‘From the very first. You remember giving me the document with the seals attached, that had the quintin upon them? It accidentally fell from my hands, when a portion of the back of one of the seals broke off, and disclosed the inside, which was made of new wax! The—the forger—though he had contrived to cut the old seal without breaking, found it had lost its moisture, so that the slip of parchment which he had introduced into it could only be held by new wax. The next day I perceived that the two parts had been bound together by black silk, which, if anyone had given himself the trouble to untwist, would have made him as wise as I.’
‘And yet you held your peace, Dennis,’ groaned the old man reproachfully.
‘In the first place you would have disbelieved had the proofs of imposture been twice as strong; and secondly—well, there were other reasons into which it is not necessary now to enter. You are quite aware that I never lent my countenance to the deception, and believe me, Mr. Erin, if I could have saved you from your present humiliation—with honour—I would have done so. It was not possible. I am come here to-day to make what amends are in my power for the wrong my silence may have done you. William Henry’s affidavit will acquit you of all blame in this matter in the eyes of unprejudiced persons, but you have your enemies, and many persons who were your friends,’ he pointed to the certificate, ‘will now join their ranks. For some time, at least, residence in London must needs be painful to you. I had taken a cottage near Bath, intending for the present to dwell there; but circumstances’ (here the colour came into the young man’s cheeks) ‘have altered my intention. I shall now reside in town, and my little country home is at your service; there, out of the reach of malicious tongues, you may reside in peace and quiet as long as you think proper.’
For the first time throughout the interview something like satisfaction came into the old man’s face. The notion of escaping from the flouts and jeers of his acquaintances, and from their equally galling silence, was very welcome to him.
‘I thank you,’ he said, ‘with all my heart, Dennis.’
‘There is only one condition, sir,’ hesitated the other. ‘I think the proposition would be more acceptable to—to Miss Margaret—if she did not know that she was accepting any hospitality of mine. You will be so good as to conceal from her that fact.’
‘Yes, yes,’ assented the old man. He did not like to confess that Margaret was elsewhere; that she had been driven from his roof by his own insensate anger. His companion’s offer had touched him and turned the current of his thoughts from their accustomed groove—himself and his own affairs—into other channels. He recognised the patience and forbearance of this young fellow, and the temptation to unmask a rival which he had resisted and left to other hands to do. He was curious to know the full extent to which this self-sacrifice would have extended.
‘But suppose matters had gone still further, Dennis? If the play had been successful, and its genuineness acknowledged, and Margaret——?’
‘It was not possible,’ broke in the other, with a flush. ‘No one could have read the “Vortigern”—I mean could have seen it acted,’ he added, hurriedly, ‘and believed it to be a play of William Shakespeare’s. I felt confident of that.’
‘Still, some of us were deceived,’ insisted the antiquary, with a melancholy smile, ‘and why not more? Suppose the play had succeeded, the contingency on which, as you know, my niece’s marriage with this scoundrel depended, what would you have done then?’