The Lion's Whelp

Jane had risen as she said these words, and was tying on her bonnet, and Matilda watched her with a curious interest. "I was wondering," she said slowly, "if you will be glad to marry Cluny Neville and go away to Scotland with him."

"Oh, yes," Jane answered, her eyes shining, her mouth wreathed in smiles, her whole being expressing her delight in such an anticipation. Matilda made no further remark, but when Jane had closed the door behind her, she sat down thoughtfully by the fire, and stirring together the red embers, sighed rather than said —

"Why do people marry and bring up sons and daughters? This girl has been loved to the uttermost by her father and mother and brothers, and she will gladly leave them all to go off with this young Scot. She will call it 'Sacrifice for Love's sake;' I call it pure selfishness. Yet I am not a whit whiter than she. I would have stayed in Paris with Rupert, though my good uncle was in danger. How dreadful it is to look into one's own soul, and make one's self tell it the honest truth. I think I will go to my evening service;" and as she rose for her Common Prayer, she was saying under her breath, "We have left undone those things which we ought to have done, and we have done those things which we ought not to have done. And there is no health in us."

Lady Jevery had a dinner party that night, and Matilda went down to it in considerable splendour. Doctor Hewitt was present, and Mr. Waller, the poet, and Denzil Hollis, and the witty, delightful Henry Marten, and Matilda's great favourite, the little royalist linen draper, Izaak Walton, whose Complete Angler had just been published. He had brought Sir Thomas a copy of it, and Matilda found out at once the song, "Come live with me and be my love." Her praises were very pleasant to the old man, who had hid Donne and Hooker and Herbert in his Inner Chamber during the days of the Long Parliament; who had been the friend of bishops Ken and Sanderson, and of archbishops Usher and Sheldon; and who, born in Elizabeth's reign, had lived to see "Sceptre and Crown tumbled down."

"But you are not the only author of Great Oliver's reign," she said with a whimsical smile. "This day Mistress Dorothy Osborne sent me a copy of the poems of my Lady Newcastle. She has been making herself still more absurd than she is by writing a book – and in verse. 'Sure,' said Mistress Dorothy to me, 'if I did not sleep for a month, I should never come to that point.' Why does her husband let her run loose? I vow there are soberer people in Bedlam."

"Her husband adores her; he believes her to be a prodigy of learning."

"They are a couple of fools well met. I am sorry for them. She dashes at everything, and he goes about trumpeting her praises. Come, sir, I hear the company tossing Cromwell's name about. Let us join the combatants; I wish to be in the fray."

The fact was Sir Thomas had asked after political affairs since he left England in April, and there was plenty of material for discussion. Denzil Hollis was describing the opening of the Parliament summoned by Cromwell, and which met on the fourth of July. "He made to this Parliament," he said, "a wonderful speech. He declared that he 'did not want supreme power, no, not for a day, but to put it into the hands of proper persons elected by the people.' And he bid them 'be humble and not consider themselves too much of a Parliament.' And then he burst into such a strain as none ever heard, taking texts from psalms, and prophets and epistles, mingled with homely counsels, and entreaties to them to do their duty – speaking till the words fell red hot from his lips, so that when he ended with the psalm on Dunbar field we were all ready to sing it with him; for as he told us, with a shining face, 'the triumph of the psalm is exceeding high and great, and God is now accomplishing it.'"

"No English Parliament was ever opened like that," said Sir Thomas. "Has it done anything yet?"

"It has done too much. It has committees at work looking into the affairs of Scotland and Ireland, the navy, the army and the law. They have been through the jails, and set three hundred poor debtors free in London alone. They have abolished titles and the Court of Chancery; and the last two acts have made the nation very uneasy. Upon my honour, the people are more unhappy at getting rid of their wrongs than you would credit."

"Englishmen like something to grumble about," said Mr. Walton. "If the Commonwealth leaves them without a grievance, it will doom itself."

"That is not it, Mr. Walton," said Henry Marten; "Englishmen don't like the foundations destroyed in order to repair the house. Going over precipices is not making progress. You may take it for an axiom that as a people, we prefer abuses to novelties."

"The reign of the saints is now begun," said Doctor Hewitt scornfully; "and Sir Harry Vane is afraid of what he has prayed for. He has gone into retirement, and sent Cromwell word he would wait for his place until he got to heaven."

"Sir Harry is not one of Zebedee's sons."

"This Parliament is going too fast."

"They have no precedents to hamper them."

"Everything old is in danger of being abolished."

"They talk of reducing all taxation to one assessment on land and property. Absurd!"

"Some say they will burn the records in the Tower; and the law of Moses is to take the place of the law of England."

"And the Jews are to have civil rights."

"And after that we may have a Jewish Sanhedrim in place of a Puritan Parliament."

"The good people of England will never bear such innovations," said Sir Thomas with great indignation.

"None of us know how much the good people of England will bear," answered Hollis.

"And pray what part does Cromwell take in these changes? Surely he is the leader of them?" asked Lady Jevery.

"He takes no part in them, madame," answered Walton; "gives no advice, uses no authority."

"Oh, indeed he is just waiting till his Assembly of Saints have made themselves beyond further bearing," said Matilda. "Then he will arise to the rescue, and serve them as he did the last Parliament."

"And then, Lady Matilda, what then?" asked Doctor Hewitt.

"He will make himself Emperor of these Isles."

"I do not think he has any such intent; no, not for an hour," said Sir Thomas.

There was a cynical laugh at this opinion, and Matilda's opinion was, in the main, not only endorsed, but firmly believed. Many could not understand why he had waited so long. "When he sheathed his sword at Worcester he could have lifted the sceptre, and the whole nation would have shouted gratefully, 'God save King Oliver,'" said Sir Thomas. "Why did he not do so, I wonder?"

But if the spiritual eyes of these men had been suddenly opened, as were those of Elisha, they might have seen that hour the man Cromwell, as God saw him, and acknowledged with shame and blame their ready injustice. For even while they were condemning him, accusing him of unbounded ambition and unbounded hypocrisy, he was kneeling by the side of a very old woman, praying. One of her small, shriveled hands was clasped between his large brown palms, and his voice, low, but intensely deep and earnest, filled the room with that unmistakable pathetic monotone, which is the natural voice of a soul pleading with its God. It rose and fell, it was full of tears and of triumph, it was sorrowful and imploring, it was the very sob of a soul wounded and loving, but crying out, "Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him." When he rose, his face was wet with tears, but the aged woman had the light of heaven on her calm brow. She rose with him, and leaning on the top of her ivory staff, said,

"Oliver, my son Oliver, have no fear. Man nor woman shall have power to hurt thee. Until thy work is done, thou shalt not see death; and when it is done, the finger of God will beckon thee. Though an host should rise up against thee, thou wilt live thy day and do thy work."

"My mother! My good mother! God's best gift to me and mine."

"The Lord bless thee, Oliver, and keep thee.The Lord make His face to shine upon thee,And be gracious unto thee.The Lord lift up His countenance upon thee,And give thee peace."

Then Oliver kissed his mother tenderly, and went out from her presence with the joy of one whom "his mother comforteth." And his face was bright and lifted up, and his footsteps firm; and he carried himself like a man whose soul had been "ministered unto." And if the envious doubters at Sir Thomas Jevery's had seen him at that moment, they must have instantly taken knowledge of him that he had been with God. All his fears were gone, all his troubles lighter than a grasshopper; in some blessed way there had come to him the knowledge that even

"Envy's harsh berries, and the chocking pool,Of the world's scorn and hatred, are the right mother milkTo the true, tough hearts that pioneer their kind."

BOOK III

Oliver The Conqueror

CHAPTER XI

OLIVER PROTECTOR

"O heart heroic, England's noblest son!At what a height thy shining spirit burnsStarlike, and floods our souls with quickening fire."* * * * *"Fearful commenting isThe leaden servitor to dull delay."

The popular discontent with the rapid and radical reforms of the saints' Parliament was not confined to the Royalists; the nation, without regard to party, was bitterly incensed and alarmed. Cromwell was no exception; the most conservative of men, he also grew angry and restless when he saw the reign of the saints beginning in earnest.

"These godly men are going straight to the confusion of all things," he said to Israel Swaffham; "they forget they are assembled here by the people, and are assuming a direct power from the Lord. If we let them, they will bring us under the horridest arbitrariness in the world."

There was reason enough for this fear. Not content with the changes in government, religion and law, Feake and Powell were urging social changes that would level all ranks and classes to an equality, and Cromwell abominated such ideas. Of equality, as we understand the word, he had no conception. He told the members plainly that England had known for hundreds of years, ranks and orders of men – nobles, gentlemen, yeomen – and that such ranks were a good interest to the nation, and a great one. "What is the purport," he asked, "to make the tenant as liberal a fortune as the landlord? If obtained, it would not last; the men of that principle, after they had served their own turns, would have cried up property fast enough."

To the Fifth Monarchy men who held that the saints alone should rule the earth, he gave the sternest rebuke, telling them plainly that the carnal divisions among them were not symptoms of Christ's Kingdom. "Truly," he added, "you will need to give clearer manifestations of God's presence among you before wise men will submit to your conclusions."

In the meantime the anger outside the Parliament House rose to fury. Doubtless Cromwell had foreseen this crisis. Certainly a large number of the members were of his way of thinking, and on the twelfth of December, Colonel Sydenham rose, and accusing the members of wishing to put a Mosaic code in place of the Common Law of England – of depreciating a regular ministry (for what need of one, if all men could prophesy?) and of opposing learning and education, he declared the salvation of the nation lay in resigning the trust committed to them into the hands of the Lord General Cromwell. The motion was seconded by Sir Charles Wolseley. The Speaker left the chair, and followed by a majority of the members, went to Whitehall, and there and then they wrote out their resignation. It was said that "Cromwell looked astonished, and only received the paper upon great importunity." And if ever Cromwell drolled in his life, he drolled then, for it is not likely this movement was unforeseen; all its details had been too ably arranged to be the result of unanticipated action.

No serious opposition was made. Some thirty of the members remained in the House "to protest," but Colonel Goff entering with a file of musketeers, the argument was quickly closed. "What are you doing here?" asked the Colonel, and some one answered, "We are seeking the Lord," then said he, "You may go elsewhere, for to my certain knowledge the Lord has not been here these many years." Three days after this event a new Council of State resolved that his Excellency be chosen LORD PROTECTOR of the three nations, and on the sixteenth of December be so installed in Westminster Hall.

"And you would think that he had been publicly scorned instead of publicly chosen," said Israel to his wife. "He looks miserable; he is silent and downcast, and talks much to himself. Yet he is in his right place, and the only man in England who can save us from anarchy."

"God knows. It is a place of great honour for Mr. Oliver Cromwell of Slepe House."

"No, no. 'Tis a place of great danger, a place of terror and forlorn hope. God knows, I would not have it for all the honour and gold in England. Martha, his Excellency and her Highness desire your company, and that of Jane, to the ceremony. You will go?"

"I had better stay at home, Israel. I cannot 'Your Highness' Elizabeth Cromwell. Jane will go."

"And you, too, Martha. I wish it."

"I never go against your wishes, Israel – at least not often."

So it happened that on the sixteenth of December, Mrs. Swaffham and Jane wore dressing for Whitehall. Mrs. Swaffham was nervous and irritable; nervous, because she feared her gown was not as handsome as it ought to be; irritable, because she felt that circumstances were going to control her behaviour, whether she approved or not. Jane was unable to encourage or cheer her mother; she was herself the most unhappy maiden in London that day. She was white as the satin robe that clothed her, and her eyes held in their depths the shadow of that fear and grief which filled her heart. And though her mother was sorry for her distress, she was vexed that her girl could not better hide her trouble. "I hate to be pitied, Jane," she said, "and above all by 'her Highness.' And those Cromwell girls, they too will be crying 'Oh dear me!' and 'Poor Jane!' and you will be a sweet sadness to spice their own glory and happiness. Keep a brave heart, my girl. Something may happen any hour."

Jane did not answer. She could not talk; she needed all her strength to live. For eighteen days she had been forced to accept the fact that Cluny was at least eighteen days behind all probable and improbable delays. She had not received a line from him since he left Paris; no one had. He had apparently vanished as completely as a stone dropped into mid-ocean. She had been often at Jevery House, and during two of her visits had managed to see Sir Thomas and ask "if he had any intelligence from Lord Neville?" On her first inquiry he answered her anxiously; on his second his reply showed some anger.

"He offered voluntarily to take charge of Lady Jevery's jewels and to collect my money at The Hague; and unless he was certain of his ability to do these things safely, he ought not to have sought the charge."

And with these words there entered into Jane's heart a suspicion that hurt her like a sword-thrust. She found herself saying continually, "It is impossible! impossible! Oh, my God, where is he?"

All this time London was angry, anxious, almost tumultuous. Jane would have gone to Cromwell for help – indeed she did go once to Whitehall with this object in view – but she was told that he was in his own apartments silent and sad, and carrying a weight of responsibility that might have appalled the stoutest heart. Indeed, the whole family were quiet and preoccupied, and she came away without finding any fit opportunity to say a word about Cluny and his unaccountable delay. There was no one else to go to. Doctor Verity was visiting the Rev. Mr. Baxter at Kidderminster, and Matilda hated Cluny. Jane could not bear to suggest to Matilda a doubt as to Cluny's return. Certainly Mrs. Swaffham listened to her daughter's fears and anxieties, but Jane felt that the Parliament and its doings and misdoings, and the speculations concerning Cromwell, were the great and vital interest filling every heart. No one seemed to care about Lord Neville as she thought they ought to. So far, then, she had borne her sorrow alone, and it had never left her a moment for eighteen days and nights. Even in her sleep she wandered wretchedly looking for him; her pillows were full of evil forebodings, and the atmosphere of her room was heavy with the misery of her thoughts.

Fortunately the Cromwells had no idea that Jane was in trouble; they were, as was right and natural, very much excited over the ceremony of the day and the order in which it was to be carried out. His Excellency was with a number of his officers in a separate apartment, but madame, the General's mother, was in the large parlour of the Cockpit, and when the Swaffhams entered, she rose with delight to meet her old neighbours and friends. In spite of her great age she looked almost handsome in a robe of black velvet and silver trimmings, with a shawl-like drapery of rich white lace. In a short time her daughter-in-law and her grandchildren entered, and Mrs. Swaffham looked curiously at her old friend. Was this indeed the Elizabeth Cromwell she had gossiped with and sometimes quarreled with? this stately woman in purple velvet, with large pearls round her throat and falling in priceless beauty below her waist? There could be no doubt of her identity, for as soon as Mrs. Swaffham began to approach her, she came forward, saying in a tone of real pleasure,

"Martha! Martha! How glad I am to see you!" and the two women broke into smiles and exclamations, and then kissed each other.

There was no time to spare. The Lord General, dressed in a rich suit of black velvet, appeared, and the procession was formed. The Commissioners of the Great Seal, the Judges and Barons of the Exchequer in all the splendour of their insignia, preceded it. Then came the Council of State and the Lord Mayor and Aldermen in their scarlet robes. Cromwell followed. He was alone in a magnificent coach with outriders, but he was attended by the chief officers of the army, and by an imposing military escort. His family and friends in conveyances of equal splendour were behind, and were also attended by a military guard of honour.

"Is it a dream, Jane?" said Mrs. Swaffham to her daughter. "Am I asleep or awake? Are these the very Cromwells we used to know? Did you see that little chit, Frank, whom I have birched and stood in the corner, and scolded more times than I can remember? – did you see her? Did you see her curtsying to her mother and calling her, 'Your Highness'? and Mary Cromwell giving orders like a very Queen? and even Elizabeth Claypole looking as if England belonged to them? After this, Jane, nothing can astonish me."

Jane was as silent as her mother was garrulous; the crowds, the excitement, the poignant crash and blare of martial music, the shining and clashing of steel, the waving of flags, the shouts and huzzas of the multitudes, the ringing of innumerable bells, the overpowering sense of the brotherhood of humanity in a mass animated by the same feeling, these things thrilled and filled souls until they were without words, or else foolishly eloquent.

A place of honour had been reserved for the Cromwell party, and the great General's mother found a throne-like chair placed for her in such a position that she could see every movement and hear every word of that august ceremony which was to acknowledge her son "the greatest man in England." And as she sat there, watching him stand uncovered beside the Chair of State, and listened to him taking the solemn oath to rule England, Scotland and Ireland justly, she thought of this battle-scarred man as a baby at her breast, fifty-four years before, pressing her bosom with his tiny fingers, and smiling up in her face, happily unconscious of the travail of body and soul he was to undergo for the sake of England, and of all future free peoples. And she thought also of one cold winter day, when, a lad of twelve, he had come in from his lessons and his rough play at football and thrown himself upon his bed, weary with the buffeting; and as he lay there, wide-awake in the broad daylight, how he had seen his angel stand at his feet, and heard him say, "Thou shalt be the greatest man in England." And there in her sight and hearing, the prophecy was fulfilled that day, for she had never doubted it. The boy had been scolded and flogged for persisting in this story, but she had comforted him and always known that it was a vision to be realised.

Her faith had its reward. She watched this boy of hers put on his hat, after taking the oath, and with a kingly air ascend to what was virtually the throne of England. She saw him unbuckle his sword and put it off, to signify that military rule was ended; and then she heard, amid the blare of trumpets, the Heralds proclaim him Lord Protector of England, Scotland and Ireland. Her lips moved not, but she heard her soul singing psalms of glory and thanksgiving; yes, she heard the music within rising and swelling to great anthems of rejoicing. Her body was impotent to express this wonderful joy; it was her soul that made her boast in the Lord, that magnified the God of her salvation. And she really heard its glad music with her natural body, and the melody of that everlasting chime was in her heart to the last moment of her life. And her children looked at her and were amazed, for her face was changed; and when the people shouted, to "God save the Lord Protector of the Commonwealth!" she stood up without her staff, and was the first to render him obeisance.

Jane watched her with wonder and delight; she forgot her own grief in this aged mother's surpassing happiness, and she partly understood that hour the new doctrine of the men called Quakers. For she had watched this Inner sight of Life transfuse the frail frame, and seen it illuminate the withered face and strengthen the trembling limbs, and, above all, fill the Inner woman with a joy unspeakable and beyond speech or understanding.

The ride back to Whitehall was an intoxicating one. Londoners had at last a ruler who was a supremely able man. They could go to their shops, and buy and sell in security. Oliver Protector would see to their rights and their welfare. His very appearance was satisfying; he was not a young man headstrong and reckless, but a Protector who had been tried on the battle-field and in the Council Chamber and never found wanting. His personality also was the visible presentment of the qualities they admired and desired. They looked at his sturdy British growth, and were satisfied. His head and face, muscular and massive, were of lion-like aspect; his stature nearly six feet, and so highly vitalised as to look much higher. Dark brown hair, mingled with gray, fell below his collar-band, and from under large brows his deep, loving eyes looked as if in lifelong sorrow; and yet not thinking life sorrow, thinking it only labour and endeavour. Valour, devout intelligence, great simplicity, and a singular air of mysticism invested his rugged, broad-hatted majesty with a character or impress transcendentally mysterious. Even his enemies felt this vague shadow of the supernatural over and around him, for Sir Richard Huddleston, in watching him on Naseby's field, had cried out passionately, "Who will find King Charles a leader like him? He is not a man; he is one of the ancient heroes come out of Valhalla."

But be the day glad or sad, time runs through it, and the shadows of evening found the whole city worn out with their own emotions. Mrs. Swaffham and Jane were glad to return to the quiet of their home – "Not but what we have had a great day, Jane," said the elder woman; "but, dear me, child, what a waste of life it is! I feel ten years older. It would not do to spend one's self this way very often."

"I am tired to death, mother. May I stay in my room this evening? I do not want to hear any more about the Cromwells, and I dare say Doctor Verity will come home with father, and they will talk of nothing else."

"You are fretting, Jane, and fretting is bad for you every way. Why will you do it?"

"How can I help it, mother?"

Then Mrs. Swaffham looked at her daughter's white face, and said, "You know, dear, where and how to find the comfort you need. God help you, child."

And oh, how good it was to the heart-sick girl, to be at last alone, to be able to weep unwatched and unchecked – to shut the door of her soul on the world and open it to God, to tell Him all her doubt and fear and lonely grief. This was her consolation, even though no sensible comfort came from it – though the heavens seemed far off, and there was no ray of light, no whisper from beyond to encourage her. Hoping against despair, she rose up saying, "Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him;" and these words she repeated over and over with increasing fervour, as she neatly folded away her clothing and put her room in that exquisite order which was necessary to her sleep, or even rest. For she kept still her childish belief that her angel would not visit her, if her room was untidy. And who will dare to say she was wrong? These primitive faiths hold truths hid from the wise and prudent, but revealed to the simple and pure of heart.