to the Chaplain, who did not notice her attention, being happily and
profitably lost in a volume by good Dr. Thomas Fuller, who was that
moment saying to him, in one of his garrison sermons, "A Commonwealth
and a King are no more contrary than the trunk of a tree and the top
branch thereof; there is a republic included in every monarchy."
Matilda walked rapidly, and the clear cold air blew hope and
cheerfulness into her heart. "Perhaps, after all, the King might come
to his own--Cromwell had not reaped all that was anticipated from Dunbar
victory, he was still obliged to remain in Scotland and watch the King;
and if the King's position needed this watch, there must still be
strength and hope in it. I will take what the Swaffhams say with a
large allowance," she thought; and then she suddenly remembered that
they had had no news from the royalist camp, and knew nothing on which
any good likelihood could be built.
"It is very cruel of Stephen," she sighed; "if I were with the King I
would get word to my father and sister of the King's condition--but it
is either drawing the sword or shaking the dice, and while they gamble
away the hours and the gold pieces, father and I fret life away in
waiting and watching for the news that never comes."
The sight of Swaffham restored her. There was something so hearty and
sincere in the very aspect of the house. As she went through the garden
she saw a monthly rose in bloom, and she plucked it; and with the fair
sweet flower in her hand entered the Swaffham parlour. No wonder she
had missed Jane at the large casement where she usually sat at her work!
Jane was sitting at the table serving Lord Cluny Neville, who was eating
and drinking and leaning towards her with a face full of light and
pleasure. Mrs. Swaffham sat on the hearth; it was Jane who was pouring
out the Spanish wine and cutting the game pasty, and into Jane's face
the young Lord was gazing with eyes whose expression there was no
mistaking.
Matilda saw the whole picture in a glance, and she set her mood to match
it. Dropping her gown, she let the open door frame her beauty for a
moment. She was conscious that she was lovely, and she saw the swift
lifting of Neville's eyelids, and the look of surprised delight which
came into his eyes. She was resolved to be charming, and she succeeded.
She let Jane help her to remove her hat and tippet. She let Mrs.
Swaffham make much of her, and when she said,
"Draw to table, my dear, and have a mouthful, for walking is hungry
work, as well as pleasant," Matilda laughed and answered,
"Indeed, madame, I cannot tell wherein the pleasure of walking lies; I
have sought it till I am weary, and cannot find it. However, I confess
I am hungry with the search."
Then she sat down by Neville, and he cut her a slice of the pasty, and
Jane filled her wine-glass, and Neville touched his own against it, and
wished her health and happiness. And by an unspoken agreement they said
not a word about the war, but eat their meal to such cheerful thoughts
and conversation as made the meat and drink wholesome and joyful. Then
they sang some madrigals, and as the shades of evening gathered, Neville
began to tell them wild, weird stories of the Border-Land; and Jane had
her traditions of Swaffham, and Matilda of de Wick, and they sat in the
twilight pleasantly afraid of the phantoms they had themselves conjured
up, drawing close together and speaking with a little awe, and finding
even the short silences that fell upon them very eloquent and
satisfying.
There was then no question of Matilda returning that night to de Wick,
and very soon Mrs. Swaffham joined them, and the servants began to build
up the fire and spread the table for the evening meal.
"Time wears on," she said. "I thought I would take a nap of ten
minutes, but instead of shutting my eyes in a dog sleep, I dropped oft
till candle-lighting. Why are you all looking so yonderly? I hope Lord
Neville has not been a Job's postman; for as far as I can see, Satan
does just as barefaced cruelties now as he did thousands of years ago."
"We have been talking of fairies, and the gray ghost of Raby, and the
armoured giant that keeps Swaffham portal, and Matilda has told us many
awesome things about Lady Sophia de Wick, whose ring no one can wear and
escape doom."
"Peace to her spirit," ejaculated Mrs. Swaffham, and Jane added
thoughtfully,
"If to such a spirit, peace would be any blessing."
"I would not talk of the dead if I were you; they may be nearer than you
think. And there are wick men and women in plenty to praise and to ban.
Lord Neville has told us nothing at all, yet, about General Cromwell. I
would like to know what is going on. Whatever has he been doing since
Dunbar?"--and Mrs. Swaffham made these remarks and asked these questions
with just a little touch of impatient irritability.
"The first thing he did when he reached Edinburgh," answered Neville,
"was to order the head of Montrose to be taken down from the Tolbooth
and honourably buried. Some of the army grumbled at this order, and the
Scotch whigs preached and raved about it, and even Dr. Verity, it is
said, spoke sharply to Cromwell on the matter. And 'tis also said that
Cromwell answered with some passion, 'I will abide by my order,
notwithstanding the anger of the foolish. We all have infirmities; and
I tell you, if we had among our ranks more such faithful hearts and
brave spirits, they would be a fence around us; for indeed there lives
not a man who can say worse of Montrose than that he loved Charles
Stuart, and was faithful to him unto death.'"
"This is the noblest thing I have heard of Oliver Cromwell," said
Matilda, "and my father will rejoice to hear it. How Montrose loved
Charles Stuart I will tell you, for my brother Stephen was with him when
he heard first of the murder of his King. He bowed his head upon his
sword and wept, and when his heart had found some relief in tears, he
stood up and called the King in a mighty voice,--indeed Stephen told me
it was heard beyond all probability,--and with a great oath he vowed
that he would sing his obsequies with trumpets, and write his epitaph
with swords, in blood and death." As Matilda finished her story, her
voice had a tone of triumph, and she stood up, and raised her eyes, and
then made such a sad, reverent obeisance as she might have done had the
dead been alive and present. No one liked to impugn a ceremony so
pathetic and so hopeless; and a constrained silence followed, which was
broken by Jane asking,
"Where did Charles Stuart go after Dunbar?"
"He went northward to Perth. For a little while he held with Argyle and
the Kirk, but the Covenanters drove him too hard. They told him he must
purify his Court from all ungodly followers, and so made him dismiss
twenty-two English Cavaliers not godly--that is, not
Calvinistic--enough. Then Charles, not willing to endure their pious
tyranny, ran away to the Highlands behind Perth, and though he was
caught and persuaded to return, he did so only on condition that his
friends should be with him and fight for him."
"Why should the Scots object to that?" asked Mrs. Swaffham.
"Because," answered Neville, "these men were mostly Englishmen and
Episcopalians; and the Whigs and Covenanters hated them as being too
often reckless and wicked men, full of cavalier sauciness. In return,
Charles Stuart hated the Whigs and Covenanters, made a mockery of them,
and, it is said, did not disguise his amusement and satisfaction at the
defeat of the godly army at Dunbar."
"And how did these godly men regard Cromwell?" asked Matilda with
undisguised scorn.
"They troubled us a little in the West," said Neville, "and Cromwell
marched the army to Glasgow, and on the next Sabbath day the preachers
railed at him from every pulpit in that city. One of them met the Lord
General on the street, and attacked him with threats and evil
prophecies. I would have shut his lips with a blow, but Cromwell said
to me, 'Let him alone; he is one fool, and you are another;' and the
very next day he made friends with this preacher, and I met them coming
down the High Street together in very sober and pleasant discourse.
After beating these Whigs well at Hamilton, we went into winter quarters
at Edinburgh; and Cromwell is now staying at Lord Moray's house in the
Canongate."[1]
[1] This house is still standing.
"He ought to have taken his rest in Holyrood Palace," said Jane.
"I am glad he did not," replied Neville. "'Tis enough to fight the
living Stuart; why should he run into mortal danger by invading the home
of that unlucky family? A man sleeps in his dwelling-place,--and when
he sleeps he is at the mercy of the dead."
"Not so," said Jane. "The good man is at the mercy of God, and if he
sleeps, his angel wakes and watches. 'I will lay me down in peace and
take my rest: for it is Thou, Lord, only, that makest me dwell in
safety.'"
Neville looked steadily at her as she spoke with such a glad confidence;
and Jane's face grew rosy under his gaze, while Neville's smile widened
slowly, until his whole countenance shone with pleasure.
They spoke next of the Parliament and the Council; and Mrs. Swaffham
said, "For all she could find out, they had been at their usual
work,--good and bad."
"And generally bad," ejaculated Matilda.
"That is not true," said Jane. "Think only of this: they have commanded
the laws of England to be written in English. This order alone
justifies them with the people. Also, they have received foreign
ambassadors with dignity, and taught Holland, France and Spain by the
voice of Blake's cannon that England is not to be trifled with; and in
Ireland they are carrying on, through Ireton and Ludlow, the good work
Cromwell began there."
"Good work, indeed!" cried Matilda.
"Yes, it was good work, grand work, the best work Cromwell ever did,"
answered Neville positively; "a most righteous dealing with assassins,
who had slain one hundred thousand Protestants--men, women and
children--while they dwelt in peace among then, thinking no evil[2] and
looking for no injury. When men mad with religious hatred take fire and
sword, when they torture the helpless with hunger and thirst and
freezing cold, in the name of the merciful Jesus, then there is no
punishment too great for them."
[2] See Knight's History of England, Vol. 3, p. 464; Clarendon (royalist
historian) says 50,000; Paxton Hood, Life of Cromwell, p. 141, says as
high as 200,000; Church (American edition) from 50,000 to 200,000 with
mutilations and torture; Imgard, the Catholic historian, in Vol. X, p.
177, admits the atrocity of the massacre. Many other authorities,
notably Hickson's "Ireland in the 17th Century," which contains the
depositions before Parliament relating to the massacre. These documents,
printed for the first time in 1884, will cause simple wonder that a
terrible massacre on a large scale could ever be questioned, nor in the
17th century was it ever questioned, nor in the face of these documents
can it ever be questioned, except by those who put their personal
prejudice or interest before the truth.
"The number slain was not as great as you say," interrupted Matilda. "I
have heard it was only ten thousand."
"I care not for the number of thousands," said Neville in a voice
trembling with passion; "men were put to death with all the horrors
religious fanaticism could invent; women and children outraged, starved,
burned or drowned with relentless fury. There were months of such
persecution before help could be got there."
"Very well, Lord Neville," said Matilda in great anger, "Episcopalians
and Calvinists should not have gone to Ireland. I bought a song from a
packman the other day for a farthing, that just suits them--
"'People who hold such positive opinions
Should stay at home in Protestant dominions.'
I am sure Cromwell has made a name to be hated and feared in Ireland for
generations."
"England has far more cause to hate and ban the name of O'Neal for
generations; but England does not bluster; she rights her wrong, and
then forgives it. She is too magnanimous to hate for generations any
race because one generation did wrong. Nowhere was Cromwell more just
and merciful than in Ireland. There have been English sieges--for
instance Colchester--far more cruel than that of Drogheda; and at
Drogheda it was mostly rebel Englishmen that were slain, Englishmen
fighting in Ireland against the Commonwealth. Cromwell, even at
Drogheda, offered mercy to all who would surrender and so spare blood.
He was throughout as merciful as he could be, as the Irish themselves
permitted him to be. I shake hands with Cromwell in Ireland and I clasp
a clean, merciful hand!"
And as he said these words, Jane stretched out her hand to Neville; and
Matilda cried, hysterically, "Throne of God! It is wicked to say such
things! Give me my hat and tippet, Jane, I will listen no longer to
Lord Neville! He is worse than you are."
"My lady, forgive me; but truth is truth, and must not be withheld when
the occasion calls for it."
At this point Mrs. Swaffham, who had left the room, returned to it; and
seeing Matilda's angry distress, she at once understood its cause.
"It is Ireland, of course," she cried. "Children, children, why will
you quarrel about those savages? They are not in your concern except to
pray for." Then turning to Neville she asked, "My Lord, why is it
necessary to speak of Ireland? It breeds quarrels to name it; well is
it called Ire-land, the land of ire, and anger, and quarreling. I forbid
the word in this house. If the Irish are assassins for God's sake, may
God forgive them!"
"There is nothing impossible to God, madame," said Neville. "But men
find some limitations; and when effects are so much talked of and
condemned, it is the part of Eternal Justice--though only from a
mortal's mouth--to balance the deeds with the deeds that called them
forth. And none can deny that Phelim O'Neal's atrocities called into
righteous existence Oliver Cromwell's retributions." And at these words
Matilda threw herself on the sofa in a passion of tears.
Neville fell on his knees at her side. "Say you pardon me," he urged;
"I have wounded myself worse than you. Your tears drop like fire on my
heart; I promise you they do."
With a slight frown on her face Jane stood looking at the two. She
despised that abnegation of self-control which turned conversation and
argument into disputing, and anger, and tears; and after a moment's
thought, she went to her friend's side and asked Neville to rise.
"There is no need to humble oneself for the truth," she said softly;
"and Matilda knows that. She is now fretted with anxiety, and must not
be judged by her words." Then she took Neville's place and soothed and
reasoned with the weeping girl, as best she knew how; and Mrs. Swaffham
brought the Bible for the evening prayer, and the words of the
comforting Psalm stayed all other words; and when they ceased there was
peace.
But Jane was grieved in her very heart. The evening promising so much
had been spoiled; for love in such an unhappy atmosphere could find no
opportunities. Yet in the short tremulous "good-night" which followed,
Jane both remembered and foresaw; remembered the sweet glances and the
refluent waves of sweet smiles which through all shadowings had drawn
Love deep into her heart; and foresaw, beyond all obstacles and
peradventures, what possible joy might be waiting in the future. And
swift as thought the delicate love lines of her mouth grew bright with
expectation, and the clasp of Neville's hand thrilled to her warm heart,
and her soul blessed Love and Hope, and sheltered itself in the sunshine
of their imperishable land.
Neville had asked to be called early, and before daybreak he came into
the parlour ready for his journey. Some broiled beef, a manchet of
white bread, and a black jack of spiced ale, stirred with a rosemary
branch, was waiting for him; and Mrs. Swaffham and Jane sat at his side
while he eat and drank. He spoke regretfully of his temper on the
previous night, and left a message of apology for Lady Matilda de Wick,
adding to it his sorrow, "not to be so favoured as to make his excuses
in person."
"Matilda will sleep for three hours yet," said Mrs. Swaffham, "and I
will be glad if she has that much comfort, for she frets her heart away
when she is awake."
Then they stood up, for Neville's horse came clattering to the door. He
clasped Jane's hand as it hung by her side, and they walked thus to the
threshold. Snow was falling; the steps were white with it, and the east
wind blew it gently in their faces. Mrs. Swaffham laughed and drew her
shawl over her head, and Neville laughed also, and with a cheerful word,
leaped to his saddle, his dark figure growing more and more phantom-like
through the dim dawn and the white veil of the snow. At the gate he
wheeled his horse, and, saluting them, vanished into the gray obscurity,
which made all things as if they were not.
"The storm will grow worse, I fear," said Jane as they turned into the
house.
"More like than not," answered Mrs. Swaffham; "but he is a dauntless
youth, and nothing but good will come to him. Where goes he to-day?"
"As far as he can go. He is in haste to reach Edinburgh, for there is
fresh news of rebels from Ireland landing on the Scotch coast. He
showed me this report in a copy of the news-letter called _The Scottish
Dove_."
"A badly named news-letter, Jane; the Scotch are never for peace."
"It is intended for a peace paper, mother."
"They are confused in their minds concerning peace. What did it say?"
"That ten ships were leaving Bristol to bring men from Ireland to help
Charles Stuart against Cromwell. The _Dove_ asserts, 'the Scotch are
ready for speedy action, if God permit, and if advance money be
forthcoming;'" and Jane laughed scornfully at the saving clause.
"He did not say much of the Cromwells. I'll warrant, they will forget
you in their rising state."
"Far away from it. Mary and Frances sent me many good words, and they
are very persuasive with me to come to London and share their state."
"You cannot go just yet, Jane. Your father is opposed to it, until
General Cromwell returns there. Then, if it so please God, we shall all
go--at least for a season."
"But when will Cromwell return there?"
"God has set a time for all events, Jane. We must wait for it. What
think you of Matilda?"
"That she is in trouble greater than we know. She shuts in her words,
but I think that something is about to happen."
"Anything may happen with Cromwell in Scotland, and the Parliament
carrying things with such a high hand. But see, Jane, we must be after
our own concerns. Servants, men and women, are getting beyond all
belief; they do such barefaced things as never was. The week's butter
is gone already, and when I spoke to Debby, she wiped her saucy mouth
and, like the fox in the fable, 'thanked God she wasn't a thief.'"
Then the mother and daughter separated, and Jane went to her friend's
room. She was languidly brushing out her long black hair, and Jane
tried to kiss a smile into her melancholy face. And as she lifted her
head, she had a momentary glance at a beautiful miniature lying upon the
dressing-table. The face was that of a youth with flowing locks and a
falling collar of lace; but Jane was too honourable to let her eyes rest
consciously upon what was evidently hid from her. For in that same
moment, Matilda moved her ribbons and kerchief in a hurried way,
contriving in so doing, to cover the picture. Then she assumed her
usual manner and asked,
"Is Lord Neville still angry at me? I suppose if I had remained with
him, he would have eaten me by this time."
"He was very sorry for his show of temper, and would fain have made some
apologies to you."
"Then he has gone? Well, it is not worth my while saying I am sorry for
it."
"He set off early this morning."
"And so gave me the slip."
"Oh, no! He had important news for General Cromwell, and would push on
at his utmost."
"Yet staying awhile at every decent Puritan dwelling, and making love to
their sweet daughters."
"Do not be ill-natured, Matilda. He had letters from my father and
brothers, and also from Mary and Frances Cromwell to deliver, or he had
not stopped at Swaffham."
"Oh, Jane, Jane! I pray your pardon! It must be easy now to forgive
me, I keep you so well in practice. In truth, I am a wretched girl,
this morning. I have been dreaming of calamities, and my speech is too
small for my heart. And this young lord with his adoration of Cromwell
and his familiar talk of 'the ladies Mary and Frances' angered me, for I
thought of the days when the Lord General was plain 'Mr. Cromwell,' and
we were, both of us, in love with young Harry Cromwell."
"Was I in love with Harry Cromwell? If so, I have forgotten it."
"You were in love with Harry Cromwell--or you thought so--and so was I.
Do you remember his teaching us how to skate? What spirits we all had
then! How handsome he was! How strong! How good-natured! I hear now
that he is all for Dorothy Osborne, and has had some Irish hounds sent
her, and seal rings, and I know not what other tokens. And Mistress
Dorothy is a royalist--that is one good thing about her. Very soon this
lucky Cromwell family will coax you to London to see all their glory,
and I shall be left in de Wick with no better company than a clock; for
my father speaks to me about once an hour, and the Chaplain not at all,
unless to reprove me."
"But you shall come to London also."
"Do you think so ill of me as to believe I would leave my father in the
loneliness of de Wick? And you know if he went to London he would be
watched day and night, and though he were white as innocence about the
King, some one would make him as black as Satan."
"Look now, Matilda, I will myself see Cromwell as soon as he is in
London. I will say to him, 'My dear Lord and General, I have a favour
to ask;' and he will kiss me and answer, 'What is it, little Jane?' and
I will tell him that I want my friend, Matilda de Wick, and that she
will not leave her father alone; and that will go right down into his
tender heart, to the very soul of him, and he will say--perhaps with
tears in his eyes--'She is a good girl, and I loved her father, and he
stood by me once against the elder Charles Stuart and the Star Chamber.
Yes he did, and I will leave de Wick in charge of his own honour, and I
will give his daughter my name to shield them both. I will, surely.'
Such words as this, good Cromwell will say. I know it."
"Oh, Jane, dear Jane, if I had to give a reason for loving you, what
could I say for myself? If you can indeed do this thing for me, how
glad I shall be!" And she stood up and kissed her friend, and in a
little while they went downstairs together, and Matilda had some boiled
milk and bread and a slice of venison. Then she asked Mrs. Swaffham to
let her have a coach to go home in.
"For it is so near Christmas," she said, "that snow, or no snow, I must
go to de Wick. Audrey was making the Nativity Pie when I left home, and
it is that we may remember my brave dead brothers and my sweet mother as
we eat it. Then we shall talk of them and of the happy Christmas days
gone by, and afterwards go away and pray for their remembrance and
blessedness."
"My dear," said Mrs. Swaffham solemnly, "the dead are with God. There
is no need to pray for them."
"It comforts my heart to ask God that they may remember me. I think
surely He will do so. He must know how we feel at Christmas. He must
hear our sad talk of them, and see our tears, and He has not forbid us
anywhere in the Bible to come to Him about our dead, any more than about
our living. Father Sacy says I may confidently go to Him; that He will
be pleased that I still remember. And as I do not forget them, they will
not forget me. In God's very presence they may pray for me."
Mrs. Swaffham kissed her for answer, and they sent her away with such
confidence of good-will and coming happiness that the girl almost
believed days might be hers in the future as full of joy as days in the
past had been.
"She has a true heart," said Mrs. Swaffham as they watched the coach
disappear; and Jane answered,