THE WELSHMAN READS HIS LAST CHAPTER IN THE
OLD WELSH BIBLE.
In a small blind gully, rejoicing in the name of Breakneck, to which
there had once been a slight rush, but which was now almost deserted,
there still remained a solitary tent. It attracted no particular
attention. It was not unusual for diggers to put up their tents in
out-of-the-way places, some distance from the claims they were
working; and no comment was caused by the circumstance that but very
lately this tent had been sold for a trifle to new-comers. Breakneck
Gully had been so named because, to get to it, one had to descend a
range of precipitous hills, with here and there dense clumps of bush
and timber, leading into treacherous hollows. From its peculiar
situation, Breakneck Gully always wore a dismal appearance; it almost
seemed as if the surrounding ranges were striving to hide it from the
sun. In the day-time, when little streaks of light peeped timidly into
its depths, but never lingered there, it was cheerless enough: in the
night its gloom was terrible. The gully was about four miles from the
main rush; and those who had to walk past it in the night were glad
when they left it and its gloomy shades behind them. When it was first
discovered, great hopes were entertained that some rich patches of
gold would be found there; but, although the ground had been pretty
well turned over, none of the claims yielded more than sufficient to
purchase flour and meat, and it was soon deserted for more auriferous
localities.
One evening, a few weeks after Welsh Tom and Richard Handfield had
admitted Honest Steve into partnership, four men were busy within this
solitary tent. They might have been ordinary diggers, preparing for
supper and their night's rest. They were dressed in the regular
digger's costume; and tub, cradle, and tin dishes, huddled into a
corner, would have been considered sufficiently indicative of the
nature of their pursuits. Yet there was about them a manner which did
not favour the hypothesis of their being honest workers of the soil.
They had an evil look upon their faces; they moved about the tent
stealthily and suspiciously; and there was somewhat too ostentatious a
display of firearms. Indeed, they were none other than Jim Pizey and
his gang.
"Keep a good look-out, Ralph," said Jim Pizey to one who was stationed
as a sentinel near the door. "Let us know if you hear anyone coming."
"All right," was the reply.
"How much longer are we going to hang about here?" asked Ned Rutt.
"I'm tired of waiting. It's my opinion we're only wasting our time."
"I don't know," said Jim Pizey. "It will be the first time the
Oysterman ever failed, if he fails now. He seems pretty confident. But
I wish he would finish his job. We shall have to be away from here,
anyhow, in a couple of days."
"Isn't Nuttall to have the money in his place by Christmas?"
"Yes; we shall have lots of time to get to the Station. We have to
hang on there a bit, you know. We've had cursed bad luck as yet; but
we'll make up for it. I'd like to have Dick Handfield with us. He'd
save us a lot of trouble, and it would prevent his peaching
afterwards."
"He knew about the plant in Melbourne, didn't he?" asked the sentinel.
"Yes, but he escaped us somehow. I wish we had cut the skunk's damned
throat for him. Directly the affair is blown, he'll know who did it,
and he'll split upon us to a certainty."
A dark look came into Jim Pizey's face as he said this.
"I'd think no more of squeezing the life out of him who'd split than I
would of--" he finished the sentence by knocking the ashes out of his
pipe in a significant manner. "Out of _him_ especially," he continued,
taking a letter from his pocket, and reading part of it; "I've a score
of my own to settle with him. I couldn't make out at first what made
Milly, turn informer against us; but I know now how it was. Dick
Handfield's white-faced wife got hold of and frightened her. I didn't
think Milly would do it, though, for I liked the girl, and I thought
she liked me. There's the baby, too. It's a pity for _that!_ If the
Oysterman succeeds in what he is trying, I'll write to Old Flick
telling him how we're getting along."
At this moment, the man at the door, who had been addressed as Ralph,
turned his head, and said, "Hush! some one coming."
Not a word was spoken in reply, but each man grasped his weapon, and
assumed an attitude of watchfulness.
"All right," presently said the sentinel. "It's the Tenderhearted
Oysterman."
And in walked, whistling, Honest Steve!
He nodded to his comrades, and, seating himself upon a stretcher, took
out his pipe. Having slowly filled it, and lighted it, he said,
"Well, Jim, how is it getting on?"
"How do I know?" returned Jim Pizey. "We're waiting for you to tell us
that. Here we are, hanging about for you, and, for all I know, wasting
our time to no purpose."
"Strike me cruel!" exclaimed the Oysterman. "Did you ever know the
Oysterman bungle a job?"
"No: but you're a precious long time over this one. I'd strangle the
pair of them before I'd be done by them."
"And so will I, before I'm done by them. I don't want you to tell me
how to do my work."
"How much longer are we to wait here?"
"Mates and gentlemen," said the Oysterman, speaking very slowly, "it
is my pleasing duty to inform you, as we say in Parliament, and
notwithstanding the insinuations thrown out by my honourable friend
and mate, Jim Pizey, Esquire, that I think we may look upon the job as
pretty well done."
"Stop your palaver and tell us all about it," observed Jim Pizey.
"Well, then, mates and gentlemen," said the Oysterman--
"We've had enough of that infernal nonsense," interrupted Jim Pizey,
angrily. "Can't you speak straightforward?"
"Strike me patient!" exclaimed the Oysterman, "Let a cove speak
according to his education, can't you! I'll tell the story my own way,
or I won't tell it at all."
"Go on, then," growled Pizey.
"Well, then, to commence all over again: Mates and gentlemen, you know
that I'm now an honest, hardworking digger, and mates with Dick
Handfield and an infernal fool of a Welshman. When I happened
promiscuously to drop across the pair of them, says I to myself,
Tenderhearted Oysterman, here's a little bit of work for you to do,
and you've got to go in and do it well. There's that plant of
Nuttall's at Highlay Station, says I to myself. What if the old cove
should have some place to put his money in that we don't know of?
Here's Dick Handfield knows every foot of the house and Station. If we
can get him to join us, we can make sure of the tin. We can settle him
afterwards, if we like; but have him we must, if we can get hold of
him. But, says I to myself, Dick Handfield is an honest young thief.
He gave us the slip once before. And, says I to myself, Dick
Handfield'll get a good claim, perhaps, and I can't get no hold of him
if he does, unless I come it very artful. So, mates and gentlemen, I
laid a plot, invented it every bit myself, and when I tell you all
about it, as I'm going to do now, I think you'll say I did come it
artful, and no mistake."
The Oysterman settled himself upon his seat, in an evident state of
enjoyment, and resumed:
"The first thing I thought of, mates and gentlemen, when I came across
the pair of them, was that Dick Handfield mustn't suspect that he knew
me. You know, mates and gentlemen, that I hadn't shaved for ten years,
but I sacrificed everything for my artful plot. I shaved my chin as
smooth as a bagatelle ball, and took care to keep myself pretty clean.
It was such a long time since I saw my own face, that I assure you,
mates and gentlemen, I hardly knew it again. But to prevent any chance
of discovery, I bought some acid, and burned this black mark under my
eye. That was rather artful, wasn't it? And, mates and gentlemen, as
it spoils my good looks, I hope you'll take it into consideration when
we square up, and make me an allowance for it. Then, says I to myself,
what name shall we take, Oysterman? And I hit upon Honest Steve, as
one that would exactly suit me. Then I began to look about me; it
didn't take me long to strike up an acquaintance with the Welshman.
He's a simple kind of fool, and will believe anything. It was
different with Dick Handfield. I do believe he had some kind of
suspicion at first; he looked at me as if he had a sort of an idea
that he knew me, and in his damned proud way wouldn't condescend to be
civil to me. But I didn't rile up at that; it wasn't my game. I was a
bit frightened that my trap wouldn't click, for they had got a claim
which every one of us believed was going to turn out pounds weight of
gold. But it was a duffer." (Here the Tenderhearted Oysterman
chuckled.) "A regular duffer--two grains to the tub--not enough to
keep 'em in salt. I was there when they washed out the first tub, and
wasn't Dick Handfield down on his luck! Before they came on the gutter
I had offered 'em twenty ounces for a third share, but they wouldn't
take it. And when Dick Handfield looked up and saw me, he turned
awfully savage. But I had nothing but soft words for him, mates and
gentlemen. I put up with all his airs, for I knew my day would come,
and it has come, mates and gentlemen, as you will say, presently."
He paused to indulge in the pleasing anticipation of his coming day,
and then resumed--
"I had a claim marked out upon the line of the gutter--of course I did
not know whether it would turn out good or bad--and I offered to take
them in as mates. They jumped at the offer, like a couple of mice
jumping into a trap; and after that I got more artful than ever. The
long fool of a Welshman, he's a soft sort of cove, and he reads his
Bible every night before he goes to bed. Says I to myself, I must turn
religious, I must. So I buys a Testament, and I makes it dirty and
ragged, as if I had used it a good deal, and I writes my name inside
the cover. One day, I leaves this Testament lying on the table--quite
by accident, mates and gentlemen--and the Welshman, he comes in, and I
twigs him take it up and look at my name on the cover. 'Is this yours,
Steve?' he says. 'Yes,' I answers; 'how stupid of me to leave it out;
I've had it for twenty years, and I wouldn't take anything for it.' 'I
like you for that, Honest Steve,' he says, the tears almost coming
into his eyes--a nice soft fool _he_ is!--and he gave me a regular
hand-gripe. 'You're a better sort of fellow than I thought you was.'
He had never shook hands with me before, and I knew that I had got
_him_ all right. I was awful pious with him, I can tell you! Then I
set on to Dick Handfield. Whenever I spoke to him I called him 'Sir,'
and was very respectful. I got him to talk of his being a gentleman,
and what a shame it was that such a swell as him should have to work
like a common digger. 'The Welshman,' says I, 'he's used to it, and
don't mind it; but you ought to be different. It isn't a very
gentlemanly thing,' I says to him, 'for you to have to go mates with
an old lag'--for the Welshman, you know, mates and gentlemen, is a
lag--a lifer, too. Then I got him to drink, and set him and the
Welshman quarrelling; and after that, mates and gentlemen, my artful
job was pretty well done."
"What are you going to make of all this?" asked Jim Pizey. "I don't
see how this will get Dick Handfield to join us. And we must have him,
Oysterman, or we shall all swing for it. He's the only one, besides
Old Flick, who knows what we're up to."
"Wait till I've done," said the Oysterman, "and you'll see quick
enough. I've been mates with the Welshman and Dick Handfield now for
four weeks, and the claim's washed up. It has turned out pretty well
but not so well as the diggers round about think it has, which makes
it all the better for us. They think we've been keeping them in the
dark as to what we've got out of the claim. We haven't divided the
gold yet; the Welshman's got charge of that. We're going to divide
to-morrow. All the diggers know that we're going to divide
to-morrow"--and the Tenderhearted Oysterman laughed and rubbed his
knees. "I've took care that they should all know it. That's coming it
artful, ain't it?"
"How?" asked Jim Pizey.
"How!" repeated the Oysterman, scornfully, but dropping his voice.
"Can't you see through it? The Welshman and Dick Handfield, they've
been quarrelling for the last two weeks, as if they'd like to cut each
other's throats. I've took care of that. I told Dick Handfield that
the Welshman said he was a proud, lazy fool; and I told the Welshman
that I heard Dick Handfield swear, if he could get hold of the Welsh
Bible, he'd pitch it into the fire. Dick Handfield, he's been drinking
like mad; and this afternoon, mates and gentlemen, this afternoon,
they had a regular flare-up; if they hadn't been parted, they'd have
had a stand-up fight. Dick Handfield, he goes away swearing that he'll
be even with the Welshman yet. And that's the end of my story, mates
and gentlemen."
"But what's to come of all this?"
"Can't you see through it yet? What would you say if, before to-morrow
morning, I was to bring you the gold the Welshman's taking care of?
There's nearly a hundred ounces of it. What do you think I've been
working for all this time? You be on the watch to-night, and I'll
bring you the gold safe enough. See here, mates and gentlemen"--and he
looked about him cautiously, and pulled out a knife--"this is Dick
Handfield's knife, this is; I prigged it from him this morning. What
if the poor Welshman was to be found to-morrow morning dead in his
bed? What if Dick Handfield's knife should be found on the ground,
under the bed, with blood on it? The quarrel between Welsh Tom and
Dick Handfield remembered--the gold that was going to be divided to
morrow gone--the Welshman stabbed with Dick Handfield's knife: eh,
mates and gentlemen? Do you see now how artful I've been coming it?
When Dick Handfield knows that they're after him for murdering his
mate when he knows that his knife is found, covered with blood he'll
be too glad to come with us, so as to get out of the way? Oh, you let
the Oysterman alone for doing a job properly! In a dozen hours from
now we'll be on the road to Highlay Station, and Dick Handfield will
be with us."
"And all this will be done to-night?"
"As sure as thunder!"
"By God! Oysterman," exclaimed Jim Pizey, "you've got a heart of
iron!"
"Strike me merciful!" said the Tenderhearted Oysterman. "Me a heart of
iron! I've got a heart as soft as a woman's! If I thought I should
hurt the poor cove to-night, I'd go and give myself in charge
beforehand. There's Ralph, there, if you call hard-hearted, you
wouldn't be far out. But me!" No words can express his villanous
enjoyment of this appeal.
"What do you mean?" growled Ralph.
"Mean, you flinty-hearted parent!" said the Tenderhearted Oysterman.
"What's the use of your being a father? We've never heard you ask once
after your offspring, Grif!"
"How's the young rip getting on?" asked Ralph, surlily. "He's always a
disgracing of me!"
"He's getting on very bad," replied the Oysterman; "very bad, isn't
he, Jim? He's turned honest, and blacks boots in the streets for a
tanner a pair. We gave him a turn, Jim and me, but we didn't pay him;
I wasn't going to encourage him. He'll come to no good, won't Grif;
he's a downright sneak."
"There, that's enough of him," growled Ralph; "talk of something else,
can't you?"
"Here's an unnatural father for you!" exclaimed the Oysterman, looking
round. "Objects to speak about his own offspring! It makes my tender
heart bleed to think of his unnaturalness. Give us something to drink;
I'm dry with talking. I'll stop for a couple of hours before I go
back. Everything'll be quiet then."
Brandy was produced, and the gang of ruffians sat together for some
time in the dark, talking in whispers over their vile projects.
The Welshman was alone in his tent. He was lying upon his bed,
thinking over his quarrel with Richard Handfield; thinking how sorry
he was that there should have been any quarrel at all, and how he
would like to make it up. He could not help reflecting how strange it
was that he had never quarrelled with Richard until Honest Steve had
joined them. He had not been quite imposed upon by Honest Steve; he
had all along entertained a doubt of that worthy's genuineness, and
all his simple predilections were in favour of Richard Handfield. But
he had been taken in by Honest Steve's story of the Bible. There were
two common beds in the tent, one belonging to Handfield, the other to
himself. Honest Steve had a little tent of his own, close by. The
Welshman cast many glances at the unoccupied bed, wishing that
Handfield would come, so that the difference between them might be
healed. The more he thought over the matter, the more he was convinced
that an explanation would set it all right. There were many good
points about Handfield, which had won upon the simple Welshman; and he
did think that his mate's lot was a hard one. He had seen the picture
of Alice, too, which Richard kept about him, and he thought that no
man could be bad who was loved by such a woman; her sweet face seemed
to elevate his mate in his eyes. And so, as he lay upon his bed
thinking over these things, the Welshman yearned for Richard's return,
that a reconciliation might be effected between them.
Richard Handfield was far from a bad man; but he was a weak man and a
coward. He was vacillating, and was easily led for good or evil. Above
all, he could not face misfortune. The change in his circumstances
before he married Alice, his bitter disappointment at the conduct her
father had pursued towards them, and their subsequent misfortunes and
poverty, had completely prostrated him. He really looked upon himself
as most harshly treated: in his heart he did not believe that any
other man in the world had as much to bear as himself; and he writhed
and fretted at his hard lot. The weak points in his character would
scarcely have made their appearance in prosperity; but under the lash
of misfortune they thrust themselves out, pricking him sorely, and
causing him to appear in a very unamiable light. He was intensely
weak, intensely vacillating, intensely selfish; and his utter want of
moral courage was bringing him to the brink of a terrible precipice.
It was past nine o'clock in the evening when Richard, who had been
drinking at some of the sly grog-shanties, came to the tent. It would
have been better for him had he not come home that night. It is awful
to think upon what slight threads of chance a man's destiny hangs! He
had not intended to sleep that night in the Welshman's tent, but a
stray remark had changed his resolution. The quarrel between the two
mates had been incidentally mentioned in conversation at the shanty
where Richard was drinking, and a digger jokingly observed that he
supposed Richard would be afraid to sleep that night in the Welshman's
tent. That remark decided him. He was not going to have the charge of
cowardice brought against him. It also prevented his drinking to
excess, for he determined to go home early.
When he entered, the Welshman sprang from his bed, and Richard started
back, expecting a blow. He was much astonished when the Welshman,
holding out his hand, said,--
"Dick, let's shake hands. If you are sorry for the quarrel we have
had, so am I. Why should we two fall out?"
Richard made no response.
"I have been thinking over things, Dick," the Welshman said, "and the
more I think the more certain I am that it is all a mistake. Come--we
have seen bad luck and good luck together. Let us shake hands."
Richard put out his hand, but not so readily as the Welshman, nor with
a similar heartiness.
"I'll shake hands with you, Tom," he said; "and I'm sorry that we
quarrelled. But you had no right to say of me that I was a proud, lazy
fool."
"I said nothing of the sort," said the Welshman. "Whatever I've said,
I've said to your face. I'm not mean enough to speak against a man
when his back's turned. Who told you I said so?"
"Honest Steve."
It flashed across the Welshman's mind, that they had both been
deceived by Honest Steve.
"You remember my telling you my story, Dick, when we camped out?" he
asked.
"Yes."
"You remember that part about my mother?"
"Yes"
"And the Bible she gave me?"
"Yes."
"All the gold in Victoria could not buy that Bible Dick."
"I don't think it could, Tom."
"And yet I was told that you swore to burn my Bible, when you could
lay hands on it."
"Whoever told you so told a lie. I'm not very sober, but you can
believe me."
"I do. We're both been put upon by Steve. He told me you swore this,
and you may guess my blood was up."
"I should think so. But why didn't you tell me this before?"
"Because Steve made me promise not to say anything about it. I suppose
he made you promise the same."
Richard nodded, and said, half musingly, "What could be his motive?"
"Never mind his motive. To-morrow morning we share the gold, and when
we have squared up, we'll break with Steve, and you and I will stick
together as mates, if you like. I'll tell him my opinion of him, too.
Shake hands again, Dick."
They shook hands once more, and the two were friends again. Softened
by the reconciliation, they fell into confidential conversation.
"I can't fathom his motive, Tom," said Richard, harping upon the
theme. "Steve has done this for a purpose. Did you ever meet with him
before?"
"No."
"You remember how he came and offered to mate with us? There didn't
seem anything strange in it then, but now it seems to bear a different
light. He has been playing upon both of us. He played upon me, knowing
my cursed pride"--the Welshman patted Richard's knee--"he told me it
was a degradation to me to mate with a--a--"
"Say it, Dick," said the Welshman, gently. "It was a degradation to
you to go mates with a ticket-of-leave man."
"Yes, he said that. And I--although I know that you are innocent, Tom,
old fellow,--"
"Thank you, Dick,"
--"And, although I know that you are the best-hearted fellow in the
world--I listened to him, and believed him."
The Welshman sighed, and said, "It was natural, Dick; it was natural."
"It was nothing of the sort; I ought to have known better. But I
didn't think, Tom, that's the truth." Richard spoke in a tone of
self-reproach; he was ashamed of his selfishness, and of the unjust
thoughts he had harboured towards his mate.
"There's enough of him," said the Welshman, heartily. "We'll talk no
more about him, and to-morrow we will wash our hands of him. And now,
Dick,"--he hesitated before he proceeded, for he was about to speak of
a subject which needed delicate handling--"And now, Dick, I want to
speak to you about your wife."
"Well, Tom," said Richard; in his then mood, when all harsh feeling
was banished from his mind, the thought of his wife harmonised with
his gentler humour. But even at that moment a sharp pang quivered
through him, as the image of Alice, alone in Melbourne, without a
friend, rose before him. Then there was the additional sting of his
own misconduct. If Alice knew how he had been drinking lately, after
all his promises and good resolutions! Little thrills of shame tingled
through every nerve of his body.
"When men and women marry," said the Welshman, made bold by Richard's
subdued voice and manner, "they owe a duty to each other, which I
think it is sinful to forget. You have forgotten your duty, Dick. If
your wife is anything like the picture you have of her, she wouldn't
forget hers, I'll stake my life on it."
"She is the best and dearest woman in the world," said Richard; "and
the most unfortunate, for she met me, and--and loved me, who am no
more worthy of her than I am of heaven." (It is often in this way
that weak selfish men atone for their bad conduct. As if gentle
self-accusation can heal cruel acts!) "If she had never seen me, it
would have been better for her."
"But she did see you, and she married you, Dick, so it's not very wise
to speak like that now. How long is it since you have written to her?"
"It must be five or six weeks." The Welshman looked grave. "There is
no excuse for me, I know. But I had not courage."
"There is no excuse for you. I wish I had the good fortune to possess
such a wife."
"You deserve one better than I do, Tom," said Richard, remorsefully.
"That's a good hearing--not for me, but for you. It sounds as if you
were more grateful. Think of her without a friend in Melbourne,
waiting, waiting, waiting! Poor thing! who has she to lean upon but
you? Write to her to-morrow. I tell you what we'll do, Dick? When
we've divided the gold--there are more than ninety ounces--we'll put
our two shares together, and well take your wife in mates with us.
We'll divide our shares into three, and you shall send her her share
with your letter."
Richard pressed his mate's hand.
"You are a good fellow, Welshman," he said. "We'll talk over it in the
morning."
"No; we'll settle it now. I've no one depending upon me. I haven't
much use for my share. For the matter of that, you might have the lot.
Why not go to Melbourne, and bring her here? While you're away, I can
be putting up a tent for you and her. I will line it with green baize,
and make it quite a snuggery. I'll get a good claim, too, before you
return; you see if I don't."
"She will never be able to rough it, up here."
"Dick," said the Welshman, "what do you think she is doing now, in
Melbourne? She must be dreadfully unhappy, away from you, although you
do not deserve her. Come, now, make up your mind. This may be a
turning-point for you. We may find a big nugget yet, you know, and
then you'd be all right again."
"You put new life into me, Welshman. I think I will go to Melbourne,
and ask her if she'll come."
"Bravo, Dick! You shall start the day after to-morrow. She'll come,
depend upon it. I'll be your friend, Dick, yours and hers. You will
see what sort of a tent I'll have ready for you by the time you come
back. Now then, write her a letter."
"What is the use, if I am going to Melbourne to-morrow?"
"The post will travel faster than you. Write just two or three lines,
and give her a glimpse of sunshine. Her face will be all the brighter
for it when she sees you."
Welsh Tom placed writing materials on the table, and Richard sat
down to write. Before he commenced, he took from his pocket a small
pocket-book, containing the letters Alice had sent him, her picture,
and Little Peter's stone heart, which he had picked up on the stairs
when he parted from his wife. He opened Alice's last letter, and read
it; his heart grew very tender to her as he read. The letter was full
of hope, full of encouraging counsel; it bade him not to be cast down,
not to despair, not to let any thought of her disturb his mind. She
yearned to be with him, but she could wait without repining if he
would persevere in his good resolutions. "As I know you will, dear,"
she wrote, "for my sake, to whom you are all the world. I am not dull,
for I think of you always, and of the brighter days to come. Never
mind if you are not fortunate at first; fortune will smile upon
you--I know, I feel it will. God will never desert us, if we are true
to ourselves and to each other. And oh, Richard darling! since you
have gone I have witnessed such suffering in others--such misery,
endured with patience by poor unfortunate persons--that I feel our lot
to be a happy one in comparison with theirs. I think the experience
was sent to me as a lesson." Richard read to the end with moistened
eyes.
"God bless her!" he said, and he took her portrait from his
pocket-book, and kissed it.
Then he wrote a short letter--a few lines merely--telling Alice that
he would be with her almost directly, and mentioning incidentally that
he had got rid of a bad man, who was his mate, and that he would bring
some gold to Melbourne. He had a postage-stamp in his pocket-book, and
to get it he turned out the contents of the book upon the table. As he
did so, Little Peter's stone heart rolled away, and would have fallen
if the Welshman had not caught it. Richard sealed his letter, affixed
the postage-stamp, and looking towards his mate, started to his feet
in surprise.
Welsh Tom was all of a tremble, and his eyes were fixed with a
terrified expression upon the stone heart, which lay in his hand.
"Tom!" Richard cried, in alarm.
The Welshman grasped Richard's wrist, and asked, in a husky voice--
"Where did you get this from?"
"That heart! I picked it up on the stairs when I bade Alice good-bye
in Melbourne. I thought it was a good omen. What makes you look upon
it so?"
As the Welshman gazed upon that little piece of stone, he saw the
woodland, lake, and mountain, which lay around his old Welsh home,
where love and peace had reigned until the false friend came to wreck
their happiness. The heart-shocks, the stern resolves born of
desolation, the flight of his sister, the agony of his mother, his
pursuit of the villain who had so ruthlessly violated the sacred ties
of friendship and hospitality, the promise of reparation, the false
charge, the trial, the condemnation: all this he saw in that little
stone heart.
"It is like a sign from the grave." he said. "And you don't know to
whom it belongs?"
"No."
"It was my sister's--my poor, lost sister's. I gave it to her in
Wales, when she was good. I told you I fancied once I saw her in
Melbourne. If she should be alive, Dick--if she should be there! Oh,
Dick! Dick!"
"When I get to Melbourne, Tom," Richard said, "I will try and find out
all about it. Perhaps Alice knows." And then he thought pityingly of
the bad character of the house in which he had found the heart. "Take
courage, Tom, we will find her if she be alive."
"Yes, we will find her," Welsh Tom said, as if speaking to himself;
"her and hers, perhaps. It is my duty. If anything happens to me,
Dick, promise me that you will take care of her, and be a brother to
her."
"What should happen to you, Tom?"
"I cannot tell. I have a foreboding of evil upon me. Promise."
"I do promise."
"Thank you. We will talk to-morrow morning about this"--he placed the
stone heart to his lips, and taking from his pocket a chamois-leather
bag, nearly filled with gold, he dropped the heart in it, and placed
the bag beneath his pillow. "I shall turn in now. I am tired, and I
want to go to bed and think."
"All right, Tom, I shall turn in too. I heard to-day of a good bit of
ground, and I shall be up early in the morning to have a look at it
before I go to Melbourne. Good-night, old fellow."
"Good-night, Dick."
Richard was soon asleep, but the Welshman lay awake for a longer time
than usual, reading his mother's Bible. He had a strange sort of
feeling about him. His mind was thronged with old associations.
Impelled by some heaven-directed influence, he crept out of bed, and
knelt down and prayed. Then he got into bed again, and thought of his
sister, and of their once happy home in the old Welsh mountains. He
kissed the Bible before he fell asleep; and, as consciousness was
fading from him, the last thing he saw, with his inner sense of sight,
was the face of his old mother, as he remembered it in his boyish
days.
Everything in and around the tent was wrapped in deepest shade. The
moon had not yet risen. The stars glimmered dimly in the heavens, and
the wind floated by with soft sighs. Scarce the barking of a dog
disturbed the stillness. Nothing but the deep breathing of strong men
was heard. A solemn hush was over all. Yet there was wakeful life
within the tent--wakeful life in the person of the Tenderhearted
Oysterman, who, with but little trouble, had succeeded in unfastening
the calico door from without. When he was inside, he softly closed the
door, and crouched upon the ground, listening to the regular breathing
of the sleepers. Satisfied that his entrance had not disturbed them,
he took a piece of phosphorus from his pocket, and rubbed it on the
sleeve of his serge shirt. As he held his arm up to his face, a dim,
ghastly glare was reflected in his cruel eyes, and upon his cruel
lips. He then took out Richard's clasp-knife, and opened it slowly, so
as to avoid the click of the spring. His plans were well matured. In
the event of any struggle, and of Richard's awaking, he would call out
for assistance, and accuse Richard of the murder. He could easily
account for his appearance in the tent, and, for the rest, Richard's
knife, and the quarrel between the mates, would be sufficient
evidence. He thought over all this as he crouched upon the ground,
with the open knife in his hand. He slowly drew the bright blade
across the phosphoric glare on his sleeve, and then suddenly rose, and
bent over the sleeping form of the Welshman. The doomed man was lying
upon his back; and his arm, carelessly thrown over his pillow, rested
upon the old Welsh Bible. The coverings on the bed were disarranged,
and the Welshman's strong, muscular chest was partially bared. If, at
that awful moment, he had awakened, it would not have saved him: for
the hand of the murderer was raised, and, with one strong, cruel flash
the knife was buried to the hilt in the heart of the sleeping man! A
sudden start an agonised quiver of every nerve--a choking, gasping
sigh and moan--and the murdered man lay still in death. Not more still
was his form than was the form of his murderer. Motionless as a
statue, the Tenderhearted Oysterman stood, as if petrified. For a
brief space only he so stood; for presently his muscles relaxed, and
he groped under the dead man's pillow for the gold. He uttered a
stifled scream as his hand came in contact with the dead man's face;
but directly afterwards, he cursed himself in silence for his folly.
When he had found the gold, he turned his phosphorus-lighted sleeve
towards the murdered man. He felt sick and faint as the ghastly blue
glare fell upon the Welshman's bleeding breast, and with a shudder
which he could not repress, the Tenderhearted Oysterman crept
stealthily from the tent.
Pale and trembling, he halted for a few moments outside, as if for
rest. He could hear nothing but the beating of his heart against his
ribs; he could see nothing but the phosphorescent glare upon his arm.
As though he had looked into some weirdly-illuminated mirror, in which
he saw a fadeless picture of his crime, he hurriedly turned up the
sleeve, and so shut out the glare. Then he walked towards Breakneck
Gully. The loneliness was awful to him. As he crept slowly along--for
he had to thread his way for the first mile between deserted claims,
and over white hillocks of pipeclay soil--he listened eagerly for the
barking of a dog, for any sound that would break the dreadful silence,
and divert his thoughts from the deed he had committed. But no sound
fell upon his ears; for him the air was full of silent horrors. Strive
as he would, he could not rid himself of the fancy that the shadow of
the murdered man was gliding after him as he walked alone. He dared
not look behind him. He almost tumbled into a hole as he quickened his
steps, the sooner to reach his comrades' tent; but, recovering
himself, he started back with an oath upon his coward lips, for he saw
the Welshman's face rise suddenly from the claim. It disappeared as
suddenly at his fancy had conjured it up, and he went on his way. As
he came to the end of the diggings, a faint light was spreading over
the verge of the horizon. The moon was rising. He was thankful for
this; the thought that he should have to walk, surrounded by black
night, through the wooded range which led to Breakneck Gully, somewhat
daunted him; but he would have the moon now to light him through the
bush. He cursed his weakness; he cursed his folly in not having
provided himself with brandy to keep up his courage. He needed it; for
he could not shake off the idea of the appalling shadow gliding after
him. His thoughts travelled back to the tent, and fascinated by the
horror of the last hour, he lived it over again. Once more he enters
the tent, vividly recalling each minute circumstance; once more he
crouches upon the ground, intent and watchful! He takes the piece of
phosphorus from his pocket, and rubs it upon his sleeve--there is a
blue glare across his eyes as he thinks this part of the tragedy over
again--he opens the knife softly, cautiously--he bends over the
sleeping man, raises his arm, and strikes! Horror! what is this?
Standing directly in his path is a tall, dark form, with gaunt arms
stretched towards him. He can see its hair stir, he can hear a sobbing
wail issue from its mouth. His craven heart leaps with terror; then a
sickly smile of relief passes over his face, for he sees that he has
been startled by a tree, its branches trembling in a gust of wind
which has just swept by. All nature seemed to cry against him for the
coward deed he had committed. The moon rose slowly behind a veil of
mournful clouds; the stars paled; the wind gasped and sobbed; and
every leaf and branch quivered as he crept along. Once he closed his
eyes as if shut out the terror which encompassed him; but more thickly
thronged his ghastly fancies, making themselves visible. And when he
looked before him once more, a shadow seemed to glide swiftly by him,
and to hide itself behind a clump of timber at his right. So strong
was this fancy upon him, that he took a knife from his pocket, and
held it ready to strike. A sigh of relief escaped him when he had left
the clump of timber at his back; but still he dared not look behind,
for the awful shadow was following on his steps. Louder grew the
moaning of the wind; more strongly trembled every leaf and branch; and
a flash of pale lightning glancing suddenly upon his sight, almost
blinded him. But not so suddenly that he did not see within it a
picture of the Welshman lying upon his stretcher, with a stream of
blood flowing from his breast. Then the clouds began to weep; thick
clots of rain fell, like clots of blood, in his path; and he trod in
them, shuddering. He was near the end of his journey now. Within fifty
yards of his comrades' tent stood a solitary tree. As he passed it the
heavens opened, and he saw again the vision of the Welshman's bleeding
heart, while the now fast-pouring rain seemed to coil a host of bloody
symbols round about his feet.