CHURCH AND SERMON
And, accordingly, as Mrs. Molyneux with her little troop
crossed F Street, they met the gentlemen all coming
toward them. They broke up into groups, and Tom and
Matty got their first real chance for talk since they had
parted the night before. No! Tom had found no clue
at the Navy Department. And although Eben Ricketts had
been good as gold, and had stayed and worked with Tom
till long after midnight, Eben had only worked to show
good-will, for Eben had not the least faith that there
was any clue there. Eben had said that if old Mr.
Whilthaugh, who knew the archive rooms through and
through, had not been turned out, they could do in
fifteen minutes what had cost them six hours, and that
old Mr. Whilthaugh, without looking, could tell whether
it was worth while to look. But old Mr. Whilthaugh had
been turned out, and Eben, even, did not know precisely
what had become of him. He thought he had gone back into
Pennsylvania, where his wife came from, but he did not
know.
"But, Matty, if nothing turns up to-day, I go to
Pennsylvania to-morrow to find this old Mr. Whilthaugh.
For I shall die if I stay here; and all the Eben
Rickettses in the world will never persuade me that the
vouchers are not in that archive-room. If the Navy did
the work, the Navy must have the vouchers."
Then Matty ventured to ask what she and her mother
had wondered about once and again,--why these particular
bits of paper were so necessary. Surely other vouchers,
or certified copies, or books of account could be found
somewhere!
"Yes! I know; you would say so. And if it were all
yesterday, and was all in these lazy times of peace,
you would say true. But you see, in the first place,
this is ever so long ago. Then, in the second place, it
was in the heat of war, when everything was on a gigantic
scale, and things had to be done in unheard-of ways.
Then, chiefly, this particular business involved the
buying up of I do not know who among the Rebels there in
Texas, and among their allies on the other side the Rio
Grande. This old Spaniard, whom mamma remembers, and
whom I just remember, he was the chief captain among the
turncoats, and there were two or three others, F. F. men
in their places,--"First Family men," that means, you
know; but after they did this work they did not stay in
their places long. No! papa says he was mighty careful;
that he had three of the scoundrels sworn before
notaries, or rather before one notary, and had their
receipts and acknowledgments stamped with his notary's
seal. Still, it did not do to have a word said in public
then. And after everything succeeded so perfectly, after
the troops landed without a shot, and found all the base
ready for them, corn and pork just where they wanted
it,--why, then everybody was too gratified to think of
imagining, as they do now, that papa had stolen that
money that bought the pork and the corn."
"I wish they were only half as grateful now," he
said, after a pause.
"Tom," said Matty, eagerly, "who was that notary?"
"I thought of that, too," said Tom. "There is no
doubt who it was. It was old Gilbert; you must remember
his sign, just below Faulkner's on the avenue. But in
the first place, Gilbert died just after our taking
Richmond. In the second place, he never knew what the
papers were--and he executed twenty such sets of papers
every day, very likely. All he could say, at the very
best, would be that at such a time father brought in an
old Spaniard and two or three other greasers, and that he
took their acknowledgments of something."
"I do not know that, Tom," said the girl, without
flinching at his mannish information. "If notaries in
Washington are anything like notaries in novels, that man
kept a record or register of his work. If he was not
very unlike everybody else who lives and works here, he
left a very destitute widow when he died. Tom, I shall
go after church and hunt up the Widow Gilbert. I shall
ask her for her husband's books, and shall tell her why
I want them."
The girl dropped her voice and said: "Tom, I shall
ask her IN HIS NAME."
"God grant it does any good, dear girl," said he.
"Far be it from me to say that you shall not try--"
But here he stopped speaking, for he felt Matty's arm
shake in his, and her whole frame trembled. Tom had only
to keep his eyes before him to see why.
Mr. Greenhithe, Matty's old admirer, the clerk who
had been dismissed for stealing, was just entering the
church, and even touched his hat to her as she went by.
Tom resisted his temptation to thrash him then and
there. He said,--
"Matty, I believe I will tackle that man!"
"Oh, Tom!"
"Yes, Matty, I can keep my temper, and he cannot keep
his. He has one advantage over most knaves, that he is
not only a knave of the first water, but he is sometimes
a fool, too. If it were only decent and right to take
him into Downing's saloon, and give him just one more
glass of whiskey than the blackguard would care to pay
for, I could get at his whole story."
"But, Tom, I thought you were so sure the Navy had
the papers!"
"Well! well!" said Tom, a little annoyed, as eager
people are when other eager people remember their words
against them. "I was sure--I was wholly sure--till I
left Eben Ricketts. But after that--well, of course, we
ought to pull every string."
"Tom!" This with a terrible gulp.
"Tom, you don't think I ought to speak with him!"
"Matty!"
"Why, Tom, yes; if he does know--if he is holding
this up in terror, Tom, I could make him do what I chose
once, Tom. You don't think I ought to try?"
"Matty, if you ever speak to that snake again, I will
thrash him within an inch of his life, and I will never
say a word to you as long as you live."
"That's my dear Tom!" And, hidden as they were, and
crying as she was under her veil, she flung her arms
around him and kissed him.
"All the same," said Tom, after he had kissed her
again and again,--"all the same, I shall find out, after
church, where the snake is staying. I shall go to the
hotel and take a cigar. I shall offer him one, and he is
so mean and stingy that he will take it. Perhaps this
may be one of his fool days. Perhaps somebody else will
treat him to the whiskey. No, Matty! honor bright, _I_
will not, though that ten cents might give us all a Merry
Christmas. Honor bright, I will not treat. But I am not
a saint, Matty! If anybody else treats, I must not be
expected to be far away."
Then he wiped her eyes with his own handkerchief and
led her in to the service. Their own pew was already
full. He had to take her back into Dr. Metcalf's pew.
So Matty was spared one annoyance which was prepared
for her.
Directly in front of her father's pew, sitting in the
most conspicuous seat on the other side of the aisle, was
the hateful Mr. Greenhithe.
Had he put himself there to watch Matty's face?
If he did, he was disappointed. If he had
persuaded himself he was to see a pale cheek or
tearful eyes, or that he was going to compel her to drop
her veil, he had reckoned quite without his host.
Whenever he did look that way, all he saw was the face of
Master Horace. Horace was engaged in counting the large
tassels on his side of the pulpit curtains; in counting,
also, the number of small tassels between them, and from
the data thus obtained, in calculating how many tassels
there must be on all the curtains to the pulpit, and how
many on the curtains behind the rail to the chancel. Mr.
Greenhithe, therefore, had but little comfort in studying
Horace's face.
Just as the Creed was finished, when the rest of the
church was still, the sexton led up the aisle a grim-
looking man, with a shaggy coat and a very dirty face,
and brought him close to the door of Mr. Molyneux's pew--
as if he would fain bring him in. Mr. Molyneux was at
the end of the pew, but happened to be turning away from
the aisle, and the sexton actually touched him. He
turned round and looked at the stranger,--evidently did
not know him,--but with the instinct of hospitality,
stepped into the aisle and offered him his seat. The
stranger was embarrassed; hesitated as if he would speak,
then shook his head in refusal of the attention, and
crossing the aisle, took a seat offered him there, in
full sight of Mr. Molyneux, and, indeed, of Matty.
Poor girl! The trifle--of course it was a trifle--
upset her sadly.
Was the man a marshal or a sheriff? Would they
really arrest her father on Christmas Day, in church?