‘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?’