‘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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