"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.