A COLLECTOR’S GRATITUDE.

The effects of a prolonged holiday upon the human mind are various. Like other things much ‘recommended by the faculty,’ it does not suit every one. It is the opinion of an eminent physician of my acquaintance that little comes of it in the way of wholesomeness except sunburn; and that when that wears off, the supposed convalescent looks as he feels—satiated and jaded. To William Henry, the conveyancer’s clerk, that week or two at Stratford-on-Avon was what the long vacation is to many lawyers. He found a great difficulty in setting to work again at his ordinary duties. His fellow-clerk had left his employer’s service, so that he had his room to himself—a circumstance that became of much more importance than he had at that time any idea of—but business was slack at Mr. Bingley’s office. The young fellow had plenty of leisure, though among old mortgage deeds and titles to estates, it might be thought he had small opportunities of spending it pleasantly. Under ordinary circumstances this would not, however, have been the case with him. He had been brought up in an atmosphere of antiquity; the satisfaction expressed by his father at the acquisition of any ancient rarity had naturally impressed itself upon his mind; the only occasions on which he had won his praise had been on his bringing home for his acceptance some old tract or pamphlet from a bookstall; and in time he had learnt to have some appreciation of such things for their own sake, albeit, like some dealer in old china, without much reverence. His turn for poetry, such as it was, was due, perhaps, to the many old romances and poems in Mr. Erin’s library rather than to any natural bent in that direction; a circumstance, indeed, which was pretty evident from the young poet’s style; for style is easy enough to catch, whereas ideas must come of themselves. His holiday had grievously unsettled him. He had brought back his dream with him, but, once more face to face with the facts of life, he perceived the many obstacles to its realisation. The only legitimate road to success—that of daily duty—would never lead thither; but there might be a short cut to it through his father’s favour. Hitherto he had sought this by fits and starts to mitigate his own condition; he now resolved to cultivate it unintermittingly, and at any sacrifice.

He consequently devoted all his spare time (and ‘by our Lady,’ as his father would have said, also no little of his employer’s) to the discovery of some precious MS. Instead of the spectacled and wizened faces which they were wont to see poring over their old wares, the bookstall-keepers of the city began to be haunted by that of William Henry, eager and young. They could not understand what his bright eyes came to seek, and certainly never dreamed that it was love that had sent him there—to my mind a very touching episode, reminding one of the difficult and uncouth tasks to which true knights in the days of romance were put, in order to show their worthiness to win those they wooed. The lady of his affections, however, was far from being sanguine of his success; she could hardly fail to appreciate his exertions, but she refrained from encouraging them. ‘My dear Willie,’ she said, ‘it is painful to me to see you occupied in a search so fruitless. It is only too probable that what you seek has absolutely no existence. It is like hunting for the elixir of life, or the secret of turning base metals into gold.’

‘But, my dear Maggie, some such literary treasure may exist,’ he answered tenderly; ‘and if I can discover it, what is the elixir of life to me will be found with it.’

It was impossible to reason with a young man like this, and Margaret tried to comfort herself with the reflection that his madness had but five months more to run. But it was very, very difficult. Her life was now far from being a cheerful one. She was not so vain as to take pleasure in a wasted devotion, and she bitterly repented of the momentary weakness that had inclined her to feed its flame.

The house in Norfolk Street was more frequented by the learned than ever. They came to discuss Mr. Erin’s late visit to the Shakespearean shrine, just as faithful Moslems might come to interview some pious friend who had recently made his pilgrimage to Mecca. While they talked of relics and signatures her mind reverted to the sweet-smelling old garden at Shottery, with its settle outside the cottage door. Frank Dennis came as usual, and was made welcome by his host, if not quite with the same heartiness as of old. Not a word of love passed his lips, and he was even more reserved and silent than of yore; but Margaret could not conceal from herself what he came for. Nay, his very reticence had a significance for her; she had a suspicion that he had noticed some change of manner between herself and her cousin which for the present sealed his lips. When he had quite convinced himself that her heart was in another’s keeping she felt that he would go away, and that place by the window, where he usually sat a little apart from the antiquarian circle, would know him no more. She pitied him as she pitied Willie, though in another way. She recognised in him some noble qualities—gentleness, modesty, a love of truth and justice, and a generosity of heart that extended even to a rival. If she had not known William Henry, it might have been possible to her, she sometimes thought, to have loved Frank Dennis. But this was only when the former was not present. At the end of the day, when her cousin came in fagged and dispirited, and took his place at the supper-table with little notice from any one, her whole soul seemed to go forth to meet him in her tender eyes.

Matters thus continued for some weeks, till, rather suddenly, a change took place in William Henry. In some respects it was not for the better; the unrest which his features had hitherto displayed disappeared, and was succeeded by an earnest and almost painful gravity. Once only she had seen such an expression—on the face of a juggler in the street, one evening, who had thrown knives into the air and caught them as they fell. But with it there was a certain new-born hope. She recognised it in the looks he stole at her when he thought himself unobserved, and in his talk and manner to others, especially to Mr. Erin. They suggested confidence, or at least a purpose. That he said nothing of what he had in his mind to her was in itself significant. The conclusion she drew was that he was on the track of some discovery which might or might not prove of great importance. Poor fellow! she had too often seen her uncle and his friends led by wildfire of this sort to the brink of disappointment to put much faith in it. They were old and used to failures, and with a little grunt of disappointment settled their wigs upon their foreheads, and started off again at a jog-trot in search of another mare’s-nest. Whereas to Willie—he was but seventeen—Repulse would seem like Ruin.

One evening—it was a Saturday, on which day Mr. Erin was accustomed to entertain a few friends of his own way of thinking—William Henry made his appearance later than usual. The guests had already sat down to table, and were in full tide of talk, which was not in any way interrupted by his arrival. Margaret as usual cast a swift furtive glance at him, and at once perceived that something had happened. His face was pale, even paler than usual, but his eyes were very bright and restless; a peculiar smile played about his mouth. ‘He has found something’ was the thought that flashed at once across her mind. Even if he had, she felt it would not really alter matters, and would only tend to nourish false hopes. Her uncle’s heart would never soften towards him in the way that he hoped for. A compelled expression of approbation, an unwilling tribute to his diligence and judgment, born of self-congratulation on the acquisition of some literary treasure, would be his reward at best, but still—but still—her heart went pit-a-pat. She knew that no good fortune of the ordinary kind could have happened to him. Mr. Bingley, though he liked the boy, could hardly have promised to make him his partner; nor indeed, if he had, would it have mattered much, since his business was so small as to require but a single clerk. That he had found a publisher for his poems was not less unlikely, while the result of such a miracle would be of even less material advantage.

Throughout the meal William Henry scarcely touched bit or sup; his air, to the one observer of it, gave the impression of intense but suppressed excitement.

It was the custom of Mr. Erin’s company on Saturday nights to share after supper a bowl of punch between them, and for those who affected tobacco to light up their long days. Both the drinking and smoking were of a very moderate kind; while of song-singing, very common at that date, there was none. There was only one toast, given by the host in reverent tones, ‘To the memory of the immortal Shakespeare,’ and then they began to wrangle over disputed readings. On these occasions it was William Henry’s habit to quietly withdraw and seek Margaret in the withdrawing-room. As often as not, Frank Dennis did the like, when he would petition for a tune on the harpsichord, a thing the other never did. Margaret’s voice was music enough for him, especially in a tÊte-À-tÊte. But on this particular Saturday both young men remained with the rest, William Henry for a reason of his own, and Dennis out of courtesy to his host, who had promised to give his friends that night an antiquarian treat, consisting of the exhibition of a rare tract he had recently acquired. It was entitled ‘Stokes, the Vaulting Master,’ and full of engraved plates, to the outsider as destitute of interest as dinner-plates with nothing on them, but to this little band of antiquarians as the ‘meat’ of turtle to an alderman. If they didn’t say grace afterwards, it was because this precious gift had been vouchsafed to another and not to themselves; they sighed and murmured to themselves that ‘Erin ought to be a happy man.’ Having received their compliments with much complacency, their host, like an old man congratulated upon the possession of a young wife, locked the extract in his bookcase and put the key into his pocket, which was taken by the rest as a signal for departure. When they had all gone save Dennis, who, as a friend of the house, was always the last to go, William Henry drew from his breast pocket a piece of parchment with two seals hanging from it on slips.

‘I think, sir,’ said he modestly, ‘I have something rather curious to show you.’

‘Eh, what?’ said Mr. Erin, knitting his brow in the depreciating manner peculiar to the examiner of all curios before purchase, ‘some old deed or another, I suppose.’

Then he turned very white and eager, and sat down with the document spread out before him. It was a note of hand of the usual kind, though of ancient date, and dealing with a very small sum of money; but if it had been a letter from a solicitor’s office acquainting him with the fact that he had been bequeathed ten thousand pounds, it could not have aroused in him greater interest and astonishment.

It ran as follows:—‘One month from the date hereof I doe promyse to paye to my good and worthy friend John Hemynge the sum of five pounds and five shillings, English Moneye, as a recompense for his great trouble in settling and doinge much for me at the Globe Theatre, as also for hys trouble in going down for me to Stratford.—Witness my hand,

‘William Shakespere.

‘September the Nynth, 1589.’

‘Received of Master William Shakespeare the sum of five pounds and five shillings, good English Money, this Nynth day of October, 1589.

‘John Hemynge.’

‘This is indeed a most marvellous discovery, William Henry,’ said Mr. Erin, breaking a long silence, and regarding his son with a sort of devout amazement, such as might have been exhibited by some classic shepherd of old on finding the Tityrus he had been treating as a chawbacon was first cousin to Apollo. ‘You are certainly a most fortunate young man.—Maggie’ (for Maggie, learning that the visitors had departed, had joined them, full of vague expectancy), ‘see what your cousin has brought home with him.’

This appeal of Mr. Erin to his niece was significant in many ways. It would have been most natural in such a matter to have turned to Dennis, but for the moment he could not brook incredulity, nor even a critical examination of the precious manuscript. Moreover, he had said ‘your cousin,’ a relationship between the two young people to which he had never before alluded. It was plain that within the last five minutes William Henry had come nearer to the old man’s heart than he had been able to get in seventeen years.

What followed was even still more expressive, for it took for granted an intimacy between his son and niece, which up to that moment he had studiously ignored.

‘Did you know anything,’ he added, ‘my girl, of this surprise which your cousin had in store for us?’

‘I knew that there was something, uncle, though not from his lips. That is,’ she continued, with a faint flush, ‘I felt for days that there has been something upon William Henry’s mind, which I judged to be good news.—Was it not so, Willie?’

The young man bowed his head. The colour came into his face also. ‘How she must have watched him, and how rightly she had read his thoughts!’ was what he was saying to himself.

Mr. Erin took no notice of either of them; his mind had reverted to the new-found treasure.

‘Look at it, Dennis,’ he cried. ‘The seals and paper are quite as they should be. I have no doubt of its being a genuine deed of the time. Then the signature—there are only two others in all the world, but I do think—just take this microscope (his own hand trembled so that he could scarcely hold it)—there can be no mistake about it. It is without the “a,” but it can be proved that he spelt it indifferently; and again, the receipt has the “a,” an inconsistency which, in the case of a forgery, would certainly not have been overlooked. There can be no doubt of its being a genuine signature, can there?’

‘That is a matter on which you are infinitely better qualified to judge than I am, Mr. Erin,’ was the cautious rejoinder. ‘Perhaps you had better consult the autograph in Johnson and Steevens’s edition.’

‘Tush! Do you suppose that I have not every stroke and turn of it in my mind’s eye? Reach down the book, Maggie.’

Margaret, who knew where to lay her hand upon every book in her uncle’s library, made haste to produce the volume.

‘There, did not I tell you?’ said Mr. Erin triumphantly. ‘Look at the W, look at the S.’

Dennis did look at them very carefully. ‘Yes,’ he admitted, ‘there is no doubt that they are fac-similes.’

‘Fac-similes!’ exclaimed the old man angrily; ‘why not frankly say that they are by the same hand at once?’

‘But that is begging the whole question,’ argued Dennis, his honest and implastic nature leading him into the selfsame error into which he had fallen at Charlecote Park. ‘It is surely more likely upon the whole that an autograph purporting to be Shakespeare’s should be a fac-simile than an original.’

‘Or, in other words,’ answered Mr. Erin, with a burst of indignation, ‘it is more likely that this lad here, poor William Henry’ (the ‘poor’ sounded almost like ‘poor dear’), ‘should have imposed upon us than not.’

‘Oh no, oh no,’ interposed Margaret earnestly; ‘I am sure that Mr. Dennis never meant to suggest that.’

‘Then what the deuce did he mean by his fac-simile?’ ejaculated the antiquary, with irritation. ‘Look at the up-strokes; look at the down-strokes.’

‘You have made an accusation against me, Mr. Erin,’ said Frank Dennis, speaking under strong emotion, ‘which is at once most cruel and undeserved. If I thought myself capable of doing an injury to William Henry, or especially of sowing any suspicion of him in your mind, I—I would go and drown myself in the river yonder.’

Mr. Erin only said, ‘Umph,’ in such a tone that it sounded like ‘Then go and do it.’

‘How is it possible that in throwing any doubt upon the genuineness of that document,’ continued the other, ‘I should be imputing anything to its finder? Nor, indeed, have I cast any doubt on it. I know nothing about it.’

‘Then why offer an opinion?’ put in the old man implacably.

‘At all events, sir, I hazarded none as to how the thing came into William Henry’s possession.’

‘Tut, tut,’ replied the antiquary, once more reverting to the precious document, ‘who cares how he got it? The point is that we have it here; not only Shakespeare’s handwriting, but a most incontestable proof, to such as ever doubted it, of his honour and punctuality in discharge of his just debts. William Henry, I have been mistaken in you, my lad. I will honestly confess that I had built no such hopes upon you. When I lost my poor Samuel [a son that died in infancy], I never thought to be made happy by anything a boy could do again. This is the proudest moment of my life—to have under my own roof, to see with my own eyes, to touch with my own fingers, the actual handwriting of William Shakespeare.’

Then, with a sigh like one who returns to another something he himself fain would keep, as knowing far more how to value it, he folded up the document, and returned it to William Henry.

‘Nay, sir,’ said the lad, gently breaking silence for the first time, ‘it is yours, not mine. My pleasure in acquiring it—for, to say truth, it cost me nothing—would all be lost if you refused to accept it.’

‘What, as a gift? No, my boy, that is impossible. I don’t mean that you must take cash for it,’ for William Henry looked both abashed and disturbed, ‘but something that will at least show you that I am not ungrateful.’

For one wild instant the young man believed that, like a stage father, Mr. Erin was about to place Margaret’s hand in his and dower them with his blessing, but he only walked to his bookcase, and took from the shelf, where it had just been reverently laid, ‘Stokes, the Vaulting Master,’ and pushed it into his hands.

‘But, sir, you have not heard how I gained possession of the deed,’ exclaimed the astonished recipient of this treasure.

‘To-morrow, to-morrow,’ answered the antiquary as he left the room with the document hugged to his heart; ‘to-morrow will be time enough for details.’

In his heart of hearts he feared lest there should be some flaw in the young man’s story which might throw discredit upon the genuineness of his discovery: and, for that night at least, he wished to enjoy his acquisition without the shadow of a doubt.