Mildred Arkell Volume Iii Part 17

"Can you account for its disappearance?" asked Serjeant Wrangle.

"Not in the least. I wish I could: and find out the offenders."

"The inc.u.mbent of the parish at that time is no longer living, I believe?" observed Serjeant Wrangle.

"He has been dead many years," replied Mr. Wilberforce. "But it was not the inc.u.mbent who married them: it was a strange clergyman who performed the ceremony, a friend of Robert Carr's."

"How do you know that?" snapped Serjeant Siftem, bobbing up again.

"Because he signed the register as having performed it," replied Mr.

Wilberforce, confronting the Serjeant with a look as undaunted as his own.

What cared Serjeant Siftem for being confronted? "How do you know he was a friend of Robert Carr's?" went on he.

"In that I speak from hearsay. But there are many men of this city, older than I am, who remember that the Reverend Mr. Bell and Robert Carr were upon exceedingly intimate terms: they can testify it to you, if you choose to call them."

Serjeant Siftem growled, and sat down; but was up again in a moment.

"Who was clerk of the parish at that time?" asked he.

"There was no clerk," replied the witness. "The office was in abeyance.

Some of the paris.h.i.+oners wanted to abolish it; but they did not succeed in doing so."

"Allow me to ask you, sir," resumed Serjeant Wrangle, "whether the entrance of the marriage there is not a proof of its having taken place?"

"Most a.s.suredly," replied Mr. Wilberforce. "A proof indisputable."

But courts of justice, judges, and jury require ocular and demonstrative proof. It is probable there was not a soul in court, including the judge and Serjeant Siftem, but believed the evidence of the Reverend Mr.

Wilberforce, even had they chosen to doubt that of Lawrence Omer; but the register negatively testified that there had been no marriage, and upon the register, in law, must rest the onus of proof. Had there been positive evidence, not negative, of the abstraction of the leaf from the register, had the register itself afforded such, the aspect of affairs would have been very different. Mr. Mynn testified that on the 2nd day of December he had looked and could find no trace of the marriage in the register: it was certainly evident that it was not in now. When the court rose that night, the trial had advanced down to the summing-up of the judge, which was deferred till morning: but it was felt by everybody that that summing-up would be dead against the client of Mr. Fauntleroy, and that Squire Carr had gained the cause.

The squire, and his son Valentine, and Mynn and Mynn, and one or two of the lesser guns of the bar, but not the great gun, Serjeant Siftem, took a late dinner together, and drank toasts, and were as merry and uproarious as success could make them: and Westerbury, outside, echoed their sentiments--that 'cute old Fauntleroy had not a leg to stand upon.

'Cute old Fauntleroy--'cute enough, goodness knew, in general--was thinking the same thing, as he took a solitary chop in his own house: for he did not get home until long past the dinner-hour, and his daughters were out. After the meal was finished, he sat over the fire in a dreamy mood, he scarcely knew how long, he was so full of vexation.

The extraordinary revelation, that the disputed marriage had taken place at St. James the Less, and lain recorded all those years unsuspiciously in the register, with the still more extraordinary fact that it had been mysteriously taken out of it, electrified Westerbury. The news flew from one end of the city to the other, and back again, and sideways, and everywhere.

But not until late in the evening was it carried to Peter Arkells.

Cookesley, the second senior of the school, went in to see Henry, and told it; and then, for the first time, Henry found that the abstraction of the leaf had reference to the great cause--Carr versus Carr.

"Will Mrs. Carr lose her verdict through it?" he asked of Cookesley.

"Of course she will. There's no proof of the leaf's having been taken out. If they could only prove that, she'd gain it; and very unjust it will be upon her, poor thing! We had such a game in school!" added Cookesley, pa.s.sing to private interests. "Wilberforce was at the court all the afternoon, giving evidence; and Roberts wanted to domineer over us upper boys; as if we'd let him! He was so savage."

Cookesley departed. Henry had his head down on the table: Mrs. Arkell supposed it ached, and bade him go to bed. He apparently did not hear her; and presently started up and took his trencher.

"Where are you going?" she asked, in surprise.

"Only to Prattleton's. I want to speak to George."

"But, Henry----"

Remonstrance was useless. He had already gone. Prattleton senior came to the door to him.

"George? George is at Griffin's; Griffin has got a bachelor's party.

Whatever do you want with him? I say, Arkell, have you heard of the row in school this morning? The dean came in about that medal business--what a fool Aultane junior was for splitting!--and St. John spoke about one of the fellows having been at Rutterley's on Sat.u.r.day, trying to pledge a spoon with the Aultane crest upon it: he didn't say actually the crest was the Aultanes', or that the fellow was Aultane, but his manner let us know it. Wasn't Aultane in a way! He said afterwards that if he had had a pistol ready capped and loaded, he should have shot himself, or the dean, or St. John, or somebody else. Serve him right for his false tongue! There'll be an awful row yet. I know I'd shoot myself, before I'd go and peach to the dean!"

But Prattleton was wasting his words on air. Henry had flown on to Griffin's--the house in the grounds formerly occupied by Mr. and Mrs.

Lewis. The Reverend Mr. Griffin was the old minor canon, with the cracked voice, and it was his son and heir who was holding the bachelor's party. George Prattleton came out.

There ensued a short, sharp colloquy--Henry insisting upon being released from his promise; George Prattleton, whom the suggestion had startled nearly out of his senses, refusing to allow him to divulge anything.

"She'll not get her cause," said Henry, "unless I speak. It will be awfully unjust."

"You'll just keep your tongue quiet, Arkell. What is it to you? The Carr folks are not your friends or relatives."

"If I were to let the trial go against her, for the want of telling the truth, I should have it on my conscience always."

"My word!" cried George Prattleton, "a schoolboy with a conscience! I never knew they were troubled with any."

"Will you release me from my promise of not speaking?"

"Not if you go down on your knees for it. What a green fellow you are!"

"Then I shall speak without."

"You won't," cried Prattleton.

"I will. I gave the promise only conditionally, remember; and, as things are turning out, I am under no obligation to keep it. But I would not speak without asking your consent first, whether I got it or not."

"I have a great mind to carry you by force, and fling you into the river," uttered Prattleton, in a savage tone.

"You know you couldn't do it," returned Henry, quietly: "if I am not your equal in age and strength, I could call those who are. But there's not a moment to be lost. I am off to Mr. Fauntleroy's."

Henry Arkell meant what he said: he was always resolute in _right_: and Prattleton, after a further confabulation, was fain to give in. Indeed he had been expecting nothing less than this for the last hour, and had in a measure prepared himself for it.

"I'll tell the news myself," said George Prattleton, "if it must be told: and I'll tell it to Mr. Prattleton, not to Fauntleroy, or any of the law set."

"I must go to Mr. Prattleton with you," returned Henry.

"You can wait for me out here, then. We are at whist, and my coming out has stopped the game. I shan't be more than five minutes."

George Prattleton retreated indoors, and Henry paced about, waiting for him. He crossed over towards the deanery, and came upon Miss Beauclerc.

She had been spending an hour at a neighbouring house, and was returning home, attended by an old man-servant. m.u.f.fled in a shawl and wearing a pink silk hood, few would have known her, except the college boy. His heart beat as if it would burst its bounds.

"Why, it's never you!" she cried. "Thank you, Jacob, that will do," she added to the servant. "Don't stand, or you'll catch your rheumatism; Mr.

Arkell will see me indoors."

The old man turned away with a bow, and she partially threw back her pink silk hood to talk to Henry, as they moved slowly on to the deanery door.