When the Marchioness of Newcastle, after waiting long and vainly, returned at length to Hampton Court and asked for the Lady Elisabeth, she was told that the Protector's daughter was too ill to see any one.

After lingering a little, and trying other sources of communication with the court and finding none, she returned sadly with her husband's brother to Antwerp to take up again her exiled life.

All through that summer and autumn Elisabeth Claypole had seemed sinking down to death. She knew little of what passed: of how, after long debates, His Highness had refused the title of King ('a feather in his cap,' he called it; a feather he would fain have had, many said, only the army had willed otherwise), but had been installed in purple and ermine as Lord-Protector of the new-formed Constitution and presented with Bible and sword; of how ambassadors had come and gone in England and the war with Spain proceeded brilliantly; how plots were formed and exposed and His Highness went in a continual fear of his life that was beginning to undermine his calm nerves and resolute courage, and of how he and his Generals toiled continually——

Of all this Elisabeth Claypole knew little; she was scarcely conscious of more than the darkened room in which she lay and of the figures of her mother and sisters coming and going softly, of her husband grieving by her bed, and her father's presence in such moments as he could spare to hold her hand and speak comforting words to her tired ears.

By the spring they thought that they had cured her; but in the summer she drooped again, though she went to the marriage of her sister Frances with young Mr. Rich, the Earl of Warwick's heir.

Frances was the last to wed, for Mary was now Lady Fauconberg. Many finer matches had been suggested for this youngest of the Protector's daughters; some had even tried to bring about a marriage between her and Charles Stewart, and the women of His Highness' family had favoured this scheme, but Cromwell waved it aside—'If he could forgive his father's death, I could not forgive the loose manner of his life'—and Frances had wedded, after much opposition, Mr. Rich, a delicate youth.

In the June of this year of 1658 came the great news of the fall of Dunkirk, the defeat of the Spanish, and the flattering friendship of the French. London glittered with a congratulatory embassy from Paris; in the midst of the pageantry, His Highness, who had already interfered once to save the poor people of the valleys of Piedmont, was once more extending his mighty protection to them, and Mr. Milton, the Latin Secretary to the Council of State, was turning His Highness' letters into Latin: Mr. Milton dictated his translations now, for he was lately become utterly blind.

The news of the battle of the Dunes raised England to a yet higher point of fame than she had yet reached. France could refuse such an ally nothing, and Mazarin interfered to protect the Piedmontese.

So went affairs abroad and in England well too, save that the finances were strained, His Highness having dissolved the Parliament in February, preferring, indeed, to govern without one.

"God be judge between you and me," were the concluding words of his last speech.

Other sorrows beside the illness of his daughter visited His Highness this summer: Mr. Rich died a few months after his marriage, leaving poor Frances a widow at seventeen; the old Earl of Warwick died, an ancient friend of the Protector; most painful and terrible loss of all, the youngest son of the Lady Elisabeth died, and she fell again into illness and was soon at a desperate extremity.

In between his entertainment of the French ambassadors at Whitehall, his conferences with his Council, and all the routine of government, His Highness would take his coach and drive to Hampton, and sit for a while in his child's darkened chamber and pray with tears that her agony might be lessened.

His own health began to suffer. Those about him noticed that the deep gloom which had settled on his spirits was affecting his strength; he still looked and seemed in every way younger, much younger than his years; he had a great appearance of strength; he gave the impression of being firmly built, and set, and able to endure for a great while yet the powerful winds which buffeted his high and glorious pinnacle of splendour.

Yet those most with him, especially Thurloe, his ardent and faithful secretary, thought that underneath this calm and strong exterior he was much shaken in mind and health. His domestic sorrows were known to affect him sorely, his nerves were strained to breaking-point by the constant apprehension of assassination, the future was believed to weigh on him, for there was no settlement of the country for any period longer than his life, and it became daily more apparent how the whole fabric of Puritan government depended on that life, on his unique position and influence with the army, on the dominating force of his personality, on the glory of his prestige and the glamour of his genius.

He had always seemed so vigorous, and glowing with the light and the fire of an immortal spirit that no one associated him with age or death or thought about his successor; but it was possible that to himself, as the atmosphere of death chilled his home, might come the reflection that the England of his making was as baseless as the Greece of Alexander, and might as easily fall to pieces at his death—only his captains were not the men to divide the spoils. What, then, would follow?

He may well have asked himself that question and pondered over it in these dark days.

The Lord Richard, his eldest surviving son, was a mere country gentleman, with neither strength nor talents—nay, rather of an indolent turn and a certain softness; to set him to hold together the various elements which controlled the nation would be to invite certain failure.

The Lord Henry, his second son, was as able a man as any about him and already of much distinction in his military and diplomatic career; but he was not the man to step into another's place: ambition did not spur his noble qualities. Then there were the Lord Fleetwood, his son-in-law, the Lord Lambert, Disbrowe, many fine, fearless soldiers, Blake, Monck. But where was the man—the one pre-eminently marked out to continue the work of His Highness?

No one could point to such an one. The Lord-Protector had the right of naming his successor, but as yet had not done so; the new-founded Constitution (the last attempt to frame a civil government on the foundations of arbitrary military power) was scarcely complete, and after these last glorious successes in the Spanish War there was further persistent talk of a kingship for the Protector. Many said this title was a certain thing; but it was a thing yet pending, and with it the question of the succession.

There were many jars and confusions, too, in the inner state of England that might well weigh on the spirit of the Protector. His body was worn with gout and a slight but lingering aguish fever. He might neglect none of his business, and maintain the appearance of mental and physical strength, but John Thurloe, his constant companion, was not deceived.

"His Highness," he said to Whitelocke, "is a sick man, and these vigils by the Lady Elisabeth will wear him to a great disease."

That summer was notable for the fierceness of the heat: day by day the sun beat down without either rain or cloud, night after night the stars shone with unveiled brilliance; then towards the beginning of August a light wind blew for several days and cooled the air. Elisabeth Claypole seemed to rally a little as the great heat was relieved, and His Highness, who had left business for several days lately to watch by her, thought it safe to return to London, where the French notables were still being entertained.

On Friday the 6th of August he came back to Hampton Court; he came in a coach, for, having lately been flung from his carriage, he was too shaken to ride on horseback. That day he had been more than usually cheerful; he had even smiled at the reports from France: tales of how his Ironsides (oh, irony!), now fighting there side by side with the followers of the Scarlet Lady, had given their General trouble by their behaviour in the churches of the idolaters, one lighting his pipe from the candle on the high altar. Then he heard how Mr. Hugh Peters had endeavoured to make long sermons before the magnificent Cardinal, hoping to convert him from his deep errors.

At the name of Mr. Hugh Peters His Highness smiled no more; it recalled to him strangely that winter morning in Whitehall when he had paced the boarded gallery in sick agitation, and Hugh Peters, in his black clothes, had gone out to the scaffold and helped knock a staple in and hurried to and fro in enthusiastic excitement.... It seemed so long ago ... and now this same Hugh Peters was arguing with Cardinal Mazarin, and the young King of France was sending him a rich sword with a jewelled hilt ... a King who was the nephew of that other King who had knelt down at the block that January morning.

His Highness did not set much store by this costly sword: his victories had been won with plainer weapons.

While he was in his coach, hastening towards Hampton, he took from his pocket a pamphlet which was then making much stir in England. The title was Killing no Murder, and it set forth with much eloquence that any murderer of Oliver Cromwell would be justified by God and man.

His Highness read the paper from beginning to end, then put it back in his pocket.

"There is no notice to be taken of such things," said John Thurloe, who sat opposite him.

"It is no matter one way or another," answered His Highness; and he took from his bosom a small Bible and gave it to Thurloe and asked him to read from it aloud, "For," he said, "I feel my eyes tired."

"What shall I read?" asked the secretary, leaning towards the light of the window and unclasping the Book: the coach had just turned by Turnham Green and the road was smooth.

"Read," said the Lord-Protector, "the fourth of St. Paul to the Philippians, the eleventh, twelfth, and thirteenth verses—read aloud in a strong voice."

Which John Thurloe did.

"'Not that I speak in respect of want: but I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content. I know both how to be abased, and I know how to abound. Everywhere, and by all things, I am instructed both to be full and to be hungry, both to abound and to suffer need. I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.'"

His Highness repeated the last sentence.

"'I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.' This Scripture did once save my life," he added, "when my eldest son, poor Robert, died, which went as a dagger to my heart—indeed, it did."

He paused and John Thurloe looked up, startled to hear him refer to a sorrow so ancient. But Cromwell's thoughts seemed to be in the past.

"In my great extremity," he continued, "I did read these passages of Paul's contention—of the submission to the will of God in all conditions; and it was hard—indeed, it was hard. In my weakness I said, 'It is true, Paul, you have learned this, and attained to this measure of grace; but what shall I do? Ah, poor creature, it is a hard lesson for me to take out. I find it so!' But reading on to the thirteenth verse, where Paul saith, 'I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me,' then faith began to work and my heart to find support, saying to myself, 'He that was Paul's Christ is my Christ too!'—and so I drew waters out of the well of salvation."

"Why should Your Highness remind yourself of this?" asked Thurloe anxiously.

"Oh, Thurloe!" cried the Lord-Protector, with a great sigh, "it is to nerve myself in case another of my children should be taken from me. If she should die—it would be almost more than I could bear. Yet God might take her, though I have wrestled with Him for her life, even as David wrestled for the life of his son. My brave, sweet one! She was always good and loving, was she not, Thurloe? Wonderful and inscrutable are His ways that He should lay such suffering and agonies on one so delicate and valiant!"

The secretary had no more to say; neither did His Highness speak again, but gazed out of the window at the sun-dried countryside, at the orchards where the dry wind blew the shrivelled leaves of red and gold from the fruit too early ripe, at the great elms and oaks rustling the foliage to the ground, at the thatched and gabled cottages where the children ran to the doors to watch the coach with the four horses and outriders and the troop of Lifeguards go by.

Soon they came in sight of the river, with islands and barges and reaches, where the boats were drawn above the tide and a few boys fished, knee-deep in mud.

Then they lost the river and passed between private mansions standing among trees, and so to the village of Hampton as the sun was sinking in a glow of unstained fire.

As they neared the Palace His Highness became very pale, and he looked once or twice with an air of dread from the window, as if he expected to see some awful change over the place.

But no scene could have been more peaceful: the river flowed softly between the fading willows and the banks where the tall grasses, white whorls of hemlock, and clusters of parsley flowers grew; the last light of the sun glowed on the red bricks of the Palace and cast long shadows from the summer flowers in the garden; up among the high chimney-stacks white pigeons fluttered home with light upon their wings.

Cromwell entered the Palace. The first to meet him was one of the grooms of his chamber; the man gave him a frightened look and moved away without speaking.

He went towards his daughter's apartments, and in the corridor Frances Rich, a child in widow's mourning, came towards him with staggering steps.

He paused.

"Oh, my father!" she said, and lifted a face swollen with weeping.

"What is it, my dear?" he asked, in a still voice. "Be calm, my child, my dear."

He took her trembling little figure by the shoulder and smoothed back the damp hair from her forehead.

"Is she dead?" he asked. "Is she gone—is Betty dead, dear?"

"Oh, my father!" sobbed poor Frances again, and seemed unable to find other words.

Elisabeth Cromwell came down the passage, and with her the Lord Claypole.

"Ah," said His Highness, "is it over? And I left her—yet only for a little—and she is gone."

His wife came and put her arms round his neck and wept on his shoulder a little, then she took his hand and led him to their daughter's chamber, followed by those two other mourners, also sick with grief and watching.

Elisabeth Claypole lay dead, she had fallen from one convulsion fit to another, and breathed her last breath, in great pain and suffering, but with a composed and cheerful mind and a serene and hopeful soul.

She was dead; very young she looked as she lay in the great bed in the darkened chamber with the shadows over her; the rich coverlet was straightened across her limbs, the sheet smoothed, the pillow shaken; she was at peace after the long tossings to and fro, the hot nights of agony, the dragging days of unconsciousness.

Very small she looked and delicate; her hair seemed like a handful of fine silk on the pillow, her hands white flowers on the coverlet; her head was drooping slightly sideways, and the gentle look she wore in life had returned, effacing all trace of suffering.

There were many standing round her; all made way at the approach of His Highness; he came up to the bed and looked down at her.

"'My life is waxen old with heaviness,'" he murmured, "'and my years with mourning.... I am become like a broken vessel.'"

He bent over her stillness, his transient sorrow breaking vainly against her eternal repose.

"Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord," said Elisabeth Cromwell, and touched her husband's hand.

He went to his knees on the bed-step and put his head on his folded hands.

"May He who sitteth above the waterflood comfort me—for in myself I can do nothing!" he muttered.

They left him there, for they thought that he prayed; but it was not so: the valiant spirit had been robbed of its matchless fortitude at last; His Highness was in a swoon of anguish.