Soon after their return to Oxford they received a letter from Nicholas, stating that urgent business had kept him in Spain, and that he had been obliged to let his ship set sail without him, but hoped to be aboard her upon the next home voyage. He asked them to send an answer containing all their news by the hands of his sailing-master, who was then discharging cargo in London Docks.
You will be glad to know, my dear Imogene, that I escorted your dear mother safely to her home, where I have seen her constantly. She is already completely recovered from her shock, and is glad to be once more in the sunniest of countries. I trust, my dear Doctor, you are becoming proficient in the Spanish tongue. It will amuse you to know that I am passing everywhere as Spanish born. This I have done with the Se—ora's connivance, because we found the English are unpopular, owing to the political state of Europe. Will you therefore be so good as to address whatever letters you may care to send to Se—or Nikola Tappittero, which is the high-sounding name I have adopted? You would be shocked to hear how venomously I rave against the British people. It is the only means by which I can get some honest trading. For you, my dear Imogene, I have purchased a scented lace mantilla, if indeed an English parson's wife be allowed to wear such vanity. Also a guitar of such sweet tone that it took my immediate fancy. The case, too, is very cunningly inlaid. For the diversion of our dear Doctor, I have run to earth a fine old edition of comical Don Quevedo. Although no scholar myself, I have yet appreciation for his wit.
Trusting to find you both in Oxford still on my return, I subscribe myself Your Spanish friend of the family, Nikola Tappittero.
I hope the honeymoons were happy both in Dymchurch and the Cotswolds. I have sent my felicitations to our excellent Tony and his bride.
“Oh, Christopher,” cried Imogene, “promise to stay at Oxford till he comes.
“Are you so anxious for than mantilla and guitar?” he asked, “or is it Nicholas you want to see?”
“I want to be warmed with the reflection of the Spanish sun,” she answered.
The mail brought constant news from Dymchurch. Tony and his bride had returned, were duly thrilled at the rebuilding of the Vicarage, which work was going forward rapidly, since the old Vicar had moved into his house at Burmarsh, praising especially the Spanish alcove which they said was something like a cloister. Doctor Syn noticed than Imogene was more interested in this than in all the other additions put together.
“Tony says that the builder has let in two double seats in the wall of it,” she said. “He says it will hold us two in one, and them in the other. But when Nicholas is with us with his guitar, I expect he will sprawl all over one of them, just like a lazy Spaniard. But we shall see him first in Oxford. Promise me that, my Christopher?”
“That promise you must get from Nicholas,” he answered. “Duty is duty, and Sir Charles is anxious for me to take mine up as soon as possible. My Induction papers will be ready in a week or so, and when I am commanded, I must go. If the house is not quite ready for you, I could come back here to fetch you when it is. I would rather you came with me, though, for we could stay at the Cobtrees', and your wishes for the house could be the easier carried out.”
“Let us write and tell Nicholas he must come back on the next homing voyage. He will do it for us.” And she made her husband sit down there and then and pen a letter of Spain. To this she put a postscript in Spanish:
You will please be obedient, and not fail us. I cannot leave Oxford without my mantilla and guitar, and my Doctor wants his book. But more than all we want to see and talk with you, Nikola Tappittero of Spain. How I have laughed at that! If you see us before we go to Romney Marsh, you will escape the mists of winter there. Oxford is bad enough. Oh, what a climate! I wonder sometimes how Englishmen are as lively as they are. I hope you will bring us the latest songs of Spain.
Which postscript somewhat distressed the good Doctor. But he said nothing.
After all, Nicholas was no Spaniard.
Though many of the students who visited them were lively enough, Imogene found Oxford people connected with the University took life and themselves very seriously. Even Doctor Syn, by reason of being the youngest Don, has automatically adopted a gravity of manner suitable to his responsibilities. To Imogene the subjects that he taught were deathly dull: dead languages and Ecclesiastical Law. To cope with such grave writings, he seemed to her to have wrapped his soul in too sombre a cloak. The only thing that he approached with a lightness of spirit was his study of Spanish. Here he was the student and the teacher, and it annoyed her that he did not attach the same importance to her living language as he did to his own dead ones. This fault, although she did not realize it, was largely of her own making, for unconsciously she talked so much of Nicholas and Spain, that in Doctor Syn there began to grow a jealousy. Not owning this even to himself, he gave her no warning that such a thing existed.
During Spanish Lessons she adopted his own manner of teaching. She railed against the smallest mistakes, and pronounced his accent as execrable.
He excused himself by saying: “It is the fault of our cold English voices, my dear. We cannot speak a foreign tongue to the manner born. We are perhaps too aloof to be good imitators. In the colder languages of the North we might become convincing, but French, Italian and your Spanish need a warmer voicing than we can give, and I think no Britisher would ever deceive a native.” Her answer irritated him. “Nonsense!” she cried. “Nicholas speaks Spanish like a Spaniard.”
“He has lived in Spain,” he argued sharply. “And what do we know of his parents? He never speaks of them. If he is fully English, I am much deceived.
Think of his complexion. There is surely foreign blood in such swarthiness.”
“If you compare him to your Tony,” she replied, “he may not look so English. But why be so ungenerous to your good friend? Is the English complexion the only perfection?” She looked so scornful in the saying it that he took her in his arms and whispered: “Yours is the most perfect complexion in the world. We both agree on that, at least.”
“No doubt it will become more English,” she answered, “when beaten by those flying mists on Romney Marsh.”
“The Southern sun in you will drive our mists away,” he said. “And I am sorry if I appeared ill-tempered. I had no right to disparage Nicholas. You have much in common, and for that I like him, and like you to like him. But tell me that you love me?”
“I love you, Christopher.” Then she kissed him and smiled. “And might even love you better still, if you would only laugh as much as Nicholas.”
“It suits his gay clothes better than my black cloth,” he said. “But I'll be livelier when away from all these pompous Colleges. The sooner we leave, the sooner will you see the change in me.”
“But you are not leaving till Nicholas comes,” she said teasingly. “You have given me your word on that.”
“Not that I recollect,” he laughed. “But since I can refuse you nothing, there, I promise you. I'll make the rogue my curate, if you like. You could keep him well in order as his Vicar's wife.” And at the thought they both laughed and were happy.
To atone for this argument, Doctor Syn constantly talked of Nicholas, expressing hopes for his speedy return, and for the same reason of contrition, Imogene appeared to have lost interest in him.
It had been arranged meantime that Doctor Syn should be inducted into his Living on the day week following the closing of the Oxford Term. As the time approached with no news from Spain, the Doctor became anxious, for he had not calculated that either business or contrary winds could delay Nicholas so long, and he had given his promise to Imogene not to leave, and yet he knew the inconvenience he would cause should he not be in Dymchurch for the Induction. He therefore told Imogene of his anxiety, and found, much to his relief, that she attached small importance to it.
“But you must go, of course, my dear,” she said. “We will both go. The Vicarage is finished. There is nothing to delay us. Nicholas must blame himself if he is so tardy. If he wishes to see us at all, he must take the long ride to Kent.
We have at least built a Spanish porch to accommodate him and his guitar.”
“You mean that we will go together?” asked Syn, delighted.
“Am I married to you or to Nicholas?” she asked.
“To me, and thank God for it,” he exclaimed.
“Then there is no more to be said, but I like you all the more for offering to keep your promise.” Battered by heavy seas and hampered by headwinds in the Channel, Nicholas returned to Oxford but two days before Doctor Syn and Imogene were due to set out by coach. Owing to his wife's change of attitude towards Nicholas, Doctor Syn generously welcomed the voyager with more enthusiasm.
“There is no need to inquire after your happiness, Doctor,” said Nicholas, “for I never saw you so gay in manner. But what has befallen Imogene? She appears mighty solemn. I trust she is not taking her duties as a parson's wife too seriously.”
“She is delighted with your gifts, Nicholas,” he answered. “Believe me, she had been most anxious to see you before we had to leave.” Seeing that he had now no cause for jealousy, Doctor Syn reproved his wife in private for the cold attitude she was showing toward their friend.
“I am in a mood to be irritated by him,” she explained. “He is so vastly pleased with himself. Also I am not feeling very well. I have the heaviest head imaginable, my nerves are all jangled, and with your permission there is nothing I should like more than to spend the day in bed.”
Having handed her over to the care of the motherly landlady, who was very fond of her, Doctor Syn was very glad to be able to give Nicholas a solid reason for Imogene's indifference, for he did not like to see such a jolly rogue so dismally cast down. On the advice of the landlady, a physician was summoned, who reported that although there was no cause for alarm, the patient was nevertheless suffering from a nervous disorder and there could be no question of allowing her to undertake the strain of a long coach journey to Kent. On the contrary, he insisted that she must be confined to the house for at least a week.
Doctor Syn, in his anxiety, first thought of cancelling the ceremony of his induction till such time as his wife could recover. In this, however, he was overruled not only by Imogene herself, but also by the landlady, who avowed that the young husband would be better out of the way so that she could give all her care to the patient's recovery.
“There are times,” she said, “when a young wife is best left alone in a mother's care. I have had daughters myself, and I know. You may safely leave her to me and the physician, and when your business is done, return to escort her to her new home.” Nicholas agreed that the landlady talked sense, and when he had promised that he would ride from Iffley every day to make inquiry, which he would immediately communicate to Dymchurch by stage-coach, the Doctor felt in a happier frame of mind.
“Allow me to know a little more about women than you do, you old anchorite,” he laughed. “And since she seems adverse to my presence, I promise you I will not worry her. I will only call her news and submit it on to you.”
“I warrant that after a day or so's rest,” said Syn, “she will be asking you to sing her your cheerful songs of Spain. I know so well that you will cheer her back to speedy health and good spirits.”
“I'll do my best to that end, believe me,” said Nicholas heartily. “When you return I will put my best coach and cattle at your command, to make her journey easier.” Two days later Doctor Syn knelt by his wife's bed, and with his arms around her took a loving farewell. She clung to him like a frightened child and whispered, “Take care of yourself, dear Christopher, and promise me that nothing shall make you unhappy.”
“So long as we love each other, nothing could,” he answered.
And so he left her, riding his own house, and leading another which Nicholas had lent him for his saddle-bags.
In this way he accomplished the journey quicker than had he taken coach.
His welcome to Dymchurch was enthusiastic. He found that the builders had competed the improvements to the Vicarage, and he was satisfied that Imogene's every wish had been most tastefully carried out. Joyfully the Doctor wrote to his wife telling her that here was a home of which they could be proud, and in which he knew they would find happiness.
Nicholas was as good as his word, and each day his letters were more cheerful than the last, describing Imogene's improvement. The great day of Induction came, and with great solemnity the Dignitaries of Canterbury instituted and invested their “Well-beloved in Christ, Christopher Syn, Doctor of Divinity, to the Perpetual Vicarage of Dymchurch-under-the-Wall, with all the Rights, Members and Appurtenances thereunto belonging.” It was arranged that he should preach his inauguration sermon upon the following Sunday, and then post back to Oxford to bring his wife, whom the whole village were agog to welcome. On the Saturday morning Tony left his friend sitting in the completed Spanish alcove, for the sun was warm and bright, and the Doctor wished to contemplate his address in the open air. He had not been alone, however, above a few moments when Tony returned with a letter in his hand.
“You will forgive me, Christopher, disturbing your meditations, but the Mail has just driven by, and I warrant brings you the most delightful inspiration.”
“From our good Nicholas?” asked Syn, joyfully holding out his hand for the letter.
“No, better still,” laughed Tony. “It is from Imogene herself. This shows that she is better. I will leave you to read it in peace, and will call for you at dinner-time.” For the Doctor was residing at the Court-House.
“It will be nice to read my first letter in her own Spanish garden,” said Doctor Syn, smiling happily.
Some two hours later Tony re-entered the Vicarage garden, but this time with his wife upon his arm. Approaching the alcove, the young man called out gaily, “Study hours are over, Christopher. Dinner is served. What news from Imogene?” Receiving no answer, and thinking that the parson might have retired to his new library, they entered the alcove and received a shock. Doctor Syn sat in one of the Spanish seats staring vacantly before him. He sat rigidly, his tightly gripped fists pressed hard upon his knees. All youth had gone from his face, and his cheeks were of a ghastly pallor. His lips were drawn apart in a hideous grin, showing clenched teeth biting hard. But what horrified his friends most was to perceive a vivid white lock that had appeared miraculously in his long raven hair, and, adding to their terror, they both heard a continual deep moaning that steadily arose from his throat.
“In heaven's name what ails you, man?” cried Tony when he could find his voice.
The Doctor's unseeing eyes did not flicker, but the moaning increased until it shaped these words, “The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away.” Without warning the stricken man's finger twitched convulsively, and a crumpled piece of paper fell upon the Spanish paving-stones. Slowly he got to his feet with all the action of an old paralysed man, and raising his arms to the sky, he shook his clawing fingers at what he seemed to see there. He then completed his text with the most damnable alteration, as he cried in a loud voice, full of venom, “Cursed be the name of the Lord!”
“Is Imogene dead?” whispered Tony.
“Had it been only that,” he moaned, “you would not have found me here so stricken. I have received a letter straight from Hell. If you have courage, read it.” Standing erect, and as tense as a soldier about to be shot, he pointed to the letter, without looking at it. Terrified, Tony's wife bent down, picked it up and gave it all crumpled to her husband, who mechanically smoothed it out, and without knowing what he did, read it aloud in a low, scared voice.
“I cannot ask forgiveness for myself, but just for my mistake. Why did I not guess that I loved Nicholas? He lives in the sun I worship, while you, with all your goodness, float in mists—cold mists. With an aching heart for you and for myself, l must obey the orders of what is stronger than myself. From you I have gone to follow my destiny. You will never find us. I implore you not to seek.
When you read this we shall be far away. We are already fleeing from cold England, and from now the seas will ever roll between us. All blame is mine, not yours. I do not matter. I have damned myself. But I cannot be true to the blackness of your cloth. I could not face a life in Dymchurch mists. The sun has drawn me to him. But that you will serve the solemn God whom you are sworn to serve is the dearest wish of one that was your wife, called Imogene.”
Tony crumpled the letter once more as Syn had done, and in a voice choking with tears of rage hissed out, “That spawn of Satan! We'll spit him with good steel like his uncle. This is my quarrel, Christopher. God's curses on them both.”
“No, Tony man, I love her!” cried Syn. “I have blasphemed God, but you are my friend.” Clasping his hands though in prayer, he hid his face in the folds of Tony's cravat and prayed aloud not to his God, but to his friend. “O spare me a little, that I may recover my strength, before I go hence, and be no more seen.”
Following this despairing cry with sobs that shook him to the soul, Nature, or the God whom he had cursed, knowing he could stand no more, touched him with gentle fingers, and snapped all further reason from his brain, so that he collapsed in dead weight against the body of his friend. To Tony, too, Nature or God was kind, and lent him such strength as he had never yet possessed. He lifted the unconscious body of the parson, as easily, as tenderly as he would no doubt carry his own children in the time to come.
Fate, like a dramatist, panders to Effect, but has advantage of the Stage in that many scenes of varying emotions can be played in different places all at once. As Tony laid his friend upon his bed, the treacherous Nicholas was lovingly lifting Imogene over the bulwarks of his ship in London River. And long before the stricken husband woke to face his dismal future, the sails were filled with the winds that were to carry the guilty pair to Spain. As though to hide her shame from the faces of the crew, Imogene took refuge in the cabin.
Sure of her now, and knowing that she could not change her mind, Nicholas left her there. Up in the Round-house with the sailing-master he drank deep.
Towards evening he had to be carried down to the cabin in a drunken stupor.
Disgusted at his condition, and disappointed in herself, Imogene went up on deck.
As the ship swept on through the Strait of Dover, a brisk wind filled the towering canvas, and the full moon showed every detail of the coast. Seeing the girl standing there so long alone, the sailing-master pitied her, and thinking she might take cold, procured a sea-cloak and gently wrapped it round her.
“We shall be altering our tack shortly,” he said, “and swinging out into the fairway, so you must take your last glimpse of England, lady. We stand out into deep water to avoid the dangers of Dungeness. We have at least a friendly moon. I never saw the coast so clear. Do you see that stretch of beach inside the Bay?”
“And behind it,” he went on, “that long, straight line of bank? Can you see two separate figures? No, there are three. A man and a woman together, and, a little removed, another man? Look through my spy-glass, and you would think that you could speak to them.” He adjusted the lens for her, till she said it was clear. “What part of England are we looking at?” she asked.
“They call that long bank Dymchurch Wall,” he said.
He heard her gasp, for she had recognized the lonely figure there. Indeed, some half an hour before, Tony and his wife had seen Doctor Syn pass through the Hall door out into the night, and fearing that his dangerous mood might counsel him to desperate ends, they followed at a distance, respecting his solitude, yet fearing its results. He reached the sea-wall first, and stood there watching the white canvas of the full-rigged ship. They did not speak as they approached, but he somehow knew that they were there, for slowly he raised his right arm and with his tapering forefinger pointed to the vessel. Then did the same unspoken sentence echo in their brains. “It is the ship.” Ringed in the powerful glass, which brought the spectral figure of her husband close to her, Imogene saw the accusing finger-point. With a strangled cry of anguish, she fell swooning to the deck. The helm swung round upon the altered course. The ship's bell changed, and the sing-song voice of the heaving leadsman on the bowsprit's tackle echoed out, “All's Well.” And at the sound the black-robed figure of the parson seemed to grow to an unnatural height, as with his head jerked of a sudden back against the sky, he shrieked out hellish peals of wild, demoniacal laughter. It gave the lie to the “All's Well", and reached the Gates of Heaven with the news that devils still inhabited with the earth.
