“I believe you would like to help me, Miss Gracie; indeed I do!” Ansley said, flushing 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 assets 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 documents 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 documents 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 passage 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, wishing 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 documents 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 friendship 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 God, 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 lustrous, 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, God!”
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 passed 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 God 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!”