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 Another Random Document on
Scribd Without Any Related Topics
lodging of Lord Neville, and from there follow his steps as closely as
it may be in your power. The treasurer will honour this order for your
expenses. Waste no time. Be prudent with your tongue. Say not all
your mind, and send me some tidings with all convenient speed."
"I am a willing messenger, your Highness. I am bound to my
cousin by many kind ties, and I have been most uneasy at his
silence and absence."
"Farewell, then, and God go with you."
He waited until the door closed, and then he said, "I owe you
this and more, Jane; and I like the youth—a dear, religious youth, of
a manly spirit and a true heart. He was always counted fortunate,
for in all our battles he went shot free. I wish, I do wish, we could
hear of him! And you love him, Jane? And he loves you. My heart
aches for both of you; it does indeed. But I think I can do somewhat
in this matter, and truly I will use my endeavour. Why does he not
come? What can have hindered him?" he cried impatiently as if to
himself.
"Oh, sir, he is sick or wounded—perhaps at death's door in some
poor man's cottage, in some lonely place far from help or friends,"
and here Jane burst into passionate weeping.
"You must not, you must not cry, Jane; I beg it as a favour—not
in the sight of men and women. Tears are for the Father of spirits.
Retire to Him who is a sure resting-place, and there weep your heart
empty; for He can, and He will wipe all tears away. As for your dear
lord and lover, he is within God's knowledge, and if God saves souls,
surely He can save bodies."
"It is four months, sir. 'Tis beyond my hope; and I fear Cluny is
now beyond human help."
 "Well, then, Jane, we will trust to the miraculous. We do not do
that enough, and so when our poor help is not sufficient, we
tremble. Where is the hope and trust you sent to me when I lay
between life and death in Scotland? Oh, what poor creatures we are,
when we trust in ourselves! nothing then but tears and fears and the
grave to end all. But I confess I never expected Jane Swaffham to
be down in the mire. Jane knows she is the daughter of the
everlasting, powerful, infinite, inscrutable God Almighty; she knows
this God is also one of goodness and mercy and truth without end,
to those who love Him. You love Him, you do love Him?"
"I have loved Him ever since I could speak His Holy Name. But
He never now answers me; when I pray to Him the heavens seem to
let my prayers fall back to me. Has He forgotten me?"
"Jane, Jane, oh, Jane! What a question for you to ask! I could
chide you for it. Have you forgotten the teaching of your Bible, and
your catechism, of your good pastor, John Verity, and your father
and mother? Do you believe for one moment that God has any
abortive children? He has not. He is the father of such souls as,
according to His appointment, come to perfection. If you have ever,
for one moment, felt the love of the Ineffable Nameless One, I do
assure you it is a love for all eternity! It is, Jane, it is, surely. He does
not love and withdraw; no, no; we may deserve to be denied, we
may deserve to be abandoned, but just because it is so, He seeks
and He saves the children lost, or in danger." And then he stooped
and dried her eyes with his kerchief, and seating her on a sofa, he
brought a glass of wine, and said,
"Drink, my dear; and as you drink, ask for strength no juice of
earthly fruit can give. Do not pray for this thing, or that thing; if you
will say only, 'Thy will be done,' you will find mercy at need; you will
indeed. I do know it."
"All is so dark, sir."
"And will be, till He says, 'Let there be light.' I scruple not to say
this."
"Oh, sir, what shall I do? What shall I do?"
"Put a blank into God's hand, and tell Him to fill it as He chooses
—Cluny or no Cluny, love, or death of love, joy or sorrow, just what
He wills. In my judgment this is the way of Peace. Do you think,
Jane, that I have chosen the path I now walk in? I have not, God
knows it. God knows I would be a far happier man with my flocks in
the Ouse meadows; I would, I say what is in my heart. Is this
greatness laid on me for my glory and honour? Truly, it is only labour
and sorrow. If I did not find mercy and strength at need, I should
faint and utterly fail under the burden, for indeed I am the burden-
bearer of all England this day. I need pity, I do need it; I need God's
pity, yes, and human pity also."
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?
"Not it," answered Mrs. Swaffham. "Matilda knows all about the
plot; that is most certain; but its discovery may be news to her, and
if so, she will not thank you for it, Jane. Why will she burn herself
with fire not on her hearthstone?"
"Prince Rupert is her lover. She will do anything he desires her
to do."
"If he truly loved her, he would not permit her to be put in
danger."
"We do not know all, mother."
"That is the truth, Jane. We know very little about ourselves, let
alone our friends. Doctor Verity would say to us, 'Judge not; every
man's shoes must be made on his own last.'"
Then Jane smiled, and the smile filled the silence like a spell.
Mrs. Swaffham went out of the room, and soon afterwards Doctor
Verity came in, asking cheerily as he entered, "How is it with you to-
day, Jane?"
"I live as best I can, Doctor. I watch from the morning to the
midnight for a footstep that does not come."
"There is a desire that fulfils itself by its own energy, but this
desire is born of unfailing Hope, and of that unfaltering Faith that
can move mountains. Have you got it, Jane?"
"I am so weak, Doctor John. Pray for me."
"Pray for yourself. Why should any one pray for you? Pray for
yourself, though it be only to say, with the old Acadians, 'Hold Thou
my hands!' When you were a baby, and were fretful and restless,
then your mother held your hands. That steadied you. You were not
used to the whirling earth, or you had that sense of falling into the
void all babies have, and you trembled and cried out in your fear,
and then your mother instinctively held your little hands in hers, and
you felt their clasp strong as the everlasting hills, and went
peacefully to sleep. Go to God in the same way, Jane; you are only a
little babe in His sight; a little babe crying in the vast void and
darkness, and trying to catch hold of something to which you may
cling. Say to the Father of your spirit, 'Hold my hands!'"
And she rose and kissed him for his sweet counsel, and that
night, and many a night afterwards, she fell asleep whispering, "Hold
Thou my hands."
 CHAPTER XIII
CHANGES AT DE WICK

"Friendship, of itself a holy tie,

Is made more sacred by adversity."

"A form of senseless clay—the leavings of a soul."

When Matilda received Anthony Lynn's letter, she was immediately

certain that the old man's conscience troubled him in the presence
of death, and that he wished to return de Wick to its rightful owners.
Sir Thomas and Lady Jevery were of the same opinion. "He can
leave the estate to you, Matilda," said Sir Thomas; "you have never
been 'out' for either Stuart, and the Commonwealth takes no action
on private opinions, only on overt acts. Stephen is barred, but Lynn
can leave de Wick to you, and having neither kith nor kin, I think he
ought to do so. He owes everything to your father's help and
favour."
This idea took entire possession of Matilda; she thought it a
duty to her family to answer the request of Anthony Lynn favourably.
It had been a surprise to her, and there were more surprises to
follow it. As soon as Lady Jevery and her niece arrived at the gates
of de Wick, they were confronted with a remarkable change in the
appearance of the place. The great iron gates had been painted and
rehung; the stone griffins that ornamented the posts had felt the
stone-cutter's chisel in all their parts, and been restored to their
proper shape and position. The wide walks were free of weeds,
freshly graveled and raked, and the grass of the chase was in perfect
order. There were plenty of deer, also, though Matilda knew well all
the deer had disappeared long before her father's death.
As they came close to the house, they saw the flower garden
aglow with spring flowers and in such fine order as would have
satisfied even Sir Thomas Jevery. Anthony Lynn stood at the door to
meet them. He looked ill and frail, but hardly like death, and when
he witnessed the delight of the ladies at the changes made in de
Wick, his face grew almost young in its pleasure. Every room in the
house was a fresh surprise; for though all that was venerable
through age of family association, and all that was valuable and
beautiful had been preserved, yet so much of modern splendour and
worth had been mingled with the old that the rooms were
apparently newly furnished. Magnificent draperies of velvet, chairs
covered with Spanish leather stamped in gold, carpets of richest
quality, pictures by rare masters, Venetian mirrors and glassware, all
that a luxurious and lavish taste could imagine and desire, were
gathered with fitting and generous profusion in the ancient rooms of
de Wick. Anthony Lynn accompanied the ladies through the house,
finding a fresh and continual joy in their exclamations of delight; and
Matilda, filled with astonishment at the exquisite daintiness of the
suite called the "Lady Matilda's Rooms," said enthusiastically,
"Mr. Lynn, no man could better deserve to be lord of de Wick
than you. And seeing that the de Wicks had to leave their ancient
home, I am glad it has fallen to you—and I am sure my father is
glad, also."
 Then the old man burst into that thin, cold passion of weeping
so significant of age, and so pitiful in its helplessness. "It is your
father's doing, Lady Matilda," he sobbed. "It is my dear lord's
wisdom. Pardon me now. This evening I will tell you all." He went
away with these words, and the two women looked at each other in
amazement.
In the evening he came to them. They were sitting by the fire in
the now magnificently furnished great salon, and he asked
permission to place his chair between them. Matilda made room for
him, and when he had sat down and placed his terribly thin hand on
its arm, she laid her lovely young hand upon his; and he looked into
her face with that adoring affection which is often seen in the eyes
of a favourite mastiff.
"When these dreadful wars first began," he said, "Earl de Wick
foresaw their ending; and after Marston Moor he said to me, 'I know
this man, Oliver Cromwell, and there is none that will stand against
him. It is my duty to save de Wick; will you help me?' And I said to
him, 'My dear lord, I owe you all I am, and all I have.' Then we had
many long talks, and it was agreed that I should join the Puritan
party, that I should pretend a disapproval of the Earl and his ways—
but a disapproval tempered with regret—so that men might not
suspect my opposition. The King was even then sending to de Wick
for money, and I was supposed to supply it on the de Wick silver
and valuables. In reality, the Earl sent these things to my care, and
he himself gave the gold. For in those years he had much specie, the
result of his trading partnership with Sir Thomas Jevery. The silver,
the old pictures, the fine tapestries, and Eastern pottery all came to
my home in St. Ives. People said unkind things of me, but my dear
lord loved me. Then there came a time when de Wick was bare, and
the King still wanted money. And the Earl promised to borrow from
me one thousand pounds, in consideration of letters royal making
the Lady Matilda Countess de Wick in her own right, if her brother
Stephen had no heirs of his body. His Majesty being in great straits,
readily granted the request, and the proper papers were made. And
I looked well to it that no necessary formality was lacking, and the
thousand pounds were paid, not by me, but by Earl de Wick. His
store was then gone, but he had secured the succession of de Wick
in his own blood and name; for you will see, my dear lady, if ever
you have to assume this title, when you marry, your husband must
take the name of de Wick."
"But if I never marry any one?"
"Oh, that is an impossible contingency! You would owe that
debt to all the de Wicks that ever lived and died; and you would pay
it, whether you liked to, or not."
"Yes, I should," she answered promptly.
"Here are the papers relating to your succession," he continued;
"and here are those relating to my trust in the matter of the de Wick
silver and valuables. They are all now in their proper places, and
when I go to my old friend, I can tell him so. When he was dying, he
said to me, 'Anthony, the next move will be the sale of de Wick
house and lands. Stephen is already outcast, but I have given you
the money to buy it. Let no one outbid you. Keep it in your own care
until my King comes back to his throne, and my children to their
home.' I bought de Wick for seven hundred pounds less than the
money entrusted to me for its purchase. The balance is here at your
hand. The only contingency not provided for, was my death, and as I
know that is speedily certain, I wish your promise that these papers
be placed in Sir Thomas Jevery's charge. I know it is what my lord
would advise."
Matilda took the papers silently. Her father's loving
thoughtfulness and Anthony's loving fidelity, affected her deeply.
Lady Jevery was weeping, and the old man himself raised a face wet
with tears to Matilda. She stooped and kissed him. She promised all
he asked. "But," she added, "you have made no mention of the
refurnishing of the house, nor yet of the money that must have been
spent on the garden and chase."
"That outlay was my own little pleasure," he answered. "It has
made the long, lonely months here full of hope. I always thought I
knew how to make a great house look like a great house should
look;" and with pardonable pride he added, "I think you both liked
it."
He found in their hearty admiration all the recompense he
wished. "You will let me die here?" he asked, "here, where my old
friend died? you will let me sit in his chair, and die in his bed? It is all
I ask, unless you will stay awhile and brighten my last days."
The favours asked were affectionately granted, and Matilda
virtually became mistress of her old home. Anthony was seldom
seen, but Stephen de Wick came and went, and brought with him
men whose names were not spoken, and whose business meant
much more than the packs of cards which appeared to be all they
cared for. In fact, Matilda was soon neck deep in Prince Rupert's
plot, and there was no doubt in her mind that the month of May
would end the life of Oliver Cromwell, and bring the King to his
throne and the de Wicks to their earldom.
 She was sitting, one afternoon, talking to Stephen about advices
he had just received from his confederates in London, when a
servant entered. "My lady," he said, "here has come a man with a
letter, which he will deliver to none but you." Matilda's first thought
was, "It is some private word from Rupert;" and she ordered the
messenger to her presence at once. When she saw it was Jane's
writing, she was much annoyed. "I will wager it is some bad news,
or it had not come through this gate," she said; and she opened the
letter with angry reluctance. Hastily she glanced over the lines, until
she came to the discovery of the plot.
"Oh, indeed, here is the burden of Jane Swaffham!" she cried in
a passion. "We are discovered. All is known—all has been known
from the very first. Stephen, you are in instant danger. You must
away at once."
"I do not believe it."
"Fool! How else could Jane have sent this word? She says
Cromwell has known it from its beginning. The man has a devil; who
can circumvent him? You must fly at once. The warrant for your
arrest will doubtless come by to-night's mail. My God, are our
troubles never to cease? Is everything not countersigned by
Cromwell to be a failure? It is unendurable!"
"Everything with which Prince Rupert meddles is unfortunate,"
answered Stephen. "He assigns all he touches with failure. I said so
from the beginning. He is, and was, the King's evil genius."
"You lie! You lie downright, Stephen! But this is no time for
quarreling. You must away, and that at once."
"And, pray, how? or where? I will not run. I will stand or fall
with the rest."
 "What drivel, what nonsensical bombast are you talking? It is 'I,'
'I' and still 'I' with you. Have you no consideration for others—for
uncle and aunt, and for poor, dying Anthony? Think of all he has
done, and at least let him go in the belief that he has saved de
Wick."
"It is better to stand together."
"It is already—I'll wager that much—every man for himself. You
must take the North Road to Hull; you are sure of a ship there."
"And how the devil, sister, am I to reach Hull?"
"Take the sorrel horse; if any one sees you, you are for Squire
Mason's;" then hastily unlocking a drawer, she brought a little bag of
gold and put it in his hand. "There is enough and to spare for your
road to Paris." He flung the gold from him, and Matilda clasping her
hands frantically, cried "My God, Stephen, are you not going?"
"Storm your utmost, Matilda. I care not a rap; I will not budge
from this spot."
"But you must go! Stephen, Stephen, for my sake," and she
burst into passionate tears and sobs.
"Be quiet, Matilda. Women's counsel is always unlucky, but I will
run, if you say so. I feel like an ever-lasting scoundrel to do it."
"They will all run—if they can. There is a little time yet in your
favour. The mail-rider does not pass here till eight o'clock, or after.
You have four or five hours' grace."
He rose as she spoke, and she kissed him with passionate
tenderness. When he left the room, she ran to the roof of the house
to watch which road he took. If he went northward, he was for Hull,
and bent on saving his life; but if he went south, he was for London,
and would doubtless have the fate on Tower Hill he had been
warned against. In about a quarter of an hour she saw him riding at
great speed northward, and after watching him until he became a
speck on the horizon, she went back to her room, and she was
weeping bitterly though quite unconscious of it.
Her first act was to tear Jane's letter into minute pieces. She did
it with an inconceivable passion. Every shred of the paper fluttered
into the fire as if in conscious suffering, and when the last particle
was consumed, she stood with her folded hand on her mouth,
looking at the white ashy films, and considering what next to do. Her
face was set and frowning; she was summoning to her aid, by the
very intensity of her feeling, whatever power she possessed to
counsel her perplexity.
Suddenly her face lightened; she smiled, nodded her handsome
head with satisfaction, and then in a leisurely manner put on her
garden hat and walked to the stables. She was a daily visitor there,
and her appearance caused no surprise. She went at once to a
young man known to be Stephen de Wick's constant attendant
whenever he was in the neighbourhood. She knew he could be
relied on, and as they stood together by Matilda's Barbary mare, she
said with the critical air of one talking about a favourite animal,
"Yupon, can you help in a matter for Earl Stephen? It is life or death,
Yupon, and I know of no one but you to come to—also, there will be
a few gold pieces."
"With or without gold, my lady, I am your servant. What is to be
done?"
"You know the three large oak trees, just beyond the boundary
of de Wick?"
"I know them well, my lady."
 "Be under the oaks to-night, at eight o'clock. Have with you a
lanthorn and a coil of strong rope. You will see Earl de Wick there,
and when he speaks, join him on the instant. Can he rely on you?"
"By my soul, he can; even to blood-letting."
"Be this our bargain then. Eight o'clock—no later. And on my
honour, I promise, there shall no guilt of blood-letting stick to your
hands."
"Let me perish, if I am not there."
All the man's words had the savour of a strong, faithful spirit,
and Matilda went back to her room satisfied. The principal part of
her plan for Stephen's safety was accomplished; she had no doubts
now as to its prosperous carrying out. So she lay down and tried to
compose herself; and as the day darkened and the time for action
came, she found a strength and calmness that was sufficient.
Without a sign of anxiety in her heart, she eat her evening meal with
her aunt, and then said,
"I am going to dismiss Delia, go to bed early, and sleep a
headache away." Lady Jevery said she was "in the same mind"; and
this circumstance, being much in Matilda's favour, gave her that
satisfactory feeling of "having the signs favourable," which we all
appreciate when we intend important work.
About seven o'clock she went to her brother's room, and
brought away a suit of his clothing; and when she had dressed
herself in it, and put a pistol and hunting-knife in her belt, and a
large plumed hat on her head, she looked in the mirror with the
utmost satisfaction. She was her brother's double; quite his height,
and singularly like him in carriage, face and manner. Of this
resemblance she had soon a very convincing proof, for as she
passed through the hall, her own maid Delia curtsied to her, and
said, "My lady is sick to-night, sir, and will not be disturbed." And
Matilda bowed and passed on. As for the other servants, in and out
of the house, they knew they were to have eyes and see not; and
ears, and hear not. Therefore, though several met, as they
supposed, the young Earl leaving the house, there was no further
recognition of the fact among themselves, than a lifting of the
eyebrows, or some enigmatical remark, only to be understood by
those en rapport with the circumstances.
Matilda walked quickly through the garden, and still more
quickly through the lonely chase. She was not afraid of the thing she
was going to do, but she was afraid of the toads and snails, and the
unknown deer and dogs that thought the wooded space their own.
But without molestation she arrived at the three oaks. Yupon Slade
was already there. He showed her the light of the lanthorn for a
moment, and then his black-cloaked figure and masked face blended
indeterminately with the darkness around him. For nearly an hour
Matilda walked up and down the road, keeping well within call of her
companion. But about nine o'clock the sound of a horse coming at
an easy gallop was heard, and Yupon was softly called. He was at
Matilda's side as the rider came near them. She advanced to meet
him, calling pleasantly, "Miles Watson, a word, if it please you."
The voice was familiar and kind, and Miles drew rein and asked,
"Who calls me? I am on the Commonwealth's business, and cannot
be delayed."
Then Matilda, pointing the pistol in his face said, "You must light
from your horse, Miles Watson." Miles tried then to proceed, but
Yupon had whispered to the animal he rode, and the creature took
no notice of his rider's persuasions. The pistol was dangerously near;
Yupon's rough order "to tumble" was not unaccompanied by threats,
and Watson thought it best to obey quietly, where he could not
resist. When Yupon had bound him securely, Matilda took the
lanthorn, and drawing from her girdle the sharp hunting-knife, she
cut open the leathern mail-bag, and turned the light upon its
contents. The small private letters she hardly noticed, but there were
three ominous-looking papers closed with large red seals, and these
she instantly seized. They were all directed to the Sheriff of Ely; and
she felt sure they were the authority for Stephen's arrest. She took
possession of the whole three, bade Yupon set loose the horse, and
leaving the other contents of the rifled mail-bag on the grass by the
side of the bound carrier, she put into her companion's hand the
promised gold pieces, and then slipped away into the shadows and
darkness of de Wick chase.
 "THREE OMINOUS-LOOKING PAPERS."

Once within its boundaries she ran like a deer till she reached
the house. All was shut and silent, but she was prepared for this
emergency. She had a key to her private rooms, and she reached
them without sight or sound that could betray her. Indeed, she felt
reasonably certain that neither Yupon nor the mail-rider had
suspected her disguise. When she put the gold in Yupon's hand he
had said quite naturally, "Thanks to you, Earl Stephen;" and twice
over Miles Watson vowed, "I shall be equal to you yet, Earl de Wick.
I know who you be, Earl de Wick."
There was still fire on her hearth, and she pushed the dying
logs together, and lit a candle by their blaze. Then she opened one
of the letters. It was a warrant for the arrest of Squire Mason. The
next opened was a warrant for the arrest of Lord Frederick Blythe;
but the third was, truly enough, the warrant for the arrest of
Stephen de Wick, for treason against the Commonwealth and
conspiracy against the life of the Protector. She drew her mouth
tightly, and tore the whole three warrants across, and threw them
into the flames. When they were ashes, she turned quickly, divested
herself of her brother's clothing, and put on her own garments. Then
she carried Stephen's suit to his room, and afterwards put out the
candle and went to bed.
But it was dawn before she could sleep. She lay calculating the
time that it would take to get fresh warrants, and her conclusion
was, "If Stephen have the least bit of good fortune, he will be out of
danger, before they know in London that their lying warrants are
beyond looking after. And I am glad I have done Mason and Blythe a
good turn. At dawn I will send them a message they will understand.
Oh, indeed, Mr. Cromwell, if you can spy, others can spy also!" She
was a little troubled when she thought of her aunt and Anthony
Lynn. "But, Lord!" she said audibly, "it is not time yet to face the
question; I shall be ready for it when it comes."
She did not anticipate this trial for some days. "They will begin
to wonder in two days what the sheriff has done in the matter; in
three days they may write to ask; about the fifth day he may let
them know he never got the warrants; then there will be new
warrants to make out, and to send, and all this net spread in the
sight of the birds, and the birds flown. In all conscience, I may take
my ease for one clear week—then—perhaps I may be in London. I
will consider of it."
Her plan had, however, been too hastily formed and carried out
to admit of a thorough consideration, and in her hurry of rifling the
mail, it had not occurred to her that one of those small,
unimportant-looking letters might also be for the sheriff. This in fact
was the case. When daylight brought rescue to the bound carrier,
the rejected letters were gathered up, and one of them was a letter
of instructions regarding the three warrants to be served. It directed
the sheriff to take Mason and Blythe to Ely for trial, but to bring
Stephen de Wick to the Tower of London.
Now the overtopping desire and ambition of Sheriff Brownley's
heart was to visit London officially; and this shameful theft had at
least put a stay on the golden opportunity of going there with a
prisoner of such high rank and high crimes as Stephen de Wick. He
was in a passion of disappointment, and hastily securing a warrant
to arrest Stephen de Wick for mail robbery, he went to de Wick to
serve it.
For no one had a doubt as to the culprit. The mail-rider swore
positively that it was Stephen de Wick. "He minced and mouthed his
words," he said, "but I knew his face and figure, and also the scarlet
beaver with the white plumes with which he joys to affront the
decent men and women of Ely; yes, and his doublet, I saw its white
slashings and white cords and tassels. Till I die, I will swear it was
Stephen de Wick; he, and no other, except Yupon Slade, or I am not
knowing Slade's way with horses. He whispered a word to my beast,
and the creature planted his forefeet like a rock; no one but Yupon
or his gypsy kin can do that. And Slade has been seen often with de
Wick; moreover, he has work in Anthony Lynn's stables—and as for
Anthony Lynn God only knows the colour of his thoughts."
It was Delia who, about the noon hour, came flying into her
lady's presence with the news that the sheriff was in the stables
talking to Yupon Slade, and that he had two constables with him.
"What do they want, Delia? I suppose I must say whom do they
want? Is it Mr. Lynn, or Lady Jevery, or myself?"
"I think it will be Earl de Wick they are after, my lady."
"'Tis most likely. Bid them to come in and find Earl de Wick. Give
me my blue velvet gown, Delia, the one with the silver trimmings."
Silently she assumed this splendid garment, and then descended to
the main salon of the house. Her great beauty, her majestic
presence, her royal clothing produced an instant impression. The
sheriff—hatted before Anthony Lynn—bared his head as she
approached. He explained to her his visit, the robbery committed,
the certainty that Stephen de Wick was the criminal, and the
necessity he was under to make a search of the house for him. She
listened with disdainful apathy. "Mr. Lynn," she said, tenderly placing
her hand on his shoulder; "let the men search your house. Let them
search even my private rooms. They will find nothing worse than
themselves anywhere. As for Earl de Wick, he is not in England at
all."
The old man gave a gasp of relief and remained silent. It was
evident that he was suffering, and Matilda felt a great resentment
towards the intruders. "Why do you not go about your business?"
she asked scornfully. "Under the King, an Englishman's house was
his castle; but now—now, no one is safe whom you choose to
accuse. Go!" she said with an imperious movement, "but Mr. Lynn's
steward must go with you. You may be officers of the law—who
knows?—and you may be thieves."
"Anthony Lynn knows who we be," answered the sheriff angrily.
"We be here on our duty—honest men all of us; say so, Anthony."
"You say it," replied Lynn feebly.
"And the lady must say it."
"Go about your business," interrupted Matilda loftily. "It is not
your business to browbeat Mr. Lynn and myself."
"Thieves, indeed! Stephen de Wick is the thief. He robbed the
mail at nine o'clock, last night."
"You lie! You lie damnably!" answered Matilda. "Earl de Wick
was miles and miles away from de Wick at nine o'clock last night."
Then she bent over Anthony Lynn, and with an intolerable scorn was
deaf and dumb and blind to the sheriff and his companions. Only
when the steward entered, did she appear to be aware of their
presence. "Benson," she said, "you will permit these men to search
every room and closet, and pantry and mouse hole for the Earl. And
you will see that they touch neither gold nor silver, pottery nor
picture, or anything whatever—but Earl de Wick. They may take the
Earl—if they can find him."
The men were about an hour making their search, and during
this interval Lady Jevery had been summoned, and Anthony had
received the stimulating drug on which he relied. But he was very ill;
and Lady Jevery, who adored her nephew, was weeping and full of
anxious terror. Matilda vainly assured her Stephen was safe. She
insisted on doubting this statement.
 "You thought he went north at four o'clock, but I feel sure he
only went as far as Blythe. No one but Stephen would have dared to
commit such a crime as was committed at nine o'clock. But 'tis most
like him and Frederick Blythe; and they will be caught, I feel sure
they will."
"They will not be caught, aunt. And if it were Stephen and
Blythe, they did right. Who would not steal a warrant for his own
beheading, if he could? I sent a message to Blythe and Mason at
dawn this morning, and they are far away by this time."
At this point the sheriff reentered the room. He was in a vile
temper, and did not scruple to exercise it. "The man has gone," he
said to Anthony Lynn; "and I believe you know all about the affair."
"About what affair? The mail robbery?"
"Just that. What are you doing with profane and wicked
malignants in your house? I would like to know that, Anthony Lynn."
"To the bottomless pit with your liking," answered Anthony
shaking from head to feet with passion. "What have you to do with
me and my friends? This is my house, not yours."
"You are none of Cromwell's friend. Many people beside me say
that of you."
"I am glad they do me so much honour. Cromwell! Who is
Cromwell? A man to joy the devil. No, I am not his friend!" and with
a radiant smile—"I thank my Maker for it."
He spoke with increasing difficulty, scarcely above a whisper,
though he had risen to his feet, and believed himself to have the
strong, resounding voice of his healthy manhood. The sheriff turned
to his attendants—
 "You hear the traitor!" he cried. "You heard Anthony Lynn turn
his back on himself! I knew him always for a black heart and a
double tongue. We must have a warrant for him, and that at once."
"Fool!" said the trembling, tottering old man, with a
superhuman scorn, as his clay-like face suddenly flamed into its last
colour. "Warrant! warrant! Oliver Cromwell has no warrant to fit my
name. I go now on the warrant of the King of kings. Put me in the
deepest dungeon, His habeas corpus sets me free of you. Matilda!
Stephen! I am going to my dear lord—to my dear King—to my dear
God!" and as a strong man shakes off a useless garment, so
Anthony Lynn dropped his body, and in that moment his spirit flew
away further than thought could follow it.
"What a villain!" cried the sheriff.
"Villain, in your face," answered Matilda passionately. "Out of
the presence of holy death! You are not fit to stand by his dead
body! Go, on this instant! Sure, if you do not, there are those who
will make you!"
With these words she cried out for her servants in a voice full of
horror and grief, and the first person to answer her cry was Cymlin
Swaffham. He came in like some angry young god, his ruddy face
and blazing eyes breathing vengeful inquiry. Matilda went to his side,
clung to his arm, pointed to the dead man on the hearth and the
domineering figure of the sheriff above it, and cried, "Cymlin,
Cymlin, send him away! Oh, 'twas most unmercifully done!"
"Sir," said Cymlin, "you exceed your warrant. Have you arrested
Stephen de Wick?"
"The man has run, Mr. Swaffham, and madame there knows it."
 "You have nothing to do with Lady Matilda. If the house has
been searched, your business here is finished. You can go."
"Mr. Swaffham, if you don't know, you ought to be told, that
Anthony Lynn—just dead and gone—was a double-dyed Royalist
scoundrel; and I and my men here will swear to it. He confessed it,
joyed himself in the death struggle against the Lord Protector; we all
heard the man's own words;" and the sheriff touched with the point
of his boot, the lifeless body of Anthony Lynn.
"Touch off!" cried Matilda. "How dare you boot the dead? You
infinite scoundrel!"
"Sheriff, your duty is done. It were well you left here, and
permitted the dead to have his rights."
"He is a traitor! A King's man! A lying Puritan!"
"He is nothing at all to us, or to the world, now. To his Master
above he will stand or fall; not to you or me, or even to the law of
England."
Then he turned to Matilda and led her to a sofa, and comforted
her; and the men-servants came and took away the dead body and
laid it, as Anthony wished, on his old master's bed. Lady Jevery went
weeping to her room, and the sound of lamentation and of sorrow
passed up and down the fine stairway, and filled the handsome
rooms. But the dead man lay at peace, a smile of gratified honour
on his placid face, as if he yet remembered that he had, at the last
moment, justified himself to his conscience and his King.
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!"
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