“Then Mrs Cotton is not dead?” asked Maimie eagerly.
“Why, whatever give you that hidea, miss? The Vicar ’ad a stroke and give up the parish, and they lives down at Whitcliffe now. This last summer as ever was, they arsk Clegg and me down for the day, and took us for a ride in a carriage, and give us tea in the garden, just like ladies and gentlemen—though if you arsk me, I say give me an ’ouse, or even a harbour, the grass bein’ damp and spiders about.”
“Could you give me Mrs Cotton’s direction?”
“To be sure I could, miss—Windicotes, Cavendish Road, Whitcliffe-on-Sea. But, miss, if you’re lookin’ for witnesses to swear to that there weddin’, don’t you forget that me and Clegg was there just as much as Mrs Cotton and the Vicar, him givin’ the bride away and me ready with a bottle of salts in case of the ladies’ bein’ overcome. Why, Mrs Cotton she says to me herself that morning, ‘Mrs Clegg,’ says she, ‘don’t you let your Tommy go to school to-day, and I’ll make it up to him’; and if she didn’t set him to play marbles just outside the churchyard gate, sayin’ that if he saw a cab drive up, or so much as any strangers comin’ along, he was to run in and whisper to her at once, ‘and then, Mrs Clegg,’ says she, ‘you and me will fasten the church-door and pile the forms against it until Mr Cotton have finished the service, sooner nor let those dear young people be separated before they’re properly married, for it’s in my mind as Mr Bertram’s cruel relations will try to part ’em at the last.’ And I was that worked up with the thought of Miss Garland bein’ dragged off shriekin’ to one of them convents, and that nice young gentleman her ’usband—for a fine military-lookin’ gentleman he was, though a trifle ’aughty in speakin’—throwed into chains and a dungeon, that I ’id my broom be’ind the church-door, and I was ready to fight for ’em, I was. Not that anythink come of it, after all.” Mrs Clegg spoke with evident disappointment.
“I’ll remember,” said Maimie. “But don’t tell any one that I’ve been here, any way.” She folded up the certificate and placed it in her pocket-book, gave the clerk his fee, and prepared to go. “The cruel relations may show up yet, you know.”
“So they may, miss, but you may depend upon me and Clegg.” The clerk’s wife was now escorting her out of the church. “I see you know all about that bit of paper at the end of the book there, which I understand there’s property dependin’ on it. Now you’ll maybe ’ardly believe it, miss, but neither me nor Clegg have ever mentioned that slip to a livin’ soul, least of all to the new Vicar, as ain’t ashamed to walk about the parish in petticoats, and wearin’ a Roman mitre on his ’ead.”
The description was startling, but Maimie recognised the object of it when she was walking past the vicarage, having rid herself of Mrs Clegg by means of a gratuity. The green door in the high wall opened, and a tall thin man came out, wearing a cassock and a curious head-dress that seemed a cross between a Tam-o’-Shanter and a mortar-board. A youthful voice from the other side of the narrow street inquired shrilly, “Where did you get that ’at?” and a small boy scampered away as fast as his legs would carry him, while the new Vicar, with the air of a martyr, walked rapidly towards the church. As for Maimie, she stuffed her handkerchief into her mouth to restrain a peal of hysterical laughter, and turned her steps hastily towards the station. Her experiences of the morning seemed altogether too absurd and incongruous for real life, and in spite of the strained excitement with which she had set forth on her quest, the clergyman’s martyrlike aspect put the finishing touch to her helpless mirth. When she was safely in the train, and had allowed herself the luxury of a long laugh over this anti-climax to her adventure, she became suddenly serious, however.
“Now let me see,” she said severely to herself; “what have I gained, any way? Well, I know that Mr Steinherz and Aunt Connie were married at that church, and that there’s a slip of paper which may cover their secret. And I’ve found three witnesses certainly—four if the old Vicar’s mind isn’t affected by his stroke—who can testify to the marriage. I guess it’s just as well that the gentleman in the ‘Roman mitre’ wasn’t the Vicar when Pappa Steinherz went to enlist his sympathies. I don’t believe he has any; he might even have assisted to drag poor Aunt Connie shrieking to a convent. Well, but after all, it’s quite possible yet for Mr Steinherz to have made out that he was Prince Joseph of Arragon when he isn’t, or even to have invented the tale just to impress Lord Usk. I don’t think so, but I’m set on looking things in the face. Any way, I guess I can’t do anything towards clearing up the affair without Mr Steinherz’s help, or else the use of those relics that Mr Hicks has in charge. How am I to fix things? I have no pull on Pappa Steinherz, and if I make him mad he’ll just take Fay right away from me, and break my heart. I’ll have to wait. And yet something ought to be done right now, or some of those old folks that can swear to the marriage will be dying off. I wonder if I couldn’t take their evidence. No, I’m pretty certain it would need to be sworn to before a judge, and I daren’t have any other person come into the secret, even if I knew a judge to speak to. Well, I guess I must sit tight, and that’s all just now.”
Nevertheless, when she left the train at Charing Cross, and took a hansom mechanically to drive to the hotel, her brain busied itself with a fresh problem, which was yet an old one, the question of preventing an engagement between Usk and Félicia. Such an engagement would put an end once for all to her ambitious schemes for Félicia’s future, which seemed perfectly feasible in the light of the revelations of the night before. Not that either Maimie or Félicia herself would have cared much for the engagement, had there been a prospect of a more brilliant alliance, but it would give Mr Steinherz a vantage-ground of which he would make full use. Once Félicia was engaged, he would see that the engagement was fulfilled. He would hurry on the marriage, and never relax his vigilance until his daughter had become Viscountess Usk, and Félicia, in her present mood, would offer no opposition. The prospect of escaping from his tutelage, and feeling that she was her own mistress (Usk did not count), was far more attractive to her than Maimie’s lofty hopes. It seemed that there was no help for it, and Maimie decided reluctantly to bow to circumstances, and make herself so agreeable to Usk that he could not but approve of her friendship with Félicia. As she came to this decision, she was startled by meeting Usk and Mr Steinherz face to face. Her driver was trying to cross Oxford Street in the direction of Bloomsbury, but there was a block in the traffic, and an inexorable policeman detained the hansom close to one of those islands of refuge on which strange groups assemble by force of circumstances. Here stood Mr Steinherz and Usk, unable to penetrate the solid phalanx of vehicles which confronted them, and waiting with what patience they might while the policeman marshalled a train of old ladies and country cousins in readiness for a break in the line. They were the last people Maimie would have chosen to meet at such a moment, when that dreadful certificate seemed to be burning in her pocket.
“You are out pretty early, Maimie,” said Mr Steinherz.