A day is twenty-four hours if you take it by the card, but the spirit
of joy or the spirit of sorrow has the power to multiply its
potentialities amazingly. Both these spirits walked by Evander's side
during his second day at Harby. The one that went in sable reminded
him that his horizon was dwindling almost to his feet; the other, in
rose and gold, hinted that it is better to be emperor for a day than
beggar for a century. And truly through all that day Evander esteemed
himself happier than an emperor. For he had discovered that Brilliana
was the most adorable woman in the world, and, knowing how his span
of life was shrinking, he allowed himself to adore without let or
hinderance of hostile faiths and warring causes. He did not, as
another in his desperate case might have done, make the most of his
time by using it for very straightforward love-making. There was a
fine austerity in him that denied such a course. Were he an undoomed
man his creed and his cause would forbid him to philander; being a
doomed man, it could not consort with his honor to act differently.
But he was radiantly happy in her constant companionship, and the
hours fled from him iris-tinted as he relived the age of gold.
But if Evander trod the air, there was another who pressed the earth
with leaden feet and carried a heart of lead. Halfman read Evander's
happiness with hostile eyes; he read, too, very clearly, Brilliana's
content in Evander's company, and he raged at it. He had grown so
used to himself as Brilliana's ally that he had come to dream mad
dreams which were none the less sweet because of their madness. He
had rehearsed himself if not as Romeo at least as Othello, and if
Brilliana was not in the least like Desdemona that knowledge did not
dash him, for he thought her much more delectable than the Venetian,
and he thanked his stars that he was not a blackamoor. He had not
pushed his thoughts to a precise formula; he had been content to
delight during the hours of siege in the companionship of a matchless
maid, and now the maid had found another companion, and he knew that
he was fiercely in love and as foolishly jealous as a moon-calf.
Brilliana was as kind to him as ever, but she gave her time to the
new man, and Halfman, inwardly bleeding and outwardly the magnificent
stoic, left the pair to themselves and absented himself at meal-times
on pretext of pressing business with the volunteer troop. But his
temper grew as a gale grows and would soon prove a whirlwind.
The garden-room at Harby was one of its many glories. Its panelled
walls, its portraits of old-time Harbys, its painted ceiling, were
exquisite parts of its exquisite harmony. On the side towards the
park the wall was little more than a colonnade--to which doors could
be fitted in winter-time, and here, as from a loggia, the indweller
could feast on one of the fairest prospects in Oxfordshire. Across
the moat the gardens stretched, in summer-time a riot of color,
flowers glowing like jewels set in green enamel. In the waning autumn
the scene was still fair, even though the day was overcast as this
day was, from which the weather-wise and even the weather-unwise
could freely and confidently prophesy rain. Brilliana dearly loved
her garden-room for many things, most, perhaps, because of its
full-length portrait of her King, an honest copy from an adorable
Vandyke, to which, as to a shrined image, Brilliana paid honest
adoration. She knew more about the picture than anyone else in
Harby, and used sometimes to wonder if the knowledge would ever avail
her. In the mean time, ever since the troubles began, she always bent
a knee whenever she passed the portrait. She had never seen her King,
yet she felt as if she saw him daily, visible in the living flesh, so
keenly did her loyalty seem to quicken color and canvas. Brilliana
was not the only soul in England whose loyalty gave the King a kind
of godhead, but if she had many peers she had none, nor could have,
who overpassed her.
On the morning of the third day of Evander's stay at Harby, Halfman
sat on the edge of the table in the garden-room and stared through
the open doorway into the green beyond. He was alone, and he had
flung off the stoic robe and was very frankly an angry man and very
frankly a dangerous man. What he saw in the garden maddened him; his
eyes glittered like a cat's that stalks its prey. He had no room in
his thoughts for the cottage of his earlier dreams, with its pleasant
garden and its lazy hours over ale and tobacco. He thought only of a
woman quite beyond his reach, and his heart lusted for the lawless
days when your lucky buccaneer might take his pick of a score of
women by right of fire and sword and tame his choice as he pleased.
To this mood fortune sent interruption in the person of Sir Blaise
Mickleton. Sir Blaise had opened the door expecting to find in the
room Brilliana, whom he had come with a purpose to visit, and instead
of Brilliana he found this queer soldier swinging his legs from the
table and scowling truculently. From what Sir Blaise had already seen
of Halfman he found him very little to his mind, but he reflected
that he had come on a mission, that Brilliana was nowhere in sight,
and that Halfman, who had served her during the siege, might very
well direct him where he should find her.
As Halfman took no notice whatever of him, Sir Blaise deemed it
advisable, in the interests of his mission, to attract his attention.
So he gave a politic cough and followed it with a "Give you
good-morrow" of such sufficient loudness that Halfman could not
choose but hear it. He did not change his attitude, however, or turn
his face from the window, as he answered, in a sullen voice,
"I should need a good-morrow to mend a bad day."
Sir Blaise had not the wit to let a sleeping dog lie, but must needs
prod it to see if it could bark. So he very foolishly said what were
indeed obvious even to a greater fool than he.
"You seem in the sullens."
The sleeping dog could bark. Halfman turned a scowling face upon the
knight as he answered, malevolently:
"Swamped, water-logged, foundering. You are a pretty parrakeet to
come between me and my musings."
The tone of Halfman's speech, the way of Halfman's demeanor were so
offensive that the knight's cheap dignity took fire. He swelled with
displeasure, flushed very red in the gills, and cleared his throat
for reproof.
"Master Majordomo, you forget yourself."
Halfman proved too indifferent or too self-absorbed to take umbrage.
He stared into the garden again with a sigh.
"No, I remember myself, and the memory vexes me. I dreamed I was a
king, a kaiser, a demigod. I wake, rub my eyes, and am no more than a
fool."
Sir Blaise was patronizingly forgiving. He was thirsty, also the
morning was chilly.
"Let us exorcise your devil with a pottle of hot ale," he suggested.
Halfman shook his head wistfully.
"I should be happier in a sable habit, with a steeple hat, and a rank
in the Parliament army."
It was plain to Sir Blaise that a man must be very deep in the dumps
who was not to be tempted by hot ale.
"Lordamercy, are you for changing sides now?" he asked.
As Halfman made him no answer but continued to stare gloomily into
the garden, Blaise concluded that the interest lay there which made
him thus distracted. So he came down to the table and looked over
Halfman's shoulder. In the distance he saw a man and woman walking
among the trees. The man was patently the Puritan prisoner, the woman
was the chatelaine of Harby. The pair seemed very deep in converse.
As Sir Blaise looked, they were out of sight round a turning. Halfman
gave a heavy groan and spoke, more to himself, as it seemed, than to
his companion.
"Look how they walk in the garden, ever in talk. Time was she would
walk and talk with me, listen to my wars and wanderings, and call me
a gallant captain."
"Are you jealous of the Puritan prisoner?" Blaise asked, astonished.
Halfman answered with an oath.
"Oh, God, that the siege had lasted forever, or that she had kept her
word and blown us sky high."
Blaise began to snigger.
"'Ods-life! do you dare a love for your lady?" he said. He had better
not have said it. Halfman turned on him with a face like a demon's
and the plump knight recoiled.
"Why the red devil should I not," Halfman asked, hoarsely, "if a
bumpkin squire like you may do as much?"
Blaise tried to domineer, but the effort was feeble before the
fierceness in Halfman's glare.
"Are you speaking to me, your superior?" he stammered. Halfman
answered him mockingly, with a voice that swelled in menace as the
taunting speech ran on.
"Will you ride against me, cross swords with me, come to grips with
me any way? You dare not. I am well born, have seen things, done
things 'twould make you shiver to hear of them. Come, I am in a
fiend's humor; come with your sword to the orchard and see which of
us is the better man."
Sir Blaise was in a fair panic at this raging fury he had conjured up
and now was fain to pacify.
"Soft, soft, honest captain; why so choleric? I would not wrong you.
But surely you do not think she favors this Puritan?"
"Oh, he's a proper man, damn him!" Halfman admitted. "He has a right
to a woman's liking. And he must love her, God help him! as every man
does that looks on her."
Blaise looked pathetic.
"What is there to do?" he asked, helplessly. Halfman struck his right
fist into his left palm.
"I would do something, I promise you. He is no immortal. But we shall
be rid of him soon. If Colonel Cromwell do not surrender Cousin
Randolph we are pledged to his killing, and if he do, then our friend
rejoins his army; and I pray the devil my master that I may have the
joy to pistol him on some stricken field."
Sir Blaise thought it was time to change the conversation.
"Let us leave these ravings and vaporings," he entreated, wheedling,
"and return to the business of life. And 'tis a very unpleasant
business I come on."
Halfman drew his hand across his forehead as a man who seeks to
dissipate ill dreams. Then, with a tranquil face, he gave Blaise the
attention he petitioned.
"How so?" he asked. Any business were a pleasing change from his sick
thoughts.
"Why, I am a justice of the peace for these parts," Sir Blaise said,
"and I am importuned by two honest neighbors to process of law
against your lady."
Halfman laughed unpleasantly.
"The Lady Brilliana's wish is the law of this country-side, I promise
you."
He grinned maliciously and fingered at his sword-hilt. Sir Blaise
felt exceedingly uncomfortable. Here was no promising beginning for a
solemn judicial errand. But the knight had a mighty high sense of his
own importance, and he felt himself shielded, as it were, from the
tempers of this fire-eater by the dignity of his office and the
majesty of the law. So he came to his business with a manner as
pompous as he could muster.
"Master Rainham and Master Hungerford are exceedingly angry," he
asserted.
Halfman flouted him and his clients.
"Because she bobbed them so bravely? The knaves came raving to our
gates when they found how they had been tricked into picking each
other's pockets. But I made them take to their heels, I promise you.
You should have seen their fool faces at the sight of a musket's
muzzle."
Sir Blaise looked righteously indignant.
"Sir, sir," he protested, "muskets will not mend matters if these
gentlemen have been wronged. They came hot-foot to me, and in the
interests of peace I have entreated them hither. They wait without in
the care of two of your people to keep them from flying at each
other's throats."
Halfman heard the distressing news with equanimity.
"Why not let them kill each other?" he suggested, blandly. Blaise
lifted his hands in horror.
"Friend," he said, "in this mission I am a man of peace. Will you
acquaint your lady?"
Halfman grunted acquiescence.
"Oh, ay; bring in your boobies."
He turned on his heel and swung out through the doorway into the
garden.
Sir Blaise looked after him for a moment disapprovingly, then he went
to the door by which he had entered, and, opening it, called aloud,
"This way, gentlemen, this way."