The Lion's Whelp. Barr Amelia E.
and of a King of England, too; and I think foul scorn that Spain, or any prince of Europe should dare to invade the borders of my realm!' This was Elizabeth's honest temper, and if Charles Stuart in throwing himself upon his nobles and his country had been true to them, he would never have gone to the scaffold. This I say boldly, and I mean what I say."
"Sir, many would mistake your words, and think you less than loyal."
"Father, I have proved my loyalty with my children and my blood; but among my own people and at my own hearth, I may say that I would I had better reason for my loyalty. I am true to my king, but above all else, I love my country. I love her beyond all words, though I am grateful to one great Englishman for finding me words that I have dipped in my heart's blood; words that I uttered on the battle-field joyfully, when I thought they were my last words —
"' – this blessed spot, this earth, this realm, this England,
This land of such dear souls, this dear, dear land!'"
"If to this degree you love England, father, how would you like to see this beggarly Cromwell upon her throne? How would you teach your head to bow to this upstart majesty?"
"Matilda, to the devil we may give his due, and there is naught of 'beggary' in Cromwell or in his family. They have entertained kings, and sat with nobles as equals, and as for the man himself, he is a gentleman by birth and breeding. I say it, for I have known him his life long, and if you add every crime to his name, I will still maintain that he has sinned with a clear conscience. He stood by Charles Stuart, and strove to save him until he found that Charles Stuart stood by no man, and could be trusted by no man."
"My lord, you are very just to the man Cromwell. Some would not thank you for it."
"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!