THE SCARECROW RIDES (10 page)

Charlotte nodded. She was the eldest, a beautiful blonde of
nineteen. She wondered just how much she was going to miss the young
parson, whom she had been content to mother because no other treatment
had been possible, because it never entered the parson's head that it
might be.

Maria, of seventeen, fair like her sister, and Cicely of fifteen,
somewhat darker, had not quite realised the tragedy of the evening. It
did not occur to them that the young parson had gone for ever. They
knew something had happened, but her ladyship had told Charlotte not to
tell them till the morning, and at present they were both thrilled with
this strange man that had come up from the sea.

Charlotte, though experiencing a numbed feeling of bereavement which
she hardly tried to understand, felt also a strange thrill in the
presence of this newcomer. The pale, tragic face, the sad smile that
was so ingratiating. “Yes,” thought Charlotte, 'here is a man, a sad
lonely man, who is unselfish enough to appear jolly, but a man of whom
any woman in the world would feel proud.”

Dr. Syn surprised the look that such thoughts wrote upon her
guileless face, and he read an interest there, an admiration innocent
enough, but yet a warning to him of something which this girl, the
daughter of his friend and patron would never know, and it was this
look that influenced him that very night to take a certain course. But
this was after the household had settled down to quiet after the
excitement of the storm. The physician had left his patient in Lady
Cobtree's care, who had arranged to share the watches with Charlotte
and the old housekeeper. After another bottle of port between the three
of them, Pepper at length went home and the squire carried Dr. Syn's
candles into his room.

“It's strange, too,” said the squire, “that the servants got ready
his
room. I didn't mean to tell you, but I see you would have found
it out.”

The squire pointed to a wig and gown that hung behind the door. “He
brought home the wig to have it dressed, I suppose, for he would only
wear it in the church, and there only as a badge of his office. But why
did he bring the Geneva gown? He always put that on just before
preaching.”

“He tore it on the chancel rail last Sunday, Papa. I noticed it and
told him to bring it back for me to mend.”

They turned and saw Charlotte standing in the doorway with a black
coat over her arm.

“And what are you doing here, miss?” asked her father.

“I have been mending the sleeve of Dr. Syn's coat. I noticed it was
badly torn when they were drying it, so I thought I had better do it at
once. You will find the rest of your clothes hanging up. They are dry.”

“That's very kind of you,” said the doctor, taking the coat and
examining the damage. “Now that is very beautifully done, Miss
Charlotte. I have had to learn to work with a needle myself out of
necessity, so I know when I see a thing done better.”

“So you are starting in already to mother the doctor, are you,
miss?” laughed the squire.

This had been a daily joke with the squire over the young parson,
and it had never affected Charlotte. So that she was the more puzzled
and perhaps annoyed that the same old joke with reference to Dr. Syn
should make her blush. To hide this, she walked away to hang up the
coat which Dr. Syn had put down on a chair.

“It seems that someone must mother the poor gentleman,” she laughed,
“for he very cleverly thinks of a way to save his sea-chest there, and
then forgets to unpack it. I suppose you know, Doctor, that your
clothes in there are most likely to be wringing wet.”

The doctor shook his head. “I suppose my nice new young mother will
be very disgusted to hear that my sea-chest is full of old books. My
clothes, other than I swam ashore in, I am afraid were all destroyed in
the fire, for they were hanging in my cabin. But I have a few guineas
that will take me to the tailors.”

“But your precious books?” she asked.

“All wrapped round in oilskin, my dear,” he chuckled. Besides, I can
assure you that this is a sea-chest worthy of the name. I have known it
dropped into a river, and when rescued the contents were bone dry.”

“What things you have seen,” whispered Charlotte with awe.

“Well, yes, but there's not much to see in an old chest being fished
out of the river. I'll perhaps tell you a real story one day. An
exciting one.”

“Do,” she answered. “Were there crocodiles in the river?”

“And now off to bed,” commanded the squire. “If you are not sitting
with the invalid, you ought to be sleeping.”

“Good night, Tony's daughter,” said Dr. Syn, bowing over her hand.
Then he straightened himself and laying both hands gently on her firm
young shoulders, he smiled, and kissed her on the cheek, saying: “Good
night, little mother.”

Once more Charlotte found herself blushing, so with a hurried
curtsey she left the room.

“You have nice children, Tony,” remarked Dr. Syn.

“Wait till you see young Dennis in the morning,” replied the squire,
glowing with pride. “In the meanwhile, I think here is all you require
save to be left alone to sleep. I ordered a cool jug of small beer for
you. It is refreshing if one should wake, though I doubt not you'll
sleep well enough.” He opened a door in the oak panelling. “This is the
powder closet. Why, the blockhead put the beer there. The worst spot
for a beverage. Powder dust as a 'head'. Not that much powder has been
scattered here since poor Bolden had this room. He thought it an
affectation if he thought of it at all. Once he reproved my
Charlotte—the only time, I think. He found her dressing his clerical
wig. It's a good wig, she says, though you'd never notice it. Poor
Bolden had no vanities, except perhaps in his swimming. See, I'll put
the jug here beside the bed. Poor Bolden. It seems the text has been
reversed, Doctor, 'The Lord as taken away, but the Lord gives'. Much as
I regret the passing of poor Bolden, and a splendid passing it was, I
thank God for your happy restoration, Doctor.” And with a few more
fervent good nights and God bless you's, the squire went to the door.

Before closing it, he pointed to another door. “That, by the way,
leads into the next room, but it is locked and bolted. However, should
the logs jump out of your fireplace and set fire to the room, you can
get out through this door or through the powder chest. To-morrow we'll
inspect the vicarage and you can see what you want before you settle
in. I'll write to the Archbishop. Of course, you are welcome to live
here if you would, but I think you should keep the vicarage up for your
own dignity. Besides, as you say, you want your own library. Well,
we'll talk of it more to-morrow—good night.”

“God bless you,” replied Dr. Syn, and after listening to the
retreating footsteps he tiptoed across the room and very quietly locked
and bolted the door.

The squire went off to his room and did not notice that the outer
door of Syn's powder closet was wide open, and as for the doctor, he
never gave it a thought, but it was the means of giving food for
thought to Charlotte Cobtree for a long time to come.

Charlotte had taken over her mother's watch at Meg's bedside,
pleading that she felt strangely awake and could not sleep if she
tried, so on the understanding that she would wake Mrs. Lovell, the
housekeeper, in two hours' time, she had been allowed her wish.

Outwardly she busied herself with feeding the fire and creeping to
the bedside whenever the poor girl stirred in her sleep, but all the
time her inward thoughts were far busier, and it was the new guest that
filled them. That his vivid personality thrilled her was not
surprising, for as she told herself, this old friend of her father's
was very different from gentlemen of the district. He was a romantic
figure. He had lived a romantic life. But Charlotte had always prided
herself upon her good sense, and she told herself it was folly to fall
in love with a man so much older than herself at first sight. He was
middle-aged, and from his conversation with her father, she knew that
he had come to Dymchurch with a view of settling down. This indicated
to her youthful mind that the man had wilfully put the best years of
his life behind him. Dymchurch was a good living as livings went and
her father, she knew, was a good patron, none better, but surely it was
strange that this forceful stranger should be content to forego all
ambition of making a stir in his profession. He was a Doctor of Oxford
University. He had a fascinating voice, full of colour and distinction.
When she had served him at supper, the red quilted dressing-gown, which
she always thought looked rather ridiculous when the squire wore it,
became an imposing costume. He lent it an elegance that was somehow
royal. Such a man could get anywhere in any profession, and she had
never seen a parson, even amongst the dignitaries of Canterbury, who
could compare at all favourably with this dashing gentleman. Why, then,
did he want to bury himself in Romney Marsh? Why did she think of him
with such a swift beating of her heart? Why had she blushed when he had
praised her needlework? And why had she blushed when he kissed her? Why
did this extraordinary joy that she felt in his arrival override the
sadness for the young parson's death and Meg Clouder's tragedy? Why
could she think of no one else but this new inmate of the parson's
room? Had he thought of her at all? If only he were thinking of her
now.

And he was, but not quite in the way she wished.

He thought first of all about her advice concerning the contents of
his chest. She was right. Everything should be taken out and dried. He
was alone, and could not be disturbed till morning, and a splendid wood
fire burned in the grate. He slipped the corded key over his head and
fitted it into the lock. It turned easily and he blessed the locksmith
whose work had not been damaged by salt water. He pulled the chest
towards the fire and raised the iron lid. Inside was a second chest of
teak reinforced with brass, and the inner one did not fit to the iron
sides but was held in place by iron springs that gripped it tightly,
and the small space between iron and wood was packed tightly with
oakum, so that should any damp get through the outer iron case this
caulking would absorb it before reaching the wood. A second lock on the
top of this lid was unfastened by the same key and two doors could be
lifted and opened out sideways. The interior of this second chest was
packed tightly with various compartments, and in all, the packing was
worthy of the chest. Carefully covered with a velvet pad and lying taut
in a grooved tray was a pair of silver-hilted long swords with
magnificent scabbards and carriages. In another corner, a case of
pistols. Of the books he had spoken of so much there were but a few,
and all bound round with oilskin to preserve their bindings. A Bible.
The plays of Shakespeare. A volume on navigation. The works of Don
Quevedo in Spanish. A book of Tillotson's sermons, and a Homer. All
these he carefully spread out upon the hearth-rug to dry, though there
appeared no sort of dampness on any. A brass telescope and a boxed
sextant had their own departments, and when all these had been removed
a tray for clothes, neatly strapped in place. This he propped against a
chair close to the fire. The lowest department was tightly packed with
bundles and bags. Dr. Syn's sensitive fingers tapped them one by one,
as though recalling their contents to mind. Lifting out one of the bags
in order to get the end of another package clear, a pleasant chink of
coin came to his ears. The package was heavy and he weighed it lovingly
in his hands, but he did not remove the piece of red flannel that was
wrapped round it. In shape, it resembled a long brick, but was vastly
heavier. He turned it over, patting the flannel and satisfied that it
was bone-dry placed it back again.

Dr. Syn stood up and surveyed his property. It represented all his
worldly goods, but having reminded himself of the contents, and being
assured that nothing was missing, his face bore a look of infinite
satisfaction. His next employment was to examine the Geneva gown of his
predecessor. Slipping off the quilted dressing-gown he put the gown
over his head. Although quite full in the body, it was too short in the
arms and legs, but he thought that for a village pulpit this would not
greatly matter. By the open door of the powder closet there stood a
tall pier glass. Holding the lighted candle, he surveyed himself, and
appeared dissatisfied. Not with himself—for Dr. Syn had his vanities,
though in company taking pains to hide them—but in the general effect
towards which he was working. There is no colour that can compare with
black or white for a striking effect, especially contrasted with those
of brilliance. Amid the garish court of King Claudius, the inky cloak
and suit of solemn black rivets all eyes upon the solitary Hamlet. So
thought Dr. Syn as he surveyed his pale face and raven locks that fell
upon the shoulders of the Geneva gown. “My appearance like this in the
Dymchurch pulpit will be too striking. People will be curious about me
and talk, and if I preach as I know I can, the authorities will be
preferring me to a pulpit of more importance. No, it won't do, my dear
friend.”

Thus he addressed himself to his reflection. True, a doctor of
Oxford can reasonably be expected to cut a figure above the ordinary,
but as he told himself in the glass: “In my case, it is dangerous!” The
thought of his degree gave him an idea, and he went to the tray of
clothes that had been warming by the fire. He unpacked his scarlet hood
which had accompanied him on all his travels, put it on, surveyed it
critically and shook his head. “It's the hair. It suits the face too
well. It gives a romantic environment to the owner.” He criticised his
reflection as though it were a second party. “Tony's girl, Charlotte,
gave me the warning of it, for the sweet girl had not the skill to
disguise her thoughts, and it won't do. There must be no romance.
Nothing of note beyond the ordinary. My degree will raise me
dangerously enough above my fellow vicars, therefore I must tone myself
down to keep the balance. If I am to lie low here, I must not be too
conspicuous. I must be a leaf lying in a forest of leaves, a stone upon
a stony beach. Above all, there must be no woman to play Delilah to my
Samson in the time to come. My secrets are too dangerous.”