"I say 'Yes' for myself," said Mr. Hart, without hesitation.
He knew that the share of gold he had received out of the claim would be required in the transaction of the business, and he considered that Philip had a right to dispose of it.
He was appointed agent to moot the proposal to William Smith, and carry it through if it was well received. Philip had not a sufficiently calm head for the transaction. Mr. Hart did his work well; William Smith entertained the scheme, chuckling quietly while it was being propounded, and of course made a good bargain. There was no delay. In four days (William Smith having bought out Philip's mate) William Smith was master of the quartz reef, and Philip was the proprietor of the Rose, Shamrock, and Thistle Hotel and Restaurant and the Theatre Royal, Silver Creek. As Mr. Hart had supposed, his money was required for the completion, of the purchase. Philip entered into his property free from debt, and with a good stock in hand, but with very little ready cash. William Smith, had swept it all into his pocket. But it was a fair bargain. The hotel was doing a famous business, and money began to tumble in the first day. On that day the name of the hotel was changed. The new sign-board hoisted up had on it the words,
"The Silver Flagon."
And the place was crowded with friends and acquaintances drinking success to it.
So for the fourth time during the last seven years, Mr. Hart, having saved sufficient money to carry out the project nearest to his heart, decided to stay a little longer, and make a little more, before he took ship for home. But in this last instance, he could scarcely help himself. Gratitude called upon him to act as he had done, and he was satisfied that he would be well rewarded for his patience. It was a consolation and a pleasure to reflect that the date of his departure was fixed. He had only six months to wait, and he would carry with him a well-filled purse. He counted the days, and, making his calculations, he wrote home to his daughter that, in such and such a month he hoped, with God's blessing, to fold her to his heart, and that he would never leave her again.
Within a few days of Philip's taking possession of the hotel, he and Margaret were married. I leave you to imagine the festivities on the occasion; how handsome, strong, and brave Philip looked upon that happy morning, and what a fairy vision burst upon his gaze when Margaret appeared before him in her bridal dress. Margaret's mother--a short pale woman (what lovely daughters many of these small thin women have)--was there, approving of everything. She had also been an actress in her time, and, having had her ups and downs, was glad to see her daughter well and comfortably settled in life. But Margaret was a prize which any man might have been proud to win. The ceremony was a quiet and sober one, but there was plenty of feasting afterwards. In the hotel there were well-spread tables during the whole day, free to all comers. There was a private breakfast, at which Margaret's mother shed tears, and William Smith and Mr. Hart made fine speeches. Philip, in his speech, broke down most ignominiously; he could not utter six words in smooth order. But his face was eloquent, if his tongue was not. The bride was radiant. A handsomer pair never was seen. They drove away amid the cheering of a thousand gold-diggers.
In the evening they sat together on the banks of a beautiful river, rather low in its bed at the time because of the heat. On the distant hills cattle were browsing and smelling for water. The only sound that reached their ears was the sound of the woodman's axe. That came through the air sharp and clear, although the woodman was a long way off. The lovers, now man and wife, talked in low tones of their future, and laid their plans. All was smooth before them. No rough roads, no sickness, no misfortunes. Sunshine was in their hearts, and there was no shadow in the bright clouds that floated above them.
"All your acting days are over now," said Philip. "Well," replied Margaret, "I must act at home."
"All right," responded Philip; "one stipulation, though. No more than two characters in any of our pieces."