THE LION'S WHELP (continued 4)

"Therein you are right, as you always are."

"Truly, the whole country is like the prophets' roll, written within and without with mourning and wrong and woe. As for the Royalists, they are harried to death; they hold everything on sufferance. The time for this strictness has gone by. England now wants peace, justice for all, Amnesty, and above all, a new Parliament. If these things don't come to pass, worse things will—I say this to you; it is the plain truth; I profess it is!"

"Then tell them what to do, Oliver. And if they will not obey, make them. Are they not as much at your disposal as the shoes on your feet?"

"The time is not fully ripe; a little longer they must trample upon law and justice and mercy, and do such bare-faced things as will make men wonder—a little longer we must suffer them, then——"

"Then, Oliver?"

"I will thunder at the door for inquisition, and it will be with no runaway knock. I am sorry, and I could be sorry to death, for the needs-be, but it will come, it will come. God knows I wish it otherwise. I do, indeed!"

"What were they about to-night?"

"About nothing they should be. Have we not come to a pretty state when Parliament looks to the private doings of its members? After some testimonies, there came a motion to expel all profane and unsanctified persons from the House, and I rose and said,—'I could wish also, that all fools were expelled; then we might have a house so thin it would be at our say-so.'"

"Pray, what said Sir Harry Vane to that? He is as touchy as tinder."

"He said, 'General, no man in England knows better than you do, the usefulness of piety;' and I answered him prompt, 'Sir Harry Vane, I know something better than the usefulness of piety, it is the piety of usefulness. Take heed,' I said, 'of being too sharp, or of being too easily sharpened by others. If Parliament is to sit that it may count the number of glasses a man drinks, or the style of his coat and his headgear, England is in her dotage. I would rather see death than such intolerable things, I would truly.' And I said these words in great wrath, and I could wish I had been in still greater anger."

"Why don't they do what you desire? Will they come to disputing with you?"

"I look for it, but I understand the men. This state of affairs will grow to somewhat. I know what I feel. My dearest, I need pity; I do, indeed. I am set here for England's defense, and there is One who will sift me as wheat concerning my charge. Elizabeth, there are at this very hour twenty-three thousand unheard cases in Chancery. I see the law constantly abused. If I say a word that mercy may now be shown, I am accused of pandering to the malignants for some end of my own. Hundreds of Englishmen are in prison on matters of conscience;—they ought to be free. There are tithes and exactions intolerable, and this fragment and figment and finger-end of an old Parliament busies itself with its members' moralities; with raising money for a Dutch war, or with selling the stonework, leads and bells of our Cathedrals. If my God will give me a word, I will better such work; I will indeed!"

"Sir Harry Vane has already reduced the army. He thought thus to curtail your power, Oliver; I saw through the man from the first."

"My authority came not through Sir Harry Vane, nor can Sir Harry Vane take it from me. My comfort is that God called me to be captain of Israel's host. Truly, I never sought the place. I did not. But while my head is above the mold, my heart will burn against oppression. I will not suffer it; before God and angels and men I will not suffer it! 'Tis the time now for showing mercy and for settling the Kingdom, and these things shall be done. I know the sort of men I have to deal with, I will carry justice through their teeth, even if they be a Parliament. And let God be my judge."

"But what will you do? There are strong men that hate you."

"I will do nothing just yet—unless I get the commission. Who are these men? Only cedars of Lebanon that God has not yet broken. 'They shall be able to do nothing against me. His Hands shall cover me.' That word came to me by little Jane Swaffham. I have thanked her many times for it."

"I know your patience and your goodness, Oliver."

"Yes, but patience works to anger. I shall stand no nonsense from any one much longer. When Opportunity comes, I shall make Importunity fit Opportunity—I will that."

He had been unbuttoning his doublet as he spoke these words, and he flung it from him with an extraordinary force and passion; then suddenly calming himself he sat down, and said with a sadness equal to his anger, "Let me have your prayers, dear wife, let me have them. For come what will, we must work God's good pleasure and serve our generation—our rest we expect elsewhere. I live in Meshec (prolonging) and in Kedar (blackness), yet as John Verity said to me last Sabbath—'Brother Oliver, you have daily bread, and you shall have it, despite your enemies. In your Father's house there is enough and to spare of every good thing; and He dispenseth it.' Those three words go to my heart like heavenly wine—He dispenseth it, Elizabeth;" and he took her hand, and she leaned her face full of light and trust against his shoulder, and as he stooped to it, his countenance grew sweet and tender as a little child's. For a few moments they sat silent, then the God-full man burst into rapturous thanksgiving, because all his hopes were grounded on the Truth of God, on the immutability of His Counsel, and on the faithfulness of His promises. "Promises," he cried out, "having this double guarantee, that they have not only been spoken, they have been sworn to."

An inward, instant sense of God's presence came to both of them. They had a joy past utterance. Troubles of all kinds grew lighter than a grasshopper. They partook of those spiritual favours which none know, save those who receive them; and urged by a spiritual pressure within, Cromwell sighed into the very ear of God, "Whom have I in heaven but Thee? and there is none upon earth that I desire beside Thee."

For the Eternal God was the firmament of this man's life; whether on the battle-field or in the Council Chamber, amid his family or alone in his closet, God was the Majestic Overhead and Background of all his thoughts, affections, purposes and desires.

CHAPTER VIII

UPON THE THRESHOLD

"Predestinated ills are never lost."

* * * * *

"The Power that ministers to God's decrees,

And executes on earth what He foresees,

Called Providence,—

Comes with resistless force; and finds, or makes a way."

If we believe that life is worth living, our belief helps to create that fact, for faith is in matters of the spirit all that courage is in practical affairs. To Jane and Cluny this belief was not difficult, for limitation always works for happiness, and during the ensuing year life kept within the bounds of their mutual probation and of Cluny's military duties, was full of happy meetings and partings; days in which Love waited on Duty, and again, days in which Love was lord of every hour; when they wandered together in the Park like two happy children, or, if the weather was unfit, sat dreaming in the stately rooms of Sandys about the little gray house in Fifeshire, which was to be their own sweet home.

These dreams and hopes were set to a national life full of unexpected events and rumours of events, and to interesting bits of gossip about the beloved Lord General and his family and friends. The news-letters were hardly necessary to the Swaffhams; they were in the heart of affairs, and life was so full of love and homely pleasures, that the days came and went to thanksgiving—literally so, for Jane could not but notice how at this time her father and mother selected for the household worship psalms, whose key-note was, "Bless the Lord," "Make a joyful noise unto the Lord," or, "I will love thee O Lord my strength." And she could so well remember when these prayers were implorations for help and comfort, or for victory over enemies. How different was now her father's tone of joyful confidence when he recited with the family his favourite portion from the eighteenth psalm, generally beginning about the thirtieth verse, and growing more and more vivid and earnest, until in a voice of triumph he closed the Book with a great emphasis, to the exulting words, "The Lord liveth, and blessed be my Rock, and let the God of my salvation be exalted."

So the weeks and months went by, and though they were not alike, they had that happy similitude which leaves little to chronicle. Jane's chief excitements came from her visits to Mary Cromwell and Matilda de Wick. The latter had now quite recovered her beauty and brightness, and she had gradually moulded her new life to her satisfaction. It was not a life that Jane thoroughly understood, and indeed she shrank from Matilda's confidences about it; and Matilda was soon aware of this reluctance and ceased to make any overtures in that direction. And in this matter, Mrs. Swaffham was of her daughter's mind.

"If Sir Thomas is blind to what goes on beneath his own roof, Jane," she said, "why should you see inconveniences? There is a deal of wisdom in looking over and beyond what is under your eyes. The Lord General does it, for Sir Thomas dined at Whitehall last week. Your father says one of his ships has been taken by Prince Rupert, and Cromwell has written to Cardinal Mazarin about the matter. But Admiral Blake is the only messenger Mazarin will heed."

The affection between Jane and Matilda had, however, the strong root of habit as well as of inclination. They could not be happy if they were long apart. Jane visited frequently at Jevery House, and Matilda quite as frequently at Sandys. That they disagreed on many subjects did not interfere with their mutual regard. It was an understood thing that they would disagree, and yet there was between them such a sincere love as withstood all differences, and ignored all offenses. Generally Jane was forbearing but occasionally her temper matched Matilda's, and then they said such words, and in such fashion said them, that final estrangement seemed inevitable. Yet these bursts of anger were almost certainly followed by immediate forgiveness and renewal of affection.

One morning in the spring of 1653, Jane was returning from a two days' visit to the Cromwells. The air was so fresh and balmy she went to Jevery House, resolved to ask Matilda to drive in the Park with her. She had not her key to the private door, and was therefore compelled to alight at the main entrance. Sir Thomas was among his crocus beds, at this time a living mass of gold and purple beauty, and he was delighted to exhibit them to one so sensitive to their loveliness. Jane told him she had been at the Cockpit, and he asked after the Lord General, adding, "It is high time he stepped to the front again." Then Jane instantly remembered the picture in the cedar salon, and smiled an understanding answer.

As she went up-stairs she wondered what mood she would find Matilda in, for there was a certain mental pleasure in the uncertainty of her friend's temper. It was so full of unlooked-for turns, so generally contrary to what was to be expected, that it piqued curiosity and gave spice and interest to every meeting. She found her lying upon a sofa in her chamber, her little feet, prettily shod in satin, showing just below her gown; her hands clasped above her head, her long black hair scattered loosely on the pillow. She smiled languidly as Jane entered, and then said,

"I have been expecting you, Jane. I could not keep the thought of you out of my mind, and by that token I knew you were coming. But how bravely you are gowned! Pray, where have you been? Or, where are you going?"

"I have been spending two days with the Cromwells; and the morning is so fair, I wondered if you would not drive an hour in the Park. Perhaps, then, you would come home with me to dinner, and so make mother very happy. Do you know that Cymlin arrives from Ireland to-day? He would think the journey well taken, if he saw you at the end of it."

"You are a little late with your news, Jane. That is one of your faults. Cymlin was here last night. He spent a couple of hours with me;" then she smiled so peculiarly, Jane could not help asking her—

"What is there in your way of smiling, Matilda? I am sure it means a story of some kind."

"I shall have to tell you the story, for you could never guess what that smile was made of. First, however, what did you see and hear at the Cromwells? 'Tis said the great man is in a strange mood, and that his picked friends are wondering how he will cast the scale. Vane and he must come to 'Yes' and 'No' soon; and when rogues fall out, honest folk get their rights."

"England will get her rights if Cromwell cast the scale. He is both corner-stone and keystone of her liberties. He was in the kindest of moods, and I took occasion to speak of you and your many sorrows. And he wet my speech with the most pitiful tears ever man shed, saying such words of your father as brought me to weeping also. He spoke also very heavenly about your afflictions, and bade me tell you sorrow was one of the surest ways to heaven."

"But I could wish a pleasanter way, and so will not take Cromwell's guidance."

"I heard in a passing manner that Prince Rupert is off the seas forever—that he is at the French Court, where he is much made of."

"Jane Swaffham, have you no fresher news?" and she pulled out of her bosom many sheets of paper tied together with a gold thread. "I had this yesterday," she said, "by the hand of Stephen, and I may as well tell you to prepare to meet Stephen de Wick, for he vows he will not leave England again until he has speech with you."

"Then he is forsworn; I will not see him."

"It will be no treason now to speak to your old servant. The Amnesty Act will cover you. But I fight not Stephen's battles; I have enough to do to keep my own share of your friendship from fraying. See how Fortune orders affairs! The ship my uncle has been worrying Cromwell about, and which Cromwell has been bullying Mazarin about, was taken by Prince Rupert; and I hope, by this time, he has turned her last ounce of cargo and her last inch of plank into good gold ducats."

"But that would be to your uncle's great loss."

"Cromwell has promised to see to that. The man and his army ought to be of some use. If you can keep a secret suspicion, you may believe, with me, that my uncle was not averse to letting the royal family have this one of his ventures. They need the money from it, and Cromwell will collect the full value from the Frenchman. I like that way of paying Sir Thomas. The French have behaved abominably to the poor Queen and His Majesty, and their unhappy Court. Let them pay for what Rupert took. They owe it to His Majesty; let them pay! Make them pay! In grace of God, 'tis good enough for them. As for Uncle Jevery, he always gets his own; some one, in some manner, will pay him for the Sea Rover, plank and cargo. In the meantime, the King can have a little comfort. Why has Cymlin come at this time from Ireland?"

"He has leave of absence from Commander-in-chief Fleetwood."

"Oh, Jane! I am tipsy with laughing when I think of the doleful widow Ireton—and Fleetwood. You remember what a hot quarrel we had about Ireton being buried among the Kings of England—they will kick him out yet, though they be dead—and how you shamed me for not weeping with the desolated woman?"

"It would be better to forget these things, Matilda."

"And then she let the widower Fleetwood console her in less than half a year! It makes me blush! Yet the widow Ireton is an honourable woman! To be sure, only God understands women. I don't. I don't understand myself—or you."

"No woman likes to be put down; and when General Lambert got Ireton's place, Madame Lambert was insolently proud, and insisted on taking precedence of Ireton's widow, though she was Cromwell's daughter."

"Fancy the saints quarreling about earthly precedence! Madame Lambert was right. A living dog is better than a dead lion. And I admire the devout Bridget's revenge; it was so human—so sweetly womanly. How did she get round her father?"

"Indeed, men are sweetly human too; and the better men, the more human. Colonel Fleetwood by taking Lady Ireton's part, won her affection; it was a fitting match, and it pleased the Lord General; he recalled Lambert—who was truly overpowered by his great position—and made Fleetwood commander in Ireland, thus giving his daughter back the precedence."

"'Twas a delightful bit of domestic revenge. I enjoyed it. London enjoyed it. Puritans and Royalists alike laughed over it. It was such a thing as any mortal father would have done, and every mortal father, for once, felt kin to the Lord General. 'Nicest thing I ever heard of him,' said Lord and Lady Fairfax; for, as you know, Lord and Lady Fairfax always have the same opinion."

"Why do you talk of it? The thing is past and over."

"By no means. The Lamberts are still going up and down, he in wrath and she in tears, talking about it."

"Then let us talk of other things. As I came here I met a large company of Dutch prisoners. They were taking them to our Fen country, that they might drain it."

"They are very fit for that work. They are used to living in mud and water. How came they?"

"They did not come. Blake sent them. He sunk their ship and made them his prisoners."

"Why did they interfere with Blake? It serves them right."

"The Dutch are at war with the Commonwealth. Does not that please you?"

"No. What right have the Dutch to meddle in our affairs? The quarrel is between our King and the Parliament. It is our own quarrel, Englishmen against Englishmen. That is all right. It is a family affair; we want no foreigners taking a hand in it. The only time I ever saw my father angry at the King was when he landed foreigners to fight Englishmen. We can settle our own quarrels. If Dutchmen will come into our boat they will, of course, get the oars over their fingers. Serve them right. Let them go to the Fens. They are only amphibious creatures."

"But you do not understand; they——"

"And I do not want to understand; I have settled that affair to my satisfaction. Now I must tell you something concerning myself. I am going to France."

"France!" cried Jane in amazement.

"Yes, France. I have persuaded my uncle that he ought to go there, and look after the Sea Rover. I have persuaded my aunt that it is not safe for my uncle to go without her; and they both know my reason for going with them, although we do not name Prince Rupert."

"When do you go, Matilda?"

"To-morrow, if Stephen be ready. And let me tell you, Jane, Stephen's readiness depends on you."

"That is not so."

"It is. I hope you will be definite, Jane. You have kept poor Stephen dangling after you since you were ten years old."

"What about Cymlin and yourself?"

Then Matilda laughed, and her countenance changed, and she said seriously, "Upon my word and honour, I was never nearer loving Cymlin than I was last night, yet he was never less deserving of it. 'Tis a good story, Jane. I will not pretend to keep it from you, though I would stake my last coin on Cymlin's silence about the matter. He came into my presence, as he always does, ill at ease; and why, I know not, for a man more handsome in face and figure it would not be easy to find in England. But he has bad manners, Jane, confess it; he blushes and stumbles over things, and lets his kerchief fall, and when he tries to be a gallant, makes a fool of himself."

"You are talking of my brother, Matilda, and you are making him ridiculous, a thing Cymlin is not, and never was."

"Wait a bit, Jane. I was kind to him, and he told me about his life in Ireland, and he spoke so well, and looked so proper, that I could not help but show him how he pleased me. Then he went beyond his usual manner, and in leaving tried to give me a bow and a leg in perfect court fashion; and he made a silly appearance, and for the life of me I could not help a smile—not a nice smile, Jane; indeed, 'twas a very scornful smile, and he caught me at it, and what do you think he did?"

"I dare say he told you plainly that you were behaving badly?"

"My dear Jane, he turned back, he walked straight to me and boxed my ears, for 'a silly child that did not know the difference between a man and a coxcomb.' I swear to you I was struck dumb, and he had taken himself out of the room in a passion ere I could find a word to throw after him. Then I got up and went to a mirror and looked at my ears, and they were scarlet, and my cheeks matched them, and for a moment I was in a towering rage. I sat down, I cried, I laughed, I was amazed, I was, after a little while, ashamed, and finally I came to a reasonable temper and acknowledged I had been served exactly right. For I had no business to put my wicked little tongue in my cheek, because a brave gentleman could not crook his leg like a dancing-master. Are you laughing, Jane? Well, I must laugh too. I shall laugh many a time when I think of Cymlin's two big hands over my ears. Had he kissed me afterwards, I would have forgiven him—I think."

"I cannot help laughing a little, Matilda, but I assure you Cymlin is suffering from that discipline far more than you are."

"I am not suffering at all. This morning I admire him. There is not another man in the world who would have presumed to box the Lady Matilda de Wick's ears; accordingly I am in love with his courage and self-respect. I deserved what I got, I deserved it richly, Jane;"—and she rose and went to the glass, and turned her head right and left, and looked at her ears, and then with a laugh said, "Poor little ears! You had to suffer for a saucy tongue. Jane, my ears burn, my cheeks burn, I do believe my heart burns. I shall laugh and cry as long as I live, and remember Cymlin Swaffham."

"It was too bad of Cymlin—but very like him. He has boxed my ears more than once."

"You are his sister. That is different. I will never speak to him again. He can go hang himself if he likes, or go back to Ireland—which seems about the same thing."

"Cymlin will not hang himself for man or woman. Cymlin has the fear of God before him."

"I am glad he has. Surely he has no fear of Matilda de Wick. There, let the matter drop. I wish now, you would either take Stephen, or send him off forever. I am in a hurry to be gone, and Sir Thomas also."

"Sir Thomas seemed full of content among his lilies and crocuses."

"I'll wager he was bidding them, one by one, a good-bye. Go and send Stephen with a 'Yes' or 'No' to me. I am become indifferent which, since you are so much so."

The little fret was a common one; Jane let it pass without comment, and it did not affect the sympathy and affection of their parting. Many letters were promised on both sides, and Jane was glad to notice the eagerness and hope in her friend's voice and manner. Whatever her words might assert, it was evident she looked forward to a great joy. And as long as she was with Matilda, Jane let this same spirit animate her; her ride home, however, was set to a more anxious key. She was a little angry also. Why should Stephen de Wick intrude his love upon her? Twice already she had plainly told him that his suit was hopeless, and she did not feel grateful for an affection that would not recognise its limits, and was determined to force itself beyond them.

She entered Sandys with the spring all about her; her fair face rosy with the fresh wind, and her eyes full of the sunshine. Cymlin and Stephen were sitting by the fireside talking of Irish hounds and of a new bit for restive horses which Cymlin had invented. It was evident that Mrs. Swaffham had given Stephen a warm welcome; the remains of a most hospitable meal were on the table, and he had the look and manner of a man thoroughly at home. In fact, he had made a confidant of Cymlin, or, rather, he had talked over an old confidence with him. Cymlin approved his suit for Jane's hand. He did not like the idea of Cluny as a member of his family. He had an aversion, almost a contempt, for all men not distinctly and entirely English, and he was sure that Cluny had won that place in the Lord General's favour which he himself was in sight of when Cluny appeared. Again, Stephen had been his playmate; he was his neighbour, and if the King ever came back, would be an important neighbour; one whose good offices might be of some importance to Swaffham. Besides which, though he habitually snubbed Jane, he loved her, and did not like to think of her living in Scotland. It was a pleasanter thing to imagine her at de Wick; and it may be noticed that the return of the Stuarts was almost assured by this constant thought and predication of it in the staunchest Puritan minds. The fear was the unconscious prophecy.

When Jane entered, Cymlin and Stephen both rose to meet her. Cymlin was kind with the condescension of a brother. He spoke to her as he spoke to creatures weaker than himself, and kissed her with the air of a king kissing a subject he loved to honour. Then he made an excuse to the stables and gave Stephen his opportunity. The young man had kept his eyes fixed on the beautiful face and slender form of the girl he loved, but had uttered no word except the exclamation that sprung from his lips involuntarily when she entered:

"Jane!"

Even when they were alone, he first put the logs together with the great tongs and replaced them in their stand ere he went to her and clasped her hands and said with a passionate eagerness, "Jane, dearest! I have come again to ask you to marry me. Say one good, kind word. When you were not as high as my heart, you did promise to be my wife. I vow you did! You know you did! Keep your promise; oh, I look for you to keep your promise!"

"Stephen, I knew not then what marriage meant. You were as a brother to me. I love you yet as I loved you then. I am your friend, your sister if you will."

"I will not. You must be my wife."

"I cannot be your wife. I am already plighted."

"To Lord Neville. What the devil——"

"Sir!"

"I beg your pardon. I am no saint, and what you say stirs me to use words not found in books. As for Neville, you shall never marry him. I forbid it. I will hunt him to the gates of death."

"It is sinful to say such things."

"Let my sins alone. I am not in the humour to be sorry for them. I say again, you shall not marry that scoundrelly Scot."

"He is not what you call him—far from it."

"I call things by their right names. I call a Scot, a Scot; and a scoundrel, a scoundrel." He threw her hands far from him, and strode up and down the room, desperate and full of wrath. "You shall marry no man but myself. Before earth and heaven you shall!"

"If God wills, I shall marry Lord Neville."

"I say no!" he shouted. "Jane, when the King comes back, and I have my estate and title, will you marry me?"

"You are asking me to marry your estate and title. I do not value either that—" and she snapped her thumb against her finger, with no doubtful expression.

"Oh, Jane! I shall go to total ruin if you do not marry me."

"Shall I marry a man who is not lord of himself? I will not."

"You have made me your enemy. What follows is your own fault."

"'Tis a poor love that turns to hatred; and you can do no more than you are let do."

"You will see. By my soul, 'tis truth!"

"There is God between me and you. I have no fear."

"I am beyond reason. What am I saying? All my quarrels with you are kind ones, Jane. Oh, 'tis ten thousand pities you will not love me!"

"It is nowise possible, Stephen."

He flung himself into a chair, laid his arms upon the table, and buried his face in them. "Go away, then," he sobbed; "I wish to see your face no more. For your sake, I will hate all women forever."

There was no use in prolonging a conversation so hopeless. She went away, and in the hall met her brother Cymlin. He looked at her angrily. "You have been behaving badly to Stephen; I see that much. What for did God make women? They are His wrath, I think. You and your friend are both as wicked and cruel and beautiful as tigers; and you have no more heart or conscience than cats have."

"If you are speaking of Lady Matilda, it is a shame. She told me to-day she thought you as handsome a man in face and figure as was in England. She praised your courage and self-respect, and said if you had kissed her last night she would have forgiven you."

As Jane spoke, wonder and delight chased each other across Cymlin's face. "What else did she say?" he eagerly asked.

"Indeed, I have told you too much."

"Tell me all, Jane, I must know."

"Why should you care for her words? She is cruel as a tiger, and has no more heart or conscience than a cat."

"I did not fully mean such things of Matilda—nor of you, in the main. You are sure she said I was handsome?"

"Sure."

"And brave?"

"Sure."

"And self-respecting?"

"She said every word, and more than I have told you."

"The rest, then?"

"No. I am true to my friend—in the main."

"You are ill-tempered. Stephen ought to be thankful for your 'No.' He will be, some day. I shall go and see Matilda to-morrow."

"She may leave for France to-night."

"You are a provoking creature."

"Go and abuse me to Stephen. I think little of him. He is neither handsome nor brave nor self-respecting, and he threatens me! What do you think of a lover who threatens his mistress? He is out of the Court of Love. He is an alien, an outlaw."

"How you rant!"

She did not wait to hear more. She was both angry and scornful; and she sought out her mother, and found her resting in her own room.

"I get tired soon in the day, Jane," she said; "I think it is the London air, and the strange life, and the constant fear of some change. No one seems to know what a day will bring forth. Did you see Stephen?"

"Yes."

"It can't be, I suppose?"

"You know it can't be, mother." She was hurt at the question. It was a wrong to Cluny; and she said with some temper, "It could not be under any circumstances. The man is mean; he has just threatened me. If I had not been a woman I would have given him his threat back in his teeth. I would rather be Cluny's wife, if Cluny had not a crown."

"Cluny is not troubled with crowns, or half-crowns. Stephen is an old neighbour,—but I am not one to complain. If you are pleased, father and I can make shift to look so. As for your brothers, I'm not so sure of them."

Then Jane felt a sudden anger at the de Wick family. All her life, in some way or other, it had been the de Wicks. Matilda's exactions and provoking words and ways came to her memory and brought with them a sense of too much endured. Stephen's love had ever been a selfishly disturbing element. Many an unpleasant day it had caused her, and at this moment she told herself that, say what they would, the Earldom had an unacknowledged power over the imagination of all the Swaffhams but herself. She was just going to voice this opinion, when her mother's weary face arrested her words; she went away without justifying herself or her lover, and when the act of self-denial had been accomplished, she was glad of it. In the stillness of her room she retired with Him who is a sure hiding-place, and there found that peace which "soft upon the spirit lies, as tired eyelids upon tired eyes." Her soul sat light and joyful on its temporal perch, for she had been with God, and all the shadows were gone. Men and women who have this supernatural element in them, will understand; to those who are without it, there are no words, there are no miracles which could authenticate this intimate, spiritual communion to them.

The next day Cymlin went to Jevery House and reported, on his return, its forlorn emptiness. There were only two or three servants there, and they had no idea when the family would return. To Jane he admitted that London seemed desolate, and Jane was herself conscious of a want or a loss. Much of her London life had been blended with Jevery House, and there was now a necessity for a fresh ordering of her time and duties.

About a week after Matilda's departure Cluny called early one evening and asked Jane to go with him to Mr. Milton's house in Petty France. They sauntered through St. James' Park, not then open to the public in general, though an exception was made in favour of certain houses on the Westminster side. In one of these, "a pretty garden house," Mr. Milton lived, and they found him walking with his daughters under the shady elms. Cluny delivered to him some papers, but did not accept his invitation to enter the house and sing with him an anthem which he had just composed; for the evening promised to be exceedingly lovely, and Jane's company in the sweet, shady walks was a far greater attraction.

They soon lost sight of all humanity, and were conscious only of each other's presence, for indeed a general air of complete solitude pervaded the twilight shades. Jane was telling Cluny about her interview with Stephen, and they were walking slowly, hand in hand, quite absorbed in their own affairs. So much so, that they never noticed a figure which emerged from behind a clump of shrubs, and stood looking at them. It was the Lord General. He had been pacing a little alley of hazel trees near by, for some time, and was about to alter his course in order to take the nearest road to his apartments in Whitehall. His face was grave, but not unhappy, and when he saw Cluny and Jane he stood still a moment, and then quietly withdrew into the shadow he had left. A smile was round his mouth, and his lips moved in words of blessing, as he took another path to the gate he wished. Amid thoughts of the most momentous interest, a little vision of love and youth and beauty had been vouchsafed him, and there was a feeling of pleasure yet in his heart when he entered the sombre apartment where Israel Swaffham with a guard of soldiers, was in attendance. He saluted his General, and Cromwell called him aside and had some private speech with him.

He then entered a lofty, royally furnished room, where the Council were awaiting his arrival—officers of the army, and members of Parliament. St. John, Harrison, Fleetwood, Desborough and others instantly gathered round Cromwell; Marten, Whitelock, Hazelrig, Scott, Sidney, and about seventeen others, supported Sir Harry Vane, who was leading the Parliamentary cause.

Cromwell opened the discussion by reminding the members that he had already held more than a dozen meetings, in order to induce Parliament to issue an Act for the election of a new Parliament, and then discharge itself. "This is what the people want, in every corner of the nation," he said; "and they are laying at our doors the non-performance of this duty and of their wishes."

Hazelrig reminded him that Parliament had determined to dissolve on the 3d of the ensuing November, after calling for a new election.

"It is now only the 19th of April," answered Cromwell, sharply. "Give me leave to tell you that the 3d of November will not do. I am tired talking to you. There must be a healing and a settling, and that without delay. As for your resolution, the people will not have it. I say, the people will not have it. A Parliament made up of all the old members—without reelection—and of such new ones, as a committee of the old approve and choose! Such a patched, cobbled, made-over, old Parliament will not satisfy the people. I know it! I know it better than any man in England. It will not satisfy me. It will not satisfy the army——"

"Oh, the army!" ejaculated Sir Harry Vane.

"The army, Sir Harry Vane, has been so owned of God, so approved of men, so witnessed for, that, give me leave to say, no man will be well advised who speaks lightly of the army. The question is not the army, the question is the sitting Parliament, which, without either moral or legal right, wants to make itself perpetual."

"This Parliament, General Cromwell, has been the nursing mother of the Commonwealth," said Sir Harry Marten.

"If that be so, yet it is full time that the Commonwealth be weaned. Milk for babes truly, but England wants no more nursing; she wants strong meat, good government, just laws and the settlement of the Gospel Ministry. There is nothing but jarrings and animosities, and we are like to destroy ourselves when our enemies could not do it."

"The army is full of factions and designs, and 'tis well the Lord General is aware of them," said Hazelrig. "Their insolency to members of Parliament is beyond reason."

"Sir, I cannot be of your judgment," answered Cromwell; "but I do admit that the army begins to have a strange distaste against certain members of Parliament, and I wish there was not too much cause for it."

"Cause! What cause?" asked Whitelock.

"Their self-seeking, their delays in business, their resolve to keep all power perpetually in their own hands; their meddling in private matters, their injustice when they do so meddle, and the scandalous lives of some of the chief of them. These things do give grounds for good people—whether in the army or not in the army—to open their mouths against them."

"There is the Law to punish all evil-doers," said Vane. "While the Law lasts the army need not make inquisitions."

"This Parliament has been, and is, a law unto themselves. They are not within the bounds of the law—there being no authority so full and so high as to keep them in better order," answered Cromwell with some anger. Then the discussion assumed a very acrimonious character. Undoubtedly Vane was sincerely afraid for the liberties of England, with Cromwell and his victorious army at the very doors of the House of Commons. He was also intensely interested in the creation of a British Navy, which should not only balance the glory and power of the army, but also make England lord of the seas, and of their commerce. Besides, his genius had just perfected a plan for raising £120,000 a month to continue the war with Holland; and a project setting quite as near to his heart was publicly to sell all the royal palaces, and so remove from the sight of any ambitious man a palpable temptation to seize the crown. To surrender all he had done in these directions, to leave his cherished projects for others to carry out, or to bring to naught, to forego all the glory and profit Blake was even then winning for the Parliament, was not only hard for himself, but he feared it would be disastrous to England and to her liberties.

He spoke of these things, and especially of the great naval victories of Blake over the Dutch, with eloquence. Cromwell admitted all. He was far too great to wish Blake's honour less, for Blake's honour was England's honour, and England's honour was Cromwell's master passion. "Blake is a good man, and a great commander," he said heartily; "I have seen him on the battle-field, again and again; he took his men there through fire to victory; I do think he will now take them through water the same sure road."

When it drew towards midnight the long, bitter argument was at its height; no decision had been reached, no course of conduct decided on; and it was evident to Cromwell that passion and self-interest were gaining the mastery. He stood up, and pointing to the smoky, flickering lights of the nearly burned out candles, said,

"The plain truth is, we must have a new Parliament, though we do carry it by force through the teeth of the greatest in the land. I say we must have it. I wish that we had such due forwardness as to set about it to-morrow."

"The 3d of November," cried Whitelock.

"Such a far-off promise is but words for children. I will better it. I will say to-morrow."

"I am with Mr. Whitelock," said one of the members; "at least with present showing."

"And I am of the same mind," added Hazelrig.

"Hazelrig, you are ever egging people of two minds to be of the worser."

"My Lord General, you put us all down. It were well, my lord, if you could believe there are some others of account beside yourself."

Cromwell looked keenly at the speaker but did not answer him.

Turning to Sir Harry Vane he said, "It is now near to midnight, and we have done no good, and I think we shall do none. Let us go to rest. To-morrow, we will talk the matter down to the bottom, and do what God wills."

"Or what the Lord General wills," said Harry Marten with a light laugh, rising as he spoke.

"I want not my own will," answered Cromwell with a sudden great emotion. "I have sought the Lord's will, night and day, on this question. I have indeed! But I do think we have fadged long enough with so great a subject, and the people want a settlement of it—they will have a settlement of it—and I tell you the plain truth, to-morrow there must be some decision. It cannot longer be delayed. There are those who will not suffer it. Truly, I believe this is the greatest occasion that has come to us. As the business stands—I like it not, and somewhat must be done to mend it. I must say this to you—impute it to what you please."

This speech beginning with a pious submission to God's will and ending with a dauntless assertion of his own determination, had a marked effect. The Parliamentary members agreed to let the bill for perpetuating themselves lie over until after another conference to be held the following day, and with this understanding, the members of the Council separated. Cromwell took the promise in good faith; and he said to Israel Swaffham as they went towards Whitehall, "I have at last brought Vane to terms. I do think we may draw up the Act for a new Parliament."

"Then I know not Vane," answered Israel. "He has more shifts than you dream of, and the other members cluster round him like twigs in a broom."

"Everything must bide its time; I mean His time. Truly, I hoped for a settlement to-night; it seems we must wait for to-morrow."

Cromwell spoke wearily, and after a moment's pause added, "'Tis striking twelve. Hark to the clocks, how strangely solemn they sound! Well, then, to-day has come, but we have not got rid of the inheritance of yesterday; and what to-day will bring forth, God only knows. We are in the dark, but He dwelleth in light eternal."

CHAPTER IX

CROMWELL INTERFERES

"His port was fierce,

Erect his countenance; manly majesty

Sate in his front and darted from his eyes,

Commanding all he viewed."

Daylight came with that soft radiance of sunshine over fresh green things which makes spring so delightful. Israel, who had slept his usual six hours, was in the garden to enjoy it, and his heart was full of praise. He watched the little brown song sparrows building their nests, and twittering secrets among the hawthorns. He saw the white lilies of the valley lifting their moonlight bells above the black earth, and he took into his heart the sweet sermon they preached to him. Then suddenly, and quite unawares, a waft of enthralling perfume led him to stoop to where at the foot of a huge oak tree a cluster of violets was flinging incense into the air. He smiled at his big hands among them, he was going to gather a few for Jane, and then he could not break their fragile stems. "Praise the Lord where He set you growing," he said softly; "my hands are not worthy to touch such heavenly things, they have been washed in blood too often." And his heart was silent and could find no prayer to utter, but the conscience-stricken cry of the man of war centuries before him, "Cast me not away from Thy presence, and take not Thy holy spirit from me."

Softened by such exquisite matins, he went in to breakfast. He was seldom inclined to talk on public affairs, and this morning he said not a word about the Council of the previous night, nor of the self-humiliation which he felt certain would be demanded of the Parliament that day. He eat his portion cheerfully, listening to Jane, who was more talkative and light-hearted than usual. She told her father she was going with Alice Heneage and a number of young people to Hampton Court. They were to picnic in the park and come home in the gloaming by the river; and as she dwelt on what was to be done and seen that happy day, Israel looked at her with a tender scrutiny. He said to himself, "She is more beautiful than she used to be;" and he watched with pleasure her soul-lit eyes and speaking face, not oblivious, either, of the neatness of her shining hair and the exquisite purity of her light gown of India calico, with its crimped rufflings and spotless stomacher of embroidery. "She might have worn the violets on her breast," he thought; and then he rose hastily and called in the household, and read a psalm, and made a short, fervid prayer with them.

And this morning he looked at the men and maids afterwards, and was not pleased at what he saw. "Tabitha," he said sternly, "you come to worship with too little care. Both you and the other wenches may well wash your faces, and put on clean brats when you are going to sit down and listen to the Word of the Lord;" then observing a grin on one of the men's faces, he turned on them with still more anger, and rated them for their want of respect to God and man for their uncombed hair and soiled garments and unblacked shoes, and so sent all of them away with shame in their red faces and not a little wrath in their hearts. And he had no idea that Jane's delicious freshness and purity had really been the text prompting his household homily.

Soon after General Swaffham's departure for Whitehall, Jane's friends called for her, and they went away together full of youth's enthusiasm and anticipation. They took the road to the river, and to the sound of music and the falling and dipping of the oars they reached Richmond and soon spread the contents of their hampers upon the grass under some great oaks in the secluded park. Jane was disappointed at Cluny's absence; he had certainly been expected, and no word explaining his failure to keep his engagement had been received. But the general tone of the company was so full of innocent gayety, that she could not, and did not, wish to resist it.

After a happy, leisurely meal, they spent the rest of their holiday in wandering through the palace, until its melancholy, monastic grandeur subdued them almost to silence. Captain Desborough, a young officer who waited on Alice Heneage, was familiar with the building, and as he led them through the rooms he told them stories, good and ill, connected with the various apartments. Finally they came to one on the ground floor, that had been the private parlour of King Charles—a gloomy room furnished with a sombre magnificence—and here the young man drew the company closer to him, and said—

"I can tell you something true and strange about this room. There were two prophecies made in it, and one of them has come to pass. King Charles stood at this window one day, just where we are now standing, and his three eldest children were with him. And a woman, swart as an Indian savage, with eyes full of a strange, glazing light, came suddenly before them. And she said to the King, 'Let me read the future of your children. It may comfort you when you will need comfort.' But the King, being in one of his melancholy tempers, answered her haughtily, 'No mortal man or woman can foresee the future;' and she looked scornfully at him, and putting a small steel mirror before his face said, 'Look!' and the King cast down his eyes and saw his own head lying on a bloody sheet; and he shuddered and reeled as if he would have fallen. Then a look of pity came into the woman's face, and she put aside the mirror, and said in a strange, far-off voice—as if she was already a long way distant—'When a dog dies in this room, your son will come to the throne again.' And the King called loudly for his attendant, but when the officer came, the woman had disappeared, nor could any trace or tidings of her be found or heard tell of."

And every one was strangely silent; they walked away separately and examined the fine tapestry hangings, but they said not a word to each other about the uncanny incident. It seemed only a fit sequence that their next visit should be through the low, narrow portals to the gloomy subterranean apartments, which had been the guard rooms, and which were still decorated with dusty battle flags and old arms and armour. A singular sensation of having been in these vault-like rooms before, a sense of far-backness, of existence stretching behind everlastingly, of sorrows great and unavailing, permeated the atmosphere. Jane felt that here, if anywhere, men of war might understand the barrenness of their lives, and anticipate the small, and gloomy harvest of their tremendous pilgrimage.

It was like passing from death unto life to come out of these caverns of the sword into the light and glory of the westering sun, to feel its warmth, and see its brave colours, and hear the cuckoo, like a wandering voice, among the trees. Jane was the first to speak. "How beautiful is life and light!" she cried. "Let us get far away from this woeful palace. I felt such sorrowful Presence in every room; I thought I heard sighs following me, and soft steps. Who would live in such a home? To do so, it is to say to Misfortune, 'Come and live with me.'"

The spirits of the little party, so gay in the morning, had sunk to the level of their surroundings: the damp river with its twinkling lights, the gray gloaming, the laboured dip of the traveling oars. They were near the city when Mary Former said a few words about the evil-omened parlour and the two prophecies; then she wondered, "If it was really in the power of any one to reveal the future." And Philip Calamy, a very devout young man, who was in attendance upon Jane, answered,

"The Book of the Future, in whatever language it may be written, is a perilous one to read. We should go mad with too much learning there."

"Yet," said Jane, "it is most sure that certain signs precede certain events; and I see not why the good man, being related to heavenly beings—a little lower than the angels—may not foresee and foretell; and by the same token, the evil being, related to evil angels, might have a like intelligence."

The discussion was not continued, for they were at the river stairs, and as they passed through the city they were instantly aware of great excitement. The rabble were gathered round the men of news, and were listening with open mouths; the tradesmen were talking in groups at their shop doors; they heard the name of Cromwell repeatedly, sometimes in pride, sometimes in anger; and small bodies of the army were very much in evidence. It was impossible not to feel that something of great moment had happened, or was going to happen; and when Jane entered the hall at Sandys and saw Doctor Verity's hat and cloak there, she expected that he had come with information. The next moment Mrs. Swaffham came hurriedly forward, and when she saw Jane, she raised her eyes and threw up her hands with the palms outward, to express her huge astonishment and dismay.

"Mother," cried Jane, "what is the matter? What has happened?" and Mrs. Swaffham answered—

"The strangest thing that ever happened in England."

Even while she spoke they heard General Swaffham coming up the steps, the clatter of his arms emphasising his perturbed feelings. He was very little inclined to parade his military importance, so that the rattle of swords and spurs meant something more than usual to those who understood him. He had scarcely entered the door ere Doctor Verity came into the hall crying—

"Is it true, Israel? Is it true?"

"Quite true."

"And well done?"

"Well done. I am sure of it."

Men and women went into the parlour together, and a servant began to remove the General's cavalry boots and spurs. "I told you, Doctor, this morning, that a settlement of some kind must come to-day. When I reached Whitehall I found the Lord General waiting for Sir Harry Vane and the members who had promised to come and continue the conference relating to the bill early in the day. The General was occupying himself with a book, but as the hours went by he grew restless and laid it down. Then he turned to me and said, 'Truly these men are long in coming; are you ready, General?' and before I could answer he asked again 'ready and willing?' I told him a word would move my troop as one man, if that word came from himself; and he waited silently a little longer. Then Lord Cluny Neville came in very hastily, and said a few words, I know not what they were; and he had scarce gone when Colonel Ingoldsby entered, and there was no secrecy then—

"'My lord!' he cried, 'Parliament is sitting at this moment; and Sir Harry Vane, Sidney, and Henry Marten are urging the immediate passage of the bill so hateful to the whole nation.'

"Then Cromwell roused himself like an angry lion. His passion at this perfidious conduct leaped into flame; he shouted to Lambert and his own troop of Ironsides. He gave me the signal I understood, and we went quickly to the Parliament House. In the lobby St. John was standing, and he said to Cromwell, 'Are you come down to the House, my lord, this morning? It was thought you were safe at the Cockpit?' and Cromwell answered, 'I have somewhat to do at the House. I am grieved to my soul to do it. I have sought the Lord with tears to lay the work on some other man. I would to God I could innocently escape it—but there is a necessity!' and he spoke with force and anger, and so went into the House."

"But what then?" asked Doctor Verity, his face burning with the eager soul behind it.

"I stood at the door watching him, my men being in the lobby. He went to his usual seat, but in a very great and majestic manner, and for a little while he listened to the debate. Then he beckoned Major General Harrison and told him he judged 'it was high time to dissolve this Parliament.' And Harrison told me this afternoon, that he advised Cromwell to consider what he would do, for it was a work great and dangerous; and who, he asked, 'is sufficient for it?' And Cromwell answered, 'The Servant of the Lord, he is sufficient;' yet he sat down again, looking at me as he did so, and I looked back straight into his eyes that I and mine could be depended on.

"In a few minutes the question for passing the bill was put, and the man could be restrained no longer. He stood up, took off his hat, and looked round the House, and it quailed under his eyes; every man in it shifted on his seat and was uneasy. He began to speak, and it was with a tongue of flame. He reproached them for their self-seeking and their hypocrisy and oppression; and as he went on, there was the roar of a lion in his voice, and the members, being condemned of their own consciences, cowered before him."

"Did no one open their mouth against him?"

"No one but Sir Peter Wentworth. He said, 'My Lord General, this Parliament has done great things for England;' and Cromwell answered, 'The spoke in the wheel that creaks most does not bear the burden in the cart!' Then Sir Peter told Cromwell his abuse of the Parliament was the more horrid because it came from the servant of the Parliament, the man they had trusted and obliged."

At these words Dr. Verity laughed loudly—"Cromwell, the servant of such a Parliament!" he cried. "Not he; what then, Israel?"

"He told Wentworth to be quiet. He said he had heard enough of such talk, and putting on his hat, he took the floor of the House. I watched him as he did so. He breathed inward, like one who has a business of life and death in hand. I could see on his face that he was going to do the deed that had been the secret of his breast for many days; and his walk was that quick stride with which he ever went to meet an enemy. He stood in the middle of the House, and began to accuse the members personally. His words were swords. He flung them at the men as if they were javelins; shot them in their faces as if from a pistol; and while rivers run to the sea, I can never think of Oliver Cromwell as I saw him this day but as one of the Immortals. He did not look as you and I look. He filled the House, though a less man in bulk and stature than either of us. He told the members to empty themselves of Self, and then they would find room for Christ, and for England. He told them the Lord had done with them. He said they were no Parliament, and that he had been sent to put an end to their sitting and their prating.

"And at these words, Cluny Neville spoke to the Serjeant, and he opened the doors, and some musketeers entered the House. Then Sir Harry Vane cried out, 'This is not honest;' and Cromwell reminded him of his own broken promise. And so, to one and all, he brought Judgment Day; for their private lives were well known to him, and he could glance at Tom Challoner and say, 'Some of you are drunkards;' and at Henry Marten, and give the text about lewd livers; and at the bribe-takers he had only to point his finger, and say in a voice of thunder 'Depart,' and they began to go out, at first slowly, and then in a hurry, treading on the heels of each other."

"What of Lenthall? He has a stubborn will."

"He sat still in the Speaker's chair, until Cromwell ordered him to come down. For a moment he hesitated, but General Harrison said, 'I will lend you my hand, sir;' and so he also went out."

"But was there no attempt to stay such dismissals? I am amazed, dumbfounded!" said Doctor Verity.

"Alderman Allen, the Treasurer of the Army, as he went out said something to Cromwell which angered him very much; and he then and there charged Allen with a shortage of one hundred thousand pounds, and committed him to the care of a musketeer for examination. And as Sir Harry Vane passed him, he told him reproachfully that his own treacherous conduct had brought affairs to their present necessity; for, he added, 'if Sir Harry Vane had been at the Cockpit according to his words, Oliver Cromwell had not been in the Parliament House.' But I tell you, there was no gainsaying the Cromwell of this hour. He was more than mortal man; and Vane and the others knew, if they had not known before, why he was never defeated in battle."

"After the Speaker had left, what then?"

"His eye fell upon the Mace, and he said scornfully to some of the Ironsides, 'Take that bauble away!' Then he ordered the musketeers to clear the House, he himself walking up to its Clerk and taking from under his arm the bill which had caused the trouble, and which was ready to pass. He ordered the man to go home, and he slipped away without a question. Cromwell was the last soul to leave the Chamber, and as he went out of it he locked the door and put the key in his pocket. He then walked quietly back to his rooms in the Cockpit, and I dare say he was more troubled to meet Mistress Cromwell than he was to meet Sir Harry Vane and his company."

"Oh, no!" said Jane. "Mistress Cromwell is in all her husband's counsels. He would go to her for comfort, for whatever he may have said and done. I know he is this hour sorrowful and disturbed, and that he will neither eat nor drink till he has justified himself in the sight of God."

"He will need God on his right hand and on his left," said Doctor Verity. "More than we can tell will come of this—implacable hostility, rancorous jealousy, everlasting envy and spite. The members——"

"The members," interrupted General Swaffham, "have tied themselves, hands and feet, with cords of their own spinning, and Oliver Cromwell holds the ends of them. They will not dare to open their mouths. Sir Harry Vane said something about the business being 'unconstitutional,' and Cromwell answered him roughly enough, after this fashion: 'Unconstitutional? A very accommodating word, Sir Harry Vane. Give me leave to say you have played fast and loose with it long enough. I will not have it any longer! England will not have it! You are no friend of England. I do say, sir, you are no friend of England!' And his passion gathered and blazed till he spurned the floor with his feet, just as I have seen my big red bull at Swaffham paw the ground on which he stood."

"This is all very fine indeed," said Mrs. Swaffham, almost weeping in her anger; "but you need not praise this man to me. He has slain the King of England, and turned out the English Parliament, and pray what next? He will make himself King, and Elizabeth Cromwell Queen. Shall we indeed bow down to them? Not I, for one."

"He wants no such homage, Martha," said the Doctor, "and if I judge Madame Cromwell rightly, she is quite as far from any such desire."

"You know nothing of the Cromwell women, Doctor—I know. Yes, I know them!"

"Dear mother——"

"Jane, there is no use 'dear mothering' me. I know the Cromwells. Many a receipt for puddings and comfits I have given Elizabeth Cromwell, and shown her how to dye silk and stuffs; yes, and loaned her my silver sconces when Elizabeth married Mr. Claypole; and now to think of her in the King's palace, and people bowing down to her, and hand-kissing, and what not! And as for Oliver Cromwell's passions, we know all about them down in Cambridgeshire," she continued. "He stamped in that way when some one preached in St. Mary's what he thought rank popery; and about the draining of the Fens, he kicked enough, God knows! Oh, yes, I can see him in steel and buff, sword in hand, and musketeers behind him, getting his way—for his way he will have—if he turn England hurly-burly for it."

"Martha, he wore neither steel nor buff, and his sword was far from him. He went down to the House in a black cloth suit and gray worsted stockings, which, no doubt, were of his wife's knitting; and his shoes were those made by Benjamin Cudlip, country fashion, low-cut, with steel latchets. He had not even a falling collar on, just a band of stitched linen round his neck."

"I wonder, oh, I hope!" said Jane, "that it was one of the bands I stitched when I was last staying at Whitehall."

"Find it out, Jane; settle your mind that it was one of them," answered Doctor Verity; "and then, Jane, you may tell it to your children, and grandchildren, God willing."

"At any rate," continued General Swaffham, "Cromwell at this hour owed nothing to his dress. I have seen him in the fields by St. Ives, and in Ely Market, in the same kind of clothing. What would you? And what did it matter? His spirit clothed his flesh, and the power of the spirit was on him, so that the men in velvet and fine lace wilted away in his presence."

"No one minds the Lord General's having power, no one minds giving him honour for what he has done for England, but the Cromwell women! What have they done more than others?" asked Mrs. Swaffham.

"Be at peace, Martha," said General Swaffham; "here are things to consider of far greater import than the Cromwell women. How the nation will take this affair, remains to be seen. 'Tis true the Lord General was cheered all through the city, but he knows—and no man better—what a fickle heart the populace have. As like as not, it will be, as he said to me, 'Overturn, overturn, and great tasks on all sides.'"

"I look for measureless wrath and vain babble, and threats heard far and wide," said Doctor Verity. "The people have been given what they wanted, and twenty to one they will now nay-say all they have roared for. That would be like the rest of their ways."

For once Doctor Verity was wrong. This master-stroke of Cromwell's went straight to the heart of London. "Not a dog barked against it," said Cromwell to his friends, and he was to all intents and purposes right. Those who called it "usurpation" confessed that it was an usurpation of capability, in place of one of incapability. Even the lampoons of the day were not adverse to Cromwell, while some of them gave him a grim kind of pleasure.

Thus, one morning, Cluny Neville passing the Parliament House noticed placards on its walls, and going close enough to read them, found they advertised "This house to let; unfurnished." And when he told this to Cromwell, that faculty in the man which sometimes made for a rude kind of mirth, was aroused, and he burst into an uproarious enjoyment of the joke. "I wish," he cried, "I wish I knew the wag who did it. I would give him a crown or two, I would indeed, and gladly."

There had been a little uncertainty about the navy, for Sir Harry Vane had shown it great favour. But Admiral Robert Blake was as great and as unselfish a man in his office as was Oliver Cromwell. He accepted the change without dissent, telling his fleet simply—

"It is not the business of seamen to mind state affairs. Our business is to keep foreigners from fooling us, and to find the Dutch ships, fight them, and sink them."

And yet the feeling which led to Mrs. Swaffham's little burst of temper was not particular to herself. Many women felt precisely as Martha Swaffham did, and Cromwell did not take this element into his consideration. Yet it was one that worked steadily towards its reckoning, for men do not finally withstand the ceaseless dropping fire of their own hearthstones. Mrs. Fleetwood's and Mrs. Lambert's ill-feeling about precedence was indefinitely multiplied, and Mrs. Swaffham's more intimate rejection of the Cromwell women was a stone thrown into water and circling near and far. The Lord General Cromwell, men and women alike, could accept; he had fought his way to honour, and they could give him what he had won. But the Cromwell women had done nothing, and suffered nothing beyond the ordinary lot; it was a much harder thing to render homage unto them. In these days, Mrs. Swaffham, though ignoring the late King, was distinctly royal and loyal where Queen Henrietta Maria was concerned.

But it was, after all, a grand time in old England. Adventures and victories were the news of every day. Nothing was too strange to happen; people expected romances and impossibilities; and because they expected them, they came. The big city was always astir with news; it flew from lip to lip, like wild fire, was rung out from every steeple, and flashed in bonfires from one high place to another. This formidable man in black and gray was at the helm of affairs, and England felt that she might now trade and sow and marry and be happy to her heart's desire. The shutting of the Parliament House affected nothing; the machinery of Government went on without let or hindrance. A new Parliament was quickly summoned, one hundred and forty Puritan notables "fearing God and of approved fidelity and honesty," and it was to begin its sittings on the ensuing fourth of July. Meantime, Robert Blake was wiping out of existence the Dutch navy and the Dutch commerce. In the month of June, he took eleven Dutch men-of-war and one thousand three hundred and fifty prisoners; the church bells rang joyously from one end of England to the other, and London gathered at St. Paul's to sing Te Deums for the victory.

Thus to the echoes of trumpets and cannon the business of living and loving went on. The great national events were only chorus to the dramas and tragedies of the highest and the humblest homes. While Cromwell was issuing writs for a new Parliament and holding the reins of Government tightly in his strong hands, his wife and daughters were happily busy about the marriage of young Harry Cromwell to Elizabeth Russel; and Sir Peter Lely was painting their portraits, and Lady Mary Cromwell had her first lover; and Mrs. Swaffham was making the cowslip wine; and the Fermor and Heneage girls off to Bath for trifling and bathing and idle diversions; and Jane sewing the sweetest and tenderest thoughts into the fine linen and cambric which she was fashioning into garments for her own marriage. In every family circle it was the same thing: the little comedies of life went on, whether Parliament sat or not, whether Blake brought in prizes, or lay watching in the Channel; for, after all, what the people really wanted was peace and leisure to attend to their own affairs.

One lovely morning in this jubilant English spring, Jane sat at the open window writing to Matilda de Wick. All the sweet fresh things of the earth and the air were around her, but she was the sweetest and freshest of all. There was a pleasant smile on her lips as her fingers moved across the white paper. She was telling her friend about Harry Cromwell's marriage in the old church at Kensington; about the dresses and the wedding feast, and the delightful way in which the Lord General had taken his new daughter to his heart. "And what now will Mistress Dorothy Osborne do?" she asked. "To be sure, she is said to be greatly taken with Sir William Temple, who is of her own way of thinking—which Harry Cromwell is not, though Mrs. Hutchinson has spoken of him everywhere as a 'debauched, ungodly cavalier;' but Mrs. Hutchinson has a Presbyterian hatred of the Cromwells. And I must also tell you that the Lords Chandos and Arundel have been tried before the Upper Bench for the killing of Mr. Compton in a duel. The crime was found manslaughter, and they were sentenced to be burned in the hand which was done to them both, but very favourably. And the Earl of Leicester said he was glad of it, for it argued a good stiff government to punish men of such high birth; but my father thinks Leicester to be the greatest of levelers, he would abolish all rank and titles but his own. And I must also tell you that General Monk has discovered his marriage to Ann Clarges a market-woman of low birth, no beauty whatever, and a very ill tongue. My mother is sure the General must have been bewitched; however, Mistress Monk has gone to live in Greenwich palace, which has been given to the General for a residence. And the rest of my news is in a nutshell, Matilda. I heard from Tonbert that your brother had been seen at de Wick, but this I discredit. Did he not go with you to France: Cymlin is in Ireland, and sulking at his banishment to so barbarous a country; and so I make an end of this long letter, saying in a word I am your friend entirely and sincerely, Jane Swaffham."

When Matilda received this letter she was in Paris. Her first resting-place had been at The Hague, where she had speedily been made known to the Princess Elizabeth Stuart, the widowed ex-Queen of Bohemia, and the mother of Prince Rupert. In her poverty-stricken Court Matilda found kindred spirits, and she became intimate with the light-hearted Queen and her clever daughters. For in spite of the constant want of money, it was a Court abounding in wit and fun, in running about The Hague in disguise; in private theatricals, singing and dancing, and other "very hilarious amusements," deeply disgusting to the English Puritans.

So, then, while Sir Thomas Jevery was busy about his ships and his merchandise, Lady Jevery and Matilda spent much time with the ex-Queen, her dogs and her monkeys, her sons and her daughters, and the crowd of Cavalier gentlemen who made the house at The Hague a gathering place. Rupert, however, had never been his mother's favourite, yet she was proud of his valour and achievements, and not generally indisposed to talk to Matilda about her "big hero." It pleased her most to describe with melodramatic thrills his baptism in the great old palace of Prague, his ivory cradle embossed with gold and gems, and his wardrobe—"the richest he ever had in his life, poor infant;"—and then she continued, "He was not a lucky child. Misfortune came with him. He was not a year old when the Austrians overran Bohemia, and we were without a Kingdom—a king and a queen without a crown. Well, I have my dogs and my monkeys."

"Which your Majesty greatly prefers to your sons and daughters," said the witty young Princess Sophie.

"They give me fewer heartaches, Sophie," was the answer. "Look, for instance, at your brother Rupert. What an incorrigible he is! What anxieties have I not suffered for him. And Maurice, who must get himself drowned all because of his adoration of Rupert! Oh, the poor Prince Rupert! he is, as I say, most unlucky. I told my august brother Charles the same thing, and he listened not, until everything was lost, and it was too late. The great God only knows what calamities there are in this world."

"But Prince Rupert has been the hope and support of his cousin's Court in the Louvre for three years," said Matilda warmly; "it is not right to make little of what he has done."

"He has done miracles, my dear Lady Matilda," answered Rupert's mother; "but the miracles never pay. We are all of us wretchedly poor. He sells his valour and his blood for nothing worth while."

"He is the greatest soldier and sailor in the world; so much even his enemies admit."

"There are no results," said the ex-Queen, with a gay laugh and a shrug of her shoulders. "And I am told he has learned magic among the Africans, and brought home blackamoors and finer monkeys than my own. I object to nothing, since he assures me of his undying love for myself and the Protestant religion. I assure you, if he did not love the Protestant religion I should find no difficulty in renouncing him."

"He was too well educated in his religion to forget it, madame," said the Princess Louise.

"I am not to blame if it were otherwise. I assure you he knows his Heidelberg Catechism as well as any Doctor of Divinity, and the History of the Reformers is at his tongue's end. I am not in health to go regularly to church, but my children go without omission, and they give me the points of the sermon in writing. I do my duty to them; and of Rupert I had once great hopes, for the first words he ever spoke were 'Praise the Lord,' in the Bohemian tongue. After that, one does not readily think evil of a Prince."

Every day Matilda adroitly induced such conversations; and once when the mother had talked herself into an enthusiasm, she said, "Come and I will show you some pictures of this Rupert. His sister Louise makes portraits quite equal to those of her master, Honthorst. I may tell you frankly, we have sold her pictures for bread often; they are said to be Honthorst's, but most often they are the work of the Princess Louise. The poor child! she paints and she paints, and forgets that she is a Palatine Princess without a thaler for her wardrobe. Look at this portrait of Rupert! Is he not a big, sturdy boy? He was only four then, but he looks eight. How full of brave wonder are those eyes, as he looks out on the unknown world! And in this picture he is fourteen. He does not appear happy. No, but rather sad and uncertain, as if he had not found the world as pleasant as he expected. In this picture he is seventeen, gallant and handsome and smiling. He has begun to hope again,—perhaps to love. And look now on this face at twenty-nine; he has carried too heavy a burden for his age, done too much, suffered too much."

Matilda knew the latter portrait well, its facsimile lay upon her heart; and though she did not say a word, it was impossible not to notice in all the painted faces that strange, haunting Stuart melancholy, which must have had its root in some sorrowful, unfathomable past.

On another evening they were talking of England, and of recent events there, chiefly of the high-handed dismissal of the Parliament, and the gay-hearted Elizabeth laughed at the affair very complacently. "I am an English Princess," she said, "but I hate Parliaments; so did his late Majesty, my brother Charles. But for the Parliament, my fate might have been different. I adored my husband, that is known, but it was the Parliament who made our marriage. My father, the great and wise King James, did not wish me to marry the Elector Palatine,—it was a poor match for the Princess Royal of England,—but the Parliament thought the Elector would make himself the leader of the Calvinistic princes of the Empire. My dear Lady Matilda, he was sixteen years old, and I was sixteen, and we two children, what could we do with those turbulent Bohemian Protestants? You make a stir about your Oliver Cromwell ordering the English Members of Parliament out of their own House, listen then: the Protestant nobles of Bohemia threw the Emperor's ministers and members out of their Council Chamber windows. It was only their way of telling the Emperor they would not have the Catholic King he supported. The English adore the Law, and will commit any crime in it and for it; the Bohemians are a law unto themselves. They then asked us to come to Prague, and we went and were crowned there, and in the midst of this glory, the Prince Rupert was born. He was a wonder for his great size, even then. And he had for his sponsors the King of Hungary and the Duke of Wurtenburg and the States of Bohemia, Silesia, and Upper and Lower Lusatia. Yet in less than a year we were all fugitives, and the poor child was thrown aside by his frightened nurse, and found lying alone on the floor by Baron d'Hona, who threw him into the last coach leaving the palace; and he fell into the boot and nearly perished. So you see how unfortunate he was from the beginning."

"But, madame, you have a large family; some of them will surely retrieve your misfortunes."

"I do not trouble myself about the day I have never seen. There is a great astrologer in Paris, and he has told me that my daughter Sophia will bear a son, who will become King of England. Sophia gives herself airs on this prediction."

Sophia, who was present, laughed heartily. "Indeed, madame," she said, "and when I am Queen Mother I shall abolish courtesies. Imagine, Lady de Wick, that I cannot eat my dinner without making nine separate courtesies, and on Sundays and Wednesdays, when we have two divines to eat with us, there are extra ones. I shall regulate my Court with the least amount of etiquette that will be decent."

"You perceive, Lady de Wick, what a trial it is to have four clever daughters—not to speak of sons. My daughter, the Princess Elizabeth, is the most learned of women; I think she knows every language under the sun. You have seen the paintings of the Princess Louise. Sophia is witty and pretty, and is to be the mother of an English King; and my fair Henrietta is a beauty, and what is remarkable, she is also amiable, and makes adorable embroideries and confections. So the mother of four such princesses must not complain."

"Especially when she has seventeen dogs and horses; not to speak of monkeys and blackamoors," cried Sophia.

"Sophia is jealous!" said the merry ex-Queen. "So is Rupert. Now, I am never jealous; I think jealousy is selfishness."

Such intimate conversations occurred daily while Matilda frequented the House at The Hague; and when Sir Thomas Jevery was ready to proceed to Paris, the ladies did not leave their pleasant entertainer without tangible, financial proof of their interest in the Palatines. The light-hearted, dependent Elizabeth took the offering with open satisfaction. "It is very welcome," she said gratefully; "and the more so, because it is so sensibly expressed. Some would have thought it best to offer me a jewel, and so put my steward to the trouble of selling it, and me to the loss. Oh!" she sighed, smiling cheerfully at the same time, "it is a sad thing to be poor for want of money; poverty is so transparent. If you have only money, it is a cloak for everything."

CHAPTER X

RUPERT AND CLUNY

"Beauty formed

Her face; her heart Fidelity."

"For he was of that noble trade,

That demigods and heroes made;

Slaughter, and knocking on the head,

The trade to which they all were bred."

When the Jeverys arrived in Paris, they went immediately to the beautiful Hotel de Fransac, which Sir Thomas had rented for their residence while in the city. It was situated in La Place Royale, almost within sight of the palaces of the King and the Cardinal. But Sir Thomas considered it necessary to the success of his business with Mazarin to wear the outside show of great wealth, and it was quite as necessary to Matilda's hopes and desires. If she would keep in enthralment a prince, she must, at least, be the princess of his imagination. In reality, she was now much more so than ever before. Years and sorrow and manifold experiences had imparted to the mere loveliness of the flesh the captivating charm of the spirit. She was now a woman, not only to be adored for her beauty, but still more so for the qualities that would be in their perfection when beauty of face and form had faded away.

And with this rarer loveliness there had come a kind of necessity to express it in clothing marvelously splendid and effective. The palace in which she was abiding also demanded it: the enormous spaces given to stairways and apartments, the magnificent furniture, the gorgeously liveried servants, were only the natural accessories of some personage whose nobility or authority or wealth found in such splendour a fitting expression.

One afternoon Matilda stood at a window watching the crowds passing incessantly from palace to palace. Silk and velvet and lace fluttered in the bright sunshine; jewels flashed from the soft hats, and the gleaming vests and the ready weapons. They were kissing hands, drawing swords, falling on one knee before some beauty or dignitary; they were laughing and swearing, and wooing and fighting, and riding and driving, as if life was only a grand Court pageant.

To the right was the palace of the great King Louis, and not far away the palace of his Eminence, the great Cardinal Mazarin; and between them, the crowd amused itself, conscious all the time of that other palace for the Unfortunates, called the Bastile. Its shadow was always over Place Royale; dark, inexorable, mysterious; and every soul of them knew that either road, or any road, might lead them to that silent, living sepulchre. How different was all this from the cool, gray, busy streets of London, with their steady movement of purposeful men and women!

Matilda appeared to be watching the brilliant scene in La Place Royale, but she was taking no special notice of it. She had just received a letter from Jane, and was pondering the news it brought her and waiting. She was wonderfully dressed, and wonderfully lovely, the delicate brightness of her complexion admirably enhanced by the darkness of her hair, and the robe of ruby-coloured Lyons velvet in which she was dressed. It fell away in billows of lace from her white throat and shoulders; and its large sleeves were lifted above the elbows with bands of Oriental pearls. There were pearls round her throat and round her arms, and the golden combs that held back her hair were ornamented with them.

She was dressed for her lover, and awaiting his arrival, her soul flashing from her watching eyes, her whole sweet body at attention. When to ordinary ears there would have been nothing to give notice, Matilda heard a step. She let Jane's letter drop to her feet, and stood facing the door with hands dropped and tightly clasped. She was very tall and her long velvet gown gave emphasis to her stature. Unconsciously she had advanced her right foot—indeed, her whole body had the eager look of one whose soul was outreaching it.

A moment later the footsteps were very distinct; they were ascending the stairway quickly, peremptorily—the tread of impatience where all obstacles have been removed. A perfectly ravishing light spread itself over Matilda's face. A moment was an hour. Then the door flew open and Prince Rupert entered; "entered," however, being too small a word, for with the opening of the door he was on his knees at Matilda's feet, his arms were round her waist, she had bent her face to his, they were both near to weeping and knew it not; for love must weep when it snatches from some hard Fate's control the hours that years have sighed for.

"Adorable Mata! O lovely and beloved! O my love," he sighed. "O Mata, my flower! my wine! my music! my sacred secret!"

She kissed him, and made him rise. And he told her again, all the waste, weary remembrance of his life apart from her, and showed her the long tress of hair which had kept for him the kisses and vows of long ago. And with what sweet sighs she answered him! Her tender eyes, her happy mouth, her soft tones, her gentle touch, were all tokens from her heart's immediate sanctuary. Amid the sins and sorrows and shows of Paris, there was paradise for two hearts in the Hotel de Fransac.

In these days men and women did really live and die for love, and a lover who did not fall at his mistress' feet was held graceless and joyless, and without natural fervour. And Rupert could do everything in excess and yet be natural, for all his being was abnormally developed; his gigantic stature, his passionate soul, his unreasoning love, his reckless bravery, his magnificent generosity, his bitter enmities, were all points in which he offended against the usual standard—though it was a large standard, if measured by the conventions of the present day. He had been dangerously ill after his arrival in Paris, and he was not the Rupert who had invaded the high seas three years previously. In these three years he had endured every evil that tempests, bad climates, war, fever, want of food and "strange hardnesses" of all kinds could bring him; and above all he had practically failed in everything. He had lost most of the treasure so hardly won; his ships and his men and his idolised brother, Maurice; and all these losses had taken with them some of the finer parts of his nature. He had come home a disappointed and cynical man, his youth melted away in the fiery crucible of constant strife with human and elemental forces.

Yet he was the most picturesque figure in Paris. The young King Louis delighted in his society. Mazarin was his friend, and not only the English Court in exile, but also the French Court paid him the most extraordinary attentions. His striking personality, his barbaric retinue of black servants, his supposed wealth, the whispers of his skill in necromancy, were added to a military and naval reputation every one seemed desirous to embellish. Many great ladies were deeply in love with him, but their perfumed billet-doux touched neither his heart nor his vanity.

He loved Matilda. All the glory and the sorrow of his youth were in that love, and as he knelt at her feet in his princely, soldierly splendour, there was nothing lacking in the picture of romantic devotion. "Adorable, ravishing Mata!" he cried, "at your feet I am paid for my life's misery." And Matilda leaned towards him till their handsome faces touched, and Rupert could look love into her eyes, soft and languishing with an equal affection.

"How tall you have grown. You have the stature of a goddess," he cried with rapture; and then in a tone full of seriousness he added,

"You are my mate. You are the only woman I can ever love. I vow that you shall be my princess, or I will die unmarried for your sake."

For a little while their conversation was purely personal, but their own interests were so blent with public affairs that it was not possible to separate them for any length of time.

"We have sold all our cargoes," he said triumphantly, "in spite of old Cromwell's remonstrances. Mazarin helped us, and the money is distributed. What can Cromwell do? Will he go to war with France for a merchant's bill of lading? The King and the Cardinal laugh at his demands. He is an insolent fellow. Does he think he can match his Eminence? But, this or that, the money is scattered to the four quarters of the world. Let him recover it."

"I will tell you something, Rupert. I had a letter to-day from my friend, Mistress Jane Swaffham. She says her lover, Lord Cluny Neville, must be in Paris about this time, and that he will call on me. He is on Cromwell's business; there is no doubt of it."

"Do you wish to see the man?"

"No. He has stolen my brother's mistress. He has done Stephen a great wrong; and he is also full of perfections. A very sufficient youth in his own opinion, and much honoured and trusted by his Excellency, the Lord General Cromwell."