There was Sir Harry Vane, with his knowledge of foreign countries and tongues, his pure heart and high courage, who had much of the mystic piety which pleased Oliver Cromwell. Yet he doubted if this man had the force and boldness to accomplish what must be accomplished now in England.
He paced up and down the room a little, then went to the window and looked out on the winter afternoon; the bare trees bent and shivered beneath the steady sweeps of the wind in St. Mary's churchyard near by, and the towers of the cathedral had a bleached and bonelike look against a low, dark grey sky.
As he stood so, deep in his thoughts, he perceived, at first quite dully, but soon with interest, the solitary figure of a gentleman facing the wind in the chill street and coming towards his house.
Oliver Cromwell opened the leaded diamond pane and looked out; the pedestrian raised his hand to hold his hat against the wind, the beaver flapped back nevertheless, and the keen observer at the window recognized the Earl of Manchester, formerly that Lord Kimbolton who had been one of six members hurried from Westminster to the city, and now President of the Eastern Association and one of the most popular and influential men on the parliamentary side. Cromwell, however, had not that affection for him which he had formerly held; he suspected not my lord's loyalty, but his judgment, not his good intentions, but his strength of mind and purpose, and he saw in him a typical exponent of those evils and dangers his party had most to guard against.
With a sombre expression on his clouded features he descended the modest stairway of his simple home: the two-storied house had come to him, together with the office of tithe farmer, from his wife's uncle.
When he reached the hall he saw the slight figure of a girl lighting the lamp above the door; she turned to him with the wax taper in the silver holder still in her hand and the pure flame of it lighting a face at once resolute and gentle.
The extreme plainness of her dark gown and white collar robbed her of the usual pleasant festive carelessness of youth, but her air of dignity and health and goodness was attractive enough, and she was not without distinction and a certain handsomeness of form and feature.
At the sight of his eldest daughter Colonel Cromwell's face softened wonderfully, and when he spoke his voice had a note of great tenderness which entirely dispelled the usual harshness.
"I did perceive Lord Manchester coming, Bridget," he said. "I pray thee set the candles in the little parlour. Is thy mother out?"
"She hath taken Frances and Elisabeth for an airing, sir," answered the girl. "Mary remaineth with me. She will assay to help me with a tansy pudding."