Chapter XVII: Nature Punishes the Thief

The festivities at the Margaret Reef did not conclude the celebration of the christening. In the night a ball was given by William Smith to the gentry of the district. He had a marquee put up especially for the occasion, and so that the fine ladies of Silver Creek might not think it a trade affair (they were mighty particular in some matters, let me tell you), he had requested permission to erect the tent on the ground where the Government Camp buildings were. Of course it was granted, with smiles; one of the small results of William Smith's wisdom in asking the Warden's lady to christen the quartz-crushing machine. The ball was a complete and most brilliant success. The Judge was there, and danced in the first quadrille, and so far forgot himself when he saw Margaret that he asked for the honour of her hand for the second: a proof that judges are human. Many a lady there envied Margaret the honour, and wondering what the Judge could see in her, did not wonder at themselves for wondering at his good taste.

If Margaret was lovely in the morning at the Reef, what shall I say of her in the night at the ball? and what shall I say of her dress? Again, but in a lesser degree, I lay myself open to the criticism of the ladies. Margaret's dress was composed entirely of clouds of fleecy tulle, looped and caught back by tufts of feathery ferns and grasses. And a long trail of bright grass was in her beautiful hair. This is all that I saw, for her charming face took away my eyes from all the rest, and I should scarcely have been surprised to see her floating away on a cloud. Entranced Philip was fairly dazzled by her appearance as she came sailing in on the arm of Mr. Hart, who looked what he was, every inch a gentleman. Everybody shook hands with everybody, as though they hadn't seen one another for weeks. When Mr. Hart resigned Margaret to Philip's care, Philip trod on air. He danced with her, and afterwards said:

"I shall keep possession of you the whole of the night."

Just then the Judge came up to her, and Philip moved a little aside, never thinking that so sedate a man, and one in such a position, would dance with a girl like Margaret.

"Now I am happy," said Margaret to Philip, after the dance, "I have danced with a judge That's one of the things I shall keep on saying all my life. I've danced with a judge!--I've danced with a judge!"

Then came another and younger man, and Margaret waltzed away with _him_. Seeing jealousy in Philip's face, Margaret whispered:

"Be good. I love only you."

He tried hard to be good, but strive as he might, he could not help feeling a little bit wicked. He contrived, however, to obtain many crumbs of consolation during the night. Crumbs! Slices, I ought to say; for the night was lovely, and now and then between the dances Philip stole into the open with his sweetheart on his arm. Being in the shade once he wanted to embrace her.

"Be quiet, sir," she said, coquettishly. "I'm only to be looked at to-night. How _do_ I look, Philip!"

His eyes answered her, and he became more demonstrative.

"No, Philip, no!" she cried. "I must not be crushed."

"Why," answered Philip, with tender adroitness, "when I am dancing with you, I put my arm round your waist--so!"

"Ah!" she said, with a most delicious little laugh, "that's more neatly done."

"And my face, then, is close to yours--so!"

He had his way, and she became an accomplice. Being fired to emulation, she showed him that she was not to be outdone in tenderness. When a woman is in love, she forgets her cunning.

William Smith said rather a good thing. The Judge had a crisp short habit of speaking.

"I like that judge," said William Smith. "He must be a merciful man. He speaks in short sentences."

At midnight Smith came to the side of Philip, and pulled out his watch. It was exactly twelve o'clock, and at that moment he had arranged that the William Smith quartz-crushing machine should be set going.

"They've commenced to dance," he said gleefully.

He referred to the stampers of his machine.

Philip, gazing at Margaret and a handsome partner, who were whirling away from him, muttered somewhat moodily: "_I_ see them!"

William Smith glanced at Philip in surprise.

"My imagination doesn't carry me as far as yours," said William Smith; "but I daresay you are as impatient as I am."

Philip scarcely heard the words. William Smith continued:

"Mr. Hart and I are going to steal away for an hour; we shan't be gone longer. Play the host while I am absent, and if they ask for me, say I'll be back in a minute or two."

Philip nodded, and presently Mr. Hart and William Smith were in the saddle, galloping away over the hills in the direction of the Margaret Reef; the horses did the distance in twenty-five minutes.

"Do you hear them--do you hear them?" cried William Smith exultantly, as they breasted the hill.

The music of the stampers fell on their ears. They halted at a distance of a couple of hundred yards from the machine. Sparks were flying from the chimneys; the fires were roaring; the machine was thumping away, beating the gold out of the quartz; dark forms of men were moving busily about in the shade and lurid light.

William Smith had good cause for triumph; many a man has won a name in history for doing less than he had done.

But in the midst of his exultation a tender sadness came upon him.

"What would you suppose I am thinking of?" he asked of Mr. Hart.

"I can't guess," replied Mr. Hart, who had thoughts of his own.

"I am thinking of my old mother at home," said William Smith, "and wishing she was here to see this day's doings. How proud she would be of her Billy, as she calls me!"

Mr. Hart was also thinking of a dear one at home and of the time, soon to come he hoped, when he should fold her in his arms. He blessed the music of the stampers; he gazed with tearful eyes upon the bright sparks flying upwards from the chimneys. They would give him the means of seeing his darling daughter in her bloom of womanhood, of sharing her life, of administering to her happiness.

At that moment, also, Philip was talking to Margaret of his father.

So beneath the stars, the old country and the new were joined by the tenderest heart-links that love can forge.

* * * * * *

A word as to the money which had been stolen from Mr. Hart. The thief was no other than the Walking Gentleman and Treasurer of the dramatic company. It has already been seen that he was ignorant of arithmetic; he might have pleaded this as an excuse, had he been called before a human tribunal to answer for his crime. He carried out his character of Walking Gentleman consistently to the end, by walking off with Mr. Hart's money and other money as well. But it was the last opportunity he had of playing a part on this earthly stage. I am inclined to the opinion that nearly every man in the course of his life has an impulse of, and the opportunity for, dishonesty. Another opinion as to the proportion of those who fall to those who conquer I keep to myself. The Walking Gentleman fell--but fell with the distinct intention in his mind of leading an honest life afterwards, if he escaped with his spoil. How many men do you know within the circle of your acquaintance who are leading respectable lives on stolen money, or money as good, or as bad, as stolen? The thief that we have to do with had planned everything carefully. He had so much money of his own; he appropriated Mr. Hart's savings, having learned where the trustful old man was in the habit of depositing them; he had, as treasurer, more than three hundred pounds in hand belonging to the company. A ship was to sail from Hobson's Bay for England in four days; he could do the distance to the port very well in that time. Then on to the ship, and away for home, with nearly a thousand pounds of stolen money in his purse.

All was accomplished an hour before the storm; he played only in the first part of the performances on that night, and at nine o'clock he was off, dashing away from Silver Creek on the back of a fleet horse. He had taken the precaution to disguise himself so that he might not be recognised. It was his intention to ride all night, and to catch up Cobb's coach at a certain point in the morning. All went well for an hour; but then the skies blackened, the thunder began to growl, the lightning to flash, and presently the storm fell upon him. He went on, nothing daunted, thinking it impossible that such a downpour could last. But it did last, as we know, and increased in fury. The thief began to wish that he had chosen another night, and he cursed his bad luck; but curses did not avail him, and there was now no turning back. On he galloped, with his head sunk on his breast, and the heavy rain beat down on him, and caused a singing in his head. It was at first only an indistinct buzzing that he heard, but it took shape presently, and the words, "Thief! thief! fool! thief!" hissed and plashed in his ears. On and on he galloped, and conscience filled the air with accusing shapes and sounds, which pursued and surrounded him, and made him sick and faint. Once raising his eyes, his heart almost leaped out of his throat as he saw a tall thin form bending towards him, with the intention of clutching him. It was but a slender tree, bent by the force of the wind, and he escaped it without really knowing what it was. And now, every branch that swayed brought new terrors to him, and he began to wish that he had remained honest. He was in the bush, with not a tent in sight, having chosen the remotest track, so that he might not be seen; but had a human habitation been within twenty yards of him he would not have been able to see it, for by this time he was enveloped in blackness. He stumbled on, not knowing now whither he was going. For a little while he had strength and sense enough to keep a tight rein on his horse, but a frightful flash of lightning, and a more frightful peal of thunder, so unnerved him that the rein slackened in his grasp. The horse dashed madly forward--over fallen timber, through light thickets of bush, into great pools of water, that plashed up and blinded the runaway. The branches of the trees caught at his clothes and tore them in fragments from his body. His wig had been the first thing to go, and the brown paint with which he had striven to hide his villany was washed from his face with, as it seemed to him, stinging whips of water. A pitiable sight he presented to the lightning, every flash of which caused him to scream with terror, as he clung with wild desperation to the horse's neck. Torn, bleeding, and literally in rags, with the stolen money in a belt fastened round his waist, he rode on madly, a thief confessed. Louder shrieked the storm; over the ranges and through the uneven valleys dashed the maddened horse. A raging torrent was before them, and the animal leaped into it, and in the leap the thief was unhorsed. While he was struggling in the surging waters, and while the only thing that was certain was death in a few seconds he repented most heartily of his crime, and I leave it to priests to say of what value were the choked words and the agonised thoughts that typified repentance.

When the next flash of lightning lit up the wild scene, it illumined the furious waters rolling onwards, and, for the millionth part of a second, the lifeless body of a thief justly punished.

In this way he played his last part in life, and was never more heard of.