A BOMBSHELL.
IT was significant of the sensitiveness of Mr. Erin’s feelings in
regard to his new-found treasures, though it by no means indicated any
want of soundness in his faith, that he ignored as much as possible
all attacks upon their authenticity. This by no means involved his
shutting his eyes to them; indeed he had privately procured and read
all that had been written about the MSS., even to that terrible
letter of Lord Charlemont to Malone, in which he had said, ‘I am only
sorry that Steevens (the rival commentator) is not the proprietor of
them,’ in order (as he meant) that they might have had the additional
pleasure, derived from private enmity, of exposing them. The sensations
the antiquary endured from these things were something like those
of Regulus rolling down a hill in his barrel stuck full of nails and
knives, but he could not resist the temptation of reading them any more
than a patient with hay-fever in his eyes can resist rubbing them.
I have known young authors afflicted with the same mad desire of
perusing all the disagreeable criticisms they can lay their hands on;
but these things were much more than criticisms, they were personal
imputations of the vilest kind, which at the same time no law of libel
could touch. They ate into the poor antiquary’s heart, but he never
talked about them. If he had, perhaps they would have been made more
tolerable by the sympathy of his friends and the arguments of his
partisans; but, except to himself, he ignored them. He did not even
mention to William Henry that one Mr. Albany Wallis, whom he had reason
to believe was little better than an infidel, was coming to Norfolk
Street, by permission, to examine the Shakespeare papers. It weighed
upon his own mind nevertheless, and he actually regretted that Frank
Dennis chanced to drop in that afternoon—loyal though he knew him to
be in all other matters—lest in his lukewarm faith, if faith it could
be called at all, he should let fall anything to encourage the sceptic.
Thus it came to pass that when the servant announced Mr. Reginald
Talbot and Mr. Albany Wallis it was only Mr. Erin himself who felt no
astonishment. William Henry was amazed, for though he had parted from
his quondam friend on the previous evening on what were outwardly good
terms, there had been no pretence of a renewal of friendship between
them; their meeting at Vauxhall had, as we know, been accidental, and
Talbot had not dropped a hint of renewing his visits to Norfolk Street.
The young man had a smiling but scarcely a genial air; his manner was
constrained, a thing which, being contrary to his habit, sat very ill
upon him; and he addressed himself solely to his host, for which indeed
his errand was a sufficient excuse.
‘Permit me, sir, to introduce to you my friend, Mr. Albany Wallis; a
gentleman, like yourself, well versed in Shakespearean lore.’
‘Mr. Wallis’s name is not unknown to me,’ answered the antiquary
coldly; ‘I have the pleasure of speaking to the late Mr. Garrick’s man
of business, have I not?’
The visitor, a thin grey man, with sharp, intelligent features, by no
means devoid of kindliness, bowed courteously.
‘I had that honour,’ he replied gravely; ‘I have also been acquainted
all my life with many who take an interest in the drama, especially the
Shakespearean drama. That some of them differ from you, Mr. Erin, on
the subject on which I have called to-day, I am of course aware, but,
believe me, I come in no unfriendly spirit. I take it for granted that
you and I are equally interested in the establishment of the truth!’
‘It is to be hoped so,’ returned the antiquary, with dignity; ‘you
would like, I conclude, to see the Profession.’
‘Well, no, sir, not immediately. You have other documents, as I am
informed, in one of which I am more particularly concerned.’
‘Very good. Margaret, this is your affair, it seems,’ said the
antiquary, smiling: it was a relief to his mind that the Profession
at least was not about to be impugned. ‘Here is the key of the chest;
bring out the Shakespeare letter and verses, with the lock of hair.’
For a moment or two Mr. Wallis remained silent. His eyes followed
Margaret as she rose to obey her uncle’s request, with a curious look
of gentle commiseration in them.
‘I did not know that this young lady had anything to do with these
discoveries,’ he answered.
‘Nor has she, sir. The hair and the verses have become in a manner
her own property, that is—er—under my trusteeship; but they were
disinterred from a mass of ancient materials by my son here, William
Henry.’
Mr. Wallis turned his face on the young gentleman thus alluded to much
as a policeman flashes his dark-lantern on a suspected stranger. There
was no commiseration in it now; it was a keen, and even a hostile
glance.
‘I see; but besides the reputed epistle to Anne Hathaway, there was,
I think, a note of hand purporting to be written to Shakespeare from
John Hemynge.’
‘I don’t know as to “reputed” and “purporting,” sir,’ returned the
antiquary stiffly, ‘which are adjectives not usually applied to
documents professedly genuine, at all events under the roof of their
possessor.’
‘You are right; I beg your pardon, Mr. Erin,’ put in the visitor
apologetically. ‘One has no right to prejudge a case of which one has
only heard an _ex-parte_ statement. It is, however, that particular
document which I ask to look at; a gentleman upon whose word I can rely
has seen it, and assures me that the signature of John Hemynge appended
to the receipt is—not to mince matters—a forgery.’
The antiquary started to his feet. ‘Do you come here to insult me,
sir?’ he inquired angrily.
‘No, Mr. Erin, far from it,’ returned the other firmly. ‘No one would
be better pleased both on your own account and on that of those
belonging to you’—here his eye lit once more on Margaret, who had
flushed to her forehead—‘if I should find my informant mistaken.
But the fact is, I possess a deed with the authentic and undoubted
signature of John Hemynge, which my friend, who has seen both of them,
assures me is wholly different from that attached to this new-found
document. Assertion, however, as you may reasonably reply, is out of
place in this matter. The question is merely one of comparison. Have
you any objection to my applying that test?’
‘Most certainly not, sir. Margaret, this gentleman wishes to see the
note of hand.’
Margaret brought it from the iron safe and gave it to Mr. Wallis. Her
face still retained some trace of indignation, and her eyes met those
of the visitor with resolution and even defiance.
‘If there is fraud here,’ he said to himself, ‘this girl has nothing
to do with it.’ The behaviour of Mr. Erin had also impressed him
favourably; with that of William Henry he was not so satisfied, it
seemed to him to have too much _sang-froid_; but then (as he frankly
confessed to himself) he had been prejudiced against him. Mr.
Wallis was a man accustomed to ‘thread the labyrinth of the mind’ in
matters more important, or at all events more serious, than literary
investigation, and had a very observant eye, and the conclusion he came
to was that, if there was one person in the present company more guilty
than another as regards the Shakespearean fabrications (as Malone
had called them), it was Mr. Frank Dennis. He had not indeed uttered
one word; but when the girl had approached the safe there had been
unmistakable signs of trouble in his face, while at this moment, when,
as he (Mr. Wallis) knew, and as the other must needs suspect, a damning
proof of the worthlessness of one of these vaunted discoveries was
about to be produced, he exhibited an anxiety and apprehension which,
to do them justice, were absent from the rest.
‘This is a mortgage deed executed by John Hemynge,’ observed Mr.
Wallis, drawing a document from his pocket, ‘concerning the genuineness
of which there is no dispute. It was found among the papers of the
Featherstonehaugh family, to whom the nation is indebted (through my
late client, David Garrick) for the Shakespeare mortgage now in the
British Museum. If the signature of yonder deed tallies with it, well
and good; I shall, believe me, be pleased to find it so; but if it does
not do so, there can be no question as to which is the spurious one.’
He threw the mortgage on the table, and stood with an air, if not of
indifference, of one who has no personal concern in the matter on hand,
while Mr. Erin compared the two signatures with minuteness. Presently
he beckoned to his son in an agitated manner: ‘Your eyes are better
than mine,’ he said: ‘what do you make of this?’
William Henry just glanced at the two documents in a perfunctory
manner, as though he had been asked to witness some signature of
a client of his employer, and quietly answered: ‘They are very
dissimilar; whichever is the wrong one, it can hardly be called an
imitation, for it has not a letter in common with the other.’
‘There is no question, young man, as to which is the wrong one,’
remarked Mr. Wallis, severely; ‘and as to imitation, it is clear
enough that such a deception, however clumsily, has been seriously
attempted. The only doubt we have to clear up is, “Who is the forger?”’
Mr. Wallis’s glance flashed for an instant upon Frank Dennis. He was
standing apart, with his hand over the lower part of his features, and
his eyes fixed on the ground. He looked like one upon whom a blow, long
expected, has at last fallen.
It was strange, thought Mr. Wallis, that Talbot, who had seemed so
convinced of the younger Erin’s guilt, had had not a word to say about
this other fellow. His own impression—one of those sudden convictions
to which men of his stamp are especially liable, but which they would
be the last to call inspirations—was that the affair was a conspiracy,
in which these two young men were alone concerned, and that its moving
spirit was Dennis. Suddenly the silence was broken by Margaret’s clear
tones:—
‘Mr. Wallis himself has not examined the deeds,’ she said.
‘There is no need, young lady, since your uncle and cousin have already
admitted the discrepancy,’ returned the visitor. ‘I am only following
the example of that gentleman yonder’—here he indicated Frank Dennis
with his forefinger—‘in taking the matter for granted.’
Frank removed his hand from his mouth, showing a face ghastly pale, and
quietly answered, ‘I am no judge of these things; but if I had made
such a charge as you have done, sir, I think, as Miss Slade suggests,
that I should give myself the trouble of seeing with my own eyes
whether it was substantiated.’
‘Nay,’ said Margaret, quickly, ‘I spoke not of any charge. If I thought
that Mr. Wallis was making any personal accusation, I should not have
addressed him at all.’
‘But really, young lady,’ protested Mr. Wallis, ‘there must be
something wrong somewhere, you know.’
‘I should rather think there was,’ observed Mr. Reginald Talbot, with a
snigger.
‘And who the devil asked your opinion?’ inquired Mr. Erin, with the
eager shrillness of a steam boiler which has just discovered its
safety-valve. He did not forget that it was to this young gentleman’s
good offices that he was indebted for this unsatisfactory state of
things.
‘Well, I thought it was a matter of criticism,’ murmured the young
Irishman.
‘That was the very reason, sir, you should have held your tongue,’ was
the uncompromising reply.
‘I really don’t know,’ observed William Henry, who had been idly
turning over the leaves of the mortgage deed during this discussion,
‘why any bitterness should be imported into this discussion. We are all
equally interested, as Mr. Wallis has remarked, in the establishment
of the truth; and I, for my part, have nothing to fear from it. I am
in no way responsible, as he must be aware, for the genuineness of the
documents in question, but only for their discovery. What has happened
to-day is no doubt as disagreeable as it is unlooked for; but it is no
fault of mine. The only course open to me is, I suppose, to go to my
friend in the Temple and acquaint him with what has happened. Perhaps
he may have some explanation to offer upon the subject.’
‘I should very much like to hear it,’ said Mr. Wallis, with a dry smile.
Mr. Reginald Talbot also began to smile—aloud, but he caught Mr. Frank
Dennis’s eye, which had so unmistakably menacing an expression in it
that the snigger perished in its birth.
‘Shall I go, father?’ inquired William Henry. For the antiquary sat
like one in a dream, turning over the note of hand, once so precious to
him, but which had now become waste paper.
‘Yes, go! We will wait here till you come back,’ he answered.
The words dropped from his lips like lead.