“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 ‘pooh-pooh’ 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, calm 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 courthouse 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 hiding-place, 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 anyone 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 the Ship Inn was outside with a note which she desired to give to the squire.
“Ask her to be so kind as to step in,” said the squire, with a touch of deference and awakened interest. Imogene accordingly came into the room. Perfectly at ease she stood there, until with almost regal grace she accepted the chair that the squire brought forward. Yes, he thought the vicar was right. Her clothes were rough indeed, but her manner would have sat well on an empress.
“You have brought a note for me, I think—Imogene?” said the squire at last. He was ridiculously uncertain whether to call her Imogene as usual, or Madame; in fact in his confusion he was as near as not saying Mistress Cobtree, which would have been awful. Imogene held out a small sealed packet, and looked at the fire, and so taken up was the squire with looking at her and thinking of the Incan millions that, if Doctor Syn had not shuffled his foot, he would have forgotten to open the
