"It is another friend gone," he said mournfully to his own heart; "lover and friend are put far from me and mine acquaintance into darkness." But he went straight to his daughter Elizabeth, and talked to her only of God's great love and goodness, and of the dear boy who had been taken from them because "he pleased God; because he was beloved of God, so that living among sinners he was translated; yea, speedily was he taken away, lest wickedness should alter his understanding or deceit beguile his soul; and being made perfect in a short time, fulfilled a long time."[1]
[1] Wisdom of Solomon, Chap. 4, vs. 10-13.
Cluny was so much troubled and affected by this visit that Israel thought it well to take him to see the ship which was to carry him to the solitudes of the great waters and the safety of the New World. He was impatient to be gone, but there were yet a number of small interests to be attended to; for they were to carry with them a great deal of material necessary to the building and furnishing of their future home. Every day revealed some new want not before thought of, so that it was nearing the end of June when at last all was declared finished and ready.
Then Jane went to Hampton Court to bid her old friends a last farewell. It was a mournful visit. She fancied they did not care as much as she thought they might have done. In fact, the gloomy old palace was a terrible House of Mourning, and the Cromwells' own sorrows consumed their loving-kindness. Frances, in her widow's garb, could only weep and talk of her dead bridegroom. Lady Claypole was dumb under the loss of her son and her own acute suffering, and Mrs. Cromwell's heart bleeding for both her unhappy daughters. Jane was shocked at her white, anxious face; alas, there was only too much reason for it! Whatever others thought, the wife of the great Protector knew that he was dying—dying, even while he was ruling with a puissant hand the destinies of England. Every member of this sad family was in sore trouble; they could find no words of mere courtesy; even friendship was too large a claim upon them.
Jane felt keenly all the anguish in this palace of Pain and Sorrow. She remained only one night, and was as willing to leave it as the sad dwellers therein were willing to be left. They were not unkind, but they could bear no more; their own burden was too heavy. Jane would have regretted her visit altogether, had it not been for the changeless tenderness of the Protector. His face during these quick gathering trials had become intensely human. It was easy to read in it endless difficulties and griefs, surmounted by endless labours and importunate prayers. With strange, mystical eyes he walked continuously the long rooms and corridors, ever seeking the realisation of his heart's constant cry, "Oh, that I knew where I might find Thee!" He talked to Jane of Cluny and of their prospects; made her kneel at his side during the family service, kept her hand in his, and prayed for her and Cluny by name. And at the last moment he gave her the blessing she hoped for—"God which dwelleth in heaven prosper your journey; and the angel of God keep you company."[2]
[2] Tobit, Chap. 5, v. 16.
The strain had been great; the very atmosphere of the place was too heavy with grief to breathe; she was glad to feel the sunshine and the fresh wind. She had intended to call on Matilda as she passed through the city, but she could not throw off the lassitude of hopeless foreboding that had invaded her mind. It bred fears for Cluny, and she hastened home, resolving to see Matilda on the following day. But when she reached Sandy's House, Mrs. Swaffham met her with a letter in her hand—"Lady Jevery asks you to come to Matilda, who is in great trouble," she said. "Cluny is asleep; if you are not too tired, you would better go at once, for if the wind keep fair, Captain Jonson thinks to lift anchor to-morrow night."
So Jane went to her friend. With her, also, she found the grief Death brings.
"Stephen is slain!" were her first words. She could hardly utter them. But Jane knew how to comfort Matilda; she could talk to her as she could not to the ladies of Cromwell's household. She could take her in her arms and say all kinds of loving words, blending them with promises and hopes that had Divinity as their surety. And she could encourage her to talk away her trouble. "How was Stephen slain?" she asked, "in a duel?"
"No, thank God! He fell, as he himself could have wished, fighting the enemies of his King. He was with Condé and the Dukes of York and Gloucester before Dunkirk, and was killed while meeting the rush of those terrible Ironsides. He died shouting 'For God and King!' and Camby—one of their officers who comes from Ely—knew Stephen, and he carried him aside, and gave him water, but he died in five minutes. Camby wrote me that he said 'Mother!' joyfully, with his last breath."