Remember Maria sat sulking—a forlorn heap—on the settle by the fire. She was tired and dispirited, with a head that throbbed from her cramped voyage. She was no longer the centre of interest and she resented it.
Here she was, home and safe after her terrible experiences, only to find that the ghastly creature had followed them here. She couldn't understand it. And what was more, Papa seemed to be amused, for there he was at the window laughing and watching the Scarecrow giving his dreadful orders. Maria felt that he should be paying more attention to his miserable daughter. As for Cicely—there she was looking as fresh as though she had just left her own bedroom at the Court House to go a-riding. Sitting astride the long, low firestool, in the most unladylike manner, she too seemed to be thoroughly enjoying it, looking up to the window and laughing. Maria could not laugh when she thought of that poor Major, and was annoyed because she would have liked to have seen more of him. He was really quite attractive; she wished she had not looked so dreadful. This thought plunged her into tears again, and it was then that the Scarecrow returned, closing the door, and sweeping them with a low bow.
'I must apologize, ladies, for my somewhat crude sense of humour,' he said, 'but I fear I could not resist playing the eel to those elephants. You need your papers, of course, Sir Antony.'
The Squire looked surprised. Now where had he heard those words before? He tried to remember, but his mental efforts were interrupted by the Scarecrow saying: 'May I express my gratitude, Miss Cicely, for your admirable attempt to keep my identity a secret?' Cicely got up from the stool and went over to him boldly. Maria thought she went too close, and turned her head away disgusted.
'It was the least I could do, sir,' said Cicely in a warm tone. 'And I might have succeeded had not this goose here blabbed all.' She turned and entreated: 'Papa, Maria, have you no word to say?' Maria buried her head in a cushion. 'I don't want to speak to him.
Papa, tell him to go away.' And then, hoping for sympathy: 'Oh, my poor head! 'Twas terrible, the discomfort.' This did not produce the desired effect upon Cicely, who, with a show of spirit at her sister's ill manners, said with some impatience: 'Fiddlesticks, Maria. The discomfort of a few hours is better than losing your head. Lud, miss, pretty though it is, 'tis sometimes foolish enough.' The Squire, agreeing with Cicely that Maria should at least thank the gentleman, said that although he could not yet understand what had happened or what had not happened, he was naturally indebted to the Scarecrow for what he had done, but, damme, he was placed in such an awkward position.
As Magistrate he ought to arrest him, at which the Scarecrow, bowing low, asked him if he would care to try.
Sir Antony, knowing that he had not a chance of doing so, blustered to hide his confusion and said that it would be a poor sort of gratitude. 'And you, sir, know that, or you would not risk being here. But what I want to know is'—and Sir Antony came to the point—'law-breaker as you are, what made you do it?'
'Call it a whim if you like, sir,' answered the strange creature, and he turned slightly towards Cicely, 'though I am more pleased to call it my admiration for high courage. You have a daughter, Sir Antony, you could be proud to call son. Ask me how I knew of her brave venture? I have spies everywhere. Oh, call me what you will—rogue, scoundrel, rascal—aye, Sir Antony, even 'smuggler', but I have ever been in love with the gallant spirit of the Marsh.' The Squire was beginning to understand. Cicely had done a brave thing. Indeed, she had done a generous thing too, for Maria had never been overkind to her. He warmed to his daughter, and he wished after all she had come and told him what she was going to do, though he knew in his heart of hearts that, being the clumsy fool he was, he would not have been able to help her. He warmed, too, towards this curious mystery of a man before him. He wished to ask him a lot of things, but all that came out was stammered in the usual tongue-tied fashion, that as Lord of the Level he appreciated his sentiments and admired his debt, and damme, admired his ingenuity, but it must have failed him lamentably this time if all he could think of was to send his daughters home to him in barrels. 'Why the devil did you have to do that, sir?' The Scarecrow laughingly explained, 'Because, my dear sir, and I fear you know this is true, the one thing that always crosses the Channel safely is my contraband.' Cicely went to her father and, putting her arm through his, told him not to worry about how they had travelled, since the important thing was that they were safe, and they had been in great danger. She pointed out to him that though it had been easy to get there for her, it was a different matter when they had tried to leave, because Maria was escaping and she was an aristo.
'Oh, I know what you are thinking, Papa,' she said. 'Damme, sir, they would not dare to touch a Cobtree.' Here she did such a perfect imitation of Sir Antony himself that even he had to laugh. But she went on seriously, explaining that they would most certainly have dared, that being a Cobtree only heightened the danger since she was an English aristocrat. Being that, of course, the teasing girl had refused point blank to disguise herself as she did in dirty rags, insisting on wearing her latest gown. Indeed they had been followed several times, and on one occasion had been recognized by a dangerous friend of Maria's treacherous husband. They would have been denounced had it not been for their good friend here. This gentleman had seen to everything. Each time they were in difficulties he appeared. Their papers—the horses—the right word at the Barriers. Oh, she realized now that she could not have done it alone. Going to the Scarecrow, Cicely held out her hands. 'How best can I thank you, sir?' she asked. 'It seems by imploring you to leave; each moment you remain is but adding to your danger.'
At last Sir Antony realized just how much this man had done for his daughters and the danger into which he had placed himself, and he said impulsively: 'Ay, Cicely, you're right. The place is littered with Dragoons, and I warrant that confounded Revenue man will not be in a pretty mood when he's received your present. As my daughter says—the best way to thank you is to ask you to go. So go, sir, and good luck to you, and mind you don't get caught or I shall lose my thousand guineas.' Then pulling himself together—remembering that after all he was the Chief Magistrate, he added:
'Though, mind you, tomorrow I shall have to put out another Proclamation for your arrest.' The Scarecrow thanked him for his warning and said he would study the new Proclamation carefully—for his own neck told him that he had no wish to see Sir Antony lose his thousand guineas.
'As to my leaving upon the minute—that I cannot, for I must stay here until the Vicar returns. I have to pay him my tithes. Tonight it will be a considerable sum, since my latest cargo was such a valuable one.' The last remark was directed to Cicely.
Then, addressing the Squire, he suggested that the ladies must be in need of rest and it would be as well if he escorted them home.
Cicely had been watching him for some time, and with a curious little smile she asked: 'Could I not stay? Above all things I should like to see a meeting between the Scarecrow and our Doctor Syn.' 'I'm afraid I must disappoint you, Miss Cicely,' he replied, 'for this is business. Tithes are a tenth of what one is worth, so if you are good at reckoning you might too easily calculate my estimation of your value.' The Squire, pleased to get back on familiar ground, said that tithes were tithes and all honest men should pay 'em; then realizing that he had said the wrong thing, coughed loudly and prepared to take his leave, waking Maria who was asleep upon the settle.
Bowing with a 'Your servant, sir,' he led the sleepy Maria to the door while Cicely, lingering behind, said with a look of amusement which failed to hide the alert expression in her eyes: 'I am almost certainly going to ask our dear old Doctor Syn to stop preaching his horrid sermons against you.' Then, turning swiftly, she followed the others and he was left alone.
Cicely crossed the bridge that led from the front door on to the seawall. She saw that her father was taking the short cut down the steps and across the Glebe Field. In her present mood she had no mind for more questionings. Nor, indeed, to be whined at by Maria. So she made no haste to catch them up. Standing for a while in the moonlight, she felt almost sad to be at home again though her instinct told her that she should feel differently, because what had made her happy in France was also here in Dymchurch. Her discovery filled her with an exultation she hardly understood. Turning, with her back to the sea, she faced the dark, familiar outline of the Vicarage, standing clear before the ragged silhouette of the rookery, while, brooding over all, the Beacon Knoll of Aldington. This shadowed sky-line seemed to come to life and claim her, as though at this moment it saw her for the first time, and beckoned to her.
And then she knew that she could find the answer to the riddle that it set, just as she knew that now she must follow where that answer led. So, challenging the shadows, she flung her gauntlet gloves down into the Vicarage garden. Then going swiftly down the sea-wall she raced across the Glebe and overtook the others.
'So here you are, Miss,' said the Squire. 'Maria wanted to get home, and I knew if you could find your way to France and back you'd be abel to make the Court House from the Vicarage.'
'I'm sorry, Papa,' answered Cicely. ''Tis such a lovely night, and it's so good to be home. I was on the sea-wall.' It was when they were going through the Lych Gate that Cicely stopped. 'Oh Lud, I do declare I must have lost my gloves. Now where did I drop them? I'll run back and look, for they were such a lovely pair. I may have left them in the Vicarage. So you two dears go on. Do not wait for me.' And so saying, she sped back again.
While Cicely was crossing the Glebe field for the second time, Mr.
Mipps in his capacity of Parish Clerk was crossing the hall of the Vicarage with an enormous tome, marked Dymchurch Tithes. 'The Tithe Book, sir, for your settlement with the Vicar.' He spoke apparently into thin air for the room seemed to be empty. As he walked he elongated himself as if trying to make himself taller.
'You seem to have acquired a stiff neck, Mr. Mipps.' The voice came from behind the lectern. ''Tis not the Marsh ague, I hope? Or has your blushing ear been getting you into trouble again?' Mister Mipps was all indignant, and snapped: ''Tain't nothin' to do with my inflamed ear, and I hain't hacquired a stiff neck neither. I'm hendeavouring to hacquire a few hinches, halludin' to me as if I was a dwarf.
'Little man.' In front of others, too.' He put the book down on the side of the lectern nearest to him with a slam, and in his own phraseology he 'beanstalked' acros the room to get ink and quill.
Mr. Mipps was so busy with his lack of inches that he did not notice that the front door had opened quietly and around it peeped the face of Cicely.
The voice from behind the lectern continued: 'You ability for acquiring knowledge of current affairs, Mr. Mipps, would make me respect you were you a giant.' This was too much for Mr. Mipps and he retorted quickly:
'And your ability for making yourself laugh may get us all in a trouble, and I weren't at no key'ole when I 'eard that. Miss Cicely called her a goose, but I can think of a adjective; in front of them Dragoons too. Now look 'ere, Cap'n, if you persists in rollin' up your sleeve, we're sunk.' It was then that Cicely decided to knock upon the door, causing Mr.
Mipps to turn round as if he had been shot. Upon seeing her he relaxed, and when she beckoned to him he went quickly towards her.
'Mr. Mipps,' she whispered, 'has Mr. Scarecrow gone?' He was delighted to see her. He grinned. 'Yes, miss,' he nodded assuredly. But was this the right answer? He hadn't looked behind the lectern. Was it Doctor Syn or the Scarecrow? He decided on a middle course. 'I don't know, miss.' Oh, better be definite. 'No, miss.' Oh dear, he was still doubtful. 'Yes, miss.' Oh, better not to have heard at all. 'What, miss? What did you say, miss?' 'I said I'd lost my gloves, Mr. Mipps.' What a relief, perhaps he hadn't heard right after all. 'Oh, your gloves, miss,' he said with complete understanding. 'Did you, miss? I've not seen them, miss.' He began to look round hopefully. 'Where did you drop 'em, miss?' 'I didn't, Mr. Mipps.' 'Oh, you didn't!' He was completely at sea.
'No,' she went on. 'I said I'd come to see Mr. Scarecrow.' Thinking that his weather ear had run mad, or that Miss Cicely was confused after her journey, he determined to brazen it out. 'There now, did you, miss? I didn't hear you, miss.' An impersonal voice came from behind the lectern. 'You seem to be in trouble, Mr. Mipps. Is someone asking for me?'
'Yessir,' he gasped. 'That is—er—no, sir.' At his wits' end he finished in a desperate rush—almost in tears: 'It's Miss Cicely, sir, she's come to see Mr. Scarecrow, sir.' From behind the lectern appeared the benign face of Doctor Syn. 'Why, Cicely child,' he said with some surprise, 'how glad I am to see you back. Mr. Mipps has been telling me of your extraordinary adventures.' Mr. Mipps, determined not to be brought into it again, and thinking his own adventures quite extraordinary enough, hurried back, for Horace, who at least couldn't answer back, for Horace, who had been his friend and confidant for many years, was a large black spider that lived in the beam from which Mr. Mipps slung his hammock, waking him each morning by sliding down from this fighting-top to the lower deck of Mr. Mipps's nose.
Upon seeing Doctor Syn, Cicely uttered a cry of disappointment. 'Why, 'tis only our dear old Doctor Syn. Then I am too late. How teasing.' Then upon seeing that the Vicar was looking somewhat hurt, she begged his pardon and told him how glad she was to see him, explaining that the reason for this late return to his house was a pair of gloves which she thought she must have dropped here. 'Though I must confess I used the missing gloves as an excuse, for I did so want to see the Scarecrow paying you his tithes.' 'Then you are too late, dear Cicely, and I am equally disappointed, for I hoped that your return here was to let me see you safe and sound.' 'Oh, but I assure you, I should have come to see you first thing in the morning,' replied Cicely, adding a little mischievously that she always knew where to find the beloved Vicar, unless, of course, he was out on some errand of mercy, which apparently he had been that night. She supposed it was that poor old Mrs. Wooley again, and vowed she would take her some hot soup in the morning, adding carelessly, 'how much did the Scarecrow pay?'
Doctor Syn looked at her with not a little curiosity. 'Why, Cicely,' he said, 'what is this sudden interest in such a complicated matter as the payment of tithes?' She glanced up at him, eyes wide with feigned innocence—and with the suspicion of a smile about the corners of her mouth, answered: 'Oh, 'tis not a sudden interest. I just wished to see if I am good at reckoning. Was it a large sum?' Doctor Syn became very vague. 'Eh, child,' he said, peering at her through his spectacles. 'Let me see: well, if I remember what I wrote in the book this time, 'twas a mere trifle.' At this she seemed to be full of concern, mixed with not a little indignation, saying that she had long suspected that his eyesight was failing, and that he could not have written aright, and she hoped that the Scarecrow wasn't cheating him, for he had told her most distinctly that tonight's cargo was a very valuable one.
'Come, let me see those glasses,' she said with pretended anxiety. 'I fear they cannot be strong enough for your poor old eyes,' as with a deal of motherly care she took them from his nose and looked through them, saying it was just what she had expected and little better than plain glass, and that she would insist upon his going to London with her father the very next time he went to visit his oculist. But for her part, were she his physician she would order him to throw away his years and not to add to them, stressing that without his glasses he might well be old Doctor Syn's younger brother. 'No, no, do not move,' she said, for Doctor Syn was trying to escape her penetrating look and the beruffled hands that firmly held his arms. But for all that, her grip tightened and she continued to gaze, frowning and fussing. 'Let me look at you more closely. Yes, 'tis true, you are pale. Perhaps 'tis exercise you need. Jogging about on that churchyard pony cannot be good for you. I must ask Papa to give you a more spirited mount, and you must learn to ride. I could teach you.' Was there a hint of a smile in Doctor Syn's unbespectacled eyes? Indeed he had no need of them. He saw as well without them as with their protective, ageing screen. He answered quietly: 'Perhaps Doctor Syn's younger brother could teach you more things than you have ever dreamt of, Miss Cicely. But I fear that I am not he, and must indeed be failing. 'Tis gracious of you to worry over a poor parson in his dotage. But let us talk of something that interests you more.' 'Why then,' she answered very quietly, 'let us talk of the Scarecrow, for he is the most interesting man I have ever met, if man he be, though I do not really think there is truth in the rumour that he is a ghost. To me, he seemed most real. Aye, and with a heart too, for I felt it beating on the ride from Paris when my horse failed. 'Tis true,' she went on earnestly, 'he appears and vanishes like a ghost, for I was swept from the saddle before I felt the horse stumble. But down it went, and I might have gone with it but for a strong arm that certainly did not belong to a spectre.' The Vicar seemed to be full of perturbed amazement at the dangers she had been through, saying what a terrifying experience it must have been. To which Cicely replied that she hadn't been frightened at all because of his superb horsemanship, but she had to admit that she had been troubled. The Vicar agreed that it must have been terrible to have been in the arms of such a desperate character.
'Oh, do not mistake me,' she protested. 'I was troubled because I knew 'twas but a few kilometres to the next village, and I would have ridden that way all night. But then, fresh horses, and he vanished again. For the most part he had spoken to me in his rough French, though for that short distance we rode in silence.' Here her voice took on a new seriousness, and she said as though experiencing it again: 'And I felt that he knew me, and in some strange way that I had known him all my life. Yes, and that we were being swept on to something more vital than escaping from the mob. Now do you understand why I am troubled?' The Vicar too seemed as if he wanted to escape. He went to the fire, saying gravely: 'It seems that this man has taken occasion to be more than a rogue.' 'Oh, but he is no ordinary adventurer.' She moved after him and knelt at his feet. 'Indeed, he is a very wonderful person. You have no idea of his efficiency—his attention to the smallest detail. His daring in running the Revenue blockade made me marvel.' She turned away from him and looked into the fire. 'So you see, Doctor Syn, having set myself a riddle, the solution of it makes me very glad.'
'And have you solved your riddle?' the Vicar asked quietly.
'Indeed, without any assistance my heart found the answer.' She turned and looked earnestly up at him. 'Dear, kind old Doctor Syn, tell me what I should do, for I am fathoms deep in love with this—pirate.' Disturbed and shaken at the word she used, he asked urgently: 'What are you saying? You cannot be serious. A man whose face you've never seen.' 'Oh, I care not what he looks like,' she cried. 'In spite of that foolish mask I should love him were he as ugly as sin.' She was laughing up at him now, and he dared not look at her, but went on protesting that it was madness.
That he had a price on his head and was hunted by Army, Navy and Revenue alike.
''Twould be madness not to love him,' she persisted gaily. 'All the King's horses and Revenue men cannot stop me.'
Steeling himself to meet that challenging look, he tried desperately to master her compelling eyes, as facing her he said: 'Then perhaps 'tis foolish of me to try.' And again, seeking vainly to convince her, asked, 'Have you stopped to consider that his madness could not be?' She answered swiftly: 'I cannot, nor do I desire to stop. My thoughts are his, and if he should command, my life.' She knelt up straight, which brought her closer to him, and putting one hand upon his arm which rested on the corner of the settle, she looked down at it, toying with the buttons on his coat and teasing said: 'I shall have no one else if he does not love me. I shall become—' Here she put her head on one side and thought deeply. 'Yes,' she announced, 'I shall become the spinster of the parish, and devote myself entirely to good works. Maybe I should commence with you. 'Tis true you have no one to look after you.' She looked down again at that intriguing arm.
'Why there, what did I say? Your sleeve, you have a button loose. My first good deed shall be to sew it on for you.' He gently moved the inquisitive hand and rose slowly to his feet, the look of fierce concentration on his face changing to one of calm purpose as he moved away from her. She remained on her knees, sitting back on the heels of her slim riding-boots, fearful yet expectant. Making no haste, he drew off his coat and let it fall. Then deliberately rolling up the right sleeve of his frilled shirt, he moved close to her and gently placed his forearm over the shoulder of the kneeling girl, as though forcing her to look at the tattooed mark upon it.
She did not turn her head, but with a caressing movement clasped the incriminating arm to her, and in a small voice asked for needle and thread with which to sew on the offending button. His deep voice was husky as he said, 'Child, you know that this can never be.'
'I have always known that it must be,' she answered, continuing casually, ''Twill only be a moment if you have a good spool of black.' 'But, Cicely, do you realize what this mark is?' ''Tis but the picture of a man walking the plank with a shark beneath. I saw it first in Paris upon the arm of a most notorious character,' and continued just as casually, ''Twas foolish of me to leave my thimble behind.' He fought desperately, reasoning with her against himself, that the tattoo upon his arm was the mark of the pirate Clegg, who should have hung in chains on Execution Dock; that it was the mark of a hunted law-breaker, the mark of a man who ruled the Marsh by fear and with his cunning. But again to this she answered simply:
''Tis also the mark of that saintly man the Vicar of Dymchurch, revered by all that know him, and dearly loved by Cicely Cobtree, spinster of the parish, who must remember to carry her chatelaine of pins and thread.'
Though knowing he had already lost, he made a last attempt to save her from what he knew must be inevitable should he allow himself such happiness, so, without mercy, he accused his threefold personality—pirate, smuggler, parson—of being an unholy trinity—and of all the three that saintly parson was but the worst of hypocrites, mouthing his smug sermons and hiding black deeds behind the pillars of the Church. Then turning to her he demanded passionately, 'How can you love a coward?' She rose to her feet and stood before him, and fiercely she challenged with a passion equal to his own: 'Coward in one thing only: you will not say what I await to hear.' His despair was triumphant as he laughed back at her glorious audacity.
'Then not even you shall call me a coward,' he cried, and she was in his arms.
After a little while she sought the answer to another riddle. 'And how much did the Scarecrow pay?'
'Eh, child?' For a moment, and to tease her, he became again the kindly Vicar, then holding her from him at arms' length he said: 'All the wealth that was Clegg's when he sailed the Caribbean would not suffice to pay those tithes. Does that satisfy you?' She did not answer, but stood content and gazing at him. 'No?' But still she did not speak, so he went on: 'Would you have me sail up London River and loot the Crown Jewels to lay at your feet?' 'Why, Captain Clegg, should I then be richer than I am?' she asked.
'There is now but one thing that I desire.' He, in his turn, stood silent, looking at her, as she pleaded with a feigned sincerity: 'Dear, kind old Doctor Syn, pray stop preaching your horrid sermons against my beloved Scarecrow.' He laughed again and drew her swiftly to him. For Christopher Syn had remembered to forget the pirate's slogan—no petticoats aboard.
And so it was that the next morning Doctor Syn, happening to perceive from his study window a last remaining rose upon his favourite tree, went out to pick it, and there upon the frosty ground beneath this lovely challenge to the winter was a pair of gauntlet gloves.
