Kitabı oku: «At the Sign of the Silver Flagon», sayfa 14

CHAPTER VIII
"SHE NEVER TOLD HER LOVE."

Old Mr. Weston, a great magnate in his neighbourhood, a wealthy man, the owner of a fine estate, a justice of the peace, and what not, had been surprised out of himself by the sudden meeting of his friend, Gerald Hart, from whom he had been separated when they were almost boys, or at all events before either of them had experienced those trials and temptations, the reception and handling of which give the true stamp to a man's character. Our dear friend, Mr. Hart, had passed through the fire unscathed. His fine, honest nature shone steadily in the midst of every temptation; it never flickered or wavered when brought into contact with opportunity which by dishonesty or trickery could be turned to his advantage at another person's expense. His conscience was a touchstone, and he was guided by it; rogue could never be written on the sleeve of his jacket. That he was occasionally worsted by knaves distressed him, but did not embitter him; nor did it cause him to swerve. He was-to use a phrase I once heard from an American, who was speaking of a person he admired-emphatically a straight man.

To all outward appearance, Mr. Weston, when he was a young man, bade fair to rival his friend in genuineness and honesty of character; but the result falsified the promise. Money had spoiled him, as it spoils many a thousand men and women every year of our lives, and it is strictly true to state that he would have been a better man had he been less prosperous. I sometimes think what a dreadful world this would be if every person in it had more money than was needed for his requirements. Great prosperity is a heavy burden, and one can keep one's moral balance much better amid the storms of misfortune than when all his worldly desires are satisfied. More men are wrecked upon golden sands than upon sterile rocks of stone. So, in course of time, the young man who had won the love and esteem of Gerald Hart became over-weighted by prosperity, and over all the finest qualities of his nature crept a crust of worldliness which hardened and grew firmer with his years. These changes in character are common enough. I have in my eye now a young man whom I have known for a few years; a meek, quiet lad he was, with a mild and gentle face, advancing his opinions, when he could muster sufficient confidence, with a timid and unassuming air, which seemed to be the natural outcome of a kind and modest soul. This young man, having had a start in life, is fast developing beneath my observation into a solemn humbug, and he is already, with a seriousness which would be laughable if it were not lamentable, dealing very largely in a certain kind of stereotyped milk-and-water religious sentiment, which he parades (having the opportunity) with a long, sedate, and melancholy face, with all the authority of a Solon, before men and women who have grown grey in the service of the years. If I have the good fortune to live a dozen years, and then to meet this wretched prig (for I know exactly what he will grow into) dealing out his milk-and-water platitudes, I dare say I shall wonder what has become of the meek, modest lad whose gentle face first attracted my notice and won my favour.

As, in the same way, shall Mr. Hart presently wonder what has become of the frank and generous friend he knew in his youth, and whom he had cherished in his heart for so many, many years.

How, then, to account for the part Mr. Weston played in the interview which took place in the sweet Devonshire lane, where the fairy bells of the feather-grass were swinging to and fro in the clear waters of the brook? As I have said at the commencement of this chapter, he was surprised out of himself by the strange and sudden meeting; old memories had penetrated the crust of worldliness which now overlaid the better part of his nature, and for a little while the present was forgotten, and unconsciously set aside. He found it, indeed, a pleasant sensation to yield to the sweet waves of youthful remembrance which the appearance of Gerald Hart had conjured up, and worldly as he was, he honestly resolved to help his friend a little. Still when, in the latter part of the day, he thought over the interview, he confessed to himself that it would have been much more agreeable to him if his friend had been well-dressed and well-to-do.

Nevertheless, he gave Mr. Hart a cordial welcome to his house, a great part of his cordiality arising from a sense of satisfaction at being able to show his friend how well he had got on in the world.

"And this is your daughter?" he said, taking Lucy's hand; "I may use an old man's privilege."

When he took her hand, Lucy gave a little start of surprise, which only one person noticed.

Then he turned to Margaret, and shook hands with her. At her own request, she was introduced to him by her maiden name. "I don't want to be known yet as Mrs. Rowe," she had said.

It did not occur to Mr. Hart that there was any change in the nature of his old friend, as they stood gazing into each other's face, where lines and wrinkles were. It was one of his tricks to judge others by himself.

"You look ten years younger than I," observed Mr. Weston.

"I have not been harassed by the cares of property," replied Mr. Hart, with a smile, in which there was no envy.

Mr. Weston sighed-an eloquent sigh, which expressed, "Ah, you little know how harassing those cares are!" and at the same time a proud sigh at the possession of them.

Then said Margaret, the tactician, after a few minutes chat, during which she had been acting a part towards the old gentleman:

"You old friends must have a great deal to say to each other, and the presence of two foolish women will not help you."

"I would not hear your enemy say so," said Mr. Hart.

"Say what?"

"That you are a foolish woman."

"Well quoted, Gerald, well quoted," acquiesced Mr. Weston gaily.

Margaret made a demure curtsey, and continued, addressing Mr. Weston:

"As we are to spend the day in your beautiful house-"

"Nay," he interrupted, "you are to spend a week or two at least with me."

"Ah!" rejoined the wily Margaret, to make her ground sure, "but you did not count upon an additional incumbrance in the shape of Me."

"An incumbrance, my dear young lady!" exclaimed Mr. Weston, completely won over, as she intended he should be-she hadn't been an actress for nothing. "Have at her with another quotation, Gerald!"

"Thou shalt have five thousand welcomes," said Mr. Hart, readily "without the fivepence, Margaret."

"Bravo! bravo!" cried Mr. Weston. "My friend's friends are mine. I shall be delighted with your society."

Indeed, he was unexpectedly pleased with the two girls; they were well dressed, and bore themselves like ladies-as they were-and this gratified the old worldling.

"Very well, then," said Margaret, with a bewitching smile; "I could not say No on less persuasion. So I propose that you two gentlemen run way and chat, and leave Lucy and me to amuse ourselves, if you are not afraid to trust us."

Mr. Weston, thinking to himself, "Really a very charming creature!" made a gallant reply, and taking his friend's arm, walked with him into the garden.

Margaret and Lucy sat or strolled in the balcony which fringed the windows of the first floor of the house. Margaret, in her tender watchfulness of Lucy, had observed the little start of surprise which Lucy had given on seeing Mr. Weston, and she found a difficulty in accounting for it.

"Lucy," she said, "have you met Mr. Weston before to-day?"

"No, Margaret," was Lucy's answer. "What makes you ask?"

"Something in your face-that's all."

There was something in Lucy's face while these few words were being uttered-a blush, which quickly died out, leaving her paler than before. Margaret instantly began putting two and two together. An easy task, some of you may think. You are much mistaken. It is a task which requires, and often defies, abstruse calculation, and where a man will succeed in it once, a woman will succeed a hundred times. There are three great discoveries yet to be made in the world-perpetual motion, how to square the circle, and how many beans make five. Depend upon it, if they ever are discovered, they will be placed to the credit of women.

Less difficult, certainly, than any of these, was the task upon which Margaret was at present engaged. But shrewd as she was, she was far from seeing her way clearly. The sum was not completely set before her. There was a figure wanting.

"I don't quite know, Lucy," she said, "whether I like Mr. Weston."

Lucy looked at Margaret reproachfully. Not like her father's old friend! Why, what could Margaret be thinking about? But Margaret, had she pleased, could have justified herself. She had, or fancied she had, observed an expression of uneasiness and dissatisfaction on Mr. Weston's face when his eyes rested on his friend's clothes. They were decent, but not new; and if they had been new, they would not have been fine. This uneasy glance lasted only for an instant, but it had made an impression on Margaret's mind not easily to be effaced. "Trifles light as air are to the jealous confirmation strong as proofs of holy writ;" and Margaret was a woman who judged by trifles. It is strange that this should be rare when the waving of a straw proclaims how the wind blows.

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."