The Lion's Whelp

"But I could wish a pleasanter way, and so will not take Cromwell's guidance."

"I heard in a passing manner that Prince Rupert is off the seas forever – that he is at the French Court, where he is much made of."

"Jane Swaffham, have you no fresher news?" and she pulled out of her bosom many sheets of paper tied together with a gold thread. "I had this yesterday," she said, "by the hand of Stephen, and I may as well tell you to prepare to meet Stephen de Wick, for he vows he will not leave England again until he has speech with you."

"Then he is forsworn; I will not see him."

"It will be no treason now to speak to your old servant. The Amnesty Act will cover you. But I fight not Stephen's battles; I have enough to do to keep my own share of your friendship from fraying. See how Fortune orders affairs! The ship my uncle has been worrying Cromwell about, and which Cromwell has been bullying Mazarin about, was taken by Prince Rupert; and I hope, by this time, he has turned her last ounce of cargo and her last inch of plank into good gold ducats."

"But that would be to your uncle's great loss."

"Cromwell has promised to see to that. The man and his army ought to be of some use. If you can keep a secret suspicion, you may believe, with me, that my uncle was not averse to letting the royal family have this one of his ventures. They need the money from it, and Cromwell will collect the full value from the Frenchman. I like that way of paying Sir Thomas. The French have behaved abominably to the poor Queen and His Majesty, and their unhappy Court. Let them pay for what Rupert took. They owe it to His Majesty; let them pay! Make them pay! In grace of God, 'tis good enough for them. As for Uncle Jevery, he always gets his own; some one, in some manner, will pay him for the Sea Rover, plank and cargo. In the meantime, the King can have a little comfort. Why has Cymlin come at this time from Ireland?"

"He has leave of absence from Commander-in-chief Fleetwood."

"Oh, Jane! I am tipsy with laughing when I think of the doleful widow Ireton – and Fleetwood. You remember what a hot quarrel we had about Ireton being buried among the Kings of England – they will kick him out yet, though they be dead – and how you shamed me for not weeping with the desolated woman?"

"It would be better to forget these things, Matilda."

"And then she let the widower Fleetwood console her in less than half a year! It makes me blush! Yet the widow Ireton is an honourable woman! To be sure, only God understands women. I don't. I don't understand myself – or you."

"No woman likes to be put down; and when General Lambert got Ireton's place, Madame Lambert was insolently proud, and insisted on taking precedence of Ireton's widow, though she was Cromwell's daughter."

"Fancy the saints quarreling about earthly precedence! Madame Lambert was right. A living dog is better than a dead lion. And I admire the devout Bridget's revenge; it was so human – so sweetly womanly. How did she get round her father?"

"Indeed, men are sweetly human too; and the better men, the more human. Colonel Fleetwood by taking Lady Ireton's part, won her affection; it was a fitting match, and it pleased the Lord General; he recalled Lambert – who was truly overpowered by his great position – and made Fleetwood commander in Ireland, thus giving his daughter back the precedence."

"'Twas a delightful bit of domestic revenge. I enjoyed it. London enjoyed it. Puritans and Royalists alike laughed over it. It was such a thing as any mortal father would have done, and every mortal father, for once, felt kin to the Lord General. 'Nicest thing I ever heard of him,' said Lord and Lady Fairfax; for, as you know, Lord and Lady Fairfax always have the same opinion."

"Why do you talk of it? The thing is past and over."

"By no means. The Lamberts are still going up and down, he in wrath and she in tears, talking about it."

"Then let us talk of other things. As I came here I met a large company of Dutch prisoners. They were taking them to our Fen country, that they might drain it."

"They are very fit for that work. They are used to living in mud and water. How came they?"

"They did not come. Blake sent them. He sunk their ship and made them his prisoners."

"Why did they interfere with Blake? It serves them right."

"The Dutch are at war with the Commonwealth. Does not that please you?"

"No. What right have the Dutch to meddle in our affairs? The quarrel is between our King and the Parliament. It is our own quarrel, Englishmen against Englishmen. That is all right. It is a family affair; we want no foreigners taking a hand in it. The only time I ever saw my father angry at the King was when he landed foreigners to fight Englishmen. We can settle our own quarrels. If Dutchmen will come into our boat they will, of course, get the oars over their fingers. Serve them right. Let them go to the Fens. They are only amphibious creatures."

"But you do not understand; they – "

"And I do not want to understand; I have settled that affair to my satisfaction. Now I must tell you something concerning myself. I am going to France."

"France!" cried Jane in amazement.

"Yes, France. I have persuaded my uncle that he ought to go there, and look after the Sea Rover. I have persuaded my aunt that it is not safe for my uncle to go without her; and they both know my reason for going with them, although we do not name Prince Rupert."

"When do you go, Matilda?"

"To-morrow, if Stephen be ready. And let me tell you, Jane, Stephen's readiness depends on you."

"That is not so."

"It is. I hope you will be definite, Jane. You have kept poor Stephen dangling after you since you were ten years old."

"What about Cymlin and yourself?"

Then Matilda laughed, and her countenance changed, and she said seriously, "Upon my word and honour, I was never nearer loving Cymlin than I was last night, yet he was never less deserving of it. 'Tis a good story, Jane. I will not pretend to keep it from you, though I would stake my last coin on Cymlin's silence about the matter. He came into my presence, as he always does, ill at ease; and why, I know not, for a man more handsome in face and figure it would not be easy to find in England. But he has bad manners, Jane, confess it; he blushes and stumbles over things, and lets his kerchief fall, and when he tries to be a gallant, makes a fool of himself."

"You are talking of my brother, Matilda, and you are making him ridiculous, a thing Cymlin is not, and never was."

"Wait a bit, Jane. I was kind to him, and he told me about his life in Ireland, and he spoke so well, and looked so proper, that I could not help but show him how he pleased me. Then he went beyond his usual manner, and in leaving tried to give me a bow and a leg in perfect court fashion; and he made a silly appearance, and for the life of me I could not help a smile – not a nice smile, Jane; indeed, 'twas a very scornful smile, and he caught me at it, and what do you think he did?"

"I dare say he told you plainly that you were behaving badly?"

"My dear Jane, he turned back, he walked straight to me and boxed my ears, for 'a silly child that did not know the difference between a man and a coxcomb.' I swear to you I was struck dumb, and he had taken himself out of the room in a passion ere I could find a word to throw after him. Then I got up and went to a mirror and looked at my ears, and they were scarlet, and my cheeks matched them, and for a moment I was in a towering rage. I sat down, I cried, I laughed, I was amazed, I was, after a little while, ashamed, and finally I came to a reasonable temper and acknowledged I had been served exactly right. For I had no business to put my wicked little tongue in my cheek, because a brave gentleman could not crook his leg like a dancing-master. Are you laughing, Jane? Well, I must laugh too. I shall laugh many a time when I think of Cymlin's two big hands over my ears. Had he kissed me afterwards, I would have forgiven him – I think."

"I cannot help laughing a little, Matilda, but I assure you Cymlin is suffering from that discipline far more than you are."

"I am not suffering at all. This morning I admire him. There is not another man in the world who would have presumed to box the Lady Matilda de Wick's ears; accordingly I am in love with his courage and self-respect. I deserved what I got, I deserved it richly, Jane;" – and she rose and went to the glass, and turned her head right and left, and looked at her ears, and then with a laugh said, "Poor little ears! You had to suffer for a saucy tongue. Jane, my ears burn, my cheeks burn, I do believe my heart burns. I shall laugh and cry as long as I live, and remember Cymlin Swaffham."

"It was too bad of Cymlin – but very like him. He has boxed my ears more than once."

"You are his sister. That is different. I will never speak to him again. He can go hang himself if he likes, or go back to Ireland – which seems about the same thing."

"Cymlin will not hang himself for man or woman. Cymlin has the fear of God before him."

"I am glad he has. Surely he has no fear of Matilda de Wick. There, let the matter drop. I wish now, you would either take Stephen, or send him off forever. I am in a hurry to be gone, and Sir Thomas also."

"Sir Thomas seemed full of content among his lilies and crocuses."

"I'll wager he was bidding them, one by one, a good-bye. Go and send Stephen with a 'Yes' or 'No' to me. I am become indifferent which, since you are so much so."

The little fret was a common one; Jane let it pass without comment, and it did not affect the sympathy and affection of their parting. Many letters were promised on both sides, and Jane was glad to notice the eagerness and hope in her friend's voice and manner. Whatever her words might assert, it was evident she looked forward to a great joy. And as long as she was with Matilda, Jane let this same spirit animate her; her ride home, however, was set to a more anxious key. She was a little angry also. Why should Stephen de Wick intrude his love upon her? Twice already she had plainly told him that his suit was hopeless, and she did not feel grateful for an affection that would not recognise its limits, and was determined to force itself beyond them.

She entered Sandys with the spring all about her; her fair face rosy with the fresh wind, and her eyes full of the sunshine. Cymlin and Stephen were sitting by the fireside talking of Irish hounds and of a new bit for restive horses which Cymlin had invented. It was evident that Mrs. Swaffham had given Stephen a warm welcome; the remains of a most hospitable meal were on the table, and he had the look and manner of a man thoroughly at home. In fact, he had made a confidant of Cymlin, or, rather, he had talked over an old confidence with him. Cymlin approved his suit for Jane's hand. He did not like the idea of Cluny as a member of his family. He had an aversion, almost a contempt, for all men not distinctly and entirely English, and he was sure that Cluny had won that place in the Lord General's favour which he himself was in sight of when Cluny appeared. Again, Stephen had been his playmate; he was his neighbour, and if the King ever came back, would be an important neighbour; one whose good offices might be of some importance to Swaffham. Besides which, though he habitually snubbed Jane, he loved her, and did not like to think of her living in Scotland. It was a pleasanter thing to imagine her at de Wick; and it may be noticed that the return of the Stuarts was almost assured by this constant thought and predication of it in the staunchest Puritan minds. The fear was the unconscious prophecy.

When Jane entered, Cymlin and Stephen both rose to meet her. Cymlin was kind with the condescension of a brother. He spoke to her as he spoke to creatures weaker than himself, and kissed her with the air of a king kissing a subject he loved to honour. Then he made an excuse to the stables and gave Stephen his opportunity. The young man had kept his eyes fixed on the beautiful face and slender form of the girl he loved, but had uttered no word except the exclamation that sprung from his lips involuntarily when she entered:

"Jane!"

Even when they were alone, he first put the logs together with the great tongs and replaced them in their stand ere he went to her and clasped her hands and said with a passionate eagerness, "Jane, dearest! I have come again to ask you to marry me. Say one good, kind word. When you were not as high as my heart, you did promise to be my wife. I vow you did! You know you did! Keep your promise; oh, I look for you to keep your promise!"

"Stephen, I knew not then what marriage meant. You were as a brother to me. I love you yet as I loved you then. I am your friend, your sister if you will."

"I will not. You must be my wife."

"I cannot be your wife. I am already plighted."

"To Lord Neville. What the devil – "

"Sir!"

"I beg your pardon. I am no saint, and what you say stirs me to use words not found in books. As for Neville, you shall never marry him. I forbid it. I will hunt him to the gates of death."

"It is sinful to say such things."

"Let my sins alone. I am not in the humour to be sorry for them. I say again, you shall not marry that scoundrelly Scot."

"He is not what you call him – far from it."

"I call things by their right names. I call a Scot, a Scot; and a scoundrel, a scoundrel." He threw her hands far from him, and strode up and down the room, desperate and full of wrath. "You shall marry no man but myself. Before earth and heaven you shall!"

"If God wills, I shall marry Lord Neville."

"I say no!" he shouted. "Jane, when the King comes back, and I have my estate and title, will you marry me?"

"You are asking me to marry your estate and title. I do not value either that– " and she snapped her thumb against her finger, with no doubtful expression.

"Oh, Jane! I shall go to total ruin if you do not marry me."

"Shall I marry a man who is not lord of himself? I will not."

"You have made me your enemy. What follows is your own fault."

"'Tis a poor love that turns to hatred; and you can do no more than you are let do."

"You will see. By my soul, 'tis truth!"

"There is God between me and you. I have no fear."

"I am beyond reason. What am I saying? All my quarrels with you are kind ones, Jane. Oh, 'tis ten thousand pities you will not love me!"

"It is nowise possible, Stephen."

He flung himself into a chair, laid his arms upon the table, and buried his face in them. "Go away, then," he sobbed; "I wish to see your face no more. For your sake, I will hate all women forever."

There was no use in prolonging a conversation so hopeless. She went away, and in the hall met her brother Cymlin. He looked at her angrily. "You have been behaving badly to Stephen; I see that much. What for did God make women? They are His wrath, I think. You and your friend are both as wicked and cruel and beautiful as tigers; and you have no more heart or conscience than cats have."

"If you are speaking of Lady Matilda, it is a shame. She told me to-day she thought you as handsome a man in face and figure as was in England. She praised your courage and self-respect, and said if you had kissed her last night she would have forgiven you."

As Jane spoke, wonder and delight chased each other across Cymlin's face. "What else did she say?" he eagerly asked.

"Indeed, I have told you too much."

"Tell me all, Jane, I must know."

"Why should you care for her words? She is cruel as a tiger, and has no more heart or conscience than a cat."

"I did not fully mean such things of Matilda – nor of you, in the main. You are sure she said I was handsome?"

"Sure."

"And brave?"

"Sure."

"And self-respecting?"

"She said every word, and more than I have told you."

"The rest, then?"

"No. I am true to my friend – in the main."

"You are ill-tempered. Stephen ought to be thankful for your 'No.' He will be, some day. I shall go and see Matilda to-morrow."

"She may leave for France to-night."

"You are a provoking creature."

"Go and abuse me to Stephen. I think little of him. He is neither handsome nor brave nor self-respecting, and he threatens me! What do you think of a lover who threatens his mistress? He is out of the Court of Love. He is an alien, an outlaw."

"How you rant!"

She did not wait to hear more. She was both angry and scornful; and she sought out her mother, and found her resting in her own room.

"I get tired soon in the day, Jane," she said; "I think it is the London air, and the strange life, and the constant fear of some change. No one seems to know what a day will bring forth. Did you see Stephen?"

"Yes."

"It can't be, I suppose?"

"You know it can't be, mother." She was hurt at the question. It was a wrong to Cluny; and she said with some temper, "It could not be under any circumstances. The man is mean; he has just threatened me. If I had not been a woman I would have given him his threat back in his teeth. I would rather be Cluny's wife, if Cluny had not a crown."

"Cluny is not troubled with crowns, or half-crowns. Stephen is an old neighbour, – but I am not one to complain. If you are pleased, father and I can make shift to look so. As for your brothers, I'm not so sure of them."

Then Jane felt a sudden anger at the de Wick family. All her life, in some way or other, it had been the de Wicks. Matilda's exactions and provoking words and ways came to her memory and brought with them a sense of too much endured. Stephen's love had ever been a selfishly disturbing element. Many an unpleasant day it had caused her, and at this moment she told herself that, say what they would, the Earldom had an unacknowledged power over the imagination of all the Swaffhams but herself. She was just going to voice this opinion, when her mother's weary face arrested her words; she went away without justifying herself or her lover, and when the act of self-denial had been accomplished, she was glad of it. In the stillness of her room she retired with Him who is a sure hiding-place, and there found that peace which "soft upon the spirit lies, as tired eyelids upon tired eyes." Her soul sat light and joyful on its temporal perch, for she had been with God, and all the shadows were gone. Men and women who have this supernatural element in them, will understand; to those who are without it, there are no words, there are no miracles which could authenticate this intimate, spiritual communion to them.

The next day Cymlin went to Jevery House and reported, on his return, its forlorn emptiness. There were only two or three servants there, and they had no idea when the family would return. To Jane he admitted that London seemed desolate, and Jane was herself conscious of a want or a loss. Much of her London life had been blended with Jevery House, and there was now a necessity for a fresh ordering of her time and duties.

About a week after Matilda's departure Cluny called early one evening and asked Jane to go with him to Mr. Milton's house in Petty France. They sauntered through St. James' Park, not then open to the public in general, though an exception was made in favour of certain houses on the Westminster side. In one of these, "a pretty garden house," Mr. Milton lived, and they found him walking with his daughters under the shady elms. Cluny delivered to him some papers, but did not accept his invitation to enter the house and sing with him an anthem which he had just composed; for the evening promised to be exceedingly lovely, and Jane's company in the sweet, shady walks was a far greater attraction.

They soon lost sight of all humanity, and were conscious only of each other's presence, for indeed a general air of complete solitude pervaded the twilight shades. Jane was telling Cluny about her interview with Stephen, and they were walking slowly, hand in hand, quite absorbed in their own affairs. So much so, that they never noticed a figure which emerged from behind a clump of shrubs, and stood looking at them. It was the Lord General. He had been pacing a little alley of hazel trees near by, for some time, and was about to alter his course in order to take the nearest road to his apartments in Whitehall. His face was grave, but not unhappy, and when he saw Cluny and Jane he stood still a moment, and then quietly withdrew into the shadow he had left. A smile was round his mouth, and his lips moved in words of blessing, as he took another path to the gate he wished. Amid thoughts of the most momentous interest, a little vision of love and youth and beauty had been vouchsafed him, and there was a feeling of pleasure yet in his heart when he entered the sombre apartment where Israel Swaffham with a guard of soldiers, was in attendance. He saluted his General, and Cromwell called him aside and had some private speech with him.

He then entered a lofty, royally furnished room, where the Council were awaiting his arrival – officers of the army, and members of Parliament. St. John, Harrison, Fleetwood, Desborough and others instantly gathered round Cromwell; Marten, Whitelock, Hazelrig, Scott, Sidney, and about seventeen others, supported Sir Harry Vane, who was leading the Parliamentary cause.

Cromwell opened the discussion by reminding the members that he had already held more than a dozen meetings, in order to induce Parliament to issue an Act for the election of a new Parliament, and then discharge itself. "This is what the people want, in every corner of the nation," he said; "and they are laying at our doors the non-performance of this duty and of their wishes."

Hazelrig reminded him that Parliament had determined to dissolve on the 3d of the ensuing November, after calling for a new election.

"It is now only the 19th of April," answered Cromwell, sharply. "Give me leave to tell you that the 3d of November will not do. I am tired talking to you. There must be a healing and a settling, and that without delay. As for your resolution, the people will not have it. I say, the people will not have it. A Parliament made up of all the old members – without reelection – and of such new ones, as a committee of the old approve and choose! Such a patched, cobbled, made-over, old Parliament will not satisfy the people. I know it! I know it better than any man in England. It will not satisfy me. It will not satisfy the army – "

"Oh, the army!" ejaculated Sir Harry Vane.

"The army, Sir Harry Vane, has been so owned of God, so approved of men, so witnessed for, that, give me leave to say, no man will be well advised who speaks lightly of the army. The question is not the army, the question is the sitting Parliament, which, without either moral or legal right, wants to make itself perpetual."

"This Parliament, General Cromwell, has been the nursing mother of the Commonwealth," said Sir Harry Marten.

"If that be so, yet it is full time that the Commonwealth be weaned. Milk for babes truly, but England wants no more nursing; she wants strong meat, good government, just laws and the settlement of the Gospel Ministry. There is nothing but jarrings and animosities, and we are like to destroy ourselves when our enemies could not do it."

"The army is full of factions and designs, and 'tis well the Lord General is aware of them," said Hazelrig. "Their insolency to members of Parliament is beyond reason."

"Sir, I cannot be of your judgment," answered Cromwell; "but I do admit that the army begins to have a strange distaste against certain members of Parliament, and I wish there was not too much cause for it."

"Cause! What cause?" asked Whitelock.

"Their self-seeking, their delays in business, their resolve to keep all power perpetually in their own hands; their meddling in private matters, their injustice when they do so meddle, and the scandalous lives of some of the chief of them. These things do give grounds for good people – whether in the army or not in the army – to open their mouths against them."

"There is the Law to punish all evil-doers," said Vane. "While the Law lasts the army need not make inquisitions."

"This Parliament has been, and is, a law unto themselves. They are not within the bounds of the law – there being no authority so full and so high as to keep them in better order," answered Cromwell with some anger. Then the discussion assumed a very acrimonious character. Undoubtedly Vane was sincerely afraid for the liberties of England, with Cromwell and his victorious army at the very doors of the House of Commons. He was also intensely interested in the creation of a British Navy, which should not only balance the glory and power of the army, but also make England lord of the seas, and of their commerce. Besides, his genius had just perfected a plan for raising £120,000 a month to continue the war with Holland; and a project setting quite as near to his heart was publicly to sell all the royal palaces, and so remove from the sight of any ambitious man a palpable temptation to seize the crown. To surrender all he had done in these directions, to leave his cherished projects for others to carry out, or to bring to naught, to forego all the glory and profit Blake was even then winning for the Parliament, was not only hard for himself, but he feared it would be disastrous to England and to her liberties.