Had Mrs. Fowey seen Dr. Syn as he shut the front door behind him, after laughing so pleasantly with the squire, she would have marvelled at the sudden change in his expression, and would, no doubt, have guessed that there was something troubling his peace of mind, for no sooner had he hung his large three-cornered hat upon its peg than the divine benignity which ever shone from his saintly face and had gained for the kindly cleric the love of the country side faded utterly as the lines about his mouth and eyes set hard and grim. He pushed back the clerical wig from his classical high forehead which puckered into a deep frown, while into his large eyes crept a look as of one hunted.
His gaze travelled across the spacious hall which formed the main living-room of the vicarage, and he took in every detail. The door to his left, leading to the servants' quarters was shut. Directly opposite was his study door—also shut. To the right of this was the large open fireplace where crackled a wood fire, for although spring weather, the sea air was sharp. From the fireplace he glanced up the stairway which led to the bedrooms. The landing door at the top was open, but the bedroom doors were fast, and there was no sign of his housekeeper up there. No, she was in the wash-house at the back of the kitchen. The large casement window to his right was shut, and he could see no one outside on the lawn which sloped down to the dyke and the glebe field beyond, one which great Romney Marsh sheep were bleating to their young, for it was lambing time. In the dark corner to the right of the deep-set window was the large livery cupboard in which the glass was kept when not set out for company on the heavy refectory table which occupied the centre of the hall.
As he crossed to this cupboard and opened one of the top doors, his face set with a fierce determination. From a shelf he selected a bottle and without waiting to select a glass, removed the stopper. He looked towards the doors one by one as he put the bottle to his lips. Then he tilted it up, gulping the raw spirit down his throat. This he did with three separate jerks, and at each jerk much of the trouble cleared from his face, until with a sigh of great satisfaction, he held the bottle away at arm's length. He smiled and straightening his back nodded his head towards the bottle, as if to thank it for helping him to come to some momentous decision.
Now, had Mrs. Fowey seen all this she might have suspected that her master had been upset by the same individual who had been upsetting her for the past few minutes, for she had found it utterly impossible to get rid of the garrulous little sea-dog who had had the impertinence to set down his luggage on her nice clean doorstep. After much hard talk, during which she was unable to shut the door in the scamp's face by reason of one of his brass-buckled feet which he had firmly planted over the door-sill, she went to her master's study to complain.
Whenever she got flustered, Mrs. Fowey's vowels had a habit of slipping back to the wild part of England in which she had been bred. Nobody knew exactly its whereabouts upon the map, for she was not given to confidences, so that her past as well as her daughter's remained a riddle to the village.
“Moi dear vicar,” she said, after curtseying to Dr. Syn, whom she found calmly doing parochial accounts at his table, “there's a filthoi, dirtoi scamp of a thing at the door who says he will see you willoi-nilloi.”
The doctor looked over the top of his horn-rimmed reading spectacles and translated in a tone of kindly reproof: “Oh, so there's a filthee, dirtee scamp at the door who will see me willee-nillee. Is that it, Mrs. Fowey?”
“That's it, moi dear vicar,” the housekeeper answered, ignoring the correction to her vowels. “And oi says, 'No,' oi says. 'The reverend gentleman is too busoi to meddle with the loikes of you, you dirtoi grub,' oi says. 'Look at thoi hands,' oi says. 'Tar,' oi says. 'Do you want our clean house to stink as a ship-yeard?' oi says.”
“Tar, eh?” commented the vicar. “Then your scamp is a sailor, no doubt.”
“Oh, he's a sailor o' sorts right enough, but what ship would let him on it, oi don't know, for the scarecrow in the field yonder cuts a better figure, and oi told him so. 'And oi'm busoi,' oi says, 'with moi washings-up.' And he looks at moi dirtoi china and says: 'Oi'll wash them for you, moi gal,' he says, and oi says: 'Wash yerself, if ever you do wash,' oi says, 'and don't you moi gal me,' oi says, 'you cheekoi old fellow,' oi says. 'You run and tell the reverend gentleman oi'm here,' he says. 'Oi won't,' says oi. 'You will,' says he, and he ups with his filthoi chest on to his shoulder and pushes in, wriggling his tarred fingers at me, and being afraid for moi clean apron, oi did what he wanted, 'cos here oi be.”
“Well, Mrs. Fowey, rather than waste any more of your time, the best thing you can do is to show him in. After all, I don't think a clergyman should refuse to see anybody. Perhaps he has come to put the banns up.” The idea made the doctor chuckle.
“When they have women scarecrows, oi don't doubt,” she snapped.
“No, they don't have women scarecrows, do they?” said Dr. Syn gravely. “I never thought of that. I wonder why? Respect to the sex, no doubt. Does he know me? Did he say what his business might be?”
“He said something about having heard your reverence preach the Gospel in America, but that since the church was full, it is as like you won't remember him, but that he would like to thank you for a sermon which had helped him in his life. Oi must say, he don't look the kind to be helped by no sermon. Neither him nor his sea-chest. Oi told him not to bring the dirtoi thing in.”
“I dare swear he's none so bad as you think, and remember a sailor's chest is his home. I warrant it's tidy enough inside. Mipps is his name?”
“He never told moi. Then you remember him?”
“I dare say I may when I see him, though his name means nothing. I saw a sea-chest on a barrow by the churchyard wall a while ago.”
“That's it, sir. Sea-chest and all, as though he'd come to stay. I see letters on it, but being no scholar, it meant nothing.”
“And what if he has come to stay, Mrs. Fowey? Who are we to turn away the poor wayfarer? We should not care to be turned away ourselves.”
“No, sir, you are speaking the truth. Oi knows, because oi have been turned away, and oi try not remember.” This was the nearest she ever got to speaking of her past. Tears came into the old lady's eyes as she continued: “We ain't all so good as you, sir, and that's the truth, but there is a limoit and oi veriloi believe that when you see this Mipps person you'll give him a small coin to move away, and oi doubt whether the good Samaritan himself would even give him a small coin, but you're too good to live, you are, sir. You'll be whisked up in a chariot one day.”
“I hope not sincerely,” interrupted Dr. Syn.
“Ah, but you will, and oi'll go and tell the person to woipe his filthoi shoes.” Mrs. Fowey curtseyed to the vicar and backed out, closing the door, only to find that Mr. Mipps was already in the hall with his sea-chest, and having overheard her last remark, retorted promptly:
“They're as clean as if I was walkin' on the Admiral's planks, my old gal. I give 'em a thorough 'do' with one of your cloths. Polished the buckles, too. Now, do I wait here or march in there?”
“You'll leave that chest of yours outside,” replied Mrs. Fowey. “It's filthoi.”
But Mr. Mipps, with his sea-chest on his shoulder, grinned. “It ain't filthy, if that's what you mean by 'filthoi', and I ain't leavin' it outside neither, in case someone what won't mind her own business should muck about with it. There's jewels in 'ere. Jewels, my gal, what 'ud make the King's crown look silly, and wouldn't you just like to trickle 'em with your fingers, eh?”
“What sort of jewels?” asked the housekeeper, in spite of all impressed.
“Honyxes and rubies mostly,” replied Mipps casually.
“Any garnets? I likes a garnet.”
“Do you now? I don't,” answered Mipps. “And what a pity, for I give away all my garnets. Pretty girl she was, too. Spanish. In Augustine.”
“Still, I dare say onyxes is nice?” allowed Mrs. Fowey kindly.
“A very classy stone, ma'am,” replied Mipps.
“Oi've read about 'em in the Boible, said the housekeeper reverently. “They has 'em, it says, in the New Jerusalem.”
“Yes. They do go in for 'em there. It's the Jews,” explained Mipps. They knows a good stone when they sees it.”
“Is that gentleman waiting to see me?” cried Dr. Syn from the study. Then appearing at the door, he added: “Good morning, my good man. Now, let me see. Where have we met before? I seem to know your face.”
“You was preachin' in the Seaman's Bethel on Johnny Cake Hill, New Bedford, Massachusetts, sir,” said Mipps solemnly. “Your description of them Ten Virgins, sir, was very tellin'. We all seemed to feel as how we knew them young ladies personally by the time you'd done with 'em. If you remember, sir, you made them foolish ones keep giggling and simpering, and we all thought you did it very well.”
Dr. Syn smiled. “Did I?” he remarked drily. “Well, I don't remember, but since you do, what's the odds? I recollect your face, however, very well. What can I do for you? Step inside. Thank you, Mrs. Fowey. I shall want your daughter to carry a letter to the squire presently. I'll call you.”
