Inheritors

by Неизвестный

  Now again he discredited the cold imminence of darkness. In the mine the roar of the furnaces, the stink of the chemical vats, the shrieking of the new overhead tramway bringing rock from the terraces, the rumble of blastings, the chink of pickaxes, the marching stamp of the batteries all reconstructed for him, to its minutest detail, the burrowing industry of this golden mountain in which his will had already triumphed over fate and the rapacity of men. He went to the ingot room and fingered the smooth, heavy bricks of gold. One of the richest men in the southern hemisphere he was—despite ill fortune, despite enemies. “No, they can't get rid of me yet.”

  He sent the others back to the Reach and stayed on in his office designing a new chimney to catch the tiny fragments of gold that went out in smoke. His flag fluttered over the mine. Engineers, managers, foremen waited upon him, obsequiously petitioning, explaining, defending themselves and bowing to his judgments. He sacked this one, grudgingly commended that one, ordered another one to America to study new machinery, commanded the town council to build new footpaths in Monaghan Street, sent a sick miner's wife a hundred pounds to buy the family a holiday at the sea, refused to shorten the gruelling shifts of the furnacemen by half an hour a week, and capriciously, “just to show who's boss,” suddenly declared a public holiday in the middle of the week for no reason at all.

  “No, they can't get rid of me yet. I'll live to a hundred.”

  Then one evening he returned home sagging in the saddle as though every bone in his body was broken. He felt his way on to the veranda and into his room without a word to James and Geoffrey, waiting at the top of the stairs for him. On his table lay a heap of papers James had left. He felt them but could not see them. “It'll come back,” he kept muttering to himself. “Of course it will. I'll just rest and wait a while.” He locked the door and lay down and waited. After an hour or two he slept. When he awoke he stared up at the ceiling for a long while before slowly, doubtfully he raised his hand and held it in front of his face, closer, till it touched his nose, hot, clammy. “Maybe it's all dark.” He climbed off the bunk and went to the window. People were moving in the yard. He raised the blind and called softly, “Hey you, what's the time?”

  “Somewheres round nine, I reckon.”

  “Nine you reckon, huh?”

  “Well, ain't the sun a good bit over the hills?”

  He moved back into the room and steadied himself against the end of the bunk. . .

  James sent for a doctor from Sydney, the best there was in Australia.

  “Why?” Julia said compassionately. “Why not let him be?”

  “It is best that he should know.”

  “Know the worst, you mean.”

  “One hopes for the best,” James said. “Naturally.”

  There was no hope, the doctor said, none at all.

  James broke it to him, firmly, gently, “No hope, Father. No hope at all.”

  “Quacks are sometimes wrong,” he said in a quiet voice.

  “He is the best man in Australia. One of the best in the world.”

  “But he could make a mistake. It's easy to make a mistake even when you think you know everything. I've made mistakes crossing sheep and I ought to know about sheep. Maybe—it's possible, don't you reckon?”

  James put his hand on his father's shoulder. “It's best not to encourage false hopes, Father. A little nerve was broken, he says. It was hardly as big as a pin-point but it can never grow again. It's scientifically IMPOSSIBLE.”

  “A little nerve hardly as big as a pin-point! That's funny—being done in by a thing like that when you've come through being speared, burned, nearly drowned, starved, lost in the bush and worse, with only a few scratches. There must be a devil right enough—or a God. The same thing—a damned unjust devil of a God.”

  James tut-tutted.

  “No, wait a minute. I didn't mean that.” A repulsive expression of terror and cunning crossed the old man's face. He caught James's hand. “Son, you don't hold anything against me, do you?”

  “Me hold anything against you, Father! Good heavens no,” James said, shocked. He tried to free his hand. The look on the old man's face, the damp cold of his hands disgusted him.

  “No, tell me the truth. I've done you many wrongs. Harriet told me. But try to understand and forgive me, James.”

  “You exaggerate, Father. I've nothing to forgive you, and I'm sure nobody else has. You've led a noble life of service.”

  “I've done terrible things, James,” Cabell said. “Terrible things.”

  “Not at all,” James retorted, almost indignantly. “You're letting this unbalance you. You must try to bear it like a man, sir.” Alarmed by the success of his efforts to save Cabell from the anguish of false hopes, he added, “Besides, who can tell, your sight may come back—by a miracle. Wonderful things have happened.”

  Cabell's grip tightened. “That's it—a miracle. Men have been raised from the dead, eh? Not saints—sinners like me.”

  James got his hand away and wiped it on his handkerchief. He turned his eyes up. “God's will be done, Father. We can only hope for the best. You must try to take it more philosophically. You have years to live—years of rest. You've earned them.”

  “Years!” Cabell murmured. “Years like this. No, blast and damn it.” He shook his fists in the air. “It's impossible. It's bloody impossible.”

  James shrugged, sighed. “Now, Father, you musn't be unreasonable. What is to be will be. All flesh is mortal.”

  James's droning platitudes reminded Cabell of something. He dropped his fists and said, “That parson fellow who's always nosing round Miss Montaulk, what's his name?”

  “Mr Tomlinson?”

  “That's it. I'd like a word with him. Perhaps you're right. I ought to take a bit of thought. I've been pretty violent.”

  James grimaced. “He's such a gossip. Nothing to gossip about here of course, but in your present state of mind. . .”

  “Do as you're told, damn you,” Cabell growled.

  So the Rev. Mr Walter Tomlinson came to see Cabell. Very nervously he entered the dark room and gasped for breath in the hot, rank air. He was a young man from Oxford, who preached in a galvanized-iron church on Monaghan Street, ovenlike and bare except for an altar cloth embroidered by his mother and arum lilies from Miss Montaulk. He had fifteen parishioners. The rest of the population were Roman Catholics or played two-up. He regarded Cabell with horror and awe as the wickedest and richest man he had ever known.

  “Sit down,” Cabell said. It was the first time Cabell had spoken to him. He thought Cabell had sent for him to make some complaint, and was ready to forswear and abjure anything rather than be roared at as he had heard Cabell roaring at men in Waterfall.

  He sat down. “I came at once,” he said anxiously.

  “Thank you.” Cabell pondered. “Damn it, I don't know how to begin,” he said at last. “I'm blind—blind as a bat. But you've seen that for yourself.”

  “Oh, indeed?” the little parson said politely.

  “Some nerve's been broken. As small as a pin-point they say, and it won't grow again. So I've got to sit here like a stuffed dummy for the rest of my days—like a castrated bull.”

  “Doctors are very clever,” Mr Tomlinson suggested. “I heard of one who made a nose grow on a man.” Then he noticed that Cabell's nose had set crooked after the fight with his son, and he was confused.

  “I know, I know. But they can't do anything for me. I'm cursed.”

  “Oh?” Mr Tomlinson said, as if Cabell had told him that he was catarrhal.

  “I haven't thought much about religion. Haven't had time. No excuse, I suppose. But damn it, I had to eat or be eaten.”

  “You've lived a very busy, useful life,” Mr Tomlinson said approvingly.

  “I've lived a hell of a life,” Cabell said. “I suppose you'll tell me a man reaps as he sows, but surely if there's a God who sees everything—it says every hair on your head is numbered, doesn't it? But no man who saw everyth
ing from start to finish would do this to me. Surely there must be some possibility, some hope. Eh?”

  It was beginning to dawn on Mr Tomlinson that Cabell was not going to roar, but expected some spiritual aid from him. He wriggled and cleared his throat and said “Just so, just so” several times, feeling, before this eager, ugly, blind, but still vividly living face, rather as a taxidermist might if called in to deal with a wild tiger.

  The old man put a bony hand on his knee. “You think so, eh? It's possible—a miracle.”

  Mr Tomlinson leant away from the pungent breath and the lips curled back viciously on bare gums. What a horrid old man. “Quite, oh, quite. God is merciful and—ah—merciful, and his only begotten Son has taken the burden of sin from us and ah. . .” As he pressed back in his chair from the twisted face pushed close to his and thought, “He's mad. He'll strangle me,” his voice went on “ah-ahing” with the detached volition of a reflex. “Afflictions sent from Heaven—measure of God's love—redeemed in Paradise. . .”

  “Yes, yes,” Cabell interrupted, “but stop beating about the bush. Have I got to spend the rest of my days rotting in darkness, and what for? It can't be God's will. I wouldn't wish it to a dog.”

  “God has seen fit—many blessings—loving children all around you—especially Mr James, I mean. . .”

  “While I could keep my eye on him!”

  Mr Tomlinson disentangled himself from Cabell's clutches and his voice ran more smoothly. “Ah, Mr Cabell, who can tell what sweet grace may descend on you in this adversity. The outward eye is blasted so that the inward eye may see more clearly. The outward eye has been fixed on base and worldly things, but the inward eye shall see the things of God.” Cabell listened attentively to the braying, cultivated voice, which became louder and more eloquent as Mr Tomlinson realized that this horrid old man was really a frightened old man. He called on Cabell to repent, promised to pray for him, was polite, a little condescending.

  The eager look left Cabell's face. He muttered deep in his throat. Mr Tomlinson paused.

  “How old are you?” Cabell asked.

  “Thirty years come September.”

  “You know what God feels about things?”

  “I am His ordained minister.”

  “Have you ever felt a man's hands round your throat?”

  “Indeed, no.”

  “Have you ever committed murder?”

  Mr Tomlinson stared.

  Cabell nodded. “I was a fool.”

  “We are all foolish, weak, and sinful,” Mr Tomlinson said.

  “I was a damn fool,” Cabell said. “Now shut up and get out of here.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Cabell rose.

  Mr Tomlinson departed.

  So much for spiritual consolation.

  Chapter Five: James Takes over the Good Work

  A month later James delivered his ultimatum.

  “I've been thinking things over, Father, and it seems to me that one or two adjustments are advisable.”

  Cabell winced, but said nothing.

  “To begin with, there's the mine. In your present condition. . .”

  “I know, I know,” Cabell said. “I'll have you put in as chairman, but, by God, you'll do as you're told or. . .”

  “Of course, I'll never want to do anything except serve you,” James said, “as I've done in the past.”

  Cabell moved uncomfortably. “Look here, James, I didn't know Julia was going to turn out a nagging bitch.”

  “I don't know what you mean, Father,” James said coldly. “Julia and I are very happy together.”

  “Then what're you always harping on past favours for?”

  “Only to reassure you.”

  Cabell snorted. “Save your breath, but if you try any monkey tricks at Waterfall. . .”

  James hemmed and hahed and made a few false starts before he got it out: “I've just written to the directors to tell them that neither you nor I will want to have any personal control in the future.”

  “You've what?”

  James repeated it. “The type of man one has to associate with and the work one has to do—I'm not cut out for it, Father. You remember I was afraid of that years ago, but you insisted and I gave in. The last eighteen months have made me sure that I've no aptitude for money-grubbing. I've other plans in view—of course if you approve.”

  “To the devil with you. I'll put Geoffrey in.”

  “I've been wanting to tell you about Geoffrey, Father, but you've kept the door locked and I didn't like to disturb you. He expressed a desire to go to America when he was in Brisbane last week, so I've promised him an ample allowance—as long as he is abroad.”

  “You false dog,” Cabell exploded. “But you can't get around me. I'll put somebody in, and you can take yourself off this instant.”

  “You're not serious, Father. Leave you to the mercy of the first scoundrel who comes along to take advantage of your affliction. You can't wish that?”

  The old man stood up and strode across the room, turned to come back and ran foul of the end of his bunk, took a few steps, lost his nerve, and felt his way hesitatingly to the table, sank into the chair, swore. “I'll be damned if I don't put someone in just the same.”

  “You've a perfect right to use your vote as you wish when the matter comes up,” James agreed, “but, of course, I too. . .”

  “You? You're only my damn puppet.”

  “Of course I'll only want to do what pleases you,” James said. “But I took the liberty of telling Miss Ludmilla by cable about your illness and she agrees that. . .”

  The old man hung on the arms of his chair—with his skinny elbows out and his head sunk in his shoulders like a spider at bay and ready to spit poison.

  “. . . you should be relieved of the responsibility of looking after her shares.”

  “I won't have it. I'll cable her myself. I'll. . .”

  “Why certainly, Father,” James interrupted quickly. “Would you like to send it now. I've got a pencil and paper here. I'll see it goes off to Pyke's Crossing at once.”

  Cabell stood up, sat down, then felt for something to throw.

  James moved the inkwell out of his reach.

  “James, you're a bastard,” Cabell said, in a tone of dawning, amazed discovery and did violence to his own hair instead.

  James was hurt. His face acted all the emotions automatically, although there were no eyes to see. “You make it very difficult for me to do my duty, Father,” he said reproachfully. “Frankly, it's no pleasure for me or for Julia to live here when we might be living in England. I don't expect you to understand what we have both given up, but I think I have a right to ask you to remember that I'm the only one of your children who hasn't abandoned you for his own selfish pleasure.” He walked to the window and left the old man breathing quickly as though a hot, bitter draught had just been forced down his throat. But he turned at once and smiled forgivingly. “Pardon me, Father. I'm afraid I sometimes forget you're not quite your old self these days. Now there's another small matter. Larry. He's in jail.”

  “Thank God for that,” Cabell said. “I wouldn't like to be at the mercy of two of you.”

  “But your son! My brother! And a Cabell!”

  “It's nothing new in the family.”

  James cracked his knuckles under his coat-tails. “I quite understand that in sending Larry to jail you acted under great provocation and in the heat of the moment. . .”

  “I sent him to jail because he tried to do me in and would try again if he got out.”

  “I quite understand,” James raised his voice, “that you acted in the heat of the moment and that in your heart you were sorry for it after. So I've taken the liberty of telling the Minister for Justice that you'd be much obliged if he'd use his influence to get Larry's sentence shortened.”

  “My God, I'll put a stop to that. I'll send Custard to Brisbane.” He got up and fumbled his way to the window. “Custard! Hey you, where's Custard?”


  James drew his father away and pulled the blind. “I'm sorry if you had any special affection for Custard, Father. I gave him the sack a week ago. He was robbing you shamefully.”

  Standing in the middle of the floor with his mouth hanging open, his stiffened knees slightly bent, his shoulders bowed, Cabell looked lost, ludicrous.

  A smile escaped James, but he disowned it at once, hastened to push his father's chair up and force the old man into it. “This is all very painful for us both,” he said, “but I'm sure you'll agree that the times have changed. The country is becoming civilized. Violence is archaic. Your action against Larry excited some extremely disagreeable publicity. Some low Labour papers in Brisbane and Sydney make a practice of writing about you in the most exaggerated terms. Nobody with any sense would pay attention to such drivel, of course, but for the sake of your good name I've decided to make a gesture.”

  The old man ran his hand over his face and rubbed his eye, as though he hoped to awaken himself from a bad dream.

  “As you are aware,” the wooden, didactic voice of James droned on and on, “some foolish idealists who were defeated in the strike of Ninety-one went to Paraguay and set up a socalled Utopian colony there. Needless to say it failed, and although they brought their sufferings on themselves, these newspaper fellows have made a pathetic story of it and attempted to misrepresent your part in locking up the land. It would be more than a reply if we were to divide up, say, fifty thousand acres of good agricultural land and offer it to be settled by the men who say that they struck against you because you had grabbed their land from them and that you turned Larry out for taking their part.”

  “Give land away? My land?”

  “It's very simple,” James said. “I've asked the Government to send a surveyor to cut the land up into blocks. Then we'll invite the men to take up selections and call the settlement the Derek Cabell Memorial Settlement. It would be heard of throughout the Empire.”