In spite of the dryness of his erudite sermons, Dr. Syn, in his capacity of Dean of the Peculiars, which gave him the privilege of periodically preaching in the magnificent parish church of Rye in the adjacent county of Sussex, had gained a considerable popularity in that town. Whenever he took the short journey across the Kentish ditch into Sussex, he would put up at the 'Mermaid', and amidst the bustle of that great old inn he was ever a welcome guest, taking a lively interest in all, for the very exalted 'mine host' down to the humblest kitchen wench. It was, therefore, not surprising that Merry, in spite of his forbidding personality, found himself readily enough employed upon presenting his credentials from Dr. Syn.
He made himself useful in many odd jobs about the rambling old inn, and he kept his eye open to his own advantage, which with so many visitors speeding this way and that by coach, was considerable. Relieved as he was to turn his back on Dymchurch, since the Marsh men were up in arms against him for attempting to sell Mr. Bone to the Dragoons, he by no means gave up the idea of forcibly abducting Meg Clouder, and to this end he saved the many gratuities given to him by the passing guests. These people, relieved at reaching the safety of the 'Mermaid' without misadventure on the road, were usually in generous mood, and Merry found that, despite the smallness of his wage, he more than made up for it in extras, and it looked as though he would soon be in possession of sufficient money for the purpose of getting Meg into his power.
Amidst the fleeting population of the busy 'Mermaid', he did well, but it was towards two permanent guests that he chiefly focused his attention and willingly gave a thousand little services.
These two men were something of a mystery to the townsfolk of Rye. Magnificently dressed in the modish fashion of London, with a deal of foreign swagger, and a prodigal disregard for money, with which they appeared to be possessed in plenty, they cut a brave figure.
Although adorned with much lace and finery, their faces and figures gave the lie to any accusation of foppery which in other men their dress would have proclaimed. They were both sufficiently independent from the prevalent fashion of exquisites to wear bearded chins. The shorter of the two, who called himself Colonel Delacourt, was obviously the lead. Stockily built and tattooed like a South Sea islander, which showed towards evening when, merry with dice and drink, he would cast aside his gay velvet coat, undo his cravat, flowered waistcoat and silk shirt so that he showed his hairy, be-pictured chest, and he would call on his companion to cry the stakes. And the play was high. The two men presented a marked contrast, for Captain Vicosa, whom the colonel addressed as “Captain Vic', was a red-bearded giant—a great leonine-looking fellow with perhaps even more swagger than his black-bearded companion and patron.
To the tactful inquiries of mine host of the 'Mermaid', Colonel Delacourt gave out that he had made a fortune in the Indies, where he maintained he owned much home property in plantations, and he introduced the red-bearded and handsome 'Captain Vic' as his partner and manager, who had come to England with him to transact certain businesses connected with the Crown colonies.
Despite their fineries, the two men were excused from anything appertaining to the coxcomb. Men and women recognised and respected their obvious masculinity.
The reason of their enforced stay at the 'Mermaid' was the fact that Madame Delacourt had given birth to a daughter upon the very night of their arrival, and although the child was doing well enough, the mother was rapidly sinking. The Rye doctor who attended her, although a married man, was not above saying that 'Madame' at the 'Mermaid' was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He described her to his friends as a Spanish Madonna, but he owned that he was going to be hard put to it to save her life. She was listless. She showed no affection for the baby girl, and the doctor suspected that she not only feared her husband but hated him.
His manner to her was loud and rude, and her enforced convalescence filled him with ungovernable irritation. And yet, strange to say, he showed great affection to the wee mite that lay smiling in the big drawer beside her bed. He would swing into the room when far advanced in drink, swear that the child was his, and catch it up against the protests of the woman whom the doctor had recommended to attend the baby, and carry it into the adjoining room, where he diced and drank with the red-bearded Captain Vic. He would twine the little fingers around the dice-box and help her to throw the dice against his companion, and cry out with joy at her cleverness when the score was thrown high.
On one such occasion the doctor found him, and let him have his mind on the subject.
“Now, understand me well Colonel Delacourt,” he said, in low, threatening tones. “I don't know who you are or what you may or may not be in the Indies, but you are behaving in this inn of ours as no gentleman should behave. Gentleman? I should have said, as no plough-boy would behave. Your wife is dying, and do you realise that it is you who are killing her? I warn you that should she die, there will be an inquiry, and as sure as I want to save her I'll take my oath before the magistrate that you are her murderer. You will leave that child alone, and if you must drink and shout and sing your ribald songs, you'll do it in the common rooms below, where the beadle can deal with you. I take your money for my services, it's true, but I'll not be responsible for your lady's life unless you mend your ways with her. A little sympathy from you, a little consideration, might make all the difference between life and death, for I tell you the scales of her fate are dropping fast towards death.”
Colonel Delacourt damned him for an interfering sawbones, but when he saw the doctor stride out of the room in a fury, he repented and sent Merry after him with a purseful of guineas, which the doctor resolutely refused. Merry helped himself to a good half of the contents, and returned with the depleted purse and the message that the doctor had already been paid sufficiently for his services, but could not be bribed to keep his mouth shut; whereupon Colonel Delacourt damned him again in good round oaths and flung the purse at Merry's head. Merry, however, thought fit to pocket the insult as well as the guineas, which he knew from his experience of the colonel, would not be remembered when the fumes of the 'Mermaid' wines had cooled from his head.
Merry's chief duty consisted of persuading both gentlemen to bed in the early hours, and then carrying up more bottles till they fell asleep. Not another member of the 'Mermaid' staff would venture near them, so that the landlord blessed the fact that he had employed the man from Dymchurch. It was Merry who tidied up the sitting-room in the cold light of the dawn. Cards all over the floor, spilled wine and broken glass, and many elusive guineas that had rolled from drunken fingers into dark recesses of the old oak floor. After a more than successful hunt for such gold, Merry would sometimes lay a solitary guinea upon the breakfast-table and say he had found it in a crack of the floor, whereupon both colonel and captain would cry out that at last they had found an honest fellow in this cursed land of England.
One service only Merry resolutely refused to perform for them. They told him to ride to the Romney Marsh and find out and order to attend on them, one Jimmie Bone, a highwayman, for whom they had employment.
Merry excused himself, saying that it was more than his life was worth to undergo such a duty. He told them the story of his attempted betrayal of Mr. Bone, making himself out a most worthy citizen in that he wanted the highroads rid of such an outlaw.
The answer he got from Colonel Delacourt surprised him.
“Well, I am rejoiced that you failed, Mr. Merry. You good citizenship, as you call it, may have lost you a hundred guineas, but I tell you we have need of Mr. Bone that is more valuable than such a paltry sum. So you refuse to be our go-between, eh?”
“I tell you, sir,” whined Merry, “that if Mr. Bone meets me he'll pistol me without a tremor.”
“That means you'll have to do it, Vic my lad,” said the colonel, striding in a rage to the window which looked down upon the cobbled street. “You know enough of my history to be sure that I am not in the mood to ride Dymchurch way. The very sight of the Romney Marsh would drive me into the doldrums with my lady's everlasting regrets dinning in my ears.”
All of which, at the moment, was Greek to Mr. Merry.
“I'll go if I must,” growled Captain Vic, “but be damned to Merry for a cowardly knave, I say.”
“No, no, Merry's a good servant to us, you must admit,” went on the colonel, “and we'd never get our drinks so easy without him, seeing that all the chambermaids avoid us like the plague since you started kissin' 'em. Merry can't go—that's flat. Merry, give the captain a glass of brandy, and fill one for me.”
Merry did as he was told, and at that moment they heard the rumble of wheels over the cobbles, the crack of postboys' whips and the stirring notes of a coach horn.
“More visitors, by God. Let's hope it's someone to dice with,” cried the colonel, taking the glass of brandy from Merry's hand. “Fill a glass for yourself, Merry, and never mind what the captain says—he's drunk. There'll be no need for you to meet this Mr. Bone. We want no murder done any more than you.”
As Merry proceeded to fill a glass for himself, the colonel gave a cry which was followed by the noise of a smashed glass.
“What the devil's wrong with you?” growled Captain Vic, looking up at his patron with bleared eyes.
Colonel Delacourt had staggered back into the folds of the window curtain, and his glass of brandy lay shattered and unheeded at his feet.
“Good God,” he muttered, and all the drink went out of his face, leaving him stark staring sober. In answer to the captain's repeated question, he but mumbled something unintelligible which brought the red-bearded on to his feet with an oath. He lurched across to the casement and peered out at the bustle of inn servants round the coach.
“There's only two passengers alighting,” he said, “and I fail to see why they should upset a man of spirit. A doddering old parson and his shabby servant, I presume. A little cove with a ridiculous brass blunderbuss under his arm.”
“Doddering parson be damned,” gasped the colonel. “And the little cove too. Well I know them.”
“Who are they then?” demanded Captain Vic, but got no reply from his patron, who had rushed to the sitting-room door and shot the bolts on the inside.
“Hell, can't you answer a gentleman?” growled Captain Vic. “Here, you,” he ordered Merry. “Know either of these old dodderers?”
“Old dodderers—don't be such a fool,” snarled the colonel. “ You're drunk, or you'd have jumped to it by now.”
“Who are they?” repeated Captain Vic to Merry. “Do you know 'em or don't you, since the colonel's daft?”
Merry had looked down at the little man in black who stood awaiting his master, who was collecting a paper case and some books from the inside of the old vehicle.
“I knows 'em too well,” replied Merry. “And I wishes 'em both more ill-luck than I fear will come to 'em. That's Parson Syn of Dymchurch and his sexton, Mipps.”
“Here, you don't mean—” began Captain Vic, swinging round on the colonel.
“I do,” snapped the colonel. “Parson Syn be damned. It's Clegg, I tell you. Aye, and the little rat with the blunderbuss is his ship's carpenter—two of the bloodiest pirates that ever terrorised the seas and my most mortal enemies.”
“What did you say, sir?” asked Merry, hardly able to believe what had been said, and yet hoping there might be truth in it.
Whereupon, Colonel Delacourt, with one eye on the bolted door, recounted something of the terrors of Clegg, and how Clegg had followed him from sea to sea in order to get his revenge.
“And revenge for what?” exploded the colonel. “Why, for robbing him of the burden next door. He's welcome to her now, if he cares to relieve me of her. I mean my wife, Mr. Merry.”
“Your wife? But was this parson sweet on her, sir?” he asked.
“Sweet?” repeated Delacourt. “He was married to her, you fool, and I, like a fool, carried her off. She's his wife now in the eyes of the law, not mine. But the child's mine. Illegitimate, but mine.”
This news was getting better and better. Here was Dr. Syn's wife in the possession of another man, true, but still Dr. Syn's wife.
“I told him she was dead, but even then he followed me,” went on Colonel Delacourt.
So Dr. Syn did not know that his wife was living, and so near. Here was at least a means to strike shame to Charlotte Cobtree, and this pirate talk of Clegg—that would be sufficient weapon against the doctor. There was a bigger price on Clegg's head than on a hundred Jimmie Bones. Clegg had fought the world. All manner of ships he had sunk, ships of all nations. Yes, Clegg was wanted internationally. Here indeed was the most glorious and unexpected revenge on a man he hated. Meg would be his yet, and he would strip those pearls from Charlotte Cobtree's neck to give to her.
“And how long will this damned fellow stay here?” asked the colonel. “I've a mind to slip my cable and leave a letter for him to call for his dying wife.”
“You'll do nothing of the sort,” growled Captain Vic. “Have you forgotten why we are employing this Mr. Bone?”
“I know I'll do nothing of the sort,” replied Delacourt. “But not for that reason. I stay here because the child ain't fit to be taken from its mother yet—that's all.”
“Well, praise to God you're crazy about the kid,” said Captain Vic. “Otherwise, there's no telling but you'd be off if I gave you the chance.”
“How long does he stay—this parson, and what's he here for?” asked the colonel of Merry.
Merry told him that he usually came by this—the Saturday—coach and stayed in the 'Mermaid' till Monday. “He will preach a sermon to-morrow morning and will dine with the rector afterwards. He'll no doubt be supping out to-night as well, but he'll take a drink in the common bar and stand treat to all the fishermen. That's his way to popularity.”
“Then we must lie low up here. We'll admit no one but the saw-bones, and that only to avoid him talking of us to Dr. Syn. Merry shall watch and fetch and carry for us. We're prisoners here till the fellow takes coach for Dymchurch on Monday.”
Merry told them a good deal. The good brandy made him talkative. Besides, it was good to relieve his spleen against Dr. Syn to two men who shared a common hatred. Both colonel and captain dropped their attitude of masters to a servant. They clapped Merry down at the table, plied him with drink, and vowed they were all friends together, and as gentlemen they would take oath to hound Dr. Syn to his death. Merry, who gave them full details of the doctor's miraculous preservation from the wreck, was in favour of a public accusation against him as Clegg, but to this the colonel would not consent.
“We'll kill him first,” he declared, “and accuse him after, so that his tongue cannot wag against me. As Colonel Delacourt I am safe enough, but as Nick Tappitt—well, there are things I have no wish to be made public. A gentleman does not care to do his washing in the High Courts. But we'll kill him, by God, and then see him hung in chains. And you, friend Merry, shall be in it with us.”
Flattered by their friendliness, Merry went on to tell them of his passion for Meg Clouder, whom he described in such glowing terms, that although the colonel damned all women but his baby girl as plagues and nuisances, Captain Vic became so enthusiastic on Merry's behalf that he avowed he would win Meg for him.
“You're a morose sort of a devil,” he declared, filling up Merry's glass, “and for all that I love you as a sworn brother in arms, I'd take my oath you'd never win a cow-girl, much less this beautiful young hostess you speak of. Now, I have a way with women of all classes and ages, as the colonel will bear me out. Many's the kicking filly, aye, and demure young miss, too, who has rued the day the let Captain Vic get away with her; and I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll marry the wench myself and then abandon her. You can then take her on the rebound if you've the manhood in you that I imagine. How's that?”
After a good deal of argument, for at first Colonel Delacourt did not relish staying in the same inn as his arch-enemy without his henchman, it was decided that Captain Vic should have a post-chaise and set off that very afternoon to Dymchurch. Meanwhile, Merry was to watch Dr. Syn as he came in and out, and the colonel was to lie low in his sitting-room, with as much drink as he needed supplied by the dutiful Merry.
“And you'll not take it unkindly of me, friend Merry,” asked Captain Vic, when the post-chaise was at the door, “if I make love to this Meg of yours in good earnest?”
“You can do what you like with her,” replied Merry. “There's no soft love about me. I doubt whether there's love at all, for at times I hate her for upsetting me. Break her spirit, my captain, then throw her to me. So that I possess her at last—aye, and her inn, too—you can do your worst to her.”
“The worst will be well for you,” answered the captain. “For if she comes to hate me, why, she'll love you all the more for giving her protection.”
“I wonder,” growled Merry. “She hates me like hell, but that's all one, so that I get her.”
“You shall have her, Mr. Merry; you can take Captain Vic's word for that.”
So the red-bearded one departed, full of glee that he was escaping from the gloom of Madame Delacourt's sick-bed, and with the prospects of a diverting adventure at the end of his journey.
Just as the colonel was figuring that the post-chaise carrying Captain Vic would be nearly Dymchurch, Merry announced the local physician. After an examination of his patient, he returned to the sitting-room, closing the bedroom door behind him. He looked more serious than usual, which was quite enough to enrage the colonel without the following pronouncement:
“Colonel Delacourt,” he said, “your wife is sinking, and as far as I am concerned, her decline is unnecessary. Her body is well enough, allowing for her condition, but it is her mind that is wrong. She has not the will to exert her strength, and without that will, I am useless. Now it happens, by the best of good fortune, that there is alighted at this inn a man of such high spirituality, and possessed of such charm of manner that where my poor eloquence has failed, he is one who might succeed. He is beloved by all who know him, and it is his mission in life to attend to the comforts of afflicted souls. I propose to bring this gentleman up to see your wife.”
“Oh, you do, do you?” growled the colonel. “And who might the gentleman be that he can claim admittance to my lady's sick-room? A doctor?”
“Yes, a doctor,” replied the physician gravely. “A learned doctor of divinity, but the broadest-minded man of his cloth that I have ever encountered. In short, it is Dr. Syn, vicar of a place called Dymchurch across the Kent border. He is below stairs now and will be delighted to take a glass of wine with you, so that you may be the better acquainted before he visits your poor wife. I will bring him up, with your permission.”
“Which you will not get, my interfering doctor,” growled the colonel.
“Eh?” demanded the amazed physician.
“I utterly forbid you to do any such thing,” went on the colonel in an angrier tone.
“But when I tell you that the benefits of his visit may—indeed, will—do untold good. In fact, as your medical adviser in this case, I will go so far as to insist upon your seeing him. My confidence in the man is so sure.”
“You are dictating now out of your province,” retorted the colonel. “My wife is a foreigner, and her religion has nothing to do with the Church of England, and the last person she would wish to see is this parson friend of yours.”
“There, Colonel Delacourt, I must contradict you,” said the physician. “I spoke of this good man to your good lady, and as I spoke, I could see that her spirit seemed to burn with a new life. Let us go together to her now and ask if it is not her wish to see this Dr. Syn, since you will not take my word for it.”
Colonel Delacourt staggered to his feet with his fists clenched.
“You may be a good physician, sir,” he said, “but you must own that I have paid for your services up to date in good money. I trust that you will consider it your duty to continue your professional visits to my wife and daughter, just as I shall consider it my duty to pay your fees handsomely. But I do not desire spiritual advice from you or your friends, and I take it as an impertinence that you should propose introducing a stranger to my wife in her present state. Call to-morrow, sir, with your physicals as usual, but let me have no more of this parson nonsense.”
“She is your wife,” returned the physician, “and on this point I must not go against your authority.”
“I can promise you that,” interrupted the colonel.
“But I must tell you that I like you the less for your decision,” continued the doctor. “And one word more, and here I speak within my province, and if it offends you—blame yourself. Your friend has ridden off in a post-chaise. For long or short, I do not know and care less. But since you are alone, I command you to abstain from further liquor, and I presume you will not now consider it your duty to keep the night-owl awake with your cursed songs. Good afternoon.”
“Oh, go to hell, and come to-morrow for your money,” retorted the colonel.
Below stairs, in the handsomely-appointed sitting-room which was always set aside for Dr. Syn, the physician found the Dymchurch parson receiving some of his many friends in Rye. Leading him aside, he told him of the colonel's objection to parsons, adding his opinion of husbands who can drink, gamble and sing ribald songs at the very threshold of their wives' sick-rooms.
“Add to that, sir, the fact that the wife wished to see you, and said your visit would be a great comfort to her, and yet this bully refuses point-blank. I wish he had gone away with his companion, who they tell me has taken chaise for your Dymchurch.”
“I wonder now why he has gone there? I must speak to Merry on the subject, and if necessary we will keep an eye upon this other offensive man.”
“You'll not have difficulty in recognising him,” replied the physician. “I have never seen so conspicuous a man. His red beard flames like a furnace, and he carries two golden balls from his ear-lobes that put one in mind of a pawnbroker's sign. A flashy, handsome, swaggering braggart if ever there was one.”
And in the meantime, the gentleman under discussion had arrived at Dymchurch and entered the cosy bar of 'The City of London' inn. To say that such a magnificent specimen of a man lifted poor Meg off her feet is but to state a literal truth, for, after treating the usual following in the bar with as much drink as they could carry and presenting each villager with a guinea when Meg was not looking, to leave him a clear coast for his wooing, he lifted Meg right over the drinking counter and carried her out like a baby on to the sea-wall, crying in one breath to the pot-boy to mind the custom, and in the next declaring his undying passion for the girl in his arms.
The tide was far out and the setting sun reflecting the golden light of the sands caused the beard of Captain Vic to sparkle red. Meg thought she had never seen such a glorious man, never encountered such colossal strength.
With a cry of joy, Captain Vic raced along the deserted beach laughing at the bewildered face against his shoulder. When he had run far from the village, he sat himself down against a breakwater, with Meg still in his arms who, woman-like, protested that he would soil his fine velvet coat if he leaned against the tarred and seaweed-covered wood.
Captain Vic assured her that he had a score of coats every bit as fine hanging up in his wardrobe at the 'Mermaid' in Rye, and that failing those there were a score of fashionable London tailors who were pestering him to order more. He kept vowing that he loved her, that he had never loved before, and that when he had heard of her beauty that very day, he had known she was the right wife for him and had set off immediately to claim her.
When she heard that it was Merry who had raved about her, she trembled with fear and told her impetuous lover of her dread. He assured her that she need have no fear of any man while he lived to protect her, and he went on in the most gentlemanly fashion to tell her the arrangements he was about to make for their immediate wedding.
“Whether we live on for a time at your inn or take ship to my vast plantations in the Indies, is for you to decide, my Meg,” he added. “Naturally, I will not sleep at your inn but will take rooms at the 'Ship', for everything must be above board for the sake of your sweet reputation. But on Monday I will ride into Hythe, take out a special licence from the magistrate and then we will be married quietly and return in the evening as man and wife and confront this village with our happiness.”
Meg protested against such a hurry, but she owned that the sudden romance of it appealed to her. Whereupon, Captain Vic kissed her heartily and told her the affair was settled.
When he brought her home and kissed her good night under the darkness of the sea-wall, Meg entered 'The City of London' happier than she had ever been since the night of the wreck, and feeling a great sense of relief that at last she could carry on her business under the security of Captain Vic's protection.
By mutual consent, her new lover not only slept at the 'Ship Inn', but mealed there, though the rest of the day he insisted on sitting in Meg's bar, in which he rapidly gained a popularity, owing not only to his generosity but to his gentlemanly manners, for Captain Vic knew how to play his cards in life for his own advantage, just as he knew how to conceal an ace up his sleeve when playing real cards upon the table.
For one, also, he took the care to keep himself reasonably sober, and the more she saw of him, the more confident did Meg feel that he was the man she could safely choose as her protector.
“And as for that rogue Merry,” he laughed, “if he so much as annoys you as to show his face in this good 'City of London', why, I'll break his neck between my finger and thumb.” And when Meg saw him tear a pack of cards across the middle, which no other man could accomplish in that bar, she knew that he was not idly boasting of his strength.
Her confidence in Captain Vic increased when they discovered that the licence would take some days to prepare, for although annoyed at the delay and damning old England for a puritanical slow-coach, which was excusable in such an impetuous lover, his behaviour never went beyond the bounds required by the most exacting chaperon. “He is a gentleman to his finger-tips,” said Meg, and everyone agreed with her.
On the whole, Meg was not averse to being married quietly in Hythe, for she was afraid of the opinion of the Dymchurch folk who had loved her husband. She was not at all easy in her mind, however, in taking such a serious step without consultation with Dr. Syn, but this was impossible since the reverend gentleman had taken the opportunity of his journey to Rye to pay a number of visits to certain of the clergy in that district, keeping with him the redoubtable Mipps as his body-servant, who also took opportunity at each place to pass word from the Scarecrow concerning the arrangements for the mightiest 'run' ever undertaken by the smugglers.
Meg was anxious to take Charlotte Cobtree into her confidence, but Captain Vic, after some argument persuaded her against this, saying that since Meg was so young a widow it was more seemly not to announce her second marriage till it was an established fact.
“Besides,” he added, “it will only seem that you are telling her in order to conjure rich presents out of the squire's family, and since I can give you money to play ducks and drakes with, we will buy all you want ourselves and make you feel the more independent.”
Thus it was that Meg and Captain Vic departed one morning by special coach to Hythe without a word to anyone as to their purpose, and returned to 'The City of London' as man and wife.
