University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.

Antony and Cleopatra.

Some months had passed after the death of
Charles, during which a new form of government
had been established. By a vote of the commons
the existence of the upper house was declared dangerous
and useless, and, without more ado, it was
abolished. About the same time, by another vote,
monarchy was extinguished, and it was made high
treason to proclaim, or otherwise acknowledge,

Charles Stuart, commonly called the Prince of
Wales, as king of England. A council of state
had been next composed, of forty-one members—
among whom were Fairfax, Cromwell, Bradshaw,
with St. John and the younger Vane—on whom
devolved the duties of the executive, with a proviso
that they should resign their powers to the state
as soon as the republic should be settled on a per
manent and stable basis. Some disaffection of the
army, and tumults which, for a short time, threatened
to be dangerous to the new government,
were put down and punished rigorously by the
zeal and energy of Cromwell, and all domestic
matters wore now a show of happier and fairer
promise than Ardenne had ever hoped to witness;
while the republic had already been acknowledged,
and received the greetings of many—the most
powerful potentates of Europe. Spring had grown
into early summer; but, while all things around him
gradually wore a fuller and more perfect beauty,
while buds expanded into full-blown blossoms, and
woods put on their freshest garniture of green, and
the rich fields gladdened the farmer's heart by their
broad promise, the hopes of Ardenne had been
blighted more and more, had faded into sorrows,
had been seared and dried up into absolute despair.
A very few days after the king's execution
he had been summoned to repair with speed to
Woodleigh, where Sibyl—his beloved — his last
and only link to the cold world—was dangerously, if
not desperately ill. He found her—as his crushed
heart too truly had presaged—already dying. He
watched beside her couch, and day by day marked
the successive inroads of disease on that dear
form! He saw her hourly growiag weaker, paler,
and less earthly in her mortal frame; and hourly,
as he thought, more heavenly, more angelic in her
mind. Between them there was now no estrangement,
no distrust. Death, which to ordinary spirits
is a separation—death was to them a bond of union.
Disguise was at end—both felt, both knew, and
both acknowledged that “some wintry blight,” indeed
“some casual indisposition,” was the immediate
cause of her decline, yet that a pined and
broken heart had sapped the corporeal energies, and
betrayed the fortress to the insidious spoiler. Sorrow,
regret, deep mourning, cast their dark shadows
over them, but remorse came not near them—
nor reproach—nor any bitter feeling except the
sickening sense of hope deferred. Sad though it
was and pitiful, it was a lovely scene—that deathbed!
The bold and fearless soldier, unmanned
utterly, and sobbing like a sickly infant over the
wreck of her whom he felt that he now loved better
when stricken, blighted, and cut off already
from communion with the sons of men, than when
she was the pride and admiration of all who chanced
to meet her. It has been said already that there
was no disguise between them; and now, when
every possibility of selfish motives was removed;
when there could be no more the slightest misconstruction;
when all asperities were, in truth, softened
down by the approach of that great alchymist
of mortal deeds and mortal causes—death! all that
had been before obscure and intricate was rendered
plain as noonday. And Sibyl shamed not
to confess her sense of her own hapless error, an
error which had robbed her lover of all chance of
happiness on earth—had robbed herself of life!—
and Ardenne, melted and tortured by contrition,
and half-repentant, as has been shown already, of
the part which he had played, and morbidly dissatisfied
with the result of the experiment, sat groaning
in the spirit by her pillow, and confessed, in very
liopelessness of heart, that he had cast away his
all for a mere vision—for a most vain and senseless
fancy. But in these bitter moments it was
hers, as the true woman's part, still to enact the
comforter—to point the real evils, which, while in
health and happiness, she scarce would have admitted
such, that he had battled to put down—and
the more real benefits which must spring up hereafter
from the anarchy that had succeeded to the
fall of Charles, as darkness follows the decline of
day only to bring forth the more pure and mellow
moonshine. She died—and Ardenne was, indeed,
alone—alone for ever!—without one tie on earth
—without one kindred creatore through whose
veins the pure blood of his fathers poured its unmingled
current—without one selfish hope—without
one feeling left that could disturb or alienate
his absolute devotion to his country's weal! He
looked upon her cold corpse with a tearless eye—
he saw the fresh green sod heaped over her—and
felt that he had sacrificed his all, and sacrificed it
in chase of a phantom! He felt that England
was as far from rational and real liberty as at the
war's commencement, and how much farther from
the blessed calm of an established peace. A cold
and bitter mood of grief had fallen on him, obscuring
all his brighter qualities, and overpowering the
energies of a mind once as elastic and pervading
as the tempered steel! It had changed his very
soul!—it had made him—even more than all the
previous sorrows he had known, the previous perils
he had faced, the previous disappointments he
had writhed in bearing—an altered—a new man!
The brilliant dreams and the warm hopes of youth
had faded long ago! The high and noble purposes
of middle age—the pure ambition to be a
benefactor, not of his countrymen alone, but of the
universal human race—the steady longing after an
honest and clear fame—the sacred fire of patrioism
itself, were now, if not extinct, so chilled
and overwhelmed by the dull apathy of settled wo,
that it had needed much again to raise them into
luminous and active being. It was just when he
was the most absorbed in this sad stupor, some
three or four days only after the death of his lost
Sibyl, that an express arrived to rouse him from
his sullen musings among the shades of Woodleigh,
which had become once more his own—he being
next of kin to his untimely-parted cousin. It was
an express from that great man, who, more than
ever, now, since the decease of Charles, swayed as
he chose the destinies of England, craving his instant
presence to confer on matters of the highest
import both to themselves and to their country. It
is true that, long before this period, Sir Edgar Ardenne
had ceased to feel that deep respect and
almost veneration which he once had entertained
for Cromwell. He had long found his suspicions
growing daily and hourly more strong—daily and
hourly more confirmed by overt actions. Still, with
such wondrous skill and subtlety had the arch-schemer
wound along his path, onward, still onward!
that it was quite impossible to say at what
point of his ascent, or if indeed at all, he had
passed the confines of sincerity and patriotism, to
enter the stern regions of ambition. That Cromwell
at this time enjoyed a power eminently great,
and at the same time dangerous, Ardenne could
not deny—that he had attained to that power by
his own energy was self-apparent—but whether
he had framed the course which had exalted him
according to the dictates of religion and of conscience,
and so found his own high fortunes while
seeking but for England's weal; or whether he
had struggled forward to his own grandeur as his
only goal, he could not even now decide. One
thing he clearly saw, that the experiment had for
the present failed!—that, by the death of Charles,
tyranny was indeed put down!—but put down
only to be followed by anarchy—or by a tyranny
more mighty than the former! But, seeing this,
he saw no present way of extrication save through
the medium of the very man whom he suspected,
whom he feared, the most. He therefore judged
it most advisable not to permit the alienation
which had been growing up between them to become
total; but, keeping a shrewd watch on all his
motions, to discover, if possible, what might be his
ulterior views, and, so far as his own influence
might avail, to keep him in the path of honesty
and honour. “He can do more for England than
any living man,” he muttered to himself, as, in obedience
to the unexpected summons, he shook off
his lethargy and set his foot in the stirrup—“he
can, beyond all question; and let us hope he will.
He had high virtues once no less than wondrous
talents; and, certainly, I know not why I
should assume it as a fact that they are now extinct.
And I—since I have lost all else—since I
have worn away the flower of my years—wasted
the sweetness of my whole existence in struggling
for my country, why should I hesitate to
pour out the dregs of an unprized and wearisome
existence; why should I doubt to cast away life itself
also—a life which only separates me from her
—if that my life can profit England? I will—I will,
as I have begun, so persevere! Consistency and
honour now alone are left to me, and never will I
disobey their dictates! A name which, though I
never shall transmit to others, I, at least, its last
owner, never, never will disgrace!” He took his
solitary way to London, and, if not the less sad,
was at the least less bitterly absorbed by sorrow;
he mingled, with a grave aspect, certainly, and a
subdued demeanour, in the chance society of men,
and struggled, not all unsuccessfully, to shake off
a melancholy which, though it was a luxury to indulge,
he felt it was a duty to repress. The third
day toward nightfall found him already in the
heart of the metropolis, which, under its new masters,
wore a composed and steady aspect of society,
not, indeed, very gay or pleasing, yet praiseworthy
at least for the entire absence of rude revelry or
riot in the crowded streets. Ardenne found Cromwell,
as when he last had visited him, occupying
the royal chambers of Whitehall, but with far
more of pomp and show than he had as yet witnessed
about the person of the independent leader.
Two or three officers, richly attired, waited in the
anterooms, and a page, sumptuously though not
gayly dressed, opened the door of his apartment to
the gallant baronet with deep and silent reverence.
The cordial warmth which Oliver exhibited would
in itself have called forth something of suspicion
from the mind of Sir Edgar; for, latterly, although
not absolutely estranged from each other, there
had been a passing coldness, a want of frank and
cheerful confidence between them, which caused
the present alteration of the general's air and manner
to be very obvious. But, to confirm his fears,
after a short discourse on various matters connected
with state policy and questions of the day—
“You have not heard, I trow, Sir Edgar,” Cromwell
began abruptly, after a little pause, “you have
not heard of the new trust the parliament hath now
of late conferred on me?—even the Lord Lieutenancy
of Ireland, with command of the forces
needful to crush the embers of this accursed rebellion
that yet devours the land!”

“I have not,” answered Ardenne. “Have you
accepted it?”

“Surely I have,” returned the general; “for,
of a truth, the commons' house, ay! and the councit
of state also, were very urgent! yea! unto the
taking no denial! for, at the first, I would have
fain denied it. Truly my soul is sick of war and
tumult, and would retire to the privacy of humble
and domestic life. But, as I say, they would take
no denial! and, moreover, after a while, diligently
searching the Lord's will, praying myself with
earnest zeal, and profiting, too, by the prayers of
better men, I have been convinced that my repugnance
to this duty was not of the Lord—but a back-sliding
rather, and a fainting of the flesh; a yielding
to the vain temptations of the world and the
devil! It is not for me to draw my hand from off
the handle of the plough, when He hath manifestly
fixed on me the task of turning up the hard and
stubborn glebe.”

“A powerful army, doubtless, is assigned to
you,” said Ardenne, half musing, half inquiring.

“Doubtless! Twelve thousand horse and foot
—the picked men of the host, that hath so gloriously
worked out the freedom of the land—the
regiments and their commanders subject to my
own choice! One hundred thousand pounds of
sterling silver in the military chest, and all things
corresponding! Verily, by the Lord's help, soon
shall we have peace as settled in the wildest bog of
Ireland as in the heart of London!”

“It is a great trust!” Ardenne again answered,
coldly, “the greatest for a subject! When set
you forth?”

“Speedily,” Cromwell replied, “right speedily!

—but, ere I go, I have yet one thing to perform—
the parliament, as not content with these high honours
it hath done me, commands me to appoint all
the chief officers. The master of the horse is a high
post—important, onerous, and of great weight!
Now, Edgar Ardenne, though we have differed
somewhat lately, I do know you able, valiant,
honest, and trusty—such are the attributes needful
for this great office—go with me—it is yours!”

“I thank you,” Edgar replied, perfectly unmoved.
“Think me not ignorant of the honour,
nor yet ungrateful when I decline that honour. In
truth, I am sick of blood—blood of my countrymen!
I would to God no drop of it had been shed
here in England—for I do fear me very much it
hath been shed in vain.”

Oliver was evidently discomposed; he rose abruptly,
and took many turns about the room, muttering
to himself; then, stopping suddenly—“Mark
me!” he said. “I love you, Edgar Ardenne, I have
loved you ever!—yea, since that first night when
we met nigh Roysten—I have felt ever that in you
there is an honesty different from that of men.
You preach not, neither do you pray much in public,
yet I do well believe you have more true religion
than half the saints of the land. You can
fight, too, with the foremost—and counsel better
than the wisest! You must go with me! you
must strike on my side! Surely the Lord shall
yet do greater things for this regenerate land than
he hath done already—though wondrous are his
works and great his loving-kindness — and it is
graven in my heart within me, that by me shall
he do them!—although I be but a rough instrument,
a blunt and edgeless tool, for his omnipotent
right hand! Go with me, now, go with me—and
I say not that I will make you great—for, of a

truth, it is not for a grovelling worm upon the
earth to speak of making earthworms great!—
creation is the Lord's, and the Lord's only!—but I
do say that my fortunes shall be thy fortunes also!
and my hopes thine! Lo! you, I have a daughter—one
yet a maid—comely, too, in the flesh—discreet,
and virtuous, and sage—even my youngest
—Frances! Again! I say not that I will give
her to thee in the bonds of wedlock; for, truly,
hearts cannot be given and transferred like golden
dress—neither do I esteem it wise or lawful for
a parent to do any force to those most strong and
inward inclinations! But this I will say—for it is
a truth, I do profess to you, a very truth!—that I
believe the maid hath looked not hitherto on any
man to love him—and that, rather than any man on
earth, would I see thee my son-in-law! Thine own
high qualities, so that the Lord look down upon
this work, will do the rest! Give me thine hand;
say that thou wilt go with me! surely thou shalt
be next in power unto myself—next in the glory
of the deeds we shall accomplish in the Lord's
qause and England's. Thou shalt see yet, and
share in very mighty changes—”

“I were dishonest,” Sir Edgar interrupted him,
with vehemence, “I were dishonest! a base traitor
to my cause, my conscience, and my country, did
I pretend to doubt your meaning! I read you,
sir, I read you as you were an open book before
me—but me you know not, nor can comprehend
at all! Neither—great as you are, and greater as
you wish to be—can you tempt me one inch from
the straight path! My heart, General Cromwell,
is in the grave!—in the grave with that peerless
woman who once, at your hands, saved me from a
father's madness! Not—not to be a queen's—an
angel's husband, would I forego the memory of her

on earth—the hope of her in Heaven! As for
what you call greatness, I care not for it—nay, I
do loathe it!—for it is villany—dishonour—shame!
Farewell! I leave you, sir, in sorrow—in strong
and bitter sorrow! Fairly I tell you to your face.
I do suspect you very deeply—and if it be as I
suspect, I will oppose you to the death! Pause!
pause—and oh! consider!—it is a little thing to be
a king!—a tyrant!—a usurper! It is the mightiest
of all things to have the power to be so, and
the virtue to decline that power! Be, as you may,
your country's friend, its guardian, and its father!
Beware! I say, beware how you attempt to be its
ruler! Better is a pure conscience than a golden
bawble! He who cannot err hath said, `What
shall it avail a man to gain the whole world and
lose his own soul!' You say you love me—I did
once love—honour—esteem—ay! venerate you—
you, Oliver Cromwell! and rather would I hew off
the best limb of my body than see you play the part
which I do fear you meditate! Answer me not,
sir! no profession can convince me. Actions—actions,
sir—actions only can prove to me your truth.
Sincerely I pray God that I may be in error—
sincerely I pray God you may be strengthened
to cast temptation far behind you—to be the great,
the glorious, the immortal benefactor of your land,
you may be if you will! Go, then, to Ireland—go
—do your duty; I will adhere to mine. My sword
is in its scabbard, never to come forth more unless
my country shall require it against a foreign foe!
or—a domestic tyrant! Farewell! may Heaven
give you strength—farewell!”

“Do we part friends?” asked Oliver, whose
strong nerves were greatly shaken, and whose
mind, wholly impassable at ordinary moments to
such feelings, was penetrated by a sense of absolute

humiliation, and overpowered by the sublime
and genuine force of real virtue; “do we part
friends?”

“And shall, I trust, meet friends!” Edgar replied,
clasping his hand with fervour, while a tear
stood in his dark eye. “You have no truer friend!
—no more sincere admirer—be but yourself—within
the four seas that gird Britain! May Heaven
protect you, and preserve you—as I have thought
you—as I would think you ever—noble!”

Again he grasped his hand, wrung it hard, turned,
and left the room.

“Can it be so?” cried Cromwell, in a low
thoughtful tone, “can it be so?—and hath he read
my inward soul—read it more truly than myself?”
He strode across the room with a loud step and a
kingly port. “Not king—but the first man in
England! Ha!” but again his proud glance sank,
his firm step faltered, and he struck his bosom
with the eager violence of passionate repentance.
“Avaunt!—avaunt!—get thee behind me!—no!
no! he erred!—he erred!—yet had he wellnigh
made me deem myself a villain! `Not king, but
the first man in England!' Well, first in virtue!
—first in sincere god-seeking piety!—first, it may
be, in good report—which men call fame!—in the
Lord's favour, and the people's love! But not—
not first in power, or wealth, or rank! Not first, as
that bold Ardenne said, in villany! No! no! he

erred, and I am sound at heart—my breast is proof
to thy devices! Avaunt, thou crafty devil! I am
strong—strong—strong in virtue!”

He saw not Ardenne any more for many a year
of peril and success—of labour and of sin—and of
the world's arch phantom—glory! But six days
afterward Edgar beheld him, seated in his coach
of state, dragged by six stately horses, tossing their

plumed heads and shaking their superb caparisons
as proudly as though they were conscious of the
freight they drew along the crowded streets. He
marked the quiet air of exultation and of triumph
that sat on his firm lip and glanced from his deep
eye! He noted the unwonted splendour!—the
gorgeous dresses and accoutrements of his lifeguard—eighty
young men — majors and colonels
of the army, mounted more splendidly than the
pretorian band of any king in Europe; sheathed in
bright steel, with waving plumes, and floating
scarfs, and all the bravery of the cavaliers! He
saw the haughty bearing of his son Henry—his
lieutenant and master of the horse!—he saw the
soldiery, in their magnificent array, trooping along,
with their proud banners flaunting in the summer
sunshine, and the triumphant clangour of their
military music waking the merriest echoes behind
their adored leader!—and, above all, he heard the
thundering acclamations of the multitude as that
pomp swept along!—and, with a heavy sigh, he
turned from that sight in all other eyes so glorious
and majestic—a sigh for Cromwell's fame!—a sigh
for England's peace!