CHAPTER XXV.

CHAPTER XXV.TWO DISTINGUISHED VISITORS.Richard Brinsley Sheridan—The pride of the palace, the bower, and the hall,The orator, dramatist, minstrel who ranThrough each mode of the lyre and was master of all—was a very great man in those days in many ways; but what made him just now of especial importance to Mr. Samuel Erin was that he was the manager of Drury Lane Theatre.That Mr. Harris, of Covent Garden, should have snapped at the ‘Vortigern’ bait had been a satisfactory circumstance enough (though indeed he had only ‘sucked it’ and got off the hook), but the coming of Sheridan was quite another matter. Compared with him, all other managers were small fry.It was with a less assured demeanour,therefore, than usual, and with an expectancy somewhat tempered with awe, that Mr. Samuel Erin repaired to the parlour. Even the MS. in his hand had lost some of its virtue in view of the authority who was about to pronounce upon it; it was almost as if he had been a young author with his own play; a work of immense original genius, but which he was about to submit for the first time to a leading publisher. It was some relief to him to feel that Dr. Parr would be present, who was well known to him, and a believer in the Shakespearean manuscripts.As he entered the room the great man came forward to shake him frankly by the hand. His manner was more than gracious, it was genial, and seemed to put him at his ease in a moment. His appearance was not imposing—a man of forty-five inclined to corpulency, with a loose-fitting coat secured by one button over the chest, and a carelessly knotted white neck-cloth—he wore his own hair, already very grey, tied behind with a black riband. His face was puffy, and evinced signs of what was even then called ‘free living. What redeemed it, however, and invested the whole man with marvellous attraction were his bright and sparkling eyes, which glittered with merriment and good humour. The antiquary was so fascinated with them that for the moment he took no notice of the other person in the room, till Sheridan called his attention to him.f100The other, instead of taking his hand, drew himself up.‘You have doubtless seen our friend here pretty often before, Mr. Erin?’ he said smiling.The antiquary turned round and held out his hand mechanically. The other, however, instead of taking it, drew himself up to his full height (which was a good way), put his hands behind him, and bowed stiffly; it was not Dr. Parr but John Kemble.Mr. Erin, as a playgoer, had of course seen him ‘pretty often before,’ but generally in royal robes or in armour, attired as a king or a warrior; as it happened he had never before seen him in plain clothes. He had a noble figure and a handsome face—though, strange to say, not a very mobile one—and, so far, was in strong contrast to his companion;the difference in expression was even greater. Mr. Kemble had a sternness of demeanour that was almost forbidding, and which reminded Mr. Erin on the instant that he was an intimate friend of Malone’s.‘I did not expect the honour of a visit from Mr. Kemble,’ said the antiquary drily.‘I did not come, sir, of my own free will,’ was the uncompromising reply, delivered in deep tragic tones. ‘I am here at the request of my friend Mr. Sheridan.’‘Quite true,’ observed that gentleman, his eyes dancing with laughter at the antagonistic attitude of his two companions; the tragedian like a stately St. Bernard with stiff tail, who resents the attention of some half-breed of no insignificant stature, and that ventures to entertain a very tolerable opinion of itself.‘I dragged him here, Mr. Erin, like iniquity, with cart-ropes. The quarrels of commentators, I know, are like the bars of a castle; they’ll be shot rather than open their arms to one another. For my sake, however, I hope you will, both of you, make a truce while thislittle matter of business is under discussion; then to it again hammer and tongs with all my heart.—Now, where’s this play?’Mr. Erin produced it from his breast-pocket, into which he had hurriedly thrust it.‘Oh, that’s it, is it? Gad! he carries it about with him as a mother carries a newborn babe, whose paternity has never been questioned.’Kemble smiled, as Coriolanus might have done at the mention of gratitude.‘I think, Mr. Sheridan,’ said the antiquary in an offended tone, ‘if you will be so good as to glance at yonder certificate, including among other authorities your friend Dr. Parr, you must admit that the legitimacy of “Vortigern and Rowena“ is tolerably well established. Herbert Croft, Dr. Walton, the Poet Laureate, Sir James Bland Burgess, are vouchers——’‘Weighty enough, indeed,’ interposed the manager impatiently; ‘anything ought to go down with such names attached to it. But the play, the play’s the thing. Let’s look at it.’It was a detail, if report spoke true, thatSheridan did not always insist upon. He had offered to accept a comedy from the authoress of ‘Evelina’ unread, and to put it on the boards of Drury Lane. Even now, when the manuscript was spread out before him, he seemed to shrink from the task he had imposed upon himself.‘Gad!’ he exclaimed, ‘there seems a good lot of it!’‘There are two thousand eight hundred lines in all,’ explained Mr. Erin gravely.‘Fourteen hundred lines are deemed sufficient for an acting drama,’ observed Mr. Kemble acidly.‘The dramas of William Shakespeare, sir, with which I happen to have some acquaintance,’ returned the antiquary with bitter significance, ‘extend in more than one case to a greater length than the “Vortigern.”’‘Come, come, Kemble,’ said the manager good-naturedly. ‘Surplusage is no error, and one can hardly complain because one gets two plays for the price of one. Now, Mr. Erin, would you prefer to be present at our investigationor not? Mothers generally shrink from an inquest upon even a foster-child, but there have been Roman matrons——’‘I make it an invariable rule, Mr. Sheridan,’ put in the antiquary hastily, ‘though on the present occasion there is no ground, of course, for its being put in practice, never to permit the literary offspring of which you speak to leave my hands.’‘Afraid of body-snatching, eh? Think of you and me wanting to steal a play, Kemble! Why, Drury Lane is a perfect foundling hospital for them. However, just as you please, sir.’Then, while Mr. Erin sat apart affecting to be immersed in a folio (but with his ears wide open), the two sat down to the manuscript, from which Kemble now and then read aloud in deep sonorous tones, which were not always so sarcastic as he intended them to be.There was a certain rhythmical roll in many lines like the thunder of the surf, and also (as in its case) a head of foam which gave the impression of strength. For example:—Full fifty breathless bodies struck my sight;And some with gaping mouths did seem to mock me;Whilst others, smiling in cold death itself,Scoffingly bade me look on that which soonWould wrench from off my brow this sacred crown,And make me too a subject like themselves.From Kemble’s mouth at least such lines were not wanting in majestic vigour, though he lent it to them involuntarily. It was evident enough, indeed, that he was adverse to the acceptance of the play, while Sheridan was in favour of it. What doubtless furthered Mr. Erin’s hopes was that Sheridan had notoriously no very high opinion of Shakespeare himself; he thought his genius exaggerated. Presently Kemble came to the three best lines in the tragedy—Give me a sword,I have so clogged and badged this with bloodAnd slippery gore, that it doth mock my grasp;A sword I say!A speech he delivered with fine emphasis.‘Come, that is better than “Titus Andronicus,” anyway,’ said Sheridan slily.‘An echo, sir, a mere echo of “Richard the Third,”’ growled the tragedian.‘Let us hope it will answer with “Richard the Fourth,”’ was the laughing rejoinder.Their disagreement was like the conflict between the whale and a sword-fish, and could have but the same end.‘I don’t mean to say that some things here are not better than others,’ said Kemble doggedly, ‘though perhaps I may be permitted to add that you hear them to the best advantage; but to me the whole thing has a false ring.’‘Perhaps it’s my want of ear,’ returned the manager; ‘but do you think, Mr. Kemble,’ here he sank his voice to a whisper, ‘that many peoplehavegood ears?’The drollery and even roguishness of his face as he hazarded this inquiry was indescribable. The tragedian ‘put the question by’ and pursued his argument.‘Whatever you think of Shakespeare, Mr. Sheridan, you must allow that he at least always wrote poetry. Now, much of what I have had the honour to read to you is not poetry.’‘But let us suppose Shakespeare was drunk.’‘Sir!’ exclaimed the tragedian in an offended tone.‘Sir!’ echoed the antiquary, dropping the folio with a crash.‘Good Heavens! gentlemen, may not one even put a postulate? Even Euclid, a writer of little imagination, permits that much. It is not such a very impossible supposition. Have you never heard of a man of genius with a turn for the bottle?’As he looked very hard at the tragedian, that gentleman felt called upon to reply. ‘I have no personal experience of anything of that kind,’ he said loftily.‘Well, of course not; how should you?’ returned Sheridan blandly, but with a curve of the lip that seemed to say, ‘We are talking of men of genius.’ Perhaps his reference to his own weakness made him bitter. If it was so, the feeling was very transitory; it was with his most winning smile that he presently addressed his friend, ‘Come, Prester John, wecan do nothing without you in this affair; surely you will not fail us.’‘I will have no responsibility in the matter,’ was the haughty reply. ‘I will not append my name to yonder list; I will not have it go forth to the world that I admit the genuineness of this production; I will not stamp it with my warranty; I will not——’‘Tut, tut, man,’ broke in the manager impatiently; ‘but you’ll act, you’ll act.’‘Well, yes, I will play Vortigern.’‘And Mrs. Siddons will play Edmunda?’‘Nay, sir, that is a question for herself. I cannot answer for Sarah; she always takes her own way.’‘To hear you talk one would think she was your wife instead of your sister,’ said the manager laughing. ‘Then the Country Girl’ (so Mrs. Jordan was called from her first success, which had been made in that piece) ‘shall be Flavia, who has to appear in man’s clothes; she loves to wear the breeches, as the poor Duke has long discovered. Well, we’ll take your friend Shakespeare’s play, Mr. Erin.’ And the manager rose from his chair with a yawn, like one who has concluded a distasteful business.‘But, ahem! nothing has been said about terms,’ suggested the antiquary.‘Terms? Does he mean money?’ said the manager, looking towards the tragedian with an air of extreme astonishment, as though he would say, ‘Can I believe my ears?’‘I am almost inclined to believe he does,’ replied the other, smiling for the first time.‘But surely not money down; not ready money, he can’t mean that.’The antiquary’s face unmistakably implied that he did.‘Good heavens, Mr. Erin, whohasany ready money? I was just talking of the Duke of Clarence, hasheany ready money? Not a guinea—though you should threaten to drown him, like his namesake, in a butt of malmsey—to save his life.’‘The money might be paid out of the profits of the first night, and then half profits,’ suggested Mr. Erin.‘Mere details—business,’ cried the manager disdainfully. ‘You must see Albany Wallis about all that. That’s a pretty face,’ he added, stopping abruptly beneath a picture on the wall and pointing to it—’a charming face.’‘It is the portrait of my niece, Margaret.’‘Aye, aye; love, faith, a pure soul in a fair body; a true heart, I am sure of it.’His voice, freighted with genuine feeling, seemed to melt away in music.‘She is in truth a good girl, Mr. Sheridan: the light of my poor house.’‘Take care of her, sir; be kind to her, lest, when it is too late, you rue it.’He was gone in a flash, and the door closed behind him.Mr. Erin looked at the tragedian in amazement.‘Some likeness to his late wife, I fancy,’ observed that gentleman in grave explanation. ‘Her death was a matter of much regret to him.’ He seemed to be about to hold out his hand, but something restrained him; his eyehad lit by chance on the certificate. ‘Good morning, Mr. Erin,’ he said with a stiff bow.‘Good morning, Mr. Kemble.’CHAPTER XXVI.TWO ACTRESSES.Thearrangements made between Mr. Samuel Erin, on behalf of his son William Henry, ‘an infant,’ with Mr. Albany Wallis, for the production of the play were eminently satisfactory. Mr. Erin was to receive three hundred pounds on the morning after the first night of representation, and half profits for the next sixty nights. Shakespeare himself had probably never made so good a bargain.The news of the acceptance of the ‘Vortigern’ by the management of Drury Lane Theatre immensely increased the public excitement concerning it. In those days ‘Old Drury’ (though indeed it was then far from old) was the national theatre; and the fact of a play being played upon its boards (independentlyof Sheridan having chosen it) gave it a certain imprimatur. It was not unreasonable, therefore, in William Henry that he already saw himself half way to fortune, while his success in love might be said to be assured; there are but few of us in truth who, at his age, are in a position so enviable. For, as when we grow old, prosperity, if it does come, comes but too often too late for its enjoyment, so the sunshine of youth is marred by the uncertainty of its duration, and by the clouds that overhang its future. Of the reception of the ‘Vortigern’ the young fellow had but little doubt; he believed it would run a long and successful course, as most people do believe in the case of the hare of their own finding. And yet the manifestation of his joy was by no means extravagant. The gravity and coolness of his demeanour, which had characterised him throughout the discoveries, did not now desert him. At times, indeed, even when Margaret’s arms were about his neck, he looked anxious and distrait; but when she rallied him about it he had alwaysan explanation, natural enough and not unwelcome to her.‘I feel,’ he said, ‘as you once told me you felt in looking at that fair scene near Stratford, that it seemed almost too beautiful to be real, and that you had a vague fear that it would all melt. When I look on you, dear, I feel the same: such happiness is far too high for me; I have not deserved it, and I fear lest it should never be mine.’‘But youhavedeserved it, Willie,’ she would lovingly reply. ‘Not even my uncle questions that. He spoke of you in the highest terms, he told me, to the Regent himself.’For Mr. Erin had been sent for to Carlton House, and had shown the precious Shakespearean manuscripts to the future ruler of the realm, who had expressed himself as ‘greatly interested.’ He had been unable, he said, to resist the weight of evidence which had been adduced in favour of their authenticity, and had especially admired the ‘Vortigern.’ The old man’s head was almost turned with theroyal praises; and it was not to be wondered at that he had expressed his satisfaction with the youth by whose means he had been introduced into so serene an atmosphere.‘I do not think I am without desert, Madge, though there was a time when you used to think so [an allusion, of course, to her old scepticism as to his genius]; but I do not deserveyou,’ was William Henry’s grave reply.A modest rejoinder, which, we may be sure, secured its reward.Margaret thought that there never had been, and never would be, so deserving a youth as her Willie, or one who, having received his deserts, bore his honours so unassumingly.Nevertheless—for, in spite of the proverb, ‘It never rains but it pours,’ good fortune seldom befalls us mortals without alloy—there were drops of bitterness in his full cup. The Poet Laureate Pye had been reminded of his promise to write a prologue for the ‘Vortigern,’ and had performed it, but by no means in a satisfactory manner.It had come to them one morning at breakfast,and had been received with rapture by Mr. Erin—till he came to read it. It commenced as follows:—If in our scenes your eyes, delighted, find,Marks that denote the mighty master’s mind;If at his words the tears of pity flow,Your hearts with horror fill, with rapture glow,Demand no other proof;But if these proofs should fail, if in the strainYe seek the drama’s awful sire in vain,Should critics, heralds, antiquaries, joinTo give their fiat to each doubtful line,Believe themnot.‘Curse the fellow!’ cried the antiquary, throwing down the manuscript in disgust; ‘why, this is worse than useless. What the devil does he mean by his “ifs“ and “nots”?’‘I fancy Mr. Malone could tell us,’ observed William Henry quietly.‘No doubt, lad, no doubt,’ said Mr. Erin, eagerly catching at this solution of the Laureate’s change of front. ‘That man would drop his poison into the ear of an archangel. Not that Pye is an archangel, nor anything like it.’‘Archangels must write very indifferentpoetry if he is,’ remarked William Henry smiling.‘Just so—a deuced bad poet!’ rejoined Mr. Erin. ‘His prologue, even without an “if“ in it, would damn any play; I’ll write to Burgess—Sir James will do it, I’ll warrant.’And Sir James did it accordingly, and in a fashion much more agreeable to ‘Vortigern’s’ sponsors.No common cause your verdict now demands,Before the court immortal Shakespeare stands;.......Stamp it your own, assert your poet’s fame,And add fresh wreaths to Shakespeare’s honoured name.There was no doubt in Mr. Erin’s mind as to Sir James Bland Burgess being a better poet than Mr. Pye.There were other hitches—nay, absolute breaks-down—which could not be so easily mended. Mrs. Siddons, who it was hoped would play the chief female character, Edmunda, had a severe cold, which was suspected by many people, and known by her friends, to be a stage cold—a malady whichactors and actresses assume at pleasure as a pretext for declining any objectionable part. When a barrister refuses a brief, it is naturally concluded that his client’s cause is precarious—a lawyer, it is argued, would never send money away from his doors except for the gravest reasons; and similarly the ‘Vortigern’ suffered in public estimation when the news of Mrs. Siddons’s indisposition got abroad. Her reason, as Malone and Company averred, was that ‘the whole play was an audacious imposition.’ In this case that flattering unction of ‘There are as good fish in the sea,’ &c., could hardly be laid to Mr. Erin’s soul; it was unquestionably a bitter disappointment; the part had to be given to Mrs. Powell, a much prettier and younger woman, but not the queen of the stage. His sister’s conduct, too, seemed to have an unfavourable effect on Kemble, whose interest in the play was already at the best but lukewarm, and it was felt absolutely necessary to conciliate him.Mr. Erin wrote to him to say that, notwithstanding the circumstance of ‘Vortigern andRowena’ being the production of the immortal bard, the great tragedian was at liberty to use his own excellent judgment in preparing it for the stage.A cold reply was received, to the effect that it should be acted faithfully from the copy sent to the theatre.These were bitter drops; but where is the cup of human prosperity without them? In reading the record of even the most fortunate man’s career, we may be sure that, though it appears to run with such unbroken smoothness, there is many a hitch. We hear the triumphant pæans, but not the deep low notes of chagrin and disappointment that to the hero’s own ear accompany them and turn his blood to gall. The shining shield, bossed with victories, appears to be of solid gold, but there is but a thin coating of it, and underneath lies rusted and corroding iron. It is something, however, to show gold at all; and Margaret was prompt with her comfort.‘When, my dear Willie, was good fortune without its drawbacks? These are but spotsin the sun of our prosperity, and we should have only room in our hearts for gratitude. Think how much sunshine we have had of late, and how far beyond our expectations. When you first chanced upon these wonderful discoveries, how great a thing it would have seemed to you to light on such a treasure trove as the “Vortigern,“ and then to have it accepted by Sheridan for Drury Lane! Think of that!’‘Quite true, my darling; and yet you have not mentioned the highest gift that Fortune has vouchsafed me, compared with which all her other favours are mere gilt and tinsel—your dear self.’‘Tut, tut; you are a born actor, sir, and should offer your services to Mr. Kemble.’He looked at her with troubled eyes, gravely, almost sorrowfully, then folded her to his breast without a word.It was clear, she thought, that Mrs. Siddons’s refusal to play her part had disappointed him cruelly.One day two ladies called to see Mr. Erin.The antiquary, as it happened, was out: upon hearing which, they expressed a wish to see his son. William Henry, who no more went to the office in the New Inn, but transacted his father’s business for him at home (not so much that he was necessary to it as because the old gentleman preferred to keep the lad about him), was neither mounting drawings nor cataloguing prints, but exchanging pretty nothings with Margaret, when the servant came with her message.‘Ladies to seeyou, Willie,’ said she, laughing. ‘I am almost inclined to be jealous; I wonder what can be their business?’‘They want to see the MSS., I suppose,’ he said indifferently. ‘Well, at all events I can’t get at them; your uncle has taken the key of the chest with him.’Margaret shook her head.‘They have come about the play,’ she said; ‘they are actresses.’This was a conclusion to which William Henry had already arrived, though he had notthought it worth while to mention it. His heart, indeed, had leapt up within him at the news in question, not that he was the least inclined to play the gay Lothario, but that everything connected with the representation of the ‘Vortigern’ immensely interested him. Hitherto he had been kept out of it; the whole affair had been carried on up to this point without his interference, as indeed was natural enough; it was not as if the ‘Vortigern’ had beenhisplay.‘It is very unlikely,’ said William Henry diplomatically; ‘but it is possible they want Mr. Erin’s opinion about some reading, and since I know his views I had perhaps better see them.’His tone was interrogative, but he did not wait to hear her opinion on the subject, but at once repaired to the parlour. That apartment, hallowed by so many antiquarian associations, was now tenanted by two persons of a very different stamp from those who generally visited it. ‘If critics and commentatorsindeed were beings like these,’ was the young rogue’s reflection, ‘“cherished folios“ would be things to be envied.’Both ladies were young, though an expert in such matters, which William Henry was not, might have come to the conclusion that they were not quite so young as they looked. It is true they were neither painted nor powdered; but besides being very fashionably and becomingly dressed, there was that brightness of expression in their lively faces which makes more head against time than all the cosmetics in the world. It is always a matter of surprise among dull people that actresses, even of a high type, should be so popular, and often make such good matches with men of culture and good breeding. The reason is, I think, that if they are not natural, they at least do their best to appear so; they do not stifle nature, as is the habit of some of their sex who are much more highly placed. Languor and studied indifference are not of themselves attractive, and they are suspected, and withreason, of being very convenient cloaks for stupidity.The intelligence of these ladies shone in their eyes, which also twinkled with amusement. They had both had a very hard time of it during one portion of their lives, but it had extinguished neither their good-nature nor their sense of humour. The appearance of William Henry, who looked all youth and simplicity, instead of the snuffy old antiquary whom they had expected to see, tickled them excessively. The fact that he was very good-looking also aroused their interest. If they had come upon business, in short, they remained for pleasure; and the sense of this (for it was unmistakable) embarrassed not a little their involuntary host.By sight he knew both the ladies; the younger was Mrs. Powell, a handsome woman, very tall and elegant, who had of late stepped into a much higher rank of her profession, as, indeed, was clear enough from her having been made the substitute of Mrs. Siddons in theforthcoming tragedy. Just now, however, she was undertaking comedy, and her melodious tones and speaking face made a harmony like ‘the voice and the instrument.’The other lady was Mrs. Jordan, who, without enjoying so high a dramatic reputation, was a still greater favourite with the public. She, too, was tall and comely, but her beauty was of a simpler type—it would be better described as loveliness. The charms which had carried all before them when she made her fame as ‘The Country Girl’ were more mature, but not less attractive. The world of play-goers was at her feet, the knowledge that an eminent personage had gained her affections, and even, it was said, contracted a private marriage with her, aroused the envy of many a gilded flutterer, and had driven at least one of them to despair. Her tenderness of disposition and generosity to the distressed were notorious, and could be read in her smile.‘We have ventured to call upon you, Mr. Erin, as you may perhaps guess, with reference to “Vortigern and Rowena,”’ said Mrs. Powell.‘I am so sorry, but my father is not at home,’ stammered William Henry.‘Well, really!’ returned the lady reproachfully.‘At all events,weare not sorry,’ said Mrs. Jordan slily.‘I did not mean—you know what I mean,’ pleaded William Henry with a blush that they probably envied. ‘I am so sorry to be so awkward, but I am very young.’‘Does he mean to say that we arenot?’ ejaculated Mrs. Powell with a majestic air. ‘Great heavens!’‘I think, sister, since he has thrown himself upon the mercy of the court,’ interposed Mrs. Jordan good-naturedly, ‘that we should not be hard upon him.’‘Youth and inexperience,’ exclaimed Mrs. Powell judicially, ‘are no excuses for crime; but since my learned sister—— You have seen her as Portia, no doubt, young man, and a very pretty lawyer she makes—don’t you think so?It was like two people speaking from thesame mouth—the one all gaiety, the other all merriment.‘Of course I have seen her, who has not?’ said William Henry, plucking up his courage, though with such desperation that it almost came away by the roots.‘That’s much better,’ smiled Mrs. Jordan approvingly.‘I am not sure,’ returned her companion. ‘Do you not also rememberme, sir?’‘Who could forget you who remembers “Juliet,“ madam?’ returned the young gentleman, with his hand (as he thought) upon his heart.‘Left side, sir, the next time,’ observed his tormentor encouragingly; ‘anatomy has not been a special study with you, but you improve in manners. We are here to test your gallantry, to sue for favours.’‘Whatever lies within my humble power to do for you, madam, may be considered as done.’‘Did I say “improves”? Why, he’s perfect,’ said Mrs. Powell, with a laughing glance at her companion. ‘But it’s all for love of Portia,’ she added with a sigh.f128’That’s much better,’ smiled Mrs. Jordan, approvingly.‘No, of Juliet,’ returned Mrs. Jordan, with another shake of her pretty head.There was a gentle tap at the door; a face, a very charming one, looked in, and with a murmured apology withdrew as suddenly as it had come.‘Curiosity,’ said Mrs. Jordan softly, her eyes twinkling like two stars.‘Jealousy,’ answered Mrs. Powell derisively. ‘I do not askwhichwas it, butwhowas it, sir?’‘I don’t know,’ said William Henry boldly; ‘I had my back to the door.’At this both ladies burst out laughing, if an expression so coarse can be applied to as musical mirth as ever rippled from the lips of woman.‘Hedoesn’t know,’ cried Mrs. Powell; ‘and this is the young gentleman we took for all simplicity. How dare you, sir? As if her fairy footfall was not evidence enough to your throbbing ears, as if her coming here at allto see how you were getting on with two wicked young women from Drury Lane, was not sufficient proof of her identity?’ Then turning to her companion, ‘How dreadful to contemplate is his depravity! So young in years, and yet so versed in duplicity.’‘You are engaged to be married to her, of course,’ said Mrs. Jordan softly.‘Well, yes, madam,’ admitted William Henry; he could not help thinking how charming she would look as the page, Flavia.‘Don’t be ashamed of it, young gentleman,’ said Mrs. Jordan gravely.‘It is to your credit, remember, if not to hers,’ interpolated Mrs. Powell ambiguously.‘And does this pretty creature live in the house?’ continued Mrs. Jordan with tender interest.‘Yes, madam; she is my cousin, Margaret Slade.’‘How nice! I never had a cousin when I was so young as that. How I envy her!’‘“This shall to the Duke,”’ quoted Mrs.Powell menacingly. Then they both laughed again.William Henry was dazzled, delighted, and a little uncomfortable.‘We must not take up his time,’ said Mrs. Jordan rising and consulting her watch.‘Now that we know that he is so very muchengaged,’ assented Mrs. Powell slily.‘But you have not told me your business ladies,’ observed William Henry naïvely.Then they both laughed again, as they well might, for the truth was that, having something so very much more pleasant in hand, they had forgotten all about it; they were not bees, but butterflies.‘The fact is—only your company is so delightful it put our business out of our heads—we want to go over the play with you.’‘There is but one copy in the house, ladies, in yonder safe, and I am sorry to say my father has the key.’‘Then you must bring it to the theatre to-morrow morning, sir,’ said Mrs. Powell imperiously.William Henry shook his head. ‘That is the original Shakespeare MS., madam; I could not venture on such a step.’‘What ridiculous scruples!’ cried Mrs. Powell impatiently, beating her pretty foot upon the floor.‘But we can use the acting copy,’ suggested Mrs. Jordan, ‘and—if this young gentleman will be so good as to come himself.’ Anything sweeter or more seductive than her tone it was impossible to imagine; even the very pause and break in the sentence had literally an unspeakable charm.‘I will come with the greatest pleasure,’ said William Henry.There was indeed no reason why he should not do so, but if there had been it would have been all the same. He was fascinated.‘To-morrow, then, at eleven o’clock,’ she said, and held out her hand; he pressed it, and she returned the pressure, but with mirthful eyes.Mrs. Powell shook hands with him too, and shook her head as she did so. ‘Poor young man!’ she said; ‘poor Margaret!’Then they both laughed again: they laughed in the parlour, they laughed in the passage, they laughed on the very doorstep. As Margaret said of them after their departure, somewhat severely, ‘They seemed to be a pair of very frivolous young women.’CHAPTER XXVII.A ROYAL PATRON.William Henryperformed his promise punctually, and presented himself next morning at Drury Lane. He had never been inside a theatre by daylight before, and the contrast of the scene to that to which he had been accustomed struck him very forcibly. If any young gentleman belonging to me were stage-struck, I should ask the permission of the lessee ofone of our National Theatres to allow me to introduce him into its auditorium some dullish morning. If his enthusiasm survived, I will believe that the passion for the sea will still remain in a boy’s breast after a visit to a ship’s cockpit. The spectacle of those draped galleries, those empty seats and ill-lit space, where all was wont to be light and laughter, is little short of ghastly. William Henry indeed only caught glimpses of it here and there, through the eye-holes over the doors, as he was led through the echoing passages to the back of the stage; but they were sufficient. He in vain attempted to picture to himself the very different appearance the place would bear when probably he should see it next, at the representation of ‘Vortigern and Rowena.’His imagination was chilled. The object of his visit, even though it might well have done so, since it was to be interviewed by two of the most charming women on the English stage, did not fill him with the pleasurable anticipation which he had experienced when he had received their invitation. There was noharm in it, of course, but he had come without Margaret’s knowledge, and his conscience reproached him for so doing. It was, no doubt, her own fault; she had shown such unmistakable feelings of jealousy on the previous day, and had expressed such uncharitable views on the character of actresses in general, that he had shrunk from telling her of the appointment he had made for to-morrow. It was a pity that the dear girl was so unreasonable; for, though she had entirely agreed with him that Mrs. Powell’s conduct, of which he had given her an amusing version, had been pert, she had failed to understand what a contrast that of Mrs. Jordan afforded, or how distinctly it bespoke a simple and ingenuous nature. He had never dreamt, of course, of repeating Mrs. Powell’s parting remark about ‘poor Margaret;’ but if such a notion had entered his mind, the manner in which the dear girl had received other details of the little interview would have forbidden it. He felt quite certain that she was capable of believing that Mrs. Jordan was ready to fall in love with him, or even hadalready done it. The very idea of such a thing, when she knew he was engaged to somebody else, was, of course, ridiculous. He thought that it would have set Margaret’s mind at ease to tell her that he had given that piece of information to the ladies, whereas it had aroused her indignation, not indeed against him but against them. ‘What right had they to ask such questions? It was impertinent, forward, and indelicate; and she did hope that those young women would never commit the impropriety of calling in Norfolk Street and asking to see a young gentleman, with whom they could have no earthly business, again.’And now, unknown to Margaret, he was going to seethem. The conscience at seventeen is tender, and it was no wonder William Henry’s smote him. At that age, however, the memory (for some things) is unfortunately short, and when a door suddenly opened from a labyrinthine passage, into a prettily furnished room, where Mrs. Jordan, reclining in an arm-chair, was reading with rapt attention a certain manuscripthe recognised, he thought he had never seen anyone so beautiful before.She arose with a pleasant smile, and a natural coquettish air which became her charmingly, and bade him welcome.‘Pray come in,’ said she, for he stood at the door entranced; ‘it is not everyone that is admitted into my dressing-room, but I shan’t bite you.’It was not the least like a dressing-room except that it had a multiplicity of mirrors, but her calling it so discomposed him (he could not help thinking to himself how very much more, if she had but known it, it would have discomposed Margaret); his knees had a tendency to knock together, and he felt that he looked like a fool.‘You need not be afraid,’ continued the lady smiling, not displeased perhaps to see the effect she had produced in him, the symptoms of which were not unfamiliar to her; ‘Mrs. Powell will be here directly—she is not so punctual as you are.’‘She has not so much reason to be, madam,’ said William Henry. The words had occurred to him as if by inspiration, but directly they were uttered he repented of them. He had intended them to be very gallant, but they now struck him as exceedingly foolish.‘He is certainly a very amusing young man,’ said the lady, as if addressing a third person. ‘Pray sit down, sir. I saw your father after I had the pleasure of seeing you yesterday. You are not in the least alike. You should have seen Kemble and him together; it was as good as any play. They don’t hit it off together so well as you and I do. Perhaps you will say again they have not so much reason.’‘It was a very unfortunate remark of mine,’ said William Henry penitently.‘I don’t know that; you needn’t be so hard upon yourself. I think you had an idea that you were somehow paying me a compliment. For my part, however, I have enough of compliments, and prefer a little honesty for a change.’William Henry bethought him of saying something about the genuineness of some compliments,but by the expression of her face, which had suddenly become grave, he judged that she had had enough of the subject, and remained silent.‘And how is Margaret?’The young man blushed to the roots of his hair, and blushed the more because he felt himself blushing.‘I have heard of the young lady from your father, and nothing but good of her. I hope’—this with great severity—’that you are not ashamed of her, sir.’‘No, madam.’‘And I hope, sir’—this with an angry flash of her bright eyes—’that you are not ashamed ofme.’‘Madam!’‘Then why did you not tell her that you were coming here?’William Henry bit his lip, and was about to stammer something he knew not what, when fortunately there was a knock at the door.‘Come in,’ said Mrs. Jordan.The knocking was continued very loudly,but the permission was not repeated. Mrs. Jordan began to laugh, and at every recurrence of the summons laughed more and more. Then the door was opened a very little way. ‘Are you sure that I may come in, Dorothy? Are you sure I don’t intrude?’ inquired a musical voice in accents of pretended anxiety.And then Mrs. Powell entered.‘You are late,’ observed Mrs. Jordan reprovingly; ‘that is not like your usual habits.’‘I thought you might like to have a little time to yourselves, my dear,’ replied the other with great simplicity. ‘I am quite sorry to trouble you with business matters, Mr. Erin, but the fact is it’s pressing. I must have Edmunda altered; she is heavy in hand.’‘But, my dear madam, what has that to do withme?’‘With you? Why, everything; to whom else can I come? Kemble won’t listen to me; your father, a most respectable man no doubt, is quite impracticable, and only raves about the Immortal Bard.’‘But I cannot alter Shakespeare’s play, madam.’‘Why not? He’s dead, isn’t he? Besides, his plays have been often enough altered before. Garrick did it for one.’‘Perhaps, madam; but then I am not Garrick. I can no more alter a play than write one.’‘Upon my word, my dear,’ interposed Mrs. Jordan, ‘there is a good deal in what Mr. Erin says. I want to have things altered in my own part, but if, as he tells us——’‘Pooh! nonsense,’ broke in the other; ‘you have nothing to complain of in Flavia. She is in man’s clothes, which fit you to a nicety, and that is all you need care about.’‘If he takes my advice he won’t touch the play,’ said Mrs. Jordan, fairly trembling with rage.‘There you see the Country Girl,’ said Mrs. Powell, pointing to her friend with a little hand that trembled too. ‘Her temper is only so long’ (she indicated the twentieth part of an inch). ‘Nobody can say that she has not anatural manner, or does not know how to blush.’‘Nobody can say of Mrs. Powell,’ retorted the other, ‘when she tries to blush, that her beauty is only skin deep.’It was certainly a most terrible scene, and most heartily did William Henry wish himself back in Norfolk Street. At that very moment, however, when he expected to see them dig their nails into one another, both ladies burst out laughing. He began to think that either their rage or their laughter must needs be artificial, whereas, in fact, while they lasted they were both real enough. Mirth with them was the natural safety valve of all their passions, and a very excellent mechanical contrivance too.‘But won’t you just lighten my Edmunda a little, Mr. Erin,’ persisted Mrs. Powell; ‘a touch here and a touch there?’‘My dear madam, supposing even I were capable of doing such a thing (which I am not), just consider what people would say if I touched the play. Even now our enemiesattack its authenticity, and what a handle must such a proceeding needs afford them.’‘That is surely reasonable,’ observed Mrs. Jordan for the second time.‘I don’t know about reasonable,’ returned Mrs. Powell with a most bewitching pout; ‘but I know if you were not here I could persuade him.’‘Shall I leave you?’ said Mrs. Jordan, making a feint of retiring from the room.‘Oh no,’ pleaded William Henry involuntarily.‘Well, upon my life,’ cried Mrs. Powell, ‘you are a most complimentary young man! However, I’ll leaveyou, which considering the company you are in, will be quite revenge enough.’ She stood at the door, drawn up to her full height like a tragedy queen; then suddenly altering her tone, her air, her voice, and becoming as if by magic the very picture of pity, she added ‘Poor Margaret!’ and was gone.‘She is a queer mad creature, but means no harm,’ said Mrs. Jordan consolingly. ‘Shewas angry at your refusal to alter her part for her, and when she is angry she will say anything. You must not mind her. Now, I’ve taken a fancy to you, Master——. By the bye, what is your name?’‘Erin.’‘Chut! I mean your Christian name?’‘William Henry.’‘And what does Margaret call you?’‘Willie.’‘Very good; then since I have no wish to poach on Margaret’s preserves, I shall call you “Henry.“ I have taken a fancy to you, Master Henry, and mean to do you a service; a gentleman of influence, with whom I have some interest, wants to look at these Shakespeare manuscripts, and has directed them to be at his house this morning.’‘I am afraid they will not be there,’ said William Henry. ‘My father has never permitted them to leave Norfolk Street except once, at the personal request of the Prince Regent.’‘Nevertheless, I think the gentleman Ispeak of will have his way,’ said the actress, smiling. ‘Now I wish him, in case he sees the manuscripts, to see their discoverer also. Perhaps he may give him a helping hand.’‘You are very kind,’ said William Henry gently: it was not gratitude for the favour to come that moved him, for he had no suspicion how it was to be realised, but her evident warmth of feeling towards him. Her manner had not only an exquisite grace, but an unmistakable tenderness; and then she was so exceedingly handsome. A young man’s heart is like the tinder, which in those days, with flint and steel, was the substitute for our lucifer matches; away from its box it is liable to danger from every spark. ‘You are very good and kind,’ repeated William Henry mechanically; he felt an impulse, hard to be withstood, to add ‘and very beautiful.’‘I am not good,’ said his companion, gravely, ‘but I suppose I am kind enough. It is much easier, my young friend, to be kind than good. Well, now I am going to take you to this gentleman.’She put on her cloak and bonnet, and led the way to the stage door of the theatre. A closed carriage, well appointed, was at the door, in waiting for her, and they took their seats. In a few minutes they were whirled to their destination—a huge red house set in a courtyard, with which William Henry was unacquainted, or which in the perturbation of his mind he failed to recognise. They passed through certain corridors into a large room looking on a garden. It was handsomely furnished; a harp stood in one corner, a piano in the other; the walls were hung with beautiful pictures. But what aroused William Henry’s amazement, and prevented him from giving his attention elsewhere, was the circumstance that on a table by the window were arranged the whole collection of the Shakespeare papers.‘You are looking for your father’s blood upon them,’ said Mrs. Jordan, smiling; ‘you are thinking to yourself that he must surely have been cut to pieces ere he would havepermitted them to leave his hands. But the fact is—— Hush, here comes your future patron.’William Henry was used to a patron, and for that matter to a sufficiently mysterious one; but for the moment he was devoured by curiosity, mingled with a certain awe. The appearance of the new-comer, if he had expected to see anyone very magnificent, must have been a disappointment to him, for it certainly was not of an imposing kind. There entered the room, so rapidly that he almost seemed to run, a young man of thirty, somewhat inclined to corpulence, with a cheery good-natured face, but decidedly commonplace in its expression.‘Well, well, Dorothy, you see I’m here,’ he said, without taking the least notice of the stranger’s presence. ‘Now let us see these manuscripts—wonderful manuscripts—and get it over.’ He spoke with great volubility, and plumped down on a chair by the table as if in a great hurry. ‘What funny writing, and what queer ink and paper! and what great seals!Shakespeare was never Lord Chancellor, was he?’‘I don’t think he was, sir,’ said Mrs, Jordan, laughing. ‘It was the fashion in those days for deeds to wear fob and watch and chain.’‘Fobs, fobs? I see no fobs. So this is “Lear;“ I’ve seen “Lear.“ The play where everybody has their eyes put out. So he wrote it like this, did he? I wonder how anybody could read it. Hambllett, Hambllett; I never heard of him. Notes of hand. Gad! I knowthempretty well.’‘This is the young gentleman, sir, to whom we owe the discovery of all these manuscripts,’ said Mrs. Jordan, drawing his attention to William Henry.‘Aye, aye,’ said the new comer, wheeling his chair round to get a good view of William Henry’s face. ‘You found them, did you; those that hide can find; that’s what people tell me, you know.’The speech was such a rude one, that it might have been uttered by the first Gentlemanin Europe, nor indeed was William Henry by any means certain that he was not standing in his august presence; but there was a good-natured twinkle in the stranger’s eye which mitigated the harshness of his words. Never, indeed, before had the doubts concerning the genuineness of the manuscripts been expressed in a manner so personally offensive to the young fellow, and notwithstanding his conviction that the speaker was a man of very high rank, he might not have hesitated to resent it, but for a certain appealing look which Mrs[.] Jordan cast at him. He remembered that it was for his own sake that she had asked him to meet this man, and that if he offended him she herself might be the sufferer. He therefore only answered with a forced smile, ‘I should think no one but Mr. Malone could have told you that.’‘And who the deuce is Mr. Malone?’ was the contemptuous rejoinder; a question that put the coping-stone on the young fellow’s embarrassment and, indeed, utterly discomfited him. He felt transported into strange regions,with a new atmosphere; a world that had never heard of Mr. Malone the commentator was unintelligible to him. It is one of the lessons that can only be taught by years, and of which the ‘Montys’ and ‘Algys’ of high life are as ignorant as the ‘Jacks’ and ‘Harrys’ of low, that our respective horizons are limited.As William Henry stood tongue-tied, a sudden burst of melody filled the room. Mrs. Jordan had sat down to the piano, and was singing with exquisite pathos a song that was very familiar to him.Detraction strove to turn her heartAnd sour her gentle mind;But Charity still kept her part,And meekness to her soul did bind.‘Very nice, and very true,’ murmured the strange gentleman approvingly, keeping time with head and hand to the tune. His irritation had departed like an evil spirit exorcised; into his coarse countenance had stolen an expression of pure enjoyment; his eyes were full of gentleness and even affection. Such power have the voice and the instrument (when accompaniedby a pretty face) even on the most commonplace natures.‘Now what is that, what is that?’ he exclaimed excitedly, when the song was done. ‘And why have I never heard it before, my dear?’‘Because it is brand-new, sir,’ said Mrs. Jordan, with a bewitching curtsey. ‘I sing it as Flavia in this new play of “Vortigern and Rowena,“ which is to be performed next month at Drury Lane, and which I hope you will come to see.’‘Certainly, certainly. Why shouldn’t I?Detraction strove to turn her heartAnd sour her gentle mind.But it didn’t succeed, did it, Dorothy?’‘I hope not, sir,’ returned the lady modestly. ‘Then I may take it as a promise, sir, that you will honour this performance with your presence; it will be on the second of April.’‘Yes, yes; tell Sherry to keep a box—a box. And now I’m off to the Privy Council. Sorry I can’t take you with me, Dorothy, but you’re not sworn in yet—not sworn in.’And off he shambled; his walk and talk were very like one another—rapid, irregular, and fitful.‘There,’ cried Mrs. Jordan triumphantly, ‘I have got what I wanted for you, Master Harry; the play will now have the Royal patronage.’‘Then that gentleman is——’‘His Royal Highness the Duke of Clarence,my husband.’

CHAPTER XXV.TWO DISTINGUISHED VISITORS.Richard Brinsley Sheridan—The pride of the palace, the bower, and the hall,The orator, dramatist, minstrel who ranThrough each mode of the lyre and was master of all—was a very great man in those days in many ways; but what made him just now of especial importance to Mr. Samuel Erin was that he was the manager of Drury Lane Theatre.That Mr. Harris, of Covent Garden, should have snapped at the ‘Vortigern’ bait had been a satisfactory circumstance enough (though indeed he had only ‘sucked it’ and got off the hook), but the coming of Sheridan was quite another matter. Compared with him, all other managers were small fry.It was with a less assured demeanour,therefore, than usual, and with an expectancy somewhat tempered with awe, that Mr. Samuel Erin repaired to the parlour. Even the MS. in his hand had lost some of its virtue in view of the authority who was about to pronounce upon it; it was almost as if he had been a young author with his own play; a work of immense original genius, but which he was about to submit for the first time to a leading publisher. It was some relief to him to feel that Dr. Parr would be present, who was well known to him, and a believer in the Shakespearean manuscripts.As he entered the room the great man came forward to shake him frankly by the hand. His manner was more than gracious, it was genial, and seemed to put him at his ease in a moment. His appearance was not imposing—a man of forty-five inclined to corpulency, with a loose-fitting coat secured by one button over the chest, and a carelessly knotted white neck-cloth—he wore his own hair, already very grey, tied behind with a black riband. His face was puffy, and evinced signs of what was even then called ‘free living. What redeemed it, however, and invested the whole man with marvellous attraction were his bright and sparkling eyes, which glittered with merriment and good humour. The antiquary was so fascinated with them that for the moment he took no notice of the other person in the room, till Sheridan called his attention to him.f100The other, instead of taking his hand, drew himself up.‘You have doubtless seen our friend here pretty often before, Mr. Erin?’ he said smiling.The antiquary turned round and held out his hand mechanically. The other, however, instead of taking it, drew himself up to his full height (which was a good way), put his hands behind him, and bowed stiffly; it was not Dr. Parr but John Kemble.Mr. Erin, as a playgoer, had of course seen him ‘pretty often before,’ but generally in royal robes or in armour, attired as a king or a warrior; as it happened he had never before seen him in plain clothes. He had a noble figure and a handsome face—though, strange to say, not a very mobile one—and, so far, was in strong contrast to his companion;the difference in expression was even greater. Mr. Kemble had a sternness of demeanour that was almost forbidding, and which reminded Mr. Erin on the instant that he was an intimate friend of Malone’s.‘I did not expect the honour of a visit from Mr. Kemble,’ said the antiquary drily.‘I did not come, sir, of my own free will,’ was the uncompromising reply, delivered in deep tragic tones. ‘I am here at the request of my friend Mr. Sheridan.’‘Quite true,’ observed that gentleman, his eyes dancing with laughter at the antagonistic attitude of his two companions; the tragedian like a stately St. Bernard with stiff tail, who resents the attention of some half-breed of no insignificant stature, and that ventures to entertain a very tolerable opinion of itself.‘I dragged him here, Mr. Erin, like iniquity, with cart-ropes. The quarrels of commentators, I know, are like the bars of a castle; they’ll be shot rather than open their arms to one another. For my sake, however, I hope you will, both of you, make a truce while thislittle matter of business is under discussion; then to it again hammer and tongs with all my heart.—Now, where’s this play?’Mr. Erin produced it from his breast-pocket, into which he had hurriedly thrust it.‘Oh, that’s it, is it? Gad! he carries it about with him as a mother carries a newborn babe, whose paternity has never been questioned.’Kemble smiled, as Coriolanus might have done at the mention of gratitude.‘I think, Mr. Sheridan,’ said the antiquary in an offended tone, ‘if you will be so good as to glance at yonder certificate, including among other authorities your friend Dr. Parr, you must admit that the legitimacy of “Vortigern and Rowena“ is tolerably well established. Herbert Croft, Dr. Walton, the Poet Laureate, Sir James Bland Burgess, are vouchers——’‘Weighty enough, indeed,’ interposed the manager impatiently; ‘anything ought to go down with such names attached to it. But the play, the play’s the thing. Let’s look at it.’It was a detail, if report spoke true, thatSheridan did not always insist upon. He had offered to accept a comedy from the authoress of ‘Evelina’ unread, and to put it on the boards of Drury Lane. Even now, when the manuscript was spread out before him, he seemed to shrink from the task he had imposed upon himself.‘Gad!’ he exclaimed, ‘there seems a good lot of it!’‘There are two thousand eight hundred lines in all,’ explained Mr. Erin gravely.‘Fourteen hundred lines are deemed sufficient for an acting drama,’ observed Mr. Kemble acidly.‘The dramas of William Shakespeare, sir, with which I happen to have some acquaintance,’ returned the antiquary with bitter significance, ‘extend in more than one case to a greater length than the “Vortigern.”’‘Come, come, Kemble,’ said the manager good-naturedly. ‘Surplusage is no error, and one can hardly complain because one gets two plays for the price of one. Now, Mr. Erin, would you prefer to be present at our investigationor not? Mothers generally shrink from an inquest upon even a foster-child, but there have been Roman matrons——’‘I make it an invariable rule, Mr. Sheridan,’ put in the antiquary hastily, ‘though on the present occasion there is no ground, of course, for its being put in practice, never to permit the literary offspring of which you speak to leave my hands.’‘Afraid of body-snatching, eh? Think of you and me wanting to steal a play, Kemble! Why, Drury Lane is a perfect foundling hospital for them. However, just as you please, sir.’Then, while Mr. Erin sat apart affecting to be immersed in a folio (but with his ears wide open), the two sat down to the manuscript, from which Kemble now and then read aloud in deep sonorous tones, which were not always so sarcastic as he intended them to be.There was a certain rhythmical roll in many lines like the thunder of the surf, and also (as in its case) a head of foam which gave the impression of strength. For example:—Full fifty breathless bodies struck my sight;And some with gaping mouths did seem to mock me;Whilst others, smiling in cold death itself,Scoffingly bade me look on that which soonWould wrench from off my brow this sacred crown,And make me too a subject like themselves.From Kemble’s mouth at least such lines were not wanting in majestic vigour, though he lent it to them involuntarily. It was evident enough, indeed, that he was adverse to the acceptance of the play, while Sheridan was in favour of it. What doubtless furthered Mr. Erin’s hopes was that Sheridan had notoriously no very high opinion of Shakespeare himself; he thought his genius exaggerated. Presently Kemble came to the three best lines in the tragedy—Give me a sword,I have so clogged and badged this with bloodAnd slippery gore, that it doth mock my grasp;A sword I say!A speech he delivered with fine emphasis.‘Come, that is better than “Titus Andronicus,” anyway,’ said Sheridan slily.‘An echo, sir, a mere echo of “Richard the Third,”’ growled the tragedian.‘Let us hope it will answer with “Richard the Fourth,”’ was the laughing rejoinder.Their disagreement was like the conflict between the whale and a sword-fish, and could have but the same end.‘I don’t mean to say that some things here are not better than others,’ said Kemble doggedly, ‘though perhaps I may be permitted to add that you hear them to the best advantage; but to me the whole thing has a false ring.’‘Perhaps it’s my want of ear,’ returned the manager; ‘but do you think, Mr. Kemble,’ here he sank his voice to a whisper, ‘that many peoplehavegood ears?’The drollery and even roguishness of his face as he hazarded this inquiry was indescribable. The tragedian ‘put the question by’ and pursued his argument.‘Whatever you think of Shakespeare, Mr. Sheridan, you must allow that he at least always wrote poetry. Now, much of what I have had the honour to read to you is not poetry.’‘But let us suppose Shakespeare was drunk.’‘Sir!’ exclaimed the tragedian in an offended tone.‘Sir!’ echoed the antiquary, dropping the folio with a crash.‘Good Heavens! gentlemen, may not one even put a postulate? Even Euclid, a writer of little imagination, permits that much. It is not such a very impossible supposition. Have you never heard of a man of genius with a turn for the bottle?’As he looked very hard at the tragedian, that gentleman felt called upon to reply. ‘I have no personal experience of anything of that kind,’ he said loftily.‘Well, of course not; how should you?’ returned Sheridan blandly, but with a curve of the lip that seemed to say, ‘We are talking of men of genius.’ Perhaps his reference to his own weakness made him bitter. If it was so, the feeling was very transitory; it was with his most winning smile that he presently addressed his friend, ‘Come, Prester John, wecan do nothing without you in this affair; surely you will not fail us.’‘I will have no responsibility in the matter,’ was the haughty reply. ‘I will not append my name to yonder list; I will not have it go forth to the world that I admit the genuineness of this production; I will not stamp it with my warranty; I will not——’‘Tut, tut, man,’ broke in the manager impatiently; ‘but you’ll act, you’ll act.’‘Well, yes, I will play Vortigern.’‘And Mrs. Siddons will play Edmunda?’‘Nay, sir, that is a question for herself. I cannot answer for Sarah; she always takes her own way.’‘To hear you talk one would think she was your wife instead of your sister,’ said the manager laughing. ‘Then the Country Girl’ (so Mrs. Jordan was called from her first success, which had been made in that piece) ‘shall be Flavia, who has to appear in man’s clothes; she loves to wear the breeches, as the poor Duke has long discovered. Well, we’ll take your friend Shakespeare’s play, Mr. Erin.’ And the manager rose from his chair with a yawn, like one who has concluded a distasteful business.‘But, ahem! nothing has been said about terms,’ suggested the antiquary.‘Terms? Does he mean money?’ said the manager, looking towards the tragedian with an air of extreme astonishment, as though he would say, ‘Can I believe my ears?’‘I am almost inclined to believe he does,’ replied the other, smiling for the first time.‘But surely not money down; not ready money, he can’t mean that.’The antiquary’s face unmistakably implied that he did.‘Good heavens, Mr. Erin, whohasany ready money? I was just talking of the Duke of Clarence, hasheany ready money? Not a guinea—though you should threaten to drown him, like his namesake, in a butt of malmsey—to save his life.’‘The money might be paid out of the profits of the first night, and then half profits,’ suggested Mr. Erin.‘Mere details—business,’ cried the manager disdainfully. ‘You must see Albany Wallis about all that. That’s a pretty face,’ he added, stopping abruptly beneath a picture on the wall and pointing to it—’a charming face.’‘It is the portrait of my niece, Margaret.’‘Aye, aye; love, faith, a pure soul in a fair body; a true heart, I am sure of it.’His voice, freighted with genuine feeling, seemed to melt away in music.‘She is in truth a good girl, Mr. Sheridan: the light of my poor house.’‘Take care of her, sir; be kind to her, lest, when it is too late, you rue it.’He was gone in a flash, and the door closed behind him.Mr. Erin looked at the tragedian in amazement.‘Some likeness to his late wife, I fancy,’ observed that gentleman in grave explanation. ‘Her death was a matter of much regret to him.’ He seemed to be about to hold out his hand, but something restrained him; his eyehad lit by chance on the certificate. ‘Good morning, Mr. Erin,’ he said with a stiff bow.‘Good morning, Mr. Kemble.’

TWO DISTINGUISHED VISITORS.

Richard Brinsley Sheridan—

The pride of the palace, the bower, and the hall,The orator, dramatist, minstrel who ranThrough each mode of the lyre and was master of all—

The pride of the palace, the bower, and the hall,

The orator, dramatist, minstrel who ranThrough each mode of the lyre and was master of all—

was a very great man in those days in many ways; but what made him just now of especial importance to Mr. Samuel Erin was that he was the manager of Drury Lane Theatre.

That Mr. Harris, of Covent Garden, should have snapped at the ‘Vortigern’ bait had been a satisfactory circumstance enough (though indeed he had only ‘sucked it’ and got off the hook), but the coming of Sheridan was quite another matter. Compared with him, all other managers were small fry.

It was with a less assured demeanour,therefore, than usual, and with an expectancy somewhat tempered with awe, that Mr. Samuel Erin repaired to the parlour. Even the MS. in his hand had lost some of its virtue in view of the authority who was about to pronounce upon it; it was almost as if he had been a young author with his own play; a work of immense original genius, but which he was about to submit for the first time to a leading publisher. It was some relief to him to feel that Dr. Parr would be present, who was well known to him, and a believer in the Shakespearean manuscripts.

As he entered the room the great man came forward to shake him frankly by the hand. His manner was more than gracious, it was genial, and seemed to put him at his ease in a moment. His appearance was not imposing—a man of forty-five inclined to corpulency, with a loose-fitting coat secured by one button over the chest, and a carelessly knotted white neck-cloth—he wore his own hair, already very grey, tied behind with a black riband. His face was puffy, and evinced signs of what was even then called ‘free living. What redeemed it, however, and invested the whole man with marvellous attraction were his bright and sparkling eyes, which glittered with merriment and good humour. The antiquary was so fascinated with them that for the moment he took no notice of the other person in the room, till Sheridan called his attention to him.

f100

The other, instead of taking his hand, drew himself up.

The other, instead of taking his hand, drew himself up.

The other, instead of taking his hand, drew himself up.

‘You have doubtless seen our friend here pretty often before, Mr. Erin?’ he said smiling.

The antiquary turned round and held out his hand mechanically. The other, however, instead of taking it, drew himself up to his full height (which was a good way), put his hands behind him, and bowed stiffly; it was not Dr. Parr but John Kemble.

Mr. Erin, as a playgoer, had of course seen him ‘pretty often before,’ but generally in royal robes or in armour, attired as a king or a warrior; as it happened he had never before seen him in plain clothes. He had a noble figure and a handsome face—though, strange to say, not a very mobile one—and, so far, was in strong contrast to his companion;the difference in expression was even greater. Mr. Kemble had a sternness of demeanour that was almost forbidding, and which reminded Mr. Erin on the instant that he was an intimate friend of Malone’s.

‘I did not expect the honour of a visit from Mr. Kemble,’ said the antiquary drily.

‘I did not come, sir, of my own free will,’ was the uncompromising reply, delivered in deep tragic tones. ‘I am here at the request of my friend Mr. Sheridan.’

‘Quite true,’ observed that gentleman, his eyes dancing with laughter at the antagonistic attitude of his two companions; the tragedian like a stately St. Bernard with stiff tail, who resents the attention of some half-breed of no insignificant stature, and that ventures to entertain a very tolerable opinion of itself.

‘I dragged him here, Mr. Erin, like iniquity, with cart-ropes. The quarrels of commentators, I know, are like the bars of a castle; they’ll be shot rather than open their arms to one another. For my sake, however, I hope you will, both of you, make a truce while thislittle matter of business is under discussion; then to it again hammer and tongs with all my heart.—Now, where’s this play?’

Mr. Erin produced it from his breast-pocket, into which he had hurriedly thrust it.

‘Oh, that’s it, is it? Gad! he carries it about with him as a mother carries a newborn babe, whose paternity has never been questioned.’

Kemble smiled, as Coriolanus might have done at the mention of gratitude.

‘I think, Mr. Sheridan,’ said the antiquary in an offended tone, ‘if you will be so good as to glance at yonder certificate, including among other authorities your friend Dr. Parr, you must admit that the legitimacy of “Vortigern and Rowena“ is tolerably well established. Herbert Croft, Dr. Walton, the Poet Laureate, Sir James Bland Burgess, are vouchers——’

‘Weighty enough, indeed,’ interposed the manager impatiently; ‘anything ought to go down with such names attached to it. But the play, the play’s the thing. Let’s look at it.’

It was a detail, if report spoke true, thatSheridan did not always insist upon. He had offered to accept a comedy from the authoress of ‘Evelina’ unread, and to put it on the boards of Drury Lane. Even now, when the manuscript was spread out before him, he seemed to shrink from the task he had imposed upon himself.

‘Gad!’ he exclaimed, ‘there seems a good lot of it!’

‘There are two thousand eight hundred lines in all,’ explained Mr. Erin gravely.

‘Fourteen hundred lines are deemed sufficient for an acting drama,’ observed Mr. Kemble acidly.

‘The dramas of William Shakespeare, sir, with which I happen to have some acquaintance,’ returned the antiquary with bitter significance, ‘extend in more than one case to a greater length than the “Vortigern.”’

‘Come, come, Kemble,’ said the manager good-naturedly. ‘Surplusage is no error, and one can hardly complain because one gets two plays for the price of one. Now, Mr. Erin, would you prefer to be present at our investigationor not? Mothers generally shrink from an inquest upon even a foster-child, but there have been Roman matrons——’

‘I make it an invariable rule, Mr. Sheridan,’ put in the antiquary hastily, ‘though on the present occasion there is no ground, of course, for its being put in practice, never to permit the literary offspring of which you speak to leave my hands.’

‘Afraid of body-snatching, eh? Think of you and me wanting to steal a play, Kemble! Why, Drury Lane is a perfect foundling hospital for them. However, just as you please, sir.’

Then, while Mr. Erin sat apart affecting to be immersed in a folio (but with his ears wide open), the two sat down to the manuscript, from which Kemble now and then read aloud in deep sonorous tones, which were not always so sarcastic as he intended them to be.

There was a certain rhythmical roll in many lines like the thunder of the surf, and also (as in its case) a head of foam which gave the impression of strength. For example:—

Full fifty breathless bodies struck my sight;And some with gaping mouths did seem to mock me;Whilst others, smiling in cold death itself,Scoffingly bade me look on that which soonWould wrench from off my brow this sacred crown,And make me too a subject like themselves.

From Kemble’s mouth at least such lines were not wanting in majestic vigour, though he lent it to them involuntarily. It was evident enough, indeed, that he was adverse to the acceptance of the play, while Sheridan was in favour of it. What doubtless furthered Mr. Erin’s hopes was that Sheridan had notoriously no very high opinion of Shakespeare himself; he thought his genius exaggerated. Presently Kemble came to the three best lines in the tragedy—

Give me a sword,

I have so clogged and badged this with bloodAnd slippery gore, that it doth mock my grasp;A sword I say!

A speech he delivered with fine emphasis.

‘Come, that is better than “Titus Andronicus,” anyway,’ said Sheridan slily.

‘An echo, sir, a mere echo of “Richard the Third,”’ growled the tragedian.

‘Let us hope it will answer with “Richard the Fourth,”’ was the laughing rejoinder.

Their disagreement was like the conflict between the whale and a sword-fish, and could have but the same end.

‘I don’t mean to say that some things here are not better than others,’ said Kemble doggedly, ‘though perhaps I may be permitted to add that you hear them to the best advantage; but to me the whole thing has a false ring.’

‘Perhaps it’s my want of ear,’ returned the manager; ‘but do you think, Mr. Kemble,’ here he sank his voice to a whisper, ‘that many peoplehavegood ears?’

The drollery and even roguishness of his face as he hazarded this inquiry was indescribable. The tragedian ‘put the question by’ and pursued his argument.

‘Whatever you think of Shakespeare, Mr. Sheridan, you must allow that he at least always wrote poetry. Now, much of what I have had the honour to read to you is not poetry.’

‘But let us suppose Shakespeare was drunk.’

‘Sir!’ exclaimed the tragedian in an offended tone.

‘Sir!’ echoed the antiquary, dropping the folio with a crash.

‘Good Heavens! gentlemen, may not one even put a postulate? Even Euclid, a writer of little imagination, permits that much. It is not such a very impossible supposition. Have you never heard of a man of genius with a turn for the bottle?’

As he looked very hard at the tragedian, that gentleman felt called upon to reply. ‘I have no personal experience of anything of that kind,’ he said loftily.

‘Well, of course not; how should you?’ returned Sheridan blandly, but with a curve of the lip that seemed to say, ‘We are talking of men of genius.’ Perhaps his reference to his own weakness made him bitter. If it was so, the feeling was very transitory; it was with his most winning smile that he presently addressed his friend, ‘Come, Prester John, wecan do nothing without you in this affair; surely you will not fail us.’

‘I will have no responsibility in the matter,’ was the haughty reply. ‘I will not append my name to yonder list; I will not have it go forth to the world that I admit the genuineness of this production; I will not stamp it with my warranty; I will not——’

‘Tut, tut, man,’ broke in the manager impatiently; ‘but you’ll act, you’ll act.’

‘Well, yes, I will play Vortigern.’

‘And Mrs. Siddons will play Edmunda?’

‘Nay, sir, that is a question for herself. I cannot answer for Sarah; she always takes her own way.’

‘To hear you talk one would think she was your wife instead of your sister,’ said the manager laughing. ‘Then the Country Girl’ (so Mrs. Jordan was called from her first success, which had been made in that piece) ‘shall be Flavia, who has to appear in man’s clothes; she loves to wear the breeches, as the poor Duke has long discovered. Well, we’ll take your friend Shakespeare’s play, Mr. Erin.’ And the manager rose from his chair with a yawn, like one who has concluded a distasteful business.

‘But, ahem! nothing has been said about terms,’ suggested the antiquary.

‘Terms? Does he mean money?’ said the manager, looking towards the tragedian with an air of extreme astonishment, as though he would say, ‘Can I believe my ears?’

‘I am almost inclined to believe he does,’ replied the other, smiling for the first time.

‘But surely not money down; not ready money, he can’t mean that.’

The antiquary’s face unmistakably implied that he did.

‘Good heavens, Mr. Erin, whohasany ready money? I was just talking of the Duke of Clarence, hasheany ready money? Not a guinea—though you should threaten to drown him, like his namesake, in a butt of malmsey—to save his life.’

‘The money might be paid out of the profits of the first night, and then half profits,’ suggested Mr. Erin.

‘Mere details—business,’ cried the manager disdainfully. ‘You must see Albany Wallis about all that. That’s a pretty face,’ he added, stopping abruptly beneath a picture on the wall and pointing to it—’a charming face.’

‘It is the portrait of my niece, Margaret.’

‘Aye, aye; love, faith, a pure soul in a fair body; a true heart, I am sure of it.’

His voice, freighted with genuine feeling, seemed to melt away in music.

‘She is in truth a good girl, Mr. Sheridan: the light of my poor house.’

‘Take care of her, sir; be kind to her, lest, when it is too late, you rue it.’

He was gone in a flash, and the door closed behind him.

Mr. Erin looked at the tragedian in amazement.

‘Some likeness to his late wife, I fancy,’ observed that gentleman in grave explanation. ‘Her death was a matter of much regret to him.’ He seemed to be about to hold out his hand, but something restrained him; his eyehad lit by chance on the certificate. ‘Good morning, Mr. Erin,’ he said with a stiff bow.

‘Good morning, Mr. Kemble.’

CHAPTER XXVI.TWO ACTRESSES.Thearrangements made between Mr. Samuel Erin, on behalf of his son William Henry, ‘an infant,’ with Mr. Albany Wallis, for the production of the play were eminently satisfactory. Mr. Erin was to receive three hundred pounds on the morning after the first night of representation, and half profits for the next sixty nights. Shakespeare himself had probably never made so good a bargain.The news of the acceptance of the ‘Vortigern’ by the management of Drury Lane Theatre immensely increased the public excitement concerning it. In those days ‘Old Drury’ (though indeed it was then far from old) was the national theatre; and the fact of a play being played upon its boards (independentlyof Sheridan having chosen it) gave it a certain imprimatur. It was not unreasonable, therefore, in William Henry that he already saw himself half way to fortune, while his success in love might be said to be assured; there are but few of us in truth who, at his age, are in a position so enviable. For, as when we grow old, prosperity, if it does come, comes but too often too late for its enjoyment, so the sunshine of youth is marred by the uncertainty of its duration, and by the clouds that overhang its future. Of the reception of the ‘Vortigern’ the young fellow had but little doubt; he believed it would run a long and successful course, as most people do believe in the case of the hare of their own finding. And yet the manifestation of his joy was by no means extravagant. The gravity and coolness of his demeanour, which had characterised him throughout the discoveries, did not now desert him. At times, indeed, even when Margaret’s arms were about his neck, he looked anxious and distrait; but when she rallied him about it he had alwaysan explanation, natural enough and not unwelcome to her.‘I feel,’ he said, ‘as you once told me you felt in looking at that fair scene near Stratford, that it seemed almost too beautiful to be real, and that you had a vague fear that it would all melt. When I look on you, dear, I feel the same: such happiness is far too high for me; I have not deserved it, and I fear lest it should never be mine.’‘But youhavedeserved it, Willie,’ she would lovingly reply. ‘Not even my uncle questions that. He spoke of you in the highest terms, he told me, to the Regent himself.’For Mr. Erin had been sent for to Carlton House, and had shown the precious Shakespearean manuscripts to the future ruler of the realm, who had expressed himself as ‘greatly interested.’ He had been unable, he said, to resist the weight of evidence which had been adduced in favour of their authenticity, and had especially admired the ‘Vortigern.’ The old man’s head was almost turned with theroyal praises; and it was not to be wondered at that he had expressed his satisfaction with the youth by whose means he had been introduced into so serene an atmosphere.‘I do not think I am without desert, Madge, though there was a time when you used to think so [an allusion, of course, to her old scepticism as to his genius]; but I do not deserveyou,’ was William Henry’s grave reply.A modest rejoinder, which, we may be sure, secured its reward.Margaret thought that there never had been, and never would be, so deserving a youth as her Willie, or one who, having received his deserts, bore his honours so unassumingly.Nevertheless—for, in spite of the proverb, ‘It never rains but it pours,’ good fortune seldom befalls us mortals without alloy—there were drops of bitterness in his full cup. The Poet Laureate Pye had been reminded of his promise to write a prologue for the ‘Vortigern,’ and had performed it, but by no means in a satisfactory manner.It had come to them one morning at breakfast,and had been received with rapture by Mr. Erin—till he came to read it. It commenced as follows:—If in our scenes your eyes, delighted, find,Marks that denote the mighty master’s mind;If at his words the tears of pity flow,Your hearts with horror fill, with rapture glow,Demand no other proof;But if these proofs should fail, if in the strainYe seek the drama’s awful sire in vain,Should critics, heralds, antiquaries, joinTo give their fiat to each doubtful line,Believe themnot.‘Curse the fellow!’ cried the antiquary, throwing down the manuscript in disgust; ‘why, this is worse than useless. What the devil does he mean by his “ifs“ and “nots”?’‘I fancy Mr. Malone could tell us,’ observed William Henry quietly.‘No doubt, lad, no doubt,’ said Mr. Erin, eagerly catching at this solution of the Laureate’s change of front. ‘That man would drop his poison into the ear of an archangel. Not that Pye is an archangel, nor anything like it.’‘Archangels must write very indifferentpoetry if he is,’ remarked William Henry smiling.‘Just so—a deuced bad poet!’ rejoined Mr. Erin. ‘His prologue, even without an “if“ in it, would damn any play; I’ll write to Burgess—Sir James will do it, I’ll warrant.’And Sir James did it accordingly, and in a fashion much more agreeable to ‘Vortigern’s’ sponsors.No common cause your verdict now demands,Before the court immortal Shakespeare stands;.......Stamp it your own, assert your poet’s fame,And add fresh wreaths to Shakespeare’s honoured name.There was no doubt in Mr. Erin’s mind as to Sir James Bland Burgess being a better poet than Mr. Pye.There were other hitches—nay, absolute breaks-down—which could not be so easily mended. Mrs. Siddons, who it was hoped would play the chief female character, Edmunda, had a severe cold, which was suspected by many people, and known by her friends, to be a stage cold—a malady whichactors and actresses assume at pleasure as a pretext for declining any objectionable part. When a barrister refuses a brief, it is naturally concluded that his client’s cause is precarious—a lawyer, it is argued, would never send money away from his doors except for the gravest reasons; and similarly the ‘Vortigern’ suffered in public estimation when the news of Mrs. Siddons’s indisposition got abroad. Her reason, as Malone and Company averred, was that ‘the whole play was an audacious imposition.’ In this case that flattering unction of ‘There are as good fish in the sea,’ &c., could hardly be laid to Mr. Erin’s soul; it was unquestionably a bitter disappointment; the part had to be given to Mrs. Powell, a much prettier and younger woman, but not the queen of the stage. His sister’s conduct, too, seemed to have an unfavourable effect on Kemble, whose interest in the play was already at the best but lukewarm, and it was felt absolutely necessary to conciliate him.Mr. Erin wrote to him to say that, notwithstanding the circumstance of ‘Vortigern andRowena’ being the production of the immortal bard, the great tragedian was at liberty to use his own excellent judgment in preparing it for the stage.A cold reply was received, to the effect that it should be acted faithfully from the copy sent to the theatre.These were bitter drops; but where is the cup of human prosperity without them? In reading the record of even the most fortunate man’s career, we may be sure that, though it appears to run with such unbroken smoothness, there is many a hitch. We hear the triumphant pæans, but not the deep low notes of chagrin and disappointment that to the hero’s own ear accompany them and turn his blood to gall. The shining shield, bossed with victories, appears to be of solid gold, but there is but a thin coating of it, and underneath lies rusted and corroding iron. It is something, however, to show gold at all; and Margaret was prompt with her comfort.‘When, my dear Willie, was good fortune without its drawbacks? These are but spotsin the sun of our prosperity, and we should have only room in our hearts for gratitude. Think how much sunshine we have had of late, and how far beyond our expectations. When you first chanced upon these wonderful discoveries, how great a thing it would have seemed to you to light on such a treasure trove as the “Vortigern,“ and then to have it accepted by Sheridan for Drury Lane! Think of that!’‘Quite true, my darling; and yet you have not mentioned the highest gift that Fortune has vouchsafed me, compared with which all her other favours are mere gilt and tinsel—your dear self.’‘Tut, tut; you are a born actor, sir, and should offer your services to Mr. Kemble.’He looked at her with troubled eyes, gravely, almost sorrowfully, then folded her to his breast without a word.It was clear, she thought, that Mrs. Siddons’s refusal to play her part had disappointed him cruelly.One day two ladies called to see Mr. Erin.The antiquary, as it happened, was out: upon hearing which, they expressed a wish to see his son. William Henry, who no more went to the office in the New Inn, but transacted his father’s business for him at home (not so much that he was necessary to it as because the old gentleman preferred to keep the lad about him), was neither mounting drawings nor cataloguing prints, but exchanging pretty nothings with Margaret, when the servant came with her message.‘Ladies to seeyou, Willie,’ said she, laughing. ‘I am almost inclined to be jealous; I wonder what can be their business?’‘They want to see the MSS., I suppose,’ he said indifferently. ‘Well, at all events I can’t get at them; your uncle has taken the key of the chest with him.’Margaret shook her head.‘They have come about the play,’ she said; ‘they are actresses.’This was a conclusion to which William Henry had already arrived, though he had notthought it worth while to mention it. His heart, indeed, had leapt up within him at the news in question, not that he was the least inclined to play the gay Lothario, but that everything connected with the representation of the ‘Vortigern’ immensely interested him. Hitherto he had been kept out of it; the whole affair had been carried on up to this point without his interference, as indeed was natural enough; it was not as if the ‘Vortigern’ had beenhisplay.‘It is very unlikely,’ said William Henry diplomatically; ‘but it is possible they want Mr. Erin’s opinion about some reading, and since I know his views I had perhaps better see them.’His tone was interrogative, but he did not wait to hear her opinion on the subject, but at once repaired to the parlour. That apartment, hallowed by so many antiquarian associations, was now tenanted by two persons of a very different stamp from those who generally visited it. ‘If critics and commentatorsindeed were beings like these,’ was the young rogue’s reflection, ‘“cherished folios“ would be things to be envied.’Both ladies were young, though an expert in such matters, which William Henry was not, might have come to the conclusion that they were not quite so young as they looked. It is true they were neither painted nor powdered; but besides being very fashionably and becomingly dressed, there was that brightness of expression in their lively faces which makes more head against time than all the cosmetics in the world. It is always a matter of surprise among dull people that actresses, even of a high type, should be so popular, and often make such good matches with men of culture and good breeding. The reason is, I think, that if they are not natural, they at least do their best to appear so; they do not stifle nature, as is the habit of some of their sex who are much more highly placed. Languor and studied indifference are not of themselves attractive, and they are suspected, and withreason, of being very convenient cloaks for stupidity.The intelligence of these ladies shone in their eyes, which also twinkled with amusement. They had both had a very hard time of it during one portion of their lives, but it had extinguished neither their good-nature nor their sense of humour. The appearance of William Henry, who looked all youth and simplicity, instead of the snuffy old antiquary whom they had expected to see, tickled them excessively. The fact that he was very good-looking also aroused their interest. If they had come upon business, in short, they remained for pleasure; and the sense of this (for it was unmistakable) embarrassed not a little their involuntary host.By sight he knew both the ladies; the younger was Mrs. Powell, a handsome woman, very tall and elegant, who had of late stepped into a much higher rank of her profession, as, indeed, was clear enough from her having been made the substitute of Mrs. Siddons in theforthcoming tragedy. Just now, however, she was undertaking comedy, and her melodious tones and speaking face made a harmony like ‘the voice and the instrument.’The other lady was Mrs. Jordan, who, without enjoying so high a dramatic reputation, was a still greater favourite with the public. She, too, was tall and comely, but her beauty was of a simpler type—it would be better described as loveliness. The charms which had carried all before them when she made her fame as ‘The Country Girl’ were more mature, but not less attractive. The world of play-goers was at her feet, the knowledge that an eminent personage had gained her affections, and even, it was said, contracted a private marriage with her, aroused the envy of many a gilded flutterer, and had driven at least one of them to despair. Her tenderness of disposition and generosity to the distressed were notorious, and could be read in her smile.‘We have ventured to call upon you, Mr. Erin, as you may perhaps guess, with reference to “Vortigern and Rowena,”’ said Mrs. Powell.‘I am so sorry, but my father is not at home,’ stammered William Henry.‘Well, really!’ returned the lady reproachfully.‘At all events,weare not sorry,’ said Mrs. Jordan slily.‘I did not mean—you know what I mean,’ pleaded William Henry with a blush that they probably envied. ‘I am so sorry to be so awkward, but I am very young.’‘Does he mean to say that we arenot?’ ejaculated Mrs. Powell with a majestic air. ‘Great heavens!’‘I think, sister, since he has thrown himself upon the mercy of the court,’ interposed Mrs. Jordan good-naturedly, ‘that we should not be hard upon him.’‘Youth and inexperience,’ exclaimed Mrs. Powell judicially, ‘are no excuses for crime; but since my learned sister—— You have seen her as Portia, no doubt, young man, and a very pretty lawyer she makes—don’t you think so?It was like two people speaking from thesame mouth—the one all gaiety, the other all merriment.‘Of course I have seen her, who has not?’ said William Henry, plucking up his courage, though with such desperation that it almost came away by the roots.‘That’s much better,’ smiled Mrs. Jordan approvingly.‘I am not sure,’ returned her companion. ‘Do you not also rememberme, sir?’‘Who could forget you who remembers “Juliet,“ madam?’ returned the young gentleman, with his hand (as he thought) upon his heart.‘Left side, sir, the next time,’ observed his tormentor encouragingly; ‘anatomy has not been a special study with you, but you improve in manners. We are here to test your gallantry, to sue for favours.’‘Whatever lies within my humble power to do for you, madam, may be considered as done.’‘Did I say “improves”? Why, he’s perfect,’ said Mrs. Powell, with a laughing glance at her companion. ‘But it’s all for love of Portia,’ she added with a sigh.f128’That’s much better,’ smiled Mrs. Jordan, approvingly.‘No, of Juliet,’ returned Mrs. Jordan, with another shake of her pretty head.There was a gentle tap at the door; a face, a very charming one, looked in, and with a murmured apology withdrew as suddenly as it had come.‘Curiosity,’ said Mrs. Jordan softly, her eyes twinkling like two stars.‘Jealousy,’ answered Mrs. Powell derisively. ‘I do not askwhichwas it, butwhowas it, sir?’‘I don’t know,’ said William Henry boldly; ‘I had my back to the door.’At this both ladies burst out laughing, if an expression so coarse can be applied to as musical mirth as ever rippled from the lips of woman.‘Hedoesn’t know,’ cried Mrs. Powell; ‘and this is the young gentleman we took for all simplicity. How dare you, sir? As if her fairy footfall was not evidence enough to your throbbing ears, as if her coming here at allto see how you were getting on with two wicked young women from Drury Lane, was not sufficient proof of her identity?’ Then turning to her companion, ‘How dreadful to contemplate is his depravity! So young in years, and yet so versed in duplicity.’‘You are engaged to be married to her, of course,’ said Mrs. Jordan softly.‘Well, yes, madam,’ admitted William Henry; he could not help thinking how charming she would look as the page, Flavia.‘Don’t be ashamed of it, young gentleman,’ said Mrs. Jordan gravely.‘It is to your credit, remember, if not to hers,’ interpolated Mrs. Powell ambiguously.‘And does this pretty creature live in the house?’ continued Mrs. Jordan with tender interest.‘Yes, madam; she is my cousin, Margaret Slade.’‘How nice! I never had a cousin when I was so young as that. How I envy her!’‘“This shall to the Duke,”’ quoted Mrs.Powell menacingly. Then they both laughed again.William Henry was dazzled, delighted, and a little uncomfortable.‘We must not take up his time,’ said Mrs. Jordan rising and consulting her watch.‘Now that we know that he is so very muchengaged,’ assented Mrs. Powell slily.‘But you have not told me your business ladies,’ observed William Henry naïvely.Then they both laughed again, as they well might, for the truth was that, having something so very much more pleasant in hand, they had forgotten all about it; they were not bees, but butterflies.‘The fact is—only your company is so delightful it put our business out of our heads—we want to go over the play with you.’‘There is but one copy in the house, ladies, in yonder safe, and I am sorry to say my father has the key.’‘Then you must bring it to the theatre to-morrow morning, sir,’ said Mrs. Powell imperiously.William Henry shook his head. ‘That is the original Shakespeare MS., madam; I could not venture on such a step.’‘What ridiculous scruples!’ cried Mrs. Powell impatiently, beating her pretty foot upon the floor.‘But we can use the acting copy,’ suggested Mrs. Jordan, ‘and—if this young gentleman will be so good as to come himself.’ Anything sweeter or more seductive than her tone it was impossible to imagine; even the very pause and break in the sentence had literally an unspeakable charm.‘I will come with the greatest pleasure,’ said William Henry.There was indeed no reason why he should not do so, but if there had been it would have been all the same. He was fascinated.‘To-morrow, then, at eleven o’clock,’ she said, and held out her hand; he pressed it, and she returned the pressure, but with mirthful eyes.Mrs. Powell shook hands with him too, and shook her head as she did so. ‘Poor young man!’ she said; ‘poor Margaret!’Then they both laughed again: they laughed in the parlour, they laughed in the passage, they laughed on the very doorstep. As Margaret said of them after their departure, somewhat severely, ‘They seemed to be a pair of very frivolous young women.’

TWO ACTRESSES.

Thearrangements made between Mr. Samuel Erin, on behalf of his son William Henry, ‘an infant,’ with Mr. Albany Wallis, for the production of the play were eminently satisfactory. Mr. Erin was to receive three hundred pounds on the morning after the first night of representation, and half profits for the next sixty nights. Shakespeare himself had probably never made so good a bargain.

The news of the acceptance of the ‘Vortigern’ by the management of Drury Lane Theatre immensely increased the public excitement concerning it. In those days ‘Old Drury’ (though indeed it was then far from old) was the national theatre; and the fact of a play being played upon its boards (independentlyof Sheridan having chosen it) gave it a certain imprimatur. It was not unreasonable, therefore, in William Henry that he already saw himself half way to fortune, while his success in love might be said to be assured; there are but few of us in truth who, at his age, are in a position so enviable. For, as when we grow old, prosperity, if it does come, comes but too often too late for its enjoyment, so the sunshine of youth is marred by the uncertainty of its duration, and by the clouds that overhang its future. Of the reception of the ‘Vortigern’ the young fellow had but little doubt; he believed it would run a long and successful course, as most people do believe in the case of the hare of their own finding. And yet the manifestation of his joy was by no means extravagant. The gravity and coolness of his demeanour, which had characterised him throughout the discoveries, did not now desert him. At times, indeed, even when Margaret’s arms were about his neck, he looked anxious and distrait; but when she rallied him about it he had alwaysan explanation, natural enough and not unwelcome to her.

‘I feel,’ he said, ‘as you once told me you felt in looking at that fair scene near Stratford, that it seemed almost too beautiful to be real, and that you had a vague fear that it would all melt. When I look on you, dear, I feel the same: such happiness is far too high for me; I have not deserved it, and I fear lest it should never be mine.’

‘But youhavedeserved it, Willie,’ she would lovingly reply. ‘Not even my uncle questions that. He spoke of you in the highest terms, he told me, to the Regent himself.’

For Mr. Erin had been sent for to Carlton House, and had shown the precious Shakespearean manuscripts to the future ruler of the realm, who had expressed himself as ‘greatly interested.’ He had been unable, he said, to resist the weight of evidence which had been adduced in favour of their authenticity, and had especially admired the ‘Vortigern.’ The old man’s head was almost turned with theroyal praises; and it was not to be wondered at that he had expressed his satisfaction with the youth by whose means he had been introduced into so serene an atmosphere.

‘I do not think I am without desert, Madge, though there was a time when you used to think so [an allusion, of course, to her old scepticism as to his genius]; but I do not deserveyou,’ was William Henry’s grave reply.

A modest rejoinder, which, we may be sure, secured its reward.

Margaret thought that there never had been, and never would be, so deserving a youth as her Willie, or one who, having received his deserts, bore his honours so unassumingly.

Nevertheless—for, in spite of the proverb, ‘It never rains but it pours,’ good fortune seldom befalls us mortals without alloy—there were drops of bitterness in his full cup. The Poet Laureate Pye had been reminded of his promise to write a prologue for the ‘Vortigern,’ and had performed it, but by no means in a satisfactory manner.

It had come to them one morning at breakfast,and had been received with rapture by Mr. Erin—till he came to read it. It commenced as follows:—

If in our scenes your eyes, delighted, find,Marks that denote the mighty master’s mind;If at his words the tears of pity flow,Your hearts with horror fill, with rapture glow,Demand no other proof;But if these proofs should fail, if in the strainYe seek the drama’s awful sire in vain,Should critics, heralds, antiquaries, joinTo give their fiat to each doubtful line,Believe themnot.

‘Curse the fellow!’ cried the antiquary, throwing down the manuscript in disgust; ‘why, this is worse than useless. What the devil does he mean by his “ifs“ and “nots”?’

‘I fancy Mr. Malone could tell us,’ observed William Henry quietly.

‘No doubt, lad, no doubt,’ said Mr. Erin, eagerly catching at this solution of the Laureate’s change of front. ‘That man would drop his poison into the ear of an archangel. Not that Pye is an archangel, nor anything like it.’

‘Archangels must write very indifferentpoetry if he is,’ remarked William Henry smiling.

‘Just so—a deuced bad poet!’ rejoined Mr. Erin. ‘His prologue, even without an “if“ in it, would damn any play; I’ll write to Burgess—Sir James will do it, I’ll warrant.’

And Sir James did it accordingly, and in a fashion much more agreeable to ‘Vortigern’s’ sponsors.

No common cause your verdict now demands,Before the court immortal Shakespeare stands;

.......

Stamp it your own, assert your poet’s fame,And add fresh wreaths to Shakespeare’s honoured name.

There was no doubt in Mr. Erin’s mind as to Sir James Bland Burgess being a better poet than Mr. Pye.

There were other hitches—nay, absolute breaks-down—which could not be so easily mended. Mrs. Siddons, who it was hoped would play the chief female character, Edmunda, had a severe cold, which was suspected by many people, and known by her friends, to be a stage cold—a malady whichactors and actresses assume at pleasure as a pretext for declining any objectionable part. When a barrister refuses a brief, it is naturally concluded that his client’s cause is precarious—a lawyer, it is argued, would never send money away from his doors except for the gravest reasons; and similarly the ‘Vortigern’ suffered in public estimation when the news of Mrs. Siddons’s indisposition got abroad. Her reason, as Malone and Company averred, was that ‘the whole play was an audacious imposition.’ In this case that flattering unction of ‘There are as good fish in the sea,’ &c., could hardly be laid to Mr. Erin’s soul; it was unquestionably a bitter disappointment; the part had to be given to Mrs. Powell, a much prettier and younger woman, but not the queen of the stage. His sister’s conduct, too, seemed to have an unfavourable effect on Kemble, whose interest in the play was already at the best but lukewarm, and it was felt absolutely necessary to conciliate him.

Mr. Erin wrote to him to say that, notwithstanding the circumstance of ‘Vortigern andRowena’ being the production of the immortal bard, the great tragedian was at liberty to use his own excellent judgment in preparing it for the stage.

A cold reply was received, to the effect that it should be acted faithfully from the copy sent to the theatre.

These were bitter drops; but where is the cup of human prosperity without them? In reading the record of even the most fortunate man’s career, we may be sure that, though it appears to run with such unbroken smoothness, there is many a hitch. We hear the triumphant pæans, but not the deep low notes of chagrin and disappointment that to the hero’s own ear accompany them and turn his blood to gall. The shining shield, bossed with victories, appears to be of solid gold, but there is but a thin coating of it, and underneath lies rusted and corroding iron. It is something, however, to show gold at all; and Margaret was prompt with her comfort.

‘When, my dear Willie, was good fortune without its drawbacks? These are but spotsin the sun of our prosperity, and we should have only room in our hearts for gratitude. Think how much sunshine we have had of late, and how far beyond our expectations. When you first chanced upon these wonderful discoveries, how great a thing it would have seemed to you to light on such a treasure trove as the “Vortigern,“ and then to have it accepted by Sheridan for Drury Lane! Think of that!’

‘Quite true, my darling; and yet you have not mentioned the highest gift that Fortune has vouchsafed me, compared with which all her other favours are mere gilt and tinsel—your dear self.’

‘Tut, tut; you are a born actor, sir, and should offer your services to Mr. Kemble.’

He looked at her with troubled eyes, gravely, almost sorrowfully, then folded her to his breast without a word.

It was clear, she thought, that Mrs. Siddons’s refusal to play her part had disappointed him cruelly.

One day two ladies called to see Mr. Erin.The antiquary, as it happened, was out: upon hearing which, they expressed a wish to see his son. William Henry, who no more went to the office in the New Inn, but transacted his father’s business for him at home (not so much that he was necessary to it as because the old gentleman preferred to keep the lad about him), was neither mounting drawings nor cataloguing prints, but exchanging pretty nothings with Margaret, when the servant came with her message.

‘Ladies to seeyou, Willie,’ said she, laughing. ‘I am almost inclined to be jealous; I wonder what can be their business?’

‘They want to see the MSS., I suppose,’ he said indifferently. ‘Well, at all events I can’t get at them; your uncle has taken the key of the chest with him.’

Margaret shook her head.

‘They have come about the play,’ she said; ‘they are actresses.’

This was a conclusion to which William Henry had already arrived, though he had notthought it worth while to mention it. His heart, indeed, had leapt up within him at the news in question, not that he was the least inclined to play the gay Lothario, but that everything connected with the representation of the ‘Vortigern’ immensely interested him. Hitherto he had been kept out of it; the whole affair had been carried on up to this point without his interference, as indeed was natural enough; it was not as if the ‘Vortigern’ had beenhisplay.

‘It is very unlikely,’ said William Henry diplomatically; ‘but it is possible they want Mr. Erin’s opinion about some reading, and since I know his views I had perhaps better see them.’

His tone was interrogative, but he did not wait to hear her opinion on the subject, but at once repaired to the parlour. That apartment, hallowed by so many antiquarian associations, was now tenanted by two persons of a very different stamp from those who generally visited it. ‘If critics and commentatorsindeed were beings like these,’ was the young rogue’s reflection, ‘“cherished folios“ would be things to be envied.’

Both ladies were young, though an expert in such matters, which William Henry was not, might have come to the conclusion that they were not quite so young as they looked. It is true they were neither painted nor powdered; but besides being very fashionably and becomingly dressed, there was that brightness of expression in their lively faces which makes more head against time than all the cosmetics in the world. It is always a matter of surprise among dull people that actresses, even of a high type, should be so popular, and often make such good matches with men of culture and good breeding. The reason is, I think, that if they are not natural, they at least do their best to appear so; they do not stifle nature, as is the habit of some of their sex who are much more highly placed. Languor and studied indifference are not of themselves attractive, and they are suspected, and withreason, of being very convenient cloaks for stupidity.

The intelligence of these ladies shone in their eyes, which also twinkled with amusement. They had both had a very hard time of it during one portion of their lives, but it had extinguished neither their good-nature nor their sense of humour. The appearance of William Henry, who looked all youth and simplicity, instead of the snuffy old antiquary whom they had expected to see, tickled them excessively. The fact that he was very good-looking also aroused their interest. If they had come upon business, in short, they remained for pleasure; and the sense of this (for it was unmistakable) embarrassed not a little their involuntary host.

By sight he knew both the ladies; the younger was Mrs. Powell, a handsome woman, very tall and elegant, who had of late stepped into a much higher rank of her profession, as, indeed, was clear enough from her having been made the substitute of Mrs. Siddons in theforthcoming tragedy. Just now, however, she was undertaking comedy, and her melodious tones and speaking face made a harmony like ‘the voice and the instrument.’

The other lady was Mrs. Jordan, who, without enjoying so high a dramatic reputation, was a still greater favourite with the public. She, too, was tall and comely, but her beauty was of a simpler type—it would be better described as loveliness. The charms which had carried all before them when she made her fame as ‘The Country Girl’ were more mature, but not less attractive. The world of play-goers was at her feet, the knowledge that an eminent personage had gained her affections, and even, it was said, contracted a private marriage with her, aroused the envy of many a gilded flutterer, and had driven at least one of them to despair. Her tenderness of disposition and generosity to the distressed were notorious, and could be read in her smile.

‘We have ventured to call upon you, Mr. Erin, as you may perhaps guess, with reference to “Vortigern and Rowena,”’ said Mrs. Powell.

‘I am so sorry, but my father is not at home,’ stammered William Henry.

‘Well, really!’ returned the lady reproachfully.

‘At all events,weare not sorry,’ said Mrs. Jordan slily.

‘I did not mean—you know what I mean,’ pleaded William Henry with a blush that they probably envied. ‘I am so sorry to be so awkward, but I am very young.’

‘Does he mean to say that we arenot?’ ejaculated Mrs. Powell with a majestic air. ‘Great heavens!’

‘I think, sister, since he has thrown himself upon the mercy of the court,’ interposed Mrs. Jordan good-naturedly, ‘that we should not be hard upon him.’

‘Youth and inexperience,’ exclaimed Mrs. Powell judicially, ‘are no excuses for crime; but since my learned sister—— You have seen her as Portia, no doubt, young man, and a very pretty lawyer she makes—don’t you think so?

It was like two people speaking from thesame mouth—the one all gaiety, the other all merriment.

‘Of course I have seen her, who has not?’ said William Henry, plucking up his courage, though with such desperation that it almost came away by the roots.

‘That’s much better,’ smiled Mrs. Jordan approvingly.

‘I am not sure,’ returned her companion. ‘Do you not also rememberme, sir?’

‘Who could forget you who remembers “Juliet,“ madam?’ returned the young gentleman, with his hand (as he thought) upon his heart.

‘Left side, sir, the next time,’ observed his tormentor encouragingly; ‘anatomy has not been a special study with you, but you improve in manners. We are here to test your gallantry, to sue for favours.’

‘Whatever lies within my humble power to do for you, madam, may be considered as done.’

‘Did I say “improves”? Why, he’s perfect,’ said Mrs. Powell, with a laughing glance at her companion. ‘But it’s all for love of Portia,’ she added with a sigh.

f128

’That’s much better,’ smiled Mrs. Jordan, approvingly.

’That’s much better,’ smiled Mrs. Jordan, approvingly.

’That’s much better,’ smiled Mrs. Jordan, approvingly.

‘No, of Juliet,’ returned Mrs. Jordan, with another shake of her pretty head.

There was a gentle tap at the door; a face, a very charming one, looked in, and with a murmured apology withdrew as suddenly as it had come.

‘Curiosity,’ said Mrs. Jordan softly, her eyes twinkling like two stars.

‘Jealousy,’ answered Mrs. Powell derisively. ‘I do not askwhichwas it, butwhowas it, sir?’

‘I don’t know,’ said William Henry boldly; ‘I had my back to the door.’

At this both ladies burst out laughing, if an expression so coarse can be applied to as musical mirth as ever rippled from the lips of woman.

‘Hedoesn’t know,’ cried Mrs. Powell; ‘and this is the young gentleman we took for all simplicity. How dare you, sir? As if her fairy footfall was not evidence enough to your throbbing ears, as if her coming here at allto see how you were getting on with two wicked young women from Drury Lane, was not sufficient proof of her identity?’ Then turning to her companion, ‘How dreadful to contemplate is his depravity! So young in years, and yet so versed in duplicity.’

‘You are engaged to be married to her, of course,’ said Mrs. Jordan softly.

‘Well, yes, madam,’ admitted William Henry; he could not help thinking how charming she would look as the page, Flavia.

‘Don’t be ashamed of it, young gentleman,’ said Mrs. Jordan gravely.

‘It is to your credit, remember, if not to hers,’ interpolated Mrs. Powell ambiguously.

‘And does this pretty creature live in the house?’ continued Mrs. Jordan with tender interest.

‘Yes, madam; she is my cousin, Margaret Slade.’

‘How nice! I never had a cousin when I was so young as that. How I envy her!’

‘“This shall to the Duke,”’ quoted Mrs.Powell menacingly. Then they both laughed again.

William Henry was dazzled, delighted, and a little uncomfortable.

‘We must not take up his time,’ said Mrs. Jordan rising and consulting her watch.

‘Now that we know that he is so very muchengaged,’ assented Mrs. Powell slily.

‘But you have not told me your business ladies,’ observed William Henry naïvely.

Then they both laughed again, as they well might, for the truth was that, having something so very much more pleasant in hand, they had forgotten all about it; they were not bees, but butterflies.

‘The fact is—only your company is so delightful it put our business out of our heads—we want to go over the play with you.’

‘There is but one copy in the house, ladies, in yonder safe, and I am sorry to say my father has the key.’

‘Then you must bring it to the theatre to-morrow morning, sir,’ said Mrs. Powell imperiously.

William Henry shook his head. ‘That is the original Shakespeare MS., madam; I could not venture on such a step.’

‘What ridiculous scruples!’ cried Mrs. Powell impatiently, beating her pretty foot upon the floor.

‘But we can use the acting copy,’ suggested Mrs. Jordan, ‘and—if this young gentleman will be so good as to come himself.’ Anything sweeter or more seductive than her tone it was impossible to imagine; even the very pause and break in the sentence had literally an unspeakable charm.

‘I will come with the greatest pleasure,’ said William Henry.

There was indeed no reason why he should not do so, but if there had been it would have been all the same. He was fascinated.

‘To-morrow, then, at eleven o’clock,’ she said, and held out her hand; he pressed it, and she returned the pressure, but with mirthful eyes.

Mrs. Powell shook hands with him too, and shook her head as she did so. ‘Poor young man!’ she said; ‘poor Margaret!’

Then they both laughed again: they laughed in the parlour, they laughed in the passage, they laughed on the very doorstep. As Margaret said of them after their departure, somewhat severely, ‘They seemed to be a pair of very frivolous young women.’

CHAPTER XXVII.A ROYAL PATRON.William Henryperformed his promise punctually, and presented himself next morning at Drury Lane. He had never been inside a theatre by daylight before, and the contrast of the scene to that to which he had been accustomed struck him very forcibly. If any young gentleman belonging to me were stage-struck, I should ask the permission of the lessee ofone of our National Theatres to allow me to introduce him into its auditorium some dullish morning. If his enthusiasm survived, I will believe that the passion for the sea will still remain in a boy’s breast after a visit to a ship’s cockpit. The spectacle of those draped galleries, those empty seats and ill-lit space, where all was wont to be light and laughter, is little short of ghastly. William Henry indeed only caught glimpses of it here and there, through the eye-holes over the doors, as he was led through the echoing passages to the back of the stage; but they were sufficient. He in vain attempted to picture to himself the very different appearance the place would bear when probably he should see it next, at the representation of ‘Vortigern and Rowena.’His imagination was chilled. The object of his visit, even though it might well have done so, since it was to be interviewed by two of the most charming women on the English stage, did not fill him with the pleasurable anticipation which he had experienced when he had received their invitation. There was noharm in it, of course, but he had come without Margaret’s knowledge, and his conscience reproached him for so doing. It was, no doubt, her own fault; she had shown such unmistakable feelings of jealousy on the previous day, and had expressed such uncharitable views on the character of actresses in general, that he had shrunk from telling her of the appointment he had made for to-morrow. It was a pity that the dear girl was so unreasonable; for, though she had entirely agreed with him that Mrs. Powell’s conduct, of which he had given her an amusing version, had been pert, she had failed to understand what a contrast that of Mrs. Jordan afforded, or how distinctly it bespoke a simple and ingenuous nature. He had never dreamt, of course, of repeating Mrs. Powell’s parting remark about ‘poor Margaret;’ but if such a notion had entered his mind, the manner in which the dear girl had received other details of the little interview would have forbidden it. He felt quite certain that she was capable of believing that Mrs. Jordan was ready to fall in love with him, or even hadalready done it. The very idea of such a thing, when she knew he was engaged to somebody else, was, of course, ridiculous. He thought that it would have set Margaret’s mind at ease to tell her that he had given that piece of information to the ladies, whereas it had aroused her indignation, not indeed against him but against them. ‘What right had they to ask such questions? It was impertinent, forward, and indelicate; and she did hope that those young women would never commit the impropriety of calling in Norfolk Street and asking to see a young gentleman, with whom they could have no earthly business, again.’And now, unknown to Margaret, he was going to seethem. The conscience at seventeen is tender, and it was no wonder William Henry’s smote him. At that age, however, the memory (for some things) is unfortunately short, and when a door suddenly opened from a labyrinthine passage, into a prettily furnished room, where Mrs. Jordan, reclining in an arm-chair, was reading with rapt attention a certain manuscripthe recognised, he thought he had never seen anyone so beautiful before.She arose with a pleasant smile, and a natural coquettish air which became her charmingly, and bade him welcome.‘Pray come in,’ said she, for he stood at the door entranced; ‘it is not everyone that is admitted into my dressing-room, but I shan’t bite you.’It was not the least like a dressing-room except that it had a multiplicity of mirrors, but her calling it so discomposed him (he could not help thinking to himself how very much more, if she had but known it, it would have discomposed Margaret); his knees had a tendency to knock together, and he felt that he looked like a fool.‘You need not be afraid,’ continued the lady smiling, not displeased perhaps to see the effect she had produced in him, the symptoms of which were not unfamiliar to her; ‘Mrs. Powell will be here directly—she is not so punctual as you are.’‘She has not so much reason to be, madam,’ said William Henry. The words had occurred to him as if by inspiration, but directly they were uttered he repented of them. He had intended them to be very gallant, but they now struck him as exceedingly foolish.‘He is certainly a very amusing young man,’ said the lady, as if addressing a third person. ‘Pray sit down, sir. I saw your father after I had the pleasure of seeing you yesterday. You are not in the least alike. You should have seen Kemble and him together; it was as good as any play. They don’t hit it off together so well as you and I do. Perhaps you will say again they have not so much reason.’‘It was a very unfortunate remark of mine,’ said William Henry penitently.‘I don’t know that; you needn’t be so hard upon yourself. I think you had an idea that you were somehow paying me a compliment. For my part, however, I have enough of compliments, and prefer a little honesty for a change.’William Henry bethought him of saying something about the genuineness of some compliments,but by the expression of her face, which had suddenly become grave, he judged that she had had enough of the subject, and remained silent.‘And how is Margaret?’The young man blushed to the roots of his hair, and blushed the more because he felt himself blushing.‘I have heard of the young lady from your father, and nothing but good of her. I hope’—this with great severity—’that you are not ashamed of her, sir.’‘No, madam.’‘And I hope, sir’—this with an angry flash of her bright eyes—’that you are not ashamed ofme.’‘Madam!’‘Then why did you not tell her that you were coming here?’William Henry bit his lip, and was about to stammer something he knew not what, when fortunately there was a knock at the door.‘Come in,’ said Mrs. Jordan.The knocking was continued very loudly,but the permission was not repeated. Mrs. Jordan began to laugh, and at every recurrence of the summons laughed more and more. Then the door was opened a very little way. ‘Are you sure that I may come in, Dorothy? Are you sure I don’t intrude?’ inquired a musical voice in accents of pretended anxiety.And then Mrs. Powell entered.‘You are late,’ observed Mrs. Jordan reprovingly; ‘that is not like your usual habits.’‘I thought you might like to have a little time to yourselves, my dear,’ replied the other with great simplicity. ‘I am quite sorry to trouble you with business matters, Mr. Erin, but the fact is it’s pressing. I must have Edmunda altered; she is heavy in hand.’‘But, my dear madam, what has that to do withme?’‘With you? Why, everything; to whom else can I come? Kemble won’t listen to me; your father, a most respectable man no doubt, is quite impracticable, and only raves about the Immortal Bard.’‘But I cannot alter Shakespeare’s play, madam.’‘Why not? He’s dead, isn’t he? Besides, his plays have been often enough altered before. Garrick did it for one.’‘Perhaps, madam; but then I am not Garrick. I can no more alter a play than write one.’‘Upon my word, my dear,’ interposed Mrs. Jordan, ‘there is a good deal in what Mr. Erin says. I want to have things altered in my own part, but if, as he tells us——’‘Pooh! nonsense,’ broke in the other; ‘you have nothing to complain of in Flavia. She is in man’s clothes, which fit you to a nicety, and that is all you need care about.’‘If he takes my advice he won’t touch the play,’ said Mrs. Jordan, fairly trembling with rage.‘There you see the Country Girl,’ said Mrs. Powell, pointing to her friend with a little hand that trembled too. ‘Her temper is only so long’ (she indicated the twentieth part of an inch). ‘Nobody can say that she has not anatural manner, or does not know how to blush.’‘Nobody can say of Mrs. Powell,’ retorted the other, ‘when she tries to blush, that her beauty is only skin deep.’It was certainly a most terrible scene, and most heartily did William Henry wish himself back in Norfolk Street. At that very moment, however, when he expected to see them dig their nails into one another, both ladies burst out laughing. He began to think that either their rage or their laughter must needs be artificial, whereas, in fact, while they lasted they were both real enough. Mirth with them was the natural safety valve of all their passions, and a very excellent mechanical contrivance too.‘But won’t you just lighten my Edmunda a little, Mr. Erin,’ persisted Mrs. Powell; ‘a touch here and a touch there?’‘My dear madam, supposing even I were capable of doing such a thing (which I am not), just consider what people would say if I touched the play. Even now our enemiesattack its authenticity, and what a handle must such a proceeding needs afford them.’‘That is surely reasonable,’ observed Mrs. Jordan for the second time.‘I don’t know about reasonable,’ returned Mrs. Powell with a most bewitching pout; ‘but I know if you were not here I could persuade him.’‘Shall I leave you?’ said Mrs. Jordan, making a feint of retiring from the room.‘Oh no,’ pleaded William Henry involuntarily.‘Well, upon my life,’ cried Mrs. Powell, ‘you are a most complimentary young man! However, I’ll leaveyou, which considering the company you are in, will be quite revenge enough.’ She stood at the door, drawn up to her full height like a tragedy queen; then suddenly altering her tone, her air, her voice, and becoming as if by magic the very picture of pity, she added ‘Poor Margaret!’ and was gone.‘She is a queer mad creature, but means no harm,’ said Mrs. Jordan consolingly. ‘Shewas angry at your refusal to alter her part for her, and when she is angry she will say anything. You must not mind her. Now, I’ve taken a fancy to you, Master——. By the bye, what is your name?’‘Erin.’‘Chut! I mean your Christian name?’‘William Henry.’‘And what does Margaret call you?’‘Willie.’‘Very good; then since I have no wish to poach on Margaret’s preserves, I shall call you “Henry.“ I have taken a fancy to you, Master Henry, and mean to do you a service; a gentleman of influence, with whom I have some interest, wants to look at these Shakespeare manuscripts, and has directed them to be at his house this morning.’‘I am afraid they will not be there,’ said William Henry. ‘My father has never permitted them to leave Norfolk Street except once, at the personal request of the Prince Regent.’‘Nevertheless, I think the gentleman Ispeak of will have his way,’ said the actress, smiling. ‘Now I wish him, in case he sees the manuscripts, to see their discoverer also. Perhaps he may give him a helping hand.’‘You are very kind,’ said William Henry gently: it was not gratitude for the favour to come that moved him, for he had no suspicion how it was to be realised, but her evident warmth of feeling towards him. Her manner had not only an exquisite grace, but an unmistakable tenderness; and then she was so exceedingly handsome. A young man’s heart is like the tinder, which in those days, with flint and steel, was the substitute for our lucifer matches; away from its box it is liable to danger from every spark. ‘You are very good and kind,’ repeated William Henry mechanically; he felt an impulse, hard to be withstood, to add ‘and very beautiful.’‘I am not good,’ said his companion, gravely, ‘but I suppose I am kind enough. It is much easier, my young friend, to be kind than good. Well, now I am going to take you to this gentleman.’She put on her cloak and bonnet, and led the way to the stage door of the theatre. A closed carriage, well appointed, was at the door, in waiting for her, and they took their seats. In a few minutes they were whirled to their destination—a huge red house set in a courtyard, with which William Henry was unacquainted, or which in the perturbation of his mind he failed to recognise. They passed through certain corridors into a large room looking on a garden. It was handsomely furnished; a harp stood in one corner, a piano in the other; the walls were hung with beautiful pictures. But what aroused William Henry’s amazement, and prevented him from giving his attention elsewhere, was the circumstance that on a table by the window were arranged the whole collection of the Shakespeare papers.‘You are looking for your father’s blood upon them,’ said Mrs. Jordan, smiling; ‘you are thinking to yourself that he must surely have been cut to pieces ere he would havepermitted them to leave his hands. But the fact is—— Hush, here comes your future patron.’William Henry was used to a patron, and for that matter to a sufficiently mysterious one; but for the moment he was devoured by curiosity, mingled with a certain awe. The appearance of the new-comer, if he had expected to see anyone very magnificent, must have been a disappointment to him, for it certainly was not of an imposing kind. There entered the room, so rapidly that he almost seemed to run, a young man of thirty, somewhat inclined to corpulence, with a cheery good-natured face, but decidedly commonplace in its expression.‘Well, well, Dorothy, you see I’m here,’ he said, without taking the least notice of the stranger’s presence. ‘Now let us see these manuscripts—wonderful manuscripts—and get it over.’ He spoke with great volubility, and plumped down on a chair by the table as if in a great hurry. ‘What funny writing, and what queer ink and paper! and what great seals!Shakespeare was never Lord Chancellor, was he?’‘I don’t think he was, sir,’ said Mrs, Jordan, laughing. ‘It was the fashion in those days for deeds to wear fob and watch and chain.’‘Fobs, fobs? I see no fobs. So this is “Lear;“ I’ve seen “Lear.“ The play where everybody has their eyes put out. So he wrote it like this, did he? I wonder how anybody could read it. Hambllett, Hambllett; I never heard of him. Notes of hand. Gad! I knowthempretty well.’‘This is the young gentleman, sir, to whom we owe the discovery of all these manuscripts,’ said Mrs. Jordan, drawing his attention to William Henry.‘Aye, aye,’ said the new comer, wheeling his chair round to get a good view of William Henry’s face. ‘You found them, did you; those that hide can find; that’s what people tell me, you know.’The speech was such a rude one, that it might have been uttered by the first Gentlemanin Europe, nor indeed was William Henry by any means certain that he was not standing in his august presence; but there was a good-natured twinkle in the stranger’s eye which mitigated the harshness of his words. Never, indeed, before had the doubts concerning the genuineness of the manuscripts been expressed in a manner so personally offensive to the young fellow, and notwithstanding his conviction that the speaker was a man of very high rank, he might not have hesitated to resent it, but for a certain appealing look which Mrs[.] Jordan cast at him. He remembered that it was for his own sake that she had asked him to meet this man, and that if he offended him she herself might be the sufferer. He therefore only answered with a forced smile, ‘I should think no one but Mr. Malone could have told you that.’‘And who the deuce is Mr. Malone?’ was the contemptuous rejoinder; a question that put the coping-stone on the young fellow’s embarrassment and, indeed, utterly discomfited him. He felt transported into strange regions,with a new atmosphere; a world that had never heard of Mr. Malone the commentator was unintelligible to him. It is one of the lessons that can only be taught by years, and of which the ‘Montys’ and ‘Algys’ of high life are as ignorant as the ‘Jacks’ and ‘Harrys’ of low, that our respective horizons are limited.As William Henry stood tongue-tied, a sudden burst of melody filled the room. Mrs. Jordan had sat down to the piano, and was singing with exquisite pathos a song that was very familiar to him.Detraction strove to turn her heartAnd sour her gentle mind;But Charity still kept her part,And meekness to her soul did bind.‘Very nice, and very true,’ murmured the strange gentleman approvingly, keeping time with head and hand to the tune. His irritation had departed like an evil spirit exorcised; into his coarse countenance had stolen an expression of pure enjoyment; his eyes were full of gentleness and even affection. Such power have the voice and the instrument (when accompaniedby a pretty face) even on the most commonplace natures.‘Now what is that, what is that?’ he exclaimed excitedly, when the song was done. ‘And why have I never heard it before, my dear?’‘Because it is brand-new, sir,’ said Mrs. Jordan, with a bewitching curtsey. ‘I sing it as Flavia in this new play of “Vortigern and Rowena,“ which is to be performed next month at Drury Lane, and which I hope you will come to see.’‘Certainly, certainly. Why shouldn’t I?Detraction strove to turn her heartAnd sour her gentle mind.But it didn’t succeed, did it, Dorothy?’‘I hope not, sir,’ returned the lady modestly. ‘Then I may take it as a promise, sir, that you will honour this performance with your presence; it will be on the second of April.’‘Yes, yes; tell Sherry to keep a box—a box. And now I’m off to the Privy Council. Sorry I can’t take you with me, Dorothy, but you’re not sworn in yet—not sworn in.’And off he shambled; his walk and talk were very like one another—rapid, irregular, and fitful.‘There,’ cried Mrs. Jordan triumphantly, ‘I have got what I wanted for you, Master Harry; the play will now have the Royal patronage.’‘Then that gentleman is——’‘His Royal Highness the Duke of Clarence,my husband.’

A ROYAL PATRON.

William Henryperformed his promise punctually, and presented himself next morning at Drury Lane. He had never been inside a theatre by daylight before, and the contrast of the scene to that to which he had been accustomed struck him very forcibly. If any young gentleman belonging to me were stage-struck, I should ask the permission of the lessee ofone of our National Theatres to allow me to introduce him into its auditorium some dullish morning. If his enthusiasm survived, I will believe that the passion for the sea will still remain in a boy’s breast after a visit to a ship’s cockpit. The spectacle of those draped galleries, those empty seats and ill-lit space, where all was wont to be light and laughter, is little short of ghastly. William Henry indeed only caught glimpses of it here and there, through the eye-holes over the doors, as he was led through the echoing passages to the back of the stage; but they were sufficient. He in vain attempted to picture to himself the very different appearance the place would bear when probably he should see it next, at the representation of ‘Vortigern and Rowena.’

His imagination was chilled. The object of his visit, even though it might well have done so, since it was to be interviewed by two of the most charming women on the English stage, did not fill him with the pleasurable anticipation which he had experienced when he had received their invitation. There was noharm in it, of course, but he had come without Margaret’s knowledge, and his conscience reproached him for so doing. It was, no doubt, her own fault; she had shown such unmistakable feelings of jealousy on the previous day, and had expressed such uncharitable views on the character of actresses in general, that he had shrunk from telling her of the appointment he had made for to-morrow. It was a pity that the dear girl was so unreasonable; for, though she had entirely agreed with him that Mrs. Powell’s conduct, of which he had given her an amusing version, had been pert, she had failed to understand what a contrast that of Mrs. Jordan afforded, or how distinctly it bespoke a simple and ingenuous nature. He had never dreamt, of course, of repeating Mrs. Powell’s parting remark about ‘poor Margaret;’ but if such a notion had entered his mind, the manner in which the dear girl had received other details of the little interview would have forbidden it. He felt quite certain that she was capable of believing that Mrs. Jordan was ready to fall in love with him, or even hadalready done it. The very idea of such a thing, when she knew he was engaged to somebody else, was, of course, ridiculous. He thought that it would have set Margaret’s mind at ease to tell her that he had given that piece of information to the ladies, whereas it had aroused her indignation, not indeed against him but against them. ‘What right had they to ask such questions? It was impertinent, forward, and indelicate; and she did hope that those young women would never commit the impropriety of calling in Norfolk Street and asking to see a young gentleman, with whom they could have no earthly business, again.’

And now, unknown to Margaret, he was going to seethem. The conscience at seventeen is tender, and it was no wonder William Henry’s smote him. At that age, however, the memory (for some things) is unfortunately short, and when a door suddenly opened from a labyrinthine passage, into a prettily furnished room, where Mrs. Jordan, reclining in an arm-chair, was reading with rapt attention a certain manuscripthe recognised, he thought he had never seen anyone so beautiful before.

She arose with a pleasant smile, and a natural coquettish air which became her charmingly, and bade him welcome.

‘Pray come in,’ said she, for he stood at the door entranced; ‘it is not everyone that is admitted into my dressing-room, but I shan’t bite you.’

It was not the least like a dressing-room except that it had a multiplicity of mirrors, but her calling it so discomposed him (he could not help thinking to himself how very much more, if she had but known it, it would have discomposed Margaret); his knees had a tendency to knock together, and he felt that he looked like a fool.

‘You need not be afraid,’ continued the lady smiling, not displeased perhaps to see the effect she had produced in him, the symptoms of which were not unfamiliar to her; ‘Mrs. Powell will be here directly—she is not so punctual as you are.’

‘She has not so much reason to be, madam,’ said William Henry. The words had occurred to him as if by inspiration, but directly they were uttered he repented of them. He had intended them to be very gallant, but they now struck him as exceedingly foolish.

‘He is certainly a very amusing young man,’ said the lady, as if addressing a third person. ‘Pray sit down, sir. I saw your father after I had the pleasure of seeing you yesterday. You are not in the least alike. You should have seen Kemble and him together; it was as good as any play. They don’t hit it off together so well as you and I do. Perhaps you will say again they have not so much reason.’

‘It was a very unfortunate remark of mine,’ said William Henry penitently.

‘I don’t know that; you needn’t be so hard upon yourself. I think you had an idea that you were somehow paying me a compliment. For my part, however, I have enough of compliments, and prefer a little honesty for a change.’

William Henry bethought him of saying something about the genuineness of some compliments,but by the expression of her face, which had suddenly become grave, he judged that she had had enough of the subject, and remained silent.

‘And how is Margaret?’

The young man blushed to the roots of his hair, and blushed the more because he felt himself blushing.

‘I have heard of the young lady from your father, and nothing but good of her. I hope’—this with great severity—’that you are not ashamed of her, sir.’

‘No, madam.’

‘And I hope, sir’—this with an angry flash of her bright eyes—’that you are not ashamed ofme.’

‘Madam!’

‘Then why did you not tell her that you were coming here?’

William Henry bit his lip, and was about to stammer something he knew not what, when fortunately there was a knock at the door.

‘Come in,’ said Mrs. Jordan.

The knocking was continued very loudly,but the permission was not repeated. Mrs. Jordan began to laugh, and at every recurrence of the summons laughed more and more. Then the door was opened a very little way. ‘Are you sure that I may come in, Dorothy? Are you sure I don’t intrude?’ inquired a musical voice in accents of pretended anxiety.

And then Mrs. Powell entered.

‘You are late,’ observed Mrs. Jordan reprovingly; ‘that is not like your usual habits.’

‘I thought you might like to have a little time to yourselves, my dear,’ replied the other with great simplicity. ‘I am quite sorry to trouble you with business matters, Mr. Erin, but the fact is it’s pressing. I must have Edmunda altered; she is heavy in hand.’

‘But, my dear madam, what has that to do withme?’

‘With you? Why, everything; to whom else can I come? Kemble won’t listen to me; your father, a most respectable man no doubt, is quite impracticable, and only raves about the Immortal Bard.’

‘But I cannot alter Shakespeare’s play, madam.’

‘Why not? He’s dead, isn’t he? Besides, his plays have been often enough altered before. Garrick did it for one.’

‘Perhaps, madam; but then I am not Garrick. I can no more alter a play than write one.’

‘Upon my word, my dear,’ interposed Mrs. Jordan, ‘there is a good deal in what Mr. Erin says. I want to have things altered in my own part, but if, as he tells us——’

‘Pooh! nonsense,’ broke in the other; ‘you have nothing to complain of in Flavia. She is in man’s clothes, which fit you to a nicety, and that is all you need care about.’

‘If he takes my advice he won’t touch the play,’ said Mrs. Jordan, fairly trembling with rage.

‘There you see the Country Girl,’ said Mrs. Powell, pointing to her friend with a little hand that trembled too. ‘Her temper is only so long’ (she indicated the twentieth part of an inch). ‘Nobody can say that she has not anatural manner, or does not know how to blush.’

‘Nobody can say of Mrs. Powell,’ retorted the other, ‘when she tries to blush, that her beauty is only skin deep.’

It was certainly a most terrible scene, and most heartily did William Henry wish himself back in Norfolk Street. At that very moment, however, when he expected to see them dig their nails into one another, both ladies burst out laughing. He began to think that either their rage or their laughter must needs be artificial, whereas, in fact, while they lasted they were both real enough. Mirth with them was the natural safety valve of all their passions, and a very excellent mechanical contrivance too.

‘But won’t you just lighten my Edmunda a little, Mr. Erin,’ persisted Mrs. Powell; ‘a touch here and a touch there?’

‘My dear madam, supposing even I were capable of doing such a thing (which I am not), just consider what people would say if I touched the play. Even now our enemiesattack its authenticity, and what a handle must such a proceeding needs afford them.’

‘That is surely reasonable,’ observed Mrs. Jordan for the second time.

‘I don’t know about reasonable,’ returned Mrs. Powell with a most bewitching pout; ‘but I know if you were not here I could persuade him.’

‘Shall I leave you?’ said Mrs. Jordan, making a feint of retiring from the room.

‘Oh no,’ pleaded William Henry involuntarily.

‘Well, upon my life,’ cried Mrs. Powell, ‘you are a most complimentary young man! However, I’ll leaveyou, which considering the company you are in, will be quite revenge enough.’ She stood at the door, drawn up to her full height like a tragedy queen; then suddenly altering her tone, her air, her voice, and becoming as if by magic the very picture of pity, she added ‘Poor Margaret!’ and was gone.

‘She is a queer mad creature, but means no harm,’ said Mrs. Jordan consolingly. ‘Shewas angry at your refusal to alter her part for her, and when she is angry she will say anything. You must not mind her. Now, I’ve taken a fancy to you, Master——. By the bye, what is your name?’

‘Erin.’

‘Chut! I mean your Christian name?’

‘William Henry.’

‘And what does Margaret call you?’

‘Willie.’

‘Very good; then since I have no wish to poach on Margaret’s preserves, I shall call you “Henry.“ I have taken a fancy to you, Master Henry, and mean to do you a service; a gentleman of influence, with whom I have some interest, wants to look at these Shakespeare manuscripts, and has directed them to be at his house this morning.’

‘I am afraid they will not be there,’ said William Henry. ‘My father has never permitted them to leave Norfolk Street except once, at the personal request of the Prince Regent.’

‘Nevertheless, I think the gentleman Ispeak of will have his way,’ said the actress, smiling. ‘Now I wish him, in case he sees the manuscripts, to see their discoverer also. Perhaps he may give him a helping hand.’

‘You are very kind,’ said William Henry gently: it was not gratitude for the favour to come that moved him, for he had no suspicion how it was to be realised, but her evident warmth of feeling towards him. Her manner had not only an exquisite grace, but an unmistakable tenderness; and then she was so exceedingly handsome. A young man’s heart is like the tinder, which in those days, with flint and steel, was the substitute for our lucifer matches; away from its box it is liable to danger from every spark. ‘You are very good and kind,’ repeated William Henry mechanically; he felt an impulse, hard to be withstood, to add ‘and very beautiful.’

‘I am not good,’ said his companion, gravely, ‘but I suppose I am kind enough. It is much easier, my young friend, to be kind than good. Well, now I am going to take you to this gentleman.’

She put on her cloak and bonnet, and led the way to the stage door of the theatre. A closed carriage, well appointed, was at the door, in waiting for her, and they took their seats. In a few minutes they were whirled to their destination—a huge red house set in a courtyard, with which William Henry was unacquainted, or which in the perturbation of his mind he failed to recognise. They passed through certain corridors into a large room looking on a garden. It was handsomely furnished; a harp stood in one corner, a piano in the other; the walls were hung with beautiful pictures. But what aroused William Henry’s amazement, and prevented him from giving his attention elsewhere, was the circumstance that on a table by the window were arranged the whole collection of the Shakespeare papers.

‘You are looking for your father’s blood upon them,’ said Mrs. Jordan, smiling; ‘you are thinking to yourself that he must surely have been cut to pieces ere he would havepermitted them to leave his hands. But the fact is—— Hush, here comes your future patron.’

William Henry was used to a patron, and for that matter to a sufficiently mysterious one; but for the moment he was devoured by curiosity, mingled with a certain awe. The appearance of the new-comer, if he had expected to see anyone very magnificent, must have been a disappointment to him, for it certainly was not of an imposing kind. There entered the room, so rapidly that he almost seemed to run, a young man of thirty, somewhat inclined to corpulence, with a cheery good-natured face, but decidedly commonplace in its expression.

‘Well, well, Dorothy, you see I’m here,’ he said, without taking the least notice of the stranger’s presence. ‘Now let us see these manuscripts—wonderful manuscripts—and get it over.’ He spoke with great volubility, and plumped down on a chair by the table as if in a great hurry. ‘What funny writing, and what queer ink and paper! and what great seals!Shakespeare was never Lord Chancellor, was he?’

‘I don’t think he was, sir,’ said Mrs, Jordan, laughing. ‘It was the fashion in those days for deeds to wear fob and watch and chain.’

‘Fobs, fobs? I see no fobs. So this is “Lear;“ I’ve seen “Lear.“ The play where everybody has their eyes put out. So he wrote it like this, did he? I wonder how anybody could read it. Hambllett, Hambllett; I never heard of him. Notes of hand. Gad! I knowthempretty well.’

‘This is the young gentleman, sir, to whom we owe the discovery of all these manuscripts,’ said Mrs. Jordan, drawing his attention to William Henry.

‘Aye, aye,’ said the new comer, wheeling his chair round to get a good view of William Henry’s face. ‘You found them, did you; those that hide can find; that’s what people tell me, you know.’

The speech was such a rude one, that it might have been uttered by the first Gentlemanin Europe, nor indeed was William Henry by any means certain that he was not standing in his august presence; but there was a good-natured twinkle in the stranger’s eye which mitigated the harshness of his words. Never, indeed, before had the doubts concerning the genuineness of the manuscripts been expressed in a manner so personally offensive to the young fellow, and notwithstanding his conviction that the speaker was a man of very high rank, he might not have hesitated to resent it, but for a certain appealing look which Mrs[.] Jordan cast at him. He remembered that it was for his own sake that she had asked him to meet this man, and that if he offended him she herself might be the sufferer. He therefore only answered with a forced smile, ‘I should think no one but Mr. Malone could have told you that.’

‘And who the deuce is Mr. Malone?’ was the contemptuous rejoinder; a question that put the coping-stone on the young fellow’s embarrassment and, indeed, utterly discomfited him. He felt transported into strange regions,with a new atmosphere; a world that had never heard of Mr. Malone the commentator was unintelligible to him. It is one of the lessons that can only be taught by years, and of which the ‘Montys’ and ‘Algys’ of high life are as ignorant as the ‘Jacks’ and ‘Harrys’ of low, that our respective horizons are limited.

As William Henry stood tongue-tied, a sudden burst of melody filled the room. Mrs. Jordan had sat down to the piano, and was singing with exquisite pathos a song that was very familiar to him.

Detraction strove to turn her heartAnd sour her gentle mind;

But Charity still kept her part,And meekness to her soul did bind.

‘Very nice, and very true,’ murmured the strange gentleman approvingly, keeping time with head and hand to the tune. His irritation had departed like an evil spirit exorcised; into his coarse countenance had stolen an expression of pure enjoyment; his eyes were full of gentleness and even affection. Such power have the voice and the instrument (when accompaniedby a pretty face) even on the most commonplace natures.

‘Now what is that, what is that?’ he exclaimed excitedly, when the song was done. ‘And why have I never heard it before, my dear?’

‘Because it is brand-new, sir,’ said Mrs. Jordan, with a bewitching curtsey. ‘I sing it as Flavia in this new play of “Vortigern and Rowena,“ which is to be performed next month at Drury Lane, and which I hope you will come to see.’

‘Certainly, certainly. Why shouldn’t I?

Detraction strove to turn her heartAnd sour her gentle mind.

But it didn’t succeed, did it, Dorothy?’

‘I hope not, sir,’ returned the lady modestly. ‘Then I may take it as a promise, sir, that you will honour this performance with your presence; it will be on the second of April.’

‘Yes, yes; tell Sherry to keep a box—a box. And now I’m off to the Privy Council. Sorry I can’t take you with me, Dorothy, but you’re not sworn in yet—not sworn in.’

And off he shambled; his walk and talk were very like one another—rapid, irregular, and fitful.

‘There,’ cried Mrs. Jordan triumphantly, ‘I have got what I wanted for you, Master Harry; the play will now have the Royal patronage.’

‘Then that gentleman is——’

‘His Royal Highness the Duke of Clarence,my husband.’

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