At the Sign of the Silver Flagon

"When you and I were talking about my son's prospects, I told you that he had entangled himself in some way with a girl far below him-you remember, Gerald?"

"I remember very well."

"That fancy is over, I am glad to say; he has evidently forgotten all about it. The fact is, my boy is impressionable, and cannot resist a pretty face. Why, some people might fancy he was making love to Lucy! But I know him, I know him! It is his way. If he saw a new and pretty face to-morrow, he would begin admiring it immediately; he couldn't help it; it is in his nature. He will cool down presently; when he is married I shall indeed be a happy man. You will come to the wedding, Gerald-you, and Lucy, and Margaret. Then we must get Lucy married. Do you know" – and here he peered, not without anxiety, into his friend's face-"that many another father would have been disturbed by what I have heard to-night. One or two foolish persons have said-you'll not mind my repeating the words! – that it looked as though Gerald were making love to Lucy. But we know better, eh, old friend? we know better. He means nothing by it-absolutely nothing-and Lucy, of course, understands that. A girl easily sees, and instinctively judges between earnestness and lightness. And then I remember what you said when we were talking upon this matter; you would not allow your daughter to receive Gerald's attentions without my consent; you would not allow her to marry him without my consent. Those were your words, Gerald?"

"Those were my words," said Mr. Hart coldly and mechanically.

"And you never broke a promise-never, old friend?"

"Never."

"And you would not break this?"

"Not if it broke my heart," replied Mr. Hart, with a shudder of pain.

"And my consent is given elsewhere," proceeded Mr. Weston, with nervous satisfaction; "given elsewhere, as I told you. As for your bright little Lucy-you noticed how she has improved during the last fortnight, Gerald? I really think the visit has done her good-as for her, we will get her comfortably settled presently; and for yourself, Gerald, anything in the way of money-"

"For God's sake," cried Mr. Hart, almost blind with grief, "don't talk to me about money! I must go and speak to Lucy."

He looked about for his darling, but he could not see her. Indeed, she had left the room with Gerald, and the two were now in the garden, little dreaming of the storm that was gathering. Mr. Weston was somewhat shaken by his friend's agitation, but deemed it prudent not to comment upon it. A diversion occurred, and Mr. Weston gladly seized the opportunity of changing the subject. A tall gentleman, very red in the face and very pompous in his manner, approached them.

"Ah," said Mr. Weston, "Mr. Majendie! Delighted to see you. Let me introduce my friend, Mr. Hart."

The gentlemen bowed to each other.

"I intended to be here earlier," said Mr. Majendie, "but there was a benefit at the theatre, and, as my patronage had been obtained, I thought the people would expect to see me."

"No doubt, no doubt," observed Mr. Weston.

"The benefit was for the hospital, and I was compelled to put in an appearance. Not that I approve of such places, but one must make sacrifices."

Here he turned his attention to Mr. Hart, and regarded him with a look of doubt and surprise.

"I beg your pardon; I did not catch this gentleman's name."

"Mr. Hart-one of my oldest friends."

"Hart! Hart Not Hunter?"

He put this in the form of a question, and it had the effect of a cold shower-bath upon Mr. Hart; it dispelled all vapours for a time.

"What if it be?" he asked proudly, returning Mr. Majendie's now steadfast gaze.

A word as to Mr. Majendie. A bag of clothes stuffed with money. The richest man in the district, and the meanest souled and narrowest-minded; a man who wore frills to his shirts, and strutted along with his head in the air like a turkey-cock, and looked down with profound contempt upon the "lower orders." The pride of money oozed out of the corner of his eyes, out of his thick-lipped mouth, out of his voice, out of his manners. Policemen, parochial beadles, female paupers, and charity children regarded him with awe. Altogether he was one of the most contemptible embodiments of money among a crowd of such.

"In that case," replied Mr. Majendie, with his loftiest air, "I should inquire if there was any connection between you and the Plymouth Theatre, and I should express my surprise at Mr. Weston asking my wife and daughters-leaving me out of the question-to meet a common actor on terms of equality!"

"No, no, Mr. Majendie!" said Mr. 'Weston very warmly. "I assure you, you are wrong; you are mistaking my friend, Gerald Hart-my old and dear friend, Mr. Majendie-for another person."

"Pardon me," said Mr. Hart gently and proudly, and smiling sadly on Margaret, who, observing that something stirring was taking place, had hurried to his side, "Mr. Majendie has made no mistake. If any has been made, it is I who am in fault. Your surmise is a correct one, sir; I am an actor, and am acting under the name of Hunter at the Plymouth Theatre. But Mr. Weston was not aware of it until this moment."

Mr. Majendie turned on his heel, and in his most stately manner left the room with Mrs. and the Misses Majendie, who were all tainted with his disease.

Mr. Weston was hurt in a very tender point; truly it was a most unpleasant incident. Only for one moment did Mr. Hart look into Mr. Weston's face; he saw sufficient in that brief glance to shatter the hope and belief of a life.

His friend was false to him, unworthy of him.

In that moment, also, his own nature seemed to undergo a change.

"Where is Lucy?" he asked, loudly and sternly, of Margaret.

Margaret, without answering him, led him from the room, and he supposed she was about to lead him to his daughter. But Margaret's first intention was to remove him from the observation of the guests, who were already beginning to talk of the incident. That girl the daughter of an actor! they said to one another. Well, it was, no wonder she was so pretty! They know how to make themselves up, my dear! As for Gerald Weston, his attentions to her were now easily to be understood. But they were astonished at old Mr. Weston introducing such people. The girl and her friend had been living in the house for a fortnight Indeed! And so on, and so on.

Fortunately for them, and for Mr. Hart also, he was out of hearing of this gossip. Margaret led him into the air, and the first persons they saw were Lucy and Gerald strolling toward the house. Mr. Hart's mind was thrown off its balance by grief and passion. He tore Lucy from Gerald's arm, and cried:

"Gerald Weston, are you a coward or a villain?"

"Mr. Hart!" exclaimed Gerald, confounded by this startling address.

"Dear friend," entreated Margaret, "be calm."

Lucy looked imploringly from one to the other.

"No more fair words," cried Mr. Hart; "I have had enough of them! Honesty has died out of the world."

He turned to Mr. Weston, who, fearing a scene, had followed his old friend into the garden, and said in a bitter, passionate tone:

"Never more will I hold out the hand of friendship to you, never more will I set foot beneath your roof, until you have atoned for the wrong you have done me and mine! Go you to your wife's grave, and erase the words you have written on her tomb; they are a mockery there, and rise up in judgment against you. Come, my child, this is no place for us. We must look elsewhere for truth and faithfulness!"

END OF THE SECOND PART

Part the Third

THE DINNER OF THIRTEEN

CHAPTER I

STRANGE PREPARATIONS FOR THE DINNER

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"This makes the eighth year, sir."

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

"We have, sir."

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

"Thank you, sir."

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

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

This with a glance at the portraits on the wall.

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

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

"It shall be done, sir."

"Have the men been instructed in their duties?"

"Yes, sir."

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

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

"We do, sir."

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

"Yes, sir."

"Then I need say nothing more to you."

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

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

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

"He is without, sir."

"Let me see him."

Mr. Steele hesitated a moment.

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

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

"Oh! yes."

"And a dependable man?"

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

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

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

"Your name is-"

"Michael Lee."

"You answer promptly, like a soldier."

"I am not one, sir."

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

"Fairly good for my age."

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

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

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

"You can read it?"

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

Gideon Rowe paused before he spoke again.

"That is a good credential for your eyes."

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

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

"I also am a father."

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

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

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

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

Still striving to rally his spirits, Michael Lee said:

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

"Any one whom I know?"

"Yes, sir; you know him slightly."

"Who may he be?"

"I, myself."

Gideon Rowe smiled.

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

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

Reuben Thorne.

James Blanchard.

Henry Holmes.

Rachel Holmes.

Thomas Chatterton.

Ephraim Goldberg.

Dinah Dim.

Stephen Viner.

Caroline Miller.

Edward Blair.

Clarence Coveney.

Frederick Fairfax.

Richard Weston.

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

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

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

"That is lucky," observed Michael Lee.

"What is lucky?"

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER II

ARRIVAL OF BUT ONE GUEST AT A DINNER FOR THIRTEEN

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