A BARGAIN.

‘The book goes bravely, Samuel,’ observed Mr. Erin, as father and son were sitting together one evening with Margaret between them. William Henry’s hand was resting on the back of her chair, and at times he addressed her in tones so low that his words must needs have had no more meaning for a third person than if they had been in a foreign tongue. Yet both his contiguity and his confidences remained unreproved. Perhaps among other recently developed virtues in the young man it was put down by Mr. Erin (who himself had a quick eye for the main chance) to William Henry’s credit that he never questioned his father’s right to treat the Shakespearean papers as his own, or to demand any account of his stewardship with respect to them.

The antiquary, however, had scruples of his own, which, if they did not compel him to part with hard money, induced him to look upon his milch cow with very lenient and indulgent eyes.

It was surely only natural that these two young people should entertain a very strong mutual attachment; through long familiarity they doubtless seemed more like brother and sister to one another than cousins. It could not be said, in short, that Mr. Erin winked at their love-making, but he shut his eyes to it. It would have been very inconvenient to have said ‘No’ to a certain question, and quite impossible to say ‘Yes.’ It was better that things should take their own course, even if it was a little dangerous, than to make matters uncomfortable by interference.

‘From first to last, my lad,’ he continued in a cheerful voice, ‘we shall make little short of 500l., I expect.’

‘Indeed,’ said William Henry indifferently. To do him justice he cared little for money at any time, and just now less than usual. His appetite, even for fame, had for the present lost its keenness. Love possessed him wholly; he cared only for Margaret.

‘To think that a new reading of an old play—though to be sure it is Shakespeare’s play—should produce so much!’ went on Mr. Erin complacently. ‘Good heavens! what would not the public give for a new play by the immortal bard?’

‘The question is,’ observed William Henry, ‘what would you give, Mr. Erin?’

The remark was so unexpected, and delivered in such a quiet tone, that for a moment the antiquary was dumbfounded, and between disbelief and expectancy made no reply.

‘My dear Samuel,’ he murmured presently, ‘is it possible you can be serious, that you have in your possession——’

‘Nay, sir,’ interrupted the young man smiling; ‘I never said that. I do not possess it, but within the last few days I have known of the existence of such a manuscript.’

‘You have known and not told me!’ exclaimed the antiquary reproachfully; ‘why, I might have died in the meantime!’

‘Then you would have seen Shakespeare, and he would have told you all about it,’ returned William Henry lightly.

‘Do not answer your father like that,’ said Margaret in low, reproving tones.

It was plain, indeed, that Mr. Erin was greatly agitated. His eyes were fixed upon his son, but without speculation in them. He looked like one in a trance, to whom has been vouchsafed some wondrous vision.

‘I know what is best,’ returned the young man under his breath, pressing Margaret’s shoulder with his hand. His arm still hung over her chair; his manner was studiously unmoved, as becomes the master of a situation.

‘Where is it?’ gasped the old man.

‘In the Temple. I have not yet obtained permission to bring it away. Until I could do that I felt it was useless to speak about the matter—that I should only be discredited. Even you yourself, unless you saw the manuscript, might hesitate to believe in its authenticity.’

‘The manuscript?’ exclaimed Mr. Erin, his mind too monopolised by the splendour of the discovery to descend to detail; ‘you have really seen it, then, with your own eyes? An unacted play of Shakespeare’s!’

‘An unpublished one, at all events. I have certainly seen it, and within these two hours, but only in my patron’s presence.’

‘He said that whatever you found was to be yours,’ exclaimed Mr. Erin petulantly.

‘Well, up to this time he has been as good as his word,’ said William Henry smiling.

‘Indeed he has,’ remarked Margaret. ‘We must not be ungrateful, uncle.’

‘Nevertheless, people should perform what they, promise,’ observed the antiquary severely.

For the second time Margaret felt a gentle pressure upon her shoulder; it seemed as though Willie had whispered, ‘You hear that.’

‘The play is called “Vortigern and Rowena,”’ continued the young man.

‘An admirable subject,’ murmured the antiquary ecstatically.

‘It is, of course, historical; there are Hengist and Horsus.’

‘Horsa,’ suggested Mr. Erin.

‘Shakespeare writes it Horsus; Horsa was perhaps his sister.’

‘Perhaps,’ admitted the antiquary with prompt adhesion. ‘And the treatment? How does it rank as regards his other productions?’

‘Nay, sir, that is for you to judge; I am no critic.’

‘But you tell me that your patron will not part with it.’

‘I have not yet persuaded him to do so; but I by no means despair of it, and in the meantime I have a copy of it.’

‘My dear Samuel!’

‘At first I tried to commit it to memory, but found the task beyond my powers. It is a very long play.’

‘The longer the better,’ murmured the antiquary.

‘But not when one has to get it by heart,’ observed William Henry drily. His tone and manner were more in contrast to those of the elder man than ever; as one grew heated the other seemed to grow cooler and cooler. There was no question as to which of them, just at present, was likely to prove the better hand at a bargain.

‘But why do you talk thus, Samuel? The play, the play’s the thing; since you have it why do you not produce it? You cannot imagine that delay—indeed, that anything—can enhance the interest I feel in this most marvellous of our discoveries.’

William Henry’s face grew very grave.

‘It is true that whatever is mine is yours, in a sense,’ he said; ‘but still you must pardon me for remarking that they are my discoveries.’

Margaret started in her chair; if she had not felt William Henry’s grasp upon her wrist—for he had shifted his position and was confronting the antiquary face to face—she would have risen from it. She had never given her cousin credit for such self-assertion, and she trembled for its result. She did not even yet suspect it had a motive in which she herself was concerned; but the situation alarmed her. It was like that of some audacious clerk who demands of his master a partnership, with a certain difference that made it even graver.

‘What is it you want?’ inquired the antiquary. He too had become conscious that the relations between William Henry and himself were about to enter on a new phase; nevertheless his tone was conciliatory, like that of a man who, though somewhat tried, cannot afford to quarrel with his bread-and-butter.

‘I am the last man, I hope, to be illiberal,’ he continued. ‘If I were dealing with a stranger I should frankly own that what you have, or rather, hope to have, to dispose of is a valuable commodity; to me, indeed, as you know, it is more valuable than to any mere dealer in such wares. Nevertheless I hope you will be reasonable; after all it is a question of what the thing will fetch. I suppose you will not ask a fancy price?’

William Henry smiled. ‘Well, some people might think it so, Mr. Erin, but it is not money at all that I require of you.’

‘Not money?’ echoed the antiquary in a voice of great relief. ‘Well, that indeed shows a proper spirit. I am really pleased to find that we are to have no haggling over a matter of this kind, which in truth would be little short of a sacrilege. If you have fixed your mind upon any of my poor possessions, though it should even be the “Decameron,“ the earliest edition extant, and complete except for the title-page——’

‘It is not the “Decameron,“ sir.’

‘Or the quarto of 1623, with marginal notes in my own hand. But no; that is a small matter indeed by comparison with this magnificent discovery. I hardly know what I have which would in any way appear to you an equivalent; but be assured that anything at my disposal is very much at your service.’

‘Then if you please, sir, I will take Margaret.’

‘Margaret!’ Mr. Erin repeated the name in tones of such supreme amazement as could not have been exceeded had the young man stipulated for his wig. Perhaps his surprise was a little simulated, which was certainly not the case with Margaret herself; she sat in silence, covered with blushes, and with her eyes fixed on the table before her, very much frightened, but by no means ‘hurt.’ While she trembled at Willie’s audacity she admired it.

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Mr. Erin shot a glance at her which convinced him that he would get no help from that quarter. If she had not been cognisant of the young fellow’s intention it was clear that the proposal he had made was not displeasing to her. The antiquary ransacked his mind for an objection that would meet the case; there were plenty of them there, but none of them fit for use and at the same time strong enough. A very powerful one at once occurred to him in the question, ‘What do you propose to live upon?’ but unhappily the answer was equally obvious, ‘Upon you!’ A most intolerable suggestion, but one which—on the brink of a bargain—it was not convenient to combat.

For a moment, too, the objection of consanguinity occurred to him, that they were cousins; an admirable plea, because it was quite insurmountable; but though this might have had its weight with Margaret, he doubted of its efficacy in William Henry’s case, inasmuch as he probably knew that they were not cousins. To have this question raised in the young lady’s presence—or indeed at all—was not to be thought of. In the end he had to content himself with the commonplace argument of immaturity, unsatisfactory at the best, since it only delays the evil day.

‘Margaret? You surely cannot be serious, my dear lad. Why, your united ages scarcely make up that of a marriageable man. This is really too ridiculous. You are not eighteen.’

The rejoinder that that was an objection which time could be relied on to remove was obvious, but William Henry did not make it. He was not only playing for a great stake; it was necessary that it should be paid in ready money.

‘I venture to think, Mr. Erin,’ he said respectfully, ‘that our case is somewhat exceptional. We have known one another for a long time, and very intimately; it is not a question of calf love. Moreover, to be frank with you, my value in your eyes is now at its highest. You may learn to esteem me more; I trust you may; but as time goes on I cannot hope commercially to be at such a premium. Now or never, therefore, is my time to sell.’

Though he spoke of himself as the article of barter he was well aware that Mr. Erin’s thoughts were fixed upon another purchase, which, as it were, included him in the same ‘lot.’

‘But, my dear Samuel, this is so altogether unexpected.’

‘So is the discovery of the manuscript,’ put in the young fellow with pitiless logic.

‘It is like springing a mine on me, my lad.’

‘The “Vortigern and Rowena“ is also a mine, or I hope will prove so,’ was the quick rejoinder.

Whatever might be urged against William Henry Erin, it could not be said that he had not his wits about him.

‘You have only the copy,’ objected the antiquary, though he felt the argument to be inadequate, since it was liable to be swept away.

‘Nay,’ returned the young man, smiling, ‘what becomes of the acumen of the critic, if internal evidence is insufficient to establish authenticity? His occupation is gone.’

This was Mr. Erin’s favourite quotation from the ‘Rejoinder;’ to use it against him was like seething a kid in its mother’s milk, and it roused him for the first time to vigorous opposition. It is possible that he also saw his opportunity for spurring the other on to gain possession of the precious document.

‘That is all mighty fine, young sir, but this is not a question of sentiment. I must see this play in Shakespeare’s own handwriting before I can take your most unlooked-for proposal into consideration at all. At present the whole affair is in the air.’

‘You shall see the play,’ said William Henry composedly.

‘Moreover,’ continued the antiquary with equal firmness, ‘it will not be sufficient that I myself should be convinced of its authenticity. It must receive general acceptance.’

‘I can hardly promise, sir, that there will be no objectors,’ returned the young man drily; ‘Mr. Malone, for example, will probably have something to say.’

The mention of ‘that devil,’ as the antiquary, in moments of irritation, was wont to call that respectable commentator, was most successful.

‘I speak of rational beings, sir,’ returned Mr. Erin, with quite what is called in painting his ‘early manner.’ ‘What Malone may take into his head to think is absolutely indifferent to me. I speak of the public voice.’

‘As heard, for instance, at the National Theatre,’ suggested William Henry earnestly. ‘Suppose that “Vortigern and Rowena“ should be acted at Drury Lane or Covent Garden, and be received as the bona fide production of Shakespeare? Would that test content you?’

That such an ordeal would be of a sufficiently crucial nature was indubitable, yet not more so than the confidence with which it was proposed. If the least glimmer of doubt as to the genuineness of the Shakespearean MSS. still reigned in the antiquary’s mind the voice and manner of his son as he spoke those words would have dispelled it. The immaturity of the two young people was not much altered for the better since Mr. Erin had cited it as a bar to their union, but, under the circumstances now suggested, their position would be very materially improved. A play at Drury Lane in those days meant money in pocket; a successful play was a small fortune, and might even be a large one. He would have greatly preferred to have this precious MS., like the others, for nothing, but, after all, what was demanded of him was better than being asked to give hard cash for a pig in a poke. It was only a promise to pay upon conditions which would make the payment comparatively easy.

‘If “Vortigern and Rowena“ is successful,’ continued William Henry with the quiet persistence of a carpenter who strikes the same nail on the head, ‘it must be understood that I have permission to marry Margaret as soon as she pleases.’

Poor Mr. Erin looked appealingly at his niece. ‘You will surely not be so indelicate,’ his glance seemed to say, ‘as to wish to precipitate a matter of this kind?’ But he looked in vain. She did not, it is true, say, ‘I will though;’ there was even a blush on her cheek, which might have seemed to flatter his expectations: but she kept silence, which in such a case it was impossible to construe otherwise than as consent.

Some old gentlemen would have hereupon felt themselves justified in saying that ‘young women were not so forward in their time,’ or ‘that such conduct was in their experience unprecedented,’ a reflection, to judge by the frequency with which it is indulged in under similar circumstances, that would seem to give some sort of consolation; but the antecedents of Mr. Samuel Erin were unhappily, as we have hinted, not of a sufficiently ascetic nature to enable him to use this solace.

‘Perhaps you would like to read the play?’ suggested William Henry.

‘Very much,’ replied the antiquary with eagerness.

‘Just as you please, Mr. Erin. It is yours of course, upon the understanding, supposing it to realise expectation, that we have your consent to our marriage.’

‘Very good,’ replied the antiquary, without any eagerness at all, and in a tone which (had such a substitution been feasible) would have better suited with ‘Very bad.’