‘WHATEVER HAPPENS, I SHALL LOVE YOU, WILLIE.’
IT was not till his visitors had gone that their host seemed to become
fully conscious of the gravity of their errand. While the mind is
clouded with doubt it is impossible for it to entertain any emotion
very acutely, but now that the accusation of the literary lawyer had
been shown to be groundless, Mr. Erin became at once alive to its great
wickedness and impertinence.
‘The man must have been mad—stark, staring mad!’ he exclaimed, ‘to
have come here, and upon the ground of that trumpery deed of his to
have made such abominable imputations! I know that Malone is burning to
see my manuscripts, though he has not the honesty to confess it, and I
should not wonder if he had sent that fellow here as a spy.’
‘Nay, I am sure Mr. Wallis was no spy,’ said Margaret.
‘Well, at all events, instead of reporting “All is barren,” as was
hoped, ‘continued the antiquary, ‘he will have to speak of “milk and
honey.” Upon my life, I believe I could have got him to sign our
Profession of Faith if I had only pressed it; for by nature, however,
warped by evil communications, he struck me as an honest man.’
‘Not only honest, but kind, uncle,’ observed Margaret gently.
‘He was very civil to _you_, I noticed,’ returned her uncle grimly.
‘I am sure you could have got him to sign. What a thorn it would have
been in that scoundrel’s side if one of his lieutenants could have been
seduced so far from his allegiance!’
When Mr. Erin said ‘that scoundrel’ he always meant Malone. It was not
necessary for him—as in the case of the gentleman who had married
three times, and was wont to observe, ‘When I say “my wife” I mean my
first wife’—to explain whom he meant.
‘I don’t blame Mr. Wallis at all,’ said Margaret. ‘He came upon a
disagreeable errand, in the interests of truth, and has frankly
acknowledged himself to be in the wrong. The person I do feel indignant
against is that horrid Mr. Talbot.’
‘“The man of letters,” as he called himself,’ remarked Mr. Erin
contemptuously. ‘He never even asked to look at the manuscripts: I
don’t believe he can read. What do you think of your young friend now?’
he inquired turning to William Henry.
‘Well, sir, I think he has made a fool of himself and knows it.’
‘You are much too good-natured, Willie,’ observed Margaret indignantly.
‘I am sure, Frank, you agree with me that Mr. Talbot’s conduct has been
most treacherous and malignant.’
Dennis had not opened his lips since William Henry’s return; he
had watched for it with at least as much anxiety as the rest, but
the refutation of what had been alleged seemed to have given him
rather relief than satisfaction. He was too good a fellow to wish
any disgrace to happen even to a rival; but (as Margaret read his
behaviour) he could hardly exult in that rival’s victory, which could
but result in Mr. Erin’s having greater confidence in the young fellow
than ever, and consequently in the bettering of his chance of gaining
his cousin’s hand.
‘Yes,’ said Dennis quietly, ‘William Henry has made the great mistake
of allowing an Irishman of low type to be on familiar terms with him.
The men of that nation, when they are of sterling nature, are among
the best, as they are undoubtedly among the most agreeable, men in
the world; but there are a great many counterfeits—men who, like
Talbot, under the mask of _bonhomie_, conceal a morose and malignant
disposition; they belong, in fact, to the same class of their
fellow-countrymen who shoot men from behind a hedge.’
‘Quite true,’ observed Mr. Erin approvingly. ‘I have never heard
that type of man—to which Malone, for one, belongs—so graphically
described.’
‘I do hope, Willie, you will have nothing more to do with him,’ said
Margaret, earnestly.
‘You may depend upon it he will have nothing more to do with _me_,’
answered the young fellow, laughing. ‘He already knows what I thought
of his verses; indeed, it was my telling him my honest opinion of them
which has so set him against me; and now he knows what I think of
himself.’
‘Well said, my lad,’ said the antiquary, rubbing his hands and smiling
with the consciousness of triumph. ‘One need not fear any malice when
we are conscious of no ill-doing on our own part. My good Dennis, you
look so exceedingly glum that, if one didn’t know you, one would think
that you had not that cause for confidence.’
‘As regards what we were just talking of, that Irish gentleman,’
observed Dennis, sententiously, ‘I have no confidence in him at all.
There is always reason to fear a man who carries a knife under his
waistcoat.’
‘Pooh, pooh, Dennis! you take such sombre views of everything.’
‘At all events,’ put in Margaret, gently, ‘Frank is not alarmed upon
his own account.’
‘Gad! that’s true,’ observed the antiquary, drily: ‘he takes care to
let us know that these matters are no concern of his. If all these
wonderful discoveries that have been vouchsafed to us these last few
months should turn out to be so much waste paper, I don’t think he
would sleep a wink the worse for it.’
Dennis coloured to his temples, but said nothing. Perhaps he was
conscious of shortcoming in Shakespearean enthusiasm, or was aware that
he had not shown much exultation over the recent rout of the enemy.
Margaret thought he might have said a word or two in self-defence;
but what she deemed to be the cause of his silence—namely, that the
whole subject of the discoveries was distasteful to him, as being
associated, as it certainly was, with William Henry’s success in
another matter—was also an excuse for him, and she pitied him with all
her heart.
To have defended him in his presence to Mr. Erin would, she felt,
have been a cruel kindness, since it might have suggested a feeling
more tender than pity; but a certain remorse—it was almost an act of
penance—compelled her to speak of the matter afterwards to William
Henry.
‘My uncle is very hard upon poor Frank,’ she said, ‘about these
manuscripts. I am sure that anything that concerns us concerns him, but
he cannot be expected to feel exactly as we do in the matter.’
‘No, I suppose not,’ said William Henry.
‘Well, of course not. It is his way to take things more philosophically
than other people. I am sure he looked pleased enough when you confuted
Mr. Wallis.’
‘Pleased, but surprised,’ returned the other, drily.
‘Oh, Willie, that is ungenerous of you!’
‘I am only stating a fact. His face did not, I admit, exhibit
disappointment, but it expressed extreme astonishment. I don’t think as
Mr. Erin does about these things, but I think a man should stick to his
friends, especially in the presence of those by whom their honesty is
called in question. Mr. Wallis noticed it, I promise you.’
‘There was surely no harm in Frank looking astonished, even if he
did,’ said Margaret; then in a more tender tone, as though she had
done enough for friendship, she added, ‘I confess, however, I was not
looking at him. I was looking at _you_, Willie. How marvellously you
kept command of yourself, even when things seemed to be at the worst.
Now confess, dear, did you not really know that you would find that
document, or something like it, when you went off to the Temple?’
‘What makes you say that?’ he inquired quickly.
‘Well, only because I seemed to read it in your face. Oh, Willie, you
don’t know what I went through while you were away. For though, as you
often say, it is no affair of yours whether the manuscripts are genuine
or not, yet—— ‘ She hesitated; she evidently found it difficult to
put her thought into words.
‘You mean that the question is one that, after all, seriously affects
us,’ he put in gently.
‘Well, yes, because you and I are one. Perhaps it was the presence of
that scheming Mr. Talbot which made you look so, but the matter seemed
somehow to affect you personally. Your own honour appeared to be almost
called in question.’
He shook his head, but she went on—
‘And that is why your parting look, though you didn’t look at me,
Willie, gave me courage to face them. I felt that you would come back
to clear yourself, and to triumph over them. Of course I did not know
how it would be effected, but I had faith—or perhaps,’ added the girl,
dropping her voice, ‘it was love.’
‘Yes, it was love,’ said the young man, fondling her hand in his own
and speaking in the same low tones, while he gazed thoughtfully before
him. ‘Love is better than faith, for it endures. What we no longer
believe in we despise, but what we have once loved we love always.’
There was silence between them for a little—the lovers’ silence, which
is more golden far than that of which philosophy speaks; then he
addressed her with a lighter air.
‘And were you really pleased,’ he said, ‘when I brought the deed back
and made that old curmudgeon look so foolish?’
‘Nay, he was no curmudgeon, Willie, and I felt as much for him as I
could afford to feel; but your bringing such good news was delightful.
It showed that what others prize so highly, such as this man Hemynge’s
signature, was for you quite a commonplace possession. It almost seemed
that you have only to hold up your finger and beckon to her, as it
were, and Good Luck comes to you.’
‘Then the good luck I have had, and the estimation in which it has
caused me to be held by others, makes you happy, Margaret?’
‘Of course, it makes me proud and pleased,’ she answered earnestly.
‘How can it be otherwise when you are “the talk of the town?” But what
gives me the greatest pleasure of all is to see that it has not spoilt
you, Willie; that you take it all so quietly and prudently, which
shows that you deserve these gifts of Fortune.’
‘She has more in store for me yet,’ he answered confidently; ‘I feel
it—I am sure of it, Maggie!’
‘But, my dear Willie, are you not talked about enough already, and you
but a lad of seventeen? You must be a glutton, a very glutton, for
fame.’
‘I am,’ he answered vehemently, ‘for fame, but not for notoriety only.
I wish to be thought well of on my own account—not as the mere channel
of another’s thoughts. I have stuff within me which the world shall
sooner or later recognise—I swear it!’
Margaret looked at him with amazement. She had hitherto had no great
opinion of his talents, as we know; but now either his enthusiasm
carried her away with it, or, what was more probable, the atmosphere
of love which surrounded him made him appear larger than of old. In
her mind’s eye she already beheld him a second Dryden, that monarch of
letters of whom she had so often heard her uncle speak.
‘But you will always be the same to me, Willie?’ she murmured timidly.
Her humility, perhaps, touched him, for at her words he became
strangely agitated, and his face grew pale to the very lips.
‘Nay,’ he said, ‘I must ask _that_ of _you_. Whatever happens, will you
never cease to love me?’
‘Whatever happens, Willie,’ she answered softly, ‘I shall love you more
and more.’
END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.
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