bright
face, a face like a sweet single rose of the wood; one could
see straight to her heart through it—a loving, cheerful
daughter of righteousness; not perfect by any means;
subject to little bursts of temper, and to opinions so positive
they had the air of bigotry; but with all her faults
holding that excellent oneness of mind, which has no doubts
and no second thoughts.

This was the maiden who was sitting, one sunny
afternoon, at the open window of the household parlour in
Swaffham.  The lazy wind brought her delicious puffs of
sweetbrier scent, and in the rich fields beyond the garden she
could hear the voices of the reapers calling to each other as
they bound the wheat.  On the hearthstone, her mother's
wheel hummed in a fitful way, now rapidly, now slowly,
anon stopping altogether.  Jane was quite idle.  A tray
full of ripe lavender spikes was at her side and a partly
finished little bag of sheer muslin was in her hand, but the
work was not progressing.  When thoughts are happy, the
needle flies, when they are troubled or perplexed, the hands
drop down and it becomes an effort to draw the thread.
Jane was thinking of her father and brothers, of the
unhappy condition of England, and of the unrest in their own
household.  For she knew that her mother was worried
about many things, and the fret that was bred in the kitchen
and the farm offices—in spite of all her efforts—insinuated
itself into the still order of the handsome room in which she
was sitting.  She felt her mother's silence to be unpleasantly
eloquent.  The fitful wheel complained.  It was a
relief when Mrs. Swaffham brought to audible conclusions,
the voiceless tension in which they were sitting.

"My work is never out of hand, Jane," she said
fretfully.  "I am fairly downhearted to-day—so put to the
push as I have been, with women in the kitchen and men
in the fields."

"Dear mother, it may not be for long."

"It will be long enough to bring everything to wrack and
ruin.  The dairy is twenty-four shillings short this week."

"There are perhaps fewer cows in milk."

"The wool is short weight also; one of the gray horses
is sick; the best thresher has gone soldiering, like the rest
of the fools."

"Mother!"

"And Will Will-be-so has the rheumatism, and in spite
of his Bible and his psalm-singing, has been to Dame
Yodene for a charm."

"Why did he not come to you for flannel and a plaster?"

"Come to me!  That goes without saying.  I went out
of my way to help him, and then he wished Master Israel
was home, and said 'there was no rheumatics when he was
round looking after his men.'  I fired up, then, when he
spoke that way—laying to my account the wettings he gets
coming from the ale-house at nights; and then he muttered
'Women's ways—Will-be-so.'"

"Will is very provoking.  I wish he would go to the wars."

"He likes the tap at Widow Tasburgh's, and the blacksmith's
forge too well—let alone the women in the kitchen,
who are all quarreling about him.  And then there is this
new girl, Susannah, who is more pretty than need be; her
face gets her too much favour with the men and too little
with the women.  When Doctor Verity comes next, I
must tell him to give a few words suitable at the Evening
Service.  They are a lazy, quarreling set, and every one of
them does their work against the collar."

"Father told me he was led to believe he would not be
long away.  He said this campaign would be short and
fierce, for General Cromwell looks on its necessity as the
unpardonable sin in Charles Stuart."

"Short and fierce!  Well, then, General Cromwell is
well able to put fighting men up to that kind of thing."

"You are out with the General, mother, and all because
you miss father so much."

"I am out with the war, Jane.  What is the good of it?
Charles Stuart alive, stands for his Prerogative just where
Charles Stuart dead, did."

"The war is now an appeal to God.  That is the good
of it.  You heard what Doctor Verity said of its necessity—and
you agreed with him.  Indeed, who could gainsay his
words?  He spoke as if he had heard God's command 'Up
and be doing, and I will help you.'"

"Is God, then, the God of war?  No, Jane.  I will not
believe it."

"God is the God of blessings, mother; but as the
ploughshare breaks up the earth for the corn seed,
so does the red ploughshare of war break up the heart
of the nation for the blessing of freedom which shall
follow it."

"I know not; I know not; but I am sure if there were
no kings and queens in the world it would be little loss to
God Almighty, or to any one else."

At this moment there was the sound of wheels and the
tramp of horses, and Jane said, "It is Matilda de Wick.  I
know the roll of the carriage.  Dear mother, keep a bright
face in her presence.  She will see everything, and draw
conclusions from the smallest matter."  Then Jane lifted
her sewing, and the wheel began to hum, and the door
opened swiftly and Matilda de Wick entered.

"I have just been at Ely," she said, "and if I live
seven-and-fifty years longer in this sinful world, I shall not
forget the visit."  Then she laughed with a merry scorn,
kissed Jane on the cheek, and laid off her hat, heavy with
white plumes.  "It is good-bye to my senses," she
continued; "I am out of wisdom this afternoon—lend me
your sobriety, Jane.  I have been visiting Lady Heneage,
and I have heard so much of the Cromwell's full cup that,
in faith, I think it has gone to my head.  Do I look
sensible?  I have no hope of my words, and I pray you excuse
whatever I may say."

"I trust Lady Heneage is well," said Mrs. Swaffham.

"She had need to be well.  Her house is as full as the ark.
Mrs. Elizabeth Hampden is there, and daughter Flambord,
and daughter Clayton, and all their children and retainers.
It is their last gathering before they go away.  Do you
wish to know where they are going?  To London, of
course.  When people carry themselves to such a height,
no other city is big enough.  But I ask pardon; I told you
my words had lost their senses."

"Why do you go to see Lady Heneage if you like her
not and surely you like her not, or you would not make a
mock of her doings."

"I like to go where good fortune sits, Jane—and in
these days no one can expect honour that deserves it.  You
know also that the last Heneage baby was named for me,
and I got word that it was short-coated last Sunday; and so
I went to see the little brat.  It is a beauty, if it hold on to
its good looks; and 'tis like to do so, for whatever Heneage
gets, Heneage keeps."

"And they are going to London?  Is it really so?" asked
Jane.

"'Tis not very civil to doubt it.  I dare be sworn it is as
true as a thing can be, when the world is topsy-turvy.  But
that is not all of my news—I heard also that Jane
Swaffham was going to London—a thing I would not believe
without Jane's assurance."

"It is very uncertain," replied Mrs. Swaffham.  "Jane
has an invitation from Mary Cromwell, and if Doctor
Verity comes here soon, he may find the time to take her
to London with him.  We know not assuredly, as yet."

"Jane must move mountains to go.  The Cromwells are
now living in the stately Cockpit.  They will hold court
there, and Jane Swaffham will be of it.  'Tis said all this
honour for the Irish campaign."

"Then it is well deserved," answered Jane with some heat.

"Jane," said Mrs. Swaffham, "I can not abide any more
quarreling to-day.  If you and Matilda get on that subject,
truth and justice will go to the wall.  Monstrous lies are
told about Ireland, and you both suck them down as if they
were part of the Gospels."  Then turning to Matilda she
asked, "Why does the Heneage family go to London?"

"Indeed, madame, now that Mr. Cromwell has become
Captain-General, and Commander-in-Chief, why should not
all his old friends go to London?  London has gone mad
over the man; even that supreme concourse of rebels called
Parliament rose up, bareheaded, to receive him when he
last honoured them with a visit."

"Just what they ought to have done," said Jane.  "Is
there any corner of England not coupled gloriously with his
name?"

"And Ireland?"

"Gloriously also."

"Pray, then, is it not extremely natural for his old friends
to wish to see his glory?"

"I am sure of one thing," answered Jane.  "Public
honours please not General Cromwell.  He would thank
God to escape them."

"I do not say that the wish to see him honoured is
universal," continued Matilda.  "Father Sacy thinks there
are a few thousand men still living in England who have not
bowed the knee to this Baal."

"It is wicked to liken a good man to a devil, Matilda;
and if mother will sit and listen to such words, I will not.
And, look you, though Charles Stuart's men turn up their
noses and the palms of their hands at General Cromwell, he
stands too high for them to pull him down.  Cromwell will
work and fight the time appointed him—and after that he
will rest in the Lord.  For he is good, and just, and brave
as a lion, and there is not a man or woman can say
different—not a man or woman treading English ground to-day
that can, in truth, say different!  Always he performs God's
will and pleasure."

"Or the devil's."

"He is a good man.  I say it."

"And he knows it; and that is where his hypocrisy
comes in—I——"

"Children!  Children! can you find nothing more lovely
to talk about?  Matilda, you know that you are baiting
Jane's temper only that you may see her lose it."

Then Matilda laughed, and stooping to her friend, kissed
her and said, "Come, little Jane, I will ask your pardon.  It
is the curse of these days, that one must lie to one's own
heart, or quarrel with the heart one loves.  Kiss and be
friends, Jane.  I came to get your receipt for lavender
conserves, and this is nothing to it."

"Jane was conserving, yesterday," answered Mrs. Swaffham,
"and she has a new receipt from her sister Armingford
for brewing a drink against sleeplessness.  It is to be
made from the blue flowers picked from the knaps."

"That is fortunate," said Matilda.  "You know that
my father has poor health, and his liking for study makes
him ailing, of late.  He sleeps not.  I wish that I had a
composing draught for him.  Come, Jane, let us go to the
still-room."  She spoke with an unconscious air of authority,
and Jane as unconsciously obeyed it, but there was a
coldness in her manner which did not disappear until the
royalist lady had talked with her for half-an-hour about the
spices and the distilled waters that were to prevail against
the Earl's sleeplessness.

When the electuary had been prepared, the girls became
silent.  They were as remarkably contrasted as were the
tenets, religious and civil, for which they stood.  But if
mere physical ascendency could have dominated Jane Swaffham,
she was in its presence.  Yet it was not Matilda, but
Jane, who filled the cool, sweet place with a sense of power
not to be disputed.  Her pale hair was full of light and life;
it seemed to shine in its waving order and crown-like coil.
Her eyes had a steady glow in their depths that was
invincible; her slight form was proudly poised; her whole
manner resolute and a little cold, as of one who was putting
down an offense only half-forgiven.

Matilda was conscious of Jane's influence, and she called
all her own charms forth to rival it.  Putting out of
account her beautiful face and stately figure as not likely to
affect Jane, she assumed the manner she had never known
to fail—a manner half-serious and wholly affectionate and
confidential.  She knew that Swaffham was always a safe
subject, and that a conversation set to that key went
directly to Jane's heart.  So, turning slowly round to observe
everything, she said,

"How cool and sweet is this place, Jane!"

"It is, Matilda.  I often think that one might receive
angels among these pure scents."

"Oh, I vow it is the rosemary!  Let me put my hands
through it," and she hastily pulled off her white
embroidered gloves, and passed her hands, shining with gems,
through the deliciously fragrant green leaves.

"I have a passion for rosemary," she continued.  "It
always perfigures good fortune to me.  Sometimes if I wake
in the night I smell it—I smell miles of it—and then I
know my angel has been to see me, and that some good
thing will tread in her footsteps."

"I ever think of rosemary for burials," said Jane.

"And I for bridals, and for happiness; but it

   |  "'Grows for two ends, it matters not at all,
   |  Be it for bridal, or for burial.'"

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"That is true, "answered Jane.  "I remember hearing
my father say that when Queen Elizabeth made her joyful
entry into London, every one carried rosemary posies; and
that Her Grace kept in her hand, from the Fleet Bridge to
Westminster, a branch of rosemary that had been given
her by a poor old woman."

"That was a queen indeed!  Had she reigned this day,
there had been no Cromwell."

"Who can tell that?  England had to come out of the
Valley and Shadow of Popery, and it is the Lord General's
sword that shall lead her into the full light—there is
something round your neck, Matilda, that looks as if you were
still in darkness."

Then Matilda laughed and put her hand to her throat,
and slipped into her bosom a rosary of coral and gold
beads.  "It was my mother's," she said; "you know that
she was of the Old Profession, and I wear it for her
sake."

"It is said that Charles Stuart also wears one for his
mother's sake."

"It is a good man that remembers a good mother; and
the King is a good man."

"There is no king in England now, Matilda, and no
question of one."

"There is a king, whether we will or no.  The king
never dies; the crown is the crown, though it hang on a
hedge bush."

"That is frivolous nonsense, Matilda.  The Parliament
is king."

"Oh, the pious gang!  This is a strange thing that has
come to pass in our day, Jane—that an anointed king should
be deposed and slain.  Who ever heard the like?"

"Read your histories, Matilda.  It is a common thing
for tyrannical kings to have their executioners.  Charles
Stuart suffered lawfully and by consent of Parliament."

"A most astonishing difference!" answered Matilda,
drawing on her gloves impatiently, "to be murdered with
consent of Parliament! that is lawful; without consent of
Parliament, that is very wicked indeed.  But even as a man
you might pity him."

"Pity him!  Not I!  He has his just reward.  He
bound himself for his enemies with cords of his own
spinning.  But you will not see the truth, Matilda——"

"So then, it is useless wasting good Puritan breath on
me.  Dear Jane, can we never escape this subject?  Here,
in this sweet room, why do we talk of tragedies?"

Jane was closing the still-room door as this question was
asked, and she took her friend by the arm and said, "Come,
and I will show you a room in which another weak,
wicked king prefigured the calamity that came to his
successor in our day."  Then she opened a door in the same
tower, and they were in a chamber that was, even on this
warm harvest day, cold and dark.  For the narrow loophole
window had not been changed, as in the still-room, for
wide lattices; and the place was mouldy and empty and
pervaded by an old, unhappy atmosphere.

"What a wretched room!  It will give me an ague,"
said Matilda.

"It was to this room King John came, soon after his barons
had compelled him to sign the Great Charter of Liberties.
And John was only an earlier Charles Stuart—just as
tyrannical—just as false—and his barons were his parliament.
He lay on the floor where you are now standing, and in his
passion bit and gnawed the green rushes with which it was
strewed, and cursed the men who he said had 'made
themselves twenty-four over-kings.'  So you see that it is not a
new thing for Englishmen to war against their kings."

"Poor kings!"

"They should behave themselves better."

"Let us go away.  I am shivering."  Then as they
turned from the desolate place, she said with an attempt at
indifference, "When did you hear from Cymlin?  And
pray in what place must I remember him now?"

"I know not particularly.  Wherever the Captain-General
is, there Cymlin Swaffham is like to be."

"At Ely, they were talking of Cromwell as near to
Edinburgh."

"Then we shall hear tidings of him soon.  He goes not
anywhere for nothing."

"Why do you not ask after Stephen's fortune—good or
bad?"

"I did not at the moment think of Stephen.  When
Cromwell is in the mind 'tis impossible to find him fit
company.  It is he, and he only."

"Yet if ever Stephen de Wick gets a glimpse of home,
it is not home to him until he has been at Swaffham."

Jane made no answer, and they walked silently to the
door where Matilda's carriage was waiting.  Mrs. Swaffham
joined them as Matilda was about to leave, and the girl
said, "I had come near to forgetting something I wished to
tell you.  One of those men called Quakers was preaching
his new religion at Squire Oliver Leder's last night.  There
was much disputing about him to-day."

"I wonder then," said Mrs. Swaffham, "that we were
not asked.  I have desired to hear some of these men.  It is
said they are mighty in the Scriptures, and that they preach
peace, which—God knows—is the doctrine England now needs."

"Many were there.  I heard of the Flittons and Mossleys
and the Traffords and others.  But pray what is the
good of preaching 'peace' when Cromwell is going up and
down the land with a drawn sword.  It is true also that
these Quakers themselves always bring quarreling and
persecution with them."

"That is not their fault," said Jane.  "The preacher
can only give the Word, and if people will quarrel about it
and rend it to and fro, that is not the preacher's fault.  But,
indeed, all testify that these people called Quakers quake at
nothing, and are stiff and unbendable in their own way."

"So are the Independents, and the Anabaptists, and the
Presbyterians, and the Fifth Monarchy Men, and the Root
and Branch Men, and——"

"The Papists, and the Episcopalians," added Jane.

"Faith!  No one can deny it."

"What said Lady Heneage of the preacher?" asked
Mrs. Swaffham.

"She thought he ought to be put in the stocks; and her
sister Isabel said that he was a good man, and had the root
of the matter in him.  Madame Flitton was of the same
opinion, though she did not feel at liberty to approve
entirely.  Others considered him full of temper and very
forward, and the argument was hot, and quite Christian-like.
I heard that he was to preach again at Deeping Den.
Now I must make what haste I can; my father will be
angry at my delay.  Good-bye! faithful till we meet
again."

"She says 'faithful,' yet knows not how to be faithful."

Mrs. Swaffham did not answer Jane's remark.  She was
thinking of the Quaker sermon at Oliver Leder's, and
wondering why they had not been asked to hear it.  "We
ought to have been asked," she said to Jane as they turned
into the house.  "Leaving out Swaffham was bad treatment,
and when I say bad, I mean bad.  Did Matilda take
the electuary for her father?"

"She was very little in earnest, and had forgotten it but
for my reminding."

"She is much changed."

"It would be strange indeed if she was not changed.
Before these troubles she was a girl living at her mother's
knee, petted by her father, and the idol of her brothers.
Two of her brothers fell fighting by the side of Prince
Rupert, her mother wept herself into the grave for
them, her father is still nursing the wound he got at Naseby,
and her only brother, Stephen, is with Charles Stuart,
wherever he may be.  If such troubles did not change a girl, she
would be hewn from the very rock of selfishness.  Matilda
is far from that.  She loves with a whole heart, and will go
all lengths to prove it.  We do not know the new Matilda yet."

Jane would have made this remark still more positively,
if she could have seen her friend as soon as Swaffham was
left behind.  She sat erect, lost in thought, and her eyes
had a look in them full of anxiety and sorrow.  The
sadness of an immense disillusion was over her.  But she
belonged to that imperial race who never lose heart in any
trouble.  To the very last she must hope; to the very last
believe even against hope and against reason.  Her life had
gone to ruin, but she trusted that some miracle would
restore it.  Not for long could any mood of despair subdue
her; infallibly she must shake it away.  For there was
no egotism in her grief, she could suffer cheerfully with
others; it was her isolation that hurt her.  All her old
friends had departed.  The grave had some; others had
taken different ways, or battle and exile had scattered them.
By the side of her sick father she stood alone, feeling that
even Jane—her familiar friend—doubted her, no longer
took her at her word, called in question what she said, and
held herself so far aloof that she could not reach her heart.
Oppressed by such considerations, she felt like a child that
suddenly realises it has lost its way and is left alone in a
wilderness.

Nothing in her surroundings offered her any help.  The
road was flat and dreary; a wide level intersected with deep
drains and "droves"—a poor, rough, moist land, whose
horizon was only broken by the towers of Ely, vast and gray
in the distance.  Large iron gates admitted her to de Wick
park, and she entered an avenue bordered with ash trees,
veiled in mist, and spreading out on either hand into a green
chase full of tame deer.  The House—pieced on to the
broad walls of an Augustine monastery—was overshadowed
by ash trees.  It was a quadrangular building of various
dates, the gray walls rising from trim gardens with
box-edged flower plots and clipped yew hedges.  There was a
large fish pond teeming with perch, and pike, and eels; and
black colonies of rooks filled the surrounding trees, and
perched on the roof of the mansion.  An old-world sleepy
air, lonely and apart and full of melancholy, pervaded the
place.

But all these things were part and parcel of the word
Home.  Matilda regarded them not in particular, they only
affected her unconsciously as the damp air or the gathering
shadows of the evening did.  The door stood open, and she
passed without delay into the wide entrance hall.  It was
chill with the drifting fog, and dark with the coming night
shadows; but there was a good fire of ash logs at the upper
end, and she stood a few minutes before it, feeling a
certain exhilaration in its pleasant warmth and leaping flame.
Then she went leisurely up the broad stairway.  It was of
old oak with curiously carved balusters, surmounted by
grotesque animal forms; but she did not notice these ugly
creations as she climbed with graceful lassitude the dark
steps, letting her silk robe trail and rustle behind her.  Her
hat, with its moist drooping feathers, was in her hand; her
hair hung limply about her brow and face; she was the very
picture of a beauty that had suffered the touch of adverse
nature, and the depression of unsympathetic humanity.

But the moment she entered her own room she had the
sense of covert and refreshment.  Its dark splendour of oak
and damask was brought out by the glow and flame of
firelight and candle-light; and her maid came forward with that
air of affectionate service, which in Matilda's present mood
seemed of all things most grateful and pleasant.  She put
off her sense of alienation and unhappiness with her damp
clothing, and as the comfort of renewal came to her
outwardly, the inner woman also regained her authority; and
the girl conscious of this potent personality, erected herself
in its strength and individuality.  She surveyed her freshly
clad form in its gown of blue lutestring; she turned right
and left to admire a fresh arrangement of her hair; she put
around her neck, without pretense of secrecy or apology,
the rosary of coral and gold; and admired the tint and
shimmer of its beauty on her white throat.  Then she
asked—

"Was any stranger with the Earl at dinner, Delia?"

"My lady, he dined with Father Sacy alone."

"And pray what did they eat for dinner?"

"There was a sucking pig roasted with juniper wood and
rosemary branches, and a jugged hare, and a pullet, and
some clotted cream and a raspberry tart.  All very good,
my lady; will you please to eat something?"

"Yes.  I will have some jugged hare, and some clotted
cream, and a raspberry tart—and a glass of Spanish wine,
Delia, and a pitcher of new milk.  Have them served as
soon as possible."

"In what room, my lady?"

"In what room is the Earl, my father, now sitting?"

"In the morning room."

"Then serve it in the morning room."

She took one comfortable glance at herself, and in the
pleasure of its assurance went down-stairs.  Her step was
now firm and rapid, yet she paused a moment at the door
of the room she wished to enter, and called up smiles to
her face and a sort of cheerful bravado to her manner ere
she lifted the steel hasp that admitted her.  In a moment
her quick eyes took a survey of its occupants.  They were
only two men—Earl de Wick, and his chaplain, Father
Sacy.  Both were reading; the Earl, Sir Philip Sidney's
*Arcadia*; the Chaplain, the Evening Service in the Book of
Common Prayer.  Neither of them noticed her entrance,
and she went straight to her father's side, and covering the
open page with her hand, said in a merry tone—

"Here is a noble knight dwelling in Arcadia, while the
great Captain-General Cromwell——"

"The devil!"

"Is going up and down and to and fro in the land, seeking
whom he may devour.  I have been at Ely and at Swaffham,
gathering what news I can, and I assure you, sir,
there is none to our comfort."

"What have you heard?  Anything about the Scots?"

"Cromwell is in Scotland.  What do you expect from
that news?"

"That Leslie will be his match."

"Then you will be disappointed.  'There is a tide in the
affairs of men,' and this tide of Cromwell and the
Commonwealth is going to sweep all royalty and all nobility
into the deep sea."

"Well, then, I may as well return to my *Arcadia* and
learn how to be rustical.  We nobles may play at Canute
if we like—but—but——"

"It is useless, while this man's star flames in the
firmament.  I hear that the Parliament rose bareheaded to
receive him when he last entered the House.  If he were
king, they could have done no more.  They have also
given to him and his family a royal lodging in the Cockpit,
and already the women are removed thither.  If he conquers
the Scotch army, what more can they offer him but
the crown?"

"Those unlucky Stuarts!  They will swallow up all
England's chivalry.  Oh, for one campaign with Queen
Elizabeth at its head!  She would send old Oliver with his
Commonwealth to the bottomless pit, and order him to tell
the devil that Elizabeth Tudor sent him there."

"The Stuarts are of God's anointing; and there are bad
kings, and unlucky kings in all royal houses.  I stood
to-day where King John lay cursing and biting the rushes on
the floor, because his barons had made themselves his
over-kings."

"John's barons had some light," said the Earl.  "They
hated John for the reason England now hates the Stuarts.
He perjured himself neck deep; he brought in foreign
troops to subjugate Englishmen; he sinned in all things as
Charles Stuart has sinned."

"Sir, are you not going too far?" asked the Chaplain,
lifting his eyes from his book.

"I thought you were at your prayers, father.  No, by
all that is truthful, I am right!  In the Great Charter, the
barons specially denounce King John as '*regem perjurum
ac baronibus rebellem*.'  The same thing might fairly be
said of Charles Stuart.  Yet while a Stuart is King of
England, it is the de Wicks' duty to stand by him.  But I
would to God I had lived when Elizabeth held the sceptre!
No Cromwell had smitten it out of her hand, as Cromwell
smote it from the hand of Charles on Naseby's field."

"That is supposition, my Lord."

"It is something more, father.  Elizabeth had to deal
with a fiercer race than Charles had, but she knew how to
manage it.  Look at the pictures of the de Wicks in her
time.  They are the pictures of men who would stand for
their rights against 'prerogative' of any kind, yet the great
Queen made them obey her lightest word.  How did she
do it?  I will tell you—she scorned to lie to them, and
she was brave as a lion.  If she had wanted the Five
Members in the Tower of London, they would have gone
to the Tower of London; her crown for it!  It was my
great-grandfather who held her bridle reins when she
reviewed her troops going to meet the Spaniards of the
Armada.  No hesitating, no tampering, no doubts, no fears
moved her.  She spoke one clear word to them, and she
threw herself unreservedly upon their love and loyalty.
'Let tyrants fear!' she cried.  'I have placed my chief
strength in the loyal hearts of my subjects, and I am come
amongst you resolved to live or die amongst you all—to
lay down for God, and my kingdom, and my people, my
honour and my blood, even in the dust.  I know I have the
body of a weak woman, but I have the heart and stomach
of a king, and of a King of England, too; and I think foul
scorn that Spain, or any prince of Europe should dare to
invade the borders of my realm!'  This was Elizabeth's
honest temper, and if Charles Stuart in throwing himself
upon his nobles and his country had been true to them, he
would never have gone to the scaffold.  This I say boldly,
and I mean what I say."

"Sir, many would mistake your words, and think you less
than loyal."

"Father, I have proved my loyalty with my children and
my blood; but among my own people and at my own hearth,
I may say that I would I had better reason for my loyalty.
I am true to my king, but above all else, I love my
country.  I love her beyond all words, though I am grateful to
one great Englishman for finding me words that I have
dipped in my heart's blood; words that I uttered on the
battle-field joyfully, when I thought they were my last
words—

   |  "'——this blessed spot, this earth, this realm, this England,
   |    This land of such dear souls, this dear, dear land!'"

.. vspace:: 2

"If to this degree you love England, father, how would
you like to see this beggarly Cromwell upon her throne?
How would you teach your head to bow to this upstart
majesty?"

"Matilda, to the devil we may give his due, and there is
naught of 'beggary' in Cromwell or in his family.  They
have entertained kings, and sat with nobles as equals, and as
for the man himself, he is a gentleman by birth and breeding.
I say it, for I have known him his life long, and if
you add every crime to his name, I will still maintain that
he has sinned with a clear conscience.  He stood by Charles
Stuart, and strove to save him until he found that Charles
Stuart stood by no man, and could be trusted by no man."

"My lord, you are very just to the man Cromwell.  Some
would not thank you for it."

"If we cannot be just, father, we may doubt the fairness
of our cause, perhaps also of our motives.  'Tis
impossible to consider this man's life since he walked to the
front of the Parliamentary army and not wonder at it."

"He is but the man of the hour, events have made him."

"Not so!  His success is in him, 'tis the breed of his own
heart and brain.  Well, then, this Scotch campaign is the
now or never of our effort.  If it fail, we may have a
Cromwell dynasty."

"'Tis an impossible event.  The man has slain the king
of England and throttled the Church of Christ.  Even this
holy Book in my hand has his condemnation—these gracious
prayers and collects, whose music is ready made for every
joy and sorrow—this noble Creed which we ought to sing
upon our knees, for nothing made of English words was
ever put together like it—yet you know how Cromwell's
Root and Branch men have slandered it."

"Alas, father! one kind of Christian generally slanders all
other kinds.  The worshipers of the heathen gods were at
least tolerant.  A pagan gentleman who had faith in his
own image of Bona Dea could still be friendly to an
acquaintance who believed in Jupiter.  But we are not even
civil to our neighbours unless they think about our God just
as we do."

"What say you if, for once, we part without Cromwell
between our good-wills and our good-nights?  Father, I
have seen to-day a fan of ostrich feathers; 'tis with Gaius
the packman, who will be here in the morning.  Also, I
want some housewifery stores, and some embroidery silks,
and ballads, and a book of poems written by one Mr. John
Milton, who keeps a school in London."

"I know the man.  We will have none of his poems."

"But, father, I may have the other things?"

"You will take no nay-say."

"Then a good-night, sir!"

"Not yet.  I will have my pay for 'the other things.'  You
shall sing to me.  Your lute lies there.  Come—'It is
early in the morning.'"  She was singing the first line as she
went for her lute, and de Wick closed his eyes and lay
smiling while the old, old ditty filled the room with its
sweetness—

   |  "It is early in the morning,
   |    At the very break of day,
   |  My Love and I go roaming,
   |    All in the woods so gay.
   |  The dew like pearl drops bathes our feet,
   |    The sweet dewdrops of May

   |  "In the sweetest place of any,
   |    'Mid the grasses thick and high
   |  Caring nothing for the dewdrops,
   |    That around us thickly lie.
   |  Bathed in glittering May-dew,
   |    Sit we there, my Love and I!

   |  "As we pluck the whitethorn blossom,
   |    As we whisper words of love,
   |  Prattling close beside the brooklet,
   |    Sings the lark, and coos the dove.
   |  Our feet are bathed in May-dew,
   |    And our hearts are bathed in love."

.. vspace:: 2

Happily, tenderly, fell the musical syllables to the tinkling
lute, and as she drew to a close, still singing, she passed
smiling out of the room; leaving the door open however,
so that they heard her voice growing sweetly softer and
softer, and further and further away, until it left nothing
but the delightsome echo in their hearts—

   |  "Our feet are bathed in May-dew
   |    And our hearts are bathed in love."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`DOCTOR JOHN VERITY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER II


.. class:: center medium bold

   DOCTOR JOHN VERITY

.. vspace:: 2

"Some trust in chariots and some in horses; but we will
remember the name of the Lord our God."

.. vspace:: 1

"The Lord strong and mighty; the Lord mighty in battle."

.. vspace:: 2

As Matilda went singing up the darksome stairway, the
moon rose in the clear skies and flooded the place with a
pallid, fugitive light.  In that unearthly glow she looked
like some spiritual being.  It gave to her pale silk robe a
heavenly radiance.  It fell upon her white hands touching
the lute, and upon her slightly raised face, revealing the
rapt expression of one who is singing with the heart as
well as with the lips.  The clock struck nine as she reached
the topmost step, and she raised her voice to drown the
chiming bell; and so, in a sweet crescendo of melody,
passed out of sight and out of hearing.

About the same time, Mrs. Swaffham and Jane stood
together on the eastern terrace of the Manor House, silently
admiring the moonlight over the level land.  But in a few
moments Jane began in a low voice to recite the first verse
of the one hundred and third Psalm; her mother took the
second verse, they clasped hands, and as they slowly paced
the grassy walk they went with antiphonal gladness through
the noble thanksgiving together.  The ninety-first Psalm
followed it, and then Mrs. Swaffham said—

"Now, Jane, let us go to bed and try to sleep.  I haven't
been worth a rush to-day for want of my last night's sleep.
There's a deal to do to-morrow, and it won't be done
unless I am at the bottom of everything.  My soul, too, is
wondrous heavy to-night.  I keep asking it 'Why art thou
cast down, O my soul, and why art thou disquieted within
me?' and I get no answer from it."

"You must add counsel to inquiry, mother.  Finish the
verse—'Trust thou in God, and thou shalt yet praise Him,
who is the health of thy countenance, and thy God.'  You
see, you are to answer yourself."

"I didn't think of that, Jane.  A sad heart is poor
company, isn't it?"

"There is an old saying, mother,—'A merry heart goes
all the day.'"

"But who knows how much the merry heart may have
to carry?  There is another saying still older, Jane, that is
a good deal better than that.  It is God's grand charter of
help, and you'll find it, dear, in Romans eighth and
twenty-eighth.  I can tell you, my heart would have failed me
many and many a time, it would indeed, but for that verse."

"Are you troubled about my father and brothers?"

"Oh, Jane, that is the sword point at my heart.  Any
hour it may pierce me.  Cromwell went to Scotland, and
what for but to fight?  and my men-folk have not charmed
lives."

"But their lives are hid with Christ in God; nothing can
hurt them, that is not of His sending."

"Yes!  Yes!  But I am a wife and a mother, and you
know not yet what that means, Jane.  All day I have been
saying—no matter what my hands were doing—let this cup
pass me, Lord.  If your father fell!—if John, or Cymlin,
or Tonbert were left on the battle-field!  Oh, Jane!  Jane!"
and the terror that had haunted her all day and shown itself
in an irrepressible fretfulness, now sought relief in tears
and sobbing.  Jane kissed and comforted the sorrowful
woman.  She led her up-stairs, and helped her into the
sanctuary of sleep by many brave and hopeful words; and it so
happened that she finally uttered a promise that had once
been given to the anxious wife and mother, as a sacred
secret token of help and deliverance.  And when she heard
the gracious words dropping from Jane's lips she said—"That
is sufficient.  Once, when I was in great fear for
your father, the Lord gave me that assurance; now He
sends it by you.  I am satisfied.  I will lay me down and
sleep; the words will sing in my heart all night long," and
she said them softly as Jane kissed her—"'From the
beginning of our journey, the Lord delivered us from every
enemy.'"

Then Jane went to her own room.  It was a large, low
room on the morning side of the house, and it was an
illustration of the girl—a place of wide, free spaces, and no
furniture in it that was for mere ornament—a small tent bed
draped with white dimity, a dressing-table equally plain and
spotless, a stand on which lay her Bible, a large oak chair of
unknown age, and two or three chairs of the simplest form
made of plaited rushes and willow wands.  Some pots of
sweet basil and geranium were in the casements, and the
place was permeated with a peace and perfume that is
indescribable.

To this sweet retreat Jane went with eager steps.  She
closed the door, slipped the iron bolt into its place, and then
lit a rush candle.  The light was dim, but sufficient.  In it
she disrobed herself, and loosened the long braids of pale
brown hair; then she put out the candle and let the
moonlight flood the room, make whiter the white draperies, and
add the last ravishing touch of something heavenly, and
something apart from the sphere of our unrest and sorrow.

For some time she sat voiceless, motionless.  Was she
dreaming of happiness, or learning to suffer?  Neither,
consciously; she was "waiting" on the Eternal, waiting for
that desire God Himself forms in the soul—that secret
voice that draws down mercies and spiritual favours which
no one knoweth but they who receive them.  And Jane
was well aware that it was only in the serene depth of a
quiescent will she could rise above the meanness of fear
and the selfishness of hope, and present that acceptable
prayer which would be omnipotent with God:—omnipotent,
because so wonderfully aided by all those strange
things and secret decrees and unrevealed transactions
which are beyond the stars; but which all combine in
ministry with the praying soul.

That night, however, she could not escape the tremor and
tumult of her own heart, and the sorrowful apprehension
of her mother.  Peace was far from her.  She sat almost
breathless, she rose and walked softly to and fro, she stood
with uplifted thoughts in the moonlit window—nothing
brought her clarity and peace of mind.  And when at
length she fell into the sleep of pure weariness, it was
haunted by dreams full of turmoil and foreshadowings of
calamity.  She awoke weary and unrefreshed, and with a
sigh opened a casement and looked at the outer world
again.  How good it seemed!  In what gray, wild place of
sorrow and suffering had she been wandering?  She did
not know its moors and bogs, and the noise of its black,
rolling waters.  How different were the green terraces of
Swaffham! the sweet beds of late lilies and autumn
flowers! the rows of tall hollyhocks dripping in the morning
mist!  A penetrating scent of marjoram and lavender was
in the air, a sense, too, of ended summer, in spite of the
lilies and the stately hollyhocks.  She came down with a
smile, but her mother's face was wan and tired.

"I hoped I should have had a good dream last night,
Jane," she said sadly, "but I dreamt nothing to the
purpose.  I wonder when we shall have a letter.  I do not
feel able to do anything to-day.  I'm not all here.  My
mind runs on things far away from Swaffham.  I am going
to let some of the work take its own way for a week.  In
all conscience, we should have news by that time."

So the anxious days went by for a week, and there was
still no word.  Then Jane went over to de Wick, hoping
that the Earl might have news from his son, which would
at least break the voiceless tension of their fears.  But the
Earl was in the same state—restless, perplexed, wistfully
eager concerning the situation of the opposing armies.  In
their mutual sorrowful conjectures they forgot their
political antipathies, and a loving apprehension drew them
together; they could not say unkind things, and Jane was
even regretful for her cool attitude towards Matilda on her
last visit to Swaffham.  They drew close to each other,
they talked in low voices of the absent, they clasped hands
as they walked together through the lonely park in the
autumn afternoon.  They also agreed that whoever had
news first should send a swift messenger to the other, no
matter what the tidings should be.  When they parted, Jane
kissed her friend, a token of love she had not given her for
a long time, and Matilda was so affected by this return of
sympathy that she covered her face with her hands and
wept.  "Oh, Jane!" she said, "I have been so lonely!"

And as Jane answered her with affectionate assurances,
there came into her heart a sudden anticipation of
intelligence.  Without consideration, with no purpose of mere
encouragement, she said confidently—"There is some
one on the way.  I seem to hear them coming."  So they
parted, and Jane brought home with her a hope which
would not be put down.  Her face was so bright and her
voice so confident that her mother felt the influence of her
spirit, and anon shared it.  The night was too damp and
chill for their usual bedtime walk on the terrace, but they
sat together on the hearth, knitting and talking until the
evening was far spent.  Then Mrs. Swaffham dropped her
work upon her lap, and she and Jane began their private
evening exercise:

"Then said he unto me, thou art sore troubled in mind
for Israel's sake; lovest thou that people better than He
that made them?

"And I said, No, Lord, but of very grief have I spoken;
for my reins pain me every hour, while I labour to
comprehend the way of the most High, and to seek out part of
His judgment.

"And he said unto me, thou canst not.  And I said
wherefore, Lord, whereunto was I born then? or why was
not my mother's womb my grave, that I might not have
seen the travail of Jacob, and the wearisome toil of the
stock of Israel?

"And he said unto me, number me the things that are
not yet come; gather me together the drops that are
scattered abroad; make me the flowers green again that are
withered.

"Open me the places that are closed, and bring me forth
the winds that in them are shut up; show me the image of
a voice; and then I will declare to thee the thing that thou
labourest to know.

"And I said, O Lord that bearest rule; who may know
these things, but he that hath not his dwelling with men?

"As for me I am unwise; how may I speak of these
things whereof thou askest me?

"Then he said unto me, like as thou canst do none of
these things that I have spoken of, even so canst thou not
find out my judgment; or in the end, the love that I have
promised unto my people."

And when the short antiphony was finished, they kissed
each other a hopeful "good-night," being made strong in
this—that they had put self out of their supplication, and
been only "troubled in mind for Israel's sake."

All were in deep sleep when the blast of a trumpet
and the trampling of a heavily-shod horse on the stones of
the courtyard awakened them.  Jane's quick ear detected
at once the tone of triumph in the summons.  She ran to
her mother's room, and found her at an open window.  She
was calling aloud to the messenger, "Is it you, Doctor
Verity?" and the answer came swift and strong, ere the
question was fairly asked—

"It is I, John Verity, with the blessing of God, and
good tidings."

"Get your horse to stable, Doctor, and we will be down
to welcome you."  The next moment the house was astir
from one end to the other—bells were ringing, lights
moving hither and thither, men and women running
downstairs, and at the open door Mrs. Swaffham and Jane
waiting for the messenger, their eager faces and shining
eyes full of hope and expectation.

He kept them waiting until he had seen his weary horse
attended to, then hurrying across the courtyard he clasped
the hands held out in welcome, and with a blessing on his
lips came into the lighted room.  It was joy and strength
to look at him.  His bulk was like that of the elder gods;
his head like an antique marble, his hazel eyes beaming,
joyous, and full of that light which comes "from within."  A
man of large mind as well as of large stature, with a
simple, good heart, that could never grow old; strong and
courageous, yet tender as a girl; one who in the battle of
life would always go to the front.

So it was good even to see him, and how much better to
hear him say—

"Israel Swaffham is well, and God hath given us a
great victory."

"And John?"

"I left him following after the enemy.  We have
smitten them hip and thigh; we——"

"And Cymlin?"

"He was guarding the prisoners.  We have ten thousand
of them, and——"

"And Tonbert?"

"Nothing has hurt him.  He was in a strait for one five
minutes; but I cried to him—'Set thy teeth, and fight for
thy life, Tonbert;' and he came safely away with the
colours in his hands, when he had slain two of the rogues who
wanted them."

"Now then, we shall have peace, Doctor?"

"No use, Martha, in crying peace! peace! when peace
is wickedness.  Our Protestant liberty was won by men
willing to go to the stake for it; our civil liberty can only
be won by men willing to go to the battle-field for it.  But
here come the beef and bread, and I am a hungry man.
Let me eat and drink.  And you women, bless the Lord
and forget not all His benefits."

It was not long before he took a pipe from his pocket,
lit it, and drew his chair to the hearthstone.  "Now we
will talk," he said.  "When did you hear of us last?"

"About the tenth of August.  You were then in camp
near Edinburgh," said Mrs. Swaffham.

"To be sure—having a paper war with the Kirk and
David Leslie.  It was little to Cromwell's liking, and no
more to David Leslie's; both of them would rather
defiance of battle than Declarations from the General
Assembly.  They came to nothing, and as the weather was bad
and our provisions short, and our men falling sick beyond
imagination, we retreated to Dunbar to fortify and recruit.
Then the cunning Scots got behind us and blocked up our
way.  We were in a bad case, Martha, between Leslie
and the black North Sea—in a trap, and no less.  For the
first time our good Cromwell faced defeat, yes, annihilation.
Did he lose heart?  Not a bit of it.  He sent word
south to get men ready to meet Leslie, whatever became
of us; and then he watched and waited and prayed.  Such
prayer! Martha.  I saw him lifting up his sword to heaven—I
heard him speaking to God—pressing forward and
upward—bent on prevailing—taking heaven by assault.
About three o'clock on the morning of the battle I went to
him.  It was yet dark, but the men were at arms, and
Cromwell was going from troop to troop encouraging them.
I said to him, 'Brother Oliver, you have got an answer?'  And
he smiled joyfully and said:

"'It is in my heart, John.  When the devil had said all
he had to say, then God spoke.  Indeed I have great
consolations.  I know, and am sure, that because of our
weakness, because of our strait, the Lord will deliver us.  But
tell the men that whoever has a heart for prayer, must pray
now; and then quit themselves like men—there is ONE
watching and helping them.'

"You women would not understand the setting of the
battle.  It is enough that it began at four in the morning,
and that by nine o'clock there was no longer a Scotch
army—three thousand of it were slain in the battle, many
more killed in pursuit.  We had all their baggage and
artillery, besides fifteen thousand stand of arms and two
hundred colours to hang up in Westminster Hall—and not
twenty Englishmen killed.  The Scots came forward
shouting, '*The Covenant!  The Covenant!*' and Cromwell
thundered back, 'THE LORD OF HOSTS!'  His voice seemed
to fill the field.  It was heard above the clash of the
swords, and the shouting of the captains—and it was
caught by thousands of other voices—above the bellowing
of the cannon.  It was an invocation, it was a shout of
triumph, and indeed THE LORD OF HOSTS was above
*The Covenant*.'"

"Oh, if I could have seen Cromwell at that onset! just
for a moment!" exclaimed Jane.

"At the onset!  Yes!  It is something never to forget.
He leaps to his horse, rides to the head of his troop, and
gallops it to the very front of the battle.  I saw him at
Dunbar, his Ironsides in buff and rusty steel shouting after
him—sons of Anak most of them—God's soldiers, not
men's; and led by one whose swoop and stroke in battle
no one ever saw equaled.  All through the fight he was a
pillar of fire to us; and just when it was hottest the sun
rose upon the sea, and Cromwell took it for a sign of
present victory, and shouted to his army, 'Now let God arise,
and His enemies shall be scattered.'"

"I can see him!  I can hear him!" cried Jane.

"And at that moment, the Scots broke and fled, and the
field was ours.  Then he called a halt, and to steady his
men and fire them afresh for the pursuit, he sang with us
the one hundred and seventeenth Psalm.  And one troop
after another caught the words, and for two miles men
leaning upon their swords were singing, 'O praise the Lord all
ye nations: praise Him all ye people.  For His merciful
kindness is great towards us, and the truth of the Lord
endureth forever.  Praise ye the Lord!'  I tell you there
was joyful clamour enough on Dunbar's swampy field to
make the sky ring about it."

"And what of Israel Swaffham?  He did his part?  I
know that," said Mrs. Swaffham.

"He led his own troop of the solid fen men of
Cambridgeshire.  I saw their blue banner waving wherever
Tonbert carried it."

"And John?"

"Was with Lambert's Yorkshiremen.  No one could
resist them.  Cymlin rode with Cromwell.  Cymlin was
never behindhand yet."

"I thank God for my men.  I give them gladly to His
Cause."

Jane's face was radiant, and tears of enthusiasm filled
her eyes.  She kissed the doctor proudly, and ran to send a
messenger to de Wick with the tidings of Dunbar.  When
she returned she sat down by his side, and leaning her head
against his arm, began to question him:

"Dr. John, at Marston Moor Leslie fought *with* Cromwell,
was with him in that glorious charge, where he got
the name of Ironside.  Why then was he fighting against
Cromwell at Dunbar?"

"The Scotch have had many minds in this war, Jane.
Just now they are determined to make Presbyterianism
dominant in England, and give us the young man, Charles
Stuart, for our king.  And Englishmen will not have either
King or Presbytery.  As far as that goes, most of them
would rather take the Book of Common Prayer than touch
the Scotch Covenant.  And as for the young man, Charles
Stuart, he is false as hell from his beard to his boots; false
to the Scots, false to the English, true to no one."

"And you, Doctor, how do you feel?"

"My little girl, I was born an Independent.  I have
preached and suffered for liberty of conscience; if I could
deny it, I would deny my baptism.  I'll do neither—not
while my name is John Verity."

Then Jane lifted his big hand and kissed it, and
answered, "I thought so!"

"And if England wants a king," he continued, "she
can make one; she has good men enough to choose from."

"Some say that Cromwell will make himself king."

"Some people know no more of Cromwell than a mite
knows of a cheesemonger.  Nevertheless, Cromwell is the
Captain of England.  He has expressed her heart, he has
done her will."

"Yet he is not without faults," said Mrs. Swaffham.

"I don't see his faults, Martha.  I see only him.  Great
men may have greater faults than little men can find room for;
and Cromwell is beloved of God, and therefore not always
explainable to men."

"He has dared to do many things which even his own
party do not approve."

"Jane, they who care will dare, though it call flame
upon them.  And Cromwell loves to lead on the verge of
the impossible, for it is then he can invoke the aid of the
Omnipotent."

"I thought the Scotch were a very good, religious people."

"God made them to be good, but He knew they wouldn't
be; so He also made Oliver Cromwell."

"Are you going further, Doctor?" asked Mrs. Swaffham.

"No, Martha.  I mean to stay here until the General's
messenger joins me.  He sent a letter to London by the
young Lord Cluny Neville, and he took the direct road
there, so we parted very early in the day; but he calls here
for me on his return, and we shall go back together, if so
God wills, to Edinburgh.  And now, Jane Swaffham, if
thou be a discreet young woman, be careful of the young
Lord Cluny Neville."

"Why am I warned, Doctor?"

"Because he is one of those men who take women captive
with his beauty—a very gracious youth—a great lover
of the General, and much loved by him."

"I never heard you speak of Lord Cluny Neville before."

"Because I did not know him before.  He came into our
camp at Musselburgh and offered Cromwell his sword.
The two men looked at each other steadily for a full
minute, and in that minute Cromwell loved the young man.
He saw down into his heart, and trusted him.  Later, he
told me that he reminded him of his own son, Oliver, who,
as you know, was killed in battle just before Naseby.  He
has set his heart on the youth, and shows him great favour.
Some are jealous of the boy, and make a grumble that he
is so much trusted."

"How can they be so foolish?  I wonder the General
suffers them.  Surely he can have some one to love near
him," said Mrs. Swaffham.

"Well, Martha, it was part of the Apostle's wisdom to
suffer fools gladly.  My brother Oliver can do it; and
there is nothing wiser or more difficult.  I cannot do it.
I would rough them! rough them! till they learnt their
folly, and left it."

"If this young Lord is taking a letter to Madame
Cromwell, then why did not Israel write to me?"

"Oh, the unreasonableness of women!  Can a man write
when he is in the saddle pursuing the enemy?  Israel and
Lambert left immediately with seven regiments for Edinburgh.
He sent you words full of love and comfort; so did
your sons; what would you have, woman?"

"The General wrote to the Generaless."

"He wrote on the battle-field, the cries of the wounded
and dying in his ears, all horror and confusion around him.
He was giving orders about the arms and the artillery, and
about the movement of the troops as he wrote.  But he
knew his wife and children were waiting in sore anxiety for
news—and not expecting good news—and 'twas a miracle
how he did write at all.  No one else could have brought
heart and hands to a pen."

"I think Israel might have written."

"I'll be bound you do!  It's woman-like."

"What do you think of the young Charles Stuart?"
asked Jane.  "It is said he has taken the Covenant, and is
turned pious."

"I think worse of him than of his father.  He is an
unprincipled malignant—a brazen villain, changing and
chopping about without faith in God or man.  Englishmen
will have none of him—and the Scots can't force him on
them."

"Dunbar settled that; eh, Doctor?"

"I should say that Dunbar has done the job for all the
Presbyterian tribe."

"But oh, the suffering, Doctor!" said Mrs. Swaffham.
"Think of that."

"I do, Martha.  But God's will be done.  Let them
suffer.  In spite of Cromwell's entreaties and reasonings,
they had taken in the Stuart to force him upon us as
king—a king who at this very moment, has a popish army
fighting for him in Ireland; who has Prince Rupert—red
with the blood of Englishmen—at the head of ships stolen
from us on a malignant account; who has French and Irish
ships constantly ravaging our coasts, and who is every
day issuing commissions to raise armies in the very heart of
England to fight Englishmen.  Treachery like this concerns
all good people.  Shall such a matchless, astonishing
traitor indeed reign over us?  If we were willing for it, we
should be worthy of ten thousand deaths—could ten
thousand deaths be endured.  Now let me go to rest.  I am
weary and sleepy, and have won the right to sleep.  Give
me a verse to sleep on."

Mrs. Swaffham answered at once, as if she had been
pondering the words, "'He lifted up his face to heaven, and
praised the king of heaven.  And said, from Thee cometh
victory, from Thee cometh wisdom, and Thine is the glory,
and I am Thy servant.'"

"Thank you, Martha; you have spoken well for me;"
and with a smile he turned his beaming eyes on Jane, and
she said confidently—

"'Strive for the truth unto death, and the Lord shall fight
for thee.'"

"Amen, Jane!  And as you have given me a word of
Jesus, the son of Sirach, so will I give you both one, and
you may ponder it in your hearts—'Many kings have sat
down upon the ground, and one that was never thought of,
hath worn the crown.'"

Then Mrs. Swaffham put her hand on the Doctor's arm
to stay him, and she asked, "Do you remember the flag
the women of Huntingdon and Ely gave to General
Cromwell just before Naseby?"

"I do.  It was a great lion—the lion of England
guarding the Cross of England.  And your Israel made the
speech.  I am not likely to forget it."

"Then you also remember that as Israel was speaking,
the east wind rose, and stretched wide-out the silk folds, so
that the big tawny lion watching the red cross was blown
straight above the General's bare head.  And there was a
murmur of wonder, and then a great shout, and Israel
pointing to the flag and the man below it, cried out—

"Behold your Captain!  Cromwell 'is a lion's whelp—from
the prey thou art gone up, my son—and unto Him
shall the gathering of the people be.'"

"I was standing with Mrs. Cromwell and the girls,"
said Jane; "and at the shout he turned to them, and little
Frances ran to him and he gave the flagstaff into your hand,
Doctor, and then stooped and tied the child's tippet.  Then
Mary and I went closer, and to us he was just the same
Mr. Cromwell that I knew years ago, when I sat on his knee,
and put my arms round his neck, and he kissed me as
tenderly as if I was one of his own little girls.  But for all
that, something of power and majesty clothed him like a
garment, and the people generally feared to touch the hem
of it."

"*A lion's whelp!*" he said proudly, "and while
England's lion has such whelps, she may make and unmake
kings as is best for her."  Then he lit his candle and went
stamping down the flagged passage that led to his room.
The men and women of the house were waiting there
for a word, and with the open door in one hand and the
candle in the other, he bade them good-morning with the
notable verse Jane had given him for his own comfort.
And as he did so, he suddenly remembered that these words
had been written thousands of years ago for *his* encouragement;
and he was filled with wonder at the thought, and he
called out, "Men and women, all of you, listen once again
to the word of the Lord—

"'Strive for the truth unto death, and the Lord shall fight
for you.'"

In the meantime Mrs. Swaffham and Jane were going
slowly up-stairs.  "We can have two or three hours sleep,
Jane," said Mrs. Swaffham; and Jane answered,
"Yes" like one who either heard not, or cared not.  Her
mother understood.  She said softly, "He was thinking of
Cromwell when he said 'one that was never thought
of'—about the crown I mean, Jane?"

"Yes, mother—*Oliver Rex*!"

"It might be."

"It ought to be.  He has conquered England, Ireland,
Scotland:—William of Normandy had not a third of his
right."

"I wish I could forget the man; for I must lose myself
for an hour or two, or I shall be good for nothing when
daylight comes.  You, too, Jane, go and sleep."

She said, "Yes, mother."  But sleep was a thousand
miles away from Jane Swaffham.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`WOVEN OF LOVE AND GLORY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER III


.. class:: center medium bold

   WOVEN OF LOVE AND GLORY

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  "Because right is right, to follow right
   |  Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence."
   |
   |  "See that thou lovest what is lovely."

.. vspace:: 2

For the next three days there was a busy time at Swaffham.
All the neighbours were summoned to hear the news,
and a sermon from Dr. Verity; and he did not spare the
rod in the way of his calling.  There were some wealthy
young men present, and he let them know that they ought
not to be present; furthermore, he told them how many
miles it was to Duty and to Scotland.

"This is not a time," he said, "for men to be on their
farms or in their shops getting a little money.  '*Thou
Shalt*' is written on life in characters just as terrible as
'*Thou Shalt Not*.'  It is not enough that you do not help
the enemy; you *Shall* shut your shop, you *Shall* leave your
oxen untied; you *Shall* take your musket, and never once
think in your heart 'Who is going to pay me for this
business?'  You *Shall* go forth to serve God and to save
England.  If you, Squire Acton, would out, and you, Fermor,
and you, Calthorpe, and Charmington and Garnier, you would
draw men after you; for many will follow if the candle be
once lighted.  By the mouth of John Verity, a servant of
the Lord, you have this day got another call.  Look inward
and think over it.  You say you love God; you say you
love England; what is love worth that hath a tongue but no
hands?  I told you these things before, and if you did not
hear me, you ought to have heard me.  Stand up and face
the world, and say plainly, 'I will go,' or else, 'I will not
go.'  You are Englishmen, you are obliged to own that
name, and in the freedom or slavery, the glory or disgrace
of England, you will be forced to share.  You pray for
England.  Very well, that is your duty; but it is serving
God very much at your ease.  God wants your hands as
well as your prayers."

"Against whom?" asked Garnier.

"Against this young Charles Stuart.  He is a bolder liar
than his father; he sticks at no perjury that answers his
purpose.  If you let him put shackles on you again, it will
be a deed to make the devil blush—if he has any blushing
faculty in him."

Then Acton rose and said, "Dr. Verity, I will go," and
Calthorpe and Fermor followed, and the Doctor told them
to meet him at Swaffham Market Cross the following day.
"And I will say this thing to you," he added, "you are like
to have the good fortune of the man hired at the eleventh
hour; you will get the full penny for the last stroke.

"And now," he continued, "I have a few words for you,
women.  In times when everything seems on the perish, a
deal depends on you.  God knows there are troubles enough
for us all, but some women are never weary of hunting for
more.  It is a poor business.  Give it up.  You know that
you often make wretched days for yourselves, and every one
you come across, about little things not worth minding.  I
have heard men that have been in tropic countries say
'they hardly ever saw the lions and serpents they feared,'
but that the flies and the insects and the heat made their
lives miserable enough.  That is the way in most women's
lives; they hear about sieges and battles and awful death,
but such things don't often come to their door-step.  If they
do, my experience is that women behave themselves nobly;
they lift up their hearts and meet their fate like men and
Christians.

"I am bound to say, the main part of women's troubles
comes from little things—from very little things.  I've
known a broken pitcher, or a slice of burned bread, or a
smoky fire do the black business for a whole day.  No
matter what comes, women, keep a cheerful temper.
Cheerfulness is the very coin of happiness.  The devil
loves a woman with a snappy, nagging temper; she does
lots of business for him, without his helping her.  I don't
think any of you here will take his arles-penny, or work
for his 'well done.'  Besides, all women want to be loved;
but I can tell you, every one feels bitter and hard to those
*who prevent happiness*.  It is easier to forgive a person for
doing us a great wrong than for deliberately spoiling our
comfort because some trifling thing has put them out.  A
woman who will do that is a selfish creature, and she ought
to live by herself."

The short service was followed by an excellent dinner,
and the richly dressed men and women, full of eager questions
and innocent mirth, filled the Swaffham parlours, and
made a fair picture of hospitality sobered by great interests
and great events.  Some of the guests lingered for two
and three days, but Dr. Verity would not be delayed.  The
next morning he enrolled sixty men, and then he was
resolved to ride with them as far as York.  "And if Neville
comes, send him quickly after me," he said.  "He thought
he might be four days, but I will give him seven, and then
wonder if he keeps tryst.  There will be many things in
London to delay him."

In fact Neville was so long delayed, that Mrs. Swaffham
was certain he had been sent back to Scotland at once on
Mrs. Cromwell's order, and that he would probably be
with the Lord General before Dr. Verity.  After a week
or more had passed, all expectation of his visit died out,
and Jane began to wonder why Matilda had not been to
see her.

"No wonder at all," replied Mrs. Swaffham.  "She
showed her good sense in keeping away until the victory had
been talked out.  You would have been on the verge of
quarreling all the time you were together, and the kindness
between de Wick and Swaffham is a deal older than the
oldest Stuart—it is generations old—and it is not worth
while killing it for either Stuart or Cromwell."

As she was speaking there was a slight stir in the
passage, and Jane smiled at her mother.  It was only an
illustration of the old law—they had been talking of Matilda,
because she was approaching them, and had sent her
thoughts in advance.  She came in without her usual spirit.
She was dressed in black with not even a flower to relieve its
sombreness; she had been weeping, and her face was
without colour or animation.

Jane went to meet her friend, kissed her, and removed
her hat.  Then Matilda went to Mrs. Swaffham and laid
her head against her breast, and said, "I have a bad
headache.  I have a bad heartache.  Oh, dear!  Oh, dear!"

"It was bad news for you, dearie," said the motherly
woman; "you may be sure I thought of you."

"I know you did.  It was terrible news.  Father has
walked the floor night and day ever since."

"I hope that no one you love was hurt?"

"Stephen is well, as far as we know.  He sent one of
his troopers with the news—George Copping, a
Huntingdon man.  I dare say you know him?"

"I know who he is."

"I never saw my father so distracted.  And it is always
'give, give, give.'  George took away our last silver, and I
am sure nearly all our money.  Father has sent away all
the men-servants, but such as are necessary to work the
land; four of them went back with George to the army.
Poor old Anice!  She has one son with Cromwell, and the
other has now gone to the King.  As she cooks, her tears
fall.  I have had to send Delia away—only Anice and
Audrey are left to care for us, and father says they are more
than he can afford.  Though his wound has reopened
since he heard of the Dunbar disaster, he would have gone
north himself with George and the men——"

"Oh, my dear Matilda, do not suffer him to do that.
You know much depends upon his keeping quiet at de
Wick."

"You need not remind me of that, Jane.  I know that
we are only Cromwell's tenants, and subject to his will.
We may be sent away at any hour, if General Cromwell
says so."

"Not without proper process of law, Matilda.  Cromwell
is not the law."

"The King is my father's friend, yet if he move an inch
for the King's help, he will lose everything."

"And he will break his word, which is the greatest loss
of all," said Jane.  "I know, dear, you would not wish
him to do that."

"Is a promise given under stress to be kept, Jane?  I
doubt it."

"It is a stress bound all round by kindness.  I heard my
father speak of it.  When the de Wick estate was under
the Parliament's consideration, Cromwell was much
disturbed.  Your two brothers had just been killed in battle,
your mother was very ill, your father suffering from a
severe wound, and it was the Lord General who wrote your
father a letter which should be graven upon the hearts of
every de Wick.  In it he promised that for their old friendship's
sake, and for the sake of the fight over the Bedford
Level—in which fight de Wick stood boldly with Cromwell—that
he would stand between de Wick and all bills of forfeiture.
He said also that he would not hold your father
accountable for the acts of his son Stephen, if he personally
restrained himself from all designs and acts injurious
to the Commonwealth.  My father said it was such a noble
letter as one brother might have written to another."

"I have heard enough of it.  I do not think much of a
kindness cribbed and tethered by this and that condition.
It has made my father nothing but Cromwell's servant.  I
am ashamed of it."

"Dr. Verity has been here," said Jane, trying to change
the subject.

"Pray, who does not know that?  He never comes but
he takes some one away for Cromwell.  I thought I could
have counted on Acton and Fermor remaining at home."

"He thinks the war nearly over, Matilda."

"It is not.  Even if King Charles were killed, there
would then be King James to fight.  The war may last for
a century.  And if this is the world, I would I were out of
it.  Dear, shall I ever be happy again?"

"Yes indeed, Matilda.  You will yet be very happy, and
forget this sorrowful time."

"Not while my life lasts, Jane.  Trust me, I shall never
forget it."

"Let us stop talking of it.  At any rate we can do that.
Tell me about your lovers, Matilda.  How many have you
at this present?"

"The war has taken them all but young Godschall, and
he and I are no longer friends.  When he was at de Wick
last, we said so much we have not spoken a word since."

"I am sorry for it."

"'Tis a common occurrence, many women endure it."

"And what has come to George St. Amand?  He was
once very much your servant."

"Poor George!"

"Why do you say 'poor George'?"

"Because we are told that all titles are to be cancelled
and abolished, and George St. Amand is dumb unless he can
salt every sentence he utters with what 'my Lord, my
father' thinks or says."

"And there was also among your servants, one Philip
Heneage."

"Philip has gone to the enemy.  I do not know, and I
will not know, and I scorn to know, anything more about
him.  He should be hanged, and cheap at that."

Before Jane could answer, Mrs. Swaffham, who had
left the room, returned to it.  She had a hot wine posset in
her hand and a fresh Queen's cake.  "Come, my dearie,
and eat and drink," she said.  "Keep your stomach in a
good temper, and I'll be bound it will help you to bear
heart-trouble, of all kinds, wonderfully."

Matilda took the posset and cake gratefully, and said,
"I heard Dr. Verity gave the women who had come to
meet him one of his little rages.  I hope they liked it."

"He only told us the truth," said Jane.  "Yes, we liked it."

"Well," said Matilda, "I am not one that wants all
England for myself, but I think I could spare Dr. John
Verity, and feel the better of it.  May the Scots make
much of him!"

"He is one of the best of men, Matilda."

"Yes, to you, whom he counts as one of the covenanted.
To me, he is very hard, and I cannot forget that he was
chief in silencing Father Sacy."

"A few years ago Father Sacy got Dr. Verity imprisoned
for preaching the Word of God.  He was two years in a
dreadful cell, and his wife and child died while——"

"And pray what does the Word of God say about doing
good to those who injure you?  Dear Jane, never heed
my words.  I have a privilege to be ill-natured—the
privilege of the losing and the sorrowful."

Thus, in spite of all Jane's efforts, they still found
themselves on dangerous or debatable ground.  All topics were
roads leading thither, and they finally abandoned every kind
of tactic and spoke as their hearts prompted them.  Then,
though some hard things were said, many very kind things
were also said, and Matilda rose to go home comforted and
helped—for, after all, the tongue is servant to the heart.  As
she was tying her hat, a maid called Mrs. Swaffham from
the room, and Matilda lingered, waiting for her return.
She stood with Jane at the window.  Their hands were
clasped in each other's, but they were silent, and both girls
appeared to be looking at the beds full of late flowers—beautiful,
pensive flowers, having a positive air of melancholy,
as if they felt the sadness of the autumn sunset.
But it was not likely that either of them saw the flowers;
certainly, Matilda's first words gave no intimation that she
did.

"Heigh-ho!" she said, "why should we worry?  Everything
comes round in time to its proper place, and then
it will be, as old Anice expects—the hooks will find the
eyes that fit them."

As she spoke, Mrs. Swaffham hastily entered the room,
and with her was Lord Cluny Neville.  Both girls turned
from the window and caught his eyes at the same moment.
He was, as Dr. Verity said, a man destined to captivate,
not only by his noble bearing and handsome face, but
also by such an indescribable charm of manner as opened
the door of every heart to him.  He carried his morion
in his left hand, and in his dress of dark cloth and bright
steel looked the very picture of a Puritan paladin.
Bowing to both girls, he presented Jane with a letter from
her friend Mary Cromwell, and also with a small parcel
which contained some beautiful ribbons.  The pretty gift
made a pleasant introduction to a conversation full of gay
inquiries and interesting items of social information.
Matilda took little part in it.  She watched the young soldier
with eyes full of interest, and did not refuse his escort to
her carriage; but as she departed, she gave Jane one look
which left her with an unhappy question in her heart, not
only for that night, but to be recalled long after as
premonitory and prophetic.

During the preparations for the evening meal, and while
Neville was in his chamber removing his armour and
refreshing his clothing, Jane also found time to put on a
pretty evening gown.  It was of pale brown lutestring, a
little lighter and brighter in colour than her own hair, and
with its stomacher and collar of white lace it added greatly
to the beauty of her appearance.  Something had happened
to Jane; she was in a delicious anticipation, and she
could not keep the handsome stranger out of her consideration.
There was a brilliant light in her eyes, and a brilliant
colour on her cheeks, and a happy smile on her lovely
bow-shaped mouth.

When she heard Neville's steady, swift step coming
towards her, she trembled.  Why?  She did not ask
herself, and her soul did not tell her.  It indeed warned her,
either of joy or of sorrow, for surely its tremor intimated
that the newcomer was to be no mere visitor of passage,
no neutral guest; that perhaps, indeed, he might have
entered her home as a fate, or at least as a messenger of
destiny.  For who can tell, when a stranger walks into
any life, what his message may be?  Bringers of great
tragedies have crossed thresholds with a smile, and many
an unknown enemy has been bidden to the hearth with a
welcome.

Jane was in no mood for such reflections.  This young
soldier, bearing a gift in his hand, had bespoke for himself at
his first glance and word the girl's favour.  She knew
nothing of love, and Dr. Verity's warning had not made her
afraid of it.  Indeed, there was in her heart a pleasant
daring, the touch of unseen danger was exhilarating; she felt
that she was on that kind of dangerous ground which calls
out all a woman's watchfulness and all her weapons.  One
of the latter was the possibility of captivating, instead of
being captivated.  It was a natural instinct, never felt
before, but which sprang, full-grown, from Jane's heart as
soon as suggested.  The desire for conquest!  Who has
not felt its pushing, irresistible impulse?  She accused
herself of having given away to Neville's influence without
any effort to resist it.  That thought in itself arrested her
sympathies.  Why did she do it?  Might she not just as
well have brought his right to question?  Would she have
succumbed so readily to the influence of some beautiful
woman?  This self-examination made her blush and utter
an exclamation of chagrin.

Neville entered gayly in the midst of it.  He had removed
his steel corselet, and the pliant dark cloth in which
he was dressed gave additional grace to his figure and
movements.  A falling band of Flemish lace was round his
throat, and his fine linen showed beneath the loose sleeves
of his coat in a band of the same material.  His breeches
had a bow of ribbon at the knee, and his low shoes of
morocco leather a rosette of the same.  It was now evident
that his hair was very black, and that his eyebrows made
dark, bold curves above his sunbrowned cheeks and flashing
black eyes—eyes, that in the enthusiasm of feeling or
speaking became living furnaces filled with flame.  A solar
man, sensitive, radiating; one who would move both men
and women, whether they would or not.

It was a wonderful evening to both Jane and Mrs. Swaffham.
Neville told over again the story of Dunbar, and
told it in a picturesque way that would have been impossible
to Dr. Verity.  Taking whatever he could find that was
suitable, he built for them the Lammermuir hills, on which
the Scots' army lay; described the swamp at their base; the
dark stream—forty feet deep—that ran through it, and the
narrow strip by the wild North Sea, where Cromwell's
army stood at bay.  He made them feel the damp and chill
of the gray, desolate place; he made them see the men
standing at arms all through the misty night; he made them
hear the solemn tones of prayer breaking the silence, and
then they understood how the great Cromwell, moving from
group to group, saturated and inspired every man with the
energy of his own faith and courage.  Then he showed
them the mighty onslaught, and the ever-conquering
General leading it!  Through Neville, they heard his voice
flinging the battle-cry of the Puritan host in the very teeth
of the enemy.  They saw him, when the foe fled, leaning
upon his bloody sword, pouring out a triumphal Psalm
of gratitude so strenuously and so melodiously, that
men forgot to pursue, that they might sing.  It was a
magnificent drama, though there was only one actor to
present it.

And when the recital was over and they sat silent, being
too much moved to find words for their feeling, he dropped
his voice and said, "There is something else.  I should like
to tell you it, yet I fear that you will not believe me.  'Twas
a strange thing, and beyond nature."

"Tell us," said Jane, almost in a whisper.  "We should
like to hear, should we not, mother?"

Mrs. Swaffham bowed her head, and the young man
continued: "It was in the afternoon of the day preceding the
battle.  The Captain-General had just come back from
Dunbar, and his face was full of satisfaction.  There was
even then on it the light and assurance of victory, and he
called the men round him and pointed out the false step the
Scots were taking.  'The Lord hath delivered them into
our hands!' he said.  And as he spoke, the fog was driven
before the wind and the rain; and in the midst of it he
mounted his horse to ride about the field.  And as he stood
a moment, looking towards the ships and the sea, *this man*,
*this Cromwell*, grew, and grew, and grew, until in the sight
of all of us, he was a gigantic soldier towering over the
army and the plain.  I speak the truth.  I see yet that
prodigious, wraithlike figure, with its solemn face bathed in
the storms of battle.  And not I alone saw this vision,
many others saw it also; and we watched it with awe and
amazement, until it blended with the drifting fogs and
disappeared."

"Indeed, I doubt it not," said Mrs. Swaffham.  "I have
seen, I have heard, things in Swaffham that could only be
seen and heard by the spiritual senses."

Jane did not speak; she glanced at the young man, wondering
at his rapt face, its solemn pallor and mystic
exaltation, and feeling his voice vibrate through all her senses,
though at the last he had spoken half-audibly, as people do
in extremes of life or feeling.

It is in moments such as these, that Love grows as
Neville saw the wraith of Cromwell grow—even in a
moment's gaze.  Jane forgot her intention of captivating, and
yet none the less she accomplished her purpose.  Her
sensitive face, its sweet freshness and clear candour, charmed
by its mere responsiveness; and not accustomed to resist
or to control his feelings, Neville showed plainly the
impression he had received.  For when they parted for the night
he held her hand with a gentle pressure, and quick glancing,
sweetly smiling, he flashed into her eyes admiration and
interest not to be misunderstood.

And Jane's heart was a crystal rock, only waiting the
touch of a wand.  Had she felt the mystic contact?  Her
fine eyes were dropped, but there was a faint, bewitching
smile around her lovely mouth, and there was something
bewildering and something bewildered in her very silence
and simplicity.

Neville was charmed.  His heart was so light, so happy,
that he heard it singing as he held the little maiden's hand.
He went into his chamber with the light step of one to
whom some great joy has come, and, full of its vague
anticipation, sat down a moment to realise what had happened.
"I have caught love from her in a glance," he said.
"What a dainty little creature!  What a little darling she
is!  Shy and quiet as a bird, and yet I'll warrant me she
hath wit and courage to furnish six feet of flesh and blood,
instead of four.  Is she fair?  Is she handsome?  I forgot
to look with certainty.  She hath the finest eyes I ever saw
my own in—a face like a wild flower—a small hand, I saw
that in particular—and feet like the maiden in the fairy
tale—exquisite feet, prettily shod.  Neat and sweet and full of
soul!  Little Jane!  Little darling!  A man were happy
enough if he won your love.  And what a rich heart she
must have!  She has made Love grow in me.  She has
created it from her own store."

Then he moved his chair to the hearth and looked around.
It was a large room, full of the wavering shadows of the
blazing logs and the long taper.  "What an ancient place!"
he sighed.  "'Tis a bed fine enough and big enough for a
monarch.  Generations have slept on it.  Those pillows
must be full of dreams.  If all the souls that have slept in
this room were to be gathered together, how great a
company they would be!  If I could see them, I would enlist
all for my hero—they should swear to be Cromwell's men!
In solemn faith the room is full of *presence*."  Then he
rose, turned his face bravely to the shadowy place, and
bending his head said, "Wraiths of the dead, I salute you.
Suffer me to sleep in peace in your company."

He did not sit down again, but having cast over himself
the shield and balm of prayer, he soon fell into the sound
sleep of weary youth.  The sun was high when he awoke,
and he was ashamed of his apparent indolence and would
scarce delay long enough to eat a hasty breakfast.  Then
his horse was waiting, and he stood at the threshold
with Mrs. Swaffham's hand in his.  There were tears
in her eyes as she blessed him and bade him "God-speed,"
and gave him her last messages to her husband
and sons.

"Fare you well," he answered, and "God be with you!
I hope to be sent this way again, and that soon.  Will you
give me welcome, madame?"

"You will be welcome as sunshine," answered Mrs. Swaffham.

Then he looked at Jane, and she said, "God speed you
on your journey.  You have words for my father and
brothers, but if you find the right time, say also to General
Cromwell that Jane Swaffham remembers him constantly
in her prayers, and give him these words for his strength
and comfort—'They shall be able to do nothing against thee,
saith the Lord: My hands shall cover thee.'"

He bowed his head, and then looked steadily at her; and
in that momentary communion realised that he had lost
himself, and found himself again, in the being of another—that
he had come in contact with something and found his
spirit had touched a kindred spirit.  Yet he said only,
"Good-bye, till we meet again."

As he mounted, Mrs. Swaffham asked him if he went by
York, and he answered, "Yes, I know perfectly that road,
and I must not miss my way, for I am a laggard already."

"That is right," she said.  "The way that is best to go
is the way that best you know."

He did not hear the advice, for the moment his horse felt
the foot in the stirrup he was off, and hard to hold with bit
and bridle.  They watched him down the avenue, the sun
glinting on his steel armour and morion and the wind
tossing behind his left shoulder the colours of the
Commonwealth.

When he was quite out of sight, they turned into the
house with a sigh, and Mrs. Swaffham said, "Now, I must
have the house put in order.  If I were you, Jane, I would
go to de Wick this afternoon.  Matilda is full of trouble.
I cannot feel indifferent to her."

"She says the kingfishers have left de Wick waters.
They have bred there for centuries, and the Earl is much
distressed at their departure."

"No wonder.  Many people think they bring good fortune.
I would not say different.  There are more messengers
of good and evil than we know of.  If I get things in
order, I will also go to de Wick.  Reginald de Wick and
I were friends when we could hardly say the word—that
was in King James' reign.  Dear me!  How the time flies!"

Then Jane went to her room and began to fold away the
pretty things she had worn the previous night.  She
smoothed every crease in her silk gown, and fingered the
lace orderly, and folded away her stockings of clocked silk
and her bronzed morocco shoes with their shining silver
buckles.  And as she did so, her heart sat so lightly on its
temporal perch that she was singing and did not know it
until her mother opened the door, and like one astonished,
asked, "What are you singing, Jane?"

"Why, mother!  Nothing but some verses by good
George Wither."

Then the mother shut the door again.  If George
Wither had written what Jane was singing, she was sure
the words were wise and profitable; for Wither was the
poet of the Puritans, and his "*Hallelujah*" all to the
families of the Commonwealth, that the "*Christian Year*"
has been to our own times.  So Jane finished without
further interruption, but with rather less spirit her song—"*For
Lovers being constrained to be absent from each other*."

   |  "Dearest fret not, sigh not so,
   |    For it is not time nor place
   |  That can much divide us two;
   |    Though it part us for a space."

And she did not know that, at the very same moment,
Cluny Neville was solacing the loneliness of his ride by the
same writer's "*Hymn for Victory*" giving to its Hebraic
fervour a melodious vigour of interpretation admirably
emphasised by the Gregorian simplicity of the tune to which
was sung—

   |  "It was alone Thy Providence,
   |    Which made us masters of the field.
   |  Thou art our castle of defense,
   |    Our fort, our bulwark, and our shield.
   |  And had not Thou our Captain been,
   |    To lead us on and off again;
   |  This happy day, we had not seen,
   |    But in the bed of death had lain."





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.. _`SO SWEET A DREAM`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IV


.. class:: center medium bold

   SO SWEET A DREAM

.. vspace:: 2

"To judge events, or actions, without connecting them with
their causes, is manifestly unjust and untruthful.  Such judgments
may make inflexible justice to appear tyranny; righteous retribution
to wear the guise of cruelty; and virtue itself to have the
likeness of vice."

   |        "All love is sweet,
   |  Given or returned.  Common as light is love,
   |  And its familiar voice wearies not ever."

.. vspace:: 2

Peace was now confidently predicted, but hope outruns
events, and the winter slowly settled down over the level
dreariness of the land without any apparent change in the
national situation.  People grew tired of expecting, and
turned almost sullenly to the daily duties of life.  For in
the North, the winter weather would certainly bring the
winter truce, and they must bear the inaction and suspense
as well as they were able.

In de Wick, the situation was pitiably forlorn and desolate.
The great trees around it stood with dripping leaves
motionless in the thick fog; the long grasses lay withered and
brown; the livid waters of the lake were no longer enlivened
by the scream of the kingfishers, and about the house
were silence and desolation.  Matilda would gladly have
escaped its depressing atmosphere for a little while every
day, but she could not, for the roads leading from it were
almost quagmires unless steadied by frost, and it was only
rarely on such occasions that the horses could be spared to
take her as far as Swaffham.  These visits were eagerly
expected by both girls, and yet were usually regretted; for
Matilda could not help saying many hard things, and Jane
could not conscientiously quite pass them over.  Much was
excused for the sake of her sorrow and loss and visible
poverty, but even these excuses had limitations and every
interview brought with it many sharp words not quite
washed out by reconciling tears and promised forgetfulness.

Even the atmosphere of Swaffham, though grateful and
cheering, was exasperating to the poor royalist lady.  There
was such cheerfulness in its comfortable rooms, such plenty
of all the necessaries of life, such busy service of men and
maids, such active, kindly hospitality to herself, and such
pleasant companionship between Jane and her mother, that
Matilda could not help a little envious contrasting, a little
backward thought of the days when her own home had
been the light of its neighbourhood, and her father and
mother had entertained in splendid fashion nobles and
beauties and famous men whose names were familiar as
household words to all England.  In those happy days the
rooms had shone with a hundred lights; her handsome
mother had moved as a queen in them, and her father and
brothers had made the place joyful with all the masculine
stir of hunting and hawking, the racket of balls in the
bowling-alley and tennis court, the excitement of the race,
the laughter and love-making of the ballroom.  All these,
and far sweeter and dearer things, had been cast into the
gulf of civil war, and Matilda spent her days counting the
cost of such sacrifices—a terrible sum total which she
always reckoned with one reflection: "if only mother had
been left!  I could bear all the rest."

One day, near Christmas, the roads were hard and clean
and the sky blue above them, and in spite of the cold
Matilda resolved to walk over to Swaffham.  She had an
abundance of rich clothing, but as she went through it, she
saw that its very splendour was only another sign of her
poverty, for neither her own nor her mother's wardrobe
contained the plain, scant skirt suitable for walking;—plenty
of carriage robes, and dinner and dancing dresses; plenty
of gold and silver tissues, and satin and velvet, and rich
lace, but she would have given the richest of the costumes
for a short cloth skirt and coat, such as Jane trod the miry
ways in with comfort and cleanliness.  However, she made
the wisest choice possible, and when she stood before her
father drawing on her white gloves and saying all manner
of cheerful words, no one could have desired any change
in her apparel.  She held the train of her black velvet skirt
over her left arm; her shoulders were covered with a tippet
of minever, her large hat of black beaver was drooping
with plumes.  In her cheeks there was a faint rose colour,
and her large brown eyes were full of feeling.  She looked
like some lovely princess exiled from her state and condition,
but retaining, nevertheless, all the personal insignia of
her royal birth.

As she left her father she kissed him affectionately, and
then curtseyed to the Chaplain, who did not notice her
attention, being happily and profitably lost in a volume by
good Dr. Thomas Fuller, who was that moment saying to
him, in one of his garrison sermons, "A Commonwealth
and a King are no more contrary than the trunk of a tree
and the top branch thereof; there is a republic included
in every monarchy."

Matilda walked rapidly, and the clear cold air blew hope
and cheerfulness into her heart.  "Perhaps, after all, the
King might come to his own—Cromwell had not reaped
all that was anticipated from Dunbar victory, he was still
obliged to remain in Scotland and watch the King; and if
the King's position needed this watch, there must still be
strength and hope in it.  I will take what the Swaffhams
say with a large allowance," she thought; and then she
suddenly remembered that they had had no news from the
royalist camp, and knew nothing on which any good
likelihood could be built.

"It is very cruel of Stephen," she sighed; "if I were
with the King I would get word to my father and sister of
the King's condition—but it is either drawing the sword or
shaking the dice, and while they gamble away the hours and
the gold pieces, father and I fret life away in waiting and
watching for the news that never comes."

The sight of Swaffham restored her.  There was something
so hearty and sincere in the very aspect of the house.
As she went through the garden she saw a monthly rose
in bloom, and she plucked it; and with the fair sweet
flower in her hand entered the Swaffham parlour.  No
wonder she had missed Jane at the large casement where she
usually sat at her work!  Jane was sitting at the table
serving Lord Cluny Neville, who was eating and drinking and
leaning towards her with a face full of light and pleasure.
Mrs. Swaffham sat on the hearth; it was Jane who was
pouring out the Spanish wine and cutting the game pasty,
and into Jane's face the young Lord was gazing with eyes
whose expression there was no mistaking.

Matilda saw the whole picture in a glance, and she set
her mood to match it.  Dropping her gown, she let the
open door frame her beauty for a moment.  She was
conscious that she was lovely, and she saw the swift lifting of
Neville's eyelids, and the look of surprised delight which
came into his eyes.  She was resolved to be charming, and
she succeeded.  She let Jane help her to remove her hat
and tippet.  She let Mrs. Swaffham make much of her,
and when she said,

"Draw to table, my dear, and have a mouthful, for
walking is hungry work, as well as pleasant," Matilda
laughed and answered,

"Indeed, madame, I cannot tell wherein the pleasure of
walking lies; I have sought it till I am weary, and cannot
find it.  However, I confess I am hungry with the search."

Then she sat down by Neville, and he cut her a slice of
the pasty, and Jane filled her wine-glass, and Neville
touched his own against it, and wished her health and
happiness.  And by an unspoken agreement they said not a
word about the war, but eat their meal to such cheerful
thoughts and conversation as made the meat and drink
wholesome and joyful.  Then they sang some madrigals,
and as the shades of evening gathered, Neville began to tell
them wild, weird stories of the Border-Land; and Jane had
her traditions of Swaffham, and Matilda of de Wick, and
they sat in the twilight pleasantly afraid of the phantoms
they had themselves conjured up, drawing close together
and speaking with a little awe, and finding even the short
silences that fell upon them very eloquent and satisfying.

There was then no question of Matilda returning that
night to de Wick, and very soon Mrs. Swaffham joined
them, and the servants began to build up the fire and spread
the table for the evening meal.

"Time wears on," she said.  "I thought I would take
a nap of ten minutes, but instead of shutting my eyes in a
dog sleep, I dropped oft till candle-lighting.  Why are you
all looking so yonderly?  I hope Lord Neville has not
been a Job's postman; for as far as I can see, Satan does
just as barefaced cruelties now as he did thousands of years
ago."

"We have been talking of fairies, and the gray ghost of
Raby, and the armoured giant that keeps Swaffham portal,
and Matilda has told us many awesome things about Lady
Sophia de Wick, whose ring no one can wear and escape
doom."

"Peace to her spirit," ejaculated Mrs. Swaffham, and
Jane added thoughtfully,

"If to such a spirit, peace would be any blessing."

"I would not talk of the dead if I were you; they may be
nearer than you think.  And there are wick men and
women in plenty to praise and to ban.  Lord Neville has
told us nothing at all, yet, about General Cromwell.  I
would like to know what is going on.  Whatever has he
been doing since Dunbar?"—and Mrs. Swaffham made
these remarks and asked these questions with just a little
touch of impatient irritability.

"The first thing he did when he reached Edinburgh,"
answered Neville, "was to order the head of Montrose to
be taken down from the Tolbooth and honourably buried.
Some of the army grumbled at this order, and the Scotch
whigs preached and raved about it, and even Dr. Verity, it
is said, spoke sharply to Cromwell on the matter.  And 'tis
also said that Cromwell answered with some passion, 'I
will abide by my order, notwithstanding the anger of the
foolish.  We all have infirmities; and I tell you, if we had
among our ranks more such faithful hearts and brave spirits,
they would be a fence around us; for indeed there lives
not a man who can say worse of Montrose than that he
loved Charles Stuart, and was faithful to him unto death.'"

"This is the noblest thing I have heard of Oliver Cromwell,"
said Matilda, "and my father will rejoice to hear it.
How Montrose loved Charles Stuart I will tell you, for my
brother Stephen was with him when he heard first of the
murder of his King.  He bowed his head upon his sword
and wept, and when his heart had found some relief in
tears, he stood up and called the King in a mighty voice,—indeed
Stephen told me it was heard beyond all probability,—and
with a great oath he vowed that he would sing his
obsequies with trumpets, and write his epitaph with swords,
in blood and death."  As Matilda finished her story, her
voice had a tone of triumph, and she stood up, and raised
her eyes, and then made such a sad, reverent obeisance
as she might have done had the dead been alive and
present.  No one liked to impugn a ceremony so pathetic
and so hopeless; and a constrained silence followed, which
was broken by Jane asking,

"Where did Charles Stuart go after Dunbar?"

"He went northward to Perth.  For a little while he
held with Argyle and the Kirk, but the Covenanters drove
him too hard.  They told him he must purify his Court
from all ungodly followers, and so made him dismiss
twenty-two English Cavaliers not godly—that is, not
Calvinistic—enough.  Then Charles, not willing to endure
their pious tyranny, ran away to the Highlands behind Perth,
and though he was caught and persuaded to return, he did
so only on condition that his friends should be with him
and fight for him."

"Why should the Scots object to that?" asked Mrs. Swaffham.

"Because," answered Neville, "these men were mostly
Englishmen and Episcopalians; and the Whigs and
Covenanters hated them as being too often reckless and wicked
men, full of cavalier sauciness.  In return, Charles Stuart
hated the Whigs and Covenanters, made a mockery of
them, and, it is said, did not disguise his amusement and
satisfaction at the defeat of the godly army at Dunbar."

"And how did these godly men regard Cromwell?"
asked Matilda with undisguised scorn.

"They troubled us a little in the West," said Neville,
"and Cromwell marched the army to Glasgow, and on the
next Sabbath day the preachers railed at him from every
pulpit in that city.  One of them met the Lord General on
the street, and attacked him with threats and evil
prophecies.  I would have shut his lips with a blow, but
Cromwell said to me, 'Let him alone; he is one fool, and
you are another;' and the very next day he made friends
with this preacher, and I met them coming down the High
Street together in very sober and pleasant discourse.  After
beating these Whigs well at Hamilton, we went into
winter quarters at Edinburgh; and Cromwell is now staying at
Lord Moray's house in the Canongate."[1]

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[1] This house is still standing.

.. vspace:: 2

"He ought to have taken his rest in Holyrood Palace,"
said Jane.

"I am glad he did not," replied Neville.  "'Tis enough
to fight the living Stuart; why should he run into mortal
danger by invading the home of that unlucky family?  A
man sleeps in his dwelling-place,—and when he sleeps he
is at the mercy of the dead."

"Not so," said Jane.  "The good man is at the mercy
of God, and if he sleeps, his angel wakes and watches.  'I
will lay me down in peace and take my rest: for it is
Thou, Lord, only, that makest me dwell in safety.'"

Neville looked steadily at her as she spoke with such
a glad confidence; and Jane's face grew rosy under his
gaze, while Neville's smile widened slowly, until his whole
countenance shone with pleasure.

They spoke next of the Parliament and the Council;
and Mrs. Swaffham said, "For all she could find out, they
had been at their usual work,—good and bad."

"And generally bad," ejaculated Matilda.

"That is not true," said Jane.  "Think only of this:
they have commanded the laws of England to be written
in English.  This order alone justifies them with the
people.  Also, they have received foreign ambassadors with
dignity, and taught Holland, France and Spain by the voice
of Blake's cannon that England is not to be trifled with;
and in Ireland they are carrying on, through Ireton and
Ludlow, the good work Cromwell began there."

"Good work, indeed!" cried Matilda.

"Yes, it was good work, grand work, the best work
Cromwell ever did," answered Neville positively; "a most
righteous dealing with assassins, who had slain one hundred
thousand Protestants—men, women and children—while
they dwelt in peace among then, thinking no evil[2] and
looking for no injury.  When men mad with religious
hatred take fire and sword, when they torture the helpless
with hunger and thirst and freezing cold, in the name of
the merciful Jesus, then there is no punishment too great
for them."

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.. class:: noindent small

[2] See Knight's History of England, Vol. 3,
p. 464; Clarendon (royalist
historian) says 50,000; Paxton Hood, Life of Cromwell,
p. 141, says as high
as 200,000; Church (American edition)
from 50,000 to 200,000 with
mutilations and torture; Imgard, the
Catholic historian, in Vol. X, p. 177,
admits the atrocity of the massacre.
Many other authorities, notably
Hickson's "Ireland in the 17th Century,"
which contains the depositions
before Parliament relating to the massacre.
These documents, printed for the
first time in 1884, will cause simple wonder
that a terrible massacre on a
large scale could ever be questioned,
nor in the 17th century was it ever
questioned, nor in the face of these documents
can it ever be questioned,
except by those who put their personal prejudice
or interest before the
truth.

.. vspace:: 2

"The number slain was not as great as you say,"
interrupted Matilda.  "I have heard it was only ten thousand."

"I care not for the number of thousands," said Neville
in a voice trembling with passion; "men were put to death
with all the horrors religious fanaticism could invent;
women and children outraged, starved, burned or drowned
with relentless fury.  There were months of such
persecution before help could be got there."

"Very well, Lord Neville," said Matilda in great anger,
"Episcopalians and Calvinists should not have gone to
Ireland.  I bought a song from a packman the other day for
a farthing, that just suits them—

   |  "'People who hold such positive opinions
   |  Should stay at home in Protestant dominions.'

I am sure Cromwell has made a name to be hated and
feared in Ireland for generations."

"England has far more cause to hate and ban the name
of O'Neal for generations; but England does not bluster;
she rights her wrong, and then forgives it.  She is too
magnanimous to hate for generations any race because one
generation did wrong.  Nowhere was Cromwell more just and
merciful than in Ireland.  There have been English
sieges—for instance Colchester—far more cruel than that of
Drogheda; and at Drogheda it was mostly rebel Englishmen
that were slain, Englishmen fighting in Ireland against
the Commonwealth.  Cromwell, even at Drogheda, offered
mercy to all who would surrender and so spare blood.  He
was throughout as merciful as he could be, as the Irish
themselves permitted him to be.  I shake hands with
Cromwell in Ireland and I clasp a clean, merciful hand!"

And as he said these words, Jane stretched out her hand
to Neville; and Matilda cried, hysterically, "Throne of
God!  It is wicked to say such things!  Give me my hat
and tippet, Jane, I will listen no longer to Lord Neville!
He is worse than you are."

"My lady, forgive me; but truth is truth, and must not
be withheld when the occasion calls for it."

At this point Mrs. Swaffham, who had left the room,
returned to it; and seeing Matilda's angry distress, she at
once understood its cause.

"It is Ireland, of course," she cried.  "Children,
children, why will you quarrel about those savages?  They
are not in your concern except to pray for."  Then turning
to Neville she asked, "My Lord, why is it necessary to
speak of Ireland?  It breeds quarrels to name it; well is
it called Ire-land, the land of ire, and anger, and quarreling.
I forbid the word in this house.  If the Irish are
assassins for God's sake, may God forgive them!"

"There is nothing impossible to God, madame," said
Neville.  "But men find some limitations; and when effects
are so much talked of and condemned, it is the part of
Eternal Justice—though only from a mortal's mouth—to
balance the deeds with the deeds that called them forth.
And none can deny that Phelim O'Neal's atrocities called
into righteous existence Oliver Cromwell's retributions."  And
at these words Matilda threw herself on the sofa in a
passion of tears.

Neville fell on his knees at her side.  "Say you pardon
me," he urged; "I have wounded myself worse than you.
Your tears drop like fire on my heart; I promise you they do."

With a slight frown on her face Jane stood looking at
the two.  She despised that abnegation of self-control
which turned conversation and argument into disputing, and
anger, and tears; and after a moment's thought, she went
to her friend's side and asked Neville to rise.  "There is
no need to humble oneself for the truth," she said softly;
"and Matilda knows that.  She is now fretted with anxiety,
and must not be judged by her words."  Then she took
Neville's place and soothed and reasoned with the weeping
girl, as best she knew how; and Mrs. Swaffham brought
the Bible for the evening prayer, and the words of the
comforting Psalm stayed all other words; and when they ceased
there was peace.

But Jane was grieved in her very heart.  The evening
promising so much had been spoiled; for love in such an
unhappy atmosphere could find no opportunities.  Yet in
the short tremulous "good-night" which followed, Jane
both remembered and foresaw; remembered the sweet
glances and the refluent waves of sweet smiles which
through all shadowings had drawn Love deep into her heart;
and foresaw, beyond all obstacles and peradventures, what
possible joy might be waiting in the future.  And swift as
thought the delicate love lines of her mouth grew bright
with expectation, and the clasp of Neville's hand thrilled
to her warm heart, and her soul blessed Love and Hope, and
sheltered itself in the sunshine of their imperishable land.

Neville had asked to be called early, and before daybreak
he came into the parlour ready for his journey.  Some broiled
beef, a manchet of white bread, and a black jack of spiced
ale, stirred with a rosemary branch, was waiting for him;
and Mrs. Swaffham and Jane sat at his side while he eat
and drank.  He spoke regretfully of his temper on the
previous night, and left a message of apology for Lady
Matilda de Wick, adding to it his sorrow, "not to be so
favoured as to make his excuses in person."

"Matilda will sleep for three hours yet," said Mrs. Swaffham,
"and I will be glad if she has that much comfort,
for she frets her heart away when she is awake."

Then they stood up, for Neville's horse came clattering
to the door.  He clasped Jane's hand as it hung by her
side, and they walked thus to the threshold.  Snow was
falling; the steps were white with it, and the east wind
blew it gently in their faces.  Mrs. Swaffham laughed and
drew her shawl over her head, and Neville laughed also,
and with a cheerful word, leaped to his saddle, his dark
figure growing more and more phantom-like through the dim
dawn and the white veil of the snow.  At the gate he
wheeled his horse, and, saluting them, vanished into the gray
obscurity, which made all things as if they were not.

"The storm will grow worse, I fear," said Jane as they
turned into the house.

"More like than not," answered Mrs. Swaffham; "but
he is a dauntless youth, and nothing but good will come
to him.  Where goes he to-day?"

"As far as he can go.  He is in haste to reach
Edinburgh, for there is fresh news of rebels from Ireland
landing on the Scotch coast.  He showed me this report in a
copy of the news-letter called *The Scottish Dove*."

"A badly named news-letter, Jane; the Scotch are never
for peace."

"It is intended for a peace paper, mother."

"They are confused in their minds concerning peace.
What did it say?"

"That ten ships were leaving Bristol to bring men from
Ireland to help Charles Stuart against Cromwell.  The *Dove*
asserts, 'the Scotch are ready for speedy action, if God
permit, and if advance money be forthcoming;'" and Jane
laughed scornfully at the saving clause.

"He did not say much of the Cromwells.  I'll warrant,
they will forget you in their rising state."

"Far away from it.  Mary and Frances sent me many
good words, and they are very persuasive with me to come
to London and share their state."

"You cannot go just yet, Jane.  Your father is opposed
to it, until General Cromwell returns there.  Then, if it so
please God, we shall all go—at least for a season."

"But when will Cromwell return there?"

"God has set a time for all events, Jane.  We must
wait for it.  What think you of Matilda?"

"That she is in trouble greater than we know.  She shuts
in her words, but I think that something is about to happen."

"Anything may happen with Cromwell in Scotland, and
the Parliament carrying things with such a high hand.  But
see, Jane, we must be after our own concerns.  Servants,
men and women, are getting beyond all belief; they do such
barefaced things as never was.  The week's butter is gone
already, and when I spoke to Debby, she wiped her saucy
mouth and, like the fox in the fable, 'thanked God she
wasn't a thief.'"

Then the mother and daughter separated, and Jane went
to her friend's room.  She was languidly brushing out her
long black hair, and Jane tried to kiss a smile into her
melancholy face.  And as she lifted her head, she had a
momentary glance at a beautiful miniature lying upon the
dressing-table.  The face was that of a youth with flowing
locks and a falling collar of lace; but Jane was too honourable
to let her eyes rest consciously upon what was evidently
hid from her.  For in that same moment, Matilda moved
her ribbons and kerchief in a hurried way, contriving in so
doing, to cover the picture.  Then she assumed her usual
manner and asked,

"Is Lord Neville still angry at me?  I suppose if I had
remained with him, he would have eaten me by this time."

"He was very sorry for his show of temper, and would
fain have made some apologies to you."

"Then he has gone?  Well, it is not worth my while
saying I am sorry for it."

"He set off early this morning."

"And so gave me the slip."

"Oh, no!  He had important news for General
Cromwell, and would push on at his utmost."

"Yet staying awhile at every decent Puritan dwelling,
and making love to their sweet daughters."

"Do not be ill-natured, Matilda.  He had letters from
my father and brothers, and also from Mary and Frances
Cromwell to deliver, or he had not stopped at Swaffham."

"Oh, Jane, Jane!  I pray your pardon!  It must be easy
now to forgive me, I keep you so well in practice.  In
truth, I am a wretched girl, this morning.  I have been
dreaming of calamities, and my speech is too small for my
heart.  And this young lord with his adoration of Cromwell
and his familiar talk of 'the ladies Mary and Frances'
angered me, for I thought of the days when the Lord
General was plain 'Mr. Cromwell,' and we were, both of
us, in love with young Harry Cromwell."

"Was I in love with Harry Cromwell?  If so, I have
forgotten it."

"You were in love with Harry Cromwell—or you
thought so—and so was I.  Do you remember his teaching
us how to skate?  What spirits we all had then!  How
handsome he was!  How strong!  How good-natured!  I
hear now that he is all for Dorothy Osborne, and has had
some Irish hounds sent her, and seal rings, and I know not
what other tokens.  And Mistress Dorothy is a royalist—that
is one good thing about her.  Very soon this lucky
Cromwell family will coax you to London to see all their
glory, and I shall be left in de Wick with no better
company than a clock; for my father speaks to me about once
an hour, and the Chaplain not at all, unless to reprove me."

"But you shall come to London also."

"Do you think so ill of me as to believe I would leave
my father in the loneliness of de Wick?  And you know
if he went to London he would be watched day and night,
and though he were white as innocence about the King,
some one would make him as black as Satan."

"Look now, Matilda, I will myself see Cromwell as soon
as he is in London.  I will say to him, 'My dear Lord and
General, I have a favour to ask;' and he will kiss me and
answer, 'What is it, little Jane?' and I will tell him that
I want my friend, Matilda de Wick, and that she will not
leave her father alone; and that will go right down into
his tender heart, to the very soul of him, and he will
say—perhaps with tears in his eyes—'She is a good girl, and I
loved her father, and he stood by me once against the elder
Charles Stuart and the Star Chamber.  Yes he did, and I
will leave de Wick in charge of his own honour, and I will
give his daughter my name to shield them both.  I will,
surely.'  Such words as this, good Cromwell will say.  I
know it."

"Oh, Jane, dear Jane, if I had to give a reason for loving
you, what could I say for myself?  If you can indeed do
this thing for me, how glad I shall be!"  And she stood up
and kissed her friend, and in a little while they went
downstairs together, and Matilda had some boiled milk and bread
and a slice of venison.  Then she asked Mrs. Swaffham to
let her have a coach to go home in.

"For it is so near Christmas," she said, "that snow, or
no snow, I must go to de Wick.  Audrey was making the
Nativity Pie when I left home, and it is that we may
remember my brave dead brothers and my sweet mother as
we eat it.  Then we shall talk of them and of the happy
Christmas days gone by, and afterwards go away and pray
for their remembrance and blessedness."

"My dear," said Mrs. Swaffham solemnly, "the dead
are with God.  There is no need to pray for them."

"It comforts my heart to ask God that they may
remember me.  I think surely He will do so.  He must know
how we feel at Christmas.  He must hear our sad talk of
them, and see our tears, and He has not forbid us anywhere
in the Bible to come to Him about our dead, any more than
about our living.  Father Sacy says I may confidently go
to Him; that He will be pleased that I still remember.
And as I do not forget them, they will not forget me.  In
God's very presence they may pray for me."

Mrs. Swaffham kissed her for answer, and they sent her
away with such confidence of good-will and coming happiness
that the girl almost believed days might be hers in the
future as full of joy as days in the past had been.

"She has a true heart," said Mrs. Swaffham as they
watched the coach disappear; and Jane answered,

"Yes, she has a true heart; and when we go to London
the de Wicks must go also.  Mother, I think she has yet
a tender fancy for Harry Cromwell—it might be."  But
Mrs. Swaffham shook her head, and Jane remembered the
miniature, and all day long at intervals wondered whose the
pictured face was.  And the snow fell faster and thicker
for many days, and all the narrow ways and lanes were
strangled with it.  Mrs. Swaffham constantly spoke of
Neville, and wondered if it were possible for him to make
his way north, until one night, more than a week after his
visit, she suddenly said,

"Jane, I have a strong belief that Lord Neville has
reached Edinburgh;" and Jane smiled brightly back as she
answered, "I have the same assurance, mother."  And
this pulse of prescience, this flash and flow of thought and
feeling was no marvel at all to their faithful souls.

"I did not fear for him, he is not a man to miss his
mark," said Mrs. Swaffham.

"And we must remember this, also, mother, that God
takes hands with good men."

"To be sure, Jane, it is all right; and now I must look
after the house a little."  So saying she went away softly
repeating a verse from her favourite Psalm, thus suffusing
with serene and sacred glow the plainest duties of her
daily life.

After this visit, it was cold winter weather, and Cluny
Neville came no more until the pale windy spring was over
the land.  And this visit was so short that Mrs. Swaffham,
who had gone to Ely, did not see him at all.  For he
merely rested while a fresh horse was prepared for him,
eating a little bread and meat almost from Jane's hand as he
waited.  Yet in that half-hour's stress and hurry, Love
overleaped a space that had not been taken without it; for
as he stood with one hand on his saddle, ready to leap into
it, Jane trembling and pale at his side, he saw unshed tears
in her eyes and felt the unspoken love on her lips, and as
he clasped her hand his heart sprang to his tongue, and he
said with a passionate tenderness,

"Farewell, Jane!  Darling Jane!"—then, afraid of his
own temerity, he was away ere he could see the wonder and
joy called into her face by the sweet familiar words.

.. _`"When he came again it was harvest time."`:

.. figure:: images/img-076.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: "When he came again it was harvest time."

   "When he came again it was harvest time."

When he came again, it was harvest time; the reapers
were in the wheat-fields, and as he neared Swaffham he
saw Jane standing among the bound sheaves, serving the
men and women with meat and drink.  For though the day
was nearly over, the full moon had risen, and the labourers
were going to finish their work by its light.  He tied his
horse at the gate and went to her side, and oh, how fair
and sweet he found her!  Never had she looked, never had
any woman looked in his eyes, so enthralling.  In her
simple dress with its snow-white lawn bodice and apron,
surrounded by the reapers whom she was serving, she
looked like some rural goddess, though Neville thought
rather of some Judean damsel in the fields of Bethlehem.
Her little white hood had fallen backwards, and the twilight
and the moonlight upon her gathered tresses made of them
a kind of glory.  The charm of the quiet moon was over
all; there was no noise, indeed rather a pastoral melancholy
with a gentle ripple of talk threading it about ploughing
and sowing and rural affairs.

In a short time the men and women scattered to their
work, and Cluny, turning his bright face to Jane's, took
both her hands in his and said with eager delight,

"Dear Jane!  Darling Jane!  Oh, how I love you!"

The words came without intent.  He caught his breath
with fear when he realised his presumption, for Jane stood
silent and trembling, and he did not at first understand that
it was for joy which she hardly comprehended and did not
at once know how to express.  But the heart is a ready
scholar when love teaches, and as they slowly passed
through the fields of yellow fulness, finding their happy
way among the standing sheaves, Jane heard and understood
that heavenly tale which Cluny knew so well how to
tell her.  The moon's face, warm and passionate, shed her
tender influence over them, and their hearts grew great and
loving in it.  For this one hour the bewitching moonlight
of *The Midsummer Night's Dream* was theirs, and they did
well to linger in it, and to fill their souls with its wondrous
radiance.  None just as heavenly would ever shine for them
again; never again, oh, surely never again, would they
thread the warm, sweet harvest fields, and feel so little below
the angels!

Not until they reached Swaffham did they remember
that they two were not the whole round world.  But words
of care and wonder and eager inquiry about war, and rumour
of war, soon broke the heavenly trance of feeling in which
they had found an hour of Paradise.  Mrs. Swaffham was
exceedingly anxious.  The country was full of frightsome
expectations.  Reports of Charles Stuart's invasion of
England were hourly growing more positive.  Armed men were
constantly passing northward, and no one could accurately
tell what forces they would have to meet.  It was said that
Charles had not only the Highland Clans, but also Irish,
French and Italian mercenaries; and that foreign troops
had received commissions to sack English towns and villages,
in order to place a popish king upon the throne.  For
there were not any doubts as to Charles Stuart's religious
predilections.  His taking of the Covenant was known to
be a farce, at which he privately laughed, and the most
lenient judged him a Protestant, lined through and through with
Popery.

So the blissful truce was over, and Jane and Cluny were
part of the weary, warring, working world again.  Cluny
knew nothing which could allay fear.  He had just come
from London, and he said—"The city is almost in panic;
many are even suspecting the fidelity of Cromwell, and
asking why he has permitted Charles Stuart to escape his army.
And yet Cromwell sent by me a letter urging Parliament to
get such forces as they had in readiness to give the enemy
some check until he should be able to reach up to him.
And still he added, as the last words, that trust in the Lord
which is his constant battle-cry.  How can England fear
with such a General to lead her army?"

"And what of the General's family?" asked Mrs. Swaffham,
"are they not afraid?"

"They are concerned and anxious, but not fearful.  Indeed,
the old Lady Cromwell astonished me beyond words.
She smiled at the panic in the city, and said 'It is the
beginning of triumph.'  And when madame, the General's wife,
spoke sharply, being in a heart-pain of loving care, she
answered her daughter-in-law with sweet forbearance in
words I cannot forget: 'Elizabeth, I know from a sure
word the ground of my confidence.  I have seen, I have
heard.  Rest on my assurance, and until triumph comes,
retire to Him who is a sure hiding-place.'  And the light
on her aged face was wonderful; she was like one waiting
for a great joy, restless at times, and going to the windows
of her room as if impatient for its arrival.  I count it a
mercy and a privilege to have seen her faith in God, and in
her great son.  It is the substance of the thing we hope for,
the evidence of what we shall all yet see," he cried in a tone
of exaltation.  "And now give me a strong, fresh horse; I
will ride all night!  Oh, that I were at great Cromwell's
side!  Charles Stuart has entered England, but Cromwell's
dash and sweep after him will be something for men and
angels to see!  Not for my life would I miss it."

"Where do you expect to find Cromwell?"

"I left him at Queensferry in Fife, cutting off the
enemy's victual.  This would force the Stuart either to
fight or go southward, for he has completely exhausted the
North, and it seems he has taken the south road.  But it is
incredible that this move is either unexpected or unwelcome
to our General.  Once before, he put himself between
England and the Scots, and 'how God succoured,' that is
not well to be forgotten.  Those were his words, and you
will notice, that it is 'how God succoured,' not how
Cromwell succeeded.  With him it is always, The Lord strong
and mighty, the Lord mighty in battle;" and Cluny's voice
rose and his words rang out sharply to the clatter of the
horse's hoofs on the stone pavement.

Then he turned to Jane.  "Darling Jane!  My Jane!"
and kissing her, he said boldly to Mrs. Swaffham, "I ask
your favour, madame.  Jane has this hour promised to be my
wife."

"Jane has then been very forward," answered Mrs. Swaffham
with annoyance, "and both of you very selfish
and thoughtless.  While your mother England's heart is at
her lips, in this dread extremity, you two must needs talk
of love and marrying.  I am grieved.  And Jane's father
has not been spoken to, and he is first of all.  I can say
neither yea nor nay in the matter."

"But you will surely speak for us.  Give me a kind
word, madame, ere I go."  And she could not resist the
youth's beauty and sweet nature, nor yet the thought in her
heart that it might perhaps be his last request.  If he should
be slain in battle, and she had refused the kind word, what
excuse would quiet her self-reproach?  Then she looked
kindly at him, and the thought of the young prince David
going out to meet the uncircumcised Philistine who had
defied the armies of the living God, came into her heart; and
she drew down his face to hers and kissed and blessed him,
saying, as Saul said to David, "Go, and the Lord be with
thee."

Then he leaped into the saddle, and the horse caught his
impatience and shared his martial passion, and with a loud
neigh went flying over the land.  Silently the two women
watched the dark figure grow more and more indistinct in
the soft, mysterious moonshine, until at length it was a
mere shadow that blended with the indistinctness of the
horizon.

"Thank you, dear mother," said Jane softly, and the
mother answered, "In these times who dare say good-bye
in anger?  But let me tell you, Jane, you cannot now
think of yourself first.  England is at the sword's point;
your father and brothers are living on a battle-field; your
lover is only one of thousands fighting for the truth and
the right, and his life is England's before it is yours.  God
and country must be served first, eh, my dear?"

"Yes, mother.  First and best of all."

"When Neville has done his duty, he will come for you.
He can no more bear to live without you than without his
eyes.  I see that."

Before Jane could reply, they heard the men and women
coming from the harvesting.  They were singing as they
trailed homeward, their harsh, drawling voices in the night's
silence sounding tired and pathetic and bare of melody.
Jane slipped away to the music in her own heart, closing
within herself that Love whose growth had been sweet and
silent as the birth of roses.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`SHEATHED SWORDS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER V


.. class:: center medium bold

   SHEATHED SWORDS

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |          "The peaceful cities
   |  Lulled in their ease and undisturbed before are all on fire.
   |  The thick battalions move in dreadful form
   |  As lowering clouds advance before a storm;
   |  Thick smoke obscures the field, and scarce are seen,
   |  The neighing coursers and the shouting men;
   |  In distance of their darts they stop their course,
   |  Then man to man they rush, and horse to horse.
   |  The face of heaven their flying javelins hide
   |  And deaths unseen are dealt on every side.
   |  . . . . . . . . . the fields are strewed
   |  With fallen bodies, and are drunk with blood."

.. vspace:: 2

It will be well now to recall the positions which Charles
Stuart and Cromwell, with their armies, occupied.  The
royalist defeat at Dunbar occurred on September the third,
A.D. 1650, and Charles, after it, sought shelter in the
fortress of Stirling Castle, where he remained until he went to
Perth.  Here, on January the first, 1651, he was crowned
King of Scotland, and then he assumed the command of
Captain-General of the Scotch forces, having under him the
Duke of Hamilton and David Leslie.  At this time the
Scotch army had become purely royal and malignant,
the Kirk having done its part had retired, leaving the King
to manage his own affairs.  During the winter, which was
long and severe, Charles and his army could do nothing;
but when fine weather came and they understood that
Cromwell would march to Perth, the Scotch army went southward,
fortifying itself on the famous Torwood Hill, between
Stirling and Falkirk.

This long winter had been one of great suffering to
General Cromwell.  After making himself master of the whole
country south of Forth and Clyde, he had a severe illness,
and lay often at the point of death.  In the month of May
two physicians were sent by Parliament from London to
Edinburgh to attend him, but ere they arrived, the Lord
Himself had been his physician and said unto him, Live!
He took the field in June, throwing the main part of his
army into Fife, in order to cut off the enemy's victual.
This move forced the hand of Charles Stuart.  His army
was in mutiny for want of provisions, the North country
was already drained, he durst not risk a battle—but the road
into England was clear.

Cromwell himself had gone northward to Perth, and on
the second of August he took possession of that city; but
while entering it was told that Charles Stuart, with
fourteen thousand men, had suddenly left Stirling and was
marching towards England.  Cromwell was neither
surprised nor alarmed; perhaps, indeed, he had deliberately
opened the way for this move by going northward to Perth,
and leaving the road to England open.  At any rate, when
Charles reached the border he found Harrison with a strong
body of horse waiting for him, while Fleetwood with his
Yorkshiremen lay heavy on his left flank, and Lambert with
all the English cavalry was jogging on, pressing close the
rear of his army.  For in Lambert's ears was ringing night
and day Cromwell's charge to him,—

"Use utmost diligence!  With the rest of the horse and
men I am hastening up, and by the Lord's help, I shall be
in good time."

Charles had taken the western road by Carlisle, and it
was thought he would make for London.  He went at a
flying speed past York, Nottingham, Coventry, until he
reached the borders of Shropshire, summoning every town
he passed, but hardly waiting for the thundering negatives
that answered his challenge; for the swift, steady tramp of
Cromwell's pursuit was daily drawing nearer and nearer.
Reaching Shrewsbury, he found the gates shut against him,
and his men were so disheartened that the King with cap
in hand entreated them "yet a little longer to stick to
him."  For all his hopes and promises had failed, there had been
no rising in his favour, no surrender of walled towns,
and the roads between Shrewsbury and London
were bristling with gathering militia.  So Charles turned
westward to Worcester, a city reported to be loyal, where
he was received with every show of honour and affection.
Here he set up his standard on the ill-omened
twenty-second of August, the very day nine years
previous, on which his father had planted his unfortunate
standard at Nottingham.

Meanwhile Cromwell was following Charles with a
steady swiftness that had something fateful in it.  He had
taken Perth on the second of August; he left it with ten
thousand men on the third; he was on the border by the
eighth; he was at Warwick on the twenty-fourth, where he
was immediately joined by Harrison, Fleetwood and
Lambert.  Such swiftness and precision must have been
prearranged, either by Cromwell or by Destiny.  It was to be
the last battle of the Civil War, and Cromwell knew it, for
he had beyond the lot of mortals that wondrous insight, that
prescience, which, like the scabbard of the sword Excalibur,
was more than the blade itself—the hilt armed with eyes.
There was in his soul, even at Perth, the assurance of
Victory, and as he passed through the towns and villages of
England, men would not be restrained.  They threw down
the sickle and the spade in the field, the hammer in the
forge, the plane at the bench, and catching hold of the
stirrups of the riders, ran with them to the halting-place.
Cromwell had no need to beg Englishmen yet a little longer
to stick to him.  His form of rugged grandeur, the majesty
and fierceness of his face, and his air of invincible strength
and purpose, said to all, *This is the Pathfinder of your
English Freedom!  Follow Him!*  The man was a magnet, and
drew men to him; he looked at them, and they fell into
his ranks; he rode singing of Victory at their head, and
women knelt on the streets and by the roadside to pray for
the success of those going up "*For the help of the Lord, and
for England.*"  This battle call, ringing from men at full
spur, was taken up even by the old crones and little
children, and their shrill trebles were added to the mighty
shouting of strong men, whose heroic hands were already
tightly closed upon their sword-hilts.  So, with his ten
thousand troops augmented to thirty thousand, he reached
Warwick, and making his headquarters at the pretty
village of Keynton near by, he gave his men time to draw
breath, and called a council of war.

Cromwell was now on the very ground where the first
battle of the Civil War had been fought.  Nine years
previous the Puritan camp had lain at Keynton with the banner
of Charles the First waving in their sight from the top of
Edgehill.  Outside the village there was a large farmhouse,
its red tiled roof showing through the laden orchard trees;
and the woman dwelling there gladly welcomed Cromwell
to rest and comfort.

"All my sons are with General Harrison," she said;
"and I have not seen their faces for two years."

"Nevertheless, mistress," said Cromwell, "they shall
keep Harvest Home with you, and go out to fight no more,
for the end of the war is near at hand."  He spoke with
the fervour of a prophet, but she had not faith to believe, and
she answered—

"My Lord Cromwell, our Sword and our Saviour, their
names are Thanet, James, and John, and Dickson, and Will.
Surely you have heard of them, dead or alive?"

His keen eyes lost their fire and were instantly full of
sadness as he answered, "Oh, woman, why did you doubt?
If they have fallen in battle, truly they are well.  Judge not
otherwise.  Your blood and your sons' blood has not run
to waste."

Two hours after this conversation, Cluny Neville lifted
the latch of the farm gate.  He had heard reliably of
Cromwell's pursuit of Charles at Newcastle, and turning back
southward, had followed him as closely as the difficulty of
getting horses in the wake of the army permitted.  He was
weary and hungry, but he was at last near the chief he
adored.  He gave himself a moment of anticipation at the
door of the room, and then he opened it.  Cromwell was
sitting at the upper end of a long table.  A rough map of
the country around Worcester lay before him, and Harrison,
Lambert, Israel Swaffham, and Lord Evesham were his
companions.  There were two tallow candles on the table,
and their light shone on the face of Cromwell.  At that
moment it was full of melancholy.  He seemed to be
listening to the noble fanaticism of Harrison, who was talking
fervidly of the coming of the Kingdom of Christ and the
reign of the saints on earth; but he saw in an instant the
entrance of Neville, and with an almost imperceptible
movement commanded his approach.

Neville laid the letters of which he was the bearer before
Cromwell, and his large hand immediately covered them.
"Is all well?" he asked—and reading the answer in the
youth's face, added, "I thank God!  What then of the city?"

"Its panic is beyond describing," answered Neville.
"Parliament is beside itself; even Bradshaw is in great
fear; there are surmises as to your good faith, my lord, and
the rumours and counter-rumours are past all believing.
London is manifestly with the Commonwealth, and every
man in it is looking to you and to the army for protection.
Some, indeed, I met who had lost heart, and who thought
it better that Charles Stuart should come back than that
England should become a graveyard fighting him."

"Such men are suckled slaves," said Lambert.  "I would
hang them without word or warrant for it."

"Yea," said Cromwell; "for Freedom is dead in them.
That's their fault, it will not reach us.  Thousands of
Englishmen have died to crown our England with Freedom;
for Freedom is not Freedom unless England be free."  Here
he rose to his feet, and the last rays of the setting
sun fell across the rapture and stern seriousness of his face
across his shining mail and his majestic soldierly figure.
His eyes blazed with spiritual exaltation, and flamed with
human anger, as in a voice, sharp and untunable, but ringing
with passionate fervour, he cried—

"I say to you, and truly I mean it, if England's Red
Cross fly not above free men, let it fall!  Let it fall o'er
land and sea forever!  The natural milk of Freedom, the
wine and honey of Freedom, which John Eliot and John
Pym and John Hampden gave us to eat and to drink, broke
our shackles and made us strong to rise in the face of
forsworn kings and red-shod priests, devising our slavery.  It
did indeed!  And I tell you, for I know it, that with this
milk of Freedom England will yet feed all the nations of
the world.  She will!  Only be faithful, and here and now,
God shall so witness for us that all men must acknowledge
it.  For I do know that Charles Stuart, and the men with
him, shall be before us like dust on a turning wheel.  We
shall have a victory like that of Saul over Nahash, and I
know not of any victory like to it, since the world began—*Two
of them—not left together*.  Amen!  But give me leave
to say this: In the hour of victory it were well for us to
remember the mercy that was in Saul's heart, 'because that
day, the Lord had wrought salvation in Israel.'  From
here there are two courses open to us, a right one, and a
wrong one.  What say you, Lambert?"

"London is the heart of the nation, and just now it is a
faint heart.  I say it were well to turn our noses to London,
and to let the rogues know we are coming."

"What is your thought, Harrison?"

"Worcester is well defended," he answered musingly.
"It has Wales behind it.  We cannot fight Charles Stuart
till we compass the city, and to do that, we must be on both
sides of the river.  Then Charles could choose on which
side he would fight, and we could not come suddenly to
help each other."

"What way look you, Israel?"

"The way of the enemy.  I see that he is here.  What
hinders that we fight him?"

"Fight him," said lord Evesham, "better now, than later."

"Fight him!  That, I tell you, is my mind also," said
Cromwell striking the table with his clinched hand.  "Some
may judge otherwise, but I think while we hold Charles Stuart
safe, London is safe also."

"Surely," said Lambert, "it may be more expedient to
secure Charles Stuart, but——"

"Expedient, expedient!" interrupted Cromwell.  "Who
can make a conscience out of expediency?  Expediency says,
*it may be*; Conscience says, *it is*.  If Worcester were ten
times as strong, I would not hesitate.  God has chosen this
battle-field for us, as He chose Dunbar; and because the
place is strong, and because it is on both sides the river, we
will draw closer and closer our crescent of steel round it.  We
will fight against it on both sides of the river, and we will
expect that miracle of deliverance which will surely come,
for we never yet found God failing, when we trusted in
Him.  In these parts we struck our first blows for Freedom,
and here, at point and edge, we will strike our last, and then
sheathe our swords.  I give my word to you for this, and I
will fully answer it.  But there must be no slackness.  The
work is to be thorough, and not to do over again.  The
nation wishes it so, I know it.  The plain truth is—we will
march straight on Worcester; we will cut off Charles Stuart
from all hope of London; we will fight him from both sides
of the river, and bring this matter of the Stuarts to an end;
for they are the great troublers of Israel."

The man and the time and the place had met, and there
was no doubting it.  His words burned this assurance into
the hearts of all who heard him, and when he struck his
sword-hilt to emphasise them, they answered with the same
movement, unconscious and simultaneous.

In some remarkable way, this tremendous national crisis
had become known in every corner of the land.  If the
great angel who guides and guards the destinies of England
had sent out a legion of messengers to cry it from every
church tower, there could not have been any more conscious
intimation of the final struggle.  And the very vagueness
and mystery of the conviction intensified its importance,
for generally the information came as the wind blows, no
one knew whence—only that the billows of war, though
low and far off, were heard, only that a sense of presence
and movement not visible thrilled and informed men and
women and brought them nearer to their inner selves than
they had ever been before.  Indeed, there were many whose
spiritual senses were opened by intense longing and fearing,
and they heard voices and saw portents and visions in the
air above, yea, even on the streets around them.

At Swaffham and de Wick this fateful feeling was
aggravated by keen personal interests.  To Mrs. Swaffham
and Jane the coming battle might mean widowhood and
orphanage; sons and brothers might be among those
appointed to die for Freedom's sake.  To de Wick it might
mean the extinction of the family, root and branch, the loss
to the lonely Earl and his daughter of the one love on
which their future could build any hope.  They could not
bear audibly to surmise these things, but they feared them; and
not even Jane had yet reached that far-seeing faith, which,
for a noble end, levels life and death.  As the days went on
they ceased their usual employments; Jane went to the
village, or even to Ely in search of news, or perhaps half-way
to de Wick met Matilda on the same errand.  Mutual fears
drew them together; they talked and wept and encouraged
each other, and always parted with the one whispered
word—"*To-morrow.*"

At length there came a day when the unnatural tension
grew to its cruel ripeness.  The soft gray autumn morning
was sensitive through every pulse of Nature, and as the
day wore on a strange still gloom hung far and wide over
the country.  The very breath of calamity was in it.
Puritan and Royalist alike went to the open churches to pray;
tradesmen left their wares and stood talking and watching
the highways; women wandered about their homes weeping
and praying inaudibly, or they let their anxieties fret
them like a lash.  The next morning the west wind blew
the sorrow in the air, far-off to sea; but left an
instantaneous, penetrating sense of something being "all
over."  Whatever deed had been done, England would soon ring
with it.

On the third afternoon, there came rumours of a great
Parliamentary victory, rumours that Charles Stuart had been
slain in battle, suppositions and surmises innumerable and
contradictory.  Jane went as quickly as possible to de
Wick, for if indeed there had been a Royalist defeat,
Stephen de Wick might have reached home and life was
hardly to be borne, unless some certainty relieved the
tension cutting like a tight thong her heart and brain.

The neglect and desolation of de Wick Park had in it
something unusual: it was that strange air of sorrow, new and
unaccepted, which insists on recognition.  It hurried Jane's
steps; she felt sure she was either going to meet trouble
or that trouble was following after her.  When she reached
the house, there were two horses tied, and even two horses
were a strange sight, now, at that door where once there
had been all day long the noise and hurry of sportsmen,
and of coming and going guests.  She entered the hall and
saw a man in his stockinged feet softly descending the
stairs.  She knew his name and his occupation, and her
heart stood still with fear.  The next moment Delia came
forward, and Jane said,

"I am glad to see you back, Delia.  Is Lady Matilda
well?  Is any one ill?  O Delia, what is the
matter?  Why are you crying?  And why is Jabez Clay
here?"

"The priest is dead.  Clay has been measuring him."

"Dead!"

"Yes, ma'am.  He dropped dead when he heard of the
fight—and the King's death."

"Then you have news?"

"The worst news that could come.  No one has seen
the King since the battle—all is lost—Audrey's Ben is back
skin-whole, but he says——"

"Is that you, Jane Swaffham?" cried Matilda, running
down-stairs.  "Come here, come here, come here!" and
seizing her by the arm, she compelled Jane to ascend at
her side.  As for Matilda, she was like a woman distraught.
Grief and anger burned white in her face, her eyes blazed,
her speech was shrill, her manner like one possessed.  Jane
made no resistance to such impetuous, imperative passion,
and she was hurried up the steps and along the corridor
until Matilda suddenly stopped and threw open the door of
a darkened room.

"Go in, Mistress Swaffham," she cried, "and look your
last on one of Cromwell's victims."  And Jane shook
herself free, and stood a moment regarding the placid face of
the dead priest.  He was wrapped in his winding sheet,
the Book of Common Prayer lay on his breast, and his
hands were clasped over it.

"Oh, God be merciful!" said Jane, and Matilda
answered, "Yes, for men know nothing of mercy.  Come,
there is more yet."

Then she opened the door next to the death chamber,
and Jane saw lying on a great canopied bed the dying Earl.
His last breaths were coming in painful sobs, but he
opened his eyes and looked mournfully at Jane for a few
moments.  Then the physician sitting by his side motioned
authoritatively to the two girls to leave the room.

"He is dying.  You see that.  He may live till morning—no
longer," said Matilda; "he is only waiting to see
Stephen, and Stephen will never come.  Ben said he was
with the King's horse, and the King is slain, and all is red
ruin and sorrow without end.  When you rise to-morrow
morning, you can tell yourself Matilda de Wick is motherless,
fatherless, brotherless, friendless, and homeless; and I
dare say you will add piously, 'It is the Lord's doing'; but it
is not the Lord's doing, it is Oliver Cromwell's work.  I
would walk every step of the way to London if I might see
him hung when I got there!"

"Indeed, Matilda, you are cruel to say such things.
You are neither friendless nor homeless."

"Indeed, I am in both cases.  I will have no friends
that are partners in Cromwell's crimes, and if Stephen be
dead, de Wick goes only in the male line, and there is not
a male left to our name.  Cromwell and his Parliament may
as well take house and lands; they have slain all who can
hold them—all, Reginald, Roland, Stephen, my Uncle
Robert, my cousins Rufus and Edward!  What wonder that
Julian Sacy's heart broke, and that my father only waits at
the door of Death to say good-bye to Stephen."

"What can I do for you, dear?  Oh, what can I do?"

"I will have nothing from you, not even pity, while you
endure, yes, even admire, this monster of cruelty, Oliver
Cromwell."

"Cruelty is far from him.  He has the heart of a child."

"He is a very demon.  He has drenched England in blood."

"He has done nothing of the kind.  Why did Charles
Stuart invade England?  What right had he to do so?
England is not his private estate.  England belongs to
Englishmen.  No, I will not talk on this subject with you.
When you are in reason send for me, and I will do
anything, anything, that my heart and hands can do."

"I will not send for you.  I never wish to see your face
again.  And how poor Stephen loved you!  And you—you
have not a tear for his fate.  I thank God I am not of
your profession.  I can weep for the death of those who
loved me."

With these words Matilda turned sobbing away, and Jane,
slowly at first and then hastily, took the road to Swaffham.
For after she had decided that it was best not to force her
company on her distracted friend, she remembered that the
news which had reached de Wick was probably at Swaffham.
It might also have come there with a tale of death and
danger, and her mother be needing her help and comfort.
So she made all possible haste, and as soon as she reached
Swaffham she was aware of a change.  The servants were
running about with unusual alacrity, and there was a sense
of hurry and confusion.  As soon as Jane spoke, her
mother came quickly towards her.  Her look was flurried,
but not unhappy, as she cried, "Have you the news,
Jane?  'Tis the greatest victory that hath ever been in
England.  Dr. Verity came an hour ago, so tired he could
scarcely sit his horse.  He has had a warm drink and sleeps,
but he says no victory was ever like it."

"And my father and brothers?  What of them?"

"Your father is well; Tonbert and Will have some
slight sword cuts.  Cymlin has taken them to London, and
Dr. Marvel will see to their wounds.  We must be ready
to go with Dr. Verity to London on Tuesday morning.
Your father desires it."

"I heard at de Wick that Charles Stuart is slain."

"Dr. Verity believes not such a report.  He says,
however, that the war is over.  The Royalists have now
neither army nor leader.  Now, Jane, make some haste.
Put carefully away what is to be left, and pack a small box
with such clothing as you must take with you.  Joslyn, the
carrier, will bring the rest.  To-morrow being Sabbath, we
can do nothing towards our journey but on Monday all
must be finished."

It troubled Jane that there was so little sense of triumph.
"The greatest victory that had ever been in England"
appeared quite a secondary thing to Mrs. Swaffham in
comparison with the hurried journey to London, and all it
implied.  An unspeakable fear had been lifted from every
heart, and yet, instead of the great rejoicing which would
have been fit and natural, there was a little ennui and
forgetfulness—a feeling which if it had found words might
have said, "There, now, the trouble is over.  We have
felt all we can feel.  We would rather sit down and cry a
little than shout to the church bells clanging all over
England.  We have given of ourselves freely while need was,
now the need is over, let us alone."

Such an appearance of ingratitude troubled Jane in her
very soul.  Cromwell so eagerly looked for, so mighty to
help, had not been even named.  "What ingrates mortals
are!" she thought bitterly, "what ingrates both to God and
man.  Yet had my father been here, he would have called
the house together and thanked God for His help by the
hand of Oliver Cromwell."

To such thoughts she worked rapidly.  Her little box
was soon packed, her room put in order, and she was
beginning to wonder if Dr. Verity's sleep was delaying
supper, when there was a sharp, impatient knock at the
door.  Before she could in any way answer it, Matilda
de Wick entered and threw herself on her knees at Jane's
side.

"You said you would help me," she cried; "you said you
would, with heart and hands!  Now, Jane, keep your word!
It is life or death!  Have pity on me!  Have pity on me!"

"What is it, Matilda?  What is it you wish?"

"It is Stephen; it is his friend Hugh Belward.  They
are searching de Wick for them now.  I have brought
them to you.  Father told me to come here.  I could go
nowhere else, I had no time.  Jane, for God's sake save
them; not for my sake, not for pity's sake, but for God's
sake save them!  They are now outside this door—they
may be seen by some servant—let them enter—may I open
the door?  Jane, speak.  There is not a moment to lose.
The men seeking them may be on their way here—Jane,
Jane!  Why don't you let them in?  You said you would
help me!  Oh, for God's dear sake!"

"How can I do what you ask me, Matilda?  Think of
what you ask——"

"I know; I ask life for two poor souls ready to perish.
One of them loves you—Jane, speak—why are you waiting?"

"My father—my brothers—and in this room?—My
own room?——"

"The more sure sanctuary.  Be not too nice, when too
much niceness may be murder.  Jane, there is no time to
talk.  Let them through the door."

"I will call mother," she said; "let them in until I
bring her here."  Then she opened the door, and Matilda
brought the two wayworn, blood-stained, fainting fugitives
within the sanctuary.

Mrs. Swaffham was not long in answering Matilda's petition.
That divine compassion that oversteps every obstacle,
and never asks who or what art thou, saw the visible
necessity and hastened to meet it.

"Surely, surely, my poor lads," she said pitifully, "I will
find hiding for you."

"God Himself thank you, madame," sobbed Matilda.
"Father said you would.  He told me to bring the boys to
you, and I brought them through the fields and under the
hedges.  No one has seen them; it was nearly dark," she
said hysterically.

"Yes, dearie, and Will shall saddle a horse and take you
home."

"No, no, no!  It would then be known I had come
here in the dark; and the servants would ask what for, and
suspect the truth.  No one must know.  I can find my
way—and I must now go."

"Tell your father that they who would hurt the young
men must hurt me first."

"It will be the greatest, the last, comfort he can have in
this world."  Then she kissed her brother, and with a
glance of farewell pity at his companion, went quickly and
quietly away.

"Go down-stairs, Jane," said Mrs. Swaffham, "and if
Dr. Verity is waiting, order supper to be served.  Tell him
not to wait on my necessities, which are many, with so
much packing and putting away to look after.  Keep men
and maids busy on the ground floor, and the east side.  I
will bestow our friends in the oak room, on the west side
of the house."

To this room she took them, and then brought water and
wine and bread and meat, and some of her son's clothing,
showing them, also, that the wide chimney had been
prepared for such emergencies by having stout, firm, iron
stirrups placed right and left at very short intervals.  "By
these you can easily reach the roof," she said; "Dr. Verity
did so once, when Laud's men were seeking him.  But I
think no Parliament soldiers will search Israel Swaffham's
house for succored malignants.  To-night and to-morrow
you can rest and sleep; I will waken you very early
Monday morning, and you can go to de Wick for your horses,
ere any one is astir."  She kissed them both and poured
out wine and made them drink, and then, looking carefully
to see that no chink in shutters or door let out a glimpse
of candle-light, left them to eat and rest.  Her heart
was light, and she had no sense of wrong-doing, although
Stephen had warned her that Parliament had issued an order
threatening all who sheltered royalists with fine and
imprisonment.

"Parliament's orders are well enough," she said to herself
as she stepped rapidly and lightly away from the scene
of her disobedience, "well enough, but I think far more of
the orders of the King of kings, and He tells me if my
enemy hunger to feed him and give him drink, and of course
shelter and clothing—the oil and the twopence—the oil for
his visible wants, and the twopence for the wants not seen.
I must not forget the twopence.  Thank God, I can spare
a few pounds for the poor lads!"  And her face was so happy
in the thought that she seemed to bring sunshine into the
parlour, where she found Dr. Verity eating a beefsteak
pudding and talking to Jane, who sat with a white and
anxious face trying to smile and answer him.

"Come and rest a little, Martha," he said, "I am not to
halve a day."

"But I am, Doctor.  I want to see to my boys' wounds."

"Wounds!  Pshaw!  Scratches!  They will be in armour
to enter London when Cromwell does.  And what think
you?  Here come a half-a-dozen riders awhile ago, seeking
young de Wick.  They said also that it was thought
Charles Stuart might be with him, and they would have
searched Swaffham—high and low—if I had not been here.
I vouched my word for no Stuart or de Wick in Swaffham,
and told them the whole house was upside down, men and
maids in every room, and you and Jane packing for London.
And the rascals didn't take my word, but went to the
kitchen and asked Tom and Dick and Harry and all the
wenches, and so satisfied themselves."

"The impudent varlets," said Mrs. Swaffham, "to set
your word at naught.  I wish that you had called me."

"I told them when they hummed and hawed to 'light from
their horses and go through the house, and Jane said,
'Surely, sirs, Dr. Verity will go with you;' and then I let
them have the rough side of my tongue, and said, 'I'd do
no such mean business as search Captain Israel Swaffham's
house for royalists, and he and his three sons fighting them
on every battle-field in England and Scotland.  Not I!'  So
they went their ways to the kitchen, and learned nothing to
what I told them; but they got a drink of ale, which was
likely what they wanted.  But if Charles Stuart had been
here I would have gladly led the way to him, for I like well
to betray a man who deceives and betrays all men."

"You would not, Dr. Verity," said Jane.  "I know you
better than your words.  You would have put him on your
own big horse, and put money in his hand, and said, Fly!
I am not thy executioner."

"I say, No, downright."

"I say, Yes," affirmed Mrs. Swaffham.  "In the heart
of battle perhaps No, but if he came to you after the battle
and begged for mercy, you would think of the reproach our
Lord Christ gave to the unmerciful steward—shouldst not
thou also have had compassion on thy fellow-servant even
as I had pity on thee."

"You argue like a woman, Martha.  There is the
example of Jael."

"I wouldn't do what Jael did if England's crown was
for it.  There is not an Englishwoman living, not one
living, who would play Jael.  If Charles Stuart has got
away from battle, he has got away; and if you are looking
to Englishwomen to betray a poor soul in extremities,
Charles Stuart may live to be King of England yet."

"You are making a wicked and impossible suggestion,
Martha."

"No more wicked and impossible than that there is
another Jael in England.  There is not!"

"Don't flare up in that way, Martha.  Thank God, we
are neither of us yet called upon to decide such a question
as Charles Stuart's life or death.  But he might come here;
the courage of despair may bring him.  What would you do?"

"You are here, and I would leave you to answer that
question for me."

"Well, I wish he would come.  There is danger while
he is hiding here and there in the country.  What good is
it to quench the fire in the chimney if it be scattered about
the house?  I think we will begin our journey to London on
Monday morning, Martha."

"I cannot.  If I had as many hands as fingers, I could
not.  You may keep watch and ward to-morrow and Monday,
and it may be well to do so; for to tell the truth, I
trust neither men nor maids in the kitchen.  For a
Parliament half-crown they would hide the devil.  When was
this great battle of Worcester fought?"

"Last Wednesday, on the third day of this month."

"Mother, remember how sad we were all that day.  You
said to me, 'Jane, there is death in the air;' and the men
could not work, and they vowed the beasts trembled and
were not to guide or to hold."

"The third of September!" said Mrs. Swaffham, "that
was Dunbar day.  A great victory was Dunbar!"

"Worcester was a greater victory; and there will be
one more third of September, the greatest victory of all.
But where it will be, and over what enemy, only God
knows."

"When did the Worcester battle begin?" asked Jane.

"About four in the afternoon.  It was a fair day, the
sun shone brightly over the old city, with its red-tiled roofs,
its orchards and gardens and hop fields, and over the noble
river and long line of the green Malvern hills a few miles
away.  And the Royalist army made a grand show with
their waving cloaks and plumes, their gay silk banners, and
their shouts of *For God and King*!  But they were as
stubble before steel when Cromwell's iron men faced them with
their stern answering shout of *God With Us*!  It was a
stiff business, but indeed God was with us.  As for
Cromwell, he was so highly transported that scarce one dared
speak to him.  Wherever he led, a great passion, like to a
tempestuous wind, seized the men, and they crowded and
rushed the enemy from street to street, shouting as they did
so psalms of victory.  Yes, Martha, yes, Jane, rushed
them as the devil rushed the demon-haunted hogs into the
sea of Galilee.  Oh, I tell you, Cromwell! our Cromwell! is
always grand, but never so mighty as when on horseback
in front of his army.  Then you look at the man,
and thank God for him."

"And the battle began at four?  I remember hearing
Swaffham church strike that hour.  I stood in a wretched
mood at the door and counted the strokes.  They had a
fateful sound."

"We had been at work all day, but at that hour we had
two bridges over the Severn, and Cromwell with half the
army passed over them to the west side of the city.  He
rode in front, and was the first man to cross.  Pitscottie's
Highlandmen were waiting for him, and he drove them at
push of pike from hedge to hedge till they were cut to
pieces, every man's son of them, one on the heels of the
other.  And when Charles Stuart saw this battle raging on
the west side of the river, he attacked the troops that had
been left with Lambert on the east side.  Right glad was
Lambert, and 'tis said that the Stuart behaved very gallantly
and broke a regiment of militia; and the troops, being
mostly volunteers, began to waver.  But Cromwell saw
this new attack at once, and he and Desborough and
Cobbett came rattling over the bridges of boats.  No dismay
when Cromwell was there!  His voice and presence meant
victory!  The malignants, with their Scotch allies,
retreated before him into Worcester streets, Cromwell's men
after them pell-mell.  Women, it was then hell let loose,
for by this time it was nearly dark, and the narrow streets
were lit only by the flashes of the great and small shot.
Cromwell rode up and down them, in the midst of the
fire; he took Fort Royal from the enemy, and with his
own hands fired its guns upon them as they fled hither and
thither, they knew not, in their terror and despair, where.
Every street in Worcester was full of fire and blood, the
rattle of artillery, the shouts of our captains, the shrieks of
the dying.  All night the sack of the city went on.  It was
a tenfold Drogheda, and ever since, by day and night,
Lambert has been following the flying enemy, hunting and
slaying them in every highway and hiding-place.  Oh,
indeed, the faces of our foes have been brought down to
earth and their mouths filled with dust; and rightly so.  No
one will ever know the number slain, and we have ten
thousand prisoners."

"Was such cruelty necessary?" asked Mrs. Swaffham.

"War is cruel, Martha; a battle would not be a battle
unless it was cruel—furiously cruel.  What is the use of
striking soft in battle?  The work is to do over again.  A
cruel war is in the end a merciful war."

"It is said Charles Stuart is slain."

"I don't believe that report, it has been spread by his
friends to favour his escape.  At first he was distracted, and
went about asking some one to slay him; but he was seen
afterwards beyond the gates of Worcester, moving eastward
with a number of his adherents.  David Leslie may be
slain.  I saw him riding slowly up and down like a man
who had lost his senses.  I could have shot him easily—but
I did not."

"Thank God, Doctor!"

"I don't know about that, Martha.  I'm not sure in my
own mind about letting the old traitor go.  But his white
hair, his bloody face, and his demented look stayed my
hand.  He had left his bridle fall, his horse was trembling
in every limb; the old man did not know what he was doing,
he had lost his senses.  Yet David Leslie ought to have
been shot—only, I could not shoot him; he fought at my
side—once.  God forgive him!  Martha, I have had
enough of war.  I thank God it is over."

"But is it over?"

"Cromwell says so, and I believe him.  When a man
walks with God as closely as Cromwell does, he knows
many things beyond ordinary knowledge.  I saw him
about ten o'clock.  He had written then a few lines to his
wife and family, and was writing to the Parliament.  And
what did he say in that letter?  Did he praise himself?
No!  He was bold humbly to beg that all the glory might
be given to God, who had wrought so great a salvation.
When he had sealed and sent off these letters—by Lord
Cluny Neville, Mistress Jane—he lifted his sword, red
from the hilt to the point, and wiped it upon a Royalist
flag lying near him.  Then he dropped the blade into the
sheathe with a clang, and said, 'Truly thou hast had thy
last bloody supper.  Rest now, thy work is done!'"

.. _`"THEN HE DROPPED HIS BLADE INTO THE SHEATHE WITH A CLANG."`:

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   :alt: "THEN HE DROPPED HIS BLADE INTO THE SHEATHE WITH A CLANG."

   "THEN HE DROPPED HIS BLADE INTO THE SHEATHE WITH A CLANG."

"Truly, I know not what work," said Mrs. Swaffham.
"I see only death and destruction."

"Martha, suppose Charles Stuart had conquered at
Worcester, and that he had marched on London and been
received there as the conqueror of a rebellious people, what
would follow?"

"I know not, nor does any man or woman know."

"I can tell you.  Our Protestant faith and our civil
liberty would be taken from us; for the latter depends on
the former, and all we have done since 1640 would be to
do over again.  Jericho has fallen, would you rebuild it?"

"All I want is peace."

"That we shall now have.  Our steel bodies, that have
galled us long with the wearing of them, may be cast off;
our men will return to their homes and their daily work,
and our worship shall never more be broken up, but our
Sabbaths be full of good things."

"If we love God, I wonder if it makes so much difference
how we worship Him?"

"I am astonished at you, Martha."

"I am astonished likewise at all the sorrow and blood-shedding
about surplices and chasubles and written prayers
and such things."

"My dear mother!"

"Oh, my dear Jane, it is so; and I was astonished when
I was a girl and saw my father go to poverty and prison
for such trifles.  Yes, I say trifles—and I am a Puritan
minister's child, and not ashamed of it—and my husband
and sons have been taken from me, and my household left
for the battle-field, and I know not what sorrows and
trials——"

"Come, come, Martha, you are tired and fretted.  If we
believe in a great and terrible God, *how* we are most
acceptably to worship Him is not a trifling thing; far from it!
I tell you both, the form of worship we have in England
measures our civil liberty.  If we submit to spiritual slavery,
any king or queen or successful soldier may make us civil
slaves.  Now let the subject drop; the war is over, we will
think of peace."

"Peace comes too late for many a family.  There are
the de Wicks."

"I am sorry for them, and I could be sorrier if they had
suffered for the right instead of the wrong.  What will the
young Lady Matilda do after her father's death?"

"I know not what, with any surety."

"Her aunt, Lady Jevery, has been written for, more than
a week ago.  She may be at de Wick even now.  I think
Matilda will make her home with the Jeverys."

"Then she goes to London.  I know their great house
near Drury Lane.  It has very fine gardens indeed.  I
believe the Jeverys are under suspicion, Martha, as very hot
malignants.  And now, Jane, dear little Jane, listen to me.
You are going to the great city, to Whitehall Palace, to
Hampton Court, to the splendour and state of a great
nation.  You will be surrounded by military pomp and civil
glory and social pride and vanity.  Dear little girl, keep
yourself unspotted from the world!"

"May God help me, sir."

"And let not the tale of love beguile you.  Young
Harry Cromwell, gallant and good, will be there; and Lord
Neville, with his long pedigree and beautiful face; and
officers in scarlet and gold, and godly, eloquent preachers
in black and white, and foreign nobles, and men of all
kinds and degrees.  And 'tis more than likely many will
tell you that Jane Swaffham is fair beyond all other women,
and vow their hearts and lives to your keeping.  *Then*,
Jane, in such hours of temptation, be low and humble
towards God.  Go often to the assembling of the saints
and catch the morning dew and celestial rain of their
prayers and praise.  Then, Jane, cry all the more
earnestly—'Tell me, oh Thou whom my soul loveth'—*my soul*,
Jane—'where Thou feedest, where Thou makest Thy flocks
to rest at noon.'  And no doubt you will add to this inquiry
its sweet closing—'He brought me to the banqueting-house,
and His banner over me was love.'"

And Jane smiled gratefully, and her eyes were dim with
tears as she laid her hands in Doctor Verity's to clasp her
promise.  Yet when she reached her room and sat quiet in
its solitude, no one will blame her because many thoughts
of love and hope blended themselves with the piteous ones
she sent to de Wick, and to the two weary fugitives under
Swaffham roof.  She was pleased at the thought of Harry
Cromwell, but oh! what a serious happiness, what a flush
of maiden joy transfigured her face when she thought of
her lover, forecasting rose-winged hours for him to glorify.
And in her soul's pure sanctuary she whispered his name
while her eyes dreamed against the goal of their expected
meeting.  For Love gives Hope to the true and tender, but
counts a cold heart a castaway.





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.. _`ON THE TIDE TOP`:

.. class:: center large bold

   *BOOK II*

.. class:: center largebold

   *The Tools To Those Who Can Handle Them!*

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   CHAPTER VI

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   ON THE TIDE TOP

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..

   |  "Cromwell!  Why that's the name of Victory."

   |          "The shouting cries
   |  Of the pleased people, rend the vaulted skies."

   |  "Let there be music.  Let the Master touch
   |  The solemn organ, and soft breathing flute."

   |  "Rupert!  Oh there's music in the name,
   |  Repeated as a charm to ease my grief.
   |  I, that loved name did as some god invoke;
   |  And printed kisses on it as I spoke."

.. vspace:: 2

The great day of triumph was over.  Cromwell had
entered London at the head of his victorious army, and the
city was safe and jubilant.  Standing at her mother's side,
Jane had witnessed from a window in the crowded
Strand the glorious pageant of Liberty, the martial vision of
warriors whose faces had been bathed in that rain that falls
on battle-fields, red as the rains of hell; she had seen again
the simple, kindly man who had been her childhood's friend,
and who was now England's chief of men, being to
England both father and son, both sword and shield.  She
had heard his name carried on rolling tides of human shouts
and huzzas, chording with the firing of cannon, the beating
of drums, the tread of thousands, the chiming of bells, and
all the multitudinous and chaotic clamour which constitutes
the excitement of a great crowd, and always brings with it
the sense of bounding life and brotherhood.

And in the midst of this joyful turbulence she had caught
sight of her father and brothers and lover; her father's face
sternly glad, like the face of a man who had fought a good
fight to assured victory; his sons imitating his bearing, as
well as youth could copy age; and the young lord not
far from them, proud and radiant and carrying aloft the
colours of the Commonwealth.  Somewhere in that crowd
of spectators he thought Jane must be present, and he bore
himself as if he were constantly in her sight.

As yet they had not met, nor had Cluny any certain
knowledge of the Swaffham's location.  There had been
some supposition that they would lodge in Leadenhall
Street, at the home of Mistress Adair, the widow of an
Independent minister who had preached often in the little
chapel attached to Oliver Cromwell's house in Huntingdon;
but of this he had no positive information, and he
certainly expected that Mrs. Swaffham would advise him
of their arrival in London.

Mrs. Swaffham had, however, learned that Cluny Neville
was personally objectionable to her husband and sons, and,
as she could not see clearly what road to take, she very
wisely stood still, waiting for some light and guidance.  And
it seemed unnecessary to trouble Jane's heart until there
was a positive reason for doing so; yet her depression and
evident disappointment fretted her mother.

"What is the matter with you, Jane?" she asked irritably
one morning; "you look as if you had lost everything
in the world instead of being, as your father thinks, right
on the road to many a good day.  I wouldn't throw such a
damp over things if I were you."

"You seem to have forgotten Cluny, mother."

"He seems to have forgotten us; he might have called,
I think."

"Does he know where we are?"

"He could have found out.  He sees Cymlin often
enough."

"I think Cymlin dislikes him.  I asked him yesterday if
he knew Lord Neville and he answered me rudely."

"He is your brother."

"Just for that reason he ought to have spoken civilly to me."

"He is your brother, and you must hear and heed what
he says.  And I must tell you, Jane, that it is not maidenly
to take any young man so seriously as you take Lord
Neville until your father and brothers are satisfied.  It is a
matter of importance to them what men are brought into the
Swaffham family.  There is plenty to make you happy
without Lord Neville.  Your own people are safe and sound,
the Cause we love is secure, and you may now dwell your
life out in England; but if we had not conquered, it would
have been over the seas and into the wilderness for us, and
strangers forever in old Swaffham.  I shouldn't think you
were done thanking God for these mercies yet; and if not,
then where do you find heart-room for such melancholy
and moping as I see in you?"

"But, mother, when I look back to last August——"

"If you want to look happily forward never look backward."

"To be sure; but though I know Cluny loves me, doubts
and fears will come, and I cannot always fight them or
reason with them."

"Don't try either fighting or reasoning.  There is a
broad enough way between them."

Jane smiled and lifted her tambour work, and her mother
nodded cheerfully as she continued, "Enjoy the hour as it
comes to you.  I have always found that one good hour
brings on another."  And Jane took the counsel into her
heart and anon began to sing—

   |  "It was alone Thy Providence,
   |  That made us Masters of the field,"

and when she had got thus far, a loud, joyful voice joined
her in the next two lines, and its owner came into the room
singing them—

   |  "Thou art our Castle of defense,
   |  Our Fort, our Bulwark and our Shield."

.. vspace:: 2

"Oh, Doctor Verity!" Jane cried, "how glad I am to
see you."

"I had been here an hour ago, but I had to wait on the
Lady Mary Cromwell.  They who serve women must
learn to wait.  She has sent you a letter, and a coach is at
your order, and you are bid to Whitehall.  And you will
be very welcome there."

"I know not any ceremonies, Doctor."

"You do not need to know them.  It is Mary Cromwell,
yet; though if the women of Cromwell's house assume
greatness, he has won it for them.  Why should they not
wear the honours their father gives them?"

Then Jane ran to her mother, and her box of fineries was
quickly packed, and the girl came down for her visit
glowing with hope and happiness.  All the shadows were gone;
she sat a little proudly in the fine coach by the side of
Doctor Verity, and was alert and watchful, for it did not
seem an improbable thing that she might have a passing
sight of her lover.  The city had by this time recovered its
every-day temper, and she could not help contrasting the
plodding, busy serenity of its present mood with its frenzy
of triumphant joy on the entry of Cromwell.  Doctor
Verity insisted that the two conditions were alike natural.
"No one can play the fool like a wise man," he said; "and
the greater and the richer the city the more extravagantly
and unreasonably and vauntingly it will express its victory
and salvation.  London had so much to lose," he continued,
"that it would better have lain in ashes than lain at the feet
of any Stuart."

As they drew near to Whitehall, Jane's spirits fell a
little.  She had not caught a glimpse of her lover, and she
felt a sudden anxiety about her position.  Sometimes prosperity
is as fatal to friendship as adversity, and the girl tried
in silence to prepare herself for any change in affection that
change of fortune might have caused.  But her fears were
very transient; Mary and Frances Cromwell met her with
effusive attentions; they called her affectionately by her
name, and quickly took her to the general sitting-room of
the family.  Madame Cromwell was there, as kind and
motherly as of old; and Mistress Ireton, silently reading a
sermon of Doctor Owen's; and Mrs. Claypole selecting
some damask for a new gown; and Mary and Frances, full
of the joy and pride of their great position, soon carried
Jane all through their splendid apartments, and afterwards
sat down together in Mary's room to talk over old times
and the friends and occupations that had made them happy
and memorable.  Their first inquiry was for Lady Matilda
de Wick, and when Jane answered, "Her father is dead,
and I know not exactly what has befallen her since his
death," the girls were all silent a few minutes.  After the
pause, Mary Cromwell said—

"I remember her so well on her fine Barbary mare.
How handsome she was!  How proud!  If the Earl
spoke to my father then she would deign to ask after
my lessons, or my dog, or how the skating was on the
Broad.  But she was older than I, and it seems so long
ago—lately she has been deaf, dumb and blind to the
Cromwells—they do not mind that much now.  I wonder
where she is."

"It was said she would live with her aunt, Lady Jevery;
if so, she must be in London."

"And you know it not?  And you have not seen her?
That is a marvel.  It was thought impossible for Matilda
de Wick and Jane Swaffham to live long apart."

"There have been great changes," sighed Jane.  "People
that were once friends know each other no more.  It
is hoped now that there will be many reconciliations."

"We have seen Lady Heneage often," said Mary Cromwell,
"and 'tis said there is a purpose of marriage between
Alice Heneage and a favourite of my father's—Lord Cluny
Neville."

"I have seen Lord Neville," said Jane.  "He brought
me your letters and the blue and gold ribbon you sent me.
His visits were flying ones; he came and he went."

"Like the knight in the story—he loved and he rode
away.  But we are all mightily taken with his fine manner
and his beauty, and the Lord General, my father, thinks him
to have great sincerity and discretion."

"A very perfect youth," answered Jane with a smile.

"Indeed, we think so; if you are of a different opinion
you will change it on a better knowledge of the young man.
He is coming here this afternoon, is he not, Frank?"

"He said so.  He was to make some copies of the hymn
he wrote, for Mr. Milton has set it to music, and we are
to practice the singing together.  Father thinks very highly
of the words."

"Dear me!" ejaculated Jane, "is he also a poet?  I
thought he wrote only with his sword.  I fear that he has
too many perfections.  Has he not one fault to balance
them?"

"Yes," answered Mary, "he has one great fault, he is a
Presbyterian, and a Scotch Presbyterian.  In all other things
he holds with the Lord General, but he sticks to his Scotch
idols—John Knox and the Covenant."

"I think no worse of him for that," said Jane.  "If he
knew what an Independent was, he would likely be an
Independent."

"It is not believable," retorted Mary.  "He is a
Scotchman, or next door to one.  And if a man is a
Samaritan, what can he know of Jerusalem?"

"I care not what he is," said Frances.  "He has handsome
eyes, and he writes poetry, and he tells such stories as
make your blood run cold—and sometimes love-stories, and
then his voice is like music; and if it was not sinful to
dance——"

"But it is sinful," said Jane warmly, "and if I saw
Lord Neville or any other man making mincing steps to a
viol I would never wish to speak to him again.  Would
you, Mary?"

"Of course not, but Frank is only talking.  We have
masters now in music and singing and geography, and I am
learning *Morley's Airs*\[1] straight through, besides roundelays
and madrigals.  And we have a new harpsichord, though
the Lord General, my father, likes best the organ or the
lute."

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[1] Popular and patriotic songs having the same vogue
then as *Moore's Melodies* in our era.

.. vspace:: 2

"And besides all this," continued Frances, "we are
studying the French tongue, and history, and the use of
the globes; and Mrs. Katon comes twice every week to
teach us how to make wax flowers and fruit and take the
new stitches in tatting and embroidery.  And, Jane, I have
got a glass bowl full of goldfish.  They came from China,
and there are no more of them, I think, in England.  Come
with me, and you shall see them."

"Never mind the fish now, Frank," said Mary; "there
is the bell for dinner, and we must answer it at once or we
shall grieve mother."

They rose at these words and went quickly to the
dining-room.  Mrs. Cromwell, leaning upon the arm of her
daughter, Mrs. Ireton, was just entering it, and Jane wondered
silently at the state these simple country gentry had so
easily assumed.  Officers of the household, in rich uniforms,
waited on all their movements and served them with
obsequious respect; and they bore their new honours as if
they had been born to the purple.  Mrs. Cromwell's
simplicity stood her in the place of dignity, and the piety
and stern republicanism of Mrs. Ireton gave to her bearing
that indifference to outward pomp which passed readily for
inherited nobility, while the beauty of Mrs. Claypole and
her love of splendour fitted her surroundings with more
than accidental propriety.  All the women of this famous
household were keenly alive to the glory of those
achievements which had placed them in a palace, and all of
them rendered to its great head every title of honour his
mighty deeds claimed as their right.

"The General dines with the Speaker," said
Mrs. Cromwell; and she was herself about to say grace when
Doctor Verity entered.  He was greeted with a chorus of
welcomes, and readily took his seat at the foot of the table
and spoke the few words of grateful prayer which sweetened
and blessed every Puritan meal.  Then in answer to some
remark about Cromwell's absence he said,

"The Lord General is much troubled about the
Worcester prisoners.  There has just been a pitiful kind of
triumph made out of their miseries.  I don't approve of it,
not I, God forbid!  They have been made a spectacle for
men and angels, marched from Hampstead Heath, through
Aldgate, Cheapside, and the Strand, to Westminster—hungry,
beggarly creatures, many of them wounded, and
nearly naked."

"Poor fellows," said Mrs. Cromwell.

"Sturdy, surly fellows, madame.  I don't envy the men
who will have to manage them as slaves."

"They go to the Barbadoes, I hear?"

"Yes,—it is Scotland no more for them."

"Is that right, Doctor?"

"Indeed, madame, I am not clear in my conscience
concerning the matter.  It is the liberty of war.  The Lord
General has given two or three prisoners to each of his
friends and entertainers between here and Worcester.
However, the miserable fellows brought some comfort out
of their evil plight, for the citizens along all the route
forgot they were enemies, and the women fed them with the
best of victuals, and the men stepped from their shop doors
and put money in their hands.  I'll be bound the rogues
got more money and good white bread this morning than
they have seen in all their lives before.  Besides which,
there is, in the Exchange and in the ale-houses, a box for
the poor prisoners, and whenever men make a bargain they
drop a God's-penny into it for them.  That's Englishmen
all over; they fight to the death in fair battle, but when
their foe is at their feet they lift him up and help him and
forget that he was ever their enemy.  And may God keep
Englishmen ever in such mind!"

"Indeed," said Mary Cromwell, "these Scots have
given us trouble and sorrow enough.  They ought to be
sent out of the country, or out of the world, and that at
once!"

"That is my opinion," said Mrs. Ireton.  "Our brave
men are being slain, and the country is torn asunder for
their malignancy."

"There have been as brave spirits as the world ever saw
in both Puritan and Royalist armies, madame," answered
the Doctor.  "I, for one, am glad that both parties have
fought their quarrel to the end.  I rejoice because our
hard-smiting Puritan hosts would not let the Stuarts come
back and trample them, with all law and liberty, under their
feet.  But I would have been deadly sorry if the Cavaliers
of England had wanted the temper to fight for their King
and their church.  Right or wrong, we must honour men
who have convictions and are willing to die for them."

"Monarchy and Prelacy go together," said Mrs. Ireton;
"and England has had more than enough of both."

"We are of one mind on that point, madame," said
Doctor Verity.  "In this respect, the man George Fox and
his followers have some true light, and they are scattering
the truth, as they see it, broadcast.  I have taken occasion,
and sought occasion, and gone out of my way to find
occasion, to meet George Fox, but have not yet done so.  I
was told that he once listened to my preaching at St. Paul's
Cross, and that he said I was not far from the Kingdom.
I liked that in George; I hope I may say the same for him.
Our Lord General thinks him to be a man after God's own
heart."

"My father sees the best in every one," said Mrs. Claypole.

"Why do you not speak to the Lord General about
these poor prisoners?" Mrs. Cromwell said.  "He gave
very kind orders about the Dunbar prisoners, and if they
were not carried out it was not his fault."

"I neglect no opportunities, madame.  And Cromwell
needs not that any one soften his heart.  The sight of
these fallen heroes made him weep—but there are
considerations—and every triumph implies some one crushed at the
chariot wheels."

"But, Doctor Verity," said Jane, "if we may lawfully
fight and kill for the sake of our rights and our convictions,
may we not also lawfully punish those who made us put
our lives in such jeopardy?"

"Jane, I am sure that we have the right of self-defense;
the awful attributes of vengeance and retribution are
different things.  Will mortal hands be innocent that take
the sword of vengeance from God's armoury?  I fear not.
I had a long talk with Sir Richard Musgrave this morning
on this very subject.  I found Lord Cluny Neville with
him; it seems they are related."

"Why did you not bring Lord Neville with you?"
asked Frank.

"Lord Neville looks after his own affairs, Lady Frances—I
do likewise."

"Then, Doctor," said Mrs. Cromwell, "look better
after your dinner.  That buttered salmon has gone cold
while you talked.  There is a jar of olives near you,—and
pray what will you have? a dish of steaks? or marrow
bones? or ribs of roast beef? or some larded veal? or
broiled larks?"

"Roast beef for John Verity, madame, and a couple of
broiled birds and a dish of prawns and cheese.  I enjoy my
meat, and am not more ashamed of it than the flowers are
of drinking the morning dew."

"You are always happy, Doctor," said Jane.

"I think it is the best part of duty to be happy, and to
make others happy.  No one will merit heaven by making
a hell of earth.  As I came through Jermyn Street I saw
Lady Matilda de Wick.  She looked daggers and pistols at
me.  God knows, I pity her.  She was shrouded in black."

"Has anything been heard of Stephen de Wick?"
asked Jane.

"It is thought he reached The Hague in safety.  His
companion, Sir Hugh Belvard, joined Prince Rupert's
pirate fleet there."

Then Mrs. Ireton, as if desirous of changing the
subject, spoke of Doctor John Owen, and of his treatise on
"*The Pattern-Man*," and Doctor Verity said he was "a
Master in Israel."  Talking of one book led to conversations
on several others, until finally the little volume
by Cromwell's brother-in-law, Doctor Wilkins, was
mentioned.  It was a dissertation on the moon and its inhabitants,
and the possibility of a passage thither.  Mrs. Ireton
disapproved the book altogether, and Mrs. Cromwell was
quite scornful concerning her brother Wilkins, and thought
"the passage to the heavenly land of much greater importance."

But it was easy to turn from Doctor Wilkins to the
great University in which he was a professor, and
Mrs. Claypole reminded her mother of their visit to Oxford
after its occupation by Cavalier and Puritan soldiers.

"I remember," she answered.  "It was a sin and a
shame to see!  The stained windows were broken, and the
shrines of Bernard and Frideswide open to the storm; the
marble heads of the Apostles were mixed up with cannon
balls and rubbish of all kinds.  Straw heaps were on the
pavements and staples in the walls, for dragoons had been
quartered in All Souls, and their beasts had crunched their
oats under the tower of St. Mary Magdalene.  I could not
help feeling the pity of it, and when I told the General
he was troubled.  He said 'the ignorant have clumsy ways
of showing their hatred of wrong; but being ignorant, we
must bear with them.'"

"All these barbarisms have been put out of sight," said
Dr. Verity, "and thanks to Doctor Pocock, Oxford is
itself again."

"Doctor Pocock!" ejaculated Mrs. Cromwell.  "He
was here a few days ago to consult with the General.  He
had on a square cap, and large ruff surmounting his doctor's
gown; his hair was powdered and his boots had lawn tops
trimmed with ribbons.  He looked very little like a
Commonwealth Divine and Professor."

"My dear madame, Doctor Pocock is both a Royalist
and a Prelatist."

"Then he ought not to be in Oxford," said Mary
Cromwell hotly.  "What is he doing there?"

"He is doing good work there, Lady Mary, for he is
the most famous Oriental and Hebrew scholar in England.
No Latiner, but great in Syriac and Arabic; and no bigot,
for he is the close friend of Doctor Wallis and of your
uncle, Doctor Wilkins, though he does not go with them
to the Wadham conventicle.  The Parliamentary triers
declared him incompetent but Edward Pocock had powerful
friends who knew his worth, and perhaps if you ask your
honoured father, he can tell you better than I why
Dr. Pocock is in Oxford, and what he is doing there."

At this moment, Lord Cluny Neville entered the room.
He saw Jane on the instant, and his eyes gave her swift
welcome, while in the decided exhilaration following his
entrance Love found his opportunities.  But among them
was none that gave him free speech with Jane; they were
not a moment alone.  Cluny had a fund of pleasant talk,
for he had just come from the Mulberry Gardens, where
he had met Mr. and Mrs. Evelyn and had some
refreshment at the tables with them.

"I suppose the Evelyns were as gaily dressed as usual?"
asked Mrs. Claypole, "and looking as melancholy as if the
world would come to an end in a week's time?"

"Indeed, they were very handsome," answered Neville;
"and the coach they brought from Paris is extremely fine.
We had some chocolate in thin porcelain cups, and some
Italian biscuits and sweetmeats.  And anon we were joined
by Mr. Izaak Walton, the gentlest of malignants, and very
entertaining in his talk.  Mr. Evelyn was praising
Mr. Milton's poetry, but Mr. Walton did not agree with him.
He thought John Milton was always trying to scale heaven
by a ladder of his own, or else to bring down heaven on
earth in some arbitrary shape or other—that in truth, he
knew not in his work where he was going."

"He goes, truly, where Mr. Izaak Walton cannot follow
him," said Mrs. Ireton.  "John Milton has looked God's
Word and his own soul in the face, and he will not hold
Mr. Walton's opinion of him as anything to his hurt."

"Besides," added Cluny with a pleasant laugh,
"Mr. Walton is writing a book, and Mr. Milton will soon not
need to say with the patient man of Uz, 'Oh, that mine
enemy had written a book!'  He may have reprisals."

During this speech there was heard from a distant
apartment the sound of music, low and sweet, and full of
heavenly melody.

"That is Mr. Milton playing," said Mary Cromwell.
"I would know his touch among a thousand."  And then
Cluny blushed a little, and held out a small roll which he
carried in his hand.  It contained three fair copies of his
own hymn, and Mary delightedly hurried Jane and Frank
away with her to the musician.  He turned as they entered
and bowed gravely, and the girls fell at once under the
charm of his music.  Mary involuntarily assumed a
majestic attitude, Frances ceased her childish titter, Cluny
became almost severe, and Jane stood in silent delight
while the grand melody filled their souls till they
outsoared the shadow of earth and that unrest which men
miscall delight.  "Glory to God!" he sang, and the
room rang with the lofty notes and seemed full of Presence,
and of flame-like faces, sublime and tender, while the air
vibrated to the final triumphant crescendo, "Glory to God!
Glory to God!  Glory to God in the Highest!"  And in
his beautiful face there was seen for a few moments that
face of the soul wherein God shineth.

Then there was a short pause of spiritual sensitiveness
which was broken by the opening of a door, and all eyes
turning towards it beheld Cromwell standing on the threshold.
Perhaps he had been listening to Mr. Milton's ecstatic
anthem, for his clear, penetrating eyes were tender and
mystical, and a smile gentle as a woman's softened his
austere mouth.  He wore a suit of black cloth with a falling
linen collar, stockings of homespun wool which his wife
had knit, and strong shoes fastened with a steel latchet.
But his brown hair, tinged with gray, flowed down upon his
shoulders, and his whole air was that of a man on whom
the eternal dignities of a good and great life had set their
seal.  Frances ran to him with a cry of delight.  Mary
looked at him with adoring pride, and then put into
Mr. Milton's hand the roll of manuscript Lord Neville had
given her.  Jane left her companions and timidly advanced
to meet the Lord General.  He saw her in a moment, and
gave her a smile so bright and affectionate that all fear
vanished, and she hastened her steps and the next moment
felt his strong arm draw her to his side.

.. _`"BEHELD CROMWELL STANDING UPON THE THRESHOLD."`:

.. figure:: images/img-124.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: "BEHELD CROMWELL STANDING UPON THE THRESHOLD."

   "BEHELD CROMWELL STANDING UPON THE THRESHOLD."

"Jane," he said tenderly, "Jane Swaffham, I got your
message, and it did me good; it did indeed.  Out of the
mouths of babes often come our sweetest help and comfort.
When I was ill and my heart was troubled for Israel, I
remembered one night the word you sent me by John Verity,
and it was very good.  I think of it often, Jane, when
in the midst of ill men.  Say it now in my own ears, and
let me taste its goodness from your own lips."

Then Jane lifted her eyes to his, and the fiery particle in
them filled her with Cromwell's own faith and courage, and
she said with a fearless fervour, "*They shall be able to do
nothing against thee, saith the Lord.  My hands shall cover thee.*"

"Truly God is good, indeed He is, Jane, and you have
been His messenger to me.  Let us take this gracious God
at His Word.  And if ever I can help you or yours, Jane,
come to me; I will be as good as my word—doubt not.
Let us see what John Milton is going to play for us.  I'll
warrant 'tis my young soldier's hymn, and in my judgment,
a good hymn."

They were advancing towards the organ as Cromwell
spoke, and they joined the group around the inspired player.
His trampling notes gave the sensation of charging men
and horses, and of the ministration of angelic hosts.  Then
there was a pause, and out of it arose in jubilant praise the
song of triumph on the battle-field:

   |  Not unto us, not unto us, O Lord,
   |  Thine was the Word, and Thine the mighty sword,
   |          Thine be the glory.
   |  We heard Thy call to arms, and understood:
   |  But Thine the hand that wrought in flame and blood,
   |          The splendid story.

   |  Not for ourselves, or for this day, we fought,
   |  But for all lands and for all times we wrought
   |          Stormy Salvation:
   |  Thine was the battle, both by land and sea,
   |  Thine was our valour and our victory,
   |          Thine our oblation."

So far, Cluny Neville led the singers, but it was Cromwell's
strenuous, adoring tones that mostly influenced the stirring
chorus—

   |  "Not unto us triumphant lauds and lays,
   |  To 'Him whose name is Wonderful' be praise!
   |          Be thanks!  Be glory!"

The exultant song ceased, but their hearts were yet full of
thanksgiving, and Cromwell walked about the room—with
Frances and Jane at his side—humming the majestic melody,
or breaking out into some line of audible song, until
he finally said,

"I came here for John Milton, whose pen I need, and
I have stayed to sing; and that is well, for the soul has
wings as well as hands—and indeed our souls have had a
good flight heavenward."  Then addressing John Milton,
he said,

"We have sundry letters to write, and the plain truth is,
I could wish they were more heavenly.  Here is a man to
answer who is playing fast and loose with us,—and I will
not have it.  He is laying too much weight on my
patience; let him take care that he break it not."

Speaking thus, he walked towards the door, and Jane
marveled at the man.  His countenance was changed: all
its wistful tenderness and exaltation had given place to a
stern, steadfast severity; his voice was sharp, his words
struck like caustic, and the homelike, country gentleman
was suddenly clothed with a great and majestic deportment.
He put on his hat as he left the room.  And there was the
glint of a gold band round it, and in Jane's mind it gave to
the rugged, broad-hatted grandeur of the man a kind of
mythical authority, for she instantly remembered a picture
of St. George of Cappadocia in de Wick hall which had
the same gold band around the helmet.  And ever
afterwards she associated in her memory the patron Saint of
England and the great Pathfinder of her people.

Neville left soon after the Lord General, and the girls
had a game of battledore and shuttlecock in the long
gallery; then sewing, reading aloud, the evening meal, and
the evening exercise closed the day.  The days that followed
were little different; when the weather permitted there was
a ride in the park, or shopping in Jermyn Street, or a visit
to St. Paul's to hear Dr. Owen, or the great tolerant
Mr. Jeremy Taylor.  But Jane thought Dr. Verity need hardly
have given her special counsel against the vanities of such
a life as the Cromwells led.  On the whole, she was not
very sorry when her visit was over and she was free to
return home.  In spite of the frankest kindness, she felt out
of her element.  The Cromwells had outgrown their old
friends, and not all their familiarities could dispel the
atmosphere of superiority which surrounded them; it was
unavoidable and unequivocal, though they were not themselves
conscious of it.

But every happy family takes its tone from the head of
the household, and this conqueror of three Kingdoms,
stepping out grandly to their government from his victorious
battle-fields, impressed something of his own character upon
those so nearly and dearly allied to him.  They had been
after his image and likeness at St. Ives and Ely, what
wonder if in the palaces of London they took on something of
the royal air which his achievements entitled them to
assume?  There are friends whose favour we wear as jewels
and ornaments, and there are others whose love will bear
the usage of an every-day garment, and Jane understood that
she must put the Cromwells among those friends reserved
for rare or great occasions.

Then there came to her mind in very sweet fashion the
memory of Matilda de Wick.  They had quarreled almost
constantly for years, and Matilda's exacting temper and
sharp tongue had wounded her often; but for all that she
knew Matilda loved her.  Now perfect friendship must be
founded on perfect equality, for though love may stoop
to an inferior, friendship cannot do so without becoming
patronage and offense.  But between Matilda and Jane
there was no question of this kind.  The Swaffhams were
noble by birth, they needed no title to give them rank.  In
their own county they stood among the foremost, and Earl
de Wick had ever been ready to acknowledge the
precedence of a family so much more ancient than his own.
Besides which, the Swaffhams were very wealthy.  Israel
Swaffham had given his eldest daughter on her marriage to
Lord Armingford ten thousand pounds, an immense bridal
gift in those days.  So that the question of equality had
never crossed or shadowed the friendship between Jane and
Matilda.  Their many quarrels had been about King
Charles, or Oliver Cromwell—or Stephen de Wick, for
Matilda was passionately attached to her youngest brother
and she thought Jane Swaffham valued him too little.
With her mind full of kindly thoughts towards Matilda,
Jane returned to her home, and she was delighted to find a
letter from her friend waiting for her.

"It came this very morning," said Mrs. Swaffham,
"and I told the man who brought it you would be
here to-day, and no doubt would answer it forthwith.
Have you had a good visit, Jane?"

"Yes, mother."

"You wouldn't like to go again just yet, eh, my dear?"

"No, mother.  I do not know why.  They were all
very kind to me, and the Lord General wonderfully so—but
there was a difference, a change I cannot describe.  It
was not that they were less kind——"

"I understand.  Power changes every one.  Open your
letter, I want to know how Matilda is; her man was so
uppish, I would not ask him a question."

Then Jane laid aside her bonnet and opened her letter.
"She is at Lady Jevery's house, mother, and she longs to
see me, and indeed I am in the same mind.  We shall be
sure to quarrel, but then——"

"You can both play at that game, and you hold your
own very well.  What is the use of a friend if you can't
talk plain and straight to her?  I like Matilda no worse for
her little tempers.  I would go to Jevery House in the
morning.  Whom did you see at the Cockpit?"

"Doctor John Owen for one.  He has just been made
Chancellor of Oxford, and General Cromwell expects great
things from him.  I saw also John Milton, who writes so
beautifully, and he plays the organ like a seraph.  And
Doctor Wilkins was there one day, and he talked to us
about his lunarian journey; and Mr. Jeremy Taylor called,
and we had a little discourse from him; and Mrs. Lambert,
and Mrs. Fleetwood, and Lady Heneage, and Mrs. Fermor,
and many others paid their respects.  It seemed to
me there was much enforced courtesy, especially between
Mrs. Fleetwood and Mrs. Ireton; but—changes are to be
expected.  Mrs. Cromwell and Lady Heneage used to be
gossips, and kiss each other before they sat down to talk,
and now they curtsey, and call each other 'my lady,' and
speak of the last sermon, or Conscience Meeting.  I saw
Lord Neville several times, but had no private speech with
him; and I heard Mary Cromwell say there was a purpose
of marriage between him and Alice Heneage."

"'Tis very like."

"I do not think so.  I am sure he loves me."

"Then he should say so, bold and outright."

"He said last night he was coming to see my father and
you, and though he spoke the words as if they were mere
courtesy, I read in his face the purpose of his visit.  Mother,
we shall need your good word with my father."

"I can't go against your father, Jane.  I would as soon
take hot coals in my naked hands."

"But you can manage to make father see things as you do."

"Not always.  He would have stayed at Swaffham and
minded his own affairs instead of following Oliver
Cromwell, if I could have made him see things as I did.  Men
know better than women what ought to be done; they are
the head of the house, and women must follow as they
lead.  Your sister Armingford wanted to marry Frederick
Walton, and your father would not hear of such a thing.
You see he was right.  Frederick Walton was killed in
battle, and she would have been a widow on her father's and
her father-in-law's hands.  You will have to do as your
father says, Jane; so make up your mind to that.  The
Swaffham women have always been obedient and easy to
guide, and it isn't likely you will need bit and bridle."

"I would not endure bit and bridle."

"All I can say is, your father will decide about Lord
Neville.  Father keeps his own counsel, and he may have
a purpose already of marrying you to some one else."

"I will not marry any one else."

"Your sister said the same thing, but she married Philip
Armingford; and now there is no man in the world but
Philip."

"I will marry Cluny Neville or remain a spinster."

"You will in the end do as your father and brothers say."

"What have my brothers to do with my marriage?"

"A great deal.  The men of a family have to meet
about family affairs.  It wouldn't do to have some one
among the Swaffhams that the Swaffhams didn't like or
didn't trust.  They have always been solid for Swaffham;
that is the reason that Swaffham has done well to Swaffham.
There, now! say no more about your marriage.  It is
beforehand talk, and that kind of discussion amounts to
nothing.  It is mostly to go over again.  Your father
thinks of buying this house.  Parliament has offered it
very reasonable to him, in consideration of the service he
and your three brothers have rendered."

"It belonged to Sir Thomas Sandys?"

"Yes."

"And Parliament confiscated it?"

"Yes."

"If I were father I would not give a shilling for it.  It
will yearn for its own till it gets back to them.  If the
King had taken Swaffham, we should yearn for it at the
other side of the world, and some Swaffham would go
back to it, though it were generations after."

"I don't know what you are talking about, Jane.  I
suppose the Cromwells live in a deal of splendour."

"Everything is very fine.  Mary Cromwell's room has
the walls hung with green perpetuano and tapestries of
Meleager.  The standing bed is of carved wood, and the
quilt of Holland striped stuff.  There is a large looking-glass
in an ebony frame, and many fine chairs and stools,
and her toilet table is covered with silk and lace, and
furnished with gilded bottles of orange-flower water and
rose perfume.  All the rooms are very handsome;
Mrs. Cromwell's——"

"That is enough.  I have often been in Elizabeth
Cromwell's room, both in Slepe House and in Ely.  I
remember its tent bed and checked blue-and-white curtains!
Well, well—it is a topsy-turvy world.  You must go and
see Matilda to-morrow.  I have been making inquiries
about the Jeverys; they are what your father calls
'Trimmers,'—neither one thing nor another.  He is an old soldier,
and has made use of his wounds to excuse him from further
fighting; and Lady Jevery mingles her company so well
that any party may claim her.  A girl so outspoken as her
niece Matilda will give her trouble."

In the morning Jane was eager to pay her visit, and she
felt sure Matilda was as eager as herself; so an hour before
noon she was on her way to Jevery House.  It stood
where the busy tide of commerce and the drama now rolls
unceasingly, close by Drury Lane—a mansion nobly placed
upon a stone balustraded terrace, and surrounded by a fine
garden.  In this garden the old knight was oftenest found;
here he busied himself with his flowers and his strawberry
beds, and discoursed with his friend John Evelyn about
roses; or with that excellent person and great virtuoso,
Mr. Robert Boyle, about his newly invented air pump; or
thoughtfully went over in his own mind the scheme of the
new banking establishments just opened by the City Goldsmiths:
certainly it would be more comfortable to have his
superfluous money in their care than in his own strong
chests—but would it be as safe?

He was pondering this very question in the chill, bare
walks of Jevery House when Jane's carriage stopped at
its iron gates.  She had been delayed and almost upset in
Drury Lane by the deep mud, so that the noon hour was
striking as Sir Thomas Jevery met and courteously walked
with her to the entrance hall.  Here there were a number
of servants, and their chief ushered her into a stately cedar
salon the walls of which were painted with the history of the
Giants' war.  But she hardly noticed these storied panels,
for above the mantel there was a picture which immediately
arrested her attention.  It was a portrait of Oliver
Cromwell, the rugged, powerful face standing out with terrible
force amid the faces of Pym, Laud, Hampden, Strafford and
Montrose.  With the countenances of all but Montrose
Jane was familiar, and she regarded this unknown face with
the most intense interest.  It was one not to be ignored,
and having been seen, never to be forgotten—a face on the
verge of being ugly, and yet so proudly passionate, so true,
so strong that it left on Jane's mind the assurance of a soul
worthy of honour.

She was standing gazing at it and quite oblivious of the
Florentine curtains, the Venetian crystal, and French
porcelain, when Delia came hurriedly into the room with an
exclamation of delight.  "Oh, Miss Swaffham!  Oh, Miss
Jane!" she cried.  "My lady is impatient to see you.
Will you kindly come to her room?  She has been ill, oh,
very ill! and you were always the one she called for!"  So
saying, she led Jane up a magnificent stairway lined with
portraits, mostly by Holbein and Vandyke, and they soon
reached Matilda's apartment.  As the door opened she rose
and stretched out her arms.

"Baggage!" she cried with a weak, hysterical laugh.
"You dear little baggage!  You best, truest heart!  How
glad I am to see you!"

And Jane took her in her arms, and both girls cried a
little before they could speak.  Matilda was so weak, and
Jane so shocked to see the change in her friend's appearance,
that for a few moments tears were the only possible
speech.  At length Jane said:

"You have been ill, and you never sent for me.  I
would have stayed by you night and day.  I would have
been mother and sister both.  Oh, indeed, my mother would
have come to you, without doubt!  Why did you not let
us know?"

"I have only been in London three days.  I was ill at
de Wick.  I became unconscious at my father's burial.
We had heard that day that Stephen had been shot while
trying to reach the coast.  It was the last thing I could
bear."

"But I assure you Stephen is at The Hague.  Doctor
Verity said so, and he said it not without knowledge."

"I know now that it was a false report, but at the time
I believed it true.  My father was lying waiting for burial,
so was Father Sacy, and Lord Hillier's chaplain came over
to read the service.  It was read at midnight in the old
chapel at de Wick.  We did not wish any trouble at the
last, and we had been told the service would be forbidden;
so we had the funeral when our enemies were asleep.  You
know the old chapel, Jane, where all the de Wicks are
buried?"

"Yes, dear; a mournful, desolate place."

"A place of graves, but it felt as if it was crowded that
midnight.  I'll swear that there were more present than we
had knowledge of.  The lanterns made a dim light round
the crumbling altar, and I could just see the two open
graves before it.  Father Olney wept as he read the service;
we all wept, as the bodies were laid in their graves; and
then our old lawyer, William Studley, put into Father
Olney's hands the de Wick coat of arms, and he broke it in
pieces and cast the fragments on my father's coffin; for we
all believed that the last male de Wick was dead.  And
when I heard the broken arms fall on the coffin, I heard no
more.  I fell senseless, and they carried me to my own
room, and I was out of my mind for many days.  My aunt
and Delia were very kind to me, but I longed for you,
Jane, I did indeed.  I am nearly well now, and I have left
my heartache somewhere in that awful land of Silence
where I lay between life and death so long.  I shall weep
no more.  I will think now of vengeance.  I am only
a woman, but women have done some mischief before this
day, and may do it again."

"Tonbert and Will are now at Swaffham; they will
keep a watch on de Wick if you wish it."

"I suppose I have left de Wick forever; and I could
weep, if I had tears left, for the ill fortune that has come
to the old place.  You remember Anthony Lynn, the
tanner and carrier, Jane?"

"Yes."

"He has bought de Wick from the so-called Parliament.
He was very kind to me, and he knew his place; but on
my faith!  I nearly lost my senses when I saw him sitting
in my father's chair.  Well, then, I am now in London, and
all roads lead from London.  I shall not longer spoil my
eyes for the Fen country, and

   |  "'De Wick, God knows,
   |  Where no corn grows,
   |  Nothing but a little hay,
   |  And the water comes
   |  And takes all away.'

You remember the old rhyme; we threw it at one another
often when we were children.  But oh, Jane, the
melancholy Ouse country!  The black, melancholy Ouse, with
its sullen water and muddy banks.  No wonder men turned
traitors in it."

And Jane only leaned close, and closer to the sad, sick
girl.  She understood that Matilda must complain a little, and
she was not unwilling to let the dreary meadows of the
Ouse bear the burden.  So the short afternoon wore away
to Jane's tender ministrations without one cross word.
Early in her visit she had yielded to Matilda's entreaties,
had sent home her carriage, and promised to remain all
night.  And when they had eaten together, and talked
of many things and many people, Matilda was weary; and
Jane dismissed Delia, and herself undressed her friend as
tenderly as a mother could have done; and when the tired
head was laid on the pillow, she put her arms under it and
kissed and drew the happy, grateful girl to her heart.

"Sweet little Jane!" sighed Matilda; "how I love you!
Now read me a prayer from the evening service, and the
prayer for those at sea—you won't mind doing that, eh,
Jane?"

And after a moment's hesitation Jane lifted the interdicted
book, and taking Matilda's hand in hers, she knelt by
her side and read the forbidden supplications; and then
Matilda slept, and Jane put out the candles and sat silently
by the fire, pondering the things that had befallen her
friends and acquaintances.  The strangeness of the house,
the sleeping girl, the booming of the city's clocks and bells,
and the other unusual sounds of her position filled her
heart with a vague dream-like sense of something far off
and unreal.  And mingling with all sounds and sights, not
to be put away from thought or presence, was that strange
powerful picture in the salon—the terrible force of Cromwell's
face and attitude as he seemed to stride forward from
the group; and the unearthly passion and enthusiasm of the
unknown, just a step behind him, would not be forgotten.
She saw them in the flickering flame and in the shadowy
corners, and they were a haunting presence she tried in vain
to deliver herself from.

So she was glad when she turned around to find Matilda
awake, and she went to her side, and said some of those
sweet, foolish words which alas! too often become a
forgotten tongue.  Matilda answered them in the same tender,
broken patois—"Dear heart!  Sweetheart!  Darling Jane!
Go to the little drawer in my toilet table and bring me a
picture you will find there.  It is in an ivory box, Jane,
and here is the key."  And Jane went and found the
miniature she had once got a glimpse of, and she laid it in
Matilda's hand.  And the girl kissed it and said, "Look
here, Jane, and tell me *who* it is."

Then Jane looked earnestly at the handsome, melancholy,
haughty face; at the black hair cut straight across
the brows and flowing in curls over the laced collar and
steel corselet, and she lifted her eyes to Matilda's but
she did not like to speak.  Matilda smiled rapturously and said,

"It is not impossible, Jane, though I see you think so.
He loves me.  He has vowed to marry me, or to marry no
one else."

"And you?"

"Could I help loving him?  I was just sixteen when we
first met.  I gave my heart to him.  I adored him.  He
was worthy of it.  I adore him yet.  He is still more
worthy of it."

"But—but—he cannot marry you.  He will not be
allowed.  Half-a-dozen kings and queens would rise up to
prevent it—for I am sure I know the face."

"Who is it, Jane?  Whisper the words to me.  Who
is it, dear heart?"  And Jane stooped to the face on the
pillow and whispered,

"*Prince Rupert*."

And as the name fell on her ear, Matilda's face grew
heavenly sweet and tender, she smiled and sighed, and
softly echoed Jane's last word—

"*Rupert*."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`TWO LOVE AFFAIRS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VII


.. class:: center medium bold

   TWO LOVE AFFAIRS

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..

   |  "Justice, the Queen of Virtues!
   |  All other virtues dwell but in the blood,
   |  That in the soul; and gives the name of good."
   |
   |     \*      \*      \*      \*      \*
   |
   |  "The wise and active conquer difficulties
   |  By daring to attempt them.  Fear and Folly
   |  Shiver and shrink at sight of wrong and hazard,
   |  And make the impossibility they fear."

.. vspace:: 2

Matilda's confession brought on a conversation which
lasted many hours.  The seal of silence having been
broken, the sick and sorrowful girl eagerly took the
consolation her confidence procured her.  She related with an
impulsive frankness—often with bitter, though healing
tears—the story of her love for the gallant Royalist leader.
"He came first when I was yet a girl at my lessons," she
said, "but my governess had told me such wonderful things
of him, that he was like a god to me.  You must know,
Jane, that he is exceedingly tall and warlike, his black hair
is cut straight across his brows, and flows in curls upon his
shining armour.  And he is always splendidly dressed."

"Indeed, all have heard of his rich clothing; even the
laced cravats are called after him."

"See how people talk for nothing.  Rupert's laced
cravat was a necessity, not a vanity.  He told me himself,
that being out very early drilling his men, he took a sore
throat, and having no other covering, he drew his laced
kerchief from his pocket and tied it round his neck.
And his officers, seeing how well it became him, must
needs also get themselves laced neckerchiefs, and then
civilians, as is their way, followed the custom.  But who
could look as Rupert looked? the most beautiful, the most
soldierlike man in England."

"I might question that opinion, Matilda.  I might say
there is your brother Stephen—or——"

"Or Lord Cluny Neville, or many others; but let the
question go, Jane.  I had given my heart to Prince Rupert
before I knew what love was; but one day—it was my
sixteenth birthday—we were walking in de Wick Park, and
the Hawthorns were in flower—I can smell them now, it
was the very scent of Paradise; and he said such words as
seemed to float upon their sweetness, and they filled my
heart till I could have cried for pure happiness.  The
green turf was white with flowers, and the birds sang
above us, and if heaven can come to earth, we were in
heaven that dear spring morning.  And as truly as I loved
him, so he loved me; and that is something to make all my
life beautiful.  I have been loved!  I have been loved! even
if I see him no more, I have been loved! and by the
noblest prince that ever drew a righteous sword.  This is
the one joy left me."

.. _`"THE HAWTHORNS WERE IN FLOWER."`:

.. figure:: images/img-140.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: "THE HAWTHORNS WERE IN FLOWER."

   "THE HAWTHORNS WERE IN FLOWER."

"But, Matilda, it was a secret joy, and it could not be
right.  What would your father and mother have said?"

"You think wrong too readily, Jane.  When Rupert
had told me how dear I was to him, he went to my parents.
He said to them, as he held my hand, 'Earl and Countess
de Wick, with your permission, this is my Princess;'—and
they were glad and proud, for they loved Rupert, and
my brothers, who were in his troop, adored him.  As for
me, when Rupert said 'Matilda,' I was in an ecstasy; and
if he took my hand I trembled with delight.  I was so
happy!  So happy!  For those heavenly hours I will
thank God all my life long."

"But I see not how, even with your father's and
mother's consent, you could hope to marry Prince Rupert.
Kings and queens would be against it."

"Indeed, it was a most likely consummation.  The
Prince came to de Wick to arrange loans for the King.
You must have heard that at the beginning of the war my
father had great wealth which he had made by joining in
Sir Thomas Jevery's East and West Indian ventures.  He
was glad to let King Charles have money, and a great deal
of gold was sent, from time to time, as the King needed it.
And when the war was over, my father was to have all his
loans back, and also be raised to the rank of a Duke.  And
in those days we never doubted that the King would win;
not till Dunbar, not till after cruel Worcester, did we lose
hope.  And surely you can see that an English Duke's
daughter, with a large fortune in money, would be a
suitable match for one of the Palatine Princes.  Rupert is
poor, Jane, his sword is his only fortune.  And moreover,
Rupert's mother and brothers have been in terror lest he
marry a papist.  But as for me—you know that I would
die, yes, I would burn for my Bible and Book of Common
Prayer.  More than this, the King was pleased at our
engagement, and sent me a jewel in token of it.  Alas, it has
been an unlucky jewel!  I have had only sorrow since it
came to me."

"I would get quit of it."

"It is too beautiful.  And when the poor King is dead!
Oh, dear me!  I could not bear to part with it.  Do you
wonder now that the news of Dunbar made me so cross
and sad, and that I was distraught—past myself—after
Worcester?  All was lost that fatal night."

"I do not wonder, but——"

"Say you are sorry, plain out, Jane.  I am past disguise
with you, now, and must ask your pity.  Think of my
father and mother dead of grief, and of my three
brothers,—two slain in battle, one wandering, I know not where.
Remember that with my father's death, died all hope of the
loaned money and the dukedom to the family, and all my
own hopes regarding my lover.  For without money and
rank, I would be no bride for Prince Rupert; a milkmaid
were as fit.  And when father had been three days in his
grave, and I lay at point of death, Anthony Lynn came
with his Parliamentary title to our house and lands.  I was
at his mercy, at his charity, Jane."

"Well, and if so, many favours he and his have received
from your family.  All he is worth he owes to your
father."

"He was kind and respectful; I am very sensible of
that.  It is a strange thing to count past benefits, Jane; 'tis
like remembering eaten bread.  If Anthony thought of my
father's help, 'tis more than can be believed.  But for my
jewels, I am a very pauper—a dependent on Sir Thomas
Jevery."

"He was your father's friend and partner in business—he
is the husband of your aunt."

"'Tis confest; but for all that, I am here by his charity."

"Your aunt?"

"My aunt lives in the atmosphere of Sir Thomas'
whims and wishes.  What she will think, what she will do,
depends upon what he thinks and what he does."

"'Tis commonly said that he is devoted to her."

"He loves her after the ordinary rate of husbands, I'll
warrant."  Then, speaking with her old peremptoriness, she
said suddenly, "But for God's sake let me ask when you
heard anything of Prince Rupert?  Oh, Jane, I am sick
with heart-hunger for some small intelligence of his doings
or his whereabouts."

"He has filled the news-letters and papers lately."

"But I am not suffered to see them.  'Tis pretended
they will make me ill; and Sir Thomas vowed when the
doctor gave the order, that he was glad on it, and that he
had long wanted an excuse to keep the pernicious sheets
outside of his house.  So, then, I hear nothing, and if I did
hear, twenty to one I would be the better of it."

"I think you would, Matilda.  What is harder to bear
than trouble that is not sure?  Still, to be the messenger of
ill news is an ungrateful office."

"Any news will be grateful; be so much my friend,
dear Jane, as to tell me all you have heard."

"You know that he was made Admiral of the Royalist
Navy; but, indeed, he is said to be nothing else but a pirate,
robbing all ships that he may support the Stuart family at
The Hague.  No sail could leave British waters without
being attacked by him, until Blake drove him to the African
coast and the West Indies."

"He is the bread-finder of the King as well as his
defender.  So much I knew, and 'tis well done in him."

"The latest news is the drowning of Prince Maurice."

"That is the worst of news.  Rupert loved this brother
of his so tenderly.  They were not happy apart.  Poor
Rupert!  His last letter said, 'he was kept waking with
constant troubles'; this will be a crowning misfortune.
Sir Hugh Belward told me that his disasters have followed
one on the heels of the other; that he had no port, and
that poverty, despair and revenge alone guided his course."

"Sir Hugh Belward!  Was he not the companion of
your brother Stephen—*that night*?"

"Yes.  He is now at The Hague with the King, and he
has been over on secret affairs.  I saw him at de Wick the
day before I left.  He was so shocked at my appearance
that he burst out weeping, and knelt down and kissed my
hands.  Aunt begged him to leave my presence, for indeed I
was like to faint away."

"Then you must have heard all about the doings of
Prince Rupert?"

"I had not heard of the drowning of Prince Maurice.
That affliction will bring Rupert to shore, and then what
will the King do for money?"

"He is said now to be in great need of it, though Prince
Rupert sent home a rich prize this past summer; and 'tis
further said he resigned his own share of it to his cousin,
Charles Stuart."

"'Twould be most like him."

"Some English sailors taken on a prize were put on one
of the Royalist ships, and they overpowered her officers, and
brought the ship to London a few days ago.  I like not to tell
you what they said of Prince Rupert to the Parliament."

"It will not vex me, Jane.  Evil is said of people so
universally that no one is hurt by it."

"They declared, then, that the delight of Prince Rupert
and his crews was in swearing and plundering, and in
sinking all English ships they could lay their talons on;
but also, they added to this account, that there was a
chaplain on the Admiral's ship, and that they rode still on
Sundays, and did the duties of the day in the best manner they
could—the same at evening.  Many believed not this
report, and many made a mock at, what they conclude, is a
travesty of true worship."

"Indeed, Jane, the Puritans have not all the religion in
the world, though they think so.  However, if Prince
Maurice be dead, I am sure that Rupert will not keep the
high seas wanting him.  Thank you for this intelligence,
Jane.  'Twill be some comfort to hear that Rupert is on
dry land again."

This conversation had many asides and deviations, and
the night was far spent when Matilda was willing to sleep.
And in the morning, while they eat breakfast together, the
subject was renewed; for sorrow is selfish, and Matilda
forgot that she had never even asked after the welfare of
Jane's family.  As they talked, Lady Jevery joined them.
She bid Delia bring her some capon and white wine, and
then thanked Jane for her visit, adding—

"I have brought you the key to my private entrance.
It will admit you to Matilda's apartments when you wish,
without the delays of a formal reception; and 'twill be the
greatest token of kindness if you come often."

She spoke gently, and was soft and moth-like in all her
movements, but her affection for her niece was unmistakable.
While she talked, Jane's eyes wandered over the
richly furnished room, noting its draperies of rose velvet,
beautifully painted, its carved bedstead and quilted
satin coverlet, its dressing-table with little gilded Venetian
ewers for perfumes, and India boxes for powders—and also
the fine breakfast service of French china before her.
Lady Jevery's "charity" to her niece was certainly
magnificent, and Jane felt no anxiety concerning her friend's
material comforts.

She returned to her home soon after breakfast, and her
mother met her with a smiling face.  "I was going to
send the coach for you," she said, "for there is to be
company to-night;" and then she looked at Jane so
intelligently that the girl understood at once what was meant.

"Is it Cluny?" she asked, blushing brightly.

"Yes.  He has asked for an interview with your father,
and I suppose that it is granted, for I was told of the
matter."

"Mother, dear, you will speak in our favour?"

"If needs be, Jane.  But I am of this opinion—some
one has spoken already."

"Do you mean the Lord General?"

"I wouldn't wonder if he has said the two or three
words that would move your father more than any woman's
talk or tears.  Keep your bravery, Jane; father likes
women that stand up for themselves.  When we were first
married, I tried crying for my way, and I never got it.  It
is a deal better with men like your father and brothers to
stand up for your rights.  They know what that means,
but they think a crying woman is trying to get the better
of them."

Jane understood this advice, and she was not a girl
inclined to cry for her way or her wish, yet she was glad to
be thus early warned of the stand she might have to take.
After all, it was one so loving and simple, so well defined
in her own mind, and so positively accepted, that there was
little need for preparation.

"I have made a resolve to marry Cluny, if Cluny be of
the same mind," she said to herself, "and I have made a
resolve to marry no one else, whether Cluny be of the same
mind or not.  I will let no one impose a husband on me.
This thing I will stand boldly for; it has the witness of my
heart, and love is too great to need lying or deceit."

It was evening when Cluny came, and he was taken at
once to the room in which General Swaffham was smoking
his good-night pipe.  He looked steadily at the young man
as he entered, but the look was one of inquiry and
observation rather than of displeasure.

"Good-evening, sir," he answered to Cluny's greeting.
"Sit down.  You have requested speech with me; talk
straight out then."

"I am here, General, to ask for your daughter's hand.
I love her."

"Come, come, Lord Neville!  Do you expect to drive
the wedge head foremost?  Ere you ask so great a gift,
give me some good reasons for expecting it."

"We love each other, sir."

"So! but you must forethink, and straightforward is the
best course.  You cannot live on love—you two.  No, sir!"

"I have my sword and the Lord General's favour.
And my mother left me an estate in Fifeshire.  'Tis no
great matter, but it is between me and the wolf's mouth."

"Very good for a young man; for a married man, very
poor.  If you were wanting to know how in God's name
you were to provide for your household and pay your debts,
would it do to ask your sword, or to send to Fifeshire—or
to the stars—for the gold?  That is a father's question,
sir."

"It is a lover's also.  I have enough for our necessities,
and somewhat for our comfort,—and we are both willing to
take love as security for our contentment."  And though
the words were such ordinary ones, the young man's heart
throbbed in them, and the father felt it.

"Well, well," he answered, "yet I could wish you were
altogether an Englishman."

"My mother was of a noble Scotch family, the Cupars
of Fife.  I would not willingly lose anything she gave me,
sir."

"Lord Neville, I have seen the Scots in the late
unhappy war, enough of them, and more than enough—greedy
creatures, never losing sight of the spoil.  I saw a good
deal of the country also—beggary, nakedness, hunger,
ever-lasting spite, envy and quarreling.  But in every land God
has His elect and reserve, and I doubt not that Lady
Neville was among them."

"She was the purest-hearted of women.  A word against
her goes to my heart like a sword."

"Nay, nay, I meant no unkindness in particular; I
spoke of generalities.  You are not a Scot, but I hear that
you are a Presbyterian.  If you marry my daughter, I wish
you to become an Independent."

"'Twould be an impossible thing, sir.  I sucked
Presbyterianism in my mother's milk.  Even in heaven, it
would grieve her to know I had become an apostate."

"An apostate!  The veriest nonsense.  There is not
an ounce of difference between a Presbyterian and an
Independent—but the ounce is the salt and the savour.  You
will become an Independent.  The Lord General is an
Independent."

"He never asked me to become one."

"You never asked him for his daughter, his youngest
child, his darling."

"Forgive me, sir; Mistress Swaffham has no objection
to my faith."

"Because, if men have not every good quality, some
woman invents all they lack for them.  Mistress Swaffham
assures herself she can change your creed."

"I hope that she judges me of better mould.  I can no
more change a letter in my creed than a feature in my
face."

"That is John Knoxism!  It won't do, Lord Neville.
If I was asking you to become a Fifth Monarchy Man, or
one of those unbaptised, buttonless hypocrites, who call
themselves Quakers, you might talk about the letters of
your creed.  Pooh!  Pooh!"

"Sir, not for any woman born, will a man, worth the
name of a man, give up his creed or his country.  Mistress
Swaffham would not ask this thing of me.  She takes me
as I am.  I love her with all my soul.  To the end of our
life days, I will love and cherish her.  Whether you credit
me thus far, or not, I can say no more.  I am a suppliant
for your grace, and I know well that I have nothing worthy
to offer in return for the great favour I ask from you."

Dauntless, but not overbold, the fine, expressive face of
the suppliant was very persuasive.  General Swaffham
looked at him silently for a few moments and then said,
"I will not be unkind to either you or my daughter; but
there must be no leap in the dark, or in a hurry.  Take
five years to learn how to live together fifty years.  At the
end of five years, if you are both of a mind, I will do all
I can for your welfare."

"Your goodness is very great, sir; make it more so by
bringing it nearer to us.  Five years is a long time out of
life."

"That is what youth thinks.  Five years' service for
fifty years of happiness.  You gave your teachers far more
time to prepare you for life.  Now go to school five years,
for love.  I waited six years for my wife, Jacob waited
fourteen for Rachel."

"Sir, we live not by centuries, as Jacob did—if it would
please you to say two years."

"I have said five, and verily it shall be five; unless these
strange times bring us some greater stress or hurry than is
now evident.  Cannot you wait and serve for five years?
If not, your love is but a summer fruit, and Jane Swaffham
is worthy of something better."

"Sir, I entreat.  I am no coward, but I cannot bear to
think of five years."

"I have said my say.  There is nothing to add or to
take from it—save, to remind you, Lord Neville, that there
is more heroism in self-denial than in battle."

Then Cluny perceived that entreaty would only weaken
his cause, and he advanced and offered his hand, saying, "I
am much in your debt, sir.  'Tis more than I deserve, but
Love must always beg more than his desert."  And General
Swaffham stood up and held the slim brown hand a moment.
He was moved beyond his own knowledge, for his voice
trembled perceptibly as he answered—

"You have time and opportunity to win your way to my
heart, then I will give you a son's place.  Go and ask
Jane; she will tell you I have done kindly and wisely."  And
Cluny bowed and went silently to seek his betrothed.

There was a sense of disappointment in his heart.
Perhaps also an unavoidable feeling of offense.  The Lord
General had looked into his face and trusted him; yea,
about great affairs, public and private.  He had asked no
five years' trial of his honour and honesty; and such
thought gave an air of dissatisfaction and haughtiness to
the young man that struck Jane unhappily as he entered
the room in which she was sitting.

"Your father says we are to wait five years, sweet Jane;
and 'tis a hard condition.  I know not how I am to endure
it."

And Jane smiled and began to talk over with her lover
the hard condition, and somehow it became an easy and
reasonable one.  They soon saw it through Love and
Hope and Wisdom, and so at the beginning of their
probation, they rejoiced in the end of it.  Cluny was hopeful
of getting some military appointment in Edinburgh, and
then the estate that was "no great matter" would be a
home, at no inconvenient distance.  And he described the
old place with its ivy-covered walls and ancient rooms, and
its garden, dark with foliage, until Jane knew all its beauties
and possibilities.  They were so happy and so full of happy
plans, that they were laughing cheerfully together when the
General came in with his wife and household for evening
prayers.  And it touched and pleased Cluny that he was
mentioned by name in the family petition, and so, as it
were, taken publicly and affectionately into it.  He felt this
all the more when the servants, in leaving the room,
included him in their respectful obeisance to their master and
mistress.  It restored to him the sense of home, and he
carried that strength and joy with him to his duty, and
day by day grew to more perfect manhood in it.

Life soon settled itself to the new conditions of the
Swaffhams.  The General, in spite of his wife's and
daughter's disapproval, bought the Sandys House near
Russel Square, and some of the most precious heirlooms
of old Swaffham were brought up to London to adorn it,
For it was now certain that the Lord General would not
agree to part with his faithful friend and ally; and, indeed,
Swaffham's influence in the army could not well be spared,
for it was evident enough that there was such ill-will
between the army and the Parliament as might easily become
a very dangerous national condition.

"So we may be here the rest of our lives, Jane, and we
may as well get our comforts round us," said Mrs. Swaffham,
and there was a tone of fret in her voice she did not
try to hide.  "William won't marry as a good man should
at his age," she continued, "and Tonbert thinks himself
too young to wive; and Cymlin is for Lady Matilda de
Wick or no other woman, and so the dear old place will
run to waste and mischief.  And there are the fine milch
cows—and the turkeys.  Who will attend to them when
I am not there to see they get attention?  Nobody."

"Will and Tonbert know how to manage, mother."

"Yes, if it comes to meadow and corn land, or horses,
or dogs.  I am thinking of the house and the dairy and the
poultry yard.  Men don't bother themselves about such
things; and my boys won't marry, and my girls won't let
marrying alone.  I am sure I don't know what to make of
it all."

In spite of her complaining, however, she was well
content in London.  Social by nature, fond of the stir and
news of life, enjoying even the shadow of her old friends'
power and splendour, and taking the greatest interest in all
public events of the time, she was pleased rather than
otherwise at the Lord General's determination to keep her
husband near him.

Neither was Jane at all averse to London.  Cluny was
in London, and Matilda was there, and most of the girls
whom she had known all her life long.  And it was not
difficult to adapt herself to the new home, with its long
galleries and large rooms full of beautiful paintings and
handsome furniture.  The little figure in its sober-tinted raiment
took on a prouder poise, richer clothing seemed necessary
and fitting; and insensibly, but continually, the fashion
of the Swaffhams' life shook off its rusticity and became
after the manner of the great Puritan town in which their
lot had been cast.

And if Jane accepted willingly this change in life,
Matilda took her phase of it still more enthusiastically.
She was not long in discovering that it was in her power to
be virtual mistress of the Jevery mansion.  Her youth, her
beauty and her many sorrows inclined Sir Thomas Jevery's
heart to sympathy, and this prepossession grew rapidly to
devoted affection.  What the Lady Matilda de Wick desired
became a law in Jevery House, and Matilda's desires were
not remarkable for their moderation.  She had her own
apartments, her own servants, and her own company at her
own hours, and Sir Thomas settled on her an income
which he pretended had been an agreement between Earl de
Wick and himself—a statement Matilda neither inquired
about nor disputed.

No stipulations were made concerning her friends, and
indeed Sir Thomas was not averse to a distinct royalist party
in his house, if it was reasonably prudent.  He himself
entertained all parties, affecting to be inclined to men
through higher motives than political prejudices.  "Izaak
Walton and John Milton, Mr. Evelyn and Sir Harry Vane,
are all equally welcome at my table," he would say; "we
have a common ground to meet on, which is beyond the
reach of politics."

So Matilda quickly outgrew those griefs for which there
was no remedy; she regained her health and much of her
radiant beauty, and she spent many hours every day in
adorning herself.  For the first time in her life she had
money enough to indulge this passion, and Sir Thomas
declared she was in the right to do so.  "A lovely woman
in a shabby gown," he said, "is a sin against nature; she
is like a queen without her crown and robes."

With such encouragement to fine attire, Matilda was not
sparing in her orders for silks and brocades, furs and laces,
and India goods of all descriptions.  She had inherited her
mother's jewels, and she was considering one morning
a string of Orient pearls, wondering if they could be
worn with her new damasse gown, when Jane entered her
dressing-room.

"Jane Swaffham," she cried with delight, "I'll swear I
was just wishing for you.  But what is the matter?  Are
you for a funeral?  Or—is there another plot against
Cromwell's life discovered?  If so, I am not in it.  I do
believe there are tears in your eyes."

"Indeed, all England weeps to-day.  Have you not heard
that General Ireton is dead?"

"A just retribution.  Indeed, I will rejoice at it.  More
than any one else, more than Cromwell himself, he drove
his late Majesty to the scaffold.  He had no pity for the
poor Queen, he was glad to make her a widow.  I have
no pity for the widow of Ireton.  Let her drink of the cup
her husband filled for a better woman.  Let her drink it to
the dregs."

"She lacks not any sympathy that can comfort so great a
loss; a loss public, as well as personal, for my father says
Ireton was nearer to Cromwell than any other man—the
wisest, bravest soldier, the truest patriot——"

"Jane, do be more sparing of your praises, or you will
have none left for your prime idol."

"I must tell you that I have new praises for Cromwell.
I have seen him this morning in a strange light—holding
his weeping daughter to his heart; weeping with
her, praying with her; 'tis said, 'like as a father pitieth
his children,' but indeed Cromwell was more like a
mother.  When I entered the room Mrs. Cromwell told
Mrs. Ireton I was present, and she cried out, 'Oh, Jane,
he is dead!  He is dead!' and then Cromwell with streaming
eyes answered her in a tone of triumph—'Nay, but
he has PREVAILED, Bridget.  He has prevailed against
the kingdom of death!  Be comforted, dear child.'  I
cannot tell you how good it was to be there—in the house of
mourning."

"I never found it good, and I was there for years.  But
with such a brother as Stephen, I may be there again, and
that soon enough.  Stephen keeps me on cracking ice
night and day."

"But he is in safety now, Matilda?"

"He is never safe—and partly your fault, Jane."

"I will not credit that, and 'tis a piece of great
unkindness to make me accountable."

"He is always pining to see you, and always fearing that
some one is your servant in his absence; and so he is
willing to take all risks if he may but come to England."  Then
looking steadily at Jane, she added, "He is here now.
Will you see him?"

"I will not," answered Jane positively.  "I will not
come to question about him if he is discovered.  Do not
ask me to put myself in such a strait, Matilda.  It is far
better I should be able to say, 'I have not seen him.'"

"You are a very proper, prudent young woman.  I think
you must have set your heart on that young sprig of a
Puritan noble I saw at Swaffham.  What was his name?"

"I am sure you have not forgotten it, but if so, it is little
worth my repeating."

"As you like it.  I have heard this and that of him from
Mr. Hartlib who is a friend of that quarrelsome John
Milton.  Mr. Hartlib comes here frequent.  He is full of
inventions; only last night he brought Uncle Jevery one
for taking a dozen copies of any writing at once, and this
by means of moist paper and an ink he has made.  I heard
of Lord Cluny Neville, and of a hymn he has written
which Mr. Milton has set to music.  He talked as if it
was fit for the heavenly choir.  Something also was said
about his marrying Mary Cromwell.  Fancy these things!
Marvels never cease."

"The Lady Mary Cromwell may look much higher,"
answered Jane.  "Lord Neville told us that his sword was
his fortune."

"The Lady Mary may see, if she looks at home, that a
sword is a very good fortune.  In these unholy wars, the
faithful saints have given themselves the earth—that is the
English earth—not to speak of Scotland and Ireland, and
such trifles.  Look at it, Jane, if you have any fancies the
Neville way."

"If I had, the Lady Mary would not trouble me.  I
have seen them together: and indeed I know that she has
other dreams."

"Perhaps she dreams of marrying the King, though he
is a wicked malignant.  'Tis said she is the proudest minx
of them all."

"She would not say 'tush!' to a queen."

"The great Oliver may lay his ten commandments on her."

"How you wrong him!  His children have all been
allowed to marry where their love led them.  And I am sure
if the Lady Mary and Lord Neville wished to marry, it
would give his kind heart the greatest pleasure to make
them happy.  Do you think he loves riches or rank or
honours or power?  I declare to you that he cares not a fig
for any of them."

"Pray, then, what does he love?"

"First and foremost, he loves England.  He loves
England with every breath he draws.  England is the word
graven on the palms of his hands; it was the word that
made his sword invincible.  He loves the Protestant faith,
which he holds one with all religious and civil freedom.
These two things run with his life blood.  He loves his
wife and children better than himself; he loves all
mankind—even Jews and Quakers—so well that he would make
them share alike in all that Freedom means."

"And he hates——"

"Every soul that hates England; every dealer in priestcraft
or tyranny; every false heart, whether it beat in
prince or ploughman."

"I thank my Maker he loves not me."

"But he does love you."

"Let him keep his regard until I ask for it."

"That you may do at some time.  'Tis not wise to
throw dirt into the well from which you may have to
drink."

"Thank you for good advices, Jane.  Oh, 'tis ten
thousand pities you are not a preacher.  If you could hold
forth at St. Paul's Cross you might work miracles with the
ungodly.  But all this is beyond our bargain to let men in
high places alone; and I was going to tell you of Stephen,
who is here and so well disguised I had like to have given
him the insult of calling a lackey to kick him off the
premises.  Indeed, he was strangely like to Lord Neville.  It
was this strange likeness set me thinking of Neville."

"Strange indeed," answered Jane, a little scornfully.

"You do not ask why Stephen is here?"

"It concerns me not."

"Jane, I will tell you a piteous tale.  'Tis of our late
Queen.  She is so wretchedly poor, and since her son
returned to their miserable little court in the Louvre, so
broken-hearted 'twould make you weep to hear of her.
Stephen came with Sir Hugh Belward to get some money
on Belward, for though the French government have
settled an income on the poor Queen, they pay it only
when it seems good in their own eyes.  She is often in
great need; she is need now, in sore need of every
comfort."

"How does Sir Hugh Belward hope to get money on
Belward?  He is proscribed."

"His younger brother joined the Parliament, and he
left the estate in his care.  And his brother has turned
traitor to him, and would give him nothing but permission
to ride away as secretly as he came.  He has returned
here in a passion of grief and anger.  Thus I carry
so many troubles that are not really mine.  But oh, Jane! the
poor, poor Queen!"—and then Matilda went into some
details of the piteous straits and dependencies and insults
the widowed woman had been obliged to bear.

Jane listened silently, but there were tears in her eyes;
and when Matilda said, "I have given her the jewel the
gracious King sent me by my beloved Prince Rupert, and
also, what moneys I could get from my Uncle Jevery,"
Jane added—

"I have ten pieces of gold that are altogether my own,
I will give them to her; not because she was once Queen
of England, but because she is a sorrowful woman, poor,
oppressed, and a widow."

"Oh, Jane Swaffham!  Who taught your charity to
reach this height, and then to limit and clip it with
exceptions?  Why not say boldly, 'I am sorry for the poor
Queen, and she is welcome to my gold.'"

"I have said so.  Now I must go.  I will send the gold
by a sure messenger to-day."

Matilda did not urge her to remain, and Jane was eager
to get away.  She had had some intention—if circumstances
favoured the confidence—of telling Matilda of her
betrothal, but the conversation had drifted into a tone
which had made this communication impossible.  And she
was glad of her enforced reticence, and resolved to maintain
it.  She knew, now, that to make Cluny a topic of conversation
was to subject him to Matilda's worst words and to
all the disagreeable things she could say in those moods,
and she was sure that it would be almost impossible to
keep the peace if Cluny came between them.  It was difficult
enough to endure her railing at Cromwell, but if Cluny
became the target of her satire, her annoyances and
anxieties, Jane knew that a rupture must certainly follow.

When she reached home, her father was walking about
the parlour and talking in an excited manner to his wife.
He showed much discontent, and as he walked and talked
he rattled his sword ominously to his words.

"Cromwell wants only that Parliament should know its
own mind, and declare itself dissolved.  God knows it is
high time, but Vane, and more with him, would sit while
life lasts.  He said to-day that 'the members must have
their time, and their rights *or*' and the Lord General took
him up at the word, and answered, 'the army can say "*or*"
as loud as you, Sir Harry, it may be louder,' and there was
a murmur and a noise as of moving steel.  Later, I joined
a party in the lobby, and I heard Colonel Streater say
boldly, that in his opinion, Cromwell designed to set up for
himself; and Major General Harrison said, 'You are far
astray, sir; Cromwell's only aim is to prepare the way for
the kingdom of Christ, and the reign of the Saints;' and
Streater laughed, and answered with some rudeness, 'Unless
Christ come suddenly, He will come too late.'  Martha,
my heart is troubled within me.  Have we got rid of one
tyrant calling himself King, to give obedience to a
hundred tyrants calling themselves Parliament?  It shall not
be so.  As the Lord liveth, verily, it shall not!"

Israel Swaffham's temper on this matter was but a reflex
of the sterner dissatisfaction which Cromwell voiced
for the people.  The Parliament then sitting was the one
summoned by King Charles the First, eleven years
previously, and it had long outlived its usefulness.  Pym was
dead, Hampden was dead, and it was so shrunken from
honour, that in popular speech it was known as "the Rump"
of that great assembly which had moulded the Commonwealth.
It was now attacked by all parties; it was urged
to dissolve itself; yet its most serious occupation seemed to
be a determination to maintain and continue its power.

The leader of these despised legislators was Sir Harry
Vane, the only man living who in Parliamentary ability could
claim to be a rival of Cromwell.  But Vane's great object
was to diminish the army, and to increase the fleet; and as
chief Minister of Naval affairs he had succeeded in passing
the Navigation Act, which, by restricting the importation of
foreign goods to English ships, struck a fatal blow at Dutch
Commerce, hitherto controlling the carrying trade.  This
act was felt to be a virtual declaration of war, and though
negotiations for peace were going on, English and Dutch
sailors were flying red flags, and fighting each other in the
Downs.

Everything relating to the conduct of affairs both in
Church and State was provisional and chaotic; and the
condition of religion, law, and all social matters, filled
Cromwell with pity and anger.  He wanted the Amnesty
Act, to relieve the conquered royalists, passed at once.
Intensely conservative by nature, he was impatient for the
settlement of the nation, and of some stable form of
government.  And he had behind him an army which was the
flower of the people,—men who knew themselves to be
the natural leaders of their countrymen,—trained politicians,
unconquered soldiers; the passion, the courage, and the
conscience of England in arms.  Their demands were few,
but definite, and held with an intense tenacity.  They
wanted, first of all, the widest religious freedom for
themselves and others; secondly, an orderly government and
the abolition of all the abuses for which Laud and Charles
had died.  And though devoted to their great chief, they
longed to return to their homes and to civil life, therefore
they echoed strenuously Cromwell's cry for a "speedy settlement,"
a consummation which the sitting Parliament was in
no hurry to take in hand.  On this state of affairs
Cromwell looked with a hot heart.  Untiring in patience when
things had to be waited for, he was sudden and impatient
when work ought to be done, and his constant word then
was—"without delay."

There was a meeting of the Council at the Speaker's
house the night after Israel Swaffham's indignant protest
against the Parliament, and Cromwell, sitting among those
self-seeking men, was scornfully angry at their deliberations.
His passion for public and social justice burned
and in a thunderous speech, lit by flashes of blinding wrath,
he spoke out of a full and determined heart.  Then he
mounted his horse and rode homeward.  It was late, and
the city's ways were dark and still; and as he mused, he
was uplifted by a mystical ecstasy, flowing from an intense
realisation of his personal communion with God.

Cluny Neville was in attendance, and as he silently followed
that dauntless, massive figure, he thought of Theseus
and Hercules doing wonders, because, being sons of Jove,
they must of necessity relieve the oppressed, and help the
needy, and comfort the sorrowful; and then he added to
this force the sublime piety of a Hebrew prophet, and in
his heart called Cromwell the Maccabeus of the English
Commonwealth.  And in those moments of inspiration,
amid the shadows of the starlit night, he again saw
Cromwell grow vague and vast and mythical, and knew that his
gigantic soul would carry England on waves of triumph
until she could look over the great seas and find no rival
left upon them.

Thought is transferable, and unconsciously Cluny's
enthusiasm affected the silent, prayerful man he loved and
followed.  And so hope came into Cromwell's reveries,
and many earthly plans and desires; and when he alighted
at Whitehall, he thought instantly of his wife, and longed
for her sympathy.  For though he seldom took her counsel,
he constantly looked to her for that fellow-feeling which is
as necessary as food.  Man lives not by bread alone, and
there is untold strength for him in womanly love which
thinks as he thinks, feels as he feels, and which, when he
is weary and discouraged, restores him to confidence and to
self-appreciation.

He walked rapidly through the silent, darkened rooms,
and opening the door of his own chamber very softly, saw
his wife sitting by the fire.  There was no light but its
fitful blaze, and the room was large and sombre with dark
furniture and draperies, the only white spots in it being the
linen of the huge bedstead, and the lace coverings of
Mrs. Cromwell's head and bosom.  Yet apart from these objects
there was light, living light, in the woman's calm, uplifted
face, and even in her hands which were lying stilly upon
her black velvet gown.  She stood up as her husband
advanced, and waited until he drew her to his heart and
kissed her face.  "You are late, Oliver," she said with
quiet assertion, "and I have been a little anxious—your
life is so precious, and there are many that seek it."

"Why do you fret yourself so unwisely?  Of a surety
you know that I have a work to do, and I shall not see
death until it be finished.  Yet I am greatly troubled for
England; I tell you plainly, Elizabeth, that we are, for all
good purposes, without a government."

"There is the Parliament, Oliver."

"I look for no good from it—a noisy, self-opinionated old
Parliament.  We want a new one.  Vane, and others,
think wisdom was born with them; yea, and that it will die
with them.  They fritter time away about trifles, when an
Act of Amnesty ought to be passed without delay.  It is
the first necessity; they must pass it; they must turn
to—or turn out."

"Therein you are right, as you always are."

"Truly, the whole country is like the prophets' roll,
written within and without with mourning and wrong and
woe.  As for the Royalists, they are harried to death; they
hold everything on sufferance.  The time for this
strictness has gone by.  England now wants peace, justice for
all, Amnesty, and above all, a new Parliament.  If these
things don't come to pass, worse things will—I say this to
you; it is the plain truth; I profess it is!"

"Then tell them what to do, Oliver.  And if they will
not obey, make them.  Are they not as much at your
disposal as the shoes on your feet?"

"The time is not fully ripe; a little longer they must
trample upon law and justice and mercy, and do such
bare-faced things as will make men wonder—a little longer we
must suffer them, then——"

"Then, Oliver?"

"I will thunder at the door for inquisition, and it will be
with no runaway knock.  I am sorry, and I could be sorry
to death, for the needs-be, but it will come, it will come.
God knows I wish it otherwise.  I do, indeed!"

"What were they about to-night?"

"About nothing they should be.  Have we not come to
a pretty state when Parliament looks to the private doings
of its members?  After some testimonies, there came a
motion to expel all profane and unsanctified persons from
the House, and I rose and said,—'I could wish also, that
all fools were expelled; then we might have a house so
thin it would be at our say-so.'"

"Pray, what said Sir Harry Vane to that?  He is as
touchy as tinder."

"He said, 'General, no man in England knows better
than you do, the usefulness of piety;' and I answered
him prompt, 'Sir Harry Vane, I know something better
than the usefulness of piety, it is the piety of usefulness.
Take heed,' I said, 'of being too sharp, or of being too
easily sharpened by others.  If Parliament is to sit that it
may count the number of glasses a man drinks, or the style
of his coat and his headgear, England is in her dotage.  I
would rather see death than such intolerable things, I would
truly.'  And I said these words in great wrath, and I could
wish I had been in still greater anger."

"Why don't they do what you desire?  Will they come
to disputing with you?"

"I look for it, but I understand the men.  This state of
affairs will grow to somewhat.  I know what I feel.  My
dearest, I need pity; I do, indeed.  I am set here for
England's defense, and there is *One* who will sift me as wheat
concerning my charge.  Elizabeth, there are at this very
hour twenty-three thousand unheard cases in Chancery.  I
see the law constantly abused.  If I say a word that mercy
may now be shown, I am accused of pandering to the
malignants for some end of my own.  Hundreds of Englishmen
are in prison on matters of conscience;—they ought
to be free.  There are tithes and exactions intolerable, and
this fragment and figment and finger-end of an old Parliament
busies itself with its members' moralities; with raising
money for a Dutch war, or with selling the stonework,
leads and bells of our Cathedrals.  If my God will give me
a word, I will better such work; I will indeed!"

"Sir Harry Vane has already reduced the army.  He
thought thus to curtail your power, Oliver; I saw through
the man from the first."

"My authority came not through Sir Harry Vane, nor
can Sir Harry Vane take it from me.  My comfort is that
God called me to be captain of Israel's host.  Truly, I
never sought the place.  I did not.  But while my head is
above the mold, my heart will burn against oppression.  I
will not suffer it; before God and angels and men I will
not suffer it!  'Tis the time now for showing mercy and
for settling the Kingdom, and these things shall be done.
I know the sort of men I have to deal with, I will carry
justice through their teeth, even if they be a Parliament.  And
let God be my judge."

"But what will you do?  There are strong men that
hate you."

"I will do nothing just yet—unless I get the
commission.  Who are these men?  Only cedars of Lebanon
that God has not yet broken.  'They shall be able to do
nothing against me.  His Hands shall cover me.'  That
word came to me by little Jane Swaffham.  I have
thanked her many times for it."

"I know your patience and your goodness, Oliver."

"Yes, but patience works to anger.  I shall stand no
nonsense from any one much longer.  When Opportunity
comes, I shall make Importunity fit Opportunity—I will
that."

He had been unbuttoning his doublet as he spoke these
words, and he flung it from him with an extraordinary force
and passion; then suddenly calming himself he sat down,
and said with a sadness equal to his anger, "Let me have
your prayers, dear wife, let me have them.  For come
what will, we must work God's good pleasure and serve
our generation—our rest we expect elsewhere.  I live in
Meshec (prolonging) and in Kedar (blackness), yet as John
Verity said to me last Sabbath—'Brother Oliver, you
have daily bread, and you shall have it, despite your
enemies.  In your Father's house there is enough and
to spare of every good thing; and He dispenseth
it.'  Those three words go to my heart like heavenly
wine—*He dispenseth it*, Elizabeth;" and he took her hand,
and she leaned her face full of light and trust against
his shoulder, and as he stooped to it, his countenance
grew sweet and tender as a little child's.  For a few
moments they sat silent, then the God-full man burst
into rapturous thanksgiving, because all his hopes were
grounded on the Truth of God, on the immutability of
His Counsel, and on the faithfulness of His promises.
"Promises," he cried out, "having this double
guarantee, that they have not only been spoken, they have
been sworn to."

An inward, instant sense of God's presence came to
both of them.  They had a joy past utterance.  Troubles
of all kinds grew lighter than a grasshopper.  They
partook of those spiritual favours which none know, save
those who receive them; and urged by a spiritual pressure
within, Cromwell sighed into the very ear of God, "Whom
have I in heaven but Thee? and there is none upon earth
that I desire beside Thee."

For the Eternal God was the firmament of this man's
life; whether on the battle-field or in the Council Chamber,
amid his family or alone in his closet, God was the
Majestic Overhead and Background of all his thoughts,
affections, purposes and desires.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`UPON THE THRESHOLD`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   UPON THE THRESHOLD

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  "Predestinated ills are never lost."
   |
   |    \*      \*      \*      \*      \*
   |
   |  "The Power that ministers to God's decrees,
   |  And executes on earth what He foresees,
   |  Called Providence,—
   |  Comes with resistless force; and finds, or makes a way."

.. vspace:: 2

If we believe that life is worth living, our belief helps
to create that fact, for faith is in matters of the spirit all
that courage is in practical affairs.  To Jane and Cluny
this belief was not difficult, for limitation always works for
happiness, and during the ensuing year life kept within the
bounds of their mutual probation and of Cluny's military
duties, was full of happy meetings and partings; days in
which Love waited on Duty, and again, days in which
Love was lord of every hour; when they wandered
together in the Park like two happy children, or, if the
weather was unfit, sat dreaming in the stately rooms of
Sandys about the little gray house in Fifeshire, which was
to be their own sweet home.

These dreams and hopes were set to a national life full
of unexpected events and rumours of events, and to
interesting bits of gossip about the beloved Lord General and
his family and friends.  The news-letters were hardly
necessary to the Swaffhams; they were in the heart of
affairs, and life was so full of love and homely pleasures,
that the days came and went to thanksgiving—literally so,
for Jane could not but notice how at this time her father
and mother selected for the household worship psalms,
whose key-note was, "Bless the Lord," "Make a joyful
noise unto the Lord," or, "I will love thee O Lord my
strength."  And she could so well remember when these
prayers were implorations for help and comfort, or for
victory over enemies.  How different was now her father's
tone of joyful confidence when he recited with the family
his favourite portion from the eighteenth psalm, generally
beginning about the thirtieth verse, and growing more and
more vivid and earnest, until in a voice of triumph he
closed the Book with a great emphasis, to the exulting
words, "The Lord liveth, and blessed be my Rock, and
let the God of my salvation be exalted."

So the weeks and months went by, and though they were
not alike, they had that happy similitude which leaves little
to chronicle.  Jane's chief excitements came from her visits
to Mary Cromwell and Matilda de Wick.  The latter had
now quite recovered her beauty and brightness, and she
had gradually moulded her new life to her satisfaction.  It
was not a life that Jane thoroughly understood, and indeed
she shrank from Matilda's confidences about it; and
Matilda was soon aware of this reluctance and ceased to make
any overtures in that direction.  And in this matter,
Mrs. Swaffham was of her daughter's mind.

"If Sir Thomas is blind to what goes on beneath his
own roof, Jane," she said, "why should you see
inconveniences?  There is a deal of wisdom in looking over
and beyond what is under your eyes.  The Lord General
does it, for Sir Thomas dined at Whitehall last week.
Your father says one of his ships has been taken by Prince
Rupert, and Cromwell has written to Cardinal Mazarin
about the matter.  But Admiral Blake is the only
messenger Mazarin will heed."

The affection between Jane and Matilda had, however,
the strong root of habit as well as of inclination.  They
could not be happy if they were long apart.  Jane visited
frequently at Jevery House, and Matilda quite as frequently
at Sandys.  That they disagreed on many subjects did not
interfere with their mutual regard.  It was an understood
thing that they would disagree, and yet there was between
them such a sincere love as withstood all differences, and
ignored all offenses.  Generally Jane was forbearing but
occasionally her temper matched Matilda's, and then they
said such words, and in such fashion said them, that final
estrangement seemed inevitable.  Yet these bursts of anger
were almost certainly followed by immediate forgiveness and
renewal of affection.

One morning in the spring of 1653, Jane was returning
from a two days' visit to the Cromwells.  The air was so
fresh and balmy she went to Jevery House, resolved to ask
Matilda to drive in the Park with her.  She had not her
key to the private door, and was therefore compelled to
alight at the main entrance.  Sir Thomas was among his
crocus beds, at this time a living mass of gold and purple
beauty, and he was delighted to exhibit them to one so
sensitive to their loveliness.  Jane told him she had been at the
Cockpit, and he asked after the Lord General, adding, "It
is high time he stepped to the front again."  Then Jane
instantly remembered the picture in the cedar salon, and
smiled an understanding answer.

As she went up-stairs she wondered what mood she would
find Matilda in, for there was a certain mental pleasure in
the uncertainty of her friend's temper.  It was so full of
unlooked-for turns, so generally contrary to what was to be
expected, that it piqued curiosity and gave spice and interest
to every meeting.  She found her lying upon a sofa in her
chamber, her little feet, prettily shod in satin, showing just
below her gown; her hands clasped above her head, her
long black hair scattered loosely on the pillow.  She smiled
languidly as Jane entered, and then said,

"I have been expecting you, Jane.  I could not keep
the thought of you out of my mind, and by that token I
knew you were coming.  But how bravely you are gowned!
Pray, where have you been?  Or, where are you going?"

"I have been spending two days with the Cromwells;
and the morning is so fair, I wondered if you would not
drive an hour in the Park.  Perhaps, then, you would come
home with me to dinner, and so make mother very happy.
Do you know that Cymlin arrives from Ireland to-day?
He would think the journey well taken, if he saw you at
the end of it."

"You are a little late with your news, Jane.  That is
one of your faults.  Cymlin was here last night.  He
spent a couple of hours with me;" then she smiled so
peculiarly, Jane could not help asking her—

"What is there in your way of smiling, Matilda?  I am
sure it means a story of some kind."

"I shall have to tell you the story, for you could never
guess what that smile was made of.  First, however, what
did you see and hear at the Cromwells?  'Tis said the
great man is in a strange mood, and that his picked friends
are wondering how he will cast the scale.  Vane and he
must come to 'Yes' and 'No' soon; and when rogues fall
out, honest folk get their rights."

"England will get her rights if Cromwell cast the scale.
He is both corner-stone and keystone of her liberties.  He
was in the kindest of moods, and I took occasion to speak
of you and your many sorrows.  And he wet my speech
with the most pitiful tears ever man shed, saying such
words of your father as brought me to weeping also.  He
spoke also very heavenly about your afflictions, and bade me
tell you sorrow was one of the surest ways to heaven."

"But I could wish a pleasanter way, and so will not
take Cromwell's guidance."

"I heard in a passing manner that Prince Rupert is off
the seas forever—that he is at the French Court, where he
is much made of."

"Jane Swaffham, have you no fresher news?" and she
pulled out of her bosom many sheets of paper tied together
with a gold thread.  "I had this yesterday," she said, "by
the hand of Stephen, and I may as well tell you to prepare
to meet Stephen de Wick, for he vows he will not leave
England again until he has speech with you."

"Then he is forsworn; I will not see him."

"It will be no treason now to speak to your old servant.
The Amnesty Act will cover you.  But I fight not Stephen's
battles; I have enough to do to keep my own share of
your friendship from fraying.  See how Fortune orders
affairs!  The ship my uncle has been worrying Cromwell
about, and which Cromwell has been bullying Mazarin
about, was taken by Prince Rupert; and I hope, by this
time, he has turned her last ounce of cargo and her last
inch of plank into good gold ducats."

"But that would be to your uncle's great loss."

"Cromwell has promised to see to that.  The man and
his army ought to be of some use.  If you can keep a
secret suspicion, you may believe, with me, that my uncle
was not averse to letting the royal family have this one of
his ventures.  They need the money from it, and Cromwell
will collect the full value from the Frenchman.  I like
that way of paying Sir Thomas.  The French have
behaved abominably to the poor Queen and His Majesty, and
their unhappy Court.  Let them pay for what Rupert
took.  They owe it to His Majesty; let them pay!  Make
them pay!  In grace of God, 'tis good enough for them.
As for Uncle Jevery, he always gets his own; some one,
in some manner, will pay him for the *Sea Rover*, plank and
cargo.  In the meantime, the King can have a little
comfort.  Why has Cymlin come at this time from Ireland?"

"He has leave of absence from Commander-in-chief
Fleetwood."

"Oh, Jane!  I am tipsy with laughing when I think of
the doleful widow Ireton—and Fleetwood.  You remember
what a hot quarrel we had about Ireton being buried among
the Kings of England—they will kick him out yet, though
they be dead—and how you shamed me for not weeping
with the desolated woman?"

"It would be better to forget these things, Matilda."

"And then she let the widower Fleetwood console her in
less than half a year!  It makes me blush!  Yet the widow
Ireton is an honourable woman!  To be sure, only God
understands women.  I don't.  I don't understand
myself—or you."

"No woman likes to be put down; and when General
Lambert got Ireton's place, Madame Lambert was insolently
proud, and insisted on taking precedence of Ireton's
widow, though she was Cromwell's daughter."

"Fancy the saints quarreling about earthly precedence!
Madame Lambert was right.  A living dog is better than a
dead lion.  And I admire the devout Bridget's revenge; it
was so human—so sweetly womanly.  How did she get
round her father?"

"Indeed, men are sweetly human too; and the better
men, the more human.  Colonel Fleetwood by taking Lady
Ireton's part, won her affection; it was a fitting match, and
it pleased the Lord General; he recalled Lambert—who
was truly overpowered by his great position—and made
Fleetwood commander in Ireland, thus giving his daughter
back the precedence."

"'Twas a delightful bit of domestic revenge.  I enjoyed
it.  London enjoyed it.  Puritans and Royalists alike
laughed over it.  It was such a thing as any mortal father
would have done, and every mortal father, for once, felt kin
to the Lord General.  'Nicest thing I ever heard of him,'
said Lord and Lady Fairfax; for, as you know, Lord and
Lady Fairfax always have the same opinion."

"Why do you talk of it?  The thing is past and over."

"By no means.  The Lamberts are still going up and
down, he in wrath and she in tears, talking about it."

"Then let us talk of other things.  As I came here
I met a large company of Dutch prisoners.  They were
taking them to our Fen country, that they might drain it."

"They are very fit for that work.  They are used to
living in mud and water.  How came they?"

"They did not come.  Blake sent them.  He sunk
their ship and made them his prisoners."

"Why did they interfere with Blake?  It serves them
right."

"The Dutch are at war with the Commonwealth.  Does
not that please you?"

"No.  What right have the Dutch to meddle in our
affairs?  The quarrel is between our King and the Parliament.
It is our own quarrel, Englishmen against Englishmen.
That is all right.  It is a family affair; we want no
foreigners taking a hand in it.  The only time I ever saw my
father angry at the King was when he landed foreigners to
fight Englishmen.  We can settle our own quarrels.  If
Dutchmen will come into our boat they will, of course, get
the oars over their fingers.  Serve them right.  Let them
go to the Fens.  They are only amphibious creatures."

"But you do not understand; they——"

"And I do not want to understand; I have settled that
affair to my satisfaction.  Now I must tell you something
concerning myself.  I am going to France."

"France!" cried Jane in amazement.

"Yes, France.  I have persuaded my uncle that he
ought to go there, and look after the *Sea Rover*.  I have
persuaded my aunt that it is not safe for my uncle to go
without her; and they both know my reason for going with
them, although we do not name Prince Rupert."

"When do you go, Matilda?"

"To-morrow, if Stephen be ready.  And let me tell you,
Jane, Stephen's readiness depends on you."

"That is not so."

"It is.  I hope you will be definite, Jane.  You have
kept poor Stephen dangling after you since you were ten
years old."

"What about Cymlin and yourself?"

Then Matilda laughed, and her countenance changed,
and she said seriously, "Upon my word and honour, I was
never nearer loving Cymlin than I was last night, yet he
was never less deserving of it.  'Tis a good story, Jane.  I
will not pretend to keep it from you, though I would stake
my last coin on Cymlin's silence about the matter.  He
came into my presence, as he always does, ill at ease; and
why, I know not, for a man more handsome in face and
figure it would not be easy to find in England.  But he has
bad manners, Jane, confess it; he blushes and stumbles over
things, and lets his kerchief fall, and when he tries to be a
gallant, makes a fool of himself."

"You are talking of my brother, Matilda, and you are
making him ridiculous, a thing Cymlin is not, and never was."

"Wait a bit, Jane.  I was kind to him, and he told me
about his life in Ireland, and he spoke so well, and looked so
proper, that I could not help but show him how he pleased
me.  Then he went beyond his usual manner, and in leaving
tried to give me a bow and a leg in perfect court fashion;
and he made a silly appearance, and for the life of me I could
not help a smile—not a nice smile, Jane; indeed, 'twas
a very scornful smile, and he caught me at it, and what do
you think he did?"

"I dare say he told you plainly that you were behaving
badly?"

"My dear Jane, he turned back, he walked straight
to me and boxed my ears, for 'a silly child that did not
know the difference between a man and a coxcomb.'  I
swear to you I was struck dumb, and he had taken himself
out of the room in a passion ere I could find a word
to throw after him.  Then I got up and went to a mirror
and looked at my ears, and they were scarlet, and my
cheeks matched them, and for a moment I was in a towering
rage.  I sat down, I cried, I laughed, I was amazed, I
was, after a little while, ashamed, and finally I came to
a reasonable temper and acknowledged I had been served
exactly right.  For I had no business to put my wicked
little tongue in my cheek, because a brave gentleman could
not crook his leg like a dancing-master.  Are you laughing,
Jane?  Well, I must laugh too.  I shall laugh many a time
when I think of Cymlin's two big hands over my ears.
Had he kissed me afterwards, I would have forgiven
him—I think."

"I cannot help laughing a little, Matilda, but I assure
you Cymlin is suffering from that discipline far more than
you are."

"I am not suffering at all.  This morning I admire him.
There is not another man in the world who would have
presumed to box the Lady Matilda de Wick's ears; accordingly
I am in love with his courage and self-respect.  I
deserved what I got, I deserved it richly, Jane;"—and she
rose and went to the glass, and turned her head right and
left, and looked at her ears, and then with a laugh said,
"Poor little ears!  You had to suffer for a saucy tongue.
Jane, my ears burn, my cheeks burn, I do believe my heart
burns.  I shall laugh and cry as long as I live, and
remember Cymlin Swaffham."

"It was too bad of Cymlin—but very like him.  He has
boxed my ears more than once."

"You are his sister.  That is different.  I will never
speak to him again.  He can go hang himself if he likes,
or go back to Ireland—which seems about the same thing."

"Cymlin will not hang himself for man or woman.
Cymlin has the fear of God before him."

"I am glad he has.  Surely he has no fear of Matilda de
Wick.  There, let the matter drop.  I wish now, you
would either take Stephen, or send him off forever.  I am
in a hurry to be gone, and Sir Thomas also."

"Sir Thomas seemed full of content among his lilies and
crocuses."

"I'll wager he was bidding them, one by one, a good-bye.
Go and send Stephen with a 'Yes' or 'No' to me.
I am become indifferent which, since you are so much so."

The little fret was a common one; Jane let it pass
without comment, and it did not affect the sympathy and
affection of their parting.  Many letters were promised on
both sides, and Jane was glad to notice the eagerness and
hope in her friend's voice and manner.  Whatever her
words might assert, it was evident she looked forward to a
great joy.  And as long as she was with Matilda, Jane let
this same spirit animate her; her ride home, however, was
set to a more anxious key.  She was a little angry also.
Why should Stephen de Wick intrude his love upon her?
Twice already she had plainly told him that his suit was
hopeless, and she did not feel grateful for an affection that
would not recognise its limits, and was determined to force
itself beyond them.

She entered Sandys with the spring all about her; her
fair face rosy with the fresh wind, and her eyes full of the
sunshine.  Cymlin and Stephen were sitting by the fireside
talking of Irish hounds and of a new bit for restive horses
which Cymlin had invented.  It was evident that
Mrs. Swaffham had given Stephen a warm welcome; the
remains of a most hospitable meal were on the table, and he
had the look and manner of a man thoroughly at home.
In fact, he had made a confidant of Cymlin, or, rather, he
had talked over an old confidence with him.  Cymlin
approved his suit for Jane's hand.  He did not like the idea
of Cluny as a member of his family.  He had an aversion,
almost a contempt, for all men not distinctly and entirely
English, and he was sure that Cluny had won that place
in the Lord General's favour which he himself was in sight
of when Cluny appeared.  Again, Stephen had been his
playmate; he was his neighbour, and if the King ever
came back, would be an important neighbour; one whose
good offices might be of some importance to Swaffham.
Besides which, though he habitually snubbed Jane, he loved
her, and did not like to think of her living in Scotland.  It
was a pleasanter thing to imagine her at de Wick; and it
may be noticed that the return of the Stuarts was almost
assured by this constant thought and predication of it in
the staunchest Puritan minds.  The fear was the
unconscious prophecy.

When Jane entered, Cymlin and Stephen both rose to
meet her.  Cymlin was kind with the condescension of a
brother.  He spoke to her as he spoke to creatures weaker
than himself, and kissed her with the air of a king kissing
a subject he loved to honour.  Then he made an excuse to
the stables and gave Stephen his opportunity.  The young
man had kept his eyes fixed on the beautiful face and
slender form of the girl he loved, but had uttered no word
except the exclamation that sprung from his lips involuntarily
when she entered:

"Jane!"

Even when they were alone, he first put the logs
together with the great tongs and replaced them in their
stand ere he went to her and clasped her hands and
said with a passionate eagerness, "Jane, dearest!  I have
come again to ask you to marry me.  Say one good, kind
word.  When you were not as high as my heart, you did
promise to be my wife.  I vow you did!  You know you
did!  Keep your promise; oh, I look for you to keep your
promise!"

"Stephen, I knew not then what marriage meant.  You
were as a brother to me.  I love you yet as I loved you
then.  I am your friend, your sister if you will."

"I will not.  You must be my wife."

"I cannot be your wife.  I am already plighted."

"To Lord Neville.  What the devil——"

"Sir!"

"I beg your pardon.  I am no saint, and what you say
stirs me to use words not found in books.  As for Neville,
you shall never marry him.  I forbid it.  I will hunt him
to the gates of death."

"It is sinful to say such things."

"Let my sins alone.  I am not in the humour to be
sorry for them.  I say again, you shall not marry that
scoundrelly Scot."

"He is not what you call him—far from it."

"I call things by their right names.  I call a Scot, a
Scot; and a scoundrel, a scoundrel."  He threw her hands
far from him, and strode up and down the room, desperate
and full of wrath.  "You shall marry no man but myself.
Before earth and heaven you shall!"

"If God wills, I shall marry Lord Neville."

"I say *no*!" he shouted.  "Jane, when the King comes
back, and I have my estate and title, will you marry me?"

"You are asking me to marry your estate and title.  I
do not value either *that*—" and she snapped her thumb
against her finger, with no doubtful expression.

"Oh, Jane!  I shall go to total ruin if you do not marry me."

"Shall I marry a man who is not lord of himself?  I
will not."

"You have made me your enemy.  What follows is
your own fault."

"'Tis a poor love that turns to hatred; and you can do
no more than you are let do."

"You will see.  By my soul, 'tis truth!"

"There is God between me and you.  I have no fear."

"I am beyond reason.  What am I saying?  All my
quarrels with you are kind ones, Jane.  Oh, 'tis ten
thousand pities you will not love me!"

"It is nowise possible, Stephen."

He flung himself into a chair, laid his arms upon the
table, and buried his face in them.  "Go away, then," he
sobbed; "I wish to see your face no more.  For your
sake, I will hate all women forever."

There was no use in prolonging a conversation so
hopeless.  She went away, and in the hall met her brother
Cymlin.  He looked at her angrily.  "You have been
behaving badly to Stephen; I see that much.  What for did
God make women?  They are His wrath, I think.  You
and your friend are both as wicked and cruel and beautiful
as tigers; and you have no more heart or conscience than
cats have."

"If you are speaking of Lady Matilda, it is a shame.  She
told me to-day she thought you as handsome a man in face
and figure as was in England.  She praised your courage
and self-respect, and said if you had kissed her last night
she would have forgiven you."

As Jane spoke, wonder and delight chased each other
across Cymlin's face.  "What else did she say?" he
eagerly asked.

"Indeed, I have told you too much."

"Tell me all, Jane, I must know."

"Why should you care for her words?  She is cruel as a
tiger, and has no more heart or conscience than a cat."

"I did not fully mean such things of Matilda—nor of
you, in the main.  You are sure she said I was handsome?"

"Sure."

"And brave?"

"Sure."

"And self-respecting?"

"She said every word, and more than I have told you."

"The rest, then?"

"No.  I am true to my friend—in the main."

"You are ill-tempered.  Stephen ought to be thankful
for your 'No.'  He will be, some day.  I shall go and see
Matilda to-morrow."

"She may leave for France to-night."

"You are a provoking creature."

"Go and abuse me to Stephen.  I think little of him.
He is neither handsome nor brave nor self-respecting, and
he threatens me!  What do you think of a lover who
threatens his mistress?  He is out of the Court of Love.
He is an alien, an outlaw."

"How you rant!"

She did not wait to hear more.  She was both angry and
scornful; and she sought out her mother, and found her
resting in her own room.

"I get tired soon in the day, Jane," she said; "I think
it is the London air, and the strange life, and the constant
fear of some change.  No one seems to know what a day
will bring forth.  Did you see Stephen?"

"Yes."

"It can't be, I suppose?"

"You know it can't be, mother."  She was hurt at the
question.  It was a wrong to Cluny; and she said with
some temper, "It could not be under any circumstances.
The man is mean; he has just threatened me.  If I had
not been a woman I would have given him his threat back
in his teeth.  I would rather be Cluny's wife, if Cluny had
not a crown."

"Cluny is not troubled with crowns, or half-crowns.
Stephen is an old neighbour,—but I am not one to
complain.  If you are pleased, father and I can make shift to
look so.  As for your brothers, I'm not so sure of them."

Then Jane felt a sudden anger at the de Wick family.
All her life, in some way or other, it had been the de
Wicks.  Matilda's exactions and provoking words and
ways came to her memory and brought with them a sense
of too much endured.  Stephen's love had ever been a
selfishly disturbing element.  Many an unpleasant day it
had caused her, and at this moment she told herself that,
say what they would, the Earldom had an unacknowledged
power over the imagination of all the Swaffhams but
herself.  She was just going to voice this opinion, when her
mother's weary face arrested her words; she went away
without justifying herself or her lover, and when the act of
self-denial had been accomplished, she was glad of it.  In
the stillness of her room she retired with Him who is a sure
hiding-place, and there found that peace which "soft upon
the spirit lies, as tired eyelids upon tired eyes."  Her soul
sat light and joyful on its temporal perch, for she had been
with God, and all the shadows were gone.  Men and
women who have this supernatural element in them, will
understand; to those who are without it, there are no
words, there are no miracles which could authenticate this
*intimate*, spiritual communion to them.

The next day Cymlin went to Jevery House and reported,
on his return, its forlorn emptiness.  There were
only two or three servants there, and they had no idea when
the family would return.  To Jane he admitted that London
seemed desolate, and Jane was herself conscious of a want
or a loss.  Much of her London life had been blended with
Jevery House, and there was now a necessity for a fresh
ordering of her time and duties.

About a week after Matilda's departure Cluny called
early one evening and asked Jane to go with him to
Mr. Milton's house in Petty France.  They sauntered through
St. James' Park, not then open to the public in general,
though an exception was made in favour of certain houses
on the Westminster side.  In one of these, "a pretty
garden house," Mr. Milton lived, and they found him
walking with his daughters under the shady elms.  Cluny
delivered to him some papers, but did not accept his
invitation to enter the house and sing with him an anthem which
he had just composed; for the evening promised to be
exceedingly lovely, and Jane's company in the sweet, shady
walks was a far greater attraction.

They soon lost sight of all humanity, and were conscious
only of each other's presence, for indeed a general
air of complete solitude pervaded the twilight shades.  Jane
was telling Cluny about her interview with Stephen, and
they were walking slowly, hand in hand, quite absorbed in
their own affairs.  So much so, that they never noticed a
figure which emerged from behind a clump of shrubs, and
stood looking at them.  It was the Lord General.  He had
been pacing a little alley of hazel trees near by, for some
time, and was about to alter his course in order to take the
nearest road to his apartments in Whitehall.  His face was
grave, but not unhappy, and when he saw Cluny and Jane
he stood still a moment, and then quietly withdrew into the
shadow he had left.  A smile was round his mouth, and his
lips moved in words of blessing, as he took another path to
the gate he wished.  Amid thoughts of the most momentous
interest, a little vision of love and youth and beauty had
been vouchsafed him, and there was a feeling of pleasure
yet in his heart when he entered the sombre apartment
where Israel Swaffham with a guard of soldiers, was in
attendance.  He saluted his General, and Cromwell called
him aside and had some private speech with him.

He then entered a lofty, royally furnished room, where
the Council were awaiting his arrival—officers of the
army, and members of Parliament.  St. John, Harrison,
Fleetwood, Desborough and others instantly gathered
round Cromwell; Marten, Whitelock, Hazelrig, Scott,
Sidney, and about seventeen others, supported Sir Harry
Vane, who was leading the Parliamentary cause.

Cromwell opened the discussion by reminding the members
that he had already held more than a dozen meetings,
in order to induce Parliament to issue an Act for the
election of a new Parliament, and then discharge itself.  "This
is what the people want, in every corner of the nation," he
said; "and they are laying at our doors the non-performance
of this duty and of their wishes."

Hazelrig reminded him that Parliament had determined
to dissolve on the 3d of the ensuing November, after
calling for a new election.

"It is now only the 19th of April," answered Cromwell,
sharply.  "Give me leave to tell you that the 3d of
November will not do.  I am tired talking to you.  There
must be a healing and a settling, and that without delay.
As for your resolution, the people will not have it.  I say,
the people will not have it.  A Parliament made up of all
the old members—without reelection—and of such new
ones, as a committee of the old approve and choose!  Such
a patched, cobbled, made-over, old Parliament will not
satisfy the people.  I know it!  I know it better than any
man in England.  It will not satisfy me.  It will not
satisfy the army——"

"Oh, the army!" ejaculated Sir Harry Vane.

"The army, Sir Harry Vane, has been so owned of God,
so approved of men, so witnessed for, that, give me leave to
say, no man will be well advised who speaks lightly of the
army.  The question is not the army, the question is the
sitting Parliament, which, without either moral or legal right,
wants to make itself perpetual."

"This Parliament, General Cromwell, has been the nursing
mother of the Commonwealth," said Sir Harry Marten.

"If that be so, yet it is full time that the Commonwealth
be weaned.  Milk for babes truly, but England wants
no more nursing; she wants strong meat, good
government, just laws and the settlement of the Gospel
Ministry.  There is nothing but jarrings and animosities,
and we are like to destroy ourselves when our enemies
could not do it."

"The army is full of factions and designs, and 'tis well
the Lord General is aware of them," said Hazelrig.  "Their
insolency to members of Parliament is beyond reason."

"Sir, I cannot be of your judgment," answered
Cromwell; "but I do admit that the army begins to have a
strange distaste against certain members of Parliament,
and I wish there was not too much cause for it."

"Cause!  What cause?" asked Whitelock.

"Their self-seeking, their delays in business, their
resolve to keep all power perpetually in their own hands;
their meddling in private matters, their injustice when they
do so meddle, and the scandalous lives of some of the chief
of them.  These things do give grounds for good
people—whether in the army or not in the army—to open their
mouths against them."

"There is the Law to punish all evil-doers," said Vane.
"While the Law lasts the army need not make inquisitions."

"This Parliament has been, and is, a law unto themselves.
They are not within the bounds of the law—there being no
authority so full and so high as to keep them in better order,"
answered Cromwell with some anger.  Then the discussion
assumed a very acrimonious character.  Undoubtedly Vane
was sincerely afraid for the liberties of England, with
Cromwell and his victorious army at the very doors of the
House of Commons.  He was also intensely interested in
the creation of a British Navy, which should not only
balance the glory and power of the army, but also make
England lord of the seas, and of their commerce.  Besides, his
genius had just perfected a plan for raising £120,000 a
month to continue the war with Holland; and a project
setting quite as near to his heart was publicly to sell all the
royal palaces, and so remove from the sight of any
ambitious man a palpable temptation to seize the crown.  To
surrender all he had done in these directions, to leave his
cherished projects for others to carry out, or to bring to
naught, to forego all the glory and profit Blake was even
then winning for the Parliament, was not only hard for
himself, but he feared it would be disastrous to England and to
her liberties.

He spoke of these things, and especially of the great
naval victories of Blake over the Dutch, with eloquence.
Cromwell admitted all.  He was far too great to wish
Blake's honour less, for Blake's honour was England's
honour, and England's honour was Cromwell's master
passion.  "Blake is a good man, and a great commander," he
said heartily; "I have seen him on the battle-field, again
and again; he took his men there through fire to victory; I
do think he will now take them through water the same
sure road."

When it drew towards midnight the long, bitter argument
was at its height; no decision had been reached, no course
of conduct decided on; and it was evident to Cromwell
that passion and self-interest were gaining the mastery.  He
stood up, and pointing to the smoky, flickering lights of
the nearly burned out candles, said,

"The plain truth is, we must have a new Parliament,
though we do carry it by force through the teeth of the
greatest in the land.  I say we must have it.  I wish that
we had such due forwardness as to set about it to-morrow."

"The 3d of November," cried Whitelock.

"Such a far-off promise is but words for children.  I
will better it.  I will say to-morrow."

"I am with Mr. Whitelock," said one of the members;
"at least with present showing."

"And I am of the same mind," added Hazelrig.

"Hazelrig, you are ever egging people of two minds to
be of the worser."

"My Lord General, you put us all down.  It were well,
my lord, if you could believe there are some others of
account beside yourself."

Cromwell looked keenly at the speaker but did not
answer him.

Turning to Sir Harry Vane he said, "It is now near to
midnight, and we have done no good, and I think we shall
do none.  Let us go to rest.  To-morrow, we will talk
the matter down to the bottom, and do what God wills."

"Or what the Lord General wills," said Harry Marten
with a light laugh, rising as he spoke.

"I want not my own will," answered Cromwell with a
sudden great emotion.  "I have sought the Lord's will,
night and day, on this question.  I have indeed!  But
I do think we have fadged long enough with so great a
subject, and the people want a settlement of it—they will
have a settlement of it—and I tell you the plain truth,
to-morrow there must be some decision.  It cannot longer be
delayed.  There are those who will not suffer it.  Truly, I
believe this is the greatest occasion that has come to us.
As the business stands—I like it not, and somewhat must be
done to mend it.  I must say this to you—impute it to
what you please."

This speech beginning with a pious submission to God's
will and ending with a dauntless assertion of his own
determination, had a marked effect.  The Parliamentary
members agreed to let the bill for perpetuating themselves
lie over until after another conference to be held the
following day, and with this understanding, the members of
the Council separated.  Cromwell took the promise in good
faith; and he said to Israel Swaffham as they went towards
Whitehall, "I have at last brought Vane to terms.  I do
think we may draw up the Act for a new Parliament."

"Then I know not Vane," answered Israel.  "He has
more shifts than you dream of, and the other members
cluster round him like twigs in a broom."

"Everything must bide its time; I mean *His* time.
Truly, I hoped for a settlement to-night; it seems we must
wait for to-morrow."

Cromwell spoke wearily, and after a moment's pause
added, "'Tis striking twelve.  Hark to the clocks, how
strangely solemn they sound!  Well, then, to-day has
come, but we have not got rid of the inheritance of
yesterday; and what to-day will bring forth, God only knows.
We are in the dark, but He dwelleth in light eternal."





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.. _`CROMWELL INTERFERES`:

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   CHAPTER IX


.. class:: center medium bold

   CROMWELL INTERFERES

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..

   |            "His port was fierce,
   |  Erect his countenance; manly majesty
   |  Sate in his front and darted from his eyes,
   |  Commanding all he viewed."

.. vspace:: 2

Daylight came with that soft radiance of sunshine over
fresh green things which makes spring so delightful.
Israel, who had slept his usual six hours, was in the garden
to enjoy it, and his heart was full of praise.  He watched
the little brown song sparrows building their nests, and
twittering secrets among the hawthorns.  He saw the
white lilies of the valley lifting their moonlight bells above
the black earth, and he took into his heart the sweet sermon
they preached to him.  Then suddenly, and quite unawares,
a waft of enthralling perfume led him to stoop to
where at the foot of a huge oak tree a cluster of violets
was flinging incense into the air.  He smiled at his big
hands among them, he was going to gather a few for Jane,
and then he could not break their fragile stems.  "Praise
the Lord where He set you growing," he said softly; "my
hands are not worthy to touch such heavenly things, they
have been washed in blood too often."  And his heart was
silent and could find no prayer to utter, but the
conscience-stricken cry of the man of war centuries before him,
"Cast me not away from Thy presence, and take not Thy
holy spirit from me."

Softened by such exquisite matins, he went in to
breakfast.  He was seldom inclined to talk on public affairs, and
this morning he said not a word about the Council of the
previous night, nor of the self-humiliation which he felt
certain would be demanded of the Parliament that day.  He eat
his portion cheerfully, listening to Jane, who was more
talkative and light-hearted than usual.  She told her father
she was going with Alice Heneage and a number of young
people to Hampton Court.  They were to picnic in the
park and come home in the gloaming by the river; and as
she dwelt on what was to be done and seen that happy day,
Israel looked at her with a tender scrutiny.  He said to
himself, "She is more beautiful than she used to be;" and
he watched with pleasure her soul-lit eyes and speaking
face, not oblivious, either, of the neatness of her shining
hair and the exquisite purity of her light gown of India
calico, with its crimped rufflings and spotless stomacher of
embroidery.  "*She* might have worn the violets on her
breast," he thought; and then he rose hastily and called in
the household, and read a psalm, and made a short, fervid
prayer with them.

And this morning he looked at the men and maids
afterwards, and was not pleased at what he saw.  "Tabitha,"
he said sternly, "you come to worship with too little care.
Both you and the other wenches may well wash your faces,
and put on clean brats when you are going to sit down and
listen to the Word of the Lord;" then observing a grin on
one of the men's faces, he turned on them with still more
anger, and rated them for their want of respect to God and
man for their uncombed hair and soiled garments and
unblacked shoes, and so sent all of them away with shame in
their red faces and not a little wrath in their hearts.  And
he had no idea that Jane's delicious freshness and purity
had really been the text prompting his household homily.

Soon after General Swaffham's departure for Whitehall,
Jane's friends called for her, and they went away together
full of youth's enthusiasm and anticipation.  They took
the road to the river, and to the sound of music and the
falling and dipping of the oars they reached Richmond
and soon spread the contents of their hampers upon the
grass under some great oaks in the secluded park.  Jane
was disappointed at Cluny's absence; he had certainly been
expected, and no word explaining his failure to keep his
engagement had been received.  But the general tone of
the company was so full of innocent gayety, that she could
not, and did not, wish to resist it.

After a happy, leisurely meal, they spent the rest of
their holiday in wandering through the palace, until its
melancholy, monastic grandeur subdued them almost to
silence.  Captain Desborough, a young officer who waited
on Alice Heneage, was familiar with the building, and as
he led them through the rooms he told them stories, good
and ill, connected with the various apartments.  Finally
they came to one on the ground floor, that had been the
private parlour of King Charles—a gloomy room furnished
with a sombre magnificence—and here the young man
drew the company closer to him, and said—

"I can tell you something true and strange about this
room.  There were two prophecies made in it, and one of
them has come to pass.  King Charles stood at this window
one day, just where we are now standing, and his three
eldest children were with him.  And a woman, swart as an
Indian savage, with eyes full of a strange, glazing light,
came suddenly before them.  And she said to the King,
'Let me read the future of your children.  It may comfort
you when you will need comfort.'  But the King, being
in one of his melancholy tempers, answered her haughtily,
'No mortal man or woman can foresee the future;' and
she looked scornfully at him, and putting a small steel
mirror before his face said, 'Look!' and the King cast
down his eyes and saw his own head lying on a bloody
sheet; and he shuddered and reeled as if he would have
fallen.  Then a look of pity came into the woman's face,
and she put aside the mirror, and said in a strange, far-off
voice—as if she was already a long way distant—'When
a dog dies in this room, your son will come to the throne
again.'  And the King called loudly for his attendant, but
when the officer came, the woman had disappeared, nor
could any trace or tidings of her be found or heard tell of."

And every one was strangely silent; they walked away
separately and examined the fine tapestry hangings, but
they said not a word to each other about the uncanny
incident.  It seemed only a fit sequence that their next
visit should be through the low, narrow portals to the
gloomy subterranean apartments, which had been the guard
rooms, and which were still decorated with dusty battle
flags and old arms and armour.  A singular sensation of
having been in these vault-like rooms before, a sense of
far-backness, of existence stretching behind everlastingly,
of sorrows great and unavailing, permeated the atmosphere.
Jane felt that here, if anywhere, men of war might understand
the barrenness of their lives, and anticipate the small,
and gloomy harvest of their tremendous pilgrimage.

It was like passing from death unto life to come out
of these caverns of the sword into the light and glory
of the westering sun, to feel its warmth, and see its brave
colours, and hear the cuckoo, like a wandering voice,
among the trees.  Jane was the first to speak.  "How
beautiful is life and light!" she cried.  "Let us get far
away from this woeful palace.  I felt such sorrowful
Presence in every room; I thought I heard sighs following
me, and soft steps.  Who would live in such a home?  To
do so, it is to say to Misfortune, 'Come and live with me.'"

The spirits of the little party, so gay in the morning,
had sunk to the level of their surroundings: the damp river
with its twinkling lights, the gray gloaming, the laboured
dip of the traveling oars.  They were near the city when
Mary Former said a few words about the evil-omened
parlour and the two prophecies; then she wondered, "If it
was really in the power of any one to reveal the future."  And
Philip Calamy, a very devout young man, who was in
attendance upon Jane, answered,

"The Book of the Future, in whatever language it may
be written, is a perilous one to read.  We should go mad
with too much learning there."

"Yet," said Jane, "it is most sure that certain signs
precede certain events; and I see not why the good man,
being related to heavenly beings—a little lower than the
angels—may not foresee and foretell; and by the same
token, the evil being, related to evil angels, might have a
like intelligence."

The discussion was not continued, for they were at the
river stairs, and as they passed through the city they were
instantly aware of great excitement.  The rabble were
gathered round the men of news, and were listening with
open mouths; the tradesmen were talking in groups at
their shop doors; they heard the name of Cromwell
repeatedly, sometimes in pride, sometimes in anger; and
small bodies of the army were very much in evidence.  It
was impossible not to feel that something of great moment
had happened, or was going to happen; and when Jane
entered the hall at Sandys and saw Doctor Verity's hat and
cloak there, she expected that he had come with
information.  The next moment Mrs. Swaffham came hurriedly
forward, and when she saw Jane, she raised her eyes and
threw up her hands with the palms outward, to express her
huge astonishment and dismay.

"Mother," cried Jane, "what is the matter?  What
has happened?" and Mrs. Swaffham answered—

"The strangest thing that ever happened in England."

Even while she spoke they heard General Swaffham
coming up the steps, the clatter of his arms emphasising
his perturbed feelings.  He was very little inclined to
parade his military importance, so that the rattle of swords
and spurs meant something more than usual to those who
understood him.  He had scarcely entered the door ere
Doctor Verity came into the hall crying—

"Is it true, Israel?  Is it true?"

"Quite true."

"And well done?"

"Well done.  I am sure of it."

Men and women went into the parlour together, and a
servant began to remove the General's cavalry boots and
spurs.  "I told you, Doctor, this morning, that a
settlement of some kind must come to-day.  When I reached
Whitehall I found the Lord General waiting for Sir Harry
Vane and the members who had promised to come and
continue the conference relating to the bill early in the
day.  The General was occupying himself with a book, but
as the hours went by he grew restless and laid it down.
Then he turned to me and said, 'Truly these men are long
in coming; are you ready, General?' and before I could
answer he asked again 'ready and willing?'  I told him a
word would move my troop as one man, if that word came
from himself; and he waited silently a little longer.  Then
Lord Cluny Neville came in very hastily, and said a few
words, I know not what they were; and he had scarce gone
when Colonel Ingoldsby entered, and there was no secrecy
then—

"'My lord!' he cried, 'Parliament is sitting at this
moment; and Sir Harry Vane, Sidney, and Henry Marten
are urging the immediate passage of the bill so hateful to
the whole nation.'

"Then Cromwell roused himself like an angry lion.
His passion at this perfidious conduct leaped into flame; he
shouted to Lambert and his own troop of Ironsides.  He
gave me the signal I understood, and we went quickly to
the Parliament House.  In the lobby St. John was standing,
and he said to Cromwell, 'Are you come down to the
House, my lord, this morning?  It was thought you were
safe at the Cockpit?' and Cromwell answered, 'I have
somewhat to do at the House.  I am grieved to my soul to
do it.  I have sought the Lord with tears to lay the work
on some other man.  I would to God I could innocently
escape it—but there is a necessity!' and he spoke with
force and anger, and so went into the House."

"But what then?" asked Doctor Verity, his face
burning with the eager soul behind it.

"I stood at the door watching him, my men being in the
lobby.  He went to his usual seat, but in a very great and
majestic manner, and for a little while he listened to the
debate.  Then he beckoned Major General Harrison and
told him he judged 'it was high time to dissolve this
Parliament.'  And Harrison told me this afternoon, that he
advised Cromwell to consider what he would do, for it was a
work great and dangerous; and who, he asked, 'is sufficient
for it?'  And Cromwell answered, 'The Servant of the
Lord, he is sufficient;' yet he sat down again, looking at
me as he did so, and I looked back straight into his eyes
that I and mine could be depended on.

"In a few minutes the question for passing the bill was
put, and the man could be restrained no longer.  He stood
up, took off his hat, and looked round the House, and it
quailed under his eyes; every man in it shifted on his seat
and was uneasy.  He began to speak, and it was with a
tongue of flame.  He reproached them for their self-seeking
and their hypocrisy and oppression; and as he went on,
there was the roar of a lion in his voice, and the members,
being condemned of their own consciences, cowered before him."

"Did no one open their mouth against him?"

"No one but Sir Peter Wentworth.  He said, 'My
Lord General, this Parliament has done great things for
England;' and Cromwell answered, 'The spoke in the
wheel that creaks most does not bear the burden in the
cart!'  Then Sir Peter told Cromwell his abuse of the
Parliament was the more horrid because it came from the
servant of the Parliament, the man they had trusted and
obliged."

At these words Dr. Verity laughed loudly—"Cromwell,
the servant of such a Parliament!" he cried.  "Not he;
what then, Israel?"

"He told Wentworth to be quiet.  He said he had
heard enough of such talk, and putting on his hat, he took
the floor of the House.  I watched him as he did so.  He
breathed inward, like one who has a business of life and
death in hand.  I could see on his face that he was going
to do the deed that had been the secret of his breast for
many days; and his walk was that quick stride with which
he ever went to meet an enemy.  He stood in the middle
of the House, and began to accuse the members personally.
His words were swords.  He flung them at the men as if
they were javelins; shot them in their faces as if from a
pistol; and while rivers run to the sea, I can never think
of Oliver Cromwell as I saw him this day but as one of
the Immortals.  He did not look as you and I look.  He
filled the House, though a less man in bulk and stature
than either of us.  He told the members to empty
themselves of Self, and then they would find room for Christ,
and for England.  He told them the Lord had done with
them.  He said they were no Parliament, and that he had
been sent to put an end to their sitting and their prating.

"And at these words, Cluny Neville spoke to the
Serjeant, and he opened the doors, and some musketeers
entered the House.  Then Sir Harry Vane cried out, 'This
is not honest;' and Cromwell reminded him of his own
broken promise.  And so, to one and all, he brought
Judgment Day; for their private lives were well known to him,
and he could glance at Tom Challoner and say, 'Some of
you are drunkards;' and at Henry Marten, and give the
text about lewd livers; and at the bribe-takers he had only
to point his finger, and say in a voice of thunder '*Depart*,'
and they began to go out, at first slowly, and then in a
hurry, treading on the heels of each other."

"What of Lenthall?  He has a stubborn will."

"He sat still in the Speaker's chair, until Cromwell
ordered him to come down.  For a moment he hesitated,
but General Harrison said, 'I will lend you my hand, sir;'
and so he also went out."

"But was there no attempt to stay such dismissals?  I
am amazed, dumbfounded!" said Doctor Verity.

"Alderman Allen, the Treasurer of the Army, as he
went out said something to Cromwell which angered him
very much; and he then and there charged Allen with
a shortage of one hundred thousand pounds, and committed
him to the care of a musketeer for examination.  And as Sir
Harry Vane passed him, he told him reproachfully that his
own treacherous conduct had brought affairs to their present
necessity; for, he added, 'if Sir Harry Vane had been at the
Cockpit according to his words, Oliver Cromwell had not
been in the Parliament House.'  But I tell you, there was
no gainsaying the Cromwell of this hour.  He was more
than mortal man; and Vane and the others knew, if they
had not known before, why he was never defeated in battle."

"After the Speaker had left, what then?"

"His eye fell upon the Mace, and he said scornfully to
some of the Ironsides, 'Take that bauble away!'  Then
he ordered the musketeers to clear the House, he himself
walking up to its Clerk and taking from under his arm the
bill which had caused the trouble, and which was ready
to pass.  He ordered the man to go home, and he slipped
away without a question.  Cromwell was the last soul
to leave the Chamber, and as he went out of it he locked
the door and put the key in his pocket.  He then walked
quietly back to his rooms in the Cockpit, and I dare say he
was more troubled to meet Mistress Cromwell than he was
to meet Sir Harry Vane and his company."

"Oh, no!" said Jane.  "Mistress Cromwell is in all her
husband's counsels.  He would go to her for comfort, for
whatever he may have said and done.  I know he is this
hour sorrowful and disturbed, and that he will neither eat
nor drink till he has justified himself in the sight of God."

"He will need God on his right hand and on his left," said
Doctor Verity.  "More than we can tell will come of
this—implacable hostility, rancorous jealousy, everlasting envy
and spite.  The members——"

"The members," interrupted General Swaffham, "have
tied themselves, hands and feet, with cords of their own
spinning, and Oliver Cromwell holds the ends of them.
They will not dare to open their mouths.  Sir Harry Vane
said something about the business being 'unconstitutional,'
and Cromwell answered him roughly enough, after this
fashion: 'Unconstitutional?  A very accommodating word,
Sir Harry Vane.  Give me leave to say you have played
fast and loose with it long enough.  I will not have it any
longer!  England will not have it!  You are no friend of
England.  I do say, sir, you are no friend of England!'  And
his passion gathered and blazed till he spurned the
floor with his feet, just as I have seen my big red bull
at Swaffham paw the ground on which he stood."

"This is all very fine indeed," said Mrs. Swaffham,
almost weeping in her anger; "but you need not praise this
man to me.  He has slain the King of England, and turned
out the English Parliament, and pray what next?  He will
make himself King, and Elizabeth Cromwell Queen.
Shall we indeed bow down to them?  Not I, for one."

"He wants no such homage, Martha," said the Doctor,
"and if I judge Madame Cromwell rightly, she is quite as
far from any such desire."

"You know nothing of the Cromwell women, Doctor—I
know.  Yes, I know them!"

"Dear mother——"

"Jane, there is no use 'dear mothering' me.  I know
the Cromwells.  Many a receipt for puddings and comfits I
have given Elizabeth Cromwell, and shown her how to dye
silk and stuffs; yes, and loaned her my silver sconces when
Elizabeth married Mr. Claypole; and now to think of her
in the King's palace, and people bowing down to her, and
hand-kissing, and what not!  And as for Oliver
Cromwell's passions, we know all about them down in
Cambridgeshire," she continued.  "He stamped in that way when
some one preached in St. Mary's what he thought rank
popery; and about the draining of the Fens, he kicked
enough, God knows!  Oh, yes, I can see him in steel and
buff, sword in hand, and musketeers behind him, getting his
way—for his way he will have—if he turn England
hurly-burly for it."

"Martha, he wore neither steel nor buff, and his sword
was far from him.  He went down to the House in a black
cloth suit and gray worsted stockings, which, no doubt, were
of his wife's knitting; and his shoes were those made by
Benjamin Cudlip, country fashion, low-cut, with steel
latchets.  He had not even a falling collar on, just a band
of stitched linen round his neck."

"I wonder, oh, I hope!" said Jane, "that it was one of
the bands I stitched when I was last staying at Whitehall."

"Find it out, Jane; settle your mind that it was one of
them," answered Doctor Verity; "and then, Jane, you may
tell it to your children, and grandchildren, God willing."

"At any rate," continued General Swaffham, "Cromwell
at this hour owed nothing to his dress.  I have seen
him in the fields by St. Ives, and in Ely Market, in the
same kind of clothing.  What would you?  And what
did it matter?  His spirit clothed his flesh, and the power
of the spirit was on him, so that the men in velvet and
fine lace wilted away in his presence."

"No one minds the Lord General's having power, no one
minds giving him honour for what he has done for England,
but the Cromwell women!  What have they done more
than others?" asked Mrs. Swaffham.

"Be at peace, Martha," said General Swaffham; "here
are things to consider of far greater import than the Cromwell
women.  How the nation will take this affair, remains
to be seen.  'Tis true the Lord General was cheered all
through the city, but he knows—and no man better—what
a fickle heart the populace have.  As like as not, it
will be, as he said to me, 'Overturn, overturn, and great
tasks on all sides.'"

"I look for measureless wrath and vain babble, and
threats heard far and wide," said Doctor Verity.  "The
people have been given what they wanted, and twenty to
one they will now nay-say all they have roared for.  That
would be like the rest of their ways."

For once Doctor Verity was wrong.  This master-stroke
of Cromwell's went straight to the heart of London.  "Not
a dog barked against it," said Cromwell to his friends, and
he was to all intents and purposes right.  Those who
called it "usurpation" confessed that it was an usurpation
of capability, in place of one of incapability.  Even the
lampoons of the day were not adverse to Cromwell, while
some of them gave him a grim kind of pleasure.

Thus, one morning, Cluny Neville passing the Parliament
House noticed placards on its walls, and going close
enough to read them, found they advertised "*This house to
let; unfurnished*."  And when he told this to Cromwell,
that faculty in the man which sometimes made for a rude
kind of mirth, was aroused, and he burst into an uproarious
enjoyment of the joke.  "I wish," he cried, "I wish I
knew the wag who did it.  I would give him a crown or
two, I would indeed, and gladly."

There had been a little uncertainty about the navy, for
Sir Harry Vane had shown it great favour.  But Admiral
Robert Blake was as great and as unselfish a man in his
office as was Oliver Cromwell.  He accepted the change
without dissent, telling his fleet simply—

"It is not the business of seamen to mind state affairs.
Our business is to keep foreigners from fooling us, and to
find the Dutch ships, fight them, and sink them."

And yet the feeling which led to Mrs. Swaffham's little
burst of temper was not particular to herself.  Many women
felt precisely as Martha Swaffham did, and Cromwell did
not take this element into his consideration.  Yet it was
one that worked steadily towards its reckoning, for men
do not finally withstand the ceaseless dropping fire of their
own hearthstones.  Mrs. Fleetwood's and Mrs. Lambert's
ill-feeling about precedence was indefinitely multiplied, and
Mrs. Swaffham's more intimate rejection of the Cromwell
women was a stone thrown into water and circling near
and far.  The Lord General Cromwell, men and women
alike, could accept; he had fought his way to honour, and
they could give him what he had won.  But the Cromwell
women had done nothing, and suffered nothing beyond the
ordinary lot; it was a much harder thing to render homage
unto them.  In these days, Mrs. Swaffham, though ignoring
the late King, was distinctly royal and loyal where Queen
Henrietta Maria was concerned.

But it was, after all, a grand time in old England.
Adventures and victories were the news of every day.
Nothing was too strange to happen; people expected romances
and impossibilities; and because they expected them, they
came.  The big city was always astir with news; it flew
from lip to lip, like wild fire, was rung out from every
steeple, and flashed in bonfires from one high place to
another.  This formidable man in black and gray was at the
helm of affairs, and England felt that she might now trade
and sow and marry and be happy to her heart's desire.  The
shutting of the Parliament House affected nothing; the
machinery of Government went on without let or hindrance.
A new Parliament was quickly summoned, one hundred
and forty Puritan notables "fearing God and of approved
fidelity and honesty," and it was to begin its sittings on the
ensuing fourth of July.  Meantime, Robert Blake was
wiping out of existence the Dutch navy and the Dutch
commerce.  In the month of June, he took eleven Dutch
men-of-war and one thousand three hundred and fifty prisoners;
the church bells rang joyously from one end of England to
the other, and London gathered at St. Paul's to sing Te
Deums for the victory.

Thus to the echoes of trumpets and cannon the business
of living and loving went on.  The great national events
were only chorus to the dramas and tragedies of the highest
and the humblest homes.  While Cromwell was issuing
writs for a new Parliament and holding the reins of
Government tightly in his strong hands, his wife and daughters
were happily busy about the marriage of young Harry
Cromwell to Elizabeth Russel; and Sir Peter Lely was
painting their portraits, and Lady Mary Cromwell had her
first lover; and Mrs. Swaffham was making the cowslip
wine; and the Fermor and Heneage girls off to Bath for
trifling and bathing and idle diversions; and Jane sewing
the sweetest and tenderest thoughts into the fine linen and
cambric which she was fashioning into garments for her
own marriage.  In every family circle it was the same
thing: the little comedies of life went on, whether
Parliament sat or not, whether Blake brought in prizes, or lay
watching in the Channel; for, after all, what the people
really wanted was peace and leisure to attend to their own
affairs.

One lovely morning in this jubilant English spring, Jane
sat at the open window writing to Matilda de Wick.  All
the sweet fresh things of the earth and the air were around
her, but she was the sweetest and freshest of all.  There
was a pleasant smile on her lips as her fingers moved across
the white paper.  She was telling her friend about Harry
Cromwell's marriage in the old church at Kensington;
about the dresses and the wedding feast, and the delightful
way in which the Lord General had taken his new daughter
to his heart.  "And what now will Mistress Dorothy
Osborne do?" she asked.  "To be sure, she is said to be
greatly taken with Sir William Temple, who is of her own
way of thinking—which Harry Cromwell is not, though
Mrs. Hutchinson has spoken of him everywhere as a
'debauched, ungodly cavalier;' but Mrs. Hutchinson has a
Presbyterian hatred of the Cromwells.  And I must also
tell you that the Lords Chandos and Arundel have been
tried before the Upper Bench for the killing of Mr. Compton
in a duel.  The crime was found manslaughter, and
they were sentenced to be burned in the hand which was
done to them both, but very favourably.  And the Earl of
Leicester said he was glad of it, for it argued a good stiff
government to punish men of such high birth; but my
father thinks Leicester to be the greatest of levelers, he
would abolish all rank and titles but his own.  And I must
also tell you that General Monk has discovered his
marriage to Ann Clarges a market-woman of low birth, no
beauty whatever, and a very ill tongue.  My mother is
sure the General must have been bewitched; however,
Mistress Monk has gone to live in Greenwich palace, which
has been given to the General for a residence.  And the
rest of my news is in a nutshell, Matilda.  I heard from
Tonbert that your brother had been seen at de Wick, but
this I discredit.  Did he not go with you to France:
Cymlin is in Ireland, and sulking at his banishment to so
barbarous a country; and so I make an end of this long
letter, saying in a word I am your friend entirely and
sincerely, Jane Swaffham."

When Matilda received this letter she was in Paris.
Her first resting-place had been at The Hague, where she
had speedily been made known to the Princess Elizabeth
Stuart, the widowed ex-Queen of Bohemia, and the
mother of Prince Rupert.  In her poverty-stricken Court
Matilda found kindred spirits, and she became intimate
with the light-hearted Queen and her clever daughters.
For in spite of the constant want of money, it was a Court
abounding in wit and fun, in running about The Hague in
disguise; in private theatricals, singing and dancing, and
other "very hilarious amusements," deeply disgusting to the
English Puritans.

So, then, while Sir Thomas Jevery was busy about his
ships and his merchandise, Lady Jevery and Matilda spent
much time with the ex-Queen, her dogs and her monkeys,
her sons and her daughters, and the crowd of Cavalier
gentlemen who made the house at The Hague a gathering
place.  Rupert, however, had never been his mother's
favourite, yet she was proud of his valour and achievements,
and not generally indisposed to talk to Matilda about
her "big hero."  It pleased her most to describe with
melodramatic thrills his baptism in the great old palace of
Prague, his ivory cradle embossed with gold and gems, and
his wardrobe—"the richest he ever had in his life, poor
infant;"—and then she continued, "He was not a lucky
child.  Misfortune came with him.  He was not a year
old when the Austrians overran Bohemia, and we were
without a Kingdom—a king and a queen without a crown.
Well, I have my dogs and my monkeys."

"Which your Majesty greatly prefers to your sons and
daughters," said the witty young Princess Sophie.

"They give me fewer heartaches, Sophie," was the
answer.  "Look, for instance, at your brother Rupert.
What an incorrigible he is!  What anxieties have I not
suffered for him.  And Maurice, who must get himself
drowned all because of his adoration of Rupert!  Oh, the
poor Prince Rupert! he is, as I say, most unlucky.  I told
my august brother Charles the same thing, and he listened
not, until everything was lost, and it was too late.  The
great God only knows what calamities there are in this
world."

"But Prince Rupert has been the hope and support of
his cousin's Court in the Louvre for three years," said
Matilda warmly; "it is not right to make little of what he
has done."

"He has done miracles, my dear Lady Matilda," answered
Rupert's mother; "but the miracles never pay.  We are
all of us wretchedly poor.  He sells his valour and his
blood for nothing worth while."

"He is the greatest soldier and sailor in the world; so
much even his enemies admit."

"There are no results," said the ex-Queen, with a gay
laugh and a shrug of her shoulders.  "And I am told he
has learned magic among the Africans, and brought home
blackamoors and finer monkeys than my own.  I object to
nothing, since he assures me of his undying love for
myself and the Protestant religion.  I assure you, if he did
not love the Protestant religion I should find no difficulty
in renouncing him."

"He was too well educated in his religion to forget it,
madame," said the Princess Louise.

"I am not to blame if it were otherwise.  I assure you he
knows his Heidelberg Catechism as well as any Doctor of
Divinity, and the History of the Reformers is at his
tongue's end.  I am not in health to go regularly to church,
but my children go without omission, and they give me the
points of the sermon in writing.  I do my duty to them;
and of Rupert I had once great hopes, for the first words
he ever spoke were 'Praise the Lord,' in the Bohemian
tongue.  After that, one does not readily think evil of a
Prince."

Every day Matilda adroitly induced such conversations;
and once when the mother had talked herself into an
enthusiasm, she said, "Come and I will show you some
pictures of this Rupert.  His sister Louise makes portraits
quite equal to those of her master, Honthorst.  I may tell
you frankly, we have sold her pictures for bread often;
they are said to be Honthorst's, but most often they are the
work of the Princess Louise.  The poor child! she paints
and she paints, and forgets that she is a Palatine Princess
without a thaler for her wardrobe.  Look at this portrait
of Rupert!  Is he not a big, sturdy boy?  He was only
four then, but he looks eight.  How full of brave wonder
are those eyes, as he looks out on the unknown world!
And in this picture he is fourteen.  He does not appear
happy.  No, but rather sad and uncertain, as if he had not
found the world as pleasant as he expected.  In this
picture he is seventeen, gallant and handsome and smiling.
He has begun to hope again,—perhaps to love.  And look
now on this face at twenty-nine; he has carried too heavy
a burden for his age, done too much, suffered too much."

Matilda knew the latter portrait well, its facsimile lay
upon her heart; and though she did not say a word, it
was impossible not to notice in all the painted faces that
strange, haunting Stuart melancholy, which must have had
its root in some sorrowful, unfathomable past.

On another evening they were talking of England, and
of recent events there, chiefly of the high-handed dismissal
of the Parliament, and the gay-hearted Elizabeth laughed
at the affair very complacently.  "I am an English
Princess," she said, "but I hate Parliaments; so did his late
Majesty, my brother Charles.  But for the Parliament, my
fate might have been different.  I adored my husband, that
is known, but it was the Parliament who made our marriage.
My father, the great and wise King James, did not
wish me to marry the Elector Palatine,—it was a poor
match for the Princess Royal of England,—but the Parliament
thought the Elector would make himself the leader of
the Calvinistic princes of the Empire.  My dear Lady
Matilda, he was sixteen years old, and I was sixteen, and
we two children, what could we do with those turbulent
Bohemian Protestants?  You make a stir about your
Oliver Cromwell ordering the English Members of Parliament
out of their own House, listen then: the Protestant
nobles of Bohemia threw the Emperor's ministers and
members out of their Council Chamber windows.  It was
only their way of telling the Emperor they would not have
the Catholic King he supported.  The English adore the
Law, and will commit any crime in it and for it; the
Bohemians are a law unto themselves.  They then asked
us to come to Prague, and we went and were crowned
there, and in the midst of this glory, the Prince Rupert was
born.  He was a wonder for his great size, even then.
And he had for his sponsors the King of Hungary and the
Duke of Wurtenburg and the States of Bohemia, Silesia,
and Upper and Lower Lusatia.  Yet in less than a year we
were all fugitives, and the poor child was thrown aside by
his frightened nurse, and found lying alone on the floor
by Baron d'Hona, who threw him into the last coach
leaving the palace; and he fell into the boot and nearly
perished.  So you see how unfortunate he was from the beginning."

"But, madame, you have a large family; some of them
will surely retrieve your misfortunes."

"I do not trouble myself about the day I have never
seen.  There is a great astrologer in Paris, and he has told
me that my daughter Sophia will bear a son, who will
become King of England.  Sophia gives herself airs on this
prediction."

Sophia, who was present, laughed heartily.  "Indeed,
madame," she said, "and when I am Queen Mother I shall
abolish courtesies.  Imagine, Lady de Wick, that I cannot
eat my dinner without making nine separate courtesies, and
on Sundays and Wednesdays, when we have two divines
to eat with us, there are extra ones.  I shall regulate my
Court with the least amount of etiquette that will be
decent."

"You perceive, Lady de Wick, what a trial it is to have
four clever daughters—not to speak of sons.  My daughter,
the Princess Elizabeth, is the most learned of women;
I think she knows every language under the sun.  You
have seen the paintings of the Princess Louise.  Sophia is
witty and pretty, and is to be the mother of an English
King; and my fair Henrietta is a beauty, and what is
remarkable, she is also amiable, and makes adorable
embroideries and confections.  So the mother of four such
princesses must not complain."

"Especially when she has seventeen dogs and horses;
not to speak of monkeys and blackamoors," cried Sophia.

"Sophia is jealous!" said the merry ex-Queen.  "So
is Rupert.  Now, I am never jealous; I think jealousy is
selfishness."

Such intimate conversations occurred daily while
Matilda frequented the House at The Hague; and when Sir
Thomas Jevery was ready to proceed to Paris, the ladies
did not leave their pleasant entertainer without tangible,
financial proof of their interest in the Palatines.  The
light-hearted, dependent Elizabeth took the offering with
open satisfaction.  "It is very welcome," she said
gratefully; "and the more so, because it is so sensibly
expressed.  Some would have thought it best to offer me a
jewel, and so put my steward to the trouble of selling it,
and me to the loss.  Oh!" she sighed, smiling cheerfully
at the same time, "it is a sad thing to be poor for want of
money; poverty is so transparent.  If you have only
money, it is a cloak for everything."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`RUPERT AND CLUNY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER X


.. class:: center medium bold

   RUPERT AND CLUNY

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |            "Beauty formed
   |  Her face; her heart Fidelity."

   |  "For he was of that noble trade,
   |  That demigods and heroes made;
   |  Slaughter, and knocking on the head,
   |  The trade to which they all were bred."

.. vspace:: 2

When the Jeverys arrived in Paris, they went immediately
to the beautiful Hotel de Fransac, which Sir Thomas
had rented for their residence while in the city.  It was
situated in La Place Royale, almost within sight of the
palaces of the King and the Cardinal.  But Sir Thomas
considered it necessary to the success of his business with
Mazarin to wear the outside show of great wealth, and it
was quite as necessary to Matilda's hopes and desires.  If
she would keep in enthralment a prince, she must, at least,
be the princess of his imagination.  In reality, she was
now much more so than ever before.  Years and sorrow
and manifold experiences had imparted to the mere loveliness
of the flesh the captivating charm of the spirit.  She
was now a woman, not only to be adored for her beauty,
but still more so for the qualities that would be in their
perfection when beauty of face and form had faded away.

And with this rarer loveliness there had come a kind of
necessity to express it in clothing marvelously splendid and
effective.  The palace in which she was abiding also
demanded it: the enormous spaces given to stairways and
apartments, the magnificent furniture, the gorgeously
liveried servants, were only the natural accessories of some
personage whose nobility or authority or wealth found in
such splendour a fitting expression.

One afternoon Matilda stood at a window watching the
crowds passing incessantly from palace to palace.  Silk and
velvet and lace fluttered in the bright sunshine; jewels
flashed from the soft hats, and the gleaming vests and the
ready weapons.  They were kissing hands, drawing swords,
falling on one knee before some beauty or dignitary; they
were laughing and swearing, and wooing and fighting, and
riding and driving, as if life was only a grand Court
pageant.

To the right was the palace of the great King Louis, and
not far away the palace of his Eminence, the great
Cardinal Mazarin; and between them, the crowd amused itself,
conscious all the time of that other palace for the
Unfortunates, called the Bastile.  Its shadow was always over
Place Royale; dark, inexorable, mysterious; and every soul
of them knew that either road, or any road, might lead them
to that silent, living sepulchre.  How different was all this
from the cool, gray, busy streets of London, with their
steady movement of purposeful men and women!

Matilda appeared to be watching the brilliant scene in La
Place Royale, but she was taking no special notice of it.
She had just received a letter from Jane, and was
pondering the news it brought her and waiting.  She was
wonderfully dressed, and wonderfully lovely, the delicate
brightness of her complexion admirably enhanced by the
darkness of her hair, and the robe of ruby-coloured Lyons
velvet in which she was dressed.  It fell away in billows
of lace from her white throat and shoulders; and its large
sleeves were lifted above the elbows with bands of Oriental
pearls.  There were pearls round her throat and round her
arms, and the golden combs that held back her hair were
ornamented with them.

She was dressed for her lover, and awaiting his arrival,
her soul flashing from her watching eyes, her whole sweet
body at attention.  When to ordinary ears there would
have been nothing to give notice, Matilda heard a step.
She let Jane's letter drop to her feet, and stood facing the
door with hands dropped and tightly clasped.  She was very
tall and her long velvet gown gave emphasis to her stature.
Unconsciously she had advanced her right foot—indeed, her
whole body had the eager look of one whose soul was
outreaching it.

A moment later the footsteps were very distinct; they
were ascending the stairway quickly, peremptorily—the
tread of impatience where all obstacles have been removed.
A perfectly ravishing light spread itself over Matilda's face.
A moment was an hour.  Then the door flew open and
Prince Rupert entered; "entered," however, being too
small a word, for with the opening of the door he was on
his knees at Matilda's feet, his arms were round her
waist, she had bent her face to his, they were both near to
weeping and knew it not; for love must weep when it
snatches from some hard Fate's control the hours that
years have sighed for.

"Adorable Mata!  O lovely and beloved!  O my love,"
he sighed.  "O Mata, my flower! my wine! my music! my
sacred secret!"

She kissed him, and made him rise.  And he told her
again, all the waste, weary remembrance of his life apart
from her, and showed her the long tress of hair which had
kept for him the kisses and vows of long ago.  And with
what sweet sighs she answered him!  Her tender eyes, her
happy mouth, her soft tones, her gentle touch, were all
tokens from her heart's immediate sanctuary.  Amid the sins
and sorrows and shows of Paris, there was paradise for two
hearts in the Hotel de Fransac.

In these days men and women did really live and die for
love, and a lover who did not fall at his mistress' feet was
held graceless and joyless, and without natural fervour.  And
Rupert could do everything in excess and yet be natural,
for all his being was abnormally developed; his gigantic
stature, his passionate soul, his unreasoning love, his reckless
bravery, his magnificent generosity, his bitter enmities,
were all points in which he offended against the usual
standard—though it was a large standard, if measured by the
conventions of the present day.  He had been dangerously
ill after his arrival in Paris, and he was not the Rupert who
had invaded the high seas three years previously.  In these
three years he had endured every evil that tempests, bad
climates, war, fever, want of food and "strange hardnesses"
of all kinds could bring him; and above all he had
practically failed in everything.  He had lost most of the
treasure so hardly won; his ships and his men and his
idolised brother, Maurice; and all these losses had taken with
them some of the finer parts of his nature.  He had come
home a disappointed and cynical man, his youth melted
away in the fiery crucible of constant strife with human and
elemental forces.

Yet he was the most picturesque figure in Paris.  The
young King Louis delighted in his society.  Mazarin was
his friend, and not only the English Court in exile, but also
the French Court paid him the most extraordinary attentions.
His striking personality, his barbaric retinue of
black servants, his supposed wealth, the whispers of his
skill in necromancy, were added to a military and naval
reputation every one seemed desirous to embellish.  Many
great ladies were deeply in love with him, but their
perfumed billet-doux touched neither his heart nor his vanity.

He loved Matilda.  All the glory and the sorrow of his
youth were in that love, and as he knelt at her feet in his
princely, soldierly splendour, there was nothing lacking in
the picture of romantic devotion.  "Adorable, ravishing
Mata!" he cried, "at your feet I am paid for my life's
misery."  And Matilda leaned towards him till their
handsome faces touched, and Rupert could look love into her
eyes, soft and languishing with an equal affection.

"How tall you have grown.  You have the stature of a
goddess," he cried with rapture; and then in a tone full of
seriousness he added,

"You are my mate.  You are the only woman I can
ever love.  I vow that you shall be my princess, or I will
die unmarried for your sake."

For a little while their conversation was purely personal,
but their own interests were so blent with public affairs
that it was not possible to separate them for any length of
time.

"We have sold all our cargoes," he said triumphantly,
"in spite of old Cromwell's remonstrances.  Mazarin
helped us, and the money is distributed.  What can
Cromwell do?  Will he go to war with France for a merchant's
bill of lading?  The King and the Cardinal laugh at his
demands.  He is an insolent fellow.  Does he think he can
match his Eminence?  But, this or that, the money is
scattered to the four quarters of the world.  Let him recover
it."

"I will tell you something, Rupert.  I had a letter
to-day from my friend, Mistress Jane Swaffham.  She says
her lover, Lord Cluny Neville, must be in Paris about this
time, and that he will call on me.  He is on Cromwell's
business; there is no doubt of it."

"Do you wish to see the man?"

"No.  He has stolen my brother's mistress.  He has
done Stephen a great wrong; and he is also full of
perfections.  A very sufficient youth in his own opinion, and
much honoured and trusted by his Excellency, the Lord
General Cromwell."

She spoke with evident scorn, and Rupert said, "I shall
have to reckon with him.  Stephen's wrongs are my
wrongs.  Is the lady fair and rich?"

"'Tis thought so.  I once loved her."

"And now, you love her not; eh, sweetheart?"

"There is Cromwell between us—and Neville."

"What is the appearance of Neville?  I think I saw
him this morning."

Then Matilda described the young lord, and the particularity
of her knowledge regarding his eyes and hair and
voice and manner did not please Prince Rupert.  At least,
he affected to be jealous of such intimate observation, and
for a few minutes the affairs of Cromwell and Mazarin
were forgotten in one of those whiffs of displeasure with
which lovers season their affections.  But during it,
Matilda had felt obliged to speak disparagingly and disagreeably
of Neville, and she was only too sensible afterwards of all
the ill-will she had expressed.  In putting the dormant
dislike into words, she had brought it into actual existence.

"A very haughty youth," said Rupert when the
conversation was resumed.  "He was with the Cardinal this
morning, and bore himself as if he carried the honour of
England on his shoulders.  And now I begin to remember
his business was such as in a manner concerns us.  'Twas
about a merchant ship which that old farmer on King
Charles' throne wants payment for.  My men took it in
fair fight, and 'tis against all usage to give back spoils.
The demands of Cromwell are beyond measure insolent,
and the goods are gone and the ship is sold and the money
scattered, and what can old Ironsides do in the matter?"

They talked of these things until Rupert's engagements
called him away, then they rose, and leaning towards each
other, walked slowly down the long splendid room together.
Large mirrors repeated the moving picture they made, and
before one of them Rupert stood, and bid Matilda survey
her own beauty.  It was very great and bewitching, and its
effect was certainly heightened by the handsome, picturesque
figure at her side.  There he kissed her with the
fondest love and pride, promising an early visit on the
following day.

She went then to find her uncle and aunt, for she knew
that she owed to their love and generosity her present
opportunities, and though her gratitude had in it, very likely,
a certain sense of favours to come, she was really pleased
and thankful for the happiness present and within her reach.
But she quickly noticed in them an air of anxiety and
gloom, and it annoyed her.  "Could she never be happy
and find all her surroundings in key with her?  It was too
bad!"  Such thoughts gave a tone of injury to her inquiry,
"Is anything particularly wrong, aunt?  Have I been
making some trouble again?"

"Sir Thomas is very unhappy, niece.  He has heard
news that frightens him, and we are longing to be in the
peace and safety of our own home."

Then Matilda began to complain.  "As soon as a joy
is at my hand, it is taken away," she said.  "And what
a lovely city is Paris!  How can any one want to leave
it and go to London?  It is cruel.  It is beyond bearing!"

"Niece, dear niece," said Sir Thomas, "you have had
many happy meetings now with your lover.  You said
'one' would make you happy.  While he was so ill,
consider to what trouble and expense I gladly went, in order
that you might have the satisfaction of knowing his
constant condition.  Be reasonable, Matilda.  I have already
done far more than I promised, and now affairs are in such
a state that I feel it best to go home.  I do long for my
home and my garden.  I have missed all my roses this
summer.  And the business I came to settle has been suddenly
settled for me."

"You are going to lose a little gold, and so you are
wretched, and must go to the City-of-the-Miserable."

"I am not going to lose a penny."

"Well, then?"

"There may be trouble because of this very thing, and
I do not want to be in Paris with the two women I love
better than myself, if Cromwell and Mazarin come to blows.
I might be taken from you.  I should very likely be sent to
the Bastile; you would not wish that, Matilda?"

"That is nonsense!  But will you tell me what is this
last outrage of Cromwell's?"

"Blake, by his orders, has taken a French merchantman.
It was brought to London and sold with the cargo, and the
money received from this sale was used to cancel the debt
owing me by the French Government.  All the papers
relating to the transaction, with the balance of the money,
were turned over to Mazarin this morning.  The Cardinal
was furious.  He called me into his Presence Chamber,
and though his words were smooth as oil, he pointed out
the wrong of such high-handed management of debit and
credit between two nations.  Also, he was much chagrined
at the seal on the papers, the design of which represents
England's navy as filling the seas.  He said scornfully,
'I perceive his Excellency has very merchant-like ways of
business, and has not yet learned king-craft;' then he was
silent a moment, and smiled,—my dear wife and niece, try
and fancy a serpent smiling,—after which he handed me
the seals again, and still smiling, continued, ''Tis in the
mercy of the Almighty that He has been kind enough to
make the seas so wide as to permit poor French sailormen
a little pathway through His great waters.  His Excellency,
Oliver Cromwell, would have no ships but English ships—very
patriotic, but perhaps patriotism is a smaller virtue than
people think; justice may be greater.  As for me,' he added,
casting his eyes to heaven, 'as for me, 'tis in my vows to
love all men.'  Much more was said, but these are the
particulars as I remember them."

"He is a great hypocrite," said Lady Jevery.  "He
loves very few men, and no one loves him."

"Is that all, uncle?"

"He turned sharply to Lord Neville, asked to look at his
credentials again, and called for an accountant.  He seemed
to forget my existence, and I asked permission to retire.  I
am very uneasy in my mind.  Mazarin's good words are
not to be trusted; his silence is to be feared.  I must leave
France as soon as possible.  My affairs have been taken
out of Mazarin's hands by Cromwell; he will visit the
offense on me.  Every moment is full of uncertainty and
danger."

"Prince Rupert will not see us injured."

"I cannot take Prince Rupert for our surety.  He has
not yet spoken to me about your marriage.  He is at the
mercy of so many minds."

"That detestable Lord Neville!  Ever and always, he
brings me trouble and sorrow.  There are half-a-dozen of
my lovers who would run him through for a look.  I would
do it myself.  You need not smile, sir, I am as ready with
the sword as any man, and have matched both Stephen and
Cymlin Swaffam.  I hate Neville.  I would most willingly
make an end of him."

"Hush, Matilda!  Your words belie you.  You mean
them not.  But there is no time for words now, we shall
leave here for England in two days.  If Prince Rupert
loves you so much as to marry you, there are ways and
means to accomplish that end.  If money only is the lack,
I shall be no miser, if I may ensure your happiness."

"Dear uncle, shall we not return by The Hague?"

"No.  Lord Neville has promised to do my business
there.  It is only a matter of collecting a thousand pounds
from my merchant; but he is going to take charge of your
aunt's jewels, and you had better trust yours also with him.
They will be safer in the saddle of a horseman than in a
guarded traveling coach.  In the latter case, robbers are
sure there is plunder; in the former it is most unlikely."

"I will not trust anything I possess to Lord Neville.
Nothing!"

"The man trusted by Cromwell is above suspicion."

"It is his interest to be honest with Cromwell."

"You are angry at Neville."

"I have good reason.  He is always the bringer of bad
news.  The order to leave Paris and the Prince could have
come only through him."

"The Prince knows how he may keep you at his side."

"Oh!  I am weary of balancing things impossible.
The Prince cannot marry like a common man."

"Then he should only make love to such women as are
fit to marry with him.  I have said often what I thought
right in this affair; I have offered to help it with my gold
as far as I can—that is all about it, Matilda.  I say no
more."

"It is enough," answered Lady Jevery.  "Matilda
cannot wish to put in danger your liberty or life."

"My happiness is of less consequence, aunt."

"Certainly it is;" and there was such an air of finality
in Lady Jevery's voice that Matilda rose and went to her own
apartments to continue her complaints.  This she did with
passionate feeling in a letter to Prince Rupert, in which
she expressed without stint her hatred of Lord Neville and
her desire for his punishment.  Rupert was well inclined to
humour her wish.  He had seen the young Commonwealth
messenger, and his handsome person and patrician manner
had given him a moment's envious look back to the days
when he also had been young and hopeful, and full of faith
in his own great future.  The slight hauteur of Neville, his
punctilious care for Cromwell's instructions, his whole
bearing of victory, as against his own listless attitude of
"failure," set his mind in a mood either to ignore the young
man, or else by the simplest word or incident to change
from indifference to dislike.

Matilda's letter furnished the impetus to dislike.  He
said to himself, "Neville showed more insolence and
self-approval in the presence of his Eminence than I, after all
my wars and adventures, would have presumed on, under
any circumstances.  He wants a lesson, and it will please
Matilda if I give him it; and God knows there is so little
I can do to pleasure her!"  At this point in his reflections,
he called his equerry and bid him "find out the lodgings of
Lord Neville, and watch him by day and night;" adding,
"Have my Barbary horse saddled, and when this
Englishman leaves his lodging, bring me instant word of the course
he takes."

The next morning he spent with Matilda.  She was in
tears and despair, and Rupert could do nothing but weep
and despair with her.  He indeed renewed with passionate
affection his promise to marry her as soon as this was
possible, but the possibility did not appear at hand to either of
them.  Rupert certainly could have defied every family and
caste tradition, and made the girl so long faithful to him at
once his wife; but how were they to live as became his
rank?  For in spite of popular suppositions to the
contrary, he was in reality a poor man, and he could not
become a pensioner on Sir Thomas Jevery, even if Sir
Thomas had been able to give him an income at all in
unison with Rupert's ideas of the splendid life due to his
position and achievements.

But he had not long to wait for an opportunity to meet
Neville.  While he was playing billiards the following
afternoon with the Duke of Yorke, his equerry arrived at the
Palais Royale with his horse.  Neville had taken the
northern road out of the city, and it was presumably the
homeward road.  Rupert followed quickly, but Neville was
a swift, steady rider, and he was not overtaken till twenty
miles had been covered, and the daylight was nearly lost in
the radiance of the full moon.  Rupert put spurs to his
horse, passed Neville at a swift gallop, then suddenly
wheeling, came at a rush towards him, catching his bridle
as they met.

"Alight," he said peremptorily.

Neville shook his bridle free, and asked,

"By whose orders?"

"Mine."

"I will not obey them."

"You will alight.  I have a quarrel to settle with you."

"On what ground?"

"Say it is on the ground of your mistress.  I am Earl
de Wick's friend."

"I will not fight on such pretense.  My mistress would
deny me if I did."

"Fight for your honour, then."

Neville laughed.  "I know better.  And before what
you call Honour, I put Duty."

"Then fight for the papers and money in your possession.
I want them."

"Ha!  I thought so.  You are a robber, it seems.  The
papers and gold are not mine, and I will fight rather than
lose them.  But I warn you that I am a good swordsman."

"Heaven and hell!  What do I care?  Alight, and
prove your boast."

"If you are in such a hurry to die, go and hang yourself.
On second thoughts, I will not fight a thief.  I am a
noble, and an honourable man."

"If you do not alight at once, I will slay your horse.
You shall fight me, here and now, with or without pretense."

Then Neville flung himself from his horse and tied the
animal to a tree.  Rupert did likewise, and the two men
rapidly removed such of their garments as would interfere
with their bloody play.  They were in a lonely road,
partially shaded with great trees; not a human habitation was
visible, and there were no seconds to see justice done in
the fight, or secure help after it, if help was needed.  But
at this time the lack of recognised formalities was no
impediment to the duel.  Rupert quickly found that he had
met his match.  Neville left him not a moment's breathing
space, but never followed up his attacks; until at last
Rupert called out insolently, "When are you going to kill me?"

The angry impatience of the inquiry probably induced a
moment's carelessness, and Rupert did not notice that in
the struggle their ground had insensibly been changed, and
Neville now stood directly in front of a large tree.  Not
heeding the impediment, Rupert made a fierce thrust with
the point of his sword, which Neville evaded by a vault to
one side, so that Rupert's sword striking the tree, sprang
from his hand at the impact.  As it fell to the ground,
Neville reached it first, and placed his foot upon it.  Rupert
stood still and bowed gravely.  He was at Neville's mercy,
and he indicated his knowledge of this fact by the proud
stillness of his attitude.

.. _`"RUPERT STOOD STILL, AND BOWED GRAVELY."`:

.. figure:: images/img-224.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: "RUPERT STOOD STILL, AND BOWED GRAVELY."

   "RUPERT STOOD STILL, AND BOWED GRAVELY."

"It was an accident," said Neville; "and an accident is
God's part in any affair.  Take your life from my hand.
I have no will to wish your death."  He offered his hand
as he spoke, and Rupert took it frankly, answering,

"'Tis no disgrace to take life from one so gallant and
generous, and I am glad that I can repay the favour of
your clemency;" then he almost whispered in Cluny's ear
three words, and the young man started visibly, and with
great haste untied his horse.

"We would better change horses," said Rupert; "mine
is a Barb, swift as the wind."

But Cluny could not make the change proposed without
some delay, his papers and jewels being bestowed in his
saddle linings.  So with a good wish the two men parted,
and there was no anger between them;—admiration and
good will had taken its place.  Neville hastened forward,
as he had been advised, and Rupert returned to Paris.  He
knew Matilda was expecting him, and he pictured to
himself her disappointment and anxiety at his non-appearance;
it was also her last evening in Paris, and it grieved him to
miss precious hours of love, that might never be given him
again.  Yet he was physically exhausted, and as soon as he
threw himself upon a couch he forgot all his weariness and
all his anxieties in a deep sleep.

Matilda was not so happy as to find this oblivion.  She
knew over what social pitfalls every man of prominence in
Paris walked—in the King's favour one day, in the Bastile
the next day—and that this very insecurity of all good things
made men reckless.  Rupert might have offended King
Louis or the great Cardinal.  She imagined a hundred causes
for flight or fight or imprisonment; she recalled one story
after another of nobles and gentlemen seen flourishing in
the presence of Louis one day and then never seen again.
She knew that plots and counterplots, party feuds and
family hatreds, were everywhere rife; and that Rupert was rash
and outspoken, and had many enemies among the courtiers
of Louis and the exiled nobles of England, not to
speak of the Commonwealth spies, to whom he was an
object of superstitious hatred, who regarded his blackamoors
as familiar spirits, and believed firmly that "he had a devil,"
and worked evil charms by the devil's help and advice.  And
above all, and through these sad forebodings, there was the
ever present likelihood of a duel.  Every man had sword in
hand, ready to settle some terrible or trivial quarrel—though
it did not require a quarrel to provoke the duel; men fought
for a word, for a sign, for the colour of a ribbon, for
nothing at all, for the pleasure of killing themselves to kill
time.

Matilda was keenly alive to all these possible tragedies,
and when her lover failed to keep what was likely to be
their last tryst, she was more frightened than angry; yet
when Rupert came at an exceptionally early hour in the
morning, and she saw him safe and well, her anxiety became
flavoured with displeasure.

"How could you so cruelly disappoint me?" she cried.
"You see now that our time is nearly gone; in a few hours
we must part, perhaps forever."

"My dearest, loveliest Mata, I was about your pleasure.
I was following Lord Neville, and he took me further than
I expected.  When my business was done with him, I had
twenty miles to ride back to Paris; and I confess to you, I
was so weary that I could only sleep.  In your love,
remember how lately I have been sick to death."

"Lord Neville again!  The man is an incubus.  Why
did you follow him?"

"You wished me to give him a lesson.  He was going
homeward.  I had to ride last night, or let him escape.  By
my troth, I had only your pleasure in mind."

"Oh, but the price paid was too great!  I had to give up
your society for hours.  That is a loss I shall mourn to the
end of my life.  I hope, then, that you killed him.
Nothing less will suffice for it."

"I was out of fortune, as I always am.  I had an
accident, and was at his mercy.  He gave me my life."

"Now, indeed, you pierce my heart.  You at his mercy!
It is an intolerable shame!  It will make me cry out, even
when I sleep!  I shall die of it.  You!  You! to be at his
mercy—at the mercy of that Puritan braggart.  Oh, I
cannot endure it!"

"You see that I endure it very complacently, Mata.
The man behaved as a gentleman and a soldier.  I have
even taken a liking to him.  I have also paid back his
kindness; we are quits, and as soldiers, friends.  It was an
accident, and as Neville very piously said, 'Accidents are
God's part in an affair;' and therefore we would not be
found fighting against God.  You know, Mata, that I have
been very religiously brought up.  And I can assure you no
one's honour suffered, mine least of all."

But Matilda was hard to comfort.  Her last interview
with her lover was saddened and troubled by this
disagreement; and though both were broken-hearted in the
moments of farewell, Matilda, watching Rupert across the
Place Royale, discovered in the listless impatience of his
attitude and movements, that inward revolt against outward
strife, which, if it had found a voice, would have ejaculated,
"I am glad it is over."

This, then, was the end of the visit from which she had
expected so much; and one sad gray morning in November
they reached London.  Sir Thomas was like a man released
from a spell, and he went about his house and garden
in a mood so happy that it was like a psalm of gratitude to
be with him.  Lady Jevery was equally pleased, though less
ready to show her pleasure; but to Matilda, life appeared
without hope—a state of simple endurance, for she had no
vital expectation that the morrow, or any other morrow,
would bring her happiness.

The apparently fateful interference of Neville in her
affairs made her miserable.  She thought him her evil
genius, the bearer of bad news, the bringer of sorrow.  She
felt Rupert's "accident" as part of the bad fate.  She had
been taught fencing, and Cymlin Swaffham had often
declared her a match for any swordsman, so that she knew,
as well as Rupert knew, no honour had been lost between
him and Neville.  But the "accident" touched her deeper
than this: she regarded it as a proof that the stars were
still against her good fortune, separating her from her lover,
influencing Neville and his party for victory, and dooming
the King and his party to defeat in all their relationships,
private and national.

She said to herself in the first hours of her return that
she would not see Jane, but as the day wore on she
changed her mind.  She wished to write Rupert every
particular about national events, and she could best feel the
Puritan pulse through Jane; while from no one else could
she obtain a knowledge of the household doings of
Cromwell and his family.  Then, also, she wished Jane to see
her new dresses, and to hear of the great and famous
people she had been living among.  What was the use of
being familiar with princesses, if there was no one to talk to
about them?  And Matilda had so much to say concerning
the ex-Queen of Bohemia and her clever daughters, that
she could not deny herself the society of Jane as a listener.
So she wrote and asked her to come, and Jane answered
the request in person, at once.  This hurry of welcome
was a little malapropos.  Matilda had not assumed the
dress and style she had intended, and the litter of fine
clothing about her rooms, and the partially unpacked boxes, gave
to her surroundings an undignified and unimpressive
character.  But friendship gives up its forms tardily; people
kiss each other and say fond words long after the love that
ought to vitalise such symbols is dead and buried; and for
awhile the two girls did believe themselves glad to meet
again.  There were a score of things delightful to women
over which they could agree, and Jane's admiration for her
friend's beautiful gowns and laces and jewels, and her
interest in Matilda's descriptions of the circumstances in
which they were worn, was so genuine, that Matilda had
forgotten her relation to Lord Neville, when the irritating
name was mentioned.

"Did you see Lord Neville in Paris?" Jane asked; and
there was a wistful anxiety in her voice to which Matilda
ought to have responded.  But the question came when
she was tired even of her own splendours and successes;
she had talked herself out, and was not inclined to continue
conversation if the subject of it was to be one so
disagreeable.  "No," she answered sharply.  "I did not see him.
He called one day, and had a long talk with Sir Thomas,
but aunt had a headache, and I had more delightful company."

"I thought for my sake you would see him.  Did you
hear anything of his affairs?"

"Indeed, I heard he gave great offense to Cardinal
Mazarin by his authoritative manner."

"*Oh!*"

"You know, Jane, that he has a most presuming,
haughty way?  He has!"

"I am sure he has not, Matilda."

"Every one wondered at Cromwell sending a mere boy
on such delicate and important business.  It was
considered almost an insult to Mazarin."

"How can you say such things, Matilda?  The business
was neither delicate nor important.  It was merely to
deliver a parcel to Mazarin.  Cluny was not charged with
any explanations, and I am sure he took nothing on himself."

"I only repeat what I heard—that he carried himself as
if he were a young Atlas, and had England's fate and honour
on his shoulders."

"You can surely also repeat something pleasant.  Did
you hear of him at the minister's, or elsewhere?  He is not
one to pass through a room and nobody see him."

"I heard nothing about him but what I have told you.
He prevented my seeing the Queen of Bohemia on my
return, because he offered to attend to my uncle's business at
The Hague for him; and for this interference I do not
thank Lord Neville."

"Nor I," answered Jane.  "Had he not gone to The
Hague he might have been in London by this time."  Then
wishing to avoid all unpleasantness, she said, "To be
sure it is no wonder you forgot me and my affairs.  You
have been living a fairy tale, Matilda; and the fairy prince
has been living it with you.  How charming!"

Matilda was instantly pleased, her voice became melodious,
her face smiling and tender.  "Yes," she answered,
"a fairy tale, and my prince was so splendid, so famous, so
adored, kings, cardinals, great men of all kinds, and the
loveliest women in France sought him, but he left all to sit
at my side;" and then the girls sat down, hand in hand,
and Matilda told again her tale of love, till they were both
near to weeping.  This sympathy made Matilda remember
more kindly Jane's dreams and hopes concerning her own
love affair, and though she hated Neville, she put aside the
ill feeling and asked, "Pray now, Jane, what about your
marriage?  Does it stand, like mine, under unwilling stars?"

"No.  I am almost sure my father has changed his
mind; perhaps the Lord General has helped him to do so,
for no man, or woman either, takes such sweet interest in a
true love affair.  He is always for making lovers happy,
whether they be his own sons and daughters or those of his
friends; and he likes Cluny so much that when he returns he
is to have a command at Edinburgh.  And I can see father
and mother have been talking about our marriage.  One
morning, lately, mother showed me the fine damask and
house linen she is going to give me, and another morning
she looked at my sewing and said, 'I might as well hurry
a little; things might happen sooner than I thought for;'
and then she kissed me, and that is what mother doesn't
often do, out of time and season."

Jane had risen as she said these words, and was tying on
her bonnet, and Matilda watched her with a curious
interest.  "I was wondering," she said slowly, "if you will be
glad to marry Cluny Neville and go away to Scotland with him."

"Oh, yes," Jane answered, her eyes shining, her mouth
wreathed in smiles, her whole being expressing her delight
in such an anticipation.  Matilda made no further remark,
but when Jane had closed the door behind her, she sat down
thoughtfully by the fire, and stirring together the red
embers, sighed rather than said—

"Why do people marry and bring up sons and daughters?
This girl has been loved to the uttermost by her
father and mother and brothers, and she will gladly leave
them all to go off with this young Scot.  She will call it
'Sacrifice for Love's sake;' I call it pure selfishness.  Yet
I am not a whit whiter than she.  I would have stayed in
Paris with Rupert, though my good uncle was in danger.
How dreadful it is to look into one's own soul, and make
one's self tell it the honest truth.  I think I will go to my
evening service;" and as she rose for her Common Prayer,
she was saying under her breath, "We have left undone
those things which we ought to have done, and we have
done those things which we ought not to have done.  And
there is no health in us."

Lady Jevery had a dinner party that night, and Matilda
went down to it in considerable splendour.  Doctor Hewitt
was present, and Mr. Waller, the poet, and Denzil Hollis,
and the witty, delightful Henry Marten, and Matilda's great
favourite, the little royalist linen draper, Izaak Walton,
whose *Complete Angler* had just been published.  He had
brought Sir Thomas a copy of it, and Matilda found out at
once the song, "Come live with me and be my love."  Her
praises were very pleasant to the old man, who had hid
Donne and Hooker and Herbert in his Inner Chamber
during the days of the Long Parliament; who had been the
friend of bishops Ken and Sanderson, and of archbishops
Usher and Sheldon; and who, born in Elizabeth's reign,
had lived to see "Sceptre and Crown tumbled down."

"But you are not the only author of Great Oliver's
reign," she said with a whimsical smile.  "This day
Mistress Dorothy Osborne sent me a copy of the poems of my
Lady Newcastle.  She has been making herself still more
absurd than she is by writing a book—and in verse.  'Sure,'
said Mistress Dorothy to me, 'if I did not sleep for a
month, I should never come to that point.'  Why does her
husband let her run loose?  I vow there are soberer people
in Bedlam."

"Her husband adores her; he believes her to be a
prodigy of learning."

"They are a couple of fools well met.  I am sorry for
them.  She dashes at everything, and he goes about trumpeting
her praises.  Come, sir, I hear the company tossing
Cromwell's name about.  Let us join the combatants; I
wish to be in the fray."

The fact was Sir Thomas had asked after political affairs
since he left England in April, and there was plenty of
material for discussion.  Denzil Hollis was describing the
opening of the Parliament summoned by Cromwell, and
which met on the fourth of July.  "He made to this
Parliament," he said, "a wonderful speech.  He declared that
he 'did not want supreme power, no, not for a day, but to
put it into the hands of proper persons elected by the
people.'  And he bid them 'be humble and not consider
themselves too much of a Parliament.'  And then he burst
into such a strain as none ever heard, taking texts from
psalms, and prophets and epistles, mingled with homely
counsels, and entreaties to them to do their duty—speaking
till the words fell red hot from his lips, so that when he
ended with the psalm on Dunbar field we were all ready to
sing it with him; for as he told us, with a shining face, 'the
triumph of the psalm is exceeding high and great, and God
is now accomplishing it.'"

"No English Parliament was ever opened like that," said
Sir Thomas.  "Has it done anything yet?"

"It has done too much.  It has committees at work
looking into the affairs of Scotland and Ireland, the navy,
the army and the law.  They have been through the jails,
and set three hundred poor debtors free in London alone.
They have abolished titles and the Court of Chancery; and
the last two acts have made the nation very uneasy.  Upon
my honour, the people are more unhappy at getting rid of
their wrongs than you would credit."

"Englishmen like something to grumble about," said
Mr. Walton.  "If the Commonwealth leaves them
without a grievance, it will doom itself."

"That is not it, Mr. Walton," said Henry Marten;
"Englishmen don't like the foundations destroyed in order
to repair the house.  Going over precipices is not making
progress.  You may take it for an axiom that as a people,
we prefer abuses to novelties."

"The reign of the saints is now begun," said Doctor
Hewitt scornfully; "and Sir Harry Vane is afraid of what
he has prayed for.  He has gone into retirement, and sent
Cromwell word he would wait for his place until he got to
heaven."

"Sir Harry is not one of Zebedee's sons."

"This Parliament is going too fast."

"They have no precedents to hamper them."

"Everything old is in danger of being abolished."

"They talk of reducing all taxation to one assessment
on land and property.  Absurd!"

"Some say they will burn the records in the Tower; and
the law of Moses is to take the place of the law of England."

"And the Jews are to have civil rights."

"And after that we may have a Jewish Sanhedrim in
place of a Puritan Parliament."

"The good people of England will never bear such
innovations," said Sir Thomas with great indignation.

"None of us know how much the good people of
England will bear," answered Hollis.

"And pray what part does Cromwell take in these
changes?  Surely he is the leader of them?" asked Lady
Jevery.

"He takes no part in them, madame," answered Walton;
"gives no advice, uses no authority."

"Oh, indeed he is just waiting till his Assembly of Saints
have made themselves beyond further bearing," said Matilda.
"Then he will arise to the rescue, and serve them
as he did the last Parliament."

"And then, Lady Matilda, what then?" asked Doctor Hewitt.

"He will make himself Emperor of these Isles."

"I do not think he has any such intent; no, not for an
hour," said Sir Thomas.

There was a cynical laugh at this opinion, and Matilda's
opinion was, in the main, not only endorsed, but firmly
believed.  Many could not understand why he had waited so
long.  "When he sheathed his sword at Worcester he
could have lifted the sceptre, and the whole nation would
have shouted gratefully, 'God save King Oliver,'" said Sir
Thomas.  "Why did he not do so, I wonder?"

But if the spiritual eyes of these men had been suddenly
opened, as were those of Elisha, they might have seen
that hour the man Cromwell, as God saw him, and
acknowledged with shame and blame their ready injustice.
For even while they were condemning him, accusing him of
unbounded ambition and unbounded hypocrisy, he was
kneeling by the side of a very old woman, praying.  One
of her small, shriveled hands was clasped between his large
brown palms, and his voice, low, but intensely deep and
earnest, filled the room with that unmistakable pathetic
monotone, which is the natural voice of a soul pleading
with its God.  It rose and fell, it was full of tears and of
triumph, it was sorrowful and imploring, it was the very sob
of a soul wounded and loving, but crying out, "Though
He slay me, yet will I trust in Him."  When he rose, his
face was wet with tears, but the aged woman had the light
of heaven on her calm brow.  She rose with him, and
leaning on the top of her ivory staff, said,

"Oliver, my son Oliver, have no fear.  Man nor woman
shall have power to hurt thee.  Until thy work is done,
thou shalt not see death; and when it is done, the finger of
God will beckon thee.  Though an host should rise up
against thee, thou wilt live thy day and do thy work."

"My mother!  My good mother!  God's best gift to
me and mine."

   |  "The Lord bless thee, Oliver, and keep thee.
   |  The Lord make His face to shine upon thee,
   |  And be gracious unto thee.
   |  The Lord lift up His countenance upon thee,
   |  And give thee peace."

.. vspace:: 2

Then Oliver kissed his mother tenderly, and went out
from her presence with the joy of one whom "his mother
comforteth."  And his face was bright and lifted up, and
his footsteps firm; and he carried himself like a man whose
soul had been "ministered unto."  And if the envious
doubters at Sir Thomas Jevery's had seen him at that
moment, they must have instantly taken knowledge of him
that he had been with God.  All his fears were gone, all
his troubles lighter than a grasshopper; in some blessed
way there had come to him the knowledge that even

   |  "Envy's harsh berries, and the chocking pool,
   |  Of the world's scorn and hatred, are the right mother milk
   |  To the true, tough hearts that pioneer their kind."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`OLIVER PROTECTOR`:

.. class:: center large bold

   *BOOK III*

.. class:: center large bold

   *Oliver The Conqueror*

.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XI

.. class:: center medium bold

   OLIVER PROTECTOR

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  "O heart heroic, England's noblest son!
   |  At what a height thy shining spirit burns
   |  Starlike, and floods our souls with quickening fire."
   |
   |    \*      \*      \*      \*      \*
   |
   |            "Fearful commenting is
   |  The leaden servitor to dull delay."

.. vspace:: 2

The popular discontent with the rapid and radical
reforms of the saints' Parliament was not confined to the
Royalists; the nation, without regard to party, was bitterly
incensed and alarmed.  Cromwell was no exception; the
most conservative of men, he also grew angry and restless
when he saw the reign of the saints beginning in earnest.

"These godly men are going straight to the confusion of
all things," he said to Israel Swaffham; "they forget they
are assembled here by the people, and are assuming a direct
power from the Lord.  If we let them, they will bring us
under the horridest arbitrariness in the world."

There was reason enough for this fear.  Not content
with the changes in government, religion and law, Feake
and Powell were urging social changes that would level
all ranks and classes to an equality, and Cromwell
abominated such ideas.  Of equality, as we understand the word,
he had no conception.  He told the members plainly that
England had known for hundreds of years, ranks and
orders of men—nobles, gentlemen, yeomen—and that such
ranks were a good interest to the nation, and a great one.
"What is the purport," he asked, "to make the tenant as
liberal a fortune as the landlord?  If obtained, it would not
last; the men of that principle, after they had served their
own turns, would have cried up property fast enough."

To the Fifth Monarchy men who held that the saints
alone should rule the earth, he gave the sternest rebuke,
telling them plainly that the carnal divisions among them
were not symptoms of Christ's Kingdom.  "Truly," he
added, "you will need to give clearer manifestations of
God's presence among you before wise men will submit to
your conclusions."

In the meantime the anger outside the Parliament House
rose to fury.  Doubtless Cromwell had foreseen this crisis.
Certainly a large number of the members were of his way
of thinking, and on the twelfth of December, Colonel
Sydenham rose, and accusing the members of wishing to
put a Mosaic code in place of the Common Law of
England—of depreciating a regular ministry (for what
need of one, if all men could prophesy?) and of opposing
learning and education, he declared the salvation of the
nation lay in resigning the trust committed to them into
the hands of the Lord General Cromwell.  The motion
was seconded by Sir Charles Wolseley.  The Speaker left
the chair, and followed by a majority of the members, went
to Whitehall, and there and then they wrote out their
resignation.  It was said that "Cromwell looked astonished,
and only received the paper upon great importunity."  And
if ever Cromwell drolled in his life, he drolled then, for it
is not likely this movement was unforeseen; all its details
had been too ably arranged to be the result of unanticipated
action.

No serious opposition was made.  Some thirty of the
members remained in the House "to protest," but Colonel
Goff entering with a file of musketeers, the argument was
quickly closed.  "What are you doing here?" asked the
Colonel, and some one answered, "We are seeking the
Lord," then said he, "You may go elsewhere, for to my
certain knowledge the Lord has not been here these many
years."  Three days after this event a new Council of
State resolved that his Excellency be chosen LORD
PROTECTOR of the three nations, and on the sixteenth of
December be so installed in Westminster Hall.

"And you would think that he had been publicly
scorned instead of publicly chosen," said Israel to his wife.
"He looks miserable; he is silent and downcast, and talks
much to himself.  Yet he is in his right place, and the
only man in England who can save us from anarchy."

"God knows.  It is a place of great honour for Mr. Oliver
Cromwell of Slepe House."

"No, no.  'Tis a place of great danger, a place of
terror and forlorn hope.  God knows, I would not have it
for all the honour and gold in England.  Martha, his
Excellency and her Highness desire your company, and
that of Jane, to the ceremony.  You will go?"

"I had better stay at home, Israel.  I cannot 'Your
Highness' Elizabeth Cromwell.  Jane will go."

"And you, too, Martha.  I wish it."

"I never go against your wishes, Israel—at least not
often."

So it happened that on the sixteenth of December,
Mrs. Swaffham and Jane wore dressing for Whitehall.
Mrs. Swaffham was nervous and irritable; nervous, because she
feared her gown was not as handsome as it ought to be;
irritable, because she felt that circumstances were going to
control her behaviour, whether she approved or not.  Jane
was unable to encourage or cheer her mother; she was
herself the most unhappy maiden in London that day.  She
was white as the satin robe that clothed her, and her eyes
held in their depths the shadow of that fear and grief which
filled her heart.  And though her mother was sorry for her
distress, she was vexed that her girl could not better hide
her trouble.  "I hate to be pitied, Jane," she said, "and
above all by 'her Highness.'  And those Cromwell girls,
they too will be crying 'Oh dear me!' and 'Poor Jane!'
and you will be a sweet sadness to spice their own glory
and happiness.  Keep a brave heart, my girl.  Something
may happen any hour."

Jane did not answer.  She could not talk; she needed
all her strength to live.  For eighteen days she had been
forced to accept the fact that Cluny was at least eighteen
days behind all probable and improbable delays.  She had
not received a line from him since he left Paris; no one
had.  He had apparently vanished as completely as a stone
dropped into mid-ocean.  She had been often at Jevery
House, and during two of her visits had managed to see
Sir Thomas and ask "if he had any intelligence from Lord
Neville?"  On her first inquiry he answered her
anxiously; on his second his reply showed some anger.

"He offered voluntarily to take charge of Lady Jevery's
jewels and to collect my money at The Hague; and unless
he was certain of his ability to do these things safely, he
ought not to have sought the charge."

And with these words there entered into Jane's heart a
suspicion that hurt her like a sword-thrust.  She found
herself saying continually, "It is impossible! impossible!
Oh, my God, where is he?"

All this time London was angry, anxious, almost
tumultuous.  Jane would have gone to Cromwell for
help—indeed she did go once to Whitehall with this object in
view—but she was told that he was in his own apartments
silent and sad, and carrying a weight of responsibility that
might have appalled the stoutest heart.  Indeed, the whole
family were quiet and preoccupied, and she came away
without finding any fit opportunity to say a word about
Cluny and his unaccountable delay.  There was no one
else to go to.  Doctor Verity was visiting the Rev. Mr. Baxter
at Kidderminster, and Matilda hated Cluny.  Jane
could not bear to suggest to Matilda a doubt as to Cluny's
return.  Certainly Mrs. Swaffham listened to her daughter's
fears and anxieties, but Jane felt that the Parliament
and its doings and misdoings, and the speculations
concerning Cromwell, were the great and vital interest filling
every heart.  No one seemed to care about Lord Neville
as she thought they ought to.  So far, then, she had borne
her sorrow alone, and it had never left her a moment for
eighteen days and nights.  Even in her sleep she wandered
wretchedly looking for him; her pillows were full of evil
forebodings, and the atmosphere of her room was heavy
with the misery of her thoughts.

Fortunately the Cromwells had no idea that Jane was in
trouble; they were, as was right and natural, very much
excited over the ceremony of the day and the order in
which it was to be carried out.  His Excellency was with
a number of his officers in a separate apartment, but
madame, the General's mother, was in the large parlour of the
Cockpit, and when the Swaffhams entered, she rose with
delight to meet her old neighbours and friends.  In spite
of her great age she looked almost handsome in a robe of
black velvet and silver trimmings, with a shawl-like drapery
of rich white lace.  In a short time her daughter-in-law
and her grandchildren entered, and Mrs. Swaffham looked
curiously at her old friend.  Was this indeed the Elizabeth
Cromwell she had gossiped with and sometimes quarreled
with? this stately woman in purple velvet, with large
pearls round her throat and falling in priceless beauty
below her waist?  There could be no doubt of her
identity, for as soon as Mrs. Swaffham began to approach
her, she came forward, saying in a tone of real pleasure,

"Martha!  Martha!  How glad I am to see you!" and
the two women broke into smiles and exclamations, and
then kissed each other.

There was no time to spare.  The Lord General, dressed
in a rich suit of black velvet, appeared, and the procession
was formed.  The Commissioners of the Great Seal, the
Judges and Barons of the Exchequer in all the splendour of
their insignia, preceded it.  Then came the Council of
State and the Lord Mayor and Aldermen in their scarlet
robes.  Cromwell followed.  He was alone in a magnificent
coach with outriders, but he was attended by the chief
officers of the army, and by an imposing military escort.
His family and friends in conveyances of equal splendour
were behind, and were also attended by a military guard of
honour.

"Is it a dream, Jane?" said Mrs. Swaffham to her
daughter.  "Am I asleep or awake?  Are these the very
Cromwells we used to know?  Did you see that little chit,
Frank, whom I have birched and stood in the corner, and
scolded more times than I can remember?—did you see her?
Did you see her curtsying to her mother and calling her,
'Your Highness'? and Mary Cromwell giving orders like
a very Queen? and even Elizabeth Claypole looking as if
England belonged to them?  After this, Jane, nothing can
astonish me."

Jane was as silent as her mother was garrulous; the
crowds, the excitement, the poignant crash and blare of
martial music, the shining and clashing of steel, the waving
of flags, the shouts and huzzas of the multitudes, the
ringing of innumerable bells, the overpowering sense of the
brotherhood of humanity in a mass animated by the same
feeling, these things thrilled and filled souls until they were
without words, or else foolishly eloquent.

A place of honour had been reserved for the Cromwell
party, and the great General's mother found a throne-like
chair placed for her in such a position that she could see
every movement and hear every word of that august
ceremony which was to acknowledge her son "the greatest man
in England."  And as she sat there, watching him stand
uncovered beside the Chair of State, and listened to him
taking the solemn oath to rule England, Scotland and Ireland
justly, she thought of this battle-scarred man as a baby
at her breast, fifty-four years before, pressing her bosom
with his tiny fingers, and smiling up in her face, happily
unconscious of the travail of body and soul he was to
undergo for the sake of England, and of all future free
peoples.  And she thought also of one cold winter day, when,
a lad of twelve, he had come in from his lessons and his
rough play at football and thrown himself upon his bed,
weary with the buffeting; and as he lay there, wide-awake
in the broad daylight, how he had seen his angel stand at
his feet, and heard him say, "*Thou shalt be the greatest man
in England*."  And there in her sight and hearing, the
prophecy was fulfilled that day, for she had never doubted
it.  The boy had been scolded and flogged for persisting in
this story, but she had comforted him and always known
that it was a vision to be realised.

Her faith had its reward.  She watched this boy of hers
put on his hat, after taking the oath, and with a kingly air
ascend to what was virtually the throne of England.  She
saw him unbuckle his sword and put it off, to signify that
military rule was ended; and then she heard, amid the blare
of trumpets, the Heralds proclaim him *Lord Protector of
England, Scotland and Ireland*.  Her lips moved not, but she
heard her soul singing psalms of glory and thanksgiving;
yes, she heard the music within rising and swelling to
great anthems of rejoicing.  Her body was impotent to
express this wonderful joy; it was her soul that made her
boast in the Lord, that magnified the God of her salvation.
And she really heard its glad music with her natural body,
and the melody of that everlasting chime was in her heart
to the last moment of her life.  And her children looked at
her and were amazed, for her face was changed; and when
the people shouted, to "*God save the Lord Protector of the
Commonwealth!*" she stood up without her staff, and was the
first to render him obeisance.

Jane watched her with wonder and delight; she forgot
her own grief in this aged mother's surpassing happiness,
and she partly understood that hour the new doctrine of the
men called Quakers.  For she had watched this Inner sight
of Life transfuse the frail frame, and seen it illuminate the
withered face and strengthen the trembling limbs, and, above
all, fill the Inner woman with a joy unspeakable and beyond
speech or understanding.

The ride back to Whitehall was an intoxicating one.
Londoners had at last a ruler who was a supremely able man.
They could go to their shops, and buy and sell in security.
Oliver Protector would see to their rights and their
welfare.  His very appearance was satisfying; he was not a
young man headstrong and reckless, but a Protector who
had been tried on the battle-field and in the Council
Chamber and never found wanting.  His personality also was the
visible presentment of the qualities they admired and
desired.  They looked at his sturdy British growth, and were
satisfied.  His head and face, muscular and massive, were
of lion-like aspect; his stature nearly six feet, and so highly
vitalised as to look much higher.  Dark brown hair,
mingled with gray, fell below his collar-band, and from under
large brows his deep, loving eyes looked as if in lifelong
sorrow; and yet not thinking life sorrow, thinking it only
labour and endeavour.  Valour, devout intelligence, great
simplicity, and a singular air of mysticism invested his
rugged, broad-hatted majesty with a character or impress
transcendentally mysterious.  Even his enemies felt this vague
shadow of the supernatural over and around him, for Sir
Richard Huddleston, in watching him on Naseby's field, had
cried out passionately, "Who will find King Charles a
leader like him?  He is not a man; he is one of the ancient
heroes come out of Valhalla."

But be the day glad or sad, time runs through it, and the
shadows of evening found the whole city worn out with
their own emotions.  Mrs. Swaffham and Jane were glad
to return to the quiet of their home—"Not but what we
have had a great day, Jane," said the elder woman; "but,
dear me, child, what a waste of life it is!  I feel ten years
older.  It would not do to spend one's self this way very
often."

"I am tired to death, mother.  May I stay in my room
this evening?  I do not want to hear any more about the
Cromwells, and I dare say Doctor Verity will come home
with father, and they will talk of nothing else."

"You are fretting, Jane, and fretting is bad for you every
way.  Why will you do it?"

"How can I help it, mother?"

Then Mrs. Swaffham looked at her daughter's white
face, and said, "You know, dear, where and how to find
the comfort you need.  God help you, child."

And oh, how good it was to the heart-sick girl, to be at
last alone, to be able to weep unwatched and unchecked—to
shut the door of her soul on the world and open it to
God, to tell Him all her doubt and fear and lonely grief.
This was her consolation, even though no sensible comfort
came from it—though the heavens seemed far off, and there
was no ray of light, no whisper from beyond to encourage
her.  Hoping against despair, she rose up saying, "Though
He slay me, yet will I trust in Him;" and these words she
repeated over and over with increasing fervour, as she neatly
folded away her clothing and put her room in that exquisite
order which was necessary to her sleep, or even rest.  For
she kept still her childish belief that her angel would not
visit her, if her room was untidy.  And who will dare to
say she was wrong?  These primitive faiths hold truths hid
from the wise and prudent, but revealed to the simple and
pure of heart.

At nine o'clock her mother brought her a possett and
toast, and she took them gratefully.  "Is father home?"
she asked.

"Yes, Jane.  He came in an hour ago with Doctor Verity."

"Have they any word of——"

"I fear not.  They would have told me at once.  I
haven't seen much of them.  There were lots of things
undone, and badly done, to look after.  The wenches and the
men have been on the streets all day, and the kitchen is
upside down.  You never saw the like.  I am tired of this
Cromwell business, I am that.  Phoebe was abusing him
roundly as she jugged the hare for supper, and I felt kindly
to her for it.  'You are a pack of time-serving turncoats,'
she was saying as I went into the kitchen; 'you would
drink as much ale to-morrow to King Charles as you have
drunk to-day to old Noll Cromwell.'  And as she was
stirring the pot, she did not know I was there, until I
answered, 'You speak God's truth, Phoebe!'  Then she
turned and said, 'I do, ma'am.  And for that matter, they
would drink to the devil, an he asked them with old
October!'  Then I stopped her saucy tongue.  But I don't
wonder at her temper—not a clean saucepan in the closets, and
men and maids off their heads with ale and Cromwell together."

"If Doctor Verity gives you any opportunity will you
speak about Cluny, mother?"

"You know I will.  He and others will, maybe, have
time for a word of kindness now.  I'm sure the last few
weeks have been past bearing—a nice mess the saints made
of everything—London out of its seven senses, and the
whole country screaming behind it; and the men who had
a little sense, not knowing which road to turn.  Now
Cromwell has got his way, there will be only Cromwell to
please, and surely a whole city full can manage that."

"I don't suppose he has ever thought of Cluny being so
long over time."

"Not he!  He has had things far closer to him to look
after."

"But now?"

"Now he will inquire after the lad.  Doctor Verity
must speak to him.  Dear Jane, do you suppose I don't see
how you are suffering?  I do, my girl, and I suffer with
you.  But even your father thinks we are worrying
ourselves for nothing.  He says Cluny will walk in some day
and tell his own story—nothing worse than a fit of ague or
fever, or even a wound from some street pad; perhaps a
heavy snowstorm, or the swampy Netherlands under water.
Men can't fight the elements, or even outwit them, dear.
Mother is with you, Jane, don't you doubt that," and she
stepped forward and clasped the girl to her breast, and
kissed the tears off her cheeks.  "Now drink your possett
and go to sleep; something may happen while you are
dreaming of it; the net of the sleeping fisherman takes just
as well—better maybe—than if he kept awake to watch it."

So Jane laid herself down and slept, and if her angel
came with a comforting thought or a happy vision, she
found herself in a spotless room, white as a bride chamber,
holding the scent of rosemary and roses from the pots on
the window-sills, and prophesying strength and comfort in
the Bible lying open at the forty-second and forty-third
Psalms—"Why art thou cast down, O my soul?  And
why art thou disquieted in me?  Hope thou in God; for I
shall yet praise Him for the help of His countenance."

Jane's supposition that Doctor Verity would be with her
father and that their talk would be only of Cromwell, was
correct.  Mrs. Swaffham found the two men smoking at
the fireside, and their conversation was of the Man and the
Hour.  She sat down weary and sleepy, so much so, that
she did not take the trouble to contradict Doctor Verity,
though he was making, in her opinion, a very foolish statement.

"If you only assert a thing strong enough and long
enough, Israel, you will convince the multitude.  To-day,
as I was passing Northumberland House, a party of
musketeers stopped there, and cried, '*God save the Lord
Protector!*' and the crowd asserted in the most positive manner
that the big lion on the house wagged its tail at the shout.
Every one believed it, and looked at the beast admiringly;
and I found it hard to keep my senses in the face
of such strong assertion.  Vain babble, but it took and
pleased."

"I am sorry for Oliver Cromwell.  Such a load as he
has shouldered!  Can he bear it?" said Israel.

"Through God's help, yes; and ten times over, yes!
He is a great man," answered the Doctor.

"I think more of measures than of men," continued
Israel.

"Very good.  But something depends on the men, just
as in a fire something depends on the grate," said the
Doctor.

"Who would have thought the man we knew at Huntingdon
and St. Ives had this man in him?  And what a
strange place for God to bring England's Deliverer out of.
No captain from the battle-field, no doctor out of the
colleges, but a gentleman farmer out of the corn market and
the sheep meadows of Sedgy Ouse.  'Tis wonderful
enough, Doctor."

"Great men, Israel, have always come from the most
unlikely places.  The desert and the wilderness, the
sheepfolds and threshing floors bred the judges and prophets of
Israel.  From the despised village of Nazareth came the
Christ.  From the hot, barren deserts of Arabia, came
Mahomet.  From the arid plains of Picardy, came Calvin.
From the misty, bare mountains of Scotland, came John
Knox, and from the fogs and swamps of the Fen country,
comes Oliver Cromwell.  So it is, and should be.  God
chooses for great men, not only the time, but the place of
their birth.  The strength of Cromwell's character is in
its mysticism, and this quality has been fed from its youth
up by the monotony of his rural life, by the sombre skies
above him, by his very house, which was like a deserted
cloister buried in big trees.  All those years Cromwell was
being forged and welded by spiritual influences into the
man of Naseby and Dunbar and Worcester—into the man
who stepped grandly to the throne we saw him mount to-day."

"One thing is sure: he will set free all godly men in
prison for conscience' sake—unless it be papists and
prelatists.  Yet 'tis hard to imprison men because they can't
agree about caps and surplices."

"Such talk does not go to the root of the matter, Israel.
Oliver, and men like him, look on papists and prelatists as
Amorites and Amalekites to be rooted out, and as disloyal
citizens to be coerced into obedience."

"I know papists that believe the Mass to be a holy
obligation.  They are sincere, Doctor; I know it."

"What of that, Israel?  A good Puritan cares no more
for their sincere opinions than the Jewish prophets cared
about the scruples of a conscientious believer in Baal.
Why should he?"

"Well, then, as to Episcopacy—a great number of Englishmen
love it; and you can't preach nor teach Episcopacy
out of them."

"Don't I know it?  Popery without the Pope, that is
what Englishmen want.  They love ceremonies dearly;
they love Episcopacy as they love Monarchy.  Queen
Elizabeth made an ordinance that at the name of Christ
every woman should curtsy and every man bare his head.
It went straight to the heart of England.  Men and women
loved Elizabeth for it, and bent their knees all the more
willingly to herself.  As for Cromwell, his zeal for the
Protestant religion will be the key to every act of his reign.
Take my word for it."

"Reign?"

"Yes, reign.  He is King, call him what you like."

"As ruler—King or Protector—over papists, will it be
right to hate them as bitterly as he does?"

"Right?  Yes, a thousand times right.  You must
remember what his education and experience have been.
From some who lived in Mary's reign he must have heard
how Ridley and Latimer and Cranmer were burned in the
streets of Oxford for their Protestantism.  The whole
awful history of Mary's reign was part of his education.
He may have heard from eye-witnesses of the scene in the
great square of Brussels when Horn and Egmont, champions
of the Protestant faith, were beheaded by Alva's bloody
Council.  The Armada sent to conquer England and force
on us by fire and sword the Catholic religion, was wrecked
on our shores by God Almighty, only eleven years before
Cromwell was born.  The Popish Gunpowder Plot to
blow up the King and the Parliament was discovered when
he was six years old.  Both of these last events were the
staple of fireside conversations, and would be told him in
wonderfully effective words by his grand-hearted mother,
and you may be sure they were burned into the heart of
the boy Oliver.  He was old enough to understand the
cruel murder of Henry by the Jesuits in Paris; he grew
into his manhood during the thirty years' war of Catholic
Europe against the Protestants.  When he first entered
Parliament, he was one of the Committee that investigated
the brutal treatment of Prynne, Doctor Bastwick and the
Rev. Mr. Burton.  I think, indeed, that he witnessed these
noble confessors pilloried and burned with hot irons and
deprived of their ears, because they would none of Laud's
surplices and mummeries.  And both you and I witnessed
his agonies of grief and anger at the frightful massacre by
Phelim O'Neil of one hundred thousand Protestants in
Ireland.  How can Cromwell help hating popery and
prelacy?  How can any of us help it?  Let us judge, not
according to outward appearance, but with righteous judgment.
Oliver will do his work, and he will do it well, and
then go to Him who sent him.  Verily, I believe he will
hear the 'Well done' of his Master."

"And then?"

"The Commonwealth will be over.  The soul of it will
have departed—can it live afterwards?"

"Think you that our labour and lives have been wasted?
No, no!  We will be free of kings forever; we have
written that compact with our blood."

"Not wasted, Israel, not wasted.  The Puritan government
may perish, the Puritan spirit will never die.  Before
these wars, England was like an animal that knew not its
own strength; she is now better acquainted with herself.
The people will never give up their Parliament and the
rights the Commonwealth has given them, and if kings
come back, they can be governed, as Davie Lindsey said,
by 'garring them ken, they have a lith in their necks——'"

"If I survive the Puritan government," said Israel, "I
will join the pilgrims who have gone over the great seas."

"I will go with you, Israel, but we will not call
ourselves 'pilgrims.'  No, indeed!  No men are less like
pilgrims than they who go, not to wander about, but to
build homes and cities and found republics in the land they
have been led to.  They are citizens, not pilgrims."

At these words Mrs. Swaffham, who had listened
between sleeping and waking, roused herself thoroughly.
"Israel," she said, "I will not go across seas.  It is not
likely.  Swaffham is our very own, and we will stay in
Swaffham.  And I do not think it is fair, or even loyal, in
you and Doctor Verity, on the very day you have made a
Protector for the Commonwealth to be prophesying its
end.  It is not right."

"It is very wrong, Martha, and you do well to reprove
us," said Doctor Verity.

"And talking of going across seas," she continued,
"reminds me of Cluny; neither of you seem to care about
him, yet our Jane is fretting herself sick, and you might
both of you see it."

"Tell Jane to be patient," said Doctor Verity.  "If
Cluny is not back by the New Year, I will go myself and
bring him back.  There is no need to fret; tell her that."

"Yet we must speak to Cromwell about the young
man," said Jane's father; "there has likely been some
letter or message from him, which in the hurry and trouble of
the last month has been forgotten.  You will see the
Protector to-morrow, speak to him."

"If it is possible, Israel.  But remember all is to
arrange and rearrange, order and reorder, men to put out of
office, and men to put into office.  The work before the
Protector is stupendous."

This opinion proved to be correct.  Day after day passed,
and no word concerning Cluny was possible; but about the
New Year a moment was found in which to name the
young man and wonder at his delay.  Cromwell appeared
to be startled.  "Surely there must have been some word
from him," he said.  "I think there has.  A letter must
have come; it has been laid aside; if so, there could have
been nothing of importance in it—no trouble, or I would
have been told.  Mr. Milton is fond of Lord Neville; so am
I, indeed I am, and I will have inquiry made without delay."

"Without delay" in government inquiries may mean
much time.  The accumulated papers and letters of a month
or more had to be examined, and when this was
accomplished, nothing had been found that threw any light on
Neville's detention.  Yet no anxiety was expressed.  Every
one had such confidence in the young man; he was accustomed
to the exigencies of travel, ready in resort, and brave
and wise in emergencies.  Cromwell made light of any
supposition affecting his safety, and there was nothing then
for Jane to do, but bear, and try to believe with those
supposed to know better than herself, that the difficulties of
winter travel in strange countries would easily account for
her lover's non-appearance.

Thus, sad with the slow sense of time, and with grief
void and dark, Jane passed the weary days.  The world
went on, her heart stood still.  Yet it was in these sorrowful
days, haunted by uncertain presentiments, that she first
felt the Infinite around her.  It was then that she began to
look for comfort from within the veil, and to listen for
some answering voice from the other life, because in this
life there was none.  Outside of these consolations she
had only a bewildering fear, and she would have wept and
worried her beauty away, had there not dwelt in her pure
soul the perennial youth of silent worship.  But this
constantly renovating power was that fine flame of spiritual
light in which physical beauty refines itself to the burning
point.  The greatest change was in her manner; a slight
cold austerity had taken the place of her natural
cheerfulness—this partly because she thought there was a want of
sympathy in all around her, and partly because only by
this guarded composure could she maintain that tearless
reticence she felt necessary to her self-respect.  Nevertheless,
through her faith, her innocence, her high thought and
her laborious peace, she set her feet upon a rock.

One crisp, sunny morning in January she suddenly resolved
to make some inquiries herself.  It was not an easy
thing to do; all her education and all conventional feeling
were against a girl taking such a step.  But the misery of a
grief not sure is very great, and Jane believed that her
direct inquiries might be of some avail.  She went first to
Jevery House.  Sir Thomas had a financial interest in
Lord Neville's return, and it was likely he had made
investigations, if no one else had.  She expected to find him in
his garden, and she was not disappointed; wrapped in furs,
he was walking up and down the flagged pathway leading
from the gates to the main door of the mansion.  He was
finding a great deal of pleasure in the green box borders
and the fresh brown earth which, he said to Jane, was
"nourishing and cherishing his lilies and daffodils.  You
must come again in three weeks, Jane," he added; "and
perhaps you will see them putting out their little green
fingers."  Jane answered, "Yes, sir;" but immediately
plunged into the subject so near her.

"Have you heard anything about Lord Neville, Sir
Thomas?" she asked.  "I must tell you that he is my
lover; we were betrothed with my parents' consent, and I
am very, very unhappy at his long delay."

"So am I," answered Sir Thomas.  "I sent a trusty
man to The Hague, and it seems Lord Neville collected the
money due me there, six weeks ago.  A singular circumstance
in this connection is that he refused a note on the
Leather Merchants' Guild of this city, and insisted on
being paid in gold, and was so paid.  Now, Jane, a
thousand sovereigns are not easily carried,—and—and——"

"Well, sir?  Please go on."

"A ship left that night for the Americas—for the Virginia
Colony."

"But Lord Neville did not go to America.  Oh, no, sir!
That is an impossible thought."

"Well, then, there is this alternative: the merchant who
paid him the money died a few days afterwards of smallpox.
Was there infection in the money?  Did Lord Neville take
the smallpox and die?"

"But if he had been sick he would have known the
danger, and written some letter and provided for the safety
of the property in his charge.  He knew many people in
The Hague.  This supposition is very unlikely."

"Why did he insist on the gold?  This is the thing that
troubles me."

"Who says he insisted on gold?"

"The widow of the man who paid it."

"She may have been mistaken.  She may herself be
dishonest.  The money may never have been paid at all.  I
do not believe it has been paid.  Did your trusty man see
Lord Neville's quittance?"

"I have not thought of that, Jane.  I was troubled at
the story, and accepted it as it was given.  It was too
painful and suspicious to examine."

"For that reason it must be sifted to the very bottom.
That Dutch widow has the money, doubtless.  Did your
messenger ask her to describe Lord Neville?  Did he ask
her any particulars of the interview?  It is easy to say the
thousand pounds were paid.  I do not believe her."

"Well, my little mistress, your faith infects me.  I will
send again to The Hague."

"Yes, sir, and let your messenger ask to see Lord
Neville's quittance.  Cluny did not receive from any one a
thousand pounds without an acknowledgment of the
payment.  Let the woman show it."

"You are right.  I will make further inquiries at once."

"To-day, sir?  Please, to-day, sir."

"I will send a man to The Hague to-day."

"Thank you, Sir Thomas.  Can I now see Lady Jevery
and Lady Matilda?"

"My dear, they are both at de Wick.  A week ago my
niece received a letter from the man who bought the estate.
He urged them to come and see him.  He said he had not
long to live, and that before he went away he had some
most important intelligence, vitally affecting the de Wicks,
to communicate.  My niece thought it prudent, even
necessary, to make the visit; and Lady Jevery went with her.
In a couple of weeks I shall go for them."

"But before you go——"

"I have said 'to-day,' Mistress Jane.  I will keep my
promise.  Why do you not see the Protector?  He was
fond of the young man; he believed in him."

She only answered, "Yes, sir," and then adding, "Good-morning,
sir," she turned to go.  Her face was so white
and so full of hopeless disappointment, he could not endure
to keep its memory a moment.  Hastening after her, he
said, "My dear little mistress, I am certain of one
thing—if there is any wrong about this matter it is not Lord
Neville's fault, it is his misfortune."

She received this acknowledgment with a grateful smile,
yet her whole appearance was so wretched Sir Thomas
could not rid himself of her unhappy atmosphere.  His walk
was spoiled; he went into his private room and smoked a
pipe of Virginia, but all his thoughts set themselves to one
text: "There are many sorrowful things in life, but the
hardest of all is loving."





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.. _`HOLD THOU MY HANDS`:

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   CHAPTER XII


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   HOLD THOU MY HANDS

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   |  "Hold Thou my hands:
   |  In grief and joy, in hope and fear,
   |  Lord let me feel that Thou art near;
   |  Hold Thou my hands."

.. vspace:: 2

There are two ways to manage a day that begins badly;
we may give the inner man or woman control, and permit
them to compel events; or we may retire until unpropitious
influences have passed us by.  It is perhaps only in
extremes the first alternative is taken; usually the soul
prefers withdrawal.  Jane felt that it was useless for her to
attempt a visit to the Protector that day, and she hastened
to the covert of her home.  Her mother's kind face met
her at the threshold, and the commonplace domestic
influences of the set dinner-table, and the busy servants,
recalled her thoughts from their sad and profitless
wandering among possible and impossible calamities.

Mrs. Swaffham had a letter in her hand, and she said as
soon as she saw her daughter, "What do you think, Jane?
Cymlin has got his discharge, and instead of coming
here, he has gone to Swaffham.  And he says Will and
Tonbert are in the mind to join a party of men who will
pay a visit to the Massachusetts Colony; and Cymlin says
it is a good thing, and that he will stay at Swaffham and
keep everything up to collar."

"I was at Jevery House, mother," said Jane, "and
Lady Jevery and Matilda are gone to de Wick."

"Never!  That accounts for Cymlin's being so thoughtful
for Swaffham.  Reasons for all things, Jane, and some
woman at the bottom of all.  I am sorrier than I can tell
you.  Matilda will take her sport out of Cymlin, and leave
him with a laugh.  I know her.  I will write to Cymlin
this night."

"But why, mother?  You can do no good.  A word, a
look from Matilda, and a fig for all advices!"  Then she
told her mother of Anthony Lynn's message, and they
talked awhile of its probable meaning, Mrs. Swaffham
being of the opinion that Lynn's conscience was troubling
him, and that he wanted, as far as he was able, to
propitiate the de Wicks.

"You see," she said, "it is not only the living de
Wicks, Jane, there is a powerful gathering of the family on
the other side.  And the late Earl was very good to Anthony.
From his boyhood he was fostered by the de Wicks, and
then to think of his buying out the young Earl and Matilda!"

"If he had not bought out de Wick, somebody else
would; and perhaps the de Wicks would rather have an
old retainer there than some unknown stranger," said Jane.

"It is hard to tell what the dead like, and how they feel;
but it is a wise thing to treat every one in this world so that
you won't be afraid to meet them in the next world.  I
wouldn't wonder if Anthony Lynn felt a bit afraid to meet
Earl Marmaduke; anyway, he ought to be ashamed.
Anthony was always known for a prudent man; he is
going to make his peace at the gates of death, for fear of
what is beyond them."

"I do not know.  Sir Thomas offered no opinion; and
he said some cruel things about Cluny, though he followed
me to unsay them."

Then Jane told her mother what suspicions evidently
existed in the mind of Sir Thomas, and Mrs. Swaffham
laughed at their absurdity, and was then angry at their
injustice; and finally she sent Jane up-stairs to dress for
dinner in a much more hopeful and worldlike temper.  This
day was followed by a week of wretched weather.  Jane
could do nothing but wait.  Her soul, however, had reached
its lowest depth of despondence during her visit to Sir
Thomas Jevery, and on reviewing it, she felt as if she had
betrayed her inner self—let a stranger look at her grief and
see her faint heart, and suspect that she, also, had a doubt
of her lover.  She was mortified at her weakness, and fully
resolved when she visited Cromwell, to show him the heart
of a fearless woman—brave, because she doubted neither
God nor man.

It was, however, the month of March before this visit
could be made.  The bad weather was the precursor of a bad
cold, and then she had to consider the new domestic
arrangements of the Cromwell family.  The royal apartments
in Whitehall and in the palace of Hampton Court were
being prepared for the Protector's family, and Jane knew
from her father's reports, as well as from her own acquaintance
with her Highness and her daughters, that all the
changes made would be of the utmost interest to them.
She was averse either to intrude on their joy or to have
them notice her anxiety.

But one exquisite morning in March she heard General
Swaffham say that the Cromwell ladies were going to
Hampton Court.  The Protector would then be alone in
Whitehall, and she might see him without having to share
her confidences with the family.  She prepared a note
asking for an interview, and then called on Mr. Milton and
induced him to go with her to the palace and deliver it into
Cromwell's hand.  In her simplicity she considered this
little plan to be a very wise one, and so it proved.
Mr. Milton had no difficulty in reaching the Protector, who, as
soon as he read Jane's appeal, was ready to receive her.
She had been much troubled about this audience, how she
was to behave, and with what words she should address
Cromwell, but her fear left her as soon as the door closed,
and she was alone with her old friend.

"Jane," he said kindly, "Jane, what is the trouble?"

"It is Lord Neville, sir.  Nothing has been heard of
him, and I wish to tell you what Sir Thomas Jevery said."  She
did so, and Cromwell listened with a smile of incredulity.
"We know Neville better than that," he answered.
"It would be a great wonder if he should think of America,
Jane.  Would a man in his senses leave you, and his
estate, and his good friends and good prospects to go into the
wilderness?  Truly he would not.  His home and land in
Fife are worth more than Jevery's gold and jewels, and I
do think my favour may count for something.  And more
than these things there is your love.  You do love him,
Jane?"

"Better than my life, your Highness."

"And he loves you?"

"Indeed, I am most certain of it."

"When did you hear last from him?"

Jane had expected this question and she offered Cromwell
Cluny's last letter, and asked him to read it.  He read
it aloud, letting his voice become sweet and tender as he
did so.

.. vspace:: 2

"My dearest and most honoured mistress, I am just on
the moment of leaving Paris; my horse is at the door; but
by a messenger that will come more directly than myself, I
send you a last word from this place.  My thoughts
outreach all written words.  I am with you, my own dear one,
in all my best moments, and my unchangeable love salutes
you.  Graciously remember me in your love and prayers.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent

   "CLUNY NEVILLE."

.. vspace:: 2

"A good letter, Jane.  I do think the man that wrote it
is beyond guile, beyond dishonour of any kind.  I will not
hear a doubt of him.  I will not——"  With these words
he rose, and taking Jane's hand in his, he began to walk
with her, up and down the room.  His clasp was so hot
and tight she could have cried out, but glancing into his
face she saw it was only the physical expression of thoughts
he did not care to give words to.  In a few minutes he
touched a bell, and when it was answered said, "Mr. Tasburg
to my presence—without delay."  Mr. Tasburg came
without delay, and Cromwell turned to him in some passion.

"Mark Tasburg," he said scornfully, "I know not
whether you have been alive or dead.  I have not once
heard from you in the matter of Lord Neville's delay; I
have not, and that you know.  The commission for your
search is more than a month old; it is, sir; and I like not
such delays.  I will not have them."

"My Lord Protector, I reported to Mr. Thurloe and
Mr. Milton that my search had been of no avail."

"Who gave you the order to make this search?"

"Your Highness."

"Did I give you an order to report to Mr. Thurloe or
Mr. Milton?  Did I?"

"No, your Highness."

"See, then, what you have taken upon yourself.  Be not
so forward again, or you may go back to St. Ives and make
clay pipes.  What date does Lord Neville's last letter
bear?"

"It was written at Paris on the eleventh day of November."

"The same date as your last letter, Mistress Swaffham.
Four months ago.  This is serious."  Then turning to
Tasburg he said, "Find Colonel Ayrton and send him here,
to me, without delay."

During the interval between Tasburg's departure and
Ayrton's arrival, Cromwell was occupied in writing a letter,
and when it was finished, Colonel Ayrton entered.

"Colonel," he said, "I think you know Lord Cluny Neville?"

"Your Highness, I know him well.  His mother was
my fifth cousin."

"He has disappeared, I do fear, in some unfortunate
way.  On the eleventh of last November he left Paris,
after despatching the business he was sent on with Cardinal
Mazarin.  No one has heard of him since.  He was going
to The Hague, but whether by land or water, does not
appear.  I have written to his Eminence, the Cardinal; here
is the letter, and if his reply be not to the point, go next to
the lodging of Lord Neville, and from there follow his
steps as closely as it may be in your power.  The treasurer
will honour this order for your expenses.  Waste no time.
Be prudent with your tongue.  Say not all your mind, and
send me some tidings with all convenient speed."

"I am a willing messenger, your Highness.  I am
bound to my cousin by many kind ties, and I have been
most uneasy at his silence and absence."

"Farewell, then, and God go with you."

He waited until the door closed, and then he said, "I
owe you this and more, Jane; and I like the youth—a
dear, religious youth, of a manly spirit and a true heart.
He was always counted fortunate, for in all our battles he
went shot free.  I wish, I do wish, we could hear of him!
And you love him, Jane?  And he loves you.  My heart
aches for both of you; it does indeed.  But I think I can
do somewhat in this matter, and truly I will use my
endeavour.  Why does he not come?  What can have
hindered him?" he cried impatiently as if to himself.

"Oh, sir, he is sick or wounded—perhaps at death's
door in some poor man's cottage, in some lonely place far
from help or friends," and here Jane burst into passionate
weeping.

"You must not, you must not cry, Jane; I beg it as a
favour—not in the sight of men and women.  Tears are
for the Father of spirits.  Retire to Him who is a sure
resting-place, and there weep your heart empty; for He
can, and He will wipe all tears away.  As for your dear
lord and lover, he is within God's knowledge, and if God
saves souls, surely He can save bodies."

"It is four months, sir.  'Tis beyond my hope; and I
fear Cluny is now beyond human help."

"Well, then, Jane, we will trust to the miraculous.  We
do not do that enough, and so when our poor help is not
sufficient, we tremble.  Where is the hope and trust you
sent to me when I lay between life and death in Scotland?
Oh, what poor creatures we are, when we trust in
ourselves! nothing then but tears and fears and the grave to
end all.  But I confess I never expected Jane Swaffham
to be down in the mire.  Jane knows she is the daughter
of the everlasting, powerful, infinite, inscrutable God
Almighty; she knows this God is also one of goodness and
mercy and truth without end, to those who love Him.
You love Him, you do love Him?"

"I have loved Him ever since I could speak His Holy
Name.  But He never now answers me; when I pray to
Him the heavens seem to let my prayers fall back to me.
Has He forgotten me?"

"Jane, Jane, oh, Jane!  What a question for you to
ask!  I could chide you for it.  Have you forgotten the
teaching of your Bible, and your catechism, of your good
pastor, John Verity, and your father and mother?  Do you
believe for one moment that God has any abortive children?
He has not.  He is the father of such souls as,
according to His appointment, come to perfection.  If you
have ever, for one moment, felt the love of the Ineffable
Nameless One, I do assure you it is a love for all eternity!
It is, Jane, it is, surely.  He does not love and withdraw;
no, no; we may deserve to be denied, we may deserve to
be abandoned, but just because it is so, He seeks and He
saves the children lost, or in danger."  And then he
stooped and dried her eyes with his kerchief, and seating
her on a sofa, he brought a glass of wine, and said,

"Drink, my dear; and as you drink, ask for strength no
juice of earthly fruit can give.  Do not pray for this thing,
or that thing; if you will say only, 'Thy will be done,'
you will find mercy at need; you will indeed.  I do know it."

"All is so dark, sir."

"And will be, till He says, 'Let there be light.'  I
scruple not to say this."

"Oh, sir, what shall I do?  What shall I do?"

"Put a blank into God's hand, and tell Him to fill it as
He chooses—Cluny or no Cluny, love, or death of love, joy
or sorrow, just what He wills.  In my judgment this is the
way of Peace.  Do you think, Jane, that I have chosen the
path I now walk in?  I have not, God knows it.  God
knows I would be a far happier man with my flocks in the
Ouse meadows; I would, I say what is in my heart.  Is
this greatness laid on me for my glory and honour?  Truly,
it is only labour and sorrow.  If I did not find mercy and
strength at need, I should faint and utterly fail under the
burden, for indeed I am the burden-bearer of all England
this day.  I need pity, I do need it; I need God's pity,
yes, and human pity also."

There was the shadow of unshed tears in his sad, gray
eyes, and an almost childlike pathos in his dropped head.
Jane could not bear it.  She stroked and kissed his big
hand, and her tears fell down upon it.  "I will go home,"
she said softly, "and pray for you.  I will not pray for
myself, but for you.  I will ask God to stand at your right
hand and your left hand, to beset you behind and before,
and to lay His comforting, helping hand upon you.  And
you must not lose heart, sir, under your burden, because
many that were with you have gone against you, or because
there are constant plots to take your life.  There is the
ninetieth Psalm.  It is yours, sir."

And Cromwell's face shone, and he spoke in an ecstasy,
"Truly, truly, he that dwelleth in the secret place of the
Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.
How did David reach that height, Jane?"

"He was taught of God, sir."

"I am sure of that.  I will say of the Lord, He is my
refuge and my fortress; my God, in Him will I trust—thou
shalt not be afraid for the terror by night, nor for the
arrow that flieth by day—He shall give His angels charge
over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways."

"My dear lord, is not that sufficient?" and Jane's face
was now full of light, and she forgot her fears, and her
sorrow was lifted from her.  She found a strange courage,
and the words were put into her mouth, so that she must
needs say them:

"It is most true, our Protector, that you have a great
burden, but are you not glad of heart that God looked down
from heaven, and seeing poor England bound and suffering,
chose you—you, from out of tens of thousands of
Englishmen—and called you from your sheep and oxen and
wheat-fields, and said unto you, '*Oliver Cromwell, free My
people*,' and then so filled your heart with the love of
freedom that you could not help but answer, '*Here am I,
Lord*.'  The other night I listened to some heavenly
discourse from Doctor Verity, and he said that from
henceforth, every flying fold of our English flag would
have but one spoken word for all nations, and that word
*Freedom*.  Some may be ungrateful, but your faith and
valour and labour for England will never be forgotten.
Never!"

Her face gathered colour and light beyond the colour and
light of mere flesh and blood as she spoke, and Cromwell's
reflected it.  He was "in the spirit," as this childlike
woman with prescient vision prophesied for him, and looking
far, far off into the future, as one seeing things
invisible, he answered confidently—

"I know, and I am sure, Jane, that time will be the seal
to my faithfulness.  I know, and I am sure, that my name
shall mix with every thought and deed of Freedom, even in
lands now unknown, and in ages yet to come.  Then,
brave freemen shall say in my ears, 'Well done my son.'  And
shall not the dead ears hear?  They shall.  Indeed
they shall!  I know, and am sure, Jane, that English
speaking men will take in trust, not only my name, but the
names of all who, with me, held their lives less than
Freedom, and gave them a burnt-offering and blood sacrifice
without price or grudging.  These men dying, mixed their
breath and names with Freedom's, and they shall live
forever.  For this is the truth, Jane: thrones shall fall and
nations pass away, but death has no part in Freedom."

And as he spoke, his words rang and sounded like music,
and stirred the blood like a trumpet; and Jane's face was
lifted to the rough, glorified visage of the warrior and the
seer, who saw yet afar off his justification, saw it in the
Red Cross of St. George flying over land and sea, and
carrying in all its blowing folds only one glorious
word—"FREEDOM."

In such moments Cromwell's spirit walked abreast of
angels; he looked majestic, he spoke without pause or
ambiguity, and with an heroic dictation that carried conviction
rather than offense, for it had nothing personal in it, and
it suited him just as hardness suits fine steel.

In this enthusiasm of national feeling, Jane forgot her
personal grief, and as she went homeward, she kept
repeating to herself Cromwell's parting words, "Don't doubt,
Jane.  God nor man nor nature can do anything for
doubters.  They cannot."  She understood what was included
in this advice, and she tried to realise it.  The moment
Mrs. Swaffham saw her daughter, she took notice of the
change in her countenance and speech and manner, and she
said to herself, "Jane has been with Oliver Cromwell.  No
one else could have so influenced her."  And very soon
Jane told her all that had been done and said, and both
women tried to assure themselves that a few more weeks
of patience would bring them that certainty which is so
much easier to bear than suspense.  For the very hope of
suspense is cruel, but in the face of a sorrow, sure and
known, the soul erects herself and finds out ways and
means to mitigate or to bear it.

States of enthusiasm, however, do not last; and they are
not often to be desired.  The disciples after the glory of
Mount Tabor were not able to go with Christ up Calvary.
Jane felt the very next day that she had mentally
promised herself to do more than she was able to perform.
She could not forget Cluny, or put in his place any less
selfish object; and though the days came laden with
strange things, she did not take the fervid interest in
public events her father and mother did.  For there are in
nature points of view where a cot can blot out a mountain,
and on our moral horizons a personal event can put a
national revolution in the background.  In the main, she
carried a loving, steadfast heart, that waited in patience,
sometimes even in hope; but there were many days when
her life seemed to be tied in a knot, and when fear and
sorrow crept like a mist over it.  For there was nothing
for her to do; she could only wait for the efforts of others,
and she longed rather for the pang of personal conflict.
But human beings without these tidal fluctuations are not
interesting; people who always pursue the "even tenor of
their way" leave us chilled and dissatisfied; we prefer that
charm of uncertain expectation, which, with all its
provocations, made Matilda dear and delightful to Jane, and
Jane perennially interesting, even to those who did not
think as she thought or do as she did.

At length April came, and the bare brown garden was
glorious with the gold and purple of the crocus flowers and
the moonlight beauty of the lilies.  Birds were building in
the hedges, and the sun shone brightly overhead.  The
spirit of spring was everywhere; men and boys went
whistling along the streets, the watermen were singing in
their barges, and a feeling of busy content and security
pervaded London, and, indeed, all England.

Suddenly, this atmosphere of cheerful labour and abounding
hope was filled with terror and with a cry of murder,
of possible war and another struggle for liberty.  A gigantic
plot for the assassination of the Protector was discovered—that
is, it was discovered to the people; Cromwell himself
had been aware of its first inception, and had watched it
grow to its shameful maturity.  He had seen the wavering
give it aid, and those who were his professed friends, strike
hands with those pledged to strike him to the heart.  Two
months previously he had retired a number of foolish
Royalist officers, broken to pieces their silly plans, and
given them their lives; but this drama of assassination
came from Charles Stuart and Prince Rupert, and from the
headquarters of royalty in the French capital.  Its
programme in Charles' name giving "liberty to any man
whatsoever, in any way, to destroy the life of the base mechanic
fellow, Oliver Cromwell," had been in Cromwell's possession
from the time of its printing, and he knew not only
every soul connected with the plot, but also the day and
the hour and the very spot in which, and on which, his life
was to be taken.  But to the city of London the arrest of
forty conspirators in their midst, was a shock that
suspended for a time all their business.

Israel Swaffham was the first person called into the
Protector's presence.  He found him in great sorrow, sorrow
mingled with a just indignation.  Standing by the long
table in the Council Chamber, he struck it violently with
his clenched hand as he pointed out to Israel the
personalities of the conspirators.  At one name he paused, and
with his finger upon it, looked into Israel's face.  And as
iron struck by iron answers the blow, so Israel answered
that sorrowful, inquiring gaze.

"It is a burning shame," he said angrily.  "You have
pardoned and warned and protected him for years."

"I must even now do what I can; I must, Israel, for
his father's sake.  A warrant will be issued to-night, and I
cannot stay that; and personally I cannot warn him of it.
Israel, you remember his father?"

"Yes, a noble, upright man as ever England bred."

"You and he and I fought some quarrels out for our
country together."

"We did."

"And this son is the last of the name.  He played with
my boys."

"And with mine."

"They went fishing and skating together."

"Yes; I know."

"One day I saved this man's life.  He was a little lad,
twelve years or about it, and he went through the ice.  At
some risk I saved him, and he rode home behind me; I can
feel, as I speak, his long childish arms around my waist;
I can indeed, Israel.  These are the thorns of power and
office.  On these tenter-hooks I hang my very heart every
day.  What am I to do?"

"My dear lord, do nothing.  I can do all you wish.
There needs no more words between us.  In two hours
Abel Dewey—you know Abel—will be on the road.
Nothing stops Dewey.  Give him a good horse and he
will so manage himself and the beast as to reach his
journey's end in twenty-four hours."

"But charge him about the good horse, Israel.  These
poor animals—they have almost human troubles and
sicknesses."

Israel then went quickly home.  He called Jane and
explained to her in a few words what she was to do; and by
the time her letter to Matilda was ready, Abel Dewey was
at the door waiting for it.  Its beginning and ending was
in the ordinary strain of girls' letters, but in the centre
there were some ominous words, rendered remarkable by the
large script used, and by the line beneath them—"I must
tell you there has been a great plot against the Protector
discovered.  Charles Stuart and Prince Rupert are the head
and front of the same, but there is a report that Stephen de
Wick is not behindhand, and my father did hear that a
warrant was out for Stephen, and hoped he would reach
French soil, ere it reached him.  And I said I thought
Stephen was in France; and father answered, 'Pray God
so; if not, he cannot be there too soon if he would not
have his head off on Tower Hill.'"  Then the letter went
on to speak of the removal of the Protector's family to
Hampton Court palace, and of the signing of the Dutch
peace, and the banquet given to the Dutch Ministers.  "I
was at the table of the Lady Protectoress," she said, "and
many great people were present, but the Protector seemed
to enjoy most the company of the Rev. Mr. Wheelwright,
who was the only one who could beat the Protector at
football when they were at college together.  Some New
England Puritans also were there, and I heard with much
pleasure about their cities in the wilderness; and
Mr. Thurloe smoked and said nothing; and Mr. John Milton
played some heavenly music, and lastly we all sung in parts
Mr. Milton's fine piece, '*The Lord has been our
dwelling-place*.'  Ladies Mary and Frances Cromwell were
beautifully dressed, but the Lady Elizabeth Claypole is the light
of Whitehall."

At these words Jane stopped.  "Do I not know," she
asked herself, "how Matilda will have flung away my letter
before this?  And if not, with what scorn she will treat
'the light of Whitehall'?"  And these reflections so
chilled her memories, that she hasted to sign her name
and close the letter.  Abel Dewey was ready for it; and
as she watched him ride away, her thoughts turned to de
Wick, and she wondered in what mood Matilda might be,
and how she would receive the information sent her.  Would
it be a surprise?

"Not it," answered Mrs. Swaffham.  "Matilda knows
all about the plot; that is most certain; but its discovery
may be news to her, and if so, she will not thank you for
it, Jane.  Why will she burn herself with fire not on her
hearthstone?"

"Prince Rupert is her lover.  She will do anything he
desires her to do."

"If he truly loved her, he would not permit her to be put
in danger."

"We do not know all, mother."

"That is the truth, Jane.  We know very little about
ourselves, let alone our friends.  Doctor Verity would say
to us, 'Judge not; every man's shoes must be made on his
own last.'"

Then Jane smiled, and the smile filled the silence like
a spell.  Mrs. Swaffham went out of the room, and soon
afterwards Doctor Verity came in, asking cheerily as he
entered, "How is it with you to-day, Jane?"

"I live as best I can, Doctor.  I watch from the morning
to the midnight for a footstep that does not come."

"There is a desire that fulfils itself by its own energy,
but this desire is born of unfailing Hope, and of that
unfaltering Faith that can move mountains.  Have you got it,
Jane?"

"I am so weak, Doctor John.  Pray for me."

"Pray for yourself.  Why should any one pray for you?
Pray for yourself, though it be only to say, with the old
Acadians, '*Hold Thou my hands!*'  When you were a
baby, and were fretful and restless, then your mother held
your hands.  That steadied you.  You were not used to
the whirling earth, or you had that sense of falling into the
void all babies have, and you trembled and cried out in
your fear, and then your mother instinctively held your
little hands in hers, and you felt their clasp strong as the
everlasting hills, and went peacefully to sleep.  Go to God
in the same way, Jane; you are only a little babe in His
sight; a little babe crying in the vast void and darkness, and
trying to catch hold of something to which you may cling.
Say to the Father of your spirit, '*Hold my hands!*'"

And she rose and kissed him for his sweet counsel, and
that night, and many a night afterwards, she fell asleep
whispering, "*Hold Thou my hands*."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHANGES AT DE WICK`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   CHANGES AT DE WICK

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  "Friendship, of itself a holy tie,
   |  Is made more sacred by adversity."
   |
   |  "A form of senseless clay—the leavings of a soul."

.. vspace:: 2

When Matilda received Anthony Lynn's letter, she was
immediately certain that the old man's conscience troubled
him in the presence of death, and that he wished to return
de Wick to its rightful owners.  Sir Thomas and Lady
Jevery were of the same opinion.  "He can leave the
estate to you, Matilda," said Sir Thomas; "you have never
been 'out' for either Stuart, and the Commonwealth takes
no action on private opinions, only on overt acts.  Stephen
is barred, but Lynn can leave de Wick to you, and having
neither kith nor kin, I think he ought to do so.  He owes
everything to your father's help and favour."

This idea took entire possession of Matilda; she thought
it a duty to her family to answer the request of Anthony
Lynn favourably.  It had been a surprise to her, and there
were more surprises to follow it.  As soon as Lady Jevery
and her niece arrived at the gates of de Wick, they were
confronted with a remarkable change in the appearance of
the place.  The great iron gates had been painted and
rehung; the stone griffins that ornamented the posts had felt
the stone-cutter's chisel in all their parts, and been restored
to their proper shape and position.  The wide walks were
free of weeds, freshly graveled and raked, and the grass of
the chase was in perfect order.  There were plenty of deer,
also, though Matilda knew well all the deer had disappeared
long before her father's death.

As they came close to the house, they saw the flower
garden aglow with spring flowers and in such fine order as
would have satisfied even Sir Thomas Jevery.  Anthony
Lynn stood at the door to meet them.  He looked ill and
frail, but hardly like death, and when he witnessed the
delight of the ladies at the changes made in de Wick, his face
grew almost young in its pleasure.  Every room in the
house was a fresh surprise; for though all that was
venerable through age of family association, and all that was
valuable and beautiful had been preserved, yet so much of
modern splendour and worth had been mingled with the old
that the rooms were apparently newly furnished.  Magnificent
draperies of velvet, chairs covered with Spanish leather
stamped in gold, carpets of richest quality, pictures by rare
masters, Venetian mirrors and glassware, all that a luxurious
and lavish taste could imagine and desire, were gathered
with fitting and generous profusion in the ancient rooms of
de Wick.  Anthony Lynn accompanied the ladies through
the house, finding a fresh and continual joy in their
exclamations of delight; and Matilda, filled with astonishment
at the exquisite daintiness of the suite called the "Lady
Matilda's Rooms," said enthusiastically,

"Mr. Lynn, no man could better deserve to be lord of
de Wick than you.  And seeing that the de Wicks had to
leave their ancient home, I am glad it has fallen to
you—and I am sure my father is glad, also."

Then the old man burst into that thin, cold passion of
weeping so significant of age, and so pitiful in its helplessness.
"It is your father's doing, Lady Matilda," he sobbed.
"It is my dear lord's wisdom.  Pardon me now.  This
evening I will tell you all."  He went away with these words,
and the two women looked at each other in amazement.

In the evening he came to them.  They were sitting by
the fire in the now magnificently furnished great salon, and
he asked permission to place his chair between them.
Matilda made room for him, and when he had sat down and
placed his terribly thin hand on its arm, she laid her lovely
young hand upon his; and he looked into her face with
that adoring affection which is often seen in the eyes of a
favourite mastiff.

"When these dreadful wars first began," he said, "Earl
de Wick foresaw their ending; and after Marston Moor he
said to me, 'I know this man, Oliver Cromwell, and there
is none that will stand against him.  It is my duty to save
de Wick; will you help me?'  And I said to him, 'My
dear lord, I owe you all I am, and all I have.'  Then we
had many long talks, and it was agreed that I should join
the Puritan party, that I should pretend a disapproval of
the Earl and his ways—but a disapproval tempered with
regret—so that men might not suspect my opposition.  The
King was even then sending to de Wick for money, and I
was supposed to supply it on the de Wick silver and
valuables.  In reality, the Earl sent these things to my care,
and he himself gave the gold.  For in those years he had
much specie, the result of his trading partnership with Sir
Thomas Jevery.  The silver, the old pictures, the fine
tapestries, and Eastern pottery all came to my home in
St. Ives.  People said unkind things of me, but my dear lord
loved me.  Then there came a time when de Wick was
bare, and the King still wanted money.  And the Earl
promised to borrow from me one thousand pounds, in
consideration of letters royal making the Lady Matilda
Countess de Wick in her own right, if her brother Stephen
had no heirs of his body.  His Majesty being in great
straits, readily granted the request, and the proper papers
were made.  And I looked well to it that no necessary
formality was lacking, and the thousand pounds were paid, not
by me, but by Earl de Wick.  His store was then gone,
but he had secured the succession of de Wick in his own
blood and name; for you will see, my dear lady, if ever
you have to assume this title, when you marry, your
husband must take the name of de Wick."

"But if I never marry any one?"

"Oh, that is an impossible contingency!  You would
owe that debt to all the de Wicks that ever lived and died;
and you would pay it, whether you liked to, or not."

"Yes, I should," she answered promptly.

"Here are the papers relating to your succession," he
continued; "and here are those relating to my trust in the
matter of the de Wick silver and valuables.  They are all
now in their proper places, and when I go to my old friend,
I can tell him so.  When he was dying, he said to me,
'Anthony, the next move will be the sale of de Wick house
and lands.  Stephen is already outcast, but I have given
you the money to buy it.  Let no one outbid you.  Keep
it in your own care until my King comes back to his throne,
and my children to their home.'  I bought de Wick for
seven hundred pounds less than the money entrusted to me
for its purchase.  The balance is here at your hand.  The
only contingency not provided for, was my death, and as I
know that is speedily certain, I wish your promise that
these papers be placed in Sir Thomas Jevery's charge.  I
know it is what my lord would advise."

Matilda took the papers silently.  Her father's loving
thoughtfulness and Anthony's loving fidelity, affected her
deeply.  Lady Jevery was weeping, and the old man himself
raised a face wet with tears to Matilda.  She stooped
and kissed him.  She promised all he asked.  "But," she
added, "you have made no mention of the refurnishing of
the house, nor yet of the money that must have been spent
on the garden and chase."

"That outlay was my own little pleasure," he answered.
"It has made the long, lonely months here full of hope.  I
always thought I knew how to make a great house look like
a great house should look;" and with pardonable pride he
added, "I think you both liked it."

He found in their hearty admiration all the recompense
he wished.  "You will let me die here?" he asked,
"here, where my old friend died? you will let me sit in his
chair, and die in his bed?  It is all I ask, unless you will
stay awhile and brighten my last days."

The favours asked were affectionately granted, and
Matilda virtually became mistress of her old home.  Anthony
was seldom seen, but Stephen de Wick came and went,
and brought with him men whose names were not spoken,
and whose business meant much more than the packs of
cards which appeared to be all they cared for.  In fact,
Matilda was soon neck deep in Prince Rupert's plot, and
there was no doubt in her mind that the month of May
would end the life of Oliver Cromwell, and bring the King
to his throne and the de Wicks to their earldom.

She was sitting, one afternoon, talking to Stephen about
advices he had just received from his confederates in
London, when a servant entered.  "My lady," he said, "here
has come a man with a letter, which he will deliver to none
but you."  Matilda's first thought was, "It is some
private word from Rupert;" and she ordered the messenger
to her presence at once.  When she saw it was Jane's
writing, she was much annoyed.  "I will wager it is some
bad news, or it had not come through this gate," she said;
and she opened the letter with angry reluctance.  Hastily
she glanced over the lines, until she came to the discovery
of the plot.

"Oh, indeed, here is the burden of Jane Swaffham!"
she cried in a passion.  "We are discovered.  All is
known—all has been known from the very first.  Stephen,
you are in instant danger.  You must away at once."

"I do not believe it."

"Fool!  How else could Jane have sent this word?
She says Cromwell has known it from its beginning.  The
man has a devil; who can circumvent him?  You must
fly at once.  The warrant for your arrest will doubtless
come by to-night's mail.  My God, are our troubles never
to cease?  Is everything not countersigned by Cromwell to
be a failure?  It is unendurable!"

"Everything with which Prince Rupert meddles is
unfortunate," answered Stephen.  "He assigns all he touches
with failure.  I said so from the beginning.  He is, and
was, the King's evil genius."

"You lie!  You lie downright, Stephen!  But this is
no time for quarreling.  You must away, and that at once."

"And, pray, how? or where?  I will not run.  I will
stand or fall with the rest."

"What drivel, what nonsensical bombast are you talking?
It is 'I,' 'I' and still 'I' with you.  Have you no
consideration for others—for uncle and aunt, and for poor,
dying Anthony?  Think of all he has done, and at least let
him go in the belief that he has saved de Wick."

"It is better to stand together."

"It is already—I'll wager that much—every man for
himself.  You must take the North Road to Hull; you are
sure of a ship there."

"And how the devil, sister, am I to reach Hull?"

"Take the sorrel horse; if any one sees you, you are
for Squire Mason's;" then hastily unlocking a drawer, she
brought a little bag of gold and put it in his hand.  "There
is enough and to spare for your road to Paris."  He flung
the gold from him, and Matilda clasping her hands
frantically, cried "My God, Stephen, are you not going?"

"Storm your utmost, Matilda.  I care not a rap; I will
not budge from this spot."

"But you must go!  Stephen, Stephen, for my sake,"
and she burst into passionate tears and sobs.

"Be quiet, Matilda.  Women's counsel is always unlucky,
but I will run, if you say so.  I feel like an
ever-lasting scoundrel to do it."

"They will all run—if they can.  There is a little time
yet in your favour.  The mail-rider does not pass here till
eight o'clock, or after.  You have four or five hours'
grace."

He rose as she spoke, and she kissed him with passionate
tenderness.  When he left the room, she ran to the
roof of the house to watch which road he took.  If he went
northward, he was for Hull, and bent on saving his life;
but if he went south, he was for London, and would
doubtless have the fate on Tower Hill he had been warned
against.  In about a quarter of an hour she saw him riding
at great speed northward, and after watching him until he
became a speck on the horizon, she went back to her
room, and she was weeping bitterly though quite
unconscious of it.

Her first act was to tear Jane's letter into minute pieces.
She did it with an inconceivable passion.  Every shred of
the paper fluttered into the fire as if in conscious suffering,
and when the last particle was consumed, she stood with
her folded hand on her mouth, looking at the white ashy
films, and considering what next to do.  Her face was set
and frowning; she was summoning to her aid, by the very
intensity of her feeling, whatever power she possessed to
counsel her perplexity.

Suddenly her face lightened; she smiled, nodded her
handsome head with satisfaction, and then in a leisurely
manner put on her garden hat and walked to the stables.
She was a daily visitor there, and her appearance caused no
surprise.  She went at once to a young man known to be
Stephen de Wick's constant attendant whenever he was in
the neighbourhood.  She knew he could be relied on, and
as they stood together by Matilda's Barbary mare, she said
with the critical air of one talking about a favourite animal,
"Yupon, can you help in a matter for Earl Stephen?
It is life or death, Yupon, and I know of no one but you
to come to—also, there will be a few gold pieces."

"With or without gold, my lady, I am your servant.
What is to be done?"

"You know the three large oak trees, just beyond the
boundary of de Wick?"

"I know them well, my lady."

"Be under the oaks to-night, at eight o'clock.  Have
with you a lanthorn and a coil of strong rope.  You will
see Earl de Wick there, and when he speaks, join him on
the instant.  Can he rely on you?"

"By my soul, he can; even to blood-letting."

"Be this our bargain then.  Eight o'clock—no later.
And on my honour, I promise, there shall no guilt of
blood-letting stick to your hands."

"Let me perish, if I am not there."

All the man's words had the savour of a strong, faithful
spirit, and Matilda went back to her room satisfied.  The
principal part of her plan for Stephen's safety was
accomplished; she had no doubts now as to its prosperous
carrying out.  So she lay down and tried to compose herself;
and as the day darkened and the time for action came, she
found a strength and calmness that was sufficient.  Without
a sign of anxiety in her heart, she eat her evening meal
with her aunt, and then said,

"I am going to dismiss Delia, go to bed early, and sleep
a headache away."  Lady Jevery said she was "in the
same mind"; and this circumstance, being much in Matilda's
favour, gave her that satisfactory feeling of "having
the signs favourable," which we all appreciate when we
intend important work.

About seven o'clock she went to her brother's room, and
brought away a suit of his clothing; and when she had
dressed herself in it, and put a pistol and hunting-knife in
her belt, and a large plumed hat on her head, she looked in
the mirror with the utmost satisfaction.  She was her
brother's double; quite his height, and singularly like him
in carriage, face and manner.  Of this resemblance she
had soon a very convincing proof, for as she passed through
the hall, her own maid Delia curtsied to her, and said,
"My lady is sick to-night, sir, and will not be disturbed."  And
Matilda bowed and passed on.  As for the other servants,
in and out of the house, they knew they were to have
eyes and see not; and ears, and hear not.  Therefore,
though several met, as they supposed, the young Earl leaving
the house, there was no further recognition of the fact
among themselves, than a lifting of the eyebrows, or some
enigmatical remark, only to be understood by those *en
rapport* with the circumstances.

Matilda walked quickly through the garden, and still more
quickly through the lonely chase.  She was not afraid of
the thing she was going to do, but she was afraid of the
toads and snails, and the unknown deer and dogs that
thought the wooded space their own.  But without
molestation she arrived at the three oaks.  Yupon Slade was
already there.  He showed her the light of the lanthorn for
a moment, and then his black-cloaked figure and masked
face blended indeterminately with the darkness around him.
For nearly an hour Matilda walked up and down the road,
keeping well within call of her companion.  But about
nine o'clock the sound of a horse coming at an easy gallop
was heard, and Yupon was softly called.  He was at
Matilda's side as the rider came near them.  She advanced to
meet him, calling pleasantly, "Miles Watson, a word, if it
please you."

The voice was familiar and kind, and Miles drew rein
and asked, "Who calls me?  I am on the Commonwealth's
business, and cannot be delayed."

Then Matilda, pointing the pistol in his face said, "You
must light from your horse, Miles Watson."  Miles tried
then to proceed, but Yupon had whispered to the animal
he rode, and the creature took no notice of his rider's
persuasions.  The pistol was dangerously near; Yupon's
rough order "to tumble" was not unaccompanied by
threats, and Watson thought it best to obey quietly, where
he could not resist.  When Yupon had bound him
securely, Matilda took the lanthorn, and drawing from her
girdle the sharp hunting-knife, she cut open the leathern
mail-bag, and turned the light upon its contents.  The
small private letters she hardly noticed, but there were
three ominous-looking papers closed with large red seals,
and these she instantly seized.  They were all directed to
the Sheriff of Ely; and she felt sure they were the authority
for Stephen's arrest.  She took possession of the whole
three, bade Yupon set loose the horse, and leaving the other
contents of the rifled mail-bag on the grass by the side of
the bound carrier, she put into her companion's hand the
promised gold pieces, and then slipped away into the
shadows and darkness of de Wick chase.

.. _`"THREE OMINOUS-LOOKING PAPERS."`:

.. figure:: images/img-286.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: "THREE OMINOUS-LOOKING PAPERS."

   "THREE OMINOUS-LOOKING PAPERS."

Once within its boundaries she ran like a deer till she
reached the house.  All was shut and silent, but she was
prepared for this emergency.  She had a key to her private
rooms, and she reached them without sight or sound that
could betray her.  Indeed, she felt reasonably certain that
neither Yupon nor the mail-rider had suspected her
disguise.  When she put the gold in Yupon's hand he had
said quite naturally, "Thanks to you, Earl Stephen;" and
twice over Miles Watson vowed, "I shall be equal to you
yet, Earl de Wick.  I know who you be, Earl de Wick."

There was still fire on her hearth, and she pushed the
dying logs together, and lit a candle by their blaze.  Then
she opened one of the letters.  It was a warrant for the
arrest of Squire Mason.  The next opened was a warrant for
the arrest of Lord Frederick Blythe; but the third was,
truly enough, the warrant for the arrest of Stephen de Wick,
for treason against the Commonwealth and conspiracy
against the life of the Protector.  She drew her mouth
tightly, and tore the whole three warrants across, and threw
them into the flames.  When they were ashes, she turned
quickly, divested herself of her brother's clothing, and put
on her own garments.  Then she carried Stephen's suit to
his room, and afterwards put out the candle and went to bed.

But it was dawn before she could sleep.  She lay calculating
the time that it would take to get fresh warrants, and
her conclusion was, "If Stephen have the least bit of good
fortune, he will be out of danger, before they know in
London that their lying warrants are beyond looking after.
And I am glad I have done Mason and Blythe a good
turn.  At dawn I will send them a message they will
understand.  Oh, indeed, Mr. Cromwell, if you can spy, others
can spy also!"  She was a little troubled when she thought
of her aunt and Anthony Lynn.  "But, Lord!" she said
audibly, "it is not time yet to face the question; I shall be
ready for it when it comes."

She did not anticipate this trial for some days.  "They
will begin to wonder in two days what the sheriff has done
in the matter; in three days they may write to ask; about
the fifth day he may let them know he never got the
warrants; then there will be new warrants to make out, and to
send, and all this net spread in the sight of the birds, and
the birds flown.  In all conscience, I may take my ease for
one clear week—then—perhaps I may be in London.  I
will consider of it."

Her plan had, however, been too hastily formed and carried
out to admit of a thorough consideration, and in her
hurry of rifling the mail, it had not occurred to her that one
of those small, unimportant-looking letters might also be for
the sheriff.  This in fact was the case.  When daylight
brought rescue to the bound carrier, the rejected letters
were gathered up, and one of them was a letter of instructions
regarding the three warrants to be served.  It directed
the sheriff to take Mason and Blythe to Ely for trial, but
to bring Stephen de Wick to the Tower of London.

Now the overtopping desire and ambition of Sheriff
Brownley's heart was to visit London officially; and this
shameful theft had at least put a stay on the golden
opportunity of going there with a prisoner of such high rank and
high crimes as Stephen de Wick.  He was in a passion of
disappointment, and hastily securing a warrant to arrest
Stephen de Wick for mail robbery, he went to de Wick to
serve it.

For no one had a doubt as to the culprit.  The
mail-rider swore positively that it was Stephen de Wick.  "He
minced and mouthed his words," he said, "but I knew his
face and figure, and also the scarlet beaver with the white
plumes with which he joys to affront the decent men and
women of Ely; yes, and his doublet, I saw its white slashings
and white cords and tassels.  Till I die, I will swear it was
Stephen de Wick; he, and no other, except Yupon Slade,
or I am not knowing Slade's way with horses.  He whispered
a word to my beast, and the creature planted his forefeet
like a rock; no one but Yupon or his gypsy kin can
do that.  And Slade has been seen often with de Wick;
moreover, he has work in Anthony Lynn's stables—and as
for Anthony Lynn God only knows the colour of his
thoughts."

It was Delia who, about the noon hour, came flying into
her lady's presence with the news that the sheriff was in
the stables talking to Yupon Slade, and that he had two
constables with him.

"What do they want, Delia?  I suppose I must say
whom do they want?  Is it Mr. Lynn, or Lady Jevery, or
myself?"

"I think it will be Earl de Wick they are after, my lady."

"'Tis most likely.  Bid them to come in and find Earl
de Wick.  Give me my blue velvet gown, Delia, the one
with the silver trimmings."  Silently she assumed this
splendid garment, and then descended to the main salon of
the house.  Her great beauty, her majestic presence, her
royal clothing produced an instant impression.  The
sheriff—hatted before Anthony Lynn—bared his head as
she approached.  He explained to her his visit, the robbery
committed, the certainty that Stephen de Wick was the
criminal, and the necessity he was under to make a search
of the house for him.  She listened with disdainful apathy.
"Mr. Lynn," she said, tenderly placing her hand on his
shoulder; "let the men search your house.  Let them
search even my private rooms.  They will find nothing
worse than themselves anywhere.  As for Earl de Wick,
he is not in England at all."

The old man gave a gasp of relief and remained silent.
It was evident that he was suffering, and Matilda felt a
great resentment towards the intruders.  "Why do you
not go about your business?" she asked scornfully.
"Under the King, an Englishman's house was his castle;
but now—now, no one is safe whom you choose to accuse.
Go!" she said with an imperious movement, "but Mr. Lynn's
steward must go with you.  You may be officers
of the law—who knows?—and you may be thieves."

"Anthony Lynn knows who we be," answered the
sheriff angrily.  "We be here on our duty—honest men
all of us; say so, Anthony."

"You say it," replied Lynn feebly.

"And the lady must say it."

"Go about your business," interrupted Matilda loftily.
"It is not your business to browbeat Mr. Lynn and
myself."

"Thieves, indeed!  Stephen de Wick is the thief.  He
robbed the mail at nine o'clock, last night."

"You lie!  You lie damnably!" answered Matilda.
"Earl de Wick was miles and miles away from de Wick
at nine o'clock last night."  Then she bent over Anthony
Lynn, and with an intolerable scorn was deaf and dumb
and blind to the sheriff and his companions.  Only when
the steward entered, did she appear to be aware of their
presence.  "Benson," she said, "you will permit these
men to search every room and closet, and pantry and mouse
hole for the Earl.  And you will see that they touch
neither gold nor silver, pottery nor picture, or anything
whatever—but Earl de Wick.  They may take the Earl—if
they can find him."

The men were about an hour making their search, and
during this interval Lady Jevery had been summoned, and
Anthony had received the stimulating drug on which he
relied.  But he was very ill; and Lady Jevery, who adored
her nephew, was weeping and full of anxious terror.
Matilda vainly assured her Stephen was safe.  She insisted
on doubting this statement.

"You thought he went north at four o'clock, but I feel
sure he only went as far as Blythe.  No one but Stephen
would have dared to commit such a crime as was
committed at nine o'clock.  But 'tis most like him and
Frederick Blythe; and they will be caught, I feel sure they
will."

"They will not be caught, aunt.  And if it were Stephen
and Blythe, they did right.  Who would not steal a
warrant for his own beheading, if he could?  I sent a
message to Blythe and Mason at dawn this morning, and they
are far away by this time."

At this point the sheriff reentered the room.  He was in
a vile temper, and did not scruple to exercise it.  "The
man has gone," he said to Anthony Lynn; "and I believe
you know all about the affair."

"About what affair?  The mail robbery?"

"Just that.  What are you doing with profane and
wicked malignants in your house?  I would like to know
that, Anthony Lynn."

"To the bottomless pit with your liking," answered
Anthony shaking from head to feet with passion.  "What
have you to do with me and my friends?  This is my
house, not yours."

"You are none of Cromwell's friend.  Many people
beside me say that of you."

"I am glad they do me so much honour.  Cromwell!
Who is Cromwell?  A man to joy the devil.  No, I am
not his friend!" and with a radiant smile—"I thank my
Maker for it."

He spoke with increasing difficulty, scarcely above a
whisper, though he had risen to his feet, and believed
himself to have the strong, resounding voice of his healthy
manhood.  The sheriff turned to his attendants—

"You hear the traitor!" he cried.  "You heard
Anthony Lynn turn his back on himself!  I knew him
always for a black heart and a double tongue.  We must
have a warrant for him, and that at once."

"Fool!" said the trembling, tottering old man, with a
superhuman scorn, as his clay-like face suddenly flamed
into its last colour.  "Warrant! warrant!  Oliver
Cromwell has no warrant to fit my name.  I go now on the
warrant of the King of kings.  Put me in the deepest
dungeon, His *habeas corpus* sets me free of you.  Matilda!
Stephen!  I am going to my dear lord—to my dear
King—to my dear God!" and as a strong man shakes off a
useless garment, so Anthony Lynn dropped his body, and in
that moment his spirit flew away further than thought could
follow it.

"What a villain!" cried the sheriff.

"Villain, in your face," answered Matilda passionately.
"Out of the presence of holy death!  You are not fit to
stand by his dead body!  Go, on this instant!  Sure, if you
do not, there are those who will make you!"

With these words she cried out for her servants in a voice
full of horror and grief, and the first person to answer her
cry was Cymlin Swaffham.  He came in like some angry
young god, his ruddy face and blazing eyes breathing
vengeful inquiry.  Matilda went to his side, clung to his arm,
pointed to the dead man on the hearth and the domineering
figure of the sheriff above it, and cried, "Cymlin, Cymlin,
send him away!  Oh, 'twas most unmercifully done!"

"Sir," said Cymlin, "you exceed your warrant.  Have
you arrested Stephen de Wick?"

"The man has run, Mr. Swaffham, and madame there
knows it."

"You have nothing to do with Lady Matilda.  If the
house has been searched, your business here is finished.
You can go."

"Mr. Swaffham, if you don't know, you ought to be told,
that Anthony Lynn—just dead and gone—was a double-dyed
Royalist scoundrel; and I and my men here will swear
to it.  He confessed it, joyed himself in the death struggle
against the Lord Protector; we all heard the man's own
words;" and the sheriff touched with the point of his boot,
the lifeless body of Anthony Lynn.

"Touch off!" cried Matilda.  "How dare you boot the
dead?  You infinite scoundrel!"

"Sheriff, your duty is done.  It were well you left here,
and permitted the dead to have his rights."

"He is a traitor!  A King's man!  A lying Puritan!"

"He is nothing at all to us, or to the world, now.  To
his Master above he will stand or fall; not to you or me, or
even to the law of England."

Then he turned to Matilda and led her to a sofa, and
comforted her; and the men-servants came and took away
the dead body and laid it, as Anthony wished, on his old
master's bed.  Lady Jevery went weeping to her room, and
the sound of lamentation and of sorrow passed up and down
the fine stairway, and filled the handsome rooms.  But the
dead man lay at peace, a smile of gratified honour on his
placid face, as if he yet remembered that he had, at the last
moment, justified himself to his conscience and his King.

And in the great salon, now cleared of its offending
visitors, Cymlin sat comforting Matilda.  He could not let
this favourable hour slip; he held her hand and soothed her
sorrow, and finally questioned her in a way that compelled
her to rely, in some measure, upon him.

"Stephen was here yesterday?" he asked.

"Part of the day.  He left here at four in the afternoon."

"Yet the mail-rider, under oath, swore this morning that
it was Stephen who robbed the mail."

She laughed queerly, and asked, "What did Yupon
Slade say?"

"Yupon proved that he was in the tinker's camp at
Brentwick from sunset to cock-crowing.  Half-a-dozen
men swore to it.  People now say it was Stephen and
Frederick Blythe.  But if it was not Stephen, who was it?"
and he looked with such a steady, confident gaze into
Matilda's face, that she crimsoned to her finger-tips.  She
could not meet his eyes, and she could not speak.

"I wonder who played at being Stephen de Wick," he
said gently.  And the silence between them was so sensitive,
that neither accusation nor confession was necessary.

"I wish that you had trusted me.  You might have done
so and you know it."

Then they began to talk of what must be done about
the funeral.  Cymlin promised to send a quick messenger
for Sir Thomas, and in many ways made himself so
intimately necessary to the lonely women that they would not
hear of his leaving de Wick.  For Matilda was charmed by
his thoughtfulness, and by the masterful way in which he
handled people and events.  He enforced every tittle of
respect due the dead man, and in obedience to Matilda's
desire had his grave dug in the private burying-place of the
de Wicks, close to the grave of the lord he had served so
faithfully.  As for the accusations the sheriff spread abroad,
they died as soon as born; Cymlin's silent contempt
withered them, for his local influence was so great that the
attending constables thought it best to have no clear memory
of what passed in those last moments of Anthony's life.

"Lynn was neither here nor there," said one of them;
"and what he said was just like dreaming.  Surely no man is
to be blamed for words between sleeping and waking—much
less for words between living and dying."  But the incident
made much comment in the King's favour; and when Sir
Thomas heard of it, he rose to his feet and bared his head,
but whether in honour of the King or of Anthony Lynn,
he did not say.

After Anthony was buried, his will was read.  He left
everything he possessed to the Lady Matilda de Wick, and
no one offered a word of dissent.  Sir Thomas seemed
unusually depressed and his lady asked him "if he was in any
way dissatisfied?"

"No," he answered; "the will is unbreakable by any
law now existing.  Lynn has hedged and fenced every
technicality with wonderful wisdom and care.  It is not anything
in connection with his death that troubles me.  It is the death
of the young Lord Neville that gives me constant regret.
It is unnatural and most unhappy; and I do blame myself
a little."

"Is he dead?  Alas!  Alas!  Such a happy, handsome
youth.  It is incredible," said Lady Jevery.

"I thought he had run away to the Americas with your
gold and my aunt's jewels," said Matilda.

"I wronged him, I wronged him grievously," answered
Sir Thomas.  "That wretch of a woman at The Hague
never paid him a farthing, never even saw him.  She
intended to rob me and slay him for a thousand pounds, but
under question of the law she confessed her crime."

"I hope she is hung for it," said Lady Jevery.

"She is ruined, and in prison for life—but that brings not
back poor Neville."

"What do you think has happened to him?"

"I think robbery and murder.  Some one has known, or
suspected, that he had treasure with him.  He has been
followed and assassinated, or he has fought and been killed.
Somewhere within fifty miles of Paris he lies in a bloody,
unknown grave; and little Jane Swaffham is slowly dying
of grief and cruel suspense.  She loves him, and they were
betrothed."

There was a short silence, and then Matilda said, "Jane
was not kind to poor Stephen.  He loved her all his life,
and yet she put Lord Neville before him.  As for Neville,
the nobility of the sword carry their lives in their hands.
That is understood.  Many brave young lords have gone
out from home and friends these past years, and never come
back.  Is Neville's life worth more than my brother's life,
than thousands of other lives?  I trow not!"

But in the privacy of her room she could not preserve
this temper.  "I wonder if Rupert slew him," she
muttered.  And anon—

"He had money and jewels, and the King and his
poverty-stricken court cry, 'Give, give,' constantly.

"He would think it no wrong—only a piece of good luck.

"He would not tell me because of Jane.

"He might also be jealous of Cluny.  I spoke often of
the youth's beauty—I did that out of simple mischief—but
Rupert is touchy, sometimes cruel—always eager for gold.
Poor Jane!"

Then she put her hand to her breast.  The portrait of
Prince Rupert that had lain there for so many years was
not in its place.  She was not astonished; very often lately
she had either forgotten it, or intentionally refused to wear
it.  And Stephen's assertion that failure was written on all
Rupert touched had found its echo in her heart.  When
she dressed herself to secure the warrant, she purposely
took off Rupert's picture and put it in her jewel box.
She went there now to look for it, and the haunting
melancholy of the dark face made her shiver.  "Stephen told
me the very truth," she thought.  "He has been my evil
genius as well as the King's.  While his picture has been
on my heart, I have seen all I love vanish away."  A kind
of terror made her close her eyes; she would not meet
Rupert's sorrow-haunted gaze, though it was only painted.
She felt as if to do so was to court misfortune, and though
the old love tugged at her very life, she lifted one tray and
then another tray of her jewel case, and laid Prince Rupert
under them both.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A LITTLE FURTHER ON`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIV


.. class:: center medium bold

   A LITTLE FURTHER ON

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  "Like ships, that sailed for sunny isles,
   |      But never came to shore."
   |
   |  "I could lie down like a tired child,
   |  And weep away the life of care
   |  Which I have borne, and yet must bear."
   |
   |  "He is most high who humblest at God's feet
   |  Lies, loving God and trusting though He smite."

.. vspace:: 2

The settlement of the affairs of Anthony Lynn
occupied Sir Thomas much longer than he expected, and the
autumn found the family still at de Wick.  For other
reasons, this delay in the retirement of the country had
seemed advisable.  Stephen had escaped, as had also his
companion conspirators, Mason and Blythe; and Matilda
could not but compliment herself a little on her share in
securing their safety.  But the plot and its consequences had
kept London on the alert all summer.  Little of this
excitement reached them.  Sir Thomas was busy laying out
a garden after a plan of Mr. Evelyn's; Lady Jevery was
making perfumes and medicinal waters, washes for the
toilet and confections for the table.  Matilda was out
walking or riding with Cymlin Swaffham, or sitting with him
in the shady garden or in the handsome rooms of de
Wick.  Her uncle had presented her with a fine organ,
but her lute suited her best, and she knew well what a
beautiful picture she made, singing to its tinkling music.

If Cymlin was in the hall, she came down the stairway—flooded
with coloured lights from its painted windows—lute
in hand, singing—singing of young Adonis or cruel
Cupid; her rich garments trailing, her white hands flashing,
her face bent to her adorer, her voice filling the space with
melody.  Or she sat in the window, with the summer
scents and sun around her, musically mocking Love, as if he
never had or never could touch her.  Cymlin knew all her
entrancing ways, and followed her in them with wonderful
prudence.  No word of his great affection passed his
lips; he let his eyes and his actions speak for him; and there
had been times when Matilda, provoked by his restraint,
had used all her fascinations to compel his confession.
But she had to deal with a man of extraordinary patience,
one who could bide his time, and he knew his time had not
yet come.

Towards the middle of September Sir Thomas roused
himself from his life among flowers and shrubs, and said
he must go back to London.  He was expecting some ships
with rich cargoes, and the last flowers were beginning to
droop, and the rooks were complaining, as they always do
when the mornings are cold; the time for the outdoor life
was ended; he had a sudden desire for his wharf and his
office, and the bearded, outlandish men that he would meet
there.  And as the ladies also wished to return to London,
the beautiful home quickly put on an air of desertion.
Boxes littered the hall; they were only waiting until the
September rain-storm should pass away, and the roads
become fit for travel.

At this unsettled time, and in a driving shower, Cymlin
and Doctor Verity were seen galloping up the avenue one
evening.  Every one was glad at the prospect of news and
company, Sir Thomas so much so, that he went to the
door to meet the Doctor.  "Nobody could be more welcome,"
he said; "and pray, what good fortune brings you here?"

"I come to put my two nephews in Huntingdon Grammar
school.  I want them to sit where Cromwell sat," he
answered.

Then he drew his chair to the hearth, where the ash logs
burned and blazed most cheerfully, and looked round upon
the company—the genial Sir Thomas, and his placid, kindly
lady, and the beautiful girl, who was really his hostess.
Nor was he unmindful of Cymlin at her side, for in the
moment that his eyes fell on the young man, he seemed to
see, as in letters of light, an old description of Englishmen,
and to find in Cymlin its expression—"*a strong kind of
people, audacious, bold, puissant and heroical; of great
magnanimity, valiancy and prowess*."

As he was thinking these things, Sir Thomas said, "You
must make us wise about events.  We have had only the
outlines of them, and we are going into the midst of we
know not what.  As to the great plot, was it as black as it
was painted?"

"Like all the works of the devil, it grew blacker as it
was pulled into the light.  It was soon an indisputable fact,
that de Baas, Mazarin's envoy extraordinary in London,
was head over heels in the shameful business.  I can tell
you, de Baas had a most unpleasant hour with the Protector;
under Cromwell's eyes and questions, he wilted away
like a snail under salt."

"What did Cromwell do to him?"

"Sent him back to King Louis and to Mazarin with a
letter.  *They* have done the punishing, I have no doubt.
He would better have thrown himself on Cromwell's mercy
than face Mazarin with his tale of being found out.  More
like than not he is at this hour in the Bastile.  No one will
hear any more of M. de Baas."

"Then you think Mazarin was really in the plot to
assassinate?"

"No doubt of it; de Baas was only his creature.  Both
of them should be rolled into their graves, with their faces
downward."

"And King Louis the Fourteenth?"

"He knew all about the affair.  Kings and Priests!
Kings and Priests! they would trick the world away, were
it not that now and then some brave yeoman were a match
for them."

"And Prince Rupert?"

"Neck deep.  That was fortunate, for he is a luckless
blackguard, and dooms all he touches."

"If a man is unfortunate, he is not therefore wicked,
Doctor.  These men were plotting for what they believed
a good end," said Matilda with some temper.

"Good ends never need assassination, my lady; if evil
is done, evil will come from it."

"I think we ought to pity the men."

"Pity them, indeed!  Not I!  The scaffold and the
halter is their just reward."

"Forty, I heard, were arrested."

"Cromwell had only three brought to trial.  Gerard was
beheaded, Vowell hung, Fox threw himself on Cromwell's
mercy and was pardoned."

"Was not that too much leniency?"

"No.  Cromwell poked the fire to let them see he could
do it; but he did not want to burn every one.  He has
made known to England and to Europe, and especially to
France, his vigilance.  He has escaped the death they
intended for him.  He has proved to the Royalists, by
Gerard's and Vowell's execution, that he will not spare
them because they are Englishmen.  Beyond this he will
not go.  It is enough.  Most of the forty were only tools.
It is not Cromwell's way to snap at the stick, but at the
cowardly hands that hold it."

"If he can reach them," muttered Matilda.

"Then, Sir Thomas, we have united Scotland to the
Commonwealth.  Kingship is abolished there; vassalage
and slavish feudal institutions are swept away; heritors
are freed from military service.  Oh, 'tis a grand union for
the Scotch common people!  I say nothing of the nobles;
no reparation has been made them—they don't deserve any;
they are always invading England on one pretext or
another.  But they cannot now force the poor heritors to
throw down their spades and flails, and carry spears for
them.  The men may sow their wheat and barley, and if
it will ripen in their cold, bleak country, they can bake and
brew it, and eat and drink it in peace."

"I do not believe Englishmen like this union, Doctor.
I do not—it is all in favour of Scotland.  They have
nothing to give us, and yet we must share all our glory and all
our gains with them.  They do not deserve it.  They have
done nothing for their own freedom, and we have made
them free.  They have no commerce, and we must share
ours with them.  And they are a proud, masterful people;
they will not be mere buttons on the coat-tails of our rulers.
Union, indeed!  It will be a cat and a dog union."

"I know, Sir Thomas, that Englishmen feel to Scotchmen
very much as a scholar does to Latin—however well
he knows it, it is not his mother tongue.  What we like,
has nothing to do with the question.  It is England's
labour and duty and honour to give freedom to all over
whom her Red Cross floats; to share her strength and
security with the weak and the vassal, and her wine and her
oil and her purple raiment with the poverty-stricken.
England must open her hands, and drop blessings upon the
deserving and the undeserving; yes, even where the slave
does not know he is a slave, she must make him free."

"And get kicked and reviled for it."

"To be sure—the rough side of the tongue, and the
kick behind always; but even slavish souls will find out
what freedom means, if we give them time."

"But, Doctor——"

"But me no buts, Sir Thomas.  Are we not great
enough to share our greatness?  I trow we are!"

"I confess, Doctor, that in spite of what you say, my
patriotism dwells between the Thames and the Tyne."

"Patriotism!  'Tis a word that gets more honour than
it deserves.  Half the wars that have desolated this earth
have come from race hatreds.  Patriotism has been at the
bottom of the bloodiest scenes; every now and then it
threatens civilisation.  If there were no Irish and no Scotch
and no French and no Dutch and no Spanish, we might
hope for peace.  I think the time may come when the
world will laugh at what we call our 'patriotism' and our
fencing ourselves from the rest of mankind with fortresses
and cannon."

"That time is not yet, Doctor Verity.  When the
leopard and the lamb lie down together, perhaps.  But all
men are not brothers yet, and the English flag must be kept
flying."

"The day may come when there will be no flags; or at
least only one emblem for one great Commonwealth."

"Then the Millennium will have come, Doctor," said
Sir Thomas.

"In the meantime we have Oliver Cromwell!" laughed
Matilda, "and pray, Doctor, what state does his Highness
keep?"

"He keeps both in Hampton Court and Whitehall a
magnificent state.  That it due to his office."

"I heard—but it is a preposterous scandal—that the
Lady Frances is to marry King Charles the Second," said
Lady Jevery.

"A scandal indeed!  Cromwell would not listen to the
proposal.  He loves his daughter too well to put her in the
power of Charles Stuart; and the negotiation was definitely
declined, on the ground of Charles Stuart's abominable
debauchery."

"Imagine this thing!" cried Matilda striking her hands
together.  "Imagine King Charles refused by Oliver
Cromwell's daughter!"

"It was hard for Charles to imagine it," replied the
Doctor.

"I hear we have another Parliament," said Sir Thomas.

"Yes; a hazardous matter for Cromwell," answered the
Doctor.  "All electors were free to vote, who had not
borne arms against the Parliament.  Most of them are
Episcopalians, who hate Cromwell; and Presbyterians, who
hate him still worse; and Republicans, who are sure he
wants to be a King; and Fifth Monarchy men and Anabaptists,
who think he has fallen from grace.  Ludlow, Harrison,
Rich, Carew, even Joyce—once his close friends—have
become his enemies since he was lifted so far above
them.  And they have their revenge.  Their desertion has
been a great grief to the Protector.  'I have been wounded
in the house of my friends,' he said to me; and he had the
saddest face that ever mortal wore.  Yet, it is a great
Parliament, freely chosen, with thirty members from
Scotland, and thirty from Ireland."

"After Cromwell's experience with the Irish," said
Matilda, "I do wonder that he made them equal with
Scotland."

"I do wonder at it, also.  John Verity would not have
done it, not he!  But the Protector treads his shoes straight
for friend or foe.  He will get no thanks from the Irish
for fair dealing; that is not enough for them; what they
want is all for themselves, and nothing for any one else;
and if they got that, they would still cry for more."

At this point Matilda rose and went into an adjoining
parlour, and Cymlin followed her.  Lady Jevery, reclining
in her chair, closed her eyes, and the Doctor and Sir
Thomas continued their conversation on Cromwell and on
political events with unabated spirit until Lady Jevery,
suddenly bringing herself to attention, said—

"All this is very fine talk, indeed; but if this great
Oliver has ambassadors from every country seeking his
friendship, if he has the wily Mazarin at his disposal, why
can he not find out something about that poor Lord
Neville?  It was said when we were in Paris that Mazarin
knew every scoundrel in France, and knew also how to use
them.  Let him find Neville through them.  Has Colonel
Ayrton returned, or is he also missing?"

"He returned some time ago.  He discovered nothing
of importance.  It is certain that Neville left the Mazarin
palace soon after noon on the seventh of last November;
that he went directly to the house in which he had lodged,
eat his dinner, paid his bill, and gave the woman a silver
Commonwealth crown for favour.  She showed the piece
to Ayrton, and said further that, soon after eating, a
gentleman called on Neville, that in her presence Neville gave
him some letters, and that after this gentleman's departure,
Neville waited very impatiently for a horse which he had
bought that morning, and which did not arrive on time;
that when it did arrive, it was not the animal purchased,
but that after some disputing, Neville agreed to take the
exchange.  The horse dealer was a gypsy, and Ayrton
spent some time in finding him, and then in watching him.
For Ayrton judged—and I am sure rightly—that if the
gypsy had followed and slain and robbed Neville, he could
not refrain himself from wearing the broidered belt and
sapphire ring of his victim.  Besides which, your jewels would
have been given to the women of his camp.  But no sign
of these things was found—kerchief, or chain or purse, or
any trifle that had belonged to the unfortunate young man."

"Was there any trace of him after he left Paris?"

"Yes.  Ayrton found out that he stayed half-an-hour at
a little inn fourteen miles beyond Paris to have his horse
fed and watered.  One of the women at this house described
him perfectly, and added that as he waited he was
singing softly to himself, a thing so likely, and so like
Cluny, that it leaves no doubt in my mind of his identity;
and that he was really there 'between gloaming and
moonshine' on the eleventh of last November.  Beyond that
all is blank—a deaf and dumb blank."

"How far was it to the next house?"

"Only two or three miles; but no one there remembered
anything that passed on that night.  They said that
horsemen in plenty, and very often carriages, were used to
pass that way, but that unless they stopped for entertainment,
no attention was paid to travelers."

"Who was the gentleman who visited Cluny and received
his letters?"

"Menzies of Musselburg, an old friend of Neville's
mother.  Ayrton went to Scotland to question him, but to
no purpose."

"Then I suppose we shall see no more of Lord Neville.
I am very sorry.  He was a good youth, and he loved Jane
Swaffham very honestly.  And my jewels, too, are gone,
and if it were worth while, I could be sorry for them also;
one set was of great value and singular workmanship.  But
they count for little in comparison with Neville's life and
little Jane's sorrow."

A week after this evening the Jeverys were in their own
house, and Matilda had sent word to Jane Swaffham that
she wanted to see her.  Why she did this, she hardly knew.
Her motives were much mixed, but the kindly ones
predominated.  At any rate, they did so when the grave little
woman entered her presence.  For she came to meet
Matilda with outstretched hands and her old sweet smile, and
she expressed all her usual interest in whatever concerned
Matilda.  Had she met her weeping and complaining,
Matilda felt she would almost have hated her.  But there was
nothing about Jane suggestive of the great sorrow through
which she was passing.  Her eyes alone told of her soul's
travail; the lids drooped, and there was that dark shadow
in them, which only comes through the incubation of some
long, anxious grief in the heart.  But her smile was as
ready and sweet, her manner as sympathetic, her dress as
carefully neat and appropriate as it had always been.

Matilda fell readily under the charm of such a kind and
self-effacing personality.  She opened her heart on various
subjects to Jane, more especially on Anthony Lynn's
dramatic life and death, and the money and land he had left
her.  "Of course," she said, "it is only temporary.
When the King comes home, Stephen will be Earl de
Wick, and I shall willingly resign all to him.  In the meantime
I intend to carry out Anthony's plans for the improvement
of the estate; and for this end, I shall have to live a
great deal at de Wick.  Lynn often said to me, 'Some one
must own the land, and the person who owns it ought to
live on it.'"

When this subject had been talked well over, Jane named
cautiously the lover in France.  Much to her surprise,
Matilda seemed pleased to enlarge on the topic.  She spoke
herself of Prince Rupert, and of the poverty and suffering
Charles' Court, were enduring, and she regretted with many
strong expressions Rupert's presence there.  "All he makes
is swallowed up in the bottomless Stuart pit," she said; "even
my youth and beauty have gone the same hopeless road."

"Not your beauty, Matilda.  I never saw you look lovelier
than you do to-day."

"That I credit to Cymlin," she answered.  "He would
not let me mope—you know how masterful he is"—and
Matilda laughed and put her hands over her ears; "he
*made* me go riding and walking, *made* me plant and gather,
*made* me fish and hawk, *made* me sing and play and read
aloud to him.  And I have taught him a galliard and a
minuet, and we have had a very happy summer—on the
whole.  Happiness breeds beauty."

"Poor Cymlin!"

"There is no need to say 'poor Cymlin,' Jane Swaffham.
I am not going to abuse poor Cymlin.  He is to be
my neighbour, and I hope my catechism has taught me
what my duty to my neighbour is.  Is it true that Will and
Tonbert have thrown their lives and fortunes into the
Massachusetts Colony?"

"Yes," answered Jane; "and if my parents were willing,
I would like to join them.  The letters they send make
you dream of Paradise.  They have bought a dukedom of
land, father says, hills and valleys and streams, and the
great sea running up to their garden wall."

"Garden?"

"Yes, they have begun to build and to plant.  There is
no whisper of their return, for they are as content as if they
had found the Fortunate Islands.  Father is much impressed
with their experience, and I can see he ponders it
like one who might perhaps share it.  I am sure he would
leave England, if the Protector died."

"Or the King came back?"

"Yes.  He would never live under a Stuart."

"The poor luckless Stuarts!  They are all luckless,
Jane.  I have felt it.  I have drunk of their cup of
disappointments, and really the happiest time of my life has
been the past summer, when I put them out of my
memory—king and prince, and all that followed them.  Had it
not been for your kind note of warning, Stephen also had
been a sacrifice to their evil fate.  It has to be propitiated
with a life now and then, just like some old dragon or devil."

"There was a queer story about Stephen robbing the
mail, and tearing up the three warrants for the arrest of
Blythe and Mason and himself," said Jane.

"Did you believe that, Jane?"

"The mail was robbed.  The warrants were never
found.  Stephen has a daredevil temper at times.  I think,
too, he would risk much to save his friends.  When did
you hear from him?"

"I hear very often now, Jane, for it is the old, old
story—money, money, money.  The King is hungry and thirsty;
he has no clothes; he cannot pay his washing bill; he has
no shoes to go out in, and his 'dear brother,' King Louis
of France, is quite oblivious.  In fact he has made, or is
going; to make, an alliance with Cromwell; and the Stuarts,
bag and baggage, are to leave French territory.  But for
all that, I am not going to strip de Wick a second time for
them;" then drawing Jane close to her, and taking her
hand she said with an impulsive tenderness—

"Jane, dear Jane, I do not wish to open a wound afresh,
but I am sorry for you, I am indeed!  How can you bear it?"

"I have cast over it the balm of prayer; I have shut it
up in my heart, and given my heart to God.  I have said
to God, 'Do as Thou wilt with me.'  I am content; and
I have found a light in sorrow, brighter than all the flaring
lights of joy."

"Then you believe him to be dead?"

"Yes.  There is no help against such a conclusion; and
yet, Matilda, there comes to me sometimes, such an
instantaneous, penetrating sense of his presence, that I must
believe he is not far away;" and her confident heart's still
fervour, her tremulous smile, her eyes like clear water full
of the sky, affected Matilda with the same apprehending.
"My soul leans and hearkens after him," she continued;
"and life is so short and so full of duty, it may be easily,
yes, cheerfully, borne a few years.  My cup is still full of
love—home love, and friends' love; Cluny's love is safe,
and we shall meet again, when life is over."

"Will you know?  Will he know?  What if you *both*
forget?  What if you cannot find him?  Have you ever
thought of what multitudes there will be there?"

"Yes; a great crowd that no man can number—a throng
of worlds—but love will bring the beloved.  Love hath
everlasting remembrance."

"Love is a cruel joy! a baseless dream! a great tragedy! a
lingering death!"

"No, no, no!  Love is the secret of life.  Love redeems
us.  Love lifts us up.  Love is a ransom.  The tears of
love are a prayer.  I let them fall into my hands, and offer
them a willing sacrifice to Him who gave me love.  For
living or dead, Cluny is mine, mine forever."  And there
was such a haunting sweetness about the chastened girl,
that Matilda looked round wonderingly; it was as if there
were freshly gathered violets in the room.

She remained silent, and Jane, after a few minutes' pause,
said, "I must go home, now, and rest a little.  To-morrow
I am bid to Hampton Court, and I am not as strong as I
was a year ago.  Little journeys tire me."

"And you will come and tell me all about your visit.
The world turned upside down is an entertaining spectacle.
By my troth, I am glad to see it at second hand!  Ann
Clarges the market-woman in one palace, and Elizabeth
Cromwell in another——"

"The Cromwells are my friends, Matilda.  And I will
assure you that Hampton Court never saw a more worthy
queen than Elizabeth Cromwell."

"I have a saucy tongue, Jane—do not mind when it
backbites; there is no one like you.  I love you well!"—These
words with clasped hands and kisses between the
two girls.  Then Matilda's face became troubled, and she
sat down alone, with her brows drawn together and her
hands tightly clasped.  "What shall I do?" she asked
herself, and she could not resolve on her answer; not, at least,
while swayed by the gentle, truthful atmosphere with which
Jane had suffused the room.  This influence, however, was
soon invaded by her own personality, dominant, and not
unselfish, and she quickly reasoned away all suggestions
but those which guarded her own happiness and comfort.

"If I tell about the duel with Rupert," she thought, "it
can do no good to the dead, and it may make scandal and
annoyance for the living.  Cromwell will take hold of it,
and demand not only the jewels and money and papers, but
also the body of Neville.  That will make more ill feeling
to the Stuarts, and it is manifest they are already very
unwelcome with the French Court.  It will be excuse for
further unkindness, and they have enough and more than
enough to bear."

For a long time she sat musing in this strain, battling
down intrusive doubts, until at last she was forced to give
them speech.  She did so impatiently, feeling herself
compelled to rise and walk rapidly up and down the room,
because motion gave her a sense of resistance to the thoughts
threatening to overwhelm her.

"Did Rupert kill Neville?" she asked herself.  "Oh,
me, I do fear it.  And if so, I am to blame!  I am to
blame!  I told Rupert Neville was going to take charge of
my aunt's jewels.  Why was I such a fool?  And Rupert
knew that Neville had papers Charles Stuart would like to
see, and money he would like to have.  Oh, the vile, vile
coin!  I do fear the man was slain for it—and by Rupert.
He lied to me, then; of course he lied; but that was no
new thing for him to do.  He has lied a thousand times to
me, and when found out only laughed, or said 'twas for my
ease and happiness, or that women could not bear the
truth, or some such trash of words; and so I was kissed
and flattered out of my convictions.  Faith in God! but I
have been a woman fit for his laughter!  What shall I
do?"  She went over and over this train of thought, and
ended always with the same irresolute, anxious question,
"What shall I do?"

It was not the first time she had accused Rupert in her
heart.  She knew him to be an incomparable swordsman;
she knew he regarded duelling as a mere pastime or
accident of life.  The killing of Neville would not give him
a moment's discomfort,—quite otherwise, for he was a trifle
jealous of him in more ways than one; and there were
money and information to be gained by the deed.  Politically,
the man was his enemy, and to kill him was only
"satisfaction."  The story Rupert told her of the duel had
always been an improbable one to her intelligence.  She
did not believe it at the time, and the lapse of time had
impaired whatever of likelihood it possessed.

"Yes, yes," she said to herself.  "Rupert undoubtedly
killed Neville, and gave the jewels and money and papers
to Charles Stuart.  But how can I tell this thing?  I
cannot!  If it would restore the man's life—perhaps.  Oh,
that I had never seen him!  How many miserable hours I
can mix with his name!  The creature was very unworthy
of Jane, and I am glad he is dead.  Yes, I am.  Thousands
of better men are slain, and forgotten—let him be
forgotten also.  I will not say a word.  Why should I bring
Rupert in question?  One never knows where such
inquiries set on foot will stop, especially if that wretch
Cromwell takes a hand in the catechism."  But she was
unhappy, Jane's face reproached her; she could not put
away from her consciousness and memory its stillness, its
haunting pallor and unworldlike far-offness.

The next day Jane went to Hampton Court.  The place
made no more favourable impression on her than it had
done at her first visit.  Indeed, its melancholy, monastic
atmosphere was even more remarkable.  The forest was
bare and desolate, the avenues veiled in mist, the
battlemented towers black with rooks, the silence of the great
quadrangles only emphasised by the slow tread of the
soldier on guard.  But Mrs. Cromwell had not lived in the
Fen country without learning how to shut nature's gloom
outside.  Jane was cheered the moment she entered the
old palace by the blaze and crackle of the enormous
wood-fires.  Posy bowls, full of Michaelmas daisies, bronzed
ferns, and late autumn flowers were on every table; pots
of ivy drooped from the mantel, and the delicious odour of
the tiny musk flower permeated every room with its wild,
earthy perfume.

She was conducted to an apartment in one of the suites
formerly occupied by Queen Henrietta Maria.  It was
gaily furnished in the French style, and though years had
dimmed the gilding and the fanciful paintings and the rich
satin draperies, it was full of a reminiscent charm Jane
could not escape.  As she dressed herself she thought of
the great men and women who had lived and loved, and
joyed and sorrowed under this ancient roof of Wolsey's
splendid palace.  Henry the Eighth and his wives, young
Edward, the bloody Queen Mary, and the high-mettled
Elizabeth; the despicable James, and the tyrant Charles
with his handsome favourite, Buckingham, and his
unfortunate advisers, Strafford and Laud.  And then *Oliver
Cromwell*!  What retributions there were in that name!
It implied, in its very simplicity, changes unqualified and
uncompromising, reaching down to the very root of things.

It seemed natural to dress splendidly to thoughts touching
so many royalties, and Jane looked with satisfaction at
her toilet.  It had progressed without much care, but the
result was fitting and beautiful: a long gown of pale blue
silk, with white lace sleeves and a lace tippet, and a string
of pearls round her throat.  Anything more would have
been too much for Jane Swaffham, though when the
Ladies Mary and Frances came to her, she could not help
admiring their bows and bracelets and chains, their hair
dressed with gemmed combs and their hands full of fresh
flowers.  She thought they looked like princesses, and they
were overflowing with good-natured happiness.

Taking Jane by the hand, they led her from room to
room, showing her what had been done and what had been
added, and lingering specially in the magnificent suite
which was all their own.  It was very strange.  Jane
thought of the little chamber with the sloping roof in the
house they occupied in Ely, and she wondered for a
moment, if she was dreaming.  On their way to the parlours
they passed the door of a room Jane recollected entering on
her previous visit, and she asked what changes had been
made in it?

"None," said Mary with a touch of something like annoyance.

"None at all," reiterated Frances.  "You know Charles
Stuart tried to sleep in it, and he had dreadful dreams, and
the night lamp was always put out, and he said the place
was full of horror and suffering.  *It was haunted*," the girl
almost whispered.  "My father said 'nonsense,' and he
slept in it two nights, and then——"

"Father found it too cold," interrupted Mary
impatiently.  "He never said more than that.  Listen!
Some one is coming at full gallop—some two, I think,"
and she ran to the window and peered out into the night.

"It is the Protector," she said; "and I believe Admiral
Blake is with him.  Let us go down-stairs."  And they
took Jane's hands and went together down the great
stair-way.  Lovelier women had never trod the dark, splendid
descent; and the soft wax-lights in the candelabra gave to their
youthful beauty a strange, dreamlike sense of unreal life
and movement.  Mary and Frances were talking softly;
Jane was thinking of that closed room with its evil-prophesying
dreams, and its lights put out by unseen hands,
and the mournful, superstitious King in his captivity fearing
the place, and feeling in it as Brutus felt when his evil
genius came to him in his tent and said, "I will meet thee
again at Philippi."  Then in a moment there flashed across
her mind a woeful dream she had one night about Cluny.
It had come to her in the height of her hope and
happiness, and she had put it resolutely from her.  Now she
strove with all her soul to recollect it, but Frances would
not be still, and the dream slipped back below the
threshold.  She could have cried.  She had been on the point of
saying, "Oh, do be quiet!" but the soul's illumination had
been too short and too impalpable for her to grasp.

The next moment they were in a brilliantly lighted
room.  Mr. and Mrs. Claypole, and Mr. and Mrs. Richard
Cromwell, and Doctor John Owen, and Mr. Milton, and
Doctor Verity were grouped around her Highness the
Protector's handsome wife.  And she was taking their
homage as naturally as she had been used to take attention
in her simple home in Ely, being more troubled about the
proper serving of dinner than about her own dignity.  She
sat at the Protector's right hand, and Jane Swaffham sat at
his left.

"The great men must scatter themselves, Jane," he
said; "my daughter Dorothy Cromwell wants to be near
Mr. Milton, and Lady Claypole will have none but Doctor
Owen, and one way or another, you will have to be
content with my company," and he laid her hand under his
hand, and smiled down into her face with a fatherly
affection.

He was in an unusually happy mood, and Doctor Owen
remarking it, Admiral Blake said, "They had been
mobbed—mobbed by women—and the Protector had the best of it,
and that was a thing to pleasure any man."  Then
Mrs. Cromwell laughed and said,

"Your Highness must tell us all now, or we shall be
very discontented.  Where were you, to meet a mob of
women?"

"We were in London streets, somewhere near the
waterside.  Blake was with me, and Blake is going to
Portsmouth to take command of an expedition."

"Where to?" asked Mrs. Claypole.

"Well, Elizabeth, that is precisely the question this
mob of women wanted me to answer.  You are as bad as
they were.  But they had some excuse."

"Pray what excuse, sir, that I have not?"

"They were the wives of the sailor men going with our
Admiral on his expedition.  And they got all round me,
they did indeed; and one handsome woman with a little
lad in her arms—she told me to look well at him because
he was called Oliver after me—took hold of my bridle,
and said, 'You won't trample me down, General, for the
lad's sake; and 'tis but natural for us to want to know
where you are sending our husbands.  Come, General, tell
us wives and mothers where the ships are going to?'  And
there was Robert Blake laughing and thinking it fine sport,
but I stood up in my stirrups and called out as loud as I
could, 'Women, can you be quiet for one minute?'  They
said, 'Aye, to be sure we can, if you'll speak out,
General.'  Then I said to them, 'You want to know where the ships
and your men are going.  Listen to me!  The Ambassadors
of France and Spain would, each of them, give a million
pounds to know that.  Do you understand, women?'  And
for a moment there was a dead silence, then a
shout of comprehension and laughter, and the woman at
my bridle lifted the boy Oliver to me, and I took him in
my arms and kissed the rosy little brat, and then another
shout, and the mother said, 'General, you be right welcome
to my share of the secret;' 'and mine!' 'and mine!'
'and mine!' they all shouted, and the voices of those
women went to my heart and brain like wine, they did that.
They made me glad; I believe I shouted with them."

"I haven't a doubt of it," said Doctor Verity.  "Well,
Robert, did they have nothing to say to you?" he asked,
turning to Admiral Blake.

"They asked me to treat my men well; and I said, 'I'll
treat them like myself.  I'll give them plenty of meat and
drink, and plenty of fighting and prize money;' and so to
their good will we passed all through the city, and, as I live,
'twas the pleasantest 'progress' any mortal men could
desire."

Then Doctor Verity began to talk of the American
Colonies, and their wonderful growth.  "John Maidstone
is here," he said; "and with him that godly minister, the
Rev. Mr. Hooker.  We have had much conversation
to-day, and surely God made the New World to comfort the
woes of the old one."

"You have expressed exactly, sir, the prophetic lines of
the pagan poet, Horace," answered Mr. Milton.  And
Cromwell looked at him and said, "Repeat them for us,
John; I doubt not but they are worthy, if it be so that
you remember them."  Then Milton, in a clear and stately
manner, recited the six lines from Horace's "Patriotic
Lament" to which he had referred—

   |  "'Merciful gift of a relenting God,
   |  Home of the homeless, preordained for you,
   |      Last vestige of the age of gold,
   |      Last refuge of the good and bold;
   |  From stars malign, from plague and tempests free,
   |  Far 'mid the Western waves, a secret Sanctuary.'"

And as Cromwell listened his face grew luminous; he
seemed to look through his eyeballs, rather than with
them, and when Milton ceased there was silence until he
spoke.

"I see," he said, "a great people, a vast empire, from
the loins of all nations it shall spring.  And there shall be
no king there.  But the desire of all hearts shall be
towards it, and it shall be a covert for the oppressed, and
bread and wine and meat for those ready to perish."  Then,
sighing, he seemed to realise the near and the present, and
he added, "'Twas but yesterday I wrote to that good man,
the Rev. John Cotton of Boston.  I have told him that I
am truly ready to serve him and the rest of the brethren,
and the churches with him.  And Doctor Verity, I wish
much to have some talk with Mr. Hooker.  I have a
purpose to ask him to be my chaplain, if he be so minded, for
his sermons first taught me that I had a soul to save, and
that I must transact that business directly with God, and
not through any church or clergy."  And when Cromwell
made this statement, he little realised that Hooker,
founding a democracy in America, and he himself fighting for a
free Parliament and a constitutionally limited executive in
England, were "both of them of the same spirit and
purpose"; and that the Hartford minister and the Huntingdon
gentleman were preeminently the leaders in that great
movement of the seventeenth century which made the
United States, and is now transforming England.

Doctor Verity shook his head at the mention of the
Chaplainship.  "Your Highness will give great offense to
some not of Mr. Hooker's precise way of thinking," he
said.

"I care not, John Verity," Oliver answered with much
warmth; "one creed must not trample upon the heels of
another creed; Independents must not despise those under
baptism, and revile them.  I will not suffer it.  Even to
Quakers, we must wish no more harm than we do our own
souls."

With these words he rose from the table, and Mr. Milton,
the Ladies Mary and Frances Cromwell, and Jane
Swaffham went into the great hall, where there was an
exceedingly fine organ.  In a short time Mr. Milton began to
play and to sing, but the girls walked up and down talking
to Jane of their admirers, and their new gowns, and of
love-letters that had been sent them in baskets of flowers.
And what song can equal the one we sing, or talk, about
our own affairs?  Mr. Milton's glorious voice rose and fell
to incomparable melodies, but Jane's hand-clasp was so
friendlike, and her face and words so sympathetic, that the
two girls heard only their own chatter, and knew not that
the greatest of English poets was singing with enchanting
sweetness the songs of Lodge, and Raleigh, and Drayton.

But Cromwell knew it; he came to the entrance frequently
and listened, and then went back to the group by
the hearth, who were smoking and talking of the glorious
liberating movements of the century—the Commonwealth
in England, and the free commonwealths Englishmen were
planting beyond the great seas.  If the first should fail,
there would still be left to unslavish souls the freedom of
the illimitable western wilderness.

When the music ceased, the evening was far spent; and
Cromwell said as he drew Frances and Jane within his
arms, "Bring me the Bible, Mary.  Mr. Milton has been
giving us English song, now we will have the loftier music
of King David."

"And we shall get no grander music, sir," said Doctor
Owen, "than is to be found in the Bible.  Sublimity is
Hebrew by birth.  We must go to the Holy Book for words
beyond our words.  Is there a man living who could have
written that glorious Hymn,

"'Lord, Thou hast been our dwelling-place in all
generations;

"'Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever
Thou hadst formed the earth and the world; even from
everlasting to everlasting Thou art God'?"

"The prophets also," said Doctor Verity, "were poets,
and of the highest order.  Turn to Habakkuk, the third
chapter, and consider his description of the Holy One
coming from Mount Parem: 'His glory covered the
heavens.  His brightness was as the light.  He stood and
measured the earth: He beheld and drove asunder the
nations: the everlasting mountains were scattered, the
perpetual hills did bow.'  And most striking of all about this
Holy One—'Thou didst cleave the earth with rivers.'"

Cromwell did not answer; he was turning the leaves of
the dear, homely-looking volume which his daughter had
laid before him.  She hung affectionately over his shoulder,
and when he had found what he wanted, he looked up at her,
and she smiled and nodded her approbation.  Then he said,

"Truly, I think no mortal pen but St. John's could have
written these lines; and I give not St. John the honour,
for the Holy One must have put them into his heart, and
the hand of his angel guided his pen."  And he began to
read, and the words fell like a splendid vision, and a great
awe filled the room as they dropped from Cromwell's lips:

"'And I saw heaven opened, and beheld a white horse;
and he that sat upon him was called Faithful and True,
and in righteousness he doth judge and make war.

"'His eyes were as a flame of fire, and on his head were
many crowns; and he had a name written, that no man
knew but himself.

"'And he was clothed with a vesture dipped in blood:
and his name is called The Word of God.

"'And the armies which were in heaven followed him
upon white horses, clothed in fine linen, white and clean.

"'And out of his mouth goeth a sharp sword, that with
it he should smite the nations; and he shall rule them with
a rod of iron; and he treadeth the wine-press of the
fierceness and wrath of Almighty God.'"

And when he finished these words he cried out in a
transport, "Suffer Thy servant, oh, Faithful and True, when
his warfare here is accomplished, to be among the armies
which are in heaven following the Word of God upon white
horses clothed in fine linen white and clean."  And then
turning the leaf of the Bible he said with an unconceivable
solemnity, "Read now what is written in Revelations,
chapter 20th, 11-15 verses:

"'And I saw a great white throne, and him that sat on
it, from whose face the earth and the heaven fled away;
and there was found no place for them.

"'And I saw the dead, small and great, stand before
God; and the books were opened; and another book was
opened, which is the book of life: and the dead were judged
out of those things which were written in the books,
according to their works.

"'And death and hell were cast into the lake of fire.
This is the second death.'"

And when he ceased there was a silence that could be
felt, a silence almost painful, ere Dr. Owen's silvery voice
penetrated it with the words of the Benediction.  Then the
Protector and Mrs. Cromwell kissed the girls, and the
clergymen blessed them, and they went to their rooms as from
the very presence of God.

But Mrs. Cromwell lingered a long time.  She could not
rest until she had seen the silver and crystal and fine damask
put away in safety; and she thought it no shame to look—as
her Lord did—after the fragments of the abundant dinner.

"I will not have them wasted," she said to the steward,
"nor given to those who need them not.  The Lady Elizabeth
hath a list of poor families, and it is my will that they,
and they only, are served."

Then she went to her daughter Claypole's apartments,
and talked with her about her children, and her health;
also about the disorders and thieving of the servants,
wrong-doings, which caused her orderly, careful nature
much grief and perplexity.  Elizabeth was her comforter
and councilor, and the good daughter generally managed to
infuse into her mother's heart a serene trust, that with all
its expense and inefficiencies the household was conducted
on as moderate a scale as was consistent with her father's
dignity.

When they parted it was very late; the palace was dark
and still, and Mrs. Cromwell, with careful economies in her
mind, and a candle in her hand, went softly along the lonely,
gloomy corridors—the very same corridors that a few years
before had been the lodging-place of the Queen's thirty
priests and her seventy-five French ladies and gentlemen.
Had it been the war-like Oliver thus treading in their
footsteps, he would have thought of these things, and seen with
spiritual vision the black-robed Jesuits slipping noiselessly
along; he would have seen the painted, curled, beribboned,
scented men and women of that period; and he would also
have remembered the insults offered the Queen and her
English attendants by the black and motley crew, ere the
King in a rage ordered them all off English soil.  And 'tis
like enough he would have said to himself, "If Charles
Stuart had been on all occasions as straightforward and
positive as he was on that one, he had been King of England
yet."  But Elizabeth Cromwell did not either see or
remember.  Her little grandson had a slight fever; she was
not satisfied with her daughter's health, and the care of the
great household she ruled was a burden she never wholly
laid down.  In this vast, melancholy pile of chambers, she
thought of her simple home in St. Ives with longing and
affection.  Royal splendours had given her nothing she
cared for; and they had taken from her the constant help
and companionship that in humbler circumstances her good,
great husband had given her.

She paused a moment before the door of his room.  She
wondered if he was asleep.  If so, she would on no
account awaken him, for in these days he slept far too little.
All was still as death, but yet something of the man's
intense personality escaped the closed door.  The giant soul
within was busy with heart and brain, and the subtile life
evolved found her out.  Quiet as the room was, it was not
quiet enough for Oliver to be asleep.  She opened the door
softly and saw him sitting motionless by the fire, his eyes
closed, his massive form upright and perfectly at rest.

"Oliver," she said, "dear Oliver, you ought to be in
bed and asleep."

His great darkling soul flashed into his face a look of
tenderest love.  "Elizabeth," he answered, "I wish that
I could sleep.  I do indeed.  I need it.  God knows I
need it, but my heart wakes, and I do fear it will wake this
night—if so, there is no sleep for me.  You see, dearest,
how God mingles our cup.  When I was Mr. Cromwell,
I could sleep from night till morning.  When I was
General Cromwell, my labours gave me rest.  Now that I am
Lord Protector of three Kingdoms, sleep, alas! is gone far
from me!  In my mind I run to and fro through all the
land.  I have a thousand plans and anxieties, Elizabeth, my
dearest; great place is not worth looking after.  It is not."

"But if beyond our will we be led into great place and
great honour, Oliver?"

"That is my comfort.  I brought not myself here; no,
truly, that would be an incredible thing.  Once, my God
led me in green pastures and by still waters, and I was
happy with my Shepherd.  Then He called me to be Captain
of Israel's host, and He went before me in every battle
and gave me the victory.  Now, He has set me here as
Protector of a people who know not yet what they want.
Moses leading those stiff-necked, self-willed Israelites was
not harder bestead than I am, trying to lead men just as
stiff-necked out of victory into freedom.  Every one thinks
freedom means 'his way, and no other way,' and they break
my heart with their jealousies and envyings, and their want
of confidence in me and in each other.  Yet I struggle
day and night to do the work set me as well as mortal man
may do it."

"What troubles you in particular, Oliver?"

"One of the things that troubled my Great Master,
when He wept and prayed and fainted in Gethsemane.
He knew that those whom He loved and who ought to
strengthen and comfort Him, would soon forsake and flee
from Him.  I think of the men who have trusted me to
lead them in every battle; who never found me wanting;
the men with whom I have taken counsel, with whom I
have prayed; the men who were to me as Jonathan to
David; and when I think of them, my heart is like to
burst in twain.  They are beginning to forsake me, to flee
from me, and their cold looks and formal words hurt me
like a sword thrust; they do, Elizabeth, they do indeed."

"But see how God cares for you.  Charles Stuart and
his men spend their time in devising plots to kill you, and
they are always prevented."

"I care nothing about Charles Stuart and the men with
him.  They can do nothing against me.  My life is hid
with Christ in God, and until my work is done, there is no
weapon formed that can hurt me.  I say this, for I do
know it.  And when I have fulfilled all His Will, I shall
not be dismissed from life by any man's hatred.  God
Himself will have a desire for the work of His Hand; He will
call me, and I will answer.  That will be a good day,
Elizabeth, for I am weary—weary and sorrowful, even
unto death."

"If you had made yourself King, as you might have
done, as you ought to have done, you would have had less
opposition.  John Verity said so to me.  He said Englishmen
were used to a king, but they did not know what to
make of a protector."

"King!  King!  I am king in very truth, call me what
they like.  And for that matter, why should I not be king?
Doctor Owen tells me the word king comes from König
and means '*the man that can*.'  I am that man.  Every
king in Europe came from some battle-field, that was their
first title to kingship.  Our William, called the Conqueror,
won the Kingdom of England by one successful battle.
How many battles have I fought and won?  I never lost
a single field—how could I, the Lord of Hosts being with
me?  As a hero of battle, there is no man to stand before
me.  Why should I not be king over the three countries I
have conquered?  My title to kingship is as good as any
ruler I know.  And perhaps—who can tell—had I
crowned myself, it had been a settlement much needed.
John Verity is right.  Englishmen think a protector is a
ruler for emergency.  They feel temporary and uncertain
with a protector.  A kingship is a settled office.  The
laws are full of the king; they do not name a protector—and
men feel to the law as they do to a god."

"Take the crown, Oliver.  Why not?"

"I have no orders to take it.  My angel told me when
I was a boy, that I should become the greatest man in
England, but he said not that I should be king.  And
I know also from *One* who never lied to me, that this
nation will yearn after its old monarchy.  I am here to do
a work, to sow seeds that will take generations to ripen,
but my reign is only an interregnum.  I shall found no
dynasty."

"Oh, Oliver!  You have two sons."

"Richard cannot manage his own house and servants.
Harry is a good lieutenant; he can carry out instructions,
it is doubtful if he could lead.  My desire for my sons is,
that they live private lives in the country.  I know what I
know.  I have what I have.  The crown of England is
not to be worn by me, nor do I want it; I do not—neither
for myself nor my children."  Then taking his wife's
hand tenderly between his own, he said with intense
fervour, "There is not a man living can say I sought this
place—not a man or woman living on English ground.  I
can say in the presence of God, I would have been glad to
have lived with thee under my woodside all the days of
my life, and to have kept my sheep and ploughed my land
rather than bear the burden of this government."

"Do you think the Puritan government will die with
you, Oliver?"

"I think it will; but the Puritan principles will never
die.  The kings of the earth banded together cannot
destroy them.  They will spring up and flourish like 'the
grass that tarrieth not for man'—spring where none has
sowed or planted them—spring in the wilderness and in the
city, until they possess the whole earth.  This I know, and
am sure of."

"Then why are you so sad?"

"I want my old friends to trust in me and love me.
Power is a poor exchange for love.  I want Lambert and
Harrison and Ludlow and the others to be at my right
hand, as they used to be.  Ludlow tells me plainly, he
only submits to my government because he can't help
himself; and Harrison, who used to pray with me, now prays
against me.  Oh, Elizabeth, you know not how these men
wound me at every turn of my life!"

"Oh, indeed, Oliver, do you think the women are anything
behind them?  I could tell you some things I have
had to suffer, and the poor girls also.  What have they not
said of me?  Indeed I have shed some tears, and been
sorely mortified.  The women I knew in the old days, do
they come near me?  They do not.  Even if I ask them,
they are sick, or they are gone away, or their time is in
some respect forespoken.  It is always so.  Only little Jane
Swaffham keeps the same sweet friendship with us.  I say
not that much for Martha Swaffham.  Very seldom she
comes at my request—and I have a right now to request,
and she has the obligation to accept.  Is not that so,
Oliver?  But she thinks herself——"

"Never mind Martha Swaffham; Israel stands firm as a
rock by me.  After all, Elizabeth, there is nothing got by
this world's love, and nothing lost by its hate.  This is
the root of the matter: my position as Protector is either
of God, or of man.  If I did not firmly believe it was of
God, I would have run away from it many years ago.  If
it be of God, He will bear me up while I am in it.  If it
be of man it will shake and tumble.  What are all our
histories but God manifesting that He has shaken and
trampled upon everything He has not planted?  So, then,
if the Lord take pleasure in England, we shall in His
strength be strong.  I bless God I have been inured to
difficulties, and I never yet found God failing when I trusted
in Him.  Never!  Yea, when I think of His help in Scotland,
in Ireland, in England, I can laugh and sing in my
soul.  I can, indeed I can!"

"My dearest, you are now in a good mind.  Lie down
and sleep in His care, for He does care for you."  And
she put her arms around his neck and kissed him; and he
answered,

"Thou art my comfort, and I thank God for thee!
When He laid out my life's hard work, He thought of thee
to sweeten it."

She left him then, hoping that he would shelter his
weariness in darkness and in sleep.  But he did not.  The
words he had spoken, though so full of hope and courage,
wanted that authentication from beyond, without which
they were as tinkling brass to Oliver.  He locked his
chamber door, retired his soul from all visibles, and stood
solemnly before God, waiting to hear what He would say
to him.  For the soul looks two ways, inward as well as
outward, and Oliver's soul gazed with passionate spiritual
desire into that interior and permanent part of his nature,
wherein the Divine dwells—that inner world of illimitable
calm, apart from the sphere of our sorrowful unrest.  And
in a moment all the trouble of outward things grew at
peace with that within; for he stood motionless on that
dazzling line where mortal and immortal verge—that line
where all is lost in love for God, and the beggar Self
forgets to ask for anything.  The austere sweetness of
sacrifice filled his soul.  The divine Hymn of Renunciation
was on his lips.

"Do as Thou wilt with me," he cried, "but, oh, that I
knew where to find Thee!  Oh, that I might come into Thy
presence!"

Then there was suddenly granted to his longing that
open vision, open only to the spirit, that wondrous
evidence that very near about us lies the realm of spiritual
mysteries, and the strong man bowed and wept great tears
of joy and sorrow.  And after that Peace—peace unspeakable
and full of gladness; and he slept like a sinless child
while his angel came in a dream and comforted him.  For
so God giveth to His beloved while they sleep.





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.. _`THE FATE OF LORD CLUNY NEVILLE`:

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   CHAPTER XV


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE FATE OF LORD CLUNY NEVILLE

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"From heaven did the Lord behold the earth; to hear the
groaning of the prisoner."—*Ps.* 102: 20.

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"Make haste unto me, O God: Thou art my help and my
deliverer; O Lord make no tarrying."—*Ps.* 70: 5.

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On tides of glory England was borne the next three
years, to a national honour and strength which had never
before been dreamed of.  Never in her whole history had
the government been at once so thorough and so penetrated
with a desire for honesty and capacity.  For the first time,
the sense of social duty to the State took the place of the
old spirit of loyalty to the sovereign.  For the first and
only time in the history of Europe, morality and religion
were the qualifications insisted on by a court; Oliver
Cromwell was "the one ruler into whose presence no vicious
man could ever come, whose service no vicious man might
enter."

Abroad, the Red Cross of England was flying triumphantly
on every sea.  Blake's mysterious expedition had soon
been heard from.  He had been at Leghorn, getting
compensation in money for English vessels sold there by Prince
Rupert.  He had been thundering almost at the gates of
the Vatican, getting twenty thousand pistoles from Pope
Alexander for English vessels sold in the Roman See by
the same prince.  He had been compelling the Grand Duke
of Tuscany to give freedom of worship to Protestants in
his dominions.  He had been in the Barbary States
demanding the release of Christian slaves, and getting at
Algiers and Tripoli all he asked.[1]  Hitherto, naval battles
had been fought out at sea; Blake taught Europe that fleets
could control kingdoms by dominating and devastating their
seaboard.  While opening up to peaceful commerce the
Mediterranean, England had begun a war with Spain, and
Blake's next move was to take his fleet to intercept the
Spanish galleons coming loaded with gold and silver from
the New World.  His first seizure on this voyage was
thirty-eight wagon loads of bullion, which he brought safely
into the Thames, and which went reeling through the old
streets of London to the cheerful applause of the multitude.
Again, under the old peak of Teneriffe, Blake performed an
action of incredible courage; for, finding in that grand,
eight-castled and unassailable bay sixteen Spanish ships
laden with gold and silver, lying in crescent shape under
the guns of the eight castles and forts, he took his fleet
directly into the crescent, and amid whirlwinds of fire and
iron hail, poured his broadsides in every direction and left
the whole sixteen Spanish ships charred and burning hulks.
Indeed, from the Baltic to the Mediterranean, from Algiers
to Teneriffe, from Newfoundland to Jamaica, the thunder
of British cannon was heard and obeyed.

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[1] One hundred and sixty years after Blake's punishment,
England and
America united to finally put an end to the pirates
of the Mediterranean.

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In the meantime Spain was helping Charles with money
which was spent in plots to assassinate the Protector.  The
effect of this underhand, contemptible warfare was several
petitions and addresses offered in Parliament begging
Cromwell to assume the ancient office of King, if only for the
settlement of the nation.  He was quite strong enough to
have taken it, and there was nothing unmanly either in his
desire for the crown or in his refusal of it.  His conscience,
not his reason, decided the question.  He waited many a
long, anxious night on his knees for some sign or token of
God's approbation of the kingship, but it did not come;
and Cromwell was never greater than when, steadily, and
with dignity, he put the glittering bauble aside—"Because
for it, he would not lose a friend, or even a servant."  He
told the Parliamentary committee offering him the title
that he "held it as a feather in a man's cap;" then burst
into an inspired strain, and quoting Luther's psalm, "that
rare psalm for a Christian," he added, "if Pope and
Spaniard and devil set themselves against us, yet the Lord of
Hosts is with us, and the God of Jacob is our refuge."  One
thing he knew well, that the title of King would take
all meaning out of the Puritan revolution, and he could not
so break with his own past, with his own spiritual life, and
with the godly men who had so faithfully followed and so
fully trusted him.

Why should he fret himself about a mere word?  All
real power was in his hands: the army and the navy, the
churches and the universities, the reform and administration
of the law, the government of Scotland and of Ireland.
Abroad, the war with all its details, the alliance with Sweden,
with France, with the Protestant princes of Germany,
the Protestant Protectorate extending as far as Transylvania,
the "planting" of the West Indies, the settlement
of the American Colonies, and their defense against their
rivals, the French,—all these subjects were Cromwell's daily
cares.  He was responsible for everything, and his burden
would have been lightened, if he could have conscientiously
taken on him the "divinity which doth hedge a king."  The
English people love what they know, and they knew
nothing of an armed Protector making laws by ordinance,
and disposing of events by rules not followed by their
ancestors.  But Oliver knew that he would cross Destiny if
he made himself King, and that this "crossing" always
means crucifixion of some kind.

"To be a king is not in my commission," he said to
Doctor Verity.  "It squares not with my call or my
conscience.  I will not fadge with the question again; no, not
for an hour."

The commercial and national glory of England at this
time were, however, in a manner incidental to Oliver's
great object—the Protection of Protestantism.  This
object was the apple of his eye, the profoundest desire of his
soul.  He would have put himself at the head of all the
Protestants in Europe, if he could have united them;
failing in this effort, he vowed himself to cripple the evil
authority of Rome and the bloody hands of Inquisitorial
Spain.  His sincerity is beyond all doubt; even Lingard,
the Roman Catholic historian, says, "Dissembling in
religion is contradicted by the uniform tenor of his life."  He
wrote to Blake that, "The Lord had a controversy with
the Romish Babylon, of which Spain is the under-propper;"
and he made it his great business to keep guard over
Protestants, and to put it out of the power of princes to
persecute them.  It is easy to say such a Protestant league was
behind the age.  It was not.  Had it been secured, the
persecutions of the Huguenots would not have taken place,
and the history of those hapless martyrs—still, after the
lapse of two hundred years, read with shuddering
indignation—would have been very different.  Cromwell knew
well what Popery had done to Brandeburg and Denmark,
and what a wilderness it had made of Protestant Germany,
and his conception of duty as Protector of all Protestants
was at least a noble one.  Nor was it ineffective.  On the
very day he should have signed a treaty of alliance with
France against Spain, he heard of the unspeakably cruel
massacre of the Vandois Protestants.  He threw the treaty
passionately aside, and refused to negotiate further until
Louis and Mazarin put a stop to the brutalities of the Duke
of Savoy.  As the details were told him, he wept; and all
England wept with him.  Not since the appalling massacre
of Protestants in Ireland, had the country been so moved
and so indignant.  Cromwell instantly gave two thousand
pounds for the sufferers who had escaped, and one hundred
and forty thousand pounds was collected in England for the
same purpose.  It was during the sorrowful excitement of
this time that Milton—now blind—wrote his magnificent
Sonnet,

   |  "Avenge, O Lord, Thy slaughtered saints, whose bones
   |  Lie scattered on the Alpine Mountains cold."

Furthermore, it was in Milton's luminous, majestic Latin
prose that Cromwell sent his demands to King Louis for
these poor, pious peasants,—demands not disregarded, for
all that could be found alive were returned to their
desolated homes.

For the persecuted Jews his efforts were not as successful.
They had been banished from England in A.D. 1290,
but three hundred and sixty-five years of obstinate
prejudice had not exhausted Christian bigotry.  Cromwell
made a noble speech in favour of their return to England,
but the learned divines and lawyers came forward to
"plead and conclude" against their admission, and
Cromwell, seeing no legal sanction was possible, let the matter
drop for a time.  Yet his favour towards the Jews was so
distinct that a company of Oriental Jewish priests came to
England to investigate the Protector's genealogy, hoping to
find in him "the Lion of the tribe of Judah."

So these three years were full of glory and romance, and
the poorest family in England lived through an epic of such
national grandeur as few generations have witnessed.  Yet,
amid it all, the simple domestic lives of men and women
went calmly on, and birth, marriage, and death made rich
or barren their homes.  Jane Swaffham attained in their
progress to a serene content she had once thought
impossible.  But God has appointed Time to console the
greatest afflictions, and she had long been able to think of
Cluny—not as lying in a bloody grave, but as one of the
Sons of God among the Hosts of Heaven.  And this
consolation accepted, she had begun to study Latin and
mathematics with Doctor Verity, and to give her love and her
service to all whom she could pleasure or help.  Indeed,
she had almost lived with the Ladies Mary and Frances
Cromwell, who had passed through much annoyance and
suffering concerning their love affairs.  But these were now
happily settled, Lady Mary having married Viscount
Fanconburg, and Lady Frances the lover for whom she had so
stubbornly held out—Mr. Rich, the grandson of the Earl
of Warwick.

Matilda's life during this interval had been cramped and
saddened by the inheritance from her previous years.
Really loving Cymlin, she could not disentangle the many
threads binding her to the old unfortunate passion, for,
having become wealthy, the Stuarts would not resign their
claim upon her.  Never had they needed money more;
and most of their old friends had been denuded, or worn
out with the never-ceasing demands on their affection.
Thus she was compelled, often against her will, to be
aware of plots for the assassination of Cromwell—plots
which shocked her moral sense, and which generally
seemed to her intelligence exceedingly foolish and useless.
These things made her restless and unhappy, for she could
not but contrast the splendour of the Protector's character
and government with the selfishness, meanness and
incapacity of the Stuarts.

She loved Cymlin, but she feared to marry him.  She
feared the reproaches of Rupert, who, though he made no
effort to consummate their long engagement, was furiously
indignant if she spoke of ending it.  Then, also, she had
fears connected with Cymlin.  When very young, he had
begun to save money in order to make himself a possible
suitor for Matilda's hand.  His whole career in the army
had looked steadily to this end.  In the Irish campaign he
had been exceedingly fortunate; he had bought and sold
estates, and exchanged prisoners for specie, and in other
ways so manipulated his chances that in every case they
had left behind a golden residuum.  This money had been
again invested in English ventures, and in all cases he had
been signally fortunate.  Jane had told Matilda two years
previously that Cymlin was richer than his father, and she
might have said more than this and been within the truth.

But in this rapid accumulation of wealth, Cymlin had
developed the love of wealth.  He was ever on the alert
for financial opportunities, and, though generous wherever
Matilda was concerned, not to be trifled with if his interests
were in danger.  So Matilda knew that if she would carry
out her intention of making over de Wick house and land
to Stephen, it must be done before she married Cymlin.
Yet if she surrendered it to Stephen under present
circumstances, everything would go, in some way or other, to the
needy, beggarly Stuart Court.  If Cromwell were only out
of the way!  If King Charles were only on the throne! he
would have all England to tax and tithe, and Stephen
would not need to give away the home and lands of his
forefathers.

She was fretfully thinking over this dilemma in its
relation to a new plot against Cromwell's life, when Jane
Swaffham visited her one morning in February of 1658.
Jane's smiling serenity aggravated her restless temper.
"Does nothing on earth ever give you an unhappy thought,
Jane?" she asked.  "You look as if you dwelt in Paradise."

"Indeed, I am very unhappy this morning, Matilda.
Mr. Rich is thought to be dying."

"And, pray heaven, *who is* Mr. Rich?"

"You know who Mr. Rich is, perfectly.  Why do you
ask such a foolish question?  Lady Frances is broken-hearted.
I am going now to Whitehall.  The Cromwells
are in the greatest distress."

"On my word, they have kept others in the greatest
distress for many years!  I am not sorry for them."

"I only called to tell you there is another plot."

"I have nothing to do with it."

"Some one you know may be in danger."

"Stephen is at Cologne.  If you are thinking of Stephen,
thank you.  I will write and tell him to keep good hope in
his heart, that Jane Swaffham remembers him."

"Dear Matilda, do not make a mock of my kindness.
The Protector's patience is worn out with this foolish
animosity.  He is generous and merciful to no purpose.  I
myself think it is high time he ceased to warn, and begin
to punish.  And poor Lady Rich!  It would grieve you to
the heart to see her despair.  She has only been three
months married, and it was such a true love match."

"Indeed it was a very 'good' match, love match or not.
Frances Cromwell to be Countess of Warwick.  Faith,
'tis most easy to fall in love with that state!"

"She might have chosen far greater state; you know it,
Matilda.  She was sought by Charles Stuart, and by the
Duke Enghien, and the Duke of Buckingham, and by
the Protector's ward, William Dutton, the richest young
man in England; but for love of Mr. Rich, and in spite
of her father's long opposition, she would marry no one else."

"Mr. Rich was good enough for her, surely!"

"Her father did not think so.  There were reports of
his drinking and gaming."

"And the Puritan Dove must not, of course, marry a
man who threw dice or drained a glass.  Those are the
works of the profane and wicked malignants.  However
was the marriage made at all?"

"You know all about it, Matilda.  What is the use of
pretending ignorance?"

"My dear sweet Jane, do you think I keep the Cromwell
girls and their affairs in my memory?  They are in
their kingdom now; I do not pretend to keep foot with
them—and I have troubles of my own; pray God they be
not too many for me!"

It was evident Matilda was not in an amiable mood, and
Jane having said the few words that brought her to Jevery
House that morning, left her friend.  She went away with
a troubled look, and Matilda watched the change and
smiled to herself at it.  "I am quite content to have her
made a little unhappy," she thought; "her constant air of
satisfaction is insufferable.  And if my Lady Rich loses her
husband, Jane can assure her that such griefs do not kill.
On my honour!  Jane looks younger and prettier than
when Neville was alive and worrying her.  Lovers die and
husbands die, and 'tis a common calamity; and better
people than either Jane or Frances have endured it.  I will go
now to my aunt's parlour; I dare say she will have some
visitor chock full of the new plot—and I may hear
something worth while."

These thoughts filled her mind as she went to Lady
Jevery's parlour.  She found there an acquaintance whom
they had known in Paris, the Countess Gervais.

"I have but now sent a messenger for you, Matilda,"
said Lady Jevery; "the Countess desired greatly to see
you."  Then the conversation became reminiscent, and
the new plot was not named, and Matilda began to be
bored.  Suddenly, however, her interest was roused to the
highest pitch, for the Countess, touching a bracelet which
Lady Jevery wore, said,

"I must tell you a strange thing.  I was lately at a
dinner where the niece of his Eminence, Cardinal Mazarin, sat
at my side.  And she wore a necklace and brooch and one
bracelet precisely like the bracelet you are now wearing.  I
cannot help noticing the circumstance, because the jewelry
is so exceedingly singular and beautiful."

"Yes," replied Lady Jevery.  "And what you say is
also very curious, for I once possessed a necklace, brooch
and two bracelets like the one I am now wearing.  All the
pieces were lost excepting this bracelet."

"But how?—let me inquire; where were they lost?"

"Somewhere near Paris.  I had intrusted them to a
friend who has never since been heard of."

"But the bracelet you are wearing?—this is so
singular—you will please pardon——"

"This bracelet," said Laid Jevery, "was more fortunate.
Some of the gems were loose, and I sent it to my jeweler
for repair, just before we left for Paris.  He was to
forward it to me if he found a safe messenger; luckily he
kept it until I returned to London."

"But this is most strange—most strange——"

"Most strange and most suspicious," said Matilda
indignantly.  "I should say it was evidence that Lord Neville
was murdered, and that his Eminence bought jewelry for
Hortense Mancini in some irregular way.  If I were Lady
Jevery, I would insist on knowing from whom."

"Oh, you do make one great mistake, I do assure you!
Mademoiselle Mancini is impeccable.  You must rest
content that the jewels came into her possession in the most
correct manner."

Barely listening to these words, Matilda curtsied and
abruptly left the room.  She was in the greatest distress,
and forced to conclusions it drove her distracted to
entertain.  All now seemed plain to her intelligence.  Rupert
had lied to her.  He had slain and robbed Neville, and the
jewels had been sold to Mazarin.  The Cardinal's passion
for rare jewels was well known, and these opals and rubies
in their settings of fretted gold work were unique and
precious enough, even for the extravagant taste of Hortense
Mancini.

A sudden passion of pity for the handsome young lord
came over her.  "It was too mean, too savagely cruel for
anything!" she almost sobbed.  "Men who can do such
things are not fit to be loved by women.  They are brutes.
I will write to Rupert at once.  I must know the truth of
this matter.  If such a crime has been committed, there is
no king or prince or priest on earth to absolve it, and I will
wash my hands forever of the Stuarts."

She did not wait for any second or more prudent thoughts.
She wrote Rupert that hour a letter, every word of which
was flame and tears.  When it was finished, she sent a man
with it on the instant to catch the Dover mail packet; and
all this was accomplished before she had any opportunity to
talk over the affair with her uncle.  When she did so, he
regretted her precipitancy, and refused to move in the
matter at all.  "It would be the height of imprudence," he
said.  "The young man is dead and gone, and we cannot
bring him back, though England went to war with France
on that quarrel.  The Protector is ill, worn out with
sorrow and anxiety, and if one of his old attacks should
seize him at this time, it would have the mastery.  I count
not his life worth a year's purchase.  Last week I talked a
few minutes with him, and there is the shadow of death on
his face.  He said to me, 'I am weary.  Oh, that I had
wings like a dove, then would I flee away and be at rest!'  And
when Cromwell dies, there is no question of what will
happen.  The nation will give Charles the Second a trial.
Then Matilda, when Charles comes back, Prince Rupert
comes with him.  They have been one in adversity, they
will be one in the hour of triumph.  We may need the
friendship of Prince Rupert to save ourselves.  No one can
tell how this reputedly good-natured Charles will act, when
his hands are able to serve his will.  I will not then make
an enemy of so powerful a man as Prince Rupert is like to
be.  If he slew Neville, he must answer to God for the
deed.  As for the jewels, I will not be inquisitive after
them.  And I pray you keep your influence over Prince
Rupert.  I am not used to forecast evil, but I do think
within one year we shall see the world turn round again.
It may also be suggested that Neville himself returned to
Paris and sold the jewels.  Who can prove different?  You
see how the case lies."

It was rarely Sir Thomas spoke with such decision, and
Matilda was much impressed by his words.  They made
her hesitate still more about her marriage with Cymlin.
She did not believe Rupert could now induce her to break
with Cymlin; and she doubted very much whether Rupert
would be permitted to marry her, even though her title to
de Wick was confirmed.  But Rupert's ill-will would be
dangerous; and the result of thought in every direction was
the wisdom of delay.

During the first hours of her discovery, Matilda had
wondered if she ought to tell Jane what proof of Cluny's
death had come to them; for in her heart she scoffed at the
idea of Cluny returning to Paris to sell the jewels.  But
Jane did not visit her for some time, and she was daily
expecting an answer from Prince Rupert.  This letter
might be of great importance, one way or another, and she
resolved to wait for it.  It came more rapidly than she had
anticipated, and its contents temporarily fanned to a feeble
flame her dying illusions concerning her first lover.  In
this letter Rupert "on his honour" reiterated his first
statement.  He declared that he left Neville in health and
safety, having at the last moment urged upon him his own
swift Barb, which offer Neville refused.  He said he should
seek mademoiselle's presence until he saw her wearing the
jewels, and then make question concerning them; and if
not satisfied, go at once to her Uncle Mazarin.  He was
sure it was now only a few weeks ere the truth would be
discovered.  These promises were blended with his usual
protestations of undying devotion, and Matilda was pleased,
though she was not satisfied.  For to Rupert's letter there
was a postscript, and in this postscript one word, which
sent the blood to her heart, cold with terror—

"P.S.  It may be the *Bastile*, and not the grave, which
holds the Neville secret."

*The Bastile*!  She had heard enough in Paris of that
stone hell to make her tremble at the word.  And now it
kept upon her heart a persistent iteration that was like blow
upon blow.  All night she endured it, but in the morning;
she was resolved to throw the intolerable burden on some
one more able to bear it.  But on whom?  Sir Thomas
would not have the subject named in his presence.  Cymlin
did not like Neville, and would probably "talk down" all
her fears and efforts.  It would be cruel to tell Jane,—but
there was Cromwell.  There was the Protector.  It was
his business to look after Englishmen, else what was the
use of a Protector?  And if any man had power to question
the Bastile, Cromwell had it.  Mazarin was just at this
time seeking his aid against the Spaniards, who were on
French soil, and Cromwell was about to send his own
famous troop of Ironsides to help the French.  Besides
which, Cromwell loved Neville.  Taking all these things
together, Matilda easily satisfied herself that interference
was Cromwell's bounden duty, and that all which could be
asked of her was to make Cromwell aware of this duty.

She could not tell how much or how little Cromwell
knew of her meddling in a variety of plots against his life
and government, but she expected her father's name would
secure her an audience, and she had such confidence in
herself as to believe that an "opportunity" to influence the
Protector was all she needed.  Her first request, however,
was met with a prompt refusal.  She was not to be daunted.
If her own name was not sufficient, she had others more
potent.  So she wrote on a card these words: "Lady
Matilda de Wick has important information regarding Lord
Cluny Neville; and for Mistress Jane Swaffham's sake, she
asks an interview."

This message was instantly effective.  While Matilda
was telling herself that "she would not do the least
homage to the Usurper," the door opened hastily, and he
entered her presence.  In the twinkling of an eye all her
resolves vanished.  His grave, sorrowful face, his majestic
manner, and the sad, reproachful tenderness of the gaze
that questioned her were omnipotent against all her prejudices.
She fell at his feet, and taking his hand kissed it,
whether in homage or in entreaty, she knew not.

"My lord," she said, and then she began to sob.  "My
lord, I crave of you so many pardons—so much forbearance—I
will never offend again."

He raised her with an imperious movement, and leading
her to a chair, remained standing at her side.  "We will
forget—the past is to be forgot—for your dear father's
sake.  Quickly tell me what you know, I am in a great
hurry."

Without one unnecessary word she related all, and then
put into his hands Prince Rupert's letter, with her finger
directing his attention to the terrifying postscript.  And she
saw with fear the rising passion in his countenance, and for
a moment trembled when he looked into her eyes with such
piercing inquiry that she could not resist nor misunderstand
their question.

"Sir," she cried, with a childlike abandon, "in this
matter I am single-hearted as I can be.  I wish only to put
a great wrong right."

"You tell me the truth, I believe you," he answered;
"and I will take upon me *to see that it is done*.  Say not a
word to Jane Swaffham until there be a surety in the
matter."

Then she rose, and looking with eyes full of tears into
his face, said, "Sir, I remember the day you pulled down
the hazelnuts for me in de Wick park.  My father walked
with you, arm in arm, and I had your hand until you
lifted me at the gates and kissed me.  Sir, I entreat you,
forget all that has come and gone since that hour, and
dismiss me now, as then,"—and she lifted her lovely face, wet
with the tears of contrition, and Cromwell took it between
his broad, strong hands, and kissed it, even as he had
kissed it in her childhood.

"Go home, my dear," he said softly.  "All that can be
done I will do, and without delay.  You believe in the
God of your fathers, and you pray to Him?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then pray for Cluny Neville.  I may speak, but it is
God that setteth the prisoner free.  His blessing be on you.
I am glad to have seen your face, I am truly.  A good-day
to you!"

Matilda curtsied and went out.  Her cheeks burned,
her heart was flooded with a thousand feelings.  She
marveled most at herself; all her scorn had turned into
respect, all her hatred into something very like affection.
Yet mingling with these new-born emotions was an intense
contempt for herself.  "A nice Royalist you are, Matilda
de Wick!" she muttered angrily.  "You went on your
knees to the Regicide!  You gave him your cheek to kiss!
You shed tears!  You asked his pardon!  You contemptible
woman, I am ashamed of you!  The man is a wizard—he
has a charm from the devil—why did I go into his
presence?  I hope I may be able to keep the secret of my
own fall.  I vow it is as deep as Eve's!  I am mortified
beyond words,—and if Cymlin knew, what volumes
there would be in his eyes and his mouth, and—his silence!"

And yet there was in her heart a strong belief that
this time Cromwell's inquiries would be as effective as
they were sure to be prompt.  Indeed the first thing the
Protector did, was to dictate the following letter to Mazarin:

.. vspace:: 2

"TO His EMINENCE CARDINAL MAZARIN,

.. vspace:: 1

"Sir:—In a manner most providential it has been
made known to me that Lord Neville is at this present
moment in the Bastile prison.  I know not why my friends
should be treated as enemies, seeing that I have been faithful
to you in all difficulties.  Truly my business is now to
speak things that I will have understood.  The danger is
great, if you will be sensible of it, unless Lord Neville be
put at once in charge of those by whom I send this message.
For if any harm come to him, I will make inquisition for
his life—for every hair of his head that falls wrongfully to
the ground.  And in regard to sending more troops to
Boulogne against the Spaniards, look not for them, unless,
by the grace of God and your orders, Lord Neville is
presently, and without hinderance, in England.  Then, I
will stand with you, and I do hope that neither the cruelty,
nor malice of any man will be able to make void our
agreement concerning the Spaniard; for as to the young
man's return, it is the first count in it, and I shall—I
must—see that he is restored to that freedom of which he has
been unjustly deprived.  It cannot be believed that your
Eminency has had anything to do with this deed of sheer
wickedness, yet I must make mention of the jewels which
disappeared with Lord Neville, and the money, and the
papers.  As for the two last items I make no demand,
seeing that particular persons may have spent the one and
destroyed the other; but I have certain knowledge that the
jewels are in the possession of mademoiselle your
Eminency's niece.  I have some reluctance to write further
about them, believing that you will look more particularly
than I can direct, into this matter.  By the hand of my
personal friend, General Swaffham, I send this; and in all
requisites he will stand for

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent-white-space-pre-line

   "Sir,
       "Your Eminency's
           "Most Humble Servant,
               "OLIVER P."

.. vspace:: 2

When this letter was sealed, he sent for Israel, and telling
him all that he had heard, bade him take twelve of their
own troop, go to Paris, and bring back Cluny with them.
Israel was very willing.  He had always believed Mazarin
had, at least, guilty knowledge of Cluny's murder; and all
he asked was, that his daughter might be kept in ignorance
until hope became a certainty, either of life or death.

Cromwell's summons affected Mazarin like thunder out
of a clear sky.  He had forgotten Lord Neville.  It was
necessary to bring to him the papers relating to the mission
on which he had come, and even then he was confused,
or else cleverly simulated confusion.  But he had to do
with a man, in many respects, more inflexible than Cromwell.

"I will make inquiries," he said to Israel.  "In two or
three days—or a week——"

"I must be on my way back to London, sir, in two or
three days."

"I cannot be hurried,—I have much other business."

"I have only this business in Paris, sir; but it is a
business of great haste.  This very hour, if it please your
Eminence, I would make inquiries at the Bastile."

"It does not please me.  You must wait."

"Waiting is not in my commission, sir.  I am to work,
or to return to London without an hour's delay.  Lord
Neville is particularly dear to his Highness; and if my
inquiries meet not with attention,—on the moment,—I am
instructed to waste no time.  We must then conclude the
envoy of the Commonwealth of England has been robbed
and slain, and it will be the duty of England to take
redress at once."

"You talk beyond your commission."

"Within it, sir."

"Retire to the anteroom.  They will serve you with
bread and wine while I make some inquiries."

"It is beyond my commission to eat or drink until I
have had speech with Lord Neville.  I will wait in this
presence, the authority of your Eminence," and Israel let
his sword drop and leaned upon it, gazing steadfastly the
while into the face of the Cardinal.  The twelve troopers
with him, followed as one man, his attitude, and even
Mazarin's carefully tutored composure could not long endure
this silent battery of determined hearts and fixed eyes.
He gave the necessary order for the release of Lord Cluny
Neville,—"if such a prisoner was really in the Bastile,"—and
sending a body of his own Musketeers with it, directed
Israel to accompany them.

"These insolent, domineering English!" he muttered;
"and this Cromwell, by grace of the devil, their Protector!
If I get not the better of them yet, my name is not Mazarin.
As for the young man, I meant not this long punishment;
I wanted only his papers.  As for the jewels, I was
not told they came out of his bag,—I did suspect, but what
then?  I am too much given to suspicions, and the jewels
were rare and cheap, and Hortense became them well.  I
will not give up the jewels—the man may go, but the jewels?
I fear they must go, also, or Spain will have her way.
Cromwell wants an excuse to withdraw, I will not give him
it.  And by Mary!  I am sorry for the young man.  I
meant not such injury to him; I must make some atonement
to the saints for it."

This sorrow, though brief and passing, was genuine;
cruelty was perhaps the one vice unnatural to Mazarin, and he
was relieved in what he called his conscience, when he
heard that Lord Neville still lived,—if such bare breathing
could be called life.  For the Bastile seemed to be the
Land of Forgetfulness.  The Governor had so forgotten
Cluny, that his name called up no recollection.  He did
not know whether he was in the prison or not.  He did not
know whether he was alive or dead.  The head gaoler also
had forgotten.  Men lost their identity within those walls.
The very books of the prison had forgotten Cluny.  Their
keeper grew cross, and positive of Neville's non-entering,
as volume after volume refused to give up his name.  But
Israel and his men, standing there so determined and so
silent, forced him to go back and back, until he came to that
fateful day when, before the dawning, the young man had
been driven within those terrible gates.

"On whose order?" asked Israel, speaking with sharp
authority.

"On the order of his Eminence, Cardinal Mazarin," was
the answer.

"I thought so;" then turning to the head gaoler he
added, "you have the order for release.  We are in haste."

"Time is not counted here.  We know not haste," was
the answer.

"Then," said Israel, flaming into passion, "you must
learn how to hasten.  I give you ten minutes to produce
Lord Neville.  After that time, I shall return to his
Eminence and report your refusal to obey him."

The gaoler had never before been accosted in such language.
As word by word was translated to his intelligence,
he manifested an unspeakable terror.  It was impossible for
him to conceive the manner of man and the strange
authority that dared so to address the head gaoler of the
Bastile.  He left the chamber at once, and within the time
named there were sounds heard which made all hearts stand
still,—the slow movement of feet hardly able to walk,—the
dismal clangor of iron, and anon the mournful sound of a
human voice.  But nothing could have prepared Cluny's
comrades for the sight of their old companion.  His tall
form was attenuated to the last point; his eyes, unaccustomed
to much light, would not at once respond, they
looked as if they had lost vision; his hair straggled unkempt
over his shoulders, and the awful pallor of the prison on his
face and neck and hands was more ghastly than the pallor
of death.  His clothing had decayed; it hung in shreds
about his limbs; but there was a glimmer of his old self in
the pitiful effort he made, as soon as conscious of human
presence, to lift up his head and carry himself without fear.
An irrepressible movement of arms, a low wail of pity, met
him as he entered the room, and he looked before him,
anxious, intent, but not yet seeing anything distinctly.

"*Cluny!  Cluny!  Cluny!*" cried Israel; and then Cluny
distinguished the buff and steel uniforms, and knew who it
was that called him.  A long, sharp cry of agony, wonder,
joy, answered the call, and he fell senseless into Israel's
arms.

They brought him wine, they lifted him to the open
window, they laid bare the skeleton form of his chest, they
called him by name in voices so full of love and pity that
his soul perforce answered their entreaties.  Then the
Governor offered him some clothing, but Israel put it
passionately away.  They were worse than Babylonish garments
in his sight; he would not touch them.  He asked only for
a public litter, and when it was procured, they laid Cluny
in it, and his comrades bore him through the streets of
Paris to their lodging on the outskirts of the city.

When they left the gates of the prison there was a large
gathering of men, and it increased as they proceeded,—a
pitiful crowd, whose very silence was the highest eloquence.
For they understood.  Cluny lay prone and oblivious to
their vision.  They had seen him come from the Bastile.
He was dead, or dying, and these angry, weeping soldiers
were his comrades.  They began to mutter, to exclaim, to
voice their sympathy more and more intelligibly.  Women,
praying and weeping audibly, joined the procession, and
Israel foresaw the possibility of trouble.  He felt that in
some way order must be restored, and inspired by the
wisdom within, he raised his hands and in a loud, ringing
voice, began the favourite hymn of his troopers; and to the
words they had been used to sing in moments of triumphal
help or deliverance they carried Cluny, with the solemn
order of a religious service, safely into their camp.  For when
the hymn began, the crowd followed quietly, or dropped
away, as the stern men trod in military step to their majestic
antiphony:

   |  "Lift up your heads, O ye gates,
   |  And the King of glory shall come in."
   |  "Who is the King of glory?"
   |  "The Lord strong and mighty; the Lord mighty in battle.
   |  Lift up your heads, O ye gates,
   |  And the King of glory shall come in."
   |  "Who is this King of glory?"
   |  "The Lord of hosts; the Lord mighty in battle,
   |  He is the King of glory!"

.. _`"'LIFT UP YOUR HEADS, O YE GATES, AND THE KING OF GLORY SHALL COME IN.'"`:

.. figure:: images/img-352.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: "'LIFT UP YOUR HEADS, O YE GATES, AND THE KING OF GLORY SHALL COME IN.'"

   "'LIFT UP YOUR HEADS, O YE GATES, AND THE KING OF GLORY SHALL COME IN.'"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`OLIVER THE CONQUEROR`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVI


.. class:: center medium bold

   OLIVER THE CONQUEROR

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  "O Heart heroic, England's noblest son!
   |  At what a perfect height thy soaring spirit burns
   |  Star-like! and floods us yet with quickning fire."
   |
   |    \*      \*      \*      \*      \*
   |
   |  "Cromwell is dead: a low-laid Heart of Oak."
   |
   |    \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

"There the wicked cease from troubling, there the weary are at
rest."

.. vspace:: 2

"Cheer up, Jane!  You and Lord Neville will yet
arrive at the height of your wishes.  This is my judgment,
and if it be not true, you may burn me in the ear for a
rogue."

"And you will marry Cymlin?"

"Perhaps I shall, perhaps I shall not; perhaps 'tis time
enough next year to consider on it."

"It would be a happy marriage."

"A happy marriage would be so much of heaven that I
think it was never enjoyed in this world.  'Tis a weary
world, I swear I often cry for myself in it."

"But you will marry Cymlin?"

"Faith, I know not how I am to help the catastrophe!
But in all sobriety, I think Cymlin loves me, and you do,
too, dear Jane!  Oh, I could weep my eyes dry when I
think of your dear lover, and all he has so innocently
suffered.  It is intolerable!"

In her way, Matilda was doing her best to console and
encourage Jane as they talked over the sad fate of her
rescued lover.  Both had been weeping, and there was a more
affectionate confidence between them than had existed for
many years.

But Matilda had cancelled every fault and every unkindness
by her prompt action in the matter of Lord Neville,
and Jane had been loving and praising her for it, until the
sweetness of their first affection was between them.  And
Matilda enjoyed praise; she liked the appreciation of her
kind deed, and was not therefore disposed to make light or
little of what she had done, or of its results.

"For your sake, Jane," she said, "I could not have a
moment's peace, after hearing where the jewels were.  I
said to myself, this is the clue to Neville's fate, and it must
be followed.  Though my uncle would not interfere, I was
resolved to bring the great Cardinal to catechism; and as I
knew no one in the world would dare to question him but
Cromwell, I went to Cromwell."

"It was a wonderful thing for you to do."

"It was; I must give myself so much credit.  Not that
I am afraid of Cromwell, or of any other man, but it was a
great humiliation."

"Cromwell would not humiliate you; I am sure of that."

"He behaved very well.  He knew I had had a share in
every plot against him; and he gave me one look so swift,
so searching, and so full of reproach, that it sticks like an
arrow in my heart yet.  But there were old memories
between us, and anon he was as gentle as my mother with
me.  I will never try to injure him again,—never!"

"It is impossible to tell you how grateful Cluny and I
are to you; I think no other woman in England would
have been so forgetful of herself, and so brave for others."

"Perhaps not, Jane.  But I love you, and I love justice
and mercy, even to an enemy.  I can always be brave with
a good reason.  And, pray, how comes my lord on towards
recovery?"

"Slowly.  Life was nearly gone; body and mind were
at death's door; but he can walk a little now, and in two
or three weeks we are going away,—far away,—we are
going to my brothers in the Massachusetts Colony."

"Jane Swaffham!  I will not believe you!  And pray
what shall I do?  You shall not think of such a thing."

"It is necessary.  Cluny's mental sufferings have made
it so.  When he was first imprisoned he tried to write, to
compose hymns and essays, to make speeches, to talk
aloud; but as time went on, he could not keep control of
himself and of his awful circumstances, and now all the
misery of those long, dark, lonely years has settled into one
idea,—space without end.  The rooms are too small.  He
walks to the walls and trembles.  He throws open the
doors and windows that he may have room to breathe.  In
the night he wakes with a cry, he feels as if he were smothering.
If he goes into the garden he shrinks from the gates;
and the noise of the city, and the sight of the crowds
passing fills him with fear and anxiety.  He wants to go where
there are no limits, no men who may hate and imprison
him; and his physician says, 'Let him live for weeks, or
months, out on the ocean.'  This is what he needs, and he
is eager to get away."

"You will come back?"

"I think it is unlikely.  Father feels a change approaching.
The Protector's health is failing rapidly; he is dying,
Matilda, dying of the injustice and ingratitude he meets on
every hand.  'Wounded,' yes slain, 'in the house of my
friends,' is his constant cry."


"'Tis most strange that a man of war like Oliver
Cromwell should care what his friends think or say."

"Yet he does.  When he speaks to father about Harrison,
Lambert, Alured, Overton and others of his old
companions, he wrings his hands and weeps like a woman; or
else he protests against them in such angry sorrow as
distresses one to see and hear it."

"He ought to know that he has been raised above the
love of men who are less noble than himself, and that if
beyond and above their love, then they will hate and abuse
him.  If he dies?——"

"Father will leave England as soon as Cromwell is in his
grave.  Cymlin will keep old Swaffham fair, for Cymlin
will never leave England while you are in it."

"And you can bear to talk of leaving England in that
calm way, without tears and without regrets.  Jane, it is
shameful; it is really wicked."

"I do not leave England without tears and regrets, but
there is Cluny, and——"

"Cluny, of course.  I suppose you will be married before
you leave.  But I have a mind not to be your bridesmaid,
though I am promised to that office ever since I was
a maid in ankle tights."

"Dear Matilda, do not be angry at me because I had to
do what I had to do.  I was married to Cluny three days
after he came home.  We all thought he was going to die,
and he wished me to be his wife."

"Why was I not sent for?  I would have come, Jane.
It was cruel wrong in you to pass me by."

"We were married by Doctor Verity at Cluny's bedside.
No one was present but my father and mother and
the three servants to whom Cluny had become accustomed.
He was then frightened at every strange face."

"After this, nothing can astonish me.  I was not a
stranger——"

"He would not have recognised you, then."

"How could he lose himself so far?  He ought to have
had more courage.  Why did he not do something or
other?"

"Oh, Matilda, what would you have done in a room
eight feet by ten, and in the dark most of the time—your
bread and water given without a word—your attendant
deaf and dumb to you—no way to tell the passage of
time—no way of knowing how the seasons went, but by the
more severe cold—if you had been, like Cluny, really
buried alive, what would you have done?"

"I would have died."

"Cluny composed psalms and hymns, and tried to sing;
he did not lose heart or hope quite, the gaoler told father,
for nearly four years.  Then his health and strength gave
out, and his heart failed, but he never ceased praying.
They heard him at midnight, but Cluny did not know
what hour it was.  And to the last moment he kept his
faith in God.  He was sure God would deliver him,
though He sent an angel to open the prison doors.  He was
expecting deliverance the day it came.  He had had a
message from beyond, and his mother had brought it.  Now
did I not do right to marry him when, and how, he wished?"

"Yes," she answered, but her face and voice showed her
to be painfully affected.  "Jane, I cannot bear to lose you.
I shall have no one to love me, no one to quarrel with,"
she added.

"You will have Cymlin."

"Cymlin is Cymlin; he is not you.  I will say no
more.  When a woman is married, all is over.  She must
tag after her lord, even over seas and into barbarous places.
If the Indians kill you, it will be said that you were in the
way of duty; but I have noticed how often people take the
way they want to take, and then call it the way of Duty.
I shall not marry Cymlin until he can show me the way of
peace and pleasantness."

Then Jane rose to go, and Matilda tied her bonnet-strings,
and straightened out her ribbons and her gloves,
doing these trifling services with a long-absent tenderness
that filled Jane's heart with pleasure.  "Good-bye, dear!"
she said with a kiss; "I will come as often as I can."

"Very kind of you, Lady Neville," answered Matilda
with a curtsy and a tearful mockery; "very kind indeed!
But will your ladyship consider—" then she broke down
and threw her arms round Jane, and called her "a dear,
sweet, little Baggage" and bade her give Cluny some
messages of hope and congratulation, and so parted with her
in a strange access of affection.  But true friendship has
these moods of the individual and would not be true
without them.

Jane walked home through the city, and its busy turmoil
struck her as never before.  What a vain show it was!—a
passing show, constantly changing.  And suddenly there
was the galloping of horsemen, and the crowd stood still,
and drew a little aside, while Cromwell, at the head of his
guards, rode at an easy canter down the street.  Every
man bared his head as the grand, soldierly figure passed by.
He saw Jane, and a swift smile chased away for a moment
the sorrowful gravity of his face.  But he left behind him a
penetrating atmosphere of coming calamity.  All souls
sensitive to spiritual influences went onward with a sigh,
and the clairvoyant saw—as George Fox did—the wraith
of fast approaching affliction.  The man was armed from
head to feet, and his sword had never failed him, but it was
not with flesh and blood he had now to contend.  The
awful shadows of the supernatural world darkened the
daylight round him, and people saw his sad face and form as
through a mist, dimly feeling all the chill foreboding of
something uncertain, yet of certain fatality.

His glorious life was closing like a brilliant sun setting
in a stormy sky.  He had been recently compelled to tell
his last Parliament some bitter truths, for danger was
pressing on every side.  Protestants in the Grisons, in Piedmont
and Switzerland, were a prey to the Spanish papists, and
their helper, Pope Alexander the Seventh, and the Protestant
Dutch—preferring profit to godliness—were providing ships
to transport Charles Stuart and his army to English soil.

"The Marquis of Ormond, well disguised, was here on
Charles Stuart's interest, only yesterday morning," he said
to them.  "I did send for Lord Broghill, and I said to
him, 'There is an old friend of yours lodging in Drury
Lane at the papist surgeon's.  It would be well for him if
he were gone.'  And gone he is."  Then with withering
scorn he added, "All this is your doing.  You will have
everything too high or too low.  You don't want a
settlement.  You are tampering with the army.  You are
playing the King of Scot's game, helping him in his plans of
invasion.  You have put petitions through the city to draw
London into rebellion.  You are plotting for a Restoration.
I know these things, I do know them, and I say you
have laid upon me a burden too heavy for any poor creature.
For I sought not this place.  You sought me for it.
You brought me to it.  I say this before God, angels and
men!  But I took my oath to see all men preserved in
their rights, and by the grace of God I will—I must—see
it done.  And let God be judge between you and me!"

Many cried "Amen," as they filed out of the ancient
halls, chagrined and troubled under his stinging rebuke.
And Cromwell felt for the first time the full weight of the
refractory kingdom whose government he must bear alone.

He was right; it was too heavy a burden for any one
man, and the burden was made still more heavy by his
family afflictions.  His beloved mother had left him, gone
the way of all the earth, saying with her last breath, "I
leave my heart with thee, dear son! a good-night!"  His
son-in-law, Rich, the three months' bridegroom of his
"little Frankie," was but a few weeks dead, and the Earl
of Warwick, his firmest friend among the nobility, was
dying.  His favourite daughter, Elizabeth, was very ill,
and he himself was feeling unmistakable premonitions of
his dissolution.  For, day by day, his soul was freeing
itself from the ligaments of the body, rising into a finer
air, seeing right and wrong with the eyes of immortality.
But he would do his duty to the last tittle of strength,—fall
battling for the right,—and as to what should come after,
God would care for that.

The fifteenth of May had been set for his assassination.
On that day, risings were to take place in Yorkshire and
Sussex; London was to be set on fire, the Protector seized
and murdered, and Charles Stuart land on the southern
coast.  Cromwell knew all the secret plans of this
conspiracy of "*The Sealed Knot*"; knew every member of it;
and on the afternoon when Jane Swaffham saw him passing
up London streets, so stern and scornful, he had just
ordered the arrest of one hundred of them.  From these he
selected fifteen for trial.  They were all Royalists; he
would not lay his hand on his old friends, or on any who
had once served the Cause.  His mercy and his great
heart were never so conspicuous as at this time.  Only two
of the fifteen were condemned to death, Doctor Hewitt, an
Episcopal minister, and Sir Henry Slingsby, the uncle of
Lord Fanconbridge, who was the husband of his own
daughter, Mary;—Doctor Hewitt for issuing commissions
in Charles Stuart's name, and Sir Henry Slingsby for
endeavouring to bribe the city of Hull to open its gates to the
Stuart invaders.  Against Doctor Hewitt his anger burned
with unusual severity; he would listen to no intercession for
him; for, he said,

"The man has eat my bread, and sat on my hearth, and
been a familiar friend of my family.  He has been in all
our confidences; he has dipped his sop in our dish, and
cried 'Hail, master' to me.  Like the wickedest of traitors,
he betrayed me, even while he called me friend.  He shall
die the death of a traitor, both to England and to myself."

But though dark clouds from every side were rolling up,
they were lit and edged with the fiery glory of the setting
sun behind them.  Cromwell's troops, under Lockhart in
France, were treading their old victorious march, and the
flowers of June were wreathed for the taking of Dunkirk,
where the Ironsides had stormed unbreached forts and
annihilated Spanish battalions, to the amazement of
Turenne, Condé and Don John.

Jane heard constantly of these events, but her heart had
closer interests.  The ship which was to carry Cluny and
herself to America was lying at her wharf nearly ready
for sea.  It was a stout vessel belonging to Sir Thomas
Jevery, commanded by a captain of tried skill and great
piety.  There were to be no other passengers; Cluny and
Jane alone were to find in its black-ribbed cabin their home
for many weeks, perhaps months.  A recent experience
had proven the necessity for this exclusion of strange
elements.  Early in June, Israel had taken Cluny to bid
farewell to his old General, and the meeting had tried both
men severely.  A few days previous, Cromwell had laid in
the grave his little grandson, Oliver, and the child's image
still lived in his troubled eyes.  He could scarcely speak
when he saw Cluny.  He waived impatiently all ceremony,
drew him to his breast and kissed him; but it was
quickly evident Cluny could not bear any conversation
on his past misery.  His excitement became painful to
witness, and Cromwell with quick, kind wisdom, began to
speak rather of his own great sorrow.

"You know, Israel," he said, "how sweet a little lad
my Oliver was.  I cannot yet believe that he is dead; I
cannot.  Only a week ago, when he was ill and restless,
I lifted him and carried him to and fro, and his cheek was
against my cheek, and his arms around my neck, and suddenly
I felt them slip away, and I looked at the child, and
so caught his last smile.  I thought that night my heart
would break; but the consolations of God are not small,
and I shall go to the boy, though he will never come back
to me.  Never!  Never!  His mother is now very ill; you
would pity her, indeed you would.  Cluny, you remember
the Lady Elizabeth Claypole?"

"My General, I shall never forget her."

"I do fear she is sick unto death.  Her little Oliver's
removal has been the last blow of the last enemy.  You
may pity me, Cluny; I need pity, I do indeed; I am a
man of many afflictions.  But it is the Lord; let Him do
whatever seemeth good in His sight."  He then went to a
desk and wrote a few lines to the officials of the
Massachusetts Colony; in them, commending Lord Neville to
their kindness and care.  His hands trembled—those large
strong hands—trembled as he gave the letter to Cluny.
Then he kissed him once more, and with a "Farewell" that
was a blessing, he turned away, weeping.

"It is another friend gone," he said mournfully to his
own heart; "lover and friend are put far from me and mine
acquaintance into darkness."  But he went straight to his
daughter Elizabeth, and talked to her only of God's great
love and goodness, and of the dear boy who had been taken
from them because "he pleased God; because he was
beloved of God, so that living among sinners he was
translated; yea, speedily was he taken away, lest wickedness
should alter his understanding or deceit beguile his soul; and
being made perfect in a short time, fulfilled a long time."[1]

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.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

[1] Wisdom of Solomon, Chap. 4, vs. 10-13.

.. vspace:: 2

Cluny was so much troubled and affected by this visit
that Israel thought it well to take him to see the ship which
was to carry him to the solitudes of the great waters and
the safety of the New World.  He was impatient to be
gone, but there were yet a number of small interests to
be attended to; for they were to carry with them a great
deal of material necessary to the building and furnishing of
their future home.  Every day revealed some new want
not before thought of, so that it was nearing the end of
June when at last all was declared finished and ready.

Then Jane went to Hampton Court to bid her old
friends a last farewell.  It was a mournful visit.  She
fancied they did not care as much as she thought they
might have done.  In fact, the gloomy old palace was a
terrible House of Mourning, and the Cromwells' own
sorrows consumed their loving-kindness.  Frances, in her
widow's garb, could only weep and talk of her dead
bridegroom.  Lady Claypole was dumb under the loss of her
son and her own acute suffering, and Mrs. Cromwell's
heart bleeding for both her unhappy daughters.  Jane was
shocked at her white, anxious face; alas, there was only
too much reason for it!  Whatever others thought, the
wife of the great Protector knew that he was dying—dying,
even while he was ruling with a puissant hand the destinies
of England.  Every member of this sad family was in sore
trouble; they could find no words of mere courtesy; even
friendship was too large a claim upon them.

Jane felt keenly all the anguish in this palace of Pain
and Sorrow.  She remained only one night, and was as willing
to leave it as the sad dwellers therein were willing to be
left.  They were not unkind, but they could bear no more;
their own burden was too heavy.  Jane would have
regretted her visit altogether, had it not been for the
changeless tenderness of the Protector.  His face during these
quick gathering trials had become intensely human.  It
was easy to read in it endless difficulties and griefs,
surmounted by endless labours and importunate prayers.  With
strange, mystical eyes he walked continuously the long
rooms and corridors, ever seeking the realisation of his
heart's constant cry, "Oh, that I knew where I might find
Thee!"  He talked to Jane of Cluny and of their prospects;
made her kneel at his side during the family service,
kept her hand in his, and prayed for her and Cluny by
name.  And at the last moment he gave her the blessing
she hoped for—"God which dwelleth in heaven prosper
your journey; and the angel of God keep you company."[2]

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.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

[2] Tobit, Chap. 5, v. 16.

.. vspace:: 2

The strain had been great; the very atmosphere of the
place was too heavy with grief to breathe; she was glad to
feel the sunshine and the fresh wind.  She had intended to
call on Matilda as she passed through the city, but she
could not throw off the lassitude of hopeless foreboding
that had invaded her mind.  It bred fears for Cluny, and
she hastened home, resolving to see Matilda on the
following day.  But when she reached Sandy's House,
Mrs. Swaffham met her with a letter in her hand—"Lady
Jevery asks you to come to Matilda, who is in great
trouble," she said.  "Cluny is asleep; if you are not too tired,
you would better go at once, for if the wind keep fair,
Captain Jonson thinks to lift anchor to-morrow night."

So Jane went to her friend.  With her, also, she found
the grief Death brings.

"Stephen is slain!" were her first words.  She could
hardly utter them.  But Jane knew how to comfort Matilda;
she could talk to her as she could not to the ladies of
Cromwell's household.  She could take her in her arms
and say all kinds of loving words, blending them with
promises and hopes that had Divinity as their surety.  And
she could encourage her to talk away her trouble.  "How
was Stephen slain?" she asked, "in a duel?"

"No, thank God!  He fell, as he himself could have
wished, fighting the enemies of his King.  He was with
Condé and the Dukes of York and Gloucester before
Dunkirk, and was killed while meeting the rush of those
terrible Ironsides.  He died shouting '*For God and King!*'
and Camby—one of their officers who comes from Ely—knew
Stephen, and he carried him aside, and gave him
water, but he died in five minutes.  Camby wrote me that
he said '*Mother!*' joyfully, with his last breath."

"Poor Stephen!"

"Oh, indeed 'tis very well to cry, 'poor Stephen,' when
he is beyond your pity.  You might have pitied him when
he was alive, that would have been something to the
purpose.  All his short, unhappy life has been one constant
battle with Puritans and poverty.  Oh, how I hate those
Stuarts!  I am thankful to see you can weep for him, Jane.
I think you ought.  God knows he loved you well, and
most thanklessly.  And he is the last, the last de Wick.
Root and branch, the de Wick tree has perished.  I wish I
could die also."

"And Cymlin, Matilda?"

"I shall marry Cymlin,—at the proper time."

"You may have sons and daughters."

"I hope not.  I pray not.  I have had sorrow enough.
My father and his three sons are a good ending for the
house.  It was built with the sword, and it has been
destroyed by the sword.  I want no de Wick like the men
of to-day—traders and gold seekers.  And if they were
warriors, the old cares and fears and anxieties would be to
live over again.  No, Jane, the line of de Wick is finished.[3]
Cymlin and I will be the last Earl and Countess de Wick.
We shall go to Court, and bow to the Stuart, and be very
great people, no doubt."

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.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

[3] Matilda's desire was granted her.
She died childless, and the lands
of de Wick reverted to the Crown.
As for Swaffham, Cymlin, at his
death, left it to the eldest son of his brother
Tonbert; but the young man
longed for America, and soon sold it.
During the eighteenth century it
changed hands often; but in the early years
of the nineteenth century the
old house was replaced by a modern structure,
less storied but of extensive
proportions and very handsome design.

.. vspace:: 2

"And Prince Rupert?"

"Is a dream from which I have awakened."

"But he may still be dreaming."

"Rupert has many faults, but he is a man of honour.
My marriage to Cymlin will be a barrier sacred to both of
us.  Our friendship can hold itself above endearments.
You need not fear for Cymlin; Matilda de Wick will
honour her husband, whether she obeys him or not.
Cymlin is formed for power and splendour, and he will stand
near the throne."

"If there be a throne."

"Of that, who now doubts?  Cromwell is falling sick,
and you may feel 'God save the King' in the air.  If you
had married Stephen, he would have been alive to join in
the cry.  I could weep at your obstinacy, Jane."

"Let it pass, dear.  I was suckled on Puritan milk.
Stephen and I never could have been one.  My fate was
to go to the New World.  When I was a little child I
dreamed of it, saw it in visions before I knew that it
existed.  Stephen has escaped this sorrowful world and——"

"Oh, then, I would he were here!  This sorrowful
world with Stephen in it was a better world than it is
without him.  Jane, Jane, how he loved you!"

"And I loved him, as a companion, friend, brother, if you
will.  When you lay his body in de Wick, cast a tear and
a flower on his coffin for me.  God give him peace!"

At length their "farewell" came.  Jane dreaded it; she
was sure Matilda would wear emotion to shreds and
exhaustion.  But it was not so.  She wept, but she was
solemnly silent; and the last words between them were soft
and whispered, and only those sad, loving monosyllables
which are more eloquent than the most fervid protestations.
And so they parted, forever in this life,—and if this life
were all, Death would indeed be the Conqueror.  But it is
not all; even through the death struggle, the Soul carries
high her cup of Love, unspilled.

The next afternoon Jane and Cluny rode through
London streets for the last time.  They were full of busy,
happy people, and mingling with them all the bravery and
splendid show of the great company of courtiers that were
in the train of Mazarin's two nephews, the Duke of
Crequin and Monsieur Mancini; Ambassadors from the
King of France to congratulate Cromwell—"the most invincible
of sovereigns, the greatest and happiest of princes—"
on the surrender of Dunkirk.

And Jane on the previous day had heard this "most invincible
of sovereigns, the greatest and happiest of princes,"
declare that "he was weak and weary; that all the waves
and billows of a sea of troubles had gone over him," and
with tears and outstretched hands entreat his God to "give
him rest from his sorrow and from his fear, and from the
hard bondage wherein he had been called to serve."

On the ship they found Jane's father, Doctor Verity and
Sir Thomas Jevery.  There were no tears at this parting,
nor any signs of sorrow; every one seemed resolved to
regard it as a happy and hopeful event.  For, though not
spoken of, there was a firm belief and promise of a meeting
again in the future not very far off.  Israel held his
little daughter to his heart, and then laid her hand in
Cluny's without a word; the charge was understood.  The
young husband kissed the hand, and clasped it within his
own, and his eyes answered the loving father in a language
beyond deception.  When the last few minutes came, and
the men were trooping to the anchor, Doctor Verity raised
his hands, and the three or four in the dim, small cabin
knelt around him; and so their farewell was a prayer, and
their parting a blessing.

Israel and Doctor Verity walked away together, and for
a mile neither of them spoke a word.  There is a time for
speech and a time to refrain from speech, and both men
were in the House of Silence for strength, each finding it
in his own individual way.  As they came near to Sandy's,
however, Israel said,

"It is a short farewell, John.  It will be my turn next."

"I shall go when you go."

"To the Massachusetts Colony?"

"Yes.  I am ready to go when the time comes."

"It is not far off."

"A few months at the longest."

"He is very ill?"

"The foundations of his life are shaken, for he lives not
in his power or his fame, or even in the work set him to
do.  No, no, Oliver lives in his feelings.  They are at the
bottom of his nature; all else is superstructure.  And they
have been rent and torn and shaken till the man, strong as
he is, trembles in every limb.  And Fairfax, as well as
Lambert and others, think they can fill great Oliver's
place!—no man can."

"For that very reason, when he departs, I will away
from England.  I have no heart for another civil war.  I
will draw sword under no less a general than Oliver."

"As I said, I go with you.  I have some land, and a
little home there already; and Mistress Adair has promised
to marry me.  She is a good woman, and not without some
comeliness of person."

"She is a very handsome woman, and I think surely she
will make you a good wife.  You have done well.  Did
you tell Jane this?"

"Yes, I told her."

"My heart is heavy for England."

"She knows not the day of her visitation any better than
Jerusalem did."

"She will bring back the Stuarts?"

"That is what Monk, and others with him, are after.
They have been at the ears of the army, din, din, din,
until their lies against Oliver have been sucked in.  They
have a rancorous jealousy that never sleeps, and no one can
please them that is above them, whether it be Prince,
Protector or God.  Envy has pursued Oliver like a bird of
prey.  Its talons, at last, are in his heart."

"Good-night, John."

"Good-night, Israel.  Have you told Martha?"

"Not yet.  She will fret every day till the change comes.
Why should we have a hundred frets, when a dozen may do?"

But when Israel went into Martha's presence something
made him change his mind.  The mother had been weeping,
and began to weep afresh when she saw her husband.
He anticipated her sorrowful questions, and with an
assumption of cheerfulness, told her what a good, brave man the
captain of the ship was, and how happy and hopeful Jane
and Cluny seemed to be.  "It did not feel like a parting at
all, Martha," he said; "and indeed there was no need for
any such feeling.  We are going ourselves very soon, now."

The words were spoken and could not be recalled; and
he stood, in a moment, ready to face the storm they might
raise.  He had not intended them, but what we say and
what we do beyond our intention, is often more fateful and
important than all our carefully prepared words or well laid
plans.  Martha looked at her husband with speechless
wonder and distress, and he was more moved by this
attitude than by her usual garrulous anger.  He sat down by
her side and took her hand, saying,

"My dear Martha, I did not think of telling you this
just yet, and especially to-day, but the words were at my
lips, and then they were out, without my leave or license.
Now there is nothing for it, but letting you know, plump
and plain, that you and I, in our gathering years, must up
and out of England.  Oliver Cromwell is dying; when he
is in the grave, what?  Either Stuart, or civil war.  If
it is the Stuart, my head will be wanted; and as for
fighting for Lambert, or even Fairfax or Sir Harry Vane, I will
not do it—verily, I will not!  I have fought under
Cromwell; I will fight under no less a general, and in no less a
quarrel than he led in.  That is settled.  You said Martha,
'for better, or for worse.'"

She did not answer, and he dropped her hand and continued,
"I will never force thee, Martha, not one step.  If
thou lovest England better than me——"

"I don't!  I don't, Israel!  I love nothing, I love nobody
better than Israel Swaffham.  I was thinking of Swaffham."

"I shall sign the sale of it to Cymlin as soon as Cromwell
dies.  The deed is already drawn out, and waiting for
our names.  If the Stuart comes back—and I believe he
will—I should lose Swaffham, as well as my life; but Cymlin
will marry Matilda, and make obeisance to Charles Stuart,
and the old home will be in the family and keep its own
name.  I and thou can build another Swaffham; thou art
but fifty, and my years are some short of sixty.  We are
in the prime of life yet."

"I am forty-eight,—not quite that,—Israel; and Swaffham
was very up and down, and scarce a cupboard in it.  I
do miss my boys; and how I can bear life without Jane, I
don't know.  Wherever you go, Israel, I will go; your
God is my God, and your country shall be mine."

"I was sure of that, Martha.  God love you, dearest!
And any country where your home is built, and your
children dwell, is a good country; besides which, this New
World is really a land of milk and honey and sunshine.
Tonbert and Will could not be bought back here with an
earldom.  There is another thing, Martha, both of them
are going to be married."

"Married!  I never heard of such a thing."

"I thought I wouldn't tell thee, till needs be; but 'tis
so, sure enough."

"And to what kind of women, Israel?"

"Good, fair women, they tell me; sisters, orphan daughters
of the Rev. John Wilmot.  Thou seest, then, Martha,
there may soon be three families coming up, and not a
grandmother among them to look after the children, or give
advice to the young mothers.  I don't see what Tonbert's
wife, or Will's wife, or thy own daughter Jane can do
without thee."

She shook her head slightly, but looked pleased and
important.  The wife and mother was now completely
satisfied.  And Martha Swaffham was blessed with imagination.
She could dream of her new home, and new ties, and give
herself, even in London streets, a Paradise in the unknown
New World.  And, at any rate, in the building of the
American Swaffham she would take care that there were
plenty of cupboards.  Indeed, her plans and purposes were
so many, and so much to her liking, that Israel was rather
hampered by her expansive hopes and ideas; and though he
did not damp her enthusiasm by telling her "she was
reckoning without her host," he himself was quite sure there
would be many trials and difficulties to tithe her anticipations.

"But it is bad business going into anticipation," he said
to himself.  "I'll let Martha build and arrange matters in
her mind as she wants them; things will be all the likelier
to happen so; I have noticed that time and time again.  It
will be a great water between us, and the sins and sorrows
of six thousand years; and if there be a Paradise on earth,
it will be where man hasn't had time to turn it into
a—something worse."

So the summer days went on, and England had never
been so serene and so secure in her strength and prosperity.
Throughout the land the farmer was busy in his meadows
making hay, and watching the green wheat blow yellow in
the warm winds and sunshine.  The shepherds were on the
fells counting the ewes and their lambs; the traders busy in
their shops; the ports full of entering and departing
vessels, and the whole nation yet in a mood of triumph over
the acquisition of Dunkirk.  Cromwell was working feverishly,
and suffering acutely.  His favourite child, the Lady
Elizabeth Claypole was still very ill; he had premonitions
and visions of calamity that filled his heart with apprehension,
and kept his soul always on the alert, watching, watching
for its coming.  It might be that he alone could meet it
and ward it away from those he loved.

It is certain also that he knew the time for his own
departure was at hand.  He said to Doctor Verity, "I have
one more fight, John.  Dunbar was a great victory;
Worcester was a greater one; but my next fight will give
me the greatest victory of all—'the last enemy that shall be
destroyed is death.'  Do you understand?"  And the
Doctor made a movement of affirmation; he could not speak.

Wonderful was the labour the Protector now performed.
He directed and settled the English affairs in France; he
arranged the government of the new English plantations in
Jamaica and the West Indies; and he paid particular
attention to the needs and condition of the New England
Colonies, being indeed their protector, and the only English
protector they ever had.  He took time to enunciate to France,
more strongly than ever before, the rights of all the Protestants
in Europe; and he made all preparations for calling
another Parliament to consider, and settle more firmly, the
business of the English Commonwealth.  His work was a
stupendous one, and through it all he showed constantly the
feverish haste of a man who has a great task to perform and
sees the sun dropping to the western horizon.  But his
heart bore the heaviest share of the heavy burden.  It was
as if Death knew that this man's soul could only be
delivered from the flesh by attacking the citadels of feeling.
In every domestic and social relation—son, husband, father,
friend—the tenderness of his nature made him suffer; and
when on the twenty-third of July Lady Claypole's illness
showed fatal symptoms, he dropped all business, and for
fourteen days and nights hardly left her presence.  And her
death on the sixth of August was a crushing and insupportable blow.

Lady Heneage, who was one of her attendants in these
last terrible days, was removed in a fainting condition,
when all was over, and taken to her old friend Martha
Swaffham, for care and consolation.  The two women had
drifted apart during the past four years, but there was only
love between them, and they reverted at once to their old
affectionate familiarity.  And such sorrow as that affecting
Lady Heneage, is soon soothed by kind companionship and
sympathetic conversation.  She had much to tell that
Martha Swaffham was eager to listen to, though the
matter of all was suffering and death.

"The Lord Protector was really her nurse," she said.
"When her mother fainted, and her husband and sisters
could not look on her sufferings, her father held her in his
arms, bore every pang with her and prayed, as I hope,
Martha, I may never hear any one pray again.  It was as
if he clung to the very feet of God, entreating that he, and
he alone, might bear the agony; that the cup of pain might
pass from his child to him—and this for fourteen days,
Martha.  I know not how he—how we—endured it.  We
were all at the last point, when suddenly, a wonderful peace
filled the chamber, and the poor Lady Elizabeth lay at ease,
smiling at her father as he wiped the death sweat from her
brow and whispered in her ear words which none but the
dying heard.  At the last moment, she tried to say, '*Father*,
but only managed one-half the word; the other half she took
into heaven with her.  It is now the sixth of August, is it
not, Martha?"

"Yes."

"The Protector will not live long, I think.  I heard him
tell her they would not be parted a space worth counting."

"He would say that much for her comfort.  He meant
it not in respect of his own days; no life is a space worth
counting—'of few days and full of trouble, Alice.'  How
is her Highness, Elizabeth Cromwell?"

"Very quiet and resigned.  Blow upon blow has benumbed
her.  She looks as if she had seen something not
to be spoken of.  Lady Mary Fanconberg says the family
ought to leave Hampton Court; there is a feeling about the
place both unhappy and unnatural.  I felt it.  Every one
felt it, even the soldiers on guard."

After the death of his beloved daughter Elizabeth, the life
of Cromwell was like the ending of one of those terrible
Norse Sagas with the additional element of a great spiritual
conflict.  He was aware of his own apparition at his side;
the air was full of omens; he felt the menace of some
shadowy adversary in the dark; he saw visions; he dreamed
beyond nature; he had, at times, the wild spirits of a fey
man, and again was almost beside himself with unspeakable
grief.  Israel Swaffham was constantly with him.  The
two men were friends closer than brothers.  They had
loved each other when boys, and their love had never known
a shadow.

"But I am in great trouble about him," said Israel to his
wife.  "It cannot last.  Since Lady Claypole's death he
eats not, drinks not, sleeps not; his strong, masculine
handwriting, the very mirror of his courageous spirit, has
become weak and trembling.  He lives much alone, keeps
from his family as if he feared they might be in danger from
his danger.  And he thinks and thinks, hour after hour;
and 'tis thinking that is killing him.  I can tell you one
thing, Martha, a thinking soul is always sorrowful enough,
but when it is a great soul like Oliver's, and it is wretched
for any cause, then every thought draws blood."

"For such dismal thought and feeling there is the Holy
Scriptures."

"Yes, yes, Oliver knows the Comforter, and sometimes
there is a message for him.  Last night he made Harvey
read him the fourth of Philippians, and he said when he had
listened to it, 'This Scripture did once save my life when
my eldest son died, which went as a dagger to my heart,
indeed it did;' then, with a great joy he repeated the words,
'I can do all things through Christ which strengthened!
me;' adding, 'He that was Paul's Christ, is my Christ
too!'"

Cromwell had hoped that his great afflictions would
bring his friends back to his side; but envy, hatred and
greedy ambition are not to be conciliated.  Even at this
time, Ludlow, Lambert, Vane, Harrison, Marten,—all the
men whom he had trusted, and who had trusted him, stood
aloof from his sorrow; and their sullen indifference wounded
him to the quick.  He had a burning fever both of the body
and soul, but in two weeks he gathered a little strength and
left Hampton Court for Whitehall.  His unfinished work
drove at him like a taskmaster.  He must make great haste,
for he knew that the night was coming.

"I am glad he is back in Whitehall," said Martha to her
husband, when she heard of the change.  "I remember
something that Jane said about that old, gloomy Court; he
will get better in London."

"I know not, Martha," answered Israel sadly; "Fairfax
was with him to-day, and he might as well have drawn
his sword on his old friend,—better and kinder had he done so."

"Fairfax is proud as Lucifer.  What did he want?"

"The Duke of Buckingham has been sent to the Tower—where
he ought to have been sent long ago; but he is
married to the daughter of Fairfax, and the haughty Lord
General went to see Cromwell about the matter.  He met
him in the gallery at Whitehall and asked that the order for
Buckingham's arrest should be retracted.  And Cromwell
told him that if the offense were only against his own life,
the Duke could go free that hour, but that he could not
pardon plotters against the Commonwealth.  It grieved
him to the heart to say these words, and Fairfax saw how
ill and how troubled he looked.  But he had not one word
of courtesy; he turned abruptly and cocked his hat, and
threw his cloak under his arm in that insolent way he was
ever used to when in his tempers.  And Oliver looked at
me like a man that has been struck in the face by a friend.
Then he went to his desk and worked faithfully, inexorably,
all day;—but—but——"

"But what, Israel?"

"It is near—the end."

Indeed, this interview with Fairfax seemed to be the last
heart-weight he could carry.  That night, the man who
had been used to shelter his dove-like wife from every
trouble in his strong heart, laid his head upon her shoulder
and said pitifully, "O Elizabeth, I am the wretchedest
creature!  Speak some words of hope and peace to me."  Then
she soothed and comforted him from the deep wells
of her tenderness, and never once put into words the fearful
thought which lay deep in her heart—"What will become
of me when he is gone?"  But Oliver had this same anxious
boding, and he managed that night to tell his wife that if
God, in mercy, called him on the sudden, Israel Swaffham
had his last words and advices for her,—words that would
then be from Oliver in heaven to Elizabeth on earth.
They spoke of their old, free, happy life; of their sons and
daughters both here and there, and mingled for the last
time their tears and prayers together.

"Let us trust yet in God, dear Oliver," she said, as they
rose from their knees; "is He not sufficient?"

"Trust in God!" he cried.  "Who else is there in the
heaven above, or in the earth beneath?  And as our John
Milton says—

   |        "'. . . if this truth fail,
   |  The pillared firmament is rottenness,
   |  And earth's base built on stubble.'

Trust in God!  Indeed I do!  God has not yet spoken
His last word to Elizabeth and Oliver Cromwell."  Then
he drew her close to his heart, kissed her fondly, and said,
almost with sobs, "My dearest, if I go the way of all the
earth first, thou wilt never forget me?"

"How could I forget thee?  How could I?  Not in
my life days!  Not in my eternal days!  Heart of my
heart!  My good, brave, true husband, Elizabeth will
never forget thee, never cease to love thee and honour
thee, while the Everlasting One is thy God and my God."

The next day he went to his desk and began to write,
but speedily and urgently called for Israel Swaffham.
When he answered the call, Oliver was in great physical
agony, but he took some papers from a drawer and said,
"When I am no longer here, Israel, give these to my wife.
Thurloe has the key to all State questions; he knows my
intents and my judgments on them.  And there is one more
charge for you: when all is over, speak to the army for me.
Tell the men to remember me while they live.  Truly, I
think they will.  Tell them I will take love and boldness
to myself, and plead for them when I am nearer to God
than I am now.  It may be we shall serve together again—among
the hosts of the Most High.  Say to them my tears
hinder my last words, as indeed they do.  Now let me lean
on you, Israel.  I am going to my last hard fight."

When he reached his room, he stood a moment and
looked wistfully round it.  It was but a narrow chamber,
but large enough for the awfully close, near conflict, that
he had to fight in it,—a conflict which was to put asunder
flesh and spirit, and within its few feet, with strange, strong
pains deliver the Eternal out of Time, and set free his
Immortal Self from the carnal prison-house of many woes in
which he had suffered for more than fifty-nine years.  For
ten terrible days and nights the anguish of this struggle went
on unceasingly, sometimes the great Combatant being "all
here" and full of faith and courage, sometimes far down
the shoal of life and reason, and wandering uneasily through
bygone days of battle and distress and darkness.  Then
Israel held his burning hands, and listened, while in a voice
very far off, he ejaculated such passages as had then been
familiar to him:—"The shield of His mighty men is made
red, the valiant men are in scarlet.  The chariots shall rage
in the streets—they shall seem like torches, they shall run
like the lightnings."[4]  And once at the midnight when all
was still he cried, "If the Lord had suffered it, then I had
died on the battle-field as His Man of War, with tumult,
with shouting and with the sound of the trumpet."[5]

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[4] Nahum 2:4.

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[5] Amos 2: 2.

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He had turned to face his last enemy on the twenty-fourth
of August, and on the thirtieth there was such a
tempest as had never before been seen in England.  Whole
forests were laid on the ground; traffic was swept from the
roads and the streets, and the ships from the stormy seas;
and the tide at Deptford, to the dismay of the superstitious,
threw up the carcass of a monstrous whale.  The chambers
of Whitehall were filled with the roar of the great
winds.  The guards leaned on their arms, praying or
talking solemnly together on the prodigy of the storm.

"Michael and the devil had a dispute about the body of
Moses," said one old grizzled trooper to his companion.
"Are they fighting about our Cromwell, think ye, Abel?"

"Who knows?" was the answer.  "The Prince of the
Powers of the Air has His battalions out this night, but
Michael and his host will be sufficient.  You'll see, Jabez,
when the storm is over, our Cromwell will go;" and he
drew his hand across his eyes and added, "He'll have
company, Jabez, a great bodyguard of ministering angels;
and sure a soul needs them most of all between here and
there.  Evil ones no doubt, to be watched and warded,
but the Guard sent is always sufficient."

Israel sat near the men, and heard something of what
they said, but he was too inert with grief and weariness to
answer them.  Presently, however, Doctor Verity joined
him.  They said a few words about the storm, their words
being emphasised by the falling and crashing of trees
outside the windows, and by thunder and lightning and driven
torrents of rain; and then Doctor Verity said in a low
voice, "*He* knows nothing of this—he is still as death; he
barely breathes; he is unconscious; *where is he*, Israel?"

"Not quite gone—not quite here——  Is he watching
the battle of elements in the middle darkness?"  Then he
told the Doctor what Abel and Jabez had said, and for some
minutes only the pealing thunder and the howling winds
made answer.  But John Verity was thinking, and as soon
as there was a moment's lull in the uproar, he said,
"Oliver is no stranger to the Immortals, Israel.  They
have heard of his fame.  In their way, they have seen and
helped him already.  Oliver has fought the devil all his
life long.  While his body lies yonder, without sense or
motion, where is his spirit?  Is it now having its last fight
with its great enemy?  Israel, I was thinking of what
Isaiah says, about hell being moved to meet Lucifer at
his coming."

"I remember."

"May not heaven also be moved to meet a good man?
May not the chief ones of the earth arise, each from his
throne, to welcome a royal brother, and narrowly to
consider him, and ask of the attending angels, 'Is this he who
moved nations, and set free his fellows, and brought forth
for his Master one hundredfold?'"

"Yet how he has been reviled; and what is to come
will be worse."

"He has already forgiven it.  I heard him praying ere
he 'went somewhere' that God would 'pardon such as
desire to trample upon the dust of a poor worm, for they are
Thy people too;' and then he added, just as a little child
might, 'and give us a good-night.'  And somehow, Israel, I
do think he is having a good-night.  I do surely think so."

"But oh, John, John Verity, all this great life is to be a
failure.  All our travail and toil and suffering to be a
failure!"

"No, indeed!  There is no failure.  No, no, nothing
of the kind!  We have ushered in a new era of Freedom.
We have made a breakwater against tyranny.  Kings will
remember forevermore that they have a joint in their necks.
Oliver has done, to the last tittle, the work he was sent to
do.  It is Oliver the Conqueror! not Oliver the Failure.
But I could weep my eyes out for the cruelties his tender
heart has had to bear.  There are some men I could wish
a tenfold retribution to, and I think they will get it.
Baxter has whined and whined against Cromwell, but he will
have plenty of opportunities yet to wish Cromwell back.
And there is Vane! he will not find Charles Stuart as
forbearing to his fine mystical unreasonableness as Cromwell
has been; he may lay his head on the block before long.
As for Lambert and Fairfax and the rest, the subtle Monk
will be too much for them.  Let them alone, their sins will
find them out; and we will sail westward in good hope.
Remember, Israel, it is not incumbent on us to finish the
work; we can leave it in God's hands.  And though we have
to leave it behind us incomplete, God will use it some way
and somewhere, and the news will find us, even in heaven,
and sweeten our happy labours there.  I believe this, I do
with all my soul."

On Thursday night, the second of September, being the
ninth day of his hard fight, he bade his wife and children "a
good-bye"; but into this sacred scene not even the
tenderest imagination may intrude.  Afterward he appeared to
withdraw himself entirely within the shadow of the
Almighty, waiting the signal for his release in a peaceful, even
a happy, mood, and saying in a more and more laboured
voice, "Truly God is good—indeed He is—He will not—leave.
My work is done—but God will be—with His people."  Some
one offered him a drink to ease his restlessness
and give him sleep, but he refused it.  "It is not my
design to drink or to sleep," he said; "my design is to
make what haste I can to be gone."  The last extremity
indeed! but one full of that longing desire of the great
Apostle "to depart and be with Christ, which is far better."

The next morning, the third of September, his Fortunate
Day, "the day of Dunbar Field and Worcester's laureate
wreath," he became speechless as the sun rose, and so he
lay quiet until between three and four in the afternoon,
when he was heard to give a deep sigh.  The physician in
attendance said softly, "*He is gone!*"  And some knelt to
pray, and all wept, but unmindful of his tears, Israel
Swaffham cried in a tone of triumph—

"Thou good Soldier of God, Farewell!  Thou hast
fought a good fight, thou hast kept the faith, and there is
laid up for thee a crown greater than England's crown, a
crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous judge,
shall give thee."

But Doctor Verity went slowly to the beloved Dead; he
put tenderly back his long gray hair, damp with the dew of
death, and closed the eyelids over his darkened eyes, and
kissed him on his brow, and on his lips; and as he turned
sorrowfully away forever, whispered only two words:—

"*Vale* Cromwell!"

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