Doctor Syn - Russell Thorndyke (new reading txt) 📗

“DO YOU mean to say that you’re going to leave Dymchurch?”

The squire was positively angry, a thing he had never been with Doctor Syn in all the years that he had known him. “You are undoubtedly pulling my leg—that’s what you’re doing. God bless my soul, sir, there’s precious few fellows can do that, and precious few that dare try; but that’s what you’re doing, isn’t it?”

“I’m afraid not, Sir Antony. My dear squire, my good friend, I am afraid that for once in my life I am most dreadfully in earnest.”

“But what don’t you like about the place? Is it something I’ve done? Do you want your stipend raised? Damme, I’ll treble the blessed thing, if it’s that. Oh, it’s that rascally son of mine that’s been putting you out. It’s that Denis scamp, who never took to his books and never will. But I’ll make him. I’ll take my riding whip to the young whelp if he causes you pain. It is he! He’s at the bottom of it. My soul and body, I’ll give the young puppy a shaking up. He doesn’t know a good tutor when he sees one. The impertinent young popinjay! Doesn’t appreciate anything. No! God bless my soul, why he’s no more respect for me than a five-barred gate. He’s always doing something to jar me. Why, do you know, that the cool-faced young malefactor announced the other day in the most insolent manner that he was going to marry a barmaid? Yes, I assure you he did. He announced to me, sir, in the most condescending tones, as if he were conferring an inestimable favour upon my head, that he thought I ran a very good chance of having that girl Imogene for my daughter-in-law. You know Imogene, that serves and waits and does innumerable dirty jobs at the Ship Inn; and when I expostulated in fatherly tones, why, bless me, if the young spitfire didn’t fly into a passion, crying out that it was high time one of the Cobtrees introduced some good looks into the family. Said that to me, mind you—his natural father that brought him into the world. I told him that, used those very words, and what does he do but begin to bow and scrape and praise and thank me for bringing him into the world at the same period as that black-haired bargirl, just as if his mother and I had timed the thing to a nicety! Why, when I come to think of it, she’s the daughter of a common pirate, that rascally, scoundrelly Clegg, who was hanged at Rye. Isn’t she now? And she’s to be my daughter-in-law! Now, Doctor Syn, in the name of Romney Marsh, what the devil—I say, what the devil would you do if you had a son like that to deal with?”

The squire absolutely had to stop for breath, and Doctor Syn, who had been vainly trying to get a word in edgewise, replied: “Well, sir, I should candidly confess that my son was a lucky dog if he succeeded in getting her, and which, I should very much doubt. In fact, were I in your place, I should go so far as to bet my wig that he would never win the girl. I’m very fond of Denis, devoted to him in fact, but I’m afraid he’ll have a great difficulty in marrying Imogene.”

“I should damn well bet my eyes he will, sir! I need none to tell me that. Difficulty in marrying her? Aye, that he will. My son will marry position, sir—money, sir—and if beauty comes along of it, well, then, beauty, sir, and all the better for my son, sir.”

“And provided of course that the lady is willing,” put in the vicar.

“Willing .f^ What minx wouldn’t be only too damned willing to marry my son—old Cobtree’s son; and not so old either, sir, eh?^ Why, any woman would jump at the chance! And as for a bargirl, the daughter of a dirty pirate hanged in that silly conceited little town of Rye, why, poohpooh, my dear Doctor! Laughable!”

“Well, I think differently in this case. Squire,” said the Doctor. “I should call Denis a lucky dog. I might even stretch a point and, at the risk of being unfrocked, say a damned lucky dog if he succeeded in marrying that girl Imogene.”

“What?” cried the squire.

“Of course,” said the Doctor, “you mustn’t go entirely by what I say, because I hold myself very seriously gifted in the judging of attractive women.”

“And so do I, sir. I know she’s attractive. A damned fine, upstanding young woman, and if she were even a county pauper I might stretch a point and accept her, but beauty comes last on my list.”

“But Imogene possesses all the other necessaries required. Rich she is, and very rich, though she doesn’t know it, and although her mother was but a dancer in a Raratonga gambling saloon, she was descended direct from an Incan princess, and as you said * poohpooh’ to me, sir, why, I’ll say ‘pooh’ back, sir: ‘pooh’ to your Kentish ladies of quality, for when Imogene comes into her own, why, damme, she could chuck their fortunes on to every horse in the village steeplechase.”

“Is she so very wealthy—that girl at the Ship Inn? Well, perhaps I am wrong in saying that the match is so very uneven. Perhaps I am.”

“Yes,” went on the vicar, “there is just the possibility that it might be brought to a successful issue, though if you’ll excuse my saying so, you are so very tactless at times, Squire.”

“What do you mean?” cried the squire hotly. “I am none too sure that I should care for my son to marry a bargirl, though she were the daughter of Croesus himself.”

“My dear Squire, cahn yourself, I beg. As a barmaid I admit Imogene is below Denis as regards position, but as an Incan princess, why, my dear friend, she is as far superior to the Cobtrees of the Court House as the reigning house of England. Why, do you know anything—but of course you do—of the pride, the magnificence, the omnipotent splendour possessed by the Incan kings?^ Why, the Palace of Whitehall would compare most unfavourably with their sculleries.”

“No? Really? “said the squire.

“And it’s for the wealth and fortunes of Imogene that I must leave you,” went on the cleric—“that is, leave you for a time, you understand? For although I shall bestow upon her certain things of value that I hold as her guardian, the bulk of her fortune has been lying idle, but now that she is growing into womanhood, it is high time I fulfilled my duties and lifted her money for her.”

“Then she’s your adopted child, is she?” said the squire, pushing his wig back and scratching his head.

“Well, I suppose that’s how it stands in a sense,” replied the Doctor. “When that rascal Clegg died he actually paid me a good sum of money to see that his daughter was provided for, and of course I’ve kept that money for her till she came to years of discretion. He also told me where England’s treasure was buried, and that’s what I’m off to get.”

“England’s treasure? What’s that?” asked the amazed squire.

“Clegg was a partner of England, the notorious pirate. It is said that he killed England in a quarrel, though nothing was proved of it. Anyhow, Clegg was the only man who knew of the hidingplace, and at his death he imparted the secret to me, after I had given solemn oath upon the Bible to keep it to myself.”

“God bless my soul!” said the squire, leaping to his feet; “and do you mean to say that you’ve kept the secret all this time and not fitted out a ship and gone to lift it? Why, there may be millions there!”

“There are,” said Doctor Syn. “I’m certain of that. That’s why I’ve been at pains to keep the whole matter to myself, not even telling the girl, for it will want careful handling. Once let any one know that I am off to lift Clegg’s treasure-chests, and all the dogs in Christendom will be nosing on my trail. Clegg had the same fear of this secret being stolen and so committed the exact lie of the island to my memory, and to no artificial map, but he did it so uncommon well that I can see point, bays, lagoons, soundings, and tracks just as if I had piloted ships there all my life.”

“Then all this pious talk of wanting to go out as a mission preacher to the smelly blacks is simply balderdash, and you haven’t had a ridiculous ‘call’ at all?”

“Merely a cloak to hide my real designs.”

“Good Lord deliver us!” said the squire, pushing his wig clean off and allowing it to lie unheeded on the floor.

Just then there entered a servant who announced to the squire that the girl from