by H. C. Bailey
"With a crude pride. He flaunts it in the delicate places of my soul. Oh, 'tis the ugliness of all the world incarnate. It is plain, George, since the nose of Jehoiada is of one side (certainly God forbid it should be upon two. That would be unfair. There is but one hell), we must be of the other."
Colonel Royston regarded his friend with a singular benignity. "We are to ride for the King, Jerry? Then I think there is another nose than Jehoiada's that is guiding us—to wit, the fair nose of Mistress Lucinda."
"When, by the grace of God, you learn to love a woman—"
"We shall both regret it," said Colonel Royston with decision.
"—her nose will be to you a thing of no account—"
"That will add piquancy to the amour."
"'Tis no part, but the divine whole of her will inspire you. So it is now with me, I will not deny it. Indeed, I am engaged to liberate her from the nose of Jehoiada and bring her to Oxford to the King. Wherefore, George, propound me a strategy. Jehoiada guards the Manor with his nose and half a troop. We muster but four, for I would not bring my father's hinds into the affair—who are indeed but bumpkins."
Colonel Royston waved away smoke. "So my lady would go to the King," said he, drily enough. "Perhaps she would also go to Mr. Bourne?"
"Mr. Bourne is only an impudent boy who is pleased to believe himself enamored," said Colonel Stow. "He is not very amusing, but no more harm."
Colonel Royston looked down at his friend with a singular affection. "All is well, Jerry?" he said softly.
"Very well.… I see good days, George. We will make ourselves somewhat to this King of ours.… And to fight before the eyes of my lady." . . He laughed.… "Well, the first pleasure is to discomfort Jehoiada. A strategy, George! Propound me a strategy. With four to defeat half a troop. 'Tis worthy of your genius."
Colonel Royston withdrew his pipe and caressed his moustachio. "You remember how Strozzi got the little Margravine away from the Croats at Pfüllingen? Put poppy juice in their beer and cut their snoring throats. But she had a strong stomach, the little Margravine, and your lady might think it over sanguinary."
"Strozzi is a butcher," said Colonel Stow shortly.
"He does make a mess," Royston admitted. "But he arrives. You want a strategy of delicacy, a campaign for petticoats. It is not in my way. I am not sure that it is decent."
Colonel Stow began picking daisies. "If there were firing," said he, "much firing, at dusk or dawn (Alcibiade could make a very thunder with two carbines), Jehoiada should take the most of his men out against it, and we might swoop upon the Manor and be gone."
Royston shook his head. "If I am too sanguinary, you are too sanguine, Jerry," said he; "and, i'gad, that sums up our natures fairly. I know no surety Jehoiada will be a fool the way you need. When he hears firing he is as like to shut himself in the Manor and stand to arms. Well, we be a pair of paladins, indeed, but miracles are out of fashion."
Colonel Stow cast daisies into the air and gravely watched them fall.
Above the hedge rose the head and shoulders of a man who rode down the lane, a Puritan officer. Colonel Stow sat up. My brother!" said he, with a whistle of doleful mirth. "He complicates the affair."
In a minute Major David Stow strode into the orchard. He wore a light corselet and helmet of polished steel, and his sleeves and breeches were tawny red. There was no doubt of the brotherhood. They were a match in strength, of the same wholesome pallor, the same earnest, glad eye. But David Stow's faith kept him clean shaven and his hair cropped. And there was brotherhood enough in the greeting.… Colonel Royston saluted with a lifted pipe and an approving smile from the tree. I think he had always an admiration for David Stow.
The brothers were side by side on the grass. "It is good to have you home, Jerry. And you are come in a good hour. This poor land needs such as you." David looked at him with affection, but there was no answer. Colonel Stow was playing with a daisy. "You'll not put off your corselet yet, Jerry?" David cried in some surprise.
"Nay, lad, I wear it. But for which cause?"
"It is not you who can fight for tyranny—a tyranny that would own body and soul." For the first time Colonel Stow heard the faith that fired the strongest hearts of his day—that a man must be free to worship his God what way he would without the leave of bishop or King; that free men could only live in a realm themselves ruled; that the King must be servant of his people, not master. David Stow preached it with a passion that made his brother wonder, and with a strange power. Here was a shy country lad become a man sure of himself and masterful. Colonel Stow knew strength and honored it.
And yet, though he had been free to believe, though no woman had bound him to another cause, I doubt the Puritan faith had never held him. He knew men over well. He saw that the world had no heart for the stern virtue of the Puritan. For each to do what seemed good to himself must needs be chaos. He felt, as a man is sure with no need of reason, that the mass of men were not ready to be free. In a masterless realm he saw cruelty and the ruin of waste. He had no hope of a nation of saints, it may be, no desire. He believed in order and the middle path passionately, sternly, as fanatics their own wild faith. And the fervor of his brother left him cold.
Still David Stow went on with swelling heart proclaiming the kingdom of God on earth. "Nay, Jerry, you must be with us," he cried at last; "there is but one cause for such as you."
"'Tis a fair dream, lad," said Colonel Stow, looking up from his ruined daisy with something of a sad smile, "but a dream not of our day."
"Nay, this is the hour! 'Tis we are called to the work! Let us be glad that to us is the glory to found surely a nation of righteousness. We must to arms and set all men free from the bonds of the tyrant of sin."
Colonel Stow shook his head. "My world is not your world, lad. I see men that would break down a good order given us from of old. I see a people, no saints, but kindly fools, that need the old rule to guide them aright. David, lad, the hour has not struck for your design. And I—well, I am not a man of tomorrow."
But again David Stow must proclaim his vision, that strange, glad vision of a world not come yet, where each man shall be free to do his own will, and each earnest with an austere passion to do the will of God. To the men of his faith and his day it was near, it was all but real. Colonel Stow shook his head. He saw too clearly to believe. David pleaded passionately still. It was hard for him to deem a man honest who stood against his cause. But he was sure of his brother, and needed him, I think, as man not often needs man. And at last: "You must be of us, Jerry!" he cried. "The cause calls for such as you. And I—I want you by my side."
It was strongest of all he had said. Colonel Stow drew in his breath. "I am pledged to another cause lad," he said slowly.
His brother looked in his eyes and knew there was no answer. Silent he held out his hand, silent he rose. Then, turning away, he saw Colonel Royston grave beyond his custom. Their eyes met. In the hardest days that came there was always something of a kindness between these two. "I must not ask you?" said David Stow. Royston shook his head. David Stow looked at his brother again, and went away sorrowful.
They were not wholly light of heart whom he left behind. "I would as soon be that man as myself," said Colonel Royston pensively.
If Colonel Stow could not feel that—for to him was granted the excellence of Lucinda—it was yet some while before he brought his thoughts back to the problem of the hour. "There remains," said he, "the obstacle of Jehoiada. I hope my brother is not a friend of his."
"If he is, we had best go borrow an army," said Colonel Royston grimly.
But that fear was removed, for they saw David Stow pass the orchard hedge again, riding back to Aylesbury. He waved his hand, and was gone many a day from his brother's life.
Colonel Stow gave a sigh of relief. "He could not, indeed, be the comrade of such a nose.… That nose! George, it gives me an idea."
"An idea of low birth."
"'Tis a suspicious member, the nos
e. And such a nose! I will be sworn Jehoiada is suspicious. It would be but kindness to give that nose employ. Well, he shall suspect. Gerechter Herrgott! How he shall suspect!"
Colonel Royston coughed—coughed so piteously that his friend looked up in sympathy. Six feet away in the garden he beheld Joan Normandy plucking daffodils. "How sweetly innocent are flowers," said Colonel Royston, recovering from his illness.
Colonel Stow shook his head. "I discover in you a likeness to Jehoiada, George," he said sorrowfully. Joan Normandy, with a certain defiant deliberation, completed her nosegay. She then departed leisurely.
"I would trust anything," said Colonel Royston, "but righteousness."
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Chapter Nine
Concerning the Angel Uriel
"JEHOIADA TOMPKINS, Cornet, will be moved of the spirit at half after ten in the Sabbath forenoon in the palace of the Amalekites, which is called Stoke Manor." Such was the grateful news conveyed to the homestead in Jehoiada's own hand. It begat some unseemly mirth from Colonel Royston and an offer of his part to conduct Mistress Normandy to Jehoiada's punctual motions. "Sir," says she, with her chin in the air, "I desire your escort nowhere." For if Colonel Royston loved her little, she was ever something less than Christian to him.
Colonel Stow held the gate for her as she went forth, all black and white, clasping close in her hand a worn Bible, and he stayed a while looking after. Her loneliness appealed to him, and that faith of the worn Bible, yet there was something ridiculous in one who could seek the ministrations of Jehoiada. Between sympathy and mirth he watched her out of sight. Whereby he had the honor of a salute from a strange gentleman, a gentleman who progressed in bounds, like a fluttering hen, a shaggy gentleman who was naked to the waist. He halted on the sight of Colonel Stow; he flung out a talon of a hand. "Woe unto thee!" he shrieked. "Woe unto thee! I am the Angel Uriel!"
"How do you like it?" said Colonel Stow politely.
"I do not like thee, thou man of Babylon. I pour out my vial upon thee, for thou hast the mark of the beast. I am come to prophesy thy destruction. I am the Angel Uriel, and the noise of my roaring goeth before me. For I am charged to make the high places tremble and the mighty men flee away. Woe unto thee! Thou shalt have a grievous sore."
Then Colonel Stow was gripped by an idea. "This gentleman," said he to himself, "is the very man for Jehoiada." But aloud: "Uriel, my friend, you have mistook my direction. I shall have no sore. I am a person of no honor. But there is one Jehoiada Tompkins that pretends he is moved by the spirit—a very froward preacher that hath the mark of the beast upon his nose."
"Give me word!" cried the barebacked gentleman. "Is he of them that would testify unto the people?"
"Very painfully he does so," said Colonel Stow.
"It is against such I am sent, that they may gnaw their tongues in shame. Verily, I shall prophesy unto him even as the bite of a scorpion. Give me word of him." Colonel Stow gave a precise direction. Straightway he went bounding the road, crying: "Woe, woe, and a lake of fire!"
Then Colonel Stow went in and made Royston write him a letter, the which he put in his coat, and himself with some expedition followed the barebacked gentleman.
For my part, I judge Jehoiada Tompkins an honest man who strove earnestly to do his duty. It is not easy to like him the better. Lucinda, walking with her mother along the gallery of Stoke Manor was surprised by the irruption of half his troop.
"What is this new insolence?" she cried.
"Cornet Tompkins would give his testimony. Desire that you may have ears to hear," quoth a lank corporal.
While the two women looked at each other in helpless disgust, others came flocking to the gallery—such of the peasants as were stern Puritans, such as had the gift of curiosity, all in their whitest smocks and finest woolsey, and the sergeants of the troop ushered them into an orderly array, while the troopers marshalled themselves in line of spiritual battle behind. Joan Normandy came, guided by a solemn giant in steel and buff, but her eyes went this way and that in a fashion less than devout. She was hoping to see Lucinda. There could be no doubt who it was in the silver dress with the proud lips. Joan flushed strangely and hurried by.
It was a great company. The peasant folk came eagerly to spread themselves in the Manor hall. They felt the carved wainscot, the pictures, the gilt armor almost their own. Each one of them swelled as good as the gentry. Truly, the rule of the saints was pleasant. But Cornet Tompkins was by no means minded to comfort them. With a large Bible and the swelling port of the preacher, he came. His breastplate gleamed like a mirror, the linen at his throat was spotless white, his face glowed and shone. He ascended a chair, glowered, and smacked his lips at the congregation.
"Unto me, Jehoiada, the Lord's cornet, came a voice saying, 'Speak!' Then I knew it was an hour of wrath, and I cried aloud to you, 'Come unto me, that I may chasten you.' Verily, I will spare you no whit. I will scourge you with my tongue for your offenses, which are noisome unto me."
And without doubt Cornet Tompkins had held the attention which he had thus worthily won, but on a sudden a shriek rang through the gallery. "Woe! Woe and a beast of horns!" Through one of the long windows came a shaggy head and a naked body that brandished haggard arms. "Come out! And again I say, come out! I am the Angel Uriel." With one eager impulse the whole congregation turned to him. "Behold the scarlet-colored beast!" he cried, pointing to the ruddy face of Cornet Tompkins. "I see him with seven heads and ten horns. I denounce him unto you. I publish his doom. I am the Angel Uriel. Come out from him, come out; for his name shall be called Magor Missabib."
Cornet Tompkins was displeased. "Who is this that blasphemeth the Word?" said he with austere dignity. "Troop sergeant, away with him!"
"I am the Angel Uriel!" the man screamed, tossing his shaggy head, whirling his bare arms aloft. "I have the light of the Word. Nor death nor hell prevail against me, nor that great beast, that old serpent. Come forth from the house of Rimmon and I will tell you a vision. Woe! Woe and the gnawing of tongues! Come!" He leaped down to the ground, and in a weird voice crying, "Come, and I will show you the things that must be hereafter!" began to climb up a tree.
And the congregation of Cornet Tompkins, used to seek the strangest ecstasies of religion, eager as the Athenians for some new thing, streamed out after him. Vainly Cornet Tompkins cried to them not to follow one possessed of devils. Their minds were in turmoil. When men were all equal and as good as the gentry, what might not be true? It was an age of many a wild creed, and many a man awaited eagerly a new revelation. But Cornet Tompkins, wroth for his unspoken sermon, cried out: "Sergeant Bunce, commit this man of Belial into ward!"
The true Puritan temper that made each man free to preach his own faith knew nothing of such discipline yet. The sergeant stood stiff. "I am a poor deacon of the Lord," said he, "and I will lay no hands upon one who comes in His name," and with that he, too, went off to hear of the vision.
Cornet Tompkins was left with hardly two or three gathered together. He came down from his chair and looked moodily at the scene without. There, high in a tree, like some strange bird of legend, the barebacked man swayed to and fro, screaming. It was a lurid, fantastic dream he had to tell, made up of scraps from the apocalypse and the prophets of denunciation, grotesquely twisted to suit the place and the time. But it was burning with something of a madman's faith, and it awed peasant and soldiery. They gazed at him in earnest.
But Cornet Tompkins groaned as he thought of what they had lost. "Verily, this is an age of false prophets," said Cornet Tompkins, with shaking head, "and he hath seven devils." He looked upon Joan Normandy and the one or two that preferred sanity in their devotions who were left him, humbly expectant still. "To your tents, oh ye people of God. Let us pray that the truth may be made known."
Now Joan Normandy, as she was going out, came upon Colonel Stow. She gave him one swift look of surprise and hurried on. But Colonel Stow, smiling blandly, lounged into the gallery and there let
fall a letter upon a window ledge. He was unseen, for of those left Cornet Tompkins was coming down the gallery, his head bowed and wagging in mourning for his spoiled sermon, and Lucinda was waiting for him with an unkind smile.
"I fear your soldiers have heard you preach before, sir," said she.
Cornet Tompkins breathed heavily—his trade was sermons, not repartee—and glared at her, and she laughed. Then, as he passed her, she saw Colonel Stow. But Colonel Stow, save for one swift glance that spoke, made no account of her, nor laughed. He approached Cornet Tompkins with a grave sympathy. "Sir," says he, "you despoil me of a refreshment. I am come to hear the spirit move you, and you make me less sound than a sucking dove. You promise me bread and give me less than a stone."
Cornet Tompkins turned upon him with a stony stare. "Mock not," he said in a hollow voice, "mock not, that ye be not mocked."
His extreme discomfiture moved Colonel Stow to pity. "Sir," says he gravely, "you do me wrong. I am come but now to hear you, and I find naught to hear. Prithee, what prevents?"
Cornet Tompkins clutched him by the arm and led him to a window. "That prevents, sir." He pointed to the weird, half-naked creature yelling from the boughs. "That prevents. That demoniac. They are all gone after false prophets, and have no mind for the truth."
Colonel Stow looked long. The gentleman was even more surprising than he had hoped. But he preserved a great gravity and shook his head. "I like it not," said he. "I like it not," and shook his head again. "I suspect him much."
"Sir, I suspect him of the devil!" cried Cornet Tompkins.
"I suspect him of playing the devil, which is worse."
Cornet Tompkins gasped. "Who would play the devil but one mad?"
"I suspect him less mad than he would seem."
Cornet Tompkins opened his mouth, and in that state tried to smile. It was impressive. "Sir," says he, "this is a precious thought."