The Black Opal Katharine Susannah Prichard (best free novels txt) đ
- Author: Katharine Susannah Prichard
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And her mother had said:
âDonât let him take her away, Michael.â
Michael believed that Marya Rouminof intended Sophie to choose for herself whether she would stay on the Ridge or not, when she was old enough. But now she was little more than a child, sixteen, nearly seventeen, young for her years in some ways and old in others. Michael knew her mother had wanted Sophie to grow up on the Ridge and to realise that all the potentialities of real and deep happiness were there.
âThey say thereâs got to be a scapegoat in every family, Michael,â she had said once. âSomeone has to pay for the happiness of the others. If all that led to my coming here will mean happiness for Sophie, it will not have been in vain.â
âThatâs where youâre wrong,â Michael had told her.
âLooking for justiceâ âpoetic justice, isnât it, they call it?â âin the working out of things. There isnât any of this poetic justice except by accident. The natural laws just go rolling onâ âlaying us out under them. All we can do is set our lives as far as possible in accordance with them and stand by the consequences as well as we know how.â
âOf course, youâre right,â she had sighed, âbutâ ââ
It was for that âbutâ Michael was fighting now. He knew what lay beyond itâ âa yearning for her child to fare a little better in the battle of life than she had. Striding almost unconsciously over the loose, shingly ground, Michael was not aware what direction his steps were taking until he saw glimmering white shapes above the grass and herbage of the plains, and realised that he had walked to the gates of the cemetery.
With an uncomfortable sense of broken faith, he turned away from the gate, unable to go in and sit under the tree there, to smoke and think, as he sometimes did. He had used every argument with Paul to prevent his taking Sophie away, he knew; but for the first time since Michael and he had been acquainted with each other, Paul had shown a steady will. He made up his mind he was âgoing to shake the dust of the Ridge off his feet,â he said. And that was the end of it. Michael almost wished the men had let Jun clear out with his stones. That would have settled the business. But, his instinct of an opal-miner asserting itself, he was unable to wish Paul the loss of his luck, and Jun what he would have to be to deprive Paul of it. He walked on chewing the cud of bitter and troubled reflections.
âDonât let him take her away!â a voice seemed to cry suddenly after him.
Michael stopped; he snatched the hat from his head.
âNo!â he said, âhe shanât take her away!â
Startled by the sound of his own voice, the intensity of thinking which had wrung it from him, dazed by the sudden strength of resolution which had come over him, he stood, his face turned to the sky. The stars rained their soft light over him. As he looked up to them, his soul went from him by force of will. How long he stood like that, he did not know; but when his eyes found the earth again he looked about him wonderingly. After a little while he put on his hat and turned away. All the pain and trouble were taken from his thinking; he was strangely soothed and comforted. He went back along the road to the town, and, skirting the trees and the houses on the far side, came again to the track below Newtonâs.
Lights were still shining in the hotel although it was well after midnight. Michael could hear voices in the clear air. A man was singing one of Junâs choruses as he went down the road towards the Punti Rush. Michael kept on his way. He was still wondering what he could do to prevent Paul taking Sophie away; but he was no longer worried about itâ âhis brain was calm and clear; his step lighter than it had been for a long time.
He heard the voices laughing and calling to each other as he walked on.
âOld Ted!â he commented to himself, recognising Ted Crossâs voice. âHeâs blithered!â
When he came to a fork in the tracks where one went off in the direction of his, Charleyâs, and Rouminofâs huts, and the other towards the Crossesâ, Michael saw Ted Cross lumbering along in the direction of his own hut.
âMust âve been saying good night to Charley and Paul,â he thought. A little farther along the path he saw Charley and Paul, unsteady shadows ahead of him in the moonlight, and Charley had his arm under Paulâs, helping him home.
âGood old Charley!â Michael thought, quickly appreciative of the man he loved.
He could hear them talking, Rouminofâs voice thick and expostulatory, Charleyâs even and clear.
âCharleyâs all right. Heâs not showinâ, anyhow,â Michael told himself. He wondered at that. Charley was not often more sober than his company, and he had been drinking a good deal, earlier in the evening.
Michael was a few yards behind them and was just going to quicken his steps and hail Charley, when he saw the flash of white in Charleyâs handâ âsomething small, rather longer than square, a cigarette box wrapped in newspaper, it might have beenâ âand Michael saw Charley drop it into the pocket of his coat.
Paul wandered on, talking stupidly, drowsily. He wanted to go to sleep there on the roadside; but Charley led him on.
âYouâll be better at home and in bed,â he said. âYouâre nearly there now.â
Instinctively, with that flash of white, Michael had drawn into the shadow of the trees which fringed the track. Charley, glancing back along it, had not seen him. Several moments passed before Michael moved. He knew what had happened, but the revelation was such a shock that his brain would not react to it.
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