came to the door to keep guard, so that no one should disturb them."
"Then I am the happiest man and the happiest father in Christendom!
Why, Margaret, if I had been asked which man in all the wide world I
should wish my daughter to marry, I should select the very man who has
won her heart! God bless them! Now, indeed, my mind is at rest, and I
care not what happens to me. My business with the world is over. All
is well with Lucy. We shall see the roses on her cheeks again, my
dear--we shall! Kiss me, Margaret, and wish me joy."
She kept him back with her hand, and in her eyes dwelt a look in which
pity and admiration were equally blended.
"It is my turn now," she said, "to ask for an explanation."
"An explanation of what, my dear? Is not everything as clear as the
noonday sun, as bright as this beautiful day? Ah, it is a good world,
a good world! Thank God for it, and for the happiness this day has
brought to me!"
"It would be ungenerous to pretend to misunderstand you," said
Margaret, in a gentle tone. "You think there are no difficulties in
the way of Lucy's union with Gerald."
"Think!" he exclaimed, in a reproachful tone. "Nay, am I not sure that
matters could not have turned out more happily? Difficulties, my dear
child! What difficulties? Here are we, two old men, who pledged our
faith to each other when we were young--who exchanged vows--who were
and are the most faithful of friends--who, if circumstances had not
parted us, would have walked hand in hand through life, cheering,
consoling, encouraging each other. There is no envy in our friendship,
and no selfish feeling mars it. How often in my wanderings have I
thought of him? How often have I lived the old days over again, and
recalled the memories of the happy times we spent together? Margaret,
I think that even love pales before the beauty of a faithful
friendship. There is something holy in it; it is a pure sentiment, fit
for the hearts of angels. You cannot conceive what comfort and
consolation the mere memory of the friendship between me and Richard
Weston has brought to me; it has brightened hours which otherwise
would have been very dark. And now, when we are old men, and, after so
long a parting, are so strangely reunited, our children fall in love
with each other! One might almost say it is the reward of
faithfulness."
So spoke this old man, whom the world's trials and disappointments had
been unable to sour. And Margaret felt humbled and abashed as she
listened to the noble outburst, and even as she listened she debated
within herself whether she should plunge the dagger of doubt into his
heart.
"We should change places," she said; "you are younger than I. I am
old, calculating, unbelieving; you are young and trustful. Ah, if men
and women were all like you, how much better and happier the world
would be! Where you see cause for joy, I see cause for sorrow. Where
you believe, I doubt. Your heart is like a bank of sweet moss where
fresh flowers are always growing; mine is a heart of flint. Dear
friend, I love you more every day that I know you."
"Pleasant words to hear, dear child, but you shall not do yourself an
injustice. I will not have you speak in such terms of yourself. You
must work yourself out of this sad humour, for my sake, for Lucy's
sake. Believe me there is sweetness in life for you yet,
notwithstanding your great sorrow. All is clear sailing before us now.
Lucy and Gerald will marry. You will go to the Silver Flagon, and take
your proper place as Mr. Rowe's daughter, and we shall all live
pleasantly together."
"How happy I should be if things turned out in that way!" exclaimed
Margaret, having now resolved upon her course of action. "But in the
meantime you will not take the helm out of my hands. I am still
captain, and I'll have no mutineering. So I give you this order. Not a
word of what we have said must pass your lips, nor must you speak upon
this subject to any person but me for at least a fortnight from this
day."
"But why, my dear, why?"
"I will not be questioned; I want to make sure; the stake is a serious
one, and we must not run the risk of losing by acting rashly. Least of
all must you whisper a word to old Mr. Weston."
"You mistrust him, Margaret; I can see that clearly; but you are
mistaken in him."
"I fervently hope I may be. At all events, I have made up my mind to
be obeyed in this matter. Let things work their way naturally."
"But if Gerald or his father speaks to me about Lucy?"
"That will alter the case entirely; then you will act according to
your judgment."
It required, however, a great deal of coaxing from Margaret before Mr.
Hart would agree to her stipulation. But in the end she had her way,
as most women have when they are resolved upon it.
Later in the day, Margaret said to Mr. Weston:
"You do not know, I suppose, that we met an old friend almost on the
first day of our arrival in Plymouth."
"No," he replied, "I have not heard of it."
"We did; and Mr. Hart has business with him every night for two or
three weeks, which will deprive us of his society from seven o'clock
every evening. That is a pity, isn't it?"
"Yes," said Mr. Weston, "but your presence will be some compensation."
"That is a very gallant speech. Upon my word, I think only old
gentlemen know how to pay a graceful compliment to a lady."
In this way she tickled Mr. Weston's vanity, and contrived to account
for Mr. Hart's absence during the night without disclosing the cause.
Margaret, indeed, was in her element, and every moment of her time was
busily occupied, now in wheedling Mr. Weston, now in screening the
proceedings of Lucy and Gerald from the old gentleman's observation.
"I am the watchdog," she said to herself. She waited for a fitting
opportunity to speak to Gerald privately about Lucy, and also
concerning another matter; the letter which poor Philip had given to
the charge of Mr. Hart, and which she had requested him to give her.
An hour with Gerald had made a wonderful change in Lucy; all her
sadness was gone, and the joy of her heart was reflected in her face.
She introduced Gerald to Margaret, and said:
"You must love her, Gerald. She is my dearest friend."
"Do you hear, sir!" cried Margaret merrily; "you are to love me."
"It will not be difficult to do that," he replied, "after what Lucy
has told me about you. But how wonderful all this is! I have not yet
recovered from my astonishment."
"Lucy," said Margaret, "will you spare Gerald for half an hour? I have
something very particular to say to him."
Lucy smiled an assent, and Margaret, taking Gerald's arm, bade him
lead her somewhere where they could flirt undisturbed. He led her to a
retired part of the gardens.
"No one will disturb us here," he said, wondering what this strange
young lady could have to say to him. If he had entertained any idea
that she was serious in asking him to flirt with her, he was soon
undeceived. They were no sooner alone than all her light manner
vanished, and a sad expression came into her face.
"I am going to confide a secret to you," she said; "I may, with
confidence, may I not? What I say to you now you will not speak of
without my permission?"
"Certainly not, if you wish it," he replied, wondering more and more.
She paused for a moment, to master the emotion she experienced at the
very thought of Philip, of whom she was about to speak.
"Don't think my questions strange," she said, "you will soon
understand them. You have been to college?"
"Yes."
"At Cambridge?"
"Yes."
"You had friends there?"
"Yes."
"Among those friends was there one who left suddenly----"
He caught her hand. "Of whom do you speak? I had a friend who went
from us suddenly--a friend whom I loved more than all others."
"Oh, my heart! Nay, do not mind me. Speak his name."
"Philip Rowe--good heavens! what have I said?"
He caught her sinking form, and, amidst her tears and grief at the
sound of that beloved name, she kept fast hold of Gerald's hand,
fearful that he might leave her and call for assistance.
"I shall be better presently. Ah, Philip, my darling! He was my
husband, Gerald, and often spoke of you with love and affection." She
could not proceed for her tears.
"_Was_ your husband!" he echoed.
"He is dead--my darling, your friend, is dead! Keep close to me; I
shall soon be well. And you loved him more than all the others! Bless
you for saying it. But who could help loving that noble heart? I will
tell you all by-and-by; these words between us are in sacred
confidence until I unseal your lips."
They were both too affected to speak for several minutes, and then
Margaret placed in Gerald's hand the letter which Philip had given
into Mr. Hart's charge. He opened it in her presence. Hungering to see
her Philip's writing, she looked over his shoulder. There was no
writing inside; Gerald drew out a packet of bank-notes, which he held
in his hand with a bewildered air. They looked at each other for an
explanation.
"Nay, it is you that must unriddle it," said Margaret.
He counted the notes; they amounted to a large sum, four hundred
pounds. Margaret saw, by a sudden flash in Gerald's eyes, that he
could explain the mystery. After much persuasion he told her briefly
that when he and Philip were at college together he had signed bills
for Philip for four hundred pounds, which he had to pay.
"My Philip repays you now," said Margaret, in a grateful tone. "And
yet when I spoke of him you used no word of reproach towards him;
others to whom he might have owed the money would not have been so
forbearing."
"He was my friend," said Gerald, "and I loved him. Poor dear Philip!"
She took his hand and kissed it; then she thought of Lucy.
"And now I want to speak to you about Lucy," she said. "If your father
knew that it was the daughter of his oldest friend you loved, would he
give his consent to your engagement?"
The words in which he answered her were a sufficient confirmation of
her fears.
"I can marry without my father's consent."
The voice of Mr. Weston himself, who had approached them unseen,
suddenly broke up their conference.
"Ah! you have made the acquaintance of this big boy of mine," said the
old gentleman to Margaret; "don't lose your heart to him; he is the
most desperate deceiver in the world. See how the rascal blushes!"
"I _was_ making love to him," said Margaret archly; "but as you tell
me it is of no use, I had better employ my time more profitably."
And she took the old gentleman's arm, and straightway commenced to
flirt with him in the most outrageous manner.
CHAPTER XI.
A PEEP INTO BLUEBEARD'S ROOM.
Thanks to Margaret's tact, everything went on smoothly for a little
while. No person but herself knew how hard she worked during this
time. She was for ever on the alert, and she managed so skilfully that
Mr. Weston did not even suspect that Gerald and Lucy were lovers.
These young persons would have betrayed themselves a dozen times a day
to Gerald's father had it not been for Margaret's vigilance: she took
the old gentleman in hand, as she termed it, and entertained him so
admirably that he found real pleasure in her society. She afterwards
declared that she had never played so difficult a part, and had never
played any part half so well. But Margaret, as we know, had a great
idea of her own capabilities.
With womanly cunning, she sounded Mr. Weston to the very bottom of his
nature, and she was compelled to admit to herself that there was not
the slightest probability of his ever, with his eyes open, giving his
consent to Gerald's union with a girl who had neither wealth nor
position. He had set his mind upon a certain worldly position for his
son, and he was not to be diverted from it by sentimental feelings.
Gerald was to marry money, was to enter Parliament, and to make a name
in society. The old gentleman respected nothing but position; he felt
a glow of pride when people touched their hats to him in the streets,
and without a suspicion that this mark of outward respect was paid to
his wealth and not to himself, he was convinced that it was worth
living for and worth working for. But notwithstanding that he was
emphatically a purse-proud man, and that when he sat upon the bench as
a magistrate his bosom swelled with false pride, he had one estimable
quality, which better men than he often do not possess. He was a man
of his word, and had never been known to depart from it. What he
pledged himself to, he performed. His promise was better than any
other man's bond. Now this would cut both ways, as Margaret knew, and
it was with dismay she thought that if the old gentleman once refused
in plain words to sanction an engagement between Gerald and Lucy, it
would take a greater power than she imagined she could ever possess to
induce him to revoke his decision. If, on the other hand, she could
manage, insidiously or by straightforward dealing, to induce him to
sanction such an engagement, she believed she could compel him to
stand by his word. But she saw no way to arrive at so desirable a
consummation.
Every day she confessed to herself that her task was becoming more
difficult. The fortnight during which she had extracted a promise from
Lucy's father to keep his lips sealed was fast drawing to a close, and
no one but herself knew that a storm was approaching which would bring
a deathless grief to those she loved. She knew that she could obtain
no assistance, even in the shape of advice, from any of the friends
around her. Mr. Hart was too trustful of his friend; he would listen
to nothing against him. Lucy was too simple! Gerald was too rash and
sanguine. These reflections were perplexing her as she stood before
the glass one morning, and when she came to the end of them she
frowned and stamped her foot.
"My dear," she said, nodding her head violently to herself in the
glass, "all these people are too guileless and innocent to be of the
slightest use to you. You are the only wicked one among them."
And then she thought she would go and consult her mother's old lover,
Mr. Lewis Nathan, the clothes-seller. But she was frightened to leave
the house with Mr. Weston in it, and no watchdog over him. Fortune
befriended her, however, for over the breakfast-table Mr. Weston
mentioned that business would take him away from them until the
evening. Margaret's eyes sparkled.
"We shall be quite dull without you," she said.
She had so ingratiated herself into the old gentleman's good graces
that he really believed her. Little did he suspect that he was nursing
a serpent in his bosom. Margaret saw him safely off, and then, telling
Lucy that she had business in town, put on her bonnet and shawl.
"What business, Maggy?" asked Lucy.
"I am going shopping," replied Margaret, with face of most unblushing
innocence.
"Oh! I'll come with you," cried Lucy eagerly.
(I take the opportunity of parenthetically stating my belief that
women like "shopping," even better than love-making.)
"I don't want you, my pet," said Margaret demurely; "I am going to
meet my beau, and two is company, you know."
Away she posted to Mr. Lewis Nathan, who welcomed her right gladly.
"I was afraid I was going to lose you, my dear," he said; "I thought
you had forgotten me."
"I never forget a friend," replied Margaret; "I am like my poor
mother, Mr. Nathan. Did she ever forget you?"
She chattered about odd things for a few minutes before she came to
the point. She even took a customer out of Mr. Nathan's hands, and
sold the man a coat and a Waistcoat for half as much again as Mr..
Nathan would have obtained for them; true, she sweetened the articles
with smiles and flattering words, and sent the customer away, dazed
and entranced. Mr. Nathan looked on with undisguised admiration.
"What a saleswoman you would have made!" he exclaimed, raising his
hands. "You talked to the man as though you had been born in the
business, my dear--born in the business."
"The fact is, Mr. Nathan," said Margaret, with brazen audacity, "I am
a very clever woman; and, besides, I am an actress, and know how to
wheedle the men." She sighed pensively and added, "But I am a fool
with it all. I can sell a coat, but I can't serve my dearest friends.
Oh, that I were a man and had the brains of a man!"
With a humorous look Mr. Lewis Nathan placed his hands to his head.
"Here is a man's head," said he, "and a man's brains, very much at
your service, my dear."
"Come along, then," she cried. "It is hard if you and I can't win when
we go into partnership. What do you say, now? _Shall_ we become
partners?"
"My dear," said the old rascal, "I should like to take you as a
partner for life."
"It is a good job for me," said Margaret archly, "that you are not
thirty years younger. As it is I have almost lost my heart to you."
This incorrigible creature could no more help flirting than she could
help talking--and she had a woman's tongue to do the latter.
Binding him over to secrecy, she told him the whole story; he listened
attentively.
"As I was doing my hair this morning," said Margaret in conclusion,
"and looking into the glass----"
"I wish I had been behind you, my dear," interrupted Mr. Nathan.
"Be quiet, Lothario! As I looked into the glass this morning I said to
myself, 'Margaret, there is only one person among your acquaintance
who is clever enough to assist you; that person is Mr. Nathan.' But
before I flew to you, I had a good look at the crow's feet which this
trouble is bringing into my eyes. I am growing quite careworn."
"I should like to see those crow's feet."
"Well, look at them;" and she placed her face close to his.
Mr. Nathan gazed into her sparkling eyes, which flashed their
brightest glances at him, and then laughed at her outright.
"You're a barbarian," cried Margaret.
"You had better call me an unbelieving Jew at once," said Mr. Nathan
rubbing his hands. "You're thrown away as a Christian, my dear,
completely thrown away! You ought to have been one of the chosen
people."
She rose and made him a mocking curtsey.
"Thank you, I am quite contented as I am. But let us be serious. Say
something to the point. You have heard the story."
"It is an old story," he observed; "love against money. Here is money;
here is love." He held out his two hands to represent a pair of
scales, one hand raised considerably above the other. "See, my dear,
how money weighs down love."
"I see. Your hand with love in it is nearest to heaven; your hand with
money in it is nearest to the--other place."
"Perhaps so; perhaps so; but the plot of this play is to be played out
on earth, my dear, isn't it? I have seen it a hundred times on the
stage, and so have you."
"And love always wins," she said vivaciously. "Yes," rejoined Mr.
Nathan drily, "on the stage, always. In real life, never."
"I won't have never!" she cried impetuously. "It does sometimes win,
even in this sordid world. And if it never has done so before, it must
win now. Why, if your cunning and my wit are not a match for a greedy,
worldly, hard-hearted old man, I would as lief have been born without
brains as with them!"
"Hush, hush, my dear. Let me think a bit."
He pondered for a little while.
"There was a mathematician--what was his name?--ah! Archimedes--who
said he would move the world if he could find a crevice for his lever.
My dear, we have neither lever nor crevice. We must get the lever
first, and find the crevice. Now where does this old gentleman keep
his skeleton?"
She stared at him in amazement. "His skeleton!" she exclaimed.
"His skeleton, my dear; that's what we want. He keeps it somewhere.
I've got mine, and I keep it where no eye but my own can see it. We've
all got one. If we could get hold of this old gentleman's we might do
something. It is in his house, depend upon it."
"If it is, I've not heard of it. Oh! yes," she cried excitedly,
contradicting herself; "Bluebeard's room! He has a Bluebeard's room in
the house. Mr. Hart told me of it."
Mr. Nathan chuckled. "What is in that room, Margaret?"
"How should I know? I have never been in it."
He gave her a reproachful look.
"If you hadn't told me so yourself I should not have believed it. A
Bluebeard's room in the house and you've never seen it A clever woman
like you! You'll tell me next, I shouldn't wonder, that you have never
peeped through the keyhole."
"I do tell you so; I never have peeped through the keyhole."
It was evident from Mr. Nathan's tone that Margaret had fallen several
degrees in his estimation.
"My dear," he said, "that room may contain the very thing we want--the
lever."
"But suppose he keeps it locked up?"
"Then locks, bolts, and bars must fly asunder." Mr. Nathan sang these
words in a fine bass voice, and rising with a brisk air said, "You
must get me into that room, Margaret."
"I must first get you into the house."
"I am coming with you now. The old gentleman is away, you say; no time
like the present. We'll strike the iron while it's hot, my dear. I
constitute myself your friend Gerald's tailor, and I am going to take
his measure. As you have never peeped through the keyhole, I suppose
you have never tried the handle of the door?"
"Never."
"I will take long odds it is unlocked. Come along, my dear."
At another time Margaret might have had scruples, but her interest in
the stake she was playing for was so great that she was determined to
leave no stone unturned to win the day. So she accompanied Mr. Nathan
to Mr. Weston's house, where they found only Lucy--Gerald, for a
wonder, being absent from her. Acting under Mr. Nathan's instruction,
Margaret got rid of Lucy, so that the two conspirators might be said
to have had the house to themselves.
"Now, my dear," said Mr. Nathan, "take me to the room. Of course you
know where it is."
"Not for a certainty," replied Margaret, "but I suspect."
She led Mr. Nathan to a door at the end of a passage, the last room
but one in which was Mr. Weston's study. She tried the handle of the
door, and it turned within her hand; the door was unlocked.
"I told you so," said Mr. Nathan, with a quiet chuckle. "Sister Ann,
Sister Ann, do you see any one coming?"
"I am frightened to go in," said Margaret, shrinking back.
"Nonsense, my dear, nonsense; we shan't have our heads cut off."
She followed him into the room, but saw nothing to alarm her. There
was but little furniture; two chairs, a. table, and a desk, all in a
very dusty condition. The windows had not been cleaned for some time,
and it was evident that no use was made of the room. Mr. Nathan opened
a cupboard--it was empty; tried a desk--it was locked. If it was a
Bluebeard's room, the secret was well hidden; the only thing to excite
comment was that a number of pictures were hanging with their faces
turned to the wall.
"To preserve them from the dust, I should say," observed Mr. Nathan;
"one--two--three--thirteen of 'em, my dear. We'll have a peep at them
at all events."
They were all portraits, and were all painted by the same hand. Mr.
Nathan seemed to find some cause for curiosity in this circumstance.
One of the portraits, Margaret said, was like Mr. Weston when he was a
young man.
"Taken a good many years ago," said Mr. Nathan, placing the pictures
in their original position. "There is something in it, my dear. If the
old gentleman has a secret, it lies in those pictures."
"What is to be done now?" asked Margaret in despair.
"Well, my dear, it's a puzzle. But we'll try and work it out. We must
put our heads together, and use stratagem. Don't be downcast; nothing
is done without courage. We won't be beaten if we can help it. Come
and see me to-morrow, and in the meantime get at the story of these
pictures if you can. I dare say the old gentleman has told Mr. Hart
something about them."
They left Bluebeard's room in not a very hopeful frame of mind.
CHAPTER XII.
MR. HART DECLARES THAT HONESTY HAS DIED OUT OF
THE WORLD.
Events, however, were brought to a climax somewhat suddenly, without
Margaret's intervention. On the day following the peep into
Bluebeard's room Mr. Weston announced that he intended giving an
evening party, and that he had already invited his friends. The party
would take the form of an early dance.
"Really early," said Mr. Weston, "for I don't like late hours. They
have all promised to be here by half-past eight o'clock."
He told Gerald privately that Miss Forester and her family would be
among the guests. Miss Forester was the young lady whom he wished his
son to marry, and he requested Gerald to pay her particular attention.
The young fellow listened in silence.
"You will not leave us this evening," said Mr. Weston to Mr. Hart.
But Mr. Hart was compelled to go to the theatre. It happened, however,
that he had but a small part to play, and that he could attend the
party by ten o'clock. Mr. Weston had been very curious to know the
nature of the business that took his friend away every evening, and
Mr. Hart had found it difficult to parry the questions.
Margaret knew beforehand that some great magnates of the county would
be present, with their wives and daughters, and she determined that
Lucy should not be eclipsed by any she in Devonshire. She dressed Lucy
with exquisite taste, and no fairer flower was ever seen. Lucy had
improved wonderfully during the past fortnight; love had brought the
roses to her cheeks. It was strange that the affectionate bearing of
the young lovers towards each other should have hitherto escaped Mr.
Weston's notice; but this was partly owing to the fact of the old
gentleman being exceedingly short-sighted. On many occasions, when
Lucy and Gerald were together in the grounds, he perhaps with his arm
around her waist, Mr. Weston seeing them from a distance, had said,
"That must be Lucy and Gerald;" and when he fussed about for his
glasses, and prepared to fix them on his nose, Margaret, who was
invariably by his side, turned his attention adroitly, blessing the
circumstance that he could not see a dozen yards before him. I am
afraid that she had been guilty more than once of secreting his
glasses, to the old gentleman's infinite annoyance; she did not mind
his pettishness; as you know, she was thoroughly unscrupulous. Once,
when Lucy and Gerald were within twenty yards of them in the garden,
suspiciously close together, Margaret unblushingly took Mr. Weston's
glasses--which he was rubbing with his bandana preparatory to putting
them to use--from his hand, and the ribbon from his neck, and saying,
"Really, now, can one see with these things!" fixed them on her own
nose, and looked about like an old grandmother, making so pretty a
picture that the old gentleman was absorbed in admiration; during
which little piece of comedy Lucy and Gerald escaped. At other times,
Margaret twitted him with wearing his glasses constantly.
"They make you look so old," she expostulated.
"I _am_ old, my dear," he replied.
"You old! Nonsense! You're a young man yet."
And although Mr. Weston deprecated the assertion, he was not
displeased with it, and suffered much by frequently depriving himself
of the artificial aids to sight. What he was ignorant of was clear to
the eyes of every other person in the house. All the servants talked
of the love-making that was going on between Gerald and Lucy, and, as
the old gentleman seemed to sanction it, the servants decided that it
would be a match. They thoroughly sympathised with their young master
and their mistress that was to be, for Cupid was as busy in the
kitchen as in the drawing-room. A most impartial young god. I have
seen him busily at work, in rooms high and low, with fine ladies and
common kitchen wenches, bestowing his attentions equally upon silk and
cotton; I have seen him where silk and cotton are not appreciated, at
the other end of the world, walking saucily by the side of dusky
savages in grand old woods. If I had the time I would write a chapter
on this theme; it is a temptation, because the subject is so new and
novel; but space will not permit of it.
Mr. Weston, however, was not short-sighted on the evening of his
party. The guests arrived, and the rooms were very brilliant. Lucy was
the loveliest girl among them. Margaret ranked second, although she
was dressed very simply in black. But she had the art of "putting on
things" becomingly, an art which not all the members of her sex
possess. Miss Forester was present, with her mamma, beautifully
dressed, and very stately. Miss Forester's mamma was aware of Mr.
Weston's wish, and approved of it. Gerald was in every way a suitable
match for her daughter, and she was prepared to be exceedingly
gracious to the young gentleman. Not so Miss Forester; she had an
attachment elsewhere of which her mamma was ignorant, and being a
young lady of spirit and determination, she had quite made up her mind
that she would not mate with Gerald Weston; but she kept her
sentiments to herself. So, when the music struck up for the first
dance, these little wheels were in full motion, and gradually produced
an unexpected result. In the opening dance, Mr. Weston saw Gerald
walking to the set with Lucy on his arm. Now Mr. Weston had
particularly wished Gerald to dance this first set with Miss Forester;
it would have looked significant. Mrs. Forester was also a close
observer, and was disappointed by Gerald's conduct. Miss Forester was
perfectly satisfied with it. Gerald and Lucy, quite unconscious of the
working of these small wheels, enjoyed the dance to its full; they
were in a heaven of delight, and the persons around them might have
been so many dummies, they were so lost in their feelings for each
other. Mr. Weston consoled himself by the reflection that Gerald might
have deemed it proper to pay his first attentions to this lady-guest
in his father's house and the daughter of an old friend. He waited for
the second dance. Gerald danced with Margaret. Mrs. Forester bit her
lips, and calm agitation stirred her breast. This lady was never
violent in her emotions.
"Your father is watching us," said Margaret to Gerald.
Gerald made no reply; he was dancing with Margaret, but his thoughts
were with Lucy, and his eyes were upon her. Margaret repeated her
observation.
"Ah! yes," he then said, detecting no meaning in it.
"I think," said our shrewd conspirator, "that he would have preferred
you to dance with Miss Forester."
"I prefer to dance with Lucy--and you." The last two words were added
as an afterthought.
Margaret was not offended; she was alarmed; she did not like Mr.
Weston's looks.
"You must ask Miss Forester to dance immediately," she said to Gerald.
Gerald obeyed her. He asked Miss Forester to dance. Miss Forester was
engaged. Very contented, Gerald strolled away to Lucy, and the next
moment the lovers were again in sentimental labyrinths. Margaret
understood the task of soothing and amusing Mr. Weston, and she
succeeded for a time. Then she devoted herself, for a certain purpose,
to Miss Forester; she wished to discover the state of that young
lady's affections. But she met her match; after a quarter of an hour's
confidential small-talk conversation, Margaret was no wiser then
before. At ten o' clock Mr. Hart came, and for a little while Mr.
Weston lost sight of his disturbance. But he planted a thorn in the
breast of his friend. He introduced him to Miss Forester, and said
privately to Mr. Hart, a few minutes afterwards:
"That is the young lady Gerald will marry."
Every trace of colour left Mr. Hart's face. He turned to see how Lucy
and Gerald were engaged. They were not together. Gerald was now
dancing with Miss Forester; their faces were very bright and animated;
indeed, to tell you a secret known only at this time to those two,
they had come to a little private understanding, arrived at without
direct words, I assure you, which had given satisfaction to both. If
words _had_ been spoken, they would have run something in this way:
_Miss Forester_. "I love another person, and notwithstanding my
mamma's wishes, I shall not marry you."
_Gerald_. "I love another person, and, notwithstanding my father's
wishes, I shall not make love to you."
Not one word of this dialogue was spoken, but nothing could have
been more plainly expressed. Thereupon Gerald and Miss Forester
immediately became greater friends than they had ever been, and were
absolutely--in the judgment of outsiders--flirting together most
conspicuously. In Mr. Hart's eyes it was not flirtation, it was
love-making. But Lucy's face was bright also; there was not a cloud on
it. He turned to Margaret; their eyes met, but he could not read the
expression in her face. Truth to tell, she was anxious and nervous,
and was beginning to lose confidence in herself.
All this while we have left Mr. Weston, with the words hanging on his
lips:
"That is the young lady Gerald will marry."
"Is it settled, then?" inquired Mr. Hart, striving, and striving in
vain, to master his agitation.
"Quite settled," replied Mr. Weston, without a twinge.
Mr. Hart was bewildered. Could Gerald have been playing his girl
false? It looked like it. There was only one thing that would give the
lie to this--the possibility that Margaret was mistaken when she
declared Gerald and Lucy to be lovers. He groaned involuntarily as he
thought that all evidence was against this possibility. He was
awakening from a bitterly beautiful dream, a dream which had clothed
his daughter's life with happiness; again was the future dark before
him. Mr. Weston told the lie intentionally; he had heard remarks
during the evening upon the open attentions which Gerald was bestowing
upon Lucy, and he did not choose that his old friend should remain in
doubt of his opinion upon such proceedings.
"When you and I were talking about my son's prospects, I told you that
he had entangled himself in some way with a girl far below him--you
remember, Gerald?"
"I remember very well."
"That fancy is over, I am glad to say; he has evidently forgotten all
about it. The fact is, my boy is impressionable, and cannot resist a
pretty face. Why, some people might fancy he was making love to Lucy!
But I know him, I know him! It is his way. If he saw a new and pretty
face to-morrow, he would begin admiring it immediately; he couldn't
help it; it is in his nature. He will cool down presently; when he is
married I shall indeed be a happy man. You will come to the wedding,
Gerald--you, and Lucy, and Margaret. Then we must get Lucy married. Do
you know"--and here he peered, not without anxiety, into his friend's
face--"that many another father would have been disturbed by what I
have heard to-night. One or two foolish persons have said--you'll not
mind my repeating the words!--that it looked as though Gerald were
making love to Lucy. But we know better, eh, old friend? we know
better. He means nothing by it--absolutely nothing--and Lucy, of
course, understands that. A girl easily sees, and instinctively judges
between earnestness and lightness. And then I remember what you said
when we were talking upon this matter; you would not allow your
daughter to receive Gerald's attentions without my consent; you would
not allow her to marry him without my consent. Those were your words,
Gerald?"
"Those were my words," said Mr. Hart coldly and mechanically.
"And you never broke a promise--never, old friend?"
"Never."
"And you would not break this?"
"Not if it broke my heart," replied Mr. Hart, with a shudder of pain.
"And my consent is given elsewhere," proceeded Mr. Weston, with
nervous satisfaction; "given elsewhere, as I told you. As for your
bright little Lucy--you noticed how she has improved during the last
fortnight, Gerald? I really think the visit has done her good--as for
her, we will get her comfortably settled presently; and for yourself,
Gerald, anything in the way of money----"
"For God's sake," cried Mr. Hart, almost blind with grief, "don't talk
to me about money! I must go and speak to Lucy."
He looked about for his darling, but he could not see her. Indeed, she
had left the room with Gerald, and the two were now in the garden,
little dreaming of the storm that was gathering. Mr. Weston was
somewhat shaken by his friend's agitation, but deemed it prudent not
to comment upon it. A diversion occurred, and Mr. Weston gladly seized
the opportunity of changing the subject. A tall gentleman, very red in
the face and very pompous in his manner, approached them.
"Ah," said Mr. Weston, "Mr. Majendie! Delighted to see you. Let me
introduce my friend, Mr. Hart."
The gentlemen bowed to each other.
"I intended to be here earlier," said Mr. Majendie, "but there was a
benefit at the theatre, and, as my patronage had been obtained, I
thought the people would expect to see me."
"No doubt, no doubt," observed Mr. Weston.
"The benefit was for the hospital, and I was compelled to put in an
appearance. Not that I approve of such places, but one must make
sacrifices."
Here he turned his attention to Mr. Hart, and regarded him with a look
of doubt and surprise.
"I beg your pardon; I did not catch this gentleman's name."
"Mr. Hart--one of my oldest friends."
"Hart! Hart Not Hunter?"
He put this in the form of a question, and it had the effect of a cold
shower-bath upon Mr. Hart; it dispelled all vapours for a time.
"What if it be?" he asked proudly, returning Mr. Majendie's now
steadfast gaze.
A word as to Mr. Majendie. A bag of clothes stuffed with money.
The richest man in the district, and the meanest souled and
narrowest-minded; a man who wore frills to his shirts, and strutted
along with his head in the air like a turkey-cock, and looked down
with profound contempt upon the "lower orders." The pride of money
oozed out of the corner of his eyes, out of his thick-lipped mouth,
out of his voice, out of his manners. Policemen, parochial beadles,
female paupers, and charity children regarded him with awe. Altogether
he was one of the most contemptible embodiments of money among a crowd
of such.
"In that case," replied Mr. Majendie, with his loftiest air, "I should
inquire if there was any connection between you and the Plymouth
Theatre, and I should express my surprise at Mr. Weston asking my wife
and daughters--leaving me out of the question--to meet a common actor
on terms of equality!"
"No, no, Mr. Majendie!" said Mr. 'Weston very warmly. "I assure you,
you are wrong; you are mistaking my friend, Gerald Hart--my old and
dear friend, Mr. Majendie--for another person."
"Pardon me," said Mr. Hart gently and proudly, and smiling sadly on
Margaret, who, observing that something stirring was taking place, had
hurried to his side, "Mr. Majendie has made no mistake. If any has
been made, it is I who am in fault. Your surmise is a correct one,
sir; I am an actor, and am acting under the name of Hunter at the
Plymouth Theatre. But Mr. Weston was not aware of it until this
moment."
Mr. Majendie turned on his heel, and in his most stately manner left
the room with Mrs. and the Misses Majendie, who were all tainted with
his disease.
Mr. Weston was hurt in a very tender point; truly it was a most
unpleasant incident. Only for one moment did Mr. Hart look into Mr.
Weston's face; he saw sufficient in that brief glance to shatter the
hope and belief of a life.
His friend was false to him, unworthy of him.
In that moment, also, his own nature seemed to undergo a change.
"Where is Lucy?" he asked, loudly and sternly, of Margaret.
Margaret, without answering him, led him from the room, and he
supposed she was about to lead him to his daughter. But Margaret's
first intention was to remove him from the observation of the guests,
who were already beginning to talk of the incident. That girl the
daughter of an actor! they said to one another. Well, it was, no
wonder she was so pretty! They know how to make themselves up, my
dear! As for Gerald Weston, his attentions to her were now easily to
be understood. But they were astonished at old Mr. Weston introducing
such people. The girl and her friend had been living in the house for
a fortnight Indeed! And so on, and so on.
Fortunately for them, and for Mr. Hart also, he was out of hearing of
this gossip. Margaret led him into the air, and the first persons they
saw were Lucy and Gerald strolling toward the house. Mr. Hart's mind
was thrown off its balance by grief and passion. He tore Lucy from
Gerald's arm, and cried:
"Gerald Weston, are you a coward or a villain?"
"Mr. Hart!" exclaimed Gerald, confounded by this startling address.
"Dear friend," entreated Margaret, "be calm."
Lucy looked imploringly from one to the other.
"No more fair words," cried Mr. Hart; "I have had enough of them!
Honesty has died out of the world."
He turned to Mr. Weston, who, fearing a scene, had followed his old
friend into the garden, and said in a bitter, passionate tone:
"Never more will I hold out the hand of friendship to you, never more
will I set foot beneath your roof, until you have atoned for the wrong
you have done me and mine! Go you to your wife's grave, and erase the
words you have written on her tomb; they are a mockery there, and rise
up in judgment against you. Come, my child, this is no place for us.
We must look elsewhere for truth and faithfulness!"
END OF THE SECOND PART.
Part the Third.
THE DINNER OF THIRTEEN.
CHAPTER I.
STRANGE PREPARATIONS FOR THE DINNER.
In one of the prettiest nooks in Devonshire, the garden of England,
where the hedges and hill-slopes are filled with apple-trees, stands,
where has stood beyond the memory of living man, the Silver Flagon, an
old-fashioned, delightful hotel, irregular in shape, as all pleasant
hostelries should be, and so embellished with quaint turrets and
gables and mullioned windows, as to make it appear more like the
retreat of a wealthy gentleman than a house of public entertainment.
The principal entrance stands fully thirty yards away from the public
road or path, and to reach it you have to pass through an antique
wooden gate, and a carefully-attended garden, as delightfully
irregular as the house to which it is attached. There is not a square
room in the entire establishment, and although from time to time
additions have been made to it in the shape of a wing here and a wing
there, modern innovations and modern ideas of comfort have not been
allowed to spoil its character. Imbedded in the midst of its own
grounds, in the rich soil of which flowers and fruit-trees are
abundant and beautifully luxuriant, the Silver Flagon is a standing
reproach to those Tower of Babel hotels, which it is the fashion now
to build.
Fortunately for those to whom it is known, and who enjoy and
appreciate its comforts, its proprietor, Gideon Rowe, was, in his
ideas, as old-fashioned as his hotel. The Silver Flagon had been in
the family of the Rowes for many generations, and had been handed down
from father to son for more than a century; and the various members
regarded it with so much pride and affection that it had grown to be
looked upon more in the light of an heir-loom than a speculation.
Gideon Rowe, at sixty-five years of age, was a pleasant,
even-tempered, good-looking gentleman, straight as an arrow, with a
clear eye and a wholesome colour in his face--caught, mayhap, from
some of his famous apples--and with every probability of twenty more
good years before him. He was a man of independent property, and he
carried on the business of the Silver Flagon as much for pleasure and
occupation as for profit. It was probably for this reason that the
majority of those who frequented it were gentlemen, who were fond of
drinking their old ale and cider, and sometimes their wine, out of the
old-fashioned silver flagons, which it was the whim of Gideon Rowe's
great-grandfather to have made, and of which there were no fewer than
one hundred and twenty in the hotel.
It was seldom that any signs of bustle were to be noticed in the
Silver Flagon; but on a certain Wednesday in the middle of
August--some few weeks after the occurrence of the incidents
heretofore narrated--there were signs of unusual activity in the lower
story of the hotel. The cooks were busy, and and there was much
hurrying to and fro; it was evident that there was a larger number of
attendants than usual in the hotel, and that something important was
going on. The principal room of the Silver Flagon, which was in shape
of an irregular oblong, and sufficiently commodious to accommodate a
large number of guests, was situated on the ground-floor, and at six
o'clock on the evening of this Wednesday in August presented an
appearance which it is necessary to describe.
The table was laid for a distinguished dinner-party. That it was to be
a dinner of the best kind was evident from the furnishing of the
table, which comprised the finest plate of the Silver Flagon and a
brilliant display of glass. A number of attendants, dressed in court
suits of black, were perfecting the details, under the direction of
their chief, before the arrival of the guests.
Although it was still daylight the candles in the handsome candelabra
were already lighted, the effect of which was not only to darken the
room, but to throw corners almost completely into shade. Pictures hung
upon the walls--not landscapes, nor scenes of rural or domestic life:
the subjects were neither historical nor allegorical; every picture
was a portrait. Counting them, you would find that there were exactly
thirteen portraits, all of the same size and all handsomely and
uniformly framed. That they were painted by one hand was not to be
doubted, and being so, and being of a uniform size and uniformly
framed, it might reasonably have been supposed that they represented
members of the same family; but it was clear that this was not the
case. With here and there an exception, they bore no likeness to each
other, and in some instances the contrast in the faces and general
character of the individuals, as indicated by outlines and expression,
was very remarkable. The originals were of various ages, from eighteen
or nineteen to sixty mayhap. Casting your eyes around the walls, you
would instinctively have paused at the picture of a stern-looking man,
the lines in whose face spoke of invincible determination; his dress
was pretentiously plain and sombre; one hand, which grasped the back
of a chair, grasped it so firmly that the veins were seen to stand
out; his lips were set, and there was a frown in his eyes. Whether by
accident or design, his picture was so hung as to cause his cruel eyes
to bear directly on two faces of a very opposite character from his.
They were the portraits of a young lady and a young gentleman--she
probably not more than nineteen years of age, he some three or four
years older. The girl was in the full flush of youthful beauty, a rose
whose leaves were opening to the sunlight of life, delicately nurtured
evidently, and whose face was almost spiritualised from its extreme
sensitiveness. In this respect the young man, who was also handsome
and well-formed, singularly resembled her, and yet there was no
likeness between them. These young persons were smiling on each other.
Your eyes would also have dwelt with interest upon the portrait of a
man about thirty years of age, with a kind and even benevolent face,
fair, and with bright blue eyes. Then there was the portrait of one
whom you would instantly set down as an old maid, from the precise
and severely-demure fashion of her clothes, from the set of her
poke-bonnet, and from the sharp but not ill-natured expression on her
face. Beside her was a portrait of a very different character--that of
a rakish, genial, full-blooded man, with the pleasantest of mouths,
and the merriest of eyes, out of which joviality beamed; his hat was
set on one side of his head, and between his fingers dangled a cane
with a dandy tassel. All these persons were attired in the fashion of
a bygone generation.
The room was well supplied with choice flowers. Two folding windows
which faced the west opened upon a veranda-terrace, the steps of which
led into the gardens by which the Silver Flagon was surrounded. This
terrace was also freely and beautifully decorated with flowers, and
being comfortably furnished with easy and other chairs and convenient
small tables, and a couple of fur rugs spread on the ground, formed
the most luxurious and delicious after-dinner lounge it is possible to
imagine.
Exactly as a quarter past six o'clock was proclaimed in thin, silvery
notes, by the black marble clock on the sideboard, Gideon Rowe, the
landlord and proprietor of the Silver Flagon, entered the room. He was
in evening dress, and there was a natural dignity in his bearing which
proclaimed him master. There was an air upon him which betokened the
approach of an event of a grave nature. With attentive eyes--and yet,
with something of a sad abstraction in his manner--he examined the
appointments of the room, and saw that everything was in its place.
With his eyes he made the circuit of the table, and counted the chairs
which were placed for the guests.
"One--two--three--four--five--six--seven--eight--nine--ten--eleven
--twelve--thirteen."
Therefore it was clear that thirteen persons were expected to dine.
Then he ran his eyes over the attendants, and counted them, from one
to thirteen. One of these was the chief, and addressing him by the
name of Steele, Gideon Rowe called him to his side.
"Your arrangements seem to be perfect, Mr. Steele."
"I think you will find them so, sir," replied Mr. Steele.
"This is--let me see--the eighth year you have officiated."
"This makes the eighth year, sir."
"We have seen some changes, Mr. Steele."
"We have, sir."
"I know I can depend upon you to carry out the affair with discretion,
whatever happens."
"Thank you, sir."
There was the slightest tinge of surprise in Mr. Steele's tone, which
did not escape Mr. Rowe's observation. Mr. Rowe made no remark upon
it, however, but repeated:
"Whatever happens. After all, it is an exceedingly simple affair, and
I shall be glad to see everything well and discreetly done. You have
the entire superintendence. Even if I wished, I could not undertake
the management, being, as it were, one of them."
This with a glance at the portraits on the wall.
"You shall have no reason to complain, sir."
"The dinner will be served at seven precisely. There must be no
mistake about that especially. When the clock strikes, we will
commence."
"It shall be done, sir."
"Have the men been instructed in their duties?"
"Yes, sir."
But Mr. Rowe deemed it necessary to address a few words to them
collectively. He called them together.
"Mr. Steele has explained to you what your duties are. You all of you
understand them?"
"We do, sir."
"There is something for you to understand more necessary than the mere
detail of your duties, and that is the manner of their performance.
What is required of you is implicit silence and attention. At whatever
occurs you will exhibit no wonder or astonishment, but you will
steadily and decorously follow out the instructions given to you by
Mr. Steele. It is a simple matter, but I wish to impress it strongly
upon your minds. You understand me, I dare say."
"Yes, sir."
"Then I need say nothing more to you."
Gideon Rowe did not consider that his manner of addressing the
attendants, no less than his words, was sufficient to arouse within
them a curiosity which they otherwise would not have felt.
He turned his attention again to Mr. Steele, and asked about the wine.
Mr. Steele pointed to the iced pails, liberally supplied with bottles,
and to other bottles which did not require icing; these were placed
behind a screen at the extreme end of the room. There were, besides
the folding windows which opened on to the terrace and the gardens,
three entrances to the room. One door, at the south end where the
screen was, led to the kitchen and the adjoining apartments where the
dinner was being prepared; another, at the north end, immediately
behind the chair at the head of the table, could be approached, on the
outside, only by way of the veranda, so that any person who wished to
enter by this door must of necessity pass the folding windows; the
third and last door opened on the general passage of the Silver
Flagon. This door Gideon Rowe locked, putting the key into his pocket.
As he did so, the silver tongue of the black marble clock proclaimed
half-past six.
"Is the doorkeeper here?" asked Mr. Rowe.
"He is without, sir."
"Let me see him."
Mr. Steele hesitated a moment.
"I have been disappointed in the man I wished to engage for the
service."
"But you have another?" said Mr. Rowe quickly.
"Oh! yes."
"And a dependable man?"
"Quite dependable, to all appearance, and from his credentials."
"That is all that is necessary. His duties are onerous, but not
burdensome. Let me see him."
Mr. Steele went out by the door behind the screen, and returned with
an elderly man, dressed like the others. His hair, almost white, was
cropped close to his head, and there was a forced composure in his
face, as though he had been schooling himself for his task. Gideon
Rowe scrutinised him keenly.
"Your name is----"
"Michael Lee."
"You answer promptly, like a soldier."
"I am not one, sir."
"You are an elderly man--about my own age, I should say. Is your
eyesight good?"
"Fairly good for my age."
"I ask because in the place where you will stand the light is rather
dim. I must test you."
He looked around for a newspaper or other printed matter, and finding
none, drew a letter from his pocket. It was in a man's writing, and a
spasm came into his face as he gazed at it. He held it open at a
little distance from Michael Lee.
"Are your eyes good enough to read this?" Michael Lee changed colour,
and his lips trembled as his eyes fell upon the writing.
"You can read it?"
"I can read it quite well," replied Michael Lee, and continued, in a
gentle, sad tone, reading from the letter: "So now, my dear old dad,
good-bye, and God bless you. With fondest love, your affectionate
scapegrace of a son, Philip Rowe."
Gideon Rowe paused before he spoke again.
"That is a good credential for your eyes."
"The letter is from your son," observed Michael Lee respectfully.
"Yes, from my poor boy. Written a long time ago. He is dead. Thank you
for that mark of your sympathy."
"I also am a father."
"You can understand then the kind of grief that oppresses a man when
he loses an only child, whom he loved very dearly. But we are
wandering from the point. For the business before us, you are all the
better for not being too young."
Michael Lee made an effort to shake off his sad humour, and answered
somewhat briskly:
"So that some good comes to one for being old. Though I should rather
say that I should be all the better for being a little younger. I
should have no objection to my ripening time coming over again. But
time that ripens us, withers us; time that withers us, kills us."
"Ah, well," said Gideon Rowe, with reflective nods, and gazing in
surprise at Michael Lee, "we must drop away and make room for others."
He cast a strangely-serious look at the thirteen chairs arranged round
the table. "You are a superior man, I perceive."
Still striving to rally his spirits, Michael Lee said:
"One other man besides yourself, sir, has sometimes thought so."
"Any one whom I know?"
"Yes, sir; you know him slightly."
"Who may he be?"
"I, myself."
Gideon Rowe smiled.
"Mr. Steele did well to select you. Now pay careful heed to what
I am about to say. Your duties to-night are not heavy. You are to
stand as doorkeeper, and all you have to do is to act strictly in
accordance with the instructions I give you. Your position will be
there"--pointing to the door at the north end of the room, which led
on to the veranda. "You will stand outside that door, and admit only
those who establish their right to enter. And only those have the
right of entrance whose names are written on this paper."
Michael Lee received the paper from Gideon Rowe, and read the names
aloud:
Reuben Thorne.
James Blanchard.
Henry Holmes.
Rachel Holmes.
Thomas Chatterton.
Ephraim Goldberg.
Dinah Dim.
Stephen Viner.
Caroline Miller.
Edward Blair.
Clarence Coveney.
Frederick Fairfax.
Richard Weston.
"You will keep the paper as a guide," said Gideon Rowe, over whose
countenance shades of varying expression had passed as the names were
read, the most noticeable being one of sad pity at the name of
Caroline Miller. "Not another person but those whose names are set
down there must be allowed to pass in under any pretence. But you may
still be liable to make a mistake, as you have never seen these ladies
and gentlemen. That contingency is provided for; examine this."
He placed in the hands of Michael Lee a small piece of ivory in the
shape of a heart. Michael Lee examined it with curiosity. Gideon Rowe
continued:
"You will neither admit nor announce any lady or gentleman who does
not produce a heart shaped like this in ivory, with his or her name
written upon it in red letters."
"That is lucky," observed Michael Lee.
"What is lucky?"
Michael Lee quickly answered: "My grandmother wore an ivory charm,
with signs upon it, which was given to her by a gipsy woman; she had a
superstitious regard for it."
Gideon Rowe considered for a few moments whether Michael Lee's words
were intended to be taken in jest or earnest, but he could not resolve
the point.
"Very well," he said, "now you can go to your post. Here is a seat,
you see. You may find your work somewhat dull, but you will contrive
not to fall asleep."
"When all the persons," said Michael Lee, "whose names are set down
here have arrived, will it be necessary for me to keep to my post?"
"No," replied Gideon Rowe, with another strange look; "when all the
persons whose names are on that paper have arrived, your duties are at
an end."
CHAPTER II.
ARRIVAL OF BUT ONE GUEST AT A DINNER FOR THIRTEEN.
Leaving Michael Lee at his post outside the door, Gideon Rowe went to
the folding windows, and drew the curtains over them. He lingered at
the window to inhale the faint perfume of lavender which the breeze
brought into the room.
"Summer is dying," he murmured.
Beautiful as was the evening, there was something inexpressibly sad in
the appearance of this room, with its dim light, and the black
clothing of the attendants, who moved about like shadows.
"Mr. Steele," said Gideon Rowe, "you understand that the first guest
who arrives will preside at the head of the table. I will wait upon
him myself."
"As heretofore, sir?"
"As heretofore."
All the arrangements being completed, the attendants stood in silence
behind the chairs, forming a black hedge around the table. Gideon Rowe
glanced anxiously at the clock. The hands indicated eighteen minutes
to seven. That he was singularly and powerfully agitated was evident,
but he controlled his excitement by a strong effort. Another minute
passed and another. The clock struck three-quarters past six, steps
were heard on the veranda, and almost immediately afterwards Michael
Lee opened the door by which he was stationed, and advancing a step,
called out:
"Mr. Richard Weston."
The sound of Michael Lee's voice afforded relief to every person in
the room, for all were beginning to be oppressed by the gloom and
silence which prevailed. Mr. Weston, as he entered, glanced before him
with a shrinking, air, and, grasping Gideon Rowe's hand firmly, as
though he derived comfort from the contact, shaded his eyes with his
left hand, and peered timidly at the attendants, whose faces he could
not see in the uncertain light.
"Only the servants," observed Mr. Rowe, answering the look; "I am glad
to welcome you."
"Thank you, Mr. Rowe, thank you," said Mr. Weston. "I am the first
then?"
"You are the first," replied Mr. Rowe gravely.
"I am almost ashamed to confess it," said Mr. Weston, "though I don't
know why I _should_ be ashamed to confess it to you, for we are old
cronies, eh, Rowe? old cronies--but before I entered the room, and
indeed for many days past, I have had a fearful and unreasonable fancy
that, that----"
Gideon Rowe, with a serious smile, supplied the words which Mr. Weston
was at a lost to utter. "That some one might have been before you, and
deprived you of your position at the head of the table."
"It was so, I assure you," assented Mr. Weston; "but I have been much
upset lately--crossed and thwarted on all sides, and where I had the
best right to expect obedience."
"I have heard something--rumour is many-tongued, you know."
"Yes, yes; and tells lies, and invents, and makes black white. I can
speak to you as an old friend. Tell me what you have heard."
"It is an impertinence for people to speak of these things, for they
are family matters; and, indeed, it is difficult to bring vague
rumours into definite words. Briefly as I understand it, Gerald----"
"My son--yes."
--"Refuses to marry the lady you have chosen for him, loving another
lady, and having pledged himself to her. That much has reached my
understanding, through the rumours I have heard. Is it true? Has
Gerald really pledged himself to a lady of whom you disapprove, and
does he really love her?"
"Love her! No. It is a fancy which will be gone in a few weeks. The
boy doesn't know his own mind."
"That is not the impression I have formed of Gerald. He is somewhat
obstinate in his likes and dislikes. And he really has pledged himself
to this lady, and she really is a lady?"
"She is the daughter of an old friend of mine," replied Mr. Weston,
with nervous hesitation; "of an old friend who has inflicted great
pain upon me. She is a good girl--a good girl, I do believe--but not
the wife for Gerald."
"Why not? Because she is poor?"
"Ah! you have heard, then. Can you not see that Gerald has a position
to maintain, and there are duties which society exacts from us?
Classes must be kept apart. But do not speak any further of this now;
it is not the time. On the anniversary of this night my mind is
occupied by but one subject." He glanced at the table. "It might be
but yesterday! The same old silver--the same old service--and some of
the same old wine, eh, Mr. Rowe? the same old wine."
"The same, Mr. Weston: there is but little of it left. But it will
last our time, and then will come new wine, new fashions, new men and
women, new everything, to grow old as we have grown old, and to make
way for other fashions and other men and women, as our fashions and
ourselves are making way for them."
"There are some things that do not seem to change," said Mr. Weston,
looking towards the clock, and feeling in his pockets. "The same old
clock, too. But I cannot see the hands. Ah, here they are!" He had
been searching his pockets for his spectacles, and he now produced the
case. "Looking at my eyes now, you wouldn't think that I am growing
more short-sighted every day, eh, Mr. Rowe?"
"Your eyes are as bright as they were thirty years ago."
"So they may appear, but they deceive me--as everything else does.
Bless my soul! they are gone!"
He referred to his spectacles; his spectacle-case was empty.
"Shall I send for them?" asked Gideon Rowe.
"No, no; they would not be found, perhaps. I must do without my eyes
to-night. The clock is right, eh? What does it mark now?"
"Thirteen minutes to seven."
"Thank you. As I was saying, there are some things that do not change.
The Silver Flagon, for instance--there is no change in that."
"There is no change in it from my first remembrance of it. I should
like it never to change. I used to wish that it might be carried on in
exactly the same way, and in the same old fashion, as it has been
carried on during this last hundred years. But it is in the nature of
things to change, and my wish will not be fulfilled. Had other things
turned out as I hoped, my desire would almost certainly have been
frustrated by the new scheme for the branch railway that is being
talked about. I am told that its course is designed immediately in the
rear of the garden." He looked regretfully towards the folding
windows, through the transparent curtains of which the western sky
could be seen reddening in the light of the declining sun. "One might
fancy one's self almost out of the world here; but if the railway
scheme be carried out, good-bye to the charm of perfect peacefulness
which rests upon the Silver Flagon. Good-bye, perhaps, to the Silver
Flagon itself. The thought hurts me, but not as much as it would have
done had my dear boy been alive."
"Rowe!" exclaimed Mr. Weston, in a sympathising, wondering tone, "you
have had news of Philip, then?"
"He is dead, poor lad! You know how I loved the boy, and how my heart
was bound up in him. I cherished the hope that, when his wild fit was
over, he would come and take my place here. The dear lad was working
to bring home a hatful of money to repay me for what I had done for
him. As though I needed repaying! Shame drove him away, and kept him
away while he was poor. He did not know his father's heart."
"How did the news come?" asked Mr. Weston softly.
"His wife brought it--a dear good girl. She is in the house now, and
will remain here as my daughter. You shall see her in good time, and
hear the sad story from her own lips. I think the news would have
killed me but for her."
"My Gerald and your Philip were good friends," murmured Mr. Weston.
"Gerald will grieve, indeed, when he hears the news."
"Life is full of disappointment, full of changes. Man proposes, God
disposes. I hope that I should die with my Philip by my bedside in
this peaceful spot, and he dies at the other end of the world, sixteen
thousand miles away, while I am still a hale old man. I have the
comfort of knowing that his heart was beating with love for me--the
dear lad!" He paused for a moment. "Notwithstanding this grief, I
still have something to be grateful for, and I bow with submission to
the Divine will. I have a new daughter, such a girl as I would have
chosen for him, and mayhap a great blessing will be bestowed upon me
in the course of a couple of months, and my Philip may live again in
his son. And have I not still the dear old Silver Flagon? I look upon
it almost as part of my own flesh and blood. My life is wedded to it
by sweet and solemn memories. Why, I remember these old flagons when I
could scarcely toddle! I used to look at my face in them when I was a
boy; there was one with a long dent in it--here it is now on the
sideboard--which seemed to split my face in two." He gazed wistfully
into its polished surface. "It isn't the same face as it was then."
"What does the clock mark now?"
"Eight minutes to seven."
"How slowly the time passes! The moments are clogged with lead."
"It is only the years that fly," said Gideon Rowe. "We watch the
minutes and the days, and the years slip by without our heeding them.
But all at once we wake to the fact, and a sudden shock comes upon us.
Truly 'we are such stuff as dreams are made of, and our little life is
rounded with a sleep.'"
There was nothing singular in the perfect familiarity that existed
between the speakers. Gideon Rowe came of an old family (though if he
had come from a new family--a phrase I cannot quite understand--it
would have been all the same) who had acquired their money honestly,
and he had lived a blameless life. Such a man is the equal of a king.
It was to be especially noted that the present conversation
was carried on with a careful avoidance--by Mr. Weston most
certainly--of a subject which must have been uppermost in their minds,
and that directly one paused, the other took up the cue, as though
they were desirous that not a moment should pass in silence. Another
thing to be noted was, that frequently in the middle of a sentence,
Mr. Weston--whether he or his companion was speaking--turned his head
over his shoulder toward the door by which Michael Lee was stationed,
with a timid, nervous, frightened look, as if expecting to see an
apparition there. Still more conspicuous was his studied avoidance of
the pictures that were hanging on the walls. If in an unwitting moment
he happened to raise his eyes towards the portraits, he turned them
away again with visible agitation. The attendants in the room
preserved silence while their superiors were conversing. They stood in
their places like statues.
"And we fret ourselves so unwisely," continued Mr. Rowe, with
something of a wary look towards Mr. Weston. "We torture ourselves so
unnecessarily. Instead of enjoying the opportunities which good
fortune has placed in our hands, we bring unhappiness upon ourselves
by setting our minds upon the accomplishment of certain wishes which
we deem to be good, notwithstanding that they distinctly clash with
the hopes of those who are dearest to us. We forget that life is
short. Let me give you a bit of my philosophy, and apply it to
ourselves. Here we stand, having grown from youth to manhood, from
manhood to old age, marching from our very cradles into our graves.
The changes that come naturally upon us we bear, if we are wise, with
patience and resignation; with hope, also, that carries us in our
lives to the contemplation of other spheres beyond the grave. There is
a wonderful amount of goodness and sweetness in life, with all its sad
changes. What best rewards us--what brings us the most pleasure and
satisfaction--is to enjoy this good, in so far as it affects ourselves
and others, and to make the very best use of it which lies in our
power. You cannot deny that this is a sensible philosophy."
"It sounds so."
"It is not only a sensible, it is a wise philosophy. Let me apply it.
Say that I have a child whom I love"--the memory of his Philip brought
a touching sadness into his tone--"say that this blessing, which I
have unhappily lost, is mine. If by any action of mine I can make that
child happy, it is surely good and wise in me to do so, and adds to my
enjoyment of life. Say that this child, having grown to manhood, with
a man's intelligence and a man's hopes, has set his heart upon a
certain thing--say, plainly, that he loves a girl who is both virtuous
and good, whom he wishes to make his wife, and that I constitute it my
business to thwart him--it is surely unwise in itself, if only in the
fact that it brings discomfort to me, that it fills my days with
uneasiness, and makes my home unhappy. Now, this is a selfish view,
but it is one which occurs to me by way of illustration."
"But say, for the sake of argument," said Mr. Weston, somewhat
uneasily, "only for the sake of argument, mind----"
"Very well, for the sake of argument."
"That this child's fancy was a foolish one, and unwise in every
sense."
"I don't admit that; but we are only arguing. Pray proceed."
"And that you, his father, saw another and a better way of bringing
happiness into his life."
"Who judges that my way is the better way?" demanded Mr. Rowe.
"Yourself."
Mr. Rowe shook his head, and taking a pair of spectacles from his
pocket, asked Mr. Weston to use them. Mr. Weston put them on gladly,
but they did not suit his sight; all was dim before him. He returned
the spectacles to Mr. Rowe.
"I cannot see through them," he said.
"Nonsense, nonsense," replied Mr. Rowe; "you are mistaken. You can."
"I tell you I cannot."
"Yet that is just what you insist others can do. You insist that they
can see through _your_ spectacles."
"I say nonsense, nonsense to you! I understand your trick, but it does
not apply in this case. I say that in the difference of opinion
between you and your son which you have spoken of you are the better
judge. You are the older of the two by forty years. You know the
world; you have experienced its trials, its temptations, its
disappointments; you have seen its follies, its delusions. Therefore
you have a perfect right to say to your son, 'My boy, you are wrong!
you must conquer your idea--your fancy. Be patient, and time will show
you its folly; and one day you will thank me for opposing your
wishes.' Why," exclaimed Mr. Weston, raising his voice slightly in his
excitement, "do you not love your son?"
"That it is not to be doubted."
"And what you do in this matter, is it not for his good?"
"Ah, my friend, my friend! I may think so, in my obstinacy, but it is
I who am wrong. Let us speak plainly. You know it is of your Gerald we
are speaking----"
"Of course I know it."
"What more can you desire than his happiness? The girl he loves, and
has pledged himself to, is poor, it is true; but she is a lady, and is
in every way worthy of him. Why embitter your life and his by standing
in his way?"
"One moment, Mr. Rowe," interrupted Mr. Weston; "how do you know all
this? Have you seen the girl?"
"I have."
"And her father, have you seen him?"
"No, but I hope soon to do so. From what I have heard, he is a man
whom it would be a proud privilege to call friend."
Mr. Weston made a movement of uneasiness.
"The subject annoys me," he said, "let us cease discussing it."
"We have no time to continue it," said Gideon Rowe, glancing at the
clock, "or, despite your wish, I should not allow it to drop. We
ourselves were young once, and looked at things with different eyes
from those with which we view them now."
"How near to the time is it?"
"But one minute."
During this minute there was silence in the room. Michael Lee's voice
was not heard. Mr. Weston moved slowly to the head of the table. The
attendants stood in silence behind the empty chairs. Presently the
clock struck the hour of seven. As the sound of the last stroke was
dying away, Gideon Rowe said to Mr. Steele:
"Serve the dinner."
Mr. Richard Weston was the only guest.
CHAPTER III.
ARRIVAL OF UNEXPECTED GUESTS.
Standing behind the twelve empty chairs, the attendants performed
their duties with as much ceremony as could have been expected from
them had they been waiting on the most exacting and punctilious
guests; but it was not difficult to see that they did not like the
service in which they were engaged. From time to time they gazed
furtively at each other, and according to the susceptibility of their
temperaments, were more or less disturbed by the strangeness of the
scene. There was something so ghostlike in this silent dinner, that
when the attendants moved they stepped lightly, as though they were
fearful of raising the dead. The only persons who were not dismayed at
the sight of the empty chairs were Mr. Weston, Mr. Steele, and the
proprietor of the Silver Flagon. Indeed, that the chairs were empty
appeared to afford satisfaction to at least one of the party--Mr.
Weston.
"What has become of your unreasonable fancy?" asked Mr. Rowe.
"Gone, thank God!" replied Mr. Weston, with a sigh of relief, draining
his glass. "But I had it very strong upon me. We cannot help these
superstitious feelings, and in my case there is a distinct cause for
them, in words once uttered by Reuben Thorne."
"Poor Reuben! He was the merriest soul I ever met."
"A careless, ne'er-do-well!" exclaimed Mr. Weston.
"No man's enemy but his own," added Mr. Rowe quickly. "The merriest
part of the table was always where he sat, during the few years he was
with us. What words do you refer to?"
"It was on the fourth anniversary of this day, and all the thirteen
were present. Death had not taken one of our party. I was sitting next
to Reuben, and the conversation was loud and jovial. All were in high
spirits with the exception of three--Caroline Miller, Edward Blair,
and Stephen Viner. But that it is incumbent upon us to speak gently of
the dead, I could find it in my mind to couple the name of Stephen
Winer with bitter words."
"You couple his memory with bitter thoughts. Why spare the words? He
was a cruel man, with an unfeeling heart."
"Hush! hush! He has gone where he will be judged."
"And where," said Mr. Rowe, in no way softened, "the spirits of
Caroline and Edward rise in judgment against him. I am glad you feel
as I do toward the man who destroyed the happiness of two young
persons whose only fault was that they loved each other too well."
"You have made me," said Mr. Weston, with a heightened colour, "wander
from my theme."
"You wandered from it yourself," retorted Mr. Rowe, "by mentioning the
name of Stephen Viner."
"Were it not," said Mr. Weston, with marks of agitation in his face,
"that we are old friends, I should think you had a design to irritate
me."
"I have a design to speak plainly. If we can learn a lesson from the
dead which it would be good to learn, it is worse than folly to reject
it. The parallel is a strange one. Caroline Miller and Edward Blair
are not the only young lovers who have been parted----"
"Stop, Rowe," interrupted Mr. Weston, in a tone of suppressed passion.
"I desire that you will not continue the subject. It is unkind, cruel
of you, and the conclusions you draw do me great injustice."
He again emptied his glass, and the next few moments were passed in
silence.
"I beg your pardon," then said Mr. Rowe, more gently; "I was betrayed
out of myself. You were speaking of Reuben Thorne."
"All at the table were conversing loudly together," said Mr. Weston,
continuing his reminiscence with visible effort: it was evident that
silence was oppressive to him, "when my attention was called to Reuben
by several voices crying, 'What was that you said, Mr. Thorne--what
was that you said?' 'I said,' he replied, that if I happen not to be
myself the last survivor of this party--and I hope not to be, for the
duty he will have to perform will be a dismal one--I promise to visit
him, whoever he may be, and drink wine with him once more. Will any
others join me?' Unthinkingly, those at the table responded, 'I will,'
and 'I will!' I raised my hand for silence. 'It is,' I said, 'too
grave a subject to jest upon.' But Reuben was not to be diverted from
his light humour. 'I have promised,' he said; and there was an end of
the matter. Little did I think, when those words were exchanged, that
I should be the last survivor, and that Reuben Thorne's promise would
make such an impression upon me."
Mr. Weston ate very little, but he drank a great deal of wine, and
pushed his plate from him with nervous haste, wishful to bring the
solid part of the dinner quickly to an end. There were many courses,
however, and the serving and removing of them occupied some time. The
colours of the sunset could be seen through the folds of the curtains
which hung before the windows, changing from a clear rose-red, like
the blush on the face of a fair woman, to the deeper glow which
mantles the face of a brunette; from that to purple, fringed by
darkest blue; thence by delicate and sadder tints, melting one in the
other, into quieter shades, until the fiery sky grew calm, and
heralded a lovely and peaceful night. As daylight disappeared,
additional candles were lighted, and the room would have presented a
cheerful aspect but for the empty chairs and the serious faces of the
attendants. Then, for the first time, Mr. Weston purposely raised his
eyes to the portraits which hung upon the walls.
"Ah, me!" he sighed. "And this is all that remains of them--painted
canvas! I cannot distinguish their faces without my spectacles, but I
can see them in my mind's eye. All dead, all dead, but ourselves!"
"Few lived to our age," remarked Mr. Rowe.
"How many--how many? Let me see. One--two--three; no more. You were
right when you said 'tis only the years that fly. And some died very
young. Whether was it for good or ill, Rowe, that we, strangers to one
another, should have been brought together by one unknown to all of
us?"
"It can scarcely have been for good," replied Mr. Rowe. "Looking back,
as we can look back, upon the lives of those to whom the money was
left, to what one of all those who are dead can it be said to have
brought happiness? To some it brought a curse. Too well do we know the
story of those two hapless ones, Caroline and Edward, whom it drove to
an early grave. Left to the absolute guardianship of a man whose heart
was stone, those orphans met and loved. In all human calculation, no
lot in life could be happier than that of these lovers would have been
had they married. But to marry without Stephen Viner's consent
entailed upon them, according to the provisions of the will, absolute
beggary; and this consent their guardian refused to give. He cast a
strange spell upon his delicate, susceptible ward. His strong mind and
will dominated her sensitive nature absolutely. He won from her a
solemn promise that she would not wed without his consent. Dinah Dim,
that kindly old maid, told me that Viner made Caroline swear this upon
the Bible. Edward and Caroline were but boy and girl when they were
first given into the guardianship of this man--what wonder that they
loved as they grew to man's and woman's estate? We all knew of their
love, and interceded for them, vainly. Prayers, entreaties,
remonstrance--all were useless. You yourself were one of the most
earnest in your entreaties, but Stephen Viner turned a deaf ear, and
so arranged that the lovers were to be parted. Edward was to be sent
to India, 'where he would get over his foolish passion,' Stephen Viner
said. Of my own knowledge I am aware that Edward wanted Caroline to
marry him and defy her guardian. But her oath, which she was never
allowed to forget, was of too solemn a nature to permit of this; and
besides, she had a clear and painful remembrance of privations endured
by her parents when she was a child, and, knowing that they had
married for love against the wish of their friends, she refused to
bring a similar suffering as her dowry to Edward. You know the sad
ending. Driven to despair, the young lovers drowned themselves--at
least, so it was supposed, when their bodies were found in the river.
You remember the gloom the news cast over our party when we met, and
the savage looks and words which were cast at Stephen Viner. Who that
is acquainted with this sad story can doubt that the money left so
strangely brought a curse to these two innocent young souls?"
By this time it was night. The dessert was now on the table, which
required but guests around it to make a very charming scene. Mr.
Weston had drunk a good deal of wine, and was in a feverish, excited
condition. Michael Lee still kept watch outside the door. The only
voices that were heard were the voices of Mr. Weston and Mr. Rowe.
This latter person was evidently determined not to lose sight of the
principal object in his mind, and almost every word he uttered had
reference to it.
"At such a time as this," he said, "it is but natural that our
thoughts should revert to those who are gone. I am thinking now of my
dead Philip, with reference to worldly things. Do you know, friend,
that I would cheerfully live the rest of my days in poverty if the
sacrifice of my worldly goods could bring my son to life?"
"They are the natural feelings of a father," responded Mr. Weston.
"Were I in your place, I would surely feel the same."
"And yet how strangely do we regulate our actions with reference to
those we love! While they live, we thwart their dearest hopes; when
they are gone, we are ready to make the extremest sacrifice upon the
altar of our affections. But then it is too late."
He would have proceeded further but that a sudden spasm from Mr.
Weston diverted his attention. Following the direction of Mr. Weston's
eyes, he turned toward the folding windows.
"Did you hear nothing?" asked Mr. Weston in a low tone.
"No."
"I fancied," murmured Mr. Weston, in explanation, "that I heard a step
upon the veranda."
Mr. Rowe went to the window, and partly drew the curtains aside. The
moon was rising, and the soft light could be seen through the opening.
"There is no one there," said Mr. Rowe, returning to Mr. Weston's
side. "As I was saying, when we have lost those whom we loved best in
the world, and whose natural and innocent desires we thwarted while
they lived, we beat our breasts and reproach ourselves----"
Again he was interrupted. Michael Lee, the doorkeeper, entered the
room, and following Mr. Rowe's last word, came Michael Lee's
announcement:
"Mr. Reuben Thorne."
Mr. Weston's face grew white as the person announced approached and
bowed.
"I am late," said the new-comer, dropping into a chair; "but better
late than never, they say."
He poured out a glass of claret, and rising, said, with another bow to
Mr. Weston: "Your health;" and again resumed his seat.
"Am I dreaming?" asked Mr. Weston, in a low tone of fear, addressing
himself to Mr. Rowe.
Reuben Thorne heard the words, and before Mr. Rowe could speak,
himself replied:
"No, faith; it is I who have been dreaming--dreaming for many years.
Life is a dream; and death!--but we will not speak of that. Live and
learn, they say. Let us correct the maxim. Die and learn, is
infinitely truer, as all men will find. If we could live and unlearn,
it would be better for us. 'Tis a conflict, from the cradle to the
grave--heart against head. And head wins, the rule is. Men would be
happier were it otherwise. Better for us to go back, and play at
children over again."
He was so exactly the counterpart of one of the portraits on the wall,
in every detail of dress and personal appearance, that he could not
have been more like had he actually been the living presentment of the
picture. But the portrait was there and the man was there, and the man
looked up at the painted likeness of himself with some kind of
satisfaction.
"If my memory serves me," he continued, still addressing Mr. Weston,
"it was a good old fashion for the chairman to welcome his guests as
they arrived. You have not addressed to me one word of welcome. At all
events, we will drink wine together."
He raised his glass, and Mr. Weston mechanically raised his. Bowing to
each other, they emptied their glasses simultaneously. Then Mr. Weston
spoke for the first time, in a hushed, awe-struck tone.
"I remember the words you uttered on the anniversary of our fourth
gathering. I recalled them before you entered. You promised to visit
the last of the thirteen who was left and take wine with him. You
asked if the others would join you; all, or nearly all, promised to do
so." He shuddered as he spoke.
"The promise will be redeemed by our friends," said Reuben Thorne, "as
it is redeemed by me. But I have another purpose in coming to-night."
"What purpose?"
"A purpose in which I am not the only one engaged. Others are with me.
You will know more presently. Do you see any change in me?"
"None. You are to me the same as when I last say you. Not a day
older--not a day." He, also, glanced at the portrait for confirmation.
"That is many years ago now. I see a change in you. Your hair is
white; you are an old man. Perhaps in another year you, too, will have
passed away from among men. It will be well for you if you have sown
no seeds of unhappiness, which may grow into life-miseries when you
have gone. Even I, with no human ties, even I, who had no wife or
child, would, if I could, live my time over again."
"Yet you were the merriest of all our company," said Mr. Weston,
nerving himself by a strong effort to sustain his part in the
conversation, gaining courage to do so from the wine, which he drank
freely; "you can have no regrets."
"I have one." He looked toward the portrait of Stephen Viner with
anger. "If I had known what was to occur through that man's
villainy--if I had known the end of those two young lives, the
melancholy fate of Caroline Miller and Edward Blair, I would have
saved them despite the penalty I would have had to pay."
"How would you have saved them?"
"I would have killed the man," said Reuben Thorne, quietly, "who by
his cruelty destroyed two innocent lives. I would have killed one to
save two."
Mr. Weston scarcely heard these last words; a step upon the veranda
drew his attention from Reuben Thorne. Again Michael Lee's voice was
heard:
"Clarence Coveney."
A man fifty years of age entered, dressed as Reuben Thorne was
dressed, in the fashion of a bygone generation. He bowed to Mr. Weston
and took his seat.
"Once more," he said, nodding to Reuben Thorne.
"Once more," responded Reuben Thorne. "We were speaking of Stephen
Viner."
"He is not here."
"No; but he will come."
Other steps upon the veranda, and Michael Lee's voice again:
"Henry Holmes. Rachel Holmes."
Two, whose names only proclaimed them brother and sister, entered with
the same ceremony, and took their seats. They were unlike each other
in appearance, and the lady, who was young, was the more composed of
the two.
"It is so long since we met," she said in a soft tone to Mr. Weston,
"that Henry was doubtful of the welcome we should receive."
"Why should he be doubtful?" said Reuben Thorne. "Every one here has a
claim to be present. Is it not so?" he asked, addressing himself to
Mr. Weston.
"It is so," replied Mr. Weston.
"And all are welcome," continued Reuben Thorne.
"And all are welcome," continued Mr. Weston mechanically. The words
seemed to be forced from him.
"Whether the proposition," said Reuben Thorne, "to meet once in every
year, as we did for many years--each more or less according to the
tenor of his life--was or was not a wise one, it was accepted by all
without demur. Let us, then, now that we have met once again, banish
all ideas of strangeness from our minds; let us be cordial and
friendly to one another, as we once were. This meeting will be the
last. Let us be merry; and let only those be sad who have no regrets."
"Were that really exemplified in life," said Rachel Holmes, "there
would be less sorrow in it."
"Somewhat of a philosophical paradox, that," observed the landlord of
the Silver Flagon.
The circumstance of Mr. Rowe taking part in the conversation brought
relief to Mr. Weston. The scene in which he was playing a part
appeared to be less unreal, and he was less startled by the voice of
Michael Lee, the doorkeeper, who announced, in quick succession:
"James Blanchard. Thomas Chatterton. Ephraim Goldberg."
Mr. Weston, white and trembling, rose and bowed to them as they
entered.
"There are eight of us now," said Reuben Thorne, in a cheerful tone;
"but five more remain. I remember well the occasion and the motive
that first brought us together."
Another guest joined the party in the midst of the speech.
"Frederick Fairfax."
"Nine," continued Reuben Thorne. "If this meeting is less pleasant
than the first, it is not a whit less strange. Surely that is Dinah
Dim's step upon the veranda."
They all turned turned their faces to the door. "Dinah Dim," called
out Michael Lee.
An old woman, with snow-white hair, tall and bent, entered the room
with a light step, and looked briskly around. Her likeness to her
picture on the wall was something marvellous. Not a hair was out of
its place; of this there were five rows of curls on either side of her
head; mittens on her hands and wrists; her gown of old-fashioned
brocade; a scarf across her shoulders; eyes very bright; hands small
and white; a complexion like a peach.
"So you are all before me," she said, in quick, silvery tones--"that
scamp, Reuben Thorne--how are you, my child?--and the Holmes's, and
Mr. Blanchard, and Coveney, and Fairfax, and Chatterton, and Goldberg.
Is that all? Ah, no; here is my child, Richard Weston." She curtseyed
to him, and held out her hand; he took it in his. "Why, child, you
forget what to do with it, you used to kiss it when you were younger."
He kissed her fingers. "Your hair is as white as mine, child; when I
first knew you it was bright and curly. I shall take my seat next to
you. And there is my friend, Mr. Rowe--as straight as an arrow. Now,
my dears, why do we want the attendants about us? We can help
ourselves and chat more freely. Send them away, Mr. Rowe, send them
away."
At the sign from Mr. Rowe, the attendants, nothing loth, left the
room, and did not enter again. The old lady continued:
"Now we can breathe. How many chairs are empty? One, two, three.
Stephen Viner, the monster, is not here; and those two poor
children--ah, me! Give me something to drink. No, not wine; water. I
hope none of you will drink too much. Reuben Thorne, put down that
glass! Drink is your ruin, and you know it. Who was speaking before I
entered?"
"I," replied Reuben Thorne.
"You always had plenty to say. Go on, then; I dare say I interrupted
you."
"The subject was about our first meeting not being more strange than
this. Let me thank you for your presence here. You do not forget that
it was I who first proposed this gathering."
"You have nothing to thank us for," said Rachel Holmes; "we are
controlled by independent forces."
"Rachel Holmes," cried Dinah Dim, "your words were always intelligible
to sensible ears. Go on, Reuben."
"I have nothing to go on with particularly, and nothing very
particular to say. My mind is filled, by but one subject just now."
"What subject?"
"The absent ones--two whom we loved, one whom we hated. Say--am I
right?"
"We all share your feelings," said Dinah Dim.
"I would prefer to hear each speak for himself," said Reuben Thorne,
his eyes travelling from one to the other of the strange company.
One after another expressed their adherence to his sentiments with
reference to the three who were absent.
"All but Mr. Weston have spoken," said Reuben Thorne.
"If I know anything of Richard Weston," said Dinah Dim, "he agrees
with us with all his soul. Why, of all our company, he is the man who
was ever the most eloquent on the beauty of love! He married for love,
my children. I call upon you to drink to the memory of his wife."
The guests rose and drank the toast, bowing to Mr. Weston as they did
so. He raised his glass, and drank with them.
"Who," continued Dinah Dim, with vivacity, "has the best claim to
speak with authority upon this subject? It is not unknown to us that
in his married life he tasted the sweet happiness that springs from
mutual love. And when he lost his wife, did he not write upon her
tombstone, 'Love sweetens all; love levels all?' Honour to the man
who, not in theory but in practice, carried out this noblest of all
the creeds. It is fit that he should be the last survivor, and that he
should preside to-night. Dear children, you know I was the oldest of
the thirteen, and you always treated me with kindness. Well, it was
right that it should be so, for I might have been the grandmother of
some, when we first met. But it was my sad fate to dream only of the
happiness which I once fondly hoped would be mine. I do not remember
that I ever told you my story." She turned to Mr. Weston for
confirmation or correction.
"I never heard it," he said.
"It is soon told. The man I loved was drowned at sea before we were
married. That is the history of my life. Brief enough, is it not? He
was drowned, and I lost him. That is how I grew into an old maid,
living upon the memory of love. I found my consolation as all find it
who are faithful. Though," said Dinah Dim, her tones becoming lighter,
"I think that Reuben Thorne would have tried to tempt me to change my
name had I been ten years younger."
"I might," assented Reuben Thorne, "had I not suspected that you were
Constancy."
A shade of grief rested for a moment on Dinah Dim's face.
"I had that word used to me once when my heart was beating with the
anticipation of a happy future."
"By your lover?"
"By my lover, lost to me for many years; lost when I loved him most."
A heavy step was heard upon the veranda, and there was silence in the
room until the voice of Michael Lee was heard:
"Stephen Viner."
Almost before the words had passed his lips, the new comer had made
his way to the table, and without a motion or word of salutation
dropped into a chair.
CHAPTER IV.
MARGARET'S TRIUMPH.
A dead silence reigned for many moments after the appearance of the
last comer. All eyes were turned upon him in anger and displeasure,
but he did not raise his face to meet their gaze. It was a cruel face,
with hard lines in it, a face which ordinarily was devoid of any
expression of kindness; but, although sternness was native to it,
irresolution and some signs of remorse were visible on this occasion.
That he heard no word of welcome was evidently--if one might judge
from appearances--distressing to him, and he sat in silence, with
hands tightly clenched beneath the table.
It was now ten o'clock, and the moon was at its full. The curtains of
the window had been drawn aside by one of the guests, and the light of
a lovely moon added to the peacefulness and beauty of the night. The
landlord of the Silver Flagon regarded the guests watchfully and
warily, and with uneasiness; but his attention was principally
directed to Mr. Richard Weston. The old gentleman's face was flushed
with wine and excitement; after the first feelings of fear and dismay
at the appearance of these unexpected visitors, he had striven hard to
nerve himself, so that he might play his part in this strange scene in
a befitting manner; that his nerves, however, were highly strung was
shown by an occasional convulsive twining of the fingers, and by his
placing his hands before his eyes and then removing them, as though to
prove to the evidence of his senses that he was not dreaming. Dinah
Dim, who sat next to him, was also very attentive in her observance of
him, and now and again placed her hand on his, and took away the wine
glass which he would have raised to his lips.
She was the first to speak.
"The presence of this man," she cried, in an agitated tone, "is
contamination. Why is he here on this last night of our ever meeting?"
Stephen Viner, with his eyes fixed still upon the table, waited in
expectation of some other person speaking. As no one answered Dinah
Dim's question, he did so.
"I was constrained to come," he said.
"For what reason?" she retorted. "For your own pleasure or ours?
Friends, I appeal to you. Did this man's presence ever bring one smile
to our lips, or engender one kindly thought or feeling?"
"Never," answered Reuben Thorne; and "Never," answered the others.
"His life was a curse to him, and to those whom a sad fortune placed
in his power. I ask again, why is he here?"
"Your words are harsh," said Stephen Viner, raising his hand as if for
mercy. "Your tone is pitiless."
Dinah Dim laughed scornfully. "This man talks of pity," she exclaimed,
"in whose cruel breast no spark of it ever dwelt. A pretty preacher,
truly!"
"I have told you," he said, in a low tone, "that I was constrained to
come to-night. Say that I am here for judgment."
"What kind of judgment," demanded Dinah Dim, "can you expect from
those who know you? Has not your own heart punished you sufficiently?"
"It has," he replied, placing his hand to his breast with a gasp of
passion. "Can I not make atonement?"
"What atonement, after all these years?"
"I can ask their forgiveness; I can tell them, as I tell you, that I
repent of my cruelty, and that if the years could roll back--alas for
me that they cannot! I would act differently."
"See you now, my children," said Dinah Dim, rising--"see you now,
Richard Weston, who have tasted the priceless blessing of pure devoted
love--this man who deliberately destroyed the happiness of two young
lovers, comes before us when it is too late, and repents when it is
too late. A pretty atonement truly is this that he proposes to make by
asking the forgiveness of two innocent young creatures whom he drove
to their death, and whose only crime was that they loved. What
judgment should we pass upon him--what judgment does he deserve? As
you sow, you shall reap. Let this man reap as he has sown. Would any
one here hold out to him the hand of friendship?"
"Not one," answered Reuben Thorne, and every person echoed his words.
Even Mr. Weston, towards whom Dinah Dim looked for assent, was
compelled to say:--
"Not one."
"Shall the curse of money," proceeded Dinah Dim, "for ever outweigh
love--love that humanises the world? The man who, for money's sake,
deliberately drags two loving souls asunder--the man who, for money's
sake, deliberately poisons the lives of two young creatures whose
hearts are drawn together by the holiest sentiment which sweetens
life--brings desolation upon his soul here and hereafter. Who among us
has done this?"
"Stephen Viner," said Reuben Thorne, and again they all echoed his
words. All but Mr. Weston, over whose face a convulsive shudder
passed.
Dinah Dim looked at him for a moment, and observing his agitation did
not press him to join in the general condemnation.
"Let Stephen Viner, then," said Dinah Dim sternly, "go from among us.
His presence brings shame upon us."
The man thus judged and condemned gazed appealingly around, but saw no
pitying sign. As he rose to go, Dinah Dim held up a warning hand, and
Michael Lee's voice was heard for the last time:
"Caroline Miller. Edward Blair."
The lovers entered, side by side. Dinah Dim moved from her place, and
passed her arm round the waist of the young girl, who appeared to need
support. They approached with slow and hesitating steps, and Mr.
Weston turned towards them; but he did not see their faces. The
excitement of the scene had completely overpowered him, and, with a
wild motion of his hands, he sank to the ground in a state of
insensibility.
* * * * * *
When he recovered he was lying on the veranda, and Gideon Rowe was
kneeling by his side. Uncertain whether he was awake or asleep, he
closed his eyes, and seemed to fall naturally into a quiet dream--but
a dream in which he was conscious of though not actually interested
in, all that passed around him. It was as he lay thus, with his eyes
closed, that he felt the influence of a womanly presence, in soft
touches and murmured words, and a tenderness of action not to be
expressed. Opening his eyes he saw no woman, but only his friend,
Gideon Rowe, the landlord of the Silver Flagon by his side.
"That is well, that is well," said Gideon Rowe gently. "You are better
now."
Mr. Weston held his hands for a little while before he spoke.
"I do not feel ill. Why am I here? What has occurred? Ah," he cried,
with a shudder, as his eyes fell upon the folding windows of the room,
"I remember. Are they still there?"
"They! Who?"
"They! Who?" echoed Mr. Weston, wonderingly and weakly. "Can you
ask?--you were by my side?"
"Come, come," said Gideon Rowe, in a soothing tone, "you must not
distress yourself with fancies. Why do you look so strangely toward
the room? No person is in it. You were overcome, and you fainted. But
you are strong now. Come, let us see if you can walk a bit. That's
right, that's right."
He assisted Mr. Weston to rise, and they paced the veranda slowly,
Gideon Rowe purposely pausing by the window which led to the room, to
give Mr. Weston assurance and to dispel his fears.
"Will you go in?"
"No, no," cried Mr. Weston, "we will sit here; the night is very
beautiful. Rowe, do you believe in omens?"
"Has any serious one ever occurred to you?"
"None, in my remembrance."
"Were you not telling me of poor Philip's death some time to-night?"
"Yes," replied Gideon Rowe, with a heavy sigh.
"How did he die? What was the cause of his death?"
"Poor lad! he died by fire. It is a dreadful story."
The father's voice was shaken by grief.
"If it will not distress you too much to tell me," said Mr. Weston,
taking Gideon Rowe's hand, "I should like to hear more about him. Do
not think me unkind, but I am in a strange mood. I feel like a child.
What o'clock is it?"
"Past midnight."
"About Philip, now; indulge me. I loved the boy myself."
"Your Gerald loved him; they were true friends. Had Philip lived, they
would have found much joy in their friendship, but fate willed it
otherwise. Poor Philip died in the goldfields, in Australia--but I
promised that you should hear the story from the lips of the widow.
Will you see her? She is very near."
"I fancied just now, when I awoke, that a woman was near me."
"It was Margaret."
"Margaret!" echoed Mr. Weston.
The name brought with it reproachful remembrances.
"That is the name of the girl Philip married."
"Yes, I will see her. One moment; I must not miss saying what was in
my mind. I was speaking of omens. You had no foreshadowing of Philip's
death?"
"None; the poor lad was dead many months before I heard the news."
"But omens come occasionally to some persons."
"I have read and heard so."
"Gideon, one has come to me; it may foreshadow my death. I have seen
the dead."
Gideon Rowe made no comment upon this, but went to the end of the
veranda, and called "Margaret!"
Margaret--_our_ Margaret--herself appeared, simply dressed. She
approached Mr. Weston, with a serious expression on her beautiful
face.
"It _is_ you," he exclaimed, gazing at her in wonder.
"Yes," she said, "poor Philip was my husband."
"Why did you not tell me this before, Margaret?"
"I had my reasons. I was not sure that I could trust you."
"Margaret," interposed Gideon Rowe, "Mr. Weston wishes to hear the
particulars of our poor boy's death; I promised that you should tell
him."
Margaret turned her head; her lips trembled; tears rushed to her eyes.
"Nay, nay," said Mr. Weston; needing sympathy, he was in the mood to
give it; "another time. It will pain her too much."
But Margaret had a purpose in telling the story, and she related the
particulars of Philip's death in simple language and in feeling tones.
She felt every word she spoke; she was not acting now, and natural
pathos it was that drew tears from Mr. Weston.
"I saw my devoted darling in the flames," said Margaret, between her
sobs, "looking for me with blind eyes. I tried to get to him, but they
held their arms round me, and I could not escape from them. But there
was one--ah, there was one!--who, seeing my despair and Philip's
peril, rushed into the flames to save his friend. Too late, alas! He
dragged my darling out of the burning house, but could not save his
life; yet he gave my Philip to me for a few blessed hours."
Overcome by her emotion, Margaret paused.
"A noble action!" said Mr. Weston. "A noble man!"
Margaret nerved herself to proceed. "He and I nursed Philip, and
watched the life die out of him. Every word my darling uttered is
graven on my heart. 'Dear old fellow!' he said, with feeble gasps, to
this dearest of friends. 'Noble old fellow! God bless Margaret and
you!'"
"Indeed, indeed," said Mr. Weston, "a blessing should fall upon such a
man!"
"'Take care of Margaret,'" whispered my Philip; "'be a father to her.
Dear old dad I hoped to see you, and show you my darling. But he will
bring her to you.' He uttered but few words after that," continued
Margaret, who standing now between Mr. Weston and Philip's father,
held a hand of each, "but they all referred to his noble friend and to
me, and you, sir" (to Gideon Rowe), "whom he loved most tenderly. So
my Philip died. Perhaps he hears me tell the sad story of our love on
this solemn, beautiful night. Philip, my darling!" she murmured
softly, raising her tearful eyes to the bright heavens; "if you can
help me bring the blessing you invoked on our dear friend's head, you
will bring a blessing also to your Margaret, in whose heart you will
live till she joins you in a better world than this!"
"Is this friend, then, unhappy?" asked Mr. Weston.
"Most unhappy--most undeservedly unhappy. Ah, sir, if you had it in
your power, would you not help him--would you not be proud to bring
joy into the life of such a man? You were right in calling him noble.
Such a nature as his ennobles the world! And yet at this moment he is
stricken down by grief."
"He is here, then--in England?"
"He is here, in England, in Devonshire, within sound of my voice."
"What is his name?"
"I must relate an accident of his early life before I tell you, in
proof that this act of devotion toward my Philip was not the only act
of sacrifice and devotion he has performed. Not the only one, did I
say? His life is full of noble deeds. When he was young he had a
friend--nay, do not take your hand away; he and his friend loved the
same girl. He saw that the girl's heart was given to his friend, whom
he had kept in ignorance of the state of his affections, out of
consideration for him. Listen, now, to what this man did when he fully
learned the truth. Loving this girl, he could not remain near her
without betraying himself. Knowing that the revelation of his love
would bring distress both to his friend and the girl he loved, he went
from them suddenly. He did more than this; his friend at that time was
not rich. He himself had some little store of money--between one and
two thousand pounds, as near as I can learn; he placed this money--the
whole of his fortune--in the hands of a lawyer, to be given to the
girl, with strict instructions that neither she nor his friend should
know from whom it came. It is now for the first time that his friend
hears of this act of sacrifice and unselfishness. Why do you turn from
me?"
"Let me be, child, for a few moments," said Mr. Weston, in broken
tones; "I might have guessed--I might have guessed! Where in the world
could I find another such noble heart as Gerald's? I have wronged
him--deeply wronged him."
"A fault confessed is half atoned for," said Margaret, pursuing her
advantage. "Complete the atonement. You can do so."
"Child, my promise is given elsewhere. You do not know what strange
things have happened this night, Margaret, that, apart from what you
have told me, would induce me to complete the atonement. Margaret, I
have been visited by the spirits of the dead--by men and women who
passed out of the world years and years ago, and whose faces I have
seen only in my dreams. _They_ came to warn me, as it seems--but I
cannot speak of it."
Margaret assisted him to a chair, and knelt by his side, Gideon Rowe
standing a few paces away.
"Do not disregard their warning," she said sweetly, "if you disregard
my pleading--for I do plead, and you know for whom."
"I know--I know; but my promise stands in the way."
"What promise?"
"Gerald is promised to another--I cannot depart from my word."
Margaret smiled tenderly.
"What is the name of the young lady?"
"Miss Forester. You saw her on the unhappy night on which my friend
left my house with his daughter."
"It was an unhappy night for all of us. Did this promise not bind
you----"
He took up her words.
"Did this promise not bind me, I would, if I could find the courage to
do so, and were I assured that Gerald and Lucy truly loved each other,
go to my friend--of whose goodness every time that I speak of him
brings fresh proof--and ask the hand of his daughter for my son."
Such happiness stirred Margaret's heart at these words that he felt
her warm tears upon his hand as she kissed it again and again.
"I cannot express my joy," she said, "for I know that you never yet
forfeited a promise. Father," she called Gideon Rowe to her side, and
whispered a few words of instruction in his ear. He nodded smilingly,
and left her. "Dear Mr. Weston, if such a sentiment as pure loves
exists--and we know it does--it exists in the hearts of Lucy and
Gerald. As for Miss Forester, here she is to speak for herself."
If Miss Forester and Rachel Holmes were one and the same person, then
Mr. Weston might have believed that Miss Forester was there to speak
for herself; for the lady who came now upon the scene was dressed in
the old-fashioned garments worn by Rachel Holmes when she made her
appearance at the dinner, an unexpected and certainly unwelcome guest.
Finding no clue to the enigma, and sorely disturbed by the late
occurrence, Mr. Weston grasped Margaret's hand in deep agitation.
"She is no phantom," said Margaret, with a smile; "she is really and
truly flesh and blood, as you and I are. I see that you are filled
with wonder, and if you will say, Margaret, I forgive you,' I will
explain what is now a mystery to you, and will relieve your mind of
the fears which oppress you."
"Could you do that," he responded, "I would say freely 'Margaret, I
forgive you,' whatever it is that you have done."
Again Margaret called Gideon Rowe to her side, and again, with a few
whispered words, despatched him to do her bidding.
"I have played the part of a scheming woman to-night. The truest friend
I ever had or ever shall have, the noblest soul I have ever known, is
_your_ friend, Gerald Hart. He has rendered me such services as no man
or woman could possibly forget; he risked his life for me and mine,
and my heart is filled with gratitude towards him. At Silver Creek,
where I first met my poor Philip, I learned that Mr. Hart had a
daughter whom he loved with a tender and beautiful love. She was the
pulse of his life; as she suffered and enjoyed, he suffered and
enjoyed, and her happiness was nearest and dearest to his heart. You
have heard the story of our lives at Silver Creek, and of my darling
Philip's death, and you can understand with what feelings of true
regard and veneration I look up to this steadfast friend. We came
home, and he had the happiness of embracing his Lucy, whom he had left
a child, and who was now grown into a beautiful woman. And as good and
as pure, sir, as she is beautiful. But I discovered that Lucy had a
secret grief which would soon send her to her grave, unless it were
dispelled. Ah, sir, you do not know the truth, the constancy, the
depth of tenderness which dwell in that dear girl's soul! We came to
your house as visitors. I was the first who saw that your Gerald and
my Lucy were lovers--that they had been lovers before her father's
return home--and I did my best to aid them. We had to keep this secret
from you, for you were bent upon other views for Gerald, and I learned
to my dismay that certain words which passed between you and Mr. Hart
would cause him to sacrifice his own and Lucy's happiness rather than
that she should marry your son without your consent. Then came that
unhappy night when your friend went from your house, with his heart
almost broken by the belief that he had been deceived where most he
trusted. Now, sir, I had pledged myself to bring Lucy and Gerald
together, and to obtain--what I have already (see, sir, how bold I
am!)--your consent to their union. In the face of all the
difficulties, how was I to accomplish this? I flew to a friend, by
name Lewis Nathan, an old sweetheart of my mother's. I had heard that
you had a Bluebeard's room in your house, and acting upon Mr. Nathan's
suggestion, we entered the room during your absence, and discovered
thirteen portraits hanging on the walls--nothing more. When Mr. Hart
and Lucy left your house I was in despair, for I saw no way of
accomplishing my desire. I made myself known to Philip's father in
this dear old Silver Flagon, and I won my way to his affection.
"I had not been in the Silver Flagon a week before I found myself in a
room hung round with portraits--thirteen of them--exact duplicates of
those which line your Bluebeard's room. Curious to know, I coaxed the
story of these pictures out of Mr. Rowe, and then I thought I saw a
way to win your consent. I consulted Mr. Nathan, and we planned the
scheme. It was a desperate expedient, dear sir, but I am a bold
creature, as you know, and I alone am responsible for all that has
occurred to-night. I am an actress, and some of those who presented
themselves to you at the dinner are actors whom I engaged from the
theatre. All your guests were not professionals, sir. This lady, Miss
Forester--who is Miss Forester no longer, for, determined not to be
forced into a distasteful union, she was privately married to the
gentleman to whom her heart is given--entered with fervour into my
scheme, and personated Rachel Holmes; her husband personated Henry
Holmes. See, sir, some of your late guests are in the garden. Here are
your spectacles; I could not afford that you should wear them before;
I was fearful lest your sight should be too sharp for me. Did we play
our parts well, sir? Reuben Thorne was enacted by my trusty friend,
Mr. Lewis Nathan. And I, sir, am Dinah Dim, very much at your
service."
Mr. Weston revolved this explanation in his mind during many moments
of silence. I am not disposed to follow the current of his thoughts;
he was a worldly man, and an analysis might detract from the grace of
the act which he presently performed. He was compelled to confess that
he had been conquered, and he found some consolation in the
inexpressible relief he experienced in being relieved of his fears. He
had a question or two to ask, however.
"Who was Stephen Viner?"
"An actor."
"And Caroline Miller and Edward Blair?"
"Lucy and your son, sir. I was doubtful of them from the first, afraid
that their feelings might betray them."
"Rowe," said Mr. Weston to the landlord of the Silver Flagon, "you had
a doorkeeper?"
"Yes--Michael Lee by name."
"Where is he?"
Margaret interposed. "That is one of my secrets, sir. My father had
not seen your friend, Gerald Hart, until he introduced himself
to-night."
"Until he introduced himself to-night!" exclaimed Gideon Rowe. "Nay, I
have never yet seen Mr. Hart."
"You have," replied Margaret, with a smile; "he is Michael Lee."
* * * * * *
Thus, by this strange and bold device, our Margaret won the day.
Truly, it was a triumph of love. As Richard Weston and Gerald Hart
stood face to face clasping hands once more, and as they turned
towards their children, who were radiant with joy, Margaret murmured
to herself the name of "Philip," and looked up to heaven, not
unhappily. They remained together until morning broke. As the wondrous
colours came into the sky, Margaret said to Mr. Hart:
"Do you remember the night of the storm in Silver Creek, when you were
robbed of your money, and when you and Philip and I stood at the
window watching the day break?"
"I do, dear Margaret--dear daughter!"
"God bless you!" she said, with a sob.
"And you, my dear," he softly answered. "You have accomplished the
supreme happiness of my life."
THE END.
PRINTED BY TAYLOR AND CO.,
LITTLE QUEEN STEET, LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS.
End of Project Gutenberg's At the Sign of the Silver Flagon, by B. L. Farjeon