"She was the purest-hearted of women. A word against her goes to my heart like a sword."
"Nay, nay, I meant no unkindness in particular; I spoke of generalities. You are not a Scot, but I hear that you are a Presbyterian. If you marry my daughter, I wish you to become an Independent."
"'Twould be an impossible thing, sir. I sucked Presbyterianism in my mother's milk. Even in heaven, it would grieve her to know I had become an apostate."
"An apostate! The veriest nonsense. There is not an ounce of difference between a Presbyterian and an Independent – but the ounce is the salt and the savour. You will become an Independent. The Lord General is an Independent."
"He never asked me to become one."
"You never asked him for his daughter, his youngest child, his darling."
"Forgive me, sir; Mistress Swaffham has no objection to my faith."
"Because, if men have not every good quality, some woman invents all they lack for them. Mistress Swaffham assures herself she can change your creed."
"I hope that she judges me of better mould. I can no more change a letter in my creed than a feature in my face."
"That is John Knoxism! It won't do, Lord Neville. If I was asking you to become a Fifth Monarchy Man, or one of those unbaptised, buttonless hypocrites, who call themselves Quakers, you might talk about the letters of your creed. Pooh! Pooh!"
"Sir, not for any woman born, will a man, worth the name of a man, give up his creed or his country. Mistress Swaffham would not ask this thing of me. She takes me as I am. I love her with all my soul. To the end of our life days, I will love and cherish her. Whether you credit me thus far, or not, I can say no more. I am a suppliant for your grace, and I know well that I have nothing worthy to offer in return for the great favour I ask from you."
Dauntless, but not overbold, the fine, expressive face of the suppliant was very persuasive. General Swaffham looked at him silently for a few moments and then said, "I will not be unkind to either you or my daughter; but there must be no leap in the dark, or in a hurry. Take five years to learn how to live together fifty years. At the end of five years, if you are both of a mind, I will do all I can for your welfare."
"Your goodness is very great, sir; make it more so by bringing it nearer to us. Five years is a long time out of life."
"That is what youth thinks. Five years' service for fifty years of happiness. You gave your teachers far more time to prepare you for life. Now go to school five years, for love. I waited six years for my wife, Jacob waited fourteen for Rachel."
"Sir, we live not by centuries, as Jacob did – if it would please you to say two years."
"I have said five, and verily it shall be five; unless these strange times bring us some greater stress or hurry than is now evident. Cannot you wait and serve for five years? If not, your love is but a summer fruit, and Jane Swaffham is worthy of something better."
"Sir, I entreat. I am no coward, but I cannot bear to think of five years."
"I have said my say. There is nothing to add or to take from it – save, to remind you, Lord Neville, that there is more heroism in self-denial than in battle."
Then Cluny perceived that entreaty would only weaken his cause, and he advanced and offered his hand, saying, "I am much in your debt, sir. 'Tis more than I deserve, but Love must always beg more than his desert." And General Swaffham stood up and held the slim brown hand a moment. He was moved beyond his own knowledge, for his voice trembled perceptibly as he answered —
"You have time and opportunity to win your way to my heart, then I will give you a son's place. Go and ask Jane; she will tell you I have done kindly and wisely." And Cluny bowed and went silently to seek his betrothed.
There was a sense of disappointment in his heart. Perhaps also an unavoidable feeling of offense. The Lord General had looked into his face and trusted him; yea, about great affairs, public and private. He had asked no five years' trial of his honour and honesty; and such thought gave an air of dissatisfaction and haughtiness to the young man that struck Jane unhappily as he entered the room in which she was sitting.
"Your father says we are to wait five years, sweet Jane; and 'tis a hard condition. I know not how I am to endure it."
And Jane smiled and began to talk over with her lover the hard condition, and somehow it became an easy and reasonable one. They soon saw it through Love and Hope and Wisdom, and so at the beginning of their probation, they rejoiced in the end of it. Cluny was hopeful of getting some military appointment in Edinburgh, and then the estate that was "no great matter" would be a home, at no inconvenient distance. And he described the old place with its ivy-covered walls and ancient rooms, and its garden, dark with foliage, until Jane knew all its beauties and possibilities. They were so happy and so full of happy plans, that they were laughing cheerfully together when the General came in with his wife and household for evening prayers. And it touched and pleased Cluny that he was mentioned by name in the family petition, and so, as it were, taken publicly and affectionately into it. He felt this all the more when the servants, in leaving the room, included him in their respectful obeisance to their master and mistress. It restored to him the sense of home, and he carried that strength and joy with him to his duty, and day by day grew to more perfect manhood in it.
Life soon settled itself to the new conditions of the Swaffhams. The General, in spite of his wife's and daughter's disapproval, bought the Sandys House near Russel Square, and some of the most precious heirlooms of old Swaffham were brought up to London to adorn it, For it was now certain that the Lord General would not agree to part with his faithful friend and ally; and, indeed, Swaffham's influence in the army could not well be spared, for it was evident enough that there was such ill-will between the army and the Parliament as might easily become a very dangerous national condition.
"So we may be here the rest of our lives, Jane, and we may as well get our comforts round us," said Mrs. Swaffham, and there was a tone of fret in her voice she did not try to hide. "William won't marry as a good man should at his age," she continued, "and Tonbert thinks himself too young to wive; and Cymlin is for Lady Matilda de Wick or no other woman, and so the dear old place will run to waste and mischief. And there are the fine milch cows – and the turkeys. Who will attend to them when I am not there to see they get attention? Nobody."
"Will and Tonbert know how to manage, mother."
"Yes, if it comes to meadow and corn land, or horses, or dogs. I am thinking of the house and the dairy and the poultry yard. Men don't bother themselves about such things; and my boys won't marry, and my girls won't let marrying alone. I am sure I don't know what to make of it all."
In spite of her complaining, however, she was well content in London. Social by nature, fond of the stir and news of life, enjoying even the shadow of her old friends' power and splendour, and taking the greatest interest in all public events of the time, she was pleased rather than otherwise at the Lord General's determination to keep her husband near him.
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."