The next thing he knew was the same clock striking eight. Through the open casement he saw sea-gulls wheeling in a sky that, ashamed of its ill vapours the night before, was bright, clear and crisp.
Dr. Syn swung himself out of bed and crossed eagerly to the window. The first view of English countryside is always a joy to those who have been long abroad, and everything he saw was a joy to him. Regardless of his bobbing nightcap and white gown, he hung out over the sill to get a wider view. There across the red roofs of the farm and 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,” and he added this comment: “Good men will serve God, loyal men will honour the King, but there's nothing that every man fights harder for than his own personal safety,” and looking first this way and then that and delighting in all he saw, he told himself that so long as the Wall was maintained, a fairer spot than little Dymchurch-under-the-Wall could not be found on the coast of England.
A sharp, frightened scream immediately beneath him interrupted his meditations. A buxom dairy wench who had no doubt been tempted to look up from her task of pail-carrying in order to watch the screaming sea-gulls, circling the lofty rookery, who with their shrill sea voices seemed to be asking their sedater fellows, the rooks, how they had fared in the last night night's storm.
Expecting, therefore, to see sea-gulls and rooks arguing the point overhead, she was greatly alarmed to see the apparition of a strange, queer-looking man, dressed only in nightcap and shirt, looking round the corner of his window-sill like Mr. Punch awakened by the beadle in the puppet show. As their eyes met she dumped down the pails on the uneven ground with such a bump that rivers of pure milk ran here and there amongst the gravel. The yoke she threw from her shoulders backwards, tripped over it, saved herself with both hands and after crawling clear of the wreckage on all fours, picked herself up and fled in confusion back towards the farm.
Her exhibition was so entirely comical that Dr. Syn, feeling in the best of spirits, burst out laughing, when 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. She had witnessed the disaster of the milk pails and had stepped out on the path to see the cause of it, when looking up at the sound of his laughter she saw the doctor in his very ludicrous costume.
Although she could not help laughing at the ridiculous situation, she pretended to be very stern with her father's guest.
“You'll catch your death of cold,” she called. “After your wetting last night to be hanging out of an open window in nothing but a shirt. Why, you want looking after.”
“Mothering, eh?” chuckled Dr. Syn.
“Quickly now,” she went on. “Let me see you put on the dressing-gown we gave you, and then I'll have some hot chocolate sent up for you. I'm waiting.”
Hastening to obey this order, he reappeared at the window in the added splendour of the quilted dressing-gown.
“That's better,” she laughed. “Did you sleep well?”
“Not very. I was anxious about our invalid, I suppose. She seems a little better this morning, but is still dazed.”
“Yes, it's dreadful for her, isn't it? Her husband was such a splendid young man. We were all devoted to him.”
“By the way, Miss Charlotte,” said the doctor, “I think it is my turn to be 'fatherly.' If you spent a poor night, why are you dressed and about so early?”
“I'm riding with my father at eleven, but I thought a gallop before breakfast would wake me up. Breakfast is ordered late to-day, and you are supposed to be sleeping still. Half-past nine breakfast; but it's a moveable feast, and you can come down when you like. 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. You see, it's not the value of the thing, though it is quite good, but it was given me with five others by my godmother, Lady Pembury; and as Lympne Castle is near enough for a surprise visit any day, I have to be careful, as she's one of those creatures who always wants to see how her presents are getting on. She asked to see my silver-backed hair-brushes the other day, and carried one away with her to have a dent removed. 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 realised that he must have clutched it all night and 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.
“Always allowing that I am willing to part with it,” he replied.
“Oh, but think of my godmother. She can be a positive dragoon when she's crossed. And think of me,” she pleaded, holding out her hands.
“If I were twenty, nay, ten years younger, Miss Charlotte, I should think of nobody when it came to giving up this kerchief. But what should an old parson do with such vanities? I should have the parish crying 'shame.' 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 curtesy of thanks, which he returned with a bob of his nightcapped head which, had the dairy-maid been witness of, would have heightened his resemblance to Mr. Punch.
The dairy-maid, who was spying round the wall that protected the cow-sheds, gained confidence when she saw that Miss Cobtree was joking with the strange gentleman, and since he was now robed more respectably than when she had first seen him, she advanced from her ambush into the garden in order to deal with the upset milk-pails.
Charlotte went in to send up the chocolate, and Dr. Syn, closing the window, went to unlock the door to admit Mrs. Lovell, who had taken it upon herself to bring material for the building of a jolly fire. Dr. Syn, with his bed-curtains half-drawn, sat upon the pillows with his knees drawn up and chattered to her, not forgetting to ask the latest news of the poor widow, knowing that the pleasant-looking old housekeeper was one of the voluntary nurses.
“But what amazes me, sir,” she went on, after giving a lengthy mixed description concerning medicines, cordials, the popularity of Abel Clouder and Meg's love for him, “and it takes a deal to amaze an old body like me who, with all my faults, have learned at least a sympathetic understanding of most people, through being taught by the many who have lavished kindness on me, but now that poor Meg is recovered physically if not mentally, she does not distress herself so much over poor Abel, which one would have expected and respected. But no, sir, not a bit of it—she expends all her energy which she needs to build herself up with, on fear. It's what the doctor calls 'obsession.” And her obsession is really very strange.”
“How strange?” asked the doctor.
“Why, there's a worthless, God-cursed—and no wonder—drunken ne'er-do-well in this otherwise happy village called Merry. Instead of folk giving him the courtesy title of Mister, which a man of his years and strength might with reason expect, he's called 'Wretched' Merry, 'Savage' Merry, 'Cruel' Merry, 'that dirty dog' Merry, 'that double-faced' Merry, 'that fit of the miserables'—”
“In fact, everything opposite to what you and I would care to be called, eh?” interrupted Dr. Syn.
“Exactly, sir, and I thank you for stopping me, for when that man gets talked of, I can never stop giving my opinion of him.”
“No more than yours would be, sir, if you knew the man,” declared the housekeeper.
“He carried my sea-chest for me last night, and I had a long talk with him,” explained the doctor. “He is certainly a forbidding man, but he has his qualities.”
“I should like to learn one, sir,” snorted the old lady.
“Well, he is strong-limbed for one thing. If you try the weight of my sea-chest, you will be convinced of that. I always prefer a strong bad man to a weak one.”
“Oh, he's strong enough,” allowed the housekeeper. “He could take a throat in each hand and throttle them with ease, and has done so before now, I'll be bound. There's ugly rumours about that man, sir, I can tell you.”
“But what has he got to do with poor Meg Clouder?” he asked.
“Ah,” exclaimed the housekeeper. “That's just it. What? For with a pretty, sweet-natured, respectably-married girl as she was, I say he should have had nothing to do with her. And yet, if he has not been near frightening her to death why, instead of crying out for her husband, which would be natural, does she only go on imploring us to keep Merry away from her. It must have been some black suggestion, and God forbid it's no more, that can so prey on the girl's mind in the midst of what should be collapse from natural grief.”
“A merciful dispensation of Providence, perhaps, Mrs. Lovell,” suggested Dr. Syn. “May it not be a case where one evil drives another out. The fear of one man overrides the love for another, and the latter will never be death-blow that the former might have been. We have that to be thankful for.”
“You mean that if we can ease her of her fear that by then she will be reconciled to the loss which as yet she puts in a second place? Is that it, sir?”
To Dr. Syn's nodding nightcap she added: “But shall we ease her of it? If that vicious dog Merry knows the hold he has on her, he'll grip the tighter. Aye, sir, till his teeth meet in the poor girl's heart. I tell you he has only to be warned off Meg to make him torment her the worse.”
The conversation was interrupted by the entry of Robert with the promised hot chocolate. Upon the tray was a single rose with pinky-white petals. Dr. Syn picked it up gently, or as it seemed to the others, gingerly, as though her were afraid of breaking it. He laid it on the palm of his hand, and slowly raising it to his face sniffed at it audibly. Meanwhile, Robert was balancing the tray securely upon the rich, if faded, damask covering of the bedclothes.
“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.' There was quite a altercation (Robert's tongue dwelt lovingly upon the word, which he felt could not fail to win the respect due to it from the housekeeper) a pleasant enough one, sir, and yet altercation it was, between the young ladies. Miss Maria and Miss Cicely brought forward very spirited objections when they saw to what use the pruning knife was to be put. You see, sir, there has been a good deal of innocent gambling in connection with that rose, not only below stairs, but amongst the family itself. You see, sir, it has for some time now been the last bloom in the arbour, and some were of the opinion that it would last the month out. It certainly survived last night's storm in a miraculous manner.”
“My good Robert,” put in the housekeeper, “if the arbour is not sheltered, what is?”
“And if that wasn't a big storm, what is?” retorted Robert, looking at the housekeeper as though surprised at her daring to venture an opinion in a gentleman's bedroom.
He turned again to the doctor, thoroughly satisfied that he had silenced Mrs. Lovell for good and all. “So you see, sir, there was every excuse for the younger young ladies' objection, though I must say that when Miss Charlotte said that since the frost had come after the storm it was better for the rose to die in the warm house than in the cold arbour, and added that she knew for a fact that there was nothing your reverence was so partial to as the perfume of roses, both younger and youngest young ladies give way to the eldest young lady.”
“Very kind,” said Dr. Syn. “I am sure Mrs. Lovell will bear me out that there is no more beautiful trait in a young lady being kind and considerate to the old. If it were possible to feel envy towards my dear friend the squire it would take the form of coveting such a daughter as Miss Charlotte. I can imagine no greater happiness than to be the proud father of such a beautiful young lady.”
“Amen,” said Mrs. Lovell, though it hardly applied in her case.
“Amen,” repeated Robert, not to be behindhand, though he was far too young for such fatherly ambitions.
“And now that Mrs. Lovell has coaxed up such a cheerful fire, the sooner I am dressing by it the better. I hear, Robert, that you are an expert with the razor.”
“Before taking service with the squire, your reverence, I was apprenticed to a barber in London, knowing that such accomplishments are necessary to gentlemen's gentlemen. I paid a good deal of attention to wig dressing too, for the same reason. I even cultivated acquaintance with a French perruquier, from whom, I am bound to admit, I learned a great deal.”
“Then bring razors, scissors, soaps, powders and all the rest of the paraphernalia of barbering and prinking, and do your best to make an old gentleman look respectable.”
Robert smiled as though this were a good joke and took his leave. Mrs. Lovell also got up to go.
“I have had a good deal of experience, Mrs. Lovell, one way and another with invalids of varying temperaments and suffering from all manners of injuries to mind as well as body,” said Dr. Syn, “and have been fortunate enough to see success attend my poor efforts as a comforter. If I may be allowed to visit this poor young widow, I fancy I may be able to remove this obsession under which she is suffering. As to this questionable fellow, Mr. Merry—”
“Mister, indeed,” snorted the housekeeper under her breath.
“Well, I have lived so long amongst the wildest people that I fancy I shall get this rogue under my thumb before long. In my ministry abroad, to which I have given the best years of my life, I have had to deal with men who made profession of committing even the seven deadly sins daily. White men, too, Mrs. Lovell, and professed Christians just as soon as they got scared and thought old Death was after them.”
“And you've lived with such men, sir?” asked the astonished and horrified Mrs. Lovell.
“And that is not counting the Red Indians,” he went on. “I have a great respect for the race on the whole, and count many a good friend among them, being sworn brother to several chiefs. But a bad Red Indian—well there—his ideas would be more blood-curdling than a Spanish Inquisitor. Not that the good ones stick at much when dealing with an enemy. But none stauncher to a friend. I'll give you an example. Suppose now I were to be the vicar of Dymchurch—”
“We should be very lucky, sir, what with your learning and being the squire's friend—” she said with a curtsey.
“We will suppose it then,” he replied. “And suppose in this village I find I have a dangerous enemy—”
“Impossible, sir,” declared the housekeeper. “Unless, of course, it was that pernicious Merry—”
“Well, let us have Merry then, by all means, as our supposition. Well now, being a man of peace, I find that I cannot soil my hands by punishing him—”
“Hand him over to the constables and see him hanged,” suggested the housekeeper.
“Well, I hadn't thought of doing anything so drastic,” smiled Dr. Syn. “In fact, I hadn't thought of punishing him, but just leaving his own conscience to prick him—”
“Which it wouldn't,” put in the housekeeper.
“Perhaps not,” he allowed. “But in order to relieve my feelings, I take up my pen and write to one, of at least five Redskins that I can think of straight away. I tell this good Redskin of the many wrongs done to me by the enemy. I tell it just in the matter of news, expecting nothing from it but his sympathy when reading it. What happens? My friend the Redskin goes to his people and begs absence. He goes to the length of settling his affairs in case he does not return. Then one day, some weeks later, maybe even some months later to account for delay, but certainly when I have forgotten the incident of writing, there walks into Dymchurch a Redskin in full chieftain's dress. Rich furs, leather and feathers. The village school children run to watch him. He asks them in slow, dignified English where he can find his friend, Dr. Syn. They tell him. They take the excuse to walk with him, though keeping their distance. We embrace like brothers. I prepare my best guest-chamber. My housekeeper thinks of dainties. The school children, finding he is my friend and kind, sit round him listening to his stories, Indian ghost stories, while he makes them bows and arrows. My housekeeper gives him a fire as you give me one here. He can have all we have, and for a sign of trust I give him the big key of the house door when I have locked up. He takes an interest in all I do. He asks me the names of such villagers that we see. 'That lady is Mrs. Lovell,' I tell him, 'and she is housekeeper to Squire and Lady Cobtree. That officer is the Preventive man.' And so on. Unknown to me, he leads me on talking and telling him of people until he finds out that Mr. Merry (I think we agreed on Mr. Merry, didn't we) that Mr. Merry is my enemy. He soon knows all about Mr. Merry's habits and tracks. At last my Redskin says it is time to return to his people. He will go the next day. He has booked a passage from Dover to Falmouth, and will then re-ship for New York or Jamestown. I fall asleep or lie awake on getting to bed. It makes no difference. I should not hear that silent footstep, that crawling down the stairs in the dark. But my friend has gone down with the key in his hand, a tomahawk in the other, and a knife in his teeth. He has left his feathers and finery in the room. He is naked and covered in oil to make him slippery. Also, he has put queer paint signs on his face to show the ghosts of his ancestors that he is on the war path and fighting to the death for his sworn brother. Perhaps I wake up and look out upon the churchyard and in the moonlight. Well, if I do, I see nothing. And yet there he is gliding from one tombstone to another and so over the wall and about his business. Next morning he is sad at leaving me but otherwise quite normal. I tell him he will soon see his squaw and children, and I have packed presents for them all, which I give him on the ship in Dover Roads. Just as I am about to leave the ship he gives me thanks for my hospitality and begs me to accept a package which is not to be opened till I am alone in my room with a locked door. He sails. I go home. I go to my room, lock the door and open my package. I will not shock you by telling you what I find, but I bury it deep in the garden beneath the heap of leaf mould. The next day, I am told by the gossips that Mr. Merry is missing. Indeed, he had mysteriously disappeared, leaving no word behind him. He is never found.”
“And what did you bury, sir?” whispered Mrs. Lovell.
“His scalp, Mrs. Lovell. His scalp,” he whispered more fearfully. “Mind you, this is only supposition. I am merely saying 'supposing I should write to that Indian.” I have told you the certain result of such a letter if I did. A Redskin sworn brother will go all the way to serve his friend. I therefore imagine that my experiences among such people during my long ministry abroad will enable me to deal with your Mr. Merry. Don't worry.”
The reappearance of Robert forced Mrs. Lovell to retire.
“Excuse me, your reverence, but I didn't like to mention it before the housekeeper, and it may still seem a liberty, but have you tucked your hair up into your nightcap?”
“What's left of it, Robert. It's not much, and you must deal with it.”
“But you had a very striking head of hair, sir. You've never cut it off?”
“I have indeed, Robert,” replied Dr. Syn. “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, have you considered that a bald head is ageing?” 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. “I am a Doctor of Divinity. I am about to accept the pulpit of Dymchurch. I have got a confounded sense of humour which must be hidden or my flock will not believe in me. I am here to do good, Robert, to be what I am expected to be, and to attempt to cut a romantic figure would not be in accordance with my calling. Shave my head, Robert.”
