As the months went by, Sir Antony Cobtree realised with growing satisfaction that there was no fear of his ever regretting the bestowal of his vicarage upon Dr. Syn. His only fear in connection with his old college friend was that by virtue of his learning and popularity he would be tempted to accept some high preferment, and to counteract any such calamity, he used his influence and got his favourite the extra and honourable appointment of Dean of the Peculiars, which not only gave the doctor the status of a dignitary, but substantially increased his income, and merely putting him under the obligations to occupy the principal pulpits of the Marsh for the delivery of an annual sermon, which expeditions were undertaken with quite a show of pomp, as Sir Antony invariably accompanied him, and ordered out his state coach for purpose, so that it was not long before the fame of Cobtree's cleric was established near and far, which pleased the squire a great deal more than the doctor, who seemed perfectly content to remain an obscure village parson.
“It is a good thing I am behind you, Doctor,” cried the squire, with great self-satisfaction, “for you are one of those easy-going fellows, who are content to hide their lights under a bushel. If I were King of England rather than the Ruler of the Marsh, I'd make you Primate of All England and take no refusal. As it is, I have given you all I can, and I verily believe more than you desire, so I trust you will not leave me in the lurch.”
“I want nothing but to be vicar of Dymchurch, sir,” replied Dr. Syn.
“And Dean of the Peculiars, I hope,” added the squire largely. “You've been concealing your talents too long, wasting your career upon a lot of war-painted Red-skins. Oh, I know why you went out to America in the first place. I saw your point of view, though I did not agree with it. Your wife runs off with a scoundrel, and you follow. But when you heard your wife was dead and the rascal had disappeared, why didn't you come back to us? I don't mean to open an old wound, doctor. Forgive me.”
“It's as well we have this talk, Tony, and then, if you please, we will forget it. You and your wife both knew why I went, and it is right you should know why I stayed. I think I was mad in those days. I know that I longed for revenge, which was not Christian of me.”
“It was. It was manly,” corrected the squire.
“Well, it struck me that I should atone in some way for my rage,” went on the doctor, “and so I resolved to devote some years, perhaps the best, of my life to the dangers of the Indian territories so that I could preach and teach amongst them.”
“Well, you've done it, and it does you credit,” replied the squire. “But everything starts fresh now. As to your late wife, though I own she was the best looking girl I ever clapped my eyes upon, well—she treated you badly, and I for one never wish to think or speak of her again. Her seducer, that rogue Nick Tappitt, wrote to you that she was dead. Well, then why not marry again, Christopher my lad, and get happiness after all?”
“I can never marry, Tony,” answered the doctor quickly. “Why, I could not take that scoundrel's word for anything. I never had proof positive of her death.”
“Well, she's dead to you now, at all events.”
“Well then. It's all so long ago, my dear fellow. You'll get the right wife yet.”
The doctor frowned and shook his head. “I'll not marry again, Tony.”
“Now be reasonable,” persuaded the squire. “I'm talking for your own good. Do you realise that on the night of the wreck of the City of London, that when you appeared in my dining-room you cut quite a romantic figure. I tell you, my own daughters were all enthusiastic about you, and Charlotte for all her beauty, has got something in her head besides looks. She took to you immediately, when we can't get her to think seriously of any man, though she's been followed by all the young officers stationed at Dover Castle.”
“Less of the 'old',” cried the squire. “I'm not old, so don't think it. Don't I ride to hounds with as much spirit as the youngest? And I am two years your senior. Besides, I aged quicker than you did. I was a reckless youngster, if you remember. I lived life to the full as a bachelor, and damme, it tells on a man. But I don'' go about as you do, trying to make myself older. Why the devil you cut your hair and popped on that sedate clerical wig beats me. Do you want to frighten the girls away? It looks like it.”
“God forbid,” replied the doctor, “but I would neither be misunderstood nor laughed at. Neither would I risk bringing unhappiness to any other woman as I did all unknowingly years ago. You mention your lovely daughter, for whom I have naturally a deep affection, but it is the affection of a father for a child. Why, good God, Tony, were I rascal enough to think of her in other terms, and you were not man enough to run me through the body for my presumption, I should be mistaken in my dear old friend. Your daughter is worthy of a younger man than I. When she marries, and God grant she marries happily, I confess I'll suffer a pang of jealousy, just as you will, Tony, and just as I should if I had a daughter of my own. And so you think I'm getting old, do you?” he added, by way of changing the immediate subject of the conversation.
“No,” roared the squire, “I don't. I say you are trying to force yourself to look old.”
“I must at least try to live up to my position as Dean of the Peculiars of Romney Marsh,” smiled the doctor.
The squire, ignoring this, went on: “And rather than that, my old friend—”
“My good friend then,” corrected the squire. “Rather than my good friend in his humility, in his mistaken humility, should eat humble pie, I'll make his Blessed Majesty cook you a peacock pie in Canterbury Palace. I'd rather push you up the ladder at the risk of losing sight of you than have you imagining that you are old before your time. Damme, Doctor, life is too good, and for my own part, I refuse to grow old when I'm not, or pretend to be older than I am.”
Dr. Syn laughed good-humouredly, but it was then that he made a resolution, for he had the soundest reasons for not wishing to eat peacocks in Canterbury or Lambeth. As time crept on, he kept his resolution faithfully, and yet so gradually were its ends achieved that nobody noticed the change.
In plain words, Dr. Syn realised that he must sacrifice a good deal of his brilliance if he wished to remain obscure, for whereas it was easy to lie low upon Romney Marsh, he had only to be asked to preach in Canterbury Cathedral to have his whole career searched out and diligently inquired into by some ambitious biographer, and once he allowed such an indefatigable Boswell to deal with him, he knew that he might as well make up his mind to the surety of his pulpit eventually turning into his scaffold, for certain chapters of his life, which would have afforded the compilers of Newgate Calendar a fair opportunity of moralising with high-flown adjectives, he had mentally locked in a clasped book, which like Prospero he had sunk fathoms deep into the bitter waters of his tragic past.
So two things he watched carefully. First, that his sermons should very gradually deteriorate into the usual long sleeping-draughts which parsons of this period were apt to administer to their spiritual patients. Secondly, that he kept a clear head whenever the squire was likely to demand a good true tale of adventure from America. On such evenings, with the Cobtrees all gathered around the fire, while the pungent fragrance arose from the fumes of burning logs, the smoke of Virginian tobacco and the steam of strongly-brewed punch, the doctor was never so popular as when recounting tales of the pirates, especially those of the notorious Captain Clegg. Often, after the recital of one of this arch-adventurer's exploits, the squire would demand if such a yarn had not grown with the telling, when the doctor would answer: “I have no reason to doubt the veracity since I was told that tale by a merchant of New England who, being a Quaker, I can depend on as a man of strict integrity.” Or to another doubt raised by one or other of the thrilled circle, he would reply: “Now, that tale I can vouch for, since I had it first hand from an Indian who was there, a savage, certainly, but one whom I converted to the Gospel, and who would rather die than lie to me, since I am blood brother to his tribe by full ritual. Besides, these tales are all told of Clegg in family circles from Maine to the Carolinas.”
And as the doctor watched the magic of his tales upon the faces of his listeners, and saw the squire nodding his appreciation, he would say to himself: “Aye, and wouldn't your eyes pop open the wider, my hearty squire, if you were to know that I who lean over your pulpit side with a clasped Bible in my hand have leaned to more immediate purpose over the bulwarks of my own frigate with cocked pistols? Aye, that I am the one of whom I speak, the calm bravado who paced the poop of the most successful pirate vessel that ever terrorised the seas? Would you credit the tales of Captain Clegg if you knew you were hearing them first-hand? I wonder. But that, please God, you shall never know, for what is the good of worrying an old friend and patron?”
So upon this argument, added to thoughts of his own safety. He talked about his own exploits as though performed by another, for since everyone coming from America spoke of Captain Clegg, it would have seemed strange if he was not full of his yarns too.
Being a magistrate, the squire was bound to hold Captain Clegg's exploits as very reprehensible, and Lady Cobtree, being the squire's wife, held perforce the same view; but the Misses Cobtree, not being so bound, and being romantic, looked upon the captain as a wonderful creature that they vowed they were all in love with. What adoration the doctor would have received from them had they known his real identity, but what is the worth of fame that leads one to the scaffold?
Although continuing to preach 'repentance' to his flock, he could never bring himself to repent the part he had played in his wild days, for he knew very well that he would do exactly the same if once more driven to it by cruel fate. Indeed, he could see no cause for repentance. He had lain aside the Bible for the sword in order to avenge himself upon the scoundrel who had stolen his young wife. He had given up his sacred calling in order to follow the guilty pair about America. The man he sought, in fear of the figure of retribution that was tracking him and keeping him and the woman ever on the move, finally wrote to him, telling him that she was dead and would he not now leave her poor soul in peace. This news, whether true or no, only made his want of revenge the greater, and when he heard that his enemy had taken refuge amongst the wild pirates of the Carribbean Seas, Syn had turned pirate himself in order to meet his enemy on his own ground. Blade to blade on some wild stretch of sand was all he asked.
Calling himself Captain Clegg, with a well chosen crew of rascals who respected him, he became a success, preying particularly upon his rivals in the trade, in the hope of getting face to face with his enemy. No one ever thought of connecting the mysterious Clegg with the sad young parson who, against all advice, had gone out into the unknown in an attempt to save the savage Indians, for that same young saint had long ago been included by his American acquaintances as but another victim of the tomahawk and scalping knife. Unlike his contemporaries, Clegg took little pleasure in roaring debauches, although when it suited his purpose he would roar and sing with the wildest, in order that he might perhaps pick up in the drunken conversation some clue as to the whereabouts of his enemy. Setting little store upon the taking of treasure, except as a means to keep his crew together, his own share accumulated automatically where that of others was dissipated. And then at last he began to think that his enemy must be dead, and like all outlaws he began to hunger for home. Unlike other outlaws, however, he was provided with a handy alias. Although all his crew respected and feared him, there was one man, the ship's carpenter, who genuinely loved Captain Clegg, and to this man Syn unfolded his plan. To his crew he bequeathed not only the ship, but their own damnation, for not long after his leaving them, not a man of them was alive, for a mysterious explosion in the powder magazine sent the whole crew to their account.
In the meantime, the carpenter, to whom Syn had entrusted his precious sea-chest, made his way with it from Charleston to Boston, while Syn journeyed far inland, and claiming the services of a friendly Indian, brought him to Boston for the purpose of identifying him as the saintly parson named Christopher Syn who had not only converted him to Christianity but had lived as his brother for many years with the tribe. Thus it was that Dr. Syn was able to return to England with the good wishes, blessings and thanks of the American church.
A far enough cry from the Carribbees to Romney Marsh rendered him perfect safety. And how strangely it had all come about. The Boston captain had agreed to land at Dover, for it was inconvenient to anchor in the fairway outside Dymchurch Bay. From Dover the reverend gentleman had purposed to visit his old friends, the Cobtrees. Fate, however, not only saved him the trouble of the journey, but provided that the same tempest that carried him directly to his destination should also remove the man who stood in the way of the appointment he most coveted, so that he was able to pop his own head into Parson Bolden's wig that very night, to the great satisfaction of his patron, the squire.
Under such patronage most men would have felt secure against the past, but Dr. Syn always kept his watch against calamity, and his first care was to conquer his own restless spirit. When he went out with the fishermen to enjoy a little harmless sport, he made out that he was ignorant of sailing, and affected great delight in being instructed as to what to do. In the same frame of mind, he even went so far as to restrict his horsemanship, lest his daring and skill in the saddle should call too much attention to himself in the horse-loving community that dwelt upon the Marsh. So instead of riding neck to neck with the still reckless squire and showing him how a spirited hunter could be lifted across the widest dykes on magic wings like Pegasus, which he could well have done, he purchased a fat white pony and pretended to enjoy a meet from this comfortable armchair.
Perhaps his hardest task in the part he had set himself to play was forcing himself to an indifference where Charlotte Cobtree was concerned. Through his bitter experiences which had made him sceptical as regards human affection, he realised that from this young woman he could depend upon an unselfish loyalty and love that had always shown itself in his dealings with his dirty-looking little ship's carpenter. In fact, he went so far as to tell the squire one day that the amount of his affection for his eldest daughter was only comparable to that which he bore to two other people in the whole of his life.
“Your misguided wife being one?” suggested the squire, while hoping he was the other.
“Certainly not,” retorted the doctor. “I find that my feeling towards my wife was nothing but a wild, young passion. Not what I should catalogue as affection at all. No, they are both men, and one at least is living, since I am talking to him now.”
“And the other?” asked the gratified squire.
“A fellow of not much account as this world goes,” replied the doctor, “since he was nothing but a species of sea-dog. The little rascal had a quick humour that appealed to me. I never met anyone of his class who would do me a service quicker than he.”
“What was his name, I should remember him in my prayers for his service to you at least,” said the squire.
“It proves that he must have a good hold on my affection,” laughed the doctor, “since I cannot forget him, neither remember his name, nor do I know if he be alive or dead. Dead, I should think though.”
“So Charlotte and I have a rival in your affections, eh?” replied the squire. “Well, we have no intention of letting you return to this sea-dog of yours, wherever he may be. I cannot be without you, as you're not only my oldest friend, but the very parson for the Marsh, and I'll answer for Charlotte that she feels the same. Do you know, I more than suspect that she's in love with you.”
“Oh, nonsense,” retorted the doctor. “In her great kindness she does much to cheer up an old bookworm who likes young people about him.”
This was dangerous talk for Dr. Syn, who was conscious of how easy it would be to return that love which he knew she had given him at first sight. He had done his best to cure her, but even Bolden's wig had made little difference. Whether he acted rightly or wrongly in the matter is a debatable point, but as he saw it, an honourable union between him and his friend's daughter was not to be thought of, since he held it unfair to her and exceedingly unwise towards himself to lay a burden of secrecy upon her, and to marry her without giving her his full confidence was likewise not to be thought of, and as to how she would behave when she knew that his hands were guilty of bloodshed he had no means of telling. To such a loyal, loving nature, the knowledge of his wild days might be a dreadful shock, and would she understand that even amongst the pirates there was a strict code of honour in certain things? To add to his difficulty in this matter, the squire would always prove himself unsympathetic to the many young suitors who begged to be allowed to pay their addresses to his eldest daughter, especially since Charlotte invariably asserted that the young man in question was not for her. Then in a rage the squire would carry the story to his friend, beginning with, “Of all the pieces of impertinence”—and ending with: “I cannot understand Charlotte. She just laughed. It's my belief that she'll never marry anyone but you.” And Dr. Syn would exclaim again: “Why, Miss Charlotte is far too young and too good to waste herself on an old widower like me. It's impossible.”
And all the time, there was Charlotte running in and out of the vicarage on this errand and that in the most natural manner, and at each visit Dr. Syn suffered more and more from the longing that she would stay with him for good. But he cared for her too well to act unscrupulously where she was concerned, and so did his best not to succumb to such a temptation, but to do or say anything to hurt her, that he could not do, and so their friendship and affection increased daily.
Unlike Charlotte, the two younger sisters were surrounded with beaux, including many who had given up the eldest sister as unobtainable, and both Maria and Cicely flirted and frivolled to their hearts' content. Lady Cobtree devoted herself to her family, and the society in which they moved, and although interested in the parish, it was not the mother but Charlotte who carried out most of the work amongst the poorer class. This fact furthered her association with the vicar, who, like her, was loved and respected by all, giving not only a dignity to the little church but a jollity to the parish. Though his prayers were lengthy and his sermons long, he made up for any dullness, which he had purposely adopted, in the singing of the hymns, leading the congregation with a heartiness that compelled them to join in, and the fact that he could, according to the testimony of Robert, out-drink the squire at the squire's own table and yet remain sober, gave him a fine glamour with the Dymchurch men. Astride his fat white pony, he was a familiar figure all over the Marsh where he lived a pleasant, jovial life, doing good year in and year out to all who came his way.
