Chapter IV: Margaret's Triumph

A dead silence reigned for many moments after the appearance of the last comer. All eyes were turned upon him in anger and displeasure, but he did not raise his face to meet their gaze. It was a cruel face, with hard lines in it, a face which ordinarily was devoid of any expression of kindness; but, although sternness was native to it, irresolution and some signs of remorse were visible on this occasion. That he heard no word of welcome was evidently--if one might judge from appearances--distressing to him, and he sat in silence, with hands tightly clenched beneath the table.

It was now ten o'clock, and the moon was at its full. The curtains of the window had been drawn aside by one of the guests, and the light of a lovely moon added to the peacefulness and beauty of the night. The landlord of the Silver Flagon regarded the guests watchfully and warily, and with uneasiness; but his attention was principally directed to Mr. Richard Weston. The old gentleman's face was flushed with wine and excitement; after the first feelings of fear and dismay at the appearance of these unexpected visitors, he had striven hard to nerve himself, so that he might play his part in this strange scene in a befitting manner; that his nerves, however, were highly strung was shown by an occasional convulsive twining of the fingers, and by his placing his hands before his eyes and then removing them, as though to prove to the evidence of his senses that he was not dreaming. Dinah Dim, who sat next to him, was also very attentive in her observance of him, and now and again placed her hand on his, and took away the wine glass which he would have raised to his lips.

She was the first to speak.

"The presence of this man," she cried, in an agitated tone, "is contamination. Why is he here on this last night of our ever meeting?"

Stephen Viner, with his eyes fixed still upon the table, waited in expectation of some other person speaking. As no one answered Dinah Dim's question, he did so.

"I was constrained to come," he said.

"For what reason?" she retorted. "For your own pleasure or ours? Friends, I appeal to you. Did this man's presence ever bring one smile to our lips, or engender one kindly thought or feeling?"

"Never," answered Reuben Thorne; and "Never," answered the others.

"His life was a curse to him, and to those whom a sad fortune placed in his power. I ask again, why is he here?"

"Your words are harsh," said Stephen Viner, raising his hand as if for mercy. "Your tone is pitiless."

Dinah Dim laughed scornfully. "This man talks of pity," she exclaimed, "in whose cruel breast no spark of it ever dwelt. A pretty preacher, truly!"

"I have told you," he said, in a low tone, "that I was constrained to come to-night. Say that I am here for judgment."

"What kind of judgment," demanded Dinah Dim, "can you expect from those who know you? Has not your own heart punished you sufficiently?"

"It has," he replied, placing his hand to his breast with a gasp of passion. "Can I not make atonement?"

"What atonement, after all these years?"

"I can ask their forgiveness; I can tell them, as I tell you, that I repent of my cruelty, and that if the years could roll back--alas for me that they cannot! I would act differently."

"See you now, my children," said Dinah Dim, rising--"see you now, Richard Weston, who have tasted the priceless blessing of pure devoted love--this man who deliberately destroyed the happiness of two young lovers, comes before us when it is too late, and repents when it is too late. A pretty atonement truly is this that he proposes to make by asking the forgiveness of two innocent young creatures whom he drove to their death, and whose only crime was that they loved. What judgment should we pass upon him--what judgment does he deserve? As you sow, you shall reap. Let this man reap as he has sown. Would any one here hold out to him the hand of friendship?"

"Not one," answered Reuben Thorne, and every person echoed his words.

Even Mr. Weston, towards whom Dinah Dim looked for assent, was compelled to say:--

"Not one."

"Shall the curse of money," proceeded Dinah Dim, "for ever outweigh love--love that humanises the world? The man who, for money's sake, deliberately drags two loving souls asunder--the man who, for money's sake, deliberately poisons the lives of two young creatures whose hearts are drawn together by the holiest sentiment which sweetens life--brings desolation upon his soul here and hereafter. Who among us has done this?"

"Stephen Viner," said Reuben Thorne, and again they all echoed his words. All but Mr. Weston, over whose face a convulsive shudder passed.

Dinah Dim looked at him for a moment, and observing his agitation did not press him to join in the general condemnation.

"Let Stephen Viner, then," said Dinah Dim sternly, "go from among us. His presence brings shame upon us."

The man thus judged and condemned gazed appealingly around, but saw no pitying sign. As he rose to go, Dinah Dim held up a warning hand, and Michael Lee's voice was heard for the last time:

"Caroline Miller. Edward Blair."

The lovers entered, side by side. Dinah Dim moved from her place, and passed her arm round the waist of the young girl, who appeared to need support. They approached with slow and hesitating steps, and Mr. Weston turned towards them; but he did not see their faces. The excitement of the scene had completely overpowered him, and, with a wild motion of his hands, he sank to the ground in a state of insensibility.

* * * * * *

When he recovered he was lying on the veranda, and Gideon Rowe was kneeling by his side. Uncertain whether he was awake or asleep, he closed his eyes, and seemed to fall naturally into a quiet dream--but a dream in which he was conscious of though not actually interested in, all that passed around him. It was as he lay thus, with his eyes closed, that he felt the influence of a womanly presence, in soft touches and murmured words, and a tenderness of action not to be expressed. Opening his eyes he saw no woman, but only his friend, Gideon Rowe, the landlord of the Silver Flagon by his side.

"That is well, that is well," said Gideon Rowe gently. "You are better now."

Mr. Weston held his hands for a little while before he spoke.

"I do not feel ill. Why am I here? What has occurred? Ah," he cried, with a shudder, as his eyes fell upon the folding windows of the room, "I remember. Are they still there?"

"They! Who?"

"They! Who?" echoed Mr. Weston, wonderingly and weakly. "Can you ask?--you were by my side?"

"Come, come," said Gideon Rowe, in a soothing tone, "you must not distress yourself with fancies. Why do you look so strangely toward the room? No person is in it. You were overcome, and you fainted. But you are strong now. Come, let us see if you can walk a bit. That's right, that's right."

He assisted Mr. Weston to rise, and they paced the veranda slowly, Gideon Rowe purposely pausing by the window which led to the room, to give Mr. Weston assurance and to dispel his fears.

"Will you go in?"

"No, no," cried Mr. Weston, "we will sit here; the night is very beautiful. Rowe, do you believe in omens?"

"Has any serious one ever occurred to you?"

"None, in my remembrance."

"Were you not telling me of poor Philip's death some time to-night?"

"Yes," replied Gideon Rowe, with a heavy sigh.

"How did he die? What was the cause of his death?"

"Poor lad! he died by fire. It is a dreadful story."

The father's voice was shaken by grief.

"If it will not distress you too much to tell me," said Mr. Weston, taking Gideon Rowe's hand, "I should like to hear more about him. Do not think me unkind, but I am in a strange mood. I feel like a child. What o'clock is it?"

"Past midnight."

"About Philip, now; indulge me. I loved the boy myself."

"Your Gerald loved him; they were true friends. Had Philip lived, they would have found much joy in their friendship, but fate willed it otherwise. Poor Philip died in the goldfields, in Australia--but I promised that you should hear the story from the lips of the widow. Will you see her? She is very near."

"I fancied just now, when I awoke, that a woman was near me."

"It was Margaret."

"Margaret!" echoed Mr. Weston.

The name brought with it reproachful remembrances.

"That is the name of the girl Philip married."

"Yes, I will see her. One moment; I must not miss saying what was in my mind. I was speaking of omens. You had no foreshadowing of Philip's death?"

"None; the poor lad was dead many months before I heard the news."

"But omens come occasionally to some persons."

"I have read and heard so."

"Gideon, one has come to me; it may foreshadow my death. I have seen the dead."

Gideon Rowe made no comment upon this, but went to the end of the veranda, and called "Margaret!"

Margaret--_our_ Margaret--herself appeared, simply dressed. She approached Mr. Weston, with a serious expression on her beautiful face.

"It _is_ you," he exclaimed, gazing at her in wonder.

"Yes," she said, "poor Philip was my husband."

"Why did you not tell me this before, Margaret?"

"I had my reasons. I was not sure that I could trust you."

"Margaret," interposed Gideon Rowe, "Mr. Weston wishes to hear the particulars of our poor boy's death; I promised that you should tell him."

Margaret turned her head; her lips trembled; tears rushed to her eyes.

"Nay, nay," said Mr. Weston; needing sympathy, he was in the mood to give it; "another time. It will pain her too much."

But Margaret had a purpose in telling the story, and she related the particulars of Philip's death in simple language and in feeling tones. She felt every word she spoke; she was not acting now, and natural pathos it was that drew tears from Mr. Weston.

"I saw my devoted darling in the flames," said Margaret, between her sobs, "looking for me with blind eyes. I tried to get to him, but they held their arms round me, and I could not escape from them. But there was one--ah, there was one!--who, seeing my despair and Philip's peril, rushed into the flames to save his friend. Too late, alas! He dragged my darling out of the burning house, but could not save his life; yet he gave my Philip to me for a few blessed hours."

Overcome by her emotion, Margaret paused.

"A noble action!" said Mr. Weston. "A noble man!"

Margaret nerved herself to proceed. "He and I nursed Philip, and watched the life die out of him. Every word my darling uttered is graven on my heart. 'Dear old fellow!' he said, with feeble gasps, to this dearest of friends. 'Noble old fellow! God bless Margaret and you!'"

"Indeed, indeed," said Mr. Weston, "a blessing should fall upon such a man!"

"'Take care of Margaret,'" whispered my Philip; "'be a father to her. Dear old dad I hoped to see you, and show you my darling. But he will bring her to you.' He uttered but few words after that," continued Margaret, who standing now between Mr. Weston and Philip's father, held a hand of each, "but they all referred to his noble friend and to me, and you, sir" (to Gideon Rowe), "whom he loved most tenderly. So my Philip died. Perhaps he hears me tell the sad story of our love on this solemn, beautiful night. Philip, my darling!" she murmured softly, raising her tearful eyes to the bright heavens; "if you can help me bring the blessing you invoked on our dear friend's head, you will bring a blessing also to your Margaret, in whose heart you will live till she joins you in a better world than this!"

"Is this friend, then, unhappy?" asked Mr. Weston.

"Most unhappy--most undeservedly unhappy. Ah, sir, if you had it in your power, would you not help him--would you not be proud to bring joy into the life of such a man? You were right in calling him noble. Such a nature as his ennobles the world! And yet at this moment he is stricken down by grief."

"He is here, then--in England?"

"He is here, in England, in Devonshire, within sound of my voice."

"What is his name?"

"I must relate an accident of his early life before I tell you, in proof that this act of devotion toward my Philip was not the only act of sacrifice and devotion he has performed. Not the only one, did I say? His life is full of noble deeds. When he was young he had a friend--nay, do not take your hand away; he and his friend loved the same girl. He saw that the girl's heart was given to his friend, whom he had kept in ignorance of the state of his affections, out of consideration for him. Listen, now, to what this man did when he fully learned the truth. Loving this girl, he could not remain near her without betraying himself. Knowing that the revelation of his love would bring distress both to his friend and the girl he loved, he went from them suddenly. He did more than this; his friend at that time was not rich. He himself had some little store of money--between one and two thousand pounds, as near as I can learn; he placed this money--the whole of his fortune--in the hands of a lawyer, to be given to the girl, with strict instructions that neither she nor his friend should know from whom it came. It is now for the first time that his friend hears of this act of sacrifice and unselfishness. Why do you turn from me?"

"Let me be, child, for a few moments," said Mr. Weston, in broken tones; "I might have guessed--I might have guessed! Where in the world could I find another such noble heart as Gerald's? I have wronged him--deeply wronged him."

"A fault confessed is half atoned for," said Margaret, pursuing her advantage. "Complete the atonement. You can do so."

"Child, my promise is given elsewhere. You do not know what strange things have happened this night, Margaret, that, apart from what you have told me, would induce me to complete the atonement. Margaret, I have been visited by the spirits of the dead--by men and women who passed out of the world years and years ago, and whose faces I have seen only in my dreams. _They_ came to warn me, as it seems--but I cannot speak of it."

Margaret assisted him to a chair, and knelt by his side, Gideon Rowe standing a few paces away.

"Do not disregard their warning," she said sweetly, "if you disregard my pleading--for I do plead, and you know for whom."

"I know--I know; but my promise stands in the way."

"What promise?"

"Gerald is promised to another--I cannot depart from my word."

Margaret smiled tenderly.

"What is the name of the young lady?"

"Miss Forester. You saw her on the unhappy night on which my friend left my house with his daughter."

"It was an unhappy night for all of us. Did this promise not bind you----"

He took up her words.

"Did this promise not bind me, I would, if I could find the courage to do so, and were I assured that Gerald and Lucy truly loved each other, go to my friend--of whose goodness every time that I speak of him brings fresh proof--and ask the hand of his daughter for my son."

Such happiness stirred Margaret's heart at these words that he felt her warm tears upon his hand as she kissed it again and again.

"I cannot express my joy," she said, "for I know that you never yet forfeited a promise. Father," she called Gideon Rowe to her side, and whispered a few words of instruction in his ear. He nodded smilingly, and left her. "Dear Mr. Weston, if such a sentiment as pure loves exists--and we know it does--it exists in the hearts of Lucy and Gerald. As for Miss Forester, here she is to speak for herself."

If Miss Forester and Rachel Holmes were one and the same person, then Mr. Weston might have believed that Miss Forester was there to speak for herself; for the lady who came now upon the scene was dressed in the old-fashioned garments worn by Rachel Holmes when she made her appearance at the dinner, an unexpected and certainly unwelcome guest. Finding no clue to the enigma, and sorely disturbed by the late occurrence, Mr. Weston grasped Margaret's hand in deep agitation.

"She is no phantom," said Margaret, with a smile; "she is really and truly flesh and blood, as you and I are. I see that you are filled with wonder, and if you will say, Margaret, I forgive you,' I will explain what is now a mystery to you, and will relieve your mind of the fears which oppress you."

"Could you do that," he responded, "I would say freely 'Margaret, I forgive you,' whatever it is that you have done."

Again Margaret called Gideon Rowe to her side, and again, with a few whispered words, despatched him to do her bidding.

"I have played the part of a scheming woman to-night. The truest friend I ever had or ever shall have, the noblest soul I have ever known, is _your_ friend, Gerald Hart. He has rendered me such services as no man or woman could possibly forget; he risked his life for me and mine, and my heart is filled with gratitude towards him. At Silver Creek, where I first met my poor Philip, I learned that Mr. Hart had a daughter whom he loved with a tender and beautiful love. She was the pulse of his life; as she suffered and enjoyed, he suffered and enjoyed, and her happiness was nearest and dearest to his heart. You have heard the story of our lives at Silver Creek, and of my darling Philip's death, and you can understand with what feelings of true regard and veneration I look up to this steadfast friend. We came home, and he had the happiness of embracing his Lucy, whom he had left a child, and who was now grown into a beautiful woman. And as good and as pure, sir, as she is beautiful. But I discovered that Lucy had a secret grief which would soon send her to her grave, unless it were dispelled. Ah, sir, you do not know the truth, the constancy, the depth of tenderness which dwell in that dear girl's soul! We came to your house as visitors. I was the first who saw that your Gerald and my Lucy were lovers--that they had been lovers before her father's return home--and I did my best to aid them. We had to keep this secret from you, for you were bent upon other views for Gerald, and I learned to my dismay that certain words which passed between you and Mr. Hart would cause him to sacrifice his own and Lucy's happiness rather than that she should marry your son without your consent. Then came that unhappy night when your friend went from your house, with his heart almost broken by the belief that he had been deceived where most he trusted. Now, sir, I had pledged myself to bring Lucy and Gerald together, and to obtain--what I have already (see, sir, how bold I am!)--your consent to their union. In the face of all the difficulties, how was I to accomplish this? I flew to a friend, by name Lewis Nathan, an old sweetheart of my mother's. I had heard that you had a Bluebeard's room in your house, and acting upon Mr. Nathan's suggestion, we entered the room during your absence, and discovered thirteen portraits hanging on the walls--nothing more. When Mr. Hart and Lucy left your house I was in despair, for I saw no way of accomplishing my desire. I made myself known to Philip's father in this dear old Silver Flagon, and I won my way to his affection.

"I had not been in the Silver Flagon a week before I found myself in a room hung round with portraits--thirteen of them--exact duplicates of those which line your Bluebeard's room. Curious to know, I coaxed the story of these pictures out of Mr. Rowe, and then I thought I saw a way to win your consent. I consulted Mr. Nathan, and we planned the scheme. It was a desperate expedient, dear sir, but I am a bold creature, as you know, and I alone am responsible for all that has occurred to-night. I am an actress, and some of those who presented themselves to you at the dinner are actors whom I engaged from the theatre. All your guests were not professionals, sir. This lady, Miss Forester--who is Miss Forester no longer, for, determined not to be forced into a distasteful union, she was privately married to the gentleman to whom her heart is given--entered with fervour into my scheme, and personated Rachel Holmes; her husband personated Henry Holmes. See, sir, some of your late guests are in the garden. Here are your spectacles; I could not afford that you should wear them before; I was fearful lest your sight should be too sharp for me. Did we play our parts well, sir? Reuben Thorne was enacted by my trusty friend, Mr. Lewis Nathan. And I, sir, am Dinah Dim, very much at your service."

Mr. Weston revolved this explanation in his mind during many moments of silence. I am not disposed to follow the current of his thoughts; he was a worldly man, and an analysis might detract from the grace of the act which he presently performed. He was compelled to confess that he had been conquered, and he found some consolation in the inexpressible relief he experienced in being relieved of his fears. He had a question or two to ask, however.

"Who was Stephen Viner?"

"An actor."

"And Caroline Miller and Edward Blair?"

"Lucy and your son, sir. I was doubtful of them from the first, afraid that their feelings might betray them."

"Rowe," said Mr. Weston to the landlord of the Silver Flagon, "you had a doorkeeper?"

"Yes--Michael Lee by name."

"Where is he?"

Margaret interposed. "That is one of my secrets, sir. My father had not seen your friend, Gerald Hart, until he introduced himself to-night."

"Until he introduced himself to-night!" exclaimed Gideon Rowe. "Nay, I have never yet seen Mr. Hart."

"You have," replied Margaret, with a smile; "he is Michael Lee."

* * * * * *

Thus, by this strange and bold device, our Margaret won the day. Truly, it was a triumph of love. As Richard Weston and Gerald Hart stood face to face clasping hands once more, and as they turned towards their children, who were radiant with joy, Margaret murmured to herself the name of "Philip," and looked up to heaven, not unhappily. They remained together until morning broke. As the wondrous colours came into the sky, Margaret said to Mr. Hart:

"Do you remember the night of the storm in Silver Creek, when you were robbed of your money, and when you and Philip and I stood at the window watching the day break?"

"I do, dear Margaret--dear daughter!"

"God bless you!" she said, with a sob.

"And you, my dear," he softly answered. "You have accomplished the supreme happiness of my life."

THE END.

PRINTED BY TAYLOR AND CO., LITTLE QUEEN STEET, LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS.

End of Project Gutenberg's At the Sign of the Silver Flagon, by B. L. Farjeon