Kitabı oku: «At the Sign of the Silver Flagon», sayfa 4
CHAPTER VII
AH, PHILIP, MY SON! I, ALSO, HAVE A GIRL WHOM I LOVE
Then said Philip, as he and Mr. Hart moved slowly away-then said Philip softly, as though but a moment had passed since his companion last spoke:
"Her name is Margaret, not Juliet. I have no need to play Romeo to Margaret. Margaret!" he whispered to himself, finding a subtle charm in the name; "My Margaret!" and then aloud, "Has your Leading Lady ever played such a character?"
"Yes," replied Mr. Hart, without any direct meaning, "in 'Faust.'"
Philip's face flushed scarlet, not at the words, but at the tone, which was sad and significant, without the speaker intending it to be so.
"I know you to be a gentleman-" pursued Mr. Hart.
"I thought you to be one," interrupted Philip hotly.
"I hope you will see no reason to change your opinion," said Mr. Hart.
"I see a reason already."
"Let me hear it," asked Mr. Hart, secretly pleased at the young man's ill-humour.
"You associated my Margaret's name-"
"Your Margaret!" exclaimed Mr. Hart. "My Margaret, if you please!"
"Mine!" cried Philip, in a loud voice.
"Mine!" echoed Mr. Hart, in a calmer tone.
"Call her down and ask her!" demanded Philip in his rashness, without considering; and, for the life of him, Mr. Hart could not help laughing long and heartily.
"O that you were twenty years younger!" said Philip.
"O that I were!" exclaimed Mr. Hart, with grave humour. "Then you would really have cause for uneasiness when you hear me call her mine."
"How do you make her yours?"
"I stand to her in the light of a father," replied Mr. Hart more seriously. "When I persuaded her mother in town to let her accompany us, I promised that I would look after her and protect her. Therefore she is mine, because I am her father."
"And without any 'therefore,'" responded Philip, "she is mine, because I am her lover."
"Ah," said Mr. Hart, with a bright smile, "here is a case to be settled, then. But if every pretty girl was her lover's, then one might belong to fifty, or more, for there are hearts enough. Why, you rash-head! do you know how many men in Silver Creek might call your Margaret theirs by the same right as that by which you claim her?"
"No," said Philip, a little sulkily, "I don't know."
"Then I'll tell you. To my certain knowledge, sixty-nine; to my almost as certain conviction, some five hundred. She had forty-two offers of marriage the first week, and has had twenty-seven since. Come now, divide her between the sixty-nine lovers who have declared themselves; what part of her is yours?"
"You talk nonsense," said Philip roughly.
"Well, suppose you talk sense," said Mr. Hart blandly.
"It is hardly believable," cried Philip, clenching his fist. "Sixty-nine offers of marriage! She never told me, and I'm her lover."
"She has told me, and I'm only her father."
"By proxy," corrected Philip.
"Well, by proxy."
"Why should she tell you and not me?" asked Philip, more sulkily still.
"Because, my dear Philip," said Mr. Hart, laying his hand kindly on the young man's arm, "up to the present, as I have said, she is mine, and not yours; and because she has a frank open nature, and must confide in some one. As I come first, she confides in me. She has given me all the letters to read, and a rare collection they are. If they were printed they would be a curiosity."
"I should like to see them, and the names at the bottom of them."
"So that you might fight all the writers for falling in love as you have done! Well, you would have enough to do, for you would have to fight according to the fashion of different countries. I have made an analysis, my dear Philip. Seven Frenchmen, four Germans, one Spaniard, three Americans, fifty-three Englishmen, Irishmen, and Scotchmen, and one Chinaman, have offered marriage to-I will say-our Margaret."
"A Chinaman! Good heavens! such a creature to raise his eyes to my Margaret! Tell me, at least, his name, that I may cut his pigtail from his dirty crown!"
"There's an Ah in it and a Sen in it and a Ping in it; and if you can find him out by those signs you are very welcome. But why should a Chinaman not love? Hath he not eyes, hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? His letter is the greatest curiosity of the lot, and he has evidently educated himself in the English language. I know his proposal by heart. Here it is: 'You welly good English girl; me welly good Chinaman. You mally me, welly good match. Roast pig and m'landy (brandy) for dinner every day. M'lenty gold-make m'lenty more. Me take you to my country, by bye. Chinaman welly good man.' Then comes the Ah and the Sen and the Ping. But let us be serious, although this is true enough that I have told you-truth with a comical side to it. You were angry with me a little while ago."
"Yes, for associating my Margaret's name with mine in the character of Faust."
"I had no distinct intention in my mind, Philip; the conversation happened to take that turn. It would pain me very much to have to think of you in that way. But Margaret is a simple good girl, and it is my duty to look after her. I never knew till to-night that you were paying marked attention to her."
"Who told you?"
"Our Leading Lady."
Philip Rowe smiled: he had his vanities.
"O, indeed!" he said, with assumed carelessness.
"And that will bring me back presently to a subject I mentioned when I surprised you to-night. First, however, there is another thing to be settled. You must cease your attentions to Margaret."
"Not if I know it!" said Philip, with a defiant shake of his head. "I mean to marry her. If you throw any obstacles in the way I'll run away with her to-morrow, in spite of your teeth."
He laughed confidently: he knew his power.
"But you are a gentleman," remonstrated Mr. Hart. "And she is a lady," quoth Philip.
If love's guild could give titles, a peasant would rank higher than a duchess. Not that there was anything common about Margaret. She was born of humble parents, it is true; but she was a good girl, and that is enough for any man.
It was enough for Mr. Hart. He gazed at Philip in frank and honest admiration; but he determined to apply a test. He was not a suspicious man, but he had a duty to perform.
"Suppose there is an obstacle already in the way," he said, looking Philip steadily in the face; "suppose she is already married."
Philip staggered, and the blood deserted his face. "Good God!" he cried. "Then she has been playing me false!"
Mr. Hart wished he had not applied the test; he was satisfied of Philip's sincerity.
"Not so fast!" he cried, in a cheery tone, "not so fast! I only said 'suppose;' I didn't say it was so. How you young hot spirits jump at conclusions."
But it was a few minutes before Philip recovered himself.
"You frightened me," he said, with a feeble smile. "Then it is not true! If I had considered a moment, I should have known; for if truth and innocence have a home in this world, they have it in Margaret's breast. But you came upon me suddenly."
Mr. Hart thought, "Ah! youth, youth, what a painter you are!" And said aloud, "Here is my hand; knowing that you mean honourably by Margaret, I give my consent to your seeing her as usual."
"I'll marry her to-morrow," said Philip, taking the hand offered him.
"Softly, softly; there are conditions."
"I'll have no conditions!" shouted Philip impetuously.
"You'll have this and you'll have that!" said Mr. Hart, in a tone of gentle sarcasm. "You won't have this, and you won't have that! Very well, then. I wish you good-night." And he turned away.
"What!" cried Philip, turning after him, "desert me when I want you to be my friend!"
The old man's heart warmed to the young fellow; he admired everything in him-his hot blood, his impetuosity, his obstinacy, his generous imperiousness.
"I am your friend," said Mr. Hart, "and I will continue to be so if you will let me. But when a man says of something that is mine, as Margaret is-ah, shake your head! it doesn't affect me!-when a man says of something that is mine, and that he wants to be his, that he'll have no conditions, he compels me to act in self-defence. Attend to me, young sir! Be reasonable, or to-morrow I take Margaret back to her mother, a hundred and forty miles away, and you shall not speak another word to her, as sure as my name's Hart."
"Ho! ho! you speak boldly; but it doesn't matter-you're a man in a thousand. In a thousand! in ten thousand. I'm glad you're not younger, or you might prove dangerous." Mr. Hart took off his cap, and bowed lowly at this compliment. "You'll not let me speak to her, will you not? I'll borrow a speaking-trumpet, and shout to her that you are parting us for ever. But there! give me your hand again. I'm not frightened of you. I am in such spirits that I must do something desperate. As you value your life, give me a back!"
With the readiness of a boy, Mr. Hart stooped and rested his hands on his knees. Philip took a run backward, then darted forward like a deer, and, lightly touching the stooping man's back, flew over him like a bird. Then stooped himself, and folded his arms; and old as Mr. Hart was, he took the leap.
After that they had a hearty laugh together.
"By Jove!" exclaimed Philip, "you are as young as I am, and yet I should say you are over sixty."
"I am," said Mr. Hart proudly, straightening his back.
"I don't mind giving way a little to such a man. Name your conditions."
"You want to marry Margaret?"
"I do-to-morrow!"
"Nonsense. You want to marry her."
"I do-I will; stop me who can!"
"She has a mother."
"God bless her, and all belonging to her!"
"Bravo-a good mother, mind."
"All that belongs to Margaret must be good."
"Her mother must be consulted."
Philip scratched his head. "Must?" he asked dubiously.
"Must."
"How is that to be done?"
"By letter."
Philip counted rapidly on his fingers.
"Why, we shall have to wait a week!"
"For the consent. And then perhaps she'll not give it."
"It will be all the same. We'll marry without it."
"But you'll have to wait longer than a week, Philip. You'll have to wait until our three months' engagement at the theatre is at an end."
"Impossible."
"It must and shall be. Why, without Margaret we are nothing."
"I know it," chuckled Philip.
"She is the soul of the company." The wily old fellow was using the very words he had used to the Leading Lady, and he thought nothing of contradicting what he had said a few minutes before, when he declared that Margaret was not clever, and would never make her fortune on the stage. "Do you hear me? She is the soul of the company."
"I know it," chuckled Philip again.
"Well, then, do you think I am going to let you ruin our prospects, and rob us, as you propose doing?"
"Gently, gently there! Not so fast with your robbing!"
"It is the truth that I am speaking, and you know it; you have said so yourself. Margaret is the soul of the company-she is our greatest draw. If she goes without my being able to get another girl as pretty in her place-"
"You can't do that; I defy you."
"Hold your tongue, hot-head! – without our getting another girl nearly as pretty in her place-"
"That's better," interrupted the incorrigible Philip; "but you'll have a rare hunt even for such a one. They don't grow on gooseberry bushes."
"Our business is as good as ruined without her, or some one in her place; and do you suppose I'll stand quietly by and see that done? Besides, think of the money Margaret herself is saving-"
"That for the money!" said Philip, with a snap of his fingers. "Money-making's a man's business, not a woman's."
"That's true, and I like you the better for saying so. But leaving Margaret out of the question, there are persons in our company the happiness of whose life hangs upon their being able to save a certain amount of money within a certain time. Not only their happiness but the happiness of helpless ones who are dearer to them than their heart's blood, depends upon this."
"By Jove! you speak strongly. Mention one of them."
"One of them stands before you now."
Philip turned and looked Mr. Hart straight in the face. Tears were gathering in the old man's eyes, and the young man turned away again, so that he should not see them.
"Forgive me, mate," he said softly; "I am so wrapt up in my own happiness that I am forgetful of the feelings of others."
"Ah, Philip, my son" – there was so tender an accent in the old man's tone, that the tears rose to Philip's eyes as well-"I also have a girl whom I love. See here, my dear boy. This is my daughter. She is at home in England, and I am here sixteen thousand miles away."
He had taken the picture of his darling from his pocket, and now he handed it to Philip. The young man looked at it in the clear moonlight. A round fresh face, open mouth with rosy lips, bright ingenuous eyes, fair curls around her white forehead. She was standing within an ivy porch, and one little hand was raised as though she were listening.
"It was taken seven years ago," said Mr. Hart; "she was twelve years old then."
"She is beautiful, beautiful!" exclaimed Philip enthusiastically. "And you haven't seen her since then?"
"No-and my old heart aches for a sight of her. This money that I am earning will take me to her."
"By Jove! and I was going to step in your way! Brute that I was! Margaret shall stop. I'll wait till the end of the time. I can see her every night; and I can build a wooden house for her in the meantime. God bless you, old boy! Give me your hand again. Next to my own father, you are the man I love and respect the most."
CHAPTER VIII
GOD BLESS EVERYBODY
"But I haven't finished yet," said Mr. Hart, after a short pause. "I have another condition."
"Another!" exclaimed Philip, with an inclination to turn ill-humoured. "You are insatiable! And how many more after that, pray?"
"None."
"That's a mercy. Out with your last condition-which I'll not comply with."
"Which you will comply with, or I'll know the reason why."
"Ah, ah! my Cornishman, go on with your conditions."
"Where did you get those flowers from?"
"Where did I get them from? I gave Nature an order for them, and they grew for me-and bloomed for Margaret. I rode a dozen miles for them, and I'd ride a thousand if she bade me."
"Or fly to the moon, or swim, or dive in the fire, or ride on the clouds, no doubt!"
"Yes, if she wanted me to. She has but to speak."
"Quite right," said Mr. Hart, turning his face from Philip, so that the smile on his lips should not be seen "but that's not my concern. This is. Mind what I say, sir. I'll have no more flowers thrown to my singing Chambermaid."
"O," retorted Philip, "now it's you'll not have this, and you'll not have that! Very well, then. I wish you good-night."
And off he went, taking huge strides purposely, and stretching his legs to their utmost.
"No, no, Philip!" cried Mr. Hart, running after Philip, and laughing heartily at the wit of the retort. "No, no; I'm serious."
"And so am I," said Philip, stopping so that Mr. Hart might come up to him. "No more flowers, eh! Why, I'll smother her with them every night. I'll compel you to engage some one to carry them off the stage. No more flowers! I'll show you! Why, I'm going to scour the country for flowers, and I shall set seeds all round my tent."
"If you wait for the flowers to grow, I shall be satisfied. You can't make them come up by blowing on them with your hot words and hot breath. But seriously, Philip, there must be no more flower-throwing."
Briefly he explained the reason why, and then upshot of it all was that Philip promised. Then Mr. Hart said that Philip had better return with him to the Rose, Shamrock, and Thistle Hotel; it was too late for him to walk back to his reef.
"I can give you a shake-down in my bedroom," said Mr. Hart.
"All right!" said Philip, and thought with ecstasy, "I shall be near Margaret; I shall sleep under the same roof as Margaret."
"Have you anything to drink?" asked Philip when they were in Mr. Hart's room.
Mr. Hart wanted Philip to sleep in his bed, which was but a stretcher, barely wide enough for one fair-sized man, but Philip would not hear of it; so they obtained a straw mattress, and laid it on the floor, and Philip tossed off his clothes, and stretched himself upon his hard bed (and slept upon it afterwards as soundly as if it had been made of eider-duck's feathers), in a state of complete satisfaction with himself and every one in the world. It was while he was lying like this, and while Mr. Hart, more methodical than his companion, was slowly undressing himself, that Philip had asked if he had anything to drink.
"I'll get something," said Mr. Hart, and left the room, and returned with a bottle and glasses.
While he was gone, Philip looked about him, and soon discovered that his Margaret's bedroom was immediately above him. He gazed at the ceiling with rapture, and sent kisses thitherward. A single partition parted him from his sweetheart. He fancied that he could hear her soft breathing. The same roof covered them. It was as yet his nearest approach to heaven.
"Here's to Margaret," said Philip, holding up his glass.
"To Margaret," responded Mr. Hart, "and happiness to you both."
"Another toast," said Philip; "to my old dad and the dear old Silver Flagon."
They drank the toast.
"What is the Silver Flagon?" asked Mr. Hart.
"One of these fine days perhaps I'll tell you," replied Philip.
But Philip never told him. One of these fine days Mr. Hart discovered for himself.
The light was out, and Mr. Hart knelt by a corner of his stretcher, and prayed for a few minutes. He was praying for his daughter, and thinking of her; he beheld her pretty face very plainly in the dark room. Philip saw the shadow of the kneeling man; it made him very tender towards Mr. Hart.
"Heathen that I am!" he whispered to himself. "I haven't knelt at my bedside for many a long month."
Then he prayed in silence, without getting out of bed.
"Are you comfortable, Philip?" asked Mr. Hart presently.
"I am very happy," replied Philip. "Good night-God bless you."
"And you, my boy. Good night."
Philip thought, "I am glad my Margaret has had such a protector. God bless everybody."
The next moment he was asleep.
He was up an hour after the sun, and off to his reef. Things were looking well there. Mr. Hart had spoken to the proprietor of the Rose, Shamrock, and Thistle, whose name, by the way, as something has to be said concerning him, it may be as well to mention. You will have heard it before-it was Smith. Mr. Hart had spoken to Mr. Smith about Philip's reef, and showed him some pieces of golden quartz, saying what a pity it was that there was no crushing-machine near such rich stone; and what a fortune a man might make who had money and enterprise enough to erect one. Mr. Smith had both. Four years ago- But no, common as his name is he deserves a chapter to himself, and shall have it.
CHAPTER IX
A MAN OF METTLE
Not longer than four years ago, Mr. Smith was a bricklayer in the old country, earning an average wage of thirty shillings a week, out of which he supported himself and his old mother; and one day, for want of something better to do-he was out of work at the time-he emigrated almost by accident. This is a literal fact. He arose early in the morning, with no intention of leaving the country, but somewhat sad at heart because he had no work to do. (When he related the story in after days he said that his hands felt like lumps of lead as they hung by his side.) On this morning, then, he strolled to the London Docks, and saw a ship making ready to start for Australia; was told that it would sail for Gravesend in the afternoon; idly inquired the price of a steerage passage, and found that he had just money enough in his pocket, and a trifle over, the scrapings and savings of ten years' bricklaying; and had a chat with an enthusiast, who painted Australia in the colours of the rainbow, and then painted England in ditch colours.
"What is the use of wearing one's life away in such a country as this?" demanded the enthusiast. "What has a man got to look forward to when he's old, and not fit to work?"
Mr. Smith considered. What was the use of grinding one's life away in such a country as England? What was there to look forward to, to hope for, to work for? A poor man's grave. Perhaps a pauper's funeral. Born a bricklayer, died a bricklayer; that might be his epitaph, if he left money enough to pay for one.
"Australia's the place for such men as us," continued the enthusiast. "Australia's the land of gold, and milk, and honey. England's no country for men of spirit; it's used up, sir-used up. And there's the new land waiting to make poor men rich-holding out its arms for them."
"I should like to go with you," said Smith.
"Come, then," said the enthusiast.
"I'm afraid there's not time," said Smith; "there's my old mother. I couldn't leave without saying good-bye to her."
"What's your name?" asked the enthusiast.
"Smith," replied Smith.
The enthusiast gave a start, and uttered an exclamation.
"What's the matter?" asked Smith.
"Nothing," said the enthusiast; "only I was thinking that I should like you to come."
"But how is it to be managed?" inquired Smith, glancing at the name of the vessel, with his mouth watering. It was a nine-hundred-ton ship, called the Gold Packet. "But how is it to be managed? A man that I know emigrated a year ago, and he had to buy bedding, and tin cups, and soap and towels, and I don't know what else; those things ain't got by whistling for them."
"I'll manage it for you," said the enthusiast. "You go home and say good-bye to your mother. Be back here at one o'clock. By that time I'll have your passage-ticket, and your berth, and bedding, and tin cups, and soap and towels, and everything else ready for you. What do you say?"
"What do I say? There's my hand upon it, and thank you. I'll do it."
And with quickened pulses he hastened home, kissed the amazed old woman-who was so dumbfoundered that she could do nothing but look at her son, and cry-promised to send her plenty of money from Australia and to make a lady of her in five years, and was back to the Gold Packet at one o'clock.
"You're a man of mettle," said the enthusiast; "you're just the sort for the gold-diggings; it's such men as you they want. You'll make your fortune there as sure as eggs are eggs. Here's your ticket. Come down-stairs; I'll show you your berth and things."
"How much does it all come to?" asked Smith. The enthusiast pencilled some figures on a piece of paper, and gave it to Smith, who looked at the items, and added them up. Everything was correct; he handed the enthusiast the money, and had exactly two shillings and fourpence left to conquer the new world with. Smith went down-stairs (to speak courteously of the descent; but there are worse, we are taught) into the den where the steerage passengers were packed, and the enthusiast showed him his berth, his bedding, his tin cups, his bar of yellow soap, and other necessary paraphernalia. The enthusiast showed these things to Smith, but Smith could scarcely see them, the place was so dark. Smith was not daunted because the place was dismal, and because it was filled with women crying, and children screaming, and men growling-a very pit of discomfort. His soul rose to the occasion; he had a spirit above a bricklayer's; with his passage ticket in his hand, and two shillings and fourpence in his pocket, he felt himself a king. There was work before him to do, and he was happy in the prospect of no more idle days. When he went on to the deck he did not see the enthusiast, but he did not miss him, he was so interested in what was going on about him, the hurrying to and fro, the shouting, the singing of the sailors, the loosening of the sails, the hauling of ropes. In an hour the ship was off, winding its way through such a complicated labyrinth of boats and ships and ropes, that the wonder was how it disentangled itself safely. Smith watched the manœuvres with admiration. Then he glanced at the passage ticket. "Holloa!" he said, "they've made a mistake in my Christian name. I'm William Smith, not John."
(Let me mention here, briefly, that our Smith never set eyes again on the enthusiast, whose name was also Smith, prefixed by John. It was his passage ticket, indeed, that our Smith held in his hand. All the time he had been painting in the most glowing colours the glowing attractions of the goldfields on the other side of the world, he had been filled with the most gloomy forebodings. His courage had failed him at the last moment, and seizing the opportunity which had so fortunately presented itself of giving the new world another Smith instead of himself, he had sold his passage ticket and bedding and cooking utensils to the bricklayer, and after receiving the money for them, bade good-bye to the Gold Packet and all the fair promises it held out.)
With his two shillings and fourpence in his pocket, William Smith started on the voyage, and made himself so useful, and was altogether so cheerful and shrewd and bustling, that he soon became a prime favourite with the passengers and crew. In ninety-two days from the date of sailing, the ship passed through Port Philip Heads, and from that day Fortune smiled upon William Smith. In a fortnight he was on the goldfields; in six months he was a speculator; in twelve, he had saved a thousand pounds. And now he was proprietor of a fine hotel and a theatre, and had a dozen other irons in the fire, not one of which did he allow to grow cold.
I think I shall be pardoned for this digression. This story is of the Mosaic kind, and although there are some strange bits in it, I hope none will be found incongruous, but that they will all fit in one with another, and form a complete and original whole.
