CHAPTER XII

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.