ASSIZE SATURDAY.
To attempt to describe the state of Mr. Fauntleroy would be a vain
effort. It was the practice of that respected solicitor never to advance
a fraction of money out of his pocket for any mortal client, unless the
repayment was as safe and sure as the Bank of England. He had deemed the
return so in the case of Mrs. Carr, and had really advanced a good bit
of money; and now there was no marriage recorded in the register.
How had it gone out of it? Mr. Fauntleroy's first thought, in his
desperation, was to suspect Mynn and Mynn, clean-handed practitioners
though he knew them to be, as practitioners went, of having by some
sleight of hand spirited the record away. But for the assertion of Mr.
Wilberforce, that he had read it, the lawyer would have definitely
concluded that it had never been there, in spite of Mr. Omer and his
pencilled names. He went tearing over to Mynn and Mynn's in a fine state
of excitement, could see neither Mr. Mynn nor Mr. George Mynn, hired a
gig at Eckford, and drove over to Mr. Mynn's house, two miles distant.
Mr. Mynn, strong in the gout, and wrapped up in flannel and cotton wool
in his warm sitting-room, thought at first his professional brother had
gone mad, as he listened to the tale and the implied accusation, and
then expressed his absolute disbelief that any record of any such
marriage had ever been there.
"You must be mad, Fauntleroy! Go and tamper with a register!--suspect us
of stealing a page out of a church's register! If you were in your
senses, and I had the use of my legs, I'd kick you out of my house for
your impudence. I might just as well turn round and tell you, you had
been robbing the archives of the Court of Chancery."
"Nobody knew of the record's being there but you, and I, and the
rector," debated Mr. Fauntleroy, wiping his great face. "You say you
went and saw it."
"I say I went and didn't see it," roared the afflicted man, who had a
dreadful twinge just then. "It seems--if this story of yours is
true--that I never heard it was there until it was gone. Don't be a
simpleton, Fauntleroy."
In his heart of hearts, of course Mr. Fauntleroy did not think Mynn and
Mynn had been culpable, only in his passion. His voice began to cool
down to calmness.
"I'm ready to accuse the whole world, and myself into the bargain," he
said. "So would you be, had you been played the trick. I wish you'd tell
me quietly what you know about the matter altogether."
"That's where you should have begun," said old Mynn. "We never heard of
any letter having been found, setting forth that the record of the
marriage was in the register of St. James's, never thought for a moment
that there had been any marriage, and I don't think it now, for the
matter of that," he added, _par parenthese_, "until the day our new
manager, Littelby, took possession, and I and George were inducting him
a little into our approaching assize and other causes. We came to Carr
_versus_ Carr, in due course, and then Littelby, evidently surprised,
asked how it was that the letter despatched to you--to you, Mr.
Fauntleroy, and which letter it seems you kept to yourself, and gave us
no notice of--had not served to put an end to the cause. Naturally I and
my brother inquired what letter Mr. Littelby alluded to, and what were
its contents, and then he told us that it was a letter written by Robert
Carr, of Holland, stating that the marriage had taken place at the
church of St. James the Less, and that its record would be found entered
on the register. My impression at the first moment was--and it was
George's very strongly--that there had been nothing of the sort; no
marriage, and consequently no record; but immediately a doubt arose
whether any fraud had been committed by means of making a false entry in
the register. I went off at once to Westerbury, fully determined to
detect and expose this fraud--and my eyes are pretty clear for such
things--I paid my half-crown, and went with the clerk and examined the
register, and found I had my journey for nothing. There was no such
record in the register--no mention whatever of the marriage. _That_ is
all I know of the affair, Mr. Fauntleroy."
Had Mr. Fauntleroy talked till now, he could have learnt no more. It
evidently was all that his confrere knew; and he went back to Westerbury
as wise as he came, and sought the house of Mr. Wilberforce. The record
must have been taken out between the beginning of November and the 2nd
of December, he told the master. Omer, and the master himself, had both
seen it at the former time; old Mynn searched on the 2nd of December,
and it was gone.
This information did not help Mr. Wilberforce in his perplexity, as to
who could have tampered with it. It was impossible but that his
suspicion should be directed to the night already spoken of, when Arkell
was locked up in the church, and seemed to have got out in a manner so
mysterious nobody knew how. Arkell adhered to his story: he had found
the door open in the night, and walked out; and that was all that could
be got from him. The master took him at his word. Had he pressed him
much, he might have heard more; had he only given him a hint that he
knew the register had been robbed, and that both trouble and injustice
were likely to arise from it, he might have heard all; for Henry fully
meant to keep his word with George Prattleton, and declare the truth, if
a necessity arose for it. But it appeared to be the policy of both the
master and Mr. Fauntleroy to keep the register out of sight and
discussion altogether. Not a word of the loss was suffered to escape.
Mr. Fauntleroy had probably his private reasons for this, and the rector
shrank from any publicity, because the getting at the register seemed to
reflect some carelessness on him and his mode of securing it.
Meanwhile the public were aware that some internal commotion was
agitating the litigants in the great cause Carr _versus_ Carr. What it
was, they could not penetrate. They knew that a young lady, Mrs. Carr
the widow, was stopping in Westerbury, and had frequent interviews with
Mr. Fauntleroy; and they saw that the renowned lawyer himself was in a
state of ferment; but not a breath touching the register in any way had
escaped abroad, and George Prattleton and Henry Arkell were in ignorance
that there was trouble connected with it. George had ventured to put a
question to the Reverend Mr. Prattleton, regarding Mr. Wilberforce's
visit in connection with it, and was peremptorily ordered to mind his
own business.
And the whole city, ripe for gossip and for other people's affairs, as
usual, lived in a perpetual state of anticipation of the assizes, and
the cause that was to come on at them.
It is probable that this blow to Mr. Fauntleroy--and he regarded it in
no less a light--rendered him more severe than customary in his other
affairs. On the first of March, another ten pound was due to him from
Peter Arkell. The month came in, and the money was not paid; and Mr.
Fauntleroy immediately threatened harsh measures: that he would sell him
up for the whole of the debt. He had had judgment long ago, and
therefore possessed the power to do it; and Peter Arkell went to him.
But the grace he pleaded for, Mr. Fauntleroy refused longer to give;
refused it coarsely and angrily; and Peter was tempted to remind him of
the past. Never yet had he done so.
"Have you forgotten what I did for you?" he asked. "I saved you once
from what was perhaps worse than debt."
"And what if you did?" returned the strong-minded lawyer--not to speak
more plainly. "I paid you back again."
"Yes; but how? In driblets, which did me no good. And if you did repay
me, does that blot out the obligation? If any one man should be lenient
to another, you ought to be so to me, Fauntleroy."
"Have I not been lenient?"
"No. It is true, you have not taken the extreme measures you threaten
now, but what with the sums you have forced me to pay, the costs, the
interest, I know not what all, for I have never clearly understood it,
you have made my life one of worry, hardship, and distress. But for that
large sum I had to pay suddenly for you I might have done differently in
the world. It was my ruin; yes, I assert it, for it is the simple truth,
the finding of that sum was my ruin. It took from me all hope of
prosperity, and I have been obliged ever since to be a poor, struggling
man."
"I paid you, I say; what d'ye mean?" roughly spoke Mr. Fauntleroy.
Peter Arkell shook his head. He had said his say, and was too
gentle-minded, too timid-mannered to contend. But the interview did him
no good: it only served to further anger Mr. Fauntleroy.
A few days more, and Assize Saturday came in--as it is called in the
local phraseology. The judges were expected in some time in the
afternoon to open court, and the town was alive with bustle and
preparation. On this bright day--and it was one of the brightest March
ever gave us--a final, peremptory, unmistakable missive arrived for
Peter Arkell from Mr. Fauntleroy. And yet the man boasted in it of his
leniency of giving him a few hours more grace; it even dared to hint
that perhaps Mr. Arkell, if applied to, might save his home. But the
gist of it was, that if the ten pounds were not paid that afternoon by
six o'clock, at Mr. Fauntleroy's office, on Monday morning he should
proceed to execution.
It was not a pleasant letter for Mrs. Peter Arkell. _She_ received it.
Peter was out; and she lay on the sofa in great agitation, as might be
seen from the hectic on her cheeks, the unnatural brightness of her
eyes. How lovely she looked as she lay there, a lace cap shading her
delicate features, no description could express. The improvement so
apparent in her when they returned from the sea-side had not lasted; and
for the last few weeks she had faded ominously.
The cathedral clock chimed out the quarter to three, and the bell rang
out for service. It had been going some time, when Henry, who had been
hard at his studies in the little room that was once exclusively his
father's, came in. The great likeness between mother and son was more
apparent than ever, and the tall, fine boy of sixteen had lost none of
his inherited beauty. It was the same exquisite face; the soft, dark
eyes, the transparent complexion, the pure features. Perhaps I have
dwelt more than I ought on this boy's beauty; but he is no imaginary
creation; and it was of that rare order that enchains the eye and almost
enforces mention whenever seen, no matter how often. It is still vivid
in the remembrance of Westerbury.
"I am going now, mamma."
"You will be late, Henry."
Something in the tone of the voice struck on his ear, and he looked
attentively at his mother. The signs of past emotion were not quite
obliterated from her face.
"Mamma, you have been crying."
It was of no use to deny it; indeed the sudden accusation brought up
fresh tears then. Painful matters had been kept as much as possible from
Henry; but he could not avoid knowing of the general embarrassments:
unavoidable, and, so to speak, honourable embarrassments.
"What is it now?" he urgently asked.
"Nothing new; only the old troubles over and over again. Of course, the
longer they go on, the worse they get. Never mind, dear; _you_ cannot
mend matters, so there's no necessity for allowing them to trouble you.
There is an invitation come for you from the Palmers'. I told Lucy to
put the note on the mantel-piece."
He saw a letter lying there and opened it. His colour rose vividly as he
read, and he turned to look at the direction. It was addressed "Mr.
Peter Arkell;" but Henry had read it then.
"You see, they want you to spend Monday with them at Heath Hall, and as
it will be the judges' holiday, you can get leave from college and do
so."
"Mother," he interrupted--and every vestige of colour had forsaken his
sensitive face--"what does this letter mean?"
Mrs. Arkell started up and clasped her hands. "Oh, Henry! what have you
been reading? What has Lucy done? She has left out the wrong letter.
That was not meant for you."
"Does it mean a prison for papa?" he asked, controlling his voice and
manner to calmness, though his heart turned sick with fear. "You must
tell me all, mother, now I have read this."
"Perhaps it does, Henry. Or else the selling up of our home. I scarcely
know what myself, except that it means great distress and confusion."
He could hardly speak for consternation. But, if he understood the
letter aright, a sum of ten pounds would for the present avert it. "It
is not much," he said aloud to his mother.
"It is a great deal to us, Henry; more than we know where to find."
"Papa could borrow it from Mr. Arkell."
"I am sure he will not, let the consequences be what they may. I don't
wonder. If you only knew, my dear, how much, how often, he has had to
borrow from William Arkell--kind, generous William Arkell!--you could
hardly wish him to."
"But what will be done?" he urged.
"I don't know. Unless things come to the crisis they have so long
threatened. Child," she added, bursting into tears, "in spite of my
firmly-seated trust, these petty anxieties are wearing me out. Every
time a knock comes to the door, I shiver and tremble, lest it should be
people come to ask for money which we cannot pay. Henry, you will be
late."
"Plenty of time, mamma. I timed myself one day, and ran from this to the
cloister entrance in two minutes and a half. Are you being pressed for
much besides this?" he continued, touching the letter.
"Not very much for anything else," she replied. "That is the worst: if
that were settled, I think we might manage to stave off the rest till
brighter days come round. If we can but retain, our home!--several times
it would have gone, but for Mr. Arkell. But I was wrong to speak of this
to you," she sighed: "and I am wrong to give way, myself. It is not
often that I do. God never sent a burden, but He sent strength to bear
it: and we have always, hitherto, been wonderfully helped. Henry, you
will surely be late."
He slowly took his elbow from the mantel-piece, where it had been
leaning. "No. But if I were, it would be something new: it is not often
they have to mark me late."
Kissing his mother, he walked out of the house in a dreamy mood, and
with a slow step; not with the eager look and quick foot of a schoolboy,
in dread of being marked late on the cathedral roll. As he let the gate
swing to, behind him, and turned on his way, a hand was laid upon his
shoulder. Henry looked round, and saw a tall, aristocratic man, looking
down upon him. In spite of his mind's trouble, his face shone with
pleasure.
"Oh, Mr. St. John! Are you in Westerbury?"
"Well, I think you have pretty good ocular demonstration of it. Harry,
you have grown out of all knowledge: you will be as tall as my lanky
self, if you go on like this. How is Mrs. Arkell?"
"Not any better, thank you. I am so very pleased to see you," he
continued: "but I cannot stop now. The bell has been going ten minutes."
"In the choir still? Are you the senior boy?"
"Senior chorister as before, but not senior boy yet. Prattleton is
senior. Jocelyn went to Oxford in January. Did you come home to-day?"
"Of course. I came in with the barristers."
"But you are not a barrister?" returned Henry, half puzzled at the
words.
"I a barrister! I am nothing but my idle self, the heir of all the St.
Johns. How is your friend, Miss Beauclerc?"
"She is very well," said Henry; and he turned away his head as he
answered. Did St. John's heart beat at the name, as his did, he
wondered.
"Harry, I must see your gold medal."
"Oh, I'll fetch it out in a minute: it is only in the parlour."
He ran in, and came out with the pretty toy hanging to its blue ribbon.
Mr. St. John took it in his hand.
"The dean displayed taste," was his remark. "Westerbury cathedral on one
side, and the inscription to you on the other. There; put it up, and be
off. I don't want you to be marked late through me."
There was not another minute to be lost, so Henry slipped the medal into
his jacket-pocket, flew away, and got on to the steps in his surplice
one minute before the dean came in.
There was a bad practice prevailing in the college school, chiefly
resorted to by the senior boys: it was that of pledging their goods and
chattels. Watches, chains, silver pencil-cases, books, or anything else
available, were taken to Rutterley, the pawnbroker's, without scruple.
Of course this was not known to the masters. A tale was told of Jones
tertius having taken his surplice to Rutterley's one Monday morning;
and, being unable to redeem it on the Saturday, he had lain in bed all
day on the Sunday, and sent word to the head master that he had sprained
his ankle. On the Monday, he limped into the school, apparently in
excruciating pain, to the sympathy of the masters, and intense
admiration of the senior boys. Henry Arkell had never been guilty of
this practice, but he was asking himself, all college time, why he
should not be, for once, and so relieve the pressure at home. His gold
watch, the gift of Mr. Arkell, was worth, at his own calculation, twenty
pounds, and he thought there could be no difficulty in pledging it for
ten. "It is not an honourable thing, I know," he reasoned with himself;
"but the boys do it every day for their own pleasures, and surely I may
in this dreadful strait."
Service was over in less than an hour, and he left the cathedral by the
front entrance. Being Saturday afternoon, there was no school. The
streets were crowded; the high sheriff and his procession had already
gone out to meet the judges, and many gazers lingered, waiting for their
return. Henry hastened through them, on his way to the pawnbroker's.
Possessed of that sensitive, refined temperament, had he been going into
the place to steal, he could not have felt more shame. The shop was
partitioned off into compartments or boxes, so that one customer should
not see another. If Henry Arkell could but have known his ill-luck! In
the box contiguous to the one he entered, stood Alfred Aultane, the boy
next below him in the choir, who had stolen down with one of the family
tablespoons, which he had just been protesting to the pawnbroker was his
own, and that he would have it out on Monday without fail, for his
godfather the counsellor was coming in with the judges, and never failed
to give him half a sovereign. But that disbelieving pawnbroker
obstinately persisted in refusing to have anything to do with the spoon,
for he knew the Aultane crest; and Mr. Alfred stood biting his nails in
mortification.
"Will you lend me ten pounds on this?" asked Henry, coming in, and not
suspecting that anybody was so near.
"Ten pounds!" uttered Rutterley, after examining the watch. "You college
gentlemen have got a conscience! I could not give more than half."
"That would be of no use: I must have ten. I shall be sure to redeem it,
Mr. Rutterley."
"I am not afraid of that. The college boys mostly redeem their pledges;
I will say that for them. I will lend you six pounds upon it, not a
farthing more. What can you be wanting with so large a sum?"
"That is my business, if you please," returned Henry, civilly.
"Oh, of course. Six pounds: take it, or leave it."
A sudden temptation flashed across Henry's mind. What if he pledged the
gold medal? But for his having it in his pocket, the thought would not
have occurred to him. "But how can I?" he mentally argued----"the gift
of the dean and chapter! But it is my own," temptation whispered again,
"and surely this is a righteous cause. Yes: I will risk it: and if I
can't redeem it before, it must wait till I get my money from the choir.
So he put the watch and the gold medal side by side on the counter, and
received two tickets in exchange, and eight sovereigns and four
half-sovereigns.
"Be sure keep it close, Mr. Rutterley," he enjoined; "you see my name is
on it, and there is no other medal like it in the town. I would not have
it known that I had done this, for a hundred times its worth."
"All right," answered Mr. Rutterley; "things left with me are never
seen." But Alfred Aultane, from the next box, had contrived both to hear
and see.
Henry Arkell was speeding to the office of Mr. Fauntleroy, when he heard
sounds behind him "Iss--iss--I say! Iss!"
It was Aultane. "What became of you that you were not at college this
afternoon?" demanded Henry, who, as senior chorister, had much authority
over the nine choristers under him.
"College be jiggered! I stopped out to see the show; and it isn't come
yet. If Wilberforce kicks up a row, I shall swear my mother kept me to
make calls with her. I say, Arkell, you couldn't do a fellow a service,
could you?"
Henry was surprised at the civil, friendly tone--never used by some of
the boys to him. "If I can, I will," said he. "What is it?"
"Lend me ten bob, in gold. I _must_ get it: it's for something that
can't wait. I'll pay you back next week. I know you must have as much
about you."
"All the money I have about me is wanted for a specific purpose. I have
not a sixpence that I can lend: if I had, you should be welcome to it."
"Nasty mean wretch!" grunted Aultane, in his heart. "Won't I serve him
out!"
The cathedral bells had been for some time ringing merrily, giving token
that the procession had met the judges, and was nearing the city, on its
return. Just then a blast was heard from the trumpets of the advancing
heralds, and Aultane tore away to see the sight.