At the Sign of the Silver Flagon

"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