He was gone in a flash, and the door closed behind him. Mr. Erin looked at the tragedian in amazement. ‘Some likeness to his late wife, I fancy,’ observed that gentleman in grave explanation. ‘Her death was a matter of much regret to him.’ He seemed to be about to hold out his hand, but something restrained him; his eye had lit by chance on the certificate. ‘Good morning, Mr. Erin,’ he said with a stiff bow. ‘Good morning, Mr. Kemble.’ CHAPTER XXVI. TWO ACTRESSES. THE arrangements made between Mr. Samuel Erin, on behalf of his son William Henry, ‘an infant,’ with Mr. Albany Wallis, for the production of the play were eminently satisfactory. Mr. Erin was to receive three hundred pounds on the morning after the first night of representation, and half profits for the next sixty nights. Shakespeare himself had probably never made so good a bargain. The news of the acceptance of the ‘Vortigern’ by the management of Drury Lane Theatre immensely increased the public excitement concerning it. In those days ‘Old Drury’ (though indeed it was then far from old) was the national theatre; and the fact of a play being played upon its boards (independently of Sheridan having chosen it) gave it a certain imprimatur. It was not unreasonable, therefore, in William Henry that he already saw himself half way to fortune, while his success in love might be said to be assured; there are but few of us in truth who, at his age, are in a position so enviable. For, as when we grow old, prosperity, if it does come, comes but too often too late for its enjoyment, so the sunshine of youth is marred by the uncertainty of its duration, and by the clouds that overhang its future. Of the reception of the ‘Vortigern’ the young fellow had but little doubt; he believed it would run a long and successful course, as most people do believe in the case of the hare of their own finding. And yet the manifestation of his joy was by no means extravagant. The gravity and coolness of his demeanour, which had characterised him throughout the discoveries, did not now desert him. At times, indeed, even when Margaret’s arms were about his neck, he looked anxious and distrait; but when she rallied him about it he had always an explanation, natural enough and not unwelcome to her. ‘I feel,’ he said, ‘as you once told me you felt in looking at that fair scene near Stratford, that it seemed almost too beautiful to be real, and that you had a vague fear that it would all melt. When I look on you, dear, I feel the same: such happiness is far too high for me; I have not deserved it, and I fear lest it should never be mine.’ ‘But you _have_ deserved it, Willie,’ she would lovingly reply. ‘Not even my uncle questions that. He spoke of you in the highest terms, he told me, to the Regent himself.’