The Lions Whelp 9

The Lions Whelp 9

"I am sorry for it."

 

"’Tis a common occurrence, many women endure it."

 

"And what has come to George St. Amand? He was once very much your

servant."

 

"Poor George!"

 

"Why do you say ’poor George’?"

 

"Because we are told that all titles are to be cancelled and abolished,

and George St. Amand is dumb unless he can salt every sentence he utters

with what ’my Lord, my father’ thinks or says."

 

"And there was also among your servants, one Philip Heneage."

 

"Philip has gone to the enemy. I do not know, and I will not know, and

I scorn to know, anything more about him. He should be hanged, and

cheap at that."

 

Before Jane could answer, Mrs. Swaffham, who had left the room, returned

to it. She had a hot wine posset in her hand and a fresh Queen’s cake.

"Come, my dearie, and eat and drink," she said. "Keep your stomach in a

good temper, and I’ll be bound it will help you to bear heart-trouble,

of all kinds, wonderfully."

 

Matilda took the posset and cake gratefully, and said, "I heard Dr.

Verity gave the women who had come to meet him one of his little rages.

I hope they liked it."

 

"He only told us the truth," said Jane. "Yes, we liked it."

 

"Well," said Matilda, "I am not one that wants all England for myself,

but I think I could spare Dr. John Verity, and feel the better of it.

May the Scots make much of him!"

 

"He is one of the best of men, Matilda."

 

"Yes, to you, whom he counts as one of the covenanted. To me, he is very

hard, and I cannot forget that he was chief in silencing Father Sacy."

 

"A few years ago Father Sacy got Dr. Verity imprisoned for preaching the

Word of God. He was two years in a dreadful cell, and his wife and

child died while——"

 

"And pray what does the Word of God say about doing good to those who

injure you? Dear Jane, never heed my words. I have a privilege to be

ill-natured—the privilege of the losing and the sorrowful."

 

Thus, in spite of all Jane’s efforts, they still found themselves on

dangerous or debatable ground. All topics were roads leading thither,

and they finally abandoned every kind of tactic and spoke as their

hearts prompted them. Then, though some hard things were said, many

very kind things were also said, and Matilda rose to go home comforted

and helped—for, after all, the tongue is servant to the heart. As she

was tying her hat, a maid called Mrs. Swaffham from the room, and

Matilda lingered, waiting for her return. She stood with Jane at the

window. Their hands were clasped in each other’s, but they were silent,

and both girls appeared to be looking at the beds full of late

flowers—beautiful, pensive flowers, having a positive air of melancholy,

as if they felt the sadness of the autumn sunset. But it was not likely

that either of them saw the flowers; certainly, Matilda’s first words

gave no intimation that she did.

 

"Heigh-ho!" she said, "why should we worry? Everything comes round in

time to its proper place, and then it will be, as old Anice expects—the

hooks will find the eyes that fit them."

 

As she spoke, Mrs. Swaffham hastily entered the room, and with her was

Lord Cluny Neville. Both girls turned from the window and caught his

eyes at the same moment. He was, as Dr. Verity said, a man destined to

captivate, not only by his noble bearing and handsome face, but also by

such an indescribable charm of manner as opened the door of every heart

to him. He carried his morion in his left hand, and in his dress of

dark cloth and bright steel looked the very picture of a Puritan

paladin. Bowing to both girls, he presented Jane with a letter from her

friend Mary Cromwell, and also with a small parcel which contained some

beautiful ribbons. The pretty gift made a pleasant introduction to a

conversation full of gay inquiries and interesting items of social

information. Matilda took little part in it. She watched the young

soldier with eyes full of interest, and did not refuse his escort to her

carriage; but as she departed, she gave Jane one look which left her

with an unhappy question in her heart, not only for that night, but to

be recalled long after as premonitory and prophetic.

 

During the preparations for the evening meal, and while Neville was in

his chamber removing his armour and refreshing his clothing, Jane also

found time to put on a pretty evening gown. It was of pale brown

lutestring, a little lighter and brighter in colour than her own hair,

and with its stomacher and collar of white lace it added greatly to the

beauty of her appearance. Something had happened to Jane; she was in a

delicious anticipation, and she could not keep the handsome stranger out

of her consideration. There was a brilliant light in her eyes, and a

brilliant colour on her cheeks, and a happy smile on her lovely

bow-shaped mouth.

 

When she heard Neville’s steady, swift step coming towards her, she

trembled. Why? She did not ask herself, and her soul did not tell her.

It indeed warned her, either of joy or of sorrow, for surely its tremor

intimated that the newcomer was to be no mere visitor of passage, no

neutral guest; that perhaps, indeed, he might have entered her home as a

fate, or at least as a messenger of destiny. For who can tell, when a

stranger walks into any life, what his message may be? Bringers of

great tragedies have crossed thresholds with a smile, and many an

unknown enemy has been bidden to the hearth with a welcome.

 

Jane was in no mood for such reflections. This young soldier, bearing a

gift in his hand, had bespoke for himself at his first glance and word

the girl’s favour. She knew nothing of love, and Dr. Verity’s warning

had not made her afraid of it. Indeed, there was in her heart a

pleasant daring, the touch of unseen danger was exhilarating; she felt

that she was on that kind of dangerous ground which calls out all a

woman’s watchfulness and all her weapons. One of the latter was the

possibility of captivating, instead of being captivated. It was a

natural instinct, never felt before, but which sprang, full-grown, from

Jane’s heart as soon as suggested. The desire for conquest! Who has

not felt its pushing, irresistible impulse? She accused herself of

having given away to Neville’s influence without any effort to resist

it. That thought in itself arrested her sympathies. Why did she do it?

Might she not just as well have brought his right to question? Would

she have succumbed so readily to the influence of some beautiful woman?

This self-examination made her blush and utter an exclamation of

chagrin.

 

Neville entered gayly in the midst of it. He had removed his steel

corselet, and the pliant dark cloth in which he was dressed gave

additional grace to his figure and movements. A falling band of Flemish

lace was round his throat, and his fine linen showed beneath the loose

sleeves of his coat in a band of the same material. His breeches had a

bow of ribbon at the knee, and his low shoes of morocco leather a

rosette of the same. It was now evident that his hair was very black,

and that his eyebrows made dark, bold curves above his sunbrowned cheeks

and flashing black eyes—eyes, that in the enthusiasm of feeling or

speaking became living furnaces filled with flame. A solar man,

sensitive, radiating; one who would move both men and women, whether

they would or not.

 

It was a wonderful evening to both Jane and Mrs. Swaffham. Neville told

over again the story of Dunbar, and told it in a picturesque way that

would have been impossible to Dr. Verity. Taking whatever he could find

that was suitable, he built for them the Lammermuir hills, on which the

Scots’ army lay; described the swamp at their base; the dark

stream—forty feet deep—that ran through it, and the narrow strip by the

wild North Sea, where Cromwell’s army stood at bay. He made them feel

the damp and chill of the gray, desolate place; he made them see the men

standing at arms all through the misty night; he made them hear the

solemn tones of prayer breaking the silence, and then they understood

how the great Cromwell, moving from group to group, saturated and

inspired every man with the energy of his own faith and courage. Then

he showed them the mighty onslaught, and the ever-conquering General

leading it! Through Neville, they heard his voice flinging the

battle-cry of the Puritan host in the very teeth of the enemy. They saw

him, when the foe fled, leaning upon his bloody sword, pouring out a

triumphal Psalm of gratitude so strenuously and so melodiously, that men

forgot to pursue, that they might sing. It was a magnificent drama,

though there was only one actor to present it.

 

And when the recital was over and they sat silent, being too much moved

to find words for their feeling, he dropped his voice and said, "There

is something else. I should like to tell you it, yet I fear that you

will not believe me. ’Twas a strange thing, and beyond nature."

 

"Tell us," said Jane, almost in a whisper. "We should like to hear,

should we not, mother?"

 

Mrs. Swaffham bowed her head, and the young man continued: "It was in

the afternoon of the day preceding the battle. The Captain-General had

just come back from Dunbar, and his face was full of satisfaction.

There was even then on it the light and assurance of victory, and he

called the men round him and pointed out the false step the Scots were

taking. ’The Lord hath delivered them into our hands!’ he said. And as

he spoke, the fog was driven before the wind and the rain; and in the

midst of it he mounted his horse to ride about the field. And as he

stood a moment, looking towards the ships and the sea, _this man_, _this

Cromwell_, grew, and grew, and grew, until in the sight of all of us, he

was a gigantic soldier towering over the army and the plain. I speak

the truth. I see yet that prodigious, wraithlike figure, with its

solemn face bathed in the storms of battle. And not I alone saw this

vision, many others saw it also; and we watched it with awe and

amazement, until it blended with the drifting fogs and disappeared."

 

"Indeed, I doubt it not," said Mrs. Swaffham. "I have seen, I have

heard, things in Swaffham that could only be seen and heard by the

spiritual senses."

 

Jane did not speak; she glanced at the young man, wondering at his rapt

face, its solemn pallor and mystic exaltation, and feeling his voice

vibrate through all her senses, though at the last he had spoken

half-audibly, as people do in extremes of life or feeling.

 

It is in moments such as these, that Love grows as Neville saw the

wraith of Cromwell grow—even in a moment’s gaze. Jane forgot her

intention of captivating, and yet none the less she accomplished her

purpose. Her sensitive face, its sweet freshness and clear candour,

charmed by its mere responsiveness; and not accustomed to resist or to

control his feelings, Neville showed plainly the impression he had

received. For when they parted for the night he held her hand with a gentle pressure, and quick glancing, sweetly smiling, he flashed into her eyes admiration and interest not to be misunderstood.