with a thousand feelings. She marveled most at herself; all her scorn
had turned into respect, all her hatred into something very like
affection. Yet mingling with these new-born emotions was an intense
contempt for herself. "A nice Royalist you are, Matilda de Wick!" she
muttered angrily. "You went on your knees to the Regicide! You gave
him your cheek to kiss! You shed tears! You asked his pardon! You
contemptible woman, I am ashamed of you! The man is a wizard--he has a
charm from the devil--why did I go into his presence? I hope I may be
able to keep the secret of my own fall. I vow it is as deep as Eve's!
I am mortified beyond words,--and if Cymlin knew, what volumes there
would be in his eyes and his mouth, and--his silence!"
And yet there was in her heart a strong belief that this time Cromwell's
inquiries would be as effective as they were sure to be prompt. Indeed
the first thing the Protector did, was to dictate the following letter
to Mazarin:
"TO His EMINENCE CARDINAL MAZARIN,
"Sir:--In a manner most providential it has been made known to me that
Lord Neville is at this present moment in the Bastile prison. I know
not why my friends should be treated as enemies, seeing that I have been
faithful to you in all difficulties. Truly my business is now to speak
things that I will have understood. The danger is great, if you will be
sensible of it, unless Lord Neville be put at once in charge of those by
whom I send this message. For if any harm come to him, I will make
inquisition for his life--for every hair of his head that falls
wrongfully to the ground. And in regard to sending more troops to
Boulogne against the Spaniards, look not for them, unless, by the grace
of God and your orders, Lord Neville is presently, and without
hinderance, in England. Then, I will stand with you, and I do hope that
neither the cruelty, nor malice of any man will be able to make void our
agreement concerning the Spaniard; for as to the young man's return, it
is the first count in it, and I shall--I must--see that he is restored
to that freedom of which he has been unjustly deprived. It cannot be
believed that your Eminency has had anything to do with this deed of
sheer wickedness, yet I must make mention of the jewels which
disappeared with Lord Neville, and the money, and the papers. As for
the two last items I make no demand, seeing that particular persons may
have spent the one and destroyed the other; but I have certain knowledge
that the jewels are in the possession of mademoiselle your Eminency's
niece. I have some reluctance to write further about them, believing
that you will look more particularly than I can direct, into this
matter. By the hand of my personal friend, General Swaffham, I send
this; and in all requisites he will stand for
"Sir, "Your Eminency's
"Most Humble Servant,
"OLIVER P."
When this letter was sealed, he sent for Israel, and telling him all
that he had heard, bade him take twelve of their own troop, go to Paris,
and bring back Cluny with them. Israel was very willing. He had always
believed Mazarin had, at least, guilty knowledge of Cluny's murder; and
all he asked was, that his daughter might be kept in ignorance until
hope became a certainty, either of life or death.
Cromwell's summons affected Mazarin like thunder out of a clear sky. He
had forgotten Lord Neville. It was necessary to bring to him the papers
relating to the mission on which he had come, and even then he was
confused, or else cleverly simulated confusion. But he had to do with a
man, in many respects, more inflexible than Cromwell.
"I will make inquiries," he said to Israel. "In two or three days--or a
week----"
"I must be on my way back to London, sir, in two or three days."
"I cannot be hurried,--I have much other business."
"I have only this business in Paris, sir; but it is a business of great
haste. This very hour, if it please your Eminence, I would make
inquiries at the Bastile."
"It does not please me. You must wait."
"Waiting is not in my commission, sir. I am to work, or to return to
London without an hour's delay. Lord Neville is particularly dear to
his Highness; and if my inquiries meet not with attention,--on the
moment,--I am instructed to waste no time. We must then conclude the
envoy of the Commonwealth of England has been robbed and slain, and it
will be the duty of England to take redress at once."
"You talk beyond your commission."
"Within it, sir."
"Retire to the anteroom. They will serve you with bread and wine while
I make some inquiries."
"It is beyond my commission to eat or drink until I have had speech with
Lord Neville. I will wait in this presence, the authority of your
Eminence," and Israel let his sword drop and leaned upon it, gazing
steadfastly the while into the face of the Cardinal. The twelve
troopers with him, followed as one man, his attitude, and even Mazarin's
carefully tutored composure could not long endure this silent battery of
determined hearts and fixed eyes. He gave the necessary order for the
release of Lord Cluny Neville,--"if such a prisoner was really in the
Bastile,"--and sending a body of his own Musketeers with it, directed
Israel to accompany them.
"These insolent, domineering English!" he muttered; "and this Cromwell,
by grace of the devil, their Protector! If I get not the better of them
yet, my name is not Mazarin. As for the young man, I meant not this long
punishment; I wanted only his papers. As for the jewels, I was not told
they came out of his bag,--I did suspect, but what then? I am too much
given to suspicions, and the jewels were rare and cheap, and Hortense
became them well. I will not give up the jewels--the man may go, but
the jewels? I fear they must go, also, or Spain will have her way.
Cromwell wants an excuse to withdraw, I will not give him it. And by
Mary! I am sorry for the young man. I meant not such injury to him; I
must make some atonement to the saints for it."
This sorrow, though brief and passing, was genuine; cruelty was perhaps
the one vice unnatural to Mazarin, and he was relieved in what he called
his conscience, when he heard that Lord Neville still lived,--if such
bare breathing could be called life. For the Bastile seemed to be the
Land of Forgetfulness. The Governor had so forgotten Cluny, that his
name called up no recollection. He did not know whether he was in the
prison or not. He did not know whether he was alive or dead. The head
gaoler also had forgotten. Men lost their identity within those walls.
The very books of the prison had forgotten Cluny. Their keeper grew
cross, and positive of Neville's non-entering, as volume after volume
refused to give up his name. But Israel and his men, standing there so
determined and so silent, forced him to go back and back, until he came
to that fateful day when, before the dawning, the young man had been
driven within those terrible gates.
"On whose order?" asked Israel, speaking with sharp authority.
"On the order of his Eminence, Cardinal Mazarin," was the answer.
"I thought so;" then turning to the head gaoler he added, "you have the
order for release. We are in haste."
"Time is not counted here. We know not haste," was the answer.
"Then," said Israel, flaming into passion, "you must learn how to
hasten. I give you ten minutes to produce Lord Neville. After that
time, I shall return to his Eminence and report your refusal to obey
him."
The gaoler had never before been accosted in such language. As word by
word was translated to his intelligence, he manifested an unspeakable
terror. It was impossible for him to conceive the manner of man and the
strange authority that dared so to address the head gaoler of the
Bastile. He left the chamber at once, and within the time named there
were sounds heard which made all hearts stand still,--the slow movement
of feet hardly able to walk,--the dismal clangor of iron, and anon the
mournful sound of a human voice. But nothing could have prepared
Cluny's comrades for the sight of their old companion. His tall form
was attenuated to the last point; his eyes, unaccustomed to much light,
would not at once respond, they looked as if they had lost vision; his
hair straggled unkempt over his shoulders, and the awful pallor of the
prison on his face and neck and hands was more ghastly than the pallor
of death. His clothing had decayed; it hung in shreds about his limbs;
but there was a glimmer of his old self in the pitiful effort he made,
as soon as conscious of human presence, to lift up his head and carry
himself without fear. An irrepressible movement of arms, a low wail of
pity, met him as he entered the room, and he looked before him, anxious,
intent, but not yet seeing anything distinctly.
"_Cluny! Cluny! Cluny!_" cried Israel; and then Cluny distinguished
the buff and steel uniforms, and knew who it was that called him. A
long, sharp cry of agony, wonder, joy, answered the call, and he fell
senseless into Israel's arms.
They brought him wine, they lifted him to the open window, they laid
bare the skeleton form of his chest, they called him by name in voices
so full of love and pity that his soul perforce answered their
entreaties. Then the Governor offered him some clothing, but Israel put
it passionately away. They were worse than Babylonish garments in his
sight; he would not touch them. He asked only for a public litter, and
when it was procured, they laid Cluny in it, and his comrades bore him
through the streets of Paris to their lodging on the outskirts of the
city.
When they left the gates of the prison there was a large gathering of
men, and it increased as they proceeded,--a pitiful crowd, whose very
silence was the highest eloquence. For they understood. Cluny lay prone
and oblivious to their vision. They had seen him come from the Bastile.
He was dead, or dying, and these angry, weeping soldiers were his
comrades. They began to mutter, to exclaim, to voice their sympathy
more and more intelligibly. Women, praying and weeping audibly, joined
the procession, and Israel foresaw the possibility of trouble. He felt
that in some way order must be restored, and inspired by the wisdom
within, he raised his hands and in a loud, ringing voice, began the
favourite hymn of his troopers; and to the words they had been used to
sing in moments of triumphal help or deliverance they carried Cluny,
with the solemn order of a religious service, safely into their camp.
For when the hymn began, the crowd followed quietly, or dropped away, as
the stern men trod in military step to their majestic antiphony:
"Lift up your heads, O ye gates,
And the King of glory shall come in."
"Who is the King of glory?"
"The Lord strong and mighty; the Lord mighty in battle.
Lift up your heads, O ye gates,
And the King of glory shall come in."
"Who is this King of glory?"
"The Lord of hosts; the Lord mighty in battle,
He is the King of glory!"
[Illustration: "'LIFT UP YOUR HEADS, O YE GATES, AND THE KING OF GLORY
SHALL COME IN.'"]
*CHAPTER XVI*
*OLIVER THE CONQUEROR*
"O Heart heroic, England's noblest son!
At what a perfect height thy soaring spirit burns
Star-like! and floods us yet with quickning fire."
* * * * *
"Cromwell is dead: a low-laid Heart of Oak."
* * * * *
"There the wicked cease from troubling, there the weary are at rest."
"Cheer up, Jane! You and Lord Neville will yet arrive at the height of
your wishes. This is my judgment, and if it be not true, you may burn
me in the ear for a rogue."
"And you will marry Cymlin?"
"Perhaps I shall, perhaps I shall not; perhaps 'tis time enough next
year to consider on it."
"It would be a happy marriage."
"A happy marriage would be so much of heaven that I think it was never
enjoyed in this world. 'Tis a weary world, I swear I often cry for
myself in it."
"But you will marry Cymlin?"
"Faith, I know not how I am to help the catastrophe! But in all
sobriety, I think Cymlin loves me, and you do, too, dear Jane! Oh, I
could weep my eyes dry when I think of your dear lover, and all he has
so innocently suffered. It is intolerable!"
In her way, Matilda was doing her best to console and encourage Jane as
they talked over the sad fate of her rescued lover. Both had been
weeping, and there was a more affectionate confidence between them than
had existed for many years.
But Matilda had cancelled every fault and every unkindness by her prompt
action in the matter of Lord Neville, and Jane had been loving and
praising her for it, until the sweetness of their first affection was
between them. And Matilda enjoyed praise; she liked the appreciation of
her kind deed, and was not therefore disposed to make light or little of
what she had done, or of its results.
"For your sake, Jane," she said, "I could not have a moment's peace,
after hearing where the jewels were. I said to myself, this is the clue
to Neville's fate, and it must be followed. Though my uncle would not
interfere, I was resolved to bring the great Cardinal to catechism; and
as I knew no one in the world would dare to question him but Cromwell, I
went to Cromwell."
"It was a wonderful thing for you to do."
"It was; I must give myself so much credit. Not that I am afraid of
Cromwell, or of any other man, but it was a great humiliation."
"Cromwell would not humiliate you; I am sure of that."
"He behaved very well. He knew I had had a share in every plot against
him; and he gave me one look so swift, so searching, and so full of
reproach, that it sticks like an arrow in my heart yet. But there were
old memories between us, and anon he was as gentle as my mother with me.
I will never try to injure him again,--never!"
"It is impossible to tell you how grateful Cluny and I are to you; I
think no other woman in England would have been so forgetful of herself,
and so brave for others."
"Perhaps not, Jane. But I love you, and I love justice and mercy, even
to an enemy. I can always be brave with a good reason. And, pray, how
comes my lord on towards recovery?"
"Slowly. Life was nearly gone; body and mind were at death's door; but
he can walk a little now, and in two or three weeks we are going
away,--far away,--we are going to my brothers in the Massachusetts
Colony."
"Jane Swaffham! I will not believe you! And pray what shall I do? You
shall not think of such a thing."
"It is necessary. Cluny's mental sufferings have made it so. When he
was first imprisoned he tried to write, to compose hymns and essays, to
make speeches, to talk aloud; but as time went on, he could not keep
control of himself and of his awful circumstances, and now all the
misery of those long, dark, lonely years has settled into one
idea,--space without end. The rooms are too small. He walks to the
walls and trembles. He throws open the doors and windows that he may
have room to breathe. In the night he wakes with a cry, he feels as if
he were smothering. If he goes into the garden he shrinks from the
gates; and the noise of the city, and the sight of the crowds passing
fills him with fear and anxiety. He wants to go where there are no
limits, no men who may hate and imprison him; and his physician says,
'Let him live for weeks, or months, out on the ocean.' This is what he
needs, and he is eager to get away."
"You will come back?"
"I think it is unlikely. Father feels a change approaching. The
Protector's health is failing rapidly; he is dying, Matilda, dying of
the injustice and ingratitude he meets on every hand. 'Wounded,' yes
slain, 'in the house of my friends,' is his constant cry."
"'Tis most strange that a man of war like Oliver Cromwell should care
what his friends think or say."
"Yet he does. When he speaks to father about Harrison, Lambert, Alured,
Overton and others of his old companions, he wrings his hands and weeps
like a woman; or else he protests against them in such angry sorrow as
distresses one to see and hear it."
"He ought to know that he has been raised above the love of men who are
less noble than himself, and that if beyond and above their love, then
they will hate and abuse him. If he dies?----"
"Father will leave England as soon as Cromwell is in his grave. Cymlin
will keep old Swaffham fair, for Cymlin will never leave England while
you are in it."
"And you can bear to talk of leaving England in that calm way, without
tears and without regrets. Jane, it is shameful; it is really wicked."
"I do not leave England without tears and regrets, but there is Cluny,
and----"
"Cluny, of course. I suppose you will be married before you leave. But
I have a mind not to be your bridesmaid, though I am promised to that
office ever since I was a maid in ankle tights."
"Dear Matilda, do not be angry at me because I had to do what I had to
do. I was married to Cluny three days after he came home. We all
thought he was going to die, and he wished me to be his wife."
"Why was I not sent for? I would have come, Jane. It was cruel wrong in
you to pass me by."
"We were married by Doctor Verity at Cluny's bedside. No one was present
but my father and mother and the three servants to whom Cluny had become
accustomed. He was then frightened at every strange face."
"After this, nothing can astonish me. I was not a stranger----"
"He would not have recognised you, then."
"How could he lose himself so far? He ought to have had more courage.
Why did he not do something or other?"
"Oh, Matilda, what would you have done in a room eight feet by ten, and
in the dark most of the time--your bread and water given without a
word--your attendant deaf and dumb to you--no way to tell the passage of
time--no way of knowing how the seasons went, but by the more severe
cold--if you had been, like Cluny, really buried alive, what would you
have done?"
"I would have died."
"Cluny composed psalms and hymns, and tried to sing; he did not lose
heart or hope quite, the gaoler told father, for nearly four years.
Then his health and strength gave out, and his heart failed, but he
never ceased praying. They heard him at midnight, but Cluny did not know
what hour it was. And to the last moment he kept his faith in God. He
was sure God would deliver him, though He sent an angel to open the
prison doors. He was expecting deliverance the day it came. He had had
a message from beyond, and his mother had brought it. Now did I not do
right to marry him when, and how, he wished?"
"Yes," she answered, but her face and voice showed her to be painfully
affected. "Jane, I cannot bear to lose you. I shall have no one to love
me, no one to quarrel with," she added.
"You will have Cymlin."
"Cymlin is Cymlin; he is not you. I will say no more. When a woman is
married, all is over. She must tag after her lord, even over seas and
into barbarous places. If the Indians kill you, it will be said that you
were in the way of duty; but I have noticed how often people take the
way they want to take, and then call it the way of Duty. I shall not
marry Cymlin until he can show me the way of peace and pleasantness."
Then Jane rose to go, and Matilda tied her bonnet-strings, and
straightened out her ribbons and her gloves, doing these trifling
services with a long-absent tenderness that filled Jane's heart with
pleasure. "Good-bye, dear!" she said with a kiss; "I will come as often
as I can."
"Very kind of you, Lady Neville," answered Matilda with a curtsy and a
tearful mockery; "very kind indeed! But will your ladyship consider--"
then she broke down and threw her arms round Jane, and called her "a
dear, sweet, little Baggage" and bade her give Cluny some messages of
hope and congratulation, and so parted with her in a strange access of
affection. But true friendship has these moods of the individual and
would not be true without them.
Jane walked home through the city, and its busy turmoil struck her as
never before. What a vain show it was!--a passing show, constantly
changing. And suddenly there was the galloping of horsemen, and the
crowd stood still, and drew a little aside, while Cromwell, at the head
of his guards, rode at an easy canter down the street. Every man bared
his head as the grand, soldierly figure passed by. He saw Jane, and a
swift smile chased away for a moment the sorrowful gravity of his face.
But he left behind him a penetrating atmosphere of coming calamity. All
souls sensitive to spiritual influences went onward with a sigh, and the
clairvoyant saw--as George Fox did--the wraith of fast approaching
affliction. The man was armed from head to feet, and his sword had
never failed him, but it was not with flesh and blood he had now to
contend. The awful shadows of the supernatural world darkened the
daylight round him, and people saw his sad face and form as through a
mist, dimly feeling all the chill foreboding of something uncertain, yet
of certain fatality.
His glorious life was closing like a brilliant sun setting in a stormy
sky. He had been recently compelled to tell his last Parliament some
bitter truths, for danger was pressing on every side. Protestants in
the Grisons, in Piedmont and Switzerland, were a prey to the Spanish
papists, and their helper, Pope Alexander the Seventh, and the
Protestant Dutch--preferring profit to godliness--were providing ships
to transport Charles Stuart and his army to English soil.
"The Marquis of Ormond, well disguised, was here on Charles Stuart's
interest, only yesterday morning," he said to them. "I did send for
Lord Broghill, and I said to him, 'There is an old friend of yours
lodging in Drury Lane at the papist surgeon's. It would be well for him
if he were gone.' And gone he is." Then with withering scorn he added,
"All this is your doing. You will have everything too high or too low.
You don't want a settlement. You are tampering with the army. You are
playing the King of Scot's game, helping him in his plans of invasion.
You have put petitions through the city to draw London into rebellion.
You are plotting for a Restoration. I know these things, I do know them,
and I say you have laid upon me a burden too heavy for any poor
creature. For I sought not this place. You sought me for it. You
brought me to it. I say this before God, angels and men! But I took my
oath to see all men preserved in their rights, and by the grace of God I
will--I must--see it done. And let God be judge between you and me!"
Many cried "Amen," as they filed out of the ancient halls, chagrined and
troubled under his stinging rebuke. And Cromwell felt for the first time
the full weight of the refractory kingdom whose government he must bear
alone.
He was right; it was too heavy a burden for any one man, and the burden
was made still more heavy by his family afflictions. His beloved mother
had left him, gone the way of all the earth, saying with her last
breath, "I leave my heart with thee, dear son! a good-night!" His
son-in-law, Rich, the three months' bridegroom of his "little Frankie,"
was but a few weeks dead, and the Earl of Warwick, his firmest friend
among the nobility, was dying. His favourite daughter, Elizabeth, was
very ill, and he himself was feeling unmistakable premonitions of his
dissolution. For, day by day, his soul was freeing itself from the
ligaments of the body, rising into a finer air, seeing right and wrong
with the eyes of immortality. But he would do his duty to the last
tittle of strength,--fall battling for the right,--and as to what should
come after, God would care for that.