Part 18 (1/2)

Of _course_ n.o.body 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 c.o.c.k-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 c.o.c.k-fight.

All these gentlemen, as soon as they heard the great news, started for the Manor with the utmost speed.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 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 G.o.dfrey 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-fas.h.i.+on 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 G.o.dfrey. 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 G.o.dfrey 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 vanis.h.i.+ng 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 n.o.body. How d'ye do, John Stiles? That bull you sold me 's costing thirty s.h.i.+llings 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 G.o.dfrey. ”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 f.a.gots 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.”