At the Sign of the Silver Flagon

"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.