‘Because I knows his work when I sees it,’ he said. ‘And I knows there ain’t four walls can hold him when he’s a mind to get out and because I knows that —’
‘Orders is orders, Mr. Mipps?’ she completed.
He nodded once, then sadly shook his head.
‘Oh, do not blame me for disobeying him,’ she pleaded. ‘’Twas the time
— I thought he could not do it in the time — and such a simple thing for me to do.’
Mipps told her there was no blame to her: she’d done a good night’s work and done it brave and Bristol fashion. She thanked him and a smile played round the corners of her mouth. ‘There is a penalty, is there not, for disobeying orders?’ she asked, then as a twinge of pain twisted the smile from her face she whispered: ‘And I must pay it —’
A voice from the shadows answered her. ‘Would that I could pay it for you —’ Mipps turned on the Revenue Man, who was stirring in his bonds, and lashed out like a fighting terrier.
‘Aye, so you should, you dog.’ This was the Mipps well known to Clegg; lucky for Mr. Hyde he did not act without his master’s orders. ‘So you should, you dog,’ he repeated, ‘as a reward for foul play.’
‘No, Mr. Mipps — not foul play.’ Cicely lifted herself and spoke in a firmer voice. ‘He shot on sight, as any loyal citizen may do.’ She turned to the Revenue Man, and though shocked to see him in his present plight, her mind could not take in what had happened. ‘I wish to thank you, Mr. Hyde,’ she said gently. ‘The Court House would have been so crowded. I am happy here. A pleasant fire; some wine.’ She turned to Mr. Mipps and asked him to fetch some wine and a glass for Mr. Hyde. Then seeing that so tightly bound, he could not drink, she ordered his immediate release. Mipps demurred, until she laughed: ‘Scarecrow’s orders, Mr. Mipps.’
He did as he was bid, realizing now that she must have her way in everything, and when she asked him to tidy the room lest the Vicar should be grieved to find it in such disorder, he obeyed, and found to his amazement that Hyde was helping him.
She watched them lift the heavy cloth and place it on the highly polished table; then as she saw the Revenue Man looking at her with an expression of desperate guilt on his face, she shook her head and said gently: ‘That is our secret, is it not?’
The Revenue Man did not know, himself. Never in his life had he felt like this before. He answered her with a newly found sincerity: ‘Whatever secrets I have learned tonight shall go no further. Your teaching shames me, Mistress Parson.’
She hardly heard him, for her wandering mind was out — searching the secret places of the Marsh, and a greater fear was upon her. ‘Oh, Mr. Mipps,’ she cried. ‘Why does he not come? ’Tis such a little time. I would that I had known him all your twenty years. Suppose he does not come.’ She was trembling now, with the desperate urgency to be near him. If that could not be, then she must somehow be enveloped by him; hear his name spoken; and so she begged Mr. Mipps to tell her some story of him, saying there must be one she had not heard. Mipps was silent: not because he did not remember one — for indeed the tablecloth had brought back to his mind a scene in Santiago, where Clegg had once again escaped to save his life. But he hesitated lest it should incriminate his master. Then as she urged him to be quick, he saw Hyde’s face and knew that they were safe from him. He held the glass of brandy to her lips, telling her that if she would but drink, he would begin. She obeyed him eagerly.
‘Well — I remember once — there was a time…’ Mipps spoke slowly and with great effort: ‘…he done a very nippy dodge: that was the time he saved…’ He could not go on, thinking of how he, himself, would now give anything to save her and his master from this calamity. Instead, he gulped, and the tears ran down his poor old nose. ‘Oh, Miss Cicely, Mrs. Cap’n — Miss —’
She looked at him and loved him, finding excuses to save his embarrassment. She hoped he had not caught Marsh ague, he was shaking so. She feared it was a cold, for indeed his eyes were running. His weakness gave her strength, and she fumbled for her kerchief, a tiny square which she handed to him, saying: ‘Come, give me the glass and do you take my handkerchief.’ She shivered: ‘Is it not cold? Mr. Hyde, come nearer to the fire and let us drink a toast.’
The Revenue Man hardly knew what he did or said, but he moved towards her and she heard him give a toast — a strange one, from his lips. ‘The Scarecrow.’
And then she saw behind him in the doorway what she had prayed to see just this once more, and her lips moved: ‘Christopher.’
As in a trance the wild-looking shell of Doctor Syn, dishevelled from his frantic searchings on the Marsh, moved like a shadow and was on his knees beside her. She took his trembling hands and with what little strength she had, tried to bring him back. ‘L’Épouvantail, at your service.’ It was a very gay whisper. She put her head on one side and smiled at him — a tiny, frowning smile. ‘Forgive such a clumsy rendering of the part. Perhaps, after all, I am — but just a petticoat. And I was wrong. The Scarecrow is a ghost. For he must always rise while Aldington stands high.’ As though to prove her words, the beacon flames leapt higher and the whole room lightened up and seemed ablaze. ‘You see,’ she said. ‘The Beacon is alight. I heard the curlew cry three times. I should have heeded Mr. Mipps, but thought you could not do it in the time. What could I do as Spinster but devote my life… All the King’s horses and Revenue Men…’
He was looking at her in dumb agony, and she, caressing and stroking his arm, looked down and was the memory of a dream. She slipped her had beneath his sleeve till her fingers rested on the branded mark. ‘Why, Doctor Syn,’ she whispered, ‘your sleeve. The button is still loose. It will only take a moment if you have a spool of black. I have forgotten my chatelaine.’
She raised herself and, leaning forward, kissed him lightly on his bowed head, so close that only he could hear her sighing words: ‘Dear, kind old Doctor Syn, I am so happy. My first good deed shall be…’ And she was gone.
And with her went the Beacon light, for at that moment it had flared up higher than before, to flicker swiftly out. The silent room was now quite dark, save for the arrow stabs of moonlight that shot in from the window, and the shining pathway through the door.
The husky voice of Mr. Hyde broke the silence. ‘I, too, was wrong. The Scarecrow is a ghost.’
He moved humbly and stood behind the stricken man. He also wanted help, and strange, this parson was the man to give it. He longed to take the Vicar’s hand. Instead, he turned and, passing Mipps, said quietly: ‘You know where you can find me. I shall be ready if he wants me.’
And then he crossed the bridge and went his way along the Dymchurch Wall.
Mipps made no attempt to hinder him. He knew the danger there had passed, and here at hand another must be reckoned with — his master’s reason. There might be one way to save him. If he could make him see that here was no lost love: rather, a gallant ending to a member of the Brotherhood.
With his hand on his master’s shoulder he looked down and said:
‘I pays my respects to Captain Clegg’s Lieutenant. God Bless her gallant spiriti. Come, Cap’n, we must carry her home.’
But she was home already.
Chapter 24
The Shadow of Clegg
Mr. Mipps was frightened. In fact, he was desperate. He had thought that his master might lose his reason and run wild. That he could have understood and dealt with as he had in the old days with the raving Clegg, which terrifying though it had been, was not in any way comparable with this new phase; for here was a Doctor Syn whom Mipps had never met before. Since the night he had carried Cicely to the Court House, he had not uttered one word. For three days he had not been seen to eat or drink, and he certainly had not slept, for Mipps had watched him pacing the library at night and striding the Marsh by day. Mipps had shadowed him, hardly letting him out of his sight lest he should end his misery by some violence. Here was no brandy-drinking demon, but rather a cold, calculating fiend; as though the man were fighting with his soul over some vital problem. Out of all this a conviction came to Mipps that he had reached the climax; for had he not put his affairs in order as if he were going away on some long journey? Mipps instinctively knew that this journey was not to foreign parts and the life they used to know.