THE SCARECROW RIDES (13 page)

“Perhaps not,” he allowed. “But in order to relieve my feelings, I
take up my pen and write to one, of at least five Redskins that I can
think of straight away. I tell this good Redskin of the many wrongs
done to me by the enemy. I tell it just in the matter of news,
expecting nothing from it but his sympathy when reading it. What
happens? My friend the Redskin goes to his people and begs absence. He
goes to the length of settling his affairs in case he does not return.
Then one day, some weeks later, maybe even some months later to account
for delay, but certainly when I have forgotten the incident of writing,
there walks into Dymchurch a Redskin in full chieftain's dress. Rich
furs, leather and feathers. The village school children run to watch
him. He asks them in slow, dignified English where he can find his
friend, Dr. Syn. They tell him. They take the excuse to walk with him,
though keeping their distance. We embrace like brothers. I prepare my
best guest-chamber. My housekeeper thinks of dainties. The school
children, finding he is my friend and kind, sit round him listening to
his stories, Indian ghost stories, while he makes them bows and arrows.
My housekeeper gives him a fire as you give me one here. He can have
all we have, and for a sign of trust I give him the big key of the
house door when I have locked up. He takes an interest in all I do. He
asks me the names of such villagers that we see. 'That lady is Mrs.
Lovell,' I tell him, 'and she is housekeeper to Squire and Lady
Cobtree. That officer is the Preventive man.' And so on. Unknown to me,
he leads me on talking and telling him of people until he finds out
that Mr. Merry (I think we agreed on Mr. Merry, didn't we) that Mr.
Merry is my enemy. He soon knows all about Mr. Merry's habits and
tracks. At last my Redskin says it is time to return to his people. He
will go the next day. He has booked a passage from Dover to Falmouth,
and will then re-ship for New York or Jamestown. I fall asleep or lie
awake on getting to bed. It makes no difference. I should not hear that
silent footstep, that crawling down the stairs in the dark. But my
friend has gone down with the key in his hand, a tomahawk in the other,
and a knife in his teeth. He has left his feathers and finery in the
room. He is naked and covered in oil to make him slippery. Also, he has
put queer paint signs on his face to show the ghosts of his ancestors
that he is on the war path and fighting to the death for his sworn
brother. Perhaps I wake up and look out upon the churchyard and in the
moonlight. Well, if I do, I see nothing. And yet there he is gliding
from one tombstone to another and so over the wall and about his
business. Next morning he is sad at leaving me but otherwise quite
normal. I tell him he will soon see his squaw and children, and I have
packed presents for them all, which I give him on the ship in Dover
Roads. Just as I am about to leave the ship he gives me thanks for my
hospitality and begs me to accept a package which is not to be opened
till I am alone in my room with a locked door. He sails. I go home. I
go to my room, lock the door and open my package. I will not shock you
by telling you what I find, but I bury it deep in the garden beneath
the heap of leaf mould. The next day, I am told by the gossips that Mr.
Merry is missing. Indeed, he had mysteriously disappeared, leaving no
word behind him. He is never found.”

“And what did you bury, sir?” whispered Mrs. Lovell.

“His scalp, Mrs. Lovell. His scalp,” he whispered more fearfully.
“Mind you, this is only supposition. I am merely saying 'supposing I
should write to that Indian.” I have told you the certain result of
such a letter if I did. A Redskin sworn brother will go all the way to
serve his friend. I therefore imagine that my experiences among such
people during my long ministry abroad will enable me to deal with your
Mr. Merry. Don't worry.”

The reappearance of Robert forced Mrs. Lovell to retire.

“Excuse me, your reverence, but I didn't like to mention it before
the housekeeper, and it may still seem a liberty, but have you tucked
your hair up into your nightcap?”

“What's left of it, Robert. It's not much, and you must deal with
it.”

“But you had a very striking head of hair, sir. You've never cut it
off?”

“I have indeed, Robert,” replied Dr. Syn. “The ministry in America
is not the same as it is here. I wore my own hair there for
convenience. But in England it is meet and right that I wear the
orthodox badge of my calling—a parson's wig, so if you'll shave and
polish my skull, Robert, I'll be ready for breakfast at half-past nine.
I am sure my predecessor will not grudge me the use of his wig.”

“But sir, have you considered that a bald head is ageing?” pleaded
Robert. “You will put on a great many years if you shave your head and
wear a wig of this kind.”

“My good Robert, that is just what I require,” replied Dr. Syn
quietly. “I am a Doctor of Divinity. I am about to accept the pulpit of
Dymchurch. I have got a confounded sense of humour which must be hidden
or my flock will not believe in me. I am here to do good, Robert, to be
what I am expected to be, and to attempt to cut a romantic figure would
not be in accordance with my calling. Shave my head, Robert.”

At half-past nine Dr. Syn entered the old dining-room to find the
three young ladies in possession. They were all kneeling on the
hearth-rug, each armed with a brass toasting-fork on which were impaled
rounds of bread.

“Good morning, young ladies,” he said, bowing in the doorway.

They all turned and looked at him, and it was obvious that they were
struck dumb with surprise.

To anyone less self-possessed than Dr. Syn, the focus of three pairs
of beautiful eyes looking over three bread-loaded toasting-forks, might
have proved disconcerting, but the dumbness of the young ladies gave
him the assurance that he had altered his appearance sufficiently to
surprise them.

“Why,” cried the doctor, “you all look at me as though I were a
stranger. Must I introduce myself all over again? I am Christopher Syn,
Doctor of Divinity, late fellow of Queen's College, Oxford. I have just
returned from a travelling ministry in America, and according to your
father's positive assertion, I am to be installed as the new vicar of
Dymchurch. Do you imagine that the happenings of last night were a
dream?”

“But you're not a scrap what you were,” stammered Miss Maria.

“You've changed in the night,” echoed Miss Cicely.

“You look like the father of the ship-wrecked man,” said Maria.

“Did you hear a witch in the night?” asked Cicely. “They ride on the
Marsh, you know. There's one old woman we can show you who really
is
a witch.”

“Have I changed then so much?” asked Dr. Syn.

“Utterly,” exclaimed Cicely.

“And grown older?”

“Years and years,” replied Maria.

“Dear, dear, how distressing,” sighed Dr. Syn. “And what does Miss
Charlotte think?”

“That my sisters are being very personal,” she answered, smiling.

“But have you no criticism to add?” he asked. “I like to hear
opinions. Please be personal too.”

“Well then, I think you must give me your wig to dress.”

“But surely,” he argued, “one seldom sees a parson in a well-kept
wig.”

“One seldom sees a parson with a gay rose in his lapel,” she
answered mischievously.

Dr. Syn was saved from further attack by the arrival of the squire,
who immediately became a new target for his daughters' criticism by
reason of his being dressed in his bright red hunting coat, to which he
was very partial.

“You mustn't be seen in that with the whole village mourning,” said
Maria.

“But I was going riding, and I have nothing so comfortable,” pleaded
the squire. “I thought Charlotte might stitch a black ribbon to the
sleeve.”

“I don't believe it entered your head, Father,” said Charlotte
reprovingly.

“On my honour it did, at least, I think it did,” retorted the
squire. “I confess that I don't feel so melancholy as I might have done
had the wreck not brought us the doctor here. And my faith, he is
dressed solemn enough to make up our deficiencies.”

“As I have already been told by your daughters,” laughed the doctor.
“But surely, just because I have been in America you would not expect
me to dress here like a Red Indian or a buccaneer?”

“I liked you best as you were last night, all wild and odd and wet,”
declared Cicely.

“But you surely wouldn't have me preach all 'wild and odd and wet'?”
asked the doctor. “I'd catch my death of cold in the pulpit.”

“Which we both shall, if you young rascals keep us from the fire
much longer.”

“Toast,” cried the three young ladies, swinging their neglected
rounds of bread toward the flames.

“Besides, there's plenty of room,” added Maria.

“Thank you, but I don't give any little minx a chance to set fire to
my coat-tails behind my back,” laughed the squire. “I'll just cast my
eyes over the sideboard and see what's what. Do you eat porridge,
Doctor, because we ring for that? Personally, I'm going to.”

“Who said he was going to give it up because it was fattening?”
asked Cicely, looking at the toast.

“I'm not,” retorted the squire. “I mean, I did, but I didn't mean
it. If a squire can't grow fat, well who can? Besides, a good ride will
slim me down again. Now then, plenty of butter on that toast, girls,
and—” he was interrupted by Robert and an ancient butler bringing in a
huge tureen of porridge, plates and milk.

Charlotte had been right in describing breakfast as a “moveable
feast,' which it was not only in time but action. Lady Cobtree came in
twenty minutes later with excuses that she had been inducing the
invalid to eat, but apart from this, while the squire sat solidly
sampling first one dish and then another and washing it down with brown
ale, which he preferred to tea, one or the other of the young ladies
was jumping up and carrying this or that from the sideboard, so that
Dr. Syn began to wonder how soon he would become as portly as the
squire.

“Why, this is jolly, upon my soul,” cried the squire, attacking a
large plate of home-smoked ham. “It's like old times. Seems only
yesterday, Doctor, that you and I sat next to each other in college and
ate as hearty as we're doing now.”

“Yesterday?” repeated Dr. Syn. “It seems longer to me, my dear Tony.
And during the time between, I have daily looked forward to the
possibility of this home-coming. When I look round your table here and
see you surrounded with so much goodness and beauty, not forgetting the
son-and-heir upstairs in his cot, why, I can see that looking back is
to you nothing but pleasure. But I prefer to look forward to the
pleasant times coming amongst you all. The past has not been so
pleasant that I wish to dwell in it. Rather do I thank God for this
hour.”

“Quite right, Doctor,” cried the squire. “I applaud your sentiments.
Let us help you to forget the past by making your present life as jolly
as we can, eh? For my part, I never remember feeling jollier in my
life.” And he smiled at another round of toast which Charlotte had
brought smoking from the fire to plaster it with rich home-made butter.

“I know you do, dear,” said Lady Cobtree. “Hardly a day has gone by
in our married life, Doctor, when my husband has not spoken of you,
wondered what you were doing and wishing you were here. You know that
we all welcome you as heartily as he does, Doctor, but I'm sure you'll
support my urging the necessity for keeping our jollity under control
till after the funeral. We must think of those poor bodies in the
barn.”

“Yes,” nodded the squire, “and I hear their numbers have been
doubled in the night. Three more found. That makes six, besides a heap
of bits and pieces.”

“Really, Tony, don't,” cried her ladyship.

“Well, there, Doctor,” sighed the squire. “Now what is a man to do?
She asks me not to be jolly. She mentions bodies and funerals, and
urges me to be miserable. But the moment I take a gloomy turn in the
conversation, it's 'Really, Tony, don't'!”

“My dear, you may be as jolly as you like here amongst ourselves,”
went on Lady Cobtree. “But even then we must remember the servants, and
the invalid. Now, dear, if you've finished breakfast, what's the order
of the day?”

“Well, we'll dispense with family prayers for the first thing, as
it's more than usually late,” returned the squire. “There's lots to do.
I thought some of us—you and I, eh, Doctor?—might stroll along and
see what damage the storm has done. Then, my dear Charlotte, I'll be
back for our ride at eleven o'clock. Now, Doctor, what about a horse
for you? I suppose you have ridden a lot in America?”

The doctor said he would enjoy it.

“Very well, then,” went on the squire. “Charlotte, will you see to
it? We'll ride Burmarsh way and see how our neighbours have fared.”

“And do see what can be done about the 'Sea-Wall Tavern,'“ said Lady
Cobtree. “From all I hear the place is uninhabitable. Poor Meg has got
it into her head that it is left unprotected and that Merry, of all
people, is rummaging about amongst her treasures.”

“Tell her that I've put responsible people in charge,” replied the
squire. “You can also tell her that I shall make it my business to see
that the house is restored. We'll all do what we can to make it a great
deal better than it was before, and if she intends carrying on the
business, why, we'll see it's well stocked with saleable liquor.”

This idea of the squire's strongly recommended itself to the
villagers, who one and all, and most readily, promised that as the
squire was ready to bear all necessary expense, they would at least
save him the cost of labour, and bind themselves voluntarily under the
most fitting foreman, to be elected, under whom they would carry out
all necessary labour.