in every corner of the land. If the great angel who guides and guards
the destinies of England had sent out a legion of messengers to cry it
from every church tower, there could not have been any more conscious
intimation of the final struggle. And the very vagueness and mystery of
the conviction intensified its importance, for generally the information
came as the wind blows, no one knew whence--only that the billows of
war, though low and far off, were heard, only that a sense of presence
and movement not visible thrilled and informed men and women and brought
them nearer to their inner selves than they had ever been before.
Indeed, there were many whose spiritual senses were opened by intense
longing and fearing, and they heard voices and saw portents and visions
in the air above, yea, even on the streets around them.
At Swaffham and de Wick this fateful feeling was aggravated by keen
personal interests. To Mrs. Swaffham and Jane the coming battle might
mean widowhood and orphanage; sons and brothers might be among those
appointed to die for Freedom's sake. To de Wick it might mean the
extinction of the family, root and branch, the loss to the lonely Earl
and his daughter of the one love on which their future could build any
hope. They could not bear audibly to surmise these things, but they
feared them; and not even Jane had yet reached that far-seeing faith,
which, for a noble end, levels life and death. As the days went on they
ceased their usual employments; Jane went to the village, or even to Ely
in search of news, or perhaps half-way to de Wick met Matilda on the
same errand. Mutual fears drew them together; they talked and wept and
encouraged each other, and always parted with the one whispered
word--"_To-morrow._"
At length there came a day when the unnatural tension grew to its cruel
ripeness. The soft gray autumn morning was sensitive through every
pulse of Nature, and as the day wore on a strange still gloom hung far
and wide over the country. The very breath of calamity was in it.
Puritan and Royalist alike went to the open churches to pray; tradesmen
left their wares and stood talking and watching the highways; women
wandered about their homes weeping and praying inaudibly, or they let
their anxieties fret them like a lash. The next morning the west wind
blew the sorrow in the air, far-off to sea; but left an instantaneous,
penetrating sense of something being "all over." Whatever deed had been
done, England would soon ring with it.
On the third afternoon, there came rumours of a great Parliamentary
victory, rumours that Charles Stuart had been slain in battle,
suppositions and surmises innumerable and contradictory. Jane went as
quickly as possible to de Wick, for if indeed there had been a Royalist
defeat, Stephen de Wick might have reached home and life was hardly to
be borne, unless some certainty relieved the tension cutting like a
tight thong her heart and brain.
The neglect and desolation of de Wick Park had in it something unusual:
it was that strange air of sorrow, new and unaccepted, which insists on
recognition. It hurried Jane's steps; she felt sure she was either
going to meet trouble or that trouble was following after her. When she
reached the house, there were two horses tied, and even two horses were
a strange sight, now, at that door where once there had been all day
long the noise and hurry of sportsmen, and of coming and going guests.
She entered the hall and saw a man in his stockinged feet softly
descending the stairs. She knew his name and his occupation, and her
heart stood still with fear. The next moment Delia came forward, and
Jane said,
"I am glad to see you back, Delia. Is Lady Matilda well? Is any one
ill? O Delia, what is the matter? Why are you crying? And why is
Jabez Clay here?"
"The priest is dead. Clay has been measuring him."
"Dead!"
"Yes, ma'am. He dropped dead when he heard of the fight--and the King's
death."
"Then you have news?"
"The worst news that could come. No one has seen the King since the
battle--all is lost--Audrey's Ben is back skin-whole, but he says----"
"Is that you, Jane Swaffham?" cried Matilda, running down-stairs. "Come
here, come here, come here!" and seizing her by the arm, she compelled
Jane to ascend at her side. As for Matilda, she was like a woman
distraught. Grief and anger burned white in her face, her eyes blazed,
her speech was shrill, her manner like one possessed. Jane made no
resistance to such impetuous, imperative passion, and she was hurried up
the steps and along the corridor until Matilda suddenly stopped and
threw open the door of a darkened room.
"Go in, Mistress Swaffham," she cried, "and look your last on one of
Cromwell's victims." And Jane shook herself free, and stood a moment
regarding the placid face of the dead priest. He was wrapped in his
winding sheet, the Book of Common Prayer lay on his breast, and his
hands were clasped over it.
"Oh, God be merciful!" said Jane, and Matilda answered, "Yes, for men
know nothing of mercy. Come, there is more yet."
Then she opened the door next to the death chamber, and Jane saw lying
on a great canopied bed the dying Earl. His last breaths were coming in
painful sobs, but he opened his eyes and looked mournfully at Jane for a
few moments. Then the physician sitting by his side motioned
authoritatively to the two girls to leave the room.
"He is dying. You see that. He may live till morning--no longer," said
Matilda; "he is only waiting to see Stephen, and Stephen will never
come. Ben said he was with the King's horse, and the King is slain, and
all is red ruin and sorrow without end. When you rise to-morrow
morning, you can tell yourself Matilda de Wick is motherless,
fatherless, brotherless, friendless, and homeless; and I dare say you
will add piously, 'It is the Lord's doing'; but it is not the Lord's
doing, it is Oliver Cromwell's work. I would walk every step of the way
to London if I might see him hung when I got there!"
"Indeed, Matilda, you are cruel to say such things. You are neither
friendless nor homeless."
"Indeed, I am in both cases. I will have no friends that are partners
in Cromwell's crimes, and if Stephen be dead, de Wick goes only in the
male line, and there is not a male left to our name. Cromwell and his
Parliament may as well take house and lands; they have slain all who can
hold them--all, Reginald, Roland, Stephen, my Uncle Robert, my cousins
Rufus and Edward! What wonder that Julian Sacy's heart broke, and that
my father only waits at the door of Death to say good-bye to Stephen."
"What can I do for you, dear? Oh, what can I do?"
"I will have nothing from you, not even pity, while you endure, yes,
even admire, this monster of cruelty, Oliver Cromwell."
"Cruelty is far from him. He has the heart of a child."
"He is a very demon. He has drenched England in blood."
"He has done nothing of the kind. Why did Charles Stuart invade
England? What right had he to do so? England is not his private estate.
England belongs to Englishmen. No, I will not talk on this subject with
you. When you are in reason send for me, and I will do anything,
anything, that my heart and hands can do."
"I will not send for you. I never wish to see your face again. And how
poor Stephen loved you! And you--you have not a tear for his fate. I
thank God I am not of your profession. I can weep for the death of
those who loved me."
With these words Matilda turned sobbing away, and Jane, slowly at first
and then hastily, took the road to Swaffham. For after she had decided
that it was best not to force her company on her distracted friend, she
remembered that the news which had reached de Wick was probably at
Swaffham. It might also have come there with a tale of death and danger,
and her mother be needing her help and comfort. So she made all possible
haste, and as soon as she reached Swaffham she was aware of a change.
The servants were running about with unusual alacrity, and there was a
sense of hurry and confusion. As soon as Jane spoke, her mother came
quickly towards her. Her look was flurried, but not unhappy, as she
cried, "Have you the news, Jane? 'Tis the greatest victory that hath
ever been in England. Dr. Verity came an hour ago, so tired he could
scarcely sit his horse. He has had a warm drink and sleeps, but he says
no victory was ever like it."
"And my father and brothers? What of them?"
"Your father is well; Tonbert and Will have some slight sword cuts.
Cymlin has taken them to London, and Dr. Marvel will see to their
wounds. We must be ready to go with Dr. Verity to London on Tuesday
morning. Your father desires it."
"I heard at de Wick that Charles Stuart is slain."
"Dr. Verity believes not such a report. He says, however, that the war
is over. The Royalists have now neither army nor leader. Now, Jane,
make some haste. Put carefully away what is to be left, and pack a small
box with such clothing as you must take with you. Joslyn, the carrier,
will bring the rest. To-morrow being Sabbath, we can do nothing towards
our journey but on Monday all must be finished."
It troubled Jane that there was so little sense of triumph. "The
greatest victory that had ever been in England" appeared quite a
secondary thing to Mrs. Swaffham in comparison with the hurried journey
to London, and all it implied. An unspeakable fear had been lifted from
every heart, and yet, instead of the great rejoicing which would have
been fit and natural, there was a little ennui and forgetfulness--a
feeling which if it had found words might have said, "There, now, the
trouble is over. We have felt all we can feel. We would rather sit
down and cry a little than shout to the church bells clanging all over
England. We have given of ourselves freely while need was, now the need
is over, let us alone."
Such an appearance of ingratitude troubled Jane in her very soul.
Cromwell so eagerly looked for, so mighty to help, had not been even
named. "What ingrates mortals are!" she thought bitterly, "what
ingrates both to God and man. Yet had my father been here, he would
have called the house together and thanked God for His help by the hand
of Oliver Cromwell."
To such thoughts she worked rapidly. Her little box was soon packed,
her room put in order, and she was beginning to wonder if Dr. Verity's
sleep was delaying supper, when there was a sharp, impatient knock at
the door. Before she could in any way answer it, Matilda de Wick
entered and threw herself on her knees at Jane's side.
"You said you would help me," she cried; "you said you would, with heart
and hands! Now, Jane, keep your word! It is life or death! Have pity
on me! Have pity on me!"
"What is it, Matilda? What is it you wish?"
"It is Stephen; it is his friend Hugh Belward. They are searching de
Wick for them now. I have brought them to you. Father told me to come
here. I could go nowhere else, I had no time. Jane, for God's sake
save them; not for my sake, not for pity's sake, but for God's sake save
them! They are now outside this door--they may be seen by some
servant--let them enter--may I open the door? Jane, speak. There is
not a moment to lose. The men seeking them may be on their way
here--Jane, Jane! Why don't you let them in? You said you would help
me! Oh, for God's dear sake!"
"How can I do what you ask me, Matilda? Think of what you ask----"
"I know; I ask life for two poor souls ready to perish. One of them
loves you--Jane, speak--why are you waiting?"
"My father--my brothers--and in this room?--My own room?----"
"The more sure sanctuary. Be not too nice, when too much niceness may
be murder. Jane, there is no time to talk. Let them through the door."
"I will call mother," she said; "let them in until I bring her here."
Then she opened the door, and Matilda brought the two wayworn,
blood-stained, fainting fugitives within the sanctuary.
Mrs. Swaffham was not long in answering Matilda's petition. That divine
compassion that oversteps every obstacle, and never asks who or what art
thou, saw the visible necessity and hastened to meet it.
"Surely, surely, my poor lads," she said pitifully, "I will find hiding
for you."
"God Himself thank you, madame," sobbed Matilda. "Father said you would.
He told me to bring the boys to you, and I brought them through the
fields and under the hedges. No one has seen them; it was nearly dark,"
she said hysterically.
"Yes, dearie, and Will shall saddle a horse and take you home."
"No, no, no! It would then be known I had come here in the dark; and
the servants would ask what for, and suspect the truth. No one must
know. I can find my way--and I must now go."
"Tell your father that they who would hurt the young men must hurt me
first."
"It will be the greatest, the last, comfort he can have in this world."
Then she kissed her brother, and with a glance of farewell pity at his
companion, went quickly and quietly away.
"Go down-stairs, Jane," said Mrs. Swaffham, "and if Dr. Verity is
waiting, order supper to be served. Tell him not to wait on my
necessities, which are many, with so much packing and putting away to
look after. Keep men and maids busy on the ground floor, and the east
side. I will bestow our friends in the oak room, on the west side of
the house."
To this room she took them, and then brought water and wine and bread
and meat, and some of her son's clothing, showing them, also, that the
wide chimney had been prepared for such emergencies by having stout,
firm, iron stirrups placed right and left at very short intervals. "By
these you can easily reach the roof," she said; "Dr. Verity did so once,
when Laud's men were seeking him. But I think no Parliament soldiers
will search Israel Swaffham's house for succored malignants. To-night
and to-morrow you can rest and sleep; I will waken you very early Monday
morning, and you can go to de Wick for your horses, ere any one is
astir." She kissed them both and poured out wine and made them drink,
and then, looking carefully to see that no chink in shutters or door let
out a glimpse of candle-light, left them to eat and rest. Her heart was
light, and she had no sense of wrong-doing, although Stephen had warned
her that Parliament had issued an order threatening all who sheltered
royalists with fine and imprisonment.
"Parliament's orders are well enough," she said to herself as she
stepped rapidly and lightly away from the scene of her disobedience,
"well enough, but I think far more of the orders of the King of kings,
and He tells me if my enemy hunger to feed him and give him drink, and
of course shelter and clothing--the oil and the twopence--the oil for
his visible wants, and the twopence for the wants not seen. I must not
forget the twopence. Thank God, I can spare a few pounds for the poor
lads!" And her face was so happy in the thought that she seemed to
bring sunshine into the parlour, where she found Dr. Verity eating a
beefsteak pudding and talking to Jane, who sat with a white and anxious
face trying to smile and answer him.
"Come and rest a little, Martha," he said, "I am not to halve a day."
"But I am, Doctor. I want to see to my boys' wounds."
"Wounds! Pshaw! Scratches! They will be in armour to enter London
when Cromwell does. And what think you? Here come a half-a-dozen
riders awhile ago, seeking young de Wick. They said also that it was
thought Charles Stuart might be with him, and they would have searched
Swaffham--high and low--if I had not been here. I vouched my word for no
Stuart or de Wick in Swaffham, and told them the whole house was upside
down, men and maids in every room, and you and Jane packing for London.
And the rascals didn't take my word, but went to the kitchen and asked
Tom and Dick and Harry and all the wenches, and so satisfied
themselves."
"The impudent varlets," said Mrs. Swaffham, "to set your word at naught.
I wish that you had called me."
"I told them when they hummed and hawed to 'light from their horses and
go through the house, and Jane said, 'Surely, sirs, Dr. Verity will go
with you;' and then I let them have the rough side of my tongue, and
said, 'I'd do no such mean business as search Captain Israel Swaffham's
house for royalists, and he and his three sons fighting them on every
battle-field in England and Scotland. Not I!' So they went their ways
to the kitchen, and learned nothing to what I told them; but they got a
drink of ale, which was likely what they wanted. But if Charles Stuart
had been here I would have gladly led the way to him, for I like well to
betray a man who deceives and betrays all men."
"You would not, Dr. Verity," said Jane. "I know you better than your
words. You would have put him on your own big horse, and put money in
his hand, and said, Fly! I am not thy executioner."
"I say, No, downright."
"I say, Yes," affirmed Mrs. Swaffham. "In the heart of battle perhaps
No, but if he came to you after the battle and begged for mercy, you
would think of the reproach our Lord Christ gave to the unmerciful
steward--shouldst not thou also have had compassion on thy
fellow-servant even as I had pity on thee."
"You argue like a woman, Martha. There is the example of Jael."
"I wouldn't do what Jael did if England's crown was for it. There is
not an Englishwoman living, not one living, who would play Jael. If
Charles Stuart has got away from battle, he has got away; and if you are
looking to Englishwomen to betray a poor soul in extremities, Charles
Stuart may live to be King of England yet."
"You are making a wicked and impossible suggestion, Martha."
"No more wicked and impossible than that there is another Jael in
England. There is not!"
"Don't flare up in that way, Martha. Thank God, we are neither of us
yet called upon to decide such a question as Charles Stuart's life or
death. But he might come here; the courage of despair may bring him.
What would you do?"
"You are here, and I would leave you to answer that question for me."
"Well, I wish he would come. There is danger while he is hiding here
and there in the country. What good is it to quench the fire in the
chimney if it be scattered about the house? I think we will begin our
journey to London on Monday morning, Martha."
"I cannot. If I had as many hands as fingers, I could not. You may
keep watch and ward to-morrow and Monday, and it may be well to do so;
for to tell the truth, I trust neither men nor maids in the kitchen.
For a Parliament half-crown they would hide the devil. When was this
great battle of Worcester fought?"
"Last Wednesday, on the third day of this month."
"Mother, remember how sad we were all that day. You said to me, 'Jane,
there is death in the air;' and the men could not work, and they vowed
the beasts trembled and were not to guide or to hold."
"The third of September!" said Mrs. Swaffham, "that was Dunbar day. A
great victory was Dunbar!"
"Worcester was a greater victory; and there will be one more third of
September, the greatest victory of all. But where it will be, and over
what enemy, only God knows."
"When did the Worcester battle begin?" asked Jane.
"About four in the afternoon. It was a fair day, the sun shone brightly
over the old city, with its red-tiled roofs, its orchards and gardens
and hop fields, and over the noble river and long line of the green
Malvern hills a few miles away. And the Royalist army made a grand show
with their waving cloaks and plumes, their gay silk banners, and their
shouts of _For God and King_! But they were as stubble before steel
when Cromwell's iron men faced them with their stern answering shout of
_God With Us_! It was a stiff business, but indeed God was with us. As
for Cromwell, he was so highly transported that scarce one dared speak
to him. Wherever he led, a great passion, like to a tempestuous wind,
seized the men, and they crowded and rushed the enemy from street to
street, shouting as they did so psalms of victory. Yes, Martha, yes,
Jane, rushed them as the devil rushed the demon-haunted hogs into the
sea of Galilee. Oh, I tell you, Cromwell! our Cromwell! is always
grand, but never so mighty as when on horseback in front of his army.
Then you look at the man, and thank God for him."
"And the battle began at four? I remember hearing Swaffham church
strike that hour. I stood in a wretched mood at the door and counted
the strokes. They had a fateful sound."
"We had been at work all day, but at that hour we had two bridges over
the Severn, and Cromwell with half the army passed over them to the west
side of the city. He rode in front, and was the first man to cross.
Pitscottie's Highlandmen were waiting for him, and he drove them at push
of pike from hedge to hedge till they were cut to pieces, every man's
son of them, one on the heels of the other. And when Charles Stuart saw
this battle raging on the west side of the river, he attacked the troops
that had been left with Lambert on the east side. Right glad was
Lambert, and 'tis said that the Stuart behaved very gallantly and broke
a regiment of militia; and the troops, being mostly volunteers, began to
waver. But Cromwell saw this new attack at once, and he and Desborough
and Cobbett came rattling over the bridges of boats. No dismay when
Cromwell was there! His voice and presence meant victory! The
malignants, with their Scotch allies, retreated before him into
Worcester streets, Cromwell's men after them pell-mell. Women, it was
then hell let loose, for by this time it was nearly dark, and the narrow
streets were lit only by the flashes of the great and small shot.
Cromwell rode up and down them, in the midst of the fire; he took Fort
Royal from the enemy, and with his own hands fired its guns upon them as
they fled hither and thither, they knew not, in their terror and
despair, where. Every street in Worcester was full of fire and blood,
the rattle of artillery, the shouts of our captains, the shrieks of the
dying. All night the sack of the city went on. It was a tenfold
Drogheda, and ever since, by day and night, Lambert has been following
the flying enemy, hunting and slaying them in every highway and
hiding-place. Oh, indeed, the faces of our foes have been brought down
to earth and their mouths filled with dust; and rightly so. No one will
ever know the number slain, and we have ten thousand prisoners."
"Was such cruelty necessary?" asked Mrs. Swaffham.
"War is cruel, Martha; a battle would not be a battle unless it was
cruel--furiously cruel. What is the use of striking soft in battle?
The work is to do over again. A cruel war is in the end a merciful
war."
"It is said Charles Stuart is slain."
"I don't believe that report, it has been spread by his friends to
favour his escape. At first he was distracted, and went about asking
some one to slay him; but he was seen afterwards beyond the gates of
Worcester, moving eastward with a number of his adherents. David Leslie
may be slain. I saw him riding slowly up and down like a man who had
lost his senses. I could have shot him easily--but I did not."
"Thank God, Doctor!"
"I don't know about that, Martha. I'm not sure in my own mind about
letting the old traitor go. But his white hair, his bloody face, and
his demented look stayed my hand. He had left his bridle fall, his
horse was trembling in every limb; the old man did not know what he was
doing, he had lost his senses. Yet David Leslie ought to have been
shot--only, I could not shoot him; he fought at my side--once. God
forgive him! Martha, I have had enough of war. I thank God it is
over."
"But is it over?"
"Cromwell says so, and I believe him. When a man walks with God as
closely as Cromwell does, he knows many things beyond ordinary
knowledge. I saw him about ten o'clock. He had written then a few
lines to his wife and family, and was writing to the Parliament. And
what did he say in that letter? Did he praise himself? No! He was bold
humbly to beg that all the glory might be given to God, who had wrought
so great a salvation. When he had sealed and sent off these letters--by
Lord Cluny Neville, Mistress Jane--he lifted his sword, red from the
hilt to the point, and wiped it upon a Royalist flag lying near him.
Then he dropped the blade into the sheathe with a clang, and said,
'Truly thou hast had thy last bloody supper. Rest now, thy work is
done!'"
[Illustration: "THEN HE DROPPED HIS BLADE INTO THE SHEATHE WITH A
CLANG."]
"Truly, I know not what work," said Mrs. Swaffham. "I see only death and
destruction."
"Martha, suppose Charles Stuart had conquered at Worcester, and that he
had marched on London and been received there as the conqueror of a
rebellious people, what would follow?"
"I know not, nor does any man or woman know."
"I can tell you. Our Protestant faith and our civil liberty would be
taken from us; for the latter depends on the former, and all we have
done since 1640 would be to do over again. Jericho has fallen, would
you rebuild it?"
"All I want is peace."
"That we shall now have. Our steel bodies, that have galled us long
with the wearing of them, may be cast off; our men will return to their
homes and their daily work, and our worship shall never more be broken
up, but our Sabbaths be full of good things."
"If we love God, I wonder if it makes so much difference how we worship
Him?"
"I am astonished at you, Martha."