XIX
The "Dragon" of Swafton
A hundred or more years ago it would have been a safe remark that no house seemed less likely to flourish than did the "Dragon" at Swafton. Situated under the southern slope of the Chiltern Hills it was, by that barrier, cut off from the high-road prosperity which flowed along the stage-coach routes from London to the north and the north-west; for the old Roman ways both to Chester and to York held to the east and all others avoided it on the west. Such custom as it obtained, therefore, was at the hands of the casual traveller across the shire and the chance wayfarer who elected to pass in at its open door. Nevertheless, the "Dragon" had its traditions of no mean order, and maintained ideals of hospitality which did not suffer by comparison with those of even the smartest of its more fortunate rivals.
At the close of a certain December day, more than a century ago, a very gay and light-hearted cavalier rode into the "Dragon" yard, and after giving sundry explicit directions about the care of his horse walked through the kitchen of the hostelry with the unhesitating step of one who was thoroughly familiar with the winding passages he trod. If Will Heron—to give him the name by which he was known in that part of the country at all events—rode a better mare than the rough work he evidently put her through and the long hours he kept the saddle called for, that was entirely his own affair. If the ostlers and stablemen all along the roads paid him more attention than they would have given to a royal duke, and stabled his horse better than they would those of a judge on circuit, that may or may not have been owing to Will's careless liberality and his own easy personal qualities; at all events within the "Dragon" he was simply the unquestioned traveller who on many former occasions had won his way to their loyal admiration by his graceful courtesy, his gallant air and his ready and contagious smile.
Never did these amiable qualities seem more necessary than upon this occasion, for, on turning sharply at a right angle, Will came suddenly upon the usually placid hostess of the "Dragon" wringing her hands in a state of abject helplessness, while before her stood a frightened maid, who was evidently the bearer of tidings which had led to this unexpected state of distress.
"Oh, sir," she exclaimed, when she caught sight of Will, speaking in a whisper that the numerous doors around demanded—it seemed indeed as though she could have borne her calamities with fortitude if only she could have given unrestrained voice to them—"what a disgrace to happen to the 'Dragon'! Here is Sir Henry Verney and his lady just arrived and calling for dinner and there's not a thing in the house."
"What, nothing?" said Will in great concern. "Oh, surely there must be something that they won't mind putting up with."
"Not a thing," reiterated the lady dismally. "What ever will they say at the 'Cow' and the 'George' when this gets known?"
"But surely" persisted Will.
"Six hours ago Robert started for St. Albans as soon as I knew Sir Henry would stop here. He must have broken down on the road, God knows where, for he ought to have been back these two hours. A brace of chickens would have done, but the fox had the last of them yesterday. There was still a small shoulder of mutton in the house, and Sir Henry, none too pleased I thought, consented to make shift with that, and now, now," continued the unfortunate woman wringing her hands afresh, "Mary has just told me that the mutton has disappeared and a strange dog has been seen making out of the yard with something in its mouth.”
"Oh, that's vastly awkward," said Will, hitting his boot with his riding-whip as though he might thereby drive an inspiration upwards. "Sir Henry has the reputation of an epicure, one hears."
"There's something even more unfortunate than that," whispered the hostess, drawing Will aside. "They say that he has come about purchasing the Thornsby estate, and the 'Dragon' goes with it. Just now we—I—oh well, everyone will most likely know soon enough. Things have not been at their best of late" Will nodded gravely—"fewer people have drawn up at the 'Dragon': you may have seen it"—again Will mutely assented—"and, in short, part of the rent has been left over for the last year or two. Our present landlord is easy-going and friendly, but if Sir Henry buys the estate and gets a bad impression of us from the start—well, you know how it will be."
Will pushed back his narrow-brimmed hat over his curls and pondered sagely. To help if possible in such a case came to him as naturally as did certain other instincts, less charming, and, when viewed through five or six score cold years, even forbidding. Frequently it had been his lot to assist fair ones out of the difficulties into which cruel fortune or their own indiscretion had led them, and to him, almost at first sight, they turned instinctively. Sometimes he fought, occasionally used diplomacy and his own sweet persuasiveness; once, when both these means failed, he had even beggared himself for the time of all but his mare Cassandra. Greatly he preferred the first manner of settling all difficulties as they arose, but obviously he could not fight Sir Henry Verney because there was no dinner for him.
"Take me to the larder," he said after a few moments' desperate thought, "and let us trust that he may prove more of a gourmand than an epicure."
Whatever Will's forlorn scheme might be, the contents of the larder appeared to meet his requirements fully. With a decision that bore a suspicion of indifference he picked out one hopeless thing after another: the bones of a boiled fowl, a fragment of game pasty, the remnant of a mighty sirloin and a noble selection of condiments composed of every herb and spice which he could lay his hands upon. Over this unpromising collation he gave the half-laughing, half-crying but wholly docile landlady certain instructions in the art of simple cookery, drilled Mary for her unexacting part, and with a slightly more imposing swagger of hat and spur than he usually carried, marched into the large room where Sir Henry Verney and his lady awaited their dinner.
Inside, he swept off his hat and bowed with the courteous deference of a man who would crave permission to intrude where he has every right to be. Lady Verney was idly turning over the pages of a month old Register with no pretence of interest, and glancing at the gallant figure in the doorway bowed slightly in response; Sir Henry, who was dozing before the fire, pulled himself up in his chair and said ungraciously, "I understood, sir, that we were to enjoy the privilege of a private sitting-room."
"I am entirely at your command, sir," replied Will, smiling unabashed and advancing into the room. "It so happens that at this season it is customary, it appears, to furbish up the 'Dragon' against the busy time which it enjoys in the spring, and from this cause all the other rooms are now in a state of uninhabitable confusion. This one is either private or public as the occasion demands, but if my presence is distasteful there is doubtless a fire and a chair in the kitchen where I"
"Oh no!" cried the lady impulsively, while Sir Henry mumbled what passed for an assent, and again settled himself down to his nap. Bowing again with the ceremony which the occasion required, Will took his seat at a small table and turned to Mary, who had followed him into the room and now stood asking what he would be pleased to require for dinner.
"What should one require?" he replied sharply. "Have I not come fifteen miles out of my way over the most atrocious turnpikes south of Oxford to taste another Swafton pie? I gave my order to your mistress half an hour ago; since when has the 'Dragon' fallen to saving itself the trouble of making them by putting off its guests with readier fare?"
At these words Sir Henry betrayed signs of interest, and when the maid had left the room in evident confusion, he turned to Will with a much more conciliatory manner than he had yet displayed. "Sir," he remarked after a moment's hesitation, "I heard you refer just now to a Swafton pie, for which, I gather, this place is noted?"
"It is, sir," replied Will carelessly. "The Swafton pie of the 'Dragon' is considered by connoisseurs to be unequalled for delicacy of flavour and for the choice blending of ingredients."
"But, of course," remarked the lady, who was by no means desirous of being kept at a country inn so that her husband's palate might be satisfied, "one can easily obtain it elsewhere—in town."
"On the contrary, madam," replied Will, "not the two proverbial inducements of love and money could procure it even for you—so you see how impossible it then is. Not only do some of the essential flavouring herbs grow in Swafton alone, but there is a secret in the cooking which has been a 'Dragon' heirloom for generations."
"Why was this not" began Sir Henry.
"It is a perverse and vexatious dish, taking the entire attention of one," suggested Will.
"Nevertheless, sir," cried the baronet, "it is infamous that I"
"But if you would permit me to make a suggestion," continued Will, "I would venture to offer a solution. I have already trespassed upon your retirement: if you, sir, and your lady"—more elaborate ceremony—"would do me the honour of joining me and satisfying your natural curiosity I should be gratified beyond measure, and assured that I am not thrusting my company upon you. The Swafton pies, take my word, sir, are all royal in dimensions and this one will now be well upon its way."
Sir Henry hemmed once or twice and looked up; his wife smiled very faintly and looked down.
"Really, sir." said the gentleman. "If you are quite sure, sir," murmured the lady.
Will did not wait for further encouragement; with the butt of his whip he struck the table soundly.
"Tell your mistress," he said when Mary appeared, "to remove from the oven everything that might possibly impair the flavour of the pie; also tell her that this lady and gentleman dine with me. The occasion demands the most scrupulous care," he added beamingly, turning to his guests.
It was several hours later when Will lifted himself into the saddle again after taking a half-mournful farewell of the lady and receiving a cordial one at the hands of the baronet. The dinner had been an eminent success, for a December day's drive across the plains gives a healthy craving to even the most fastidious, and however remiss the larder of the "Dragon" may have been, its cellars and garden had proved themselves to be beyond reproach. Curiously enough, Mr. Heron's political views happened to coincide exactly with those of Sir Henry, and they applauded Fox and execrated the Alliance in harmonious unison. Furthermore, the emotions with which a man sits down to a denied repast are very different from those with which he would regard a humbly proffered dish of broken meat flavoured with herbs. Both Sir Henry and his wife declared enthusiastically that they had never tasted anything like it (which was more than probable), and thereat the blushing hostess had to present herself to receive their congratulations.
As Will cantered back along the road he had come a few hours earlier he turned half round to catch a glimpse of the lights behind him at the last point they showed upon his path. "Its own reward!" he murmured whimsically, repeating to himself the last gay words with which he had put aside the landlady's heartfelt thanks. And truly, when he came to reckon it up, his generous service and resource carried little to a material credit; for his timely rescue of the "Dragon's" honour cost Will Heron just two thousand guineas, that sum being the (unset) value of the diamond necklace which, as his information went, Lady Verney was carrying back to town with her.
The "Dragon" has long passed away, but before it sank into its final stage of senile decrepitude it enjoyed an era of prosperity which overshadowed all its former glories. Gradually it began to be known that at the "Dragon" of Swafton, and nowhere else, was to be obtained a certain pie of exquisite flavour and secret condiments. Sir Henry Verney carried the fame of them round about town and all the most celebrated cooks went to the "Dragon" in their spare time, unsuccessfully endeavouring to detect the wonderful herb to which the dish was said to owe its piquancy. When, in 1795, Pitt declared in the House of Commons that an apparently attractive measure brought forward hastily was "like a Swafton pie, which we are asked to swallow without full knowledge of its contents," the fame of the "Dragon" may be taken as at its zenith and its yard became a fashionable meeting-place for coach parties who had driven over from London and from Oxford. Tradition of the road asserts that the Prince fell an early victim to the appetising air from the hills and the flavour of the pie, and might be seen at least once a month driving Mrs. Fitzherbert thither in a curricle, but with mere rumour this narrative has no concern.
Sandgate, 1898.