THE LOVE-LOCK.

Whether William Henry’s short method with Mr. Reginald Talbot was to be satisfactory or not remains to be seen, but for the present it had all the effect intended. The inmate of the ‘Blue Boar’ confined himself to his own quarters, or, at all events, did not take advantage of the general invitation given to him by Mr. Samuel Erin to visit Norfolk Street. Nor did that gentleman make any inquiry into the cause of his absence. He had done his best to pleasure his son and encourage him in his discoveries, but was well content that ‘the popinjay’ kept away. With William Henry—and this was, perhaps, even a greater proof of the change in the old man than his more active kindnesses—he was very patient and unimportunate. He would cast one look of earnest inquiry on the young fellow as he came home every evening, and, receiving a shake of the head by way of reply, would abstain from further questioning. Such was his admiration for the nameless inmate of the Temple that he respected his wish for silence, even as it were at second hand. This behaviour was most acceptable to its object, and the more so, since the reticence Mr. Erin thus observed in his own case he imposed upon his visitors, who would have otherwise subjected William Henry to the question, forte et dure, half a dozen times a day. He had persuaded himself that if once the mysterious visitor should get to know that a fuss was being made about that note of hand, he would withdraw his favours from his protÉgÉ altogether.

One evening William Henry came home a little earlier than usual, and in return to his father’s inquiring look returned a smile full of significance.

‘I have found something, father,’ he said, ‘but you must be content, in this case, with the examination of it.’

‘Then your friend has gone back from his word,’ replied the old man; ‘well, it was almost too much to expect that he should have kept to it.’

‘Nay, you must not misjudge him, father, for the very restrictions he has placed upon me mean nothing but kindness. The treasure trove is this time for Margaret.’

‘Margaret! what does he know about Margaret? Well, at all events, it is in the family.’

This reflection alone would hardly have been sufficient to smooth away disappointment from the old man’s brow, had it not also struck him that his niece had no great taste for old MSS., and that a new gown, with a fashionable breast-knot, or some Flanders lace, would probably be considered an equivalent for the original draft of Hamlet.

‘Come, come, let us hear about it?’

‘But if you please, sir, we must wait for my cousin, my patron said—— ‘

‘Maggie, Maggie!’ exclaimed the old man, running out into the little hall and calling up the stairs, ‘come down this moment; here is a present for you.’

At the unwonted news Maggie ran downstairs, arranging the last touches of her costume upon the way, and arriving in the parlour in the most charming state of flush and fervour. Entranced with her beauty, and conscious of having made another step towards the accomplishment of his hopes, William Henry devoured her with his eyes. It was seldom, indeed, that he committed such an imprudence—in company—but if he had kissed her, it is probable, under the circumstances, Mr. Erin would have made no remark, or set it down to Shakespearean enthusiasm.

‘Another MS., Maggie!’ he cried triumphantly.

‘Come, that is better than fifty presents,’ answered Maggie, beaming. ‘I forgive you for your trick upon me, uncle, with all my heart.’

‘But what I have found is for you,’ said William Henry, firmly.

‘Just so,’ exclaimed Mr. Erin, hurriedly, ‘the MS. or something of equal worth, that you would like vastly better. Let us see; now, let us see.’

f174

William Henry took out of his pocket an ancient, timeworn piece of paper, carefully unfolded it, and produced from it a lock of brown straight hair.

‘I thought you said it was a MS.,’ exclaimed Mr. Erin, in a tone of extreme disappointment. ‘Why, this is only hair, and if I may be allowed to say so, not a very good specimen even of that.’

‘Nevertheless, sir, such as it is, it is Shakespeare’s hair!’

‘Shakespeare’s hair!’ echoed Mr. Erin, falling into rather than sitting down on the nearest chair; ‘it is impossible—you are imposing on me.’

William Henry turned very white, and looked very grave and pained.

‘Oh, uncle, how can you say such a thing!’ cried Margaret, plaintively: ‘poor Willie!’

‘I did not mean that, my lad, of course,’ gasped Mr. Erin; ‘I scarcely know what I say. It seems too great a thing to be true. His hair!’ He eyed it with speechless reverence, as it lay in his son’s open palm; his trembling fingers hovered round it, like the wings of a bird round the nest of its little ones, but did not venture to touch it.

‘Where was it found?’ he murmured.

‘Wrapped up in this paper, a letter to Anne Hathaway, which mentions the fact of his sending her the lock, and encloses some verses.’

‘Is it possible?’ exclaimed the old man, with intense excitement; ‘oh, happy day! Read it, read it! I can see nothing clearly.’

The letter ran as follows:

‘Dearesste Anna,—As thou haste alwaye founde mee toe my worde moste
treue, so thou shalt see I have stryctlye kept mye promyse. I praye
you perfume thys mye poore Locke withe thye balmye eyess, fore thenne,
indeede, shalle Kynges themmeselves love and paye homage toe itte. I doe
assure thee no rude hand hath knottedde itte, thye Willys alone hath
done the worke. Adewe sweete love.

‘Thyne everre,

‘Wm. Shakespeare.’

‘Most tender, true, and precious!’ exclaimed the antiquary, ecstatically; ‘and now the verses?’

‘There are but two, sir,’ said the young man, apologetically:—

‘“Is therre in heavenne aught more rare
Thane thou sweete nymphe of Avon fayre,
Is therre onne earthe a manne more treue
Thanne Willy Shakespeare is toe you?”’

William Henry read very well, and with much pathos, and into the last line he put especial tenderness which did not need the covert glance he shot at her to bring the colour into Margaret’s cheek.

‘“Though deathe with neverre faylinge blowe,
Doth manne and babe alyke bringe lowe;
Yet doth he take naught butte hys due
And strikes not Willy’s heart still treue.”’

‘What simplicity, what fidelity!’ murmured the antiquary; ‘a flawless gem indeed! Whence did you unearth it?’

‘I found it where I found the other deed, sir, amongst my patron’s documents; I took it, of course, to him at once. He was greatly surprised and interested, and fully conscious of the value of the godsend; yet he never showed the least sign of regret at the gift he made me, of what he was pleased to call the jetsam and flotsam from his collection. ‘“If I were a younger man,” he said, “I think I should have grudged you that lock of hair. It is just the sort of present a young fellow should give to the girl he has a respect for. A thing that costs nothing, yet is exceedingly precious, and which speaks of love and fidelity. It is too good for any antiquary.”’

‘Your patron is mad, my lad,’ said Mr. Erin, in a tone of cheerful conviction; ‘he must be mad to talk like that; and, indeed, he would never give away these things at all if he were in his sober senses. The idea of bestowing such an inestimable relic upon a girl! Why, it should rather be preserved in some museum in the custody of trustees, to the delight of the whole nation for ever.’

‘Nevertheless, sir, such was my patron’s injunction. He asked of me if I knew any pure and comely maiden, well brought up, and who would understand the value of such a thing. I had therefore, of course, no choice but to mention Margaret; whereupon he said that the lock of hair was to be hers.’

‘I’ll keep it for you, Maggie, in my iron press,’ said Mr. Erin considerately. ‘You shall look at it—in my presence—as often as you like; and then we shall both know that it is safe and sound. As for the letter and verses, Samuel, it will be better to put them for the present, perhaps, in the same repository.’

‘You may put them where you like, sir,’ answered William Henry smiling, as he always did when addressed by that unwonted name; ‘they are yours.’

‘A good lad, an excellent lad,’ murmured the antiquary; ‘now let us with all due reverence inspect these treasures. This is the very hair I should have looked for as having been the immortal bard’s, just as the engraving by Droeshart depicts it in the folio edition. Brown, straight, and wiry, as Steevens terms it.’

‘I should not call it wiry, uncle,’ observed Margaret, ‘though to be sure it has no curl nor gloss on it; it seems to me soft enough to have been a woman’s hair.’

‘It is, perhaps, a trifle silkier and more effeminate than the description would warrant,’ returned the antiquary, ‘but that is doubtless due to the mellowing effects of time. It may be so far looked upon as corroborative evidence. In that connection, by-the-bye, let me draw your particular attention to the braid with which the hair is fastened. This woven silk is not of to-day’s workmanship. I recognise it as being of the same kind used in the reigns of Mary and Elizabeth for attaching the royal seal to patents: a most interesting circumstance, and one which, were there any doubt of the genuineness of the hair, might, like the impress of the quintin in the case of the Hemynge deed, be reasonably adduced as an undesigned coincidence. Then to think that we have it under his own hand that Shakespeare’s fingers have knotted it. Read his words once again, my son, before we put the priceless treasure by.’

‘“I doe assure thee no rude hand hath knottedde itte, thye Willys alone hath done the worke.”’

‘How tender, how touching!’ exclaimed the antiquary. ‘We seem to be in his very presence. What a privilege has this day been vouchsafed to us, my children!’

The two young people glanced at one another involuntarily as the old man addressed them by this title.

It is probable that Mr. Erin attached no particular meaning to it. It may have been only the expression of the measureless content he felt with both of them; with his son for what he had brought him, and with his niece for the readiness with which she had resigned what he had brought to his own custody. But to their ears it had a deep significance.

As their looks met, that of William Henry was so full of tender triumph that Maggie’s face became crimson, and she cast down her eyes. For the first time she began to believe in the possibility of the realisation of the young man’s dream. Notwithstanding what had passed between them, she had hitherto felt more like a sister towards him than a lover; it was not that she feared to risk the wreck of her own happiness by trusting it to so slight a bark, but that, while matters were so uncertain, a natural and modest instinct prevented her from regarding him as he regarded her. There had been a sort of false dawn of love with her, but, now that her uncle seemed to give such solid ground for hope, the sun which had long lain in wait behind those clouds of doubt came out with all the splendour of the morn. Love arose within her.

As Mr. Erin reverently placed his treasures in the iron safe, William Henry stole his arm round Margaret’s waist:—

‘Is there on earthe a manne more treue
Than Willie Erin is to you?’

he whispered softly: and for the first time she did not reprove him.