AN UNWELCOME VISITOR.
ALTHOUGH it may be very true that kings can affect but little the
happiness of their subjects, the petty kings of every household—from
Paterfamilias the First down to his latest descendants—have a very
important influence in that way. The difference which a morose or
cheerful parent makes in the lives of those beneath their roof is
incalculable. In the one case the atmosphere of existence is all cloud,
in the other, all sunshine. It must be confessed that up to this
period the Jupiter of the little household in Norfolk Street had been
something of a Jupiter Pluvius. There were storms, there were tears;
and even when it was not so, the domestic sky was sullen. From the
date of the discovery, however, of that note of hand, from William
Shakespeare to John Hemynge, the weather cleared. Moreover, matters
looked all the brighter by contrast. It is one of the many advantages
that selfish persons of strong will possess, that when they do
condescend to be genial, people are prone to believe that they always
were so, or at all events that they have misjudged them in setting them
down as churlish.
So in the Orient, when the gracious light
Lifts up his long-hid head, each under eye
Doth homage to this new appearing sight,
* * * * *
And mortal looks adore his majesty.
Mr. Erin’s domestics began to acknowledge that their master was not
half a bad fellow; and his niece, to whom, however, it is but fair to
say he had always been kind, was quite triumphant over his new-found
good nature. ‘Now, Willie, did I not always tell you so?’ &c., while
Frank Dennis had reason to believe that he had at last been quite
forgiven his heretical doubts as to whether deer could shed tears as
easily as their antlers.
As to William Henry himself, the strides he had made in Mr. Erin’s
favour, thanks to that ‘find’ of his in the ‘Templar’s’ chambers, was
something magical, as if he had got seven-league boots on. His father
even called him Samuel, as though he were verily and indeed that son
he had lost with all the hopes that were wrapped up in him. It must
be confessed, however, that this may have been partly owing to the
birth of new hopes; William Henry, indeed, though he had twice visited
his friend in the Temple since that one momentous occasion, had found
nothing very new—or rather very old—there; but on the other hand,
what Mr. Erin justly thought a great piece of good fortune, and one
that showed promise of much more, had befallen him. On looking over his
patron’s papers he came across a deed of no great antiquity in truth,
but which to that gentleman himself was especially valuable, since it
established his right to a certain property that had long been the
subject of litigation. For this, something was certainly due to the
young man himself, since, but for his legal learning and knowledge
of the nature of the document, he might easily have passed it over
as being of no importance. It was, therefore, not so very surprising
that the old gentleman, in a sudden glow of gratitude, for which his
mind, from its natural leaning towards the young fellow was, as it
were, ‘ready laid,’ had given him a promise that whatever he might
henceforth discover among his papers of general interest should, by way
of recompense for the service he had rendered him, become his own.
Gladly as William Henry himself doubtless received this mark of his
patron’s favour, his joy could hardly have exceeded that of Mr. Erin
when the news was communicated to him. It must need be confessed,
however, that his gratitude was not wholly dissociated from a sense of
favours to come.
‘Why, my dear lad,’ he cried, ‘this note of hand of Shakespeare’s,
priceless as it is, may be yet outdone by what remains to be
discovered. In this strange treasure-trove of which you speak, of
the contents of which, both as to their nature and value, their
owner seems to be wholly ignorant, there may be, for all we know,
whole letters in Shakespeare’s handwriting, copies of his plays, a
sonnet or two, possibly even the skeleton of some play which he never
filled in with flesh-and-blood characters, the hint of some divine
tragedy—gracious Goodness!’ and Mr. Erin threw up his hands in
speechless ecstasy, as though a glimpse of heaven had been vouchsafed
to him of which it was not lawful for him to discourse further.
‘Of course it is possible, sir,’ returned William Henry gravely. ‘But
for my part I dare not trust myself to think of what may be lying in
yonder lumber rooms. Just now, indeed, I am giving my attention solely
to my patron’s library, arranging the bookshelves and making out the
catalogue. After his generous promise I purposely forego the pleasure
of investigation lest I should be considered grasping.’
‘Fire!’ interrupted the old man suddenly with tremulous anxiety. ‘Think
of fire! You know what happened at Clopton House; and though of course
your patron would never wilfully destroy a scrap of paper with any
antiquity about it, yet who can guard against accident—carelessness?
One spark from a candle and the world may be robbed of we know not
what. Oh, my dear lad, for the world’s sake, if not for mine, I pray
you lose no time. Never mind your work; I’ll settle all that with
Bingley. Stick to the lumber-room—I mean the precious manuscripts.
‘Dull not device by coldness and delay.’
The eagerness of the old man was in its intensity quite touching. No
lover entreating his mistress for the momentous monosyllable could have
been more earnest, or even more passionate. William Henry himself,
who, throughout the late stirring incidents, which promised to affect
his future so nearly, had kept himself studiously calm and quiet, was
deeply moved.
‘I will do my best, sir,’ he replied in agitated tones; ‘nothing
pleases me better than to give you pleasure.’
‘That is well said,’ returned the old man graciously. Margaret looked
on with approving eyes. Supposing even what the young man had so
rashly set his heart on should bear no fruit—if his dream should not
be realised—it was surely well that such friendly relations should
be established between him and the man who, if not his own flesh and
blood, was his natural protector. It was very satisfactory also to see
that Willie was responding to Mr. Erin’s overtures of good-will.
As to these last there could be no doubt as to her uncle’s change of
front towards her cousin (to whom indeed he had hitherto shown no front
at all, but had turned his back upon him); and that very evening there
was another proof of it. As the three were sitting down to supper,
William Henry noticed that the table was laid for four. Under ordinary
circumstances he would have taken it for granted that Dennis was
coming, but he knew that the architect was out of town on business. He
was not yet on such intimate terms with the master of the house as to
inquire who was the expected guest, and supposed him to be one of the
Shakespearean literati who were now dropping in at all times.
Presently there was a knock at the door, whereat Margaret looked at her
uncle with a significant smile, and her uncle looked at William Henry.
‘I have got a pleasant surprise for you, my lad,’ he said gaily. ‘Some
time ago—indeed it was before Maggie came to live with us—you had
a friend whose companionship I thought was doing you no good, and I
gave him the cold shoulder. It is never too late to own oneself in the
wrong; he certainly did you no harm and perhaps intended none. It is
only natural that you should have friends of your own age, and that
they should be made welcome in your father’s house; so, as you told
me he was in town, I sent round a note to him to ask him to drop in
to-night to supper.’
Before William Henry could reply the door opened and the servant
announced Mr. Reginald Talbot.
The new-comer was a fresh-complexioned young gentleman of about
eighteen or so, rather clumsily built for his age, with long,
reddish-brown hair and bold eyes. They did not look at all like
near-sighted eyes, but he wore round his neck what was then called a
quizzing-glass, held by the hand, through which he now surveyed the
present company. His attire, if not more fashionable than Mr. Erin’s
guests were wont to wear, showed a much greater taste for colours. His
waistcoat was heavily laced, and the buckles on his shoes, if, as was
probable, they were not made of real diamonds, shone by candlelight as
though they had been.
‘It is very kind of you, Mr. Erin,’ he said, ‘’pon honour, to let
me drop in in this way. If I had known that there were ladies
present’—here he glanced at Margaret and bowed like a dancing
master—‘I would have put on more suitable apparel.’
‘Pooh, pooh! you’re smart enough,’ said Mr. Erin in a tone in which
contempt and politeness struggled ludicrously for the upper hand. ‘This
is only my niece, Margaret Slade; there’s your old friend, William
Henry. Didn’t I say, my lad’—here he turned to his son and clapped him
on the shoulder—‘that I had got a surprise for you?’
Of course Mr. Erin had meant it well, just as he had done when he had
made him that priceless present of ‘Stokes, the Vaulting Master,’ but,
as in that case, it would have seemed to a close observer that he had
not exactly hit upon the meed of merit most to William Henry’s fancy.
That young gentleman shook hands indeed with the new-comer cordially
enough, but, whether from surprise or some other cause, could at first
find no better topic to converse upon than the weather.
‘I suppose,’ he said, ‘you have not been having much more sun where you
have come from than we have had.’
‘Sun!’ echoed the other drily. ‘I suppose there is not much difference
in the weather of Norfolk Street and that of the Strand. I have been
in London, as I wrote to you I should be, these ten days, and not a
hundred yards away, if you had cared to come and see me.’
‘I didn’t understand that from your letter,’ stammered William Henry.
‘I thought—— ‘
‘I think I can explain this matter, Mr. Talbot,’ interposed Mr. Erin;
‘satisfactorily as far as William Henry is concerned, if somewhat to
my own disadvantage. Under a misconception which it is unnecessary to
explain, I had tacitly forbidden my son to visit you. I am sorry for
it. I hope you will now make up for it by seeing a good deal of one
another while you remain in town.’
‘You’re very good, I’m sure,’ said Talbot. He looked from father to
son in a vague and puzzled way, and then he looked at Margaret through
his spyglass. The young lady, annoyed to be so surveyed, cast down
her eyes, and Mr. Erin, with some revival of his old caustic tone,
inquired, ‘Do you propose to deprive your friends at home of your
society for any length of time?’
‘A week or two, perhaps more,’ returned the other, without a shade
of annoyance; he had evidently taken his host’s remark _au sérieux_.
‘I am come up on business of my own,’ he added grandly; ‘for as to
old Docket, though my articles are not yet run out, I treat him as I
please.’
‘You are in the fortunate position of having a competence of your own,
I conclude.’
‘Well, yes; that is, I come into it on my majority. Something in land
and also in hand. I shall then leave the law and pursue the profession
of a man of letters.’
‘Heaven deliver us!’ ejaculated Mr. Erin.
‘Sir?’ exclaimed the visitor.
‘And make us thankful for all its mercies,’ added his host, bending
over his plate.
‘I beg pardon; grace,’ muttered Mr. Talbot, growing red to the roots of
his hair.
Margaret reddened too, for it was not usual with her uncle to say
grace; and William Henry reddened also with suppressed laughter. He had
not given his father credit for so much dexterity.
‘And now I daresay, William Henry, you would like a talk with your old
friend in your own room,’ observed Mr. Erin; ‘you must make Mr. Talbot
quite at home here.’
The young gentleman looked as if he would quite as soon have remained
in the society of Miss Margaret, who had obviously attracted his
admiration, while William Henry could hardly repress a groan. But so
broad a hint could scarcely be ignored, and the two young men retreated
together accordingly.
‘I hope William Henry is pleased, my dear,’ said the old gentleman,
when he found himself alone with his niece. ‘He cannot say that I have
not made some little sacrifice. But why had he not been to see this
fellow—I gave him leave.’
‘Nay, sir, you did not give him leave implicitly; you said that if he
met Mr. Talbot he was to give him your compliments. Willie is always so
very particular not to overstep your permission in any way.’
Mr. Erin muttered an articulate sound such as a bumble-bee makes when
imprisoned between two panes of glass. It was not exactly ‘hum,’ but
it resembled it. William Henry was now all that he could wish him to
be, but there had been occasions—though to be sure there was now no
need to think of them—when he had not been so very careful to obey the
paternal commands.
‘Well, I hope he appreciates my little surprise,’ he murmured; ‘“a man
of letters,” forsooth! Never, never, was I so pestered by a popinjay.’