Which latter thought had already occurred to Doctor Syn with satisfaction, for he had other matters to see to before being able to give his undivided attention to the Captain. This notion, however, he did not convey to Miss Agatha Gordon.
The journey, though short, was also not without interruption, for at a lonely farm-house the postilions, having already apprised Miss Gordon of the fact, stopped to deliver a package that had come down with the mail. This being done, the old tenant came out to pay his respects to the Cobtree chaise, and was delighted to find that the Vicar of Dymchurch was in it. With much bobbings and pullings of forelock, he was presented to Miss Gordon as one of Sir Antony’s worthy tenants. It was during the ensuing catechism put to him by the old lady that Doctor Syn, absent-mindedly, no doubt, fell to humming a gay little tune, which the old farmer, strangely enough, for he was rather deaf, seemed to have caught, for after is respectful leavetaking he went singing lustily through the farmyard, ‘some talks of Hal-ex-ha-han-der, hof the British Gren-ha-ha-ha-dears.’
Though he may have taken some liberties with the original text, he most certainly conveyed the meaning of the song itself, for the catchy tune was caught up by half a dozen labourers working round the farm, and even a fat milkmaid some three fields ahead of the chaise was singing it and marking time in rhythm as she pulled. Indeed, fast as the chaise sped on towards the village, the tune preceded it all the way, till Miss Gordon exclaimed, ‘That teasing tune again. And this time the fault is yours, Doctor Syn, for being quit of the guard we had escaped it, till you started up the plaguey thing again.’
To which Doctor Syn, pleading ignorance that he had hummed the tune, apologised profusely and offered to make amends with a little Handel on the harpsichord at the Cobtrees’ next musical. But upon entering Dymchurch, he could not deny but that the village was ringing with it. Workers returning from the fields, dyke-cleaners swinging their trugs, the blacksmith at his forge, housewives closing shutters, fishermen mending their net and a host of small children running this way and that, all singing, whistling, moving to the selfsame tune; while Mr. Mipps, the sexton, was executing on the churchyard wall as neat a hornpipe as Miss Gordon had ever seen in her native Highlands, and in a voice that seemed to have been tuned and broken at the capstan bar, sang loud enough to let the Frenchies know on t’other side of the Channel the full glories of the British Grenadiers.
At the corner of the churchyard wall upon which Mr. Mipps was thus disporting himself, the postilion, on Doctor Syn’s request, pulled up, and the Sexton, recognising with obvious pleasure his beloved master, finished his dance with an intricate twiddle and with surprising agility leapt down to the road before Doctor Syn had stepped on to it. Shouldering the valise, he stood waiting while the Vicar was taking his leave. He hovered happily, his impertinent ferrety face wreathed in seraphic smiles, and his strained black hair, twisted and bound into a tarred queue, resembled a jigger-gaff, though at this moment it quivered with expectancy reminiscent of a pleased puppy about to wag its tail. His wiry little body suggested more the sailor than the Sexton, and his clothes certainly had something of a nautical air. The villagers regarded Mr. Mipps as a person of importance with whom one could not take a liberty, for it was rumoured that being press-ganged into the Navy he had been captured by the famous pirate Clegg and had had to serve him as ship’s carpenter. Maybe there were some who had their own opinions on the subject, but they would not have dared to voice them, least of all to Mr. Mipps, who, as Parish Clerk, Sexton and Undertaker, was admired and respected. He was the Vicar’s general factotum, though some had their suspicions regarding his other activities. In fact, many a Revenue man worsted by the Scarecrow and his gang was ready to swear that when Mr. Mipps wore that look of injured innocence he had in all probability been up to a bit of no good, and indeed knew more about this plaguey smuggling than he cared to admit. But they never seemed able to put their finger on it, and Mr. Mipps, conscious of his own importance, continued to bask in the reflected glory of his well-loved master.
Before taking farewell of Miss Gordon, Doctor Syn begged her to convey his felicitations to the Cobtrees and excusing himself for not accompanying her on the grounds of their family reunion, promised to visit them on the morrow. With a pat on Mister Pitt’s head, and counselling Lisette not to lose sleep over the Scarecrow, he irrevocably won the old lady’s heart by kissing her hand. Then with a bow he joined the waiting Mipps, and the chaise went on to the Court House.
Mr. Mipps, trotting to keep up with the Vicar’s long, easy strides, became as voluble as he had previously been silent, and embarked upon a long series of questions, answers, happenings, and more questions till Doctor Syn advised him to postpone verbosity as they had the evening before them, adding with an enthusiasm that might have seemed strange to an outsider, that for his part his immediate ambitions centred around a long, strong drink.
‘Well, we know where the best brandy is in Dymchurch, sir,’ suggested Mr. Mipps, as they entered the Vicarage. Panelled in ivory white, the room was of exquisite proportions. Indeed it had been specially designed and personally supervised by Doctor Syn’s friend, the great Robert Adam himself. The fireplace had a dignified mantel with bookcases in pillared alcoves on either side. A log fire burned brightly in the hearth, and the Vicar warmed himself in front of it while Mipps got bottle and glasses. Doctor Syn was glad to be home. He loved his parish and he loved his house, and he stood, glass in hand, appreciating his own taste both for fine old brandy and good furnishings. He watched Mr. Mipps lighting the huge candelabras that stood on the refectory table, and as each candle came to life some aspect of the room pleased him more. The great staircase with its sweep of fluted banisters curving into the room. The deep bow windows with diamond panes, through which twinkled innumerable lights from fishing-boats already putting out to sea, while a great painted globe of the world stood, shining and inviting, in its brass stand as if enticing him to leave home waters and once again put out for distant seas.
For one exhilarating moment he allowed his mind to cover those vast oceans which he knew so well, smiling at some remembered escapade. Strange that this Mipps, his close companion and lieutenant in those tempestuous days, should now be with him in this haven of rest, decorously lighting the candles. It was not often that he permitted himself the luxury of allowing his mind to cram on canvas and to carry him back to the enchantment of spiced islands in the tropic seas, or the heady dangers of blustering broadsides in some open fight.
But Doctor Syn was in a reflective mood — the outcome of his activities during the past week, with which he was fully satisfied. Yet when he pondered over the accomplishment of his latest enterprise he was fully aware that this had but started the overture to a new drama in his life. While his seafaring instinct had always told him, ‘No petticoats aboard’, yet, at this very moment, having stifled the sailor in him to become the parson once more, he realised upon looking round his pleasant home that it did, in very truth, lack that one thing. So it was with an almost imperceptible sigh that he dismissed the future with the past, and brought back his vagabond thoughts to the present.
‘Well, Mipps, is all according to plan tonight?’
‘Yessir,’ replied the Sexton, blowing out the taper. ‘Three cries of the curlew it is, and the “British Grenadiers”. No, I’m not anticipatin’ any trouble tonight — though since you’ve been away, sir, we’ve been sent a bran’ new box of soldiers, as pretty a troop of Dragoons as you ever did see, and who do you think is in command?’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea, Mipps.’
‘No, thought you wouldn’t, sir, so I’ll save time by telling you,’ said Mipps. ‘Major Faunce.’
Doctor Syn received this intelligence with a raised eyebrow of surprise. ‘Never the charming fellow who served with Colonel Troubridge here?’