HOW TO GET RID OF A COMPANY.
WHEN Mr. Erin had closed the door behind him there was silence among
those he had left; Dennis and Margaret naturally looked to William
Henry for an explanation of so singular a scene, but he only turned
over the leaves of ‘Stokes, the Vaulting Master,’ with an amused
expression of countenance.
‘This reminds me,’ he observed presently, ‘of what one of Mr. Bingley’s
female clients did the other day. She had a favourite cat, which one of
her toadies used to extol in order to curry favour with her; and when
she died she left him _that_, as being the richest legacy she could
think of; her mere money went to a hospital.’
Margaret gave him a look which seemed to reproach him for his
frivolity, and Dennis remarked gravely enough, ‘I do hope there is no
mistake about that deed of yours, my lad; for I am afraid it would be a
terrible blow to your father.’
‘Deed of mine!’ exclaimed the young man indignantly. ‘How on earth can
I tell whether it is genuine or not?’
‘That is very true,’ said Margaret, ‘how can he? We must hope for the
best. Now tell us where you found it, Willie, and all about it.’
‘Well, it’s a queer story, I promise you, and I can only give you my
word of honour for the truth of it.’
‘I should hope that would be enough,’ said Margaret confidently.
‘It will be enough for you, Maggie,’ said the young man quietly, ‘but I
am very doubtful whether it will be sufficient for others, since even
to myself it would still seem like a dream save for the documentary
evidence. If that is right, as Mr. Erin seems to think, all is right.’
‘And for that you are not responsible,’ put in Margaret eagerly.
‘Just so; I know no more about it being Shakespeare’s genuine signature
than you do. How the thing came into my hands was this way. You know
the Horn Tavern in Fleet Street, Dennis?’
‘Well, of course. Did I not dine with you ten days ago there?’
‘Nay; let us be accurate throughout. I dined with _you_,’ said the
young man, smiling. ‘And that reminds me of what I had forgotten
before; it was on that very day that I first met my friend. Did you
notice an old gentleman with a flaxen wig dining by himself in the
corner?—indeed, I know you did, for we remarked that it was rather
early in the day for a man to be drinking port.’
‘I remember your making the observation,’ answered Dennis; ‘but
I cannot recall the gentleman; I did not notice him with any
particularity.’
‘Nor I. But it seems that he noticed _me_. I took my mid-day meal there
the next day, and there he was again. We sat at adjoining tables, and
he entered into conversation with me. His manner was at first a little
stiff and reticent, like that of an old bachelor who lives alone; but
something I said about Child’s bank seemed to attract his attention. He
was not aware that the accounts for the sale of Dunkirk had been found
among their papers, and seemed more astonished that I should know it.
Again, it amazed him to find that I knew about Chaucer’s having beaten
the Franciscan Friar in Fleet Street. Being ignorant, of course, of
the set of people I have been brought up amongst here, it doubtless
astonished him that so young a man should take any interest in such
matters. He said he was but an indifferent antiquary himself, from an
incurable habit of indolence, which had grown upon him during years of
seclusion, but that his tastes had at one time lain in that direction;
that he possessed a considerable collection of manuscripts bequeathed
to him by a cousin, and that if I liked to look in upon him at his
chambers in the Temple, I might perhaps find something worthy of my
attention.
‘Of course I availed myself of this invitation. I found my friend
in an unusually large set of chambers, but which had the appearance
of great neglect. The rooms he occupied himself were well cared for
enough, though he informed me that he saw no company; but the others
were used as lumber-rooms. They were filled with old books, old armour,
old manuscripts, piled up on the floor in the greatest confusion. There
were heaps of law documents, relating to his own affairs, which had no
better treatment. I suppose my new friend saw by the expression of my
face that I thought him a very eccentric personage, for he suddenly
observed, “I have taken a strong fancy to you, young gentleman, and I
am not easily pleased; but there is one thing which you must beware
of if you want our friendship to continue. I cannot be troubled with
questions. The man who left me all these things was worried to death
by the curiosity of other people. ‘Where did you get this? How did
that come into your hands?’ and so on, There are some things here my
possession of which would be so envied by some people, that I should
never have a moment’s peace from their importunities. If you should
come across any such treasure, and should reveal the place where you
found it, you and I part company. Let that be thoroughly understood
between us.” Of course I promised never to mention his name or address
to any one.’
As William Henry paused a moment to take breath, ‘That will be rather
awkward,’ observed Dennis gravely; ‘of course there was no help for it,
but your inability to give a reference as to the discovery of the deeds
will give rise to suspicion.’
‘Suspicion of what?’ inquired Margaret, with a flush on her cheek.
‘Of the authenticity of the document. I should rather have said would
strengthen suspicion, for that there will be objectors to it is
certain.’
‘My cousin has nothing to do with them,’ said Margaret; ‘surely he is
not personally answerable for the genuineness of the deed.’
‘Certainly not,’ answered Dennis gently.
‘Pray go on, Willie,’ said Margaret. It was plain that what Dennis had
said had annoyed her in some way; not only was he himself, however,
quite unconscious of the cause of offence, but William Henry appeared
equally in the dark. He glanced from one to the other with a puzzled
look before he took up his tale.
‘I have paid several visits to the Templar, as I will call him, since
then, and he has been most kind and hospitable. As my time is not my
own, and I can only occasionally leave the office, he has lent me a
latch-key, so that I may enter his chambers when I please, and pursue
my researches. In order, as I believe, to remove from me any unpleasant
sense of obligation, he has asked me to catalogue his library for him;
which is, of course, a labour of love.’
‘Why, my good lad, it is evident the old gentleman intends to adopt
you, and will make you his heir,’ exclaimed Dennis.
Though he spoke laughingly Margaret thought to herself that such an
event was by no means out of the range of possibility. Her cousin was
certainly very attractive; had excellent manners, and, as it happened,
the somewhat exceptional tastes that were most likely to recommend him
to such a patron. Perhaps the future that Willie had proposed to her in
the garden at Shottery might not turn out so wild a dream after all.
‘I think my new friend has done enough for me as it is,’ said William
Henry modestly. ‘In turning over some deeds yesterday I found
that document which I brought home to-night. Mr.——, I mean the
Templar—was not at home, so that I had to wait till I could see him
this afternoon. You may imagine what a twenty-four hours I passed.’
‘I noticed, as I told my uncle, that you had something on your mind,’
said Margaret; ‘but that has been for some days. No doubt it was this
making acquaintance with your new friend, and the possibilities that
might arise from it.’
‘No doubt. I confess I allowed myself to indulge in certain hopes,’
returned the young man with a smile, but keeping his eyes fixed on the
ground. ‘What has happened, however—always supposing that the document
is genuine—has been far beyond my expectations. When I met my patron
and told him what I had found he was surprised enough, but by no means
in that state of elation which we have just seen in Mr. Erin; the
reason of which was, I am convinced, that he at once made up his mind
to give me the thing.
‘“It is very curious,” he said. “My cousin always set great store by
those old manuscripts, but I did not know there was anything among them
so interesting as this. Perhaps you may find some more; at all events,
since but for you this discovery would certainly not have been made, or
at least not in my lifetime, it is but fair that you should reap the
benefit of it. This note of hand is yours.”’
‘What a gracious gentleman!’ exclaimed Margaret enthusiastically. ‘It
was not as if he did not know the value of what he was giving away.’
‘Just so. I am afraid, though I begged him to reconsider the matter,
that I was not very urgent that he should do so. I could not help
picturing to myself how Mr. Erin would receive such a treasure, and
how it might be the means’—here he hesitated a moment—‘of—making
myself more acceptable to him.’
Dennis patted the lad on the shoulder approvingly. He understood
that in his presence it was painful to the young fellow to allude to
his father’s habitually cold and unpaternal behaviour. What he did
not understand was that William Henry should resent this friendly
encouragement as being the manner of a mature man to a junior.
Margaret for her part attributed her cousin’s hesitation to another
cause. She felt that if they had been alone together he would have
ended that last sentence—‘how it might be the means of’—in a
different way.
‘In the end, of course,’ continued William Henry, smiling, ‘I took what
the gods had given me without much scruple, but even if nothing more
should come of it, I hope I shall never forget the old gentleman’s
kindness.’
Nothing under the circumstances could be more moderate, or in better
taste, than the speaker’s manner. Not only was there no exultation,
such as might easily have been excused in a man so young, and moreover,
so unaccustomed to good fortune, but he seemed to have resolutely
determined not to encourage himself in expectation; and yet there was a
confidence in his tone which to one at least of those who listened to
him was very significant. If it is too much to say that pretty Margaret
had repented of that promise given to her cousin at Anne Hathaway’s
cottage, she had certainly thought it very unhopeful; or rather it
would be more correct to say she had abstained from thinking of its
possible results at all; but that night she could not shut them out
from her dreams.
Mr. Samuel Erin would probably have also had his dreams—not less
agreeable, though of quite another kind—but unfortunately he never
went to sleep. Like Belshazzar, he beheld all night a writing on the
wall, which, albeit it was not in modern characters, needed in his case
no interpreter. It was Shakespeare’s autograph. It seemed to him to be
inscribed everywhere, and, as though the secret of luminous paint had
already been discovered, to shine miraculously out of the darkness.
He came down to the morning meal with a face of unwonted paleness, but
which, when it turned to William Henry, wore also an unwonted smile.
He listened to his narration of how he became possessed of the deed
with interest, but without much comment, and yet not a word did he say
about the precious document itself. His silence, however, was well
understood. There would that day be a gathering of his Shakespeare
friends, who would decide upon its genuineness; but in the meantime
it was clear that he had a firm and cheerful faith in it such as men
pray for so often in vain. For the first time for years he addressed
his conversation almost wholly to his son, and even recalled events
connected with the young man’s childhood. On later matters perhaps it
was scarcely safe to venture, lest memories of a less cheerful kind
should be raked up with them.
‘Do you remember, my boy, the days when we were wont to spout Macbeth
together, and how you had to hold up the paper knife in your little
hand and say, “Is this a dagger that I see before me?”’
William Henry remembered them very well, and said so. It was curious
enough that Shakespeare should be the one common ground they had
discovered on which to meet on terms of amity.
Then presently, ‘Have you heard anything of young Talbot lately?’
Talbot had been that schoolfellow of William Henry already spoken of,
who was a poetaster like himself. More fortunate, however, in worldly
circumstances, he had succeeded to a small estate in Ireland, where
he lived, save when he occasionally came to London for a week or two
for pleasure. On one occasion William Henry had ventured to bring
the young man to Norfolk Street, but he had been received with such
scant civility by the master of the house that the visit had not been
repeated. That Mr. Erin should have given himself the trouble to recall
his name spoke volumes of Shakespearean autograph.
‘Thank you, sir; Talbot is to be in town for a few days at the Blue
Bear in the Strand, I believe.’
‘I beg if you see him, then, that you will give him my compliments,’
said Mr. Erin graciously.
The transformation was quite magical. It was as though some humble
wight dwelling in the shadow of King Bulcinoso’s displeasure had
suddenly become first favourite, and, instead of receiving buffets, had
been given his Majesty’s hand to kiss.
Margaret had never liked her uncle so much as in this new character,
and was indignant with her cousin that he did not respond to his
father’s kindness with more enthusiasm.
‘If he had behaved so to me, Willie, I should have met him half way,’
she afterwards said reprovingly.
‘Yes,’ answered the young man gravely, ‘because you would have known
that he loved you for your own sake.’ Then with a gentle sigh he added,
‘Why don’t _you_ meet _me_ half way, Maggie?’
She did not indeed reply as he would have had her, but her tender
glance betrayed that if she had not got half way, she was on the road
to meet him.
He went away to his work as usual, but by no means in his usual frame
of mind. Nor were those he left behind him less moved by his late
proceedings than himself.
Before midday the parlour in Norfolk Street was the reception room of
quite a throng of dilettanti, some summoned that very morning by Mr.
Erin’s special invitation. The new-found deed was handed round among
these enthusiasts as a new-born babe, heir to millions, but about whom
there are some doubts as to its legitimacy, might be received by a
select circle of female gossips, while the proprietor, like a husband
confident in his wife’s fidelity, regards their investigations with a
complacent smile. They examined it tenderly but with great caution,
through spectacles of every description, and in silence befitting so
momentous an occasion; yet by their countenances, lit by a certain
‘fearful joy,’ it was easy to see that upon the whole they were
satisfied—nay glutted—by the inspection.
[Illustration: THE DILETTANTI.]
‘Well, gentlemen?’ inquired Mr. Erin with mock humility—a mere
pretence of submission to a possible adverse opinion. ‘What say you, my
dear Sir Frederick, what is your verdict?’
He had appealed to one Sir Frederick Eden, a Shakespearean critic of no
mean distinction, and who, being the only titled person present, might
naturally be considered as the foreman of the jury.
‘It is my opinion, Mr. Erin,’ replied that gentleman with great
solemnity, ‘that this most interesting document is valid.’
A hushed murmur of corroboration and applause broke from the little
throng. ‘That is my view also,’ said one; ‘And mine,’ ‘And mine,’ added
other voices.
If Mr. Erin had just been elected King of Great Britain and Ireland
(with the Empire of India thrown in by anticipation), and was receiving
the first act of allegiance from the representatives of the nation, he
could not have looked more gratified and serene.
‘That is certainly the conclusion,’ he observed with modesty, ‘which I
myself have arrived at.’
Then he told how William Henry had become possessed of the document, a
narration which redoubled their interest and excitement.
‘Sir,’ said Sir Frederick with emotion, ‘I felicitate you on the
possession of such a son.’
There were reasons, as we know, which made this congratulation a mere
matter of compliment, and, up to this time, by no means an acceptable
one; but it was with no little pride and satisfaction that Mr. Erin now
acknowledged it.
‘He is a good lad,’ he said, ‘a discreet and well-ordered lad: and, of
course, it is very gratifying to me that he has found favour in the
eyes of this gentleman—whoever he may be—to whom we are indebted for
this—this manifestation.’
It was a strange word to use, but, under the circumstances, not an
inappropriate one. To Mr. Samuel Erin the occurrence in question seemed
indeed little less than a miracle, and William Henry the instrument
through which it had been vouchsafed to his wondering eyes.
‘What we have to consider,’ he continued, dropping his voice in hushed
solemnity, ‘is that, in all probability, other papers connected with
the immortal bard may be produced from the same source.’
The company nodded their wigs in unison. It was as though in their
mind’s eye a dish of peaches had been placed on the table before them;
their very mouths watered.
‘There is one circumstance,’ said Sir Frederick, who still held the
document in his hands, rather to his host’s discomfort, who well knew
what temptation was, and had become anxious for the return of his
property, ‘which I think has hitherto escaped our notice: in examining
the document we have neglected the seals. I have just discovered by
close scrutiny that they represent that ancient game the quintin. Here
is the upright beam, here is the bar, here is the bag.’
The company crowded round, most of them with magnifying glasses, which
gave them the appearance of beetles who, with projecting eyes and
solemn looks, investigate for the first time some new and promising
article of food.
‘At the top of the seal, if I am not mistaken,’ continued Sir Frederick
in pompous tones, and with the air of a man without whose intelligence
a great discovery would have passed unnoticed, ‘you will recognise the
ring, to unhook which with his lance was the object of the tilter; if
he failed to accomplish it, the bar, moving swiftly on its pivot, swung
round the bag, which striking smartly on the tilter’s back, was almost
certain of unhorsing him.’
‘We see it—it is here; there is no doubt of it,’ gasped the excited
company.
‘Now, mark you, this is not only curious,’ resumed the knight, ‘but
corroborative of the genuineness of the document in a very high degree.
Observe the very close analogy which this instrument bears to the name
of Shakespeare. Is it not almost certain, therefore, that this seal
belonged to our immortal bard, and was always used by him in his legal
transactions?’
‘Then rose the hushed amaze of hand and eye.’ For some moments no voice
broke the awful silence; but presently, under deep emotion, Mr. Erin
spoke.
‘A revelation,’ he said, ‘always needs an expounder, and in our friend
Sir Frederick we have found one. Thanks to your keen intelligence, sir,
the value of this deed has been placed beyond all question.’
‘I am very glad to have been of some slight service to the cause of
literary discovery,’ returned Sir Frederick modestly. ‘Perhaps some
other lights may strike me if you will allow me to take the document
home with me.’
‘Indeed I will do nothing of the kind,’ put in Mr. Erin precipitately;
‘not, of course, my dear friend, that I have the least doubt of
your good faith,’ he added in gentler tones, ‘but in justice to my
son—unhappily absent, and to whom it belongs—I can hardly suffer the
deed to leave my custody. Perhaps at another time’—for his friend was
looking anything but pleased—‘your request shall be complied with, but
at present it must be here for the satisfaction of doubters. Such a
person, I have reason to believe, is among us even now.’
A murmur of indignation arose from all sides. They cast at one another
such furious glances as the Thracian nymphs may have done before
tearing Orpheus to pieces.
‘Yes, Mr. Dennis,’ continued the host sarcastically, addressing the
unhappy Frank, who had hitherto remained unnoticed and quiescent, ‘I
have reason to believe from the expression of your features, when I
connect it with certain remarks that fell from you in Shottery Park the
other day, that you are our only sceptic.’
If to an assembly of divines in Convocation ‘the Infidel,’ so often
alluded to in the abstract in their discourses from the pulpit, had
been suddenly presented to them in the concrete, they could not have
looked at him with a greater horror than that with which the company
regarded the young man thus thrust upon their attention.
‘Indeed, indeed, Mr. Erin,’ pleaded Dennis, ‘I have never uttered a
syllable that could be construed, or even perverted, into doubt.’
‘One may look daggers and yet speak none,’ returned Mr. Erin with
severity (and that he should thus venture to misquote his favourite
bard showed even more than his tone the perturbation of his mind).
‘The document, however, will be left here—_here_,’ he repeated
significantly, ‘for your private scrutiny and investigation; I only
trust that you may find cause to withdraw your aspersions, groundless
in themselves, as they are disparaging to my dear son William Henry,
and offensive to this respectable and learned company, about, as I see
with regret, to take their leave.’
If Mr. Erin had suddenly seized a hammer and smote him on the
forehead, Mr Dennis could hardly have been more astonished than at
this gratuitous onslaught. He resolved to wait till the company had
dispersed, which, at that broad hint received from its host, it
proceeded to do, and then demand an explanation.
Mr. Erin, however, anticipated him. ‘I was somewhat more vehement,
Dennis,’ he said, ‘in the remarks that I addressed to you just now
than the occasion demanded; but the fact is, some sort of diversion
was imperatively demanded. My friends, I saw, were getting turbulent;
the discovery of the quintin on the seal was too much for them,
already excited as they were by the exhibition of this extraordinary
document. Sir Frederick in particular, under circumstances of such
extreme temptation, I knew to be capable of any outrage. I made you—I
confess it—the scapegoat, by means of which the safety of the precious
manuscript has been secured. In compensation, take it and look at
it as long as you like. What I said about your incredulity, though
somewhat justified by the past, you must admit, was in the main but a
pious fraud. Like any man of intelligence, you cannot but revere the
document. It is yours, say, for the next five minutes. Then it goes
into my iron case, for “Who shall be true to us,” as he whose honoured
name lies there before you, in his own handwriting, has observed, “if
we be unsecret to ourselves?”’