"Be not as the children of Ephraim, but remember what the Lord hath done for us," said Cromwell. "I tell thee He shall this year make an end of His enemies, Papist, Prelatist, and Arminian, and all such as defy Him. Is not His hand truly visible amongst us? Surely it would be a very atheist to doubt it. And for what I was about to say, Harry, coming to a plainer matter, my daughter Bridget is marriageable and full of piety and fear of the Lord—a thrifty maiden and one well-exercised in household ways, and if thou hast a mind to this alliance we may celebrate a marriage with the peace."
Ireton flushed with pleasure at this undoubted honour; for Oliver Cromwell had become already a considerable man, and after the splendour of to-day's achievements was like to become more considerable still; beside, Ireton held him in sincere respect and affection.
"Sir," he replied, "I am very sensible of this kindness, and if I on my part may satisfy what you shall demand of me, I will take a wife from thy hearth with as much joy as Jacob took Rachel."
Oliver Cromwell's face softened into sudden tenderness.
"Thou dost satisfy me, Henry!" he answered. "I have great and good hopes of thee. I know not why this came into my mind at this season, save that, seeing thee hurt and weary, methought a woman's care would not come ill."
He rose abruptly, to cut short Ireton's further thanks, and, going to the door, called for candles.
Colonel Whalley and some other officers now entered, and after some further talk they left, Ireton with them, to see to the deposition of the new troops who, bringing prisoners and plunder, were continuing to pour into Harborough. Cromwell, left alone, called for ink and paper, and, seating himself anew at the table where the candles now stood among the tankards, plates, and knives, commenced his letter to the Speaker of the House of Commons.
Little of the tumult filling the village reached this quiet room; outside the roses, lilacs, and lilies folded their parcels of sweets beneath the rising moon, and far off a nightingale was singing where the orchards dipped to a coppice, and the coppice dipped to the west.
Oliver Cromwell wrote—"Harborough, 14th June 1645," paused a minute, biting his quill and frowning at the candlelight, then briefly wrote the news of the great victory:—
"Sir,—Being commanded by you to this service, I think myself bound to acquaint you with the good hand of God towards you and us.