AH, PHILIP, MY SON! I, ALSO, HAVE A GIRL WHOM I LOVE.
Then said Philip, as he and Mr. Hart moved slowly away--then said
Philip softly, as though but a moment had passed since his companion
last spoke:
"Her name is Margaret, not Juliet. I have no need to play Romeo to
Margaret. Margaret!" he whispered to himself, finding a subtle charm
in the name; "My Margaret!" and then aloud, "Has your Leading Lady
ever played such a character?"
"Yes," replied Mr. Hart, without any direct meaning, "in 'Faust.'"
Philip's face flushed scarlet, not at the words, but at the tone,
which was sad and significant, without the speaker intending it to be
so.
"I know you to be a gentleman----" pursued Mr. Hart.
"I thought you to be one," interrupted Philip hotly.
"I hope you will see no reason to change your opinion," said Mr. Hart.
"I see a reason already."
"Let me hear it," asked Mr. Hart, secretly pleased at the young man's
ill-humour.
"You associated my Margaret's name--"
"Your Margaret!" exclaimed Mr. Hart. "My Margaret, if you please!"
"Mine!" cried Philip, in a loud voice.
"Mine!" echoed Mr. Hart, in a calmer tone.
"Call her down and ask her!" demanded Philip in his rashness, without
considering; and, for the life of him, Mr. Hart could not help
laughing long and heartily.
"O that you were twenty years younger!" said Philip.
"O that I were!" exclaimed Mr. Hart, with grave humour. "Then you
would really have cause for uneasiness when you hear me call her
mine."
"How do you make her yours?"
"I stand to her in the light of a father," replied Mr. Hart more
seriously. "When I persuaded her mother in town to let her accompany
us, I promised that I would look after her and protect her. Therefore
she is mine, because I am her father."
"And without any 'therefore,'" responded Philip, "she is mine, because
I am her lover."
"Ah," said Mr. Hart, with a bright smile, "here is a case to be
settled, then. But if every pretty girl was her lover's, then one
might belong to fifty, or more, for there are hearts enough. Why, you
rash-head! do you know how many men in Silver Creek might call your
Margaret theirs by the same right as that by which you claim her?"
"No," said Philip, a little sulkily, "I don't know."
"Then I'll tell you. To my certain knowledge, sixty-nine; to my almost
as certain conviction, some five hundred. She had forty-two offers of
marriage the first week, and has had twenty-seven since. Come now,
divide her between the sixty-nine lovers who have declared themselves;
what part of her is yours?"
"You talk nonsense," said Philip roughly.
"Well, suppose you talk sense," said Mr. Hart blandly.
"It is hardly believable," cried Philip, clenching his fist.
"Sixty-nine offers of marriage! She never told me, and I'm her lover."
"She has told me, and I'm only her father."
"By proxy," corrected Philip.
"Well, by proxy."
"Why should she tell you and not me?" asked Philip, more sulkily
still.
"Because, my dear Philip," said Mr. Hart, laying his hand kindly on
the young man's arm, "up to the present, as I have said, she is mine,
and not yours; and because she has a frank open nature, and must
confide in some one. As I come first, she confides in me. She has
given me all the letters to read, and a rare collection they are. If
they were printed they would be a curiosity."
"I should like to see them, and the names at the bottom of them."
"So that you might fight all the writers for falling in love as you
have done! Well, you would have enough to do, for you would have to
fight according to the fashion of different countries. I have made an
analysis, my dear Philip. Seven Frenchmen, four Germans, one Spaniard,
three Americans, fifty-three Englishmen, Irishmen, and Scotchmen, and
one Chinaman, have offered marriage to--I will say--_our_ Margaret."
"A Chinaman! Good heavens! such a creature to raise his eyes to my
Margaret! Tell me, at least, _his_ name, that I may cut his pigtail
from his dirty crown!"
"There's an Ah in it and a Sen in it and a Ping in it; and if you can
find him out by those signs you are very welcome. But why should a
Chinaman not love? Hath he not eyes, hands, organs, dimensions,
senses, affections, passions? His letter is the greatest curiosity of
the lot, and he has evidently educated himself in the English
language. I know his proposal by heart. Here it is: 'You welly good
English girl; me welly good Chinaman. You mally me, welly good
match. Roast pig and m'landy (brandy) for dinner every day. M'lenty
gold--make m'lenty more. Me take you to my country, by bye. Chinaman
welly good man.' Then comes the Ah and the Sen and the Ping. But let
us be serious, although this is true enough that I have told
you--truth with a comical side to it. You were angry with me a little
while ago."
"Yes, for associating my Margaret's name with mine in the character of
Faust."
"I had no distinct intention in my mind, Philip; the conversation
happened to take that turn. It would pain me very much to have to
think of you in that way. But Margaret is a simple good girl, and it
is my duty to look after her. I never knew till to-night that you were
paying marked attention to her."
"Who told you?"
"Our Leading Lady."
Philip Rowe smiled: he had his vanities.
"O, indeed!" he said, with assumed carelessness.
"And that will bring me back presently to a subject I mentioned when I
surprised you to-night. First, however, there is another thing to be
settled. You must cease your attentions to Margaret."
"Not if I know it!" said Philip, with a defiant shake of his head. "I
mean to marry her. If you throw any obstacles in the way I'll run away
with her to-morrow, in spite of your teeth."
He laughed confidently: he knew his power.
"But you are a gentleman," remonstrated Mr. Hart. "And she is a lady,"
quoth Philip.
If love's guild could give titles, a peasant would rank higher than a
duchess. Not that there was anything common about Margaret. She was
born of humble parents, it is true; but she was a good girl, and that
is enough for any man.
It was enough for Mr. Hart. He gazed at Philip in frank and honest
admiration; but he determined to apply a test. He was not a suspicious
man, but he had a duty to perform.
"Suppose there is an obstacle already in the way," he said, looking
Philip steadily in the face; "suppose she is already married."
Philip staggered, and the blood deserted his face. "Good God!" he
cried. "Then she has been playing me false!"
Mr. Hart wished he had not applied the test; he was satisfied of
Philip's sincerity.
"Not so fast!" he cried, in a cheery tone, "not so fast! I only said
'suppose;' I didn't say it was so. How you young hot spirits jump at
conclusions."
But it was a few minutes before Philip recovered himself.
"You frightened me," he said, with a feeble smile. "Then it is not
true! If I had considered a moment, I should have known; for if truth
and innocence have a home in this world, they have it in Margaret's
breast. But you came upon me suddenly."
Mr. Hart thought, "Ah! youth, youth, what a painter you are!" And
said aloud, "Here is my hand; knowing that you mean honourably by
Margaret, I give my consent to your seeing her as usual."
"I'll marry her to-morrow," said Philip, taking the hand offered him.
"Softly, softly; there are conditions."
"I'll have no conditions!" shouted Philip impetuously.
"You'll have this and you'll have that!" said Mr. Hart, in a tone of
gentle sarcasm. "You won't have this, and you won't have that! Very
well, then. I wish you good-night." And he turned away.
"What!" cried Philip, turning after him, "desert me when I want you to
be my friend!"
The old man's heart warmed to the young fellow; he admired everything
in him--his hot blood, his impetuosity, his obstinacy, his generous
imperiousness.
"I am your friend," said Mr. Hart, "and I will continue to be so if
you will let me. But when a man says of something that is mine, as
Margaret is--ah, shake your head! it doesn't affect _me!_--when a man
says of something that is mine, and that he wants to be his, that
he'll have no conditions, he compels me to act in self-defence. Attend
to me, young sir! Be reasonable, or to-morrow I take Margaret back to
her mother, a hundred and forty miles away, and you shall not speak
another word to her, as sure as my name's Hart."
"Ho! ho! you speak boldly; but it doesn't matter--you're a man in a
thousand. In a thousand! in ten thousand. I'm glad you're not younger,
or you might prove dangerous." Mr. Hart took off his cap, and bowed
lowly at this compliment. "You'll not let me speak to her, will you
not? I'll borrow a speaking-trumpet, and shout to her that you are
parting us for ever. But there! give me your hand again. I'm not
frightened of you. I am in such spirits that I must do something
desperate. As you value your life, give me a back!"
With the readiness of a boy, Mr. Hart stooped and rested his hands on
his knees. Philip took a run backward, then darted forward like a
deer, and, lightly touching the stooping man's back, flew over him
like a bird. Then stooped himself, and folded his arms; and old as Mr.
Hart was, he took the leap.
After that they had a hearty laugh together.
"By Jove!" exclaimed Philip, "you are as young as I am, and yet I
should say you are over sixty."
"I am," said Mr. Hart proudly, straightening his back.
"I don't mind giving way a little to such a man. Name your
conditions."
"You want to marry Margaret?"
"I do--to-morrow!"
"Nonsense. You want to marry her."
"I do--I will; stop me who can!"
"She has a mother."
"God bless her, and all belonging to her!"
"Bravo--a good mother, mind."
"All that belongs to Margaret must be good."
"Her mother must be consulted."
Philip scratched his head. "Must?" he asked dubiously.
"Must."
"How is that to be done?"
"By letter."
Philip counted rapidly on his fingers.
"Why, we shall have to wait a week!"
"For the consent. And then perhaps she'll not give it."
"It will be all the same. We'll marry without it."
"But you'll have to wait longer than a week, Philip. You'll have to
wait until our three months' engagement at the theatre is at an end."
"Impossible."
"It must and shall be. Why, without Margaret we are nothing."
"I know it," chuckled Philip.
"She is the soul of the company." The wily old fellow was using the
very words he had used to the Leading Lady, and he thought nothing of
contradicting what he had said a few minutes before, when he declared
that Margaret was not clever, and would never make her fortune on the
stage. "Do you hear me? She is the soul of the company."
"I know it," chuckled Philip again.
"Well, then, do you think I am going to let you ruin our prospects,
and rob us, as you propose doing?"
"Gently, gently there! Not so fast with your robbing!"
"It is the truth that I am speaking, and you know it; you have said so
yourself. Margaret is the soul of the company--she is our greatest
draw. If she goes without my being able to get another girl as pretty
in her place----"
"You can't do that; I defy you."
"Hold your tongue, hot-head!--without our getting another girl
_nearly_ as pretty in her place----"
"That's better," interrupted the incorrigible Philip; "but you'll have
a rare hunt even for such a one. They don't grow on gooseberry
bushes."
"Our business is as good as ruined without her, or some one in her
place; and do you suppose I'll stand quietly by and see that done?
Besides, think of the money Margaret herself is saving----"
"_That_ for the money!" said Philip, with a snap of his fingers.
"Money-making's a man's business, not a woman's."
"That's true, and I like you the better for saying so. But leaving
Margaret out of the question, there are persons in our company the
happiness of whose life hangs upon their being able to save a certain
amount of money within a certain time. Not only their happiness but
the happiness of helpless ones who are dearer to them than their
heart's blood, depends upon this."
"By Jove! you speak strongly. Mention one of them."
"One of them stands before you now."
Philip turned and looked Mr. Hart straight in the face. Tears were
gathering in the old man's eyes, and the young man turned away again,
so that he should not see them.
"Forgive me, mate," he said softly; "I am so wrapt up in my own
happiness that I am forgetful of the feelings of others."
"Ah, Philip, my son"--there was so tender an accent in the old man's
tone, that the tears rose to Philip's eyes as well--"I also have a
girl whom I love. See here, my dear boy. This is my daughter. She is
at home in England, and I am here sixteen thousand miles away."
He had taken the picture of his darling from his pocket, and now he
handed it to Philip. The young man looked at it in the clear
moonlight. A round fresh face, open mouth with rosy lips, bright
ingenuous eyes, fair curls around her white forehead. She was standing
within an ivy porch, and one little hand was raised as though she were
listening.
"It was taken seven years ago," said Mr. Hart; "she was twelve years
old then."
"She is beautiful, beautiful!" exclaimed Philip enthusiastically. "And
you haven't seen her since then?"
"No--and my old heart aches for a sight of her. This money that I am
earning will take me to her."
"By Jove! and I was going to step in your way! Brute that I was!
Margaret shall stop. I'll wait till the end of the time. I can see her
every night; and I can build a wooden house for her in the meantime.
God bless you, old boy! Give me your hand again. Next to my own
father, you are the man I love and respect the most."