Around the great fireplace in the dining-room the squire and three or four gentlemen of the Marsh were sitting, and had been gravely discussing the tragedy of the wreck. On a small table stood an enormous punch bowl full of steaming 'bishop', from which Sir Antony kept ladling generous allowances in order that his friends should recover from their exertions on the rope. The depression they had felt through dragging ashore the dead body of Abel Clouder was now increased at the news of the parson's death.
“So history repeats itself again,” he said gloomily. “As you know, Sennacherib” (for the doctor was of the party), “my father was just as unfortunate in the bestowal of the living. Just as soon as he got a man he liked, he was preferred elsewhere, and it has been the same with me. I really did think that since poor Bolden liked the place that we were settled with him for life, and now his life has been sacrificed in this heroic, tragic fashion. If you are visiting patients Burmarsh way tomorrow, Sennacherib, you might ride to the vicar and ask him to conduct our service on Sunday morning, for there will be no time to get anyone else at such notice.”
“I'll do that,” replied the doctor. “Have you no one in mind that you would wish to appoint in poor Bolden's place?”
“I shall have to depend upon the choice of the Archbishop, I suppose,” said the squire. “There's only one man I can think of—but whether he is alive or dead, God alone knows. It was an understood thing that he should become vicar of Dymchurch, for he loved the place as we all loved him. He used to stay here during the Oxford vacations.”
“I recollect the man surely,” said Sennacherib Pepper. “He was an undergraduate with you at Queen's.”
“That's the man,” nodded the squire. “He was given a fellowship, which he vowed he would hang on to till the living here was vacant.”
“I talked with him often,” said the doctor. “A brilliant young man.”
“I should think he was,” agreed the squire, turning to a glass-fronted bookcase at the side of the chimney-piece. “There's a book here somewhere— yes, here it is.” He opened the glass door and drew out a leather-bound volume, which he opened at the title leaf. “A Solemn Discourse on Religious Assemblies and the Public Service of God, According to Apostolical Rule and Practice.
What it all means, I can't explain. It's beyond me. But the book made such an impression upon Oxford that the University, despite his youth, conferred on him the title of Doctor of Divinity,” added the squire.
“He was a fine horseman, too. He hunted here,” added the doctor.
“And as magnificent with the sword as with the pistol,” went on the squire.
“He winged Bully Tappitt, the Squire of Iffley, in Magdalen Fields one morning. Fortunately, Tappitt was a notorious duellist, and we were able to prove that he had offered the affront, otherwise it would have gone hard with our friend.”
“What happened to him then?” asked another of the party.
“He went to America under depressing circumstances,” said the squire. “But that was a few years later, after he had married the most beautiful girl you ever saw. Unfortunately, her beauty was but skin deep and she ran off with a blackguard, named Nicholas Tappitt, the nephew of the man he'd killed. I never heard what happened, for after telling me that he found life in England unendurable, he went abroad. I never heard from him again, but it is believed he was killed by Indians, for after much inquiry I learned that he went amongst them on a mission and has never been heard of since.”
“What was his name?” asked Dr. Pepper.
The squire's eyes were filled with tears, and to hide his emotion he pointed to the fly-leaf of the volume and handed it to Dr. Pepper, who read the name of the author and nodded. “Of course, yes. I remember now. A good many years ago.”
“What was his name?” asked one of the other gentlemen, as they both got up to look over the doctor's shoulders at the book.
The squire, after clearing his throat, said: “His name was—”
“Doctor Syn,” announced the voice of the footman.
The squire spun round as though he had been shot, while the others looked up sharply from the name on the book, the name which they had just read, and which they had simultaneously heard announced.
In contrast to the bright livery of the footman who stood against the white panelling of the door which he held open, the sombre figure framed in the dark doorway seemed unreal. A shudder of superstition passed through the blood of everyone in the room as they gazed. No one moved, for concentration was riveted on this tall, slim stranger. He had removed his heavy overcoat and flung it over one shoulder, where it hung like a cloak. One long arm hung by his side and held a large, three-cornered hat, while the other was bent so that the white hand with its long, tapering and sensitive fingers rested lightly against his heart, as though he were about to bow in greeting. But he did not move, and until he did no one else had the power to. They looked at his face, pale and long, with fascinating lines cut into it, carved by that master sculptor, Experience. The lofty brow, the queer but shapely head framed in a mass of raven hair. Eyes deep and piercing that seemed to each man in the room to be searching out the secrets of his soul. The nose was high with an aquiline droop.
The cheeks hollow. Gaunt jaws that seemed to hold the whole decision of his destiny. A thin upper lip and fuller under one gave to the mouth an expression of alert determination. The strong neck and full throat were shapely, exactly right to the carriage of such a living head. Though standing deathly still, every limb conveyed quick and splendid movement momentarily arrested at the man's iron will. Showing no embarrassment at the silence, he showed no intent to break it, only allowing a gentle smile to twinkle in his eyes and gather at the corner of his mouth. It seemed almost as though he enjoyed their consternation and relished the thought that he was master of their sudden helplessness.
It was perhaps natural that the footman, being the only one not in a position to grasp the significance of the situation, should be the means of breaking the spell.
“The gentleman seems to be the only survivor of the wreck, sir.”
“And consequently must ask your indulgence, gentlemen, for his appearance,” added the stranger. “It has been a nasty night to swim in.” That he was still a stranger as far as the squire went was obvious, for all he did was to stare and mutter such phrases as: “No—no. Impossible. Asking too much. Incredible—”
“I hardly expected you to recognize me immediately,” went on the stranger.
“We have so many years to span, and a hard life alters most men. Although Time has dealt most generously with you, I have not yet quite captured from your features the gay and pleasant Tony that I knew. But I shall get him any moment, just as you will suddenly get me.”
The jolly face of the squire was all puckered up into a vast frown as he once more shook his head. He looked again and said: “Yes, it's more years than one imagines. But it would be too strange. Yet, wait, there is just something reminiscent. Of course, the room's confoundedly dark. Suppose we light another candle sconce.”
“The room is light enough,” protested the other gently, “the last time I was here your father stood where you are standing, and I asked him to accept a book of mine. He stood there glancing at it, then sat me at that table and told me to inscribe it. Being my first inscription, I remember it. 'To Sir Charles Cobtree Baronet, of New Hall, Dymchurch, from his humble servant and admirer the Author.' He put it there, next to the Odyssey of Mr. Pope.” He crossed to the bookcase. “Yes, there it is—the Odyssey—but where my book was—a space.”
“We were but now admiring it, sir,” said Sennacherib Pepper.
Mechanically the physician handed the volume to the squire, who passed it to the author. He, in turn, looked at the title-page with a grim smile. “My faith, I must have been in a solemn mood when I penned this.” The squire could never decide afterwards whether it was the extra light supplied by one of the gentlemen carrying a candelabra from the further end of the room or some trick that the stranger had in handling a book, but it was certain that he suddenly brought his fist crashing down on the table.
“Gad,” he thundered, “I see him now, my old friend, Christopher Syn, mercifully restored. My dear friend, welcome home.” But feeling the wetness of his coat he became immediately the bustling host.
“My poor fellow, you're wet through. Positively soaked.”
“I've been swimming, Tony,” smiled Syn.
In a few minutes the whole house appeared to be alive with people hurrying this way and that on various errands, but on tiptoe out of respect for the invalid, and by the time Dr. Syn had been taken with his chest to a comfortable bedroom, had been arrayed in a dry shirt and breeches of the squire's and wrapped in a red quilted dressing-gown, had been presented to the Cobtree family, especially to Charlotte, who was his godchild, and whom he remembered as a baby, and had insisted that the new baby should not be awakened, a magnificent cold supper was awaiting him in the dining-room, where he did full justice to a game pie and a bottle of claret.
Dr. Syn had told the squire that he had seen the body of the captain lying on the sea-wall, and as he was eating, news was brought that it had been carried with other bodies they had recovered to Sycamore Barn. Maintaining that his own story could wait, Dr. Syn wanted to know all the news of the village, merely satisfying their curiosity about his own doings by telling them he had been in the wildest parts of America preaching the gospel to the Indians.
“And none of your experiences could be stranger than the shipwreck,” went on the squire. “A very strange thing. Here we are, talking of you, and in you walk. And there you were wondering when the living of Dymchurch would be vacant, and the living vicar swimming out to rescue you is killed.” They all nodded gravely, and Dr. Syn said: “Yes, it seems like Fate.”
“Seems? It is!” exclaimed the squire.
Charlotte nodded. She was the eldest, a beautiful blonde of nineteen.
Maria, of seventeen, fair like her sister, and Cicely of fifteen, somewhat darker, were both thrilled with this strange man who had come up from the sea.
Charlotte felt a strange thrill in the presence of this newcomer. The pale, tragic face, the sad smile that was so ingratiating. 'Yes,' thought Charlotte, 'here is a man, a sad lonely man, of whom any woman in the world would feel proud.'
Dr. Syn surprised the look that such thoughts wrote upon her guileless face, and he read an interest there, an admiration innocent enough, but yet a warning to him of something which this girl, the daughter of his friend and patron would never know, and it was this look which influenced him that very night to take a certain course. But this was after the household had settled down to quiet after the excitement of the storm. The physician had left his patient in Lady Cobtree's care, who had arranged to share the watches with Charlotte and the old housekeeper. After another bottle of port between the three of them, Pepper at length went home and the squire carried Dr. Syn's candles into his room.
“It's strange, too,” said the squire, “that the servants got ready his room. I didn't mean to tell you, but I see you would have found it out.”
“You need not think that I am afraid of his poor ghost, if that's what you mean,” replied Dr. Syn. “But how should I have discovered it?”
The squire pointed to a wig and gown that hung behind the door. “He brought home a wig to have it dressed, I suppose, for he would only wear it in the church, and there only as a badge of his office. But why did he bring the Geneva gown? He always put that on just before preaching.”
“He tore it on the chancel rail last Sunday, Papa. I noticed it and told him to bring it back for me to mend.” They turned and saw Charlotte standing in the doorway with a black coat over her arm.
“And what are you doing here, miss?” asked her father.
“I have been mending the sleeve of Doctor Syn's coat. I noticed it was badly torn when they were drying it, so I thought I had better do it at once. You will find the rest of your clothes hanging up. They are dry.”
“That's very kind of you,” said the doctor, taking the coat and examining the damage. “Now that is very beautifully done, Miss Charlotte. I have had to learn to work with a needle myself out of necessity, so I know when I see a thing done better.”
“So you are starting in already to mother the Doctor, are you, miss?” laughed the squire.
This had been a daily joke with the squire over the young parson, and it had never affected Charlotte. So that she was the more puzzled and perhaps annoyed that the same old joke with reference to Dr. Syn should make her blush. To hide this, she walked away to hang up the coat which Dr. Syn had put down on a chair.
“It seems that someone must mother the poor gentleman,” she laughed, “for he very cleverly thinks of a way to save his sea-chest there, and then forgets to unpack it. I suppose you know, Doctor, that your clothes in there are most likely to be wringing wet.”
The doctor shook his head. “I suppose my nice new young mother will be very disgusted to hear that my sea-chest is full of old books. My clothes, other than I swam ashore in, I am afraid were all destroyed in the fire, for they were hanging in my cabin. But I have a few guineas that will take me to the tailors.”
“But your precious books?” she asked.
“All wrapped round in oilskin, my dear,” he chuckled. “Besides I can assure you that this is a sea-chest worthy of the name. I have known it dropped into a river, and when rescued the contents were bone dry.”
“What things you have seen,” whispered Charlotte with awe.
“Well, yes, but there's not much to see in an old chest being fished out of a river. I'll perhaps tell you a real story one day. An exciting one.”
“Do,” she answered. “Were there crocodiles in the river?”
“And now off to bed,” commanded the squire. “If you are not sitting with the invalid, you ought to be sleeping.”
“Good night, Tony's daughter,” said Dr. Syn, bowing over her hand. Then he straightened himself and laying both hands gently on her firm young shoulders, he smiled, and kissed her on the cheek, saying: “Good night, little mother.” Once more Charlotte found herself blushing, so with a hurried curtsy she left the room.
“You have nice children, Tony,” remarked Dr. Syn.
“Wait till you see young Dennis in the morning,” replied the squire, glowing with pride. And with fervent 'good nights' and 'God bless you's' the squire went to the door.
“God bless you,” replied Dr. Syn, and after listening to the retreating footsteps he tiptoed across the room and very quietly locked and bolted the door.
The squire went off to his room and did not notice that the outer door of Dr.
Syn's powder closet was wide open, and as for the doctor, he never gave it a thought, but it was the means of giving food for thought to Charlotte Cobtree for a long time to come.
Charlotte had taken over her mother's watch at Meg's bedside, pleading that she felt strangely awake and could not sleep if she tried, so on the understanding that she would awaken Mrs. Lovell, the housekeeper, in two hours' time, she had been allowed her wish.
Outwardly she busied herself with feeding the fire and creeping to the bedside whenever the poor girl stirred in her sleep, but all the time her inward thoughts were far busier, and it was the new guest that filled them. He was a romantic figure. He had lived a romantic life. Why did she think of him with such a swift beating of her heart? Why had she blushed when he had praised her needlework? And why had she blushed when he kissed her? Why did this extraordinary joy that she felt in his arrival override the sadness for the young parson's death and Meg Clouder's tragedy? Had he thought of her at all? If only he were thinking of her now.
And he was, but not quite in the way she wished.
He thought first of all about her advice concerning the contents of his chest.
She was right. Everything should be taken out and dried. He was alone, and could not be disturbed till morning, and a splendid wood fire burned in the grate. He slipped the corded key over his head and fitted it into the lock. It fitted easily and he blessed the locksmith whose work had not been damaged by salt water. He pulled the chest towards the fire and raised the iron lid. Inside was a second chest of teak, reinforced with brass, and the inner one did not fit to the iron sides but was held in place by iron springs that gripped it tightly, and the small space between iron and wood was packed tightly with oakum, so that should any damp get through the outer iron case, this caulking would absorb it before reaching the wood. A second lock on the top of this lid was unfastened by the same key and two doors could be lifted and opened out sideways. The interior of this second chest was packed tightly with various compartments, and in all, the packing was worthy of the chest. Carefully covered with a velvet pad and lying taut in a grooved tray was a pair of silverhilted long-swords with magnificent scabbards and carriages. In another corner, a case of pistols. Of the books he had spoken of so much there were but a few, and all bound round with oilskin to preserve their bindings. A Bible. The plays of Shakespeare. A volume on navigation. The works of Don Quevedo in Spanish. A book of Tillotson's sermons, and a Homer. All these he carefully spread out upon the hearth-rug to dry, though there appeared no sort of dampness on any. A brass telescope and a boxed sextant had their own departments, and when all these had been removed, a tray of clothes, neatly strapped in place. This he propped against a chair close to the fire. The lowest department was tightly packed with bundles and bags. Dr. Syn's sensitive fingers tapped them one by one, as though recalling their contents to his mind.
Lifting out one of the bags in order to get the end of another package clear, a pleasant chink of coin came to his ears. The package was heavy and he weighed it lovingly in his hands, but he did not remove the piece of red flannel that was wrapped round it. In shape, it resembled a long brick, but was vastly heavier.
He turned it over, patting the flannel and, satisfied that it was bone-dry placed it back again.
Dr. Syn stood up and surveyed his property. It represented all his worldly goods, but having reminded himself of the contents, and being assured that nothing was missing, his face bore a look of infinite satisfaction. His next employment was to examine the Geneva gown of his predecessor. Slipping off the quilted dressing-gown he put the gown over his head. Although quite full in the body, it was too short in the arms and legs, but he thought that for a village pulpit this would not greatly matter. By the open door of the powder-closet there stood a tall pier glass. Holding the lighted candle, he surveyed himself, and appeared dissatisfied. Not with himself—for Dr. Syn had his vanities, though in company taking pains to hide them—but in the general effect towards which he was working. There is no colour that can compare with black or white for a striking effect, especially when contrasted with those of brilliance. Amidst the garish court of King Claudius, the inky cloak and suit of solemn black rivets all eyes upon the solitary Hamlet. So thought Dr. Syn as he surveyed his pale face and raven locks that fell upon the shoulders of the Geneva gown. “My appearance like this in the Dymchurch pulpit will be too striking. People will be curious about me and talk, and if I preach as I know I can, the authorities will be preferring me to a pulpit of more importance. No, it won't do, my dear friend.”
Thus he addressed himself to his reflection. True, a doctor of Oxford can reasonably be expected to cut a figure above the ordinary, but as he told himself in the glass: “In my case, it is dangerous!” The thought of his degree gave him an idea, and he went to the tray of clothes that had been warming by the fire.
He unpacked his scarlet hood which had accompanied him on all his travels, put it on, surveyed it critically and shook his head. “It's the hair. It suits the face too well. It gives a romantic environment to the owner.” He criticized his reflection as though it were a second party. “Tony's girl, Charlotte, gave me the warning of it, for the sweet girl had not the skill to disguise her thoughts, and it won't do. There must be no romance. Nothing of note beyond the ordinary. My degree will raise me dangerously enough above my fellow vicars, therefore I must tone myself down to keep the balance. If I am to lie low here, I must not be too conspicuous. I must be a leaf lying in a forest of leaves, a stone upon a stony beach. Above all, there must be no women to play Delilah to my Samson in the time to come. My secrets are too dangerous.” He picked up the dead parson's wig, and put it on his head. He looked once more in the mirror. The incongruity of the raven locks escaping from below the rigid white line of the formal wig, made him smile. He took a pull at the jug of small beer and smiled again. From the chest he took his toilet case, and with a pair of scissors he cut away the rebellious hair that hung beneath the wig. He threw the cut hair into the fire, and as it fizzled, he found his dark-tinted spectacles that he had used in the tropics and pushed them on his nose. Once more he regarded himself in the mirror and was so elated by what he saw that he took a deep pull at his silver brandy-flask. He then discarded the wig, the hood and the gown and began to dress himself in a fine suit of scarlet velvet trimmed with silver braid. The coat, which was full-skirted in the fashion that had already passed out of England, he bound round the waist with a silver sash into which he thrust his brace of pistols. Before fastening one of the swords to the carriage, he pulled on a long and elegant pair of thigh boots, and then attached the sword. Into his hat he clipped a fine ostrich feather, and then picking up the silver flask with one hand and fingering the hilt of his sword he yet again approached the pier glass and favoured his magnificent reflection with a bow. Just then the stable clock struck three.
“Captain Clegg,” he whispered, “I regret to inform you that we have reached in safety the parting of the ways. If I do not discontinue your company, it is as like as not that I should accompany you to Execution Dock. By reason of the many services you have done for me, and for the fact that the name of Captain Clegg is known and trembled at over the seven seas, I rest your humble servant.
Let me in parting present you to your successor, Dr. Syn—Christopher Syn, D.D., of Oxford University and Vicar of Dymchurch-under-the-Wall, in the County of Kent.”
Drawing his sword he picked up gown and wig upon the point and made it bob up and down before the mirror.
The same three strokes of the stable clock reminded Charlotte of her promise to her mother, so after seeing that Meg was still under the influence of Sennacherib Pepper's sleeping draught, she gently opened the door and crept along the gallery to awaken Mrs. Lovell, the housekeeper. There was no need for her to carry a light, as the moon, riding now in a clear sky, shone brightly through the landing window. Her mind, so running on the guest who had been cast up by the sea, it was only natural that she should look across to the door of the room she knew he was occupying. It was shut of course, but she saw suddenly that the door of his powder-closet was open. After his fearful experience of the wreck, she felt it would be too cruel if he were kept awake by a creaking door, so very quietly she crossed the landing to close it. Small as this service was, she found so much pleasure in doing it that her heart was beating so loud that she was afraid someone might hear it.
It was not until she reached the door that her heart-beats stopped in sheer terror, for there, standing in a most unearthly light, she saw a vision of her father's guest, the man who had so disturbed her heart.
There he stood looking at her, yet not seeming to notice her. She had heard tales of ghostly visitants that looked through one and there was nothing real about this figure. It certainly resembled the man she so admired in feature, but the clothes were those of a swaggering gallant. True, she could not see to plainly, for in front of him there flickered a veil of light, a sheen that shimmered so that the face seemed to be hovering in airy darkness beyond the moving radiance. But why should a living man appear to her? It was then that she saw the dead one. A second form, vaguer than his, seemed to be dancing beside him, and she recognized the white wig and shiny, black silk preaching gown of the dead parson.
Then in sheer panic Charlotte fled along the gallery.
Hearing the rustling of her silk petticoats and knowing it would never do to be caught in his present finery, Dr. Syn quickly divested himself of hat, pistols, sash and coat. Then laying his sword upon the bed, he slipped into the quilted dressing-robe, and picking up a candle quietly unfastened the door of the powder closet. The door leading to the landing was wide open. There was no one in the powder-closet and all was still and quiet on the landing and galleries. But just as he was about to close the door, his eye caught something white upon the carpet near the wall. He saw it was a small lace handkerchief, and picked it up. The faint odour of roses which it held, rolled back the years and he felt young again, romantic and in love.
With the same whimsicality that he had betrayed over his sea-chest, he allowed himself not to do the sensible thing, which was to drop the little lace handkerchief where he found it. Instead, he held it to his lips, and when he heard footsteps and whisperings approaching round the gallery he took it with him, when he quietly shut the door and locked it.
He went back to the bedroom and began stowing all his property back into the chest. Then throwing a towel around his shoulders, he sat in front of the dressing-table and cut his hair short. Having done this to the best of his ability in the candlelight and promising himself to better it in the morning, he made up the fire, consigned a handful of black locks to the flames, put out the candle, and then, after opening the casement wide, so that he could hear the sea grinding upon the beach, a soothing lullaby to one who had spent so much of his life upon it, he clad himself, by the light of the fire, in a nightcap and gown of the squire's providing, and took himself and the lace handkerchief to the sanctuary of the great four-poster bed, where, holding the handkerchief close to his face in the hope that its gentle fragrance might breathe into his sleep sweet dreams on long-forgotten innocence, and thanking God for having preserved him through so many dangers and for bringing him home again he heard the stable clock strike four and fell asleep.
The next thing he knew was the same clock striking eight.
Dr. Syn swung himself out of bed and crossed eagerly to the window. There across the red roofs of the farm and the Little Manor rose the sharp grass bank of the sea-wall upon which a party of men were at work repairing the damages of the storm. Observing the eagerness with which they toiled, Dr. Syn repeated to himself the slogan of the Marsh, “Serve God, honour the King, but first maintain the Wall”.
A door beneath him opened and the charming vision of Charlotte appeared, dressed in a green velvet riding habit trimmed with fur. It was her habit to go riding every morning with the squire. Looking up she saw the doctor in his very ludicrous nightcap and shirt.
“You'll catch your death of cold,” she called. “Why, you want looking after.
Would you care for some hot chocolate now or later?”
“I'll send Robert—he's the footman who opened the door to you last night.
Oh, and if you would like him to shave you, you needn't worry. Father says he has not met a barber to equal him in London.”
“Ah, then I will put my life into his hands and save myself the bother of cutting my own throat,” he laughed.
She laughed too, but not at his facetious remark, but at her own exclamation of: “So you've got it all the time, and I've set all the servants looking for it. I suppose I dropped it in your room when I brought your coat.”
“Why, my lace handkerchief that you are holding so tightly,” she answered, pointing up to his right hand.
Up to that moment Dr. Syn had been unaware that he had been doing any such thing. He now realized that he must have clutched it all night and then risen with it still in his hand, but he had no intention of confessing this to the charming young lady below.
“If you drop it down, I'll catch it,” she said.
“If I were twenty, nay, ten years younger, Miss Charlotte, I should not think of giving up this kerchief. Although, were I younger, as I say, I should find it hard to refuse you anything. Catch.” He dropped the kerchief and she caught it, giving him a curtsy of thanks, which he returned with a bob of his night-capped head.
Charlotte went in to send Robert up with the chocolate. Upon the tray was a single rose with pinky-white petals. Dr. Syn picked it up gently, laid it on the palm of his hand, and slowly raising it to his face he sniffed at it audibly.
“Very kind of you, Robert,” said Dr. Syn.
“The gift of the rose is not mine, sir,” answered the stately young footman, who was honest enough not to accept thanks that were not his due.
“I meant for preparing this excellent chocolate,” explained the doctor.
But yet again Robert insisted on being strictly honest. “I fear, sir, that I merely had the honour of carrying up the tray. The chocolate was prepared by Miss Charlotte herself, sir, and there is no better hand at making it, sir, believe me. The rose was also her idea, sir. Seeing that your reverence has been absent so long from England, she thought that you should be welcomed by what she was pleased to call 'the heraldic flower of the realm'.”
“Very kind,” said Dr. Syn. “I hear, Robert, that you are an expert with the razor. The ministry in America is not the same as it is here. I wore my own hair there for convenience. But in England it is meet and right that I wear the orthodox badge of my calling—a parson's wig, so if you'll shave and polish my skull, Robert, I'll be ready for breakfast at half-past nine. I am sure my predecessor will not grudge me the use of his wig.”
“But, sir,” pleaded Robert. “You will put on a great many years if you shave your head and wear a wig of this kind.”
“My good Robert, that is just what I require,” replied Dr. Syn quietly.
At half-past nine, Dr. Syn entered the old dining-room to find the three young ladies in possession.
“Good morning, young ladies,” he said, bowing in the doorway.
They all turned and looked at him, and it was obvious that they were struck dumb with surprise.
“Have I changed then so much?” asked Dr. Syn.
“Years and years,” replied Maria.
“Dear, dear, how distressing,” sighed Dr. Syn. “And what does Miss Charlotte think?”
“That my sisters are being very personal,” she answered smiling.
“But have you no criticism to add?” he asked.
“Well then, I think you must give me your wig to dress.”
“But surely,” he argued, “one seldom sees a parson in a well-kept wig.”
“One seldom sees a parson with a gay rose in his lapel,” she answered mischievously.
Dr. Syn was saved from further attack by the arrival of Lady Cobtree and the squire, who immediately became a new target for his daughters' criticism by reason of his being dressed in his bright red hunting coat, to which he was very partial.
“You mustn't be seen in that with the whole village mourning,” said Maria.
“But I was going riding, and I have nothing so comfortable,” pleaded the squire. “I thought Charlotte might stitch a black ribbon to the sleeve.”
“I don't believe it entered your head, Father,” said Charlotte reprovingly.
“On my honour it did, at least, I think it did,” retorted the squire, attacking a large plate of home-smoked ham. “It's like old times. Seems only yesterday, Doctor, that you and I sat next to each other in college and ate as hearty as we're doing now.”
“Yesterday?” repeated Dr. Syn. “It seems longer to me, my dear Tony. And during the time between, I have daily looked forward to the possibility of this home-coming. When I look round your table here and see you surrounded with so much goodness and beauty, not forgetting the son-and-hear upstairs in his cot, why I can see that looking back is to you nothing but pleasure. But I prefer to look forward to the pleasant times coming amongst you all. The past has not been so pleasant that I wish to dwell in it. Rather do I thank God for this hour.”
“Quite right, Doctor,” cried the squire. “I applaud your sentiments. Let us help you to forget the past by making your present life as jolly as we can, eh? For my part, I never remember feeling jollier in my life.” And he smiled at another round of toast which Charlotte had brought smoking from the fire to plaster it with rich home-made butter.
“I know you do, dear, and do see what can be done about the 'Sea-Wall Tavern',” said Lady Cobtree. “From all I hear the place is uninhabitable. Poor Meg has got it into her head that it is left unprotected and that Merry, of all people, is rummaging about amongst her treasures.”
“Tell her that I've put responsible people in charge,” replied the squire.
“You can also tell her that I shall make it my business to see that the house is restored. We'll all do what we can to make it a great deal better than it was before, and if she intends carrying on the business, why, we'll see it's well stocked with saleable liquor.” This idea strongly recommended itself to the villagers, who one and all, and most readily, promised that, as the squire was ready to bear all the necessary expense, they would at least save him the cost of labour, and bind themselves voluntarily under the most fitting foreman, to be elected, under whom they would carry out all the necessary labour.
A suggestion made by one Josiah Wraight, master builder to the works of the Lords of the Level, 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.
Dr. Syn's assurance that there would be no further trouble from Merry, went so far to dispel Meg's terror of the rogue that within a few days she was willing to venture out, escorted by Charlotte and the parson, to view the work of restoration being carried on under Josiah Wraight's direction in her old home, the “Sea-Wall Tavern”.
It was Josiah Wraight's boast to the committee that every piece of wood left on the brig had been utilized for the tavern. Even the little hut erected as the office of works, and in which Josiah kept the plans, was knocked up out of the bulkhead of the fo'c'sle.
When Josiah went to meet Meg Clouder, he exclaimed: “Aye, Meg, there's more City of London than 'Sea-Wall Tavern'.”
“Ay, yes,” replied the doctor. “You see, Mrs. Clouder, and since so many good folk have to rebuild the tavern and out of respect for your brave husband, the squire is of the opinion that the house should stand now, and in generations to come, as a memorial, and as he is giving you a new licence to run the tavern to more advantage, now would be the convenient time to change the title from 'Sea-Wall Tavern' to 'The City of London'.”
“Aye, and I think Abel would like it,” put in Josiah, “for in days to come, when strangers look at the sign and say 'What has London to do with Romney Marsh?' why, the story will be told of how Abel and Parson Bolden died, and how the wreck not only rebuilt your house but brought us our new vicar. 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. 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, Meg might be reconciled to it.
“Why, yes,” said Dr. Syn. “I can tell you about this curious fellow, for during the voyage I enjoyed the full confidence of our ill-fated captain, whom I nicknamed 'the 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 rechristened 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 figurehead is not a work of art that any woman would covet. Therefore, we must find some other use for it. 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 that to set it 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 Dymchurchunder-the-Wall.
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 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 greatest pessimist would have said that at least Dymchurchunder-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.
