One crisp, sunny morning in January she suddenly resolved to make some inquiries herself. It was not an easy thing to do; all her education and all conventional feeling were against a girl taking such a step. But the misery of a grief not sure is very great, and Jane believed that her direct inquiries might be of some avail. She went first to Jevery House. Sir Thomas had a financial interest in Lord Neville's return, and it was likely he had made investigations, if no one else had. She expected to find him in his garden, and she was not disappointed; wrapped in furs, he was walking up and down the flagged pathway leading from the gates to the main door of the mansion. He was finding a great deal of pleasure in the green box borders and the fresh brown earth which, he said to Jane, was "nourishing and cherishing his lilies and daffodils. You must come again in three weeks, Jane," he added; "and perhaps you will see them putting out their little green fingers." Jane answered, "Yes, sir;" but immediately plunged into the subject so near her.
"Have you heard anything about Lord Neville, Sir Thomas?" she asked. "I must tell you that he is my lover; we were betrothed with my parents' consent, and I am very, very unhappy at his long delay."
"So am I," answered Sir Thomas. "I sent a trusty man to The Hague, and it seems Lord Neville collected the money due me there, six weeks ago. A singular circumstance in this connection is that he refused a note on the Leather Merchants' Guild of this city, and insisted on being paid in gold, and was so paid. Now, Jane, a thousand sovereigns are not easily carried, – and – and – "
"Well, sir? Please go on."
"A ship left that night for the Americas – for the Virginia Colony."
"But Lord Neville did not go to America. Oh, no, sir! That is an impossible thought."
"Well, then, there is this alternative: the merchant who paid him the money died a few days afterwards of smallpox. Was there infection in the money? Did Lord Neville take the smallpox and die?"
"But if he had been sick he would have known the danger, and written some letter and provided for the safety of the property in his charge. He knew many people in The Hague. This supposition is very unlikely."
"Why did he insist on the gold? This is the thing that troubles me."
"Who says he insisted on gold?"
"The widow of the man who paid it."
"She may have been mistaken. She may herself be dishonest. The money may never have been paid at all. I do not believe it has been paid. Did your trusty man see Lord Neville's quittance?"
"I have not thought of that, Jane. I was troubled at the story, and accepted it as it was given. It was too painful and suspicious to examine."
"For that reason it must be sifted to the very bottom. That Dutch widow has the money, doubtless. Did your messenger ask her to describe Lord Neville? Did he ask her any particulars of the interview? It is easy to say the thousand pounds were paid. I do not believe her."
"Well, my little mistress, your faith infects me. I will send again to The Hague."
"Yes, sir, and let your messenger ask to see Lord Neville's quittance. Cluny did not receive from any one a thousand pounds without an acknowledgment of the payment. Let the woman show it."
"You are right. I will make further inquiries at once."
"To-day, sir? Please, to-day, sir."
"I will send a man to The Hague to-day."
"Thank you, Sir Thomas. Can I now see Lady Jevery and Lady Matilda?"
"My dear, they are both at de Wick. A week ago my niece received a letter from the man who bought the estate. He urged them to come and see him. He said he had not long to live, and that before he went away he had some most important intelligence, vitally affecting the de Wicks, to communicate. My niece thought it prudent, even necessary, to make the visit; and Lady Jevery went with her. In a couple of weeks I shall go for them."
"But before you go – "
"I have said 'to-day,' Mistress Jane. I will keep my promise. Why do you not see the Protector? He was fond of the young man; he believed in him."
She only answered, "Yes, sir," and then adding, "Good-morning, sir," she turned to go. Her face was so white and so full of hopeless disappointment, he could not endure to keep its memory a moment. Hastening after her, he said, "My dear little mistress, I am certain of one thing – if there is any wrong about this matter it is not Lord Neville's fault, it is his misfortune."
She received this acknowledgment with a grateful smile, yet her whole appearance was so wretched Sir Thomas could not rid himself of her unhappy atmosphere. His walk was spoiled; he went into his private room and smoked a pipe of Virginia, but all his thoughts set themselves to one text: "There are many sorrowful things in life, but the hardest of all is loving."
CHAPTER XII
HOLD THOU MY HANDS
"Hold Thou my hands:
In grief and joy, in hope and fear,
Lord let me feel that Thou art near;
Hold Thou my hands."
There are two ways to manage a day that begins badly; we may give the inner man or woman control, and permit them to compel events; or we may retire until unpropitious influences have passed us by. It is perhaps only in extremes the first alternative is taken; usually the soul prefers withdrawal. Jane felt that it was useless for her to attempt a visit to the Protector that day, and she hastened to the covert of her home. Her mother's kind face met her at the threshold, and the commonplace domestic influences of the set dinner-table, and the busy servants, recalled her thoughts from their sad and profitless wandering among possible and impossible calamities.
Mrs. Swaffham had a letter in her hand, and she said as soon as she saw her daughter, "What do you think, Jane? Cymlin has got his discharge, and instead of coming here, he has gone to Swaffham. And he says Will and Tonbert are in the mind to join a party of men who will pay a visit to the Massachusetts Colony; and Cymlin says it is a good thing, and that he will stay at Swaffham and keep everything up to collar."
"I was at Jevery House, mother," said Jane, "and Lady Jevery and Matilda are gone to de Wick."
"Never! That accounts for Cymlin's being so thoughtful for Swaffham. Reasons for all things, Jane, and some woman at the bottom of all. I am sorrier than I can tell you. Matilda will take her sport out of Cymlin, and leave him with a laugh. I know her. I will write to Cymlin this night."
"But why, mother? You can do no good. A word, a look from Matilda, and a fig for all advices!" Then she told her mother of Anthony Lynn's message, and they talked awhile of its probable meaning, Mrs. Swaffham being of the opinion that Lynn's conscience was troubling him, and that he wanted, as far as he was able, to propitiate the de Wicks.
"You see," she said, "it is not only the living de Wicks, Jane, there is a powerful gathering of the family on the other side. And the late Earl was very good to Anthony. From his boyhood he was fostered by the de Wicks, and then to think of his buying out the young Earl and Matilda!"
"If he had not bought out de Wick, somebody else would; and perhaps the de Wicks would rather have an old retainer there than some unknown stranger," said Jane.
"It is hard to tell what the dead like, and how they feel; but it is a wise thing to treat every one in this world so that you won't be afraid to meet them in the next world. I wouldn't wonder if Anthony Lynn felt a bit afraid to meet Earl Marmaduke; anyway, he ought to be ashamed. Anthony was always known for a prudent man; he is going to make his peace at the gates of death, for fear of what is beyond them."
"I do not know. Sir Thomas offered no opinion; and he said some cruel things about Cluny, though he followed me to unsay them."
Then Jane told her mother what suspicions evidently existed in the mind of Sir Thomas, and Mrs. Swaffham laughed at their absurdity, and was then angry at their injustice; and finally she sent Jane up-stairs to dress for dinner in a much more hopeful and worldlike temper. This day was followed by a week of wretched weather. Jane could do nothing but wait. Her soul, however, had reached its lowest depth of despondence during her visit to Sir Thomas Jevery, and on reviewing it, she felt as if she had betrayed her inner self – let a stranger look at her grief and see her faint heart, and suspect that she, also, had a doubt of her lover. She was mortified at her weakness, and fully resolved when she visited Cromwell, to show him the heart of a fearless woman – brave, because she doubted neither God nor man.
It was, however, the month of March before this visit could be made. The bad weather was the precursor of a bad cold, and then she had to consider the new domestic arrangements of the Cromwell family. The royal apartments in Whitehall and in the palace of Hampton Court were being prepared for the Protector's family, and Jane knew from her father's reports, as well as from her own acquaintance with her Highness and her daughters, that all the changes made would be of the utmost interest to them. She was averse either to intrude on their joy or to have them notice her anxiety.
But one exquisite morning in March she heard General Swaffham say that the Cromwell ladies were going to Hampton Court. The Protector would then be alone in Whitehall, and she might see him without having to share her confidences with the family. She prepared a note asking for an interview, and then called on Mr. Milton and induced him to go with her to the palace and deliver it into Cromwell's hand. In her simplicity she considered this little plan to be a very wise one, and so it proved. Mr. Milton had no difficulty in reaching the Protector, who, as soon as he read Jane's appeal, was ready to receive her. She had been much troubled about this audience, how she was to behave, and with what words she should address Cromwell, but her fear left her as soon as the door closed, and she was alone with her old friend.
"Jane," he said kindly, "Jane, what is the trouble?"
"It is Lord Neville, sir. Nothing has been heard of him, and I wish to tell you what Sir Thomas Jevery said." She did so, and Cromwell listened with a smile of incredulity. "We know Neville better than that," he answered. "It would be a great wonder if he should think of America, Jane. Would a man in his senses leave you, and his estate, and his good friends and good prospects to go into the wilderness? Truly he would not. His home and land in Fife are worth more than Jevery's gold and jewels, and I do think my favour may count for something. And more than these things there is your love. You do love him, Jane?"
"Better than my life, your Highness."
"And he loves you?"
"Indeed, I am most certain of it."
"When did you hear last from him?"
Jane had expected this question and she offered Cromwell Cluny's last letter, and asked him to read it. He read it aloud, letting his voice become sweet and tender as he did so.
"My dearest and most honoured mistress, I am just on the moment of leaving Paris; my horse is at the door; but by a messenger that will come more directly than myself, I send you a last word from this place. My thoughts outreach all written words. I am with you, my own dear one, in all my best moments, and my unchangeable love salutes you. Graciously remember me in your love and prayers.
"CLUNY NEVILLE."
"A good letter, Jane. I do think the man that wrote it is beyond guile, beyond dishonour of any kind. I will not hear a doubt of him. I will not – " With these words he rose, and taking Jane's hand in his, he began to walk with her, up and down the room. His clasp was so hot and tight she could have cried out, but glancing into his face she saw it was only the physical expression of thoughts he did not care to give words to. In a few minutes he touched a bell, and when it was answered said, "Mr. Tasburg to my presence – without delay." Mr. Tasburg came without delay, and Cromwell turned to him in some passion.
"Mark Tasburg," he said scornfully, "I know not whether you have been alive or dead. I have not once heard from you in the matter of Lord Neville's delay; I have not, and that you know. The commission for your search is more than a month old; it is, sir; and I like not such delays. I will not have them."
"My Lord Protector, I reported to Mr. Thurloe and Mr. Milton that my search had been of no avail."
"Who gave you the order to make this search?"
"Your Highness."
"Did I give you an order to report to Mr. Thurloe or Mr. Milton? Did I?"
"No, your Highness."
"See, then, what you have taken upon yourself. Be not so forward again, or you may go back to St. Ives and make clay pipes. What date does Lord Neville's last letter bear?"
"It was written at Paris on the eleventh day of November."
"The same date as your last letter, Mistress Swaffham. Four months ago. This is serious." Then turning to Tasburg he said, "Find Colonel Ayrton and send him here, to me, without delay."
During the interval between Tasburg's departure and Ayrton's arrival, Cromwell was occupied in writing a letter, and when it was finished, Colonel Ayrton entered.
"Colonel," he said, "I think you know Lord Cluny Neville?"
"Your Highness, I know him well. His mother was my fifth cousin."
"He has disappeared, I do fear, in some unfortunate way. On the eleventh of last November he left Paris, after despatching the business he was sent on with Cardinal Mazarin. No one has heard of him since. He was going to The Hague, but whether by land or water, does not appear. I have written to his Eminence, the Cardinal; here is the letter, and if his reply be not to the point, go next to the lodging of Lord Neville, and from there follow his steps as closely as it may be in your power. The treasurer will honour this order for your expenses. Waste no time. Be prudent with your tongue. Say not all your mind, and send me some tidings with all convenient speed."
"I am a willing messenger, your Highness. I am bound to my cousin by many kind ties, and I have been most uneasy at his silence and absence."
"Farewell, then, and God go with you."
He waited until the door closed, and then he said, "I owe you this and more, Jane; and I like the youth – a dear, religious youth, of a manly spirit and a true heart. He was always counted fortunate, for in all our battles he went shot free. I wish, I do wish, we could hear of him! And you love him, Jane? And he loves you. My heart aches for both of you; it does indeed. But I think I can do somewhat in this matter, and truly I will use my endeavour. Why does he not come? What can have hindered him?" he cried impatiently as if to himself.
"Oh, sir, he is sick or wounded – perhaps at death's door in some poor man's cottage, in some lonely place far from help or friends," and here Jane burst into passionate weeping.
"You must not, you must not cry, Jane; I beg it as a favour – not in the sight of men and women. Tears are for the Father of spirits. Retire to Him who is a sure resting-place, and there weep your heart empty; for He can, and He will wipe all tears away. As for your dear lord and lover, he is within God's knowledge, and if God saves souls, surely He can save bodies."
"It is four months, sir. 'Tis beyond my hope; and I fear Cluny is now beyond human help."
"Well, then, Jane, we will trust to the miraculous. We do not do that enough, and so when our poor help is not sufficient, we tremble. Where is the hope and trust you sent to me when I lay between life and death in Scotland? Oh, what poor creatures we are, when we trust in ourselves! nothing then but tears and fears and the grave to end all. But I confess I never expected Jane Swaffham to be down in the mire. Jane knows she is the daughter of the everlasting, powerful, infinite, inscrutable God Almighty; she knows this God is also one of goodness and mercy and truth without end, to those who love Him. You love Him, you do love Him?"
"I have loved Him ever since I could speak His Holy Name. But He never now answers me; when I pray to Him the heavens seem to let my prayers fall back to me. Has He forgotten me?"
"Jane, Jane, oh, Jane! What a question for you to ask! I could chide you for it. Have you forgotten the teaching of your Bible, and your catechism, of your good pastor, John Verity, and your father and mother? Do you believe for one moment that God has any abortive children? He has not. He is the father of such souls as, according to His appointment, come to perfection. If you have ever, for one moment, felt the love of the Ineffable Nameless One, I do assure you it is a love for all eternity! It is, Jane, it is, surely. He does not love and withdraw; no, no; we may deserve to be denied, we may deserve to be abandoned, but just because it is so, He seeks and He saves the children lost, or in danger." And then he stooped and dried her eyes with his kerchief, and seating her on a sofa, he brought a glass of wine, and said,
"Drink, my dear; and as you drink, ask for strength no juice of earthly fruit can give. Do not pray for this thing, or that thing; if you will say only, 'Thy will be done,' you will find mercy at need; you will indeed. I do know it."
"All is so dark, sir."
"And will be, till He says, 'Let there be light.' I scruple not to say this."
"Oh, sir, what shall I do? What shall I do?"
"Put a blank into God's hand, and tell Him to fill it as He chooses – Cluny or no Cluny, love, or death of love, joy or sorrow, just what He wills. In my judgment this is the way of Peace. Do you think, Jane, that I have chosen the path I now walk in? I have not, God knows it. God knows I would be a far happier man with my flocks in the Ouse meadows; I would, I say what is in my heart. Is this greatness laid on me for my glory and honour? Truly, it is only labour and sorrow. If I did not find mercy and strength at need, I should faint and utterly fail under the burden, for indeed I am the burden-bearer of all England this day. I need pity, I do need it; I need God's pity, yes, and human pity also."
There was the shadow of unshed tears in his sad, gray eyes, and an almost childlike pathos in his dropped head. Jane could not bear it. She stroked and kissed his big hand, and her tears fell down upon it. "I will go home," she said softly, "and pray for you. I will not pray for myself, but for you. I will ask God to stand at your right hand and your left hand, to beset you behind and before, and to lay His comforting, helping hand upon you. And you must not lose heart, sir, under your burden, because many that were with you have gone against you, or because there are constant plots to take your life. There is the ninetieth Psalm. It is yours, sir."
And Cromwell's face shone, and he spoke in an ecstasy, "Truly, truly, he that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. How did David reach that height, Jane?"
"He was taught of God, sir."
"I am sure of that. I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress; my God, in Him will I trust – thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night, nor for the arrow that flieth by day – He shall give His angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways."
"My dear lord, is not that sufficient?" and Jane's face was now full of light, and she forgot her fears, and her sorrow was lifted from her. She found a strange courage, and the words were put into her mouth, so that she must needs say them:
"It is most true, our Protector, that you have a great burden, but are you not glad of heart that God looked down from heaven, and seeing poor England bound and suffering, chose you – you, from out of tens of thousands of Englishmen – and called you from your sheep and oxen and wheat-fields, and said unto you, 'Oliver Cromwell, free My people,' and then so filled your heart with the love of freedom that you could not help but answer, 'Here am I, Lord.' The other night I listened to some heavenly discourse from Doctor Verity, and he said that from henceforth, every flying fold of our English flag would have but one spoken word for all nations, and that word Freedom. Some may be ungrateful, but your faith and valour and labour for England will never be forgotten. Never!"
Her face gathered colour and light beyond the colour and light of mere flesh and blood as she spoke, and Cromwell's reflected it. He was "in the spirit," as this childlike woman with prescient vision prophesied for him, and looking far, far off into the future, as one seeing things invisible, he answered confidently —
"I know, and I am sure, Jane, that time will be the seal to my faithfulness. I know, and I am sure, that my name shall mix with every thought and deed of Freedom, even in lands now unknown, and in ages yet to come. Then, brave freemen shall say in my ears, 'Well done my son.' And shall not the dead ears hear? They shall. Indeed they shall! I know, and am sure, Jane, that English speaking men will take in trust, not only my name, but the names of all who, with me, held their lives less than Freedom, and gave them a burnt-offering and blood sacrifice without price or grudging. These men dying, mixed their breath and names with Freedom's, and they shall live forever. For this is the truth, Jane: thrones shall fall and nations pass away, but death has no part in Freedom."
And as he spoke, his words rang and sounded like music, and stirred the blood like a trumpet; and Jane's face was lifted to the rough, glorified visage of the warrior and the seer, who saw yet afar off his justification, saw it in the Red Cross of St. George flying over land and sea, and carrying in all its blowing folds only one glorious word – "FREEDOM."
In such moments Cromwell's spirit walked abreast of angels; he looked majestic, he spoke without pause or ambiguity, and with an heroic dictation that carried conviction rather than offense, for it had nothing personal in it, and it suited him just as hardness suits fine steel.
In this enthusiasm of national feeling, Jane forgot her personal grief, and as she went homeward, she kept repeating to herself Cromwell's parting words, "Don't doubt, Jane. God nor man nor nature can do anything for doubters. They cannot." She understood what was included in this advice, and she tried to realise it. The moment Mrs. Swaffham saw her daughter, she took notice of the change in her countenance and speech and manner, and she said to herself, "Jane has been with Oliver Cromwell. No one else could have so influenced her." And very soon Jane told her all that had been done and said, and both women tried to assure themselves that a few more weeks of patience would bring them that certainty which is so much easier to bear than suspense. For the very hope of suspense is cruel, but in the face of a sorrow, sure and known, the soul erects herself and finds out ways and means to mitigate or to bear it.
States of enthusiasm, however, do not last; and they are not often to be desired. The disciples after the glory of Mount Tabor were not able to go with Christ up Calvary. Jane felt the very next day that she had mentally promised herself to do more than she was able to perform. She could not forget Cluny, or put in his place any less selfish object; and though the days came laden with strange things, she did not take the fervid interest in public events her father and mother did. For there are in nature points of view where a cot can blot out a mountain, and on our moral horizons a personal event can put a national revolution in the background. In the main, she carried a loving, steadfast heart, that waited in patience, sometimes even in hope; but there were many days when her life seemed to be tied in a knot, and when fear and sorrow crept like a mist over it. For there was nothing for her to do; she could only wait for the efforts of others, and she longed rather for the pang of personal conflict. But human beings without these tidal fluctuations are not interesting; people who always pursue the "even tenor of their way" leave us chilled and dissatisfied; we prefer that charm of uncertain expectation, which, with all its provocations, made Matilda dear and delightful to Jane, and Jane perennially interesting, even to those who did not think as she thought or do as she did.
At length April came, and the bare brown garden was glorious with the gold and purple of the crocus flowers and the moonlight beauty of the lilies. Birds were building in the hedges, and the sun shone brightly overhead. The spirit of spring was everywhere; men and boys went whistling along the streets, the watermen were singing in their barges, and a feeling of busy content and security pervaded London, and, indeed, all England.
Suddenly, this atmosphere of cheerful labour and abounding hope was filled with terror and with a cry of murder, of possible war and another struggle for liberty. A gigantic plot for the assassination of the Protector was discovered – that is, it was discovered to the people; Cromwell himself had been aware of its first inception, and had watched it grow to its shameful maturity. He had seen the wavering give it aid, and those who were his professed friends, strike hands with those pledged to strike him to the heart. Two months previously he had retired a number of foolish Royalist officers, broken to pieces their silly plans, and given them their lives; but this drama of assassination came from Charles Stuart and Prince Rupert, and from the headquarters of royalty in the French capital. Its programme in Charles' name giving "liberty to any man whatsoever, in any way, to destroy the life of the base mechanic fellow, Oliver Cromwell," had been in Cromwell's possession from the time of its printing, and he knew not only every soul connected with the plot, but also the day and the hour and the very spot in which, and on which, his life was to be taken. But to the city of London the arrest of forty conspirators in their midst, was a shock that suspended for a time all their business.
Israel Swaffham was the first person called into the Protector's presence. He found him in great sorrow, sorrow mingled with a just indignation. Standing by the long table in the Council Chamber, he struck it violently with his clenched hand as he pointed out to Israel the personalities of the conspirators. At one name he paused, and with his finger upon it, looked into Israel's face. And as iron struck by iron answers the blow, so Israel answered that sorrowful, inquiring gaze.
"It is a burning shame," he said angrily. "You have pardoned and warned and protected him for years."
"I must even now do what I can; I must, Israel, for his father's sake. A warrant will be issued to-night, and I cannot stay that; and personally I cannot warn him of it. Israel, you remember his father?"
"Yes, a noble, upright man as ever England bred."
"You and he and I fought some quarrels out for our country together."
"We did."
"And this son is the last of the name. He played with my boys."
"And with mine."
"They went fishing and skating together."
"Yes; I know."
"One day I saved this man's life. He was a little lad, twelve years or about it, and he went through the ice. At some risk I saved him, and he rode home behind me; I can feel, as I speak, his long childish arms around my waist; I can indeed, Israel. These are the thorns of power and office. On these tenter-hooks I hang my very heart every day. What am I to do?"
"My dear lord, do nothing. I can do all you wish. There needs no more words between us. In two hours Abel Dewey – you know Abel – will be on the road. Nothing stops Dewey. Give him a good horse and he will so manage himself and the beast as to reach his journey's end in twenty-four hours."
"But charge him about the good horse, Israel. These poor animals – they have almost human troubles and sicknesses."
Israel then went quickly home. He called Jane and explained to her in a few words what she was to do; and by the time her letter to Matilda was ready, Abel Dewey was at the door waiting for it. Its beginning and ending was in the ordinary strain of girls' letters, but in the centre there were some ominous words, rendered remarkable by the large script used, and by the line beneath them – "I must tell you there has been a great plot against the Protector discovered. Charles Stuart and Prince Rupert are the head and front of the same, but there is a report that Stephen de Wick is not behindhand, and my father did hear that a warrant was out for Stephen, and hoped he would reach French soil, ere it reached him. And I said I thought Stephen was in France; and father answered, 'Pray God so; if not, he cannot be there too soon if he would not have his head off on Tower Hill.'" Then the letter went on to speak of the removal of the Protector's family to Hampton Court palace, and of the signing of the Dutch peace, and the banquet given to the Dutch Ministers. "I was at the table of the Lady Protectoress," she said, "and many great people were present, but the Protector seemed to enjoy most the company of the Rev. Mr. Wheelwright, who was the only one who could beat the Protector at football when they were at college together. Some New England Puritans also were there, and I heard with much pleasure about their cities in the wilderness; and Mr. Thurloe smoked and said nothing; and Mr. John Milton played some heavenly music, and lastly we all sung in parts Mr. Milton's fine piece, 'The Lord has been our dwelling-place.' Ladies Mary and Frances Cromwell were beautifully dressed, but the Lady Elizabeth Claypole is the light of Whitehall."
At these words Jane stopped. "Do I not know," she asked herself, "how Matilda will have flung away my letter before this? And if not, with what scorn she will treat 'the light of Whitehall'?" And these reflections so chilled her memories, that she hasted to sign her name and close the letter. Abel Dewey was ready for it; and as she watched him ride away, her thoughts turned to de Wick, and she wondered in what mood Matilda might be, and how she would receive the information sent her. Would it be a surprise?