The Shadow of Dr Syn - Thorndike Russell (читать книги онлайн бесплатно регистрация .txt) 📗
To this Doctor Syn replied that the house would sure to be in great commotion over their sudden return, and that her mother and Aunt Agatha would want to welcome their stray lambs home, in true feminine manner. Cicely answered, smiling somewhat ruefully, that in truth she knew wwell what that meant: a deal of fussings, scoldings, twitterings and floods of tears, so that she, in trying to be a dutiful daughter, would be hard put to it to squeeze out one, so happy was she, and since by his presence their enjoyment at a thorough good cry at the family reunion would have to be somewhat modified, pray, would he not come in and help her out? But he was still firm and taking her in his arms kissed her tenderly good night, vowing that he would visit them the next morning. As a final farewell Cicely whispered: ‘’Tis very sad that poor old Doctor Syn is in his dotage. I do hope the dear old gentleman will not be jealous of his younger brother, for in truth I am fathoms deep in love with that — unholy trinity.’
And she was gone, laughing back at him as she ran lightly across the flagstoned hall. Stopping at the steps, she turned, jerking her head in the direction of the drawing-room upstairs, whence came a babble of excited voices and a sound that meant only one thing — Maria was thoroughly enjoying herself again. With a gesture of comical despair, and an expression which said, ‘There now, what did I tell you?’ she allowed her happiness to express itself in the most curious, charming manner. Delicately lifting the skirt of her riding-habit, as if about to sweep him a curtsey, she suddenly executed a quaint, high-spirited little jig. Then, with a further gesture of humourous resignation, she waved to him and stumped off up the stairs.
He had watched her, enchanted, and stood for a while after she had gone, smiling at the thought of her lovely youthful grace, and he made a vow that he would sacrifice all rather than hurt a hair of her head.
Closing the front door, he looked up to the stars, stretching himself as though to reach and thank them, and breathed a vast deep sigh.
Then he strode off down the village street. So light was his step, so high his head and heart, that had any man seen him they might well have thought, ‘Here must be the younger brother of the man we know,’ and, indeed, he was not following Doctor Syn’s usual habit of returning to the Vicarage before setting out upon one of his nightly expeditions. He certainly was not in the mood, this night, for the joggings of his churchyard pony. He laughed alooud when thinking again of her audacious offer to teach him to ride, and a great longing seized him to let the world know who he was and the things that he could do. And thus exalted, he left the village and strode out across the Marsh.
Some twenty minutes later he reached the loneliest spot — a small dilapidated cottage that the Marsh-folk shunned, for in their seafaring, superstitious minds they feared the old woman who lived there, believing her to be a witch and in the Devil’s pay. In the eyes of these simple folk Doctor Syn became the more respected because he did not fear to visit her. But then the Vicar was such a very holy man.
Upon this night he was not the only one who had the courage to enter Mother Handaway’s abode, for three others were there before him.
The fact that it was avoided by all God-fearing folk, and by reason of its lonely situation, cut off by intersecting dykes whose dilapidated bridges were unsafe, gave this poor hovel a value to anyone who wished to work in secret. For many years it had served the Scarecrow well, for in a dry dyke close to the house was a well-built, underground stable, dating, some said, from the days of the Roman occupation. Its roof was the natural pasture soil and its only door was hidden beneath a stack of drying bullrushes. The inside was commodious and dry, owing to the excellent drainage system of the builders in those ancient times.
With these advantages, therefore, it was an admirable hiding-place for the Scarecrow’s wild, black horse, Gehenna, and used as well by another gentleman whose way of business demanded secrecy. Gentleman James sheltered there when a hue-and-cry was at its height, or when the Scarecrow wished him to ride as deputy. In this way the Authorities had been fooled many times, for having seen the Scarecrow in one part of the Marsh, dumbfounded Dragoons or Preventive men, discussing their experiences the next day, would discover that this fearsome creature had also appeared some miles away at that particular time, and the rumour had grown that the Scarecrow was in truth a demon. So it appeared almost natural for this terrifying, unearthly horseman to disappear in the vicinity of this haunted spot. The smugglers took full advantage of the old woman’s fearsome reputation, and saw that it was enhanced by weird shriekings in the night and oily smoke rising from the chimney-stack, thus giving encouragement to many a gruesome tale about the old woman’s secret practices. The old hag’s appearance was enough to quell the stoutest heart. Sharp curved nose and pointed chin guarded her one-toothed, mumbling mouth. Her evil eyes were beady and protected by straggly brows that matched the grey beard upon her chin. Her hair hung in long rats’ tails, and her gnarled fingers made her hands look like claws. Half crazed, she too believed herself the witch of popular belief, for had she not conjured up the Devil in the likeness of that holy man, the Vicar of Dymchurch? And did not the Devil pay her more golden guineas than a poor parson could ever afford?
Upon this night she sat in a corner by the fire surrounded by her clawing cats, huddled and mumbling to herself, while round a table, seated on barrels, talking and drinking, were three men.
Heaped into a pile in front of Jimmie Bone was a various assortment of the kind of trinkets that delight a feminine heart. It waas the Highwayman’s habit to keep in reserve a goodly selection of such baubles, and he took great care always to have some about him as a reward for services rendered. Though as a rule these gifts were bestowed carelessly enough, upon this occasion Mr. Bone did not seem able to make up his mind. He scratched his head, took up a ring, only to put it back in favour of a brooch or bracelet, and then thumping the table which made the whole heap jump, he cried out in his perplexity: ‘S’death, I cannot tell which one would suit her best.’
The other two looked up, surprised from their earnest conversation.
‘Why, what troubles you, Jimmie?’ asked Mr. Mipps. ‘Can’t you find one to your likin’? Seems to me that a wench should be well-pleased with any of ’em. Who’s it for? That new one at the Red Lion in Hythe, I’ll be bound. Now bein’ a sandy-’aired, I should suggest a garnet, or isn’t it ’er? If you describes ’er we might be able to assist. Pedro ’ere will give you first-rate information. ’Ad to leave Spain, he did; too many senoritas wanted to call him Papa, didn’t they, me old flirt-man?’
‘No, no, my excellent Mipps,’ protested Pedro, in laboured English. ‘The senoritas wish me to call on their Papa.’
‘Means the same thing in the end, don’t it, you old Spanish bullfight? Anyway,’ he went on to Jimmie Bone, ‘what he don’t know about what they want ain’t worth tellin’ to your auntie. So come, give us a look at her riggin’ and we’ll tell you ’ow to deck her figure’ead.’
The little Spanish sea-captain tugged excitedly at his beard, his black eyes dancing at the thought of hearing a description from Senor Bone of the girl who was lucky enough to please him. His weatherbeaten little face, tanned to old leather and having indeed the same texture, wrinkled into a mesh of smiling expectancy. He turned his grizzled head this way and that, which made the golden rings in his ears flash in the light. He spoke with the knowledge of an expert: ‘I know, I know, before you start, I know. She is like the peach against the wall ready for the — ’ow you say? — ah, the pluckings.’
