PHILIP'S RIDE FOR FLOWERS FOR MARGARET.
"Thank you," said the young man to Mr. Hart, replacing his revolver in
his belt.
"Thank _you_," returned Mr. Hart drily, "for cutting up my
pocket-handkerchief."
The young man laughed.
"Take mine," he said, offering a red-silk handkerchief to Mr. Hart.
Red was a favourite colour in the diggings in the matter of personal
adornment. Red handkerchiefs, red serge shirts, red scarves and
sashes, red tassels and bindings, were much coveted.
Mr. Hart shook his head.
"No; I will keep my own as a remembrance."
He gazed admiringly at the young man, and with curiosity, for he saw
that the young fellow was superior to the general run of gold-diggers.
"What are you looking at?" asked the young man merrily.
"At what seems to me an anomaly."
"That's me."
"That is you. What made a gold-digger of you?"
The young man shrugged his shoulders.
"A thirst for freedom and adventure. That answer will do as well as
another, I suppose. I was cramped up in the old country, so I thought
I would come where there was room to move and breathe."
"You find it here."
"Rather!"
He inflated his lungs, and expelled the air with vigorous enjoyment.
"What part of the old country do you hail from?" There was an
unconscious tenderness in their tones as they spoke of their native
land.
"Devon--dear old Devon. Oh, for a tankard of real Devonshire cider!"
Mr. Hart sighed. "You have home ties, then?"
"Yes, I have an old father at home, who is old only in years. Let us
drink to him." He took a tin saucepan half filled with cold tea, and
handed it to Mr. Hart, who drank from it, and returned it. "He is
about your age, I should say. Have you been long in the colony?"
"Seven years."
"Ah! I haven't served my apprenticeship yet. Now, what brought _you_
over these hills to-day?"
Mr. Hart stammered and hesitated; no man on the goldfields liked to
confess that he had been wasting hours and days in the wild hope of
discovering a golden reef, simply by wandering about and chipping up
stones, although every man did it at some time or other, in secret.
However, Mr. Hart blurted out the truth.
"Well," said the young man, "that's the way I and my mate discovered
this reef. We found a vein of quartz with gold in it, cropping out on
the surface, and we followed it down until we came to another vein
about two feet thick, and this we are working now. We're down a
hundred and two feet. You see we have about twenty tons of quartz up
now; it will go about twelve ounces to the ton, I should say. But
we're stuck for a machine to crush it."
"There's one being put up in Iron Bark Gulley."
"Yes; that's nine miles off," said the young man fretfully; "how are
we to get the stone to the machine over the ranges, unless we carry it
on our backs? A nice job that would be, and would cost as much as the
stone's worth!"
"When Mahomet found that the mountain wouldn't' come to him----" Mr.
Hart said, and paused.
"By Jove!" exclaimed the young quartz miner, "you're a gentleman. It
does one good to talk to a man who _can_ talk. Well, then Mahomet went
to the mountain. That is to say, as we can't take the stone to a
machine, we must bring a machine to the stone. But that would cost
money, and we're on our beam ends."
Many a gold-miner has been in the same strait--with wealth at his
feet, staring him in the face, and no money in his pocket--a rich
beggar.
Mr. Hart considered. Should he offer his savings for a share in the
claim? He had a hundred and twenty pounds in the corner of his trunk.
The chance was a good one. He made the offer. The young man laughed at
him.
"We should want twenty times as much," he said.
"I shall mark out a claim for myself, then," said Mr. Hart.
"All right, mate; but you'll have to go a mile away for it. The reef
is pegged, north and south, for quite that distance."
This was true; Mr. Hart, with regret, gave up the idea. He looked at
the sun, and saw that if he wished to get back to the theatre in time
for the performance he must start at once. He bade the young man
good-day.
"What's your hurry?"
Mr. Hart explained.
"By Jove!" cried the young man, his face flushing scarlet. "I thought!
recognised you. How I should like to go behind the scenes."
"Come then; I shall be glad to see you. This will admit you." And he
took a card from his pocket, and wrote some words in pencil upon it.
"What name shall I say?"
"Rowe."
"Here is the open sesame. Admit Mr. Rowe by the stage-door. Hart's
Star Dramatic Company.--Signed, John Hart.'"
"You're a brick!" said the young fellow, looking at the card with a
flushed face. If it had been an enchanted wand, it could not have made
his heart beat more quickly. "I'll be there to-night."
He was as good as his word. What made him so eager was that he had
been to the theatre three times, and had fallen dead in love with the
singing and dancing Chambermaid. Such an opportunity to make her
acquaintance was not to be thrown away. At eight o'clock he stood by
the wings, as handsome as Apollo, as strong as Hercules. When he was
introduced to the singing and dancing Chambermaid, he was as shy as a
sensitive plant, and would have looked foolish but that his beard
prevented him. Many a man has to thank his beard for similar grace.
The Chambermaid, as good a girl as she was beautiful, saw the state of
affairs at once, and knew, by feminine instinct, that she could twist
him round her little finger. Nevertheless, she fell in love with him.
Nature will not be denied, and he was a man to be fallen in love with.
Her name was Margaret. His was Philip.
After the performance, John Hart and Philip Rowe had a glass together.
They spoke of the old country.
"I'll give you a toast," said Philip Rowe. "Here's to the Silver
Flagon."
"To the Silver Flagon," responded John Hart. Philip Rowe drank another
toast, but did not utter it: To Margaret.
He went to the back of the stage on the following night, and many
nights after that, and made friends with the company. All the men
liked him; he was free-hearted and free-handed. But the Leading Lady,
after a night or two, looked upon him with displeasure, for he paid
her less court than her state demanded. Her displeasure was the
greater because she had shown that she was inclined to be gracious to
him. It was incredible that a lady who enacted Pauline, and Juliet,
and Lady Macbeth, should be overlooked for a chitling who played
simple chambermaids, and could dance a little. But then Philip Rowe
was blind--which was not a valid excuse for him. The Leading
Lady--being a woman as well as a Leading Lady--would have been well
pleased to receive the attentions of so handsome a young man, who was
evidently a gentleman, and she snubbed Margaret one night, and was
spiteful to her, because of her good fortune. Philip Rowe, going
behind the scenes, found his Margaret in tears, in a convenient
corner. She had a spare half-hour, and he coaxed her to tell him the
cause of her distress.
"Never mind, Margaret," he said tenderly. "Don't cry!"
She looked up shyly at this. It was the first time he had called her
by her Christian name. If brevity be the soul of wit, it is also
frequently the soul of love. Margaret was comforted.
When Philip Rowe came face to face with the Leading Lady, he glared at
her. She glared at him in return. He felt awkward and hung down his
head. Her glare was more potent than his; she had to glare often on
the stage, and was an adept at it. Besides, her face was smooth; his
was hairy.
Margaret coaxed him to do something that night; she knew where and how
to plant a dagger in her rival's bosom. She whispered to Philip and he
ran out of the theatre in a glow of ecstatic delirium, for her lovely
lips had almost touched his ear. Her warm breath on his neck made him
tremble.
She had asked him to get a bouquet of flowers, to throw on the stage
to her in the last piece, in which both she and the Leading Lady
appeared. Flowers have before now been used for purposes as sharp.
But where to get the flowers? A bouquet of flowers was unheard of in
Silver Creek township. Where to get them? Where?
Could not love grow them?
Where to get them? Ah, he knew! Six miles away on the main road to the
metropolis, there was a--yes, call it so--a garden; a little plot of
ground tended by a woman with country memories. In less than two
minutes he was in the saddle, galloping in that direction, and right
in front of him, all the way, shone Margaret's face and Margaret's
eyes and hair. No will-o'-the-wisp was ever more alluring. Margaret
lurked in the bushes, glided among the trees, shone in the open
spaces, and Philip's heart beat fast and joyously. The six miles of
bush road, so soft and pleasant to the horse's feet, were soon
traversed, and there was the garden with a few--not many--flowers in
it. Philip Rowe leaped off his horse, with joyous exclamations. A
woman came to the door.
"Here, Jim!" she cried, to her husband, running into the house,
thinking that a bushranger (_Anglicè_, highwayman) was paying them a
visit.
Jim promptly appeared, with a gun in his hand. "Now then?" he
demanded, nothing daunted.
"Oh! it's all right, mate," said Philip; and in a few moments he
explained the motive of his visit.
"About a dozen flowers done up in a bunch are all I want. This for
them."
He held up two pieces of rich quartz, in which there were probably two
ounces of gold.
Jim was agreeable, coveting the specimen; his wife was not, loving her
flowers. But when Philip pleaded, and told his story, she relented.
"Oh, if it's for that!" she said with a sly smile, and took a good
look at Philip, and thought that the woman was to be envied who had
won so fine a young fellow.
While she cut the flowers the two men had a nip of brandy each, which
Philip paid for. The place really was a sly grog-shop.
Soon Philip was galloping back to Silver Creek township in a glow of
triumph. He arrived in time, and paid for admission into the body of
the theatre, hiding the flowers in the breast of his dandy serge
shirt. He was a bit of a dandy in his way, and especially so when he
expected to see Margaret. He followed her instructions to the letter;
she had told him at what point to throw the flowers, and plump at her
feet they fell, at the precise moment she desired. The audience stared
at first at the unusual compliment, and then applauded loudly.
Margaret curtseyed, at which they applauded still more vociferously;
the beautiful girl was a pet of theirs, and they approved of the
tribute. The Leading Lady turned pale, and clutched at her bosom
tragically. The dagger had been deftly planted, and she felt the
smart--as only a woman would feel it. Margaret placed the flowers in
the bosom of her dress, and sent a look straight into the eyes of
Philip, which made every nerve in his body tingle.