Chapter XXI

When a man evilly inclined turns from the path of evil, it is generally because he fears for his own safety. He does not choose the straight road or relinquish a bad purpose from the awakening of the moral principle, but from a conviction that the deviation will best serve his own interests. In the initial stages of a bad scheme the prime mover seldom counts the cost; it is only when he is deeply involved that the consequences of his evil-doing stare him in the face, and warn him to halt. True repentance is rare; but there have been instances where a man, suddenly appalled by the enormity of his career of crime, conscientiously resolves to turn before it is too late, and to expiate, as far as lies in his power, for his misdeeds. There is something of heroism in this, and the sinner may hope for forgiveness at the divine throne, if not from human hands. Of such heroism Newman Chaytor was not capable. If he wavered, it was purely from selfish reasons, and because he saw before him a path in which lay greater chances of safety for himself. That he did waver is true, and the more wholesome and more merciful course which suggested itself to him was due, not to conscientious motives, but to circumstances quite independent of his original design. On the day following his disturbing dream he and Basil struck a wonderfully rich patch in the claim they were working. The stuff which was raised to the surface was literally studded with gold, and by nightfall they had washed out fifty ounces. The excitements of a gold-digger's life when fortune smiles upon him are all-absorbing. Marvellous possibilities dazzle and distort his mind; delirious visions rise to his imagination. In the early days of the goldfields it was a belief with numbers of miners that, at some time or other, gold would be discovered in such quantities that it could be hewn out like coal. A favourite phrase was, "We shall be able to cut it out with a cold chisel." Of course every man hoped that this wonderful thing would happen to him. He held a chance in the lottery, and why should _he_ not draw the grand prize which would astonish the world?

These possibilities flitted through Chaytor's mind as he and Basil sat at the door of their tent, smoking their pipes after their day's labour. The chairs they sat on were stumps of trees. Furniture they had none, inside their tent or out of it. For their beds they had gathered quantities of dry leaves, over which they spread a blanket, with another to roll themselves in. Rough living, but healthier than life in civilised cities. Early to bed and early to rise, plain food, moderate drinking, exercising their muscles for a dozen hours a day--all this was conducive to a healthy physical state. Their faces were embrowned, their limbs were hardened, their beards had grown long--they looked like men. This may be said of Chaytor as well as of Basil, for such play of expression as would have revealed the cunning of his nature was hidden by his abundant hair. A stranger, observing them, would have been astonished at the likeness of one to the other, and could have formed no other conclusion than that they were twin-born; but no stranger had seen them thus, for it was only during their late seclusion that Chaytor, had copied Basil so exactly. Basil took but little note of this resemblance, and if he referred to it at all it was in a manner so slight as to show that he attached no importance to it. But it was seldom absent from Chaytor's mind; he had brooded constantly upon it, and had studied it as a lesson which, perfectly answered, was to bring with it the rich reward for which he had schemed.

"A good day's work," said Basil, holding out his hand for the tin dish which Chaytor held.

This tin dish contained the gold which they had gathered since sunrise, and Chaytor was turning it over with his knife. The moisture had dried out of it, and the gold lay loose. Chaytor passed the dish to Basil, who, in his turn, played with the shining metal with somewhat more than usual interest.

"Nearly as much," said Chaytor, "as we've got these last five weeks. It is a rare good day's work--if only it will last."

"That's the question," said Basil; "I should like to weigh it."

They entered the tent, and weighed the gold in the gold scales, which form part of a miner's working implements. It turned the fifty ounces.

"Honestly paid for," said Basil, "it represents a couple of hundred pounds. A hundred pounds each."

Chaytor merely nodded, and made no comment upon the remark, but it dwelt in his mind. Not so very long ago Basil had expressed indifference regarding their possessions of gold, and had gone the length of saying that Chaytor might have his share, for all he cared for it. Now he expressed an interest in it, and reckoned their day's work at "a hundred pounds each." That indicated that he looked upon half as his fair share. What did this newly-awakened interest portend? With his instinctive cunning Chaytor felt that this was not a favourable time to open up the subject; far better to let it work quietly until it came to a natural head. Besides, he was feverishly engrossed in the question he had suggested, whether the rich patch they had struck would last. Time alone could answer that question. They retired to their beds of dry leaves a little earlier than usual, and were at work in the morning with the rising of the sun. Basil worked chiefly at the bottom of the shaft, Chaytor at the top, and the honest man of this ill-assorted pair sent up two buckets of stuff before breakfast, which was even richer than they had raised on the previous day. Basil climbed to earth's surface hand over hand.

"He uses the rope like a cat," thought Chaytor.

The two buckets of stuff were emptied into a tub.

"Let us wash it out before breakfast," said Basil.

They went down to the river, carrying the tub between them. On the top of the auriferous soil were two tin basins, and, after puddling the tub well and letting the worthless refuse flow over the brim, they set to work washing what remained in the basins, with that rotary motion in which gold-diggers are so skilful, and which enables them to get rid of the loosened earth, and keep the heavy precious metal at a safe angle in the bottom of the dish. It had hitherto been Basil's practice to leave this delicate operation to Chaytor, but on this morning he took part in it, using one dish, while Chaytor used the other. Chaytor took, note of every small circumstance; nothing escaped him.

"This is a new move of yours, Basil," he said.

"I am beginning to take a real interest in the work," admitted Basil. "In a manner of speaking, it is waking me up."

"Glad to hear it," said Chaytor. "These two buckets are worth something. There's not less than twenty ounces."

There was more; the stuff they had washed yielded twenty-three ounces, and the whole day's yield was worth four hundred pounds.

"Nothing to complain of now, Chaytor," observed Basil in the evening.

"Nothing." Basil was busy with paper and pencil. "What are you up to there? Figuring?"

"Yes," replied Basil. "I am reckoning how much four hundred pounds a day would bring us in at the end of the year. Here it is. Three hundred and twelve working days in the year, leaving Sundays free."

"Why should we do that?" asked Chaytor. "There's no one to see us. It would be a sheer waste of so much money."

Basil looked up in surprise; the remark was not agreeable to him, the tone in which it was spoken was still less so.

"I am old-fashioned perhaps," he said. "I do not choose to work on the Sabbath day."

"Growing particular."

"No; I have always held the same notion."

"We'll not argue. What is your reckoning?"

"Three hundred and twelve working days a year," continued Basil. "Twelve days for sickness, leaving three hundred. At four hundreds pound a day we get a total of a hundred and twenty thousand--in pounds. Sixty thousand pounds each. Truly, a great fortune."

"If it lasts," again said Chaytor.

"Of course, if it lasts. There's the chance of its getting better. How does it look to you--as if it will hold out?"

Chaytor had been down the claim for some hours during the day, and had pocketed between forty and fifty ounces, which he chose to regard as his own special treasure trove.

"There's no saying," he said. "The vein runs sideways into the rock. It may peg out at any moment."

"We shall not have done badly by the time it does. I have to thank you for bringing me here."

"Yes," said Chaytor, ungraciously; "it was my discovery. Don't forget that."

"I shall never forget it, Chaytor, nor any of the other good turns you have done me. I don't know whether it is a healthy or an unhealthy sign that this better luck should have aroused me from the apathy in which I have been so long plunged. It has softened me; the crust of indifference, of disbelief in human goodness, is melting away, I am glad to say. That this is due to the prospect of becoming rich is not very creditable; I would rather that the change in me had sprung from a less worldly cause; it would have made me better satisfied with myself. But we mortals are very much of the earth, earthy, and we take too readily the impressions of immediate circumstances and of our surroundings. They mould our characters, as it were, and change them for better or worse."

"You can do a lot of thinking in a little time, Basil."

"How so, Chaytor?"

"Because yesterday you were black, to-day you are white. Yesterday it was a bad world; to-day it is a good one. A rapid transformation, savouring somewhat of fickleness."

"A just reproof, but I cannot alter my nature. I have never given myself credit for much stability except in my affections, and there, I think, I am constant. As you say, a little reflection has effected a great change in me. We judge the world too much from our own stand-point. We are fortunate, we trust and are not deceived, we love and are loved in return, our daily labour is rewarded--it is a good world, a bright world. We are unfortunate, we trust and are deceived, we love and are not loved in return, we toil and reap dead leaves--it is a bad world, a black world. That is the way with us."

"All of which wise philosophy has sprung from our discovery of a rich patch of gold."

"I am afraid I can ascribe these better and juster feelings to no other cause."

"Basil," said Chaytor, toying with his pipe and tobacco, "say that your reckoning should be justified by results. Say that we work here undiscovered for a year--for there is the contingency of our being tracked to be thought of----"

"Of course."

"Say that we do not fall ill or meet with an accident which disables us, say that to-day is but a sample of all the other days to follow in the next twelve months, say that we make a hundred thousand pounds, what would you do with your share? For I suppose," said Chaytor, with a light laugh, "that the offer you once made of letting me keep the lot if we struck gold rich, is now withdrawn."

"I am properly reproved. Yes, Chaytor, I should expect my share." Basil said this in a rather shamefaced voice. "It proves in the first place that I am not a very dependable fellow, and in the second place it proves my philosophy, that we are moulded by immediate circumstances."

"Oh, it is natural enough; I never expected to meet with a man who would step out of the ordinary grooves. There are temptations which it is impossible to resist, and you and I are no different from the rest of mankind."

"I should place you above the majority, Chaytor."

"I am obliged to you, but I am as modest as yourself, and cannot accept the distinction. Well, Basil, say that everything happened as I have described, what would you do at the end of the year, with its wonderful result of overflowing purses?" Basil was silent and Chaytor continued: "You said once that you intended to live and die in the colonies. Do you stick to that?"

"No."

"What would you do?"

"I should return to England."

Chaytor shivered. This good fortune, then, which he had bestowed upon Basil, was to be the means of his own destruction. Basil in England, nothing could prevent his treachery being discovered. He had led to his own ruin. With assumed unconcern he asked:

"For any specific purpose, Basil?"

"It has dawned upon me, Chaytor, that in my thoughts I may have done injustice to one whom I loved and who loved me."

"The little girl, Annette?"

"The little girl, Annette."

"But, speaking of love as you do, one would suppose that she was a woman. Whereas she was a mere child when you last saw her."

"That is true, and I speak of her only as a child. Chaytor, there was something so sweet in Annette's nature that she grew in my heart as a beloved sister might have done. To that length I went; no farther. Have you ever felt the influence of a child's innocent love? It purifies you; it is a charm against evil thoughts and evil promptings. Annette's affection was like an amulet lying on my heart."

"Your object in returning to England would be to seek her out?"

"I should endeavour to find her. Her silence may have been enforced. She may be unhappy; I might be of service to her. There are other reasons. I seem in this far-off country to be cut off from sympathy, from humanizing influences. The life does not suit me. A man, after all, is not a stone; he has duties, obligations, which he should endeavour to fulfil. You have heard me speak of my uncle. He was kind to me for a great many years, up to the point of my offending him. He is old: consideration is due to him. I should go to him and say, 'I do not want your money; give it to whom you will, but let us be friends.'"

"A hundred to one that he would show you the door," said Chaytor, who found in these revelations more than sufficient food for thought.

"At all events I should have done my duty; but I think you are mistaken. He has a tender heart under a rough exterior, and was always fond of me, even, I believe, when he cast me off. I should not wonder if he has not sometimes thought, 'Why did Basil take me at my word? Why did he not make advances towards me?' He would be right in so thinking; I ought to have striven for a reconcilement. But I was as obstinate as he was himself, and perhaps prouder because I was poor. In a sort of way I defied him, and as good as said I could do without him. I was wrong; I should have acted differently.

"You seem to me, Basil," said Chaytor, slowly, "to fall somewhat into the same error in speaking of him as you do when you speak of Annette. You speak of the little girl as if she was a woman; you speak of your uncle as if he is living."

"If he is dead I should learn the truth."

"I suppose that you would not leave the colony unless you were rich?"

"I think not; I should be placing myself in a false position. We will not talk of it any more to-night, Chaytor. I am tired and shall go to bed."

"So shall I. The conversation has been a bit too sentimental for me. Besides, when you say that you are cut off from sympathy and human influences here, you are not paying me a very great compliment, after the sacrifices I have made for you. But it is the way of the world."

"Why, Chaytor," said Basil, with affectionate emphasis, "I never proposed that we should part. My hope was that we should go home together. You are as much out of place here as I am. With your capacities and with money in your pocket, you could carve a career in England which would make you renowned."

"It is worth thinking of; but I must have your renewed promise, Basil, that you will not throw up our partnership here till we have made our fortune."

"I give you the promise. It would be folly to land in the old country penniless."

"So that the upshot of it is, that it all depends upon money. In my opinion everything in life does."

"You do yourself an injustice, and are not speaking in your usual vein. I daresay I am to blame for it. Forgive me, friend."

"Oh, there's nothing to forgive; but it _is_ strange, isn't it, that the first difference we have had should have sprung from the prospect of our making our pile? Good night, old fellow."

"Good night, Chaytor."