"Now, indeed, you pierce my heart. You at his mercy! It is an intolerable shame! It will make me cry out, even when I sleep! I shall die of it. You! You! to be at his mercy—at the mercy of that Puritan braggart. Oh, I cannot endure it!"
"You see that I endure it very complacently, Mata. The man behaved as a gentleman and a soldier. I have even taken a liking to him. I have also paid back his kindness; we are quits, and as soldiers, friends. It was an accident, and as Neville very piously said, 'Accidents are God's part in an affair;' and therefore we would not be found fighting against God. You know, Mata, that I have been very religiously brought up. And I can assure you no one's honour suffered, mine least of all."
But Matilda was hard to comfort. Her last interview with her lover was saddened and troubled by this disagreement; and though both were broken-hearted in the moments of farewell, Matilda, watching Rupert across the Place Royale, discovered in the listless impatience of his attitude and movements, that inward revolt against outward strife, which, if it had found a voice, would have ejaculated, "I am glad it is over."
This, then, was the end of the visit from which she had expected so much; and one sad gray morning in November they reached London. Sir Thomas was like a man released from a spell, and he went about his house and garden in a mood so happy that it was like a psalm of gratitude to be with him. Lady Jevery was equally pleased, though less ready to show her pleasure; but to Matilda, life appeared without hope—a state of simple endurance, for she had no vital expectation that the morrow, or any other morrow, would bring her happiness.
The apparently fateful interference of Neville in her affairs made her miserable. She thought him her evil genius, the bearer of bad news, the bringer of sorrow. She felt Rupert's "accident" as part of the bad fate. She had been taught fencing, and Cymlin Swaffham had often declared her a match for any swordsman, so that she knew, as well as Rupert knew, no honour had been lost between him and Neville. But the "accident" touched her deeper than this: she regarded it as a proof that the stars were still against her good fortune, separating her from her lover, influencing Neville and his party for victory, and dooming the King and his party to defeat in all their relationships, private and national.
She said to herself in the first hours of her return that she would not see Jane, but as the day wore on she changed her mind. She wished to write Rupert every particular about national events, and she could best feel the Puritan pulse through Jane; while from no one else could she obtain a knowledge of the household doings of Cromwell and his family. Then, also, she wished Jane to see her new dresses, and to hear of the great and famous people she had been living among. What was the use of being familiar with princesses, if there was no one to talk to about them? And Matilda had so much to say concerning the ex-Queen of Bohemia and her clever daughters, that she could not deny herself the society of Jane as a listener. So she wrote and asked her to come, and Jane answered the request in person, at once. This hurry of welcome was a little malapropos. Matilda had not assumed the dress and style she had intended, and the litter of fine clothing about her rooms, and the partially unpacked boxes, gave to her surroundings an undignified and unimpressive character. But friendship gives up its forms tardily; people kiss each other and say fond words long after the love that ought to vitalise such symbols is dead and buried; and for awhile the two girls did believe themselves glad to meet again. There were a score of things delightful to women over which they could agree, and Jane's admiration for her friend's beautiful gowns and laces and jewels, and her interest in Matilda's descriptions of the circumstances in which they were worn, was so genuine, that Matilda had forgotten her relation to Lord Neville, when the irritating name was mentioned.
"Did you see Lord Neville in Paris?" Jane asked; and there was a wistful anxiety in her voice to which Matilda ought to have responded. But the question came when she was tired even of her own splendours and successes; she had talked herself out, and was not inclined to continue conversation if the subject of it was to be one so disagreeable. "No," she answered sharply. "I did not see him. He called one day, and had a long talk with Sir Thomas, but aunt had a headache, and I had more delightful company."
"I thought for my sake you would see him. Did you hear anything of his affairs?"
"Indeed, I heard he gave great offense to Cardinal Mazarin by his authoritative manner."
"Oh!"