At the Sign of the Silver Flagon

"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.

CHAPTER XXI

DRIVEN BY LOVE INTO THE JAWS OF DEATH

By the time Mr. Hart and William Smith reached the township, there was a straight sheet of fire, more than a mile in length. At least three hundred stores were in flames. Silver Creek could boast of a volunteer fire brigade, and the brave fellows worked at their two small fire-engines with the perspiration pouring down their faces in streams, but they might as well have pumped water into the creek for all the good they did. However, they worked away, approaching as close as they dare to the immense body of flame; those who were closest to the burning stores directed their hose towards the blazing rafters, whilst their comrades pumped upon them to prevent their catching fire. The shouting, the screaming, the confusion were terrible; loud cries ran along and about the crowd with the rapidity of the flame itself, and every few moments another store on each side of those already on fire caught light. Strange to say, no attempt was made to stop the fire by pulling down the buildings on either side, and so create a gap across which the flames could not leap. The only thought that people had was to save their goods; but even as it was, very little was preserved from destruction.

When Mr. Hart and his companion plunged into the crowd, their first thought, of course, was of the hotel and theatre.

"Ah," said one and another, "here's Mr. Hart! Here's William Smith!"

They made way for these two men, who ran rapidly along, and found that the hotel had just caught fire.

"Where's Margaret? Where's Philip?" cried Mr. Hart, with anxious glances around.

At that moment he cared not one pin for the destruction of his property; he saw the flames beggaring him, but he paid no heed to them. Time to think of that afterwards. All that he cared for now was the safety of Margaret and Philip.

"Where's Margaret? Where's Philip?" he cried.

Some man among the crowd answered, that Margaret had last been seen going into the hotel before the fire had reached it, and that she had not come out.

"Good God!" groaned Mr. Hart, and would have plunged into the flames but that they held him back.

At that moment Philip, who had been working half a mile away, saving life and property with the strength of a young Hercules, was running towards the hotel. Amidst the excitement of rushing into the blazing stores, and pulling sleeping children and weak women out of the jaws of death, he had not thought of his own property, and did not know that it was on fire. Indeed, no man would have conceived it possible that the flames could have reached the hotel in so short a time. Now, Philip said to himself, he must get to his own place, and see what was best to be done. He was a little bit concerned about Margaret. "I must get her away from this," he thought. "When I see her in a place of safety, I can come back and do my work." But as he ran towards his hotel, the rumour ran from it that it was burning.

"The Silver Flagon's caught!" shouted the gold-diggers, one to another, and the news was carried along past Philip, who received it as he ran.

"Ah!" he muttered, with a great sigh, "there's an end to that. We are ruined men. Poor Mr. Hart, poor Mr. Hart! And I persuaded him to stop."

The thought that he himself was ruined scarcely disturbed him. Ruined How could he be ruined, when he had Margaret? His heart was almost light as he thought of his darling woman, but in the same moment his hair seemed to rise from his head with horror as he heard some one say:

"The Silver Flagon's down, and Mrs. Rowe's inside!"

"What what!" he muttered, dazed for a moment, and then he screamed:

"O my God!"

And, with a cry so terrible as to startle all who heard it, he plunged madly towards the spot where he had last seen his beloved.

He reached it, hot, black, panting, with his hair streaming to his shoulders, and his blue eyes gleaming wildly.

"Keep him back! Keep him back!" they shouted and laid hands on him.

But he dashed them aside as though they had been so many feathers, and, with knitted brows and lips tightly closed, and breast that heaved as though it would burst, he ran with swift desperation into the flames. A spasm of horror rose to the throat of every looker-on, and kept him silent for a moment. During that brief moment, which seemed an hour, their eyes were strained in the direction of Philip's flying form. They could see him beating the flames away with one hand, while his other arm was raised to save his eyes from the fire. Only for a moment was their attention thus occupied; the sound of a familiar voice fell upon their ears; they turned, and to their amazement, saw Margaret moving among them. Her hair was hanging loose, and she was seeking for Philip's face among the throng of bearded men. She knew all the faces that were about her, but she did not recognise one of them until she saw Mr. Hart's. To him she ran, and asked if he knew where Philip was. The men still had their hands upon Mr. Hart, and the look of horror in his face answered her. Following the direction of his eyes, which were fixed upon the burning hotel, she in her turn saw the outline of her Philip's form struggling through the flames. All this was the work of two moments.

"Philip Philip!" she screamed, and ran towards him.

It was useless now to attempt to hold Mr. Hart; he broke from the prison of their arms as easily as Philip had done, and wound his around Margaret.

"O merciful God!" she screamed, tearing at the air. "Philip! Philip! I am here! Margaret is here!"

All on fire as he was, her voice reached him; he made an effort to escape, and by love's instinct in the direction where Margaret was. But he fell among some falling rafters, and seemed to be of them; and as he fell, a gasp of mingled anguish and joy escaped his bursting heart; it sounded like "Margaret!" Then Mr. Hart, with swift and furious action, resigned Margaret to the arms of the miners, and flew into the flames towards his friend. All the strength and dexterity of his youth came back to him; he had marked the exact spot where Philip had fallen, and he darted to it with an eagle's keen sight, and rushed out of the flames, dragging Philip's insensible form after him. They were both on fire; but fifty blankets were flung over them with lightning rapidity, and a hundred pitying arms were stretched forth to bear them tenderly to a place of safety.

CHAPTER XXII

"DEAR OLD FELLOW! GOD BLESS MARGARET AND YOU!"

THE sun rose next morning upon a sad sight. High Street, Silver Creek, was nothing but a long line of ruins. More than five hundred stores had been burnt to the ground. All over the gold-diggings work was suspended, and the diggers flocked in to see the sight. They did not stand idly by; they tacked up their sleeves, and every European and American there gave a day's work for nothing. William Smith sent orders to the Margaret Range; the William Smith quartz-crushing machine was stopped, and all the workmen came in to lend a helping hand. They did wonders under William Smith's directions; he was to many what sound wine is to enfeebled bodies. He strengthened, sympathised, encouraged, all in a breath, and set a fine example by working as zealously as the most zealous. It was not with him "Do as I say," but "Do as I do." The first duty of the workers was a solemn one: to find the ashes of those who had been burnt to death in the fire. Five persons were known to have perished-among them Margaret's mother. Strangely enough, no one had thought of her while the fire was raging; in the larger interest that centred around Margaret and Philip this poor little quiet woman had been forgotten. Very tenderly and gently were the remains of the dead gathered from the ruins; they were but blackened cinders, which crumbled almost at the touch; and awe and grief were on the faces of the rough men as they deposited the sad heaps on ground made sacred by its burden, and covered them over with blankets. This duty performed, their thoughts turned to other and more cheerful matters, and they bustled briskly about.

Before noon twenty canvas tents were up, at a little distance from the street-the ground there was as yet too hot to build upon-and twenty burnt-out storekeepers had recommenced business. So great were the bustle and animation, that the sufferers really had no time to be faint-hearted. Every man's example was an encouragement to his neighbour; emulation was excited, and all strove to outvie each other. But we must away from the scene-nearer ties claim our attention. In a week Silver Creek township will seem scarcely the worse for its terrible conflagration. Business will be carried on as usual and the building of new stores will be going on from one end of High Street to the other. None will be put up of canvas. Most of them will be built of wood, and a few of stone. Thus cities are made. Experience teaches.

In a large tent, on the Camp Ground where the Government buildings are erected, are three persons. Mr. Hart, with his left arm in a sling, is standing by the side of a low bed, gazing mournfully down. So rapidly was his noble task accomplished, when he rushed into the flames to save his friend, that he escaped with very little injury. He was scorched and burnt, but not seriously, his left arm being the part of him which had suffered the most. The physical part of him, I should say; for all that was mental in him was quivering with anguish.

At his feet, on the ground, sits Margaret.

Our Margaret? Yes; although you would not have believed, had you only your own eyes to trust for confirmation. Her flesh is so colourless that every drop of blood seems to have left her body; but your imagination will supply a better picture of this hapless broken-hearted young creature than my pen can draw. On the low bed by which she is sitting, with misery and despair in her heart and face, lies a blackened mass which once was Philip, which is Philip still for a few brief hours.

For he was not dead when Mr. Hart dragged him from the flaming walls; the life had not been quite burnt out of him; but he was dying fast now. "Before the sun rises," said the doctors, with sad meaning in their voices. It was most merciful that it should be so; for had he lived the full span of man's life he would never again have seen the light, nor could any person have looked upon his face without a shudder of pain.

They could do nothing for him except to shed upon him the light of their pitiful love; and blackened and burnt as he was, this sweet and divine compassion, in some strange way, reached his senses, and if his lips could be said to smile, they smiled in grateful acknowledgment. "Poor Philip! Poor soul! Dear, dearest love!" they murmured, and their words were not lost. They were to him as water, cold and sweet and clear, is to a parched mouth. Even in the darkness through which he was struggling blind, impotent, helpless, glimpses of delicious light broke upon his suffering soul.