The Lion's Whelp. Barr Amelia E.

and visions in the air above, yea, even on the streets around them.

      At Swaffham and de Wick this fateful feeling was aggravated by keen personal interests. To Mrs. Swaffham and Jane the coming battle might mean widowhood and orphanage; sons and brothers might be among those appointed to die for Freedom's sake. To de Wick it might mean the extinction of the family, root and branch, the loss to the lonely Earl and his daughter of the one love on which their future could build any hope. They could not bear audibly to surmise these things, but they feared them; and not even Jane had yet reached that far-seeing faith, which, for a noble end, levels life and death. As the days went on they ceased their usual employments; Jane went to the village, or even to Ely in search of news, or perhaps half-way to de Wick met Matilda on the same errand. Mutual fears drew them together; they talked and wept and encouraged each other, and always parted with the one whispered word – "To-morrow."

      At length there came a day when the unnatural tension grew to its cruel ripeness. The soft gray autumn morning was sensitive through every pulse of Nature, and as the day wore on a strange still gloom hung far and wide over the country. The very breath of calamity was in it. Puritan and Royalist alike went to the open churches to pray; tradesmen left their wares and stood talking and watching the highways; women wandered about their homes weeping and praying inaudibly, or they let their anxieties fret them like a lash. The next morning the west wind blew the sorrow in the air, far-off to sea; but left an instantaneous, penetrating sense of something being "all over." Whatever deed had been done, England would soon ring with it.

      On the third afternoon, there came rumours of a great Parliamentary victory, rumours that Charles Stuart had been slain in battle, suppositions and surmises innumerable and contradictory. Jane went as quickly as possible to de Wick, for if indeed there had been a Royalist defeat, Stephen de Wick might have reached home and life was hardly to be borne, unless some certainty relieved the tension cutting like a tight thong her heart and brain.

      The neglect and desolation of de Wick Park had in it something unusual: it was that strange air of sorrow, new and unaccepted, which insists on recognition. It hurried Jane's steps; she felt sure she was either going to meet trouble or that trouble was following after her. When she reached the house, there were two horses tied, and even two horses were a strange sight, now, at that door where once there had been all day long the noise and hurry of sportsmen, and of coming and going guests. She entered the hall and saw a man in his stockinged feet softly descending the stairs. She knew his name and his occupation, and her heart stood still with fear. The next moment Delia came forward, and Jane said,

      "I am glad to see you back, Delia. Is Lady Matilda well? Is any one ill? O Delia, what is the matter? Why are you crying? And why is Jabez Clay here?"

      "The priest is dead. Clay has been measuring him."

      "Dead!"

      "Yes, ma'am. He dropped dead when he heard of the fight – and the King's death."

      "Then you have news?"

      "The worst news that could come. No one has seen the King since the battle – all is lost – Audrey's Ben is back skin-whole, but he says – "

      "Is that you, Jane Swaffham?" cried Matilda, running down-stairs. "Come here, come here, come here!" and seizing her by the arm, she compelled Jane to ascend at her side. As for Matilda, she was like a woman distraught. Grief and anger burned white in her face, her eyes blazed, her speech was shrill, her manner like one possessed. Jane made no resistance to such impetuous, imperative passion, and she was hurried up the steps and along the corridor until Matilda suddenly stopped and threw open the door of a darkened room.

      "Go in, Mistress Swaffham," she cried, "and look your last on one of Cromwell's victims." And Jane shook herself free, and stood a moment regarding the placid face of the dead priest. He was wrapped in his winding sheet, the Book of Common Prayer lay on his breast, and his hands were clasped over it.

      "Oh, God be merciful!" said Jane, and Matilda answered, "Yes, for men know nothing of mercy. Come, there is more yet."

      Then she opened the door next to the death chamber, and Jane saw lying on a great canopied bed the dying Earl. His last breaths were coming in painful sobs, but he opened his eyes and looked mournfully at Jane for a few moments. Then the physician sitting by his side motioned authoritatively to the two girls to leave the room.

      "He is dying. You see that. He may live till morning – no longer," said Matilda; "he is only waiting to see Stephen, and Stephen will never come. Ben said he was with the King's horse, and the King is slain, and all is red ruin and sorrow without end. When you rise to-morrow morning, you can tell yourself Matilda de Wick is motherless, fatherless, brotherless, friendless, and homeless; and I dare say you will add piously, 'It is the Lord's doing'; but it is not the Lord's doing, it is Oliver Cromwell's work. I would walk every step of the way to London if I might see him hung when I got there!"

      "Indeed, Matilda, you are cruel to say such things. You are neither friendless nor homeless."

      "Indeed, I am in both cases. I will have no friends that are partners in Cromwell's crimes, and if Stephen be dead, de Wick goes only in the male line, and there is not a male left to our name. Cromwell and his Parliament may as well take house and lands; they have slain all who can hold them – all, Reginald, Roland, Stephen, my Uncle Robert, my cousins Rufus and Edward! What wonder that Julian Sacy's heart broke, and that my father only waits at the door of Death to say good-bye to Stephen."

      "What can I do for you, dear? Oh, what can I do?"