 introduction to Colonel Greatheart. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Sarah Williams. Colonel Greatheart by H. C. Bailey. Introduction. How the world looked then. Jerry Stowe admired himself. He was at length doing his duty. Also, his legs pleased him. Through some years he had cherished ambitions for those legs and himself, linked with unworthy circumstance. Now he was off to the wars and his legs in golden silk stockings. Before the first beat of manhood in his blood it had been plain to him that he was born to heroic matters. He was for alarms and great deeds and a white blaze of fame. He must plunge into world wars, must win world renown, be a sober Alexander, a Caesar of respectability. Now, with the spring storms of manhood wild in him and its first alarming wisdom, he had persuaded even a doubting father that he was not made to work his life out easily in the fat tilt of Stoke Mandeville was at least no use there. He was emancipated from home. He was out of the worsted and Lindsay and into silk and brocade. He was off to ride behind the lion of the north and hue himself greatness out of the Austrian papists. Dreams were coming true. His legs and his soul rejoiced. Life was delectable and his father should be taught to take him seriously. There was a wild wind of spring and blue clouds clashed in a gray sky. The daylight was pale and across it the long rampart of hills stood dull black. Over the dark green slope that swells slowly to Akeman Street the wind smote a scattered army of trees and roared and whistled its anthem. Old trunks of silver gray tossed their great black delicate crests to the wild music and the poplars, lean boughs already gemmed with gold, trembled and swayed and cowered. Glad of his strength as the wind came Jerry Stowe. His brilliant legs bore him with a lilt. Nostral and eye were wide, eager of joy. He seemed even to expect it at once. The sight of Sir Godfrey Weston taking the air according to custom affected him with instant delight for Sir Godfrey had in hand his daughter. She was then a child in her first teens and as I infer can have been no more beautiful than any clean healthy girl but she had doubtless even so early, gaiety and an air. Certainly she was born to be a queen and might have made no blunder of it. The least nerve of her was keenly alive. She lacked it may be something of a child's sweet weakness but if she asked you nothing she promised much. The quick scarlet lips, her valiant eyes, the vivid touch of red and her brown hair were apt already to make men think of their manhood. You might guess that it was no more than this child that had made an end of the boy in Jerry Stowe. Sir Godfrey Weston, who saw many things if he did little, saw this perhaps. There was something of the contempt that made his only amusement on the lean, pallid face as he stayed before the resplendent Jerry Stowe. Jerry saluted him with awkward profundity. Sir Godfrey put up one finger. The child smiled gay. Good morrow, Jerry, says she, witherbound. Jerry Stowe saluted her all over again. I'm glad we are met, my lady, quote he, purely red, for I am desirous to bid you farewell. To the most correct sentiment, Stowe, Sir Godfrey agreed. Jerry disliked the tone. I'm off to the wars you must know, sir, said he, with some magnificence. Sir Godfrey raised his love-liberals, but the child was delighted, truly, like the stories you tell, and will you be long? I'll not be back in the veil, my lady, says Jerry, conscious of golden legs, till I am somewhat more than Jerry Stowe. Sir Godfrey yawned. He did not appear to think the ambition extravagant. But I like Jerry Stowe, said the child. I shall make him better worth liking, said he, with more salinity than the child required. You are a fool, boy. Probably God will be with you. Come, Lucinda, said Sir Godfrey. But I want to know, the child protested, do you think they'll make you a prince, or a duke, perhaps, and will you be very rich? If I live, said Jerry Stowe, with his chest out, I shall win fame. I ambition no more. The child looked something of a different opinion. Sir Godfrey tapped his chin. Answer a fool according to his folly, Lucinda, says he pleasantly. Friend fool, ambition much of the world, desire much. So shalt thou surely live miserably and in misery die. And for hereafter, happiest are you who have known hell here. If I covet honour, sir, said Jerry Stowe, to his unhonourable emprise, I would fight for no cause but the right. There is none, said Sir Godfrey Weston, with another yawn. God with us, roys your Lutheran. In the name of the virgin, the papist screams. Fool, do you think God such a fool is to trust his honour to any man? There's no cause worth a man's will, none were of the victory as well brought by a man's death. Tis in the scheme of things no faith shall ever conquer, and thus the fools who believe hammer each other out. Your wise man stands off from all, believes nothing, as he loves nothing and hopes nothing. You have the felicity to be a fool. So, again, God be with you. You should amuse him. Come, Lucinda. This maker of phrases was something beyond Jerry Stowe. He stood at gaze. The philosophy of deogenes, I take it, was amazing to him even in the end. But the child smiled back at him, and he went through the wind high at heart. Already he felt himself climbing to a nobler estate than was hers of birth, beheld himself her worshipped lord. Boulder the wind roared, and the blue clouds marshaled heavy in the greyness. It was dark and the beach spinny above the inn, and Jerry, plunging across it, caught strange sounds, heard a ghastly voice moaned from the invisible. Mine inquities are gone over mine head, my wounds stink and are corrupt. I go mourning all the day long. There came the horrible music of a man's tears. Jerry Stowe hurried on, ashamed. Of a truth I am the chief, the chief of sinners. O Lord Thou knowest, nay verily the Lord standeth up to plead. A break of light showed the mourner. It was a loose fellow that stood working his hands and boring his heels into the ground. Jerry Stowe saw a sturdy red ridge of nose and a coarse, fleshy face, swollen and dark. He went on in a hurry, for this Mr. Cromwell, cousin of Squire Hamden, was thought to be possessed at ours. The harsh voice rose higher. The Lord, the Lord will enter into judgment with the ancients of his people and the princes thereof. For ye have eaten the vineyard, ye beat my people to pieces. The Lord shall repay. Jerry Stowe came out of the spinny to meet the breaking storm. Quick whirls of snow blinded him, and the driven hail cut temple and cheek. All the air was a warring medley of ice. CHAPTER 1 THE LADY LEAF MEETS TWIN BREATHRIN It was the year of grace, 1643, when Jerry Stowe made for home again. War called him. England was rent and twain. King stood against Parliament, church against Puritan. The second great battle of free spirit of man against the power of the past was begun. For the sternest fighters were those who strove to make each man in England master of his own life, captain of his own soul. But to the best of their foes it seemed that the war was of mad, arrogant fanatics who would sweep away the good heritage of England and her divine faith. Both were right, it may be, and both wrong, for those who were marshaled on the stricken fields of the world's fate see no more than the spirit and fortune of their own battalion, know not the true peril or the issue of the day. But when the fight is done, and the peaceful work of death, men see there has been no victory and no defeat. The battlefield is a furnace whereby all base in either cause is burned out, till when the fire goes down there is left one fair faith to be the glory and comfort of all men after. But for Jerry Stowe and his day the flame was grim. If you should make for the veil of Aylesbury from a southern port, you would be happy to cross the Thames at Wallingford and come like the men of old years by the Ickneald Way. Then you are given the full joy of the woodland hills. By many a mile they stand sheer above you in timeless strength. Serried ranks of trees rise to the sky, beech and larch, that are red and golden yellow in the spring time, then countless quiet glad harmonies of green, then a wild flame of crimson and topaz and orange, before they come to the feathery grace, the black and brown and silver of the winter tide. The red buds had but just come upon the larch, the beech is waved yet in naked beauty when Jerry Stowe rode by. He came with a companion, with state. There were armed followers and led horses not ill laden. He had gained something about the chest also, and the air and habit of command to set off his moustachios. He rode a good horse as it deserved. He was plainly, yet with no parade, the soldier. Still he preserved his nature. The plain buff coat had a touch of original gaiety, a sash of rare blue. You behold him now, a trim fellow of the middle size, with an honest, wholesome, pale face, wherein brown eyes are earnestly glad. His companion is of a larger make, big each way. He too is soldierly, but no splash of color marrs the neat sobriety of him. He is plump of cheek, and handsome, with lips set into mere mirth. He has the complexion of a country lass. There is, to me, much alluring in this Colonel George Royston. So they jingled on with their company, through the swift wanton April sunshine, as proud of life as the thrushes. They were close upon Oxford Road where it rises through the woodland defile by Aston Rowant when they alarmed a lady. It was something of a buxom dame that rode with one serving man to her train, and rode badly enough. The sound and sight of men of war behind her made her vacillate pathetically. Now she turned to gaze, and, misliking them, drove her horse on. Now she looked again and liked them better, and fell to her first easy pace. Then meditation brought doubt back, and she spurred again. But the end of it all was, they came upon her before the crossroads. "'Tis the common vice of woman, she thinks she matters to us,' quoth Colonel Royston. If she had run away she might have had charm,' said Colonel Stowe, and they drew level. The lady was of a fair comeliness. She looked at them sideways. "'Are you for the king, gentlemen?' says she. "'He has not that happiness,' quoth Colonel Royston. "'For the parliament, then,' she cried. "'Nor is the king so unfortunate,' quoth Colonel Stowe. "'I do not understand you, sir,' says she, biting her lip. "'Believe me,' said Colonel Royston sweetly, we did not expect it. "'You resent my questions, gentlemen,' she cried. "'Nay, we enjoy the answers,' said Colonel Stowe, with a bow. "'At least, sir, you are in truth no roundheads.' "'The fashion,' said Colonel Royston, is purely a discord with my complexion. "'Which, indeed, I admire,' says she with some spirit. "'I am wholly of the same mind,' Colonel Royston admitted. "'Since we are thus in accord,' quoth she, I would pray leave to be of your company.' "'There was some hesitation. The honor, madam, is ours, but I cannot think much pleasure will be yours,' quoth Colonel Stowe. "'Sir, I am a lone woman. "'I'll swear you're not to blame for it,' Colonel Royston muttered, and the country hereby is disturbed. "'Oh, madam, you shall be protected from anything but justice,' said Colonel Royston, with ill-grace. "'The woman who gets but justice gets nothing,' quoth Colonel Stowe. "'Indeed, sir,' says she heartily, I want all you can give a woman who can give you nothing, but to not from justice I would be guarded. This is debatable land, and I fear the scum of both armies. "'I commend your equal condemnation,' said Colonel Stowe. "'Nay, sir,' says she with dignity. "'I am heart and soul with the king.' "'Why grudge him the body, too,' yoned Colonel Royston. "'Sir, he hath all my spiritual part. That should be a husband?' Colonel Stowe inquired politely. "'Why—why in truth, sir?' she spoke through laughter, then with some struggling emotion. My husband cannot now be with me.' She made eyes at them. Save in my heart.' "'Faith his tribe should not be at large,' Colonel Royston agreed. "'I, gentlemen, am called Lady Leap, and—' Colonel Royston's bow seemed to offer his compliments on the name. The two presented each other, and my Lady Leap smiled on them both. She was indeed comely, though something much buxom, and her eyes pleasantly wicked. "'I have a friend,' she went on, "'who is—who is more than a sister to me. She is now in sore need, and I only can help her. It is to her I ride. My way is by Risbara, and if you would see me safe there, I—' My husband would ever be grateful.' "'I love all husbands,' said Colonel Royston with enthusiasm. They are the scapegoats of my sex. If, as you suspect, it is a kindness to him to help you away from him, command us. "'I perceive, sir, you tempt fate. Someday you will be even such a husband as mine.' Your courtship flatters me,' Colonel Royston admitted, but is at least forbid by several religions, moreover to economize in wives or miserly in a man. "'I see that I have to suspect you of morality,' said the lady. "'Tis rare in gentlemen who ride without an armed tail. And upon that matter against whom are you armed?' "'Against the wide world,' clothed Colonel Stowe, and gave a new point to his beard. "'We fight for ourselves, according to the honourable fashion of high Germany,' said Colonel Royston, having learned the same by the side of the great Gustavus, whom I will ever upholds the original begetter of cavalry tactic, though certainly of a deplorable taste in salmity, likewise with Bernard of Weimar, who would have been a Caesar, if he had ever waited for the infantry, and never for women. "'Finally, with Monsur de Turenne, who is Legère Memme, and no gentleman.' "'I applaud your dueto,' says the lady with a smile. "'You are surely twin brethren.' "'Madame, you insult my friend,' cried Colonel Royston. "'Nay, we should like each other less if we were alike,' quote Colonel Stowe. "'I ever applaud my antithesis. "'Faith, madam, already I feel an affection for you.' The softness of his heart hath ever betrayed him, madam. It was that beguiled him to unworthy wedlock with me. Tis one with an unmanly desire to be a saviour. "'Tis one, madam, with an inhuman power to laugh at himself,' Colonel Stowe echoed. "'In truth I marked in Jerry a poor relish for humour from the first,' quote Royston. He could not see the jest when on the night of Brayton Field some honest Frenchmen were amusing themselves with the broken thigh of mine. "'It is rudeness to presume the lady interested in your legs, George,' said Colonel Stowe. The lady lifted him with some kindness. "'And since that matter of the legs you have been brothers in arms.' "'Jerry has been so unhappy, with Gustaf Adolph, with Bernard, a man of my heart, if he had only cared to keep alive, with Montseer de Tirene, till he made himself impossible in desiring to hang a gentleman whom we desired to ransom. We remove the gentleman and ourselves, and are here for England to give us the greatness we deserve. Pray, madam, how lies England?' Colonel Royston proceeded to get a return for his innocent frankness. "'How stands the war?' propound us to Victor.' The lady bridled. "'Victor, sir! It were madness to believe that a base of mechanic army can stand against the gentry of England.' Colonel Stowe put up his eyebrows. Colonel Royston whistled a small tune. "'Every man of honour and blood is with the king,' she cried. "'Terral Araugh,' said Colonel Royston, "'I have heard tell that the men of religion are against him, and I had rather fight ten men of honour than one with the conviction of sin. "'They are mazed, whining, anabaptists,' said the lady, with indignation. "'They have never endured our charge. And what of our generals? We have Prince Rupert, who is the greatest soldier now alive.' She brought their eyebrows up again. Royston said something smoothly dubious. With zeal she went on. She told them of the wealth and munitions of Oxford, the forces there and in the west, and gave each army its place, flaming anew to each neat hint of doubt. She told of Rupert and Newcastle in the north, and Rupert's new last plan of war, how from three sides the royalists were to close upon London and crush that halting Generalissimo, my Lord Essex, and put him in the coffin he bore always with him, and bring the king in triumph to Whitehall. My Lady Leap had vast and curious knowledge of things. And she did not note that for all their first unsought eager frankness she was telling them vastly more than she had been told. It was this, perhaps, which made Colonel Royston look kindly upon her when they halted in Chinner to bait. So victory is the king's, madam, said he with a last skeptic smile. Sir, says she vehemently, she's as sure as—as that you are a woman, quote he, kissing her hand as he took her from the saddle. She freed herself swiftly. Of that sir no man shall ever be glad, save one. She languished. Her bosom heaved admirably. Him I have in my heart, she murmured. I wonder if he's in any other, said Colonel Royston, and went in after her, something pensive, caressing a mustachio. CHAPTER II OF CURNAL GREAT HEART This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. CURNAL GREAT HEART by H.C. Bailey CHAPTER II THE IMPERTAINANCE OF JONE NORMINDY The bird in hand was therein. It was a thought excited by Colonel Stowe's polyglot train. Alciviad, a plump Picard, dealt plainly with the hostler. Matthew marked Luke, thus called, because it was ever his task to publish the good news of dinner, flurried the cook. In an upper room, my Lady Leap stood by a little window of bull's-eye glass, and watched the hill of larches flush and darken beneath the swift cloud shadow and the wind. Jerry Stowe was at her shoulder. From the chimney corner Royston regarded the pair with gentle melancholy. So, if we would prosper, you bid us fight for the king, madam? Quoth Colonel Stowe. She turned upon him. Nay, sir, if you be men of honour, you can seek no other cause. She cried with flashing eyes. I am a man of the soil, said Colonel Stowe, without emotion. A king is no more to me than my fellow, if he needs me, let him pay me. Is your honour for hire? says the lady, fiercely scornful. Colonel Stowe looked at her keenly. Madam, quoth he, what is it you want most in the world? Royston was surprised by her blush. I—I—she was in difficulty. A woman tells that to no man but one, Colonel Stowe, she said in a hurry. Colonel Stowe bowed. To come by what I want I must needs win fame in a high place, and so I have set my life on that. And I mine upon dinner, quoth Royston, and fell a howling for Matthew Mark Luke, while my lady looked on Colonel Stowe more kindly. You are no man to fight for canting rebel naves, said she. Fie on it, all the world cants, cried Royston. Jerry of fame, you of your womanhood, I of my belly, which is at least no phantom, may we all enjoy them. And then to help him came Matthew Mark Luke, lean, imperious, and melancholy. His genius yearned for a stew, and they had no intellect for it at the bird in hand. The lady ate admirably, but else was not amusing, and Royston and Stowe, maturing between the herrings and the colwards, a scheme for the abolition of the monarchy, solmouthy, and small beer, excited her to no gratifying enthusiasm. They were passing from the colwards to some matter of pickled cherries, when a chorus of view-halos interfered. Royston turned languidly. Jerry Stowe and my lady, mercurial both, started to the window. An uncomely throng surged down the village street. It was a tangled knot of green horsemen foaming on one lean wretch afoot. He had the shorn head of the Puritan, the bands and black gowns of the minister. He was protesting in vehement screams from the Hebrew prophets, but the pack of gallant horsemen drew him on with mocking wanton cruelty. Colonel Stowe was stiffening in each limb. Pah!t is no more than a whining presbyterian, quoth my lady leap, and turned away. If all parson's were in heaven the world would be better, Royston yawned, but he kept grey vise upon Colonel Stowe, who stood still and tense by the window. The horsemen drew up by the inn, and tumbling down about their quarry dragged him into the taproom. Thence came a weird lurid din of drinking-song and lewd oath, mingled with the threats of scripture. Colonel Stowe, a thought paler, sat down to the end of his dinner. Who are the gallants in green? he asked. My Lord Goreng's regiment, says my lady at once, and Colonel Royston looked from under his eyelashes. Colonel Stowe ate pickled cherries with determination, while below the medley of ill sound endured. It was broken by a new note. Colonel Stowe cocked his head to one side. A girl was sobbing. Someone cries while I dine, said he. It is an impertinence. And he pushed back his chair and went out. My lady leap looked out of the window, to his only appealing piratin wench, she said with contempt. Madam, says Colonel Royston, who was buckling on his sword, your womanly sentiments perpetually delight me, and he followed his friend. He found Colonel Stowe at the foot of the stair, surveying circumstance with an equable brow. Beside the taproom window a girl wept, an alcibiad, his plump master of the horse, and the lean Matthew Mark, who had a rival repute as squire of dames, imparted consolation in several languages. But mine host of the burden hand and some crony stood aloof and jeered. Colonel Stowe came to her. Your weeping, Madam, says he, makes the ungodly rejoice. She looked up at him. She was not of the women who are beautiful in tears. She tried to speak to him and made a miserable, ridiculous gulp. "'Tis very proper in you to say so,' Colonel Stowe admitted, but you need not say it again. I am now in charge of the affair. Come with me.' She touched his arm with timid, trembling fingers. The brutal din from the taproom rose louder. "'My father,' she gasped. "'Yes, but you are in the way,' said Colonel Stowe gently. Come.' Faltering, doubting, but his placidity was with power, she let him convey her, sobbing, to the door and up to that room where my Lady Leap sat yawning. "'Madame,' quote Colonel Stowe, you can be kinder here than I,' and led the weeping girl to her side. My Lady Leap shrank back and discussed that seemed to be blended with some fear. "'What have I to do with the wench?' she cried. "'Your womanhood, madame, was not made only for men,' said Colonel Stowe, and left them together. The girl looked at my Lady Leap with a most miserable wet face, and my Lady Leap flushed and stood staring at her mighty awkward. Colonel Stowe came again to the door of the inn. Standing upon the cellar flap outside the taproom, he reviewed the position. Mine host rolled up to him frowning. "'Sir,' he growled, "'be you a roundhead?' Colonel Stowe began to smile. "'Your humour has attracted me,' he remarked, and yet you do not amuse me. He's not that melancholy.' "'I say, sir,' the fellow roared, "'be you a roundhead!' "'If I were,' said Colonel Stowe, sweetly, I could not be doing what I am, and yet if I were not to be, it is strange that I should seek to be doing what I shall soon have done. And look you!' quote Royston, tapping mine host's puzzled shoulder, though he be not what he might be in what he does, yet we know that what he has done may be no proof of what he can be. Therefore we do all hope for salvation.' Then they both bowed to mine host, who had taken a step back and stood gaping. Colonel Stowe took Royston's arm and turned him to the taproom. "'Go in, George, make them happy,' said he. Their eyes met for a moment. Royston plunged at the door and went in with a flourish and a snatch of song. "'The drinkers of beer didn't air yet appear in matters of any weight. "'Tis he whose design is quickened by wine that raises things to their height.' He was opportune. The sport of the taproom had grown keen. The royalists would have the minister sing for them a lewd song of davenants against his church. He steadfastly denied them, and already they had nodded cord about his temples. Colonel Royston, as he relates, preferred to show them how that torture was done in high Germany. "'Outside, Alcibiad, my friend,' says Colonel Stowe, "'I am waiting for my horses.' Alcibiad bounded to the stable, but was arrested in mid-air by an order in French. Thereafter he bounded again. Mine host and his lounging friends gaffed. Colonel Stowe took Matthew Mark by the elbow and walked him through the village till they came to the smithy. Matthew, says he, buy me two pounds of tenpenny nails and borrow me a hammer with all. The nails of tenpenny, Matthew Mark repeated, and his lean jaws halted wide asunder. While Matthew Mark turned into the smithy, Colonel Stowe continued to walk at a gentle gate down the road. His eyes wandered and appeared to admire the cow slips and the speedwell. Coming back to the inn with his nails and his hammer, Matthew Mark found Alcibiad waiting by the tap-broom door. A moment after, Colonel Stowe came running in much agitation. At sight of him, Alcibiad heaved up the cellar flap and flung it wide. Mine host was moved to wrath thereby, and lumbered at Alcibiad, growling, odd-rod it, what be doing, Frenchman? Alcibiad, who was a man of action, said nothing, but smote with power. Mine host was engulfed. In the same moment he was and was not. From the depths he complained. Colonel Stowe, by that, had his head in the little tap-room window and shouted, breathless, George, the roundheads are on us! Alarm the gentlemen! The roundheads are on us! A regiment of horse! Heig found them! Royston roared, flinging down the cord in which he was making artful knots. Saddle, gentlemen, saddle! The gallant gentleman of Goring's horse tumbled through the door in a heap, Royston agitating from behind, and in a heap with frantic oaths vanished into the darkness of the cellar. Alcibiad slammed down the flap and stood on it. Matthew Mark swung his hammer and drove the long nails home. Underground the noise was confused. You are as neat as Providence, Jerry, said Royston. I should like to see them come out, Colonel Stowe admitted. But one cannot have everything. It is time for us to go. Slit their horse's girth, Alcibiad, and he ran upstairs to collect the woman. Royston escorted his amazed minister to horse. You would best ride with us, Parson, said he. They would doubtless like to see you again, but one must be selfish at times. But the minister was dazed to dumbness. With him mounted on one of the lead horses, with his daughter up behind Colonel Stowe, they rode away. The loungers of the in-yard showed some timorous ill-will. My Lady Leap, no timorous, disgust at the turn of affairs, but neither affected the tranquillity of Colonel Stowe. They had drawn clear of the village when the minister recovered speech. Sir, says he to Royston, I deem you a man of Belial, and by the grace of God you have wrought me a great deliverance. I wonder if you have helped us to find out, said Colonel Royston. The inspiration of Colonel Stowe saw a full troop more of Gorin's green horsemen coming down on the village from Thame, and quickened his pace. You are well out of that parish, Parson, quote Colonel Royston, and it will be some while before you are in it again. The minister plainly cared nothing for that. Nothing for the home he could not save. Never a man grieved less for worldly ruin. There was a wild joy in his eyes. He was throbbing with some glad spiritual orgasm. After a while he lifted up his voice and made a joyful noise. At once Colonel Royston regretted his salvation, and my Lady Leap snorted at him. But the minister saw nothing, heard nothing, in this world but himself. Had not the Lord been on our side, may Israel now say, Had not the Lord been on our side, when men rose us to slay, they had us swallowed quick when as their wrath against us did flame. Waters had covered us, our soul had sunk beneath the stream. And many more verses came before he broke off with the jerk of his beginning, and, sir, he cried, the hand of the Lord is in this. The Lord will not suffer me to dwell in peace, least I wax fat. He hath appointed me my portion otherwhere. I will go ride with the host and minister unto them, till they that persecuted the saints be cast down, and this poor land's iniquity purged away. He that in heaven sits shall laugh, the Lord shall scorn them all. Then shall he speak to them in wrath, in rage he vexed them shall. My Lady Leap made a noise that resembled a profane oath. Then observing Colonel Royston moved to the gentle mirth, and the minister's keen eye set upon her, she blushed notably. Father, from behind Colonel Stowe came a pitiful voice. Father, shall we not win home again? Nay, the Philistines are upon us. We are cast out. We are wanderers upon the earth. Let God's glory be magnified thereby. I can conceive that Colonel Royston admired the man's contempt of all ease, for himself was not made like that. It is hard, the girl murmured. Blessed are they that are persecuted for righteousness's sake. Let's give thanks that we are accounted worthy to suffer, yet my heart is woe for my poor sheep in chinar left without a shepherd. They might have come to aid us, the girl complained. You had perhaps sung to them, quote my Lady Leap sourly. Again she drew the minister's eyes, but met them now with a haughty contempt. He turned indignity to Royston. Sir, I am John Normandy, a poor servant of God and preacher of the word, in whose company am I? Myself, I am George Royston, who serve no one but myself. My friend is Colonel Stowe, who serves all men better than they deserve, and this is my Lady Leap, who serves her husband by her absence. It was my Lady Leap who consumed the minister's attention, with his deep keen eyes on her, and indeed, she rode ill, pray, whither are you bound? he asked. Colonel Stowe answered for her. We make for his borough, and thence stoke mandible. The second name was news for my Lady Leap, too. It seemed to Royston that both she and the minister were moved by it. The minister turned to Royston. Prithee, a word apart, and Royston's demure mirth, growing more determined, he spurned on ahead with him. Colonel Royston foreboded events, and events to him were all amusing. I would be playing with you, says the minister, out of earshot of the rest. From your service to me, I judge you children of light. You have surely no kindness for malignance? Colonel Royston felt a confidence impending. He made himself smooth. Sir, says he, inquire of the gentleman in the cellar. It was a goodly deed, said the minister naively. Sir, I doubt not your honesty. Prithee, how came this woman of your company? Know you ought of her? Colonel Royston looked under his eyelashes, but his tone was of pure virtue. When a woman asked protection of man through a disturbed country, what man can deny her? Hark, in your ear, the minister came close. What surety have you that she be a woman? Colonel Royston, who had a reasonable confidence that she was not, exhibited all decent distress. You alarm me. You appall me. But this is surely a jest. Sir, it does not become your office. The minister was gratified. Sir, you are a man of conscience. Believe me, I jest not. What men dare do, men must reprove. It is indeed a grateful task and savory, Royston agreed with Unction. Know then, sir, there is at stoke mandible a moabetish woman, men call Lucinda Weston. The minister, consumed with righteousness, did not mark the shift of Colonel Royston's eyes. It is well known that she had been commonly visited from Oxford by a malignant who comes in the clothes of a woman that he may be safe from the godly armies at Alicebury and Wycombe. I do notify you, sir. I suspicion that you have this sinner in your company. Colonel Royston was perhaps as shocked as he seemed. And this mistress Lucinda Weston, says he gravely, what may be her relation with the gentleman? Sir, quote the minister severely, let us pray to be preserved from the imagination of ill. By all means, Colonel Royston agreed, but life will become dull. To said they are betrothed, said the minister with a sigh. This innocence disheartens. Sir, I apply no good thing of a man thus unseemly disguised. The minister cleared his throat for a sermon. Colonel Royston intervened in a hurry. Yet many men would be harmless women, quote he. And some wearing women, comfortable men. To sorrow one cannot change the sex with the britches. If husband could be wife, wife, husband by turns, how would conjugal velocities be multiplied? Then seeing that the eminent sermon was fairly overwhelmed, he broke off. But I meddle with the creation. I go astray. Praise her. Where are you going? The minister plainly found the agility of Colonel Royston's mind distressful. He breathed heavily. Sir, says he, I have it in mind to go to Alicebury. I have a friendship from of old with godly master Skippen, the Sergeant Major General, and will pray his aid in my mission to be one of them that minister to the host. Yay, and moreover, I will bear them tidings of this malignant that rides in a woman's coats. There was something of admiration in Colonel Royston's face as he surveyed the minister. He ever loved men who made him busy. Sir, says he, you are a refreshment. I am vastly the better of you already. You make me rejoice in the construction of life. Where at the minister was moved to spiritual song. Praise ye the Lord, for it is good. Praise to our Lord to sing. For it is pleasant and to praise. It is a comely thing. The sunlight flashed and changed about them. Fleets of white cloud were speeding across the blue, mingling now, partying now, and driving on to the mellow lucid eastern horizon. Meadows wrought with the full gleam of the cow slips, shown pale gold. Beneath the white flame that closed the thornbreak, the banks were all blue with speedwell. From the splendor of the hawthorn, from the wide bare branches of the swaying oak, and high in the utter glory of the sunlight, rose the music of the great harmony of springtime. All the live warm air rang with joy. Behind Colonel Stowe's back a small voice spake. Sir, are you a soldier? At least I am nothing else, said Colonel Stowe, and turned in the saddle to smile at her. I cannot find that she was beautiful beyond the ordinary. Colonel Royston has called her a wholesome piece of red and white, but I think he never loved her. She was small, yet of a gracious fullness of form. There was too much of her hair to be neatly ordered, and with the light through it it glistened like gold. Colonel Stowe saw a grave honesty in her gray eyes. Purity encompassed her, seemed indeed her very self, yet you would not doubt her in fullness a woman. Are you upon the Lord's side, she said simply? I shall know when I die, said Colonel Stowe. Ah, but now, now is the accepted time, she cried, and then blushed and was shy. Pray, sir, what are you, of what faith? I am a great man in the making, quote Colonel Stowe. The honest eyes grew in naive wonder and fear of evil. In what way great, sir? Colonel Stowe was ready enough to explain. Madam, what a man can do, I can do better. What a man fears, I fear not. When a man despairs, I am full of heart. And with a lost cause, I conquer. Child, says my lady Leib. We have mistook the gentleman, who is surely God. But the round face against Colonel Stowe's shoulder was exceeding grave. Sir, are you with us or against us? She said severely. I am both, I am neither, said Colonel Stowe blandly, and thus secure entertainment. Joan Normandy gave a little gasp of horror. Then you do not believe anything, she cried? Shrinking as far as she could in safety from those broad, infidel shoulders. Colonel Stowe turned in the saddle, smiling. I believe that I can be great, and I take the part that helps me to greatness. If I choose the king, I will believe desperately in his cause. Now I believe in it as little as you. Then, then, she struggled with this strange, horrible scheme of life. Then, what is it you live for? Why do you seek to be great? Have you no faith to guide you at all? I, madame, the faith and worship of a most admirable lady, said Colonel Stowe with kindling eye. But sure, sir, she would have you not great, but righteous and true, the girl cried. Colonel Stowe looked at her with wise, mirthful eyes. Is that a woman's way, mistress, said he? I, sir, indeed, tis the great, great pride of a woman to help a man to righteousness. My lady Leib surveyed the girl with some contempt. Some man is to have a non-cali life, I see, quote she, and the girl blushed painfully. Colonel Stowe laughed. The wars had educated him. The best of us dislike redeemer's child, said he, even in petticoats. You bear too hard on the world. No cause is all of God, none all of the devil. If I fight for this or that with equal heart, I know myself no villain. What matters to the world is that the men who can should rule and school the rest to comfortable life. I am born for that. I grip at place and wide power to have men the happier for me. Men must be mastered, and I can do it, to mine honor, which is the honor of my lady. Does she know you talk so? Said the girl in a low voice of awe. There is nothing in my thought for which she need feel shame, madame. It was the fashion once for a soldier to wear my ladies ribboned upon his morian. I bear my ladies colors in my soul and live by her spirit. She hath been my inspiration since I had body or mind to go my own way. She hath command of every part of me. She is very queen in all her being. She is of a divine beauty, yet is not the beauty of her that I worship. She, my lady leap, yawned audibly. Perhaps, sir, this might delight the lady more than us. I hope so. Colonel Stowe flushed like a boy. Madame, if you knew her, you would despise the weakness of my praise. To his mistress Lucinda Weston of Stoke. He spoke as who should say the queen of heaven is my love, and with shining dazzled eyes looked right on through the sunlight. My lady leap was smitten with pallor. Is the lady aware of your devotion, she said, and her voice was strained and strange so that Colonel Stowe turned to her? I have some acquaintance there, she explained swiftly. I am her sworn servant since she was a child, said Colonel Stowe, and thrice in ten years of war I have snatched the time to see her and each time known her more worthy worship. But she is known to you, Madame. Is she not more noble far than I tell you? You can scarce expect a woman to say so, said my lady leap sourly. End of chapter three. Chapter four of Colonel Greatheart. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Mary Herndon Bell. Colonel Greatheart by H. C. Bailey. Chapter four. Colonel Stowe sees his inspiration. Colonel Stowe heard with alarm that my lady leap was bound for stoke manner. Madam, says he in agitation, you spoke of a lady in sour need. Is Mistress Weston distressed or ill-bested? I said she was in need of me. My lady leap snapped. Colonel Stowe bowed and begged the honour of being her escort. My lady leap, who had no means of denying, said with an ill grace, something polite. Bearing away from the hills, as the sun sank upon a troubled sea of gold and grey, they came by heavier roads to the dark blue-green meadows, the brown tilth of the vale. Colonel Stowe breathed deep the unforgettable, grateful sense of home. There was blood in his cheeks, and again and again his eye gleamed for a hedgerow, a tree of memories. All the way Royston and his minister, checking and checking again, dropped slowly back to them. Both were concerned to see what my lady leap would do when they came to the dark files of elms that led off the highway to stoke manner. She made no mystery. She had no suspicions and was in a hurry. With a bow and a good morrow, sir, a good morrow your reverence, she turned short off. Colonel Stowe halted and swiftly set Joan Normandy down, who was surprised and stood there looking at him like a child alarmed by some adult wickedness. You know the homestead, George, he cried. Come in, these good folk, to my father. I will be with you in an hour. And he was off after my lady leap. Colonel Royston, having with grace, assisted Joan Normandy up behind him, found her father regarding him severely. Hi, sir, said he with a shake of the head. Your melancholy anticipations have been gratified. I congratulate you on your worst suspicions. The minister frowned. Pray, sir, why did your friend company the malignant? Colonel Royston was never prodigal of the truth. Why, sir, consider. He deems the creature a lady, and is but common courtesy to be her escort to the end. Is he thus beguiled? The minister questioned. I would never trust the man that cannot be deceived, said Royston, who himself, I take it, saw always very clearly. Colonel Stowe and my lady leap, neither I doubt much liking the other, made great speed to the manner. And I wonder if Mistress Lucinda Weston liked either, when they surprised her in her garden in an aged, faded, dark gown. She checked her walk and stood like a queen, cold and proud, gazing at them full. To a she alone, says my Lord Digby, in an intimate letter, that converted me to an admiration of slight women. She was cleanly, straight as a pine, life as a willow sapling, yet with a hundred graces of allure. She was other than beautiful, as I judge. She gave a man challenge by the fullness of her life. Her charm was in strength. She had the wide, fearless eyes of a boy. The warm splendor of her hair, the full lips near scarlet, were vivid of passionate will. Colonel Stowe, whose face was very pale, whose heart at wild work bowed before her to half his height. My Lady Leap sped to her and caught her breast to breast and kissed her. The blood was flowing and Colonel Stowe's brow at that. But Mistress Weston freed herself from the embrace, all composed and fair of cheek. Good-morrow, child, says she. It is kind in you to come. My Lady Leap, who was red and something disordered, circled her with an arm again. She permitted, but was more concerned in Colonel Stowe, who stood rooted to the ground and dumb. This is a friend from old, she said. And he saw that strange, wise smile of hers that ever made his heart check and throb. It was Major Stowe last, what now? Colonel, or Baron of the Empire, or Knight of the Fleece? And she held out her hand. Colonel Stowe went upon one knee to kiss it, and she leaned back in my Lady Leap's arm at ease. Colonel Stowe, Madam, says he. And always your most true and humble servant. Tell him how he has served you in bringing you me, Lucinda, quote my Lady Leap, and appeared to find the position humorous. "'Tis you should reward him for that, child,' said Lucinda demurely, and made herself more comfort in my Lady Leap's arm. My Lady Leap royally presented Colonel Stowe with her hand, who kissed it in turn. "'I have been honoured by my task, Madam,' says he. "'I wonder,' says my Lady Leap in soft mirth. Colonel Stowe, who saw nothing mirthful, turned to Lucinda. "'But, Mistress Weston, Madam has told me that you are in need. "'If I can avail, I am utterly at your command.' "'And, ay,' quote my Lady Leap, Lucinda needs only me, "'and therewith embraced her closer. "'It's not so, child!' they looked in each other's eyes and laughed. "'Then my Lady Leap smiled upon Colonel Stowe.' "'Colonel Stowe bowed. "'It is well, Madam. "'I will pray leave to wait on you again.' "'Sir, you are always pleasing,' quote Lucinda, "'and Colonel Stowe went away, mighty well content. "'Guarded from the road, by a great hedge of view, "'and a noble orchard, close to Homestead of Broadfields, "'stood. "'Its red walls and roof were mellowing with lichen, "'and in the last sunlight it glowed like a house of jewels "'behind the white glory of the blossoming trees.' "'Across the gate a man of some years was leaning. "'Hair and small beard had come near white, "'but his cheeks were like a russet apple, "'and his eyes wide and clear and bright. "'He held up his hand to his son, "'and Colonel Stowe swung to the ground, "'and with arms linked silent they walked to the house. "'Colonel Royston, boots and buff coat laid aside, "'lounged with a long pipe in the doorway, "'and surveyed them benignly. "'Well, well,' said the father, "'as one who recalls himself "'from the extravagance of emotion. "'And so you have brought a maid home with you at last, Jerry, "'and the brown cheeks wrinkled humorously. "'A maid in love with righteousness, "'so doomed to die a maid. "'Have you heard her story, sir? "'I, God save all children, for I think all parents be mad. "'This fellow has not been in enough turmoil today, "'but is off to the army at Alesbury, "'and has left her here to weep by herself a night. "'A simple clean maid, too, Jerry,' says the artless father. "'Why, sir, simple more than enough, "'and clean more than enough, too. "'Well, you ever took more pepper to your meat than I? "'Come in, lad, and we'll to supper before George Royston here "'has spoiled his stomach with a pipe. "'Man is not pigs, say I, that he should be better smoked. "'Why, sir, I am much like bacon,' said Royston, "'the friend of man, but no love of the ladies. "'Proper enough for a married man, but dull life for a bachelor. "'Well, and what will you have for a wet, pickled eels, "'or something of a smoked neat's tongue, "'or a taste of the new Dutch salad?' "'They were in the hall of the homestead, "'a broad, low room, all dark oak, "'with candles bright in pewter sconces, "'and a fragrant pine log red and gray on the hearth. "'Soon they made a little party at the head of the long table, "'with serving men and maids heartily busy below the salt. "'Joan Normandy, on Mr. Stowe's right hand, "'too shy to speak, too shy to see anything but her platter, "'was plied in vain with many good things, "'till when she would taste neither turkey pie "'nor a porridge of veal and plums, "'the men despaired and let her be, "'respecting grief so potent. "'They were dallying with the apples and cheese and strong ale, "'and the serving folk all off to bed, "'and a pipkin of sack-posset, "'hising comfortably upon the hearth, "'before Mr. Stowe had a mind to speak of what he felt. "'Royston watched him look at his son, "'and knew a strange pang of loneliness. "'And have you had your fill of war now, Jerry?' says he. "'Colonel Stowe laughed. "'I am back for a bigger meal of it, sir. "'You have a war here that gives one appetite.' "'It gives me the stomach ache,' said his father, "'because a king wants to be God, "'and parliamentmen want to be kings. "'Honest lads that might be raising good wheat and good children "'go goring one another like mad cattle. "'Pah! "'Well, well. "'There was something left out of me "'that isn't you and your brother. "'I want nothing that I would make men die for.' "'David, sir?' cried Colonel Stowe. "'Is he turned soldier?' "'He gad. "'He's turned saint, too, which is more trouble. "'He hates a bishop as I do the fly on the turnips, "'and conceives he'll make an end of them, which I do not. "'He is the major of a sweet company "'that pray like old women, "'and fight like butchers, "'with a pragmatical preaching lawyer, "'Ierton,' to their Colonel. "'Oons, Jerry, I hope you are no saint at least. "'It balks a man with his dinner.' "'Then suddenly the good man "'remembered the girl at his side. "'A name, my dear. "'I am mean not against you or your worthy father. "'Tis a parson's trade to be precise and godly, "'and we like him the better. "'And a woman is the cumblier for standing above a man. "'You are as sweet as a nose-gay at table, "'but a man likes some ease for himself.' "'She blushed. "'She was daintily shy, trying to find words. "'Nay, please. "'Oh, please do not talk of me. "'But sure, sir, it is a man's duty and great joy "'to live and die for the glory of God.' "'I, my dear, and I know no better way of it "'than to grow good wheat and good children for God's world.' "'Ah, but there is faith,' the girl cried, her eyes shining. "'We are not without that. "'The true faith. "'We must hold it and preach it in word and deed, "'if by any means we can save people.' "'Ey, little maid, little maid. "'I can never be so sure my neighbor is lost. "'If he does fairly, I'll not quarrel with his faith, "'or bully him into mine, or kill him to save my soul.' "'Well, well, I am too easy for the times, I think. "'Like cider of a frosty day. "'If you like strong wine, here is Jerry, "'who would set all the world by the ears "'if he could be general of half. "'What, lad, you would still be great or nothing, eh?' "'The man who is not great is nothing,' said Colonel Stowe. "'Now, I think something of the little man "'who can hold a clean roll,' said his father. "'Ey, well, it is good to have fire in your belly, "'and good, too, to have burned it out. "'You will be blazing some while yet, Jerry,' he cocked a wise eye at his son. "'Still, for Mistress Weston?' "'Til the end of time, sir. "'At the assurance, his father was swiftly so melancholy, "'that Colonel Stowe was alarmed. "'Praise her. What ails her?' he cried. "'His father faltered. "'Why, no ill for herself, but ill for you, lad. "'She is betrothed to a young gentleman out of Berkshire, "'one Gilbert Bourne, a captain of the Kings. "'He comes to her dressed in a woman's coats "'to cheat the Puritan patrolmen. "'And, Jerry, lad, I doubt not it is he you brought her to-day.' The wound was kindly given in one clean stroke. Colonel Stowe leaned back and shaded his eyes with his hand. Then Joan Normandy, though indeed it could be no blame of hers, blushed painfully, and Mr. Stowe, looking anywhere but at his son, saw that her brown hands were clenched till the knuckles glistened white. In a moment she rose, made her curtsy, and fled away. Colonel Stowe did not see, did not hear Royston making swift, facile talk of the spring sowing. He was groping breathless in a world from which the light and air of hope had been torn away. He did not perceive that he had been wronged, that the false My Lady Leap had dealt with him unhandsomely, that Lucinda had borne part in an ignoble mockery of him. These matters passed him by. The impulse of his life was suddenly dead. He was afraid. The rhythmic clatter of ordered horsemen broke upon him. He started up pallid. "'Who goes?' he cried fiercely. Royston laid a hand on his arm. The sound came nearer and passed, while the two soldiers listened keenly. "'A troop? What does it mean?' said Colonel Stowe more calmly. "'It means that our parson knew the man under the petticoats,' said Colonel Royston, and My Lady will be adorning a Puritan prison without them. The vision gave him plain consolation. Colonel Stowe strode out. End of Chapter 4 Chapter 5 of Colonel Greatheart This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Mary Herndon Bell Colonel Greatheart by H. C. Bailey Chapter 5 My Lady Leap Takes Off Her Petticoats My Lady Weston had the misfortune to wed a man whom she did not amuse. She was the mother of a daughter with more brains than herself. You would not expect her to find life pleasant. After Sir Godfrey's death she was doubtless more at ease, but she had made the mistake of loving him. Her daughter was not unkind, but plainly had no need of her. My Lady Weston, in fact, had not enough to give for anyone to need her. Her private tragedy was that she knew it. The happiest days of all her life were those in which Gilbert Bourne trusted her with the tale of his first shy hopes of her daughter. It was such a one as Gilbert Bourne, joyous with a thousand frankenthusiasms for whom in truth her nature was made, and listening to his shy, eager confidence she could dream her youth back and a glad wooing and happiness sure. But when he grew bolder and Lucinda kind he wanted no more of her mother. My Lady Weston had again to efface herself. That was her trade. Lucinda was not troubled by her mother as she sat in the white room of the manor by Gilbert Bourne. He wore still his somber petticoats of the road, but she was resplendent. An apple-green gown clung close about her with embroidery of silver on her bosom, and the full light fell, always she loved light, through her rich hair, and came with mellow ray to caress her slender neck and shoulder. Gilbert Bourne adored, and she smiled. Heaven, do you know how you fire a man? he cried. Her smile faded a little. He saw a strange defiant gleam in her eyes. Are you afraid of flame? I have something to give the man who fires my heart. He caught her closer. Lucinda, you! Such a gift as no man ever enjoyed yet. You are the very wild strength of life. She laughed softly, looking out at the night. I would take more than I give, she said. That cannot be. All of a man, his soul to fight with you as the world threw to worship you and guard and serve you. Oh, I give you all, all. But is nothing for what you give in love all the fierce full glory and joy. Lucinda! He crushed her hands in his. His breath was on her cheek. She turned her head. Teach me your hunger. She breathed her lips close to his. Then he laughed, as if all were one. Dear, you were made for delight. You shall sound every note of love and throb to the music. I awake. Out of the black void beyond the window, a gentleman in buff rose to the light. A Swart Puritan trooper. A moment he gazed helpless. The duplication of petticoats in this wooing plainly confused him. Then he grabbed the shoulder of each. In the name of Adam. Which is the man of you, he roared. I wonder if Lucinda ever fully forgave her lover that ridiculous moment. She repulsed him in a spasm of passion that sent him into the Puritan's arms and herself out of them, so that a dozen more righteous warriors breaking into the room saw their comrade embracing one woman with a violent fervor while another regarded him in crimson palpitating horror. Their natural moral emotions held them a moment gaping. Oh, fools! Grown the first comer, for Gilbert Born was hammering doubly at his face. This is the man! And a man of wrath! Bind him with strong cords! Then they encompassed Gilbert Born and overwhelmed him, bidding him earnestly not to kick against the pricks. Doing so with violence he was born out. Then Lucinda, angry with him and the Puritans and herself and all the scheme of things, cried out, It is a foul, cowardly outrage! The one trooper who was left buried his face in a kerchief, not for emotion, but because Gilbert Born had set his nose bleeding mightily. Oh, that I were a man! she cried, stamping her foot. I would swinge you for it. But if I were a man you had not dared. Woman, for what I know you are! said the trooper in a muffled voice. This is a confusing household to a godly mind. She cried out in wordless passion at disgust. He strode solemnly to the door, holding his nose. Where are you going? she cried. What is your work? What would you do? Woman! he replied with much dignity. I would put coal iron to my back. I can be sorry for Lucinda, for indeed she got no more of those righteous troopers than that. Cornette Jehoa de Tompkins had been sent to capture a man of belial in petticoats, and having done it was in haste to be gone. Gilbert Born, much disordered, was straightly bound on his own horse, and they bore him off to Puritan justice at Aylesbury. It is now well that you should come to the loft, whereupon fragrant hay Alcibiady and Matthew Mark were snoring. Matthew Mark felt the end of a writing whip separating his ribs. He rolled over, being ticklish, and saw level with him on the ladder, a lantern and the face of Colonel Stowe, which last said, quiet, saddle, and vanished. Matthew Mark kicked Alcibiady, who, unawake, kicked feebly back. Even asleep you are not a Christian, said Matthew Mark sadly. Infidel! he took Alcibiady by the ear. Infidel arise! Alcibiady sat up. He yawned cavernously on Matthew Mark. He shall never be ready for the resurrection, said he. I understand your fears of it, said Matthew Mark, and having by this time got his boots on, he vanished down the ladder, wither groaning but swiftly Alcibiady followed. In the stable below, Royston was at Colonel Stowe's elbow. What is the campaign, Jerry? said he in a low voice. If the gentleman be taken, I must set him free, quotes Colonel Stowe busy with his saddle. Colonel Royston confesses that he did not see the need. To him the issue of the affair appeared humorously just. Why, Jerry, says he. It was a Scullion's trick, the lad played you. It belongs to me to save him, said Colonel Stowe. Colonel Royston turned to his own horse. Chivalry, he reflected, is the most dangerous engine against women. A sex ever unshivalrous. If Jerry would outshine this Gilbert-born, endazzle his Lucinda. No better way than to play Quyote. Thus Colonel Royston, who did not suspect his friend of a like profundity, and therefore admired him. Soon they were riding through the stormy dark, Alcibiady and Matthew Mark bearing each a shoulder-load of trace-rope. Colonel Stowe might be Quyote at heart, but he had another man's head, and ten years mingled campaigning to help it. Nor to him, nor to Royston, did the affair loom arduous. They knew themselves in such matters. They rode to the double rank of Elms by the road to the Manor, halted a while to listen, and went on some way. Then at a word Matthew Mark slipped to the ground and wove a thick tangle of rope across the road from tree to tree. He came back and mounted again, and held the horse of Alcibiady, who went afoot, crouching. So they waited there in the blackness while the trees rustled and groaned. It was not long till the troop of Cornette Tompkins came clashing on. Cornette Tompkins was in a hurry. And thereby his first files met the graver destruction. Their horses crashing down in the strong network plunged madly, and upon them came comrade after comrade, till half the troop was lost in blind, roaring chaos. Swiftly the while behind them Alcibiady wove new ropes across the way and fled, so that when the rearward men tried to rain back, their horses in turn were overthrown, and there was a double, distracting tumult. In the stormy dark none could help himself or another, nor see nor guess how they were beset. Blindly they raved, and Colonel Stowe and his friend, calm engineers of terror and disaster, hovered on the verge, marking down my Lady Leap. Out of the thud and crash of the struggling horses and the yells and shoutings of angry, hurt, frightened men, Cornette Jehoa de Tompkins was heard exhorting scripturally, his desire being chiefly to hew a gag in pieces. But a gag they caught none, for Alcibiady and Matthew Mark unseen, unfollowed, were already neatly away, and Royston and Colonel Stowe, plunging purposeful into the midst, had broken through with my Lady Leap and her horse a sandwich between them before anyone knew them for foes. Some bright mind marked the prisoner going in the gloom and raised a yell, some plunged after, but thereupon from all around the compass came a crackle of pistol shots. Colonel Royston, with some small aid, could ever be ubiquitous. It sufficed. The Puritans had no mind to scatter in a circle of foes. Well on the road to Little Kimble Colonel Stowe drew his reign and my Lady Leaps. You will doubtless go faster without your petticoat, sir, said he, and begin to cut her bonds. Zunes, do you tell me you know what I am? cried Gilbert Bourne. I have the honor to wish you joy of your manhood, sir, said Colonel Stowe gravely. Gilbert Bourne muttered some oath. Once free he tore off his skirts and settled himself a stride. That is the road to Thame where you should be safe, said Colonel Stowe. I will swear I am not such a cur as I seem, Gilbert Bourne cried. Again, sir, I ask your pardon. Colonel Stowe bowed. There is no question of pardon, sir. I give you good night. Colonel Royston is moved to record that he was sorry for Mr. Bourne. Fetching a compass toward Alesbury they came comfortably home again, but were scarce in before there was a rumble of horsemen. Royston put out the lights. Colonel Stowe shot the bolts and they went lightly to bed, so that when three minutes after there was a monstrous din at the door the whole house was patently asleep. It was some while and the noise growing ferocious before a light was struck in an upper room and the night capped head if Colonel Royston was thrust into the night. He yawned at it capaciously while the Puritan troopers bellowed up to him. An ungodly lascivious noise, said he, I think you be malignance. It was made known to him that they were poor servants of the Lord of Hosts who desired to know if he had any word of a movement of malignance there or thereby. Colonel Royston gave them in definite terms a description of the character and a prophecy of the fate of those who troubled the sleep of the godly with vain questionings. Recording by Mary Herndon Bell Colonel Greatheart by H. C. Bailey Chapter 6 A Person of Importance Colonel Royston, walking a while before his breakfast, beheld with a bland satisfaction the approach of the minister. The minister was something won. Colonel Royston joyfully escorted him within. There Mr. Stowe met him with a large smile and the hope that he had not come to take his daughter from them so soon. Sir, quote the minister, I have no home to give her, for I lie in the camp, and in truth she hath not where to lay her head. If of your good will she may shelter here a while, myself being at all her charges, I would give you much thanks. If, tis your will, child, Mr. Stowe turned to the girl. Tis heartily mine. She feared with a blush she would trouble him. No more than the apple blossomed the tree, so that is well. I am hungry to hear, sir, says the innocent Colonel Royston as they went to table. How you caught your runnigate malignant in petticoats? The minister gathered solemnity. Sir, I have seen the handiwork of the powers of darkness before my eyes. I have beheld the miracles of that old serpent. Do not doubt, sir, that in this dispensation the devil is with power to save his own. You explain to me the survival of many of my friends, said Colonel Royston. Pray, sir, did the man become woman to spite you? The creature was man enough, sir, and fought like a beast in petticoats. I have ever held that beasts should be confined to breaches, Royston murmured. But he was overcome, though certain godly young men of the troop still bear marks of his malignity. He was bound upon his horse, and we set off at speed for Ailesbury. Behold, we had not drawn clear of the park when our horses were caught as in a net. Both rearward and vanward at once mark you, which is certainly witchcraft. And some charged down upon us, and snatched the prisoner away, and when we would have pursued, lo, there was a ring of fire all round us as if a great army. Then Cornette Tompkins, who is indeed a savory member, mad halt, and sing a psalm. The witch done, being cough of the one hundred and nineteenth a very sweet portion. All that army of Satan was passed away, and we were enabled of grace to cut loose the net of many cords wherein we were enmeshed. Then some would have it that we had been assaulted by a regiment of malignants, and Cornette Tompkins baddest moved forward together, lest we should be beset, and we went seeking tidings from house to house. Ye, sir, and I grieve that we did break your comfortable rest, wherefore you did justly rebuke us in godly fashion. For it was even as I told Cornette Tompkins of malignants we could gather tidings nowhere, and it is plain we were entrapped of no mortal power but of that great red dragon which hath seven heads and ten horns, the tale whereof draws the stars of heaven and casts them upon earth, even as he did put us to confusion with cords till we cried upon the name of the Lord, which is a very present refuge. Mr. Stowe, in mute practical admiration of such a sentence, passed him a full tankard of beer. Colonel Royston carved into a boar's head with relish. Sir, says he, your exposition is gladsome. Never before have I seen the devil in things so clearly. And he smiled upon Colonel Stowe. It should be a source of pride, sir, says Colonel Stowe, busy with smoked venison, that the devil is thus attentive to you, and Royston saw Joan Normandy look at him with horror. Sir, lead me not into the pit of vane glory, said the minister. I will avow my heart is glad Sathanas has chosen me to march against with powers. Yet of a truth there are those much more worthy of him. Nay, sir, tis ill modesty to bid another go to the devil in your stead, quote Colonel Stowe. We must needs deem you worthiest, if he does. The minister shook his modest head. But Joan Normandy gave Colonel Stowe eyes of more and more ill will. Colonel Royston complains of her somewhere that she had wits in her as well as virtue and unnatural wedlock. Colonel Stowe surprised himself that morning by an insufficiency of melancholy. He knew, whenever he dared let himself think, that the loss of Lucinda tore from him the spirit of life. Without a hope of her he had no will to go on. But his heart would not believe him defeated. Behind all thoughts there surged in him a blind conviction that she was his of right. More surely real than all that reason could give him, he felt inviolable bonds. There was that in the past. No man could make of none effect. No woman, betray. He had the strength of dreams. In his first manhood, when he lay upon the bosom of the Downs, and the earth spoke to him of the power of life, he had seen Lucinda the soul of his soul in a timeless world of eager deeds. On the stark desolate fields of Germany, when the squadrons clashed, and he rode to victory through a wild swirl of war, he had seen his strength bound ever to her service, that in union they might conquer and guide the troubled course of things. The dream had been granted, he was sure. He could not be very unhappy as he walked in the orchard fragrance, and indeed it was no day of misery. A swift shower had just gone whirling by, but already breaking through a smoky cloud rift the sun was clear again, and the wet white blossoms sparkled with rainbow light, and the daffodils beneath were laden with a gleaming dew of gold. On the wet air came the wild glad spirit of spring. Colonel Stowe breathed of it till his mind was whirled away in delight. He was drunk with the goodness of things. In which happy state he beheld Joan Normandy, walking by the vial at bank, a vision of neat womanhood. Colonel Stowe felt fatherly, and approached her smiling in that style. She turned her back on him. I might rashly believe that I have displeased you. Colonel Stowe mildly conjectured, and turning unashamed, walked by her side. She flushed. She became fierce. I beg you would not company with me, sir. She cried. That gives me the right to ask why, said Colonel Stowe placidly. She turned to face him. The grave grey eyes flamed. You have made a mock of my father. Oh! Colonel Stowe understood. She had seen that expedition of darkness. You should have a conscience that would let you sleep a night's child. But consider. It would be vanity in me to claim that I am the devil. She flung away from him, and sped on over the turf walk. He followed. Moreover, your father would grieve if he thought St. Anas was neglecting him. Your anger is unreasonable. She was caught in an angle of the hedge, and could not escape, but she kept her face hidden, and he saw her hand at her eyes. Why, child, says he with his hand on her shoulder. She's an idle jest enough, but you make too much of it. Your father has taken no hurt, nor his cause. Nay, believe me, it is only a lad in love I have snatched from prison, and your father is no worse for it. Why make it so grave a matter? You have made me act in a lie. She sobbed. This precision of righteousness was something beyond Colonel Stowe. He took his hand from her. Pray, if it would ease your conscience, tell him the truth. She turned on him again, miserable and much wrath. You know I cannot, and—and I hate you! Colonel Stowe caressed his beard. You are out of my knowledge, child, he confessed. If I can make your way easier, show me. I am a spy on you, if I tell, and you saved us. Oh! she made a gesture of impatient childish wrath. I cannot tell why you should meddle to help him. He had betrayed you with her. What are they to you? Colonel Stowe became erect. You talk of what you know nothing, child, he said stiffly. But she would not be rebuked, and they stood against each other in angry dignity. Until, since all dignity in this world is fated to a mirthful end, until a hen, fleeing with hysterical complaints, hurtled through Colonel Stowe's legs, and vanished through the hedge. She was pursued by a small, round-determined child, who, finding these two large people, checked, and stood before them, stolid, a person conscious of importance. Solemnly he looked from one to the other. Then his blue eyes, large and accusing, he turned to Colonel Stowe. You have made that lady cry, he said gravely. Joan Normandy gave a queer, nervous laugh. It displeased the child, who thought her disrespectful to him. He devoted himself to Colonel Stowe. Man, says he, with the easy dignity of an equal. Who are you? Colonel Stowe gravely accounted for himself. I, said the child, and Anthony Jeremiah Higgs. What is you doing? Sir, I am being scolded, said Colonel Stowe sadly. Anthony Jeremiah Higgs turned the eye of a cold critic upon Joan Normandy, who indeed, between anger and unhappiness, was not comely. He reverted to Colonel Stowe. Does you know Martha? Colonel Stowe denied it. Martha is like that, when she has crossed with Sam. Anthony Jeremiah Higgs, said Colonel Stowe. A man does not chatter about ladies. The child was plainly disappointed, having doubtless intended, a further parallel with Martha. But he took the hint, gentlemanly, and changed the subject with vigor. Man, says he, can you make men? I am not allowed to, said Colonel Stowe. Why? Because I should not do it well enough. Try, said the child, imperiously, and turned upon Joan. Can't you make men? Not very well, says she. And then, with impatience at the foolish stupefaction of Colonel Stowe, he means out of wood, of course. Oh, faith, that is an easier task, said Colonel Stowe, and pulled down a sturdy twig of walnut, sliced it off, and began to whittle it into mannequins. Anthony Jeremiah Higgs directed, masterfully, the details of the creation. The atom of it did not please him, and he generously handed the creature to Joan. You may have that. I like them with legs. Legs are but vanity, a means to naughtiness, said Colonel Stowe, but began to construct them, while the child clung to him in anxious delight. Now make them some women. Faith, says Colonel Stowe, I think they will be more at peace without them. They must have mothers, said the child. They should have thought of that before they were born. Anthony Jeremiah Higgs had too serious a mind to dally with flippant ingenuity. Go on, he ordered with some scorn, and Colonel Stowe meekly continued the creation. Joan Normandy stood by them still, unconstrained now. She watched the small boy, clinging about Colonel Stowe, eager, happy, and Colonel Stowe giving himself gaily to meet the manifold needs of childish importance, and the trouble was smoothed away from her face. Blue clouds had clashed on the hill above Windover, and a whirl of rain came by, but the sun was clear still, and soon a rainbow spanned the veil. What is it? said Anthony Jeremiah Higgs, and was told. He gazed with round approving eyes at the splendor. I want it! said he. Are you sure you can find it? said Colonel Stowe. There was the child's look of wonder at man's folly. Of course I can find it. Come with me! So, with the child for guide, Colonel Stowe went off to find a rainbow. Joan Normandy, left behind, looked at the round scrap of life poised to the swing of the man's shoulder, and smiled like the springtime, through tears. Herndon Bell Colonel Greatheart, by H. C. Bailey Chapter 7 Colonel Stowe Is Again Inspired In the farmyard, Alcibiadee, who had a mind interested in all things, examined the domestic habits of the Berkshire pig. His investigations were interrupted by the issue of Matthew Mark from the kitchen. Matthew Mark came like a shooting star with flying dishwater for his tail. From the doorway, a plump and rubicon cook spoke of his character in the style of the recording angel and threatened shrilly of the wrath to come. Alcibiadee shook his head at the offender. You always make love with too much salt in it. It is also the fault of your soups, and disagreeable to persons of innocent mind. I do not desire to please children, said Matthew Mark Rathful still, and it is not a matter of love, but of sauce. It is the same thing, said Alcibiadee, to persons of delicacy. I wish to make a sauce of garlic and olives to serve with a roast beef, a sauce alluring and subtle. She resented it. She is a person of no soul. Come away. They went, and Matthew Mark, being in the power of his emotions, went with speed, till they came to a hurtled meadow where the shepherds were busy among many lambs. Of them, Alcibiadee, who was not fond of going upon his own legs, made an excuse to stop. But Matthew Mark was impatient. They tire me, your sheep. Bah! It is a country all sheep, I think, with no taste for savouries and no divine desire of war. Monsieur le colonel, also. I do not understand him any more. He dallas. He is in two minds, like the soup of these English, which does not know whether it would be water or grease. In fact, my dear Matthew, you have no intellect. You do not understand anything but the one little belly of your own. Monsieur le colonel, he is like the late Bayard and myself. He fights to fulfil his own glorious nature. He is a soldier of dreams. That is why he and I are very terrible in war. We desire only to give our great souls full play. In that case, my friend, you should become a sheep, growled Matthew Mark. Alcibiadee contemplated the bleeding lambs with benignity. My dear Matthew, says he. Most men, being stupid like yourself, desire to make life more savoury than is good for them. By example, as you want foods that make the innocent stomach wrath, so you lust after plunder in war. But your soldier of dreams seeks only to be himself, and let his greatness shine before men. I can behold a sheep thinking himself great, murmured Matthew Mark. He would be amusing. It is something, after all, to be the perfect sheep, said Alcibiadee. And meanwhile the soldier of dreams was away to his desire. He had permitted himself some splendour. A feather of peaceful green caressed his hat, and the rest of him was a consonant blue. I find something of his nature in this affection for blue and green. There was lace from bruise at his throat, caught in a brooch of sapphires. For all this, loosened I fear, liked him the better. Moreover, he was plainly a man, and therefore a relief from the episcene wooing of my Lady Leap. And Lucinda, too, perhaps had dwelt with dreams. When she first waked to know her womanhood, he had been in her heart, that availed always. It is likely she was hoping for him when she came out beyond the hedge of roses to the park. So you might explain the sweet humility of her gown, all simple and silver-gray. She met him with a shy curtsy and downcast eyes. I had no right to hope for this, sir. You have every right to command me, madam. It becomes me better to ask your pardon, she raised her eyes to his. Madam, to play before you in so ill a jest. I would give my life to know how much was jest, madam. Her neck grew rosy. That was a great beauty of hers. What must you think me? she cried. Tell me how much you know. Of this, madam, I can know nothing but what your own lips tell. You know it was a man, she said in a low voice. Colonel Stowe bowed. And yet you, surely none but you, set him free. He bowed again. Why, then? Why? Since he was at least a friend of yours, said Colonel Stowe. And, if he were more, Colonel Stowe drew in his breath. Then I am the more glad that I helped him, he said slowly. I think you live to make me ashamed, she said. And some while looked at him silent. Her clear eyes intent and unafraid, but strangely gentle. And if I tell you he is no more to me than another man, what shall I see? Whom you saw in his arms. I am more sure of your honour than my own, said Colonel Stowe. Yes, she flung her arms wide and laughed glad to the sky. Yes, you ring true. I should wish you to know all, if you will. This, Mr. Bourne, why I confess I like him not ill, but he is more boy than man. He is pleased to believe himself devoted to me, and has ventured himself from Oxford often in this disguise. Oh, I doubt I have been foolishly kind, but indeed he amused me, and did himself no ill, I think. It is just a joyous honest lad, but indeed he has a bold mischief in him, and— Why I cannot tell now whether to laugh or be angry. He made his advantage of your presence too—too—she was in a pretty confusion. Infine, sir, twas yourself, want him what he had. I dared not deny the rogue, lest you should suspect him no woman. And I could not betray him to you, for I feared you committed to the Puritans like your brother. So he had his impudent will. She smiled, shy-eyed and blushing in a delectable way. Oh, I ought to feel it more hurt, but—but he— Well, some day another woman will make him know it is not play. A man might make him know it was an insolence. Said Colonel Stowe with some relish. Why, yes, sir, when I give some man the right. And Colonel Stowe bowed to the rebuke. But have you heard enough of me to tell me something of yourself? I think you know the best of me, said Colonel Stowe in a low voice. Indeed, I know no terrible ill, she smiled. The best of me is that I love you. He took her hand, and she turned a little away. That is the strength of my life. She did not answer, but she did not grudge him her hand. So they stood when a shadow fell between them. With whom do you company, my stealth woman? Said one, mouthing in the manner of the pulpit. Colonel Stowe turned, stiffening, to behold Cornette Jehoida Tompkins. Cornette Tompkins was large, and upon the weight of fatness. His face had reached it, and in some parts betrayed a kindness for the good things of this world. He had the swelling port, the mobile lips of the man of speech. Colonel Stowe surveyed him with an amused contempt that stung. He moistened his lips and rolled his eyes. Who art thou in the purple and fine linen of the Canaanites? he cried. Concerning purple, said Colonel Stowe. Though I think it be the bully among colors, it has the patronage of your nose. Fellow, we are not met to debate the fashion of my countenance, cried Cornette Tompkins. Indeed, sir, it calls not for debate, but lamentations, Colonel Stowe admitted. I see well that thou art of the blood of Shime, which cursed David. Thy name, O thou man of Belial, and thy purpose here. My name, sir, is Stowe, and my purpose is to glorify your nose. Believe me, sir, it is a sweet member. Cornette Tompkins was plainly embarrassed. Are you of one blood with that godly master David Stowe, which is Major and Colonel Irton's regiment? His unworthy brother, am I, and could wish him here that we might make a duetto concerning your nose, its complexion. Yet will I do what I can to him it worthily alone? Cornette Tompkins, feeling his nose nervously, became plaintive. Sir, it ill-be-seems you to mock at a man of God before a Canaanite-ish woman. Mark, who I? Sir, I am all lamentation. I could mourn with you all the day long, like a Dutch tulip at dawn. Cornette Tompkins did not wait for the elaboration of that poetic simile. He strutted off, wrapped in embarrassed indignation. With a whimsical smile, Colonel Stowe turned to Lucinda again. Life is like that, I think. A creature with such a nose shadows us when we dream. Pray, madam, what is his affair here? He hath quartered himself upon us. Said Lucinda angrily. Oh, sir, it is not to be borne. A boor that forces himself into my mother's withdrawing room to fling his sermons. Colonel Stowe took counsel with his beard. It were easy to fix a quarrel on him, whereof he would not recover. But I doubt you would have but more of his kind to trouble you. Nevertheless, I am hardly at your command if you desire it. Nay, that is no help, sir. The fellow swears we are to have a company of his knaves, billeted on us till the war ends. Because, forsooth, we have given shelter to spies of the king. Indeed, sir, I have much to thank Mr. Bornfor. These vile roundheads make my life hideous. They force their brutish persons upon me in every chamber. They deafen me whining their songs. They pray at me with vile names. Oh, I would that the king might conquer speedily and whip the knaves back to their kennels. Colonel Stowe's brow was bent and his eyes fiery, but he spoke calmly enough. You are all for the king, madam? Who is not but such base rogues as these? She cried. Oh, I would that I were a man to strike for him. Sure, sir, every noble heart is with him. It is the honour of England for which he fights. How should he yield his realm to the madness of base-born fanatics? His cause is the cause of every man of right knightly blood. Shall such rogues as these be our masters? Nay, sir, who is loyal to himself is loyal to the king. Each man that hath any honour, I, each woman, is bound to him. She was fair enough with her eyes aflame and bosom surging. Colonel Stowe bowed. You have spoken, madam. She smiled at him with a new light in her eyes, and quick, eager, flung out her hand to him. His lips stayed upon it long, and as she smiled down at him a strange tenderness made her face lovely. Colonel Stowe was something pale as he stood again erect, and a long while their eyes spoke together. Then, with her bosom rising, her neck rosy, she turned a little away. But when, in a while, Colonel Stowe spoke again, he was calm enough. It is plain, madam, that while you cannot drive these rogues away, you can leave them behind. Are there friends where you can make your home a while? She hesitated a while, finger on cheek, then with a sudden glide cry, Ah, but Oxford, to the king at Oxford, one could live there. Then her face fell again. But these nays would not suffer it. We are in prison to them. Colonel Stowe smiled. I cannot permit a gentleman of such a nose to meddle with my emotions, said he. But she looked and out in surprise, and was plainly puzzled. But he has many, so many men, she faltered. It is like a regiment. It is, in fact, half a troop, said Colonel Stowe, who had a neat mind. He smiled again. They make the affair an entertainment. You mean that you can? She cried, and he bowed. Everything is easy with you, she said slowly. She drew a long breath. Her eyes began to flame. Oh, it is good. It is good to be by your side. You are sure. You give me life. He flushed. He caught her hands in a grip that hurt her, and her breast beat against his, and as a strange keen throb of passion waked in him he saw Cornette Tompkins under the elms regarding them gloomily. It was necessary to part with laughter. Then Colonel Stowe, approaching Cornette Tompkins with determination, described in fullness his nose. It obtruded, nevertheless persistent, into the dreams of life.