Mad Part 23

"Torn out, by Jove!" muttered Matt, shaking his head, and looking suspicion's self.

"Dessay there is, sir," said the s.e.xton coolly; "the damp here would spile the binding of any book."

"But, I say; look here, you sir; here's a good four months gone: no Jennywerry, nor Feberwerry, nor March, nor April. Looks precious queer," said Matt.

"Ah, so there is--good big bit gone; all but a leaf here and there."

And then, to get a better look, the s.e.xton took out an old leathern case, drew out his spectacles, replaced the case very carefully, wiped the gla.s.ses upon the tail of his coat, and then very leisurely put them on, a process not directly completed; for, like their master, the springs of the spectacles had grown weak, and were joined by a piece of black tape, which had to be pa.s.sed carefully over the s.e.xton's head to keep the gla.s.ses in their place. "Ah," he said again, while the searchers looked on, astonished at his coolness, "so there is--a good big bit gone; but 'tain't no wonder, for the thread's as rotten as tinder, and--"

"I say, old un, don't tear any more out," cried Matt excitedly; for the s.e.xton was experimentally disposed, and testing the endurance of the thread and glue.

"There's plenty loose," said the old s.e.xton, "and I shouldn't be a bit surprised if you find a lot more gone."

Septimus Hardon looked at Matt, who returned the look, for the feeling of suspicion was now fully shared. However, they still went on carefully searching.

"It's of no use," said Septimus at last, mournfully; "we may as well go.

I never had any hope."

"Don't be in a hurry, sir," said Matt. "You know there are other ways of killing the cat, as the old saying says; wait a bit. Looks suspicious, certainly," he said, treating himself to a fresh pinch of snuff.--"I say, guv'nor, you haven't got the loose leaves lying about anywheres, have you? Not been taken away that you know of, eh?"

The s.e.xton shook his head, thrust his hands to the bottoms of his trousers-pockets, shrugged his shoulders to his ears, and then stood gazing at his visitors with his spectacles high up on his forehead.

"No," said he, "n.o.body never meddles with 'em, 'cept a lawyer's clerk now and then; and they're very civil, and just copies out something, and gives me a s.h.i.+lling, and then goes."

Septimus Hardon took the hint in its first acceptation, while the mouldy old s.e.xton removed one hand from his pocket to accept the proffered s.h.i.+lling held to him, before his visitors were about to take the second part of the hint.

As they moved off through the damp old church, Septimus Hardon wondered whether, upon some bright morning half a century before, his father and mother had knelt before that altar and been made one. He sighed as he walked on, meeting in the entrance a tall, gentlemanly--looking man who was pa.s.sing in.

"What's to be done next, Matt?" said Septimus, in a dispirited tone.

"Pint of porter and crust o' bread-and-cheese," said the old man decidedly. "I'm faint, sir--got a fit of my chronics; but it's taking me the wrong way to-day; I'm hungry, and you must want support. Keep your chin in the air, sir; we can't win every time. You've had two tries this morning, and one's come all right. That register looks suspicious, certainly; but after all you can't even go and swear that your old people were married in that church; and even if you could, and had the copy of the stiffikit, that ain't all we want, for it don't prove that you weren't a year old then."

"Hi!" cried a voice behind them; and upon the cry being repeated, they both turned to find that the old s.e.xton was telegraphing them to come back, by wagging his head in the direction of the church-door.

"What's up now?" said old Matt when they reached him.

"Parson wants to see you in the westry," was the reply.

Anxiously following the old man, Septimus Hardon found himself in the presence of the gentleman he had encountered at the door.

"I think," said he, "that you have been complaining of the bad state of our registers, and really we deserve it. I have only been here a few weeks, and have done but little towards getting them right. However, I have quite fifty loose leaves and pieces arranged here ready for pasting back, though I can a.s.sure you it is no light task."

As he spoke, he took down from a little closet on the wall a heap of damp-stained, ragged, worthless-looking paper, and then set himself to try and help discover the required name.

"Hardon," he said,--"Hardon, Octavius Hardon and Lavinia Addison. We'll lay those that are done with down here, if you please; for, though they do not appear so, the leaves are in a certain order. Hardon, Hardon, Octavius, and Lavinia Addison," he kept on muttering, as Septimus and he carefully examined column after column amongst the dilapidated leaves; though Septimus progressed but slowly, for his hand trembled and a mist swam before his eyes.

"Take a gla.s.s of wine," said the curate kindly, producing a decanter and gla.s.s from the little cupboard; "you seem agitated."

Septimus took the gla.s.s with trembling hand, and then resumed his task with increased energy, till at last there were not above half a dozen leaves to scan, when he uttered an exclamation of joy, for there, upon a sc.r.a.p before him--torn, stained, and almost illegible--was the sought-for entry, bearing the well-known signature of his father, and the trembling handwriting of his mother.

"Here, here, Matt," he whispered, "look!" and the paper quivered in his hands--"`Octavius Hardon, Lavinia Addison,' and signed by her old friend Miss Morris."

"Right it is, so far," said Matt, holding his gla.s.ses to his eyes wrong way foremost, with both hands, "and just a year and a half before the baptism. Now you know, sir, I pitched it pretty strong before now, so as you shouldn't expect too much; but it's my belief that, after all said and done, we've got enough doc.u.mentary evidence; and things seeming so very regular, if you had begun as you should have done, unless there was something very strong on the other side that we can't see through, you must have got a verdict. But then I hardly like for you to try on this only; for the law's a ticklish thing to deal with, and though this all looks so straightforward, it don't prove against what your uncle says, and will bring witnesses to swear."

"But how can he?" exclaimed Septimus, in a whisper.

"Ah," said Matt, refres.h.i.+ng himself after his wont, "how can he? Why, by means of that comical stuff as he's been so anxious to get hold of.

Why, sir, he could find witnesses as would swear to any mortal thing on the face of this earth; they'd almost undertake to prove as you weren't born at all, sir. Mind, I don't say that they'd carry the day, sir; but I'm only telling you of what villainy there is in this world, and how you must be prepared, even to fighting the dev--I beg your pardon, sir,"

said Matt bashfully, as he pulled up short, having in his earnestness forgotten the presence of the third party.

"I'm sorry to say that there's a great deal of truth in what you a.s.sert," said the curate quietly; for Septimus was looking at him in an appealing way as if expecting that he would demolish all that Matt had advanced. "Suborned witnesses are nothing new in this world of ours."

"Pull out your note-book, sir, and let's take it down," said Matt; and as he spoke, he drew out an old dog's-eared memorandum-book and a stumpy fragment of lead pencil that would not mark without being kissed and coaxed every moment, when he copied the entry most carefully, compared it with the original, and then with that just made by Septimus Hardon.

"Really," said the clergyman at parting, "I am extremely glad to have met you this morning, and you may depend upon finding us in better order at your next visit."

"There has been no trickery there you see, Matt," said Septimus, as they stood once more in the street; "all seems straightforward."

"Just so, sir; your uncle seems to have some game of his own that I can't quite see through as yet; but stop a bit. Good sort o' chap that young parson. I'll ask him to dinner some day, though he didn't say, `Take a gla.s.s of sherry, Matthew s.p.a.ce.' Then how careful you ought to be! Now I should have been ready to swear that your precious uncle had been at them books. S'pose he ain't so much older than you, sir?"

"Not many years," replied Septimus. "He was my poor father's younger brother. But now for the doctor!" he said in an elated tone.

"Thanky, sir, but suppose we have the porter and bread-and-cheese first.

You youngsters are so rash and impatient; and besides, I didn't taste that fine old dry sherry, you know. One thing at a time's the best plan, and it seems to me that a little refreshment's the next thing wanted. 'Tain't no use to suppose, sir, that because a horse has won one race he'll go and polish off the next the same hour. D'yer see, sir?"

Septimus expressed himself as being able to see, and he submitted forthwith to his companion's guidance.

Now most people would imagine that Matt entered the first inviting open portal that presented itself, where the gorgeously-emblazoned boards announced the retailing of So-and-so's entire; but no. Old Matt seemed very particular and hard to please, pa.s.sing house after house before he could meet with one to his satisfaction; and in a quarter of an hour's brisk walk a few public-houses can be pa.s.sed in London streets. But Matt had something else on his mind besides draught stout; and at last, when Septimus Hardon's patience was well-nigh exhausted, the old man stopped short before a place where the window displayed a notice to the effect that the Post-office Directory was at the bar.

"There," said Matt, pointing to the window, "thought me a nuisance now, didn't you, sir? But that's what I wanted. So now we'll have our stout and cheese, and a look at the doctors too."

Seated in the public-house parlour, fragrant with the fumes of flat beer and stale tobacco, they were soon discussing the foaming stout and more solid refreshments, though Septimus spent the greater part of his time poring over the volume he had laid open upon the gum-ringed table--a volume that Matt considered would be as useful as a medical directory.

Surgeons there were in plenty; but only one answering to the name of Phillips, and he was practising at Newington.

"Moved there, perhaps," said Matt.

Septimus Hardon shook his head, and read again, "Phillips, EJ, Terrace, Newington."

"Stop a bit, sir," said Matt, rising and catching the ring hung from the ceiling, and pulling the bell.--"Here, fill that pint again, my man; and, I say, got another of these d'rectories anywheres?"

"Yes," said the pot-boy, "there's another somewheres--an old un."

"That's the ticket, my lad, bring it in."

The boy performed the, to him, satisfactory feat of pitching the pot in the air, and catching it with one hand as he went out, though the performance was somewhat marred by the vessel turning in its flight, and announcing its descent by a small frothy brown shower, which sprinkled the performer's countenance. However, he was soon back with the refilled measure, and a very dirty, very dusty, and dog's-eared old copy of the Directory, with one cover torn off, and a general aspect of its having been used for generations as the original London Spelling-book.

Septimus seized the bulky tome, and soon had the right page found; and in this volume there was no mention of EJ Phillips of Newington.

"Young beginner," said Matt hollowly; for he had the pewter-vessel to his lips. "Anyone else same name?"