This bracing remonstrance was not without effect. Denis controlled himself by an effort, dashed away an unmanning tear, and was soon the severest critic of his own despair; but he would not let Doherty summon the police, neither would he go himself.
“It is too intimate — too sacred — her hair!” he whispered in a fresh access of misery. “Fancy furnishing a description of that, and letting them publish it broadcast! No, no; better lose it altogether; and may the thief never dream what it was he took!”
“Then where are you going?” asked Doherty, following Denis as he strode out of the hut.
“Down the shaft, to start the tunneling, and to try just one tub before six, to see if the luck has changed or not.”
While he was down, Doherty, waiting at the windlass, received a visit from the friendly neighbour who had kept an eye on their cradle at the creek. He said that one of his mates was minding it still, but as no one had been near it all the afternoon, and nothing seemed doing on the claim, he had just come to see if anything was amiss. The man was a genial, broad-shouldered, black-bearded digger of a rough but excellent type, and on reflection Doherty told him of the drugged beer and the resultant loss of the nugget, but of nothing else. The digger seemed considerably interested, asked several questions, and good-naturedly lent a hand to raise Denis from the depths.
“I’ve just been hearing of your loss,” said he, “and I congratulate you! It’s not many lucky diggers whose luck attracts the light-fingered gentry and who only lose a four-ounce nugget after all! So that cook of yours has gone to look for the Chinaman?”
“Yes.”
“I hope he’ll find him,” said the burly digger, and went off with a dry smile and a good-humoured nod.
But it was no Chinaman whom Jewson had gone to seek; it was a gentlemanly digger of peculiarly British appearance, with military whiskers which had never been allowed to meet upon the chin; and he was found waiting at the place where the special coach with the English mail was due to start for Melbourne at six o’clock.
“At last!” said he in an ungracious undertone. “What happened to you, Jewson? I had given you up altogether.”
“I thought he’d never wake up,” whispered Jewson as they drew aside, “and I dursn’t run the risk of his finding me gone, as well as — as well as this, sir!”
“What the devil are you talking about, Jewson? And what’s that?”
It was a small brown-paper parcel which the steward had produced.
“Something you’re going to be so kind as to post and register in Melbourne, sir. In Melbourne, mind — not in London, Captain Devenish!”
“But it’s addressed — why, damme, it’s addressed to Miss Merridew!”
“I know that, sir.”
“Who addressed it?”
“The clever bloke who thinks he’s going to marry her,” answered Jewson through his artificial teeth. “Clever he may be,” he added, “and successful he is, but he ain’t so clever that he’s going to succeed in that!”
Devenish took heart from the cunning and confident face raised so slyly to his. Yet his heart of hearts sank within him, for it was still not utterly debased, and his compact with this ruffian was a heaviness to him. “What do you mean by asking me to post his presents to her?” he demanded angrily; but his anger was due less to the request than to the underlying subtlety which he felt he had far better not seek to probe.
“I’m not going to tell you, Captain Devenish. You said you’d leave it to me, sir.”
“But it is something from him to her?”
“That I promise you; but it’ll tell its own tale, and you’ll hear it soon enough, once you get home safe and sound.”
The driver had mounted to his place, the five horses had been put to. Devenish hesitated with the little brown paper packet in his hand.
“And she really ought to have it?”
“It’s only due to her, poor young lady.”
“But to me? Is it due to me, man?”
“It’ll do you more good, sir,” said Jewson, raising his crafty eyes, “than ever anything did you yet, in that quarter, Captain Devenish.”
Ralph put the packet in an inner pocket. “Well, I’ll think about it,” said he. But he did not take the hand that was held out to him. He went from Ballarat with no more than a nod to the man whom he was leaving there to play a villain’s part on his behalf. It was enough for Ralph Devenish that he had soiled his soul.
CHAPTER XXI. THE COURIER OF DEATH
Denis passed many days underground, in the fascinating pursuit of driving a tiny tunnel due south from the bottom of the shaft. That way ran the lead as traced already on its outer skirts, and that way burrowed Denis through its golden core. The miniature corridor which he made was but two feet wide, and not six inches higher than its width. Denis could just turn round in it by a series of systematic contortions.
He would have made the drive roomier but for an early warning as to the treacherous character of the red clay stratum immediately overhead. Thereafter he confined his operations to the lower half of the auriferous drift, which being gravelly, was more or less conglomerate, and formed a continuous arch corresponding with the brickwork in a railway tunnel. The drive was not timbered like the shaft which led to it, but at intervals props were wedged against the walls, with flat wooden caps to support the roof. Yet the task seemed to Denis too precarious to depute, and worming every inch of his way, it took him till February to penetrate fifteen feet.
Doherty was consoled by a position of much responsibility above ground: he had the washing of every bucketful which came out of the drive, and he also was single-handed, but for some help at the water-side from the friendly fellow with the black beard, whose offices he was able to repay in kind. The creek hereabouts was more populous now than the partners had found it. Their success had had the usual effect of attracting numbers to the gulley. Some had taken possession of holes prematurely abandoned the year before, and were working them out in feverish haste; larger parties with plant and capital were rapidly sinking their seventy feet on the very edge of the successful claim. “We’ll be down on top of you before you know where you are,” said one of the newcomers when they heard the direction in which Denis was driving. Thereupon he redoubled his efforts to such purpose that Doherty could not keep pace with the output, and a stack of untried wash-dirt grew up beside the shaft. In spite of this the average yield in washen gold was many ounces a day. And daily Denis took it, his revolver in his pocket, to the Commissioner for transmission to Geelong, where the accredited gold-buyer had turned out so well that the partners no longer received his payments in cash, but had several thousands standing to their credit in his books.
Jewson was much subdued. There was something uncanny in the way this fortune was growing under his eyes, in spite of him. But he had his own reasons for undiminished confidence in the end which an undying grudge and innate cupidity alike demanded; meanwhile his honest emoluments were not to be despised, and he continued to earn them by the consistent exercise of his one accomplishment. His cooking was as good as ever, his behaviour even better, since the nocturnal excursions were a thing of the past. This circumstance was too much of a coincidence to decrease Denis’s suspicions; on the other hand, nothing occurred to increase them, and Denis was not sorry for that. The man was invaluable. So much labour underground must have been deadly in its effects without regular supplies of proper food properly cooked. And there the steward never failed. But Denis had his eye on him, and was wise enough never to betray whatever suspicion he had entertained with regard to Jewson’s complicity in the theft of the nugget and the ring.
Jewson naturally thought that matter had blown over; but one morning, as he was happily occupied with the duties which he really relished for their own sake, the door darkened as a pair of broad shoulders jammed between the posts; and the steward found himself confronted by a blue-black beard which contrasted invidiously with the unwilling whiteness of his own.
“Well,
” said a voice of grim good-humour, “have you found him yet?”
“What are you talking about?” replied the steward, testily. “Who are you — and what do you want?”
“Never you mind who I am,” said the big man at the door. “You’ve seen me afore, and I’ve seen more of you than you might think. What I want is to know whether you ever found the Chinaman you went lookin’ for a month ago; and that’s what I be talkin’ about. So now you know.”
The steward stood at the table with his wicked head on one side, considering rapidly while he affected to ransack his memory.
“You mean the Chinaman who sold the doctored beer?”
“I mean the Chinaman who sold you the beer that got doctored.”
“No — I never could lay hold of him,” said the steward, ignoring the pointed improvement upon his phrase.
“Well, I have,” said the big miner in the doorway.
“You’ve laid hold of him?” the other queried in nervous incredulity.
The digger nodded a big black head that looked as picturesque as piratical in a knitted cap of bright scarlet.
“I’d been lookin’ for him, too, you see. You weren’t the only folks who had some beer off that Chinaman the day he come along first; me and my mates had some, and it did us so little harm that we’ve always wanted some more. So I’ve been lookin’ for him ever since, and yesterday I found him at the other end o’ the diggin’s, away past Sailor’s Gully. And why do you suppose he’d never been near us again?” asked the big black man without shifting a shoulder from either door-post.
“I don’t know,” said the steward, sulkily. “How should I?”
“How should you? Because you told him never to come no more!”
“He’s a liar,” hissed Jewson, with a tremulous oath.
“And why should you say he ever came at all?”
“Some other lie, I suppose,” said Jewson, with another oath.
“Because you told him to: went to the other end o’ the diggin’s to find him; bought a bit of opium from him, and told him to bring the beer next day. Oh, yes, they may be all lies,” said the big digger, cheerfully, “but then again they may not. It’s a rum world, mate, especially on the diggin’s. I’ve known worse things done by coves I wouldn’t have thought it of; but by the cut of your jib I should say you was capable of a good lot. Boss down driving, I suppose?”
“Like to go down and tell him now — like me to let you down?” asked Jewson, with a venomous glitter in his little eyes.
The digger laughed heartily in his face.
“No, thank you — not without a third party handy to keep you from meddling with the rope! But I can wait, my friend, and I can come again. My claim’s not so far away, and I’ll be back at dinner-time if not before. Of course, they may be lies as you say; a Chinaman’s a Chinaman, and that’s why I come along now to have a quiet word with you first. But by the colour o’ your gills, old cock, I don’t believe they are lies. So now you know what’s before you when your boss comes up. He may believe you and send me to the devil, but he’s got to hear my yarn and judge for himself. So there it is. I like to give a man fair warning, and that you’ve got.”
The hut doorway was no longer obstructed. It framed once more a vivid panel of parched earth and blinding sky with a windlass and a stack of wash-dirt in the foreground. But the hut itself held a broken ruffian whose ruin stared him in the face.
One thing would lead to another, and the motive for the crime be readily deduced from the crime itself. Jewson saw his elaborate plot falling asunder like a house of cards, and involving himself in its destruction. Devenish had not been a month at sea; letters would chase him round the Horn, and the truth would reach England almost as soon as the lies. That marriage would never take place. That £2000 would never be paid. That hold upon a young married man of means and of position would not be given to Jewson as a lifelong asset after all. On the contrary, the petty theft might be brought home to him, and he might go to the hulks off Williamstown instead of back to England with an assured competence for his declining years. He did not believe this could happen to him — he was a far-seeing rogue — but the rest would follow as surely as Denis came up from the depths and the informer returned to keep his word.
Flight seemed the only course; a successful flight would at least avert the most unpleasant possibilities of the case. But darker thoughts passed through the steward’s mind, and took him stealthily to the mouth of the shaft. A dull yet distinct chip-chipping was audible far below and out of sight along the drive. If only that sound could cease forever! If only the maker of the sound were never to come up alive! Then everything would be simplified; and Captain Devenish need not know of his death for years. Besides, it was an accidental death of which Jewson was thinking; he had looked at the rope with the bucket hanging to it, but only to remember that one man at least was prepared for even that villainy at his hands. Jewson shook his head. He was not so bad as all that. He was really only a potential criminal, who had seldom put himself within reach of the law. He might wish that the shaft would fall in and bury his enemy, but he was no murderer even in his heart.
Suddenly he gave a start, and then stood very still; stepping softly to the far side of the shaft, he had come suddenly upon a huge snake curled up and basking on the hard hot ground. It was not the sight, however, that made Jewson shiver; that was not particularly uncommon or untoward; the chilling thing was the thought that had flown into the breast which had not been that of a murderer before. Now it was; but even now the mean monster did not realize that the temptation upon him was the temptation of Cain; and he yielded to it, villain as he was, with eyes shut to the enormity.
The dangling bucket was gently lifted from its hook, was nimbly clapped upon the sleeping serpent, and kept in position with one foot; striding with the other to within reach of the heap of wash-dirt, the steward filled his hat with this, and then reversing the bucket with equal courage and dexterity, had the snake buried in the stuff in an instant, and the bucket back on its hook in another. A quick swing over the side of the shaft, and down went the bucket of its own weight, with the snake already hanging over one edge. But Jewson let every inch of the rope run red-hot through his hands, to lessen the noise of the windlass; and yet when it reached the bottom, gently, very gently, there was the chip-chipping still to be heard in the bowels of the drift.
Jewson held the bucket, as near as he could judge, within a few inches of the bottom of the shaft; when it lightened he went to the handle of the windlass and turned it slowly, so slowly that it came up without a creak, but also so slowly that minutes passed in the operation. When it was up he flung out the wash-dirt, replaced the bucket on its hook, and craned his neck over the lip of the shaft, to listen, and to peer.
A very faint light came from the single candle which Denis took with him along the drive; it just glimmered upon the floor of the shaft, and on the wall opposite the drive; but in the glimmer nothing moved, and nothing shone.
The steward closed his eyes and put a hand to either ear. The chip-chipping had ceased. There was no sound at all. And then, but not till then, did the criminal realize his crime.
He drew himself up with an uncontrollable shudder, and looked quickly on all sides of him. The sun was high in the deep blue heavens. The white tents in the gully shimmered in its glare. No one was about on the next claim; all were underground, or at the creek; no human eye had seen the deed.
Yet the skin tightened on the murderer’s skull, a baleful dew broke out upon it, and the little eyes for once grew large with horror.
CHAPTER XXII. ATRA CURA
There are few more attractive houses near London than one that shall be nameless in these pages: enough that it lends the beauty of mellow brick and sunken tile to a hill-top already picturesquely wooded, but a dozen miles from the Marble Arch, yet in the country’s very heart, on a main road where the inquisitive may still discover it for themselves. They will have to choose, it is true, between severa
l old houses of rosy brick, all of them overrun with the rose itself, and all standing rather too near the road. The house in question is the one that has no other fault. It is the house with the plate-glass porch, the wide bay on either side, the luniform bay behind; at the back also are a noble lawn, several meadows, and a singular avenue, so narrow that the tall trees meet overhead as one. Other features are a rose garden, enclosed in the ripest of all the old red walls, and a model farm.
To this pleasant English home Mr. Merridew and his daughter returned in the month of February, after a wearisome but uneventful voyage and a week or two at the St. George’s Hotel as a corrective. A distinguished physician had prescribed a month; but in ten days Nan had all the new clothes she needed, had seen all the plays she cared to see, and went in such fear of a certain topic of conversation, forced upon her by the heedless, that it was anguish to her to go about. So one of the carriages came up from Hertfordshire, and on a clear but chilly afternoon father and daughter drove home together.
It was not a hearty homecoming. John Merridew had been many years a widower, whose only other child had died in infancy. But the old red house looked warm and kindly; the servants stood weeping through their smiles; the firelit rooms were all unchanged, save in their new promise of perfect privacy; and in her home it was grasped from the first that Miss Merridew could not bear to speak about the wreck of the North Foreland and her own romantic rescue by one of the officers. Thus she had no occasion to explain that she was engaged to him; and Mr. Merridew left the announcement to Nan.
“She has nothing on her mind, has she?” inquired old Dr. Stone after an early call as physician and friend.
Complete Works of E W Hornung Page 277
