The Lions Whelp 47

The Lions Whelp 47

And in the great salon, now cleared of its offending visitors, Cymlin

sat comforting Matilda. He could not let this favourable hour slip; he

held her hand and soothed her sorrow, and finally questioned her in a

way that compelled her to rely, in some measure, upon him.

 

"Stephen was here yesterday?" he asked.

 

"Part of the day. He left here at four in the afternoon."

 

"Yet the mail-rider, under oath, swore this morning that it was Stephen

who robbed the mail."

 

She laughed queerly, and asked, "What did Yupon Slade say?"

 

"Yupon proved that he was in the tinker’s camp at Brentwick from sunset

to cock-crowing. Half-a-dozen men swore to it. People now say it was

Stephen and Frederick Blythe. But if it was not Stephen, who was it?"

and he looked with such a steady, confident gaze into Matilda’s face,

that she crimsoned to her finger-tips. She could not meet his eyes, and

she could not speak.

 

"I wonder who played at being Stephen de Wick," he said gently. And the

silence between them was so sensitive, that neither accusation nor

confession was necessary.

 

"I wish that you had trusted me. You might have done so and you know

it."

 

Then they began to talk of what must be done about the funeral. Cymlin

promised to send a quick messenger for Sir Thomas, and in many ways made

himself so intimately necessary to the lonely women that they would not

hear of his leaving de Wick. For Matilda was charmed by his

thoughtfulness, and by the masterful way in which he handled people and

events. He enforced every tittle of respect due the dead man, and in

obedience to Matilda’s desire had his grave dug in the private

burying-place of the de Wicks, close to the grave of the lord he had

served so faithfully. As for the accusations the sheriff spread abroad,

they died as soon as born; Cymlin’s silent contempt withered them, for

his local influence was so great that the attending constables thought

it best to have no clear memory of what passed in those last moments of

Anthony’s life.

 

"Lynn was neither here nor there," said one of them; "and what he said

was just like dreaming. Surely no man is to be blamed for words between

sleeping and waking—much less for words between living and dying." But

the incident made much comment in the King’s favour; and when Sir Thomas

heard of it, he rose to his feet and bared his head, but whether in

honour of the King or of Anthony Lynn, he did not say.

 

After Anthony was buried, his will was read. He left everything he

possessed to the Lady Matilda de Wick, and no one offered a word of

dissent. Sir Thomas seemed unusually depressed and his lady asked him

"if he was in any way dissatisfied?"

 

"No," he answered; "the will is unbreakable by any law now existing.

Lynn has hedged and fenced every technicality with wonderful wisdom and

care. It is not anything in connection with his death that troubles me.

It is the death of the young Lord Neville that gives me constant regret.

It is unnatural and most unhappy; and I do blame myself a little."

 

"Is he dead? Alas! Alas! Such a happy, handsome youth. It is

incredible," said Lady Jevery.

 

"I thought he had run away to the Americas with your gold and my aunt’s

jewels," said Matilda.

 

"I wronged him, I wronged him grievously," answered Sir Thomas. "That

wretch of a woman at The Hague never paid him a farthing, never even saw

him. She intended to rob me and slay him for a thousand pounds, but

under question of the law she confessed her crime."

 

"I hope she is hung for it," said Lady Jevery.

 

"She is ruined, and in prison for life—but that brings not back poor

Neville."

 

"What do you think has happened to him?"

 

"I think robbery and murder. Some one has known, or suspected, that he

had treasure with him. He has been followed and assassinated, or he has

fought and been killed. Somewhere within fifty miles of Paris he lies in

a bloody, unknown grave; and little Jane Swaffham is slowly dying of

grief and cruel suspense. She loves him, and they were betrothed."

 

There was a short silence, and then Matilda said, "Jane was not kind to

poor Stephen. He loved her all his life, and yet she put Lord Neville

before him. As for Neville, the nobility of the sword carry their lives

in their hands. That is understood. Many brave young lords have gone

out from home and friends these past years, and never come back. Is

Neville’s life worth more than my brother’s life, than thousands of

other lives? I trow not!"

 

But in the privacy of her room she could not preserve this temper. "I

wonder if Rupert slew him," she muttered. And anon—

 

"He had money and jewels, and the King and his poverty-stricken court

cry, ’Give, give,’ constantly.

 

"He would think it no wrong—only a piece of good luck.

 

"He would not tell me because of Jane.

 

"He might also be jealous of Cluny. I spoke often of the youth’s

beauty—I did that out of simple mischief—but Rupert is touchy, sometimes

cruel—always eager for gold. Poor Jane!"

 

Then she put her hand to her breast. The portrait of Prince Rupert that

had lain there for so many years was not in its place. She was not

astonished; very often lately she had either forgotten it, or

intentionally refused to wear it. And Stephen’s assertion that failure

was written on all Rupert touched had found its echo in her heart. When

she dressed herself to secure the warrant, she purposely took off

Rupert’s picture and put it in her jewel box. She went there now to look

for it, and the haunting melancholy of the dark face made her shiver.

"Stephen told me the very truth," she thought. "He has been my evil

genius as well as the King’s. While his picture has been on my heart, I

have seen all I love vanish away." A kind of terror made her close her

eyes; she would not meet Rupert’s sorrow-haunted gaze, though it was

only painted. She felt as if to do so was to court misfortune, and

though the old love tugged at her very life, she lifted one tray and

then another tray of her jewel case, and laid Prince Rupert under them

both.

 

 

 

 

*CHAPTER XIV*

 

*A LITTLE FURTHER ON*

 

 

"Like ships, that sailed for sunny isles,

But never came to shore."

 

"I could lie down like a tired child,

And weep away the life of care

Which I have borne, and yet must bear."

 

"He is most high who humblest at God’s feet

Lies, loving God and trusting though He smite."

 

 

The settlement of the affairs of Anthony Lynn occupied Sir Thomas much

longer than he expected, and the autumn found the family still at de

Wick. For other reasons, this delay in the retirement of the country

had seemed advisable. Stephen had escaped, as had also his companion

conspirators, Mason and Blythe; and Matilda could not but compliment

herself a little on her share in securing their safety. But the plot

and its consequences had kept London on the alert all summer. Little of

this excitement reached them. Sir Thomas was busy laying out a garden

after a plan of Mr. Evelyn’s; Lady Jevery was making perfumes and

medicinal waters, washes for the toilet and confections for the table.

Matilda was out walking or riding with Cymlin Swaffham, or sitting with

him in the shady garden or in the handsome rooms of de Wick. Her uncle

had presented her with a fine organ, but her lute suited her best, and

she knew well what a beautiful picture she made, singing to its tinkling

music.

 

If Cymlin was in the hall, she came down the stairway—flooded with

coloured lights from its painted windows—lute in hand, singing—singing

of young Adonis or cruel Cupid; her rich garments trailing, her white

hands flashing, her face bent to her adorer, her voice filling the space

with melody. Or she sat in the window, with the summer scents and sun

around her, musically mocking Love, as if he never had or never could

touch her. Cymlin knew all her entrancing ways, and followed her in

them with wonderful prudence. No word of his great affection passed his

lips; he let his eyes and his actions speak for him; and there had been

times when Matilda, provoked by his restraint, had used all her

fascinations to compel his confession. But she had to deal with a man of

extraordinary patience, one who could bide his time, and he knew his

time had not yet come.

 

Towards the middle of September Sir Thomas roused himself from his life

among flowers and shrubs, and said he must go back to London. He was

expecting some ships with rich cargoes, and the last flowers were

beginning to droop, and the rooks were complaining, as they always do

when the mornings are cold; the time for the outdoor life was ended; he

had a sudden desire for his wharf and his office, and the bearded,

outlandish men that he would meet there. And as the ladies also wished

to return to London, the beautiful home quickly put on an air of

desertion. Boxes littered the hall; they were only waiting until the

September rain-storm should pass away, and the roads become fit for

travel.

 

At this unsettled time, and in a driving shower, Cymlin and Doctor

Verity were seen galloping up the avenue one evening. Every one was

glad at the prospect of news and company, Sir Thomas so much so, that he

went to the door to meet the Doctor. "Nobody could be more welcome," he

said; "and pray, what good fortune brings you here?"

 

"I come to put my two nephews in Huntingdon Grammar school. I want them

to sit where Cromwell sat," he answered.

 

Then he drew his chair to the hearth, where the ash logs burned and

blazed most cheerfully, and looked round upon the company—the genial Sir

Thomas, and his placid, kindly lady, and the beautiful girl, who was

really his hostess. Nor was he unmindful of Cymlin at her side, for in

the moment that his eyes fell on the young man, he seemed to see, as in

letters of light, an old description of Englishmen, and to find in

Cymlin its __EXPRESSION__—"_a strong kind of people, audacious, bold,

puissant and heroical; of great magnanimity, valiancy and prowess_."