The Black Opal, Katharine Susannah Prichard [i have read the book a hundred times txt] 📗

responsibility of it. He had to meet the men, encounter the eyes of his mates as he had never done before, with a reservation from them. If he could give the stones to Paul at once, Michael knew he would disembarass himself of any sense of guilt. But he could not do that. He was afraid if Paul got possession of the opals again he would want to go away and take Sophie with him.

Michael thought of taking Watty and George into his confidence, but to do so would necessitate explanations⁠—explanations which involved talking of the promise he had made Sophie’s mother and all that lay behind their relationship. He shrank from allowing even the sympathetic eyes of George and Watty to rest on what for him was wrapped in mystery and inexplicable reverence. Besides, they both had wives, and Watty was not permitted to know anything Mrs. Watty did not worm out of him sooner or later. Michael decided that if he could not keep his own confidence he could not expect anyone else to keep it. He must take the responsibility of what he had done, and of maintaining his position in respect to the opals until Sophie was older⁠—old enough to do as she wished with her life.

As he walked, gazing ahead, a hut formed itself out of the distance before him, and then the dark shapes of bark huts huddled against the white cliff of dumps at the Three Mile, under a starry sky. A glow came from the interior of one or two of the houses. A chime of laughter, and shredded fragments of talking drifted along in the clear air. Michael felt strangely alone and outcast, hearing them and knowing that he could not respond to their invitation.

In any one of those huts a place would be eagerly made for him if he went into it; eyes would lighten with a smile; warm, kindly greetings would go to his heart. But the talk would all be of the stealing of Rouminof’s opal, and of Charley and Jun, Michael knew. The people at the Three Mile would have seen the coach pass. They would be talking about it, about himself, and the girls who had driven away with Charley and Jun.

Turning back, Michael walked again across the flat country towards the Ridge. He sat for a while on a log near the tank paddock. A drugging weariness permeated his body and brain, though his brain ticked ceaselessly. Now and again one or other of Rouminof’s opals flashed and scintillated before him in the darkness, or moved off in starry flight before his tired gaze. He was vaguely disturbed by the vision of them.

When he rose and went back towards the town, his feet dragged wearily. There was a strange lightness at the back of his head, and he wondered whether he were walking in the fields of heaven, and smiled to think of that. At least one good thing would come of it all, he told himself over and over again⁠—Paul could not take Sophie away.

The houses and stores of the New Town were all in darkness when he passed along the main street. Newton’s was closed. There were no lights in Rouminof’s or Charley’s huts as he went to his own door. Then a low cry caught his ear. He listened, and went to the back door of Charley’s hut. The cry rose again with shuddering gasps for breath. Michael stood in the doorway, listening. The sound came from the window. He went towards it, and found Potch lying there on the bunk with his face to the wall.

He had not heard Michael enter, and lay moaning brokenly. Michael had not thought of Potch since the people at Newton’s told him that a few minutes, after the coach had gone Potch had come down to the hotel to cut wood and do odd jobs in the stable, as he usually did. Mrs. Newton said he stared at her, aghast, when she told him that his father had left on the coach. Then he had started off at a run, taking the shortcut across country to the Three Mile.

Michael put out his hand. He could not endure that crying.

“Potch!” he said.

At the sound of his voice, Potch was silent. After a second he struggled to his feet, and stood facing Michael.

“He’s gone, Michael!” he cried.

“He might have taken you,” Michael said.

“Taken me!” Potch’s exclamation did away with any idea Michael had that his son was grieving for Charley. “It wasn’t that I minded⁠—”

Michael did not know what to say. Potch continued:

“As soon as I knew, I went after him⁠—thought I’d catch up the coach at the Three Mile, and I did. I told him he’d have to come back⁠—or hand out that money. I saw you give it to him the other night and arrange about going to Warria.⁠ ⁠… Mr. Ventry pulled up. But he⁠ ⁠… set the horses going again. I tried to stop them, but the sandy bay let out a kick and they went on again.⁠ ⁠… The swine!”

Michael had never imagined this stolid son of Charley’s could show such fire. He was trembling with rage and indignation. Michael rarely lost his temper, but the blood rushed to his head in response to Potch’s story. Restraint was second nature with him, though, and he waited until his own and Potch’s fury had ebbed.

Then he moved to leave the hut.

“Come along,” he said.

“Michael!”

There was such breaking unbelief and joy in the cry. Michael turned and caught the boy’s expression.

“You’re coming along with me, Potch,” he said.

Potch still stood regarding him with a dazed expression of worshipful homage and gratitude. Michael put out his hand, and Potch clasped it.

“You and me,” he said, “we both seem to be in the same boat, Potch.⁠ ⁠… Neither of us has got a mate. I’ll be wanting someone to work with now. We’d better be mates.”

They went out of the hut together.

VI

Michael and Potch were at work next