Mad Part 19

Septimus nodded.

"The whole of our work consists in proving him false."

"Exactly," said Septimus, sticking his pen behind his ear; "but how?"

"Doc.u.mentary evidence," said the old man, "that's it; doc.u.mentary evidence," and he took snuff loudly. "Marriage stiffikits, baptism registers, and so on. Let's see; I don't think there was any regular registration in those days. Now then, to begin with, sir. Where were your father and mother married?--that is, if they were," muttered the old man in what was meant for an undertone, but Septimus heard the words.

"O yes," he said quietly, "they were married in the City."

"Very good," said Matt. "Then suppose we get a copy of the marriage stiffikit, sworn to and witnessed, how then?"

"Well, that proves the marriage," said Septimus.

"To be sure," said Matt; "but then you'll find he bases his claim upon your being born before. You don't think he denies that your father and mother were married? He don't, does he?"

"No," said Septimus wearily, as he opened a pocket-book and drew out a frayed and broken letter, which had separated here and there in the folds from frequent reference. "You are right, Matt," he said, after reading a few lines. "The marriage register would be no good."

"Yes, it would," said Matt; "it's doc.u.mentary evidence, and it will be one brick in the tower we want to build up; so don't you get sneezing at it because it ain't everything. It will be one thing; and so far so good, when we get it. You see it's a ticklish thing, and before you put it in a solicitor's hands--a respectable solicitor's hands, for cheap law's the dearest thing in Lincoln's-inn--you must have something to show him. Now, so far so good, only recollect your uncle's on firm ground, while as yet you're nowhere. Now say we go to a good solicitor.

`Were you born in wedlock?' says he. `Yes,' says you. `Now then,'

says he, `prove it.'"

Septimus sighed, and began to wonder whether his uncle was right.

"Now, then," said Matt, "family Bible with birth in, eh?"

"We had one, full of plates," said Septimus, recalling the old Sunday afternoons, when he had leaned over the table, amusing himself with the engravings; "but there were no entries in it, only my grandfather's name. I fancy, though, now you mention it, my father had a little pocket-Bible with some entries in, but I never took particular notice."

"Rotten reed--a rotten reed," said the old man. "You are not sure; and even if you were, your uncle's been foxy enough to hunt the place over and over, and that book's gone up the chimney in smoke, or under the grate in ashes, long enough ago. No will, you say?"

"Not that I could hear of," said Septimus.

"We might, p'r'aps, find the nurse, or doctor, or some old friend; but then, unless they can bring up doc.u.mentary evidence, 'tain't much good.

You know, when old folks are made to swear about things that took place fifty years ago, people shake their heads and think about failing memories, and so on. You see we must have something strong to work upon. If we could get the date of your birth, and the marriage stiffikit, we should be all right, shouldn't we?"

"Yes, they would prove all we want," said Septimus.

"Exactly so," said Matt; "and if we couldn't get the date of your birth, how about date of baptism?"

"That would do just as well," exclaimed Septimus.

"No, it wouldn't," said the old man, "without it's got in how old you were when the parson made a cross on your forehead--eh?"

Septimus was damped directly.

"It's no use to be sanguine, you know, sir. What we've got to do is to expect nothing, and then all we do get is clear profit. Now, where were you baptised--do you know that?"

"Yes," said Septimus.

"Well, that's all right, if it contains the entry of your age at the time, but we won't be sure; and if it does, you see if your uncle don't bring someone to swear it's false, and that they nursed you a twelvemonth before you really were born. Most likely, you know, there'd be half-a-score done at the same time as yours, and they never asked your age. I don't say so, you know, only that perhaps it was so. Now, what do you call your birthday, sir?"

"Tenth of January 17--," said Septimus.

"Very good, sir; but then, that's only what you say, mind, and a bare word's not worth much in a court of law when a case is being tried.

`'Tis,' says you. `'Tisn't,' says your uncle, who's rich, and prosperous, and respectable, and has the money, and lives in a big house, with plenty of well-to-do friends round him. `Prove your case,'

says the judge to you; and mind you, sir, this is the ticklish point; it ain't a question of who's to have your father's money. He's got it, and it's a question of your turning him out. So, `Prove your case,' says the judge. `You've left this man in possession for a year, and now you say he does not hold the property lawfully. Prove your case.' `Can't my lord,' says you--`no doc.u.mentary evidence.' And now do you know what the judge would say?"

Septimus shook his head dismally.

"`Judgment for the defendant'--that's your uncle, you know." And then, as if highly satisfied with his logical mode of putting the case. Matt snapped his fingers loudly after a large pinch of snuff.

"But," said Mrs Septimus, "my doctor told me that he always kept a register of all the births he attended."

Mrs Septimus said no more, for old Matt's fist went down upon the table with a bang that made some of the ink leap from the stand, but fortunately not upon Septimus Hardon's clean sheets of paper.

"I beg your pardon, ma'am!" cried Matt, hurriedly sopping up the ink with his wisp of a handkerchief; "but blame me if I don't wish I'd been born a woman! trust them for getting to the bottom of everything. Why, Lord bless you, sir, there you are--there's the case in a nutsh.e.l.l!-- that's the matter hit right in the bull's-eye! Why didn't you begin about it before? You're right as a trivet. There's the date of the marriage, and there's the doctor's book--such-and-such a day, such-and-such a time; medicine and attendance, two pound twelve s.h.i.+llings and sixpence. Hallo!" exclaimed Matt, scratching his head, "that comes very pat; where did I hear those words before? But there, look here, sir; I think we've got hold of the right end of the tangle, and here it is. You go down to Somesham and tell nunky how it stands.

`Here we are,' says you, `and now give up peaceable and quiet, and I'll say nothing at all about what's gone by.' Of course he won't, and begins to talk big about kicking out of the house, and all that sort of thing. `Two can play at that,' says you; and as he won't be civil, he must have it hot. Back you come; put it in a decent solicitor's hands; with your good doc.u.mentary evidence out he goes--in you go; and my di'mond has a pony with a long silky tail; Miss Lucy a carriage, and missis here an invalid chair, and old Matt to push it--eh, ma'am?"

"But about finding the doctor," said Septimus sadly.

"Well, yes--true, to be sure," said Matt, over a fresh pinch of snuff; "but I think we can manage that part, sir. Don't you see, we can tell our road now we've got our line cut out; and we've only got it to do.

There's some pye in the case, of course, but we can correct as we go on, eh? There's a doctors' directory, and we can soon find him."

"There's a hitch directly," said Septimus. "I don't know his name."

"Phillips!" exclaimed Mrs Hardon excitedly.

"There we are again," cried Matt; "who'd be without a good partner?"

"But how do you know?" said Septimus.

"I remember in your mother's last illness," said Mrs Septimus, "that she told me how she longed for her old doctor, for she felt sure Mr Thomas Hardon did not understand her complaint; and that was the first cause of disagreement between your father and Dr Hardon. I heard your father tell him afterwards that he had killed his Sister, and to leave the house."

"But the name?" said Septimus, anxious to change the conversation.

"Phillips--the same as my own; and that was why it made an impression upon my memory."

"Talk about cards to play, sir!" cried Matt, "why, that's winning: your partner has played the leading trump."

Septimus Hardon rose from his seat to begin anxiously pacing up and down the room. He could see plainly enough the value of the position he was nerving himself to fight for, but he shrank, as he had shrunk again and again, from the exposure certain, whether he succeeded or not.

Vacillating in the extreme, he was at one time telling himself that it was his duty to try and clear his mother's fame, though the next moment would find him shrinking from the task, while his brow wrinkled up as he sighed and looked from face to face, lastly on that of old Matt, who, having relieved himself of the child, was taking snuff extravagantly, and chuckling and rubbing his hands in antic.i.p.ation of the coming triumph.

"Now, sir," he said upon catching the troubled man's eye, "about this doctor."

"Dead before now," said Septimus. "Allowing him to have been quite young for a doctor, he would be eighty now, and how few men reach that age!"

"Pooh! nonsense!" cried Matt; "scores do--hundreds do--ninety either.

Eighty? Pooh! nothing! youth, sir. Why, I'm past sixty, and see what a boy I look, eh? Why, I believe Miss Lucy would pick me out from scores to take care of her,--wouldn't you, miss?"

Lucy looked up from her work, nodded and smiled.