The Lions Whelp 5

The Lions Whelp 5

"If we cannot be just, father, we may doubt the fairness of our cause,

perhaps also of our motives. ’Tis impossible to consider this man’s

life since he walked to the front of the Parliamentary army and not

wonder at it."

 

"He is but the man of the hour, events have made him."

 

"Not so! His success is in him, ’tis the breed of his own heart and

brain. Well, then, this Scotch campaign is the now or never of our

effort. If it fail, we may have a Cromwell dynasty."

 

"’Tis an impossible event. The man has slain the king of England and

throttled the Church of Christ. Even this holy Book in my hand has his

condemnation—these gracious prayers and collects, whose music is ready

made for every joy and sorrow—this noble Creed which we ought to sing

upon our knees, for nothing made of English words was ever put together

like it—yet you know how Cromwell’s Root and Branch men have slandered

it."

 

"Alas, father! one kind of Christian generally slanders all other kinds.

The worshipers of the heathen gods were at least tolerant. A pagan

gentleman who had faith in his own image of Bona Dea could still be

friendly to an acquaintance who believed in Jupiter. But we are not

even civil to our neighbours unless they think about our God just as we

do."

 

"What say you if, for once, we part without Cromwell between our

good-wills and our good-nights? Father, I have seen to-day a fan of

ostrich feathers; ’tis with Gaius the packman, who will be here in the

morning. Also, I want some housewifery stores, and some embroidery

silks, and ballads, and a book of poems written by one Mr. John Milton,

who keeps a school in London."

 

"I know the man. We will have none of his poems."

 

"But, father, I may have the other things?"

 

"You will take no nay-say."

 

"Then a good-night, sir!"

 

"Not yet. I will have my pay for ’the other things.’ You shall sing to

me. Your lute lies there. Come—’It is early in the morning.’" She was

singing the first line as she went for her lute, and de Wick closed his

eyes and lay smiling while the old, old ditty filled the room with its

sweetness—

 

"It is early in the morning,

At the very break of day,

My Love and I go roaming,

All in the woods so gay.

The dew like pearl drops bathes our feet,

The sweet dewdrops of May

 

"In the sweetest place of any,

’Mid the grasses thick and high

Caring nothing for the dewdrops,

That around us thickly lie.

Bathed in glittering May-dew,

Sit we there, my Love and I!

 

"As we pluck the whitethorn blossom,

As we whisper words of love,

Prattling close beside the brooklet,

Sings the lark, and coos the dove.

Our feet are bathed in May-dew,

And our hearts are bathed in love."

 

 

Happily, tenderly, fell the musical syllables to the tinkling lute, and

as she drew to a close, still singing, she passed smiling out of the

room; leaving the door open however, so that they heard her voice

growing sweetly softer and softer, and further and further away, until

it left nothing but the delightsome echo in their hearts—

 

"Our feet are bathed in May-dew

And our hearts are bathed in love."

 

 

 

 

*CHAPTER II*

 

*DOCTOR JOHN VERITY*

 

 

"Some trust in chariots and some in horses; but we will remember the

name of the Lord our God."

 

"The Lord strong and mighty; the Lord mighty in battle."

 

 

As Matilda went singing up the darksome stairway, the moon rose in the

clear skies and flooded the place with a pallid, fugitive light. In

that unearthly glow she looked like some spiritual being. It gave to

her pale silk robe a heavenly radiance. It fell upon her white hands

touching the lute, and upon her slightly raised face, revealing the rapt

__EXPRESSION__ of one who is singing with the heart as well as with the

lips. The clock struck nine as she reached the topmost step, and she

raised her voice to drown the chiming bell; and so, in a sweet crescendo

of melody, passed out of sight and out of hearing.

 

About the same time, Mrs. Swaffham and Jane stood together on the

eastern terrace of the Manor House, silently admiring the moonlight over

the level land. But in a few moments Jane began in a low voice to

recite the first verse of the one hundred and third Psalm; her mother

took the second verse, they clasped hands, and as they slowly paced the

grassy walk they went with antiphonal gladness through the noble

thanksgiving together. The ninety-first Psalm followed it, and then

Mrs. Swaffham said—

 

"Now, Jane, let us go to bed and try to sleep. I haven’t been worth a

rush to-day for want of my last night’s sleep. There’s a deal to do

to-morrow, and it won’t be done unless I am at the bottom of everything.

My soul, too, is wondrous heavy to-night. I keep asking it ’Why art

thou cast down, O my soul, and why art thou disquieted within me?’ and I

get no answer from it."

 

"You must add counsel to inquiry, mother. Finish the verse—’Trust thou

in God, and thou shalt yet praise Him, who is the health of thy

countenance, and thy God.’ You see, you are to answer yourself."

 

"I didn’t think of that, Jane. A sad heart is poor company, isn’t it?"

 

"There is an old saying, mother,—’A merry heart goes all the day.’"

 

"But who knows how much the merry heart may have to carry? There is

another saying still older, Jane, that is a good deal better than that.

It is God’s grand charter of help, and you’ll find it, dear, in Romans

eighth and twenty-eighth. I can tell you, my heart would have failed me

many and many a time, it would indeed, but for that verse."

 

"Are you troubled about my father and brothers?"

 

"Oh, Jane, that is the sword point at my heart. Any hour it may pierce

me. Cromwell went to Scotland, and what for but to fight? and my

men-folk have not charmed lives."

 

"But their lives are hid with Christ in God; nothing can hurt them, that

is not of His sending."

 

"Yes! Yes! But I am a wife and a mother, and you know not yet what

that means, Jane. All day I have been saying—no matter what my hands

were doing—let this cup pass me, Lord. If your father fell!—if John, or

Cymlin, or Tonbert were left on the battle-field! Oh, Jane! Jane!" and

the terror that had haunted her all day and shown itself in an

irrepressible fretfulness, now sought relief in tears and sobbing. Jane

kissed and comforted the sorrowful woman. She led her up-stairs, and

helped her into the sanctuary of sleep by many brave and hopeful words;

and it so happened that she finally uttered a promise that had once been

given to the anxious wife and mother, as a sacred secret token of help

and deliverance. And when she heard the gracious words dropping from

Jane’s lips she said—"That is sufficient. Once, when I was in great

fear for your father, the Lord gave me that assurance; now He sends it

by you. I am satisfied. I will lay me down and sleep; the words will

sing in my heart all night long," and she said them softly as Jane

kissed her—"’From the beginning of our journey, the Lord delivered us

from every enemy.’"

 

Then Jane went to her own room. It was a large, low room on the morning

side of the house, and it was an illustration of the girl—a place of

wide, free spaces, and no furniture in it that was for mere ornament—a

small tent bed draped with white dimity, a dressing-table equally plain

and spotless, a stand on which lay her Bible, a large oak chair of

unknown age, and two or three chairs of the simplest form made of

plaited rushes and willow wands. Some pots of sweet basil and geranium

were in the casements, and the place was permeated with a peace and

perfume that is indescribable.

 

To this sweet retreat Jane went with eager steps. She closed the door,

slipped the iron bolt into its place, and then lit a rush candle. The

light was dim, but sufficient. In it she disrobed herself, and loosened

the long braids of pale brown hair; then she put out the candle and let

the moonlight flood the room, make whiter the white draperies, and add

the last ravishing touch of something heavenly, and something apart from

the sphere of our unrest and sorrow.

 

For some time she sat voiceless, motionless. Was she dreaming of

happiness, or learning to suffer? Neither, consciously; she was

"waiting" on the Eternal, waiting for that desire God Himself forms in

the soul—that secret voice that draws down mercies and spiritual favours

which no one knoweth but they who receive them. And Jane was well aware

that it was only in the serene depth of a quiescent will she could rise

above the meanness of fear and the selfishness of hope, and present that

acceptable prayer which would be omnipotent with God:—omnipotent,

because so wonderfully aided by all those strange things and secret

decrees and unrevealed transactions which are beyond the stars; but

which all combine in ministry with the praying soul.

 

That night, however, she could not escape the tremor and tumult of her

own heart, and the sorrowful apprehension of her mother. Peace was far

from her. She sat almost breathless, she rose and walked softly to and

fro, she stood with uplifted thoughts in the moonlit window—nothing

brought her clarity and peace of mind. And when at length she fell into

the sleep of pure weariness, it was haunted by dreams full of turmoil

and foreshadowings of calamity. She awoke weary and unrefreshed, and

with a sigh opened a casement and looked at the outer world again. How

good it seemed! In what gray, wild place of sorrow and suffering had

she been wandering? She did not know its moors and bogs, and the noise

of its black, rolling waters. How different were the green terraces of

Swaffham! the sweet beds of late lilies and autumn flowers! the rows of

tall hollyhocks dripping in the morning mist! A penetrating scent of

marjoram and lavender was in the air, a sense, too, of ended summer, in

spite of the lilies and the stately hollyhocks. She came down with a

smile, but her mother’s face was wan and tired.

 

"I hoped I should have had a good dream last night, Jane," she said

sadly, "but I dreamt nothing to the purpose. I wonder when we shall

have a letter. I do not feel able to do anything to-day. I’m not all

here. My mind runs on things far away from Swaffham. I am going to let

some of the work take its own way for a week. In all conscience, we should have news by that time."