CHAPTER XXII.A BARGAIN.‘Thebook goes bravely, Samuel,’ observed Mr. Erin, as father and son were sitting together one evening with Margaret between them. William Henry’s hand was resting on the back of her chair, and at times he addressed her in tones so low that his words must needs have had no more meaning for a third person than if they had been in a foreign tongue. Yet both his contiguity and his confidences remained unreproved. Perhaps among other recently developed virtues in the young man it was put down by Mr. Erin (who himself had a quick eye for the main chance) to William Henry’s credit that he never questioned his father’s right to treat the Shakespearean papers as his own, or to demand any account of his stewardship with respect to them.The antiquary, however, had scruples of his own, which, if they did not compel him to part with hard money, induced him to look upon his milch cow with very lenient and indulgent eyes.It was surely only natural that these two young people should entertain a very strong mutual attachment; through long familiarity they doubtless seemed more like brother and sister to one another than cousins. It could not be said, in short, that Mr. Erin winked at their love-making, but he shut his eyes to it. It would have been very inconvenient to have said ‘No’ to a certain question, and quite impossible to say ‘Yes.’ It was better that things should take their own course, even if it was a little dangerous, than to make matters uncomfortable by interference.‘From first to last, my lad,’ he continued in a cheerful voice, ‘we shall make little short of 500l., I expect.’‘Indeed,’ said William Henry indifferently. To do him justice he cared little for money at any time, and just now less than usual. Hisappetite, even for fame, had for the present lost its keenness. Love possessed him wholly; he cared only for Margaret.‘To think that a new reading of an old play—though to be sure it is Shakespeare’s play—should produce so much!’ went on Mr. Erin complacently. ‘Good heavens! what would not the public give for a new play by the immortal bard?’‘The question is,’ observed William Henry, ‘what wouldyougive, Mr. Erin?’The remark was so unexpected, and delivered in such a quiet tone, that for a moment the antiquary was dumbfounded, and between disbelief and expectancy made no reply.‘My dear Samuel,’ he murmured presently, ‘is it possible you can be serious, that you have in your possession——’‘Nay, sir,’ interrupted the young man smiling; ‘I never said that. I do not possess it, but within the last few days I have known of the existence of such a manuscript.’‘You have known and not told me!’ exclaimedthe antiquary reproachfully; ‘why, I might have died in the meantime!’‘Then you would have seen Shakespeare, and he would have told you all about it,’ returned William Henry lightly.‘Do not answer your father like that,’ said Margaret in low, reproving tones.It was plain, indeed, that Mr. Erin was greatly agitated. His eyes were fixed upon his son, but without speculation in them. He looked like one in a trance, to whom has been vouchsafed some wondrous vision.‘I know what is best,’ returned the young man under his breath, pressing Margaret’s shoulder with his hand. His arm still hung over her chair; his manner was studiously unmoved, as becomes the master of a situation.‘Where is it?’ gasped the old man.‘In the Temple. I have not yet obtained permission to bring it away. Until I could do that I felt it was useless to speak about the matter—that I should only be discredited. Even you yourself, unless you saw the manuscript,might hesitate to believe in its authenticity.’‘The manuscript?’ exclaimed Mr. Erin, his mind too monopolised by the splendour of the discovery to descend to detail; ‘you have really seen it, then, with your own eyes? An unacted play of Shakespeare’s!’‘An unpublished one, at all events. I have certainly seen it, and within these two hours, but only in my patron’s presence.’‘He said that whatever you found was to be yours,’ exclaimed Mr. Erin petulantly.‘Well, up to this time he has been as good as his word,’ said William Henry smiling.‘Indeed he has,’ remarked Margaret. ‘We must not be ungrateful, uncle.’‘Nevertheless, people should perform what they, promise,’ observed the antiquary severely.For the second time Margaret felt a gentle pressure upon her shoulder; it seemed as though Willie had whispered, ‘You hear that.’‘The play is called “Vortigern and Rowena,”’ continued the young man.‘An admirable subject,’ murmured the antiquary ecstatically.‘It is, of course, historical; there are Hengist and Horsus.’‘Horsa,’ suggested Mr. Erin.‘Shakespeare writes it Horsus; Horsa was perhaps his sister.’‘Perhaps,’ admitted the antiquary with prompt adhesion. ‘And the treatment? How does it rank as regards his other productions?’‘Nay, sir, that is for you to judge; I am no critic.’‘But you tell me that your patron will not part with it.’‘I have not yet persuaded him to do so; but I by no means despair of it, and in the meantime I have a copy of it.’‘MydearSamuel!’‘At first I tried to commit it to memory, but found the task beyond my powers. It is a very long play.’‘The longer the better,’ murmured the antiquary.‘But not when one has to get it by heart,’ observed William Henry drily. His tone and manner were more in contrast to those of theelder man than ever; as one grew heated the other seemed to grow cooler and cooler. There was no question as to which of them, just at present, was likely to prove the better hand at a bargain.‘But why do you talk thus, Samuel? The play, the play’s the thing; since you have it why do you not produce it? You cannot imagine that delay—indeed, that anything—can enhance the interest I feel in this most marvellous of our discoveries.’William Henry’s face grew very grave.‘It is true that whatever is mine is yours, in a sense,’ he said; ‘but still you must pardon me for remarking that they aremydiscoveries.’Margaret started in her chair; if she had not felt William Henry’s grasp upon her wrist—for he had shifted his position and was confronting the antiquary face to face—she would have risen from it. She had never given her cousin credit for such self-assertion, and she trembled for its result. She did not even yet suspect it had a motive in which she herself was concerned; but thesituation alarmed her. It was like that of some audacious clerk who demands of his master a partnership, with a certain difference that made it even graver.‘What is it you want?’ inquired the antiquary. He too had become conscious that the relations between William Henry and himself were about to enter on a new phase; nevertheless his tone was conciliatory, like that of a man who, though somewhat tried, cannot afford to quarrel with his bread-and-butter.‘I am the last man, I hope, to be illiberal,’ he continued. ‘If I were dealing with a stranger I should frankly own that what you have, or rather, hope to have, to dispose of is a valuable commodity; to me, indeed, as you know, it is more valuable than to any mere dealer in such wares. Nevertheless I hope you will be reasonable; after all it is a question of what the thing will fetch. I suppose you will not ask a fancy price?’William Henry smiled. ‘Well, some people might think it so, Mr. Erin, but it is not money at all that I require of you.’‘Not money?’ echoed the antiquary in a voice of great relief. ‘Well, that indeed shows a proper spirit. I am really pleased to find that we are to have no haggling over a matter of this kind, which in truth would be little short of a sacrilege. If you have fixed your mind upon any of my poor possessions, though it should even be the “Decameron,“ the earliest edition extant, and complete except for the title-page——’‘It is not the “Decameron,“ sir.’‘Or the quarto of 1623, with marginal notes in my own hand. But no; that is a small matter indeed by comparison with this magnificent discovery. I hardly know what I have which would in any way appear to you an equivalent; but be assured that anything at my disposal is very much at your service.’‘Then if you please, sir, I will take Margaret.’‘Margaret!’ Mr. Erin repeated the name in tones of such supreme amazement as could not have been exceeded had the young man stipulated for his wig. Perhaps his surprise was a little simulated, which was certainly not the case with Margaret herself; she sat in silence, covered with blushes, and with her eyes fixed on the table before her, very much frightened, but by no means ‘hurt.’ While she trembled at Willie’s audacity she admired it.f54‘Then, if you please, sir, I will take Margaret.’Mr. Erin shot a glance at her which convinced him that he would get no help from that quarter. If she had not been cognisant of the young fellow’s intention it was clear that the proposal he had made was not displeasing to her. The antiquary ransacked his mind for an objection that would meet the case; there were plenty of them there, but none of them fit for use and at the same time strong enough. A very powerful one at once occurred to him in the question, ‘What do you propose to live upon?’ but unhappily the answer was equally obvious, ‘Uponyou!’ A most intolerable suggestion, but one which—on the brink of a bargain—it was not convenient to combat.For a moment, too, the objection of consanguinity occurred to him, that they were cousins; an admirable plea, because it wasquite insurmountable; but though this might have had its weight with Margaret, he doubted of its efficacy in William Henry’s case, inasmuch as he probably knew that they werenotcousins. To have this question raised in the young lady’s presence—or indeed at all—was not to be thought of. In the end he had to content himself with the commonplace argument of immaturity, unsatisfactory at the best, since it only delays the evil day.‘Margaret? You surely cannot be serious, my dear lad. Why, your united ages scarcely make up that of a marriageable man. This is really too ridiculous. You are not eighteen.’The rejoinder that that was an objection which time could be relied on to remove was obvious, but William Henry did not make it. He was not only playing for a great stake; it was necessary that it should be paid in ready money.‘I venture to think, Mr. Erin,’ he said respectfully, ‘that our case is somewhat exceptional. We have known one another for a long time, and very intimately; it is not aquestion of calf love. Moreover, to be frank with you, my value in your eyes is now at its highest. You may learn to esteem me more; I trust you may; but as time goes on I cannot hope commercially to be at such a premium. Now or never, therefore, is my time to sell.’Though he spoke of himself as the article of barter he was well aware that Mr. Erin’s thoughts were fixed upon another purchase, which, as it were, included him in the same ‘lot.’‘But, my dear Samuel, this is so altogether unexpected.’‘So is the discovery of the manuscript,’ put in the young fellow with pitiless logic.‘It is like springing a mine on me, my lad.’‘The “Vortigern and Rowena“ is also a mine, or I hope will prove so,’ was the quick rejoinder.Whatever might be urged against William Henry Erin, it could not be said that he had not his wits about him.‘You have only the copy,’ objected theantiquary, though he felt the argument to be inadequate, since it was liable to be swept away.‘Nay,’ returned the young man, smiling, ‘what becomes of the acumen of the critic, if internal evidence is insufficient to establish authenticity? His occupation is gone.’This was Mr. Erin’s favourite quotation from the ‘Rejoinder;’ to use it against him was like seething a kid in its mother’s milk, and it roused him for the first time to vigorous opposition. It is possible that he also saw his opportunity for spurring the other on to gain possession of the precious document.‘That is all mighty fine, young sir, but this is not a question of sentiment. I must see this play in Shakespeare’s own handwriting before I can take your most unlooked-for proposal into consideration at all. At present the whole affair is in the air.’‘You shall see the play,’ said William Henry composedly.‘Moreover,’ continued the antiquary with equal firmness, ‘it will not be sufficient that Imyself should be convinced of its authenticity. It must receive general acceptance.’‘I can hardly promise, sir, that there will be no objectors,’ returned the young man drily; ‘Mr. Malone, for example, will probably have something to say.’The mention of ‘that devil,’ as the antiquary, in moments of irritation, was wont to call that respectable commentator, was most successful.‘I speak of rational beings, sir,’ returned Mr. Erin, with quite what is called in painting his ‘early manner.’ ‘What Malone may take into his head to think is absolutely indifferent to me. I speak of the public voice.’‘As heard, for instance, at the National Theatre,’ suggested William Henry earnestly. ‘Suppose that “Vortigern and Rowena“ should be acted at Drury Lane or Covent Garden, and be received as thebona fideproduction of Shakespeare? Would that test content you?’That such an ordeal would be of a sufficiently crucial nature was indubitable, yet not more sothan the confidence with which it was proposed. If the least glimmer of doubt as to the genuineness of the Shakespearean MSS. still reigned in the antiquary’s mind the voice and manner of his son as he spoke those words would have dispelled it. The immaturity of the two young people was not much altered for the better since Mr. Erin had cited it as a bar to their union, but, under the circumstances now suggested, their position would be very materially improved. A play at Drury Lane in those days meant money in pocket; a successful play was a small fortune, and might even be a large one. He would have greatly preferred to have this precious MS., like the others, for nothing, but, after all, what was demanded of him was better than being asked to give hard cash for a pig in a poke. It was only a promise to pay upon conditions which would make the payment comparatively easy.‘If “Vortigern and Rowena“ is successful,’ continued William Henry with the quiet persistence of a carpenter who strikes the same nail on the head, ‘it must be understood that Ihave permission to marry Margaret as soon as she pleases.’Poor Mr. Erin looked appealingly at his niece. ‘You will surely not be so indelicate,’ his glance seemed to say, ‘as to wish to precipitate a matter of this kind?’ But he looked in vain. She did not, it is true, say, ‘I will though;’ there was even a blush on her cheek, which might have seemed to flatter his expectations: but she kept silence, which in such a case it was impossible to construe otherwise than as consent.Some old gentlemen would have hereupon felt themselves justified in saying that ‘young women were not so forward in their time,’ or ‘that such conduct was in their experience unprecedented,’ a reflection, to judge by the frequency with which it is indulged in under similar circumstances, that would seem to give some sort of consolation; but the antecedents of Mr. Samuel Erin were unhappily, as we have hinted, not of a sufficiently ascetic nature to enable him to use this solace.‘Perhaps you would like to read the play?’ suggested William Henry.‘Very much,’ replied the antiquary with eagerness.‘Just as you please, Mr. Erin. It is yours of course, upon the understanding, supposing it to realise expectation, that we have your consent to our marriage.’‘Very good,’ replied the antiquary, without any eagerness at all, and in a tone which (had such a substitution been feasible) would have better suited with ‘Very bad.’CHAPTER XXIII.AN UNEXPECTED ALLY.All thathad gone before as regarded the Shakespeare MSS. sank into almost insignificance as compared with the stir made by the ‘Vortigern and Rowena.’ The superiority of new lamps over old ones has, with thatwell-known exception in the ‘Arabian Nights,’ been pretty generally acknowledged in all climes and times. If a scrap of writing from the great genius, who had left nothing of himself behind him, save, as had been hitherto supposed, a couple of signatures, had had its attractions; if the original drafts of a well-known play or two had set the town by the ears; one may imagine the excitement produced by the discovery of a brand-new drama in the master’s hand. Mr. Samuel Erin’s door in Norfolk Street was positively besieged by applicants to view the wonder.That gentleman, however, declined for the present to gratify the public curiosity. Conscious as he was of the importance of his own position, he was also fully aware of the necessity of strengthening it against all comers, among whom must necessarily be many foes. William Henry had been as good as his word. He had, though with great difficulty, persuaded his patron to part with the precious manuscript, which had been duly placed in the antiquary’s hands. Both by external and internal evidencehe was fully satisfied with its authenticity; but it was necessary that the world without should share his conviction. Mahomet, it seems, was for a considerable time content with a single believer; nor when we consider that that believer was his wife, is it discreditable to his claims. If he could only have converted hisvalet de chambrealso, he ought to have been well satisfied. Mr. Erin, as we are aware, was in a much better position as to followers, but then he wanted so much more. Mahomet, so far as we know, had not just then a two-guinea edition of the Koran in hand, the sale of which was beginning to slacken. It was doubtful whether the immediate publication of the ‘Vortigern’ might not injure its predecessor, unless its genuineness could be better authenticated.To this end, Mr. Erin took the bold step of convening a committee of commentators and critics to report upon the MS. A selection was made from those who had signed the certificate, and who were therefore favourable; but others were invited who had not so compromisedthemselves, and even who might be supposed to be hostile, including Mr. Albany Wallis. No one could say that it was a hole-and-corner business, far less that the assembly was packed. It would, without doubt, have been much more agreeable to Mr. Erin if it had been, for he had to listen to some very unpleasant things. These, for the most part, it was true, were said by small men. Just as in the great railway meetings of the present day, the shareholder who has just put enough in the undertaking to qualify him to speak at all is always the most loquacious, so the second-rate critics, who had not much chance of being listened to in the world without, were, if not the most sceptical, the most vituperative; and poor Mr. Erin was not a chairman who could ignore them. The style, the matter, the calligraphy of the ‘Vortigern,’ nay, even the very paper on which it was written, underwent the sharpest scrutiny and evoked some very bitter remarks. Dr. Parr and Dr. Warton, the two great cards of the certificate, were strongly in favour of the play, and carried many with them, includingthe laureate Pye, and his brother poet, Sir James Burgess. But there were also many adversaries.The fact was, notwithstanding that famous dictum about the occupation of the critic being gone if the intrinsic merit of a work was not sufficient to establish its genuineness, and though the excellence of the ‘Vortigern’ was on the whole admitted, the story of how it came into William Henry’s hands was the real obstacle to its acceptance. His patron of the Temple was too much wrapped in mystery to be satisfactory to the minds of most.The committee was to sit for two days, and then decide by vote upon the all-important question, was there or was there not sufficient evidence before them of the authenticity of the play? William Henry was always present, a witness whose examination was always proceeding, but, as it were, in a circle. The keenest expert could get nothing out of him beyond what had been already got. He had nothing to tell, save what he had already told. His manner was cool and collected, and produceda favourable impression. Sir James Burgess said, ‘If this young man is not speaking the truth, he is a marvellous actor, and we are informed, upon authority which in this case can certainly not be disputed, that he is but seventeen.’ The authority was not quite so good as Sir James imagined, but the fact was as he stated it.Alone with Mr. Erin and Margaret, the young fellow was even more self-reliant; he was hopeful. Whatever decision the committee might arrive at, there was still, he would say, the appeal to the public; and in that he expressed his confidence. In this Mr. Erin could not agree; if the play was discredited by those who had been so solemnly convened to judge of it, he doubted of its acceptance out of doors. On the second and all-important day there was even a fuller attendance than on the first. Among the new-comers was the Bishop of St. Andrews, a good-natured divine enough, but who produced an unfavourable impression by quoting Porson’s ‘Iambics,’ ‘Three children sliding on the ice,’ which the great professorpretended to have found in an old trunk among some manuscript plays of Sophocles—an obvious satire upon the Shakespearean discoveries. Greek wit is never so mirth-provoking as to endanger life, but at this specimen it was difficult for Mr. Samuel Erin to force a smile. What even more depressed him was the unexpected arrival of Mr. Reginald Talbot. How this young man had gained admittance he could not understand; but at such a time the real ground of objection to him could not, of course, be stated. Public opinion had been challenged, and on the brink of its decision it would have been madness indeed to have any altercation with one who had evinced his scepticism.Talbot had come in alone and taken his seat rather apart from the rest: his face looked less florid than usual, but resolute enough; after one glance round the room he fixed his eyes upon the ground. Every moment the antiquary expected to hear his blatant voice giving utterance to some offensive imputation; but he remained silent, listening to the pros and cons of his seniors, withno particular interest, as it seemed, in the matter.William Henry had seen him enter, of course—there were few things that escaped his observation—but had shown no sign of concern, far less of apprehension. He either did not fear him, or had screwed his courage to the sticking place. Now and then, indeed, he glanced nervously at the door; but from no fear of an enemy. He had some misgiving lest Margaret’s anxiety upon his account might compel her to come and hear for herself how matters were going on; a very groundless apprehension, for nothing could have been more foreign to her retiring and modest nature than to have intruded herself upon such an assembly.After all who wished to speak had had their say, the Laureate rose and addressed the meeting. He had listened very attentively, he said, to the opinions that had been advanced on both sides upon the subject of controversy; and if he could not say that he had himself come to a definite conclusion, he thought that he had at least gathered the general viewof those present. The play before them was undoubtedly a remarkable one; he could not take upon himself to say from internal evidence whether it was, or was not, written by William Shakespeare, but, on the whole, he believed it to have been so. Persons better qualified than himself to judge of such matters had expressed themselves for and against the other proofs of its authenticity. Again, on the whole, these seemed to him to be in its favour. But what, after all, was their great stumbling-block was the mystery—and as it seemed to him the unnecessary mystery—that hung about its discovery.Here there were audible expressions of assent. Mr. Erin, pale and trembling, but much more with anger than with fear, was about to rise, but the Laureate waved him back. He was not going to have his peroration spoilt by any man. There was a general murmur of ‘Pye, Pye,’ which under any other circumstances, would have sounded exquisitely humorous; it was like a bread riot of the upper classes. ‘Under these circumstances,’ continued the orator, ‘if anyone can be found who has seen the MS. as it werein situ, and has met the unknown patron of the Temple in the flesh, so as to corroborate so far the testimony of this young gentleman’ (here he pointed to William Henry), ‘I, for one, shall have no hesitation in acknowledging myself a believer; but in the absence of such a witness I must take leave, at least, to reserve my judgment.’There was a long and significant silence. If the speaker had not expressed the views of the majority, he had done so for many of those present; while the want of corroborative testimony, such as he had indicated, was felt by all. Even Mr. Erin, perhaps for the first time, understood how evidence which had been, and was, perfectly conclusive to himself, might well fail, thus unsupported, to satisfy the public mind. He felt like the young blood who had recently been endeavouring for a bet to dispose within five minutes of a hundred sovereigns to as many persons on London Bridge for a penny apiece. His MSS. were genuine, but if hecould not persuade people to believe it, where would be his profit?‘Well,’ continued the Laureate in self-satisfied tones, for he was pleased with the impression his eloquence had produced, and especially that he had reduced the antiquary—in whose mind he had created a desert and called it peace—to silence: ‘Well! the question is, Is there such a witness as I have described?’‘Yes, there is.’These words fell upon the general ear like a bombshell, but no one was more utterly astounded by them than Mr. Samuel Erin himself. He could hardly believe his ears, and when he looked to the quarter from which they proceeded—and to which every one else was looking—he could not believe his eyes; for the man that had uttered them was Mr. Reginald Talbot.The young man was not, indeed, in appearance quite the sort of witness whom one would have chosen to establish the authenticity of an ancient literary document; though at a police court, in some case of assault (provided the victim was respectable, and he had been for theprosecution), he might have been passable enough. His dress was that of a young man of fashion, but not of good fashion; his manner was suggestive less of confidence than of swagger, and his face spoke of indulgence in liquor. On the other hand, this impression may have been partly caused by his contrast with these learned pundits, most of them in wigs, and some of them in shovel hats; he scarcely seemed to belong to the same race. The very eye-glass, which headed the cane he carried so jauntily in his hand, was out of keeping withtheireye-glasses, and looked like some gay young lens who had refused to be put into spectacles, and was winking at life on its own hook.‘Does any one know this young gentleman?’ inquired Mr. Pye, with significant hesitation.‘Yes, I know him,’ observed Mr. Albany Wallis. ‘I have, it is true, but slight acquaintance with his personal character, but he comes of respectable parentage.’‘You may add that he has two hundreda year of his own, good money,’ observed Mr. Talbot with some complacency, and a strong Irish accent.Mr. Pye looked at him very dubiously, and in spite of this assurance of his financial solvency, addressed himself to the previous speaker.‘In the case before us, Mr. Wallis—and I need not say how your opinion will weigh with us,—do you consider this gentleman as a dependable witness?’Mr. Reginald Talbot turned very red, and, not having a retort on hand suitable to bestow on a poet laureate, very wisely held his tongue.‘I am bound to say,’ said Mr. Wallis gravely, ‘that Mr. Talbot has given some attention to the authenticity of the Shakespeare MSS., and up to this time he has expressed himself, and with somewhat unnecessary vehemence, to their discredit; any evidence he may therefore have to offer in their favour will have some weight with me.’Then all the company awaited in expectant silence for Mr. Reginald Talbot’s narrative.‘What Mr. Wallis has said is quite right,’ said that young gentleman, with unnecessary affability. ‘I did use to think that there was something amiss with those Shakespeare papers. I had an idea that Mr. William Henry Erin yonder was playing tricks, so I made it my business to watch him. I hung about his chambers in the New Inn—they are on the ground floor, though pretty high up—and with a short ladder I have made shift to see what was going on when he was alone in his room, and little suspected it.’William Henry, standing apart with folded arms, listened to this confession of his former friend with a contemptuous smile. If it was a revelation to him, he displayed the indifference of a North American Indian.‘For days and days I watched him and discovered nothing. Then I dogged his steps to the city, where he went every afternoon; on two occasions he turned, as if to see whether he was followed, and I think he saw me.’William Henry shook his head.‘Well, at all events I thought he did, and gave it up. The third time, walking on theother side of the street, and very careful to leave a safe distance between us, I tracked him to a staircase in the Temple. He stopped at a door on the first floor, and entered without knocking. I waited a bit and then followed him. An old gentleman was seated in the room alone, in an armchair, reading; he looked up from his book in great astonishment, and inquired very curtly who I was.‘I said that I came upon business of importance, after young Mr. Erin. He rose, and opening an inner door, exclaimed: “Here is a friend of yours, sir: what is the meaning of his intrusion here?“ He spoke very angrily, but I felt that he had some reason for it, and when Erin came out and said, “Talbot, you have ruined me,“ I felt sorry for what I had done. There was nothing for it but to make a clean breast of it, and with many apologies, of which not the slightest notice was taken, I explained that curiosity, and a suspicion that the world was being gulled by these pretended discoveries, had induced me to look into the matter myself.‘“You are a spy, then,“ cried the old gentleman. I thought for a moment that he was going to throw me out of the window; but his rage instantly subsided. “Take him into the next room, Erin, and show him all,“ he said. He took me accordingly, and there I saw an immense quantity of old manuscripts strewed about the floor; I should say whole cartfuls of them. I was so sorry and so ashamed of myself that I never spoke a word till Erin let me out again.‘“I am sorry I came,“ I said; “but I am quite satisfied, sir, that Erin spoke the truth.”‘“I don’t care a farthing, sir, whether you are satisfied or not,“ replied the old gentleman; “you have taken a mean advantage of your friend, and an unpardonable liberty with me.”‘Then I told him upon my honour, and as I hoped to be saved, that I would never reveal his name to any human being.’‘He waved his hand contemptuously, and observed that my word and my oath together were not worth sixpence; but if I had any feeling for my friend, or any remorse for thebaseness I had committed, I had better hold my tongue, since, if by my means his secret should be discovered, Erin should never darken his doors again, nor receive from him any of the benefits which it had been his intention to confer upon him. Erin himself did not speak to me at all; he has never spoken to me from that day to this; but hearing by accident of this meeting, I resolved to come here, and do what I could for him by way of reparation. That is all I have got to say.’This narrative made an immense impression. Mr. Samuel Erin sighed a great sigh of relief, and looked around him with triumphant exultation. He had not needed any confirmation of his son’s story for himself, but he felt how opportune with respect to others was this young man’s testimony—that in him, in fact, he had entertained an angel very much unawares. A murmur of satisfaction ran round the company, and the faces of even the most sceptical relaxed their severity. William Henry alone looked totally unmoved; like one who had all along been conscious that hischaracter would be cleared, one way or another, and was indifferent in what way. Some questions were put to Talbot, but nothing was elicited to shake his evidence; indeed, since he had by his own showing taken his oath that he would not reveal the name of the Templar unknown, there was little more to be extracted from him.The Laureate, in a short but dignified speech, observed that after the very testimony he had stated was the only thing wanting to his conviction had been forthcoming, he could not, in reason, offer any further objection to the authenticity of the play, and that for his part he admitted it.To this the whole company, with hardly a dissentient voice, expressed their agreement, and the committee dispersed, after passing an all but unanimous resolution that the ‘Vortigern and Rowena’ was a genuine play of William Shakespeare’s.CHAPTER XXIV.MANAGERS.Thelast two days had been very trying ones for the little household in Norfolk Street, and, though success had crowned their hopes, they bore marks of the struggle that evening. Even young William Henry, who, like the antiquarian Duchess (but with a difference), seemed to have been born before nerves had come into fashion, showed signs of the terrible ordeal through which he had passed; he was tender-footed, after the red-hot ploughshares.The antiquary himself was almost in a state of collapse; while Margaret, as sensible and self-contained a girl as was to be found on either side of the Thames, between gratitude to Heaven and love to man, became for the first time in her life hysterical. All was well for her Willie at last, but she doubted; and withreason, whether, exposed to the brunt of the battle, and fighting for what was dearer to him than life itself, his honour, he had suffered as much as she had done, sitting in her little room apart from themêléeand picturing to herself the terrors of defeat.She listened to their narrative of the proceedings with a fearful joy, deemed at first Mr. Pye the basest, and presently the best of men, and felt a secret gratitude to Mr. Albany Wallis that she would have found it difficult to explain: she had an impression that he was not their ally, but that a strong sense of justice, mingled perhaps with remorse for the part he had on a former occasion taken against them, had made him something more than neutral. Remorse, too, she herself felt as regarded the person to whom the final triumph was after all mainly owing.‘Where is Mr. Talbot, Willie?’ she said excitedly. ‘I should like to tell him, not only how much indebted I am to him, but how wrong was the judgment I had previously formed of him.’‘To be sure,’ observed the antiquary naïvely; ‘whereisTalbot?’ When the city has been preserved, as the Scripture says, nobody remembers the name of the obscure individual who saved it, and in the glow of victory Mr. Erin had clean forgotten his young Irish ally. ‘I suppose his modesty prevented him from waiting to receive our acknowledgments.’‘No doubt it was his modesty,’ said William Henry drily. ‘But as for your gratitude, Maggie, I think it is somewhat misplaced; if he has now done us good, he once did his best to do us harm, and thus far we are only quits.’‘That was a dirty trick his following Samuel to the Temple,’ observed Mr. Erin; ‘though, as it happened, it has turned out to our advantage.’‘Still, it is not every one who is ready to make reparation for an error,’ said Margaret gravely.To this there was no reply from her uncle. Margaret hardly expected any. He was a man who took the gifts which Heaven vouchsafedhim without any excess of fervour; but from Willie she had looked for more generosity of spirit; on the other hand, he might be a little jealous (she had a vague impression that the young Irish gentleman had made some clumsy attempt in confederation with his eye-glass to recommend himself to her attention), in which case of course Willie was forgiven.‘At all events,’ she continued smiling, for this idea amused her, ‘I shall not be considered forward if I thank Mr. Talbot on my own account when he next pays us a visit.’‘I shall not have the least objection,’ returned William Henry in the same light tone—though his taking it upon himself to say so was significant enough of his confidence in his position—’but I am afraid you will not have an early opportunity of relieving your mind of its weight of gratitude. Talbot goes home to-morrow by the Irish packet.’‘Then you saw him after all, before he left this afternoon,’ cried Margaret. ‘Why, I understood that he had fled to avoid your thanks.’‘That was my father’s view,’ said William Henry, ‘and such a touching one that I had not the heart to combat it; but as a matter of fact I did see Talbot for one moment, and of course I thanked him.’‘Oh! Willie, Willie, why will you always make yourself out worse than you are?’ exclaimed Margaret reproachfully.‘I think we had better say nothing about it,’ observed the antiquary thoughtfully. Margaret looked up rather sharply at him; she thought his words had reference to William Henry’s modest concealment of his own virtues, and that he was disputing the fact; but, strange to say, though that estimable young man was before his eyes, Mr. Erin was not thinking of him at all. ‘We will leave others to say what they like,’ continued he, ‘and fight it out among themselves. In twenty-four hours the whole town will be talking of nothing else.’‘You mean about the play, sir?’ suggested William Henry.‘Well, of course; what the devil else should I mean?’ returned the antiquary with irritation.It was disgusting that these two young people—for his niece looked as much at sea as his son—should be so wrapped up in one another and their commonplace affairs as to have forgotten ‘Vortigern and Rowena’ already. ‘I think it will be better to rest on our oars and wait events.’‘Shut our eyes and open our mouths,’ said William Henry, ‘and see what Heaven will send us.’The remark was flippant, but the sense of it was in accordance with Mr. Erin’s views. In his exaltation of spirit he even condescended to reply in the same vein.‘I shall open my mouth pretty wide, I can tell you, when the managers come; but we must not go to them.’‘You of course know best,’ said William Henry modestly. If left to himself the impetuosity of youth would have led him on the morrow, cap (and MS.) in hand, to the stage-door of the nearest theatre.‘Fortunately, you see, we can afford to wait,’ said Mr. Erin composedly.William Henry glanced at Margaret, and Margaret dropped her eyes; Mr. Erin’s sentiments, though intended to be comforting and even exultant, were, strange to say, not shared by these young people.They had not, however, to wait long. As Mr. Erin had predicted, the news that the committee appointed to investigate the claims of the ‘Vortigern’ MS. had decided in its favour flew swiftly over the town. ‘From the palace to the cottage,’ said Mr. Erin in his enthusiasm, though probably it only reached the cottageorné. Letters of congratulation poured in from every quarter. Even Malone was reported to have said that if it could have been doneincognitohe should have liked to see the manuscript. (What he really said was, ‘I wish that Steevens had found it,’ meaning that he should have taken a real pleasure in evisceratinghim.) The opinion of antiquaries was divided; and if Reid and Ritson denounced the play, Garter-King-at-Arms was enthusiastic in its favour, and gave it more supporters than Heraldry ever dreamt of.Before a week was over came Mr. Harris, proprietor of Covent Garden Theatre, to Norfolk Street in person. The announcement of his name set William Henry’s heart beating more quickly than it had done even on that fateful afternoon in Anne Hathaway’s garden. For the first time he shrank from the customary ordeal of investigation, and Mr. Erin interviewed the manager alone. As it happened, the young man need have been under no apprehension of a brow-beating. Mr. Harris was a practical man, of an expansive mind, which did not stoop to details.‘The committee, I hear, sir, have decided in favour of this play of yours,’ was his first remark; it was delivered with quite unnecessary abruptness, but it was not the tone alone which grated upon Mr. Erin’s ears.‘This play of mine, as you have thought proper to term it, Mr. Harris,’ he replied with dignity, ‘is Shakespeare’s play.’‘So you say, and, indeed, so many other people say, or I should not be here,’ was the cool rejoinder. ‘Between ourselves, Mr. Erin,and, speaking as one man of the world to another, I don’t care a farthing—certainly not a Queen Anne’s farthing—whether it is Shakespeare’s play or not. The question that concernsmeis, “Do the public believe it to be such?”’‘Am I to understand, then, that you do not wish to examine the MS.?’‘Examine it? Certainly not. My time is very much occupied—it is in five acts, is it not?’‘It is in five acts,’ assented the antiquary; he could hardly trust himself to reply, except in the other’s words. Mr. Harris’s indifference, notwithstanding that it promised to facilitate matters, was most offensive to him. ‘Mr. Pye has been so good as to promise us a prologue for the play.’‘That’s good; “Prologue by the Poet Laureate“ will look well in the bill. We must have an epilogue ready, even though’—here he smiled grimly—’we never get so far as that.’The suggestion of such a contingency—which, of course, meant total failure—in coldblood, filled up the cup of the antiquary’s indignation. He almost resolved, whatever this man offered, to decline his proposition to bring out the play.‘Mr. Merry will write the epilogue,’ he replied icily.‘A very good man—for an epilogue,’ replied the manager drily. ‘Well, we must strike while the iron’s hot, or not at all. We must not give the public time to flag in its enthusiasm, or, what will be worse, perhaps, to alter its opinion. There is risk of this even now, but I am ready to run it, and I’ll take the play.’‘The devil you will!’ said Mr. Erin.‘Yes, I will,’ continued the manager calmly, taking, or pretending to take, this explosion of his companion as an expression of admiration of his own courage; ‘it will cost a good bit of money, but I’ll take it and never charge you a farthing for placing it on the boards. It’s an offer you are not likely to get again, I promise you.’‘I’ll take your word for that,’ said the antiquaryquietly; he had passed the glowing stage of indignation, into that white heat which looks almost like coolness. ‘I don’t think any other human being would venture to make so audacious a proposal. Have you really the impudence to ask me to give you a play of Shakespeare’s for nothing?’‘For nothing? What, do you call the advertisement nothing? How is an author’s name established? How does he acquire fame and fortune but through the opportunity of becoming known? And how could he get a better one than having his play acted at Covent Garden?’‘I was not aware that Shakespeare stood in need of an advertisement, Mr. Harris,’ returned the antiquary grimly. ‘And even supposing that, thanks to you, he becomes popular, he is not a rising young author; should “Vortigern and Rowena“ be ever so successful, that would not enable us to find another of his plays.’‘It would be a great encouragement to do it,’ answered the manager impudently. ‘However, there’s my offer!’‘And there’s my door, Mr. Harris.’ And Mr. Erin pointed to it with unmistakable significance.‘Stuff and nonsense!’ said the manager. ‘What do you want? How do you suppose plays are brought out, man? Come, what do you say to half profits?’‘No!’‘Then, look here—now, this is your last chance, as I’m a Christian man.’‘Then I shall have another,’ said Mr. Erin. It was the first approach to an epigram he had ever made in his life. Anger is a short madness, genius is a kind of madness, and so, perhaps, it came about that fury suggested to him that lively sally.‘A hundred pounds down, and half profits: that is my last word,’ cried the manager.‘No!’ thundered the antiquary. He was still upon his legs, with his outstretched arm pointing to the door like a finger-post.The manager walked into the passage, opened the front door, and held it in his hand.‘A hundred and fifty, and half profits.’‘No.’‘Very good; more than a hundred and fifty pounds for the play of a Shakespeare who spellsandwith a finaleI will not give.’The door closed behind him with a great bang, which sounded, however, less like a thunder-clap to Mr. Erin than that concluding sarcasm. He was not aware that a pamphlet had been published that very morning, which pointed out that the spelling ofandwith ane, a practice pursued throughout the ‘Vortigern,’ had been utterly unknown, not only to Elizabethan times, but to any other.When Mr. Erin rejoined his two young people, who were waiting for him with no little anxiety in the next room, there was no need to ask his news. His face told it.Nevertheless, Margaret said, ‘Well, uncle?’ before she could stop herself.‘It is not well,’ he answered passionately; ‘it is devilish bad.’‘But surely Mr. Harris was not uncivil?’‘Uncivil? Who wants his civility? Who but a fool would expect it in a theatricalmanager? Bring me the play—the “Vortigern.”’‘What is the matter now?’ inquired William Henry.His manner, as usual, was imperturbable. Mr. Erin—so great was the revolution wrought in him by recent circumstances—seemed at once to derive comfort from it. ‘Well, it’s very unfortunate, but it seems that an objection has been discovered—insignificant in itself—but which seriously affects its genuineness.’‘Indeed? There have been a good many not insignificant objections—and yet it has been generally accepted,’ said the young man smiling.‘It’s nothing to smile at, I do assure you, if what that fellow said is correct.’He had the manuscript before him, and was examining it with nervous eagerness through his glasses. ‘Yes, here’s one, and here’s anotherandwith ane. Why should Shakespeare spellandwith ane?’He looked up sharply at his son, as if asking a riddle of one who has the answer to it.‘I am sure I don’t know, sir,’ replied William Henry quietly. ‘He spelt things pretty much as he pleased.’‘That’s true, that’s true. But just now it’s certainly most disappointing that there should be any hitch. The very stars in their courses seem to fight against us.’‘It is an unfortunate conjunction, that is all,’ said the young man, smiling again. ‘The objection of which Mr. Harris speaks may be new, but not the spelling:andwas so spelt in the Profession of Faith, for example.’‘Indeed! That had escaped my recollection. Come, that is satisfactory. All those, then, who signed the certificate will be with us. It was foolish of me to be so discouraged.’‘And did Mr. Harris decline the play on the ground ofandbeing written with the finale?’‘Well, no, he didn’t decline it.’‘He only used that argument, perhaps, in order to get it at a cheap rate?’ suggested William Henry.This, as we know, had not been the case;he had pretty broadly hinted that he did not believe it to be Shakespeare’s play at all, and even that there might be plenty more where the ‘Vortigern’ came from, but so bound up in these wondrous discoveries had Mr. Erin’s mind become, that it was distressing and humiliating to have to confess as much, even to his son and niece.‘Why, yes; he wanted it cheap, and therefore of course depreciated it. He only offered one hundred and fifty pounds for it and half profits.’William Henry looked up amazed. For the first time his self-control deserted him. In his heart he thought the antiquary a fool for having refused such terms; but it was not the rejection of the terms that annoyed him so much as the rejection of the chance of having the play produced at a theatre like Covent Garden. His feelings, in fact, were precisely the same as those on which Mr. Harris had counted—without his host.‘The money in hand may be small, sir, but the half profits—in case the play were successful—asI feel it must have been, might have been well worth having.’Mr. Erin began to think so too by this time. After all, what did it matter whether the manager were a believer in the play or not, had his theatre been only made the channel of its introduction to the public? He sat in moody silence, thinking whether it would be possible, after what had passed, ‘to win that tassel gentle,’ Mr. Harris, ‘back again.’ It was certain that he (Mr. Erin) would have to swallow a very large leek first.The servant-girl entered, bringing a slip of paper upon a salver, the name, no doubt, of one of those thousand and one persons who were now always coming to ask permission to see the MS.‘Two gentlemen to see you, sir,’ said the maid.The antiquary glanced at the name, and then, as high as a gentleman of sixtycanleap, he leapt from his chair.Margaret, thinking her uncle had beenseized with some malady—presumably ‘the jumps’—uttered a little scream of terror.‘Good heavens! what is it?’‘Sheridan!’ he cried triumphantly. ‘There are more fish in the sea, Samuel, than have come out of it, and better ones; see, lad, it’s in his own handwriting; he is here in person—”Richard Brinsley Sheridan, favoured by Dr. Parr.”’
CHAPTER XXII.A BARGAIN.‘Thebook goes bravely, Samuel,’ observed Mr. Erin, as father and son were sitting together one evening with Margaret between them. William Henry’s hand was resting on the back of her chair, and at times he addressed her in tones so low that his words must needs have had no more meaning for a third person than if they had been in a foreign tongue. Yet both his contiguity and his confidences remained unreproved. Perhaps among other recently developed virtues in the young man it was put down by Mr. Erin (who himself had a quick eye for the main chance) to William Henry’s credit that he never questioned his father’s right to treat the Shakespearean papers as his own, or to demand any account of his stewardship with respect to them.The antiquary, however, had scruples of his own, which, if they did not compel him to part with hard money, induced him to look upon his milch cow with very lenient and indulgent eyes.It was surely only natural that these two young people should entertain a very strong mutual attachment; through long familiarity they doubtless seemed more like brother and sister to one another than cousins. It could not be said, in short, that Mr. Erin winked at their love-making, but he shut his eyes to it. It would have been very inconvenient to have said ‘No’ to a certain question, and quite impossible to say ‘Yes.’ It was better that things should take their own course, even if it was a little dangerous, than to make matters uncomfortable by interference.‘From first to last, my lad,’ he continued in a cheerful voice, ‘we shall make little short of 500l., I expect.’‘Indeed,’ said William Henry indifferently. To do him justice he cared little for money at any time, and just now less than usual. Hisappetite, even for fame, had for the present lost its keenness. Love possessed him wholly; he cared only for Margaret.‘To think that a new reading of an old play—though to be sure it is Shakespeare’s play—should produce so much!’ went on Mr. Erin complacently. ‘Good heavens! what would not the public give for a new play by the immortal bard?’‘The question is,’ observed William Henry, ‘what wouldyougive, Mr. Erin?’The remark was so unexpected, and delivered in such a quiet tone, that for a moment the antiquary was dumbfounded, and between disbelief and expectancy made no reply.‘My dear Samuel,’ he murmured presently, ‘is it possible you can be serious, that you have in your possession——’‘Nay, sir,’ interrupted the young man smiling; ‘I never said that. I do not possess it, but within the last few days I have known of the existence of such a manuscript.’‘You have known and not told me!’ exclaimedthe antiquary reproachfully; ‘why, I might have died in the meantime!’‘Then you would have seen Shakespeare, and he would have told you all about it,’ returned William Henry lightly.‘Do not answer your father like that,’ said Margaret in low, reproving tones.It was plain, indeed, that Mr. Erin was greatly agitated. His eyes were fixed upon his son, but without speculation in them. He looked like one in a trance, to whom has been vouchsafed some wondrous vision.‘I know what is best,’ returned the young man under his breath, pressing Margaret’s shoulder with his hand. His arm still hung over her chair; his manner was studiously unmoved, as becomes the master of a situation.‘Where is it?’ gasped the old man.‘In the Temple. I have not yet obtained permission to bring it away. Until I could do that I felt it was useless to speak about the matter—that I should only be discredited. Even you yourself, unless you saw the manuscript,might hesitate to believe in its authenticity.’‘The manuscript?’ exclaimed Mr. Erin, his mind too monopolised by the splendour of the discovery to descend to detail; ‘you have really seen it, then, with your own eyes? An unacted play of Shakespeare’s!’‘An unpublished one, at all events. I have certainly seen it, and within these two hours, but only in my patron’s presence.’‘He said that whatever you found was to be yours,’ exclaimed Mr. Erin petulantly.‘Well, up to this time he has been as good as his word,’ said William Henry smiling.‘Indeed he has,’ remarked Margaret. ‘We must not be ungrateful, uncle.’‘Nevertheless, people should perform what they, promise,’ observed the antiquary severely.For the second time Margaret felt a gentle pressure upon her shoulder; it seemed as though Willie had whispered, ‘You hear that.’‘The play is called “Vortigern and Rowena,”’ continued the young man.‘An admirable subject,’ murmured the antiquary ecstatically.‘It is, of course, historical; there are Hengist and Horsus.’‘Horsa,’ suggested Mr. Erin.‘Shakespeare writes it Horsus; Horsa was perhaps his sister.’‘Perhaps,’ admitted the antiquary with prompt adhesion. ‘And the treatment? How does it rank as regards his other productions?’‘Nay, sir, that is for you to judge; I am no critic.’‘But you tell me that your patron will not part with it.’‘I have not yet persuaded him to do so; but I by no means despair of it, and in the meantime I have a copy of it.’‘MydearSamuel!’‘At first I tried to commit it to memory, but found the task beyond my powers. It is a very long play.’‘The longer the better,’ murmured the antiquary.‘But not when one has to get it by heart,’ observed William Henry drily. His tone and manner were more in contrast to those of theelder man than ever; as one grew heated the other seemed to grow cooler and cooler. There was no question as to which of them, just at present, was likely to prove the better hand at a bargain.‘But why do you talk thus, Samuel? The play, the play’s the thing; since you have it why do you not produce it? You cannot imagine that delay—indeed, that anything—can enhance the interest I feel in this most marvellous of our discoveries.’William Henry’s face grew very grave.‘It is true that whatever is mine is yours, in a sense,’ he said; ‘but still you must pardon me for remarking that they aremydiscoveries.’Margaret started in her chair; if she had not felt William Henry’s grasp upon her wrist—for he had shifted his position and was confronting the antiquary face to face—she would have risen from it. She had never given her cousin credit for such self-assertion, and she trembled for its result. She did not even yet suspect it had a motive in which she herself was concerned; but thesituation alarmed her. It was like that of some audacious clerk who demands of his master a partnership, with a certain difference that made it even graver.‘What is it you want?’ inquired the antiquary. He too had become conscious that the relations between William Henry and himself were about to enter on a new phase; nevertheless his tone was conciliatory, like that of a man who, though somewhat tried, cannot afford to quarrel with his bread-and-butter.‘I am the last man, I hope, to be illiberal,’ he continued. ‘If I were dealing with a stranger I should frankly own that what you have, or rather, hope to have, to dispose of is a valuable commodity; to me, indeed, as you know, it is more valuable than to any mere dealer in such wares. Nevertheless I hope you will be reasonable; after all it is a question of what the thing will fetch. I suppose you will not ask a fancy price?’William Henry smiled. ‘Well, some people might think it so, Mr. Erin, but it is not money at all that I require of you.’‘Not money?’ echoed the antiquary in a voice of great relief. ‘Well, that indeed shows a proper spirit. I am really pleased to find that we are to have no haggling over a matter of this kind, which in truth would be little short of a sacrilege. If you have fixed your mind upon any of my poor possessions, though it should even be the “Decameron,“ the earliest edition extant, and complete except for the title-page——’‘It is not the “Decameron,“ sir.’‘Or the quarto of 1623, with marginal notes in my own hand. But no; that is a small matter indeed by comparison with this magnificent discovery. I hardly know what I have which would in any way appear to you an equivalent; but be assured that anything at my disposal is very much at your service.’‘Then if you please, sir, I will take Margaret.’‘Margaret!’ Mr. Erin repeated the name in tones of such supreme amazement as could not have been exceeded had the young man stipulated for his wig. Perhaps his surprise was a little simulated, which was certainly not the case with Margaret herself; she sat in silence, covered with blushes, and with her eyes fixed on the table before her, very much frightened, but by no means ‘hurt.’ While she trembled at Willie’s audacity she admired it.f54‘Then, if you please, sir, I will take Margaret.’Mr. Erin shot a glance at her which convinced him that he would get no help from that quarter. If she had not been cognisant of the young fellow’s intention it was clear that the proposal he had made was not displeasing to her. The antiquary ransacked his mind for an objection that would meet the case; there were plenty of them there, but none of them fit for use and at the same time strong enough. A very powerful one at once occurred to him in the question, ‘What do you propose to live upon?’ but unhappily the answer was equally obvious, ‘Uponyou!’ A most intolerable suggestion, but one which—on the brink of a bargain—it was not convenient to combat.For a moment, too, the objection of consanguinity occurred to him, that they were cousins; an admirable plea, because it wasquite insurmountable; but though this might have had its weight with Margaret, he doubted of its efficacy in William Henry’s case, inasmuch as he probably knew that they werenotcousins. To have this question raised in the young lady’s presence—or indeed at all—was not to be thought of. In the end he had to content himself with the commonplace argument of immaturity, unsatisfactory at the best, since it only delays the evil day.‘Margaret? You surely cannot be serious, my dear lad. Why, your united ages scarcely make up that of a marriageable man. This is really too ridiculous. You are not eighteen.’The rejoinder that that was an objection which time could be relied on to remove was obvious, but William Henry did not make it. He was not only playing for a great stake; it was necessary that it should be paid in ready money.‘I venture to think, Mr. Erin,’ he said respectfully, ‘that our case is somewhat exceptional. We have known one another for a long time, and very intimately; it is not aquestion of calf love. Moreover, to be frank with you, my value in your eyes is now at its highest. You may learn to esteem me more; I trust you may; but as time goes on I cannot hope commercially to be at such a premium. Now or never, therefore, is my time to sell.’Though he spoke of himself as the article of barter he was well aware that Mr. Erin’s thoughts were fixed upon another purchase, which, as it were, included him in the same ‘lot.’‘But, my dear Samuel, this is so altogether unexpected.’‘So is the discovery of the manuscript,’ put in the young fellow with pitiless logic.‘It is like springing a mine on me, my lad.’‘The “Vortigern and Rowena“ is also a mine, or I hope will prove so,’ was the quick rejoinder.Whatever might be urged against William Henry Erin, it could not be said that he had not his wits about him.‘You have only the copy,’ objected theantiquary, though he felt the argument to be inadequate, since it was liable to be swept away.‘Nay,’ returned the young man, smiling, ‘what becomes of the acumen of the critic, if internal evidence is insufficient to establish authenticity? His occupation is gone.’This was Mr. Erin’s favourite quotation from the ‘Rejoinder;’ to use it against him was like seething a kid in its mother’s milk, and it roused him for the first time to vigorous opposition. It is possible that he also saw his opportunity for spurring the other on to gain possession of the precious document.‘That is all mighty fine, young sir, but this is not a question of sentiment. I must see this play in Shakespeare’s own handwriting before I can take your most unlooked-for proposal into consideration at all. At present the whole affair is in the air.’‘You shall see the play,’ said William Henry composedly.‘Moreover,’ continued the antiquary with equal firmness, ‘it will not be sufficient that Imyself should be convinced of its authenticity. It must receive general acceptance.’‘I can hardly promise, sir, that there will be no objectors,’ returned the young man drily; ‘Mr. Malone, for example, will probably have something to say.’The mention of ‘that devil,’ as the antiquary, in moments of irritation, was wont to call that respectable commentator, was most successful.‘I speak of rational beings, sir,’ returned Mr. Erin, with quite what is called in painting his ‘early manner.’ ‘What Malone may take into his head to think is absolutely indifferent to me. I speak of the public voice.’‘As heard, for instance, at the National Theatre,’ suggested William Henry earnestly. ‘Suppose that “Vortigern and Rowena“ should be acted at Drury Lane or Covent Garden, and be received as thebona fideproduction of Shakespeare? Would that test content you?’That such an ordeal would be of a sufficiently crucial nature was indubitable, yet not more sothan the confidence with which it was proposed. If the least glimmer of doubt as to the genuineness of the Shakespearean MSS. still reigned in the antiquary’s mind the voice and manner of his son as he spoke those words would have dispelled it. The immaturity of the two young people was not much altered for the better since Mr. Erin had cited it as a bar to their union, but, under the circumstances now suggested, their position would be very materially improved. A play at Drury Lane in those days meant money in pocket; a successful play was a small fortune, and might even be a large one. He would have greatly preferred to have this precious MS., like the others, for nothing, but, after all, what was demanded of him was better than being asked to give hard cash for a pig in a poke. It was only a promise to pay upon conditions which would make the payment comparatively easy.‘If “Vortigern and Rowena“ is successful,’ continued William Henry with the quiet persistence of a carpenter who strikes the same nail on the head, ‘it must be understood that Ihave permission to marry Margaret as soon as she pleases.’Poor Mr. Erin looked appealingly at his niece. ‘You will surely not be so indelicate,’ his glance seemed to say, ‘as to wish to precipitate a matter of this kind?’ But he looked in vain. She did not, it is true, say, ‘I will though;’ there was even a blush on her cheek, which might have seemed to flatter his expectations: but she kept silence, which in such a case it was impossible to construe otherwise than as consent.Some old gentlemen would have hereupon felt themselves justified in saying that ‘young women were not so forward in their time,’ or ‘that such conduct was in their experience unprecedented,’ a reflection, to judge by the frequency with which it is indulged in under similar circumstances, that would seem to give some sort of consolation; but the antecedents of Mr. Samuel Erin were unhappily, as we have hinted, not of a sufficiently ascetic nature to enable him to use this solace.‘Perhaps you would like to read the play?’ suggested William Henry.‘Very much,’ replied the antiquary with eagerness.‘Just as you please, Mr. Erin. It is yours of course, upon the understanding, supposing it to realise expectation, that we have your consent to our marriage.’‘Very good,’ replied the antiquary, without any eagerness at all, and in a tone which (had such a substitution been feasible) would have better suited with ‘Very bad.’
A BARGAIN.
‘Thebook goes bravely, Samuel,’ observed Mr. Erin, as father and son were sitting together one evening with Margaret between them. William Henry’s hand was resting on the back of her chair, and at times he addressed her in tones so low that his words must needs have had no more meaning for a third person than if they had been in a foreign tongue. Yet both his contiguity and his confidences remained unreproved. Perhaps among other recently developed virtues in the young man it was put down by Mr. Erin (who himself had a quick eye for the main chance) to William Henry’s credit that he never questioned his father’s right to treat the Shakespearean papers as his own, or to demand any account of his stewardship with respect to them.
The antiquary, however, had scruples of his own, which, if they did not compel him to part with hard money, induced him to look upon his milch cow with very lenient and indulgent eyes.
It was surely only natural that these two young people should entertain a very strong mutual attachment; through long familiarity they doubtless seemed more like brother and sister to one another than cousins. It could not be said, in short, that Mr. Erin winked at their love-making, but he shut his eyes to it. It would have been very inconvenient to have said ‘No’ to a certain question, and quite impossible to say ‘Yes.’ It was better that things should take their own course, even if it was a little dangerous, than to make matters uncomfortable by interference.
‘From first to last, my lad,’ he continued in a cheerful voice, ‘we shall make little short of 500l., I expect.’
‘Indeed,’ said William Henry indifferently. To do him justice he cared little for money at any time, and just now less than usual. Hisappetite, even for fame, had for the present lost its keenness. Love possessed him wholly; he cared only for Margaret.
‘To think that a new reading of an old play—though to be sure it is Shakespeare’s play—should produce so much!’ went on Mr. Erin complacently. ‘Good heavens! what would not the public give for a new play by the immortal bard?’
‘The question is,’ observed William Henry, ‘what wouldyougive, Mr. Erin?’
The remark was so unexpected, and delivered in such a quiet tone, that for a moment the antiquary was dumbfounded, and between disbelief and expectancy made no reply.
‘My dear Samuel,’ he murmured presently, ‘is it possible you can be serious, that you have in your possession——’
‘Nay, sir,’ interrupted the young man smiling; ‘I never said that. I do not possess it, but within the last few days I have known of the existence of such a manuscript.’
‘You have known and not told me!’ exclaimedthe antiquary reproachfully; ‘why, I might have died in the meantime!’
‘Then you would have seen Shakespeare, and he would have told you all about it,’ returned William Henry lightly.
‘Do not answer your father like that,’ said Margaret in low, reproving tones.
It was plain, indeed, that Mr. Erin was greatly agitated. His eyes were fixed upon his son, but without speculation in them. He looked like one in a trance, to whom has been vouchsafed some wondrous vision.
‘I know what is best,’ returned the young man under his breath, pressing Margaret’s shoulder with his hand. His arm still hung over her chair; his manner was studiously unmoved, as becomes the master of a situation.
‘Where is it?’ gasped the old man.
‘In the Temple. I have not yet obtained permission to bring it away. Until I could do that I felt it was useless to speak about the matter—that I should only be discredited. Even you yourself, unless you saw the manuscript,might hesitate to believe in its authenticity.’
‘The manuscript?’ exclaimed Mr. Erin, his mind too monopolised by the splendour of the discovery to descend to detail; ‘you have really seen it, then, with your own eyes? An unacted play of Shakespeare’s!’
‘An unpublished one, at all events. I have certainly seen it, and within these two hours, but only in my patron’s presence.’
‘He said that whatever you found was to be yours,’ exclaimed Mr. Erin petulantly.
‘Well, up to this time he has been as good as his word,’ said William Henry smiling.
‘Indeed he has,’ remarked Margaret. ‘We must not be ungrateful, uncle.’
‘Nevertheless, people should perform what they, promise,’ observed the antiquary severely.
For the second time Margaret felt a gentle pressure upon her shoulder; it seemed as though Willie had whispered, ‘You hear that.’
‘The play is called “Vortigern and Rowena,”’ continued the young man.
‘An admirable subject,’ murmured the antiquary ecstatically.
‘It is, of course, historical; there are Hengist and Horsus.’
‘Horsa,’ suggested Mr. Erin.
‘Shakespeare writes it Horsus; Horsa was perhaps his sister.’
‘Perhaps,’ admitted the antiquary with prompt adhesion. ‘And the treatment? How does it rank as regards his other productions?’
‘Nay, sir, that is for you to judge; I am no critic.’
‘But you tell me that your patron will not part with it.’
‘I have not yet persuaded him to do so; but I by no means despair of it, and in the meantime I have a copy of it.’
‘MydearSamuel!’
‘At first I tried to commit it to memory, but found the task beyond my powers. It is a very long play.’
‘The longer the better,’ murmured the antiquary.
‘But not when one has to get it by heart,’ observed William Henry drily. His tone and manner were more in contrast to those of theelder man than ever; as one grew heated the other seemed to grow cooler and cooler. There was no question as to which of them, just at present, was likely to prove the better hand at a bargain.
‘But why do you talk thus, Samuel? The play, the play’s the thing; since you have it why do you not produce it? You cannot imagine that delay—indeed, that anything—can enhance the interest I feel in this most marvellous of our discoveries.’
William Henry’s face grew very grave.
‘It is true that whatever is mine is yours, in a sense,’ he said; ‘but still you must pardon me for remarking that they aremydiscoveries.’
Margaret started in her chair; if she had not felt William Henry’s grasp upon her wrist—for he had shifted his position and was confronting the antiquary face to face—she would have risen from it. She had never given her cousin credit for such self-assertion, and she trembled for its result. She did not even yet suspect it had a motive in which she herself was concerned; but thesituation alarmed her. It was like that of some audacious clerk who demands of his master a partnership, with a certain difference that made it even graver.
‘What is it you want?’ inquired the antiquary. He too had become conscious that the relations between William Henry and himself were about to enter on a new phase; nevertheless his tone was conciliatory, like that of a man who, though somewhat tried, cannot afford to quarrel with his bread-and-butter.
‘I am the last man, I hope, to be illiberal,’ he continued. ‘If I were dealing with a stranger I should frankly own that what you have, or rather, hope to have, to dispose of is a valuable commodity; to me, indeed, as you know, it is more valuable than to any mere dealer in such wares. Nevertheless I hope you will be reasonable; after all it is a question of what the thing will fetch. I suppose you will not ask a fancy price?’
William Henry smiled. ‘Well, some people might think it so, Mr. Erin, but it is not money at all that I require of you.’
‘Not money?’ echoed the antiquary in a voice of great relief. ‘Well, that indeed shows a proper spirit. I am really pleased to find that we are to have no haggling over a matter of this kind, which in truth would be little short of a sacrilege. If you have fixed your mind upon any of my poor possessions, though it should even be the “Decameron,“ the earliest edition extant, and complete except for the title-page——’
‘It is not the “Decameron,“ sir.’
‘Or the quarto of 1623, with marginal notes in my own hand. But no; that is a small matter indeed by comparison with this magnificent discovery. I hardly know what I have which would in any way appear to you an equivalent; but be assured that anything at my disposal is very much at your service.’
‘Then if you please, sir, I will take Margaret.’
‘Margaret!’ Mr. Erin repeated the name in tones of such supreme amazement as could not have been exceeded had the young man stipulated for his wig. Perhaps his surprise was a little simulated, which was certainly not the case with Margaret herself; she sat in silence, covered with blushes, and with her eyes fixed on the table before her, very much frightened, but by no means ‘hurt.’ While she trembled at Willie’s audacity she admired it.
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‘Then, if you please, sir, I will take Margaret.’
‘Then, if you please, sir, I will take Margaret.’
‘Then, if you please, sir, I will take Margaret.’
Mr. Erin shot a glance at her which convinced him that he would get no help from that quarter. If she had not been cognisant of the young fellow’s intention it was clear that the proposal he had made was not displeasing to her. The antiquary ransacked his mind for an objection that would meet the case; there were plenty of them there, but none of them fit for use and at the same time strong enough. A very powerful one at once occurred to him in the question, ‘What do you propose to live upon?’ but unhappily the answer was equally obvious, ‘Uponyou!’ A most intolerable suggestion, but one which—on the brink of a bargain—it was not convenient to combat.
For a moment, too, the objection of consanguinity occurred to him, that they were cousins; an admirable plea, because it wasquite insurmountable; but though this might have had its weight with Margaret, he doubted of its efficacy in William Henry’s case, inasmuch as he probably knew that they werenotcousins. To have this question raised in the young lady’s presence—or indeed at all—was not to be thought of. In the end he had to content himself with the commonplace argument of immaturity, unsatisfactory at the best, since it only delays the evil day.
‘Margaret? You surely cannot be serious, my dear lad. Why, your united ages scarcely make up that of a marriageable man. This is really too ridiculous. You are not eighteen.’
The rejoinder that that was an objection which time could be relied on to remove was obvious, but William Henry did not make it. He was not only playing for a great stake; it was necessary that it should be paid in ready money.
‘I venture to think, Mr. Erin,’ he said respectfully, ‘that our case is somewhat exceptional. We have known one another for a long time, and very intimately; it is not aquestion of calf love. Moreover, to be frank with you, my value in your eyes is now at its highest. You may learn to esteem me more; I trust you may; but as time goes on I cannot hope commercially to be at such a premium. Now or never, therefore, is my time to sell.’
Though he spoke of himself as the article of barter he was well aware that Mr. Erin’s thoughts were fixed upon another purchase, which, as it were, included him in the same ‘lot.’
‘But, my dear Samuel, this is so altogether unexpected.’
‘So is the discovery of the manuscript,’ put in the young fellow with pitiless logic.
‘It is like springing a mine on me, my lad.’
‘The “Vortigern and Rowena“ is also a mine, or I hope will prove so,’ was the quick rejoinder.
Whatever might be urged against William Henry Erin, it could not be said that he had not his wits about him.
‘You have only the copy,’ objected theantiquary, though he felt the argument to be inadequate, since it was liable to be swept away.
‘Nay,’ returned the young man, smiling, ‘what becomes of the acumen of the critic, if internal evidence is insufficient to establish authenticity? His occupation is gone.’
This was Mr. Erin’s favourite quotation from the ‘Rejoinder;’ to use it against him was like seething a kid in its mother’s milk, and it roused him for the first time to vigorous opposition. It is possible that he also saw his opportunity for spurring the other on to gain possession of the precious document.
‘That is all mighty fine, young sir, but this is not a question of sentiment. I must see this play in Shakespeare’s own handwriting before I can take your most unlooked-for proposal into consideration at all. At present the whole affair is in the air.’
‘You shall see the play,’ said William Henry composedly.
‘Moreover,’ continued the antiquary with equal firmness, ‘it will not be sufficient that Imyself should be convinced of its authenticity. It must receive general acceptance.’
‘I can hardly promise, sir, that there will be no objectors,’ returned the young man drily; ‘Mr. Malone, for example, will probably have something to say.’
The mention of ‘that devil,’ as the antiquary, in moments of irritation, was wont to call that respectable commentator, was most successful.
‘I speak of rational beings, sir,’ returned Mr. Erin, with quite what is called in painting his ‘early manner.’ ‘What Malone may take into his head to think is absolutely indifferent to me. I speak of the public voice.’
‘As heard, for instance, at the National Theatre,’ suggested William Henry earnestly. ‘Suppose that “Vortigern and Rowena“ should be acted at Drury Lane or Covent Garden, and be received as thebona fideproduction of Shakespeare? Would that test content you?’
That such an ordeal would be of a sufficiently crucial nature was indubitable, yet not more sothan the confidence with which it was proposed. If the least glimmer of doubt as to the genuineness of the Shakespearean MSS. still reigned in the antiquary’s mind the voice and manner of his son as he spoke those words would have dispelled it. The immaturity of the two young people was not much altered for the better since Mr. Erin had cited it as a bar to their union, but, under the circumstances now suggested, their position would be very materially improved. A play at Drury Lane in those days meant money in pocket; a successful play was a small fortune, and might even be a large one. He would have greatly preferred to have this precious MS., like the others, for nothing, but, after all, what was demanded of him was better than being asked to give hard cash for a pig in a poke. It was only a promise to pay upon conditions which would make the payment comparatively easy.
‘If “Vortigern and Rowena“ is successful,’ continued William Henry with the quiet persistence of a carpenter who strikes the same nail on the head, ‘it must be understood that Ihave permission to marry Margaret as soon as she pleases.’
Poor Mr. Erin looked appealingly at his niece. ‘You will surely not be so indelicate,’ his glance seemed to say, ‘as to wish to precipitate a matter of this kind?’ But he looked in vain. She did not, it is true, say, ‘I will though;’ there was even a blush on her cheek, which might have seemed to flatter his expectations: but she kept silence, which in such a case it was impossible to construe otherwise than as consent.
Some old gentlemen would have hereupon felt themselves justified in saying that ‘young women were not so forward in their time,’ or ‘that such conduct was in their experience unprecedented,’ a reflection, to judge by the frequency with which it is indulged in under similar circumstances, that would seem to give some sort of consolation; but the antecedents of Mr. Samuel Erin were unhappily, as we have hinted, not of a sufficiently ascetic nature to enable him to use this solace.
‘Perhaps you would like to read the play?’ suggested William Henry.
‘Very much,’ replied the antiquary with eagerness.
‘Just as you please, Mr. Erin. It is yours of course, upon the understanding, supposing it to realise expectation, that we have your consent to our marriage.’
‘Very good,’ replied the antiquary, without any eagerness at all, and in a tone which (had such a substitution been feasible) would have better suited with ‘Very bad.’
CHAPTER XXIII.AN UNEXPECTED ALLY.All thathad gone before as regarded the Shakespeare MSS. sank into almost insignificance as compared with the stir made by the ‘Vortigern and Rowena.’ The superiority of new lamps over old ones has, with thatwell-known exception in the ‘Arabian Nights,’ been pretty generally acknowledged in all climes and times. If a scrap of writing from the great genius, who had left nothing of himself behind him, save, as had been hitherto supposed, a couple of signatures, had had its attractions; if the original drafts of a well-known play or two had set the town by the ears; one may imagine the excitement produced by the discovery of a brand-new drama in the master’s hand. Mr. Samuel Erin’s door in Norfolk Street was positively besieged by applicants to view the wonder.That gentleman, however, declined for the present to gratify the public curiosity. Conscious as he was of the importance of his own position, he was also fully aware of the necessity of strengthening it against all comers, among whom must necessarily be many foes. William Henry had been as good as his word. He had, though with great difficulty, persuaded his patron to part with the precious manuscript, which had been duly placed in the antiquary’s hands. Both by external and internal evidencehe was fully satisfied with its authenticity; but it was necessary that the world without should share his conviction. Mahomet, it seems, was for a considerable time content with a single believer; nor when we consider that that believer was his wife, is it discreditable to his claims. If he could only have converted hisvalet de chambrealso, he ought to have been well satisfied. Mr. Erin, as we are aware, was in a much better position as to followers, but then he wanted so much more. Mahomet, so far as we know, had not just then a two-guinea edition of the Koran in hand, the sale of which was beginning to slacken. It was doubtful whether the immediate publication of the ‘Vortigern’ might not injure its predecessor, unless its genuineness could be better authenticated.To this end, Mr. Erin took the bold step of convening a committee of commentators and critics to report upon the MS. A selection was made from those who had signed the certificate, and who were therefore favourable; but others were invited who had not so compromisedthemselves, and even who might be supposed to be hostile, including Mr. Albany Wallis. No one could say that it was a hole-and-corner business, far less that the assembly was packed. It would, without doubt, have been much more agreeable to Mr. Erin if it had been, for he had to listen to some very unpleasant things. These, for the most part, it was true, were said by small men. Just as in the great railway meetings of the present day, the shareholder who has just put enough in the undertaking to qualify him to speak at all is always the most loquacious, so the second-rate critics, who had not much chance of being listened to in the world without, were, if not the most sceptical, the most vituperative; and poor Mr. Erin was not a chairman who could ignore them. The style, the matter, the calligraphy of the ‘Vortigern,’ nay, even the very paper on which it was written, underwent the sharpest scrutiny and evoked some very bitter remarks. Dr. Parr and Dr. Warton, the two great cards of the certificate, were strongly in favour of the play, and carried many with them, includingthe laureate Pye, and his brother poet, Sir James Burgess. But there were also many adversaries.The fact was, notwithstanding that famous dictum about the occupation of the critic being gone if the intrinsic merit of a work was not sufficient to establish its genuineness, and though the excellence of the ‘Vortigern’ was on the whole admitted, the story of how it came into William Henry’s hands was the real obstacle to its acceptance. His patron of the Temple was too much wrapped in mystery to be satisfactory to the minds of most.The committee was to sit for two days, and then decide by vote upon the all-important question, was there or was there not sufficient evidence before them of the authenticity of the play? William Henry was always present, a witness whose examination was always proceeding, but, as it were, in a circle. The keenest expert could get nothing out of him beyond what had been already got. He had nothing to tell, save what he had already told. His manner was cool and collected, and produceda favourable impression. Sir James Burgess said, ‘If this young man is not speaking the truth, he is a marvellous actor, and we are informed, upon authority which in this case can certainly not be disputed, that he is but seventeen.’ The authority was not quite so good as Sir James imagined, but the fact was as he stated it.Alone with Mr. Erin and Margaret, the young fellow was even more self-reliant; he was hopeful. Whatever decision the committee might arrive at, there was still, he would say, the appeal to the public; and in that he expressed his confidence. In this Mr. Erin could not agree; if the play was discredited by those who had been so solemnly convened to judge of it, he doubted of its acceptance out of doors. On the second and all-important day there was even a fuller attendance than on the first. Among the new-comers was the Bishop of St. Andrews, a good-natured divine enough, but who produced an unfavourable impression by quoting Porson’s ‘Iambics,’ ‘Three children sliding on the ice,’ which the great professorpretended to have found in an old trunk among some manuscript plays of Sophocles—an obvious satire upon the Shakespearean discoveries. Greek wit is never so mirth-provoking as to endanger life, but at this specimen it was difficult for Mr. Samuel Erin to force a smile. What even more depressed him was the unexpected arrival of Mr. Reginald Talbot. How this young man had gained admittance he could not understand; but at such a time the real ground of objection to him could not, of course, be stated. Public opinion had been challenged, and on the brink of its decision it would have been madness indeed to have any altercation with one who had evinced his scepticism.Talbot had come in alone and taken his seat rather apart from the rest: his face looked less florid than usual, but resolute enough; after one glance round the room he fixed his eyes upon the ground. Every moment the antiquary expected to hear his blatant voice giving utterance to some offensive imputation; but he remained silent, listening to the pros and cons of his seniors, withno particular interest, as it seemed, in the matter.William Henry had seen him enter, of course—there were few things that escaped his observation—but had shown no sign of concern, far less of apprehension. He either did not fear him, or had screwed his courage to the sticking place. Now and then, indeed, he glanced nervously at the door; but from no fear of an enemy. He had some misgiving lest Margaret’s anxiety upon his account might compel her to come and hear for herself how matters were going on; a very groundless apprehension, for nothing could have been more foreign to her retiring and modest nature than to have intruded herself upon such an assembly.After all who wished to speak had had their say, the Laureate rose and addressed the meeting. He had listened very attentively, he said, to the opinions that had been advanced on both sides upon the subject of controversy; and if he could not say that he had himself come to a definite conclusion, he thought that he had at least gathered the general viewof those present. The play before them was undoubtedly a remarkable one; he could not take upon himself to say from internal evidence whether it was, or was not, written by William Shakespeare, but, on the whole, he believed it to have been so. Persons better qualified than himself to judge of such matters had expressed themselves for and against the other proofs of its authenticity. Again, on the whole, these seemed to him to be in its favour. But what, after all, was their great stumbling-block was the mystery—and as it seemed to him the unnecessary mystery—that hung about its discovery.Here there were audible expressions of assent. Mr. Erin, pale and trembling, but much more with anger than with fear, was about to rise, but the Laureate waved him back. He was not going to have his peroration spoilt by any man. There was a general murmur of ‘Pye, Pye,’ which under any other circumstances, would have sounded exquisitely humorous; it was like a bread riot of the upper classes. ‘Under these circumstances,’ continued the orator, ‘if anyone can be found who has seen the MS. as it werein situ, and has met the unknown patron of the Temple in the flesh, so as to corroborate so far the testimony of this young gentleman’ (here he pointed to William Henry), ‘I, for one, shall have no hesitation in acknowledging myself a believer; but in the absence of such a witness I must take leave, at least, to reserve my judgment.’There was a long and significant silence. If the speaker had not expressed the views of the majority, he had done so for many of those present; while the want of corroborative testimony, such as he had indicated, was felt by all. Even Mr. Erin, perhaps for the first time, understood how evidence which had been, and was, perfectly conclusive to himself, might well fail, thus unsupported, to satisfy the public mind. He felt like the young blood who had recently been endeavouring for a bet to dispose within five minutes of a hundred sovereigns to as many persons on London Bridge for a penny apiece. His MSS. were genuine, but if hecould not persuade people to believe it, where would be his profit?‘Well,’ continued the Laureate in self-satisfied tones, for he was pleased with the impression his eloquence had produced, and especially that he had reduced the antiquary—in whose mind he had created a desert and called it peace—to silence: ‘Well! the question is, Is there such a witness as I have described?’‘Yes, there is.’These words fell upon the general ear like a bombshell, but no one was more utterly astounded by them than Mr. Samuel Erin himself. He could hardly believe his ears, and when he looked to the quarter from which they proceeded—and to which every one else was looking—he could not believe his eyes; for the man that had uttered them was Mr. Reginald Talbot.The young man was not, indeed, in appearance quite the sort of witness whom one would have chosen to establish the authenticity of an ancient literary document; though at a police court, in some case of assault (provided the victim was respectable, and he had been for theprosecution), he might have been passable enough. His dress was that of a young man of fashion, but not of good fashion; his manner was suggestive less of confidence than of swagger, and his face spoke of indulgence in liquor. On the other hand, this impression may have been partly caused by his contrast with these learned pundits, most of them in wigs, and some of them in shovel hats; he scarcely seemed to belong to the same race. The very eye-glass, which headed the cane he carried so jauntily in his hand, was out of keeping withtheireye-glasses, and looked like some gay young lens who had refused to be put into spectacles, and was winking at life on its own hook.‘Does any one know this young gentleman?’ inquired Mr. Pye, with significant hesitation.‘Yes, I know him,’ observed Mr. Albany Wallis. ‘I have, it is true, but slight acquaintance with his personal character, but he comes of respectable parentage.’‘You may add that he has two hundreda year of his own, good money,’ observed Mr. Talbot with some complacency, and a strong Irish accent.Mr. Pye looked at him very dubiously, and in spite of this assurance of his financial solvency, addressed himself to the previous speaker.‘In the case before us, Mr. Wallis—and I need not say how your opinion will weigh with us,—do you consider this gentleman as a dependable witness?’Mr. Reginald Talbot turned very red, and, not having a retort on hand suitable to bestow on a poet laureate, very wisely held his tongue.‘I am bound to say,’ said Mr. Wallis gravely, ‘that Mr. Talbot has given some attention to the authenticity of the Shakespeare MSS., and up to this time he has expressed himself, and with somewhat unnecessary vehemence, to their discredit; any evidence he may therefore have to offer in their favour will have some weight with me.’Then all the company awaited in expectant silence for Mr. Reginald Talbot’s narrative.‘What Mr. Wallis has said is quite right,’ said that young gentleman, with unnecessary affability. ‘I did use to think that there was something amiss with those Shakespeare papers. I had an idea that Mr. William Henry Erin yonder was playing tricks, so I made it my business to watch him. I hung about his chambers in the New Inn—they are on the ground floor, though pretty high up—and with a short ladder I have made shift to see what was going on when he was alone in his room, and little suspected it.’William Henry, standing apart with folded arms, listened to this confession of his former friend with a contemptuous smile. If it was a revelation to him, he displayed the indifference of a North American Indian.‘For days and days I watched him and discovered nothing. Then I dogged his steps to the city, where he went every afternoon; on two occasions he turned, as if to see whether he was followed, and I think he saw me.’William Henry shook his head.‘Well, at all events I thought he did, and gave it up. The third time, walking on theother side of the street, and very careful to leave a safe distance between us, I tracked him to a staircase in the Temple. He stopped at a door on the first floor, and entered without knocking. I waited a bit and then followed him. An old gentleman was seated in the room alone, in an armchair, reading; he looked up from his book in great astonishment, and inquired very curtly who I was.‘I said that I came upon business of importance, after young Mr. Erin. He rose, and opening an inner door, exclaimed: “Here is a friend of yours, sir: what is the meaning of his intrusion here?“ He spoke very angrily, but I felt that he had some reason for it, and when Erin came out and said, “Talbot, you have ruined me,“ I felt sorry for what I had done. There was nothing for it but to make a clean breast of it, and with many apologies, of which not the slightest notice was taken, I explained that curiosity, and a suspicion that the world was being gulled by these pretended discoveries, had induced me to look into the matter myself.‘“You are a spy, then,“ cried the old gentleman. I thought for a moment that he was going to throw me out of the window; but his rage instantly subsided. “Take him into the next room, Erin, and show him all,“ he said. He took me accordingly, and there I saw an immense quantity of old manuscripts strewed about the floor; I should say whole cartfuls of them. I was so sorry and so ashamed of myself that I never spoke a word till Erin let me out again.‘“I am sorry I came,“ I said; “but I am quite satisfied, sir, that Erin spoke the truth.”‘“I don’t care a farthing, sir, whether you are satisfied or not,“ replied the old gentleman; “you have taken a mean advantage of your friend, and an unpardonable liberty with me.”‘Then I told him upon my honour, and as I hoped to be saved, that I would never reveal his name to any human being.’‘He waved his hand contemptuously, and observed that my word and my oath together were not worth sixpence; but if I had any feeling for my friend, or any remorse for thebaseness I had committed, I had better hold my tongue, since, if by my means his secret should be discovered, Erin should never darken his doors again, nor receive from him any of the benefits which it had been his intention to confer upon him. Erin himself did not speak to me at all; he has never spoken to me from that day to this; but hearing by accident of this meeting, I resolved to come here, and do what I could for him by way of reparation. That is all I have got to say.’This narrative made an immense impression. Mr. Samuel Erin sighed a great sigh of relief, and looked around him with triumphant exultation. He had not needed any confirmation of his son’s story for himself, but he felt how opportune with respect to others was this young man’s testimony—that in him, in fact, he had entertained an angel very much unawares. A murmur of satisfaction ran round the company, and the faces of even the most sceptical relaxed their severity. William Henry alone looked totally unmoved; like one who had all along been conscious that hischaracter would be cleared, one way or another, and was indifferent in what way. Some questions were put to Talbot, but nothing was elicited to shake his evidence; indeed, since he had by his own showing taken his oath that he would not reveal the name of the Templar unknown, there was little more to be extracted from him.The Laureate, in a short but dignified speech, observed that after the very testimony he had stated was the only thing wanting to his conviction had been forthcoming, he could not, in reason, offer any further objection to the authenticity of the play, and that for his part he admitted it.To this the whole company, with hardly a dissentient voice, expressed their agreement, and the committee dispersed, after passing an all but unanimous resolution that the ‘Vortigern and Rowena’ was a genuine play of William Shakespeare’s.
AN UNEXPECTED ALLY.
All thathad gone before as regarded the Shakespeare MSS. sank into almost insignificance as compared with the stir made by the ‘Vortigern and Rowena.’ The superiority of new lamps over old ones has, with thatwell-known exception in the ‘Arabian Nights,’ been pretty generally acknowledged in all climes and times. If a scrap of writing from the great genius, who had left nothing of himself behind him, save, as had been hitherto supposed, a couple of signatures, had had its attractions; if the original drafts of a well-known play or two had set the town by the ears; one may imagine the excitement produced by the discovery of a brand-new drama in the master’s hand. Mr. Samuel Erin’s door in Norfolk Street was positively besieged by applicants to view the wonder.
That gentleman, however, declined for the present to gratify the public curiosity. Conscious as he was of the importance of his own position, he was also fully aware of the necessity of strengthening it against all comers, among whom must necessarily be many foes. William Henry had been as good as his word. He had, though with great difficulty, persuaded his patron to part with the precious manuscript, which had been duly placed in the antiquary’s hands. Both by external and internal evidencehe was fully satisfied with its authenticity; but it was necessary that the world without should share his conviction. Mahomet, it seems, was for a considerable time content with a single believer; nor when we consider that that believer was his wife, is it discreditable to his claims. If he could only have converted hisvalet de chambrealso, he ought to have been well satisfied. Mr. Erin, as we are aware, was in a much better position as to followers, but then he wanted so much more. Mahomet, so far as we know, had not just then a two-guinea edition of the Koran in hand, the sale of which was beginning to slacken. It was doubtful whether the immediate publication of the ‘Vortigern’ might not injure its predecessor, unless its genuineness could be better authenticated.
To this end, Mr. Erin took the bold step of convening a committee of commentators and critics to report upon the MS. A selection was made from those who had signed the certificate, and who were therefore favourable; but others were invited who had not so compromisedthemselves, and even who might be supposed to be hostile, including Mr. Albany Wallis. No one could say that it was a hole-and-corner business, far less that the assembly was packed. It would, without doubt, have been much more agreeable to Mr. Erin if it had been, for he had to listen to some very unpleasant things. These, for the most part, it was true, were said by small men. Just as in the great railway meetings of the present day, the shareholder who has just put enough in the undertaking to qualify him to speak at all is always the most loquacious, so the second-rate critics, who had not much chance of being listened to in the world without, were, if not the most sceptical, the most vituperative; and poor Mr. Erin was not a chairman who could ignore them. The style, the matter, the calligraphy of the ‘Vortigern,’ nay, even the very paper on which it was written, underwent the sharpest scrutiny and evoked some very bitter remarks. Dr. Parr and Dr. Warton, the two great cards of the certificate, were strongly in favour of the play, and carried many with them, includingthe laureate Pye, and his brother poet, Sir James Burgess. But there were also many adversaries.
The fact was, notwithstanding that famous dictum about the occupation of the critic being gone if the intrinsic merit of a work was not sufficient to establish its genuineness, and though the excellence of the ‘Vortigern’ was on the whole admitted, the story of how it came into William Henry’s hands was the real obstacle to its acceptance. His patron of the Temple was too much wrapped in mystery to be satisfactory to the minds of most.
The committee was to sit for two days, and then decide by vote upon the all-important question, was there or was there not sufficient evidence before them of the authenticity of the play? William Henry was always present, a witness whose examination was always proceeding, but, as it were, in a circle. The keenest expert could get nothing out of him beyond what had been already got. He had nothing to tell, save what he had already told. His manner was cool and collected, and produceda favourable impression. Sir James Burgess said, ‘If this young man is not speaking the truth, he is a marvellous actor, and we are informed, upon authority which in this case can certainly not be disputed, that he is but seventeen.’ The authority was not quite so good as Sir James imagined, but the fact was as he stated it.
Alone with Mr. Erin and Margaret, the young fellow was even more self-reliant; he was hopeful. Whatever decision the committee might arrive at, there was still, he would say, the appeal to the public; and in that he expressed his confidence. In this Mr. Erin could not agree; if the play was discredited by those who had been so solemnly convened to judge of it, he doubted of its acceptance out of doors. On the second and all-important day there was even a fuller attendance than on the first. Among the new-comers was the Bishop of St. Andrews, a good-natured divine enough, but who produced an unfavourable impression by quoting Porson’s ‘Iambics,’ ‘Three children sliding on the ice,’ which the great professorpretended to have found in an old trunk among some manuscript plays of Sophocles—an obvious satire upon the Shakespearean discoveries. Greek wit is never so mirth-provoking as to endanger life, but at this specimen it was difficult for Mr. Samuel Erin to force a smile. What even more depressed him was the unexpected arrival of Mr. Reginald Talbot. How this young man had gained admittance he could not understand; but at such a time the real ground of objection to him could not, of course, be stated. Public opinion had been challenged, and on the brink of its decision it would have been madness indeed to have any altercation with one who had evinced his scepticism.
Talbot had come in alone and taken his seat rather apart from the rest: his face looked less florid than usual, but resolute enough; after one glance round the room he fixed his eyes upon the ground. Every moment the antiquary expected to hear his blatant voice giving utterance to some offensive imputation; but he remained silent, listening to the pros and cons of his seniors, withno particular interest, as it seemed, in the matter.
William Henry had seen him enter, of course—there were few things that escaped his observation—but had shown no sign of concern, far less of apprehension. He either did not fear him, or had screwed his courage to the sticking place. Now and then, indeed, he glanced nervously at the door; but from no fear of an enemy. He had some misgiving lest Margaret’s anxiety upon his account might compel her to come and hear for herself how matters were going on; a very groundless apprehension, for nothing could have been more foreign to her retiring and modest nature than to have intruded herself upon such an assembly.
After all who wished to speak had had their say, the Laureate rose and addressed the meeting. He had listened very attentively, he said, to the opinions that had been advanced on both sides upon the subject of controversy; and if he could not say that he had himself come to a definite conclusion, he thought that he had at least gathered the general viewof those present. The play before them was undoubtedly a remarkable one; he could not take upon himself to say from internal evidence whether it was, or was not, written by William Shakespeare, but, on the whole, he believed it to have been so. Persons better qualified than himself to judge of such matters had expressed themselves for and against the other proofs of its authenticity. Again, on the whole, these seemed to him to be in its favour. But what, after all, was their great stumbling-block was the mystery—and as it seemed to him the unnecessary mystery—that hung about its discovery.
Here there were audible expressions of assent. Mr. Erin, pale and trembling, but much more with anger than with fear, was about to rise, but the Laureate waved him back. He was not going to have his peroration spoilt by any man. There was a general murmur of ‘Pye, Pye,’ which under any other circumstances, would have sounded exquisitely humorous; it was like a bread riot of the upper classes. ‘Under these circumstances,’ continued the orator, ‘if anyone can be found who has seen the MS. as it werein situ, and has met the unknown patron of the Temple in the flesh, so as to corroborate so far the testimony of this young gentleman’ (here he pointed to William Henry), ‘I, for one, shall have no hesitation in acknowledging myself a believer; but in the absence of such a witness I must take leave, at least, to reserve my judgment.’
There was a long and significant silence. If the speaker had not expressed the views of the majority, he had done so for many of those present; while the want of corroborative testimony, such as he had indicated, was felt by all. Even Mr. Erin, perhaps for the first time, understood how evidence which had been, and was, perfectly conclusive to himself, might well fail, thus unsupported, to satisfy the public mind. He felt like the young blood who had recently been endeavouring for a bet to dispose within five minutes of a hundred sovereigns to as many persons on London Bridge for a penny apiece. His MSS. were genuine, but if hecould not persuade people to believe it, where would be his profit?
‘Well,’ continued the Laureate in self-satisfied tones, for he was pleased with the impression his eloquence had produced, and especially that he had reduced the antiquary—in whose mind he had created a desert and called it peace—to silence: ‘Well! the question is, Is there such a witness as I have described?’
‘Yes, there is.’
These words fell upon the general ear like a bombshell, but no one was more utterly astounded by them than Mr. Samuel Erin himself. He could hardly believe his ears, and when he looked to the quarter from which they proceeded—and to which every one else was looking—he could not believe his eyes; for the man that had uttered them was Mr. Reginald Talbot.
The young man was not, indeed, in appearance quite the sort of witness whom one would have chosen to establish the authenticity of an ancient literary document; though at a police court, in some case of assault (provided the victim was respectable, and he had been for theprosecution), he might have been passable enough. His dress was that of a young man of fashion, but not of good fashion; his manner was suggestive less of confidence than of swagger, and his face spoke of indulgence in liquor. On the other hand, this impression may have been partly caused by his contrast with these learned pundits, most of them in wigs, and some of them in shovel hats; he scarcely seemed to belong to the same race. The very eye-glass, which headed the cane he carried so jauntily in his hand, was out of keeping withtheireye-glasses, and looked like some gay young lens who had refused to be put into spectacles, and was winking at life on its own hook.
‘Does any one know this young gentleman?’ inquired Mr. Pye, with significant hesitation.
‘Yes, I know him,’ observed Mr. Albany Wallis. ‘I have, it is true, but slight acquaintance with his personal character, but he comes of respectable parentage.’
‘You may add that he has two hundreda year of his own, good money,’ observed Mr. Talbot with some complacency, and a strong Irish accent.
Mr. Pye looked at him very dubiously, and in spite of this assurance of his financial solvency, addressed himself to the previous speaker.
‘In the case before us, Mr. Wallis—and I need not say how your opinion will weigh with us,—do you consider this gentleman as a dependable witness?’
Mr. Reginald Talbot turned very red, and, not having a retort on hand suitable to bestow on a poet laureate, very wisely held his tongue.
‘I am bound to say,’ said Mr. Wallis gravely, ‘that Mr. Talbot has given some attention to the authenticity of the Shakespeare MSS., and up to this time he has expressed himself, and with somewhat unnecessary vehemence, to their discredit; any evidence he may therefore have to offer in their favour will have some weight with me.’
Then all the company awaited in expectant silence for Mr. Reginald Talbot’s narrative.
‘What Mr. Wallis has said is quite right,’ said that young gentleman, with unnecessary affability. ‘I did use to think that there was something amiss with those Shakespeare papers. I had an idea that Mr. William Henry Erin yonder was playing tricks, so I made it my business to watch him. I hung about his chambers in the New Inn—they are on the ground floor, though pretty high up—and with a short ladder I have made shift to see what was going on when he was alone in his room, and little suspected it.’
William Henry, standing apart with folded arms, listened to this confession of his former friend with a contemptuous smile. If it was a revelation to him, he displayed the indifference of a North American Indian.
‘For days and days I watched him and discovered nothing. Then I dogged his steps to the city, where he went every afternoon; on two occasions he turned, as if to see whether he was followed, and I think he saw me.’
William Henry shook his head.
‘Well, at all events I thought he did, and gave it up. The third time, walking on theother side of the street, and very careful to leave a safe distance between us, I tracked him to a staircase in the Temple. He stopped at a door on the first floor, and entered without knocking. I waited a bit and then followed him. An old gentleman was seated in the room alone, in an armchair, reading; he looked up from his book in great astonishment, and inquired very curtly who I was.
‘I said that I came upon business of importance, after young Mr. Erin. He rose, and opening an inner door, exclaimed: “Here is a friend of yours, sir: what is the meaning of his intrusion here?“ He spoke very angrily, but I felt that he had some reason for it, and when Erin came out and said, “Talbot, you have ruined me,“ I felt sorry for what I had done. There was nothing for it but to make a clean breast of it, and with many apologies, of which not the slightest notice was taken, I explained that curiosity, and a suspicion that the world was being gulled by these pretended discoveries, had induced me to look into the matter myself.
‘“You are a spy, then,“ cried the old gentleman. I thought for a moment that he was going to throw me out of the window; but his rage instantly subsided. “Take him into the next room, Erin, and show him all,“ he said. He took me accordingly, and there I saw an immense quantity of old manuscripts strewed about the floor; I should say whole cartfuls of them. I was so sorry and so ashamed of myself that I never spoke a word till Erin let me out again.
‘“I am sorry I came,“ I said; “but I am quite satisfied, sir, that Erin spoke the truth.”
‘“I don’t care a farthing, sir, whether you are satisfied or not,“ replied the old gentleman; “you have taken a mean advantage of your friend, and an unpardonable liberty with me.”
‘Then I told him upon my honour, and as I hoped to be saved, that I would never reveal his name to any human being.’
‘He waved his hand contemptuously, and observed that my word and my oath together were not worth sixpence; but if I had any feeling for my friend, or any remorse for thebaseness I had committed, I had better hold my tongue, since, if by my means his secret should be discovered, Erin should never darken his doors again, nor receive from him any of the benefits which it had been his intention to confer upon him. Erin himself did not speak to me at all; he has never spoken to me from that day to this; but hearing by accident of this meeting, I resolved to come here, and do what I could for him by way of reparation. That is all I have got to say.’
This narrative made an immense impression. Mr. Samuel Erin sighed a great sigh of relief, and looked around him with triumphant exultation. He had not needed any confirmation of his son’s story for himself, but he felt how opportune with respect to others was this young man’s testimony—that in him, in fact, he had entertained an angel very much unawares. A murmur of satisfaction ran round the company, and the faces of even the most sceptical relaxed their severity. William Henry alone looked totally unmoved; like one who had all along been conscious that hischaracter would be cleared, one way or another, and was indifferent in what way. Some questions were put to Talbot, but nothing was elicited to shake his evidence; indeed, since he had by his own showing taken his oath that he would not reveal the name of the Templar unknown, there was little more to be extracted from him.
The Laureate, in a short but dignified speech, observed that after the very testimony he had stated was the only thing wanting to his conviction had been forthcoming, he could not, in reason, offer any further objection to the authenticity of the play, and that for his part he admitted it.
To this the whole company, with hardly a dissentient voice, expressed their agreement, and the committee dispersed, after passing an all but unanimous resolution that the ‘Vortigern and Rowena’ was a genuine play of William Shakespeare’s.
CHAPTER XXIV.MANAGERS.Thelast two days had been very trying ones for the little household in Norfolk Street, and, though success had crowned their hopes, they bore marks of the struggle that evening. Even young William Henry, who, like the antiquarian Duchess (but with a difference), seemed to have been born before nerves had come into fashion, showed signs of the terrible ordeal through which he had passed; he was tender-footed, after the red-hot ploughshares.The antiquary himself was almost in a state of collapse; while Margaret, as sensible and self-contained a girl as was to be found on either side of the Thames, between gratitude to Heaven and love to man, became for the first time in her life hysterical. All was well for her Willie at last, but she doubted; and withreason, whether, exposed to the brunt of the battle, and fighting for what was dearer to him than life itself, his honour, he had suffered as much as she had done, sitting in her little room apart from themêléeand picturing to herself the terrors of defeat.She listened to their narrative of the proceedings with a fearful joy, deemed at first Mr. Pye the basest, and presently the best of men, and felt a secret gratitude to Mr. Albany Wallis that she would have found it difficult to explain: she had an impression that he was not their ally, but that a strong sense of justice, mingled perhaps with remorse for the part he had on a former occasion taken against them, had made him something more than neutral. Remorse, too, she herself felt as regarded the person to whom the final triumph was after all mainly owing.‘Where is Mr. Talbot, Willie?’ she said excitedly. ‘I should like to tell him, not only how much indebted I am to him, but how wrong was the judgment I had previously formed of him.’‘To be sure,’ observed the antiquary naïvely; ‘whereisTalbot?’ When the city has been preserved, as the Scripture says, nobody remembers the name of the obscure individual who saved it, and in the glow of victory Mr. Erin had clean forgotten his young Irish ally. ‘I suppose his modesty prevented him from waiting to receive our acknowledgments.’‘No doubt it was his modesty,’ said William Henry drily. ‘But as for your gratitude, Maggie, I think it is somewhat misplaced; if he has now done us good, he once did his best to do us harm, and thus far we are only quits.’‘That was a dirty trick his following Samuel to the Temple,’ observed Mr. Erin; ‘though, as it happened, it has turned out to our advantage.’‘Still, it is not every one who is ready to make reparation for an error,’ said Margaret gravely.To this there was no reply from her uncle. Margaret hardly expected any. He was a man who took the gifts which Heaven vouchsafedhim without any excess of fervour; but from Willie she had looked for more generosity of spirit; on the other hand, he might be a little jealous (she had a vague impression that the young Irish gentleman had made some clumsy attempt in confederation with his eye-glass to recommend himself to her attention), in which case of course Willie was forgiven.‘At all events,’ she continued smiling, for this idea amused her, ‘I shall not be considered forward if I thank Mr. Talbot on my own account when he next pays us a visit.’‘I shall not have the least objection,’ returned William Henry in the same light tone—though his taking it upon himself to say so was significant enough of his confidence in his position—’but I am afraid you will not have an early opportunity of relieving your mind of its weight of gratitude. Talbot goes home to-morrow by the Irish packet.’‘Then you saw him after all, before he left this afternoon,’ cried Margaret. ‘Why, I understood that he had fled to avoid your thanks.’‘That was my father’s view,’ said William Henry, ‘and such a touching one that I had not the heart to combat it; but as a matter of fact I did see Talbot for one moment, and of course I thanked him.’‘Oh! Willie, Willie, why will you always make yourself out worse than you are?’ exclaimed Margaret reproachfully.‘I think we had better say nothing about it,’ observed the antiquary thoughtfully. Margaret looked up rather sharply at him; she thought his words had reference to William Henry’s modest concealment of his own virtues, and that he was disputing the fact; but, strange to say, though that estimable young man was before his eyes, Mr. Erin was not thinking of him at all. ‘We will leave others to say what they like,’ continued he, ‘and fight it out among themselves. In twenty-four hours the whole town will be talking of nothing else.’‘You mean about the play, sir?’ suggested William Henry.‘Well, of course; what the devil else should I mean?’ returned the antiquary with irritation.It was disgusting that these two young people—for his niece looked as much at sea as his son—should be so wrapped up in one another and their commonplace affairs as to have forgotten ‘Vortigern and Rowena’ already. ‘I think it will be better to rest on our oars and wait events.’‘Shut our eyes and open our mouths,’ said William Henry, ‘and see what Heaven will send us.’The remark was flippant, but the sense of it was in accordance with Mr. Erin’s views. In his exaltation of spirit he even condescended to reply in the same vein.‘I shall open my mouth pretty wide, I can tell you, when the managers come; but we must not go to them.’‘You of course know best,’ said William Henry modestly. If left to himself the impetuosity of youth would have led him on the morrow, cap (and MS.) in hand, to the stage-door of the nearest theatre.‘Fortunately, you see, we can afford to wait,’ said Mr. Erin composedly.William Henry glanced at Margaret, and Margaret dropped her eyes; Mr. Erin’s sentiments, though intended to be comforting and even exultant, were, strange to say, not shared by these young people.They had not, however, to wait long. As Mr. Erin had predicted, the news that the committee appointed to investigate the claims of the ‘Vortigern’ MS. had decided in its favour flew swiftly over the town. ‘From the palace to the cottage,’ said Mr. Erin in his enthusiasm, though probably it only reached the cottageorné. Letters of congratulation poured in from every quarter. Even Malone was reported to have said that if it could have been doneincognitohe should have liked to see the manuscript. (What he really said was, ‘I wish that Steevens had found it,’ meaning that he should have taken a real pleasure in evisceratinghim.) The opinion of antiquaries was divided; and if Reid and Ritson denounced the play, Garter-King-at-Arms was enthusiastic in its favour, and gave it more supporters than Heraldry ever dreamt of.Before a week was over came Mr. Harris, proprietor of Covent Garden Theatre, to Norfolk Street in person. The announcement of his name set William Henry’s heart beating more quickly than it had done even on that fateful afternoon in Anne Hathaway’s garden. For the first time he shrank from the customary ordeal of investigation, and Mr. Erin interviewed the manager alone. As it happened, the young man need have been under no apprehension of a brow-beating. Mr. Harris was a practical man, of an expansive mind, which did not stoop to details.‘The committee, I hear, sir, have decided in favour of this play of yours,’ was his first remark; it was delivered with quite unnecessary abruptness, but it was not the tone alone which grated upon Mr. Erin’s ears.‘This play of mine, as you have thought proper to term it, Mr. Harris,’ he replied with dignity, ‘is Shakespeare’s play.’‘So you say, and, indeed, so many other people say, or I should not be here,’ was the cool rejoinder. ‘Between ourselves, Mr. Erin,and, speaking as one man of the world to another, I don’t care a farthing—certainly not a Queen Anne’s farthing—whether it is Shakespeare’s play or not. The question that concernsmeis, “Do the public believe it to be such?”’‘Am I to understand, then, that you do not wish to examine the MS.?’‘Examine it? Certainly not. My time is very much occupied—it is in five acts, is it not?’‘It is in five acts,’ assented the antiquary; he could hardly trust himself to reply, except in the other’s words. Mr. Harris’s indifference, notwithstanding that it promised to facilitate matters, was most offensive to him. ‘Mr. Pye has been so good as to promise us a prologue for the play.’‘That’s good; “Prologue by the Poet Laureate“ will look well in the bill. We must have an epilogue ready, even though’—here he smiled grimly—’we never get so far as that.’The suggestion of such a contingency—which, of course, meant total failure—in coldblood, filled up the cup of the antiquary’s indignation. He almost resolved, whatever this man offered, to decline his proposition to bring out the play.‘Mr. Merry will write the epilogue,’ he replied icily.‘A very good man—for an epilogue,’ replied the manager drily. ‘Well, we must strike while the iron’s hot, or not at all. We must not give the public time to flag in its enthusiasm, or, what will be worse, perhaps, to alter its opinion. There is risk of this even now, but I am ready to run it, and I’ll take the play.’‘The devil you will!’ said Mr. Erin.‘Yes, I will,’ continued the manager calmly, taking, or pretending to take, this explosion of his companion as an expression of admiration of his own courage; ‘it will cost a good bit of money, but I’ll take it and never charge you a farthing for placing it on the boards. It’s an offer you are not likely to get again, I promise you.’‘I’ll take your word for that,’ said the antiquaryquietly; he had passed the glowing stage of indignation, into that white heat which looks almost like coolness. ‘I don’t think any other human being would venture to make so audacious a proposal. Have you really the impudence to ask me to give you a play of Shakespeare’s for nothing?’‘For nothing? What, do you call the advertisement nothing? How is an author’s name established? How does he acquire fame and fortune but through the opportunity of becoming known? And how could he get a better one than having his play acted at Covent Garden?’‘I was not aware that Shakespeare stood in need of an advertisement, Mr. Harris,’ returned the antiquary grimly. ‘And even supposing that, thanks to you, he becomes popular, he is not a rising young author; should “Vortigern and Rowena“ be ever so successful, that would not enable us to find another of his plays.’‘It would be a great encouragement to do it,’ answered the manager impudently. ‘However, there’s my offer!’‘And there’s my door, Mr. Harris.’ And Mr. Erin pointed to it with unmistakable significance.‘Stuff and nonsense!’ said the manager. ‘What do you want? How do you suppose plays are brought out, man? Come, what do you say to half profits?’‘No!’‘Then, look here—now, this is your last chance, as I’m a Christian man.’‘Then I shall have another,’ said Mr. Erin. It was the first approach to an epigram he had ever made in his life. Anger is a short madness, genius is a kind of madness, and so, perhaps, it came about that fury suggested to him that lively sally.‘A hundred pounds down, and half profits: that is my last word,’ cried the manager.‘No!’ thundered the antiquary. He was still upon his legs, with his outstretched arm pointing to the door like a finger-post.The manager walked into the passage, opened the front door, and held it in his hand.‘A hundred and fifty, and half profits.’‘No.’‘Very good; more than a hundred and fifty pounds for the play of a Shakespeare who spellsandwith a finaleI will not give.’The door closed behind him with a great bang, which sounded, however, less like a thunder-clap to Mr. Erin than that concluding sarcasm. He was not aware that a pamphlet had been published that very morning, which pointed out that the spelling ofandwith ane, a practice pursued throughout the ‘Vortigern,’ had been utterly unknown, not only to Elizabethan times, but to any other.When Mr. Erin rejoined his two young people, who were waiting for him with no little anxiety in the next room, there was no need to ask his news. His face told it.Nevertheless, Margaret said, ‘Well, uncle?’ before she could stop herself.‘It is not well,’ he answered passionately; ‘it is devilish bad.’‘But surely Mr. Harris was not uncivil?’‘Uncivil? Who wants his civility? Who but a fool would expect it in a theatricalmanager? Bring me the play—the “Vortigern.”’‘What is the matter now?’ inquired William Henry.His manner, as usual, was imperturbable. Mr. Erin—so great was the revolution wrought in him by recent circumstances—seemed at once to derive comfort from it. ‘Well, it’s very unfortunate, but it seems that an objection has been discovered—insignificant in itself—but which seriously affects its genuineness.’‘Indeed? There have been a good many not insignificant objections—and yet it has been generally accepted,’ said the young man smiling.‘It’s nothing to smile at, I do assure you, if what that fellow said is correct.’He had the manuscript before him, and was examining it with nervous eagerness through his glasses. ‘Yes, here’s one, and here’s anotherandwith ane. Why should Shakespeare spellandwith ane?’He looked up sharply at his son, as if asking a riddle of one who has the answer to it.‘I am sure I don’t know, sir,’ replied William Henry quietly. ‘He spelt things pretty much as he pleased.’‘That’s true, that’s true. But just now it’s certainly most disappointing that there should be any hitch. The very stars in their courses seem to fight against us.’‘It is an unfortunate conjunction, that is all,’ said the young man, smiling again. ‘The objection of which Mr. Harris speaks may be new, but not the spelling:andwas so spelt in the Profession of Faith, for example.’‘Indeed! That had escaped my recollection. Come, that is satisfactory. All those, then, who signed the certificate will be with us. It was foolish of me to be so discouraged.’‘And did Mr. Harris decline the play on the ground ofandbeing written with the finale?’‘Well, no, he didn’t decline it.’‘He only used that argument, perhaps, in order to get it at a cheap rate?’ suggested William Henry.This, as we know, had not been the case;he had pretty broadly hinted that he did not believe it to be Shakespeare’s play at all, and even that there might be plenty more where the ‘Vortigern’ came from, but so bound up in these wondrous discoveries had Mr. Erin’s mind become, that it was distressing and humiliating to have to confess as much, even to his son and niece.‘Why, yes; he wanted it cheap, and therefore of course depreciated it. He only offered one hundred and fifty pounds for it and half profits.’William Henry looked up amazed. For the first time his self-control deserted him. In his heart he thought the antiquary a fool for having refused such terms; but it was not the rejection of the terms that annoyed him so much as the rejection of the chance of having the play produced at a theatre like Covent Garden. His feelings, in fact, were precisely the same as those on which Mr. Harris had counted—without his host.‘The money in hand may be small, sir, but the half profits—in case the play were successful—asI feel it must have been, might have been well worth having.’Mr. Erin began to think so too by this time. After all, what did it matter whether the manager were a believer in the play or not, had his theatre been only made the channel of its introduction to the public? He sat in moody silence, thinking whether it would be possible, after what had passed, ‘to win that tassel gentle,’ Mr. Harris, ‘back again.’ It was certain that he (Mr. Erin) would have to swallow a very large leek first.The servant-girl entered, bringing a slip of paper upon a salver, the name, no doubt, of one of those thousand and one persons who were now always coming to ask permission to see the MS.‘Two gentlemen to see you, sir,’ said the maid.The antiquary glanced at the name, and then, as high as a gentleman of sixtycanleap, he leapt from his chair.Margaret, thinking her uncle had beenseized with some malady—presumably ‘the jumps’—uttered a little scream of terror.‘Good heavens! what is it?’‘Sheridan!’ he cried triumphantly. ‘There are more fish in the sea, Samuel, than have come out of it, and better ones; see, lad, it’s in his own handwriting; he is here in person—”Richard Brinsley Sheridan, favoured by Dr. Parr.”’
MANAGERS.
Thelast two days had been very trying ones for the little household in Norfolk Street, and, though success had crowned their hopes, they bore marks of the struggle that evening. Even young William Henry, who, like the antiquarian Duchess (but with a difference), seemed to have been born before nerves had come into fashion, showed signs of the terrible ordeal through which he had passed; he was tender-footed, after the red-hot ploughshares.
The antiquary himself was almost in a state of collapse; while Margaret, as sensible and self-contained a girl as was to be found on either side of the Thames, between gratitude to Heaven and love to man, became for the first time in her life hysterical. All was well for her Willie at last, but she doubted; and withreason, whether, exposed to the brunt of the battle, and fighting for what was dearer to him than life itself, his honour, he had suffered as much as she had done, sitting in her little room apart from themêléeand picturing to herself the terrors of defeat.
She listened to their narrative of the proceedings with a fearful joy, deemed at first Mr. Pye the basest, and presently the best of men, and felt a secret gratitude to Mr. Albany Wallis that she would have found it difficult to explain: she had an impression that he was not their ally, but that a strong sense of justice, mingled perhaps with remorse for the part he had on a former occasion taken against them, had made him something more than neutral. Remorse, too, she herself felt as regarded the person to whom the final triumph was after all mainly owing.
‘Where is Mr. Talbot, Willie?’ she said excitedly. ‘I should like to tell him, not only how much indebted I am to him, but how wrong was the judgment I had previously formed of him.’
‘To be sure,’ observed the antiquary naïvely; ‘whereisTalbot?’ When the city has been preserved, as the Scripture says, nobody remembers the name of the obscure individual who saved it, and in the glow of victory Mr. Erin had clean forgotten his young Irish ally. ‘I suppose his modesty prevented him from waiting to receive our acknowledgments.’
‘No doubt it was his modesty,’ said William Henry drily. ‘But as for your gratitude, Maggie, I think it is somewhat misplaced; if he has now done us good, he once did his best to do us harm, and thus far we are only quits.’
‘That was a dirty trick his following Samuel to the Temple,’ observed Mr. Erin; ‘though, as it happened, it has turned out to our advantage.’
‘Still, it is not every one who is ready to make reparation for an error,’ said Margaret gravely.
To this there was no reply from her uncle. Margaret hardly expected any. He was a man who took the gifts which Heaven vouchsafedhim without any excess of fervour; but from Willie she had looked for more generosity of spirit; on the other hand, he might be a little jealous (she had a vague impression that the young Irish gentleman had made some clumsy attempt in confederation with his eye-glass to recommend himself to her attention), in which case of course Willie was forgiven.
‘At all events,’ she continued smiling, for this idea amused her, ‘I shall not be considered forward if I thank Mr. Talbot on my own account when he next pays us a visit.’
‘I shall not have the least objection,’ returned William Henry in the same light tone—though his taking it upon himself to say so was significant enough of his confidence in his position—’but I am afraid you will not have an early opportunity of relieving your mind of its weight of gratitude. Talbot goes home to-morrow by the Irish packet.’
‘Then you saw him after all, before he left this afternoon,’ cried Margaret. ‘Why, I understood that he had fled to avoid your thanks.’
‘That was my father’s view,’ said William Henry, ‘and such a touching one that I had not the heart to combat it; but as a matter of fact I did see Talbot for one moment, and of course I thanked him.’
‘Oh! Willie, Willie, why will you always make yourself out worse than you are?’ exclaimed Margaret reproachfully.
‘I think we had better say nothing about it,’ observed the antiquary thoughtfully. Margaret looked up rather sharply at him; she thought his words had reference to William Henry’s modest concealment of his own virtues, and that he was disputing the fact; but, strange to say, though that estimable young man was before his eyes, Mr. Erin was not thinking of him at all. ‘We will leave others to say what they like,’ continued he, ‘and fight it out among themselves. In twenty-four hours the whole town will be talking of nothing else.’
‘You mean about the play, sir?’ suggested William Henry.
‘Well, of course; what the devil else should I mean?’ returned the antiquary with irritation.It was disgusting that these two young people—for his niece looked as much at sea as his son—should be so wrapped up in one another and their commonplace affairs as to have forgotten ‘Vortigern and Rowena’ already. ‘I think it will be better to rest on our oars and wait events.’
‘Shut our eyes and open our mouths,’ said William Henry, ‘and see what Heaven will send us.’
The remark was flippant, but the sense of it was in accordance with Mr. Erin’s views. In his exaltation of spirit he even condescended to reply in the same vein.
‘I shall open my mouth pretty wide, I can tell you, when the managers come; but we must not go to them.’
‘You of course know best,’ said William Henry modestly. If left to himself the impetuosity of youth would have led him on the morrow, cap (and MS.) in hand, to the stage-door of the nearest theatre.
‘Fortunately, you see, we can afford to wait,’ said Mr. Erin composedly.
William Henry glanced at Margaret, and Margaret dropped her eyes; Mr. Erin’s sentiments, though intended to be comforting and even exultant, were, strange to say, not shared by these young people.
They had not, however, to wait long. As Mr. Erin had predicted, the news that the committee appointed to investigate the claims of the ‘Vortigern’ MS. had decided in its favour flew swiftly over the town. ‘From the palace to the cottage,’ said Mr. Erin in his enthusiasm, though probably it only reached the cottageorné. Letters of congratulation poured in from every quarter. Even Malone was reported to have said that if it could have been doneincognitohe should have liked to see the manuscript. (What he really said was, ‘I wish that Steevens had found it,’ meaning that he should have taken a real pleasure in evisceratinghim.) The opinion of antiquaries was divided; and if Reid and Ritson denounced the play, Garter-King-at-Arms was enthusiastic in its favour, and gave it more supporters than Heraldry ever dreamt of.
Before a week was over came Mr. Harris, proprietor of Covent Garden Theatre, to Norfolk Street in person. The announcement of his name set William Henry’s heart beating more quickly than it had done even on that fateful afternoon in Anne Hathaway’s garden. For the first time he shrank from the customary ordeal of investigation, and Mr. Erin interviewed the manager alone. As it happened, the young man need have been under no apprehension of a brow-beating. Mr. Harris was a practical man, of an expansive mind, which did not stoop to details.
‘The committee, I hear, sir, have decided in favour of this play of yours,’ was his first remark; it was delivered with quite unnecessary abruptness, but it was not the tone alone which grated upon Mr. Erin’s ears.
‘This play of mine, as you have thought proper to term it, Mr. Harris,’ he replied with dignity, ‘is Shakespeare’s play.’
‘So you say, and, indeed, so many other people say, or I should not be here,’ was the cool rejoinder. ‘Between ourselves, Mr. Erin,and, speaking as one man of the world to another, I don’t care a farthing—certainly not a Queen Anne’s farthing—whether it is Shakespeare’s play or not. The question that concernsmeis, “Do the public believe it to be such?”’
‘Am I to understand, then, that you do not wish to examine the MS.?’
‘Examine it? Certainly not. My time is very much occupied—it is in five acts, is it not?’
‘It is in five acts,’ assented the antiquary; he could hardly trust himself to reply, except in the other’s words. Mr. Harris’s indifference, notwithstanding that it promised to facilitate matters, was most offensive to him. ‘Mr. Pye has been so good as to promise us a prologue for the play.’
‘That’s good; “Prologue by the Poet Laureate“ will look well in the bill. We must have an epilogue ready, even though’—here he smiled grimly—’we never get so far as that.’
The suggestion of such a contingency—which, of course, meant total failure—in coldblood, filled up the cup of the antiquary’s indignation. He almost resolved, whatever this man offered, to decline his proposition to bring out the play.
‘Mr. Merry will write the epilogue,’ he replied icily.
‘A very good man—for an epilogue,’ replied the manager drily. ‘Well, we must strike while the iron’s hot, or not at all. We must not give the public time to flag in its enthusiasm, or, what will be worse, perhaps, to alter its opinion. There is risk of this even now, but I am ready to run it, and I’ll take the play.’
‘The devil you will!’ said Mr. Erin.
‘Yes, I will,’ continued the manager calmly, taking, or pretending to take, this explosion of his companion as an expression of admiration of his own courage; ‘it will cost a good bit of money, but I’ll take it and never charge you a farthing for placing it on the boards. It’s an offer you are not likely to get again, I promise you.’
‘I’ll take your word for that,’ said the antiquaryquietly; he had passed the glowing stage of indignation, into that white heat which looks almost like coolness. ‘I don’t think any other human being would venture to make so audacious a proposal. Have you really the impudence to ask me to give you a play of Shakespeare’s for nothing?’
‘For nothing? What, do you call the advertisement nothing? How is an author’s name established? How does he acquire fame and fortune but through the opportunity of becoming known? And how could he get a better one than having his play acted at Covent Garden?’
‘I was not aware that Shakespeare stood in need of an advertisement, Mr. Harris,’ returned the antiquary grimly. ‘And even supposing that, thanks to you, he becomes popular, he is not a rising young author; should “Vortigern and Rowena“ be ever so successful, that would not enable us to find another of his plays.’
‘It would be a great encouragement to do it,’ answered the manager impudently. ‘However, there’s my offer!’
‘And there’s my door, Mr. Harris.’ And Mr. Erin pointed to it with unmistakable significance.
‘Stuff and nonsense!’ said the manager. ‘What do you want? How do you suppose plays are brought out, man? Come, what do you say to half profits?’
‘No!’
‘Then, look here—now, this is your last chance, as I’m a Christian man.’
‘Then I shall have another,’ said Mr. Erin. It was the first approach to an epigram he had ever made in his life. Anger is a short madness, genius is a kind of madness, and so, perhaps, it came about that fury suggested to him that lively sally.
‘A hundred pounds down, and half profits: that is my last word,’ cried the manager.
‘No!’ thundered the antiquary. He was still upon his legs, with his outstretched arm pointing to the door like a finger-post.
The manager walked into the passage, opened the front door, and held it in his hand.
‘A hundred and fifty, and half profits.’
‘No.’
‘Very good; more than a hundred and fifty pounds for the play of a Shakespeare who spellsandwith a finaleI will not give.’
The door closed behind him with a great bang, which sounded, however, less like a thunder-clap to Mr. Erin than that concluding sarcasm. He was not aware that a pamphlet had been published that very morning, which pointed out that the spelling ofandwith ane, a practice pursued throughout the ‘Vortigern,’ had been utterly unknown, not only to Elizabethan times, but to any other.
When Mr. Erin rejoined his two young people, who were waiting for him with no little anxiety in the next room, there was no need to ask his news. His face told it.
Nevertheless, Margaret said, ‘Well, uncle?’ before she could stop herself.
‘It is not well,’ he answered passionately; ‘it is devilish bad.’
‘But surely Mr. Harris was not uncivil?’
‘Uncivil? Who wants his civility? Who but a fool would expect it in a theatricalmanager? Bring me the play—the “Vortigern.”’
‘What is the matter now?’ inquired William Henry.
His manner, as usual, was imperturbable. Mr. Erin—so great was the revolution wrought in him by recent circumstances—seemed at once to derive comfort from it. ‘Well, it’s very unfortunate, but it seems that an objection has been discovered—insignificant in itself—but which seriously affects its genuineness.’
‘Indeed? There have been a good many not insignificant objections—and yet it has been generally accepted,’ said the young man smiling.
‘It’s nothing to smile at, I do assure you, if what that fellow said is correct.’
He had the manuscript before him, and was examining it with nervous eagerness through his glasses. ‘Yes, here’s one, and here’s anotherandwith ane. Why should Shakespeare spellandwith ane?’
He looked up sharply at his son, as if asking a riddle of one who has the answer to it.
‘I am sure I don’t know, sir,’ replied William Henry quietly. ‘He spelt things pretty much as he pleased.’
‘That’s true, that’s true. But just now it’s certainly most disappointing that there should be any hitch. The very stars in their courses seem to fight against us.’
‘It is an unfortunate conjunction, that is all,’ said the young man, smiling again. ‘The objection of which Mr. Harris speaks may be new, but not the spelling:andwas so spelt in the Profession of Faith, for example.’
‘Indeed! That had escaped my recollection. Come, that is satisfactory. All those, then, who signed the certificate will be with us. It was foolish of me to be so discouraged.’
‘And did Mr. Harris decline the play on the ground ofandbeing written with the finale?’
‘Well, no, he didn’t decline it.’
‘He only used that argument, perhaps, in order to get it at a cheap rate?’ suggested William Henry.
This, as we know, had not been the case;he had pretty broadly hinted that he did not believe it to be Shakespeare’s play at all, and even that there might be plenty more where the ‘Vortigern’ came from, but so bound up in these wondrous discoveries had Mr. Erin’s mind become, that it was distressing and humiliating to have to confess as much, even to his son and niece.
‘Why, yes; he wanted it cheap, and therefore of course depreciated it. He only offered one hundred and fifty pounds for it and half profits.’
William Henry looked up amazed. For the first time his self-control deserted him. In his heart he thought the antiquary a fool for having refused such terms; but it was not the rejection of the terms that annoyed him so much as the rejection of the chance of having the play produced at a theatre like Covent Garden. His feelings, in fact, were precisely the same as those on which Mr. Harris had counted—without his host.
‘The money in hand may be small, sir, but the half profits—in case the play were successful—asI feel it must have been, might have been well worth having.’
Mr. Erin began to think so too by this time. After all, what did it matter whether the manager were a believer in the play or not, had his theatre been only made the channel of its introduction to the public? He sat in moody silence, thinking whether it would be possible, after what had passed, ‘to win that tassel gentle,’ Mr. Harris, ‘back again.’ It was certain that he (Mr. Erin) would have to swallow a very large leek first.
The servant-girl entered, bringing a slip of paper upon a salver, the name, no doubt, of one of those thousand and one persons who were now always coming to ask permission to see the MS.
‘Two gentlemen to see you, sir,’ said the maid.
The antiquary glanced at the name, and then, as high as a gentleman of sixtycanleap, he leapt from his chair.
Margaret, thinking her uncle had beenseized with some malady—presumably ‘the jumps’—uttered a little scream of terror.
‘Good heavens! what is it?’
‘Sheridan!’ he cried triumphantly. ‘There are more fish in the sea, Samuel, than have come out of it, and better ones; see, lad, it’s in his own handwriting; he is here in person—”Richard Brinsley Sheridan, favoured by Dr. Parr.”’