His coming was a surprise; he was not now often in London, save when he had to speak at Westminster. He had lately been at Hereford, and they had not expected his return so soon.
The sincere warmth of his welcome might have pleased any man, however weary, and his gravity lifted under it for a while, but when he had kissed them both and come to the fire and warmed his hands, silence came over him, as if the melancholy had closed over and clouded him again. His mother, from her hooded chair, gazed at his powerful, yet drooping figure, and the presence of the younger Oliver seemed more insistent.
Elisabeth Claypole had gone to fetch the candles.
"We were speaking of Oliver," said Mrs. Cromwell.
Her son turned to look down at her.
"He is with the Lord," he answered gravely. "He was a man—and took a man's fate doing man's work."
A little fall of silence, then Cromwell spoke again—
"Do you think of Robert sometimes, mother?"
"I knew, I knew," murmured the old gentlewoman. "He was your love."