GREAT NEWS FOR GEORGE PIPKIN

EARLY on the morrow the Lavender Dragon set forth to seek George Pipkin and, after sleeping soundly in a most comfortable and cheerful chamber, the latest arrival at Dragonsville went among the people and saw and heard much that gave him pleasure.

His host had not returned at the hour of midday dinner, but certain elderly and dignified persons of both sexes joined Sir Jasper at the meal. He found Father Lazarus, the priest, to be of the party, together with Nicholas Warrender, the seneschal, a grey-haired dame or two, and an old but venerable man whom the others addressed as “Sir Claude.” There were also present Amory Doncaster, the Lavender Dragon’s doctor, and Lilian Lovenot, who, radiant in a gown of azure blue, decorated with pearls as large as filberts, sat beside the newcomer.

Conversation proved by no means parochial and his new friends manifested great interest in Sir Jasper’s professional experiences and the doings of the outer world. The old people expressed a hope that life ran in more gracious channels than of yore, and that he found an increase of prosperity and happiness upon his travels; while, when he confessed that new wars were in the making and new discontents battering and bruising humanity on every side, the younger men and women present declared their impatience and indignation at the slow progress of the race.

“I cannot but think,” said Lilian Lovenot, “that a time is near when the rising generation of Dragonsville will be called to abandon this life of ease and happiness, and go forth to carry the principles and theories of L.D. into the outer darkness.”

“A tremendous opinion,” replied a youth by the name of Howard Harris. “But it may come to that. We have all made one another as happy as it is possible to be at Dragonsville, and, for my own part, I sometimes sigh for other fields wherein to conquer.”

“Or be conquered,” said Sir Claude, and looking upon him, the younger knight observed the first face in this city which betokened a mind not wholly at rest.

After the meal was ended, Sir Jasper, his fellow knight and Lilian walked to the grave of the Lavender Dragon’s wife and sat upon it under the shadow of the flowering shrubs. Then Sir Claude, having found that his own adventures in chivalry belonged to a period far anterior to the visitor’s, explained the reason of that settled melancholy which appeared upon his grey and wrinkled countenance.

“I am Sir Claude Pontifex Fortescue, of the Strong Shield,” he said, “and it was I, Sir Jasper, who, sixty years ago, laid lance in rest against L.D. That awful error of judgment has haunted me and cast the sour shadow of remorse upon my long, and, I hope, subsequently blameless career.”

“I did no less in thought,” confessed Sir Jasper. “My one desire was to slaughter this prodigious person and cut his head off. Surely he is the last to blame you, or harbour any suspicion of resentment. It is summed in a word, Sir Knight; you and I knew no better. I will go further and declare that there was no reason why we should.”

“Exactly; and he has told you so a dozen times, Sir Claude,” added Lilian. “It is irrational of you to harbour this sorrow for more than half a century. You merely scratched his side and did not shorten his precious life by an hour.”

The ancient knight only shook his head.

“I deserved death, for he strove to address me before I charged, and I would not listen.”

“But he spared you to be useful; and no doubt you have been useful,” suggested Sir Jasper.

“He has,” vowed Lilian. “L.D. himself declares that Sir Claude has been his right paw for sixty years.”

But Sir Claude dwelt morbidly on the details of that far-away disaster.

“He merely thumped me; then he brought me here, healed my bruises and exalted me into a position of trust and honour. Would that I had been worthy of such forgiveness, my friends.”

He refused to be comforted, and presently Sir Jasper and Lilian left him still sighing to himself, and went their way through the gardens of the castle.

“Come and look at our carpet bedding,” suggested the beautiful maiden, and her companion soon stood where five-and-twenty gardeners were busy arranging a little horticultural surprise for the dragon on his return. Sir Jasper, however, was no authority on these subjects and he turned the conversation into more personal channels. Lilian, at his entreaty, related the brief particulars of her own career as far as she remembered it; but she shared the dragon’s opinion concerning her advent into the world and agreed with the inhabitants of Pongley-in-the-Marsh that the excellent Lovenots were not her parents.

“I loved them dearly,” she said, “but I never felt towards them as a daughter, and when L.D. discovered me weeping at the well, he knew, by a marvellous intuition peculiar to him and doubtless the result of his vast experience, that I was no true child of the hamlet.”

“Here you are happier?” inquired the knight.

“It may sound ungrateful, but I am. I do love comfort and cleanliness and, I am afraid, luxury,” confessed Lilian. “Silk next the skin, swansdown to sleep upon, crystal to drink out of, instead of cloam, and so on—weak—very weak, Sir Jasper.”

“Doubtless the blood in your veins demands these modest additions to life,” he declared. “There can be no sort of doubt that the fairies, after their somewhat malicious custom, played a trick upon your foster-mother and your real one; and now the daughter of the Lovenots probably occupies a position of high estate and has usurped your connections and your lawful style and title.”

“It may be so, but I am perfectly happy here,” said Lilian. “In the fragrant atmosphere of the Lavender Dragon, we live a life of such fine quality that no distinction could better it. I naturally mourn my own dear parents sometimes, and wonder what they make of the girl who bears my name, whatever that may be; but I daresay they have found a better daughter than I should have been to them.”

“That is quite impossible,” he asserted, and was lost in thought for the space of twenty minutes.

Sir Jasper then spoke again and put a question.

“Is it beyond reason that I should be permitted to gaze at your left elbow?” he inquired, and the lady started at a request so unusual.

“Who told you about that, Sir Jasper?” she asked in her turn.

“Nobody told me anything, fair mistress; but, as they say, the world is small, and I have in my mind a noble West-country family, who lost a daughter and found a changeling under somewhat distressing circumstances about sixteen years ago. The changeling ran away with a wine-drawer when she was fifteen, and no great search was made to find either of them. The noble family of the Traceys, who are always said to have the wind in their faces, happen to be neighbours of my own kin, and we are therefore familiar with a tradition among them. The eldest son always exhibits a birthmark on his left shoulder-blade in the shape of a poignard; while the eldest daughter’s left elbow never fails to reveal an auburn mole in shape of a cuddy wren.”

Lilian’s aquamarine eyes shone like ocean pools when the tide is out, and she exhibited the wildest astonishment.

“But I have a little wren upon my left elbow,” she cried.

“Then you are the vanished daughter of the far-famed Lord Meavybrook, of the family of Tracey in the West country, whose manor adjoins our lands of Pomeroy. I salute Mistress Lovenot no longer, but the Honourable Camilla Petronell Thomasin Tracey and kiss her hand!”

At this dramatic moment a shadow fell upon the carpet bedding, and the aerial music of the Lavender Dragon’s wings announced his return. In a few moments he had descended, whereupon George Pipkin and his roan charger reached the ground together. Instantly George perceived his master and, rushing to him, praised God and flung himself at Sir Jasper’s feet. The knight raised his squire, cheered him heartily, bade him rejoice, assured him that all was well, and presently surrendered him to the good offices of half a dozen friendly spirits, who hastened to pleasure the new arrival.

The translated maiden meantime attended upon the dragon, and, after L.D. had enjoyed a mighty meal of hay and fine oats, informed him of the amazing discovery concerning herself. He was gratified but by no means surprised, and when Sir Jasper returned from a talk with George, all particulars were demanded.

The knight, however, could add no more to the story than he had already told. He was permitted to study the white elbow of the lady and there, exquisitely fashioned by Nature’s self, appeared a wee cuddy wren, that, upon the milky purity of the skin, suggested an agate cameo carved by a master’s hand.

“One takes these happenings in a large spirit,” said the dragon. “I am well-pleased to have my intuition proved correct, and for the moment only a single thought occurs to me. We have now a choice of three names for Mistress Tracey, and what I want to know is this: does she desire that we call her henceforth Camilla, Petronell, or Thomasin?”

The girl looked at Sir Jasper and smiled so radiantly that a mavis on a bough burst into music and added certain notes to his repertory that have been in every grey bird’s song since then.

“It is Sir Jasper, after my gossips, who has given me these pleasant names,” she said, “he shall, therefore, determine by which I must henceforth be addressed.”

“Let L.D. choose,” begged the knight, but the dragon declined.

“Then let it be Camilla on Sundays and Petronell through the week, save upon Fridays, when she shall be called Thomasin.”

It was decided so, and in high good humour the Lavender Dragon retired to sleep, and the knight and the lady were again left in each other’s company.

Strange emotions already agitated Sir Jasper and he found in his mind a new sensation, which left him a little bemused. Bitter-sweet under-currents of thought possessed him and led to some slight loss of manners; for so occupied was he with his own reflections, that more than once he forgot to reply when Petronell questioned him, and thrice he permitted himself to gaze upon her with a direct glare of his blue eyes that cast her into maidenly confusion.

For these lapses he apologised in stumbling words, and he had no sooner done so when he committed the like errors again. Anon she left him and walked pensively to the castle, while he returned to George. Pipkin was now well fed and had changed his travel-stained jerkin of leather and oft mended boots for a murry-coloured velvet tunic and small clothes of orange-tawny laced with black. He had entirely recovered from the shock of the morning, and having related how the dragon had snapped him, as he was about to plunge into the Woods of Blore, he dismissed the subject and declared his great satisfaction at the turn of events.

“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 wakened 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.’”