THE SCARECROW RIDES (17 page)

“If it is the squire's wish, and your wish, why then it is mine
too,” replied Meg.

“Then the sign-painter can measure out his letters,” went on Josiah.
“Between the two windows there, we thought, in large bold script, eh?
And black paint, eh? It will show up against the white-wash, and is the
fitting colour for a memorial. Then as to the sign itself—well, what
better than this, Meg, eh? Will you step round to my little office for
a minute?”

They entered the hut that had been set up on the grass patch before
the inn door, and Josiah, waving his hand towards the far corner, said:
“And what inn upon the whole of the Marsh has a finer sign than that.
Just imagine him sticking out from an iron bracket between the two big
bedroom windows, Meg, eh?”

Meg shuddered as she saw the honest Josiah patting the wooden face
of the brig's figure-head. “Oh, no,” she said, “just the words on the
wall, but not that ghastly thing—please, Josiah.”

“Ghastly?” repeated the astounded foreman. “I calls it handsome.
Fierce, perhaps. Yes, it might have been carved jollier, if it's meant
to be the City of London. I've been to London more than once, and
though its smoky and gloomy with fog and river mist, there's a feeling
of jollity in them City taverns and coffee houses. Now what might this
gentleman be meant to be? A city sheriff or what, sir?” He thought that
if Dr. Syn would only make the figure-head sound interesting, that Meg
might be reconciled to it. Though why she didn't take to it immediately
he was at a loss to understand.

“Why, yes,” said Dr. Syn, “I can tell you all about this curious
fellow, for during the voyage I enjoyed the full confidence of our
ill-fated captain, whom I nicknamed 'The Lord Mayor' in that he ruled
over us in the
City of London
. The owners of this brig formerly
possessed two, built for the New England trade. One was called
Gog
and the other
Magog
, and they sailed from Boston to the Pool of
London. This was the figure-head of
Gog
until her sister ship
was sunk in fighting the notorious pirate, Clegg. Instead of building
another ship, they re-christened this one
City of London
,
though, as the captain pointed out, he had never heard of any good
coming to a ship with an altered name. Fearing lest this vessel should
also fall a victim to Clegg, they armed her with a brass cannon, and
painted up poor
Gog
into a fighting uniform, so that the brig
might seem to be a man-o'-war. Certainly, such merchant ships as we
passed fought shy of us and steered clear. But for all that, we met
Clegg's frigate, four days out of port, and it would have gone hard
with us had not our captain run into a mist and made good our escape.”

“Well, then,” exclaimed Josiah, “if that don't make this 'ere
Admiral Gog more valuable still. What a sign for a tavern. It'll draw
the whole Marsh for years to come.”

“I'd rather have it empty, Josiah,” cried Meg, “than that I should
see that ghastly face looking in at my bedroom window.”

Now Dr. Syn, to whom she had confided the dreadful horror of first
seeing the figure-head upon the sea-wall, began to argue on her side.
“The ladies have likes and dislikes, Master Foreman,” he said, “and it
is well that they can generally tell us their wishes, and here is Miss
Cobtree in full agreement with Mrs. Clouder that the figure-head is not
a work of art that any woman would covet. Therefore, we must find some
other use for it. We cannot set it up above the grave of the captain,
though I dare say he would wish it, for as you know, a sailor takes a
pride in his figure-head, but it would be unseemly in a churchyard. It
would smack too much of a Popish idol, I'm thinking. Were I a sea
captain, I should no doubt beg to be allowed to set it up in my garden,
but imagine the fright it would cause the good parishioners who may
care to visit me. Why, I believe it would scare me in the moonlight.
No, since the master foreman is so struck with it, I propose that he
sets it up in his building yard as a sign of his trade. You build
boats, I hear, in your timber-shed, Mister Wraight. Well, what more
fitting than to set it up high on the shed's prow?”

This suggestion quite made up for Josiah's disappointment at Meg's
disapproval, and nobody objecting, he had the figure-head immediately
removed to his timber yard and set up high on his great work barn,
where to this day it is the honoured possession of Josiah's
descendants. Indeed, Admiral Gog, in his resplendent uniform is still
one of the popular sights of Dymchurch-under-the-Wall.

With the removal of the Admiral, everything was delightful in Meg's
eyes, and even the hard aching void of separation from Abel was
softened in a great measure by the glory of his death, and the kindness
shown towards the young widow of such a hero by everybody upon the
Marsh. So that after the bodies had been buried in honour, Meg felt not
only ready but anxious to start in her new home, and that her tavern
was patronised well went without saying. Even the buxom Mrs. Waggetts
of the 'Ship Inn', who would have been quite justified in fearing this
new rival, went out of her way to share her own prosperity with Meg,
for she was often overheard to say to her own special customers: “Now,
instead of having another round here, why not step along to 'The City'
and try a glass of something at Mrs. Clouder's?”

So, even in her sorrow, Meg had a lot to be thankful for, and her
youthful strength and winning beauty helped her to face her new life
bravely.

As to Merry, it was the general opinion that he was making an
effort, in his own morose way, to amend his ways. Certainly, he spoke
to none, unless it was to whisper to his unpopular friend, the excise
man. But he worked hard under the new vicar's direction. The brass
shone bright in the old church and the vicarage garden took on new
life. Dr. Syn had worked wonders with the man in some mysterious way,
they all said, and agreed that the
City of London
brig had
brought them a great blessing in their new vicar, for the squire, in
his forceful, blustering heartiness, had lost no time in getting
through the deeds of Installation from the Archbishop, who agreed with
him that Dymchurch was fortunate indeed to find such an able divine
willing to take charge of the parish.

On the day of his installation, Dr. Syn, who had till then remained
at the Hall, took up his quarters in the vicarage, upon which the women
of the parish, headed by the Cobtree ladies, had lavished as much care
as they had already bestowed upon Meg's tavern.

“It's a wrench leaving you, my good Tony,” he said, “although it is
but for a matter of a few yards, but I know you agree with me that
since this is the principal village of the Marsh it is meet and right
for the vicarage to be maintained with that dignity it deserves.”

“Well, I make it a condition that you dine every Sunday at the Hall,
and that whenever I brew a particularly good bowl of punch that you
shall be there for the ladling.”

“Which means that I shall be with you every night,” laughed Dr. Syn.

“And all the better, say I,” cried the squire heartily. “In the
meantime, my Charlotte has found you a jewel of a woman to housekeep
for you. A quick tongue, which you'll no doubt cure, but one that can
cook, and well. She's an ugly enough old widow too, so there'll be no
scandal. She's a daughter to help her, plain as a cod-fish, so there
you are. Name of Fowey. Hails from Cornwall or some such foreign place.
But, as Charlotte says—she can cook. By the way, you seem to have done
wonders with that rascal Merry, but I don't like to think of him around
here.”

“Oh, he's all right,” said Dr. Syn. “I've got my eye on him, never
fear. He seems to find quite a pleasure in obeying me.”

Aye, and so he did, and he hugged himself when he did. And yet he
did not obey him in all things. For one day he went all the way to Rye
and purchased there a knife. A long, sharp, hefty knife. And every
night when he returned to his own room at the end of the long white
cottages over against the 'Ocean Inn', he would take out the knife from
its hiding place to assure himself that it was sharp, both point and
edge. And every morning when he went back to work he watched Dr. Syn
out of the corner of his eye and thought, to cheer himself when he was
being more than servile, of the knife's sharpness.

Meanwhile, the great pessimist would have said that at least
Dymchurch-under-the-Wall in the County of Kent was a village ideally
happy, but neither optimist nor pessimist could smell the black hate
that smouldered in the heart of Dr. Syn's queer servant, Merry. But
Merry bided his time and knew that it would come.

And Dr. Syn went in and out amongst the cottages daily, respected
and loved by all, while Merry, shunning and shunned by all, thought of
his knife, and nightly tried the edge and point of it.

As the months went by, Sir Antony Cobtree realised with growing
satisfaction that there was no fear of his ever regretting the bestowal
of his vicarage upon Dr. Syn. His only fear in connection with his old
college friend was that by virtue of his learning and popularity he
would be tempted to accept some high preferment, and to counteract any
such calamity, he used his influence and got his favourite the extra
and honourable appointment of Dean of the Peculiars, which not only
gave the doctor the status of a dignitary, but substantially increased
his income, and merely putting him under the obligations to occupy the
principal pulpits of the Marsh for the delivery of an annual sermon,
which expeditions were undertaken with quite a show of pomp, as Sir
Antony invariably accompanied him, and ordered out his state coach for
purpose, so that it was not long before the fame of Cobtree's cleric
was established near and far, which pleased the squire a great deal
more than the doctor, who seemed perfectly content to remain an obscure
village parson.

“It is a good thing I am behind you, Doctor,” cried the squire, with
great self-satisfaction, “for you are one of those easy-going fellows,
who are content to hide their lights under a bushel. If I were King of
England rather than the Ruler of the Marsh, I'd make you Primate of All
England and take no refusal. As it is, I have given you all I can, and
I verily believe more than you desire, so I trust you will not leave me
in the lurch.”

“I want nothing but to be vicar of Dymchurch, sir,” replied Dr. Syn.

“And Dean of the Peculiars, I hope,” added the squire largely.
“You've been concealing your talents too long, wasting your career upon
a lot of war-painted Red-skins. Oh, I know why you went out to America
in the first place. I saw your point of view, though I did not agree
with it. Your wife runs off with a scoundrel, and you follow. But when
you heard your wife was dead and the rascal had disappeared, why didn't
you come back to us? I don't mean to open an old wound, doctor. Forgive
me.”

“It's as well we have this talk, Tony, and then, if you please, we
will forget it. You and your wife both knew why I went, and it is right
you should know why I stayed. I think I was mad in those days. I know
that I longed for revenge, which was not Christian of me.”

“It was. It was manly,” corrected the squire.

“Well, it struck me that I should atone in some way for my rage,”
went on the doctor, “and so I resolved to devote some years, perhaps
the best, of my life to the dangers of the Indian territories so that I
could preach and teach amongst them.”

“Well, you've done it, and it does you credit,” replied the squire.
“But everything starts fresh now. As to your late wife, though I own
she was the best looking girl I ever clapped my eyes upon, well—she
treated you badly, and I for one never wish to think or speak of her
again. Her seducer, that rogue Nick Tappitt, wrote to you that she was
dead. Well, then why not marry again, Christopher my lad, and get
happiness after all?”

“I can never marry, Tony,” answered the doctor quickly. “Why, I
could not take that scoundrel's word for anything. I never had proof
positive of her death.”

“Well, she's dead to you now, at all events.”

“Oh, yes. She's dead to me.”

“Well then. It's all so long ago, my dear fellow. You'll get the
right wife yet.”

The doctor frowned and shook his head. “I'll not marry again, Tony.”

“Now be reasonable,” persuaded the squire. “I'm talking for your own
good. Do you realise that on the night of the wreck of the
City of
London
, that when you appeared in my dining-room you cut quite a
romantic figure. I tell you, my own daughters were all enthusiastic
about you, and Charlotte for all her beauty, has got something in her
head besides looks. She took to you immediately, when we can't get her
to think seriously of any man, though she's been followed by all the
young officers stationed at Dover Castle.”

“But, my dear old friend—”

“Less of the 'old',” cried the squire. “I'm not old, so don't think
it. Don't I ride to hounds with as much spirit as the youngest? And I
am two years your senior. Besides, I aged quicker than you did. I was a
reckless youngster, if you remember. I lived life to the full as a
bachelor, and damme, it tells on a man. But I don'' go about as you do,
trying to make myself older. Why the devil you cut your hair and popped
on that sedate clerical wig beats me. Do you want to frighten the girls
away? It looks like it.”

“God forbid,” replied the doctor, “but I would neither be
misunderstood nor laughed at. Neither would I risk bringing unhappiness
to any other woman as I did all unknowingly years ago. You mention your
lovely daughter, for whom I have naturally a deep affection, but it is
the affection of a father for a child. Why, good God, Tony, were I
rascal enough to think of her in other terms, and you were not man
enough to run me through the body for my presumption, I should be
mistaken in my dear old friend. Your daughter is worthy of a younger
man than I. When she marries, and God grant she marries happily, I
confess I'll suffer a pang of jealousy, just as you will, Tony, and
just as I should if I had a daughter of my own. And so you think I'm
getting old, do you?” he added, by way of changing the immediate
subject of the conversation.