In the morning, he realised that work and the normal order of their working days were the only things to restore Potch’s mental balance. He roused him earlier than usual.
“We’d better get down and clear out some of the mullock,” he said. “The gouges are fair choked up. There’ll be no doing anything if we don’t get a move on with it.”
Potch had stared at him uncomprehendingly. Then he got up, changed his clothes, and they had gone down to the mine together. His face was swollen and discoloured, his lip broken, one eye almost hidden beneath a purple and blue swelling which had risen on the upper part of his left cheek. He had dragged his hat over his face, and walked with his head down; they had not spoken all the morning. Potch had swung his pick stolidly. All day his eyes had not met Michael’s as they usually did, in that glance of love and comradeship which united them whenever their eyes met.
In the afternoon, when they stopped work and went to the top of the mine, Potch had said:
“Think I’ll clear out—go away somewhere for awhile, Michael.”
From his attitude, averted head and drooping shoulders, Michael got the unendurable agony of his mind, his pain and shame. He did not reply, and Potch had walked away from him striking out in a southeasterly direction across the Ridge. Michael had not seen him since then. And now it was early evening, the moon up and silvering the plains with the light of her young crescent.
“He says—Potch says … he’s going away,” Michael said to Sophie.
Her eyes widened. Her thought would not utter itself, but Michael knew it. Potch leaving the Ridge! The Ridge without Potch! It was impossible. Their minds would not accept the idea.
Sophie turned away from the door. Her white dress fluttered in the moonlight. Michael could see it moving across the bare, shingly ground at the back of the hut. He thought that Sophie was going to look for Potch. He had not told her the direction in which Potch had gone. He wondered whether she would find him. She might know where to look for him. Michael wondered whether Potch haunted particular places as he himself did, when his soul was out of its depths in misery.
Instinctively Sophie went to the old playground she and Potch had made on the slope of the Ridge behind the Old Town.
She found him lying there, stretched across the shingly earth. He lay so still that she thought he might be asleep. Then she went to him and knelt beside him.
“Potch!” she said.
He moved as if to escape her touch. The desolation of spirit which had brought him to the earth like that overwhelmed Sophie. She crouched beside him.
“Potch,” she cried. “Potch!”
Potch did not move or reply.
“I can’t live … if you won’t forgive me, Potch,” Sophie said.
He stirred. “Don’t talk like that,” he muttered.
After a little time he sat up and turned his face to her. The dim light of the young moon showed it swollen and discoloured, a hideous and comic mask of the tragedy which consumed him.
“That’s the sort of man I am,” Potch said, his voice harsh and unsteady. “I didn’t know … I didn’t know I was like that. It came over me all of a sudden, when I saw you and—him. I didn’t know any more until Michael was talking to me. I wouldn’t’ve done it if I’d known, Sophie. … But I didn’t know. … I just saw him—and you, and I had to put out the sight of it … I had to get it out of my eyes … what I saw. … That’s all I know. Michael says I didn’t kill him … but I meant to … that’s what I started to do.”
Sophie’s face withered under her distress.
“Don’t say that, Potch,” she begged.
“But I do,” he said. “I must. … I can’t make out … how it was … I felt like that. I thought I’d see things like you saw them always, stand by you. Now I don’t know. … I’m not to be trusted—”
“I’d trust you always, and in anything, Potch,” Sophie said.
“You can’t say that—now.”
“It’s now … I want to say it more than ever,” she continued. “I can’t explain … what I did … any more than you can what you did, Potch. But I’m to blame for what you did … and yet … I can’t see that I’m altogether to blame. I didn’t want what happened—to happen … any more than you.”
She wanted to explain to Potch—to herself also. But she could not see clearly, or understand how the threads of her intentions and deeds had become so crossed and tangled. It was not easy to explain.
“You remember that ball at Warria I went to with father,” she said at last. “I thought a lot of Arthur Henty then. … I thought I was in love with him. People teased me about him. They thought he was in love with me, too. … And then over there at the ball something happened that changed everything. I thought he was ashamed of me … he didn’t ask me to dance with him like he did at the Ridge balls. … He danced with other girls … and nobody asked me to dance except Mr. Armitage, I wanted to go away from the Ridge and learn to look like those girls Arthur had danced with … so that he would not be ashamed of me. … Afterwards I thought I’d forgotten and didn’t care for him any more. … Last night he was not ashamed of me. … It was funny. I felt that the Warria people were envying me last night, and I had envied them at the other ball. … I didn’t want to dance with Arthur … but I did … and,
