Colonel Greatheart

by H. C. Bailey

  "So." Prince Rupert looked from one to the other. "What is the quarrel?"

  Colonel Stow smiled with intention on Mr. Bourne, who blushed furiously. "Why, sir, there is an age when a man hates to be called a boy, and longs to be taken solemnly. I have offended Mr. Bourne in both parts. I have no gift for being solemn, but I will promise Mr. Bourne to do my best with him hereafter. His sword-play is at least no jest."

  "Colonel Stow does himself an injustice, sir," said Mr. Bourne quickly. "If he had willed it I had been on the turf."

  "Faith," quoth Prince Rupert, clapping a hand on either shoulder, "you are neither slaughterers in earnest, and you do yourselves an injustice to play at it. I will see you join hands."

  "I shall be glad if Mr. Bourne can be my friend," said Colonel Stow.

  Mr. Bourne flushed—a struggle was plain in him—then suddenly he gripped Colonel Stow's hand. "You are always to outdo me," he said in a low voice. Then turned to Prince Rupert. "Indeed, sir, I owe more to Colonel Stow than I can repay. I would pray your Highness to consider his claims, for I can warrant him a soldier of courage and resource," and to the embarrassment of Colonel Stow he related the entanglement of Cornet Tompkins.

  "I'gad, sir, you are a man for me," cried Prince Rupert. "What was your service in Germany?"

  "I can send your Highness letters from the Duke of Weimar and Oxenstierna."

  "Do so, and you shall hear from me," Prince Rupert held out his hand.

  "I am your Highness' servant—and, if I may speak of him, my comrade, Colonel Royston, who is as good a soldier as myself and of longer service, seeks a commission, too."

  "Let me have his papers. We need men." Touching his hat, the Prince swung away.

  "I think we are quits now, Mr. Bourne," said Colonel Stow with a smile.

  "There is the other matter," said Mr. Bourne. The two men looked in each other's eyes.

  "Sir, I fear you have mistook a kindness for something more," said Colonel Stow.

  "You conceive that Mistress Weston honors your affection?" Mr. Bourne cried.

  "Sir, I am very sure of it."

  There was pity in Mr. Bourne's smile. "I am sorry," he said gently; "she is pledged to me."

  "You mistake," said Colonel Stow. Again they looked at each other a while, silent. "You will agree that she should best know?" said Colonel Stow, with something of a whimsical smile.

  Mr. Bourne looked pity again. "I am sorry," he said. "I am sorry."

  Colonel Stow found him irritating, and was glad that the chapel bells alarmed him, and he fled to his post in the King's Guard.

  Colonel Stow went off to speak with Lucinda. He did not see any humor in the affair.

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  Chapter Fourteen

  Colonel Roysten Stays by a Lady

  WITHOUT ceremony Lucinda drew Colonel Royston away from her mother. "I must speak with you at once, sir." Colonel Royston pretended no pleasure as he rose. My Lady Weston was left alone in that placid unhappiness she knew best. Colonel Royston was taken to the garden. "Sir, your friend and Mr. Bourne are gone away in anger together, for a duello, as I believe."

  Colonel Royston allowed himself the smile of a cynic. "I congratulate you," said he.

  He brought the blood to her cheeks. "You are insolent, sir," she cried.

  "It is amusing," said Colonel Royston.

  Lucinda stared at him. He was a new kind of man. And to her, it may be, his roughness was strength. At least he challenged her, and she was ready. "You are little concerned for your friend," she said with a sneer.

  "My concern is for the other gentleman," said Colonel Royston grimly. "So I will preserve your own admirable calm."

  "Pray, why should I be troubled by their danger?" she cried.

  "God forbid I should help you to emotion," said Colonel Royston heartily. "Yet each of these two silly gentlemen has run some small risk of life for you."

  "And am I not worth a risk?" she said softly. She faced him, lithe and white, with a strange, mocking smile.

  "If you did not think you were you might be," said Colonel Royston.

  "Am I the weaker for knowing myself?"

  "Is any man the stronger for knowing you?"

  "You do not answer," she said gently. "You only hate me. Why?"

  "It happens that you were made for that," said Colonel Royston.

  "Because I have won your friend?" And the fire went out of her eyes, and they were grave and kindly.

  "Because you have won what you can not value."

  "Perhaps I know," she said in a low voice. "Perhaps I—I am sorry.… Oh, I would I were more than I am, or less." Colonel Royston was surprised at the subtlety, and turned to face her. "Is it my fault a man should love me?" she said, with something of a sad smile.

  "Ay, and his ill fortune," replied Colonel Royston.

  "Oh, your words try only to strike!" she cried, her brow drawn. "Why should it please you to hurt me?" and her throat quivered.

  "I am no man for women, madame," said Colonel Royston gruffly. "We are best apart," but he did not go, and his face was set in a dark frown as he looked down at her.

  "Nay, why will you hate me?" she cried. "What wrong have I done?"

  "It were well you should be faithful to my friend," said Colonel Royston.

  Her checks flamed. She was erect and proud-eyed. "When I plight faith I shall keep it," she said. Then on a sudden pressed her hand to her temple. "Oh, I know, I know!" she cried. "He is noble—nobler than I, I think. And yet—and yet—ah, can you guess how a woman yearns for strength, hard, cruel strength?"

  It was a shot that hit the white. Colonel Royston himself thought his friend too kindly—loved him, perhaps, for the weakness, yet thought him less. Himself, being hard enough, was the greater in his own eyes. He smiled upon her for her good taste in men. But he was still loyal. "You will find Colonel Stow strong enough, madame," said he.

  "I can not tell," she murmured. "And I would not hurt him. It is difficult." She was pale, and she trembled a little. Colonel Royston signed mutely to a chair. "Nay, walk with me a while." She passed her bare arm through his, and together they paced the turf, she a slight, white thing to his broad strength. "If he could make me afraid," she murmured to herself. Then louder: "I can not go the straight ways, you know. There is something wild in me. If he can not master it, I am not sure—I am not sure."

  "Yet I have heard you call him master," said Colonel Royston.

  "I wanted to believe it," she said simply. "Nay, he is clever, and a man who does things dazzles me. Oh, he is adroit, and frank, and gay, and that night I hoped—I hoped—" She sighed, then swiftly changed her tone. "But if I were his, you would hate me. You want your friend."

  Colonel Royston stiffened. "I like to think he wants me."

  "You are not modest," she laughed.

  There was something grim in Colonel Royston's smile. "Faith, madame, there is not much modesty in this garden."

  "You are not a coxcomb, but a man. Why should I pretend to you? Oh, I loathe the women that must be always hiding behind a veil."

  "Yet there is a decency in clothes," said Colonel Royston.

  "Clothes are for the people one does not trust. Do you never take off yours, sir?"

  "'Tis an unedifying sight, madame." He looked down at her with a grim smile. "You would see no better than a hungry beast."

  "Hungry—for what?"

  "For all there is in life."

  "Good—and evil?"

  "If it has a relish. What is a man for but to taste all and get his fill of what he likes best?"

  "And what is your liking, sir?"

  "I'll tell you when I die."

  "You have not found it yet?"

  "I have found a thousand things worth living for, and none worth dying for—a thousand things to like, and none to love."

  "Not even a woman?" said Lucinda, smiling.

  "All the women I ever knew have too many clothes—or nothing inside the clothes."

  "I
am not like that," said Lucinda meekly.

  Colonel Royston laughed. "You! No, you are white flame in a woman's body."

  A moment her hand closed lightly on his arm. She drew in her breath. "You know me," she said in a low voice.

  "And, by Heaven, you are worth knowing," muttered Colonel Royston. His face was something flushed. They paced on a while in silence, and she watched him with sparkling eyes intent. But Colonel Royston had his head back and was staring full in front. With a queer laugh he looked down at her. "For good or ill," said he.

  "Indeed, I fear you'll always be able to laugh at me," said Lucinda.

  "It will be mighty good for you."

  "So I'll take you as medicine."

  "I'll strive to be fitly nasty."

  "Will you find it an effort, sir?" Lucinda laughed. And they saw Colonel Stow.

  "Have you buried him, Jerry?" cried Colonel Royston.

  "Mr. Bourne is my very good friend," said Colonel Stow.

  Lucinda blushed and stood still. "Oh, lud," quoth Colonel Royston. "And have you not marked him?"

  "I am glad I did not," said Colonel Stow.

  Colonel Royston whistled, and, "You are very compassionate, sir," Lucinda sneered.

  "I can not guess why you should be bloodthirsty, madame," said Colonel Stow sharply.

  "Nay, keep your censure for who will endure it!" she cried.

  "Tira lira," Colonel Royston concluded his melody. "I profess most men would think you owed Mr. Bourne some small matter of a sword-point, Jerry."

  "Mr. Bourne has been in a mistake," said Colonel Stow, and came up to Lucinda. She met him with a defiance that made her lovely. "Madame, Mr. Bourne conceives that he has some right in you. It were—"

  "Is it my fault if Mr. Bourne is a fool?"

  "Perhaps," said Colonel Stow, with the beginning of a smile. "And now you will make him wise again. You will wake him from this mistake."

  Her bosom rose. "You take a high tone, sir!" she cried. "It may be you are in a mistake, too."

  "Am I?" said Colonel Stow. Then he caught her hands, and, though she leaned all her body away from him, he drew her close till her breast touched his. Her neck was rosy. Her eyes shone dark. "Do I presume?" he said in a low voice. "You know." And so held her a moment, her breast beating light against his, his breath in her hair, while she feared and longed for what might come next. For Colonel Royston stood by, frowning and grim. But Colonel Stow let her go gently, and with a quiet, "I am your servant, madame," made his bow and kissed her hand.… She, intent on him, was a moment before she thought of offering it to Colonel Royston. But Royston, with the briefest bow, turned on his heel and followed his friend.

  "What did you do with the boy?" said Colonel Royston gruffly, as they turned into the street.

  "Made a hole in his shirt. He needed no more."

  Colonel Royston grunted. "The fact is, you are too much the lady, Jerry," says he.

  "Men should love me the more."

  "And what of the women?"

  "There is one that matters, and I shall content her." This confidence annoyed Colonel Royston, who looked sour enough. "I'gad, 'twas a quaint fight, George. The lad will be no ill sword when he toughens. He exercised me. I was fairly praying for him to tire, when in strikes the Palatine and would have us embrace. I believe I pleased Monsieur Rupert. He'll give me a regiment if I know men. So I spoke a word for you, too. And I think our affair is done."

  "Ay," says Royston with a sneer. "A regiment for you and a company for me. Ay, you are charitable."

  Colonel Stow stared. He was not used to jealousy in his friend. "Faith, George, I am selfish enough with you. You've given too much for me. But in this there is no more for me than you. If the Palatine will not give us two like commissions, the better is yours."

  "No, i'gad!" cried Royston, flushing. "I am a cur, Jerry."

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  Chapter Fifteen

  "Why Come Ye Not to Court?"

  IT was a court of fantasy. No man looked what he was. No man said what he meant. Each much-curled dame played at being the goddess she was called. All the air was heavily fragrant of bows and lofty conceits, and Colonel Stow found it something hard to breathe. He was not able to tell Chloris that her voice called his fleeting soul away, nor swear to Saccharissa that her beauties employed his utmost sight, as the first dawn the eyes of Adam. He could not profess himself prostrated like the groveling Caliban by the courteous grace of a gentleman who made way for him, or liken King Charles on his entry to the white sun waking the splendors of all the subject flowers his light had made. In such a world he felt himself the country lad in worsted who was a judge of furrows and right harrowing.

  But there was splendor. Diamonds and white bosoms were gay all down the great hall of Christ Church, and men, too, sparkled in jewels, and vied with the women's silk and brocade. The scarlet gowns of doctors of divinity were no more than a simple chord in the loud melody of color. Colonel Royston approved. This was to his taste. Thus gorgeous a court should be. He fed on the luxury of it, and, proud of his own simplicity, despised them all, and most of all the elaborately posing King. Indeed, King Charles posed well—a stately melancholy in cloth of silver that set off his dark eyes and hair. His Queen, for all her golden gown, was but a foil to him. Her weak, round beauty made his sad sentiment look noble. "You might almost take him for a man tonight," said Colonel Royston. While he spoke came through the courtiers one who was that at least. Prince Rupert, taller by a head than the men who tilted eyebrows and sneered as he passed, made a mock of their splendor. Colonel Stow could see the faces change ludicrously. Prince Rupert was in simple dove gray from head to heel, and even his sword hilt plain, but across his breast was the broad blue riband of the garter. The Palatine knew how to dress. Colonel Stow honored the ability of it with a whimsical smile. Since these men were to be swayed so, so they must be swayed. One would not, however, admire them for it, nor perhaps the man who cared to deal with them so.

  The Prince took him by the elbow and had him out of the throng to the stairway. "Look you, sir, I have a word for you. I have read your papers, and they like me. I never knew Oxenstierna could praise before. I think you have seen more service than myself. I see you were with Turenne. Why did you leave him?"

  "M. de Turenne has a brutality of manner," said Colonel Stow.

  "He is like a cat," the Palatine admitted. "A quarrel, eh?"

  "He proposed a hanging which I could not permit."

  "Was it your own?"

  "No, sir; a prisoner."

  "So. If that is your temper, you are the more use. Look you, sir, war here is not the war of Germany. It is all policy and quarter. They call me Rupert le Diable, but, thunder of God! if these English knew what war could be, they would worship me. Understand me, sir," the brown eyes blazed suddenly, "if you can not hold your men, you are no use to me."

  "I brought a squadron of Croats through Saxony after Wittstock, and no woman was the worse for them."

  "Good." The brown eyes twinkled. "I am only asking you for miracles. Well, you will have no such rogues as Croats, but you will have fools who think they have rights. Oh, the devil! Are you the nineteenth cousin of any great house, yourself?"

  "My father is a yeoman squire in Buckingham. I know no better of my blood than that."

  "Thank God for it!" Rupert clapped him on the shoulder. "The army is crawling with fellows who have some dirty connection with dirty blue blood. Well, sir, if you will, you may have your commission to a regiment of horse."

  "I humbly thank your Highness. And I dared to speak for my friend?"

  "Oh, ay, your friend. You can give him a squadron."

  "By your Highness' leave—if I might take the squadron and Colonel Royston the regiment. He is an older soldier than I."

  "Ods blood, here is a friendship! Take care. There was never much got by playing Jonathan." But he looked at Colonel Stow with a kindly, boyish delight. "Well, tell me the man's service," said he, and he linked ar
ms and walked out to the freshness of the night.

  There was that within for which the Palatine had little taste. To the strains of flageolet and clavichord a smooth lad of the Christ Church servitors, tricked out in a woman's clothes, was singing a fantastical lament as Io, the wretched love of Jove. Now, Io, you recall, was through Juno's jealousy tormented by an immortal gadfly. So when the boy ended with a great tremolo:

  Woe is me that I am fair!

  Woe is me that I am young!

  Woe is me, for my soul is stung

  Ever! Ever! Ever!

  my Lord Jermyn was pleased to make him a low bow and took up the doleful tune:

  Sister Io, you are dull;

  Sister Io, go and try,

  Sister Io, to kill your fly,

  Spider! Spider! Spider!

  It was within the comprehension of her Majesty. She abandoned herself to laughter, and at once all the court honored this wondrous wit. Even the royal melancholy beside her condescended to a childish smile. The world might nudge and whisper behind his back, but he could not dream of jealousy against my Lord Jermyn. Yet of that queer ménage of three, the best brains were in my Lord Jermyn's head. The Queen was urging him to sing now, and he denied only long enough to win a tap of her fan. Little and sleek, in a splendid red brocade, with a chain of rubies round his neck that he could never have paid for, he posed till he waked all expectation. Then he whispered a word to the flageolet, and in a pleasant voice enough:

  Oft have I mused the cause to find

  Why love in ladies' eyes should dwell;

  I thought because himself was blind

  He looked that they should guide him well.

  And sure his hope but seldom fails,

  For love by ladies' eyes prevails.

  But time at last hath taught me wit,

  Although I bought my wit full dear;

  For by her eyes my heart is hit.

  Deep is the wound, though none appear.

  Their glancing beams as darts he throws,

  And sure he hath no shafts but those.

  I mused to see their eyes so bright,

  And little thought they had been fire;