At the Sign of the Silver Flagon. Farjeon Benjamin Leopold

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ 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."

      CHAPTER VIII

      GOD BLESS EVERYBODY

      "But I haven't finished yet," said Mr. Hart, after a short pause. "I have another condition."

      "Another!" exclaimed Philip, with an inclination to turn ill-humoured. "You are insatiable! And how many more after that, pray?"

      "None."

      "That's a mercy. Out with your last condition-which I'll not comply with."

      "Which you will comply with, or I'll know the reason why."

      "Ah, ah! my Cornishman, go on with your conditions."

      "Where did you get those flowers from?"

      "Where did I get them from? I gave Nature an order for them, and they grew for me-and bloomed for Margaret. I rode a dozen miles for them, and I'd ride a thousand if she bade me."

      "Or fly to the moon, or swim, or dive in the fire, or ride on the clouds, no doubt!"

      "Yes, if she wanted me to. She has but to speak."

      "Quite right," said Mr. Hart, turning his face from Philip, so that the smile on his lips should not be seen "but that's not my concern. This is. Mind what I say, sir. I'll have no more flowers thrown to my singing Chambermaid."

      "O," retorted Philip, "now it's you'll not have this, and you'll not have that! Very well, then. I wish you good-night."

      And off he went, taking huge strides purposely, and stretching his legs to their utmost.

      "No, no, Philip!" cried Mr. Hart, running after Philip, and laughing heartily at the wit of the retort. "No, no; I'm serious."

      "And so am I," said Philip, stopping so that Mr. Hart might come up to him. "No more flowers, eh! Why, I'll smother her with them every night. I'll compel you to engage some one to carry them off the stage. No more flowers! I'll show you! Why, I'm going to scour the country for flowers, and I shall set seeds all round my tent."

      "If you wait for the flowers to grow, I shall be satisfied. You can't make them come up by blowing on them with your hot words and hot breath. But seriously, Philip, there must be no more flower-throwing."

      Briefly he explained the reason why, and then upshot of it all was that Philip promised. Then Mr. Hart said that Philip had better return with him to the Rose, Shamrock, and Thistle Hotel; it was too late for him to walk back to his reef.

      "I can give you a shake-down in my bedroom," said Mr. Hart.

      "All right!" said Philip, and thought with ecstasy, "I shall be near Margaret; I shall sleep under the same roof as Margaret."

      "Have you anything to drink?" asked Philip when they were in Mr. Hart's room.

      Mr. Hart wanted Philip to sleep in his bed, which was but a stretcher, barely wide enough for one fair-sized man, but Philip would not hear of it; so they obtained a straw mattress, and laid it on the floor, and Philip tossed off his clothes, and stretched himself upon his hard bed (and slept upon it afterwards as soundly as if it had been made of eider-duck's feathers), in a state of complete satisfaction with himself and every one in the world. It was while he was lying like this, and while Mr. Hart, more methodical than his companion, was slowly undressing himself, that Philip had asked if he had anything to drink.

      "I'll get something," said Mr. Hart, and left the room, and returned with a bottle and glasses.

      While he was gone, Philip looked about him, and soon discovered that his Margaret's bedroom was immediately above him. He gazed at the ceiling with rapture, and sent kisses thitherward. A single partition parted him from his sweetheart. He fancied that he could hear her soft breathing. The same roof covered them. It was as yet his nearest approach to heaven.

      "Here's to Margaret," said Philip, holding up his glass.

      "To Margaret," responded Mr. Hart, "and happiness to you both."

      "Another toast," said Philip; "to my old dad and the dear old Silver Flagon."

      They drank the toast.

      "What is the Silver Flagon?" asked Mr. Hart.

      "One of these fine days perhaps I'll tell you," replied Philip.

      But Philip never told him. One of these fine days Mr. Hart discovered for himself.

      The light was out, and Mr. Hart knelt by a corner of his stretcher, and prayed for a few minutes. He was praying for his daughter, and thinking of her; he beheld her pretty face very plainly in the dark room. Philip saw the shadow of the kneeling man; it made him very tender towards Mr. Hart.

      "Heathen that I am!" he whispered to himself. "I haven't knelt at my bedside for many a long month."

      Then he prayed in silence, without getting out of bed.

      "Are you comfortable, Philip?" asked Mr. Hart presently.

      "I am very happy," replied Philip. "Good night-God bless you."

      "And you, my boy. Good night."

      Philip thought, "I am glad my Margaret has had such a protector. God bless everybody."

      The next moment he was asleep.

      He was up an hour after the sun, and off to his reef. Things were looking well there. Mr. Hart had spoken to the proprietor of the Rose, Shamrock, and Thistle, whose name, by the way, as something has to be said concerning him, it may be as well to mention. You will have heard it before-it was Smith. Mr. Hart had spoken to Mr. Smith about Philip's reef, and showed him some pieces of golden quartz, saying what a pity it was that there was no crushing-machine near such rich stone; and what a fortune a man might make who had money and enterprise enough to erect one. Mr. Smith had both. Four years ago- But no, common as his name is he deserves a chapter to himself, and shall have it.

      CHAPTER IX

      A MAN OF METTLE

      Not longer than four years ago, Mr. Smith was a bricklayer in the old country, earning an average wage of thirty shillings a week, out of which he supported himself and his old mother; and one day, for want of something better to do-he was out of work at the time-he emigrated almost by accident. This is a literal fact. He arose early in the morning, with no intention of leaving the country, but somewhat sad at heart because he had no work to do. (When he related the story in after days he said that his hands felt like lumps of lead as they hung by his side.) On this morning, then, he strolled to the London Docks, and saw a ship making ready to start for Australia; was told that it would sail for Gravesend in the afternoon; idly inquired the price of a steerage passage, and found that he had just money enough in his pocket, and a trifle over, the scrapings and savings of ten years' bricklaying; and had a chat with an enthusiast, who painted Australia in the colours of the rainbow, and then painted England in ditch colours.

      "What is the use of wearing one's life away in such a country as this?" demanded the enthusiast. "What has a man got to look forward to when he's old, and not fit to work?"

      Mr. СКАЧАТЬ