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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 Cha
‘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 ma
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 ma
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.’