had been obliged to let his ship set sail without him, but hoped to be
aboard her upon the next home voyage. He asked them to send an answer
containing all their news by the hands of his sailing-master, who was
then discharging cargo in London Docks.
You will be glad to know, my dear Imogene, that I escorted your dear
mother safely to her home, where I have seen her constantly. She is
already comp letely recovered from her shock, and is glad to be once more
in the sunniest of countries. I trust, my dear Doctor, you are becoming
proficient in the Spanish tongue. It will amuse you to know that I am
passing everywhere as Spanish born. This I have done with the Senora’s
connivance, because we found the English are unpopular, owing to the
political state of Europe. Will you therefore be so good as to address
whatever letters you may care to send to Senora Nikola Tappittero, which
is the high-sounding name I have adopted? You would be shocked to hear
how venomously I rave against the British people.
- 54 -
It is the only means by which I can get some honest trading. For you,
my dear Imogene, I have purchased a scented lace mantilla, if indeed an
English parson’s wife be allowed to wear such vanity. Also a guitar of
such sweet tone that it took my immediate fancy. The case, too, is very
cunningly inlaid. For the diversion of our dear Doctor, I have run to
earth a fine old edition of comical Don Quixote.
Although no scholar myself, I have yet appreciation for his wit.
Trusting to find you both in Oxford still on my return, I subscribe
myself
Your Spanish friend of the family,
Nikola Tappittero.
A postscript added:
I hope the ho neymoons were happy both in Dymchurch and the Cotswolds.
I have sent my felicitations to our excellent Tony and his bride.
“Oh, Christopher,” cried Imogene, “promise to stay at Oxford till he
comes. Dymchurch seems so far away.”
“Are you anxious for the mantilla and guitar?” he asked, “or is it
Nicholas you want to see?”
“I want to be warmed with the reflection of the Spanish sun,” she
answered.
The mail brought constant news from Dymchurch. Tony and his bride
had returned, were duly thrilled at the rebuilding of the vicarage,
which work was going forward rapidly, since the old Vicar had moved into
his house at Burmarsh, praising especially the Spanish alcove which they
said was something like a cloister. Doctor Syn noticed that Imogene was
more interested in this than in all the other additions put together.
“Tony says that the builder has let in two double seats in the wall
of it,” she said. “He says it will hold us two in one, and than in the
other. But when Nicholas is with us with his guitar, I except he will
sprawl all over one of them, just like a lazy Spaniard. But we shall
see him first in Oxford. Promise me that, my Christopher?”
“That promise you must get from Nicholas,” he answered. “Duty is
duty, and Sir Charles is anxious for me to take mine up as soon as
possible. My Induction papers will be ready in a week or so, and when I
am commanded, I must go. If the house is not quite ready for you, I
could come back here to fetch you when it is. I would rather you came
with me, though, for we could stay at the Cobtrees’, and your wishes for
the house could be the easier carried out.”
“Let us write and tell Nicholas he must come back on the next homing
voyage.”
And she made her husband sit down there and then pen a letter to
Spain. To this she put a postscript in Spanish:
- 55 -
You will please be obedient, and not fail us. I cannot leave Oxford
without my mantilla and guitar, and my Doctor wants his book. But more
than all we want to see and talk with you, Nikola Tappittero of Spain.
How I have laughed at that! If you see us before we go to Romney Marsh,
you will escape the mists of winter here. Oxford is bad enough. Oh,
what a climate! I wonder sometimes how Englishmen are as lively as they
are. I hope you wil l bring us the latest songs of Spain.
Which postscript somewhat distressed the good Doctor. But he said
nothing. After all, Nicholas was no Spaniard.
Though many of the students who visited them were lively enough,
Imogene found Oxford people conn ected with the University took like and
themselves very seriously. Even Doctor Syn, by reason of being the
youngest Don, has automatically adopted a gravity of manner suitable to
his responsibilities. To Imogene the subjects that he taught were
deathly dulclass="underline" dead languages and Ecclesiastical Law. To cope with such
grave writings, he seemed to her to have wrapped his soul in too somber
a cloak. The only thing that he approached with a lightness of spirit
was his study of Spanish. Here he was the student and the teacher, and
it annoyed her that he did not attach the same importance to her living
language as he did to his own dead ones. This fault, although she did
not realize it, was largely of her own making, for unconsciously she
talked so much of Nicholas and Spain, that in Doctor Syn there began to
grow a jealousy. Not owning this even to himself, he gave her no
warning that such a thing existed. During Spanish lessons she adopted
his own manner of teaching. She railed against the smallest mistakes,
and pronounced his accent as execrable.
He excused himself by saying: “It is the fault of our cold English
voices, my dear. We cannot speak a foreign tongue to the manner born.
We are perhaps too aloof to be good imitators. In the colder languages
of the North we might become convincing, but French, Italian and your
Spanish need a warmer voicing than we can give, and I think no Britisher
would ever deceive a native.”
Her answer irritated him. “Nonsense!” she cried. “Nicholas speaks
Spanish like a Spaniard.”
“He has lived in Spain,” he argued sharply. “And what do we know of
his parents? He never speaks of them. If he is fully English, I am much
deceived. Think of his complexion. There is surely foreign blood in
such swarthiness.”
“If you compare him to your Tony,” she replied, “he may not look so
English. But why be so ungenerous to your good friend? Is the English
complexion the only perfection?”
She looked so scornful in saying it that he took her in his arms and
whispered: “Yours is the most perfect complexion in the world. We both
agree on that, at least.”
“No doubt it will become more English,” she answered, “when beaten by
those flying mists on Romney Marsh.”
The Southern sun in you will drive our mists away,” he said. “And I
am sorry if I appeared ill-tempered I had no right to disparge Nicholas.
You have much in common, and for that I like him, and like you to like
him. But tell me that you love me?”
“I love you, Christopher.” Then she kissed him and smiled. “And
might even love you better still, if you would only laugh as much as
Nicholas.”
“It suits his gay clothes better than my black cloth,” he said. “But
I’ll be livelier when away from all these pompous Colleges. The sooner
we leave, the sooner will you se e the change in me.”
- 56 -
“But you are not leaving till Nicholas comes,” she said teasingly.
“You have given me your word on that.”
“Not that I recollect,” he laughed. “But since I can refuse you
nothing, there, I promise you. I’ll make the rogue my curate, if you
like. You could keep him well in order as his Vicar’s wife.”