presence. He found him in great sorrow, sorrow mingled with a just
indignation. Standing by the long table in the Council Chamber, he
struck it violently with his clenched hand as he pointed out to Israel
the personalities of the conspirators. At one name he paused, and with
his finger upon it, looked into Israel's face. And as iron struck by
iron answers the blow, so Israel answered that sorrowful, inquiring
gaze.
"It is a burning shame," he said angrily. "You have pardoned and warned
and protected him for years."
"I must even now do what I can; I must, Israel, for his father's sake.
A warrant will be issued to-night, and I cannot stay that; and
personally I cannot warn him of it. Israel, you remember his father?"
"Yes, a noble, upright man as ever England bred."
"You and he and I fought some quarrels out for our country together."
"We did."
"And this son is the last of the name. He played with my boys."
"And with mine."
"They went fishing and skating together."
"Yes; I know."
"One day I saved this man's life. He was a little lad, twelve years or
about it, and he went through the ice. At some risk I saved him, and he
rode home behind me; I can feel, as I speak, his long childish arms
around my waist; I can indeed, Israel. These are the thorns of power
and office. On these tenter-hooks I hang my very heart every day. What
am I to do?"
"My dear lord, do nothing. I can do all you wish. There needs no more
words between us. In two hours Abel Dewey--you know Abel--will be on
the road. Nothing stops Dewey. Give him a good horse and he will so
manage himself and the beast as to reach his journey's end in
twenty-four hours."
"But charge him about the good horse, Israel. These poor animals--they
have almost human troubles and sicknesses."
Israel then went quickly home. He called Jane and explained to her in a
few words what she was to do; and by the time her letter to Matilda was
ready, Abel Dewey was at the door waiting for it. Its beginning and
ending was in the ordinary strain of girls' letters, but in the centre
there were some ominous words, rendered remarkable by the large script
used, and by the line beneath them--"I must tell you there has been a
great plot against the Protector discovered. Charles Stuart and Prince
Rupert are the head and front of the same, but there is a report that
Stephen de Wick is not behindhand, and my father did hear that a warrant
was out for Stephen, and hoped he would reach French soil, ere it
reached him. And I said I thought Stephen was in France; and father
answered, 'Pray God so; if not, he cannot be there too soon if he would
not have his head off on Tower Hill.'" Then the letter went on to speak
of the removal of the Protector's family to Hampton Court palace, and of
the signing of the Dutch peace, and the banquet given to the Dutch
Ministers. "I was at the table of the Lady Protectoress," she said,
"and many great people were present, but the Protector seemed to enjoy
most the company of the Rev. Mr. Wheelwright, who was the only one who
could beat the Protector at football when they were at college together.
Some New England Puritans also were there, and I heard with much
pleasure about their cities in the wilderness; and Mr. Thurloe smoked
and said nothing; and Mr. John Milton played some heavenly music, and
lastly we all sung in parts Mr. Milton's fine piece, '_The Lord has been
our dwelling-place_.' Ladies Mary and Frances Cromwell were beautifully
dressed, but the Lady Elizabeth Claypole is the light of Whitehall."
At these words Jane stopped. "Do I not know," she asked herself, "how
Matilda will have flung away my letter before this? And if not, with
what scorn she will treat 'the light of Whitehall'?" And these
reflections so chilled her memories, that she hasted to sign her name
and close the letter. Abel Dewey was ready for it; and as she watched
him ride away, her thoughts turned to de Wick, and she wondered in what
mood Matilda might be, and how she would receive the information sent
her. Would it be a surprise?
"Not it," answered Mrs. Swaffham. "Matilda knows all about the plot;
that is most certain; but its discovery may be news to her, and if so,
she will not thank you for it, Jane. Why will she burn herself with
fire not on her hearthstone?"
"Prince Rupert is her lover. She will do anything he desires her to
do."
"If he truly loved her, he would not permit her to be put in danger."
"We do not know all, mother."
"That is the truth, Jane. We know very little about ourselves, let
alone our friends. Doctor Verity would say to us, 'Judge not; every
man's shoes must be made on his own last.'"
Then Jane smiled, and the smile filled the silence like a spell. Mrs.
Swaffham went out of the room, and soon afterwards Doctor Verity came
in, asking cheerily as he entered, "How is it with you to-day, Jane?"
"I live as best I can, Doctor. I watch from the morning to the midnight
for a footstep that does not come."
"There is a desire that fulfils itself by its own energy, but this
desire is born of unfailing Hope, and of that unfaltering Faith that can
move mountains. Have you got it, Jane?"
"I am so weak, Doctor John. Pray for me."
"Pray for yourself. Why should any one pray for you? Pray for yourself,
though it be only to say, with the old Acadians, '_Hold Thou my hands!_'
When you were a baby, and were fretful and restless, then your mother
held your hands. That steadied you. You were not used to the whirling
earth, or you had that sense of falling into the void all babies have,
and you trembled and cried out in your fear, and then your mother
instinctively held your little hands in hers, and you felt their clasp
strong as the everlasting hills, and went peacefully to sleep. Go to
God in the same way, Jane; you are only a little babe in His sight; a
little babe crying in the vast void and darkness, and trying to catch
hold of something to which you may cling. Say to the Father of your
spirit, '_Hold my hands!_'"
And she rose and kissed him for his sweet counsel, and that night, and
many a night afterwards, she fell asleep whispering, "_Hold Thou my
hands_."
*CHAPTER XIII*
*CHANGES AT DE WICK*
"Friendship, of itself a holy tie,
Is made more sacred by adversity."
"A form of senseless clay--the leavings of a soul."
When Matilda received Anthony Lynn's letter, she was immediately certain
that the old man's conscience troubled him in the presence of death, and
that he wished to return de Wick to its rightful owners. Sir Thomas and
Lady Jevery were of the same opinion. "He can leave the estate to you,
Matilda," said Sir Thomas; "you have never been 'out' for either Stuart,
and the Commonwealth takes no action on private opinions, only on overt
acts. Stephen is barred, but Lynn can leave de Wick to you, and having
neither kith nor kin, I think he ought to do so. He owes everything to
your father's help and favour."
This idea took entire possession of Matilda; she thought it a duty to
her family to answer the request of Anthony Lynn favourably. It had
been a surprise to her, and there were more surprises to follow it. As
soon as Lady Jevery and her niece arrived at the gates of de Wick, they
were confronted with a remarkable change in the appearance of the place.
The great iron gates had been painted and rehung; the stone griffins
that ornamented the posts had felt the stone-cutter's chisel in all
their parts, and been restored to their proper shape and position. The
wide walks were free of weeds, freshly graveled and raked, and the grass
of the chase was in perfect order. There were plenty of deer, also,
though Matilda knew well all the deer had disappeared long before her
father's death.
As they came close to the house, they saw the flower garden aglow with
spring flowers and in such fine order as would have satisfied even Sir
Thomas Jevery. Anthony Lynn stood at the door to meet them. He looked
ill and frail, but hardly like death, and when he witnessed the delight
of the ladies at the changes made in de Wick, his face grew almost young
in its pleasure. Every room in the house was a fresh surprise; for
though all that was venerable through age of family association, and all
that was valuable and beautiful had been preserved, yet so much of
modern splendour and worth had been mingled with the old that the rooms
were apparently newly furnished. Magnificent draperies of velvet,
chairs covered with Spanish leather stamped in gold, carpets of richest
quality, pictures by rare masters, Venetian mirrors and glassware, all
that a luxurious and lavish taste could imagine and desire, were
gathered with fitting and generous profusion in the ancient rooms of de
Wick. Anthony Lynn accompanied the ladies through the house, finding a
fresh and continual joy in their exclamations of delight; and Matilda,
filled with astonishment at the exquisite daintiness of the suite called
the "Lady Matilda's Rooms," said enthusiastically,
"Mr. Lynn, no man could better deserve to be lord of de Wick than you.
And seeing that the de Wicks had to leave their ancient home, I am glad
it has fallen to you--and I am sure my father is glad, also."
Then the old man burst into that thin, cold passion of weeping so
significant of age, and so pitiful in its helplessness. "It is your
father's doing, Lady Matilda," he sobbed. "It is my dear lord's wisdom.
Pardon me now. This evening I will tell you all." He went away with
these words, and the two women looked at each other in amazement.
In the evening he came to them. They were sitting by the fire in the
now magnificently furnished great salon, and he asked permission to
place his chair between them. Matilda made room for him, and when he had
sat down and placed his terribly thin hand on its arm, she laid her
lovely young hand upon his; and he looked into her face with that
adoring affection which is often seen in the eyes of a favourite
mastiff.
"When these dreadful wars first began," he said, "Earl de Wick foresaw
their ending; and after Marston Moor he said to me, 'I know this man,
Oliver Cromwell, and there is none that will stand against him. It is
my duty to save de Wick; will you help me?' And I said to him, 'My dear
lord, I owe you all I am, and all I have.' Then we had many long talks,
and it was agreed that I should join the Puritan party, that I should
pretend a disapproval of the Earl and his ways--but a disapproval
tempered with regret--so that men might not suspect my opposition. The
King was even then sending to de Wick for money, and I was supposed to
supply it on the de Wick silver and valuables. In reality, the Earl
sent these things to my care, and he himself gave the gold. For in
those years he had much specie, the result of his trading partnership
with Sir Thomas Jevery. The silver, the old pictures, the fine
tapestries, and Eastern pottery all came to my home in St. Ives. People
said unkind things of me, but my dear lord loved me. Then there came a
time when de Wick was bare, and the King still wanted money. And the
Earl promised to borrow from me one thousand pounds, in consideration of
letters royal making the Lady Matilda Countess de Wick in her own right,
if her brother Stephen had no heirs of his body. His Majesty being in
great straits, readily granted the request, and the proper papers were
made. And I looked well to it that no necessary formality was lacking,
and the thousand pounds were paid, not by me, but by Earl de Wick. His
store was then gone, but he had secured the succession of de Wick in his
own blood and name; for you will see, my dear lady, if ever you have to
assume this title, when you marry, your husband must take the name of de
Wick."
"But if I never marry any one?"
"Oh, that is an impossible contingency! You would owe that debt to all
the de Wicks that ever lived and died; and you would pay it, whether you
liked to, or not."
"Yes, I should," she answered promptly.
"Here are the papers relating to your succession," he continued; "and
here are those relating to my trust in the matter of the de Wick silver
and valuables. They are all now in their proper places, and when I go
to my old friend, I can tell him so. When he was dying, he said to me,
'Anthony, the next move will be the sale of de Wick house and lands.
Stephen is already outcast, but I have given you the money to buy it.
Let no one outbid you. Keep it in your own care until my King comes
back to his throne, and my children to their home.' I bought de Wick
for seven hundred pounds less than the money entrusted to me for its
purchase. The balance is here at your hand. The only contingency not
provided for, was my death, and as I know that is speedily certain, I
wish your promise that these papers be placed in Sir Thomas Jevery's
charge. I know it is what my lord would advise."
Matilda took the papers silently. Her father's loving thoughtfulness
and Anthony's loving fidelity, affected her deeply. Lady Jevery was
weeping, and the old man himself raised a face wet with tears to
Matilda. She stooped and kissed him. She promised all he asked.
"But," she added, "you have made no mention of the refurnishing of the
house, nor yet of the money that must have been spent on the garden and
chase."
"That outlay was my own little pleasure," he answered. "It has made the
long, lonely months here full of hope. I always thought I knew how to
make a great house look like a great house should look;" and with
pardonable pride he added, "I think you both liked it."
He found in their hearty admiration all the recompense he wished. "You
will let me die here?" he asked, "here, where my old friend died? you
will let me sit in his chair, and die in his bed? It is all I ask,
unless you will stay awhile and brighten my last days."
The favours asked were affectionately granted, and Matilda virtually
became mistress of her old home. Anthony was seldom seen, but Stephen
de Wick came and went, and brought with him men whose names were not
spoken, and whose business meant much more than the packs of cards which
appeared to be all they cared for. In fact, Matilda was soon neck deep
in Prince Rupert's plot, and there was no doubt in her mind that the
month of May would end the life of Oliver Cromwell, and bring the King
to his throne and the de Wicks to their earldom.
She was sitting, one afternoon, talking to Stephen about advices he had
just received from his confederates in London, when a servant entered.
"My lady," he said, "here has come a man with a letter, which he will
deliver to none but you." Matilda's first thought was, "It is some
private word from Rupert;" and she ordered the messenger to her presence
at once. When she saw it was Jane's writing, she was much annoyed. "I
will wager it is some bad news, or it had not come through this gate,"
she said; and she opened the letter with angry reluctance. Hastily she
glanced over the lines, until she came to the discovery of the plot.
"Oh, indeed, here is the burden of Jane Swaffham!" she cried in a
passion. "We are discovered. All is known--all has been known from the
very first. Stephen, you are in instant danger. You must away at
once."
"I do not believe it."
"Fool! How else could Jane have sent this word? She says Cromwell has
known it from its beginning. The man has a devil; who can circumvent
him? You must fly at once. The warrant for your arrest will doubtless
come by to-night's mail. My God, are our troubles never to cease? Is
everything not countersigned by Cromwell to be a failure? It is
unendurable!"
"Everything with which Prince Rupert meddles is unfortunate," answered
Stephen. "He assigns all he touches with failure. I said so from the
beginning. He is, and was, the King's evil genius."
"You lie! You lie downright, Stephen! But this is no time for
quarreling. You must away, and that at once."
"And, pray, how? or where? I will not run. I will stand or fall with
the rest."
"What drivel, what nonsensical bombast are you talking? It is 'I,' 'I'
and still 'I' with you. Have you no consideration for others--for uncle
and aunt, and for poor, dying Anthony? Think of all he has done, and at
least let him go in the belief that he has saved de Wick."
"It is better to stand together."
"It is already--I'll wager that much--every man for himself. You must
take the North Road to Hull; you are sure of a ship there."
"And how the devil, sister, am I to reach Hull?"
"Take the sorrel horse; if any one sees you, you are for Squire
Mason's;" then hastily unlocking a drawer, she brought a little bag of
gold and put it in his hand. "There is enough and to spare for your
road to Paris." He flung the gold from him, and Matilda clasping her
hands frantically, cried "My God, Stephen, are you not going?"
"Storm your utmost, Matilda. I care not a rap; I will not budge from
this spot."
"But you must go! Stephen, Stephen, for my sake," and she burst into
passionate tears and sobs.
"Be quiet, Matilda. Women's counsel is always unlucky, but I will run,
if you say so. I feel like an ever-lasting scoundrel to do it."
"They will all run--if they can. There is a little time yet in your
favour. The mail-rider does not pass here till eight o'clock, or after.
You have four or five hours' grace."
He rose as she spoke, and she kissed him with passionate tenderness.
When he left the room, she ran to the roof of the house to watch which
road he took. If he went northward, he was for Hull, and bent on saving
his life; but if he went south, he was for London, and would doubtless
have the fate on Tower Hill he had been warned against. In about a
quarter of an hour she saw him riding at great speed northward, and
after watching him until he became a speck on the horizon, she went back
to her room, and she was weeping bitterly though quite unconscious of
it.
Her first act was to tear Jane's letter into minute pieces. She did it
with an inconceivable passion. Every shred of the paper fluttered into
the fire as if in conscious suffering, and when the last particle was
consumed, she stood with her folded hand on her mouth, looking at the
white ashy films, and considering what next to do. Her face was set and
frowning; she was summoning to her aid, by the very intensity of her
feeling, whatever power she possessed to counsel her perplexity.
Suddenly her face lightened; she smiled, nodded her handsome head with
satisfaction, and then in a leisurely manner put on her garden hat and
walked to the stables. She was a daily visitor there, and her appearance
caused no surprise. She went at once to a young man known to be Stephen
de Wick's constant attendant whenever he was in the neighbourhood. She
knew he could be relied on, and as they stood together by Matilda's
Barbary mare, she said with the critical air of one talking about a
favourite animal, "Yupon, can you help in a matter for Earl Stephen? It
is life or death, Yupon, and I know of no one but you to come to--also,
there will be a few gold pieces."
"With or without gold, my lady, I am your servant. What is to be done?"
"You know the three large oak trees, just beyond the boundary of de
Wick?"
"I know them well, my lady."
"Be under the oaks to-night, at eight o'clock. Have with you a lanthorn
and a coil of strong rope. You will see Earl de Wick there, and when he
speaks, join him on the instant. Can he rely on you?"
"By my soul, he can; even to blood-letting."
"Be this our bargain then. Eight o'clock--no later. And on my honour, I
promise, there shall no guilt of blood-letting stick to your hands."
"Let me perish, if I am not there."
All the man's words had the savour of a strong, faithful spirit, and
Matilda went back to her room satisfied. The principal part of her plan
for Stephen's safety was accomplished; she had no doubts now as to its
prosperous carrying out. So she lay down and tried to compose herself;
and as the day darkened and the time for action came, she found a
strength and calmness that was sufficient. Without a sign of anxiety in
her heart, she eat her evening meal with her aunt, and then said,
"I am going to dismiss Delia, go to bed early, and sleep a headache
away." Lady Jevery said she was "in the same mind"; and this
circumstance, being much in Matilda's favour, gave her that satisfactory
feeling of "having the signs favourable," which we all appreciate when
we intend important work.
About seven o'clock she went to her brother's room, and brought away a
suit of his clothing; and when she had dressed herself in it, and put a
pistol and hunting-knife in her belt, and a large plumed hat on her
head, she looked in the mirror with the utmost satisfaction. She was
her brother's double; quite his height, and singularly like him in
carriage, face and manner. Of this resemblance she had soon a very
convincing proof, for as she passed through the hall, her own maid Delia
curtsied to her, and said, "My lady is sick to-night, sir, and will not
be disturbed." And Matilda bowed and passed on. As for the other
servants, in and out of the house, they knew they were to have eyes and
see not; and ears, and hear not. Therefore, though several met, as they
supposed, the young Earl leaving the house, there was no further
recognition of the fact among themselves, than a lifting of the
eyebrows, or some enigmatical remark, only to be understood by those _en
rapport_ with the circumstances.
Matilda walked quickly through the garden, and still more quickly
through the lonely chase. She was not afraid of the thing she was going
to do, but she was afraid of the toads and snails, and the unknown deer
and dogs that thought the wooded space their own. But without
molestation she arrived at the three oaks. Yupon Slade was already
there. He showed her the light of the lanthorn for a moment, and then
his black-cloaked figure and masked face blended indeterminately with
the darkness around him. For nearly an hour Matilda walked up and down
the road, keeping well within call of her companion. But about nine
o'clock the sound of a horse coming at an easy gallop was heard, and
Yupon was softly called. He was at Matilda's side as the rider came
near them. She advanced to meet him, calling pleasantly, "Miles Watson,
a word, if it please you."
The voice was familiar and kind, and Miles drew rein and asked, "Who
calls me? I am on the Commonwealth's business, and cannot be delayed."
Then Matilda, pointing the pistol in his face said, "You must light from
your horse, Miles Watson." Miles tried then to proceed, but Yupon had
whispered to the animal he rode, and the creature took no notice of his
rider's persuasions. The pistol was dangerously near; Yupon's rough
order "to tumble" was not unaccompanied by threats, and Watson thought
it best to obey quietly, where he could not resist. When Yupon had
bound him securely, Matilda took the lanthorn, and drawing from her
girdle the sharp hunting-knife, she cut open the leathern mail-bag, and
turned the light upon its contents. The small private letters she
hardly noticed, but there were three ominous-looking papers closed with
large red seals, and these she instantly seized. They were all directed
to the Sheriff of Ely; and she felt sure they were the authority for
Stephen's arrest. She took possession of the whole three, bade Yupon
set loose the horse, and leaving the other contents of the rifled
mail-bag on the grass by the side of the bound carrier, she put into her
companion's hand the promised gold pieces, and then slipped away into
the shadows and darkness of de Wick chase.
[Illustration: "THREE OMINOUS-LOOKING PAPERS."]
Once within its boundaries she ran like a deer till she reached the
house. All was shut and silent, but she was prepared for this
emergency. She had a key to her private rooms, and she reached them
without sight or sound that could betray her. Indeed, she felt
reasonably certain that neither Yupon nor the mail-rider had suspected
her disguise. When she put the gold in Yupon's hand he had said quite
naturally, "Thanks to you, Earl Stephen;" and twice over Miles Watson
vowed, "I shall be equal to you yet, Earl de Wick. I know who you be,
Earl de Wick."