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CHAPTER V
In which the Hero makes his first Appearance & is at Once locked up.
With the respect that was due to holy men, Sir Godfrey removed his
helmet, and stood waiting in a decent attitude of attention to the
hymn, although he did not understand a single word of it. The long
deliberate Latin words rolled out very grand to his ear, and, to tell
you the truth, it is just as well his scholarship was faulty, for this
is the English of those same words:
"It is my intention To die in a tavern,
With wine in the neighbourhood, Close by my thirsty mouth;
That angels in chorus May sing, when they reach me,—
'Let Bacchus be merciful Unto this wine-bibber.'"
But so devoutly did the monks dwell upon the syllables, so earnestly
were the arms of each one folded against his breast, that you would
never have suspected any unclerical sentiments were being expressed.
The proximity of so many petticoats and kirtles caused considerable
restlessness to Hubert; but he felt the burning eye of the Grand
Marshal fixed upon him, and sang away with all his might.
Sir Godfrey began to grow impatient.
"Hem!" he said, moving his foot slightly.
This proceeding, however, was without result. The pious chant
continued to resound, and the monks paid not the least attention to
their visitors, but stood up together in a double line, vociferating
Latin with as much zest as ever.
"Mort d'aieul!" growled Sir Godfrey, shifting his other foot, and not
so gingerly this second time.
By chance the singing stopped upon the same instant, so that the
Baron's remark and the noise his foot had made sounded all over the
room. This disconcerted him; for he felt his standing with the Church
to be weak, and he rolled his eyes from one side to the other,
watching for any effect his disturbance might have made. But, with the
breeding of a true man of the world, the Grand Marshal merely
observed, "Benedicite, my son!"
"Good-morning, Father," returned Sir Godfrey.
"And what would you with me?" pursued the so-called Father Anselm.
"Speak, my son."
"Well, the fact is——" the Baron began, marching forward; but he
encountered the eye of the Abbot, where shone a cold surprise at this
over-familiar fashion of speech; so he checked himself, and, in as
restrained a voice as he could command, told his story. How his
daughter had determined to meet the Dragon, and so save Wantley; how
nothing that a parent could say had influenced her intentions in the
least; and now he placed the entire matter in the hands of the Church.
"Which would have been more becoming if you had done it at the first,"
said Father Anselm, reprovingly. Then he turned to Miss Elaine, who
all this while had been looking out of the window with the utmost
indifference.
"How is this, my daughter?" he said gravely, in his deep voice.
"Oh, the dear blessed man!" whispered Mistletoe, admiringly, to
herself.
"It is as you hear, Father," said Miss Elaine, keeping her eyes away.
"And why do you think that such a peril upon your part would do away
with this Dragon?"
"Says not the legend so?" she replied.
"And what may the legend be, my daughter?"
With some surprise that so well informed a person as Father Anselm
should be ignorant of this prominent topic of the day, Sir Godfrey
here broke in and narrated the legend to him with many vigourous
comments.
"Ah, yes," said the Father, smiling gently when the story was done; "I
do now remember that some such child's tale was in the mouths of the
common folk once; but methought the nonsense was dead long since."
"The nonsense, Father!" exclaimed Elaine.
"Of a surety, my child. Dost suppose that Holy Church were so unjust
as to visit the sins of thy knightly relatives upon the head of any
weak woman, who is not in the order of creation designed for personal
conflict with men, let alone dragons?"
"Bravo, Dragon!" thought Hubert, as he listened to this wily talk of
his chief.
But the words "weak woman" had touched the pride of Miss Elaine. "I
know nothing of weak women," she said, very stately; "but I do know
that I am strong enough to meet this Dragon, and, moreover, firmly
intend to do so this very night."
"Peace, my daughter," said the monk; "and listen to the voice of thy
mother the Church speaking through the humblest of her servants. This
legend of thine holds not a single grain of truth. 'Tis a conceit of
the common herd, set afoot by some ingenious fellow who may have
thought he was doing a great thing in devising such fantastic mixture.
True it is that the Monster is a visitation to punish the impiety of
certain members of thy family. True it is that he will not depart till
a member of that family perform a certain act. But it is to be a male
descendant."
Now Sir Godfrey's boy Roland was being instructed in knightly arts
and conduct away from home.
"Who told you that?" inquired the Baron, as the thought of his
precious wine-cellar came into his head.
"On last Christmas Eve I had a vision," replied Father Anselm. "Thy
grandfather, the brave youth who by journeying to the Holy War averted
this curse until thine own conduct caused it to descend upon us,
appeared to me in shining armour. 'Anselm,' he said, and raised his
right arm, 'the Dragon is a grievous burden on the people. I can see
that from where I am. Now, Anselm, when the fitting hour shall come,
and my great-grandson's years be mature enough to have made a man of
him, let him go to the next Holy War that is proclaimed, and on the
very night of his departure the curse will be removed and our family
forgiven. More than this, Anselm, if any male descendant from me
direct shall at any time attend a Crusade when it is declared, the
country will be free forever.' So saying, he dissolved out of my sight
in a silver gleaming mist." Here Father Anselm paused, and from under
his hood watched with a trifle of anxiety the effect of his speech.
There was a short silence, and then Sir Godfrey said, "Am I to
understand this thing hangs on the event of another Crusade?"
The Abbot bowed.
"Meanwhile, till that event happen, the Dragon can rage unchecked?"
The Abbot bowed again.
"Will there be another Crusade along pretty soon?" Sir Godfrey
pursued.
"These things lie not in human knowledge," replied Father Anselm. He
little dreamed what news the morrow's sun would see.
"Oh, my sheep!" groaned many a poor farmer.
"Oh, my Burgundy!" groaned Sir Godfrey.
"In that case," exclaimed Elaine, her cheeks pink with excitement, "I
shall try the virtue of the legend, at any rate."
"Most impious, my daughter, most impious will such conduct be in the
sight of Mother Church," said Father Anselm.
"Hear me, all people!" shouted Sir Godfrey, foreseeing that before
the next Crusade came every drop of wine in his cellar would be
swallowed by the Dragon; "hear me proclaim and solemnly promise:
legend true or legend false, my daughter shall not face this risk. But
if her heart go with it, her hand shall be given to that man who by
night or light brings me this Dragon, alive or dead!"
"A useless promise, Sir Godfrey!" said Father Anselm, shrugging his
shoulders. "We dare not discredit the word of thy respected
grandsire."
"My respected grandsire be——"
"What?" said the Abbot.
"Became a credit to his family," said the Baron, quite mildly; "and I
slight no word of his. But he did not contradict this legend in the
vision, I think."
"No, he did not, papa," Miss Elaine put in. "He only mentioned
another way of getting rid of this horrible Dragon. Now, papa,
whatever you may say about—about my heart and hand," she continued
firmly, "I am going to meet the Monster alone myself, to-night."
"That you shall not," said Sir Godfrey.
"A hundred times no!" said a new voice from the crowd. "I will meet
him myself!"
All turned and saw a knight pushing his way through the people.
"Who are you?" inquired the Baron.
The stranger bowed haughtily; and Elaine watched him remove his
helmet, and reveal underneath it the countenance of a young man who
turned to her, and——
Why, what's this, Elaine? Why does everything seem to swim and grow
misty as his eye meets yours? And why does he look at you so, and
deeply flush to the very rim of his curly hair? And as his glance
grows steadier and more intent upon your eyes that keep stealing over
at him, can you imagine why his hand trembles on the hilt of his
sword? Don't you remember what the legend said?
"Who are you?" the Baron repeated, impatiently.
"I am Geoffrey, son of Bertram of Poictiers," answered the young man.
"And what," asked Father Anselm, with a certain irony in his voice,
"does Geoffrey, son of Bertram of Poictiers, so far away from his papa
in this inclement weather?"
The knight surveyed the monk for a moment, and then said, "As thou art
not my particular Father Confessor, stick to those matters which
concern thee."
This reply did not please any man present, for it seemed to savour of
disrespect. But Elaine lost no chance of watching the youth, who now
stood alone in the middle of the hall. Sir Francis detected this, and
smiled with a sly smile.
"Will some person inquire of this polite young man," he said, "what he
wishes with us?"
"Show me where this Dragon of Wantley comes," said Geoffrey, "for I
intend to slay him to-night."
"Indeed, sir," fluttered Elaine, stepping towards him a little, "I
hope—that is, I beg you'll do no such dangerous thing as that for my
sake."
"For your sake?" Father Anselm broke in. "For your sake? And why so?
What should Elaine, daughter of Sir Godfrey Disseisin, care for the
carcase of Geoffrey, son of Bertram of Poictiers?"
But Elaine, finding nothing to answer, turned rosy pink instead.
"That rules you out!" exclaimed the Father, in triumph. "Your legend
demands a maid who never has cared for any man."
"Pooh!" said Geoffrey, "leave it to me."
"Seize him!" shouted Sir Godfrey in a rage. "He had ruled out my
daughter." Consistency had never been one of the Baron's strong
points.
"Seize him!" said Father Anselm. "He outrages Mother Church."
The vassals closed up behind young Geoffrey, who was pinioned in a
second. He struggled with them till the veins stood out in his
forehead in blue knots; but, after all, one young man of twenty is not
much among a band of stout yeomen; and they all fell in a heap on the
floor, pulling and tugging at Geoffrey, who had blacked several eyes,
and done in a general way as much damage as he possibly could under
the circumstances.
But Elaine noticed one singular occurrence. Not a monk had moved to
seize the young man, except one, who rushed forward, and was stopped,
as though struck to stone, by Father Anselm's saying to him in a
terrible undertone, "Hubert!"
Simply that word, spoken quickly; but not before this Hubert had
brushed against her so that she was aware that there was something
very hard and metallic underneath his gray gown. She betrayed no sign
of knowledge or surprise on her face, however, but affected to be
absorbed wholly in the fortunes of young Geoffrey, whom she saw
collared and summarily put into a cage-like prison whose front was
thick iron bars, and whose depth was in the vast outer wall of the
Monastery, with a little window at the rear, covered with snow. The
spring-lock of the gate shut upon him.
"And now," said Father Anselm, as the Monastery bell sounded once
more, "if our guests will follow us, the mid-day meal awaits us below.
We will deal with this hot-head later," he added, pointing to the
prisoner.
So they slowly went out, leaving Geoffrey alone with his thoughts.
Thus ends Chapter V
CHAPTER VI
Miss Elaine loses her Heart & finds Something of the greatest
Importance.
Down stairs the Grace was said, and the company was soon seated and
ready for their mid-day meal.
"Our fare," said Father Anselm pleasantly to Sir Godfrey, who sat on
his right, "is plain, but substantial."
"Oh—ah, very likely," replied the Baron, as he received a wooden
basin of black-bean broth.
"Our drink is——"
The Baron lifted his eye hopefully.
"——remarkably pure water," Father Anselm continued. "Clement!" he
called to the monk whose turn it was that day to hand the dishes,
"Clement, a goblet of our well-water for Sir Godfrey Disseisin. One of
the large goblets, Clement. We are indeed favoured, Baron, in having
such a pure spring in the midst of our home."
"Oh—ah!" observed the Baron again, and politely nerved himself for a
swallow. But his thoughts were far away in his own cellar over at
Wantley, contemplating the casks whose precious gallons the Dragon had
consumed. Could it be the strength of his imagination, or else why was
it that through the chilling, unwelcome liquid he was now drinking he
seemed to detect a lurking flavour of the very wine those casks had
contained, his favourite Malvoisie?
Father Anselm noticed the same taste in his own cup, and did not set
it down to imagination, but afterwards sentenced Brother Clement to
bread and water during three days, for carelessness in not washing the
Monastery table-service more thoroughly.
"This simple food keeps you in beautiful health, Father," said
Mistletoe, ogling the swarthy face of the Abbot with an affection that
he duly noted.
"My daughter," he replied, gravely, "bodily infirmity is the reward of
the glutton. I am well, thank you."
Meanwhile, Elaine did not eat much. Her thoughts were busy, and
hurrying over recent events. Perhaps you think she lost her heart in
the last Chapter, and cannot lose it in this one unless it is given
back to her. But I do not agree with you; and I am certain that, if
you suggested such a notion to her, she would become quite angry, and
tell you not to talk such foolish nonsense. People are so absurd about
hearts, and all that sort of thing! No: I do not really think she has
lost her heart yet; but as she sits at table these are the things she
is feeling:
1. Not at all hungry.
2. Not at all thirsty.
3. What a hateful person that Father Anselm is!
4. Poor, poor young man!
5. Not that she thinks of him in that way, of course. The idea!
Horrid Father Anselm!
6. Any girl at all—no, not girl, anybody at all—who had human
justice would feel exactly as she did about the whole matter.
7. He was very good-looking, too.
8. Did he have—yes, they were blue. Very, very dark blue.
9. And a moustache? Well, yes.
Here she laughed, but no one noticed her idling with her spoon. Then
her eyes filled with tears, and she pretended to be absorbed with the
black-bean broth, though, as a matter of fact, she did not see it in
the least.
10. Why had he come there at all?
11. It was a perfect shame, treating him so.
12. Perhaps they were not blue, after all. But, oh! what a beautiful
sparkle was in them!
After this, she hated Father Anselm worse than ever. And the more she
hated him, the more some very restless delicious something made her
draw long breaths. She positively must go up-stairs and see what He
was doing and what He really looked like. This curiosity seized hold
of her and set her thinking of some way to slip away unseen. The
chance came through all present becoming deeply absorbed in what Sir
Godfrey was saying to Father Anselm.
"Such a low, coarse, untaught brute as a dragon," he explained,
"cannot possibly distinguish good wine from bad."
"Of a surety, no!" responded the monk.
"You agree with me upon that point?" said the Baron.
"Most certainly. Proceed."
"Well, I'm going to see that he gets nothing but the cider and small
beer after this."
"But how will you prevent him, if he visit your cellar again?" Father
Anselm inquired.
"I shall change all the labels, in the first place," the Baron
answered.
"Ha! vastly well conceived," said Father Anselm. "You will label your
Burgundy as if it were beer."
"And next," continued Sir Godfrey, "I shall shift the present
positions of the hogsheads. That I shall do to-day, after relabelling.
In the northern corner of the first wine vault I shall——"
Just as he reached this point, it was quite wonderful how strict an
attention every monk paid to his words. They leaned forward,
forgetting their dinner, and listened with all their might.
One of them, who had evidently received an education, took notes
underneath the table. Thus it was that Elaine escaped observation
when she left the refectory.
As she came up-stairs into the hall where Geoffrey was caged, she
stepped lightly and kept where she could not be seen by him. All was
quiet when she entered; but suddenly she heard the iron bars of the
cage begin to rattle and shake, and at the same time Geoffrey's voice
broke out in rage.
"I'll twist you loose," he said, "you—(rattle, shake)—you—(kick,
***)——" And here the shocking young man used words so violent and
wicked that Elaine put her hands tight over her ears. "Why, he is just
as dreadful as papa, just exactly!" she exclaimed to herself. "Whoever
would have thought that that angelic face—but I suppose they are all
like that sometimes." And she took her hands away again.
"Yes, I will twist you loose," he was growling hoarsely, while the
kicks and wrenches grew fiercer than ever, "or twist myself stark,
staring blind—and——"
"Oh, sir!" she said, running out in front of the cage.
He stopped at once, and stood looking at her. His breast-plate and
gauntlets were down on the floor, so his muscles might have more easy
play in dealing with the bars. Elaine noticed that the youth's shirt
was of very costly Eastern silk.
"I was thinking of getting out," he said at length, still standing and
looking at her.
"I thought I might—that is—you might——" began Miss Elaine, and
stopped. Upon which another silence followed.
"Lady, who sent you here?" he inquired.
"Oh, they don't know!" she replied, hastily; and then, seeing how
bright his face became, and hearing her own words, she looked down,
and the crimson went over her cheeks as he watched her.
"Oh, if I could get out!" he said, desperately. "Lady, what is your
name, if I might be so bold."
"My name, sir, is Elaine. Perhaps there is a key somewhere," she said.
"And I am called Geoffrey," he said, in reply.
"I think we might find a key," Elaine repeated.
She turned towards the other side of the room, and there hung a great
bunch of brass keys dangling from the lock of a heavy door.
Ah, Hubert! thou art more careless than Brother Clement, I think, to
have left those keys in such a place!
Quickly did Elaine cross to that closed door, and laid her hand upon
the bunch. The door came open the next moment, and she gave a shriek
to see the skin of a huge lizard-beast fall forward at her feet, and
also many cups and flagons, that rolled over the floor, dotting it
with little drops of wine.
Hearing Elaine shriek, and not able to see from his prison what had
befallen her, Geoffrey shouted out in terror to know if she had come
to any hurt.
"No," she told him; and stood eyeing first the crocodile's hide and
then the cups, setting her lips together very firmly. "And they were
not even dry," she said after a while. For she began to guess a little
of the truth.
"Not dry? Who?" inquired Geoffrey.
"Oh, Geoffrey!" she burst out in deep anger, and then stopped,
bewildered. But his heart leaped to hear her call his name.
"Are there no keys?" he asked.
"Keys? Yes!" she cried, and, running with them back to the bars, began
trying one after another in trembling haste till the lock clicked
pleasantly, and out marched young Geoffrey.
Now what do you suppose this young man did when he found himself free
once more, and standing close by the lovely young person to whom he
owed his liberty? Did he place his heels together, and let his arms
hang gracefully, and so bow with respect and a manner at once
dignified and urbane, and say, "Miss Elaine, permit me to thank you
for being so kind as to let me out of prison?" That is what he ought
to have done, of course, if he had known how to conduct himself like a
well-brought-up young man. But I am sorry to have to tell you that
Geoffrey did nothing of the sort, but, instead of that, behaved in a
most outrageous manner. He did not thank her at all. He did not say
one single word to her. He simply put one arm round her waist and gave
her a kiss!
"Geoffrey!" she murmured, "don't!"
But Geoffrey did, with the most astonishing and complacent
disobedience.
"Oh, Geoffrey!" she whispered, looking the other way, "how wrong of
you! And of me!" she added a little more softly still, escaping from
him suddenly, and facing about.
"I don't see that," said Geoffrey. "I love you, Elaine. Elaine,
darling, I——"
"Oh, but you mustn't!" answered she, stepping back as he came nearer.
This was simply frightful! And so sudden. To think of
her—Elaine!—but she couldn't think at all. Happy? Why, how wicked!
How had she ever——
"No, you must not," she repeated, and backed away still farther.
"But I will!" said this lover, quite loudly, and sprang so quickly to
where she stood that she was in his arms again, and this time without
the faintest chance of getting out of them until he should choose to
free her.
It was no use to struggle now, and she was still, like some wild bird.
But she knew that she was really his, and was glad of it. And she
looked up at him and said, very softly, "Geoffrey, we are wasting
time."
"Oh, no, not at all," said Geoffrey.
"But we are."
"Say that you love me."
"But haven't I—ah, Geoffrey, please don't begin again."
"Say that you love me."
She did.
Then, taking his hand, she led him to the door she had opened. He
stared at the crocodile, at the wine-cups, and then he picked up a
sheet of iron and a metal torch.
"I suppose it is their museum," he said; "don't you?"
"Their museum! Geoffrey, think a little."
"They seem to keep very good wine," he remarked, after smelling at the
demijohn.
"Don't you see? Can't you understand?" she said.
"No, not a bit. What's that thing, do you suppose?" he added, giving
the crocodile a kick.
"Oh, me, but men are simple, men are simple!" said Elaine, in despair.
"Geoffrey, listen! That wine is my father's wine, from his own cellar.
There is none like it in all England."
"Then I don't see why he gave it to a parcel of monks," replied the
young man.
Elaine clasped her hands in hopelessness, gave him a kiss, and became
mistress of the situation.
"Now, Geoffrey," she said, "I will tell you what you and I have really
found out." Then she quickly recalled all the recent events. How her
father's cellar had been broken into; how Mistletoe had been chained
to a rock for a week and no dragon had come near her. She bade him
remember how just now Father Anselm had opposed every plan for meeting
the Dragon, and at last she pointed to the crocodile.
"Ha!" said Geoffrey, after thinking for a space. "Then you mean——"
"Of course I do," she interrupted. "The Dragon of Wantley is now
down-stairs with papa eating dinner, and pretending he never drinks
anything stronger than water. What do you say to that, sir?"
"This is a foul thing!" cried the knight. "Here have I been damnably
duped. Here——" but speech deserted him. He glared at the crocodile
with a bursting countenance, then drove his toe against it with such
vigour that it sailed like a foot-ball to the farther end of the hall.
"Papa has been duped, and everybody," said Elaine. "Papa's French
wine——"
"They swore to me in Flanders I should find a real dragon here," he
continued, raging up and down, and giving to the young lady no part of
his attention. She began to fear he was not thinking of her.
"Geoffrey——" she ventured.
"They swore it. They had invited me to hunt a dragon with them in
Flanders,—Count Faux Pas and his Walloons. We hunted day and night,
and the quest was barren. They then directed me to this island of
Britain, in which they declared a dragon might be found by any man who
so desired. They lied in their throats. I have come leagues for
nothing." Here he looked viciously at the distant hide of the
crocodile. "But I shall slay the monk," he added. "A masquerading
caitiff! Lying varlets! And all for nothing! The monk shall die,
however."
"Have you come for nothing, Geoffrey?" murmured Elaine.
"Three years have I been seeking dragons in all countries, chasing
deceit over land and sea. And now once more my dearest hope falls
empty and stale. Why, what's this?" A choking sound beside him stopped
the flow of his complaints.
"Oh, Geoffrey,—oh, miserable me!" The young lady was dissolved in
tears.
"Elaine—dearest—don't."
"You said you had come for n—nothing, and it was all st—stale."
"Ha, I am a fool, indeed! But it was the Dragon, dearest. I had made
so sure of an honest one in this adventure."
"Oh, oh!" went Miss Elaine, with her head against his shoulder.
"There, there! You're sweeter than all the dragons in the world, my
little girl," said he. And although this does not appear to be a great
compliment, it comforted her wonderfully in the end; for he said it in
her ear several times without taking his lips away. "Yes," he
continued, "I was a fool. By your father's own word you're mine. I
have caught the Dragon. Come, my girl! We'll down to the refectory
forthwith and denounce him."
With this, he seized Elaine's hand and hastily made for the stairs.
"But hold, Geoffrey, hold! Oh—I am driven to act not as maidens
should," sighed Elaine. "He it is who ought to do the thinking. But,
dear me! he does not know how. Do you not see we should both be lost,
were you to try any such wild plan?"
"Not at all. Your father would give you to me."
"Oh, no, no, Geoffrey; indeed, papa would not. His promise was about a
dragon. A live or a dead dragon must be brought to him. Even if he
believed you now, even if that dreadful Father Anselm could not invent
some lie to put us in the wrong, you and I could never—that is—papa
would not feel bound by his promise simply because you did that. There
must be a dragon somehow."
"How can there be a dragon if there is not a dragon?" asked Geoffrey.
"Wait, wait, Geoffrey! Oh, how can I think of everything all at
once?" and Elaine pressed her hands to her temples.
"Darling," said the knight, with his arms once more around her, "let
us fly now."
"Now? They would catch us at once."
"Catch us! not they! with my sword——"
"Now, Geoffrey, of course you are brave. But do be sensible. You are
only one. No! I won't even argue such nonsense. They must never know
about what we have been doing up here; and you must go back into that
cage at once."
"What, and be locked up, and perhaps murdered to-night, and never see
your face again?"
"But you shall see me again, and soon. That is what I am thinking
about."
"How can you come in here, Elaine?"
"You must come to me. I have it! To-night, at half-past eleven, come
to the cellar-door at the Manor, and I will be there to let you in.
Then we can talk over everything quietly. I have no time to think
now."
"The cellar! at the Manor! And how, pray, shall I get out of that
cage?"
"Cannot you jump from the little window at the back?"
Geoffrey ran in to see. "No," he said, returning; "it is many spans
from the earth."
Elaine had hurried into the closet, whence she returned with a dusty
coil of rope. "Here, Geoffrey; quickly! put it about your waist. Wind
it so. But how clumsy you are!"
He stood smiling down at her, and she very deftly wound the cord up
and down, over and over his body, until its whole length lay
comfortably upon him.
"Now, your breast-plate, quick!"
She helped him put his armour on again; and, as they were engaged at
that, singing voices came up the stairs from the distant dining-hall.
"The Grace," she exclaimed; "they will be here in a moment."
Geoffrey took a last kiss, and bolted into his cage. She, with the
keys, made great haste to push the crocodile and other objects once
more into their hiding-place. Cups and flagons and all rattled back
without regard to order, as they had already been flung not two hours
before. The closet-door shut, and Elaine hung the keys from the lock
as she had found them.
"Half-past eleven," she said to Geoffrey, as she ran by his cage
towards the stairs.
"One more, darling,—please, one! through the bars!" he besought her,
in a voice so tender, that for my part I do not see how she had the
heart to refuse him. But she continued her way, and swiftly descending
the stairs was found by the company, as they came from the hall,
busily engaged in making passes with Sir Godfrey's sword, which he had
left leaning near the door.
"A warlike daughter, Sir Godfrey!" said Father Anselm.
"Ah, if I were a man to go on a Crusade!" sighed Miss Elaine.
"Hast thou, my daughter," said Father Anselm, "thought better of thy
rash intentions concerning this Dragon?"
"I am travelling towards better thoughts, Father," she answered.
But Sir Francis did not wholly believe the young lady; and was not at
rest until Sir Godfrey assured him her good conduct should be no
matter of her own choosing.
"You see," insinuated the Abbot, "so sweet a maid as yours would be a
treat for the unholy beast. A meal like that would incline him to
remain in a neighbourhood where such dainties were to be found."
"I'll have no legends and fool's tricks," exclaimed the Baron. "She
shall be locked in her room to-night."
"Not if she can help it," thought Miss Elaine. Her father had
imprudently spoken too loud.
"'Twere a wise precaution," murmured Father Anselm. "What are all the
vintages of this earth by the side of a loving daughter?"
"Quite so, quite so!" Sir Godfrey assented. "Don't you think," he
added, wistfully, "that another Crusade may come along soon?"
"Ah, my son, who can say? Tribulation is our meted heritage. Were thy
thoughts more high, the going of thy liquors would not cause thee such
sorrow. Learn to enjoy the pure cold water."
"Good-afternoon," said the Baron.
When all the guests had departed and the door was shut safe behind
them, the Father and his holy companions broke into loud mirth. "The
Malvoisie is drunk up," said they; "to-night we'll pay his lordship's
cellars another visit."
Thus ends Chapter VI
CHAPTER VII
Shows what curious Things you may see, if you don't go to Bed when you are sent
To have steered a sudden course among dangerous rocks and rapids and
come safe through, puts in the breast of the helmsman a calm content
with himself, for which no man will blame him. What in this world is
there so lifts one into complacency as the doing of a bold and
cool-headed thing? Let the helmsman sleep sound when he has got to
land! But if his content overtake him still on the water, so that he
grows blind to the treacherous currents that eddy where all looks
placid to the careless eye, let him beware!
Sir Francis came in front of the cage where sat young Geoffrey inside,
on the floor. The knight had put his head down between his knees, and
seemed doleful enough.
"Aha!" thought Sir Francis, giving the motionless figure a dark look,
"my hawk is moulting. We need scarcely put a hood on such a tersel."
Next he looked at the shut door of the closet, and a shaft of alarm
shot through him to see the keys hanging for anybody to make use of
them that pleased. He thought of Elaine, and her leaving the table
without his seeing her go. What if she had paid this room a visit?
"Perhaps that bird with head under wing in there," he mused, looking
once more at Geoffrey, "is not the simple-witted nestling he looks. My
son!" he called.
But the youth did not care to talk, and so showed no sign.
"My son, peace be with you!" repeated Father Anselm, coming to the
bars and wearing a benevolent mien.
Geoffrey remained quite still.
"If repentance for thy presumption hath visited thee——" went on the
Father.
"Hypocrite!" was the word that jumped to the youth's lips; but
fortunately he stopped in time, and only moved his legs with some
impatience.
"I perceive with pain, my son," said Father Anselm, "that repentance
hath not yet visited thee. Well, 'twill come. And that's a blessing
too," he added, sighing very piously.
"He plays a part pretty well," thought Geoffrey as he listened. "So
will I." Then he raised his head.
"How long am I to stay in this place?" he inquired, taking a tone of
sullen humour, such as he thought would fit a prisoner.
"Certainly until thy present unbridled state of sin is purged out of
thee," replied the Father.
"Under such a dose as thou art," Geoffrey remarked, "that will be
soon."
"This is vain talk, my son," said the Abbot. "Were I of the children
of this world, my righteous indignation——"
"Pooh!" said Geoffrey.
"——would light on thee heavily. But we who have renounced the world
and its rottenness" (here his voice fell into a manner of chanting)
"make a holiday of forgiving injuries, and find a pleasure even in
pain."
"Open this door then," Geoffrey answered, "and I'll provide thee with
a whole week of joy."
"Nay," said Father Anselm, "I had never gathered from thy face that
thou wert such a knave."
"At least in the matter of countenances I have the advantage of thee,"
the youth observed.
"I perceive," continued the Father, "that I must instruct thy spirit
in many things,—submission, among others. Therefore thou shalt bide
with us for a month or two."
"That I'll not!" shouted Geoffrey, forgetting his rôle of prisoner.
"She cannot unlock thee," Father Anselm said, with much art slipping
Elaine into the discourse.
Geoffrey glared at the Abbot, who now hoped to lay a trap for him by
means of his temper. So he went further in the same direction. "Her
words are vainer than most women's," he said; "though a lover would
trust in them, of course."
The knight swelled in his rage, and might have made I know not what
unsafe rejoinder; but the cords that Elaine had wound about him
naturally tightened as he puffed out, and seemed by their pressure to
check his speech and bid him be wary. So he changed his note, and said
haughtily, "Because thy cowl and thy gown shield thee, presume not to
speak of one whose cause I took up in thy presence, and who is as high
above thee in truth as she is in every other quality and virtue."
"This callow talk, my son," said the Abbot quietly, "wearies me much.
Lay thee down and sleep thy sulks off, if thou art able." Upon this,
he turned away to the closet where hung the brass keys, and opened the
door a-crack. He saw the hide of the crocodile leaning against it, and
the overturned cups. "Just as that boy Hubert packed them," he thought
to himself in satisfaction; "no one has been prying here. I flatter
myself upon a skilful morning's work. I have knocked the legend out of
the Baron's head. He'll see to it the girl keeps away. And as for yon
impudent witling in the cage, we shall transport him beyond the seas,
if convenient; if not, a knife in his gullet will make him forget the
Dragon of Wantley. Truly, I am master of the situation!" And as his
self-esteem grew, the Grand Marshal rubbed his hands, and went out of
the hall, too much pleased with himself to notice certain little drops
of wine dotted here and there close by the closet, and not yet quite
dry, which, had his eye fallen upon them, might have set him
a-thinking.
So Geoffrey was left in his prison to whatever comfort meditation
might bring him; and the monks of Oyster-le-Main took off their gowns,
and made themselves ready for another visit to the wine-cellars of
Wantley Manor.
The day before Christmas came bleakly to its end over *** and fen,
and the last gray light died away. Yet still you could hear the
hissing snow beat down through the bramble-thorn and the dry leaves.
After evening was altogether set in, Hubert brought the knight a
supper that was not a meal a hungry man might be over joyful at
seeing; yet had Hubert (in a sort of fellowship towards one who seemed
scarcely longer seasoned in manhood than himself, and whom he had seen
blacken eyes in a very valiant manner) secretly prepared much better
food than had been directed by his worship the Abbot.
The prisoner feigned sleep, and started up at the rattle which the
plate made as it was set down under his bars.
"Is it morning?" he asked.
"Morning, forsooth!" Hubert answered. "Three more hours, and we reach
only midnight." And both young men (for different reasons) wished in
their hearts it were later.
"Thou speakest somewhat curtly for a friar," said Geoffrey.
"Alas, I am but a novice, brother," whined the minstrel, "and fall
easily back into my ancient and godless syntax. There is food. Pax
vobiscum, son of the flesh." Then Hubert went over to the closet, and
very quietly unlocking the door removed the crocodile and the various
other implements that were necessary in bringing into being the dread
Dragon of Wantley. He carried them away to a remote quarter of the
Monastery, where the Guild began preparations that should terrify any
superstitious witness of their journey to get the Baron's wine.
Geoffrey, solitary and watchful in his chilly cage, knew what work
must be going on, and waited his time in patience.
At supper over at Wantley there was but slight inclination to polite
banter. Only the family Chaplain, mindful that this was Christmas Eve,
attempted to make a little small talk with Sir Godfrey.
"Christmas," he observed to the Baron, "is undoubtedly coming."
As the Baron did not appear to have any rejoinder to this, the young
divine continued, pleasantly.
"Though indeed," he said, "we might make this assertion upon any day
of the three hundred and sixty-five, and (I think) remain accurate."
"The celery," growled the Baron, looking into his plate.
"Quite so," cried the Chaplain, cheerily. He had failed to catch the
remark. "Though of course everything does depend on one's point of
view, after all."
"That celery, Whelpdale!" roared Sir Godfrey.
The terrified Buttons immediately dropped a large venison pasty into
Mrs. Mistletoe's lap. She, having been somewhat tried of late, began
screeching. Whelpdale caught up the celery, and blindly rushed towards
Sir Godfrey, while Popham, foreseeing trouble, rapidly ascended the
sideboard. The Baron stepped out of Whelpdale's path, and as he passed
by administered so much additional speed that little Buttons flew
under the curtained archway and down many painful steps into the
scullery, and was not seen again during that evening.
When Sir Godfrey had reseated himself, it seemed to the Rev. Hucbald
(such was the Chaplain's name) that the late interruption might be
well smoothed over by conversation. So he again addressed the Baron.
"To be sure," said he, taking a manner of sleek clerical pleasantry,
"though we can so often say 'Christmas is coming,' I suppose that if
at some suitable hour to-morrow afternoon I said to you, 'Christmas
is going,' you would grant it to be a not inaccurate remark?" The
Baron ate his dinner.
"I think so," pursued the Rev. Hucbald. "Yes. And by the way, I notice
with pleasure that this snow, which falls so continually, makes the
event of a green Christmas most improbable. Indeed,—of course the
proverb is familiar to you?—the graveyards should certainly not be
fat this season. I like a lean graveyard," smiled the Rev. Hucbald.
"I hate a —— fool!" exclaimed Sir Godfrey, angrily.
After this the family fell into silence. Sir Godfrey munched his food,
brooding gloomily over his plundered wine-cellar; Mrs. Mistletoe
allowed fancy to picture herself wedded to Father Anselm, if only he
had not been a religious person; and Elaine's thoughts were hovering
over the young man who sat in a cage till time came for him to steal
out and come to her. But the young lady was wonderfully wise,
nevertheless.
"Papa," she said, as they left the banquet-hall, "if it is about me
you're thinking, do not be anxious any more at all."
"Well, well; what's the matter now?" said the Baron.
"Papa, dear," began Elaine, winsomely pulling at a tassel on his
dining-coat, "do you know, I've been thinking."
"Think some more, then," he replied. "It will come easier when you're
less new at it."
"Now, papa! just when I've come to say—when I want—when you—it's
very hard——" and here the artful minx could proceed no further, but
turned a pair of shining eyes at him, and then looked the other way,
blinking rapidly.
"Oh, good Lord!" muttered Sir Godfrey, staring hard at the wall.
"Papa—it's about the Dragon—and I've been wrong. Very wrong. Yes; I
know I have. I was foolish." She was silent again. Was she going to
cry, after all? The Baron shot a nervous glance at her from the corner
of his eye. Then he said, "Hum!" He hoped very fervently there were to
be no tears. He desired to remain in a rage, and lock his daughter
up, and not put anything into her stocking this Christmas Eve; and
here she was, threatening to be sorry for the past, and good for the
future, and everything a parent could wish. Never mind. You can't
expect to get off as easily as all that. She had been very outrageous.
Now he would be dignified and firm.
"Of course I should obey Father Anselm," she continued.
"You should obey me," said Sir Godfrey.
"And I do hope another Crusade will come soon. Don't you think they
might have one, papa? How happy I shall be when your wine is safe from
that horrid Dragon!"
"Don't speak of that monster!" shouted the Baron, forgetting all about
firmness and dignity. "Don't dare to allude to the reptile in my
presence. Look here!" He seized up a great jug labelled "Château
Lafitte," and turned it upside down.
"Why, it's empty!" said Elaine.
"Ha!" snorted the Baron; "empty indeed." Then he set the jug down
wrong side up, and remained glaring at it fixedly, while his chest
rose and fell in deep heavings.
"Don't mind it so much, papa," said Elaine, coming up to him. "This
very next season will Mistletoe and I brew a double quantity of
cowslip wine."
"Brrrrooo!" went Sir Godfrey, with a shiver.
"And I'm sure they'll have another Crusade soon; and then my brother
Roland can go, and the Drag— and the curse will be removed. Of
course, I know that is the only way to get rid of it, if Father Anselm
said so. I was very foolish and wrong. Indeed I was," said she, and
looked up in his face with eyes where shone such dear, good, sweet,
innocent, daughterly affection, that nobody in the wide world could
have suspected she was thinking as hard as she could think, "If only
he won't lock me up! if only he won't! But, oh, it's dreadful in me to
be deceiving him so!"
"There, there!" said the Baron, and cleared his throat. Then he kissed
her. Where were firmness and dignity now?
He let her push him into the chimney-corner, and down into a seat; and
then what did this sly, shocking girl do but sit on his knee and tell
him nobody ever had such a papa before, and she could never possibly
love any one half so much as she loved him, and weren't he and she
going to have a merry Christmas to-morrow?
"How about that pretty young man? Hey? What?" said Sir Godfrey, in
high good-humour.
"Who?" snapped Elaine.
"I think this girl knows," he answered, adopting a roguish
countenance.
"Oh, I suppose you mean that little fellow this morning. Pooh!"
"Ho! ho!" said her father. "Ho! ho! Little fellow! He was a pretty
large fellow in somebody's eyes, I thought. What are you so red about?
Ho! ho!" and the Baron popped his own eyes at her with vast relish.
"Really, papa," said Miss Elaine, rising from his knee, with much
coldness, "I hardly understand you, I think. If you find it amusing
(and you seem to) to pretend that I——" she said no more, but gave a
slight and admirable toss of the head. "And now I am very sleepy," she
added. "What hour is it?"
Sir Godfrey took out his grandfather's sun-dial, and held it to the
lamp. "Bless my soul," he exclaimed; "it's twenty-two o'clock."
(That's ten at night nowadays, young people, and much too late for you
to be down-stairs, any of you.)
"Get to your bed at once," continued Sir Godfrey, "or you'll never be
dressed in time for Chapel on Christmas morning."
So Elaine went to her room, and took off her clothes, and hung up her
stocking at the foot of the bed. Did she go to sleep? Not she. She
laid with eyes and ears wide open. And now alone here in the dark,
where she had nothing to do but wait, she found her heart beating in
answer to her anxious and expectant thoughts. She heard the wind come
blustering from far off across the silent country. Then a snore from
Mistletoe in the next room made her jump. Twice a bar of moonlight
fell along the floor, wavering and weak, then sank out, and the pat of
the snow-flakes began again. After a while came a step through the
halls to her door, and stopped. She could scarcely listen, so hard she
was breathing. Was her father going to turn the key in her door,
after all? No such thought was any longer in his mind. She shut her
eyes quickly as he entered. His candle shone upon her quiet head, that
was nearly buried out of sight; then laughter shook him to see the
stocking, and he went softly out. He had put on his bed-room slippers;
but, as he intended to make a visit to the cellar before retiring, it
seemed a prudent thing to wear his steel breast-plate; and over this
he had slipped his quilted red silk dressing-gown, for it was a very
cold night.
Was there a sound away off somewhere out-of-doors? No. He descended
heavily through the sleeping house. When the candle burned upright and
clear yellow, his gait was steady; but he started many times at
corners where its flame bobbed and flattened and shrunk to a blue,
sickly rag half torn from the wick. "Ouf! Mort d'aieul!" he would
mutter. "But I must count my wine to-night." And so he came down into
the wide cellars, and trod tiptoe among the big round tuns. With a
wooden mallet he tapped them, and shook his head to hear the hollow
humming that their emptiness gave forth. No oath came from him at all,
for the matter was too grievous. The darkness that filled everywhere
save just next to the candle, pressed harder and harder upon him. He
looked at the door which led from inside here out into the night, and
it was comfortable to know how thick were the panels and how stout the
bolts and hinges.
"I can hold my own against any man, and have jousted fairly in my
time," he thought to himself, and touched his sword. "But—um!" The
notion of meeting a fiery dragon in combat spoke loudly to the better
part of his valour. Suddenly a great rat crossed his foot. Ice and
fire went from his stomach all through him, and he sprang on a wooden
stool, and then found he was shaking. Soon he got down, with sweaty
hands.
"Am I getting a coward?" he asked aloud. He seized the mallet that had
fallen, and struck a good knock against the nearest hogshead. Ah—ha!
This one, at least, was full. He twisted the wooden stop and drank
what came, from the hollow of his hand. It was cowslip wine. Ragingly
he spluttered and gulped, and then kicked the bins with all his might.
While he was stooping to rub his toe, who should march in but Miss
Elaine, dressed and ready for young Geoffrey. But she caught sight of
her father in time, and stepped back into the passage in a flutter.
Good heavens! This would never do. Geoffrey might be knocking at the
cellar-door at any moment. Her papa must be got away at once.
"Papa! papa!" she cried, running in.
Sir Godfrey sprang into the air, throwing mallet and candle against
the wine-butts. Then he saw it was only his daughter.
"Wretched girl! you—you—if you don't want to become an orphan, never
tamper like that with my nerves again in your life. What are you come
here for? How dare you leave your bed at such an hour?"
"Oh, mercy forgive us!" whimpered a new voice.
There was Mistletoe at the door of the passage, a candle lifted high
above her head and wobbling, so that it shook the grease all over her
night-cap. With the other hand she clutched her camisole, while
beneath a yellow flannel petticoat her fat feet were rocking in the
raw-wool foot-mittens she wore.
"Oh, dear: oh, Sir Godfrey! Oh, me!" said she.
"Saint Charity! What do you want? Holy Ragbag, what's the matter? Is
everybody in my house going stark mad?" Here the Baron fell over the
stool in the dark. "Give me my candle!" he roared. "Light my candle!
What business have either of you to come here?"
"Please, sir, it's Miss Elaine I came for. Oh, me! I'll catch my death
of cold. Her door shutting waked me up-stairs. Oh, dear! Where are we
coming to?"
"You old mattrass!" said Sir Godfrey. Then he turned to his daughter.
But this young lady had had a little time to gather her thoughts in.
So she cut short all awkward questionings with excellent promptness.
"Papa!" she began, breathlessly. "There! I heard it again!"
"Heard it? What?" cried the Baron, his eyes starting.
"It waked me up-stairs, and I ran to get you in your room, and
you——"
"It—it? What's it? What waked you?" broke in Sir Godfrey, his voice
rising to a shriek.
"There it is again!" exclaimed Elaine, clasping her hands. "He's
coming! I hear him. The Dragon! Oh!"
With this, she pretended to rush for the passage, where the squeaks of
Mistletoe could be heard already growing distant in the house. Away
bolted Sir Godfrey after her, shouting to Elaine in terror
undisguised, "Lock your door! Lock your door!" as he fled up-stairs.
So there stood Miss Elaine alone, with the coast clear, and no danger
from these two courageous guardians. Then came a knock from outside,
and her heart bounded as she ran through the cellar and undid the
door.
"You darling!" said Geoffrey, jumping in with legs all covered with
snow. He left the door open wide, and had taken four or five kisses at
the least before she could stop him. "The moon was out for a while,"
he continued, "and the snow stopped. So I came a long way round-about,
that my tracks should not be seen. That's good strategy."
But this strange young lady said no word, and looked at him as if she
were going to cry.
"Why, what's the matter, dear?" he asked.
"Oh, Geoffrey! I have been deceiving papa so."
"Pooh! It's not to be thought of."
"But I can't help thinking. I never supposed I could do so. And it
comes so terribly easy. And I'm not a bit clever when I'm good.
And—oh!" She covered her face and turned away from him.
"Stuff and nonsense!" Geoffrey broke out. "Do be reasonable. Here is a
dragon. Isn't there?"
"Yes."
"And everybody wants to get rid of him?"
"Yes."
"And he's robbing your father?"
"Yes."
"So you're acting for your father's good?"
"Y—yes."
"Then——"
"Now, Geoffrey, all your talking doesn't hide the badness in the least
bit."
She was silent again; then suddenly seemed greatly relieved. "I don't
care," she declared. "Papa locked me up for a whole week, when all I
wanted was to help him and everybody get rid of the Dragon. And I am
too old to be treated so. And now I am just going to pretend there's a
dragon when there's not. Oh, what's that?"
This time it was no sham. Faint and far from the direction of
Oyster-le-Main came the roar of the Dragon of Wantley over fields and
farms.
Thus ends Chapter VII �