"THIS IS LIKE THE DAWN OF LIFE, MY SWEET."
"I am frightened," she murmured, and ran into her lover's arms, and
hid her face in his breast, and tremblingly asked if the world was
coming to an end.
Philip, who was really startled by the fury of the storm, recovered
his self-possession the moment he saw Margaret. Lovers are not only
proverbially, but actually selfish. As Philip embraced Margaret, and
pressed her to his breast, I do not believe he cared a pin for the
storm--nor Margaret either. She felt quite safe in his arms, but,
womanlike, she still expressed her fears.
"O, Philip!"
Clinging closer to him.
"There is nothing to be frightened at, darling," said he.
"It is coming to an end, I know," she murmured (meaning the world),
"but it is a comfort to die in your arms!"
"It will be a greater comfort to live in them," replied Philip, half
gaily.
She reproved him, asking, "How could he, at such a time?" and murmured
that it was wicked to think of such things (never mentioning what
things) in the midst of such terrible goings-on. I doubt if any other
two persons in the hotel, speaking so softly; could have heard one
another, but these two were lovers, and their lips almost, perhaps
quite touched. The storm was raging so furiously, and there was such a
din and confusion all around them, wind blowing, thunder thundering,
and people shouting, that Mr. Hart had to raise his voice very high
when he spoke, so that Philip might hear it.
"Something has occurred," he said; "did you hear the crash?"
Philip nodded that he had heard it.
"It was not all thunder. Mischief has been done; I shall go out and
see."
"I will go too," said Philip.
"And leave me?" cried Margaret.
He would have found it difficult to do so, she clung to him so
closely.
"No," he answered; "come along with us."
Philip caught up a blanket, and wrapped his Margaret in it from head
to foot. All was dark outside, except when the lightning lit up the
scene.
"Keep close, Margaret," said Philip.
As if she needed telling!
"A black night, indeed," said Mr. Hart, holding his hand before his
eyes; "a black night, in every sense of the word. One wants sailors'
eyes at such a time. Why, where's the theatre?"
A flash of lightning had revealed to him the space where the theatre
had stood, but the roof was no longer visible. Their forms had been
recognised in the flash.
"Is that you, Hart?" cried a hearty voice.
It was William Smith who spoke, and his voice was as cheery and as
ringing as the blast of a silver trumpet.
"Yes."
"Who is that with you?"
"Philip."
"Ah, Philip! if the dam has stood, our fortune's made, Philip."
"The dam's all right!" shouted Philip.
(Please to remember that there _could_ be no doubt about the safety of
the dam, Margaret's lips having insured it.)
"I hope so," shouted William Smith. "It'll be a bit of good luck to
make up for a bit of bad. Mr. Hart, the theatre's down!"
Mr. Hart groaned.
"It needed but that," he murmured.
"You could play a piece now with real thunder and lightning,"
continued William Smith, at the top of his voice. "Why don't you
speak? I suppose you're down in the mouth because your theatre's all
to pieces! Never say die, man!"
Mr. Hart said nothing. This stroke of bad fortune coming so close upon
the loss of his savings almost crushed him.
"We'll have it up again in less than a week," cried the plucky
speculator. "William Smith's hard to beat!"
He really seemed to enjoy it. If those who had known him in London
could have seen and heard him now, they would scarcely have believed.
In the old country he was a mouse; in the new country he was a man.
The wind was enough to blow them away, and it was impossible for them
to remain longer in the open. They were already wet through, so they
turned into Mr. Hart's room; and presently William Smith joined them,
smiling, and fresh as a flower, with the rain glistening on his face
and in his hair. He did not stop with them long, for he had his
business to look after; his bars were thronged with gold-diggers,
drinking the lightning and thunder down. Margaret ran up-stairs to her
room, to change her dripping clothes, and when she presented herself
again, she was dressed in a loose gown, and her long brown hair was
hanging down her back.
"By Jove!" said Philip, under his breath, gazing at her in silent
admiration.
There was nothing sham about his Margaret, he thought; she was genuine
to the very roots of her hair. What had he done to deserve such a
prize? Had any other man in the world ever been so blessed?
Margaret smiled coyly; she knew what was passing through her lover's
mind, and was not sorry for the opportunity to show herself. So these
small bits of sentimental comedy were played, while the tragedy of the
storm was being enacted without.
"We'll make a night of it," said Philip.
All this while he had forgotten Mr. Hart's loss, but it flashed upon
him suddenly in the sad look that dwelt in the old man's eyes.
"Margaret," said Philip, "go and sit in that corner, and shut your
eyes. Mr. Hart and I have a little bit of private business to
transact; it won't take five minutes."
Obedient Margaret moved a few paces away, and closed her eyes, and
raised the picture of her lover, handsome, and brave, and noble, to
feast upon mentally. Philip stole to her, kissed her fresh lips, and
whispered a word in her ear. Then he looked about him for pen and ink,
and brought them to the table.
"Now," he said, in a low tone to Mr. Hart, "please to sign these
papers."
He took from his pocket the duplicate agreements, by which he sold,
and Mr. Hart bought, a fourth of his share in the claim on the
Margaret Reef. Mr. Hart gently shook his head. But Philip would not be
denied. He pressed and argued, and argued and pressed, and even
threatened, until all that Mr. Hart could do was to sit still and
listen. But still he would not sign.
"Margaret," said Philip, "come and help me."
Up jumped Margaret, and ran to the table.
"This is how it is," said Philip, appealing to her, but Mr. Hart
interrupted him.
"No, no; let me explain."
"Stop his mouth, Margaret!"
Margaret placed her small hand on Mr. Hart's mouth, having to encircle
his neck with her soft arm to do so. He could not quarrel with the
necklace, and he kissed her hand.
"O, you may kiss it!" said she. "Philip will not be angry, nor will
I."
"I angry!" exclaimed Philip, "with him or you. Keep your hand there,
and let him kiss it as often as he likes."
She gave Philip her other hand as a reward, and he warmed it in his.
"This is how it is, Margaret----" and Philip explained the matter to
her.
She was grave and silent when his story was finished, out of sympathy
for Mr. Hart's loss, and also out of gratitude for her lover's
goodness. There was nothing sordid in either of their souls.
"It amounts to this," said Margaret, in unconscious imitation of
Philip's style, "that Mr. Hart wants to part us."
"My dear child!" he remonstrated.
"You do! You know you do! for if you don't sign, and become a
shareholder in the Margaret Reef, Margaret and Philip will never be
married. No, Philip; I'm resolved! I'll never marry you unless I have
my own way in this."
"Do you hear what she says?" shouted Philip, triumphantly. "And do you
intend to part us for ever?"
The upshot of it all was that Mr. Hart was compelled to yield; but he
declared, in broken words, and with tears in his eyes, that he yielded
only under compulsion. It might have been, for at the last moment,
before signing, he was about to dash the pen away, when Margaret
stayed his hand, and with her fingers upon his guided them to sign his
name. It would not make a bad picture this; and one almost as good
followed, for Philip seized Margaret round the waist, and they waltzed
round the old man, singing and laughing, while the storm howled
without, and the tears were running down Mr. Hart's face.
"God bless you, my dears!" said Mr. Hart, and would have continued his
expressions of gratitude, had not Margaret drowned his voice with her
tra-la-la. It was arranged that the share should be paid for with the
first two hundred and fifty pounds that would come to Mr. Hart out of
the division of profits.
"So after all," said Philip, "it's only lending you the money for a
week or two."
"It is giving me the gold," observed Mr. Hart.
"You gave me Margaret," replied Philip softly; "and do you think she's
not worth more than all the gold in the world! I am your debtor still,
and shall be all my life."
Delicious words, both to utter and hear.
They sat together until sunrise, and Margaret fell asleep in her
lover's arms. Lives there the man who has not enjoyed some such
heavenly minutes as these? Philip tasted then the most perfect
happiness in his life.
When the sun rose, the storm cleared away. Margaret awoke, and sighed
and blushed, and looked tenderly at Philip, and Mr. Hart found
something so interesting at his window that he was compelled to keep
his back to them. They forgave the rudeness; and presently came also
to the window, and looked out upon a glorious sight. The skies were
glowing with grand colour. Broad masses of golden light fringed with
purple, which changed gradually to crimson, rose from the dip of the
horizon. Brightly shone the sun in its bed; the sky was dotted with
feather-clouds of rosy red in the east, and fairy islands of the
loveliest shades of blue, flecked with white, moved towards them from
the west. Raindrops seemed to hang, like glistening eyes, between
cloud and land; the heavens laughed; all was sweet, and fresh, and
beautiful.
So, in another land, which lay beneath them, and on another morning,
when summer was waning, the old man shall stand, after a strange and
eventful night, gazing on the sunrise with grateful eyes and grateful
heart, embracing her who is dearer to him than his heart's blood.
"This is like the dawn of life, my sweet!" whispered Philip to
Margaret.
"Of _our_ life, Philip," she whispered.
Mr. Hart heard them.
"A happy dawn," he prayed. "May it bring a happy day!"
But prayers could not avert what was soon to come.