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 wake 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. That his vivid personality thrilled her was not surprising, for as she told herself, this old friend of her father's was very different from gentlemen of the district. He was a romantic figure. He had lived a romantic life. But Charlotte had always prided herself upon her good sense, and she told herself it was folly to fall in love with a man so much older than herself at first sight. He was middle-aged, and from his conversation with her father, she knew that he had come to Dymchurch with a view of settling down. This indicated to her youthful mind that the man had wilfully put the best years of his life behind him. Dymchurch was a good living as livings went and her father, she knew, was a good patron, none better, but surely it was strange that this forceful stranger should be content to forego all ambition of making a stir in his profession. He was a Doctor of Oxford University. He had a fascinating voice, full of colour and distinction. When she had served him at supper, the red quilted dressing-gown, which she always thought looked rather ridiculous when the squire wore it, became an imposing costume. He lent it an elegance that was somehow royal. Such a man could get anywhere in any profession, and she had never seen a parson, even amongst the dignitaries of Canterbury, who could compare at all favourably with this dashing gentleman. Why, then, did he want to bury himself in Romney Marsh? 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? Why could she think of no one else but this new inmate of the parson's room? 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 turned 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 silver-hilted 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 for 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 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 contrasted with those of brilliance. Amid 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 criticised 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 woman 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 in 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, and I should be desolate to see you in such straits. I have to thank you for many thrilling years of companionship. Your long sword and your skill with it, your pistols and your skill with them, your quick wit and your gallantry have countless times saved not only my poor life but the lives of many a stout friend. Your successor, who will now take command, is in no ways comparable to yourself, though more suitable for the work at hand. I commit you with honour to lie in the chest which you have filled for me, and after your successor has turned me into a humdrum parson, I'll take my oath that there will come times when I shall itch for your gay life. 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 the 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 Sennacharib 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. She had not even the power to speak or cry out, 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. Overcoming her terror with all her strength, she forced herself to look at him more intently.
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 too 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 recognised the white wig and shiny-black silk preaching gown of the dead parson.
Then in sheer panic Charlotte fled along the gallery.
How she reached the housekeeper's room without falling she didn't know, but when she did she found to her infinite relief that Mrs. Lovell had her candle lighted and had just been getting ready to relieve her.
“But whatever ails you, Miss Charlotte? Did you fall asleep and dream? It was the stable clock that woke me. I wondered why you did not come at once.”
“I've seen the dead parson,” she whispered in terror. “He was in the powder closet of his old room.”
“Nonsense, child,” replied the old lady. “I never hold with ghosts and such things.” But her terrified looks belied her, though she tried to show a brave face before her young mistress.
“I told her ladyship it was not right for you to sit up after such a night of tragedy,” she whispered. “Come, I'll take you back to your room and you'll soon be asleep. We don't want another invalid to look after. Was it in the powder closet that you thought you saw him?”
“You don't think he's returned to harm father's guest, do you?” asked Charlotte.
“What, Parson Bolden do harm? Alive or dead, he could do nothing but good. It would cheer me to see him again alive, my dear.” She did not add that she had no such desire to see his ghost.
Together they sallied out, clutching one another at every sound and encouraging one another with whispers. Mrs. Lovell held a candle high above her head and walked slowly, so that if they caught a glimpse of the distant ghost they could scuttle back to safety.
They reached the landing and paused, for they were now within sight of the door.
“The door was open, you said, dear?” whispered the old lady.
“I went to shut it, yes, and then I saw him.” Somehow she could not bring herself to speak of the other that she had seen.
“Then you were dreaming, child,” said Mrs. Lovell, mightily relieved. “For, look, the outer door of the powder closet is shut.”
Charlotte could not believe her eyes till Mrs. Lovell tried the door softly and found that it would not yield.
“It's locked from the inside, my dear. You go and dream better dreams in bed, Miss Charlotte.”
And when Mrs. Lovell left her in her room, Charlotte began to wonder whether she had seen anything or no.
As Dr. Syn drained his flask in a parting salute to his resplendent reflection, he heard a noise which he took to be the rustling of ivy against the window. He heard it again. It was very faint, but since his sea-chest was open, he had no wish to be surprised. Once more he heard it, but this time it seemed to be dying away into the distance. This time, however, he located it as coming from the powder closet. He could see the half-opened door in the pier glass, but beyond it was pitch dark. He felt a draught towards the door and remembered the squire had told him that there was a way through to the landing. Was it possible that someone had entered the powder closet? Was it possible that someone was still there? What he had thought to be the stirring of the ivy might well have been the rustling of a silk petticoat. He knew that the ladies were keeping vigil beside the bereaved young widow. For some purpose, one of them might have crept to his door.
As it would never do to be caught in his present finery, he 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 tiptoed into 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 when he looked out. 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 with that subtle swiftness that only scent possesses, and he felt young again, romantic and in love. All very ridiculous, as he knew, for between those far-off days which the perfumed piece of lace brought back, were all the properties of Tragedy—storm, tempest, villainy, death, destruction and a broken heart turned vindictive. No, those years rose up with the smell of powder, rum and blood forbidding romance with their stench.
Yet, being his first night in England since so long, Dr. Syn, with the same whimsicality that he had betrayed over his sea-chest, 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 heard them approach the door. He was the other side of it when Mrs. Lovell tried it, and he wondered what dreams they had been when she said: “You go and dream better dreams in bed, Miss Charlotte.”
He went back to the bedroom and began stowing all his property back into the chest. The 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 candle-light, 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 kerchief close to his face in the hope that its gentle fragrance might breathe into his sleep sweet dreams of 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.
