Cromwell's summons affected Mazarin like thunder out of a clear sky. He had forgotten Lord Neville. It was necessary to bring to him the papers relating to the mission on which he had come, and even then he was confused, or else cleverly simulated confusion. But he had to do with a man, in many respects, more inflexible than Cromwell.
"I will make inquiries," he said to Israel. "In two or three days – or a week – "
"I must be on my way back to London, sir, in two or three days."
"I cannot be hurried, – I have much other business."
"I have only this business in Paris, sir; but it is a business of great haste. This very hour, if it please your Eminence, I would make inquiries at the Bastile."
"It does not please me. You must wait."
"Waiting is not in my commission, sir. I am to work, or to return to London without an hour's delay. Lord Neville is particularly dear to his Highness; and if my inquiries meet not with attention, – on the moment, – I am instructed to waste no time. We must then conclude the envoy of the Commonwealth of England has been robbed and slain, and it will be the duty of England to take redress at once."
"You talk beyond your commission."
"Within it, sir."
"Retire to the anteroom. They will serve you with bread and wine while I make some inquiries."
"It is beyond my commission to eat or drink until I have had speech with Lord Neville. I will wait in this presence, the authority of your Eminence," and Israel let his sword drop and leaned upon it, gazing steadfastly the while into the face of the Cardinal. The twelve troopers with him, followed as one man, his attitude, and even Mazarin's carefully tutored composure could not long endure this silent battery of determined hearts and fixed eyes. He gave the necessary order for the release of Lord Cluny Neville, – "if such a prisoner was really in the Bastile," – and sending a body of his own Musketeers with it, directed Israel to accompany them.
"These insolent, domineering English!" he muttered; "and this Cromwell, by grace of the devil, their Protector! If I get not the better of them yet, my name is not Mazarin. As for the young man, I meant not this long punishment; I wanted only his papers. As for the jewels, I was not told they came out of his bag, – I did suspect, but what then? I am too much given to suspicions, and the jewels were rare and cheap, and Hortense became them well. I will not give up the jewels – the man may go, but the jewels? I fear they must go, also, or Spain will have her way. Cromwell wants an excuse to withdraw, I will not give him it. And by Mary! I am sorry for the young man. I meant not such injury to him; I must make some atonement to the saints for it."
This sorrow, though brief and passing, was genuine; cruelty was perhaps the one vice unnatural to Mazarin, and he was relieved in what he called his conscience, when he heard that Lord Neville still lived, – if such bare breathing could be called life. For the Bastile seemed to be the Land of Forgetfulness. The Governor had so forgotten Cluny, that his name called up no recollection. He did not know whether he was in the prison or not. He did not know whether he was alive or dead. The head gaoler also had forgotten. Men lost their identity within those walls. The very books of the prison had forgotten Cluny. Their keeper grew cross, and positive of Neville's non-entering, as volume after volume refused to give up his name. But Israel and his men, standing there so determined and so silent, forced him to go back and back, until he came to that fateful day when, before the dawning, the young man had been driven within those terrible gates.
"On whose order?" asked Israel, speaking with sharp authority.
"On the order of his Eminence, Cardinal Mazarin," was the answer.
"I thought so;" then turning to the head gaoler he added, "you have the order for release. We are in haste."
"Time is not counted here. We know not haste," was the answer.
"Then," said Israel, flaming into passion, "you must learn how to hasten. I give you ten minutes to produce Lord Neville. After that time, I shall return to his Eminence and report your refusal to obey him."
The gaoler had never before been accosted in such language. As word by word was translated to his intelligence, he manifested an unspeakable terror. It was impossible for him to conceive the manner of man and the strange authority that dared so to address the head gaoler of the Bastile. He left the chamber at once, and within the time named there were sounds heard which made all hearts stand still, – the slow movement of feet hardly able to walk, – the dismal clangor of iron, and anon the mournful sound of a human voice. But nothing could have prepared Cluny's comrades for the sight of their old companion. His tall form was attenuated to the last point; his eyes, unaccustomed to much light, would not at once respond, they looked as if they had lost vision; his hair straggled unkempt over his shoulders, and the awful pallor of the prison on his face and neck and hands was more ghastly than the pallor of death. His clothing had decayed; it hung in shreds about his limbs; but there was a glimmer of his old self in the pitiful effort he made, as soon as conscious of human presence, to lift up his head and carry himself without fear. An irrepressible movement of arms, a low wail of pity, met him as he entered the room, and he looked before him, anxious, intent, but not yet seeing anything distinctly.
"Cluny! Cluny! Cluny!" cried Israel; and then Cluny distinguished the buff and steel uniforms, and knew who it was that called him. A long, sharp cry of agony, wonder, joy, answered the call, and he fell senseless into Israel's arms.
They brought him wine, they lifted him to the open window, they laid bare the skeleton form of his chest, they called him by name in voices so full of love and pity that his soul perforce answered their entreaties. Then the Governor offered him some clothing, but Israel put it passionately away. They were worse than Babylonish garments in his sight; he would not touch them. He asked only for a public litter, and when it was procured, they laid Cluny in it, and his comrades bore him through the streets of Paris to their lodging on the outskirts of the city.
When they left the gates of the prison there was a large gathering of men, and it increased as they proceeded, – a pitiful crowd, whose very silence was the highest eloquence. For they understood. Cluny lay prone and oblivious to their vision. They had seen him come from the Bastile. He was dead, or dying, and these angry, weeping soldiers were his comrades. They began to mutter, to exclaim, to voice their sympathy more and more intelligibly. Women, praying and weeping audibly, joined the procession, and Israel foresaw the possibility of trouble. He felt that in some way order must be restored, and inspired by the wisdom within, he raised his hands and in a loud, ringing voice, began the favourite hymn of his troopers; and to the words they had been used to sing in moments of triumphal help or deliverance they carried Cluny, with the solemn order of a religious service, safely into their camp. For when the hymn began, the crowd followed quietly, or dropped away, as the stern men trod in military step to their majestic antiphony:
"Lift up your heads, O ye gates,
And the King of glory shall come in."
"Who is the King of glory?"
"The Lord strong and mighty; the Lord mighty in battle.
Lift up your heads, O ye gates,
And the King of glory shall come in."
"Who is this King of glory?"
"The Lord of hosts; the Lord mighty in battle,
He is the King of glory!"
CHAPTER XVI
OLIVER THE CONQUEROR
"O Heart heroic, England's noblest son!
At what a perfect height thy soaring spirit burns
Star-like! and floods us yet with quickning fire."
* * * * *
"Cromwell is dead: a low-laid Heart of Oak."
* * * * *
"There the wicked cease from troubling, there the weary are at rest."
"Cheer up, Jane! You and Lord Neville will yet arrive at the height of your wishes. This is my judgment, and if it be not true, you may burn me in the ear for a rogue."
"And you will marry Cymlin?"
"Perhaps I shall, perhaps I shall not; perhaps 'tis time enough next year to consider on it."
"It would be a happy marriage."
"A happy marriage would be so much of heaven that I think it was never enjoyed in this world. 'Tis a weary world, I swear I often cry for myself in it."
"But you will marry Cymlin?"
"Faith, I know not how I am to help the catastrophe! But in all sobriety, I think Cymlin loves me, and you do, too, dear Jane! Oh, I could weep my eyes dry when I think of your dear lover, and all he has so innocently suffered. It is intolerable!"
In her way, Matilda was doing her best to console and encourage Jane as they talked over the sad fate of her rescued lover. Both had been weeping, and there was a more affectionate confidence between them than had existed for many years.
But Matilda had cancelled every fault and every unkindness by her prompt action in the matter of Lord Neville, and Jane had been loving and praising her for it, until the sweetness of their first affection was between them. And Matilda enjoyed praise; she liked the appreciation of her kind deed, and was not therefore disposed to make light or little of what she had done, or of its results.
"For your sake, Jane," she said, "I could not have a moment's peace, after hearing where the jewels were. I said to myself, this is the clue to Neville's fate, and it must be followed. Though my uncle would not interfere, I was resolved to bring the great Cardinal to catechism; and as I knew no one in the world would dare to question him but Cromwell, I went to Cromwell."
"It was a wonderful thing for you to do."
"It was; I must give myself so much credit. Not that I am afraid of Cromwell, or of any other man, but it was a great humiliation."
"Cromwell would not humiliate you; I am sure of that."
"He behaved very well. He knew I had had a share in every plot against him; and he gave me one look so swift, so searching, and so full of reproach, that it sticks like an arrow in my heart yet. But there were old memories between us, and anon he was as gentle as my mother with me. I will never try to injure him again, – never!"
"It is impossible to tell you how grateful Cluny and I are to you; I think no other woman in England would have been so forgetful of herself, and so brave for others."
"Perhaps not, Jane. But I love you, and I love justice and mercy, even to an enemy. I can always be brave with a good reason. And, pray, how comes my lord on towards recovery?"
"Slowly. Life was nearly gone; body and mind were at death's door; but he can walk a little now, and in two or three weeks we are going away, – far away, – we are going to my brothers in the Massachusetts Colony."
"Jane Swaffham! I will not believe you! And pray what shall I do? You shall not think of such a thing."
"It is necessary. Cluny's mental sufferings have made it so. When he was first imprisoned he tried to write, to compose hymns and essays, to make speeches, to talk aloud; but as time went on, he could not keep control of himself and of his awful circumstances, and now all the misery of those long, dark, lonely years has settled into one idea, – space without end. The rooms are too small. He walks to the walls and trembles. He throws open the doors and windows that he may have room to breathe. In the night he wakes with a cry, he feels as if he were smothering. If he goes into the garden he shrinks from the gates; and the noise of the city, and the sight of the crowds passing fills him with fear and anxiety. He wants to go where there are no limits, no men who may hate and imprison him; and his physician says, 'Let him live for weeks, or months, out on the ocean.' This is what he needs, and he is eager to get away."
"You will come back?"
"I think it is unlikely. Father feels a change approaching. The Protector's health is failing rapidly; he is dying, Matilda, dying of the injustice and ingratitude he meets on every hand. 'Wounded,' yes slain, 'in the house of my friends,' is his constant cry."
"'Tis most strange that a man of war like Oliver Cromwell should care what his friends think or say."
"Yet he does. When he speaks to father about Harrison, Lambert, Alured, Overton and others of his old companions, he wrings his hands and weeps like a woman; or else he protests against them in such angry sorrow as distresses one to see and hear it."
"He ought to know that he has been raised above the love of men who are less noble than himself, and that if beyond and above their love, then they will hate and abuse him. If he dies? – "
"Father will leave England as soon as Cromwell is in his grave. Cymlin will keep old Swaffham fair, for Cymlin will never leave England while you are in it."
"And you can bear to talk of leaving England in that calm way, without tears and without regrets. Jane, it is shameful; it is really wicked."
"I do not leave England without tears and regrets, but there is Cluny, and – "
"Cluny, of course. I suppose you will be married before you leave. But I have a mind not to be your bridesmaid, though I am promised to that office ever since I was a maid in ankle tights."
"Dear Matilda, do not be angry at me because I had to do what I had to do. I was married to Cluny three days after he came home. We all thought he was going to die, and he wished me to be his wife."
"Why was I not sent for? I would have come, Jane. It was cruel wrong in you to pass me by."
"We were married by Doctor Verity at Cluny's bedside. No one was present but my father and mother and the three servants to whom Cluny had become accustomed. He was then frightened at every strange face."
"After this, nothing can astonish me. I was not a stranger – "
"He would not have recognised you, then."
"How could he lose himself so far? He ought to have had more courage. Why did he not do something or other?"
"Oh, Matilda, what would you have done in a room eight feet by ten, and in the dark most of the time – your bread and water given without a word – your attendant deaf and dumb to you – no way to tell the passage of time – no way of knowing how the seasons went, but by the more severe cold – if you had been, like Cluny, really buried alive, what would you have done?"
"I would have died."
"Cluny composed psalms and hymns, and tried to sing; he did not lose heart or hope quite, the gaoler told father, for nearly four years. Then his health and strength gave out, and his heart failed, but he never ceased praying. They heard him at midnight, but Cluny did not know what hour it was. And to the last moment he kept his faith in God. He was sure God would deliver him, though He sent an angel to open the prison doors. He was expecting deliverance the day it came. He had had a message from beyond, and his mother had brought it. Now did I not do right to marry him when, and how, he wished?"
"Yes," she answered, but her face and voice showed her to be painfully affected. "Jane, I cannot bear to lose you. I shall have no one to love me, no one to quarrel with," she added.
"You will have Cymlin."
"Cymlin is Cymlin; he is not you. I will say no more. When a woman is married, all is over. She must tag after her lord, even over seas and into barbarous places. If the Indians kill you, it will be said that you were in the way of duty; but I have noticed how often people take the way they want to take, and then call it the way of Duty. I shall not marry Cymlin until he can show me the way of peace and pleasantness."
Then Jane rose to go, and Matilda tied her bonnet-strings, and straightened out her ribbons and her gloves, doing these trifling services with a long-absent tenderness that filled Jane's heart with pleasure. "Good-bye, dear!" she said with a kiss; "I will come as often as I can."
"Very kind of you, Lady Neville," answered Matilda with a curtsy and a tearful mockery; "very kind indeed! But will your ladyship consider – " then she broke down and threw her arms round Jane, and called her "a dear, sweet, little Baggage" and bade her give Cluny some messages of hope and congratulation, and so parted with her in a strange access of affection. But true friendship has these moods of the individual and would not be true without them.
Jane walked home through the city, and its busy turmoil struck her as never before. What a vain show it was! – a passing show, constantly changing. And suddenly there was the galloping of horsemen, and the crowd stood still, and drew a little aside, while Cromwell, at the head of his guards, rode at an easy canter down the street. Every man bared his head as the grand, soldierly figure passed by. He saw Jane, and a swift smile chased away for a moment the sorrowful gravity of his face. But he left behind him a penetrating atmosphere of coming calamity. All souls sensitive to spiritual influences went onward with a sigh, and the clairvoyant saw – as George Fox did – the wraith of fast approaching affliction. The man was armed from head to feet, and his sword had never failed him, but it was not with flesh and blood he had now to contend. The awful shadows of the supernatural world darkened the daylight round him, and people saw his sad face and form as through a mist, dimly feeling all the chill foreboding of something uncertain, yet of certain fatality.
His glorious life was closing like a brilliant sun setting in a stormy sky. He had been recently compelled to tell his last Parliament some bitter truths, for danger was pressing on every side. Protestants in the Grisons, in Piedmont and Switzerland, were a prey to the Spanish papists, and their helper, Pope Alexander the Seventh, and the Protestant Dutch – preferring profit to godliness – were providing ships to transport Charles Stuart and his army to English soil.
"The Marquis of Ormond, well disguised, was here on Charles Stuart's interest, only yesterday morning," he said to them. "I did send for Lord Broghill, and I said to him, 'There is an old friend of yours lodging in Drury Lane at the papist surgeon's. It would be well for him if he were gone.' And gone he is." Then with withering scorn he added, "All this is your doing. You will have everything too high or too low. You don't want a settlement. You are tampering with the army. You are playing the King of Scot's game, helping him in his plans of invasion. You have put petitions through the city to draw London into rebellion. You are plotting for a Restoration. I know these things, I do know them, and I say you have laid upon me a burden too heavy for any poor creature. For I sought not this place. You sought me for it. You brought me to it. I say this before God, angels and men! But I took my oath to see all men preserved in their rights, and by the grace of God I will – I must – see it done. And let God be judge between you and me!"
Many cried "Amen," as they filed out of the ancient halls, chagrined and troubled under his stinging rebuke. And Cromwell felt for the first time the full weight of the refractory kingdom whose government he must bear alone.
He was right; it was too heavy a burden for any one man, and the burden was made still more heavy by his family afflictions. His beloved mother had left him, gone the way of all the earth, saying with her last breath, "I leave my heart with thee, dear son! a good-night!" His son-in-law, Rich, the three months' bridegroom of his "little Frankie," was but a few weeks dead, and the Earl of Warwick, his firmest friend among the nobility, was dying. His favourite daughter, Elizabeth, was very ill, and he himself was feeling unmistakable premonitions of his dissolution. For, day by day, his soul was freeing itself from the ligaments of the body, rising into a finer air, seeing right and wrong with the eyes of immortality. But he would do his duty to the last tittle of strength, – fall battling for the right, – and as to what should come after, God would care for that.
The fifteenth of May had been set for his assassination. On that day, risings were to take place in Yorkshire and Sussex; London was to be set on fire, the Protector seized and murdered, and Charles Stuart land on the southern coast. Cromwell knew all the secret plans of this conspiracy of "The Sealed Knot"; knew every member of it; and on the afternoon when Jane Swaffham saw him passing up London streets, so stern and scornful, he had just ordered the arrest of one hundred of them. From these he selected fifteen for trial. They were all Royalists; he would not lay his hand on his old friends, or on any who had once served the Cause. His mercy and his great heart were never so conspicuous as at this time. Only two of the fifteen were condemned to death, Doctor Hewitt, an Episcopal minister, and Sir Henry Slingsby, the uncle of Lord Fanconbridge, who was the husband of his own daughter, Mary; – Doctor Hewitt for issuing commissions in Charles Stuart's name, and Sir Henry Slingsby for endeavouring to bribe the city of Hull to open its gates to the Stuart invaders. Against Doctor Hewitt his anger burned with unusual severity; he would listen to no intercession for him; for, he said,
"The man has eat my bread, and sat on my hearth, and been a familiar friend of my family. He has been in all our confidences; he has dipped his sop in our dish, and cried 'Hail, master' to me. Like the wickedest of traitors, he betrayed me, even while he called me friend. He shall die the death of a traitor, both to England and to myself."
But though dark clouds from every side were rolling up, they were lit and edged with the fiery glory of the setting sun behind them. Cromwell's troops, under Lockhart in France, were treading their old victorious march, and the flowers of June were wreathed for the taking of Dunkirk, where the Ironsides had stormed unbreached forts and annihilated Spanish battalions, to the amazement of Turenne, Condé and Don John.
Jane heard constantly of these events, but her heart had closer interests. The ship which was to carry Cluny and herself to America was lying at her wharf nearly ready for sea. It was a stout vessel belonging to Sir Thomas Jevery, commanded by a captain of tried skill and great piety. There were to be no other passengers; Cluny and Jane alone were to find in its black-ribbed cabin their home for many weeks, perhaps months. A recent experience had proven the necessity for this exclusion of strange elements. Early in June, Israel had taken Cluny to bid farewell to his old General, and the meeting had tried both men severely. A few days previous, Cromwell had laid in the grave his little grandson, Oliver, and the child's image still lived in his troubled eyes. He could scarcely speak when he saw Cluny. He waived impatiently all ceremony, drew him to his breast and kissed him; but it was quickly evident Cluny could not bear any conversation on his past misery. His excitement became painful to witness, and Cromwell with quick, kind wisdom, began to speak rather of his own great sorrow.
"You know, Israel," he said, "how sweet a little lad my Oliver was. I cannot yet believe that he is dead; I cannot. Only a week ago, when he was ill and restless, I lifted him and carried him to and fro, and his cheek was against my cheek, and his arms around my neck, and suddenly I felt them slip away, and I looked at the child, and so caught his last smile. I thought that night my heart would break; but the consolations of God are not small, and I shall go to the boy, though he will never come back to me. Never! Never! His mother is now very ill; you would pity her, indeed you would. Cluny, you remember the Lady Elizabeth Claypole?"
"My General, I shall never forget her."
"I do fear she is sick unto death. Her little Oliver's removal has been the last blow of the last enemy. You may pity me, Cluny; I need pity, I do indeed; I am a man of many afflictions. But it is the Lord; let Him do whatever seemeth good in His sight." He then went to a desk and wrote a few lines to the officials of the Massachusetts Colony; in them, commending Lord Neville to their kindness and care. His hands trembled – those large strong hands – trembled as he gave the letter to Cluny. Then he kissed him once more, and with a "Farewell" that was a blessing, he turned away, weeping.
"It is another friend gone," he said mournfully to his own heart; "lover and friend are put far from me and mine acquaintance into darkness." But he went straight to his daughter Elizabeth, and talked to her only of God's great love and goodness, and of the dear boy who had been taken from them because "he pleased God; because he was beloved of God, so that living among sinners he was translated; yea, speedily was he taken away, lest wickedness should alter his understanding or deceit beguile his soul; and being made perfect in a short time, fulfilled a long time."5
Cluny was so much troubled and affected by this visit that Israel thought it well to take him to see the ship which was to carry him to the solitudes of the great waters and the safety of the New World. He was impatient to be gone, but there were yet a number of small interests to be attended to; for they were to carry with them a great deal of material necessary to the building and furnishing of their future home. Every day revealed some new want not before thought of, so that it was nearing the end of June when at last all was declared finished and ready.
Then Jane went to Hampton Court to bid her old friends a last farewell. It was a mournful visit. She fancied they did not care as much as she thought they might have done. In fact, the gloomy old palace was a terrible House of Mourning, and the Cromwells' own sorrows consumed their loving-kindness. Frances, in her widow's garb, could only weep and talk of her dead bridegroom. Lady Claypole was dumb under the loss of her son and her own acute suffering, and Mrs. Cromwell's heart bleeding for both her unhappy daughters. Jane was shocked at her white, anxious face; alas, there was only too much reason for it! Whatever others thought, the wife of the great Protector knew that he was dying – dying, even while he was ruling with a puissant hand the destinies of England. Every member of this sad family was in sore trouble; they could find no words of mere courtesy; even friendship was too large a claim upon them.
Jane felt keenly all the anguish in this palace of Pain and Sorrow. She remained only one night, and was as willing to leave it as the sad dwellers therein were willing to be left. They were not unkind, but they could bear no more; their own burden was too heavy. Jane would have regretted her visit altogether, had it not been for the changeless tenderness of the Protector. His face during these quick gathering trials had become intensely human. It was easy to read in it endless difficulties and griefs, surmounted by endless labours and importunate prayers. With strange, mystical eyes he walked continuously the long rooms and corridors, ever seeking the realisation of his heart's constant cry, "Oh, that I knew where I might find Thee!" He talked to Jane of Cluny and of their prospects; made her kneel at his side during the family service, kept her hand in his, and prayed for her and Cluny by name. And at the last moment he gave her the blessing she hoped for – "God which dwelleth in heaven prosper your journey; and the angel of God keep you company."6
The strain had been great; the very atmosphere of the place was too heavy with grief to breathe; she was glad to feel the sunshine and the fresh wind. She had intended to call on Matilda as she passed through the city, but she could not throw off the lassitude of hopeless foreboding that had invaded her mind. It bred fears for Cluny, and she hastened home, resolving to see Matilda on the following day. But when she reached Sandy's House, Mrs. Swaffham met her with a letter in her hand – "Lady Jevery asks you to come to Matilda, who is in great trouble," she said. "Cluny is asleep; if you are not too tired, you would better go at once, for if the wind keep fair, Captain Jonson thinks to lift anchor to-morrow night."
So Jane went to her friend. With her, also, she found the grief Death brings.
"Stephen is slain!" were her first words. She could hardly utter them. But Jane knew how to comfort Matilda; she could talk to her as she could not to the ladies of Cromwell's household. She could take her in her arms and say all kinds of loving words, blending them with promises and hopes that had Divinity as their surety. And she could encourage her to talk away her trouble. "How was Stephen slain?" she asked, "in a duel?"
"No, thank God! He fell, as he himself could have wished, fighting the enemies of his King. He was with Condé and the Dukes of York and Gloucester before Dunkirk, and was killed while meeting the rush of those terrible Ironsides. He died shouting 'For God and King!' and Camby – one of their officers who comes from Ely – knew Stephen, and he carried him aside, and gave him water, but he died in five minutes. Camby wrote me that he said 'Mother!' joyfully, with his last breath."
"Poor Stephen!"
"Oh, indeed 'tis very well to cry, 'poor Stephen,' when he is beyond your pity. You might have pitied him when he was alive, that would have been something to the purpose. All his short, unhappy life has been one constant battle with Puritans and poverty. Oh, how I hate those Stuarts! I am thankful to see you can weep for him, Jane. I think you ought. God knows he loved you well, and most thanklessly. And he is the last, the last de Wick. Root and branch, the de Wick tree has perished. I wish I could die also."
"And Cymlin, Matilda?"
"I shall marry Cymlin, – at the proper time."
"You may have sons and daughters."
"I hope not. I pray not. I have had sorrow enough. My father and his three sons are a good ending for the house. It was built with the sword, and it has been destroyed by the sword. I want no de Wick like the men of to-day – traders and gold seekers. And if they were warriors, the old cares and fears and anxieties would be to live over again. No, Jane, the line of de Wick is finished.7 Cymlin and I will be the last Earl and Countess de Wick. We shall go to Court, and bow to the Stuart, and be very great people, no doubt."