Part 21

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!"

Then she put her hand to her breast. The portrait of Prince Rupert that had lain there for so many years was not in its place. She was not astonished; very often lately she had either forgotten it, or intentionally refused to wear it. And Stephen's assertion that failure was written on all Rupert touched had found its echo in her heart. When she dressed herself to secure the warrant, she purposely took off Rupert's picture and put it in her jewel box. She went there now to look for it, and the haunting melancholy of the dark face made her shiver. "Stephen told me the very truth," she thought. "He has been my evil genius as well as the King's. While his picture has been on my heart, I have seen all I love vanish away." A kind of terror made her close her eyes; she would not meet Rupert's sorrow-haunted gaze, though it was only painted. She felt as if to do so was to court misfortune, and though the old love tugged at her very life, she lifted one tray and then another tray of her jewel case, and laid Prince Rupert under them both.

*CHAPTER XIV*

*A LITTLE FURTHER ON*

"Like ships, that sailed for sunny isles, But never came to shore."

"I could lie down like a tired child, And weep away the life of care Which I have borne, and yet must bear."

"He is most high who humblest at God's feet Lies, loving God and trusting though He smite."

The settlement of the affairs of Anthony Lynn occupied Sir Thomas much longer than he expected, and the autumn found the family still at de Wick. For other reasons, this delay in the retirement of the country had seemed advisable. Stephen had escaped, as had also his companion conspirators, Mason and Blythe; and Matilda could not but compliment herself a little on her share in securing their safety. But the plot and its consequences had kept London on the alert all summer. Little of this excitement reached them. Sir Thomas was busy laying out a garden after a plan of Mr. Evelyn's; Lady Jevery was making perfumes and medicinal waters, washes for the toilet and confections for the table. Matilda was out walking or riding with Cymlin Swaffham, or sitting with him in the shady garden or in the handsome rooms of de Wick. Her uncle had presented her with a fine organ, but her lute suited her best, and she knew well what a beautiful picture she made, singing to its tinkling music.

If Cymlin was in the hall, she came down the stairway--flooded with coloured lights from its painted windows--lute in hand, singing--singing of young Adonis or cruel Cupid; her rich garments trailing, her white hands flashing, her face bent to her adorer, her voice filling the space with melody. Or she sat in the window, with the summer scents and sun around her, musically mocking Love, as if he never had or never could touch her. Cymlin knew all her entrancing ways, and followed her in them with wonderful prudence. No word of his great affection passed his lips; he let his eyes and his actions speak for him; and there had been times when Matilda, provoked by his restraint, had used all her fascinations to compel his confession. But she had to deal with a man of extraordinary patience, one who could bide his time, and he knew his time had not yet come.

Towards the middle of September Sir Thomas roused himself from his life among flowers and shrubs, and said he must go back to London. He was expecting some ships with rich cargoes, and the last flowers were beginning to droop, and the rooks were complaining, as they always do when the mornings are cold; the time for the outdoor life was ended; he had a sudden desire for his wharf and his office, and the bearded, outlandish men that he would meet there. And as the ladies also wished to return to London, the beautiful home quickly put on an air of desertion. Boxes littered the hall; they were only waiting until the September rain-storm should pass away, and the roads become fit for travel.

At this unsettled time, and in a driving shower, Cymlin and Doctor Verity were seen galloping up the avenue one evening. Every one was glad at the prospect of news and company, Sir Thomas so much so, that he went to the door to meet the Doctor. "Nobody could be more welcome," he said; "and pray, what good fortune brings you here?"

"I come to put my two nephews in Huntingdon Grammar school. I want them to sit where Cromwell sat," he answered.

Then he drew his chair to the hearth, where the ash logs burned and blazed most cheerfully, and looked round upon the company--the genial Sir Thomas, and his placid, kindly lady, and the beautiful girl, who was really his hostess. Nor was he unmindful of Cymlin at her side, for in the moment that his eyes fell on the young man, he seemed to see, as in letters of light, an old description of Englishmen, and to find in Cymlin its expression--"_a strong kind of people, audacious, bold, puissant and heroical; of great magnanimity, valiancy and prowess_."

As he was thinking these things, Sir Thomas said, "You must make us wise about events. We have had only the outlines of them, and we are going into the midst of we know not what. As to the great plot, was it as black as it was painted?"

"Like all the works of the devil, it grew blacker as it was pulled into the light. It was soon an indisputable fact, that de Baas, Mazarin's envoy extraordinary in London, was head over heels in the shameful business. I can tell you, de Baas had a most unpleasant hour with the Protector; under Cromwell's eyes and questions, he wilted away like a snail under salt."

"What did Cromwell do to him?"

"Sent him back to King Louis and to Mazarin with a letter. _They_ have done the punishing, I have no doubt. He would better have thrown himself on Cromwell's mercy than face Mazarin with his tale of being found out. More like than not he is at this hour in the Bastile. No one will hear any more of M. de Baas."

"Then you think Mazarin was really in the plot to assassinate?"

"No doubt of it; de Baas was only his creature. Both of them should be rolled into their graves, with their faces downward."

"And King Louis the Fourteenth?"

"He knew all about the affair. Kings and Priests! Kings and Priests! they would trick the world away, were it not that now and then some brave yeoman were a match for them."

"And Prince Rupert?"

"Neck deep. That was fortunate, for he is a luckless blackguard, and dooms all he touches."

"If a man is unfortunate, he is not therefore wicked, Doctor. These men were plotting for what they believed a good end," said Matilda with some temper.

"Good ends never need assassination, my lady; if evil is done, evil will come from it."

"I think we ought to pity the men."

"Pity them, indeed! Not I! The scaffold and the halter is their just reward."

"Forty, I heard, were arrested."

"Cromwell had only three brought to trial. Gerard was beheaded, Vowell hung, Fox threw himself on Cromwell's mercy and was pardoned."

"Was not that too much leniency?"

"No. Cromwell poked the fire to let them see he could do it; but he did not want to burn every one. He has made known to England and to Europe, and especially to France, his vigilance. He has escaped the death they intended for him. He has proved to the Royalists, by Gerard's and Vowell's execution, that he will not spare them because they are Englishmen. Beyond this he will not go. It is enough. Most of the forty were only tools. It is not Cromwell's way to snap at the stick, but at the cowardly hands that hold it."

"If he can reach them," muttered Matilda.

"Then, Sir Thomas, we have united Scotland to the Commonwealth. Kingship is abolished there; vassalage and slavish feudal institutions are swept away; heritors are freed from military service. Oh, 'tis a grand union for the Scotch common people! I say nothing of the nobles; no reparation has been made them--they don't deserve any; they are always invading England on one pretext or another. But they cannot now force the poor heritors to throw down their spades and flails, and carry spears for them. The men may sow their wheat and barley, and if it will ripen in their cold, bleak country, they can bake and brew it, and eat and drink it in peace."

"I do not believe Englishmen like this union, Doctor. I do not--it is all in favour of Scotland. They have nothing to give us, and yet we must share all our glory and all our gains with them. They do not deserve it. They have done nothing for their own freedom, and we have made them free. They have no commerce, and we must share ours with them. And they are a proud, masterful people; they will not be mere buttons on the coat-tails of our rulers. Union, indeed! It will be a cat and a dog union."

"I know, Sir Thomas, that Englishmen feel to Scotchmen very much as a scholar does to Latin--however well he knows it, it is not his mother tongue. What we like, has nothing to do with the question. It is England's labour and duty and honour to give freedom to all over whom her Red Cross floats; to share her strength and security with the weak and the vassal, and her wine and her oil and her purple raiment with the poverty-stricken. England must open her hands, and drop blessings upon the deserving and the undeserving; yes, even where the slave does not know he is a slave, she must make him free."

"And get kicked and reviled for it."

"To be sure--the rough side of the tongue, and the kick behind always; but even slavish souls will find out what freedom means, if we give them time."

"But, Doctor----"

"But me no buts, Sir Thomas. Are we not great enough to share our greatness? I trow we are!"

"I confess, Doctor, that in spite of what you say, my patriotism dwells between the Thames and the Tyne."

"Patriotism! 'Tis a word that gets more honour than it deserves. Half the wars that have desolated this earth have come from race hatreds. Patriotism has been at the bottom of the bloodiest scenes; every now and then it threatens civilisation. If there were no Irish and no Scotch and no French and no Dutch and no Spanish, we might hope for peace. I think the time may come when the world will laugh at what we call our 'patriotism' and our fencing ourselves from the rest of mankind with fortresses and cannon."

"That time is not yet, Doctor Verity. When the leopard and the lamb lie down together, perhaps. But all men are not brothers yet, and the English flag must be kept flying."

"The day may come when there will be no flags; or at least only one emblem for one great Commonwealth."