by H. C. Bailey
"Colonel Stow?" he called out, and with Colonel Stow the officers scrambled to their feet. "I've come for a share of your cheese, gentlemen," says he, and squatted down by their fire. They made their circle again and the Palatine filled his mouth. "I'll swear you get the best provand in the army, Jerry Stow. Mine is maggots," said he.
"Our sutler is the best thief in the army," said Colonel Stow with modest pride.
"Then I shall hang him to encourage the others."
"He would certainly steal the rope, sir."
"Humph!" Prince Rupert's eyes grew keen. "Did he steal that standard?"
"O, sir, he has no time for trifles. Consider this excellent ale—which I do trust never belonged to your Highness."
"It does now," said his Highness, after an admirable potation, "and I defy your sutler. But we are going to talk of that standard, my friend."
"Your Highness will find the beer vastly more interesting."
His Highness finished the beer and remarked that it had no more interest. "Now, my friend, who won that standard back?"
"My regiment had the honor to present it to Your Highness. Your Highness will be good enough to give the credit to the regiment."
"Damn your civilities," said the Palatine. "Do you tell me you marched on Manchester together?"
"I beg Your Highness to count it the gift of the whole regiment. And to believe you wrong no man in thanking all."
"Hollendonner, are you to order my conduct?" cried the Palatine. "Who won the thing and how?"
"If Your Highness considers the deed worth any advancement, it should be for Major Stewart here."
"Hang me if you need be so anxious to rob a man of his laurels," said Rupert with a sneer. "'Tis a curst mean spirit and—"
"Here, here," spluttered Major Stewart, "od rot me, this is all topsy turvy. 'Twas the Colonel himself took the thing. I would be boiled before I went hawking among the Ironsides."
Rupert turned upon Colonel Stow. "Now, what a pox is this play for?" said he with some irritatation.
"Faith, I did take the thing, but 'twas purely for the honor of the regiment, and I beg Your Highness to give your thanks to Major Stewart, to whom I owe a debt, for commanding where he might command."
"Humph!" Rupert frowned at him. "You will be so very kind as to tell me a little simple truth."
"It shall be purely bald," said Colonel Stow, and made his tale so.
But before the end of it Rupert was clapping him on the shoulder and guffawing tumultuously. "I would give my garter," he gasped, "to have seen Noll Cromwell on his hinder end." When all was told he was some while in growing grave. Then, "Faith, you ought to have been a knight errant," said he. "And what the devil am I to do for you?" Colonel Stow looked at his major. "Ay, I know," and rising he gripped hands with both of them.
Major Stewart was more red than nature. He grunted profusely, staring at his colonel. "You make me cursed uncomfortable," said he.
That is the whole matter of the standard, which, as Colonel Royston said, was neither war nor business. There are more moral people than he who admire it but little; some of good judgment who sneer at Colonel Stow for his pains. Doubtless there was a gaudy vanity in it all, but if you have no mercy for that, you will not understand Colonel Stow, nor why some men and women loved him strangely.
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Chapter Twenty-Two
Lovers' Meeting
SO WITH no great loss, yet with no great glory, the King's army won back to Oxford. They had fought a tiresome campaign and ended it no better off than they began. There were some gentlemen, like Colonel Strozzi of the artillery, who began to make ready for a change. The longer the war, the better the Puritan chance of victory; for the King had no money. Oxford welcomed his army with no exuberant gaiety, and even my Lord Jermyn's splendors were something bedraggled.
But Colonel Stow never permitted himself to borrow other people's despair. There was a lilt in his walk as he went through the snow showers of a December morning to wait on Lucinda.
She gave herself to his arms and came from them rosy, with sparkling eyes. Then, as he held her away to look at her, he was aware of an elegant mourning robe, black and silver. Black became Lucinda's richness well. He was swiftly grave. "You have had some loss, child?"
"My mother," said Lucinda calmly. "It was hard for her to leave the Manor. She never had much strength after."
Colonel Stow frowned at her. He felt a discord. "I am most sorry," he said gravely.
"I do not know," said Lucinda. "She had not been happy. I never remember her happy."
Colonel Stow repented of a rash censure. "Dear, it is hard for you," he said tenderly, and rested his hand on her shoulder.
Lucinda laughed. "O, I—she and I were not much to each other, you know."
Colonel Stow took his hand away. "She was kind to us," he said with a shade of reproof in his tone.
"Was she?" said Lucinda. "I never knew her kind or unkind to any one. Yes, she was like that. I do not think she was fond of life."
Colonel Stow felt a harsher discord. "You are not troubled by much regret," he said severely.
"Why should I pretend?"
Colonel Stow turned away from her to the window and looked out at the whirling snow. She hurt him. He believed in tenderness and the emotions. He was of those who find the worth of man or woman in tears. Lucinda, lying back on her cushions watching him with that strange, puzzling smile of hers, thought him, I suppose, something of a fool.… He struggled to convince himself she was not callous.… He came to her. "Dear, you are brave … and true," he said, and felt it sounded queerly. "I am stupid, I think.… Indeed, I seek to keep you from sorrow."
"I am not afraid," said Lucinda. "Indeed, sir, I think I never was afraid of anything but you." Her eyes grew dark and intent. "You know—too much of me," she said.
"I would know all to love it better."
Lucinda laughed. "I wonder… and I wonder if I know all of you."
"I need no better love at least."
"That may be," she said gravely. Then, tossing back her curls, "Well, sir, and what great deeds have you brought me back from the wars?"
This note was true to Colonel Stow's taste. He smiled at last. "I tell myself I have not done unworthily."
There was gaiety in Lucinda's laugh. She had never been blind to Colonel Stow's vanity and liked him for it the better. "Tell me a score of the finest deeds," said she, settling herself in a delectable pose on her cushions.
"I have made a rabble into a regiment and gentlemen of the tavern into officers."
Lucinda yawned. "It is doubtless more glorious than amusing."
"And they adore me for it."
"But why should I?"
"Nay, Heaven forbid you should adore me."
"I fear it has," said Lucinda.
"I am content. It has bidden you love."
"Why, sir, there was indeed compulsion." Her eyes sparkled wickedness. "But whether of Heaven—well, 'tis not maidenly to think so."
"Faith, I belong to this world," Colonel Stow admitted. "But I think you are not all of another neither."
Her eyes met him fairly still, but a slow blush came. After a while, "I believe you play with me because you have nothing to boast of," she said.
"I have no skill in boasting," said Colonel Stow, and doubtless believed it. "But there is something to tell." And he began the exploit of the standard.… "It was the Ironside himself that grappled me, but I sat him down disconsolate. The sentry at the gate advanced his pike at me, but I made under that and flung myself up in the saddle. There was one of Noll's men in my way and I gave him the standard butt like a Magyar's lance, and he was down, too, and I was away at speed through the town. Noll's men made after me and there was a small affair with a pair of them, for which one is now sorry, before I got a chance to break to the river. We swam that with the pistols blazing all ways behind us, but the Roundheads would not bathe, and I came easily to the army and sent the standard back to the Pala
tine with the compliments of the regiment." He had his reward. Lucinda's breath came fast and her eyes shone for him. Her hands were close clenched.
"I am glad, I am glad!" she cried. "Yes! … And what did Prince Rupert send you back?"
Colonel Stow laughed. "An oath or so." She sat erect and fierce. "Why, you see I was more modest with him than with you and would not tell him whose the deed was."
"But you did?" There was a hard, sharp ring in her voice that he did not know.
"Yes." He looked his surprise at her. "Faith, yes," and he chuckled. "I told him and begged him give the reward to fat Stewart, the major." He laughed happily. The boyish magnificence of it, his own naïve vanity brought him pure joy.
But a queer change came over Lucinda's face. Her lips shaped to a sneer. "You make everything like a boy's game."
Colonel Stow opened his eyes. "Why, yes. All the world is a boy's game, if you make it so."
"I am a woman," said Lucinda.
"No man will ever complain of that."
"Will you give me only a boy?"
He came close beside her. "Is that all I am?" he said in a low voice and slipped his arm about her.
But she broke away. "O, you are like a child that is always crying, 'How fine I am!' I believe you think of nothing but making yourself a fool's hero of mad romance. What kind of man is it that longs and strives to be like mad Quixote? You—you are as vain of it as a girl of her gown."
Colonel Stow flushed. He felt a pitiless truth about some of that and it troubled him. "'Tis so, in fact, dear," said he with a doleful laugh. "I am something of a peacock."
"In the name of Heaven, do not be meek," cried Lucinda. "That is not to be borne. O, I hate your great souled hero with no brain for himself."
"Why," Colonel Stow protested, "all I have is mighty anxious to take care of me."
"What help is it then? You do a rare, great deed and get nothing for it; you care only to look the Quixote and cry, 'Nay, pay another, not me! I am above such gauds!' But I have no patience for it. I despise a man that is afraid to be greedy."
Colonel Stow shrugged. "I am afraid of many things. I have never denied it."
"And you pretend strength to me?"
Colonel Stow looked in her eyes. "Yes," he said.
She started up. "I hate all this. It is not real. It is all words and a show. Do you know? Do you know? You are making yourself no more than a romance book for me. What worth is there in all you have done? How are you the better? What have you won by it?"
"If you do not know, I can not tell you, madame."
"I detest your loftiness!"
Colonel Stow bowed. "I shall try to get more."
Lucinda stamped her foot. "Do you seek to put me in a passion against you?"
"I hope I may never give you better reason," said Colonel Stow. "Nay, child, I doubt I am a vain fool, and you are too honest for me. Let it rest. Faith, I can not afford to be at war with you."
"I am in no temper for peace," said Lucinda.
When in a little while Colonel Stow left her his hand was at his chin and his brow furrowed.
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Chapter Twenty-Three
Lucinda Weeps
The court had a wintry melancholy. Its pride was decaying. The assurance of triumph that never came was enfeebled. Queen Henrietta, who expected a child, was out of spirits and there was a notable scarcity of money. It would have been disloyal to affect gaiety and impossible when one's jewels were sold. Colonel Royston compared the assembly in Merton hall to birds at the moulting time. So harsh were their voices, so stale their finery. Colonel Royston had a grim pleasure in the exhibition till he came upon one who excelled the rest in gloom, yet escaped the ridiculous. It was Lucinda. While he bowed he sneered at himself as a fool for seeing her. Lucinda did not speak, but there was appeal in her eyes.
Royston felt himself flush. "I have to offer my regrets, madame," he said with a gesture to her mourning gown.
"My mother."
Colonel Royston bowed again.
"Will you give me escort home?" she said listlessly. "There is no one else."
Royston laughed. "You flatter me." And he made a way for her through the crowd.
Lucinda was of better fortune than some. She had still a coach. Colonel Royston handed her in and showed no zeal to follow. She leaned back with a shrug and a careless, "As you will." Colonel Royston came in beside her.
They were jolted up St. Aldate's. It was not possible to avoid the touch of her shoulder, her perfume. But she showed no interest in Colonel Royston and he looked at her black and then with surprise not all cynical at her listless brow. He was not able to believe in a mourning Lucinda. And yet she was no creature of affectation. "You are not inspiring, madame," said he.
"So I find," said Lucinda with a quick light in her eyes.
"I suppose I am not inflammable," Colonel Royston sneered. She had a trick of waking the brutality in him.
"I was not thinking of you," said Lucinda carelessly.
Colonel Royston did not miss the inference. It was Colonel Stow who failed to answer to her desires. He could easily believe it. And he felt some contempt for both of them. For Lucinda because she was not high enough to be content with his friend; for his friend because he did not satisfy Lucinda's need. "I always found Jerry asked an uncomfortable virtue of me," he admitted with a grin.
"I do not know why you should sneer?" she looked at him with grave, questioning eyes.
"I am made for it."
"Poor creature," said Lucinda.
The coach drew up at her door in Holywell. He was punctilious in handing her out. With her hand still in his she checked and turned. "Will it please you to come in?"
"I am not amusing, madame."
She gave a queer, scornful laugh. "0, if you are afraid!" and passed on.
But Colonel Royston, who, unlike his friend, conceived himself afraid of nothing, followed her close.… He stood over her while she held out her hands to the fire and its light fell on her neck. "I wonder.… Did you ever want more of a woman than she had?"
Colonel Royston laughed. "Always. And therefore took nothing."
"I wonder … Does a woman always disappoint a man?"
"Unless he is a fool," Royston assured her.
She leaned her head full back to look up at him. The light laughed about her breast. "And the man—he always disappoints the woman, perhaps?" she said in a low voice.
"If he has disappointed you," said Colonel Royston with grim emphasis, "I do not admire your desires."
She bent to the fire again. She was silent so long that Royston changed his place to see her full. Her eyes were glistening, her checks jeweled with tears.
"Humph. You are not proud of yourself, either, it seems."
She looked up fierce. "No one but you has ever made me do this," she cried and roughly brushed the tears away. She started to her feet and faced him. "It is true. I am ashamed. I would to God I were fit for him. But there is more. I want more." She caught Royston's arm. "You know me. There is wild blood in you, too. I am what I am."
Colonel Royston tried to laugh. "Something of the tiger, I think." But he was flushed and his hand closed on her bare wrist.
"Would you tame me?"
"No, faith, you would make me as wild as yourself."
"I wonder if you could be," she laughed and tried to draw her arm away.
"I can be greedy," said Royston, gripping the other, too. He looked down at her with a smile of no gaiety.
"And I could starve you," Lucinda laughed, leaning away from him so that her weight hung on his hands.
"You would not try."
"La, you for pride! In truth, sir, I can conceive you tiresome as chains."
"They would grip all of you."
"That is what I doubt."
"Or fear?"
She faltered a moment. There was a faint blush on her neck. But, "Nay, faith, I fear nothing," she cried gaily, and laughing at him, drew away. "Is that
my charm?"
"Yes. So that a man wants to make you afraid?"
"Alack, poor man!" she laughed.
"O, it would be amusing for him," said Colonel Royston in measured tones. His brows were bent upon her.
"But if I made him fear instead?"
"That is the damnable challenge of you."
She clapped her hands. "I knew! You are afraid already."
Colonel Royston laughed. "You are vain, madame."
She flung her arms wide and stood so in the best of her beauty. "Have I not the right? Nay, but I am not vain. That is little and calm. I am sure of myself. That is why I laugh at Colonel Royston," and she made him a splendid mocking curtsy.
"And what do you want of him, pray?" Royston looked down at her with a grim smile.
"The joy of a fight, sir."
"And a defeat?"
She laughed. There was a baffling mystery in her eyes. "Do you think you move me as I move you?"
"There is other strength than a woman's," said Colonel Royston in a low voice. His eyes were blazing.
"I know no other," said Lucinda, facing him full.
Colonel Royston made one stride to her, flung a hard arm about her and gripped her neck. Crushing the slim whiteness of it in his big bronzed hand, he bore her head back and bent over her.
She was quivering and hot in his grasp, but her eyes brave still. "This is nothing—nothing—a boor's strength, your body strength."
"Is that all?" he muttered and his breath beat on her cheek. "You know," and his grasp grew fiercer. She was helpless utterly in that heavy power and knew it. She laughed reckless. But the laugh broke suddenly and she was pale. Her eyes stared wide. While he watched, his arm fell lax and he let her go. They stood apart gazing steadily at each other.
Then Lucinda gave a little laugh of no joy. "We frighten ourselves, I think."
Colonel Royston did not deny it. He gazed at her still a long while silent, then caught up his cloak and strode out.
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Chapter Twenty-Four
The Home of Lost Causes
MATTHIEU-MARC-LUC complained of everything, but chiefly of a nutshell. Everything was wrong and the latter had hit his nose—a spot where dignity is apt to reside. Matthieu-Marc rubbed the offended nose and looked round with indignation for the offender. "You would laugh more if you could always see yourself," he was assured. It was a girl's voice that came through the window of a tiny pastry shop. The owner leaned out to him over her wares and Matthieu-Marc found a wholesome rosy face cheek to cheek with his. He started back. "O, dear," says she, "you are mighty maidenly. Maybe it's why you are so miserable."