But Matilda had cancelled every fault and every unkindness by her prompt action in the matter of Lord Neville, and Jane had been loving and praising her for it, until the sweetness of their first affection was between them. And Matilda enjoyed praise; she liked the appreciation of her kind deed, and was not therefore disposed to make light or little of what she had done, or of its results. "For your sake, Jane," she said, "I could not have a moment’s peace, after hearing where the jewels were. I said to myself, this is the clue to Neville’s fate, and it must be followed. Though my uncle would not interfere, I was resolved to bring the great Cardinal to catechism; and as I knew no one in the world would dare to question him but Cromwell, I went to Cromwell." "It was a wonderful thing for you to do." "It was; I must give myself so much credit. Not that I am afraid of Cromwell, or of any other man, but it was a great humiliation." "Cromwell would not humiliate you; I am sure of that." "He behaved very well. He knew I had had a share in every plot against him; and he gave me one look so swift, so searching, and so full of reproach, that it sticks like an arrow in my heart yet. But there were old memories between us, and anon he was as gentle as my mother with me. I will never try to injure him again,—never!" "It is impossible to tell you how grateful Cluny and I are to you; I think no other woman in England would have been so forgetful of herself, and so brave for others." "Perhaps not, Jane. But I love you, and I love justice and mercy, even to an enemy. I can always be brave with a good reason. And, pray, how comes my lord on towards recovery?" "Slowly. Life was nearly gone; body and mind were at death’s door; but he can walk a little now, and in two or three weeks we are going away,—far away,—we are going to my brothers in the Massachusetts Colony." "Jane Swaffham! I will not believe you! And pray what shall I do? You shall not think of such a thing." "It is necessary. Cluny’s mental sufferings have made it so. When he was first imprisoned he tried to write, to compose hymns and essays, to make speeches, to talk aloud; but as time went on, he could not keep control of himself and of his awful circumstances, and now all the misery of those long, dark, lonely years has settled into one idea,—space without end. The rooms are too small. He walks to the walls and trembles. He throws open the doors and windows that he may have room to breathe. In the night he wakes with a cry, he feels as if he were smothering. If he goes into the garden he shrinks from the gates; and the noise of the city, and the sight of the crowds passing fills him with fear and anxiety. He wants to go where there are no limits, no men who may hate and imprison him; and his physician says, ’Let him live for weeks, or months, out on the ocean.’ This is what he needs, and he is eager to get away." "You will come back?"