fact, for faith is in matters of the spirit all that courage is in
practical affairs. To Jane and Cluny this belief was not difficult, for
limitation always works for happiness, and during the ensuing year life
kept within the bounds of their mutual probation and of Cluny's military
duties, was full of happy meetings and partings; days in which Love
waited on Duty, and again, days in which Love was lord of every hour;
when they wandered together in the Park like two happy children, or, if
the weather was unfit, sat dreaming in the stately rooms of Sandys about
the little gray house in Fifeshire, which was to be their own sweet
home.
These dreams and hopes were set to a national life full of unexpected
events and rumours of events, and to interesting bits of gossip about
the beloved Lord General and his family and friends. The news-letters
were hardly necessary to the Swaffhams; they were in the heart of
affairs, and life was so full of love and homely pleasures, that the
days came and went to thanksgiving--literally so, for Jane could not but
notice how at this time her father and mother selected for the household
worship psalms, whose key-note was, "Bless the Lord," "Make a joyful
noise unto the Lord," or, "I will love thee O Lord my strength." And
she could so well remember when these prayers were implorations for help
and comfort, or for victory over enemies. How different was now her
father's tone of joyful confidence when he recited with the family his
favourite portion from the eighteenth psalm, generally beginning about
the thirtieth verse, and growing more and more vivid and earnest, until
in a voice of triumph he closed the Book with a great emphasis, to the
exulting words, "The Lord liveth, and blessed be my Rock, and let the
God of my salvation be exalted."
So the weeks and months went by, and though they were not alike, they
had that happy similitude which leaves little to chronicle. Jane's
chief excitements came from her visits to Mary Cromwell and Matilda de
Wick. The latter had now quite recovered her beauty and brightness, and
she had gradually moulded her new life to her satisfaction. It was not
a life that Jane thoroughly understood, and indeed she shrank from
Matilda's confidences about it; and Matilda was soon aware of this
reluctance and ceased to make any overtures in that direction. And in
this matter, Mrs. Swaffham was of her daughter's mind.
"If Sir Thomas is blind to what goes on beneath his own roof, Jane," she
said, "why should you see inconveniences? There is a deal of wisdom in
looking over and beyond what is under your eyes. The Lord General does
it, for Sir Thomas dined at Whitehall last week. Your father says one of
his ships has been taken by Prince Rupert, and Cromwell has written to
Cardinal Mazarin about the matter. But Admiral Blake is the only
messenger Mazarin will heed."
The affection between Jane and Matilda had, however, the strong root of
habit as well as of inclination. They could not be happy if they were
long apart. Jane visited frequently at Jevery House, and Matilda quite
as frequently at Sandys. That they disagreed on many subjects did not
interfere with their mutual regard. It was an understood thing that
they would disagree, and yet there was between them such a sincere love
as withstood all differences, and ignored all offenses. Generally Jane
was forbearing but occasionally her temper matched Matilda's, and then
they said such words, and in such fashion said them, that final
estrangement seemed inevitable. Yet these bursts of anger were almost
certainly followed by immediate forgiveness and renewal of affection.
One morning in the spring of 1653, Jane was returning from a two days'
visit to the Cromwells. The air was so fresh and balmy she went to
Jevery House, resolved to ask Matilda to drive in the Park with her.
She had not her key to the private door, and was therefore compelled to
alight at the main entrance. Sir Thomas was among his crocus beds, at
this time a living mass of gold and purple beauty, and he was delighted
to exhibit them to one so sensitive to their loveliness. Jane told him
she had been at the Cockpit, and he asked after the Lord General,
adding, "It is high time he stepped to the front again." Then Jane
instantly remembered the picture in the cedar salon, and smiled an
understanding answer.
As she went up-stairs she wondered what mood she would find Matilda in,
for there was a certain mental pleasure in the uncertainty of her
friend's temper. It was so full of unlooked-for turns, so generally
contrary to what was to be expected, that it piqued curiosity and gave
spice and interest to every meeting. She found her lying upon a sofa in
her chamber, her little feet, prettily shod in satin, showing just below
her gown; her hands clasped above her head, her long black hair
scattered loosely on the pillow. She smiled languidly as Jane entered,
and then said,
"I have been expecting you, Jane. I could not keep the thought of you
out of my mind, and by that token I knew you were coming. But how
bravely you are gowned! Pray, where have you been? Or, where are you
going?"
"I have been spending two days with the Cromwells; and the morning is so
fair, I wondered if you would not drive an hour in the Park. Perhaps,
then, you would come home with me to dinner, and so make mother very
happy. Do you know that Cymlin arrives from Ireland to-day? He would
think the journey well taken, if he saw you at the end of it."
"You are a little late with your news, Jane. That is one of your
faults. Cymlin was here last night. He spent a couple of hours with
me;" then she smiled so peculiarly, Jane could not help asking her--
"What is there in your way of smiling, Matilda? I am sure it means a
story of some kind."
"I shall have to tell you the story, for you could never guess what that
smile was made of. First, however, what did you see and hear at the
Cromwells? 'Tis said the great man is in a strange mood, and that his
picked friends are wondering how he will cast the scale. Vane and he
must come to 'Yes' and 'No' soon; and when rogues fall out, honest folk
get their rights."
"England will get her rights if Cromwell cast the scale. He is both
corner-stone and keystone of her liberties. He was in the kindest of
moods, and I took occasion to speak of you and your many sorrows. And
he wet my speech with the most pitiful tears ever man shed, saying such
words of your father as brought me to weeping also. He spoke also very
heavenly about your afflictions, and bade me tell you sorrow was one of
the surest ways to heaven."
"But I could wish a pleasanter way, and so will not take Cromwell's
guidance."
"I heard in a passing manner that Prince Rupert is off the seas
forever--that he is at the French Court, where he is much made of."
"Jane Swaffham, have you no fresher news?" and she pulled out of her
bosom many sheets of paper tied together with a gold thread. "I had
this yesterday," she said, "by the hand of Stephen, and I may as well
tell you to prepare to meet Stephen de Wick, for he vows he will not
leave England again until he has speech with you."
"Then he is forsworn; I will not see him."
"It will be no treason now to speak to your old servant. The Amnesty Act
will cover you. But I fight not Stephen's battles; I have enough to do
to keep my own share of your friendship from fraying. See how Fortune
orders affairs! The ship my uncle has been worrying Cromwell about, and
which Cromwell has been bullying Mazarin about, was taken by Prince
Rupert; and I hope, by this time, he has turned her last ounce of cargo
and her last inch of plank into good gold ducats."
"But that would be to your uncle's great loss."
"Cromwell has promised to see to that. The man and his army ought to be
of some use. If you can keep a secret suspicion, you may believe, with
me, that my uncle was not averse to letting the royal family have this
one of his ventures. They need the money from it, and Cromwell will
collect the full value from the Frenchman. I like that way of paying
Sir Thomas. The French have behaved abominably to the poor Queen and
His Majesty, and their unhappy Court. Let them pay for what Rupert
took. They owe it to His Majesty; let them pay! Make them pay! In
grace of God, 'tis good enough for them. As for Uncle Jevery, he always
gets his own; some one, in some manner, will pay him for the _Sea
Rover_, plank and cargo. In the meantime, the King can have a little
comfort. Why has Cymlin come at this time from Ireland?"
"He has leave of absence from Commander-in-chief Fleetwood."
"Oh, Jane! I am tipsy with laughing when I think of the doleful widow
Ireton--and Fleetwood. You remember what a hot quarrel we had about
Ireton being buried among the Kings of England--they will kick him out
yet, though they be dead--and how you shamed me for not weeping with the
desolated woman?"
"It would be better to forget these things, Matilda."
"And then she let the widower Fleetwood console her in less than half a
year! It makes me blush! Yet the widow Ireton is an honourable woman!
To be sure, only God understands women. I don't. I don't understand
myself--or you."
"No woman likes to be put down; and when General Lambert got Ireton's
place, Madame Lambert was insolently proud, and insisted on taking
precedence of Ireton's widow, though she was Cromwell's daughter."
"Fancy the saints quarreling about earthly precedence! Madame Lambert
was right. A living dog is better than a dead lion. And I admire the
devout Bridget's revenge; it was so human--so sweetly womanly. How did
she get round her father?"
"Indeed, men are sweetly human too; and the better men, the more human.
Colonel Fleetwood by taking Lady Ireton's part, won her affection; it
was a fitting match, and it pleased the Lord General; he recalled
Lambert--who was truly overpowered by his great position--and made
Fleetwood commander in Ireland, thus giving his daughter back the
precedence."
"'Twas a delightful bit of domestic revenge. I enjoyed it. London
enjoyed it. Puritans and Royalists alike laughed over it. It was such
a thing as any mortal father would have done, and every mortal father,
for once, felt kin to the Lord General. 'Nicest thing I ever heard of
him,' said Lord and Lady Fairfax; for, as you know, Lord and Lady
Fairfax always have the same opinion."
"Why do you talk of it? The thing is past and over."
"By no means. The Lamberts are still going up and down, he in wrath and
she in tears, talking about it."
"Then let us talk of other things. As I came here I met a large company
of Dutch prisoners. They were taking them to our Fen country, that they
might drain it."
"They are very fit for that work. They are used to living in mud and
water. How came they?"
"They did not come. Blake sent them. He sunk their ship and made them
his prisoners."
"Why did they interfere with Blake? It serves them right."
"The Dutch are at war with the Commonwealth. Does not that please you?"
"No. What right have the Dutch to meddle in our affairs? The quarrel
is between our King and the Parliament. It is our own quarrel,
Englishmen against Englishmen. That is all right. It is a family
affair; we want no foreigners taking a hand in it. The only time I ever
saw my father angry at the King was when he landed foreigners to fight
Englishmen. We can settle our own quarrels. If Dutchmen will come into
our boat they will, of course, get the oars over their fingers. Serve
them right. Let them go to the Fens. They are only amphibious
creatures."
"But you do not understand; they----"
"And I do not want to understand; I have settled that affair to my
satisfaction. Now I must tell you something concerning myself. I am
going to France."
"France!" cried Jane in amazement.
"Yes, France. I have persuaded my uncle that he ought to go there, and
look after the _Sea Rover_. I have persuaded my aunt that it is not
safe for my uncle to go without her; and they both know my reason for
going with them, although we do not name Prince Rupert."
"When do you go, Matilda?"
"To-morrow, if Stephen be ready. And let me tell you, Jane, Stephen's
readiness depends on you."
"That is not so."
"It is. I hope you will be definite, Jane. You have kept poor Stephen
dangling after you since you were ten years old."
"What about Cymlin and yourself?"
Then Matilda laughed, and her countenance changed, and she said
seriously, "Upon my word and honour, I was never nearer loving Cymlin
than I was last night, yet he was never less deserving of it. 'Tis a
good story, Jane. I will not pretend to keep it from you, though I
would stake my last coin on Cymlin's silence about the matter. He came
into my presence, as he always does, ill at ease; and why, I know not,
for a man more handsome in face and figure it would not be easy to find
in England. But he has bad manners, Jane, confess it; he blushes and
stumbles over things, and lets his kerchief fall, and when he tries to
be a gallant, makes a fool of himself."
"You are talking of my brother, Matilda, and you are making him
ridiculous, a thing Cymlin is not, and never was."
"Wait a bit, Jane. I was kind to him, and he told me about his life in
Ireland, and he spoke so well, and looked so proper, that I could not
help but show him how he pleased me. Then he went beyond his usual
manner, and in leaving tried to give me a bow and a leg in perfect court
fashion; and he made a silly appearance, and for the life of me I could
not help a smile--not a nice smile, Jane; indeed, 'twas a very scornful
smile, and he caught me at it, and what do you think he did?"
"I dare say he told you plainly that you were behaving badly?"
"My dear Jane, he turned back, he walked straight to me and boxed my
ears, for 'a silly child that did not know the difference between a man
and a coxcomb.' I swear to you I was struck dumb, and he had taken
himself out of the room in a passion ere I could find a word to throw
after him. Then I got up and went to a mirror and looked at my ears,
and they were scarlet, and my cheeks matched them, and for a moment I
was in a towering rage. I sat down, I cried, I laughed, I was amazed, I
was, after a little while, ashamed, and finally I came to a reasonable
temper and acknowledged I had been served exactly right. For I had no
business to put my wicked little tongue in my cheek, because a brave
gentleman could not crook his leg like a dancing-master. Are you
laughing, Jane? Well, I must laugh too. I shall laugh many a time when
I think of Cymlin's two big hands over my ears. Had he kissed me
afterwards, I would have forgiven him--I think."
"I cannot help laughing a little, Matilda, but I assure you Cymlin is
suffering from that discipline far more than you are."
"I am not suffering at all. This morning I admire him. There is not
another man in the world who would have presumed to box the Lady Matilda
de Wick's ears; accordingly I am in love with his courage and
self-respect. I deserved what I got, I deserved it richly, Jane;"--and
she rose and went to the glass, and turned her head right and left, and
looked at her ears, and then with a laugh said, "Poor little ears! You
had to suffer for a saucy tongue. Jane, my ears burn, my cheeks burn, I
do believe my heart burns. I shall laugh and cry as long as I live, and
remember Cymlin Swaffham."
"It was too bad of Cymlin--but very like him. He has boxed my ears more
than once."
"You are his sister. That is different. I will never speak to him
again. He can go hang himself if he likes, or go back to Ireland--which
seems about the same thing."
"Cymlin will not hang himself for man or woman. Cymlin has the fear of
God before him."
"I am glad he has. Surely he has no fear of Matilda de Wick. There,
let the matter drop. I wish now, you would either take Stephen, or send
him off forever. I am in a hurry to be gone, and Sir Thomas also."
"Sir Thomas seemed full of content among his lilies and crocuses."
"I'll wager he was bidding them, one by one, a good-bye. Go and send
Stephen with a 'Yes' or 'No' to me. I am become indifferent which, since
you are so much so."
The little fret was a common one; Jane let it pass without comment, and
it did not affect the sympathy and affection of their parting. Many
letters were promised on both sides, and Jane was glad to notice the
eagerness and hope in her friend's voice and manner. Whatever her words
might assert, it was evident she looked forward to a great joy. And as
long as she was with Matilda, Jane let this same spirit animate her; her
ride home, however, was set to a more anxious key. She was a little
angry also. Why should Stephen de Wick intrude his love upon her? Twice
already she had plainly told him that his suit was hopeless, and she did
not feel grateful for an affection that would not recognise its limits,
and was determined to force itself beyond them.
She entered Sandys with the spring all about her; her fair face rosy
with the fresh wind, and her eyes full of the sunshine. Cymlin and
Stephen were sitting by the fireside talking of Irish hounds and of a
new bit for restive horses which Cymlin had invented. It was evident
that Mrs. Swaffham had given Stephen a warm welcome; the remains of a
most hospitable meal were on the table, and he had the look and manner
of a man thoroughly at home. In fact, he had made a confidant of Cymlin,
or, rather, he had talked over an old confidence with him. Cymlin
approved his suit for Jane's hand. He did not like the idea of Cluny as
a member of his family. He had an aversion, almost a contempt, for all
men not distinctly and entirely English, and he was sure that Cluny had
won that place in the Lord General's favour which he himself was in
sight of when Cluny appeared. Again, Stephen had been his playmate; he
was his neighbour, and if the King ever came back, would be an important
neighbour; one whose good offices might be of some importance to
Swaffham. Besides which, though he habitually snubbed Jane, he loved
her, and did not like to think of her living in Scotland. It was a
pleasanter thing to imagine her at de Wick; and it may be noticed that
the return of the Stuarts was almost assured by this constant thought
and predication of it in the staunchest Puritan minds. The fear was the
unconscious prophecy.
When Jane entered, Cymlin and Stephen both rose to meet her. Cymlin was
kind with the condescension of a brother. He spoke to her as he spoke
to creatures weaker than himself, and kissed her with the air of a king
kissing a subject he loved to honour. Then he made an excuse to the
stables and gave Stephen his opportunity. The young man had kept his
eyes fixed on the beautiful face and slender form of the girl he loved,
but had uttered no word except the exclamation that sprung from his lips
involuntarily when she entered:
"Jane!"
Even when they were alone, he first put the logs together with the great
tongs and replaced them in their stand ere he went to her and clasped
her hands and said with a passionate eagerness, "Jane, dearest! I have
come again to ask you to marry me. Say one good, kind word. When you
were not as high as my heart, you did promise to be my wife. I vow you
did! You know you did! Keep your promise; oh, I look for you to keep
your promise!"
"Stephen, I knew not then what marriage meant. You were as a brother to
me. I love you yet as I loved you then. I am your friend, your sister
if you will."
"I will not. You must be my wife."
"I cannot be your wife. I am already plighted."
"To Lord Neville. What the devil----"
"Sir!"
"I beg your pardon. I am no saint, and what you say stirs me to use
words not found in books. As for Neville, you shall never marry him. I
forbid it. I will hunt him to the gates of death."
"It is sinful to say such things."
"Let my sins alone. I am not in the humour to be sorry for them. I say
again, you shall not marry that scoundrelly Scot."
"He is not what you call him--far from it."
"I call things by their right names. I call a Scot, a Scot; and a
scoundrel, a scoundrel." He threw her hands far from him, and strode up
and down the room, desperate and full of wrath. "You shall marry no man
but myself. Before earth and heaven you shall!"
"If God wills, I shall marry Lord Neville."
"I say _no_!" he shouted. "Jane, when the King comes back, and I have
my estate and title, will you marry me?"
"You are asking me to marry your estate and title. I do not value
either _that_--" and she snapped her thumb against her finger, with no
doubtful expression.
"Oh, Jane! I shall go to total ruin if you do not marry me."
"Shall I marry a man who is not lord of himself? I will not."
"You have made me your enemy. What follows is your own fault."
"'Tis a poor love that turns to hatred; and you can do no more than you
are let do."
"You will see. By my soul, 'tis truth!"
"There is God between me and you. I have no fear."
"I am beyond reason. What am I saying? All my quarrels with you are
kind ones, Jane. Oh, 'tis ten thousand pities you will not love me!"
"It is nowise possible, Stephen."
He flung himself into a chair, laid his arms upon the table, and buried
his face in them. "Go away, then," he sobbed; "I wish to see your face
no more. For your sake, I will hate all women forever."
There was no use in prolonging a conversation so hopeless. She went
away, and in the hall met her brother Cymlin. He looked at her angrily.
"You have been behaving badly to Stephen; I see that much. What for did
God make women? They are His wrath, I think. You and your friend are
both as wicked and cruel and beautiful as tigers; and you have no more
heart or conscience than cats have."
"If you are speaking of Lady Matilda, it is a shame. She told me to-day
she thought you as handsome a man in face and figure as was in England.
She praised your courage and self-respect, and said if you had kissed
her last night she would have forgiven you."
As Jane spoke, wonder and delight chased each other across Cymlin's
face. "What else did she say?" he eagerly asked.
"Indeed, I have told you too much."
"Tell me all, Jane, I must know."
"Why should you care for her words? She is cruel as a tiger, and has no
more heart or conscience than a cat."
"I did not fully mean such things of Matilda--nor of you, in the main.
You are sure she said I was handsome?"
"Sure."
"And brave?"
"Sure."
"And self-respecting?"
"She said every word, and more than I have told you."
"The rest, then?"
"No. I am true to my friend--in the main."
"You are ill-tempered. Stephen ought to be thankful for your 'No.' He
will be, some day. I shall go and see Matilda to-morrow."
"She may leave for France to-night."
"You are a provoking creature."
"Go and abuse me to Stephen. I think little of him. He is neither
handsome nor brave nor self-respecting, and he threatens me! What do
you think of a lover who threatens his mistress? He is out of the Court
of Love. He is an alien, an outlaw."
"How you rant!"
She did not wait to hear more. She was both angry and scornful; and she
sought out her mother, and found her resting in her own room.
"I get tired soon in the day, Jane," she said; "I think it is the London
air, and the strange life, and the constant fear of some change. No one
seems to know what a day will bring forth. Did you see Stephen?"
"Yes."
"It can't be, I suppose?"
"You know it can't be, mother." She was hurt at the question. It was a
wrong to Cluny; and she said with some temper, "It could not be under
any circumstances. The man is mean; he has just threatened me. If I had
not been a woman I would have given him his threat back in his teeth. I
would rather be Cluny's wife, if Cluny had not a crown."
"Cluny is not troubled with crowns, or half-crowns. Stephen is an old
neighbour,--but I am not one to complain. If you are pleased, father
and I can make shift to look so. As for your brothers, I'm not so sure
of them."
Then Jane felt a sudden anger at the de Wick family. All her life, in
some way or other, it had been the de Wicks. Matilda's exactions and
provoking words and ways came to her memory and brought with them a
sense of too much endured. Stephen's love had ever been a selfishly
disturbing element. Many an unpleasant day it had caused her, and at
this moment she told herself that, say what they would, the Earldom had
an unacknowledged power over the imagination of all the Swaffhams but
herself. She was just going to voice this opinion, when her mother's
weary face arrested her words; she went away without justifying herself
or her lover, and when the act of self-denial had been accomplished, she
was glad of it. In the stillness of her room she retired with Him who
is a sure hiding-place, and there found that peace which "soft upon the
spirit lies, as tired eyelids upon tired eyes." Her soul sat light and
joyful on its temporal perch, for she had been with God, and all the
shadows were gone. Men and women who have this supernatural element in
them, will understand; to those who are without it, there are no words,
there are no miracles which could authenticate this _intimate_,
spiritual communion to them.