THE SCARECROW RIDES (9 page)

“I'll do that,” replied the doctor. “You are quite right. We have
been less fortunate than Burmarsh, certainly. Have you no one in mind
that you would wish to appoint in poor Bolden's place?”

“I shall have to depend on the choice of the Archbishop, I suppose,”
said the squire. “There's only one man I can think of—and he is one I
think of daily—to whom I would as gladly offer the living to, as I
verily believe, he would gladly accept it, but whether he is alive or
dead, God alone knows. Whoever I have could not satisfy me as he could.
He had all the sterling qualities of Bolden that makes for popularity
with the people here, and in addition a scholarship and a gentlemanly
accomplishment that would be very acceptable to the gentry. He would
now be my own age, but when I knew him he was even younger than Bolden.
It was an understood thing that he should become vicar of Dymchurch,
for he loved the place as we all loved him. He used to stay here during
the Oxford vacations.”

“I recollect the man surely,” said Sennacharib Pepper. “He was an
undergraduate with you at Queen's.”

“That's the man,” nodded the squire. “He was given a Fellowship,
which he vowed he would hang on to till the living here was vacant.”

“I talked with him often,” said the doctor. “A brilliant young man.”

“I should think he was,” agreed the squire, turning to a
glass-fronted bookcase at the side of the chimneypiece. “There's a book
here somewhere—yes, here it is.” He opened the glass door and drew out
a leather-bound volume, which he opened at the title leaf. “
A Solemn
Discourse on Religious Assemblies and the Public Service of God,
According to Apostolical Rule and Practice
. What it all means, I
can't explain. It's beyond me. But the book made such an impression
upon Oxford that the University, despite his youth, conferred on him
the title of Doctor of Divinity,” added the squire.

“He was a fine horseman, too. He hunted here,” added the doctor.

“And as magnificent with the sword as with the pistol,” went on the
squire. “He winged Bully Tappitt, the Squire of Iffley, in Magdalen
Fields one morning. Fortunately, Tappitt was a notorious duellist, and
we were able to prove that he had offered the affront, otherwise it
would have gone hard with our friend. As it was, the affair made him
the admiration of all, from the chancellor to the town's boys. What a
supper we had at his acquittal. I remember so well that he was the only
one who remained sober, though I swear he drank as much as any.”

“What happened to him then?” asked another of the party.

“He went to America under distressing circumstances,” said the
squire. “But that was a few years later, after he had married the most
beautiful girl you ever saw. Unfortunately, her beauty was but skin
deep and she ran off with a blackguard, named Nicholas Tappitt, the
nephew of the man he'd killed. I never heard what happened, for after
telling me that he found life in England unendurable, he went abroad. I
never heard from him again, but it is believed he was killed by
Indians, for after much inquiry I learned that he went amongst them on
a mission and has never been heard of since.”

“What was his name?” asked Dr. Pepper.

The squire's eyes were filled with tears, and to hide his emotion he
pointed to the fly-leaf of the volume and handed it to Dr. Pepper, who
read the name of the author and nodded. “Of course, yes, I remember
now. A good many years ago.”

“What was his name?” asked one of the other gentlemen, as they both
got up to look over the doctor's shoulders at the book.

The squire, after clearing his throat, said: “His name was—”

“Doctor Syn,” announced the voice of the footman.

The squire spun around as though he had been shot, while the others
looked up sharply from the name on the book, the name which they had
just read, and which they had simultaneously heard announced.

In contrast to the bright livery of the footman who stood against
the white panelling of the door which he held open, the sombre figure
framed in the dark doorway seemed unreal. A shudder of superstition
passed through the blood of everyone in the room as they gazed. No one
moved, for concentration was riveted upon this tall, slim stranger. He
had removed his heavy overcoat and thrown it over one shoulder, where
it hung like a cloak. One long arm hung by his side and held a large,
three-cornered hat, while the other was bent so that the white hand
with its long, tapering and sensitive fingers rested lightly against
his heart, as though he were about to bow in greeting. But he did not
move, and until he did no one else had the power to. They looked at his
face, pale and long, with fascinating lines cut into it, each one
challenging the onlooker to respect his romance. A face carved by that
master sculptor, Experience. The lofty brow, the queer but shapely head
framed in a mass of raven hair. Eyes deep and piercing that seemed to
each man in the room to be searching out the secrets of his soul. The
nose was high with an aquiline droop. The cheeks hollow. Gaunt jaws
that seemed to hold the whole decision of his destiny. A thin upper lip
and fuller under one gave the mouth an expression of alert
determination. The strong neck and full throat were shapely, exactly
right to the carriage of such a living head. Though standing deathly
still, every limb and feature conveyed quick and splendid movement
momentarily arrested at the man's iron will. Showing no embarrassment
at the silence, he showed no intent to break it, only allowing a gentle
smile to twinkle in his eyes and gather at the corner of his mouth. It
seemed almost as though he enjoyed their consternation and relished the
thought that he was master of their sudden helplessness.

It was perhaps natural that the footman, being the only one not in a
position to grasp the significance of the situation, should be the
means of breaking the spell.

“The gentleman seems to be the only survivor of the wreck, sir.”

“And consequently must ask your indulgence, gentlemen, for his
appearance,” added the stranger. “It has been a nasty night to swim
in.”

That he was still a stranger as far as the squire went was obvious,
for all he did was to stare and mutter such phrases as: “No—no.
Impossible. Asking too much. Incredible—”

“I hardly expected you to recognise me immediately,” went on the
stranger. “We have so many years to span, and a hard life alters most
men. Although Time has dealt most generously with you, I have not yet
quite captured from your features the gay and pleasant Tony that I
knew. But I shall get him any moment, just as you will suddenly get
me.”

The jolly face of the squire was all puckered up into a vast frown,
as he once more shook his head. He looked again and said: “Yes, it's
more years than one imagines. But it would be too strange. Yet, wait,
there is just something reminiscent. Of course, the room's confoundedly
dark. Suppose we light another candle sconce.”

“The room is light enough,” protested the other gently, “at least to
me who for many weeks have spent my nights reading the classics at a
tallow dip, and if my poor features cannot convince you, I think the
room can, for the last time I was here your father stood where you are
standing, and with some nervousness I asked him to accept a book of
mine. He stood there glancing at it, then sat me at that table and told
me to inscribe it. Being my first inscription, I remember it. 'To Sir
Charles Cobtree Baronet, of New Hall, Dymchurch, from his humble
servant and admirer the Author.' He put it there, next to the Odyssey
of Mr. Pope.” He crossed to the bookcase. “Yes, there it is—the
Odyssey—but where my book was—a space.”

“We were but now admiring it, sir,” said Sennacharib Pepper.

Mechanically the physician handed the volume to the squire, who
passed it to the author. He, in his turn, looked at the title-page with
a grim smile. “My faith, I must have been in a solemn mood when I
penned this.”

The squire could never decide afterwards whether it was the extra
light supplied by one of the gentlemen carrying a candelabra from the
further end of the room or some trick that the stranger had in handling
a book, but it was certain that he suddenly brought his fist crashing
down on the table.

“Gad,” he thundered, “I see him now. Why, yes, I'd recognise him
anywhere. The brow, the nose, the chin, the eyes. A little older. Those
white streaks in the black locks are deceptive, but I can take my oath
that this is my old friend, Christopher Syn, mercifully restored.
Sennacharib, you are always boasting of your eyesight. Do you mean to
say you cannot recognise him? You met him years ago.”

“I think I recognised the gentleman before you, Sir Antony, but you
gave me no chance of expressing my opinion,” replied the physician.

“My dear friend,” cried the squire, ignoring the physician and
placing his hands upon Syn's shoulders. “My dear Doctor, welcome home.”
But feeling the wetness of his coat, he became immediately the bustling
host. “My poor fellow, you're wet through. Positively soaked.”

“I've been swimming, Tony,” smiled Syn.

“Of course. Yes. And what's that? Your sea-chest? How the devil you
managed to swim with that I don't know. And what are you standing there
for, blockhead?” he asked the footman. “Run upstairs, tell them to
light a fire in the best room available, to get busy with the warming
pans, and ask her ladyship to step down here at once, and if the young
ladies are in bed, tell her ladyship that they must be wakened
immediately. Three daughters, my dear Doctor. Faith, to think you're
not acquainted with my family, and you my best friend.

“Oh, and you (to the footman) come here. If my son is awake with the
toothache or whatever it is that makes him cry at night, tell the
nursemaid to bring him down. Yes, my dear Doctor, my dear friend, I
have a son and heir, at last. Three strapping grown lasses, and a wee
boy. It's true, ask Doctor Pepper about him, for he had the bringing of
him into this world. Yes, that's right, Sennacharib, give the doctor
some warm drink. Some smoking bishop for the Doctor of Divinity, eh? I
suppose you're still a parson, eh, Doctor? Of course, once a parson
always a parson unless you're unfrocked, which in your case is not
likely. But you must be starved. I'll get food. Where's that blockhead
gone? Here, where's anybody?” He tugged the long bell-rope vigorously.
“And dry clothes you must have. A warm dressing-gown. Come to the fire
and dry yourself.”

Dr. Sennacharib Pepper, having shaken hands with his old
acquaintance, suggested that he should relieve the ladies of their
nursing and go up and visit the patient. “A poor girl who lost her
husband in the rescue work of the wreck, Dr. Syn. I have administered a
sleeping draught, but will go up and see that all is well. Someone must
be with her.”

On his leaving the other two gentlemen called for their horses, in
order to leave the squire with his new-found old friend.

In a few minutes the whole house appeared to be alive with people
hurrying this way and that on various errands, but on tiptoe out of
respect for the invalid, and by the time Dr. Syn had been taken with
his chest to a comfortable bedroom, had been arrayed in dry shirt and
breeches of the squire's and wrapped in a red quilted dressing-gown,
had been presented to the Cobtree family, especially to Charlotte, who
was his godchild, and whom he remembered as a baby, and had insisted
that the new baby should not be awakened, a magnificent cold supper was
awaiting him in the dining-room, where he did full justice to a game
pie and a bottle of claret.

Dr. Syn had told the squire that he had seen the body of the captain
lying on the sea-wall, and as he was eating, news was brought that it
had been carried with other bodies they had recovered to Sycamore Barn.
Maintaining that his own story could wait, Dr. Syn wanted to know all
the news of the village, merely satisfying their curiosity about his
own doings by telling them he had been in the wildest parts of America
preaching the gospel to the Indians.

“You must not expect the doctor to tell you all his adventures at
one sitting,” the squire said to his daughters. “I warrant that if he
talks hard every evening, he will not be able to tell you half this
side of Christmas.”

Dr. Syn chuckled to himself and thought this more than likely, but
aloud he said: “I have had adventures—yes, for I suppose to you it is
an adventure to hear first-hand stories of the Indians. But you must
not expect too much. You must remember that I was a preacher, not a
gentleman adventurer.”

“And none of your experiences could be stranger than the shipwreck,”
went on the squire. “A very strange thing. Here we were, talking of
you, and in you walk. And there you were, wondering when the living of
Dymchurch would be vacant, and the living vicar swimming out to rescue
you is killed.”

They all nodded gravely, and Dr. Syn said: “Yes, it seems like
fate.”

“Seems? It
is
,” exclaimed the squire. “It seems as if poor
Bolden had to go. Of course, we should have found some way out of the
difficulty, but not easily. Bolden was popular. Anyone but you
following him here would have been unfairly dealt by in comparison.”

“He was obviously a very gallant fellow,” said Dr. Syn. “Young?”

“Too young really; as least, I found him so,” replied the squire.
“These young ladies will probably not agree. He took his work
seriously, but not with a long face. No, he was merry enough, laughed a
good deal, but never drank. Now I'm of an age when I like a man to
crack a bottle with me. Not that he was a prig. Far from it. He had no
objection to others drinking, and he had something about him that made
you respect even his crazy notions. A simple, good, jolly young man. He
lived here, you know. Couldn't cope with the vicarage, though I
furnished it for him. And you know it's when you live under the same
roof with a man that you learn the worst about him. But there was
nothing to find out about him. I'd have seen any other young parson a
good deal further before letting him live here with these young girls
about. They might have put ideas into his head, whereas with Bolden,
good-looking as he was, why the three of them just mothered him, didn't
you, young ladies?”