A COLLECTOR’S GRATITUDE.
THE effects of a prolonged holiday upon the human mind are various.
Like other things much ‘recommended by the faculty,’ it does not suit
every one. It is the opinion of an eminent physician of my acquaintance
that little comes of it in the way of wholesomeness except sunburn;
and that when that wears off, the supposed convalescent looks as he
feels—satiated and jaded. To William Henry, the conveyancer’s clerk,
that week or two at Stratford-on-Avon was what the long vacation is to
many lawyers. He found a great difficulty in setting to work again at
his ordinary duties. His fellow-clerk had left his employer’s service,
so that he had his room to himself—a circumstance that became of much
more importance than he had at that time any idea of—but business was
slack at Mr. Bingley’s office. The young fellow had plenty of leisure,
though among old mortgage deeds and titles to estates, it might be
thought he had small opportunities of spending it pleasantly. Under
ordinary circumstances this would not, however, have been the case
with him. He had been brought up in an atmosphere of antiquity; the
satisfaction expressed by his father at the acquisition of any ancient
rarity had naturally impressed itself upon his mind; the only occasions
on which he had won his praise had been on his bringing home for his
acceptance some old tract or pamphlet from a bookstall; and in time he
had learnt to have some appreciation of such things for their own sake,
albeit, like some dealer in old china, without much reverence. His turn
for poetry, such as it was, was due, perhaps, to the many old romances
and poems in Mr. Erin’s library rather than to any natural bent in that
direction; a circumstance, indeed, which was pretty evident from the
young poet’s style; for style is easy enough to catch, whereas ideas
must come of themselves. His holiday had grievously unsettled him. He
had brought back his dream with him, but, once more face to face with
the facts of life, he perceived the many obstacles to its realisation.
The only legitimate road to success—that of daily duty—would never
lead thither; but there might be a short cut to it through his father’s
favour. Hitherto he had sought this by fits and starts to mitigate his
own condition; he now resolved to cultivate it unintermittingly, and at
any sacrifice.
He consequently devoted all his spare time (and ‘by our Lady,’ as
his father would have said, also no little of his employer’s) to the
discovery of some precious MS. Instead of the spectacled and wizened
faces which they were wont to see poring over their old wares, the
bookstall-keepers of the city began to be haunted by that of William
Henry, eager and young. They could not understand what his bright eyes
came to seek, and certainly never dreamed that it was love that had
sent him there—to my mind a very touching episode, reminding one of
the difficult and uncouth tasks to which true knights in the days of
romance were put, in order to show their worthiness to win those they
wooed. The lady of his affections, however, was far from being sanguine
of his success; she could hardly fail to appreciate his exertions, but
she refrained from encouraging them. ‘My dear Willie,’ she said, ‘it is
painful to me to see you occupied in a search so fruitless. It is only
too probable that what you seek has absolutely no existence. It is like
hunting for the elixir of life, or the secret of turning base metals
into gold.’
‘But, my dear Maggie, some such literary treasure _may_ exist,’ he
answered tenderly; ‘and if I can discover it, what is the elixir of
life to me will be found with it.’
It was impossible to reason with a young man like this, and Margaret
tried to comfort herself with the reflection that his madness had
but five months more to run. But it was very, very difficult. Her
life was now far from being a cheerful one. She was not so vain as to
take pleasure in a wasted devotion, and she bitterly repented of the
momentary weakness that had inclined her to feed its flame.
The house in Norfolk Street was more frequented by the learned than
ever. They came to discuss Mr. Erin’s late visit to the Shakespearean
shrine, just as faithful Moslems might come to interview some pious
friend who had recently made his pilgrimage to Mecca. While they talked
of relics and signatures her mind reverted to the sweet-smelling old
garden at Shottery, with its settle outside the cottage door. Frank
Dennis came as usual, and was made welcome by his host, if not quite
with the same heartiness as of old. Not a word of love passed his
lips, and he was even more reserved and silent than of yore; but
Margaret could not conceal from herself what he came for. Nay, his very
reticence had a significance for her; she had a suspicion that he had
noticed some change of manner between herself and her cousin which for
the present sealed his lips. When he had quite convinced himself that
her heart was in another’s keeping she felt that he would go away,
and that place by the window, where he usually sat a little apart from
the antiquarian circle, would know him no more. She pitied him as
she pitied Willie, though in another way. She recognised in him some
noble qualities—gentleness, modesty, a love of truth and justice, and
a generosity of heart that extended even to a rival. If she had not
known William Henry, it might have been possible to her, she sometimes
thought, to have loved Frank Dennis. But this was only when the former
was not present. At the end of the day, when her cousin came in fagged
and dispirited, and took his place at the supper-table with little
notice from any one, her whole soul seemed to go forth to meet him in
her tender eyes.
Matters thus continued for some weeks, till, rather suddenly, a
change took place in William Henry. In some respects it was not for
the better; the unrest which his features had hitherto displayed
disappeared, and was succeeded by an earnest and almost painful
gravity. Once only she had seen such an expression—on the face of a
juggler in the street, one evening, who had thrown knives into the air
and caught them as they fell. But with it there was a certain new-born
hope. She recognised it in the looks he stole at her when he thought
himself unobserved, and in his talk and manner to others, especially
to Mr. Erin. They suggested confidence, or at least a purpose. That
he said nothing of what he had in his mind to her was in itself
significant. The conclusion she drew was that he was on the track of
some discovery which might or might not prove of great importance.
Poor fellow! she had too often seen her uncle and his friends led by
wildfire of this sort to the brink of disappointment to put much faith
in it. They were old and used to failures, and with a little grunt of
disappointment settled their wigs upon their foreheads, and started
off again at a jog-trot in search of another mare’s-nest. Whereas to
Willie—he was but seventeen—Repulse would seem like Ruin.
One evening—it was a Saturday, on which day Mr. Erin was accustomed
to entertain a few friends of his own way of thinking—William Henry
made his appearance later than usual. The guests had already sat down
to table, and were in full tide of talk, which was not in any way
interrupted by his arrival. Margaret as usual cast a swift furtive
glance at him, and at once perceived that something had happened. His
face was pale, even paler than usual, but his eyes were very bright
and restless; a peculiar smile played about his mouth. ‘He has found
something’ was the thought that flashed at once across her mind. Even
if he had, she felt it would not really alter matters, and would only
tend to nourish false hopes. Her uncle’s heart would never soften
towards him in the way that he hoped for. A compelled expression of
approbation, an unwilling tribute to his diligence and judgment, born
of self-congratulation on the acquisition of some literary treasure,
would be his reward at best, but still—but still—her heart went
pit-a-pat. She knew that no good fortune of the ordinary kind could
have happened to him. Mr. Bingley, though he liked the boy, could
hardly have promised to make him his partner; nor indeed, if he had,
would it have mattered much, since his business was so small as to
require but a single clerk. That he had found a publisher for his poems
was not less unlikely, while the result of such a miracle would be of
even less material advantage.
Throughout the meal William Henry scarcely touched bit or sup; his
air, to the one observer of it, gave the impression of intense but
suppressed excitement.
It was the custom of Mr. Erin’s company on Saturday nights to share
after supper a bowl of punch between them, and for those who affected
tobacco to light up their long days. Both the drinking and smoking
were of a very moderate kind; while of song-singing, very common at
that date, there was none. There was only one toast, given by the host
in reverent tones, ‘To the memory of the immortal Shakespeare,’ and
then they began to wrangle over disputed readings. On these occasions
it was William Henry’s habit to quietly withdraw and seek Margaret in
the withdrawing-room. As often as not, Frank Dennis did the like, when
he would petition for a tune on the harpsichord, a thing the other
never did. Margaret’s voice was music enough for him, especially in a
_tête-à-tête_. But on this particular Saturday both young men remained
with the rest, William Henry for a reason of his own, and Dennis out
of courtesy to his host, who had promised to give his friends that
night an antiquarian treat, consisting of the exhibition of a rare
tract he had recently acquired. It was entitled ‘Stokes, the Vaulting
Master,’ and full of engraved plates, to the outsider as destitute of
interest as dinner-plates with nothing on them, but to this little
band of antiquarians as the ‘meat’ of turtle to an alderman. If they
didn’t say grace afterwards, it was because this precious gift had been
vouchsafed to another and not to themselves; they sighed and murmured
to themselves that ‘Erin ought to be a happy man.’ Having received
their compliments with much complacency, their host, like an old man
congratulated upon the possession of a young wife, locked the extract
in his bookcase and put the key into his pocket, which was taken by the
rest as a signal for departure. When they had all gone save Dennis,
who, as a friend of the house, was always the last to go, William Henry
drew from his breast pocket a piece of parchment with two seals hanging
from it on slips.
‘I think, sir,’ said he modestly, ‘I have something rather curious to
show you.’
‘Eh, what?’ said Mr. Erin, knitting his brow in the depreciating manner
peculiar to the examiner of all curios before purchase, ‘some old deed
or another, I suppose.’
Then he turned very white and eager, and sat down with the document
spread out before him. It was a note of hand of the usual kind, though
of ancient date, and dealing with a very small sum of money; but if it
had been a letter from a solicitor’s office acquainting him with the
fact that he had been bequeathed ten thousand pounds, it could not have
aroused in him greater interest and astonishment.
It ran as follows:—‘One month from the date hereof I doe promyse to
paye to my good and worthy friend John Hemynge the sum of five pounds
and five shillings, English Moneye, as a recompense for his great
trouble in settling and doinge much for me at the Globe Theatre, as
also for hys trouble in going down for me to Stratford.—Witness my
hand,
‘WILLIAM SHAKESPERE.
‘September the Nynth, 1589.’
‘Received of Master William Shakespeare the sum of five pounds and five
shillings, good English Money, this Nynth day of October, 1589.
‘JOHN HEMYNGE.’
‘This is indeed a most marvellous discovery, William Henry,’ said
Mr. Erin, breaking a long silence, and regarding his son with a
sort of devout amazement, such as might have been exhibited by some
classic shepherd of old on finding the Tityrus he had been treating
as a chawbacon was first cousin to Apollo. ‘You are certainly a most
fortunate young man.—Maggie’ (for Maggie, learning that the visitors
had departed, had joined them, full of vague expectancy), ‘see what
your cousin has brought home with him.’
This appeal of Mr. Erin to his niece was significant in many ways. It
would have been most natural in such a matter to have turned to Dennis,
but for the moment he could not brook incredulity, nor even a critical
examination of the precious manuscript. Moreover, he had said ‘your
cousin,’ a relationship between the two young people to which he had
never before alluded. It was plain that within the last five minutes
William Henry had come nearer to the old man’s heart than he had been
able to get in seventeen years.
What followed was even still more expressive, for it took for granted
an intimacy between his son and niece, which up to that moment he had
studiously ignored.
‘Did you know anything,’ he added, ‘my girl, of this surprise which
your cousin had in store for us?’
‘I knew that there was something, uncle, though not from his lips. That
is,’ she continued, with a faint flush, ‘I felt for days that there
has been something upon William Henry’s mind, which I judged to be good
news.—Was it not so, Willie?’
The young man bowed his head. The colour came into his face also. ‘How
she must have watched him, and how rightly she had read his thoughts!’
was what he was saying to himself.
Mr. Erin took no notice of either of them; his mind had reverted to the
new-found treasure.
‘Look at it, Dennis,’ he cried. ‘The seals and paper are quite as they
should be. I have no doubt of its being a genuine deed of the time.
Then the signature—there are only two others in all the world, but
I do think—just take this microscope (his own hand trembled so that
he could scarcely hold it)—there can be no mistake about it. It is
without the “a,” but it can be proved that he spelt it indifferently;
and again, the receipt _has_ the “a,” an inconsistency which, in the
case of a forgery, would certainly not have been overlooked. There can
be no doubt of its being a genuine signature, can there?’
‘That is a matter on which you are infinitely better qualified to judge
than I am, Mr. Erin,’ was the cautious rejoinder. ‘Perhaps you had
better consult the autograph in Johnson and Steevens’s edition.’
‘Tush! Do you suppose that I have not every stroke and turn of it in my
mind’s eye? Reach down the book, Maggie.’
Margaret, who knew where to lay her hand upon every book in her uncle’s
library, made haste to produce the volume.
‘There, did not I tell you?’ said Mr. Erin triumphantly. ‘Look at the
_W_, look at the _S_.’
Dennis did look at them very carefully. ‘Yes,’ he admitted, ‘there is
no doubt that they are fac-similes.’
‘Fac-similes!’ exclaimed the old man angrily; ‘why not frankly say that
they are by the same hand at once?’
‘But that is begging the whole question,’ argued Dennis, his honest and
implastic nature leading him into the selfsame error into which he had
fallen at Charlecote Park. ‘It is surely more likely upon the whole
that an autograph purporting to be Shakespeare’s should be a fac-simile
than an original.’
‘Or, in other words,’ answered Mr. Erin, with a burst of indignation,
‘it is more likely that this lad here, poor William Henry’ (the ‘poor’
sounded almost like ‘poor dear’), ‘should have imposed upon us than
not.’
‘Oh no, oh no,’ interposed Margaret earnestly; ‘I am sure that Mr.
Dennis never meant to suggest that.’
‘Then what the deuce did he mean by his fac-simile?’ ejaculated the
antiquary, with irritation. ‘Look at the up-strokes; look at the
down-strokes.’
‘You have made an accusation against me, Mr. Erin,’ said Frank Dennis,
speaking under strong emotion, ‘which is at once most cruel and
undeserved. If I thought myself capable of doing an injury to William
Henry, or especially of sowing any suspicion of him in your mind, I—I
would go and drown myself in the river yonder.’
Mr. Erin only said, ‘Umph,’ in such a tone that it sounded like ‘Then
go and do it.’
‘How is it possible that in throwing any doubt upon the genuineness of
that document,’ continued the other, ‘I should be imputing anything to
its finder? Nor, indeed, have I cast any doubt on it. I know nothing
about it.’
‘Then why offer an opinion?’ put in the old man implacably.
‘At all events, sir, I hazarded none as to how the thing came into
William Henry’s possession.’
‘Tut, tut,’ replied the antiquary, once more reverting to the precious
document, ‘who cares how he got it? The point is that we have it here;
not only Shakespeare’s handwriting, but a most incontestable proof, to
such as ever doubted it, of his honour and punctuality in discharge of
his just debts. William Henry, I have been mistaken in you, my lad. I
will honestly confess that I had built no such hopes upon you. When I
lost my poor Samuel [a son that died in infancy], I never thought to
be made happy by anything a boy could do again. This is the proudest
moment of my life—to have under my own roof, to see with my own
eyes, to touch with my own fingers, the actual handwriting of William
Shakespeare.’
Then, with a sigh like one who returns to another something he himself
fain would keep, as knowing far more how to value it, he folded up the
document, and returned it to William Henry.
‘Nay, sir,’ said the lad, gently breaking silence for the first time,
‘it is yours, not mine. My pleasure in acquiring it—for, to say truth,
it cost me nothing—would all be lost if you refused to accept it.’
‘What, as a gift? No, my boy, that is impossible. I don’t mean that
you must take cash for it,’ for William Henry looked both abashed and
disturbed, ‘but something that will at least show you that I am not
ungrateful.’
For one wild instant the young man believed that, like a stage father,
Mr. Erin was about to place Margaret’s hand in his and dower them with
his blessing, but he only walked to his bookcase, and took from the
shelf, where it had just been reverently laid, ‘Stokes, the Vaulting
Master,’ and pushed it into his hands.
‘But, sir, you have not heard how I gained possession of the deed,’
exclaimed the astonished recipient of this treasure.
‘To-morrow, to-morrow,’ answered the antiquary as he left the room with
the document hugged to his heart; ‘to-morrow will be time enough for
details.’
In his heart of hearts he feared lest there should be some flaw in the
young man’s story which might throw discredit upon the genuineness of
his discovery: and, for that night at least, he wished to enjoy his
acquisition without the shadow of a doubt.