At the Sign of the Silver Flagon

A hundred times Margaret was on the point of giving way, but Mr. Hart whispered to her:

"Be strong, my dear child, be strong! Your voice is to him as the dew to a flower."

"As the dew to a flower!" she murmured. "My flower! The only one! God pity him! God pity me! He was my life, and he is going."

"To another world, dear child," he said to her, in a beautiful soft voice, "where we shall join him in God's good time."

And as though he had a thing to do which was necessary for Philip's comfort, the old man went swiftly out of the tent, and groaned and wept there, where Margaret could not see him. Then raised his eyes from the earth, and mutely prayed that peace might come to Margaret's troubled soul.

She, moistening Philip's lips with pure spring water, never moved from her husband's side, and prayed that she might die with him. "If God is merciful," she thought, "He will take me also."

William Smith came to the tent, but when Margaret saw him she shivered, and held her hands before her eyes to shut him from her sight. The man needed no other sign; straight from the tent he walked and sat outside, talking to Mr. Hart. He was not angry with her; his heart was very tender to her and Philip.

"It is natural that she should not wish to see me," he said to Mr. Hart; "it was in the house that once was mine that Philip met his death. If I had not wanted Philip's claim, they might have lived together happily."

After this touch of sentiment he became practical. "Have you any money?"

"A few shillings."

William Smith put a hundred pounds into Mr. Hart's hands.

"Let him want nothing," he said.

"He will want nothing presently," sighed Mr. Hart, beneath his breath.

You who know what beautiful tenderness lies in human nature can imagine in what ways it was shown to Margaret and Philip. Women came with sweet offerings during all the day. Had fifty men been dying instead of one, there would have been supplies for them all. Milk, honey, flowers, jellies, broths, were sent from all quarters; they were laid aside, for there was no use for them, but they were good tokens to give and to receive.

In the night, about eleven o'clock, Mr. Hart observed Margaret's head move closer to Philip's lips; he knelt on the ground on the other side of Philip's bed, and heard the dying man whisper:

"Margaret, my beloved-my darling-Margaret, my heart! Margaret, I love you-love you-love you!"

For an hour these were the only words he murmured, at intervals, in many different ways.

"Do you know me, dearest?" she asked: "do you hear me? It is Margaret who is speaking. Your Margaret."

"My Margaret!" he whispered. "My soul! My beloved!"

His voice was like the murmurs of the softest breeze. Margaret, with open lips, received his dying words in her mouth. With what pangs of love and anguish did she receive them!

Mr. Hart, during an interval of silence, motioned to Margaret. Might he speak to Philip? Margaret's hand crept across the bed to the old man's. Lover and friend were joined above Philip's breast.

"Philip, my dear boy," said Mr. Hart, "do you know my voice?"

"Dear old fellow!" came presently from Philip. "Noble old fellow! I saw you. God bless Margaret and you! Dear friend, were you hurt much?"

"Not at all, my dear lad."

"It delights me to hear that. God is very good!"

All their strength was required for composure; they checked their sobs, so that the sound of them might not disturb him; he could not see the tears that ran down their faces.

Later in the night, as death approached nearer and nearer, Philip's voice grew stronger, and the broken words he sighed denoted that he knew they were by his side, and that he was dying. In a few sobbing words uttered at long intervals, he thanked Mr. Hart for attempting to save him.

"Take care of Margaret," he whispered; "be a father to her." The utterance of the word brought other memories. "Dear old dad! I hoped to see you, and show you my darling. But John Hart will bring her to you. Dear old dad! love Margaret!"

Then his thoughts wandered, and he murmured expressions of affection towards the Silver Flagon-the dear old Silver Flagon-and always in connection with Margaret. All his thoughts clustered about the one supreme image that dwelt in his mind, the image of Margaret.

Mr. Hart whispered to Margaret to ask him the address of his father in the old country, for strange to say he had never told them; but all that they could get from him now were fitful words, in which his darling Margaret, the Silver Flagon, his dear old dad, and his faithful friend, were mentioned without connection.

An hour later, his whispered words denoted that his memory was wandering to the happy hours he had spent behind the scenes with Margaret; then he was riding for flowers for Margaret.

"O, if it's for that!" he murmured, repeating the words of the woman who had sold him the flowers; and then, "An echo stole it, and I heard it singing Margaret as I rode on. I listened to her heart, and she said it beat for me. She loves me! she loves me!"

He murmured these last words, as though in happier days he had been in the habit of whispering them as a charm. Then his memory travelled on to the evening of his wedding-day, when he and his darling were sitting by the banks of the river, talking of the future. "We saw a cloud above us," he whispered, "and it was shaped like an angel. I see it now-I see it now! Shelter Margaret! Daddy! Margaret!" Presently his feeble fingers seemed to be seeking for something, and Mr. Hart, divining that he was seeking for the flowers he had bought for Margaret, placed near to his face a bunch that had been brought to the tent as a love-offering. A sigh escaped from the poor burnt bosom, and after that Philip did not speak again.

So the night crept on, and silence reigned within and without the tent. They could scarcely hear Philip's breathing; and when the morning's light was trembling below the horizon, and the quivering in the skies denoted that day was awaking, he lay an inanimate mass before them. They did not know it for a long time. William Hart was the first to discover it. With a solemn look, he drew up the white sheet, and softly, tenderly covered the face of his friend. With white lips and bursting pupils, Margaret watched the action, and when the form of what once was Philip was only indicated by the outlines of the white sheet which covered him, her strength gave way, and with a groan of anguish she sank upon the ground. Then it was that Mr. Hart felt the need of woman's help. He went out of the tent to obtain it, and found William Smith sitting on the ground a few yards away. He had sat there throughout the whole of that sad night.

"It is all over," said Mr. Hart, with sighs and sobs.

"Poor Philip! Poor dear lad!" said William Smith, and made no effort to keep back the tears.

They went together to the camp, and brought back a woman with them, who raised Margaret from the ground, and otherwise attended to her. Her state was truly pitiable; and the worst aspect of it was that her grief seemed to have dried up the fountain of her tears.

"If she would only cry!" thought Mr. Hart, as she gazed at him with her despairing, tearless eyes.

He was her sole comfort. She turned from all others with shuddering aversion, and had she been able, she would have refused, and not with gentleness, their kind offices. Truth was, she hated the place in which her love had died, and hated the people who lived in it. It was unreasonable in her, but it was so.

She asked for her mother, and they were compelled to tell her the sad truth. She grasped Mr. Hart's hand convulsively.

"You are my only friend now," she said; "you tried to save my Philip. You were always good to him-ah, yes! he told me all, and was never tired of speaking of you. Do not you desert me, or I shall go mad!"

"I will take care of you, child. I promised Philip."

She kissed his hand with her dry lips.

On the day of Philip's funeral, all the stores in Silver Creek closed their doors, and the storekeepers and the diggers and their wives, to the number or three thousand and more, followed to the grave the body of a man whom all had loved and respected.

In the evening, Mr. Hart sat, sad and alone, outside his tent, and for the first time since the death of his friend, thought of himself. Again he was a beggar, and the image of his daughter seemed to recede in the clouds as he gazed at them mournfully, and a plaintive whisper of Farewell seemed to come to him from over the hills. "I shall never have the heart to commence again," he said to himself, "never, never! My life is over; my hopes, my dreams, have come to an end."

"What are you thinking of?" asked a kind voice.

It was William Smith who spoke. To this man Mr. Hart told his grief.

"Didn't I tell you to come to me if you wanted anything?" cried William Smith in reproachful tones. "And here you are, throwing me over, and saying you haven't a friend in the world! You want to go home and see your little girl-well, it's natural, and I wish I could accompany you and see my old mother. But you shall go and see her instead, and you shall tell her that you came straight from her Billy, and you shall paint before her old eyes a picture of the Margaret Reef and the William Smith quartz-crushing machine, bang-banging away, pounding out the gold for W. S. Here are ten twenty-pound notes; get gold for them, and start for the port to-morrow. O, don't fret! I never give away nothing for nothing. I want a picture of my old mother's face, just as you see it, a day or two after you land in the old country. You're a painter, and can paint it, and here's payment in advance. There aren't many men in the world that William Smith would trust, but you're one of them. No wonder Philip loved you. I love you! As I hope to be saved, I love you! And-there! – I don't intend to say another word. Good-bye, dear old fellow, and God Almighty bless you!"

And William Smith pressed the old man in his arms, and ran down the hill in a stumbling fashion, for he was almost blinded by his tears; while Mr. Hart, like one in a dream, gazed after his retreating figure until it was lost to his sight. Another besides himself watched this man running away:

Margaret, who had heard every word that had passed.

"You're going home," she said, with her hand pressed to her bosom.

"Yes, ah! yes," he replied. "I have waited too many times. Home, dear home!"

"And me?" she asked, in a low supplicating tone. "What is to become of me?"

"You, Margaret You, my dear child! You go with me, of course! What did I promise Philip? I will be a father to you until I place you in his father's arms. Ah, Margaret, let us kneel down and thank God for all His goodness! for He is good, dear child, in the midst of our greatest afflictions. Ah, that's good-that's good!" For her tears were flowing now for the first time since Philip's death, and she lay in his arms, sobbing.

The next day they bade good-bye to Silver Creek; and shortly afterwards they were on board the Good Harvest, and the white sails of the ship were spread for England.

END OF THE FIRST PART

Part the Second

HOME

CHAPTER I

THE CURTAIN FALLS FOR A BRIEF SPACE

For a brief space, let the curtain fall.

The Good Harvest made a fine passage home. It was one of those famous clipper ships, at once the glory and the pride of commerce, which occasionally made a run of four hundred knots in the twenty-four hours. On those occasions after the heaving of the log, the skipper rubs his hands joyously, and walks the deck in a state of beaming satisfaction. Then is the time to ask a favour of him.

For a little while after Mr. Hart stepped on board this good ship his spirits were weighed down by melancholy. The tragic death of Philip had affected him powerfully. During their brief acquaintance he had grown to love the young man most deeply and sincerely, and he felt like a father who had lost a darling son. I have already said that Mr. Hart, although he was over sixty years of age, was a young-looking man. He had lines and furrows in his face, but they did not bring a careworn or despondent expression there, as is generally the case. His gait, his voice, his manner, the brightness of his eyes, were those which naturally belong to three decades of years instead of six. What more pleasant sight is there in human nature than to see old age thus borne? For the first few days, however, after the sailing of the Good Harvest, Mr. Hart looked his years.

But to stand upon the deck, holding on by spar or rope, while the noble ship rushed bravely onwards through the grand sea, now riding on the white crests of great water ranges, now gliding through the wondrous valleys on the wings of the wind, was enough to make an old man young again. It made Mr. Hart young. The salt spray and the fresh exhilarating breezes drove youth into his pores, and his heart danced within him as day after day passed, and he was drawn nearer and nearer to the shores of old England. They brought back to him also his natural hopefulness and cheerfulness of heart. The great secret of this change for the better lay in himself. He had faith; he believed in the goodness of God and in a hereafter. He did not love Philip less because he grieved for him less. "I shall see Philip again," he thought; and his heart glowed as he looked at the sea and the heavens, and saw around him the wondrous evidences of a beneficent Creator.

Every soul on board the Good Harvest-with the exception of two or three passengers who had made their fortunes in the gold country, and whose natures had been soured in the process-had a smile and a good word for the cheerful and genial old man, who seemed to be always on the look-out to do his neighbours a kindness; he was an exemplification of Macaulay's saying, with reference to a voyage in a passenger ship, "It is every day in the power of an amiable person to confer little services." He was unremitting in his attention to Margaret, whom, however, he could not win to cheerfulness. It was well for her, during this darkened period of her life, that she had by her side such a faithful friend as Mr. Hart; for as the constant dropping of water makes an impression even on a stone, so the unwearied care and constant sympathy of this good friend had a beneficial effect upon Margaret's spirits. At present the effect was shown only in a negative way; while Mr. Hart's efforts failed to brighten her outwardly during the voyage, they prevented her from sinking into the depths of despair. At first she was loth to speak of Philip, and when Mr. Hart mentioned his name, she looked at him reproachfully; but, knowing that it would be best for her, he wooed her gently to speak of her lost love. These efforts were made always at seasonable times: in the evening when all was quiet around them, and they two were sitting alone, looking over the bulwarks at the beautiful water; when the evening star came out; later on in the night, when the heavens were filled with stars; when the moon rose; when the clouds were more than usually lovely. The memory of Philip became, as it were, harmonised with these peaceful influences, and his name, gently uttered, brought no disquiet to her soul. She grew to associate Philip with all that was most beautiful and peaceful in nature; and although she would occasionally in the dead of night awake from her sleep in terror with the sight and sound of furious flames in her mind, and with Philip's form struggling in their midst, these disturbing fancies became less frequent as time wore on. One night she awoke, smiling, for she had dreamt of Philip in association with more soothing influences; she and he had been walking together on a still night, with bright stars about them.

She began to be aware of the selfishness of her grief, and to reproach herself for her ingratitude to Mr. Hart. She expressed her penitence to him.

"Well," he said, kindly and seriously, "that is good in one way. It shows that you are becoming a little more cheerful."

She shook her head.

"I shall never again be cheerful; happiness is gone out of my life for ever."

"Philip does not like to hear you say so, Margaret."

Mr. Hart purposely used the present tense. Margaret pondered over the words. "Philip does not like!" That would imply that Philip heard her.

"He does hear you, my dear," said Mr. Hart. "If I believed that you would never see Philip again I should bid you despair; but you and Philip will meet in a better world than this, and that is why I want you to be cheerful, as he would ask you to be, if you could hear his voice."

In this way Mr. Hart aroused to consciousness the religious principle within her, and it may with truth be said that, although Margaret had lived a pure and sinless life, she had never been a better woman than she was now, notwithstanding the deep sorrow which had fallen upon her.

When the Good Harvest had been seventy days out, the skipper said to Mr. Hart that he smelt England. "If all goes well," he said, "we shall be in Victoria Dock in seven days from this."

Mr. Hart immediately went below into his cabin. He mapped out his programme of proceedings. His first task-one of duty-was to see William Smith's old mother. She lived in London, and if he got ashore before midday, he would be able to put Margaret in lodgings, and see the old woman the same day. Then he would draw before her eyes the sketch of the picture which William Smith had paid him to paint, of the Margaret Reef and the William Smith quartz-crushing machine "banging away," and he would delight the old woman's heart by telling her of the grand doings of her son. Mr. Hart calculated that he could accomplish this by the evening, when he would take his sketch away with him and paint the picture from it in the course of the next three or four weeks. His second task was one of love; he would go to see his daughter. Curiously enough, she was in Devonshire, whither he should have to direct his steps in Margaret's interests. Philip's father lived in "dear old Devon," to use Philip's own words; but that and the allusions to the Silver Flagon which had been adopted as the sign of their hotel in Silver Creek, were the only clues which Mr. Hart possessed towards finding old Mr. Rowe. Faint as these clues were (and he had discovered that Margaret could not supply him with any more definite), it was clearly his duty to do his best with them. Margaret, of course, would accompany him to Devonshire, and become acquainted with his daughter Lucy, whose name is now for the first time mentioned. Seated in his cabin, Mr. Hart took out his pocket-book, and wrote in it the order of his proceedings. This being done, he looked over the contents of the book, and came across a blank envelope with a bulky enclosure in it. At first he did not remember how this envelope came into his possession, but he was only in doubt for a moment or two. It was the packet which Philip had given into his charge on his return from his honeymoon. Mr. Hart recalled the conversation that had taken place between them on the occasion, and the promise Philip had exacted from him that he would not give up the envelope until they met in the old country. He sighed as he thought that that meeting could never take place, and he went into the saloon where Margaret was sitting. He asked her if Philip had spoken to her about this trust; she answered, "No," and that she was in complete ignorance of it.

"Now that poor Philip's wish cannot be fulfilled," said Mr. Hart, "you had better take possession of the packet."

He held it out to her; she refused to accept it.

"It was given into your charge," she said, "by my poor lost darling. Every word he spoke is sacred to me." Her tears began to flow.

"At all events," said Mr. Hart, "we will see what is inside."

He opened the envelope, and found that it enclosed another, well sealed, on the cover of which was written:

"The Property of Gerald, and to be opened only by him."

This complicated matters.

"Gerald," thought Mr. Hart; "my name!" and said aloud, "Do you know who Gerald is?"

"My poor darling," replied Margaret, "has spoken to me of a friend he had named Gerald."

"Then this must be he." Mr. Hart replaced the envelope in his pocket-book. "We may have the good fortune to find him. Gerald may have been a college friend."

So that now there was another task, with the slightest of clues, to be fulfilled.

Mr. Hart had noticed, with great inward satisfaction, that during the past two or three weeks Margaret was looking brighter; she had not, it is true, recovered her old animation of speech and manner, but comfort and consolation had come to her in some way. More than once she had seemed to be on the point of confiding something to this dear friend, who was now all in the world she had to cling to, but the words she wished to speak would not come to her tongue. On this night, however, as they stood upon the deck, talking of Philip, of home, of the future, in subdued tones, Mr. Hart learned Margaret's secret. She hoped to become a mother.

"Heaven pray that it may be so," thought Mr. Hart; "it will be a joy and a solace to her bruised heart."

Another day went by, and another. The Good Harvest sailed smartly on to England's shores. The sailors sang blithely at their work; the skipper paced the deck in a joyous frame of mind, thinking of his wife and children at home; and almost at the very hour named by him, the long voyage was at an end, and London smoke was curling over the masts.

CHAPTER II

"THE WORLD IS FULL OF SWEET AND BEAUTIFUL PLACES."

On a day in June, when the roses were blooming, there sauntered through one of the sweetest of all the sweet country lanes in England an elderly man, whose hair was white, and whose dress and bearing denoted that he was a gentleman. The lane was a long one, with many windings, and the few persons whom the gentleman met touched their hats and bowed to him as they passed, with varying degrees of deference, according to their station; he, on his part, receiving all these greetings with uniform courtesy, and with the accustomed air of one to whom homage of this kind was familiar. Walking toward him, at a distance of three or four hundred yards, at the moment his figure first appears upon the scene, was a man of about the same age, whose inquiring looks this way and that proclaimed either that the locality was strange to him, or that he was renewing acquaintance with it after a lapse of years. His dress was composed of much commoner materials than was that of the gentleman he was approaching, and there were a careless freedom and an assertion of independence in his manner which only those exhibit who have travelled about the world.

In the minds of these two men, one holding a high, the other a humble, station in life, there was no thought of each other; but the threads of their lives, which had been so wide apart, and for so long a time as to make it appear almost an impossibility that they should ever again be connected, were approaching closer and closer with each passing moment, and would soon be joined, never more to be unlinked. They knew not of it, thought not of it; but it was most sure. What is it that shapes our lives-chance, or a wise ordination? Say that, invited by a faint smell of lilac or by the fluttering of a butterfly's wings with a rare colour in them which we would behold again, we turn aside but for one moment from our contemplated course-can it be possible that we are such slaves of circumstance that this simple deviation (if it may be so called) may change the current of our lives from good to ill, from bad fortune to prosperity? How often does a breath of air change a comedy into a tragedy! Blindly we walk along, and presently may be struggling in the dark with grim terrors, or may be walking among flowers, surrounded by everything that can make life sweet.

In a very narrow part of the country lane, where the hedgerows were most fragrant, was a stile, upon the top bar of which the stranger rested his foot, and turning, gazed with pleased and grateful eyes over the fair vista of field and wood which the hedgerows shut out from the view of those who walked on the level path. Although he was between sixty and seventy years of age, his eyes were bright, and his face was the face of one who was prone to look upon the best side of things.