Kicking open the door he stepped into the dark and then on and up the spiral steps he carried her — through the bell-chamber, and at last the battlemented roof. Here he set her down, and holding her at arm’s length they neither of them spoke, but were content to gaze. And thus they stood until their spirits merged and became one with wind and stars and hung there motionless in space.
* * * * *
From some mid-distance came the hooting of an owl and in a dry dyke half a mile away a pair of merry eyes looked up in the direction of the Tower, waiting for a signal.
It came — a vivid flash — and then again, answered from far away by moving lights that joined and came towards the watcher, while the hooting of the owls grew louder, moving with the lights towards Dymchurch Tower.
* * * * *
Miss Gordon was enjoying herself. She was seated in a cosy alcove within ear’s range of the music and within eye’s range of all that was going on, surrounded by the Lords of the Level and young officers of Dragoons. They were all paying her the attention that they might have shown to a young and beautiful woman. In fact, Agatha Gordon was holding a court. Her slender foot tapped, her lace fan fluttered, and her bright eyes danced this way and that. While she was allowing herself a few moments’ relaxation by listening with but half an ear to a rather stodgy old gentleman, out of the corner of these same bright eyes she distinctly saw beneath a tapestry a golden brocaded dress and a pair of elegant buckled shoes with black silk hose attached go swiftly through the Hall. She had hardly stopped smiling to herself in satisfaction when the Squire came up and asked if she had seen that minx Cicely. To which Miss Gordon replied that indeed she had not seen the best part of her niece for the best part of an hour, but that she herself would like to dance and would he lead her out. She was laughing to herself at her neatly turned yet truthful phrase when she passed Maria, who was attempting to interest Major Faunce, and she commanded them to come and join the dance since it was nigh twelve o’clock and she was going to cut her birthday cake. She did not fail to notice Maria’s black look but sailed on to the ballroom on the arm of Sir Antony. By the time she had led the unwilling Squire through the complications of quadrilles ’twas but a few seconds before the hour, and all the guests assembled at one end of the room to watch the ceremony. But no sooner did the first stroke of midnight ring out than the orchestra sounded as though they had become confused, one half played one tune and and the other struck up a different though more familiar air. This finally won the day and soon the whole room had it. On the first notes some quickly hushed titters were distinctly heard coming from the gallery. Agatha Gordon laughed outright, for the tune was none other than the ‘British Grenadiers’. But the turne persisted and the titters grew louder, for the villagers knew what it meant and hoped to see some fun. Then suddenly the ballroom was full of masked figures who moved swiftly in and out, driving the company before them with cocked pistols. The guests were too astonished to protest, though there were a few screams and some convenient faintings into the arms of the nearest gentlemen. Some thought it was a joke, for it was all so swift and orderly, and the surprise was complete. But hardly had they regained their breath when from the great window behind the orchestra there leapt a fearsome figure, masked and cloaked, who cried out: ‘The Scarecrow at your service. And for once you need not be afraid. I have come to pay my respects to the lady whom you are honouring tonight, Miss Agatha Gordon.’
If anyone else was afraid, certainly Miss Gordon was not. She revelled in it, as with great strides he reached her and swept a low bow. ‘Will you do me the honour of treading a measure, ma’am?’ he said. The crowd were aghast. ‘Such impudence! What audacity! What will Miss Gordon do?’
But this lady merely dimpled and held out her hand, for she had seen that prominently displayed upon his black cloak was a golden riding-whip with a diamond handle. He called for a minuet and the company, watching spellbound from a distance, saw her talking and laughing. To a graceful rhythm the dancers moved — the tall gaunt Scarecrow and the little silver lady.
Point down one. Point down two. Sweep, bow. Curtsey.
‘I got your invitation, ma’am,’ he whispered. ‘And I wouldn’t have taken the risk for anyone else.’
Again point down one. Point down two.
‘You’re a naughty, wicked rogue,’ she said. ‘But I hoped you’d come.’
Sweep. Bow. Curtsey.
‘I see you are wearing my brooch, ma’am. So I hope I am forgiven.’
‘I see you wear mine, sir. You certainly are.’
The Scarecrow had moved nearer to the pillaried entrance, where, spying a figure dressed in black, he called out, ‘Why, Doctor Syn, my greetings to an enemy. Come, sir, I’ll be generous. Let me see if you can dance as well as you can preach. ’Tis my command. We’ll dance a foursome. Bring out the golden lady standing by you.’
Here was entertainment indeed. The villagers hung open-mouthed over the gallery, jostling for place. What would the parson do?
The parson stepped out on to the floor, and sweeping a most accomplished bow to Miss Cicely Cobtree gave her his hand and led her out. The band struck up a merry jig, and the strangest dance that was ever seen began. All four were voted good, but the village had it that the Vicar was by far the best, while the four dancers never enjoyed themselves so much, each knowing who the other was and thoroughly appreciating the joke.
The music stopped ’midst thunders of applause, but when it seemed that the Scarecrow was about to take his leave, Miss Gordon had a sudden inspiration. In ringing tones so none could fail to hear she cried: ‘Since I have granted you your wish and trod a measure, I have a request to make from you. There is a problem to be settled. Indeed it will benefit you, sir, if I am right. Some say the Scarecrow is none else but Captain Clegg the Pirate, and bears upon his arm a strange tattoo — the mark of Clegg. Come, sir, roll up your sleeve and end this argument for good and all.’
Again the spectators held their breath, while the Scarecrow swiftly rolled his sleeve and showed his forearm — bare. Such a burst of cheering had never yet been heard in Dymchurch, while the Scarecrow, bowing over Miss Gordon’s hand, whispered: ‘You’re the bravest, cleverest Scots lassie I have had the privilege of robbing and dancing with.’ And he was gone, and with him went the Nightriders.
The cheers lasted for ten minutes, for though the Dymchurch villagers were used to exploits of the Scarecrow this was perhaps the pleasantest, most entertaining and romantic they had ever known, while even Mrs. Honeyballs was forced to admit that the Scarecrow behaved himself so nice that she wouldn’t have minded dancing with him herself. But a goodly proportion of the cheering was directed towards the little old lady herself, for they all agree that she had behaved print1 and peart,2 and it was a good thing that she had so neatly cleared up that silly theory once and for all. Now everyone knew that their Scarecrow was not that pirate Clegg. The gentry for their part were just as enthusiastic, and the whole gathering was so busy with this gossip that it was not for fully twenty minutes that Miss Agatha remembered her cake. She could not think when she had enjoyed herself so much and she chuckled at the audacity of Mr. Bone, while fully appreciating who had been at the back of all this scheming to make her birthday party pleasant, so she was very glad that she had had the sense to explode for him the theory about Clegg. Now Clegg could rest in peace unless someone was very careless. So she gave herself a mental pat on the baack and felt that for eighty she had really not done badly. Her pleasant reverie was interrupted by the Squire, who, having hung about on the fringe of the proceeding all the evening, feeling rather out of it in his own house, was not in the best of tempers.
So he asked her somewhat testily when she was going to cut that confounded white mountain of confectionary that was clutterin’ up his library, though he failed to remark that he thought that same piece of white confectionary would look just as well sittin’ on her head as what she’d already got on it. It only lacked a feather — and he wished he had the courage to stick one in.