scholar does to Latin--however well he knows it, it is not his mother
tongue. What we like, has nothing to do with the question. It is
England's labour and duty and honour to give freedom to all over whom
her Red Cross floats; to share her strength and security with the weak
and the vassal, and her wine and her oil and her purple raiment with the
poverty-stricken. England must open her hands, and drop blessings upon
the deserving and the undeserving; yes, even where the slave does not
know he is a slave, she must make him free."
"And get kicked and reviled for it."
"To be sure--the rough side of the tongue, and the kick behind always;
but even slavish souls will find out what freedom means, if we give them
time."
"But, Doctor----"
"But me no buts, Sir Thomas. Are we not great enough to share our
greatness? I trow we are!"
"I confess, Doctor, that in spite of what you say, my patriotism dwells
between the Thames and the Tyne."
"Patriotism! 'Tis a word that gets more honour than it deserves. Half
the wars that have desolated this earth have come from race hatreds.
Patriotism has been at the bottom of the bloodiest scenes; every now and
then it threatens civilisation. If there were no Irish and no Scotch
and no French and no Dutch and no Spanish, we might hope for peace. I
think the time may come when the world will laugh at what we call our
'patriotism' and our fencing ourselves from the rest of mankind with
fortresses and cannon."
"That time is not yet, Doctor Verity. When the leopard and the lamb lie
down together, perhaps. But all men are not brothers yet, and the
English flag must be kept flying."
"The day may come when there will be no flags; or at least only one
emblem for one great Commonwealth."
"Then the Millennium will have come, Doctor," said Sir Thomas.
"In the meantime we have Oliver Cromwell!" laughed Matilda, "and pray,
Doctor, what state does his Highness keep?"
"He keeps both in Hampton Court and Whitehall a magnificent state. That
it due to his office."
"I heard--but it is a preposterous scandal--that the Lady Frances is to
marry King Charles the Second," said Lady Jevery.
"A scandal indeed! Cromwell would not listen to the proposal. He loves
his daughter too well to put her in the power of Charles Stuart; and the
negotiation was definitely declined, on the ground of Charles Stuart's
abominable debauchery."
"Imagine this thing!" cried Matilda striking her hands together.
"Imagine King Charles refused by Oliver Cromwell's daughter!"
"It was hard for Charles to imagine it," replied the Doctor.
"I hear we have another Parliament," said Sir Thomas.
"Yes; a hazardous matter for Cromwell," answered the Doctor. "All
electors were free to vote, who had not borne arms against the
Parliament. Most of them are Episcopalians, who hate Cromwell; and
Presbyterians, who hate him still worse; and Republicans, who are sure
he wants to be a King; and Fifth Monarchy men and Anabaptists, who think
he has fallen from grace. Ludlow, Harrison, Rich, Carew, even
Joyce--once his close friends--have become his enemies since he was
lifted so far above them. And they have their revenge. Their desertion
has been a great grief to the Protector. 'I have been wounded in the
house of my friends,' he said to me; and he had the saddest face that
ever mortal wore. Yet, it is a great Parliament, freely chosen, with
thirty members from Scotland, and thirty from Ireland."
"After Cromwell's experience with the Irish," said Matilda, "I do wonder
that he made them equal with Scotland."
"I do wonder at it, also. John Verity would not have done it, not he!
But the Protector treads his shoes straight for friend or foe. He will
get no thanks from the Irish for fair dealing; that is not enough for
them; what they want is all for themselves, and nothing for any one
else; and if they got that, they would still cry for more."
At this point Matilda rose and went into an adjoining parlour, and
Cymlin followed her. Lady Jevery, reclining in her chair, closed her
eyes, and the Doctor and Sir Thomas continued their conversation on
Cromwell and on political events with unabated spirit until Lady Jevery,
suddenly bringing herself to attention, said--
"All this is very fine talk, indeed; but if this great Oliver has
ambassadors from every country seeking his friendship, if he has the
wily Mazarin at his disposal, why can he not find out something about
that poor Lord Neville? It was said when we were in Paris that Mazarin
knew every scoundrel in France, and knew also how to use them. Let him
find Neville through them. Has Colonel Ayrton returned, or is he also
missing?"
"He returned some time ago. He discovered nothing of importance. It is
certain that Neville left the Mazarin palace soon after noon on the
seventh of last November; that he went directly to the house in which he
had lodged, eat his dinner, paid his bill, and gave the woman a silver
Commonwealth crown for favour. She showed the piece to Ayrton, and said
further that, soon after eating, a gentleman called on Neville, that in
her presence Neville gave him some letters, and that after this
gentleman's departure, Neville waited very impatiently for a horse which
he had bought that morning, and which did not arrive on time; that when
it did arrive, it was not the animal purchased, but that after some
disputing, Neville agreed to take the exchange. The horse dealer was a
gypsy, and Ayrton spent some time in finding him, and then in watching
him. For Ayrton judged--and I am sure rightly--that if the gypsy had
followed and slain and robbed Neville, he could not refrain himself from
wearing the broidered belt and sapphire ring of his victim. Besides
which, your jewels would have been given to the women of his camp. But
no sign of these things was found--kerchief, or chain or purse, or any
trifle that had belonged to the unfortunate young man."
"Was there any trace of him after he left Paris?"
"Yes. Ayrton found out that he stayed half-an-hour at a little inn
fourteen miles beyond Paris to have his horse fed and watered. One of
the women at this house described him perfectly, and added that as he
waited he was singing softly to himself, a thing so likely, and so like
Cluny, that it leaves no doubt in my mind of his identity; and that he
was really there 'between gloaming and moonshine' on the eleventh of
last November. Beyond that all is blank--a deaf and dumb blank."
"How far was it to the next house?"
"Only two or three miles; but no one there remembered anything that
passed on that night. They said that horsemen in plenty, and very often
carriages, were used to pass that way, but that unless they stopped for
entertainment, no attention was paid to travelers."
"Who was the gentleman who visited Cluny and received his letters?"
"Menzies of Musselburg, an old friend of Neville's mother. Ayrton went
to Scotland to question him, but to no purpose."
"Then I suppose we shall see no more of Lord Neville. I am very sorry.
He was a good youth, and he loved Jane Swaffham very honestly. And my
jewels, too, are gone, and if it were worth while, I could be sorry for
them also; one set was of great value and singular workmanship. But
they count for little in comparison with Neville's life and little
Jane's sorrow."
A week after this evening the Jeverys were in their own house, and
Matilda had sent word to Jane Swaffham that she wanted to see her. Why
she did this, she hardly knew. Her motives were much mixed, but the
kindly ones predominated. At any rate, they did so when the grave
little woman entered her presence. For she came to meet Matilda with
outstretched hands and her old sweet smile, and she expressed all her
usual interest in whatever concerned Matilda. Had she met her weeping
and complaining, Matilda felt she would almost have hated her. But
there was nothing about Jane suggestive of the great sorrow through
which she was passing. Her eyes alone told of her soul's travail; the
lids drooped, and there was that dark shadow in them, which only comes
through the incubation of some long, anxious grief in the heart. But
her smile was as ready and sweet, her manner as sympathetic, her dress
as carefully neat and appropriate as it had always been.
Matilda fell readily under the charm of such a kind and self-effacing
personality. She opened her heart on various subjects to Jane, more
especially on Anthony Lynn's dramatic life and death, and the money and
land he had left her. "Of course," she said, "it is only temporary.
When the King comes home, Stephen will be Earl de Wick, and I shall
willingly resign all to him. In the meantime I intend to carry out
Anthony's plans for the improvement of the estate; and for this end, I
shall have to live a great deal at de Wick. Lynn often said to me,
'Some one must own the land, and the person who owns it ought to live on
it.'"
When this subject had been talked well over, Jane named cautiously the
lover in France. Much to her surprise, Matilda seemed pleased to
enlarge on the topic. She spoke herself of Prince Rupert, and of the
poverty and suffering Charles' Court, were enduring, and she regretted
with many strong expressions Rupert's presence there. "All he makes is
swallowed up in the bottomless Stuart pit," she said; "even my youth and
beauty have gone the same hopeless road."
"Not your beauty, Matilda. I never saw you look lovelier than you do
to-day."
"That I credit to Cymlin," she answered. "He would not let me mope--you
know how masterful he is"--and Matilda laughed and put her hands over
her ears; "he _made_ me go riding and walking, _made_ me plant and
gather, _made_ me fish and hawk, _made_ me sing and play and read aloud
to him. And I have taught him a galliard and a minuet, and we have had
a very happy summer--on the whole. Happiness breeds beauty."
"Poor Cymlin!"
"There is no need to say 'poor Cymlin,' Jane Swaffham. I am not going to
abuse poor Cymlin. He is to be my neighbour, and I hope my catechism
has taught me what my duty to my neighbour is. Is it true that Will and
Tonbert have thrown their lives and fortunes into the Massachusetts
Colony?"
"Yes," answered Jane; "and if my parents were willing, I would like to
join them. The letters they send make you dream of Paradise. They have
bought a dukedom of land, father says, hills and valleys and streams,
and the great sea running up to their garden wall."
"Garden?"
"Yes, they have begun to build and to plant. There is no whisper of
their return, for they are as content as if they had found the Fortunate
Islands. Father is much impressed with their experience, and I can see
he ponders it like one who might perhaps share it. I am sure he would
leave England, if the Protector died."
"Or the King came back?"
"Yes. He would never live under a Stuart."
"The poor luckless Stuarts! They are all luckless, Jane. I have felt
it. I have drunk of their cup of disappointments, and really the
happiest time of my life has been the past summer, when I put them out
of my memory--king and prince, and all that followed them. Had it not
been for your kind note of warning, Stephen also had been a sacrifice to
their evil fate. It has to be propitiated with a life now and then,
just like some old dragon or devil."
"There was a queer story about Stephen robbing the mail, and tearing up
the three warrants for the arrest of Blythe and Mason and himself," said
Jane.
"Did you believe that, Jane?"
"The mail was robbed. The warrants were never found. Stephen has a
daredevil temper at times. I think, too, he would risk much to save his
friends. When did you hear from him?"
"I hear very often now, Jane, for it is the old, old story--money,
money, money. The King is hungry and thirsty; he has no clothes; he
cannot pay his washing bill; he has no shoes to go out in, and his 'dear
brother,' King Louis of France, is quite oblivious. In fact he has
made, or is going; to make, an alliance with Cromwell; and the Stuarts,
bag and baggage, are to leave French territory. But for all that, I am
not going to strip de Wick a second time for them;" then drawing Jane
close to her, and taking her hand she said with an impulsive
tenderness--
"Jane, dear Jane, I do not wish to open a wound afresh, but I am sorry
for you, I am indeed! How can you bear it?"
"I have cast over it the balm of prayer; I have shut it up in my heart,
and given my heart to God. I have said to God, 'Do as Thou wilt with
me.' I am content; and I have found a light in sorrow, brighter than
all the flaring lights of joy."
"Then you believe him to be dead?"
"Yes. There is no help against such a conclusion; and yet, Matilda,
there comes to me sometimes, such an instantaneous, penetrating sense of
his presence, that I must believe he is not far away;" and her confident
heart's still fervour, her tremulous smile, her eyes like clear water
full of the sky, affected Matilda with the same apprehending. "My soul
leans and hearkens after him," she continued; "and life is so short and
so full of duty, it may be easily, yes, cheerfully, borne a few years.
My cup is still full of love--home love, and friends' love; Cluny's love
is safe, and we shall meet again, when life is over."
"Will you know? Will he know? What if you _both_ forget? What if you
cannot find him? Have you ever thought of what multitudes there will be
there?"
"Yes; a great crowd that no man can number--a throng of worlds--but love
will bring the beloved. Love hath everlasting remembrance."
"Love is a cruel joy! a baseless dream! a great tragedy! a lingering
death!"
"No, no, no! Love is the secret of life. Love redeems us. Love lifts
us up. Love is a ransom. The tears of love are a prayer. I let them
fall into my hands, and offer them a willing sacrifice to Him who gave
me love. For living or dead, Cluny is mine, mine forever." And there
was such a haunting sweetness about the chastened girl, that Matilda
looked round wonderingly; it was as if there were freshly gathered
violets in the room.
She remained silent, and Jane, after a few minutes' pause, said, "I must
go home, now, and rest a little. To-morrow I am bid to Hampton Court,
and I am not as strong as I was a year ago. Little journeys tire me."
"And you will come and tell me all about your visit. The world turned
upside down is an entertaining spectacle. By my troth, I am glad to see
it at second hand! Ann Clarges the market-woman in one palace, and
Elizabeth Cromwell in another----"
"The Cromwells are my friends, Matilda. And I will assure you that
Hampton Court never saw a more worthy queen than Elizabeth Cromwell."
"I have a saucy tongue, Jane--do not mind when it backbites; there is no
one like you. I love you well!"--These words with clasped hands and
kisses between the two girls. Then Matilda's face became troubled, and
she sat down alone, with her brows drawn together and her hands tightly
clasped. "What shall I do?" she asked herself, and she could not
resolve on her answer; not, at least, while swayed by the gentle,
truthful atmosphere with which Jane had suffused the room. This
influence, however, was soon invaded by her own personality, dominant,
and not unselfish, and she quickly reasoned away all suggestions but
those which guarded her own happiness and comfort.
"If I tell about the duel with Rupert," she thought, "it can do no good
to the dead, and it may make scandal and annoyance for the living.
Cromwell will take hold of it, and demand not only the jewels and money
and papers, but also the body of Neville. That will make more ill
feeling to the Stuarts, and it is manifest they are already very
unwelcome with the French Court. It will be excuse for further
unkindness, and they have enough and more than enough to bear."
For a long time she sat musing in this strain, battling down intrusive
doubts, until at last she was forced to give them speech. She did so
impatiently, feeling herself compelled to rise and walk rapidly up and
down the room, because motion gave her a sense of resistance to the
thoughts threatening to overwhelm her.
"Did Rupert kill Neville?" she asked herself. "Oh, me, I do fear it.
And if so, I am to blame! I am to blame! I told Rupert Neville was
going to take charge of my aunt's jewels. Why was I such a fool? And
Rupert knew that Neville had papers Charles Stuart would like to see,
and money he would like to have. Oh, the vile, vile coin! I do fear
the man was slain for it--and by Rupert. He lied to me, then; of course
he lied; but that was no new thing for him to do. He has lied a
thousand times to me, and when found out only laughed, or said 'twas for
my ease and happiness, or that women could not bear the truth, or some
such trash of words; and so I was kissed and flattered out of my
convictions. Faith in God! but I have been a woman fit for his
laughter! What shall I do?" She went over and over this train of
thought, and ended always with the same irresolute, anxious question,
"What shall I do?"
It was not the first time she had accused Rupert in her heart. She knew
him to be an incomparable swordsman; she knew he regarded duelling as a
mere pastime or accident of life. The killing of Neville would not give
him a moment's discomfort,--quite otherwise, for he was a trifle jealous
of him in more ways than one; and there were money and information to be
gained by the deed. Politically, the man was his enemy, and to kill him
was only "satisfaction." The story Rupert told her of the duel had
always been an improbable one to her intelligence. She did not believe
it at the time, and the lapse of time had impaired whatever of
likelihood it possessed.
"Yes, yes," she said to herself. "Rupert undoubtedly killed Neville,
and gave the jewels and money and papers to Charles Stuart. But how can
I tell this thing? I cannot! If it would restore the man's
life--perhaps. Oh, that I had never seen him! How many miserable hours
I can mix with his name! The creature was very unworthy of Jane, and I
am glad he is dead. Yes, I am. Thousands of better men are slain, and
forgotten--let him be forgotten also. I will not say a word. Why
should I bring Rupert in question? One never knows where such inquiries
set on foot will stop, especially if that wretch Cromwell takes a hand
in the catechism." But she was unhappy, Jane's face reproached her; she
could not put away from her consciousness and memory its stillness, its
haunting pallor and unworldlike far-offness.
The next day Jane went to Hampton Court. The place made no more
favourable impression on her than it had done at her first visit.
Indeed, its melancholy, monastic atmosphere was even more remarkable.
The forest was bare and desolate, the avenues veiled in mist, the
battlemented towers black with rooks, the silence of the great
quadrangles only emphasised by the slow tread of the soldier on guard.
But Mrs. Cromwell had not lived in the Fen country without learning how
to shut nature's gloom outside. Jane was cheered the moment she entered
the old palace by the blaze and crackle of the enormous wood-fires.
Posy bowls, full of Michaelmas daisies, bronzed ferns, and late autumn
flowers were on every table; pots of ivy drooped from the mantel, and
the delicious odour of the tiny musk flower permeated every room with
its wild, earthy perfume.
She was conducted to an apartment in one of the suites formerly occupied
by Queen Henrietta Maria. It was gaily furnished in the French style,
and though years had dimmed the gilding and the fanciful paintings and
the rich satin draperies, it was full of a reminiscent charm Jane could
not escape. As she dressed herself she thought of the great men and
women who had lived and loved, and joyed and sorrowed under this ancient
roof of Wolsey's splendid palace. Henry the Eighth and his wives, young
Edward, the bloody Queen Mary, and the high-mettled Elizabeth; the
despicable James, and the tyrant Charles with his handsome favourite,
Buckingham, and his unfortunate advisers, Strafford and Laud. And then
_Oliver Cromwell_! What retributions there were in that name! It
implied, in its very simplicity, changes unqualified and uncompromising,
reaching down to the very root of things.
It seemed natural to dress splendidly to thoughts touching so many
royalties, and Jane looked with satisfaction at her toilet. It had
progressed without much care, but the result was fitting and beautiful:
a long gown of pale blue silk, with white lace sleeves and a lace
tippet, and a string of pearls round her throat. Anything more would
have been too much for Jane Swaffham, though when the Ladies Mary and
Frances came to her, she could not help admiring their bows and
bracelets and chains, their hair dressed with gemmed combs and their
hands full of fresh flowers. She thought they looked like princesses,
and they were overflowing with good-natured happiness.
Taking Jane by the hand, they led her from room to room, showing her
what had been done and what had been added, and lingering specially in
the magnificent suite which was all their own. It was very strange.
Jane thought of the little chamber with the sloping roof in the house
they occupied in Ely, and she wondered for a moment, if she was
dreaming. On their way to the parlours they passed the door of a room
Jane recollected entering on her previous visit, and she asked what
changes had been made in it?
"None," said Mary with a touch of something like annoyance.
"None at all," reiterated Frances. "You know Charles Stuart tried to
sleep in it, and he had dreadful dreams, and the night lamp was always
put out, and he said the place was full of horror and suffering. _It
was haunted_," the girl almost whispered. "My father said 'nonsense,'
and he slept in it two nights, and then----"
"Father found it too cold," interrupted Mary impatiently. "He never
said more than that. Listen! Some one is coming at full gallop--some
two, I think," and she ran to the window and peered out into the night.
"It is the Protector," she said; "and I believe Admiral Blake is with
him. Let us go down-stairs." And they took Jane's hands and went
together down the great stair-way. Lovelier women had never trod the
dark, splendid descent; and the soft wax-lights in the candelabra gave
to their youthful beauty a strange, dreamlike sense of unreal life and
movement. Mary and Frances were talking softly; Jane was thinking of
that closed room with its evil-prophesying dreams, and its lights put
out by unseen hands, and the mournful, superstitious King in his
captivity fearing the place, and feeling in it as Brutus felt when his
evil genius came to him in his tent and said, "I will meet thee again at
Philippi." Then in a moment there flashed across her mind a woeful
dream she had one night about Cluny. It had come to her in the height of
her hope and happiness, and she had put it resolutely from her. Now she
strove with all her soul to recollect it, but Frances would not be
still, and the dream slipped back below the threshold. She could have
cried. She had been on the point of saying, "Oh, do be quiet!" but the
soul's illumination had been too short and too impalpable for her to
grasp.
The next moment they were in a brilliantly lighted room. Mr. and Mrs.
Claypole, and Mr. and Mrs. Richard Cromwell, and Doctor John Owen, and
Mr. Milton, and Doctor Verity were grouped around her Highness the
Protector's handsome wife. And she was taking their homage as naturally
as she had been used to take attention in her simple home in Ely, being
more troubled about the proper serving of dinner than about her own
dignity. She sat at the Protector's right hand, and Jane Swaffham sat
at his left.
"The great men must scatter themselves, Jane," he said; "my daughter
Dorothy Cromwell wants to be near Mr. Milton, and Lady Claypole will
have none but Doctor Owen, and one way or another, you will have to be
content with my company," and he laid her hand under his hand, and
smiled down into her face with a fatherly affection.
He was in an unusually happy mood, and Doctor Owen remarking it, Admiral
Blake said, "They had been mobbed--mobbed by women--and the Protector
had the best of it, and that was a thing to pleasure any man." Then
Mrs. Cromwell laughed and said,
"Your Highness must tell us all now, or we shall be very discontented.
Where were you, to meet a mob of women?"
"We were in London streets, somewhere near the waterside. Blake was
with me, and Blake is going to Portsmouth to take command of an
expedition."
"Where to?" asked Mrs. Claypole.
"Well, Elizabeth, that is precisely the question this mob of women
wanted me to answer. You are as bad as they were. But they had some
excuse."
"Pray what excuse, sir, that I have not?"