Kitabı oku: «At the Sign of the Silver Flagon», sayfa 5

CHAPTER X
TO-MORROW IT IS ST. VALENTINE'S DAY

Mr. Hart, then, had spoken to William Smith about Philip's golden reef, and what a capital chance there was for a crushing machine. His words did not fall upon listless ears. The same day William Smith walked to the reef, examined the stone, went down the shaft, chipped here and there, putting two, or three bits of gold and stone in his pocket, as treasure-trove, came up from the hole, strolled about the locality, Argus-eyed, and made up his mind. He spoke it to Philip and his mate. Said he: "In three weeks I will have a machine erected here, with twelve heads of stampers, which shall be working day and night, and which shall crush forty tons of quartz every twenty-four hours. You have raised, I should say, about one hundred and fifty tons of stone. You shall put a dozen men at work in your claim-I will provide the money for their wages, and for powder and fuse-and in three weeks you shall raise another hundred tons. I will do all this on the following terms: You shall contract to give me the first two hundred tons of quartz to crush, and I will contract to crush it at the rate of three ounces of gold per ton." (The shrewd speculator had seen clearly enough that there was plenty of gold in the stone to pay him, and leave a handsome margin; indeed, he calculated that the quartz already raised from the bowels of the earth, and lying on the surface of the claim, would yield not less than ten or twelve ounces to the ton.) "The next two hundred tons I will crush for two and a half ounces of gold per ton; the next two hundred for two ounces per ton."

Some men are born with a genius for figures: William Smith was one; and he had already totted up in his own mind that the crushing of these six hundred tons of quartz would bring him in no less than £6000; and that it could all be done in fifteen days. His £6000 would pay all expenses of labour and the purchase and erection of the machine, which in little more than a fortnight after it was put up would stand him in nothing. There were many chances of this kind in the goldfields for enterprising men.

"After that," concluded William Smith, "we can make fresh arrangements."

Philip and his mate jumped at the offer. Then, practical William Smith, to their astonishment and admiration, told them that although he had been but a short time on the range-it could not have been more than three hours altogether-he had settled on the very spot where the machine was to be erected. He showed them the place. It was on the slope of a natural basin, which, with a little labour, could be made into a splendid reservoir for the rain. Here the machine was to be erected; here the dam was to be built; here the sheds for the furnace and for the washing-out and retorting of the gold were to be put up. All was arranged. The only thing that would be wanted was water. "Pray for rain," said William Smith; and fancying that he saw in Philip's face an intention to fall on his knees that instant, cried out, in a fright, "Not now, not now! In a fortnight, when the dam is ready." So Philip deferred his prayer for two weeks.

Now, it was manifestly impossible to get a crushing-machine from the capital of the colony in time. But William Smith, when he made his offer, knew what he was about. He knew of a machine on a neighbouring goldfield not many miles away, which had been erected in a foolish spot, where it was practically useless, for the quartz would not yield sufficient gold to pay expenses of labour. Those who had bought and erected the machine had done so on the credit of a small patch of gold which they had found, and which they thought would lead them to precious deposits. They found no more gold, or not sufficient to pay. They built castles in the air-which practical William Smith never did; he always went upon solid ground, and seldom made a mistake. Before he was two days older he had bought the machine for a quarter of its value, and fifty men were set to work on it, so that it was almost literally torn down. But he had an experienced man at the head of his workers, and everything was done right. Fifty more men were working at the reservoir, digging out the earth, and piling up the banks, and on the very day succeeding the scene which had taken place between Philip and Mr. Hart the first portion of the crushing-machine arrived on the ground. This kept Philip busy, and although he was burning to get away to his Margaret, he could not do so until the night. The first thing that he saw when he went behind the scenes was one of the flowers he had bought the night before. He raised his eyes from the flower to Margaret's face, for the flower was in her bosom.

"Ah!" he sighed, flushing with delight.

Of such simple thing are life's sweetest pleasures born.

The bunch of flower's had, as a matter of course, formed a fruitful subject of conversation among the members of the dramatic company, and Margaret, being a woman, and womanly, was obliged to make a confidante of some one of her own sex. The Leading Lady was out of the question; so the First Old Woman, the mother of the baby who had proved such a hit, on the first night, received Margaret's confidences, and being a good-hearted, unselfish creature, and delighted at the opportunity of indulging in a little bit of match-making, and also of revenging herself upon the Leading Lady for her objection to baby being a shareholder in the Star Dramatic Company, she listened, and smiled, and congratulated the young girl.

"To-morrow it is Saint Valentine's Day!" she sang.

"You've come to silver Creek for something. Here, my dear, nurse my baby, and get your hand in."

Which caused Margaret to blush furiously.

"O," cried Margaret, "but there's been nothing said between us!"

"Nothing, my dear!" exclaimed the First Old Woman, with a mischievous laugh. "Really nothing!"

"Well, nothing very particular."

"Indeed!" said the First Old Woman, with good-humoured sarcasm. "Is coming behind the scenes every night saying nothing? Was throwing you the flowers saying nothing? Was standing outside your window last night for a full hour and a half-I saw him with my own eyes, my dear! I did; and envied you-was that saying nothing? I declare, then, I shall set my cap at him; I may as well take a chance in the lottery. He's as handsome a young fellow as ever walked in two shoes, and if you intend to disappoint him-"

"O, but I don't," interrupted Margaret, apprehensively.

Whereupon they fell to kissing one another, and baby came in for her share.

CHAPTER XI
"I AM GOING TO SPEAK OUT," SAID PHILIP

When Philip made his appearance that evening behind the scenes, the First Old Woman smiled significantly at him, and once, when her cue to go on the stage was given, she cried to him, of malice aforethought:

"O, dear me! I'm wanted on the stage! Hold my baby, Mr. Rowe, till I come off again."

And before he had time to utter a word one way or another, baby was in his arms, and the mother darted away, laughing to herself.

Philip was not ashamed of his burden; he nursed the baby tenderly, but somewhat gingerly, it must be confessed-fearful, perhaps, lest he should break the little thing, or dislocate something. Margaret, who was on the stage at the time, looked at him furtively as he was kissing the mite, and her mind was in such a whirl, that for the first time during her engagement she forgot the words she had to speak. Observing which the First Old Woman made matters worse by whispering sly nonsense in Margaret's ear. Little did the unconscious baby suspect the important part she was playing in the sentimental comedy.

Later on in the night, Philip said to Margaret:

"I am going to speak out."

This was the very thing she was pining for, and now that her wish was about to be gratified, she exclaimed:

"If you dare, sir!" saucily, mischievously, coquettishly.

Then what did Margaret do but lead him into a more retired spot, where, if he did speak out, no one but herself could hear him.

"If you dare, sir!" she repeated, with a smile which magnetised him. There was but little need for that; he was bewitched already.

"Call me Philip," he entreated.

"Philip," she sighed.

It was like the whisper of a rose.

He was radiant; the joy in his heart was reflected in his face. He toyed with her fingers. Slender they were, and supple, and not strong. But never were chains more potent.

"Well, Philip?" said Margaret shyly.

"Well, Margaret?"

He could find at that moment nothing more sensible to say. He was engaged watching the light of her eyes, and the colour come and go on her cheek.

"What is that in your hand?" said she.

"A letter."

"Ah, that's what you brought me here for! A letter! For me! Give it to me!" She held out her little hand eagerly.

He withheld the letter from her.

"It is not for you."

"O, indeed!"

She tore her fingers from his grasp, for he had taken them and was kissing them.

"But you may read it," he said ruefully.

She nestled to him, and gave him her hand again, and looked remorseful. When she pleaded mutely for forgiveness, with her pretty face upturned to his, and with her soft red lips within an inch of his, what would you have done, had you been in his place? He did what you would have done-and did it again-and again-and-

"No, sir," she cried, putting her hand upon her lips. "No, Philip, I mean. You shall not-you must not! Some one will be coming this way-"

There was nothing for it, as her lips were covered, but to kiss her neck; and he did so, until she lay in his arms panting.

"You frighten me," she sighed; "and if you are not still, I'll run away."

And she meant it. Dramatic lovers she had had by the score, in silk and fustian. She had been made love to a hundred times upon the stage, but those were sham engagements, and her gentle breast was not fluttered by them, nor was her sweet nature spoilt by them. This sort of thing was quite different.

"And I've a great mind to be angry with you," she said, not moving from his embrace.

"Why?"

"You have brought me no flowers."

He looked disconsolate. "If I had known you wanted them!"

"If you had known, sir! You must guess things. You must look into my face, if you think it will not frighten you, and you must say, Margaret wants this; Margaret wants that-' No, no, Philip I did not say I wanted that!"

"But you told me I must look into your face, and guess things, and I did!"

"Then I'll take back all that I have said, for men are such foolish creatures." She gave him the tenderest smile, to strengthen the words. "And indeed, and indeed, I've a good mind to be angry with you."

"Be angry with me after you have read my letter."

"How can I read it when you will not let me go?"

Certainly his arms were round her, but she did not make the least effort to get away from them.

"Shall I let you go?"

"If you like."

"I don't like."

He pressed her closer to him.

"Tell me, first, how you got my flowers last night."

"Why, you puss, I have told you twice already."

"I forget it, I want to hear it again."

These small deceptions are permissible between lovers, when they are used to such felicitous purpose. He told her again, and her bosom panted, and her heart beat, and a proud and tender light shone in her eyes as he described the mad gallop he had taken; how her face was ever before him, urging him on; how he had won the flowers; the way the woman had said, "O, if it's for that!" then the ride back, singing as he rode-

"Singing!" she exclaimed, interrupting him. "O, you didn't tell me that last night. I knew you had left something out."

"I did sing, and the trees heard me."

"What song was it, sir?"

"Philip!"

"Philip, then. What song did you sing?"

"No song at all-yes, the sweetest song! A song with only one word to it."

"With only one word to it! Dear me I know some, and I don't know that-and the sweetest song, you say."

"The sweetest, the dearest, the best word in the world."

"What word was it?"

"Margaret-Margaret-Margaret!"

"O Philip! And everybody heard it!"

"I left it behind me-no, I didn't; I wouldn't part with it. Part with it! Never, while my heart beats! Yet I did lose it too, for an echo stole it-and I heard it singing Margaret as I rode on."

They were talking together in the open; there was a light in the sky, but the moon had not yet risen. Ten minutes afterwards he said:

"Now read my letter."

"I can't see it," placing her eyes close to it; "it's too dark."

"Not for my eyes." He bent his head to hers; their cheeks touched. "'Dear madam,' he commenced, 'my name is Philip Rowe-'"

"What a stupid commencement!" she said, laughing.

"Is it? Wait. Perhaps it will improve farther on. 'My name is Philip Rowe. I am twenty-six years of age, and I am an Englishman, born in Devonshire. I have a half share in a rich claim on a rich quartz reef. I love your daughter-'"

"O, O," she cried, trembling from happiness. "It's to my mother. And you're from Devonshire. Mother has friends in Devonshire. One in particular, that she has often talked of. I've never been there. Go on, Philip. 'I love your daughter.' Do you, do you, Philip?"

"Do I, my darling?" he said passionately. "Listen to my heart. What does it beat but Margaret, Margaret? I came here to find my life, and I have found her. I love you with all my soul. I never knew what a beautiful thing life was until I saw your dear face."

This was heaven to her to hear. Presently, "Go on, Philip, I love your daughter.'"

"'And she loves me.'"

"O, Philip, who told you? What are you doing, sir?"

"I am listening to your heart, My darling."

"And what does it say! As if it could speak! What does it say, sir?"

"I think I hear it. I think it beats for me."

So inexpressibly tender was his tone, that her arms crept round his neck, and she sighed, "It does, Philip; it does!"

It was the proudest, happiest moment in his life. A blissful silence encompassed them.

"I haven't much more to read," he said, and added cunningly, "Where did I leave off?"

"You know, Philip."

"No, but tell me."

"'And she loves me,'" she whispered.

"My darling! 'I love your daughter, and she loves me. I cannot make a lady of her, for she is that already, thanks to you.' Isn't that good?" he asked, breaking off.

"Yes. Go on; go on. I want to hear the end."

"'I will do all in my power to make her happy; and I write with her permission, to ask you to allow me to subscribe myself, in every letter that follows this, your affectionate son, Philip Rowe.' There!"

"And how can you see to read such a bold letter, sir? My eyes are as good as yours, and there's no light."

"I did not read with my eyes, dear Margaret."

"With what then, Philip? You are full of riddles."

"With my heart, my darling."

CHAPTER XII
"PRAY FOR RAIN, MY DARLING."

"We are getting along finely," said William Smith, rubbing his hands briskly as he looked about with satisfaction upon the busy scene. The crushing machine was nearly fixed. It was a Berdan's, with twelve stampers to pound the stone to dust. The steam-engine was in fine order. The glistening white quicksilver was ready for the work of amalgamation with the bright red gold. The dam was built and ready for water.

William Smith had good reason to feel proud, for by his enterprise he had peopled this hitherto deserted spot. A hundred tents of drill, and a few more pretentious with walls built of slabs, were scattered about, and by a wave of his hand three hundred strong men had found profitable employment. Some had their wives with them, and goats and children scampered about the gullies and over the adjacent hills. The stores, the principal one of which and the most favoured by the gold-diggers belonged to William Smith, were doing a roaring business. A wise man, William Smith; no half-hearted worker; what he did was thoroughly done. He was an honest straightforward man too, driving a hard bargain always, and always to his own advantage; but those he dealt with had their gains also, and they knew that his words were to be depended upon down to the last letter. Wherever he competed he took the lead, and deservedly. His hotel was the best in Silver Creek; the best accommodation was to be found there, the best liquors were to be obtained there. His theatre was a model of comfort. His store on the Margaret Reef (I have not had time before to tell you that Philip had christened it the "Margaret," immediately he knew the name of his sweetheart) was as complete as it was possible for a store on the gold-diggings to be. He sold the best of everything-the best and nattiest water-tight boots with square toes and clean-cut nails in the soles, the strongest laces, the stoutest and soundest drill and calico for tents and flies, the trustiest steel for gads, the most serviceable serge and Scotch twill shirts, the finest pea-jackets, the most expensive cabbage-tree and Panama hats, the best tobacco, and everything else of the first quality. His store was the post-office, and there was a corner in it where the gold-diggers could write their letters and read the Silver Creek Herald and the Silver Creek Mercury. He had planned roads, and had some idea of using his influence for the laying-out of a township by the Government. In his way, William Smith was a small Moses; with room and opportunity and a thousand men at his back he could have laid the solid foundation of a great nation. He had the true legislative faculties for such an undertaking, and I am sure that he would have looked after Number One. The bricklayer who could only earn thirty shillings a week in England, might have become a ruler of men.

The scene, altogether, that was to be witnessed day and night on the Margaret Reef was such as never can be witnessed in an old country. In civilised countries men seem to go about their work with a sadness upon them, and as if they were labouring under some kind of oppression. In such-like places as I am describing, men rise in the morning and set about their work with smiles and vigour, and hearty cheerfulness. In the old country it is, "It's a hard thing to have to work like this! Alas!" In the new country it is, "Come along, boys, with a will! Hurrah!"

I have said that the dam was built and ready for water. William Smith said the same thing to Philip at the conclusion of a conversation. He was in high spirits; there were two hundred and fifty tons of quartz waiting to be crushed, lying in great heaps near the shaft. Half of it was burnt, and was ready for the machine; the other half was piled on the wood kilns and was blazing away, filling the air with not the pleasantest arsenical fumes. New shafts were being sunk along the brow of the Margaret Reef, and one or two were beginning to yield gold-bearing stone.

"What do you think it will crush?" asked Philip of William Smith, as they stood by a heap of the quartz which had been burnt.

William Smith poked about the stone and averaged it, a piece from one place, a piece from another, a piece from another. He saw plenty of gold in it.

"About nine ounces to the ton, I should say," replied William Smith. "We'll first crush fifty tons, and wash up and see what the yield is. Then we'll go straight on with two hundred tons, and get the biggest cake of gold that has ever been seen in Silver Creek and exhibit it in High Street. It'll do the diggings good."

"When shall we commence to crush?"

"We shall be ready in three days. All we want is water in the dam. Now is the time to pray for rain."

Philip went straight to Margaret, as one goes to one's high-priest.

"Pray for rain, my darling," he said, "pray for rain;" and told her the reason why.

Margaret prayed for rain, obediently, as she had been bidden, and prayed for it so hard that, whether you will believe it or not, such a downpour commenced on Silver Creek at ten o'clock that night as had never been witnessed by the oldest inhabitant-a veteran of two years or less. Silver Creek overflowed its banks, and the lower parts of the township were flooded. Philip was wild with joy.

"You duck!" he said to Margaret-he was in the theatre when the rain commenced-"this is all your doing!"

We sober-going persons know, of course, that it was only a coincidence. Margaret, however, smiled demurely. She was quite ready to take the credit of it; she would not have been a woman else. But it was rather a stretch on Philip's part.

William Smith looked anxious. He wanted rain, but he was a little bit afraid of such a downpour as this, thinking that the dam might not be strong enough to bear it. Philip ran to Margaret, and told her of William Smith's fears.

"The dam not strong enough!" she exclaimed. "O, but it is!"

Philip was satisfied. The most profound logic could not have so convinced him of the soundness of the dam. He could not convince William Smith, however, for Smith was not in love. That enterprising person wanted to set out at once for the Margaret Reef, but it was impossible to get there in such a storm. Raging torrents were in the way. Smith fretted that he could not whistle them aside. But he did not fret long; he accepted the inevitable with a grimace. Philip accepted it in a very different fashion; but then it was pleasant to him, for it compelled him to remain for the night in the hotel where Margaret was. He blessed the rain that kept him by Margaret's side. He had also a little private business to do with Mr. Hart. Margaret had related to him the incident on the road which had led to the baby becoming a shareholder in Hart's Star Dramatic Company, and how that it was Mr. Hart who had suggested it. She enacted the entire scene, and burlesqued the Leading Lady in fine style. Philip, who was fond of children, was mightily pleased, and was loud in his praises of Mr. Hart, and Margaret chimed in. She loved the old man; and, indeed, they both had occasion to be grateful to him. Between them they had concocted a plan-that is to say, Philip had concocted it, and Margaret had said, "Yes, yes," to everything; which, in Philip's eyes, made her the author of it. What that plan was will now be seen.

The performances concluded at eleven o'clock: The roof of the theatre was made of zinc, and the rain fell on it so heavily and loudly that not a word could be heard within the walls. But the actors went on with their parts nevertheless, and to keep the audience in good humour, introduced dances in the piece, and played such impromptu antics that the gold-diggers were rather pleased with the storm than otherwise.

When the performances were at an end, Philip and Margaret stood at the side-scenes, talking softly over their plan concerning Mr. Hart. What they really had to say about it might have occupied two minutes-but it took them twenty, they were such bunglers.

"Now I shall go to Mr. Hart," said Philip, and kissed Margaret.

The part he was playing in those happy days was full of cues for kisses. There may have been meaning in the kisses; there was certainly none in the cues.

I think that Philip must have spoken this particular cue, "Now I shall go to Mr. Hart," at least a dozen times (invariably, of course, using it as a fresh cue) before he attempted to stir from Margaret's side. But at length he did say, with something like determination:

"Now I must really go."

Margaret replied with a sigh, "Yes, Philip, you must."

Even then, I think, he would not have gone, if they had not been disturbed in their love-making.

"When it is all settled," said Margaret, "run up to my room and knock at the door; then I will come down and give Mr. Hart a good hug and half-a-dozen kisses."

Philip looked blank at this.

"You goose!" said Margaret. "I have kissed him I don't know how many times. Why, he's over sixty! and don't you think he deserves it, sir, for the care he has taken of me."

"Of course," responded Philip, the cloud in his face clearing. "I am a goose. I know you wouldn't kiss a younger man-unless it was me."

"Not a much younger man," replied Margaret with a merry laugh, as she ran away from him.