The Lion's Whelp
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"'And death and hell were cast into the lake of fire. This is the second death.'"
And when he ceased there was a silence that could be felt, a silence almost painful, ere Dr. Owen's silvery voice penetrated it with the words of the Benediction. Then the Protector and Mrs. Cromwell kissed the girls, and the clergymen blessed them, and they went to their rooms as from the very presence of God.
But Mrs. Cromwell lingered a long time. She could not rest until she had seen the silver and crystal and fine damask put away in safety; and she thought it no shame to look – as her Lord did – after the fragments of the abundant dinner.
"I will not have them wasted," she said to the steward, "nor given to those who need them not. The Lady Elizabeth hath a list of poor families, and it is my will that they, and they only, are served."
Then she went to her daughter Claypole's apartments, and talked with her about her children, and her health; also about the disorders and thieving of the servants, wrong-doings, which caused her orderly, careful nature much grief and perplexity. Elizabeth was her comforter and councilor, and the good daughter generally managed to infuse into her mother's heart a serene trust, that with all its expense and inefficiencies the household was conducted on as moderate a scale as was consistent with her father's dignity.
When they parted it was very late; the palace was dark and still, and Mrs. Cromwell, with careful economies in her mind, and a candle in her hand, went softly along the lonely, gloomy corridors – the very same corridors that a few years before had been the lodging-place of the Queen's thirty priests and her seventy-five French ladies and gentlemen. Had it been the war-like Oliver thus treading in their footsteps, he would have thought of these things, and seen with spiritual vision the black-robed Jesuits slipping noiselessly along; he would have seen the painted, curled, beribboned, scented men and women of that period; and he would also have remembered the insults offered the Queen and her English attendants by the black and motley crew, ere the King in a rage ordered them all off English soil. And 'tis like enough he would have said to himself, "If Charles Stuart had been on all occasions as straightforward and positive as he was on that one, he had been King of England yet." But Elizabeth Cromwell did not either see or remember. Her little grandson had a slight fever; she was not satisfied with her daughter's health, and the care of the great household she ruled was a burden she never wholly laid down. In this vast, melancholy pile of chambers, she thought of her simple home in St. Ives with longing and affection. Royal splendours had given her nothing she cared for; and they had taken from her the constant help and companionship that in humbler circumstances her good, great husband had given her.
She paused a moment before the door of his room. She wondered if he was asleep. If so, she would on no account awaken him, for in these days he slept far too little. All was still as death, but yet something of the man's intense personality escaped the closed door. The giant soul within was busy with heart and brain, and the subtile life evolved found her out. Quiet as the room was, it was not quiet enough for Oliver to be asleep. She opened the door softly and saw him sitting motionless by the fire, his eyes closed, his massive form upright and perfectly at rest.
"Oliver," she said, "dear Oliver, you ought to be in bed and asleep."
His great darkling soul flashed into his face a look of tenderest love. "Elizabeth," he answered, "I wish that I could sleep. I do indeed. I need it. God knows I need it, but my heart wakes, and I do fear it will wake this night – if so, there is no sleep for me. You see, dearest, how God mingles our cup. When I was Mr. Cromwell, I could sleep from night till morning. When I was General Cromwell, my labours gave me rest. Now that I am Lord Protector of three Kingdoms, sleep, alas! is gone far from me! In my mind I run to and fro through all the land. I have a thousand plans and anxieties, Elizabeth, my dearest; great place is not worth looking after. It is not."
"But if beyond our will we be led into great place and great honour, Oliver?"
"That is my comfort. I brought not myself here; no, truly, that would be an incredible thing. Once, my God led me in green pastures and by still waters, and I was happy with my Shepherd. Then He called me to be Captain of Israel's host, and He went before me in every battle and gave me the victory. Now, He has set me here as Protector of a people who know not yet what they want. Moses leading those stiff-necked, self-willed Israelites was not harder bestead than I am, trying to lead men just as stiff-necked out of victory into freedom. Every one thinks freedom means 'his way, and no other way,' and they break my heart with their jealousies and envyings, and their want of confidence in me and in each other. Yet I struggle day and night to do the work set me as well as mortal man may do it."
"What troubles you in particular, Oliver?"
"One of the things that troubled my Great Master, when He wept and prayed and fainted in Gethsemane. He knew that those whom He loved and who ought to strengthen and comfort Him, would soon forsake and flee from Him. I think of the men who have trusted me to lead them in every battle; who never found me wanting; the men with whom I have taken counsel, with whom I have prayed; the men who were to me as Jonathan to David; and when I think of them, my heart is like to burst in twain. They are beginning to forsake me, to flee from me, and their cold looks and formal words hurt me like a sword thrust; they do, Elizabeth, they do indeed."
"But see how God cares for you. Charles Stuart and his men spend their time in devising plots to kill you, and they are always prevented."
"I care nothing about Charles Stuart and the men with him. They can do nothing against me. My life is hid with Christ in God, and until my work is done, there is no weapon formed that can hurt me. I say this, for I do know it. And when I have fulfilled all His Will, I shall not be dismissed from life by any man's hatred. God Himself will have a desire for the work of His Hand; He will call me, and I will answer. That will be a good day, Elizabeth, for I am weary – weary and sorrowful, even unto death."
"If you had made yourself King, as you might have done, as you ought to have done, you would have had less opposition. John Verity said so to me. He said Englishmen were used to a king, but they did not know what to make of a protector."
"King! King! I am king in very truth, call me what they like. And for that matter, why should I not be king? Doctor Owen tells me the word king comes from König and means 'the man that can.' I am that man. Every king in Europe came from some battle-field, that was their first title to kingship. Our William, called the Conqueror, won the Kingdom of England by one successful battle. How many battles have I fought and won? I never lost a single field – how could I, the Lord of Hosts being with me? As a hero of battle, there is no man to stand before me. Why should I not be king over the three countries I have conquered? My title to kingship is as good as any ruler I know. And perhaps – who can tell – had I crowned myself, it had been a settlement much needed. John Verity is right. Englishmen think a protector is a ruler for emergency. They feel temporary and uncertain with a protector. A kingship is a settled office. The laws are full of the king; they do not name a protector – and men feel to the law as they do to a god."
"Take the crown, Oliver. Why not?"
"I have no orders to take it. My angel told me when I was a boy, that I should become the greatest man in England, but he said not that I should be king. And I know also from One who never lied to me, that this nation will yearn after its old monarchy. I am here to do a work, to sow seeds that will take generations to ripen, but my reign is only an interregnum. I shall found no dynasty."
"Oh, Oliver! You have two sons."
"Richard cannot manage his own house and servants. Harry is a good lieutenant; he can carry out instructions, it is doubtful if he could lead. My desire for my sons is, that they live private lives in the country. I know what I know. I have what I have. The crown of England is not to be worn by me, nor do I want it; I do not – neither for myself nor my children." Then taking his wife's hand tenderly between his own, he said with intense fervour, "There is not a man living can say I sought this place – not a man or woman living on English ground. I can say in the presence of God, I would have been glad to have lived with thee under my woodside all the days of my life, and to have kept my sheep and ploughed my land rather than bear the burden of this government."
"Do you think the Puritan government will die with you, Oliver?"
"I think it will; but the Puritan principles will never die. The kings of the earth banded together cannot destroy them. They will spring up and flourish like 'the grass that tarrieth not for man' – spring where none has sowed or planted them – spring in the wilderness and in the city, until they possess the whole earth. This I know, and am sure of."
"Then why are you so sad?"
"I want my old friends to trust in me and love me. Power is a poor exchange for love. I want Lambert and Harrison and Ludlow and the others to be at my right hand, as they used to be. Ludlow tells me plainly, he only submits to my government because he can't help himself; and Harrison, who used to pray with me, now prays against me. Oh, Elizabeth, you know not how these men wound me at every turn of my life!"
"Oh, indeed, Oliver, do you think the women are anything behind them? I could tell you some things I have had to suffer, and the poor girls also. What have they not said of me? Indeed I have shed some tears, and been sorely mortified. The women I knew in the old days, do they come near me? They do not. Even if I ask them, they are sick, or they are gone away, or their time is in some respect forespoken. It is always so. Only little Jane Swaffham keeps the same sweet friendship with us. I say not that much for Martha Swaffham. Very seldom she comes at my request – and I have a right now to request, and she has the obligation to accept. Is not that so, Oliver? But she thinks herself – "
"Never mind Martha Swaffham; Israel stands firm as a rock by me. After all, Elizabeth, there is nothing got by this world's love, and nothing lost by its hate. This is the root of the matter: my position as Protector is either of God, or of man. If I did not firmly believe it was of God, I would have run away from it many years ago. If it be of God, He will bear me up while I am in it. If it be of man it will shake and tumble. What are all our histories but God manifesting that He has shaken and trampled upon everything He has not planted? So, then, if the Lord take pleasure in England, we shall in His strength be strong. I bless God I have been inured to difficulties, and I never yet found God failing when I trusted in Him. Never! Yea, when I think of His help in Scotland, in Ireland, in England, I can laugh and sing in my soul. I can, indeed I can!"
"My dearest, you are now in a good mind. Lie down and sleep in His care, for He does care for you." And she put her arms around his neck and kissed him; and he answered,
"Thou art my comfort, and I thank God for thee! When He laid out my life's hard work, He thought of thee to sweeten it."
She left him then, hoping that he would shelter his weariness in darkness and in sleep. But he did not. The words he had spoken, though so full of hope and courage, wanted that authentication from beyond, without which they were as tinkling brass to Oliver. He locked his chamber door, retired his soul from all visibles, and stood solemnly before God, waiting to hear what He would say to him. For the soul looks two ways, inward as well as outward, and Oliver's soul gazed with passionate spiritual desire into that interior and permanent part of his nature, wherein the Divine dwells – that inner world of illimitable calm, apart from the sphere of our sorrowful unrest. And in a moment all the trouble of outward things grew at peace with that within; for he stood motionless on that dazzling line where mortal and immortal verge – that line where all is lost in love for God, and the beggar Self forgets to ask for anything. The austere sweetness of sacrifice filled his soul. The divine Hymn of Renunciation was on his lips.
"Do as Thou wilt with me," he cried, "but, oh, that I knew where to find Thee! Oh, that I might come into Thy presence!"
Then there was suddenly granted to his longing that open vision, open only to the spirit, that wondrous evidence that very near about us lies the realm of spiritual mysteries, and the strong man bowed and wept great tears of joy and sorrow. And after that Peace – peace unspeakable and full of gladness; and he slept like a sinless child while his angel came in a dream and comforted him. For so God giveth to His beloved while they sleep.
CHAPTER XV
THE FATE OF LORD CLUNY NEVILLE
"From heaven did the Lord behold the earth; to hear the groaning of the prisoner." —Ps. 102: 20.
"Make haste unto me, O God: Thou art my help and my deliverer; O Lord make no tarrying." —Ps. 70: 5.
On tides of glory England was borne the next three years, to a national honour and strength which had never before been dreamed of. Never in her whole history had the government been at once so thorough and so penetrated with a desire for honesty and capacity. For the first time, the sense of social duty to the State took the place of the old spirit of loyalty to the sovereign. For the first and only time in the history of Europe, morality and religion were the qualifications insisted on by a court; Oliver Cromwell was "the one ruler into whose presence no vicious man could ever come, whose service no vicious man might enter."
Abroad, the Red Cross of England was flying triumphantly on every sea. Blake's mysterious expedition had soon been heard from. He had been at Leghorn, getting compensation in money for English vessels sold there by Prince Rupert. He had been thundering almost at the gates of the Vatican, getting twenty thousand pistoles from Pope Alexander for English vessels sold in the Roman See by the same prince. He had been compelling the Grand Duke of Tuscany to give freedom of worship to Protestants in his dominions. He had been in the Barbary States demanding the release of Christian slaves, and getting at Algiers and Tripoli all he asked.4 Hitherto, naval battles had been fought out at sea; Blake taught Europe that fleets could control kingdoms by dominating and devastating their seaboard. While opening up to peaceful commerce the Mediterranean, England had begun a war with Spain, and Blake's next move was to take his fleet to intercept the Spanish galleons coming loaded with gold and silver from the New World. His first seizure on this voyage was thirty-eight wagon loads of bullion, which he brought safely into the Thames, and which went reeling through the old streets of London to the cheerful applause of the multitude. Again, under the old peak of Teneriffe, Blake performed an action of incredible courage; for, finding in that grand, eight-castled and unassailable bay sixteen Spanish ships laden with gold and silver, lying in crescent shape under the guns of the eight castles and forts, he took his fleet directly into the crescent, and amid whirlwinds of fire and iron hail, poured his broadsides in every direction and left the whole sixteen Spanish ships charred and burning hulks. Indeed, from the Baltic to the Mediterranean, from Algiers to Teneriffe, from Newfoundland to Jamaica, the thunder of British cannon was heard and obeyed.
In the meantime Spain was helping Charles with money which was spent in plots to assassinate the Protector. The effect of this underhand, contemptible warfare was several petitions and addresses offered in Parliament begging Cromwell to assume the ancient office of King, if only for the settlement of the nation. He was quite strong enough to have taken it, and there was nothing unmanly either in his desire for the crown or in his refusal of it. His conscience, not his reason, decided the question. He waited many a long, anxious night on his knees for some sign or token of God's approbation of the kingship, but it did not come; and Cromwell was never greater than when, steadily, and with dignity, he put the glittering bauble aside – "Because for it, he would not lose a friend, or even a servant." He told the Parliamentary committee offering him the title that he "held it as a feather in a man's cap;" then burst into an inspired strain, and quoting Luther's psalm, "that rare psalm for a Christian," he added, "if Pope and Spaniard and devil set themselves against us, yet the Lord of Hosts is with us, and the God of Jacob is our refuge." One thing he knew well, that the title of King would take all meaning out of the Puritan revolution, and he could not so break with his own past, with his own spiritual life, and with the godly men who had so faithfully followed and so fully trusted him.
Why should he fret himself about a mere word? All real power was in his hands: the army and the navy, the churches and the universities, the reform and administration of the law, the government of Scotland and of Ireland. Abroad, the war with all its details, the alliance with Sweden, with France, with the Protestant princes of Germany, the Protestant Protectorate extending as far as Transylvania, the "planting" of the West Indies, the settlement of the American Colonies, and their defense against their rivals, the French, – all these subjects were Cromwell's daily cares. He was responsible for everything, and his burden would have been lightened, if he could have conscientiously taken on him the "divinity which doth hedge a king." The English people love what they know, and they knew nothing of an armed Protector making laws by ordinance, and disposing of events by rules not followed by their ancestors. But Oliver knew that he would cross Destiny if he made himself King, and that this "crossing" always means crucifixion of some kind.
"To be a king is not in my commission," he said to Doctor Verity. "It squares not with my call or my conscience. I will not fadge with the question again; no, not for an hour."
The commercial and national glory of England at this time were, however, in a manner incidental to Oliver's great object – the Protection of Protestantism. This object was the apple of his eye, the profoundest desire of his soul. He would have put himself at the head of all the Protestants in Europe, if he could have united them; failing in this effort, he vowed himself to cripple the evil authority of Rome and the bloody hands of Inquisitorial Spain. His sincerity is beyond all doubt; even Lingard, the Roman Catholic historian, says, "Dissembling in religion is contradicted by the uniform tenor of his life." He wrote to Blake that, "The Lord had a controversy with the Romish Babylon, of which Spain is the under-propper;" and he made it his great business to keep guard over Protestants, and to put it out of the power of princes to persecute them. It is easy to say such a Protestant league was behind the age. It was not. Had it been secured, the persecutions of the Huguenots would not have taken place, and the history of those hapless martyrs – still, after the lapse of two hundred years, read with shuddering indignation – would have been very different. Cromwell knew well what Popery had done to Brandeburg and Denmark, and what a wilderness it had made of Protestant Germany, and his conception of duty as Protector of all Protestants was at least a noble one. Nor was it ineffective. On the very day he should have signed a treaty of alliance with France against Spain, he heard of the unspeakably cruel massacre of the Vandois Protestants. He threw the treaty passionately aside, and refused to negotiate further until Louis and Mazarin put a stop to the brutalities of the Duke of Savoy. As the details were told him, he wept; and all England wept with him. Not since the appalling massacre of Protestants in Ireland, had the country been so moved and so indignant. Cromwell instantly gave two thousand pounds for the sufferers who had escaped, and one hundred and forty thousand pounds was collected in England for the same purpose. It was during the sorrowful excitement of this time that Milton – now blind – wrote his magnificent Sonnet,
"Avenge, O Lord, Thy slaughtered saints, whose bonesLie scattered on the Alpine Mountains cold."Furthermore, it was in Milton's luminous, majestic Latin prose that Cromwell sent his demands to King Louis for these poor, pious peasants, – demands not disregarded, for all that could be found alive were returned to their desolated homes.
For the persecuted Jews his efforts were not as successful. They had been banished from England in A.D. 1290, but three hundred and sixty-five years of obstinate prejudice had not exhausted Christian bigotry. Cromwell made a noble speech in favour of their return to England, but the learned divines and lawyers came forward to "plead and conclude" against their admission, and Cromwell, seeing no legal sanction was possible, let the matter drop for a time. Yet his favour towards the Jews was so distinct that a company of Oriental Jewish priests came to England to investigate the Protector's genealogy, hoping to find in him "the Lion of the tribe of Judah."
So these three years were full of glory and romance, and the poorest family in England lived through an epic of such national grandeur as few generations have witnessed. Yet, amid it all, the simple domestic lives of men and women went calmly on, and birth, marriage, and death made rich or barren their homes. Jane Swaffham attained in their progress to a serene content she had once thought impossible. But God has appointed Time to console the greatest afflictions, and she had long been able to think of Cluny – not as lying in a bloody grave, but as one of the Sons of God among the Hosts of Heaven. And this consolation accepted, she had begun to study Latin and mathematics with Doctor Verity, and to give her love and her service to all whom she could pleasure or help. Indeed, she had almost lived with the Ladies Mary and Frances Cromwell, who had passed through much annoyance and suffering concerning their love affairs. But these were now happily settled, Lady Mary having married Viscount Fanconburg, and Lady Frances the lover for whom she had so stubbornly held out – Mr. Rich, the grandson of the Earl of Warwick.
Matilda's life during this interval had been cramped and saddened by the inheritance from her previous years. Really loving Cymlin, she could not disentangle the many threads binding her to the old unfortunate passion, for, having become wealthy, the Stuarts would not resign their claim upon her. Never had they needed money more; and most of their old friends had been denuded, or worn out with the never-ceasing demands on their affection. Thus she was compelled, often against her will, to be aware of plots for the assassination of Cromwell – plots which shocked her moral sense, and which generally seemed to her intelligence exceedingly foolish and useless. These things made her restless and unhappy, for she could not but contrast the splendour of the Protector's character and government with the selfishness, meanness and incapacity of the Stuarts.
She loved Cymlin, but she feared to marry him. She feared the reproaches of Rupert, who, though he made no effort to consummate their long engagement, was furiously indignant if she spoke of ending it. Then, also, she had fears connected with Cymlin. When very young, he had begun to save money in order to make himself a possible suitor for Matilda's hand. His whole career in the army had looked steadily to this end. In the Irish campaign he had been exceedingly fortunate; he had bought and sold estates, and exchanged prisoners for specie, and in other ways so manipulated his chances that in every case they had left behind a golden residuum. This money had been again invested in English ventures, and in all cases he had been signally fortunate. Jane had told Matilda two years previously that Cymlin was richer than his father, and she might have said more than this and been within the truth.
But in this rapid accumulation of wealth, Cymlin had developed the love of wealth. He was ever on the alert for financial opportunities, and, though generous wherever Matilda was concerned, not to be trifled with if his interests were in danger. So Matilda knew that if she would carry out her intention of making over de Wick house and land to Stephen, it must be done before she married Cymlin. Yet if she surrendered it to Stephen under present circumstances, everything would go, in some way or other, to the needy, beggarly Stuart Court. If Cromwell were only out of the way! If King Charles were only on the throne! he would have all England to tax and tithe, and Stephen would not need to give away the home and lands of his forefathers.