Sunday morning found Merry awakening early from a drunken sleep. The injury to his head where he had been dashed against the stone, and which he had but carelessly tended, added to the pains caused by alcohol. True to his resolve, he neither shaved, washed nor brushed his dirt-grimed and sea-watered clothes, and his only preparation for attending the church service was a further soaking of brandy. Realising that hymns, prayers, psalms, sermon and the Scripture reading, although bringing comfort to such fools as could swallow such 'jargon,' as he called it, could, would and should have no power whatever over him unless to depress him the worse, he took in the pocket of his great-coat a handy bottle of brandy.
The drink by this time had filled him with such concentrated hatred of the whole parish, that he began to hug the thought of making them disgusted. He knew that the church would be crammed to capacity, for the morbid curiosity of a funeral oration would attract those who seldom went, so he thought. That most of the parish did go to church he merely put down as 'toadying to the squire' and 'playing up for parochial relief in lean times.' No one did anything for nothing was his firm belief. He quite looked forward to hearing the preacher, whoever he might be, lamenting the death of the parson and Abel Clouder. Abel Clouder especially. He wondered whether the preacher would say: “Now why has God in His mysterious way, thought fit to take our brother Abel to His bosom?”
“Well if he does,” said Merry to himself, “I'm damned if I don't give him the answer. 'Why, says you?' I'll say, standing up in my place and producing my brandy, 'why, so as I can marry his widow, of course, you old fat-head. And here's to Meg and me and damnation to the rest of you.'“
This speech gave him such a relief to his feelings, and caused him so much amusement in a grim fashion, that he really began to look forward to the service, so much so that a dread arose in his mind that the mere fact of his being drunk might prevent him gaining admittance. He resolved, therefore, to start immediately so that he would be on the spot to slip in quietly as soon as the sexton opened the doors. This would also do away with the unpleasant necessity of entering a filled church and being stared and frowned at while staggering to a seat.
So without more ado he made his unsteady way to the churchyard where, crouched behind a tombstone, he took sundry more nips at the bottle and kept one of his swimming eyes upon the church door.
At last, the sexton arrived with his keys to admit the three bell-ringers. As soon as the bells began to ring, he crept from his hiding place, for he knew that very soon the churchyard would be filling up with village gossips. The sexton was busy in the vestry, and the bell-ringers were hidden by a curtain, so that the rogue was able to take his bearings undisturbed. He avoided the family pews, and after experimenting one or two remote corners, his choice was in favour of a bench beneath a window where he could lean back against the angle of the wall which supported the great three-decker pulpit with its mighty sounding board. This position gave him the advantage of being more or less out of the general eye, and yet giving him a good view of the pulpit, and of the south door through which the congregation would enter. Therefore, he could watch for the man who had robbed him of the murdered captain's guineas. No doubt he would accompany the squire, and it was easy to see which was the squire's pew, as none others had those great red velvet cushions for the well-bound books. By the pile of ragged books that were heaped upon his bench, some of which had been defaced by crude and comical pencil sketches, he gathered that he was sitting in one of the school children's pews. Well, all the better. If they crowded too close to him, he'd pinch their legs.
In order to conceal himself the better, he wound his scarf about his face and turned up the high collar of his heavy coat. This was, after all, natural enough. In many of the seats which were too far removed from the squire's pew to enjoy the heat of the coal fire built inside it, those worshipers who were afraid of catching cold would tuck up their collars, or bundle their chilly chins into their cravats. But in his extreme desire to escape notice, Merry, in ignorance of church ritual, or rather custom, for 'ritual' still smacked of Popery, did the very thing to make himself the most conspicuous person in the congregation, in that he pulled his old three-cornered hat well down upon his brows. But as the congregation began to dribble in and then crowd in, no one took it upon himself to cross to Merry's corner and remove his hat, but each one stared at him and whispered to his neighbour: “He's got his hat on. Disgraceful.”
And from beneath this hat which was such an offence to God and man, Merry watched for his arch-enemy, but in vain. There was no sign of that nameless one who could throw knives so cunningly. The awful thought occurred to him that he had left Dymchurch while he had been soaking in brandy: that the elegant and terrifying stranger had gone for ever, taking his sea-chest and the captain's guineas (his, Merry's, guineas) with him. The squire and his family were all in their places, and still no sign of the man he sought. Late comers came in timidly, looked this way and that, and then scuttled to the corner of the pews like frightened rabbits. Up and down the aisle went the Dymchurch beadle, resplendent in his brass-buttoned capes. Until the officiating parson took his place, it was the province of the beadle to thus walk up and down suppressing anything in the nature of whisperings from the adults and anything resembling giggles from the children. Upon this occasion the whisperings and sniggerings were more apparent than ever the worthy beadle could remember. Determined to find out the cause of it (for he had not yet noticed Merry's headgear) he looked around for a likely victim to use as the parish scapegoat. This 'looking around' was purely an affectation on the part of the beadle, assumed to lend more importance to his final decision, which was always the pew next the south door. This pew, although not one of those annually rented to a particular family, was however always occupied by the same tenants, three young men, the eldest twenty-two, the second twenty and the third eighteen, brothers by the name of Upton. These three young blades were acknowledged to be the bucks of the village and the very life and soul of it. The pew which they commandeered by the simple expedient of one getting there early to hold the fort against all comers, was most conveniently placed for smiling at the young ladies as they entered the south door. To these three had been bequeathed an 'odds and ends' depository in the village known as 'The Curiosity Museum. Everything for sale. Proprietors, Upton Brothers. Art Connoisseurs.' The last word they had captured from a French prisoner of war, who had given dancing classes to the ladies of the Marsh. Since all the merry mischief and innocent pranks of the village originated from one or another of these three swashbucklers, the beadle, when in doubt about any scandal, whether in church or out of it, approached the fountain head for information. In other words, he questioned the Uptons, who never failed to send him on a wild goose chase. Quick to observe the field of battle where the beadle was concerned, they, like experienced generals, could make up their minds quickly for the best advantage. The advantage as they now saw it, was that the unmitigated blackguard, Merry, alone on his bench, was isolated from the congregation by a crowd of school children who occupied the next pews, leaving Merry to himself for very fear of him, that he was not only far gone in liquor, but was defying the rule of Christianity by wearing his hat. When, therefore, they informed the beadle that the hat in question was offending the whole church, they wondered whether the beadle would have sufficient courage to order its removal.
Certainly, the beadle strode off like a Goliath of Gath intending to do battle, but perceiving a threatening look in Merry's eye and realising that in the midst of children he was in an enemy's camp, he contented himself with prodding a small boy in the back with his official staff and telling him to get up off his hassock and sit down. His inability to tackle Merry was naturally received as a great jest by the Uptons, and many were the dumb-show signals that went from their pew to those of their friends.
Now it was a time-honoured custom in Dymchurch that whatever the hour, the moment the squire was seen to settle down in his pew, the bell-ringers should cease to pull. This was a polite way of deceiving the parish that the squire was nothing if not punctual. The silence after the jangle of bells had ceased, accentuated the intrusion of the smallest noise, and left the whole congregation in a somewhat nervous tension.
Therefore, all this whispering, and the consultation of the beadle with the Uptons, and his advance upon and inglorious retreat from the scowling Merry were all the more marked. And so much was the general attention focused on Merry's hat that no one seemed to mark the entrance of the parson officiating in the place of the drowned vicar. In fact, it was not until his rich voice resounded from the pulpit that they realised anyone was there, and then even Merry's hat was forgotten.
The first words of the sentence “When the wicked man” riveted the attention of everyone, and by the end of the Exhortation this strange parson, who it was now generally known had escaped from the wreck that had killed the vicar, and who was not only staying at the Hall but was rumoured to be the likely successor of poor Bolden, this arresting personality who wore the scarlet hood of his doctorship over the black silk gown, whose eyes seemed to burn with inward fire, had already compelled the congregation to attend and respect him.
Scowling at the beadle, and furious that the man who had tricked him of the guineas had also tricked him into attending church, Merry also heard those words, “When the wicked man,” and they sounded in his ears like a threat. He had heard that voice before, and he hated its calm, superior aloofness, which gave it the right to command. Slowly his eyes turned to the parson and slowly it dawned upon him that there in the pulpit was his enemy. What was this insolent knife-throwing thief doing up there? Had he got those two belts of guineas round his waist under that black gown? As like as not. Aye and, the bit of string round his neck with the silver key of the sea-chest.
All through the Exhortation the congregation stood. Merry, no longer trying to escape since he knew that everyone whispered about him, yet remained seated as a protest against 'all the hypocrisy,' as he thought it. His rage against the parson was a thousand times more bitter than against that adventurer on the sea-shore. To think he had been worsted by a parson. And to think that this same parson was standing up to teach and to preach. Well, he'd find he wasn't going to have it all his own way. Into the fuddled brain came the idea of denouncing him there, before all the parish. Asking him to explain how he came by the belt of guineas? And before he could think of a fitting answer, to accuse him of having robbed and murdered the captain. “If he accuses me of the same thing, what reason could he give for having kept silent?” he asked himself. Yes, he would then say: “Do you suppose if I'd done such a thing, gentlemen, that he wouldn't have had me arrested? Of course.” He couldn't look at him any more without doing it, and as the congregation meekly obeyed him and knelt down, Merry, uttering an oath, sprang up.
Dr. Syn turned on him sharply, just as though he had been waiting for this thing to happen, and in a quiet, kind voice he said: “Remove your hat, my friend, in the House of God.”
“Oh yes, you will—or—” Dr. Syn put his hand up to his throat quite naturally, and smiled.
Merry saw inquisitive heads popping up here and there over the pews to see what the interruption was about. In the distance he saw the squire's face looking towards him, and he knew that whatever happened, he would get the worst of it from these people who hated him. Better to wait. He would get Meg first and then he would get the parson.
Hardly realising what he did, he pulled off his hat and dropped down, crouching on to the hassock as though in prayer.
Dr. Syn went on with the service. Merry, under cover of the pew, took a swig of brandy, then huddling himself into the corner, he shut his eyes against the whole hateful parish and fell asleep.
When he awoke, the sermon was nearly over, but the little he heard convinced him more than ever that his enemy was a powerful and clever man. The congregation was so profoundly moved by his eloquence that he found he was forgotten.
