Had she dared to say so, she might have hinted very prettily that with him the sunshine would return to Norfolk Street; but she was no longer fancy free. Even as it was, sisterly as she had endeavoured to make the tone of her letter, she feared she might have given him some involuntary encouragement. It was terrible to her to feel so confident as she did that on the receipt of it Frank Dennis would start for London.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE PROFESSION OF FAITH.
Two days after Margaret’s letter was despatched there was great news from the Temple. Not even on the first day, when William Henry had won Mr. Erin’s heart by Shakespeare’s note of hand, had the young man’s face been so full of promise as when he came in that evening. On the former occasion, anxiety and doubt had mingled with its expectancy, but now it was flushed with triumph. The difference of manner with which he produced his new discovery was also noticeable. It was not only that he felt as sure of the assent of his audience (who were, indeed, but his uncle and Margaret) as of his own, but he displayed a certain self-consciousness of his own position. He was no longer an unknown lad, seeking for the favour of one who should have been his natural protector, for he had already won it. It was true he was still dependent upon him for the means of livelihood, and for something that he prized as highly as existence itself; but Mr. Erin had in some sort, on the other hand, become dependent on him. His reputation as a Shakespearean collector and critic, which was very dear to him, had been immensely increased by his son’s discoveries. The newspapers and magazines were full of his good fortune; and even those which disputed the genuineness of his newly acquired possessions made them the subject of continual comment, and added fuel to his notoriety. If such a metaphor can be used without offence in the case of a gentleman of years and learning, Mr. Samuel Erin gazed at William Henry with much the same air of expectation as a very sagacious old dog regards his young master, whom he suspects of having some toothsome morsel in his pocket; he has too much respect for his own dignity to ‘beg’ for it, by sitting up on his hind legs, or barking, but he moves his tail from side to side, and his mouth waters.
The young gentleman did not, at first, even produce his prize, but sat down at table with a cheerful nod, that seemed to say, ‘I have found it at last, and by the sacred bones that rest by Avon’s stream, it is worth the finding.’
‘Well, Willie,’ exclaimed Margaret, impatiently, ‘what is it?’
The young man gravely produced two half-sheets of paper.
At the sight of it, for he knew that it was not the new Bath Post, the antiquary’s eyes glistened.