Kitabı oku: «At the Sign of the Silver Flagon», sayfa 10
CHAPTER XXI
DRIVEN BY LOVE INTO THE JAWS OF DEATH
By the time Mr. Hart and William Smith reached the township, there was a straight sheet of fire, more than a mile in length. At least three hundred stores were in flames. Silver Creek could boast of a volunteer fire brigade, and the brave fellows worked at their two small fire-engines with the perspiration pouring down their faces in streams, but they might as well have pumped water into the creek for all the good they did. However, they worked away, approaching as close as they dare to the immense body of flame; those who were closest to the burning stores directed their hose towards the blazing rafters, whilst their comrades pumped upon them to prevent their catching fire. The shouting, the screaming, the confusion were terrible; loud cries ran along and about the crowd with the rapidity of the flame itself, and every few moments another store on each side of those already on fire caught light. Strange to say, no attempt was made to stop the fire by pulling down the buildings on either side, and so create a gap across which the flames could not leap. The only thought that people had was to save their goods; but even as it was, very little was preserved from destruction.
When Mr. Hart and his companion plunged into the crowd, their first thought, of course, was of the hotel and theatre.
"Ah," said one and another, "here's Mr. Hart! Here's William Smith!"
They made way for these two men, who ran rapidly along, and found that the hotel had just caught fire.
"Where's Margaret? Where's Philip?" cried Mr. Hart, with anxious glances around.
At that moment he cared not one pin for the destruction of his property; he saw the flames beggaring him, but he paid no heed to them. Time to think of that afterwards. All that he cared for now was the safety of Margaret and Philip.
"Where's Margaret? Where's Philip?" he cried.
Some man among the crowd answered, that Margaret had last been seen going into the hotel before the fire had reached it, and that she had not come out.
"Good God!" groaned Mr. Hart, and would have plunged into the flames but that they held him back.
At that moment Philip, who had been working half a mile away, saving life and property with the strength of a young Hercules, was running towards the hotel. Amidst the excitement of rushing into the blazing stores, and pulling sleeping children and weak women out of the jaws of death, he had not thought of his own property, and did not know that it was on fire. Indeed, no man would have conceived it possible that the flames could have reached the hotel in so short a time. Now, Philip said to himself, he must get to his own place, and see what was best to be done. He was a little bit concerned about Margaret. "I must get her away from this," he thought. "When I see her in a place of safety, I can come back and do my work." But as he ran towards his hotel, the rumour ran from it that it was burning.
"The Silver Flagon's caught!" shouted the gold-diggers, one to another, and the news was carried along past Philip, who received it as he ran.
"Ah!" he muttered, with a great sigh, "there's an end to that. We are ruined men. Poor Mr. Hart, poor Mr. Hart! And I persuaded him to stop."
The thought that he himself was ruined scarcely disturbed him. Ruined How could he be ruined, when he had Margaret? His heart was almost light as he thought of his darling woman, but in the same moment his hair seemed to rise from his head with horror as he heard some one say:
"The Silver Flagon's down, and Mrs. Rowe's inside!"
"What what!" he muttered, dazed for a moment, and then he screamed:
"O my God!"
And, with a cry so terrible as to startle all who heard it, he plunged madly towards the spot where he had last seen his beloved.
He reached it, hot, black, panting, with his hair streaming to his shoulders, and his blue eyes gleaming wildly.
"Keep him back! Keep him back!" they shouted and laid hands on him.
But he dashed them aside as though they had been so many feathers, and, with knitted brows and lips tightly closed, and breast that heaved as though it would burst, he ran with swift desperation into the flames. A spasm of horror rose to the throat of every looker-on, and kept him silent for a moment. During that brief moment, which seemed an hour, their eyes were strained in the direction of Philip's flying form. They could see him beating the flames away with one hand, while his other arm was raised to save his eyes from the fire. Only for a moment was their attention thus occupied; the sound of a familiar voice fell upon their ears; they turned, and to their amazement, saw Margaret moving among them. Her hair was hanging loose, and she was seeking for Philip's face among the throng of bearded men. She knew all the faces that were about her, but she did not recognise one of them until she saw Mr. Hart's. To him she ran, and asked if he knew where Philip was. The men still had their hands upon Mr. Hart, and the look of horror in his face answered her. Following the direction of his eyes, which were fixed upon the burning hotel, she in her turn saw the outline of her Philip's form struggling through the flames. All this was the work of two moments.
"Philip Philip!" she screamed, and ran towards him.
It was useless now to attempt to hold Mr. Hart; he broke from the prison of their arms as easily as Philip had done, and wound his around Margaret.
"O merciful God!" she screamed, tearing at the air. "Philip! Philip! I am here! Margaret is here!"
All on fire as he was, her voice reached him; he made an effort to escape, and by love's instinct in the direction where Margaret was. But he fell among some falling rafters, and seemed to be of them; and as he fell, a gasp of mingled anguish and joy escaped his bursting heart; it sounded like "Margaret!" Then Mr. Hart, with swift and furious action, resigned Margaret to the arms of the miners, and flew into the flames towards his friend. All the strength and dexterity of his youth came back to him; he had marked the exact spot where Philip had fallen, and he darted to it with an eagle's keen sight, and rushed out of the flames, dragging Philip's insensible form after him. They were both on fire; but fifty blankets were flung over them with lightning rapidity, and a hundred pitying arms were stretched forth to bear them tenderly to a place of safety.
CHAPTER XXII
"DEAR OLD FELLOW! GOD BLESS MARGARET AND YOU!"
THE sun rose next morning upon a sad sight. High Street, Silver Creek, was nothing but a long line of ruins. More than five hundred stores had been burnt to the ground. All over the gold-diggings work was suspended, and the diggers flocked in to see the sight. They did not stand idly by; they tacked up their sleeves, and every European and American there gave a day's work for nothing. William Smith sent orders to the Margaret Range; the William Smith quartz-crushing machine was stopped, and all the workmen came in to lend a helping hand. They did wonders under William Smith's directions; he was to many what sound wine is to enfeebled bodies. He strengthened, sympathised, encouraged, all in a breath, and set a fine example by working as zealously as the most zealous. It was not with him "Do as I say," but "Do as I do." The first duty of the workers was a solemn one: to find the ashes of those who had been burnt to death in the fire. Five persons were known to have perished-among them Margaret's mother. Strangely enough, no one had thought of her while the fire was raging; in the larger interest that centred around Margaret and Philip this poor little quiet woman had been forgotten. Very tenderly and gently were the remains of the dead gathered from the ruins; they were but blackened cinders, which crumbled almost at the touch; and awe and grief were on the faces of the rough men as they deposited the sad heaps on ground made sacred by its burden, and covered them over with blankets. This duty performed, their thoughts turned to other and more cheerful matters, and they bustled briskly about.
Before noon twenty canvas tents were up, at a little distance from the street-the ground there was as yet too hot to build upon-and twenty burnt-out storekeepers had recommenced business. So great were the bustle and animation, that the sufferers really had no time to be faint-hearted. Every man's example was an encouragement to his neighbour; emulation was excited, and all strove to outvie each other. But we must away from the scene-nearer ties claim our attention. In a week Silver Creek township will seem scarcely the worse for its terrible conflagration. Business will be carried on as usual and the building of new stores will be going on from one end of High Street to the other. None will be put up of canvas. Most of them will be built of wood, and a few of stone. Thus cities are made. Experience teaches.
In a large tent, on the Camp Ground where the Government buildings are erected, are three persons. Mr. Hart, with his left arm in a sling, is standing by the side of a low bed, gazing mournfully down. So rapidly was his noble task accomplished, when he rushed into the flames to save his friend, that he escaped with very little injury. He was scorched and burnt, but not seriously, his left arm being the part of him which had suffered the most. The physical part of him, I should say; for all that was mental in him was quivering with anguish.
At his feet, on the ground, sits Margaret.
Our Margaret? Yes; although you would not have believed, had you only your own eyes to trust for confirmation. Her flesh is so colourless that every drop of blood seems to have left her body; but your imagination will supply a better picture of this hapless broken-hearted young creature than my pen can draw. On the low bed by which she is sitting, with misery and despair in her heart and face, lies a blackened mass which once was Philip, which is Philip still for a few brief hours.
For he was not dead when Mr. Hart dragged him from the flaming walls; the life had not been quite burnt out of him; but he was dying fast now. "Before the sun rises," said the doctors, with sad meaning in their voices. It was most merciful that it should be so; for had he lived the full span of man's life he would never again have seen the light, nor could any person have looked upon his face without a shudder of pain.
They could do nothing for him except to shed upon him the light of their pitiful love; and blackened and burnt as he was, this sweet and divine compassion, in some strange way, reached his senses, and if his lips could be said to smile, they smiled in grateful acknowledgment. "Poor Philip! Poor soul! Dear, dearest love!" they murmured, and their words were not lost. They were to him as water, cold and sweet and clear, is to a parched mouth. Even in the darkness through which he was struggling blind, impotent, helpless, glimpses of delicious light broke upon his suffering soul.
A hundred times Margaret was on the point of giving way, but Mr. Hart whispered to her:
"Be strong, my dear child, be strong! Your voice is to him as the dew to a flower."
"As the dew to a flower!" she murmured. "My flower! The only one! God pity him! God pity me! He was my life, and he is going."
"To another world, dear child," he said to her, in a beautiful soft voice, "where we shall join him in God's good time."
And as though he had a thing to do which was necessary for Philip's comfort, the old man went swiftly out of the tent, and groaned and wept there, where Margaret could not see him. Then raised his eyes from the earth, and mutely prayed that peace might come to Margaret's troubled soul.
She, moistening Philip's lips with pure spring water, never moved from her husband's side, and prayed that she might die with him. "If God is merciful," she thought, "He will take me also."
William Smith came to the tent, but when Margaret saw him she shivered, and held her hands before her eyes to shut him from her sight. The man needed no other sign; straight from the tent he walked and sat outside, talking to Mr. Hart. He was not angry with her; his heart was very tender to her and Philip.
"It is natural that she should not wish to see me," he said to Mr. Hart; "it was in the house that once was mine that Philip met his death. If I had not wanted Philip's claim, they might have lived together happily."
After this touch of sentiment he became practical. "Have you any money?"
"A few shillings."
William Smith put a hundred pounds into Mr. Hart's hands.
"Let him want nothing," he said.
"He will want nothing presently," sighed Mr. Hart, beneath his breath.
You who know what beautiful tenderness lies in human nature can imagine in what ways it was shown to Margaret and Philip. Women came with sweet offerings during all the day. Had fifty men been dying instead of one, there would have been supplies for them all. Milk, honey, flowers, jellies, broths, were sent from all quarters; they were laid aside, for there was no use for them, but they were good tokens to give and to receive.
In the night, about eleven o'clock, Mr. Hart observed Margaret's head move closer to Philip's lips; he knelt on the ground on the other side of Philip's bed, and heard the dying man whisper:
"Margaret, my beloved-my darling-Margaret, my heart! Margaret, I love you-love you-love you!"
For an hour these were the only words he murmured, at intervals, in many different ways.
"Do you know me, dearest?" she asked: "do you hear me? It is Margaret who is speaking. Your Margaret."
"My Margaret!" he whispered. "My soul! My beloved!"
His voice was like the murmurs of the softest breeze. Margaret, with open lips, received his dying words in her mouth. With what pangs of love and anguish did she receive them!
Mr. Hart, during an interval of silence, motioned to Margaret. Might he speak to Philip? Margaret's hand crept across the bed to the old man's. Lover and friend were joined above Philip's breast.
"Philip, my dear boy," said Mr. Hart, "do you know my voice?"
"Dear old fellow!" came presently from Philip. "Noble old fellow! I saw you. God bless Margaret and you! Dear friend, were you hurt much?"
"Not at all, my dear lad."
"It delights me to hear that. God is very good!"
All their strength was required for composure; they checked their sobs, so that the sound of them might not disturb him; he could not see the tears that ran down their faces.
Later in the night, as death approached nearer and nearer, Philip's voice grew stronger, and the broken words he sighed denoted that he knew they were by his side, and that he was dying. In a few sobbing words uttered at long intervals, he thanked Mr. Hart for attempting to save him.
"Take care of Margaret," he whispered; "be a father to her." The utterance of the word brought other memories. "Dear old dad! I hoped to see you, and show you my darling. But John Hart will bring her to you. Dear old dad! love Margaret!"
Then his thoughts wandered, and he murmured expressions of affection towards the Silver Flagon-the dear old Silver Flagon-and always in connection with Margaret. All his thoughts clustered about the one supreme image that dwelt in his mind, the image of Margaret.
Mr. Hart whispered to Margaret to ask him the address of his father in the old country, for strange to say he had never told them; but all that they could get from him now were fitful words, in which his darling Margaret, the Silver Flagon, his dear old dad, and his faithful friend, were mentioned without connection.
An hour later, his whispered words denoted that his memory was wandering to the happy hours he had spent behind the scenes with Margaret; then he was riding for flowers for Margaret.
"O, if it's for that!" he murmured, repeating the words of the woman who had sold him the flowers; and then, "An echo stole it, and I heard it singing Margaret as I rode on. I listened to her heart, and she said it beat for me. She loves me! she loves me!"
He murmured these last words, as though in happier days he had been in the habit of whispering them as a charm. Then his memory travelled on to the evening of his wedding-day, when he and his darling were sitting by the banks of the river, talking of the future. "We saw a cloud above us," he whispered, "and it was shaped like an angel. I see it now-I see it now! Shelter Margaret! Daddy! Margaret!" Presently his feeble fingers seemed to be seeking for something, and Mr. Hart, divining that he was seeking for the flowers he had bought for Margaret, placed near to his face a bunch that had been brought to the tent as a love-offering. A sigh escaped from the poor burnt bosom, and after that Philip did not speak again.
So the night crept on, and silence reigned within and without the tent. They could scarcely hear Philip's breathing; and when the morning's light was trembling below the horizon, and the quivering in the skies denoted that day was awaking, he lay an inanimate mass before them. They did not know it for a long time. William Hart was the first to discover it. With a solemn look, he drew up the white sheet, and softly, tenderly covered the face of his friend. With white lips and bursting pupils, Margaret watched the action, and when the form of what once was Philip was only indicated by the outlines of the white sheet which covered him, her strength gave way, and with a groan of anguish she sank upon the ground. Then it was that Mr. Hart felt the need of woman's help. He went out of the tent to obtain it, and found William Smith sitting on the ground a few yards away. He had sat there throughout the whole of that sad night.
"It is all over," said Mr. Hart, with sighs and sobs.
"Poor Philip! Poor dear lad!" said William Smith, and made no effort to keep back the tears.
They went together to the camp, and brought back a woman with them, who raised Margaret from the ground, and otherwise attended to her. Her state was truly pitiable; and the worst aspect of it was that her grief seemed to have dried up the fountain of her tears.
"If she would only cry!" thought Mr. Hart, as she gazed at him with her despairing, tearless eyes.
He was her sole comfort. She turned from all others with shuddering aversion, and had she been able, she would have refused, and not with gentleness, their kind offices. Truth was, she hated the place in which her love had died, and hated the people who lived in it. It was unreasonable in her, but it was so.
She asked for her mother, and they were compelled to tell her the sad truth. She grasped Mr. Hart's hand convulsively.
"You are my only friend now," she said; "you tried to save my Philip. You were always good to him-ah, yes! he told me all, and was never tired of speaking of you. Do not you desert me, or I shall go mad!"
"I will take care of you, child. I promised Philip."
She kissed his hand with her dry lips.
On the day of Philip's funeral, all the stores in Silver Creek closed their doors, and the storekeepers and the diggers and their wives, to the number or three thousand and more, followed to the grave the body of a man whom all had loved and respected.
In the evening, Mr. Hart sat, sad and alone, outside his tent, and for the first time since the death of his friend, thought of himself. Again he was a beggar, and the image of his daughter seemed to recede in the clouds as he gazed at them mournfully, and a plaintive whisper of Farewell seemed to come to him from over the hills. "I shall never have the heart to commence again," he said to himself, "never, never! My life is over; my hopes, my dreams, have come to an end."
"What are you thinking of?" asked a kind voice.
It was William Smith who spoke. To this man Mr. Hart told his grief.
"Didn't I tell you to come to me if you wanted anything?" cried William Smith in reproachful tones. "And here you are, throwing me over, and saying you haven't a friend in the world! You want to go home and see your little girl-well, it's natural, and I wish I could accompany you and see my old mother. But you shall go and see her instead, and you shall tell her that you came straight from her Billy, and you shall paint before her old eyes a picture of the Margaret Reef and the William Smith quartz-crushing machine, bang-banging away, pounding out the gold for W. S. Here are ten twenty-pound notes; get gold for them, and start for the port to-morrow. O, don't fret! I never give away nothing for nothing. I want a picture of my old mother's face, just as you see it, a day or two after you land in the old country. You're a painter, and can paint it, and here's payment in advance. There aren't many men in the world that William Smith would trust, but you're one of them. No wonder Philip loved you. I love you! As I hope to be saved, I love you! And-there! – I don't intend to say another word. Good-bye, dear old fellow, and God Almighty bless you!"
And William Smith pressed the old man in his arms, and ran down the hill in a stumbling fashion, for he was almost blinded by his tears; while Mr. Hart, like one in a dream, gazed after his retreating figure until it was lost to his sight. Another besides himself watched this man running away:
Margaret, who had heard every word that had passed.
"You're going home," she said, with her hand pressed to her bosom.
"Yes, ah! yes," he replied. "I have waited too many times. Home, dear home!"
"And me?" she asked, in a low supplicating tone. "What is to become of me?"
"You, Margaret You, my dear child! You go with me, of course! What did I promise Philip? I will be a father to you until I place you in his father's arms. Ah, Margaret, let us kneel down and thank God for all His goodness! for He is good, dear child, in the midst of our greatest afflictions. Ah, that's good-that's good!" For her tears were flowing now for the first time since Philip's death, and she lay in his arms, sobbing.
The next day they bade good-bye to Silver Creek; and shortly afterwards they were on board the Good Harvest, and the white sails of the ship were spread for England.
