A DELICATE TASK.
GREAT as had been Mr. Erin’s joy when he first looked on Shakespeare’s
love-lock and love letter, it by no means wore off—as our violent
delights are apt to do—as time went on. What was wanting in the way of
novelty was made up to him perhaps—for we may be sure Margaret did not
insist upon her rights in the matter—by the sense of possession. For
what was the position of the man who had in his cupboard some unique
pieces of china, or even in his coffers the biggest ruby or diamond in
the world, as compared with his own? Only, as in the latter case, he
grew not a little nervous for the safety of his unrivalled treasure. He
was a _virtuoso_ and antiquary himself, and therefore recognised the
full extent of his danger. In his iron press he caused a little well
to be sunk, in which the lock of hair was placed under glass, for the
contemplation of the faithful, and none was ever permitted to behold
it save in his presence. Even then he did not feel safe, but compelled
himself to adopt a plan to ensure security which galled him to the
quick. Just as in old times black mail was wont to be given by the
rich to leading and powerful robbers as an insurance on their goods,
so Mr. Samuel Erin did not hesitate to offer to the more audacious
and formidable of his learned brethren bribes, and those of the most
precious kind imaginable. Though every thread taken from Shakespeare’s
lock gave him a pang infinitely keener than the drawing out of his own
beard with pincers would have done, he actually distributed a few of
these precious hairs among his friends, which they placed reverently in
rings and lockets. We may be sure that Sir Frederick Eden had a genuine
hair or two; but it was whispered by the envious (who were many)
that upon applications becoming numerous Mr. Erin’s favours grew in
proportion, which, as the lock did not diminish, could only arise from
some other source of supply.
Among the recipients who entertained this doubt, or among those who
received no such sacred relic at all, there were some who had the
hardihood to assert that no human hair could have resisted the lapse
of time since Shakespeare’s days. They even produced a Mr. Collett, a
hair merchant, who came to inspect the lock—from a distance of several
feet, however—and who had the hardihood to express this opinion in
the proprietor’s presence. To describe the effect of anger in aged
persons, especially when accompanied with personal violence, is painful
to one who, like the present writer, has a respect for the dignity
of human nature, so we will draw a veil over what ensued, but it is
certain that Mr. Collett left Norfolk Street on that occasion with
much precipitation—taking the four steps that led to the front door
at a bound: he also left his hat behind him, which was thrown after
him into the street. It must be admitted that his objections were as
absurd as they were impertinent, since it is well known that human
hair has survived many centuries of burial; indeed, when the vault of
Edward IV., who died in 1483, was opened at Windsor, the hair of the
head was found flowing, and as strong as hair cut from the head of a
living person. This Sir Frederick Eden privately assured Mr. Erin to be
true, since he was not only present at the exhumation, but had been so
fortunate, by means of a heavy bribe to the sexton, as to get some of
the said hair for his private collection.
Partly from reasons that have been suggested, but chiefly from William
Henry’s remonstrance upon his patron’s account—who he felt confident
would lay an embargo upon all future treasure troves, if he should find
the report of what had happened to interfere with his own ease and
privacy—Mr. Samuel Erin took little pains to circulate the news of his
son’s second discovery; but nevertheless it oozed out, and in spite of
himself William Henry found himself to be in some respects a public
character. Whoever called to see the manuscripts inquired also if the
young gentleman was at home, to receive from his own lips the oft-told
tale of their discovery. This was exceedingly irksome to him; he would
much rather have been reading and talking to his fair cousin, and let
his father have all the glory of exhibition and explanation to himself.
But Maggie never grudged him to these inquirers; she was pleased to
find he was so much sought after, and took a greater pride in it than
even her uncle. William Henry went to New Inn, as usual, but it was
well understood that the time he spent there was of little consequence,
as compared with his visits to the Temple. Mr. Erin ever thirsted
for new discoveries, not only on their own account, but because, as
he justly observed, the greater the bulk of them, the more probable
would their genuineness appear to those inclined to question it. The
antiquary demands not only treasure but credit, and though Mr. Erin
himself entertained no doubts, he would rather that other people had
none; just as the gentleman who kept the thousand-pound note framed and
glazed upon his mantelpiece, not content with knowing it was from the
Bank of England, resented the imputation from his friends of its having
been issued from the Bank of Elegance.
Moreover, Mr. Erin was secretly troubled at the continued absence of
Frank Dennis. He could, as we have seen, on occasion, and even when
there was no occasion, give him the rough side of his tongue, but in
his heart he greatly respected him. The old man, thanks to himself,
or rather to his temper, had few friends; the bond that united him to
those he possessed was itself a source of rivalry and disagreement. But
Dennis’s father and himself had been as brothers, and after the former
died, Mr. Erin had allowed the young man some familiarity, to which
certainly none of his years had been admitted before or since.
He professed just now to be absent on business, but business had never
detained him from Norfolk Street so long before. Mr. Erin reproached
himself with having driven him away by his harsh behaviour, and even
went so far as to confess as much to his niece.
‘Of course it annoyed me, wench, to see Frank so obstinate in his
incredulity, for that he was incredulous about that note of hand I am
certain.’
‘I can only say that he never breathed a word of doubt to me, uncle.’
‘Nor to me, yet I know he harboured doubts,’ was the confident reply.
‘He stuck to them even after Sir Frederick found out the quintin on the
seals.’
‘Still, it’s only a matter of opinion, uncle.’
‘Opinion! it’s what the believers in the Scarlet Woman call inveterate
contumacy—they used to burn people for it.’
‘Well, but you don’t agree with _them_, you know,’ smiled Margaret.
‘You were always a stickler for the rights of private judgment.’
The antiquary shook his head and pursed his lips, the only reply
possible to him under the circumstances; he could not say, ‘But when
I mean private judgment, I mean the judgment that coincides with my
private views.’
‘Perhaps I have been a little hard on him, Maggie, and that is what
keeps him away. I wish he were back again.’
This confession from the mouth of such a man was pathetic. What it
conveyed, as Margaret partly guessed, was, that in the crowd of
flatterers and secret detractors by whom her uncle was surrounded
he felt the loss of his honest, if somewhat too outspoken, friend.
She felt remorse too, as well as compunction, for in her heart she
suspected that she herself was the cause of Frank’s absence.
He had doubtless noticed the changed relations between herself and
William Henry, and withdrawn himself, but without a word of complaint,
from her society. He recognised the right she had to choose for
herself, nor did he grudge her the happiness she found in her choice,
but he could not endure the contemplation of it. It was out of the
question, of course, that she should reveal this to Mr. Erin; but she
was too straightforward to corroborate a view of the matter which she
knew to be incorrect.
‘I don’t think Frank is one, uncle, to take offence at anything you
may have said to him about the Deed. He is too sensible—I mean,’ she
added with the haste of one who withdraws his foot from a precipice,
‘his nature is too generous to harbour offence.’
‘You really think that, do you?’ returned the old man in a tone of
unmistakable relief. ‘Well, in that case, just drop him a line and let
him know how the matter stands. You need not put it upon me at all, but
say you miss his society here very much, as, of course, you do.’
Margaret was greatly embarrassed; the task thus proposed to her was
almost impossible. She had never written to the young man before, and
to do so now in her peculiar circumstances, and for the purpose of
asking him to return to town, would be very painful to her and might be
misleading to him.
‘I like Mr. Dennis very much, uncle,’ she stammered, ‘but—— ‘
‘Just so,’ interrupted the antiquary; ‘this scepticism of his, as you
were about to say, is a serious drawback; still, if _I_ can get over
it, _you_ can surely make allowance for him. Moreover, when he sees
the lock of hair and the love letter—and perhaps there may be other
discoveries by the time he returns—he must be a very Thomas not to
believe such proof. Now if it had been he instead of William Henry who
had found these precious relics, all would have indeed been well.’
‘I don’t think we should grudge poor Willie his good fortune, sir,’
returned Margaret reprovingly, She was quicker than ever now to take
her cousin’s part, and her uncle’s tone of regret had touched her to
the quick. It made it evident to her that his new-found regard for his
adopted son was but skin-deep—or rather manuscript-deep. The pity
for him that she had always felt had become a deeper and more tender
sentiment, and given her more courage to defend him.
‘Grudge him? Of course I do not grudge him,’ returned the antiquary,
fuming. ‘I only meant that if Frank Dennis had William Henry’s gifts he
would be a perfect man; you can tell him _that_ if you like.’
For a single instant Margaret saw herself telling Mr. Dennis ‘that,’
and felt the colour rise to her very forehead. Her uncle noticed that
there was a hitch somewhere, and became naturally impatient at finding
his wishes interfered with by the scruples of a ‘slip of a girl.’
‘Well, write what you will,’ he continued with irritation, ‘only see
that it brings him.’
Poor Margaret! She liked Frank Dennis, as she had said, very much; but,
as she had only too good reason to believe, not so much as he wished
her to do. What she had to say to him was: ‘Come to me, but not for my
sake.’ It was a parallel to the nursery address to the ducks, ‘Dilly,
Dilly, come and be killed;’ only he was not to be killed, but tortured.
What were the use of compliments? It was like asking a young gentleman
to be best man when he wants to be the bridegroom himself. She could
thoroughly depend upon Willie to avoid all appearance of triumph, but
there was no getting over the fact that he was Frank’s successful
rival; though he would never say like the boastful schoolboy to his
less fortunate companion, ‘Do you like cakes? Then see me eat them!’
yet he had the cake, and it was a cake that could not be divided.
However, there was no help for it, so she sat down to write her letter.
It was a very difficult and delicate task. She had learnt to call him
Frank, but could she address him so on paper? ‘Dear Mr. Dennis’ was
too formal, and ‘My dear Mr. Dennis’ was, under the circumstances, not
to be thought of. She eventually wrote, ‘Dear Frank’ (how dreadfully
familiar it looked—yet a fortnight ago it would have seemed natural
enough), ‘what delays the wheels of your chariot? If it is business I
am sure you must have had time to build a cathedral. My uncle misses
you very much’—this sounded unkind; it suggested that no one else
regretted his absence, so she added—‘as we all do.’ Here with a little
sigh she underlined _all_, so as to make it appear that she regretted
him only as William Henry did, no more and no less. ‘I hope, for my
uncle’s sake, you will come back less of an infidel in Shakespearean
affairs. The lock of hair, of the discovery of which you have doubtless
heard, has, by-the-bye, thanks to the chivalry of “The Templar,”
been given to me, so you will understand that any aspersion cast upon
its genuineness is a personal matter. The weather is wet—though it
should make no difference to an architect, since he can roof himself
anywhere—so there is no excuse for your lingering in the country for
pleasure’s sake.’
Had she dared to say so, she might have hinted very prettily that
with him the sunshine would return to Norfolk Street; but she was no
longer fancy free. Even as it was, sisterly as she had endeavoured to
make the tone of her letter, she feared she might have given him some
involuntary encouragement. It was terrible to her to feel so confident
as she did that on the receipt of it Frank Dennis would start for
London.