AT VAUXHALL.

The members of the little household in Norfolk Street were now in great content. That word, indeed, scarcely describes the state of mind of the head of the house, who was literally transported with joy. It was difficult to identify the jubilant and triumphant old fellow with the grudging, smileless, and to say truth, somewhat morose individual he had been a few months before. His regard for William Henry began to be quite troublesome, for, though he had not the least objection to Margaret and his son being alone together, he would often interrupt their little interviews from excess of solicitude upon his account. That somewhat flippant young gentleman used to compare his parent on these occasions to the ‘sweete chickenne’ of the Shakespearean profession, which was always ‘hoverrynge over herre broode,’ and, indeed, this affectionate anxiety was partly due to a certain apprehension the old gentleman experienced when the goose that laid the golden eggs for him was out of his sight. At present, however, as Margaret reminded her cousin, there were not enough of them—though so far as they went they had a very material value—to become nest eggs; they could not be considered as savings or capital to any appreciable extent. They were not, indeed, theirs at all, having been made over to Mr. Erin; but for the object the young people had in view that was all one as though they had remained their own. If a play of Shakespeare’s, or even part of a play, should chance to turn up among those treasures of the Temple, that would indeed be a fortune to them, or at all events would procure the antiquary’s consent to everything, and ensure his favour in perpetuity.

These ideas occurred to Margaret only in the vaguest way, nor even in William Henry’s mind did they take any well-defined shape. His nature, to do him justice, was by no means mercenary, and, if he could only have called Margaret his own, he would have been content. As to being able to maintain her he had always had a good opinion of his own talents; and though the praise with which he was now overwhelmed from so many quarters had, of course, no reference to them, it helped to increase his self-confidence.

In this comparative prosperity, and being of a disposition that was by no means inclined to triumph over an unsuccessful rival, it somewhat distressed him to find Frank Dennis standing somewhat aloof. He visited the house, indeed, but not so frequently as had been his wont, and, as regarded William Henry at least, not upon the same terms. He had always been friendly to the younger man under circumstances when it would have been excusable if he had been otherwise, but now he avoided him; not in any marked manner, but certainly with intention. If he had avoided Margaret also, the explanation would have been easy, but it was not so. He was not, indeed, on the same terms with that young lady as he had been; he did not, as of old, seek her society; his face did not brighten up as it was wont to do when she addressed him; but he treated her with a respect which, if it was not tender, was full of gentleness: whereas, to William Henry he was even cold.

It was a significant proof of the transformation that had taken place in Mr. Erin that he not only noticed this, but in a manner apologised for it to William Henry.

‘I am sorry to see that Dennis and you, my lad, don’t seem to get on together so well as you used to do. But you must not mind his being a little jealous.’

At this the young man’s face flushed, for ‘jealousy’ had just then with him but one meaning: he thought that his father was about to talk with him about Margaret, but his niece was not in the old man’s thoughts at all.

‘It is not every one,’ he went on, ‘who can bear to see the good fortune of his friends with equanimity; especially when it takes the form of such a stroke of luck, as in your case. What Dennis says to himself is: “Why should not I have discovered these MSS. instead of William Henry?” And not having done so, he is a little bit envious of you, and is inclined to decry them. It is a pity, of course, but he can do you no more harm by it than he can harm Shakespeare by discrediting the work of his hand.’

But the young man was sorry nevertheless, and Margaret was still more grieved. Since Dennis had tacitly consented to her changed relations with her cousin, or at all events had made no opposition to them, she thought he might have forgiven him as he had forgiven her. It was a subject on which she could not speak to him, but occasionally there was something, or to her sensitive eye and ear seemed to be something, in his tone and manner, not resentful, but as though he pitied her for her choice, which annoyed her exceedingly.

This feeling was in no way reciprocated; it was impossible for Margaret to ruffle Frank Dennis, but he rarely came to Norfolk Street now, unless by special invitation. It had been proposed by Mr. Erin that they should all four go to Vauxhall together upon a certain evening—a very unusual dissipation, for except the theatre, of which when Shakespeare was acted (which in those days was very frequently) he was a pretty constant patron, the antiquary had no love for places of amusement—but Frank Dennis had declined to accompany them. He professed to have a previous engagement, which, as he went out very little, seemed improbable; indeed, it was understood by the others that he did not wish to go. This was a cause of sincere regret to them, not excluding William Henry, for if Dennis had come he would have paired off with Mr. Erin and left Margaret to himself. The expedition, however, was looked forward to with pleasure by both the young people even as it was: it had the charm of novelty for them, for William Henry was almost as great a stranger to what had now begun to be called ‘life’ in London as his cousin. The little trip to the place by water was itself delightful, while the Gardens, with the coloured lamps and music and gaily dressed company, seemed to them like a dream of Paradise.

Mr. Samuel Erin was not indeed a very good cicerone to such a spot, for folks of their age; though he would have been invaluable to some distinguished foreigner with a thirst for information. He reminded them (or rather informed them, for they knew very little about it) how for more than a century the place had been the resort of all the wit and rank and gallantry of the town; how Addison had taken Sir Roger de Coverley there, and Goldsmith the Chinese philosopher, and Swift had gone in person to hear the nightingale; and how much more attractive it was than its rival Ranelagh, of which, nevertheless, as Walpole humorously writes, Lord Chesterfield was so fond that he ordered all his letters to be directed thither. It was with difficulty the old gentleman was persuaded not to take them away from the radiant scene to a neighbouring street to see the lodgings where the poet Philips had breathed his last; and, by way of reprisal for their preference for such gauds and tinsel, he quoted to them (after Dr. Johnson) Xerxes’ remark about his army, that it was sad to think that of all that brilliant crowd not one would be alive a hundred years hence. The Scriptures themselves admit that there is a time to laugh and a time to play, and these literary reminiscences, and much more these didactic reflections, were felt by the young people to be a good deal out of place. If Mr. Erin could have been induced to visit the lodgings of Mr. Philips by himself, or to meditate on the Future alone, and in the Maze, then indeed they would have applauded him, but as it was, his company was a trifle triste.

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They were presently relieved from it, however, in a wholly unexpected manner. They had explored the walks, promenaded the ‘area,’ and listened to the band to their hearts’ content, and had just sat down in one of the arbours to a modest supper, when who should pass by, with his hat on one side and an air of studied indifference to the commonplace allurements around him, but Mr. Reginald Talbot. His few weeks’ residence in London had effected a revolution in him, which nevertheless could scarcely be called a reform: from an inhabitant of Connemara, or some other out-of-the-way spot, he had become a citizen of the world; but the dissipations of the town had not improved his appearance. His face, though still full, had lost its colour, and he had a lack-lustre look which so ably seconded his attempts at languor that it almost rendered him idiotic.

William Henry drew involuntarily back in the box to avoid recognition, but Mr. Talbot’s eye, roving everywhere, though with a somewhat fish-like expression, in search of female beauty, had already been attracted by Margaret’s pretty face. He did not quite recognise it, probably owing to the doubtful aid he derived from his spy-glass, but it was evident that he was struggling with a reminiscence.

‘Why, surely that is our young friend Talbot, is it not, Samuel?’ exclaimed Mr. Erin with effusion; and he held out his hand to the young man at once, not because he was glad to see him, far from it, but because he thought he was making a friend of his son welcome.

William Henry, however, was well convinced that Talbot was no longer his friend, a circumstance that had not hitherto distressed him. Indeed, he had by no means regretted their little tiff, since it had been the means of keeping Talbot away from Norfolk Street; but now that they had met again he had reasons for wishing that they had not quarrelled. The very cordiality with which the other addressed him aroused his apprehensions, for he knew that it was feigned; he would much rather indeed have seen him, as on the occasion when he had last met her, make advances to Margaret herself. Of her he was sure; no dandy, whether metropolitan or provincial, could, he knew, ever rival him in her affections; but this fellow, smarting from the slight that had been put upon his muse, might injure him in other ways. He knew from experience Mr. Reginald Talbot was capable of being what at school was termed ‘nasty,’ i.e. malignant. It has been said of the great Marlborough that whenever he permitted himself a noble phrase it was a sure sign that he was about to commit a baseness; and similarly, the fact of Mr. Talbot’s being upon his best behaviour was a symptom dangerous to his friends. On the present occasion he was studiously genteel.

His manner to Margaret—very different from that he generally adopted towards the fair sex—was distantly polite, while to Mr. Samuel Erin he was respectful to servility. What especially marked the abnormal condition of his mind, and showed his feelings to be. under severe restraint, was that he never alluded to his own poetical genius. In speaking to William Henry the subject might well indeed have been avoided as a painful one; but that he should exercise this reticence with respect to the antiquary—to whom on a previous occasion, it will be remembered, he had mentioned within the first five minutes that he was ‘a man of letters’—was something portentous. He did not indeed talk much, but he did what was a thousand times more difficult to him—he held his tongue and listened.

This circumstance, joined to his demure behaviour, caused Mr. Samuel Erin to take a much more favourable view of his son’s friend than that he had originally entertained, and, finding him deeply interested in the country of his birth and in its early history, related to him at considerable length the story of the disruption of the Knight Templars, and the escape of the survivors to Ireland, of which he happened to have an account in black letter, which he hoped, as he said, at no distant date to have the pleasure of showing Mr. Talbot under his own roof. This naturally led on to some conversation respecting the labours of Mr. Erin in the Shakespearean field, concerning which the young man paid him several compliments, wherein what was wanted in appropriateness (for the young gentleman laboured under the disadvantage of knowing nothing whatever of the subject) was more than compensated for by their impassioned warmth. Then by an easy gradation they fell to talking on the new-found manuscripts. It amazed Mr. Erin to find that Talbot had not yet seen the Profession of Faith.

‘I have been out of town, sir,’ he replied, for falsehood to this son of Erin was as natural as mother’s milk, and laid on like water, on the perpetual supply system, ‘and have not had the opportunity of seeing it, though, as you may well imagine, I have heard of little else. And that reminds me that I have a favour to ask of you. There is an old friend of mine, or rather of my late father’s, Mr. Albany Wallis—— ‘

Mr. Erin frowned. ‘I have heard of the gentleman,’ he put in stiffly, ‘and in a sense I know him.’

‘I trust you know nothing to his disadvantage, sir,’ said Talbot with humility. ‘I can only say that he has always spoken to me of yourself, and of your extraordinary erudition and attainments, with the greatest regard and consideration.’

‘Indeed,’ returned the other, still drily, but with some relaxation of stiffness in his tone, ‘I am only acquainted with Mr. Wallis myself by hearsay; and judging him by the company he keeps—for he is known to be a friend of one Malone, of whom in Christian charity I will say no more than that he is a fellow whose shallow pretence and pompous ignorance would disgrace the name of charlatan—I have certainly hitherto had but a bad opinion of him.’

‘Of that, sir, he is aware,’ said Talbot, ‘and it troubles him just now exceedingly. The sense of your ill-will has prevented him, although a near neighbour, from calling in Norfolk Street; and knowing that I was a friend of your son’s, he has earnestly entreated me, in case I had the opportunity, to beg permission for him to pay you a visit.’

‘From twelve to one, sir, the Shakespearean manuscripts are open to the inspection of all comers,’ said Mr. Erin, with a grand air. ‘We invite investigation, and even criticism.’

‘Any time, of course, you choose to appoint will suit my friend,’ said Talbot; ‘but, as he led me to understand, he has a matter of importance connected with the manuscripts to communicate to you, and somewhat of a private nature.’

‘Then let him come to-morrow evening, when we shall be alone. Perhaps he would like to see William Henry.’

‘I think he would, sir,’ returned Talbot, and as he spoke he put his hand up to his mouth, to conceal a demoniacal grin such as one sees on a gargoyle carved by the piety of some monkish architect. ‘I’ll bring him to-morrow.’

During all this time William Henry and Margaret, in the opposite corner of the arbour, had carried on a smothered conversation with one another on quite a different subject, or rather, as the manner of young people is under similar circumstances, on no subject at all. It was enough to them that their hands met under the table and their hearts met under the rose. The scene they looked upon was not more bright than their hopes, nor the music they listened to more in tune than their tender fancies. When Mr. Erin pulled out his watch and pronounced it time to set out for home, it seemed to them that they had only just arrived. As for Mr. Reginald Talbot, for the last hour or so they had been totally unconscious of his presence; but when he took his leave of them, which he did with much politeness, there was something of suppressed triumph in his voice that aroused William Henry’s suspicions. A shudder involuntarily seized him; he felt like a merrymaker at a festival who suddenly looks up into the sky, and perceives, instead of sunshine, ‘the ragged rims of thunder brooding low.’