Chapter XIX

MR. HART DECIDES TO WAIT A LITTLE LONGER.

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 in _finesse_. 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 she _was_ a 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 of _your_ death 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,

"The Silver Flagon."

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!"