Chapter V: A Strange Story

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

"And never suspected?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, indeed."

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

His voice faltered as he uttered the name.

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

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

"You loved her, Richard?"

"With my whole soul, Gerald."

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

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

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

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

"Her child lives?"

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

"I am sure he would be."

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

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

"No, Gerald, I hold no clue."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I honour you more than ever, Gerald."

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

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

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

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

"Where is she buried, Richard?"

"I will take you to her grave."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Speak, Gerald."

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

"Gerald! Gerald!" expostulated Mr. Weston.

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

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

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

"Special words?"

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

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

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

They clasped hands again.

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

"I wonder as it is, Gerald."

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

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

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

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

To the Memory of

CLARA.

Love sweetens all,
Love levels all.

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

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