At the Sign of the Silver Flagon

by B. L. Farjeon

END OF THE SECOND PART.

[Part the Third.]

THE DINNER OF THIRTEEN.

[CHAPTER I.]

STRANGE PREPARATIONS FOR THE DINNER.

In one of the prettiest nooks in Devonshire, the garden of England, where the hedges and hill-slopes are filled with apple-trees, stands, where has stood beyond the memory of living man, the Silver Flagon, an old-fashioned, delightful hotel, irregular in shape, as all pleasant hostelries should be, and so embellished with quaint turrets and gables and mullioned windows, as to make it appear more like the retreat of a wealthy gentleman than a house of public entertainment. The principal entrance stands fully thirty yards away from the public road or path, and to reach it you have to pass through an antique wooden gate, and a carefully-attended garden, as delightfully irregular as the house to which it is attached. There is not a square room in the entire establishment, and although from time to time additions have been made to it in the shape of a wing here and a wing there, modern innovations and modern ideas of comfort have not been allowed to spoil its character. Imbedded in the midst of its own grounds, in the rich soil of which flowers and fruit-trees are abundant and beautifully luxuriant, the Silver Flagon is a standing reproach to those Tower of Babel hotels, which it is the fashion now to build.

Fortunately for those to whom it is known, and who enjoy and appreciate its comforts, its proprietor, Gideon Rowe, was, in his ideas, as old-fashioned as his hotel. The Silver Flagon had been in the family of the Rowes for many generations, and had been handed down from father to son for more than a century; and the various members regarded it with so much pride and affection that it had grown to be looked upon more in the light of an heir-loom than a speculation. Gideon Rowe, at sixty-five years of age, was a pleasant, even-tempered, good-looking gentleman, straight as an arrow, with a clear eye and a wholesome colour in his face--caught, mayhap, from some of his famous apples--and with every probability of twenty more good years before him. He was a man of independent property, and he carried on the business of the Silver Flagon as much for pleasure and occupation as for profit. It was probably for this reason that the majority of those who frequented it were gentlemen, who were fond of drinking their old ale and cider, and sometimes their wine, out of the old-fashioned silver flagons, which it was the whim of Gideon Rowe's great-grandfather to have made, and of which there were no fewer than one hundred and twenty in the hotel.

It was seldom that any signs of bustle were to be noticed in the Silver Flagon; but on a certain Wednesday in the middle of August--some few weeks after the occurrence of the incidents heretofore narrated--there were signs of unusual activity in the lower story of the hotel. The cooks were busy, and and there was much hurrying to and fro; it was evident that there was a larger number of attendants than usual in the hotel, and that something important was going on. The principal room of the Silver Flagon, which was in shape of an irregular oblong, and sufficiently commodious to accommodate a large number of guests, was situated on the ground-floor, and at six o'clock on the evening of this Wednesday in August presented an appearance which it is necessary to describe.

The table was laid for a distinguished dinner-party. That it was to be a dinner of the best kind was evident from the furnishing of the table, which comprised the finest plate of the Silver Flagon and a brilliant display of glass. A number of attendants, dressed in court suits of black, were perfecting the details, under the direction of their chief, before the arrival of the guests.

Although it was still daylight the candles in the handsome candelabra were already lighted, the effect of which was not only to darken the room, but to throw corners almost completely into shade. Pictures hung upon the walls--not landscapes, nor scenes of rural or domestic life: the subjects were neither historical nor allegorical; every picture was a portrait. Counting them, you would find that there were exactly thirteen portraits, all of the same size and all handsomely and uniformly framed. That they were painted by one hand was not to be doubted, and being so, and being of a uniform size and uniformly framed, it might reasonably have been supposed that they represented members of the same family; but it was clear that this was not the case. With here and there an exception, they bore no likeness to each other, and in some instances the contrast in the faces and general character of the individuals, as indicated by outlines and expression, was very remarkable. The originals were of various ages, from eighteen or nineteen to sixty mayhap. Casting your eyes around the walls, you would instinctively have paused at the picture of a stern-looking man, the lines in whose face spoke of invincible determination; his dress was pretentiously plain and sombre; one hand, which grasped the back of a chair, grasped it so firmly that the veins were seen to stand out; his lips were set, and there was a frown in his eyes. Whether by accident or design, his picture was so hung as to cause his cruel eyes to bear directly on two faces of a very opposite character from his. They were the portraits of a young lady and a young gentleman--she probably not more than nineteen years of age, he some three or four years older. The girl was in the full flush of youthful beauty, a rose whose leaves were opening to the sunlight of life, delicately nurtured evidently, and whose face was almost spiritualised from its extreme sensitiveness. In this respect the young man, who was also handsome and well-formed, singularly resembled her, and yet there was no likeness between them. These young persons were smiling on each other. Your eyes would also have dwelt with interest upon the portrait of a man about thirty years of age, with a kind and even benevolent face, fair, and with bright blue eyes. Then there was the portrait of one whom you would instantly set down as an old maid, from the precise and severely-demure fashion of her clothes, from the set of her poke-bonnet, and from the sharp but not ill-natured expression on her face. Beside her was a portrait of a very different character--that of a rakish, genial, full-blooded man, with the pleasantest of mouths, and the merriest of eyes, out of which joviality beamed; his hat was set on one side of his head, and between his fingers dangled a cane with a dandy tassel. All these persons were attired in the fashion of a bygone generation.

The room was well supplied with choice flowers. Two folding windows which faced the west opened upon a veranda-terrace, the steps of which led into the gardens by which the Silver Flagon was surrounded. This terrace was also freely and beautifully decorated with flowers, and being comfortably furnished with easy and other chairs and convenient small tables, and a couple of fur rugs spread on the ground, formed the most luxurious and delicious after-dinner lounge it is possible to imagine.

Exactly as a quarter past six o'clock was proclaimed in thin, silvery notes, by the black marble clock on the sideboard, Gideon Rowe, the landlord and proprietor of the Silver Flagon, entered the room. He was in evening dress, and there was a natural dignity in his bearing which proclaimed him master. There was an air upon him which betokened the approach of an event of a grave nature. With attentive eyes--and yet, with something of a sad abstraction in his manner--he examined the appointments of the room, and saw that everything was in its place. With his eyes he made the circuit of the table, and counted the chairs which were placed for the guests.

"One--two--three--four--five--six--seven--eight--nine--ten--eleven --twelve--thirteen."

Therefore it was clear that thirteen persons were expected to dine. Then he ran his eyes over the attendants, and counted them, from one to thirteen. One of these was the chief, and addressing him by the name of Steele, Gideon Rowe called him to his side.

"Your arrangements seem to be perfect, Mr. Steele."

"I think you will find them so, sir," replied Mr. Steele.

"This is--let me see--the eighth year you have officiated."

"This makes the eighth year, sir."

"We have seen some changes, Mr. Steele."

"We have, sir."

"I know I can depend upon you to carry out the affair with discretion, whatever happens."

"Thank you, sir."

There was the slightest tinge of surprise in Mr. Steele's tone, which did not escape Mr. Rowe's observation. Mr. Rowe made no remark upon it, however, but repeated:

"Whatever happens. After all, it is an exceedingly simple affair, and I shall be glad to see everything well and discreetly done. You have the entire superintendence. Even if I wished, I could not undertake the management, being, as it were, one of them."

This with a glance at the portraits on the wall.

"You shall have no reason to complain, sir."

"The dinner will be served at seven precisely. There must be no mistake about that especially. When the clock strikes, we will commence."

"It shall be done, sir."

"Have the men been instructed in their duties?"

"Yes, sir."

But Mr. Rowe deemed it necessary to address a few words to them collectively. He called them together.

"Mr. Steele has explained to you what your duties are. You all of you understand them?"

"We do, sir."

"There is something for you to understand more necessary than the mere detail of your duties, and that is the manner of their performance. What is required of you is implicit silence and attention. At whatever occurs you will exhibit no wonder or astonishment, but you will steadily and decorously follow out the instructions given to you by Mr. Steele. It is a simple matter, but I wish to impress it strongly upon your minds. You understand me, I dare say."

"Yes, sir."

"Then I need say nothing more to you."

Gideon Rowe did not consider that his manner of addressing the attendants, no less than his words, was sufficient to arouse within them a curiosity which they otherwise would not have felt.

He turned his attention again to Mr. Steele, and asked about the wine. Mr. Steele pointed to the iced pails, liberally supplied with bottles, and to other bottles which did not require icing; these were placed behind a screen at the extreme end of the room. There were, besides the folding windows which opened on to the terrace and the gardens, three entrances to the room. One door, at the south end where the screen was, led to the kitchen and the adjoining apartments where the dinner was being prepared; another, at the north end, immediately behind the chair at the head of the table, could be approached, on the outside, only by way of the veranda, so that any person who wished to enter by this door must of necessity pass the folding windows; the third and last door opened on the general passage of the Silver Flagon. This door Gideon Rowe locked, putting the key into his pocket. As he did so, the silver tongue of the black marble clock proclaimed half-past six.

"Is the doorkeeper here?" asked Mr. Rowe.

"He is without, sir."

"Let me see him."

Mr. Steele hesitated a moment.

"I have been disappointed in the man I wished to engage for the service."

"But you have another?" said Mr. Rowe quickly.

"Oh! yes."

"And a dependable man?"

"Quite dependable, to all appearance, and from his credentials."

"That is all that is necessary. His duties are onerous, but not burdensome. Let me see him."

Mr. Steele went out by the door behind the screen, and returned with an elderly man, dressed like the others. His hair, almost white, was cropped close to his head, and there was a forced composure in his face, as though he had been schooling himself for his task. Gideon Rowe scrutinised him keenly.

"Your name is----"

"Michael Lee."

"You answer promptly, like a soldier."

"I am not one, sir."

"You are an elderly man--about my own age, I should say. Is your eyesight good?"

"Fairly good for my age."

"I ask because in the place where you will stand the light is rather dim. I must test you."

He looked around for a newspaper or other printed matter, and finding none, drew a letter from his pocket. It was in a man's writing, and a spasm came into his face as he gazed at it. He held it open at a little distance from Michael Lee.

"Are your eyes good enough to read this?" Michael Lee changed colour, and his lips trembled as his eyes fell upon the writing.

"You can read it?"

"I can read it quite well," replied Michael Lee, and continued, in a gentle, sad tone, reading from the letter: "So now, my dear old dad, good-bye, and God bless you. With fondest love, your affectionate scapegrace of a son, Philip Rowe."

Gideon Rowe paused before he spoke again.

"That is a good credential for your eyes."

"The letter is from your son," observed Michael Lee respectfully.

"Yes, from my poor boy. Written a long time ago. He is dead. Thank you for that mark of your sympathy."

"I also am a father."

"You can understand then the kind of grief that oppresses a man when he loses an only child, whom he loved very dearly. But we are wandering from the point. For the business before us, you are all the better for not being too young."

Michael Lee made an effort to shake off his sad humour, and answered somewhat briskly:

"So that some good comes to one for being old. Though I should rather say that I should be all the better for being a little younger. I should have no objection to my ripening time coming over again. But time that ripens us, withers us; time that withers us, kills us."

"Ah, well," said Gideon Rowe, with reflective nods, and gazing in surprise at Michael Lee, "we must drop away and make room for others." He cast a strangely-serious look at the thirteen chairs arranged round the table. "You are a superior man, I perceive."

Still striving to rally his spirits, Michael Lee said:

"One other man besides yourself, sir, has sometimes thought so."

"Any one whom I know?"

"Yes, sir; you know him slightly."

"Who may he be?"

"I, myself."

Gideon Rowe smiled.

"Mr. Steele did well to select you. Now pay careful heed to what I am about to say. Your duties to-night are not heavy. You are to stand as doorkeeper, and all you have to do is to act strictly in accordance with the instructions I give you. Your position will be there"--pointing to the door at the north end of the room, which led on to the veranda. "You will stand outside that door, and admit only those who establish their right to enter. And only those have the right of entrance whose names are written on this paper."

Michael Lee received the paper from Gideon Rowe, and read the names aloud:

Reuben Thorne.
James Blanchard.
Henry Holmes.
Rachel Holmes.
Thomas Chatterton.
Ephraim Goldberg.
Dinah Dim.
Stephen Viner.
Caroline Miller.
Edward Blair.
Clarence Coveney.
Frederick Fairfax.
Richard Weston.

"You will keep the paper as a guide," said Gideon Rowe, over whose countenance shades of varying expression had passed as the names were read, the most noticeable being one of sad pity at the name of Caroline Miller. "Not another person but those whose names are set down there must be allowed to pass in under any pretence. But you may still be liable to make a mistake, as you have never seen these ladies and gentlemen. That contingency is provided for; examine this."

He placed in the hands of Michael Lee a small piece of ivory in the shape of a heart. Michael Lee examined it with curiosity. Gideon Rowe continued:

"You will neither admit nor announce any lady or gentleman who does not produce a heart shaped like this in ivory, with his or her name written upon it in red letters."

"That is lucky," observed Michael Lee.

"What is lucky?"

Michael Lee quickly answered: "My grandmother wore an ivory charm, with signs upon it, which was given to her by a gipsy woman; she had a superstitious regard for it."

Gideon Rowe considered for a few moments whether Michael Lee's words were intended to be taken in jest or earnest, but he could not resolve the point.

"Very well," he said, "now you can go to your post. Here is a seat, you see. You may find your work somewhat dull, but you will contrive not to fall asleep."

"When all the persons," said Michael Lee, "whose names are set down here have arrived, will it be necessary for me to keep to my post?"

"No," replied Gideon Rowe, with another strange look; "when all the persons whose names are on that paper have arrived, your duties are at an end."

[CHAPTER II.]

ARRIVAL OF BUT ONE GUEST AT A DINNER FOR THIRTEEN.

Leaving Michael Lee at his post outside the door, Gideon Rowe went to the folding windows, and drew the curtains over them. He lingered at the window to inhale the faint perfume of lavender which the breeze brought into the room.

"Summer is dying," he murmured.

Beautiful as was the evening, there was something inexpressibly sad in the appearance of this room, with its dim light, and the black clothing of the attendants, who moved about like shadows.

"Mr. Steele," said Gideon Rowe, "you understand that the first guest who arrives will preside at the head of the table. I will wait upon him myself."

"As heretofore, sir?"

"As heretofore."

All the arrangements being completed, the attendants stood in silence behind the chairs, forming a black hedge around the table. Gideon Rowe glanced anxiously at the clock. The hands indicated eighteen minutes to seven. That he was singularly and powerfully agitated was evident, but he controlled his excitement by a strong effort. Another minute passed and another. The clock struck three-quarters past six, steps were heard on the veranda, and almost immediately afterwards Michael Lee opened the door by which he was stationed, and advancing a step, called out:

"Mr. Richard Weston."

The sound of Michael Lee's voice afforded relief to every person in the room, for all were beginning to be oppressed by the gloom and silence which prevailed. Mr. Weston, as he entered, glanced before him with a shrinking, air, and, grasping Gideon Rowe's hand firmly, as though he derived comfort from the contact, shaded his eyes with his left hand, and peered timidly at the attendants, whose faces he could not see in the uncertain light.

"Only the servants," observed Mr. Rowe, answering the look; "I am glad to welcome you."

"Thank you, Mr. Rowe, thank you," said Mr. Weston. "I am the first then?"

"You are the first," replied Mr. Rowe gravely.

"I am almost ashamed to confess it," said Mr. Weston, "though I don't know why I should be ashamed to confess it to you, for we are old cronies, eh, Rowe? old cronies--but before I entered the room, and indeed for many days past, I have had a fearful and unreasonable fancy that, that----"

Gideon Rowe, with a serious smile, supplied the words which Mr. Weston was at a lost to utter. "That some one might have been before you, and deprived you of your position at the head of the table."

"It was so, I assure you," assented Mr. Weston; "but I have been much upset lately--crossed and thwarted on all sides, and where I had the best right to expect obedience."

"I have heard something--rumour is many-tongued, you know."

"Yes, yes; and tells lies, and invents, and makes black white. I can speak to you as an old friend. Tell me what you have heard."

"It is an impertinence for people to speak of these things, for they are family matters; and, indeed, it is difficult to bring vague rumours into definite words. Briefly as I understand it, Gerald----"

"My son--yes."

--"Refuses to marry the lady you have chosen for him, loving another lady, and having pledged himself to her. That much has reached my understanding, through the rumours I have heard. Is it true? Has Gerald really pledged himself to a lady of whom you disapprove, and does he really love her?"

"Love her! No. It is a fancy which will be gone in a few weeks. The boy doesn't know his own mind."

"That is not the impression I have formed of Gerald. He is somewhat obstinate in his likes and dislikes. And he really has pledged himself to this lady, and she really is a lady?"

"She is the daughter of an old friend of mine," replied Mr. Weston, with nervous hesitation; "of an old friend who has inflicted great pain upon me. She is a good girl--a good girl, I do believe--but not the wife for Gerald."

"Why not? Because she is poor?"

"Ah! you have heard, then. Can you not see that Gerald has a position to maintain, and there are duties which society exacts from us? Classes must be kept apart. But do not speak any further of this now; it is not the time. On the anniversary of this night my mind is occupied by but one subject." He glanced at the table. "It might be but yesterday! The same old silver--the same old service--and some of the same old wine, eh, Mr. Rowe? the same old wine."

"The same, Mr. Weston: there is but little of it left. But it will last our time, and then will come new wine, new fashions, new men and women, new everything, to grow old as we have grown old, and to make way for other fashions and other men and women, as our fashions and ourselves are making way for them."

"There are some things that do not seem to change," said Mr. Weston, looking towards the clock, and feeling in his pockets. "The same old clock, too. But I cannot see the hands. Ah, here they are!" He had been searching his pockets for his spectacles, and he now produced the case. "Looking at my eyes now, you wouldn't think that I am growing more short-sighted every day, eh, Mr. Rowe?"

"Your eyes are as bright as they were thirty years ago."

"So they may appear, but they deceive me--as everything else does. Bless my soul! they are gone!"

He referred to his spectacles; his spectacle-case was empty.

"Shall I send for them?" asked Gideon Rowe.

"No, no; they would not be found, perhaps. I must do without my eyes to-night. The clock is right, eh? What does it mark now?"

"Thirteen minutes to seven."

"Thank you. As I was saying, there are some things that do not change. The Silver Flagon, for instance--there is no change in that."

"There is no change in it from my first remembrance of it. I should like it never to change. I used to wish that it might be carried on in exactly the same way, and in the same old fashion, as it has been carried on during this last hundred years. But it is in the nature of things to change, and my wish will not be fulfilled. Had other things turned out as I hoped, my desire would almost certainly have been frustrated by the new scheme for the branch railway that is being talked about. I am told that its course is designed immediately in the rear of the garden." He looked regretfully towards the folding windows, through the transparent curtains of which the western sky could be seen reddening in the light of the declining sun. "One might fancy one's self almost out of the world here; but if the railway scheme be carried out, good-bye to the charm of perfect peacefulness which rests upon the Silver Flagon. Good-bye, perhaps, to the Silver Flagon itself. The thought hurts me, but not as much as it would have done had my dear boy been alive."

"Rowe!" exclaimed Mr. Weston, in a sympathising, wondering tone, "you have had news of Philip, then?"

"He is dead, poor lad! You know how I loved the boy, and how my heart was bound up in him. I cherished the hope that, when his wild fit was over, he would come and take my place here. The dear lad was working to bring home a hatful of money to repay me for what I had done for him. As though I needed repaying! Shame drove him away, and kept him away while he was poor. He did not know his father's heart."

"How did the news come?" asked Mr. Weston softly.

"His wife brought it--a dear good girl. She is in the house now, and will remain here as my daughter. You shall see her in good time, and hear the sad story from her own lips. I think the news would have killed me but for her."

"My Gerald and your Philip were good friends," murmured Mr. Weston. "Gerald will grieve, indeed, when he hears the news."

"Life is full of disappointment, full of changes. Man proposes, God disposes. I hope that I should die with my Philip by my bedside in this peaceful spot, and he dies at the other end of the world, sixteen thousand miles away, while I am still a hale old man. I have the comfort of knowing that his heart was beating with love for me--the dear lad!" He paused for a moment. "Notwithstanding this grief, I still have something to be grateful for, and I bow with submission to the Divine will. I have a new daughter, such a girl as I would have chosen for him, and mayhap a great blessing will be bestowed upon me in the course of a couple of months, and my Philip may live again in his son. And have I not still the dear old Silver Flagon? I look upon it almost as part of my own flesh and blood. My life is wedded to it by sweet and solemn memories. Why, I remember these old flagons when I could scarcely toddle! I used to look at my face in them when I was a boy; there was one with a long dent in it--here it is now on the sideboard--which seemed to split my face in two." He gazed wistfully into its polished surface. "It isn't the same face as it was then."

"What does the clock mark now?"

"Eight minutes to seven."

"How slowly the time passes! The moments are clogged with lead."

"It is only the years that fly," said Gideon Rowe. "We watch the minutes and the days, and the years slip by without our heeding them. But all at once we wake to the fact, and a sudden shock comes upon us. Truly 'we are such stuff as dreams are made of, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.'"

There was nothing singular in the perfect familiarity that existed between the speakers. Gideon Rowe came of an old family (though if he had come from a new family--a phrase I cannot quite understand--it would have been all the same) who had acquired their money honestly, and he had lived a blameless life. Such a man is the equal of a king. It was to be especially noted that the present conversation was carried on with a careful avoidance--by Mr. Weston most certainly--of a subject which must have been uppermost in their minds, and that directly one paused, the other took up the cue, as though they were desirous that not a moment should pass in silence. Another thing to be noted was, that frequently in the middle of a sentence, Mr. Weston--whether he or his companion was speaking--turned his head over his shoulder toward the door by which Michael Lee was stationed, with a timid, nervous, frightened look, as if expecting to see an apparition there. Still more conspicuous was his studied avoidance of the pictures that were hanging on the walls. If in an unwitting moment he happened to raise his eyes towards the portraits, he turned them away again with visible agitation. The attendants in the room preserved silence while their superiors were conversing. They stood in their places like statues.

"And we fret ourselves so unwisely," continued Mr. Rowe, with something of a wary look towards Mr. Weston. "We torture ourselves so unnecessarily. Instead of enjoying the opportunities which good fortune has placed in our hands, we bring unhappiness upon ourselves by setting our minds upon the accomplishment of certain wishes which we deem to be good, notwithstanding that they distinctly clash with the hopes of those who are dearest to us. We forget that life is short. Let me give you a bit of my philosophy, and apply it to ourselves. Here we stand, having grown from youth to manhood, from manhood to old age, marching from our very cradles into our graves. The changes that come naturally upon us we bear, if we are wise, with patience and resignation; with hope, also, that carries us in our lives to the contemplation of other spheres beyond the grave. There is a wonderful amount of goodness and sweetness in life, with all its sad changes. What best rewards us--what brings us the most pleasure and satisfaction--is to enjoy this good, in so far as it affects ourselves and others, and to make the very best use of it which lies in our power. You cannot deny that this is a sensible philosophy."

"It sounds so."

"It is not only a sensible, it is a wise philosophy. Let me apply it. Say that I have a child whom I love"--the memory of his Philip brought a touching sadness into his tone--"say that this blessing, which I have unhappily lost, is mine. If by any action of mine I can make that child happy, it is surely good and wise in me to do so, and adds to my enjoyment of life. Say that this child, having grown to manhood, with a man's intelligence and a man's hopes, has set his heart upon a certain thing--say, plainly, that he loves a girl who is both virtuous and good, whom he wishes to make his wife, and that I constitute it my business to thwart him--it is surely unwise in itself, if only in the fact that it brings discomfort to me, that it fills my days with uneasiness, and makes my home unhappy. Now, this is a selfish view, but it is one which occurs to me by way of illustration."

"But say, for the sake of argument," said Mr. Weston, somewhat uneasily, "only for the sake of argument, mind----"

"Very well, for the sake of argument."

"That this child's fancy was a foolish one, and unwise in every sense."

"I don't admit that; but we are only arguing. Pray proceed."

"And that you, his father, saw another and a better way of bringing happiness into his life."

"Who judges that my way is the better way?" demanded Mr. Rowe.

"Yourself."

Mr. Rowe shook his head, and taking a pair of spectacles from his pocket, asked Mr. Weston to use them. Mr. Weston put them on gladly, but they did not suit his sight; all was dim before him. He returned the spectacles to Mr. Rowe.

"I cannot see through them," he said.

"Nonsense, nonsense," replied Mr. Rowe; "you are mistaken. You can."

"I tell you I cannot."

"Yet that is just what you insist others can do. You insist that they can see through your spectacles."

"I say nonsense, nonsense to you! I understand your trick, but it does not apply in this case. I say that in the difference of opinion between you and your son which you have spoken of you are the better judge. You are the older of the two by forty years. You know the world; you have experienced its trials, its temptations, its disappointments; you have seen its follies, its delusions. Therefore you have a perfect right to say to your son, 'My boy, you are wrong! you must conquer your idea--your fancy. Be patient, and time will show you its folly; and one day you will thank me for opposing your wishes.' Why," exclaimed Mr. Weston, raising his voice slightly in his excitement, "do you not love your son?"

"That it is not to be doubted."

"And what you do in this matter, is it not for his good?"

"Ah, my friend, my friend! I may think so, in my obstinacy, but it is I who am wrong. Let us speak plainly. You know it is of your Gerald we are speaking----"

"Of course I know it."

"What more can you desire than his happiness? The girl he loves, and has pledged himself to, is poor, it is true; but she is a lady, and is in every way worthy of him. Why embitter your life and his by standing in his way?"

"One moment, Mr. Rowe," interrupted Mr. Weston; "how do you know all this? Have you seen the girl?"

"I have."

"And her father, have you seen him?"

"No, but I hope soon to do so. From what I have heard, he is a man whom it would be a proud privilege to call friend."

Mr. Weston made a movement of uneasiness.

"The subject annoys me," he said, "let us cease discussing it."

"We have no time to continue it," said Gideon Rowe, glancing at the clock, "or, despite your wish, I should not allow it to drop. We ourselves were young once, and looked at things with different eyes from those with which we view them now."

"How near to the time is it?"

"But one minute."

During this minute there was silence in the room. Michael Lee's voice was not heard. Mr. Weston moved slowly to the head of the table. The attendants stood in silence behind the empty chairs. Presently the clock struck the hour of seven. As the sound of the last stroke was dying away, Gideon Rowe said to Mr. Steele:

"Serve the dinner."

Mr. Richard Weston was the only guest.

[CHAPTER III.]

ARRIVAL OF UNEXPECTED GUESTS.

Standing behind the twelve empty chairs, the attendants performed their duties with as much ceremony as could have been expected from them had they been waiting on the most exacting and punctilious guests; but it was not difficult to see that they did not like the service in which they were engaged. From time to time they gazed furtively at each other, and according to the susceptibility of their temperaments, were more or less disturbed by the strangeness of the scene. There was something so ghostlike in this silent dinner, that when the attendants moved they stepped lightly, as though they were fearful of raising the dead. The only persons who were not dismayed at the sight of the empty chairs were Mr. Weston, Mr. Steele, and the proprietor of the Silver Flagon. Indeed, that the chairs were empty appeared to afford satisfaction to at least one of the party--Mr. Weston.

"What has become of your unreasonable fancy?" asked Mr. Rowe.

"Gone, thank God!" replied Mr. Weston, with a sigh of relief, draining his glass. "But I had it very strong upon me. We cannot help these superstitious feelings, and in my case there is a distinct cause for them, in words once uttered by Reuben Thorne."

"Poor Reuben! He was the merriest soul I ever met."

"A careless, ne'er-do-well!" exclaimed Mr. Weston.

"No man's enemy but his own," added Mr. Rowe quickly. "The merriest part of the table was always where he sat, during the few years he was with us. What words do you refer to?"

"It was on the fourth anniversary of this day, and all the thirteen were present. Death had not taken one of our party. I was sitting next to Reuben, and the conversation was loud and jovial. All were in high spirits with the exception of three--Caroline Miller, Edward Blair, and Stephen Viner. But that it is incumbent upon us to speak gently of the dead, I could find it in my mind to couple the name of Stephen Winer with bitter words."

"You couple his memory with bitter thoughts. Why spare the words? He was a cruel man, with an unfeeling heart."

"Hush! hush! He has gone where he will be judged."

"And where," said Mr. Rowe, in no way softened, "the spirits of Caroline and Edward rise in judgment against him. I am glad you feel as I do toward the man who destroyed the happiness of two young persons whose only fault was that they loved each other too well."

"You have made me," said Mr. Weston, with a heightened colour, "wander from my theme."

"You wandered from it yourself," retorted Mr. Rowe, "by mentioning the name of Stephen Viner."

"Were it not," said Mr. Weston, with marks of agitation in his face, "that we are old friends, I should think you had a design to irritate me."

"I have a design to speak plainly. If we can learn a lesson from the dead which it would be good to learn, it is worse than folly to reject it. The parallel is a strange one. Caroline Miller and Edward Blair are not the only young lovers who have been parted----"

"Stop, Rowe," interrupted Mr. Weston, in a tone of suppressed passion. "I desire that you will not continue the subject. It is unkind, cruel of you, and the conclusions you draw do me great injustice."

He again emptied his glass, and the next few moments were passed in silence.

"I beg your pardon," then said Mr. Rowe, more gently; "I was betrayed out of myself. You were speaking of Reuben Thorne."

"All at the table were conversing loudly together," said Mr. Weston, continuing his reminiscence with visible effort: it was evident that silence was oppressive to him, "when my attention was called to Reuben by several voices crying, 'What was that you said, Mr. Thorne--what was that you said?' 'I said,' he replied, that if I happen not to be myself the last survivor of this party--and I hope not to be, for the duty he will have to perform will be a dismal one--I promise to visit him, whoever he may be, and drink wine with him once more. Will any others join me?' Unthinkingly, those at the table responded, 'I will,' and 'I will!' I raised my hand for silence. 'It is,' I said, 'too grave a subject to jest upon.' But Reuben was not to be diverted from his light humour. 'I have promised,' he said; and there was an end of the matter. Little did I think, when those words were exchanged, that I should be the last survivor, and that Reuben Thorne's promise would make such an impression upon me."

Mr. Weston ate very little, but he drank a great deal of wine, and pushed his plate from him with nervous haste, wishful to bring the solid part of the dinner quickly to an end. There were many courses, however, and the serving and removing of them occupied some time. The colours of the sunset could be seen through the folds of the curtains which hung before the windows, changing from a clear rose-red, like the blush on the face of a fair woman, to the deeper glow which mantles the face of a brunette; from that to purple, fringed by darkest blue; thence by delicate and sadder tints, melting one in the other, into quieter shades, until the fiery sky grew calm, and heralded a lovely and peaceful night. As daylight disappeared, additional candles were lighted, and the room would have presented a cheerful aspect but for the empty chairs and the serious faces of the attendants. Then, for the first time, Mr. Weston purposely raised his eyes to the portraits which hung upon the walls.

"Ah, me!" he sighed. "And this is all that remains of them--painted canvas! I cannot distinguish their faces without my spectacles, but I can see them in my mind's eye. All dead, all dead, but ourselves!"

"Few lived to our age," remarked Mr. Rowe.

"How many--how many? Let me see. One--two--three; no more. You were right when you said 'tis only the years that fly. And some died very young. Whether was it for good or ill, Rowe, that we, strangers to one another, should have been brought together by one unknown to all of us?"

"It can scarcely have been for good," replied Mr. Rowe. "Looking back, as we can look back, upon the lives of those to whom the money was left, to what one of all those who are dead can it be said to have brought happiness? To some it brought a curse. Too well do we know the story of those two hapless ones, Caroline and Edward, whom it drove to an early grave. Left to the absolute guardianship of a man whose heart was stone, those orphans met and loved. In all human calculation, no lot in life could be happier than that of these lovers would have been had they married. But to marry without Stephen Viner's consent entailed upon them, according to the provisions of the will, absolute beggary; and this consent their guardian refused to give. He cast a strange spell upon his delicate, susceptible ward. His strong mind and will dominated her sensitive nature absolutely. He won from her a solemn promise that she would not wed without his consent. Dinah Dim, that kindly old maid, told me that Viner made Caroline swear this upon the Bible. Edward and Caroline were but boy and girl when they were first given into the guardianship of this man--what wonder that they loved as they grew to man's and woman's estate? We all knew of their love, and interceded for them, vainly. Prayers, entreaties, remonstrance--all were useless. You yourself were one of the most earnest in your entreaties, but Stephen Viner turned a deaf ear, and so arranged that the lovers were to be parted. Edward was to be sent to India, 'where he would get over his foolish passion,' Stephen Viner said. Of my own knowledge I am aware that Edward wanted Caroline to marry him and defy her guardian. But her oath, which she was never allowed to forget, was of too solemn a nature to permit of this; and besides, she had a clear and painful remembrance of privations endured by her parents when she was a child, and, knowing that they had married for love against the wish of their friends, she refused to bring a similar suffering as her dowry to Edward. You know the sad ending. Driven to despair, the young lovers drowned themselves--at least, so it was supposed, when their bodies were found in the river. You remember the gloom the news cast over our party when we met, and the savage looks and words which were cast at Stephen Viner. Who that is acquainted with this sad story can doubt that the money left so strangely brought a curse to these two innocent young souls?"

By this time it was night. The dessert was now on the table, which required but guests around it to make a very charming scene. Mr. Weston had drunk a good deal of wine, and was in a feverish, excited condition. Michael Lee still kept watch outside the door. The only voices that were heard were the voices of Mr. Weston and Mr. Rowe. This latter person was evidently determined not to lose sight of the principal object in his mind, and almost every word he uttered had reference to it.

"At such a time as this," he said, "it is but natural that our thoughts should revert to those who are gone. I am thinking now of my dead Philip, with reference to worldly things. Do you know, friend, that I would cheerfully live the rest of my days in poverty if the sacrifice of my worldly goods could bring my son to life?"

"They are the natural feelings of a father," responded Mr. Weston. "Were I in your place, I would surely feel the same."

"And yet how strangely do we regulate our actions with reference to those we love! While they live, we thwart their dearest hopes; when they are gone, we are ready to make the extremest sacrifice upon the altar of our affections. But then it is too late."

He would have proceeded further but that a sudden spasm from Mr. Weston diverted his attention. Following the direction of Mr. Weston's eyes, he turned toward the folding windows.

"Did you hear nothing?" asked Mr. Weston in a low tone.

"No."

"I fancied," murmured Mr. Weston, in explanation, "that I heard a step upon the veranda."

Mr. Rowe went to the window, and partly drew the curtains aside. The moon was rising, and the soft light could be seen through the opening.

"There is no one there," said Mr. Rowe, returning to Mr. Weston's side. "As I was saying, when we have lost those whom we loved best in the world, and whose natural and innocent desires we thwarted while they lived, we beat our breasts and reproach ourselves----"

Again he was interrupted. Michael Lee, the doorkeeper, entered the room, and following Mr. Rowe's last word, came Michael Lee's announcement:

"Mr. Reuben Thorne."

Mr. Weston's face grew white as the person announced approached and bowed.

"I am late," said the new-comer, dropping into a chair; "but better late than never, they say."

He poured out a glass of claret, and rising, said, with another bow to Mr. Weston: "Your health;" and again resumed his seat.

"Am I dreaming?" asked Mr. Weston, in a low tone of fear, addressing himself to Mr. Rowe.

Reuben Thorne heard the words, and before Mr. Rowe could speak, himself replied:

"No, faith; it is I who have been dreaming--dreaming for many years. Life is a dream; and death!--but we will not speak of that. Live and learn, they say. Let us correct the maxim. Die and learn, is infinitely truer, as all men will find. If we could live and unlearn, it would be better for us. 'Tis a conflict, from the cradle to the grave--heart against head. And head wins, the rule is. Men would be happier were it otherwise. Better for us to go back, and play at children over again."

He was so exactly the counterpart of one of the portraits on the wall, in every detail of dress and personal appearance, that he could not have been more like had he actually been the living presentment of the picture. But the portrait was there and the man was there, and the man looked up at the painted likeness of himself with some kind of satisfaction.

"If my memory serves me," he continued, still addressing Mr. Weston, "it was a good old fashion for the chairman to welcome his guests as they arrived. You have not addressed to me one word of welcome. At all events, we will drink wine together."

He raised his glass, and Mr. Weston mechanically raised his. Bowing to each other, they emptied their glasses simultaneously. Then Mr. Weston spoke for the first time, in a hushed, awe-struck tone.

"I remember the words you uttered on the anniversary of our fourth gathering. I recalled them before you entered. You promised to visit the last of the thirteen who was left and take wine with him. You asked if the others would join you; all, or nearly all, promised to do so." He shuddered as he spoke.

"The promise will be redeemed by our friends," said Reuben Thorne, "as it is redeemed by me. But I have another purpose in coming to-night."

"What purpose?"

"A purpose in which I am not the only one engaged. Others are with me. You will know more presently. Do you see any change in me?"

"None. You are to me the same as when I last say you. Not a day older--not a day." He, also, glanced at the portrait for confirmation.

"That is many years ago now. I see a change in you. Your hair is white; you are an old man. Perhaps in another year you, too, will have passed away from among men. It will be well for you if you have sown no seeds of unhappiness, which may grow into life-miseries when you have gone. Even I, with no human ties, even I, who had no wife or child, would, if I could, live my time over again."

"Yet you were the merriest of all our company," said Mr. Weston, nerving himself by a strong effort to sustain his part in the conversation, gaining courage to do so from the wine, which he drank freely; "you can have no regrets."

"I have one." He looked toward the portrait of Stephen Viner with anger. "If I had known what was to occur through that man's villainy--if I had known the end of those two young lives, the melancholy fate of Caroline Miller and Edward Blair, I would have saved them despite the penalty I would have had to pay."

"How would you have saved them?"

"I would have killed the man," said Reuben Thorne, quietly, "who by his cruelty destroyed two innocent lives. I would have killed one to save two."

Mr. Weston scarcely heard these last words; a step upon the veranda drew his attention from Reuben Thorne. Again Michael Lee's voice was heard:

"Clarence Coveney."

A man fifty years of age entered, dressed as Reuben Thorne was dressed, in the fashion of a bygone generation. He bowed to Mr. Weston and took his seat.

"Once more," he said, nodding to Reuben Thorne.

"Once more," responded Reuben Thorne. "We were speaking of Stephen Viner."

"He is not here."

"No; but he will come."

Other steps upon the veranda, and Michael Lee's voice again:

"Henry Holmes. Rachel Holmes."

Two, whose names only proclaimed them brother and sister, entered with the same ceremony, and took their seats. They were unlike each other in appearance, and the lady, who was young, was the more composed of the two.

"It is so long since we met," she said in a soft tone to Mr. Weston, "that Henry was doubtful of the welcome we should receive."

"Why should he be doubtful?" said Reuben Thorne. "Every one here has a claim to be present. Is it not so?" he asked, addressing himself to Mr. Weston.

"It is so," replied Mr. Weston.

"And all are welcome," continued Reuben Thorne.

"And all are welcome," continued Mr. Weston mechanically. The words seemed to be forced from him.

"Whether the proposition," said Reuben Thorne, "to meet once in every year, as we did for many years--each more or less according to the tenor of his life--was or was not a wise one, it was accepted by all without demur. Let us, then, now that we have met once again, banish all ideas of strangeness from our minds; let us be cordial and friendly to one another, as we once were. This meeting will be the last. Let us be merry; and let only those be sad who have no regrets."

"Were that really exemplified in life," said Rachel Holmes, "there would be less sorrow in it."

"Somewhat of a philosophical paradox, that," observed the landlord of the Silver Flagon.

The circumstance of Mr. Rowe taking part in the conversation brought relief to Mr. Weston. The scene in which he was playing a part appeared to be less unreal, and he was less startled by the voice of Michael Lee, the doorkeeper, who announced, in quick succession:

"James Blanchard. Thomas Chatterton. Ephraim Goldberg."

Mr. Weston, white and trembling, rose and bowed to them as they entered.

"There are eight of us now," said Reuben Thorne, in a cheerful tone; "but five more remain. I remember well the occasion and the motive that first brought us together."

Another guest joined the party in the midst of the speech.

"Frederick Fairfax."

"Nine," continued Reuben Thorne. "If this meeting is less pleasant than the first, it is not a whit less strange. Surely that is Dinah Dim's step upon the veranda."

They all turned turned their faces to the door. "Dinah Dim," called out Michael Lee.

An old woman, with snow-white hair, tall and bent, entered the room with a light step, and looked briskly around. Her likeness to her picture on the wall was something marvellous. Not a hair was out of its place; of this there were five rows of curls on either side of her head; mittens on her hands and wrists; her gown of old-fashioned brocade; a scarf across her shoulders; eyes very bright; hands small and white; a complexion like a peach.

"So you are all before me," she said, in quick, silvery tones--"that scamp, Reuben Thorne--how are you, my child?--and the Holmes's, and Mr. Blanchard, and Coveney, and Fairfax, and Chatterton, and Goldberg. Is that all? Ah, no; here is my child, Richard Weston." She curtseyed to him, and held out her hand; he took it in his. "Why, child, you forget what to do with it, you used to kiss it when you were younger." He kissed her fingers. "Your hair is as white as mine, child; when I first knew you it was bright and curly. I shall take my seat next to you. And there is my friend, Mr. Rowe--as straight as an arrow. Now, my dears, why do we want the attendants about us? We can help ourselves and chat more freely. Send them away, Mr. Rowe, send them away."

At the sign from Mr. Rowe, the attendants, nothing loth, left the room, and did not enter again. The old lady continued:

"Now we can breathe. How many chairs are empty? One, two, three. Stephen Viner, the monster, is not here; and those two poor children--ah, me! Give me something to drink. No, not wine; water. I hope none of you will drink too much. Reuben Thorne, put down that glass! Drink is your ruin, and you know it. Who was speaking before I entered?"

"I," replied Reuben Thorne.

"You always had plenty to say. Go on, then; I dare say I interrupted you."

"The subject was about our first meeting not being more strange than this. Let me thank you for your presence here. You do not forget that it was I who first proposed this gathering."

"You have nothing to thank us for," said Rachel Holmes; "we are controlled by independent forces."

"Rachel Holmes," cried Dinah Dim, "your words were always intelligible to sensible ears. Go on, Reuben."

"I have nothing to go on with particularly, and nothing very particular to say. My mind is filled, by but one subject just now."

"What subject?"

"The absent ones--two whom we loved, one whom we hated. Say--am I right?"

"We all share your feelings," said Dinah Dim.

"I would prefer to hear each speak for himself," said Reuben Thorne, his eyes travelling from one to the other of the strange company.

One after another expressed their adherence to his sentiments with reference to the three who were absent.

"All but Mr. Weston have spoken," said Reuben Thorne.

"If I know anything of Richard Weston," said Dinah Dim, "he agrees with us with all his soul. Why, of all our company, he is the man who was ever the most eloquent on the beauty of love! He married for love, my children. I call upon you to drink to the memory of his wife."

The guests rose and drank the toast, bowing to Mr. Weston as they did so. He raised his glass, and drank with them.

"Who," continued Dinah Dim, with vivacity, "has the best claim to speak with authority upon this subject? It is not unknown to us that in his married life he tasted the sweet happiness that springs from mutual love. And when he lost his wife, did he not write upon her tombstone, 'Love sweetens all; love levels all?' Honour to the man who, not in theory but in practice, carried out this noblest of all the creeds. It is fit that he should be the last survivor, and that he should preside to-night. Dear children, you know I was the oldest of the thirteen, and you always treated me with kindness. Well, it was right that it should be so, for I might have been the grandmother of some, when we first met. But it was my sad fate to dream only of the happiness which I once fondly hoped would be mine. I do not remember that I ever told you my story." She turned to Mr. Weston for confirmation or correction.

"I never heard it," he said.

"It is soon told. The man I loved was drowned at sea before we were married. That is the history of my life. Brief enough, is it not? He was drowned, and I lost him. That is how I grew into an old maid, living upon the memory of love. I found my consolation as all find it who are faithful. Though," said Dinah Dim, her tones becoming lighter, "I think that Reuben Thorne would have tried to tempt me to change my name had I been ten years younger."

"I might," assented Reuben Thorne, "had I not suspected that you were Constancy."

A shade of grief rested for a moment on Dinah Dim's face.

"I had that word used to me once when my heart was beating with the anticipation of a happy future."

"By your lover?"

"By my lover, lost to me for many years; lost when I loved him most."

A heavy step was heard upon the veranda, and there was silence in the room until the voice of Michael Lee was heard:

"Stephen Viner."

Almost before the words had passed his lips, the new comer had made his way to the table, and without a motion or word of salutation dropped into a chair.

[CHAPTER IV.]

MARGARET'S TRIUMPH.

A dead silence reigned for many moments after the appearance of the last comer. All eyes were turned upon him in anger and displeasure, but he did not raise his face to meet their gaze. It was a cruel face, with hard lines in it, a face which ordinarily was devoid of any expression of kindness; but, although sternness was native to it, irresolution and some signs of remorse were visible on this occasion. That he heard no word of welcome was evidently--if one might judge from appearances--distressing to him, and he sat in silence, with hands tightly clenched beneath the table.

It was now ten o'clock, and the moon was at its full. The curtains of the window had been drawn aside by one of the guests, and the light of a lovely moon added to the peacefulness and beauty of the night. The landlord of the Silver Flagon regarded the guests watchfully and warily, and with uneasiness; but his attention was principally directed to Mr. Richard Weston. The old gentleman's face was flushed with wine and excitement; after the first feelings of fear and dismay at the appearance of these unexpected visitors, he had striven hard to nerve himself, so that he might play his part in this strange scene in a befitting manner; that his nerves, however, were highly strung was shown by an occasional convulsive twining of the fingers, and by his placing his hands before his eyes and then removing them, as though to prove to the evidence of his senses that he was not dreaming. Dinah Dim, who sat next to him, was also very attentive in her observance of him, and now and again placed her hand on his, and took away the wine glass which he would have raised to his lips.

She was the first to speak.

"The presence of this man," she cried, in an agitated tone, "is contamination. Why is he here on this last night of our ever meeting?"

Stephen Viner, with his eyes fixed still upon the table, waited in expectation of some other person speaking. As no one answered Dinah Dim's question, he did so.

"I was constrained to come," he said.

"For what reason?" she retorted. "For your own pleasure or ours? Friends, I appeal to you. Did this man's presence ever bring one smile to our lips, or engender one kindly thought or feeling?"

"Never," answered Reuben Thorne; and "Never," answered the others.

"His life was a curse to him, and to those whom a sad fortune placed in his power. I ask again, why is he here?"

"Your words are harsh," said Stephen Viner, raising his hand as if for mercy. "Your tone is pitiless."

Dinah Dim laughed scornfully. "This man talks of pity," she exclaimed, "in whose cruel breast no spark of it ever dwelt. A pretty preacher, truly!"

"I have told you," he said, in a low tone, "that I was constrained to come to-night. Say that I am here for judgment."

"What kind of judgment," demanded Dinah Dim, "can you expect from those who know you? Has not your own heart punished you sufficiently?"

"It has," he replied, placing his hand to his breast with a gasp of passion. "Can I not make atonement?"

"What atonement, after all these years?"

"I can ask their forgiveness; I can tell them, as I tell you, that I repent of my cruelty, and that if the years could roll back--alas for me that they cannot! I would act differently."

"See you now, my children," said Dinah Dim, rising--"see you now, Richard Weston, who have tasted the priceless blessing of pure devoted love--this man who deliberately destroyed the happiness of two young lovers, comes before us when it is too late, and repents when it is too late. A pretty atonement truly is this that he proposes to make by asking the forgiveness of two innocent young creatures whom he drove to their death, and whose only crime was that they loved. What judgment should we pass upon him--what judgment does he deserve? As you sow, you shall reap. Let this man reap as he has sown. Would any one here hold out to him the hand of friendship?"

"Not one," answered Reuben Thorne, and every person echoed his words.

Even Mr. Weston, towards whom Dinah Dim looked for assent, was compelled to say:--

"Not one."

"Shall the curse of money," proceeded Dinah Dim, "for ever outweigh love--love that humanises the world? The man who, for money's sake, deliberately drags two loving souls asunder--the man who, for money's sake, deliberately poisons the lives of two young creatures whose hearts are drawn together by the holiest sentiment which sweetens life--brings desolation upon his soul here and hereafter. Who among us has done this?"

"Stephen Viner," said Reuben Thorne, and again they all echoed his words. All but Mr. Weston, over whose face a convulsive shudder passed.

Dinah Dim looked at him for a moment, and observing his agitation did not press him to join in the general condemnation.

"Let Stephen Viner, then," said Dinah Dim sternly, "go from among us. His presence brings shame upon us."

The man thus judged and condemned gazed appealingly around, but saw no pitying sign. As he rose to go, Dinah Dim held up a warning hand, and Michael Lee's voice was heard for the last time:

"Caroline Miller. Edward Blair."

The lovers entered, side by side. Dinah Dim moved from her place, and passed her arm round the waist of the young girl, who appeared to need support. They approached with slow and hesitating steps, and Mr. Weston turned towards them; but he did not see their faces. The excitement of the scene had completely overpowered him, and, with a wild motion of his hands, he sank to the ground in a state of insensibility.

* * * * * *

When he recovered he was lying on the veranda, and Gideon Rowe was kneeling by his side. Uncertain whether he was awake or asleep, he closed his eyes, and seemed to fall naturally into a quiet dream--but a dream in which he was conscious of though not actually interested in, all that passed around him. It was as he lay thus, with his eyes closed, that he felt the influence of a womanly presence, in soft touches and murmured words, and a tenderness of action not to be expressed. Opening his eyes he saw no woman, but only his friend, Gideon Rowe, the landlord of the Silver Flagon by his side.

"That is well, that is well," said Gideon Rowe gently. "You are better now."

Mr. Weston held his hands for a little while before he spoke.

"I do not feel ill. Why am I here? What has occurred? Ah," he cried, with a shudder, as his eyes fell upon the folding windows of the room, "I remember. Are they still there?"

"They! Who?"

"They! Who?" echoed Mr. Weston, wonderingly and weakly. "Can you ask?--you were by my side?"

"Come, come," said Gideon Rowe, in a soothing tone, "you must not distress yourself with fancies. Why do you look so strangely toward the room? No person is in it. You were overcome, and you fainted. But you are strong now. Come, let us see if you can walk a bit. That's right, that's right."

He assisted Mr. Weston to rise, and they paced the veranda slowly, Gideon Rowe purposely pausing by the window which led to the room, to give Mr. Weston assurance and to dispel his fears.

"Will you go in?"

"No, no," cried Mr. Weston, "we will sit here; the night is very beautiful. Rowe, do you believe in omens?"

"Has any serious one ever occurred to you?"

"None, in my remembrance."

"Were you not telling me of poor Philip's death some time to-night?"

"Yes," replied Gideon Rowe, with a heavy sigh.

"How did he die? What was the cause of his death?"

"Poor lad! he died by fire. It is a dreadful story."

The father's voice was shaken by grief.

"If it will not distress you too much to tell me," said Mr. Weston, taking Gideon Rowe's hand, "I should like to hear more about him. Do not think me unkind, but I am in a strange mood. I feel like a child. What o'clock is it?"

"Past midnight."

"About Philip, now; indulge me. I loved the boy myself."

"Your Gerald loved him; they were true friends. Had Philip lived, they would have found much joy in their friendship, but fate willed it otherwise. Poor Philip died in the goldfields, in Australia--but I promised that you should hear the story from the lips of the widow. Will you see her? She is very near."

"I fancied just now, when I awoke, that a woman was near me."

"It was Margaret."

"Margaret!" echoed Mr. Weston.

The name brought with it reproachful remembrances.

"That is the name of the girl Philip married."

"Yes, I will see her. One moment; I must not miss saying what was in my mind. I was speaking of omens. You had no foreshadowing of Philip's death?"

"None; the poor lad was dead many months before I heard the news."

"But omens come occasionally to some persons."

"I have read and heard so."

"Gideon, one has come to me; it may foreshadow my death. I have seen the dead."

Gideon Rowe made no comment upon this, but went to the end of the veranda, and called "Margaret!"

Margaret--our Margaret--herself appeared, simply dressed. She approached Mr. Weston, with a serious expression on her beautiful face.

"It is you," he exclaimed, gazing at her in wonder.

"Yes," she said, "poor Philip was my husband."

"Why did you not tell me this before, Margaret?"

"I had my reasons. I was not sure that I could trust you."

"Margaret," interposed Gideon Rowe, "Mr. Weston wishes to hear the particulars of our poor boy's death; I promised that you should tell him."

Margaret turned her head; her lips trembled; tears rushed to her eyes.

"Nay, nay," said Mr. Weston; needing sympathy, he was in the mood to give it; "another time. It will pain her too much."

But Margaret had a purpose in telling the story, and she related the particulars of Philip's death in simple language and in feeling tones. She felt every word she spoke; she was not acting now, and natural pathos it was that drew tears from Mr. Weston.

"I saw my devoted darling in the flames," said Margaret, between her sobs, "looking for me with blind eyes. I tried to get to him, but they held their arms round me, and I could not escape from them. But there was one--ah, there was one!--who, seeing my despair and Philip's peril, rushed into the flames to save his friend. Too late, alas! He dragged my darling out of the burning house, but could not save his life; yet he gave my Philip to me for a few blessed hours."

Overcome by her emotion, Margaret paused.

"A noble action!" said Mr. Weston. "A noble man!"

Margaret nerved herself to proceed. "He and I nursed Philip, and watched the life die out of him. Every word my darling uttered is graven on my heart. 'Dear old fellow!' he said, with feeble gasps, to this dearest of friends. 'Noble old fellow! God bless Margaret and you!'"

"Indeed, indeed," said Mr. Weston, "a blessing should fall upon such a man!"

"'Take care of Margaret,'" whispered my Philip; "'be a father to her. Dear old dad I hoped to see you, and show you my darling. But he will bring her to you.' He uttered but few words after that," continued Margaret, who standing now between Mr. Weston and Philip's father, held a hand of each, "but they all referred to his noble friend and to me, and you, sir" (to Gideon Rowe), "whom he loved most tenderly. So my Philip died. Perhaps he hears me tell the sad story of our love on this solemn, beautiful night. Philip, my darling!" she murmured softly, raising her tearful eyes to the bright heavens; "if you can help me bring the blessing you invoked on our dear friend's head, you will bring a blessing also to your Margaret, in whose heart you will live till she joins you in a better world than this!"

"Is this friend, then, unhappy?" asked Mr. Weston.

"Most unhappy--most undeservedly unhappy. Ah, sir, if you had it in your power, would you not help him--would you not be proud to bring joy into the life of such a man? You were right in calling him noble. Such a nature as his ennobles the world! And yet at this moment he is stricken down by grief."

"He is here, then--in England?"

"He is here, in England, in Devonshire, within sound of my voice."

"What is his name?"

"I must relate an accident of his early life before I tell you, in proof that this act of devotion toward my Philip was not the only act of sacrifice and devotion he has performed. Not the only one, did I say? His life is full of noble deeds. When he was young he had a friend--nay, do not take your hand away; he and his friend loved the same girl. He saw that the girl's heart was given to his friend, whom he had kept in ignorance of the state of his affections, out of consideration for him. Listen, now, to what this man did when he fully learned the truth. Loving this girl, he could not remain near her without betraying himself. Knowing that the revelation of his love would bring distress both to his friend and the girl he loved, he went from them suddenly. He did more than this; his friend at that time was not rich. He himself had some little store of money--between one and two thousand pounds, as near as I can learn; he placed this money--the whole of his fortune--in the hands of a lawyer, to be given to the girl, with strict instructions that neither she nor his friend should know from whom it came. It is now for the first time that his friend hears of this act of sacrifice and unselfishness. Why do you turn from me?"

"Let me be, child, for a few moments," said Mr. Weston, in broken tones; "I might have guessed--I might have guessed! Where in the world could I find another such noble heart as Gerald's? I have wronged him--deeply wronged him."

"A fault confessed is half atoned for," said Margaret, pursuing her advantage. "Complete the atonement. You can do so."

"Child, my promise is given elsewhere. You do not know what strange things have happened this night, Margaret, that, apart from what you have told me, would induce me to complete the atonement. Margaret, I have been visited by the spirits of the dead--by men and women who passed out of the world years and years ago, and whose faces I have seen only in my dreams. They came to warn me, as it seems--but I cannot speak of it."

Margaret assisted him to a chair, and knelt by his side, Gideon Rowe standing a few paces away.

"Do not disregard their warning," she said sweetly, "if you disregard my pleading--for I do plead, and you know for whom."

"I know--I know; but my promise stands in the way."

"What promise?"

"Gerald is promised to another--I cannot depart from my word."

Margaret smiled tenderly.

"What is the name of the young lady?"

"Miss Forester. You saw her on the unhappy night on which my friend left my house with his daughter."

"It was an unhappy night for all of us. Did this promise not bind you----"

He took up her words.

"Did this promise not bind me, I would, if I could find the courage to do so, and were I assured that Gerald and Lucy truly loved each other, go to my friend--of whose goodness every time that I speak of him brings fresh proof--and ask the hand of his daughter for my son."

Such happiness stirred Margaret's heart at these words that he felt her warm tears upon his hand as she kissed it again and again.

"I cannot express my joy," she said, "for I know that you never yet forfeited a promise. Father," she called Gideon Rowe to her side, and whispered a few words of instruction in his ear. He nodded smilingly, and left her. "Dear Mr. Weston, if such a sentiment as pure loves exists--and we know it does--it exists in the hearts of Lucy and Gerald. As for Miss Forester, here she is to speak for herself."

If Miss Forester and Rachel Holmes were one and the same person, then Mr. Weston might have believed that Miss Forester was there to speak for herself; for the lady who came now upon the scene was dressed in the old-fashioned garments worn by Rachel Holmes when she made her appearance at the dinner, an unexpected and certainly unwelcome guest. Finding no clue to the enigma, and sorely disturbed by the late occurrence, Mr. Weston grasped Margaret's hand in deep agitation.

"She is no phantom," said Margaret, with a smile; "she is really and truly flesh and blood, as you and I are. I see that you are filled with wonder, and if you will say, Margaret, I forgive you,' I will explain what is now a mystery to you, and will relieve your mind of the fears which oppress you."

"Could you do that," he responded, "I would say freely 'Margaret, I forgive you,' whatever it is that you have done."

Again Margaret called Gideon Rowe to her side, and again, with a few whispered words, despatched him to do her bidding.

"I have played the part of a scheming woman to-night. The truest friend I ever had or ever shall have, the noblest soul I have ever known, is your friend, Gerald Hart. He has rendered me such services as no man or woman could possibly forget; he risked his life for me and mine, and my heart is filled with gratitude towards him. At Silver Creek, where I first met my poor Philip, I learned that Mr. Hart had a daughter whom he loved with a tender and beautiful love. She was the pulse of his life; as she suffered and enjoyed, he suffered and enjoyed, and her happiness was nearest and dearest to his heart. You have heard the story of our lives at Silver Creek, and of my darling Philip's death, and you can understand with what feelings of true regard and veneration I look up to this steadfast friend. We came home, and he had the happiness of embracing his Lucy, whom he had left a child, and who was now grown into a beautiful woman. And as good and as pure, sir, as she is beautiful. But I discovered that Lucy had a secret grief which would soon send her to her grave, unless it were dispelled. Ah, sir, you do not know the truth, the constancy, the depth of tenderness which dwell in that dear girl's soul! We came to your house as visitors. I was the first who saw that your Gerald and my Lucy were lovers--that they had been lovers before her father's return home--and I did my best to aid them. We had to keep this secret from you, for you were bent upon other views for Gerald, and I learned to my dismay that certain words which passed between you and Mr. Hart would cause him to sacrifice his own and Lucy's happiness rather than that she should marry your son without your consent. Then came that unhappy night when your friend went from your house, with his heart almost broken by the belief that he had been deceived where most he trusted. Now, sir, I had pledged myself to bring Lucy and Gerald together, and to obtain--what I have already (see, sir, how bold I am!)--your consent to their union. In the face of all the difficulties, how was I to accomplish this? I flew to a friend, by name Lewis Nathan, an old sweetheart of my mother's. I had heard that you had a Bluebeard's room in your house, and acting upon Mr. Nathan's suggestion, we entered the room during your absence, and discovered thirteen portraits hanging on the walls--nothing more. When Mr. Hart and Lucy left your house I was in despair, for I saw no way of accomplishing my desire. I made myself known to Philip's father in this dear old Silver Flagon, and I won my way to his affection.

"I had not been in the Silver Flagon a week before I found myself in a room hung round with portraits--thirteen of them--exact duplicates of those which line your Bluebeard's room. Curious to know, I coaxed the story of these pictures out of Mr. Rowe, and then I thought I saw a way to win your consent. I consulted Mr. Nathan, and we planned the scheme. It was a desperate expedient, dear sir, but I am a bold creature, as you know, and I alone am responsible for all that has occurred to-night. I am an actress, and some of those who presented themselves to you at the dinner are actors whom I engaged from the theatre. All your guests were not professionals, sir. This lady, Miss Forester--who is Miss Forester no longer, for, determined not to be forced into a distasteful union, she was privately married to the gentleman to whom her heart is given--entered with fervour into my scheme, and personated Rachel Holmes; her husband personated Henry Holmes. See, sir, some of your late guests are in the garden. Here are your spectacles; I could not afford that you should wear them before; I was fearful lest your sight should be too sharp for me. Did we play our parts well, sir? Reuben Thorne was enacted by my trusty friend, Mr. Lewis Nathan. And I, sir, am Dinah Dim, very much at your service."

Mr. Weston revolved this explanation in his mind during many moments of silence. I am not disposed to follow the current of his thoughts; he was a worldly man, and an analysis might detract from the grace of the act which he presently performed. He was compelled to confess that he had been conquered, and he found some consolation in the inexpressible relief he experienced in being relieved of his fears. He had a question or two to ask, however.

"Who was Stephen Viner?"

"An actor."

"And Caroline Miller and Edward Blair?"

"Lucy and your son, sir. I was doubtful of them from the first, afraid that their feelings might betray them."

"Rowe," said Mr. Weston to the landlord of the Silver Flagon, "you had a doorkeeper?"

"Yes--Michael Lee by name."

"Where is he?"

Margaret interposed. "That is one of my secrets, sir. My father had not seen your friend, Gerald Hart, until he introduced himself to-night."

"Until he introduced himself to-night!" exclaimed Gideon Rowe. "Nay, I have never yet seen Mr. Hart."

"You have," replied Margaret, with a smile; "he is Michael Lee."

* * * * * *

Thus, by this strange and bold device, our Margaret won the day. Truly, it was a triumph of love. As Richard Weston and Gerald Hart stood face to face clasping hands once more, and as they turned towards their children, who were radiant with joy, Margaret murmured to herself the name of "Philip," and looked up to heaven, not unhappily. They remained together until morning broke. As the wondrous colours came into the sky, Margaret said to Mr. Hart:

"Do you remember the night of the storm in Silver Creek, when you were robbed of your money, and when you and Philip and I stood at the window watching the day break?"

"I do, dear Margaret--dear daughter!"

"God bless you!" she said, with a sob.

"And you, my dear," he softly answered. "You have accomplished the supreme happiness of my life."