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

the smell of the paper daisies and the sandalwood smoke, I suppose. The air’s got such a nice taste, Michael.⁠ ⁠… It smells like peace, I think.”

“Well,” Michael said, “you eat as much of it as you fancy. I don’t mind if Paul doesn’t find you till he comes back to tea.⁠ ⁠… It’d do you more good to have a sleep now, and then you’ll be feelin’ a bit fitter.”

“I think I could go to sleep now, Michael,” Sophie murmured.

Michael stood watching her for a moment as she seemed to go to sleep, thinking that the dry, northern air, with its drowsy fragrance, was already beginning to draw the ache from her body and brain. He went to the curtain of the doorway, dropped it, and turned out into the blank sunshine of the day again.

He fit his pipe and smoked abstractedly as he walked down the track to the mine. He had already made up his mind that it would be better for Sophie to sleep for a while, and that he was not going to get anyone to look for Paul and send him to her.

She had said nothing of the reason for her return, and Michael knew there must be a reason. He could not reconcile the Sophie Dawe Armitage had described as taking her life in America with such joyous zest, and the elegant young woman on the show-page of the illustrated magazine, with the weary and broken-looking girl he had been talking to. Whatever it was that had changed her outlook, had been like an earthquake, devastating all before it, Michael imagined. It had left her with no more than the instinct to go to those who loved and would shelter her.

Potch was at work on a slab of shin-cracker when Michael went down into the mine. He straightened and looked up as Michael came to a standstill near him. His face was dripping, and his little white cap, stained with red earth, was wet with sweat. He had been slogging to get through the belt of hard, white stone near the new colours before Michael appeared.

“Get him?” he asked.

Michael had almost forgotten Paul.

“No,” he said, switching his thoughts from Sophie.

“What’s up?” Potch asked quickly, perceiving something unusual in Michael’s expression.

Michael wanted to tell him⁠—this was a big thing for Potch, he knew⁠—and yet he could not bring his news to expression. It caught him by the throat. He would have to wait until he could say the thing decently, he told himself. He knew what joy it would give Potch.

“Nothing,” he said, before he realised what he had said.

But he promised himself that in a few minutes he would tell Potch. He would break the news to him. Michael felt as though he were the guardian of some sacred treasure which he was afraid to give a glimpse of for fear of dazzling the beholder.

The concern went from Potch’s face as quickly and vividly as it had come. He knew that Michael had reserves from him, and he was afraid of having trespassed on them by asking for information which Michael did not volunteer. He had been betrayed into the query by the stirred and happy look on Michael’s face. Only rarely had he seen Michael look like that. Potch’s thought flashed to Sophie⁠—Michael must have some good news of her, he guessed, and knew Michael would pass it on to him in his own time.

He turned to his work again, and Michael took up his pick. Potch’s steady slinging at the shin-cracker began again. Michael reproached himself as the minutes went by for what he was keeping from Potch.

He knew what his news would mean to Potch. He knew the solid flesh of the man would grow radiant. Michael had seen that subtle glow transfuse him when they talked of Sophie. He pulled himself together and determined to speak.

Dropping his pick to take a spell, Michael pulled his pipe from the belt round his trousers, relighted the ashes in its bowl, and sat on the floor of the mine. Potch also stopped work. He leaned his pick against the rock beside him, and threw back his shoulders.

“Where was he?” he asked.

“Who⁠—Paul?”

Potch nodded, sweeping the drips from his head and neck.

“Yes.”

Michael decided he would tell him now.

“Don’t know,” he said. “He wasn’t about when I came away.”

Potch wrung his cap, shook it out, and fitted it on his head again.

“He was showin’ all right at Newton’s last night,” he said. “I’d a bit of a business getting him home.”

“Go on,” Michael replied absentmindedly. “Potch⁠ ⁠…” he he added, and stopped to listen.

There was a muffled rumbling and sound of someone calling in the distance. It came from Roy O’Mara’s drive, on the other side of the mine.

“Hullo!” Michael called.

“That you, Michael?” Roy replied. “I’m comin’ through.”

His head appeared through the drive which he had tunnelled to meet Potch’s and Michael’s drive on the eastern side of the mine. He crawled out, shook himself, took out his pipe, and squatted on the floor beside Michael.

“Where’s Rummy?” Roy asked.

Michael shook his head.

“You didn’t get him down, after all⁠—the boys were taking bets about it last night.”

“We’ll get him yet,” Potch said. “The colour’ll work like one thing.”

Michael stared ahead of him, smoking as though his thoughts absorbed him.

“He was pretty full at Newton’s last night,” Roy said, “and talkin’⁠—talkin’ about Sophie singing in America, and the great lady she is now. And how she was goin’ to send for him, and he’d be leavin’ us soon, and how sorry we’d all be then.”

“Should’ve thought you’d about wore out that joke,” Michael remarked, dryly.

Roy’s easy, good-natured voice faltered.

“Oh, well,” he said, “he likes to show off a bit, and it don’t hurt us, Michael.”

“That’s right,” Michael returned; “but Potch was out half the night bringing him home. You chaps might remember Paul’s our proposition when you’re having a bit of fun out of him.”

Potch turned back to his work.

“Right, Michael,” Roy said. And then, after a moment, having decided