In a room of the house where Oliver Cromwell had moved his family from Ely, a mansion in Drury Lane, one of the least pretentious in that fashionable street, but stately and comfortable, two women were sitting over the ruddy fire which lit and cheered the close of the short winter day.

The contrast between them was as marked as any contrast could be, yet something in their personalities knit together and blended as if beneath their great differences there was an underlying likeness—the likeness of the same breed and birth.

The elder lady was towards the close of life—eighty, perhaps, or more; her face and person were delicate, her lap full of delicate embroidery, out of which her fine fingers drew a fine needle and thread.

She wore a grey tabinet gown; a white cap and white strings enclosed her fragile face, white linen enfolded her shoulders and bosom, and long white cuffs reached from her wrist to her elbow.

A housewife's case and a small Bible hung by cords to her waist; she had nothing of gold or silver but her worn wedding ring, yet she gave the impression of something high and fine and aristocratic.

She sat in a deep, cushioned chair with a hooded top; the failing light had baffled the eyes that were still so keen, and the needlework was dropped on her lap.

At her feet, on a small footstool, sat her grandchild, she who had brightened the house at Ely with her balls of holly berries, her red ribbons, her laughter, and her songs, and who now brightened the finer town house when she visited there; she was no longer an inmate of her father's home, for, though only seventeen, Elisabeth was a year married and now Mrs. Claypole.

Neither in dress nor manner was she a Puritan; her lavender-blue silk gown, flowing open on a lemon-coloured petticoat, her deep falling collar and cuffs of Flemish lace, the bow of rose colour at her breast and in her hair, her white sarcenet shoes with the silver buckles, the long ringlets which escaped the pearl comb and fell on her shoulders, even her piquant bright face, with eyes slightly languishing and mouth slightly wilful, seemed more to belong to the now exiled court of Henriette Marie than to the household of the leader of the Roundhead army.

Yet there was nothing frivolous in the appearance of Elisabeth Claypole; her prettiness had a pensive cast, her glance often a seriousness unusual for her age, and if she sometimes showed a pride, a vanity, or an impatience, impossible to her sweetly austere sister, Bridget Ireton, she was not less noble and pious, brave and good, and perhaps her deeper tenderness, her greater gaiety, her warmer love of life were not such sins in the eyes of the God whom she had always been taught to fear; yet sins her father called them, though he knew they made her lovable, though he found her sweeter than Bridget, who was gentle perfection.

Sitting here now, in the closing day, with the firelight flushing her delicate clothes and her sensitive face, and the shadows encroaching on her hair, here, with the cheerful noises of London without and the cheerful atmosphere of home within, she talked to her grandmother of the one subject every one must talk of this wondrous winter—the King's bewildered flight from Hampton, his aimless two days' riding, his final turning to the Isle of Wight and giving himself up to the Governor there, Colonel Hammond, whom he had reason to believe was loyalist at heart.

Yet here again the King had been, as ever, unfortunate; Robert Hammond, tempted at first to take the King where he wished, yet remained true to his trust, and the unhappy Stewart was again a prisoner, now at Carisbrooke, kept more strictly than before—and a portentous silence hung over the nation; English, Scots, Presbyterians, Independents, Parliamentarians, the army, the Royalists—all seemed waiting—"Waiting for what?" asked Elisabeth Claypole, voicing the question England was asking.

"For the Lord to show His will towards this poor kingdom," said Mrs. Cromwell simply. "Surely He will dispose it all to mercy."

"Mercy?" repeated the young girl thoughtfully. "I see little mercy abroad. Much blood and bitterness—but no mercy."

"At least," said the old gentlewoman composedly, "His Majesty is mewed up, and that should be a step towards the settlement of these tangled affairs."

"Alas, poor King!" murmured the youngest Elisabeth (it was her mother and her grandmother's name). "Alas! alas!"

"Why dost thou say alas?" asked Mrs. Cromwell calmly. "Dost thou not recall what thy father said in the House the other day when he moved that no more addresses should be sent to the King, nor any dealings made with him, under pain of high treason? He put his hand on his sword, thy father did, and he said, quoting Holy Writ—'Thou shalt not suffer a hypocrite to reign——'"

"He said not so much a month ago," replied Elisabeth; "then he was all for a good peace with His Majesty, saying—how could any man come quietly to his own save by that?"

"Thou knowest," returned the old lady, who had much of the strength and melancholy of her son in her calm demeanour, "that all that is changed."

"Will there be another war?" murmured Elisabeth Claypole, looking dreamily into the fire.

"That is a matter for men.... Be not so grave, dear heart, the Lord hath us all in His keeping."

"My father," replied the girl, "hath been grave of late—during all my visit. He thinketh affairs are dark, I believe."

"Not only affairs of the kingdom weigh on him, Elisabeth—something his own do oppress him. The Parliament settlements are yet indefinite, and then there is your brother Richard's marriage. It does not please your father that he should be so deep in love as to leave the Life Guards. And then this Dorothea Mayor's father requireth settlements, hard for your father to give as things now stand—all this weighs with him and puts him in anxieties and silences."

At the end of this speech, Mrs. Cromwell, either exhausted from so many words or from the thoughts her own explanation had conjured up, sighed and leant back in her chair, dropping her chin on the immaculate whiteness of her cambric bosom, as her son would sink his on his breast when he was thoughtful or oppressed.

"Richard," said Elisabeth Claypole in that soft, eager voice which was always ready to plead for and to praise every one, "is not suited for the army—he never cared for it."

"Cannot you see," replied Elisabeth Cromwell almost sharply, "what a disappointment that is for your father?"

"He loveth Oliver," whispered Oliver's sister, and her eyes swam in tears. "Oliver would have been a good soldier."

"He loved Robert more," returned the grandmother. "Robert was the first born. His eldest son. Richard could never be as either Robert or Oliver to him; yet he will be loving and just to Richard." That sense of the presence of the dead that the hushed mention of them seems to so often evoke, as if they were never far, and at the sound of love and regret hovered near, filled the darkening room. Both the grandmother and sister seemed to see the bright ardent figure of the young cornet, whose life had burst forth so fiercely into action amid the whirling events of war, and had been stilled so suddenly by a hideous disease in an insignificant garrison, and was now forgotten save by these one or two who had loved him.

Elisabeth Claypole remembered; she remembered his excitement, their mother's instructions, the cordials and balms he had taken with him, the fine shirts she had helped stitch and pack, his new sword that had looked so big to her childish eyes—the farewells—the letters....

Elisabeth Cromwell remembered; she remembered his farewell visit, how she had blessed him and he had knelt before her with her hand on his smooth fair head ... and his tallness and straightness and slenderness, and all his bright new bravery of war array....

"Ah well," she said softly. "Ah well," and her mind wandered off to her own youth, and it seemed to her as if she had indeed been living a long time ... almost too long.

"Light the candles, my love, my dear," she said. "It is sad to sit in the dark."

As her granddaughter rose, the door opened and Oliver Cromwell entered.

His coming was a surprise; he was not now often in London, save when he had to speak at Westminster. He had lately been at Hereford, and they had not expected his return so soon.

The sincere warmth of his welcome might have pleased any man, however weary, and his gravity lifted under it for a while, but when he had kissed them both and come to the fire and warmed his hands, silence came over him, as if the melancholy had closed over and clouded him again. His mother, from her hooded chair, gazed at his powerful, yet drooping figure, and the presence of the younger Oliver seemed more insistent.

Elisabeth Claypole had gone to fetch the candles.

"We were speaking of Oliver," said Mrs. Cromwell.

Her son turned to look down at her.

"He is with the Lord," he answered gravely. "He was a man—and took a man's fate doing man's work."

A little fall of silence, then Cromwell spoke again—

"Do you think of Robert sometimes, mother?"

"I knew, I knew," murmured the old gentlewoman. "He was your love."

"He was a child," replied Cromwell, with infinite tenderness, with infinite regret. "A little, useless child. Dying so, he remains a child—never higher than my shoulder. My eldest born. Oliver laughed when he did go, for joy to die in God's service, but Robert wept. Ay, they at Felsted told me he wept because I was not there to take his hand in the sharpness of his passing. Oh, that went to my heart, my innermost heart ... but God saved me."

The young Elisabeth returned, followed by the servant with the two branched candlesticks of brass which stood on the black polished table, where they reflected their full shining length.

With a shudder the Lieutenant-General roused himself and turned to face the room.

"What hast thou been doing?" asked Elisabeth Claypole when the maid had gone.

"It would not please thee to know," he answered sombrely.

Now the room was lit she noticed his pallor, his heavy air.

"Thou art tired, father," she cried.

"Ay—tired—tired—bring me a glass of wine, dearest." He turned round again to the fire and said abruptly, "There hath been a mutiny in the army. A rebellious meeting at Corkbush field—these levellers it was—but I did stamp it out; we must have no disaffection in the army."

"A meeting?" exclaimed his daughter, taking a bell-mouthed glass from the sideboard; "but it is ended—how?"

"They drew lots," replied Cromwell, "and one was shot. One Arnald—a brave man."

"Oh, father!" cried Mrs. Claypole. "More blood—more misery!"

"It had to be," said Cromwell. "Dost thou think I love it?" He made an effort to shake off his preoccupation and his gloom, "Come, come, this is no news for thee."

He turned again to gaze very tenderly at her as she came with wine on a silver salver.

"Oh, vanity and carnal mind!" he cried, pulling at the ribbons on her sleeve; "thy sister Ireton doth think that thou art too much given to worldliness! Yet seek ye the Lord and ye shall find Him," he added, with a sudden grave smile.

"Sir, I would," she replied earnestly. "Let not my ways deceive you, I am very humble at heart."

"I do believe it," he said.

He drank his wine slowly. He asked where his wife was (he had learnt below that she was abroad), and was told that she was with Lady Wharton.

"She did not expect me," he said half-wistfully. "I wish that I had chanced to find her. Since I am so much away I would have all round me when I am at home."

"She will be in soon," said his mother, gathering up her fine sewing with an air of regret, for the candlelight was not strong enough for her to see the minute stitches.

Elisabeth crept up to her father, and taking his sword hand, caressed it.

"What of the King?" she asked.

"The King is at Carisbrooke," he replied.

She gave a deep sigh.

"How will it end, my father?"

"How should we have that knowledge yet?"

"The poor King!" she exclaimed. "I am sorry for the poor King!"

Cromwell was silent.

"Tell me," said Elisabeth, creeping closer to him, "will there be another war?"

"God forfend," he answered gravely.

"Then what will the King do?" she insisted.

"Thou art very tender towards the King."

"I am sorry for him, surely. And I have heard thee say—he must have his rights again."

"He hath forfeited his rights," said Cromwell, glooming. "He is a hypocrite."

"Once you were his friend," said Elisabeth Claypole; "is that over? Why, Major Harrison even called you royalist."

"Yes, it is over," returned her father, "and now you may sooner call me republican—a name I did use to hate. The King is not one to be trusted, neither is he fortunate. God is against him, and will not have him raised up again; even as the Lord's judgment went forth against Tyrus, so hath it gone forth against Charles Stewart. What hath God said—'I shall bring thee down with them that descend to the pit—and thou shalt be no more—thou shalt be sought for, but never shalt thou be found!'"

"But what wilt thou do with the tyrant?" asked Mrs. Cromwell.

"He is not my prisoner, nor am I his judge," replied Cromwell, with sudden vehemence. "Ask me not what his fate will be! Ask me not to pity the King—'he that soweth iniquity shall reap vanity, and the rod of his anger shall fail.'"

He crossed to the sideboard and set his glass there.

Elisabeth Claypole stood sad and thoughtful by her grandmother's chair; Cromwell came and kissed her delicate forehead.

"Thy brother's marriage treaty sticks," he said pleasantly. "I must go and write to Mr. Mayor, and cast up what higher settlements I can offer."

"He demands too much," declared Mrs. Cromwell.

"Nay, he is prudent; but I have two wenches still to provide for—farewell for a moment." He had gone again.

"The affairs of men!" muttered the old gentlewoman. "Well, well."

Elisabeth Claypole, too, felt sad; she, too, felt helpless in a busy world that did not need her. She returned to her stool and began to fold up her grandmother's work; both of them, being women, were used to loneliness.