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.