Colonel Greatheart
Page 3
"It is hard," the girl murmured.
"Blessed are they that are persecuted for righteousness' sake. Let us give thanks that we are accounted worthy to suffer. Yet my heart is woe for my poor sheep in Chinnor left without a shepherd."
"They might have come to aid us," the girl complained.
"You had perhaps sung to them," quoth my Lady Lepe sourly.
Again she drew the minister's eyes, but met them now with a haughty contempt. He turned in dignity to Royston. "Sir, I am John Normandy, a poor servant of God and preacher of the Word. In whose company am I?"
"Myself am George Royston, who serve no one but myself. My friend is Colonel Stow, who serves all men better than they deserve. And this is my Lady Lepe, who serves her husband by her absence."
It was my Lady Lepe who consumed the minister's attention. With his deep keen eyes on her—and indeed she rode ill—"Pray, whither are you bound?" he asked.
Colonel Stow answered for her: "We make for Risborough, and thence Stoke Mandeville."
That second name was news for my Lady Lepe, too. It seemed to Royston that both she and the minister were moved by it. The minister turned to Royston. "Prithee, a word apart," and Royston's demure mirth growing more determined, he spurred on ahead with him. Colonel Royston foreboded events, and events to him were all amusing. "I would be plain with you," says the minister, out of earshot of the rest. "From your service to me I judge you children of light. You have surely no kindness for malignants?"
Colonel Royston felt a confidence impending. He made himself smooth. "Sir," says he, "inquire of the gentlemen in the cellar."
"It was a godly deed," said the minister naïvely. "Sir, I doubt not your honesty. Prithee, how came this woman of your company? Know you aught of her?"
Colonel Royston looked under his eyelashes. But his tone was of pure virtue: "When a woman asks protection of man through a disturbed country, what man can deny her?"
"Hark in your ear!" the minister came close. "What surety have you that she be a woman?"
Colonel Royston, who had a reasonable confidence that she was not, exhibited all decent distress. "You alarm me. You appal me. But this is surely a jest. Sir, it does not become your office."
The minister was gratified. "Sir, you are a man of conscience. Believe me, I jest not. What men dare do men must reprove."
"It is indeed a grateful task and savory," Royston agreed with unction.
"Know then, sir, there is at Stoke Mandeville a Moabitish woman men call Lucinda Weston." The minister, consumed with righteousness, did not mark the shift of Colonel Royston's eyes. "'Tis well known that she hath been commonly visited from Oxford by a malignant who comes in the clothes of a woman that he may be safe from the godly armies at Aylesbury and Wycombe. I do notify you, sir, I suspicion that you have this sinner in your company."
Colonel Royston was perhaps as shocked as he seemed. "And this Mistress Lucinda Weston," says he gravely, "what may be her relation with the gentleman?"
"Sir," quoth the minister severely, "let us pray to be preserved from the imagination of ill."
"By all means," Colonel Royston agreed, "but life will become dull."
"'Tis said they are betrothed," said the minister with a sigh.
"This innocence disheartens."
"Sir, I opine no good thing of a man thus unseemly disguised." The minister cleared his throat for a sermon.
Colonel Royston intervened in a hurry. "Yet many men would be harmless women," quoth he. "And some wearing women comfortable men. 'Tis sorrow one can not change the sex with the breeches. If husband could be wife, wife husband by turns, how would conjugal felicities be multiplied." Then, seeing that the imminent sermon was fairly overwhelmed, he broke off. "But I meddle with the creation. I go astray. Pray, sir, where are you going?"
The minister plainly found the agility of Colonel Royston's mind distressful. He breathed heavily. "Sir," says he, "I have it in mind to go to Aylesbury. I have a friendship from of old with godly Master Skippon, the sergeant major general, and will pray his aid in my mission to be one of them that minister to the host. Yea, and moreover, I will bear them tidings of this malignant that rides in a woman's coats."
There was something of admiration in Colonel Royston's face as he surveyed the minister. He ever loved men who made him busy. "Sir," says he, "you are a refreshment. I am vastly the better of you already. You make me rejoice in the construction of life."
Whereat the minister was moved to spiritual song:
Praise ye the Lord; for it is good
Praise to our Lord to sing,
For it is pleasant; and to praise
It is a comely thing.
The sunlight flashed and changed about them. Fleets of white cloud were speeding across the blue, mingling now, now parting and driving on to the mellow lucid eastern horizon. Meadows wrought with the full gleam of the cowslips shone pale gold. Beneath the white flame that clothed the thornbrake the banks were all blue with speedwell. From the splendor of the hawthorn, from the wide, bare branches of the swaying oak and high in the utter glory of the sunlight rose the music of the great harmony of springtime. All the live warm air rang with joy.
Behind Colonel Stow's back a small voice spake: "Sir, are you a soldier?"
"At least I am nothing else," said Colonel Stow, and turned in the saddle to smile at her. I can not find that she was beautiful beyond the ordinary. Colonel Royston has called her a wholesome piece of red and white. But I think he never loved her. She was small, yet of a gracious fullness of form. There was too much of her hair to be neatly ordered, and with the light through it it glistened like gold. Colonel Stow saw a grave honesty in her gray eyes. Purity encompassed her, seemed indeed her very self, yet you would not doubt her in fullness a woman.
"Are you upon the Lord's side?" she said simply.
"I shall know when I die," said Colonel Stow.
"Ah, but now—now is the accepted time!" she cried, and then blushed and was shy. "Pray, sir, what are you ? Of what faith?"
"I am a great man in the making," quoth Colonel Stow.
The honest eyes grew in naïve wonder and fear of evil. "In what way great, sir?"
Colonel Stow was ready enough to explain. "Madame, what a man can do, I can do better. What a man fears, I fear not. When a man despairs, I am full of heart. And with a lost cause I conquer."
"Child," says my Lady Lepe, "we have mistook the gentleman, who is surely God."
But the round face against Colonel Stow's shoulder was exceeding grave. "Sir, are you with us or against us?" she said severely.
"I am both. I am neither," said Colonel Stow blandly. "And thus secure entertainment."
Joan Normandy gave a little gasp of horror. "Then do you not believe anything?" she cried, shrinking as far as she could in safety from those broad infidel shoulders.
Colonel Stow turned in the saddle smiling. "I believe that I can be great, and I take the part that helps me to greatness. If I choose the King, I will believe desperately in his cause. Now I believe in it as little as you."
"Then—then"—she struggled with this strange, horrible scheme of life—"then what is't you live for? Why do you seek to be great? Have you no faith to guide you at all?"
"Ay, madame, the faith and worship of a most admirable lady," said Colonel Stow, with kindling eye.
"But sure, sir, she would have you not great, but righteous and true," the girl cried.
Colonel Stow looked at her with wise, mirthful eyes. "Is that a woman's way, mistress?" said he.
"Ay, sir, indeed. 'Tis the great, great pride of a woman to help a man to righteousness."
My Lady Lepe surveyed the girl with some contempt. "Some man is to have a melancholy life, I see," quoth she, and the girl blushed painfully.
Colonel Stow laughed. The wars had educated him. "The best of us dislike redeemers, child," said he, "even in petticoats. You bear too hard on the world. No cause is all of God, none all of the devil. If I fight for this or that with eq
ual heart, I know myself no villain. What matters to the world is that the men who can should rule and school the rest to comfortable life. I am born for that. I grip at place and wide power to have men the happier for me. Men must be mastered, and I can do it—to mine honor, which is the honor of my lady."
"Does she know you talk so?" said the girl in a low voice of awe.
"There is nothing in my thought for which she need feel shame, madame. It was the fashion once for a soldier to wear his lady's riband upon his morion. I bear my lady's colors in my soul, and live by her spirit. She hath been my inspiration since I had body or mind to go my own way. She hath command of every part of me. She is very queen in all her being. She is of a divine beauty, yet 'tis not the beauty of her that I worship. She—"
My Lady Lepe yawned audibly. "Perhaps, sir, this might delight the lady more than us. I hope so."
Colonel Stow flushed like a boy. "Madame, if you knew her, you would despise the weakness of my praise. 'Tis Mistress Lucinda Weston of Stoke." He spoke as who should say "the Queen of Heaven is my love," and with shining dazzled eyes looked right on through the sunlight.
My Lady Lepe was smitten with pallor. "Is the lady aware of your devotion?" she said, and her voice was strained and strange, so that Colonel Stow turned to her. "I—I have some acquaintance there," she explained swiftly.
"I am her sworn servant since she was a child," said Colonel Stow, "and thrice in ten years of war I have snatched the time to see her, and each time known her more worthy worship. But she is known to you, madame. Is she not more noble far than I tell you?"
"You can scarce expect a woman to say so," said my Lady Lepe sourly.
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Chapter Four
Colonel Stow Sees his Inspiration
COLONEL STOW heard with alarm that my Lady Lepe was bound for Stoke Manor. "Madame," says he in agitation, "you spoke of a lady in sore need. Is Mistress Weston distressed or ill bested?"
"I said she was in need of me," my Lady Lepe snapped.
Colonel Stow bowed and begged the honor of being her escort. My Lady Lepe, who had no means of denying, said with an ill grace something polite.
Bearing away from the hills as the sun sank upon a troubled sea of gold and gray, they came by heavier roads to the dark, blue-green meadows, the brown tilth of the vale. Colonel Stow breathed deep the unforgetable, grateful scents of home. There was blood in his cheeks, and again and again his eye gleamed for a hedgerow, a tree of memories.
All the way Royston and his minister, checking and checking again, dropped slowly back to them. Both were concerned to see what my Lady Lepe would do when they came to the dark files of elms that led off the highway to Stoke Manor. She made no mystery. She had no suspicions, and was in a hurry. With a bow and a "Good morrow, sir. Good morrow, your reverence," she turned short off.
Colonel Stow halted and swiftly set Joan Normandy down—who was surprised, and stood there looking at him, like a child alarmed by some adult wickedness.
"You know the homestead, George," he cried. "Commend these good folk to my father. I will be with you in an hour," and he was off after my Lady Lepe.
Colonel Royston, having with grace assisted Joan Normandy up behind him, found her father regarding him severely. "Ay, sir," said he with a shake of the head, "your melancholy anticipations have been gratified. I congratulate you on your worst suspicions."
The minister frowned. "Pray, sir, why does your friend company the malignant?"
Colonel Royston was never prodigal of the truth. "Why, sir, consider. He deems the creature a lady, and 'tis but common courtesy to be her escort to the end."
"Is he thus beguiled?" the minister questioned.
"I would never trust the man that can not be deceived," said Royston, who himself, I take it, saw always very clearly.
Colonel Stow and my Lady Lepe, neither, I doubt, much liking the other, made great speed to the Manor; and I wonder if Mistress Lucinda Weston liked either when they surprised her in her garden in an aged, faded, dark gown. She checked her walk and stood like a queen, cold and proud, gazing at them full.
"'Twas she alone," says my Lord Digby in an intimate letter, "that converted me to an admiration of slight women. She was cleanly, straight as a pine, lithe as a willow sapling, yet with a hundred graces of allure." She was other than beautiful, as I judge. She gave a man challenge by the fullness of her life. Her charm was in strength. She had the wide, fearless eyes of a boy. The warm splendor of her hair, the full lips near scarlet, were vivid of passionate will.
Colonel Stow, whose face was very pale, whose heart at wild work, bowed before her to half his height. My Lady Lepe sped to her and caught her breast to breast and kissed her. The blood was flowing in Colonel Stow's brow at that. But Mistress Weston freed herself from the embrace all composed and fair of cheek. "Good morrow, child," says she. "It is kind in you to come." My Lady Lepe, who was red and something disordered, circled her with an arm again. She permitted, but was more concerned in Colonel Stow, who stood rooted to the ground and dumb. "This is a friend from of old," she said, and he saw that strange, wise smile of hers that ever made his heart check and throb. "It was Major Stow last. What now? Colonel, or Baron of the Empire, or Knight of the Fleece?" and she held out her hand.
Colonel Stow went upon one knee to kiss it, and she leaned back in my Lady Lepe's arm at ease. "Colonel Stow, madame," says he, "and always your most true and humble servant."
"Tell him how he has served you in bringing you me, Lucinda," quoth my Lady Lepe, and appeared to find the position humorous.
"'Tis you should reward him for that, child," said Lucinda demurely, and made herself more comfort in my Lady Lepe's arm.
My Lady Lepe royally presented Colonel Stow with her hand, who kissed it in turn. "I have been honored by my task, madame," says he.
"I wonder," says my Lady Lepe in soft mirth.
Colonel Stow, who saw nothing mirthful, turned to Lucinda. "But Mistress Weston, madame has told me that you are in need. If I can avail, I am utterly at your command."
"Nay," quoth my Lady Lepe, "Lucinda needs only me," and therewith embraced her closer. "Is't not so, child?" They looked in each other's eyes and laughed. Then my Lady Lepe smiled upon Colonel Stow.
Colonel Stow bowed. "It is well, madame. I will pray leave to wait on you again."
"Sir, you are always pleasing," quoth Lucinda, and Colonel Stow went away mighty well content.
Guarded from the road by a great hedge of yew and a noble orchard, close the homestead of Broadfields stood. Its red walls and roof were mellowing with lichen, and in the last sunlight it glowed like a house of jewels behind the white glory of the blossoming trees. Across the gate a man of some years was leaning. Hair and small beard had come near white, but his cheeks were like a russet apple, and his eyes wide and clear and bright. He held up his hand to his son, and Colonel Stow swung to the ground, and with arms linked, silent, they walked to the house. Colonel Royston, boots and buff coat laid aside, lounged with a long pipe in the doorway and surveyed them benignly.
"Well, well," said the father, as one who recalls himself from the extravagance of emotion.… "And so you have brought a maid home with you at last, Jerry?" and the brown cheeks wrinkled humorously.
"A maid in love with righteousness, so doomed to die a maid. Have you heard her story, sir?"
"Ay. God save all children, for I think all parents be mad. This fellow has not been in enough turmoil today, but is off to the army at Aylesbury, and hath left her here to weep by herself a night. A simple, clean maid, too, Jerry," says the artless father.
"Why, sir, simple more than enough—and clean more than enough, too."
"Well, you ever took more pepper to your meat than I. Come in, lad, and we'll to supper before George Royston here has spoiled his stomach with a pipe. Man is not pig, say I, that he should be better smoked."
"Why, sir, I am much like bacon," said Royston. "The friend of man, but no love of the ladies."
They were in the hall of the homestead, a broad, low room, all dark oak, with candles bright in pewter sconces, and a fragrant pine log red and gray on the hearth. Soon they made a little party at the head of the long table, with serving men and maids heartily busy below the salt. Joan Normandy, on Mr. Stow's right hand, too shy to speak, too shy to see anything but her platter, was plied in vain with many good things, till, when she would taste neither turkey pie nor a porridge of veal and plums, the men despaired and let her be, respecting grief so potent. They were dallying with the apples and cheese and strong ale, and the serving folk all off to bed, and a pipkin of sack-posset hissing comfortably upon the hearth, before Mr. Stow had a mind to speak of what he felt. Royston watched him look at his son, and knew a strange pang of loneliness. "And have you had your fill of war now, Jerry?" says he.
Colonel Stow laughed. "I am back for a bigger meal of it, sir. You have a war here that gives one appetite."
"It gives me the stomach-ache," said his father. "Because a king wants to be God, and Parliament men want to be kings, honest lads that might be raising good wheat and good children go goring one another like mad cattle—pah! Well, well! There was something left out of me that is in you and your brother. I want nothing that I would make men die for."
"David, sir?" cried Colonel Stow. "Is he turned soldier?"
"I'gad, he is turned saint, too, which is more trouble. He hates a bishop as I do the fly on the turnips, and conceives he'll make an end of them, which I do not. He is the major of a sweet company that pray like old women and fight like butchers, with a pragmatical preaching lawyer Ireton to their colonel. Oons, Jerry, I hope you are no saint, at least. It balks a man with his dinner." Then suddenly the good man remembered the girl at his side. "Nay, my dear, I mean naught against you or your worthy father. 'Tis a parson's trade to be precise and godly, and we like him the better. And a woman is the comelier for standing above a man. You are as sweet as a nosegay at table. But a man likes some ease for himself."