Other formats

    Adobe Portable Document Format file (facsimile images)   TEI XML file   ePub eBook file  

Connect

    mail icontwitter iconBlogspot iconrss icon

The Story of Wild Will Enderby

Chapter VIII. Flooded Out

page 41

Chapter VIII. Flooded Out.

"Men have died, and worms have eaten them; but not for love." Yet I once knew a man, who, from such a simple cause, became, for the poor balance of his life, a melancholy maniac.

I suppose there are few men who have not, at some period of their lives, suffered disappointment in love. Some endure it jauntily. To them it is but as a pin-scratch, scarcely furrowing the mental cuticle. To more sensitively nervous organisations, it is as the thrust of a jagged spear, lacerating all the finer feelings, till the merciful reaction sets in, and excess of pain benumbs.

Thus fared it with Harry Grey. He arose on the morrow, very weary in mind and body; but no longer suffering from the intense excitement of the previous day. It may have been that the accident had dulled "the torture of the mind" by exhaustive effect on the physical system. Certain it is, that when he presented himself at the claim, his partner scarcely recognised him;—so changed was the expression of his features—so haggard his face—so dull his eye—so listless his gait.

Mr George W. Pratt put his own construction on page 42these signals of distress; and, not unnaturally, he blundered:—

"Well, sir! guess you've been doing the flowing bowl till it slopped over."

Thus, Pratt. Harry threw up his hands with a gesture of deprecation.

"No, no, no!" he cried. "Don't say so. Don't think so. God knows, I've had enough to drive me to it. But, thanks to my dear mother, I was early taught to avoid the demon—drink. No: not that. Upon my honour—not that. But I've been half-drowned, and hurt—and—and—God help me! I am very wretched."

And this silly, weak, unconventional young man—very much commiserating himself—began to weep!

"Tell it not in Gath; publish it not in the streets of Askelon." Are we not men, whose eyes never should moisten in love—in pity—in joy, or in sorrow? What have we to do with tears, forsooth?

Yet there are men—aye, some even who have passed life's meridian—brave, honest men—who are not ashamed of shedding tears on fitting occasion.

The Senior Partner was a considerate man. He saw, at once, that there was more in this matter than his philosophy could find out; and his quick intellect taught him that then was not just the time to endeavour to probe the mystery. So he did the very wisest thing. Roughly, and without evincing any sympathy, he thrust a shovel into Harry's hand, saying:—

"Now you have reported yourself, you'd best wire in. * * * Nearly got wired out myself during your excursion. * * * Think you might heave that big stone over the bank, and then you'll get fair-page 43way to the dirt. * * * Pretty easy stuff this to shift."

And so on, and so on; the asterisks marking brief pauses between the jerky sentences. And thus, not giving Harry time to revert to his recent troubles, the Senior Partner continued to give his directions, and make his remarks, until the junior became fairly engrossed with the business in hand, and forgot, for the time, his misfortunes.

There is nothing like manual labour—delving or planting, tree-felling or log-splitting—to yield relief to the over-wrought brain or troubled mind.

Between whiles, George W. Pratt told the story of his row with Barney, and Harry narrated his escape from death in the Molyneux. But never a word said he touching the cause of his immersion. The hour for such confidences was not yet. Meanwhile he wrought as though his deliverance from slavery had been at stake.

Now, the Molyneux is a capricious river. She (I think I must use the feminine pronoun) frequently enlarges her borders without warning, and anon, dwindles to her ordinary dimensions in the same fitful way. The causes are to be sought for far away amidst the Southern Alps, from the snows and glaciers of which the sources of the river are derived.

When the river is "up" the beach workings are covered and the occupants cease from their labours.

So chanced it to the Co. A big flood came suddenly down, swamped their claim, and enforced idleness. Then the old trouble came back, and Harry became page 44conscious of a dull pang of misery, which rendered him morose, sullen cynical.

The two made little excursions up and down the Gorge, and over the ranges, and when tired they returned to their anchorage; and they sat on boulders watching the flood, and they turned into their bunks and slept; and in a monotonous variety of ways, wherein was no variation, endeavoured to while away the time. And the Senior Partner revolved his plug and practised, more or less successfully, at any convenient target; whilst the other member of the Co. puffed fumes of rank tobacco from his unwholesome pipe, in gloomy silence.

Thus passed a week away. And still the flood showed no signs of subsidence.

"Hope this darned flood won't wash our claim right away," said the Senior Partner one day, as the pair sat at the door of their hut, idly watching the seething water. The claim, let me remark, was a good one, and they had already gathered much gold therefrom.

Harry's weary eyes lighted up with an unnatural lustre as he answered.

"God in heaven forbid. Better it washed away my life; what there is left of it."

"Don't be down-hearted about it, pardner. I don't feel over-much-festive, jest now, myself; but I ain't going to pass in my checks about it. It ain't come to that yet with the Co. See here, our claim is a mighty small part of them beaches, and if we get sluiced out of one, we can darned soon get another.

"Aye," cried Harry, passionately, "but not so rich. And I must have gold; plenty of it and quickly too."

page 45

"Easy! Slow her down pardner. Seems like you're a-sitting on the valve. Better let steam off afore you bust up. It ain't no use wrestling against luck;—you bet on that. Now, I've been gold-seeking for years, and never had half the chance we happened on in that claim; and I don't feel good when I see them pesky waters playing up with it. But I shan't cave in, all the same. No, Sirree!"

"Because you have not so much at stake, as I have."

"I ain't poz about that. I've a notion that my little game is for a pretty big thing. Anyway it's for a pretty one. You see, pardner," continued Mr George W. Pratt, in a confidential tone, "I'm working for love, I am."

"And I for hate—now," said Harry, the final word dropping—as it were—from his lips involuntarily. The Senior Partner looked at him for a full minute, with much wonderment expressed in his shrewd visage. Then he said, very softly,

"Jest so. Every one to his taste, as the old lady said when she embraced her heifer. Hating ain't much in my line. I'm on the other tack, I am. There's a pair of eyes down to Missouri been watching for my ship to arrive every day the last four years."

Harry laughed, a scornful mocking laugh.

"Eyes watching?—a woman's eyes?—Ha! ha! Why, Pratt, they're all false—all—false as perdition."

"No, Sirree! Some of them may be as bad as you say, though that's pretty tall talk, too. I won't jest say nay to that. But if any man tells me the whole sex, that my mother and my sisters, and Ruth Allan own to, are all false, I'm bound to tell him that he's an page 46Almighty perverter of the truth; and I ain't a-going to stand by and hear it."

"I was wrong," owned Harry, penitently. "I should not have said so. But I have suffered—you don't know how I have suffered. I am sorry if I hurt you, old fellow."

The Senior Partner was easily appeased. "Right you are. I know you did'nt mean it. But don't you go around crying 'Fire!' at everybody's door, jest because your own coat tail is smoking. See here now—as we ain't got nothing better to do, I don't mind if I give you a slight sketch of my wild career. So much of it as suits my book, anyway."

But the story of the Senior Partner demands a special chapter.