The Governor of England. Bowen Marjorie

down our enemies."

      "Through … God" repeated Mr. Cromwell, "we … shall do … great acts."

      He put his hand to the plain little sword at his side, that had hitherto been of no use save to give evidence of his gentility on market days at Huntingdon and Ely. … "Great acts," he repeated again.

      As he stood so, his right hand crossed to his sword, his left resting on the open Bible, his chin sunk on to his breast and his whole face softened and veiled with thought, he was not conscious of the humble room, the patter of the rain, the two coarse candles poorly dispelling the darkness. He was only aware of a sudden access of power, a revival of the burning sensation that had come to him in the old barn perfumed with hay at St. Ives.

      His doubts and confusions, misgivings and fears, vanished, this inner conviction and power seemed sufficient to combat all the foes concealed in the quiet city—all, even to the King himself. …

      He went to his knees as swiftly as if smitten into that attitude.

      "Through God," he whispered, "we shall do great acts."

      He hid his strong face in his strong hands and prayed.

CHAPTER VI

       THE KING FAILS

       Table of Contents

      November had turned to May and my Lord Strafford's public agony was over; he lay in the Tower a condemned man.

      For seventeen days had he, in this most momentous trial of his, defended himself, unaided, against thirteen accusers who relieved each other, and with such skill that his impeachment was like to have miscarried; but the Commons were not so to be baulked.

      They dare not let Strafford escape them; they feared an Irish army, a French army, they feared the desperate King would dissolve them, they feared another gunpowder plot, and twice, on a cracking of the floor, fled their Chamber. All fears, all anxieties, all animosities were at their sharpest edge; the crowds in the streets demanded the blood of Strafford, and did not pause to add that if they were disappointed they would not hesitate to satisfy themselves with more exalted victims.

      A Bill of attainder against my lord was brought forward and hurried through Parliament. Pym and Hampden opposed it, but popular fear and popular rage were stronger than they, and there was no hope for Strafford save in the master whom he was condemned for serving. He wrote to the King, urging him to pass the Bill for the sake of England's peace.

      London became more and more exasperated; rumours flew thick: The King's son-in-law, the Prince of Orange, was coming with an army; money was being sent from the French King; the Irish, that ancient nightmare, were to be let loose; the Queen had raised a troop to attack the Keys of the Kingdom and set my lord free by force from the Tower.

      The Bill was passed, and on a May morning sent up for the King's assent.

      He had, a week before, sent a message to the Lords, beseeching them not to press upon his conscience on which he could not condemn his minister.

      But the appeal had failed; Lords, Commons, and people all waited eagerly, angrily, threateningly, for the King's assent.

      He asked a day to consider; he sent for three bishops and, in great agony of mind, asked their ghostly counsel. Usher and Juxon told him Strafford was innocent and that he should not sign. Williams bid him bow to the opinion of the judges, and bade him listen to the thunderous tumult at his gates. London was roused, he said, and would not be pacified until my lord's head fell on Tower Hill.

      So the hideous day wore on to evening, and the King had not signed.

      As the delay continued, the suspense and agitation in the city become almost unbearable, and it took all the efforts of the royal guards to hold the gates of the Palace.

      The King was locked into his private cabinet, and even the Queen had not seen him since noon.

      Henriette Marie had passed the earlier part of the day with her younger children. She had made several vain attempts to see the King and she had denied herself to all, even to Lady Strafford and her frantic supplications.

      She had many agents continually employed, and during the day they came to her and reported upon the feeling in the Houses, in the city, and in the streets.

      She saw, from these advices, that the King's situation was little better than desperate. She saw another thing—there was not, at that moment, sufficient force available in the capital to control the multitude. They were, in fact, at the mercy of the populace.

      When the haze of spring twilight began to fall over the stocks and lilies, violets and pinks in the gardens sloping to the river, still flashing in the sinking sun, and the first breaths of evening were wafted through the open windows of the Palace, delicious with the perfume of these beds of sweets, the Queen went herself and alone to the cabinet where the King kept his anguished vigil.

      For a while he would not open, even to the sound of her voice, but after she had waited there a little, like a supplicant, she heard his step, the key was turned, and he admitted her. She entered swiftly and flung herself at his feet, as she had done at their first meeting nearly twenty years ago, when he had lifted her young loveliness to his heart, there to for ever remain.

      Now she was a worn woman, her beauty prematurely obscured by distresses, and he was far different from the radiant cavalier who had welcomed her to England, but the fire of love lit then in the heart of each had not abated; even now, in the midst of his misery of mind, he raised her up as tenderly, as reverently, as when she had first come to him.

      "Mary," he said brokenly, "Mary."

      He kissed her cold cheek as he drew her to his shoulder, and she felt his tears.

      But her mood was not one of weeping; her frail figure, her delicate features, were alert and quivering with energy; her large vivid eyes glanced eagerly round the room. On the King's private black and gold Chinese bureau lay the warrant for my Lord Strafford's execution. So hasty and resolved was the Parliament, also, perhaps, so confident of their power to force the King's assent, that the warrant had been sent before the royal consent had been given to the Bill.

      The Queen drew herself away from Charles and rested her glance on him. She wore a white gown enriched with silver damask flowers, her face, too, was colourless save for a feverish flush under her eyes, and the long-admired black locks hung neglected and disarranged over her deep lace collar. She was a sorrowful and reproachful figure as she stood regarding him so intently.

      The King's white sick face, too, wore a look of utter suffering, in his narrowed eyes was a bitterness beyond sorrow.

      "Sire," said the Queen in a formal tone, "you shut yourself up here when it would more befit you to come forth and face what must be faced." She set her teeth, "The people are at the very gates."

      Charles took a step back against the heavy brocaded hangings of the wall.

      "I will not sign—no—I will not assent," he muttered.

      "Will not? Will not?" cried the Queen. "Charles, thou hast no choice."

      "Dost thou advise me to do this infamous thing?" answered the King in a terrible voice. "He is my friend, his peril is through serving me; and he trusts me, relies on me—that is enough. Even as you came I had resolved that, not even to save my sacred Crown, would I abandon Strafford."

      "And what of me and my children?" asked the Queen, in a still voice; "do we come after thy servant? Is thy love for me grown so halting that I come last?"

      The King winced.

      "Who would touch thee?" he murmured.

      "Even those who, now outside this very palace, cry insults against the Papist and the Frenchwoman. Charles, I tell thee this is playing on the edge of a revolution—are we all to go to ruin for Strafford's sake?"