But he asked himself what the men would think of him when they heard Armitage’s story; what Sophie would think, and Potch. He turned in agony from the thought that Sophie and Potch would believe him guilty of the thing he seemed to be guilty of. Anything seemed easier to bear than the loss of their love and faith, and the faith of men of the Ridge he had worked with and been in close sympathy with for so long—Watty and George, Pony-Fence Inglewood, Bill Grant and Cash Wilson. Would he have to leave the Ridge when they knew? Would they cold-shoulder him out of their lives? His imagination had centred for so long about the thing he had done that the guilt of it was magnified out of all proportion to the degree of his culpability. He did not accuse himself in the initial act. He had done what seemed to him the only thing to do, in good faith; the opals had nothing to do with it. He did not understand yet how they had got an ascendancy over him; how when he had intended just to look at them, to see they were well packed, he had been seduced into that trance of worshipful admiration.
Why he had not returned the stones to Paul as soon as Sophie had left the Ridge, Michael could not entirely explain to himself. He went over and over the excuses he had made to himself, seeing in them evidence of the subtle witchery the stones had exercised over him. But as soon as he was aware of the danger of delay, he tried to assure himself, and the appearance it must have, he had determined to get rid of the stones.
Would the men believe he had wanted to give the stones to Paul—even that he had done what he had done for the reasons he would put before them? George and Watty and some of the others would believe him—but the rest? Michael could not hope that the majority would believe his story. They would want to know if at first he had kept the stones to prevent Sophie leaving the Ridge, why he had not given them to Paul as soon as she had gone. Michael knew he could only explain to them as he had to himself. He had intended to; he had delayed doing so; and then, when he went to find the stones to give them to Paul, they were no longer where he had left them. It was a thin story—a poor explanation. But that was the truth of the situation as far as he knew it. There was nothing more to be said or thought on the subject. He put it away from him with an impulse of impatience, desperate and weary.
When Potch returned from the mine that afternoon; he went into Michael’s hut before going home. Michael himself he had seen strike out westwards in the direction of the swamp soon after he came above ground. Potch expected to see his father where he was; he had seen him so often before on Michael’s sofa under the window. Charley glanced up from the newspaper he was reading as Potch came into the room.
“Well, son,” he said, “the prodigal father’s returned, and quite ready for a fatted calf.”
Potch stood staring at him. Light from the window bathed the thin, yellow face on the faded cushions of Michael’s couch, limning the sharp nose with its curiously scenting expression, all the hungry, shrewd femininity and weakness of the face, and the smile of triumphant malice which glided in and out of the eyes. Michael was right, Potch realised; Charley was ill; but he had no pity for the man who lay there and smiled like that.
“You can’t stay here,” he said. “Michael’s coming.”
Charley smiled imperturbably.
“Can’t I?” he said. “You see. Besides … I want to see Michael. That’s what I’m here for.”
Potch growled inarticulately. He went to the hearth, gathered the half-burnt sticks together to make a fire. He would have given anything to get Charley out of the hut before Michael returned; but he did not know how to manage it. If Charley thought he wanted him to go, nothing would move him, Potch knew.
“What do you want to see Michael about?” he asked.
“Nice, affectionate son you are,” Charley murmured. “Suppose you know you are my son—and heir?”
“Worse luck,” Potch muttered, watching the flame he had kindled over the dry chips and sticks.
“You might’ve done worse,” Charley replied, watching his son with a slight, derisive smile. “I might’ve done worse myself in the way of a son to support me in my old age.”
“I’m not going to do that.”
Charley laughed. “Aren’t you?” he queried. “You might be very glad to—on terms I could suggest. And you’re a fine, husky chap to do it, Potch, my lad. … They tell me you’ve married Rouminof’s girl, and she’s chucked the singing racket. Rum go, that! She could sing, too. … People I know told me they’d seen her in America in some revue stunt there, and she was just the thing. Went the pace a bit, eh? Oh, well, there’s nothing like matrimony to sober a woman down—take the devil out of her.”
Potch’s resentment surged; but before he could utter it, his father’s pleasantries were flipping lightly, cynically.
“By the way, I saw a friend of yours in Sydney couple of months ago. Oh, well, several perhaps. Might have been a year. … Maud! There’s a fine woman, Potch. And she told me she was awfully gone on you once. Eh, what? … And now you’re a married man. And to think of my becoming a grandfather. Help!”
Potch sprang to
