by H. C. Bailey
At last the happy folk were moving. They passed from the lighted room. Colonel Strozzi lounged across the road, wholly at ease, and Lucinda sped after him. The door opened and David Stow stood on the threshold looking out. He drew back and Joan Normandy came, little, gray-cloaked. Then Colonel Stow. Strozzi saw and darted forward with swift, silent strides, his sword bare, hidden behind him. The door was shut. Joan put her hand in Colonel Stow's arm and they walked on into the dark. Strozzi sped on and Lucinda followed him close.
Even as they passed the door it opened again and Alcibiade came out with a cry: "On guard!" and bounded after Strozzi.
Colonel Stow flung Joan Normandy on and sprang round, plucking at his sword. But Lucinda cast herself on him, pinioning his arm and Strozzi thrust at his heart. The blade sped through Lucinda's side and breast and as Strozzi went down with his spine stabbed asunder and Alcibiade upon him, Lucinda swayed heavily, and her blood ran down upon Colonel Stow.
He held her away from him, peering where the steel was set in her, but she hung lifeless in his arms.
Joan came to him, crying wildly, "Are you hurt? Are you hurt?"
"Nay, not I," said Colonel Stow.
She saw Lucinda's face and gave a strange, passionate cry. "She! She saved you!"
David Stow was beside him now and Alcibiade was up and many a man hurrying.
Colonel Stow laid Lucinda down and drew off his cloak and covered her. "Yes. She saved me," he said.
It was over.
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Chapter Fifty-Three
Colonel Stow Knows Himself
WAKING late, after a great payment of overdue sleep, Colonel Stow went to the window in his brother's bedgown. The morning mists were gone. Red roof and mellowing tree stood sharp in the sunlight and the grass was a carpet of jewels. Much had passed with the night. He rested in a strange peace, yet hardly dared permit himself rest.…
It was Matthieu-Marc beside him with a tray. "Zounds, the Evangelist!" Matthieu-Marc beamed. "How came you here?"
Matthieu-Marc groaned.
"Sir," says he, recovering himself, "I could not believe you would have the heart to eat anything unless I cooked it."
"Faith, Matthieu," quoth Colonel Stow, taking him by the shoulder, "you serve me mightily better than I serve you."
"Now, that is what I complain of," said Matthieu-Marc peevishly. "You always forget your place. And the truth is I came here because of a comely maiden, a demoiselle of honor, who surpasses her sex, and wants to marry me. Alas! Her one fault, sir. The fly in the ointment."
And Matthieu-Marc told his tale and Colonel Stow ate his breakfast…
In the shadow of the church where she was wed they made Lucinda's grave and she lay at rest with roses on her brow. Royston came, but the grave was between him and Colonel Stow. There was no word spoken, for no help lay in words. Royston guessed the truth. But to all others Lucinda died in honor. The thing was plain. Strozzi was the villain. In a rage of revenge for his failure, he had broken into Lucinda's lodging, seeking Royston's blood. Balked in that, he bethought him of Colonel Stow, but Lucinda had divined his intent and followed and paid her husband's treason with her life. Strozzi was flung to a nameless hole in the fields, and over her they set a white stone. True, noble heart!
You may fancy Strozzi in that world beyond the grave with his natural smile…
Before the army marched, Fairfax desired Colonel Stow to wait on him, and Colonel Stow, obedient, found him with Ireton—a pair not often coupled. The truth is, doubtless, that each in his own way—Fairfax a frank, soldierly Christian with no taste for exuberant religion and a strain of reckless chivalry; Ireton who loved the extremes of his own faith not much better than the high Cavaliers and was feeling already for a band of moderate, practical men—they felt in Colonel Stow a kinship.
Fairfax welcomed him heartily like a proved friend; Ireton put on a reasonable gaiety, and Colonel Stow found himself comparing their ease with the swashbuckler manners of Rupert and the dreary haughtiness of the King. There was something, yet not too much of thanks. Then Ireton, "Since we're frank, sir, I have wondered more than a little what took you to the side of the King."
"Sir, I must allow you to wonder."
"Well, I have never been of those who see no reason of his party. But I think it has been plain for long there is no hope of fair dealing in him."
"You are fighting for that opinion, sir."
Fairfax broke out. "We have nothing to hide, sir. Why should you? Can you fight for the King again?"
Colonel Stow hesitated. But he knew there was no reason. He was for ever done with that cause. "I shall not, sir," he said deliberately.
"I thank God for it," cried Fairfax.
"You are in the right," said Ireton. "Sir, it's not you desert the cause, but the cause deserts you. There's no place in it now for honest men. The past is past. The only hope for England now is in us. We can bring back the law and peace and strength. Is it worth fighting for? Older friends of the King than you have thought so."
"In fine, sir, will you join us?" cried Fairfax.
Colonel Stow did not answer. Something in this kind he had foreseen, but he was not ready for it.
"We owe you no less than a place of some honor," said Ireton softly.
Fairfax made a sound of disdain. "Sir, you've shown us that no cause could bind you to dishonor. There's a matter above the King's cause or ours—the commonweal of England. Only our victory can serve that. If the King were another—I do not say, and it's no matter. Now who fights for England fights for us." Still Colonel Stow did not answer. "Why, do you doubt of it?" cried Fairfax impatient.
Colonel Stow looked up. "No, sir, not that."
"What is it then?" Fairfax beat on the table. "Speak out, man."
"There is a majority and the first regiment," said Ireton, "if all goes well."
Fairfax stood up. "Well, take your time. Let us hear from you tonight."
"I thank you heartily," said Colonel Stow, and went out.
He was tempted. A regiment in the best army of the world was a splendid prize for his heart. He loved his trade and here was the finest chance to work at it a man could hope. He saw a new fortune given him, another life. He might yet redeem his hopes. Old dreams rose again imperious and splendid. How could he dare deny them? It was to play the coward, to fail himself. If he had faith in his own manhood, he must challenge fate again. What occasion so fair? Surely he could find no way of life so happy. The chance and strain of war, that was very Heaven to his eager temper and swift mind. Ay, on all counts the prize was good. But he longed for it too much to grasp it hastily.
Out beyond the town on the level road, through the smiling, golden corn, he went, gazing at the sky in thought. Indeed, this fell the very matter of his own desire. He was hungry to prove himself greater than the chain of defeat and plot, to charge again in victory. The old boyish love of flashing deeds rose in him. If he did so much with that rabble of a regiment, in that welter of folly with the King, what might he achieve now? He was the better soldier by two campaigns, by a new skill in hedge-row and highway fighting. He permitted himself joyful vistas of triumph. Fairfax should have a good bargain.
He halted. Why not? What hindered? He was his own man. He owed nothing to the King. His loyalty was freed when he was cast into the gloom of Bocardo. No man could condemn him. He had no faintest censure for himself. Yet he faltered. There was a doubt, a doubt that rose stronger and stronger the more he desired. Once before he had chosen a cause for which he had no faith. He told himself that this was mightily different. It was certain, to any soldier it was certain as day and night, that the Puritans would conquer. Was that enough? Against his will he knew that he had no more faith in Puritan than King. He could not hold their creed. He could not believe that Englishmen would bend to their over-saintly rule. He saw no peace in their victory.
Half angry with himself for a scrupulous fool that must needs be wiser than the men of his day, half sad, he d
rove himself to confess that he was made for neither cause. He could not believe in the King; he could not believe in the Puritan; was it so much matter? He was a plain soldier. Nay, but fighting for a cause he could not hold, he had gone too near shame to venture honor again. What then remained? Go back to the corn and the cattle, live for the plow. He gave a doleful sigh.
Surely a man had a right to risk something rather than face that vegetable life. If he ventured honor, why there was something not base in the venture. And while he let the vision of triumph come again, he found himself looking into the maiden honesty of Joan's eyes. Well, and what of her? She had some right to command him, and she would desire him take her cause. If he dared hope for her beneath his heart, sure he must consent to fight for her. That was bare manhood. Nay, what welcome would she have for him else? If he denied her, if he refused her, he knew she would bid him go. She, too, went with the prize. He was tempted.
He had come near the place where he had seen her first. The low thatched houses of Chinnor were close and above them the beech woods, golden and gray, rose in one close army to the white edge of the sky. He remembered it all. His own gay blood and her passion of righteousness.… Ay, he needed her. All the eager strength in him longed for her purity.… Sure, there was nothing else in the world made a man so glad of himself as such maidenhood.… He might take her if he would swear her faith. Take her and all else that he wanted still.…
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Chapter Fifty-Four
Colonel Stow Explains Himself
HIS brother was waiting for him in plain impatience. Colonel Stow had nothing to say. "The General was to make you an offer, I have heard."
"I have answered it," said Colonel Stow.
"Well?"
"In the morning I go home." He looked up and saw his brother's face. "I am sorry, lad."
David Stow sighed. "You are still against us, then?"
"Nay, not that either. I think I was born out of time. I can find no faith that fits my soul, nor no cause that I dare fight for. And so," he gave a whimsical smile, "and so I will e'en go into my corner and cry like a child because the world has no room for me."
"I would to God that you were one of us," said David Stow passionately.
"And I would thank God for your heart that I might be. Lad, lad, do I not yearn to be all of your cause? There's a thousand desires bid me join you, and one—above all. Well! Each has his own soul to work out."
"Unto the glory of God!"
"Ay, unto the glory of God," Colonel Stow repeated. "Forgive me, lad. I can not find my work in your faith. I can see no fruit in your hopes. The England you would make is no place for common men. You put your trust in a people of saints—"
"The Kingdom of God upon earth!" cried David Stow. "And do you not pray 'Thy Kingdom come!'" He pleaded his creed with a passionate strength. They would beat prelate and King, and each man should be free and use his freedom to do the will of God. England should be a land of stern labor and passionate worship, with no thought of other matter. Ay, and not England only. The hour had come for a new crusade. The army of the saints must go forth into all the earth and conquer all for God.
Colonel Stow listened and his face grew sad. "God help you!" he said slowly. "O, lad, we are not all Cromwells. Who else could work such dreams as these? We have to work for human men."
Again the brother pleaded with him in the zeal of his religion, quickened by honest love. Plainly their cause was conquering. God made ready His kingdom. The saints should triumph and multiply and subdue all things unto them. In flashes of strange power he showed a quaint picture of a Puritan England, a Puritan world, behold the will of God incarnate.
Colonel Stow shook his head. "How much would I give to believe it?" he said with a bitter smile. "I tell you I have tried all my strength today to persuade myself into it. Ay, came near to cheat my own soul."
His brother was silent. They changed a glance of understanding and lingered together a long while.…"Well! I have a good-by to say," said Colonel Stow.
"I am sorry," his brother said. "I am sorry."
At the gate of the hospital Colonel Stow asked for Mistress Normandy, and being admitted, crossing the pleasant turf of the close, he found her. She awaited him, still and very pale. She seemed to have lost something of her charm. He had never seen her afraid before.
"I come to bid you farewell, madame," said Colonel Stow.
"I—I have heard the army marches."
"I go home."
He would not look at her. He heard the murmur of bees among the honeysuckle. The wind stirred lightly in the treetops and a faded leaf fluttered slowly by. "O… I was told the general would give you a command."
"He honored me so. I find that I can not fight for him."
She drew in her breath. "You are still for the King?"
"Nor that either. Faith, madame, I am a weakling that can take no side heartily, and so slink off."
"You are done with fighting?" she said quickly.
Colonel Stow gave a grim laugh. "O, ay, the sword is a plowshare now and I walk in the furrow. I have done."
"Why, why, then, you will be—quite safe—always," she said in a low voice.
Colonel Stow laughed. "O, yes, I preserve myself. That's vastly pleasant."
"There may be work for you."
"Ay, with the cattle."
"I did not mean to hurt you," she said, and her lip quivered.
"Forgive me, child. I know your heart can not live with sneers. You have been the sweetest thing in my life. Believe me, I have longed to fight for you. But I can not dare. Your faith is not for me. So here's an end. God keep you." He held out his hand.
Her eyes sought his bravely. Blood stole back to her cheeks. "You are in haste," she said.
"There's no more use in words."
"So they must all be yours?"
Colonel Stow allowed himself a melancholy smile. She too would be pleading, then; well, he had conquered his own longing. "I am your servant," he said with plain regret.
"Had you thought I might want to make an end, too?" she said with something of a shy laugh in her eyes. "Not this one?"
"Madame, I would to God that it might be!" said Colonel Stow miserably. "I have used all my strength to be like you."
"Oh!" She was plainly surprised. "I would not desire that."
"I can not be of your army, of your cause, of your faith."
She considered him with eyes grave as his own. "Perhaps you did not desire."
"We'll not talk of that," said Colonel Stow, and avoided her eyes.
Her sigh was something weary. "I do not think God would have every man alike," she said. "And, truly, all can not come to Him by the same way.… But, surely, it needs not that they should hate each other?"
"I shall honor you all my life, child," said Colonel Stow. She frowned a little and the wide eyes were troubled. "One does not seek that—that another—should be just as oneself." And on a sudden she was all trembling. "If—if one were let serve and—he cared to help—"
Colonel Stow woke at last. He snatched at her hands and drew her close. As her breast touched his she was still again. He looked down into her shining eyes. She did not deny him, but her cheeks were crimson. "It's for me, child?" he said hoarsely.
But she cried out, she started away. "Ah, no, no! Not unless you need me utterly, unless I bring you life." He smiled a little. "You are not sure and we must not," she cried in a piteous voice. "Unless you are bidden, unless you can no other, I had rather die."
"I have been fighting my heart all day, child," said Colonel Stow. "It's the want of you bade me take the general's commission. I have almost fancied myself Puritan, by Heaven. I have all but played my own soul false, for fear of losing you."
"You!" she said in a low voice of a mother's scorn, and looked at him most lovely, smiling through tears, worshipping.
"It was you gave me desire of life again. It's no worth, child, if you'll not give me life, too—yourself—yourself."
She let him draw her close and he held her and she bowed her head on his breast.… She was still and silent a long time, then looked up with a little, quaint smile. "You want me so?"
"I want life and the work of life. I can not find it without you."
"So. It is so," she murmured, and her arms stole about him.
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Chapter Fifty-Five
The Master of All
THE homestead at Broadfields welcomed them again. It was an afternoon of sunshine when Alcibiade found Molly behind a cow with melancholy. He accused her of it.
"You are jealous," said Molly, "because I am going to be a bride."
"I can certainly never be that," said Alcibiade with a sigh. "Would that I could for your sake."
"And I was thinking," Molly continued, "of my duty to him."
"Poor wretch," said Alcibiade, and left her to it.
He found Matthieu-Marc with melancholy in the rickyard. He praised domestic bliss.
Matthieu-Marc exploded. "I adore it, do you understand? I adore it. What more do you want?"
"It is very gentlemanly of you, my dear," said Alcibiade.
Matthieu-Marc snorted for some time and then became pensive. "Any man that is a man would sell his boots to be her husband. That is true. The cook told me so. She told me so many times. She is no artist either as a cook or otherwise. But I—I do not even have to sell my boots. Why do you think she wants to be my wife?"
"My poor friend!" Alcibiade remonstrated with such modesty. "Every woman who sees you must want."
"But that will be very embarrassing afterwards," said Matthieu-Marc.
"Marriage," said Alcibiade, "is a proof of faith, a test of love and an opportunity for charity. But the greatest of these is charity."
