There are the prospectuses that couldn't be distributed, and the architect's plans and estimates, and the whole correspondence which set everybody at loggerheads and ended in a dispute, all down together in that corner, behind the packing-cases.
The money dribbled in a little at first—but what CAN you expect out of London?
There was just enough, you know, to pack the broken carvings, and get the estimates, and pay the printer's bill, and after that there wasn't a halfpenny left.
There the things are, as I said before.
We have nowhere else to put them—nobody in the new town cares about accommodating us—we're in a lost corner—and this is an untidy vestry—and who's to help it?—that's what I want to know."
My anxiety to examine the register did not dispose me to offer much encouragement to the old man's talkativeness.
I agreed with him that nobody could help the untidiness of the vestry, and then suggested that we should proceed to our business without more delay.
"Ay, ay, the marriage-register, to be sure," said the clerk, taking a little bunch of keys from his pocket.
"How far do you want to look back, sir?"
Marian had informed me of Sir Percival's age at the time when we had spoken together of his marriage engagement with Laura. She had then described him as being forty-five years old.
Calculating back from this, and making due allowance for the year that had passed since I had gained my information, I found that he must have been born in eighteen hundred and four, and that I might safely start on my search through the register from that date.
"I want to begin with the year eighteen hundred and four," I said.
"Which way after that, sir?" asked the clerk.
"Forwards to our time or backwards away from us?"
"Backwards from eighteen hundred and four."
He opened the door of one of the presses—the press from the side of which the surplices were hanging—and produced a large volume bound in greasy brown leather.
I was struck by the insecurity of the place in which the register was kept.
The door of the press was warped and cracked with age, and the lock was of the smallest and commonest kind. I could have forced it easily with the walking-stick I carried in my hand.
"Is that considered a sufficiently secure place for the register?" I inquired.
"Surely a book of such importance as this ought to be protected by a better lock, and kept carefully in an iron safe?"
"Well, now, that's curious!" said the clerk, shutting up the book again, just after he had opened it, and smacking his hand cheerfully on the cover.
"Those were the very words my old master was always saying years and years ago, when I was a lad.
'Why isn't the register' (meaning this register here, under my hand)—'why isn't it kept in an iron safe?'
If I've heard him say that once, I've heard him say it a hundred times.
He was the solicitor in those days, sir, who had the appointment of vestry-clerk to this church.
A fine hearty old gentleman, and the most particular man breathing.
As long as he lived he kept a copy of this book in his office at Knowlesbury, and had it posted up regular, from time to time, to correspond with the fresh entries here.
You would hardly think it, but he had his own appointed days, once or twice in every quarter, for riding over to this church on his old white pony, to check the copy, by the register, with his own eyes and hands.
'How do I know?' (he used to say) 'how do I know that the register in this vestry may not be stolen or destroyed?
Why isn't it kept in an iron safe?
Why can't I make other people as careful as I am myself?
Some of these days there will be an accident happen, and when the register's lost, then the parish will find out the value of my copy.'
He used to take his pinch of snuff after that, and look about him as bold as a lord.
Ah! the like of him for doing business isn't easy to find now.
You may go to London and not match him, even THERE.
Which year did you say, sir? Eighteen hundred and what?"
"Eighteen hundred and four," I replied, mentally resolving to give the old man no more opportunities of talking, until my examination of the register was over.
The clerk put on his spectacles, and turned over the leaves of the register, carefully wetting his finger and thumb at every third page.
"There it is, sir," said he, with another cheerful smack on the open volume.
"There's the year you want."
As I was ignorant of the month in which Sir Percival was born, I began my backward search with the early part of the year.
The register-book was of the old-fashioned kind, the entries being all made on blank pages in manuscript, and the divisions which separated them being indicated by ink lines drawn across the page at the close of each entry.
I reached the beginning of the year eighteen hundred and four without encountering the marriage, and then travelled back through December eighteen hundred and three—through November and October—through——
No! not through September also. Under the heading of that month in the year I found the marriage.
I looked carefully at the entry.
It was at the bottom of a page, and was for want of room compressed into a smaller space than that occupied by the marriages above.
The marriage immediately before it was impressed on my attention by the circumstance of the bridegroom's Christian name being the same as my own.
The entry immediately following it (on the top of the next page) was noticeable in another way from the large space it occupied, the record in this case registering the marriages of two brothers at the same time.
The register of the marriage of Sir Felix Glyde was in no respect remarkable except for the narrowness of the space into which it was compressed at the bottom of the page.
The information about his wife was the usual information given in such cases. She was described as