The Portrait of Mr. W. H.

Chapter 1

I had been dining with Erskine in his pretty little house in

Birdcage Walk, and we were sitting in the library over our coffee

and cigarettes, when the question of literary forgeries happened to

turn up in conversation. I cannot at present remember how it was

that we struck upon this somewhat curious topic, as it was at that

time, but I know that we had a long discussion about Macpherson,

Ireland, and Chatterton, and that with regard to the last I insisted

that his so-called forgeries were merely the result of an artistic

desire for perfect representation; that we had no right to quarrel

with an artist for the conditions under which he chooses to present

his work; and that all Art being to a certain degree a mode of

acting, an attempt to realise one's own personality on some

imaginative plane out of reach of the trammelling accidents and

limitations of real life, to censure an artist for a forgery was to

confuse an ethical with an aesthetical problem.

Erskine, who was a good deal older than I was, and had been

listening to me with the amused deference of a man of forty,

suddenly put his hand upon my shoulder and said to me, 'What would

you say about a young man who had a strange theory about a certain

work of art, believed in his theory, and committed a forgery in

order to prove it?'

'Ah! that is quite a different matter,' I answered.

Erskine remained silent for a few moments, looking at the thin grey

threads of smoke that were rising from his cigarette. 'Yes,' he

said, after a pause, 'quite different.'

There was something in the tone of his voice, a slight touch of

bitterness perhaps, that excited my curiosity. 'Did you ever know

anybody who did that?' I cried.

'Yes,' he answered, throwing his cigarette into the fire,--'a great

friend of mine, Cyril Graham. He was very fascinating, and very

foolish, and very heartless. However, he left me the only legacy I

ever received in my life.'

'What was that?' I exclaimed. Erskine rose from his seat, and going

over to a tall inlaid cabinet that stood between the two windows,

unlocked it, and came back to where I was sitting, holding in his

hand a small panel picture set in an old and somewhat tarnished

Elizabethan frame.

It was a full-length portrait of a young man in late sixteenth-

century costume, standing by a table, with his right hand resting on

an open book. He seemed about seventeen years of age, and was of

quite extraordinary personal beauty, though evidently somewhat

effeminate. Indeed, had it not been for the dress and the closely

cropped hair, one would have said that the face with its dreamy

wistful eyes, and its delicate scarlet lips, was the face of a girl.

In manner, and especially in the treatment of the hands, the picture

reminded one of Francois Clouet's later work. The black velvet

doublet with its fantastically gilded points, and the peacock-blue

background against which it showed up so pleasantly, and from which

it gained such luminous value of colour, were quite in Clouet's

style; and the two masks of Tragedy and Comedy that hung somewhat

formally from the marble pedestal had that hard severity of touch--

so different from the facile grace of the Italians--which even at

the Court of France the great Flemish master never completely lost,

and which in itself has always been a characteristic of the northern

temper.

'It is a charming thing,' I cried, 'but who is this wonderful young

man, whose beauty Art has so happily preserved for us?'

'This is the portrait of Mr. W. H.,' said Erskine, with a sad smile.

It might have been a chance effect of light, but it seemed to me

that his eyes were quite bright with tears.

'Mr. W. H.!' I exclaimed; 'who was Mr. W. H.?'

'Don't you remember?' he answered; 'look at the book on which his

hand is resting.'

'I see there is some writing there, but I cannot make it out,' I

replied.

'Take this magnifying-glass and try,' said Erskine, with the same

sad smile still playing about his mouth.

I took the glass, and moving the lamp a little nearer, I began to

spell out the crabbed sixteenth-century handwriting. 'To the onlie

begetter of these insuing sonnets.' . . . 'Good heavens!' I cried,

'is this Shakespeare's Mr. W. H.?'

'Cyril Graham used to say so,' muttered Erskine.

'But it is not a bit like Lord Pembroke,' I answered. 'I know the

Penshurst portraits very well. I was staying near there a few weeks

ago.'

'Do you really believe then that the sonnets are addressed to Lord

Pembroke?' he asked.

'I am sure of it,' I answered. 'Pembroke, Shakespeare, and Mrs.

Mary Fitton are the three personages of the Sonnets; there is no

doubt at all about it.'

'Well, I agree with you,' said Erskine, 'but I did not always think

so. I used to believe--well, I suppose I used to believe in Cyril

Graham and his theory.'

'And what was that?' I asked, looking at the wonderful portrait,

which had already begun to have a strange fascination for me.

'It is a long story,' said Erskine, taking the picture away from me-

-rather abruptly I thought at the time--'a very long story; but if

you care to hear it, I will tell it to you.'

'I love theories about the Sonnets,' I cried; 'but I don't think I

am likely to be converted to any new idea. The matter has ceased to

be a mystery to any one. Indeed, I wonder that it ever was a

mystery.'

'As I don't believe in the theory, I am not likely to convert you to

it,' said Erskine, laughing; 'but it may interest you.'

'Tell it to me, of course,' I answered. 'If it is half as

delightful as the picture, I shall be more than satisfied.'

'Well,' said Erskine, lighting a cigarette, 'I must begin by telling

you about Cyril Graham himself. He and I were at the same house at

Eton. I was a year or two older than he was, but we were immense

friends, and did all our work and all our play together. There was,

of course, a good deal more play than work, but I cannot say that I

am sorry for that. It is always an advantage not to have received a

sound commercial education, and what I learned in the playing fields

at Eton has been quite as useful to me as anything I was taught at

Cambridge. I should tell you that Cyril's father and mother were

both dead. They had been drowned in a horrible yachting accident

off the Isle of Wight. His father had been in the diplomatic

service, and had married a daughter, the only daughter, in fact, of

old Lord Crediton, who became Cyril's guardian after the death of

his parents. I don't think that Lord Crediton cared very much for

Cyril. He had never really forgiven his daughter for marrying a man

who had not a title. He was an extraordinary old aristocrat, who

swore like a costermonger, and had the manners of a farmer. I

remember seeing him once on Speech-day. He growled at me, gave me a

sovereign, and told me not to grow up "a damned Radical" like my

father. Cyril had very little affection for him, and was only too

glad to spend most of his holidays with us in Scotland. They never

really got on together at all. Cyril thought him a bear, and he

thought Cyril effeminate. He was effeminate, I suppose, in some

things, though he was a very good rider and a capital fencer. In

fact he got the foils before he left Eton. But he was very languid

in his manner, and not a little vain of his good looks, and had a

strong objection to football. The two things that really gave him

pleasure were poetry and acting. At Eton he was always dressing up

and reciting Shakespeare, and when we went up to Trinity he became a

member of the A.D.C. his first term. I remember I was always very

jealous of his acting. I was absurdly devoted to him; I suppose

because we were so different in some things. I was a rather

awkward, weakly lad, with huge feet, and horribly freckled.

Freckles run in Scotch families just as gout does in English

families. Cyril used to say that of the two he preferred the gout;

but he always set an absurdly high value on personal appearance, and

once read a paper before our debating society to prove that it was

better to be good-looking than to be good. He certainly was

wonderfully handsome. People who did not like him, Philistines and

college tutors, and young men reading for the Church, used to say

that he was merely pretty; but there was a great deal more in his

face than mere prettiness. I think he was the most splendid

creature I ever saw, and nothing could exceed the grace of his

movements, the charm of his manner. He fascinated everybody who was

worth fascinating, and a great many people who were not. He was

often wilful and petulant, and I used to think him dreadfully

insincere. It was due, I think, chiefly to his inordinate desire to

please. Poor Cyril! I told him once that he was contented with

very cheap triumphs, but he only laughed. He was horribly spoiled.

All charming people, I fancy, are spoiled. It is the secret of

their attraction.

'However, I must tell you about Cyril's acting. You know that no

actresses are allowed to play at the A.D.C. At least they were not

in my time. I don't know how it is now. Well, of course, Cyril was

always cast for the girls' parts, and when As You Like It was

produced he played Rosalind. It was a marvellous performance. In

fact, Cyril Graham was the only perfect Rosalind I have ever seen.

It would be impossible to describe to you the beauty, the delicacy,

the refinement of the whole thing. It made an immense sensation,

and the horrid little theatre, as it was then, was crowded every

night. Even when I read the play now I can't help thinking of

Cyril. It might have been written for him. The next term he took

his degree, and came to London to read for the diplomatic. But he

never did any work. He spent his days in reading Shakespeare's

Sonnets, and his evenings at the theatre. He was, of course, wild

to go on the stage. It was all that I and Lord Crediton could do to

prevent him. Perhaps if he had gone on the stage he would be alive

now. It is always a silly thing to give advice, but to give good

advice is absolutely fatal. I hope you will never fall into that

error. If you do, you will be sorry for it.

'Well, to come to the real point of the story, one day I got a

letter from Cyril asking me to come round to his rooms that evening.

He had charming chambers in Piccadilly overlooking the Green Park,

and as I used to go to see him every day, I was rather surprised at

his taking the trouble to write. Of course I went, and when I

arrived I found him in a state of great excitement. He told me that

he had at last discovered the true secret of Shakespeare's Sonnets;

that all the scholars and critics had been entirely on the wrong

tack; and that he was the first who, working purely by internal

evidence, had found out who Mr. W. H. really was. He was perfectly

wild with delight, and for a long time would not tell me his theory.

Finally, he produced a bundle of notes, took his copy of the Sonnets

off the mantelpiece, and sat down and gave me a long lecture on the

whole subject.

'He began by pointing out that the young man to whom Shakespeare

addressed these strangely passionate poems must have been somebody

who was a really vital factor in the development of his dramatic

art, and that this could not be said either of Lord Pembroke or Lord

Southampton. Indeed, whoever he was, he could not have been anybody

of high birth, as was shown very clearly by the 25th Sonnet, in

which Shakespeare contrasting himself with those who are "great

princes' favourites," says quite frankly -

Let those who are in favour with their stars

Of public honour and proud titles boast,

Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,

Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most.

And ends the sonnet by congratulating himself on the mean state of

him he so adored.

Then happy I, that love and am beloved

Where I may not remove nor be removed.

This sonnet Cyril declared would be quite unintelligible if we

fancied that it was addressed to either the Earl of Pembroke or the

Earl of Southampton, both of whom were men of the highest position

in England and fully entitled to be called "great princes"; and he

in corroboration of his view read me Sonnets CXXIV. and CXXV., in

which Shakespeare tells us that his love is not "the child of

state," that it "suffers not in smiling pomp," but is "builded far

from accident." I listened with a good deal of interest, for I

don't think the point had ever been made before; but what followed

was still more curious, and seemed to me at the time to dispose

entirely of Pembroke's claim. We know from Meres that the Sonnets

had been written before 1598, and Sonnet CIV. informs us that

Shakespeare's friendship for Mr. W. H. had been already in existence

for three years. Now Lord Pembroke, who was born in 1580, did not

come to London till he was eighteen years of age, that is to say

till 1598, and Shakespeare's acquaintance with Mr. W. H. must have

begun in 1594, or at the latest in 1595. Shakespeare, accordingly,

could not have known Lord Pembroke till after the Sonnets had been

written.

'Cyril pointed out also that Pembroke's father did not die till

1601; whereas it was evident from the line,

You had a father; let your son say so,

that the father of Mr. W. H. was dead in 1598. Besides, it was

absurd to imagine that any publisher of the time, and the preface is

from the publisher's hand, would have ventured to address William

Herbert, Earl of Pembroke, as Mr. W. H.; the case of Lord Buckhurst

being spoken of as Mr. Sackville being not really a parallel

instance, as Lord Buckhurst was not a peer, but merely the younger

son of a peer, with a courtesy title, and the passage in England's

Parnassus, where he is so spoken of, is not a formal and stately

dedication, but simply a casual allusion. So far for Lord Pembroke,

whose supposed claims Cyril easily demolished while I sat by in

wonder. With Lord Southampton Cyril had even less difficulty.

Southampton became at a very early age the lover of Elizabeth

Vernon, so he needed no entreaties to marry; he was not beautiful;

he did not resemble his mother, as Mr. W. H. did -

Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee

Calls back the lovely April of her prime;

and, above all, his Christian name was Henry, whereas the punning

sonnets (CXXXV. and CXLIII.) show that the Christian name of

Shakespeare's friend was the same as his own--Will.

'As for the other suggestions of unfortunate commentators, that Mr.

W. H. is a misprint for Mr. W. S., meaning Mr. William Shakespeare;

that "Mr. W. H. all" should be read "Mr. W. Hall"; that Mr. W. H. is

Mr. William Hathaway; and that a full stop should be placed after

"wisheth," making Mr. W. H. the writer and not the subject of the

dedication,--Cyril got rid of them in a very short time; and it is

not worth while to mention his reasons, though I remember he sent me

off into a fit of laughter by reading to me, I am glad to say not in

the original, some extracts from a German commentator called

Barnstorff, who insisted that Mr. W. H. was no less a person than

"Mr. William Himself." Nor would he allow for a moment that the

Sonnets are mere satires on the work of Drayton and John Davies of

Hereford. To him, as indeed to me, they were poems of serious and

tragic import, wrung out of the bitterness of Shakespeare's heart,

and made sweet by the honey of his lips. Still less would he admit

that they were merely a philosophical allegory, and that in them

Shakespeare is addressing his Ideal Self, or Ideal Manhood, or the

Spirit of Beauty, or the Reason, or the Divine Logos, or the

Catholic Church. He felt, as indeed I think we all must feel, that

the Sonnets are addressed to an individual,--to a particular young

man whose personality for some reason seems to have filled the soul

of Shakespeare with terrible joy and no less terrible despair.

'Having in this manner cleared the way as it were, Cyril asked me to

dismiss from my mind any preconceived ideas I might have formed on

the subject, and to give a fair and unbiassed hearing to his own

theory. The problem he pointed out was this: Who was that young

man of Shakespeare's day who, without being of noble birth or even

of noble nature, was addressed by him in terms of such passionate

adoration that we can but wonder at the strange worship, and are

almost afraid to turn the key that unlocks the mystery of the poet's

heart? Who was he whose physical beauty was such that it became the

very corner-stone of Shakespeare's art; the very source of

Shakespeare's inspiration; the very incarnation of Shakespeare's

dreams? To look upon him as simply the object of certain love-poems

is to miss the whole meaning of the poems: for the art of which

Shakespeare talks in the Sonnets is not the art of the Sonnets

themselves, which indeed were to him but slight and secret things--

it is the art of the dramatist to which he is always alluding; and

he to whom Shakespeare said -

Thou art all my art, and dost advance

As high as learning my rude ignorance,

he to whom he promised immortality,

Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men, -

was surely none other than the boy-actor for whom he created Viola

and Imogen, Juliet and Rosalind, Portia and Desdemona, and Cleopatra

herself. This was Cyril Graham's theory, evolved as you see purely

from the Sonnets themselves, and depending for its acceptance not so

much on demonstrable proof or formal evidence, but on a kind of

spiritual and artistic sense, by which alone he claimed could the

true meaning of the poems be discerned. I remember his reading to

me that fine sonnet -

How can my Muse want subject to invent,

While thou dost breathe, that pour'st into my verse

Thine own sweet argument, too excellent

For every vulgar paper to rehearse?

O, give thyself the thanks, if aught in me

Worthy perusal stand against thy sight;

For who's so dumb that cannot write to thee,

When thou thyself dost give invention light?

Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth

Than those old nine which rhymers invocate;

And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth

Eternal numbers to outlive long date -

and pointing out how completely it corroborated his theory; and

indeed he went through all the Sonnets carefully, and showed, or

fancied that he showed, that, according to his new explanation of

their meaning, things that had seemed obscure, or evil, or

exaggerated, became clear and rational, and of high artistic import,

illustrating Shakespeare's conception of the true relations between

the art of the actor and the art of the dramatist.

'It is of course evident that there must have been in Shakespeare's

company some wonderful boy-actor of great beauty, to whom he

intrusted the presentation of his noble heroines; for Shakespeare

was a practical theatrical manager as well as an imaginative poet,

and Cyril Graham had actually discovered the boy-actor's name. He

was Will, or, as he preferred to call him, Willie Hughes. The

Christian name he found of course in the punning sonnets, CXXXV. and

CXLIII.; the surname was, according to him, hidden in the seventh

line of the 20th Sonnet, where Mr. W. H. is described as -

A man in hew, all HEWS in his controwling.

'In the original edition of the Sonnets "Hews" is printed with a

capital letter and in italics, and this, he claimed, showed clearly

that a play on words was intended, his view receiving a good deal of

corroboration from those sonnets in which curious puns are made on

the words "use" and "usury." Of course I was converted at once, and

Willie Hughes became to me as real a person as Shakespeare. The

only objection I made to the theory was that the name of Willie

Hughes does not occur in the list of the actors of Shakespeare's

company as it is printed in the first folio. Cyril, however,

pointed out that the absence of Willie Hughes's name from this list

really corroborated the theory, as it was evident from Sonnet

LXXXVI. that Willie Hughes had abandoned Shakespeare's company to

play at a rival theatre, probably in some of Chapman's plays. It is

in reference to this that in the great sonnet on Chapman,

Shakespeare said to Willie Hughes -

But when your countenance fill'd up his line,

Then lack'd I matter; that enfeebled mine -

the expression "when your countenance filled up his line" referring

obviously to the beauty of the young actor giving life and reality

and added charm to Chapman's verse, the same idea being also put

forward in the 79th Sonnet -

Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid,

My verse alone had all thy gentle grace;

But now my gracious numbers are decay'd,

And my sick Muse doth give another place;

and in the immediately preceding sonnet, where Shakespeare says -

Every alien pen has got my USE

And under thee their poesy disperse,

the play upon words (use=Hughes) being of course obvious, and the

phrase "under thee their poesy disperse," meaning "by your

assistance as an actor bring their plays before the people."

'It was a wonderful evening, and we sat up almost till dawn reading

and re-reading the Sonnets. After some time, however, I began to

see that before the theory could be placed before the world in a

really perfected form, it was necessary to get some independent

evidence about the existence of this young actor, Willie Hughes. If

this could be once established, there could be no possible doubt

about his identity with Mr. W. H.; but otherwise the theory would

fall to the ground. I put this forward very strongly to Cyril, who

was a good deal annoyed at what he called my Philistine tone of

mind, and indeed was rather bitter upon the subject. However, I

made him promise that in his own interest he would not publish his

discovery till he had put the whole matter beyond the reach of

doubt; and for weeks and weeks we searched the registers of City

churches, the Alleyn MSS. at Dulwich, the Record Office, the papers

of the Lord Chamberlain--everything, in fact, that we thought might

contain some allusion to Willie Hughes. We discovered nothing, of

course, and every day the existence of Willie Hughes seemed to me to

become more problematical. Cyril was in a dreadful state, and used

to go over the whole question day after day, entreating me to

believe; but I saw the one flaw in the theory, and I refused to be

convinced till the actual existence of Willie Hughes, a boy-actor of

Elizabethan days, had been placed beyond the reach of doubt or

cavil.

'One day Cyril left town to stay with his grandfather, I thought at

the time, but I afterwards heard from Lord Crediton that this was

not the case; and about a fortnight afterwards I received a telegram

from him, handed in at Warwick, asking me to be sure to come and

dine with him that evening at eight o'clock. When I arrived, he

said to me, "The only apostle who did not deserve proof was St.

Thomas, and St. Thomas was the only apostle who got it." I asked

him what he meant. He answered that he had not merely been able to

establish the existence in the sixteenth century of a boy-actor of

the name of Willie Hughes, but to prove by the most conclusive

evidence that he was the Mr. W. H. of the Sonnets. He would not

tell me anything more at the time; but after dinner he solemnly

produced the picture I showed you, and told me that he had

discovered it by the merest chance nailed to the side of an old

chest that he had bought at a farmhouse in Warwickshire. The chest

itself, which was a very fine example of Elizabethan work, he had,

of course, brought with him, and in the centre of the front panel

the initials W. H. were undoubtedly carved. It was this monogram

that had attracted his attention, and he told me that it was not

till he had had the chest in his possession for several days that he

had thought of making any careful examination of the inside. One

morning, however, he saw that one of the sides of the chest was much

thicker than the other, and looking more closely, he discovered that

a framed panel picture was clamped against it. On taking it out, he

found it was the picture that is now lying on the sofa. It was very

dirty, and covered with mould; but he managed to clean it, and, to

his great joy, saw that he had fallen by mere chance on the one

thing for which he had been looking. Here was an authentic portrait

of Mr. W. H., with his hand resting on the dedicatory page of the

Sonnets, and on the frame itself could be faintly seen the name of

the young man written in black uncial letters on a faded gold

ground, "Master Will. Hews."

'Well, what was I to say? It never occurred to me for a moment that

Cyril Graham was playing a trick on me, or that he was trying to

prove his theory by means of a forgery.'

'But is it a forgery?' I asked.

'Of course it is,' said Erskine. 'It is a very good forgery; but it

is a forgery none the less. I thought at the time that Cyril was

rather calm about the whole matter; but I remember he more than once

told me that he himself required no proof of the kind, and that he

thought the theory complete without it. I laughed at him, and told

him that without it the theory would fall to the ground, and I

warmly congratulated him on the marvellous discovery. We then

arranged that the picture should be etched or facsimiled, and placed

as the frontispiece to Cyril's edition of the Sonnets; and for three

months we did nothing but go over each poem line by line, till we

had settled every difficulty of text or meaning. One unlucky day I

was in a print-shop in Holborn, when I saw upon the counter some

extremely beautiful drawings in silver-point. I was so attracted by

them that I bought them; and the proprietor of the place, a man

called Rawlings, told me that they were done by a young painter of

the name of Edward Merton, who was very clever, but as poor as a

church mouse. I went to see Merton some days afterwards, having got

his address from the printseller, and found a pale, interesting

young man, with a rather common-looking wife--his model, as I

subsequently learned. I told him how much I admired his drawings,

at which he seemed very pleased, and I asked him if he would show me

some of his other work. As we were looking over a portfolio, full

of really very lovely things,--for Merton had a most delicate and

delightful touch,--I suddenly caught sight of a drawing of the

picture of Mr. W. H. There was no doubt whatever about it. It was

almost a facsimile--the only difference being that the two masks of

Tragedy and Comedy were not suspended from the marble table as they

are in the picture, but were lying on the floor at the young man's

feet. "Where on earth did you get that?" I said. He grew rather

confused, and said--"Oh, that is nothing. I did not know it was in

this portfolio. It is not a thing of any value." "It is what you

did for Mr. Cyril Graham," exclaimed his wife; "and if this

gentleman wishes to buy it, let him have it." "For Mr. Cyril

Graham?" I repeated. "Did you paint the picture of Mr. W. H.?" "I

don't understand what you mean," he answered, growing very red.

Well, the whole thing was quite dreadful. The wife let it all out.

I gave her five pounds when I was going away. I can't bear to think

of it now; but of course I was furious. I went off at once to

Cyril's chambers, waited there for three hours before he came in,

with that horrid lie staring me in the face, and told him I had

discovered his forgery. He grew very pale and said--"I did it

purely for your sake. You would not be convinced in any other way.

It does not affect the truth of the theory." "The truth of the

theory!" I exclaimed; "the less we talk about that the better. You

never even believed in it yourself. If you had, you would not have

committed a forgery to prove it." High words passed between us; we

had a fearful quarrel. I dare say I was unjust. The next morning

he was dead.'

'Dead!' I cried,

'Yes; he shot himself with a revolver. Some of the blood splashed

upon the frame of the picture, just where the name had been painted.

By the time I arrived--his servant had sent for me at once--the

police were already there. He had left a letter for me, evidently

written in the greatest agitation and distress of mind.'

'What was in it?' I asked.

'Oh, that he believed absolutely in Willie Hughes; that the forgery

of the picture had been done simply as a concession to me, and did

not in the slightest degree invalidate the truth of the theory; and,

that in order to show me how firm and flawless his faith in the

whole thing was, he was going to offer his life as a sacrifice to

the secret of the Sonnets. It was a foolish, mad letter. I

remember he ended by saying that he intrusted to me the Willie

Hughes theory, and that it was for me to present it to the world,

and to unlock the secret of Shakespeare's heart.'

'It is a most tragic story,' I cried; 'but why have you not carried

out his wishes?'

Erskine shrugged his shoulders. 'Because it is a perfectly unsound

theory from beginning to end,' he answered.

'My dear Erskine,' I said, getting up from my seat, 'you are

entirely wrong about the whole matter. It is the only perfect key

to Shakespeare's Sonnets that has ever been made. It is complete in

every detail. I believe in Willie Hughes.'

'Don't say that,' said Erskine gravely; 'I believe there is

something fatal about the idea, and intellectually there is nothing

to be said for it. I have gone into the whole matter, and I assure

you the theory is entirely fallacious. It is plausible up to a

certain point. Then it stops. For heaven's sake, my dear boy,

don't take up the subject of Willie Hughes. You will break your

heart over it.'

'Erskine,' I answered, 'it is your duty to give this theory to the

world. If you will not do it, I will. By keeping it back you wrong

the memory of Cyril Graham, the youngest and the most splendid of

all the martyrs of literature. I entreat you to do him justice. He

died for this thing,--don't let his death be in vain.'

Erskine looked at me in amazement. 'You are carried away by the

sentiment of the whole story,' he said. 'You forget that a thing is

not necessarily true because a man dies for it. I was devoted to

Cyril Graham. His death was a horrible blow to me. I did not

recover it for years. I don't think I have ever recovered it. But

Willie Hughes? There is nothing in the idea of Willie Hughes. No

such person ever existed. As for bringing the whole thing before

the world--the world thinks that Cyril Graham shot himself by

accident. The only proof of his suicide was contained in the letter

to me, and of this letter the public never heard anything. To the

present day Lord Crediton thinks that the whole thing was

accidental.'

'Cyril Graham sacrificed his life to a great Idea,' I answered; 'and

if you will not tell of his martyrdom, tell at least of his faith.'

'His faith,' said Erskine, 'was fixed in a thing that was false, in

a thing that was unsound, in a thing that no Shakespearean scholar

would accept for a moment. The theory would be laughed at. Don't

make a fool of yourself, and don't follow a trail that leads

nowhere. You start by assuming the existence of the very person

whose existence is the thing to be proved. Besides, everybody knows

that the Sonnets were addressed to Lord Pembroke. The matter is

settled once for all.'

'The matter is not settled!' I exclaimed. 'I will take up the

theory where Cyril Graham left it, and I will prove to the world

that he was right.'

'Silly boy!' said Erskine. 'Go home: it is after two, and don't

think about Willie Hughes any more. I am sorry I told you anything

about it, and very sorry indeed that I should have converted you to

a thing in which I don't believe.'

'You have given me the key to the greatest mystery of modern

literature,' I answered; 'and I shall not rest till I have made you

recognise, till I have made everybody recognise, that Cyril Graham

was the most subtle Shakespearean critic of our day.'

As I walked home through St. James's Park the dawn was just breaking

over London. The white swans were lying asleep on the polished

lake, and the gaunt Palace looked purple against the pale-green sky.

I thought of Cyril Graham, and my eyes filled with tears.