"I had better stay at home, Israel. I cannot 'Your Highness' Elizabeth Cromwell. Jane will go."
"And you, too, Martha. I wish it."
"I never go against your wishes, Israel—at least not often."
So it happened that on the sixteenth of December, Mrs. Swaffham and Jane wore dressing for Whitehall. Mrs. Swaffham was nervous and irritable; nervous, because she feared her gown was not as handsome as it ought to be; irritable, because she felt that circumstances were going to control her behaviour, whether she approved or not. Jane was unable to encourage or cheer her mother; she was herself the most unhappy maiden in London that day. She was white as the satin robe that clothed her, and her eyes held in their depths the shadow of that fear and grief which filled her heart. And though her mother was sorry for her distress, she was vexed that her girl could not better hide her trouble. "I hate to be pitied, Jane," she said, "and above all by 'her Highness.' And those Cromwell girls, they too will be crying 'Oh dear me!' and 'Poor Jane!' and you will be a sweet sadness to spice their own glory and happiness. Keep a brave heart, my girl. Something may happen any hour."
Jane did not answer. She could not talk; she needed all her strength to live. For eighteen days she had been forced to accept the fact that Cluny was at least eighteen days behind all probable and improbable delays. She had not received a line from him since he left Paris; no one had. He had apparently vanished as completely as a stone dropped into mid-ocean. She had been often at Jevery House, and during two of her visits had managed to see Sir Thomas and ask "if he had any intelligence from Lord Neville?" On her first inquiry he answered her anxiously; on his second his reply showed some anger.
"He offered voluntarily to take charge of Lady Jevery's jewels and to collect my money at The Hague; and unless he was certain of his ability to do these things safely, he ought not to have sought the charge."
And with these words there entered into Jane's heart a suspicion that hurt her like a sword-thrust. She found herself saying continually, "It is impossible! impossible! Oh, my God, where is he?"
All this time London was angry, anxious, almost tumultuous. Jane would have gone to Cromwell for help—indeed she did go once to Whitehall with this object in view—but she was told that he was in his own apartments silent and sad, and carrying a weight of responsibility that might have appalled the stoutest heart. Indeed, the whole family were quiet and preoccupied, and she came away without finding any fit opportunity to say a word about Cluny and his unaccountable delay. There was no one else to go to. Doctor Verity was visiting the Rev. Mr. Baxter at Kidderminster, and Matilda hated Cluny. Jane could not bear to suggest to Matilda a doubt as to Cluny's return. Certainly Mrs. Swaffham listened to her daughter's fears and anxieties, but Jane felt that the Parliament and its doings and misdoings, and the speculations concerning Cromwell, were the great and vital interest filling every heart. No one seemed to care about Lord Neville as she thought they ought to. So far, then, she had borne her sorrow alone, and it had never left her a moment for eighteen days and nights. Even in her sleep she wandered wretchedly looking for him; her pillows were full of evil forebodings, and the atmosphere of her room was heavy with the misery of her thoughts.
Fortunately the Cromwells had no idea that Jane was in trouble; they were, as was right and natural, very much excited over the ceremony of the day and the order in which it was to be carried out. His Excellency was with a number of his officers in a separate apartment, but madame, the General's mother, was in the large parlour of the Cockpit, and when the Swaffhams entered, she rose with delight to meet her old neighbours and friends. In spite of her great age she looked almost handsome in a robe of black velvet and silver trimmings, with a shawl-like drapery of rich white lace. In a short time her daughter-in-law and her grandchildren entered, and Mrs. Swaffham looked curiously at her old friend. Was this indeed the Elizabeth Cromwell she had gossiped with and sometimes quarreled with? this stately woman in purple velvet, with large pearls round her throat and falling in priceless beauty below her waist? There could be no doubt of her identity, for as soon as Mrs. Swaffham began to approach her, she came forward, saying in a tone of real pleasure,
"Martha! Martha! How glad I am to see you!" and the two women broke into smiles and exclamations, and then kissed each other.