A COMFORTER.
THERE is nothing more astonishing in the history of mankind than the
high estimation in which credulity—under the form of belief—has been
held by all nations who have had the least claim to be civilised. Yet
the vast majority of the human race, mere slaves as they are to custom
and convention, imbibing their faith with their mother’s milk, and as
disinclined to change as a wheel that has found its rut, are absolutely
unable to be sceptical. This is probably why persecution has been so
lightly permitted—even among Christians, whose connivance at it is
otherwise unintelligible; those who suffered for their scepticism were
comparatively so few that their martyrdom was disregarded. It is an
immense recommendation to a creed, that the mere fact of accepting
it is accounted the highest virtue, since ninety-nine persons out of
a hundred who have been brought up in it, find no sort of difficulty
in fulfilling its chief obligation. With the same ease with which the
doctrines of Mahomet or of Buddha are embraced by their disciples,
had the story of the discovery of the Shakespeare manuscripts been
accepted by Mr. Samuel Erin. Nay, he had not been only a disciple but a
devotee. He had been looking forward all his life to some revelation of
a similar kind, and it had been manifested under circumstances that not
only corroborated his views, but flattered his _amour propre_. A member
of his own house had been the discoverer of the MSS., and he himself
their apostle and exponent. To confess, even to himself, that he had
been preaching a false faith, and been the dupe of a lying boy, seemed
impossible. The very idea of it was wormwood to him. Even the discovery
that Margaret had taken him at his word and left his roof did not at
first shake him. It even strengthened his suspicion that the whole
affair was a trick to catch his consent to her marriage with William
Henry. It was only done to frighten him into submission.
But as the solitary hours went by, this obstinate conviction began to
slacken; as his indignation grew and grew against the author of his
calamity, he began to admit that such a scoundrel might be capable
of anything, even sacrilege. It was the affront to the Immortal Bard
that he put first, and the offence to himself afterwards. Perhaps
William Henry was aware that he was not his son, but he was also aware
of the greatness of Shakespeare. And yet, what rankled more, was the
consciousness that his own intelligence had been trifled with—that he
had been made a fool of. It was a subject terrible to think about, and
worse to talk about, and yet he longed for sympathy; the solitude of
his own thoughts was intolerable to him.
In the afternoon, at the same time he had been wont to appear in the
days that seemed to be long past, Frank Dennis arrived. The antiquary
seized his hand with a warmth that he had never before exhibited,
though he had loved him well, and bade him be seated. The only thing
that had ever come between them was this man’s disinclination to accept
the very facts which he himself was beginning to doubt, and at first
this rendered the meeting embarrassing; on the other hand, when once
the ice was broken, it smoothed matters.
‘Have you heard the new story about William Henry?’ he asked in
hesitating tones.
‘Yes; I wish I could think of it as I did of the old story. It is true,
sir, every word of it.’
‘You think so?’ returned the antiquary with a forced smile of
incredulity.
‘I am sure of it,’ was the quiet reply.
There was a long silence.
‘What proof have you to substantiate your assertion?’
The irony of fate had caused this question to be asked in the very room
where proof used to be so constantly in view, and on the wall of which
the ‘certificate’ of the believers in the Shakespeare documents still
hung suspended.
It was met by another question. ‘Have you not seen his confession?’
Mr. Erin pointed to the carpet on which the fragments of the document
still remained. ‘It was placed in my hands,’ said he in a hoarse dry
voice, ‘but I never read it.’
‘No matter; it would only have given you pain. I have seen the unhappy
lad and heard the truth from his own lips.’
‘The truth!’ echoed the old man bitterly.
‘Yes, the truth at last. Here is a copy of an affidavit it is his
intention to make to-morrow morning before a magistrate. There are
things in it which one regrets; the tone of it is unsatisfactory. He
does not seem so penetrated with the sense of his misconduct as would
be becoming, but at all events he is careful to absolve everyone
from complicity in his crime, and particularly yourself. “I solemnly
declare,” he says, “that my father was totally unacquainted with the
whole affair, believing most firmly the papers to be productions of
Shakespeare.”’
The antiquary’s brow grew very dark. ‘I will never see that young
man’s face if I can help it,’ he said solemnly, ‘or speak one word to
him again, so help me Heaven!’
‘He does not expect it,’ answered the other quietly. ‘Henceforward he
will take his own way in the world. After “expressing regret for any
offence he may have given the world or any individual, trusting at the
same time they will deem the whole the act of a boy without any evil
intention, but hurried on by vanity and the praise of others,“ he goes
on to say, “Should I attempt any other play, or work of imagination,
I shall hope the public will lay aside all prejudice my conduct may
have deserved, and grant me their indulgence.” I suppose, therefore, he
intends to live by his pen.’
‘You mean to starve by it,’ answered the old man bitterly. The style
of the composition he had just heard struck him as fustian: he had
heard it before and expressed another opinion of it, but then the
circumstances were different. In Art and Literature the views of most
people are less affected by the work itself than by the name under
which it is presented to their notice.
There was a long pause. As in a reservoir, when once its contents have
begun to percolate drop by drop through the dam, the drops soon become
a stream, and the stream a torrent, and the dam is swept away, so it
was with Mr. Erin’s obstinacy. The dam was gone by this time, and the
bitter waters of conviction rolled in upon his mind like a flood. There
was no longer a dry place on it to afford a perch for the mocking-bird
of incredulity.
‘When was it, Frank,’ he inquired in an altered voice, ‘when you
yourself began to suspect this—this infamous deception?’
‘From the very first. You remember giving me the document with the
seals attached, that had the quintin upon them? It accidentally fell
from my hands, when a portion of the back of one of the seals broke
off, and disclosed the inside, which was made of new wax! The—the
forger—though he had contrived to cut the old seal without breaking,
found it had lost its moisture, so that the slip of parchment which
he had introduced into it could only be held by new wax. The next day
I perceived that the two parts had been bound together by black silk,
which, if anyone had given himself the trouble to untwist, would have
made him as wise as I.’
‘And yet you held your peace, Dennis,’ groaned the old man
reproachfully.
‘In the first place you would have disbelieved had the proofs of
imposture been twice as strong; and secondly—well, there were
other reasons into which it is not necessary now to enter. You are
quite aware that I never lent my countenance to the deception, and
believe me, Mr. Erin, if I could have saved you from your present
humiliation—with honour—I would have done so. It was not possible. I
am come here to-day to make what amends are in my power for the wrong
my silence may have done you. William Henry’s affidavit will acquit
you of all blame in this matter in the eyes of unprejudiced persons,
but you have your enemies, and many persons who were your friends,’ he
pointed to the certificate, ‘will now join their ranks. For some time,
at least, residence in London must needs be painful to you. I had taken
a cottage near Bath, intending for the present to dwell there; but
circumstances’ (here the colour came into the young man’s cheeks) ‘have
altered my intention. I shall now reside in town, and my little country
home is at your service; there, out of the reach of malicious tongues,
you may reside in peace and quiet as long as you think proper.’
For the first time throughout the interview something like satisfaction
came into the old man’s face. The notion of escaping from the flouts
and jeers of his acquaintances, and from their equally galling silence,
was very welcome to him.
‘I thank you,’ he said, ‘with all my heart, Dennis.’
‘There is only one condition, sir,’ hesitated the other. ‘I think the
proposition would be more acceptable to—to Miss Margaret—if she did
not know that she was accepting any hospitality of mine. You will be
so good as to conceal from her that fact.’
‘Yes, yes,’ assented the old man. He did not like to confess that
Margaret was elsewhere; that she had been driven from his roof by his
own insensate anger. His companion’s offer had touched him and turned
the current of his thoughts from their accustomed groove—himself and
his own affairs—into other channels. He recognised the patience and
forbearance of this young fellow, and the temptation to unmask a rival
which he had resisted and left to other hands to do. He was curious to
know the full extent to which this self-sacrifice would have extended.
‘But suppose matters had gone still further, Dennis? If the play had
been successful, and its genuineness acknowledged, and Margaret——?’
‘It was not possible,’ broke in the other, with a flush. ‘No one could
have read the “Vortigern”—I mean could have seen it acted,’ he added,
hurriedly, ‘and believed it to be a play of William Shakespeare’s. I
felt confident of that.’
‘Still, some of us were deceived,’ insisted the antiquary, with a
melancholy smile, ‘and why not more? Suppose the play had succeeded,
the contingency on which, as you know, my niece’s marriage with this
scoundrel depended, what would you have done then?’
‘I should have still kept silence. I only suspected, remember. I was
not quite sure. Moreover, Margaret herself might have been spared the
knowledge of the truth, and it was not for me to undeceive her.’
‘You would have permitted her, then, for a delicate scruple, to entrust
her happiness to a scoundrel?’
‘You press me hard, sir, though I do not say you have not a right to
do so,’ replied Dennis, greatly agitated. ‘I have thought of this
a thousand times; it has cost me days and nights of misery, Heaven
knows. But on the whole I have satisfied my conscience. When one
has lost all hope in a matter that has once concerned one to the
uttermost, one takes a clear view of it. The young man of whom you
speak has, doubtless, many faults; he is weak and vain, and greedy
of applause, however gained; he is to some extent unprincipled, he
has even committed a serious crime; but he is not altogether what you
have called him, a scoundrel. He is not unkind; under less adverse
circumstances than those in which, from the very first, he has been
placed, he would have shown himself a better man. An exceptional
temptation assailed him, and he succumbed to it. He would not
necessarily—or I have tried to think so—have made a bad husband.’
This speech was uttered with grave deliberation, and the manner
of it was most impressive; the speaker might have stood for some
personification of Justice, weighing his words with equal hand. Indeed
this man was more than just, he was magnanimous.
The antiquary could not withhold his admiration from his companion,
though with his sentiments he was wholly unable to sympathise.
‘You are throwing good feeling away, Frank Dennis,’ he said, ‘upon a
thankless cur. If you think to move me to compassion for him, you are
pleading to deaf ears. He is henceforth as a dead man to me and mine.’
‘You will act as you think right, no doubt,’ said the young man
quietly, ‘and I am only doing the same.’
He felt that whatever his own wrongs had been, the wrongs of his
companion were far greater. Cajoled, deceived, and stricken in years,
his reputation smirched, if not destroyed; humiliated in his own eyes,
degraded in those of others; if he did not do well to be angry, it
could hardly be said, being human, that he did ill.
Dennis gave the antiquary the address of his cottage, and the necessary
information for reaching the spot, and bade him adieu with much emotion.
‘But you will not desert us?’ said Mr. Erin imploringly. ‘If you
stand apart from us——’ His voice trembled and he left the sentence
unfinished. He not only, as the other guessed, meant to imply that
in such a case they would be friendless indeed, but that Dennis’s
withdrawal from his society would be construed as condemnation.
‘If you write to me to come,’ he answered, ‘if you are quite sure that
my presence will be acceptable to you and yours——’ and in his turn he
hesitated.
‘I understand,’ said the antiquary gently. ‘I shall think of others for
the future, as well as of myself, if only’ (here he gave a mournful
smile) ‘to distract my thoughts from what is painful.’
‘There is sunshine still behind the clouds,’ said Dennis, as he shook
hands.
‘True, true,’ replied the other; then added to himself with a deep sigh
as he closed the door after his visitor, ‘for _you_, but not for me.’