At the Sign of the Silver Flagon

by B. L. Farjeon

END OF THE FIRST PART.

[Part the Second.]

HOME.

[CHAPTER I.]

THE CURTAIN FALLS FOR A BRIEF SPACE.

For a brief space, let the curtain fall.

The Good Harvest made a fine passage home. It was one of those famous clipper ships, at once the glory and the pride of commerce, which occasionally made a run of four hundred knots in the twenty-four hours. On those occasions after the heaving of the log, the skipper rubs his hands joyously, and walks the deck in a state of beaming satisfaction. Then is the time to ask a favour of him.

For a little while after Mr. Hart stepped on board this good ship his spirits were weighed down by melancholy. The tragic death of Philip had affected him powerfully. During their brief acquaintance he had grown to love the young man most deeply and sincerely, and he felt like a father who had lost a darling son. I have already said that Mr. Hart, although he was over sixty years of age, was a young-looking man. He had lines and furrows in his face, but they did not bring a careworn or despondent expression there, as is generally the case. His gait, his voice, his manner, the brightness of his eyes, were those which naturally belong to three decades of years instead of six. What more pleasant sight is there in human nature than to see old age thus borne? For the first few days, however, after the sailing of the Good Harvest, Mr. Hart looked his years.

But to stand upon the deck, holding on by spar or rope, while the noble ship rushed bravely onwards through the grand sea, now riding on the white crests of great water ranges, now gliding through the wondrous valleys on the wings of the wind, was enough to make an old man young again. It made Mr. Hart young. The salt spray and the fresh exhilarating breezes drove youth into his pores, and his heart danced within him as day after day passed, and he was drawn nearer and nearer to the shores of old England. They brought back to him also his natural hopefulness and cheerfulness of heart. The great secret of this change for the better lay in himself. He had faith; he believed in the goodness of God and in a hereafter. He did not love Philip less because he grieved for him less. "I shall see Philip again," he thought; and his heart glowed as he looked at the sea and the heavens, and saw around him the wondrous evidences of a beneficent Creator.

Every soul on board the Good Harvest--with the exception of two or three passengers who had made their fortunes in the gold country, and whose natures had been soured in the process--had a smile and a good word for the cheerful and genial old man, who seemed to be always on the look-out to do his neighbours a kindness; he was an exemplification of Macaulay's saying, with reference to a voyage in a passenger ship, "It is every day in the power of an amiable person to confer little services." He was unremitting in his attention to Margaret, whom, however, he could not win to cheerfulness. It was well for her, during this darkened period of her life, that she had by her side such a faithful friend as Mr. Hart; for as the constant dropping of water makes an impression even on a stone, so the unwearied care and constant sympathy of this good friend had a beneficial effect upon Margaret's spirits. At present the effect was shown only in a negative way; while Mr. Hart's efforts failed to brighten her outwardly during the voyage, they prevented her from sinking into the depths of despair. At first she was loth to speak of Philip, and when Mr. Hart mentioned his name, she looked at him reproachfully; but, knowing that it would be best for her, he wooed her gently to speak of her lost love. These efforts were made always at seasonable times: in the evening when all was quiet around them, and they two were sitting alone, looking over the bulwarks at the beautiful water; when the evening star came out; later on in the night, when the heavens were filled with stars; when the moon rose; when the clouds were more than usually lovely. The memory of Philip became, as it were, harmonised with these peaceful influences, and his name, gently uttered, brought no disquiet to her soul. She grew to associate Philip with all that was most beautiful and peaceful in nature; and although she would occasionally in the dead of night awake from her sleep in terror with the sight and sound of furious flames in her mind, and with Philip's form struggling in their midst, these disturbing fancies became less frequent as time wore on. One night she awoke, smiling, for she had dreamt of Philip in association with more soothing influences; she and he had been walking together on a still night, with bright stars about them.

She began to be aware of the selfishness of her grief, and to reproach herself for her ingratitude to Mr. Hart. She expressed her penitence to him.

"Well," he said, kindly and seriously, "that is good in one way. It shows that you are becoming a little more cheerful."

She shook her head.

"I shall never again be cheerful; happiness is gone out of my life for ever."

"Philip does not like to hear you say so, Margaret."

Mr. Hart purposely used the present tense. Margaret pondered over the words. "Philip does not like!" That would imply that Philip heard her.

"He does hear you, my dear," said Mr. Hart. "If I believed that you would never see Philip again I should bid you despair; but you and Philip will meet in a better world than this, and that is why I want you to be cheerful, as he would ask you to be, if you could hear his voice."

In this way Mr. Hart aroused to consciousness the religious principle within her, and it may with truth be said that, although Margaret had lived a pure and sinless life, she had never been a better woman than she was now, notwithstanding the deep sorrow which had fallen upon her.

When the Good Harvest had been seventy days out, the skipper said to Mr. Hart that he smelt England. "If all goes well," he said, "we shall be in Victoria Dock in seven days from this."

Mr. Hart immediately went below into his cabin. He mapped out his programme of proceedings. His first task--one of duty--was to see William Smith's old mother. She lived in London, and if he got ashore before midday, he would be able to put Margaret in lodgings, and see the old woman the same day. Then he would draw before her eyes the sketch of the picture which William Smith had paid him to paint, of the Margaret Reef and the William Smith quartz-crushing machine "banging away," and he would delight the old woman's heart by telling her of the grand doings of her son. Mr. Hart calculated that he could accomplish this by the evening, when he would take his sketch away with him and paint the picture from it in the course of the next three or four weeks. His second task was one of love; he would go to see his daughter. Curiously enough, she was in Devonshire, whither he should have to direct his steps in Margaret's interests. Philip's father lived in "dear old Devon," to use Philip's own words; but that and the allusions to the Silver Flagon which had been adopted as the sign of their hotel in Silver Creek, were the only clues which Mr. Hart possessed towards finding old Mr. Rowe. Faint as these clues were (and he had discovered that Margaret could not supply him with any more definite), it was clearly his duty to do his best with them. Margaret, of course, would accompany him to Devonshire, and become acquainted with his daughter Lucy, whose name is now for the first time mentioned. Seated in his cabin, Mr. Hart took out his pocket-book, and wrote in it the order of his proceedings. This being done, he looked over the contents of the book, and came across a blank envelope with a bulky enclosure in it. At first he did not remember how this envelope came into his possession, but he was only in doubt for a moment or two. It was the packet which Philip had given into his charge on his return from his honeymoon. Mr. Hart recalled the conversation that had taken place between them on the occasion, and the promise Philip had exacted from him that he would not give up the envelope until they met in the old country. He sighed as he thought that that meeting could never take place, and he went into the saloon where Margaret was sitting. He asked her if Philip had spoken to her about this trust; she answered, "No," and that she was in complete ignorance of it.

"Now that poor Philip's wish cannot be fulfilled," said Mr. Hart, "you had better take possession of the packet."

He held it out to her; she refused to accept it.

"It was given into your charge," she said, "by my poor lost darling. Every word he spoke is sacred to me." Her tears began to flow.

"At all events," said Mr. Hart, "we will see what is inside."

He opened the envelope, and found that it enclosed another, well sealed, on the cover of which was written:

"The Property of Gerald, and to be opened only by him."

This complicated matters.

"Gerald," thought Mr. Hart; "my name!" and said aloud, "Do you know who Gerald is?"

"My poor darling," replied Margaret, "has spoken to me of a friend he had named Gerald."

"Then this must be he." Mr. Hart replaced the envelope in his pocket-book. "We may have the good fortune to find him. Gerald may have been a college friend."

So that now there was another task, with the slightest of clues, to be fulfilled.

Mr. Hart had noticed, with great inward satisfaction, that during the past two or three weeks Margaret was looking brighter; she had not, it is true, recovered her old animation of speech and manner, but comfort and consolation had come to her in some way. More than once she had seemed to be on the point of confiding something to this dear friend, who was now all in the world she had to cling to, but the words she wished to speak would not come to her tongue. On this night, however, as they stood upon the deck, talking of Philip, of home, of the future, in subdued tones, Mr. Hart learned Margaret's secret. She hoped to become a mother.

"Heaven pray that it may be so," thought Mr. Hart; "it will be a joy and a solace to her bruised heart."

Another day went by, and another. The Good Harvest sailed smartly on to England's shores. The sailors sang blithely at their work; the skipper paced the deck in a joyous frame of mind, thinking of his wife and children at home; and almost at the very hour named by him, the long voyage was at an end, and London smoke was curling over the masts.

[CHAPTER II.]

"THE WORLD IS FULL OF SWEET AND BEAUTIFUL PLACES."

On a day in June, when the roses were blooming, there sauntered through one of the sweetest of all the sweet country lanes in England an elderly man, whose hair was white, and whose dress and bearing denoted that he was a gentleman. The lane was a long one, with many windings, and the few persons whom the gentleman met touched their hats and bowed to him as they passed, with varying degrees of deference, according to their station; he, on his part, receiving all these greetings with uniform courtesy, and with the accustomed air of one to whom homage of this kind was familiar. Walking toward him, at a distance of three or four hundred yards, at the moment his figure first appears upon the scene, was a man of about the same age, whose inquiring looks this way and that proclaimed either that the locality was strange to him, or that he was renewing acquaintance with it after a lapse of years. His dress was composed of much commoner materials than was that of the gentleman he was approaching, and there were a careless freedom and an assertion of independence in his manner which only those exhibit who have travelled about the world.

In the minds of these two men, one holding a high, the other a humble, station in life, there was no thought of each other; but the threads of their lives, which had been so wide apart, and for so long a time as to make it appear almost an impossibility that they should ever again be connected, were approaching closer and closer with each passing moment, and would soon be joined, never more to be unlinked. They knew not of it, thought not of it; but it was most sure. What is it that shapes our lives--chance, or a wise ordination? Say that, invited by a faint smell of lilac or by the fluttering of a butterfly's wings with a rare colour in them which we would behold again, we turn aside but for one moment from our contemplated course--can it be possible that we are such slaves of circumstance that this simple deviation (if it may be so called) may change the current of our lives from good to ill, from bad fortune to prosperity? How often does a breath of air change a comedy into a tragedy! Blindly we walk along, and presently may be struggling in the dark with grim terrors, or may be walking among flowers, surrounded by everything that can make life sweet.

In a very narrow part of the country lane, where the hedgerows were most fragrant, was a stile, upon the top bar of which the stranger rested his foot, and turning, gazed with pleased and grateful eyes over the fair vista of field and wood which the hedgerows shut out from the view of those who walked on the level path. Although he was between sixty and seventy years of age, his eyes were bright, and his face was the face of one who was prone to look upon the best side of things.

"How fair and beautiful it is!" he murmured gratefully. "What is there in the world half so sweet as these dear old English lanes and fields?" He paused to reflect upon his question; and then, with the whimsically-serious air of one who was accustomed to commune with himself, exclaimed, "Nonsense, Gerald, nonsense! The world is full of sweet and beautiful places."

Gentle undulations of land, beautified by various colour, were before him; shadows of light passed over the landscape like waves, and stole from it the sadness which is ever an attribute of still life. There were farmyards in the distance, and sheep, with bells hung to their necks, trudging with patient gait to where the most tempting herbage lay. The sheep were at a great distance from the stranger, and by a curious trick of the fancy he listened to the tinkling of the bells, although it was impossible that the sound could reach him. Other sounds he could hear plainly: the cry of the woodpecker, and the more melodious note of the cuckoo, beautifully clear, notwithstanding its slightly plaintive ring.

"And full of sweet sounds, too," mused the stranger, pursuing the current of his thoughts; and added immediately, with the same whimsically-serious air, and as if in comical defence of a prejudice, "Certainly no birds sing like English birds."

"I beg your pardon."

The threads of their lives had met, never more to be unwoven, and the threads of other lives were presently to be joined to theirs, for weal or woe, as fate might determine. From this chance meeting rare combinations were to spring.

"I was remarking," said the stranger, turning to the gentleman who was standing by the stile, waiting to cross, "and not with justice, that no birds sing like English birds." The gentleman did not answer him, and then he comprehended that the words uttered by the gentleman had been used not in contradiction of his statement, but as a request that he would move aside. He descended from the stile with a courteous smile, and said, "I beg your pardon, I am sure, both for blocking up the road-way and for misunderstanding you; but I was so rapt in the beauty of the scene and in my own thoughts, that I misinterpreted the intention of your words. Notwithstanding which, I should like to have your opinion as to whether I am right or not."

The gentleman had bent his head in acknowledgment of the half apology, and when the stranger ceased speaking, was standing on the other side of the stile. The gentleman gazed at the stranger, and recognised at a glance that although he was commonly dressed his manners and speech were not those of a common person. To have proceeded on his way without a word would have been churlish; therefore he said, in a courteous tone:

"Right as to the birds?"

"Yes, as to the birds," replied the stranger, with vivacity.

"I cannot say; I have not travelled. Some of our best woodland singers are migratory. But I should say--although I am not in the least way an authority--that it would be no easy matter to find more melodious woods than our English woods."

"That is true; then I was right. Though whether I meant that English birds were or were not better singers than birds of other countries, it would puzzle me to say. But as to the English woods--they are the sweetest and fairest. There again! I have lain in the Australian woods, and my soul has been thrilled by their beauty. Yes, I was right. The world is full of sweet and beautiful places."

The gentleman smiled at these contradictory utterances, but the stranger's words could not have been more at variance with one another than were his speech and his attire. His words were scholarly, and his clothes were patched.

"You look and speak like an Englishman," said the gentleman.

"I am one."

"From your words I should judge that this part of England is strange to you."

"It is more than thirty years since I was last in Devonshire."

"That is a long time--you must find it changed somewhat."

"Somewhat."

While these words were being exchanged, their observance of each other, which had been slight at first, grew closer and more searching, and into their eyes stole a pondering look so curiously alike that one seemed to be a reflection of the other. But for the influence which this close observance exercised upon him, the gentleman would not have stopped to converse with an unknown man, and with one so far beneath him, from a worldly point of view. The stranger repeated thoughtfully:

"Yes, I find it somewhat changed."

"It is in the nature of things," said the gentleman, "to change as we grow older."

"Not so. I find it changed because I have changed. Old eyes and young eyes see the same things differently. Are the clouds less bright than they were when we were young? Are the flowers less beautiful? When Jacob courted Laban's daughters o' nights (how they must have laughed in their sleeves, if they wore them, at the old man's craft!) were the nights less lovely than the nights are now?"

The gentleman passed his hand lightly before his eyes, as if to clear away a vapour.

"I am corrected," he said, with the air of a man whose thoughts were travelling one road, while his words travelled another; "we sometimes say things without consideration."

"Either because they sound well, or because they seem to savour of wisdom. That comes from our vanity. When men grow as old as we are, they often ape the philosopher. The lark changes into an owl. They try to shape their words so that they may sound like proverbs."

"They utter one occasionally, perhaps."

"Perhaps," said the stranger in a tone of dubious assent; "but the odds are heavy against it. Even if they do, what then?"

"Proverbs are good and useful utterances," observed the gentleman, adding, in unconscious illustration of the stranger's words, "nuts of wisdom."

The stranger laughed scornfully. "A proverb on proverbs! Nuts of wisdom indeed!"

"Are they not?"

"No; the proverb holds a false position in language. It is used invariably in a general sense, whereas it has only a special application for the time being; then, having served its purpose, loses its value, and should be laid aside until another special circumstance calls for it."

"It would be difficult to establish that."

"Most easy. I will prove it in a practical way. Repeat a proverb--any one that occurs to you; the more familiar the better--and I will mate it with another, equally familiar, which gives it the lie."

The gentleman might have accepted the challenge, but that a labourer, approaching them from his side of the stile, seemed to remind him that he was losing dignity in conversing with one who wore patched clothes, and who was unknown to him. Bidding the stranger "Good day," and slightly bending his head in acknowledgment of the labourer's deferential bow, he walked slowly away.

[CHAPTER III.]

CUSTOS ROTULORUM.

As the labourer crossed the stile, the stranger accosted him.

"Hodge!"

"Who be Hodge?" quoth the labourer uncivilly, but disposed for conversation and argument. "You--in a collective sense."

"Then ye've gotten the sow by the wrong ear."

"Supposing I have gotten a sow at all," said the stranger complacently. "Will you present to me the right ear?"

Not understanding the nature of the request, the man continued playing on the same string.

"Hodge bain't my name!"

And grinned with the triumph of a philosopher. "What may be your name, then, my most veracious hair-splitter?"

"I be no splitter. Who be ye a-callin' names? As for my name, that I'll keep to myself." Saying which, the labourer fastened a loose button with an air of determination.

With a chuckle, the stranger replied, "Like yourself, O tiller of the soil!--for such you are, I opine, and, as such, the noblest work of God--like yourself, I am but a poor player, who struts and frets his hour upon the stage."

"Eh! a player I was thinking ye didn't look like a worker! I know en when I see en;" and the labourer grinned again at his own wit.

"But 'tis not of ourselves I wish to speak," said the stranger in a tone which he purposely made grandiloquent; "tis of another--of the gentleman to whom you doffed your cap, and who has just left us."

"What do you want of en!" demanded the labourer, in a sharp tone, cocking his ears like a terrier.

"His name."

"Eh! More names! D'ye come down here to rob us of en? But there be no harm a-tellin' of ye. It may be a warnin' to ye. 'A's name be Mister Weston."

All the stranger's light manner was gone.

"Weston!" he cried, seizing the man's arm.

The labourer shook himself free, and in a severe tone corrected the stranger.

"Mister Weston, I told ye."

"I ask your and Mr. Weston's pardon. A well-to-do man this Mr. Weston?"

The labourer scanned the stranger's clothes; the mental result was not favourable.

"That be his business, 'a b'lieve," he said suspiciously.

Apparently in an absent mood, the stranger drew from his pocket a handful of articles, among which were a short pipe, a tobacco-pouch, and some money. Somewhat ostentatiously he picked out a few silver and copper pieces, and held them loosely in his left hand. The labourer, who was about to slouch away, altered his mind, and lingered patiently.

"Good cider about here, my man?" asked the stranger.

"That there be," replied the labourer, drawing the back of his hand across his mouth. "The best in the county."

"I passed an old-fashioned hostelry--more like a gentleman's house than an hotel--about half a mile from this spot----" the stranger paused.

"Up along there," said the labourer, pointing with his finger.

"Yes; in that direction."

"With a bit o' garden round en?" volunteered the labourer.

"Ay, with a garden round it."

"And a swing gate before en----"

"'Tis so. And a swing gate opening into the garden. Apple-trees before the house----"

"Standing back from the road the house be?" said the labourer, moving his lips as one might do preparatory to the imbibing of a deep draught of the best cider in the county.

"It is warmish," said the stranger, with a look of sly enjoyment. "Yes, standing back from the road the house is."

"That be the Silver Flagon."

The stranger leaped off the stile with a sudden cry.

"A day of wonders!" he exclaimed. "Providence must have led me in this direction." A sad and tender reminiscence brought the tears to his eyes. "The Silver Flagon! The dear, old Silver Flagon. And the proprietor's name is Rowe, an old man and a gentleman!"

"That 'a be--as wold a man as ye, 'a should say. A rare fine place 'tis."

"It looks it." The stranger's eyes glittered with joy.

"Too fine for the likes of----" ("we," he was about to say, but the sight of the stranger's money caused a correction)--"me. 'A can get rare fine cider in another place."

"Doubtless." The stranger could scarcely restrain his excitement. "But to come back to what we were speaking of just now"--(rattling the money in his hand)--"this Mr. Weston---- By the way, though, let us give him his full name; Mr. Richard Weston, of course."

"Ay, that be his name."

The labourer would have used the word "full," but that it stood in his mind for "foolish."

"I was asking--a well-to-do man, Mr. Weston?"

"Well-to-do!" exclaimed the labourer, thirstily. "They say he have no end o' money."

"Highly respected, no doubt?"

"That 'a be," replied the labourer, becoming very parched indeed. "If ye'll stand atop the stile, ye'll see the chimneys of his house. 'Tis a rare fine house."

The stranger stood upon the top bar of the stile, and gazed in the indicated direction. "I see them, and I make my obeisance to them." Saying which he doffed his hat, and bowed with a curiously-fantastic tenderness. He quite forgot the labourer, who was standing by his side, greedily and humbly expectant, but a cough and a kick at the stile recalled him to himself. He turned, and, with a negligent nod and a half smile at the labourer, dropped the money carelessly into his pocket, and proceeded to charge his pipe.

A minute or two passed in silence; then the labourer coughed again, and scraped his foot, and shifted his body restlessly; but the stranger puffed at his pipe calmly, and did not appear to notice him, although really he was enjoying the man's discomfiture. The labourer went through a certain mental process. First, he was mystified, and his mind was clouded; then a glimmer of light broke into the clouds, and a dim suspicion stole upon him that he had been beaten into civility by a trick. With a sense of helplessness, and of submission to the superior cunning by which he had been conquered, he was about to move away, when the passing of his tongue over his lips made him ireful and vindicative. A thought struck him, and he proceeded to give it expression.

"'A say!" he cried, in his uncivillist tone.

The stranger removed his pipe from his lips, and raised his eyes towards the man.

"Ah! you have an idea, evidently. Stand, then, and deliver!"

The man started back, having some notion of the meaning of the words; he clapped his hand on his trousers-pocket, to protect three half-pence and--his idea.

"Don't be alarmed," said the stranger; "nothing of that sort was in my mind. Proceed, my friend."

"No friend o' yours, that 'a know of," retorted the labourer. "You'd best take care!"

"I will endeavour to do so."

The labourer searched his mind for a colloquial stone with which to smite his foe. He found one.

"Ye don't look too respectable."

"You deserve a reward for your perspicacity," said the stranger, much amused--and the labourer, at the unfamiliar word, started again--"if not for your civility. You have a keener scent than our friend--I beg your pardon once more--than Mr. Weston."

"Well, take care, then. He be a justice."

"A little one or a big one, my man? A frog or an ox? For there are justices and justices."

"A big un. Take care!" This iteration appeared to assuage his thirst.

"Custos rotulorum, eh?"

"'A thought you was no good--cussin' and swearin'. 'A've a good mind----"

"I hope so, I'm sure. May it long remain uncontaminated!"

"'A've a good mind to go and tell en."

"You've a good mind to go and tell him you've a good mind?" queried the stranger, in a quiet bantering tone.

"To tell en ye're up to no good; seeking to know all about en--whether he be rich and where he lives. Danged if I don't b'lieve ye're one o' them London chaps come down along here wi' designs!"

"A peripatetic architect," said the stranger, laughing heartily. "Thank you for the compliment, my rustic sage. I am nothing so dignified as that, believe me. But allow me to correct you. You yourself volunteered the information as to the whereabouts of Mr. Weston's house; the information may be useful to me."

"May en! Danged if I don't go and tell en!"

The stranger stood aside to allow the labourer to cross the stile.

"Come after me if ye dare!" cried the labourer.

"I dare do all that may become a man," replied the stranger; and also crossing the stile, he leisurely followed the labourer, who took care to keep at a fair distance.

They had not to walk far. Round another bend in the lane, where it broadened unexpectedly, and where great tufts of feather-grass were swinging their fairy bells over a brook, they came upon Mr. Weston resting himself. He turned towards them at their approach. The labourer took off his cap, and pawed the ground servilely with his left foot; and then found himself in a difficulty. He had not the wit to lead up to the attack gently, and with the consciousness upon him of the stranger's superior flow of speech, he felt himself at a disadvantage. If the stranger would speak first, he could take up his words; but the stranger stood provokingly calm and silent.

"Well," said Mr. Weston.

The sense of injury under which the man laboured gave him courage.

"This chap here," he blurted out, with a back scrape of his right foot, "be up to no good, your honour."

Mr. Weston looked at the stranger, and waited for farther explanation.

"'A be a London chap come down along here wi' designs. 'A don't deny en. 'A be cravin' all sorts of questions about your honour. 'A wanted to know whether your honour was rich, where your honour's house be, and how much money your honour keeps in it. I conceived it my duty to come along and tell your honour."

"O most mendacious Hodge!" exclaimed the stranger, shaking his head in sad and smiling reproof.

"That be the way 'a's been talkin' all the time; and swearin' and cussin' as well, and callin' your honour a frog. When 'a'd drawed out o' me that your honour was a justice, 'a cussed and rotted your honour."

"Custos rotulorum," said the stranger.

"They be the words--cussin' and rottin', your honour!"

[CHAPTER IV.]

IT WAS JUST SUCH A DAY AS THIS; AND THE AIR WAS SWEET, AND LIFE WAS SWEET.

Mr. Weston smiled, and the stranger smiled also. These smiles were like question and answer, and appeared to be given and accepted as a satisfactory defence to the labourer's accusations. At the same time there stole into Mr. Weston's eyes the same curiously pondering look which had dwelt in them when he and the stranger were first conversing.

"It cannot be," he answered.

"Why not?" asked the stranger. "More wonderful things have happened."

Suddenly he cast aside his nonchalant air, and said earnestly:

"Look into the brook."

As though compelled by an influence he had no power to withstand, Mr. Weston gazed into the brook, and saw reflected there his own face and the face of the stranger who was bending over the water by his side. Their backs were turned towards the labourer, who, not doubting the stranger's sinister designs, prepared himself for any emergency by spitting on his hands and smoothing his side-locks. He was aware of the responsible position he occupied, and he settled with himself that in the event of the stranger pushing Mr. Weston into the water, the first thing for him to do would be to run away and cry, "Fire!"

"Take my hand," the stranger said, in a sad sweet tone. They joined hands, and the hand-clasp was reflected in the brook. "Why cannot it be? It is not always that the words which make a friendship are as intangible as the shadowy semblance of it which we see before us. Words are not all air--spoken, forgotten, lost for ever. Why cannot it be? Here we two old men stand, looking into the past; it might really be so. How many years ago was it--forty?--that two young men stood beside a brook as we stand now, looking into the future?" Mr. Weston's hand tightened upon that of his companion. "They loved each other then--do they love each other now! I can answer for one. They were friends in the best meaning of the word--are they friends now? Thirty odd years have past. It was just such a day as this; and the air was sweet and life was sweet. Do you remember?"

They raised their faces to each other; their lips quivered; their eyes were suffused with tears.

"Gerald!"

"Richard!"

"It is like a dream," said Mr. Weston, with his hand to his eyes.

In the meanwhile the labourer stood dumbfoundered at the strange turn the scene had taken; the word "Fire" hung upon his tongue, and he swallowed it disgustedly. He had wit enough to perceive that he had made a deplorable mistake, and he was about to slink away, hoping not to be noticed, when the stranger's voice arrested his steps.

"Well, my friend!" he said, with sly twinkles.

The labourer scratched his head penitentially; the expression in his face conveyed an unmistakable appeal to the stranger not to hit a man when he was down.

"Dense is no word to express the condition of the rustic mind," said the stranger, with a full enjoyment of his victory. "There is but one way of imparting intelligence to it." He took a small piece of silver from his pocket, and the labourer's eyes followed the motion of his hand, and the labourer's lips grew parched again. "There, my friend; drink Mr. Weston's health in the best cider in the county."

The labourer took to his heels, and slouched off, rarely mystified.

"Custos rotulorum!" cried the stranger after him; and at those dread words the labourer took to his heels, and was soon out of sight.

Left to themselves, the two old men, who had been friends when they were young, gazed at each other in silent wonder at this strange and unexpected reunion. They said but little at first; words were slow a-coming.

"Did you know I was here?" asked Mr. Weston.

"I had no suspicion of it."

"It will be a long time before I get over the surprise of this meeting, Gerald," said Mr. Weston; "I scarcely thought we should ever meet again in this world."

"We speculated on the after-life when we were boys," answered Gerald; "but whenever I thought of you, you were not dead to me. I believed, as I hoped, that you lived and were prosperous."

"You thought of me, then? I am glad to know that. Gerald, I am truly pleased to see you."

"Not more than I am to see you."

"And you have really thought of me often; but you were always faithful."

"You have obtruded yourself upon me in the midst of the strangest scenes. There have been times, of course, when the affairs of life were most pressing, that you have not been present to my mind; but you have come back to me invariably, and sometimes in strangely-familiar connection with circumstances of which you could not possibly have had any knowledge, not knowing where I was, or what path of life I was pursuing."

"The same old Gerald," said Mr. Weston, pressing his friend's hand with affection; "and the same old way of talking."

"Not quite clear, eh? You used to say, 'Say that again, Gerald;' but you understand me now?"

"Perfectly."

Gerald laughed, and Mr. Weston laughed with him, without apparent cause, as he had often done in the time gone by. But there was something contagious in Gerald's laugh, and, indeed, in his whole manner; especially when he was serious, as he was now, he seemed to possess the power of compelling his friend to be of his humour.

"Perfectly, you say! Well, but I scarcely understand myself. That is so always with me when I generalise."

"It used to be so with you in the old days--or you used to say it was."

"When I specialise, I can make the thing clearer, so I will specialise now. Once being in Australia----"

"Ah, you have much to tell me!"

"I am working with two mates on the goldfields--working from sunrise to sunset, in the hope of catching a golden reef, following a will-o'-the-wisp deeper and deeper into the bowels of the earth, and never catching it, mind you. Being down a hundred and forty feet, we--my mates and I--are misled by a thin vein of quartz that takes a horizontal direction, and we resolve to drive a tunnel in its direction. There is a theory among the miners that these thin veins must lead to the reef itself, bearing the same relation to the prize they work for as the veins in the human body bear to the heart. One day I am alone in this tunnel, where no glimpse of daylight can be seen. Two candles throw a dim light around. I am a hundred and forty feet below the surface of the earth, and but for the human aid at the top of the claim, I am completely cut off from the world, for we are the only workers on this hill. In my eager hunt after gold I have not thought of you for many months. Suddenly, as I am working with my short pick, sitting on the floor of the tunnel--for there is not room to stand upright--a stone drops from above into a little pool of water which has gathered at the bottom of the shaft, and as the sound of the plash falls upon my ear, your image comes to my mind in connection with a time when we stood side by side dropping stones into a stream. Now I have made my meaning clear to myself."

"You have made it very clear to me."

"Tell me: when I have been in your mind, in what way have I presented myself? As I was?"

"Always as you were, Gerald--with your bright eyes and brown curly hair----"

"That is it. Not with white hair, as ours is now. I have thought of you in the same way. Memory does not reason. So that it really is something of a shock to come upon each other after so long an interval, and after so great a change."

They fell into silence. Tender memories were stirred to life, and visions of scenes in which they had played prominent parts rose before them. Old as they were, romance was not dead in their hearts. But suddenly, as they traced the current of their early lives, they gazed at each other with sad meaning. Each knew instinctively that the thoughts of the other had halted at a certain momentous epoch in their careers.

[CHAPTER V.]

A STRANGE STORY.

"Gerald," said Mr. Weston, "you went away very suddenly and strangely; I often wondered as to the cause."

"And never suspected?"

"I think not the right cause. I imagined a hundred things in my endeavours to fathom the mystery, but without success. It is a mystery still to me."

"You imagine such things as----" He paused for Mr. Weston to take up his words.

"As whether you were in any money difficulties, for one."

Mr. Hart shook his head. If my readers have failed to guess that the stranger and he are one and the same person, I have been unskilful in my narration.

"No," he said, "when I left I owed no man a shilling, and I had money in my purse."

"I cannot recall now the various constructions I put upon your disappearance. It must have been a powerful reason that caused you to desert your friend without a word of explanation."

"It was a powerful reason. Would you like to hear it, Richard?"

"Yes, indeed."

"We are old men now," said Mr. Hart, in a musing tone, in which there was a touch of solemnity, "and I can speak of it, and you can hear it, without pain. But tell me first about Clara."

His voice faltered as he uttered the name.

"She is dead," murmured Mr. Weston softly, "many, many years ago."

A cuckoo flew past them, singing as it flew, and seemed to echo plaintively, "Years ago!"

"You loved her, Richard?"

"With my whole soul, Gerald."

"I knew it, and I read, the announcement of your marriage in the papers. You were happy in your marriage?"

"Very, very happy. Our only grief during the first two years was that we had no children. But that blessing, which brought with it also the keenest sorrow of my life, was bestowed upon us after seven years. Clara placed a child in my arms, and died a few hours afterwards."

"It must have been a bitter blow, dear friend."

"I had a consolation, Gerald. Her last words to me, as she placed her arms about my neck, were that she had lived with me in perfect happiness, and that we should meet each other again."

"Her child lives?"

"You shall see him, Gerald. I named him after you; it was Clara's wish before our child was born, that if we were blessed with a boy he should be called Gerald. He is a handsome young fellow--a man now--good, noble, and high-minded." He spoke with the pride of a fond father.

"I am sure he would be."

"My most earnest hope with regard to him is that he may make a good alliance. He may look high, for he will be rich. But to your confession, Gerald; we have wandered away from it."

"You will not say so when you have heard it." Mr. Hart placed his hand upon the hand of his friend. "Have you still no suspicion of it?"

"No, Gerald, I hold no clue."

"I kept my secret well, then. Dear friend, I loved Clara."

Mr. Weston turned to Mr. Hart, with a startled look.

"And I knew," continued Mr. Hart, "that you loved her, and that she looked upon me only as a friend of the man to whom she had given her heart. Fearful lest my secret should, in an unguarded moment, become known to you and her, and knowing that the disclosure would bring an unnecessary grief into your lives, I adopted the only safe course which was open to me. I did not envy you your happiness, Richard, but I felt that I could bear my sorrow more bravely away from you--therefore I deserted you."

"Dear Gerald," said Mr. Weston tenderly, "it was like you. How blind I must have been! but I can see it now. Noble heart! Dear noble friend! I think I never fully valued you till now."

"You would have done the same by me, Richard," said Mr. Hart.

"I do not know--I do not know; I doubt if I should have had the courage to fly. If I had been in your place--you with your higher gifts were the first in everything, Gerald; I was content always to walk behind you--I am afraid that I should have stopped and tried my fortune."

"No, no," said Mr. Hart, in gentle remonstrance; "I know you better than you know yourself. You would have acted as I did. Your friendship was as honest as mine. There could be no rivalry in love between us."

"I honour you more than ever, Gerald."

"It was a sacrifice, Richard, you can understand that; but I said to myself, this sunny spot in life which I laid out for myself, and in which I hoped to bask and lie in happiness--I had that hope, Richard, before I discovered that Clara loved you--is not to be mine; it is my friend's; but I will be revenged upon him; and who knows, dear friend, but that I may yet be!"

His tone was very sweet as he uttered these words, the deep significance of which was not comprehended by either of them. The time was soon to come when they bore strange fruit.

"I bless her memory," Mr. Hart continued. "Her goodness and purity made many things sweet to me. That I loved her and left her--conscious that it was imperative upon me to do so for the sake both of love and friendship--did not make me a despairing man. In course of time my grief was softened; I formed other ties, one of which remains to me now, thank God; and through all my wanderings I never lost faith in woman or woman's purity. If, in a cynical mood, it ever came upon me to doubt, I thought of her, and the doubt was dissolved. It may be, Richard, that in the wise ordination of things, her spirit can see us now!"

In the silence that followed, the thoughts of both these men dwelt in tenderness on the memory of the gentle girl who had parted them. Mr. Hart was the first to break the silence.

"Where is she buried, Richard?"

"I will take you to her grave."

They walked hand-in-hand, as boys might have done, beguiling the way with conversation.

"Clara and I often spoke of you," said Mr. Weston, "and always with affection you may be sure. And not long after you disappeared, a singular thing happened. Clara received notice from a lawyer that a legacy had been left to her--it was not a very large one, some fourteen hundred pounds."

"There is nothing singular in that," said Mr. Hart, calmly.

"No, but in the manner of it. We never knew the name of the person who left the money. It was expressly stipulated that the name of the legator should not be revealed. I went to the lawyer on Clara's behalf, being curious to ascertain the name of her generous friend--and mine, I may say--but the lawyer was steadfast. His instructions were definite, he said, and he could not go beyond them. The only information he was empowered to make--if any inquiry was made--was that the legacy was a legacy of love. It puzzled us a great deal."

A peculiar smile passed over the face of Mr. Hart, which his friend did not perceive.

"You must have been fortunate in other ways, Richard, to have prospered as you have prospered: For you are a prosperous man."

"Thank God, yes. I am a rich man, Gerald."

"Rich! Ah!" exclaimed Mr. Hart, wistfully and almost hungrily.

"I owe much of my good fortune to luck, and not to my deservings. A legacy was also left to me, in a very wonderful way; but in this case I knew the name of the person, who died in a foreign country, and who made me his executor. It is a strange story."

He looked over his shoulder with an air of fear. Mr. Hart noticed the motion with surprise.

"You used not to be nervous," observed Mr. Hart. "Why do you say that?" asked Mr. Weston.

"You looked over your shoulder just now so strangely and nervously. Almost as though you expected to see a ghost."

Mr. Weston shuddered. "I can tell you the story as we walk on. It will take but a short time, although it commences more than twenty years ago. A relative whom I had seen but once in my childhood died in a distant land, and made me his executor. He was a very wealthy man, and his will was a singular one. I was the only relative to whom he left a legacy, and indeed I believe the only relative who was living. He divided his money between me and twelve other persons. All these others were strangers to him, and he became acquainted with their names in the following manner. It seems that he loved his mother with a very deep affection; when she died, he discovered that she had left a diary, and in its pages he learnt that she had suffered much in her early days, before her son was born. She had led a wandering life in her youth, every particular of which was set down in her diary, and in it she mentioned the names of persons who had been kind to her in her wanderings; in one page of her diary occurred the words: 'It would render me very happy to be able to repay them for their great goodness to me. What did the son do when he grew rich but place himself in communication with a London lawyer, who was instructed to trace all these persons, and to ascertain the fullest particulars of themselves and their circumstances? Some had died and left no issue; some had died and left children; he kept himself acquainted with all their careers, and shortly before his death he made a will, devising the whole of his wealth to these persons, and naming me as his executor. You must remember, Gerald, that he had never seen one of these persons, and that he was totally unacquainted with their characters; when, by-and-by, you hear the full particulars, you will know why I mention this; I will only say here that two young persons, a young lady and a young gentleman, were left in the guardianship of a man whom I cannot think of without a shudder. They fell in love with each other; but their guardian, to whom their share of the money left would revert in case of their death, set himself resolutely against their union; he held absolute control over them, and the result of his conduct was that they met with a tragic end; they drowned themselves, and were found dead, clasped in each other's arms. But I am wandering from the thread of the story. This will came home to me, and all the persons interested in it were summoned together. The place of meeting was a principal room in the Silver Flagon; and at the appointed time we met. It was a strange gathering; we were all strangers to one another; yet you can understand that the circumstance of our being brought together made us friends at once. When the will was read every person present found that he had become rich, in a strange and wonderful manner. There were in all thirteen of us. Exhilarated by the pleasantness of the occasion, and excited by its novelty, we ordered dinner at the Silver Flagon, and sat down to dinner--thirteen in number. Upon this number being ascertained, the usual theme was started: one of the thirteen was sure to die before twelve months had passed. Said one, a Merry fellow, Reuben Thorne by name, 'Let us prove the falseness of this old-time absurdity. Here we are made rich and comfortable for all our lives; here we are brought together by an extraordinary circumstance, and forced into friendship by the gratitude of a man whose money we are going to spend in the enjoyment of the good things of this life. One of the best things in life is a good dinner; another of the best things in life is good companionship. Let us enter into a compact to dine here all together in this very room in the jolly Silver Flagon, every year, on the anniversary of this happy day.' Now, in the will there was a sentence to the effect that the legator would be glad if those to whom he bequeathed his money would become friends; and this proposal of Reuben Thorne's seemed to open a way to this consummation. Elated and excited, we there and then entered into a solemn compact, drawn up and signed by every one of us, to meet regularly every year, and dine together as we were doing on that day. And furthermore we solemnly pledged ourselves to have no more than thirteen at the table, and that, as one and another died, his chair and place at the table should be kept for him, and that the vacant chair should receive all the attention which would be given to it if a living person occupied the seat. This compact, solemnly made, was solemnly kept. Year after year we met; one died, another died; the young lovers I have mentioned were found dead in the river; chair after chair became vacant; and still every year the dinner for thirteen was served in the old room in the Silver Flagon. Gerald, I have outlived them all; for two years I have dined alone. Of all those thirteen I am the only one left."

"A strange story indeed," remarked Mr. Hart; and respecting his companion's evident desire not to speak further on the subject, he preserved silence--a silence broken presently by Mr. Weston saying:

"A little while ago, Gerald, you made a remark which surprised me. You spoke of your eager hunt after gold. If I have grown somewhat nervous, you also are changed in this respect, supposing you meant what you said."

"I did mean it. All my body and soul, all my pulses were wrapt up in the hunt. Ah! you little know what the gold fever is."

"But that you should have it, Gerald! You of all men in the world--you who once despised money, and set it at naught!"

"As I despise it and set it at naught now, in comparison with other and better things. Truly, I believe that there was a fair excuse for my giving way to the fever. I wanted money, Richard--not for myself, for another. Yes, no purely selfish motive influenced me. But you shall hear all by-and-by--that is, if----"

"Speak, Gerald."

"If you are not changed--if you are the same Weston as of old. If you are changed, but nod your head at me, and I will shake you by the hand once more, and go my way."

"Gerald! Gerald!" expostulated Mr. Weston.

"Nay, I mean what I say. It would be human nature. I should be sorry that I had met you again, but I should fling the memory of this meeting from me with all the force of my will, and would strive my hardest to reinstate you, unsullied, in my heart."

He spoke with earnest vehemence, and if an uneasy impression was in Mr. Weston's mind as to the manifest difference in their stations in life--judging from outward appearances--it vanished for the time at Mr. Hart's words.

"Recall for me," he said, "some words I spoke to you once when we were opening our hearts to one another."

"Special words?"

"Special words, with reference to our friendship," replied Mr. Weston, in a tone of anxiety lest his friend should fail to remember them.

"So many," pondered Mr. Hart; "but I can speak the words that are in your mind, I think. 'Once my friend, always my friend; remember that, Gerald.'"

"Those are the words, and I say to you now, 'Once my friend, always my friend; remember that, Gerald.'"

They clasped hands again.

"Well said, and well remembered. Yet you are a magistrate, custos rotulorum"--Mr. Hart laughed at the remembrance of the labourer--"and I--well, I am something very like a vagabond. Look at my patched clothes--see my wealth." He pulled out of his pocket all the money he had in the world, amounting to less than twenty pounds, and counted it over half merrily and half wistfully. "If you knew how precious these bits of gold are to me, Richard, you would wonder."

"I wonder as it is, Gerald."

"Well you may. Do you think I care for this dross for my own sake? Thank God, no! But lately--only within these last few weeks--I have grown to know the pitiless power of money, and to thirst for it!"

"I will help you, Gerald," said Mr. Weston, strongly moved by his friend's passion; "I will help you."

"It is for my daughter," murmured Mr. Hart, "not for myself; for my daughter, dearer to me than my blood, than my life! Let me but see her happy, and and sheltered from storms, and I can say good-bye to the world with a smile on my lips."

They were standing now by the side of the grave with fresh flowers about it. A plain tombstone was raised above it, with the simple inscription:

To the Memory of

CLARA.

Love sweetens all,
Love levels all.

"A good creed," said Mr. Hart, gazing with moistened eyes upon the inscription; "truly, love sweetens life, and love, like death, makes all men equal."

And over the grave of the woman whom they both had loved the friends again joined hands.

[CHAPTER VI.]

MR. LEWIS NATHAN INTRODUCES HIMSELF.

A few words are necessary to fill up the gap in our story. Directly Mr. Hart arrived home, he sought out William Smith's mother, and executed his friend's commission. This done, to the extravagant delight of the old woman (you may be sure that Mr. Hart was not sparing in his praises of William Smith), Mr. Hart and Margaret set off for Devonshire. Years ago, when his darling Lucy was a little child, he had confided her to the care of friends, so called, who had promised to look after her as a daughter. How they had fulfilled their trust may be judged by the circumstance that when, after his long absence, her father was announced, the gentle girl ran into his arms, sobbing, and begged him never again to leave her. He then discovered that she had for the last two years led an unhappy life in the house, and that she was nothing less than a dependent there. He chid her gently for allowing him to remain in ignorance of the true state of affairs, and he released her at once from her bondage.

"We will never be parted again, my darling," he said, with fond caresses; "your father will protect you now."

She clung to him affectionately. The old man was proud of his daughter, and already she was proud of him.

"I will make you happy, child," he said.

"Will you, papa?" she asked, with a little sob; but seeing that this made him look sorrowful, she dried her tears, and gazed into his face with a smile on her lips.

"That's right, my darling," he said; "be brave, be brave."

She shook her head seriously.

"Ah! but I am not brave," she replied; "not a bit--not a little tiny bit! That is why I am so glad you have come home to take care of me."

He took her at once to Margaret, and told her that Lucy was his pride, his heart, the flower of his life. Before they were in each other's company an hour, these two girls--for Margaret, although a woman in sorrow, was but a girl in years--were like sisters. Mr. Hart's face was radiant as he saw them sitting together, and observed their affectionate demeanour. Their natures, however, were different. Margaret, as you have seen in her happier days, was sparkling, vivacious, restless; Lucy was timid, yielding, more passive. The passions that agitated Margaret's breast were at once seen on the surface, in all their strength; those by which Lucy was moved were unrevealed except to the eyes of love in their quieter aspect, whether of joy or sorrow. These two girls fell immediately into their natural positions. Margaret assumed the office of protector, and Lucy, to whom dependence was a pleasure, accepted with gratefulness the shield which her new friend threw before her. Each, in her way, thanked Mr. Hart for giving her such a friend.

They had lodgings in the heart of Plymouth. Margaret and Mr. Hart, setting out in quest of them, saw in a shop-window the announcement that rooms were to be let in that house. The shop was a clothes-shop of not the best kind, and at the door stood a man of Jewish aspect, who was evidently attracted by Margaret's face.

"Did you notice how that man stared at you, Margaret?" asked Mr. Hart.

"No," was the reply, in an indifferent tone.

She turned, and saw the man still staring at her. He was loosely and somewhat slovenly dressed, but his eyes were so wonderfully sparkling, and his handsome face (although he was at least fifty years of age) wore such a cheerful and almost philanthropic expression, that the chances were if your eyes rested once upon him you would turn again to look.

The man came forward.

"I beg your pardon," he said, in a slightly guttural tone, "but you are strangers in Plymouth?"

He did not look at Mr. Hart.

"We are strangers," replied Mr. Hart.

"I thought so--I thought so. Can I do anything for you?

"No, thank you," said Mr. Hart, "we don't want any clothes."

"That's a pity; I could have served you cheap. But I didn't mean in that way, though I'm always ready for business--always ready. I know a customer when I see one. I'm an old resident here, and there is something you might want to know."

"We are looking for lodgings."

The shopkeeper replied eagerly, "I have the very thing you want, the very thing. Two rooms or four--made for you, made for you."

"You sell all your things ready-made," observed Mr. Hart, with a humorous look.

"Yes, yes," said the shopkeeper, with a good-humoured smile, rubbing his hands slowly over one another, as though he were washing them with invisible soap; "all ready-made, all ready-made."

What most attracted you towards this man were his eyes. They fairly sparkled with humour. But for their remarkable brightness Mr. Hart would have passed on, had he been allowed to do so; for the matter of that, however, the shopkeeper might have barred his way, being, as are all of his race, singularly tenacious in the negotiation of a bargain. And here there was a bargain in question; the strangers wanted lodgings; he had lodgings to let. To hesitate with such a man is to be lost. Mr. Hart hesitated.

"Come and see them," said the shopkeeper, and did not wait for acquiescence in words, but led the way.

They followed him, like sheep. There was magnetism in the man. He would make you buy a thing if you did not want it. That you did not want it did not matter to him; he had it to sell. To sell it was his business; and in his business he, as a representative man, beat the world.

Mr. Hart and Margaret walked through the shop, the shelves of which bent beneath the weight of ready-made clothes, up a flight of stairs to the first floor. There were four rooms on the floor comfortably furnished.

The shopkeeper revelled in his description of the rooms; to have heard him you would have believed the house was a palace. "Look at the view," said he, pointing to the dingy other side of the way, and making it bright by a magic wave of his hands; "look at the furniture; look at the couch--sit on it, it won't hurt you; real horsehair. Now just oblige me, and sit in this arm-chair--just to oblige me! What do you think of it? Is it easy, is it comfortable? Look at the pictures; look at the piano--run your fingers over it; look at the carpet. Here! sound the walls" (as though there was music in them); "look at the loftiness" (as though there was magic in the ceiling); "look at the ornaments; look at the fireplace."

And all the while he dilated upon the excellences of the apartments he washed his hands with invisible soap, and his face beamed with geniality. Such capital fellows at a bargain as he never betray anxiety.

"They are really very comfortable," said Mr. Hart, apart, to Margaret; "what do you say to them?"

"If you are satisfied, I am," she replied listlessly.

She could not be roused to take interest in anything.

"I am afraid he is a Jew," said Mr. Hart in a confidential whisper.

The shopkeeper heard the remark, and he smiled--a superior smile.

"Don't be afraid," he said good-humouredly, showing a fine set of white teeth. "I am a Jew, but I shan't bite you."

Mr. Hart was remorseful; he had no wish to hurt the man's feelings.

"I beg your pardon," he said, flushing up.

"For what?" asked the shopkeeper. "For saying you were afraid I was a Jew? My dear sir, I'm proud of it, proud of it." And then he made this singular statement: "If I hadn't been a Jew, I shouldn't have spoken to this young lady."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Mr. Hart, in a tone which invited an explanation.

"You wouldn't take me for a Jew from my appearance," continued the shopkeeper, thus giving utterance to a strange hallucination indulged in by many of the race, for the speaker's Jewish cast of features was unmistakable; "but perhaps my name over the shop-door was enough for you?"

"No," said Mr. Hart; "I did not observe your name."

"The letters are big enough any way; every man and woman in Plymouth knows Lewis Nathan."

Margaret looked up with a sudden exclamation of surprise, and advanced a step towards Mr. Nathan.

"What name did you say?" she asked, with a strange fluttering at her breast.

"Lewis Nathan, my dear," he replied, in an earnest fatherly tone; and then, more earnestly still, "Have you heard it before, my dear?"

She did not reply to him, but drew Mr. Hart aside, and whispered a few words to him in an agitated manner. His countenance expressed surprise.

"We will take the rooms," he said to Mr. Nathan, "if the terms are suitable; we are bound to consider our circumstances, for we are not rich. We have only been in England a few days, and we don't know how long we may stop; so we cannot take them for any definite time."

"The terms will suit you; I'll make them suit you," said Mr. Nathan, with a strange obliviousness of self-interest. "You can take possession at once--you and your daughter."

"This lady is not my daughter. I have a daughter who will live with us; I will bring her here to-day."

"And is that all--only three?"

"Only three of us. You seem disappointed that there are no more."

"I thought--I thought," said Mr. Nathan, hesitating, "that this young lady had a mother."

"She he is dead, poor soul!" murmured Margaret, with tears.

Mr. Nathan turned aside, trembling somewhat, and when he addressed them again, his voice was softer and his eyes were dim.

"Don't think me impertinent, my dear," he said drawing closer to Margaret, "but was your mother--God rest her soul!--ever in Plymouth?"

"She lived here for a long time."

"I have lived here all my life; I thought I recognised your face, though you are taller, but not prettier. No, my dear, not prettier. Did she--forgive me if I am wrong--did she have anything to do with the stage?"

"She was an actress, sir, and I have often heard her mention your name."

"Kindly, my dear?"

"Always kindly, always."

Mr. Nathan sat down, and hid his face. Margaret approached him, and placed her hand on his shoulder; he looked up with tears in his eyes.

"And you're her daughter," he said, taking her hand and kissing it. "She was a good creature, rest her soul! What is your name?"

"You must call me Margaret."

"So I will, my dear, so I will. Why, it's like old times come again What a piece of luck it is that you passed my shop! I'm as pleased as if I'd done a fine day's business."

* * * * * *

It was in this way that Margaret came to the house of her mother's Jewish lover; and there they lived together, she and Lucy and Lucy's father, for many weeks before the day on which Mr. Hart discovered where the sign of the Silver Flagon was hung, and on which he met with the old friend of his youth. Those few weeks were full of anxieties. Margaret was still very despondent; his daughter Lucy was growing thin and pale, and his own funds were running short. The prospect was not a cheerful one, and he scarcely knew which way to turn. Fortunately for all of them, at this juncture an unexpected friend presented himself in the person of Mr. Lewis Nathan. When he had possessed himself of the true state of affairs, he offered to lend Mr. Hart money to go on with, and offered it without interest, be it stated.

"Suppose I am not able to pay you?" asked the old man.

"It wouldn't break my heart," was the reply.

"No," said Mr. Hart, without any expression of surprise at the offer, for he had already learned to estimate Mr. Nathan at his proper worth, "I'll not borrow money from you yet awhile. I am able to earn it--or should be."

"In what way?"

"I am an actor," replied Mr. Hart; and thereupon, to Mr. Nathan's great delight, related to him the history of Hart's Star Dramatic Company.

"I know the proprietor of the theatre here," then said Mr. Nathan; "I often lend him costumes. Margaret's mother played on his stage. I'll get an engagement for you."

He was as good as his word, and once more Mr. Hart was on the boards, playing old men this time; while Mr. Nathan sat in front and led the applause. He played under the assumed name of Hunter, and kept it as long as he could from Lucy and Margaret. One night he found them both waiting outside the theatre. Mr. Nathan was with him.

"I've a good mind never to forgive you," said Margaret to Mr. Nathan.

Mr. Nathan would have meekly borne the blame, but that Mr. Hart told Margaret the real state of affairs. "My purse was almost empty, Margaret, and Mr. Nathan wanted to fill it. But I couldn't accept his money while I was able to work. And really the engagement is not a bad one, and I am already a great favourite with the audience and the company."

"I should think you were," she cried; "who could help loving you?"

"Nay, nay, my dear child----"

She interrupted him impetuously. "I mean it! I mean it! You are always doing noble things--always! Do you think I shall ever forget how you risked your own life to save that of my darling Philip? In vain, alas! in vain. And before that too! Did you not save him from being stung to death? But if you are strong enough to work, how much stronger am I? I will go on the stage again, and earn money for us. I will! I will!"

He would scarcely listen to the proposition; but she was so determined that he could only pacify her by promising her that if they could not find Philip's father before the end of three months, she should be allowed to have her own way. When the contest was over, she went to Mr. Nathan, and took his face between her pretty hands and kissed him.

"I don't wonder my poor dear mother was fond of you," she said. "And now tell me why you have never married."

"I never saw any one but your mother that I cared for, my dear," replied Mr. Nathan; "she would have married me if I had turned Christian."

"And you would have married her if she had turned Jewess?"

"Yes, it is so."

"You are as good a man as any Christian," cried Margaret.

"I hope so, my dear," said Lewis Nathan, with outward meekness; believing in his heart, I have no doubt, that he was much better. But that's none of our business.

And here I must say some special words. Very few, if any one, of my readers would have supposed that Mr. Nathan was a Jew, if the fact had not been disclosed to them in the preceding lines. They would not have supposed so, simply because he speaks in fairly good English, and because it has hitherto been the invariable rule in English fiction to represent a Jew as speaking a kind of jargon, which has its source only in the imagination of the writers, who are either prejudiced or not well informed upon the matter. It is time the fallacy was exploded. The "S'help me's!" the "Ma tear's!" and the "Vell! vell! vell's!" which in English fiction and on the English stage are set down as indispensable in the portrayal of an English Jew are ridiculous perversions of fact. They do not belong even to the lowest class of English Jews, who, as a rule, speak their language pretty correctly. The English complain, with justice, that they are never properly represented upon the French stage; the English Jews may, with equal justice, and equal truth, assert that their position in English fiction is as much a caricature as is the representation of the typical Englishman in a French theatre.

Now, our Mr. Lewis Nathan spoke exceedingly good English, and small as is the part he plays in this fiction, it is quite worth while that he should be faithfully represented.

[CHAPTER VII.]

MARGARET TAKES THE HELM.

We now come to the day when Mr. Hart discovered the Silver Flagon, and met once more his old friend, Mr. Weston.

Mr. Hart rushed into the room where Lucy and Margaret were sitting, and blurted out the news most interesting to Margaret. He had found the Silver Flagon; he had been to the house, and had seen Philip's father, without, however, saying a word of Philip or Margaret.

"That can be done to-morrow or the next day," he said; "it is a matter that requires delicate handling."

"I think," said Margaret slowly, "that we will wait a little while before we go to him."

"No, no," exclaimed Mr. Hart, "we will go to-morrow. My child, it is for your good. Delays are dangerous. Ah, I know well how dangerous they are!"

This with a tender look at his daughter.

"We don't know how he will receive us," persisted Margaret.

"In what other way can he receive you, my dear child, than with open arms?"

"Still," said 'Margaret firmly, "I think we will wait for a little while. You will not turn me away, will you?"

"Child! child! I love you. Have I not two daughters?"

"And I love you," she said softly, "and I cannot bear the idea of separation."

She opened her arms to Lucy, who threw hers around her friend's neck, and rested her head on Margaret's shoulder.

"I'll not allow it! I'll not allow it!" cried Mr. Hart, pacing the room with agitated steps. "Duty--duty, before all!"

"No," responded Margaret; "love--love, before all! Lucy, go away; I must speak to this obstinate hard-hearted father alone."

"Ah! no," murmured Lucy, taking shelter now in her father's arms, who folded her to his heart, and held her there, and kissed her sad face many times "I have no hard-hearted father."

"Go out--go out!" exclaimed Margaret impetuously. "I'll not have two to one against me."

She pushed Lucy out of the room with affectionate force, kissing her first very, very tenderly. Then she began to cry, not quietly, but stormily; Mr. Hart was no less agitated than she, but he suppressed his emotion and observed her in silence.

"Now," she said, when she was sufficiently calm, "I am better, and can talk to you."

"What is the meaning of this?" questioned Mr. Hart, in a tone so low that he might have been speaking to himself.

"Dear friend," she said, drawing him to a seat by her side, and holding his hands in hers, "let me have my wilful way; I have a reason for it, a strong reason."

"Yes, yes," he muttered somewhat impatiently, "a woman's reason."

"A woman's reason, if you like," she said, humouring him; at another time she would have fired up, and have given him a Roland for his Oliver. "But apart from that, I love Lucy--and cannot you see that Lucy loves me?"

"I know, I know," he replied; "but I must not lose sight of your welfare. I am poor; I can place you at once in comfort; a plain duty is before me."

"Do you remember how my darling Philip, with his dying breath, asked you to be a father to me? And do you want now to drive me from you?"

"I do remember. I do not want to drive you from me. But our dear Philip, with his dying breath, bade me take you to his father. That was his charge to me, and I shall obey it."

"And you shall obey it--by-and-by; not now; not now!"

"At once--without delay! I paltered with my own happiness by delaying; I will not palter with yours in the same way."

He spoke in a tone so firm and decided that she was driven almost to despair.

"Obstinate, obstinate!" she murmured: "hard and unkind!"

"Margaret--Margaret!" he cried, "do you want to break my heart?"

"No," she replied, with sudden vehemence; the words seemed to come from her without any will of her own; "I want to save it from breaking!"

Terror and doubt were expressed in his face.

"Speak plainly," he said, breathing quickly; "it is about Lucy?"

"It is about her. What is your dearest wish?"

"Her happiness."

"Drive me from her, and I'll not answer for the consequences. O, this is no piece of cunning on my part, so that I may have my own way! It is the truth. Do you not see that she is growing paler and thinner every day?"

"I have seen it--I have tried to believe it was a trick played upon me by my fears; but I see it now that it is as you say. It must be the confinement in this narrow street, in this close town----"

"It is not the confinement," interrupted Margaret; "Lucy would thrive in a cage if her heart were not disturbed. A secret sorrow is wearing her away--a sorrow that she keeps to herself, and which only one person in the world has the power to wean from her. No, that person is not you--it is I, Margaret! She has not told me yet, but she will! I want but to know the name of the man!"

"The name of the man!" echoed Mr. Hart in a bewildered tone. "In Heaven's name, what man?"

"The man she loves, and who has led her to believe that he loves her."

"You know all this?"

"By instinct only--a fine teacher; better than reason." (He had not the heart to play with her words, or he would have said, "None but a woman can utter them;" but this new grief was too deep for light thought.) "She is a woman, and wants a woman's heart to rest upon in this crisis. She has no mother or sister. Dear friend, that I love with all my strength! that I honour with all my soul! let me be sister and mother to your Lucy! You cannot deny me this! It may be in my power to repay you, in some small way, for your fatherly care of me, for your love and devotion to my darling Philip, and you will not rob me of the opportunity. If I can bring back the smile to your Lucy's lips, the roses to her cheek--if I can bring joy to her heart, I shall again taste happiness which I thought I had lost for ever."

If his stake had been smaller in her matter, he could not have resisted her pleading; as it was, he yielded without another word of remonstrance. He was so broken down by this disclosure that Margaret was compelled to entreat him to hide his sorrow from Lucy's eyes.

"She must not know or suspect that we have been speaking of her," said Margaret; "this sensitive flower that we both love so dearly must be dealt with very tenderly--and wisely too, and cunningly, if needs be."

His words in the conversation that followed showed that he had lost faith in himself, and that he placed his hope solely in this affectionate woman, to whom sorrow had come so early. Up to this point he had not told her of the strange meeting with his boyfriend, Richard Weston, and presently, when he was more composed, he related the incident to her.

"We are to go to his house to-morrow," he said, "Lucy and I."

"And I go with you of course," said Margaret. "I shall contrive to make myself welcome. Tell me. When you took Lucy away from the house of the person with whom she lived for so many years, did you let them know your present address?"

"No; I was anxious to sever all possible connection in the future with such false friends."

"Then," said Margaret, with a wise look, "how could he (Lucy's he, I mean) come to see her, when you as good as hid her from him? There is hope--there is hope--I see hope already!" She kissed him blithely. "Another thing--about myself this time. Mr. Weston's son is named Gerald! Does not that strike you as strange?"

"It was a mark of affectionate remembrance of an old friend, my dear."

"I know that; but strange in another way. Have you forgotten the packet which my darling Philip confided to your care? The property of Gerald, and to be opened only by him. What if your Mr. Weston's Gerald should be Philip's Gerald? It isn't so very unlikely. Mr. Weston's house is not very far from the Silver Flagon, and my Philip was the equal of any man. This Gerald must be nearly Philip's age--a little younger perhaps. And my poor darling went to college. Do you not see?"

She spoke very excitedly, and Mr. Hart gazed at her in admiration.

"There is reason in what you say, Margaret. These broken links may form a chain."

"So now all is settled," she said, "and I am to have my own way in everything."

"Yes, my dear," he replied; "you are more fit to take the helm than I. I am breaking down fast--I feel it."

"Lucy, Lucy," cried Margaret, going to the door. "Here is our father threatening to become melancholy. Come and help me to cheer him up. Ah! I know what we'll do. First we'll have a kiss all round, and then I'll ask Mr. Nathan to take us out for a drive. He'll do it." She held up her little finger. "I can twist him round this, my dear."

[CHAPTER VIII.]

"SHE NEVER TOLD HER LOVE."

Old Mr. Weston, a great magnate in his neighbourhood, a wealthy man, the owner of a fine estate, a justice of the peace, and what not, had been surprised out of himself by the sudden meeting of his friend, Gerald Hart, from whom he had been separated when they were almost boys, or at all events before either of them had experienced those trials and temptations, the reception and handling of which give the true stamp to a man's character. Our dear friend, Mr. Hart, had passed through the fire unscathed. His fine, honest nature shone steadily in the midst of every temptation; it never flickered or wavered when brought into contact with opportunity which by dishonesty or trickery could be turned to his advantage at another person's expense. His conscience was a touchstone, and he was guided by it; rogue could never be written on the sleeve of his jacket. That he was occasionally worsted by knaves distressed him, but did not embitter him; nor did it cause him to swerve. He was--to use a phrase I once heard from an American, who was speaking of a person he admired--emphatically a straight man.

To all outward appearance, Mr. Weston, when he was a young man, bade fair to rival his friend in genuineness and honesty of character; but the result falsified the promise. Money had spoiled him, as it spoils many a thousand men and women every year of our lives, and it is strictly true to state that he would have been a better man had he been less prosperous. I sometimes think what a dreadful world this would be if every person in it had more money than was needed for his requirements. Great prosperity is a heavy burden, and one can keep one's moral balance much better amid the storms of misfortune than when all his worldly desires are satisfied. More men are wrecked upon golden sands than upon sterile rocks of stone. So, in course of time, the young man who had won the love and esteem of Gerald Hart became over-weighted by prosperity, and over all the finest qualities of his nature crept a crust of worldliness which hardened and grew firmer with his years. These changes in character are common enough. I have in my eye now a young man whom I have known for a few years; a meek, quiet lad he was, with a mild and gentle face, advancing his opinions, when he could muster sufficient confidence, with a timid and unassuming air, which seemed to be the natural outcome of a kind and modest soul. This young man, having had a start in life, is fast developing beneath my observation into a solemn humbug, and he is already, with a seriousness which would be laughable if it were not lamentable, dealing very largely in a certain kind of stereotyped milk-and-water religious sentiment, which he parades (having the opportunity) with a long, sedate, and melancholy face, with all the authority of a Solon, before men and women who have grown grey in the service of the years. If I have the good fortune to live a dozen years, and then to meet this wretched prig (for I know exactly what he will grow into) dealing out his milk-and-water platitudes, I dare say I shall wonder what has become of the meek, modest lad whose gentle face first attracted my notice and won my favour.

As, in the same way, shall Mr. Hart presently wonder what has become of the frank and generous friend he knew in his youth, and whom he had cherished in his heart for so many, many years.

How, then, to account for the part Mr. Weston played in the interview which took place in the sweet Devonshire lane, where the fairy bells of the feather-grass were swinging to and fro in the clear waters of the brook? As I have said at the commencement of this chapter, he was surprised out of himself by the strange and sudden meeting; old memories had penetrated the crust of worldliness which now overlaid the better part of his nature, and for a little while the present was forgotten, and unconsciously set aside. He found it, indeed, a pleasant sensation to yield to the sweet waves of youthful remembrance which the appearance of Gerald Hart had conjured up, and worldly as he was, he honestly resolved to help his friend a little. Still when, in the latter part of the day, he thought over the interview, he confessed to himself that it would have been much more agreeable to him if his friend had been well-dressed and well-to-do.

Nevertheless, he gave Mr. Hart a cordial welcome to his house, a great part of his cordiality arising from a sense of satisfaction at being able to show his friend how well he had got on in the world.

"And this is your daughter?" he said, taking Lucy's hand; "I may use an old man's privilege."

When he took her hand, Lucy gave a little start of surprise, which only one person noticed.

Then he turned to Margaret, and shook hands with her. At her own request, she was introduced to him by her maiden name. "I don't want to be known yet as Mrs. Rowe," she had said.

It did not occur to Mr. Hart that there was any change in the nature of his old friend, as they stood gazing into each other's face, where lines and wrinkles were. It was one of his tricks to judge others by himself.

"You look ten years younger than I," observed Mr. Weston.

"I have not been harassed by the cares of property," replied Mr. Hart, with a smile, in which there was no envy.

Mr. Weston sighed--an eloquent sigh, which expressed, "Ah, you little know how harassing those cares are!" and at the same time a proud sigh at the possession of them.

Then said Margaret, the tactician, after a few minutes chat, during which she had been acting a part towards the old gentleman:

"You old friends must have a great deal to say to each other, and the presence of two foolish women will not help you."

"I would not hear your enemy say so," said Mr. Hart.

"Say what?"

"That you are a foolish woman."

"Well quoted, Gerald, well quoted," acquiesced Mr. Weston gaily.

Margaret made a demure curtsey, and continued, addressing Mr. Weston:

"As we are to spend the day in your beautiful house----"

"Nay," he interrupted, "you are to spend a week or two at least with me."

"Ah!" rejoined the wily Margaret, to make her ground sure, "but you did not count upon an additional incumbrance in the shape of Me."

"An incumbrance, my dear young lady!" exclaimed Mr. Weston, completely won over, as she intended he should be--she hadn't been an actress for nothing. "Have at her with another quotation, Gerald!"

"Thou shalt have five thousand welcomes," said Mr. Hart, readily "without the fivepence, Margaret."

"Bravo! bravo!" cried Mr. Weston. "My friend's friends are mine. I shall be delighted with your society."

Indeed, he was unexpectedly pleased with the two girls; they were well dressed, and bore themselves like ladies--as they were--and this gratified the old worldling.

"Very well, then," said Margaret, with a bewitching smile; "I could not say No on less persuasion. So I propose that you two gentlemen run way and chat, and leave Lucy and me to amuse ourselves, if you are not afraid to trust us."

Mr. Weston, thinking to himself, "Really a very charming creature!" made a gallant reply, and taking his friend's arm, walked with him into the garden.

Margaret and Lucy sat or strolled in the balcony which fringed the windows of the first floor of the house. Margaret, in her tender watchfulness of Lucy, had observed the little start of surprise which Lucy had given on seeing Mr. Weston, and she found a difficulty in accounting for it.

"Lucy," she said, "have you met Mr. Weston before to-day?"

"No, Margaret," was Lucy's answer. "What makes you ask?"

"Something in your face--that's all."

There was something in Lucy's face while these few words were being uttered--a blush, which quickly died out, leaving her paler than before. Margaret instantly began putting two and two together. An easy task, some of you may think. You are much mistaken. It is a task which requires, and often defies, abstruse calculation, and where a man will succeed in it once, a woman will succeed a hundred times. There are three great discoveries yet to be made in the world--perpetual motion, how to square the circle, and how many beans make five. Depend upon it, if they ever are discovered, they will be placed to the credit of women.

Less difficult, certainly, than any of these, was the task upon which Margaret was at present engaged. But shrewd as she was, she was far from seeing her way clearly. The sum was not completely set before her. There was a figure wanting.

"I don't quite know, Lucy," she said, "whether I like Mr. Weston."

Lucy looked at Margaret reproachfully. Not like her father's old friend! Why, what could Margaret be thinking about? But Margaret, had she pleased, could have justified herself. She had, or fancied she had, observed an expression of uneasiness and dissatisfaction on Mr. Weston's face when his eyes rested on his friend's clothes. They were decent, but not new; and if they had been new, they would not have been fine. This uneasy glance lasted only for an instant, but it had made an impression on Margaret's mind not easily to be effaced. "Trifles light as air are to the jealous confirmation strong as proofs of holy writ;" and Margaret was a woman who judged by trifles. It is strange that this should be rare when the waving of a straw proclaims how the wind blows.

It was a lovely summer's day, and the beautiful grounds which surrounded Mr. Weston's house were bright with colour. Every material comfort that could make life enjoyable was to be found within this pretty estate. The house was luxuriantly furnished; the gardens were carefully tended; and evidences of good taste met the eye on every side. Noticing these substantial signs of comfort and refinement, Margaret noticed, also, that Mr. Weston was directing the attention of his friend to the beauty of the place. To her eyes there was ostentation in his manner. "He is proud of his wealth," she said, and fell again to the study of her sum of two and two. While thus employed, her eyes wandered to Lucy's face. It was very sad and pitiful. Margaret had played the part of Maria in "Twelfth Night," and Viola's word came to her mind:

She never told her love,
But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,
Feed on her damask cheek; she pined in thought.

As Lucy was pining now. Margaret, from her woman's instinct, knew full well that a secret sorrow born of love was preying on the heart of this tender girl, and she was striving to find a way into her friend's confidence, when, at that very moment, chance befriended her, and the clue for which she was seeking was put into her hands. A sudden flame in Lucy's face, a sudden glad light in her eyes, a sudden exclamation of pleasure in which her misery seemed to die, a sudden uprising of the girl's form towards the framework of the balcony, and the secret was revealed, and the sum was done.

[CHAPTER IX.]

LUCY'S PRINCE APPEARS ON THE SCENE.

Following the direction of Lucy's eyes, Margaret saw a young gentleman walking towards the two old men in the grounds below. He paused, and Mr. Weston spoke some words; the next moment Mr. Hart and the young gentleman shook hands warmly.

"Ah!" thought Margaret, with secret satisfaction, "here is our prince. Now all the rest is easy." She was vainly confident of her powers. "So, my dear," she said aloud to Lucy, "we have discovered the grand secret."

The flame in Lucy's cheek grew stronger, and she hid her blushes on Margaret's shoulder.

"You will not tell?" she whispered.

"Not I," replied Margaret, with tender caresses; "but do you know, my dear, you have been making me very unhappy? Keeping a secret, and such a secret, from me!"

"Why, Margaret? You did not suspect me?"

"Oh! no, of course I suspected nothing, being naturally dull-witted, and not being a woman. Well, but now it is all right. I shall know everything--I must know everything, from A to Z. If you keep a single letter of the alphabet from me, I shall run and tell them all about it."

There was but little to tell. Chance had taken the young gentleman, Gerald Weston, to the house in which Lucy lived before, her father's return home, and having seen Lucy, something more than chance had afterwards directed his steps thither very frequently. I am afraid there had been secret meetings out of the house; girls and young men will do these things now-a-days. Ah, nonsense! What do I mean by now-a-days? Have they not done them from time immemorial? Think of the delicious secret meetings that must have taken place between Jacob and Laban's daughters in the old patriarchal times! And you, my dear lady, whose eyes may haply light upon these lines, cannot you look back upon such-like stolen minutes? So these two young persons met and met again, and Cupid led the way with his torch. Gerald Weston's love for Lucy was an honest love, and it was long before he confessed it, and received in return a confession of love from her lips. The simplest of stories.

"But since my dear father has been home," said Lucy, "I have never seen Gerald." And then her joy at beholding her hero vanished, and with sad sighs she said, "He has forgotten me, Margaret."

"That is a discovery r must make for myself, Lucy. I'll wait till I see him closer; then I shall be able to judge. I can tell the signs, and I can read honesty. As for your not having seen him, you darling! how was that possible except by some strange accident, when our dear stupid father never told the persons you were living with where he was taking you to?"

Lucy's face grew bright again.

"Are you sure of that--sure?"

"Sure, you little simpleton!" exclaimed Margaret affectionately. "Am I sure that I am speaking to you now? Am I sure that everything will come right and that my darling Lucy will be a happy wife before long--as I was once, alas! But never mind me; I've something else to think of, and I must put my sorrow by for a time. Lucy, Lucy! he's coming this way, not knowing that you are here, of course! Well, I declare he is a handsome young fellow! Shall I go away?"

"No, no, Margaret; don't leave me!"

For all that, Margaret contrived to slip out of the room the moment before Gerald Weston entered it. Her intention was to keep guard outside, and to prevent either of the fathers entering and disturbing the lovers. With this design, she stationed herself at the door of the house which led to the grounds, and presently Lucy's father came towards her. Mr. Weston was not with him.

"Where is he? where is he?" inquired Margaret eagerly.

"He!" echoed Mr. Hart, smiling at her eagerness. "Which he are you anxious about? The young he must have passed you on the staircase. Did you notice him, Margaret? A fine young fellow."

"Yes, yes," cried Margaret impatiently; "but I mean the old he. Is there a back way by which he can get in?" Margaret really had the idea of running to the back of the house and taking old Mr. Weston captive. She was a faithful tiler--a word I use not with reference to building tiles, but in the Freemason sense. Ladies who do not understand it had best ask a Freemason friend for an explanation.

"You enigma!" exclaimed Mr. Hart. "My old friend has been carried off by a man of business. He is overwhelmed, my dear, by the cares of property. By the way, Margaret, I have accepted an invitation to stay here a month. It will do Lucy good."

"That it will," said Margaret, with a quiet little laugh to herself. "Am I included in the invitation?"

"Of course, my dear. Mr. Weston is charmed with you. You've a trick of winning hearts, Margaret, old and young. But I shall have to run away every night to the theatre."

"Have you told him that?"

"No, but I shall presently."

"Will you be guided by me? But what a question to ask! You must be. There cannot be two captains in one ship, and I am captain here--absolute captain, mind you."

"Very well, my dear."

"Therefore you will not inform Mr. Weston that you are an actor, and are engaged at the theatre. You will invent some other excuse for your absence every night; or if you are not equal to it, I will invent one for you. No remonstrance! I am captain, and I will be obeyed. I have my reasons, and you will approve of them when you hear them--which you will not do till I think fit."

"Tyrant!" he cried. "I must obey you, then. Now we will join Lucy."

"We'll do nothing of the sort. Don't bother your head about her; she is quite safe and comfortable. I accept all responsibility." (Which sounded very like Greek to Mr. Hart, but he had full confidence in Margaret, and his anxiety about Lucy was lulled by her gay tone.) "Now tell me everything you two old fogies have been talking about."

"Chiefly of old times. I have heard some strange things from him. He has had at least one very strange incident in his life; and he has--incline your head, my dear--a Bluebeard's room in the house, a room that no one enters but himself. Now, don't you wish you had the key?"

"No; Bluebeard's room can wait. I want to hear something more. You talked of yourselves and your prospects."

"Naturally, my dear; and each dilated upon the subject nearest to his heart."

"You upon Lucy."

"And he upon Gerald, his son. My old friend has great views for that young gentleman, who has been giving him deep cause for anxiety lately. Ah, these children, these children! how they vex and gladden our old foolish hearts!"

"Deep cause for anxiety! Dear me! In what way, now?"

"Well, it isn't a secret, Margaret. No, I am wrong there. It must be a secret, for it is almost a family matter; so I'll not mention it."

"But you will! You will!" cried Margaret vehemently. "I'll not have any secrets kept from me. Now promise me, conceal nothing from me. I am prudence itself, though I am a woman. I must know everything--everything! Have you not yet learned to trust me?"

Startled by her earnestness and vehemence, for which he could find no cause, he replied that he had trusted her with what was most dear to him. Had he not, in a measure, placed his daughter's happiness in her hands?

"You have," she replied, "and I hope you will live to bless the day that you put such trust in me. There, now; you called me an enigma a moment ago. Think me one, if you like, but you will know better by-and-by, and you will find there's method in my madness. I tell you that as you value what you have intrusted me with, you must hide nothing from me." Seeing still some signs of irresolution in him, she stamped her foot impatiently, and said, "I should not expect even Mr. Nathan to treat me as you are treating me, and there would be an excuse for him, while there's none for you; for he belongs to a stiff-necked race. You are a thousand times worse than he. I ask you again--can't you trust a woman who loves you as I do?"

He was overcome by her torrent of words. "You will have your way, I see. I yield."

"Now you are sensible again. Well, then, as you were saying--the young gentleman has been giving his father deep cause for anxiety lately. A love affair, of course!"

"You are a witch, Margaret," said Mr. Hart admiringly.

"You see, I know things without being told. Go on."

"It seems, my dear, that young Gerald has entangled himself in some way; that is to say, he has entertained some sort of a fancy for a young girl far below him in station----"

"Stop! Are these your words, or your friend's?"

"My friend's."

"I am glad to hear that. Some sort of a fancy, indeed, for a girl below him in station! Oh, if I---- But go on, go on!"

"--And in every way unworthy of our Gerald----"

"His words again?"

"His words again."

"Wait a moment--let me get my breath."

Margaret, indeed, required time to cool herself. Had Mr. Weston witnessed her condition, he would have said, "This young person I thought so charming has certainly an ungovernable temper." She turned presently to Mr. Hart, and bade him proceed.

"But, fortunately," continued Mr. Hart, much perplexed by Margaret's proceedings, "the little affair has come to an end by the sudden disappearance of the young lady?"

"Indeed! The little affair has come to an end, has it? Pray did your friend mention the name of the young lady?"

"He doesn't know it, Margaret. In consequence of some warm words used by his father, the young scapegrace wouldn't disclose her name. They had a bit of a quarrel over it. 'Let me bring her to you,' said young Gerald, 'and you will see that she is goodness and modesty itself.' The father flatly refused to see her. 'In that case,' said Gerald, 'I will not even I mention her name to you unless you consent to receive her here as your daughter.'"

"Bravo, young Gerald!" cried Margaret, with nods of approval. "Bravo! I begin to like you. If you were here, I would throw my arms round your neck and kiss you."

Mr. Hart stared at her; Margaret laughed at him.

"You think I am going out of my senses, I dare say. But your story isn't finished yet."

"Yes, it is; the sudden disappearance of the young lady finishes it."

"It isn't finished, I say," said Margaret gaily; "it is only the end of the first chapter, and is to be continued in our next. Shall I turn over the page?"

"Well, you are right, Margaret; it isn't finished. There's the other young lady to be brought into the story."

"The other young lady?" exclaimed Margaret. "Oh, the Don Juan!"

"You don't understand. I mean the young lady the father intends Gerald to marry. A young lady of fortune, with great family influence, and I don't know what all. But putting her out of the question----"

"Put her out, by all means. I'll see to that! young lady of fortune, indeed!"

"There is something still I have not told you. My old friend asked for my opinion as to whether he had acted rightly."

"Which opinion," interrupted Margaret eagerly and vivaciously, "you didn't give."

"I did, in one way. He put it to me in this fashion: 'Gerald,' he said, 'say that it was your daughter'--he was only putting a supposititious case, Margaret--'say it was your daughter my boy had fallen in love with or taken a fancy to, I am sure you would not allow her to receive his attentions against the wishes of his father; I am sure you would not allow her to marry him unless he obtained his father's consent.' Well, Margaret, knowing that all my old friend's hopes and aspirations are bound up in his boy, and knowing that my Lucy's happiness was not involved in this imaginary case (see how selfish we old fathers are, my dear!) I said that I certainly would not allow my daughter to marry his son without his consent."

Margaret threw up her arms in dismay. "You said that!" she cried.

"Yes, my dear. He rather pressed me for an answer, and I gave it in decided terms, to soothe him, for he was much agitated. What is the meaning of that expression in your face, Margaret? For Heaven's sake, don't torture me any longer with mystery!"

He turned from her with quivering lips and moistened eyes as he made this appeal.

"I don't want to torture you," exclaimed Margaret; "but I can't help my face telling what is in my heart--that is, when I am taken off my guard, as I am at this moment. Why, oh! why did you give that promise? Why did I let you out of my sight? No man is fit to be trusted alone--no man, no man! If I hadn't left my Philip's side on that fatal night, we should have been together to-day. My darling! my darling!" Her tears began to flow here, but she checked them sternly, and said, "I mustn't wander. I have something else to think of--something else to do. I have to repay you for all your goodness to me and him, and if a living woman can do it, I will. Courage, Margaret, courage! Set your wits to work, and prove yourself a match for the wily old worldling."

She paced to and fro in her excitement, and Mr. Hart waited with gnawing impatience for an explanation. She gave it him presently.

"Listen. This girl for whom your old friend's son entertains some sort of a fancy----"

"Yes, yes, Margaret."

"And who is far below him in station, and in every way unworthy of him----"

"Yes, yes; go on."

"Is your daughter Lucy. Is our darling girl Lucy, whose heart has been very nearly broken because she feared her lover had deserted her."

[CHAPTER X.]

THE THEORY OF FRIENDSHIP.

Margaret was not prepared for the manner in which her words were received by Mr. Hart. She thought he would have been dismayed and staggered at the disclosure, and she was ready to comfort him, and instil courage into him. But the radiant face that met her eyes astonished her.

"Why then," cried Mr. Hart, with bright looks and in a blithe tone, "all is well--all is well! If your news is true----"

"It is true," she said, in calm wonderment; "they are together now. I 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!"