Chapter VI: Part 6

Neither was Jane at all averse to London. Cluny was in London, and Matilda was there, and most of the girls whom she had known all her life long. And it was not difficult to adapt herself to the new home, with its long galleries and large rooms full of beautiful paintings and handsome furniture. The little figure in its sober-tinted raiment took on a prouder poise, richer clothing seemed necessary and fitting; and insensibly, but continually, the fashion of the Swaffhams' life shook off its rusticity and became after the manner of the great Puritan town in which their lot had been cast.

And if Jane accepted willingly this change in life, Matilda took her phase of it still more enthusiastically. She was not long in discovering that it was in her power to be virtual mistress of the Jevery mansion. Her youth, her beauty and her many sorrows inclined Sir Thomas Jevery's heart to sympathy, and this prepossession grew rapidly to devoted affection. What the Lady Matilda de Wick desired became a law in Jevery House, and Matilda's desires were not remarkable for their moderation. She had her own apartments, her own servants, and her own company at her own hours, and Sir Thomas settled on her an income which he pretended had been an agreement between Earl de Wick and himself--a statement Matilda neither inquired about nor disputed.

No stipulations were made concerning her friends, and indeed Sir Thomas was not averse to a distinct royalist party in his house, if it was reasonably prudent. He himself entertained all parties, affecting to be inclined to men through higher motives than political prejudices. "Izaak Walton and John Milton, Mr. Evelyn and Sir Harry Vane, are all equally welcome at my table," he would say; "we have a common ground to meet on, which is beyond the reach of politics."

So Matilda quickly outgrew those griefs for which there was no remedy; she regained her health and much of her radiant beauty, and she spent many hours every day in adorning herself. For the first time in her life she had money enough to indulge this passion, and Sir Thomas declared she was in the right to do so. "A lovely woman in a shabby gown," he said, "is a sin against nature; she is like a queen without her crown and robes."

With such encouragement to fine attire, Matilda was not sparing in her orders for silks and brocades, furs and laces, and India goods of all descriptions. She had inherited her mother's jewels, and she was considering one morning a string of Orient pearls, wondering if they could be worn with her new damasse gown, when Jane entered her dressing-room.

"Jane Swaffham," she cried with delight, "I'll swear I was just wishing for you. But what is the matter? Are you for a funeral? Or--is there another plot against Cromwell's life discovered? If so, I am not in it. I do believe there are tears in your eyes."

"Indeed, all England weeps to-day. Have you not heard that General Ireton is dead?"

"A just retribution. Indeed, I will rejoice at it. More than any one else, more than Cromwell himself, he drove his late Majesty to the scaffold. He had no pity for the poor Queen, he was glad to make her a widow. I have no pity for the widow of Ireton. Let her drink of the cup her husband filled for a better woman. Let her drink it to the dregs."

"She lacks not any sympathy that can comfort so great a loss; a loss public, as well as personal, for my father says Ireton was nearer to Cromwell than any other man--the wisest, bravest soldier, the truest patriot----"

"Jane, do be more sparing of your praises, or you will have none left for your prime idol."

"I must tell you that I have new praises for Cromwell. I have seen him this morning in a strange light--holding his weeping daughter to his heart; weeping with her, praying with her; 'tis said, 'like as a father pitieth his children,' but indeed Cromwell was more like a mother. When I entered the room Mrs. Cromwell told Mrs. Ireton I was present, and she cried out, 'Oh, Jane, he is dead! He is dead!' and then Cromwell with streaming eyes answered her in a tone of triumph--'Nay, but he has PREVAILED, Bridget. He has prevailed against the kingdom of death! Be comforted, dear child.' I cannot tell you how good it was to be there--in the house of mourning."

"I never found it good, and I was there for years. But with such a brother as Stephen, I may be there again, and that soon enough. Stephen keeps me on cracking ice night and day."

"But he is in safety now, Matilda?"

"He is never safe--and partly your fault, Jane."

"I will not credit that, and 'tis a piece of great unkindness to make me accountable."

"He is always pining to see you, and always fearing that some one is your servant in his absence; and so he is willing to take all risks if he may but come to England." Then looking steadily at Jane, she added, "He is here now. Will you see him?"

"I will not," answered Jane positively. "I will not come to question about him if he is discovered. Do not ask me to put myself in such a strait, Matilda. It is far better I should be able to say, 'I have not seen him.'"

"You are a very proper, prudent young woman. I think you must have set your heart on that young sprig of a Puritan noble I saw at Swaffham. What was his name?"

"I am sure you have not forgotten it, but if so, it is little worth my repeating."

"As you like it. I have heard this and that of him from Mr. Hartlib who is a friend of that quarrelsome John Milton. Mr. Hartlib comes here frequent. He is full of inventions; only last night he brought Uncle Jevery one for taking a dozen copies of any writing at once, and this by means of moist paper and an ink he has made. I heard of Lord Cluny Neville, and of a hymn he has written which Mr. Milton has set to music. He talked as if it was fit for the heavenly choir. Something also was said about his marrying Mary Cromwell. Fancy these things! Marvels never cease."

"The Lady Mary Cromwell may look much higher," answered Jane. "Lord Neville told us that his sword was his fortune."

"The Lady Mary may see, if she looks at home, that a sword is a very good fortune. In these unholy wars, the faithful saints have given themselves the earth--that is the English earth--not to speak of Scotland and Ireland, and such trifles. Look at it, Jane, if you have any fancies the Neville way."

"If I had, the Lady Mary would not trouble me. I have seen them together: and indeed I know that she has other dreams."

"Perhaps she dreams of marrying the King, though he is a wicked malignant. 'Tis said she is the proudest minx of them all."

"She would not say 'tush!' to a queen."

"The great Oliver may lay his ten commandments on her."

"How you wrong him! His children have all been allowed to marry where their love led them. And I am sure if the Lady Mary and Lord Neville wished to marry, it would give his kind heart the greatest pleasure to make them happy. Do you think he loves riches or rank or honours or power? I declare to you that he cares not a fig for any of them."

"Pray, then, what does he love?"

"First and foremost, he loves England. He loves England with every breath he draws. England is the word graven on the palms of his hands; it was the word that made his sword invincible. He loves the Protestant faith, which he holds one with all religious and civil freedom. These two things run with his life blood. He loves his wife and children better than himself; he loves all mankind--even Jews and Quakers--so well that he would make them share alike in all that Freedom means."

"And he hates----"

"Every soul that hates England; every dealer in priestcraft or tyranny; every false heart, whether it beat in prince or ploughman."

"I thank my Maker he loves not me."

"But he does love you."

"Let him keep his regard until I ask for it."

"That you may do at some time. 'Tis not wise to throw dirt into the well from which you may have to drink."

"Thank you for good advices, Jane. Oh, 'tis ten thousand pities you are not a preacher. If you could hold forth at St. Paul's Cross you might work miracles with the ungodly. But all this is beyond our bargain to let men in high places alone; and I was going to tell you of Stephen, who is here and so well disguised I had like to have given him the insult of calling a lackey to kick him off the premises. Indeed, he was strangely like to Lord Neville. It was this strange likeness set me thinking of Neville."

"Strange indeed," answered Jane, a little scornfully.

"You do not ask why Stephen is here?"

"It concerns me not."

"Jane, I will tell you a piteous tale. 'Tis of our late Queen. She is so wretchedly poor, and since her son returned to their miserable little court in the Louvre, so broken-hearted 'twould make you weep to hear of her. Stephen came with Sir Hugh Belward to get some money on Belward, for though the French government have settled an income on the poor Queen, they pay it only when it seems good in their own eyes. She is often in great need; she is need now, in sore need of every comfort."

"How does Sir Hugh Belward hope to get money on Belward? He is proscribed."

"His younger brother joined the Parliament, and he left the estate in his care. And his brother has turned traitor to him, and would give him nothing but permission to ride away as secretly as he came. He has returned here in a passion of grief and anger. Thus I carry so many troubles that are not really mine. But oh, Jane! the poor, poor Queen!"--and then Matilda went into some details of the piteous straits and dependencies and insults the widowed woman had been obliged to bear.

Jane listened silently, but there were tears in her eyes; and when Matilda said, "I have given her the jewel the gracious King sent me by my beloved Prince Rupert, and also, what moneys I could get from my Uncle Jevery," Jane added--

"I have ten pieces of gold that are altogether my own, I will give them to her; not because she was once Queen of England, but because she is a sorrowful woman, poor, oppressed, and a widow."

"Oh, Jane Swaffham! Who taught your charity to reach this height, and then to limit and clip it with exceptions? Why not say boldly, 'I am sorry for the poor Queen, and she is welcome to my gold.'"

"I have said so. Now I must go. I will send the gold by a sure messenger to-day."

Matilda did not urge her to remain, and Jane was eager to get away. She had had some intention--if circumstances favoured the confidence--of telling Matilda of her betrothal, but the conversation had drifted into a tone which had made this communication impossible. And she was glad of her enforced reticence, and resolved to maintain it. She knew, now, that to make Cluny a topic of conversation was to subject him to Matilda's worst words and to all the disagreeable things she could say in those moods, and she was sure that it would be almost impossible to keep the peace if Cluny came between them. It was difficult enough to endure her railing at Cromwell, but if Cluny became the target of her satire, her annoyances and anxieties, Jane knew that a rupture must certainly follow.

When she reached home, her father was walking about the parlour and talking in an excited manner to his wife. He showed much discontent, and as he walked and talked he rattled his sword ominously to his words.

"Cromwell wants only that Parliament should know its own mind, and declare itself dissolved. God knows it is high time, but Vane, and more with him, would sit while life lasts. He said to-day that 'the members must have their time, and their rights _or_' and the Lord General took him up at the word, and answered, 'the army can say "_or_" as loud as you, Sir Harry, it may be louder,' and there was a murmur and a noise as of moving steel. Later, I joined a party in the lobby, and I heard Colonel Streater say boldly, that in his opinion, Cromwell designed to set up for himself; and Major General Harrison said, 'You are far astray, sir; Cromwell's only aim is to prepare the way for the kingdom of Christ, and the reign of the Saints;' and Streater laughed, and answered with some rudeness, 'Unless Christ come suddenly, He will come too late.' Martha, my heart is troubled within me. Have we got rid of one tyrant calling himself King, to give obedience to a hundred tyrants calling themselves Parliament? It shall not be so. As the Lord liveth, verily, it shall not!"

Israel Swaffham's temper on this matter was but a reflex of the sterner dissatisfaction which Cromwell voiced for the people. The Parliament then sitting was the one summoned by King Charles the First, eleven years previously, and it had long outlived its usefulness. Pym was dead, Hampden was dead, and it was so shrunken from honour, that in popular speech it was known as "the Rump" of that great assembly which had moulded the Commonwealth. It was now attacked by all parties; it was urged to dissolve itself; yet its most serious occupation seemed to be a determination to maintain and continue its power.

The leader of these despised legislators was Sir Harry Vane, the only man living who in Parliamentary ability could claim to be a rival of Cromwell. But Vane's great object was to diminish the army, and to increase the fleet; and as chief Minister of Naval affairs he had succeeded in passing the Navigation Act, which, by restricting the importation of foreign goods to English ships, struck a fatal blow at Dutch Commerce, hitherto controlling the carrying trade. This act was felt to be a virtual declaration of war, and though negotiations for peace were going on, English and Dutch sailors were flying red flags, and fighting each other in the Downs.

Everything relating to the conduct of affairs both in Church and State was provisional and chaotic; and the condition of religion, law, and all social matters, filled Cromwell with pity and anger. He wanted the Amnesty Act, to relieve the conquered royalists, passed at once. Intensely conservative by nature, he was impatient for the settlement of the nation, and of some stable form of government. And he had behind him an army which was the flower of the people,--men who knew themselves to be the natural leaders of their countrymen,--trained politicians, unconquered soldiers; the passion, the courage, and the conscience of England in arms. Their demands were few, but definite, and held with an intense tenacity. They wanted, first of all, the widest religious freedom for themselves and others; secondly, an orderly government and the abolition of all the abuses for which Laud and Charles had died. And though devoted to their great chief, they longed to return to their homes and to civil life, therefore they echoed strenuously Cromwell's cry for a "speedy settlement," a consummation which the sitting Parliament was in no hurry to take in hand. On this state of affairs Cromwell looked with a hot heart. Untiring in patience when things had to be waited for, he was sudden and impatient when work ought to be done, and his constant word then was--"without delay."

There was a meeting of the Council at the Speaker's house the night after Israel Swaffham's indignant protest against the Parliament, and Cromwell, sitting among those self-seeking men, was scornfully angry at their deliberations. His passion for public and social justice burned and in a thunderous speech, lit by flashes of blinding wrath, he spoke out of a full and determined heart. Then he mounted his horse and rode homeward. It was late, and the city's ways were dark and still; and as he mused, he was uplifted by a mystical ecstasy, flowing from an intense realisation of his personal communion with God.

Cluny Neville was in attendance, and as he silently followed that dauntless, massive figure, he thought of Theseus and Hercules doing wonders, because, being sons of Jove, they must of necessity relieve the oppressed, and help the needy, and comfort the sorrowful; and then he added to this force the sublime piety of a Hebrew prophet, and in his heart called Cromwell the Maccabeus of the English Commonwealth. And in those moments of inspiration, amid the shadows of the starlit night, he again saw Cromwell grow vague and vast and mythical, and knew that his gigantic soul would carry England on waves of triumph until she could look over the great seas and find no rival left upon them.

Thought is transferable, and unconsciously Cluny's enthusiasm affected the silent, prayerful man he loved and followed. And so hope came into Cromwell's reveries, and many earthly plans and desires; and when he alighted at Whitehall, he thought instantly of his wife, and longed for her sympathy. For though he seldom took her counsel, he constantly looked to her for that fellow-feeling which is as necessary as food. Man lives not by bread alone, and there is untold strength for him in womanly love which thinks as he thinks, feels as he feels, and which, when he is weary and discouraged, restores him to confidence and to self-appreciation.

He walked rapidly through the silent, darkened rooms, and opening the door of his own chamber very softly, saw his wife sitting by the fire. There was no light but its fitful blaze, and the room was large and sombre with dark furniture and draperies, the only white spots in it being the linen of the huge bedstead, and the lace coverings of Mrs. Cromwell's head and bosom. Yet apart from these objects there was light, living light, in the woman's calm, uplifted face, and even in her hands which were lying stilly upon her black velvet gown. She stood up as her husband advanced, and waited until he drew her to his heart and kissed her face. "You are late, Oliver," she said with quiet assertion, "and I have been a little anxious--your life is so precious, and there are many that seek it."

"Why do you fret yourself so unwisely? Of a surety you know that I have a work to do, and I shall not see death until it be finished. Yet I am greatly troubled for England; I tell you plainly, Elizabeth, that we are, for all good purposes, without a government."

"There is the Parliament, Oliver."

"I look for no good from it--a noisy, self-opinionated old Parliament. We want a new one. Vane, and others, think wisdom was born with them; yea, and that it will die with them. They fritter time away about trifles, when an Act of Amnesty ought to be passed without delay. It is the first necessity; they must pass it; they must turn to--or turn out."

"Therein you are right, as you always are."

"Truly, the whole country is like the prophets' roll, written within and without with mourning and wrong and woe. As for the Royalists, they are harried to death; they hold everything on sufferance. The time for this strictness has gone by. England now wants peace, justice for all, Amnesty, and above all, a new Parliament. If these things don't come to pass, worse things will--I say this to you; it is the plain truth; I profess it is!"

"Then tell them what to do, Oliver. And if they will not obey, make them. Are they not as much at your disposal as the shoes on your feet?"

"The time is not fully ripe; a little longer they must trample upon law and justice and mercy, and do such bare-faced things as will make men wonder--a little longer we must suffer them, then----"

"Then, Oliver?"

"I will thunder at the door for inquisition, and it will be with no runaway knock. I am sorry, and I could be sorry to death, for the needs-be, but it will come, it will come. God knows I wish it otherwise. I do, indeed!"

"What were they about to-night?"

"About nothing they should be. Have we not come to a pretty state when Parliament looks to the private doings of its members? After some testimonies, there came a motion to expel all profane and unsanctified persons from the House, and I rose and said,--'I could wish also, that all fools were expelled; then we might have a house so thin it would be at our say-so.'"

"Pray, what said Sir Harry Vane to that? He is as touchy as tinder."

"He said, 'General, no man in England knows better than you do, the usefulness of piety;' and I answered him prompt, 'Sir Harry Vane, I know something better than the usefulness of piety, it is the piety of usefulness. Take heed,' I said, 'of being too sharp, or of being too easily sharpened by others. If Parliament is to sit that it may count the number of glasses a man drinks, or the style of his coat and his headgear, England is in her dotage. I would rather see death than such intolerable things, I would truly.' And I said these words in great wrath, and I could wish I had been in still greater anger."

"Why don't they do what you desire? Will they come to disputing with you?"

"I look for it, but I understand the men. This state of affairs will grow to somewhat. I know what I feel. My dearest, I need pity; I do, indeed. I am set here for England's defense, and there is _One_ who will sift me as wheat concerning my charge. Elizabeth, there are at this very hour twenty-three thousand unheard cases in Chancery. I see the law constantly abused. If I say a word that mercy may now be shown, I am accused of pandering to the malignants for some end of my own. Hundreds of Englishmen are in prison on matters of conscience;--they ought to be free. There are tithes and exactions intolerable, and this fragment and figment and finger-end of an old Parliament busies itself with its members' moralities; with raising money for a Dutch war, or with selling the stonework, leads and bells of our Cathedrals. If my God will give me a word, I will better such work; I will indeed!"

"Sir Harry Vane has already reduced the army. He thought thus to curtail your power, Oliver; I saw through the man from the first."

"My authority came not through Sir Harry Vane, nor can Sir Harry Vane take it from me. My comfort is that God called me to be captain of Israel's host. Truly, I never sought the place. I did not. But while my head is above the mold, my heart will burn against oppression. I will not suffer it; before God and angels and men I will not suffer it! 'Tis the time now for showing mercy and for settling the Kingdom, and these things shall be done. I know the sort of men I have to deal with, I will carry justice through their teeth, even if they be a Parliament. And let God be my judge."

"But what will you do? There are strong men that hate you."

"I will do nothing just yet--unless I get the commission. Who are these men? Only cedars of Lebanon that God has not yet broken. 'They shall be able to do nothing against me. His Hands shall cover me.' That word came to me by little Jane Swaffham. I have thanked her many times for it."

"I know your patience and your goodness, Oliver."

"Yes, but patience works to anger. I shall stand no nonsense from any one much longer. When Opportunity comes, I shall make Importunity fit Opportunity--I will that."

He had been unbuttoning his doublet as he spoke these words, and he flung it from him with an extraordinary force and passion; then suddenly calming himself he sat down, and said with a sadness equal to his anger, "Let me have your prayers, dear wife, let me have them. For come what will, we must work God's good pleasure and serve our generation--our rest we expect elsewhere. I live in Meshec (prolonging) and in Kedar (blackness), yet as John Verity said to me last Sabbath--'Brother Oliver, you have daily bread, and you shall have it, despite your enemies. In your Father's house there is enough and to spare of every good thing; and He dispenseth it.' Those three words go to my heart like heavenly wine--_He dispenseth it_, Elizabeth;" and he took her hand, and she leaned her face full of light and trust against his shoulder, and as he stooped to it, his countenance grew sweet and tender as a little child's. For a few moments they sat silent, then the God-full man burst into rapturous thanksgiving, because all his hopes were grounded on the Truth of God, on the immutability of His Counsel, and on the faithfulness of His promises. "Promises," he cried out, "having this double guarantee, that they have not only been spoken, they have been sworn to."

An inward, instant sense of God's presence came to both of them. They had a joy past utterance. Troubles of all kinds grew lighter than a grasshopper. They partook of those spiritual favours which none know, save those who receive them; and urged by a spiritual pressure within, Cromwell sighed into the very ear of God, "Whom have I in heaven but Thee? and there is none upon earth that I desire beside Thee."

For the Eternal God was the firmament of this man's life; whether on the battle-field or in the Council Chamber, amid his family or alone in his closet, God was the Majestic Overhead and Background of all his thoughts, affections, purposes and desires.

*CHAPTER VIII*

*UPON THE THRESHOLD*

"Predestinated ills are never lost."

* * * * *

"The Power that ministers to God's decrees,
And executes on earth what He foresees,
Called Providence,--
Comes with resistless force; and finds, or makes a way."

If we believe that life is worth living, our belief helps to create that fact, for faith is in matters of the spirit all that courage is in practical affairs. To Jane and Cluny this belief was not difficult, for limitation always works for happiness, and during the ensuing year life kept within the bounds of their mutual probation and of Cluny's military duties, was full of happy meetings and partings; days in which Love waited on Duty, and again, days in which Love was lord of every hour; when they wandered together in the Park like two happy children, or, if the weather was unfit, sat dreaming in the stately rooms of Sandys about the little gray house in Fifeshire, which was to be their own sweet home.

These dreams and hopes were set to a national life full of unexpected events and rumours of events, and to interesting bits of gossip about the beloved Lord General and his family and friends. The news-letters were hardly necessary to the Swaffhams; they were in the heart of affairs, and life was so full of love and homely pleasures, that the days came and went to thanksgiving--literally so, for Jane could not but notice how at this time her father and mother selected for the household worship psalms, whose key-note was, "Bless the Lord," "Make a joyful noise unto the Lord," or, "I will love thee O Lord my strength." And she could so well remember when these prayers were implorations for help and comfort, or for victory over enemies. How different was now her father's tone of joyful confidence when he recited with the family his favourite portion from the eighteenth psalm, generally beginning about the thirtieth verse, and growing more and more vivid and earnest, until in a voice of triumph he closed the Book with a great emphasis, to the exulting words, "The Lord liveth, and blessed be my Rock, and let the God of my salvation be exalted."

So the weeks and months went by, and though they were not alike, they had that happy similitude which leaves little to chronicle. Jane's chief excitements came from her visits to Mary Cromwell and Matilda de Wick. The latter had now quite recovered her beauty and brightness, and she had gradually moulded her new life to her satisfaction. It was not a life that Jane thoroughly understood, and indeed she shrank from Matilda's confidences about it; and Matilda was soon aware of this reluctance and ceased to make any overtures in that direction. And in this matter, Mrs. Swaffham was of her daughter's mind.

"If Sir Thomas is blind to what goes on beneath his own roof, Jane," she said, "why should you see inconveniences? There is a deal of wisdom in looking over and beyond what is under your eyes. The Lord General does it, for Sir Thomas dined at Whitehall last week. Your father says one of his ships has been taken by Prince Rupert, and Cromwell has written to Cardinal Mazarin about the matter. But Admiral Blake is the only messenger Mazarin will heed."

The affection between Jane and Matilda had, however, the strong root of habit as well as of inclination. They could not be happy if they were long apart. Jane visited frequently at Jevery House, and Matilda quite as frequently at Sandys. That they disagreed on many subjects did not interfere with their mutual regard. It was an understood thing that they would disagree, and yet there was between them such a sincere love as withstood all differences, and ignored all offenses. Generally Jane was forbearing but occasionally her temper matched Matilda's, and then they said such words, and in such fashion said them, that final estrangement seemed inevitable. Yet these bursts of anger were almost certainly followed by immediate forgiveness and renewal of affection.

One morning in the spring of 1653, Jane was returning from a two days' visit to the Cromwells. The air was so fresh and balmy she went to Jevery House, resolved to ask Matilda to drive in the Park with her. She had not her key to the private door, and was therefore compelled to alight at the main entrance. Sir Thomas was among his crocus beds, at this time a living mass of gold and purple beauty, and he was delighted to exhibit them to one so sensitive to their loveliness. Jane told him she had been at the Cockpit, and he asked after the Lord General, adding, "It is high time he stepped to the front again." Then Jane instantly remembered the picture in the cedar salon, and smiled an understanding answer.

As she went up-stairs she wondered what mood she would find Matilda in, for there was a certain mental pleasure in the uncertainty of her friend's temper. It was so full of unlooked-for turns, so generally contrary to what was to be expected, that it piqued curiosity and gave spice and interest to every meeting. She found her lying upon a sofa in her chamber, her little feet, prettily shod in satin, showing just below her gown; her hands clasped above her head, her long black hair scattered loosely on the pillow. She smiled languidly as Jane entered, and then said,

"I have been expecting you, Jane. I could not keep the thought of you out of my mind, and by that token I knew you were coming. But how bravely you are gowned! Pray, where have you been? Or, where are you going?"

"I have been spending two days with the Cromwells; and the morning is so fair, I wondered if you would not drive an hour in the Park. Perhaps, then, you would come home with me to dinner, and so make mother very happy. Do you know that Cymlin arrives from Ireland to-day? He would think the journey well taken, if he saw you at the end of it."

"You are a little late with your news, Jane. That is one of your faults. Cymlin was here last night. He spent a couple of hours with me;" then she smiled so peculiarly, Jane could not help asking her--

"What is there in your way of smiling, Matilda? I am sure it means a story of some kind."

"I shall have to tell you the story, for you could never guess what that smile was made of. First, however, what did you see and hear at the Cromwells? 'Tis said the great man is in a strange mood, and that his picked friends are wondering how he will cast the scale. Vane and he must come to 'Yes' and 'No' soon; and when rogues fall out, honest folk get their rights."

"England will get her rights if Cromwell cast the scale. He is both corner-stone and keystone of her liberties. He was in the kindest of moods, and I took occasion to speak of you and your many sorrows. And he wet my speech with the most pitiful tears ever man shed, saying such words of your father as brought me to weeping also. He spoke also very heavenly about your afflictions, and bade me tell you sorrow was one of the surest ways to heaven."

"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."