THE MARE’S NEST.
A GREAT poet has sung of a certain tea-party as sitting ‘all silent
and all damned,’ which is going pretty far as a description of social
cheerlessness; but they were at tea, and had presumably bread and
butter, and possibly even muffins, before them; whereas the little
party in Norfolk Street, who sat awaiting the return of William Henry
from his problematical patron (for Mr. Albany Wallis, for one, did
not believe in his existence), had not even such material comforts
to mitigate their embarrassment and ennui. On the table there were
only the two deeds, and one of them was in all probability a forgery.
Mr. Erin sat drumming his fingers upon it and endeavouring to hide
the anxiety which consumed him—a most depressing spectacle. The
company, too, were on anything but good terms with one another or with
themselves. Mr. Albany Wallis was a just but kind-hearted man; he knew
he was right, but he was equally certain that he was uncomfortable.
Margaret’s beauty had touched him, and her indignation, however
undeserved, distressed him. He felt convinced that she at least was
innocent of any confederation with the evildoers, whoever they were.
Now that he had once put hand to the plough, there was no possibility
of drawing back; he must needs lay the whole conspiracy bare; but in
his heart he cursed the officious malignity of Reginald Talbot, who had
set him to work on so unpleasant a task. It was plain that that young
gentleman knew how it was all to end. He lay back in his chair, tapping
his boot with his cane, and with a grin on his face such as a Cheshire
cat might wear who feels a mouse well under her claw. To Mr. Wallis it
seemed equally clear that Mr. Frank Dennis also knew. He sat very pale
and quiet, but with a face expectant of ill. Every now and then he
stole a glance at Margaret, full of ineffable shame and sorrow. As for
her, she looked neither to the right nor to the left, but always at the
door; her ears were on the stretch for William Henry’s return from the
moment that his departing footstep died away. In her face alone was to
be seen unshaken confidence; a woman’s faith—so often wasted, as Mr.
Wallis thought to himself, upon false and worthless objects.
Presently Mr. Erin glanced at her, and, seeming to gather comfort from
her calmness, observed:—
‘I am sorry to detain you, Mr. Wallis, but I think it better for both
our sakes that you should remain here till this matter has, one way or
another, been settled. It will convince you, at all events, that there
is no collusion.’
‘A very proper arrangement, sir, and one that does you infinite
credit,’ returned the other courteously. ‘One word from your son’s
friend—that is, if, as I believe, he must needs give up his case—will
be all that is necessary, so that we shall not have to wait long.’
‘The gentleman may not be at home,’ suggested Margaret.
‘True,’ answered Mr. Wallis with a bow. In his heart he thought that
the gentleman was not at all likely to be at home, but there was
nothing in his tone that implied it.
‘Perhaps,’ said Mr. Erin, ‘in order to pass the time, you would like to
examine the other Shakespearean documents in my possession?’
There was a world of significance, had the other only known it, in
the manner in which the antiquary thus expressed himself. The idea of
looking at these treasures ‘in order to pass the time’ would, an hour
ago, have seemed to him little short of blasphemy.
‘As you please, sir,’ returned Mr. Wallis indifferently; ‘though
you will pardon me for saying that if the note of hand turns out to
be—a—that is, unauthentic, it will destroy the credibility of all the
rest.’
‘It will affect it, no doubt,’ admitted the antiquary.
‘On the other hand,’ observed Margaret in her clear tones, ‘if the
evidence should be the other way, it will proportionately strengthen
their claims.’
[Illustration: A VERY CHEERLESS PROCEEDING.]
‘Undoubtedly,’ replied Mr. Wallis. He could offer that modicum of
encouragement with perfect safety, and he was well pleased to have the
opportunity of doing so. ‘Believe me, young lady,’ he went on with
earnest gentleness, ‘that it would give me the sincerest gratification
to find your confidence justified by the result.’
Then he sat down, indifferent-eyed, but with a pretence of interest,
to the Profession that Mr. Erin had spread out upon the table. It was
a cheerless proceeding. The very exhibitor himself, it was plain, had
but little heart for the performance; instead of expatiating with an
unction that might well have been called ‘extreme’ on the precious
revelation, he only put in a word or two. If he had apprehensions such
as he had never before experienced of a visitor’s criticism, they were,
however, unfounded. Mr. Wallis perhaps did not think it worth while to
make objections, since a few more minutes at most must needs see the
imposture out; it would have been like quarrelling with a man upon his
deathbed. He even allowed that the document was ‘interesting,’ though,
as he made the observation to Margaret and not to her uncle, it is
probable that it rather expressed his wish to please her than his real
sentiments. His position was somewhat similar to that of Eloise when
taking the veil.
Yet then to those dread altars as I drew,
Not on the Cross my eyes were fixed, but you,
Not grace, nor zeal, love only was my call.
For though, of course, the old lawyer was not in love with Margaret,
he had a much greater admiration for her than for the sacred relic.
Still, in spite of himself, habit induced him to give some considerable
attention to the document; even if it was a forgery it was curious,
and, at all events, anything was better than sitting with his hands
before him watching those uncomfortable faces. That of Mr. Samuel Erin
was at present particularly so, for his visitor’s eye was travelling
towards the ‘leaffee tree,’ a weak point, which he felt under the
circumstances in a very ill condition to defend, when suddenly there
was a knock at the door.
‘There is Willie!’ cried Margaret, starting to her feet.
She felt assured, since so short a time had elapsed, that he had found
his friend of the Temple at home; but what was the news he had brought
with him?
One glance at the young fellow as he entered the room was sufficient
for her. It was good news.
The eye of love is an auger that can pierce the heart, if not the
soul; but to the other members of the party William Henry’s face told
nothing. It did not indeed wear the expression of defeat, but still
less did it exhibit triumph or exultation. It had the same quiet,
almost indifferent air that it habitually wore when the Shakespearean
discoveries were under discussion; but the pallor which anxiety had
caused in it when he left the house upon his apparently hopeless errand
was gone; with a quiet smile he drew forth a paper from his pocket, and
handed it to Mr. Wallis.
‘You are quite right, sir,’ he said, ‘and yet you have not put my
friend in the wrong. It is the case of the chameleon.’
‘What is this?’ asked Mr. Wallis, a question which, having unfolded
the paper, he proceeded to answer himself, in tones of the greatest
amazement. ‘Why, this is John Hemynge over again—the real John
Hemynge!’
‘And yet, I suppose, not more real than the other,’ said William Henry
quietly. ‘The simple explanation is that there were two of them.’
‘Two of them!’ exclaimed Mr. Erin, looking much like the ‘gay French
mousquetaire’ (only not ‘gay’) when he saw the ghost of his victim on
one side of his bed, and her twin sister in the flesh on the other.
‘This paper, I see, is an account of some theatrical disbursements,’
observed Mr. Wallis, biting his lips in much perplexity. ‘That reminds
me that the note of hand was upon a similar subject. You don’t mean to
tell me that these Hemynges were, not only both of the same name, but
of the same calling—actors?’
‘I tell you nothing, sir, of my own knowledge,’ answered William Henry
drily, ‘for I know nothing about the matter. I went to my patron
with the story you bade me tell him, that you possessed an authentic
signature of Shakespeare’s friend Hemynge; that it was altogether
different from the one appended to the note of hand I had found in his
keeping, and that therefore the latter was a forgery. He only smiled,
and said, “How very like a commentator!” Then he opened a little chest
filled with theatrical memoranda. “There is nothing here of much
value,” he said, “for I have examined them; but, as it happens, there
is something to put the gentleman’s mind at rest as to any question of
fraud.” Then he gave me this paper, the signature of which he bade me
to ask you to compare with that on your mortgage deed. It is identical,
is it not?’
‘It certainly appears to be so,’ admitted Mr. Wallis.
‘Well, according to my patron’s account, there were in Shakespeare’s
time two John Hemynges: the one—_your_ John Hemynge—connected with
Shakespeare’s own theatre, “The Globe;” the other, whose receipt is
appended to the note of hand, the manager of the “Curtain” Theatre.
The former, it seems, was called the Tall John Hemynge, the latter the
Short. If you care to know more about them, I am instructed to say that
my friend is prepared to give you every information.’
As his eye fell upon the lawyer’s chap-fallen face, William Henry could
not deny himself a smile of triumph; but as regarded his uncle and
Margaret, Mr. Wallis observed that the young fellow did not so much
as even glance at them—a circumstance which the lawyer attributed to
a very natural cause; it was not they, but he, who had doubted of his
good faith, so that in their case he had nothing to exult over. He felt
very much abashed and disconcerted; nor was his embarrassment decreased
when Margaret thus addressed him:—
‘You will not forget, Mr. Wallis,’ she said gravely, ‘what was said
just now of the change which would take place in your opinion of
us, in case this matter should not turn out so unfavourably as you
expected.’
‘Nay, pardon me, young lady,’ returned the lawyer, gallantly, ‘I have
never harboured any opinion of you otherwise than favourable; my
observation referred to these other documents, which indeed, I frankly
confess, I am now prepared to consider in a much less prejudiced light.
For the present I must take my leave, but in the meantime let me
express my thanks to you, Mr. Erin, for the kind reception I have met
with, and to withdraw, without reserve, any expression I may have let
fall which may be construed into a reflection upon your good faith, or
upon that of any member of your family.’
For a moment it occurred to Mr. Erin that here was an opportunity for
snatching an ally from the enemy’s camp, by getting Mr. Albany Wallis
to add his name to the list of believers, but on the whole he decided
not to do so, upon the ground of the danger of the experiment. If
Miss Margaret Slade, however, had asked Mr. Wallis the favour, it is
doubtful whether he would not have acceded to her request. He felt
such a brute at having given her distress of mind by his unmannerly
suspicions that he would have made almost any sacrifice in reparation
of them. He retired with a profusion of bows and excuses, while Mr.
Reginald Talbot followed in silence at his heels like a whipped dog,
who, professing to find a hare in her form, has only found a mare’s
nest.