by H. C. Bailey
"Failed!" she said. "O, I have been a fool!" Her cheeks were pale again and seemed to have fallen thin; her lips drawn back so that he saw her teeth; her eyes blazed with a tawny light. "You—you dog—what I have given you!"
Royston made a great roar of laughter. "Ha! Does it tickle you so? Are you moved, madame; are you moved?" He came to her in one swift stride and took her bare arms in his grip. She tried to wrench them free, struggling this way and that, panting, biting her lips. But the swarthy hands only bit harder into her flesh and he smiled down in her mad eyes. "Do you guess who balked us? Who has beaten you? Your dear love, Jerry Stow."
"Stow?" she gasped. The straining muscles were limp in his hand; her face, her neck, were all crimson; her eyes shrank from his; her bosom rose and fell in long shuddering waves; he saw beads of sweat come upon her brow.
"Ay, I am glad that you can suffer," he said and let her go.
She sank down on a chair and hid her face. "Tell me," he could hardly hear the words. "What was it? How? How?"
"O, it's a sweet tale for us. Strozzi found his way safe enough and caught them at Holton fairly. But Jerry Stow chose to make himself of the party. God knows why—whether the thing offended his righteousness—he is Quixote enough—or he wanted to have his revenge on us—he has blood in him. At least he spoiled the whole. I think he started them fighting among themselves. I know there were shots. Harrison's horse heard and a troop of them came at speed. When I rode up all Strozzi's fellows were fled or dead and old Cromwell putting up a psalm. There's your noble plot, madame."
"Where is he?" she said hoarsely.
Royston flushed. "You have an affection for him now, have you? You'd go back to his arms? Be easy. He would not take you!"
She gave a queer, cruel laugh. "Affection? I would that I saw him dead."
"Ay, you ever had strange ways of love," said Royston, watching her eyes.
"Will you torture me?" she cried, stamping her foot. "Where is he? Where is he?"
"That is the cream of the whole," said Royston. "He was the only one of them taken alive. The generals count him one of the murderers. They have him in guard here."
She drew in her breath. Her cheeks were dull white and her bosom still. "Then he can tell all," she said in a low voice. "He can ruin us."
Royston laughed. "Yes, we are proudly placed. We professed him love and friendship and betrayed him. Then we go on in villainy till we have to whine to him to hide it and spare our noble lives. Mercy of him! By God, madame, you have made me honor myself!"
There was wonder in her eyes. "What is all this?" she said with honest surprise. "Why do you play at words? If he blab to the Puritans we are undone."
"Faith, you'd not easily find another husband."
"O, words, words," she cried with an impatient gesture. "What is to be done, fool? Have you no resource?"
"Ay, madame. You shall be laden with me yet some while. We are safe enough."
She waited a moment, looking at him full. "How then?"
Royston gave a wretched laugh. "I have seen him. I asked—" the voice was unsteady and he swore vehemently—"I asked him to spare us." Lucinda broke out laughing and pointed the finger at his shame. "Devil, do you take it so?" he muttered.
"Well, and how did the saintly soul answer?"
"Ods blood, I could wish he had bidden us to hell!" cried Royston. "Be at ease, madame. We concern him no more than any other ill vermin. He'll not strike at us. He'll be silent. He'll spare us. That is his revenge. By God, he could take none crueler."
"Fool," said Lucinda smiling, "fool. Yes, I see him in that. Silly, mad Quixote. So he'll be hanged, then?"
With some hoarse cry Royston strode to her, flung one arm about her and caught her throat in his grip and crushed her with ruthless strength. "You fiend!" he said hoarsely, and she bit her lip for the pain. But she put her arms round him and while he hurt her, clung to him close. At that he flung her off.
She stayed herself against the wall, panting, breathless, still all grace. "Do you like to know he is alive?" she said, laughing.
Royston turned away with a groan.
She ran to him and cast her bare arms about his neck and circled him with lithe, fair strength and clung to him and kissed him. A little while he struggled to put her off.… He failed and she had her will.
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Chapter Forty-Seven
Colonel Stow is Awaked
THE story of the night passed from lip to lip, and the army was in a frenzy of scriptural wrath. Colonel Stow became Judas Iscariot, which had dwelt in Sodom, and must meet the doom which David devised for the people of Rabbah. The good townsfolk of Thame were calmer. They chattered with delighted interest of the chances and changes and how all was done and what might have been—speculations which gave them sweet thrills of terror.
It was with blent sections of romance and fervor that the tale came to Joan Normandy in the hospital. She heeded little at first. She had her work. But a tawny sergeant of Desborough's coming to have his head dressed woke her heart. "And they do say," says he, "that the lewd fellow they have taken is own brother to our Major Stow and as like him as a twin. Which I wunnot believe. For there be sheep and there be goats." His head was dressed in a hurry.
Joan Normandy, in trembling haste, with a wild medley of hope and fear clashing in her heart, sought out David Stow. She was beginning a march to his regiment's camp at Shabbington when she found him riding in with other officers. He did not see her; he was distraught amid the talk of the others, and she cried out: "Sir, I have an errand to you."
He checked at the sound of her voice, saluted and drew apart.
She awaited him, wide-eyed, lips parted. "Is it your brother?" she breathed.
David Stow flushed. "Will you come to the house?" he said and keeping his horse to her pace, rode beside her without word spoken.
So they came back through the shade of the churchyard limes and round to the wide street. It was a gay morning of mellow sunlight. When he dismounted, his wife came running to the door, smiling glad as her name. But he was very grave. "Why, I think Joan is always to bring you to me!" she cried, holding out for Joan both hands.
"Come in," said David Stow gravely.
They were hardly in that neat, light room before Joan moved from Joy's arm and, "Tell me!" she cried, her voice quivering, "Is it your brother?"
"It's true," said David Stow.
"What do you mean?" she cried fiercely. "He was in the attack? He is taken?"
"He is taken. He was of the murderers," said David Stow.
Blood surged to her cheeks. "It is a lie!" she
"I would give my life that it were," said David Stow.
"How dare you say it?" Joan cried, all aflame.
"Would to God that I could say other—that I could believe other! What way is there? He came with a party stealthily by night, fell upon the generals. What is it but murder? He was taken in the fact. The thing is patent. If there were but suspicion—if there were but doubt—" he made a gesture of despair.
Joan was struggling for words. "I—I—how dare you? I can not endure it! How dare you say so? O, a brother should love him and honor him. And you, if you have not heart enough for that, sure you know him. You must know him. He would not do basely. He could not."
David Stow shook his head. "He was taken in the act," he said in a wretched voice.
"Can you say nothing but that?" cried Joan Normandy. "Have you seen him?"
"What use?" groaned David Stow.
"O, no use, if you are so well content now. No use if you long to think him base. But what if he have another tale to tell? Will you let him be branded with this shame?"
David Stow looked at her miserably. His wife's eyes, too, were full of tears. "O, child, I can not blame you. I protest to God, it wounds me no less. He was very near to me. But what help is there? The thing is plainly a murder and he was among them that wrought it. O, he hath been miserably beguiled by that vile court.… We—we must pray
for him."
"Pray for him!" cried Joan with such scorn that the soldier shrank back. Her bosom swelled. She seemed to tower above him. "Ay, truly, let us pray—let us pray for false friends and cowardly love and feeble faith. I would that you were in his place. He would show you a man's part then. You—you pray!" There was a moment of angry, scornful laughter, then in a whirl she was gone.
Husband and wife looked at each other and she fell on his breast, sobbing terribly, "Joan—my poor Joan."
But if it be true that who wants no pity needs none, they should have spent none upon Joan. She knew no pain. Her heart beat with a wild delight. She could no more think him false than herself false to him. Throbbing to the vehement surge of life, passionate with faith in the good rule of God, all glad and strong of heart, she could not fear his condemnation. Surely the truth must be known and his honor proved. And now, now that he was captive and forsaken of all, now she might go to him without shame. She was almost glad of his trouble if it let her serve him. At least she might see him, look in his eyes, give him heart in his loneliness.
She had no trouble with the guard at the prison. Her nurse's gown was warrant and half the army knew her well enough to honor her.
Colonel Stow sat at ease on his straw humming some scrap of a ballad—
Cold's the wind, and wet's the rain,
St. Hugh be our good speed!
Ill is the weather that bringeth no gain,
Nor helps good hearts in need.
And he laughed.
The grating of the lock did not arrest him. There could be no messenger of good. A clear voice rang through the fog of despair, "I give you good morrow, sir."
Colonel Stow started up and she gave a little cry of grief. Though he had done his best with himself, he was still something of a wreck. The slashed, stained clothes, the bruised cheek and brow, told her of the pain of the night. But he held himself gallantly. He was the soldier still. "I am at your service, madame," he said gravely.
She held out both hands to him as if she had some wrong to atone. "You are hurt. And I had forgot of that. Can I help?"
"'Tis all a show, child," said Colonel Stow with a crooked smile. He did not take her hands. "It affects others vastly more than me."
"Truly so?" she said, doubting, disappointed. "You should trust me. I have some skill in healing."
"I can well believe it," said Colonel Stow, looking down at her with grave, gentle eyes. "But you must not waste it on me."
"Waste? I who owe you life and dearer things than life? You know that I do."
Colonel Stow shrugged. "I've canceled that debt, child."
"Have I let you?" said Joan, meeting his eyes steadily.
"Nay, you must pay it to a truer man."
The blood leaped to her brow. "You dare not say it!" she cried. "It is a wickedness!"
"Is it so?" said Colonel Stow listlessly, concerned for his own emotions, not hers. "I mean the best for you. Believe me, madame, if you knew what I am you would not linger here."
"I come because I know," she said quietly.
Colonel Stow moved a little. "Have you all the story, madame?" he said in a changed voice, and his eyes were set and intent, roused at thought of his own plight.
"No, not all."
"Ah!" He drew in his breath and the voice fell listless again. "Go, get it told. You will not come back."
"I will hear it of you, sir."
"You shall hold me excused," cried Colonel Stow.
"And why?"
He flung back his head. "Because, madame—because I am not longing to give you pain."
"I can endure it, sir," she said quietly.
Colonel Stow forced a laugh. "You make me mighty vain-glorious, child. I profess I am not now so fond of myself."
"O, sir, then you do wrong," said Joan in a demute voice.
It startled him. "Faith, I am glad to amuse you," he said savagely. His nerves were raw. "You shall have more mirth. Listen! In the dark of the night a company of hired bravos, whereof I was one, came to murder your generals. We came near to succeed. But a troop of your horse overcame us, slew many and scattered the rest. I was taken alive."
"I knew all that," said Joan quietly, looking straight into his eyes.
"You knew?" Colonel Stow repeated, staring stupid surprise. "You came—you held out your hands to me—you knew?"
"Do you think I believed?" she said angrily. "What do you think me then? Did you doubt yourself?"
Colonel Stow was silent a while. "God forgive me, I did," he said slowly.
She gave a little scornful laugh. "You!" she she said. "You!" and held out her hands again. Colenel Stow took them and kissed them. She pressed them against his lips. "For me—for me—you may tell me the rest or not as you will. It is so little matter. I know."
Colonel Stow let fall her hands. "I have no right," he muttered and turned a little away. "I have no right."
She laughed miserably. "Why, then I am shamed indeed," she said and then cried out. "What is it you mean? Tell me!"
Colonel Stow came close to her. "Child, you must see. I have little chance of life and no honor left me. Truly, you put trust in me yet, but who else is there? It is but a strange, fabulous tale I can tell and if it will save me at the court I doubt. Surely it will never clear me to the world. If I live it is for a known knave, an assassin. I profess I want no such life as that. I had rather make an end."
"You dare?" she cried fiercely. "O, 'tis better to be red with sin than to be afraid of life. Honor, do you say? And shall it be no honor to bear the dishonor of men? O, sir, I think no manhood is proven save after the manner of Christ, which was oppressed and was afflicted, yet went on His way doing good. Is't not truest honor to be held dishonorable among men, yet do always the works of honor? Is not that true strength and the way to win glory of God?"
Colonel Stow drew away from her. There was new wonder and reverence in his eyes. But she, all rosy and trembling with a pure passion, her own eyes shining through tears, saw nothing of that. Colonel Stow bowed his head. "You are braver than I, child," he said.
While they stood there silent, she watching him as a mother yearns over a child, the door was flung open with a clatter and a sergeant's guard broke in. "You fellow, you are to come before the court! Hey! What is your work here, nurse?"
Colonel Stow stood erect. "What is ever a nurse's work, good fellow?"
"A corpse is not worth it," quoth the sergeant. "March!"
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Chapter Forty-Eight
A Husband or So
YOU have to lament for Benaiah Jones, corporal of horse, a victim of early rising. When Alcibiade was ridden down in the route of Rupert's horsemen he lay stunned and much bruised. He waked to life again in the dawn with Benaiah Jones fumbling at the pockets in the region of his stomach. Benaiah Jones was upon the godly errand of spoiling the Amalekites, and such was his zeal that he rose before dawn to prevent riches falling into the hands of unrighteousness. It happened that Alcibiade was ticklish. He woke to see the fat jowl of Benaiah close above his own. His disgust is reasonable. He expressed it with passionate zeal in a blow at Benaiah's chin. If he had had his whole strength Benaiah would hardly have risen again. It sufficed to bring him oblivion. Benaiah clucked a little and became livid.
Alcibiade sat up and blinked. He ached in various places, but laborious experiment failed to find a fracture. He considered possibilities. It was in the first place not a possibility to sit still. The next saintly plunderer might well have steel ready. But it was hardly a possibility to tell where to go. Colonel Stow might be in a hundred places in the world or even out of it. If anything might be probable, he was probably with the Puritans or dead. Alcibiade, who was a sanguine person, preferred to believe in the Puritans, and remembered then that the Puritans had at least Colonel Stow's brother, a pleasant if respectable person. Alcibiade elected for the brother.
So you find him limping up to the Puritan outposts and enquiring after Major David Stow.
He was bitterly questioned and his answers so wildly ingenious that they sent a guard with him to Shabbington. David Stow, as you have seen, had gone to Thame. So that it was late before the surly escort presented him.
David Stow looked the plump, bedraggled figure up and down. "What do you want of me?"
"My master," said Alcibiade.
"What have I to do with him?"
"You have the honor to be his brother."
David Stow made an exclamation. Then to the escort: "Wait you without. I will answer for him," and when the door was shut: "Now, good fellow, when did you leave him?"
"Smoking his pipe after yesterday's dinner, sir, in his quarters in Oxford. I came back at dusk to find he is thrown into prison. Why? For quarreling with the King, they say. I go as you would yourself to take him out of prison and find that he is escaped. You remember a M. Gilbert Bourne, whom he rescued from you? Bien! M. Gilbert Bourne had rescued him from the King and they were away together. Whither? I followed them on to Wheatley and came upon Rupert and was ridden down in the rout. I have but lately come to my wits and seek you to seek him." He looked with surprise at the swift emotions changing on David Stow's face.
"Thrown into prison by the King?" David Stow repeated. "He would scarce be seeking a desperate service for him then. God, what does it all mean?" A triple chime of the quarter hours rang over the town. He started up. "Nay, come, come, they have been trying him long." And he hurried Alcibiade to the door.
"I do not understand," said Alcibiade with dignity. "Who has the insolence to try my master?"
"Man, there was a company of murderers attacked our generals last night and my brother was taken among them."
Alcibiade became stately. "Permit me to tell you, sir, that you are mad or you lie."
"I am mad, I think," cried David Stow. "Come, come, you must tell them all," and hurried him into the house of my Lord Williams, where the court was sitting.
It is necessary to consider also the other gentleman in whom Molly was interested, a gentleman of more peaceful fortunes, but hardly less distressed a victim of unrequited love.