AT VAUXHALL.
THE members of the little household in Norfolk Street were now in great
content. That word, indeed, scarcely describes the state of mind of
the head of the house, who was literally transported with joy. It was
difficult to identify the jubilant and triumphant old fellow with the
grudging, smileless, and to say truth, somewhat morose individual he
had been a few months before. His regard for William Henry began to
be quite troublesome, for, though he had not the least objection to
Margaret and his son being alone together, he would often interrupt
their little interviews from excess of solicitude upon his account.
That somewhat flippant young gentleman used to compare his parent
on these occasions to the ‘sweete chickenne’ of the Shakespearean
profession, which was always ‘hoverrynge over herre broode,’ and,
indeed, this affectionate anxiety was partly due to a certain
apprehension the old gentleman experienced when the goose that laid
the golden eggs for him was out of his sight. At present, however, as
Margaret reminded her cousin, there were not enough of them—though so
far as they went they had a very material value—to become nest eggs;
they could not be considered as savings or capital to any appreciable
extent. They were not, indeed, theirs at all, having been made over to
Mr. Erin; but for the object the young people had in view that was all
one as though they had remained their own. If a play of Shakespeare’s,
or even part of a play, should chance to turn up among those treasures
of the Temple, that would indeed be a fortune to them, or at all events
would procure the antiquary’s consent to everything, and ensure his
favour in perpetuity.
These ideas occurred to Margaret only in the vaguest way, nor even
in William Henry’s mind did they take any well-defined shape. His
nature, to do him justice, was by no means mercenary, and, if he could
only have called Margaret his own, he would have been content. As to
being able to maintain her he had always had a good opinion of his own
talents; and though the praise with which he was now overwhelmed from
so many quarters had, of course, no reference to them, it helped to
increase his self-confidence.
In this comparative prosperity, and being of a disposition that was by
no means inclined to triumph over an unsuccessful rival, it somewhat
distressed him to find Frank Dennis standing somewhat aloof. He visited
the house, indeed, but not so frequently as had been his wont, and, as
regarded William Henry at least, not upon the same terms. He had always
been friendly to the younger man under circumstances when it would have
been excusable if he had been otherwise, but now he avoided him; not
in any marked manner, but certainly with intention. If he had avoided
Margaret also, the explanation would have been easy, but it was not
so. He was not, indeed, on the same terms with that young lady as he
had been; he did not, as of old, seek her society; his face did not
brighten up as it was wont to do when she addressed him; but he treated
her with a respect which, if it was not tender, was full of gentleness:
whereas, to William Henry he was even cold.
It was a significant proof of the transformation that had taken place
in Mr. Erin that he not only noticed this, but in a manner apologised
for it to William Henry.
‘I am sorry to see that Dennis and you, my lad, don’t seem to get on
together so well as you used to do. But you must not mind his being a
little jealous.’
At this the young man’s face flushed, for ‘jealousy’ had just then with
him but one meaning: he thought that his father was about to talk with
him about Margaret, but his niece was not in the old man’s thoughts at
all.
‘It is not every one,’ he went on, ‘who can bear to see the good
fortune of his friends with equanimity; especially when it takes the
form of such a stroke of luck, as in your case. What Dennis says to
himself is: “Why should not I have discovered these MSS. instead of
William Henry?” And not having done so, he is a little bit envious of
you, and is inclined to decry them. It is a pity, of course, but he can
do you no more harm by it than he can harm Shakespeare by discrediting
the work of his hand.’
But the young man was sorry nevertheless, and Margaret was still more
grieved. Since Dennis had tacitly consented to her changed relations
with her cousin, or at all events had made no opposition to them, she
thought he might have forgiven him as he had forgiven her. It was a
subject on which she could not speak to him, but occasionally there was
something, or to her sensitive eye and ear seemed to be something, in
his tone and manner, not resentful, but as though he pitied her for her
choice, which annoyed her exceedingly.
This feeling was in no way reciprocated; it was impossible for Margaret
to ruffle Frank Dennis, but he rarely came to Norfolk Street now,
unless by special invitation. It had been proposed by Mr. Erin that
they should all four go to Vauxhall together upon a certain evening—a
very unusual dissipation, for except the theatre, of which when
Shakespeare was acted (which in those days was very frequently) he
was a pretty constant patron, the antiquary had no love for places
of amusement—but Frank Dennis had declined to accompany them. He
professed to have a previous engagement, which, as he went out very
little, seemed improbable; indeed, it was understood by the others that
he did not wish to go. This was a cause of sincere regret to them,
not excluding William Henry, for if Dennis had come he would have
paired off with Mr. Erin and left Margaret to himself. The expedition,
however, was looked forward to with pleasure by both the young people
even as it was: it had the charm of novelty for them, for William Henry
was almost as great a stranger to what had now begun to be called
‘life’ in London as his cousin. The little trip to the place by water
was itself delightful, while the Gardens, with the coloured lamps
and music and gaily dressed company, seemed to them like a dream of
Paradise.
Mr. Samuel Erin was not indeed a very good cicerone to such a spot,
for folks of their age; though he would have been invaluable to some
distinguished foreigner with a thirst for information. He reminded
them (or rather informed them, for they knew very little about it) how
for more than a century the place had been the resort of all the wit
and rank and gallantry of the town; how Addison had taken Sir Roger de
Coverley there, and Goldsmith the Chinese philosopher, and Swift had
gone in person to hear the nightingale; and how much more attractive
it was than its rival Ranelagh, of which, nevertheless, as Walpole
humorously writes, Lord Chesterfield was so fond that he ordered all
his letters to be directed thither. It was with difficulty the old
gentleman was persuaded not to take them away from the radiant scene
to a neighbouring street to see the lodgings where the poet Philips
had breathed his last; and, by way of reprisal for their preference
for such gauds and tinsel, he quoted to them (after Dr. Johnson)
Xerxes’ remark about his army, that it was sad to think that of all
that brilliant crowd not one would be alive a hundred years hence. The
Scriptures themselves admit that there is a time to laugh and a time to
play, and these literary reminiscences, and much more these didactic
reflections, were felt by the young people to be a good deal out of
place. If Mr. Erin could have been induced to visit the lodgings of
Mr. Philips by himself, or to meditate on the Future alone, and in the
Maze, then indeed they would have applauded him, but as it was, his
company was a trifle triste.
[Illustration: VAUXHALL GARDENS.]
They were presently relieved from it, however, in a wholly unexpected
manner. They had explored the walks, promenaded the ‘area,’ and
listened to the band to their hearts’ content, and had just sat down
in one of the arbours to a modest supper, when who should pass by,
with his hat on one side and an air of studied indifference to the
commonplace allurements around him, but Mr. Reginald Talbot. His few
weeks’ residence in London had effected a revolution in him, which
nevertheless could scarcely be called a reform: from an inhabitant of
Connemara, or some other out-of-the-way spot, he had become a citizen
of the world; but the dissipations of the town had not improved his
appearance. His face, though still full, had lost its colour, and he
had a lack-lustre look which so ably seconded his attempts at languor
that it almost rendered him idiotic.
William Henry drew involuntarily back in the box to avoid recognition,
but Mr. Talbot’s eye, roving everywhere, though with a somewhat
fish-like expression, in search of female beauty, had already been
attracted by Margaret’s pretty face. He did not quite recognise it,
probably owing to the doubtful aid he derived from his spy-glass, but
it was evident that he was struggling with a reminiscence.
‘Why, surely that is our young friend Talbot, is it not, Samuel?’
exclaimed Mr. Erin with effusion; and he held out his hand to the young
man at once, not because he was glad to see him, far from it, but
because he thought he was making a friend of his son welcome.
William Henry, however, was well convinced that Talbot was no longer
his friend, a circumstance that had not hitherto distressed him.
Indeed, he had by no means regretted their little tiff, since it had
been the means of keeping Talbot away from Norfolk Street; but now
that they had met again he had reasons for wishing that they had not
quarrelled. The very cordiality with which the other addressed him
aroused his apprehensions, for he knew that it was feigned; he would
much rather indeed have seen him, as on the occasion when he had last
met her, make advances to Margaret herself. Of her he was sure; no
dandy, whether metropolitan or provincial, could, he knew, ever rival
him in her affections; but this fellow, smarting from the slight that
had been put upon his muse, might injure him in other ways. He knew
from experience Mr. Reginald Talbot was capable of being what at school
was termed ‘nasty,’ _i.e._ malignant. It has been said of the great
Marlborough that whenever he permitted himself a noble phrase it was
a sure sign that he was about to commit a baseness; and similarly,
the fact of Mr. Talbot’s being upon his best behaviour was a symptom
dangerous to his friends. On the present occasion he was studiously
genteel.
His manner to Margaret—very different from that he generally adopted
towards the fair sex—was distantly polite, while to Mr. Samuel Erin
he was respectful to servility. What especially marked the abnormal
condition of his mind, and showed his feelings to be. under severe
restraint, was that he never alluded to his own poetical genius. In
speaking to William Henry the subject might well indeed have been
avoided as a painful one; but that he should exercise this reticence
with respect to the antiquary—to whom on a previous occasion, it will
be remembered, he had mentioned within the first five minutes that he
was ‘a man of letters’—was something portentous. He did not indeed
talk much, but he did what was a thousand times more difficult to
him—he held his tongue and listened.
This circumstance, joined to his demure behaviour, caused Mr. Samuel
Erin to take a much more favourable view of his son’s friend than that
he had originally entertained, and, finding him deeply interested in
the country of his birth and in its early history, related to him at
considerable length the story of the disruption of the Knight Templars,
and the escape of the survivors to Ireland, of which he happened to
have an account in black letter, which he hoped, as he said, at no
distant date to have the pleasure of showing Mr. Talbot under his
own roof. This naturally led on to some conversation respecting the
labours of Mr. Erin in the Shakespearean field, concerning which
the young man paid him several compliments, wherein what was wanted
in appropriateness (for the young gentleman laboured under the
disadvantage of knowing nothing whatever of the subject) was more than
compensated for by their impassioned warmth. Then by an easy gradation
they fell to talking on the new-found manuscripts. It amazed Mr. Erin
to find that Talbot had not yet seen the Profession of Faith.
‘I have been out of town, sir,’ he replied, for falsehood to this son
of Erin was as natural as mother’s milk, and laid on like water, on the
perpetual supply system, ‘and have not had the opportunity of seeing
it, though, as you may well imagine, I have heard of little else. And
that reminds me that I have a favour to ask of you. There is an old
friend of mine, or rather of my late father’s, Mr. Albany Wallis—— ‘
Mr. Erin frowned. ‘I have heard of the gentleman,’ he put in stiffly,
‘and in a sense I know him.’
‘I trust you know nothing to his disadvantage, sir,’ said Talbot with
humility. ‘I can only say that he has always spoken to me of yourself,
and of your extraordinary erudition and attainments, with the greatest
regard and consideration.’
‘Indeed,’ returned the other, still drily, but with some relaxation of
stiffness in his tone, ‘I am only acquainted with Mr. Wallis myself by
hearsay; and judging him by the company he keeps—for he is known to
be a friend of one Malone, of whom in Christian charity I will say
no more than that he is a fellow whose shallow pretence and pompous
ignorance would disgrace the name of charlatan—I have certainly
hitherto had but a bad opinion of him.’
‘Of that, sir, he is aware,’ said Talbot, ‘and it troubles him just now
exceedingly. The sense of your ill-will has prevented him, although a
near neighbour, from calling in Norfolk Street; and knowing that I was
a friend of your son’s, he has earnestly entreated me, in case I had
the opportunity, to beg permission for him to pay you a visit.’
‘From twelve to one, sir, the Shakespearean manuscripts are open to the
inspection of all comers,’ said Mr. Erin, with a grand air. ‘We invite
investigation, and even criticism.’
‘Any time, of course, you choose to appoint will suit my friend,’ said
Talbot; ‘but, as he led me to understand, he has a matter of importance
connected with the manuscripts to communicate to you, and somewhat of a
private nature.’
‘Then let him come to-morrow evening, when we shall be alone. Perhaps
he would like to see William Henry.’
‘I think he would, sir,’ returned Talbot, and as he spoke he put his
hand up to his mouth, to conceal a demoniacal grin such as one sees on
a gargoyle carved by the piety of some monkish architect. ‘I’ll bring
him to-morrow.’
During all this time William Henry and Margaret, in the opposite corner
of the arbour, had carried on a smothered conversation with one another
on quite a different subject, or rather, as the manner of young people
is under similar circumstances, on no subject at all. It was enough to
them that their hands met under the table and their hearts met under
the rose. The scene they looked upon was not more bright than their
hopes, nor the music they listened to more in tune than their tender
fancies. When Mr. Erin pulled out his watch and pronounced it time to
set out for home, it seemed to them that they had only just arrived. As
for Mr. Reginald Talbot, for the last hour or so they had been totally
unconscious of his presence; but when he took his leave of them,
which he did with much politeness, there was something of suppressed
triumph in his voice that aroused William Henry’s suspicions. A shudder
involuntarily seized him; he felt like a merrymaker at a festival who
suddenly looks up into the sky, and perceives, instead of sunshine,
‘the ragged rims of thunder brooding low.’