The Outspan Part 20

"Oh yes, indeed!" he answered hastily; "but I mean, I think he knows too much for me. You see, I don't quite follow his theories--at least, some of them."

"What a prettily--inferred compliment, Mr Ansley!" and, making him a mock-curtsey, she added, "Then you think _I_ am sufficiently stupid to be entertaining?"

"Quite so, Miss Hardy--more of my own calibre, you know," he returned, laughing.

"Thank you for that, too. My friend, you have a ready wit, and have got out of it better than you deserved; and, though you don't merit it, I mean to show you the river this evening--that is, if you are quite sure that you wouldn't prefer listening to Mr Whitton."

"Well, Miss Hardy, I could devote a lifetime to agriculture, but the pa.s.sion of my life is certainly exploring. Your descriptions have so fired my soul with enthusiasm and ambition that I am afraid I shouldn't die happy if I didn't know the geography of this part of the river. In the cause of science, let us go."

The girl answered gravely:

"In the cause of science, we shall go."

The evening was one of those stilly, cool summer evenings so common in South Africa, when the night seems full of still life; the moonlight, strong and clear, has nothing sombre in it, and the gentlest of cool breezes plays through the leaves, bearing along with it the commingled scents of all the blossoms.

As they walked down the gravelled path through the orange-groves the crickets sang merrily all around, and from the river came the sound of the frogs--that most curious of all evening sounds. From the house it sounded like one monotonous roar, but as one drew nearer the river the individual voices could be distinguished, and every note on the gamut was given by that orchestra. Now and again, without any apparent reason, the music would suddenly cease and a dead silence ensue; and then, doubtless at a signal from the conductor, the whole band would strike up again.

They strolled on down to the little jetty where the boat was moored, and helping his companion to the cus.h.i.+oned seat in the stern, Ansley pushed the little craft out and rowed lazily up in midstream.

From the river the groves and gardens showed up most distinctly, and over and beyond them the house was discernible under the huge trees that stood at the sides and back of it. The moonlight softened and silvered everything, and the scent of the orange-blossoms gave a dreamy, exquisite, impalpable finish to the night.

Pausing in midstream, Ansley asked his companion if she knew the song "Carissima," adding, "You know, I think it must have been on such a night as this that he serenaded her in his boat. 'The moonlight trembling on the sea,' and 'the breath of flowers,' that he sings of are here, and 'the orange-groves so dark and dim'--now all we want is the dreamy, distant sound of the 'Vesper Hymn.' Will you sing the song itself Miss Hardy? That will be better than any 'Vesper Hymn.'"

She sang, as he asked, in a sweet, low voice suited to the song and the time and the surroundings; and as the last call of "Carissima," so appealingly gentle, so soft and clear, floated away, he rested on his oars and watched her. Presently he said:

"There is, I think, no power so far-reaching, so universally felt, as the power of music. There is none--excepting, of course, the magnetic power of individuals over each other--which can so stir a man's better nature. It seems--and especially at night--to elevate one's thoughts and hopes, to strike a higher chord in human nature."

"Yes, it is so. It raises a feeling of devotion. To me, it is the poetry of religion."

And so they talked as the boat glided along; talked of the "little things we care about," which are of no interest to anyone else, but which help us greatly to know one another. And the time slipped quietly by, like the silent water moving to the eternal sea. Now and then there were sc.r.a.ps of conversation, but more often the long silences of content. The girl lay back in the cus.h.i.+oned stern trailing one hand in the water, barely cool after the long summer day; the man dipped his oars now and again for the slowest, laziest of strokes, and watched the blades glisten in the moonlight and the diamond drops plash back on the s.h.i.+ning surface of the water.

Once or twice in the long silences Ansley had roused himself, and half bent forward, as though about to say something, but, changing his mind, had taken a few lazy pulls at the oars and sent the boat gliding along again. But when they turned to drift down-stream again he s.h.i.+pped the oars, and, after a little pause, said:

"If you do not mind, I should like to tell you something of the business that has brought me here. I want help for a friend, and I want advice-- your advice! But, even apart from that, I should like you to know."

She answered promptly and truthfully: "I should like to know, and oh! I would give anything to help you!"

"I believe you would like to help me, Miss Gracie; indeed I do!" Ansley said, flus.h.i.+ng a little nervously. "You can scarcely realise what a difference this day has made to me. This morning I would have said I had but one friend in the world, now I believe I have three; and that makes all the difference in the world to me. I confess I did hope, though I was by no means sure, that I could count on you and your father; but I feel more confident now. You have been more than kind to me, and even if your father cannot help me, yet for the welcome you have given me I shall always count you as my friends."

The girl, for answer, put out her hand to him. The firm, honest grip, or the mere act perhaps, seemed to confuse him for the moment, to put him off; and he sat silently looking down into the hands which had just released hers. It was only for a few seconds, however, and then he looked up at her and began abruptly:

"My other friend is a man named Norman. It is on his account that I have come here. He has been on the Diamond Fields off and on ever since they were found, and, like all others, he made and lost money alternately until about two years ago; then the death of his father, with whom he had always shared interests, left him large holdings in several of the best companies. The business had been conducted under the style of Norman and Davis, and on the father's death young Norman left everything in the hands of Davis and went off on an eighteen months' trip. About six months ago he returned, and found that his position was not all that he had imagined it to be. He found Davis as a man a pretty wealthy man, but he found the firm of Norman and Davis as a firm an exceedingly poor one. The first glance showed him that Davis had worked with system. Whether the conversion had been effected during his absence only or during his easy-going father's lifetime it was impossible to say; but the fact remains that the a.s.sets which he had looked upon as his had been converted to Davis's personal estate, and were as secure to him as law could make them. After some weeks of search, however, he found amongst his father's papers something which, though not in itself of great importance, yet gave him a good clue, and, making a guess at the probabilities in the case, he wrote to Davis demanding a full settlement in the matter of certain shares which he could now prove belonged to the firm. To cut a long story short, Davis, not knowing what doc.u.ments had been discovered and fearing a complete exposure, offered to compromise. The more the one yielded the firmer was the other's stand, and it was not till after several interviews that any arrangement was come to. Throughout the whole business Davis's tone had been one of contemptible cringing and meanness. Pleading his family, heavy losses, bad times, and a lot more in that strain, he begged Norman not to be too hard on him. A day was appointed for final settlement, when Davis would hand over some of his ill-gotten wealth.

Norman called at the office as appointed, and found his father's partner in a more cheerful frame of mind, seemingly resolved to accept the inevitable with the best possible grace; he treated the matter as a purely business transaction. Finally, he asked Norman to leave the doc.u.ments with him to allow his clerk to take copies of them. If Norman would call back in half an hour a lawyer would be in attendance, and the business would be finally settled. Norman rose to go, and as he opened the door, Davis said in a clear, low voice these words: 'I am sorry you have done it, Norman. I cannot have anything to do with that kind of business.' As he turned to inquire what Davis alluded to, the door closed sharply, and he found himself in the pa.s.sage and two strangers looking very hard at him. There is no use telling you all the details, Miss Gracie. I feel like a demon when I think of it now. He was arrested and searched, and in one of his side coat-pockets they found a small packet of diamonds. This was proved against him at the trial by the detectives, who swore also that they had heard, as they stood outside the door, Davis refuse to 'have anything to do with that kind of business.' The clerk swore to Norman's several visits, when he always refused to state his business, wis.h.i.+ng to see Mr Davis privately.

Davis himself of course with great reluctance gave evidence against his late partner's son. He told how he had of late been so pestered over this business that he had at last given information in self-defence, fearing that one day it would be discovered, and that he, though wholly innocent, would be incriminated. He hoped the Court would not be hard on the prisoner, as he was sure this was his first offence, and a lesson would suffice. The prisoner, he said, was naturally a straightforward, honest man, and he had never known anything against him before, etc.

The defence was characterised as a miserable failure, and the sentence on the prisoner was 'seven years.' I cannot tell you, Miss Hardy, half the horrors of that time. It was so terrible that I believe when the trial was over the certainty was no worse to him than the suspense had been. But the cruellest blow of all was to see friends drop away and sheer off when friends were most sorely needed. Norman said he had never seen the diamonds until they were found in his pockets by the detectives, and he could only think it was Davis's fiendish device to place them there while they were talking over the doc.u.ments in the office. This explanation was openly laughed at. However, the law did not take its course--whether it was an act of negligence or covert friends.h.i.+p it is hard to say--Norman himself does not know; but an opening occurred two days after the trial, and he took it. Next to him stood one of the police-inspector's horses, saddled and ready, even to the revolver in the holsters. The act was so sudden that no attempt at pursuit could be made till he was well away towards the border.

Galloping along in the early morning, he met no one for some miles out of camp, until on nearing the border, on the road before him, and coming leisurely towards him, he saw another horseman alone. Slackening his pace to allay suspicion, it was only when close up that he recognised his late father's partner--the cause of his ruin--Davis; and not until Norman drew up before him did Davis recognise the man whom he believed to be in gaol. Paralysed with fright, he sat his horse speechless and helpless. Norman rode up closer until their knees touched, and taking one rein in his hand, he held Davis's horse. 'You see I'm out,' he said curtly. Davis, white and trembling, could not answer a word. 'Give me all the money you have--everything of value. It is all mine, and I want it.' The miserable wretch handed out all his money and his watch, together with several diamonds, only too probably the fruits of that early ride. Then Norman spoke again, with, you might say, pitiless hatred. 'You know, Davis, what you have done! You know it is _worse_ than death to me. Death would have been a thousand times better. You know--of course, a religious man like you must know--that retribution means an eye for an eye; but I will not be as hard on you as you were to me. I cannot have your liberty, or your reputation. I cannot break your heart; but I _can_ shoot you, and, by G.o.d, I will! Don't whine, you cur--I didn't, when you dealt me a worse blow. Stand back and take it.' There was a report, a scream, and--Davis was settled with."

Ansley stopped. Before him shone the l.u.s.trous, anxious, frightened eyes of the girl. Her face was colourless, and her hands clasped tightly together. As he stopped there came from the closed lips a breathless whisper--"Ah, G.o.d!"

For a full minute he sat looking at her, expecting, hoping she would say more; but what she had heard seemed to fill her with thoughts too full for words. She asked no explanation--no reason--she could see them all herself. For the present she cared no more about his friend's after-fate--the fatal scene seemed too complete of itself to admit of anything more.

He looked at her wistfully, and said in a husky, pleading voice:

"Nothing can justify that, Miss Hardy, I know: but before you judge him, before you refuse your sympathy and help, think of the awful trial; think of the fiendish cruelty of the man who had ruined him; and think of how they met."

"My sympathy is stronger than ever," she answered, looking up at him.

"It was a terrible revenge, but no one can say it was more than justice."

The girl sat silent again, thinking on what she had heard. Ansley was silent, too, feeling a little sore and disappointed at what he thought her disapproval of his friend; but in reality he was mistaken, and her sympathy was the deeper that it was not expressed. Several minutes pa.s.sed thus before either stirred or spoke again. Then Miss Hardy rose and gathered her shawl about her, saying:

"Come, let us go home. I feel chilly, and oh! I cannot bear to think that a human being's life can be so spoiled, so utterly, irretrievably ruined. It is too cruel. Indeed, it almost makes one think that this world is not the work of a G.o.d of Justice and Mercy. It is horrible!

It frightens one to think that misfortune can so single out one man for persecution worse than death. We have but one life--one short little life, to live, and then, to think that, do what we can, that may be spoiled for us for ever!"

"Do you think that his chance is gone, then--gone for ever? He is still young. Do you think nothing can wipe it out?"

"Why do you ask me? You know it is a thing one cannot outlive. What would it help that you and I were his friends--you and I and father?-- for I know it will be so. I would honour him for his wrongs. I would be proud to be his friend. But it would always hurt to feel the sneers and insults levelled at him. Were they never so well hidden, he would know that they were there. But, for that very reason, I would be proud to take his hand before all the world."

Ansley's glance kindled with pleasure to see the girl's earnestness, and, as he looked at her, he thought again of the photo he had seen that night twelve years ago. The honest, fearless look of the child came back to him, and it seemed to him that the woman was that child--and something more.

As they reached the stoep she turned to him, standing on the bottom step, and said gently:

"You will pardon my thoughtless chaff about your melancholy, won't you?

I did not know then, but now I understand."

"Never speak of it, Miss Grace. I knew you well enough even then to not misinterpret it. However, we have finished with melancholy now, haven't we? Do you know," he added, smiling up at her, "that it is past twelve o'clock, and Christmas morning? Let me wish you every happiness and every blessing. I think you deserve them. I told you I thought you had a good influence, and were born to make others happy. Now I am sure of it. I can speak from experience, for I have felt happier to-day than for many a long day past."

"If I am that, what are you? Why, you are a Christmas-box yourself.

Remember, I have taken possession of you, and mean to present you to father to-morrow morning as my Christmas-box. In the meantime you are mine."

"And right welcome is my fate, my lady. Good-night." He held her hand lingeringly as he spoke, then slowly bent and touched it with his lips, saying, "Good-night, Gracie, my good angel!"

There was a faint whisper, "Good-night," and she ran quickly up the steps and disappeared indoors.

The sun had barely risen when Ansley, restless, and anxious for Hardy's return, left his rooms. Whitton, the overseer, was starting on horseback to go his morning rounds, and Ansley, glad of any means of pa.s.sing the time, accompanied him. For a couple of hours he rode along with the overseer, listening absently to his one theme of conversation, but as it neared breakfast-time he struck off by a cross-path and rode slowly in the direction of the house.

This Christmas morning Miss Hardy was unusually late, and at seven o'clock she was startled by hearing the sound of a cart on the gravel outside. Catching her father's voice, she hastened to dress, and in a few minutes was downstairs to meet him; but the servant told her that he had just ridden off with three others, and had left word that he would be back again shortly, and that she must not wait breakfast for him, as he had some most important business to attend to. Wondering much what business could have been important enough to take him away so suddenly, especially on a Christmas morning, Miss Grace resolved, at any rate, to prepare her surprise for him, and sent for Ansley. But he too had gone out with Whitton, and not returned yet; and she, none too well satisfied, had to be content with her own company.

Having been unable to get away again the previous day, and having resolved to spend Christmas Day with his daughter, Hardy had left Kimberley long before dawn that morning. Driving along as he neared home, Hardy presently heard the sound of horses' hoofs coming on fast behind him, and, looking round, he saw two men ride up. One was a neighbouring farmer with whom he was slightly acquainted, and the other a stranger to him. The farmer told him hurriedly that Norman, the escaped I.D.B. convict, highwayman, murderer, and horse-thief, had been seen in the vicinity, and the detectives--pointing to his companion-- were out after him. Hardy could give them no information, having just come out of Kimberley himself, and they were in the act of parting when another horseman came up--the second detective--with the news that he had seen Norman within the last half-hour, but, as he was well mounted and armed, had come for help.

People at a distance from the Diamond Fields cannot realise the hatred and contempt felt by the honest section there for the I.D.B.'s. It is the crime without parallel there, so that it is not to be wondered at that John Hardy instantly eagerly offered to join the party if they would accompany him to his house, a short way on, where he would leave the trap, and get a mount and arm himself.

Very few minutes elapsed before Hardy, the farmer, and two detectives were riding along fast in the direction in which Norman had been seen.

A quarter of an hour's riding brought them to a rise at a considerable distance from the house, and, coming up first, Hardy, who had the best horse, signalled to the others to stop at once; and, dismounting at once, he crept up to watch the man who was riding slowly towards them.

Walking his horse leisurely along, Ansley was lost in the thought of his mission, in speculation as to how Hardy would receive it, and in the recollection of the previous day and evening. A happier look floated across his face as he thought of the young girl standing on the step above him, bathed in the soft moonlight, and his blood quickened a bit as he recalled the timid whispered "Good-night."