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.
"'And death and hell were cast into the lake of fire. This is the second death.'"
And when he ceased there was a silence that could be felt, a silence almost painful, ere Dr. Owen's silvery voice penetrated it with the words of the Benediction. Then the Protector and Mrs. Cromwell kissed the girls, and the clergymen blessed them, and they went to their rooms as from the very presence of God.
But Mrs. Cromwell lingered a long time. She could not rest until she had seen the silver and crystal and fine damask put away in safety; and she thought it no shame to look – as her Lord did – after the fragments of the abundant dinner.
"I will not have them wasted," she said to the steward, "nor given to those who need them not. The Lady Elizabeth hath a list of poor families, and it is my will that they, and they only, are served."
Then she went to her daughter Claypole's apartments, and talked with her about her children, and her health; also about the disorders and thieving of the servants, wrong-doings, which caused her orderly, careful nature much grief and perplexity. Elizabeth was her comforter and councilor, and the good daughter generally managed to infuse into her mother's heart a serene trust, that with all its expense and inefficiencies the household was conducted on as moderate a scale as was consistent with her father's dignity.
When they parted it was very late; the palace was dark and still, and Mrs. Cromwell, with careful economies in her mind, and a candle in her hand, went softly along the lonely, gloomy corridors – the very same corridors that a few years before had been the lodging-place of the Queen's thirty priests and her seventy-five French ladies and gentlemen. Had it been the war-like Oliver thus treading in their footsteps, he would have thought of these things, and seen with spiritual vision the black-robed Jesuits slipping noiselessly along; he would have seen the painted, curled, beribboned, scented men and women of that period; and he would also have remembered the insults offered the Queen and her English attendants by the black and motley crew, ere the King in a rage ordered them all off English soil. And 'tis like enough he would have said to himself, "If Charles Stuart had been on all occasions as straightforward and positive as he was on that one, he had been King of England yet." But Elizabeth Cromwell did not either see or remember. Her little grandson had a slight fever; she was not satisfied with her daughter's health, and the care of the great household she ruled was a burden she never wholly laid down. In this vast, melancholy pile of chambers, she thought of her simple home in St. Ives with longing and affection. Royal splendours had given her nothing she cared for; and they had taken from her the constant help and companionship that in humbler circumstances her good, great husband had given her.
She paused a moment before the door of his room. She wondered if he was asleep. If so, she would on no account awaken him, for in these days he slept far too little. All was still as death, but yet something of the man's intense personality escaped the closed door. The giant soul within was busy with heart and brain, and the subtile life evolved found her out. Quiet as the room was, it was not quiet enough for Oliver to be asleep. She opened the door softly and saw him sitting motionless by the fire, his eyes closed, his massive form upright and perfectly at rest.
"Oliver," she said, "dear Oliver, you ought to be in bed and asleep."
His great darkling soul flashed into his face a look of tenderest love. "Elizabeth," he answered, "I wish that I could sleep. I do indeed. I need it. God knows I need it, but my heart wakes, and I do fear it will wake this night – if so, there is no sleep for me. You see, dearest, how God mingles our cup. When I was Mr. Cromwell, I could sleep from night till morning. When I was General Cromwell, my labours gave me rest. Now that I am Lord Protector of three Kingdoms, sleep, alas! is gone far from me! In my mind I run to and fro through all the land. I have a thousand plans and anxieties, Elizabeth, my dearest; great place is not worth looking after. It is not."
"But if beyond our will we be led into great place and great honour, Oliver?"
"That is my comfort. I brought not myself here; no, truly, that would be an incredible thing. Once, my God led me in green pastures and by still waters, and I was happy with my Shepherd. Then He called me to be Captain of Israel's host, and He went before me in every battle and gave me the victory. Now, He has set me here as Protector of a people who know not yet what they want. Moses leading those stiff-necked, self-willed Israelites was not harder bestead than I am, trying to lead men just as stiff-necked out of victory into freedom. Every one thinks freedom means 'his way, and no other way,' and they break my heart with their jealousies and envyings, and their want of confidence in me and in each other. Yet I struggle day and night to do the work set me as well as mortal man may do it."
"What troubles you in particular, Oliver?"
"One of the things that troubled my Great Master, when He wept and prayed and fainted in Gethsemane. He knew that those whom He loved and who ought to strengthen and comfort Him, would soon forsake and flee from Him. I think of the men who have trusted me to lead them in every battle; who never found me wanting; the men with whom I have taken counsel, with whom I have prayed; the men who were to me as Jonathan to David; and when I think of them, my heart is like to burst in twain. They are beginning to forsake me, to flee from me, and their cold looks and formal words hurt me like a sword thrust; they do, Elizabeth, they do indeed."
"But see how God cares for you. Charles Stuart and his men spend their time in devising plots to kill you, and they are always prevented."
"I care nothing about Charles Stuart and the men with him. They can do nothing against me. My life is hid with Christ in God, and until my work is done, there is no weapon formed that can hurt me. I say this, for I do know it. And when I have fulfilled all His Will, I shall not be dismissed from life by any man's hatred. God Himself will have a desire for the work of His Hand; He will call me, and I will answer. That will be a good day, Elizabeth, for I am weary – weary and sorrowful, even unto death."
"If you had made yourself King, as you might have done, as you ought to have done, you would have had less opposition. John Verity said so to me. He said Englishmen were used to a king, but they did not know what to make of a protector."
"King! King! I am king in very truth, call me what they like. And for that matter, why should I not be king? Doctor Owen tells me the word king comes from König and means 'the man that can.' I am that man. Every king in Europe came from some battle-field, that was their first title to kingship. Our William, called the Conqueror, won the Kingdom of England by one successful battle. How many battles have I fought and won? I never lost a single field – how could I, the Lord of Hosts being with me? As a hero of battle, there is no man to stand before me. Why should I not be king over the three countries I have conquered? My title to kingship is as good as any ruler I know. And perhaps – who can tell – had I crowned myself, it had been a settlement much needed. John Verity is right. Englishmen think a protector is a ruler for emergency. They feel temporary and uncertain with a protector. A kingship is a settled office. The laws are full of the king; they do not name a protector – and men feel to the law as they do to a god."
"Take the crown, Oliver. Why not?"
"I have no orders to take it. My angel told me when I was a boy, that I should become the greatest man in England, but he said not that I should be king. And I know also from One who never lied to me, that this nation will yearn after its old monarchy. I am here to do a work, to sow seeds that will take generations to ripen, but my reign is only an interregnum. I shall found no dynasty."
"Oh, Oliver! You have two sons."
"Richard cannot manage his own house and servants. Harry is a good lieutenant; he can carry out instructions, it is doubtful if he could lead. My desire for my sons is, that they live private lives in the country. I know what I know. I have what I have. The crown of England is not to be worn by me, nor do I want it; I do not – neither for myself nor my children." Then taking his wife's hand tenderly between his own, he said with intense fervour, "There is not a man living can say I sought this place – not a man or woman living on English ground. I can say in the presence of God, I would have been glad to have lived with thee under my woodside all the days of my life, and to have kept my sheep and ploughed my land rather than bear the burden of this government."
"Do you think the Puritan government will die with you, Oliver?"
"I think it will; but the Puritan principles will never die. The kings of the earth banded together cannot destroy them. They will spring up and flourish like 'the grass that tarrieth not for man' – spring where none has sowed or planted them – spring in the wilderness and in the city, until they possess the whole earth. This I know, and am sure of."
"Then why are you so sad?"
"I want my old friends to trust in me and love me. Power is a poor exchange for love. I want Lambert and Harrison and Ludlow and the others to be at my right hand, as they used to be. Ludlow tells me plainly, he only submits to my government because he can't help himself; and Harrison, who used to pray with me, now prays against me. Oh, Elizabeth, you know not how these men wound me at every turn of my life!"
"Oh, indeed, Oliver, do you think the women are anything behind them? I could tell you some things I have had to suffer, and the poor girls also. What have they not said of me? Indeed I have shed some tears, and been sorely mortified. The women I knew in the old days, do they come near me? They do not. Even if I ask them, they are sick, or they are gone away, or their time is in some respect forespoken. It is always so. Only little Jane Swaffham keeps the same sweet friendship with us. I say not that much for Martha Swaffham. Very seldom she comes at my request – and I have a right now to request, and she has the obligation to accept. Is not that so, Oliver? But she thinks herself – "
"Never mind Martha Swaffham; Israel stands firm as a rock by me. After all, Elizabeth, there is nothing got by this world's love, and nothing lost by its hate. This is the root of the matter: my position as Protector is either of God, or of man. If I did not firmly believe it was of God, I would have run away from it many years ago. If it be of God, He will bear me up while I am in it. If it be of man it will shake and tumble. What are all our histories but God manifesting that He has shaken and trampled upon everything He has not planted? So, then, if the Lord take pleasure in England, we shall in His strength be strong. I bless God I have been inured to difficulties, and I never yet found God failing when I trusted in Him. Never! Yea, when I think of His help in Scotland, in Ireland, in England, I can laugh and sing in my soul. I can, indeed I can!"
"My dearest, you are now in a good mind. Lie down and sleep in His care, for He does care for you." And she put her arms around his neck and kissed him; and he answered,
"Thou art my comfort, and I thank God for thee! When He laid out my life's hard work, He thought of thee to sweeten it."
She left him then, hoping that he would shelter his weariness in darkness and in sleep. But he did not. The words he had spoken, though so full of hope and courage, wanted that authentication from beyond, without which they were as tinkling brass to Oliver. He locked his chamber door, retired his soul from all visibles, and stood solemnly before God, waiting to hear what He would say to him. For the soul looks two ways, inward as well as outward, and Oliver's soul gazed with passionate spiritual desire into that interior and permanent part of his nature, wherein the Divine dwells – that inner world of illimitable calm, apart from the sphere of our sorrowful unrest. And in a moment all the trouble of outward things grew at peace with that within; for he stood motionless on that dazzling line where mortal and immortal verge – that line where all is lost in love for God, and the beggar Self forgets to ask for anything. The austere sweetness of sacrifice filled his soul. The divine Hymn of Renunciation was on his lips.