THE MISSING LINK.
The professor then started on his quest with a cheerful heart, caused by
the certainty of dinner for some days to come. But he was an honest
Professor, and he did not prolong his absence for the sake of those
dinners. On the other hand, he made the most rapid dispatch consistent
with thorough work, and returned after an absence of four days, bearing
with him the fruits of his research.
"I think," said Harry, after reading his report, "I think, Miss Kennedy,
that we have found the Missing Link."
"Then they really will make their claim good?"
"I did not say that--quite. I said that we have found a Missing Link.
There might be, if you will think of it--two. One of them would have
connected the condescending wheelwright with his supposed parent, the
last Lord Davenant. The other would connect him with--quite another
father."
The truth, which was for some time carefully concealed from the
illustrious pair, was, in fact, this.
There is a village of Davenant, surrounding or adjoining a castle of
Davenant, just as Alnwick, Arundel, Durham, Lancaster, Chepstow,
Ragland, and a great many more English towns have a castle near them.
And whether Davenant town was built to be protected by the castle, or
the castle for the protection of the town, is a point on which I must
refer you to the county historian, who knows all about it, and is not
likely to deceive you on so important a point. The castle is now a
picturesque ruin, with a country-house built beside it. In this
country-house the last Lord Davenant died and the last heir to the title
was born. There is an excellent old church, with a tower and ivy, and
high-pitched roof, as an ancient church should have, and in the family
vault under the chancel all the Davenants, except the last heir, lie
buried.
There is also in the village a small country inn called the Davenant
Arms, where the professor put up and where he made himself
extraordinarily popular, because, finding himself among an assemblage of
folk slow to see and slower still to think, he astonished them for four
nights consecutively. The rustics still tell, and will continue to tell,
so long as memory lasts, of the wonderful man who took their money out
of their waistcoats, exchanged handkerchiefs, conveyed potatoes into
strange coat-pockets, read their thoughts, picked out the cards they had
chosen, made them take a card he had chosen whether they wanted it or
not, caused balls of glass to vanish, changed halfpence into
half-crowns, had a loaded pistol fired at himself and caught the ball,
with other great marvels, all for nothing, to oblige and astonish the
villagers, and for the good of the house. These are the recreations of
his evening hours. The mornings he spent in the vestry of the old church
searching the registers.
There was nothing professional about it, only the drudgery of clerk's
work; to do it at all was almost beneath his dignity; yet he went
through with it conscientiously, and restrained himself from inviting
the sexton, who stayed with him, to lend him his handkerchief or to
choose a card. Nor did he even hide a card in the sexton's pocket, and
then convey it into the parish register. Nothing of the sort. He was
sternly practical, and searched diligently. Nevertheless, he noted how
excellent a place for the simple feasts would be the reading-desk. The
fact is, that gentlemen of his profession never go to church, and,
therefore, are ignorant of the uses of its various parts. On Sunday
morning they lie in bed; on Sunday afternoon they have dinner, and
perhaps the day's paper, and on Sunday evening they gather at a certain
house of call for conjurers in Drury Lane, and practise on each other.
There is, therefore, no room in the conjurer's life for church. Some
remedy should be found for this by the bishops.
"What have I got to look for?" said the professor, as the sexton
produced the old books. "Well, I've got to find what families there were
living here a hundred years ago, or thereabouts, named Davenant, and
what Christian names they had, and whether there were two children born
and baptized here in one year, both bearing the name of Davenant."
The sexton shook his head. He was only a middle-aged man, and therefore
not yet arrived at sextonial ripeness; for a sexton only begins to be
mellow when he is ninety or thereabouts. He knew nothing of the
Davenants except that there were once Lords Davenant, now lying in the
family vault below the chancel, and none of them left in the parish at
all, nor any in his memory, nor in that of his father's before him, so
far as he could tell.
After a careful examination of the books, the professor was enabled to
state with confidence that at the time in question the Davenant name was
borne by none but the family at the castle; that there were no cousins
of the name in the place; and that the heir born in that year was
christened on such a day, and received the name of Timothy Clitheroe.
If this had been the only evidence, the case would have made in favor of
the Canaan City claimant; but, unfortunately, there was another
discovery made by the professor, at sight of which he whistled, and then
shook his head, and then considered whether it would not be best to cut
out the page, while the sexton thought he was forcing a card, or palming
a ball, or boiling an egg, or some other ingenious feat of legerdemain.
For he instantly perceived that the fact recorded before his eyes had an
all-important bearing upon the case of his illustrious friends.
The little story which he saw was, in short, this:
In the same year of the birth of the infant Timothy Clitheroe, there was
born of a poor vagrant woman, who wandered no one knew where from, into
the parish and died in giving him to the world, a man-child. There was
no one to rejoice over him, or to welcome him, or to claim him:
therefore he became parish property, and had to be christened, fed,
flogged, admonished, and educated, so far as education in those days was
considered necessary, at the charge of the parish. The first step was to
give him a name. For it was formerly, and may be still, a custom in
country parishes to name a waif of this kind after the village itself,
which accounts for many odd surnames, such as Stepney, Marylebone, or
Hoxton. It was not a good custom, because it might lead to
complications, as perhaps it did in this case, when there was already
another family legitimately entitled to bear the name. The authorities,
following this custom, conferred upon the baby the lordly name of
Davenant. Then, as it was necessary that he should have a Christian
name, and it would be a pity to waste good Richard or Robin upon a
beggar brat, they gave him the day of the week on which he was born.
This was intended to keep him humble, and to remind him that he had no
right to any of the distinguished Christian names bestowed upon
respectably born children.
He was called Saturday Davenant.
The name, the date, and the circumstances were briefly recorded in the
parish register.
In most cases this book contains three entries for each name--those of
the three important events in his life; the beginning, the marrying,
which is the making or the marring, and the ending. One does not of
course count the minor occasions in which he may be mentioned, as on the
birth or death of a child. The professor turned over the pages of the
register in vain for any farther entry of this Saturday Davenant.
He appeared no more. His one public appearance, as far as history
records it, was on that joyful occasion when, held in hireling arms, he
was received into the Christian Church. The one thing to which he was
born was his brotherhood in the Christian faith--no doubt the grandest
of all possessions, yet in itself not professing to provide the material
comforts of life. The baby was presented at the font, received a
contemptuous name, squealed a little, no doubt, when he felt the cold
water, and then--then--nothing more. What he did, whither he went, where
he died, might be left to conjecture. A parish brat, a cottage home,
bread and bacon to eat, with more bread and bacon, plenty of stick, the
Church Catechism, and particular attention called to the clauses about
picking and stealing; practical work as a scarecrow at seven; the plough
later on; for pleasures, quarter-staff, wrestling, fighting,
bull-baiting and perhaps poaching, with strong beer and small beer for
drink; presently a wife, then children, then old age, then death. One
was free to conjecture, because there was no more mention of this baby;
he did not marry in the parish, nor did he die in it. He, therefore,
went away. In those days, if a man went away it was for two reasons:
either he fell into trouble and went away, to escape the wrath of the
squire; or he enlisted, marched off with beer in his head and ribbons in
his hat, swore terribly with the army in Flanders, and presently earned
the immortal glory which England rejoices to confer upon the private
soldier who falls upon the ensanguined field. The enjoyment of this
glory is such a solid, substantial, and satisfying thing that fighting
and war and the field of honor are, and always will be, greatly beloved
and desired by private soldiers.
There was no other entry of this boy's name. When the professor had
quite satisfied himself upon this point he turned back to the first
entry, and then became aware of a note, in faded ink, now barely
legible, written in the margin. It was as follows, and he copied it
exactly:
"Ye above sd Saturday Dnt was a Roag in Grane; he was bro't up in
the fear of God yet Feared Him not; taught his Duty, yet did it
not; admonished without stint of Rodd in Virtue, yet still inclined
to Vice: he was appd to the wheelwright--was skillful, yet
indolent; notorious as a Poacher who could not be caught; a
Deceiver of Maidens; a Tosspot and a Striker. Compelled to leave
the Parish to avoid Prison and the Lash he went to London,
_Latronum officina_. Was reported to have been sent to His
Majesty's Plantations in Virginia, whereof nothing certain is
known."
This was the note which the professor read and copied out, with
misgivings that it would not prove acceptable. Of course, he knew the
story and quite understood what this might mean.
The next day, nothing more remaining to be found in the register, the
professor examined the brasses and tablets in the church, and paid a
visit to the castle. And when he had faithfully executed his commission,
he went away, amid the regrets of the villagers, who had never before
been entertained by so delightful and surprising a stranger, and brought
back his spoils.
"What are we to think," said Harry, after reading this report. "'The
Roag in Grane,' this wheelwright by trade, who can he be but the
grandfather of our poor old friend?"
"I fear it must be so," said Angela. "Saturday Davenant. Remember the
little book."
"Yes," said Harry, "the little book came into my mind at once."
"Not a doubt," added the professor. "Why, it stands to reason. The
fellow found himself a long way from England, among strangers, with no
money and only his trade. What was to prevent him from pretending to be
one of the family whose name he bore?"
"And at the same time," said Harry, "with reserve. He never seems to
have asserted that he was the son of Lord Davenant: he only threw out
ambiguous words; he fired the imagination of his son; he christened him
by the name of the lost heir; he pretended that it was his own Christian
name, and it was not until they found out that this was the hereditary
name that the claim was thought of. This poacher and striker seems to
have possessed considerable native talent."
"But what," asked Angela, "are we to do?"
"Let us do nothing, Miss Kennedy. We have our secret, and we may keep it
for the present. Meantime, the case is hopeless on account of the
absolute impossibility of connecting the wheelwright with the man
supposed to have been drowned. Let them go on 'enjoying' the title,
ignorant of the existence of this unlucky Saturday Davenant."
So, for the present, the thing was hidden away, and nothing was said
about it. And though about this time the Professor gave one or two
entertainments in the drawing-room, we cannot suppose that his silence
was bought, and it would be unjust to the noble profession of which he
was a member to think that he would let out the secret had not Miss
Kennedy paid him for their performance. Indeed, the Professor was an
extremely honorable man, and would have scorned to betray confidence,
and it was good to Miss Kennedy to find out that an evening of magic and
miracle would do the girls good.
But a profound pity seized the heart of Angela. These poor people who
believed themselves to be entitled to an English peerage, who were so
mistaken, who would be so disappointed, who were so ignorant, who knew
so little what it was they claimed--could not something be done to
lessen their disappointment, to break their fall?
She pondered long over this difficulty. That they would in the end have
to return to their own country was a thing about which there could be no
doubt whatever; that they should return with no knowledge whatever of
the reality of the thing they had claimed; what it meant, what it
involved, its splendors and its obligations, seemed to her a very great
pity. A little experience, she thought even a glimpse of the life led by
the best bred and most highly cultivated and richest people in England
would be of so much advantage to them that it would show them their own
unfitness for the rank which they assumed and claimed. And presently she
arrived at a project which she put into execution without delay. What
this was you will presently see.