The Shadow of Dr Syn - Thorndike Russell (читать книги онлайн бесплатно регистрация .txt) 📗
It was then that the Major realized that for once this odd little Sexton was talking sense, and he cursed himself for having sent his last two men with Doctor Syn, so he said to the Squire: ‘Egad, sir, the fellow’s right,’ and not wishing to admit his mistake, tried to cover it up with: ‘This is really the business of the Revenue man.’
The Squire saw his chance and pounced. ‘Well then, sir, let’s dispense with the Revenue and open ’em here — out of hand. ’Twill not be agains the law. Magistrate. Witness.’ He glowed with anticipation and thought it would serve Christopher right, too, for not being here to share. ‘Test it together. I give us full authority.’
Major Faunce agreed, saying that he didn’t mind showing Mr. Hyde that he could do his job a deal better than Mr. Hyde could his, and ordered the Sergeant to assist Mr. Mipps in opening the barrels. But Mr. Mipps needed no assistance. Indeed, he was there already, attacking the Vicar’s cask with the knowledge of an expert, when he suddenly stopped and said excitedly: ’Ere, where’s the bung-’ole? ’Asn’t go no bung-’ole. Something wrong with this barrel. Got a false top. ’Ope it ain’t goin’ to blow us sky ’igh.’
Mr. Mipps was nearly blown sky-high, for as he spoke the top of the barrel flew off and a pistol was presented at his head, as over the rim of the cask the head and shoulders of a girl appeared, three-cornered hat slightly awry. Dazzled by the sudden light she commanded them in ringing tones to put up their hands.
‘Haut les mains,’ she cried. ‘Vous-aussi. Les mains. Rendez vous tous.’
The hands of all four men had shot up in bewilderment as they stared at this wild little figure, hair a mass of tumbled auburn curls, her lovely face alight with fierce excitement, which, in the next instant, and upon astonished cries from Squire and Sexton, changed to an expression of surprise and wonderment as, looking quickly round the room, she recognized it. ‘Good Heavens!’ she cried. ‘’Tis the Vicarage. And we are not in France. Oh, Mr. Mipps, I thought you were a revolutionary rabble. Papa! Then we are safe. We are across the Channel. He did smuggle us, Papa. Don’t look so scared. ’Tis Cicely.’ The Squire, in his astonishment, had forgotten to drop his hands, and she continued, laughing gaily, ‘Pray drop your hands, sir. ’Tis Cicely.’ His fright and relief at seeing her turning to anger, he almost shouted, ‘Dammit, girl, what does this mean? Lud, Cicely, what a fright you gave me. Thought you were going to stay with the Pemburys. What do you mean, miss, going off without a word? What do you mean, miss, causing such anxiety? Damme, I shall need an explanation — I’m your father. Popping out of a barrel like a jack-in-the-box. In the Devil’s name where have you been, miss?’
‘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’Epouvantail!’ 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.’
