THE SCARECROW RIDES (14 page)

In the same spirit the women of the village banded together to
undertake, under the direction of the ladies at New Hall, all those
necessary comforts that only women can supply, such as the making and
fitting of new curtains, fresh furniture covers, and all the stitchings
and sewings necessary for a well-regulated, comfortable house. Their
labours did not end there, for Dr. Syn, inspired by this general
generosity, opened a subscription list, heading it himself with the sum
of seventy guineas, which he took for the purpose from the
sea-captain's belt. Over this transaction his conscience was more or
less clear, since the captain had told him during the voyage that
having no relations or dependants, he was hard put to it as to whom he
should leave his money, and supposing that the best remedy would be to
have it divided amongst his crew, should death claim him. Keeping seven
guineas back to pay for the captain's special burial, he entered one
more guinea as coming from the savings of Mr. Merry, much to that
rogue's disgust, since he would sooner have spent it on himself in the
bar-parlour. This extra windfall enabled the committee of women to set
about ordering new sets of household utensils, so that when Meg should
start life afresh she would be equipped with the best copper, brass and
pewter and china that a good housekeeper would delight in.

A suggestion made by one Josiah Wraight, who as master builder to
the works of the Lords of the Level, carried full weight, was that
since the same storm which had destroyed the tavern had also wrecked
the brig and brought the two in such close proximity, the timber that
was necessary to bind the house together should be taken from the brig,
whose keel had originally been laid down in teak with ribs of solid
oak, so strong, in fact, that they had withstood even the fire which
destroyed the cargo. The idea appealed to the squire, who was thus
saved the heavy expense of wood and cartage. So that very day the work
of restoration was put in hand, everybody vying to do a little more
than the next.

In the meantime, Dr. Syn made good his boast to the housekeeper, for
having visited Meg and talked to her, she became more reconciled to her
fate and actually began to take an interest in the new life ahead of
her, which the kindness of the village was making possible. Her
confidence in Dr. Syn even lessened her dread of Merry, and she somehow
believed his assertion that she need have no fear of any further
molestation in that quarter.

“I have always found,” he told her kindly, “that in the worst sinner
there is some hidden quality of goodness, and although this misguided
man seems from all accounts to have little to recommend him, I am not
despairing of finding some point of contact from which to work towards
making him a better citizen.”

This was very comforting to her, as she had no suspicion of Dr.
Syn's real opinion, which did not tally with the above sentiment, for
as he told himself: “The man's a blackguard and will always be a
blackguard. He is also dangerous. I know the type. He will be like a
wild beast at bay. He will comfort himself with thoughts of revenge,
and the first chance he gets against me, he will take. For two ends he
will strive. A knife in my back and this pretty widow in his arms. At
present, I have got him on the raw, and mighty useful he may be, but I
shall not underestimate the power of his hatred.”

This self-advice the doctor kept to himself, so that all his
well-wishers, from the squire down, began to warn him not to attempt
any conversion with the rogue Merry, as he was beyond redemption.

The rogue in question was at the moment more than living up to Dr.
Syn's private estimation of him. In a spirit of savage recklessness, he
expended the whole of his guinea upon strong drink, laying in a stock
of more brandy than he had ever hidden at one time in his room. He felt
happier when the guinea was gone, for it only served to remind him of
how fate had cheated him on the previous night. All the day he drank,
and hoped that his tormentor would give him a call, for the command to
appear at morning prayer the next day was a bitter thought which he
would have been glad to avoid. He would sooner have spent a week in the
Court House cells, and more than once he thought of ignoring the order.
And yet, partly through fear of the devilish survivor whom he hated
with all his soul, and partly through curiosity to find out who and
what he was, he at last came to the conclusion that to go to church for
at least this once was the only course to take. His vanity recoiled
from the sneers that such an action would bring upon him. He knew very
well that everyone's eyes would be upon him. It would be bad enough if
they welcomed this gesture of turning over a new leaf, but it would be
worse if they sneered. He could hear their tongues wagging as first one
gossip then another gave out their ideas of his motive. Well, he would
keep them guessing at all events. What was more, he would go unshaven
and half drunk, and if any of the church officials interfered with him,
it would be at their own peril.

Sunday morning found Merry awakening early from a drunken sleep. The
injury to his head where he had been dashed against the stone, and
which he had but carelessly tended, added to the pains caused by
alcohol. True to his resolve, he neither shaved, washed nor brushed his
dirt-grimed and sea-watered clothes, and his only preparation for
attending the church service was a further soaking of brandy. Realising
that hymns, prayers, psalms, sermon and the Scripture reading, although
bringing comfort to such fools as could swallow such 'jargon,' as he
called it, could, would and should have no power whatever over him
unless to depress him the worse, he took in the pocket of his
great-coat a handy bottle of brandy.

The drink by this time had filled him with such concentrated hatred
of the whole parish, that he began to hug the thought of making them
disgusted. He knew that the church would be crammed to capacity, for
the morbid curiosity of a funeral oration would attract those who
seldom went, so he thought. That most of the parish did go to church he
merely put down as 'toadying to the squire' and 'playing up for
parochial relief in lean times.' No one did anything for nothing was
his firm belief. He quite looked forward to hearing the preacher,
whoever he might be, lamenting the death of the parson and Abel
Clouder. Abel Clouder especially. He wondered whether the preacher
would say: “Now why has God in His mysterious way, thought fit to take
our brother Abel to His bosom?”

“Well if he does,” said Merry to himself, “I'm damned if I don't
give him the answer. 'Why, says you?' I'll say, standing up in my place
and producing my brandy, 'why, so as I can marry his widow, of course,
you old fat-head. And here's to Meg and me and damnation to the rest of
you.'“

This speech gave him such a relief to his feelings, and caused him
so much amusement in a grim fashion, that he really began to look
forward to the service, so much so that a dread arose in his mind that
the mere fact of his being drunk might prevent him gaining admittance.
He resolved, therefore, to start immediately so that he would be on the
spot to slip in quietly as soon as the sexton opened the doors. This
would also do away with the unpleasant necessity of entering a filled
church and being stared and frowned at while staggering to a seat.

So without more ado he made his unsteady way to the churchyard
where, crouched behind a tombstone, he took sundry more nips at the
bottle and kept one of his swimming eyes upon the church door.

At last, the sexton arrived with his keys to admit the three
bell-ringers. As soon as the bells began to ring, he crept from his
hiding place, for he knew that very soon the churchyard would be
filling up with village gossips. The sexton was busy in the vestry, and
the bell-ringers were hidden by a curtain, so that the rogue was able
to take his bearings undisturbed. He avoided the family pews, and after
experimenting one or two remote corners, his choice was in favour of a
bench beneath a window where he could lean back against the angle of
the wall which supported the great three-decker pulpit with its mighty
sounding board. This position gave him the advantage of being more or
less out of the general eye, and yet giving him a good view of the
pulpit, and of the south door through which the congregation would
enter. Therefore, he could watch for the man who had robbed him of the
murdered captain's guineas. No doubt he would accompany the squire, and
it was easy to see which was the squire's pew, as none others had those
great red velvet cushions for the well-bound books. By the pile of
ragged books that were heaped upon his bench, some of which had been
defaced by crude and comical pencil sketches, he gathered that he was
sitting in one of the school children's pews. Well, all the better. If
they crowded too close to him, he'd pinch their legs.

In order to conceal himself the better, he wound his scarf about his
face and turned up the high collar of his heavy coat. This was, after
all, natural enough. In many of the seats which were too far removed
from the squire's pew to enjoy the heat of the coal fire built inside
it, those worshipers who were afraid of catching cold would tuck up
their collars, or bundle their chilly chins into their cravats. But in
his extreme desire to escape notice, Merry, in ignorance of church
ritual, or rather custom, for 'ritual' still smacked of Popery, did the
very thing to make himself the most conspicuous person in the
congregation, in that he pulled his old three-cornered hat well down
upon his brows. But as the congregation began to dribble in and then
crowd in, no one took it upon himself to cross to Merry's corner and
remove his hat, but each one stared at him and whispered to his
neighbour: “He's got his hat on. Disgraceful.”

And from beneath this hat which was such an offence to God and man,
Merry watched for his arch-enemy, but in vain. There was no sign of
that nameless one who could throw knives so cunningly. The awful
thought occurred to him that he had left Dymchurch while he had been
soaking in brandy: that the elegant and terrifying stranger had gone
for ever, taking his sea-chest and the captain's guineas (his, Merry's,
guineas) with him. The squire and his family were all in their places,
and still no sign of the man he sought. Late comers came in timidly,
looked this way and that, and then scuttled to the corner of the pews
like frightened rabbits. Up and down the aisle went the Dymchurch
beadle, resplendent in his brass-buttoned capes. Until the officiating
parson took his place, it was the province of the beadle to thus walk
up and down suppressing anything in the nature of whisperings from the
adults and anything resembling giggles from the children. Upon this
occasion the whisperings and sniggerings were more apparent than ever
the worthy beadle could remember. Determined to find out the cause of
it (for he had not yet noticed Merry's headgear) he looked around for a
likely victim to use as the parish scapegoat. This 'looking around' was
purely an affectation on the part of the beadle, assumed to lend more
importance to his final decision, which was always the pew next the
south door. This pew, although not one of those annually rented to a
particular family, was however always occupied by the same tenants,
three young men, the eldest twenty-two, the second twenty and the third
eighteen, brothers by the name of Upton. These three young blades were
acknowledged to be the bucks of the village and the very life and soul
of it. The pew which they commandeered by the simple expedient of one
getting there early to hold the fort against all comers, was most
conveniently placed for smiling at the young ladies as they entered the
south door. To these three had been bequeathed an 'odds and ends'
depository in the village known as 'The Curiosity Museum. Everything
for sale. Proprietors, Upton Brothers. Art Connoisseurs.' The last word
they had captured from a French prisoner of war, who had given dancing
classes to the ladies of the Marsh. Since all the merry mischief and
innocent pranks of the village originated from one or another of these
three swashbucklers, the beadle, when in doubt about any scandal,
whether in church or out of it, approached the fountain head for
information. In other words, he questioned the Uptons, who never failed
to send him on a wild goose chase. Quick to observe the field of battle
where the beadle was concerned, they, like experienced generals, could
make up their minds quickly for the best advantage. The advantage as
they now saw it, was that the unmitigated blackguard, Merry, alone on
his bench, was isolated from the congregation by a crowd of school
children who occupied the next pews, leaving Merry to himself for very
fear of him, that he was not only far gone in liquor, but was defying
the rule of Christianity by wearing his hat. When, therefore, they
informed the beadle that the hat in question was offending the whole
church, they wondered whether the beadle would have sufficient courage
to order its removal.

Certainly, the beadle strode off like a Goliath of Gath intending to
do battle, but perceiving a threatening look in Merry's eye and
realising that in the midst of children he was in an enemy's camp, he
contented himself with prodding a small boy in the back with his
official staff and telling him to get up off his hassock and sit down.
His inability to tackle Merry was naturally received as a great jest by
the Uptons, and many were the dumb-show signals that went from their
pew to those of their friends.

Now it was a time-honoured custom in Dymchurch that whatever the
hour, the moment the squire was seen to settle down in his pew, the
bell-ringers should cease to pull. This was a polite way of deceiving
the parish that the squire was nothing if not punctual. The silence
after the jangle of bells had ceased, accentuated the intrusion of the
smallest noise, and left the whole congregation in a somewhat nervous
tension.