The Lions Whelp 4

 The Lions Whelp 4

But all these things were part and parcel of the word Home. Matilda

regarded them not in particular, they only affected her unconsciously as

the damp air or the gathering shadows of the evening did. The door

stood open, and she passed without delay into the wide entrance hall.

It was chill with the drifting fog, and dark with the coming night

shadows; but there was a good fire of ash logs at the upper end, and she

stood a few minutes before it, feeling a certain exhilaration in its

pleasant warmth and leaping flame. Then she went leisurely up the broad

stairway. It was of old oak with curiously carved balusters, surmounted

by grotesque animal forms; but she did not notice these ugly creations

as she climbed with graceful lassitude the dark steps, letting her silk

robe trail and rustle behind her. Her hat, with its moist drooping

feathers, was in her hand; her hair hung limply about her brow and face;

she was the very picture of a beauty that had suffered the touch of

adverse nature, and the depression of unsympathetic humanity.

 

But the moment she entered her own room she had the sense of covert and

refreshment. Its dark splendour of oak and damask was brought out by

the glow and flame of firelight and candle-light; and her maid came

forward with that air of affectionate service, which in Matilda’s

present mood seemed of all things most grateful and pleasant. She put

off her sense of alienation and unhappiness with her damp clothing, and

as the comfort of renewal came to her outwardly, the inner woman also

regained her authority; and the girl conscious of this potent

personality, erected herself in its strength and individuality. She

surveyed her freshly clad form in its gown of blue lutestring; she

turned right and left to admire a fresh arrangement of her hair; she put

around her neck, without pretense of secrecy or apology, the rosary of

coral and gold; and admired the tint and shimmer of its beauty on her

white throat. Then she asked—

 

"Was any stranger with the Earl at dinner, Delia?"

 

"My lady, he dined with Father Sacy alone."

 

"And pray what did they eat for dinner?"

 

"There was a sucking pig roasted with juniper wood and rosemary

branches, and a jugged hare, and a pullet, and some clotted cream and a

raspberry tart. All very good, my lady; will you please to eat

something?"

 

"Yes. I will have some jugged hare, and some clotted cream, and a

raspberry tart—and a glass of Spanish wine, Delia, and a pitcher of new

milk. Have them served as soon as possible."

 

"In what room, my lady?"

 

"In what room is the Earl, my father, now sitting?"

 

"In the morning room."

 

"Then serve it in the morning room."

 

She took one comfortable glance at herself, and in the pleasure of its

assurance went down-stairs. Her step was now firm and rapid, yet she

paused a moment at the door of the room she wished to enter, and called

up smiles to her face and a sort of cheerful bravado to her manner ere

she lifted the steel hasp that admitted her. In a moment her quick eyes

took a survey of its occupants. They were only two men—Earl de Wick,

and his chaplain, Father Sacy. Both were reading; the Earl, Sir Philip

Sidney’s _Arcadia_; the Chaplain, the Evening Service in the Book of

Common Prayer. Neither of them noticed her entrance, and she went

straight to her father’s side, and covering the open page with her hand,

said in a merry tone—

 

"Here is a noble knight dwelling in Arcadia, while the great

Captain-General Cromwell——"

 

"The devil!"

 

"Is going up and down and to and fro in the land, seeking whom he may

devour. I have been at Ely and at Swaffham, gathering what news I can,

and I assure you, sir, there is none to our comfort."

 

"What have you heard? Anything about the Scots?"

 

"Cromwell is in Scotland. What do you expect from that news?"

 

"That Leslie will be his match."

 

"Then you will be disappointed. ’There is a tide in the affairs of

men,’ and this tide of Cromwell and the Commonwealth is going to sweep

all royalty and all nobility into the deep sea."

 

"Well, then, I may as well return to my _Arcadia_ and learn how to be

rustical. We nobles may play at Canute if we like—but—but——"

 

"It is useless, while this man’s star flames in the firmament. I hear

that the Parliament rose bareheaded to receive him when he last entered

the House. If he were king, they could have done no more. They have

also given to him and his family a royal lodging in the Cockpit, and

already the women are removed thither. If he conquers the Scotch army,

what more can they offer him but the crown?"

 

"Those unlucky Stuarts! They will swallow up all England’s chivalry.

Oh, for one campaign with Queen Elizabeth at its head! She would send

old Oliver with his Commonwealth to the bottomless pit, and order him to

tell the devil that Elizabeth Tudor sent him there."

 

"The Stuarts are of God’s anointing; and there are bad kings, and

unlucky kings in all royal houses. I stood to-day where King John lay

cursing and biting the rushes on the floor, because his barons had made

themselves his over-kings."

 

"John’s barons had some light," said the Earl. "They hated John for the

reason England now hates the Stuarts. He perjured himself neck deep; he

brought in foreign troops to subjugate Englishmen; he sinned in all

things as Charles Stuart has sinned."

 

"Sir, are you not going too far?" asked the Chaplain, lifting his eyes

from his book.

 

"I thought you were at your prayers, father. No, by all that is

truthful, I am right! In the Great Charter, the barons specially

denounce King John as ’_regem perjurum ac baronibus rebellem_.’ The

same thing might fairly be said of Charles Stuart. Yet while a Stuart

is King of England, it is the de Wicks’ duty to stand by him. But I

would to God I had lived when Elizabeth held the sceptre! No Cromwell

had smitten it out of her hand, as Cromwell smote it from the hand of

Charles on Naseby’s field."

 

"That is supposition, my Lord."

 

"It is something more, father. Elizabeth had to deal with a fiercer

race than Charles had, but she knew how to manage it. Look at the

pictures of the de Wicks in her time. They are the pictures of men who

would stand for their rights against ’prerogative’ of any kind, yet the

great Queen made them obey her lightest word. How did she do it? I

will tell you—she scorned to lie to them, and she was brave as a lion.

If she had wanted the Five Members in the Tower of London, they would

have gone to the Tower of London; her crown for it! It was my

great-grandfather who held her bridle reins when she reviewed her troops

going to meet the Spaniards of the Armada. No hesitating, no tampering,

no doubts, no fears moved her. She spoke one clear word to them, and

she threw herself unreservedly upon their love and loyalty. ’Let tyrants

fear!’ she cried. ’I have placed my chief strength in the loyal hearts

of my subjects, and I am come amongst you resolved to live or die

amongst you all—to lay down for God, and my kingdom, and my people, my

honour and my blood, even in the dust. I know I have the body of a weak

woman, but I have the heart and stomach of a king, and of a King of

England, too; and I think foul scorn that Spain, or any prince of Europe

should dare to invade the borders of my realm!’ This was Elizabeth’s

honest temper, and if Charles Stuart in throwing himself upon his nobles

and his country had been true to them, he would never have gone to the

scaffold. This I say boldly, and I mean what I say."

 

"Sir, many would mistake your words, and think you less than loyal."

 

"Father, I have proved my loyalty with my children and my blood; but

among my own people and at my own hearth, I may say that I would I had

better reason for my loyalty. I am true to my king, but above all else,

I love my country. I love her beyond all words, though I am grateful to

one great Englishman for finding me words that I have dipped in my

heart’s blood; words that I uttered on the battle-field joyfully, when I

thought they were my last words—

 

"’——this blessed spot, this earth, this realm, this England,

This land of such dear souls, this dear, dear land!’"

 

 

"If to this degree you love England, father, how would you like to see

this beggarly Cromwell upon her throne? How would you teach your head to

bow to this upstart majesty?"

 

"Matilda, to the devil we may give his due, and there is naught of

’beggary’ in Cromwell or in his family. They have entertained kings,

and sat with nobles as equals, and as for the man himself, he is a

gentleman by birth and breeding. I say it, for I have known him his life

long, and if you add every crime to his name, I will still maintain that

he has sinned with a clear conscience. He stood by Charles Stuart, and

strove to save him until he found that Charles Stuart stood by no man,

and could be trusted by no man."

 

"My lord, you are very just to the man Cromwell. Some would not thank you for it."