The Dragon of Wantley.

by Owen Wister.

Preface

When Betsinda held the Rose And the Ring decked Giglio's finger Thackeray! 'twas sport to linger With thy wise, gay-hearted prose.

Books were merry, goodness knows!

When Betsinda held the Rose.

Who but foggy drudglings doze While Rob Gilpin toasts thy witches, While the Ghost waylays thy breeches, Ingoldsby? Such tales as those Exorcised our peevish woes When Betsinda held the Rose.

Realism, thou specious pose!

Haply it is good we met thee; But, pa.s.sed by, we'll scarce regret thee; For we love the light that glows Where Queen Fancy's pageant goes, And Betsinda holds the Rose.

Shall we dare it? Then let's close Doors to-night on things statistic, Seek the hearth in circle mystic, Till the conjured fire-light shows Where Youth's bubbling Fountain flows, And Betsinda holds the Rose.

PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION

We two--the author and his ill.u.s.trator--did not know what we had done until the newspapers told us. But the press has explained it in the following poised and consistent criticism:

"Too many suggestions of profanity."

--_Congregationalist_, Boston, 8 Dec. '92.

"It ought to be the delight of the nursery."

--_National Tribune_, Washington, 22 Dec. '92.

"Grotesque and horrible."

--_Zion's Herald_, Boston, 21 Dec. '92.

"Some excellent moral lessons."

--_Citizen_, Brooklyn, 27 Nov. '92.

"If it has any lesson to teach, we have been unable to find it."

--_Independent_, New York, 10 Nov. '92.

"The story is a familiar one."

--_Detroit Free Press_, 28 Nov. '92.

"Refreshingly novel."

--_Cincinnati Commercial Gazette_, 17 Dec. '92.

"It is a burlesque."

--_Atlantic Monthly_, Dec. '92.

"All those who love lessons drawn from life will enjoy this book."

--_Christian Advocate_, Cincinnati, 2 Nov. '92.

"The style of this production is difficult to define."

--_Court Journal_, London, 26 Nov. '92.

"One wonders why writer and artist should put so much labor on a production which seems to have so little reason for existence."

--_Herald and Presbyterian_, Cincinnati.

Now the public knows exactly what sort of book this is, and we cannot be held responsible.

CHAPTER I

How _Sir G.o.dfrey_ came to lose his Temper

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE BVTLER HIS BOY G.o.dFREY DISSEISIN]

There was something wrong in the cellar at Wantley Manor. Little Whelpdale knew it, for he was b.u.t.tons, and b.u.t.tons always knows what is being done with the wine, though he may look as if he did not. And old Popham knew it, too. He was Butler, and responsible to Sir G.o.dfrey for all the brandy, and ale, and cider, and mead, and canary, and other strong waters there were in the house.

Now, Sir G.o.dfrey Disseisin, fourth Baron of Wantley, and immediate tenant by knight-service to His Majesty King John of England, was particular about his dogs, and particular about his horses, and about his only daughter and his boy Roland, and had been very particular indeed about his wife, who, I am sorry to say, did not live long. But all this was nothing to the fuss he made about his wine. When the claret was not warm enough, or the Moselle wine was not cool enough, you could hear him roaring all over the house; for, though generous in heart and a staunch Churchman, he was immoderately choleric. Very often, when Sir G.o.dfrey fell into one of his rages at dinner, old Popham, standing behind his chair, trembled so violently that his calves would shake loose, thus obliging him to hasten behind the tall leathern screen at the head of the banquet-hall and readjust them.

Twice in each year the Baron sailed over to France, where he visited the wine-merchants, and tasted samples of all new vintages,--though they frequently gave him unmentionable aches. Then, when he was satisfied that he had selected the soundest and richest, he returned to Wantley Manor, bringing home wooden casks that were as big as hay-stacks, and so full they could not gurgle when you tipped them.

Upon arriving, he sent for Mrs. Mistletoe, the family governess and (for economy's sake) housekeeper, who knew how to write,--something the Baron's father and mother had never taught him when he was a little boy, because they didn't know how themselves, and despised people who did,--and when Mrs. Mistletoe had cut neat pieces of card-board for labels and got ready her goose-quill, Sir G.o.dfrey would say, "Write, Chateau Lafitte, 1187;" or, "Write, Chambertin, 1203."

(Those, you know, were the names and dates of the vintages.) "Yes, my lord," Mistletoe always piped up; on which Sir G.o.dfrey would peer over her shoulder at the writing, and mutter, "Hum; yes, that's correct,"

just as if he knew how to read, the old humbug! Then Mistletoe, who was a silly girl and had lost her husband early, would go "Tee-hee, Sir G.o.dfrey!" as the gallant gentleman gave her a kiss. Of course, this was not just what he should have done; but he was a widower, you must remember, and besides that, as the years went on this little ceremony ceased to be kept up. When it was "Chateau Lafitte, 1187,"

kissing Mistletoe was one thing; but when it came to "Chambertin, 1203," the lady weighed two hundred and twenty-five pounds, and wore a wig.

But, wig and all, Mistletoe had a high position in Wantley Manor. The household was conducted on strictly feudal principles. n.o.body, except the members of the family, received higher consideration than did the old Governess. She and the Chaplain were on a level, socially, and they sat at the same table with the Baron. That drew the line. Old Popham the Butler might tell little Whelpdale as often as he pleased that he was just as good as Mistletoe; but he had to pour out Mistletoe's wine for her, notwithstanding. If she scolded him (which she always did if Sir G.o.dfrey had been scolding her), do you suppose he dared to answer back? Gracious, no! He merely kicked the two head-footmen, Meeson and Welsby, and spoke severely to the nine house-maids. Meeson and Welsby then made life a painful thing for the five under-footmen and the grooms, while the nine house-maids boxed the ears of Whelpdale the b.u.t.tons, and Whelpdale the b.u.t.tons punched the scullion's eye. As for the scullion, he was bottom of the list; but he could always relieve his feelings by secretly pulling the tails of Sir G.o.dfrey's two tame ravens, whose names were Croak James and Croak Elizabeth. I never knew what these birds did at that; but something, you may be sure. So you see that I was right when I said the household was conducted on strictly feudal principles. The Cook had a special jurisdiction of her own, and everybody was more or less afraid of her.

Whenever Sir G.o.dfrey had come home with new wine, and after the labels had been pasted on the casks, then Popham, with Whelpdale beside him, had these carefully set down in the cellar, which was a vast dim room, the ceilings supported by heavy arches; the barrels, bins, kegs, hogsheads, tuns, and demijohns of every size and shape standing like forests and piled to the ceiling. And now something was wrong there.

"This 'ere's a hawful succ.u.mstence, sir," observed Whelpdale the b.u.t.tons to his superior, respectfully.

"It is, indeed, a himbroglio," replied Popham, who had a wide command of words, and knew it.

Neither domestic spoke again for some time. They were seated in the b.u.t.tery. The Butler crossed his right leg over his left, and waved the suspended foot up and down,--something he seldom did unless very grievously perturbed. As for poor little Whelpdale, he mopped his brow with the napkins that were in a basket waiting for the wash.

Then the bell rang.

"His ludship's study-bell," said Popham. "Don't keep him waiting."

"Hadn't you better apprise his ludship of the facks?" asked Whelpdale, in a weak voice.

Popham made no reply. He arose and briefly kicked b.u.t.tons out of the b.u.t.tery. Then he mounted a chair to listen better. "He has hentered his ludship's apawtment," he remarked, hearing the sound of voices come faintly down the little private staircase that led from Sir G.o.dfrey's study to the b.u.t.tery: the Baron was in the habit of coming down at night for crackers and cheese before he went to bed. Presently one voice grew much louder than the other. It questioned. There came a sort of whining in answer. Then came a terrific stamp on the ceiling and a loud "Go on, sir!"