Just before noon on the following day Doctor Syn, Tony Cobtree, and the Spanish mother and daughter awaited the arrival of the Squire of Iffley.
White Friars, in which Doctor Syn had taken lodging for the ladies, was a pleasantly situated house with windows overlooking St. Giles' market. The Annual Fair was in full swing. Hundreds of merry-makers jostled each other good-humouredly to get to the various booths of entertainment and the gaily decorated stalls. From every street people were hurrying to swell the crowd.
With one arm encircling Imogene's waist, Doctor Syn leaned from the open window enjoying the scene.
“Our visitor from Iffley will be hard put to it in making his way through this lot,” he laughed.
Antony Cobtree, who was seated at a table with the Se—ora, looked up from the legal papers he had been arranging.
“You seem very sanguine that he'll come,” he answered. “For my part, I think he will not dare to show his face. The rascal has too many enemies amongst the townsfolk. When you made the appointment, you forgot the Fair, Christopher, and I am willing to lay you a guinea that he will not have the courage to swagger his way through that crowd.”
“The bully is not without courage,” replied Syn. “And I still think he will come.”
“Are you willing, then, to lose your guinea?” asked the young lawyer.
“I rather fear you would lose yours,” laughed the Doctor. “There's a coach just turning into the Market, and I can see the Iffley arms on the panel. The coachman seems to have as little regard for the crowd as his master has, for he's lashing out freely with his long whip, while our bully is poking his cane at them through the window. Come and see. There will be trouble, I think.” Although the plunging horses had cleared a space with their hoofs, the crowd was so densely packed that those nearest to the coach could not press back out of reach from the lashings of the long whip, and the coachman standing up on his box fiercely struck at all within reach. Angry men were rushing the coach doors, but right and left the heavy knob of the Squire's long cane kept striking, and the oaths that followed each sickening thud proclaimed the fact that he had scored a hit.
“You idle dogs!” shouted the Squire. “Must I teach you to give way for your betters? If you want a lesson, I will give you one.”
At this there was a growling protest from the crowd, and a woman's voice rang out with, “What happened to Betty Dale, the girl at Iffley Mill?”
“Aye, and a score of other poor lasses like Esther Sommers,” cried another.
“And he dares drive his cattle into St. Giles'!” sang out a man.
The Squire flung open the door of the coach and shouted to the footman to get down and lead the near horse, which was still plunging. Leaving his cane in the coach, he then drew his sword and faced his assailants. They shrank back before the naked steel. They well knew his reputation, and feared the determined fury in his eyes. Conscious of his own power, he laughed and walked slowly to the horses' heads. The footman, who feared his master more than the angry crowd, climbed down from the high ledge at the back of the coach on which he stood, and followed the Squire to the front, where he grasped the bearing-reins and steadied the frightened animals.
“The times are bad indeed,” said the Squire in a loud voice, “when a gentleman must needs cut a passage for his own coach through such scum.
Follow on my heels, you” (this over his shoulder to the terrified footman), “and we'll reach White Friars over dead bodies if any of these clodpoles oppose us.” Thereupon he advanced so suddenly that those of the crowd immediately threatened by the Bully's weapon fell head over heels against their fellows behind them, who were so tightly packed before that they were seized with panic, and it was amidst groans from the fallen, shrieks from the women and children and curses from all, that the Squire of Iffley's equipage swept on towards White Friars.
Doctor Syn, still leaning from the parlour window which was on the first floor, saw that a lot of women and children were wedged in the crowd directly in front of the entrance to the house, so, leaving his companions, he ran down the white-panelled stairway, and, flinging open the front door, dragged those nearest into the safety of the hall, at the same time ordering others to follow their example. Thus a clearing was effected in front of the Squire's sword and the oncoming horses.
In this manner it did not take long to reach the house, where the Squire called a halt.
“Await me here,” he cried to his servants, “and should any of this rabble annoy you further, do not scruple to use strong measures.” He then addressed his stalwart coachman. “Get your artillery out of the boot, you fool, and if your whip don't do your business try flint-flashing.” Whereupon the coachman stood up, put the whip in its socket, opened the locker beneath the box seat, and produced two horse-pistols and a blunderbuss, which he lay on the roof of the vehicle.
It was then that the Squire saw, to his further annoyance, that the way to the house was barred by the huddled women and children whom Doctor Syn was shepherding.
“Faith, must I cut my way through this lot, to keep an appointment?” At this, and the sight of his yet drawn sword, the children cried and whimpered, while some of the women set up a screaming. In a few moments, however, Doctor Syn managed to calm their fears, assuring them that he would see to their protection, and as soon as all was quiet he confronted the Squire, and spoke clearly enough for all to hear.
“I believe, sir, that you take great pride in your title of 'Bully'. It is an epithet after your own heart, and no doubt you consider 'Bully' Tappitt to be something of a fine fellow. In that I suggest you are wrong. If you look at a dictionary, providing, of course, that you can read—you will find that a bully is a coward. And the dictionary is right, sir, for what is more cowardly than a strong man oppressing those he thinks weaker than himself?” At this there was a murmur of approbation from the angry men who were grouped around the coach.
“Hold your tongues, you rascals, when you hear your betters speak.” But more than his words, it was the sunlight gleaming on that naked blade that silenced them. At which the Squire, with a scornful laugh, turned his back on them and answered Doctor Syn.
“I think it takes more than a coward to have faced this mass of dangerous discontents alone, sir.”
“I rather think that Bully Tappitt, in his vast conceit, saw no danger in it,” replied the parson, with a sneer. “For your own safety, however, let me tell you that your situation is very dangerous; for, were I to use a little oratory against you, those stout fellows of Oxford Town would duck you in the horse-trough yonder. But I choose to do no such thing. My cloth forbids it. I am a man of peace. And I recommend these good people to ignore your brutalities, and to continue their merry-makings.” At this some of the bolder spirits raised a cheer, but the Squire took no heed, but continued:
“Merry-makings?” he repeated. “This Fair is a scandal to the neighbourhood. What is it but an annual excuse for cheating, quarrelling, idle lewdness and drinking to excess?”
“Are you claiming a monopoly upon your own pet habits, sir?” asked the Doctor scornfully.
This the Squire ignored, as well as the laughter the remark caused amongst the crowd. He merely continued:
“I should have thought that the University, of which you are such a bright ornament, would have used what influence it has to stop this annual inconvenience.”
“The University, sir, agrees with the God in Heaven Whom it tries to serve, in that the lives and happiness of these good people are vastly more important than the trifling inconvenience that may trouble gentlemen of your kidney.” The Squire's sword twitched angrily, but on hearing a chorus of applause behind him, he had sufficient wisdom not to run his blade through the body of a defenceless man before the eyes of so many hostile witnesses.
“Have done with your incivilities, sir!” he cried angrily. “You take advantage of your cloth, and think yourself secure by toadying to peasants. I did not come here, at some inconvenience, to bandy words with you, but to transact a piece of business with some ladies. Lead the way.”
“The sooner it's over the better,” replied the Doctor.
He turned to lead the way, and saw that Tony Cobtree was standing in the porch. The young attorney was dressed in the height of fashion as became one of his station who had journeyed so far to woo his lady. The Squire saw him too, and noted that his fingers were playing a dangerous tattoo upon the beautifully chased gold hilt of his small-sword.
“Another security you had, eh, Doctor?” he sneered. “Your cloth and popularity amongst the commoners were not sufficient. You must have an armed coxcomb behind you.”
“You would find but little of the coxcomb in either of us, sir, if it came to sword-play,” replied Syn haughtily. “But we are not sufficiently interested to indulge you. Perhaps we set as much store upon the rules of duelling as you do, and just as you value your station in life—such as it is—why, so do we; and no man of breeding is considered dishonoured by declining to meet one whom he knows to be beneath him.”
“Have done with your glib talk, Mister Parson!” rapped out the Squire, “and let us transact our business with these foreign women. Where are they? And where is this Kentish lawyer that you spoke about?”
“Let me introduce myself, sir,” retorted young Cobtree, coming forward.
“You, I understand, are this Iffley Squire, of whom we have heard small good. I am Antony Cobtree, Attorney at Law, and here for the convenience and protection of two respected Spanish ladies. I have been recommended for this office by my friend here, Doctor Syn of this University, and by two very distinguished Justices of the Peace in the County of Kent, one of them being Sir Henry Pembury of Lympne Castle, and the other my own father and his friend, Sir Charles Cobtree, Leveller of the Marsh Scotts of Romney, in the CourtHouse of Dymchurch-under-the-Wall. Let me add that my recommendation has been approved by the two honoured ladies who await you above. And let me add again that they are only willing to receive you as representing your ward and nephew, Mister Nicholas Tappitt, now absent in Spain, who was involved in generous business ties with the late Se—or Almago. These ladies now await you: the widow and the daughter of the said Spanish gentleman. Doctor Syn and myself are both busy men; and so if you will follow us to the parlour above, you shall hear the instructions regarding your ward.” Saying which, young Cobtree led the way through the crowd of women and children in the hall.
Now, on the mention of the parlour above, the Squire of Iffley lifted his quizzing-glass and, surveying the window indicated, beheld the beautiful Imogene anxiously peering over the ledge.
The Squire, seeming not to have listened to the purport of the lawyer's speech, called upon Doctor Syn to wait.
“Is that young filly above there the wench whom my nephew has let slip through his purse-strings?”
Doctor Syn did not reply, but with an angry gesture pointed to the porch.
The Squire, however, did not immediately obey the invitation to enter the house. He continued to gaze at the Spanish girl, who, feeling the embarrassment, retired from the open window.
“I have always thought my nephew a fool,” continued the Squire. “I am now so sure of it that if I do not marry the girl myself I shall at least cut him out of my testament. She is as beautiful as she is rich, and shall such a morsel be thrown away upon such a rapacious young parson as yourself? We'll soon see to that, sir. Lead me to this charmer, at once.” Doctor Syn, who had kindly set the children aside to make a passage-way, now turned with an expression of suppressed fury upon the Squire of Iffley.
“You must please understand, sir,” he said coldly, “that you are only permitted to enter here as a legal representative of your nephew. In short, to be quite frank, I do not intend to introduce you to my betrothed, so you will look upon this as merely a business interview. Follow me.” Saying which, Doctor Syn followed young Cobtree into the hall.
Young Cobtree, who had overheard all and had reached the parlour first, instructed the ladies that it would not be seemly for either of them to rise, to curtsey, or in any way greet the scoundrel who unfortunately had to be admitted to the conference merely as the guardian of his nephew, and thus it was that when Doctor Syn said, “This is the Squire of Iffley, and uncle to your acquaintance Nicholas Tappitt, who is here at the request of your legal representative,” neither of the ladies so much as bowed an acknowledgment to the Squire's elaborate bow in the doorway. Realizing that he was ignored, however, did not prevent him from raising his quizzing-glass and surveying with audible sighs the young Imogene.
“I think we will close the windows,” said young Cobtree. “I shall never be able to make myself clear to you, sir, with all this noise. In point of fact, sir, the crowd is grown so hostile against you that on the completion of our interview I think you will be hard put to it to reach your home at Iffley with a whole skin.
Kindly sit down there.” And he pointed to an empty chair at the table.
This the Squire surveyed through his quizzing-glass as he approached it, pretended to perceive dust upon the seat, which he flicked away with a large handkerchief, and continued the insulting gesture till young Cobtree had closed the window.
“If the chair is not to your liking, sir,” he said, as he sat down in front of his papers, “I am sure the ladies will allow you to stand. It will at least lend you a show of respect.”
The Squire placed one hand idly on the back of the chair, and raising his glance once more, surveyed the elder lady quickly, passed on to the younger, and surveyed her longer, while uttering a sigh of longingness.
“Although these gentlemen,” he said, waving his hand towards Doctor Syn and young Cobtree, “seem as desirous as their friends without to place me at a disadvantage with you, I assure you both, dear ladies, that I am ravished to meet such beauty, and would wish nothing better than to be your very humble servant.” An elaborate bow before continuing: “I extend to you a very hearty welcome to England and to Oxford. Perhaps I owe you an apology. Doctor Syn has already corrected me for the letter of invitation I sent to you at Lympne Castle. It was supposed to come from my wife. You will ask me why I acted this lie. My excuse is that I was anxious to play the humble host to you, and am still anxious to do so. Not being versed in the conventions of Spain, I feared that, did you know I was a bachelor, you might feel inclined to refuse my hospitality. Let me assure you that in England the presence of my lady housekeeper ensures that all proper conventions would be observed. Also when I wrote I was ignorant that this very fortunate young parson had been more successful than my nephew in having won the heart of this lady. Had I known of this, I should have extended my hospitality to him. This I still do. Doctor Syn, you are welcome at Iffley for as long as these ladies will honour me with their presence.” Doctor Syn was about to reply, but Imogene interrupted him with a gesture.
“My mother speaks but little English, sir,” she said, addressing the Squire, “so no doubt you will allow me as her medium. My mother has come to England to seek quiet after her bereavement. We are very comfortable here in these rooms found for us by Doctor Syn. She would not feel happy if we were to thrust ourselves upon you as guests, lest our own sadness communicate itself to others of your household.”
“Bless you, my dear young lady,” laughed the Squire, “you may both of you cry all day, if you be in the mind, and I'll give orders that all at Iffley shall cry with your for company and to put you at your ease.”
“I think, sir,” put in Doctor Syn, “that we can let any question of your hospitality alone. Since I have forbidden my own students to visit you, I shall advise these ladies in the same manner. Mr. Cobtree is a busy man, and I have my duties to Queen's College. I suggest that we finish our business as speedily as possible.”
“Nothing that I can do or say,” laughed the Squire, “appears to have any weight with any of you. I give in. Since I am thus discredited, let me at least know how my fool of a nephew stands in your regard. Is he, or is he not, mentioned in this Almago's will?” To which Imogene replied: “Mister Antony Cobtree here is representing my mother and myself in English Law. I have already translated my dear father's last testament to him from the Spanish, which he has put into legal terms in English. As your nephew's guardian—and may I say that we are both very attached to your nephew, sir?—it is only right that in his behalf you should hear my father's last wishes concerning him. Mister Cobtree, will you proceed?” Tony Cobtree afterwards confessed that he not only enjoyed the official situation, in which he found himself, but went out of his way to sound the deepest dryness of the legal phrases which he uttered. And in this vanity he might well be excused, since it was the very first case he had undertaken.
Solemnly he read through the terms of the late Spaniard's will, which he had turned into English Law jargon from the translation supplied by Imogene. But if he had thought to be tiresome to the Squire of Iffley, he was mistaken, for the bully drank in the news of the Spanish ladies' wealth with avidity, and the more wealthy they seemed to grow according to the young lawyer's statement, so much the more did the Squire ogle the beautiful Se—orita.
The part of the will which touched the Squire's nephew stated that the vessel which the deceased provided and fitted out for Nicholas Tappitt should be still held in commission with the said Nicholas Tappitt as sailing-master, and that after payment from each or any voyage, such profits accruing from the same should be divided into equal portions, and paid the one to the sailingmaster and the other to the deceased's daughter Imogene. This statement concluded the business, and Cobtree asked if anyone had any comment to make.
At which the Squire got to his feet and, much to Doctor Syn's annoyance, took Imogene's hand and kissed her fingertips.
“It seems, then,” he said with a laugh, “that my wretched nephew will at least have the felicity to be connected closely with you in the way of business.
Will you object to that, Doctor Syn? Or will you be sensible enough to pocket the profit which my nephew's trading brings to your wife? I warrant it will be higher than the stipend of a parson.”
“I think we need detain the Squire of Iffley no longer,” rapped out the attorney.
“I will gladly accompany him downstairs,” added Doctor Syn, “for by the looks of it the crowd had grown even larger, and I venture to think that he will need a little protection on the way to his coach.”
“We will both accompany him, with your leave,” added Cobtree.
The Squire surveyed the young men haughtily.
“I have not the least fear of your rabble, gentlemen, but I shall welcome your company to the door, since I have that to say to you which I should prefer the ladies not to hear. Madame, I am your humble servant.” (This is the Se—ora.) “And as to your daughter's rejection of my nephew in favour of this young scholar—well, I shall have a good deal to say to my nephew on the subject which will not be to his liking, for I could never tolerate a failure. But for Heaven's sake, Madame, see that your daughter contemplates well what she is doing before condemning her whole life to a dull English parsonage. I shall be happy to welcome you both at Iffley whenever you care to honour me. Now, gentlemen, at your service.” The Squire's attitude, his insults and his reputation prepared Doctor Syn for what was to follow, and as he led the way down the stairs he decided what course he would take in retaliation. Tony Cobtree followed with his hand on his sword.
What both the young men suspected would happen came quickly enough.
They knew the initiative was in the Squire's hands, and he took it highhandedly. Ignoring the growl of protest against him from the crowd, he turned and faced the two young Marshmen. A step below them on the porch he looked up at young Cobtree.
“Do I owe you any small fee for your service?” he asked, with one hand in his breeches pocket. “I find I have plenty of small change about me.”
“You owe me nothing,” replied Cobtree coldly. “In my professional capacity I was acting for the ladies, not for you.”
“As for you, sir,” went on the Squire, turning fiercely upon Doctor Syn, “since you have taken it upon yourself to interfere with my business, I shall make a point of interfering with yours.”
“Since I have no interest in you at all,” replied Doctor Syn, “I fail to see in what way I could have interfered.”
“I call it the grossest interference,” went on the Squire, “the way you have crept in behind my nephew's back, knowing him to be safe away at sea, and then with your smooth tongue to have seduced the mind of a rich, beautiful, but ignorant girl who should have been his wife. Well, marry her if you can, but you will first answer this”—and with the back of his hand he struck the parson in the mouth.
Although the blood trickled down from his lip where the Squire's ring had cut it, Doctor Syn appeared deadly calm. Raising his right hand to check the angry murmur of the crowd behind the Squire, he said:
“I will answer you at once, though not in the way you expect. You have just struck a cowardly blow, knowing full well that it would not be seemly for me to meet you with either barrel or blade. But I have a man's heart beneath my black coat, and I take a blow from no one as despicable as you. So down with you into the gutter, where you belong.” Very deliberately Doctor Syn began to remove his clerical coat. But ere he could accomplish this, the Squire had drawn his sword, and with the flat of the blade struck the parson with all his force upon his shoulder. In a second Tony Cobtree's sword was drawn, and with a “Coward, en garde", he engaged the Squire.
While hoots of “Shame!” and “Tear him!” arose from the crowd, Doctor Syn's voice rang above all, crying, “This is my quarrel, Tony.” At the same time he leapt, dropping his coat upon the steps, and as he turned the blades with the impact of his body, he struck up with his left fist and caught the Squire with all his force upon the jaw. The sudden impact seemed to lift the heavy bully off his feet, and down he went backwards with a sickening thud as his head struck the cobble-stones.
It was then that the crowd pounced, like encouraged terriers upon a rat. The Squire's sword was wrested from his grasp, and sent crashing through the windows of his coach. At the same time the wretched footman had been dragged from the horses' heads and thrown to the mob, while others seized the reins. The armed coachman, assailed from back and front, fired his blunderbuss into the air, and then gave in for very fear. He was dragged from his box. His wrists were lashed behind him with the corded frogs that they ripped from his gorgeous uniformed coat. His wig was torn off and stuffed into his mouth as a gag, tied with its own ribbon.
Despite the efforts of both Doctor Syn and Cobtree to save him, the Squire of Iffley was lifted up by the infuriated townsmen and bundled into his coach.
The coachman and footman were pushed in after him, and then, amidst wild yells of derision, they led the horses through the Market, and into solemn procession as far as Magdalen Bridge. Here, as the young men were afterwards to learn, the frightened animals were left to their own devices. A strong flick from the long whip which someone stole, and the coach went off in mad career, swaying and ungoverned. The wretched inmates of the vehicle must have thanked their stars that the horses knew the way, for they pulled up panting and kicking at the closed iron gates, until the gate-keeper came out and led them through. The thanks this fellow received at the hands of his master for having rescued him and the servants was a stroke over the mouth, so that his lip was cut similarly to Doctor Syn's. He then threatened him with dismissal, but then, remembering that the rascal knew Doctor Syn and might yet be useful in trapping him, he gave him a guinea, and bade him visit the house after dinner in order to plan the winning of further guineas. And behind them in Oxford the Giles' Fair went on, and in the upper parlour of White Friars it was Tony who said:
“We have not heard the last of our Squire of Iffley, I fear.”
“The rascal is going to be undone for this affair,” replied Syn, “and I rather think that I shall have most hand in it.”
“What do you intend to do?” Imogene noted the grave anxiety on the lawyer's face, and it frightened her.
Doctor Syn paused to think and then continued, “I propose that you and I shall pay a call upon the Chancellor, and over a bottle of his excellent port shall give him our version of today's affair. What do you say?”
“Why, that we could no nothing better,” cried Tony, much relieved.
“That is settled, then,” said Syn, “and I propose also that till then we dismiss the Squire of Iffley from our minds, and think on happier things.”
