risings were to take place in Yorkshire and Sussex; London was to be set
on fire, the Protector seized and murdered, and Charles Stuart land on
the southern coast. Cromwell knew all the secret plans of this
conspiracy of "_The Sealed Knot_"; knew every member of it; and on the
afternoon when Jane Swaffham saw him passing up London streets, so stern
and scornful, he had just ordered the arrest of one hundred of them.
From these he selected fifteen for trial. They were all Royalists; he
would not lay his hand on his old friends, or on any who had once served
the Cause. His mercy and his great heart were never so conspicuous as
at this time. Only two of the fifteen were condemned to death, Doctor
Hewitt, an Episcopal minister, and Sir Henry Slingsby, the uncle of Lord
Fanconbridge, who was the husband of his own daughter, Mary;--Doctor
Hewitt for issuing commissions in Charles Stuart's name, and Sir Henry
Slingsby for endeavouring to bribe the city of Hull to open its gates to
the Stuart invaders. Against Doctor Hewitt his anger burned with
unusual severity; he would listen to no intercession for him; for, he
said,
"The man has eat my bread, and sat on my hearth, and been a familiar
friend of my family. He has been in all our confidences; he has dipped
his sop in our dish, and cried 'Hail, master' to me. Like the wickedest
of traitors, he betrayed me, even while he called me friend. He shall
die the death of a traitor, both to England and to myself."
But though dark clouds from every side were rolling up, they were lit
and edged with the fiery glory of the setting sun behind them.
Cromwell's troops, under Lockhart in France, were treading their old
victorious march, and the flowers of June were wreathed for the taking
of Dunkirk, where the Ironsides had stormed unbreached forts and
annihilated Spanish battalions, to the amazement of Turenne, Conde and
Don John.
Jane heard constantly of these events, but her heart had closer
interests. The ship which was to carry Cluny and herself to America was
lying at her wharf nearly ready for sea. It was a stout vessel
belonging to Sir Thomas Jevery, commanded by a captain of tried skill
and great piety. There were to be no other passengers; Cluny and Jane
alone were to find in its black-ribbed cabin their home for many weeks,
perhaps months. A recent experience had proven the necessity for this
exclusion of strange elements. Early in June, Israel had taken Cluny to
bid farewell to his old General, and the meeting had tried both men
severely. A few days previous, Cromwell had laid in the grave his
little grandson, Oliver, and the child's image still lived in his
troubled eyes. He could scarcely speak when he saw Cluny. He waived
impatiently all ceremony, drew him to his breast and kissed him; but it
was quickly evident Cluny could not bear any conversation on his past
misery. His excitement became painful to witness, and Cromwell with
quick, kind wisdom, began to speak rather of his own great sorrow.
"You know, Israel," he said, "how sweet a little lad my Oliver was. I
cannot yet believe that he is dead; I cannot. Only a week ago, when he
was ill and restless, I lifted him and carried him to and fro, and his
cheek was against my cheek, and his arms around my neck, and suddenly I
felt them slip away, and I looked at the child, and so caught his last
smile. I thought that night my heart would break; but the consolations
of God are not small, and I shall go to the boy, though he will never
come back to me. Never! Never! His mother is now very ill; you would
pity her, indeed you would. Cluny, you remember the Lady Elizabeth
Claypole?"
"My General, I shall never forget her."
"I do fear she is sick unto death. Her little Oliver's removal has been
the last blow of the last enemy. You may pity me, Cluny; I need pity, I
do indeed; I am a man of many afflictions. But it is the Lord; let Him
do whatever seemeth good in His sight." He then went to a desk and
wrote a few lines to the officials of the Massachusetts Colony; in them,
commending Lord Neville to their kindness and care. His hands
trembled--those large strong hands--trembled as he gave the letter to
Cluny. Then he kissed him once more, and with a "Farewell" that was a
blessing, he turned away, weeping.
"It is another friend gone," he said mournfully to his own heart; "lover
and friend are put far from me and mine acquaintance into darkness."
But he went straight to his daughter Elizabeth, and talked to her only
of God's great love and goodness, and of the dear boy who had been taken
from them because "he pleased God; because he was beloved of God, so
that living among sinners he was translated; yea, speedily was he taken
away, lest wickedness should alter his understanding or deceit beguile
his soul; and being made perfect in a short time, fulfilled a long
time."[1]
[1] Wisdom of Solomon, Chap. 4, vs. 10-13.
Cluny was so much troubled and affected by this visit that Israel
thought it well to take him to see the ship which was to carry him to
the solitudes of the great waters and the safety of the New World. He
was impatient to be gone, but there were yet a number of small interests
to be attended to; for they were to carry with them a great deal of
material necessary to the building and furnishing of their future home.
Every day revealed some new want not before thought of, so that it was
nearing the end of June when at last all was declared finished and
ready.
Then Jane went to Hampton Court to bid her old friends a last farewell.
It was a mournful visit. She fancied they did not care as much as she
thought they might have done. In fact, the gloomy old palace was a
terrible House of Mourning, and the Cromwells' own sorrows consumed
their loving-kindness. Frances, in her widow's garb, could only weep
and talk of her dead bridegroom. Lady Claypole was dumb under the loss
of her son and her own acute suffering, and Mrs. Cromwell's heart
bleeding for both her unhappy daughters. Jane was shocked at her white,
anxious face; alas, there was only too much reason for it! Whatever
others thought, the wife of the great Protector knew that he was
dying--dying, even while he was ruling with a puissant hand the
destinies of England. Every member of this sad family was in sore
trouble; they could find no words of mere courtesy; even friendship was
too large a claim upon them.
Jane felt keenly all the anguish in this palace of Pain and Sorrow. She
remained only one night, and was as willing to leave it as the sad
dwellers therein were willing to be left. They were not unkind, but
they could bear no more; their own burden was too heavy. Jane would
have regretted her visit altogether, had it not been for the changeless
tenderness of the Protector. His face during these quick gathering
trials had become intensely human. It was easy to read in it endless
difficulties and griefs, surmounted by endless labours and importunate
prayers. With strange, mystical eyes he walked continuously the long
rooms and corridors, ever seeking the realisation of his heart's
constant cry, "Oh, that I knew where I might find Thee!" He talked to
Jane of Cluny and of their prospects; made her kneel at his side during
the family service, kept her hand in his, and prayed for her and Cluny
by name. And at the last moment he gave her the blessing she hoped
for--"God which dwelleth in heaven prosper your journey; and the angel
of God keep you company."[2]
[2] Tobit, Chap. 5, v. 16.
The strain had been great; the very atmosphere of the place was too
heavy with grief to breathe; she was glad to feel the sunshine and the
fresh wind. She had intended to call on Matilda as she passed through
the city, but she could not throw off the lassitude of hopeless
foreboding that had invaded her mind. It bred fears for Cluny, and she
hastened home, resolving to see Matilda on the following day. But when
she reached Sandy's House, Mrs. Swaffham met her with a letter in her
hand--"Lady Jevery asks you to come to Matilda, who is in great
trouble," she said. "Cluny is asleep; if you are not too tired, you
would better go at once, for if the wind keep fair, Captain Jonson
thinks to lift anchor to-morrow night."
So Jane went to her friend. With her, also, she found the grief Death
brings.
"Stephen is slain!" were her first words. She could hardly utter them.
But Jane knew how to comfort Matilda; she could talk to her as she could
not to the ladies of Cromwell's household. She could take her in her
arms and say all kinds of loving words, blending them with promises and
hopes that had Divinity as their surety. And she could encourage her to
talk away her trouble. "How was Stephen slain?" she asked, "in a duel?"
"No, thank God! He fell, as he himself could have wished, fighting the
enemies of his King. He was with Conde and the Dukes of York and
Gloucester before Dunkirk, and was killed while meeting the rush of
those terrible Ironsides. He died shouting '_For God and King!_' and
Camby--one of their officers who comes from Ely--knew Stephen, and he
carried him aside, and gave him water, but he died in five minutes.
Camby wrote me that he said '_Mother!_' joyfully, with his last breath."
"Poor Stephen!"
"Oh, indeed 'tis very well to cry, 'poor Stephen,' when he is beyond
your pity. You might have pitied him when he was alive, that would have
been something to the purpose. All his short, unhappy life has been one
constant battle with Puritans and poverty. Oh, how I hate those
Stuarts! I am thankful to see you can weep for him, Jane. I think you
ought. God knows he loved you well, and most thanklessly. And he is
the last, the last de Wick. Root and branch, the de Wick tree has
perished. I wish I could die also."
"And Cymlin, Matilda?"
"I shall marry Cymlin,--at the proper time."
"You may have sons and daughters."
"I hope not. I pray not. I have had sorrow enough. My father and his
three sons are a good ending for the house. It was built with the
sword, and it has been destroyed by the sword. I want no de Wick like
the men of to-day--traders and gold seekers. And if they were warriors,
the old cares and fears and anxieties would be to live over again. No,
Jane, the line of de Wick is finished.[3] Cymlin and I will be the last
Earl and Countess de Wick. We shall go to Court, and bow to the Stuart,
and be very great people, no doubt."
[3] Matilda's desire was granted her.
She died childless, and the lands
of de Wick reverted to the Crown.
As for Swaffham, Cymlin, at his
death, left it to the eldest son of his brother
Tonbert; but the young man
longed for America, and soon sold it.
During the eighteenth century it
changed hands often; but in the early years
of the nineteenth century the
old house was replaced by a modern structure,
less storied but of extensive
proportions and very handsome design.
"And Prince Rupert?"
"Is a dream from which I have awakened."
"But he may still be dreaming."
"Rupert has many faults, but he is a man of honour. My marriage to
Cymlin will be a barrier sacred to both of us. Our friendship can hold
itself above endearments. You need not fear for Cymlin; Matilda de Wick
will honour her husband, whether she obeys him or not. Cymlin is formed
for power and splendour, and he will stand near the throne."
"If there be a throne."
"Of that, who now doubts? Cromwell is falling sick, and you may feel
'God save the King' in the air. If you had married Stephen, he would
have been alive to join in the cry. I could weep at your obstinacy,
Jane."
"Let it pass, dear. I was suckled on Puritan milk. Stephen and I never
could have been one. My fate was to go to the New World. When I was a
little child I dreamed of it, saw it in visions before I knew that it
existed. Stephen has escaped this sorrowful world and----"
"Oh, then, I would he were here! This sorrowful world with Stephen in
it was a better world than it is without him. Jane, Jane, how he loved
you!"
"And I loved him, as a companion, friend, brother, if you will. When
you lay his body in de Wick, cast a tear and a flower on his coffin for
me. God give him peace!"
At length their "farewell" came. Jane dreaded it; she was sure Matilda
would wear emotion to shreds and exhaustion. But it was not so. She
wept, but she was solemnly silent; and the last words between them were
soft and whispered, and only those sad, loving monosyllables which are
more eloquent than the most fervid protestations. And so they parted,
forever in this life,--and if this life were all, Death would indeed be
the Conqueror. But it is not all; even through the death struggle, the
Soul carries high her cup of Love, unspilled.
The next afternoon Jane and Cluny rode through London streets for the
last time. They were full of busy, happy people, and mingling with them
all the bravery and splendid show of the great company of courtiers that
were in the train of Mazarin's two nephews, the Duke of Crequin and
Monsieur Mancini; Ambassadors from the King of France to congratulate
Cromwell--"the most invincible of sovereigns, the greatest and happiest
of princes--" on the surrender of Dunkirk.
And Jane on the previous day had heard this "most invincible of
sovereigns, the greatest and happiest of princes," declare that "he was
weak and weary; that all the waves and billows of a sea of troubles had
gone over him," and with tears and outstretched hands entreat his God to
"give him rest from his sorrow and from his fear, and from the hard
bondage wherein he had been called to serve."
On the ship they found Jane's father, Doctor Verity and Sir Thomas
Jevery. There were no tears at this parting, nor any signs of sorrow;
every one seemed resolved to regard it as a happy and hopeful event.
For, though not spoken of, there was a firm belief and promise of a
meeting again in the future not very far off. Israel held his little
daughter to his heart, and then laid her hand in Cluny's without a word;
the charge was understood. The young husband kissed the hand, and
clasped it within his own, and his eyes answered the loving father in a
language beyond deception. When the last few minutes came, and the men
were trooping to the anchor, Doctor Verity raised his hands, and the
three or four in the dim, small cabin knelt around him; and so their
farewell was a prayer, and their parting a blessing.
Israel and Doctor Verity walked away together, and for a mile neither of
them spoke a word. There is a time for speech and a time to refrain
from speech, and both men were in the House of Silence for strength,
each finding it in his own individual way. As they came near to
Sandy's, however, Israel said,
"It is a short farewell, John. It will be my turn next."
"I shall go when you go."
"To the Massachusetts Colony?"
"Yes. I am ready to go when the time comes."
"It is not far off."
"A few months at the longest."
"He is very ill?"
"The foundations of his life are shaken, for he lives not in his power
or his fame, or even in the work set him to do. No, no, Oliver lives in
his feelings. They are at the bottom of his nature; all else is
superstructure. And they have been rent and torn and shaken till the
man, strong as he is, trembles in every limb. And Fairfax, as well as
Lambert and others, think they can fill great Oliver's place!--no man
can."
"For that very reason, when he departs, I will away from England. I
have no heart for another civil war. I will draw sword under no less a
general than Oliver."
"As I said, I go with you. I have some land, and a little home there
already; and Mistress Adair has promised to marry me. She is a good
woman, and not without some comeliness of person."
"She is a very handsome woman, and I think surely she will make you a
good wife. You have done well. Did you tell Jane this?"
"Yes, I told her."
"My heart is heavy for England."
"She knows not the day of her visitation any better than Jerusalem did."
"She will bring back the Stuarts?"
"That is what Monk, and others with him, are after. They have been at
the ears of the army, din, din, din, until their lies against Oliver
have been sucked in. They have a rancorous jealousy that never sleeps,
and no one can please them that is above them, whether it be Prince,
Protector or God. Envy has pursued Oliver like a bird of prey. Its
talons, at last, are in his heart."
"Good-night, John."
"Good-night, Israel. Have you told Martha?"
"Not yet. She will fret every day till the change comes. Why should we
have a hundred frets, when a dozen may do?"
But when Israel went into Martha's presence something made him change
his mind. The mother had been weeping, and began to weep afresh when
she saw her husband. He anticipated her sorrowful questions, and with an
assumption of cheerfulness, told her what a good, brave man the captain
of the ship was, and how happy and hopeful Jane and Cluny seemed to be.
"It did not feel like a parting at all, Martha," he said; "and indeed
there was no need for any such feeling. We are going ourselves very
soon, now."
The words were spoken and could not be recalled; and he stood, in a
moment, ready to face the storm they might raise. He had not intended
them, but what we say and what we do beyond our intention, is often more
fateful and important than all our carefully prepared words or well laid
plans. Martha looked at her husband with speechless wonder and
distress, and he was more moved by this attitude than by her usual
garrulous anger. He sat down by her side and took her hand, saying,
"My dear Martha, I did not think of telling you this just yet, and
especially to-day, but the words were at my lips, and then they were
out, without my leave or license. Now there is nothing for it, but
letting you know, plump and plain, that you and I, in our gathering
years, must up and out of England. Oliver Cromwell is dying; when he is
in the grave, what? Either Stuart, or civil war. If it is the Stuart,
my head will be wanted; and as for fighting for Lambert, or even Fairfax
or Sir Harry Vane, I will not do it--verily, I will not! I have fought
under Cromwell; I will fight under no less a general, and in no less a
quarrel than he led in. That is settled. You said Martha, 'for better,
or for worse.'"
She did not answer, and he dropped her hand and continued, "I will never
force thee, Martha, not one step. If thou lovest England better than
me----"
"I don't! I don't, Israel! I love nothing, I love nobody better than
Israel Swaffham. I was thinking of Swaffham."
"I shall sign the sale of it to Cymlin as soon as Cromwell dies. The
deed is already drawn out, and waiting for our names. If the Stuart
comes back--and I believe he will--I should lose Swaffham, as well as my
life; but Cymlin will marry Matilda, and make obeisance to Charles
Stuart, and the old home will be in the family and keep its own name. I
and thou can build another Swaffham; thou art but fifty, and my years
are some short of sixty. We are in the prime of life yet."
"I am forty-eight,--not quite that,--Israel; and Swaffham was very up
and down, and scarce a cupboard in it. I do miss my boys; and how I can
bear life without Jane, I don't know. Wherever you go, Israel, I will
go; your God is my God, and your country shall be mine."
"I was sure of that, Martha. God love you, dearest! And any country
where your home is built, and your children dwell, is a good country;
besides which, this New World is really a land of milk and honey and
sunshine. Tonbert and Will could not be bought back here with an
earldom. There is another thing, Martha, both of them are going to be
married."
"Married! I never heard of such a thing."
"I thought I wouldn't tell thee, till needs be; but 'tis so, sure
enough."
"And to what kind of women, Israel?"
"Good, fair women, they tell me; sisters, orphan daughters of the Rev.
John Wilmot. Thou seest, then, Martha, there may soon be three families
coming up, and not a grandmother among them to look after the children,
or give advice to the young mothers. I don't see what Tonbert's wife,
or Will's wife, or thy own daughter Jane can do without thee."
She shook her head slightly, but looked pleased and important. The wife
and mother was now completely satisfied. And Martha Swaffham was
blessed with imagination. She could dream of her new home, and new ties,
and give herself, even in London streets, a Paradise in the unknown New
World. And, at any rate, in the building of the American Swaffham she
would take care that there were plenty of cupboards. Indeed, her plans
and purposes were so many, and so much to her liking, that Israel was
rather hampered by her expansive hopes and ideas; and though he did not
damp her enthusiasm by telling her "she was reckoning without her host,"
he himself was quite sure there would be many trials and difficulties to
tithe her anticipations.
"But it is bad business going into anticipation," he said to himself.
"I'll let Martha build and arrange matters in her mind as she wants
them; things will be all the likelier to happen so; I have noticed that
time and time again. It will be a great water between us, and the sins
and sorrows of six thousand years; and if there be a Paradise on earth,
it will be where man hasn't had time to turn it into a--something
worse."
So the summer days went on, and England had never been so serene and so
secure in her strength and prosperity. Throughout the land the farmer
was busy in his meadows making hay, and watching the green wheat blow
yellow in the warm winds and sunshine. The shepherds were on the fells
counting the ewes and their lambs; the traders busy in their shops; the
ports full of entering and departing vessels, and the whole nation yet
in a mood of triumph over the acquisition of Dunkirk. Cromwell was
working feverishly, and suffering acutely. His favourite child, the
Lady Elizabeth Claypole was still very ill; he had premonitions and
visions of calamity that filled his heart with apprehension, and kept
his soul always on the alert, watching, watching for its coming. It
might be that he alone could meet it and ward it away from those he
loved.
It is certain also that he knew the time for his own departure was at
hand. He said to Doctor Verity, "I have one more fight, John. Dunbar
was a great victory; Worcester was a greater one; but my next fight will
give me the greatest victory of all--'the last enemy that shall be
destroyed is death.' Do you understand?" And the Doctor made a
movement of affirmation; he could not speak.
Wonderful was the labour the Protector now performed. He directed and
settled the English affairs in France; he arranged the government of the
new English plantations in Jamaica and the West Indies; and he paid
particular attention to the needs and condition of the New England
Colonies, being indeed their protector, and the only English protector
they ever had. He took time to enunciate to France, more strongly than
ever before, the rights of all the Protestants in Europe; and he made
all preparations for calling another Parliament to consider, and settle
more firmly, the business of the English Commonwealth. His work was a
stupendous one, and through it all he showed constantly the feverish
haste of a man who has a great task to perform and sees the sun dropping
to the western horizon. But his heart bore the heaviest share of the
heavy burden. It was as if Death knew that this man's soul could only
be delivered from the flesh by attacking the citadels of feeling. In
every domestic and social relation--son, husband, father, friend--the
tenderness of his nature made him suffer; and when on the twenty-third
of July Lady Claypole's illness showed fatal symptoms, he dropped all
business, and for fourteen days and nights hardly left her presence.
And her death on the sixth of August was a crushing and insupportable
blow.
Lady Heneage, who was one of her attendants in these last terrible days,
was removed in a fainting condition, when all was over, and taken to her
old friend Martha Swaffham, for care and consolation. The two women had
drifted apart during the past four years, but there was only love
between them, and they reverted at once to their old affectionate
familiarity. And such sorrow as that affecting Lady Heneage, is soon
soothed by kind companionship and sympathetic conversation. She had
much to tell that Martha Swaffham was eager to listen to, though the
matter of all was suffering and death.
"The Lord Protector was really her nurse," she said. "When her mother
fainted, and her husband and sisters could not look on her sufferings,
her father held her in his arms, bore every pang with her and prayed, as
I hope, Martha, I may never hear any one pray again. It was as if he
clung to the very feet of God, entreating that he, and he alone, might
bear the agony; that the cup of pain might pass from his child to
him--and this for fourteen days, Martha. I know not how he--how
we--endured it. We were all at the last point, when suddenly, a
wonderful peace filled the chamber, and the poor Lady Elizabeth lay at
ease, smiling at her father as he wiped the death sweat from her brow
and whispered in her ear words which none but the dying heard. At the
last moment, she tried to say, '_Father_, but only managed one-half the
word; the other half she took into heaven with her. It is now the sixth
of August, is it not, Martha?"
"Yes."
"The Protector will not live long, I think. I heard him tell her they
would not be parted a space worth counting."
"He would say that much for her comfort. He meant it not in respect of
his own days; no life is a space worth counting--'of few days and full
of trouble, Alice.' How is her Highness, Elizabeth Cromwell?"