CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER X.TWO POETS.‘WHATon earth is the meaning of all this?’ was the first question that Reginald Talbot put to his friend, when they found themselves alone together.‘Of all what?’ returned William Henry indifferently. ‘Here are pipes, by the way; will you smoke a little tobacco?’‘There it is again,’ cried Talbot; ‘I say once more, what is the meaning of it? Theidea of your respectable father permitting us to smoke under his roof. Why, it was only, as it were, under protest that he was wont to permit you to breathe. Then, as for me, he used to think me something worse than one of the wicked; an anomalous emanation from Grub Street; a sort of savage with cash in his pocket: whereas his tone to me now is as the honey of Hybla. What magic has wrought this change in the old curmudgeon?’‘Well, perhaps of late he has got to understand me better, and consequently my friends, suggested William Henry.‘Oh,thatcan’t be it,’ replied Talbot contemptuously; ‘I should say if he knew as much about you as I did he would behave worse to you than ever. I don’t mean anything offensive to you, my dear fellow,’ added the speaker, for his companion’s face had grown very troubled; ‘on the contrary, I compliment you. It’s just those qualities I admire most in you which would least recommend you to his good graces. On the other hand, if you have a fault in my eyes, it is anexcess of caution. Come, be frank with me, what is the tune which has set this rhinoceros a dancing?’‘I have had the good fortune to find an old manuscript which has put my father in high good humour.’‘And the young lady, your cousin, is she, too, enamoured of old manuscripts?’‘Well, not that I am aware of,’ laughed William Henry.‘Then I congratulate you,’ was the quick rejoinder; ‘it is now obvious to me that she is enamoured ofyou. That her affections were bespoken in some direction from the first was plain from the manner in which she received my advances.’‘Your advances?’‘Yes; you have heard of the power of the human eye over the brute creation. Well, that is nothing to the effects of this,’ he tapped his spy-glass, ‘upon the sensibilities of angelic woman. I have never known it fail, except when their minds are preoccupied with another object. I am writing an epic, to be entitled“The Spy-glass,” the views of which, though founded on personal experience, will be quite novel. And that reminds me, how often have we not read our poems to one another? Why have you never come to see me since I have been at the “Blue Boar?”’‘My dear fellow, as you heard my father say—— ‘ began William Henry persuasively.‘Tut, tut, I mean yourrealreason,’ put in the other scornfully. ‘We used to meet often enough when the rhinoceros did not dance, when he was very far from dancing. Yet now—— ‘‘The fact is, my dear fellow,’ interrupted William Henry earnestly, ‘thereisa reason.’‘I have reached that point already without a guide,’ observed the other drily.‘The truth is—— ‘ pursued William Henry.Mr. Reginald Talbot took the pipe from his mouth and laughed aloud. Certainly no diplomatic explanation could have been conducted under greater difficulties. ‘Some people yearn for fame, my dear Erin,’ he said; ‘to others itis very undesirable to be well known, even by a single individual.’‘If you imagine I wish to deceive you, Talbot, you are quite wrong,’ said William Henry firmly, ‘but it is true that I cannot be so frank with you as I could wish. I have a secret which is not my own, or you may be sure that you should share it. Listen.’ Then he told him the whole story of his acquaintance with the Templar and its singular result. Talbot listened to him with great attention.‘It is very curious,’ he remarked when the narrative was finished, ‘and certainly a great stroke of luck. But it is like a tale from the “Arabian Nights.” Nay, I don’t mean on the score of veracity,’ for William Henry had flushed crimson, ‘but from its parenthetic nature. It is a story within a story; for if you can stretch your memory so far, you began with the intention of telling me why you never came to see your old friend at the “Blue Boar?”’‘It was because I had no time, Talbot. I have to do my work at the office, and alsoto attend upon my new acquaintance at the Temple.’‘You must be occupied indeed; not a moment in which to say, “How-d’ye-do? Good-morrow!”’‘There were also my father’s injunctions. I thought such a fleeting visit as you speak of would be worse than nothing, and would cause you more annoyance than being neglected; but now my father and you are friends I will certainly find time to renew the ancient days.’‘Come, that is better. Now shall I fill up what is wanting in your explanation and make all clear?’‘If you please,’ said William Henry indifferently, ‘though I am not aware that there is anything more.’‘Yes, there is your cousin Margaret,’ said Talbot, with a cunning air; ‘you would have braved the anger of the rhinoceros and followed your own inclinations—which I flatter myself would have led you to come and see me—had his favour been no more important to you thanof yore. But he holds in his hand another hand, of which he has the disposal, and therefore it behoves you to be on your best behaviour.’‘You have guessed it,’ exclaimed William Henry with admiration. ‘If I thought you could have sympathised with me, as I see you do, I should have saved you the trouble of guessing.’‘Sympathise with you? When was son of the Muses indifferent to the love wound of his friend? Have we not always sympathised with one another? Does any one except yourself admire your poetry as much as I do? Can I anywhere find a friend more capable of appreciating the higher flights of mine thanyou? I have done a good deal, by-the-bye, in that way since I saw you last, Erin; not to mention six cantos of “The Spy-glass,” I have written one-and-twenty songs; some of them may be useful to you if your inspiration has flagged of late, for they are all to my mistress—whose name, like yours, is fortunately in three syllables—a madrigal or two, and a number of miscellaneouspieces, chiefly satirical. To-morrow—you said to-morrow, I think—we will devote to recitation.’William Henry’s countenance fell. He had heard Mr. Reginald Talbot’s recitations before. They were not extempore, but they had one fatal attribute in common with extemporaneous effusions—there was no knowing where they would end. If he had been invited to recite his own poetry, that would have been a different thing.‘Nothing would be more agreeable to me, my dear fellow, but how am I to excuse my absence from chambers?’‘Then I’ll come to your chambers instead of your coming to me; I shall thus have the opportunity of seeing howyourmuse has progressed; we will compare notes together. To be sure, it is not as if you had your room to yourself; there’s that disagreeable fellow-clerk of yours, a most unappreciative and flippant person.’‘Yes, he would spoil everything,’ put in William Henry eagerly. ‘It is better we shouldbe alone together, even for a less time, at the “Blue Boar.”’‘Very good; then give me as long as you can to-morrow. I want your advice, for the fact is, the business on which I am come up to town is about the publication of my poems. The publisher and I cannot agree about terms, which seems strange, since what we both want is money down. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind my selecting a few of your very best—you and I could rig out a twin volume together, like Beaumont and Fletcher.’‘Perhaps,’ observed William Henry dubiously.He had private and pressing reasons for conciliating Mr. Reginald Talbot, but to such a monstrous proposition as had just been made to him he felt he could never consent. It would be like yoking his Pegasus to a dray horse. As regarded other matters, it was true that Talbot and he were old friends—or rather it would be more correct to say that they had for years of boyhood been thrown into one another’s company; the bond of school-friendship is, however,soon weakened under the influence of other conditions, as hothouse flowers fade and fail in the open air; and moreover, when angered, Talbot, who piqued himself on his knowledge of human nature, had a habit of saying what he thought of his antagonist, which was not the less intolerable if it happened to be correct. Their tastes, it was true, were similar, but involved some rivalry, and each perhaps was secretly conscious that the other did not admire his verses so much as he pretended to do. With the Irish Channel between them, they would doubtless have continued to get on capitally together, but, as intimates, the path of friendship had pitfalls. It must be added that Mr. Reginald Talbot’s arrival in town had taken place at a most inconvenient season, and was, in a word, unwelcome to his former crony. That this was not perceived by Talbot was not so much owing to the other’s tact as to his own conceit, which was stupendous; but fortunately it was not seen. Perhaps our young friend did not quite believe in the Irish gentleman’s sympathy with him in respect to Margaret, andmisdoubted his ‘Spy-glass;’ perhaps he thought him, if not too wise, too cunning by half. At all events he greatly regretted that his brother bard had just now come to London, and especially about the remunerative production of his poems, which he had reason to believe would be a protracted operation.The next afternoon, when he paid his promised visit to the ‘Blue Boar,’ a circumstance occurred which caused him increased annoyance.‘I say, my astute young friend,’ were Talbot’s first words, delivered in that half morose, half bantering way which was habitual to him when ready primed for a quarrel, ‘where have you been to these last three hours?’‘To the Temple. Did I not tell you that I generally went there in the afternoon? As to the exact locality, you must perceive the impropriety of my mentioning it even to you.’‘Still you might speak the truth about other matters. Why did you not tell me that old Bingley had dismissed his second clerk?’‘What possible interest could the circumstance have for you?’‘Only that you allowed me to conclude that he was still there, in order that I should not come to New Inn.’‘Very good; then you know the reason.’Mr. Reginald Talbot grew very red, and his stout frame grew visibly stouter. William Henry, however, though more slightly built, was not his inferior (as he had more than once had the opportunity of discovering) either in courage or in the art of self-defence.‘After behaving in so false a manner to me, sir,’ said Talbot, pointing to a very considerable heap of MSS. written in parallel lines, ‘I shall not read you my poems.’‘Thank you; that is returning good for evil,’ said William Henry coolly. ‘Read them to yourself and not aloud, or you will set the cats a caterwauling,’ and with that he clapped his hat on and marched out of his friend’s apartments.It was not one of those quarrels described as the renewal of love; it was a deadly feud.A woman, even if she is not as fair as Venus, may forgive an imputation on her good looks, but a poet, conscious of an inferiority to Shakespeare, does not forgive a slight inflicted on his muse.CHAPTER XI.THE LOVE-LOCK.WhetherWilliam Henry’s short method with Mr. Reginald Talbot was to be satisfactory or not remains to be seen, but for the present it had all the effect intended. The inmate of the ‘Blue Boar’ confined himself to his own quarters, or, at all events, did not take advantage of the general invitation given to him by Mr. Samuel Erin to visit Norfolk Street. Nor did that gentleman make any inquiry into the cause of his absence. He had done his best to pleasure his son and encourage him in his discoveries, but was well content that ‘the popinjay’ kept away. With William Henry—and this was, perhaps, even a greater proof of the change in the old man than his more active kindnesses—he was very patient and unimportunate.He would cast one look of earnest inquiry on the young fellow as he came home every evening, and, receiving a shake of the head by way of reply, would abstain from further questioning. Such was his admiration for the nameless inmate of the Temple that he respected his wish for silence, even as it were at second hand. This behaviour was most acceptable to its object, and the more so, since the reticence Mr. Erin thus observed in his own case he imposed upon his visitors, who would have otherwise subjected William Henry to the question,forte et dure, half a dozen times a day. He had persuaded himself that if once the mysterious visitor should get to know that a fuss was being made about that note of hand, he would withdraw his favours from his protégé altogether.One evening William Henry came home a little earlier than usual, and in return to his father’s inquiring look returned a smile full of significance.‘I have found something, father,’ he said, ‘but you must be content, in this case, with the examination of it.’‘Then your friend has gone back from his word,’ replied the old man; ‘well, it was almost too much to expect that he should have kept to it.’‘Nay, you must not misjudge him, father, for the very restrictions he has placed upon me mean nothing but kindness. The treasure trove is this time for Margaret.’‘Margaret! what does he know about Margaret? Well, at all events, it is in the family.’This reflection alone would hardly have been sufficient to smooth away disappointment from the old man’s brow, had it not also struck him that his niece had no great taste for old MSS., and that a new gown, with a fashionable breast-knot, or some Flanders lace, would probably be considered an equivalent for the original draft of Hamlet.‘Come, come, let us hear about it?’‘But if you please, sir, we must wait for my cousin, my patron said—— ‘‘Maggie, Maggie!’ exclaimed the old man, running out into the little hall and calling upthe stairs, ‘come down this moment; here is a present for you.’At the unwonted news Maggie ran downstairs, arranging the last touches of her costume upon the way, and arriving in the parlour in the most charming state of flush and fervour. Entranced with her beauty, and conscious of having made another step towards the accomplishment of his hopes, William Henry devoured her with his eyes. It was seldom, indeed, that he committed such an imprudence—in company—but if he had kissed her, it is probable, under the circumstances, Mr. Erin would have made no remark, or set it down to Shakespearean enthusiasm.‘Another MS., Maggie!’ he cried triumphantly.‘Come, that is better than fifty presents,’ answered Maggie, beaming. ‘I forgive you for your trick upon me, uncle, with all my heart.’‘But what I have found is foryou,’ said William Henry, firmly.‘Just so,’ exclaimed Mr. Erin, hurriedly, ‘the MS. or something of equal worth, that you would like vastly better. Let us see; now, let us see.’f174‘Maggie, Maggie, here is a present for you.’William Henry took out of his pocket an ancient, timeworn piece of paper, carefully unfolded it, and produced from it a lock of brown straight hair.‘I thought you said it was a MS.,’ exclaimed Mr. Erin, in a tone of extreme disappointment. ‘Why, this is only hair, and if I may be allowed to say so, not a very good specimen even of that.’‘Nevertheless, sir, such as it is, it is Shakespeare’s hair!’‘Shakespeare’s hair!’ echoed Mr. Erin, falling into rather than sitting down on the nearest chair; ‘it is impossible—you are imposing on me.’William Henry turned very white, and looked very grave and pained.‘Oh, uncle, how can you say such a thing!’ cried Margaret, plaintively: ‘poor Willie!’‘I did not mean that, my lad, of course,’ gasped Mr. Erin; ‘I scarcely know what I say. It seems too great a thing to be true.Hishair!’ He eyed it with speechless reverence,as it lay in his son’s open palm; his trembling fingers hovered round it, like the wings of a bird round the nest of its little ones, but did not venture to touch it.‘Where was it found?’ he murmured.‘Wrapped up in this paper, a letter to Anne Hathaway, which mentions the fact of his sending her the lock, and encloses some verses.’‘Is it possible?’ exclaimed the old man, with intense excitement; ‘oh, happy day! Read it, read it! I can see nothing clearly.’The letter ran as follows:‘Dearesste Anna,—As thou haste alwaye founde mee toe my worde mostetreue, so thou shalt see I have stryctlye kept mye promyse. I prayeyou perfume thys mye poore Locke withe thye balmye eyess, fore thenne,indeede, shalle Kynges themmeselves love and paye homage toe itte. I doeassure thee no rude hand hath knottedde itte, thye Willys alone hathdone the worke. Adewe sweete love.‘Thyne everre,‘Wm. Shakespeare.’‘Most tender, true, and precious!’ exclaimed the antiquary, ecstatically; ‘and now the verses?’‘There are but two, sir,’ said the young man, apologetically:—‘“Is therre in heavenne aught more rareThane thou sweete nymphe of Avon fayre,Is therre onne earthe a manne more treueThanne Willy Shakespeare is toe you?”’William Henry read very well, and with much pathos, and into the last line he put especial tenderness which did not need the covert glance he shot at her to bring the colour into Margaret’s cheek.‘“Though deathe with neverre faylinge blowe,Doth manne and babe alyke bringe lowe;Yet doth he take naught butte hys dueAnd strikes not Willy’s heart still treue.”’‘What simplicity, what fidelity!’ murmured the antiquary; ‘a flawless gem indeed! Whence did you unearth it?’‘I found it where I found the other deed, sir, amongst my patron’s documents; I took it,of course, to him at once. He was greatly surprised and interested, and fully conscious of the value of the godsend; yet he never showed the least sign of regret at the gift he made me, of what he was pleased to call the jetsam and flotsam from his collection. ‘“If I were a younger man,” he said, “I think I should have grudged you that lock of hair. It is just the sort of present a young fellow should give to the girl he has a respect for. A thing that costs nothing, yet is exceedingly precious, and which speaks of love and fidelity. It is too good for any antiquary.”’‘Your patron is mad, my lad,’ said Mr. Erin, in a tone of cheerful conviction; ‘hemustbe mad to talk like that; and, indeed, he would never give away these things at all if he were in his sober senses. The idea of bestowing such an inestimable relic upon a girl! Why, it should rather be preserved in some museum in the custody of trustees, to the delight of the whole nation for ever.’‘Nevertheless, sir, such was my patron’s injunction. He asked of me if I knew any pureand comely maiden, well brought up, and who would understand the value of such a thing. I had therefore, of course, no choice but to mention Margaret; whereupon he said that the lock of hair was to be hers.’‘I’ll keep it for you, Maggie, in my iron press,’ said Mr. Erin considerately. ‘You shall look at it—in my presence—as often as you like; and then we shall both know that it is safe and sound. As for the letter and verses, Samuel, it will be better to put them for the present, perhaps, in the same repository.’‘You may put them where you like, sir,’ answered William Henry smiling, as he always did when addressed by that unwonted name; ‘they are yours.’‘A good lad, an excellent lad,’ murmured the antiquary; ‘now let us with all due reverence inspect these treasures. This is the very hair I should have looked for as having been the immortal bard’s, just as the engraving by Droeshart depicts it in the folio edition. Brown, straight, and wiry, as Steevens terms it.’‘I should not call it wiry, uncle,’ observedMargaret, ‘though to be sure it has no curl nor gloss on it; it seems to me soft enough to have been a woman’s hair.’‘It is, perhaps, a trifle silkier and more effeminate than the description would warrant,’ returned the antiquary, ‘but that is doubtless due to the mellowing effects of time. It may be so far looked upon as corroborative evidence. In that connection, by-the-bye, let me draw your particular attention to the braid with which the hair is fastened. This woven silk is not of to-day’s workmanship. I recognise it as being of the same kind used in the reigns of Mary and Elizabeth for attaching the royal seal to patents: a most interesting circumstance, and one which, were there any doubt of the genuineness of the hair, might, like the impress of the quintin in the case of the Hemynge deed, be reasonably adduced as an undesigned coincidence. Then to think that we have it under his own hand that Shakespeare’s fingers have knotted it. Read his words once again, my son, before we put the priceless treasure by.’‘“I doe assure thee no rude hand hathknottedde itte, thye Willys alone hath done the worke.”’‘How tender, how touching!’ exclaimed the antiquary. ‘We seem to be in his very presence. What a privilege has this day been vouchsafed to us, my children!’The two young people glanced at one another involuntarily as the old man addressed them by this title.It is probable that Mr. Erin attached no particular meaning to it. It may have been only the expression of the measureless content he felt with both of them; with his son for what he had brought him, and with his niece for the readiness with which she had resigned what he had brought to his own custody. But to their ears it had a deep significance.As their looks met, that of William Henry was so full of tender triumph that Maggie’s face became crimson, and she cast down her eyes. For the first time she began to believe in the possibility of the realisation of the young man’s dream. Notwithstanding what had passed between them, she had hithertofelt more like a sister towards him than a lover; it was not that she feared to risk the wreck of her own happiness by trusting it to so slight a bark, but that, while matters were so uncertain, a natural and modest instinct prevented her from regarding him as he regarded her. There had been a sort of false dawn of love with her, but, now that her uncle seemed to give such solid ground for hope, the sun which had long lain in wait behind those clouds of doubt came out with all the splendour of the morn. Love arose within her.As Mr. Erin reverently placed his treasures in the iron safe, William Henry stole his arm round Margaret’s waist:—‘Is there on earthe a manne more treueThan Willie Erin is to you?’he whispered softly: and for the first time she did not reprove him.CHAPTER XII.A DELICATE TASK.Greatas had been Mr. Erin’s joy when he first looked on Shakespeare’s love-lock and love letter, it by no means wore off—as our violent delights are apt to do—as time went on. What was wanting in the way of novelty was made up to him perhaps—for we may be sure Margaret did not insist upon her rights in the matter—by the sense of possession. For what was the position of the man who had in his cupboard some unique pieces of china, or even in his coffers the biggest ruby or diamond in the world, as compared with his own? Only, as in the latter case, he grew not a little nervous for the safety of his unrivalled treasure. He was avirtuosoand antiquary himself, and therefore recognised the full extent of hisdanger. In his iron press he caused a little well to be sunk, in which the lock of hair was placed under glass, for the contemplation of the faithful, and none was ever permitted to behold it save in his presence. Even then he did not feel safe, but compelled himself to adopt a plan to ensure security which galled him to the quick. Just as in old times black mail was wont to be given by the rich to leading and powerful robbers as an insurance on their goods, so Mr. Samuel Erin did not hesitate to offer to the more audacious and formidable of his learned brethren bribes, and those of the most precious kind imaginable. Though every thread taken from Shakespeare’s lock gave him a pang infinitely keener than the drawing out of his own beard with pincers would have done, he actually distributed a few of these precious hairs among his friends, which they placed reverently in rings and lockets. We may be sure that Sir Frederick Eden had a genuine hair or two; but it was whispered by the envious (who were many) that upon applications becoming numerous Mr. Erin’s favoursgrew in proportion, which, as the lock did not diminish, could only arise from some other source of supply.Among the recipients who entertained this doubt, or among those who received no such sacred relic at all, there were some who had the hardihood to assert that no human hair could have resisted the lapse of time since Shakespeare’s days. They even produced a Mr. Collett, a hair merchant, who came to inspect the lock—from a distance of several feet, however—and who had the hardihood to express this opinion in the proprietor’s presence. To describe the effect of anger in aged persons, especially when accompanied with personal violence, is painful to one who, like the present writer, has a respect for the dignity of human nature, so we will draw a veil over what ensued, but it is certain that Mr. Collett left Norfolk Street on that occasion with much precipitation—taking the four steps that led to the front door at a bound: he also left his hat behind him, which was thrown after him into the street. It must be admitted that his objectionswere as absurd as they were impertinent, since it is well known that human hair has survived many centuries of burial; indeed, when the vault of Edward IV., who died in 1483, was opened at Windsor, the hair of the head was found flowing, and as strong as hair cut from the head of a living person. This Sir Frederick Eden privately assured Mr. Erin to be true, since he was not only present at the exhumation, but had been so fortunate, by means of a heavy bribe to the sexton, as to get some of the said hair for his private collection.Partly from reasons that have been suggested, but chiefly from William Henry’s remonstrance upon his patron’s account—who he felt confident would lay an embargo upon all future treasure troves, if he should find the report of what had happened to interfere with his own ease and privacy—Mr. Samuel Erin took little pains to circulate the news of his son’s second discovery; but nevertheless it oozed out, and in spite of himself William Henry found himself to be in some respects a public character. Whoever called to see themanuscripts inquired also if the young gentleman was at home, to receive from his own lips the oft-told tale of their discovery. This was exceedingly irksome to him; he would much rather have been reading and talking to his fair cousin, and let his father have all the glory of exhibition and explanation to himself. But Maggie never grudged him to these inquirers; she was pleased to find he was so much sought after, and took a greater pride in it than even her uncle. William Henry went to New Inn, as usual, but it was well understood that the time he spent there was of little consequence, as compared with his visits to the Temple. Mr. Erin ever thirsted for new discoveries, not only on their own account, but because, as he justly observed, the greater the bulk of them, the more probable would their genuineness appear to those inclined to question it. The antiquary demands not only treasure but credit, and though Mr. Erin himself entertained no doubts, he would rather that other people had none; just as the gentleman who kept the thousand-pound note framed and glazed upon his mantelpiece,not content with knowing it was from the Bank of England, resented the imputation from his friends of its having been issued from the Bank of Elegance.Moreover, Mr. Erin was secretly troubled at the continued absence of Frank Dennis. He could, as we have seen, on occasion, and even when there was no occasion, give him the rough side of his tongue, but in his heart he greatly respected him. The old man, thanks to himself, or rather to his temper, had few friends; the bond that united him to those he possessed was itself a source of rivalry and disagreement. But Dennis’s father and himself had been as brothers, and after the former died, Mr. Erin had allowed the young man some familiarity, to which certainly none of his years had been admitted before or since.He professed just now to be absent on business, but business had never detained him from Norfolk Street so long before. Mr. Erin reproached himself with having driven him away by his harsh behaviour, and even went so far as to confess as much to his niece.‘Of course it annoyed me, wench, to see Frank so obstinate in his incredulity, for that he was incredulous about that note of hand I am certain.’‘I can only say that he never breathed a word of doubt to me, uncle.’‘Nor to me, yet I know he harboured doubts,’ was the confident reply. ‘He stuck to them even after Sir Frederick found out the quintin on the seals.’‘Still, it’s only a matter of opinion, uncle.’‘Opinion! it’s what the believers in the Scarlet Woman call inveterate contumacy—they used to burn people for it.’‘Well, but you don’t agree withthem, you know,’ smiled Margaret. ‘You were always a stickler for the rights of private judgment.’The antiquary shook his head and pursed his lips, the only reply possible to him under the circumstances; he could not say, ‘But when I mean private judgment, I mean the judgment that coincides with my private views.’‘Perhaps I have been a little hard on him,Maggie, and that is what keeps him away. I wish he were back again.’This confession from the mouth of such a man was pathetic. What it conveyed, as Margaret partly guessed, was, that in the crowd of flatterers and secret detractors by whom her uncle was surrounded he felt the loss of his honest, if somewhat too outspoken, friend. She felt remorse too, as well as compunction, for in her heart she suspected that she herself was the cause of Frank’s absence.He had doubtless noticed the changed relations between herself and William Henry, and withdrawn himself, but without a word of complaint, from her society. He recognised the right she had to choose for herself, nor did he grudge her the happiness she found in her choice, but he could not endure the contemplation of it. It was out of the question, of course, that she should reveal this to Mr. Erin; but she was too straightforward to corroborate a view of the matter which she knew to be incorrect.‘I don’t think Frank is one, uncle, to takeoffence at anything you may have said to him about the Deed. He is too sensible—I mean,’ she added with the haste of one who withdraws his foot from a precipice, ‘his nature is too generous to harbour offence.’‘You really think that, do you?’ returned the old man in a tone of unmistakable relief. ‘Well, in that case, just drop him a line and let him know how the matter stands. You need not put it upon me at all, but say you miss his society here very much, as, of course, you do.’Margaret was greatly embarrassed; the task thus proposed to her was almost impossible. She had never written to the young man before, and to do so now in her peculiar circumstances, and for the purpose of asking him to return to town, would be very painful to her and might be misleading to him.‘I like Mr. Dennis very much, uncle,’ she stammered, ‘but—— ‘‘Just so,’ interrupted the antiquary; ‘this scepticism of his, as you were about to say, is a serious drawback; still, ifIcan get over it,youcan surely make allowance for him. Moreover,when he sees the lock of hair and the love letter—and perhaps there may be other discoveries by the time he returns—he must be a very Thomas not to believe such proof. Now if it had been he instead of William Henry who had found these precious relics, all would have indeed been well.’‘I don’t think we should grudge poor Willie his good fortune, sir,’ returned Margaret reprovingly, She was quicker than ever now to take her cousin’s part, and her uncle’s tone of regret had touched her to the quick. It made it evident to her that his new-found regard for his adopted son was but skin-deep—or rather manuscript-deep. The pity for him that she had always felt had become a deeper and more tender sentiment, and given her more courage to defend him.‘Grudge him? Of course I do not grudge him,’ returned the antiquary, fuming. ‘I only meant that if Frank Dennis had William Henry’s gifts he would be a perfect man; you can tell himthatif you like.’For a single instant Margaret saw herselftelling Mr. Dennis ‘that,’ and felt the colour rise to her very forehead. Her uncle noticed that there was a hitch somewhere, and became naturally impatient at finding his wishes interfered with by the scruples of a ‘slip of a girl.’‘Well, write what you will,’ he continued with irritation, ‘only see that it brings him.’Poor Margaret! She liked Frank Dennis, as she had said, very much; but, as she had only too good reason to believe, not so much as he wished her to do. What she had to say to him was: ‘Come to me, but not for my sake.’ It was a parallel to the nursery address to the ducks, ‘Dilly, Dilly, come and be killed;’ only he was not to be killed, but tortured. What were the use of compliments? It was like asking a young gentleman to be best man when he wants to be the bridegroom himself. She could thoroughly depend upon Willie to avoid all appearance of triumph, but there was no getting over the fact that he was Frank’s successful rival; though he would never say like the boastful schoolboy to his less fortunate companion, ‘Do you like cakes? Then see meeat them!’ yet he had the cake, and it was a cake that could not be divided. However, there was no help for it, so she sat down to write her letter.It was a very difficult and delicate task. She had learnt to call him Frank, but could she address him so on paper? ‘Dear Mr. Dennis’ was too formal, and ‘My dear Mr. Dennis’ was, under the circumstances, not to be thought of. She eventually wrote, ‘Dear Frank’ (how dreadfully familiar it looked—yet a fortnight ago it would have seemed natural enough), ‘what delays the wheels of your chariot? If it is business I am sure you must have had time to build a cathedral. My uncle misses you very much’—this sounded unkind; it suggested that no one else regretted his absence, so she added—‘as we all do.’ Here with a little sigh she underlinedall, so as to make it appear that she regretted him only as William Henry did, no more and no less. ‘I hope, for my uncle’s sake, you will come back less of an infidel in Shakespearean affairs. The lock of hair, of the discovery of which you have doubtless heard,has, by-the-bye, thanks to the chivalry of “The Templar,” been given to me, so you will understand that any aspersion cast upon its genuineness is a personal matter. The weather is wet—though it should make no difference to an architect, since he can roof himself anywhere—so there is no excuse for your lingering in the country for pleasure’s sake.’Had she dared to say so, she might have hinted very prettily that with him the sunshine would return to Norfolk Street; but she was no longer fancy free. Even as it was, sisterly as she had endeavoured to make the tone of her letter, she feared she might have given him some involuntary encouragement. It was terrible to her to feel so confident as she did that on the receipt of it Frank Dennis would start for London.CHAPTER XIII.THE PROFESSION OF FAITH.Twodays after Margaret’s letter was despatched there was great news from the Temple. Not even on the first day, when William Henry had won Mr. Erin’s heart by Shakespeare’s note of hand, had the young man’s face been so full of promise as when he came in that evening. On the former occasion, anxiety and doubt had mingled with its expectancy, but now it was flushed with triumph. The difference of manner with which he produced his new discovery was also noticeable. It was not only that he felt as sure of the assent of his audience (who were, indeed, but his uncle and Margaret) as of his own, but he displayed a certain self-consciousness of his own position. He was nolonger an unknown lad, seeking for the favour of one who should have been his natural protector, for he had already won it. It was true he was still dependent upon him for the means of livelihood, and for something that he prized as highly as existence itself; but Mr. Erin had in some sort, on the other hand, become dependent on him. His reputation as a Shakespearean collector and critic, which was very dear to him, had been immensely increased by his son’s discoveries. The newspapers and magazines were full of his good fortune; and even those which disputed the genuineness of his newly acquired possessions made them the subject of continual comment, and added fuel to his notoriety. If such a metaphor can be used without offence in the case of a gentleman of years and learning, Mr. Samuel Erin gazed at William Henry with much the same air of expectation as a very sagacious old dog regards his young master, whom he suspects of having some toothsome morsel in his pocket; he has too much respect for his own dignity to ‘beg’ for it, by sitting up on his hind legs, or barking,but he moves his tail from side to side, and his mouth waters.The young gentleman did not, at first, even produce his prize, but sat down at table with a cheerful nod, that seemed to say, ‘I have found it at last, and by the sacred bones that rest by Avon’s stream, it is worth the finding.’‘Well, Willie,’ exclaimed Margaret, impatiently, ‘what is it?’The young man gravely produced two half-sheets of paper.At the sight of it, for he knew that it was not the new Bath Post, the antiquary’s eyes glistened.‘Mr. Erin—— ‘ began William Henry.‘Why not call me “father,” Samuel?’ put in the old man, gently; if it was the sense of favours to come that moved him, it was at least a deep and genuine sense of them. Margaret’s fair face glowed with pleasure.‘I have often heard you say, father, that you wished above all things to discover what were, in reality, Shakespeare’s religious convictions.’The antiquary nodded assent, but said nothing; the intensity of expectation, indeed, precluded speech; the perspiration came out upon his forehead.‘It distressed you, I know, to believe it possible—as, indeed, the language used by the Ghost in “Hamlet” would seem to imply, that he was of the Catholic persuasion. In the profession of faith found at Stratford—— ‘‘Spurious,’ put in Mr. Erin, mechanically; ‘that fool, Malone, believed in it, nobody else.’This was not quite in accordance with fact; for many months the whole Shakespearean world had admitted its authenticity.‘If it had been true, however, it would have offended your sense of the fitness of things.’‘No doubt; still we must take things as they really were.’Even if it should turn out that Shakespeare was not so good a Protestant as he ought to be, the value of a genuine manuscript was not to be depreciated.‘Well! I have been this day so fortunate asto discover what will put all doubts at rest upon this point. Shakespeare was a Protestant.’‘Thank Heaven!’ murmured Mr. Erin, piously. ‘If you have done this, my son, you have advanced the claims of true religion, and quickened the steps of civilisation throughout the world.’Margaret’s eyes opened very wide (as well they might), but they only beheld William Henry. She had been wont to rally him upon his vanity, and especially upon the hopes he had built upon his poetical gifts. Yet how much greater a mark was he making in the world than his most sanguine aspirations had imagined! And how quiet and unassuming he looked! The modest way in which he habitually bore his honours pleased her even more than the honours themselves.‘After all, Maggie,’ he would say, after receiving the congratulations of the dilettanti, ‘it is nothing but luck.’As he straightened out the half-sheets of paper on the table, where their homely supperstood untouched and unnoticed, he only permitted himself a smile of gratification.‘It is too long,’ he said, ‘to read aloud, and the old spelling is difficult.’His uncle drew his chair close to him, on one side, and Margaret did the like on the other, so that each could read for themselves. Their looks were full of eagerness; the one was thinking of Shakespeare and Samuel Erin, the other of William Henry—andlongo intervallo—of William Shakespeare.The MS., which was headed ‘William Shakespeare’s Profession of Faith,’ ran as follows:—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE’S PROFESSION OF FAITH.I beynge nowe offe sounde Mynde doe hope thatte thys mye wyshe wille, att mye deathe, bee acceded toe, as I nowe lyve in Londonne, and as mye soule maye perchance, soone quittee thys poore bodye, itte is mye desire thatte inne suche case I maye bee carryed toe mye native place, ande thatte mye Bodye bee there quietlye interred wythe as little pompe as canne bee, and I doe nowe, inne these mye seryouse moments, make thys mye professione of faythe, and which I doe moste solemnlye believe. Idoe fyrste looke toe oune lovynge and Greate God and toe his glorious sonne Jesus. I doe alsoe beleyve thatte thys mye weake and frayle Bodye wille returne to duste, butte for mye soule lette God judge thatte as toe himselfe shalle seeme meete. O omnipotente and greate God I am fulle offe synne, I doe notte thinke myeselfe worthye offe thye grace and yette wille I hope, forre evene thee poore prysonerre whenne bounde with gallying irons evene he wille hope for Pittye and whenne the teares of sweete repentance bathe hys wretched pillowe he then looks and hopes for pardonne thenne rouse mye soule and lette hope, thatte sweete cherysher offe all, afforde thee comforte also. O Manne whatte arte thou whye consideres thou thyselfe thus gratelye, where are thye great, thye boasted attrybutes; buryed, loste forre everre in colde Death. O Manne whye attemptest thou toe searche the greatnesse off the Almyghtye thou doste butte loose thye laboure. More thou attempteste, more arte thou loste, tille thye poore weake thoughtes arre elevated toe theyre summite and thenne as snowe from the leffee tree droppe and dystylle themselves tille theye are noe more. O God, manne as I am frayle bye nature, fulle offe synne, yette great God receyve me toe thye bosomme where alle is sweete contente and happyness alle is blyss where dyscontente isse neverre hearde, butte where oune Bonde offe freyndeshippe unytes alle Menne forgive O Lorde alle our synnes, ande withe thye greate goodnesse take usse alle toe thye Breaste; O cheryshe usse like the sweete chickenne thatte under the coverte offe herre spreadynge wings Receyves herre lyttle Broode and hoverynge overre themme keepes themme harmlesse and in safetye.Wm. Shakespeare.Margaret finished the perusal of the MS. before her uncle; her quicker and more youthful eye would probably have done so in any case, but his reverence for the matter forbade rapid reading; she waited respectfully, but also with some little apprehension, for the expression of his opinion.‘This is a godsend!’ he exclaimed at last, with a sigh that had almost as much relief as satisfaction in it. ‘There can be no longer any doubt about Shakespeare’s creed. Is it not beautiful, and full of humility, my child?’‘Yes, uncle.’ She knew that the least fault-finding would be resented, yet she could not shut out from her tone a certain feeling of disappointment; ‘it is hardly, however, so simple as I should have expected.’‘Not simple!’ exclaimed the antiquary in amazement; ‘I call it the most natural effusion of a sincere piety that it is possible to imagine. The diction is solemn and dignified as the subject demands. There are, indeed, some minute particularities of phraseology, and the old spelling to one unaccustomed to it may, asWilliam Henry has observed, be a little difficult; but of all the accusations you could bring against it, that of a want of simplicity, my dear Maggie, is certainly the most frivolous and vexatious.’‘I know I am frivolous,’ replied Margaret, with a sly look at her smiling cousin, ‘but certainly did not intend to be vexatious, uncle.’‘Nay, nay, I was only quoting a legal phrase,’ said Mr. Erin; he had gently drawn the two precious MSS. to himself, and placed an elbow on each of them, in sign of having taken possession. ‘In a case of this kind I need not say that anything in the way of criticism, as to ideas or style, would be out of place, and indeed blasphemous; but no one can blame you for seeking in a proper spirit for enlightenment on this or that point.’Margaret looked up at William Henry, and with a half-roguish and wholly charming smile inquired ‘May I?’‘My dear Maggie,’ returned the young man, laughing outright, ‘why, of course you may. Even if you detected the immortal bardin an error it would be no business of mine to defend him.’‘I should think not, indeed,’ muttered Mr. Erin.‘What I was thinking,’ said Margaret, ‘was that if you, Willie, or Mr. Talbot (who informed us the other night, you know, that he was a poet) had written those lines about spreading her wings over her little brood, it would have been considered plagiarism.’‘What then?’ inquired Mr. Erin contemptuously. ‘It is the peculiar province of a genius such as Shakespeare’s to make everything his own. He improves it by addition.’‘The idea in question, however, is taken from the New Testament,’ observed Maggie.To most people, this remark, which was delivered with a demureness that did the young lady infinite credit, would under the circumstances have been rather embarrassing. It did not embarrass Mr. Samuel Erin in the least.‘What piety it shows! What knowledge of the Holy Scriptures!’ he ejaculated admiringly. ‘How appropriate, too, when we takethe subject into consideration—a confession of faith!’‘True. I am not quite sure, however, whether the substitution of a chicken for a hen is an improvement.’‘Now, there I entirely differ from you,’ exclaimed Mr. Erin; ‘just mark the words “O cheryshe usse like the sweete chickenne thatte under the coverte offe herre spreadynge wings receyves herre lyttle Broode and hoverynge over themme keepes themme harmlesse and in safetye.” What tenderness there is in that “sweete chickenne.” Whereas a hen—a hen is tough. We must understand the expression of course as a general term for the female species of the fowl. None, to my mind, but the most determined and incorrigible caviller can have one word to say against it. I have settled that matter, I think, my dear, to your satisfaction; and do not suppose that what you say has annoyed me. If anything else strikes you, pray mention it. Objections from any source—provided only that they arereasonable’—a word he uttered very significantly—‘will always have my best attention; I welcome them.’f206The Profession of Faith.‘Indeed, uncle, I am not so audacious as to propound objections. There was one thing, however, that seemed to me a little incomprehensible.’‘Possibly, my dear,’ he said, with a smile of contemptuous good-nature, which seemed to add, ‘I am not so rude as to say “probably.”’He took his elbows off the MS., though he still hovered above it (like the chicken) while she ran her dainty finger over it, taking care, however, not to touch the paper.‘Ah! here it is, “As snowe from the leffee tree.” Now, considering that snow falls in winter when the trees are bare, don’t you think the word should have been “leafless?”’‘An ordinary person would no doubt have written “leafless,”’ admitted Mr. Erin—an ingenious observation enough, since, in the first place, it suggested that an extraordinary genius could have done nothing of the kind, and secondly, it demanded no rejoinder; it gave the antiquary time to cast about him forsome line of defence. He produced his microscope and examined the word with great intentness, but it was ‘leffee’ and not ‘leafless’ beyond all doubt. ‘It is probable,’ he presently observed, ‘that Shakespeare’s minute attention to nature may have caused him, when writing these most interesting words, to have a particular tree in his mind; when, indeed, we consider the topic on which he was writing—death—what is more likely than that his thoughts should have reverted to some churchyard yew? Now the yew, my child, is an evergreen.’Here Frank Dennis’s well-known voice was heard in the little hall without. He must have started for London, therefore, on the instant that he received Margaret’s letter. Her heart had foreboded that it would be so, notwithstanding the pains she had taken to make it appear otherwise; she knew that it was her wish that had summoned him, and that he had been sent for, as it were, under false pretences. Much as she esteemed him, she would have preferred the appearance of any one else,however indifferent, such as Mr. Reginald Talbot.Strange to say, Mr. Samuel Erin, though it was at his own express desire that Frank Dennis had been invited, was just at that moment of the same way of thinking as his niece. If that little difficulty about the epithet, ‘leffee,’ had not occurred, all would have been well. This new discovery of the Confession, had it been flawless, must needs have converted the most confirmed of sceptics, and, in his crowning triumph, he would have forgiven the young fellow all his former doubts; but, though to the eye of faith this little flaw was of no consequence, it would certainly give occasion not only for the ungodly to blaspheme—for that they would do in any case—but to the waverer to cling to his doubts. If, on the spur of the moment, Mr. Erin could have explained the matter to his own satisfaction, he would have felt no qualms, but he was secretly conscious that that theory of the evergreen tree would not hold water. It might satisfy a modest inquirer like Margaret, but a hard-headed,unimaginative fellow like Frank Dennis would not be so easily convinced.As for William Henry, although Frank and he were by no means ill friends, it was not likely that he should have been pleased to see this visitor, whose presence must needs interrupt thetête-à-têtewith which he now indulged himself every evening with Margaret; and, though he was no longer jealous of his former rival, it was certain that he would much have preferred his room to his company.The welcome that was given by all three to the new comer was, however, cordial enough. ‘You are come, Dennis,’ cried Mr. Erin, taking the bull by the horns, ‘in the very nick of time. William Henry has to-day found a treasure, beside which his previous discoveries sink into insignificance, “A Profession of Faith,” by Shakespeare, written from end to end in his own hand.’‘That must indeed be interesting,’ said Frank. His tone, however, was without excitement, and mechanical. His countenance, which had been full of friendship (though whenturned to Margaret it had had, she thought, an expression of gentle melancholy), fell as he uttered the words; a gravity, little short of disapproval, seemed to take possession of it.‘Hang the fellow!’ murmured Mr. Erin to himself, ‘he’s beginning to pick holes already.’ ‘It is the most marvellous and conclusive evidence,’ he went on aloud, ‘of Shakespeare’s adherence to the Protestant faith that heart can desire; but there’s a word here that we are in doubt about. Just read the MS. and see if anything strikes you as anomalous.’Frank sat down to his task. The expression of the faces of the other three would have required the art of Hogarth himself to depict them. That of Margaret’s was full of sorrow, pain for herself, and distress for Frank, and annoyance upon her uncle’s account. How she regretted having made that stupid objection, though she had done it with a good motive, since she foresaw that it would presently be made by much less friendly critics! Why could she not have been content to let matters take their own course, as Willie always was?Onhisbrow, on the other hand, there sat a complete serenity. From the very first his attitude with respect to his own discoveries had been one of philosophic indifference. Nothing ever roused him from it, not even when the scepticism of others took the most offensive form. He had not, he said, ‘the learning requisite for the defence of “the faith” that was in him,’ and moreover it did not concern him to defend it. He was merely an instrument; the matter in question was in the hands of others.This was of course by no means the view which Mr. Erin took. He had not only the confidence but the zeal of the convert. If he would not himself have gone to the stake in defence of the genuineness of his new-found treasure, he would very cheerfully have sent thither all who disputed it. He was regarding his friend Dennis now, as he plodded through the Profession, with anything but amicable looks, but when he marked his eye pass over that weak point in its armour with which we are acquainted, without stoppage, his brow cleared a little, and he gave a sigh of relief.‘Well,’ he inquired gently, ‘what say you? Have you found the error, or does it seem to you all straight sailing?’‘I had really rather not express an opinion,’ said Dennis quietly. ‘But if you press me, I must needs confess that the whole composition strikes me as rather rhapsodical.’‘Does it? Then I on my part must needs confess,’ returned the antiquary with laborious politeness, ‘that I have the misfortune to disagree with you.’To this observation the young man answered not a word; his face looked very grave and thoughtful, like that of a man who is in a doubt about some important course of conduct, rather than of a mere literary inquiry; nevertheless his words, when they did come, seemed to concern themselves with the latter topic only.‘I doubt,’ he said, ‘whether the word “accede”’—here he pointed to the phrase ‘after my deathe be acceded to’—‘was in use in Shakespeare’s time.’‘And what if it was not?’ broke in theantiquary impatiently. ‘How many words in old times are found in the most correct writers which it would be vain to hunt for in any dictionary; words which, though destitute of authority or precedent, are still justified by analogy and by the principles of the language. And who, I should like to know, used new words with such licence as Shakespeare himself? As to the matter of fact which you dispute, however, that can be settled at once. The antiquary stepped to his bookcase and took down a volume. ‘This is Florio’s dictionary, published in 1611. See here,’ he added triumphantly, ‘“Accedere, to accede, or assent to.” If Florio mentions it, I suppose Shakespeare may have used it. Your objection, young sir, is not worthy of the name.’Dennis hung his head; he looked like one who has suffered not only defeat but humiliation. The criticism offered on the spur of the moment had been, in reality, advanced by way of protest against the whole document, and now that it had failed he was very unwilling tooffer anything further in the way of disparagement.He had his reasons for absolutely declining to fall in with Mr. Erin’s views in the matter; but it would have given him great distress to quarrel with him. Unhappily, an antiquary the genuineness of whose curios has been disputed, is not often a chivalric antagonist. It is his habit, like the wild Indian and the wilder Irishman, to dance upon his prostrate foe.‘The obstinacy of the commentator,’ resumed Mr. Erin, ‘is proverbial, and is on some accounts to be excused, but the strictures suggested by ignorance and malignity are mere carping.’‘But it was yourself, sir,’ pleaded Dennis, ‘who invited criticism: I did not volunteer it.’‘Criticism, yes; but not carping. Now there is a word here,’ continued Mr. Erin, not sorry to be beforehand with his adversary in pointing out the blot. ‘Here is the word “leffee” where one would have expected “leafless.” Now we should be really obliged to you if your natural sagacity, which is considerable,could explain the reason of the substitution. I have already given expression to a theory of my own upon the subject, but we shall be glad of any new suggestion. Why is it “leafy” instead of “leafless?”’‘I should think it was simply because the writer made a mistake,’ observed Dennis quietly.Everybody, the speaker included, expected an outburst. That Shakespeare could have made a mistake was an assertion which they all felt would to Mr. Erin’s ear sound little less than blasphemous. To their extreme astonishment he nodded adhesion.‘Now that is really very remarkable, Dennis,’ he exclaimed; ‘a new idea, and at the same time one with much probability in it. He was writingcurrente calamo—there is scarcely a break in the composition, you observe, from first to last—and it is quite likely that he made this clerical error. What is extremely satisfactory is, that your theory—supposing it to be the correct one, as I think it is—puts the genuineness of the documentbeyond all question, for if a forger had written it, it is obvious that he would have been very careful to make no such departure from verisimilitude!’

CHAPTER X.TWO POETS.‘WHATon earth is the meaning of all this?’ was the first question that Reginald Talbot put to his friend, when they found themselves alone together.‘Of all what?’ returned William Henry indifferently. ‘Here are pipes, by the way; will you smoke a little tobacco?’‘There it is again,’ cried Talbot; ‘I say once more, what is the meaning of it? Theidea of your respectable father permitting us to smoke under his roof. Why, it was only, as it were, under protest that he was wont to permit you to breathe. Then, as for me, he used to think me something worse than one of the wicked; an anomalous emanation from Grub Street; a sort of savage with cash in his pocket: whereas his tone to me now is as the honey of Hybla. What magic has wrought this change in the old curmudgeon?’‘Well, perhaps of late he has got to understand me better, and consequently my friends, suggested William Henry.‘Oh,thatcan’t be it,’ replied Talbot contemptuously; ‘I should say if he knew as much about you as I did he would behave worse to you than ever. I don’t mean anything offensive to you, my dear fellow,’ added the speaker, for his companion’s face had grown very troubled; ‘on the contrary, I compliment you. It’s just those qualities I admire most in you which would least recommend you to his good graces. On the other hand, if you have a fault in my eyes, it is anexcess of caution. Come, be frank with me, what is the tune which has set this rhinoceros a dancing?’‘I have had the good fortune to find an old manuscript which has put my father in high good humour.’‘And the young lady, your cousin, is she, too, enamoured of old manuscripts?’‘Well, not that I am aware of,’ laughed William Henry.‘Then I congratulate you,’ was the quick rejoinder; ‘it is now obvious to me that she is enamoured ofyou. That her affections were bespoken in some direction from the first was plain from the manner in which she received my advances.’‘Your advances?’‘Yes; you have heard of the power of the human eye over the brute creation. Well, that is nothing to the effects of this,’ he tapped his spy-glass, ‘upon the sensibilities of angelic woman. I have never known it fail, except when their minds are preoccupied with another object. I am writing an epic, to be entitled“The Spy-glass,” the views of which, though founded on personal experience, will be quite novel. And that reminds me, how often have we not read our poems to one another? Why have you never come to see me since I have been at the “Blue Boar?”’‘My dear fellow, as you heard my father say—— ‘ began William Henry persuasively.‘Tut, tut, I mean yourrealreason,’ put in the other scornfully. ‘We used to meet often enough when the rhinoceros did not dance, when he was very far from dancing. Yet now—— ‘‘The fact is, my dear fellow,’ interrupted William Henry earnestly, ‘thereisa reason.’‘I have reached that point already without a guide,’ observed the other drily.‘The truth is—— ‘ pursued William Henry.Mr. Reginald Talbot took the pipe from his mouth and laughed aloud. Certainly no diplomatic explanation could have been conducted under greater difficulties. ‘Some people yearn for fame, my dear Erin,’ he said; ‘to others itis very undesirable to be well known, even by a single individual.’‘If you imagine I wish to deceive you, Talbot, you are quite wrong,’ said William Henry firmly, ‘but it is true that I cannot be so frank with you as I could wish. I have a secret which is not my own, or you may be sure that you should share it. Listen.’ Then he told him the whole story of his acquaintance with the Templar and its singular result. Talbot listened to him with great attention.‘It is very curious,’ he remarked when the narrative was finished, ‘and certainly a great stroke of luck. But it is like a tale from the “Arabian Nights.” Nay, I don’t mean on the score of veracity,’ for William Henry had flushed crimson, ‘but from its parenthetic nature. It is a story within a story; for if you can stretch your memory so far, you began with the intention of telling me why you never came to see your old friend at the “Blue Boar?”’‘It was because I had no time, Talbot. I have to do my work at the office, and alsoto attend upon my new acquaintance at the Temple.’‘You must be occupied indeed; not a moment in which to say, “How-d’ye-do? Good-morrow!”’‘There were also my father’s injunctions. I thought such a fleeting visit as you speak of would be worse than nothing, and would cause you more annoyance than being neglected; but now my father and you are friends I will certainly find time to renew the ancient days.’‘Come, that is better. Now shall I fill up what is wanting in your explanation and make all clear?’‘If you please,’ said William Henry indifferently, ‘though I am not aware that there is anything more.’‘Yes, there is your cousin Margaret,’ said Talbot, with a cunning air; ‘you would have braved the anger of the rhinoceros and followed your own inclinations—which I flatter myself would have led you to come and see me—had his favour been no more important to you thanof yore. But he holds in his hand another hand, of which he has the disposal, and therefore it behoves you to be on your best behaviour.’‘You have guessed it,’ exclaimed William Henry with admiration. ‘If I thought you could have sympathised with me, as I see you do, I should have saved you the trouble of guessing.’‘Sympathise with you? When was son of the Muses indifferent to the love wound of his friend? Have we not always sympathised with one another? Does any one except yourself admire your poetry as much as I do? Can I anywhere find a friend more capable of appreciating the higher flights of mine thanyou? I have done a good deal, by-the-bye, in that way since I saw you last, Erin; not to mention six cantos of “The Spy-glass,” I have written one-and-twenty songs; some of them may be useful to you if your inspiration has flagged of late, for they are all to my mistress—whose name, like yours, is fortunately in three syllables—a madrigal or two, and a number of miscellaneouspieces, chiefly satirical. To-morrow—you said to-morrow, I think—we will devote to recitation.’William Henry’s countenance fell. He had heard Mr. Reginald Talbot’s recitations before. They were not extempore, but they had one fatal attribute in common with extemporaneous effusions—there was no knowing where they would end. If he had been invited to recite his own poetry, that would have been a different thing.‘Nothing would be more agreeable to me, my dear fellow, but how am I to excuse my absence from chambers?’‘Then I’ll come to your chambers instead of your coming to me; I shall thus have the opportunity of seeing howyourmuse has progressed; we will compare notes together. To be sure, it is not as if you had your room to yourself; there’s that disagreeable fellow-clerk of yours, a most unappreciative and flippant person.’‘Yes, he would spoil everything,’ put in William Henry eagerly. ‘It is better we shouldbe alone together, even for a less time, at the “Blue Boar.”’‘Very good; then give me as long as you can to-morrow. I want your advice, for the fact is, the business on which I am come up to town is about the publication of my poems. The publisher and I cannot agree about terms, which seems strange, since what we both want is money down. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind my selecting a few of your very best—you and I could rig out a twin volume together, like Beaumont and Fletcher.’‘Perhaps,’ observed William Henry dubiously.He had private and pressing reasons for conciliating Mr. Reginald Talbot, but to such a monstrous proposition as had just been made to him he felt he could never consent. It would be like yoking his Pegasus to a dray horse. As regarded other matters, it was true that Talbot and he were old friends—or rather it would be more correct to say that they had for years of boyhood been thrown into one another’s company; the bond of school-friendship is, however,soon weakened under the influence of other conditions, as hothouse flowers fade and fail in the open air; and moreover, when angered, Talbot, who piqued himself on his knowledge of human nature, had a habit of saying what he thought of his antagonist, which was not the less intolerable if it happened to be correct. Their tastes, it was true, were similar, but involved some rivalry, and each perhaps was secretly conscious that the other did not admire his verses so much as he pretended to do. With the Irish Channel between them, they would doubtless have continued to get on capitally together, but, as intimates, the path of friendship had pitfalls. It must be added that Mr. Reginald Talbot’s arrival in town had taken place at a most inconvenient season, and was, in a word, unwelcome to his former crony. That this was not perceived by Talbot was not so much owing to the other’s tact as to his own conceit, which was stupendous; but fortunately it was not seen. Perhaps our young friend did not quite believe in the Irish gentleman’s sympathy with him in respect to Margaret, andmisdoubted his ‘Spy-glass;’ perhaps he thought him, if not too wise, too cunning by half. At all events he greatly regretted that his brother bard had just now come to London, and especially about the remunerative production of his poems, which he had reason to believe would be a protracted operation.The next afternoon, when he paid his promised visit to the ‘Blue Boar,’ a circumstance occurred which caused him increased annoyance.‘I say, my astute young friend,’ were Talbot’s first words, delivered in that half morose, half bantering way which was habitual to him when ready primed for a quarrel, ‘where have you been to these last three hours?’‘To the Temple. Did I not tell you that I generally went there in the afternoon? As to the exact locality, you must perceive the impropriety of my mentioning it even to you.’‘Still you might speak the truth about other matters. Why did you not tell me that old Bingley had dismissed his second clerk?’‘What possible interest could the circumstance have for you?’‘Only that you allowed me to conclude that he was still there, in order that I should not come to New Inn.’‘Very good; then you know the reason.’Mr. Reginald Talbot grew very red, and his stout frame grew visibly stouter. William Henry, however, though more slightly built, was not his inferior (as he had more than once had the opportunity of discovering) either in courage or in the art of self-defence.‘After behaving in so false a manner to me, sir,’ said Talbot, pointing to a very considerable heap of MSS. written in parallel lines, ‘I shall not read you my poems.’‘Thank you; that is returning good for evil,’ said William Henry coolly. ‘Read them to yourself and not aloud, or you will set the cats a caterwauling,’ and with that he clapped his hat on and marched out of his friend’s apartments.It was not one of those quarrels described as the renewal of love; it was a deadly feud.A woman, even if she is not as fair as Venus, may forgive an imputation on her good looks, but a poet, conscious of an inferiority to Shakespeare, does not forgive a slight inflicted on his muse.

TWO POETS.

‘WHATon earth is the meaning of all this?’ was the first question that Reginald Talbot put to his friend, when they found themselves alone together.

‘Of all what?’ returned William Henry indifferently. ‘Here are pipes, by the way; will you smoke a little tobacco?’

‘There it is again,’ cried Talbot; ‘I say once more, what is the meaning of it? Theidea of your respectable father permitting us to smoke under his roof. Why, it was only, as it were, under protest that he was wont to permit you to breathe. Then, as for me, he used to think me something worse than one of the wicked; an anomalous emanation from Grub Street; a sort of savage with cash in his pocket: whereas his tone to me now is as the honey of Hybla. What magic has wrought this change in the old curmudgeon?’

‘Well, perhaps of late he has got to understand me better, and consequently my friends, suggested William Henry.

‘Oh,thatcan’t be it,’ replied Talbot contemptuously; ‘I should say if he knew as much about you as I did he would behave worse to you than ever. I don’t mean anything offensive to you, my dear fellow,’ added the speaker, for his companion’s face had grown very troubled; ‘on the contrary, I compliment you. It’s just those qualities I admire most in you which would least recommend you to his good graces. On the other hand, if you have a fault in my eyes, it is anexcess of caution. Come, be frank with me, what is the tune which has set this rhinoceros a dancing?’

‘I have had the good fortune to find an old manuscript which has put my father in high good humour.’

‘And the young lady, your cousin, is she, too, enamoured of old manuscripts?’

‘Well, not that I am aware of,’ laughed William Henry.

‘Then I congratulate you,’ was the quick rejoinder; ‘it is now obvious to me that she is enamoured ofyou. That her affections were bespoken in some direction from the first was plain from the manner in which she received my advances.’

‘Your advances?’

‘Yes; you have heard of the power of the human eye over the brute creation. Well, that is nothing to the effects of this,’ he tapped his spy-glass, ‘upon the sensibilities of angelic woman. I have never known it fail, except when their minds are preoccupied with another object. I am writing an epic, to be entitled“The Spy-glass,” the views of which, though founded on personal experience, will be quite novel. And that reminds me, how often have we not read our poems to one another? Why have you never come to see me since I have been at the “Blue Boar?”’

‘My dear fellow, as you heard my father say—— ‘ began William Henry persuasively.

‘Tut, tut, I mean yourrealreason,’ put in the other scornfully. ‘We used to meet often enough when the rhinoceros did not dance, when he was very far from dancing. Yet now—— ‘

‘The fact is, my dear fellow,’ interrupted William Henry earnestly, ‘thereisa reason.’

‘I have reached that point already without a guide,’ observed the other drily.

‘The truth is—— ‘ pursued William Henry.

Mr. Reginald Talbot took the pipe from his mouth and laughed aloud. Certainly no diplomatic explanation could have been conducted under greater difficulties. ‘Some people yearn for fame, my dear Erin,’ he said; ‘to others itis very undesirable to be well known, even by a single individual.’

‘If you imagine I wish to deceive you, Talbot, you are quite wrong,’ said William Henry firmly, ‘but it is true that I cannot be so frank with you as I could wish. I have a secret which is not my own, or you may be sure that you should share it. Listen.’ Then he told him the whole story of his acquaintance with the Templar and its singular result. Talbot listened to him with great attention.

‘It is very curious,’ he remarked when the narrative was finished, ‘and certainly a great stroke of luck. But it is like a tale from the “Arabian Nights.” Nay, I don’t mean on the score of veracity,’ for William Henry had flushed crimson, ‘but from its parenthetic nature. It is a story within a story; for if you can stretch your memory so far, you began with the intention of telling me why you never came to see your old friend at the “Blue Boar?”’

‘It was because I had no time, Talbot. I have to do my work at the office, and alsoto attend upon my new acquaintance at the Temple.’

‘You must be occupied indeed; not a moment in which to say, “How-d’ye-do? Good-morrow!”’

‘There were also my father’s injunctions. I thought such a fleeting visit as you speak of would be worse than nothing, and would cause you more annoyance than being neglected; but now my father and you are friends I will certainly find time to renew the ancient days.’

‘Come, that is better. Now shall I fill up what is wanting in your explanation and make all clear?’

‘If you please,’ said William Henry indifferently, ‘though I am not aware that there is anything more.’

‘Yes, there is your cousin Margaret,’ said Talbot, with a cunning air; ‘you would have braved the anger of the rhinoceros and followed your own inclinations—which I flatter myself would have led you to come and see me—had his favour been no more important to you thanof yore. But he holds in his hand another hand, of which he has the disposal, and therefore it behoves you to be on your best behaviour.’

‘You have guessed it,’ exclaimed William Henry with admiration. ‘If I thought you could have sympathised with me, as I see you do, I should have saved you the trouble of guessing.’

‘Sympathise with you? When was son of the Muses indifferent to the love wound of his friend? Have we not always sympathised with one another? Does any one except yourself admire your poetry as much as I do? Can I anywhere find a friend more capable of appreciating the higher flights of mine thanyou? I have done a good deal, by-the-bye, in that way since I saw you last, Erin; not to mention six cantos of “The Spy-glass,” I have written one-and-twenty songs; some of them may be useful to you if your inspiration has flagged of late, for they are all to my mistress—whose name, like yours, is fortunately in three syllables—a madrigal or two, and a number of miscellaneouspieces, chiefly satirical. To-morrow—you said to-morrow, I think—we will devote to recitation.’

William Henry’s countenance fell. He had heard Mr. Reginald Talbot’s recitations before. They were not extempore, but they had one fatal attribute in common with extemporaneous effusions—there was no knowing where they would end. If he had been invited to recite his own poetry, that would have been a different thing.

‘Nothing would be more agreeable to me, my dear fellow, but how am I to excuse my absence from chambers?’

‘Then I’ll come to your chambers instead of your coming to me; I shall thus have the opportunity of seeing howyourmuse has progressed; we will compare notes together. To be sure, it is not as if you had your room to yourself; there’s that disagreeable fellow-clerk of yours, a most unappreciative and flippant person.’

‘Yes, he would spoil everything,’ put in William Henry eagerly. ‘It is better we shouldbe alone together, even for a less time, at the “Blue Boar.”’

‘Very good; then give me as long as you can to-morrow. I want your advice, for the fact is, the business on which I am come up to town is about the publication of my poems. The publisher and I cannot agree about terms, which seems strange, since what we both want is money down. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind my selecting a few of your very best—you and I could rig out a twin volume together, like Beaumont and Fletcher.’

‘Perhaps,’ observed William Henry dubiously.

He had private and pressing reasons for conciliating Mr. Reginald Talbot, but to such a monstrous proposition as had just been made to him he felt he could never consent. It would be like yoking his Pegasus to a dray horse. As regarded other matters, it was true that Talbot and he were old friends—or rather it would be more correct to say that they had for years of boyhood been thrown into one another’s company; the bond of school-friendship is, however,soon weakened under the influence of other conditions, as hothouse flowers fade and fail in the open air; and moreover, when angered, Talbot, who piqued himself on his knowledge of human nature, had a habit of saying what he thought of his antagonist, which was not the less intolerable if it happened to be correct. Their tastes, it was true, were similar, but involved some rivalry, and each perhaps was secretly conscious that the other did not admire his verses so much as he pretended to do. With the Irish Channel between them, they would doubtless have continued to get on capitally together, but, as intimates, the path of friendship had pitfalls. It must be added that Mr. Reginald Talbot’s arrival in town had taken place at a most inconvenient season, and was, in a word, unwelcome to his former crony. That this was not perceived by Talbot was not so much owing to the other’s tact as to his own conceit, which was stupendous; but fortunately it was not seen. Perhaps our young friend did not quite believe in the Irish gentleman’s sympathy with him in respect to Margaret, andmisdoubted his ‘Spy-glass;’ perhaps he thought him, if not too wise, too cunning by half. At all events he greatly regretted that his brother bard had just now come to London, and especially about the remunerative production of his poems, which he had reason to believe would be a protracted operation.

The next afternoon, when he paid his promised visit to the ‘Blue Boar,’ a circumstance occurred which caused him increased annoyance.

‘I say, my astute young friend,’ were Talbot’s first words, delivered in that half morose, half bantering way which was habitual to him when ready primed for a quarrel, ‘where have you been to these last three hours?’

‘To the Temple. Did I not tell you that I generally went there in the afternoon? As to the exact locality, you must perceive the impropriety of my mentioning it even to you.’

‘Still you might speak the truth about other matters. Why did you not tell me that old Bingley had dismissed his second clerk?’

‘What possible interest could the circumstance have for you?’

‘Only that you allowed me to conclude that he was still there, in order that I should not come to New Inn.’

‘Very good; then you know the reason.’

Mr. Reginald Talbot grew very red, and his stout frame grew visibly stouter. William Henry, however, though more slightly built, was not his inferior (as he had more than once had the opportunity of discovering) either in courage or in the art of self-defence.

‘After behaving in so false a manner to me, sir,’ said Talbot, pointing to a very considerable heap of MSS. written in parallel lines, ‘I shall not read you my poems.’

‘Thank you; that is returning good for evil,’ said William Henry coolly. ‘Read them to yourself and not aloud, or you will set the cats a caterwauling,’ and with that he clapped his hat on and marched out of his friend’s apartments.

It was not one of those quarrels described as the renewal of love; it was a deadly feud.A woman, even if she is not as fair as Venus, may forgive an imputation on her good looks, but a poet, conscious of an inferiority to Shakespeare, does not forgive a slight inflicted on his muse.

CHAPTER XI.THE LOVE-LOCK.WhetherWilliam Henry’s short method with Mr. Reginald Talbot was to be satisfactory or not remains to be seen, but for the present it had all the effect intended. The inmate of the ‘Blue Boar’ confined himself to his own quarters, or, at all events, did not take advantage of the general invitation given to him by Mr. Samuel Erin to visit Norfolk Street. Nor did that gentleman make any inquiry into the cause of his absence. He had done his best to pleasure his son and encourage him in his discoveries, but was well content that ‘the popinjay’ kept away. With William Henry—and this was, perhaps, even a greater proof of the change in the old man than his more active kindnesses—he was very patient and unimportunate.He would cast one look of earnest inquiry on the young fellow as he came home every evening, and, receiving a shake of the head by way of reply, would abstain from further questioning. Such was his admiration for the nameless inmate of the Temple that he respected his wish for silence, even as it were at second hand. This behaviour was most acceptable to its object, and the more so, since the reticence Mr. Erin thus observed in his own case he imposed upon his visitors, who would have otherwise subjected William Henry to the question,forte et dure, half a dozen times a day. He had persuaded himself that if once the mysterious visitor should get to know that a fuss was being made about that note of hand, he would withdraw his favours from his protégé altogether.One evening William Henry came home a little earlier than usual, and in return to his father’s inquiring look returned a smile full of significance.‘I have found something, father,’ he said, ‘but you must be content, in this case, with the examination of it.’‘Then your friend has gone back from his word,’ replied the old man; ‘well, it was almost too much to expect that he should have kept to it.’‘Nay, you must not misjudge him, father, for the very restrictions he has placed upon me mean nothing but kindness. The treasure trove is this time for Margaret.’‘Margaret! what does he know about Margaret? Well, at all events, it is in the family.’This reflection alone would hardly have been sufficient to smooth away disappointment from the old man’s brow, had it not also struck him that his niece had no great taste for old MSS., and that a new gown, with a fashionable breast-knot, or some Flanders lace, would probably be considered an equivalent for the original draft of Hamlet.‘Come, come, let us hear about it?’‘But if you please, sir, we must wait for my cousin, my patron said—— ‘‘Maggie, Maggie!’ exclaimed the old man, running out into the little hall and calling upthe stairs, ‘come down this moment; here is a present for you.’At the unwonted news Maggie ran downstairs, arranging the last touches of her costume upon the way, and arriving in the parlour in the most charming state of flush and fervour. Entranced with her beauty, and conscious of having made another step towards the accomplishment of his hopes, William Henry devoured her with his eyes. It was seldom, indeed, that he committed such an imprudence—in company—but if he had kissed her, it is probable, under the circumstances, Mr. Erin would have made no remark, or set it down to Shakespearean enthusiasm.‘Another MS., Maggie!’ he cried triumphantly.‘Come, that is better than fifty presents,’ answered Maggie, beaming. ‘I forgive you for your trick upon me, uncle, with all my heart.’‘But what I have found is foryou,’ said William Henry, firmly.‘Just so,’ exclaimed Mr. Erin, hurriedly, ‘the MS. or something of equal worth, that you would like vastly better. Let us see; now, let us see.’f174‘Maggie, Maggie, here is a present for you.’William Henry took out of his pocket an ancient, timeworn piece of paper, carefully unfolded it, and produced from it a lock of brown straight hair.‘I thought you said it was a MS.,’ exclaimed Mr. Erin, in a tone of extreme disappointment. ‘Why, this is only hair, and if I may be allowed to say so, not a very good specimen even of that.’‘Nevertheless, sir, such as it is, it is Shakespeare’s hair!’‘Shakespeare’s hair!’ echoed Mr. Erin, falling into rather than sitting down on the nearest chair; ‘it is impossible—you are imposing on me.’William Henry turned very white, and looked very grave and pained.‘Oh, uncle, how can you say such a thing!’ cried Margaret, plaintively: ‘poor Willie!’‘I did not mean that, my lad, of course,’ gasped Mr. Erin; ‘I scarcely know what I say. It seems too great a thing to be true.Hishair!’ He eyed it with speechless reverence,as it lay in his son’s open palm; his trembling fingers hovered round it, like the wings of a bird round the nest of its little ones, but did not venture to touch it.‘Where was it found?’ he murmured.‘Wrapped up in this paper, a letter to Anne Hathaway, which mentions the fact of his sending her the lock, and encloses some verses.’‘Is it possible?’ exclaimed the old man, with intense excitement; ‘oh, happy day! Read it, read it! I can see nothing clearly.’The letter ran as follows:‘Dearesste Anna,—As thou haste alwaye founde mee toe my worde mostetreue, so thou shalt see I have stryctlye kept mye promyse. I prayeyou perfume thys mye poore Locke withe thye balmye eyess, fore thenne,indeede, shalle Kynges themmeselves love and paye homage toe itte. I doeassure thee no rude hand hath knottedde itte, thye Willys alone hathdone the worke. Adewe sweete love.‘Thyne everre,‘Wm. Shakespeare.’‘Most tender, true, and precious!’ exclaimed the antiquary, ecstatically; ‘and now the verses?’‘There are but two, sir,’ said the young man, apologetically:—‘“Is therre in heavenne aught more rareThane thou sweete nymphe of Avon fayre,Is therre onne earthe a manne more treueThanne Willy Shakespeare is toe you?”’William Henry read very well, and with much pathos, and into the last line he put especial tenderness which did not need the covert glance he shot at her to bring the colour into Margaret’s cheek.‘“Though deathe with neverre faylinge blowe,Doth manne and babe alyke bringe lowe;Yet doth he take naught butte hys dueAnd strikes not Willy’s heart still treue.”’‘What simplicity, what fidelity!’ murmured the antiquary; ‘a flawless gem indeed! Whence did you unearth it?’‘I found it where I found the other deed, sir, amongst my patron’s documents; I took it,of course, to him at once. He was greatly surprised and interested, and fully conscious of the value of the godsend; yet he never showed the least sign of regret at the gift he made me, of what he was pleased to call the jetsam and flotsam from his collection. ‘“If I were a younger man,” he said, “I think I should have grudged you that lock of hair. It is just the sort of present a young fellow should give to the girl he has a respect for. A thing that costs nothing, yet is exceedingly precious, and which speaks of love and fidelity. It is too good for any antiquary.”’‘Your patron is mad, my lad,’ said Mr. Erin, in a tone of cheerful conviction; ‘hemustbe mad to talk like that; and, indeed, he would never give away these things at all if he were in his sober senses. The idea of bestowing such an inestimable relic upon a girl! Why, it should rather be preserved in some museum in the custody of trustees, to the delight of the whole nation for ever.’‘Nevertheless, sir, such was my patron’s injunction. He asked of me if I knew any pureand comely maiden, well brought up, and who would understand the value of such a thing. I had therefore, of course, no choice but to mention Margaret; whereupon he said that the lock of hair was to be hers.’‘I’ll keep it for you, Maggie, in my iron press,’ said Mr. Erin considerately. ‘You shall look at it—in my presence—as often as you like; and then we shall both know that it is safe and sound. As for the letter and verses, Samuel, it will be better to put them for the present, perhaps, in the same repository.’‘You may put them where you like, sir,’ answered William Henry smiling, as he always did when addressed by that unwonted name; ‘they are yours.’‘A good lad, an excellent lad,’ murmured the antiquary; ‘now let us with all due reverence inspect these treasures. This is the very hair I should have looked for as having been the immortal bard’s, just as the engraving by Droeshart depicts it in the folio edition. Brown, straight, and wiry, as Steevens terms it.’‘I should not call it wiry, uncle,’ observedMargaret, ‘though to be sure it has no curl nor gloss on it; it seems to me soft enough to have been a woman’s hair.’‘It is, perhaps, a trifle silkier and more effeminate than the description would warrant,’ returned the antiquary, ‘but that is doubtless due to the mellowing effects of time. It may be so far looked upon as corroborative evidence. In that connection, by-the-bye, let me draw your particular attention to the braid with which the hair is fastened. This woven silk is not of to-day’s workmanship. I recognise it as being of the same kind used in the reigns of Mary and Elizabeth for attaching the royal seal to patents: a most interesting circumstance, and one which, were there any doubt of the genuineness of the hair, might, like the impress of the quintin in the case of the Hemynge deed, be reasonably adduced as an undesigned coincidence. Then to think that we have it under his own hand that Shakespeare’s fingers have knotted it. Read his words once again, my son, before we put the priceless treasure by.’‘“I doe assure thee no rude hand hathknottedde itte, thye Willys alone hath done the worke.”’‘How tender, how touching!’ exclaimed the antiquary. ‘We seem to be in his very presence. What a privilege has this day been vouchsafed to us, my children!’The two young people glanced at one another involuntarily as the old man addressed them by this title.It is probable that Mr. Erin attached no particular meaning to it. It may have been only the expression of the measureless content he felt with both of them; with his son for what he had brought him, and with his niece for the readiness with which she had resigned what he had brought to his own custody. But to their ears it had a deep significance.As their looks met, that of William Henry was so full of tender triumph that Maggie’s face became crimson, and she cast down her eyes. For the first time she began to believe in the possibility of the realisation of the young man’s dream. Notwithstanding what had passed between them, she had hithertofelt more like a sister towards him than a lover; it was not that she feared to risk the wreck of her own happiness by trusting it to so slight a bark, but that, while matters were so uncertain, a natural and modest instinct prevented her from regarding him as he regarded her. There had been a sort of false dawn of love with her, but, now that her uncle seemed to give such solid ground for hope, the sun which had long lain in wait behind those clouds of doubt came out with all the splendour of the morn. Love arose within her.As Mr. Erin reverently placed his treasures in the iron safe, William Henry stole his arm round Margaret’s waist:—‘Is there on earthe a manne more treueThan Willie Erin is to you?’he whispered softly: and for the first time she did not reprove him.

THE LOVE-LOCK.

WhetherWilliam Henry’s short method with Mr. Reginald Talbot was to be satisfactory or not remains to be seen, but for the present it had all the effect intended. The inmate of the ‘Blue Boar’ confined himself to his own quarters, or, at all events, did not take advantage of the general invitation given to him by Mr. Samuel Erin to visit Norfolk Street. Nor did that gentleman make any inquiry into the cause of his absence. He had done his best to pleasure his son and encourage him in his discoveries, but was well content that ‘the popinjay’ kept away. With William Henry—and this was, perhaps, even a greater proof of the change in the old man than his more active kindnesses—he was very patient and unimportunate.He would cast one look of earnest inquiry on the young fellow as he came home every evening, and, receiving a shake of the head by way of reply, would abstain from further questioning. Such was his admiration for the nameless inmate of the Temple that he respected his wish for silence, even as it were at second hand. This behaviour was most acceptable to its object, and the more so, since the reticence Mr. Erin thus observed in his own case he imposed upon his visitors, who would have otherwise subjected William Henry to the question,forte et dure, half a dozen times a day. He had persuaded himself that if once the mysterious visitor should get to know that a fuss was being made about that note of hand, he would withdraw his favours from his protégé altogether.

One evening William Henry came home a little earlier than usual, and in return to his father’s inquiring look returned a smile full of significance.

‘I have found something, father,’ he said, ‘but you must be content, in this case, with the examination of it.’

‘Then your friend has gone back from his word,’ replied the old man; ‘well, it was almost too much to expect that he should have kept to it.’

‘Nay, you must not misjudge him, father, for the very restrictions he has placed upon me mean nothing but kindness. The treasure trove is this time for Margaret.’

‘Margaret! what does he know about Margaret? Well, at all events, it is in the family.’

This reflection alone would hardly have been sufficient to smooth away disappointment from the old man’s brow, had it not also struck him that his niece had no great taste for old MSS., and that a new gown, with a fashionable breast-knot, or some Flanders lace, would probably be considered an equivalent for the original draft of Hamlet.

‘Come, come, let us hear about it?’

‘But if you please, sir, we must wait for my cousin, my patron said—— ‘

‘Maggie, Maggie!’ exclaimed the old man, running out into the little hall and calling upthe stairs, ‘come down this moment; here is a present for you.’

At the unwonted news Maggie ran downstairs, arranging the last touches of her costume upon the way, and arriving in the parlour in the most charming state of flush and fervour. Entranced with her beauty, and conscious of having made another step towards the accomplishment of his hopes, William Henry devoured her with his eyes. It was seldom, indeed, that he committed such an imprudence—in company—but if he had kissed her, it is probable, under the circumstances, Mr. Erin would have made no remark, or set it down to Shakespearean enthusiasm.

‘Another MS., Maggie!’ he cried triumphantly.

‘Come, that is better than fifty presents,’ answered Maggie, beaming. ‘I forgive you for your trick upon me, uncle, with all my heart.’

‘But what I have found is foryou,’ said William Henry, firmly.

‘Just so,’ exclaimed Mr. Erin, hurriedly, ‘the MS. or something of equal worth, that you would like vastly better. Let us see; now, let us see.’

f174

‘Maggie, Maggie, here is a present for you.’

‘Maggie, Maggie, here is a present for you.’

‘Maggie, Maggie, here is a present for you.’

William Henry took out of his pocket an ancient, timeworn piece of paper, carefully unfolded it, and produced from it a lock of brown straight hair.

‘I thought you said it was a MS.,’ exclaimed Mr. Erin, in a tone of extreme disappointment. ‘Why, this is only hair, and if I may be allowed to say so, not a very good specimen even of that.’

‘Nevertheless, sir, such as it is, it is Shakespeare’s hair!’

‘Shakespeare’s hair!’ echoed Mr. Erin, falling into rather than sitting down on the nearest chair; ‘it is impossible—you are imposing on me.’

William Henry turned very white, and looked very grave and pained.

‘Oh, uncle, how can you say such a thing!’ cried Margaret, plaintively: ‘poor Willie!’

‘I did not mean that, my lad, of course,’ gasped Mr. Erin; ‘I scarcely know what I say. It seems too great a thing to be true.Hishair!’ He eyed it with speechless reverence,as it lay in his son’s open palm; his trembling fingers hovered round it, like the wings of a bird round the nest of its little ones, but did not venture to touch it.

‘Where was it found?’ he murmured.

‘Wrapped up in this paper, a letter to Anne Hathaway, which mentions the fact of his sending her the lock, and encloses some verses.’

‘Is it possible?’ exclaimed the old man, with intense excitement; ‘oh, happy day! Read it, read it! I can see nothing clearly.’

The letter ran as follows:

‘Dearesste Anna,—As thou haste alwaye founde mee toe my worde mostetreue, so thou shalt see I have stryctlye kept mye promyse. I prayeyou perfume thys mye poore Locke withe thye balmye eyess, fore thenne,indeede, shalle Kynges themmeselves love and paye homage toe itte. I doeassure thee no rude hand hath knottedde itte, thye Willys alone hathdone the worke. Adewe sweete love.

‘Thyne everre,

‘Wm. Shakespeare.’

‘Most tender, true, and precious!’ exclaimed the antiquary, ecstatically; ‘and now the verses?’

‘There are but two, sir,’ said the young man, apologetically:—

‘“Is therre in heavenne aught more rareThane thou sweete nymphe of Avon fayre,Is therre onne earthe a manne more treueThanne Willy Shakespeare is toe you?”’

William Henry read very well, and with much pathos, and into the last line he put especial tenderness which did not need the covert glance he shot at her to bring the colour into Margaret’s cheek.

‘“Though deathe with neverre faylinge blowe,Doth manne and babe alyke bringe lowe;Yet doth he take naught butte hys dueAnd strikes not Willy’s heart still treue.”’

‘What simplicity, what fidelity!’ murmured the antiquary; ‘a flawless gem indeed! Whence did you unearth it?’

‘I found it where I found the other deed, sir, amongst my patron’s documents; I took it,of course, to him at once. He was greatly surprised and interested, and fully conscious of the value of the godsend; yet he never showed the least sign of regret at the gift he made me, of what he was pleased to call the jetsam and flotsam from his collection. ‘“If I were a younger man,” he said, “I think I should have grudged you that lock of hair. It is just the sort of present a young fellow should give to the girl he has a respect for. A thing that costs nothing, yet is exceedingly precious, and which speaks of love and fidelity. It is too good for any antiquary.”’

‘Your patron is mad, my lad,’ said Mr. Erin, in a tone of cheerful conviction; ‘hemustbe mad to talk like that; and, indeed, he would never give away these things at all if he were in his sober senses. The idea of bestowing such an inestimable relic upon a girl! Why, it should rather be preserved in some museum in the custody of trustees, to the delight of the whole nation for ever.’

‘Nevertheless, sir, such was my patron’s injunction. He asked of me if I knew any pureand comely maiden, well brought up, and who would understand the value of such a thing. I had therefore, of course, no choice but to mention Margaret; whereupon he said that the lock of hair was to be hers.’

‘I’ll keep it for you, Maggie, in my iron press,’ said Mr. Erin considerately. ‘You shall look at it—in my presence—as often as you like; and then we shall both know that it is safe and sound. As for the letter and verses, Samuel, it will be better to put them for the present, perhaps, in the same repository.’

‘You may put them where you like, sir,’ answered William Henry smiling, as he always did when addressed by that unwonted name; ‘they are yours.’

‘A good lad, an excellent lad,’ murmured the antiquary; ‘now let us with all due reverence inspect these treasures. This is the very hair I should have looked for as having been the immortal bard’s, just as the engraving by Droeshart depicts it in the folio edition. Brown, straight, and wiry, as Steevens terms it.’

‘I should not call it wiry, uncle,’ observedMargaret, ‘though to be sure it has no curl nor gloss on it; it seems to me soft enough to have been a woman’s hair.’

‘It is, perhaps, a trifle silkier and more effeminate than the description would warrant,’ returned the antiquary, ‘but that is doubtless due to the mellowing effects of time. It may be so far looked upon as corroborative evidence. In that connection, by-the-bye, let me draw your particular attention to the braid with which the hair is fastened. This woven silk is not of to-day’s workmanship. I recognise it as being of the same kind used in the reigns of Mary and Elizabeth for attaching the royal seal to patents: a most interesting circumstance, and one which, were there any doubt of the genuineness of the hair, might, like the impress of the quintin in the case of the Hemynge deed, be reasonably adduced as an undesigned coincidence. Then to think that we have it under his own hand that Shakespeare’s fingers have knotted it. Read his words once again, my son, before we put the priceless treasure by.’

‘“I doe assure thee no rude hand hathknottedde itte, thye Willys alone hath done the worke.”’

‘How tender, how touching!’ exclaimed the antiquary. ‘We seem to be in his very presence. What a privilege has this day been vouchsafed to us, my children!’

The two young people glanced at one another involuntarily as the old man addressed them by this title.

It is probable that Mr. Erin attached no particular meaning to it. It may have been only the expression of the measureless content he felt with both of them; with his son for what he had brought him, and with his niece for the readiness with which she had resigned what he had brought to his own custody. But to their ears it had a deep significance.

As their looks met, that of William Henry was so full of tender triumph that Maggie’s face became crimson, and she cast down her eyes. For the first time she began to believe in the possibility of the realisation of the young man’s dream. Notwithstanding what had passed between them, she had hithertofelt more like a sister towards him than a lover; it was not that she feared to risk the wreck of her own happiness by trusting it to so slight a bark, but that, while matters were so uncertain, a natural and modest instinct prevented her from regarding him as he regarded her. There had been a sort of false dawn of love with her, but, now that her uncle seemed to give such solid ground for hope, the sun which had long lain in wait behind those clouds of doubt came out with all the splendour of the morn. Love arose within her.

As Mr. Erin reverently placed his treasures in the iron safe, William Henry stole his arm round Margaret’s waist:—

‘Is there on earthe a manne more treueThan Willie Erin is to you?’

he whispered softly: and for the first time she did not reprove him.

CHAPTER XII.A DELICATE TASK.Greatas had been Mr. Erin’s joy when he first looked on Shakespeare’s love-lock and love letter, it by no means wore off—as our violent delights are apt to do—as time went on. What was wanting in the way of novelty was made up to him perhaps—for we may be sure Margaret did not insist upon her rights in the matter—by the sense of possession. For what was the position of the man who had in his cupboard some unique pieces of china, or even in his coffers the biggest ruby or diamond in the world, as compared with his own? Only, as in the latter case, he grew not a little nervous for the safety of his unrivalled treasure. He was avirtuosoand antiquary himself, and therefore recognised the full extent of hisdanger. In his iron press he caused a little well to be sunk, in which the lock of hair was placed under glass, for the contemplation of the faithful, and none was ever permitted to behold it save in his presence. Even then he did not feel safe, but compelled himself to adopt a plan to ensure security which galled him to the quick. Just as in old times black mail was wont to be given by the rich to leading and powerful robbers as an insurance on their goods, so Mr. Samuel Erin did not hesitate to offer to the more audacious and formidable of his learned brethren bribes, and those of the most precious kind imaginable. Though every thread taken from Shakespeare’s lock gave him a pang infinitely keener than the drawing out of his own beard with pincers would have done, he actually distributed a few of these precious hairs among his friends, which they placed reverently in rings and lockets. We may be sure that Sir Frederick Eden had a genuine hair or two; but it was whispered by the envious (who were many) that upon applications becoming numerous Mr. Erin’s favoursgrew in proportion, which, as the lock did not diminish, could only arise from some other source of supply.Among the recipients who entertained this doubt, or among those who received no such sacred relic at all, there were some who had the hardihood to assert that no human hair could have resisted the lapse of time since Shakespeare’s days. They even produced a Mr. Collett, a hair merchant, who came to inspect the lock—from a distance of several feet, however—and who had the hardihood to express this opinion in the proprietor’s presence. To describe the effect of anger in aged persons, especially when accompanied with personal violence, is painful to one who, like the present writer, has a respect for the dignity of human nature, so we will draw a veil over what ensued, but it is certain that Mr. Collett left Norfolk Street on that occasion with much precipitation—taking the four steps that led to the front door at a bound: he also left his hat behind him, which was thrown after him into the street. It must be admitted that his objectionswere as absurd as they were impertinent, since it is well known that human hair has survived many centuries of burial; indeed, when the vault of Edward IV., who died in 1483, was opened at Windsor, the hair of the head was found flowing, and as strong as hair cut from the head of a living person. This Sir Frederick Eden privately assured Mr. Erin to be true, since he was not only present at the exhumation, but had been so fortunate, by means of a heavy bribe to the sexton, as to get some of the said hair for his private collection.Partly from reasons that have been suggested, but chiefly from William Henry’s remonstrance upon his patron’s account—who he felt confident would lay an embargo upon all future treasure troves, if he should find the report of what had happened to interfere with his own ease and privacy—Mr. Samuel Erin took little pains to circulate the news of his son’s second discovery; but nevertheless it oozed out, and in spite of himself William Henry found himself to be in some respects a public character. Whoever called to see themanuscripts inquired also if the young gentleman was at home, to receive from his own lips the oft-told tale of their discovery. This was exceedingly irksome to him; he would much rather have been reading and talking to his fair cousin, and let his father have all the glory of exhibition and explanation to himself. But Maggie never grudged him to these inquirers; she was pleased to find he was so much sought after, and took a greater pride in it than even her uncle. William Henry went to New Inn, as usual, but it was well understood that the time he spent there was of little consequence, as compared with his visits to the Temple. Mr. Erin ever thirsted for new discoveries, not only on their own account, but because, as he justly observed, the greater the bulk of them, the more probable would their genuineness appear to those inclined to question it. The antiquary demands not only treasure but credit, and though Mr. Erin himself entertained no doubts, he would rather that other people had none; just as the gentleman who kept the thousand-pound note framed and glazed upon his mantelpiece,not content with knowing it was from the Bank of England, resented the imputation from his friends of its having been issued from the Bank of Elegance.Moreover, Mr. Erin was secretly troubled at the continued absence of Frank Dennis. He could, as we have seen, on occasion, and even when there was no occasion, give him the rough side of his tongue, but in his heart he greatly respected him. The old man, thanks to himself, or rather to his temper, had few friends; the bond that united him to those he possessed was itself a source of rivalry and disagreement. But Dennis’s father and himself had been as brothers, and after the former died, Mr. Erin had allowed the young man some familiarity, to which certainly none of his years had been admitted before or since.He professed just now to be absent on business, but business had never detained him from Norfolk Street so long before. Mr. Erin reproached himself with having driven him away by his harsh behaviour, and even went so far as to confess as much to his niece.‘Of course it annoyed me, wench, to see Frank so obstinate in his incredulity, for that he was incredulous about that note of hand I am certain.’‘I can only say that he never breathed a word of doubt to me, uncle.’‘Nor to me, yet I know he harboured doubts,’ was the confident reply. ‘He stuck to them even after Sir Frederick found out the quintin on the seals.’‘Still, it’s only a matter of opinion, uncle.’‘Opinion! it’s what the believers in the Scarlet Woman call inveterate contumacy—they used to burn people for it.’‘Well, but you don’t agree withthem, you know,’ smiled Margaret. ‘You were always a stickler for the rights of private judgment.’The antiquary shook his head and pursed his lips, the only reply possible to him under the circumstances; he could not say, ‘But when I mean private judgment, I mean the judgment that coincides with my private views.’‘Perhaps I have been a little hard on him,Maggie, and that is what keeps him away. I wish he were back again.’This confession from the mouth of such a man was pathetic. What it conveyed, as Margaret partly guessed, was, that in the crowd of flatterers and secret detractors by whom her uncle was surrounded he felt the loss of his honest, if somewhat too outspoken, friend. She felt remorse too, as well as compunction, for in her heart she suspected that she herself was the cause of Frank’s absence.He had doubtless noticed the changed relations between herself and William Henry, and withdrawn himself, but without a word of complaint, from her society. He recognised the right she had to choose for herself, nor did he grudge her the happiness she found in her choice, but he could not endure the contemplation of it. It was out of the question, of course, that she should reveal this to Mr. Erin; but she was too straightforward to corroborate a view of the matter which she knew to be incorrect.‘I don’t think Frank is one, uncle, to takeoffence at anything you may have said to him about the Deed. He is too sensible—I mean,’ she added with the haste of one who withdraws his foot from a precipice, ‘his nature is too generous to harbour offence.’‘You really think that, do you?’ returned the old man in a tone of unmistakable relief. ‘Well, in that case, just drop him a line and let him know how the matter stands. You need not put it upon me at all, but say you miss his society here very much, as, of course, you do.’Margaret was greatly embarrassed; the task thus proposed to her was almost impossible. She had never written to the young man before, and to do so now in her peculiar circumstances, and for the purpose of asking him to return to town, would be very painful to her and might be misleading to him.‘I like Mr. Dennis very much, uncle,’ she stammered, ‘but—— ‘‘Just so,’ interrupted the antiquary; ‘this scepticism of his, as you were about to say, is a serious drawback; still, ifIcan get over it,youcan surely make allowance for him. Moreover,when he sees the lock of hair and the love letter—and perhaps there may be other discoveries by the time he returns—he must be a very Thomas not to believe such proof. Now if it had been he instead of William Henry who had found these precious relics, all would have indeed been well.’‘I don’t think we should grudge poor Willie his good fortune, sir,’ returned Margaret reprovingly, She was quicker than ever now to take her cousin’s part, and her uncle’s tone of regret had touched her to the quick. It made it evident to her that his new-found regard for his adopted son was but skin-deep—or rather manuscript-deep. The pity for him that she had always felt had become a deeper and more tender sentiment, and given her more courage to defend him.‘Grudge him? Of course I do not grudge him,’ returned the antiquary, fuming. ‘I only meant that if Frank Dennis had William Henry’s gifts he would be a perfect man; you can tell himthatif you like.’For a single instant Margaret saw herselftelling Mr. Dennis ‘that,’ and felt the colour rise to her very forehead. Her uncle noticed that there was a hitch somewhere, and became naturally impatient at finding his wishes interfered with by the scruples of a ‘slip of a girl.’‘Well, write what you will,’ he continued with irritation, ‘only see that it brings him.’Poor Margaret! She liked Frank Dennis, as she had said, very much; but, as she had only too good reason to believe, not so much as he wished her to do. What she had to say to him was: ‘Come to me, but not for my sake.’ It was a parallel to the nursery address to the ducks, ‘Dilly, Dilly, come and be killed;’ only he was not to be killed, but tortured. What were the use of compliments? It was like asking a young gentleman to be best man when he wants to be the bridegroom himself. She could thoroughly depend upon Willie to avoid all appearance of triumph, but there was no getting over the fact that he was Frank’s successful rival; though he would never say like the boastful schoolboy to his less fortunate companion, ‘Do you like cakes? Then see meeat them!’ yet he had the cake, and it was a cake that could not be divided. However, there was no help for it, so she sat down to write her letter.It was a very difficult and delicate task. She had learnt to call him Frank, but could she address him so on paper? ‘Dear Mr. Dennis’ was too formal, and ‘My dear Mr. Dennis’ was, under the circumstances, not to be thought of. She eventually wrote, ‘Dear Frank’ (how dreadfully familiar it looked—yet a fortnight ago it would have seemed natural enough), ‘what delays the wheels of your chariot? If it is business I am sure you must have had time to build a cathedral. My uncle misses you very much’—this sounded unkind; it suggested that no one else regretted his absence, so she added—‘as we all do.’ Here with a little sigh she underlinedall, so as to make it appear that she regretted him only as William Henry did, no more and no less. ‘I hope, for my uncle’s sake, you will come back less of an infidel in Shakespearean affairs. The lock of hair, of the discovery of which you have doubtless heard,has, by-the-bye, thanks to the chivalry of “The Templar,” been given to me, so you will understand that any aspersion cast upon its genuineness is a personal matter. The weather is wet—though it should make no difference to an architect, since he can roof himself anywhere—so there is no excuse for your lingering in the country for pleasure’s sake.’Had she dared to say so, she might have hinted very prettily that with him the sunshine would return to Norfolk Street; but she was no longer fancy free. Even as it was, sisterly as she had endeavoured to make the tone of her letter, she feared she might have given him some involuntary encouragement. It was terrible to her to feel so confident as she did that on the receipt of it Frank Dennis would start for London.

A DELICATE TASK.

Greatas had been Mr. Erin’s joy when he first looked on Shakespeare’s love-lock and love letter, it by no means wore off—as our violent delights are apt to do—as time went on. What was wanting in the way of novelty was made up to him perhaps—for we may be sure Margaret did not insist upon her rights in the matter—by the sense of possession. For what was the position of the man who had in his cupboard some unique pieces of china, or even in his coffers the biggest ruby or diamond in the world, as compared with his own? Only, as in the latter case, he grew not a little nervous for the safety of his unrivalled treasure. He was avirtuosoand antiquary himself, and therefore recognised the full extent of hisdanger. In his iron press he caused a little well to be sunk, in which the lock of hair was placed under glass, for the contemplation of the faithful, and none was ever permitted to behold it save in his presence. Even then he did not feel safe, but compelled himself to adopt a plan to ensure security which galled him to the quick. Just as in old times black mail was wont to be given by the rich to leading and powerful robbers as an insurance on their goods, so Mr. Samuel Erin did not hesitate to offer to the more audacious and formidable of his learned brethren bribes, and those of the most precious kind imaginable. Though every thread taken from Shakespeare’s lock gave him a pang infinitely keener than the drawing out of his own beard with pincers would have done, he actually distributed a few of these precious hairs among his friends, which they placed reverently in rings and lockets. We may be sure that Sir Frederick Eden had a genuine hair or two; but it was whispered by the envious (who were many) that upon applications becoming numerous Mr. Erin’s favoursgrew in proportion, which, as the lock did not diminish, could only arise from some other source of supply.

Among the recipients who entertained this doubt, or among those who received no such sacred relic at all, there were some who had the hardihood to assert that no human hair could have resisted the lapse of time since Shakespeare’s days. They even produced a Mr. Collett, a hair merchant, who came to inspect the lock—from a distance of several feet, however—and who had the hardihood to express this opinion in the proprietor’s presence. To describe the effect of anger in aged persons, especially when accompanied with personal violence, is painful to one who, like the present writer, has a respect for the dignity of human nature, so we will draw a veil over what ensued, but it is certain that Mr. Collett left Norfolk Street on that occasion with much precipitation—taking the four steps that led to the front door at a bound: he also left his hat behind him, which was thrown after him into the street. It must be admitted that his objectionswere as absurd as they were impertinent, since it is well known that human hair has survived many centuries of burial; indeed, when the vault of Edward IV., who died in 1483, was opened at Windsor, the hair of the head was found flowing, and as strong as hair cut from the head of a living person. This Sir Frederick Eden privately assured Mr. Erin to be true, since he was not only present at the exhumation, but had been so fortunate, by means of a heavy bribe to the sexton, as to get some of the said hair for his private collection.

Partly from reasons that have been suggested, but chiefly from William Henry’s remonstrance upon his patron’s account—who he felt confident would lay an embargo upon all future treasure troves, if he should find the report of what had happened to interfere with his own ease and privacy—Mr. Samuel Erin took little pains to circulate the news of his son’s second discovery; but nevertheless it oozed out, and in spite of himself William Henry found himself to be in some respects a public character. Whoever called to see themanuscripts inquired also if the young gentleman was at home, to receive from his own lips the oft-told tale of their discovery. This was exceedingly irksome to him; he would much rather have been reading and talking to his fair cousin, and let his father have all the glory of exhibition and explanation to himself. But Maggie never grudged him to these inquirers; she was pleased to find he was so much sought after, and took a greater pride in it than even her uncle. William Henry went to New Inn, as usual, but it was well understood that the time he spent there was of little consequence, as compared with his visits to the Temple. Mr. Erin ever thirsted for new discoveries, not only on their own account, but because, as he justly observed, the greater the bulk of them, the more probable would their genuineness appear to those inclined to question it. The antiquary demands not only treasure but credit, and though Mr. Erin himself entertained no doubts, he would rather that other people had none; just as the gentleman who kept the thousand-pound note framed and glazed upon his mantelpiece,not content with knowing it was from the Bank of England, resented the imputation from his friends of its having been issued from the Bank of Elegance.

Moreover, Mr. Erin was secretly troubled at the continued absence of Frank Dennis. He could, as we have seen, on occasion, and even when there was no occasion, give him the rough side of his tongue, but in his heart he greatly respected him. The old man, thanks to himself, or rather to his temper, had few friends; the bond that united him to those he possessed was itself a source of rivalry and disagreement. But Dennis’s father and himself had been as brothers, and after the former died, Mr. Erin had allowed the young man some familiarity, to which certainly none of his years had been admitted before or since.

He professed just now to be absent on business, but business had never detained him from Norfolk Street so long before. Mr. Erin reproached himself with having driven him away by his harsh behaviour, and even went so far as to confess as much to his niece.

‘Of course it annoyed me, wench, to see Frank so obstinate in his incredulity, for that he was incredulous about that note of hand I am certain.’

‘I can only say that he never breathed a word of doubt to me, uncle.’

‘Nor to me, yet I know he harboured doubts,’ was the confident reply. ‘He stuck to them even after Sir Frederick found out the quintin on the seals.’

‘Still, it’s only a matter of opinion, uncle.’

‘Opinion! it’s what the believers in the Scarlet Woman call inveterate contumacy—they used to burn people for it.’

‘Well, but you don’t agree withthem, you know,’ smiled Margaret. ‘You were always a stickler for the rights of private judgment.’

The antiquary shook his head and pursed his lips, the only reply possible to him under the circumstances; he could not say, ‘But when I mean private judgment, I mean the judgment that coincides with my private views.’

‘Perhaps I have been a little hard on him,Maggie, and that is what keeps him away. I wish he were back again.’

This confession from the mouth of such a man was pathetic. What it conveyed, as Margaret partly guessed, was, that in the crowd of flatterers and secret detractors by whom her uncle was surrounded he felt the loss of his honest, if somewhat too outspoken, friend. She felt remorse too, as well as compunction, for in her heart she suspected that she herself was the cause of Frank’s absence.

He had doubtless noticed the changed relations between herself and William Henry, and withdrawn himself, but without a word of complaint, from her society. He recognised the right she had to choose for herself, nor did he grudge her the happiness she found in her choice, but he could not endure the contemplation of it. It was out of the question, of course, that she should reveal this to Mr. Erin; but she was too straightforward to corroborate a view of the matter which she knew to be incorrect.

‘I don’t think Frank is one, uncle, to takeoffence at anything you may have said to him about the Deed. He is too sensible—I mean,’ she added with the haste of one who withdraws his foot from a precipice, ‘his nature is too generous to harbour offence.’

‘You really think that, do you?’ returned the old man in a tone of unmistakable relief. ‘Well, in that case, just drop him a line and let him know how the matter stands. You need not put it upon me at all, but say you miss his society here very much, as, of course, you do.’

Margaret was greatly embarrassed; the task thus proposed to her was almost impossible. She had never written to the young man before, and to do so now in her peculiar circumstances, and for the purpose of asking him to return to town, would be very painful to her and might be misleading to him.

‘I like Mr. Dennis very much, uncle,’ she stammered, ‘but—— ‘

‘Just so,’ interrupted the antiquary; ‘this scepticism of his, as you were about to say, is a serious drawback; still, ifIcan get over it,youcan surely make allowance for him. Moreover,when he sees the lock of hair and the love letter—and perhaps there may be other discoveries by the time he returns—he must be a very Thomas not to believe such proof. Now if it had been he instead of William Henry who had found these precious relics, all would have indeed been well.’

‘I don’t think we should grudge poor Willie his good fortune, sir,’ returned Margaret reprovingly, She was quicker than ever now to take her cousin’s part, and her uncle’s tone of regret had touched her to the quick. It made it evident to her that his new-found regard for his adopted son was but skin-deep—or rather manuscript-deep. The pity for him that she had always felt had become a deeper and more tender sentiment, and given her more courage to defend him.

‘Grudge him? Of course I do not grudge him,’ returned the antiquary, fuming. ‘I only meant that if Frank Dennis had William Henry’s gifts he would be a perfect man; you can tell himthatif you like.’

For a single instant Margaret saw herselftelling Mr. Dennis ‘that,’ and felt the colour rise to her very forehead. Her uncle noticed that there was a hitch somewhere, and became naturally impatient at finding his wishes interfered with by the scruples of a ‘slip of a girl.’

‘Well, write what you will,’ he continued with irritation, ‘only see that it brings him.’

Poor Margaret! She liked Frank Dennis, as she had said, very much; but, as she had only too good reason to believe, not so much as he wished her to do. What she had to say to him was: ‘Come to me, but not for my sake.’ It was a parallel to the nursery address to the ducks, ‘Dilly, Dilly, come and be killed;’ only he was not to be killed, but tortured. What were the use of compliments? It was like asking a young gentleman to be best man when he wants to be the bridegroom himself. She could thoroughly depend upon Willie to avoid all appearance of triumph, but there was no getting over the fact that he was Frank’s successful rival; though he would never say like the boastful schoolboy to his less fortunate companion, ‘Do you like cakes? Then see meeat them!’ yet he had the cake, and it was a cake that could not be divided. However, there was no help for it, so she sat down to write her letter.

It was a very difficult and delicate task. She had learnt to call him Frank, but could she address him so on paper? ‘Dear Mr. Dennis’ was too formal, and ‘My dear Mr. Dennis’ was, under the circumstances, not to be thought of. She eventually wrote, ‘Dear Frank’ (how dreadfully familiar it looked—yet a fortnight ago it would have seemed natural enough), ‘what delays the wheels of your chariot? If it is business I am sure you must have had time to build a cathedral. My uncle misses you very much’—this sounded unkind; it suggested that no one else regretted his absence, so she added—‘as we all do.’ Here with a little sigh she underlinedall, so as to make it appear that she regretted him only as William Henry did, no more and no less. ‘I hope, for my uncle’s sake, you will come back less of an infidel in Shakespearean affairs. The lock of hair, of the discovery of which you have doubtless heard,has, by-the-bye, thanks to the chivalry of “The Templar,” been given to me, so you will understand that any aspersion cast upon its genuineness is a personal matter. The weather is wet—though it should make no difference to an architect, since he can roof himself anywhere—so there is no excuse for your lingering in the country for pleasure’s sake.’

Had she dared to say so, she might have hinted very prettily that with him the sunshine would return to Norfolk Street; but she was no longer fancy free. Even as it was, sisterly as she had endeavoured to make the tone of her letter, she feared she might have given him some involuntary encouragement. It was terrible to her to feel so confident as she did that on the receipt of it Frank Dennis would start for London.

CHAPTER XIII.THE PROFESSION OF FAITH.Twodays after Margaret’s letter was despatched there was great news from the Temple. Not even on the first day, when William Henry had won Mr. Erin’s heart by Shakespeare’s note of hand, had the young man’s face been so full of promise as when he came in that evening. On the former occasion, anxiety and doubt had mingled with its expectancy, but now it was flushed with triumph. The difference of manner with which he produced his new discovery was also noticeable. It was not only that he felt as sure of the assent of his audience (who were, indeed, but his uncle and Margaret) as of his own, but he displayed a certain self-consciousness of his own position. He was nolonger an unknown lad, seeking for the favour of one who should have been his natural protector, for he had already won it. It was true he was still dependent upon him for the means of livelihood, and for something that he prized as highly as existence itself; but Mr. Erin had in some sort, on the other hand, become dependent on him. His reputation as a Shakespearean collector and critic, which was very dear to him, had been immensely increased by his son’s discoveries. The newspapers and magazines were full of his good fortune; and even those which disputed the genuineness of his newly acquired possessions made them the subject of continual comment, and added fuel to his notoriety. If such a metaphor can be used without offence in the case of a gentleman of years and learning, Mr. Samuel Erin gazed at William Henry with much the same air of expectation as a very sagacious old dog regards his young master, whom he suspects of having some toothsome morsel in his pocket; he has too much respect for his own dignity to ‘beg’ for it, by sitting up on his hind legs, or barking,but he moves his tail from side to side, and his mouth waters.The young gentleman did not, at first, even produce his prize, but sat down at table with a cheerful nod, that seemed to say, ‘I have found it at last, and by the sacred bones that rest by Avon’s stream, it is worth the finding.’‘Well, Willie,’ exclaimed Margaret, impatiently, ‘what is it?’The young man gravely produced two half-sheets of paper.At the sight of it, for he knew that it was not the new Bath Post, the antiquary’s eyes glistened.‘Mr. Erin—— ‘ began William Henry.‘Why not call me “father,” Samuel?’ put in the old man, gently; if it was the sense of favours to come that moved him, it was at least a deep and genuine sense of them. Margaret’s fair face glowed with pleasure.‘I have often heard you say, father, that you wished above all things to discover what were, in reality, Shakespeare’s religious convictions.’The antiquary nodded assent, but said nothing; the intensity of expectation, indeed, precluded speech; the perspiration came out upon his forehead.‘It distressed you, I know, to believe it possible—as, indeed, the language used by the Ghost in “Hamlet” would seem to imply, that he was of the Catholic persuasion. In the profession of faith found at Stratford—— ‘‘Spurious,’ put in Mr. Erin, mechanically; ‘that fool, Malone, believed in it, nobody else.’This was not quite in accordance with fact; for many months the whole Shakespearean world had admitted its authenticity.‘If it had been true, however, it would have offended your sense of the fitness of things.’‘No doubt; still we must take things as they really were.’Even if it should turn out that Shakespeare was not so good a Protestant as he ought to be, the value of a genuine manuscript was not to be depreciated.‘Well! I have been this day so fortunate asto discover what will put all doubts at rest upon this point. Shakespeare was a Protestant.’‘Thank Heaven!’ murmured Mr. Erin, piously. ‘If you have done this, my son, you have advanced the claims of true religion, and quickened the steps of civilisation throughout the world.’Margaret’s eyes opened very wide (as well they might), but they only beheld William Henry. She had been wont to rally him upon his vanity, and especially upon the hopes he had built upon his poetical gifts. Yet how much greater a mark was he making in the world than his most sanguine aspirations had imagined! And how quiet and unassuming he looked! The modest way in which he habitually bore his honours pleased her even more than the honours themselves.‘After all, Maggie,’ he would say, after receiving the congratulations of the dilettanti, ‘it is nothing but luck.’As he straightened out the half-sheets of paper on the table, where their homely supperstood untouched and unnoticed, he only permitted himself a smile of gratification.‘It is too long,’ he said, ‘to read aloud, and the old spelling is difficult.’His uncle drew his chair close to him, on one side, and Margaret did the like on the other, so that each could read for themselves. Their looks were full of eagerness; the one was thinking of Shakespeare and Samuel Erin, the other of William Henry—andlongo intervallo—of William Shakespeare.The MS., which was headed ‘William Shakespeare’s Profession of Faith,’ ran as follows:—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE’S PROFESSION OF FAITH.I beynge nowe offe sounde Mynde doe hope thatte thys mye wyshe wille, att mye deathe, bee acceded toe, as I nowe lyve in Londonne, and as mye soule maye perchance, soone quittee thys poore bodye, itte is mye desire thatte inne suche case I maye bee carryed toe mye native place, ande thatte mye Bodye bee there quietlye interred wythe as little pompe as canne bee, and I doe nowe, inne these mye seryouse moments, make thys mye professione of faythe, and which I doe moste solemnlye believe. Idoe fyrste looke toe oune lovynge and Greate God and toe his glorious sonne Jesus. I doe alsoe beleyve thatte thys mye weake and frayle Bodye wille returne to duste, butte for mye soule lette God judge thatte as toe himselfe shalle seeme meete. O omnipotente and greate God I am fulle offe synne, I doe notte thinke myeselfe worthye offe thye grace and yette wille I hope, forre evene thee poore prysonerre whenne bounde with gallying irons evene he wille hope for Pittye and whenne the teares of sweete repentance bathe hys wretched pillowe he then looks and hopes for pardonne thenne rouse mye soule and lette hope, thatte sweete cherysher offe all, afforde thee comforte also. O Manne whatte arte thou whye consideres thou thyselfe thus gratelye, where are thye great, thye boasted attrybutes; buryed, loste forre everre in colde Death. O Manne whye attemptest thou toe searche the greatnesse off the Almyghtye thou doste butte loose thye laboure. More thou attempteste, more arte thou loste, tille thye poore weake thoughtes arre elevated toe theyre summite and thenne as snowe from the leffee tree droppe and dystylle themselves tille theye are noe more. O God, manne as I am frayle bye nature, fulle offe synne, yette great God receyve me toe thye bosomme where alle is sweete contente and happyness alle is blyss where dyscontente isse neverre hearde, butte where oune Bonde offe freyndeshippe unytes alle Menne forgive O Lorde alle our synnes, ande withe thye greate goodnesse take usse alle toe thye Breaste; O cheryshe usse like the sweete chickenne thatte under the coverte offe herre spreadynge wings Receyves herre lyttle Broode and hoverynge overre themme keepes themme harmlesse and in safetye.Wm. Shakespeare.Margaret finished the perusal of the MS. before her uncle; her quicker and more youthful eye would probably have done so in any case, but his reverence for the matter forbade rapid reading; she waited respectfully, but also with some little apprehension, for the expression of his opinion.‘This is a godsend!’ he exclaimed at last, with a sigh that had almost as much relief as satisfaction in it. ‘There can be no longer any doubt about Shakespeare’s creed. Is it not beautiful, and full of humility, my child?’‘Yes, uncle.’ She knew that the least fault-finding would be resented, yet she could not shut out from her tone a certain feeling of disappointment; ‘it is hardly, however, so simple as I should have expected.’‘Not simple!’ exclaimed the antiquary in amazement; ‘I call it the most natural effusion of a sincere piety that it is possible to imagine. The diction is solemn and dignified as the subject demands. There are, indeed, some minute particularities of phraseology, and the old spelling to one unaccustomed to it may, asWilliam Henry has observed, be a little difficult; but of all the accusations you could bring against it, that of a want of simplicity, my dear Maggie, is certainly the most frivolous and vexatious.’‘I know I am frivolous,’ replied Margaret, with a sly look at her smiling cousin, ‘but certainly did not intend to be vexatious, uncle.’‘Nay, nay, I was only quoting a legal phrase,’ said Mr. Erin; he had gently drawn the two precious MSS. to himself, and placed an elbow on each of them, in sign of having taken possession. ‘In a case of this kind I need not say that anything in the way of criticism, as to ideas or style, would be out of place, and indeed blasphemous; but no one can blame you for seeking in a proper spirit for enlightenment on this or that point.’Margaret looked up at William Henry, and with a half-roguish and wholly charming smile inquired ‘May I?’‘My dear Maggie,’ returned the young man, laughing outright, ‘why, of course you may. Even if you detected the immortal bardin an error it would be no business of mine to defend him.’‘I should think not, indeed,’ muttered Mr. Erin.‘What I was thinking,’ said Margaret, ‘was that if you, Willie, or Mr. Talbot (who informed us the other night, you know, that he was a poet) had written those lines about spreading her wings over her little brood, it would have been considered plagiarism.’‘What then?’ inquired Mr. Erin contemptuously. ‘It is the peculiar province of a genius such as Shakespeare’s to make everything his own. He improves it by addition.’‘The idea in question, however, is taken from the New Testament,’ observed Maggie.To most people, this remark, which was delivered with a demureness that did the young lady infinite credit, would under the circumstances have been rather embarrassing. It did not embarrass Mr. Samuel Erin in the least.‘What piety it shows! What knowledge of the Holy Scriptures!’ he ejaculated admiringly. ‘How appropriate, too, when we takethe subject into consideration—a confession of faith!’‘True. I am not quite sure, however, whether the substitution of a chicken for a hen is an improvement.’‘Now, there I entirely differ from you,’ exclaimed Mr. Erin; ‘just mark the words “O cheryshe usse like the sweete chickenne thatte under the coverte offe herre spreadynge wings receyves herre lyttle Broode and hoverynge over themme keepes themme harmlesse and in safetye.” What tenderness there is in that “sweete chickenne.” Whereas a hen—a hen is tough. We must understand the expression of course as a general term for the female species of the fowl. None, to my mind, but the most determined and incorrigible caviller can have one word to say against it. I have settled that matter, I think, my dear, to your satisfaction; and do not suppose that what you say has annoyed me. If anything else strikes you, pray mention it. Objections from any source—provided only that they arereasonable’—a word he uttered very significantly—‘will always have my best attention; I welcome them.’f206The Profession of Faith.‘Indeed, uncle, I am not so audacious as to propound objections. There was one thing, however, that seemed to me a little incomprehensible.’‘Possibly, my dear,’ he said, with a smile of contemptuous good-nature, which seemed to add, ‘I am not so rude as to say “probably.”’He took his elbows off the MS., though he still hovered above it (like the chicken) while she ran her dainty finger over it, taking care, however, not to touch the paper.‘Ah! here it is, “As snowe from the leffee tree.” Now, considering that snow falls in winter when the trees are bare, don’t you think the word should have been “leafless?”’‘An ordinary person would no doubt have written “leafless,”’ admitted Mr. Erin—an ingenious observation enough, since, in the first place, it suggested that an extraordinary genius could have done nothing of the kind, and secondly, it demanded no rejoinder; it gave the antiquary time to cast about him forsome line of defence. He produced his microscope and examined the word with great intentness, but it was ‘leffee’ and not ‘leafless’ beyond all doubt. ‘It is probable,’ he presently observed, ‘that Shakespeare’s minute attention to nature may have caused him, when writing these most interesting words, to have a particular tree in his mind; when, indeed, we consider the topic on which he was writing—death—what is more likely than that his thoughts should have reverted to some churchyard yew? Now the yew, my child, is an evergreen.’Here Frank Dennis’s well-known voice was heard in the little hall without. He must have started for London, therefore, on the instant that he received Margaret’s letter. Her heart had foreboded that it would be so, notwithstanding the pains she had taken to make it appear otherwise; she knew that it was her wish that had summoned him, and that he had been sent for, as it were, under false pretences. Much as she esteemed him, she would have preferred the appearance of any one else,however indifferent, such as Mr. Reginald Talbot.Strange to say, Mr. Samuel Erin, though it was at his own express desire that Frank Dennis had been invited, was just at that moment of the same way of thinking as his niece. If that little difficulty about the epithet, ‘leffee,’ had not occurred, all would have been well. This new discovery of the Confession, had it been flawless, must needs have converted the most confirmed of sceptics, and, in his crowning triumph, he would have forgiven the young fellow all his former doubts; but, though to the eye of faith this little flaw was of no consequence, it would certainly give occasion not only for the ungodly to blaspheme—for that they would do in any case—but to the waverer to cling to his doubts. If, on the spur of the moment, Mr. Erin could have explained the matter to his own satisfaction, he would have felt no qualms, but he was secretly conscious that that theory of the evergreen tree would not hold water. It might satisfy a modest inquirer like Margaret, but a hard-headed,unimaginative fellow like Frank Dennis would not be so easily convinced.As for William Henry, although Frank and he were by no means ill friends, it was not likely that he should have been pleased to see this visitor, whose presence must needs interrupt thetête-à-têtewith which he now indulged himself every evening with Margaret; and, though he was no longer jealous of his former rival, it was certain that he would much have preferred his room to his company.The welcome that was given by all three to the new comer was, however, cordial enough. ‘You are come, Dennis,’ cried Mr. Erin, taking the bull by the horns, ‘in the very nick of time. William Henry has to-day found a treasure, beside which his previous discoveries sink into insignificance, “A Profession of Faith,” by Shakespeare, written from end to end in his own hand.’‘That must indeed be interesting,’ said Frank. His tone, however, was without excitement, and mechanical. His countenance, which had been full of friendship (though whenturned to Margaret it had had, she thought, an expression of gentle melancholy), fell as he uttered the words; a gravity, little short of disapproval, seemed to take possession of it.‘Hang the fellow!’ murmured Mr. Erin to himself, ‘he’s beginning to pick holes already.’ ‘It is the most marvellous and conclusive evidence,’ he went on aloud, ‘of Shakespeare’s adherence to the Protestant faith that heart can desire; but there’s a word here that we are in doubt about. Just read the MS. and see if anything strikes you as anomalous.’Frank sat down to his task. The expression of the faces of the other three would have required the art of Hogarth himself to depict them. That of Margaret’s was full of sorrow, pain for herself, and distress for Frank, and annoyance upon her uncle’s account. How she regretted having made that stupid objection, though she had done it with a good motive, since she foresaw that it would presently be made by much less friendly critics! Why could she not have been content to let matters take their own course, as Willie always was?Onhisbrow, on the other hand, there sat a complete serenity. From the very first his attitude with respect to his own discoveries had been one of philosophic indifference. Nothing ever roused him from it, not even when the scepticism of others took the most offensive form. He had not, he said, ‘the learning requisite for the defence of “the faith” that was in him,’ and moreover it did not concern him to defend it. He was merely an instrument; the matter in question was in the hands of others.This was of course by no means the view which Mr. Erin took. He had not only the confidence but the zeal of the convert. If he would not himself have gone to the stake in defence of the genuineness of his new-found treasure, he would very cheerfully have sent thither all who disputed it. He was regarding his friend Dennis now, as he plodded through the Profession, with anything but amicable looks, but when he marked his eye pass over that weak point in its armour with which we are acquainted, without stoppage, his brow cleared a little, and he gave a sigh of relief.‘Well,’ he inquired gently, ‘what say you? Have you found the error, or does it seem to you all straight sailing?’‘I had really rather not express an opinion,’ said Dennis quietly. ‘But if you press me, I must needs confess that the whole composition strikes me as rather rhapsodical.’‘Does it? Then I on my part must needs confess,’ returned the antiquary with laborious politeness, ‘that I have the misfortune to disagree with you.’To this observation the young man answered not a word; his face looked very grave and thoughtful, like that of a man who is in a doubt about some important course of conduct, rather than of a mere literary inquiry; nevertheless his words, when they did come, seemed to concern themselves with the latter topic only.‘I doubt,’ he said, ‘whether the word “accede”’—here he pointed to the phrase ‘after my deathe be acceded to’—‘was in use in Shakespeare’s time.’‘And what if it was not?’ broke in theantiquary impatiently. ‘How many words in old times are found in the most correct writers which it would be vain to hunt for in any dictionary; words which, though destitute of authority or precedent, are still justified by analogy and by the principles of the language. And who, I should like to know, used new words with such licence as Shakespeare himself? As to the matter of fact which you dispute, however, that can be settled at once. The antiquary stepped to his bookcase and took down a volume. ‘This is Florio’s dictionary, published in 1611. See here,’ he added triumphantly, ‘“Accedere, to accede, or assent to.” If Florio mentions it, I suppose Shakespeare may have used it. Your objection, young sir, is not worthy of the name.’Dennis hung his head; he looked like one who has suffered not only defeat but humiliation. The criticism offered on the spur of the moment had been, in reality, advanced by way of protest against the whole document, and now that it had failed he was very unwilling tooffer anything further in the way of disparagement.He had his reasons for absolutely declining to fall in with Mr. Erin’s views in the matter; but it would have given him great distress to quarrel with him. Unhappily, an antiquary the genuineness of whose curios has been disputed, is not often a chivalric antagonist. It is his habit, like the wild Indian and the wilder Irishman, to dance upon his prostrate foe.‘The obstinacy of the commentator,’ resumed Mr. Erin, ‘is proverbial, and is on some accounts to be excused, but the strictures suggested by ignorance and malignity are mere carping.’‘But it was yourself, sir,’ pleaded Dennis, ‘who invited criticism: I did not volunteer it.’‘Criticism, yes; but not carping. Now there is a word here,’ continued Mr. Erin, not sorry to be beforehand with his adversary in pointing out the blot. ‘Here is the word “leffee” where one would have expected “leafless.” Now we should be really obliged to you if your natural sagacity, which is considerable,could explain the reason of the substitution. I have already given expression to a theory of my own upon the subject, but we shall be glad of any new suggestion. Why is it “leafy” instead of “leafless?”’‘I should think it was simply because the writer made a mistake,’ observed Dennis quietly.Everybody, the speaker included, expected an outburst. That Shakespeare could have made a mistake was an assertion which they all felt would to Mr. Erin’s ear sound little less than blasphemous. To their extreme astonishment he nodded adhesion.‘Now that is really very remarkable, Dennis,’ he exclaimed; ‘a new idea, and at the same time one with much probability in it. He was writingcurrente calamo—there is scarcely a break in the composition, you observe, from first to last—and it is quite likely that he made this clerical error. What is extremely satisfactory is, that your theory—supposing it to be the correct one, as I think it is—puts the genuineness of the documentbeyond all question, for if a forger had written it, it is obvious that he would have been very careful to make no such departure from verisimilitude!’

THE PROFESSION OF FAITH.

Twodays after Margaret’s letter was despatched there was great news from the Temple. Not even on the first day, when William Henry had won Mr. Erin’s heart by Shakespeare’s note of hand, had the young man’s face been so full of promise as when he came in that evening. On the former occasion, anxiety and doubt had mingled with its expectancy, but now it was flushed with triumph. The difference of manner with which he produced his new discovery was also noticeable. It was not only that he felt as sure of the assent of his audience (who were, indeed, but his uncle and Margaret) as of his own, but he displayed a certain self-consciousness of his own position. He was nolonger an unknown lad, seeking for the favour of one who should have been his natural protector, for he had already won it. It was true he was still dependent upon him for the means of livelihood, and for something that he prized as highly as existence itself; but Mr. Erin had in some sort, on the other hand, become dependent on him. His reputation as a Shakespearean collector and critic, which was very dear to him, had been immensely increased by his son’s discoveries. The newspapers and magazines were full of his good fortune; and even those which disputed the genuineness of his newly acquired possessions made them the subject of continual comment, and added fuel to his notoriety. If such a metaphor can be used without offence in the case of a gentleman of years and learning, Mr. Samuel Erin gazed at William Henry with much the same air of expectation as a very sagacious old dog regards his young master, whom he suspects of having some toothsome morsel in his pocket; he has too much respect for his own dignity to ‘beg’ for it, by sitting up on his hind legs, or barking,but he moves his tail from side to side, and his mouth waters.

The young gentleman did not, at first, even produce his prize, but sat down at table with a cheerful nod, that seemed to say, ‘I have found it at last, and by the sacred bones that rest by Avon’s stream, it is worth the finding.’

‘Well, Willie,’ exclaimed Margaret, impatiently, ‘what is it?’

The young man gravely produced two half-sheets of paper.

At the sight of it, for he knew that it was not the new Bath Post, the antiquary’s eyes glistened.

‘Mr. Erin—— ‘ began William Henry.

‘Why not call me “father,” Samuel?’ put in the old man, gently; if it was the sense of favours to come that moved him, it was at least a deep and genuine sense of them. Margaret’s fair face glowed with pleasure.

‘I have often heard you say, father, that you wished above all things to discover what were, in reality, Shakespeare’s religious convictions.’

The antiquary nodded assent, but said nothing; the intensity of expectation, indeed, precluded speech; the perspiration came out upon his forehead.

‘It distressed you, I know, to believe it possible—as, indeed, the language used by the Ghost in “Hamlet” would seem to imply, that he was of the Catholic persuasion. In the profession of faith found at Stratford—— ‘

‘Spurious,’ put in Mr. Erin, mechanically; ‘that fool, Malone, believed in it, nobody else.’

This was not quite in accordance with fact; for many months the whole Shakespearean world had admitted its authenticity.

‘If it had been true, however, it would have offended your sense of the fitness of things.’

‘No doubt; still we must take things as they really were.’

Even if it should turn out that Shakespeare was not so good a Protestant as he ought to be, the value of a genuine manuscript was not to be depreciated.

‘Well! I have been this day so fortunate asto discover what will put all doubts at rest upon this point. Shakespeare was a Protestant.’

‘Thank Heaven!’ murmured Mr. Erin, piously. ‘If you have done this, my son, you have advanced the claims of true religion, and quickened the steps of civilisation throughout the world.’

Margaret’s eyes opened very wide (as well they might), but they only beheld William Henry. She had been wont to rally him upon his vanity, and especially upon the hopes he had built upon his poetical gifts. Yet how much greater a mark was he making in the world than his most sanguine aspirations had imagined! And how quiet and unassuming he looked! The modest way in which he habitually bore his honours pleased her even more than the honours themselves.

‘After all, Maggie,’ he would say, after receiving the congratulations of the dilettanti, ‘it is nothing but luck.’

As he straightened out the half-sheets of paper on the table, where their homely supperstood untouched and unnoticed, he only permitted himself a smile of gratification.

‘It is too long,’ he said, ‘to read aloud, and the old spelling is difficult.’

His uncle drew his chair close to him, on one side, and Margaret did the like on the other, so that each could read for themselves. Their looks were full of eagerness; the one was thinking of Shakespeare and Samuel Erin, the other of William Henry—andlongo intervallo—of William Shakespeare.

The MS., which was headed ‘William Shakespeare’s Profession of Faith,’ ran as follows:—

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE’S PROFESSION OF FAITH.

I beynge nowe offe sounde Mynde doe hope thatte thys mye wyshe wille, att mye deathe, bee acceded toe, as I nowe lyve in Londonne, and as mye soule maye perchance, soone quittee thys poore bodye, itte is mye desire thatte inne suche case I maye bee carryed toe mye native place, ande thatte mye Bodye bee there quietlye interred wythe as little pompe as canne bee, and I doe nowe, inne these mye seryouse moments, make thys mye professione of faythe, and which I doe moste solemnlye believe. Idoe fyrste looke toe oune lovynge and Greate God and toe his glorious sonne Jesus. I doe alsoe beleyve thatte thys mye weake and frayle Bodye wille returne to duste, butte for mye soule lette God judge thatte as toe himselfe shalle seeme meete. O omnipotente and greate God I am fulle offe synne, I doe notte thinke myeselfe worthye offe thye grace and yette wille I hope, forre evene thee poore prysonerre whenne bounde with gallying irons evene he wille hope for Pittye and whenne the teares of sweete repentance bathe hys wretched pillowe he then looks and hopes for pardonne thenne rouse mye soule and lette hope, thatte sweete cherysher offe all, afforde thee comforte also. O Manne whatte arte thou whye consideres thou thyselfe thus gratelye, where are thye great, thye boasted attrybutes; buryed, loste forre everre in colde Death. O Manne whye attemptest thou toe searche the greatnesse off the Almyghtye thou doste butte loose thye laboure. More thou attempteste, more arte thou loste, tille thye poore weake thoughtes arre elevated toe theyre summite and thenne as snowe from the leffee tree droppe and dystylle themselves tille theye are noe more. O God, manne as I am frayle bye nature, fulle offe synne, yette great God receyve me toe thye bosomme where alle is sweete contente and happyness alle is blyss where dyscontente isse neverre hearde, butte where oune Bonde offe freyndeshippe unytes alle Menne forgive O Lorde alle our synnes, ande withe thye greate goodnesse take usse alle toe thye Breaste; O cheryshe usse like the sweete chickenne thatte under the coverte offe herre spreadynge wings Receyves herre lyttle Broode and hoverynge overre themme keepes themme harmlesse and in safetye.

Wm. Shakespeare.

Margaret finished the perusal of the MS. before her uncle; her quicker and more youthful eye would probably have done so in any case, but his reverence for the matter forbade rapid reading; she waited respectfully, but also with some little apprehension, for the expression of his opinion.

‘This is a godsend!’ he exclaimed at last, with a sigh that had almost as much relief as satisfaction in it. ‘There can be no longer any doubt about Shakespeare’s creed. Is it not beautiful, and full of humility, my child?’

‘Yes, uncle.’ She knew that the least fault-finding would be resented, yet she could not shut out from her tone a certain feeling of disappointment; ‘it is hardly, however, so simple as I should have expected.’

‘Not simple!’ exclaimed the antiquary in amazement; ‘I call it the most natural effusion of a sincere piety that it is possible to imagine. The diction is solemn and dignified as the subject demands. There are, indeed, some minute particularities of phraseology, and the old spelling to one unaccustomed to it may, asWilliam Henry has observed, be a little difficult; but of all the accusations you could bring against it, that of a want of simplicity, my dear Maggie, is certainly the most frivolous and vexatious.’

‘I know I am frivolous,’ replied Margaret, with a sly look at her smiling cousin, ‘but certainly did not intend to be vexatious, uncle.’

‘Nay, nay, I was only quoting a legal phrase,’ said Mr. Erin; he had gently drawn the two precious MSS. to himself, and placed an elbow on each of them, in sign of having taken possession. ‘In a case of this kind I need not say that anything in the way of criticism, as to ideas or style, would be out of place, and indeed blasphemous; but no one can blame you for seeking in a proper spirit for enlightenment on this or that point.’

Margaret looked up at William Henry, and with a half-roguish and wholly charming smile inquired ‘May I?’

‘My dear Maggie,’ returned the young man, laughing outright, ‘why, of course you may. Even if you detected the immortal bardin an error it would be no business of mine to defend him.’

‘I should think not, indeed,’ muttered Mr. Erin.

‘What I was thinking,’ said Margaret, ‘was that if you, Willie, or Mr. Talbot (who informed us the other night, you know, that he was a poet) had written those lines about spreading her wings over her little brood, it would have been considered plagiarism.’

‘What then?’ inquired Mr. Erin contemptuously. ‘It is the peculiar province of a genius such as Shakespeare’s to make everything his own. He improves it by addition.’

‘The idea in question, however, is taken from the New Testament,’ observed Maggie.

To most people, this remark, which was delivered with a demureness that did the young lady infinite credit, would under the circumstances have been rather embarrassing. It did not embarrass Mr. Samuel Erin in the least.

‘What piety it shows! What knowledge of the Holy Scriptures!’ he ejaculated admiringly. ‘How appropriate, too, when we takethe subject into consideration—a confession of faith!’

‘True. I am not quite sure, however, whether the substitution of a chicken for a hen is an improvement.’

‘Now, there I entirely differ from you,’ exclaimed Mr. Erin; ‘just mark the words “O cheryshe usse like the sweete chickenne thatte under the coverte offe herre spreadynge wings receyves herre lyttle Broode and hoverynge over themme keepes themme harmlesse and in safetye.” What tenderness there is in that “sweete chickenne.” Whereas a hen—a hen is tough. We must understand the expression of course as a general term for the female species of the fowl. None, to my mind, but the most determined and incorrigible caviller can have one word to say against it. I have settled that matter, I think, my dear, to your satisfaction; and do not suppose that what you say has annoyed me. If anything else strikes you, pray mention it. Objections from any source—provided only that they arereasonable’—a word he uttered very significantly—‘will always have my best attention; I welcome them.’

f206

The Profession of Faith.

The Profession of Faith.

The Profession of Faith.

‘Indeed, uncle, I am not so audacious as to propound objections. There was one thing, however, that seemed to me a little incomprehensible.’

‘Possibly, my dear,’ he said, with a smile of contemptuous good-nature, which seemed to add, ‘I am not so rude as to say “probably.”’

He took his elbows off the MS., though he still hovered above it (like the chicken) while she ran her dainty finger over it, taking care, however, not to touch the paper.

‘Ah! here it is, “As snowe from the leffee tree.” Now, considering that snow falls in winter when the trees are bare, don’t you think the word should have been “leafless?”’

‘An ordinary person would no doubt have written “leafless,”’ admitted Mr. Erin—an ingenious observation enough, since, in the first place, it suggested that an extraordinary genius could have done nothing of the kind, and secondly, it demanded no rejoinder; it gave the antiquary time to cast about him forsome line of defence. He produced his microscope and examined the word with great intentness, but it was ‘leffee’ and not ‘leafless’ beyond all doubt. ‘It is probable,’ he presently observed, ‘that Shakespeare’s minute attention to nature may have caused him, when writing these most interesting words, to have a particular tree in his mind; when, indeed, we consider the topic on which he was writing—death—what is more likely than that his thoughts should have reverted to some churchyard yew? Now the yew, my child, is an evergreen.’

Here Frank Dennis’s well-known voice was heard in the little hall without. He must have started for London, therefore, on the instant that he received Margaret’s letter. Her heart had foreboded that it would be so, notwithstanding the pains she had taken to make it appear otherwise; she knew that it was her wish that had summoned him, and that he had been sent for, as it were, under false pretences. Much as she esteemed him, she would have preferred the appearance of any one else,however indifferent, such as Mr. Reginald Talbot.

Strange to say, Mr. Samuel Erin, though it was at his own express desire that Frank Dennis had been invited, was just at that moment of the same way of thinking as his niece. If that little difficulty about the epithet, ‘leffee,’ had not occurred, all would have been well. This new discovery of the Confession, had it been flawless, must needs have converted the most confirmed of sceptics, and, in his crowning triumph, he would have forgiven the young fellow all his former doubts; but, though to the eye of faith this little flaw was of no consequence, it would certainly give occasion not only for the ungodly to blaspheme—for that they would do in any case—but to the waverer to cling to his doubts. If, on the spur of the moment, Mr. Erin could have explained the matter to his own satisfaction, he would have felt no qualms, but he was secretly conscious that that theory of the evergreen tree would not hold water. It might satisfy a modest inquirer like Margaret, but a hard-headed,unimaginative fellow like Frank Dennis would not be so easily convinced.

As for William Henry, although Frank and he were by no means ill friends, it was not likely that he should have been pleased to see this visitor, whose presence must needs interrupt thetête-à-têtewith which he now indulged himself every evening with Margaret; and, though he was no longer jealous of his former rival, it was certain that he would much have preferred his room to his company.

The welcome that was given by all three to the new comer was, however, cordial enough. ‘You are come, Dennis,’ cried Mr. Erin, taking the bull by the horns, ‘in the very nick of time. William Henry has to-day found a treasure, beside which his previous discoveries sink into insignificance, “A Profession of Faith,” by Shakespeare, written from end to end in his own hand.’

‘That must indeed be interesting,’ said Frank. His tone, however, was without excitement, and mechanical. His countenance, which had been full of friendship (though whenturned to Margaret it had had, she thought, an expression of gentle melancholy), fell as he uttered the words; a gravity, little short of disapproval, seemed to take possession of it.

‘Hang the fellow!’ murmured Mr. Erin to himself, ‘he’s beginning to pick holes already.’ ‘It is the most marvellous and conclusive evidence,’ he went on aloud, ‘of Shakespeare’s adherence to the Protestant faith that heart can desire; but there’s a word here that we are in doubt about. Just read the MS. and see if anything strikes you as anomalous.’

Frank sat down to his task. The expression of the faces of the other three would have required the art of Hogarth himself to depict them. That of Margaret’s was full of sorrow, pain for herself, and distress for Frank, and annoyance upon her uncle’s account. How she regretted having made that stupid objection, though she had done it with a good motive, since she foresaw that it would presently be made by much less friendly critics! Why could she not have been content to let matters take their own course, as Willie always was?

Onhisbrow, on the other hand, there sat a complete serenity. From the very first his attitude with respect to his own discoveries had been one of philosophic indifference. Nothing ever roused him from it, not even when the scepticism of others took the most offensive form. He had not, he said, ‘the learning requisite for the defence of “the faith” that was in him,’ and moreover it did not concern him to defend it. He was merely an instrument; the matter in question was in the hands of others.

This was of course by no means the view which Mr. Erin took. He had not only the confidence but the zeal of the convert. If he would not himself have gone to the stake in defence of the genuineness of his new-found treasure, he would very cheerfully have sent thither all who disputed it. He was regarding his friend Dennis now, as he plodded through the Profession, with anything but amicable looks, but when he marked his eye pass over that weak point in its armour with which we are acquainted, without stoppage, his brow cleared a little, and he gave a sigh of relief.

‘Well,’ he inquired gently, ‘what say you? Have you found the error, or does it seem to you all straight sailing?’

‘I had really rather not express an opinion,’ said Dennis quietly. ‘But if you press me, I must needs confess that the whole composition strikes me as rather rhapsodical.’

‘Does it? Then I on my part must needs confess,’ returned the antiquary with laborious politeness, ‘that I have the misfortune to disagree with you.’

To this observation the young man answered not a word; his face looked very grave and thoughtful, like that of a man who is in a doubt about some important course of conduct, rather than of a mere literary inquiry; nevertheless his words, when they did come, seemed to concern themselves with the latter topic only.

‘I doubt,’ he said, ‘whether the word “accede”’—here he pointed to the phrase ‘after my deathe be acceded to’—‘was in use in Shakespeare’s time.’

‘And what if it was not?’ broke in theantiquary impatiently. ‘How many words in old times are found in the most correct writers which it would be vain to hunt for in any dictionary; words which, though destitute of authority or precedent, are still justified by analogy and by the principles of the language. And who, I should like to know, used new words with such licence as Shakespeare himself? As to the matter of fact which you dispute, however, that can be settled at once. The antiquary stepped to his bookcase and took down a volume. ‘This is Florio’s dictionary, published in 1611. See here,’ he added triumphantly, ‘“Accedere, to accede, or assent to.” If Florio mentions it, I suppose Shakespeare may have used it. Your objection, young sir, is not worthy of the name.’

Dennis hung his head; he looked like one who has suffered not only defeat but humiliation. The criticism offered on the spur of the moment had been, in reality, advanced by way of protest against the whole document, and now that it had failed he was very unwilling tooffer anything further in the way of disparagement.

He had his reasons for absolutely declining to fall in with Mr. Erin’s views in the matter; but it would have given him great distress to quarrel with him. Unhappily, an antiquary the genuineness of whose curios has been disputed, is not often a chivalric antagonist. It is his habit, like the wild Indian and the wilder Irishman, to dance upon his prostrate foe.

‘The obstinacy of the commentator,’ resumed Mr. Erin, ‘is proverbial, and is on some accounts to be excused, but the strictures suggested by ignorance and malignity are mere carping.’

‘But it was yourself, sir,’ pleaded Dennis, ‘who invited criticism: I did not volunteer it.’

‘Criticism, yes; but not carping. Now there is a word here,’ continued Mr. Erin, not sorry to be beforehand with his adversary in pointing out the blot. ‘Here is the word “leffee” where one would have expected “leafless.” Now we should be really obliged to you if your natural sagacity, which is considerable,could explain the reason of the substitution. I have already given expression to a theory of my own upon the subject, but we shall be glad of any new suggestion. Why is it “leafy” instead of “leafless?”’

‘I should think it was simply because the writer made a mistake,’ observed Dennis quietly.

Everybody, the speaker included, expected an outburst. That Shakespeare could have made a mistake was an assertion which they all felt would to Mr. Erin’s ear sound little less than blasphemous. To their extreme astonishment he nodded adhesion.

‘Now that is really very remarkable, Dennis,’ he exclaimed; ‘a new idea, and at the same time one with much probability in it. He was writingcurrente calamo—there is scarcely a break in the composition, you observe, from first to last—and it is quite likely that he made this clerical error. What is extremely satisfactory is, that your theory—supposing it to be the correct one, as I think it is—puts the genuineness of the documentbeyond all question, for if a forger had written it, it is obvious that he would have been very careful to make no such departure from verisimilitude!’

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