Kitabı oku: «At the Sign of the Silver Flagon», sayfa 9

The quartz-crushing machine hammered away as steadily as ever, the water in Philip's claim increasing in volume every day. It served one good purpose. A race was made from the shaft to the dam, and a continual stream of water was running down it.

"You ought to pay us for the water," said Philip's mate.

"You ought to pay me for taking it," said William Smith.

Matters were growing serious. Out of every twelve hours they could work in the quartz but three.

Yet I do not think that William Smith would have obtained the claim, if it had not been that a woman was on his side.

CHAPTER XIX
MR. HART DECIDES TO WAIT A LITTLE LONGER

Margaret had a tender, yielding nature, but she was firm withal. It is surprising how determined these soft weaker vessels can be! And they generally get their way. If men, in addition to their naturally greater strength of character, possessed woman's delicate cunning, great results would be accomplished. But men are deficient in finesse. The nature of many a great diplomatist has assimilated closely to that of a woman. A clever man can do fine things, but a clever woman with the same opportunities would beat him hollow.

William Smith, then, found an ally in Margaret. She ran up her colours by the side of his, and declared war against Philip. Innocent, unsuspicious Philip knew nothing of the confederacy; and this is the way his treacherous Margaret undermined the fortress of his resolution.

On one day, "Am I not growing pale?" she asked of him, in a plaintive tone.

Philip, gazing at her in tender solicitude, saw that she was a shade paler than usual.

"And thin, Philip. Feel my arm." He obeyed her. "I'm wasting away," she said.

Now, that Margaret was a little paler than usual is not to be disputed. She had contrived it; by what means, I am not sufficiently in the mysteries to state.

That she was any thinner, I deny. Yet Philip thought differently from me. But he was in love with Margaret; while I- No, I must not write what was about to glide off my pen. The pen tells many untruths, and I will not add one to the number on this occasion. I also love Margaret.

"You are working too hard," said Philip.

"No, it is not that," sighed she.

"You want a rest, my darling."

"It would do me no good, Philip."

"You are worrying yourself about something."

She sighed. It was a most eloquent affirmative. Then Philip paused. He felt that he had touched dangerous ground. Seeing that Philip did not speak, she used her tongue.

"Yes, I am indeed worrying myself about something. It will be the death of me, Philip."

"Nonsense, my darling, nonsense."

"I should not speak of your death in that way, Philip!"

The ground was crumbling beneath him.

"You are in low spirits, Margaret. You must rouse yourself for my sake."

She shook her head. "I would do anything for your sake, Philip. But I seem to have no strength left."

"Ah! that's it," he said eagerly, catching at a straw; "you are weak and low; you must eat strengthening things."

(Soft-minded fellow! as if, in her languid condition, she was not stronger than the strongest man!)

"Strengthening things!" she echoed, in a tone of soft reproach.

"And you must drink bottled stout. A bottle every day," he said uneasily.

"Bottled stout!" she echoed, in the saddest of tones, which, although she did not say so in as many words, conveyed a distinct denial that bottled stout was a cure for a breaking heart.

On another day it was-"I had a dreadful dream the night before last, Philip."

"There! there! frightening yourself with fancies."

"They are killing me, Philip. I dreamt about you and the shaft. You were working at the bottom. I don't know where I was standing, but dreams are such curious things you know, Philip. I was standing there, and saw you below, and I saw the men at the top, also, working. I saw right down the shaft, Philip, and all at once there was a great crying and screaming, and the men flew wildly about. The shaft had fallen in, and you were buried beneath tons and tons of earth. I could see you even then, holding out your hands to me, and crying to me to help you!"

Margaret's eyes were full of tears, and she shivered and cowered. And I declare I do not know how much of this was acting and how much was genuine.

What could a man do under this sort of persecution? What can he do but yield?

"But, Margaret," said Philip, "we are young, we are strong. It would be folly to go away from Silver Creek, where we are making so much money."

"I don't want to go away from Silver Creek," she replied, her heart beating a little more quickly. "I love the place; if it had not been for Silver Creek, we might never have met, Philip. I can show you a way to make more money than you are making at the Margaret Reef. Ah, how good of you to name it after me! Yes, I can show you how to make more money."

"You show me a way how to make money, little woman! Why, what is there in that pretty little head of yours?"

He took it between his hands and kissed her lips.

"Look straight into my eyes, Philip. Don't they sparkle?"

"Sparkle, my dear little woman! They are the stars in my heaven!"

"But more than usual, Philip? Are they not brighter than usual?" (She made them so.) "Well, now, what makes them so bright just at this moment? I'll tell you without asking. I know you are going to say yes to what I shall propose, and that fills my heart with joy. My heart is in my eyes, because-because, Philip- Turn yours away, sir! I don't want you to look at me- Because, I think we might be married next week."

He caught her in his arms, and tried to raise her face to his; but she hung her head, and murmured that she would never be able, for shame's sake, to look at him again if he did not consent at once to what she was about to propose.

"Well, what is it, Margaret? What is it?" he asked, in a rapture of happiness.

"I can't tell you, Philip," she murmured, with her lips close to his ear, "unless you say 'Yes' beforehand."

"Yes, then," he cried. "Yes, a thousand times over!"

Who was the weaker vessel? Margaret or Philip! Really, we have accustomed ourselves to believe in some very fine delusions.

"Well, then," she said, "buy Mr. Smith's hotel and theatre. You will make more money in twelve months than you can get out of your claim in three years."

He was staggered at the suggestion, and was not displeased at it. But after a little consideration he said he was sure that Mr. Smith would not sell a property so valuable. Margaret knew better. All the while William Smith was dropping quiet hints to her as to the dangerous condition of the shaft in which Philip was working, the eyes of Margaret's mind were piercing him through and through.

William Smith himself would have been surprised if he could have heard her summing-up of him. But it is the way of this kind of woman-and let me tell you her name is legion. You and she are in the same room for five minutes, and she never raises her eyes to your face, and when you go out she can make an inventory of you, from the way you part your hair down to the style of your shoe-strings. She knows a great deal better than you whether your clothes fit well or ill, and whether your hands and feet are nice, and I do not think you would care to consult her physiognomically. If you knew what was going on within that little head while her eyes are directed demurely towards the carpet, it might make you uncomfortable. How she gained the power of discovering occult things is a deep unfathomable mystery.

Margaret was one of this kind of women. She had read William Smith through and through, and she talked and talked to Philip until he said he would consult Mr. Hart. Mr. Hart was called in. He thought the idea a fine one; he was filled with grave doubts of the safety of the shaft in which Philip was working, and in a lesser degree shared Margaret's apprehensions. He also thought that William Smith would be willing to come to an arrangement.

Suddenly Philip said:

"I'll do it on one condition, supposing it can be done. Mr. Hart must join us, and become a partner. You want to go home, I know, old fellow, but if you will stay with us for six months and see us fairly afloat, I'll put you on the ship myself at the end of that time with a clear four thousand pounds in your pocket, and wish you good-bye and God speed, and in less than two years Margaret and I will be after you, and we'll all settle down together in a spot I know of, you and your darling, and I and mine."

Margaret clapped her hands in delight.

"I say 'Yes' for him!" she cried.

"I say 'Yes' for myself," said Mr. Hart, without hesitation.

He knew that the share of gold he had received out of the claim would be required in the transaction of the business, and he considered that Philip had a right to dispose of it.

He was appointed agent to moot the proposal to William Smith, and carry it through if it was well received. Philip had not a sufficiently calm head for the transaction. Mr. Hart did his work well; William Smith entertained the scheme, chuckling quietly while it was being propounded, and of course made a good bargain. There was no delay. In four days (William Smith having bought out Philip's mate) William Smith was master of the quartz reef, and Philip was the proprietor of the Rose, Shamrock, and Thistle Hotel and Restaurant and the Theatre Royal, Silver Creek. As Mr. Hart had supposed, his money was required for the completion, of the purchase. Philip entered into his property free from debt, and with a good stock in hand, but with very little ready cash. William Smith, had swept it all into his pocket. But it was a fair bargain. The hotel was doing a famous business, and money began to tumble in the first day. On that day the name of the hotel was changed. The new sign-board hoisted up had on it the words,

"The Silver Flagon."

And the place was crowded with friends and acquaintances drinking success to it.

So for the fourth time during the last seven years, Mr. Hart, having saved sufficient money to carry out the project nearest to his heart, decided to stay a little longer, and make a little more, before he took ship for home. But in this last instance, he could scarcely help himself. Gratitude called upon him to act as he had done, and he was satisfied that he would be well rewarded for his patience. It was a consolation and a pleasure to reflect that the date of his departure was fixed. He had only six months to wait, and he would carry with him a well-filled purse. He counted the days, and, making his calculations, he wrote home to his daughter that, in such and such a month he hoped, with God's blessing, to fold her to his heart, and that he would never leave her again.

Within a few days of Philip's taking possession of the hotel, he and Margaret were married. I leave you to imagine the festivities on the occasion; how handsome, strong, and brave Philip looked upon that happy morning, and what a fairy vision burst upon his gaze when Margaret appeared before him in her bridal dress. Margaret's mother-a short pale woman (what lovely daughters many of these small thin women have) – was there, approving of everything. She had also been an actress in her time, and, having had her ups and downs, was glad to see her daughter well and comfortably settled in life. But Margaret was a prize which any man might have been proud to win. The ceremony was a quiet and sober one, but there was plenty of feasting afterwards. In the hotel there were well-spread tables during the whole day, free to all comers. There was a private breakfast, at which Margaret's mother shed tears, and William Smith and Mr. Hart made fine speeches. Philip, in his speech, broke down most ignominiously; he could not utter six words in smooth order. But his face was eloquent, if his tongue was not. The bride was radiant. A handsomer pair never was seen. They drove away amid the cheering of a thousand gold-diggers.

In the evening they sat together on the banks of a beautiful river, rather low in its bed at the time because of the heat. On the distant hills cattle were browsing and smelling for water. The only sound that reached their ears was the sound of the woodman's axe. That came through the air sharp and clear, although the woodman was a long way off. The lovers, now man and wife, talked in low tones of their future, and laid their plans. All was smooth before them. No rough roads, no sickness, no misfortunes. Sunshine was in their hearts, and there was no shadow in the bright clouds that floated above them.

"All your acting days are over now," said Philip. "Well," replied Margaret, "I must act at home."

"All right," responded Philip; "one stipulation, though. No more than two characters in any of our pieces."

She laughed at this.

"Philip, I hope you love mother!"

"I do love her; she is a dear little woman."

"Do you know that when she was young she was the most beautiful creature that ever was seen?"

"How could she have had such a lovely daughter if she had not been lovely herself?"

"Nonsense, Philip; but she was. She has the remains of it now. Have you noticed her teeth? They are like pearls. And her hands? Much smaller than mine. She must have been a beautiful actress, too; she has had verses written about her in the papers. She acted in the Plymouth and Exeter theatres and was a wonderful favourite. She had dozens and dozens of offers, and what do you think one of her lovers was, Philip? Well, but you would never guess. He was a Jew, and I really think mother was fond of him a little, little bit, from the way she talks about him. He must have been a god man, but of course mother couldn't marry a Jew. Wasn't it a mercy she didn't, Philip, for then what would have become of me-and you? I want you to love her very, very much; more than you do me, Philip."

"I can't do that, my darling; but I do love her, and will, both for her own sake and yours, my dearest, dearest! And so we are man and wife, darling! can scarcely believe in my happiness. You'll not melt away out of my arms, will you, Margaret?"

"Not if you're very good to me, Philip," she replied, with a tender nestling motion. "Look at that beautiful cloud, dear."

"It's coming over us, and it is shaped like an angel. I want to hear you say you love me, Margaret."

"Philip!"

CHAPTER XX
THEY FLEW LIKE MADMEN INTO THE TOWN

Mr. Hart took some interest in home politics-that is to say, in the politics of the old country; Philip took none, not from lack of sympathy, but because he had no room. Every nook and corner of his mind was filled by one idea, which presented itself in a hundred different shapes; that idea was Margaret.

The Overland Mail came into Silver Creek once a month, pretty regularly, with letters and papers from home; and if you had seen the post-office on the day the four-horse coach brought the mails, you never would have forgotten the sight. Crowds stood around the doors and windows of the wooden building, for up to the present time every building in Silver Creek township was either drill, calico, or wood. There was some talk of a stone building, and when this was once up, you may be sure that others would soon follow. Well, around the wooden post-office, hundreds and hundreds of men and women were assembled when the Overland Mail arrived, waiting for the windows to open so that they might receive their letters. If the mail came in somewhat later than usual, the clerks at the post-office would be kept at work until late in the night sorting the letters and the newspapers, to allay the anxiety of the people. News from home! Ah, you who have not been a wanderer, and parted from friends and relations and all whom you love, do not know what those words mean! For many hours after the arrival of the Overland Mail, Silver Creek was filled with tender memories. The faces of those who received letters from home through the little window lit up with joy; they laughed at the well-known handwriting and their eyes filled with tears. Ah! this is from mother. Dear old mother! What a queer hand she writes! And this from the old boy! And this from Jim! And this from Arthur! And these from Mary, and Fanny, and Nelly, and Kate, and Maggie, and I don't know whom all besides! God bless them every one! There was electricity in the very envelopes, which went from the tips of the fingers, when the paper was touched, into the palm of the hand-where hers, and hers, and hers, lay once upon a time-up the arm, straight into the heart, and illumined faces there. Very plainly illumined them, I can tell you. Old faces, young faces, wrinkles and cheeks of peach, eyes dim and bright, parched lips and lips sweetly fresh, horny fingers and soft, white hair and brown-all were plain and visible, looking, smiling, speaking to those who held their letters in their hands. They did not take their letters home to read; they opened them there and then, and stood about reading; and their eyes sparkled, and they grew sad, and tender, and joyous, and pensive, as the news moved them. Those who received no letters walked slowly and mournfully away.

Always for two or three days previous to the arrival of the mail Mr. Hart became restless and anxious and impatient. Perhaps it would come in a day or two earlier, and he was always hoping that it would. The coach stopped at the hotel, and Mr. Hart would run to the door, and cry out to Levy the driver, "Brought the mail, Lee?"

He was in that state now, some six weeks after the marriage of Philip and Margaret. The mail really was due, and the coach had come in without it. When Levy, who had driven all the way this time, left town for Silver Creek, the mail-ship was not signalled at the Heads. It was a great disappointment to Mr. Hart.

Everything was going on well. Since Philip had bought the hotel, the business had increased, as it would have done under William Smith's management. Silver Creek was growing more prosperous every day, and these things were natural. Philip was a favourite; so was Mr. Hart. As for Margaret, the gold-diggers would flock to the hotel, and hang about, and talk, and drink, only on a chance of catching a sight of her; and Margaret knew this, and did not disappoint them. "There she is!" they would say. The sight of her did them good. And when she walked out, admiring eyes followed her at every step. No lady in the world was more genuinely respected and more highly thought of.

I was almost forgetting to state a little incident. Upon Philip's return from his honeymoon, he said to Mr. Hart, when they two were alone together:

"I want you to take care of this packet for me, and to promise me one thing."

He handed Mr. Hart a sealed envelope, on which no name or address was written. There was an enclosure in it, somewhat bulky.

"What is the promise, Philip?" asked Mr. Hart, taking the envelope.

"That you will not, under any consideration, give it to me until we meet in the old country. I don't want to be tempted."

These singular questions caused Mr. Hart to ask questions, but Philip would not answer them.

"I want you to accept this trust unconditionally," he said; and as he was evidently very anxious in the matter Mr. Hart gratified him, and placed the envelope in a safe corner of his pocket-book.

Philip had commenced business on a straight plan, of which Mr. Hart fully approved. He took no credit, and when he sent an order to town he sent the money with it. Being desirous to make money fast, he cast his eyes further afield than selling grog and beer retail to the diggers. Why should they not become wine and spirit merchants! He consulted Mr. Hart; the old man was satisfied to leave everything to Philip, who went to work with the spirit of William Smith. In a very short time a great wooden shell was built, and large orders were sent to town for wines and spirits. On the day the mail was expected, a long string of bullock-drays wound its way slowly along High Street, Silver Creek, and stopped at the great wooden shell, which was the new wholesale wine and spirit store, belonging to Philip and Mr. Hart. The bullock-drays contained the stock, the invoices of which had totted up to no less than eight thousand pounds. Philip had been sending money through the post every day in payment of this fine stock of goods; about one thousand pounds remained to be paid, and on the day following the arrival of the bullock-drays, a draft for this amount was sent to the merchants. Every shilling in the place had to be scraped together to make up the sum.

"Now we're all right," said Philip cheerfully; "we don't owe a shilling in the world, and we have at least eleven thousand pounds worth of stock in hand. The hotel, theatre, and goodwill are worth another ten. We'll open the new store to-morrow. Maggie, my dear! in twelve months we'll be on our way to Devonshire."

That evening the mail from home arrived at Silver Creek. Mr. Hart was soon at the post-office. There was a letter for him from his darling child, a letter which made his eyes run over. William Smith had sent in during the day from the Margaret Reef, asking Mr. Hart to inquire if there were any letters for him at the post-office. There was one from William Smith's mother, and Mr. Hart started off to the Margaret Reef to deliver it to his old friend. He called in at the hotel to ask if there was any message for William Smith.

"Tell him," said Philip blithely, "that I think we've got the best of the bargain."

"At all events," said Mr. Hart, "I shall tell him that you are quite satisfied with it. Any message, Margaret?"

"Give him my love," replied Margaret, "and say we're all coming to dine with him next Sunday, and that he's to get something nice for dinner."

Mr. Hart nodded and walked away. He was in a tender and serious mood. The letter from his daughter had somewhat disturbed him. Its tone was as affectionate as usual; but hidden in its words, like the scent of a flower in its leaves, was a confession of unhappiness. It was not expressed in so many words. The writer told him this and that, as she was in the habit of doing, and a stranger reading it would have said, "It is a happy girl who wrote this letter." But Mr. Hart read with the heart of a father, and he saw what would not have been visible to others. He seemed to hear his daughter whisper to him to come home and counsel and advise her-to come and love and protect her. It made him terribly uneasy.

"When the six months are up," he thought, "I will not wait another day. Father and daughter should be together; she is just of the age when a girl most needs a father's love and care. Thank God, there is not long to wait; in a little more than four months I shall turn my back on Silver Creek."

And yet the thought brought a certain regret with it. Silver Creek had been a good place for him, and he had cause to bless the day he entered it, with his company of actors and actresses and his weak-kneed horse. He paused at the foot of the Margaret Range, and thought of the first day he had seen it, and how he had debated whether he should ascend it or not.

"The happiness of our lives hangs upon chance," he said. "If I had not ascended this hill I should not have made the acquaintance of Philip in the way I did. We should not have been together now, and I should not have had the means of joining my child and making her life happy. Four thousand pounds! Aha! Gerald! Fly away, time!"

He called it out to the hills, as a light-hearted boy might have done.

He found William Smith in all his glory. The hill was alive with men. Philip's claim was in full work; a steam-engine was at the top of it, puffing and blowing day and night, pumping up the water. The William Smith quartz-crushing machine was thumping away merrily. New veins of golden quartz had been discovered, and were being worked. Some of the workmen's slab huts were already erected, and the plots for kitchen-gardens laid out. Two or three score of goats were scampering about; in the fowl-houses roosted five hundred head of poultry; women were hanging clothes on the lines to dry; children were running after one another and playing. William Smith was supremely happy and satisfied with himself. He stood there, dusty and brown, with his sleeves tucked up, a king. He conducted Mr. Hart over the ground, and showed him what he had done, and told him what he intended to do. Everything was planned and arranged in an admirable way. William Smith, in this carrying out of his ambition, was an enthusiast, but he was no dreamer. He was a practical man to the edges of his nails.

"I will ride back with you," he said to Mr. Hart, "and sleep at the Silver Flagon to-night, if you will stop with me till ten o'clock."

Mr. Hart consented, and went among the workmen, and talked with them while William Smith read his mother's letter. They had supper together, and a pipe afterwards, and sat outside William Smith's wooden house, which had a fine broad verandah all round it.

"See this place in twelve months," said William Smith, "and you'll not know it."

"I shall be away then," said Mr. Hart, "and shall be hearing one day that you are at the head of the Government."

It was not by any means a wild supposition. William Smith would not have been the first working man who was gazetted prime minister in the colonies.

Night came on. The day-men were at home enjoying their ease; music was heard in various tents. Their was no moon. At a little before ten o'clock it was dark. No part of Silver Creek township could be seen from the Margaret Range. Exactly at ten o'clock Mr. Hart and William Smith were in the saddle.

They rode slowly. Over one range, over another, along a valley, up another range.

"We shall see the township soon," said William Smith. "What are you stopping for?"

Mr. Hart had reined up suddenly.

"I don't know," replied Mr. Hart; "something in the air. Look yonder; what is that light in the sky?"

A pale red light was coming in the clouds.

"The moon rising," said William Smith.

"There is no moon to-night."

"Ah! no; I forgot."

They rode up the range; it was steep and stony, and their horses stepped carefully; the light in the sky became stronger-more lurid; up they toiled; they were nearly at the top. They spoke not a word to each other, but their anxious eyes were fixed upon the sky. Deeper and deeper grew the colour, wider and wider it spread; and a sound like a muffled roar came to their ears.

"Now then," cried William Smith to his horse, and gently touching it with his whip. "Up with you, my lad!"

The horses leaped onwards, and when they reached the top of the ridge, stopped suddenly, in obedience to the action of their riders.

"Great God!" cried Mr. Hart; "the township is on fire!"

They saw now the meaning of the lurid sky. A vast sheet of flame was before them extending this way and that, licking up everything before it. They could hear the dull roar of the fire and the cries of the people, who were rushing wildly about. They paused but for one instant. The next they were galloping madly towards the township; their horses needed no urging, they flew like the wind.

"Are you insured?" shouted William Smith.

"Not for a penny," answered Mr. Hart, with a spasm in his throat.

"The stores will burn like tinder," muttered William Smith between his clenched teeth.

They flew like madmen into the town.