NATURE PUNISHES THE THIEF.
The festivities at the Margaret Reef did not conclude the celebration
of the christening. In the night a ball was given by William Smith to
the gentry of the district. He had a marquee put up especially for the
occasion, and so that the fine ladies of Silver Creek might not think
it a trade affair (they were mighty particular in some matters, let me
tell you), he had requested permission to erect the tent on the ground
where the Government Camp buildings were. Of course it was granted,
with smiles; one of the small results of William Smith's wisdom in
asking the Warden's lady to christen the quartz-crushing machine. The
ball was a complete and most brilliant success. The Judge was there,
and danced in the first quadrille, and so far forgot himself when he
saw Margaret that he asked for the honour of her hand for the second:
a proof that judges are human. Many a lady there envied Margaret the
honour, and wondering what the Judge could see in her, did not wonder
at themselves for wondering at his good taste.
If Margaret was lovely in the morning at the Reef, what shall I say of
her in the night at the ball? and what shall I say of her dress?
Again, but in a lesser degree, I lay myself open to the criticism of
the ladies. Margaret's dress was composed entirely of clouds of fleecy
tulle, looped and caught back by tufts of feathery ferns and grasses.
And a long trail of bright grass was in her beautiful hair. This is
all that I saw, for her charming face took away my eyes from all the
rest, and I should scarcely have been surprised to see her floating
away on a cloud. Entranced Philip was fairly dazzled by her appearance
as she came sailing in on the arm of Mr. Hart, who looked what he was,
every inch a gentleman. Everybody shook hands with everybody, as
though they hadn't seen one another for weeks. When Mr. Hart resigned
Margaret to Philip's care, Philip trod on air. He danced with her, and
afterwards said:
"I shall keep possession of you the whole of the night."
Just then the Judge came up to her, and Philip moved a little aside,
never thinking that so sedate a man, and one in such a position, would
dance with a girl like Margaret.
"Now I am happy," said Margaret to Philip, after the dance, "I have
danced with a judge That's one of the things I shall keep on saying
all my life. I've danced with a judge!--I've danced with a judge!"
Then came another and younger man, and Margaret waltzed away with
_him_. Seeing jealousy in Philip's face, Margaret whispered:
"Be good. I love only you."
He tried hard to be good, but strive as he might, he could not help
feeling a little bit wicked. He contrived, however, to obtain many
crumbs of consolation during the night. Crumbs! Slices, I ought to
say; for the night was lovely, and now and then between the dances
Philip stole into the open with his sweetheart on his arm. Being in
the shade once he wanted to embrace her.
"Be quiet, sir," she said, coquettishly. "I'm only to be looked at
to-night. How _do_ I look, Philip!"
His eyes answered her, and he became more demonstrative.
"No, Philip, no!" she cried. "I must not be crushed."
"Why," answered Philip, with tender adroitness, "when I am dancing
with you, I put my arm round your waist--so!"
"Ah!" she said, with a most delicious little laugh, "that's more
neatly done."
"And my face, then, is close to yours--so!"
He had his way, and she became an accomplice. Being fired to
emulation, she showed him that she was not to be outdone in
tenderness. When a woman is in love, she forgets her cunning.
William Smith said rather a good thing. The Judge had a crisp short
habit of speaking.
"I like that judge," said William Smith. "He must be a merciful man.
He speaks in short sentences."
At midnight Smith came to the side of Philip, and pulled out his
watch. It was exactly twelve o'clock, and at that moment he had
arranged that the William Smith quartz-crushing machine should be set
going.
"They've commenced to dance," he said gleefully.
He referred to the stampers of his machine.
Philip, gazing at Margaret and a handsome partner, who were whirling
away from him, muttered somewhat moodily: "_I_ see them!"
William Smith glanced at Philip in surprise.
"My imagination doesn't carry me as far as yours," said William Smith;
"but I daresay you are as impatient as I am."
Philip scarcely heard the words. William Smith continued:
"Mr. Hart and I are going to steal away for an hour; we shan't be gone
longer. Play the host while I am absent, and if they ask for me, say
I'll be back in a minute or two."
Philip nodded, and presently Mr. Hart and William Smith were in the
saddle, galloping away over the hills in the direction of the Margaret
Reef; the horses did the distance in twenty-five minutes.
"Do you hear them--do you hear them?" cried William Smith exultantly,
as they breasted the hill.
The music of the stampers fell on their ears. They halted at a
distance of a couple of hundred yards from the machine. Sparks were
flying from the chimneys; the fires were roaring; the machine was
thumping away, beating the gold out of the quartz; dark forms of men
were moving busily about in the shade and lurid light.
William Smith had good cause for triumph; many a man has won a name in
history for doing less than he had done.
But in the midst of his exultation a tender sadness came upon him.
"What would you suppose I am thinking of?" he asked of Mr. Hart.
"I can't guess," replied Mr. Hart, who had thoughts of his own.
"I am thinking of my old mother at home," said William Smith, "and
wishing she was here to see this day's doings. How proud she would be
of her Billy, as she calls me!"
Mr. Hart was also thinking of a dear one at home and of the time, soon
to come he hoped, when he should fold her in his arms. He blessed the
music of the stampers; he gazed with tearful eyes upon the bright
sparks flying upwards from the chimneys. They would give him the means
of seeing his darling daughter in her bloom of womanhood, of sharing
her life, of administering to her happiness.
At that moment, also, Philip was talking to Margaret of his father.
So beneath the stars, the old country and the new were joined by the
tenderest heart-links that love can forge.
* * * * * *
A word as to the money which had been stolen from Mr. Hart. The thief
was no other than the Walking Gentleman and Treasurer of the dramatic
company. It has already been seen that he was ignorant of arithmetic;
he might have pleaded this as an excuse, had he been called before a
human tribunal to answer for his crime. He carried out his character
of Walking Gentleman consistently to the end, by walking off with Mr.
Hart's money and other money as well. But it was the last opportunity
he had of playing a part on this earthly stage. I am inclined to the
opinion that nearly every man in the course of his life has an impulse
of, and the opportunity for, dishonesty. Another opinion as to the
proportion of those who fall to those who conquer I keep to myself.
The Walking Gentleman fell--but fell with the distinct intention in
his mind of leading an honest life afterwards, if he escaped with his
spoil. How many men do you know within the circle of your acquaintance
who are leading respectable lives on stolen money, or money as good,
or as bad, as stolen? The thief that we have to do with had planned
everything carefully. He had so much money of his own; he appropriated
Mr. Hart's savings, having learned where the trustful old man was in
the habit of depositing them; he had, as treasurer, more than three
hundred pounds in hand belonging to the company. A ship was to sail
from Hobson's Bay for England in four days; he could do the distance
to the port very well in that time. Then on to the ship, and away for
home, with nearly a thousand pounds of stolen money in his purse.
All was accomplished an hour before the storm; he played only in the
first part of the performances on that night, and at nine o'clock he
was off, dashing away from Silver Creek on the back of a fleet horse.
He had taken the precaution to disguise himself so that he might not
be recognised. It was his intention to ride all night, and to catch up
Cobb's coach at a certain point in the morning. All went well for an
hour; but then the skies blackened, the thunder began to growl, the
lightning to flash, and presently the storm fell upon him. He went on,
nothing daunted, thinking it impossible that such a downpour could
last. But it did last, as we know, and increased in fury. The thief
began to wish that he had chosen another night, and he cursed his bad
luck; but curses did not avail him, and there was now no turning back.
On he galloped, with his head sunk on his breast, and the heavy rain
beat down on him, and caused a singing in his head. It was at first
only an indistinct buzzing that he heard, but it took shape presently,
and the words, "Thief! thief! fool! thief!" hissed and plashed in his
ears. On and on he galloped, and conscience filled the air with
accusing shapes and sounds, which pursued and surrounded him, and made
him sick and faint. Once raising his eyes, his heart almost leaped out
of his throat as he saw a tall thin form bending towards him, with the
intention of clutching him. It was but a slender tree, bent by the
force of the wind, and he escaped it without really knowing what it
was. And now, every branch that swayed brought new terrors to him, and
he began to wish that he had remained honest. He was in the bush, with
not a tent in sight, having chosen the remotest track, so that he
might not be seen; but had a human habitation been within twenty yards
of him he would not have been able to see it, for by this time he was
enveloped in blackness. He stumbled on, not knowing now whither he was
going. For a little while he had strength and sense enough to keep a
tight rein on his horse, but a frightful flash of lightning, and a
more frightful peal of thunder, so unnerved him that the rein
slackened in his grasp. The horse dashed madly forward--over fallen
timber, through light thickets of bush, into great pools of water,
that plashed up and blinded the runaway. The branches of the trees
caught at his clothes and tore them in fragments from his body. His
wig had been the first thing to go, and the brown paint with which he
had striven to hide his villany was washed from his face with, as it
seemed to him, stinging whips of water. A pitiable sight he presented
to the lightning, every flash of which caused him to scream with
terror, as he clung with wild desperation to the horse's neck. Torn,
bleeding, and literally in rags, with the stolen money in a belt
fastened round his waist, he rode on madly, a thief confessed. Louder
shrieked the storm; over the ranges and through the uneven valleys
dashed the maddened horse. A raging torrent was before them, and the
animal leaped into it, and in the leap the thief was unhorsed. While
he was struggling in the surging waters, and while the only thing that
was certain was death in a few seconds he repented most heartily of
his crime, and I leave it to priests to say of what value were the
choked words and the agonised thoughts that typified repentance.
When the next flash of lightning lit up the wild scene, it illumined
the furious waters rolling onwards, and, for the millionth part of a
second, the lifeless body of a thief justly punished.
In this way he played his last part in life, and was never more heard
of.