At half-past nine Dr. Syn entered the old dining-room to find the three young ladies in possession. They were all kneeling on the hearth-rug, each armed with a brass toasting-fork on which were impaled rounds of bread.
“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.
To anyone less self-possessed than Dr. Syn, the focus of three pairs of beautiful eyes looking over three bread-loaded toasting-forks, might have proved disconcerting, but the dumbness of the young ladies gave him the assurance that he had altered his appearance sufficiently to surprise them.
“Why,” cried the doctor, “you all look at me as though I were a stranger. Must I introduce myself all over again? I am Christopher Syn, Doctor of Divinity, late fellow of Queen's College, Oxford. I have just returned from a travelling ministry in America, and according to your father's positive assertion, I am to be installed as the new vicar of Dymchurch. Do you imagine that the happenings of last night were a dream?”
“But you're not a scrap what you were,” stammered Miss Maria.
“You've changed in the night,” echoed Miss Cicely.
“You look like the father of the ship-wrecked man,” said Maria.
“Did you hear a witch in the night?” asked Cicely. “They ride on the Marsh, you know. There's one old woman we can show you who really is a witch.”
“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. “I like to hear opinions. Please be personal too.”
“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 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. “I confess that I don't feel so melancholy as I might have done had the wreck not brought us the doctor here. And my faith, he is dressed solemn enough to make up our deficiencies.”
“As I have already been told by your daughters,” laughed the doctor. “But surely, just because I have been in America you would not expect me to dress here like a Red Indian or a buccaneer?”
“I liked you best as you were last night, all wild and odd and wet,” declared Cicely.
“But you surely wouldn't have me preach all 'wild and odd and wet'?” asked the doctor. “I'd catch my death of cold in the pulpit.”
“Which we both shall, if you young rascals keep us from the fire much longer.”
“Toast,” cried the three young ladies, swinging their neglected rounds of bread toward the flames.
“Besides, there's plenty of room,” added Maria.
“Thank you, but I don't give any little minx a chance to set fire to my coat-tails behind my back,” laughed the squire. “I'll just cast my eyes over the sideboard and see what's what. Do you eat porridge, Doctor, because we ring for that? Personally, I'm going to.”
“Who said he was going to give it up because it was fattening?” asked Cicely, looking at the toast.
“I'm not,” retorted the squire. “I mean, I did, but I didn't mean it. If a squire can't grow fat, well who can? Besides, a good ride will slim me down again. Now then, plenty of butter on that toast, girls, and—” he was interrupted by Robert and an ancient butler bringing in a huge tureen of porridge, plates and milk.
Charlotte had been right in describing breakfast as a “moveable feast,' which it was not only in time but action. Lady Cobtree came in twenty minutes later with excuses that she had been inducing the invalid to eat, but apart from this, while the squire sat solidly sampling first one dish and then another and washing it down with brown ale, which he preferred to tea, one or the other of the young ladies was jumping up and carrying this or that from the sideboard, so that Dr. Syn began to wonder how soon he would become as portly as the squire.
“Why, this is jolly, upon my soul,” cried 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-heir 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,” said Lady Cobtree. “Hardly a day has gone by in our married life, Doctor, when my husband has not spoken of you, wondered what you were doing and wishing you were here. You know that we all welcome you as heartily as he does, Doctor, but I'm sure you'll support my urging the necessity for keeping our jollity under control till after the funeral. We must think of those poor bodies in the barn.”
“Yes,” nodded the squire, “and I hear their numbers have been doubled in the night. Three more found. That makes six, besides a heap of bits and pieces.”
“Really, Tony, don't,” cried her ladyship.
“Well, there, Doctor,” sighed the squire. “Now what is a man to do? She asks me not to be jolly. She mentions bodies and funerals, and urges me to be miserable. But the moment I take a gloomy turn in the conversation, it's 'Really, Tony, don't'!”
“My dear, you may be as jolly as you like here amongst ourselves,” went on Lady Cobtree. “But even then we must remember the servants, and the invalid. Now, dear, if you've finished breakfast, what's the order of the day?”
“Well, we'll dispense with family prayers for the first thing, as it's more than usually late,” returned the squire. “There's lots to do. I thought some of us—you and I, eh, Doctor?—might stroll along and see what damage the storm has done. Then, my dear Charlotte, I'll be back for our ride at eleven o'clock. Now, Doctor, what about a horse for you? I suppose you have ridden a lot in America?”
The doctor said he would enjoy it.
“Very well, then,” went on the squire. “Charlotte, will you see to it? We'll ride Burmarsh way and see how our neighbours have fared.”
“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 of the squire's strongly recommended itself to the villagers, who one and all, and most readily, promised that as the squire was ready to bear all 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 necessary labour.
In the same spirit the women of the village banded together to undertake, under the direction of the ladies at New Hall, all those necessary comforts that only women can supply, such as the making and fitting of new curtains, fresh furniture covers, and all the stitchings and sewings necessary for a well-regulated, comfortable house. Their labours did not end there, for Dr. Syn, inspired by this general generosity, opened a subscription list, heading it himself with the sum of seventy guineas, which he took for the purpose from the sea-captain's belt. Over this transaction his conscience was more or less clear, since the captain had told him during the voyage that having no relations or dependants, he was hard put to it as to whom he should leave his money, and supposing that the best remedy would be to have it divided amongst his crew, should death claim him. Keeping seven guineas back to pay for the captain's special burial, he entered one more guinea as coming from the savings of Mr. Merry, much to that rogue's disgust, since he would sooner have spent it on himself in the bar-parlour. This extra windfall enabled the committee of women to set about ordering new sets of household utensils, so that when Meg should start life afresh she would be equipped with the best copper, brass and pewter and china that a good housekeeper would delight in.
A suggestion made by one Josiah Wraight, who as master builder to the works of the Lords of the Level, carried full weight, 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, whose keel had originally been laid down in teak with ribs of solid oak, so strong, in fact, that they had withstood even the fire which destroyed the cargo. The idea appealed to the squire, who was thus saved the heavy expense of wood and cartage. So that very day the work of restoration was put in hand, everybody vying to do a little more than the next.
In the meantime, Dr. Syn made good his boast to the housekeeper, for having visited Meg and talked to her, she became more reconciled to her fate and actually began to take an interest in the new life ahead of her, which the kindness of the village was making possible. Her confidence in Dr. Syn even lessened her dread of Merry, and she somehow believed his assertion that she need have no fear of any further molestation in that quarter.
“I have always found,” he told her kindly, “that in the worst sinner there is some hidden quality of goodness, and although this misguided man seems from all accounts to have little to recommend him, I am not despairing of finding some point of contact from which to work towards making him a better citizen.”
This was very comforting to her, as she had no suspicion of Dr. Syn's real opinion, which did not tally with the above sentiment, for as he told himself: “The man's a blackguard and will always be a blackguard. He is also dangerous. I know the type. He will be like a wild beast at bay. He will comfort himself with thoughts of revenge, and the first chance he gets against me, he will take. For two ends he will strive. A knife in my back and this pretty widow in his arms. At present, I have got him on the raw, and mighty useful he may be, but I shall not underestimate the power of his hatred.”
This self-advice the doctor kept to himself, so that all his well-wishers, from the squire down, began to warn him not to attempt any conversion with the rogue Merry, as he was beyond redemption.
The rogue in question was at the moment more than living up to Dr. Syn's private estimation of him. In a spirit of savage recklessness, he expended the whole of his guinea upon strong drink, laying in a stock of more brandy than he had ever hidden at one time in his room. He felt happier when the guinea was gone, for it only served to remind him of how fate had cheated him on the previous night. All the day he drank, and hoped that his tormentor would give him a call, for the command to appear at morning prayer the next day was a bitter thought which he would have been glad to avoid. He would sooner have spent a week in the Court House cells, and more than once he thought of ignoring the order. And yet, partly through fear of the devilish survivor whom he hated with all his soul, and partly through curiosity to find out who and what he was, he at last came to the conclusion that to go to church for at least this once was the only course to take. His vanity recoiled from the sneers that such an action would bring upon him. He knew very well that everyone's eyes would be upon him. It would be bad enough if they welcomed this gesture of turning over a new leaf, but it would be worse if they sneered. He could hear their tongues wagging as first one gossip then another gave out their ideas of his motive. Well, he would keep them guessing at all events. What was more, he would go unshaven and half drunk, and if any of the church officials interfered with him, it would be at their own peril.
