He raised her with an imperious movement, and leading her to a chair, remained standing at her side. "We will forget—the past is to be forgot—for your dear father's sake. Quickly tell me what you know, I am in a great hurry."
Without one unnecessary word she related all, and then put into his hands Prince Rupert's letter, with her finger directing his attention to the terrifying postscript. And she saw with fear the rising passion in his countenance, and for a moment trembled when he looked into her eyes with such piercing inquiry that she could not resist nor misunderstand their question.
"Sir," she cried, with a childlike abandon, "in this matter I am single-hearted as I can be. I wish only to put a great wrong right."
"You tell me the truth, I believe you," he answered; "and I will take upon me to see that it is done. Say not a word to Jane Swaffham until there be a surety in the matter."
Then she rose, and looking with eyes full of tears into his face, said, "Sir, I remember the day you pulled down the hazelnuts for me in de Wick park. My father walked with you, arm in arm, and I had your hand until you lifted me at the gates and kissed me. Sir, I entreat you, forget all that has come and gone since that hour, and dismiss me now, as then,"—and she lifted her lovely face, wet with the tears of contrition, and Cromwell took it between his broad, strong hands, and kissed it, even as he had kissed it in her childhood.
"Go home, my dear," he said softly. "All that can be done I will do, and without delay. You believe in the God of your fathers, and you pray to Him?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then pray for Cluny Neville. I may speak, but it is God that setteth the prisoner free. His blessing be on you. I am glad to have seen your face, I am truly. A good-day to you!"
Matilda curtsied and went out. Her cheeks burned, her heart was flooded with a thousand feelings. She marveled most at herself; all her scorn had turned into respect, all her hatred into something very like affection. Yet mingling with these new-born emotions was an intense contempt for herself. "A nice Royalist you are, Matilda de Wick!" she muttered angrily. "You went on your knees to the Regicide! You gave him your cheek to kiss! You shed tears! You asked his pardon! You contemptible woman, I am ashamed of you! The man is a wizard—he has a charm from the devil—why did I go into his presence? I hope I may be able to keep the secret of my own fall. I vow it is as deep as Eve's! I am mortified beyond words,—and if Cymlin knew, what volumes there would be in his eyes and his mouth, and—his silence!"
And yet there was in her heart a strong belief that this time Cromwell's inquiries would be as effective as they were sure to be prompt. Indeed the first thing the Protector did, was to dictate the following letter to Mazarin: