[image]"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, Hishabeas corpussets 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.CHAPTER XIVA LITTLE FURTHER ON"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 careWhich I have borne, and yet must bear.""He is most high who humblest at God's feetLies, loving God and trusting though He smite."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.Theyhave 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; "hemademe go riding and walking,mademe plant and gather,mademe fish and hawk,mademe 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 youbothforget? 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 thenOliver 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."
[image]"THREE OMINOUS-LOOKING PAPERS."
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"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, Hishabeas corpussets 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.
CHAPTER XIV
A LITTLE FURTHER ON
"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 careWhich I have borne, and yet must bear.""He is most high who humblest at God's feetLies, loving God and trusting though He smite."
"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 careWhich I have borne, and yet must bear.""He is most high who humblest at God's feetLies, loving God and trusting though He smite."
"Like ships, that sailed for sunny isles,
But never came to shore."
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."
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.Theyhave 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; "hemademe go riding and walking,mademe plant and gather,mademe fish and hawk,mademe 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 youbothforget? 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 thenOliver 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.'"
"'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.'"
"'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;
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."