The Lions Whelp 49

The Lions Whelp 49

"Yes. Ayrton found out that he stayed half-an-hour at a little inn

fourteen miles beyond Paris to have his horse fed and watered. One of

the women at this house described him perfectly, and added that as he

waited he was singing softly to himself, a thing so likely, and so like

Cluny, that it leaves no doubt in my mind of his identity; and that he

was really there ’between gloaming and moonshine’ on the eleventh of

last November. Beyond that all is blank—a deaf and dumb blank."

 

"How far was it to the next house?"

 

"Only two or three miles; but no one there remembered anything that

passed on that night. They said that horsemen in plenty, and very often

carriages, were used to pass that way, but that unless they stopped for

entertainment, no attention was paid to travelers."

 

"Who was the gentleman who visited Cluny and received his letters?"

 

"Menzies of Musselburg, an old friend of Neville’s mother. Ayrton went

to Scotland to question him, but to no purpose."

 

"Then I suppose we shall see no more of Lord Neville. I am very sorry.

He was a good youth, and he loved Jane Swaffham very honestly. And my

jewels, too, are gone, and if it were worth while, I could be sorry for

them also; one set was of great value and singular workmanship. But

they count for little in comparison with Neville’s life and little

Jane’s sorrow."

 

A week after this evening the Jeverys were in their own house, and

Matilda had sent word to Jane Swaffham that she wanted to see her. Why

she did this, she hardly knew. Her motives were much mixed, but the

kindly ones predominated. At any rate, they did so when the grave

little woman entered her presence. For she came to meet Matilda with

outstretched hands and her old sweet smile, and she expressed all her

usual interest in whatever concerned Matilda. Had she met her weeping

and complaining, Matilda felt she would almost have hated her. But

there was nothing about Jane suggestive of the great sorrow through

which she was passing. Her eyes alone told of her soul’s travail; the

lids drooped, and there was that dark shadow in them, which only comes

through the incubation of some long, anxious grief in the heart. But

her smile was as ready and sweet, her manner as sympathetic, her dress

as carefully neat and appropriate as it had always been.

 

Matilda fell readily under the charm of such a kind and self-effacing

personality. She opened her heart on various subjects to Jane, more

especially on Anthony Lynn’s dramatic life and death, and the money and

land he had left her. "Of course," she said, "it is only temporary.

When the King comes home, Stephen will be Earl de Wick, and I shall

willingly resign all to him. In the meantime I intend to carry out

Anthony’s plans for the improvement of the estate; and for this end, I

shall have to live a great deal at de Wick. Lynn often said to me,

’Some one must own the land, and the person who owns it ought to live on

it.’"

 

When this subject had been talked well over, Jane named cautiously the

lover in France. Much to her surprise, Matilda seemed pleased to

enlarge on the topic. She spoke herself of Prince Rupert, and of the

poverty and suffering Charles’ Court, were enduring, and she regretted

with many strong __EXPRESSION__s Rupert’s presence there. "All he makes is

swallowed up in the bottomless Stuart pit," she said; "even my youth and

beauty have gone the same hopeless road."

 

"Not your beauty, Matilda. I never saw you look lovelier than you do

to-day."

 

"That I credit to Cymlin," she answered. "He would not let me mope—you

know how masterful he is"—and Matilda laughed and put her hands over her

ears; "he _made_ me go riding and walking, _made_ me plant and gather,

_made_ me fish and hawk, _made_ me sing and play and read aloud to him.

And I have taught him a galliard and a minuet, and we have had a very

happy summer—on the whole. Happiness breeds beauty."

 

"Poor Cymlin!"

 

"There is no need to say ’poor Cymlin,’ Jane Swaffham. I am not going to

abuse poor Cymlin. He is to be my neighbour, and I hope my catechism

has taught me what my duty to my neighbour is. Is it true that Will and

Tonbert have thrown their lives and fortunes into the Massachusetts

Colony?"

 

"Yes," answered Jane; "and if my parents were willing, I would like to

join them. The letters they send make you dream of Paradise. They have

bought a dukedom of land, father says, hills and valleys and streams,

and the great sea running up to their garden wall."

 

"Garden?"

 

"Yes, they have begun to build and to plant. There is no whisper of

their return, for they are as content as if they had found the Fortunate

Islands. Father is much impressed with their experience, and I can see

he ponders it like one who might perhaps share it. I am sure he would

leave England, if the Protector died."

 

"Or the King came back?"

 

"Yes. He would never live under a Stuart."

 

"The poor luckless Stuarts! They are all luckless, Jane. I have felt

it. I have drunk of their cup of disappointments, and really the

happiest time of my life has been the past summer, when I put them out

of my memory—king and prince, and all that followed them. Had it not

been for your kind note of warning, Stephen also had been a sacrifice to

their evil fate. It has to be propitiated with a life now and then,

just like some old dragon or devil."

 

"There was a queer story about Stephen robbing the mail, and tearing up

the three warrants for the arrest of Blythe and Mason and himself," said

Jane.

 

"Did you believe that, Jane?"

 

"The mail was robbed. The warrants were never found. Stephen has a

daredevil temper at times. I think, too, he would risk much to save his

friends. When did you hear from him?"

 

"I hear very often now, Jane, for it is the old, old story—money, money,

money. The King is hungry and thirsty; he has no clothes; he cannot pay

his washing bill; he has no shoes to go out in, and his ’dear brother,’

King Louis of France, is quite oblivious. In fact he has made, or is

going; to make, an alliance with Cromwell; and the Stuarts, bag and

baggage, are to leave French territory. But for all that, I am not

going to strip de Wick a second time for them;" then drawing Jane close

to her, and taking her hand she said with an impulsive tenderness—

 

"Jane, dear Jane, I do not wish to open a wound afresh, but I am sorry

for you, I am indeed! How can you bear it?"

 

"I have cast over it the balm of prayer; I have shut it up in my heart,

and given my heart to God. I have said to God, ’Do as Thou wilt with

me.’ I am content; and I have found a light in sorrow, brighter than

all the flaring lights of joy."

 

"Then you believe him to be dead?"

 

"Yes. There is no help against such a conclusion; and yet, Matilda,

there comes to me sometimes, such an instantaneous, penetrating sense of

his presence, that I must believe he is not far away;" and her confident

heart’s still fervour, her tremulous smile, her eyes like clear water

full of the sky, affected Matilda with the same apprehending. "My soul

leans and hearkens after him," she continued; "and life is so short and

so full of duty, it may be easily, yes, cheerfully, borne a few years.

My cup is still full of love—home love, and friends’ love; Cluny’s love

is safe, and we shall meet again, when life is over."

 

"Will you know? Will he know? What if you _both_ forget? What if you

cannot find him? Have you ever thought of what multitudes there will be

there?"

 

"Yes; a great crowd that no man can number—a throng of worlds—but love

will bring the beloved. Love hath everlasting remembrance."

 

"Love is a cruel joy! a baseless dream! a great tragedy! a lingering

death!"

 

"No, no, no! Love is the secret of life. Love redeems us. Love lifts

us up. Love is a ransom. The tears of love are a prayer. I let them

fall into my hands, and offer them a willing sacrifice to Him who gave

me love. For living or dead, Cluny is mine, mine forever." And there

was such a haunting sweetness about the chastened girl, that Matilda

looked round wonderingly; it was as if there were freshly gathered

violets in the room.

 

She remained silent, and Jane, after a few minutes’ pause, said, "I must

go home, now, and rest a little. To-morrow I am bid to Hampton Court,

and I am not as strong as I was a year ago. Little journeys tire me."

 

"And you will come and tell me all about your visit. The world turned

upside down is an entertaining spectacle. By my troth, I am glad to see

it at second hand! Ann Clarges the market-woman in one palace, and

Elizabeth Cromwell in another——"

 

"The Cromwells are my friends, Matilda. And I will assure you that

Hampton Court never saw a more worthy queen than Elizabeth Cromwell."

 

"I have a saucy tongue, Jane—do not mind when it backbites; there is no

one like you. I love you well!"—These words with clasped hands and

kisses between the two girls. Then Matilda’s face became troubled, and

she sat down alone, with her brows drawn together and her hands tightly

clasped. "What shall I do?" she asked herself, and she could not

resolve on her answer; not, at least, while swayed by the gentle,

truthful atmosphere with which Jane had suffused the room. This

influence, however, was soon invaded by her own personality, dominant,

and not unselfish, and she quickly reasoned away all suggestions but

those which guarded her own happiness and comfort.

 

"If I tell about the duel with Rupert," she thought, "it can do no good

to the dead, and it may make scandal and annoyance for the living.

Cromwell will take hold of it, and demand not only the jewels and money

and papers, but also the body of Neville. That will make more ill

feeling to the Stuarts, and it is manifest they are already very

unwelcome with the French Court. It will be excuse for further

unkindness, and they have enough and more than enough to bear."

 

For a long time she sat musing in this strain, battling down intrusive

doubts, until at last she was forced to give them speech. She did so

impatiently, feeling herself compelled to rise and walk rapidly up and

down the room, because motion gave her a sense of resistance to the

thoughts threatening to overwhelm her.

 

"Did Rupert kill Neville?" she asked herself. "Oh, me, I do fear it.

And if so, I am to blame! I am to blame! I told Rupert Neville was

going to take charge of my aunt’s jewels. Why was I such a fool? And

Rupert knew that Neville had papers Charles Stuart would like to see,

and money he would like to have. Oh, the vile, vile coin! I do fear

the man was slain for it—and by Rupert. He lied to me, then; of course

he lied; but that was no new thing for him to do. He has lied a

thousand times to me, and when found out only laughed, or said ’twas for

my ease and happiness, or that women could not bear the truth, or some

such trash of words; and so I was kissed and flattered out of my

convictions. Faith in God! but I have been a woman fit for his

laughter! What shall I do?" She went over and over this train of

thought, and ended always with the same irresolute, anxious question,"What shall I do?"