The Lions Whelp 43

The Lions Whelp 43

There was the shadow of unshed tears in his sad, gray eyes, and an

almost childlike pathos in his dropped head. Jane could not bear it.

She stroked and kissed his big hand, and her tears fell down upon it.

"I will go home," she said softly, "and pray for you. I will not pray

for myself, but for you. I will ask God to stand at your right hand and

your left hand, to beset you behind and before, and to lay His

comforting, helping hand upon you. And you must not lose heart, sir,

under your burden, because many that were with you have gone against

you, or because there are constant plots to take your life. There is

the ninetieth Psalm. It is yours, sir."

 

And Cromwell’s face shone, and he spoke in an ecstasy, "Truly, truly, he

that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the

shadow of the Almighty. How did David reach that height, Jane?"

 

"He was taught of God, sir."

 

"I am sure of that. I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and my

fortress; my God, in Him will I trust—thou shalt not be afraid for the

terror by night, nor for the arrow that flieth by day—He shall give His

angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways."

 

"My dear lord, is not that sufficient?" and Jane’s face was now full of

light, and she forgot her fears, and her sorrow was lifted from her.

She found a strange courage, and the words were put into her mouth, so

that she must needs say them:

 

"It is most true, our Protector, that you have a great burden, but are

you not glad of heart that God looked down from heaven, and seeing poor

England bound and suffering, chose you—you, from out of tens of

thousands of Englishmen—and called you from your sheep and oxen and

wheat-fields, and said unto you, ’_Oliver Cromwell, free My people_,’

and then so filled your heart with the love of freedom that you could

not help but answer, ’_Here am I, Lord_.’ The other night I listened to

some heavenly discourse from Doctor Verity, and he said that from

henceforth, every flying fold of our English flag would have but one

spoken word for all nations, and that word _Freedom_. Some may be

ungrateful, but your faith and valour and labour for England will never

be forgotten. Never!"

 

Her face gathered colour and light beyond the colour and light of mere

flesh and blood as she spoke, and Cromwell’s reflected it. He was "in

the spirit," as this childlike woman with prescient vision prophesied

for him, and looking far, far off into the future, as one seeing things

invisible, he answered confidently—

 

"I know, and I am sure, Jane, that time will be the seal to my

faithfulness. I know, and I am sure, that my name shall mix with every

thought and deed of Freedom, even in lands now unknown, and in ages yet

to come. Then, brave freemen shall say in my ears, ’Well done my son.’

And shall not the dead ears hear? They shall. Indeed they shall! I

know, and am sure, Jane, that English speaking men will take in trust,

not only my name, but the names of all who, with me, held their lives

less than Freedom, and gave them a burnt-offering and blood sacrifice

without price or grudging. These men dying, mixed their breath and

names with Freedom’s, and they shall live forever. For this is the

truth, Jane: thrones shall fall and nations pass away, but death has no

part in Freedom."

 

And as he spoke, his words rang and sounded like music, and stirred the

blood like a trumpet; and Jane’s face was lifted to the rough, glorified

visage of the warrior and the seer, who saw yet afar off his

justification, saw it in the Red Cross of St. George flying over land

and sea, and carrying in all its blowing folds only one glorious

word—"FREEDOM."

 

In such moments Cromwell’s spirit walked abreast of angels; he looked

majestic, he spoke without pause or ambiguity, and with an heroic

dictation that carried conviction rather than offense, for it had

nothing personal in it, and it suited him just as hardness suits fine

steel.

 

In this enthusiasm of national feeling, Jane forgot her personal grief,

and as she went homeward, she kept repeating to herself Cromwell’s

parting words, "Don’t doubt, Jane. God nor man nor nature can do

anything for doubters. They cannot." She understood what was included

in this advice, and she tried to realise it. The moment Mrs. Swaffham

saw her daughter, she took notice of the change in her countenance and

speech and manner, and she said to herself, "Jane has been with Oliver

Cromwell. No one else could have so influenced her." And very soon

Jane told her all that had been done and said, and both women tried to

assure themselves that a few more weeks of patience would bring them

that certainty which is so much easier to bear than suspense. For the

very hope of suspense is cruel, but in the face of a sorrow, sure and

known, the soul erects herself and finds out ways and means to mitigate

or to bear it.

 

States of enthusiasm, however, do not last; and they are not often to be

desired. The disciples after the glory of Mount Tabor were not able to

go with Christ up Calvary. Jane felt the very next day that she had

mentally promised herself to do more than she was able to perform. She

could not forget Cluny, or put in his place any less selfish object; and

though the days came laden with strange things, she did not take the

fervid interest in public events her father and mother did. For there

are in nature points of view where a cot can blot out a mountain, and on

our moral horizons a personal event can put a national revolution in the

background. In the main, she carried a loving, steadfast heart, that

waited in patience, sometimes even in hope; but there were many days

when her life seemed to be tied in a knot, and when fear and sorrow

crept like a mist over it. For there was nothing for her to do; she

could only wait for the efforts of others, and she longed rather for the

pang of personal conflict. But human beings without these tidal

fluctuations are not interesting; people who always pursue the "even

tenor of their way" leave us chilled and dissatisfied; we prefer that

charm of uncertain expectation, which, with all its provocations, made

Matilda dear and delightful to Jane, and Jane perennially interesting,

even to those who did not think as she thought or do as she did.

 

At length April came, and the bare brown garden was glorious with the

gold and purple of the crocus flowers and the moonlight beauty of the

lilies. Birds were building in the hedges, and the sun shone brightly

overhead. The spirit of spring was everywhere; men and boys went

whistling along the streets, the watermen were singing in their barges,

and a feeling of busy content and security pervaded London, and, indeed,

all England.

 

Suddenly, this atmosphere of cheerful labour and abounding hope was

filled with terror and with a cry of murder, of possible war and another

struggle for liberty. A gigantic plot for the assassination of the

Protector was discovered—that is, it was discovered to the people;

Cromwell himself had been aware of its first inception, and had watched

it grow to its shameful maturity. He had seen the wavering give it aid,

and those who were his professed friends, strike hands with those

pledged to strike him to the heart. Two months previously he had

retired a number of foolish Royalist officers, broken to pieces their

silly plans, and given them their lives; but this drama of assassination

came from Charles Stuart and Prince Rupert, and from the headquarters of

royalty in the French capital. Its programme in Charles’ name giving

"liberty to any man whatsoever, in any way, to destroy the life of the

base mechanic fellow, Oliver Cromwell," had been in Cromwell’s

possession from the time of its printing, and he knew not only every

soul connected with the plot, but also the day and the hour and the very

spot in which, and on which, his life was to be taken. But to the city

of London the arrest of forty conspirators in their midst, was a shock

that suspended for a time all their business.

 

Israel Swaffham was the first person called into the Protector’s

presence. He found him in great sorrow, sorrow mingled with a just

indignation. Standing by the long table in the Council Chamber, he

struck it violently with his clenched hand as he pointed out to Israel

the personalities of the conspirators. At one name he paused, and with

his finger upon it, looked into Israel’s face. And as iron struck by

iron answers the blow, so Israel answered that sorrowful, inquiring

gaze.

 

"It is a burning shame," he said angrily. "You have pardoned and warned

and protected him for years."

 

"I must even now do what I can; I must, Israel, for his father’s sake.

A warrant will be issued to-night, and I cannot stay that; and

personally I cannot warn him of it. Israel, you remember his father?"

 

"Yes, a noble, upright man as ever England bred."

 

"You and he and I fought some quarrels out for our country together."

 

"We did."

 

"And this son is the last of the name. He played with my boys."

 

"And with mine."

 

"They went fishing and skating together."

 

"Yes; I know."

 

"One day I saved this man’s life. He was a little lad, twelve years or

about it, and he went through the ice. At some risk I saved him, and he

rode home behind me; I can feel, as I speak, his long childish arms

around my waist; I can indeed, Israel. These are the thorns of power

and office. On these tenter-hooks I hang my very heart every day. What

am I to do?"

 

"My dear lord, do nothing. I can do all you wish. There needs no more

words between us. In two hours Abel Dewey—you know Abel—will be on the

road. Nothing stops Dewey. Give him a good horse and he will so manage

himself and the beast as to reach his journey’s end in twenty-four

hours."

 

"But charge him about the good horse, Israel. These poor animals—they

have almost human troubles and sicknesses."

 

Israel then went quickly home. He called Jane and explained to her in a

few words what she was to do; and by the time her letter to Matilda was

ready, Abel Dewey was at the door waiting for it. Its beginning and

ending was in the ordinary strain of girls’ letters, but in the centre

there were some ominous words, rendered remarkable by the large script

used, and by the line beneath them—"I must tell you there has been a

great plot against the Protector discovered. Charles Stuart and Prince

Rupert are the head and front of the same, but there is a report that

Stephen de Wick is not behindhand, and my father did hear that a warrant

was out for Stephen, and hoped he would reach French soil, ere it

reached him. And I said I thought Stephen was in France; and father

answered, ’Pray God so; if not, he cannot be there too soon if he would

not have his head off on Tower Hill.’" Then the letter went on to speak

of the removal of the Protector’s family to Hampton Court palace, and of

the signing of the Dutch peace, and the banquet given to the Dutch

Ministers. "I was at the table of the Lady Protectoress," she said,

"and many great people were present, but the Protector seemed to enjoy

most the company of the Rev. Mr. Wheelwright, who was the only one who

could beat the Protector at football when they were at college together.

Some New England Puritans also were there, and I heard with much

pleasure about their cities in the wilderness; and Mr. Thurloe smoked

and said nothing; and Mr. John Milton played some heavenly music, and

lastly we all sung in parts Mr. Milton’s fine piece, ’_The Lord has been

our dwelling-place_.’ Ladies Mary and Frances Cromwell were beautifully

dressed, but the Lady Elizabeth Claypole is the light of Whitehall."

 

At these words Jane stopped. "Do I not know," she asked herself, "how

Matilda will have flung away my letter before this? And if not, with

what scorn she will treat ’the light of Whitehall’?" And these

reflections so chilled her memories, that she hasted to sign her name

and close the letter. Abel Dewey was ready for it; and as she watched

him ride away, her thoughts turned to de Wick, and she wondered in what

mood Matilda might be, and how she would receive the information sent her. Would it be a surprise?