Kitabı oku: «At the Sign of the Silver Flagon», sayfa 18
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.
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.
