It was in the July following the winter when he had first come to discussion with my Lord Manchester that Oliver Cromwell, now the Earl's Lieutenant-General, flamed suddenly into great brilliance over England.

By his valour and skill he had turned the tide at Marston, after Manchester, Fairfax, and Leven had fled from the battle as lost; he had beaten Rupert's victorious horse with his own light cavalry, and he had led the Scotch infantry in an overwhelming charge against the enemy. The north of England was now lost to the King, the prestige of the parliamentary army had never stood higher, and Oliver Cromwell was become the foremost soldier in their ranks, both for fame and success.

Such were the results of the battle at Marston Moor; but Manchester appeared to be more frightened than encouraged at the victory. He almost refused to fight; his indecision lost the battle of Newbury; he allowed the King to relieve Donnington Castle; he would not go to the help of Essex, who was losing ground in the south; he and his Lieutenant-General had high altercations; the Scottish Presbyterian party proposed terms to the King, which Charles haughtily refused. After this failure they were somewhat quieter, though two of their leaders, Essex and Holles, endeavoured to bring an action against Cromwell as an incendiary; but Cromwell himself showed tact and moderation sufficient to bring about a peace between the various factions that constituted the parliamentary forces, and in the autumn of that year was instrumental in the creation of the New Model Army—the instrument which he had long been burning to handle; the instrument by which the King, still haughty and defiant at Oxford, in which loyal city he had his own Parliament, was to be finally brought to accept and keep the people's terms.

Cromwell was excepted from the self-denying ordinance which ruled that no Members of Parliament were to bear commands in the army, and was created Lieutenant-General and Commander of the Horse, Fairfax being General and Skippon Major-General.

Manchester and Essex retired with good sense and dignity.

Charles, moving from Oxford, stormed Leicester; Fairfax raised the siege of Oxford to dash after him, and on 14th June 1645 found himself face to face with the King's forces at Naseby, on the borders of Northamptonshire. A battle was now inevitable, and by both sides it was felt that it would be decisive: neither side could endure a great defeat, and either side would become almost completely master of England by a great victory at this juncture. Rupert was smarting to revenge himself for Marston; the King despised the New Model Army, and was eager to dash to pieces this new instrument of his enemies; Fairfax was ardent to justify the trust reposed in him. Both armies were impatient to bring matters to an issue, so on each side were motives sufficient for fierce inspiration.

The night after the armies had faced each other the King lay at Market Harborough, eight miles from the village of Naseby, where the parliamentary forces were encamped. He had his Queen with him and the infant Princess, recently born at Exeter, and was lodged in the modest country house of a certain loyal gentleman, a cadet of the noble house of Pawlet. Rupert rode up in the twilight from his quarters to see his uncle, and came into a peaceful, old walled garden, where Charles paced the daisied grass.

On a bench beneath a great cedar tree sat the pale Queen, the sun and shade flecked all over her white dress, her baby on her knee, and by her side her new lady, Margaret Lucas.

The garden was all abloom with white roses, the rich summer air full of the hum of bees and the thousand scents of June; the light was taking on a richer gold colour as it faded, and where the garden sloped westward to the orchards the dazzle of the setting sun danced in the leaves.

The scene seemed very far from war, from turmoil, from confusion, and blood-stained strife; among the mossy gables of the house some white pigeons strutted, and there was no other noise nor any indication of the army quartered near.

Prince Rupert came slowly over the lawn; his fringed leather breeches and Spanish boots were dusty, and his red cloak open on soiled buff and a torn scarf. He had a gloomy, reckless look, and his brow was frowning beneath the disordered black love-locks.

Charles stopped when he saw his nephew coming and asked abruptly—

"They will fight to-morrow?"

"I think they will," replied the Prince. He went up to the Queen and kissed her hand.

There was the dimness of many tears in that proud woman's eyes, and the delicacy of her beauty had turned to a haggard air of sickness; she had, however, the swift, hawk-like look of one whose courage is unbroken, and her pride was even more obviously shown now than in the days of her greatest splendour, when it had been cloaked with sweetness. Her worn, dark features, her careless dress and impatient glances, words, and movements were in great contrast to the careful splendour, the composed gravity, and the smooth youth of the blonde Margaret Lucas.

"Have you come to take His Majesty away from me?" cried the Queen to Rupert as his lips touched her thin, cold hand.

"He did promise to inspect the army to-night, Madame," returned Rupert, with a certain touch of indifferency in his manner: Charles was no soldier, and the Prince had little deference for his opinion on military matters.

"And to-morrow there will be a battle," said the Queen. She rose suddenly, clasping the sleeping child to her heart; her ruined eyes regained, by the sparkle of tears, for one moment their lost brilliancy.

"Oh, Madame," cried Margaret Lucas passionately, "surely God will not permit His Majesty to be defeated!"

Rupert's dark countenance flashed into a smile as he glanced at her pale fervency.

"That cursed Cromwell is on his way to join Fairfax," he remarked. "Pray, Mrs. Lucas, that he doth not arrive in time."

"Is he so terrible a man?" asked the Queen scornfully: she could not endure to give even the compliment of fear to these rebels.

"A half-crazed fanatic or a very cunning hypocrite," returned the Prince; "but an able fighter, on my soul, Madame!"

"His army consisteth of poor ignorant men," cried Henriette Marie. "Surely, surely gentlemen can prevail against them."

"We will make the trial to-morrow, Madame," said Rupert, with a flush in his swarthy face for the memory of Naseby. "At least, we do not lack in loyalty—in endeavour—Your Majesty believeth that?"

"Yes, yes," said the Queen hurriedly. "Loyalty is common enough; but where shall we get good counsels? Are we wise to fight the rebels to-morrow? By all accounts they are double our number—and if this Cromwell cometh up with reinforcements——"

The King, who had hitherto stood silent, fingering the dark foliage on one of the lower sweeping branches of the cedar tree, now spoke with authority.

"We fight to-morrow, Mary. I mean to surprise their outposts."

A pause of silence fell. The sunlight was slipping lower through the trees, and lay like flat gold on the lawn; the last brilliance of the day lay in the fair locks of Margaret Lucas, in the embroideries of her gown, in the swords of King and Prince, and over the frail figure of the undaunted Queen.

"I shall see Your Majesty at the camp after supper?" asked Rupert.

"Yes—sooner," replied Charles.

The Queen looked keenly at the young man on whom so much depended in the issue of to-morrow, and seemed as if she was about to make some appeal or exhortation; but she turned away with a mere quiet farewell. The King followed her with a smile to his nephew.

Margaret Lucas remained under the great cedar tree and Rupert lingered.

"The white roses are again in bloom," he said.

"When they next flourish may the King be safe in London again!" cried the lady.

"Amen," said Rupert. "Do you know the noble Marquess of Newcastle, Mrs. Lucas?" he added, with a smile.

A bright colour mounted to her alert face.

"I met him in Oxford," she returned.

"I had your flowers in my Prayer Book in memory of that day we raised the Standard," said the young Prince, "and when my lord saw them, we being in chapel together, he did ask of them, and when he heard their history begged them from me. Does this anger you?"

"It is not becoming that Your Highness should tell me of it," faltered Margaret Lucas.

"You are too modest," smiled the Prince. "He is a gallant lord and a valiant, loyal soldier. He asked me, if I saw you, to give you his homages."

The lady stood silent, her eyes downcast, the quick blood coming and going in her noble face. Rupert waited.

"Have you no answer to the princely Marquess?" he asked.

Margaret Lucas lifted her head.

"Tell him to—keep—the flowers," she stammered.

With that she turned away as if she was frightened of having said too much; the young General laughed a little and went back towards the house, whistling the air of a German song.

Margaret stood staring over her shoulder after him; all the misfortunes of the State, of her own family, all the hideous sights and sad stories which had weighed her heart with black bitterness, the danger of her beloved brother, her own precarious situation—all these things were forgotten in one great flash of happiness.

She clasped her hands tightly.

"How I do love thee, thou excellent gentleman," she murmured, "even with an affection that is so beyond modesty and reason that if thou wert here I could avow it to thy face! God protect thee, dear, loyal lord!"

The sun had now sunk behind the trees and hedges of the orchard; the last bee had flown; the roses gave forth their strength in a more intense perfume; the sky changed to a sparkling violet, glimmering with rosy gold in the west.

The Queen called Margaret Lucas, and, putting the little Princess in her arms, bid her go and take the child to her women.

Margaret made her grave and humble obeisances and withdrew, holding the King's youngest born over a joyful heart.

"Mary," said Charles, taking his wife's hand, "if I fail to-morrow you will go to France. Promise me."

"You must not fail," she answered passionately. "But I give you this promise if it makes you fight with a lighter conscience."

"A light conscience!" echoed the King. "Methinks I shall never own a light conscience again."

"You are too discouraged," murmured the Queen, but with a kind of lassitude.

They went together into the house, and he told her of the arrangements he had made for her safe conduct to the coast in case of his defeat. She listened and made no reply.

They entered the sitting-room that opened on the garden, and the King closed the door, for he could hear some of his gentlemen without.

Henriette Marie seated herself on a worn leather couch and looked at her husband.

His face was pallid, his eyes heavy and shadowed, his hair damp about the brow; he continually put his hand above his eyes or above his heart.

"Last night I dreamt of Strafford," he said suddenly.

"It was a dream!" answered the Queen. "Is this a time to dwell on things unfortunate?"

He made no reply; he moved about the darkening room, aimlessly touching the furniture and the walls.

At last he stopped before the inert figure of his wife.

"Farewell, sweet," he said. "I have to join the Prince."

"Farewell," she murmured.

He moved towards the door and she sprang up.

"Oh," she exclaimed, in a tone of horror, "this may be our last meeting!"

Charles turned, startled.

"Dear God forbid!" he cried.

"If—the worst cometh—if I go to France—ah, when shall I again behold you?"

"Hast thou also evil premonitions?" asked the King, with a shudder.

She controlled herself.

"No," she replied through stiff lips. "No—no—but many thoughts press on my heart, and I am weak of late."

Indeed, she felt all her limbs tremble, so that they would no longer support her, and she sat down on the couch again, cold from head to foot.

Charles stood beside her, gazing with the soul's deepest passion of love and anguish at her bowed dark head.

"Kiss me and go," she said. "What can I say? You know my whole heart. All hath been said between you and me. We have been surprised by misfortune, and I am something unprepared. But never doubt that I love thee wholly."

The King again made that gesture of his hand, pressed first to his heart and then to his forehead, as if heart and head were equally wounded, then he went to a corner of the room where an old clavichord stood and lifted up the cover.

"Sing to me before I go, Mary," he whispered.

The Queen rose heavily. Her bold spirit was bent with gloom; ill-health and the continual failure of the King's intrigues and the King's arms had given her a kind of disgust of life. As she had been more despotic than the King in prosperity, so she was more bitter and stern in adversity. As she crossed the window, open on the soft dimness of the garden, she thought, through her miserable languor, "If, indeed, I never see him again, the scent of these roses will be with me all my life."

"I will light the candles," said Charles.

"No—no," she answered. She seated herself and her hands touched the keys.

Her voice, once the pride of two courts and her greatest accomplishment, rose in a little French song; but tears and suffering had taken the clearness from her notes that once had rung so true.

At the end of the first verse she broke down and, putting her hands before her face, wept.

"I do love thee," said the King, bending over her in a passion of tenderness. "More than words can rehearse I do love thee, dear Mary, and have loved thee all my days. Be not confounded—it cannot be God's will to desert us utterly. Hold up your heart. Oh I do love thee, or I had rather not have lived to see my present miseries—but thou hast made life worth while to me. My dear wife—my dear, dear wife."

The Queen did not move, and her dry, difficult sobs did not cease.

"Oh, love that is so weak," cried the King, "that it cannot do more than this ... to see thee thus ... what greater misery could I have than to see thee thus."

Still she did not speak. She had done much for him—crossed the seas and become a supplicant at her brother's court, sold her jewels, persuaded, inspired, and led many to join his standard, raised an army for his cause, been untiring and dauntless in her counsels, her energy, her confidence; but now a fatigue that was like despair was over her. She felt about him a fatality as if success was impossible for him, and all her ruined pride and splendour, her lost hopes, her lost endeavours crowded upon her till she could do nothing but weep.

Charles stooped and, with infinite gentleness, drew her hands from her face.

"This is a bad augury for me to-morrow," he said.

She lifted her head then, the sobs still catching her throat. It was too dark for him to see her face, distorted by tears; only the dim white oval of it showed in the dusk.

"No bad auguries," she said. "No—to-morrow must see a turn in our miserable fortunes."

He kissed her with a trembling reverence of devotion, and her tears dried on his cold cheek.

"Have confidence," she murmured, her face pressed against his lace collar. She was always heartening him, firing his hesitation, directing his indecision, and the instinct of guiding and inspiring him came to her now even in her moment of weakness. "Have no sad thoughts, no ill thoughts—God will fight for his anointed King. If I seem confounded, consider that I have been troubled with many things."

He drew her gently towards the window, and they stood together looking out on to the garden. The white hawthorn and roses, the last lilac still showed pallid through the gloaming; the stars were beginning to sparkle in a sky from which the gold had faded, leaving it the colour of dead violets; the pure air was rich and sweet as honey.

"Whatever betide," said the King, "remember this—I will never forsake my children's heritage nor my faith."

He had always scrupulously kept his promise never to discuss religion with his Papist Queen, and he did not emphasize his resolve to remain for ever faithful to the Church of England. She knew this constancy of his and admired it, but now she said nothing of these matters.

"Whatever befall," she replied, "you are always the King."

"I shall not forget it," he said, with a kind of passion.

Another moment of silence passed, during which their thoughts burnt like fire in their hearts and brains, then he moved to go, stammering farewells.

Thrice he turned back to embrace her again, thrice her hands clung to him with a desperation almost beyond her control, while her lips tried to form in words what no words could say.

Then at length he was gone, and she heard the door shut.

"I will not watch him ride away," she said to herself. "I will wait and watch his return."

Suddenly she thought of Lady Strafford and of the last time she had spoken with the Countess.

"O, God," she cried, "if I should never see Charles again!"

She turned to go after him, but controlled herself from this folly and stood huddled in the window watching the night moths flutter, shadows among shadows, and the chilly moon brighten from a wraith to gleaming silver among the whispering orchard trees.

She stood so until she heard the bugles that announced the King's departure, then she went to her prayers to supplicate the Madonna and the saints with bitter tears and bitter forebodings.