Elisabeth Claypole stood sad and thoughtful by her grandmother's chair; Cromwell came and kissed her delicate forehead.
"Thy brother's marriage treaty sticks," he said pleasantly. "I must go and write to Mr. Mayor, and cast up what higher settlements I can offer."
"He demands too much," declared Mrs. Cromwell.
"Nay, he is prudent; but I have two wenches still to provide for—farewell for a moment." He had gone again.
"The affairs of men!" muttered the old gentlewoman. "Well, well."
Elisabeth Claypole, too, felt sad; she, too, felt helpless in a busy world that did not need her. She returned to her stool and began to fold up her grandmother's work; both of them, being women, were used to loneliness.
CHAPTER VI
PRESTON ROUT
Charles was a prisoner at Carisbrooke, more strictly guarded than ever before, but not any less dangerous to Parliament or the disrupting forces which stood for Parliament. In spite of everything they still tried to come to an agreement with him, for the confusion of the kingdom was beyond words, beyond any one man's brain to grasp and cope with, and all turned to the King and the tradition behind the King as the one stable thing in a whirl of chaos.