‘Pray don’t be so cross, sir,’ she answered. ‘I can explain — I’ve been to France and I’m back.’
Sir Antony snorted. ‘France — what do you mean, France? Have you seen Maria?’ The girl’s expression changed again to one of apologetic humour. ‘Lud, Papa, I had almost forgotten Maria.’ And then with a wave of her gauntleted hand to the other cask she said: ‘She’s in there — and when we let her out I warn you, sir, she’ll start screaming again — but she’s had a terrible time, poor lamb. Lud, I can’t stand this barrel a minute longer. It smells like the Herring Hang. Dear Mr. Mipps, pray give me a hand.’ Mipps, who had been gazing at her in admiration, leaped forward to help her, but seeing that the pistol was still unconsciously pointed in his direction suggested with a grin that he should hold the artillery. With riding-skirt held high she scrambled out, straightened the green velvet folds, and stretched luxuriously. ‘Oh, it’s wonderful to be home,’ she cried. ‘But I am as stiff as a dead starfish.’
Major Faunce was also gazing at her in admiration. His soldier’s instinct told him that here was bravery. What manner of girl was this, who could talk so gaily of returning from an enemy country? He was curious to know what she had done and why. With approval he noted the determination in every line of her tall, almost boyish figure — her oval face was delicately cut, yet behind the large mischievous eyes there seemed to be a mysterious purpose. In spite of her youth, she had about her an air of authority. And with amusement he noticed how, impatient that the men were doing nothing except stare, she went swiftly, with easy graceful strides, to the other barrel and taking the command, ordered Mipps and the Sergeant to unfasten here and there, and to do this and that with: ‘Come, sirs — make haste. She’s been there long enough.’
Under her compelling personality, even the Sergeant came to life. Both he and Mr. Mipps acting as they would have done under a commanding officer, responded to her orders, and swiftly it was done.
The lid was off and as the Sergeant leaned over the rim to help the lady out, there came such piercing screams that he jumped back again, as a shrill little voice cried, ‘Get away from me, you great French brute! Cicely! Cicely! Where are you, Cicely?’
Sweeping the others aside, Cicely leant over the barrel and soothed: ‘All right, Maria. I’m here. We’re home. You can come out now.’
But the screams continued, and indeed grew louder. ‘Now, dearest Maria, don’t be foolish,’ calmed Cicely, and whispering to Mipps: ‘You see, what did I tell you? She’s been very vexing. Come out, my lamb,’ she coaxed, leaning into the barrel. ‘We’re in the Vicarage and here’s Papa.’
Up from the barrel leapt a distraught figure, a great travelling-cloak hiding the bedraggled finery of what had once been the height of Paris fashion. Her blonde hair, out of curl, hung limply round her tearstained face. A woebegone little figure, who upon reaching the floor through the arms of Mr. Mipps, rushed sobbing to her father. ‘Papa! Oh, Papa!’ she cried. The Squire put his arms about her and made a clumsy attempt to calm her. His awkward pettings and the embarrassment that most Englishmen feel at a show of hysteria were charming and endearing. But all his efforts were to no avail, as Maria let out the full force of pent-up self-pity. Determined that others should share the horrors she had been through, she plunged into lurid descriptions of how terrified she had been, of how Jean, her husband, had left her in Paris all alone in their great house, of how all those ugly people came and frightened her, and then how Cicely came and she couldn’t understand why she looked ugly too. She had sung and shouted and behaved in a horrid manner, and that dreadful man who had kept ordering them about — of how he had been half naked with a picture on his arm — a ghastly picture of a shark — tattooed, like sailors have, and how they had never seen his face because he wore a hideous mask, but that the crowd seemed to know him and like him too, because they did what he said and didn’t touch them, and everywhere he went they shouted, ‘The Scarecrow! Vive L’Épouvantail!’ Seeing that she was indeed holding the attention of her audience, she determined to vent some of her bewildered anger upon her sister, telling of how Cicely had actually appeared to enjoy it, and that the Scarecrow had paid more attention to her, because he had left them and made a special journey to get her riding-habit back, when she said she would look funny going back to England disguised as a French peasant. But she, poor Maria, had nothing but what she stood up in. She had lost everything. Husband, house, and all her pretty clothes. This made her cry so much that she could speak no more.
The Squire was quite desperate, with repeated, ‘There, there. No one’s going to hurt you. Your father’s here.’ He implored Cicely in God’s name to tell him what had happened, and what did she mean by all this wild talk.
Major Faunce, who up to now had kept silent, now came forward with a somewhat sinister question: ‘Yes, indeed. What does she mean? I shall be glad to hear an explanation.’
The Squire, who had forgotten all about the Major in this confusion, did not catch the tone of suspicion in the soldier’s voice, so he introduced his daughters, and looked appealingly at Cicely to help him out, which she did with, ‘Pray, sir, forgive our unladylike arrival at this evening party.’ Then, turning to her father, she said in a whisper loud enough for Major Faunce to hear, ‘Papa, pay no attention to Maria — I told you she was hysterical, poor pet.’ Then once again, but this time looking round the room, she changed the subject. ‘But where is your host? Where is our beloved Doctor Syn?’
The Major was quick with his reply. ‘He was called out to visit a sick woman. But I am afraid this is not an evening party, Miss Cicely. I am here on business. The only invitation we have had tonight is from the scoundrel whom your sister has just been talking about. In the King’s name, I must ask you to tell me more about this French Scarecrow.’
The Squire indignantly retorted to this: ‘Nonsense, Major Faunce. I’ll not have my daughters questioned at this hour, and after all they have gone through.’ Then added as if he had just thought of it: ‘Now, Cicely, child, tell your father all about it.’
Cicely went over to her father, and upon seeing that the dear soul was wearing the expression of a bewildered bloodhound, kissed him and asked to be forgiven for having caused him so much anxiety. But she explained: ‘You recollect how anxious we all were about Maria. I did not tell you I had planned to go and help her, for I knew you would not let me go. Oh, ’twas easy enough to get there. Bribes and a fishing-smack. And ’twas easy enough to get to Paris. All I had to do was to make myself the complete sansculotte and shout and scream with the mob. It was nothing. I know the language. Thanks to you, Papa. And as you know, I had friends there, though now heaven knows what has happened to some of them. As to the man Maria talks about, well, there were so many wild characters I fear she must be confused. Indeed, poor goose, she scarcely recognized me. There she was, cowering all alone in that great house. Hadn’t been out for days, all the servants fled.’
This awakened in Maria fresh memories of the departed glory of her married life, and she let out a howl of anguish. ‘All right, Maria my lamb, ’tis over now,’ said Cicely, who continued to talk with her father. ‘It is a terrible thing they are doing, Papa. We were forced to witness ghastly scenes. And all the time the mob was getting nearer to Maria’s home. We would have been in more danger had we stayed.’
All this was too much for the Squire. He just did not begin to understand what Cicely had been doing. Any more than he had understood why Maria had gone and married a Frenchman. All he could stammer out was: ‘It’s deuced confusin’. Two girls — alone. Someone must have helped you. Was it this French Scarecrow?’