Kitabı oku: «At the Sign of the Silver Flagon», sayfa 15

CHAPTER X
THE THEORY OF FRIENDSHIP

Margaret was not prepared for the manner in which her words were received by Mr. Hart. She thought he would have been dismayed and staggered at the disclosure, and she was ready to comfort him, and instil courage into him. But the radiant face that met her eyes astonished her.

"Why then," cried Mr. Hart, with bright looks and in a blithe tone, "all is well-all is well! If your news is true-"

"It is true," she said, in calm wonderment; "they are together now. I came to the door to keep guard, so that no one should disturb them."

"Then I am the happiest man and the happiest father in Christendom! Why, Margaret, if I had been asked which man in all the wide world I should wish my daughter to marry, I should select the very man who has won her heart! God bless them! Now, indeed, my mind is at rest, and I care not what happens to me. My business with the world is over. All is well with Lucy. We shall see the roses on her cheeks again, my dear-we shall! Kiss me, Margaret, and wish me joy."

She kept him back with her hand, and in her eyes dwelt a look in which pity and admiration were equally blended.

"It is my turn now," she said, "to ask for an explanation."

"An explanation of what, my dear? Is not everything as clear as the noonday sun, as bright as this beautiful day? Ah, it is a good world, a good world! Thank God for it, and for the happiness this day has brought to me!"

"It would be ungenerous to pretend to misunderstand you," said Margaret, in a gentle tone. "You think there are no difficulties in the way of Lucy's union with Gerald."

"Think!" he exclaimed, in a reproachful tone. "Nay, am I not sure that matters could not have turned out more happily? Difficulties, my dear child! What difficulties? Here are we, two old men, who pledged our faith to each other when we were young-who exchanged vows-who were and are the most faithful of friends-who, if circumstances had not parted us, would have walked hand in hand through life, cheering, consoling, encouraging each other. There is no envy in our friendship, and no selfish feeling mars it. How often in my wanderings have I thought of him? How often have I lived the old days over again, and recalled the memories of the happy times we spent together? Margaret, I think that even love pales before the beauty of a faithful friendship. There is something holy in it; it is a pure sentiment, fit for the hearts of angels. You cannot conceive what comfort and consolation the mere memory of the friendship between me and Richard Weston has brought to me; it has brightened hours which otherwise would have been very dark. And now, when we are old men, and, after so long a parting, are so strangely reunited, our children fall in love with each other! One might almost say it is the reward of faithfulness."

So spoke this old man, whom the world's trials and disappointments had been unable to sour. And Margaret felt humbled and abashed as she listened to the noble outburst, and even as she listened she debated within herself whether she should plunge the dagger of doubt into his heart.

"We should change places," she said; "you are younger than I. I am old, calculating, unbelieving; you are young and trustful. Ah, if men and women were all like you, how much better and happier the world would be! Where you see cause for joy, I see cause for sorrow. Where you believe, I doubt. Your heart is like a bank of sweet moss where fresh flowers are always growing; mine is a heart of flint. Dear friend, I love you more every day that I know you."

"Pleasant words to hear, dear child, but you shall not do yourself an injustice. I will not have you speak in such terms of yourself. You must work yourself out of this sad humour, for my sake, for Lucy's sake. Believe me there is sweetness in life for you yet, notwithstanding your great sorrow. All is clear sailing before us now. Lucy and Gerald will marry. You will go to the Silver Flagon, and take your proper place as Mr. Rowe's daughter, and we shall all live pleasantly together."

"How happy I should be if things turned out in that way!" exclaimed Margaret, having now resolved upon her course of action. "But in the meantime you will not take the helm out of my hands. I am still captain, and I'll have no mutineering. So I give you this order. Not a word of what we have said must pass your lips, nor must you speak upon this subject to any person but me for at least a fortnight from this day."

"But why, my dear, why?"

"I will not be questioned; I want to make sure; the stake is a serious one, and we must not run the risk of losing by acting rashly. Least of all must you whisper a word to old Mr. Weston."

"You mistrust him, Margaret; I can see that clearly; but you are mistaken in him."

"I fervently hope I may be. At all events, I have made up my mind to be obeyed in this matter. Let things work their way naturally."

"But if Gerald or his father speaks to me about Lucy?"

"That will alter the case entirely; then you will act according to your judgment."

It required, however, a great deal of coaxing from Margaret before Mr. Hart would agree to her stipulation. But in the end she had her way, as most women have when they are resolved upon it.

Later in the day, Margaret said to Mr. Weston:

"You do not know, I suppose, that we met an old friend almost on the first day of our arrival in Plymouth."

"No," he replied, "I have not heard of it."

"We did; and Mr. Hart has business with him every night for two or three weeks, which will deprive us of his society from seven o'clock every evening. That is a pity, isn't it?"

"Yes," said Mr. Weston, "but your presence will be some compensation."

"That is a very gallant speech. Upon my word, I think only old gentlemen know how to pay a graceful compliment to a lady."

In this way she tickled Mr. Weston's vanity, and contrived to account for Mr. Hart's absence during the night without disclosing the cause.

Margaret, indeed, was in her element, and every moment of her time was busily occupied, now in wheedling Mr. Weston, now in screening the proceedings of Lucy and Gerald from the old gentleman's observation. "I am the watchdog," she said to herself. She waited for a fitting opportunity to speak to Gerald privately about Lucy, and also concerning another matter; the letter which poor Philip had given to the charge of Mr. Hart, and which she had requested him to give her.

An hour with Gerald had made a wonderful change in Lucy; all her sadness was gone, and the joy of her heart was reflected in her face. She introduced Gerald to Margaret, and said:

"You must love her, Gerald. She is my dearest friend."

"Do you hear, sir!" cried Margaret merrily; "you are to love me."

"It will not be difficult to do that," he replied, "after what Lucy has told me about you. But how wonderful all this is! I have not yet recovered from my astonishment."

"Lucy," said Margaret, "will you spare Gerald for half an hour? I have something very particular to say to him."

Lucy smiled an assent, and Margaret, taking Gerald's arm, bade him lead her somewhere where they could flirt undisturbed. He led her to a retired part of the gardens.

"No one will disturb us here," he said, wondering what this strange young lady could have to say to him. If he had entertained any idea that she was serious in asking him to flirt with her, he was soon undeceived. They were no sooner alone than all her light manner vanished, and a sad expression came into her face.

"I am going to confide a secret to you," she said; "I may, with confidence, may I not? What I say to you now you will not speak of without my permission?"

"Certainly not, if you wish it," he replied, wondering more and more.

She paused for a moment, to master the emotion she experienced at the very thought of Philip, of whom she was about to speak.

"Don't think my questions strange," she said, "you will soon understand them. You have been to college?"

"Yes."

"At Cambridge?"

"Yes."

"You had friends there?"

"Yes."

"Among those friends was there one who left suddenly-"

He caught her hand. "Of whom do you speak? I had a friend who went from us suddenly-a friend whom I loved more than all others."

"Oh, my heart! Nay, do not mind me. Speak his name."

"Philip Rowe-good heavens! what have I said?"

He caught her sinking form, and, amidst her tears and grief at the sound of that beloved name, she kept fast hold of Gerald's hand, fearful that he might leave her and call for assistance.

"I shall be better presently. Ah, Philip, my darling! He was my husband, Gerald, and often spoke of you with love and affection." She could not proceed for her tears.

"Was your husband!" he echoed.

"He is dead-my darling, your friend, is dead! Keep close to me; I shall soon be well. And you loved him more than all the others! Bless you for saying it. But who could help loving that noble heart? I will tell you all by-and-by; these words between us are in sacred confidence until I unseal your lips."

They were both too affected to speak for several minutes, and then Margaret placed in Gerald's hand the letter which Philip had given into Mr. Hart's charge. He opened it in her presence. Hungering to see her Philip's writing, she looked over his shoulder. There was no writing inside; Gerald drew out a packet of bank-notes, which he held in his hand with a bewildered air. They looked at each other for an explanation.

"Nay, it is you that must unriddle it," said Margaret.

He counted the notes; they amounted to a large sum, four hundred pounds. Margaret saw, by a sudden flash in Gerald's eyes, that he could explain the mystery. After much persuasion he told her briefly that when he and Philip were at college together he had signed bills for Philip for four hundred pounds, which he had to pay.

"My Philip repays you now," said Margaret, in a grateful tone. "And yet when I spoke of him you used no word of reproach towards him; others to whom he might have owed the money would not have been so forbearing."

"He was my friend," said Gerald, "and I loved him. Poor dear Philip!"

She took his hand and kissed it; then she thought of Lucy.

"And now I want to speak to you about Lucy," she said. "If your father knew that it was the daughter of his oldest friend you loved, would he give his consent to your engagement?"

The words in which he answered her were a sufficient confirmation of her fears.

"I can marry without my father's consent."

The voice of Mr. Weston himself, who had approached them unseen, suddenly broke up their conference.

"Ah! you have made the acquaintance of this big boy of mine," said the old gentleman to Margaret; "don't lose your heart to him; he is the most desperate deceiver in the world. See how the rascal blushes!"

"I was making love to him," said Margaret archly; "but as you tell me it is of no use, I had better employ my time more profitably."

And she took the old gentleman's arm, and straightway commenced to flirt with him in the most outrageous manner.

CHAPTER XI
A PEEP INTO BLUEBEARD'S ROOM

Thanks to Margaret's tact, everything went on smoothly for a little while. No person but herself knew how hard she worked during this time. She was for ever on the alert, and she managed so skilfully that Mr. Weston did not even suspect that Gerald and Lucy were lovers. These young persons would have betrayed themselves a dozen times a day to Gerald's father had it not been for Margaret's vigilance: she took the old gentleman in hand, as she termed it, and entertained him so admirably that he found real pleasure in her society. She afterwards declared that she had never played so difficult a part, and had never played any part half so well. But Margaret, as we know, had a great idea of her own capabilities.

With womanly cunning, she sounded Mr. Weston to the very bottom of his nature, and she was compelled to admit to herself that there was not the slightest probability of his ever, with his eyes open, giving his consent to Gerald's union with a girl who had neither wealth nor position. He had set his mind upon a certain worldly position for his son, and he was not to be diverted from it by sentimental feelings. Gerald was to marry money, was to enter Parliament, and to make a name in society. The old gentleman respected nothing but position; he felt a glow of pride when people touched their hats to him in the streets, and without a suspicion that this mark of outward respect was paid to his wealth and not to himself, he was convinced that it was worth living for and worth working for. But notwithstanding that he was emphatically a purse-proud man, and that when he sat upon the bench as a magistrate his bosom swelled with false pride, he had one estimable quality, which better men than he often do not possess. He was a man of his word, and had never been known to depart from it. What he pledged himself to, he performed. His promise was better than any other man's bond. Now this would cut both ways, as Margaret knew, and it was with dismay she thought that if the old gentleman once refused in plain words to sanction an engagement between Gerald and Lucy, it would take a greater power than she imagined she could ever possess to induce him to revoke his decision. If, on the other hand, she could manage, insidiously or by straightforward dealing, to induce him to sanction such an engagement, she believed she could compel him to stand by his word. But she saw no way to arrive at so desirable a consummation.

Every day she confessed to herself that her task was becoming more difficult. The fortnight during which she had extracted a promise from Lucy's father to keep his lips sealed was fast drawing to a close, and no one but herself knew that a storm was approaching which would bring a deathless grief to those she loved. She knew that she could obtain no assistance, even in the shape of advice, from any of the friends around her. Mr. Hart was too trustful of his friend; he would listen to nothing against him. Lucy was too simple! Gerald was too rash and sanguine. These reflections were perplexing her as she stood before the glass one morning, and when she came to the end of them she frowned and stamped her foot.

"My dear," she said, nodding her head violently to herself in the glass, "all these people are too guileless and innocent to be of the slightest use to you. You are the only wicked one among them."

And then she thought she would go and consult her mother's old lover, Mr. Lewis Nathan, the clothes-seller. But she was frightened to leave the house with Mr. Weston in it, and no watchdog over him. Fortune befriended her, however, for over the breakfast-table Mr. Weston mentioned that business would take him away from them until the evening. Margaret's eyes sparkled.

"We shall be quite dull without you," she said.

She had so ingratiated herself into the old gentleman's good graces that he really believed her. Little did he suspect that he was nursing a serpent in his bosom. Margaret saw him safely off, and then, telling Lucy that she had business in town, put on her bonnet and shawl.

"What business, Maggy?" asked Lucy.

"I am going shopping," replied Margaret, with face of most unblushing innocence.

"Oh! I'll come with you," cried Lucy eagerly.

(I take the opportunity of parenthetically stating my belief that women like "shopping," even better than love-making.)

"I don't want you, my pet," said Margaret demurely; "I am going to meet my beau, and two is company, you know."

Away she posted to Mr. Lewis Nathan, who welcomed her right gladly.

"I was afraid I was going to lose you, my dear," he said; "I thought you had forgotten me."

"I never forget a friend," replied Margaret; "I am like my poor mother, Mr. Nathan. Did she ever forget you?"

She chattered about odd things for a few minutes before she came to the point. She even took a customer out of Mr. Nathan's hands, and sold the man a coat and a Waistcoat for half as much again as Mr.. Nathan would have obtained for them; true, she sweetened the articles with smiles and flattering words, and sent the customer away, dazed and entranced. Mr. Nathan looked on with undisguised admiration.

"What a saleswoman you would have made!" he exclaimed, raising his hands. "You talked to the man as though you had been born in the business, my dear-born in the business."

"The fact is, Mr. Nathan," said Margaret, with brazen audacity, "I am a very clever woman; and, besides, I am an actress, and know how to wheedle the men." She sighed pensively and added, "But I am a fool with it all. I can sell a coat, but I can't serve my dearest friends. Oh, that I were a man and had the brains of a man!"

With a humorous look Mr. Lewis Nathan placed his hands to his head.

"Here is a man's head," said he, "and a man's brains, very much at your service, my dear."

"Come along, then," she cried. "It is hard if you and I can't win when we go into partnership. What do you say, now? Shall we become partners?"

"My dear," said the old rascal, "I should like to take you as a partner for life."

"It is a good job for me," said Margaret archly, "that you are not thirty years younger. As it is I have almost lost my heart to you."

This incorrigible creature could no more help flirting than she could help talking-and she had a woman's tongue to do the latter.

Binding him over to secrecy, she told him the whole story; he listened attentively.

"As I was doing my hair this morning," said Margaret in conclusion, "and looking into the glass-"

"I wish I had been behind you, my dear," interrupted Mr. Nathan.

"Be quiet, Lothario! As I looked into the glass this morning I said to myself, 'Margaret, there is only one person among your acquaintance who is clever enough to assist you; that person is Mr. Nathan.' But before I flew to you, I had a good look at the crow's feet which this trouble is bringing into my eyes. I am growing quite careworn."

"I should like to see those crow's feet."

"Well, look at them;" and she placed her face close to his.

Mr. Nathan gazed into her sparkling eyes, which flashed their brightest glances at him, and then laughed at her outright.

"You're a barbarian," cried Margaret.

"You had better call me an unbelieving Jew at once," said Mr. Nathan rubbing his hands. "You're thrown away as a Christian, my dear, completely thrown away! You ought to have been one of the chosen people."

She rose and made him a mocking curtsey.

"Thank you, I am quite contented as I am. But let us be serious. Say something to the point. You have heard the story."

"It is an old story," he observed; "love against money. Here is money; here is love." He held out his two hands to represent a pair of scales, one hand raised considerably above the other. "See, my dear, how money weighs down love."

"I see. Your hand with love in it is nearest to heaven; your hand with money in it is nearest to the-other place."

"Perhaps so; perhaps so; but the plot of this play is to be played out on earth, my dear, isn't it? I have seen it a hundred times on the stage, and so have you."

"And love always wins," she said vivaciously. "Yes," rejoined Mr. Nathan drily, "on the stage, always. In real life, never."

"I won't have never!" she cried impetuously. "It does sometimes win, even in this sordid world. And if it never has done so before, it must win now. Why, if your cunning and my wit are not a match for a greedy, worldly, hard-hearted old man, I would as lief have been born without brains as with them!"

"Hush, hush, my dear. Let me think a bit."

He pondered for a little while.

"There was a mathematician-what was his name? – ah! Archimedes-who said he would move the world if he could find a crevice for his lever. My dear, we have neither lever nor crevice. We must get the lever first, and find the crevice. Now where does this old gentleman keep his skeleton?"

She stared at him in amazement. "His skeleton!" she exclaimed.

"His skeleton, my dear; that's what we want. He keeps it somewhere. I've got mine, and I keep it where no eye but my own can see it. We've all got one. If we could get hold of this old gentleman's we might do something. It is in his house, depend upon it."

"If it is, I've not heard of it. Oh! yes," she cried excitedly, contradicting herself; "Bluebeard's room! He has a Bluebeard's room in the house. Mr. Hart told me of it."

Mr. Nathan chuckled. "What is in that room, Margaret?"

"How should I know? I have never been in it."

He gave her a reproachful look.

"If you hadn't told me so yourself I should not have believed it. A Bluebeard's room in the house and you've never seen it A clever woman like you! You'll tell me next, I shouldn't wonder, that you have never peeped through the keyhole."

"I do tell you so; I never have peeped through the keyhole."

It was evident from Mr. Nathan's tone that Margaret had fallen several degrees in his estimation.

"My dear," he said, "that room may contain the very thing we want-the lever."

"But suppose he keeps it locked up?"

"Then locks, bolts, and bars must fly asunder." Mr. Nathan sang these words in a fine bass voice, and rising with a brisk air said, "You must get me into that room, Margaret."

"I must first get you into the house."

"I am coming with you now. The old gentleman is away, you say; no time like the present. We'll strike the iron while it's hot, my dear. I constitute myself your friend Gerald's tailor, and I am going to take his measure. As you have never peeped through the keyhole, I suppose you have never tried the handle of the door?"

"Never."

"I will take long odds it is unlocked. Come along, my dear."

At another time Margaret might have had scruples, but her interest in the stake she was playing for was so great that she was determined to leave no stone unturned to win the day. So she accompanied Mr. Nathan to Mr. Weston's house, where they found only Lucy-Gerald, for a wonder, being absent from her. Acting under Mr. Nathan's instruction, Margaret got rid of Lucy, so that the two conspirators might be said to have had the house to themselves.

"Now, my dear," said Mr. Nathan, "take me to the room. Of course you know where it is."

"Not for a certainty," replied Margaret, "but I suspect."

She led Mr. Nathan to a door at the end of a passage, the last room but one in which was Mr. Weston's study. She tried the handle of the door, and it turned within her hand; the door was unlocked.

"I told you so," said Mr. Nathan, with a quiet chuckle. "Sister Ann, Sister Ann, do you see any one coming?"

"I am frightened to go in," said Margaret, shrinking back.

"Nonsense, my dear, nonsense; we shan't have our heads cut off."

She followed him into the room, but saw nothing to alarm her. There was but little furniture; two chairs, a. table, and a desk, all in a very dusty condition. The windows had not been cleaned for some time, and it was evident that no use was made of the room. Mr. Nathan opened a cupboard-it was empty; tried a desk-it was locked. If it was a Bluebeard's room, the secret was well hidden; the only thing to excite comment was that a number of pictures were hanging with their faces turned to the wall.

"To preserve them from the dust, I should say," observed Mr. Nathan; "one-two-three-thirteen of 'em, my dear. We'll have a peep at them at all events."

They were all portraits, and were all painted by the same hand. Mr. Nathan seemed to find some cause for curiosity in this circumstance. One of the portraits, Margaret said, was like Mr. Weston when he was a young man.

"Taken a good many years ago," said Mr. Nathan, placing the pictures in their original position. "There is something in it, my dear. If the old gentleman has a secret, it lies in those pictures."

"What is to be done now?" asked Margaret in despair.

"Well, my dear, it's a puzzle. But we'll try and work it out. We must put our heads together, and use stratagem. Don't be downcast; nothing is done without courage. We won't be beaten if we can help it. Come and see me to-morrow, and in the meantime get at the story of these pictures if you can. I dare say the old gentleman has told Mr. Hart something about them."

They left Bluebeard's room in not a very hopeful frame of mind.