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.