The Great White Christmas at Wantley.
[Illustration]
Now are all the people long awake and out of their beds. Wantley Manor
is stirring busily in each quarter of the house and court, and the
whole county likewise is agog. By seven o'clock this morning it was
noised in every thatched cottage and in every gabled hall that the
great Dragon had been captured. Some said by Saint George in person,
who appeared riding upon a miraculous white horse and speaking a
tongue that nobody could understand, wherefore it was held to be the
language common in Paradise. Some declared Saint George had nothing to
do with it, and that this was the pious achievement of Father Anselm.
Others were sure Miss Elaine had fulfilled the legend and conquered
the monster entirely by herself. One or two, hearing the event had
taken place in Sir Godfrey's wine-cellar, said they thought the Baron
had done it,--and were immediately set down as persons of unsound
mind. But nobody mentioned Geoffrey at all, until the Baron's
invitations, requesting the honour of various people's presence at the
marriage of his daughter Elaine to that young man, were received; and
that was about ten o'clock, the ceremony being named for twelve that
day in the family chapel. Sir Godfrey intended the burning of the
Dragon to take place not one minute later than half-past eleven.
Accordingly, besides the invitation to the chapel, all friends and
neighbours whose position in the county or whose intimacy with the
family entitled them to a recognition less formal and more personal,
received a second card which ran as follows: "Sir Godfrey Disseisin at
home Wednesday morning, December the twenty-fifth, from half after
eleven until the following day. Dancing; also a Dragon will be
roasted. R. S. V. P." The Disseisin crest with its spirited motto,
"Saute qui peult," originated by the venerable Primer Disseisin,
followed by his son Tortious Disseisin, and borne with so much renown
in and out of a hundred battles by a thousand subsequent Disseisins,
ornamented the top left-hand corner.
"I think we shall have but few refusals," said the Rev. Hucbald to Sir
Godfrey. "Not many will be prevented by previous engagements, I
opine." And the Chaplain smiled benignly, rubbing his hands. He had
published the banns of matrimony three times in a lump before
breakfast. "Which is rather unusual," he said; "but under the
circumstances we shall easily obtain a dispensation."
"In providing such an entertainment for the county as this will be,"
remarked the Baron, "I feel I have performed my duty towards society
for some time to come. No one has had a dragon at a private house
before me, I believe."
"Oh, surely not," simpered the sleek Hucbald. "Not even Lady Jumping
Jack."
"Fiddle!" grunted the Baron. "She indeed! Fandangoes!"
"She's very pious," protested the Rev. Hucbald, whom the lady
sometimes asked to fish lunches in Lent.
"Fandangoes!" repeated the Baron. He had once known her exceedingly
well, but she pursued variety at all expense, even his. As for
refusals, the Chaplain was quite right. There were none. Nobody had a
previous engagement--or kept it, if they had.
"Good gracious, Rupert!" (or Cecil, or Chandos, as it might be,) each
dame in the county had exclaimed to her lord on opening the envelope
brought by private hand from Wantley, "we're asked to the Disseisins
to see a dragon,--and his daughter married."
"By heaven, Muriel, we'll go!" the gentleman invariably replied, under
the impression that Elaine was to marry the Dragon, which would be a
show worth seeing. The answers came flying back to Wantley every
minute or two, most of them written in such haste that you could only
guess they were acceptances. And those individuals who lived so far
away across the county that the invitations reached them too late to
be answered, immediately rang every bell in the house and ordered the
carriage in frantic tones.
Of _course_ nobody kept any engagement. Sir Guy Vol-au-Vent (and none
but a most abandoned desperado or advanced thinker would be willing to
do such a thing on Christmas) had accepted an invitation to an ambush
at three for the slaying of Sir Percy de Resistance. But the ambush
was put off till a more convenient day. Sir Thomas de Brie had been
going to spend his Christmas at a cock-fight in the Count de
Gorgonzola's barn. But he remarked to his man Edward, who brought the
trap to the door, that the Count de Gorgonzola might go ---- Never
mind what he remarked. It was not nice; though oddly enough it was
exactly the same remark that the Count had made about Sir Thomas on
telling his own man James to drive to Wantley and drop the cock-fight.
All these gentlemen, as soon as they heard the great news, started for
the Manor with the utmost speed.
[Illustration: Sir Thomas de Brie hastens to accept the Baron's polite
Inuitation]
Nor was it the quality alone who were so unanimous in their feelings.
The Tenantry (to whom Sir Godfrey had extended a very hospitable
bidding to come and they should find standing-room and good meat and
beer in the court-yard) went nearly mad. From every quarter of the
horizon they came plunging and ploughing along. The sun blazed down
out of a sky whence a universal radiance seemed to beat upon the
blinding white. Could you have mounted up bird-fashion over the
country, you would have seen the Manor like the centre of some great
wheel, with narrow tracks pointing in to it from the invisible rim of
a circle, paths wide and narrow, converging at the gate, trodden
across the new snow from anywhere and everywhere; and moving along
these like ants, all the inhabitants for miles around. And through
the wide splendour of winter no wind blowing, but the sound of chiming
bells far and near, clear frozen drops of music in the brittle air.
Old Gaffer Piers, the ploughman, stumped along, "pretty well for
eighty, thanky," as he somewhat snappishly answered to the neighbours
who out-walked him on the road. They would get there first.
"Wonderful old man," they said as they went on their way, and quickly
resumed their speculations upon the Dragon's capture. Farmer John
Stiles came driving his ox-team and snuffling, for it was pretty cold,
and his handkerchief at home. Upon his wagon on every part, like
swallows, hung as many of his relations as could get on. His mother,
who had been Lucy Baker, and grandmother Cecilia Kempe, and a litter
of cousin Thorpes. But his step-father Lewis Gay and the children of
the half-blood were not asked to ride; farmer Stiles had bitterly
resented the second marriage. This family knew all the particulars
concerning the Dragon, for they had them from the cook's second cousin
who was courting Bridget Stiles. They knew how Saint George had waked
Father Anselm up and put him on a white horse, and how the Abbot had
thus been able to catch the Dragon by his tail in the air just as he
was flying away with Miss Elaine, and how at that the white horse had
turned into a young man who had been bewitched by the Dragon, and was
going to marry Miss Elaine immediately.
On the front steps, shaking hands with each person who came, was Sir
Godfrey. He had dressed himself excellently for the occasion;
something between a heavy father and an old beau, with a beautiful
part down the back of his head where the hair was. Geoffrey stood
beside him.
"My son-in-law that's to be," Sir Godfrey would say. And the gentry
welcomed the young man, while the tenants bobbed him respectful
salutations.
"You're one of us. Glad to know you," said Sir Thomas de Brie,
surveying the lad with approval.
Lady Jumping Jack held his hand for a vanishing moment you could
hardly make sure of. "I had made up my mind to hate you for robbing me
of my dearest girl," she said, smiling gayly, and fixing him with her
odd-looking eyes. "But I see we're to be friends." Then she murmured a
choice nothing to the Baron, who snarled politely.
"Don't let her play you," said he to Geoffrey when the lady had moved
on. And he tapped the youth's shoulder familiarly.
"Oh, I've been through all that sort of thing over in Poictiers,"
Geoffrey answered with indifference.
"You're a rogue, sir, as I've told you before. Ha! Uncle Mortmain, how
d'ye do? Yes, this is Geoffrey. Where's my boy Roland? Coming, is he?
Well, he had better look sharp. It's after eleven, and I'll wait for
nobody. How d'ye do, John Stiles? That bull you sold me 's costing
thirty shillings a year in fences. You'll find something ready down by
those tables, I think."
Hark to that roar! The crowd jostled together in the court-yard, for
it sounded terribly close.
"The Dragon's quite safe in the pit, good people," shouted Sir
Godfrey. "A few more minutes and you'll all see him."
The old gentleman continued welcoming the new arrivals, chatting
heartily, with a joke for this one and a kind inquiry for the other.
But wretched Geoffrey! So the Dragon was to be seen in a few minutes!
And where were the monks of Oyster-le-Main? Still, a bold face must be
kept. He was thankful that Elaine, after the custom of brides, was
invisible. The youth's left hand rested upon the hilt of his sword; he
was in rich attire, and the curly hair that surrounded his forehead
had been carefully groomed. Half-way up the stone steps as he stood,
his blue eyes watching keenly for the monks, he was a figure that made
many a humble nymph turn tender glances upon him. Old Piers, the
ploughman, remained beside a barrel of running ale and drank his
health all day. For he was a wonderful old man.
Hither and thither the domestics scurried swiftly, making
preparations. Some were cooking rare pasties of grouse and ptarmigan,
goslings and dough-birds; some were setting great tables in-doors and
out; and some were piling fagots for the Dragon's funeral pyre.
Popham, with magnificent solemnity and a pair of new calves, gave
orders to Meeson and Welsby, and kept little Whelpdale panting for
breath with errands; while in and out, between everybody's legs, and
over or under all obstacles, stalked the two ravens Croak James and
Croak Elizabeth, a big white wedding-favour tied round the neck of
each. To see these grave birds, none would have suspected how
frequently they had been in the mince-pies that morning, though Popham
had expressly ruled (in somewhat stilted language) that they should
"take nothink by their bills."
"Geoffrey," said the Baron, "I think we'll begin. Popham, tell them to
light that fire there."
"The guests are still coming, sir," said Geoffrey.
"No matter. It is half after eleven." The Baron showed his sun-dial,
and there was no doubt of it. "Here, take the keys," he said, "and
bring the monster out for us."
"I'll go and put on my armour," suggested the young man. That would
take time; perhaps the monks might arrive.
"Why, the brute's chained. You need no armour. Nonsense!"
"But think of my clothes in that pit, sir,--on my wedding-day."
"Pooh! That's the first sign of a Frenchman I've seen in you. Take the
keys, sir."
The crackle of the kindling fagots came to Geoffrey's ears. He saw the
forty men with chains that were to haul the Dragon into the fire.
"But there's Father Anselm yet to come," he protested. "Surely we wait
for him."
[Illustration]
"I'll wait for nobody. He with his Crusades and rubbish! Haven't I got
this Dragon, and there's no Crusade?--Ah, Cousin Modus, glad you
could come over. Just in time. The sherry's to your left. Yes, it's a
very fine day. Yes, yes, this is Geoffrey my girl's to marry and all
that.--What do I care about Father Anselm?" the old gentleman resumed
testily, when his cousin Modus had shuffled off. "Come, sir."
He gave the keys into Geoffrey's unwilling hand, and ordered silence
proclaimed.
"Hearken, good friends!" said he, and all talk and going to and fro
ceased. The tenantry stood down in the court-yard, a mass of
motionless russet and yellow, every face watching the Baron. The
gentry swarmed noiselessly out upon the steps behind him, their
handsome dresses bright against the Manor walls. There was a short
pause. Old Gaffer Piers made a slight disturbance falling over with
his cup of ale, but was quickly set on his feet by his neighbours. The
sun blazed down, and the growling of the Dragon came from the pit.
"Yonder noise," pursued Sir Godfrey, "speaks more to the point than I
could. I'll give you no speech." All loudly cheered at this.
"Don't you think," whispered the Rev. Hucbald in the Baron's ear,
"that a little something serious should be said on such an occasion? I
should like our brethren to be reminded----"
"Fudge!" said the Baron. "For thirteen years," he continued, raising
his voice again, "this Dragon has been speaking for himself. You all
know and I know how that has been. And now we are going to speak for
ourselves. And when he is on top of that fire he'll know how that is.
Geoffrey, open the pit and get him out."
Again there was a cheer, but a short one, for the spell of expectancy
was on all. The young man descended into the court, and the air seemed
to turn to a wavering mist as he looked up at the Manor windows
seeking to spy Elaine's face at one of them. Was this to be the end?
Could he kiss her one last good-by if disaster was in store for them
after all? Alas! no glimpse of her was to be seen as he moved along,
hardly aware of his own steps, and the keys jingling lightly as he
moved. Through the crowd he passed, and a whispering ran in his wake
followed by deeper silence than before. He reached the edge of the
people and crossed the open space beyond, passing the leaping blaze of
the fagots, and so drew near the iron door of the pit. The key went
slowly into the lock. All shrank with dismay at the roar which rent
the air. Geoffrey paused with his hand gripping the key, and there
came a sound of solemn singing over the fields.
"The monks!" murmured a few under their breath; and silence fell
again, each listening.
Men's voices it was, and their chanting rose by one sudden step to a
high note that was held for a moment, and then sank again, mellow like
the harmony of horns in a wood. Then over the ridge from
Oyster-le-Main the length of a slow procession began to grow. The gray
gowns hung to the earth straight with scarce any waving as the men
walked. The heavy hoods reached over each face so there was no telling
its features. None in the court-yard spoke at all, as the brooding
figures passed in under the gateway and proceeded to the door of the
bear-pit, singing always. Howlings that seemed born of terror now rose
from the imprisoned monster; and many thought, "evidently the evil
beast cannot endure the sound of holy words."
Elaine in her white dress now gazed from an upper window, seeing her
lover with his enemies drawing continually closer around him.
Perhaps it was well for him that his death alone would not have served
to lock their secret up again; that the white maiden in the window is
ready to speak the word and direct instant vengeance on them and their
dragon if any ill befall that young man who stands by the iron door.
The song of the monks ended. Sir Godfrey on the steps was wondering
why Father Anselm did not stand out from the rest of the gray people
and explain his wishes. "Though he shall not interrupt the sport,
whatever he says," thought the Baron, and cast on the group of holy
men a less hospitable eye than had beamed on his other guests.
Geoffrey over at the iron door, surrounded by the motionless figures,
scanned each hood narrowly and soon met the familiar eyes of Hubert.
Hubert's gown, he noticed, bulged out in a manner ungainly and
mysterious. "Open the door," whispered that youth. At once Geoffrey
began to turn the key. And at its grinding all held their breath, and
a quivering silence hung over the court. The hasty drops pattered down
from the eaves from the snow that was melting on the roof. Then some
strip of metal inside the lock sprung suddenly, making a sharp song,
and ceased. The crowd of monks pressed closer together as the iron
door swung open.
[Illustration: THE DRAGON MAKETH HIS LAST APPEARANCE]
What did Geoffrey see? None but the monks could tell. Instantly a
single roar more terrible than any burst out, and the huge horrible
black head and jaws of the monster reared into the view of Sir Godfrey
and his guests. One instant the fearful vision in the door-way swayed
with a stiff strange movement over the knot of monks that surrounded
it, then sank out of sight among them. There was a sound of jerking
and fierce clanking of chains, mingled with loud chanting of pious
sentences. Then a plume of spitting flame flared upward with a mighty
roar, and the gray figures scattered right and left. There along the
ground lay the monster, shrivelled, twisted in dismal coils, and dead.
Close beside his black body towered Father Anselm, smoothing the folds
of his gray gown. Geoffrey was sheathing his sword and looking at
Hubert, whose dress bulged out no longer, but fitted him as usual.
"We have been vouchsafed a miracle," said Father Anselm quietly, to
the gaping spectators.
"There'll be no burning," said Geoffrey, pointing to the shrunken
skin. But though he spoke so coolly, and repelled all besieging
disturbance from the fortress of his calm visage and bearing, as a
bold and haughty youth should do, yet he could scarcely hold his
finger steady as it pointed to the blackened carcase. Then all at once
his eyes met those of Elaine where she watched from her window, and
relief and joy rushed through him. He stretched his arms towards her,
not caring who saw, and the look she sent him with a smile drove all
surrounding things to an immeasurable distance away.
"Here indeed," Father Anselm repeated, "is a miracle. Lo, the empty
shell! The snake hath shed his skin."
"This is very disappointing," said Sir Godfrey, bewildered. "Is there
no dragon to roast?"
"The roasting," replied the Abbot, impressively, "is even now begun
for all eternity." He stretched out an arm and pointed downward
through the earth. "The evil spirit has fled. The Church hath taken
this matter into her own hands, and claims yon barren hide as a
relic."
"Well,--I don't see why the Church can't let good sport alone,"
retorted Sir Godfrey.
"Hope she'll not take to breaking up my cock-fights this way,"
muttered the Count de Gorgonzola, sulkily.
"The Church cares nothing for such profane frivolities," observed
Father Anselm with cold dignity.
"At all events, friends," said Sir Godfrey, cheering up, "the country
is rid of the Dragon of Wantley, and we've got a wedding and a
breakfast left."
Just at this moment a young horseman rode furiously into the
court-yard.
It was Roland, Sir Godfrey's son. "Great news!" he began at once.
"Another Crusade has been declared--and I am going. Merry Christmas!
Where's Elaine? Where's the Dragon?"
Father Anselm's quick brain seized this chance. He and his monks
should make a more stately exit than he had planned.
"See," he said in a clear voice to his monks, "how all is coming true
that was revealed to me this night! My son," he continued, turning to
young Roland, "thy brave resolve reached me ere thou hadst made it.
Know it has been through thee that the Dragon has gone!"
Upon this there was profound silence.
"And now," he added solemnly, "farewell. The monks of Oyster-le-Main
go hence to the Holy Land also, to battle for the true Faith. Behold!
we have made us ready to meet the toil."
His haughty tones ceased, and he made a sign. The gray gowns fell to
the snow, and revealed a stalwart, fierce-looking crew in black
armour. But the Abbot kept his gray gown.
"You'll stay for the wedding?" inquired Sir Godfrey of him.
"Our duty lies to the sea. Farewell, for I shall never see thy face
again."
He turned. Hubert gathered up the hide of the crocodile and threw a
friendly glance back at Geoffrey. Then again raising their song, the
black band slowly marched out under the gate and away over the snow
until the ridge hid them from sight, and only their singing could be
heard in the distant fields.
"Well," exclaimed Sir Godfrey, "it's no use to stand staring. Now for
the wedding! Mistletoe, go up and tell Miss Elaine. Hucbald, tell the
organist to pipe up his music. And as soon as it's over we'll drink
the bride's health and health to the bridegroom. 'Tis a lucky thing
that between us all the Dragon is gone, for there's still enough of my
Burgundy to last us till midnight. Come, friends, come in, for
everything waits your pleasure!"
[Illustration]
L'ENVOI
Reader, if thou hast found thy Way thus far,
Sure then I've writ beneath a lucky Star;
And Nothing so becomes all Journeys' Ends
As that the Travellers should part as Friends.