The COURAGEOUS EXPLOITS OF DOCTOR SYN - Thorndike Russell - Страница 33

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“Precious little good that would be,” snorted the Squire. “None knows better than we that the Scarecrow does

what he says he will and diddles everyone. Here, read the letter for yourself, and tell me what to do.”

Doctor Syn adjusted his spectacles and smoothed out the paper which the Squire had crumpled in his rage. It was

written in the usual scrawl that never had failed to disturb its receiver. A rough sketch of a scarecrow was the

signature. The Doctor read it aloud.

“We are informed that as Lord of Lympne Castle you have asked rich and poor alike to your Christmas

junketing. Thanks to the poor attempts to put down the contraband traffic by all concerned, we count ourselves

amongst the rich of this district. We therefore have been expecting to hear from you. Unless you wish us to attend

in the wrong spirit, you had best nail and invitation to us upon the Lympne Hill signpost. When hunting with the

Prince of Wales I did not have the honor of meeting your beautiful daughters, a pleasure I am looking forward to. It

will also be a pleasure to drink a toast beneath the rafters of your historic home.”

“And what do you think of that?” gasped the Squire, as though he had only just learned the contents which he

knew by heart.

“I think that Captain Blain will now certainly accept your invitation,” replied the Doctor. “His men will give

confidence to us all by their presence, and he’ll sit through the play twice without boredom if he thinks he has a

chance of getting his prey.”

“You think the Scarecrow will come, as he says?” asked the Squire.

The Doctor laughed and shook his head. “No, sir, I think the whole thing is a decoy to get the King’s men to the

junketing, as he calls it, in order that he may have a free hand upon the Marsh. But I advise you not to let Captain

Blain think that, for then he will not attend, and in case of accidents it will be as well to have your guests protected

from the scoundrel. Though come to think of it, sir, the rascally Scarecrow is too wise to prepare such a trap for

himself and then, walk boldly into it.”

“Yes, yes, but that’s all very well,” said the Squire testily. “Just the thing he’d enjoy. Prepare a trap, as you say,

and walk into it, and then have the laugh of us all by walking out of it again.”

“I think you will find that I am right this time,” replied the Doctor. “Our play will go through without any

disaster, because the Scarecrow will be busy shifting kegs of brandy on the beach. He will certainly have cause of a

fresh quarrel with me, if he should see the play, for I am afraid that as author I have made many biting allusions

against him, and the great Finale is framed especially to make him the laughingstock of all that are good and true.”

“But is that quite wise for your own safety, Doctor?” asked the Squire. “Even though he is not at the

performance, as you think, he will be sure to hear of it, when it will be discussed by everybody. I think I should

leave the Scarecrow out of it.”

“I am too vain an author, sir,” replied the smiling Vicar. “I could not think of cutting out the best scene in my

play.”

Before taking his leave, Doctor Syn penned a generous acceptance of Captain Blain’s apology which the Squire

of Lympne signed. It contained an urgent appeal for the Captain to bring his men to the festivity, in case the

Scarecrow should be mad enough to make good his boast.

After many weeks of being baffled by the Scarecrow’s wits, Captain Blain would not agree with Doctor Syn that

the letter to Lympne was an idle piece of boasting. He pointed out that the rascal’s threats had always been carried

out, and he had every reason to think that this would be no exception, and he accepted the invitation to the castle on

that ground.

During the days before Christmas, the Captain saw but little of his host, who was busy every evening training his

Mummers in their parts behind the closed doors of the school house. Also the thick snow and severe wintry winds

blowing across the bleak Marsh necessitated the Doctor walking on his parochial visits, which meant that his. hours

were fully occupied. But for all that Doctor Syn was more than ever cheerful, and could be seen striding along

chuckling to himself as he went, over the merry quips and satirical jokes that were going to be good-humoredly

pronounced by his characters. Never before had the village play gone so well, or been more enthusiastically praised

by the critical ones as on that first performance at the Court House.

Even the victims of the many jokes laughed uproariously at their own expense. But it was the final scene that

caused the sensation. When Beelzebub entered shouting, “Here come I, old Beelzebub, and in my hand I carries my

club,” he was rigged out in rags similar to those worn by the Scarecrow. And when he claimed the hand of the

fairest lady in the room, and led hew away to the gates of hell, St. George, throwing off his white battle-cloak, was

seen to be dressed as an Excise officer. It was all voted grand foolery, though Mipps pointed out many an

ablebodied parishioner who seemed to be fearful at laughing too much at the Vicar’s attack upon the dread

Scarecrow. He affirmed that this was even more noticeable amongst the audience during the performance on the

next night at Lympne Castle.

He was right. Rumors of the Scarecrow’s threat to attend had spread abroad, and even those who were most

afraid were persuaded to attend out of curiosity and excitement.

The castle hall was packed. In the front sat Sir Henry Pembury, keeping an anxious eye upon his daughters, the

eldest of whom was sitting next to Captain Blain, and obviously very piqued at his lack of interest in her. At the

best of times the Captain was no man for the ladies, but the sight of Miss Fan, whom her detractors nicknamed the

Dragoon, embarrassed him confoundedly, especially when she patted him playfully upon the sleeve whenever a

flattering allusion was spoken about the King’s good men. Blain was having no truck with such a she-dragon.

Unfortunately for the lady the other seat next to her was reserved for Doctor Syn, who, as the author, kept leaving it

vacant in order to retire behind the great screens that backed the stage. But the last scene cheered her up. On the

entrance of Beelzebub, attended by two Nightriders, she giggled hysterically, especially when the masked devils

brought in a keg of brandy with No Duty chalked upon it, and made the Squire of Lympne take a glass with them.

“And who’s the brave man acting the Scarecrow, miss?’ asked Blain.

“I recognize his voice in spite of his disguise,” she whispered loudly. “It is the eldest Upton boy from

Dymchurch. Very well-looking, too. It is a pity he is masked so hideously. They are a very worthy family, as no

doubt you know.”

“The Scarecrow won’t approve of him,” growled the Captain. “He’ll be needing my protection I fancy.”

When this actor came to the front row and chose her as the fairest in the room, her delight and coyness knew no

bounds. Everyone knew that this was but a compliment to their host, but Miss Fan took it as a compliment to her

beauty. She accepted his hand and to the applause of the audience walked with him to the back of the stage so that

the Lord from darkness could salute her under the mistletoe. On their disappearance St. George came forward to

make his heroic speech, and was applauded for some minutes, and the audience could hear the actors behind the

screens whispering and asking for Doctor Syn.

After some minutes of an embarrassed wait the officious Mipps popped behind the screens to investigate. After

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