William Henry performed his promise punctually, and presented himself next morning at Drury Lane. He had never been inside a theatre by daylight before, and the contrast of the scene to that to which he had been accustomed struck him very forcibly. If any young gentleman belonging to me were stage-struck, I should ask the permission of the lessee of one of our National Theatres to allow me to introduce him into its auditorium some dullish morning. If his enthusiasm survived, I will believe that the passion for the sea will still remain in a boy’s breast after a visit to a ship’s cockpit. The spectacle of those draped galleries, those empty seats and ill-lit space, where all was wont to be light and laughter, is little short of ghastly. William Henry indeed only caught glimpses of it here and there, through the eye-holes over the doors, as he was led through the echoing passages to the back of the stage; but they were sufficient. He in vain attempted to picture to himself the very different appearance the place would bear when probably he should see it next, at the representation of ‘Vortigern and Rowena.’

His imagination was chilled. The object of his visit, even though it might well have done so, since it was to be interviewed by two of the most charming women on the English stage, did not fill him with the pleasurable anticipation which he had experienced when he had received their invitation. There was no harm in it, of course, but he had come without Margaret’s knowledge, and his conscience reproached him for so doing. It was, no doubt, her own fault; she had shown such unmistakable feelings of jealousy on the previous day, and had expressed such uncharitable views on the character of actresses in general, that he had shrunk from telling her of the appointment he had made for to-morrow. It was a pity that the dear girl was so unreasonable; for, though she had entirely agreed with him that Mrs. Powell’s conduct, of which he had given her an amusing version, had been pert, she had failed to understand what a contrast that of Mrs. Jordan afforded, or how distinctly it bespoke a simple and ingenuous nature. He had never dreamt, of course, of repeating Mrs. Powell’s parting remark about ‘poor Margaret;’ but if such a notion had entered his mind, the manner in which the dear girl had received other details of the little interview would have forbidden it. He felt quite certain that she was capable of believing that Mrs. Jordan was ready to fall in love with him, or even had already done it. The very idea of such a thing, when she knew he was engaged to somebody else, was, of course, ridiculous. He thought that it would have set Margaret’s mind at ease to tell her that he had given that piece of information to the ladies, whereas it had aroused her indignation, not indeed against him but against them. ‘What right had they to ask such questions? It was impertinent, forward, and indelicate; and she did hope that those young women would never commit the impropriety of calling in Norfolk Street and asking to see a young gentleman, with whom they could have no earthly business, again.’

And now, unknown to Margaret, he was going to see them. The conscience at seventeen is tender, and it was no wonder William Henry’s smote him. At that age, however, the memory (for some things) is unfortunately short, and when a door suddenly opened from a labyrinthine passage, into a prettily furnished room, where Mrs. Jordan, reclining in an arm-chair, was reading with rapt attention a certain manuscript he recognised, he thought he had never seen anyone so beautiful before.

She arose with a pleasant smile, and a natural coquettish air which became her charmingly, and bade him welcome.

‘Pray come in,’ said she, for he stood at the door entranced; ‘it is not everyone that is admitted into my dressing-room, but I shan’t bite you.’

It was not the least like a dressing-room except that it had a multiplicity of mirrors, but her calling it so discomposed him (he could not help thinking to himself how very much more, if she had but known it, it would have discomposed Margaret); his knees had a tendency to knock together, and he felt that he looked like a fool.

‘You need not be afraid,’ continued the lady smiling, not displeased perhaps to see the effect she had produced in him, the symptoms of which were not unfamiliar to her; ‘Mrs. Powell will be here directly—she is not so punctual as you are.’

‘She has not so much reason to be, madam,’ said William Henry. The words had occurred to him as if by inspiration, but directly they were uttered he repented of them. He had intended them to be very gallant, but they now struck him as exceedingly foolish.

‘He is certainly a very amusing young man,’ said the lady, as if addressing a third person. ‘Pray sit down, sir. I saw your father after I had the pleasure of seeing you yesterday. You are not in the least alike. You should have seen Kemble and him together; it was as good as any play. They don’t hit it off together so well as you and I do. Perhaps you will say again they have not so much reason.’

‘It was a very unfortunate remark of mine,’ said William Henry penitently.

‘I don’t know that; you needn’t be so hard upon yourself. I think you had an idea that you were somehow paying me a compliment. For my part, however, I have enough of compliments, and prefer a little honesty for a change.’

William Henry bethought him of saying something about the genuineness of some compliments, but by the expression of her face, which had suddenly become grave, he judged that she had had enough of the subject, and remained silent.

‘And how is Margaret?’

The young man blushed to the roots of his hair, and blushed the more because he felt himself blushing.

‘I have heard of the young lady from your father, and nothing but good of her. I hope’—this with great severity—’that you are not ashamed of her, sir.’

‘No, madam.’

‘And I hope, sir’—this with an angry flash of her bright eyes—’that you are not ashamed of me.’

‘Madam!’

‘Then why did you not tell her that you were coming here?’

William Henry bit his lip, and was about to stammer something he knew not what, when fortunately there was a knock at the door.

‘Come in,’ said Mrs. Jordan.

The knocking was continued very loudly, but the permission was not repeated. Mrs. Jordan began to laugh, and at every recurrence of the summons laughed more and more. Then the door was opened a very little way. ‘Are you sure that I may come in, Dorothy? Are you sure I don’t intrude?’ inquired a musical voice in accents of pretended anxiety.

And then Mrs. Powell entered.

‘You are late,’ observed Mrs. Jordan reprovingly; ‘that is not like your usual habits.’

‘I thought you might like to have a little time to yourselves, my dear,’ replied the other with great simplicity. ‘I am quite sorry to trouble you with business matters, Mr. Erin, but the fact is it’s pressing. I must have Edmunda altered; she is heavy in hand.’

‘But, my dear madam, what has that to do with me?’

‘With you? Why, everything; to whom else can I come? Kemble won’t listen to me; your father, a most respectable man no doubt, is quite impracticable, and only raves about the Immortal Bard.’

‘But I cannot alter Shakespeare’s play, madam.’

‘Why not? He’s dead, isn’t he? Besides, his plays have been often enough altered before. Garrick did it for one.’

‘Perhaps, madam; but then I am not Garrick. I can no more alter a play than write one.’

‘Upon my word, my dear,’ interposed Mrs. Jordan, ‘there is a good deal in what Mr. Erin says. I want to have things altered in my own part, but if, as he tells us——’

‘Pooh! nonsense,’ broke in the other; ‘you have nothing to complain of in Flavia. She is in man’s clothes, which fit you to a nicety, and that is all you need care about.’

‘If he takes my advice he won’t touch the play,’ said Mrs. Jordan, fairly trembling with rage.

‘There you see the Country Girl,’ said Mrs. Powell, pointing to her friend with a little hand that trembled too. ‘Her temper is only so long’ (she indicated the twentieth part of an inch). ‘Nobody can say that she has not a natural manner, or does not know how to blush.’

‘Nobody can say of Mrs. Powell,’ retorted the other, ‘when she tries to blush, that her beauty is only skin deep.’

It was certainly a most terrible scene, and most heartily did William Henry wish himself back in Norfolk Street. At that very moment, however, when he expected to see them dig their nails into one another, both ladies burst out laughing. He began to think that either their rage or their laughter must needs be artificial, whereas, in fact, while they lasted they were both real enough. Mirth with them was the natural safety valve of all their passions, and a very excellent mechanical contrivance too.

‘But won’t you just lighten my Edmunda a little, Mr. Erin,’ persisted Mrs. Powell; ‘a touch here and a touch there?’

‘My dear madam, supposing even I were capable of doing such a thing (which I am not), just consider what people would say if I touched the play. Even now our enemies attack its authenticity, and what a handle must such a proceeding needs afford them.’

‘That is surely reasonable,’ observed Mrs. Jordan for the second time.

‘I don’t know about reasonable,’ returned Mrs. Powell with a most bewitching pout; ‘but I know if you were not here I could persuade him.’

‘Shall I leave you?’ said Mrs. Jordan, making a feint of retiring from the room.

‘Oh no,’ pleaded William Henry involuntarily.

‘Well, upon my life,’ cried Mrs. Powell, ‘you are a most complimentary young man! However, I’ll leave you, which considering the company you are in, will be quite revenge enough.’ She stood at the door, drawn up to her full height like a tragedy queen; then suddenly altering her tone, her air, her voice, and becoming as if by magic the very picture of pity, she added ‘Poor Margaret!’ and was gone.

‘She is a queer mad creature, but means no harm,’ said Mrs. Jordan consolingly. ‘She was angry at your refusal to alter her part for her, and when she is angry she will say anything. You must not mind her. Now, I’ve taken a fancy to you, Master——. By the bye, what is your name?’

‘Erin.’

‘Chut! I mean your Christian name?’

‘William Henry.’

‘And what does Margaret call you?’

‘Willie.’

‘Very good; then since I have no wish to poach on Margaret’s preserves, I shall call you “Henry.“ I have taken a fancy to you, Master Henry, and mean to do you a service; a gentleman of influence, with whom I have some interest, wants to look at these Shakespeare manuscripts, and has directed them to be at his house this morning.’

‘I am afraid they will not be there,’ said William Henry. ‘My father has never permitted them to leave Norfolk Street except once, at the personal request of the Prince Regent.’

‘Nevertheless, I think the gentleman I speak of will have his way,’ said the actress, smiling. ‘Now I wish him, in case he sees the manuscripts, to see their discoverer also. Perhaps he may give him a helping hand.’

‘You are very kind,’ said William Henry gently: it was not gratitude for the favour to come that moved him, for he had no suspicion how it was to be realised, but her evident warmth of feeling towards him. Her manner had not only an exquisite grace, but an unmistakable tenderness; and then she was so exceedingly handsome. A young man’s heart is like the tinder, which in those days, with flint and steel, was the substitute for our lucifer matches; away from its box it is liable to danger from every spark. ‘You are very good and kind,’ repeated William Henry mechanically; he felt an impulse, hard to be withstood, to add ‘and very beautiful.’

‘I am not good,’ said his companion, gravely, ‘but I suppose I am kind enough. It is much easier, my young friend, to be kind than good. Well, now I am going to take you to this gentleman.’

She put on her cloak and bonnet, and led the way to the stage door of the theatre. A closed carriage, well appointed, was at the door, in waiting for her, and they took their seats. In a few minutes they were whirled to their destination—a huge red house set in a courtyard, with which William Henry was unacquainted, or which in the perturbation of his mind he failed to recognise. They passed through certain corridors into a large room looking on a garden. It was handsomely furnished; a harp stood in one corner, a piano in the other; the walls were hung with beautiful pictures. But what aroused William Henry’s amazement, and prevented him from giving his attention elsewhere, was the circumstance that on a table by the window were arranged the whole collection of the Shakespeare papers.

‘You are looking for your father’s blood upon them,’ said Mrs. Jordan, smiling; ‘you are thinking to yourself that he must surely have been cut to pieces ere he would have permitted them to leave his hands. But the fact is—— Hush, here comes your future patron.’

William Henry was used to a patron, and for that matter to a sufficiently mysterious one; but for the moment he was devoured by curiosity, mingled with a certain awe. The appearance of the new-comer, if he had expected to see anyone very magnificent, must have been a disappointment to him, for it certainly was not of an imposing kind. There entered the room, so rapidly that he almost seemed to run, a young man of thirty, somewhat inclined to corpulence, with a cheery good-natured face, but decidedly commonplace in its expression.

‘Well, well, Dorothy, you see I’m here,’ he said, without taking the least notice of the stranger’s presence. ‘Now let us see these manuscripts—wonderful manuscripts—and get it over.’ He spoke with great volubility, and plumped down on a chair by the table as if in a great hurry. ‘What funny writing, and what queer ink and paper! and what great seals! Shakespeare was never Lord Chancellor, was he?’

‘I don’t think he was, sir,’ said Mrs, Jordan, laughing. ‘It was the fashion in those days for deeds to wear fob and watch and chain.’

‘Fobs, fobs? I see no fobs. So this is “Lear;“ I’ve seen “Lear.“ The play where everybody has their eyes put out. So he wrote it like this, did he? I wonder how anybody could read it. Hambllett, Hambllett; I never heard of him. Notes of hand. Gad! I know them pretty well.’

‘This is the young gentleman, sir, to whom we owe the discovery of all these manuscripts,’ said Mrs. Jordan, drawing his attention to William Henry.

‘Aye, aye,’ said the new comer, wheeling his chair round to get a good view of William Henry’s face. ‘You found them, did you; those that hide can find; that’s what people tell me, you know.’

The speech was such a rude one, that it might have been uttered by the first Gentleman in Europe, nor indeed was William Henry by any means certain that he was not standing in his august presence; but there was a good-natured twinkle in the stranger’s eye which mitigated the harshness of his words. Never, indeed, before had the doubts concerning the genuineness of the manuscripts been expressed in a manner so personally offensive to the young fellow, and notwithstanding his conviction that the speaker was a man of very high rank, he might not have hesitated to resent it, but for a certain appealing look which Mrs[.] Jordan cast at him. He remembered that it was for his own sake that she had asked him to meet this man, and that if he offended him she herself might be the sufferer. He therefore only answered with a forced smile, ‘I should think no one but Mr. Malone could have told you that.’

‘And who the deuce is Mr. Malone?’ was the contemptuous rejoinder; a question that put the coping-stone on the young fellow’s embarrassment and, indeed, utterly discomfited him. He felt transported into strange regions, with a new atmosphere; a world that had never heard of Mr. Malone the commentator was unintelligible to him. It is one of the lessons that can only be taught by years, and of which the ‘Montys’ and ‘Algys’ of high life are as ignorant as the ‘Jacks’ and ‘Harrys’ of low, that our respective horizons are limited.

As William Henry stood tongue-tied, a sudden burst of melody filled the room. Mrs. Jordan had sat down to the piano, and was singing with exquisite pathos a song that was very familiar to him.

Detraction strove to turn her heart
And sour her gentle mind;

But Charity still kept her part,
And meekness to her soul did bind.

‘Very nice, and very true,’ murmured the strange gentleman approvingly, keeping time with head and hand to the tune. His irritation had departed like an evil spirit exorcised; into his coarse countenance had stolen an expression of pure enjoyment; his eyes were full of gentleness and even affection. Such power have the voice and the instrument (when accompanied by a pretty face) even on the most commonplace natures.

‘Now what is that, what is that?’ he exclaimed excitedly, when the song was done. ‘And why have I never heard it before, my dear?’

‘Because it is brand-new, sir,’ said Mrs. Jordan, with a bewitching curtsey. ‘I sing it as Flavia in this new play of “Vortigern and Rowena,“ which is to be performed next month at Drury Lane, and which I hope you will come to see.’

‘Certainly, certainly. Why shouldn’t I?

Detraction strove to turn her heart
And sour her gentle mind.

But it didn’t succeed, did it, Dorothy?’

‘I hope not, sir,’ returned the lady modestly. ‘Then I may take it as a promise, sir, that you will honour this performance with your presence; it will be on the second of April.’

‘Yes, yes; tell Sherry to keep a box—a box. And now I’m off to the Privy Council. Sorry I can’t take you with me, Dorothy, but you’re not sworn in yet—not sworn in.’

And off he shambled; his walk and talk were very like one another—rapid, irregular, and fitful.

‘There,’ cried Mrs. Jordan triumphantly, ‘I have got what I wanted for you, Master Harry; the play will now have the Royal patronage.’

‘Then that gentleman is——’

‘His Royal Highness the Duke of Clarence, my husband.’