The Lion's Whelp

"Not your beauty, Matilda. I never saw you look lovelier than you do to-day."

"That I credit to Cymlin," she answered. "He would not let me mope – you know how masterful he is" – and Matilda laughed and put her hands over her ears; "he made me go riding and walking, made me plant and gather, made me fish and hawk, made me sing and play and read aloud to him. And I have taught him a galliard and a minuet, and we have had a very happy summer – on the whole. Happiness breeds beauty."

"Poor Cymlin!"

"There is no need to say 'poor Cymlin,' Jane Swaffham. I am not going to abuse poor Cymlin. He is to be my neighbour, and I hope my catechism has taught me what my duty to my neighbour is. Is it true that Will and Tonbert have thrown their lives and fortunes into the Massachusetts Colony?"

"Yes," answered Jane; "and if my parents were willing, I would like to join them. The letters they send make you dream of Paradise. They have bought a dukedom of land, father says, hills and valleys and streams, and the great sea running up to their garden wall."

"Garden?"

"Yes, they have begun to build and to plant. There is no whisper of their return, for they are as content as if they had found the Fortunate Islands. Father is much impressed with their experience, and I can see he ponders it like one who might perhaps share it. I am sure he would leave England, if the Protector died."

"Or the King came back?"

"Yes. He would never live under a Stuart."

"The poor luckless Stuarts! They are all luckless, Jane. I have felt it. I have drunk of their cup of disappointments, and really the happiest time of my life has been the past summer, when I put them out of my memory – king and prince, and all that followed them. Had it not been for your kind note of warning, Stephen also had been a sacrifice to their evil fate. It has to be propitiated with a life now and then, just like some old dragon or devil."

"There was a queer story about Stephen robbing the mail, and tearing up the three warrants for the arrest of Blythe and Mason and himself," said Jane.

"Did you believe that, Jane?"

"The mail was robbed. The warrants were never found. Stephen has a daredevil temper at times. I think, too, he would risk much to save his friends. When did you hear from him?"

"I hear very often now, Jane, for it is the old, old story – money, money, money. The King is hungry and thirsty; he has no clothes; he cannot pay his washing bill; he has no shoes to go out in, and his 'dear brother,' King Louis of France, is quite oblivious. In fact he has made, or is going; to make, an alliance with Cromwell; and the Stuarts, bag and baggage, are to leave French territory. But for all that, I am not going to strip de Wick a second time for them;" then drawing Jane close to her, and taking her hand she said with an impulsive tenderness —

"Jane, dear Jane, I do not wish to open a wound afresh, but I am sorry for you, I am indeed! How can you bear it?"

"I have cast over it the balm of prayer; I have shut it up in my heart, and given my heart to God. I have said to God, 'Do as Thou wilt with me.' I am content; and I have found a light in sorrow, brighter than all the flaring lights of joy."

"Then you believe him to be dead?"

"Yes. There is no help against such a conclusion; and yet, Matilda, there comes to me sometimes, such an instantaneous, penetrating sense of his presence, that I must believe he is not far away;" and her confident heart's still fervour, her tremulous smile, her eyes like clear water full of the sky, affected Matilda with the same apprehending. "My soul leans and hearkens after him," she continued; "and life is so short and so full of duty, it may be easily, yes, cheerfully, borne a few years. My cup is still full of love – home love, and friends' love; Cluny's love is safe, and we shall meet again, when life is over."

"Will you know? Will he know? What if you bothforget? What if you cannot find him? Have you ever thought of what multitudes there will be there?"

"Yes; a great crowd that no man can number – a throng of worlds – but love will bring the beloved. Love hath everlasting remembrance."

"Love is a cruel joy! a baseless dream! a great tragedy! a lingering death!"

"No, no, no! Love is the secret of life. Love redeems us. Love lifts us up. Love is a ransom. The tears of love are a prayer. I let them fall into my hands, and offer them a willing sacrifice to Him who gave me love. For living or dead, Cluny is mine, mine forever." And there was such a haunting sweetness about the chastened girl, that Matilda looked round wonderingly; it was as if there were freshly gathered violets in the room.

She remained silent, and Jane, after a few minutes' pause, said, "I must go home, now, and rest a little. To-morrow I am bid to Hampton Court, and I am not as strong as I was a year ago. Little journeys tire me."

"And you will come and tell me all about your visit. The world turned upside down is an entertaining spectacle. By my troth, I am glad to see it at second hand! Ann Clarges the market-woman in one palace, and Elizabeth Cromwell in another – "

"The Cromwells are my friends, Matilda. And I will assure you that Hampton Court never saw a more worthy queen than Elizabeth Cromwell."

"I have a saucy tongue, Jane – do not mind when it backbites; there is no one like you. I love you well!" – These words with clasped hands and kisses between the two girls. Then Matilda's face became troubled, and she sat down alone, with her brows drawn together and her hands tightly clasped. "What shall I do?" she asked herself, and she could not resolve on her answer; not, at least, while swayed by the gentle, truthful atmosphere with which Jane had suffused the room. This influence, however, was soon invaded by her own personality, dominant, and not unselfish, and she quickly reasoned away all suggestions but those which guarded her own happiness and comfort.

"If I tell about the duel with Rupert," she thought, "it can do no good to the dead, and it may make scandal and annoyance for the living. Cromwell will take hold of it, and demand not only the jewels and money and papers, but also the body of Neville. That will make more ill feeling to the Stuarts, and it is manifest they are already very unwelcome with the French Court. It will be excuse for further unkindness, and they have enough and more than enough to bear."

For a long time she sat musing in this strain, battling down intrusive doubts, until at last she was forced to give them speech. She did so impatiently, feeling herself compelled to rise and walk rapidly up and down the room, because motion gave her a sense of resistance to the thoughts threatening to overwhelm her.

"Did Rupert kill Neville?" she asked herself. "Oh, me, I do fear it. And if so, I am to blame! I am to blame! I told Rupert Neville was going to take charge of my aunt's jewels. Why was I such a fool? And Rupert knew that Neville had papers Charles Stuart would like to see, and money he would like to have. Oh, the vile, vile coin! I do fear the man was slain for it – and by Rupert. He lied to me, then; of course he lied; but that was no new thing for him to do. He has lied a thousand times to me, and when found out only laughed, or said 'twas for my ease and happiness, or that women could not bear the truth, or some such trash of words; and so I was kissed and flattered out of my convictions. Faith in God! but I have been a woman fit for his laughter! What shall I do?" She went over and over this train of thought, and ended always with the same irresolute, anxious question, "What shall I do?"

It was not the first time she had accused Rupert in her heart. She knew him to be an incomparable swordsman; she knew he regarded duelling as a mere pastime or accident of life. The killing of Neville would not give him a moment's discomfort, – quite otherwise, for he was a trifle jealous of him in more ways than one; and there were money and information to be gained by the deed. Politically, the man was his enemy, and to kill him was only "satisfaction." The story Rupert told her of the duel had always been an improbable one to her intelligence. She did not believe it at the time, and the lapse of time had impaired whatever of likelihood it possessed.

"Yes, yes," she said to herself. "Rupert undoubtedly killed Neville, and gave the jewels and money and papers to Charles Stuart. But how can I tell this thing? I cannot! If it would restore the man's life – perhaps. Oh, that I had never seen him! How many miserable hours I can mix with his name! The creature was very unworthy of Jane, and I am glad he is dead. Yes, I am. Thousands of better men are slain, and forgotten – let him be forgotten also. I will not say a word. Why should I bring Rupert in question? One never knows where such inquiries set on foot will stop, especially if that wretch Cromwell takes a hand in the catechism." But she was unhappy, Jane's face reproached her; she could not put away from her consciousness and memory its stillness, its haunting pallor and unworldlike far-offness.

The next day Jane went to Hampton Court. The place made no more favourable impression on her than it had done at her first visit. Indeed, its melancholy, monastic atmosphere was even more remarkable. The forest was bare and desolate, the avenues veiled in mist, the battlemented towers black with rooks, the silence of the great quadrangles only emphasised by the slow tread of the soldier on guard. But Mrs. Cromwell had not lived in the Fen country without learning how to shut nature's gloom outside. Jane was cheered the moment she entered the old palace by the blaze and crackle of the enormous wood-fires. Posy bowls, full of Michaelmas daisies, bronzed ferns, and late autumn flowers were on every table; pots of ivy drooped from the mantel, and the delicious odour of the tiny musk flower permeated every room with its wild, earthy perfume.

She was conducted to an apartment in one of the suites formerly occupied by Queen Henrietta Maria. It was gaily furnished in the French style, and though years had dimmed the gilding and the fanciful paintings and the rich satin draperies, it was full of a reminiscent charm Jane could not escape. As she dressed herself she thought of the great men and women who had lived and loved, and joyed and sorrowed under this ancient roof of Wolsey's splendid palace. Henry the Eighth and his wives, young Edward, the bloody Queen Mary, and the high-mettled Elizabeth; the despicable James, and the tyrant Charles with his handsome favourite, Buckingham, and his unfortunate advisers, Strafford and Laud. And then Oliver Cromwell! What retributions there were in that name! It implied, in its very simplicity, changes unqualified and uncompromising, reaching down to the very root of things.

It seemed natural to dress splendidly to thoughts touching so many royalties, and Jane looked with satisfaction at her toilet. It had progressed without much care, but the result was fitting and beautiful: a long gown of pale blue silk, with white lace sleeves and a lace tippet, and a string of pearls round her throat. Anything more would have been too much for Jane Swaffham, though when the Ladies Mary and Frances came to her, she could not help admiring their bows and bracelets and chains, their hair dressed with gemmed combs and their hands full of fresh flowers. She thought they looked like princesses, and they were overflowing with good-natured happiness.

Taking Jane by the hand, they led her from room to room, showing her what had been done and what had been added, and lingering specially in the magnificent suite which was all their own. It was very strange. Jane thought of the little chamber with the sloping roof in the house they occupied in Ely, and she wondered for a moment, if she was dreaming. On their way to the parlours they passed the door of a room Jane recollected entering on her previous visit, and she asked what changes had been made in it?

"None," said Mary with a touch of something like annoyance.

"None at all," reiterated Frances. "You know Charles Stuart tried to sleep in it, and he had dreadful dreams, and the night lamp was always put out, and he said the place was full of horror and suffering. It was haunted," the girl almost whispered. "My father said 'nonsense,' and he slept in it two nights, and then – "

"Father found it too cold," interrupted Mary impatiently. "He never said more than that. Listen! Some one is coming at full gallop – some two, I think," and she ran to the window and peered out into the night.

"It is the Protector," she said; "and I believe Admiral Blake is with him. Let us go down-stairs." And they took Jane's hands and went together down the great stair-way. Lovelier women had never trod the dark, splendid descent; and the soft wax-lights in the candelabra gave to their youthful beauty a strange, dreamlike sense of unreal life and movement. Mary and Frances were talking softly; Jane was thinking of that closed room with its evil-prophesying dreams, and its lights put out by unseen hands, and the mournful, superstitious King in his captivity fearing the place, and feeling in it as Brutus felt when his evil genius came to him in his tent and said, "I will meet thee again at Philippi." Then in a moment there flashed across her mind a woeful dream she had one night about Cluny. It had come to her in the height of her hope and happiness, and she had put it resolutely from her. Now she strove with all her soul to recollect it, but Frances would not be still, and the dream slipped back below the threshold. She could have cried. She had been on the point of saying, "Oh, do be quiet!" but the soul's illumination had been too short and too impalpable for her to grasp.

The next moment they were in a brilliantly lighted room. Mr. and Mrs. Claypole, and Mr. and Mrs. Richard Cromwell, and Doctor John Owen, and Mr. Milton, and Doctor Verity were grouped around her Highness the Protector's handsome wife. And she was taking their homage as naturally as she had been used to take attention in her simple home in Ely, being more troubled about the proper serving of dinner than about her own dignity. She sat at the Protector's right hand, and Jane Swaffham sat at his left.

"The great men must scatter themselves, Jane," he said; "my daughter Dorothy Cromwell wants to be near Mr. Milton, and Lady Claypole will have none but Doctor Owen, and one way or another, you will have to be content with my company," and he laid her hand under his hand, and smiled down into her face with a fatherly affection.

He was in an unusually happy mood, and Doctor Owen remarking it, Admiral Blake said, "They had been mobbed – mobbed by women – and the Protector had the best of it, and that was a thing to pleasure any man." Then Mrs. Cromwell laughed and said,

"Your Highness must tell us all now, or we shall be very discontented. Where were you, to meet a mob of women?"

"We were in London streets, somewhere near the waterside. Blake was with me, and Blake is going to Portsmouth to take command of an expedition."

"Where to?" asked Mrs. Claypole.

"Well, Elizabeth, that is precisely the question this mob of women wanted me to answer. You are as bad as they were. But they had some excuse."

"Pray what excuse, sir, that I have not?"

"They were the wives of the sailor men going with our Admiral on his expedition. And they got all round me, they did indeed; and one handsome woman with a little lad in her arms – she told me to look well at him because he was called Oliver after me – took hold of my bridle, and said, 'You won't trample me down, General, for the lad's sake; and 'tis but natural for us to want to know where you are sending our husbands. Come, General, tell us wives and mothers where the ships are going to?' And there was Robert Blake laughing and thinking it fine sport, but I stood up in my stirrups and called out as loud as I could, 'Women, can you be quiet for one minute?' They said, 'Aye, to be sure we can, if you'll speak out, General.' Then I said to them, 'You want to know where the ships and your men are going. Listen to me! The Ambassadors of France and Spain would, each of them, give a million pounds to know that. Do you understand, women?' And for a moment there was a dead silence, then a shout of comprehension and laughter, and the woman at my bridle lifted the boy Oliver to me, and I took him in my arms and kissed the rosy little brat, and then another shout, and the mother said, 'General, you be right welcome to my share of the secret;' 'and mine!' 'and mine!' 'and mine!' they all shouted, and the voices of those women went to my heart and brain like wine, they did that. They made me glad; I believe I shouted with them."

"I haven't a doubt of it," said Doctor Verity. "Well, Robert, did they have nothing to say to you?" he asked, turning to Admiral Blake.

"They asked me to treat my men well; and I said, 'I'll treat them like myself. I'll give them plenty of meat and drink, and plenty of fighting and prize money;' and so to their good will we passed all through the city, and, as I live, 'twas the pleasantest 'progress' any mortal men could desire."

Then Doctor Verity began to talk of the American Colonies, and their wonderful growth. "John Maidstone is here," he said; "and with him that godly minister, the Rev. Mr. Hooker. We have had much conversation to-day, and surely God made the New World to comfort the woes of the old one."

"You have expressed exactly, sir, the prophetic lines of the pagan poet, Horace," answered Mr. Milton. And Cromwell looked at him and said, "Repeat them for us, John; I doubt not but they are worthy, if it be so that you remember them." Then Milton, in a clear and stately manner, recited the six lines from Horace's "Patriotic Lament" to which he had referred —

"'Merciful gift of a relenting God,Home of the homeless, preordained for you,Last vestige of the age of gold,Last refuge of the good and bold;From stars malign, from plague and tempests free,Far 'mid the Western waves, a secret Sanctuary.'"

And as Cromwell listened his face grew luminous; he seemed to look through his eyeballs, rather than with them, and when Milton ceased there was silence until he spoke.

"I see," he said, "a great people, a vast empire, from the loins of all nations it shall spring. And there shall be no king there. But the desire of all hearts shall be towards it, and it shall be a covert for the oppressed, and bread and wine and meat for those ready to perish." Then, sighing, he seemed to realise the near and the present, and he added, "'Twas but yesterday I wrote to that good man, the Rev. John Cotton of Boston. I have told him that I am truly ready to serve him and the rest of the brethren, and the churches with him. And Doctor Verity, I wish much to have some talk with Mr. Hooker. I have a purpose to ask him to be my chaplain, if he be so minded, for his sermons first taught me that I had a soul to save, and that I must transact that business directly with God, and not through any church or clergy." And when Cromwell made this statement, he little realised that Hooker, founding a democracy in America, and he himself fighting for a free Parliament and a constitutionally limited executive in England, were "both of them of the same spirit and purpose"; and that the Hartford minister and the Huntingdon gentleman were preeminently the leaders in that great movement of the seventeenth century which made the United States, and is now transforming England.

Doctor Verity shook his head at the mention of the Chaplainship. "Your Highness will give great offense to some not of Mr. Hooker's precise way of thinking," he said.

"I care not, John Verity," Oliver answered with much warmth; "one creed must not trample upon the heels of another creed; Independents must not despise those under baptism, and revile them. I will not suffer it. Even to Quakers, we must wish no more harm than we do our own souls."

With these words he rose from the table, and Mr. Milton, the Ladies Mary and Frances Cromwell, and Jane Swaffham went into the great hall, where there was an exceedingly fine organ. In a short time Mr. Milton began to play and to sing, but the girls walked up and down talking to Jane of their admirers, and their new gowns, and of love-letters that had been sent them in baskets of flowers. And what song can equal the one we sing, or talk, about our own affairs? Mr. Milton's glorious voice rose and fell to incomparable melodies, but Jane's hand-clasp was so friendlike, and her face and words so sympathetic, that the two girls heard only their own chatter, and knew not that the greatest of English poets was singing with enchanting sweetness the songs of Lodge, and Raleigh, and Drayton.

But Cromwell knew it; he came to the entrance frequently and listened, and then went back to the group by the hearth, who were smoking and talking of the glorious liberating movements of the century – the Commonwealth in England, and the free commonwealths Englishmen were planting beyond the great seas. If the first should fail, there would still be left to unslavish souls the freedom of the illimitable western wilderness.

When the music ceased, the evening was far spent; and Cromwell said as he drew Frances and Jane within his arms, "Bring me the Bible, Mary. Mr. Milton has been giving us English song, now we will have the loftier music of King David."

"And we shall get no grander music, sir," said Doctor Owen, "than is to be found in the Bible. Sublimity is Hebrew by birth. We must go to the Holy Book for words beyond our words. Is there a man living who could have written that glorious Hymn,

"'Lord, Thou hast been our dwelling-place in all generations;

"'Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever Thou hadst formed the earth and the world; even from everlasting to everlasting Thou art God'?"

"The prophets also," said Doctor Verity, "were poets, and of the highest order. Turn to Habakkuk, the third chapter, and consider his description of the Holy One coming from Mount Parem: 'His glory covered the heavens. His brightness was as the light. He stood and measured the earth: He beheld and drove asunder the nations: the everlasting mountains were scattered, the perpetual hills did bow.' And most striking of all about this Holy One – 'Thou didst cleave the earth with rivers.'"

Cromwell did not answer; he was turning the leaves of the dear, homely-looking volume which his daughter had laid before him. She hung affectionately over his shoulder, and when he had found what he wanted, he looked up at her, and she smiled and nodded her approbation. Then he said,

"Truly, I think no mortal pen but St. John's could have written these lines; and I give not St. John the honour, for the Holy One must have put them into his heart, and the hand of his angel guided his pen." And he began to read, and the words fell like a splendid vision, and a great awe filled the room as they dropped from Cromwell's lips:

"'And I saw heaven opened, and beheld a white horse; and he that sat upon him was called Faithful and True, and in righteousness he doth judge and make war.

"'His eyes were as a flame of fire, and on his head were many crowns; and he had a name written, that no man knew but himself.

"'And he was clothed with a vesture dipped in blood: and his name is called The Word of God.

"'And the armies which were in heaven followed him upon white horses, clothed in fine linen, white and clean.

"'And out of his mouth goeth a sharp sword, that with it he should smite the nations; and he shall rule them with a rod of iron; and he treadeth the wine-press of the fierceness and wrath of Almighty God.'"

And when he finished these words he cried out in a transport, "Suffer Thy servant, oh, Faithful and True, when his warfare here is accomplished, to be among the armies which are in heaven following the Word of God upon white horses clothed in fine linen white and clean." And then turning the leaf of the Bible he said with an unconceivable solemnity, "Read now what is written in Revelations, chapter 20th, 11-15 verses:

"'And I saw a great white throne, and him that sat on it, from whose face the earth and the heaven fled away; and there was found no place for them.

"'And I saw the dead, small and great, stand before God; and the books were opened; and another book was opened, which is the book of life: and the dead were judged out of those things which were written in the books, according to their works.