When Cassidy extended the firm’s “business”—that is to say, went to the Cape Colony, Natal, and Transvaal, in search of contracts on the various railway lines—he continued to remit the “profits” with the most elaborate statements, which Mrs Mallandane, as a partner, felt bound to study, and, as a woman, often wept over in despair.
This had gone on for several years, and it was not until after she had gone to Barberton, “to be near the business,” that something had made her suspicious that the joint capital locked up in the business was all a generous imposition.
“It only needed the suggestion,” said Mrs Mallandane, “to show me an appalling chain of evidence—evidence of his generosity and patient tactful help—evidence of my blind content and foolishness. I spoke to him when next he came in. He could see that I knew, and he simply said that ‘Ralph would have done the same for him.’ God forgive me! He gave up his life to me! He suffered living death for me! He lived when it would have been a million mercies to have died. He bore all that man could bear and never grudged it. And I—I cut his heart in two when I refused his help! I know it! I wished I had died before I got the look he gave me when I told him that I could not take his help. Month after month went by and he did not come to me—he, who used to be here on the first day of every month. But I knew he was near. Twice I saw him passing slowly by at night when he had come to watch over us. The first time I was too surprised to call. The second time I called him and he came to me. He stayed until late that evening; and he went away happy again because we registered our second compact: that if we (Molly and I) were ever in real need I would send for him; that if he were sick or in need of friends the privilege of friends should be ours.”
She stopped for quite a while, and when she spoke again her voice trembled and it was all she could do to control it so that she could speak at all. I could not bear to look in her face.
“You two have seen him,” she said, and, turning to me, added, “You have known him. I have liked to tell you all about him; and I like to tell you now that I know he loved me—that I think it is the greatest honour a woman can have to be loved by such a man: for not any woman that I have ever known, or heard of, or read of, was good enough for him!”
She left the room for a moment, and returning laid something on the table before us, saying:
“You remember him as you saw him. Try—try to think of him as I do—like this! It is all you can do for the memory of a good and honourable man.”
It was the photograph I had seen in her book the day I left to bring him in.
All those things happened some years ago.