"I am sorry for them, and I could be sorrier if they had suffered for the right instead of the wrong. What will the young Lady Matilda do after her father's death?"
"I know not what, with any surety."
"Her aunt, Lady Jevery, has been written for, more than a week ago. She may be at de Wick even now. I think Matilda will make her home with the Jeverys."
"Then she goes to London. I know their great house near Drury Lane. It has very fine gardens indeed. I believe the Jeverys are under suspicion, Martha, as very hot malignants. And now, Jane, dear little Jane, listen to me. You are going to the great city, to Whitehall Palace, to Hampton Court, to the splendour and state of a great nation. You will be surrounded by military pomp and civil glory and social pride and vanity. Dear little girl, keep yourself unspotted from the world!"
"May God help me, sir."
"And let not the tale of love beguile you. Young Harry Cromwell, gallant and good, will be there; and Lord Neville, with his long pedigree and beautiful face; and officers in scarlet and gold, and godly, eloquent preachers in black and white, and foreign nobles, and men of all kinds and degrees. And 'tis more than likely many will tell you that Jane Swaffham is fair beyond all other women, and vow their hearts and lives to your keeping. Then, Jane, in such hours of temptation, be low and humble towards God. Go often to the assembling of the saints and catch the morning dew and celestial rain of their prayers and praise. Then, Jane, cry all the more earnestly—'Tell me, oh Thou whom my soul loveth'—my soul, Jane—'where Thou feedest, where Thou makest Thy flocks to rest at noon.' And no doubt you will add to this inquiry its sweet closing—'He brought me to the banqueting-house, and His banner over me was love.'"
And Jane smiled gratefully, and her eyes were dim with tears as she laid her hands in Doctor Verity's to clasp her promise. Yet when she reached her room and sat quiet in its solitude, no one will blame her because many thoughts of love and hope blended themselves with the piteous ones she sent to de Wick, and to the two weary fugitives under Swaffham roof. She was pleased at the thought of Harry Cromwell, but oh! what a serious happiness, what a flush of maiden joy transfigured her face when she thought of her lover, forecasting rose-winged hours for him to glorify. And in her soul's pure sanctuary she whispered his name while her eyes dreamed against the goal of their expected meeting. For Love gives Hope to the true and tender, but counts a cold heart a castaway.
BOOK II
The Tools To Those Who Can Handle Them!
CHAPTER VI