FOR THE HONOR OF THE GWYETHS
“You’re free to take it as you choose, good or ill,” Strangwayes went
on; “but I can tell you Colonel Gwyeth is in no two minds about it.”
“I am sorry for him,” Hugh answered, after an instant. “I know it does
wring a man to lose a commission out of his very hands.”
“Since I must steer to the windward of hypocrisy, I am _not_ sorry for
him,” Strangwayes returned. “And do not you worry yourself over his
broken spirit, Hugh; so far he has borne up stoutly. At the last report
he was ranging about with his sword at ready, bent on scoring out all
his wrongs upon Master Philip Bellasis.”
“Philip Bellasis?” queried Hugh, struggling to recall what that name
stood for. “What has he to do in this matter?”
“The simplicity of untutored youth!” Strangwayes’ voice came pityingly.
“Why, ’tis clear as most logic: my Lord Bellasis of the king’s council
disapproves of these small independent troops, and has given his voice
loudest, ’tis said, for merging Gwyeth’s horse into Sir William’s
regiment; _ergo_, Colonel Gwyeth has taken my Lord Bellasis into his
hatred. My Lord Bellasis is blessed with the gout; _ergo_, Colonel
Gwyeth, not to waste so precious a commodity as hatred upon a disabled
man, transfers all his intentions to my lords swashbuckling son Philip.
For, granting the colonel’s temper, he must fight something now, and he
would vastly prefer something of the name of Bellasis.”
Hugh still kept his old place without offering comment, so Strangwayes,
after a moment or two, rose and lit a candle at the hearth. He did not
pause even to slip off his accoutrements, but, holding the light, began
roaming about the chamber on inspection, and communicating the results
of his researches to his companion: “We might be worse placed. Two
flights of stairs upward from the ground, so the air should be delicate
and wholesome. Also the room is so small the fireplace ought to heat it
well. And for the lack of furnishings, the emptiness near cheats a man
into believing he has space enough to stretch himself. A contented
spirit, mark you, is an admirable necessity in a soldier.”
In the end he brought up at the nearer of the two windows, which he
opened, and, after a long look out into the night, drew in his head
again with a soberer face. “If I risked myself a hand-breadth further
from the casement, I think I could make out the roofs of St. John’s,” he
said, sitting down quietly, with the one small table betwixt himself and
Hugh. “’Tis the good old college of which I was so unworthy a son. I am
glad we lie near it.”
“Where is the rest of the regiment?” Hugh asked.
“Sir William and most of his officers lodge just over the way at a
merchant’s house; Turner and Chadwell and Seymour are here under the
roof with us. We’ll all meet together at Sir William’s table.”
Hugh started back on his stool so he nearly overset himself. “Dick,” he
burst out, “that means that thrice a day I shall be forced face to face
with Colonel Gwyeth.”
Strangwayes nodded, and then, the sheer absurdity of the whole position
coming over them, they both went into a fit of laughter.
Hugh recovered himself with a saner feeling of self-possession. “After
all, it’s very simple,” he said aloud; “he’ll take no note of me, I
know, and I’ll bear me as I would to Captain Turner, or any of the older
men.”
But, in spite of his stout words, when he woke in the dark of next
morning Hugh could not sleep again for thinking of Colonel Gwyeth, and
wondering if he would see him at breakfast and if the colonel would
speak to him.
When he first entered the long upper chamber of the house across the way
that served the officers for dining hall, he looked about him, half
eager and half in dread, and despising himself for both emotions. But he
saw no sign of Alan Gwyeth, Colonel Gwyeth, as he named him to himself,
for all he was now a mere captain. Two of the officers of the old
independent troop, a German, Von Holzberg, and a certain Foster, who had
come over into the regiment with the colonel, Frank pointed out to him;
but Hugh only glanced at the men and went on eating. He wondered if it
had been either of them that shoved him off the steps that night at
Shrewsbury, and he had no desire to come in contact with them.
After breakfast Frank Pleydall haled him off to view the city. “You
might spare me one hour away from your Dick Strangwayes,” the younger
lad complained. “But I knew after you got sight of him you’d not have a
word for me.”
Hugh felt conscience-stricken, so he forced himself to be very pleasant
to Frank, in spite of the boy’s persisting in talking of Turner’s troop
and his new cornetcy. Before they reached the High Street of the city,
however, they were joined by several other youngsters, one a lad from
Magdalen, the others, boys whose fathers were serving the king, with all
of whom Frank seemed to have a ripe acquaintance. Hugh concluded Master
Pleydall was not suffering for companionship, and presently he
concluded, too, it was a companionship into which he could not hope to
enter. He had an unhappy feeling of aloofness from the amusements of
these boys; he knew next to nothing of bowls or dice of which they
spoke, and when one lad began to jeer another about a girl, he did not
understand. So presently he took his leave of Frank, who was too busied
with his comrades to take much heed of his going, and started back by
himself to his quarters.
He was walking rather slowly, to study the landmarks he had noted and
find his way without inquiry, when some one took him a boisterous clap
on the shoulder. Facing about with a deal of indignation in his
movement, he found it was George Allestree, who merely stood back and
laughed at him. “You need but two wings to make a paragon of a turkey
cock, Hugh Gwyeth,” he said amusedly. “Are you looking for diversion?
Come along with me. I am sick for some one to talk with.”
Perhaps it was not a complimentary invitation, but Allestree followed it
up by being so cordial and jolly that Hugh went with him out to the
walks of Magdalen, and back into the city to dine at an ordinary. They
had only just come out into the street again, when Hugh perceived a
sudden surging of the foot passengers about him to the edge of the
kennel, and such horsemen as were passing drew to the side to leave the
way clear. Then some one raised a cry, “The king!” and others began
cheering. Allestree caught Hugh’s sleeve and drew him up a flight of
steps, whence, looking over the heads of the people, they could see a
little band of mounted gentlemen come slowly pacing down the High
Street.
“Look you there, ’tis Prince Rupert,” Allestree cried loudly, to be
heard through the cheering, and Hugh took a long look at a tall young
man in a scarlet coat, whose whole attention was fixed upon his restless
horse. Then he heard the cheers redouble, and Allestree had now joined
his voice to the uproar. Right before the spot where he stood Hugh got
sight in the midst of the horsemen of one with a pointed beard and
slender face, who bowed his head never so slightly to those who cheered
around him.
Then the horsemen had passed by, men turned to go their way once more,
and Allestree replaced his hat on his head. “Had you lost your voice,
Hugh, that you could not cheer?” he asked curiously.
“No,” Hugh answered, as he followed down from the steps, “I was
thinking.”
“’Tis a bad practice. What was it of?”
“I was thinking his Majesty looks much as other men.”
“Indeed? And what else?”
“I was wondering,” Hugh said half to himself, “which had the right of
it, you that do ever so extol him, or my grandfather who laid the blame
of all this on him.”
“Because your hair is clipped you’ve no need to wear ‘Roundhead’ in your
heart,” Allestree answered sharply. “None but a boy or a fool would
speak so.” Then, as Hugh looked abashed, the other moderated his tone,
and, talking carelessly of this and that, they came at length to
Allestree’s quarters, close outside the North Gate.
There Allestree would have Hugh out to the troop stables, to show him
Captain Butler’s gamecocks; and, in the midst of it, Butler himself
walked into the stable. Hugh remembered his dark, low-browed face very
well from their first encounter, but he was surprised and a little
flattered also to find the captain knew him at the mention of his name.
“The brave lad that saved me my old friend Strangwayes,” Butler said,
with a bit of an Irish accent, and shook hands kindly, then lingered to
set forth the graces of the gamecocks. “Gloucestershire birds, those,”
he explained. “They were hatched of rebel eggs, but I held it sin to
leave them to tempt a good Puritan brother into seeing a cockfight. So I
just made bold to muster them into the king’s service.”
“We must put them to’t soon, Captain,” said Allestree, and, when Hugh
left them, a good hour later, they were still discussing the cocks.
It was near dark when Hugh came at last to Sir William’s quarters. The
loud talk of the men above stairs brought him at once up to the dining
room, where he found several officers loitering. “Trust that red devil
Gwyeth,” Lieutenant Chadwell was saying; “he ran Bellasis down, be
sure.”
“Fight, did they?” asked another.
“They set out together this afternoon. Yes, they’ve crossed blades ere
this.”
“Do you know who had the better of it?” Hugh cried, thrusting himself
into the circle.
Chadwell looked up at him impatiently, then answered, “No”; and Hugh,
staying for no more, ran out of the room.
Clattering down the stairway to the outer door, he dodged by Turner,
who, facing about on the stair, called, “Whither are you summoned in
such haste?”
“To the city. To get news of the duel,” Hugh replied, over his shoulder.
“There’s no need to go that far,” Turner answered moderately; and then,
as Hugh came stumbling back to him up the stairs, went on: “Bellasis was
worsted, a thrust through the shoulder. Captain Gwyeth came off
unscathed.”
“I was afraid—” Hugh said, clinching his hand about the balustrade as he
stood.
“Of what?” Turner questioned dryly. “Has the gentleman been such a good
friend—” He broke off there, and looked at Hugh. “I crave your pardon
for that last, Master Gwyeth,” he said, without sarcasm, and walked away
up the stairs.
That night at supper it seemed marvellous to Hugh that men could speak
or think of anything but the duel. However, there was more speech of
fortifying the city and of the storming of Marlborough than of Captain
Gwyeth’s affairs, so he was glad to get away to his room, where at least
there were none to interrupt his own thoughts.
Late in the evening Strangwayes joined him. “Yes, yes, you can spare
words; I’ve heard all about that duel,” he greeted Hugh; “and the
town’ll hear more to-morrow. Captain Gwyeth has just sent a message to
Sir William; he passed it on to me, and I’ll do the like by you. Hang me
if the provost did not pounce down on the captain almost ere he quit the
field, and haled him off to the Castle. They want no duelling among the
king’s men.”
“Will they punish him?” Hugh asked breathlessly.
“Much!” Strangwayes answered, with vast contempt. “He did but nick
Bellasis, and if report be true that fellow’s injury is no loss to the
kingdom. If he had killed him it might be otherwise, for Bellasis has
great kindred, civilians, too, who would not scruple to bring the law on
his slayer, but as ’tis— Why, they’ll but hold him at the Castle a few
days to encourage those of us who are of like inclination, and then
he’ll come abroad again.” Then something of the warmth of his tone
abated, and he laughed to himself. “’Tis an ill wind that blows no one
good, eh, Hugh? You can eat your daily bread in peace now; for the
present Captain Gwyeth cannot vex you.”
Indeed, now the constant expectation of meeting with Alan Gwyeth was
removed, Hugh found it far easier to fit himself to the routine of his
new life. At first, to be sure, it cut him every time he saw Strangwayes
buckle on his sword and clank away to the exercise of his troop, and he
winced at every boasting word Frank let fall of the great things he
meant to do now he was a full-fledged cornet. But he soon found that
even a gentleman volunteer who had failed of a commission could be of
use, where the fortifications on the north and southeast were digging;
so for some days he spent hours in the varied assembly of college men
and townsfolk, who labored with pick and shovel at the trenches. It was
inglorious work for a soldier, and it was hard work that sent him to
quarters with blistered hands and aching back. Frank joked him a little
on turning ditcher, some of the other men chaffed, and even Strangwayes
raised his eyebrows with the dry question, “Is it necessary?”
“If the king cannot use me in one way, I must serve him in another,
since I am eating his bread,” Hugh replied doggedly.
Whereat Strangwayes’ eyes laughed, and he prayed Hugh, if he thought
’twould make no difference to the king, to quit the trenches for that
afternoon and come ride with him. “Your aim is to be a soldier, is it
not?” he asked, as they paced along the western road beyond the High
Bridge.
“Yes, if I can get me a commission; ’tis all there is for me.”
“Good. I began to doubt if you had not determined to turn pioneer. Dig
in the trenches somewhat, by all means, and learn what you can of how
men build fortifications and how the engineers devise them. But you must
not for that neglect your horse and your sword. That brings it to my
mind, Hugh; you should know something of rapier play as well as the
broadsword. There’s a Frenchman in the city shall teach it you.”
Hugh stammered something, with his eyes on the pommel of his saddle.
“’Twill be a favor to me if you will take these lessons of him,”
Strangwayes put in hastily. “I knew the man in my college days; he owes
me somewhat from them and would gladly return it thus.”
So, early as next morning, Strangwayes marched Hugh over to a dingy lane
that led from the Corn market, and up a narrow stair to a bare room,
where he presented him to Monsieur de Sévérac, a fierce small man with
mustaches. De Sévérac stood Hugh up with a rebated sword in his hand,
and thrust at him, talking rapidly in a mixture of French and English,
while Hugh vainly tried to parry the point that invariably got home upon
his body. He came away bewildered and sore, to find the dull labor of
the trenches, where at least he knew what was expected of him, a
downright comfort. But little by little, as the lessons went on, he
began to find a method beneath it all, and to get real pleasure from
wielding the long, light rapier, so different from the broadsword to
which he had been used. De Sévérac even admitted one day that he had a
steady hand, and with practice might make a creditable swordsman.
With a great desire to whistle, Hugh walked back to dinner, and, two
steps at a time, ran up the stairs at Sir William’s house, a bit before
the hour, he judged, for he found the dining room to all appearances
empty. Then, as he stepped across the threshold, he caught sight of Von
Holzberg, standing in one of the deep window recesses, and beside him a
man with red hair, who at his step turned and looked at him. It was Alan
Gwyeth. For a moment he stared steadily at Hugh, and by his face the boy
could not tell whether his humor were good or ill; then he bowed to him
curtly, as any one of the captains might have done, and continued his
speech with Von Holzberg. They spoke in German, Hugh observed, in the
instant that he halted mechanically before he turned on his heel and
went out of the room. He had no desire to whistle now; he only knew that
he was heavy with a great disappointment, that was none the less
overwhelming for being utterly vague.
But, in the end, he found that matters went the more smoothly, now the
dreaded meeting was over. It grew in time a mere daily and expected
occurrence to see Captain Gwyeth among the officers, and to receive from
him, in the course of ordinary civility, sometimes a short bow, once or
twice a curt good morrow. But, though Hugh repeated to himself it was
all he had looked to receive of the man, there slowly grew in him an
unrealized sense of resentment that hitherto had had no place in him. He
ceased to look wistfully toward Captain Gwyeth, but made it a point to
talk busily with Frank or Dick or others that he knew when he came in
his father’s sight, and to return the other’s scant bows with equal
curtness.
Meantime other occupations and interests than the affairs of the mess
room were busying him. The ground was now too hard for digging, but the
fencing lessons still went on, as Hugh’s bruised face and aching body
often testified. He had also come once more, at a hint of an invitation
from Turner, to take his place in the ranks and go through whatever
exercises the troop was put to. Try as he would, though, a little
bitterness still came into his heart at sight of Frank, carrying the red
and gold cornet, so he was happier when, formal drill over, he could
ride away whither he listed on Bayard.
When rapier and horse both failed of interest, Hugh had recourse to John
Ridydale, whose quarters in a by-street he had speedily discovered. With
small coaxing he persuaded the corporal to drill him in handling pistol
and carabine, an exercise which involved the shooting off of an amazing
quantity of his Majesty’s powder and ball at practice marks in the
fields of the west suburbs. Hugh, after peppering away bravely, came
home in great enthusiasm to Strangwayes, who laughed a little, and
finally remarked one day, “And do but think, too, how that honest
corporal will go singing your perfections to Captain Gwyeth.” Whereat
Hugh grew thoughtful, and somewhat curtailed his shooting trips.
After that, especially as fouler weather closed in, he exercised much in
Turner’s troop stable, where Frank kept a wooden horse for vaulting,
which he took great profit in seeing Hugh use. “’Tis such a pleasure to
look on animation of a cold morning,” young Pleydall remarked one day,
as he stood shivering in his cloak. “But do you get enjoyment of it?”
Hugh, who sat in his shirt-sleeves swinging his legs on the back of the
horse, merely laughed and drew his left hand up and down his spare,
sinewy right arm. He had grown a little that winter, and he was
beginning also to learn the power that was latent in each muscle. Just
now he was thinking to himself that if it ever came again to rough and
tumble hand-grips with Peregrine Oldesworth, such as they had had in the
days at Everscombe, his cousin would not be quite so sure of the
mastery.
Aside from the fact that he was still an uncommissioned volunteer,
Hugh’s only quarrel with his busy life that winter was that he saw
little of Dick Strangwayes. His friend’s chamber and purse were at his
disposal, but his time Strangwayes himself was not master of; not only
did his duties in the troop require him, but he had in the city and in
the colleges many friends to whom he gave much of himself. Hugh valued
the more the moments he had with his comrade at their chamber, and, for
the rest, sought himself companionship where he could. Frank, too, had
associates of his own, for whom Hugh had no great affection, so as a
last choice he resorted to George Allestree, who showed his friendship
by introducing him to all the taverns and ordinaries in the city. It was
Allestree, too, who, when he found Hugh took in great seriousness his
intention of becoming a soldier, unearthed a fat book, “The Soldier’s
Grammar and Accidence,” by one Gervase Markham, and told the boy he
would get from that all the theory of war he wanted. “I’ll read it
speedily and return it to you, George,” Hugh said gratefully.
“Prithee, don’t hurry yourself,” Allestree answered quickly. “Ten years
hence is quite soon enough for my needs.”
Indeed, Hugh did not find Gervase Markham exciting reading, but, to the
silent enjoyment of Strangwayes, he dutifully labored through his pages.
He was hard at work on Markham one morning, with his chin on one fist
and his elbow on the table. Only his eyes were not on the book, but
ranging out at the casement, for it was in early February and the sky
was blue, and Hugh was thinking how the buds would be bursting soon on
the beeches in the park at Everscombe.
“Did you note the Worcestershire parson who sat at our table last
night?” suddenly spoke Strangwayes, who was shaving at the little mirror
between the windows.
“Frank said he was an old tutor whom Sir William held in much respect,”
Hugh answered, bringing his gaze back to the room.
“Well, he was set next Captain Gwyeth, and I was the other side, so I
enjoyed their discourse. It seems the parson was much attracted by you.”
Strangwayes tipped his head on one side while he scraped the razor along
his cheek, and spoke disjointedly. “Something, either the way you thrust
up that square chin of yours, or your pretty habit of not speaking to
your elders unless they address you,—except in my case, for you
constantly fail in respect to me,—well, you much pleased the gentleman,
so he asked the captain your name. And the captain told him. ‘Your son,
sir?’ says he, and falls to congratulating the captain on your fine
bearing and—nay, I’ll spare you. But I’m thinking Captain Gwyeth did not
relish his supper.” There was an instant’s pause while Strangwayes, with
his head thrown back, shaved warily beneath his chin; then he laid down
the razor and faced about. “Will you believe it, Hugh?” he said, in
something between jest and seriousness, “I’m thinking if you should go
very humbly, hat in hand, to the captain and say, ‘Sir, I bore myself
very frowardly and peevishly toward you, but now I am ready to submit
me,’ I’m thinking he would rate you soundly and—henceforth maintain you
himself.”
“Doubtless he will,—when I go unto him so,” Hugh said shortly.
Strangwayes laughed a little, then fell to talking of indifferent
matters, while he put on his coat and fastened his belt. “I saw Phil
Bellasis in the city yesterday,” he ended. “Perhaps to even matters he’s
looking for Captain Gwyeth now.”
“I should think one lesson would suffice for him,” Hugh replied; and
then, as Dick tramped away, turned his attention again to Gervase
Markham.
But reading or any serious pursuit was out of the question on those blue
spring days in the midst of winter. There was near a week of such
weather, in which poor Gervase was left to gather dust on the
chimney-piece, and Monsieur de Sévérac expostulated at Hugh’s
inattention. The boy’s heart was idling out in the open air, and his
body must needs follow. He galloped Bayard round about the city till he
knew the roads to weariness, and then, descending upon George Allestree,
he dragged him out to tramp in the slushy remnants of the last snow.
“We’ll even up scores now,” Allestree said one afternoon. “You’ve haled
me through the mire, which I loathe, and now I’ll make you sup in the
city with me, which I know you abhor.”
So it was that in the evening Hugh found himself blinking sleepily in a
brightly lighted room above a city ordinary, and roused up only at the
click of the dice. At one of the small tables Allestree and Lieutenant
Seymour, who had joined them, were deep in play, so Hugh got up and
stood watching them. In spite of all urgings he did not play himself;
the forty-five shillings he brought from Edgehill had lasted him well
for spending money, but he had none to squander on the dice.
He looked up to the door as several newcomers entered,—civilians, from
their lack of any regimental badge. “Why, is’t not Bellasis yonder?”
Seymour asked, dicebox in hand.
“Hm,” grunted Allestree. “Throw.”
Hugh glanced curiously at the men, who had placed themselves at the next
table. One that sat on the farther side—a sallow, long-legged fellow of
thirty—he held to be Bellasis; meeting the man’s eyes, his thoughts went
back to the day of Edgehill, when Bellasis had nearly ridden down Frank,
and he felt sure of the identification. Then he turned to watch
Allestree’s play; how many throws had passed he did not know, when,
hearing some one speak near by, he listened carelessly.
“Oh, you do not know him, then?” a curt, incisive voice reached him.
“Well, ’tis no wonder. The puppy was whelped in a gutter.”
Hugh felt a hot prickling clear to the back of his neck; but, although
his whole attention was now riveted to those behind him, he did not
turn.
“Yes, groom to a gang of common foot soldiers. A fellow of the name of
Strangwayes took him thence in charity and employed him as body
servant.”
“I stake you ten shillings,” said Allestree, reaching well across the
table.
“I take it,” answered Seymour.
Hugh leaned a little forward with his clinched hands resting on the
table, and listened, not to them, but to Philip Bellasis.
“Pshaw! how would you have it?” the scornful voice went on. “’Tis bad
blood there. Now Alan Gwyeth—”
Hugh swung round on his heel; the candles dazzled up and down before
him, but he could make out Bellasis, resting his chin on one hand as he
sat, and speaking straight at him: “Alan Gwyeth, you’ll remember, was
but a broken German cutthroat, who lost his commission here for
cowardice—”
“Sit down, Hugh!” Allestree cried.
Hugh could feel Allestree’s grasp tighten on his arm, but, shaking him
off, he walked across to the table where Bellasis sat. The room was very
still, and in the silence his voice sounded husky and low. “You spoke of
Alan Gwyeth,” he began slowly. “When you call him a coward, I tell you
you lie in your throat!”
Then he leaned across the table and smote Bellasis on the mouth.