"Thou goest too often to Hampton Court," said Major Harrison. "I say it to thy face."

"Thou mayst say it before any man," returned Cromwell mildly, "and do no harm."

"If you will have any influence with the army you will go no more," continued Harrison.

"Ay!" said Cromwell, with the same patience; "but I think neither of my influence with the army nor of any other thing, friends, but of what the Lord hath put it in my heart to do for His service and the peace of these times."

So saying, he laid down a little manual of gun drill, the pages of which he had been turning over, and relit his pipe.

The scene was the guard-room of the army's headquarters at Putney. Cromwell had been to London that morning to see his family, who were now established in a mansion in Drury Lane, and his buff coat and his falling boots were still dusty with the dust of the return ride.

Fairfax was in the room and the preacher, Hugh Peters. The bolder Harrison voiced their opinions when he told Cromwell that he was becoming too intimate with the King and too firm a supporter of the royal pretensions; but Fairfax, from a natural reserve, and Peters, because he hoped the Lieutenant-General would make an adequate defence, were silent.

"Little did I ever think," cried Harrison, pacing heavily about the room, "that thou wouldst become the consort of tyrants, the frequenter of the strange children, whose mouth talketh of vanity, and whose right hand is a hand of iniquity!"

Cromwell raised his calm eyes from his long clay pipe.

"No man will enjoy his possessions in peace until the King hath his rights again," he said, "and I make no disguise from you nor from any that I am doing my utmost to bring about a good peace with His Majesty. For what other reason did any of us take up arms?"

"Ay," assented Sir Thomas Fairfax hastily, "and the Parliament and the city of London are pressing for a settlement."

"My visits to Hampton Palace," continued Cromwell, "and my communings with the King have had this one object—a good peace."

"If thou canst bring Charles Stewart to a good peace—and make him keep it—thou hast more than mortal skill," said Harrison.

"What wouldst thou in this realm?" asked Cromwell, glancing up at him with a gleam of humour. "A republic?"

The other three were silent at this; even among the extremists the idea of totally abolishing the kingship was scarcely murmured.

"Well, then," said Cromwell, with a little smile, glancing round the three silent faces, "a treaty with the King is the only means to get us out of our present imbroglio, is it not? Now we have conquered His Majesty, we must make terms with him."

"You never will," cried Hugh Peters vehemently. "He is false and false, unstable and creeping in his ways—even while you confer with him he is arranging to bring in the Scots again or murdering Papists from Ireland or the French!"

"How do you know?" asked the Lieutenant-General, turning sharply in his chair.

Mr. Peters glanced at Major Harrison, who replied—

"It is true that I have my finger in some plots the King hath in hand. His agents meet at the Blue Boar in Holborn, and he hath a whole service of secret couriers travelling between England, the Scots, and France. As yet I have no letters, no absolute proofs in my possession, but I do not think to lack them long."

"Have you long known of this, Sir Thomas?" asked Cromwell, rising.

"A week or so," replied the General; "but I have not given it overmuch attention. If one listened to all the rumours of plots one's brain would be confounded."

"I have men in disguise at the Blue Boar," said Harrison stubbornly, "and soon I hope to prove my suspicions correct."

"Why, if they are," said Cromwell calmly, "then I shall change my policy."

"Thou art all of a fatalist," remarked Harrison grimly; "there is no ruffling thee."

The Lieutenant-General picked up his gloves and hat and riding-stock.

"Can I alter God's decrees that I should fret because of them?" he answered earnestly. "I am but the flail in the hand of the thresher. The Lord's will be done on me and on His Majesty, who are both the instruments of His unsearchable judgments on these lands."

He saluted the General respectfully, but left without further speech. He might call himself the instrument of the Lord: it was clear that he did not consider himself the instrument of Sir Thomas Fairfax.

He seemed, indeed, quietly but fully conscious that he and he alone could move the army (which at present still held the balance of power), and that he, therefore, and no other was become the arbiter of these realms.

When he left the guard-room he sent his servant for his son-in-law, Henry Ireton, who soon joined him; the two mounted and, through the October sun, rode to Hampton Court.

They exchanged little conversation on the way, partly because each thoroughly understood the other, and partly because their minds were full of busy thoughts.

The King, who was still treated with formality and respect, with his own servants and his own friends about him, made no delay in seeing them. He had lately had several interviews with Cromwell, with Fairfax, with Ireton, and walking about Wolsey's groves and alleys had discussed with them, through more than one summer and autumn afternoon, the prospects before England.

It was in the garden, in one of the beautiful walks of yellowing oak and beech that sloped to the river, that he received them now.

As usual his manner was gentle and gracious, as usual he kept his seat (he was resting on a wooden bench) and did not uncover, though the two Generals doffed their hats: power still paid this respect to tradition.

"Sir," said Cromwell at once, "I should have waited on you sooner, but I have been sick of an imposthume in the head. But now I am here I have weighty matters to say, and I would have Your Majesty give a keen ear to my words."

"Am I not ever," said Charles, with a faint smile, "attentive to your words?"

"I know not," replied Cromwell, with his plain outspokenness. "I cannot read the heart of Your Majesty," and he looked at him straightly.

With the tip of his cane Charles disturbed the first little dead gold leaves which lay at his feet.

"Ah," he replied slowly, "so you have weighty things to say?"

He had long known that his conferences with the leaders of the army must come to a crisis and a plain issue soon; it had not been his purpose to force this moment until his plans were all smoothly arranged, but now he was ready enough. As usual he had his points clear, his feelings under command, as usual his manner was gentle, contained, courteous, his mind alert and watchful; yet there was a weariness in his face and voice that all his art could not disguise, as he came again to the old wretched business of speaking his enemies fair, as he once more engaged in the endless game of negotiation, proposal and counter-proposal, which he never intended should come to anything.

The keen eyes of Commissary-General Ireton detected the shudder of reluctance, almost repulsion, which Charles so instantly repressed.

"We will be short, Your Majesty," he said, "and it is not our intention to ask you for more audiences. The army doth not like our meeting. All must be settled in this coming together."

Charles glanced up at the two men standing before him as John Pym had stood before him once in another of his royal gardens—Pym was dead, but his principles were alive indeed; Charles thought that if the old Puritan was in any hell which allowed him a glimpse of the earth he must be grinning derisively at this scene now.

"We have had," said Cromwell, not waiting for Charles to speak, "conferences, rendezvous, councils of war, much running to and fro between the army and the Parliament, many talks between ourselves and Your Majesty. Surely this thing must come to an end. The country is without a government, and many extreme and fanatic men do seize the time to unsettle the mind of the vulgar with fierce, empty words."

He paused a moment, then added, looking at the King intently and openly, and speaking with almost mournful seriousness—

"Your Majesty knows what the country must have—are you prepared to grant us these desires?"

Charles looked at him with a steadiness equal to his own.

"And if I say I am?" he replied. "What then?"

Both men were speaking with a directness usually foreign to them.

"Then," said Cromwell, "you may be in Whitehall within the week, sir. The army will escort you there."

Charles could hardly disguise the leap of exultation that shook his heart at this splendid chance, which, after being dangled before him so long, was at length definitely offered him.

"Sir," added the Lieutenant-General, "I make no disguise from you that there are many in the army not of my mind—it is rumoured that Your Majesty hath secret dealings with the Scots, the French, the Dutch——"

"If the English are loyal to me," replied Charles, "wherefore should I need foreign aid? These tales fly like thistledown before the first autumn wind—when we are in London, sir, I will listen to, and satisfy, all demands."

"Is that a pledge?" demanded Cromwell. "Is Your Majesty sincere with me?"

Charles rose.

"What have I to gain by insincerity?" he said; and again his cane stirred the drifting shrivelled leaves.

"And I must speak my side," he added. "It is my wish to show you that loyalty may bring more profit and honour than rebellion."

"What manner of profit?" asked Cromwell. "If you mean personal profit, why, I am well enough." ('Ay, with my Lord Worchester's lands,' thought Charles bitterly): "two of my wenches are wed, my eldest son is settled, the younger making good progress, for my other little maids and their mother I can provide—what more should I want? For Henry Ireton I can say the same."

"Yet I can gild this honourable prosperity," replied the King. "When my Lord Essex died, his title—his title died with him—you, methinks, are of the first Earl's house——"

"Ah!" cried Cromwell sharply, and flushed all over his face and neck.

"Oliver Cromwell may take the rank of Thomas Cromwell, who was also the terror and the help of a king," continued Charles, with smiling lips and narrowed eyes.

The blood was still staining the Lieutenant-General's face; his forehead was crimson up to the thick brown hair; he looked on the ground in a fashion that was embarrassed, almost stricken.

'I have not offered enough,' thought Charles; aloud he said—

"When I am in Whitehall I will sign the patent, and then the Earl of Essex may command me to further service."

Still Cromwell did not speak.

'Thou clod, dost thou not understand!' cried the King in his heart.

He spoke again.

"And thy son-in-law, Henry Ireton here—he also I would raise——"

Cromwell interrupted, but in a confused and stammering fashion.

"Sir—you have mistaken—I am no cadet of the first Earl of Essex's family—nay—or so remote; it matters not—I never thought of it—this was not what I came to speak of—yet what I would have said is gone from me." His head fell on his breast despondently; he made a hopeless little gesture with his gloved right hand. "Let it pass," he finished.

"For me," said Henry Ireton. "I would that Your Majesty had not spoken of this."

Charles could not keep all scorn from his smile as he replied—

"We will discuss these things at Westminster."

Cromwell raised his head and gazed into the King's pale, composed face.

"I do ask Your Majesty," he said, and in his deep voice was a note of intense appeal, "to be sincere with me."

"I am sincere with you, General Cromwell," replied Charles.

A light gust of wind shook the oak branches and more leaves drifted downwards.

"To-morrow I will return with General Fairfax and some other officers," said Cromwell, "with whom Your Majesty may finally speak." He seemed about to take his leave, hesitated, then, as if a sudden impulse had shaken him, he turned again and addressed Charles.

"Not for my sake," he said, "nor for any light reason—but for thy soul's sake that when thou comest before the living God thou mayst have no treachery or falsehood in the scale against thee, deal fairly with me now. There thou shalt wear no crown to give thee courage, and no courtier shall flatter thee—therefore, sir, bethink thee, and tell me plainly if I may trust thee."

"I have said it," replied Charles.

For a second Cromwell was silent; then he and Ireton took a formal leave and left the Palace grounds.

When they were mounted and clear of the iron gates and the stone lions, Ireton spoke.

"Wilt thou put that man up in Whitehall again? See how his mind runs on little things—he did offer us bribes as if we were soldiers deserting for higher pay."

"That went to my soul," replied Cromwell simply. "I thought he took me for an honest man—but it pleased the Lord to mortify me, and I must not murmur. As for the King—yea, I will put him on his heights again, for that is the only way to peace."

They rode silently until they came within sight of Putney, and there they were met by Major Harrison, who, riding, came out of the village and joined them at the village green.

"News," he said abruptly, with a grim smile and triumphant eyes—"news from 'The Blue Boar.'"

"Ay?" replied Cromwell quietly.

Harrison turned his horse about and rode beside the others; the three slowed to a walking pace.

"You had not left the guard-room ten minutes," said Harrison, "before my man arrived from London, all in a reek. He had found and arrested the King's secret messenger, and out of his saddle ripped these"—he held up a packet of papers—"secret letters to the Queen," he added triumphantly, "and as fatal as those papers captured after Naseby!"

Ireton gave a passionate exclamation, but Cromwell said—

"What is in them?"

"Much treason," replied Harrison succinctly. "He tells his wife he will never make a peace with either army or Parliament, that he is deluding both while he raises a force in Scotland and Ireland, in which countries Hamilton and Ormonde intrigue for him. He begs her to get a loan from the Pope to raise a foreign army—and he promises," added Harrison dryly, "that, when he hath his day again, those two rebels, Cromwell and Ireton, shall both be hanged."

"Doth he? doth he?" said Cromwell; he held out his hand and took the papers.

One glance at their contents confirmed Harrison's summary—the whole was in the King's known hand.

Oliver Cromwell turned his horse and rode back to Hampton Court.