The Lion's Whelp

She was fretfully thinking over this dilemma in its relation to a new plot against Cromwell's life, when Jane Swaffham visited her one morning in February of 1658. Jane's smiling serenity aggravated her restless temper. "Does nothing on earth ever give you an unhappy thought, Jane?" she asked. "You look as if you dwelt in Paradise."

"Indeed, I am very unhappy this morning, Matilda. Mr. Rich is thought to be dying."

"And, pray heaven, who is Mr. Rich?"

"You know who Mr. Rich is, perfectly. Why do you ask such a foolish question? Lady Frances is broken-hearted. I am going now to Whitehall. The Cromwells are in the greatest distress."

"On my word, they have kept others in the greatest distress for many years! I am not sorry for them."

"I only called to tell you there is another plot."

"I have nothing to do with it."

"Some one you know may be in danger."

"Stephen is at Cologne. If you are thinking of Stephen, thank you. I will write and tell him to keep good hope in his heart, that Jane Swaffham remembers him."

"Dear Matilda, do not make a mock of my kindness. The Protector's patience is worn out with this foolish animosity. He is generous and merciful to no purpose. I myself think it is high time he ceased to warn, and begin to punish. And poor Lady Rich! It would grieve you to the heart to see her despair. She has only been three months married, and it was such a true love match."

"Indeed it was a very 'good' match, love match or not. Frances Cromwell to be Countess of Warwick. Faith, 'tis most easy to fall in love with that state!"

"She might have chosen far greater state; you know it, Matilda. She was sought by Charles Stuart, and by the Duke Enghien, and the Duke of Buckingham, and by the Protector's ward, William Dutton, the richest young man in England; but for love of Mr. Rich, and in spite of her father's long opposition, she would marry no one else."

"Mr. Rich was good enough for her, surely!"

"Her father did not think so. There were reports of his drinking and gaming."

"And the Puritan Dove must not, of course, marry a man who threw dice or drained a glass. Those are the works of the profane and wicked malignants. However was the marriage made at all?"

"You know all about it, Matilda. What is the use of pretending ignorance?"

"My dear sweet Jane, do you think I keep the Cromwell girls and their affairs in my memory? They are in their kingdom now; I do not pretend to keep foot with them – and I have troubles of my own; pray God they be not too many for me!"

It was evident Matilda was not in an amiable mood, and Jane having said the few words that brought her to Jevery House that morning, left her friend. She went away with a troubled look, and Matilda watched the change and smiled to herself at it. "I am quite content to have her made a little unhappy," she thought; "her constant air of satisfaction is insufferable. And if my Lady Rich loses her husband, Jane can assure her that such griefs do not kill. On my honour! Jane looks younger and prettier than when Neville was alive and worrying her. Lovers die and husbands die, and 'tis a common calamity; and better people than either Jane or Frances have endured it. I will go now to my aunt's parlour; I dare say she will have some visitor chock full of the new plot – and I may hear something worth while."

These thoughts filled her mind as she went to Lady Jevery's parlour. She found there an acquaintance whom they had known in Paris, the Countess Gervais.

"I have but now sent a messenger for you, Matilda," said Lady Jevery; "the Countess desired greatly to see you." Then the conversation became reminiscent, and the new plot was not named, and Matilda began to be bored. Suddenly, however, her interest was roused to the highest pitch, for the Countess, touching a bracelet which Lady Jevery wore, said,

"I must tell you a strange thing. I was lately at a dinner where the niece of his Eminence, Cardinal Mazarin, sat at my side. And she wore a necklace and brooch and one bracelet precisely like the bracelet you are now wearing. I cannot help noticing the circumstance, because the jewelry is so exceedingly singular and beautiful."

"Yes," replied Lady Jevery. "And what you say is also very curious, for I once possessed a necklace, brooch and two bracelets like the one I am now wearing. All the pieces were lost excepting this bracelet."

"But how? – let me inquire; where were they lost?"

"Somewhere near Paris. I had intrusted them to a friend who has never since been heard of."

"But the bracelet you are wearing? – this is so singular – you will please pardon – "

"This bracelet," said Laid Jevery, "was more fortunate. Some of the gems were loose, and I sent it to my jeweler for repair, just before we left for Paris. He was to forward it to me if he found a safe messenger; luckily he kept it until I returned to London."

"But this is most strange – most strange – "

"Most strange and most suspicious," said Matilda indignantly. "I should say it was evidence that Lord Neville was murdered, and that his Eminence bought jewelry for Hortense Mancini in some irregular way. If I were Lady Jevery, I would insist on knowing from whom."

"Oh, you do make one great mistake, I do assure you! Mademoiselle Mancini is impeccable. You must rest content that the jewels came into her possession in the most correct manner."

Barely listening to these words, Matilda curtsied and abruptly left the room. She was in the greatest distress, and forced to conclusions it drove her distracted to entertain. All now seemed plain to her intelligence. Rupert had lied to her. He had slain and robbed Neville, and the jewels had been sold to Mazarin. The Cardinal's passion for rare jewels was well known, and these opals and rubies in their settings of fretted gold work were unique and precious enough, even for the extravagant taste of Hortense Mancini.

A sudden passion of pity for the handsome young lord came over her. "It was too mean, too savagely cruel for anything!" she almost sobbed. "Men who can do such things are not fit to be loved by women. They are brutes. I will write to Rupert at once. I must know the truth of this matter. If such a crime has been committed, there is no king or prince or priest on earth to absolve it, and I will wash my hands forever of the Stuarts."

She did not wait for any second or more prudent thoughts. She wrote Rupert that hour a letter, every word of which was flame and tears. When it was finished, she sent a man with it on the instant to catch the Dover mail packet; and all this was accomplished before she had any opportunity to talk over the affair with her uncle. When she did so, he regretted her precipitancy, and refused to move in the matter at all. "It would be the height of imprudence," he said. "The young man is dead and gone, and we cannot bring him back, though England went to war with France on that quarrel. The Protector is ill, worn out with sorrow and anxiety, and if one of his old attacks should seize him at this time, it would have the mastery. I count not his life worth a year's purchase. Last week I talked a few minutes with him, and there is the shadow of death on his face. He said to me, 'I am weary. Oh, that I had wings like a dove, then would I flee away and be at rest!' And when Cromwell dies, there is no question of what will happen. The nation will give Charles the Second a trial. Then Matilda, when Charles comes back, Prince Rupert comes with him. They have been one in adversity, they will be one in the hour of triumph. We may need the friendship of Prince Rupert to save ourselves. No one can tell how this reputedly good-natured Charles will act, when his hands are able to serve his will. I will not then make an enemy of so powerful a man as Prince Rupert is like to be. If he slew Neville, he must answer to God for the deed. As for the jewels, I will not be inquisitive after them. And I pray you keep your influence over Prince Rupert. I am not used to forecast evil, but I do think within one year we shall see the world turn round again. It may also be suggested that Neville himself returned to Paris and sold the jewels. Who can prove different? You see how the case lies."

It was rarely Sir Thomas spoke with such decision, and Matilda was much impressed by his words. They made her hesitate still more about her marriage with Cymlin. She did not believe Rupert could now induce her to break with Cymlin; and she doubted very much whether Rupert would be permitted to marry her, even though her title to de Wick was confirmed. But Rupert's ill-will would be dangerous; and the result of thought in every direction was the wisdom of delay.

During the first hours of her discovery, Matilda had wondered if she ought to tell Jane what proof of Cluny's death had come to them; for in her heart she scoffed at the idea of Cluny returning to Paris to sell the jewels. But Jane did not visit her for some time, and she was daily expecting an answer from Prince Rupert. This letter might be of great importance, one way or another, and she resolved to wait for it. It came more rapidly than she had anticipated, and its contents temporarily fanned to a feeble flame her dying illusions concerning her first lover. In this letter Rupert "on his honour" reiterated his first statement. He declared that he left Neville in health and safety, having at the last moment urged upon him his own swift Barb, which offer Neville refused. He said he should seek mademoiselle's presence until he saw her wearing the jewels, and then make question concerning them; and if not satisfied, go at once to her Uncle Mazarin. He was sure it was now only a few weeks ere the truth would be discovered. These promises were blended with his usual protestations of undying devotion, and Matilda was pleased, though she was not satisfied. For to Rupert's letter there was a postscript, and in this postscript one word, which sent the blood to her heart, cold with terror —

"P.S. It may be the Bastile, and not the grave, which holds the Neville secret."

The Bastile! She had heard enough in Paris of that stone hell to make her tremble at the word. And now it kept upon her heart a persistent iteration that was like blow upon blow. All night she endured it, but in the morning; she was resolved to throw the intolerable burden on some one more able to bear it. But on whom? Sir Thomas would not have the subject named in his presence. Cymlin did not like Neville, and would probably "talk down" all her fears and efforts. It would be cruel to tell Jane, – but there was Cromwell. There was the Protector. It was his business to look after Englishmen, else what was the use of a Protector? And if any man had power to question the Bastile, Cromwell had it. Mazarin was just at this time seeking his aid against the Spaniards, who were on French soil, and Cromwell was about to send his own famous troop of Ironsides to help the French. Besides which, Cromwell loved Neville. Taking all these things together, Matilda easily satisfied herself that interference was Cromwell's bounden duty, and that all which could be asked of her was to make Cromwell aware of this duty.

She could not tell how much or how little Cromwell knew of her meddling in a variety of plots against his life and government, but she expected her father's name would secure her an audience, and she had such confidence in herself as to believe that an "opportunity" to influence the Protector was all she needed. Her first request, however, was met with a prompt refusal. She was not to be daunted. If her own name was not sufficient, she had others more potent. So she wrote on a card these words: "Lady Matilda de Wick has important information regarding Lord Cluny Neville; and for Mistress Jane Swaffham's sake, she asks an interview."

This message was instantly effective. While Matilda was telling herself that "she would not do the least homage to the Usurper," the door opened hastily, and he entered her presence. In the twinkling of an eye all her resolves vanished. His grave, sorrowful face, his majestic manner, and the sad, reproachful tenderness of the gaze that questioned her were omnipotent against all her prejudices. She fell at his feet, and taking his hand kissed it, whether in homage or in entreaty, she knew not.

"My lord," she said, and then she began to sob. "My lord, I crave of you so many pardons – so much forbearance – I will never offend again."

He raised her with an imperious movement, and leading her to a chair, remained standing at her side. "We will forget – the past is to be forgot – for your dear father's sake. Quickly tell me what you know, I am in a great hurry."

Without one unnecessary word she related all, and then put into his hands Prince Rupert's letter, with her finger directing his attention to the terrifying postscript. And she saw with fear the rising passion in his countenance, and for a moment trembled when he looked into her eyes with such piercing inquiry that she could not resist nor misunderstand their question.

"Sir," she cried, with a childlike abandon, "in this matter I am single-hearted as I can be. I wish only to put a great wrong right."

"You tell me the truth, I believe you," he answered; "and I will take upon me to see that it is done. Say not a word to Jane Swaffham until there be a surety in the matter."

Then she rose, and looking with eyes full of tears into his face, said, "Sir, I remember the day you pulled down the hazelnuts for me in de Wick park. My father walked with you, arm in arm, and I had your hand until you lifted me at the gates and kissed me. Sir, I entreat you, forget all that has come and gone since that hour, and dismiss me now, as then," – and she lifted her lovely face, wet with the tears of contrition, and Cromwell took it between his broad, strong hands, and kissed it, even as he had kissed it in her childhood.

"Go home, my dear," he said softly. "All that can be done I will do, and without delay. You believe in the God of your fathers, and you pray to Him?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then pray for Cluny Neville. I may speak, but it is God that setteth the prisoner free. His blessing be on you. I am glad to have seen your face, I am truly. A good-day to you!"

Matilda curtsied and went out. Her cheeks burned, her heart was flooded with a thousand feelings. She marveled most at herself; all her scorn had turned into respect, all her hatred into something very like affection. Yet mingling with these new-born emotions was an intense contempt for herself. "A nice Royalist you are, Matilda de Wick!" she muttered angrily. "You went on your knees to the Regicide! You gave him your cheek to kiss! You shed tears! You asked his pardon! You contemptible woman, I am ashamed of you! The man is a wizard – he has a charm from the devil – why did I go into his presence? I hope I may be able to keep the secret of my own fall. I vow it is as deep as Eve's! I am mortified beyond words, – and if Cymlin knew, what volumes there would be in his eyes and his mouth, and – his silence!"

And yet there was in her heart a strong belief that this time Cromwell's inquiries would be as effective as they were sure to be prompt. Indeed the first thing the Protector did, was to dictate the following letter to Mazarin:

"TO His EMINENCE CARDINAL MAZARIN,

"Sir: – In a manner most providential it has been made known to me that Lord Neville is at this present moment in the Bastile prison. I know not why my friends should be treated as enemies, seeing that I have been faithful to you in all difficulties. Truly my business is now to speak things that I will have understood. The danger is great, if you will be sensible of it, unless Lord Neville be put at once in charge of those by whom I send this message. For if any harm come to him, I will make inquisition for his life – for every hair of his head that falls wrongfully to the ground. And in regard to sending more troops to Boulogne against the Spaniards, look not for them, unless, by the grace of God and your orders, Lord Neville is presently, and without hinderance, in England. Then, I will stand with you, and I do hope that neither the cruelty, nor malice of any man will be able to make void our agreement concerning the Spaniard; for as to the young man's return, it is the first count in it, and I shall – I must – see that he is restored to that freedom of which he has been unjustly deprived. It cannot be believed that your Eminency has had anything to do with this deed of sheer wickedness, yet I must make mention of the jewels which disappeared with Lord Neville, and the money, and the papers. As for the two last items I make no demand, seeing that particular persons may have spent the one and destroyed the other; but I have certain knowledge that the jewels are in the possession of mademoiselle your Eminency's niece. I have some reluctance to write further about them, believing that you will look more particularly than I can direct, into this matter. By the hand of my personal friend, General Swaffham, I send this; and in all requisites he will stand for

"Sir,

"Your Eminency's"Most Humble Servant,"OLIVER P."

When this letter was sealed, he sent for Israel, and telling him all that he had heard, bade him take twelve of their own troop, go to Paris, and bring back Cluny with them. Israel was very willing. He had always believed Mazarin had, at least, guilty knowledge of Cluny's murder; and all he asked was, that his daughter might be kept in ignorance until hope became a certainty, either of life or death.

Cromwell's summons affected Mazarin like thunder out of a clear sky. He had forgotten Lord Neville. It was necessary to bring to him the papers relating to the mission on which he had come, and even then he was confused, or else cleverly simulated confusion. But he had to do with a man, in many respects, more inflexible than Cromwell.

"I will make inquiries," he said to Israel. "In two or three days – or a week – "

"I must be on my way back to London, sir, in two or three days."

"I cannot be hurried, – I have much other business."

"I have only this business in Paris, sir; but it is a business of great haste. This very hour, if it please your Eminence, I would make inquiries at the Bastile."

"It does not please me. You must wait."

"Waiting is not in my commission, sir. I am to work, or to return to London without an hour's delay. Lord Neville is particularly dear to his Highness; and if my inquiries meet not with attention, – on the moment, – I am instructed to waste no time. We must then conclude the envoy of the Commonwealth of England has been robbed and slain, and it will be the duty of England to take redress at once."

"You talk beyond your commission."

"Within it, sir."

"Retire to the anteroom. They will serve you with bread and wine while I make some inquiries."

"It is beyond my commission to eat or drink until I have had speech with Lord Neville. I will wait in this presence, the authority of your Eminence," and Israel let his sword drop and leaned upon it, gazing steadfastly the while into the face of the Cardinal. The twelve troopers with him, followed as one man, his attitude, and even Mazarin's carefully tutored composure could not long endure this silent battery of determined hearts and fixed eyes. He gave the necessary order for the release of Lord Cluny Neville, – "if such a prisoner was really in the Bastile," – and sending a body of his own Musketeers with it, directed Israel to accompany them.

"These insolent, domineering English!" he muttered; "and this Cromwell, by grace of the devil, their Protector! If I get not the better of them yet, my name is not Mazarin. As for the young man, I meant not this long punishment; I wanted only his papers. As for the jewels, I was not told they came out of his bag, – I did suspect, but what then? I am too much given to suspicions, and the jewels were rare and cheap, and Hortense became them well. I will not give up the jewels – the man may go, but the jewels? I fear they must go, also, or Spain will have her way. Cromwell wants an excuse to withdraw, I will not give him it. And by Mary! I am sorry for the young man. I meant not such injury to him; I must make some atonement to the saints for it."

This sorrow, though brief and passing, was genuine; cruelty was perhaps the one vice unnatural to Mazarin, and he was relieved in what he called his conscience, when he heard that Lord Neville still lived, – if such bare breathing could be called life. For the Bastile seemed to be the Land of Forgetfulness. The Governor had so forgotten Cluny, that his name called up no recollection. He did not know whether he was in the prison or not. He did not know whether he was alive or dead. The head gaoler also had forgotten. Men lost their identity within those walls. The very books of the prison had forgotten Cluny. Their keeper grew cross, and positive of Neville's non-entering, as volume after volume refused to give up his name. But Israel and his men, standing there so determined and so silent, forced him to go back and back, until he came to that fateful day when, before the dawning, the young man had been driven within those terrible gates.

"On whose order?" asked Israel, speaking with sharp authority.

"On the order of his Eminence, Cardinal Mazarin," was the answer.

"I thought so;" then turning to the head gaoler he added, "you have the order for release. We are in haste."

"Time is not counted here. We know not haste," was the answer.

"Then," said Israel, flaming into passion, "you must learn how to hasten. I give you ten minutes to produce Lord Neville. After that time, I shall return to his Eminence and report your refusal to obey him."

The gaoler had never before been accosted in such language. As word by word was translated to his intelligence, he manifested an unspeakable terror. It was impossible for him to conceive the manner of man and the strange authority that dared so to address the head gaoler of the Bastile. He left the chamber at once, and within the time named there were sounds heard which made all hearts stand still, – the slow movement of feet hardly able to walk, – the dismal clangor of iron, and anon the mournful sound of a human voice. But nothing could have prepared Cluny's comrades for the sight of their old companion. His tall form was attenuated to the last point; his eyes, unaccustomed to much light, would not at once respond, they looked as if they had lost vision; his hair straggled unkempt over his shoulders, and the awful pallor of the prison on his face and neck and hands was more ghastly than the pallor of death. His clothing had decayed; it hung in shreds about his limbs; but there was a glimmer of his old self in the pitiful effort he made, as soon as conscious of human presence, to lift up his head and carry himself without fear. An irrepressible movement of arms, a low wail of pity, met him as he entered the room, and he looked before him, anxious, intent, but not yet seeing anything distinctly.

"Cluny! Cluny! Cluny!" cried Israel; and then Cluny distinguished the buff and steel uniforms, and knew who it was that called him. A long, sharp cry of agony, wonder, joy, answered the call, and he fell senseless into Israel's arms.

They brought him wine, they lifted him to the open window, they laid bare the skeleton form of his chest, they called him by name in voices so full of love and pity that his soul perforce answered their entreaties. Then the Governor offered him some clothing, but Israel put it passionately away. They were worse than Babylonish garments in his sight; he would not touch them. He asked only for a public litter, and when it was procured, they laid Cluny in it, and his comrades bore him through the streets of Paris to their lodging on the outskirts of the city.

When they left the gates of the prison there was a large gathering of men, and it increased as they proceeded, – a pitiful crowd, whose very silence was the highest eloquence. For they understood. Cluny lay prone and oblivious to their vision. They had seen him come from the Bastile. He was dead, or dying, and these angry, weeping soldiers were his comrades. They began to mutter, to exclaim, to voice their sympathy more and more intelligibly. Women, praying and weeping audibly, joined the procession, and Israel foresaw the possibility of trouble. He felt that in some way order must be restored, and inspired by the wisdom within, he raised his hands and in a loud, ringing voice, began the favourite hymn of his troopers; and to the words they had been used to sing in moments of triumphal help or deliverance they carried Cluny, with the solemn order of a religious service, safely into their camp. For when the hymn began, the crowd followed quietly, or dropped away, as the stern men trod in military step to their majestic antiphony: