"Ay, ay, the marriage register," 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.

"I want to begin witli the year eighteen
hundred and four," I said.

"Which way after that, sir?" asked the clerk.
"Forwards to our time, or backwards?"

"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 my walking-stick.

"Is that considered a sufficiently secure place
for the register?" I inquired. " Surely, a book
of such importance 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 bis 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? Eighteen hundred and what?"

"Eighteen hundred and four," I replied;
mentally resolving to give the old man no more
opportunities of talking.

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," he said, 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 "Cecilia
Jane Elster, of Park-View Cottages, Knowlesbury;
only daughter of the late Patrick Elster,
Esq., formerly of Bath."

I noted down these particulars in my pocket-
book, feeling, as I did so, both doubtful and
disheartened tibout my next proceedings. The
Secret, which I had believed, until this moment,
to be within my grasp, seemed now farther from
my reach than ever. What suggestions of any
mystery unexplained had arisen out of my visit
to the vestry? I saw no suggestions anywhere.
What progress had I made towards discovering
the suspected stain on the reputation of Sir
Percival's mother? The one fact I had
ascertained, vindicated her reputation. Fresh doubts,
fresh difficulties, fresh delays, began to open
before me in interminable prospect. What was
I to do next? The one immediate resource left
to me, appeared to be this: I might institute
inquiries about " Miss Elster, of Knowlesbury,"
on the chance of advancing towards my main
object, by first discovering the secret of Mrs.
Catherick's contempt for Sir Percival's mother.

"Have you found what you wanted, sir?"
said the clerk, as I closed the register-book.

"Yes," I replied; " but I have some inquiries
still to make. I suppose the clergyman who
officiated here in the year eighteen hundred and
three is no longer alive?"