FAREWELL.
NOT a single night did Margaret sleep away from her uncle’s roof. He
went in person to Mr. Wallis’s house and claimed her. The apology he
had schooled himself to make to that gentleman was stayed upon the
threshold of his lips.
‘Your face, Mr. Erin, tells me all that I need and more than I wish to
hear,’ said the kindly lawyer. ‘Pray spare yourself and me.’
One unfortunate remark, however, Mr. Wallis made, for which he bitterly
blamed himself, though as it turned out, unnecessarily.
The antiquary paid him over that portion of money received from the
Theatre which was due to William Henry, and requested him to place it
in his hands.
‘I will do so,’ said the lawyer, ‘though, were I in his place, I had
rather starve than take it.’
Directly the words were uttered, he perceived their application to the
antiquary himself, who was quietly pocketing his own share of the wages
of iniquity.
But though we have the same skin, it is of various degrees of thickness.
‘He will take it,’ said the other drily, ‘and starve afterwards.’
Notwithstanding this deviation of Mr. Erin’s from the straight path, it
is well to state here that Mr. Albany Wallis never consented—although
they were his friends and allies—with those who laid the sins of
William Henry upon his father’s shoulders. When Bishop Percy, on the
authority of the commentator Steevens, observed that the whole house
in Norfolk Street was ‘an elaborate workshop,’ Mr. Wallis contradicted
the statement point-blank; and when another traducer went the length
of including Margaret in the indictment by the assertion that a female
relative of Mr. Erin’s performed the more delicate work of the
(forged) autographs, he gave him the lie direct.
The storm, indeed, that burst upon the heads of the antiquary and his
belongings was terrible, and fortunate it was for them that they had
found an asylum afar off. Most of the ‘hailstones and coals of fire’
fell short of it; and those that reached them, through the malice of
enemies or the officiousness of good-natured friends, were fended off
from the old man by Margaret’s watchful care. Upon the whole, indeed,
it is doubtful whether those seemingly evil days were not good for her.
Her solicitude upon her uncle’s account prevented her from dwelling
over much upon her private grief, just as the heartbreak of the widower
is sometimes stayed by the cry of the children.
It was many a day, however, before she could look her own misfortune
in the face, and scrutinise its lineaments, for when we come to gauge
our sorrows it is a sign that the deep waters that have gone over
our soul have begun to shallow. Notwithstanding her horror of her
Willie’s crime, she could not forget what he had once been to her,
even though she was well aware, from a sure source, that matters were
not so with him. Mrs. Jordan had written to her, out of the fulness of
one of the kindest hearts that ever beat in woman’s breast, to allay
her apprehensions about him on material grounds. Though poor enough,
he was not in want, nor likely to be so. Without a word of ill-nature,
she had also contrived to make her understand that the boy was not
inconsolable; he was busy with his pen, and if his genius did not
soar, his conceit was upborne on lusty pinions. ‘All is Vanity,’ said
the preacher in disparagement of that attribute; yet he was an author
himself, and ought to have known the consolation of such a gift.
One of Mrs. Jordan’s letters enclosed a little note from William Henry,
which for months Margaret could not bring herself to read. She knew
that it required no reply, and must needs bruise the wound that had not
yet healed within her; so it lay in her desk like some mystic jewel
which its possessor keeps in her case because it brings ill-luck to the
wearer. But when, after long waiting, and without importunity, Frank
Dennis obtained permission to visit his own house, she felt it to be
her duty to read or burn that note. It was not a case of being off with
the old love before she was on with the new, so far as William Henry
was concerned, for she had long done with him; but she was conscious of
a certain tender curiosity, which, as circumstances were now turning
out, might become disloyalty to another, and therefore she resolved to
allay it.
She took the folded paper in her trembling hand, like one who takes
up earth to scatter on the coffin lid; it was the very last sight
she would ever have of aught belonging to him. There was a certain
solemnity about those farewell words of his, even though they could not
matter much. Perhaps they were not words of farewell; perhaps, in his
wild, boyish fashion, they were about to tell her that in spite of his
ruin and disgrace, he still loved her, and how, knowing that her heart
had once been his, he defied her to cast him out of it. That would be
cruel indeed, though it would not alter the course she had marked out
for herself. Would it not be better after all to burn the letter?
The next moment she had torn it open and read it. It was dated months
ago, within a week, indeed, of the discovery of his shame. ‘I have done
you a grievous wrong, Margaret; let me now do you one good service. It
is but a little word of advice, yet if you knew what it cost me to give
it, you would hold it of some value. Frank Dennis is worth a thousand
of me and loves you—I cannot bring myself to write with a truer love
than mine, for that is impossible—but with a love more worthy of you.
Marry him, Margaret, and forget me!’
It could not have mattered much, as has been said. The man was a
bankrupt; but still he had given her all he had to give, a quittance.
With Aunt Margaret’s fortunes, as apart from the misguided youth who in
so strange a manner had almost linked her lot with his, our story has
little to do. My own impression is that she was a happy wife; and it is
quite certain that Frank Dennis was the best of husbands. Mr. Erin did
not long survive his day of humiliation, though it was not, I think,
distress of mind that hastened his end so much (as often happens) as
the relinquishment of his old pursuits and favourite studies. When we
have ridden a hobby-horse all our lives, it is no wonder that when it
is suddenly taken from us we find that we have lost the use of our legs.
Some embers of his old taste for antiquities must still, indeed, have
glowed within him, for in those last days he wrote a ‘History of the
Inns of Court,’ with New Inn among them; but it is plain his heart was
not in it. Henceforth his favourite volume was a sealed book to him;
there were two names—once so frequent on his tongue—to which he never
alluded, William Henry Erin and William Shakespeare.
With respect to the former, Frank Dennis maintained a similar reticence
for no less than five-and-twenty years. At the expiration of that
time, Aunt Margaret received a certain letter, which she placed in her
husband’s hands without a word.
‘Poor fellow!’ was his remark when he had read it. ‘Well! we must, of
course, go up to town.’
William Henry had written from his sick bed to ask to see Margaret once
more before he died.
They had lived in the country ever since their marriage, but they set
out for London at once.
It was summer-time, the very month in which they had journeyed to
Stratford-on-Avon more than a quarter of a century ago, and they talked
of that time together without any reserve.
‘I think if it had not been for that visit to Bristol,’ said Frank
thoughtfully, ‘that none of this sad business would have happened; it
was Chatterton’s story that put it into his head.’ Margaret nodded
sorrowful assent. She remembered well how the unhappy lad had defended
his prototype’s conduct.
‘It was a miserable crime,’ she said, ‘and miserably has he suffered
for it.’
‘That is all we need think of now, Margaret; of that, and of his
temptation,’ he added tenderly, ‘which, as I can witness, was
excessive.’
Here was, indeed, a husband to thank heaven for, and she knew it. And
yet—and yet—the tears were in her eyes upon another’s account. How
bright and handsome had her Willie looked as he took his seat by her
side at the inn table, on that other journey. How eager had been his
face when he had first pressed his suit in Anne Hathaway’s garden. In
the mist of memory the will-of-the-wisp looms large and twinkles like a
very star.
When they reached London, Margaret went alone to the lodging he had
indicated; a poor place enough, but with no signs of want about it
as she had feared, nor did the sick man lack due tendance. He was
very near his end; but his eyes—all that was left of him that she
recognised—flashed grateful recognition.
[Illustration: ’SO GOOD OF YOU, SO LIKE YOU, MARGARET,’ HE MURMURED.]
‘So good of you, so like you, Margaret,’ he murmured.
She sat by him a long time, overwhelmed with pity, but not seldom
distressed by his worldly talk. The ruling passion was strong in death.
He spoke of his works—of which he had written many in his own name,
and of the recognition which he felt assured they would one day meet
with; he even told her, with a smile of triumph, that Malone himself
had bidden one hundred and thirty guineas for the forged Shakespeare
documents. He seemed unable to take a just view of his own behaviour
in that transaction, though as to others, he was not only just but
generous.
‘Dear Margaret,’ were his last failing words to her: ‘I once gave you
a piece of advice, the only thing I had to give—which you did well
to follow. I have nothing but the thanks of a dying man to offer you
for your having come to bid me farewell, save what I have now to
say—which I well know will be news to you. I have been an unfortunate,
as well as a misguided, man; my talents have never been acknowledged,
and if I had had to live by my wits alone, I should have starved—yes,
starved!’ His sharp face darkened, and he raised his feeble hands as
if in protest against the judgment of the world. ‘There was one man,
Margaret, one among all these millions, and he the very last to whom
I should have looked for aid, who caused me to be sought out and gave
me help. I have lived more or less upon his bounty ever since. He has
never told you of it, Margaret; and now there is no need to tell you;
you who know him can guess who it is.’
Margaret’s tears fell fast; it was touching indeed to hear of her
husband’s goodness from the lips of his dying rival.
‘Frank is very good to me, dear Willie,’ she sobbed.
‘Yes, yes, I knew it would be so,’ he murmured; ‘honest and true. What
is the breath of the world to him who will not even let it know of
his good deeds. Yes, yes—kiss me, kiss me for the last time—worth a
thousand of me, Margaret, though he was never the Talk of the Town.’
THE END.
LONDON: PRINTED BY
SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE
AND PARLIAMENT STREET
‘The _Cornhill_ is the most interesting of English Magazines.’
_Vanity Fair._
‘The Magazine Reader will find no better investment for his sixpence.’
_Pall Mall Gazette._
_PRICE SIXPENCE MONTHLY._
ILLUSTRATED.
THE NEW SERIES OF THE
CORNHILL MAGAZINE.
Edited by JAMES PAYN.
Each Number contains, in addition to an instalment of a
Serial Story by a Popular Author,
SHORT STORIES AND ARTICLES,
BY THE BEST WRITERS.
_Among the Artists who are engaged in Illustrating the New Series of_
THE CORNHILL MAGAZINE
ARE
G. DU MAURIER, WM. SMALL, W. RALSTON, H. FURNISS,
E. J. WHEELER, R. C. WOODVILLE, J. P. ATKINSON,
A. C. CORBOULD, A. T. ELWES, G. G. KILBURNE,
WM. H. OVEREND, ROBERT BARNES, R. CALDECOTT,
M. FITZGERALD, WALTER S. STACEY, &c.
Volumes I. to III. of the New Series (July 1883 to December 1884),
Price 4_s._ 6_d._ each, bound in cloth,
PROFUSELY ILLUSTRATED,
ARE NOW READY, AND FORM
VERY HANDSOME VOLUMES
FOR
PRESENTATION OR LIBRARY PURPOSES.
_Cases for binding the Volumes may be had, price One Shilling each._
ILLUSTRATED EDITIONS
OF
POPULAR WORKS
Handsomely bound in cloth gilt, each volume containing
Four Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 3_s._ 6_d._
THE SMALL HOUSE AT ALLINGTON.
By ANTHONY TROLLOPE.
FRAMLEY PARSONAGE.
By ANTHONY TROLLOPE.
THE CLAVERINGS.
By ANTHONY TROLLOPE.
TRANSFORMATION: a Romance.
By NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.
ROMANTIC TALES.
By the Author of ‘John Halifax, Gentleman.’
DOMESTIC STORIES.
By the Author of ‘John Halifax, Gentleman.’
NO NAME.
By WILKIE COLLINS.
ARMADALE.
By WILKIE COLLINS.
AFTER DARK.
By WILKIE COLLINS.
MAUD TALBOT.
By HOLME LEE.
THE MOORS AND THE FENS.
By Mrs. J. H. RIDDELL.
WITHIN THE PRECINCTS.
By Mrs. OLIPHANT.
CARITÀ.
By Mrs. OLIPHANT.
FOR PERCIVAL.
By MARGARET VELEY.
NO NEW THING.
By W. E. NORRIS.
LOVE THE DEBT.
By BASIL.
London: SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 Waterloo Place.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE:
—Obvious print and punctuation errors were corrected.