Colonel Greatheart

by H. C. Bailey

  I gazed upon them with delight,

  But that delight hath bred desire.

  What better place can love desire

  Than that where grow both shafts and fire?

  He acted it to the Queen, and she laughed back to him and conquetted with her fan, and at last was pleased to feign displeasure at his boldness. So that there was no royal sign given for applause, and my Lord Jermyn was honored with a silence. Then he, keeping up the silly game she loved, must needs play pique, and turned away from her. So, peacocking it through the throng, he came upon Lucinda. My Lord Jermyn was a connoisseur. This lithe, fierce creature took his eye. A sea-green dress clung to her, and there were emeralds in the gorgeous mass of her hair that dared a happy disorder. She bore herself nobly. The slim neck and shoulders were no alabaster, but warm with quick life. My Lord Jermyn appraised her, and met eyes as bold as his own.

  "'For by her eyes my heart is hit,’" he cried quickly.

  "A small mark, my lord."

  "A poor thing, madame, and not now mine own."

  "Why, have you mislaid it?" says she, with a swift glance at the Queen.

  "I have dropped it in your bosom, madame," replied my Lord Jermyn.

  "A cold habitation."

  "The flame of my desire will melt those walls of snow."

  "And your heart be drowned, like a blind puppy."

  "You fence with a sharp sword, madame," cried my Lord Jermyn, something hurt.

  "I would be a foil to no man, my lord."

  "Nay, you are made to be a man's breastplate."

  "I know no man big enough to wear me."

  My Lord Jermyn made a gesture of despair. "Then, madame, you condemn the creation. And you were made to be its joy."

  "I had rather be my own."

  "All men are yours," said my Lord Jermyn.

  Lucinda smiled. "While I am not theirs, I am well content."

  "Ods blood!" cried my Lord Jermyn in a fine transport, "there is one man I envy and I hate to death." Then with a grin: "And pity."

  "Who is it?" asked Lucinda in sweet innocence.

  "Ay, who is it? I am on fire to know. Who is the happy man that makes those cruel eyes melt, that still bosom throb? I would condole with him—or kill him."

  "I wish I knew him," said Lucinda, smiling. "Or will you be he, my lord?"

  My Lord Jermyn kissed her hand. "And I will do more at your convenience."

  "Nay, if you care for my convenience, you care not for me."

  "I protest!" cried my Lord Jermyn, and was probably in earnest, "I protest you are the most piquant mouthful of a woman that ever was created!"

  "But I doubt your appetite," Lucinda laughed.

  "Doubt anything but that!" cried my Lord Jermyn, and, chancing to turn a little, saw the Queen frown black. He laughed and engaged Lucinda more closely. "Nay, madame, you have brought wild life into this dull court. You shall enflame us, you shall make us mad. I would give my soul—or my little finger—to make you mad for me."

  "It would surely be disloyal of me," said Lucinda, with a quick eye upon the Queen, "and perhaps not amusing."

  "Oh, I engage for that!" cried my Lord Jermyn. "Nothing is so amusing as to embrace me. It has so many sensations."

  Lucinda considered him with mockery. "Well, I will take you for holidays, my lord. But indeed, I must have another for my daily bread."

  "It is dry, the daily bread," said my Lord Jermyn. "But you, madame, are like wine with it to make the sacrament of life." He pruned himself having achieved such a conceit.

  "Alack, my lord, while I make you think of spiritual things, you remind me of nothing but the earthly."

  "It proves that we are apt for each other, like soul and body."

  "Ay, my lord, in most of us they quarrel doughtily."

  "And the soul yields to the body's eloquence," and my Lord Jermyn possessed both her hands. "Madame, it is an omen."

  "Of eternal punishment, I fear."

  "With me even that would be agreeable," says my lord modestly, and kissed her hands and her arms. Then sidewise he looked at the Queen. Her displeasure was not lovely. My Lord Jermyn, who had some likeness to a monkey, thought of a new mischief. "But I confess, madame, you were made for an angel."

  "Do I not succeed as a woman?"

  "Ay, faith. But I see you with a golden harp. I hear your heavenly voice. Confess it, you sing?"

  "No heavenly songs, my lord."

  "The better fit for court. Let me lead you to the musicians. Nay, I will not be denied. I am her Majesty's master of the revels."

  "Her Majesty will not revel in this, my lord," said Lucinda, with a swift, laughing glance from the Queen's ill grace to him. But she suffered herself to be led.

  Lucinda enjoyed herself. She had no illusions about my Lord Jermyn, who was to her as mean a thing as Prince Rupert had called him. But my Lord Jermyn drew the eyes of the court. My Lord Jermyn could help her to do the like. Once on the stage, she was sure of her power to dazzle and thrill. She saw herself already an uncrowned Queen.

  My Lord Jermyn aping it about her, she spoke with the musicians. The clavichord broke through the rustle of talk. It was a song, daring on a woman's lips, and there was a dance with it of no cold measure.

  A lover I am, and a lover I'll be!

  And hope from my love I shall never be free.

  Let wisdom be blamed in the prudish man-hater,

  For never to love is a sign of ill nature!

  But she who loves well, and whose passion is strong,

  Shall never be wretched, and always be young.

  With hopes and with fears, like a ship on the ocean,

  Our hearts are kept dancing and ever in motion!

  When our passion is pallid and our fancy would fail,

  A little kind quarrel supplies a fresh gale!

  But when the doubt's cleared and the jealousy's gone,

  How we kiss and embrace, and can never have done!

  Her lithe body gave all its grace to the dance. She acted the words with vivid gestures of allure. When at last the swift medley of color and womanly form was still, and she stood panting delicately, smiling, with a touch of red in her cheeks, even though the King maintained his sentimental sadness and the Queen was moody and gave no lead, the court was quick with my Lord Jermyn to do her honor. The gentlemen, and even some of their ladies, crowded about her—my Lord Carnarvon, my Lord Wilmot, my Lord Digby, and Madame Saccharissa, too. Lucinda had her reward.

  With hot cheeks and kindling eye, Colonel Royston watched that dance. As it ended and they crowded round her, he turned and saw beside him Colonel Stow. "She is glorious, Jerry!" said Colonel Royston, and his voice was unsteady. But it was plain enough, from the gloom of Colonel Stow's brow, that he was of another mind. "What, man! You are not a puling Puritan! Hath she not a splendid life?"

  Colonel Stow forced a laugh. "I have quiet tastes, I think," he said.

  Royston fell back a step. "By Heaven, Jerry, you are not the man for that woman!" he muttered.

  "Perhaps I know her better than you, than these—" his lip curled as he looked at the courtiers about her. Colonel Royston, who was flushed, bit his dark moustachios on an oath. "But I came to seek you, George. The Palatine asks for you." Royston grunted and followed without a word.

  Prince Rupert stood in the quadrangle, looking up at the sky. "Saturn is red tonight," he said. "What would Booker argue of that, I wonder?" Colonel Stow and his friend, who were no astrologers, made not a guess. Prince Rupert returned to the world. "So you are Colonel Royston," and he looked the big man up and down. "You are fortunate in your friend."

  "I shall try to deserve my fortune, sir."

  "No man deserves his friend," said the Palatine with his boyish cynicism. "I'gad, sir, what can you do for a man who would give up his regiment to find you one?" Colonel Royston became pale and looked at his friend strangely. "That is what Jerry Stow would be doing," said Rupert, laughing and slapping the uncomfortable Colonel Stow on the s
houlder. "Well, sir, I like him too well to do without him. And I find you too good a soldier not to use you. I have seen your papers and heard more of you, and faith," he put his elbow into Colonel Stow's ribs, "I think your deeds have lost nothing in the telling. There is a Welsh regiment of foot forming. Faith, it will need some forming, but I hear you are a doctor of the Swedish drill. The commission is yours if you care to have it. What do you say, man?"

  Colonel Royston saluted. "I am your Highness' obliged servant."

  "So. You will wait on me in the morning." He glanced from one to the other. They were both ill at ease. "Two is company, I take it," said he with a laugh. "Zounds! this affection is out of date. Good night to you."

  Then Colonel Stow linked his arm with his friend's. "So that is well, George," said he.

  "Ay, you have cut a mighty fine figure," growled Royston. Colonel Stow started in utter amaze. Royston drew away. "And what good is it to us? The Palatine is but a fool's general. You know it as well as I. And you have seen what kind of honor they have for him here."

  "But general he is," Colonel Stow expostulated. "And if we are to have commissions, they must come from him."

  "Oh, ay, if you like to crawl and beg favors," cried Royston. "It is not my way."

  "You are unreasonable, George," said Colonel Stow mildly.

  But Royston was beyond that. "Oh, ay, I am unreasonable. And you are to pose as chivalrous and make me mean. And I am to take your leavings while all the world praises your nobility. It is always so. By God, am I made only to be your foil?"

  "I am sorry, George. I—"

  "Oh, curse your smoothness!" cried Royston, and flung away in a rage.

  Colonel Stow stood looking after him, hurt and hopelessly puzzled.

  And Colonel Royston stamped away through the night in an aching fever of rage. He was puzzled by it, and raged the more in a futile hate of all the world.

  | Contents |

  Chapter Sixteen

  Colonel Royston Breaks His Sword

  YOU can hardly conceive Mr. Bourne at peace all this while. He was as sure of Lucinda as of himself, but of pure charity and good fellowship it was necessary to shatter Colonel Stow's assurance, The poor gentleman must not be let cheat himself more. To fulfil which philanthropic purpose Mr. Bourne, as soon as his duties of the King's Guard could spare him, sought the aid of Lucinda.

  It was an afternoon of swift showers, and the walls glistened with jewels. Lucinda, all silver and cream, yawned at her window over the prudish poems of Mr. Habington. She received Mr. Bourne with a smile as likely to be more amusing. He was at least gorgeous in his scarlet and blue. "You are grateful as sunshine, Gilbert," she cried, tossing the book away. "That man makes love like an angel with a cold."

  "Is my way better?" said Mr. Bourne, kissing her hand.

  "Yours? Well, you are like a pleasant child."

  Mr. Bourne frowned. There was a savor in that of the ideas of Colonel Stow. "You did not think so once, madame," said he.

  "Oh, no," she laughed readily. "Once you bored me. That was when you thought me a goddess." She made a face of mock horror, and he smiled against his will.

  "Faith, you are nothing but a woman, with all the torment of your sex."

  "If you can laugh at me, I shall love you," she said, and signed him to a place at her side in the window-seat. She tossed back the curls that glowed about her brow and freed the grace of her neck from its lace scarf.

  Mr. Bourne had not much power of laughter, least of all when his eyes were on her. He looked long. "Nay, I am not come to jest," he said. "Lucinda—we must be frank now."

  "Gilbert, my dear, you could never be anything else," she laughed.

  "Ay, and you, you must understand—"

  "I understand you to your fingertips."

  "And on my soul I understand you," cried Gilbert, and doubtless believed it.

  But he saw that strange, wise, mocking smile of hers. "If I thought so," she said slowly, "why, I might be afraid of you. And you—would be happy."

  "I am happy," he said gravely. "And God forbid that you should fear me." She laughed. "Yes, I am happy," and he took her hand. "But others must know that I am happy, Lucinda."

  "My dear friend," said Lucinda, "at knowing another happy, one is only in a bad temper." And she took her hand back.

  Mr. Bourne laughed. "I shall make all men unhappy indeed."

  "You are not big enough," said Lucinda, shaking her curls.

  "Nay, but you are my queen, and when I possess you—"

  "You will have grown," said Lucinda sharply.

  Mr. Bourne stared at her. "Dear, I know I am all unworthy," he said in a low voice.

  "That I have never doubted."

  "But in truth I love you more than life. You are my honor and my soul."

  "It is a little tedious for me."

  Mr. Bourne made an exclamation. "Once you did not think so."

  "My dear Gilbert, while you were not serious, you were amusing."

  "Ah, Lucinda, this is no jest!"

  "If you could but see it!"

  "It is my whole life and yours, and we dare not play with it."

  "What else is life for?" Lucinda laughed.

  Mr. Bourne frowned. "I do not understand you of late."

  "Faith, my friend, you never did."

  "Is it—"

  Before the question was ended Colonel Stow came in.

  "In good time, sir," Lucinda cried. "Here is Mr. Bourne as serious as a thunderstorm."

  Colonel Stow bowed to Mr. Bourne. "A very wholesome affair," he said gravely.

  "Yes, in good time, sir," cried Mr. Bourne. "I can now ask Mistress Weston to tell you what she promised me."

  Lucinda gave a swift glance from one man to the other, but she did not hesitate. "A smile while you live and a sigh when you die," she cried.

  Colonel Stow turned to Mr. Bourne.

  "Are you not pledged?" Mr. Bourne said in a strange voice.

  She laughed. "Gilbert, my dear, you are very tragic." He made an impatient gesture. "And it becomes you deplorably."

  "Nay, answer me!" he cried hoarsely.

  Colonel Stow drew away.

  "My friend, there is no return for worship. You have worshipped me, so why should I care for you?" The lad flinched and was white, and turned unsteadily away. "Oh, Gilbert, pray be amusing. That is your métier."

  He faced round upon her. He was white still to the lips, and his eyes misty. He tried to speak. "I—I am sorry," he muttered, and made his bow and burst out.

  Lucinda smiled at Colonel Stow. "With his next love, he will think himself more and her less, and it will be the happier for both of them. Mon Dieu, he has been an entertainment!"

  But Colonel Stow was entirely grave. "You do yourself an injustice, madame."

  "To deny myself to Mr. Bourne? Sure, you would have me too generous, sir."

  "To jeer at a man's devotion."

  Her eyes flamed. "What right have you to rebuke me?"

  "No one in the world has the right but me."

  "Are you to order my life?"

  "Your life is mine, your honor mine."

  She sprang up. She flung her arms wide. "To no man! To no man in the world!" she cried, and her voice was glad. She stood against him, maiden in the pure, gentle hue of her dress, passionate with vivid lips, and the glow of her hair and her eager eyes, all fiercely lovely.

  "How little you know!" he said, and laughed a little. "Are you glad to be a queen that is deaf and dumb and blind? You are that, no more than that, in your maidenhood. You'll never know life without me. The power of you sleeps till I waken it."

  "My power?" She threw the laugh back at him. She was defiant still, but something of the fierceness was gone out of her. "My power? Ask other men of that. The boy that is gone—ay, and stronger than he, Have I no power over them?"

  "Yes, power to bewilder them, and torture them, and make them mad. Do you think you were made for no better than that? By Heaven, it shall not be
!" He strode to her and gripped her hands. His eyes were flaming with a rare light. She felt the keen strength of him, manhood at war with her own nature. "You! You must give men heart to dare and work. You are to help life, not break it. With me and through me, we together to order and guide the people. I have not the force without you, you are blind without me. We together, we are power." He crushed her hands in his. "What! Do you deny me? I am yours as you are mine. Mine—mine to take to myself and use." He flung her hands away and grasped her waist. "You know it—yes, you know it, body and soul! They cry to me. Is it not true?" She was panting a little and flushed. She had turned her face from him. He took her chin in his hand and made the glistening eyes look up to his. "You shall own it, by Heaven! Are you not throbbing for me? You, the force of life. I am your guide. Yield yourself. Yield!"

  She looked long, silent.… Suddenly she flung her arms about him and clasped him passionately to her breast, crushing herself upon the harsh buff coat. He drew her face from his shoulder and kissed her fiercely.…

  Her arms fell loose about him; she freed herself and stood leaning against his shoulder, trembling a little, looking away. She put her hand to her hot cheeks and gave a queer, miserable laugh. "Yes, I am yours," she said. His arm was hard about her again, and at the touch of it she drew to him, sobbing.… Calmer at last, though her eyes were dark still with tears, she looked up at him with a strange surprise. "Ah, you were wonderful!" she said, drawing a long breath. "I did not know.… You have made me not like myself.… Ah!" It was like a cry of pain. Her arm closed on him with nervous strength. "Do not fail me!"

  Colonel Stow laughed.…

  It was twilight when he came out. He saw a lucid violet sky, with a tiny star pale in it, but all the west was mellow yet, and the afterglow caressed wall and tower. Rustling by each narrow lane from the river meadows a warm wind came, heavy with the sweet breath of summer. It gave him the poignant mingled fragrance of young grass and may and lime, and it bore his love new strength and his strength new love. He was drunk with life. Like one who walks in a world of visions, where all things are of his realm, where all is subject to him, he swung through the throng of the High Street. The swaggering soldiers, the mincing, laughing girls, were all his people for him to use. He was lord of all. He looked up and laughed. Darkly clear, like deep water, and vast beyond the sense of man, rose the dome of the sky. With that immensity of the world he was akin; the strength of it was his strength; he had the secret of its mystery and its calm. Long he stood still, looking up where the gray spire of St. Mary's sprang glorious to the white glow of the evening star.… He knew the strength of man's striving, and the eternal joy of peace. And he was to be a ruler among his people; he felt the surge of his power and its mastery.