by H. C. Bailey
She blushed; she was daintily shy, trying to find words. "Nay, please, oh, please, do not talk of me. But sure, sir, 'tis a man's duty and great joy to live and die for the glory of God."
"Ay, my dear, and I know no better way of it than to grow good wheat and good children for God's world."
"Ah, but there is faith," the girl cried, her eyes shining. "We are naught without that. The true faith—we must hold it and preach it in word and deed, if by any means we can save people."
"Eh, little maid, little maid, I can never be so sure my neighbor is lost. If he does fairly I'll not quarrel with his faith, or bully him into mine, or kill him to save my soul. Well, well. I am too easy for the times, I think—like cider of a frosty day. If you like strong wine, here is Jerry, who would set all the world by the ears if he could be general of half. What, lad, you would still be great or nothing, eh?"
"The man who is not great is nothing," said Colonel Stow.
"Now, I think something of the little man who can hoe a clean row," said his father. "Eh, well, it is good to have fire in your belly, and good, too, to have burned it out. You will be blazing some while yet, Jerry." He cocked a wise eye at his son. "Still for Mistress Weston?"
"Till the end of time, sir." At the assurance his father was swiftly so melancholy that Colonel Stow was alarmed. "Pray, sir, what ails her?" he cried.
His father faltered. "Why, no ill for herself, but ill for you, lad. She is betrothed to a young gentleman out of Berkshire. One Gilbert Bourne, a captain of the King's. He comes to her dressed in a woman's coats to cheat the Puritan patrolmen. And Jerry, lad, I doubt not it is he you brought her today."
The wound was kindly given in one clean stroke. Colonel Stow leaned back and shaded his eyes with his hand. Then Joan Normandy, though indeed it could be no blame of hers, blushed painfully, and Mr. Stow, looking anywhere but at his son, saw that her brown hands were clenched till the knuckles glistened white. In a moment she rose, made her curtsy and fled away. Colonel Stow did not see, did not hear Royston making swift, facile talk of the spring sowing. He was groping breathless in a world from which the light and air of hope had been torn away. He did not perceive that he had been wronged. That the false my Lady Lepe had dealt with him unhandsomely; that Lucinda had borne part in an ignoble mockery of him—these matters passed him by. The impulse of his life was suddenly dead. He was afraid.…
The rhythmic clatter of ordered horsemen broke upon him. He started up pallid. "Who goes?" he cried fiercely. Royston laid a hand on his arm. The sound came nearer and passed, while the two soldiers listened keenly. "A troop. What does it mean?" said Colonel Stow more calmly.
"It means that our parson knew the man under the petticoats," said Colonel Royston. "And my lady will be adorning a Puritan prison without them." The vision gave him plain consolation.
Colonel Stow strode out.
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Chapter Five
My Lady Lepe Takes off her Petticoats
MY LADY WESTON had the misfortune to wed a man whom she did not amuse. She was the mother of a daughter with more brains than herself. You would not expect her to find life pleasant. After Sir Godfrey's death she was doubtless more at ease, but she had made the mistake of loving him. Her daughter was not unkind, but plainly had no need of her. My Lady Weston, in fact, had not enough to give for any one to need her. Her private tragedy was that she knew it.
The happiest days of all her life were those in which Gilbert Bourne trusted her with the tale of his first shy hopes of her daughter. It was such a one as Gilbert Bourne, joyous with a thousand frank enthusiasms, for whom in truth her nature was made, and, listening to his shy, eager confidence, she could dream her youth back, and a glad wooing, and happiness sure. But when he grew bolder and Lucinda kind, he wanted no more of her mother. My Lady Weston had again to efface herself. That was her trade.
Lucinda was not troubled by her mother as she sat in the white room of the Manor by Gilbert Bourne. He wore still his somber petticoats of the road, but she was resplendent. An apple-green gown clung close about her, with embroidery of silver on her bosom, and the full light fell—always she loved light—through her rich hair and came with mellow ray to caress her slender neck and shoulder. Gilbert Bourne adored, and she smiled.
"Heaven! Do you know how you fire a man?" he cried.
Her smile faded a little. He saw a strange defiant gleam in her eyes. "Are you afraid of flame? I have something to give the man who fires my heart."
He caught her closer. "Lucinda! You! Such a gift as no man ever enjoyed yet. You are the very wild strength of life."
She laughed softly, looking out at the night. "I would take more than I give," she said.
"That can not be. All of a man, his soul to fight with yours the world through, to worship you and guard and serve you, oh, I give you all, all. But 'tis nothing for what you give in love—all the fierce full glory and joy. Lucinda!" He crushed her hands in his, his breath was on her cheek.
She turned her head. "Teach me your hunger," she breathed, her lips close to his.
Then he laughed as if all were won. "Dear, you were made for delight. You shall sound every note of love, and throb to the music. I'll wake—"
Out of the black void beyond the window a gentleman in buff rose to the light, a swart Puritan trooper. A moment he gazed helpless. The duplication of petticoats in this wooing plainly confused him. Then he grabbed the shoulder of each. "In the name of Adam, which is the man of you?" he roared.
I wonder if Lucinda ever fully forgave her lover that ridiculous moment. She repulsed him in a spasm of passion that sent him into the Puritan's arms and herself out of them. So that a dozen more righteous warriors, breaking into the room, saw their comrade embracing one woman with a violent fervor, while another regarded him in crimson, palpitating horror. Their natural moral emotions held them a moment gaping. "Oh, fools," groaned the first comer, for Gilbert Bourne was hammering doughtily at his face, "this is the man. Ugh! And a man of wrath. Bind him with strong cords." Then they encompassed Gilbert Bourne and overwhelmed him, bidding him earnestly not to kick against the pricks. Doing so with violence, he was borne out.
Then Lucinda, angry with him and the Puritans and herself, and all the scheme of things, cried out: "It is a foul, cowardly outrage!" The one trooper who was left buried his face in a kerchief, not for emotion, but because Gilbert Bourne had set his nose bleeding mightily. "Oh, that I were a man!" she cried, stamping her foot. "I would swinge you for it! But if I were a man you had not dared!"
"Woman, for what I know, you are," said the trooper in a muffled voice. "This is a confusing household to a godly mind."
She cried out in wordless passionate disgust. He strode solemnly to the door, holding his nose. "Where are you going?" she cried. "What is your work? What would you do?"
"Woman," he replied with much dignity, "I would put cold iron to my back." I can be sorry for Lucinda.
For indeed she got no more of those righteous troopers than that. Cornet Jehoiada Tompkins had been sent to capture a man of Belial in petticoats, and, having done it, was in haste to be gone. Gilbert Bourne, much disordered, was straitly bound on his own horse, and they bore him off to Puritan justice at Aylesbury.
It is now well that you should come to the loft where upon fragrant hay Alcibiade and Matthieu- Marc were snoring. Matthieu-Marc felt the end of a ridingwhip separating his ribs. He rolled over, being ticklish, and saw level with him on the ladder a lantern and the face of Colonel Stow, which last said: "Quiet. Saddle," and vanished.
Matthieu-Marc kicked Alcibiade, who, unawake, kicked feebly back. "Even asleep you are not a Christian," said Matthieu-Marc sadly. "Infidel!" he took Alcibiade by the ear. "Infidel, arise!"
Alcibiade sat up. He yawned cavernously on Matthieu-Marc. "I shall never be ready for the resurrection," said he.
"I understand your fears of it," said Matthieu-Marc, and, having by this time got his boots on, he vanished down the ladder, whither, groan
ing but swiftly, Alcibiade followed.
In the stable below, Royston was at Colonel Stow's elbow. "What is the campaign, Jerry?" said he in a low voice.
"If the gentleman be taken, I must set him free," quoth Colonel Stow, busy with his saddle.
Colonel Royston confesses that he did not see the need. To him the issue of the affair appeared humorously just. "Why, Jerry," says he, "it was a scullion's trick the lad played you."
"It belongs to me to save him," said Colonel Stow.
Colonel Royston turned to his own horse. Chivalry, he reflected, is the most dangerous engine against women—a sex ever unchivalrous. If Jerry would outshine this Gilbert Bourne and dazzle his Lucinda, no better way than to play Quixote. Thus Colonel Royston, who did not suspect his friend of a like profundity, and therefore admired him.
Soon they were riding through the stormy dark, Alcibiade and Matthieu-Marc bearing each a shoulderload of trace rope. Colonel Stow might be Quixote at heart, but he had another man's head and ten years' mingled campaigning to help it. Nor to him nor to Royston did the affair loom arduous. They knew themselves in such matters. They rode to the double rank of elms by the road to the Manor, halted a while to listen, and went on some way. Then at a word Matthieu-Marc slipped to the ground and wove a thick tangle of rope across the road from tree to tree. He came back and mounted again, and held the horse of Alcibiade, who went afoot, crouching. So they waited there in the blackness while the trees rustled and groaned. It was not long till the troop of Cornet Tompkins came clashing on. Cornet Tompkins was in a hurry, and thereby his first files met the graver destruction. Their horses, crashing down in the strong network, plunged madly, and upon them came comrade after comrade, till half the troop was lost in blind, roaring chaos. Swiftly the while behind them Alcibiade wove new ropes across the way and fled, so that when the rearward men tried to rein back, their horses in turn were overthrown, and there was a double distracting tumult. In the stormy dark none could help himself or another, nor see nor guess how they were beset. Blindly they raved, and Colonel Stow and his friend, calm engineers of terror and disaster, hovered on the verge, marking down my Lady Lepe. Out of the thud and crash of the struggling horses and the yells and shoutings of angry, hurt, frightened men, Cornet Jehoiada Tompkins was heard exhorting scripturally, his desire being chiefly to hew Agag in pieces.
But Agag they caught none, for Alcibiade and Matthieu-Marc, unseen, unfollowed, were already neatly away, and Royston and Colonel Stow, plunging purposeful into the midst, had broken through, with my Lady Lepe and her horse a sandwich between them, before any one knew them for foes. Some bright mind marked the prisoner going in the gloom and raised a yell, some plunged after, but thereupon from all round the compass came a crackle of pistol shots. Colonel Royston, with some small aid, could ever be ubiquitous. It sufficed. The Puritans had no mind to scatter in a circle of foes.
Well on the road to Little Kimble, Colonel Stow drew his rein and my Lady Lepe's. "You will doubtless go faster without your petticoats, sir," said he, and began to cut her bonds.
"Zounds, do you tell me you know what I am?" cried Gilbert Bourne.
"I have the honor to wish you joy of your manhood, sir," said Colonel Stow gravely. Gilbert Bourne muttered some oath. Once free, he tore off his skirts and settled himself astride. "That is the road to Thame, where you should be safe," said Colonel Stow.
"I will swear I am not such a cur as I seem," Gilbert Bourne cried. "I'gad, sir, I ask your pardon."
Colonel Stow bowed. "There is no question of pardon, sir. I give you good night."
Colonel Royston is moved to record that he was sorry for Mr. Bourne.
Fetching a compass toward Aylesbury, they came comfortably home again, but were scarce in before there was a rumble of horsemen. Royston put out the lights, Colonel Stow shot the bolts, and they went lightly to bed. So that when three minutes after there was a monstrous din at the door, the whole house was patently asleep.
It was some while, and the noise growing ferocious, before a light was struck in an upper room, and the nightcapped héad of Colonel Royston was thrust into the night. He yawned at it capaciously while the Puritan troopers bellowed up to him. "An ungodly lascivious noise," said he. "I think you be malignants."
It was made known to him that they were poor servants of the Lord of Hosts who desired to know if he had any word of a movement of malignants there or thereby.
Colonel Royston gave them in definite terms a description of the character and a prophecy of the fate of those who troubled the sleep of the godly with vain questionings.
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Chapter Six
A Person of Importance
COLONEL ROYSTON, walking a while before his breakfast, beheld with a bland satisfaction the approach of the minister. The minister was something wan. Colonel Royston joyfully escorted him within. There Mr. Stow met him with a large smile and the hope that he had not come to take his daughter from them so soon. "Sir," quoth the minister, "I have no home to give her, for I lie in the camp, and in truth she hath not where to lay her head. If of your good will she may shelter here a while, myself being at all her charges, I would give you much thanks."
"If 'tis your will, child," Mr. Stow turned to the girl, "'tis heartily mine." She feared with a blush she would trouble him. "No more than the apple-blossom the tree. So that is well."
"I am hungry to hear, sir," says the innocent Colonel Royston, as they went to table, "how you caught your runagate malignant in petticoats."
The minister gathered solemnity. "Sir, I have seen the handiwork of the powers of darkness before my eyes. I have beheld the miracles of that old serpent. Do not doubt, sir, that in this dispensation the devil is with power to save his own."
"You explain to me the survival of many of my friends," said Colonel Royston. "Pray, sir, did the man become woman to spite you?"
"The creature was man enough, sir, and fought like a beast in petticoats—"
"I have ever held that beasts should be confined to breeches," Royston murmured.
"But he was overcome, though certain godly young men of the troop still bear marks of his malignity. He was bound upon his horse, and we set off at speed for Aylesbury. Behold, we had not drawn clear of the park when our horses were caught as in a net—both rearward and vanward at once, mark you, which is certainly witchcraft—and some charged down upon us and snatched the prisoner away, and when we would have pursued, lo, there was a ring of fire all round us, as if a great army. Then Cornet Tompkins, who is indeed a savory member, bade halt and sing a psalm. The which done (being Koph of the one hundred and nineteenth, a very sweet portion), all that army of Satan was passed away, and we were enabled of grace to cut loose the net of many cords wherein we were enmeshed. Then some would have it that we had been assaulted by a regiment of malignants, and Cornet Tompkins bade us move forward together, lest we should be beset, and we went seeking tidings from house to house; yea, sir, and I grieve that we did break your comfortable rest, wherefore you did justly rebuke us in godly fashion. For it was even as I told Cornet Tompkins, of malignants we could gather tidings nowhere, and it is plain we were entrapped of no mortal power, but of that great red dragon which hath seven heads and ten horns, the tail whereof draws the stars of heaven and casts them upon earth, even as he did put us to confusion with cords till we cried upon the name of the Lord, which is a very present refuge."
Mr. Stow, in mute practical admiration of such a sentence, passed him a full tankard of beer. Colonel Royston carved into a boar's head with relish. "Sir," says he, "your exposition is gladsome. Never before have I seen the devil in things so clearly," and he smiled upon Colonel Stow.
"It should be a source of pride, sir," says Colonel Stow, busy with smoked venison, "that the devil is thus attentive to you." And Royston saw Joan Normandy look at him with horror.
"Sir, lead me not into the pit of vainglory," said the minister. "I will avow my heart is glad Sathanas hath chosen me to march against with p
owers. Yet of a truth there are those much more worthy of him."
"Nay, sir, 'tis ill modesty to bid another go to the devil in your stead," quoth Colonel Stow. "We must needs deem you worthiest if he does." The minister shook his modest head, but Joan Normandy gave Colonel Stow eyes of more and more ill will. Colonel Royston complains of her somewhere that she had wits in her as well as virtue—an unnatural wedlock.
Colonel Stow surprised himself that morning by an insufficiency of melancholy. He knew, whenever he dared let himself think, that the loss of Lucinda tore from him the spirit of life. Without a hope of her he had no will to go on. But his heart would not believe him defeated. Behind all thought there surged in him a blind conviction that she was his of right. More surely real than all that reason could give him he felt inviolable bonds. There was that in the past no man could make of none effect, no woman betray. He had the strength of dreams. In his first manhood, when he lay upon the bosom of the downs and the earth spoke to him of the power of life, he had seen Lucinda the soul of his soul in a timeless world of eager deeds. On the stark, desolate fields of Germany, when the squadrons clashed and he rode to victory through a wild whirl of war, he had seen his strength bound ever to her service, that in union they might conquer and guide the troubled course of things. The dream had been granted. He was sure.
He could not be very unhappy as he walked in the orchard fragrance. And indeed it was no day of misery. A swift shower had just gone whirling by, but already, breaking through a smoky cloud rift, the sun was clear again, and the wet white blossoms sparkled with rainbow light, and the daffodils beneath were laden with a gleaming dew of gold. On the wet air came the wild, glad spirit of spring. Colonel Stow breathed of it till his mind was whirled away in delight. He was drunk with the goodness of things.
