The Lions Whelp 10

The Lions Whelp 10

And Jane’s heart was a crystal rock, only waiting the touch of a wand.

Had she felt the mystic contact? Her fine eyes were dropped, but there

was a faint, bewitching smile around her lovely mouth, and there was

something bewildering and something bewildered in her very silence and

simplicity.

 

Neville was charmed. His heart was so light, so happy, that he heard it

singing as he held the little maiden’s hand. He went into his chamber

with the light step of one to whom some great joy has come, and, full of

its vague anticipation, sat down a moment to realise what had happened.

"I have caught love from her in a glance," he said. "What a dainty

little creature! What a little darling she is! Shy and quiet as a

bird, and yet I’ll warrant me she hath wit and courage to furnish six

feet of flesh and blood, instead of four. Is she fair? Is she

handsome? I forgot to look with certainty. She hath the finest eyes I

ever saw my own in—a face like a wild flower—a small hand, I saw that in

particular—and feet like the maiden in the fairy tale—exquisite feet,

prettily shod. Neat and sweet and full of soul! Little Jane! Little

darling! A man were happy enough if he won your love. And what a rich

heart she must have! She has made Love grow in me. She has created it

from her own store."

 

Then he moved his chair to the hearth and looked around. It was a large

room, full of the wavering shadows of the blazing logs and the long

taper. "What an ancient place!" he sighed. "’Tis a bed fine enough and

big enough for a monarch. Generations have slept on it. Those pillows

must be full of dreams. If all the souls that have slept in this room

were to be gathered together, how great a company they would be! If I

could see them, I would enlist all for my hero—they should swear to be

Cromwell’s men! In solemn faith the room is full of _presence_." Then

he rose, turned his face bravely to the shadowy place, and bending his

head said, "Wraiths of the dead, I salute you. Suffer me to sleep in

peace in your company."

 

He did not sit down again, but having cast over himself the shield and

balm of prayer, he soon fell into the sound sleep of weary youth. The

sun was high when he awoke, and he was ashamed of his apparent indolence

and would scarce delay long enough to eat a hasty breakfast. Then his

horse was waiting, and he stood at the threshold with Mrs. Swaffham’s

hand in his. There were tears in her eyes as she blessed him and bade

him "God-speed," and gave him her last messages to her husband and sons.

 

"Fare you well," he answered, and "God be with you! I hope to be sent

this way again, and that soon. Will you give me welcome, madame?"

 

"You will be welcome as sunshine," answered Mrs. Swaffham.

 

Then he looked at Jane, and she said, "God speed you on your journey.

You have words for my father and brothers, but if you find the right

time, say also to General Cromwell that Jane Swaffham remembers him

constantly in her prayers, and give him these words for his strength and

comfort—’They shall be able to do nothing against thee, saith the Lord:

My hands shall cover thee.’"

 

He bowed his head, and then looked steadily at her; and in that

momentary communion realised that he had lost himself, and found himself

again, in the being of another—that he had come in contact with

something and found his spirit had touched a kindred spirit. Yet he

said only, "Good-bye, till we meet again."

 

As he mounted, Mrs. Swaffham asked him if he went by York, and he

answered, "Yes, I know perfectly that road, and I must not miss my way,

for I am a laggard already."

 

"That is right," she said. "The way that is best to go is the way that

best you know."

 

He did not hear the advice, for the moment his horse felt the foot in

the stirrup he was off, and hard to hold with bit and bridle. They

watched him down the avenue, the sun glinting on his steel armour and

morion and the wind tossing behind his left shoulder the colours of the

Commonwealth.

 

When he was quite out of sight, they turned into the house with a sigh,

and Mrs. Swaffham said, "Now, I must have the house put in order. If I

were you, Jane, I would go to de Wick this afternoon. Matilda is full

of trouble. I cannot feel indifferent to her."

 

"She says the kingfishers have left de Wick waters. They have bred there

for centuries, and the Earl is much distressed at their departure."

 

"No wonder. Many people think they bring good fortune. I would not say

different. There are more messengers of good and evil than we know of.

If I get things in order, I will also go to de Wick. Reginald de Wick

and I were friends when we could hardly say the word—that was in King

James’ reign. Dear me! How the time flies!"

 

Then Jane went to her room and began to fold away the pretty things she

had worn the previous night. She smoothed every crease in her silk

gown, and fingered the lace orderly, and folded away her stockings of

clocked silk and her bronzed morocco shoes with their shining silver

buckles. And as she did so, her heart sat so lightly on its temporal

perch that she was singing and did not know it until her mother opened

the door, and like one astonished, asked, "What are you singing, Jane?"

 

"Why, mother! Nothing but some verses by good George Wither."

 

Then the mother shut the door again. If George Wither had written what

Jane was singing, she was sure the words were wise and profitable; for

Wither was the poet of the Puritans, and his "_Hallelujah_" all to the

families of the Commonwealth, that the "_Christian Year_" has been to

our own times. So Jane finished without further interruption, but with

rather less spirit her song—"_For Lovers being constrained to be absent

from each other_."

 

"Dearest fret not, sigh not so,

For it is not time nor place

That can much divide us two;

Though it part us for a space."

 

And she did not know that, at the very same moment, Cluny Neville was

solacing the loneliness of his ride by the same writer’s "_Hymn for

Victory_" giving to its Hebraic fervour a melodious vigour of

interpretation admirably emphasised by the Gregorian simplicity of the

tune to which was sung—

 

"It was alone Thy Providence,

Which made us masters of the field.

Thou art our castle of defense,

Our fort, our bulwark, and our shield.

And had not Thou our Captain been,

To lead us on and off again;

This happy day, we had not seen,

But in the bed of death had lain."

 

 

 

 

*CHAPTER IV*

 

*SO SWEET A DREAM*

 

 

"To judge events, or actions, without connecting them with their causes,

is manifestly unjust and untruthful. Such judgments may make inflexible

justice to appear tyranny; righteous retribution to wear the guise of

cruelty; and virtue itself to have the likeness of vice."

 

"All love is sweet,

Given or returned. Common as light is love,

And its familiar voice wearies not ever."

 

 

Peace was now confidently predicted, but hope outruns events, and the

winter slowly settled down over the level dreariness of the land without

any apparent change in the national situation. People grew tired of

expecting, and turned almost sullenly to the daily duties of life. For

in the North, the winter weather would certainly bring the winter truce,

and they must bear the inaction and suspense as well as they were able.

 

In de Wick, the situation was pitiably forlorn and desolate. The great

trees around it stood with dripping leaves motionless in the thick fog;

the long grasses lay withered and brown; the livid waters of the lake

were no longer enlivened by the scream of the kingfishers, and about the

house were silence and desolation. Matilda would gladly have escaped

its depressing atmosphere for a little while every day, but she could

not, for the roads leading from it were almost quagmires unless steadied

by frost, and it was only rarely on such occasions that the horses could

be spared to take her as far as Swaffham. These visits were eagerly

expected by both girls, and yet were usually regretted; for Matilda

could not help saying many hard things, and Jane could not

conscientiously quite pass them over. Much was excused for the sake of

her sorrow and loss and visible poverty, but even these excuses had

limitations and every interview brought with it many sharp words not

quite washed out by reconciling tears and promised forgetfulness.

 

Even the atmosphere of Swaffham, though grateful and cheering, was

exasperating to the poor royalist lady. There was such cheerfulness in

its comfortable rooms, such plenty of all the necessaries of life, such

busy service of men and maids, such active, kindly hospitality to

herself, and such pleasant companionship between Jane and her mother,

that Matilda could not help a little envious contrasting, a little

backward thought of the days when her own home had been the light of its

neighbourhood, and her father and mother had entertained in splendid

fashion nobles and beauties and famous men whose names were familiar as

household words to all England. In those happy days the rooms had shone

with a hundred lights; her handsome mother had moved as a queen in them,

and her father and brothers had made the place joyful with all the

masculine stir of hunting and hawking, the racket of balls in the

bowling-alley and tennis court, the excitement of the race, the laughter

and love-making of the ballroom. All these, and far sweeter and dearer

things, had been cast into the gulf of civil war, and Matilda spent her

days counting the cost of such sacrifices—a terrible sum total which she

always reckoned with one reflection: "if only mother had been left! I

could bear all the rest."

 

One day, near Christmas, the roads were hard and clean and the sky blue

above them, and in spite of the cold Matilda resolved to walk over to

Swaffham. She had an abundance of rich clothing, but as she went

through it, she saw that its very splendour was only another sign of her

poverty, for neither her own nor her mother’s wardrobe contained the

plain, scant skirt suitable for walking;—plenty of carriage robes, and

dinner and dancing dresses; plenty of gold and silver tissues, and satin

and velvet, and rich lace, but she would have given the richest of the

costumes for a short cloth skirt and coat, such as Jane trod the miry

ways in with comfort and cleanliness. However, she made the wisest

choice possible, and when she stood before her father drawing on her

white gloves and saying all manner of cheerful words, no one could have

desired any change in her apparel. She held the train of her black

velvet skirt over her left arm; her shoulders were covered with a tippet

of minever, her large hat of black beaver was drooping with plumes. In

her cheeks there was a faint rose colour, and her large brown eyes were

full of feeling. She looked like some lovely princess exiled from her

state and condition, but retaining, nevertheless, all the personal

insignia of her royal birth.

 

As she left her father she kissed him affectionately, and then curtseyed

to the Chaplain, who did not notice her attention, being happily and

profitably lost in a volume by good Dr. Thomas Fuller, who was that

moment saying to him, in one of his garrison sermons, "A Commonwealth

and a King are no more contrary than the trunk of a tree and the top

branch thereof; there is a republic included in every monarchy."