At the Sign of the Silver Flagon

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

She never told her love,

But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,

Feed on her damask cheek; she pined in thought.

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

CHAPTER IX

LUCY'S PRINCE APPEARS ON THE SCENE

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

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

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

"You will not tell?" she whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lucy's face grew bright again.

"Are you sure of that-sure?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Have you told him that?"

"No, but I shall presently."

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

"Very well, my dear."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You upon Lucy."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"My friend's."

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

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

"His words again?"

"His words again."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, yes, Margaret."

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

"Yes, yes; go on."

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

CHAPTER X

THE THEORY OF FRIENDSHIP

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

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

"It is true," she said, in calm wonderment; "they are together now. I came to the door to keep guard, so that no one should disturb them."

"Then I am the happiest man and the happiest father in Christendom! Why, Margaret, if I had been asked which man in all the wide world I should wish my daughter to marry, I should select the very man who has won her heart! God bless them! Now, indeed, my mind is at rest, and I care not what happens to me. My business with the world is over. All is well with Lucy. We shall see the roses on her cheeks again, my dear-we shall! Kiss me, Margaret, and wish me joy."

She kept him back with her hand, and in her eyes dwelt a look in which pity and admiration were equally blended.

"It is my turn now," she said, "to ask for an explanation."

"An explanation of what, my dear? Is not everything as clear as the noonday sun, as bright as this beautiful day? Ah, it is a good world, a good world! Thank God for it, and for the happiness this day has brought to me!"

"It would be ungenerous to pretend to misunderstand you," said Margaret, in a gentle tone. "You think there are no difficulties in the way of Lucy's union with Gerald."

"Think!" he exclaimed, in a reproachful tone. "Nay, am I not sure that matters could not have turned out more happily? Difficulties, my dear child! What difficulties? Here are we, two old men, who pledged our faith to each other when we were young-who exchanged vows-who were and are the most faithful of friends-who, if circumstances had not parted us, would have walked hand in hand through life, cheering, consoling, encouraging each other. There is no envy in our friendship, and no selfish feeling mars it. How often in my wanderings have I thought of him? How often have I lived the old days over again, and recalled the memories of the happy times we spent together? Margaret, I think that even love pales before the beauty of a faithful friendship. There is something holy in it; it is a pure sentiment, fit for the hearts of angels. You cannot conceive what comfort and consolation the mere memory of the friendship between me and Richard Weston has brought to me; it has brightened hours which otherwise would have been very dark. And now, when we are old men, and, after so long a parting, are so strangely reunited, our children fall in love with each other! One might almost say it is the reward of faithfulness."

So spoke this old man, whom the world's trials and disappointments had been unable to sour. And Margaret felt humbled and abashed as she listened to the noble outburst, and even as she listened she debated within herself whether she should plunge the dagger of doubt into his heart.

"We should change places," she said; "you are younger than I. I am old, calculating, unbelieving; you are young and trustful. Ah, if men and women were all like you, how much better and happier the world would be! Where you see cause for joy, I see cause for sorrow. Where you believe, I doubt. Your heart is like a bank of sweet moss where fresh flowers are always growing; mine is a heart of flint. Dear friend, I love you more every day that I know you."

"Pleasant words to hear, dear child, but you shall not do yourself an injustice. I will not have you speak in such terms of yourself. You must work yourself out of this sad humour, for my sake, for Lucy's sake. Believe me there is sweetness in life for you yet, notwithstanding your great sorrow. All is clear sailing before us now. Lucy and Gerald will marry. You will go to the Silver Flagon, and take your proper place as Mr. Rowe's daughter, and we shall all live pleasantly together."

"How happy I should be if things turned out in that way!" exclaimed Margaret, having now resolved upon her course of action. "But in the meantime you will not take the helm out of my hands. I am still captain, and I'll have no mutineering. So I give you this order. Not a word of what we have said must pass your lips, nor must you speak upon this subject to any person but me for at least a fortnight from this day."

"But why, my dear, why?"

"I will not be questioned; I want to make sure; the stake is a serious one, and we must not run the risk of losing by acting rashly. Least of all must you whisper a word to old Mr. Weston."

"You mistrust him, Margaret; I can see that clearly; but you are mistaken in him."

"I fervently hope I may be. At all events, I have made up my mind to be obeyed in this matter. Let things work their way naturally."

"But if Gerald or his father speaks to me about Lucy?"

"That will alter the case entirely; then you will act according to your judgment."

It required, however, a great deal of coaxing from Margaret before Mr. Hart would agree to her stipulation. But in the end she had her way, as most women have when they are resolved upon it.

Later in the day, Margaret said to Mr. Weston:

"You do not know, I suppose, that we met an old friend almost on the first day of our arrival in Plymouth."

"No," he replied, "I have not heard of it."

"We did; and Mr. Hart has business with him every night for two or three weeks, which will deprive us of his society from seven o'clock every evening. That is a pity, isn't it?"

"Yes," said Mr. Weston, "but your presence will be some compensation."

"That is a very gallant speech. Upon my word, I think only old gentlemen know how to pay a graceful compliment to a lady."

In this way she tickled Mr. Weston's vanity, and contrived to account for Mr. Hart's absence during the night without disclosing the cause.

Margaret, indeed, was in her element, and every moment of her time was busily occupied, now in wheedling Mr. Weston, now in screening the proceedings of Lucy and Gerald from the old gentleman's observation. "I am the watchdog," she said to herself. She waited for a fitting opportunity to speak to Gerald privately about Lucy, and also concerning another matter; the letter which poor Philip had given to the charge of Mr. Hart, and which she had requested him to give her.

An hour with Gerald had made a wonderful change in Lucy; all her sadness was gone, and the joy of her heart was reflected in her face. She introduced Gerald to Margaret, and said:

"You must love her, Gerald. She is my dearest friend."

"Do you hear, sir!" cried Margaret merrily; "you are to love me."

"It will not be difficult to do that," he replied, "after what Lucy has told me about you. But how wonderful all this is! I have not yet recovered from my astonishment."

"Lucy," said Margaret, "will you spare Gerald for half an hour? I have something very particular to say to him."

Lucy smiled an assent, and Margaret, taking Gerald's arm, bade him lead her somewhere where they could flirt undisturbed. He led her to a retired part of the gardens.

"No one will disturb us here," he said, wondering what this strange young lady could have to say to him. If he had entertained any idea that she was serious in asking him to flirt with her, he was soon undeceived. They were no sooner alone than all her light manner vanished, and a sad expression came into her face.

"I am going to confide a secret to you," she said; "I may, with confidence, may I not? What I say to you now you will not speak of without my permission?"

"Certainly not, if you wish it," he replied, wondering more and more.

She paused for a moment, to master the emotion she experienced at the very thought of Philip, of whom she was about to speak.

"Don't think my questions strange," she said, "you will soon understand them. You have been to college?"

"Yes."

"At Cambridge?"

"Yes."

"You had friends there?"

"Yes."

"Among those friends was there one who left suddenly-"

He caught her hand. "Of whom do you speak? I had a friend who went from us suddenly-a friend whom I loved more than all others."

"Oh, my heart! Nay, do not mind me. Speak his name."

"Philip Rowe-good heavens! what have I said?"

He caught her sinking form, and, amidst her tears and grief at the sound of that beloved name, she kept fast hold of Gerald's hand, fearful that he might leave her and call for assistance.

"I shall be better presently. Ah, Philip, my darling! He was my husband, Gerald, and often spoke of you with love and affection." She could not proceed for her tears.

"Was your husband!" he echoed.

"He is dead-my darling, your friend, is dead! Keep close to me; I shall soon be well. And you loved him more than all the others! Bless you for saying it. But who could help loving that noble heart? I will tell you all by-and-by; these words between us are in sacred confidence until I unseal your lips."

They were both too affected to speak for several minutes, and then Margaret placed in Gerald's hand the letter which Philip had given into Mr. Hart's charge. He opened it in her presence. Hungering to see her Philip's writing, she looked over his shoulder. There was no writing inside; Gerald drew out a packet of bank-notes, which he held in his hand with a bewildered air. They looked at each other for an explanation.