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 infinesse. 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 shewasa 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 ofyourdeath 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,
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!"
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.
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.
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.
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. Mighthespeak 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 theGood Harvest, and the white sails of the ship were spread for England.