Blake's mysterious expedition had soon been heard from. He had been at
Leghorn, getting compensation in money for English vessels sold there by
Prince Rupert. He had been thundering almost at the gates of the
Vatican, getting twenty thousand pistoles from Pope Alexander for
English vessels sold in the Roman See by the same prince. He had been
compelling the Grand Duke of Tuscany to give freedom of worship to
Protestants in his dominions. He had been in the Barbary States
demanding the release of Christian slaves, and getting at Algiers and
Tripoli all he asked.[1] Hitherto, naval battles had been fought out at
sea; Blake taught Europe that fleets could control kingdoms by
dominating and devastating their seaboard. While opening up to peaceful
commerce the Mediterranean, England had begun a war with Spain, and
Blake's next move was to take his fleet to intercept the Spanish
galleons coming loaded with gold and silver from the New World. His
first seizure on this voyage was thirty-eight wagon loads of bullion,
which he brought safely into the Thames, and which went reeling through
the old streets of London to the cheerful applause of the multitude.
Again, under the old peak of Teneriffe, Blake performed an action of
incredible courage; for, finding in that grand, eight-castled and
unassailable bay sixteen Spanish ships laden with gold and silver, lying
in crescent shape under the guns of the eight castles and forts, he took
his fleet directly into the crescent, and amid whirlwinds of fire and
iron hail, poured his broadsides in every direction and left the whole
sixteen Spanish ships charred and burning hulks. Indeed, from the Baltic
to the Mediterranean, from Algiers to Teneriffe, from Newfoundland to
Jamaica, the thunder of British cannon was heard and obeyed.
[1] One hundred and sixty years after Blake's punishment, England and
America united to finally put an end to the pirates of the
Mediterranean.
In the meantime Spain was helping Charles with money which was spent in
plots to assassinate the Protector. The effect of this underhand,
contemptible warfare was several petitions and addresses offered in
Parliament begging Cromwell to assume the ancient office of King, if
only for the settlement of the nation. He was quite strong enough to
have taken it, and there was nothing unmanly either in his desire for
the crown or in his refusal of it. His conscience, not his reason,
decided the question. He waited many a long, anxious night on his knees
for some sign or token of God's approbation of the kingship, but it did
not come; and Cromwell was never greater than when, steadily, and with
dignity, he put the glittering bauble aside--"Because for it, he would
not lose a friend, or even a servant." He told the Parliamentary
committee offering him the title that he "held it as a feather in a
man's cap;" then burst into an inspired strain, and quoting Luther's
psalm, "that rare psalm for a Christian," he added, "if Pope and
Spaniard and devil set themselves against us, yet the Lord of Hosts is
with us, and the God of Jacob is our refuge." One thing he knew well,
that the title of King would take all meaning out of the Puritan
revolution, and he could not so break with his own past, with his own
spiritual life, and with the godly men who had so faithfully followed
and so fully trusted him.
Why should he fret himself about a mere word? All real power was in his
hands: the army and the navy, the churches and the universities, the
reform and administration of the law, the government of Scotland and of
Ireland. Abroad, the war with all its details, the alliance with Sweden,
with France, with the Protestant princes of Germany, the Protestant
Protectorate extending as far as Transylvania, the "planting" of the
West Indies, the settlement of the American Colonies, and their defense
against their rivals, the French,--all these subjects were Cromwell's
daily cares. He was responsible for everything, and his burden would
have been lightened, if he could have conscientiously taken on him the
"divinity which doth hedge a king." The English people love what they
know, and they knew nothing of an armed Protector making laws by
ordinance, and disposing of events by rules not followed by their
ancestors. But Oliver knew that he would cross Destiny if he made
himself King, and that this "crossing" always means crucifixion of some
kind.
"To be a king is not in my commission," he said to Doctor Verity. "It
squares not with my call or my conscience. I will not fadge with the
question again; no, not for an hour."
The commercial and national glory of England at this time were, however,
in a manner incidental to Oliver's great object--the Protection of
Protestantism. This object was the apple of his eye, the profoundest
desire of his soul. He would have put himself at the head of all the
Protestants in Europe, if he could have united them; failing in this
effort, he vowed himself to cripple the evil authority of Rome and the
bloody hands of Inquisitorial Spain. His sincerity is beyond all doubt;
even Lingard, the Roman Catholic historian, says, "Dissembling in
religion is contradicted by the uniform tenor of his life." He wrote to
Blake that, "The Lord had a controversy with the Romish Babylon, of
which Spain is the under-propper;" and he made it his great business to
keep guard over Protestants, and to put it out of the power of princes
to persecute them. It is easy to say such a Protestant league was
behind the age. It was not. Had it been secured, the persecutions of
the Huguenots would not have taken place, and the history of those
hapless martyrs--still, after the lapse of two hundred years, read with
shuddering indignation--would have been very different. Cromwell knew
well what Popery had done to Brandeburg and Denmark, and what a
wilderness it had made of Protestant Germany, and his conception of duty
as Protector of all Protestants was at least a noble one. Nor was it
ineffective. On the very day he should have signed a treaty of alliance
with France against Spain, he heard of the unspeakably cruel massacre of
the Vandois Protestants. He threw the treaty passionately aside, and
refused to negotiate further until Louis and Mazarin put a stop to the
brutalities of the Duke of Savoy. As the details were told him, he
wept; and all England wept with him. Not since the appalling massacre
of Protestants in Ireland, had the country been so moved and so
indignant. Cromwell instantly gave two thousand pounds for the
sufferers who had escaped, and one hundred and forty thousand pounds was
collected in England for the same purpose. It was during the sorrowful
excitement of this time that Milton--now blind--wrote his magnificent
Sonnet,
"Avenge, O Lord, Thy slaughtered saints, whose bones
Lie scattered on the Alpine Mountains cold."
Furthermore, it was in Milton's luminous, majestic Latin prose that
Cromwell sent his demands to King Louis for these poor, pious
peasants,--demands not disregarded, for all that could be found alive
were returned to their desolated homes.
For the persecuted Jews his efforts were not as successful. They had
been banished from England in A.D. 1290, but three hundred and
sixty-five years of obstinate prejudice had not exhausted Christian
bigotry. Cromwell made a noble speech in favour of their return to
England, but the learned divines and lawyers came forward to "plead and
conclude" against their admission, and Cromwell, seeing no legal
sanction was possible, let the matter drop for a time. Yet his favour
towards the Jews was so distinct that a company of Oriental Jewish
priests came to England to investigate the Protector's genealogy, hoping
to find in him "the Lion of the tribe of Judah."
So these three years were full of glory and romance, and the poorest
family in England lived through an epic of such national grandeur as few
generations have witnessed. Yet, amid it all, the simple domestic lives
of men and women went calmly on, and birth, marriage, and death made
rich or barren their homes. Jane Swaffham attained in their progress to
a serene content she had once thought impossible. But God has appointed
Time to console the greatest afflictions, and she had long been able to
think of Cluny--not as lying in a bloody grave, but as one of the Sons
of God among the Hosts of Heaven. And this consolation accepted, she
had begun to study Latin and mathematics with Doctor Verity, and to give
her love and her service to all whom she could pleasure or help.
Indeed, she had almost lived with the Ladies Mary and Frances Cromwell,
who had passed through much annoyance and suffering concerning their
love affairs. But these were now happily settled, Lady Mary having
married Viscount Fanconburg, and Lady Frances the lover for whom she had
so stubbornly held out--Mr. Rich, the grandson of the Earl of Warwick.
Matilda's life during this interval had been cramped and saddened by the
inheritance from her previous years. Really loving Cymlin, she could not
disentangle the many threads binding her to the old unfortunate passion,
for, having become wealthy, the Stuarts would not resign their claim
upon her. Never had they needed money more; and most of their old
friends had been denuded, or worn out with the never-ceasing demands on
their affection. Thus she was compelled, often against her will, to be
aware of plots for the assassination of Cromwell--plots which shocked
her moral sense, and which generally seemed to her intelligence
exceedingly foolish and useless. These things made her restless and
unhappy, for she could not but contrast the splendour of the Protector's
character and government with the selfishness, meanness and incapacity
of the Stuarts.
She loved Cymlin, but she feared to marry him. She feared the
reproaches of Rupert, who, though he made no effort to consummate their
long engagement, was furiously indignant if she spoke of ending it.
Then, also, she had fears connected with Cymlin. When very young, he
had begun to save money in order to make himself a possible suitor for
Matilda's hand. His whole career in the army had looked steadily to
this end. In the Irish campaign he had been exceedingly fortunate; he
had bought and sold estates, and exchanged prisoners for specie, and in
other ways so manipulated his chances that in every case they had left
behind a golden residuum. This money had been again invested in English
ventures, and in all cases he had been signally fortunate. Jane had
told Matilda two years previously that Cymlin was richer than his
father, and she might have said more than this and been within the
truth.
But in this rapid accumulation of wealth, Cymlin had developed the love
of wealth. He was ever on the alert for financial opportunities, and,
though generous wherever Matilda was concerned, not to be trifled with
if his interests were in danger. So Matilda knew that if she would
carry out her intention of making over de Wick house and land to
Stephen, it must be done before she married Cymlin. Yet if she
surrendered it to Stephen under present circumstances, everything would
go, in some way or other, to the needy, beggarly Stuart Court. If
Cromwell were only out of the way! If King Charles were only on the
throne! he would have all England to tax and tithe, and Stephen would
not need to give away the home and lands of his forefathers.
She was fretfully thinking over this dilemma in its relation to a new
plot against Cromwell's life, when Jane Swaffham visited her one morning
in February of 1658. Jane's smiling serenity aggravated her restless
temper. "Does nothing on earth ever give you an unhappy thought, Jane?"
she asked. "You look as if you dwelt in Paradise."
"Indeed, I am very unhappy this morning, Matilda. Mr. Rich is thought to
be dying."
"And, pray heaven, _who is_ Mr. Rich?"
"You know who Mr. Rich is, perfectly. Why do you ask such a foolish
question? Lady Frances is broken-hearted. I am going now to Whitehall.
The Cromwells are in the greatest distress."
"On my word, they have kept others in the greatest distress for many
years! I am not sorry for them."
"I only called to tell you there is another plot."
"I have nothing to do with it."
"Some one you know may be in danger."
"Stephen is at Cologne. If you are thinking of Stephen, thank you. I
will write and tell him to keep good hope in his heart, that Jane
Swaffham remembers him."
"Dear Matilda, do not make a mock of my kindness. The Protector's
patience is worn out with this foolish animosity. He is generous and
merciful to no purpose. I myself think it is high time he ceased to
warn, and begin to punish. And poor Lady Rich! It would grieve you to
the heart to see her despair. She has only been three months married,
and it was such a true love match."
"Indeed it was a very 'good' match, love match or not. Frances Cromwell
to be Countess of Warwick. Faith, 'tis most easy to fall in love with
that state!"
"She might have chosen far greater state; you know it, Matilda. She was
sought by Charles Stuart, and by the Duke Enghien, and the Duke of
Buckingham, and by the Protector's ward, William Dutton, the richest
young man in England; but for love of Mr. Rich, and in spite of her
father's long opposition, she would marry no one else."
"Mr. Rich was good enough for her, surely!"
"Her father did not think so. There were reports of his drinking and
gaming."
"And the Puritan Dove must not, of course, marry a man who threw dice or
drained a glass. Those are the works of the profane and wicked
malignants. However was the marriage made at all?"
"You know all about it, Matilda. What is the use of pretending
ignorance?"
"My dear sweet Jane, do you think I keep the Cromwell girls and their
affairs in my memory? They are in their kingdom now; I do not pretend
to keep foot with them--and I have troubles of my own; pray God they be
not too many for me!"
It was evident Matilda was not in an amiable mood, and Jane having said
the few words that brought her to Jevery House that morning, left her
friend. She went away with a troubled look, and Matilda watched the
change and smiled to herself at it. "I am quite content to have her
made a little unhappy," she thought; "her constant air of satisfaction
is insufferable. And if my Lady Rich loses her husband, Jane can assure
her that such griefs do not kill. On my honour! Jane looks younger and
prettier than when Neville was alive and worrying her. Lovers die and
husbands die, and 'tis a common calamity; and better people than either
Jane or Frances have endured it. I will go now to my aunt's parlour; I
dare say she will have some visitor chock full of the new plot--and I
may hear something worth while."
These thoughts filled her mind as she went to Lady Jevery's parlour.
She found there an acquaintance whom they had known in Paris, the
Countess Gervais.
"I have but now sent a messenger for you, Matilda," said Lady Jevery;
"the Countess desired greatly to see you." Then the conversation became
reminiscent, and the new plot was not named, and Matilda began to be
bored. Suddenly, however, her interest was roused to the highest pitch,
for the Countess, touching a bracelet which Lady Jevery wore, said,
"I must tell you a strange thing. I was lately at a dinner where the
niece of his Eminence, Cardinal Mazarin, sat at my side. And she wore a
necklace and brooch and one bracelet precisely like the bracelet you are
now wearing. I cannot help noticing the circumstance, because the
jewelry is so exceedingly singular and beautiful."
"Yes," replied Lady Jevery. "And what you say is also very curious, for
I once possessed a necklace, brooch and two bracelets like the one I am
now wearing. All the pieces were lost excepting this bracelet."
"But how?--let me inquire; where were they lost?"
"Somewhere near Paris. I had intrusted them to a friend who has never
since been heard of."
"But the bracelet you are wearing?--this is so singular--you will please
pardon----"
"This bracelet," said Laid Jevery, "was more fortunate. Some of the gems
were loose, and I sent it to my jeweler for repair, just before we left
for Paris. He was to forward it to me if he found a safe messenger;
luckily he kept it until I returned to London."
"But this is most strange--most strange----"
"Most strange and most suspicious," said Matilda indignantly. "I should
say it was evidence that Lord Neville was murdered, and that his
Eminence bought jewelry for Hortense Mancini in some irregular way. If
I were Lady Jevery, I would insist on knowing from whom."
"Oh, you do make one great mistake, I do assure you! Mademoiselle
Mancini is impeccable. You must rest content that the jewels came into
her possession in the most correct manner."
Barely listening to these words, Matilda curtsied and abruptly left the
room. She was in the greatest distress, and forced to conclusions it
drove her distracted to entertain. All now seemed plain to her
intelligence. Rupert had lied to her. He had slain and robbed Neville,
and the jewels had been sold to Mazarin. The Cardinal's passion for
rare jewels was well known, and these opals and rubies in their settings
of fretted gold work were unique and precious enough, even for the
extravagant taste of Hortense Mancini.
A sudden passion of pity for the handsome young lord came over her. "It
was too mean, too savagely cruel for anything!" she almost sobbed. "Men
who can do such things are not fit to be loved by women. They are
brutes. I will write to Rupert at once. I must know the truth of this
matter. If such a crime has been committed, there is no king or prince
or priest on earth to absolve it, and I will wash my hands forever of
the Stuarts."
She did not wait for any second or more prudent thoughts. She wrote
Rupert that hour a letter, every word of which was flame and tears.
When it was finished, she sent a man with it on the instant to catch the
Dover mail packet; and all this was accomplished before she had any
opportunity to talk over the affair with her uncle. When she did so, he
regretted her precipitancy, and refused to move in the matter at all.
"It would be the height of imprudence," he said. "The young man is dead
and gone, and we cannot bring him back, though England went to war with
France on that quarrel. The Protector is ill, worn out with sorrow and
anxiety, and if one of his old attacks should seize him at this time, it
would have the mastery. I count not his life worth a year's purchase.
Last week I talked a few minutes with him, and there is the shadow of
death on his face. He said to me, 'I am weary. Oh, that I had wings
like a dove, then would I flee away and be at rest!' And when Cromwell
dies, there is no question of what will happen. The nation will give
Charles the Second a trial. Then Matilda, when Charles comes back,
Prince Rupert comes with him. They have been one in adversity, they
will be one in the hour of triumph. We may need the friendship of
Prince Rupert to save ourselves. No one can tell how this reputedly
good-natured Charles will act, when his hands are able to serve his
will. I will not then make an enemy of so powerful a man as Prince
Rupert is like to be. If he slew Neville, he must answer to God for the
deed. As for the jewels, I will not be inquisitive after them. And I
pray you keep your influence over Prince Rupert. I am not used to
forecast evil, but I do think within one year we shall see the world
turn round again. It may also be suggested that Neville himself returned
to Paris and sold the jewels. Who can prove different? You see how the
case lies."
It was rarely Sir Thomas spoke with such decision, and Matilda was much
impressed by his words. They made her hesitate still more about her
marriage with Cymlin. She did not believe Rupert could now induce her to
break with Cymlin; and she doubted very much whether Rupert would be
permitted to marry her, even though her title to de Wick was confirmed.
But Rupert's ill-will would be dangerous; and the result of thought in
every direction was the wisdom of delay.
During the first hours of her discovery, Matilda had wondered if she
ought to tell Jane what proof of Cluny's death had come to them; for in
her heart she scoffed at the idea of Cluny returning to Paris to sell
the jewels. But Jane did not visit her for some time, and she was daily
expecting an answer from Prince Rupert. This letter might be of great
importance, one way or another, and she resolved to wait for it. It
came more rapidly than she had anticipated, and its contents temporarily
fanned to a feeble flame her dying illusions concerning her first lover.
In this letter Rupert "on his honour" reiterated his first statement.
He declared that he left Neville in health and safety, having at the
last moment urged upon him his own swift Barb, which offer Neville
refused. He said he should seek mademoiselle's presence until he saw
her wearing the jewels, and then make question concerning them; and if
not satisfied, go at once to her Uncle Mazarin. He was sure it was now
only a few weeks ere the truth would be discovered. These promises were
blended with his usual protestations of undying devotion, and Matilda
was pleased, though she was not satisfied. For to Rupert's letter there
was a postscript, and in this postscript one word, which sent the blood
to her heart, cold with terror--
"P.S. It may be the _Bastile_, and not the grave, which holds the
Neville secret."
_The Bastile_! She had heard enough in Paris of that stone hell to make
her tremble at the word. And now it kept upon her heart a persistent
iteration that was like blow upon blow. All night she endured it, but
in the morning; she was resolved to throw the intolerable burden on some
one more able to bear it. But on whom? Sir Thomas would not have the
subject named in his presence. Cymlin did not like Neville, and would
probably "talk down" all her fears and efforts. It would be cruel to
tell Jane,--but there was Cromwell. There was the Protector. It was
his business to look after Englishmen, else what was the use of a
Protector? And if any man had power to question the Bastile, Cromwell
had it. Mazarin was just at this time seeking his aid against the
Spaniards, who were on French soil, and Cromwell was about to send his
own famous troop of Ironsides to help the French. Besides which,
Cromwell loved Neville. Taking all these things together, Matilda
easily satisfied herself that interference was Cromwell's bounden duty,
and that all which could be asked of her was to make Cromwell aware of
this duty.
She could not tell how much or how little Cromwell knew of her meddling
in a variety of plots against his life and government, but she expected
her father's name would secure her an audience, and she had such
confidence in herself as to believe that an "opportunity" to influence
the Protector was all she needed. Her first request, however, was met
with a prompt refusal. She was not to be daunted. If her own name was
not sufficient, she had others more potent. So she wrote on a card
these words: "Lady Matilda de Wick has important information regarding
Lord Cluny Neville; and for Mistress Jane Swaffham's sake, she asks an
interview."
This message was instantly effective. While Matilda was telling herself
that "she would not do the least homage to the Usurper," the door opened
hastily, and he entered her presence. In the twinkling of an eye all
her resolves vanished. His grave, sorrowful face, his majestic manner,
and the sad, reproachful tenderness of the gaze that questioned her were
omnipotent against all her prejudices. She fell at his feet, and taking
his hand kissed it, whether in homage or in entreaty, she knew not.
"My lord," she said, and then she began to sob. "My lord, I crave of
you so many pardons--so much forbearance--I will never offend again."
He raised her with an imperious movement, and leading her to a chair,
remained standing at her side. "We will forget--the past is to be
forgot--for your dear father's sake. Quickly tell me what you know, I
am in a great hurry."
Without one unnecessary word she related all, and then put into his
hands Prince Rupert's letter, with her finger directing his attention to
the terrifying postscript. And she saw with fear the rising passion in
his countenance, and for a moment trembled when he looked into her eyes
with such piercing inquiry that she could not resist nor misunderstand
their question.
"Sir," she cried, with a childlike abandon, "in this matter I am
single-hearted as I can be. I wish only to put a great wrong right."
"You tell me the truth, I believe you," he answered; "and I will take
upon me _to see that it is done_. Say not a word to Jane Swaffham until
there be a surety in the matter."
Then she rose, and looking with eyes full of tears into his face, said,
"Sir, I remember the day you pulled down the hazelnuts for me in de Wick
park. My father walked with you, arm in arm, and I had your hand until
you lifted me at the gates and kissed me. Sir, I entreat you, forget
all that has come and gone since that hour, and dismiss me now, as
then,"--and she lifted her lovely face, wet with the tears of
contrition, and Cromwell took it between his broad, strong hands, and
kissed it, even as he had kissed it in her childhood.
"Go home, my dear," he said softly. "All that can be done I will do,
and without delay. You believe in the God of your fathers, and you pray
to Him?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then pray for Cluny Neville. I may speak, but it is God that setteth
the prisoner free. His blessing be on you. I am glad to have seen your
face, I am truly. A good-day to you!"