by H. C. Bailey
Matthieu-Marc shook his head at her. "Be miserable also, mademoiselle. It is your duty."
"Your dinner has fallen out with you?"
"My dinner never falls out with me," said Matthieu-Marc with indignation. "I am the best cook in England."
"O, dear," says the girl while Matthieu-Marc was pruning himself, "what a silly thing to be. A woman can cook."
Matthieu-Marc made a gesture of despair. "If you can believe a bêtise like that you can believe this country a place to be happy in." He approached her pastry with a supercilious eye and helped himself to a simnel cake. "The oven was not hot," says he on the first mouthful.
"If you want something light, why do 'e eat simnel?" quoth she. "If you want to be a man why do 'e be a cook?"
"I am also a soldier," said Matthieu-Marc with dignity.
"Which makes you look so green?"
"It is your country, your bilious country," said Matthieu-Marc. "Bah, your cooking, your fighting, it is all the same; you never know what you want. Therefore your soups are tragedies, your battles farces. Whereas—remark me, madamoiselle—your proper soup should be a gladsome farce, your battle a noble tragedy. You are a country emasculate. You never mean anything."
"Sure, but I do," says the girl. "I mean to make love to you." Matthieu-Marc recoiled. "What a brave cook!"
"Consider my modesty," Matthieu-Marc protested.
"Lud, if I do without it, can not you? You are a sweet thing of a man. You are that ridiculous."
"Mademoiselle," said Matthieu-Marc, "you do not appreciate me. I am of a melancholic genius." The girl again flicked a nutshell at his nose. "That is not a reply," said Matthieu-Marc.
"That's just what it is," said the girl. "It makes you feel what you are—silly."
"Of what profit is it to me to feel silly?" Matthieu-Marc inquired.
"When you feel silly you'll be happy," said the girl. "I know."
"I would rather not," said Matthieu-Marc sincerely.
The girl pulled a face at him. "That's you," said she. "But you do it always."
Matthieu-Marc made a magnificent gesture. "I am too noble a nature to be happy."
"Sure, you're but a child," said the girl. "And that is why I like you. Do 'e like me, now?" She leaned over her cakes and again the plump face came close to his.
Again Matthieu-Marc recoiled. He coughed. "You look healthy," he said with no enthusiasm.
"I never knew a man so slow with a woman," the girl pouted. "And you a soldier! O, save me!" She put her hands on her hips and laughed without reserve.
Matthieu-Marc swore in French. It was now he who leaned towards her. At which moment a fist was inserted between his ribs. "Ha, wickedness! Wickedness!" said a jovial voice and Matthieu-Marc turned in emotion to discover the roundness of Alcibiade, who shook his head sorrowfully. "O, my evangelist!"
Matthieu-Marc retreated without dignity, blushing and muttering.
Then Alcibiade entered the pastry shop. "My bet," says the girl, laughing still, "you owe me a shilling."
"Not a denier! You got no kiss of him," Alcibiade protested.
"I would have had but for you."
Alcibiade shook his head at her. "I fear you have been forward, Molly."
"As forward as yourself," quoth Molly with a toss of her head.
"So bad as that?" said Alcibiade, and thought he made her blush.
But the truth is, Oxford was more in the temper of Matthieu-Marc than Alcibiade. The Cavaliers had come at last to misdoubt their fortune. They made no more scapegoats. It was not Rupert whom they condemned, but themselves. Heart and hope had gone out of them. They were not truly ready to yield. Enough of them liked death better than that. But few had any faith in victory.
It was no blame to them. There was no soul in their cause. Their forlorn, melancholy King was not one for whom a man might be content to die. He stirred none to a quicker life. Pity he won and devotion; he could not give a conquering zeal. Indeed, he gave nothing to any man. He asked of all. He had no vision and his people perished for him in vain.
There have been armies without clothes or food or pay or store of weapons, yet have beaten down the best provided foes. But the King's army felt its lack and was afraid. It had been hard enough to make head against the Puritans when their generals were blunderers and all their regiments out of gear. Now there was a new model and all the old dallying leaders were done away. Sir Thomas Fairfax and Ironside Cromwell, the conquerors of Marston Moor, had command. Already Oxford could feel the change. The Puritan armies were drawing strait bonds about the town. Only the road to the west was open still. By each other way the foraging parties broke in vain about the Puritan outposts. If they dared an attack they found a new strength against them. They were as children fighting with men. Cromwell and Fairfax had given the fierce Puritan zeal all it needed, the strength of discipline and sure command.
So within Oxford there was desolation. All the parasites of wealth were fled, all the ministers of gaiety. "The court," said Rupert, "is a damned diurnal funeral." Who went there still were the King's most affectionate friends and gay as himself. Queen Henrietta was in no case to cheer them. Her one desire was to win to a happier town than Oxford. The few faded courtiers, the quadrangles where now she saw little but weather-beaten soldiers overthrew her spirits. The very age of the place, stern and austere in its gray, crumbling walls ('tis my Lord Jermyn's judgment) affected her miserably. She was passionate to be gone. My Lord Jermyn found her a reason not all unworthy. He persuaded her that there was danger in Oxford and it was plainly right that her child should be born to safety. So Queen Henrietta fled away to the west and by her flight quickened fear. If Oxford itself were not safe, what use to battle more?
It was a bitter day of springtime when she was borne away. Colonel Stow and Colonel Royston, walking in the meadows by Osney, watched the scant company. Rupert had spared her a squadron not his best and she had a company of the King's Guard. Her coach was in the midst and she huddled in a corner of it and peered out through the misty windows with the face of a peevish child.
Colonel Royston turned away with a shrug. "It's she has sense, Jerry."
"As much as a butterfly."
"What else should a woman be?"
"O, you are an infidel, George. Look at Jermyn riding by as happy as a wet cat."
"Happier than we," growled Colonel Royston. "He is out of it."
Colonel Stow linked arms with his friend. "What is wrong, George?" said he gently.
"Zounds, what is right? This fool King is sinking and we shall be drowned with him."
"Bah, we never believe in defeat, George."
"'Tis a damned lost cause."
"And if it were, are we to be afraid to fail? By Heaven, we will show the world we know how to lose as well as how to win."
"I am not a play actor," growled Colonel Royston. "I do not know how to lose. I have been winning all my life till you brought me here to be trapped like a rat in a hole, to waste myself that you may philander about a wanton."
Coloned Stow dropped his arm and stood away. "Do you know what you have said?"
"And stand to it, by God," said Colonel Royston, and walked on.
Colonel Stow followed a little way off. His face was paled and troubled … "George," he said in a low voice, and after a moment Royston turned, "if we have asked too much of you, if you have given up too much for us—what can a man say?—forgive me. We can be friends still?"
Colonel Royston laughed. "Zounds, I am already too much your friend. Ay, and too much hers, mordieu."
"I thank God for it," said Colonel Stow solemnly.
"Do you so?" said Colonel Royston, and laughed again.
Together, silent, they came back to the town, and just beyond the powder mill hit upon Colonel Strozzi, who, resplendent still while others had faded, inserted himself between them. "You are not rejoicing, my braves?" said he, grinning at their glum faces. "So. What did I tell you? You ought to be traitors. It is more amusing."
"I might guess it more profitable," said Colonel Royston, glancing at his finery.
Colonel Strozzi laughed.
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Chapter Twenty-Five
The Surprise of Lucinda
"SHE is a hungry one." So said Molly of the cakeshop, as she watched Lucinda go by. I have thought that Molly, who was a person of breadth in many ways, may have understood Lucinda better than the men who burned for her. Molly, who had a greedy curiosity, knew all her history and was not bitter against her. Indeed, fortune mocked at Lucinda; had her father lived and the old order endured, or had a man won her to the Puritan side, she might have had the power that her soul needed. But with each turn of fortune she was despoiled and she bore it hard.
Doubtless her life was gray enough. The court was dead. Oxford was naked of women. She had no gaiety, no friends, no resource but herself. Seek other home, she could not. What friends she had were harried by the Puritans even as her own Manor lay in the Puritan power. She was not born for restraint. She raged against the barriers of life. Molly, the pastry girl, pronounced her fit for a queen and nothing else. Certainly there was something of nobility in her, for she could not sit down to be content with unhappiness. She set herself to new plans.
She was well pleased on a day when she saw Colonel Stow come to her with a grave face. He had long been offensively happy. When he only kissed her hand, she pouted. "My dear, 'tis good to be with you," says he with a sigh.
"Faith, 'tis a vice to be content with so little."
"Nay, this is my greatest joy, dear."
"Is it?" says Lucinda dolefully. There was a full yard between them.
"What more do I need?" said Colonel Stow.
Lucinda gave a rueful laugh. "Nothing, it would seem," and she looked at him with comical despair.
"And you, dear?" he took her hand delicately. Her eyes glowed, her lips called to him. He caught her in his arms.
"Enfin," says Lucinda to his ear.
"I fear," quoth Colonel Stow, releasing her, "that I did not shine."
"If you had more impudence, sir, you would be happier."
"You also?"
"O, you improve," she laughed. "There is much in good example."
When she was again breathless, "You see," said Colonel Stow, "'tis dangerous to be kind. And, faith, how have I earned it now? For you have been cold a long while, dear."
"You were looking unhappy," said Lucinda, and he was grave again. She laid her hand on his shoulder. "Tell me, then, what is amiss?"
"I am troubled about George. I brought him here and here there is no place for him. He—he is in the right to reproach me."
Lucinda was silent a while. "Indeed, I think we are all of the wrong side here." Colonel Stow shrugged. She took his hand in both of hers. "Tell me truly—do you believe the King can conquer? Truly!" and her eyes compelled him.
"I try to believe—and I doubt," said Colonel Stow.
"Then why—why—why—" she was passionately eager—"why should you stay with him? What bond is there? He has done nothing for you. You have served him too well and won nothing. And the others—if you go to them in time, you should be worth much to them."
"By Heaven, you can not think what you say!" cried Colonel Stow. "What! Break my oath and my honor—O, sure, you—you—O, you have not seen it clear."
"I do see clear," she said quietly, "that is why. You care no more for one cause than the other. You were ready for either when I brought you here. Now we know the King as he is—a melancholy fool with no mind nor heart. What hope of him? Who can believe in him? Nay, what strength has he left? What is there in this dismal town? 'Tis the one chance for us to seek the others betimes and win honor of them."
Colonel Stow had drawn aloof from her and was staring in utter amazement. "Desert?" he said in a tone she did not know. "You bid me that? Desert from a losing cause? By Heaven, it's the last infamy."
"O, I can not endure your Quixotry," she cried. "You must be always strutting and posing though you bring yourself to ruin and all those that care for you." Then suddenly she changed her tone. "Nay, you think me hard, but I swear it is for you. They have no fit honor for you here. They give you no work, no chance. And you could be great. Dear, for your honor and mine you must seek a better cause."
It was well done. I protest she believed each word, and they were with power for Colonel Stow. He bent and kissed her hand. "Dear, forgive me. You love me too well, I think. Indeed, in all I do, I have no desire but your honor, and 'tis my great pride that your honor is mine, too." He kissed her hand again, complacent, while she looked down at him with a queer smile. "Nay, but there is still goodly work for me here. I come to you from Prince Rupert, who hath chosen me for a thing I like. There is a great convoy of powder and arms coming from Bristol and if it fall to the Puritans we are sped. All the roads are dangerous now, since the Ironside is posted at Abingdon. Rupert trusts me to ride to Witney and bring it safe." He was smiling, pleased as a boy that has won the prize at the popinjay. "Faith, it will need some soldiering. A task very fit for me, sweetheart."
But Lucinda was grave enough. "If it fall to the Puritans—that is the end," she repeated. "Here is the fortune of your life, then."
Colonel Stow laughed. "Why, 'tis a worthy employ, dear, no more. But one is glad to be chosen."
"O yes, I am glad you are chosen," she said, looking at him strangely.
"Dear, it is good to work for you."
"You can work for me now."
"Ay, faith, there shall be laurels for you. O, we'll harry the Roundheads yet."
She drew in her breath, gazing at him, silent, intent. "Can you not see?" she said in a low voice. "If this convoy means so much, go you to the Puritans with the tidings and help them take it. What will they not do for the man that ends the war?"
Colonel Stow started up. "Lucinda! You! My God, what devil is in you? 'Tis a base, traitorous infamy. You have not thought. You can not mean it."
"I mean that a man should fight for himself," cried Lucinda. "What have they given, what can they give you here? What can you offer me but ruin? I tell you I will not bear it. If you would win me, win a fit place for me."
"Fit place? The place of a mean traitor whom all men loathe. Would you have me that? Would you mate with such a one? In God's name, think again. You can not be so mad, so—what words are there?"
"I have thought," said Lucinda calmly. "Have I been easy and happy all this while seeing you in no honor and our cause falling to dust? Yes, I have thought often. If you would have me, you must make me a place. There is nothing to be won here, nothing, you know it."
"Madame, there is honor to be won if no honors," said Colonel Stow.
"I am in no mood for your prettiness," Lucinda cried. "Look you now. Here is occasion to your hand. You may go to the Roundheads with a great prize. You can make terms for high fortune there. We are so set that the chance can not come again. Traitor, you say? Who dares call a man traitor if he has power? You can win it if you will. Choose!"
"I would lose you and lose all sooner," said Colonel Stow. He was white to the lips.
Lucinda smiled. "You have done it," she said.
"No, by Heaven, it can not be!" He knelt on one knee beside her and caught her hands and crushed them in his. They were cold. "My love, my love, you must not fail yourself so, you who are very queen of life and strength, you can not yield to what's base. Dear, be true! What is fame or power if true men despise you? Who cares if all fails here? We have our honor still and our love, and we are lords of life."
Lucinda laughed again. "Mad Quixote. Silly, mad Quixote," she said. "Good-by."
Colonel Stow looked at her a long time. His lips were trembling and she mocked at him. He rose unsteadily and went out like a blind man.
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Chapter Twenty-Six
Colonel Stow Warns his Friend
MOLLY, the cake girl, saw a lithe woman speed by her window to the door of Colonel Royston's lodging. "Hey!
This is a new business," said she.
Colonel Royston was killing the hours by carving elaborate chessmen (he had always a taste in that kind and there is still a set—but that is no matter here). Sudden, silent, there stood against his door a tall woman in black. He put down his tool gently. He was not a man of surprises, nor for all his bulk, clumsy. She threw back her hood, her cloak. He saw Lucinda, lithe, strong, her vivid lips and hair, her eyes fiercely bright. She was all black from chin to the ground, save for silver about her bosom.
"You are most appealing," said Colonel Royston with a sneer as he rose.
She looked about the little, dark, wainscoted room. "You are quite alone?" she breathed.
"'Tis immodest as you could desire," Royston sneered.
"I am beyond all that," said Lucinda quietly. She sat by his table, and putting her elbows on it and her chin on her hands, looked at him full. "This is a matter of your life and mine."
"They are, I thank God, separate," said Colonel Royston.
Then he saw that mocking smile of hers. "Are you afraid?" There was a ripple of mirth in her voice. "You know that is a lie."
"I know you can wake the brute in me," said Royston. "If that is like to comfort you, you best know."
She laughed outright. "Do you think I fear you? Nay, I love you when you shake off your bonds. And you—do I wake nothing but the brute? No longing, no joy? Once you had me by your heart. Was it sorrow?"
Colonel Royston looked at her long. "What is it you want?" he said gruffly.
"Life … free life and strength and joy."
