Colonel Greatheart

by H. C. Bailey

  In which happy state he beheld Joan Normandy walking by the violet bank, a vision of neat womanhood. Colonel Stow felt fatherly and approached her smiling in that style. She turned her back on him. "I might rashly believe that I have displeased you," Colonel Stow mildly conjectured, and turning, unashamed, walked by her side.

  She flushed. She became fierce. "I beg you would not company with me, sir," she cried.

  "That gives me the right to ask why," said Colonel Stow placidly.

  She turned to face him. The grave gray eyes flamed. "You have made a mock of my father."

  "Oh," Colonel Stow understood. She had seen that expedition of darkness. "You should have a conscience that will let you sleep o' nights, child. But consider: it would be vanity in me to claim that I am the devil." She flung away from him and sped on over the turf walk. He followed. "Moreover, your father would grieve if he thought Sathanas was neglecting him. Your anger is unreasonable." She was caught in an angle of the hedge, and could not escape, but she kept her face hidden, and he saw her hand at her eyes. "Why, child," says he, with his hand on her shoulder, "'tis an idle jest enough, but you make too much of it. Your father has taken no hurt, nor his cause. Nay, believe me. 'Tis only a lad in love I have snatched from prison, and your father is no worse for it. Why make it so grave a matter?"

  "You have—you have made me act in a lie," she sobbed.

  This precision of righteousness was something beyond Colonel Stow. He took his hand from her. "Pray, if it would ease your conscience, tell him the truth."

  She turned on him again, miserable and much wrath. "You know I can not, and—and I hate you!"

  Colonel Stow caressed his beard. "You are out of my knowledge, child," he confessed, "If I can make your way easier, show me."

  "I am a spy on you if I tell. And you saved us. Oh," she made a gesture of impatient childish wrath, "I can not tell why you should meddle to help him. He had betrayed you with her. What are they to you?"

  Colonel Stow became erect. "You talk of what you know nothing, child," he said stiffly.

  But she would not be rebuked, and they stood against each other in angry dignity. Until—since all dignity in this world is fated to a mirthful end—until a hen, fleeing with hysterical complaints, hurtled through Colonel Stow's legs and vanished through the hedge. She was pursued by a small, round, determined child, who, finding these two large people, checked and stood before them stolid, a person conscious of importance. Solemnly he looked from one to the other, then, his blue eyes large and accusing, he turned to Colonel Stow. "You have made that lady cry," he said gravely.

  Joan Normandy gave a queer, nervous laugh.

  It displeased the child, who thought her disrespectful to him. He devoted himself to Colonel Stow. "Man," says he, with the easy dignity of an equal, "who are you?" Colonel Stow gravely accounted for himself. "I," said the child, "am Antony Jewemiah Higgs. What is you doing?"

  "Sir, I am being scolded," said Colonel Stow sadly.

  Antony Jeremiah Higgs turned the eye of a cold critic upon Joan Normandy, who indeed, between anger and unhappiness, was not comely. He reverted to Colonel Stow. "Does you know Martha?" Colonel Stow denied it. "Martha is like that when she is cross with Sam."

  "Antony Jeremiah Higgs," said Colonel Stow, "a man does not chatter about ladies."

  The child was plainly disappointed, having doubtless intended a further parallel with Martha. But he took the hint gentlemanly, and changed the subject with vigor. "Man," says he, "can you make men?"

  "I am not allowed to," said Colonel Stow.

  "Why?"

  "Because I should not do it well enough."

  "Try," said the child imperiously, and turned upon Joan. "Can't you make men?"

  "Not very well," says she, and then, with impatience at the foolish stupefaction of Colonel Stow: "He means out of wood, of course."

  "Oh! Faith, that is an easier task," said Colonel Stow, and pulled down a sturdy twig of walnut, sliced it off, and began to whittle it into mannikins. Antony Jeremiah Higgs directed masterfully the details of the creation. The Adam of it did not please him, and he generously handed the creature to Joan. "You may have that. I like them with legs."

  "Legs are but vanity, a means to naughtiness," said Colonel Stow, but began to construct them, while the child clung to him in anxious delight.

  "Now make them some women."

  "Faith," says Colonel Stow, "I think they will be more at peace without them."

  "They must have mothers," said the child.

  "They should have thought of that before they were born."

  Antony Jeremiah Higgs had too serious a mind to dally with flippant ingenuity. "Go on," he ordered with some scorn, and Colonel Stow meekly continued the creation.

  Joan Normandy stood by them, still, unconstrained now. She watched the small boy clinging about Colonel Stow, eager, happy, and Colonel Stow giving himself gaily to meet the manifold needs of childish importance, and the trouble was smoothed away from her face.

  Blue clouds had clashed on the hill above Wendover, and a whirl of rain came by. But the sun was clear still, and soon a rainbow spanned the vale. "What is it?" said Antony Jeremiah Higgs, and was told. He gazed with round, approving eyes at the splendor. "I want it," said he.

  "Are you sure you can find it?" said Colonel Stow.

  There was the child's look of wonder at man's folly. "Of course I can find it. Come wiv me."

  So, with a child for guide, Colonel Stow went off to find a rainbow. Joan Normandy, left behind, looked at the round scrap of life poised to the swing of the man's shoulder, and smiled like the springtime, through tears.

  | Contents |

  Chapter Seven

  Colonel Stow is Again Inspired

  IN the farmyard Alcibiade, who had a mind interested in all things, examined the domestic habits of the Berkshire pig. His investigations were interrupted by the issue of Matthieu-Marc from the kitchen. Matthieu-Marc came like a shooting star, with flying dishwater for his tail. From the doorway a plump and rubicund cook spoke of his character in the style of the recording angel, and threatened shrilly of the wrath to come.

  Alcibiade shook his head at the offender. "You always make love with too much salt in it. It is also the fault of your soups. And disagreeable to persons of innocent mind."

  "I do not desire to please children," said Matthieu-Marc, wrathful still. "And it is not a matter of love, but of sauce."

  "It is the same thing," said Alcibiade, "to persons of delicacy."

  "I wished to make a sauce of garlic and olives to serve with the roast beef—a sauce alluring and subtle. She resented it. She is a person of no soul. Come away."

  They went, and, Matthieu-Marc being in the power of his emotions, went with speed till they came to a hurdled meadow, where the shepherds were busy among many lambs. Of them Alcibiade, who was not fond of going upon his own legs, made an excuse to stop. But Matthieu-Marc was impatient. "They tire me, your sheep. Bah, it is a country all sheep, I think, with no taste for savories and no divine desire of war. M. le Colonel also, I do not understand him any more. He dallies. He is in two minds—like the soup of these English, which does not know whether it would be water or grease."

  "In fact, my dear Matthieu, you have no intellect. You do not understand anything but the one little belly of your own. M. le Colonel, he is like the late Bayard and myself; he fights to fulfil his own glorious nature. He is a soldier of dreams. That is why he and I are very terrible in war. We desire only to give our great souls full play."

  "In that case, my friend, you should become a sheep," growled Matthieu-Marc.

  Alcibiade contemplated the bleating lambs with benignity. "My dear Matthieu," says he, "most men, being stupid like yourself, desire to make life more savory than is good for them. By example, as you want foods that make the innocent stomach wrath, so you lust after plunder in war. But your soldier of dreams seeks only to be himself and let his greatness shine before men."

  "I can
behold a sheep thinking himself great," murmured Matthieu-Marc. "He would be amusing."

  "It is something, after all, to be the perfect sheep," said Alcibiade.

  And meanwhile the soldier of dreams was away to his desire. He had permitted himself some splendor. A feather of peaceful green caressed his hat, and the rest of him was a consonant blue. I find something of his nature in this affection for blue and green. There was lace from Bruges at his throat, caught in a brooch of sapphires. For all this, Lucinda, I fear, liked him the better. Moreover, he was plainly a man, and therefore a relief from the epicene wooing of my Lady Lepe. And Lucinda, too, perhaps, had dwelt with dreams. When she first waked to know her womanhood he had been in her heart. That availed always.

  It is likely she was hoping for him when she came out beyond the hedge of roses to the park. So you might explain the sweet humility of her gown, all simple and silver gray. She met him with a shy curtsy and downcast eyes. "I had no right to hope for this, sir."

  "You have ever the right to command me, madame."

  "It becomes me better to ask your pardon." She raised her eyes to his.

  "Madame?"

  "To play before you in so ill a jest."

  "I would give my life to know how much was jest, madame."

  Her neck grew rosy (that was a great beauty of hers). "What must you think me?" she cried. "Tell me, tell me how much you know."

  "Of this, madame, I can know nothing but what your own lips tell."

  "You know it was a man?" she said in a low voice. Colonel Stow bowed. "And yet you, surely none but you, set him free?" He bowed again. "Why, then, why?"

  "Since he was at least a friend of yours," said Colonel Stow.

  "And if he were more?"

  Colonel Stow drew in his breath. "Then—I am the more glad that I helped him," he said slowly.

  "I think you live to make me ashamed," she said, and somewhile looked at him silent, her clear eyes intent and unafraid, but strangely gentle. "And if I tell you he is no more to me than another man, what shall I seem—whom you saw in his arms?"

  "I am more sure of your honor than my own," said Colonel Stow.

  "Yes!" She flung her arms wide and laughed glad to the sky. "Yes, you ring true. I should wish you to know all, if you will. This Mr. Bourne, why, I profess I like him not ill, but he is more boy than man. He is pleased to believe himself devoted to me, and hath ventured himself from Oxford often in this disguise. Oh, I doubt I have been foolishly kind, but indeed he amused me, and did himself no ill, I think. 'Tis just a joyous, honest lad. But indeed he has a bold mischief in him, and—why, I can not tell now whether to laugh or be angry—he made his advantage of your presence to—to"—she was in a pretty confusion—"in fine, sir, 'twas yourself won him what he had. I dared not deny the rogue, lest you should suspect him no woman. And I could not betray him to you, for I feared you committed to the Puritans, like your brother. So he had his impudent will." She smiled, shy-eyed, and blushing in a delectable way. "Oh, I ought to feel it more hurt—but—but he—well, some day another woman will make him know it is not play."

  "A man might make him know it was an insolence," said Colonel Stow with some relish.

  "Why, yes, sir, when I give some man the right." And Colonel Stow bowed to the rebuke. "But have you heard enough of me to tell me something of yourself?"

  "I think you know the best of me," said Colonel Stow in a low voice.

  "Indeed, I know no terrible ill," she smiled.

  "The best of me is that I love you." He took her hand and she turned a little away. "That is the strength of my life." She did not answer, but she did not grudge him her hand.

  So they stood when a shadow fell between them. "With whom do you company by stealth, woman?" said one, mouthing in the manner of the pulpit. Colonel Stow turned, stiffening to behold Cornet Jehoiada Tompkins. Cornet Tompkins was large and upon the way to fatness. His face had reached it, and in some parts betrayed a kindness for the good things of this world. He had the swelling port, the mobile lips of the man of speech. Colonel Stow surveyed him with an amused contempt that stung. He moistened his lips and rolled his eyes. "Who art thou in the purple and fine linen of the Canaanites ?" he cried.

  "Concerning purple," said Colonel Stow, "though I think it be the bully among colors, it has the patronage of your nose."

  "Fellow, we are not met to debate the fashion of my countenance," cried Cornet Tompkins.

  "Indeed, sir, it calls not for debate, but lamentations," Colonel Stow admitted.

  "I see well that thou art of the blood of Shimei which cursed David. Thy name, oh thou man of Belial, and thy purpose here?"

  "My name, sir, is Stow, and my purpose is to glorify your nose. Believe me, sir, 'tis a sweet member."

  Cornet Tompkins was plainly embarrassed. "Are you of one blood with that godly Master David Stow which is major in Colonel Ireton's regiment?"

  "His unworthy brother am I. And could wish him here, that we might make a duetto concerning your nose, its complexion. Yet will I do what I can to hymn it worthily alone."

  Cornet Tompkins, feeling his nose nervously, became plaintive. "Sir, it ill beseems you to mock at a man of God before a Canaanitish woman."

  "Mock? Who, I? Sir, I am all lamentation. I could mourn with you all the day long. Like a Dutch tulip at dawn—" Cornet Tompkins did not wait for the elaboration of that poetic simile. He strutted off, wrapped in embarrassed indignation.

  With a whimsical smile Colonel Stow turned to Lucinda again. "Life is like that, I think. A creature with such a nose shadows us when we dream. Pray, madame, what is his affair here?"

  "He hath quartered himself upon us," said Lucinda angrily. "Oh, sir, 'tis not to be borne. A boor that forces himself into my mother's withdrawing-room to whine his sermons."

  Colonel Stow took counsel with his beard. "It were easy to fix a quarrel on him whereof he would not recover. But I doubt you would but have more of his kind to trouble you. Nevertheless, I am heartily at your command if you desire it."

  "Nay, that is no help, sir. The fellow swears we are to have a company of his knaves billeted on us till the war ends—because, forsooth, we have given shelter to spies of the King. Indeed, sir, I have much to thank Mr. Bourne for. These vile Roundheads make my life hideous. They force their brutish persons upon me in every chamber. They deafen me whining their psalms. They pray at me with vile names. Oh, I would that the King might conquer speedily, and whip the knaves back to their kennels."

  Colonel Stow's brow was bent, and his eyes fiery, but he spoke calmly enough. "You are all for the King, madame?"

  "Who is not but such base rogues as these?" she cried. "Oh, I would that I were a man to strike for him. Sure, sir, every noble heart is with him. 'Tis the honor of England for which he fights. How should he yield his realm to the madness of baseborn fanatics? His cause is the cause of every man of right knightly blood. Shall such rogues as these be our masters? Nay, sir, who is loyal to himself is loyal to the King. Each man that hath any honor, ay, each woman, is bound to him." She was fair enough, with her eyes aflame and bosom surging.

  Colonel Stow bowed. "You have spoken, madame." She smiled at him, with a new light in her eyes and quick, eager, flung out her hand to him. His lips stayed upon it long, and as she smiled down at him a strange tenderness made her face lovely. Colonel Stow was something pale as he stood again erect, and a long while their eyes spoke together. Then, with her bosom rising, her neck rosy, she turned a little away.

  But when, in a while, Colonel Stow spoke again, he was calm enough. "It is plain, madame, that, while you can not drive these rogues away, you can leave them behind. Are there friends where you can make your home a while?"

  She hesitated a while, finger on cheek, then with a sudden glad cry: "Ah, but Oxford! To the King at Oxford! One could live there." Then her face fell again. "But these knaves would not suffer it. We are in prison to them."

  Colonel Stow smiled. "I can not permit a gentleman of such a nose to meddle
with my emotions," said he.

  "But"—she looked doubt and surprise, and was plainly puzzled—"but he has many, so many men," she faltered. "It is like a regiment."

  "It is in fact half a troop," said Colonel Stow, who had a neat mind. He smiled again. "They make the affair an entertainment."

  "You mean that you can?" she cried, and he bowed. "Everything is easy with you," she said slowly. She drew along breath. Her eyes began to flame. "Oh, it is good, it is good to be by your side. You are sure. You give me life."

  He flushed. He caught her hands in a grip that hurt her, and her breast beat against his. And, as a strange, keen throb of passion waked in him, he saw Cornet Tompkins under the elms regarding them gloomily.

  It was necessary to part with laughter.

  Then Colonel Stow, approaching Cornet Tompkns with determination, described in fullness his nose. It obtruded, nevertheless, persistent into the dreams of life.

  | Contents |

  Chapter Eight

  Upon The Use of a Nose

  COLONEL ROYSTON complained of the nature of things. The fork of a pear tree made him a pleasant seat, and at whiles its blossom fell upon him, so that he had an Arcadian air. The smoke of his pipe rose comfortably to the lucid sky. Yet he complained. He desired fruit as well as flower. "For," says he, "the virginity of this white blossom purifies the mind so that I am in the mood to eat fruit with a devout relish. But when the fruit is here, my mind, unadorned with flowers, is but gross and carnal, which is proper enough for blood puddings (Jerry, my love, the black puddings of Erbach!), but spoils the taste of fruit. Ah, would that I had been consulted in the creation!"

  "As I see it," said Colonel Stow, who was stretched full length beneath him, "the flaw in the world is the nose of Jehoiada. Since Nuremberg, when we made them of our breeches, I have ever doubted a sausage. Sure, the man who uses one for a nose is a misanthrope. Nay, George, the nose of Jehoiada must determine us."

  "For myself, if I were not beautiful, I would choose to be a gargoyle," said Royston. "But you were born shy, Jerry. What ails you with Jehoiada? Does he wear his nose haughtily?"