The Lion's Whelp: A Story of Cromwell's Time E-Book

Amelia E. Barr

• Herausgeber: Amelia E. Barr
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

Sway the tide of battle which way it will, human existence is held together by its old, and only tenure of earnest thoughts, and quiet affections.

Leseprobe

The Lion's Whelp A Story of Cromwell's Time By

Amelia E. Barr

"NOW LET GOD ARISE!"

BOOK I. The Hour and The Man

"Unknown to Cromwell as to me,

Was Cromwell's measure or degree.

*      *      *      *      *

He works, plots, fights, in rude affairs,

With 'squires, lords, kings, his craft compares,

Till late he learned, through doubt and fear,

Broad England harbored not his peer."

—Emerson.

CHAPTER I. SWAFFHAM AND DE WICK

"Sway the tide of battle which way it will, human existence is held together by its old, and only tenure of earnest thoughts, and quiet affections."

During the seventeenth century Swaffham Manor House was one of the most picturesque dwellings in Cambridgeshire. It was so old that it had a sort of personality. It was Swaffham. For as the Yorkshireman, in speaking of his beloved rivers, disdains the article "the" and calls them with proud familiarity, Aire, Ure, Ribble, so to the men of the country between Huntingdon and Cambridge, this ancient dwelling was never the Manor House; it was the synonym of its builders, and was called by their name—Swaffham. For it was the history of the Swaffham family in stone and timber, and no one could enter its large, low rooms without feeling saturated and informed with the spiritual and physical aura of the men and women who had for centuries lived and died under its roof.

The central tower—built of the white stone of the neighbourhood—-was the fortress which Tonbert Swaffham erected A.D. 870, to defend his lands from an invasion of the Danes; and five generations of Tonbert's descendants dwelt in that tower, before William of Normandy took possession of the crown of England. The Swaffham of that date became a friend of the Conqueror; the Manor was enriched by his gifts; and the Manor House—enlarged and beautified by various holders—had the singular fortune to be identified with the stirring events of every dynasty.

In the middle of the seventeenth century it still retained this character. Puritan councils of offense and defense had been held in its great hall, and parliamentary soldiers drilled in its meadows. For Captain Israel Swaffham was the friend of General Cromwell, and at the time this story opens was with Cromwell in Scotland. Nothing of good in the old race was lacking in Captain Israel. He was a soldier going forth on a holy errand, hurrying to serve God on the battle-field; faithful, as a man must be who could say after a hard day's fighting,

"Tired! No. It is not for me to let my right hand grow tired, if God's work be half-done."

A great fighter, he had no parliamentary talent, and no respect for parliaments. He believed England's religious and civil liberties were to be saved by the sword, and the sword in the hand of his great leader, Oliver Cromwell; and when the King's fast-and-loose proposals had been discussed by the men of Cambridgeshire, in Swaffham, he had closed the argument with this passionate declaration:

"There is no longer disputing with such a double mind as the mind of Charles Stuart. The very oath of God would not bind him. Out, instantly, all of you who can!"

His three sons rose at his words and the rest of the council followed, for all felt that the work was but half done—there was to be a Second Civil War. Then home was again deserted for the battle-field, and Captain Swaffham's wife and daughter were once more left alone in the old Manor House.

Mrs. Swaffham was the child of a Puritan minister, and she had strong Puritan principles; but these were subject to passing invasions of feeling not in accord with them. There were hours when she had pitied the late King, excused his inexcusable treacheries, and regretted the pomps and ceremonies of royal state. She had even a feeling that England, unkinged, had lost prestige and was like a dethroned nation. In such hours she fretted over her absent husband and sons, and said words hard for her daughter Jane to listen to with any sympathy or patience.

For Jane Swaffham was of a different spirit. She had a soul of the highest mettle; and she had listened to those English mystics, who came out of the steel ranks of triumphant Puritanism, until she had caught their spirit and been filled through and through with their faith. The Swaffhams were a tall race; but Jane was a woman of small stature and slender frame, and her hair, though abundant, wanted the rich brown hue that was the heritage of the Swaffham beauties. No one spoke of Jane as a beauty; the memory of her sister Amity—who had married Lord Armingford—and of her aunt, Cicely Compton, both women of rare loveliness, qualified Jane's claim to this family distinction. And yet she had a fresh, bright face, a face like a sweet single rose of the wood; one could see straight to her heart through it—a loving, cheerful daughter of righteousness; not perfect by any means; subject to little bursts of temper, and to opinions so positive they had the air of bigotry; but with all her faults holding that excellent oneness of mind, which has no doubts and no second thoughts.

This was the maiden who was sitting, one sunny afternoon, at the open window of the household parlour in Swaffham. The lazy wind brought her delicious puffs of sweetbrier scent, and in the rich fields beyond the garden she could hear the voices of the reapers calling to each other as they bound the wheat. On the hearthstone, her mother's wheel hummed in a fitful way, now rapidly, now slowly, anon stopping altogether. Jane was quite idle. A tray full of ripe lavender spikes was at her side and a partly finished little bag of sheer muslin was in her hand, but the work was not progressing. When thoughts are happy, the needle flies, when they are troubled or perplexed, the hands drop down and it becomes an effort to draw the thread. Jane was thinking of her father and brothers, of the unhappy condition of England, and of the unrest in their own household. For she knew that her mother was worried about many things, and the fret that was bred in the kitchen and the farm offices—in spite of all her efforts—insinuated itself into the still order of the handsome room in which she was sitting. She felt her mother's silence to be unpleasantly eloquent. The fitful wheel complained. It was a relief when Mrs. Swaffham brought to audible conclusions, the voiceless tension in which they were sitting.

"My work is never out of hand, Jane," she said fretfully. "I am fairly downhearted to-day—so put to the push as I have been, with women in the kitchen and men in the fields."

"Dear mother, it may not be for long."

"It will be long enough to bring everything to wrack and ruin. The dairy is twenty-four shillings short this week."

"There are perhaps fewer cows in milk."

"The wool is short weight also; one of the gray horses is sick; the best thresher has gone soldiering, like the rest of the fools."

"Mother!"

"And Will Will-be-so has the rheumatism, and in spite of his Bible and his psalm-singing, has been to Dame Yodene for a charm."

"Why did he not come to you for flannel and a plaster?"

"Come to me! That goes without saying. I went out of my way to help him, and then he wished Master Israel was home, and said 'there was no rheumatics when he was round looking after his men.' I fired up, then, when he spoke that way—laying to my account the wettings he gets coming from the ale-house at nights; and then he muttered 'Women's ways—Will-be-so.'"

"Will is very provoking. I wish he would go to the wars."

"He likes the tap at Widow Tasburgh's, and the blacksmith's forge too well—let alone the women in the kitchen, who are all quarreling about him. And then there is this new girl, Susannah, who is more pretty than need be; her face gets her too much favour with the men and too little with the women. When Doctor Verity comes next, I must tell him to give a few words suitable at the Evening Service. They are a lazy, quarreling set, and every one of them does their work against the collar."

"Father told me he was led to believe he would not be long away. He said this campaign would be short and fierce, for General Cromwell looks on its necessity as the unpardonable sin in Charles Stuart."

"Short and fierce! Well, then, General Cromwell is well able to put fighting men up to that kind of thing."

"You are out with the General, mother, and all because you miss father so much."

"I am out with the war, Jane. What is the good of it? Charles Stuart alive, stands for his Prerogative just where Charles Stuart dead, did."

"The war is now an appeal to God. That is the good of it. You heard what Doctor Verity said of its necessity—and you agreed with him. Indeed, who could gainsay his words? He spoke as if he had heard God's command 'Up and be doing, and I will help you.'"

"Is God, then, the God of war? No, Jane. I will not believe it."

"God is the God of blessings, mother; but as the ploughshare breaks up the earth for the corn seed, so does the red ploughshare of war break up the heart of the nation for the blessing of freedom which shall follow it."

"I know not; I know not; but I am sure if there were no kings and queens in the world it would be little loss to God Almighty, or to any one else."

At this moment there was the sound of wheels and the tramp of horses, and Jane said, "It is Matilda de Wick. I know the roll of the carriage. Dear mother, keep a bright face in her presence. She will see everything, and draw conclusions from the smallest matter." Then Jane lifted her sewing, and the wheel began to hum, and the door opened swiftly and Matilda de Wick entered.

"I have just been at Ely," she said, "and if I live seven-and-fifty years longer in this sinful world, I shall not forget the visit." Then she laughed with a merry scorn, kissed Jane on the cheek, and laid off her hat, heavy with white plumes. "It is good-bye to my senses," she continued; "I am out of wisdom this afternoon—lend me your sobriety, Jane. I have been visiting Lady Heneage, and I have heard so much of the Cromwell's full cup that, in faith, I think it has gone to my head. Do I look sensible? I have no hope of my words, and I pray you excuse whatever I may say."

"I trust Lady Heneage is well," said Mrs. Swaffham.

"She had need to be well. Her house is as full as the ark. Mrs. Elizabeth Hampden is there, and daughter Flambord, and daughter Clayton, and all their children and retainers. It is their last gathering before they go away. Do you wish to know where they are going? To London, of course. When people carry themselves to such a height, no other city is big enough. But I ask pardon; I told you my words had lost their senses."

"Why do you go to see Lady Heneage if you like her not and surely you like her not, or you would not make a mock of her doings."

"I like to go where good fortune sits, Jane—and in these days no one can expect honour that deserves it. You know also that the last Heneage baby was named for me, and I got word that it was short-coated last Sunday; and so I went to see the little brat. It is a beauty, if it hold on to its good looks; and 'tis like to do so, for whatever Heneage gets, Heneage keeps."

"And they are going to London? Is it really so?" asked Jane.

"'Tis not very civil to doubt it. I dare be sworn it is as true as a thing can be, when the world is topsy-turvy. But that is not all of my news—I heard also that Jane Swaffham was going to London—a thing I would not believe without Jane's assurance."

"It is very uncertain," replied Mrs. Swaffham. "Jane has an invitation from Mary Cromwell, and if Doctor Verity comes here soon, he may find the time to take her to London with him. We know not assuredly, as yet."

"Jane must move mountains to go. The Cromwells are now living in the stately Cockpit. They will hold court there, and Jane Swaffham will be of it. 'Tis said all this honour for the Irish campaign."

"Then it is well deserved," answered Jane with some heat.

"Jane," said Mrs. Swaffham, "I can not abide any more quarreling to-day. If you and Matilda get on that subject, truth and justice will go to the wall. Monstrous lies are told about Ireland, and you both suck them down as if they were part of the Gospels." Then turning to Matilda she asked, "Why does the Heneage family go to London?"

"Indeed, madame, now that Mr. Cromwell has become Captain-General, and Commander-in-Chief, why should not all his old friends go to London? London has gone mad over the man; even that supreme concourse of rebels called Parliament rose up, bareheaded, to receive him when he last honoured them with a visit."

"Just what they ought to have done," said Jane. "Is there any corner of England not coupled gloriously with his name?"

"And Ireland?"

"Gloriously also."

"Pray, then, is it not extremely natural for his old friends to wish to see his glory?"

"I am sure of one thing," answered Jane. "Public honours please not General Cromwell. He would thank God to escape them."

"I do not say that the wish to see him honoured is universal," continued Matilda. "Father Sacy thinks there are a few thousand men still living in England who have not bowed the knee to this Baal."

"It is wicked to liken a good man to a devil, Matilda; and if mother will sit and listen to such words, I will not. And, look you, though Charles Stuart's men turn up their noses and the palms of their hands at General Cromwell, he stands too high for them to pull him down. Cromwell will work and fight the time appointed him—and after that he will rest in the Lord. For he is good, and just, and brave as a lion, and there is not a man or woman can say different—not a man or woman treading English ground to-day that can, in truth, say different! Always he performs God's will and pleasure."

"Or the devil's."

"He is a good man. I say it."

"And he knows it; and that is where his hypocrisy comes in—I——"

"Children! Children! Can you find nothing more lovely to talk about? Matilda, you know that you are baiting Jane's temper only that you may see her lose it."

Then Matilda laughed, and stooping to her friend, kissed her and said, "Come, little Jane, I will ask your pardon. It is the curse of these days, that one must lie to one's own heart, or quarrel with the heart one loves. Kiss and be friends, Jane. I came to get your receipt for lavender conserves, and this is nothing to it."

"Jane was conserving, yesterday," answered Mrs. Swaffham, "and she has a new receipt from her sister Armingford for brewing a drink against sleeplessness. It is to be made from the blue flowers picked from the knaps."

"That is fortunate," said Matilda. "You know that my father has poor health, and his liking for study makes him ailing, of late. He sleeps not. I wish that I had a composing draught for him. Come, Jane, let us go to the still-room." She spoke with an unconscious air of authority, and Jane as unconsciously obeyed it, but there was a coldness in her manner which did not disappear until the royalist lady had talked with her for half-an-hour about the spices and the distilled waters that were to prevail against the Earl's sleeplessness.

When the electuary had been prepared, the girls became silent. They were as remarkably contrasted as were the tenets, religious and civil, for which they stood. But if mere physical ascendency could have dominated Jane Swaffham, she was in its presence. Yet it was not Matilda, but Jane, who filled the cool, sweet place with a sense of power not to be disputed. Her pale hair was full of light and life; it seemed to shine in its waving order and crown-like coil. Her eyes had a steady glow in their depths that was invincible; her slight form was proudly poised; her whole manner resolute and a little cold, as of one who was putting down an offense only half-forgiven.

Matilda was conscious of Jane's influence, and she called all her own charms forth to rival it. Putting out of account her beautiful face and stately figure as not likely to affect Jane, she assumed the manner she had never known to fail—a manner half-serious and wholly affectionate and confidential. She knew that Swaffham was always a safe subject, and that a conversation set to that key went directly to Jane's heart. So, turning slowly round to observe everything, she said,

"How cool and sweet is this place, Jane!"

"It is, Matilda. I often think that one might receive angels among these pure scents."

"Oh, I vow it is the rosemary! Let me put my hands through it," and she hastily pulled off her white embroidered gloves, and passed her hands, shining with gems, through the deliciously fragrant green leaves.

"I have a passion for rosemary," she continued. "It always perfigures good fortune to me. Sometimes if I wake in the night I smell it—I smell miles of it—and then I know my angel has been to see me, and that some good thing will tread in her footsteps."

"I ever think of rosemary for burials," said Jane.

"And I for bridals, and for happiness; but it

"Grows for two ends, it matters not at all, be it for bridal, or for burial."

"That is true, "answered Jane. "I remember hearing my father say that when Queen Elizabeth made her joyful entry into London, every one carried rosemary posies; and that Her Grace kept in her hand, from the Fleet Bridge to Westminster, a branch of rosemary that had been given her by a poor old woman."

"That was a queen indeed! Had she reigned this day, there had been no Cromwell."

"Who can tell that? England had to come out of the Valley and Shadow of Popery, and it is the Lord General's sword that shall lead her into the full light—there is something round your neck, Matilda, that looks as if you were still in darkness."

Then Matilda laughed and put her hand to her throat, and slipped into her bosom a rosary of coral and gold beads. "It was my mother's," she said; "you know that she was of the Old Profession, and I wear it for her sake."

"It is said that Charles Stuart also wears one for his mother's sake."

"It is a good man that remembers a good mother; and the King is a good man."

"There is no king in England now, Matilda, and no question of one."

"There is a king, whether we will or no. The king never dies; the crown is the crown, though it hang on a hedge bush."

"That is frivolous nonsense, Matilda. The Parliament is king."

"Oh, the pious gang! This is a strange thing that has come to pass in our day, Jane—that an anointed king should be deposed and slain. Who ever heard the like?"

"Read your histories, Matilda. It is a common thing for tyrannical kings to have their executioners. Charles Stuart suffered lawfully and by consent of Parliament."

"A most astonishing difference!" answered Matilda, drawing on her gloves impatiently, "to be murdered with consent of Parliament! That is lawful; without consent of Parliament, that is very wicked indeed. But even as a man you might pity him."

"Pity him! Not I! He has his just reward. He bound himself for his enemies with cords of his own spinning. But you will not see the truth, Matilda——"

"So then, it is useless wasting good Puritan breath on me. Dear Jane, can we never escape this subject? Here, in this sweet room, why do we talk of tragedies?"

Jane was closing the still-room door as this question was asked, and she took her friend by the arm and said, "Come, and I will show you a room in which another weak, wicked king prefigured the calamity that came to his successor in our day." Then she opened a door in the same tower, and they were in a chamber that was, even on this warm harvest day, cold and dark. For the narrow loophole window had not been changed, as in the still-room, for wide lattices; and the place was mouldy and empty and pervaded by an old, unhappy atmosphere.

"What a wretched room! It will give me an ague," said Matilda.

"It was to this room King John came, soon after his barons had compelled him to sign the Great Charter of Liberties. And John was only an earlier Charles Stuart—just as tyrannical—just as false—and his barons were his parliament. He lay on the floor where you are now standing, and in his passion bit and gnawed the green rushes with which it was strewed, and cursed the men who he said had 'made themselves twenty-four over-kings.' So you see that it is not a new thing for Englishmen to war against their kings."

"Poor kings!"

"They should behave themselves better."

"Let us go away. I am shivering." Then as they turned from the desolate place, she said with an attempt at indifference, "When did you hear from Cymlin? And pray in what place must I remember him now?"

"I know not particularly. Wherever the Captain-General is, there Cymlin Swaffham is like to be."

"At Ely, they were talking of Cromwell as near to Edinburgh."

"Then we shall hear tidings of him soon. He goes not anywhere for nothing."

"Why do you not ask after Stephen's fortune—good or bad?"

"I did not at the moment think of Stephen. When Cromwell is in the mind 'tis impossible to find him fit company. It is he, and he only."

"Yet if ever Stephen de Wick gets a glimpse of home, it is not home to him until he has been at Swaffham."

Jane made no answer, and they walked silently to the door where Matilda's carriage was waiting. Mrs. Swaffham joined them as Matilda was about to leave, and the girl said, "I had come near to forgetting something I wished to tell you. One of those men called Quakers was preaching his new religion at Squire Oliver Leder's last night. There was much disputing about him to-day."

"I wonder then," said Mrs. Swaffham, "that we were not asked. I have desired to hear some of these men. It is said they are mighty in the Scriptures, and that they preach peace, which—God knows—is the doctrine England now needs."

"Many were there. I heard of the Flittons and Mossleys and the Traffords and others. But pray what is the good of preaching 'peace' when Cromwell is going up and down the land with a drawn sword. It is true also that these Quakers themselves always bring quarreling and persecution with them."

"That is not their fault," said Jane. "The preacher can only give the Word, and if people will quarrel about it and rend it to and fro, that is not the preacher's fault. But, indeed, all testify that these people called Quakers quake at nothing, and are stiff and unbendable in their own way."

"So are the Independents, and the Anabaptists, and the Presbyterians, and the Fifth Monarchy Men, and the Root and Branch Men, and——"

"The Papists, and the Episcopalians," added Jane.

"Faith! No one can deny it."

"What said Lady Heneage of the preacher?" asked Mrs. Swaffham.

"She thought he ought to be put in the stocks; and her sister Isabel said that he was a good man, and had the root of the matter in him. Madame Flitton was of the same opinion, though she did not feel at liberty to approve entirely. Others considered him full of temper and very forward, and the argument was hot, and quite Christian-like. I heard that he was to preach again at Deeping Den. Now I must make what haste I can; my father will be angry at my delay. Good-bye! faithful till we meet again."

"She says 'faithful,' yet knows not how to be faithful."

Mrs. Swaffham did not answer Jane's remark. She was thinking of the Quaker sermon at Oliver Leder's, and wondering why they had not been asked to hear it. "We ought to have been asked," she said to Jane as they turned into the house. "Leaving out Swaffham was bad treatment, and when I say bad, I mean bad. Did Matilda take the electuary for her father?"

"She was very little in earnest, and had forgotten it but for my reminding."

"She is much changed."

"It would be strange indeed if she was not changed. Before these troubles she was a girl living at her mother's knee, petted by her father, and the idol of her brothers. Two of her brothers fell fighting by the side of Prince Rupert, her mother wept herself into the grave for them, her father is still nursing the wound he got at Naseby, and her only brother, Stephen, is with Charles Stuart, wherever he may be. If such troubles did not change a girl, she would be hewn from the very rock of selfishness. Matilda is far from that. She loves with a whole heart, and will go all lengths to prove it. We do not know the new Matilda yet."

Jane would have made this remark still more positively, if she could have seen her friend as soon as Swaffham was left behind. She sat erect, lost in thought, and her eyes had a look in them full of anxiety and sorrow. The sadness of an immense disillusion was over her. But she belonged to that imperial race who never lose heart in any trouble. To the very last she must hope; to the very last believe even against hope and against reason. Her life had gone to ruin, but she trusted that some miracle would restore it. Not for long could any mood of despair subdue her; infallibly she must shake it away. For there was no egotism in her grief, she could suffer cheerfully with others; it was her isolation that hurt her. All her old friends had departed. The grave had some; others had taken different ways, or battle and exile had scattered them. By the side of her sick father she stood alone, feeling that even Jane—her familiar friend—doubted her, no longer took her at her word, called in question what she said, and held herself so far aloof that she could not reach her heart. Oppressed by such considerations, she felt like a child that suddenly realises it has lost its way and is left alone in a wilderness.

Nothing in her surroundings offered her any help. The road was flat and dreary; a wide level intersected with deep drains and "droves"—a poor, rough, moist land, whose horizon was only broken by the towers of Ely, vast and gray in the distance. Large iron gates admitted her to de Wick park, and she entered an avenue bordered with ash trees, veiled in mist, and spreading out on either hand into a green chase full of tame deer. The House—pieced on to the broad walls of an Augustine monastery—was overshadowed by ash trees. It was a quadrangular building of various dates, the gray walls rising from trim gardens with box-edged flower plots and clipped yew hedges. There was a large fish pond teeming with perch, and pike, and eels; and black colonies of rooks filled the surrounding trees, and perched on the roof of the mansion. An old-world sleepy air, lonely and apart and full of melancholy, pervaded the place.

But all these things were part and parcel of the word Home. Matilda regarded them not in particular, they only affected her unconsciously as the damp air or the gathering shadows of the evening did. The door stood open, and she passed without delay into the wide entrance hall. It was chill with the drifting fog, and dark with the coming night shadows; but there was a good fire of ash logs at the upper end, and she stood a few minutes before it, feeling a certain exhilaration in its pleasant warmth and leaping flame. Then she went leisurely up the broad stairway. It was of old oak with curiously carved balusters, surmounted by grotesque animal forms; but she did not notice these ugly creations as she climbed with graceful lassitude the dark steps, letting her silk robe trail and rustle behind her. Her hat, with its moist drooping feathers, was in her hand; her hair hung limply about her brow and face; she was the very picture of a beauty that had suffered the touch of adverse nature, and the depression of unsympathetic humanity.

But the moment she entered her own room she had the sense of covert and refreshment. Its dark splendour of oak and damask was brought out by the glow and flame of firelight and candle-light; and her maid came forward with that air of affectionate service, which in Matilda's present mood seemed of all things most grateful and pleasant. She put off her sense of alienation and unhappiness with her damp clothing, and as the comfort of renewal came to her outwardly, the inner woman also regained her authority; and the girl conscious of this potent personality, erected herself in its strength and individuality. She surveyed her freshly clad form in its gown of blue lutestring; she turned right and left to admire a fresh arrangement of her hair; she put around her neck, without pretense of secrecy or apology, the rosary of coral and gold; and admired the tint and shimmer of its beauty on her white throat. Then she asked—

"Was any stranger with the Earl at dinner, Delia?"

"My lady, he dined with Father Sacy alone."

"And pray what did they eat for dinner?"

"There was a sucking pig roasted with juniper wood and rosemary branches, and a jugged hare, and a pullet, and some clotted cream and a raspberry tart. All very good, my lady; will you please to eat something?"

"Yes. I will have some jugged hare, and some clotted cream, and a raspberry tart—and a glass of Spanish wine, Delia, and a pitcher of new milk. Have them served as soon as possible."

"In what room, my lady?"

"In what room is the Earl, my father, now sitting?"

"In the morning room."

"Then serve it in the morning room."

She took one comfortable glance at herself, and in the pleasure of its assurance went down-stairs. Her step was now firm and rapid, yet she paused a moment at the door of the room she wished to enter, and called up smiles to her face and a sort of cheerful bravado to her manner ere she lifted the steel hasp that admitted her. In a moment her quick eyes took a survey of its occupants. They were only two men—Earl de Wick, and his chaplain, Father Sacy. Both were reading; the Earl, Sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia; the Chaplain, the Evening Service in the Book of Common Prayer. Neither of them noticed her entrance, and she went straight to her father's side, and covering the open page with her hand, said in a merry tone—

"Here is a noble knight dwelling in Arcadia, while the great Captain-General Cromwell——"

"The devil!"

"Is going up and down and to and fro in the land, seeking whom he may devour. I have been at Ely and at Swaffham, gathering what news I can, and I assure you, sir, there is none to our comfort."

"What have you heard? Anything about the Scots?"

"Cromwell is in Scotland. What do you expect from that news?"

"That Leslie will be his match."

"Then you will be disappointed. 'There is a tide in the affairs of men,' and this tide of Cromwell and the Commonwealth is going to sweep all royalty and all nobility into the deep sea."

"Well, then, I may as well return to my Arcadia and learn how to be rustical. We nobles may play at Canute if we like—but—but——"

"It is useless, while this man's star flames in the firmament. I hear that the Parliament rose bareheaded to receive him when he last entered the House. If he were king, they could have done no more. They have also given to him and his family a royal lodging in the Cockpit, and already the women are removed thither. If he conquers the Scotch army, what more can they offer him but the crown?"

"Those unlucky Stuarts! They will swallow up all England's chivalry. Oh, for one campaign with Queen Elizabeth at its head! She would send old Oliver with his Commonwealth to the bottomless pit, and order him to tell the devil that Elizabeth Tudor sent him there."

"The Stuarts are of God's anointing; and there are bad kings, and unlucky kings in all royal houses. I stood to-day where King John lay cursing and biting the rushes on the floor, because his barons had made themselves his over-kings."

"John's barons had some light," said the Earl. "They hated John for the reason England now hates the Stuarts. He perjured himself neck deep; he brought in foreign troops to subjugate Englishmen; he sinned in all things as Charles Stuart has sinned."

"Sir, are you not going too far?" asked the Chaplain, lifting his eyes from his book.

"I thought you were at your prayers, father. No, by all that is truthful, I am right! In the Great Charter, the barons specially denounce King John as 'regem perjurum ac baronibus rebellem.' The same thing might fairly be said of Charles Stuart. Yet while a Stuart is King of England, it is the de Wicks' duty to stand by him. But I would to God I had lived when Elizabeth held the sceptre! No Cromwell had smitten it out of her hand, as Cromwell smote it from the hand of Charles on Naseby's field."

"That is supposition, my Lord."

"It is something more, father. Elizabeth had to deal with a fiercer race than Charles had, but she knew how to manage it. Look at the pictures of the de Wicks in her time. They are the pictures of men who would stand for their rights against 'prerogative' of any kind, yet the great Queen made them obey her lightest word. How did she do it? I will tell you—she scorned to lie to them, and she was brave as a lion. If she had wanted the Five Members in the Tower of London, they would have gone to the Tower of London; her crown for it! It was my great-grandfather who held her bridle reins when she reviewed her troops going to meet the Spaniards of the Armada. No hesitating, no tampering, no doubts, no fears moved her. She spoke one clear word to them, and she threw herself unreservedly upon their love and loyalty. 'Let tyrants fear!' she cried. 'I have placed my chief strength in the loyal hearts of my subjects, and I am come amongst you resolved to live or die amongst you all—to lay down for God, and my kingdom, and my people, my honour and my blood, even in the dust. I know I have the body of a weak woman, but I have the heart and stomach of a king, and of a King of England, too; and I think foul scorn that Spain, or any prince of Europe should dare to invade the borders of my realm!' This was Elizabeth's honest temper, and if Charles Stuart in throwing himself upon his nobles and his country had been true to them, he would never have gone to the scaffold. This I say boldly, and I mean what I say."

"Sir, many would mistake your words, and think you less than loyal."

"Father, I have proved my loyalty with my children and my blood; but among my own people and at my own hearth, I may say that I would I had better reason for my loyalty. I am true to my king, but above all else, I love my country. I love her beyond all words, though I am grateful to one great Englishman for finding me words that I have dipped in my heart's blood; words that I uttered on the battle-field joyfully, when I thought they were my last words—

"'——this blessed spot, this earth, this realm, this England,

This land of such dear souls, this dear, dear land!'"

"If to this degree you love England, father, how would you like to see this beggarly Cromwell upon her throne? How would you teach your head to bow to this upstart majesty?"

"Matilda, to the devil we may give his due, and there is naught of 'beggary' in Cromwell or in his family. They have entertained kings, and sat with nobles as equals, and as for the man himself, he is a gentleman by birth and breeding. I say it, for I have known him his life long, and if you add every crime to his name, I will still maintain that he has sinned with a clear conscience. He stood by Charles Stuart, and strove to save him until he found that Charles Stuart stood by no man, and could be trusted by no man."

"My lord, you are very just to the man Cromwell. Some would not thank you for it."

"If we cannot be just, father, we may doubt the fairness of our cause, perhaps also of our motives. 'Tis impossible to consider this man's life since he walked to the front of the Parliamentary army and not wonder at it."

"He is but the man of the hour, events have made him."

"Not so! His success is in him, 'tis the breed of his own heart and brain. Well, then, this Scotch campaign is the now or never of our effort. If it fail, we may have a Cromwell dynasty."

"'Tis an impossible event. The man has slain the king of England and throttled the Church of Christ. Even this holy Book in my hand has his condemnation—these gracious prayers and collects, whose music is ready made for every joy and sorrow—this noble Creed which we ought to sing upon our knees, for nothing made of English words was ever put together like it—yet you know how Cromwell's Root and Branch men have slandered it."

"Alas, father! One kind of Christian generally slanders all other kinds. The worshipers of the heathen gods were at least tolerant. A pagan gentleman who had faith in his own image of Bona Dea could still be friendly to an acquaintance who believed in Jupiter. But we are not even civil to our neighbours unless they think about our God just as we do."

"What say you if, for once, we part without Cromwell between our good-wills and our good-nights? Father, I have seen to-day a fan of ostrich feathers; 'tis with Gaius the packman, who will be here in the morning. Also, I want some housewifery stores, and some embroidery silks, and ballads, and a book of poems written by one Mr. John Milton, who keeps a school in London."

"I know the man. We will have none of his poems."

"But, father, I may have the other things?"

"You will take no nay-say."

"Then a good-night, sir!"

"Not yet. I will have my pay for 'the other things.' You shall sing to me. Your lute lies there. Come—'It is early in the morning.'" She was singing the first line as she went for her lute, and de Wick closed his eyes and lay smiling while the old, old ditty filled the room with its sweetness—

"It is early in the morning,

At the very break of day,

My Love and I go roaming,

All in the woods so gay.

The dew like pearl drops bathes our feet,

The sweet dewdrops of May

In the sweetest place of any,

'Mid the grasses thick and high

Caring nothing for the dewdrops,

That around us thickly lie.

Bathed in glittering May-dew,

Sit we there, my Love and I!

As we pluck the whitethorn blossom,

As we whisper words of love,

Prattling close beside the brooklet,

Sings the lark, and coos the dove.

Our feet are bathed in May-dew,

And our hearts are bathed in love."

Happily, tenderly, fell the musical syllables to the tinkling lute, and as she drew to a close, still singing, she passed smiling out of the room; leaving the door open however, so that they heard her voice growing sweetly softer and softer, and further and further away, until it left nothing but the delightsome echo in their hearts—

"Our feet are bathed in May-dew

And our hearts are bathed in love."

CHAPTER II. DOCTOR JOHN VERITY

"Some trust in chariots and some in horses; but we will remember the name of the Lord our God."

"The Lord strong and mighty; the Lord mighty in battle."

As Matilda went singing up the darksome stairway, the moon rose in the clear skies and flooded the place with a pallid, fugitive light. In that unearthly glow she looked like some spiritual being. It gave to her pale silk robe a heavenly radiance. It fell upon her white hands touching the lute, and upon her slightly raised face, revealing the rapt expression of one who is singing with the heart as well as with the lips. The clock struck nine as she reached the topmost step, and she raised her voice to drown the chiming bell; and so, in a sweet crescendo of melody, passed out of sight and out of hearing.

About the same time, Mrs. Swaffham and Jane stood together on the eastern terrace of the Manor House, silently admiring the moonlight over the level land. But in a few moments Jane began in a low voice to recite the first verse of the one hundred and third Psalm; her mother took the second verse, they clasped hands, and as they slowly paced the grassy walk they went with antiphonal gladness through the noble thanksgiving together. The ninety-first Psalm followed it, and then Mrs. Swaffham said—

"Now, Jane, let us go to bed and try to sleep. I haven't been worth a rush to-day for want of my last night's sleep. There's a deal to do to-morrow, and it won't be done unless I am at the bottom of everything. My soul, too, is wondrous heavy to-night. I keep asking it 'Why art thou cast down, O my soul, and why art thou disquieted within me?' and I get no answer from it."

"You must add counsel to inquiry, mother. Finish the verse—'Trust thou in God, and thou shalt yet praise Him, who is the health of thy countenance, and thy God.' You see, you are to answer yourself."

"I didn't think of that, Jane. A sad heart is poor company, isn't it?"

"There is an old saying, mother,—'A merry heart goes all the day.'"

"But who knows how much the merry heart may have to carry? There is another saying still older, Jane, that is a good deal better than that. It is God's grand charter of help, and you'll find it, dear, in Romans eighth and twenty-eighth. I can tell you, my heart would have failed me many and many a time, it would indeed, but for that verse."

"Are you troubled about my father and brothers?"

"Oh, Jane, that is the sword point at my heart. Any hour it may pierce me. Cromwell went to Scotland, and what for but to fight? And my men-folk have not charmed lives."

"But their lives are hid with Christ in God; nothing can hurt them, that is not of His sending."

"Yes! Yes! But I am a wife and a mother, and you know not yet what that means, Jane. All day I have been saying—no matter what my hands were doing—let this cup pass me, Lord. If your father fell!—if John, or Cymlin, or Tonbert were left on the battle-field! Oh, Jane! Jane!" and the terror that had haunted her all day and shown itself in an irrepressible fretfulness, now sought relief in tears and sobbing. Jane kissed and comforted the sorrowful woman. She led her up-stairs, and helped her into the sanctuary of sleep by many brave and hopeful words; and it so happened that she finally uttered a promise that had once been given to the anxious wife and mother, as a sacred secret token of help and deliverance. And when she heard the gracious words dropping from Jane's lips she said—"That is sufficient. Once, when I was in great fear for your father, the Lord gave me that assurance; now He sends it by you. I am satisfied. I will lay me down and sleep; the words will sing in my heart all night long," and she said them softly as Jane kissed her—"'From the beginning of our journey, the Lord delivered us from every enemy.'"

Then Jane went to her own room. It was a large, low room on the morning side of the house, and it was an illustration of the girl—a place of wide, free spaces, and no furniture in it that was for mere ornament—a small tent bed draped with white dimity, a dressing-table equally plain and spotless, a stand on which lay her Bible, a large oak chair of unknown age, and two or three chairs of the simplest form made of plaited rushes and willow wands. Some pots of sweet basil and geranium were in the casements, and the place was permeated with a peace and perfume that is indescribable.

To this sweet retreat Jane went with eager steps. She closed the door, slipped the iron bolt into its place, and then lit a rush candle. The light was dim, but sufficient. In it she disrobed herself, and loosened the long braids of pale brown hair; then she put out the candle and let the moonlight flood the room, make whiter the white draperies, and add the last ravishing touch of something heavenly, and something apart from the sphere of our unrest and sorrow.

For some time she sat voiceless, motionless. Was she dreaming of happiness, or learning to suffer? Neither, consciously; she was "waiting" on the Eternal, waiting for that desire God Himself forms in the soul—that secret voice that draws down mercies and spiritual favours which no one knoweth but they who receive them. And Jane was well aware that it was only in the serene depth of a quiescent will she could rise above the meanness of fear and the selfishness of hope, and present that acceptable prayer which would be omnipotent with God:—omnipotent, because so wonderfully aided by all those strange things and secret decrees and unrevealed transactions which are beyond the stars; but which all combine in ministry with the praying soul.

That night, however, she could not escape the tremor and tumult of her own heart, and the sorrowful apprehension of her mother. Peace was far from her. She sat almost breathless, she rose and walked softly to and fro, she stood with uplifted thoughts in the moonlit window—nothing brought her clarity and peace of mind. And when at length she fell into the sleep of pure weariness, it was haunted by dreams full of turmoil and foreshadowings of calamity. She awoke weary and unrefreshed, and with a sigh opened a casement and looked at the outer world again. How good it seemed! In what gray, wild place of sorrow and suffering had she been wandering? She did not know its moors and bogs, and the noise of its black, rolling waters. How different were the green terraces of Swaffham! The sweet beds of late lilies and autumn flowers! The rows of tall hollyhocks dripping in the morning mist! A penetrating scent of marjoram and lavender was in the air, a sense, too, of ended summer, in spite of the lilies and the stately hollyhocks. She came down with a smile, but her mother's face was wan and tired.

"I hoped I should have had a good dream last night, Jane," she said sadly, "but I dreamt nothing to the purpose. I wonder when we shall have a letter. I do not feel able to do anything to-day. I'm not all here. My mind runs on things far away from Swaffham. I am going to let some of the work take its own way for a week. In all conscience, we should have news by that time."

So the anxious days went by for a week, and there was still no word. Then Jane went over to de Wick, hoping that the Earl might have news from his son, which would at least break the voiceless tension of their fears. But the Earl was in the same state—restless, perplexed, wistfully eager concerning the situation of the opposing armies. In their mutual sorrowful conjectures they forgot their political antipathies, and a loving apprehension drew them together; they could not say unkind things, and Jane was even regretful for her cool attitude towards Matilda on her last visit to Swaffham. They drew close to each other, they talked in low voices of the absent, they clasped hands as they walked together through the lonely park in the autumn afternoon. They also agreed that whoever had news first should send a swift messenger to the other, no matter what the tidings should be. When they parted, Jane kissed her friend, a token of love she had not given her for a long time, and Matilda was so affected by this return of sympathy that she covered her face with her hands and wept. "Oh, Jane!" she said, "I have been so lonely!"

And as Jane answered her with affectionate assurances, there came into her heart a sudden anticipation of intelligence. Without consideration, with no purpose of mere encouragement, she said confidently—"There is some one on the way. I seem to hear them coming." So they parted, and Jane brought home with her a hope which would not be put down. Her face was so bright and her voice so confident that her mother felt the influence of her spirit, and anon shared it. The night was too damp and chill for their usual bedtime walk on the terrace, but they sat together on the hearth, knitting and talking until the evening was far spent. Then Mrs. Swaffham dropped her work upon her lap, and she and Jane began their private evening exercise:

"Then said he unto me, thou art sore troubled in mind for Israel's sake; lovest thou that people better than He that made them?

"And I said, No, Lord, but of very grief have I spoken; for my reins pain me every hour, while I labour to comprehend the way of the most High, and to seek out part of His judgment.

"And he said unto me, thou canst not. And I said wherefore, Lord, whereunto was I born then? Or why was not my mother's womb my grave, that I might not have seen the travail of Jacob, and the wearisome toil of the stock of Israel?

"And he said unto me, number me the things that are not yet come; gather me together the drops that are scattered abroad; make me the flowers green again that are withered.

"Open me the places that are closed, and bring me forth the winds that in them are shut up; show me the image of a voice; and then I will declare to thee the thing that thou labourest to know.

"And I said, O Lord that bearest rule; who may know these things, but he that hath not his dwelling with men?

"As for me I am unwise; how may I speak of these things whereof thou askest me?

"Then he said unto me, like as thou canst do none of these things that I have spoken of, even so canst thou not find out my judgment; or in the end, the love that I have promised unto my people."

And when the short antiphony was finished, they kissed each other a hopeful "good-night," being made strong in this—that they had put self out of their supplication, and been only "troubled in mind for Israel's sake."

All were in deep sleep when the blast of a trumpet and the trampling of a heavily-shod horse on the stones of the courtyard awakened them. Jane's quick ear detected at once the tone of triumph in the summons. She ran to her mother's room, and found her at an open window. She was calling aloud to the messenger, "Is it you, Doctor Verity?" and the answer came swift and strong, ere the question was fairly asked—

"It is I, John Verity, with the blessing of God, and good tidings."

"Get your horse to stable, Doctor, and we will be down to welcome you." The next moment the house was astir from one end to the other—bells were ringing, lights moving hither and thither, men and women running downstairs, and at the open door Mrs. Swaffham and Jane waiting for the messenger, their eager faces and shining eyes full of hope and expectation.

He kept them waiting until he had seen his weary horse attended to, then hurrying across the courtyard he clasped the hands held out in welcome, and with a blessing on his lips came into the lighted room. It was joy and strength to look at him. His bulk was like that of the elder gods; his head like an antique marble, his hazel eyes beaming, joyous, and full of that light which comes "from within." A man of large mind as well as of large stature, with a simple, good heart, that could never grow old; strong and courageous, yet tender as a girl; one who in the battle of life would always go to the front.

So it was good even to see him, and how much better to hear him say—

"Israel Swaffham is well, and God hath given us a great victory."

"And John?"

"I left him following after the enemy. We have smitten them hip and thigh; we——"

"And Cymlin?"

"He was guarding the prisoners. We have ten thousand of them, and——"

"And Tonbert?"

"Nothing has hurt him. He was in a strait for one five minutes; but I cried to him—'Set thy teeth, and fight for thy life, Tonbert;' and he came safely away with the colours in his hands, when he had slain two of the rogues who wanted them."

"Now then, we shall have peace, Doctor?"

"No use, Martha, in crying peace! peace! When peace is wickedness. Our Protestant liberty was won by men willing to go to the stake for it; our civil liberty can only be won by men willing to go to the battle-field for it. But here come the beef and bread, and I am a hungry man. Let me eat and drink. And you women, bless the Lord and forget not all His benefits."

It was not long before he took a pipe from his pocket, lit it, and drew his chair to the hearthstone. "Now we will talk," he said. "When did you hear of us last?"

"About the tenth of August. You were then in camp near Edinburgh," said Mrs. Swaffham.

"To be sure—having a paper war with the Kirk and David Leslie. It was little to Cromwell's liking, and no more to David Leslie's; both of them would rather defiance of battle than Declarations from the General Assembly. They came to nothing, and as the weather was bad and our provisions short, and our men falling sick beyond imagination, we retreated to Dunbar to fortify and recruit. Then the cunning Scots got behind us and blocked up our way. We were in a bad case, Martha, between Leslie and the black North Sea—in a trap, and no less. For the first time our good Cromwell faced defeat, yes, annihilation. Did he lose heart? Not a bit of it. He sent word south to get men ready to meet Leslie, whatever became of us; and then he watched and waited and prayed. Such prayer! Martha. I saw him lifting up his sword to heaven—I heard him speaking to God—pressing forward and upward—bent on prevailing—taking heaven by assault. About three o'clock on the morning of the battle I went to him. It was yet dark, but the men were at arms, and Cromwell was going from troop to troop encouraging them. I said to him, 'Brother Oliver, you have got an answer?' And he smiled joyfully and said:

"'It is in my heart, John. When the devil had said all he had to say, then God spoke. Indeed I have great consolations. I know, and am sure, that because of our weakness, because of our strait, the Lord will deliver us. But tell the men that whoever has a heart for prayer, must pray now; and then quit themselves like men—there is one watching and helping them.'

"You women would not understand the setting of the battle. It is enough that it began at four in the morning, and that by nine o'clock there was no longer a Scotch army—three thousand of it were slain in the battle, many more killed in pursuit. We had all their baggage and artillery, besides fifteen thousand stand of arms and two hundred colours to hang up in Westminster Hall—and not twenty Englishmen killed. The Scots came forward shouting, 'The Covenant! The Covenant!' and Cromwell thundered back, 'THE LORD OF HOSTS!' His voice seemed to fill the field. It was heard above the clash of the swords, and the shouting of the captains—and it was caught by thousands of other voices—above the bellowing of the cannon. It was an invocation, it was a shout of triumph, and indeed THE LORD OF HOSTS was above The Covenant.'"

"Oh, if I could have seen Cromwell at that onset! Just for a moment!" exclaimed Jane.

"At the onset! Yes! It is something never to forget. He leaps to his horse, rides to the head of his troop, and gallops it to the very front of the battle. I saw him at Dunbar, his Ironsides in buff and rusty steel shouting after him—sons of Anak most of them—God's soldiers, not men's; and led by one whose swoop and stroke in battle no one ever saw equaled. All through the fight he was a pillar of fire to us; and just when it was hottest the sun rose upon the sea, and Cromwell took it for a sign of present victory, and shouted to his army, 'Now let God arise, and His enemies shall be scattered.'"

"I can see him! I can hear him!" cried Jane.