by H. C. Bailey
Alcibiade turned and saluted across the dark.
Colonel Stow rose up and came close to him. "Alciblade," said he, "I never interested myself so much. And I was never less interesting. Resolve that."
"Sir," said Alcibiade, "a man should only think of himself while he has no need."
"That is not an answer," said Colonel Stow.
"No, sir. It is an impertinence. Nothing is so pertinent as an impertinence. That is life."
"You are wise to-night, Alcibiade."
Alcibiade made a gesture of despair. "Because I ought to be foolish. That is my miserable nature."
"I like your nature."
"Sir, I deplore your taste."
"I am going to borrow it."
"Sir, you will be foolish when you should be wise."
"I hope so," said Colonel Stow.
And as he spoke the trumpets sounded for the night guard.
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Chapter Thirty-One
The Commissary General is Disappointed
THAT morning a little before dawn a wretched, silent company had ridden into Abingdon. When they turned to the market-place Colonel Budd spoke for the first time, save for savory quotations from the Scripture, "I go straightway to the lieutenant general, sir. I bid you come."
Colonel Royston grunted. "Bad will be no worse for sleeping on it," said he. He was worn out and dully puzzled at himself, for his great body hardly knew weariness.
Together they came to the lieutenant general's quarters. They were both ill enough to see, as they waited in the ghastly mingled light of candles and the first pale dawn. The lieutenant general himself, uncombed, unshaven, with his linen awry, was not more comely. But the commissary came neat as ever.
"Well, friend, well? Have you not sped?" quoth Cromwell.
Colonel Budd groaned aloud. "Israel is fled before the Philistines and there hath been also a great slaughter among the people," said Colonel Budd.
"Why, how now!" cried Cromwell, frowning. The commissary turned not without satisfaction upon Colonel Royston.
"'Let thine hand, I pray thee, be against me,'" said Colonel Budd. "For this man hath done no wrong. Nay, verily, his counsel was as if a man had enquired of the oracle of God. The which, if I had used, the children of God were not put to confusion. I have sinned greatly. Yea, I have done very foolishly."
Cromwell banged his hand down on the table. "Make short, man, make short."
Colonel Budd muttered some solace of Scripture and began: "You are to know that all the day went prosperously. We came with no man against us safely upon the road to the west and even as this savory member did prophesy unto us, the convoy of the men of Belial came; yea, and by his devices we had the advantage of it and did possess it altogether. Then he bade us gird up our loins and be gone, but I tarried a while to do execution on the Amalekites. In the which I can not blame myself, though the Lord, Whose ways are a mystery, requited me ill."
"What, sirrah?" Cromwell thundered. "Would you judge your God?"
"My damnation is unto His glory," quoth Colonel Budd, "yet may I call it damnation. Well, sir, it was full dark before we marched and I proposed to myself the nearest road by the ford of Bablockhithe. Then this good brother in the Lord contended with me, yea, strove hard with me, that we should go round by the way we came, afar from the city of the Philistines. But I would not hear him. Verily, one sinner destroyeth much good, and the labor of the fool weareth every one away. So I would not harken unto him, but went by the broad road which leadeth unto destruction. And, behold, even at the ford, while the half the regiment was cumbered in the river, the Philistines fell upon us and they did undo us utterly. Whereby I bring you back no convoy and of my regiment one broken squadron. For the wrath of the Lord is kindled against me and my name shall be a hissing."
"And through thee the heathen have come into their inheritance," said Cromwell. "Truly an haughty spirit is an abomination unto the Lord."
"Sir, I am humbled, even unto the dust. I beseech you show me no mercy. For truly the Lord is a jealous God."
Cromwell beat his fingers on the table. The commissary was attentive to Colonel Royston, whose dejection interested him: "You, sir, have you anything to say?"
"It is not my humor to accuse a comrade," growled Royston. "The gentleman is a brave gentleman."
The commissary looked disappointed. "You do not accuse him neither?"
"I have answered you," growled Royston.
"You say well, friend," quoth Cromwell. "Ay, and you have done well. Your promise hath been fairly performed. You are in my remembrance. O, sir, let's not be weary in well doing. Colonel Budd, the cause of the Lord hath suffered by you. You'll face a court."
"Sir, I thank you," cried Colonel Budd. Royston saluted without a word, and they went their way.
"The Lord deliver us from fools, Henry Ireton," said Cromwell.
"That will He not in this world, sir."
"Nay, verily. And this Jacob is an ass absolute. Heard you ever such a chronicle of folly? Well. The other is a right honest, true, sturdy fellow. Would I had given him command!"
"I am disappointed," said the commissary general.
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Chapter Thrity-Two
Lucinda is Wooed
LUCINDA endured an impatient ennui. Of no account, friendless in a town of Puritan soldiers, she found each hour a week. Withal she panted to hear of Royston's fortune. I suppose there was always in her heart a love for Colonel Stow, and that very love made her yearn for tidings of his defeat, ay, of his death. If she had cared nothing, she could have let him go without one touch of pain. But he had sown in her a strange yearning that would not die. Still she desired him, and it was more than desire. There was that in her soul which he had waked to life and without him it was hungry. She might have laughed, I think, at his scorn, if scorn had been all his offense. But that he should dare to make her need him and deny her was a wrong that rankled and made and fed on pain. Through each weary hour she was the more enraged.
It was with no good heart that Colonel Royston came to her at last. She started from her chair. "What fortune?" she cried eagerly. "What fortune?"
"None."
"How?" Her face was dark and distorted. "You failed? You've let him laugh?"
"Him?" Royston cried and snatched her wrist. "How much did you know?"
"Ah! You are hurting me," she screamed like a child, for his hand had closed in merciless force, and struggled to escape.
"What do I care?… You devil, you knew it!" He wrenched her wrist round in his passion, then flung her from him so that she reeled against the wall.
She was white with pain. "You are mad, I think," she said, hardly commanding her voice. "What is it I know?"
"You knew that Jerry Stow was coming out for the convoy. You knew it was his affair. You sent me to trap him and ruin him, you damned traitress!"
"O, la, you have lost your wits," she laughed. "Of course I knew it was his. Why else should I care to destroy it? Sure, you must have guessed so much. There is no treason here."
"Why did you not tell me, then? You swore you did not know who would command for the King. Why?"
"O, because I knew you a poltroon. If you had thought you had him against you, you had not dared. I know you!"
Royston gave a queer laugh. "Are you so sure?
…But, by God! I would break your back sooner than beat him."
She stood against him, quick-breathed, defiant. Her charm was greatest so. But Royston looked down at her with a small, sneering smile. "Well. 'Tis his back I have made you break," she said.
Royston shrugged. "He can do without you. And me, my dear. Do you know, sweetheart"—he laughed on the word—"when I heard him shouting to his troopers I thanked God he had us so that there was no way out."
"O, you thank God you are a fool."
"Perhaps I wish I were. You would have done without me then."
"And do you think I'll not do without you now?" she cried. "Well,
tell me the tale. Let me hear what a fool you are."
Royston told; dwelling with malicious delight on the skill of Colonel Stow and the utter rout of the Puritans. "Faith, Jerry will have his laugh at us to-day, my dear."
"I hate you," she cried, and her eyes flamed and her voice was ugly. She crouched back as if she would spring upon him.
"Why, that is some relish," he laughed and approached her. "That will give me some pleasure at the wedding."
"Wedding?" She flung a shrill laugh back. "Do you think I will wed such a thing as you? I wanted a man—a man to revenge me. You—a coward that can not strike for himself, a weakling that whines for a blow. I'll lead apes in hell before I come to your arms."
"Ay, this makes it sweeter yet," said Royston, with an evil smile. "Rage against me. I need something to breed me love."
"You—what have you to offer me? What will they give you here? The whip for a false spy, branding for the foresworn. Nay, I have done with you. O, you were no worth ever in yourself, but I thought you might win a soldier's place in this canting army. If you won power and wealth I could use them. But you—you—why, I have loved a man."
"Yes, I foresee pleasure for you," said Royston and took her in his arms.
With the strength of mad passion she hurled herself free. "Dare that again and I cry out on you for a ravisher," she panted. "O, you have nothing in you but the force of a brute. Do you think I will yield to that?"
"No. You shall ask for it," said Royston coolly. He sat himself down at his ease and bent his dark brows upon her. "Fool, I am not a man to be cheated. You bought me to be a rogue, but by God you shall pay my price. Bah, I knew you would be false if you could. Try. Tell your tale and I'll tell mine. You have left yourself no honor with the King. I'll see that you have none here," he laughed. "Will you take a high tone to me? By Heaven, you shall beg before me before I touch you again. If I choose to leave you, what resource have you? You dare not go back to the King. All the army knows you for the treacherous light o' love you are. Will you go dwell among the yokels? Ay, till your hot ambition drives you mad. Will you try your charms on these cold Puritans? Faith, that should be mirthful. I'll commend you to Cromwell. When you end with the slashed face the godly men give a camp follower I'll provide you a pittance." She was very pale and she shuddered but still her eyes withstood him. "Ay, mistress, you have cut yourself from all but me. 'All for love,' quo' she, 'and the world well lost.' And I—well, I have sold myself cheap, but at least I will have all you can give." He leaned towards her, his full face grim and greedy. She moved her head to and fro, but her eyes could not escape his. Her lips were apart for the quick breath. "Bah, why do you play at pride? We have done with that, you and I. We are bare for each other in greed and desire. What use to feign nice dignity? I know your soul. You need my ways. Ay, even now you want me, you are leaning to my arms. Fool, do you think I can not feel it? "Come!" He held out his hand. "Come!" he cried again, his face flushing.
She looked a long while, trembling a little again and again. Then she put out her hand timidly and let it fall in his. He would not grasp it, he drew her no nearer. She heard him laugh. A blush flooded all her face, her eyes fell. With a strange, wretched cry she flung herself into his arms. She was crushed against him, impotent, suffering.…for a while she knew nothing but pain. Then she cast her arms about him and clung to him passionately. "There is—there is something, isn't there?" she said through a sobbing laugh and hid her face against his shoulder. He took her chin and forced her face to his and covered her with cruel, greedy kisses… She gave herself to them… And then on a sudden she shrank away from him and covered her burning cheeks and shuddered… She was away in the farthest reach of his arms and rent with sobs.
Royston crushed her quivering against him. "My wife," he said and laughed. "My wife!"
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Chapter Thirty-Three
Joan Normandy Plays Proxy
MISTRESS Joy Stone, the mayor's daughter of Thame, loved the river meadows. Thither from the hospital lodged in the grammar school, she bore Joan Normandy. A quick wind came fragrant from the limes about the churchyard, the thornbrakes were a sweet flame of white, the banks blue with speedwell. But Mistress joy was in a great haste. They turned from the highway to the river bank and Joan hung back watching the swift, dark water. Mistress Joy snapped off a kingcup and sighed and pulled another, looked over the wide, empty meadows and sighed again. Her round, childish face was marked with a quaint gravity. "Do you like me, Joan?" said she. "Truly?"
"Why, child, who does not?"
"I am sure I can not tell why any one should," said Joy, with melancholy satisfaction. "I am very sinful indeed. Sometimes I think I am a child of wrath. And I am quite stupid. And I—would you say that I am comely, Joan?"
"I would laugh at you till you laugh too."
"I suppose one ought not to be unhappy save concerning one's salvation. Have you ever been quite, quite unhappy, Joan?"
"In truth, child, if you were so you would not tell of it."
"I am shameful," said Joy with decision. "Dear heart, do I weary you? You are strong and noble, and I—why it is a puzzle to be a woman, you know."
"'Tis a puzzle you'll not get out of, dear. Nor want to, maybe."
"O, shall I not! Would I could change my heart and my coats, I should go the easier. Nay, but conceive me a man! Would you love me, sweet Joan?"
"Sure, sir, you are too bold," Joan laughed.
"Nay, madame, I am a good knight and kiss before I speak," she cried, and slipping her arm about Joan's waist, she did it—and sprang back as if she were stung, a pretty crimson. Close upon them was David Stow. She turned away, tugging Joan's hand. "Nay, Joan, come—come away," she whispered wildly.
"Why, you are a good knight and kiss before you speak," Joan laughed in her ear, and louder: "Good morrow, sir."
David Stow saluted. "And to you, madame." Joy still presented to him her back. "Pray convey my greeting to Mistress Stone's face."
"Major Stow would salute your face, cousin," quoth Joan.
"I thank him for it," Joy stammered.
"Sir, she thanks you for it with my lips," said Joan, her eyes gay.
"A fair proxy. Madame, will you walk?"
"Why, sir, with good will," Joan laughed and proceeded to walk away.
There was a cry of anguish. "Joan!"
David Stow arrested her. "Believe me, madame, you will be an aid."
"Sure, 'tis scarce to be believed. But with right good will, sir. Come, cousin." She linked arms with Joy, but her design to bring the two next each other was frustrated by the agility of both of them. So the three paced on over the meadows, Joan smiling in the middle, David Stow mightily grave upon her left hand, Joy hanging back out of his sight on the other. "The thrushes are gay in the sunshine," Joan suggested. They had nothing to say about the thrushes. "There is meadowsweet and may in the wind." They were not inspired by the wind. "Indeed, 'tis a fair day for you." They had no gratitude for the day. "But I can not do it all." She looked from one to the other with a whimsical smile. But her eyes stayed longer upon David Stow and the smile died.
"A man never knows how little he is worth till he thinks of himself with a woman, madame," said he with the air of a discoverer.
