Kitabı oku: «At the Sign of the Silver Flagon», sayfa 8
CHAPTER XVII
NATURE PUNISHES THE THIEF
The festivities at the Margaret Reef did not conclude the celebration of the christening. In the night a ball was given by William Smith to the gentry of the district. He had a marquee put up especially for the occasion, and so that the fine ladies of Silver Creek might not think it a trade affair (they were mighty particular in some matters, let me tell you), he had requested permission to erect the tent on the ground where the Government Camp buildings were. Of course it was granted, with smiles; one of the small results of William Smith's wisdom in asking the Warden's lady to christen the quartz-crushing machine. The ball was a complete and most brilliant success. The Judge was there, and danced in the first quadrille, and so far forgot himself when he saw Margaret that he asked for the honour of her hand for the second: a proof that judges are human. Many a lady there envied Margaret the honour, and wondering what the Judge could see in her, did not wonder at themselves for wondering at his good taste.
If Margaret was lovely in the morning at the Reef, what shall I say of her in the night at the ball? and what shall I say of her dress? Again, but in a lesser degree, I lay myself open to the criticism of the ladies. Margaret's dress was composed entirely of clouds of fleecy tulle, looped and caught back by tufts of feathery ferns and grasses. And a long trail of bright grass was in her beautiful hair. This is all that I saw, for her charming face took away my eyes from all the rest, and I should scarcely have been surprised to see her floating away on a cloud. Entranced Philip was fairly dazzled by her appearance as she came sailing in on the arm of Mr. Hart, who looked what he was, every inch a gentleman. Everybody shook hands with everybody, as though they hadn't seen one another for weeks. When Mr. Hart resigned Margaret to Philip's care, Philip trod on air. He danced with her, and afterwards said:
"I shall keep possession of you the whole of the night."
Just then the Judge came up to her, and Philip moved a little aside, never thinking that so sedate a man, and one in such a position, would dance with a girl like Margaret.
"Now I am happy," said Margaret to Philip, after the dance, "I have danced with a judge That's one of the things I shall keep on saying all my life. I've danced with a judge! – I've danced with a judge!"
Then came another and younger man, and Margaret waltzed away with him. Seeing jealousy in Philip's face, Margaret whispered:
"Be good. I love only you."
He tried hard to be good, but strive as he might, he could not help feeling a little bit wicked. He contrived, however, to obtain many crumbs of consolation during the night. Crumbs! Slices, I ought to say; for the night was lovely, and now and then between the dances Philip stole into the open with his sweetheart on his arm. Being in the shade once he wanted to embrace her.
"Be quiet, sir," she said, coquettishly. "I'm only to be looked at to-night. How do I look, Philip!"
His eyes answered her, and he became more demonstrative.
"No, Philip, no!" she cried. "I must not be crushed."
"Why," answered Philip, with tender adroitness, "when I am dancing with you, I put my arm round your waist-so!"
"Ah!" she said, with a most delicious little laugh, "that's more neatly done."
"And my face, then, is close to yours-so!"
He had his way, and she became an accomplice. Being fired to emulation, she showed him that she was not to be outdone in tenderness. When a woman is in love, she forgets her cunning.
William Smith said rather a good thing. The Judge had a crisp short habit of speaking.
"I like that judge," said William Smith. "He must be a merciful man. He speaks in short sentences."
At midnight Smith came to the side of Philip, and pulled out his watch. It was exactly twelve o'clock, and at that moment he had arranged that the William Smith quartz-crushing machine should be set going.
"They've commenced to dance," he said gleefully.
He referred to the stampers of his machine.
Philip, gazing at Margaret and a handsome partner, who were whirling away from him, muttered somewhat moodily: "I see them!"
William Smith glanced at Philip in surprise.
"My imagination doesn't carry me as far as yours," said William Smith; "but I daresay you are as impatient as I am."
Philip scarcely heard the words. William Smith continued:
"Mr. Hart and I are going to steal away for an hour; we shan't be gone longer. Play the host while I am absent, and if they ask for me, say I'll be back in a minute or two."
Philip nodded, and presently Mr. Hart and William Smith were in the saddle, galloping away over the hills in the direction of the Margaret Reef; the horses did the distance in twenty-five minutes.
"Do you hear them-do you hear them?" cried William Smith exultantly, as they breasted the hill.
The music of the stampers fell on their ears. They halted at a distance of a couple of hundred yards from the machine. Sparks were flying from the chimneys; the fires were roaring; the machine was thumping away, beating the gold out of the quartz; dark forms of men were moving busily about in the shade and lurid light.
William Smith had good cause for triumph; many a man has won a name in history for doing less than he had done.
But in the midst of his exultation a tender sadness came upon him.
"What would you suppose I am thinking of?" he asked of Mr. Hart.
"I can't guess," replied Mr. Hart, who had thoughts of his own.
"I am thinking of my old mother at home," said William Smith, "and wishing she was here to see this day's doings. How proud she would be of her Billy, as she calls me!"
Mr. Hart was also thinking of a dear one at home and of the time, soon to come he hoped, when he should fold her in his arms. He blessed the music of the stampers; he gazed with tearful eyes upon the bright sparks flying upwards from the chimneys. They would give him the means of seeing his darling daughter in her bloom of womanhood, of sharing her life, of administering to her happiness.
At that moment, also, Philip was talking to Margaret of his father.
So beneath the stars, the old country and the new were joined by the tenderest heart-links that love can forge.
* * * * * *
A word as to the money which had been stolen from Mr. Hart. The thief was no other than the Walking Gentleman and Treasurer of the dramatic company. It has already been seen that he was ignorant of arithmetic; he might have pleaded this as an excuse, had he been called before a human tribunal to answer for his crime. He carried out his character of Walking Gentleman consistently to the end, by walking off with Mr. Hart's money and other money as well. But it was the last opportunity he had of playing a part on this earthly stage. I am inclined to the opinion that nearly every man in the course of his life has an impulse of, and the opportunity for, dishonesty. Another opinion as to the proportion of those who fall to those who conquer I keep to myself. The Walking Gentleman fell-but fell with the distinct intention in his mind of leading an honest life afterwards, if he escaped with his spoil. How many men do you know within the circle of your acquaintance who are leading respectable lives on stolen money, or money as good, or as bad, as stolen? The thief that we have to do with had planned everything carefully. He had so much money of his own; he appropriated Mr. Hart's savings, having learned where the trustful old man was in the habit of depositing them; he had, as treasurer, more than three hundred pounds in hand belonging to the company. A ship was to sail from Hobson's Bay for England in four days; he could do the distance to the port very well in that time. Then on to the ship, and away for home, with nearly a thousand pounds of stolen money in his purse.
All was accomplished an hour before the storm; he played only in the first part of the performances on that night, and at nine o'clock he was off, dashing away from Silver Creek on the back of a fleet horse. He had taken the precaution to disguise himself so that he might not be recognised. It was his intention to ride all night, and to catch up Cobb's coach at a certain point in the morning. All went well for an hour; but then the skies blackened, the thunder began to growl, the lightning to flash, and presently the storm fell upon him. He went on, nothing daunted, thinking it impossible that such a downpour could last. But it did last, as we know, and increased in fury. The thief began to wish that he had chosen another night, and he cursed his bad luck; but curses did not avail him, and there was now no turning back. On he galloped, with his head sunk on his breast, and the heavy rain beat down on him, and caused a singing in his head. It was at first only an indistinct buzzing that he heard, but it took shape presently, and the words, "Thief! thief! fool! thief!" hissed and plashed in his ears. On and on he galloped, and conscience filled the air with accusing shapes and sounds, which pursued and surrounded him, and made him sick and faint. Once raising his eyes, his heart almost leaped out of his throat as he saw a tall thin form bending towards him, with the intention of clutching him. It was but a slender tree, bent by the force of the wind, and he escaped it without really knowing what it was. And now, every branch that swayed brought new terrors to him, and he began to wish that he had remained honest. He was in the bush, with not a tent in sight, having chosen the remotest track, so that he might not be seen; but had a human habitation been within twenty yards of him he would not have been able to see it, for by this time he was enveloped in blackness. He stumbled on, not knowing now whither he was going. For a little while he had strength and sense enough to keep a tight rein on his horse, but a frightful flash of lightning, and a more frightful peal of thunder, so unnerved him that the rein slackened in his grasp. The horse dashed madly forward-over fallen timber, through light thickets of bush, into great pools of water, that plashed up and blinded the runaway. The branches of the trees caught at his clothes and tore them in fragments from his body. His wig had been the first thing to go, and the brown paint with which he had striven to hide his villany was washed from his face with, as it seemed to him, stinging whips of water. A pitiable sight he presented to the lightning, every flash of which caused him to scream with terror, as he clung with wild desperation to the horse's neck. Torn, bleeding, and literally in rags, with the stolen money in a belt fastened round his waist, he rode on madly, a thief confessed. Louder shrieked the storm; over the ranges and through the uneven valleys dashed the maddened horse. A raging torrent was before them, and the animal leaped into it, and in the leap the thief was unhorsed. While he was struggling in the surging waters, and while the only thing that was certain was death in a few seconds he repented most heartily of his crime, and I leave it to priests to say of what value were the choked words and the agonised thoughts that typified repentance.
When the next flash of lightning lit up the wild scene, it illumined the furious waters rolling onwards, and, for the millionth part of a second, the lifeless body of a thief justly punished.
In this way he played his last part in life, and was never more heard of.
CHAPTER XVIII
WILLIAM SMITH'S AMBITION
Merrily worked the William Smith quartz-crushing machine. Day and night the stampers kept thumping and pounding. The first rest given to it was when the first fifty tons of stone had been passed beneath the stampers. Then the iron baby was quiet for awhile.
The iron cradles were emptied of their treasure in strong washing-tubs-hogsheads sawn in two, and made stronger by the blacksmith with additional belts of iron. The treasure consisted of finely-pounded stone and water, amongst which rolled three or four hundred weight of quicksilver. No gold was to be seen; it was hidden in the quicksilver.
Now commenced the process of washing-up. The deposit in the tubs was panned off in ordinary gold-washing dishes, the quicksilver with its precious treasure being put into a separate tub, and the waste earth which the quicksilver refused to embrace thrown aside in a little heap, as though it were of no account. This waste refuse was considered to belong, by right, to the proprietor of the crushing machine, and consisted chiefly of iron pyrites; it was a valuable privilege, producing a good many ounces of gold to the ton sometimes. The quicksilver, having all been extracted, lay in a silky white mass in the large tub. The strongest man could not have lifted it. The precious liquid was ladled carefully into skins of chamois leather, which, when fairly filled, were squeezed tight over buckets of clear water. The quicksilver which did not contain gold oozed out in silver tears, and wept into the water; it might truly be said that it was alive, argentum vivum. There then remained a thick solid mass of white metal. If you took up a handful of it, you could feel the beaten lumps and nuggets of gold which it concealed from view. The last process was the retorting of the metals. The quicksilver and the gold were deposited in the retort, a spherical vessel, to the cover of which was fixed a slender curved tube, up which the heated quicksilver ascended, as smoke ascends a chimney. This retort, with its precious treasure, was plunged into a fiery furnace, and heated to a white heat. Through the curved tube the boiling quicksilver rose in a silver stream, and rained into the tub of water which lay to receive it; gradually the stream grew less, and when the last few globules of pretty silver spray had fallen, the retort was unscrewed, and a large mass of molten gold, lit up by the most lovely colours, that seemed to flash and play upon its breast with fairy's touch, was exposed to view.
When Margaret, who was present, saw the pretty sight, she clasped her hands, and cried, "O! O! O!" which round circles stand for as much delight and admiration as could be expressed in three pages.
Philip and the rest looked on with sparkling eyes. "What's the weight of it?" asked William Smith. Philip, who was a novice in the matter of cakes of gold, guessed it at four hundred ounces.
"At four pounds an ounce," said William Smith, ever ready for a bargain, "that's sixteen hundred pounds. I'll give two thousand pounds for it as it stands."
Philip would have consented right away, but his more experienced mate laughed at William Smith, and with a knowing look said it would be a thousand pities to make him a loser by his enterprise. William Smith nodded cheerfully, and winked at the shrewder man, as much as to say, "We two are a match for each other!" Then they stood in silence about the retort, waiting for the metal to cool, and gazing at it with an interest as great as that of a fond father who gazes at the cot in which his child is sleeping. When all the rainbow-colour had died out of the gold, and it had become solidified, the cake was put into the scales. It turned fifty-six pounds troy-six hundred and seventy-two ounces. Deducting one hundred and fifty ounces, that being William Smith's payment for crushing the fifty tons of stone, at three ounces per ton, there remained five hundred and twenty-two ounces of pure gold, which Philip sold at sixpence less than four pounds an ounce, receiving in hard cash two thousand and seventy-four pounds nineteen shillings. William Smith obtained threepence an ounce more for his hundred and fifty ounces.
This business being satisfactorily concluded, Philip went to the Rose, Shamrock, and Thistle, and made out a fair statement, showing the value of Mr. Hart's share in the gold obtained, Margaret looking over his shoulder the while.
"Just listen to me, Margaret," said Philip.
They laid their heads together for five minutes, at the expiration of which Margaret ran away, and returned enveloped in a large overcoat, which reached to her heels, and with a billycock hat slouched over her head. In that disguise she, followed by Philip, went in search of Mr. Hart. They found him on the stage, giving directions to the property-man.
"Rowe versus Hart," said Margaret, in a gruff voice, tapping him on the shoulder, and thrusting the balance-sheet into his hand in the form of a writ, "suit for two hundred and fifty pounds. If not paid. in five minutes, instant execution is ordered."
Mr. Hart peered beneath the slouched hat, and recognised Margaret. His lips being very close to Margaret's laughing face, he took an unfair advantage of her, and kissed her.
"What's the fine for that, Philip?" cried Margaret. "This," replied Philip, shaking a bag of money vindictively at Mr. Hart. "Here you are, old fellow;" and he handed Mr. Hart two hundred and fifty-nine pounds odd, being an eighth share of the gold. "For this unwarrantable assault, you will instantly pay me the two hundred and fifty you owe me. I don't intend to wait three minutes for the money."
Mr. Hart paid Philip with a grateful sigh; he knew that it would be useless to remonstrate with the young man. Had Mr. Hart been alone in the world, with no ties, he would not have accepted Philip's generosity; he would have quarrelled with him first. But you see how it was with him, and you will not blame him, I am sure.
The theatre was open again, and was thronged as usual. The actors and actresses were much concerned as to the fate of the missing treasurer; none of them, with the exception of Mr. Hart, suspected him. (Mr. Hart had enjoined secrecy upon Philip and Margaret, and no one but the three knew of his loss.) As they never received any tidings of him, they settled that he had been lost in the storm, and they mourned him as one who had come to an undeserved end.
Silver Creek township throve and flourished. New discoveries were made every week, and new leads of gold found in gullies and plains. William Smith, always playing his cards well, knew that now the township was becoming a settled thing, there must soon be a Government land sale, and he began to build and let, and to buy up rights of land wherever he could. Depend upon it, he bought in the proper places, having settled, after careful survey, where it was imperative that the streets would be laid out. You would have thought he had enough to do, what with one thing and another, but he seemed never to have his hands full. He was not of an envious disposition, but he did covet one thing: Philip's quartz claim. It was yielding finely, and he believed he saw a colossal fortune in it. Not to be made out of it in the way Philip and his mates were working it. No; he would put up machinery. He would sink new shafts. The stone should be drawn from the bottom of the shafts not by hand, but by steam-power; the men should be lowered by steam; he would have a steam-engine below, if it was necessary; everything should be done by steam, and labour should be economised. Would that reduce the number of men necessary to work the claim? Not at all. Where there were a hundred men at work now William Smith would have five hundred. What he would do really would be to get ten times as much gold. He would open the claim to its fullest extent; he would buy up as many claims as he could get hold of north and south of Philip's land, and would pay for them all liberally.
You may ask why William Smith wanted to do this. He was making so rapid a fortune, that if things continued as they were for twelve months, he would be at least a fifty-thousand-pounds man. And in three years these figures would be doubled. A hundred thousand pounds! When he was a bricklayer at home working for a bare pittance, on high scaffoldings at the risk of his life, the very idea of possessing such a sum would have been enough to take away his breath. Now he thought nothing of it. But he wanted Philip's claim. For this reason: he burned to be a master of men, not of twenty, or fifty, or a hundred. He wanted to be a master of not fewer than five hundred men, all doing well under him, all living comfortably and being well paid, and if he had Philip's claim he saw his way to it. Then when he went home to the old country, he could say to his old master, "You thought it a great thing to have eighty men under you, each of whom could earn about a guinea and a half a week. Why, I, one of those eighty, went into a new country and employed five hundred men, and every one of them had a house of his own and was well clothed, and could give his family meat for breakfast, dinner, tea, and supper; and after paying for everything, and more besides, could put by thirty shillings a week in the savings bank-in the savings bank, which I started and am trustee of!" You see, the master used to cry out that working men in the old country were better off than they were in any other part of the world. William Smith wanted to show him that he was wrong.
So William Smith yearned to be king of five hundred men, and the proper complement of women and children-to be master of five hundred pairs of hands-to see peace and plenty and industry all about him-to walk among his workmen, and chat and smile with them-to walk among the women and children, and pat the youngsters on the head, and pass kind words with the mothers. He had all these thoughts. It was not a bad ambition.
He offered money for Philip's claim-a large sum. Philip and his mate shook their heads. Mr. Hart would have been glad to sell his share; if he had one-eighth of what William Smith offered, the white sails should spread for him over the seas, for Home, dear Home! But he decided that it would be base to sell; it would be like deserting Philip. "I'll wait yet a little while," he thought. "A few months will soon pass."
William Smith tempted him. Philip stood by.
Mr. Hart declined, and saw in the look of joy which flashed into Philip's face what pleasure his refusal had given the young man.
The largest retorted cake of gold that had been produced for many a score of miles round was produced from a great crushing out of Philip's claim. It weighed no less than two thousand two hundred ounces. It was exhibited in the principal gold-broker's window on a Saturday, which was the busiest day in the township. On that day all the gold-diggers and their wives and children came in from the hills and gullies, and made their purchases. A more bustling scene of its kind could not be witnessed in any other part of the world. All day long the diggers and the women poured in, from east, from west, from north, from south. Where a storekeeper took ten pounds on another day, he took fifty on a Saturday. You should have seen the theatre on Saturday nights.
The people stood round and about the gold-broker's window, and those who were nearest stared and stared, and those who were farthest away peeped over their neighbours' shoulders, at the great beautiful cake of gold, duly labelled. Two thousand two hundred ounces It made every one's mouth water.
But on the Monday morning following this splendid exhibition, Philip arriving at his claim-he had spent the Sunday with Margaret-found the miners standing about in idleness: which was not the way of the men. A part of the shaft had fallen in, and they were waiting to know what to do.
"Do!" exclaimed Philip. "Go down, of course."
And down he went, and made an anxious and critical examination. When he came up again he decided to get the Government mining surveyor to report upon the condition of the shaft. This was done, and the surveyor gave certain directions. The shaft would have to be slabbed round all its sides for fifty feet from the surface-boxed in as it were. Until then it was not safe to work below. The slabbing was done; it occupied a week, and cost some money.
Philip fretted at the delay, and no one was glad but William Smith. He rejoiced. He had not one particle of malice in his nature, but he said quietly to himself, "I'd like that shaft to cave in from top to bottom. Perhaps they'd sell it to me then."
Margaret heard of the disaster-from William Smith's lips, I think. She turned white, and clung to Philip on the night she heard the news. He was annoyed that she knew, but what was there to be frightened at? he asked.
"Frightened at!" she cried. "Oh, Phillip! how can you ask? The shaft will fall in again-"
"How do you know that?"
"I know it-I feel it! And you will be underneath, perhaps! – "
She could not proceed for her terror. He could not but feel glad at this solicitude for him, and he used lover's arguments to prove that there was no danger. These arguments were sweet and delicious to her, but they had a contrary effect from that which he intended. Making her love him more, they made her more anxious for his safety.
"Promise me not to go down," she begged. "Promise me to work at the top.
"And let another man be crushed in my place?" he said proudly. She shuddered, and held him closer to her. "Not if I know it!"
"Then you don't value my life?" she cried, with womanly tact and womanly unreason.
"Your life, my dearest! not value your life, when a single hair of your head is more precious to me than all the gold in Silver Creek!"
"No," she persisted, "you don't value my life, when you are determined to risk it in this way."
"What are you talking about, Margaret? I risk your life!"
"Yes," she cried, "you are about to do it. For if anything happens to you, I shall die."
To pacify her he was compelled to promise that he would not go down below, but he did not keep his word. It was not often he broke it, but here his manhood was in question. He was not going to shirk his fair share of risk. He did not deceive Margaret long, however. She coaxed Mr. Hart to take her to the Reef one day, and did not scruple to say that Philip expected her. When they arrived at the shaft, she was told that Philip was below. White from apprehension, she walked a few yards away, and sat down upon a trunk of a tree, while the workmen from a distance gazed at her lithe and graceful form with respectful admiration.
"Phil Rowe's a lucky fellow," they said.
Mr. Hart passed the word down for Philip to come up, and up he came, strong and handsome, with the veins standing out on his bare arms and throat: a fair sight for a woman who loved him. But Margaret turned from him, and repulsed him, secretly admiring him all the while for his courage.
"This is the way that men deceive women," she said-"promising one thing and doing another!"
Had she been a scholar, she might have flung at him the proverb, "False in one thing, false in all," but she was only a woman in love. Besides, she would have known that there would have been no truth in the proverb, in this case. Perhaps that would not have mattered, though. Women are queer logicians; their logic comes from the heart, not from the head.
"What can I do?" he asked, after listening to her reproaches. "You don't want people to think me a coward, do you?"
"If they dared to say so!" she exclaimed, with a motion which implied that she would defend him.
"They will say so if I do as you wish," he said; her hand was in his now: he did not mind the workmen seeing. "No, no, Margaret. Your word shall be law in everything but this, Women don't understand these matters." She tossed her head disdainfully. "Besides, don't I want to get rich for my Margaret's sake?"
"Rich!" she exclaimed. "Why, you have thousands of pounds!"
"I want thousands more to throw into your lap."
She wavered a little, for just three seconds.
"No," she said then. "You don't want thousands more, if your life is to be risked in the getting of them, Philip," and she looked at him earnestly, "if you were a beggar, I should not care."
"Do you mean to say you would love me all the same?"
"Yes; and work for you, if it was necessary."
She meant it. However, she did not persuade him to act as she wished. But things were working in her favour.
Within a few hours of this conversation, Philip, still working below, made a disheartening discovery. They were preparing for a blast. He was holding the gad, while a workman was striking it on the head with his hammer. Half an inch this way or that, and Philip would have been maimed for life, but it was seldom a man was so unskilful as to cause an accident in this way. The hole for the gunpowder was two feet deep, and Philip lifted up the gad and spooned out the dust. It came up in a liquid state; Philip looked anxious, and more anxious still, when the whole was cleared, to see water bubbling up. They had struck a small stream. It was not very serious at first. They continued working during the day, and fired the blast the last thing in the evening, before knocking off work. When Philip went down the shaft the next morning, he stepped up to his waist in water. They set to manfully, and baled it out; more than half the working hours of the day were lost in this necessary labour. They dug a shaft within the shaft, to serve as a well, and so managed to keep themselves tolerably dry; but the water came in faster and faster.
William Smith smiled and rubbed his hands. The claim was already as good as his; he began already making bids for other claims, north and south. In his mind's eyes he mapped everything out. He saw himself king of this great range. He saw a happy village springing up. Here should be this; there should be that. Tents for the gold-diggers here; a wooden house for himself there. On this spot should be a church; on that a school-house. He saw a well-dressed and happy congregation, his workmen and their families, walking from the church on the Sabbath day, smiling and talking together: he saw the children trooping out of the school-house after school hours, and the schoolmaster standing in the porch, with his cane under his arm: joy stirred in his heart as he fancied these things, and as he heard the shouts and hurrahs of the youngsters. There should be gardens too; yes, every tent should have its garden. He saw the cabbages and peas coming up; flowers also. He went to the highest point of the range, and folding his arms, looked down upon his kingdom. It had been a pleasure to him hitherto to make money, but he had not thought much of it. He had made it so easily, that his heart had scarcely been fluttered by the success of his speculations. But now, as he contemplated the realisation of his pet scheme, money was really sweet to him for the first time.
