"Produce them, produce them," cried Mr. Wharton, "let us see what these wonderful documents are. Such papers often turn out mere moon-shine in a court of law."
"At all events, Sir, this church is not a court of law," said Dr. Miles, advancing, "such matters must not be argued here, and I must remark that if this lady had any just cause to oppose this marriage she was bound to state it when called upon in the solemn manner which the ritual prescribes. How the fact of her not having done so may affect the legal questions implicated is not for me to say, but I must declare that her not having tendered her opposition at the proper moment was highly wrong, and does not give a favourable impression of her case."
The lady turned her fierce eyes upon the rector, and then glared over the rest of the party, but seemed without a reply, for she made none. Mr. Wharton came to her assistance with a falsehood, however.
"The lady was too much overpowered, Sir, to speak," he said, "and I was not formally authorised by her to do so. But as to this old woman, I demand that the documents she mentions be produced, for I have every reason to believe that this is a mere pretext, in fact a case of fraud originating in conspiracy, and I shall not scruple to give the good lady into custody if I can find a constable, unless she instantly produces the documents." He looked full at Widow Lamb while he spoke, and then added, "Have you got them? can you produce them?"
"I have not got them here," answered the old woman in a faltering tone, somewhat alarmed at the threat of a man who had ruined her husband, "but they are safe enough, I am sure, and they shall be produced whenever there is a trial."
"Oh, oh!" cried Mr. Wharton, "what time to manufacture them! But I will take care of you, my good lady. I will see for a constable directly, and--"
"Nonsense, you rogue!" cried Sir John Slingsby, "you know very well that such a thing is out of the question. You can manufacture no charge upon such a ground, whatever others may manufacture."
"Rogue, Sir John," cried Mr. Wharton, furiously, "that man is the rogue who does not pay his just debts, and you know whether the name applies best to me or to you."
"To you, lawyer Wharton," said Stephen Gimlet, coming up the aisle, "there, hold your tongue, for I heard all your talk with Captain Moreton this morning, and how you settled all your differences upon his promising you what you called a post obit bond, to pay you five thousand pounds upon the death of Lord Harcourt Lenham. There, Goody Lamb, there is the letter you gave me yesterday; I'll tell you how it all happened that I could not deliver it by-and-by."
"Here are the papers, here are the papers!" cried the widow, tearing open the letter; "here are the marriage lines, as the people call them in Scotland, between Charlotte Hay and Archibald Graham, and here is poor Archy's letter to my husband written long after."