THE LOVE-LOCK.
WHETHER William Henry’s short method with Mr. Reginald Talbot was to
be satisfactory or not remains to be seen, but for the present it had
all the effect intended. The inmate of the ‘Blue Boar’ confined himself
to his own quarters, or, at all events, did not take advantage of the
general invitation given to him by Mr. Samuel Erin to visit Norfolk
Street. Nor did that gentleman make any inquiry into the cause of his
absence. He had done his best to pleasure his son and encourage him in
his discoveries, but was well content that ‘the popinjay’ kept away.
With William Henry—and this was, perhaps, even a greater proof of the
change in the old man than his more active kindnesses—he was very
patient and unimportunate. He would cast one look of earnest inquiry
on the young fellow as he came home every evening, and, receiving
a shake of the head by way of reply, would abstain from further
questioning. Such was his admiration for the nameless inmate of the
Temple that he respected his wish for silence, even as it were at
second hand. This behaviour was most acceptable to its object, and the
more so, since the reticence Mr. Erin thus observed in his own case he
imposed upon his visitors, who would have otherwise subjected William
Henry to the question, _forte et dure_, half a dozen times a day. He
had persuaded himself that if once the mysterious visitor should get
to know that a fuss was being made about that note of hand, he would
withdraw his favours from his protégé altogether.
One evening William Henry came home a little earlier than usual, and
in return to his father’s inquiring look returned a smile full of
significance.
‘I have found something, father,’ he said, ‘but you must be content, in
this case, with the examination of it.’
‘Then your friend has gone back from his word,’ replied the old man;
‘well, it was almost too much to expect that he should have kept to it.’
‘Nay, you must not misjudge him, father, for the very restrictions he
has placed upon me mean nothing but kindness. The treasure trove is
this time for Margaret.’
‘Margaret! what does he know about Margaret? Well, at all events, it is
in the family.’
This reflection alone would hardly have been sufficient to smooth away
disappointment from the old man’s brow, had it not also struck him that
his niece had no great taste for old MSS., and that a new gown, with
a fashionable breast-knot, or some Flanders lace, would probably be
considered an equivalent for the original draft of Hamlet.
‘Come, come, let us hear about it?’
‘But if you please, sir, we must wait for my cousin, my patron said——
‘
‘Maggie, Maggie!’ exclaimed the old man, running out into the little
hall and calling up the stairs, ‘come down this moment; here is a
present for you.’
At the unwonted news Maggie ran downstairs, arranging the last touches
of her costume upon the way, and arriving in the parlour in the most
charming state of flush and fervour. Entranced with her beauty, and
conscious of having made another step towards the accomplishment of his
hopes, William Henry devoured her with his eyes. It was seldom, indeed,
that he committed such an imprudence—in company—but if he had kissed
her, it is probable, under the circumstances, Mr. Erin would have made
no remark, or set it down to Shakespearean enthusiasm.
‘Another MS., Maggie!’ he cried triumphantly.
‘Come, that is better than fifty presents,’ answered Maggie, beaming.
‘I forgive you for your trick upon me, uncle, with all my heart.’
‘But what I have found is for _you_,’ said William Henry, firmly.
‘Just so,’ exclaimed Mr. Erin, hurriedly, ‘the MS. or something of
equal worth, that you would like vastly better. Let us see; now, let
us see.’
[Illustration: ‘MAGGIE, MAGGIE, HERE IS A PRESENT FOR YOU.’]
William Henry took out of his pocket an ancient, timeworn piece of
paper, carefully unfolded it, and produced from it a lock of brown
straight hair.
‘I thought you said it was a MS.,’ exclaimed Mr. Erin, in a tone of
extreme disappointment. ‘Why, this is only hair, and if I may be
allowed to say so, not a very good specimen even of that.’
‘Nevertheless, sir, such as it is, it is Shakespeare’s hair!’
‘Shakespeare’s hair!’ echoed Mr. Erin, falling into rather than sitting
down on the nearest chair; ‘it is impossible—you are imposing on me.’
William Henry turned very white, and looked very grave and pained.
‘Oh, uncle, how can you say such a thing!’ cried Margaret, plaintively:
‘poor Willie!’
‘I did not mean that, my lad, of course,’ gasped Mr. Erin; ‘I scarcely
know what I say. It seems too great a thing to be true. _His_ hair!’ He
eyed it with speechless reverence, as it lay in his son’s open palm;
his trembling fingers hovered round it, like the wings of a bird round
the nest of its little ones, but did not venture to touch it.
‘Where was it found?’ he murmured.
‘Wrapped up in this paper, a letter to Anne Hathaway, which mentions
the fact of his sending her the lock, and encloses some verses.’
‘Is it possible?’ exclaimed the old man, with intense excitement; ‘oh,
happy day! Read it, read it! I can see nothing clearly.’
The letter ran as follows:
‘Dearesste Anna,—As thou haste alwaye founde mee toe my worde moste
treue, so thou shalt see I have stryctlye kept mye promyse. I praye
you perfume thys mye poore Locke withe thye balmye eyess, fore thenne,
indeede, shalle Kynges themmeselves love and paye homage toe itte. I doe
assure thee no rude hand hath knottedde itte, thye Willys alone hath
done the worke. Adewe sweete love.
‘Thyne everre,
‘Wm. Shakespeare.’
‘Most tender, true, and precious!’ exclaimed the antiquary,
ecstatically; ‘and now the verses?’
‘There are but two, sir,’ said the young man, apologetically:—
‘“Is therre in heavenne aught more rare
Thane thou sweete nymphe of Avon fayre,
Is therre onne earthe a manne more treue
Thanne Willy Shakespeare is toe you?”’
William Henry read very well, and with much pathos, and into the last
line he put especial tenderness which did not need the covert glance he
shot at her to bring the colour into Margaret’s cheek.
‘“Though deathe with neverre faylinge blowe,
Doth manne and babe alyke bringe lowe;
Yet doth he take naught butte hys due
And strikes not Willy’s heart still treue.”’
‘What simplicity, what fidelity!’ murmured the antiquary; ‘a flawless
gem indeed! Whence did you unearth it?’
‘I found it where I found the other deed, sir, amongst my patron’s
documents; I took it, of course, to him at once. He was greatly
surprised and interested, and fully conscious of the value of the
godsend; yet he never showed the least sign of regret at the gift he
made me, of what he was pleased to call the jetsam and flotsam from his
collection. ‘“If I were a younger man,” he said, “I think I should have
grudged you that lock of hair. It is just the sort of present a young
fellow should give to the girl he has a respect for. A thing that costs
nothing, yet is exceedingly precious, and which speaks of love and
fidelity. It is too good for any antiquary.”’
‘Your patron is mad, my lad,’ said Mr. Erin, in a tone of cheerful
conviction; ‘he _must_ be mad to talk like that; and, indeed, he would
never give away these things at all if he were in his sober senses. The
idea of bestowing such an inestimable relic upon a girl! Why, it should
rather be preserved in some museum in the custody of trustees, to the
delight of the whole nation for ever.’
‘Nevertheless, sir, such was my patron’s injunction. He asked of me
if I knew any pure and comely maiden, well brought up, and who would
understand the value of such a thing. I had therefore, of course, no
choice but to mention Margaret; whereupon he said that the lock of hair
was to be hers.’
‘I’ll keep it for you, Maggie, in my iron press,’ said Mr. Erin
considerately. ‘You shall look at it—in my presence—as often as you
like; and then we shall both know that it is safe and sound. As for
the letter and verses, Samuel, it will be better to put them for the
present, perhaps, in the same repository.’
‘You may put them where you like, sir,’ answered William Henry smiling,
as he always did when addressed by that unwonted name; ‘they are yours.’
‘A good lad, an excellent lad,’ murmured the antiquary; ‘now let us
with all due reverence inspect these treasures. This is the very hair
I should have looked for as having been the immortal bard’s, just as
the engraving by Droeshart depicts it in the folio edition. Brown,
straight, and wiry, as Steevens terms it.’
‘I should not call it wiry, uncle,’ observed Margaret, ‘though to be
sure it has no curl nor gloss on it; it seems to me soft enough to have
been a woman’s hair.’
‘It is, perhaps, a trifle silkier and more effeminate than the
description would warrant,’ returned the antiquary, ‘but that is
doubtless due to the mellowing effects of time. It may be so far
looked upon as corroborative evidence. In that connection, by-the-bye,
let me draw your particular attention to the braid with which the
hair is fastened. This woven silk is not of to-day’s workmanship. I
recognise it as being of the same kind used in the reigns of Mary and
Elizabeth for attaching the royal seal to patents: a most interesting
circumstance, and one which, were there any doubt of the genuineness
of the hair, might, like the impress of the quintin in the case of the
Hemynge deed, be reasonably adduced as an undesigned coincidence. Then
to think that we have it under his own hand that Shakespeare’s fingers
have knotted it. Read his words once again, my son, before we put the
priceless treasure by.’
‘“I doe assure thee no rude hand hath knottedde itte, thye Willys
alone hath done the worke.”’
‘How tender, how touching!’ exclaimed the antiquary. ‘We seem to be in
his very presence. What a privilege has this day been vouchsafed to us,
my children!’
The two young people glanced at one another involuntarily as the old
man addressed them by this title.
It is probable that Mr. Erin attached no particular meaning to it.
It may have been only the expression of the measureless content he
felt with both of them; with his son for what he had brought him, and
with his niece for the readiness with which she had resigned what
he had brought to his own custody. But to their ears it had a deep
significance.
As their looks met, that of William Henry was so full of tender triumph
that Maggie’s face became crimson, and she cast down her eyes. For the
first time she began to believe in the possibility of the realisation
of the young man’s dream. Notwithstanding what had passed between them,
she had hitherto felt more like a sister towards him than a lover;
it was not that she feared to risk the wreck of her own happiness
by trusting it to so slight a bark, but that, while matters were so
uncertain, a natural and modest instinct prevented her from regarding
him as he regarded her. There had been a sort of false dawn of love
with her, but, now that her uncle seemed to give such solid ground for
hope, the sun which had long lain in wait behind those clouds of doubt
came out with all the splendour of the morn. Love arose within her.
As Mr. Erin reverently placed his treasures in the iron safe, William
Henry stole his arm round Margaret’s waist:—
‘Is there on earthe a manne more treue
Than Willie Erin is to you?’
he whispered softly: and for the first time she did not reprove him.