This allusion to the ‘Lear’ was somehow—it would have been difficult to say why—unwelcome to her. Love no doubt depends upon very small and comparatively mundane matters, but still that her hopes of marriage with her lover should hang upon the general belief in the genuineness of an old manuscript seemed a little humiliating. She would have far preferred, had it been possible, that William Henry should have won his way to a modest competence by his own pen. Perhaps he had hopes of this, and some surprise in store for her; or why should he have used that phrase ‘in a few weeks’? It was true that he had substituted for it a more vague expression, but she could not help thinking that he had some definite plan in his mind to precipitate events. What _could_ it be? CHAPTER XXII. 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 500_l._, 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?’