“I have never had such a fuss made about me since I was short-coated,” declared the squire, “and I am well content to enjoy a long respite and rest from our tedious life among these delightful people. May I venture to hope, Sir Jasper, that you design to remain here at least until the autumn?”
But his master thought differently.
“This is no place for us, George,” he replied. “A month I have undertaken to remain, that I may study a society from which we can both learn much to our profit; but that done, we take the road. We are men of war, and there is nothing that we can accomplish to add to the perfection of this peaceful community. We will, therefore, glean what wisdom we may and, fortified thereby, return to our own good work.”
Pipkin, however, secretly hoped their visit might be prolonged; and then a curious accident brought the squire face to face with one whom he had known in the outer world.
They were strolling down a little street together, wherein every house seemed to smile an invitation upon them from its open door and cheerful countenance, when, out of a cot, in whose garden towered purple columbines above a bed of rosemary, there tripped a young woman and two children. She was dark and comely, with black hair, brown eyes and a skin as ruddy as a burn in spate. The youngsters were like her—a pair of bright-eyed boys with laughing eyes.
“Odds bodikins!” cried George. “Here is Sally Slater, the widow of West Fell. What chance has brought her to this happy valley?”
The woman’s eyes now fell on George and she recognised him.
“’Tis Master Pipkin!” she cried.
“By our Lady I command you tell me how you came hither,” demanded George, and Sally Slater related her strange story.
“You must know that after my husband died, I took care of his old mother, and on a day when I made for her a brew of lentils, herbs and milk, an awful fate befell me. I was engaged in my cooking and thinking with tears of my departed spouse, when into my cabin burst half a dozen strange men. There was a witch hunt through West Fell, and seeing me about my pot, the cruel wretches leapt upon me and haled me before a judge. As ill fortune would have it, a black cat with green eyes purred upon my hearth at the time, while in a corner, for I was ever a cleanly woman, there stood a great birch broom. Here was sufficient evidence to endanger my existence, and after I had sworn, by the blood of our Saviour, that I was no witch and had never in all my life held commune with the Fiend, they put me to the torture to make me confess.
“They thrust me into a chair of sharp steel spikes; they dropped boiling oil upon my legs and bosom and held a lighted taper under my armpits. And then, after striving with my poor might to hold to the truth, my body’s grief was too great and, even for the brief respite, which I knew was all that remained, I lied and screamed out that I was indeed a witch.”
Sir Jasper regarded poor Sally with sorrow.
“It is even so with thousands,” he said. “For the brief surcease of their agony, tormented flesh cries out a falsehood, and so men and women without number are forced to say what is false and condemn themselves to death; while those who think they do God service, rejoice and cast the unfortunate innocents into the fire. The Popes of Rome swept away that legal justice enjoyed by all accused persons under pagan law, and our most earnest Christians have sent innumerable harmless men and women to the flames on this account. Fear was responsible for these cruelties, and fear makes all men unjust. Fear surely must it have been that caused Elisha to consign the children to the bears, though why he was alarmed at two score noisy youngsters, we shall never know. And the men who have accomplished these dismal feats were the salt of the earth! The good Bishop of Treves burned six thousand, five hundred parishioners and desolated his diocese; Nicholas Remy, a pious and, I believe, a pleasing person in his home, roasted over eight hundred of his poor and powerless fellow creatures. One remembers also that admirable Protestant jurist, Benedict Carpzor, who not only read the Holy Bible from cover to cover fifty-three times, but also passed twenty thousand sentences of death on witches and sorcerers.”
“Did no ghosts ever haunt or distract these accursed wretches?” cried George Pipkin.
“Certainly not,” replied the knight. “They passed to their eternal reward with the blessing and applause of all men, and in consciousness of lives nobly spent on their Maker’s business. In the case of Remy aforesaid, however, it is reported that he was unhappy on his deathbed because, in a moment of human weakness, he had only scourged certain young children naked round the pyres whereon their parents were burning, instead of casting them into the flames also. His conscience pricked him sharply in that matter at the end, for it is well known, and Mother Church is clear upon the subject, that the children of witches have the Devil for their sire and should never be spared the stake.”
“Then how come you and your brave boys to be alive, Sally?” inquired George.
“Thanks entirely to L.D.,” replied the young widow. “By the will of God, he was passing West Fell when I went to the faggots, and scarcely had they been ignited before he came to earth, sent the people flying in every direction and bore me away. Nor did his mercy end with my rescue. As soon as we had landed here and I learned the truth of him, my mother’s heart cried for my children. I explained that they would certainly be burned alive after our departure, and were probably already beyond salvation. Whereon he instantly set out again, and West Fell, being cast into a great terror by his visit, the children were still in the land of the living. Certain persons had pitied them in secret and bidden them fly before it was too late. Our dragon came upon the little things lying asleep together without the village, and when they awakened from their journey, it was in my arms.”
“All’s well that ends well,” said George, “and now tell me a little about our native place. I often think of West Fell and my family.”
Sally showed some uneasiness.
“I’m very much afraid there will be bad news for you, Master Pipkin, when you gang home again,” she said.
“Let me have it,” he answered, “for as to ganging home, I do not feel in any violent haste to be there.”
“Poor Mistress Pipkin is gathered in,” said Sally sadly. “A year or so before my troubles, she went to pick water-cresses in the owl-light, and ’tis feared she mistook the way. Be that as it will, they found her drowned with a very peaceful expression upon her face.”
“My stars, Jemima gone!” cried George, staring before him with more astonishment than grief. “Are you sure of what you are telling me, Sally?”
“She lies beside the little one took after he was born; and your daughter has married the cordwainer, John Bindle, and your son has gone for a sailor in one of the king’s ships.”
“This would seem to be the day of my life!” murmured Pipkin.
“Accept hearty sympathy in your affliction,” said Sir Jasper. “You will suffer this blow with your usual philosophic fortitude, George.”
“Heaven helping, I shall make shift to face it,” answered the widower, “for what saith the Book? ‘He hath done all things well.’ ”
VIII
THREE SONGS AND A STORY
THIS BEING no tale of love, we are not so much concerned with the swift and ingenuous romance of Sir Jasper and his honourable lady, as challenged by the result of their common passion. Nor can we dwell overmuch upon the less emotional love-making of George Pipkin, who, before he had resided a week at Dragonsville, was resolutely courting Sally Slater and winning the affection of her sons.
Sir Jasper now found himself at odds between love and duty, yet opposed the one against the other with diminishing zest, for as time passed, he could not fail to observe that the maiden of his adoration was by no means impatient of his company. The knight’s cheek grew lean, and his blue eyes became anxious. He had little intelligence, but a conscience of almost morbid activity, and at first he suspected the whole business to be enchantment—a possible wile of the Lavender Dragon to detain him indefinitely, fog his senses and deaden his so
ul to the clarion of duty. But though enchanting, there was nothing in the attitude of Petronell to suggest that she played a part, endeavoured to enchain Sir Jasper, or come between him and his appointed task. Indeed she delighted to hear of his modest achievements and gave it as her opinion that his career had only just begun. His aspirations were her own, for now she openly longed to be of use in the world and carry the lessons learned at Dragonsville to Devonshire at some future time.
“To do good is an art,” she declared, “and needs as much practising as any other. It is, indeed, because the beginner often makes such a mess of it that many are choked off well-doing altogether and turn to other and easier pursuits.
“It is understood,” she continued, “that so long as L.D. shall live, I do not leave him; and much I wish, dear knight, you found it possible to make the same promise. To think of the world without him, is to think of a very sad thing; but he is rarely mistaken, and in his opinion he will pass during the spring of next year. Then such as desire to stay and proceed with their lives after his fashion, will do so; but not a few of the rising generation propose to explore the world. Whether their discoveries will turn their feet hither again, who can say? For my part, I was in a mind to stop among those I love and cherish here; but after your astounding information, it is clearly my duty to go home, reveal my birth-mark and claim my parentage.”
“I agree with you, Camilla,” declared Sir Jasper, for it was a Sunday on which these words were spoken, and the knight and the lady returned, side by side, to the Castle from Morning Prayer.
“It is our Lavender Dragon’s own wish that I should do so,” she continued. “Indeed, since he has learned the truth about me, he has even raised the question whether I do well to tarry at all. But my father and mother have waited so many years that it cannot harm them to bide still longer in ignorance; and I will never leave L.D. while he lives. I owe him the little wisdom I possess, and I shall strive to plan my future life by his precepts wherever I may spend it.”
A vision of amazing beauty stole into the thoughts of Sir Jasper. He pictured himself returning to the West country with a bride; he saw the great houses of Tracey and Pomeroy gloriously united; he pictured the joy of all concerned, the rejoicings, the largesse flying in silver showers, even the red Devon ox, roasted whole, and the morris dances, cudgel play, bull baiting and other delights of Merrie England proper to such an occasion. Incidentally he saw a ring fence round the two manors.
But he kept these dreams to himself. He had reached a stage at which the next step must be a declaration of marriage, or speedy departure, and he suspected that the lady was of the same opinion. But still he hesitated, until it wanted but three days before the month was ended and his undertaking to remain at Dragonsville absolved. He felt in dire need of another opinion at this juncture, for spiritual uneasiness overtook him in the night watches and he doubted whether these earthly ambitions much became him. To consult George Pipkin was idle. The squire had already become affianced to Sally Slater, and the folk congratulated both man and woman, for George, a resourceful person and quick to respond to friendship, became a favourite from the first. He knew Sir Jasper’s plight very well indeed, for his master could not conceal it. In truth, everybody was alive to the situation and when, finally, the lovesick fellow determined to lay the matter before L.D. himself, his host showed no surprise. They spoke together after knight and dragon had bathed side by side in the great central fountain, before breakfast on a cloudless morning of July; and while the rising sun glittered over the rose and azure scales of the larger animal and quickly dried them, Sir Jasper, having resumed his garments, explained the problem and humbly invited comments and a solution.
“I, of course, am an ‘intellectual’ and apologise for it,” answered L.D. “It is comparatively easy to write, or lecture, eat hay, drink water and tell everybody else what they ought to do. This rule of life gives those who practise it enormous satisfaction and induces them to suppose that they are the only people who really much matter to the cosmic scheme. But as I find that to devour red meat, drink red wine and do things, instead of telling other people to do them, is much more difficult, my admiration has always been reserved for such as themselves attempt to advance the work of the world. To pull down is easier than to build up, and I am entirely on the side of those who would build, even if their building be faulty; while they who snap and snarl and spew opposition on everybody who is honestly seeking to help distracted humanity, leave me cold—even for the cold-blooded reptile which I happen to be. In a word, it may be said that the heart of man seeks to build, while the brain of him is chiefly concerned to destroy the existing order. Both are right and both are vital; and when they work together in the light of reason, good things must happen. But when will they?
“Now, you are of the thick-headed, but warm-hearted, order of men who want to get on with it. And you have fallen in love with a maiden suited to you in every possible way. She belongs to your own order, though that matters nothing; but what does matter is that she also belongs to your own sort of intelligence. She prays to the same God, as far as it can be said that any two people have the same idea of what their Maker means; she enjoys the same humanist outlook; she resents the same wrongs and evils; she is quite as determined as yourself to leave the world better than she finds it. What more seemly and fitting, then, than that you twain should wed and presently go forth, nerved and heartened each by the other, in the glory of a shared love, a shared trust, and a shared duty to the world? She has already made you happier than she found you, though at present you do not look it; and you have brought into her delightful life a deep and mysterious quickening and wakened her noblest emotions. Thus you have both made the world happier than you found it already, and what is worrying you is a chimera, a vague and futile echo of that melancholy hoot, a vanished order of Christians raised from their burrows, caves and catacombs. The idea of these estimable, but mistaken, cenobites, you will recollect. They held no happiness seemly in this life, and accounted human love the invention of the Devil. They did their best to depopulate the earth; but their claim and clamour were alike unavailing in the face of Nature, and to-day we all, I think, admit that it is a very seemly and blessed thing for a healthy man to marry the right woman and to take a hand in the next generation. But that is a subject not likely to interest you for the moment. Therefore place your heart at Petronell’s feet, and if she prove willing to pick it up, wed her, stay with me, as she intends to do, until I go underground—somewhere about the breaking of the leaf next year—and then seek your relations together, and go on doing your duty to the best of your united powers.”
“You have greatly heartened me, my noble friend,” answered Sir Jasper. “It is almost beyond the dreams of ambition that such a maiden can stoop to such a man; but I will at least summon courage to approach her; and if the answer doom me to everlasting sorrow, you will not take it amiss that I mount my steed, don my armour and go hence.”
“Certainly not,” replied the devious dragon, who already knew that Petronell loved the lad with devotion. “If she say you nay, I shall be the first to speed the parting guest.”
Within a week, however, the young people were betrothed, much to their own delight and the satisfaction of the entire community. The Lavender Dragon, who never lost an occasion to bring his friends together, proclaimed a banquet and entertainment of unexampled splendour to celebrate this engagement, and it was swiftly planned that both Sir Jasper and his squire should be wedded in the same hour, upon a day after the harvest had been reaped.
Nicholas Warrender, the dragon’s old seneschal, was master of the ceremonies on the occasion of this public entertainment; all Dragonsville came to L.D.’s revel, and features of the joyful event were certain performances which followed a great midday meal. There was dancing; there was singing; there were athletic sports and trials of strength and dexterity. But the special attraction, and that most vividly remembered, remained to the credit of Sir Jasper and his bride, Geor
ge Pipkin, and the Lavender Dragon himself.
The knight, his lady and his squire each obliged with a song; while L.D. told the people a new story.
Sir Jasper’s betrothed sang first, and accompanied herself upon a lute. The lyric had been composed for that instrument, and Petronell sang with great charm and natural feeling, though, as she confessed, there was nothing to admire in either the words, or the music. Yet it happened that this was the only song she knew: her foster-mother had taught it to her in childhood.
Song for a Lute
“Margery, Merle and Aveline—
And rarest, fairest Aveline,
Loveliest maids that ever were seen—
Loveliest ever seen,
Wandered beneath the hunter’s moon—
The red, uprising hunter’s moon,
For to find the fairies and beg a boon —
Ting-a-ling! Ting-a-ling!
Ting! Ting! Ting-a-ling!
Beg for a pixy boon.
“There came a boy along the way—
A pretty boy along the way,
And Margery stopped with him to play—
Margery stopped to play.
Her sisters went through dimpsy light,
By dingles dim through dimpsy light,
And tears of one were falling bright —
Ting-a-ling! Ting-a-ling!
Ting! Ting! Ting-a-ling!
Tears, they were falling bright.
“A convent by the way they trod—
The dark and dusky path they trod,
Drew weeping Merle at the will of God—
Merle by the will of God.
She entered, and she bides there yet—
A sainted nun she bides there yet,
For love of the boy that Margery met —
Ting-a-ling! Ting-a-ling!
Ting! Ting! Ting-a-ling!
Boy that Margery met.
“But Aveline by beck and glen—
By starry beck and moony glen
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