‘Why, my dear lad,’ he cried, ‘this note of hand of Shakespeare’s, priceless as it is, may be yet outdone by what remains to be discovered. In this strange treasure-trove of which you speak, of the contents of which, both as to their nature and value, their owner seems to be wholly ignorant, there may be, for all we know, whole letters in Shakespeare’s handwriting, copies of his plays, a sonnet or two, possibly even the skeleton of some play which he never filled in with flesh-and-blood characters, the hint of some divine tragedy—gracious Goodness!’ and Mr. Erin threw up his hands in speechless ecstasy, as though a glimpse of heaven had been vouchsafed to him of which it was not lawful for him to discourse further.
‘Of course it is possible, sir,’ returned William Henry gravely. ‘But for my part I dare not trust myself to think of what may be lying in yonder lumber rooms. Just now, indeed, I am giving my attention solely to my patron’s library, arranging the bookshelves and making out the catalogue. After his generous promise I purposely forego the pleasure of investigation lest I should be considered grasping.’
‘Fire!’ interrupted the old man suddenly with tremulous anxiety. ‘Think of fire! You know what happened at Clopton House; and though of course your patron would never wilfully destroy a scrap of paper with any antiquity about it, yet who can guard against accident—carelessness? One spark from a candle and the world may be robbed of we know not what. Oh, my dear lad, for the world’s sake, if not for mine, I pray you lose no time. Never mind your work; I’ll settle all that with Bingley. Stick to the lumber-room—I mean the precious manuscripts.
‘Dull not device by coldness and delay.’
The eagerness of the old man was in its intensity quite touching. No lover entreating his mistress for the momentous monosyllable could have been more earnest, or even more passionate. William Henry himself, who, throughout the late stirring incidents, which promised to affect his future so nearly, had kept himself studiously calm and quiet, was deeply moved.
‘I will do my best, sir,’ he replied in agitated tones; ‘nothing pleases me better than to give you pleasure.’
‘That is well said,’ returned the old man graciously. Margaret looked on with approving eyes. Supposing even what the young man had so rashly set his heart on should bear no fruit—if his dream should not be realised—it was surely well that such friendly relations should be established between him and the man who, if not his own flesh and blood, was his natural protector. It was very satisfactory also to see that Willie was responding to Mr. Erin’s overtures of good-will.
As to these last there could be no doubt as to her uncle’s change of front towards her cousin (to whom indeed he had hitherto shown no front at all, but had turned his back upon him); and that very evening there was another proof of it. As the three were sitting down to supper, William Henry noticed that the table was laid for four. Under ordinary circumstances he would have taken it for granted that Dennis was coming, but he knew that the architect was out of town on business. He was not yet on such intimate terms with the master of the house as to inquire who was the expected guest, and supposed him to be one of the Shakespearean literati who were now dropping in at all times.
Presently there was a knock at the door, whereat Margaret looked at her uncle with a significant smile, and her uncle looked at William Henry.