The Lions Whelp 11

The Lions Whelp 11

Matilda walked rapidly, and the clear cold air blew hope and

cheerfulness into her heart. "Perhaps, after all, the King might come

to his own—Cromwell had not reaped all that was anticipated from Dunbar

victory, he was still obliged to remain in Scotland and watch the King;

and if the King’s position needed this watch, there must still be

strength and hope in it. I will take what the Swaffhams say with a

large allowance," she thought; and then she suddenly remembered that

they had had no news from the royalist camp, and knew nothing on which

any good likelihood could be built.

 

"It is very cruel of Stephen," she sighed; "if I were with the King I

would get word to my father and sister of the King’s condition—but it is

either drawing the sword or shaking the dice, and while they gamble away

the hours and the gold pieces, father and I fret life away in waiting

and watching for the news that never comes."

 

The sight of Swaffham restored her. There was something so hearty and

sincere in the very aspect of the house. As she went through the garden

she saw a monthly rose in bloom, and she plucked it; and with the fair

sweet flower in her hand entered the Swaffham parlour. No wonder she

had missed Jane at the large casement where she usually sat at her work!

Jane was sitting at the table serving Lord Cluny Neville, who was eating

and drinking and leaning towards her with a face full of light and

pleasure. Mrs. Swaffham sat on the hearth; it was Jane who was pouring

out the Spanish wine and cutting the game pasty, and into Jane’s face

the young Lord was gazing with eyes whose __EXPRESSION__ there was no

mistaking.

 

Matilda saw the whole picture in a glance, and she set her mood to match

it. Dropping her gown, she let the open door frame her beauty for a

moment. She was conscious that she was lovely, and she saw the swift

lifting of Neville’s eyelids, and the look of surprised delight which

came into his eyes. She was resolved to be charming, and she succeeded.

She let Jane help her to remove her hat and tippet. She let Mrs.

Swaffham make much of her, and when she said,

 

"Draw to table, my dear, and have a mouthful, for walking is hungry

work, as well as pleasant," Matilda laughed and answered,

 

"Indeed, madame, I cannot tell wherein the pleasure of walking lies; I

have sought it till I am weary, and cannot find it. However, I confess

I am hungry with the search."

 

Then she sat down by Neville, and he cut her a slice of the pasty, and

Jane filled her wine-glass, and Neville touched his own against it, and

wished her health and happiness. And by an unspoken agreement they said

not a word about the war, but eat their meal to such cheerful thoughts

and conversation as made the meat and drink wholesome and joyful. Then

they sang some madrigals, and as the shades of evening gathered, Neville

began to tell them wild, weird stories of the Border-Land; and Jane had

her traditions of Swaffham, and Matilda of de Wick, and they sat in the

twilight pleasantly afraid of the phantoms they had themselves conjured

up, drawing close together and speaking with a little awe, and finding

even the short silences that fell upon them very eloquent and

satisfying.

 

There was then no question of Matilda returning that night to de Wick,

and very soon Mrs. Swaffham joined them, and the servants began to build

up the fire and spread the table for the evening meal.

 

"Time wears on," she said. "I thought I would take a nap of ten

minutes, but instead of shutting my eyes in a dog sleep, I dropped oft

till candle-lighting. Why are you all looking so yonderly? I hope Lord

Neville has not been a Job’s postman; for as far as I can see, Satan

does just as barefaced cruelties now as he did thousands of years ago."

 

"We have been talking of fairies, and the gray ghost of Raby, and the

armoured giant that keeps Swaffham portal, and Matilda has told us many

awesome things about Lady Sophia de Wick, whose ring no one can wear and

escape doom."

 

"Peace to her spirit," ejaculated Mrs. Swaffham, and Jane added

thoughtfully,

 

"If to such a spirit, peace would be any blessing."

 

"I would not talk of the dead if I were you; they may be nearer than you

think. And there are wick men and women in plenty to praise and to ban.

Lord Neville has told us nothing at all, yet, about General Cromwell. I

would like to know what is going on. Whatever has he been doing since

Dunbar?"—and Mrs. Swaffham made these remarks and asked these questions

with just a little touch of impatient irritability.

 

"The first thing he did when he reached Edinburgh," answered Neville,

"was to order the head of Montrose to be taken down from the Tolbooth

and honourably buried. Some of the army grumbled at this order, and the

Scotch whigs preached and raved about it, and even Dr. Verity, it is

said, spoke sharply to Cromwell on the matter. And ’tis also said that

Cromwell answered with some passion, ’I will abide by my order,

notwithstanding the anger of the foolish. We all have infirmities; and

I tell you, if we had among our ranks more such faithful hearts and

brave spirits, they would be a fence around us; for indeed there lives

not a man who can say worse of Montrose than that he loved Charles

Stuart, and was faithful to him unto death.’"

 

"This is the noblest thing I have heard of Oliver Cromwell," said

Matilda, "and my father will rejoice to hear it. How Montrose loved

Charles Stuart I will tell you, for my brother Stephen was with him when

he heard first of the murder of his King. He bowed his head upon his

sword and wept, and when his heart had found some relief in tears, he

stood up and called the King in a mighty voice,—indeed Stephen told me

it was heard beyond all probability,—and with a great oath he vowed that

he would sing his obsequies with trumpets, and write his epitaph with

swords, in blood and death." As Matilda finished her story, her voice

had a tone of triumph, and she stood up, and raised her eyes, and then

made such a sad, reverent obeisance as she might have done had the dead

been alive and present. No one liked to impugn a ceremony so pathetic

and so hopeless; and a constrained silence followed, which was broken by

Jane asking,

 

"Where did Charles Stuart go after Dunbar?"

 

"He went northward to Perth. For a little while he held with Argyle and

the Kirk, but the Covenanters drove him too hard. They told him he must

purify his Court from all ungodly followers, and so made him dismiss

twenty-two English Cavaliers not godly—that is, not Calvinistic—enough.

Then Charles, not willing to endure their pious tyranny, ran away to the

Highlands behind Perth, and though he was caught and persuaded to

return, he did so only on condition that his friends should be with him

and fight for him."

 

"Why should the Scots object to that?" asked Mrs. Swaffham.

 

"Because," answered Neville, "these men were mostly Englishmen and

Episcopalians; and the Whigs and Covenanters hated them as being too

often reckless and wicked men, full of cavalier sauciness. In return,

Charles Stuart hated the Whigs and Covenanters, made a mockery of them,

and, it is said, did not disguise his amusement and satisfaction at the

defeat of the godly army at Dunbar."

 

"And how did these godly men regard Cromwell?" asked Matilda with

undisguised scorn.

 

"They troubled us a little in the West," said Neville, "and Cromwell

marched the army to Glasgow, and on the next Sabbath day the preachers

railed at him from every pulpit in that city. One of them met the Lord

General on the street, and attacked him with threats and evil

prophecies. I would have shut his lips with a blow, but Cromwell said

to me, ’Let him alone; he is one fool, and you are another;’ and the

very next day he made friends with this preacher, and I met them coming

down the High Street together in very sober and pleasant discourse.

After beating these Whigs well at Hamilton, we went into winter quarters

at Edinburgh; and Cromwell is now staying at Lord Moray’s house in the

Canongate."[1]

 

 

[1] This house is still standing.

 

 

"He ought to have taken his rest in Holyrood Palace," said Jane.

 

"I am glad he did not," replied Neville. "’Tis enough to fight the

living Stuart; why should he run into mortal danger by invading the home

of that unlucky family? A man sleeps in his dwelling-place,—and when he

sleeps he is at the mercy of the dead."

 

"Not so," said Jane. "The good man is at the mercy of God, and if he

sleeps, his angel wakes and watches. ’I will lay me down in peace and

take my rest: for it is Thou, Lord, only, that makest me dwell in

safety.’"

 

Neville looked steadily at her as she spoke with such a glad confidence;

and Jane’s face grew rosy under his gaze, while Neville’s smile widened

slowly, until his whole countenance shone with pleasure.

 

They spoke next of the Parliament and the Council; and Mrs. Swaffham

said, "For all she could find out, they had been at their usual

work,—good and bad."

 

"And generally bad," ejaculated Matilda.

 

"That is not true," said Jane. "Think only of this: they have commanded

the laws of England to be written in English. This order alone

justifies them with the people. Also, they have received foreign

ambassadors with dignity, and taught Holland, France and Spain by the

voice of Blake’s cannon that England is not to be trifled with; and in

Ireland they are carrying on, through Ireton and Ludlow, the good work

Cromwell began there."

 

"Good work, indeed!" cried Matilda.

 

"Yes, it was good work, grand work, the best work Cromwell ever did,"

answered Neville positively; "a most righteous dealing with assassins,

who had slain one hundred thousand Protestants—men, women and

children—while they dwelt in peace among then, thinking no evil[2] and

looking for no injury. When men mad with religious hatred take fire and

sword, when they torture the helpless with hunger and thirst and

freezing cold, in the name of the merciful Jesus, then there is no

punishment too great for them."

 

 

[2] See Knight’s History of England, Vol. 3, p. 464; Clarendon (royalist

historian) says 50,000; Paxton Hood, Life of Cromwell, p. 141, says as

high as 200,000; Church (American edition) from 50,000 to 200,000 with

mutilations and torture; Imgard, the Catholic historian, in Vol. X, p.

177, admits the atrocity of the massacre. Many other authorities,

notably Hickson’s "Ireland in the 17th Century," which contains the

depositions before Parliament relating to the massacre. These documents,

printed for the first time in 1884, will cause simple wonder that a

terrible massacre on a large scale could ever be questioned, nor in the

17th century was it ever questioned, nor in the face of these documents

can it ever be questioned, except by those who put their personal prejudice or interest before the truth.