CHAPTER XIV.

CHAPTER XIV.THE EXAMINERS.NOTWITHSTANDINGthe powerful motives in connection with its munificent but unknown donor that impelled Mr. Samuel Erin to keep ‘the Profession of Faith’ a secret confined to his antiquarian friends, the thing was obviously impossible. It would have been almost as difficult, had the Tables of the Law been verily discovered upon Mount Sinai, to restrict the news to a few members of the religious public.The discovery, and the discoverer, William Henry Erin, became ‘the Talk of the Town.’ It seemed to Margaret impossible that the meritorious though fortunate young fellow could ever become more famous; but the possibilities of greatness are infinite; his foot, as it turned out, was only on the first rung of the ladder. The modest house in Norfolk Street became a sort of metropolitan Stratford-on-Avon; it was absolutely besieged by the antiquarian and learned world. Mr. Malone the commentator, indeed (who had not been invited), publicly announced his intention of not examining the MSS., ‘lest his visit should give a countenance to them, which, from the secrecy that was observed relative to their discovery, they were not entitled to.’ Mr. Steevens took the same course, as did also Dr. Farmer, Lord Orford, and the Bishops of Durham and Salisbury. The air was thick with their pamphlets and loud with their denunciations. But there were more fish than these in the Shakespearean seas, and quite as big ones, who were of a different opinion. Some of them came to scoff, butremained to admire and believe; others, calm and critical, examined and were convinced; others again, arriving in a reverent spirit, were filled with satisfaction and affected even to tears.Under these circumstances, his own good faith being attacked, as well as these precious treasures maliciously denounced, Mr. Samuel Erin took a bold course. On a table in his sanctuary, side by side with the new discovery, was placed another ‘profession of faith’ in the validity of the MS. in question, which visitors were invited to sign. They were not, of course, compelled to do it; but, having expressed their belief in the genuineness of the document, it seemed not unreasonable that they should commit it to paper. In some cases there were rather humorous scenes. Antiquaries as a rule are not very eager to permanently endorse with their authority the treasures which are not in their own possession; they have been known even to express a cheerful belief in that or this, and afterwards, when unpleasant evidence turns up, to deny that they ever did believe init; and Mr. Erin, who knew Latin, was an admirer of the ancient line, ‘litera scripta manet,’ which literally translated means, ‘One can’t well wriggle out of one’s own handwriting.’ As pilgrims did not pay for the privilege of admission to view these sacred relics, they were naturally inclined to be civil to their custodians, and, when sufficiently convinced of the genuineness of what they saw, to express themselves with much effusion and enthusiasm. As the paper in question was worded very modestly, but with extreme distinctness, there was no alternative for the impulsive person but to sign it.‘Delighted to have seen you,’ Mr. Erin would say, as he pressed the hand of his departing guest; ‘your unsought-for and enthusiastic testimony has been most gratifying to me.’‘Don’t mention it, my dear sir, it is I who have been delighted. It has been a privilege indeed to have set eyes upon so valuable and absolutely authentic a document.’‘Then just as a matter of form, be so goodas to add your name to this already lengthy roll of Shakespearean critics; it will be the very keystone of the edifice of our faith.’The faces of some of these enthusiasts, at this modest and reasonable request, would fall from zenith to nadir. They could not eat their own words, but they looked as if they would like to have eaten Mr. Samuel Erin.William Henry, who had a strong sense of humour, was sometimes compelled to rush from the room, and hide his face, bedewed with tears of laughter, upon Margaret’s shoulder.These paroxysms used rather to distress her. ‘Oh, Willie, Willie, how can you be so frivolous,’ she would say, ‘on a matter too that is so fraught with good or evil to both of us?’‘Oh, but if you could onlyseethem, my darling,’ he would reply, ‘so civil, so beaming with courtesy and enthusiasm, and then all of a sudden—like a sportsman in a small way, who, boastful of his prowess, finds himself face to face with a wild boar—alarmed, astounded, and without the least hope of escape, youwould laugh too. Then, when theywon’tsign, it is almost even better fun. Porson was here this morning; the great Dr. Porson, who knows as much Greek as Troilus did, and certainly can write it better. He drank half a bottle of brandy, a pint of usquebaugh, and all the miscellaneous contents of your uncle’s spirit case, and, though he had said but little, was taking his leave in what seemed a state of complete good humour and satisfaction, when Mr. Erin requested the honour of his signature. Then he drew himself up as stiff as a pointer at a partridge.‘“I thank you, sir,” he said, “but I never subscribe to anything, much less to a profession of faith.” The disbelieving old heathen! I really thought your uncle would have kicked him into the street.’‘Oh, but I am so sorry about Dr. Porson.’‘Why, my darling? He was not really kicked, you know. Don’t be sorry for Porson; be sorry for me. If I didn’t find some amusement in these people, I believe I should go mad. You have no idea what I suffer fromthem, their examinations and their cross-examinations—for when they are sceptical theyarecross-examinations—their pomposity and pretence, are well-nigh intolerable. I don’t know whether their patronage or their contempt is the most offensive.’It was quite true that these investigations were not always a laughing matter to William Henry. On one occasion there was a regular committee of inquiry, composed of what might well be called bigwigs, folks of the highest reputation in matters of erudition, and most of them in full-bottomed perukes. The Rev. Mr. Warton, the commentator, was one of them, solemn as Porson had been, and much more sober; Dr. Parr, the divine and scholar, pompous yet affable, in ecclesiastical apparel, with shovel hat and apron; Pye, the poet laureate, combining the air of a man of letters with the importance belonging to a Government official; and half a dozen other grave and reverend signors. The room was specially arranged for their reception. Mr. Samuel Erin sat at the head of the table in the Shakespearean chairthat he had purchased at Anne Hathaway’s cottage. The Profession of Faith was spread before the learned epicures as though it was something to eat. Their eyes devoured it. William Henry had a chair to himself a little removed, ready to answer all inquiries. It was by far the most serious examination to which he had been subjected, but he acquitted himself very well. He had nothing, he said, to tell them but the simple truth. As to the genuineness of the document in question, he knew nothing, and had not even an opinion to offer on the subject.These visitors were not Mr. Erin’s personal friends; they did not fall into raptures, or affect to do so; they were by no means so courteous as the ordinary folks who came from curiosity; they had been invited for the special purpose of having their minds satisfied, or of coming to an adverse conclusion. It was like the Star Chamber, and they did not (as it seemed to William Henry) spare the thumbscrew or the boot. After an hour or two of this gentle pressure, Mr. Warton observed, ‘Your testimony,young man, so far as it goes, is satisfactory to us, while your behaviour does you great credit.’‘Yes,’ assented Dr. Parr, ‘I think, Mr. Erin, you have a son of whom you may be justly proud. I heard you address him as Samuel; it is a gratifying coincidence to me that it is also my baptismal name.’ Mr. Erin felt that it would be discourteous as well as embarrassing to undeceive him.Then Mr. Pye was asked to read the Profession of Faith (which had by this time been fully investigated and discussed) aloud, which he did in a solemn and sonorous voice, with the company reverently upstanding as during Divine Service. Then, amid a profound silence, Dr. Parr delivered himself as follows:—‘Sir, we have very fine passages in our Church Services, and our Litany abounds in beauties; but here, sir, is a man who has distanced us all.’Most of the learned company bowed assent, and two, who were nonconformists, murmured‘hear, hear.’ The tears trickled down Mr. Erin’s cheeks; it was the proudest moment, so far, in the old man’s life.Later on in the day another gratifying circumstance took place. A visitor called who either had not received his invitation in time, or, what was more probable, not wishing his personal importance to suffer by comparison with that of others, had preferred to come alone. His face was fat and puffy, and exhibited an unparalleled self-sufficiency. He had a sharp nose, a double chin, and eyebrows superciliously elevated; he carried a gold-headed cane in his hands, clasped behind him, and spoke in a thick, slow voice. Mr. Erin received him with great respect, and submitted his literary treasure for examination with an unwonted humility. The investigation was a prolonged and apparently an exhausting one, for the visitor called three times (as though he had been in a public-house) for hot whisky and water! As Dr. Porson had drunk all there was in the case, Margaret herself, who kept the key of the cellar, took him in a fresh bottle,and curiosity compelled her to remain. Her presence seemed somewhat to distract the attention of the guest from the precious manuscript.‘No doubt authentic,’ he murmured, ‘and devilish pretty; antiquity is stamped upon it.’‘And the right sort of antiquity,’ suggested Mr. Erin. ‘It has the stamp of the time.’‘Just so. I should think twenty years of age, at most.’‘Sir!’ ejaculated his host.‘I mean the usquebaugh,’ explained the visitor. ‘Twenty years in bottle at least—did I say at most? and plump.’Here Margaret was about to beat a retreat, when the gentleman rose. ‘One moment, young lady,’ he said, ‘you do not know who I am. It will be something to tell your children’s children that James Boswell, of Auchinleck, Esq.’ (here he suited the action to the word) ‘chucked you under the chin.’William Henry felt greatly inclined to resent this liberty, but Mr. Erin only smiled approval.‘Another glass!’ said Mr. Boswell, and proceeded with his investigations.Presently, without a word of warning, he threw himself on his knees and pressed his lips to the MS.‘I kiss these invaluable relics of our bard,’ he said, ‘and thank Heaven that I have lived to see them. Would that my late revered friend, the great Lexi—the great Lexicog—— ‘ Emotion of various kinds prevented his completion of the sentence, and Mr. Erin led him with a gentle violence to the table on which lay the list of signatures; to which he added his name, though, it must be confessed, in a handwriting that was rather illegible.CHAPTER XV.AT VAUXHALL.Themembers of the little household in Norfolk Street were now in great content. That word, indeed, scarcely describes the state of mind of the head of the house, who was literally transported with joy. It was difficult to identify the jubilant and triumphant old fellow with the grudging, smileless, and to say truth, somewhat morose individual he had been a few months before. His regard for William Henry began to be quite troublesome, for, though he had not the least objection to Margaret and his son being alone together, he would often interrupt their little interviews from excess of solicitude upon his account. That somewhat flippant young gentleman used to compare his parent on these occasions to the ‘sweete chickenne’ of the Shakespearean profession, which was always ‘hoverrynge over herre broode,’ and, indeed, this affectionate anxiety was partly due to a certain apprehension the old gentleman experienced when the goose that laid the golden eggs for him was out of his sight. At present, however, as Margaret reminded her cousin, there were not enough of them—though so far as they went they had a very material value—to become nest eggs; they could not be considered as savings or capital to any appreciable extent. They were not, indeed, theirs at all, having been made over to Mr. Erin; but for the object the young people had in view that was all one as though they had remained their own. If a play of Shakespeare’s, or even part of a play, should chance to turn up among those treasures of the Temple, that would indeed be a fortune to them, or at all events would procure the antiquary’s consent to everything, and ensure his favour in perpetuity.These ideas occurred to Margaret only in the vaguest way, nor even in William Henry’smind did they take any well-defined shape. His nature, to do him justice, was by no means mercenary, and, if he could only have called Margaret his own, he would have been content. As to being able to maintain her he had always had a good opinion of his own talents; and though the praise with which he was now overwhelmed from so many quarters had, of course, no reference to them, it helped to increase his self-confidence.In this comparative prosperity, and being of a disposition that was by no means inclined to triumph over an unsuccessful rival, it somewhat distressed him to find Frank Dennis standing somewhat aloof. He visited the house, indeed, but not so frequently as had been his wont, and, as regarded William Henry at least, not upon the same terms. He had always been friendly to the younger man under circumstances when it would have been excusable if he had been otherwise, but now he avoided him; not in any marked manner, but certainly with intention. If he had avoided Margaret also, the explanation would have been easy, but it was not so.He was not, indeed, on the same terms with that young lady as he had been; he did not, as of old, seek her society; his face did not brighten up as it was wont to do when she addressed him; but he treated her with a respect which, if it was not tender, was full of gentleness: whereas, to William Henry he was even cold.It was a significant proof of the transformation that had taken place in Mr. Erin that he not only noticed this, but in a manner apologised for it to William Henry.‘I am sorry to see that Dennis and you, my lad, don’t seem to get on together so well as you used to do. But you must not mind his being a little jealous.’At this the young man’s face flushed, for ‘jealousy’ had just then with him but one meaning: he thought that his father was about to talk with him about Margaret, but his niece was not in the old man’s thoughts at all.‘It is not every one,’ he went on, ‘who can bear to see the good fortune of his friends with equanimity; especially when it takes the formof such a stroke of luck, as in your case. What Dennis says to himself is: “Why should not I have discovered these MSS. instead of William Henry?” And not having done so, he is a little bit envious of you, and is inclined to decry them. It is a pity, of course, but he can do you no more harm by it than he can harm Shakespeare by discrediting the work of his hand.’But the young man was sorry nevertheless, and Margaret was still more grieved. Since Dennis had tacitly consented to her changed relations with her cousin, or at all events had made no opposition to them, she thought he might have forgiven him as he had forgiven her. It was a subject on which she could not speak to him, but occasionally there was something, or to her sensitive eye and ear seemed to be something, in his tone and manner, not resentful, but as though he pitied her for her choice, which annoyed her exceedingly.This feeling was in no way reciprocated; it was impossible for Margaret to ruffle Frank Dennis, but he rarely came to Norfolk Streetnow, unless by special invitation. It had been proposed by Mr. Erin that they should all four go to Vauxhall together upon a certain evening—a very unusual dissipation, for except the theatre, of which when Shakespeare was acted (which in those days was very frequently) he was a pretty constant patron, the antiquary had no love for places of amusement—but Frank Dennis had declined to accompany them. He professed to have a previous engagement, which, as he went out very little, seemed improbable; indeed, it was understood by the others that he did not wish to go. This was a cause of sincere regret to them, not excluding William Henry, for if Dennis had come he would have paired off with Mr. Erin and left Margaret to himself. The expedition, however, was looked forward to with pleasure by both the young people even as it was: it had the charm of novelty for them, for William Henry was almost as great a stranger to what had now begun to be called ‘life’ in London as his cousin. The little trip to the place by water was itself delightful, while the Gardens, with the colouredlamps and music and gaily dressed company, seemed to them like a dream of Paradise.Mr. Samuel Erin was not indeed a very good cicerone to such a spot, for folks of their age; though he would have been invaluable to some distinguished foreigner with a thirst for information. He reminded them (or rather informed them, for they knew very little about it) how for more than a century the place had been the resort of all the wit and rank and gallantry of the town; how Addison had taken Sir Roger de Coverley there, and Goldsmith the Chinese philosopher, and Swift had gone in person to hear the nightingale; and how much more attractive it was than its rival Ranelagh, of which, nevertheless, as Walpole humorously writes, Lord Chesterfield was so fond that he ordered all his letters to be directed thither. It was with difficulty the old gentleman was persuaded not to take them away from the radiant scene to a neighbouring street to see the lodgings where the poet Philips had breathed his last; and, by way of reprisal for their preference for such gauds and tinsel, he quotedto them (after Dr. Johnson) Xerxes’ remark about his army, that it was sad to think that of all that brilliant crowd not one would be alive a hundred years hence. The Scriptures themselves admit that there is a time to laugh and a time to play, and these literary reminiscences, and much more these didactic reflections, were felt by the young people to be a good deal out of place. If Mr. Erin could have been induced to visit the lodgings of Mr. Philips by himself, or to meditate on the Future alone, and in the Maze, then indeed they would have applauded him, but as it was, his company was a trifle triste.f236Vauxhall Gardens.They were presently relieved from it, however, in a wholly unexpected manner. They had explored the walks, promenaded the ‘area,’ and listened to the band to their hearts’ content, and had just sat down in one of the arbours to a modest supper, when who should pass by, with his hat on one side and an air of studied indifference to the commonplace allurements around him, but Mr. Reginald Talbot. His few weeks’ residence in London had effecteda revolution in him, which nevertheless could scarcely be called a reform: from an inhabitant of Connemara, or some other out-of-the-way spot, he had become a citizen of the world; but the dissipations of the town had not improved his appearance. His face, though still full, had lost its colour, and he had a lack-lustre look which so ably seconded his attempts at languor that it almost rendered him idiotic.William Henry drew involuntarily back in the box to avoid recognition, but Mr. Talbot’s eye, roving everywhere, though with a somewhat fish-like expression, in search of female beauty, had already been attracted by Margaret’s pretty face. He did not quite recognise it, probably owing to the doubtful aid he derived from his spy-glass, but it was evident that he was struggling with a reminiscence.‘Why, surely that is our young friend Talbot, is it not, Samuel?’ exclaimed Mr. Erin with effusion; and he held out his hand to the young man at once, not because he was glad to see him, far from it, but because he thought he was making a friend of his son welcome.William Henry, however, was well convinced that Talbot was no longer his friend, a circumstance that had not hitherto distressed him. Indeed, he had by no means regretted their little tiff, since it had been the means of keeping Talbot away from Norfolk Street; but now that they had met again he had reasons for wishing that they had not quarrelled. The very cordiality with which the other addressed him aroused his apprehensions, for he knew that it was feigned; he would much rather indeed have seen him, as on the occasion when he had last met her, make advances to Margaret herself. Of her he was sure; no dandy, whether metropolitan or provincial, could, he knew, ever rival him in her affections; but this fellow, smarting from the slight that had been put upon his muse, might injure him in other ways. He knew from experience Mr. Reginald Talbot was capable of being what at school was termed ‘nasty,’i.e.malignant. It has been said of the great Marlborough that whenever he permitted himself a noble phrase it was a sure sign that he was about to commit a baseness;and similarly, the fact of Mr. Talbot’s being upon his best behaviour was a symptom dangerous to his friends. On the present occasion he was studiously genteel.His manner to Margaret—very different from that he generally adopted towards the fair sex—was distantly polite, while to Mr. Samuel Erin he was respectful to servility. What especially marked the abnormal condition of his mind, and showed his feelings to be. under severe restraint, was that he never alluded to his own poetical genius. In speaking to William Henry the subject might well indeed have been avoided as a painful one; but that he should exercise this reticence with respect to the antiquary—to whom on a previous occasion, it will be remembered, he had mentioned within the first five minutes that he was ‘a man of letters’—was something portentous. He did not indeed talk much, but he did what was a thousand times more difficult to him—he held his tongue and listened.This circumstance, joined to his demure behaviour, caused Mr. Samuel Erin to take amuch more favourable view of his son’s friend than that he had originally entertained, and, finding him deeply interested in the country of his birth and in its early history, related to him at considerable length the story of the disruption of the Knight Templars, and the escape of the survivors to Ireland, of which he happened to have an account in black letter, which he hoped, as he said, at no distant date to have the pleasure of showing Mr. Talbot under his own roof. This naturally led on to some conversation respecting the labours of Mr. Erin in the Shakespearean field, concerning which the young man paid him several compliments, wherein what was wanted in appropriateness (for the young gentleman laboured under the disadvantage of knowing nothing whatever of the subject) was more than compensated for by their impassioned warmth. Then by an easy gradation they fell to talking on the new-found manuscripts. It amazed Mr. Erin to find that Talbot had not yet seen the Profession of Faith.‘I have been out of town, sir,’ he replied,for falsehood to this son of Erin was as natural as mother’s milk, and laid on like water, on the perpetual supply system, ‘and have not had the opportunity of seeing it, though, as you may well imagine, I have heard of little else. And that reminds me that I have a favour to ask of you. There is an old friend of mine, or rather of my late father’s, Mr. Albany Wallis—— ‘Mr. Erin frowned. ‘I have heard of the gentleman,’ he put in stiffly, ‘and in a sense I know him.’‘I trust you know nothing to his disadvantage, sir,’ said Talbot with humility. ‘I can only say that he has always spoken to me of yourself, and of your extraordinary erudition and attainments, with the greatest regard and consideration.’‘Indeed,’ returned the other, still drily, but with some relaxation of stiffness in his tone, ‘I am only acquainted with Mr. Wallis myself by hearsay; and judging him by the company he keeps—for he is known to be a friend of one Malone, of whom in Christian charity I willsay no more than that he is a fellow whose shallow pretence and pompous ignorance would disgrace the name of charlatan—I have certainly hitherto had but a bad opinion of him.’‘Of that, sir, he is aware,’ said Talbot, ‘and it troubles him just now exceedingly. The sense of your ill-will has prevented him, although a near neighbour, from calling in Norfolk Street; and knowing that I was a friend of your son’s, he has earnestly entreated me, in case I had the opportunity, to beg permission for him to pay you a visit.’‘From twelve to one, sir, the Shakespearean manuscripts are open to the inspection of all comers,’ said Mr. Erin, with a grand air. ‘We invite investigation, and even criticism.’‘Any time, of course, you choose to appoint will suit my friend,’ said Talbot; ‘but, as he led me to understand, he has a matter of importance connected with the manuscripts to communicate to you, and somewhat of a private nature.’‘Then let him come to-morrow evening, when we shall be alone. Perhaps he would like to see William Henry.’‘I think he would, sir,’ returned Talbot, and as he spoke he put his hand up to his mouth, to conceal a demoniacal grin such as one sees on a gargoyle carved by the piety of some monkish architect. ‘I’ll bring him to-morrow.’During all this time William Henry and Margaret, in the opposite corner of the arbour, had carried on a smothered conversation with one another on quite a different subject, or rather, as the manner of young people is under similar circumstances, on no subject at all. It was enough to them that their hands met under the table and their hearts met under the rose. The scene they looked upon was not more bright than their hopes, nor the music they listened to more in tune than their tender fancies. When Mr. Erin pulled out his watch and pronounced it time to set out for home, it seemed to them that they had only just arrived. As for Mr. Reginald Talbot, for the last hour or so they had been totally unconscious of his presence; but when he took his leave of them, which he did with much politeness, there wassomething of suppressed triumph in his voice that aroused William Henry’s suspicions. A shudder involuntarily seized him; he felt like a merrymaker at a festival who suddenly looks up into the sky, and perceives, instead of sunshine, ‘the ragged rims of thunder brooding low.’CHAPTER XVI.A BOMBSHELL.Itwas significant of the sensitiveness of Mr. Erin’s feelings in regard to his new-found treasures, though it by no means indicated any want of soundness in his faith, that he ignored as much as possible all attacks upon their authenticity. This by no means involved his shutting his eyes to them; indeed he had privately procured and read all that had been written about the MSS., even to that terrible letter of Lord Charlemont to Malone, in which he had said, ‘I am only sorry that Steevens (the rival commentator) is not the proprietor of them,’ in order (as he meant) that they might have had the additional pleasure, derived from private enmity, of exposing them. The sensations the antiquary endured from these thingswere something like those of Regulus rolling down a hill in his barrel stuck full of nails and knives, but he could not resist the temptation of reading them any more than a patient with hay-fever in his eyes can resist rubbing them.I have known young authors afflicted with the same mad desire of perusing all the disagreeable criticisms they can lay their hands on; but these things were much more than criticisms, they were personal imputations of the vilest kind, which at the same time no law of libel could touch. They ate into the poor antiquary’s heart, but he never talked about them. If he had, perhaps they would have been made more tolerable by the sympathy of his friends and the arguments of his partisans; but, except to himself, he ignored them. He did not even mention to William Henry that one Mr. Albany Wallis, whom he had reason to believe was little better than an infidel, was coming to Norfolk Street, by permission, to examine the Shakespeare papers. It weighed upon his own mind nevertheless, and he actually regretted that Frank Dennis chanced to dropin that afternoon—loyal though he knew him to be in all other matters—lest in his lukewarm faith, if faith it could be called at all, he should let fall anything to encourage the sceptic.Thus it came to pass that when the servant announced Mr. Reginald Talbot and Mr. Albany Wallis it was only Mr. Erin himself who felt no astonishment. William Henry was amazed, for though he had parted from his quondam friend on the previous evening on what were outwardly good terms, there had been no pretence of a renewal of friendship between them; their meeting at Vauxhall had, as we know, been accidental, and Talbot had not dropped a hint of renewing his visits to Norfolk Street. The young man had a smiling but scarcely a genial air; his manner was constrained, a thing which, being contrary to his habit, sat very ill upon him; and he addressed himself solely to his host, for which indeed his errand was a sufficient excuse.‘Permit me, sir, to introduce to you my friend, Mr. Albany Wallis; a gentleman, like yourself, well versed in Shakespearean lore.’‘Mr. Wallis’s name is not unknown to me,’ answered the antiquary coldly; ‘I have the pleasure of speaking to the late Mr. Garrick’s man of business, have I not?’The visitor, a thin grey man, with sharp, intelligent features, by no means devoid of kindliness, bowed courteously.‘I had that honour,’ he replied gravely; ‘I have also been acquainted all my life with many who take an interest in the drama, especially the Shakespearean drama. That some of them differ from you, Mr. Erin, on the subject on which I have called to-day, I am of course aware, but, believe me, I come in no unfriendly spirit. I take it for granted that you and I are equally interested in the establishment of the truth!’‘It is to be hoped so,’ returned the antiquary, with dignity; ‘you would like, I conclude, to see the Profession.’‘Well, no, sir, not immediately. You have other documents, as I am informed, in one of which I am more particularly concerned.’‘Very good. Margaret, this is your affair,it seems,’ said the antiquary, smiling: it was a relief to his mind that the Profession at least was not about to be impugned. ‘Here is the key of the chest; bring out the Shakespeare letter and verses, with the lock of hair.’ For a moment or two Mr. Wallis remained silent. His eyes followed Margaret as she rose to obey her uncle’s request, with a curious look of gentle commiseration in them.‘I did not know that this young lady had anything to do with these discoveries,’ he answered.‘Nor has she, sir. The hair and the verses have become in a manner her own property, that is—er—under my trusteeship; but they were disinterred from a mass of ancient materials by my son here, William Henry.’Mr. Wallis turned his face on the young gentleman thus alluded to much as a policeman flashes his dark-lantern on a suspected stranger. There was no commiseration in it now; it was a keen, and even a hostile glance.‘I see; but besides the reputed epistle to Anne Hathaway, there was, I think, a note ofhand purporting to be written to Shakespeare from John Hemynge.’‘I don’t know as to “reputed” and “purporting,” sir,’ returned the antiquary stiffly, ‘which are adjectives not usually applied to documents professedly genuine, at all events under the roof of their possessor.’‘You are right; I beg your pardon, Mr. Erin,’ put in the visitor apologetically. ‘One has no right to prejudge a case of which one has only heard anex-partestatement. It is, however, that particular document which I ask to look at; a gentleman upon whose word I can rely has seen it, and assures me that the signature of John Hemynge appended to the receipt is—not to mince matters—a forgery.’The antiquary started to his feet. ‘Do you come here to insult me, sir?’ he inquired angrily.‘No, Mr. Erin, far from it,’ returned the other firmly. ‘No one would be better pleased both on your own account and on that of those belonging to you’—here his eye lit once more on Margaret, who had flushed to her forehead—‘ifI should find my informant mistaken. But the fact is, I possess a deed with the authentic and undoubted signature of John Hemynge, which my friend, who has seen both of them, assures me is wholly different from that attached to this new-found document. Assertion, however, as you may reasonably reply, is out of place in this matter. The question is merely one of comparison. Have you any objection to my applying that test?’‘Most certainly not, sir. Margaret, this gentleman wishes to see the note of hand.’Margaret brought it from the iron safe and gave it to Mr. Wallis. Her face still retained some trace of indignation, and her eyes met those of the visitor with resolution and even defiance.‘If there is fraud here,’ he said to himself, ‘this girl has nothing to do with it.’ The behaviour of Mr. Erin had also impressed him favourably; with that of William Henry he was not so satisfied, it seemed to him to have too muchsang-froid; but then (as he frankly confessed to himself) he had been prejudicedagainst him. Mr. Wallis was a man accustomed to ‘thread the labyrinth of the mind’ in matters more important, or at all events more serious, than literary investigation, and had a very observant eye, and the conclusion he came to was that, if there was one person in the present company more guilty than another as regards the Shakespearean fabrications (as Malone had called them), it was Mr. Frank Dennis. He had not indeed uttered one word; but when the girl had approached the safe there had been unmistakable signs of trouble in his face, while at this moment, when, as he (Mr. Wallis) knew, and as the other must needs suspect, a damning proof of the worthlessness of one of these vaunted discoveries was about to be produced, he exhibited an anxiety and apprehension which, to do them justice, were absent from the rest.‘This is a mortgage deed executed by John Hemynge,’ observed Mr. Wallis, drawing a document from his pocket, ‘concerning the genuineness of which there is no dispute. It was found among the papers of the Featherstonehaughfamily, to whom the nation is indebted (through my late client, David Garrick) for the Shakespeare mortgage now in the British Museum. If the signature of yonder deed tallies with it, well and good; I shall, believe me, be pleased to find it so; but if it does not do so, there can be no question as to which is the spurious one.’He threw the mortgage on the table, and stood with an air, if not of indifference, of one who has no personal concern in the matter on hand, while Mr. Erin compared the two signatures with minuteness. Presently he beckoned to his son in an agitated manner: ‘Your eyes are better than mine,’ he said: ‘what do you make of this?’William Henry just glanced at the two documents in a perfunctory manner, as though he had been asked to witness some signature of a client of his employer, and quietly answered: ‘They are very dissimilar; whichever is the wrong one, it can hardly be called an imitation, for it has not a letter in common with the other.’‘There is no question, young man, as to which is the wrong one,’ remarked Mr. Wallis, severely; ‘and as to imitation, it is clear enough that such a deception, however clumsily, has been seriously attempted. The only doubt we have to clear up is, “Who is the forger?”’ Mr. Wallis’s glance flashed for an instant upon Frank Dennis. He was standing apart, with his hand over the lower part of his features, and his eyes fixed on the ground. He looked like one upon whom a blow, long expected, has at last fallen.It was strange, thought Mr. Wallis, that Talbot, who had seemed so convinced of the younger Erin’s guilt, had had not a word to say about this other fellow. His own impression—one of those sudden convictions to which men of his stamp are especially liable, but which they would be the last to call inspirations—was that the affair was a conspiracy, in which these two young men were alone concerned, and that its moving spirit was Dennis. Suddenly the silence was broken by Margaret’s clear tones:—‘Mr. Wallis himself has not examined the deeds,’ she said.‘There is no need, young lady, since your uncle and cousin have already admitted the discrepancy,’ returned the visitor. ‘I am only following the example of that gentleman yonder’—here he indicated Frank Dennis with his forefinger—‘in taking the matter for granted.’Frank removed his hand from his mouth, showing a face ghastly pale, and quietly answered, ‘I am no judge of these things; but if I had made such a charge as you have done, sir, I think, as Miss Slade suggests, that I should give myself the trouble of seeing with my own eyes whether it was substantiated.’‘Nay,’ said Margaret, quickly, ‘I spoke not of any charge. If I thought that Mr. Wallis was making any personal accusation, I should not have addressed him at all.’‘But really, young lady,’ protested Mr. Wallis, ‘there must be something wrong somewhere, you know.’‘I should rather think there was,’ observed Mr. Reginald Talbot, with a snigger.‘And who the devil asked your opinion?’ inquired Mr. Erin, with the eager shrillness of a steam boiler which has just discovered its safety-valve. He did not forget that it was to this young gentleman’s good offices that he was indebted for this unsatisfactory state of things.‘Well, I thought it was a matter of criticism,’ murmured the young Irishman.‘That was the very reason, sir, you should have held your tongue,’ was the uncompromising reply.‘I really don’t know,’ observed William Henry, who had been idly turning over the leaves of the mortgage deed during this discussion, ‘why any bitterness should be imported into this discussion. We are all equally interested, as Mr. Wallis has remarked, in the establishment of the truth; and I, for my part, have nothing to fear from it. I am in no way responsible, as he must be aware, for the genuineness of the documents in question, but only for their discovery. What has happened to-day is no doubt as disagreeable as it is unlooked for; but it is no fault of mine. Theonly course open to me is, I suppose, to go to my friend in the Temple and acquaint him with what has happened. Perhaps he may have some explanation to offer upon the subject.’‘I should very much like to hear it,’ said Mr. Wallis, with a dry smile.Mr. Reginald Talbot also began to smile—aloud, but he caught Mr. Frank Dennis’s eye, which had so unmistakably menacing an expression in it that the snigger perished in its birth.‘Shall I go, father?’ inquired William Henry. For the antiquary sat like one in a dream, turning over the note of hand, once so precious to him, but which had now become waste paper.‘Yes, go! We will wait here till you come back,’ he answered.The words dropped from his lips like lead.CHAPTER XVII.THE MARE’S NEST.A greatpoet has sung of a certain tea-party as sitting ‘all silent and all damned,’ which is going pretty far as a description of social cheerlessness; but they were at tea, and had presumably bread and butter, and possibly even muffins, before them; whereas the little party in Norfolk Street, who sat awaiting the return of William Henry from his problematical patron (for Mr. Albany Wallis, for one, did not believe in his existence), had not even such material comforts to mitigate their embarrassment and ennui. On the table there were only the two deeds, and one of them was in all probability a forgery. Mr. Erin sat drumming his fingers upon it and endeavouring to hide the anxiety which consumed him—a mostdepressing spectacle. The company, too, were on anything but good terms with one another or with themselves. Mr. Albany Wallis was a just but kind-hearted man; he knew he was right, but he was equally certain that he was uncomfortable. Margaret’s beauty had touched him, and her indignation, however undeserved, distressed him. He felt convinced that she at least was innocent of any confederation with the evildoers, whoever they were.Now that he had once put hand to the plough, there was no possibility of drawing back; he must needs lay the whole conspiracy bare; but in his heart he cursed the officious malignity of Reginald Talbot, who had set him to work on so unpleasant a task. It was plain that that young gentleman knew how it was all to end. He lay back in his chair, tapping his boot with his cane, and with a grin on his face such as a Cheshire cat might wear who feels a mouse well under her claw. To Mr. Wallis it seemed equally clear that Mr. Frank Dennis also knew. He sat very pale and quiet, but with a face expectant of ill. Every now andthen he stole a glance at Margaret, full of ineffable shame and sorrow. As for her, she looked neither to the right nor to the left, but always at the door; her ears were on the stretch for William Henry’s return from the moment that his departing footstep died away. In her face alone was to be seen unshaken confidence; a woman’s faith—so often wasted, as Mr. Wallis thought to himself, upon false and worthless objects.Presently Mr. Erin glanced at her, and, seeming to gather comfort from her calmness, observed:—‘I am sorry to detain you, Mr. Wallis, but I think it better for both our sakes that you should remain here till this matter has, one way or another, been settled. It will convince you, at all events, that there is no collusion.’‘A very proper arrangement, sir, and one that does you infinite credit,’ returned the other courteously. ‘One word from your son’s friend—that is, if, as I believe, he must needs give up his case—will be all that is necessary, so that we shall not have to wait long.’‘The gentleman may not be at home,’ suggested Margaret.‘True,’ answered Mr. Wallis with a bow. In his heart he thought that the gentleman was not at all likely to be at home, but there was nothing in his tone that implied it.‘Perhaps,’ said Mr. Erin, ‘in order to pass the time, you would like to examine the other Shakespearean documents in my possession?’There was a world of significance, had the other only known it, in the manner in which the antiquary thus expressed himself. The idea of looking at these treasures ‘in order to pass the time’ would, an hour ago, have seemed to him little short of blasphemy.‘As you please, sir,’ returned Mr. Wallis indifferently; ‘though you will pardon me for saying that if the note of hand turns out to be—a—that is, unauthentic, it will destroy the credibility of all the rest.’‘It will affect it, no doubt,’ admitted the antiquary.‘On the other hand,’ observed Margaret in her clear tones, ‘if the evidence should be the other way, it will proportionately strengthen their claims.’f262A very cheerless proceeding.‘Undoubtedly,’ replied Mr. Wallis. He could offer that modicum of encouragement with perfect safety, and he was well pleased to have the opportunity of doing so. ‘Believe me, young lady,’ he went on with earnest gentleness, ‘that it would give me the sincerest gratification to find your confidence justified by the result.’Then he sat down, indifferent-eyed, but with a pretence of interest, to the Profession that Mr. Erin had spread out upon the table. It was a cheerless proceeding. The very exhibitor himself, it was plain, had but little heart for the performance; instead of expatiating with an unction that might well have been called ‘extreme’ on the precious revelation, he only put in a word or two. If he had apprehensions such as he had never before experienced of a visitor’s criticism, they were, however, unfounded. Mr. Wallis perhaps did not think it worth while to make objections, since a few more minutes at most must needs seethe imposture out; it would have been like quarrelling with a man upon his deathbed. He even allowed that the document was ‘interesting,’ though, as he made the observation to Margaret and not to her uncle, it is probable that it rather expressed his wish to please her than his real sentiments. His position was somewhat similar to that of Eloise when taking the veil.Yet then to those dread altars as I drew,Not on the Cross my eyes were fixed, but you,Not grace, nor zeal, love only was my call.For though, of course, the old lawyer was not in love with Margaret, he had a much greater admiration for her than for the sacred relic. Still, in spite of himself, habit induced him to give some considerable attention to the document; even if it was a forgery it was curious, and, at all events, anything was better than sitting with his hands before him watching those uncomfortable faces. That of Mr. Samuel Erin was at present particularly so, for his visitor’s eye was travelling towards the ‘leaffee tree,’ a weak point, which he felt under the circumstancesin a very ill condition to defend, when suddenly there was a knock at the door.‘There is Willie!’ cried Margaret, starting to her feet.She felt assured, since so short a time had elapsed, that he had found his friend of the Temple at home; but what was the news he had brought with him?One glance at the young fellow as he entered the room was sufficient for her. It was good news.The eye of love is an auger that can pierce the heart, if not the soul; but to the other members of the party William Henry’s face told nothing. It did not indeed wear the expression of defeat, but still less did it exhibit triumph or exultation. It had the same quiet, almost indifferent air that it habitually wore when the Shakespearean discoveries were under discussion; but the pallor which anxiety had caused in it when he left the house upon his apparently hopeless errand was gone; with a quiet smile he drew forth a paper from his pocket, and handed it to Mr. Wallis.‘You are quite right, sir,’ he said, ‘and yet you have not put my friend in the wrong. It is the case of the chameleon.’‘What is this?’ asked Mr. Wallis, a question which, having unfolded the paper, he proceeded to answer himself, in tones of the greatest amazement. ‘Why, this is John Hemynge over again—the real John Hemynge!’‘And yet, I suppose, not more real than the other,’ said William Henry quietly. ‘The simple explanation is that there were two of them.’‘Two of them!’ exclaimed Mr. Erin, looking much like the ‘gay French mousquetaire’ (only not ‘gay’) when he saw the ghost of his victim on one side of his bed, and her twin sister in the flesh on the other.‘This paper, I see, is an account of some theatrical disbursements,’ observed Mr. Wallis, biting his lips in much perplexity. ‘That reminds me that the note of hand was upon a similar subject. You don’t mean to tell me that these Hemynges were, not only both of the same name, but of the same calling—actors?’‘I tell you nothing, sir, of my own knowledge,’ answered William Henry drily, ‘for I know nothing about the matter. I went to my patron with the story you bade me tell him, that you possessed an authentic signature of Shakespeare’s friend Hemynge; that it was altogether different from the one appended to the note of hand I had found in his keeping, and that therefore the latter was a forgery. He only smiled, and said, “How very like a commentator!” Then he opened a little chest filled with theatrical memoranda. “There is nothing here of much value,” he said, “for I have examined them; but, as it happens, there is something to put the gentleman’s mind at rest as to any question of fraud.” Then he gave me this paper, the signature of which he bade me to ask you to compare with that on your mortgage deed. It is identical, is it not?’‘It certainly appears to be so,’ admitted Mr. Wallis.‘Well, according to my patron’s account, there were in Shakespeare’s time two John Hemynges: the one—yourJohn Hemynge—connectedwith Shakespeare’s own theatre, “The Globe;” the other, whose receipt is appended to the note of hand, the manager of the “Curtain” Theatre. The former, it seems, was called the Tall John Hemynge, the latter the Short. If you care to know more about them, I am instructed to say that my friend is prepared to give you every information.’As his eye fell upon the lawyer’s chap-fallen face, William Henry could not deny himself a smile of triumph; but as regarded his uncle and Margaret, Mr. Wallis observed that the young fellow did not so much as even glance at them—a circumstance which the lawyer attributed to a very natural cause; it was not they, but he, who had doubted of his good faith, so that in their case he had nothing to exult over. He felt very much abashed and disconcerted; nor was his embarrassment decreased when Margaret thus addressed him:—‘You will not forget, Mr. Wallis,’ she said gravely, ‘what was said just now of the change which would take place in your opinion of us,in case this matter should not turn out so unfavourably as you expected.’‘Nay, pardon me, young lady,’ returned the lawyer, gallantly, ‘I have never harboured any opinion of you otherwise than favourable; my observation referred to these other documents, which indeed, I frankly confess, I am now prepared to consider in a much less prejudiced light. For the present I must take my leave, but in the meantime let me express my thanks to you, Mr. Erin, for the kind reception I have met with, and to withdraw, without reserve, any expression I may have let fall which may be construed into a reflection upon your good faith, or upon that of any member of your family.’For a moment it occurred to Mr. Erin that here was an opportunity for snatching an ally from the enemy’s camp, by getting Mr. Albany Wallis to add his name to the list of believers, but on the whole he decided not to do so, upon the ground of the danger of the experiment. If Miss Margaret Slade, however, had asked Mr. Wallis the favour, it is doubtful whetherhe would not have acceded to her request. He felt such a brute at having given her distress of mind by his unmannerly suspicions that he would have made almost any sacrifice in reparation of them. He retired with a profusion of bows and excuses, while Mr. Reginald Talbot followed in silence at his heels like a whipped dog, who, professing to find a hare in her form, has only found a mare’s nest.

CHAPTER XIV.THE EXAMINERS.NOTWITHSTANDINGthe powerful motives in connection with its munificent but unknown donor that impelled Mr. Samuel Erin to keep ‘the Profession of Faith’ a secret confined to his antiquarian friends, the thing was obviously impossible. It would have been almost as difficult, had the Tables of the Law been verily discovered upon Mount Sinai, to restrict the news to a few members of the religious public.The discovery, and the discoverer, William Henry Erin, became ‘the Talk of the Town.’ It seemed to Margaret impossible that the meritorious though fortunate young fellow could ever become more famous; but the possibilities of greatness are infinite; his foot, as it turned out, was only on the first rung of the ladder. The modest house in Norfolk Street became a sort of metropolitan Stratford-on-Avon; it was absolutely besieged by the antiquarian and learned world. Mr. Malone the commentator, indeed (who had not been invited), publicly announced his intention of not examining the MSS., ‘lest his visit should give a countenance to them, which, from the secrecy that was observed relative to their discovery, they were not entitled to.’ Mr. Steevens took the same course, as did also Dr. Farmer, Lord Orford, and the Bishops of Durham and Salisbury. The air was thick with their pamphlets and loud with their denunciations. But there were more fish than these in the Shakespearean seas, and quite as big ones, who were of a different opinion. Some of them came to scoff, butremained to admire and believe; others, calm and critical, examined and were convinced; others again, arriving in a reverent spirit, were filled with satisfaction and affected even to tears.Under these circumstances, his own good faith being attacked, as well as these precious treasures maliciously denounced, Mr. Samuel Erin took a bold course. On a table in his sanctuary, side by side with the new discovery, was placed another ‘profession of faith’ in the validity of the MS. in question, which visitors were invited to sign. They were not, of course, compelled to do it; but, having expressed their belief in the genuineness of the document, it seemed not unreasonable that they should commit it to paper. In some cases there were rather humorous scenes. Antiquaries as a rule are not very eager to permanently endorse with their authority the treasures which are not in their own possession; they have been known even to express a cheerful belief in that or this, and afterwards, when unpleasant evidence turns up, to deny that they ever did believe init; and Mr. Erin, who knew Latin, was an admirer of the ancient line, ‘litera scripta manet,’ which literally translated means, ‘One can’t well wriggle out of one’s own handwriting.’ As pilgrims did not pay for the privilege of admission to view these sacred relics, they were naturally inclined to be civil to their custodians, and, when sufficiently convinced of the genuineness of what they saw, to express themselves with much effusion and enthusiasm. As the paper in question was worded very modestly, but with extreme distinctness, there was no alternative for the impulsive person but to sign it.‘Delighted to have seen you,’ Mr. Erin would say, as he pressed the hand of his departing guest; ‘your unsought-for and enthusiastic testimony has been most gratifying to me.’‘Don’t mention it, my dear sir, it is I who have been delighted. It has been a privilege indeed to have set eyes upon so valuable and absolutely authentic a document.’‘Then just as a matter of form, be so goodas to add your name to this already lengthy roll of Shakespearean critics; it will be the very keystone of the edifice of our faith.’The faces of some of these enthusiasts, at this modest and reasonable request, would fall from zenith to nadir. They could not eat their own words, but they looked as if they would like to have eaten Mr. Samuel Erin.William Henry, who had a strong sense of humour, was sometimes compelled to rush from the room, and hide his face, bedewed with tears of laughter, upon Margaret’s shoulder.These paroxysms used rather to distress her. ‘Oh, Willie, Willie, how can you be so frivolous,’ she would say, ‘on a matter too that is so fraught with good or evil to both of us?’‘Oh, but if you could onlyseethem, my darling,’ he would reply, ‘so civil, so beaming with courtesy and enthusiasm, and then all of a sudden—like a sportsman in a small way, who, boastful of his prowess, finds himself face to face with a wild boar—alarmed, astounded, and without the least hope of escape, youwould laugh too. Then, when theywon’tsign, it is almost even better fun. Porson was here this morning; the great Dr. Porson, who knows as much Greek as Troilus did, and certainly can write it better. He drank half a bottle of brandy, a pint of usquebaugh, and all the miscellaneous contents of your uncle’s spirit case, and, though he had said but little, was taking his leave in what seemed a state of complete good humour and satisfaction, when Mr. Erin requested the honour of his signature. Then he drew himself up as stiff as a pointer at a partridge.‘“I thank you, sir,” he said, “but I never subscribe to anything, much less to a profession of faith.” The disbelieving old heathen! I really thought your uncle would have kicked him into the street.’‘Oh, but I am so sorry about Dr. Porson.’‘Why, my darling? He was not really kicked, you know. Don’t be sorry for Porson; be sorry for me. If I didn’t find some amusement in these people, I believe I should go mad. You have no idea what I suffer fromthem, their examinations and their cross-examinations—for when they are sceptical theyarecross-examinations—their pomposity and pretence, are well-nigh intolerable. I don’t know whether their patronage or their contempt is the most offensive.’It was quite true that these investigations were not always a laughing matter to William Henry. On one occasion there was a regular committee of inquiry, composed of what might well be called bigwigs, folks of the highest reputation in matters of erudition, and most of them in full-bottomed perukes. The Rev. Mr. Warton, the commentator, was one of them, solemn as Porson had been, and much more sober; Dr. Parr, the divine and scholar, pompous yet affable, in ecclesiastical apparel, with shovel hat and apron; Pye, the poet laureate, combining the air of a man of letters with the importance belonging to a Government official; and half a dozen other grave and reverend signors. The room was specially arranged for their reception. Mr. Samuel Erin sat at the head of the table in the Shakespearean chairthat he had purchased at Anne Hathaway’s cottage. The Profession of Faith was spread before the learned epicures as though it was something to eat. Their eyes devoured it. William Henry had a chair to himself a little removed, ready to answer all inquiries. It was by far the most serious examination to which he had been subjected, but he acquitted himself very well. He had nothing, he said, to tell them but the simple truth. As to the genuineness of the document in question, he knew nothing, and had not even an opinion to offer on the subject.These visitors were not Mr. Erin’s personal friends; they did not fall into raptures, or affect to do so; they were by no means so courteous as the ordinary folks who came from curiosity; they had been invited for the special purpose of having their minds satisfied, or of coming to an adverse conclusion. It was like the Star Chamber, and they did not (as it seemed to William Henry) spare the thumbscrew or the boot. After an hour or two of this gentle pressure, Mr. Warton observed, ‘Your testimony,young man, so far as it goes, is satisfactory to us, while your behaviour does you great credit.’‘Yes,’ assented Dr. Parr, ‘I think, Mr. Erin, you have a son of whom you may be justly proud. I heard you address him as Samuel; it is a gratifying coincidence to me that it is also my baptismal name.’ Mr. Erin felt that it would be discourteous as well as embarrassing to undeceive him.Then Mr. Pye was asked to read the Profession of Faith (which had by this time been fully investigated and discussed) aloud, which he did in a solemn and sonorous voice, with the company reverently upstanding as during Divine Service. Then, amid a profound silence, Dr. Parr delivered himself as follows:—‘Sir, we have very fine passages in our Church Services, and our Litany abounds in beauties; but here, sir, is a man who has distanced us all.’Most of the learned company bowed assent, and two, who were nonconformists, murmured‘hear, hear.’ The tears trickled down Mr. Erin’s cheeks; it was the proudest moment, so far, in the old man’s life.Later on in the day another gratifying circumstance took place. A visitor called who either had not received his invitation in time, or, what was more probable, not wishing his personal importance to suffer by comparison with that of others, had preferred to come alone. His face was fat and puffy, and exhibited an unparalleled self-sufficiency. He had a sharp nose, a double chin, and eyebrows superciliously elevated; he carried a gold-headed cane in his hands, clasped behind him, and spoke in a thick, slow voice. Mr. Erin received him with great respect, and submitted his literary treasure for examination with an unwonted humility. The investigation was a prolonged and apparently an exhausting one, for the visitor called three times (as though he had been in a public-house) for hot whisky and water! As Dr. Porson had drunk all there was in the case, Margaret herself, who kept the key of the cellar, took him in a fresh bottle,and curiosity compelled her to remain. Her presence seemed somewhat to distract the attention of the guest from the precious manuscript.‘No doubt authentic,’ he murmured, ‘and devilish pretty; antiquity is stamped upon it.’‘And the right sort of antiquity,’ suggested Mr. Erin. ‘It has the stamp of the time.’‘Just so. I should think twenty years of age, at most.’‘Sir!’ ejaculated his host.‘I mean the usquebaugh,’ explained the visitor. ‘Twenty years in bottle at least—did I say at most? and plump.’Here Margaret was about to beat a retreat, when the gentleman rose. ‘One moment, young lady,’ he said, ‘you do not know who I am. It will be something to tell your children’s children that James Boswell, of Auchinleck, Esq.’ (here he suited the action to the word) ‘chucked you under the chin.’William Henry felt greatly inclined to resent this liberty, but Mr. Erin only smiled approval.‘Another glass!’ said Mr. Boswell, and proceeded with his investigations.Presently, without a word of warning, he threw himself on his knees and pressed his lips to the MS.‘I kiss these invaluable relics of our bard,’ he said, ‘and thank Heaven that I have lived to see them. Would that my late revered friend, the great Lexi—the great Lexicog—— ‘ Emotion of various kinds prevented his completion of the sentence, and Mr. Erin led him with a gentle violence to the table on which lay the list of signatures; to which he added his name, though, it must be confessed, in a handwriting that was rather illegible.

THE EXAMINERS.

NOTWITHSTANDINGthe powerful motives in connection with its munificent but unknown donor that impelled Mr. Samuel Erin to keep ‘the Profession of Faith’ a secret confined to his antiquarian friends, the thing was obviously impossible. It would have been almost as difficult, had the Tables of the Law been verily discovered upon Mount Sinai, to restrict the news to a few members of the religious public.The discovery, and the discoverer, William Henry Erin, became ‘the Talk of the Town.’ It seemed to Margaret impossible that the meritorious though fortunate young fellow could ever become more famous; but the possibilities of greatness are infinite; his foot, as it turned out, was only on the first rung of the ladder. The modest house in Norfolk Street became a sort of metropolitan Stratford-on-Avon; it was absolutely besieged by the antiquarian and learned world. Mr. Malone the commentator, indeed (who had not been invited), publicly announced his intention of not examining the MSS., ‘lest his visit should give a countenance to them, which, from the secrecy that was observed relative to their discovery, they were not entitled to.’ Mr. Steevens took the same course, as did also Dr. Farmer, Lord Orford, and the Bishops of Durham and Salisbury. The air was thick with their pamphlets and loud with their denunciations. But there were more fish than these in the Shakespearean seas, and quite as big ones, who were of a different opinion. Some of them came to scoff, butremained to admire and believe; others, calm and critical, examined and were convinced; others again, arriving in a reverent spirit, were filled with satisfaction and affected even to tears.

Under these circumstances, his own good faith being attacked, as well as these precious treasures maliciously denounced, Mr. Samuel Erin took a bold course. On a table in his sanctuary, side by side with the new discovery, was placed another ‘profession of faith’ in the validity of the MS. in question, which visitors were invited to sign. They were not, of course, compelled to do it; but, having expressed their belief in the genuineness of the document, it seemed not unreasonable that they should commit it to paper. In some cases there were rather humorous scenes. Antiquaries as a rule are not very eager to permanently endorse with their authority the treasures which are not in their own possession; they have been known even to express a cheerful belief in that or this, and afterwards, when unpleasant evidence turns up, to deny that they ever did believe init; and Mr. Erin, who knew Latin, was an admirer of the ancient line, ‘litera scripta manet,’ which literally translated means, ‘One can’t well wriggle out of one’s own handwriting.’ As pilgrims did not pay for the privilege of admission to view these sacred relics, they were naturally inclined to be civil to their custodians, and, when sufficiently convinced of the genuineness of what they saw, to express themselves with much effusion and enthusiasm. As the paper in question was worded very modestly, but with extreme distinctness, there was no alternative for the impulsive person but to sign it.

‘Delighted to have seen you,’ Mr. Erin would say, as he pressed the hand of his departing guest; ‘your unsought-for and enthusiastic testimony has been most gratifying to me.’

‘Don’t mention it, my dear sir, it is I who have been delighted. It has been a privilege indeed to have set eyes upon so valuable and absolutely authentic a document.’

‘Then just as a matter of form, be so goodas to add your name to this already lengthy roll of Shakespearean critics; it will be the very keystone of the edifice of our faith.’

The faces of some of these enthusiasts, at this modest and reasonable request, would fall from zenith to nadir. They could not eat their own words, but they looked as if they would like to have eaten Mr. Samuel Erin.

William Henry, who had a strong sense of humour, was sometimes compelled to rush from the room, and hide his face, bedewed with tears of laughter, upon Margaret’s shoulder.

These paroxysms used rather to distress her. ‘Oh, Willie, Willie, how can you be so frivolous,’ she would say, ‘on a matter too that is so fraught with good or evil to both of us?’

‘Oh, but if you could onlyseethem, my darling,’ he would reply, ‘so civil, so beaming with courtesy and enthusiasm, and then all of a sudden—like a sportsman in a small way, who, boastful of his prowess, finds himself face to face with a wild boar—alarmed, astounded, and without the least hope of escape, youwould laugh too. Then, when theywon’tsign, it is almost even better fun. Porson was here this morning; the great Dr. Porson, who knows as much Greek as Troilus did, and certainly can write it better. He drank half a bottle of brandy, a pint of usquebaugh, and all the miscellaneous contents of your uncle’s spirit case, and, though he had said but little, was taking his leave in what seemed a state of complete good humour and satisfaction, when Mr. Erin requested the honour of his signature. Then he drew himself up as stiff as a pointer at a partridge.

‘“I thank you, sir,” he said, “but I never subscribe to anything, much less to a profession of faith.” The disbelieving old heathen! I really thought your uncle would have kicked him into the street.’

‘Oh, but I am so sorry about Dr. Porson.’

‘Why, my darling? He was not really kicked, you know. Don’t be sorry for Porson; be sorry for me. If I didn’t find some amusement in these people, I believe I should go mad. You have no idea what I suffer fromthem, their examinations and their cross-examinations—for when they are sceptical theyarecross-examinations—their pomposity and pretence, are well-nigh intolerable. I don’t know whether their patronage or their contempt is the most offensive.’

It was quite true that these investigations were not always a laughing matter to William Henry. On one occasion there was a regular committee of inquiry, composed of what might well be called bigwigs, folks of the highest reputation in matters of erudition, and most of them in full-bottomed perukes. The Rev. Mr. Warton, the commentator, was one of them, solemn as Porson had been, and much more sober; Dr. Parr, the divine and scholar, pompous yet affable, in ecclesiastical apparel, with shovel hat and apron; Pye, the poet laureate, combining the air of a man of letters with the importance belonging to a Government official; and half a dozen other grave and reverend signors. The room was specially arranged for their reception. Mr. Samuel Erin sat at the head of the table in the Shakespearean chairthat he had purchased at Anne Hathaway’s cottage. The Profession of Faith was spread before the learned epicures as though it was something to eat. Their eyes devoured it. William Henry had a chair to himself a little removed, ready to answer all inquiries. It was by far the most serious examination to which he had been subjected, but he acquitted himself very well. He had nothing, he said, to tell them but the simple truth. As to the genuineness of the document in question, he knew nothing, and had not even an opinion to offer on the subject.

These visitors were not Mr. Erin’s personal friends; they did not fall into raptures, or affect to do so; they were by no means so courteous as the ordinary folks who came from curiosity; they had been invited for the special purpose of having their minds satisfied, or of coming to an adverse conclusion. It was like the Star Chamber, and they did not (as it seemed to William Henry) spare the thumbscrew or the boot. After an hour or two of this gentle pressure, Mr. Warton observed, ‘Your testimony,young man, so far as it goes, is satisfactory to us, while your behaviour does you great credit.’

‘Yes,’ assented Dr. Parr, ‘I think, Mr. Erin, you have a son of whom you may be justly proud. I heard you address him as Samuel; it is a gratifying coincidence to me that it is also my baptismal name.’ Mr. Erin felt that it would be discourteous as well as embarrassing to undeceive him.

Then Mr. Pye was asked to read the Profession of Faith (which had by this time been fully investigated and discussed) aloud, which he did in a solemn and sonorous voice, with the company reverently upstanding as during Divine Service. Then, amid a profound silence, Dr. Parr delivered himself as follows:—

‘Sir, we have very fine passages in our Church Services, and our Litany abounds in beauties; but here, sir, is a man who has distanced us all.’

Most of the learned company bowed assent, and two, who were nonconformists, murmured‘hear, hear.’ The tears trickled down Mr. Erin’s cheeks; it was the proudest moment, so far, in the old man’s life.

Later on in the day another gratifying circumstance took place. A visitor called who either had not received his invitation in time, or, what was more probable, not wishing his personal importance to suffer by comparison with that of others, had preferred to come alone. His face was fat and puffy, and exhibited an unparalleled self-sufficiency. He had a sharp nose, a double chin, and eyebrows superciliously elevated; he carried a gold-headed cane in his hands, clasped behind him, and spoke in a thick, slow voice. Mr. Erin received him with great respect, and submitted his literary treasure for examination with an unwonted humility. The investigation was a prolonged and apparently an exhausting one, for the visitor called three times (as though he had been in a public-house) for hot whisky and water! As Dr. Porson had drunk all there was in the case, Margaret herself, who kept the key of the cellar, took him in a fresh bottle,and curiosity compelled her to remain. Her presence seemed somewhat to distract the attention of the guest from the precious manuscript.

‘No doubt authentic,’ he murmured, ‘and devilish pretty; antiquity is stamped upon it.’

‘And the right sort of antiquity,’ suggested Mr. Erin. ‘It has the stamp of the time.’

‘Just so. I should think twenty years of age, at most.’

‘Sir!’ ejaculated his host.

‘I mean the usquebaugh,’ explained the visitor. ‘Twenty years in bottle at least—did I say at most? and plump.’

Here Margaret was about to beat a retreat, when the gentleman rose. ‘One moment, young lady,’ he said, ‘you do not know who I am. It will be something to tell your children’s children that James Boswell, of Auchinleck, Esq.’ (here he suited the action to the word) ‘chucked you under the chin.’

William Henry felt greatly inclined to resent this liberty, but Mr. Erin only smiled approval.

‘Another glass!’ said Mr. Boswell, and proceeded with his investigations.

Presently, without a word of warning, he threw himself on his knees and pressed his lips to the MS.

‘I kiss these invaluable relics of our bard,’ he said, ‘and thank Heaven that I have lived to see them. Would that my late revered friend, the great Lexi—the great Lexicog—— ‘ Emotion of various kinds prevented his completion of the sentence, and Mr. Erin led him with a gentle violence to the table on which lay the list of signatures; to which he added his name, though, it must be confessed, in a handwriting that was rather illegible.

CHAPTER XV.AT VAUXHALL.Themembers of the little household in Norfolk Street were now in great content. That word, indeed, scarcely describes the state of mind of the head of the house, who was literally transported with joy. It was difficult to identify the jubilant and triumphant old fellow with the grudging, smileless, and to say truth, somewhat morose individual he had been a few months before. His regard for William Henry began to be quite troublesome, for, though he had not the least objection to Margaret and his son being alone together, he would often interrupt their little interviews from excess of solicitude upon his account. That somewhat flippant young gentleman used to compare his parent on these occasions to the ‘sweete chickenne’ of the Shakespearean profession, which was always ‘hoverrynge over herre broode,’ and, indeed, this affectionate anxiety was partly due to a certain apprehension the old gentleman experienced when the goose that laid the golden eggs for him was out of his sight. At present, however, as Margaret reminded her cousin, there were not enough of them—though so far as they went they had a very material value—to become nest eggs; they could not be considered as savings or capital to any appreciable extent. They were not, indeed, theirs at all, having been made over to Mr. Erin; but for the object the young people had in view that was all one as though they had remained their own. If a play of Shakespeare’s, or even part of a play, should chance to turn up among those treasures of the Temple, that would indeed be a fortune to them, or at all events would procure the antiquary’s consent to everything, and ensure his favour in perpetuity.These ideas occurred to Margaret only in the vaguest way, nor even in William Henry’smind did they take any well-defined shape. His nature, to do him justice, was by no means mercenary, and, if he could only have called Margaret his own, he would have been content. As to being able to maintain her he had always had a good opinion of his own talents; and though the praise with which he was now overwhelmed from so many quarters had, of course, no reference to them, it helped to increase his self-confidence.In this comparative prosperity, and being of a disposition that was by no means inclined to triumph over an unsuccessful rival, it somewhat distressed him to find Frank Dennis standing somewhat aloof. He visited the house, indeed, but not so frequently as had been his wont, and, as regarded William Henry at least, not upon the same terms. He had always been friendly to the younger man under circumstances when it would have been excusable if he had been otherwise, but now he avoided him; not in any marked manner, but certainly with intention. If he had avoided Margaret also, the explanation would have been easy, but it was not so.He was not, indeed, on the same terms with that young lady as he had been; he did not, as of old, seek her society; his face did not brighten up as it was wont to do when she addressed him; but he treated her with a respect which, if it was not tender, was full of gentleness: whereas, to William Henry he was even cold.It was a significant proof of the transformation that had taken place in Mr. Erin that he not only noticed this, but in a manner apologised for it to William Henry.‘I am sorry to see that Dennis and you, my lad, don’t seem to get on together so well as you used to do. But you must not mind his being a little jealous.’At this the young man’s face flushed, for ‘jealousy’ had just then with him but one meaning: he thought that his father was about to talk with him about Margaret, but his niece was not in the old man’s thoughts at all.‘It is not every one,’ he went on, ‘who can bear to see the good fortune of his friends with equanimity; especially when it takes the formof such a stroke of luck, as in your case. What Dennis says to himself is: “Why should not I have discovered these MSS. instead of William Henry?” And not having done so, he is a little bit envious of you, and is inclined to decry them. It is a pity, of course, but he can do you no more harm by it than he can harm Shakespeare by discrediting the work of his hand.’But the young man was sorry nevertheless, and Margaret was still more grieved. Since Dennis had tacitly consented to her changed relations with her cousin, or at all events had made no opposition to them, she thought he might have forgiven him as he had forgiven her. It was a subject on which she could not speak to him, but occasionally there was something, or to her sensitive eye and ear seemed to be something, in his tone and manner, not resentful, but as though he pitied her for her choice, which annoyed her exceedingly.This feeling was in no way reciprocated; it was impossible for Margaret to ruffle Frank Dennis, but he rarely came to Norfolk Streetnow, unless by special invitation. It had been proposed by Mr. Erin that they should all four go to Vauxhall together upon a certain evening—a very unusual dissipation, for except the theatre, of which when Shakespeare was acted (which in those days was very frequently) he was a pretty constant patron, the antiquary had no love for places of amusement—but Frank Dennis had declined to accompany them. He professed to have a previous engagement, which, as he went out very little, seemed improbable; indeed, it was understood by the others that he did not wish to go. This was a cause of sincere regret to them, not excluding William Henry, for if Dennis had come he would have paired off with Mr. Erin and left Margaret to himself. The expedition, however, was looked forward to with pleasure by both the young people even as it was: it had the charm of novelty for them, for William Henry was almost as great a stranger to what had now begun to be called ‘life’ in London as his cousin. The little trip to the place by water was itself delightful, while the Gardens, with the colouredlamps and music and gaily dressed company, seemed to them like a dream of Paradise.Mr. Samuel Erin was not indeed a very good cicerone to such a spot, for folks of their age; though he would have been invaluable to some distinguished foreigner with a thirst for information. He reminded them (or rather informed them, for they knew very little about it) how for more than a century the place had been the resort of all the wit and rank and gallantry of the town; how Addison had taken Sir Roger de Coverley there, and Goldsmith the Chinese philosopher, and Swift had gone in person to hear the nightingale; and how much more attractive it was than its rival Ranelagh, of which, nevertheless, as Walpole humorously writes, Lord Chesterfield was so fond that he ordered all his letters to be directed thither. It was with difficulty the old gentleman was persuaded not to take them away from the radiant scene to a neighbouring street to see the lodgings where the poet Philips had breathed his last; and, by way of reprisal for their preference for such gauds and tinsel, he quotedto them (after Dr. Johnson) Xerxes’ remark about his army, that it was sad to think that of all that brilliant crowd not one would be alive a hundred years hence. The Scriptures themselves admit that there is a time to laugh and a time to play, and these literary reminiscences, and much more these didactic reflections, were felt by the young people to be a good deal out of place. If Mr. Erin could have been induced to visit the lodgings of Mr. Philips by himself, or to meditate on the Future alone, and in the Maze, then indeed they would have applauded him, but as it was, his company was a trifle triste.f236Vauxhall Gardens.They were presently relieved from it, however, in a wholly unexpected manner. They had explored the walks, promenaded the ‘area,’ and listened to the band to their hearts’ content, and had just sat down in one of the arbours to a modest supper, when who should pass by, with his hat on one side and an air of studied indifference to the commonplace allurements around him, but Mr. Reginald Talbot. His few weeks’ residence in London had effecteda revolution in him, which nevertheless could scarcely be called a reform: from an inhabitant of Connemara, or some other out-of-the-way spot, he had become a citizen of the world; but the dissipations of the town had not improved his appearance. His face, though still full, had lost its colour, and he had a lack-lustre look which so ably seconded his attempts at languor that it almost rendered him idiotic.William Henry drew involuntarily back in the box to avoid recognition, but Mr. Talbot’s eye, roving everywhere, though with a somewhat fish-like expression, in search of female beauty, had already been attracted by Margaret’s pretty face. He did not quite recognise it, probably owing to the doubtful aid he derived from his spy-glass, but it was evident that he was struggling with a reminiscence.‘Why, surely that is our young friend Talbot, is it not, Samuel?’ exclaimed Mr. Erin with effusion; and he held out his hand to the young man at once, not because he was glad to see him, far from it, but because he thought he was making a friend of his son welcome.William Henry, however, was well convinced that Talbot was no longer his friend, a circumstance that had not hitherto distressed him. Indeed, he had by no means regretted their little tiff, since it had been the means of keeping Talbot away from Norfolk Street; but now that they had met again he had reasons for wishing that they had not quarrelled. The very cordiality with which the other addressed him aroused his apprehensions, for he knew that it was feigned; he would much rather indeed have seen him, as on the occasion when he had last met her, make advances to Margaret herself. Of her he was sure; no dandy, whether metropolitan or provincial, could, he knew, ever rival him in her affections; but this fellow, smarting from the slight that had been put upon his muse, might injure him in other ways. He knew from experience Mr. Reginald Talbot was capable of being what at school was termed ‘nasty,’i.e.malignant. It has been said of the great Marlborough that whenever he permitted himself a noble phrase it was a sure sign that he was about to commit a baseness;and similarly, the fact of Mr. Talbot’s being upon his best behaviour was a symptom dangerous to his friends. On the present occasion he was studiously genteel.His manner to Margaret—very different from that he generally adopted towards the fair sex—was distantly polite, while to Mr. Samuel Erin he was respectful to servility. What especially marked the abnormal condition of his mind, and showed his feelings to be. under severe restraint, was that he never alluded to his own poetical genius. In speaking to William Henry the subject might well indeed have been avoided as a painful one; but that he should exercise this reticence with respect to the antiquary—to whom on a previous occasion, it will be remembered, he had mentioned within the first five minutes that he was ‘a man of letters’—was something portentous. He did not indeed talk much, but he did what was a thousand times more difficult to him—he held his tongue and listened.This circumstance, joined to his demure behaviour, caused Mr. Samuel Erin to take amuch more favourable view of his son’s friend than that he had originally entertained, and, finding him deeply interested in the country of his birth and in its early history, related to him at considerable length the story of the disruption of the Knight Templars, and the escape of the survivors to Ireland, of which he happened to have an account in black letter, which he hoped, as he said, at no distant date to have the pleasure of showing Mr. Talbot under his own roof. This naturally led on to some conversation respecting the labours of Mr. Erin in the Shakespearean field, concerning which the young man paid him several compliments, wherein what was wanted in appropriateness (for the young gentleman laboured under the disadvantage of knowing nothing whatever of the subject) was more than compensated for by their impassioned warmth. Then by an easy gradation they fell to talking on the new-found manuscripts. It amazed Mr. Erin to find that Talbot had not yet seen the Profession of Faith.‘I have been out of town, sir,’ he replied,for falsehood to this son of Erin was as natural as mother’s milk, and laid on like water, on the perpetual supply system, ‘and have not had the opportunity of seeing it, though, as you may well imagine, I have heard of little else. And that reminds me that I have a favour to ask of you. There is an old friend of mine, or rather of my late father’s, Mr. Albany Wallis—— ‘Mr. Erin frowned. ‘I have heard of the gentleman,’ he put in stiffly, ‘and in a sense I know him.’‘I trust you know nothing to his disadvantage, sir,’ said Talbot with humility. ‘I can only say that he has always spoken to me of yourself, and of your extraordinary erudition and attainments, with the greatest regard and consideration.’‘Indeed,’ returned the other, still drily, but with some relaxation of stiffness in his tone, ‘I am only acquainted with Mr. Wallis myself by hearsay; and judging him by the company he keeps—for he is known to be a friend of one Malone, of whom in Christian charity I willsay no more than that he is a fellow whose shallow pretence and pompous ignorance would disgrace the name of charlatan—I have certainly hitherto had but a bad opinion of him.’‘Of that, sir, he is aware,’ said Talbot, ‘and it troubles him just now exceedingly. The sense of your ill-will has prevented him, although a near neighbour, from calling in Norfolk Street; and knowing that I was a friend of your son’s, he has earnestly entreated me, in case I had the opportunity, to beg permission for him to pay you a visit.’‘From twelve to one, sir, the Shakespearean manuscripts are open to the inspection of all comers,’ said Mr. Erin, with a grand air. ‘We invite investigation, and even criticism.’‘Any time, of course, you choose to appoint will suit my friend,’ said Talbot; ‘but, as he led me to understand, he has a matter of importance connected with the manuscripts to communicate to you, and somewhat of a private nature.’‘Then let him come to-morrow evening, when we shall be alone. Perhaps he would like to see William Henry.’‘I think he would, sir,’ returned Talbot, and as he spoke he put his hand up to his mouth, to conceal a demoniacal grin such as one sees on a gargoyle carved by the piety of some monkish architect. ‘I’ll bring him to-morrow.’During all this time William Henry and Margaret, in the opposite corner of the arbour, had carried on a smothered conversation with one another on quite a different subject, or rather, as the manner of young people is under similar circumstances, on no subject at all. It was enough to them that their hands met under the table and their hearts met under the rose. The scene they looked upon was not more bright than their hopes, nor the music they listened to more in tune than their tender fancies. When Mr. Erin pulled out his watch and pronounced it time to set out for home, it seemed to them that they had only just arrived. As for Mr. Reginald Talbot, for the last hour or so they had been totally unconscious of his presence; but when he took his leave of them, which he did with much politeness, there wassomething of suppressed triumph in his voice that aroused William Henry’s suspicions. A shudder involuntarily seized him; he felt like a merrymaker at a festival who suddenly looks up into the sky, and perceives, instead of sunshine, ‘the ragged rims of thunder brooding low.’

AT VAUXHALL.

Themembers of the little household in Norfolk Street were now in great content. That word, indeed, scarcely describes the state of mind of the head of the house, who was literally transported with joy. It was difficult to identify the jubilant and triumphant old fellow with the grudging, smileless, and to say truth, somewhat morose individual he had been a few months before. His regard for William Henry began to be quite troublesome, for, though he had not the least objection to Margaret and his son being alone together, he would often interrupt their little interviews from excess of solicitude upon his account. That somewhat flippant young gentleman used to compare his parent on these occasions to the ‘sweete chickenne’ of the Shakespearean profession, which was always ‘hoverrynge over herre broode,’ and, indeed, this affectionate anxiety was partly due to a certain apprehension the old gentleman experienced when the goose that laid the golden eggs for him was out of his sight. At present, however, as Margaret reminded her cousin, there were not enough of them—though so far as they went they had a very material value—to become nest eggs; they could not be considered as savings or capital to any appreciable extent. They were not, indeed, theirs at all, having been made over to Mr. Erin; but for the object the young people had in view that was all one as though they had remained their own. If a play of Shakespeare’s, or even part of a play, should chance to turn up among those treasures of the Temple, that would indeed be a fortune to them, or at all events would procure the antiquary’s consent to everything, and ensure his favour in perpetuity.

These ideas occurred to Margaret only in the vaguest way, nor even in William Henry’smind did they take any well-defined shape. His nature, to do him justice, was by no means mercenary, and, if he could only have called Margaret his own, he would have been content. As to being able to maintain her he had always had a good opinion of his own talents; and though the praise with which he was now overwhelmed from so many quarters had, of course, no reference to them, it helped to increase his self-confidence.

In this comparative prosperity, and being of a disposition that was by no means inclined to triumph over an unsuccessful rival, it somewhat distressed him to find Frank Dennis standing somewhat aloof. He visited the house, indeed, but not so frequently as had been his wont, and, as regarded William Henry at least, not upon the same terms. He had always been friendly to the younger man under circumstances when it would have been excusable if he had been otherwise, but now he avoided him; not in any marked manner, but certainly with intention. If he had avoided Margaret also, the explanation would have been easy, but it was not so.He was not, indeed, on the same terms with that young lady as he had been; he did not, as of old, seek her society; his face did not brighten up as it was wont to do when she addressed him; but he treated her with a respect which, if it was not tender, was full of gentleness: whereas, to William Henry he was even cold.

It was a significant proof of the transformation that had taken place in Mr. Erin that he not only noticed this, but in a manner apologised for it to William Henry.

‘I am sorry to see that Dennis and you, my lad, don’t seem to get on together so well as you used to do. But you must not mind his being a little jealous.’

At this the young man’s face flushed, for ‘jealousy’ had just then with him but one meaning: he thought that his father was about to talk with him about Margaret, but his niece was not in the old man’s thoughts at all.

‘It is not every one,’ he went on, ‘who can bear to see the good fortune of his friends with equanimity; especially when it takes the formof such a stroke of luck, as in your case. What Dennis says to himself is: “Why should not I have discovered these MSS. instead of William Henry?” And not having done so, he is a little bit envious of you, and is inclined to decry them. It is a pity, of course, but he can do you no more harm by it than he can harm Shakespeare by discrediting the work of his hand.’

But the young man was sorry nevertheless, and Margaret was still more grieved. Since Dennis had tacitly consented to her changed relations with her cousin, or at all events had made no opposition to them, she thought he might have forgiven him as he had forgiven her. It was a subject on which she could not speak to him, but occasionally there was something, or to her sensitive eye and ear seemed to be something, in his tone and manner, not resentful, but as though he pitied her for her choice, which annoyed her exceedingly.

This feeling was in no way reciprocated; it was impossible for Margaret to ruffle Frank Dennis, but he rarely came to Norfolk Streetnow, unless by special invitation. It had been proposed by Mr. Erin that they should all four go to Vauxhall together upon a certain evening—a very unusual dissipation, for except the theatre, of which when Shakespeare was acted (which in those days was very frequently) he was a pretty constant patron, the antiquary had no love for places of amusement—but Frank Dennis had declined to accompany them. He professed to have a previous engagement, which, as he went out very little, seemed improbable; indeed, it was understood by the others that he did not wish to go. This was a cause of sincere regret to them, not excluding William Henry, for if Dennis had come he would have paired off with Mr. Erin and left Margaret to himself. The expedition, however, was looked forward to with pleasure by both the young people even as it was: it had the charm of novelty for them, for William Henry was almost as great a stranger to what had now begun to be called ‘life’ in London as his cousin. The little trip to the place by water was itself delightful, while the Gardens, with the colouredlamps and music and gaily dressed company, seemed to them like a dream of Paradise.

Mr. Samuel Erin was not indeed a very good cicerone to such a spot, for folks of their age; though he would have been invaluable to some distinguished foreigner with a thirst for information. He reminded them (or rather informed them, for they knew very little about it) how for more than a century the place had been the resort of all the wit and rank and gallantry of the town; how Addison had taken Sir Roger de Coverley there, and Goldsmith the Chinese philosopher, and Swift had gone in person to hear the nightingale; and how much more attractive it was than its rival Ranelagh, of which, nevertheless, as Walpole humorously writes, Lord Chesterfield was so fond that he ordered all his letters to be directed thither. It was with difficulty the old gentleman was persuaded not to take them away from the radiant scene to a neighbouring street to see the lodgings where the poet Philips had breathed his last; and, by way of reprisal for their preference for such gauds and tinsel, he quotedto them (after Dr. Johnson) Xerxes’ remark about his army, that it was sad to think that of all that brilliant crowd not one would be alive a hundred years hence. The Scriptures themselves admit that there is a time to laugh and a time to play, and these literary reminiscences, and much more these didactic reflections, were felt by the young people to be a good deal out of place. If Mr. Erin could have been induced to visit the lodgings of Mr. Philips by himself, or to meditate on the Future alone, and in the Maze, then indeed they would have applauded him, but as it was, his company was a trifle triste.

f236

Vauxhall Gardens.

Vauxhall Gardens.

Vauxhall Gardens.

They were presently relieved from it, however, in a wholly unexpected manner. They had explored the walks, promenaded the ‘area,’ and listened to the band to their hearts’ content, and had just sat down in one of the arbours to a modest supper, when who should pass by, with his hat on one side and an air of studied indifference to the commonplace allurements around him, but Mr. Reginald Talbot. His few weeks’ residence in London had effecteda revolution in him, which nevertheless could scarcely be called a reform: from an inhabitant of Connemara, or some other out-of-the-way spot, he had become a citizen of the world; but the dissipations of the town had not improved his appearance. His face, though still full, had lost its colour, and he had a lack-lustre look which so ably seconded his attempts at languor that it almost rendered him idiotic.

William Henry drew involuntarily back in the box to avoid recognition, but Mr. Talbot’s eye, roving everywhere, though with a somewhat fish-like expression, in search of female beauty, had already been attracted by Margaret’s pretty face. He did not quite recognise it, probably owing to the doubtful aid he derived from his spy-glass, but it was evident that he was struggling with a reminiscence.

‘Why, surely that is our young friend Talbot, is it not, Samuel?’ exclaimed Mr. Erin with effusion; and he held out his hand to the young man at once, not because he was glad to see him, far from it, but because he thought he was making a friend of his son welcome.

William Henry, however, was well convinced that Talbot was no longer his friend, a circumstance that had not hitherto distressed him. Indeed, he had by no means regretted their little tiff, since it had been the means of keeping Talbot away from Norfolk Street; but now that they had met again he had reasons for wishing that they had not quarrelled. The very cordiality with which the other addressed him aroused his apprehensions, for he knew that it was feigned; he would much rather indeed have seen him, as on the occasion when he had last met her, make advances to Margaret herself. Of her he was sure; no dandy, whether metropolitan or provincial, could, he knew, ever rival him in her affections; but this fellow, smarting from the slight that had been put upon his muse, might injure him in other ways. He knew from experience Mr. Reginald Talbot was capable of being what at school was termed ‘nasty,’i.e.malignant. It has been said of the great Marlborough that whenever he permitted himself a noble phrase it was a sure sign that he was about to commit a baseness;and similarly, the fact of Mr. Talbot’s being upon his best behaviour was a symptom dangerous to his friends. On the present occasion he was studiously genteel.

His manner to Margaret—very different from that he generally adopted towards the fair sex—was distantly polite, while to Mr. Samuel Erin he was respectful to servility. What especially marked the abnormal condition of his mind, and showed his feelings to be. under severe restraint, was that he never alluded to his own poetical genius. In speaking to William Henry the subject might well indeed have been avoided as a painful one; but that he should exercise this reticence with respect to the antiquary—to whom on a previous occasion, it will be remembered, he had mentioned within the first five minutes that he was ‘a man of letters’—was something portentous. He did not indeed talk much, but he did what was a thousand times more difficult to him—he held his tongue and listened.

This circumstance, joined to his demure behaviour, caused Mr. Samuel Erin to take amuch more favourable view of his son’s friend than that he had originally entertained, and, finding him deeply interested in the country of his birth and in its early history, related to him at considerable length the story of the disruption of the Knight Templars, and the escape of the survivors to Ireland, of which he happened to have an account in black letter, which he hoped, as he said, at no distant date to have the pleasure of showing Mr. Talbot under his own roof. This naturally led on to some conversation respecting the labours of Mr. Erin in the Shakespearean field, concerning which the young man paid him several compliments, wherein what was wanted in appropriateness (for the young gentleman laboured under the disadvantage of knowing nothing whatever of the subject) was more than compensated for by their impassioned warmth. Then by an easy gradation they fell to talking on the new-found manuscripts. It amazed Mr. Erin to find that Talbot had not yet seen the Profession of Faith.

‘I have been out of town, sir,’ he replied,for falsehood to this son of Erin was as natural as mother’s milk, and laid on like water, on the perpetual supply system, ‘and have not had the opportunity of seeing it, though, as you may well imagine, I have heard of little else. And that reminds me that I have a favour to ask of you. There is an old friend of mine, or rather of my late father’s, Mr. Albany Wallis—— ‘

Mr. Erin frowned. ‘I have heard of the gentleman,’ he put in stiffly, ‘and in a sense I know him.’

‘I trust you know nothing to his disadvantage, sir,’ said Talbot with humility. ‘I can only say that he has always spoken to me of yourself, and of your extraordinary erudition and attainments, with the greatest regard and consideration.’

‘Indeed,’ returned the other, still drily, but with some relaxation of stiffness in his tone, ‘I am only acquainted with Mr. Wallis myself by hearsay; and judging him by the company he keeps—for he is known to be a friend of one Malone, of whom in Christian charity I willsay no more than that he is a fellow whose shallow pretence and pompous ignorance would disgrace the name of charlatan—I have certainly hitherto had but a bad opinion of him.’

‘Of that, sir, he is aware,’ said Talbot, ‘and it troubles him just now exceedingly. The sense of your ill-will has prevented him, although a near neighbour, from calling in Norfolk Street; and knowing that I was a friend of your son’s, he has earnestly entreated me, in case I had the opportunity, to beg permission for him to pay you a visit.’

‘From twelve to one, sir, the Shakespearean manuscripts are open to the inspection of all comers,’ said Mr. Erin, with a grand air. ‘We invite investigation, and even criticism.’

‘Any time, of course, you choose to appoint will suit my friend,’ said Talbot; ‘but, as he led me to understand, he has a matter of importance connected with the manuscripts to communicate to you, and somewhat of a private nature.’

‘Then let him come to-morrow evening, when we shall be alone. Perhaps he would like to see William Henry.’

‘I think he would, sir,’ returned Talbot, and as he spoke he put his hand up to his mouth, to conceal a demoniacal grin such as one sees on a gargoyle carved by the piety of some monkish architect. ‘I’ll bring him to-morrow.’

During all this time William Henry and Margaret, in the opposite corner of the arbour, had carried on a smothered conversation with one another on quite a different subject, or rather, as the manner of young people is under similar circumstances, on no subject at all. It was enough to them that their hands met under the table and their hearts met under the rose. The scene they looked upon was not more bright than their hopes, nor the music they listened to more in tune than their tender fancies. When Mr. Erin pulled out his watch and pronounced it time to set out for home, it seemed to them that they had only just arrived. As for Mr. Reginald Talbot, for the last hour or so they had been totally unconscious of his presence; but when he took his leave of them, which he did with much politeness, there wassomething of suppressed triumph in his voice that aroused William Henry’s suspicions. A shudder involuntarily seized him; he felt like a merrymaker at a festival who suddenly looks up into the sky, and perceives, instead of sunshine, ‘the ragged rims of thunder brooding low.’

CHAPTER XVI.A BOMBSHELL.Itwas significant of the sensitiveness of Mr. Erin’s feelings in regard to his new-found treasures, though it by no means indicated any want of soundness in his faith, that he ignored as much as possible all attacks upon their authenticity. This by no means involved his shutting his eyes to them; indeed he had privately procured and read all that had been written about the MSS., even to that terrible letter of Lord Charlemont to Malone, in which he had said, ‘I am only sorry that Steevens (the rival commentator) is not the proprietor of them,’ in order (as he meant) that they might have had the additional pleasure, derived from private enmity, of exposing them. The sensations the antiquary endured from these thingswere something like those of Regulus rolling down a hill in his barrel stuck full of nails and knives, but he could not resist the temptation of reading them any more than a patient with hay-fever in his eyes can resist rubbing them.I have known young authors afflicted with the same mad desire of perusing all the disagreeable criticisms they can lay their hands on; but these things were much more than criticisms, they were personal imputations of the vilest kind, which at the same time no law of libel could touch. They ate into the poor antiquary’s heart, but he never talked about them. If he had, perhaps they would have been made more tolerable by the sympathy of his friends and the arguments of his partisans; but, except to himself, he ignored them. He did not even mention to William Henry that one Mr. Albany Wallis, whom he had reason to believe was little better than an infidel, was coming to Norfolk Street, by permission, to examine the Shakespeare papers. It weighed upon his own mind nevertheless, and he actually regretted that Frank Dennis chanced to dropin that afternoon—loyal though he knew him to be in all other matters—lest in his lukewarm faith, if faith it could be called at all, he should let fall anything to encourage the sceptic.Thus it came to pass that when the servant announced Mr. Reginald Talbot and Mr. Albany Wallis it was only Mr. Erin himself who felt no astonishment. William Henry was amazed, for though he had parted from his quondam friend on the previous evening on what were outwardly good terms, there had been no pretence of a renewal of friendship between them; their meeting at Vauxhall had, as we know, been accidental, and Talbot had not dropped a hint of renewing his visits to Norfolk Street. The young man had a smiling but scarcely a genial air; his manner was constrained, a thing which, being contrary to his habit, sat very ill upon him; and he addressed himself solely to his host, for which indeed his errand was a sufficient excuse.‘Permit me, sir, to introduce to you my friend, Mr. Albany Wallis; a gentleman, like yourself, well versed in Shakespearean lore.’‘Mr. Wallis’s name is not unknown to me,’ answered the antiquary coldly; ‘I have the pleasure of speaking to the late Mr. Garrick’s man of business, have I not?’The visitor, a thin grey man, with sharp, intelligent features, by no means devoid of kindliness, bowed courteously.‘I had that honour,’ he replied gravely; ‘I have also been acquainted all my life with many who take an interest in the drama, especially the Shakespearean drama. That some of them differ from you, Mr. Erin, on the subject on which I have called to-day, I am of course aware, but, believe me, I come in no unfriendly spirit. I take it for granted that you and I are equally interested in the establishment of the truth!’‘It is to be hoped so,’ returned the antiquary, with dignity; ‘you would like, I conclude, to see the Profession.’‘Well, no, sir, not immediately. You have other documents, as I am informed, in one of which I am more particularly concerned.’‘Very good. Margaret, this is your affair,it seems,’ said the antiquary, smiling: it was a relief to his mind that the Profession at least was not about to be impugned. ‘Here is the key of the chest; bring out the Shakespeare letter and verses, with the lock of hair.’ For a moment or two Mr. Wallis remained silent. His eyes followed Margaret as she rose to obey her uncle’s request, with a curious look of gentle commiseration in them.‘I did not know that this young lady had anything to do with these discoveries,’ he answered.‘Nor has she, sir. The hair and the verses have become in a manner her own property, that is—er—under my trusteeship; but they were disinterred from a mass of ancient materials by my son here, William Henry.’Mr. Wallis turned his face on the young gentleman thus alluded to much as a policeman flashes his dark-lantern on a suspected stranger. There was no commiseration in it now; it was a keen, and even a hostile glance.‘I see; but besides the reputed epistle to Anne Hathaway, there was, I think, a note ofhand purporting to be written to Shakespeare from John Hemynge.’‘I don’t know as to “reputed” and “purporting,” sir,’ returned the antiquary stiffly, ‘which are adjectives not usually applied to documents professedly genuine, at all events under the roof of their possessor.’‘You are right; I beg your pardon, Mr. Erin,’ put in the visitor apologetically. ‘One has no right to prejudge a case of which one has only heard anex-partestatement. It is, however, that particular document which I ask to look at; a gentleman upon whose word I can rely has seen it, and assures me that the signature of John Hemynge appended to the receipt is—not to mince matters—a forgery.’The antiquary started to his feet. ‘Do you come here to insult me, sir?’ he inquired angrily.‘No, Mr. Erin, far from it,’ returned the other firmly. ‘No one would be better pleased both on your own account and on that of those belonging to you’—here his eye lit once more on Margaret, who had flushed to her forehead—‘ifI should find my informant mistaken. But the fact is, I possess a deed with the authentic and undoubted signature of John Hemynge, which my friend, who has seen both of them, assures me is wholly different from that attached to this new-found document. Assertion, however, as you may reasonably reply, is out of place in this matter. The question is merely one of comparison. Have you any objection to my applying that test?’‘Most certainly not, sir. Margaret, this gentleman wishes to see the note of hand.’Margaret brought it from the iron safe and gave it to Mr. Wallis. Her face still retained some trace of indignation, and her eyes met those of the visitor with resolution and even defiance.‘If there is fraud here,’ he said to himself, ‘this girl has nothing to do with it.’ The behaviour of Mr. Erin had also impressed him favourably; with that of William Henry he was not so satisfied, it seemed to him to have too muchsang-froid; but then (as he frankly confessed to himself) he had been prejudicedagainst him. Mr. Wallis was a man accustomed to ‘thread the labyrinth of the mind’ in matters more important, or at all events more serious, than literary investigation, and had a very observant eye, and the conclusion he came to was that, if there was one person in the present company more guilty than another as regards the Shakespearean fabrications (as Malone had called them), it was Mr. Frank Dennis. He had not indeed uttered one word; but when the girl had approached the safe there had been unmistakable signs of trouble in his face, while at this moment, when, as he (Mr. Wallis) knew, and as the other must needs suspect, a damning proof of the worthlessness of one of these vaunted discoveries was about to be produced, he exhibited an anxiety and apprehension which, to do them justice, were absent from the rest.‘This is a mortgage deed executed by John Hemynge,’ observed Mr. Wallis, drawing a document from his pocket, ‘concerning the genuineness of which there is no dispute. It was found among the papers of the Featherstonehaughfamily, to whom the nation is indebted (through my late client, David Garrick) for the Shakespeare mortgage now in the British Museum. If the signature of yonder deed tallies with it, well and good; I shall, believe me, be pleased to find it so; but if it does not do so, there can be no question as to which is the spurious one.’He threw the mortgage on the table, and stood with an air, if not of indifference, of one who has no personal concern in the matter on hand, while Mr. Erin compared the two signatures with minuteness. Presently he beckoned to his son in an agitated manner: ‘Your eyes are better than mine,’ he said: ‘what do you make of this?’William Henry just glanced at the two documents in a perfunctory manner, as though he had been asked to witness some signature of a client of his employer, and quietly answered: ‘They are very dissimilar; whichever is the wrong one, it can hardly be called an imitation, for it has not a letter in common with the other.’‘There is no question, young man, as to which is the wrong one,’ remarked Mr. Wallis, severely; ‘and as to imitation, it is clear enough that such a deception, however clumsily, has been seriously attempted. The only doubt we have to clear up is, “Who is the forger?”’ Mr. Wallis’s glance flashed for an instant upon Frank Dennis. He was standing apart, with his hand over the lower part of his features, and his eyes fixed on the ground. He looked like one upon whom a blow, long expected, has at last fallen.It was strange, thought Mr. Wallis, that Talbot, who had seemed so convinced of the younger Erin’s guilt, had had not a word to say about this other fellow. His own impression—one of those sudden convictions to which men of his stamp are especially liable, but which they would be the last to call inspirations—was that the affair was a conspiracy, in which these two young men were alone concerned, and that its moving spirit was Dennis. Suddenly the silence was broken by Margaret’s clear tones:—‘Mr. Wallis himself has not examined the deeds,’ she said.‘There is no need, young lady, since your uncle and cousin have already admitted the discrepancy,’ returned the visitor. ‘I am only following the example of that gentleman yonder’—here he indicated Frank Dennis with his forefinger—‘in taking the matter for granted.’Frank removed his hand from his mouth, showing a face ghastly pale, and quietly answered, ‘I am no judge of these things; but if I had made such a charge as you have done, sir, I think, as Miss Slade suggests, that I should give myself the trouble of seeing with my own eyes whether it was substantiated.’‘Nay,’ said Margaret, quickly, ‘I spoke not of any charge. If I thought that Mr. Wallis was making any personal accusation, I should not have addressed him at all.’‘But really, young lady,’ protested Mr. Wallis, ‘there must be something wrong somewhere, you know.’‘I should rather think there was,’ observed Mr. Reginald Talbot, with a snigger.‘And who the devil asked your opinion?’ inquired Mr. Erin, with the eager shrillness of a steam boiler which has just discovered its safety-valve. He did not forget that it was to this young gentleman’s good offices that he was indebted for this unsatisfactory state of things.‘Well, I thought it was a matter of criticism,’ murmured the young Irishman.‘That was the very reason, sir, you should have held your tongue,’ was the uncompromising reply.‘I really don’t know,’ observed William Henry, who had been idly turning over the leaves of the mortgage deed during this discussion, ‘why any bitterness should be imported into this discussion. We are all equally interested, as Mr. Wallis has remarked, in the establishment of the truth; and I, for my part, have nothing to fear from it. I am in no way responsible, as he must be aware, for the genuineness of the documents in question, but only for their discovery. What has happened to-day is no doubt as disagreeable as it is unlooked for; but it is no fault of mine. Theonly course open to me is, I suppose, to go to my friend in the Temple and acquaint him with what has happened. Perhaps he may have some explanation to offer upon the subject.’‘I should very much like to hear it,’ said Mr. Wallis, with a dry smile.Mr. Reginald Talbot also began to smile—aloud, but he caught Mr. Frank Dennis’s eye, which had so unmistakably menacing an expression in it that the snigger perished in its birth.‘Shall I go, father?’ inquired William Henry. For the antiquary sat like one in a dream, turning over the note of hand, once so precious to him, but which had now become waste paper.‘Yes, go! We will wait here till you come back,’ he answered.The words dropped from his lips like lead.

A BOMBSHELL.

Itwas significant of the sensitiveness of Mr. Erin’s feelings in regard to his new-found treasures, though it by no means indicated any want of soundness in his faith, that he ignored as much as possible all attacks upon their authenticity. This by no means involved his shutting his eyes to them; indeed he had privately procured and read all that had been written about the MSS., even to that terrible letter of Lord Charlemont to Malone, in which he had said, ‘I am only sorry that Steevens (the rival commentator) is not the proprietor of them,’ in order (as he meant) that they might have had the additional pleasure, derived from private enmity, of exposing them. The sensations the antiquary endured from these thingswere something like those of Regulus rolling down a hill in his barrel stuck full of nails and knives, but he could not resist the temptation of reading them any more than a patient with hay-fever in his eyes can resist rubbing them.

I have known young authors afflicted with the same mad desire of perusing all the disagreeable criticisms they can lay their hands on; but these things were much more than criticisms, they were personal imputations of the vilest kind, which at the same time no law of libel could touch. They ate into the poor antiquary’s heart, but he never talked about them. If he had, perhaps they would have been made more tolerable by the sympathy of his friends and the arguments of his partisans; but, except to himself, he ignored them. He did not even mention to William Henry that one Mr. Albany Wallis, whom he had reason to believe was little better than an infidel, was coming to Norfolk Street, by permission, to examine the Shakespeare papers. It weighed upon his own mind nevertheless, and he actually regretted that Frank Dennis chanced to dropin that afternoon—loyal though he knew him to be in all other matters—lest in his lukewarm faith, if faith it could be called at all, he should let fall anything to encourage the sceptic.

Thus it came to pass that when the servant announced Mr. Reginald Talbot and Mr. Albany Wallis it was only Mr. Erin himself who felt no astonishment. William Henry was amazed, for though he had parted from his quondam friend on the previous evening on what were outwardly good terms, there had been no pretence of a renewal of friendship between them; their meeting at Vauxhall had, as we know, been accidental, and Talbot had not dropped a hint of renewing his visits to Norfolk Street. The young man had a smiling but scarcely a genial air; his manner was constrained, a thing which, being contrary to his habit, sat very ill upon him; and he addressed himself solely to his host, for which indeed his errand was a sufficient excuse.

‘Permit me, sir, to introduce to you my friend, Mr. Albany Wallis; a gentleman, like yourself, well versed in Shakespearean lore.’

‘Mr. Wallis’s name is not unknown to me,’ answered the antiquary coldly; ‘I have the pleasure of speaking to the late Mr. Garrick’s man of business, have I not?’

The visitor, a thin grey man, with sharp, intelligent features, by no means devoid of kindliness, bowed courteously.

‘I had that honour,’ he replied gravely; ‘I have also been acquainted all my life with many who take an interest in the drama, especially the Shakespearean drama. That some of them differ from you, Mr. Erin, on the subject on which I have called to-day, I am of course aware, but, believe me, I come in no unfriendly spirit. I take it for granted that you and I are equally interested in the establishment of the truth!’

‘It is to be hoped so,’ returned the antiquary, with dignity; ‘you would like, I conclude, to see the Profession.’

‘Well, no, sir, not immediately. You have other documents, as I am informed, in one of which I am more particularly concerned.’

‘Very good. Margaret, this is your affair,it seems,’ said the antiquary, smiling: it was a relief to his mind that the Profession at least was not about to be impugned. ‘Here is the key of the chest; bring out the Shakespeare letter and verses, with the lock of hair.’ For a moment or two Mr. Wallis remained silent. His eyes followed Margaret as she rose to obey her uncle’s request, with a curious look of gentle commiseration in them.

‘I did not know that this young lady had anything to do with these discoveries,’ he answered.

‘Nor has she, sir. The hair and the verses have become in a manner her own property, that is—er—under my trusteeship; but they were disinterred from a mass of ancient materials by my son here, William Henry.’

Mr. Wallis turned his face on the young gentleman thus alluded to much as a policeman flashes his dark-lantern on a suspected stranger. There was no commiseration in it now; it was a keen, and even a hostile glance.

‘I see; but besides the reputed epistle to Anne Hathaway, there was, I think, a note ofhand purporting to be written to Shakespeare from John Hemynge.’

‘I don’t know as to “reputed” and “purporting,” sir,’ returned the antiquary stiffly, ‘which are adjectives not usually applied to documents professedly genuine, at all events under the roof of their possessor.’

‘You are right; I beg your pardon, Mr. Erin,’ put in the visitor apologetically. ‘One has no right to prejudge a case of which one has only heard anex-partestatement. It is, however, that particular document which I ask to look at; a gentleman upon whose word I can rely has seen it, and assures me that the signature of John Hemynge appended to the receipt is—not to mince matters—a forgery.’

The antiquary started to his feet. ‘Do you come here to insult me, sir?’ he inquired angrily.

‘No, Mr. Erin, far from it,’ returned the other firmly. ‘No one would be better pleased both on your own account and on that of those belonging to you’—here his eye lit once more on Margaret, who had flushed to her forehead—‘ifI should find my informant mistaken. But the fact is, I possess a deed with the authentic and undoubted signature of John Hemynge, which my friend, who has seen both of them, assures me is wholly different from that attached to this new-found document. Assertion, however, as you may reasonably reply, is out of place in this matter. The question is merely one of comparison. Have you any objection to my applying that test?’

‘Most certainly not, sir. Margaret, this gentleman wishes to see the note of hand.’

Margaret brought it from the iron safe and gave it to Mr. Wallis. Her face still retained some trace of indignation, and her eyes met those of the visitor with resolution and even defiance.

‘If there is fraud here,’ he said to himself, ‘this girl has nothing to do with it.’ The behaviour of Mr. Erin had also impressed him favourably; with that of William Henry he was not so satisfied, it seemed to him to have too muchsang-froid; but then (as he frankly confessed to himself) he had been prejudicedagainst him. Mr. Wallis was a man accustomed to ‘thread the labyrinth of the mind’ in matters more important, or at all events more serious, than literary investigation, and had a very observant eye, and the conclusion he came to was that, if there was one person in the present company more guilty than another as regards the Shakespearean fabrications (as Malone had called them), it was Mr. Frank Dennis. He had not indeed uttered one word; but when the girl had approached the safe there had been unmistakable signs of trouble in his face, while at this moment, when, as he (Mr. Wallis) knew, and as the other must needs suspect, a damning proof of the worthlessness of one of these vaunted discoveries was about to be produced, he exhibited an anxiety and apprehension which, to do them justice, were absent from the rest.

‘This is a mortgage deed executed by John Hemynge,’ observed Mr. Wallis, drawing a document from his pocket, ‘concerning the genuineness of which there is no dispute. It was found among the papers of the Featherstonehaughfamily, to whom the nation is indebted (through my late client, David Garrick) for the Shakespeare mortgage now in the British Museum. If the signature of yonder deed tallies with it, well and good; I shall, believe me, be pleased to find it so; but if it does not do so, there can be no question as to which is the spurious one.’

He threw the mortgage on the table, and stood with an air, if not of indifference, of one who has no personal concern in the matter on hand, while Mr. Erin compared the two signatures with minuteness. Presently he beckoned to his son in an agitated manner: ‘Your eyes are better than mine,’ he said: ‘what do you make of this?’

William Henry just glanced at the two documents in a perfunctory manner, as though he had been asked to witness some signature of a client of his employer, and quietly answered: ‘They are very dissimilar; whichever is the wrong one, it can hardly be called an imitation, for it has not a letter in common with the other.’

‘There is no question, young man, as to which is the wrong one,’ remarked Mr. Wallis, severely; ‘and as to imitation, it is clear enough that such a deception, however clumsily, has been seriously attempted. The only doubt we have to clear up is, “Who is the forger?”’ Mr. Wallis’s glance flashed for an instant upon Frank Dennis. He was standing apart, with his hand over the lower part of his features, and his eyes fixed on the ground. He looked like one upon whom a blow, long expected, has at last fallen.

It was strange, thought Mr. Wallis, that Talbot, who had seemed so convinced of the younger Erin’s guilt, had had not a word to say about this other fellow. His own impression—one of those sudden convictions to which men of his stamp are especially liable, but which they would be the last to call inspirations—was that the affair was a conspiracy, in which these two young men were alone concerned, and that its moving spirit was Dennis. Suddenly the silence was broken by Margaret’s clear tones:—

‘Mr. Wallis himself has not examined the deeds,’ she said.

‘There is no need, young lady, since your uncle and cousin have already admitted the discrepancy,’ returned the visitor. ‘I am only following the example of that gentleman yonder’—here he indicated Frank Dennis with his forefinger—‘in taking the matter for granted.’

Frank removed his hand from his mouth, showing a face ghastly pale, and quietly answered, ‘I am no judge of these things; but if I had made such a charge as you have done, sir, I think, as Miss Slade suggests, that I should give myself the trouble of seeing with my own eyes whether it was substantiated.’

‘Nay,’ said Margaret, quickly, ‘I spoke not of any charge. If I thought that Mr. Wallis was making any personal accusation, I should not have addressed him at all.’

‘But really, young lady,’ protested Mr. Wallis, ‘there must be something wrong somewhere, you know.’

‘I should rather think there was,’ observed Mr. Reginald Talbot, with a snigger.

‘And who the devil asked your opinion?’ inquired Mr. Erin, with the eager shrillness of a steam boiler which has just discovered its safety-valve. He did not forget that it was to this young gentleman’s good offices that he was indebted for this unsatisfactory state of things.

‘Well, I thought it was a matter of criticism,’ murmured the young Irishman.

‘That was the very reason, sir, you should have held your tongue,’ was the uncompromising reply.

‘I really don’t know,’ observed William Henry, who had been idly turning over the leaves of the mortgage deed during this discussion, ‘why any bitterness should be imported into this discussion. We are all equally interested, as Mr. Wallis has remarked, in the establishment of the truth; and I, for my part, have nothing to fear from it. I am in no way responsible, as he must be aware, for the genuineness of the documents in question, but only for their discovery. What has happened to-day is no doubt as disagreeable as it is unlooked for; but it is no fault of mine. Theonly course open to me is, I suppose, to go to my friend in the Temple and acquaint him with what has happened. Perhaps he may have some explanation to offer upon the subject.’

‘I should very much like to hear it,’ said Mr. Wallis, with a dry smile.

Mr. Reginald Talbot also began to smile—aloud, but he caught Mr. Frank Dennis’s eye, which had so unmistakably menacing an expression in it that the snigger perished in its birth.

‘Shall I go, father?’ inquired William Henry. For the antiquary sat like one in a dream, turning over the note of hand, once so precious to him, but which had now become waste paper.

‘Yes, go! We will wait here till you come back,’ he answered.

The words dropped from his lips like lead.

CHAPTER XVII.THE MARE’S NEST.A greatpoet has sung of a certain tea-party as sitting ‘all silent and all damned,’ which is going pretty far as a description of social cheerlessness; but they were at tea, and had presumably bread and butter, and possibly even muffins, before them; whereas the little party in Norfolk Street, who sat awaiting the return of William Henry from his problematical patron (for Mr. Albany Wallis, for one, did not believe in his existence), had not even such material comforts to mitigate their embarrassment and ennui. On the table there were only the two deeds, and one of them was in all probability a forgery. Mr. Erin sat drumming his fingers upon it and endeavouring to hide the anxiety which consumed him—a mostdepressing spectacle. The company, too, were on anything but good terms with one another or with themselves. Mr. Albany Wallis was a just but kind-hearted man; he knew he was right, but he was equally certain that he was uncomfortable. Margaret’s beauty had touched him, and her indignation, however undeserved, distressed him. He felt convinced that she at least was innocent of any confederation with the evildoers, whoever they were.Now that he had once put hand to the plough, there was no possibility of drawing back; he must needs lay the whole conspiracy bare; but in his heart he cursed the officious malignity of Reginald Talbot, who had set him to work on so unpleasant a task. It was plain that that young gentleman knew how it was all to end. He lay back in his chair, tapping his boot with his cane, and with a grin on his face such as a Cheshire cat might wear who feels a mouse well under her claw. To Mr. Wallis it seemed equally clear that Mr. Frank Dennis also knew. He sat very pale and quiet, but with a face expectant of ill. Every now andthen he stole a glance at Margaret, full of ineffable shame and sorrow. As for her, she looked neither to the right nor to the left, but always at the door; her ears were on the stretch for William Henry’s return from the moment that his departing footstep died away. In her face alone was to be seen unshaken confidence; a woman’s faith—so often wasted, as Mr. Wallis thought to himself, upon false and worthless objects.Presently Mr. Erin glanced at her, and, seeming to gather comfort from her calmness, observed:—‘I am sorry to detain you, Mr. Wallis, but I think it better for both our sakes that you should remain here till this matter has, one way or another, been settled. It will convince you, at all events, that there is no collusion.’‘A very proper arrangement, sir, and one that does you infinite credit,’ returned the other courteously. ‘One word from your son’s friend—that is, if, as I believe, he must needs give up his case—will be all that is necessary, so that we shall not have to wait long.’‘The gentleman may not be at home,’ suggested Margaret.‘True,’ answered Mr. Wallis with a bow. In his heart he thought that the gentleman was not at all likely to be at home, but there was nothing in his tone that implied it.‘Perhaps,’ said Mr. Erin, ‘in order to pass the time, you would like to examine the other Shakespearean documents in my possession?’There was a world of significance, had the other only known it, in the manner in which the antiquary thus expressed himself. The idea of looking at these treasures ‘in order to pass the time’ would, an hour ago, have seemed to him little short of blasphemy.‘As you please, sir,’ returned Mr. Wallis indifferently; ‘though you will pardon me for saying that if the note of hand turns out to be—a—that is, unauthentic, it will destroy the credibility of all the rest.’‘It will affect it, no doubt,’ admitted the antiquary.‘On the other hand,’ observed Margaret in her clear tones, ‘if the evidence should be the other way, it will proportionately strengthen their claims.’f262A very cheerless proceeding.‘Undoubtedly,’ replied Mr. Wallis. He could offer that modicum of encouragement with perfect safety, and he was well pleased to have the opportunity of doing so. ‘Believe me, young lady,’ he went on with earnest gentleness, ‘that it would give me the sincerest gratification to find your confidence justified by the result.’Then he sat down, indifferent-eyed, but with a pretence of interest, to the Profession that Mr. Erin had spread out upon the table. It was a cheerless proceeding. The very exhibitor himself, it was plain, had but little heart for the performance; instead of expatiating with an unction that might well have been called ‘extreme’ on the precious revelation, he only put in a word or two. If he had apprehensions such as he had never before experienced of a visitor’s criticism, they were, however, unfounded. Mr. Wallis perhaps did not think it worth while to make objections, since a few more minutes at most must needs seethe imposture out; it would have been like quarrelling with a man upon his deathbed. He even allowed that the document was ‘interesting,’ though, as he made the observation to Margaret and not to her uncle, it is probable that it rather expressed his wish to please her than his real sentiments. His position was somewhat similar to that of Eloise when taking the veil.Yet then to those dread altars as I drew,Not on the Cross my eyes were fixed, but you,Not grace, nor zeal, love only was my call.For though, of course, the old lawyer was not in love with Margaret, he had a much greater admiration for her than for the sacred relic. Still, in spite of himself, habit induced him to give some considerable attention to the document; even if it was a forgery it was curious, and, at all events, anything was better than sitting with his hands before him watching those uncomfortable faces. That of Mr. Samuel Erin was at present particularly so, for his visitor’s eye was travelling towards the ‘leaffee tree,’ a weak point, which he felt under the circumstancesin a very ill condition to defend, when suddenly there was a knock at the door.‘There is Willie!’ cried Margaret, starting to her feet.She felt assured, since so short a time had elapsed, that he had found his friend of the Temple at home; but what was the news he had brought with him?One glance at the young fellow as he entered the room was sufficient for her. It was good news.The eye of love is an auger that can pierce the heart, if not the soul; but to the other members of the party William Henry’s face told nothing. It did not indeed wear the expression of defeat, but still less did it exhibit triumph or exultation. It had the same quiet, almost indifferent air that it habitually wore when the Shakespearean discoveries were under discussion; but the pallor which anxiety had caused in it when he left the house upon his apparently hopeless errand was gone; with a quiet smile he drew forth a paper from his pocket, and handed it to Mr. Wallis.‘You are quite right, sir,’ he said, ‘and yet you have not put my friend in the wrong. It is the case of the chameleon.’‘What is this?’ asked Mr. Wallis, a question which, having unfolded the paper, he proceeded to answer himself, in tones of the greatest amazement. ‘Why, this is John Hemynge over again—the real John Hemynge!’‘And yet, I suppose, not more real than the other,’ said William Henry quietly. ‘The simple explanation is that there were two of them.’‘Two of them!’ exclaimed Mr. Erin, looking much like the ‘gay French mousquetaire’ (only not ‘gay’) when he saw the ghost of his victim on one side of his bed, and her twin sister in the flesh on the other.‘This paper, I see, is an account of some theatrical disbursements,’ observed Mr. Wallis, biting his lips in much perplexity. ‘That reminds me that the note of hand was upon a similar subject. You don’t mean to tell me that these Hemynges were, not only both of the same name, but of the same calling—actors?’‘I tell you nothing, sir, of my own knowledge,’ answered William Henry drily, ‘for I know nothing about the matter. I went to my patron with the story you bade me tell him, that you possessed an authentic signature of Shakespeare’s friend Hemynge; that it was altogether different from the one appended to the note of hand I had found in his keeping, and that therefore the latter was a forgery. He only smiled, and said, “How very like a commentator!” Then he opened a little chest filled with theatrical memoranda. “There is nothing here of much value,” he said, “for I have examined them; but, as it happens, there is something to put the gentleman’s mind at rest as to any question of fraud.” Then he gave me this paper, the signature of which he bade me to ask you to compare with that on your mortgage deed. It is identical, is it not?’‘It certainly appears to be so,’ admitted Mr. Wallis.‘Well, according to my patron’s account, there were in Shakespeare’s time two John Hemynges: the one—yourJohn Hemynge—connectedwith Shakespeare’s own theatre, “The Globe;” the other, whose receipt is appended to the note of hand, the manager of the “Curtain” Theatre. The former, it seems, was called the Tall John Hemynge, the latter the Short. If you care to know more about them, I am instructed to say that my friend is prepared to give you every information.’As his eye fell upon the lawyer’s chap-fallen face, William Henry could not deny himself a smile of triumph; but as regarded his uncle and Margaret, Mr. Wallis observed that the young fellow did not so much as even glance at them—a circumstance which the lawyer attributed to a very natural cause; it was not they, but he, who had doubted of his good faith, so that in their case he had nothing to exult over. He felt very much abashed and disconcerted; nor was his embarrassment decreased when Margaret thus addressed him:—‘You will not forget, Mr. Wallis,’ she said gravely, ‘what was said just now of the change which would take place in your opinion of us,in case this matter should not turn out so unfavourably as you expected.’‘Nay, pardon me, young lady,’ returned the lawyer, gallantly, ‘I have never harboured any opinion of you otherwise than favourable; my observation referred to these other documents, which indeed, I frankly confess, I am now prepared to consider in a much less prejudiced light. For the present I must take my leave, but in the meantime let me express my thanks to you, Mr. Erin, for the kind reception I have met with, and to withdraw, without reserve, any expression I may have let fall which may be construed into a reflection upon your good faith, or upon that of any member of your family.’For a moment it occurred to Mr. Erin that here was an opportunity for snatching an ally from the enemy’s camp, by getting Mr. Albany Wallis to add his name to the list of believers, but on the whole he decided not to do so, upon the ground of the danger of the experiment. If Miss Margaret Slade, however, had asked Mr. Wallis the favour, it is doubtful whetherhe would not have acceded to her request. He felt such a brute at having given her distress of mind by his unmannerly suspicions that he would have made almost any sacrifice in reparation of them. He retired with a profusion of bows and excuses, while Mr. Reginald Talbot followed in silence at his heels like a whipped dog, who, professing to find a hare in her form, has only found a mare’s nest.

THE MARE’S NEST.

A greatpoet has sung of a certain tea-party as sitting ‘all silent and all damned,’ which is going pretty far as a description of social cheerlessness; but they were at tea, and had presumably bread and butter, and possibly even muffins, before them; whereas the little party in Norfolk Street, who sat awaiting the return of William Henry from his problematical patron (for Mr. Albany Wallis, for one, did not believe in his existence), had not even such material comforts to mitigate their embarrassment and ennui. On the table there were only the two deeds, and one of them was in all probability a forgery. Mr. Erin sat drumming his fingers upon it and endeavouring to hide the anxiety which consumed him—a mostdepressing spectacle. The company, too, were on anything but good terms with one another or with themselves. Mr. Albany Wallis was a just but kind-hearted man; he knew he was right, but he was equally certain that he was uncomfortable. Margaret’s beauty had touched him, and her indignation, however undeserved, distressed him. He felt convinced that she at least was innocent of any confederation with the evildoers, whoever they were.

Now that he had once put hand to the plough, there was no possibility of drawing back; he must needs lay the whole conspiracy bare; but in his heart he cursed the officious malignity of Reginald Talbot, who had set him to work on so unpleasant a task. It was plain that that young gentleman knew how it was all to end. He lay back in his chair, tapping his boot with his cane, and with a grin on his face such as a Cheshire cat might wear who feels a mouse well under her claw. To Mr. Wallis it seemed equally clear that Mr. Frank Dennis also knew. He sat very pale and quiet, but with a face expectant of ill. Every now andthen he stole a glance at Margaret, full of ineffable shame and sorrow. As for her, she looked neither to the right nor to the left, but always at the door; her ears were on the stretch for William Henry’s return from the moment that his departing footstep died away. In her face alone was to be seen unshaken confidence; a woman’s faith—so often wasted, as Mr. Wallis thought to himself, upon false and worthless objects.

Presently Mr. Erin glanced at her, and, seeming to gather comfort from her calmness, observed:—

‘I am sorry to detain you, Mr. Wallis, but I think it better for both our sakes that you should remain here till this matter has, one way or another, been settled. It will convince you, at all events, that there is no collusion.’

‘A very proper arrangement, sir, and one that does you infinite credit,’ returned the other courteously. ‘One word from your son’s friend—that is, if, as I believe, he must needs give up his case—will be all that is necessary, so that we shall not have to wait long.’

‘The gentleman may not be at home,’ suggested Margaret.

‘True,’ answered Mr. Wallis with a bow. In his heart he thought that the gentleman was not at all likely to be at home, but there was nothing in his tone that implied it.

‘Perhaps,’ said Mr. Erin, ‘in order to pass the time, you would like to examine the other Shakespearean documents in my possession?’

There was a world of significance, had the other only known it, in the manner in which the antiquary thus expressed himself. The idea of looking at these treasures ‘in order to pass the time’ would, an hour ago, have seemed to him little short of blasphemy.

‘As you please, sir,’ returned Mr. Wallis indifferently; ‘though you will pardon me for saying that if the note of hand turns out to be—a—that is, unauthentic, it will destroy the credibility of all the rest.’

‘It will affect it, no doubt,’ admitted the antiquary.

‘On the other hand,’ observed Margaret in her clear tones, ‘if the evidence should be the other way, it will proportionately strengthen their claims.’

f262

A very cheerless proceeding.

A very cheerless proceeding.

A very cheerless proceeding.

‘Undoubtedly,’ replied Mr. Wallis. He could offer that modicum of encouragement with perfect safety, and he was well pleased to have the opportunity of doing so. ‘Believe me, young lady,’ he went on with earnest gentleness, ‘that it would give me the sincerest gratification to find your confidence justified by the result.’

Then he sat down, indifferent-eyed, but with a pretence of interest, to the Profession that Mr. Erin had spread out upon the table. It was a cheerless proceeding. The very exhibitor himself, it was plain, had but little heart for the performance; instead of expatiating with an unction that might well have been called ‘extreme’ on the precious revelation, he only put in a word or two. If he had apprehensions such as he had never before experienced of a visitor’s criticism, they were, however, unfounded. Mr. Wallis perhaps did not think it worth while to make objections, since a few more minutes at most must needs seethe imposture out; it would have been like quarrelling with a man upon his deathbed. He even allowed that the document was ‘interesting,’ though, as he made the observation to Margaret and not to her uncle, it is probable that it rather expressed his wish to please her than his real sentiments. His position was somewhat similar to that of Eloise when taking the veil.

Yet then to those dread altars as I drew,Not on the Cross my eyes were fixed, but you,Not grace, nor zeal, love only was my call.

For though, of course, the old lawyer was not in love with Margaret, he had a much greater admiration for her than for the sacred relic. Still, in spite of himself, habit induced him to give some considerable attention to the document; even if it was a forgery it was curious, and, at all events, anything was better than sitting with his hands before him watching those uncomfortable faces. That of Mr. Samuel Erin was at present particularly so, for his visitor’s eye was travelling towards the ‘leaffee tree,’ a weak point, which he felt under the circumstancesin a very ill condition to defend, when suddenly there was a knock at the door.

‘There is Willie!’ cried Margaret, starting to her feet.

She felt assured, since so short a time had elapsed, that he had found his friend of the Temple at home; but what was the news he had brought with him?

One glance at the young fellow as he entered the room was sufficient for her. It was good news.

The eye of love is an auger that can pierce the heart, if not the soul; but to the other members of the party William Henry’s face told nothing. It did not indeed wear the expression of defeat, but still less did it exhibit triumph or exultation. It had the same quiet, almost indifferent air that it habitually wore when the Shakespearean discoveries were under discussion; but the pallor which anxiety had caused in it when he left the house upon his apparently hopeless errand was gone; with a quiet smile he drew forth a paper from his pocket, and handed it to Mr. Wallis.

‘You are quite right, sir,’ he said, ‘and yet you have not put my friend in the wrong. It is the case of the chameleon.’

‘What is this?’ asked Mr. Wallis, a question which, having unfolded the paper, he proceeded to answer himself, in tones of the greatest amazement. ‘Why, this is John Hemynge over again—the real John Hemynge!’

‘And yet, I suppose, not more real than the other,’ said William Henry quietly. ‘The simple explanation is that there were two of them.’

‘Two of them!’ exclaimed Mr. Erin, looking much like the ‘gay French mousquetaire’ (only not ‘gay’) when he saw the ghost of his victim on one side of his bed, and her twin sister in the flesh on the other.

‘This paper, I see, is an account of some theatrical disbursements,’ observed Mr. Wallis, biting his lips in much perplexity. ‘That reminds me that the note of hand was upon a similar subject. You don’t mean to tell me that these Hemynges were, not only both of the same name, but of the same calling—actors?’

‘I tell you nothing, sir, of my own knowledge,’ answered William Henry drily, ‘for I know nothing about the matter. I went to my patron with the story you bade me tell him, that you possessed an authentic signature of Shakespeare’s friend Hemynge; that it was altogether different from the one appended to the note of hand I had found in his keeping, and that therefore the latter was a forgery. He only smiled, and said, “How very like a commentator!” Then he opened a little chest filled with theatrical memoranda. “There is nothing here of much value,” he said, “for I have examined them; but, as it happens, there is something to put the gentleman’s mind at rest as to any question of fraud.” Then he gave me this paper, the signature of which he bade me to ask you to compare with that on your mortgage deed. It is identical, is it not?’

‘It certainly appears to be so,’ admitted Mr. Wallis.

‘Well, according to my patron’s account, there were in Shakespeare’s time two John Hemynges: the one—yourJohn Hemynge—connectedwith Shakespeare’s own theatre, “The Globe;” the other, whose receipt is appended to the note of hand, the manager of the “Curtain” Theatre. The former, it seems, was called the Tall John Hemynge, the latter the Short. If you care to know more about them, I am instructed to say that my friend is prepared to give you every information.’

As his eye fell upon the lawyer’s chap-fallen face, William Henry could not deny himself a smile of triumph; but as regarded his uncle and Margaret, Mr. Wallis observed that the young fellow did not so much as even glance at them—a circumstance which the lawyer attributed to a very natural cause; it was not they, but he, who had doubted of his good faith, so that in their case he had nothing to exult over. He felt very much abashed and disconcerted; nor was his embarrassment decreased when Margaret thus addressed him:—

‘You will not forget, Mr. Wallis,’ she said gravely, ‘what was said just now of the change which would take place in your opinion of us,in case this matter should not turn out so unfavourably as you expected.’

‘Nay, pardon me, young lady,’ returned the lawyer, gallantly, ‘I have never harboured any opinion of you otherwise than favourable; my observation referred to these other documents, which indeed, I frankly confess, I am now prepared to consider in a much less prejudiced light. For the present I must take my leave, but in the meantime let me express my thanks to you, Mr. Erin, for the kind reception I have met with, and to withdraw, without reserve, any expression I may have let fall which may be construed into a reflection upon your good faith, or upon that of any member of your family.’

For a moment it occurred to Mr. Erin that here was an opportunity for snatching an ally from the enemy’s camp, by getting Mr. Albany Wallis to add his name to the list of believers, but on the whole he decided not to do so, upon the ground of the danger of the experiment. If Miss Margaret Slade, however, had asked Mr. Wallis the favour, it is doubtful whetherhe would not have acceded to her request. He felt such a brute at having given her distress of mind by his unmannerly suspicions that he would have made almost any sacrifice in reparation of them. He retired with a profusion of bows and excuses, while Mr. Reginald Talbot followed in silence at his heels like a whipped dog, who, professing to find a hare in her form, has only found a mare’s nest.

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