Читать книгу The Lion's Whelp - Barr Amelia E. - Страница 4

For the next three days there was a busy time at Swaffham. All the neighbours were summoned to hear the news, and a sermon from Dr. Verity; and he did not spare the rod in the way of his calling. There were some wealthy young men present, and he let them know that they ought not to be present; furthermore, he told them how many miles it was to Duty and to Scotland.

"This is not a time," he said, "for men to be on their farms or in their shops getting a little money. 'Thou Shalt' is written on life in characters just as terrible as 'Thou Shalt Not.' It is not enough that you do not help the enemy; you Shall shut your shop, you Shall leave your oxen untied; you Shall take your musket, and never once think in your heart 'Who is going to pay me for this business?' You Shall go forth to serve God and to save England. If you, Squire Acton, would out, and you, Fermor, and you, Calthorpe, and Charmington and Garnier, you would draw men after you; for many will follow if the candle be once lighted. By the mouth of John Verity, a servant of the Lord, you have this day got another call. Look inward and think over it. You say you love God; you say you love England; what is love worth that hath a tongue but no hands? I told you these things before, and if you did not hear me, you ought to have heard me. Stand up and face the world, and say plainly, 'I will go,' or else, 'I will not go.' You are Englishmen, you are obliged to own that name, and in the freedom or slavery, the glory or disgrace of England, you will be forced to share. You pray for England. Very well, that is your duty; but it is serving God very much at your ease. God wants your hands as well as your prayers."

"Against whom?" asked Garnier.

"Against this young Charles Stuart. He is a bolder liar than his father; he sticks at no perjury that answers his purpose. If you let him put shackles on you again, it will be a deed to make the devil blush – if he has any blushing faculty in him."

Then Acton rose and said, "Dr. Verity, I will go," and Calthorpe and Fermor followed, and the Doctor told them to meet him at Swaffham Market Cross the following day. "And I will say this thing to you," he added, "you are like to have the good fortune of the man hired at the eleventh hour; you will get the full penny for the last stroke.

"And now," he continued, "I have a few words for you, women. In times when everything seems on the perish, a deal depends on you. God knows there are troubles enough for us all, but some women are never weary of hunting for more. It is a poor business. Give it up. You know that you often make wretched days for yourselves, and every one you come across, about little things not worth minding. I have heard men that have been in tropic countries say 'they hardly ever saw the lions and serpents they feared,' but that the flies and the insects and the heat made their lives miserable enough. That is the way in most women's lives; they hear about sieges and battles and awful death, but such things don't often come to their door-step. If they do, my experience is that women behave themselves nobly; they lift up their hearts and meet their fate like men and Christians.

"I am bound to say, the main part of women's troubles comes from little things – from very little things. I've known a broken pitcher, or a slice of burned bread, or a smoky fire do the black business for a whole day. No matter what comes, women, keep a cheerful temper. Cheerfulness is the very coin of happiness. The devil loves a woman with a snappy, nagging temper; she does lots of business for him, without his helping her. I don't think any of you here will take his arles-penny, or work for his 'well done.' Besides, all women want to be loved; but I can tell you, every one feels bitter and hard to those who prevent happiness. It is easier to forgive a person for doing us a great wrong than for deliberately spoiling our comfort because some trifling thing has put them out. A woman who will do that is a selfish creature, and she ought to live by herself."

The short service was followed by an excellent dinner, and the richly dressed men and women, full of eager questions and innocent mirth, filled the Swaffham parlours, and made a fair picture of hospitality sobered by great interests and great events. Some of the guests lingered for two and three days, but Dr. Verity would not be delayed. The next morning he enrolled sixty men, and then he was resolved to ride with them as far as York. "And if Neville comes, send him quickly after me," he said. "He thought he might be four days, but I will give him seven, and then wonder if he keeps tryst. There will be many things in London to delay him."

In fact Neville was so long delayed, that Mrs. Swaffham was certain he had been sent back to Scotland at once on Mrs. Cromwell's order, and that he would probably be with the Lord General before Dr. Verity. After a week or more had passed, all expectation of his visit died out, and Jane began to wonder why Matilda had not been to see her.

"No wonder at all," replied Mrs. Swaffham. "She showed her good sense in keeping away until the victory had been talked out. You would have been on the verge of quarreling all the time you were together, and the kindness between de Wick and Swaffham is a deal older than the oldest Stuart – it is generations old – and it is not worth while killing it for either Stuart or Cromwell."

As she was speaking there was a slight stir in the passage, and Jane smiled at her mother. It was only an illustration of the old law – they had been talking of Matilda, because she was approaching them, and had sent her thoughts in advance. She came in without her usual spirit. She was dressed in black with not even a flower to relieve its sombreness; she had been weeping, and her face was without colour or animation.

Jane went to meet her friend, kissed her, and removed her hat. Then Matilda went to Mrs. Swaffham and laid her head against her breast, and said, "I have a bad headache. I have a bad heartache. Oh, dear! Oh, dear!"

"It was bad news for you, dearie," said the motherly woman; "you may be sure I thought of you."

"I know you did. It was terrible news. Father has walked the floor night and day ever since."

"I hope that no one you love was hurt?"

"Stephen is well, as far as we know. He sent one of his troopers with the news – George Copping, a Huntingdon man. I dare say you know him?"

"I know who he is."

"I never saw my father so distracted. And it is always 'give, give, give.' George took away our last silver, and I am sure nearly all our money. Father has sent away all the men-servants, but such as are necessary to work the land; four of them went back with George to the army. Poor old Anice! She has one son with Cromwell, and the other has now gone to the King. As she cooks, her tears fall. I have had to send Delia away – only Anice and Audrey are left to care for us, and father says they are more than he can afford. Though his wound has reopened since he heard of the Dunbar disaster, he would have gone north himself with George and the men – "

"Oh, my dear Matilda, do not suffer him to do that. You know much depends upon his keeping quiet at de Wick."

"You need not remind me of that, Jane. I know that we are only Cromwell's tenants, and subject to his will. We may be sent away at any hour, if General Cromwell says so."

"Not without proper process of law, Matilda. Cromwell is not the law."

"The King is my father's friend, yet if he move an inch for the King's help, he will lose everything."

"And he will break his word, which is the greatest loss of all," said Jane. "I know, dear, you would not wish him to do that."

"Is a promise given under stress to be kept, Jane? I doubt it."

"It is a stress bound all round by kindness. I heard my father speak of it. When the de Wick estate was under the Parliament's consideration, Cromwell was much disturbed. Your two brothers had just been killed in battle, your mother was very ill, your father suffering from a severe wound, and it was the Lord General who wrote your father a letter which should be graven upon the hearts of every de Wick. In it he promised that for their old friendship's sake, and for the sake of the fight over the Bedford Level – in which fight de Wick stood boldly with Cromwell – that he would stand between de Wick and all bills of forfeiture. He said also that he would not hold your father accountable for the acts of his son Stephen, if he personally restrained himself from all designs and acts injurious to the Commonwealth. My father said it was such a noble letter as one brother might have written to another."

"I have heard enough of it. I do not think much of a kindness cribbed and tethered by this and that condition. It has made my father nothing but Cromwell's servant. I am ashamed of it."

"Dr. Verity has been here," said Jane, trying to change the subject.

"Pray, who does not know that? He never comes but he takes some one away for Cromwell. I thought I could have counted on Acton and Fermor remaining at home."

"He thinks the war nearly over, Matilda."

"It is not. Even if King Charles were killed, there would then be King James to fight. The war may last for a century. And if this is the world, I would I were out of it. Dear, shall I ever be happy again?"

"Yes indeed, Matilda. You will yet be very happy, and forget this sorrowful time."

"Not while my life lasts, Jane. Trust me, I shall never forget it."

"Let us stop talking of it. At any rate we can do that. Tell me about your lovers, Matilda. How many have you at this present?"

"The war has taken them all but young Godschall, and he and I are no longer friends. When he was at de Wick last, we said so much we have not spoken a word since."

"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.

And Jane's heart was a crystal rock, only waiting the touch of a wand. Had she felt the mystic contact? Her fine eyes were dropped, but there was a faint, bewitching smile around her lovely mouth, and there was something bewildering and something bewildered in her very silence and simplicity.

Neville was charmed. His heart was so light, so happy, that he heard it singing as he held the little maiden's hand. He went into his chamber with the light step of one to whom some great joy has come, and, full of its vague anticipation, sat down a moment to realise what had happened. "I have caught love from her in a glance," he said. "What a dainty little creature! What a little darling she is! Shy and quiet as a bird, and yet I'll warrant me she hath wit and courage to furnish six feet of flesh and blood, instead of four. Is she fair? Is she handsome? I forgot to look with certainty. She hath the finest eyes I ever saw my own in – a face like a wild flower – a small hand, I saw that in particular – and feet like the maiden in the fairy tale – exquisite feet, prettily shod. Neat and sweet and full of soul! Little Jane! Little darling! A man were happy enough if he won your love. And what a rich heart she must have! She has made Love grow in me. She has created it from her own store."

Then he moved his chair to the hearth and looked around. It was a large room, full of the wavering shadows of the blazing logs and the long taper. "What an ancient place!" he sighed. "'Tis a bed fine enough and big enough for a monarch. Generations have slept on it. Those pillows must be full of dreams. If all the souls that have slept in this room were to be gathered together, how great a company they would be! If I could see them, I would enlist all for my hero – they should swear to be Cromwell's men! In solemn faith the room is full of presence." Then he rose, turned his face bravely to the shadowy place, and bending his head said, "Wraiths of the dead, I salute you. Suffer me to sleep in peace in your company."

He did not sit down again, but having cast over himself the shield and balm of prayer, he soon fell into the sound sleep of weary youth. The sun was high when he awoke, and he was ashamed of his apparent indolence and would scarce delay long enough to eat a hasty breakfast. Then his horse was waiting, and he stood at the threshold with Mrs. Swaffham's hand in his. There were tears in her eyes as she blessed him and bade him "God-speed," and gave him her last messages to her husband and sons.

"Fare you well," he answered, and "God be with you! I hope to be sent this way again, and that soon. Will you give me welcome, madame?"

"You will be welcome as sunshine," answered Mrs. Swaffham.

Then he looked at Jane, and she said, "God speed you on your journey. You have words for my father and brothers, but if you find the right time, say also to General Cromwell that Jane Swaffham remembers him constantly in her prayers, and give him these words for his strength and comfort – 'They shall be able to do nothing against thee, saith the Lord: My hands shall cover thee.'"

He bowed his head, and then looked steadily at her; and in that momentary communion realised that he had lost himself, and found himself again, in the being of another – that he had come in contact with something and found his spirit had touched a kindred spirit. Yet he said only, "Good-bye, till we meet again."

As he mounted, Mrs. Swaffham asked him if he went by York, and he answered, "Yes, I know perfectly that road, and I must not miss my way, for I am a laggard already."

"That is right," she said. "The way that is best to go is the way that best you know."

He did not hear the advice, for the moment his horse felt the foot in the stirrup he was off, and hard to hold with bit and bridle. They watched him down the avenue, the sun glinting on his steel armour and morion and the wind tossing behind his left shoulder the colours of the Commonwealth.

When he was quite out of sight, they turned into the house with a sigh, and Mrs. Swaffham said, "Now, I must have the house put in order. If I were you, Jane, I would go to de Wick this afternoon. Matilda is full of trouble. I cannot feel indifferent to her."

"She says the kingfishers have left de Wick waters. They have bred there for centuries, and the Earl is much distressed at their departure."

"No wonder. Many people think they bring good fortune. I would not say different. There are more messengers of good and evil than we know of. If I get things in order, I will also go to de Wick. Reginald de Wick and I were friends when we could hardly say the word – that was in King James' reign. Dear me! How the time flies!"

Then Jane went to her room and began to fold away the pretty things she had worn the previous night. She smoothed every crease in her silk gown, and fingered the lace orderly, and folded away her stockings of clocked silk and her bronzed morocco shoes with their shining silver buckles. And as she did so, her heart sat so lightly on its temporal perch that she was singing and did not know it until her mother opened the door, and like one astonished, asked, "What are you singing, Jane?"

"Why, mother! Nothing but some verses by good George Wither."

Then the mother shut the door again. If George Wither had written what Jane was singing, she was sure the words were wise and profitable; for Wither was the poet of the Puritans, and his "Hallelujah" all to the families of the Commonwealth, that the "Christian Year" has been to our own times. So Jane finished without further interruption, but with rather less spirit her song – "For Lovers being constrained to be absent from each other."

And she did not know that, at the very same moment, Cluny Neville was solacing the loneliness of his ride by the same writer's "Hymn for Victory" giving to its Hebraic fervour a melodious vigour of interpretation admirably emphasised by the Gregorian simplicity of the tune to which was sung —