give.' George took away our last silver, and I am sure nearly all our
money. Father has sent away all the men-servants, but such as are
necessary to work the land; four of them went back with George to the
army. Poor old Anice! She has one son with Cromwell, and the other has
now gone to the King. As she cooks, her tears fall. I have had to send
Delia away--only Anice and Audrey are left to care for us, and father
says they are more than he can afford. Though his wound has reopened
since he heard of the Dunbar disaster, he would have gone north himself
with George and the men----"
"Oh, my dear Matilda, do not suffer him to do that. You know much
depends upon his keeping quiet at de Wick."
"You need not remind me of that, Jane. I know that we are only
Cromwell's tenants, and subject to his will. We may be sent away at any
hour, if General Cromwell says so."
"Not without proper process of law, Matilda. Cromwell is not the law."
"The King is my father's friend, yet if he move an inch for the King's
help, he will lose everything."
"And he will break his word, which is the greatest loss of all," said
Jane. "I know, dear, you would not wish him to do that."
"Is a promise given under stress to be kept, Jane? I doubt it."
"It is a stress bound all round by kindness. I heard my father speak of
it. When the de Wick estate was under the Parliament's consideration,
Cromwell was much disturbed. Your two brothers had just been killed in
battle, your mother was very ill, your father suffering from a severe
wound, and it was the Lord General who wrote your father a letter which
should be graven upon the hearts of every de Wick. In it he promised
that for their old friendship's sake, and for the sake of the fight over
the Bedford Level--in which fight de Wick stood boldly with
Cromwell--that he would stand between de Wick and all bills of
forfeiture. He said also that he would not hold your father accountable
for the acts of his son Stephen, if he personally restrained himself
from all designs and acts injurious to the Commonwealth. My father said
it was such a noble letter as one brother might have written to
another."
"I have heard enough of it. I do not think much of a kindness cribbed
and tethered by this and that condition. It has made my father nothing
but Cromwell's servant. I am ashamed of it."
"Dr. Verity has been here," said Jane, trying to change the subject.
"Pray, who does not know that? He never comes but he takes some one
away for Cromwell. I thought I could have counted on Acton and Fermor
remaining at home."
"He thinks the war nearly over, Matilda."
"It is not. Even if King Charles were killed, there would then be King
James to fight. The war may last for a century. And if this is the
world, I would I were out of it. Dear, shall I ever be happy again?"
"Yes indeed, Matilda. You will yet be very happy, and forget this
sorrowful time."
"Not while my life lasts, Jane. Trust me, I shall never forget it."
"Let us stop talking of it. At any rate we can do that. Tell me about
your lovers, Matilda. How many have you at this present?"
"The war has taken them all but young Godschall, and he and I are no
longer friends. When he was at de Wick last, we said so much we have
not spoken a word since."
"I am sorry for it."
"'Tis a common occurrence, many women endure it."
"And what has come to George St. Amand? He was once very much your
servant."
"Poor George!"
"Why do you say 'poor George'?"
"Because we are told that all titles are to be cancelled and abolished,
and George St. Amand is dumb unless he can salt every sentence he utters
with what 'my Lord, my father' thinks or says."
"And there was also among your servants, one Philip Heneage."
"Philip has gone to the enemy. I do not know, and I will not know, and
I scorn to know, anything more about him. He should be hanged, and
cheap at that."
Before Jane could answer, Mrs. Swaffham, who had left the room, returned
to it. She had a hot wine posset in her hand and a fresh Queen's cake.
"Come, my dearie, and eat and drink," she said. "Keep your stomach in a
good temper, and I'll be bound it will help you to bear heart-trouble,
of all kinds, wonderfully."
Matilda took the posset and cake gratefully, and said, "I heard Dr.
Verity gave the women who had come to meet him one of his little rages.
I hope they liked it."
"He only told us the truth," said Jane. "Yes, we liked it."
"Well," said Matilda, "I am not one that wants all England for myself,
but I think I could spare Dr. John Verity, and feel the better of it.
May the Scots make much of him!"
"He is one of the best of men, Matilda."
"Yes, to you, whom he counts as one of the covenanted. To me, he is very
hard, and I cannot forget that he was chief in silencing Father Sacy."
"A few years ago Father Sacy got Dr. Verity imprisoned for preaching the
Word of God. He was two years in a dreadful cell, and his wife and
child died while----"
"And pray what does the Word of God say about doing good to those who
injure you? Dear Jane, never heed my words. I have a privilege to be
ill-natured--the privilege of the losing and the sorrowful."
Thus, in spite of all Jane's efforts, they still found themselves on
dangerous or debatable ground. All topics were roads leading thither,
and they finally abandoned every kind of tactic and spoke as their
hearts prompted them. Then, though some hard things were said, many
very kind things were also said, and Matilda rose to go home comforted
and helped--for, after all, the tongue is servant to the heart. As she
was tying her hat, a maid called Mrs. Swaffham from the room, and
Matilda lingered, waiting for her return. She stood with Jane at the
window. Their hands were clasped in each other's, but they were silent,
and both girls appeared to be looking at the beds full of late
flowers--beautiful, pensive flowers, having a positive air of
melancholy, as if they felt the sadness of the autumn sunset. But it was
not likely that either of them saw the flowers; certainly, Matilda's
first words gave no intimation that she did.
"Heigh-ho!" she said, "why should we worry? Everything comes round in
time to its proper place, and then it will be, as old Anice expects--the
hooks will find the eyes that fit them."
As she spoke, Mrs. Swaffham hastily entered the room, and with her was
Lord Cluny Neville. Both girls turned from the window and caught his
eyes at the same moment. He was, as Dr. Verity said, a man destined to
captivate, not only by his noble bearing and handsome face, but also by
such an indescribable charm of manner as opened the door of every heart
to him. He carried his morion in his left hand, and in his dress of
dark cloth and bright steel looked the very picture of a Puritan
paladin. Bowing to both girls, he presented Jane with a letter from her
friend Mary Cromwell, and also with a small parcel which contained some
beautiful ribbons. The pretty gift made a pleasant introduction to a
conversation full of gay inquiries and interesting items of social
information. Matilda took little part in it. She watched the young
soldier with eyes full of interest, and did not refuse his escort to her
carriage; but as she departed, she gave Jane one look which left her
with an unhappy question in her heart, not only for that night, but to
be recalled long after as premonitory and prophetic.
During the preparations for the evening meal, and while Neville was in
his chamber removing his armour and refreshing his clothing, Jane also
found time to put on a pretty evening gown. It was of pale brown
lutestring, a little lighter and brighter in colour than her own hair,
and with its stomacher and collar of white lace it added greatly to the
beauty of her appearance. Something had happened to Jane; she was in a
delicious anticipation, and she could not keep the handsome stranger out
of her consideration. There was a brilliant light in her eyes, and a
brilliant colour on her cheeks, and a happy smile on her lovely
bow-shaped mouth.
When she heard Neville's steady, swift step coming towards her, she
trembled. Why? She did not ask herself, and her soul did not tell her.
It indeed warned her, either of joy or of sorrow, for surely its tremor
intimated that the newcomer was to be no mere visitor of passage, no
neutral guest; that perhaps, indeed, he might have entered her home as a
fate, or at least as a messenger of destiny. For who can tell, when a
stranger walks into any life, what his message may be? Bringers of
great tragedies have crossed thresholds with a smile, and many an
unknown enemy has been bidden to the hearth with a welcome.
Jane was in no mood for such reflections. This young soldier, bearing a
gift in his hand, had bespoke for himself at his first glance and word
the girl's favour. She knew nothing of love, and Dr. Verity's warning
had not made her afraid of it. Indeed, there was in her heart a
pleasant daring, the touch of unseen danger was exhilarating; she felt
that she was on that kind of dangerous ground which calls out all a
woman's watchfulness and all her weapons. One of the latter was the
possibility of captivating, instead of being captivated. It was a
natural instinct, never felt before, but which sprang, full-grown, from
Jane's heart as soon as suggested. The desire for conquest! Who has
not felt its pushing, irresistible impulse? She accused herself of
having given away to Neville's influence without any effort to resist
it. That thought in itself arrested her sympathies. Why did she do it?
Might she not just as well have brought his right to question? Would
she have succumbed so readily to the influence of some beautiful woman?
This self-examination made her blush and utter an exclamation of
chagrin.
Neville entered gayly in the midst of it. He had removed his steel
corselet, and the pliant dark cloth in which he was dressed gave
additional grace to his figure and movements. A falling band of Flemish
lace was round his throat, and his fine linen showed beneath the loose
sleeves of his coat in a band of the same material. His breeches had a
bow of ribbon at the knee, and his low shoes of morocco leather a
rosette of the same. It was now evident that his hair was very black,
and that his eyebrows made dark, bold curves above his sunbrowned cheeks
and flashing black eyes--eyes, that in the enthusiasm of feeling or
speaking became living furnaces filled with flame. A solar man,
sensitive, radiating; one who would move both men and women, whether
they would or not.
It was a wonderful evening to both Jane and Mrs. Swaffham. Neville told
over again the story of Dunbar, and told it in a picturesque way that
would have been impossible to Dr. Verity. Taking whatever he could find
that was suitable, he built for them the Lammermuir hills, on which the
Scots' army lay; described the swamp at their base; the dark
stream--forty feet deep--that ran through it, and the narrow strip by
the wild North Sea, where Cromwell's army stood at bay. He made them
feel the damp and chill of the gray, desolate place; he made them see
the men standing at arms all through the misty night; he made them hear
the solemn tones of prayer breaking the silence, and then they
understood how the great Cromwell, moving from group to group, saturated
and inspired every man with the energy of his own faith and courage.
Then he showed them the mighty onslaught, and the ever-conquering
General leading it! Through Neville, they heard his voice flinging the
battle-cry of the Puritan host in the very teeth of the enemy. They saw
him, when the foe fled, leaning upon his bloody sword, pouring out a
triumphal Psalm of gratitude so strenuously and so melodiously, that men
forgot to pursue, that they might sing. It was a magnificent drama,
though there was only one actor to present it.
And when the recital was over and they sat silent, being too much moved
to find words for their feeling, he dropped his voice and said, "There
is something else. I should like to tell you it, yet I fear that you
will not believe me. 'Twas a strange thing, and beyond nature."
"Tell us," said Jane, almost in a whisper. "We should like to hear,
should we not, mother?"
Mrs. Swaffham bowed her head, and the young man continued: "It was in
the afternoon of the day preceding the battle. The Captain-General had
just come back from Dunbar, and his face was full of satisfaction.
There was even then on it the light and assurance of victory, and he
called the men round him and pointed out the false step the Scots were
taking. 'The Lord hath delivered them into our hands!' he said. And as
he spoke, the fog was driven before the wind and the rain; and in the
midst of it he mounted his horse to ride about the field. And as he
stood a moment, looking towards the ships and the sea, _this man_, _this
Cromwell_, grew, and grew, and grew, until in the sight of all of us, he
was a gigantic soldier towering over the army and the plain. I speak
the truth. I see yet that prodigious, wraithlike figure, with its
solemn face bathed in the storms of battle. And not I alone saw this
vision, many others saw it also; and we watched it with awe and
amazement, until it blended with the drifting fogs and disappeared."
"Indeed, I doubt it not," said Mrs. Swaffham. "I have seen, I have
heard, things in Swaffham that could only be seen and heard by the
spiritual senses."
Jane did not speak; she glanced at the young man, wondering at his rapt
face, its solemn pallor and mystic exaltation, and feeling his voice
vibrate through all her senses, though at the last he had spoken
half-audibly, as people do in extremes of life or feeling.
It is in moments such as these, that Love grows as Neville saw the
wraith of Cromwell grow--even in a moment's gaze. Jane forgot her
intention of captivating, and yet none the less she accomplished her
purpose. Her sensitive face, its sweet freshness and clear candour,
charmed by its mere responsiveness; and not accustomed to resist or to
control his feelings, Neville showed plainly the impression he had
received. For when they parted for the night he held her hand with a
gentle pressure, and quick glancing, sweetly smiling, he flashed into
her eyes admiration and interest not to be misunderstood.
And Jane's heart was a crystal rock, only waiting the touch of a wand.
Had she felt the mystic contact? Her fine eyes were dropped, but there
was a faint, bewitching smile around her lovely mouth, and there was
something bewildering and something bewildered in her very silence and
simplicity.
Neville was charmed. His heart was so light, so happy, that he heard it
singing as he held the little maiden's hand. He went into his chamber
with the light step of one to whom some great joy has come, and, full of
its vague anticipation, sat down a moment to realise what had happened.
"I have caught love from her in a glance," he said. "What a dainty
little creature! What a little darling she is! Shy and quiet as a
bird, and yet I'll warrant me she hath wit and courage to furnish six
feet of flesh and blood, instead of four. Is she fair? Is she
handsome? I forgot to look with certainty. She hath the finest eyes I
ever saw my own in--a face like a wild flower--a small hand, I saw that
in particular--and feet like the maiden in the fairy tale--exquisite
feet, prettily shod. Neat and sweet and full of soul! Little Jane!
Little darling! A man were happy enough if he won your love. And what
a rich heart she must have! She has made Love grow in me. She has
created it from her own store."
Then he moved his chair to the hearth and looked around. It was a large
room, full of the wavering shadows of the blazing logs and the long
taper. "What an ancient place!" he sighed. "'Tis a bed fine enough and
big enough for a monarch. Generations have slept on it. Those pillows
must be full of dreams. If all the souls that have slept in this room
were to be gathered together, how great a company they would be! If I
could see them, I would enlist all for my hero--they should swear to be
Cromwell's men! In solemn faith the room is full of _presence_." Then
he rose, turned his face bravely to the shadowy place, and bending his
head said, "Wraiths of the dead, I salute you. Suffer me to sleep in
peace in your company."
He did not sit down again, but having cast over himself the shield and
balm of prayer, he soon fell into the sound sleep of weary youth. The
sun was high when he awoke, and he was ashamed of his apparent indolence
and would scarce delay long enough to eat a hasty breakfast. Then his
horse was waiting, and he stood at the threshold with Mrs. Swaffham's
hand in his. There were tears in her eyes as she blessed him and bade
him "God-speed," and gave him her last messages to her husband and sons.
"Fare you well," he answered, and "God be with you! I hope to be sent
this way again, and that soon. Will you give me welcome, madame?"
"You will be welcome as sunshine," answered Mrs. Swaffham.
Then he looked at Jane, and she said, "God speed you on your journey.
You have words for my father and brothers, but if you find the right
time, say also to General Cromwell that Jane Swaffham remembers him
constantly in her prayers, and give him these words for his strength and
comfort--'They shall be able to do nothing against thee, saith the Lord:
My hands shall cover thee.'"
He bowed his head, and then looked steadily at her; and in that
momentary communion realised that he had lost himself, and found himself
again, in the being of another--that he had come in contact with
something and found his spirit had touched a kindred spirit. Yet he
said only, "Good-bye, till we meet again."
As he mounted, Mrs. Swaffham asked him if he went by York, and he
answered, "Yes, I know perfectly that road, and I must not miss my way,
for I am a laggard already."
"That is right," she said. "The way that is best to go is the way that
best you know."
He did not hear the advice, for the moment his horse felt the foot in
the stirrup he was off, and hard to hold with bit and bridle. They
watched him down the avenue, the sun glinting on his steel armour and
morion and the wind tossing behind his left shoulder the colours of the
Commonwealth.
When he was quite out of sight, they turned into the house with a sigh,
and Mrs. Swaffham said, "Now, I must have the house put in order. If I
were you, Jane, I would go to de Wick this afternoon. Matilda is full
of trouble. I cannot feel indifferent to her."
"She says the kingfishers have left de Wick waters. They have bred there
for centuries, and the Earl is much distressed at their departure."
"No wonder. Many people think they bring good fortune. I would not say
different. There are more messengers of good and evil than we know of.
If I get things in order, I will also go to de Wick. Reginald de Wick
and I were friends when we could hardly say the word--that was in King
James' reign. Dear me! How the time flies!"
Then Jane went to her room and began to fold away the pretty things she
had worn the previous night. She smoothed every crease in her silk
gown, and fingered the lace orderly, and folded away her stockings of
clocked silk and her bronzed morocco shoes with their shining silver
buckles. And as she did so, her heart sat so lightly on its temporal
perch that she was singing and did not know it until her mother opened
the door, and like one astonished, asked, "What are you singing, Jane?"
"Why, mother! Nothing but some verses by good George Wither."
Then the mother shut the door again. If George Wither had written what
Jane was singing, she was sure the words were wise and profitable; for
Wither was the poet of the Puritans, and his "_Hallelujah_" all to the
families of the Commonwealth, that the "_Christian Year_" has been to
our own times. So Jane finished without further interruption, but with
rather less spirit her song--"_For Lovers being constrained to be absent
from each other_."
"Dearest fret not, sigh not so,
For it is not time nor place
That can much divide us two;
Though it part us for a space."
And she did not know that, at the very same moment, Cluny Neville was
solacing the loneliness of his ride by the same writer's "_Hymn for
Victory_" giving to its Hebraic fervour a melodious vigour of
interpretation admirably emphasised by the Gregorian simplicity of the
tune to which was sung--
"It was alone Thy Providence,
Which made us masters of the field.
Thou art our castle of defense,
Our fort, our bulwark, and our shield.
And had not Thou our Captain been,
To lead us on and off again;
This happy day, we had not seen,
But in the bed of death had lain."
*CHAPTER IV*
*SO SWEET A DREAM*
"To judge events, or actions, without connecting them with their causes,
is manifestly unjust and untruthful. Such judgments may make inflexible
justice to appear tyranny; righteous retribution to wear the guise of
cruelty; and virtue itself to have the likeness of vice."
"All love is sweet,
Given or returned. Common as light is love,
And its familiar voice wearies not ever."
Peace was now confidently predicted, but hope outruns events, and the
winter slowly settled down over the level dreariness of the land without
any apparent change in the national situation. People grew tired of
expecting, and turned almost sullenly to the daily duties of life. For
in the North, the winter weather would certainly bring the winter truce,
and they must bear the inaction and suspense as well as they were able.
In de Wick, the situation was pitiably forlorn and desolate. The great
trees around it stood with dripping leaves motionless in the thick fog;
the long grasses lay withered and brown; the livid waters of the lake
were no longer enlivened by the scream of the kingfishers, and about the
house were silence and desolation. Matilda would gladly have escaped
its depressing atmosphere for a little while every day, but she could
not, for the roads leading from it were almost quagmires unless steadied
by frost, and it was only rarely on such occasions that the horses could
be spared to take her as far as Swaffham. These visits were eagerly
expected by both girls, and yet were usually regretted; for Matilda
could not help saying many hard things, and Jane could not
conscientiously quite pass them over. Much was excused for the sake of
her sorrow and loss and visible poverty, but even these excuses had
limitations and every interview brought with it many sharp words not
quite washed out by reconciling tears and promised forgetfulness.
Even the atmosphere of Swaffham, though grateful and cheering, was
exasperating to the poor royalist lady. There was such cheerfulness in
its comfortable rooms, such plenty of all the necessaries of life, such
busy service of men and maids, such active, kindly hospitality to
herself, and such pleasant companionship between Jane and her mother,
that Matilda could not help a little envious contrasting, a little
backward thought of the days when her own home had been the light of its
neighbourhood, and her father and mother had entertained in splendid
fashion nobles and beauties and famous men whose names were familiar as
household words to all England. In those happy days the rooms had shone
with a hundred lights; her handsome mother had moved as a queen in them,
and her father and brothers had made the place joyful with all the
masculine stir of hunting and hawking, the racket of balls in the
bowling-alley and tennis court, the excitement of the race, the laughter
and love-making of the ballroom. All these, and far sweeter and dearer
things, had been cast into the gulf of civil war, and Matilda spent her
days counting the cost of such sacrifices--a terrible sum total which
she always reckoned with one reflection: "if only mother had been left!
I could bear all the rest."
One day, near Christmas, the roads were hard and clean and the sky blue
above them, and in spite of the cold Matilda resolved to walk over to
Swaffham. She had an abundance of rich clothing, but as she went
through it, she saw that its very splendour was only another sign of her
poverty, for neither her own nor her mother's wardrobe contained the
plain, scant skirt suitable for walking;--plenty of carriage robes, and
dinner and dancing dresses; plenty of gold and silver tissues, and satin
and velvet, and rich lace, but she would have given the richest of the
costumes for a short cloth skirt and coat, such as Jane trod the miry
ways in with comfort and cleanliness. However, she made the wisest
choice possible, and when she stood before her father drawing on her
white gloves and saying all manner of cheerful words, no one could have
desired any change in her apparel. She held the train of her black
velvet skirt over her left arm; her shoulders were covered with a tippet
of minever, her large hat of black beaver was drooping with plumes. In
her cheeks there was a faint rose colour, and her large brown eyes were
full of feeling. She looked like some lovely princess exiled from her
state and condition, but retaining, nevertheless, all the personal
insignia of her royal birth.