Through the mingled splendour and distress, brightness and confusion of these years of the Lord-Protector's ruling in England, while the glory of England rose to a perilous height (her renown glittered as the foam on a wave cast for a moment into the sun—soon to fall into the darkness of the waters again and to be lost), while Oliver Cromwell shone refulgent in all men's eyes, the Lady Elisabeth Claypole, moving from her husband's house to her father's palaces, and in all places greatly loved, faded visibly and pitifully. She had always been an advocate of mercy, and many a Cavalier owed his life or his estate to her pleadings, and there was no one, however he might hate Cromwell, who had not a gentle thought for this daughter of his. Among her keen, delicate sisters she showed yet more keen and delicate, and though she had now lost the fresh English fairness which bloomed in the Lady Mary and the Lady Frances, and which had become womanly grace in Bridget Fleetwood, yet of all of them she was the most lovable. If any wished a favour from the Lord-Protector it was to her they went to ask her intercession, for as her illness and her weakness grew and her end came nearer, nearer with every painful breath she drew, His Highness' tender love increased into an agony of yearning, until it seemed as if he could refuse her nothing. One April, when His Highness was deep in great affairs—letters to Cardinal Mazarin, letters to General Blake now "Lackeys," said she, on hearing his complaint, "are still used to pay respect to princesses." But he told her she could by no means see His Highness, and he spoke so firmly that she sadly turned away. "Alas!" she murmured, "that I should be sent like a beggar from the door of a usurper!" John Thurloe regarded her sharply. "Had you been a man, madam, you would have had to answer for that remark." The lady turned and seemed about to reply, when Elisabeth Claypole chanced to pass the open door, and, seeing a stranger there, she entered. "Who is this?" she asked. "A lady who will not give her name," said the secretary dryly; "but no one can see His Highness now." "My name," said the stranger, with that air of fantastic dignity which disguised her haggard sadness, "is something too great to be bandied about here—but give me yours, madam." "I am Elisabeth Claypole, madam," returned the Protector's daughter mildly. The lady swept a courtly curtsey. "There is no need," she replied, "for me to disguise my quality from one so generous and good. I am, madam, the wife of the unfortunate Marquess of Newcastle." This name, which a few years ago had been one of the greatest in the land, and still echoed in the minds of men, had an effect on John Thurloe and even on Elisabeth herself. Then Elisabeth Claypole spoke. "Will you come with me, madam, and take a little poor hospitality?" Thurloe, glad to be relieved of the responsibility of the distinguished petitioner, put in his word. "I will give Your Grace's name to His Highness presently, but I do fear it is useless." "Come with me, madam," repeated the Lady Elisabeth, and she gently took the Marchioness by the hand and led her to her apartment. Lady Newcastle came meekly; for all her air of pride she was downcast and bewildered with misfortune. The Lady Elisabeth's room looked on the river, now shaded by willow trees covered with drooping yellow and red leaves, the banks were grown with tall grasses and rushes, and the first pale flowers of spring, beyond the soft fields, faded into the soft sky. Elisabeth Claypole loved to sit day after day at her deep window gazing on that scene, watching the river that wandered through such pleasant ways through the great city, past the palace, past the Traitor's Gate, out to the wonder and turmoil of the open sea. It was a beautiful chamber hung with embroidery of her own stitching, and furnished with many curious pieces from the Netherlands and China, carpets of Persia, and two mirrors framed in glass flowers and done by the Venetians. She put a chair for the Marchioness and herself sank into the window seat, glancing swiftly at her guest. She saw a lady of a medium loveliness, most piteously worn and marred by sorrow, and attired in a tasteful if unusual style, which gave her the appearance of being richly dressed; but Elisabeth's quick eyes saw that the grey silk dress had "I wished to see your father, madam," said Lady Newcastle, in a voice where fatigue and humiliation struggled with a natural pride. "Alas!" murmured Elisabeth. "He is so pressed with business—will you tell your errand to me, my Lady Newcastle?" "I have come to England in company with my brother-in-law to endeavour to obtain some remnant of my husband's estates," was the answer. "And we were returning in despair, when I, unknown to him, thought to make this personal appeal." The Lady Elisabeth knew at once that the unfortunate gentlewoman had made an utterly hopeless journey, for she was well aware that one of the late King's generals, and a royalist so notable as the Marquess of Newcastle, could never obtain grace from the Commonwealth. Wishful, as ever, to avoid inflicting pain rudely, she made an evasive answer. "Will your lord swear fealty to the Government, madam?" "Nay—do you take him for a disloyal wretch?" flashed the Marchioness. "Then," replied Elisabeth, with something of her pride roused, "I wonder that you should have undertaken the labour of this journey." A pallor overshadowed the royalist lady's features, and she hung her head, as if she heard in these words the full extent of her miseries and the depths of her humiliations. "Could you see how the exiles live in Paris, in Rotterdam—in Antwerp," she answered—"all of us—even the Queen—you would not wonder at my endeavour, however foolish, to obtain some relief." It was the Protector's daughter who paled now; the "You are then in distress?" she asked, in a low voice. "In the greatest poverty," replied Lady Newcastle, her pride melting before the touch of tenderness, and the tears suddenly reddening her eyes. "The French King makes nothing of us; he is all for an alliance with the usur—with your father. The Princess of Orange can do nothing for us, for, since her husband died, the Netherlands have put down her son and so—and so——" she paused to command herself, then continued: "Do not think I complain for myself. My lord was ruined when I married him in Paris. I took him for great and exceeding love, as he did me, seeing I was dowerless, and I make it no hardship to share his exiled wanderings with him—but there are so many others even wanting bread—and Her Majesty and the Princess Henrietta are in such distress——But not to you should I speak of these things. I would only explain how it is that I have so far lowered my dignity as to come here on this errand." Elisabeth Claypole caught a glimpse of the sufferings, poverties, and misery of the exiled English in this speech, given so humbly, so haltingly, yet with the accent of a pride unquenched. My lady dashed the tears from her eyes with a laced handkerchief. "I am Margaret Lucas," she added, "and well used to misfortunes. I came to England to try what I could do, but I found no friend anywhere, nor any one who would bring me before your father. So I came to-day—wildly and foolishly, it might be—to ask if he would give my lord his rights." "I would not give you false hopes," replied the Lady Elisabeth. "My Lord's estate is forfeit, and no entreaties of yours or mine could avail to restore it." "Entreaties?" cried Lady Newcastle. "I fear I could not entreat——" She abruptly checked her sentence, but Elisabeth knew well enough that some hard thing against the Protector had been on her tongue. "Have patience, my lady, this life is very short and full of sadness. All these great affairs and great pains will soon be past, and others will be in our places while we shall be at rest—up there"—she pointed to the sky—"above it all, God grant!" "You speak as if you too were unfortunate!" said the Marchioness wonderingly. "Surely, Mrs. Claypole, you do not need philosophy to sweeten your lot." "I am dying," answered Elisabeth Claypole. "And I am young and have much on this earth that I love, also I suffer very greatly—so much that I wish I could die quicker. Therefore," she added sweetly, "you see that I have not found the world wholly pleasant, and why I long for these mansions God hath prepared for us above." My lady's warm heart was greatly moved by this touching confession. "Forgive me, I did not know," she answered; "but I dare hope you are mistaken——" "Those who love me deceive themselves, but I know," smiled Elisabeth. "I am not afraid to die—but sometimes, madam, I am a coward before the pain, the great pain,"—then, hastily turning the subject from herself, she added,—"I mix not at all in business, I know my father doeth God's work—yet I am most grieved for you and such as you, for all the blood shed, for all the misery. Ah me!—our day is now, we seem very glorious, but what doth it all hang on? My father's life—no more. And it may be that we too shall end and come to nothing and your turn come again. I know not. Sometimes life seems very far away from me, as if I surveyed it from a distance, and saw it all blurred and vague." "How many sad women I have seen!" exclaimed Margaret. "The Queen—you would not know her—an Elisabeth did not answer; Cromwell was certainly not responsible for the military executions, so harsh and unnecessary, of Lucas and Lisle after the siege of Colchester; but it had been the work of Bridget's first husband, Henry Ireton (a man whom she had never liked), and so she could not condemn the action though her heart cried out against it. The Marchioness rose, and the gentle April sunlight flicked the scoured silk, the darned lace, the face so peaked and worn for one so young. "Well, well," she said, with quivering lips, "one goes on living—but the world is never the same after these things have happened. How differently I dreamed it would be!" "I also," answered Elisabeth Claypole. "I never thought of death at all. Far, far off I fancied him, and behold, he was knocking at the door. But the world does not heed poor silly women, madam; we are but the dust bruised by the tramplings of great events; nations march past and leave us weeping. God send you a good deliverance from your sorrows. I will do what little I can, and ask my father to receive your petition, but well I know it hopeless." "I thank you," said Margaret; "from my heart I thank you for your good, your generous, graciousness. I cannot think of you as my enemy——" "Why should you?" cried Elisabeth. "We are both English women. I hope the day is near when all such shall be united." She rose and unlatched the lattice, and a fresh air blew in from the young leaves that quivered on the willows and the young grass that waved in the fields. "The river!" said Margaret, looking over her shoulder. "I often dream of the river, it seems woven through everything—twisted in and out of the past years and all their story. In Paris, among strangers, I think of the river, and grow sad with home-sickness. The river is very dear—and means so much." "I think so too," said Elisabeth. "Consider how it will flow on the same, hundreds of years hence, when all the present kingdoms of the earth will be dust like yester year's roses." "I hope I shall die in England," said my lady irrelevantly; "and now farewell," she added bravely. "Forgive me my sad coming." "Come again," interrupted the Lady Elisabeth, taking her hand. "I may have news for you. Where do you lodge?" "With Mrs. Brydon, a cousin of my father over against the Exchange. I am called Mrs. Lucas there, for any pomp is foolish in such sorry circumstances." "Come again in a few weeks—my father is so occupied with the Spanish War—but I will speak to him of my lord's estates. Yet I can promise nothing," she added reluctantly. "Yet I love you dearly for the kindness," replied Margaret, holding out her hands. Elisabeth took them in her own frail fingers; these two women were strangely drawn to one another. "I pray Heaven you will recover," added the Marchioness. "I think you will recover. Madam, you will live to be very happy." "God may make me happy," said Elisabeth, "but not on the earth now." "Nay, you will live to encourage other unfortunates as you have encouraged me." Both of them had tears in their eyes; obeying a mutual impulse, they bent and kissed each other on the cheek. Elisabeth came with Margaret to the outer door of her apartments, and there gave her in charge to one of the ushers to be conducted from the palace with all courtesy. Before she returned to her chamber she asked if His Highness was at leisure. She was told that he was deeply engaged with his secretary on the questions to be put before the Council when he returned to Whitehall to-morrow. Lady Newcastle returned to an alien London, and sat down in her forlorn and ancient splendour to write to her beloved lord in Antwerp, where he lodged in the house of the late King's painter, Sir Peter Rubens. As the shadows fell over the city, over the fresh countryside, over the river, as the night moths came out and the early stocks and pinks in the gardens at Hampton Palace filled the air with sweetness, His Highness still toiled in his cabinet, and Elisabeth Claypole still sat at the open window of her room with folded hands and thoughtful eyes gazing across the twilight. |