At the Sign of the Silver Flagon

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

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

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

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

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

"When shall we commence to crush?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Now I must really go."

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

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

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

Philip looked blank at this.

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

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

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

CHAPTER XIII

"WHAT IF THERE ARE VILLAINS AND SCOUNDRELS IN THE WORLD?" HE CRIED, "WE WILL NEVER LOSE OUR FAITH IN GOD AND MAN-NEVER! NEVER! NEVER!"

Philip watched until Margaret was out of sight, and then walked slowly to Mr. Hart's room, and knocked at the door, but received no answer. He strolled into the bar of the hotel, but could not see Mr. Hart.

"He must be in his room," quoth Philip to himself. "There was a light there."

He knocked at the door again, and still receiving no answer, turned the handle, and found the door unfastened. He entered the room, and saw Mr. Hart sitting before his little table with his head buried in his hands.

"Ah! you're there," said Philip, closing the door behind him, and drawing a chair to the table. "I want to say something particular to you."

Mr. Hart, with a wave of his hand, motioned the young man to proceed.

Philip was flushed and excited, and somewhat nervous as to how his mission would be received; and being in this condition he did not observe any change in Mr. Hart's face or manner.

"This is how it is," he continued. "You made me an offer for a share in my claim once, and I refused it. Well, I was wrong in refusing, and I want to accept it now. Don't think there's any favour in it, or that the claim is any better or any worse than it was. The stone is looking splendid, and now that the rain is falling the dam will be filled, and we shall commence to crush directly it clears up. I want you to give me two hundred and fifty pounds for a quarter of my half-share. That is an eighth part of the claim, and it sets the claim at a good price-two thousand pounds; and I'll make you a bet of three hundred pounds, and stake the money, that in less than six weeks your share of the profits will amount to three times as much as I ask you for it. There, that is how it is. Now say 'Done!' like a good fellow, and place me under an obligation to you for life. I know you have the money."

He blurted out these words, not coherently and smoothly as they are written here, but in as bungling a manner as can well be imagined. He stammered, he hesitated, he repeated his words, but at length he had explained himself. Mr. Hart had listened quietly, the only motion he made being one which would hide his face more effectually from Philip. When Philip had finished his lame speech and was waiting for an answer, he noticed that Mr. Hart's trunk was open, and that all its contents were scattered about the floor; indeed the whole room was in a state of confusion. Mr. Hart spoke in a low tone.

"You offer me a fourth of your share for two hundred and fifty pounds."

"Yes, and I have the agreement in duplicate in my pocket, with my name to it. I had it drawn out to-day by a lawyer. It only wants your signature, and the thing is settled."

"And you will bet me three hundred pounds, staking the money, that in less than six weeks I shall receive back for my share of the profits three times as much as I give you for it."

"That's it."

"With whom will you stake the money?"

"With you."

"So that I shall really have in hand fifty pounds more than you ask for the share."

"That's it; but why so many words? Say, 'Done and done!'"

Philip was on thorns while the matter was unsettled.

"I must clearly understand," said Mr. Hart, in the same low tone, which, indeed, he preserved throughout this part of the conversation "before I can say anything to the offer. I want to be certain that you mean honestly by me. The world is full of thieves. There is plenty of roguery about."

"That's true," replied Philip complacently; "I'm a bit of a rogue myself."

"And," proceeded Mr. Hart, with a strange hesitation in his voice, "supposing the claim to be utterly worthless, at the end of six weeks I shall be sure to be fifty pounds in pocket?"

"You will be more than that in pocket. The claim's a good one; there's no telling how much gold is in it."

Mr. Hart paused, to steady himself. "I'm not much of an arithmetician; I was always a bad hand at figures; but I can see that I must be a gainer if I accept your offer."

"I hope you will be."

"Your claim is a rich one. All the diggers say so."

"We shall make a fortune out of it in three months," replied Philip, with a bright smile-"you, and all of us."

"On the first day I saw you-"

"When you pulled the centipede out of my hair," interrupted Philip. "A lucky day for me, that was. Good luck to you, old fellow! Yes: on the first day you saw me-go on."

"I offered you, if you remember, a hundred and twenty pounds for a small share in the claim."

"I remember."

"And you refused, saying you would want twenty times as much."

"I spoke like a fool; I didn't know you then." Again Mr. Hart paused.

"Philip," he said presently, in a tremulous tone, "why do you make me this offer?"

Philip hung his head upon his breast, and with a slight trembling of his lower lip, replied softly:

"Because I love you."

A sudden rush of tears came into Mr. Hart's eyes, and he laid his head upon his arm.

"For God's sake don't do that!" cried Philip, rising hurriedly, and looking about him in distress. "If I've said anything to hurt you, forgive me. I'm a great hulking brute; Margaret will never look at me again. There, there, old fellow!"

And Philip, whose heart was as tender as a woman's and whose first intention had been to fly from the room, and dash through the storm, knelt by the side of Mr. Hart, and used words as gentle, and actions as fond as though he were kneeling by the side of a child. And all the time he did this his great limbs were trembling, and the tears were running down his strong beard. Mr. Hart raised his head, which was now on a level with Philip's, and with no more shame or awkwardness than a child would exhibit, put his arms across Philip's shoulders and kissed him.

I draw a veil over the next few moments; neither of them spoke during that time, but their hearts were throbbing with eloquent and tender emotion.

Then said Mr. Hart, when he was calmer:

"Philip, my son, you have taught me a lesson; you have made my heart green again. It was turning bitter against all men, and you have softened it, and restored my faith. Ah, how proud your father must be of such a son!"

Philip groaned. "I ran away from him; I was a scapegrace at home, and I caused the dear old fellow many a heartache. Never mind. I will repay him; I know better now."

"You did nothing wrong, my dear boy, I am sure."

"I almost broke his heart, I think. I tried his patience sorely. He sent me to Cambridge to do honour to his name, and I did my best to disgrace it. I went home with a long tail of debts behind me; he paid them, and said, 'Never mind, my lad; promise me that you will not do so again; see here, I will double your allowance.' I promised him, and took the double allowance, and got into debt again. It hurt him-I saw that. That I should break a promise to him, who had never broken one to me, who had never said a harsh word to me, made him wince. Again he paid my debts; again I promised; again I broke my word. More than that: I involved the son of a friend of his, who gave his name for me to the money-lenders. Well, I couldn't face him the third time. I sent him a list of my debts, and I ran away. The best thing I could do-and the worst, I think, for he loved me, the dear old dad!"

"You will live to repay him."

"I will do my best. I will go home to him, with my dear Margaret on my arm, and say-and say, 'Dear old dad-'"

But he broke down here, and it was Mr. Hart's turn to console him. He was not long in this mood. He jumped to his feet, and with a great shake of his shoulders cried:

"Enough about me! You are in trouble. What is it?"

"I cannot buy the share you offer me, Philip."

"Why? You have money enough, and you shall buy it. You shall! I'll drag the money out of your box. O, I know where you keep it, and I'm strong enough to do what I say."

"You'll find no money there, Philip," said Mr. Hart, sadly.

"You don't mean to say you've been speculating and lost it!" said Philip, pulling a long face.

"No, I have not lost it by speculation, but it is gone all the same. See here, Philip, my son. I had saved nearly four hundred pounds, and I had almost made up my mind to go home and see my daughter at the end of this three months' engagement. It would have been madness to do so when, by staying here for three months longer, I might have doubled my savings, which are all for her; but I am yearning to hold her in my arms, and press my darling to my heart. Ah, Philip! you don't know what a father's love is-you may, one day, my boy, and then you will understand my feelings. Prudence said, 'Stay a little while longer;' but my heart's yearning beat prudence out of the field. It said to me, 'You are an old man; young as you feel, you may break down. Let your daughter see you when you are strong, and able, old as you are, to protect and advise her. Don't wait till you are decrepit and feeble, when she cannot have faith and confidence in you. You have saved money enough three times during the last seven years, and each time you have stayed a little longer, and lost it. Go now, and don't tempt bad fortune again.' About my having saved money enough three times, Philip, it is true, and true that I have lost it, lost it by trusting friends, who deceived me, and played me false. Well, I began to get frightened by these reflections, and to-day, you know, the letters by the Overland Mail camp up to Silver Creek. Among them was a letter for me by my daughter, a letter filled with such expressions of love and affection that I should have been less than a man not to have hungered for a sight of her. I resolved; I would go home when the engagement here terminated. I reckoned that I could land in England with six hundred pounds. After the theatre was closed, I came into my room, and opened my box, to count my money as a miser does. How often have I done it, and with what different feelings from those which must animate a miser! Imagine my despair, my boy, when I found that I had been robbed. Philip, I haven't a shilling in the world! Once more I am left a beggar. It was while I was contemplating the dreary prospect before me that you came in. In my heart I was cursing all mankind, and a terrible feeling of doubt of higher things was creeping into my mind. But your noble offer has restored my faith again. What if there are villains and scoundrels in the world!" he cried, standing up before the admiring Philip. "Let them creep, and crawl, and plunder, and grow rich; and then die their death of shame! We will never lose our faith in God and man-never, never, never! Ay, though our dear heart's wishes may never be gratified, we will bow our heads reverently, and believe in goodness, and hope to the last!"

He held out his hand, and Philip took it. The grasp was to the younger man as though he were pledging himself to a life of honour and integrity.

"In my young days," continued Mr. Hart, with a soft light in his eyes, "I had a friend; in my young days I loved a woman as truly as you love Margaret. I have not seen my friend for thirty years. I have not received line or message from him, nor he from me, and he is still my friend, and I am his. The woman I loved did not love me, and I went from her sight. But though in after years I loved another woman who became my wife, and who gave me my daughter, the memory of the first has never left me, and I think of her with tenderness still. These and other remembrances have in a measure sustained my faith, and, I humbly hope, purified my life. Shall I turn a misanthrope now in my old age, and snarl at mankind because I have been deceived for the dozenth time? No, Philip, no! It would be robbing life of all its sweetness."

But in spite of this generous outburst, his grief was too powerful to be thus suddenly conquered, and his lips quivered again with emotion as he thought of his loss.

"Leave me now, Philip," he said. "I cannot accept your offer, but while my heart beats, you have a place in it."

He had barely uttered these words when the storm without grew more furious. The rain came down like a flood. The wind rattled about the wooden walls of the hotel to such an extent that it seemed as though the building could not possibly hold together. A flash of lightning, so vivid that it almost blinded them, pierced the ground, and at its heels followed a peal of thunder so terrible that it shook the very foundation of the earth. They stood spell-bound. When sight and hearing were restored to them, they heard what sounded like a great crash outside, mingled with human cries; but their attention was diverted from these by the appearance of Margaret, white and trembling, at the door.

CHAPTER XIV

"THIS IS LIKE THE DAWN OF LIFE, MY SWEET."

"I am frightened," she murmured, and ran into her lover's arms, and hid her face in his breast, and tremblingly asked if the world was coming to an end.

Philip, who was really startled by the fury of the storm, recovered his self-possession the moment he saw Margaret. Lovers are not only proverbially, but actually selfish. As Philip embraced Margaret, and pressed her to his breast, I do not believe he cared a pin for the storm-nor Margaret either. She felt quite safe in his arms, but, womanlike, she still expressed her fears.

"O, Philip!"

Clinging closer to him.

"There is nothing to be frightened at, darling," said he.

"It is coming to an end, I know," she murmured (meaning the world), "but it is a comfort to die in your arms!"

"It will be a greater comfort to live in them," replied Philip, half gaily.

She reproved him, asking, "How could he, at such a time?" and murmured that it was wicked to think of such things (never mentioning what things) in the midst of such terrible goings-on. I doubt if any other two persons in the hotel, speaking so softly; could have heard one another, but these two were lovers, and their lips almost, perhaps quite touched. The storm was raging so furiously, and there was such a din and confusion all around them, wind blowing, thunder thundering, and people shouting, that Mr. Hart had to raise his voice very high when he spoke, so that Philip might hear it.

"Something has occurred," he said; "did you hear the crash?"

Philip nodded that he had heard it.

"It was not all thunder. Mischief has been done; I shall go out and see."

"I will go too," said Philip.

"And leave me?" cried Margaret.

He would have found it difficult to do so, she clung to him so closely.

"No," he answered; "come along with us."

Philip caught up a blanket, and wrapped his Margaret in it from head to foot. All was dark outside, except when the lightning lit up the scene.

"Keep close, Margaret," said Philip.

As if she needed telling!

"A black night, indeed," said Mr. Hart, holding his hand before his eyes; "a black night, in every sense of the word. One wants sailors' eyes at such a time. Why, where's the theatre?"

A flash of lightning had revealed to him the space where the theatre had stood, but the roof was no longer visible. Their forms had been recognised in the flash.

"Is that you, Hart?" cried a hearty voice.

It was William Smith who spoke, and his voice was as cheery and as ringing as the blast of a silver trumpet.

"Yes."

"Who is that with you?"

"Philip."

"Ah, Philip! if the dam has stood, our fortune's made, Philip."

"The dam's all right!" shouted Philip.

(Please to remember that there could be no doubt about the safety of the dam, Margaret's lips having insured it.)

"I hope so," shouted William Smith. "It'll be a bit of good luck to make up for a bit of bad. Mr. Hart, the theatre's down!"

Mr. Hart groaned.

"It needed but that," he murmured.

"You could play a piece now with real thunder and lightning," continued William Smith, at the top of his voice. "Why don't you speak? I suppose you're down in the mouth because your theatre's all to pieces! Never say die, man!"

Mr. Hart said nothing. This stroke of bad fortune coming so close upon the loss of his savings almost crushed him.

"We'll have it up again in less than a week," cried the plucky speculator. "William Smith's hard to beat!"

He really seemed to enjoy it. If those who had known him in London could have seen and heard him now, they would scarcely have believed. In the old country he was a mouse; in the new country he was a man. The wind was enough to blow them away, and it was impossible for them to remain longer in the open. They were already wet through, so they turned into Mr. Hart's room; and presently William Smith joined them, smiling, and fresh as a flower, with the rain glistening on his face and in his hair. He did not stop with them long, for he had his business to look after; his bars were thronged with gold-diggers, drinking the lightning and thunder down. Margaret ran up-stairs to her room, to change her dripping clothes, and when she presented herself again, she was dressed in a loose gown, and her long brown hair was hanging down her back.

"By Jove!" said Philip, under his breath, gazing at her in silent admiration.

There was nothing sham about his Margaret, he thought; she was genuine to the very roots of her hair. What had he done to deserve such a prize? Had any other man in the world ever been so blessed?

Margaret smiled coyly; she knew what was passing through her lover's mind, and was not sorry for the opportunity to show herself. So these small bits of sentimental comedy were played, while the tragedy of the storm was being enacted without.

"We'll make a night of it," said Philip.

All this while he had forgotten Mr. Hart's loss, but it flashed upon him suddenly in the sad look that dwelt in the old man's eyes.

"Margaret," said Philip, "go and sit in that corner, and shut your eyes. Mr. Hart and I have a little bit of private business to transact; it won't take five minutes."