instant, and his eyes gave her swift welcome, while in the decided
exhilaration following his entrance Love found his opportunities. But
among them was none that gave him free speech with Jane; they were not a
moment alone. Cluny had a fund of pleasant talk, for he had just come
from the Mulberry Gardens, where he had met Mr. and Mrs. Evelyn and had
some refreshment at the tables with them.
"I suppose the Evelyns were as gaily dressed as usual?" asked Mrs.
Claypole, "and looking as melancholy as if the world would come to an
end in a week's time?"
"Indeed, they were very handsome," answered Neville; "and the coach they
brought from Paris is extremely fine. We had some chocolate in thin
porcelain cups, and some Italian biscuits and sweetmeats. And anon we
were joined by Mr. Izaak Walton, the gentlest of malignants, and very
entertaining in his talk. Mr. Evelyn was praising Mr. Milton's poetry,
but Mr. Walton did not agree with him. He thought John Milton was always
trying to scale heaven by a ladder of his own, or else to bring down
heaven on earth in some arbitrary shape or other--that in truth, he knew
not in his work where he was going."
"He goes, truly, where Mr. Izaak Walton cannot follow him," said Mrs.
Ireton. "John Milton has looked God's Word and his own soul in the
face, and he will not hold Mr. Walton's opinion of him as anything to
his hurt."
"Besides," added Cluny with a pleasant laugh, "Mr. Walton is writing a
book, and Mr. Milton will soon not need to say with the patient man of
Uz, 'Oh, that mine enemy had written a book!' He may have reprisals."
During this speech there was heard from a distant apartment the sound of
music, low and sweet, and full of heavenly melody.
"That is Mr. Milton playing," said Mary Cromwell. "I would know his
touch among a thousand." And then Cluny blushed a little, and held out
a small roll which he carried in his hand. It contained three fair
copies of his own hymn, and Mary delightedly hurried Jane and Frank away
with her to the musician. He turned as they entered and bowed gravely,
and the girls fell at once under the charm of his music. Mary
involuntarily assumed a majestic attitude, Frances ceased her childish
titter, Cluny became almost severe, and Jane stood in silent delight
while the grand melody filled their souls till they outsoared the shadow
of earth and that unrest which men miscall delight. "Glory to God!" he
sang, and the room rang with the lofty notes and seemed full of
Presence, and of flame-like faces, sublime and tender, while the air
vibrated to the final triumphant crescendo, "Glory to God! Glory to God!
Glory to God in the Highest!" And in his beautiful face there was seen
for a few moments that face of the soul wherein God shineth.
Then there was a short pause of spiritual sensitiveness which was broken
by the opening of a door, and all eyes turning towards it beheld
Cromwell standing on the threshold. Perhaps he had been listening to Mr.
Milton's ecstatic anthem, for his clear, penetrating eyes were tender
and mystical, and a smile gentle as a woman's softened his austere
mouth. He wore a suit of black cloth with a falling linen collar,
stockings of homespun wool which his wife had knit, and strong shoes
fastened with a steel latchet. But his brown hair, tinged with gray,
flowed down upon his shoulders, and his whole air was that of a man on
whom the eternal dignities of a good and great life had set their seal.
Frances ran to him with a cry of delight. Mary looked at him with
adoring pride, and then put into Mr. Milton's hand the roll of
manuscript Lord Neville had given her. Jane left her companions and
timidly advanced to meet the Lord General. He saw her in a moment, and
gave her a smile so bright and affectionate that all fear vanished, and
she hastened her steps and the next moment felt his strong arm draw her
to his side.
[Illustration: "BEHELD CROMWELL STANDING UPON THE THRESHOLD."]
"Jane," he said tenderly, "Jane Swaffham, I got your message, and it did
me good; it did indeed. Out of the mouths of babes often come our
sweetest help and comfort. When I was ill and my heart was troubled for
Israel, I remembered one night the word you sent me by John Verity, and
it was very good. I think of it often, Jane, when in the midst of ill
men. Say it now in my own ears, and let me taste its goodness from your
own lips."
Then Jane lifted her eyes to his, and the fiery particle in them filled
her with Cromwell's own faith and courage, and she said with a fearless
fervour, "_They shall be able to do nothing against thee, saith the
Lord. My hands shall cover thee._"
"Truly God is good, indeed He is, Jane, and you have been His messenger
to me. Let us take this gracious God at His Word. And if ever I can
help you or yours, Jane, come to me; I will be as good as my word--doubt
not. Let us see what John Milton is going to play for us. I'll warrant
'tis my young soldier's hymn, and in my judgment, a good hymn."
They were advancing towards the organ as Cromwell spoke, and they joined
the group around the inspired player. His trampling notes gave the
sensation of charging men and horses, and of the ministration of angelic
hosts. Then there was a pause, and out of it arose in jubilant praise
the song of triumph on the battle-field:
Not unto us, not unto us, O Lord,
Thine was the Word, and Thine the mighty sword,
Thine be the glory.
We heard Thy call to arms, and understood:
But Thine the hand that wrought in flame and blood,
The splendid story.
Not for ourselves, or for this day, we fought,
But for all lands and for all times we wrought
Stormy Salvation:
Thine was the battle, both by land and sea,
Thine was our valour and our victory,
Thine our oblation."
So far, Cluny Neville led the singers, but it was Cromwell's strenuous,
adoring tones that mostly influenced the stirring chorus--
"Not unto us triumphant lauds and lays,
To 'Him whose name is Wonderful' be praise!
Be thanks! Be glory!"
The exultant song ceased, but their hearts were yet full of
thanksgiving, and Cromwell walked about the room--with Frances and Jane
at his side--humming the majestic melody, or breaking out into some line
of audible song, until he finally said,
"I came here for John Milton, whose pen I need, and I have stayed to
sing; and that is well, for the soul has wings as well as hands--and
indeed our souls have had a good flight heavenward." Then addressing
John Milton, he said,
"We have sundry letters to write, and the plain truth is, I could wish
they were more heavenly. Here is a man to answer who is playing fast
and loose with us,--and I will not have it. He is laying too much
weight on my patience; let him take care that he break it not."
Speaking thus, he walked towards the door, and Jane marveled at the man.
His countenance was changed: all its wistful tenderness and exaltation
had given place to a stern, steadfast severity; his voice was sharp, his
words struck like caustic, and the homelike, country gentleman was
suddenly clothed with a great and majestic deportment. He put on his hat
as he left the room. And there was the glint of a gold band round it,
and in Jane's mind it gave to the rugged, broad-hatted grandeur of the
man a kind of mythical authority, for she instantly remembered a picture
of St. George of Cappadocia in de Wick hall which had the same gold band
around the helmet. And ever afterwards she associated in her memory the
patron Saint of England and the great Pathfinder of her people.
Neville left soon after the Lord General, and the girls had a game of
battledore and shuttlecock in the long gallery; then sewing, reading
aloud, the evening meal, and the evening exercise closed the day. The
days that followed were little different; when the weather permitted
there was a ride in the park, or shopping in Jermyn Street, or a visit
to St. Paul's to hear Dr. Owen, or the great tolerant Mr. Jeremy Taylor.
But Jane thought Dr. Verity need hardly have given her special counsel
against the vanities of such a life as the Cromwells led. On the whole,
she was not very sorry when her visit was over and she was free to
return home. In spite of the frankest kindness, she felt out of her
element. The Cromwells had outgrown their old friends, and not all
their familiarities could dispel the atmosphere of superiority which
surrounded them; it was unavoidable and unequivocal, though they were
not themselves conscious of it.
But every happy family takes its tone from the head of the household,
and this conqueror of three Kingdoms, stepping out grandly to their
government from his victorious battle-fields, impressed something of his
own character upon those so nearly and dearly allied to him. They had
been after his image and likeness at St. Ives and Ely, what wonder if in
the palaces of London they took on something of the royal air which his
achievements entitled them to assume? There are friends whose favour we
wear as jewels and ornaments, and there are others whose love will bear
the usage of an every-day garment, and Jane understood that she must put
the Cromwells among those friends reserved for rare or great occasions.
Then there came to her mind in very sweet fashion the memory of Matilda
de Wick. They had quarreled almost constantly for years, and Matilda's
exacting temper and sharp tongue had wounded her often; but for all that
she knew Matilda loved her. Now perfect friendship must be founded on
perfect equality, for though love may stoop to an inferior, friendship
cannot do so without becoming patronage and offense. But between
Matilda and Jane there was no question of this kind. The Swaffhams were
noble by birth, they needed no title to give them rank. In their own
county they stood among the foremost, and Earl de Wick had ever been
ready to acknowledge the precedence of a family so much more ancient
than his own. Besides which, the Swaffhams were very wealthy. Israel
Swaffham had given his eldest daughter on her marriage to Lord
Armingford ten thousand pounds, an immense bridal gift in those days.
So that the question of equality had never crossed or shadowed the
friendship between Jane and Matilda. Their many quarrels had been about
King Charles, or Oliver Cromwell--or Stephen de Wick, for Matilda was
passionately attached to her youngest brother and she thought Jane
Swaffham valued him too little. With her mind full of kindly thoughts
towards Matilda, Jane returned to her home, and she was delighted to
find a letter from her friend waiting for her.
"It came this very morning," said Mrs. Swaffham, "and I told the man who
brought it you would be here to-day, and no doubt would answer it
forthwith. Have you had a good visit, Jane?"
"Yes, mother."
"You wouldn't like to go again just yet, eh, my dear?"
"No, mother. I do not know why. They were all very kind to me, and the
Lord General wonderfully so--but there was a difference, a change I
cannot describe. It was not that they were less kind----"
"I understand. Power changes every one. Open your letter, I want to
know how Matilda is; her man was so uppish, I would not ask him a
question."
Then Jane laid aside her bonnet and opened her letter. "She is at Lady
Jevery's house, mother, and she longs to see me, and indeed I am in the
same mind. We shall be sure to quarrel, but then----"
"You can both play at that game, and you hold your own very well. What
is the use of a friend if you can't talk plain and straight to her? I
like Matilda no worse for her little tempers. I would go to Jevery
House in the morning. Whom did you see at the Cockpit?"
"Doctor John Owen for one. He has just been made Chancellor of Oxford,
and General Cromwell expects great things from him. I saw also John
Milton, who writes so beautifully, and he plays the organ like a seraph.
And Doctor Wilkins was there one day, and he talked to us about his
lunarian journey; and Mr. Jeremy Taylor called, and we had a little
discourse from him; and Mrs. Lambert, and Mrs. Fleetwood, and Lady
Heneage, and Mrs. Fermor, and many others paid their respects. It
seemed to me there was much enforced courtesy, especially between Mrs.
Fleetwood and Mrs. Ireton; but--changes are to be expected. Mrs.
Cromwell and Lady Heneage used to be gossips, and kiss each other before
they sat down to talk, and now they curtsey, and call each other 'my
lady,' and speak of the last sermon, or Conscience Meeting. I saw Lord
Neville several times, but had no private speech with him; and I heard
Mary Cromwell say there was a purpose of marriage between him and Alice
Heneage."
"'Tis very like."
"I do not think so. I am sure he loves me."
"Then he should say so, bold and outright."
"He said last night he was coming to see my father and you, and though
he spoke the words as if they were mere courtesy, I read in his face the
purpose of his visit. Mother, we shall need your good word with my
father."
"I can't go against your father, Jane. I would as soon take hot coals
in my naked hands."
"But you can manage to make father see things as you do."
"Not always. He would have stayed at Swaffham and minded his own
affairs instead of following Oliver Cromwell, if I could have made him
see things as I did. Men know better than women what ought to be done;
they are the head of the house, and women must follow as they lead.
Your sister Armingford wanted to marry Frederick Walton, and your father
would not hear of such a thing. You see he was right. Frederick Walton
was killed in battle, and she would have been a widow on her father's
and her father-in-law's hands. You will have to do as your father says,
Jane; so make up your mind to that. The Swaffham women have always been
obedient and easy to guide, and it isn't likely you will need bit and
bridle."
"I would not endure bit and bridle."
"All I can say is, your father will decide about Lord Neville. Father
keeps his own counsel, and he may have a purpose already of marrying you
to some one else."
"I will not marry any one else."
"Your sister said the same thing, but she married Philip Armingford; and
now there is no man in the world but Philip."
"I will marry Cluny Neville or remain a spinster."
"You will in the end do as your father and brothers say."
"What have my brothers to do with my marriage?"
"A great deal. The men of a family have to meet about family affairs.
It wouldn't do to have some one among the Swaffhams that the Swaffhams
didn't like or didn't trust. They have always been solid for Swaffham;
that is the reason that Swaffham has done well to Swaffham. There, now!
say no more about your marriage. It is beforehand talk, and that kind
of discussion amounts to nothing. It is mostly to go over again. Your
father thinks of buying this house. Parliament has offered it very
reasonable to him, in consideration of the service he and your three
brothers have rendered."
"It belonged to Sir Thomas Sandys?"
"Yes."
"And Parliament confiscated it?"
"Yes."
"If I were father I would not give a shilling for it. It will yearn for
its own till it gets back to them. If the King had taken Swaffham, we
should yearn for it at the other side of the world, and some Swaffham
would go back to it, though it were generations after."
"I don't know what you are talking about, Jane. I suppose the Cromwells
live in a deal of splendour."
"Everything is very fine. Mary Cromwell's room has the walls hung with
green perpetuano and tapestries of Meleager. The standing bed is of
carved wood, and the quilt of Holland striped stuff. There is a large
looking-glass in an ebony frame, and many fine chairs and stools, and
her toilet table is covered with silk and lace, and furnished with
gilded bottles of orange-flower water and rose perfume. All the rooms
are very handsome; Mrs. Cromwell's----"
"That is enough. I have often been in Elizabeth Cromwell's room, both
in Slepe House and in Ely. I remember its tent bed and checked
blue-and-white curtains! Well, well--it is a topsy-turvy world. You
must go and see Matilda to-morrow. I have been making inquiries about
the Jeverys; they are what your father calls 'Trimmers,'--neither one
thing nor another. He is an old soldier, and has made use of his wounds
to excuse him from further fighting; and Lady Jevery mingles her company
so well that any party may claim her. A girl so outspoken as her niece
Matilda will give her trouble."
In the morning Jane was eager to pay her visit, and she felt sure
Matilda was as eager as herself; so an hour before noon she was on her
way to Jevery House. It stood where the busy tide of commerce and the
drama now rolls unceasingly, close by Drury Lane--a mansion nobly placed
upon a stone balustraded terrace, and surrounded by a fine garden. In
this garden the old knight was oftenest found; here he busied himself
with his flowers and his strawberry beds, and discoursed with his friend
John Evelyn about roses; or with that excellent person and great
virtuoso, Mr. Robert Boyle, about his newly invented air pump; or
thoughtfully went over in his own mind the scheme of the new banking
establishments just opened by the City Goldsmiths: certainly it would be
more comfortable to have his superfluous money in their care than in his
own strong chests--but would it be as safe?
He was pondering this very question in the chill, bare walks of Jevery
House when Jane's carriage stopped at its iron gates. She had been
delayed and almost upset in Drury Lane by the deep mud, so that the noon
hour was striking as Sir Thomas Jevery met and courteously walked with
her to the entrance hall. Here there were a number of servants, and
their chief ushered her into a stately cedar salon the walls of which
were painted with the history of the Giants' war. But she hardly
noticed these storied panels, for above the mantel there was a picture
which immediately arrested her attention. It was a portrait of Oliver
Cromwell, the rugged, powerful face standing out with terrible force
amid the faces of Pym, Laud, Hampden, Strafford and Montrose. With the
countenances of all but Montrose Jane was familiar, and she regarded
this unknown face with the most intense interest. It was one not to be
ignored, and having been seen, never to be forgotten--a face on the
verge of being ugly, and yet so proudly passionate, so true, so strong
that it left on Jane's mind the assurance of a soul worthy of honour.
She was standing gazing at it and quite oblivious of the Florentine
curtains, the Venetian crystal, and French porcelain, when Delia came
hurriedly into the room with an exclamation of delight. "Oh, Miss
Swaffham! Oh, Miss Jane!" she cried. "My lady is impatient to see you.
Will you kindly come to her room? She has been ill, oh, very ill! and
you were always the one she called for!" So saying, she led Jane up a
magnificent stairway lined with portraits, mostly by Holbein and
Vandyke, and they soon reached Matilda's apartment. As the door opened
she rose and stretched out her arms.
"Baggage!" she cried with a weak, hysterical laugh. "You dear little
baggage! You best, truest heart! How glad I am to see you!"
And Jane took her in her arms, and both girls cried a little before they
could speak. Matilda was so weak, and Jane so shocked to see the change
in her friend's appearance, that for a few moments tears were the only
possible speech. At length Jane said:
"You have been ill, and you never sent for me. I would have stayed by
you night and day. I would have been mother and sister both. Oh,
indeed, my mother would have come to you, without doubt! Why did you
not let us know?"
"I have only been in London three days. I was ill at de Wick. I became
unconscious at my father's burial. We had heard that day that Stephen
had been shot while trying to reach the coast. It was the last thing I
could bear."
"But I assure you Stephen is at The Hague. Doctor Verity said so, and
he said it not without knowledge."
"I know now that it was a false report, but at the time I believed it
true. My father was lying waiting for burial, so was Father Sacy, and
Lord Hillier's chaplain came over to read the service. It was read at
midnight in the old chapel at de Wick. We did not wish any trouble at
the last, and we had been told the service would be forbidden; so we had
the funeral when our enemies were asleep. You know the old chapel,
Jane, where all the de Wicks are buried?"
"Yes, dear; a mournful, desolate place."
"A place of graves, but it felt as if it was crowded that midnight.
I'll swear that there were more present than we had knowledge of. The
lanterns made a dim light round the crumbling altar, and I could just
see the two open graves before it. Father Olney wept as he read the
service; we all wept, as the bodies were laid in their graves; and then
our old lawyer, William Studley, put into Father Olney's hands the de
Wick coat of arms, and he broke it in pieces and cast the fragments on
my father's coffin; for we all believed that the last male de Wick was
dead. And when I heard the broken arms fall on the coffin, I heard no
more. I fell senseless, and they carried me to my own room, and I was
out of my mind for many days. My aunt and Delia were very kind to me,
but I longed for you, Jane, I did indeed. I am nearly well now, and I
have left my heartache somewhere in that awful land of Silence where I
lay between life and death so long. I shall weep no more. I will think
now of vengeance. I am only a woman, but women have done some mischief
before this day, and may do it again."
"Tonbert and Will are now at Swaffham; they will keep a watch on de Wick
if you wish it."
"I suppose I have left de Wick forever; and I could weep, if I had tears
left, for the ill fortune that has come to the old place. You remember
Anthony Lynn, the tanner and carrier, Jane?"
"Yes."
"He has bought de Wick from the so-called Parliament. He was very kind
to me, and he knew his place; but on my faith! I nearly lost my senses
when I saw him sitting in my father's chair. Well, then, I am now in
London, and all roads lead from London. I shall not longer spoil my
eyes for the Fen country, and
"'De Wick, God knows,
Where no corn grows,
Nothing but a little hay,
And the water comes
And takes all away.'
You remember the old rhyme; we threw it at one another often when we
were children. But oh, Jane, the melancholy Ouse country! The black,
melancholy Ouse, with its sullen water and muddy banks. No wonder men
turned traitors in it."
And Jane only leaned close, and closer to the sad, sick girl. She
understood that Matilda must complain a little, and she was not
unwilling to let the dreary meadows of the Ouse bear the burden. So the
short afternoon wore away to Jane's tender ministrations without one
cross word. Early in her visit she had yielded to Matilda's entreaties,
had sent home her carriage, and promised to remain all night. And when
they had eaten together, and talked of many things and many people,
Matilda was weary; and Jane dismissed Delia, and herself undressed her
friend as tenderly as a mother could have done; and when the tired head
was laid on the pillow, she put her arms under it and kissed and drew
the happy, grateful girl to her heart.
"Sweet little Jane!" sighed Matilda; "how I love you! Now read me a
prayer from the evening service, and the prayer for those at sea--you
won't mind doing that, eh, Jane?"
And after a moment's hesitation Jane lifted the interdicted book, and
taking Matilda's hand in hers, she knelt by her side and read the
forbidden supplications; and then Matilda slept, and Jane put out the
candles and sat silently by the fire, pondering the things that had
befallen her friends and acquaintances. The strangeness of the house,
the sleeping girl, the booming of the city's clocks and bells, and the
other unusual sounds of her position filled her heart with a vague
dream-like sense of something far off and unreal. And mingling with all
sounds and sights, not to be put away from thought or presence, was that
strange powerful picture in the salon--the terrible force of Cromwell's
face and attitude as he seemed to stride forward from the group; and the
unearthly passion and enthusiasm of the unknown, just a step behind him,
would not be forgotten. She saw them in the flickering flame and in the
shadowy corners, and they were a haunting presence she tried in vain to
deliver herself from.