Potch had looked towards Michael's hut before he went into his own, next
evening. There was no light in its window, and he supposed that Michael
had gone to bed. In the morning, as they were walking to the mine, Potch
said:
"He's back; did you know?"
Michael guessed whom Potch was speaking of. "Saw him ... as I was
walking out along the Warria road yesterday afternoon," he said; "and
then at Newton's.... He looks ill."
Potch did not reply. They did not speak of Charley again, and yet as
they worked they thought of no one else, and of nothing but the
difficulties his coming would bring into their lives. For Potch, his
father's return meant the revival of an old shame. He had been accepted
on his merits by the Ridge; he had made people forget he was Charley
Heathfield's son, and now Charley was back Potch had no hope of anything
but the old situation where his father was concerned, the old drag and
the old fear. The thought of it was more disconcerting than ever, now
too, because Sophie would have to share the sort of atmosphere Charley
would put about them.
And Michael was dulled by the weight of the fate which threatened him.
Every day the consciousness of it weighed more heavily. He wondered
whether his mind would remain clear and steady enough to interpret his
resolve. For him, Charley's coming, and the enmity he had gauged in his
glance the night before, were last straws of misfortune.
John Armitage had put the proposition he outlined for Sophie, to
Michael, the night before he left for Sydney. He had told Michael what
he knew, and what he suspected in connection with Rouminof's opals.
Michael had neither defended himself nor denied Armitage's accusation.
He had ignored any reference to Paul's opals, and had made his position
of uncompromising hostility to Armitage's proposition clear from the
outset. There had not been a shadow of hesitation in his decision to
oppose the Armitages' scheme for buying up the mines. At whatever cost,
he believed he had no choice but to stand by the ideas and ideals on
which the life of the Ridge was established and had grown.
John Armitage, because of his preconceived notion of the guilty
conscience Michael was suffering from, was disappointed that the action
of Michael's mind had been as direct to the poles of his faith as it had
been. He realised Sophie was right: Michael would not go back on the
Ridge or the Ridge code; but the Ridge might go back on him. Armitage
assured himself he had a good hand to play, and he explained his
position quite frankly to Michael. If Michael would not work with him,
he, John Armitage, must work against Michael. He would prefer not to do
so, he said. He described to several men, separately, what the proposals
of the Armitage Syndicate amounted to, in order that they might think
over, weigh, and discuss them. He was going down to Sydney for a few
weeks, and when he came back he would call a meeting and lay his
proposition before the men. He hoped by then Michael would have
reconsidered his decision. If he had not, Armitage made it clear that,
much as he would regret having to, he would nevertheless do all in his
power to destroy any influence Michael might have with men of the Ridge
which might militate against their acceptance of the scheme for
reorganisation of the mines he had to lay before them. Michael
understood what that meant. John Armitage would accuse him of having
stolen Paul's opals, and he would have to answer the accusation before
men of the Ridge.
His mind hovered about the thought of Maud Johnson.
He could not conceive how John Armitage had come to the knowledge he
possessed, unless Maud, whom he was aware Armitage had bought stones
from in America, had not showed or sold them to him. But Armitage
believed Michael still had, and was hoarding the stones. That was the
strange part of it all. How could Armitage declare he had one of the
stones, and yet believe Michael was holding the rest? Unless Maud had
taken that one stone from the table the night she came to see Potch?
Michael could not remember having seen the stone after she went. He
could not remember having put it back in the box. It only just occurred
to him she might only have taken the stone that night. Jun had probably
recognised the stone, and she had told Armitage what Jun had said about
it. Jun might have gone to the hut for the rest of the stones, but then
Maud would not have told Armitage they were still on the Ridge. Maud
would be sure to know if Jun had got the stones on his own account,
Michael thought.
His brain went over and over again what John Armitage had said,
querying, exclaiming, explaining, and enlarging on fragments of their
talk. Armitage declared he had evidence to prove Michael Brady had
stolen Rouminof's stones. He might have proof that he had had possession
of them for a while, Michael believed. But if Armitage was under the
impression he still had the opals, his information was incomplete at
least, and Michael treasured a vague hope that the proof which he might
adduce, would be as faulty.
But more important than the bringing home to him of responsibility for
the lost opals, and the "unmasking" to eyes of men of the Ridge which
Armitage had promised him, was the bearing it would have on the
proposition which was to be put before them. Michael realised that there
was a good deal of truth in what Armitage had said. A section of the
younger miners, men who had settled on the new rushes, and one or two of
the older men who had grown away from the Ridge idea, would probably be
willing enough to fall in with and work under Armitage's scheme. George,
Watty, Pony-Fence Inglewood, Bill Grant, Cash Wilson, and most of the
older men were against it, and some of the younger ones, too; but Archie
and Ted Cross were inclined to waver, although they had always been
staunch for the Ridge principle, and with them was a substantial
following from the Punti, Three Mile, and other rushes.
A disintegrating influence was at work, Michael recognised. It had been
active for some time. Since Potch's finding of the big stone, scarcely
any stone worth speaking of had been unearthed on the fields, and that
meant long store accounts, and anxious and hard times for most of the
gougers.
The settlement had weathered seasons of dearth, and had existed on the
merest traces of precious opal before; but this one had lasted longer,
and had tried everybody's patience and capacity for endurance to the
last degree. Murmurs of the need for money to prospect the field and
open up new workings were heard. Criticisms of the ideas which would
keep out money and money-owners who might be persuaded to invest their
money to prospect and open up new workings on Fallen Star, crept into
the murmurings, and had been circulating for some months. Bat M'Ginnis,
a tall, lean, herring-gutted Irishman, with big ears, pointed like a
bat's, was generally considered author of the criticisms and abettor of
the murmurings. He had sunk on the Coolebah and drifted to the Punti
rush soon after. On the Punti, it was known, he had expatiated on the
need for business men and business methods to run the mines and make the
most of the resources of the Ridge.
M'Ginnis was a good agent for Armitage, before Armitage's proposition
was heard of. Michael wondered now whether he was perhaps an agent of
Armitage's, and had been sent to the Ridge to prepare the way for John
Armitage's scheme. When he came to think of it, Michael remembered he
had heard men exclaim that Bat never seemed short of money himself,
although if he had to live on what his claim produced he would have been
as hard up as most of them. Michael wondered whether Charley's
home-coming was a coincidence likewise, or whether Armitage had laid his
plans more carefully than might have been imagined.
Michael saw no way out for himself. He could not accept Armitage's bribe
of silence as to his share in the disappearance of Paul's opals, in
order to urge men of the Ridge to agree to the Armitages' proposition
for buying up the mines. If he could have, he realised, he would carry
perhaps a majority of men of the Ridge with him; and those he cared most
for would stand by the Ridge idea whether he deserted it or not, he
believed. He would only fall in their esteem; they would despise him;
and he would despise himself if he betrayed the idea on which he had
staked so much, and the realisation of which he would have died to
preserve. But there was no question of betraying the Ridge idea, or of
being false to the teaching of his whole life. He was not even tempted
by the terms Armitage offered for his co-operation. He was glad to think
no terms Armitage could offer would tempt him from his allegiance to the
principle which was the corner-stone of life on the Ridge.
But he asked himself what the men would think of him when they heard
Armitage's story; what Sophie would think, and Potch. He turned in agony
from the thought that Sophie and Potch would believe him guilty of the
thing he seemed to be guilty of. Anything seemed easier to bear than the
loss of their love and faith, and the faith of men of the Ridge he had
worked with and been in close sympathy with for so long--Watty and
George, Pony-Fence Inglewood, Bill Grant and Cash Wilson. Would he have
to leave the Ridge when they knew? Would they cold-shoulder him out of
their lives? His imagination had centred for so long about the thing he
had done that the guilt of it was magnified out of all proportion to the
degree of his culpability. He did not accuse himself in the initial act.
He had done what seemed to him the only thing to do, in good faith; the
opals had nothing to do with it. He did not understand yet how they had
got an ascendancy over him; how when he had intended just to look at
them, to see they were well packed, he had been seduced into that trance
of worshipful admiration.
Why he had not returned the stones to Paul as soon as Sophie had left
the Ridge, Michael could not entirely explain to himself. He went over
and over the excuses he had made to himself, seeing in them evidence of
the subtle witchery the stones had exercised over him. But as soon as he
was aware of the danger of delay, he tried to assure himself, and the
appearance it must have, he had determined to get rid of the stones.
Would the men believe he had wanted to give the stones to Paul--even
that he had done what he had done for the reasons he would put before
them? George and Watty and some of the others would believe him--but the
rest? Michael could not hope that the majority would believe his story.
They would want to know if at first he had kept the stones to prevent
Sophie leaving the Ridge, why he had not given them to Paul as soon as
she had gone. Michael knew he could only explain to them as he had to
himself. He had intended to; he had delayed doing so; and then, when he
went to find the stones to give them to Paul, they were no longer where
he had left them. It was a thin story--a poor explanation. But that was
the truth of the situation as far as he knew it. There was nothing more
to be said or thought on the subject. He put it away from him with an
impulse of impatience, desperate and weary.
When Potch returned from the mine that afternoon; he went into Michael's
hut before going home. Michael himself he had seen strike out westwards
in the direction of the swamp soon after he came above ground. Potch
expected to see his father where he was; he had seen him so often before
on Michael's sofa under the window. Charley glanced up from the
newspaper he was reading as Potch came into the room.
"Well, son," he said, "the prodigal father's returned, and quite ready
for a fatted calf."
Potch stood staring at him. Light from the window bathed the thin,
yellow face on the faded cushions of Michael's couch, limning the sharp
nose with its curiously scenting expression, all the hungry, shrewd
femininity and weakness of the face, and the smile of triumphant malice
which glided in and out of the eyes. Michael was right, Potch realised;
Charley was ill; but he had no pity for the man who lay there and smiled
like that.
"You can't stay here," he said. "Michael's coming."
Charley smiled imperturbably.
"Can't I?" he said. "You see. Besides ... I want to see Michael. That's
what I'm here for."
Potch growled inarticulately. He went to the hearth, gathered the
half-burnt sticks together to make a fire. He would have given anything
to get Charley out of the hut before Michael returned; but he did not
know how to manage it. If Charley thought he wanted him to go, nothing
would move him, Potch knew.
"What do you want to see Michael about?" he asked.
"Nice, affectionate son you are," Charley murmured. "Suppose you know
you are my son--and heir?"
"Worse luck," Potch muttered, watching the flame he had kindled over the
dry chips and sticks.
"You might've done worse," Charley replied, watching his son with a
slight, derisive smile. "I might've done worse myself in the way of a
son to support me in my old age."
"I'm not going to do that."
Charley laughed. "Aren't you?" he queried. "You might be very glad
to--on terms I could suggest. And you're a fine, husky chap to do it,
Potch, my lad.... They tell me you've married Rouminof's girl, and she's
chucked the singing racket. Rum go, that! She could sing, too.... People
I know told me they'd seen her in America in some revue stunt there, and
she was just the thing. Went the pace a bit, eh? Oh, well, there's
nothing like matrimony to sober a woman down--take the devil out of
her."
Potch's resentment surged; but before he could utter it, his father's
pleasantries were flipping lightly, cynically.
"By the way, I saw a friend of yours in Sydney couple of months ago. Oh,
well, several perhaps. Might have been a year.... Maud! There's a fine
woman, Potch. And she told me she was awfully gone on you once. Eh,
what?... And now you're a married man. And to think of my becoming a
grandfather. Help!"
Potch sprang to his feet, goaded to fury by the jeering, amiable voice.
"Shut up," he yelled, "shut up, or----"
The doorway darkened. Potch saw Charley's face light with an expression
of curious satisfaction and triumph. He turned and discovered that
Michael was standing in the doorway. Irresolute and flinching, he stood
there gazing at Charley, a strange expression of fear and loathing in
his eyes.
"You can clear out now, son," Charley remarked, putting an emphasis on
the "son" calculated to enrage Potch. "I want to talk to Michael."
Potch looked at Michael. It was his intention to stand by Michael if,
and for as long as, Michael needed him.
"It's all right, Potch," Michael said; but his eyes did not go to
Potch's as they usually did. There was a strange, grave quality of
aloofness about Michael. Potch hesitated, studying his face; but Michael
dismissed him with a glance, and Potch went out of the hut.