OWEN WISTER Ultimate Collection: Western Classics, Adventure & Historical Novels (Including Non-Fiction Historical Works). Owen Wister
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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.”
“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