Colonel Greatheart

by H. C. Bailey

  "Charity," said Matthieu-Marc, "suffereth much. And is blind. I have such good eyes."

  "Believe me," said Alcibiade, "they are nothing to hers."

  "The more I think of it," said Matthieu-Marc with decision, "the less I understand it."

  "'Tis the right mark of a husband," Alcibiade assured him.

  At which point Molly, who had been observing them for some time, arrived. "My dear!" she cried, holding out her arms to Matthieu-Marc.

  "Precisely," said Alcibiade and accepted her.

  Matthieu-Marc swore in joyful French.

  But Molly was trembling and crying a little. "Fie," said Alcibiade. "Remember that you are a bride."

  "'Tis more than you deserve, indeed," said Molly to his shoulder.

  "You may say the same of every man alive. We are all born innocent. Some escape punishment."

  Molly laughed down at Matthieu-Marc. "It is his folly, you know, that makes me feel safe with him."

  Matthieu-Marc began to sing a love song with fervor.

  Thereby attracted, Mr. Stow came across the rickyard and found Alcibiade with Molly in an ambiguous position. "Why, my lass," quoth he with a chuckle, "I thought you had made a mistake."

  "If you please, sir, I never did," said Molly.

  It was a day of harvest. The sky lay cloudless and lucid, but pale and on the near horizon pearly gray. All the air was still and heavy with ripe fragrance and the cornfield laughed through a golden haze. On the orchard bank, in among the marjoram, Colonel Stow lay and contemplated the world. He was little used to the occupation and it irked, but the contemplative life was plainly his portion, and he set himself to it without pity. Truly his lines were fallen in pleasant places. The great homestead, all crimson and orange, the rich lands of the vale, golden brown to harvest, they were good to see and sure warrant of comfortable days. Ease—it was doubtless something to give thanks for, but hardly the best a man could desire. He looked away to the hills. Vast in the haze and far they stood, like power incarnate, towering with bluff shoulders, stern and dark and bare, above the sweets of harvest. Ay, to them his soul was akin. He wanted the hard life of power, to breath the roaring wind of fight and break the crash of the storm. The delight of straining strength was Heaven to him. He was granted the life of the vale.

  Well! One could take it with a smile. One would not employ lamentations, for one was already sufficiently ridiculous. A gentleman who could find nothing to fight for was plainly too good for this world, like the white pigs one killed before they were weaned. But it was curious. He had not been wont to think himself so superfine. He protested to his conscience he was even as other men and wholly a man of his day, yet plainly there was no cause in it to content him. More thought brought no change of purpose. He was ever the more assured he had done well to draw back. Ay, every hour he was less Cavalier and less Puritan. He would whistle King and Bishop down the wind for a free man's right to his own mind, and for that same right laugh at all the savory vessels of Puritan sainthood. He was confirmed in a zeal of moderation. But that was no standard to rally battalions, no cause for his England. Doubtless a day might come when the land might be weary of either faith, but there was no herald of it yet, and the daisies would be a-flower on his grave before it dawned. He who had prided himself that he was not a man of tomorrow! It was certainly painful to be at odds with his own day.

  And still one might take it with a smile. He owed her that. Such as she quelled all the regret of broken hopes and deeds unachieved. Upon her heart he knew the pure gladness of living, the joy of life because it is life, the most wonderful of all a man knows or feels. She with her dower of purity and quick womanhood—what more dare a man ask of God?…

  Ay, truly, in the days of dreams there had been wild hours of throbbing delight. They could not fade. God save her! God who gave her into a troublous world with little help. God forgive a man who failed. Well. It was done.…

  But there was no reckoning between those hours and the new life. Peace had come, not of weariness or sleep, but that perfect peace of the freedom of strength. She needed all and gave all in utter faith, and that became the very life of life. Surely with her there must be joy and the quiet mind to the end. The end? Nay, there could be no end to this. The life he lived with her could not die when their bodies were wearied out. That was the greatest in all her gifts. Of old death had been but death to him; no matter to fear, indeed; rather the bitter herb that gave life keen savor; but still at the last life's poison. Now, it was something kindly and welcome in its hour. When death's task was done, the life she had made must rise at last in the perfect union which the world's way would not suffer.…

  He turned to see Joan standing with the sunlight on her bosom and her face laughing from the shadow. Truly the world's way was good. Colonel Stow resigned the contemplative life.…

  She was in his arms beyond hope, all fragrant, delicately panting, with dark roses in her cheeks, when behold one the noise of whose roaring went before him. It was a small, sturdy child, who cantered upon fat legs, wielding a lance of hollyhock.

  "Sir," said Colonel Stow, "who are you?"

  "I am St. George," said the child, "and you are the dwagon." On which beast he then howled havoc with saintly zeal. Colonel Stow exhibited a decent terror. But in the very moment of tidy slaughter St. George detected an impropriety. "What is that lady?" he said in cold reproof.

  "Sir," said Colonel Stow, "she is the dragon's wife."

  "You did not ought to have one at all," said St. George. "I shall take her wight away."

  At which the dragon wept.

  "That is silly," said St. George. "You ought to woar."

  And straightway the dragon ran at him roaring and St. George fled with joyful screams, but returning smote the dragon a mortal thrust in the region of the lower shin, so that he sat upon the orchard bank and gave up the ghost in very delectable groans. "Antony Jewemiah Higgs," said he, "you have been the death of me. Which I think unkind."

  "But I have bwoke my lance," said Antony Jewemiah Higgs. "Make me anuvver." "Sir, you are unreasonable," said the dead dragon.

  "But I want it," said Antony Jewemiah Higgs, preserving the absolute calm of monarchial minds.

  "That is certainly a reason," said the dead dragon and came to life.

  "I," said Antony Jewemiah Higgs plaintively, "I am not allowed to cut fings out of the hedge," and he looked with intent at Colonel Stow.

  "But I am," said Colonel Stow, "so you see the use of keeping dragons about you."

  "I will not kill you again today," said Antony generously.

  "It is a consideration. Lead on!" said Colonel Stow. And Antony Jewemiah bounded away. But Colonel Stow lingered to draw Joan to his side. Slowly they went, smiling at the child, silent. Joan blushed, and, yielding all herself to Colonel Stow's insistent arm, was held very close. She let her fair head lie upon his breast. She trembled.

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