together, and lit a candle by their blaze. Then she opened one of the
letters. It was a warrant for the arrest of Squire Mason. The next
opened was a warrant for the arrest of Lord Frederick Blythe; but the
third was, truly enough, the warrant for the arrest of Stephen de Wick,
for treason against the Commonwealth and conspiracy against the life of
the Protector. She drew her mouth tightly, and tore the whole three
warrants across, and threw them into the flames. When they were ashes,
she turned quickly, divested herself of her brother's clothing, and put
on her own garments. Then she carried Stephen's suit to his room, and
afterwards put out the candle and went to bed.
But it was dawn before she could sleep. She lay calculating the time
that it would take to get fresh warrants, and her conclusion was, "If
Stephen have the least bit of good fortune, he will be out of danger,
before they know in London that their lying warrants are beyond looking
after. And I am glad I have done Mason and Blythe a good turn. At dawn
I will send them a message they will understand. Oh, indeed, Mr.
Cromwell, if you can spy, others can spy also!" She was a little
troubled when she thought of her aunt and Anthony Lynn. "But, Lord!"
she said audibly, "it is not time yet to face the question; I shall be
ready for it when it comes."
She did not anticipate this trial for some days. "They will begin to
wonder in two days what the sheriff has done in the matter; in three
days they may write to ask; about the fifth day he may let them know he
never got the warrants; then there will be new warrants to make out, and
to send, and all this net spread in the sight of the birds, and the
birds flown. In all conscience, I may take my ease for one clear
week--then--perhaps I may be in London. I will consider of it."
Her plan had, however, been too hastily formed and carried out to admit
of a thorough consideration, and in her hurry of rifling the mail, it
had not occurred to her that one of those small, unimportant-looking
letters might also be for the sheriff. This in fact was the case. When
daylight brought rescue to the bound carrier, the rejected letters were
gathered up, and one of them was a letter of instructions regarding the
three warrants to be served. It directed the sheriff to take Mason and
Blythe to Ely for trial, but to bring Stephen de Wick to the Tower of
London.
Now the overtopping desire and ambition of Sheriff Brownley's heart was
to visit London officially; and this shameful theft had at least put a
stay on the golden opportunity of going there with a prisoner of such
high rank and high crimes as Stephen de Wick. He was in a passion of
disappointment, and hastily securing a warrant to arrest Stephen de Wick
for mail robbery, he went to de Wick to serve it.
For no one had a doubt as to the culprit. The mail-rider swore
positively that it was Stephen de Wick. "He minced and mouthed his
words," he said, "but I knew his face and figure, and also the scarlet
beaver with the white plumes with which he joys to affront the decent
men and women of Ely; yes, and his doublet, I saw its white slashings
and white cords and tassels. Till I die, I will swear it was Stephen de
Wick; he, and no other, except Yupon Slade, or I am not knowing Slade's
way with horses. He whispered a word to my beast, and the creature
planted his forefeet like a rock; no one but Yupon or his gypsy kin can
do that. And Slade has been seen often with de Wick; moreover, he has
work in Anthony Lynn's stables--and as for Anthony Lynn God only knows
the colour of his thoughts."
It was Delia who, about the noon hour, came flying into her lady's
presence with the news that the sheriff was in the stables talking to
Yupon Slade, and that he had two constables with him.
"What do they want, Delia? I suppose I must say whom do they want? Is
it Mr. Lynn, or Lady Jevery, or myself?"
"I think it will be Earl de Wick they are after, my lady."
"'Tis most likely. Bid them to come in and find Earl de Wick. Give me
my blue velvet gown, Delia, the one with the silver trimmings."
Silently she assumed this splendid garment, and then descended to the
main salon of the house. Her great beauty, her majestic presence, her
royal clothing produced an instant impression. The sheriff--hatted
before Anthony Lynn--bared his head as she approached. He explained to
her his visit, the robbery committed, the certainty that Stephen de Wick
was the criminal, and the necessity he was under to make a search of the
house for him. She listened with disdainful apathy. "Mr. Lynn," she
said, tenderly placing her hand on his shoulder; "let the men search
your house. Let them search even my private rooms. They will find
nothing worse than themselves anywhere. As for Earl de Wick, he is not
in England at all."
The old man gave a gasp of relief and remained silent. It was evident
that he was suffering, and Matilda felt a great resentment towards the
intruders. "Why do you not go about your business?" she asked
scornfully. "Under the King, an Englishman's house was his castle; but
now--now, no one is safe whom you choose to accuse. Go!" she said with
an imperious movement, "but Mr. Lynn's steward must go with you. You
may be officers of the law--who knows?--and you may be thieves."
"Anthony Lynn knows who we be," answered the sheriff angrily. "We be
here on our duty--honest men all of us; say so, Anthony."
"You say it," replied Lynn feebly.
"And the lady must say it."
"Go about your business," interrupted Matilda loftily. "It is not your
business to browbeat Mr. Lynn and myself."
"Thieves, indeed! Stephen de Wick is the thief. He robbed the mail at
nine o'clock, last night."
"You lie! You lie damnably!" answered Matilda. "Earl de Wick was miles
and miles away from de Wick at nine o'clock last night." Then she bent
over Anthony Lynn, and with an intolerable scorn was deaf and dumb and
blind to the sheriff and his companions. Only when the steward entered,
did she appear to be aware of their presence. "Benson," she said, "you
will permit these men to search every room and closet, and pantry and
mouse hole for the Earl. And you will see that they touch neither gold
nor silver, pottery nor picture, or anything whatever--but Earl de Wick.
They may take the Earl--if they can find him."
The men were about an hour making their search, and during this interval
Lady Jevery had been summoned, and Anthony had received the stimulating
drug on which he relied. But he was very ill; and Lady Jevery, who
adored her nephew, was weeping and full of anxious terror. Matilda
vainly assured her Stephen was safe. She insisted on doubting this
statement.
"You thought he went north at four o'clock, but I feel sure he only went
as far as Blythe. No one but Stephen would have dared to commit such a
crime as was committed at nine o'clock. But 'tis most like him and
Frederick Blythe; and they will be caught, I feel sure they will."
"They will not be caught, aunt. And if it were Stephen and Blythe, they
did right. Who would not steal a warrant for his own beheading, if he
could? I sent a message to Blythe and Mason at dawn this morning, and
they are far away by this time."
At this point the sheriff reentered the room. He was in a vile temper,
and did not scruple to exercise it. "The man has gone," he said to
Anthony Lynn; "and I believe you know all about the affair."
"About what affair? The mail robbery?"
"Just that. What are you doing with profane and wicked malignants in
your house? I would like to know that, Anthony Lynn."
"To the bottomless pit with your liking," answered Anthony shaking from
head to feet with passion. "What have you to do with me and my friends?
This is my house, not yours."
"You are none of Cromwell's friend. Many people beside me say that of
you."
"I am glad they do me so much honour. Cromwell! Who is Cromwell? A man
to joy the devil. No, I am not his friend!" and with a radiant
smile--"I thank my Maker for it."
He spoke with increasing difficulty, scarcely above a whisper, though he
had risen to his feet, and believed himself to have the strong,
resounding voice of his healthy manhood. The sheriff turned to his
attendants--
"You hear the traitor!" he cried. "You heard Anthony Lynn turn his back
on himself! I knew him always for a black heart and a double tongue.
We must have a warrant for him, and that at once."
"Fool!" said the trembling, tottering old man, with a superhuman scorn,
as his clay-like face suddenly flamed into its last colour. "Warrant!
warrant! Oliver Cromwell has no warrant to fit my name. I go now on
the warrant of the King of kings. Put me in the deepest dungeon, His
_habeas corpus_ sets me free of you. Matilda! Stephen! I am going to
my dear lord--to my dear King--to my dear God!" and as a strong man
shakes off a useless garment, so Anthony Lynn dropped his body, and in
that moment his spirit flew away further than thought could follow it.
"What a villain!" cried the sheriff.
"Villain, in your face," answered Matilda passionately. "Out of the
presence of holy death! You are not fit to stand by his dead body! Go,
on this instant! Sure, if you do not, there are those who will make
you!"
With these words she cried out for her servants in a voice full of
horror and grief, and the first person to answer her cry was Cymlin
Swaffham. He came in like some angry young god, his ruddy face and
blazing eyes breathing vengeful inquiry. Matilda went to his side,
clung to his arm, pointed to the dead man on the hearth and the
domineering figure of the sheriff above it, and cried, "Cymlin, Cymlin,
send him away! Oh, 'twas most unmercifully done!"
"Sir," said Cymlin, "you exceed your warrant. Have you arrested Stephen
de Wick?"
"The man has run, Mr. Swaffham, and madame there knows it."
"You have nothing to do with Lady Matilda. If the house has been
searched, your business here is finished. You can go."
"Mr. Swaffham, if you don't know, you ought to be told, that Anthony
Lynn--just dead and gone--was a double-dyed Royalist scoundrel; and I
and my men here will swear to it. He confessed it, joyed himself in the
death struggle against the Lord Protector; we all heard the man's own
words;" and the sheriff touched with the point of his boot, the lifeless
body of Anthony Lynn.
"Touch off!" cried Matilda. "How dare you boot the dead? You infinite
scoundrel!"
"Sheriff, your duty is done. It were well you left here, and permitted
the dead to have his rights."
"He is a traitor! A King's man! A lying Puritan!"
"He is nothing at all to us, or to the world, now. To his Master above
he will stand or fall; not to you or me, or even to the law of England."
Then he turned to Matilda and led her to a sofa, and comforted her; and
the men-servants came and took away the dead body and laid it, as
Anthony wished, on his old master's bed. Lady Jevery went weeping to
her room, and the sound of lamentation and of sorrow passed up and down
the fine stairway, and filled the handsome rooms. But the dead man lay
at peace, a smile of gratified honour on his placid face, as if he yet
remembered that he had, at the last moment, justified himself to his
conscience and his King.
And in the great salon, now cleared of its offending visitors, Cymlin
sat comforting Matilda. He could not let this favourable hour slip; he
held her hand and soothed her sorrow, and finally questioned her in a
way that compelled her to rely, in some measure, upon him.
"Stephen was here yesterday?" he asked.
"Part of the day. He left here at four in the afternoon."
"Yet the mail-rider, under oath, swore this morning that it was Stephen
who robbed the mail."
She laughed queerly, and asked, "What did Yupon Slade say?"
"Yupon proved that he was in the tinker's camp at Brentwick from sunset
to cock-crowing. Half-a-dozen men swore to it. People now say it was
Stephen and Frederick Blythe. But if it was not Stephen, who was it?"
and he looked with such a steady, confident gaze into Matilda's face,
that she crimsoned to her finger-tips. She could not meet his eyes, and
she could not speak.
"I wonder who played at being Stephen de Wick," he said gently. And the
silence between them was so sensitive, that neither accusation nor
confession was necessary.
"I wish that you had trusted me. You might have done so and you know
it."
Then they began to talk of what must be done about the funeral. Cymlin
promised to send a quick messenger for Sir Thomas, and in many ways made
himself so intimately necessary to the lonely women that they would not
hear of his leaving de Wick. For Matilda was charmed by his
thoughtfulness, and by the masterful way in which he handled people and
events. He enforced every tittle of respect due the dead man, and in
obedience to Matilda's desire had his grave dug in the private
burying-place of the de Wicks, close to the grave of the lord he had
served so faithfully. As for the accusations the sheriff spread abroad,
they died as soon as born; Cymlin's silent contempt withered them, for
his local influence was so great that the attending constables thought
it best to have no clear memory of what passed in those last moments of
Anthony's life.
"Lynn was neither here nor there," said one of them; "and what he said
was just like dreaming. Surely no man is to be blamed for words between
sleeping and waking--much less for words between living and dying." But
the incident made much comment in the King's favour; and when Sir Thomas
heard of it, he rose to his feet and bared his head, but whether in
honour of the King or of Anthony Lynn, he did not say.
After Anthony was buried, his will was read. He left everything he
possessed to the Lady Matilda de Wick, and no one offered a word of
dissent. Sir Thomas seemed unusually depressed and his lady asked him
"if he was in any way dissatisfied?"
"No," he answered; "the will is unbreakable by any law now existing.
Lynn has hedged and fenced every technicality with wonderful wisdom and
care. It is not anything in connection with his death that troubles me.
It is the death of the young Lord Neville that gives me constant regret.
It is unnatural and most unhappy; and I do blame myself a little."
"Is he dead? Alas! Alas! Such a happy, handsome youth. It is
incredible," said Lady Jevery.
"I thought he had run away to the Americas with your gold and my aunt's
jewels," said Matilda.
"I wronged him, I wronged him grievously," answered Sir Thomas. "That
wretch of a woman at The Hague never paid him a farthing, never even saw
him. She intended to rob me and slay him for a thousand pounds, but
under question of the law she confessed her crime."
"I hope she is hung for it," said Lady Jevery.
"She is ruined, and in prison for life--but that brings not back poor
Neville."
"What do you think has happened to him?"
"I think robbery and murder. Some one has known, or suspected, that he
had treasure with him. He has been followed and assassinated, or he has
fought and been killed. Somewhere within fifty miles of Paris he lies in
a bloody, unknown grave; and little Jane Swaffham is slowly dying of
grief and cruel suspense. She loves him, and they were betrothed."
There was a short silence, and then Matilda said, "Jane was not kind to
poor Stephen. He loved her all his life, and yet she put Lord Neville
before him. As for Neville, the nobility of the sword carry their lives
in their hands. That is understood. Many brave young lords have gone
out from home and friends these past years, and never come back. Is
Neville's life worth more than my brother's life, than thousands of
other lives? I trow not!"
But in the privacy of her room she could not preserve this temper. "I
wonder if Rupert slew him," she muttered. And anon--
"He had money and jewels, and the King and his poverty-stricken court
cry, 'Give, give,' constantly.
"He would think it no wrong--only a piece of good luck.
"He would not tell me because of Jane.
"He might also be jealous of Cluny. I spoke often of the youth's
beauty--I did that out of simple mischief--but Rupert is touchy,
sometimes cruel--always eager for gold. Poor Jane!"
Then she put her hand to her breast. The portrait of Prince Rupert that
had lain there for so many years was not in its place. She was not
astonished; very often lately she had either forgotten it, or
intentionally refused to wear it. And Stephen's assertion that failure
was written on all Rupert touched had found its echo in her heart. When
she dressed herself to secure the warrant, she purposely took off
Rupert's picture and put it in her jewel box. She went there now to look
for it, and the haunting melancholy of the dark face made her shiver.
"Stephen told me the very truth," she thought. "He has been my evil
genius as well as the King's. While his picture has been on my heart, I
have seen all I love vanish away." A kind of terror made her close her
eyes; she would not meet Rupert's sorrow-haunted gaze, though it was
only painted. She felt as if to do so was to court misfortune, and
though the old love tugged at her very life, she lifted one tray and
then another tray of her jewel case, and laid Prince Rupert under them
both.
*CHAPTER XIV*
*A LITTLE FURTHER ON*
"Like ships, that sailed for sunny isles,
But never came to shore."
"I could lie down like a tired child,
And weep away the life of care
Which I have borne, and yet must bear."
"He is most high who humblest at God's feet
Lies, loving God and trusting though He smite."
The settlement of the affairs of Anthony Lynn occupied Sir Thomas much
longer than he expected, and the autumn found the family still at de
Wick. For other reasons, this delay in the retirement of the country
had seemed advisable. Stephen had escaped, as had also his companion
conspirators, Mason and Blythe; and Matilda could not but compliment
herself a little on her share in securing their safety. But the plot
and its consequences had kept London on the alert all summer. Little of
this excitement reached them. Sir Thomas was busy laying out a garden
after a plan of Mr. Evelyn's; Lady Jevery was making perfumes and
medicinal waters, washes for the toilet and confections for the table.
Matilda was out walking or riding with Cymlin Swaffham, or sitting with
him in the shady garden or in the handsome rooms of de Wick. Her uncle
had presented her with a fine organ, but her lute suited her best, and
she knew well what a beautiful picture she made, singing to its tinkling
music.
If Cymlin was in the hall, she came down the stairway--flooded with
coloured lights from its painted windows--lute in hand, singing--singing
of young Adonis or cruel Cupid; her rich garments trailing, her white
hands flashing, her face bent to her adorer, her voice filling the space
with melody. Or she sat in the window, with the summer scents and sun
around her, musically mocking Love, as if he never had or never could
touch her. Cymlin knew all her entrancing ways, and followed her in
them with wonderful prudence. No word of his great affection passed his
lips; he let his eyes and his actions speak for him; and there had been
times when Matilda, provoked by his restraint, had used all her
fascinations to compel his confession. But she had to deal with a man of
extraordinary patience, one who could bide his time, and he knew his
time had not yet come.
Towards the middle of September Sir Thomas roused himself from his life
among flowers and shrubs, and said he must go back to London. He was
expecting some ships with rich cargoes, and the last flowers were
beginning to droop, and the rooks were complaining, as they always do
when the mornings are cold; the time for the outdoor life was ended; he
had a sudden desire for his wharf and his office, and the bearded,
outlandish men that he would meet there. And as the ladies also wished
to return to London, the beautiful home quickly put on an air of
desertion. Boxes littered the hall; they were only waiting until the
September rain-storm should pass away, and the roads become fit for
travel.
At this unsettled time, and in a driving shower, Cymlin and Doctor
Verity were seen galloping up the avenue one evening. Every one was
glad at the prospect of news and company, Sir Thomas so much so, that he
went to the door to meet the Doctor. "Nobody could be more welcome," he
said; "and pray, what good fortune brings you here?"
"I come to put my two nephews in Huntingdon Grammar school. I want them
to sit where Cromwell sat," he answered.
Then he drew his chair to the hearth, where the ash logs burned and
blazed most cheerfully, and looked round upon the company--the genial
Sir Thomas, and his placid, kindly lady, and the beautiful girl, who was
really his hostess. Nor was he unmindful of Cymlin at her side, for in
the moment that his eyes fell on the young man, he seemed to see, as in
letters of light, an old description of Englishmen, and to find in
Cymlin its expression--"_a strong kind of people, audacious, bold,
puissant and heroical; of great magnanimity, valiancy and prowess_."
As he was thinking these things, Sir Thomas said, "You must make us wise
about events. We have had only the outlines of them, and we are going
into the midst of we know not what. As to the great plot, was it as
black as it was painted?"
"Like all the works of the devil, it grew blacker as it was pulled into
the light. It was soon an indisputable fact, that de Baas, Mazarin's
envoy extraordinary in London, was head over heels in the shameful
business. I can tell you, de Baas had a most unpleasant hour with the
Protector; under Cromwell's eyes and questions, he wilted away like a
snail under salt."
"What did Cromwell do to him?"
"Sent him back to King Louis and to Mazarin with a letter. _They_ have
done the punishing, I have no doubt. He would better have thrown himself
on Cromwell's mercy than face Mazarin with his tale of being found out.
More like than not he is at this hour in the Bastile. No one will hear
any more of M. de Baas."
"Then you think Mazarin was really in the plot to assassinate?"
"No doubt of it; de Baas was only his creature. Both of them should be
rolled into their graves, with their faces downward."
"And King Louis the Fourteenth?"
"He knew all about the affair. Kings and Priests! Kings and Priests!
they would trick the world away, were it not that now and then some
brave yeoman were a match for them."
"And Prince Rupert?"
"Neck deep. That was fortunate, for he is a luckless blackguard, and
dooms all he touches."
"If a man is unfortunate, he is not therefore wicked, Doctor. These men
were plotting for what they believed a good end," said Matilda with some
temper.
"Good ends never need assassination, my lady; if evil is done, evil will
come from it."
"I think we ought to pity the men."
"Pity them, indeed! Not I! The scaffold and the halter is their just
reward."
"Forty, I heard, were arrested."
"Cromwell had only three brought to trial. Gerard was beheaded, Vowell
hung, Fox threw himself on Cromwell's mercy and was pardoned."
"Was not that too much leniency?"
"No. Cromwell poked the fire to let them see he could do it; but he did
not want to burn every one. He has made known to England and to Europe,
and especially to France, his vigilance. He has escaped the death they
intended for him. He has proved to the Royalists, by Gerard's and
Vowell's execution, that he will not spare them because they are
Englishmen. Beyond this he will not go. It is enough. Most of the
forty were only tools. It is not Cromwell's way to snap at the stick,
but at the cowardly hands that hold it."
"If he can reach them," muttered Matilda.
"Then, Sir Thomas, we have united Scotland to the Commonwealth.
Kingship is abolished there; vassalage and slavish feudal institutions
are swept away; heritors are freed from military service. Oh, 'tis a
grand union for the Scotch common people! I say nothing of the nobles;
no reparation has been made them--they don't deserve any; they are
always invading England on one pretext or another. But they cannot now
force the poor heritors to throw down their spades and flails, and carry
spears for them. The men may sow their wheat and barley, and if it will
ripen in their cold, bleak country, they can bake and brew it, and eat
and drink it in peace."
"I do not believe Englishmen like this union, Doctor. I do not--it is
all in favour of Scotland. They have nothing to give us, and yet we
must share all our glory and all our gains with them. They do not
deserve it. They have done nothing for their own freedom, and we have
made them free. They have no commerce, and we must share ours with
them. And they are a proud, masterful people; they will not be mere
buttons on the coat-tails of our rulers. Union, indeed! It will be a
cat and a dog union."