CHAPTER XIIHOLD THOU MY HANDS"Hold Thou my hands:In grief and joy, in hope and fear,Lord let me feel that Thou art near;Hold Thou my hands."There are two ways to manage a day that begins badly; we may give the inner man or woman control, and permit them to compel events; or we may retire until unpropitious influences have passed us by. It is perhaps only in extremes the first alternative is taken; usually the soul prefers withdrawal. Jane felt that it was useless for her to attempt a visit to the Protector that day, and she hastened to the covert of her home. Her mother's kind face met her at the threshold, and the commonplace domestic influences of the set dinner-table, and the busy servants, recalled her thoughts from their sad and profitless wandering among possible and impossible calamities.Mrs. Swaffham had a letter in her hand, and she said as soon as she saw her daughter, "What do you think, Jane? Cymlin has got his discharge, and instead of coming here, he has gone to Swaffham. And he says Will and Tonbert are in the mind to join a party of men who will pay a visit to the Massachusetts Colony; and Cymlin says it is a good thing, and that he will stay at Swaffham and keep everything up to collar.""I was at Jevery House, mother," said Jane, "and Lady Jevery and Matilda are gone to de Wick.""Never! That accounts for Cymlin's being so thoughtful for Swaffham. Reasons for all things, Jane, and some woman at the bottom of all. I am sorrier than I can tell you. Matilda will take her sport out of Cymlin, and leave him with a laugh. I know her. I will write to Cymlin this night.""But why, mother? You can do no good. A word, a look from Matilda, and a fig for all advices!" Then she told her mother of Anthony Lynn's message, and they talked awhile of its probable meaning, Mrs. Swaffham being of the opinion that Lynn's conscience was troubling him, and that he wanted, as far as he was able, to propitiate the de Wicks."You see," she said, "it is not only the living de Wicks, Jane, there is a powerful gathering of the family on the other side. And the late Earl was very good to Anthony. From his boyhood he was fostered by the de Wicks, and then to think of his buying out the young Earl and Matilda!""If he had not bought out de Wick, somebody else would; and perhaps the de Wicks would rather have an old retainer there than some unknown stranger," said Jane."It is hard to tell what the dead like, and how they feel; but it is a wise thing to treat every one in this world so that you won't be afraid to meet them in the next world. I wouldn't wonder if Anthony Lynn felt a bit afraid to meet Earl Marmaduke; anyway, he ought to be ashamed. Anthony was always known for a prudent man; he is going to make his peace at the gates of death, for fear of what is beyond them.""I do not know. Sir Thomas offered no opinion; and he said some cruel things about Cluny, though he followed me to unsay them."Then Jane told her mother what suspicions evidently existed in the mind of Sir Thomas, and Mrs. Swaffham laughed at their absurdity, and was then angry at their injustice; and finally she sent Jane up-stairs to dress for dinner in a much more hopeful and worldlike temper. This day was followed by a week of wretched weather. Jane could do nothing but wait. Her soul, however, had reached its lowest depth of despondence during her visit to Sir Thomas Jevery, and on reviewing it, she felt as if she had betrayed her inner self—let a stranger look at her grief and see her faint heart, and suspect that she, also, had a doubt of her lover. She was mortified at her weakness, and fully resolved when she visited Cromwell, to show him the heart of a fearless woman—brave, because she doubted neither God nor man.It was, however, the month of March before this visit could be made. The bad weather was the precursor of a bad cold, and then she had to consider the new domestic arrangements of the Cromwell family. The royal apartments in Whitehall and in the palace of Hampton Court were being prepared for the Protector's family, and Jane knew from her father's reports, as well as from her own acquaintance with her Highness and her daughters, that all the changes made would be of the utmost interest to them. She was averse either to intrude on their joy or to have them notice her anxiety.But one exquisite morning in March she heard General Swaffham say that the Cromwell ladies were going to Hampton Court. The Protector would then be alone in Whitehall, and she might see him without having to share her confidences with the family. She prepared a note asking for an interview, and then called on Mr. Milton and induced him to go with her to the palace and deliver it into Cromwell's hand. In her simplicity she considered this little plan to be a very wise one, and so it proved. Mr. Milton had no difficulty in reaching the Protector, who, as soon as he read Jane's appeal, was ready to receive her. She had been much troubled about this audience, how she was to behave, and with what words she should address Cromwell, but her fear left her as soon as the door closed, and she was alone with her old friend."Jane," he said kindly, "Jane, what is the trouble?""It is Lord Neville, sir. Nothing has been heard of him, and I wish to tell you what Sir Thomas Jevery said." She did so, and Cromwell listened with a smile of incredulity. "We know Neville better than that," he answered. "It would be a great wonder if he should think of America, Jane. Would a man in his senses leave you, and his estate, and his good friends and good prospects to go into the wilderness? Truly he would not. His home and land in Fife are worth more than Jevery's gold and jewels, and I do think my favour may count for something. And more than these things there is your love. You do love him, Jane?""Better than my life, your Highness.""And he loves you?""Indeed, I am most certain of it.""When did you hear last from him?"Jane had expected this question and she offered Cromwell Cluny's last letter, and asked him to read it. He read it aloud, letting his voice become sweet and tender as he did so."My dearest and most honoured mistress, I am just on the moment of leaving Paris; my horse is at the door; but by a messenger that will come more directly than myself, I send you a last word from this place. My thoughts outreach all written words. I am with you, my own dear one, in all my best moments, and my unchangeable love salutes you. Graciously remember me in your love and prayers."CLUNY NEVILLE.""A good letter, Jane. I do think the man that wrote it is beyond guile, beyond dishonour of any kind. I will not hear a doubt of him. I will not——" With these words he rose, and taking Jane's hand in his, he began to walk with her, up and down the room. His clasp was so hot and tight she could have cried out, but glancing into his face she saw it was only the physical expression of thoughts he did not care to give words to. In a few minutes he touched a bell, and when it was answered said, "Mr. Tasburg to my presence—without delay." Mr. Tasburg came without delay, and Cromwell turned to him in some passion."Mark Tasburg," he said scornfully, "I know not whether you have been alive or dead. I have not once heard from you in the matter of Lord Neville's delay; I have not, and that you know. The commission for your search is more than a month old; it is, sir; and I like not such delays. I will not have them.""My Lord Protector, I reported to Mr. Thurloe and Mr. Milton that my search had been of no avail.""Who gave you the order to make this search?""Your Highness.""Did I give you an order to report to Mr. Thurloe or Mr. Milton? Did I?""No, your Highness.""See, then, what you have taken upon yourself. Be not so forward again, or you may go back to St. Ives and make clay pipes. What date does Lord Neville's last letter bear?""It was written at Paris on the eleventh day of November.""The same date as your last letter, Mistress Swaffham. Four months ago. This is serious." Then turning to Tasburg he said, "Find Colonel Ayrton and send him here, to me, without delay."During the interval between Tasburg's departure and Ayrton's arrival, Cromwell was occupied in writing a letter, and when it was finished, Colonel Ayrton entered."Colonel," he said, "I think you know Lord Cluny Neville?""Your Highness, I know him well. His mother was my fifth cousin.""He has disappeared, I do fear, in some unfortunate way. On the eleventh of last November he left Paris, after despatching the business he was sent on with Cardinal Mazarin. No one has heard of him since. He was going to The Hague, but whether by land or water, does not appear. I have written to his Eminence, the Cardinal; here is the letter, and if his reply be not to the point, go next to the lodging of Lord Neville, and from there follow his steps as closely as it may be in your power. The treasurer will honour this order for your expenses. Waste no time. Be prudent with your tongue. Say not all your mind, and send me some tidings with all convenient speed.""I am a willing messenger, your Highness. I am bound to my cousin by many kind ties, and I have been most uneasy at his silence and absence.""Farewell, then, and God go with you."He waited until the door closed, and then he said, "I owe you this and more, Jane; and I like the youth—a dear, religious youth, of a manly spirit and a true heart. He was always counted fortunate, for in all our battles he went shot free. I wish, I do wish, we could hear of him! And you love him, Jane? And he loves you. My heart aches for both of you; it does indeed. But I think I can do somewhat in this matter, and truly I will use my endeavour. Why does he not come? What can have hindered him?" he cried impatiently as if to himself."Oh, sir, he is sick or wounded—perhaps at death's door in some poor man's cottage, in some lonely place far from help or friends," and here Jane burst into passionate weeping."You must not, you must not cry, Jane; I beg it as a favour—not in the sight of men and women. Tears are for the Father of spirits. Retire to Him who is a sure resting-place, and there weep your heart empty; for He can, and He will wipe all tears away. As for your dear lord and lover, he is within God's knowledge, and if God saves souls, surely He can save bodies.""It is four months, sir. 'Tis beyond my hope; and I fear Cluny is now beyond human help.""Well, then, Jane, we will trust to the miraculous. We do not do that enough, and so when our poor help is not sufficient, we tremble. Where is the hope and trust you sent to me when I lay between life and death in Scotland? Oh, what poor creatures we are, when we trust in ourselves! nothing then but tears and fears and the grave to end all. But I confess I never expected Jane Swaffham to be down in the mire. Jane knows she is the daughter of the everlasting, powerful, infinite, inscrutable God Almighty; she knows this God is also one of goodness and mercy and truth without end, to those who love Him. You love Him, you do love Him?""I have loved Him ever since I could speak His Holy Name. But He never now answers me; when I pray to Him the heavens seem to let my prayers fall back to me. Has He forgotten me?""Jane, Jane, oh, Jane! What a question for you to ask! I could chide you for it. Have you forgotten the teaching of your Bible, and your catechism, of your good pastor, John Verity, and your father and mother? Do you believe for one moment that God has any abortive children? He has not. He is the father of such souls as, according to His appointment, come to perfection. If you have ever, for one moment, felt the love of the Ineffable Nameless One, I do assure you it is a love for all eternity! It is, Jane, it is, surely. He does not love and withdraw; no, no; we may deserve to be denied, we may deserve to be abandoned, but just because it is so, He seeks and He saves the children lost, or in danger." And then he stooped and dried her eyes with his kerchief, and seating her on a sofa, he brought a glass of wine, and said,"Drink, my dear; and as you drink, ask for strength no juice of earthly fruit can give. Do not pray for this thing, or that thing; if you will say only, 'Thy will be done,' you will find mercy at need; you will indeed. I do know it.""All is so dark, sir.""And will be, till He says, 'Let there be light.' I scruple not to say this.""Oh, sir, what shall I do? What shall I do?""Put a blank into God's hand, and tell Him to fill it as He chooses—Cluny or no Cluny, love, or death of love, joy or sorrow, just what He wills. In my judgment this is the way of Peace. Do you think, Jane, that I have chosen the path I now walk in? I have not, God knows it. God knows I would be a far happier man with my flocks in the Ouse meadows; I would, I say what is in my heart. Is this greatness laid on me for my glory and honour? Truly, it is only labour and sorrow. If I did not find mercy and strength at need, I should faint and utterly fail under the burden, for indeed I am the burden-bearer of all England this day. I need pity, I do need it; I need God's pity, yes, and human pity also."There was the shadow of unshed tears in his sad, gray eyes, and an almost childlike pathos in his dropped head. Jane could not bear it. She stroked and kissed his big hand, and her tears fell down upon it. "I will go home," she said softly, "and pray for you. I will not pray for myself, but for you. I will ask God to stand at your right hand and your left hand, to beset you behind and before, and to lay His comforting, helping hand upon you. And you must not lose heart, sir, under your burden, because many that were with you have gone against you, or because there are constant plots to take your life. There is the ninetieth Psalm. It is yours, sir."And Cromwell's face shone, and he spoke in an ecstasy, "Truly, truly, he that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. How did David reach that height, Jane?""He was taught of God, sir.""I am sure of that. I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress; my God, in Him will I trust—thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night, nor for the arrow that flieth by day—He shall give His angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways.""My dear lord, is not that sufficient?" and Jane's face was now full of light, and she forgot her fears, and her sorrow was lifted from her. She found a strange courage, and the words were put into her mouth, so that she must needs say them:"It is most true, our Protector, that you have a great burden, but are you not glad of heart that God looked down from heaven, and seeing poor England bound and suffering, chose you—you, from out of tens of thousands of Englishmen—and called you from your sheep and oxen and wheat-fields, and said unto you, 'Oliver Cromwell, free My people,' and then so filled your heart with the love of freedom that you could not help but answer, 'Here am I, Lord.' The other night I listened to some heavenly discourse from Doctor Verity, and he said that from henceforth, every flying fold of our English flag would have but one spoken word for all nations, and that wordFreedom. Some may be ungrateful, but your faith and valour and labour for England will never be forgotten. Never!"Her face gathered colour and light beyond the colour and light of mere flesh and blood as she spoke, and Cromwell's reflected it. He was "in the spirit," as this childlike woman with prescient vision prophesied for him, and looking far, far off into the future, as one seeing things invisible, he answered confidently—"I know, and I am sure, Jane, that time will be the seal to my faithfulness. I know, and I am sure, that my name shall mix with every thought and deed of Freedom, even in lands now unknown, and in ages yet to come. Then, brave freemen shall say in my ears, 'Well done my son.' And shall not the dead ears hear? They shall. Indeed they shall! I know, and am sure, Jane, that English speaking men will take in trust, not only my name, but the names of all who, with me, held their lives less than Freedom, and gave them a burnt-offering and blood sacrifice without price or grudging. These men dying, mixed their breath and names with Freedom's, and they shall live forever. For this is the truth, Jane: thrones shall fall and nations pass away, but death has no part in Freedom."And as he spoke, his words rang and sounded like music, and stirred the blood like a trumpet; and Jane's face was lifted to the rough, glorified visage of the warrior and the seer, who saw yet afar off his justification, saw it in the Red Cross of St. George flying over land and sea, and carrying in all its blowing folds only one glorious word—"FREEDOM."In such moments Cromwell's spirit walked abreast of angels; he looked majestic, he spoke without pause or ambiguity, and with an heroic dictation that carried conviction rather than offense, for it had nothing personal in it, and it suited him just as hardness suits fine steel.In this enthusiasm of national feeling, Jane forgot her personal grief, and as she went homeward, she kept repeating to herself Cromwell's parting words, "Don't doubt, Jane. God nor man nor nature can do anything for doubters. They cannot." She understood what was included in this advice, and she tried to realise it. The moment Mrs. Swaffham saw her daughter, she took notice of the change in her countenance and speech and manner, and she said to herself, "Jane has been with Oliver Cromwell. No one else could have so influenced her." And very soon Jane told her all that had been done and said, and both women tried to assure themselves that a few more weeks of patience would bring them that certainty which is so much easier to bear than suspense. For the very hope of suspense is cruel, but in the face of a sorrow, sure and known, the soul erects herself and finds out ways and means to mitigate or to bear it.States of enthusiasm, however, do not last; and they are not often to be desired. The disciples after the glory of Mount Tabor were not able to go with Christ up Calvary. Jane felt the very next day that she had mentally promised herself to do more than she was able to perform. She could not forget Cluny, or put in his place any less selfish object; and though the days came laden with strange things, she did not take the fervid interest in public events her father and mother did. For there are in nature points of view where a cot can blot out a mountain, and on our moral horizons a personal event can put a national revolution in the background. In the main, she carried a loving, steadfast heart, that waited in patience, sometimes even in hope; but there were many days when her life seemed to be tied in a knot, and when fear and sorrow crept like a mist over it. For there was nothing for her to do; she could only wait for the efforts of others, and she longed rather for the pang of personal conflict. But human beings without these tidal fluctuations are not interesting; people who always pursue the "even tenor of their way" leave us chilled and dissatisfied; we prefer that charm of uncertain expectation, which, with all its provocations, made Matilda dear and delightful to Jane, and Jane perennially interesting, even to those who did not think as she thought or do as she did.At length April came, and the bare brown garden was glorious with the gold and purple of the crocus flowers and the moonlight beauty of the lilies. Birds were building in the hedges, and the sun shone brightly overhead. The spirit of spring was everywhere; men and boys went whistling along the streets, the watermen were singing in their barges, and a feeling of busy content and security pervaded London, and, indeed, all England.Suddenly, this atmosphere of cheerful labour and abounding hope was filled with terror and with a cry of murder, of possible war and another struggle for liberty. A gigantic plot for the assassination of the Protector was discovered—that is, it was discovered to the people; Cromwell himself had been aware of its first inception, and had watched it grow to its shameful maturity. He had seen the wavering give it aid, and those who were his professed friends, strike hands with those pledged to strike him to the heart. Two months previously he had retired a number of foolish Royalist officers, broken to pieces their silly plans, and given them their lives; but this drama of assassination came from Charles Stuart and Prince Rupert, and from the headquarters of royalty in the French capital. Its programme in Charles' name giving "liberty to any man whatsoever, in any way, to destroy the life of the base mechanic fellow, Oliver Cromwell," had been in Cromwell's possession from the time of its printing, and he knew not only every soul connected with the plot, but also the day and the hour and the very spot in which, and on which, his life was to be taken. But to the city of London the arrest of forty conspirators in their midst, was a shock that suspended for a time all their business.Israel Swaffham was the first person called into the Protector's presence. He found him in great sorrow, sorrow mingled with a just indignation. Standing by the long table in the Council Chamber, he struck it violently with his clenched hand as he pointed out to Israel the personalities of the conspirators. At one name he paused, and with his finger upon it, looked into Israel's face. And as iron struck by iron answers the blow, so Israel answered that sorrowful, inquiring gaze."It is a burning shame," he said angrily. "You have pardoned and warned and protected him for years.""I must even now do what I can; I must, Israel, for his father's sake. A warrant will be issued to-night, and I cannot stay that; and personally I cannot warn him of it. Israel, you remember his father?""Yes, a noble, upright man as ever England bred.""You and he and I fought some quarrels out for our country together.""We did.""And this son is the last of the name. He played with my boys.""And with mine.""They went fishing and skating together.""Yes; I know.""One day I saved this man's life. He was a little lad, twelve years or about it, and he went through the ice. At some risk I saved him, and he rode home behind me; I can feel, as I speak, his long childish arms around my waist; I can indeed, Israel. These are the thorns of power and office. On these tenter-hooks I hang my very heart every day. What am I to do?""My dear lord, do nothing. I can do all you wish. There needs no more words between us. In two hours Abel Dewey—you know Abel—will be on the road. Nothing stops Dewey. Give him a good horse and he will so manage himself and the beast as to reach his journey's end in twenty-four hours.""But charge him about the good horse, Israel. These poor animals—they have almost human troubles and sicknesses."Israel then went quickly home. He called Jane and explained to her in a few words what she was to do; and by the time her letter to Matilda was ready, Abel Dewey was at the door waiting for it. Its beginning and ending was in the ordinary strain of girls' letters, but in the centre there were some ominous words, rendered remarkable by the large script used, and by the line beneath them—"I must tell you there has been a great plot against the Protector discovered. Charles Stuart and Prince Rupert are the head and front of the same, but there is a report that Stephen de Wick is not behindhand, and my father did hear that a warrant was out for Stephen, and hoped he would reach French soil, ere it reached him. And I said I thought Stephen was in France; and father answered, 'Pray God so; if not, he cannot be there too soon if he would not have his head off on Tower Hill.'" Then the letter went on to speak of the removal of the Protector's family to Hampton Court palace, and of the signing of the Dutch peace, and the banquet given to the Dutch Ministers. "I was at the table of the Lady Protectoress," she said, "and many great people were present, but the Protector seemed to enjoy most the company of the Rev. Mr. Wheelwright, who was the only one who could beat the Protector at football when they were at college together. Some New England Puritans also were there, and I heard with much pleasure about their cities in the wilderness; and Mr. Thurloe smoked and said nothing; and Mr. John Milton played some heavenly music, and lastly we all sung in parts Mr. Milton's fine piece, 'The Lord has been our dwelling-place.' Ladies Mary and Frances Cromwell were beautifully dressed, but the Lady Elizabeth Claypole is the light of Whitehall."At these words Jane stopped. "Do I not know," she asked herself, "how Matilda will have flung away my letter before this? And if not, with what scorn she will treat 'the light of Whitehall'?" And these reflections so chilled her memories, that she hasted to sign her name and close the letter. Abel Dewey was ready for it; and as she watched him ride away, her thoughts turned to de Wick, and she wondered in what mood Matilda might be, and how she would receive the information sent her. Would it be a surprise?"Not it," answered Mrs. Swaffham. "Matilda knows all about the plot; that is most certain; but its discovery may be news to her, and if so, she will not thank you for it, Jane. Why will she burn herself with fire not on her hearthstone?""Prince Rupert is her lover. She will do anything he desires her to do.""If he truly loved her, he would not permit her to be put in danger.""We do not know all, mother.""That is the truth, Jane. We know very little about ourselves, let alone our friends. Doctor Verity would say to us, 'Judge not; every man's shoes must be made on his own last.'"Then Jane smiled, and the smile filled the silence like a spell. Mrs. Swaffham went out of the room, and soon afterwards Doctor Verity came in, asking cheerily as he entered, "How is it with you to-day, Jane?""I live as best I can, Doctor. I watch from the morning to the midnight for a footstep that does not come.""There is a desire that fulfils itself by its own energy, but this desire is born of unfailing Hope, and of that unfaltering Faith that can move mountains. Have you got it, Jane?""I am so weak, Doctor John. Pray for me.""Pray for yourself. Why should any one pray for you? Pray for yourself, though it be only to say, with the old Acadians, 'Hold Thou my hands!' When you were a baby, and were fretful and restless, then your mother held your hands. That steadied you. You were not used to the whirling earth, or you had that sense of falling into the void all babies have, and you trembled and cried out in your fear, and then your mother instinctively held your little hands in hers, and you felt their clasp strong as the everlasting hills, and went peacefully to sleep. Go to God in the same way, Jane; you are only a little babe in His sight; a little babe crying in the vast void and darkness, and trying to catch hold of something to which you may cling. Say to the Father of your spirit, 'Hold my hands!'"And she rose and kissed him for his sweet counsel, and that night, and many a night afterwards, she fell asleep whispering, "Hold Thou my hands."CHAPTER XIIICHANGES AT DE WICK"Friendship, of itself a holy tie,Is made more sacred by adversity.""A form of senseless clay—the leavings of a soul."When Matilda received Anthony Lynn's letter, she was immediately certain that the old man's conscience troubled him in the presence of death, and that he wished to return de Wick to its rightful owners. Sir Thomas and Lady Jevery were of the same opinion. "He can leave the estate to you, Matilda," said Sir Thomas; "you have never been 'out' for either Stuart, and the Commonwealth takes no action on private opinions, only on overt acts. Stephen is barred, but Lynn can leave de Wick to you, and having neither kith nor kin, I think he ought to do so. He owes everything to your father's help and favour."This idea took entire possession of Matilda; she thought it a duty to her family to answer the request of Anthony Lynn favourably. It had been a surprise to her, and there were more surprises to follow it. As soon as Lady Jevery and her niece arrived at the gates of de Wick, they were confronted with a remarkable change in the appearance of the place. The great iron gates had been painted and rehung; the stone griffins that ornamented the posts had felt the stone-cutter's chisel in all their parts, and been restored to their proper shape and position. The wide walks were free of weeds, freshly graveled and raked, and the grass of the chase was in perfect order. There were plenty of deer, also, though Matilda knew well all the deer had disappeared long before her father's death.As they came close to the house, they saw the flower garden aglow with spring flowers and in such fine order as would have satisfied even Sir Thomas Jevery. Anthony Lynn stood at the door to meet them. He looked ill and frail, but hardly like death, and when he witnessed the delight of the ladies at the changes made in de Wick, his face grew almost young in its pleasure. Every room in the house was a fresh surprise; for though all that was venerable through age of family association, and all that was valuable and beautiful had been preserved, yet so much of modern splendour and worth had been mingled with the old that the rooms were apparently newly furnished. Magnificent draperies of velvet, chairs covered with Spanish leather stamped in gold, carpets of richest quality, pictures by rare masters, Venetian mirrors and glassware, all that a luxurious and lavish taste could imagine and desire, were gathered with fitting and generous profusion in the ancient rooms of de Wick. Anthony Lynn accompanied the ladies through the house, finding a fresh and continual joy in their exclamations of delight; and Matilda, filled with astonishment at the exquisite daintiness of the suite called the "Lady Matilda's Rooms," said enthusiastically,"Mr. Lynn, no man could better deserve to be lord of de Wick than you. And seeing that the de Wicks had to leave their ancient home, I am glad it has fallen to you—and I am sure my father is glad, also."Then the old man burst into that thin, cold passion of weeping so significant of age, and so pitiful in its helplessness. "It is your father's doing, Lady Matilda," he sobbed. "It is my dear lord's wisdom. Pardon me now. This evening I will tell you all." He went away with these words, and the two women looked at each other in amazement.In the evening he came to them. They were sitting by the fire in the now magnificently furnished great salon, and he asked permission to place his chair between them. Matilda made room for him, and when he had sat down and placed his terribly thin hand on its arm, she laid her lovely young hand upon his; and he looked into her face with that adoring affection which is often seen in the eyes of a favourite mastiff."When these dreadful wars first began," he said, "Earl de Wick foresaw their ending; and after Marston Moor he said to me, 'I know this man, Oliver Cromwell, and there is none that will stand against him. It is my duty to save de Wick; will you help me?' And I said to him, 'My dear lord, I owe you all I am, and all I have.' Then we had many long talks, and it was agreed that I should join the Puritan party, that I should pretend a disapproval of the Earl and his ways—but a disapproval tempered with regret—so that men might not suspect my opposition. The King was even then sending to de Wick for money, and I was supposed to supply it on the de Wick silver and valuables. In reality, the Earl sent these things to my care, and he himself gave the gold. For in those years he had much specie, the result of his trading partnership with Sir Thomas Jevery. The silver, the old pictures, the fine tapestries, and Eastern pottery all came to my home in St. Ives. People said unkind things of me, but my dear lord loved me. Then there came a time when de Wick was bare, and the King still wanted money. And the Earl promised to borrow from me one thousand pounds, in consideration of letters royal making the Lady Matilda Countess de Wick in her own right, if her brother Stephen had no heirs of his body. His Majesty being in great straits, readily granted the request, and the proper papers were made. And I looked well to it that no necessary formality was lacking, and the thousand pounds were paid, not by me, but by Earl de Wick. His store was then gone, but he had secured the succession of de Wick in his own blood and name; for you will see, my dear lady, if ever you have to assume this title, when you marry, your husband must take the name of de Wick.""But if I never marry any one?""Oh, that is an impossible contingency! You would owe that debt to all the de Wicks that ever lived and died; and you would pay it, whether you liked to, or not.""Yes, I should," she answered promptly."Here are the papers relating to your succession," he continued; "and here are those relating to my trust in the matter of the de Wick silver and valuables. They are all now in their proper places, and when I go to my old friend, I can tell him so. When he was dying, he said to me, 'Anthony, the next move will be the sale of de Wick house and lands. Stephen is already outcast, but I have given you the money to buy it. Let no one outbid you. Keep it in your own care until my King comes back to his throne, and my children to their home.' I bought de Wick for seven hundred pounds less than the money entrusted to me for its purchase. The balance is here at your hand. The only contingency not provided for, was my death, and as I know that is speedily certain, I wish your promise that these papers be placed in Sir Thomas Jevery's charge. I know it is what my lord would advise."Matilda took the papers silently. Her father's loving thoughtfulness and Anthony's loving fidelity, affected her deeply. Lady Jevery was weeping, and the old man himself raised a face wet with tears to Matilda. She stooped and kissed him. She promised all he asked. "But," she added, "you have made no mention of the refurnishing of the house, nor yet of the money that must have been spent on the garden and chase.""That outlay was my own little pleasure," he answered. "It has made the long, lonely months here full of hope. I always thought I knew how to make a great house look like a great house should look;" and with pardonable pride he added, "I think you both liked it."He found in their hearty admiration all the recompense he wished. "You will let me die here?" he asked, "here, where my old friend died? you will let me sit in his chair, and die in his bed? It is all I ask, unless you will stay awhile and brighten my last days."The favours asked were affectionately granted, and Matilda virtually became mistress of her old home. Anthony was seldom seen, but Stephen de Wick came and went, and brought with him men whose names were not spoken, and whose business meant much more than the packs of cards which appeared to be all they cared for. In fact, Matilda was soon neck deep in Prince Rupert's plot, and there was no doubt in her mind that the month of May would end the life of Oliver Cromwell, and bring the King to his throne and the de Wicks to their earldom.She was sitting, one afternoon, talking to Stephen about advices he had just received from his confederates in London, when a servant entered. "My lady," he said, "here has come a man with a letter, which he will deliver to none but you." Matilda's first thought was, "It is some private word from Rupert;" and she ordered the messenger to her presence at once. When she saw it was Jane's writing, she was much annoyed. "I will wager it is some bad news, or it had not come through this gate," she said; and she opened the letter with angry reluctance. Hastily she glanced over the lines, until she came to the discovery of the plot."Oh, indeed, here is the burden of Jane Swaffham!" she cried in a passion. "We are discovered. All is known—all has been known from the very first. Stephen, you are in instant danger. You must away at once.""I do not believe it.""Fool! How else could Jane have sent this word? She says Cromwell has known it from its beginning. The man has a devil; who can circumvent him? You must fly at once. The warrant for your arrest will doubtless come by to-night's mail. My God, are our troubles never to cease? Is everything not countersigned by Cromwell to be a failure? It is unendurable!""Everything with which Prince Rupert meddles is unfortunate," answered Stephen. "He assigns all he touches with failure. I said so from the beginning. He is, and was, the King's evil genius.""You lie! You lie downright, Stephen! But this is no time for quarreling. You must away, and that at once.""And, pray, how? or where? I will not run. I will stand or fall with the rest.""What drivel, what nonsensical bombast are you talking? It is 'I,' 'I' and still 'I' with you. Have you no consideration for others—for uncle and aunt, and for poor, dying Anthony? Think of all he has done, and at least let him go in the belief that he has saved de Wick.""It is better to stand together.""It is already—I'll wager that much—every man for himself. You must take the North Road to Hull; you are sure of a ship there.""And how the devil, sister, am I to reach Hull?""Take the sorrel horse; if any one sees you, you are for Squire Mason's;" then hastily unlocking a drawer, she brought a little bag of gold and put it in his hand. "There is enough and to spare for your road to Paris." He flung the gold from him, and Matilda clasping her hands frantically, cried "My God, Stephen, are you not going?""Storm your utmost, Matilda. I care not a rap; I will not budge from this spot.""But you must go! Stephen, Stephen, for my sake," and she burst into passionate tears and sobs."Be quiet, Matilda. Women's counsel is always unlucky, but I will run, if you say so. I feel like an ever-lasting scoundrel to do it.""They will all run—if they can. There is a little time yet in your favour. The mail-rider does not pass here till eight o'clock, or after. You have four or five hours' grace."He rose as she spoke, and she kissed him with passionate tenderness. When he left the room, she ran to the roof of the house to watch which road he took. If he went northward, he was for Hull, and bent on saving his life; but if he went south, he was for London, and would doubtless have the fate on Tower Hill he had been warned against. In about a quarter of an hour she saw him riding at great speed northward, and after watching him until he became a speck on the horizon, she went back to her room, and she was weeping bitterly though quite unconscious of it.Her first act was to tear Jane's letter into minute pieces. She did it with an inconceivable passion. Every shred of the paper fluttered into the fire as if in conscious suffering, and when the last particle was consumed, she stood with her folded hand on her mouth, looking at the white ashy films, and considering what next to do. Her face was set and frowning; she was summoning to her aid, by the very intensity of her feeling, whatever power she possessed to counsel her perplexity.Suddenly her face lightened; she smiled, nodded her handsome head with satisfaction, and then in a leisurely manner put on her garden hat and walked to the stables. She was a daily visitor there, and her appearance caused no surprise. She went at once to a young man known to be Stephen de Wick's constant attendant whenever he was in the neighbourhood. She knew he could be relied on, and as they stood together by Matilda's Barbary mare, she said with the critical air of one talking about a favourite animal, "Yupon, can you help in a matter for Earl Stephen? It is life or death, Yupon, and I know of no one but you to come to—also, there will be a few gold pieces.""With or without gold, my lady, I am your servant. What is to be done?""You know the three large oak trees, just beyond the boundary of de Wick?""I know them well, my lady.""Be under the oaks to-night, at eight o'clock. Have with you a lanthorn and a coil of strong rope. You will see Earl de Wick there, and when he speaks, join him on the instant. Can he rely on you?""By my soul, he can; even to blood-letting.""Be this our bargain then. Eight o'clock—no later. And on my honour, I promise, there shall no guilt of blood-letting stick to your hands.""Let me perish, if I am not there."All the man's words had the savour of a strong, faithful spirit, and Matilda went back to her room satisfied. The principal part of her plan for Stephen's safety was accomplished; she had no doubts now as to its prosperous carrying out. So she lay down and tried to compose herself; and as the day darkened and the time for action came, she found a strength and calmness that was sufficient. Without a sign of anxiety in her heart, she eat her evening meal with her aunt, and then said,"I am going to dismiss Delia, go to bed early, and sleep a headache away." Lady Jevery said she was "in the same mind"; and this circumstance, being much in Matilda's favour, gave her that satisfactory feeling of "having the signs favourable," which we all appreciate when we intend important work.About seven o'clock she went to her brother's room, and brought away a suit of his clothing; and when she had dressed herself in it, and put a pistol and hunting-knife in her belt, and a large plumed hat on her head, she looked in the mirror with the utmost satisfaction. She was her brother's double; quite his height, and singularly like him in carriage, face and manner. Of this resemblance she had soon a very convincing proof, for as she passed through the hall, her own maid Delia curtsied to her, and said, "My lady is sick to-night, sir, and will not be disturbed." And Matilda bowed and passed on. As for the other servants, in and out of the house, they knew they were to have eyes and see not; and ears, and hear not. Therefore, though several met, as they supposed, the young Earl leaving the house, there was no further recognition of the fact among themselves, than a lifting of the eyebrows, or some enigmatical remark, only to be understood by thoseen rapportwith the circumstances.Matilda walked quickly through the garden, and still more quickly through the lonely chase. She was not afraid of the thing she was going to do, but she was afraid of the toads and snails, and the unknown deer and dogs that thought the wooded space their own. But without molestation she arrived at the three oaks. Yupon Slade was already there. He showed her the light of the lanthorn for a moment, and then his black-cloaked figure and masked face blended indeterminately with the darkness around him. For nearly an hour Matilda walked up and down the road, keeping well within call of her companion. But about nine o'clock the sound of a horse coming at an easy gallop was heard, and Yupon was softly called. He was at Matilda's side as the rider came near them. She advanced to meet him, calling pleasantly, "Miles Watson, a word, if it please you."The voice was familiar and kind, and Miles drew rein and asked, "Who calls me? I am on the Commonwealth's business, and cannot be delayed."Then Matilda, pointing the pistol in his face said, "You must light from your horse, Miles Watson." Miles tried then to proceed, but Yupon had whispered to the animal he rode, and the creature took no notice of his rider's persuasions. The pistol was dangerously near; Yupon's rough order "to tumble" was not unaccompanied by threats, and Watson thought it best to obey quietly, where he could not resist. When Yupon had bound him securely, Matilda took the lanthorn, and drawing from her girdle the sharp hunting-knife, she cut open the leathern mail-bag, and turned the light upon its contents. The small private letters she hardly noticed, but there were three ominous-looking papers closed with large red seals, and these she instantly seized. They were all directed to the Sheriff of Ely; and she felt sure they were the authority for Stephen's arrest. She took possession of the whole three, bade Yupon set loose the horse, and leaving the other contents of the rifled mail-bag on the grass by the side of the bound carrier, she put into her companion's hand the promised gold pieces, and then slipped away into the shadows and darkness of de Wick chase.
CHAPTER XII
HOLD THOU MY HANDS
"Hold Thou my hands:In grief and joy, in hope and fear,Lord let me feel that Thou art near;Hold Thou my hands."
"Hold Thou my hands:In grief and joy, in hope and fear,Lord let me feel that Thou art near;Hold Thou my hands."
"Hold Thou my hands:
In grief and joy, in hope and fear,
Lord let me feel that Thou art near;
Hold Thou my hands."
There are two ways to manage a day that begins badly; we may give the inner man or woman control, and permit them to compel events; or we may retire until unpropitious influences have passed us by. It is perhaps only in extremes the first alternative is taken; usually the soul prefers withdrawal. Jane felt that it was useless for her to attempt a visit to the Protector that day, and she hastened to the covert of her home. Her mother's kind face met her at the threshold, and the commonplace domestic influences of the set dinner-table, and the busy servants, recalled her thoughts from their sad and profitless wandering among possible and impossible calamities.
Mrs. Swaffham had a letter in her hand, and she said as soon as she saw her daughter, "What do you think, Jane? Cymlin has got his discharge, and instead of coming here, he has gone to Swaffham. And he says Will and Tonbert are in the mind to join a party of men who will pay a visit to the Massachusetts Colony; and Cymlin says it is a good thing, and that he will stay at Swaffham and keep everything up to collar."
"I was at Jevery House, mother," said Jane, "and Lady Jevery and Matilda are gone to de Wick."
"Never! That accounts for Cymlin's being so thoughtful for Swaffham. Reasons for all things, Jane, and some woman at the bottom of all. I am sorrier than I can tell you. Matilda will take her sport out of Cymlin, and leave him with a laugh. I know her. I will write to Cymlin this night."
"But why, mother? You can do no good. A word, a look from Matilda, and a fig for all advices!" Then she told her mother of Anthony Lynn's message, and they talked awhile of its probable meaning, Mrs. Swaffham being of the opinion that Lynn's conscience was troubling him, and that he wanted, as far as he was able, to propitiate the de Wicks.
"You see," she said, "it is not only the living de Wicks, Jane, there is a powerful gathering of the family on the other side. And the late Earl was very good to Anthony. From his boyhood he was fostered by the de Wicks, and then to think of his buying out the young Earl and Matilda!"
"If he had not bought out de Wick, somebody else would; and perhaps the de Wicks would rather have an old retainer there than some unknown stranger," said Jane.
"It is hard to tell what the dead like, and how they feel; but it is a wise thing to treat every one in this world so that you won't be afraid to meet them in the next world. I wouldn't wonder if Anthony Lynn felt a bit afraid to meet Earl Marmaduke; anyway, he ought to be ashamed. Anthony was always known for a prudent man; he is going to make his peace at the gates of death, for fear of what is beyond them."
"I do not know. Sir Thomas offered no opinion; and he said some cruel things about Cluny, though he followed me to unsay them."
Then Jane told her mother what suspicions evidently existed in the mind of Sir Thomas, and Mrs. Swaffham laughed at their absurdity, and was then angry at their injustice; and finally she sent Jane up-stairs to dress for dinner in a much more hopeful and worldlike temper. This day was followed by a week of wretched weather. Jane could do nothing but wait. Her soul, however, had reached its lowest depth of despondence during her visit to Sir Thomas Jevery, and on reviewing it, she felt as if she had betrayed her inner self—let a stranger look at her grief and see her faint heart, and suspect that she, also, had a doubt of her lover. She was mortified at her weakness, and fully resolved when she visited Cromwell, to show him the heart of a fearless woman—brave, because she doubted neither God nor man.
It was, however, the month of March before this visit could be made. The bad weather was the precursor of a bad cold, and then she had to consider the new domestic arrangements of the Cromwell family. The royal apartments in Whitehall and in the palace of Hampton Court were being prepared for the Protector's family, and Jane knew from her father's reports, as well as from her own acquaintance with her Highness and her daughters, that all the changes made would be of the utmost interest to them. She was averse either to intrude on their joy or to have them notice her anxiety.
But one exquisite morning in March she heard General Swaffham say that the Cromwell ladies were going to Hampton Court. The Protector would then be alone in Whitehall, and she might see him without having to share her confidences with the family. She prepared a note asking for an interview, and then called on Mr. Milton and induced him to go with her to the palace and deliver it into Cromwell's hand. In her simplicity she considered this little plan to be a very wise one, and so it proved. Mr. Milton had no difficulty in reaching the Protector, who, as soon as he read Jane's appeal, was ready to receive her. She had been much troubled about this audience, how she was to behave, and with what words she should address Cromwell, but her fear left her as soon as the door closed, and she was alone with her old friend.
"Jane," he said kindly, "Jane, what is the trouble?"
"It is Lord Neville, sir. Nothing has been heard of him, and I wish to tell you what Sir Thomas Jevery said." She did so, and Cromwell listened with a smile of incredulity. "We know Neville better than that," he answered. "It would be a great wonder if he should think of America, Jane. Would a man in his senses leave you, and his estate, and his good friends and good prospects to go into the wilderness? Truly he would not. His home and land in Fife are worth more than Jevery's gold and jewels, and I do think my favour may count for something. And more than these things there is your love. You do love him, Jane?"
"Better than my life, your Highness."
"And he loves you?"
"Indeed, I am most certain of it."
"When did you hear last from him?"
Jane had expected this question and she offered Cromwell Cluny's last letter, and asked him to read it. He read it aloud, letting his voice become sweet and tender as he did so.
"My dearest and most honoured mistress, I am just on the moment of leaving Paris; my horse is at the door; but by a messenger that will come more directly than myself, I send you a last word from this place. My thoughts outreach all written words. I am with you, my own dear one, in all my best moments, and my unchangeable love salutes you. Graciously remember me in your love and prayers.
"CLUNY NEVILLE."
"A good letter, Jane. I do think the man that wrote it is beyond guile, beyond dishonour of any kind. I will not hear a doubt of him. I will not——" With these words he rose, and taking Jane's hand in his, he began to walk with her, up and down the room. His clasp was so hot and tight she could have cried out, but glancing into his face she saw it was only the physical expression of thoughts he did not care to give words to. In a few minutes he touched a bell, and when it was answered said, "Mr. Tasburg to my presence—without delay." Mr. Tasburg came without delay, and Cromwell turned to him in some passion.
"Mark Tasburg," he said scornfully, "I know not whether you have been alive or dead. I have not once heard from you in the matter of Lord Neville's delay; I have not, and that you know. The commission for your search is more than a month old; it is, sir; and I like not such delays. I will not have them."
"My Lord Protector, I reported to Mr. Thurloe and Mr. Milton that my search had been of no avail."
"Who gave you the order to make this search?"
"Your Highness."
"Did I give you an order to report to Mr. Thurloe or Mr. Milton? Did I?"
"No, your Highness."
"See, then, what you have taken upon yourself. Be not so forward again, or you may go back to St. Ives and make clay pipes. What date does Lord Neville's last letter bear?"
"It was written at Paris on the eleventh day of November."
"The same date as your last letter, Mistress Swaffham. Four months ago. This is serious." Then turning to Tasburg he said, "Find Colonel Ayrton and send him here, to me, without delay."
During the interval between Tasburg's departure and Ayrton's arrival, Cromwell was occupied in writing a letter, and when it was finished, Colonel Ayrton entered.
"Colonel," he said, "I think you know Lord Cluny Neville?"
"Your Highness, I know him well. His mother was my fifth cousin."
"He has disappeared, I do fear, in some unfortunate way. On the eleventh of last November he left Paris, after despatching the business he was sent on with Cardinal Mazarin. No one has heard of him since. He was going to The Hague, but whether by land or water, does not appear. I have written to his Eminence, the Cardinal; here is the letter, and if his reply be not to the point, go next to the lodging of Lord Neville, and from there follow his steps as closely as it may be in your power. The treasurer will honour this order for your expenses. Waste no time. Be prudent with your tongue. Say not all your mind, and send me some tidings with all convenient speed."
"I am a willing messenger, your Highness. I am bound to my cousin by many kind ties, and I have been most uneasy at his silence and absence."
"Farewell, then, and God go with you."
He waited until the door closed, and then he said, "I owe you this and more, Jane; and I like the youth—a dear, religious youth, of a manly spirit and a true heart. He was always counted fortunate, for in all our battles he went shot free. I wish, I do wish, we could hear of him! And you love him, Jane? And he loves you. My heart aches for both of you; it does indeed. But I think I can do somewhat in this matter, and truly I will use my endeavour. Why does he not come? What can have hindered him?" he cried impatiently as if to himself.
"Oh, sir, he is sick or wounded—perhaps at death's door in some poor man's cottage, in some lonely place far from help or friends," and here Jane burst into passionate weeping.
"You must not, you must not cry, Jane; I beg it as a favour—not in the sight of men and women. Tears are for the Father of spirits. Retire to Him who is a sure resting-place, and there weep your heart empty; for He can, and He will wipe all tears away. As for your dear lord and lover, he is within God's knowledge, and if God saves souls, surely He can save bodies."
"It is four months, sir. 'Tis beyond my hope; and I fear Cluny is now beyond human help."
"Well, then, Jane, we will trust to the miraculous. We do not do that enough, and so when our poor help is not sufficient, we tremble. Where is the hope and trust you sent to me when I lay between life and death in Scotland? Oh, what poor creatures we are, when we trust in ourselves! nothing then but tears and fears and the grave to end all. But I confess I never expected Jane Swaffham to be down in the mire. Jane knows she is the daughter of the everlasting, powerful, infinite, inscrutable God Almighty; she knows this God is also one of goodness and mercy and truth without end, to those who love Him. You love Him, you do love Him?"
"I have loved Him ever since I could speak His Holy Name. But He never now answers me; when I pray to Him the heavens seem to let my prayers fall back to me. Has He forgotten me?"
"Jane, Jane, oh, Jane! What a question for you to ask! I could chide you for it. Have you forgotten the teaching of your Bible, and your catechism, of your good pastor, John Verity, and your father and mother? Do you believe for one moment that God has any abortive children? He has not. He is the father of such souls as, according to His appointment, come to perfection. If you have ever, for one moment, felt the love of the Ineffable Nameless One, I do assure you it is a love for all eternity! It is, Jane, it is, surely. He does not love and withdraw; no, no; we may deserve to be denied, we may deserve to be abandoned, but just because it is so, He seeks and He saves the children lost, or in danger." And then he stooped and dried her eyes with his kerchief, and seating her on a sofa, he brought a glass of wine, and said,
"Drink, my dear; and as you drink, ask for strength no juice of earthly fruit can give. Do not pray for this thing, or that thing; if you will say only, 'Thy will be done,' you will find mercy at need; you will indeed. I do know it."
"All is so dark, sir."
"And will be, till He says, 'Let there be light.' I scruple not to say this."
"Oh, sir, what shall I do? What shall I do?"
"Put a blank into God's hand, and tell Him to fill it as He chooses—Cluny or no Cluny, love, or death of love, joy or sorrow, just what He wills. In my judgment this is the way of Peace. Do you think, Jane, that I have chosen the path I now walk in? I have not, God knows it. God knows I would be a far happier man with my flocks in the Ouse meadows; I would, I say what is in my heart. Is this greatness laid on me for my glory and honour? Truly, it is only labour and sorrow. If I did not find mercy and strength at need, I should faint and utterly fail under the burden, for indeed I am the burden-bearer of all England this day. I need pity, I do need it; I need God's pity, yes, and human pity also."
There was the shadow of unshed tears in his sad, gray eyes, and an almost childlike pathos in his dropped head. Jane could not bear it. She stroked and kissed his big hand, and her tears fell down upon it. "I will go home," she said softly, "and pray for you. I will not pray for myself, but for you. I will ask God to stand at your right hand and your left hand, to beset you behind and before, and to lay His comforting, helping hand upon you. And you must not lose heart, sir, under your burden, because many that were with you have gone against you, or because there are constant plots to take your life. There is the ninetieth Psalm. It is yours, sir."
And Cromwell's face shone, and he spoke in an ecstasy, "Truly, truly, he that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. How did David reach that height, Jane?"
"He was taught of God, sir."
"I am sure of that. I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress; my God, in Him will I trust—thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night, nor for the arrow that flieth by day—He shall give His angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways."
"My dear lord, is not that sufficient?" and Jane's face was now full of light, and she forgot her fears, and her sorrow was lifted from her. She found a strange courage, and the words were put into her mouth, so that she must needs say them:
"It is most true, our Protector, that you have a great burden, but are you not glad of heart that God looked down from heaven, and seeing poor England bound and suffering, chose you—you, from out of tens of thousands of Englishmen—and called you from your sheep and oxen and wheat-fields, and said unto you, 'Oliver Cromwell, free My people,' and then so filled your heart with the love of freedom that you could not help but answer, 'Here am I, Lord.' The other night I listened to some heavenly discourse from Doctor Verity, and he said that from henceforth, every flying fold of our English flag would have but one spoken word for all nations, and that wordFreedom. Some may be ungrateful, but your faith and valour and labour for England will never be forgotten. Never!"
Her face gathered colour and light beyond the colour and light of mere flesh and blood as she spoke, and Cromwell's reflected it. He was "in the spirit," as this childlike woman with prescient vision prophesied for him, and looking far, far off into the future, as one seeing things invisible, he answered confidently—
"I know, and I am sure, Jane, that time will be the seal to my faithfulness. I know, and I am sure, that my name shall mix with every thought and deed of Freedom, even in lands now unknown, and in ages yet to come. Then, brave freemen shall say in my ears, 'Well done my son.' And shall not the dead ears hear? They shall. Indeed they shall! I know, and am sure, Jane, that English speaking men will take in trust, not only my name, but the names of all who, with me, held their lives less than Freedom, and gave them a burnt-offering and blood sacrifice without price or grudging. These men dying, mixed their breath and names with Freedom's, and they shall live forever. For this is the truth, Jane: thrones shall fall and nations pass away, but death has no part in Freedom."
And as he spoke, his words rang and sounded like music, and stirred the blood like a trumpet; and Jane's face was lifted to the rough, glorified visage of the warrior and the seer, who saw yet afar off his justification, saw it in the Red Cross of St. George flying over land and sea, and carrying in all its blowing folds only one glorious word—"FREEDOM."
In such moments Cromwell's spirit walked abreast of angels; he looked majestic, he spoke without pause or ambiguity, and with an heroic dictation that carried conviction rather than offense, for it had nothing personal in it, and it suited him just as hardness suits fine steel.
In this enthusiasm of national feeling, Jane forgot her personal grief, and as she went homeward, she kept repeating to herself Cromwell's parting words, "Don't doubt, Jane. God nor man nor nature can do anything for doubters. They cannot." She understood what was included in this advice, and she tried to realise it. The moment Mrs. Swaffham saw her daughter, she took notice of the change in her countenance and speech and manner, and she said to herself, "Jane has been with Oliver Cromwell. No one else could have so influenced her." And very soon Jane told her all that had been done and said, and both women tried to assure themselves that a few more weeks of patience would bring them that certainty which is so much easier to bear than suspense. For the very hope of suspense is cruel, but in the face of a sorrow, sure and known, the soul erects herself and finds out ways and means to mitigate or to bear it.
States of enthusiasm, however, do not last; and they are not often to be desired. The disciples after the glory of Mount Tabor were not able to go with Christ up Calvary. Jane felt the very next day that she had mentally promised herself to do more than she was able to perform. She could not forget Cluny, or put in his place any less selfish object; and though the days came laden with strange things, she did not take the fervid interest in public events her father and mother did. For there are in nature points of view where a cot can blot out a mountain, and on our moral horizons a personal event can put a national revolution in the background. In the main, she carried a loving, steadfast heart, that waited in patience, sometimes even in hope; but there were many days when her life seemed to be tied in a knot, and when fear and sorrow crept like a mist over it. For there was nothing for her to do; she could only wait for the efforts of others, and she longed rather for the pang of personal conflict. But human beings without these tidal fluctuations are not interesting; people who always pursue the "even tenor of their way" leave us chilled and dissatisfied; we prefer that charm of uncertain expectation, which, with all its provocations, made Matilda dear and delightful to Jane, and Jane perennially interesting, even to those who did not think as she thought or do as she did.
At length April came, and the bare brown garden was glorious with the gold and purple of the crocus flowers and the moonlight beauty of the lilies. Birds were building in the hedges, and the sun shone brightly overhead. The spirit of spring was everywhere; men and boys went whistling along the streets, the watermen were singing in their barges, and a feeling of busy content and security pervaded London, and, indeed, all England.
Suddenly, this atmosphere of cheerful labour and abounding hope was filled with terror and with a cry of murder, of possible war and another struggle for liberty. A gigantic plot for the assassination of the Protector was discovered—that is, it was discovered to the people; Cromwell himself had been aware of its first inception, and had watched it grow to its shameful maturity. He had seen the wavering give it aid, and those who were his professed friends, strike hands with those pledged to strike him to the heart. Two months previously he had retired a number of foolish Royalist officers, broken to pieces their silly plans, and given them their lives; but this drama of assassination came from Charles Stuart and Prince Rupert, and from the headquarters of royalty in the French capital. Its programme in Charles' name giving "liberty to any man whatsoever, in any way, to destroy the life of the base mechanic fellow, Oliver Cromwell," had been in Cromwell's possession from the time of its printing, and he knew not only every soul connected with the plot, but also the day and the hour and the very spot in which, and on which, his life was to be taken. But to the city of London the arrest of forty conspirators in their midst, was a shock that suspended for a time all their business.
Israel Swaffham was the first person called into the Protector's presence. He found him in great sorrow, sorrow mingled with a just indignation. Standing by the long table in the Council Chamber, he struck it violently with his clenched hand as he pointed out to Israel the personalities of the conspirators. At one name he paused, and with his finger upon it, looked into Israel's face. And as iron struck by iron answers the blow, so Israel answered that sorrowful, inquiring gaze.
"It is a burning shame," he said angrily. "You have pardoned and warned and protected him for years."
"I must even now do what I can; I must, Israel, for his father's sake. A warrant will be issued to-night, and I cannot stay that; and personally I cannot warn him of it. Israel, you remember his father?"
"Yes, a noble, upright man as ever England bred."
"You and he and I fought some quarrels out for our country together."
"We did."
"And this son is the last of the name. He played with my boys."
"And with mine."
"They went fishing and skating together."
"Yes; I know."
"One day I saved this man's life. He was a little lad, twelve years or about it, and he went through the ice. At some risk I saved him, and he rode home behind me; I can feel, as I speak, his long childish arms around my waist; I can indeed, Israel. These are the thorns of power and office. On these tenter-hooks I hang my very heart every day. What am I to do?"
"My dear lord, do nothing. I can do all you wish. There needs no more words between us. In two hours Abel Dewey—you know Abel—will be on the road. Nothing stops Dewey. Give him a good horse and he will so manage himself and the beast as to reach his journey's end in twenty-four hours."
"But charge him about the good horse, Israel. These poor animals—they have almost human troubles and sicknesses."
Israel then went quickly home. He called Jane and explained to her in a few words what she was to do; and by the time her letter to Matilda was ready, Abel Dewey was at the door waiting for it. Its beginning and ending was in the ordinary strain of girls' letters, but in the centre there were some ominous words, rendered remarkable by the large script used, and by the line beneath them—"I must tell you there has been a great plot against the Protector discovered. Charles Stuart and Prince Rupert are the head and front of the same, but there is a report that Stephen de Wick is not behindhand, and my father did hear that a warrant was out for Stephen, and hoped he would reach French soil, ere it reached him. And I said I thought Stephen was in France; and father answered, 'Pray God so; if not, he cannot be there too soon if he would not have his head off on Tower Hill.'" Then the letter went on to speak of the removal of the Protector's family to Hampton Court palace, and of the signing of the Dutch peace, and the banquet given to the Dutch Ministers. "I was at the table of the Lady Protectoress," she said, "and many great people were present, but the Protector seemed to enjoy most the company of the Rev. Mr. Wheelwright, who was the only one who could beat the Protector at football when they were at college together. Some New England Puritans also were there, and I heard with much pleasure about their cities in the wilderness; and Mr. Thurloe smoked and said nothing; and Mr. John Milton played some heavenly music, and lastly we all sung in parts Mr. Milton's fine piece, 'The Lord has been our dwelling-place.' Ladies Mary and Frances Cromwell were beautifully dressed, but the Lady Elizabeth Claypole is the light of Whitehall."
At these words Jane stopped. "Do I not know," she asked herself, "how Matilda will have flung away my letter before this? And if not, with what scorn she will treat 'the light of Whitehall'?" And these reflections so chilled her memories, that she hasted to sign her name and close the letter. Abel Dewey was ready for it; and as she watched him ride away, her thoughts turned to de Wick, and she wondered in what mood Matilda might be, and how she would receive the information sent her. Would it be a surprise?
"Not it," answered Mrs. Swaffham. "Matilda knows all about the plot; that is most certain; but its discovery may be news to her, and if so, she will not thank you for it, Jane. Why will she burn herself with fire not on her hearthstone?"
"Prince Rupert is her lover. She will do anything he desires her to do."
"If he truly loved her, he would not permit her to be put in danger."
"We do not know all, mother."
"That is the truth, Jane. We know very little about ourselves, let alone our friends. Doctor Verity would say to us, 'Judge not; every man's shoes must be made on his own last.'"
Then Jane smiled, and the smile filled the silence like a spell. Mrs. Swaffham went out of the room, and soon afterwards Doctor Verity came in, asking cheerily as he entered, "How is it with you to-day, Jane?"
"I live as best I can, Doctor. I watch from the morning to the midnight for a footstep that does not come."
"There is a desire that fulfils itself by its own energy, but this desire is born of unfailing Hope, and of that unfaltering Faith that can move mountains. Have you got it, Jane?"
"I am so weak, Doctor John. Pray for me."
"Pray for yourself. Why should any one pray for you? Pray for yourself, though it be only to say, with the old Acadians, 'Hold Thou my hands!' When you were a baby, and were fretful and restless, then your mother held your hands. That steadied you. You were not used to the whirling earth, or you had that sense of falling into the void all babies have, and you trembled and cried out in your fear, and then your mother instinctively held your little hands in hers, and you felt their clasp strong as the everlasting hills, and went peacefully to sleep. Go to God in the same way, Jane; you are only a little babe in His sight; a little babe crying in the vast void and darkness, and trying to catch hold of something to which you may cling. Say to the Father of your spirit, 'Hold my hands!'"
And she rose and kissed him for his sweet counsel, and that night, and many a night afterwards, she fell asleep whispering, "Hold Thou my hands."
CHAPTER XIII
CHANGES AT DE WICK
"Friendship, of itself a holy tie,Is made more sacred by adversity.""A form of senseless clay—the leavings of a soul."
"Friendship, of itself a holy tie,Is made more sacred by adversity.""A form of senseless clay—the leavings of a soul."
"Friendship, of itself a holy tie,
Is made more sacred by adversity."
"A form of senseless clay—the leavings of a soul."
When Matilda received Anthony Lynn's letter, she was immediately certain that the old man's conscience troubled him in the presence of death, and that he wished to return de Wick to its rightful owners. Sir Thomas and Lady Jevery were of the same opinion. "He can leave the estate to you, Matilda," said Sir Thomas; "you have never been 'out' for either Stuart, and the Commonwealth takes no action on private opinions, only on overt acts. Stephen is barred, but Lynn can leave de Wick to you, and having neither kith nor kin, I think he ought to do so. He owes everything to your father's help and favour."
This idea took entire possession of Matilda; she thought it a duty to her family to answer the request of Anthony Lynn favourably. It had been a surprise to her, and there were more surprises to follow it. As soon as Lady Jevery and her niece arrived at the gates of de Wick, they were confronted with a remarkable change in the appearance of the place. The great iron gates had been painted and rehung; the stone griffins that ornamented the posts had felt the stone-cutter's chisel in all their parts, and been restored to their proper shape and position. The wide walks were free of weeds, freshly graveled and raked, and the grass of the chase was in perfect order. There were plenty of deer, also, though Matilda knew well all the deer had disappeared long before her father's death.
As they came close to the house, they saw the flower garden aglow with spring flowers and in such fine order as would have satisfied even Sir Thomas Jevery. Anthony Lynn stood at the door to meet them. He looked ill and frail, but hardly like death, and when he witnessed the delight of the ladies at the changes made in de Wick, his face grew almost young in its pleasure. Every room in the house was a fresh surprise; for though all that was venerable through age of family association, and all that was valuable and beautiful had been preserved, yet so much of modern splendour and worth had been mingled with the old that the rooms were apparently newly furnished. Magnificent draperies of velvet, chairs covered with Spanish leather stamped in gold, carpets of richest quality, pictures by rare masters, Venetian mirrors and glassware, all that a luxurious and lavish taste could imagine and desire, were gathered with fitting and generous profusion in the ancient rooms of de Wick. Anthony Lynn accompanied the ladies through the house, finding a fresh and continual joy in their exclamations of delight; and Matilda, filled with astonishment at the exquisite daintiness of the suite called the "Lady Matilda's Rooms," said enthusiastically,
"Mr. Lynn, no man could better deserve to be lord of de Wick than you. And seeing that the de Wicks had to leave their ancient home, I am glad it has fallen to you—and I am sure my father is glad, also."
Then the old man burst into that thin, cold passion of weeping so significant of age, and so pitiful in its helplessness. "It is your father's doing, Lady Matilda," he sobbed. "It is my dear lord's wisdom. Pardon me now. This evening I will tell you all." He went away with these words, and the two women looked at each other in amazement.
In the evening he came to them. They were sitting by the fire in the now magnificently furnished great salon, and he asked permission to place his chair between them. Matilda made room for him, and when he had sat down and placed his terribly thin hand on its arm, she laid her lovely young hand upon his; and he looked into her face with that adoring affection which is often seen in the eyes of a favourite mastiff.
"When these dreadful wars first began," he said, "Earl de Wick foresaw their ending; and after Marston Moor he said to me, 'I know this man, Oliver Cromwell, and there is none that will stand against him. It is my duty to save de Wick; will you help me?' And I said to him, 'My dear lord, I owe you all I am, and all I have.' Then we had many long talks, and it was agreed that I should join the Puritan party, that I should pretend a disapproval of the Earl and his ways—but a disapproval tempered with regret—so that men might not suspect my opposition. The King was even then sending to de Wick for money, and I was supposed to supply it on the de Wick silver and valuables. In reality, the Earl sent these things to my care, and he himself gave the gold. For in those years he had much specie, the result of his trading partnership with Sir Thomas Jevery. The silver, the old pictures, the fine tapestries, and Eastern pottery all came to my home in St. Ives. People said unkind things of me, but my dear lord loved me. Then there came a time when de Wick was bare, and the King still wanted money. And the Earl promised to borrow from me one thousand pounds, in consideration of letters royal making the Lady Matilda Countess de Wick in her own right, if her brother Stephen had no heirs of his body. His Majesty being in great straits, readily granted the request, and the proper papers were made. And I looked well to it that no necessary formality was lacking, and the thousand pounds were paid, not by me, but by Earl de Wick. His store was then gone, but he had secured the succession of de Wick in his own blood and name; for you will see, my dear lady, if ever you have to assume this title, when you marry, your husband must take the name of de Wick."
"But if I never marry any one?"
"Oh, that is an impossible contingency! You would owe that debt to all the de Wicks that ever lived and died; and you would pay it, whether you liked to, or not."
"Yes, I should," she answered promptly.
"Here are the papers relating to your succession," he continued; "and here are those relating to my trust in the matter of the de Wick silver and valuables. They are all now in their proper places, and when I go to my old friend, I can tell him so. When he was dying, he said to me, 'Anthony, the next move will be the sale of de Wick house and lands. Stephen is already outcast, but I have given you the money to buy it. Let no one outbid you. Keep it in your own care until my King comes back to his throne, and my children to their home.' I bought de Wick for seven hundred pounds less than the money entrusted to me for its purchase. The balance is here at your hand. The only contingency not provided for, was my death, and as I know that is speedily certain, I wish your promise that these papers be placed in Sir Thomas Jevery's charge. I know it is what my lord would advise."
Matilda took the papers silently. Her father's loving thoughtfulness and Anthony's loving fidelity, affected her deeply. Lady Jevery was weeping, and the old man himself raised a face wet with tears to Matilda. She stooped and kissed him. She promised all he asked. "But," she added, "you have made no mention of the refurnishing of the house, nor yet of the money that must have been spent on the garden and chase."
"That outlay was my own little pleasure," he answered. "It has made the long, lonely months here full of hope. I always thought I knew how to make a great house look like a great house should look;" and with pardonable pride he added, "I think you both liked it."
He found in their hearty admiration all the recompense he wished. "You will let me die here?" he asked, "here, where my old friend died? you will let me sit in his chair, and die in his bed? It is all I ask, unless you will stay awhile and brighten my last days."
The favours asked were affectionately granted, and Matilda virtually became mistress of her old home. Anthony was seldom seen, but Stephen de Wick came and went, and brought with him men whose names were not spoken, and whose business meant much more than the packs of cards which appeared to be all they cared for. In fact, Matilda was soon neck deep in Prince Rupert's plot, and there was no doubt in her mind that the month of May would end the life of Oliver Cromwell, and bring the King to his throne and the de Wicks to their earldom.
She was sitting, one afternoon, talking to Stephen about advices he had just received from his confederates in London, when a servant entered. "My lady," he said, "here has come a man with a letter, which he will deliver to none but you." Matilda's first thought was, "It is some private word from Rupert;" and she ordered the messenger to her presence at once. When she saw it was Jane's writing, she was much annoyed. "I will wager it is some bad news, or it had not come through this gate," she said; and she opened the letter with angry reluctance. Hastily she glanced over the lines, until she came to the discovery of the plot.
"Oh, indeed, here is the burden of Jane Swaffham!" she cried in a passion. "We are discovered. All is known—all has been known from the very first. Stephen, you are in instant danger. You must away at once."
"I do not believe it."
"Fool! How else could Jane have sent this word? She says Cromwell has known it from its beginning. The man has a devil; who can circumvent him? You must fly at once. The warrant for your arrest will doubtless come by to-night's mail. My God, are our troubles never to cease? Is everything not countersigned by Cromwell to be a failure? It is unendurable!"
"Everything with which Prince Rupert meddles is unfortunate," answered Stephen. "He assigns all he touches with failure. I said so from the beginning. He is, and was, the King's evil genius."
"You lie! You lie downright, Stephen! But this is no time for quarreling. You must away, and that at once."
"And, pray, how? or where? I will not run. I will stand or fall with the rest."
"What drivel, what nonsensical bombast are you talking? It is 'I,' 'I' and still 'I' with you. Have you no consideration for others—for uncle and aunt, and for poor, dying Anthony? Think of all he has done, and at least let him go in the belief that he has saved de Wick."
"It is better to stand together."
"It is already—I'll wager that much—every man for himself. You must take the North Road to Hull; you are sure of a ship there."
"And how the devil, sister, am I to reach Hull?"
"Take the sorrel horse; if any one sees you, you are for Squire Mason's;" then hastily unlocking a drawer, she brought a little bag of gold and put it in his hand. "There is enough and to spare for your road to Paris." He flung the gold from him, and Matilda clasping her hands frantically, cried "My God, Stephen, are you not going?"
"Storm your utmost, Matilda. I care not a rap; I will not budge from this spot."
"But you must go! Stephen, Stephen, for my sake," and she burst into passionate tears and sobs.
"Be quiet, Matilda. Women's counsel is always unlucky, but I will run, if you say so. I feel like an ever-lasting scoundrel to do it."
"They will all run—if they can. There is a little time yet in your favour. The mail-rider does not pass here till eight o'clock, or after. You have four or five hours' grace."
He rose as she spoke, and she kissed him with passionate tenderness. When he left the room, she ran to the roof of the house to watch which road he took. If he went northward, he was for Hull, and bent on saving his life; but if he went south, he was for London, and would doubtless have the fate on Tower Hill he had been warned against. In about a quarter of an hour she saw him riding at great speed northward, and after watching him until he became a speck on the horizon, she went back to her room, and she was weeping bitterly though quite unconscious of it.
Her first act was to tear Jane's letter into minute pieces. She did it with an inconceivable passion. Every shred of the paper fluttered into the fire as if in conscious suffering, and when the last particle was consumed, she stood with her folded hand on her mouth, looking at the white ashy films, and considering what next to do. Her face was set and frowning; she was summoning to her aid, by the very intensity of her feeling, whatever power she possessed to counsel her perplexity.
Suddenly her face lightened; she smiled, nodded her handsome head with satisfaction, and then in a leisurely manner put on her garden hat and walked to the stables. She was a daily visitor there, and her appearance caused no surprise. She went at once to a young man known to be Stephen de Wick's constant attendant whenever he was in the neighbourhood. She knew he could be relied on, and as they stood together by Matilda's Barbary mare, she said with the critical air of one talking about a favourite animal, "Yupon, can you help in a matter for Earl Stephen? It is life or death, Yupon, and I know of no one but you to come to—also, there will be a few gold pieces."
"With or without gold, my lady, I am your servant. What is to be done?"
"You know the three large oak trees, just beyond the boundary of de Wick?"
"I know them well, my lady."
"Be under the oaks to-night, at eight o'clock. Have with you a lanthorn and a coil of strong rope. You will see Earl de Wick there, and when he speaks, join him on the instant. Can he rely on you?"
"By my soul, he can; even to blood-letting."
"Be this our bargain then. Eight o'clock—no later. And on my honour, I promise, there shall no guilt of blood-letting stick to your hands."
"Let me perish, if I am not there."
All the man's words had the savour of a strong, faithful spirit, and Matilda went back to her room satisfied. The principal part of her plan for Stephen's safety was accomplished; she had no doubts now as to its prosperous carrying out. So she lay down and tried to compose herself; and as the day darkened and the time for action came, she found a strength and calmness that was sufficient. Without a sign of anxiety in her heart, she eat her evening meal with her aunt, and then said,
"I am going to dismiss Delia, go to bed early, and sleep a headache away." Lady Jevery said she was "in the same mind"; and this circumstance, being much in Matilda's favour, gave her that satisfactory feeling of "having the signs favourable," which we all appreciate when we intend important work.
About seven o'clock she went to her brother's room, and brought away a suit of his clothing; and when she had dressed herself in it, and put a pistol and hunting-knife in her belt, and a large plumed hat on her head, she looked in the mirror with the utmost satisfaction. She was her brother's double; quite his height, and singularly like him in carriage, face and manner. Of this resemblance she had soon a very convincing proof, for as she passed through the hall, her own maid Delia curtsied to her, and said, "My lady is sick to-night, sir, and will not be disturbed." And Matilda bowed and passed on. As for the other servants, in and out of the house, they knew they were to have eyes and see not; and ears, and hear not. Therefore, though several met, as they supposed, the young Earl leaving the house, there was no further recognition of the fact among themselves, than a lifting of the eyebrows, or some enigmatical remark, only to be understood by thoseen rapportwith the circumstances.
Matilda walked quickly through the garden, and still more quickly through the lonely chase. She was not afraid of the thing she was going to do, but she was afraid of the toads and snails, and the unknown deer and dogs that thought the wooded space their own. But without molestation she arrived at the three oaks. Yupon Slade was already there. He showed her the light of the lanthorn for a moment, and then his black-cloaked figure and masked face blended indeterminately with the darkness around him. For nearly an hour Matilda walked up and down the road, keeping well within call of her companion. But about nine o'clock the sound of a horse coming at an easy gallop was heard, and Yupon was softly called. He was at Matilda's side as the rider came near them. She advanced to meet him, calling pleasantly, "Miles Watson, a word, if it please you."
The voice was familiar and kind, and Miles drew rein and asked, "Who calls me? I am on the Commonwealth's business, and cannot be delayed."
Then Matilda, pointing the pistol in his face said, "You must light from your horse, Miles Watson." Miles tried then to proceed, but Yupon had whispered to the animal he rode, and the creature took no notice of his rider's persuasions. The pistol was dangerously near; Yupon's rough order "to tumble" was not unaccompanied by threats, and Watson thought it best to obey quietly, where he could not resist. When Yupon had bound him securely, Matilda took the lanthorn, and drawing from her girdle the sharp hunting-knife, she cut open the leathern mail-bag, and turned the light upon its contents. The small private letters she hardly noticed, but there were three ominous-looking papers closed with large red seals, and these she instantly seized. They were all directed to the Sheriff of Ely; and she felt sure they were the authority for Stephen's arrest. She took possession of the whole three, bade Yupon set loose the horse, and leaving the other contents of the rifled mail-bag on the grass by the side of the bound carrier, she put into her companion's hand the promised gold pieces, and then slipped away into the shadows and darkness of de Wick chase.