THE SCARECROW RIDES (15 page)

Therefore, all this whispering, and the consultation of the beadle
with the Uptons, and his advance upon and inglorious retreat from the
scowling Merry were all the more marked. And so much was the general
attention focused on Merry's hat that no one seemed to mark the
entrance of the parson officiating in the place of the drowned vicar.
In fact, it was not until his rich voice resounded from the pulpit that
they realised anyone was there, and then even Merry's hat was
forgotten.

The first words of the sentence “When the wicked man” riveted the
attention of everyone, and by the end of the Exhortation this strange
parson, who it was now generally known had escaped from the wreck that
had killed the vicar, and who was not only staying at the Hall but was
rumoured to be the likely successor of poor Bolden, this arresting
personality who wore the scarlet hood of his doctorship over the black
silk gown, whose eyes seemed to burn with inward fire, had already
compelled the congregation to attend and respect him.

Scowling at the beadle, and furious that the man who had tricked him
of the guineas had also tricked him into attending church, Merry also
heard those words, “When the wicked man,” and they sounded in his ears
like a threat. He had heard that voice before, and he hated its calm,
superior aloofness, which gave it the right to command. Slowly his eyes
turned to the parson and slowly it dawned upon him that there in the
pulpit was his enemy. What was this insolent knife-throwing thief doing
up there? Had he got those two belts of guineas round his waist under
that black gown? As like as not. Aye and, the bit of string round his
neck with the silver key of the sea-chest.

All through the Exhortation the congregation stood. Merry, no longer
trying to escape since he knew that everyone whispered about him, yet
remained seated as a protest against 'all the hypocrisy,' as he thought
it. His rage against the parson was a thousand times more bitter than
against that adventurer on the sea-shore. To think he had been worsted
by a parson. And to think that this same parson was standing up to
teach and to preach. Well, he'd find he wasn't going to have it all his
own way. Into the fuddled brain came the idea of denouncing him there,
before all the parish. Asking him to explain how he came by the belt of
guineas? And before he could think of a fitting answer, to accuse him
of having robbed and murdered the captain. “If he accuses me of the
same thing, what reason could he give for having kept silent?” he asked
himself. Yes, he would then say: “Do you suppose if I'd done such a
thing, gentlemen, that he wouldn't have had me arrested? Of course.” He
couldn't look at him any more without doing it, and as the congregation
meekly obeyed him and knelt down, Merry, uttering an oath, sprang up.

Dr. Syn turned on him sharply, just as though he had been waiting
for this thing to happen, and in a quiet, kind voice he said: “Remove
your hat, my friend, in the House of God.”

“I will not,” cried Merry.

“Oh yes, you will—or—” Dr. Syn put his hand up to his throat quite
naturally, and smiled.

Merry saw inquisitive heads popping up here and there over the pews
to see what the interruption was about. In the distance he saw the
squire's face looking towards him, and he knew that whatever happened,
he would get the worst of it from these people who hated him. Better to
wait. He would get Meg first and then he would get the parson.

Hardly realising what he did, he pulled off his hat and dropped
down, crouching on to the hassock as though in prayer.

Dr. Syn went on with the service. Merry, under cover of the pew,
took a swig of brandy, then huddling himself into the corner, he shut
his eyes against the whole hateful parish and fell asleep.

When he awoke, the sermon was nearly over, but the little he heard
convinced him more than ever that his enemy was a powerful and clever
man. The congregation was so profoundly moved by his eloquence that he
found he was forgotten.

The service over, everyone crowded out after the Cobtree ladies
through the porch, for the squire had gone to the vestry. Merry sat
huddled in his corner, intending to wait till the parishioners
dispersed to their dinners.

The sexton avoided him and went to the vestry. The beadle had
already avoided him and followed the Uptons into the churchyard to see
what devilry they might not be up to.

But one man came along the aisle, and said: “Hallo.”

It was the Preventive Officer.

Merry answered with a grunt.

“A popular man, this Dr. Syn. The whole village is waiting for him
out in the churchyard. I wonder if he's going to be for me or against
me?”

“How should I know?” growled Merry.

“If he's for me, he'll lose his popularity quick, I know that,” said
the Preventive man.

“Still of the opinion that smuggling's going on then,” replied
Merry.

“So much so that I could have walked round this blessed church this
morning and clapped my hands on all that's in it,” declared the
officer.

“Then why didn't you do it?” demanded Merry. “I would, in your
shoes. I'd give much to have your chance of getting my own back on 'em.
Sneery lot of hypocrites. Oh, and make no mistake—they sneer at you
just as they do at me.”

“I know that,” nodded the other.

“Then string 'em up and sneer back,” retorted Merry. “Ain't you got
the laws of England and the whole blessed Constitootion at the back of
you?”

“I've no one at the back of me, I tell you. What's the good of
knowing who they are unless I can prove it, and how am I to prove it in
the Dymchurch Court House? There's only one man they'd let me hang, and
that's you.”

“Supposin' you had grounds, which you haven't,” corrected Merry.

“But I'll get 'em one day,” muttered the Preventive man.

“Aye, by God, and so will I,” cried Merry. “Suppose now I was to
give you the proof you wants.”

“It would have to be 'proof absolute,' with you as witness, or you'd
find yourself on the gallows before the lawyers had finished with you,
aye, and I'd find myself dismissed the service for making the
Government look foolish. No, it ain't so easy, my friend. There's some
cases where duty towards the Government is to is to keep the peace by
leavin' hornets' nests alone.”

“Bah,” cried Merry with disgust. “A man of courage routs 'em out. I
would.”

“And so may I—one day,” replied the officer.

“And so, by God, I will—one night,” retorted Merry.

“Well, don't get caught up by no lawyers,” enjoined the other.
“Leastways, not on Romney Marsh.”

Further conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the gentlemen
from the vestry. Dr. Sennacharib Pepper, as people's warden and the
squire as vicar's warden, had been counting the offertory with the help
of the clerk of the Level. In lieu of any survivors from the wreck
other than Dr. Syn, the offertory, which had been substantial, was to
be devoted to Meg Clouder.

Dr. Pepper had expressed his doubts whether it was seemly to donate
a church offertory towards funds for a tavern, but the squire had
overruled him with: “Tavern be damned. It's to a poor young widow whose
husband died in the service of his fellow-men. Besides, what's wrong
with taverns? Nothing.”

They were still arguing on this theme as they walked slowly from the
chancel into the body of the church.

Dr. Syn, still in his robes, left the group and approached Merry.

“Ah, Mr. Merry,” he said pleasantly, “I am glad to see you here.
Another time, remember about that hat, won't you? And by the way, I
have a little proposition to make to you which I fancy will be to your
advantage.”

Then he looked at the Preventive man and held out his hand. “And are
you a parishioner?”

“I'm the Preventive Officer here, sir.”

“Delighted to know you then,” went on Dr. Syn. “You hold a position
of great responsibility. Keeping us all up to the mark in our loyalty
to His Majesty's Government, eh? But I am quite sure that from what I
saw of the parish this morning that they do not give King George's
officers any trouble.”

“Appearances are sometimes on the deceiving side, sir,” returned the
other ambiguously.

“Oh, come now,” argued Dr. Syn, “surely the men of Romney Marsh are
loyal enough? I was delighted at the fervency of the amens when I
prayed for the King's Majesty and the Royal family.”

“There's many a man, sir, who serves God 'cos it pays him to—”

“And quite right,” said Dr. Syn. “It should pay to be good and it
always does.”

But the Preventive man was not to be drawn into argument. He was
only stating facts as he saw them, so he went on: “And there's many
men, most men hereabouts, I'll say that for 'em, who are loyal enough
to the King. In time of war they'll fight and none better, but when
they say 'Honour the King' they adds—”

“But first maintain the Wall?” queried the doctor. “Well, that's
natural.”

“No, sir, they adds, 'and to Hell with the Revenue officers.'“

“I should be grieved to hear such a sentiment indeed,” replied the
doctor.

“You'll hear it if you listens. Good day, sir.” And the officer
strolled out of the church.

“Now, let me see, Mr. Merry,” went on the parson, “what exactly is
your work?”

“I told you last night—odd jobs.”

“That's not very satisfactory, I'll be bound. Odd jobs mean odd
payments, and surely it's better to have something regular. Now you'll
work for me. As soon as certain documents come through from Canterbury,
I shall be taking up my quarters at the vicarage. Once there, you will
attend daily to the garden and carry messages; in fact, you will be my
out-of-door lieutenant. Your pay shall be gone into, and fairly. In the
meantime, whether I am vicar here or not, and for the moment I am
legally but
locum tenens
, you will apply your elbow grease to
the brass-work in the church. I am particular that brass should shine
and good wood reflect a polish. You will start that to-morrow. In the
meanwhile, I have put your name down on the list of subscribers for
poor Mrs. Clouder. You have given a guinea, you understand. The rest of
the captain's money has gone the same way, with the exception of what I
have set aside for his grave and funeral, for which I feel
responsible.”

“Easy to feel responsible over money what don't belong to you, ain't
it?” growled Merry.

“Perhaps so,” replied the doctor pleasantly, “but in this case I
happen to be responsible as executor for my good friend the captain,
who on board the
City of London
, whether having a premonition of
disaster or no who can say, asked me to act for him in the event of his
death.”

“And what of his relatives, eh? His dependants?” asked Merry.

“I think that had the captain's belt remained around your waist,
they would not have benefited much. As it happens, he had no relations
or dependents, and I was pledged to see that such money as he had
should be divided amongst the last crew he might happen to command. So
you see, there was I, thanks to your dirty work, an executor with no
one living to attend. Knowing the captain, I guessed that he would
approve of the way I have handled his property.”

“I see,” replied Merry sarcastically. “And I start doin' church work
to-morrow, do I?”

“We'll put it like that when you are a little more worthy,” replied
Dr. Syn. “In the meanwhile, we will put it like this: From to-morrow
you will give up odd jobs and work under my direction, and you will
find yourself the richer. And while I think of it. The widow of poor
Abel Clouder—”

“Aye, what of her?” demanded Merry.

“Like many other people in the village, she fails to understand you.
I hope this lack of appreciation is merely due to the fact that your
worth is not yet proved. But don't despair. We shall have you a pattern
citizen yet—”

“I ain't goin' to be converted by no parson, so don't you think it.”

“But I do think it,” replied the doctor. “In fact, I'll lay my last
guinea on it. However, in view of the fact that Mrs. Clouder is under a
dreadful shock, I must forbid you to approach her. If you see her about
in the village, you must turn another way. When you are in need of
refreshment, you will go to the 'Ship Inn', or to the 'Ocean.' And
talking of drink, you will in future, only drink in public. The habit
of drinking brandy in your own room is not good for you. A publican is
responsible for your sobriety, as you are not yet in a state to be
responsible for yourself.”

“Oh, and any more orders?” sneered Merry.

“Not at present. But remember what I have said about Mrs. Clouder.
If you trouble her but once, I shall repent the fact that I have saved
you from the gallows, and the moment I repent of that, Mr. Merry, why,
as God's my Judge, you shall hang there. So remember and go easy with
the brandy. Goodbye, my good man. God bless.” And the parson hurried
away to join the squire.

Merry, in his present mood, might have taken himself to task for not
utterly and finally refusing to work for the new parson—'cleaning
brass in the church, indeed! A job that for maiden ladies and old
spinsters, with nothing better to do than toady round a parson.' But
Merry did nothing of the kind, for into his brain had crept the idea
that by working for this Dr. Syn, he would be near enough to spy upon
him, and it would go hard if sooner or later he could not find the
means of tripping him up.

So the results of the interview, although greatly increasing Merry's
hatred, put him in a better temper with life, although it would not
have been suspected by his face, which was as sour and hard as usual.
Another thing evolving from the interview which caused him added
satisfaction, was the knowledge that Meg Clouder feared him, and he
resolved to circumvent the parson's orders by some cunning and see that
this fear increased. For although Meg attracted him more strangely than
anyone had ever done before, he preferred to win her through the power
of fear than any stupid urge of affection. To have her at his mercy—to
watch her fears growing and to see her realising slowly that she could
not escape. These thoughts were his pleasurable companions as he slunk
out of the church, much to the relief of the very old sexton, who had
not the courage to tackle Merry single-handed inside the building.