One of those inexplicable problems which now and again crop up to puzzle
the student of human nature and to delight the cynic is the readiness
wherewith a man, who on the whole is rather a good fellow, will
suddenly, and at a moment's notice, plunge into the lowest depths of
base and abject villainy.
When Maurice Sellon first laid his hand upon the lower rope to ascend
out of the crater, he had no more idea of committing this act of
blackest treachery than his generous and all too trusting friend had.
It came to him, so to speak, in mid-air--begotten of a consciousness of
the priceless treasure now in his possession--of the ease wherewith he
could draw up the rope.
The temptation became too strong. That splendid stone, worth a fortune,
would be all his. Renshaw might eventually work his way out by some
other point--but not until he himself had got a long start to the good.
He remembered his friend's words earlier in their expedition. "Do you
think you could find your way back alone?" Strangely prophetic! Yes,
he thought he could do that. At any rate, with the fabulous wealth
about him, it was worth while making the trial.
We think we have hitherto made it clear that Sellon was not without some
good impulses. Equally we seem to have made it clear that he was at the
same time what is commonly, and expressively, known as a "slippery
character." From a slip to a downright--a heavy--fall is the work of an
instant. So, too, had been the dastardly resolve which he had formed
and carried out.
He could not have lifted a hand against his friend--his nature was too
weak for any such aggressive act of villainy. But to leave him to
perish miserably of starvation, shut up there in the crater, involved
the playing of a comparatively inactive part. And again, it did not
look so bad. Renshaw was a man of infinite resource. He might
eventually succeed in finding a way out--probably would. Thus was
conscience seared.
Sellon climbed up to where the horses were grazing, closely
knee-haltered. He untied the _reims_, and led them back to the place
where they had camped. It was a short distance, but it gave him time to
think.
He saddled up his own horse. Then he took out the great diamond. How
it flashed in the sinking sunlight. It must be worth a fabulous sum.
All his own--all, not half.
His foot was in the stirrup. He took one more look around. There was
their resting-place, just as it had been left in the small hours of the
morning. His friend's blanket still lay there, as it had been thrown
aside. His friend's saddle and bridle--a few _reims_ and other gear.
The sight of these objects set him thinking.
The sweet golden sunshine slanted down into the hollow, its course
nearly run. Opposite, the great cliffs flushed redly at its touch;
below, the crater was already in shade. And upon that lonely ledge
stood the man who was thus treacherously left to die a lingering death--
never again to look upon a human face, never again to hear the sound of
a human voice.
Why had he been so blindly, so besottedly confiding? Had he not by the
very fact placed temptation in the other's way? Marian was right. "He
does not seem to ring true," had been her words. Her quick woman's
instinct had gauged the risk, while he, in his superior knowledge, had
suffered himself to be led blindfold into the trap. Ah, well, these
considerations came just a trifle too late. He must make up his mind to
meet his end, and that soon, for even to his resourceful brain no
glimmer of a way out of the difficulty presented itself.
"Hallo! Fanning!"
The blood tingled in his veins at the call. He paused a moment before
replying to the treacherous scoundrel--and then it was in one single
stern monosyllable.
"Well?"
"Look here, old chap. I want to talk to you."
"Why don't you show yourself?"
For although the voice came from the cliff's brow above, not even the
speaker's head was visible.
"Look here, old boss," went on the latter, ignoring the question. "I'm
a pretty desperate sort of a chap just now--because I'm desperately in
want of the needful--all of it that I can lay hands on, in fact. Now,
with you it's different; for you went out of your way to tell me as
much. Remember?"
"Go on."
"Well, you said you'd be content with _moderate_ riches. Now you've got
them. With me it's different. I want a good deal more than anything
moderate."
He paused, but no answer came from below.
"Well, what I want to propose is this. You hold on to what you've got,
and I'll stick to what I've got. Is that a bargain?"
"No."
"Now, Fanning, do be reasonable. By-the-by, you remember when we first
talked about this place. I told you I had an object in trying to make a
pile, and rather chaffed you on having one too. Said I believed our
object was the same. Remember?"
"Well?"
"Well, I little thought how I was hitting the right nail on the head.
Now, by agreeing to my suggestion, you can benefit us both--benefit all
three of us, in fact. For you behaved devilish well over that other
business, mind, devilish well. Look here now. Agree that we shall
start quits from this moment--that we each stick to what we've got on
us--mind you, we've had no division yet, and you may have as many stones
as I have--or nearly so--for all I--for all either of us--know. Give me
your straight word of honour that you agree to this, and--I'll let down
the rope again."
Here again the speaker fell unconsciously into an inconsistency so
paradoxical as to be almost grotesque. Had the position been reversed,
would he have scrupled at passing his own "word of honour" a score of
times, if necessary, in order to get out of the present quandary. And
once out of it would he have hesitated to break his pledged word equally
a score of times, and to pursue his claim to the uttermost. Not for a
moment would he have so scrupled. Yet he was prepared to accept this
other man's word in perfect good faith. Wherein is indeed a paradox,
and, as we have said, a grotesque one.
"And if I refuse?" said Renshaw.
"If--? In that case I shall not let down the rope again."
"I do refuse, then."
The stern determined tone left no room for doubt. That, once it was
formed, there was no shaking this man's resolution Maurice was well
aware.
"Then you are committing suicide," he said.
"And you murder--murder in the blackest and most diabolical form in
which it has ever been committed. And--believe me or not, as you
please--I would rather be myself here, than be you, at large with the
results of your villainy. And those results--mark my last words--you
will never benefit by."
To this there was no reply, and some minutes went by in silence. Again
Renshaw heard his name called. But he deigned no answer.
"I say, Fanning," came the voice from overhead again. "Hang it, man,
say you agree."
"Never," now replied Renshaw, speaking coldly and deliberately. "I have
never been a grasping man, and I defy my worst enemy to charge me with a
single instance of taking advantage of anybody. But--I have always
tried to be a man of principle--to act on principle. And in utterly
refusing to play up to your villainous hand I am following out that line
consistently. And now, Maurice Sellon, I will just add this. I am
alone in the world, and having no ties my life is to that extent my own.
I will let it be sacrificed rather than violate a principle. But you,
from the hour you leave this place, you will never know a moment's
peace, never for a moment will the recollection of what you have done
to-day cease to haunt you. Here from my living tomb I can afford to
pity you."
Again there was silence. But there was an awfulness about those parting
words, the more forcible that they were spoken without heat or anger--a
solemnity which could not but live in the recollection of him to whom
they were addressed. How did they strike him now?
Suddenly something shot out into the air from above, falling with a
`thwack' against the face of the cliff. It was the raw-hide rope.
Renshaw merely looked at it. The end trailed at his feet. Yet he put
forward no hand to seize it.
"Come on, old chap," sung out Sellon in his heartiest manner. "Why,
I've only been playing off a practical joke on you--just to see how
`grit' you are. And you are `grit' and no mistake."
But Renshaw shook his head with a bitter smile. Still he made no move
forward.
"Do you want to finish me off more quickly than at first?" he said. "I
suppose the line will be cut by the time I'm half-way up."
"No. I swear it won't," called out the other. "Man alive, can't you
take a little chaff? I tell you I've only been humbugging you all
along."
Renshaw did not believe a word of this. But as he stood there the whole
truth of the matter seemed to flash upon him. Sellon had been beset by
a terrible temptation, and had yielded--for the moment. Then his better
instincts had come uppermost, and this was the result.
Still, as he seized the rope, and having tested it, started on his
climb, he more than half expected every moment of that climb to be his
last. Then as he rose above the brink Sellon put out his hand to help
him. This, however, he ignored, and drew himself up unaided.
"What a game chap you are, Fanning," began Sellon, trying to laugh. But
the other turned to him, and there was that in the look which cut him
short.
"I only wish I could believe in your `practical joke' theory, Sellon,"
said Renshaw, and his tones were very cold and stern. "But I can't, and
I tell you so straight. Do you know that for the bare attempt at the
hideous treachery you proposed just now you would be lynched without
mercy, in any mining camp in the world. Wait--let me say it out. I
have shared my secret with you, and have given you wealth, and even now
I will not go back on our bargain--share and share alike. But there is
one condition which I must exact."
"And what's that?" asked Sellon, shortly, not at all relishing the
other's way of looking at things.
"I trusted you as fully as any man ever was trusted. I thought the
large diamond was as safe in your possession as in my own. I left it in
your possession, thereby placing temptation in your way. Now I must
insist on taking charge of it myself."
"Oh, that's another pair of shoes. Possession, you know--nine points--
eh?" answered Maurice, defiantly.
"Why, the very fact of your hesitating a moment proves what your
intentions were, and are," said Renshaw, speaking rather more quickly,
for even he was fast reaching the limits of patience. "I must ask you
to hand it over."
"And suppose I decline?"
"One of us two will not leave this place alive."
Sellon started. Well he might. There was a look upon the other's face
which he had never seen there before. Accustomed as he was to trade
upon his friend's good nature, he could hardly believe him in earnest
now. He had felt a real liking for Renshaw, sincere, but dashed with a
touch of superiority. A fine fellow in many ways, but soft in others,
had been his verdict. And now this man was actually dictating terms to
him. Even then, however, some faint stirrings of his better impulses
moved Sellon, but greed of gain, selfishness, self-importance, came
uppermost.
"I'm not the sort of man to be bullied into anything," he answered.
They stood there facing each other--there on the brink of that
marvellous treasure house--on the brink, too, of a deadly quarrel over
the riches which it had yielded them. To the generous mind of one there
was something infinitely repulsive--degrading--in the idea of
quarrelling over this question of gain. But in this instance it was to
him a question of self-respect, and therefore of principle. How was it
going to end?
They stood there facing each other; the countenance of one set and
determined, that of the other sullen, defiant, dogged. How was it going
to end?
Suddenly an ejaculation escaped Sellon, and the expression of his face
changed to one of vivid alarm.
"Oh, good God!" he cried. "Here they come! Look! look!" and, turning
at the same time, he started off up the hill towards where the horses
were standing, fortunately ready saddled.
Renshaw, suspecting a new trick, sent a quick glance backward over his
shoulder. But the other had spoken truly.
Swarming over the opposite brow of the mountain, came a crowd of uncouth
shapes. Baboons? No.
Ape-like, it was true, but--human.