It was Christmas Day at New Rush--the Christmas of '73. No merry peals
rang out to celebrate the occasion--there were no bells. The streets
were not decorated with festoons or bunting--there were no streets to
decorate. The usual lot of church-goers: men in broadcloth, women in
gay colours, children neat and spotless, Prayer-book in hand--these were
not the features of the day. There was no broadcloth, there were no
women, there was no church--only long straggling rows of white tents,
only a lot of holes of various depths and a lot of heaps of debris, only
a lot of men in flannel shirts and moleskins, broad-brimmed hats and
thick boots, the bronzed, bearded, hardy pioneers of the Diamond Fields.
They had no church, but they could celebrate Christmas as well as those
who had. There was a function which appealed to their feelings as
Britishers--a popular, time-honoured function, whose necessary
auxiliaries were at hand. They could not go to church, but they _could_
get drunk; and they did.
All through the day the songs and cries and curses of the celebrants
bore ample testimony to their devotion. The canvas canteens were
crowded, and the bare spaces around them were strewn with empty bottles
and victims of injudicious zeal. Within and without the one
never-ending topic was diamonds; diggers backed their finds for weight
or colour, shape, or number. Fortunes were held in clumsy, grog-shaken
hands, and shown round as "last week's finds;" all was clamour,
festivity, and drink.
And this was Christmas Day! And the same sun that blazed down so
fiercely on the drinking, and scorched the unconscious upturned faces of
the drunk, shone softly on the dark hedges and snow-clad meadows of old
England. It saw the fighting and drinking of a turbulent New World and
the peace and quietness of a respectable Old one. It saw the
adventurers seeking fortune and the homes for which they worked. And
across six thousand miles of land and ocean it looked down alike on the
men who waste or struggle and the women who wait and pray.
In a fly-tent, away from the noisy portion of the camp, sat John Hardy--
sober. Out of sorts, out of heart, and dead out of luck, he had neither
the means nor the inclination to get drunk. Ten months on the fields
had about done for him. Other men came with nothing; they had made
fortunes and left. He came with a few hundreds, the proceeds of the
sale of his farm and stock. He had sacrificed everything to come to
this El Dorado--and now! Now the farm was gone and the money too. Bit
by bit it had slipped away. The last thing to go was the cart and mule;
he had managed to keep those till yesterday, but the grub score had to
be met--one must live, you know--and the old mule and cart went the way
of the rest. Last night he had changed his last fiver and paid his
boys. Now all he had in the world was a bit of ground (thirty by
thirty), a few old picks and shovels, two blankets, and a revolver.
All through the day he had heard the noise of shouting and singing, but
it awoke no responsive chord. Every burst of merriment jarred on him.
The first man he had met had smilingly wished him a merry Christmas.
Great Heaven! was the man a fool, or was it a devil jeering at him?
Merry! Ay, with black ruin on him, his hopes blasted and his chances
gone. And this was Christmas, when human beings were gasping and
blistering between the parched plain and the blue sky, where a fierce
relentless sun blazed down upon them. Everything mocked him. Truly,
when a man is down, trample on him! When it comes to this, that his own
feelings are a hell to him, the more material things matter little.
There is a limit to mental as well as physical pain; the mind becomes
numb and the feelings spent. But Hardy had not yet come to this, and he
felt acutely the sarcasm on his own fete that this Christmas Day
presented.
At sunset he went out to take a last look at the hole that had swallowed
up his all. Indeed, it was a poor exchange for the grand old farm and
the cattle and sheep and horses, and, above all, the home that his dead
wife had made a heaven of for the five years of their married life. For
himself he cared little, but his little girl--her child!--whom he had
left behind with friends! In his mad speculation he had robbed her--his
darling, the one loving memento of his dead wife! Well, to-morrow at
sunrise he would take the 15 pounds for the claim, and hire himself out
as a miner to the new owner.
The setting sun glinted over the workings and shed its golden light on
the mine, ribbed out by roads and divisions, all in little squares like
the specimen-cases in museums. There were hundreds of those squares,
and his was _one_, and a worthless one at that. Yes, he would take the
15 pounds, and lucky to get it, for every man in camp knew he had not
found a stone worth mentioning.
For over two hours he sat in the little low tent; a dusty lantern
dangled from the ridge-pole and shed its weak, uncertain light around.
His supper he had forgotten, and he sat at the rough packing-case table,
his forehead resting on his arms, inwardly and silently cursing his luck
and himself and the place with the bitterest curses his mind could
frame. A revolver lay on the table before him--a grim sort of companion
for a ruined man.
Presently a step came along the path--the step of one walking cautiously
to avoid the scores of tent-lines and pegs that were stretched and stuck
in every direction. As the step came closer Hardy looked up, and a head
was thrust through the flap of the tent.
"I was taking Jack Evans home and he asked me to give you this. It came
yesterday, but he's been spreeing and forgot it."
The man stepped in and tendered a square envelope, and stood silent.
"Won't you sit?" asked Hardy, scarcely glancing at him as he pushed an
empty gin-case forward.
"Well, just a minute, thanks."
The young fellow sat down and watched Hardy in silence. The latter took
the letter mechanically, but brightened up instantly as he saw the
writing.
Gently and carefully he opened it, and from the envelope came a cheap
Christmas card of flowers done in flaming colours--common and garish.
That was all! No letter, nothing else. On the back was written, "For
dear Father, from his little girl, Gracie."
For a moment Hardy looked at it steadily, and then the hard sunburnt
face softened, the mouth twitched once or twice, and two tears trickled
slowly down and dropped on the card. The man's head was lowered slowly
until it rested on his arms again, and for a couple of minutes there was
silence in the tent. The bitterness, the loneliness, the desolation
were gone from his heart. What no reverses could bring about, and what
no philosophy could resist, was done by a cheap, tawdry Christmas card
sent by a child.
Presently he looked up and reached a small framed photograph from above
his bed.
"It is from my little girl," he said, and handed the card and photograph
to the youngster.
The boy looked at them. The photograph was that of a child of about
eight, with a rather pleasant expression and large, wondering,
honest-looking eyes. He looked at it closely for a minute or so, and
nodding kindly once or twice, handed it back without a word. As Hardy
turned to replace the photograph the youngster leant forward quickly,
took up the revolver, and slipped it into his pocket.
He had been gone ten minutes or so, when again a step came along; the
flap was lifted, and without a word the youngster re-entered, drew the
gin-case up opposite Hardy, and took a long steady look at him. To
Hardy's "Hallo! what's up?" he returned no direct answer, but his eyes,
which before had borne a calm, uninterested look, now shone with an
eager brilliancy that could not fail to attract attention. His
olive-brown face was pale, almost white now, and when he did speak it
was, though slowly, with evident excitement, and he coughed once or
twice as if feeling a dryness in the throat.
"The chaps say you are broke," he said.
"Dead broke!" Hardy replied wonderingly.
"Have you anything left?"
"Nothing--absolutely nothing!"
"Where's your claim?"
"Going to-morrow!"
The youngster shook his head and smiled faintly. He was so evidently in
earnest that Hardy submitted in simple wonder to the cross-examination.
"Have you found any stones?"
"Not five pounds' worth in ten months!"
"Where are your boys?"
"Gone. I paid them off yesterday."
"No, they're _not_ gone. Look here," he added more quickly, "when I was
here before I took your revolver. You see, it looked to me as if you
meant using it. Here it is. You can use it now on someone else." The
youngster leant forward and spoke lower and faster. "When I left you I
walked along the old path a bit, but my sight was spoilt by the candle
here and I got off the track. I stood for a minute, and then heard some
Kaffirs talking, and I went towards the sound. I called to them, but
they didn't hear me; and I was walking up closer when I caught something
that made me listen all I knew. I heard more and crept closer. I got
quite close up and looked through the grass. There were five boys
sitting round a stump of lighted candle; there was a bit of black cloth
before them, and they _were counting diamonds_! There was a mustard-tin
full. I crept back about twenty yards and called out. The light was
blown out at once, and when I called again one boy came out. I asked
him who was his baas, and he brought me to your hut."
Hardy sat dazed for a moment. Mechanically his hand closed on the
revolver that was placed in it, and then, rising, he followed the
lantern which the youngster had taken.
They entered the hut and caught the boys in the act of dividing the
spoil. They found the mustard-tin full, and on each of the Kaffirs a
private supply hidden there from his mates.
John Hardy slept that night as those sleep who have borne their burden
and have reached the place of rest. And he saw a picture in his dreams.
The canvas tent was a palace of white marble, and as he lay there
things of beauty were strewn around him; but, surpassing all these,
there hung in mid-air before him a wreath of bright and many-coloured
flowers, more lovely than any he had ever seen; and within its circle
was the face of a child, and above it all there was a line of little
crooked writing, and the letters, which stood out in shining gold, were,
"For dear Father, from his loving little girl, Gracie." That was John
Hardy's Christmas dream.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
In 1885 New Rush and Colesburg Kopje were names well-nigh forgotten, and
there reigned in their stead Kimberley and its neighbouring camps. In
proportion as the tented camp had grown into a great city, in proportion
as the puny diggings had become a mighty mine, in like proportion had
men and things altered; and even so had John Hardy thriven and
prospered. One stroke of luck had placed his foot on the first rung of
Fortune's ladder, and a cool shrewd head had done the rest. Hardy the
digger, in his little canvas tent, was no more, and in his place stood
John Hardy, Esq, capitalist, speculator, director of companies, etc.
But the change, after all, was no change at all: the man was the same,
and the very traits which, with his fellow-diggers, had stamped him as a
white man, now won him the respect of a different class. Calm and
self-contained, straightforward and incorruptible, he was as popular as
such men can be. In one particular especially was he unchanged. His
"little girl" was still his "little girl," in spite of the fact that she
was now over twenty. During ten years he had not lost sight of her for
a week, and in all the world he had not one thought, one wish, one
desire, that had not for its aim her happiness and pleasure. On the
banks of the Vaal River he had made his home. It was an old farm, with
great, big old trees and shady walks and green hedges, and there was an
orange-grove that ran down to the river-side, and a boat on the water,
where one could glide about breathing the breath of the orange-blossoms.
Here Hardy spent nearly all his time, perfectly happy and contented in
the society of his "little girl."
But even so there were crumpled rose-leaves in John Hardy's bed. The
first was the thought that some day she, his child, would love someone
else, and he who had idolised her all his life would be superseded by a
stranger of whose existence even she was not yet aware. The other was a
now half-forgotten ungratified wish--the wish to find the youngster who
had done him such service twelve years before. Every effort had failed,
every expedient proved fruitless. Not knowing his name, having hardly
noticed his appearance, what chance was there of finding him? He had
but one guide. Leaning across the rough table in the weak uncertain
light of the lantern that night, he had looked full and Mr in the
youngster's eyes, and he thought he would know them. If ever he got the
chance of looking into them again, he would make no mistake. He
remembered their colour, he remembered them dark and dormant when he
brought in Grace's letter; he recalled them again, lustrous and
expressive, when he returned to the little hut, and could see them now,
warming, quickening, brightening, till they flashed with excitement as
he said, "They were counting diamonds." Every little incident of that
night was burned into his memory, but of the general appearance of the
boy he knew nothing. He had not seen his figure, standing or walking,
except for an instant, and that when he was paying little heed. He had
not seen his face, except in one position--full--and that so close as to
miss the general impression. So many years had passed without a sign or
clue that Hardy had long given up all hope of discovering his friend,
and, indeed, he seldom thought about him now. When the thought did
recur to him it came more as a regret that he had not found him than as
a hope that he would.
It was Christmas Eve, and John Hardy was going into camp to arrange
matters so that he would be free from all business during the holidays
and could spend his Christmas and New Year at home undisturbed. The
cart and greys had already disappeared over the rise. Grace had waved
her good-bye and wandered off into the garden. There were the cheerful
sounds of life about which seem peculiar to a bright summer morning.
The finks on the river, the canaries in the field, the robbers in the
orchard, vied with each other in pouring out volumes of song, lavishly
squandering the wealth of their repertoire, and, as a sort of
accompaniment to them, came the distant and pleasantly monotonous
cackling of hens. Every variety of time, key, and voice was there, and
all in rivalry, yet forming together a drowsy harmonious symphony of
peace. Miss Grace wandered on, pruning here, plucking there, now
stooping to see where the violets hid their heads, now running her hand
lightly through the clusters of roses. She made her way slowly towards
the house, looking fresh and bright in her white dress. The
brown-holland apron was caught up and filled with bright azalea
blossoms. The broad-brimmed garden-hat had slipped back, showing waves
of golden hair; her lips and fingers, too, were stained with mulberries;
at her breast was a bunch of violets to match the eyes above them.
Altogether, she was not the least attractive part of the picture that
summer morning, and probably she knew it. From the broad-flagged stoep
of the house to the gravel sweep in front there were a dozen or so
steps, and on the top step of all Miss Grace turned and stood. The
gravel walks and big trees, the flower-garden wildly luxuriant, the
orange-grove, and beyond them the reach of river, looking placid and
blue in the morning sunlight, all made up a delightful picture; and she,
with her snow-white dress and bright-coloured flowers, looked and
enjoyed it. The gentle morning breeze, laden with the scent of flowers,
played on her cheeks and just stirred the feathery golden hair on her
temples as she stood there.
Presently someone, a stranger, rode up and, dismounting, led his horse
to the foot of the steps, and, raising his hat slightly, asked for Mr
Hardy.
"He has just gone into Kimberley. He is not half an hour gone," Miss
Grace replied.
The man looked disappointed.
"That _is_ unfortunate. I have come a long way to see him. I _must_
see him. When will he be back?"
"This afternoon or this evening, I hope; but possibly not until
to-morrow morning. But won't you come in and rest a little?"
The man gave his horse to a boy and walked slowly up the steps. For
some moments he made no reply, and at last, looking at her in an
abstracted kind of way, apparently without really seeing her, muttered:
"Well, that _is_ awkward!" He paused again, deep in thought, and,
seeming to arrive at some conclusion, he said, "Miss Hardy, I _must_ see
your father; it is a matter almost of life and death, and I am almost
certain to miss him if I follow him now. Will you allow me to wait
until he returns?"
"I shall see Mr Whitton, my father's agent, at luncheon, and if he can
put you up you are very welcome to stay."
The stranger bowed, inwardly a little amused perhaps at Mr Whitton's
position in the matter.
Miss Hardy suggested that possibly he had not yet breakfasted, and as
the surmise proved entirely correct he was left to entertain himself
while she went off to give the necessary orders.
Breakfast over, the young man returned to the stoep, and in an enclosed
portion of it discovered Miss Grace among the ferns and hot-house
plants. For some minutes after the first few remarks he watched in
silence, and then, as she paused to study the effect of a rearrangement
in a small basket of ferns he asked quietly:
"Are you Miss Gracie?"
She looked up quickly, flushing a little, and then said coldly:
"Yes, I am Miss Hardy."
"I mean no impertinence, Miss Hardy. I asked if you are Miss Gracie
because I heard of you by that name twelve years ago."
"Indeed! Then you are an old friend of my father's?"
"Well, yes, I believe he would consider me so. But I should have told
you my name before this. Pardon the omission. Ansley it is--George
Ansley."
"Ah--Mr Ansley! Yet I don't remember ever hearing him speak of you.
But be sure of this, if you were his friend then, you will be his friend
now. He does not forget old friends. Let me see. Twelve years ago.
Those were the early days--those were his hard times when you knew him."
"Yes, he was down then--very down; and I am very glad he has prospered.
No man better deserved it."
The girl's eyes grew a little misty--this was her weak point. She
looked up at him, saying simply: "Thank you."
Ansley smiled slightly, and said: "There was a photograph of you that he
had then. A little girl in short dresses, a very serious,
earnest-looking little girl--all eyes. I can remember wishing to see
you then. I wanted to see if your eyes really looked like that. They
_do_, you know. But, still, I can't imagine that you are his `little
girl.'"
Miss Grace laughed and blushed a good deal under the scrutiny and
criticism, and suggested good-humouredly that if he would go with her
she would show him the original photograph, and he could satisfy himself
on that point.
From one of the drawing-room tables she took a folding frame made to
hold two photographs, and pointing to the right-hand one, handed it to
him. After a full minute's close inspection, Ansley looked up, smiling
gravely at the girl.
"There is no mistaking it," he said; "that is the photograph. I would
know it anywhere. It made a great impression on me when I first saw it
on account of a little incident that was in a sort of way connected with
it."
"What was that?"
As she asked the question he glanced from the photograph to the other
side of the frame, where there was a little faded, old-fashioned
Christmas card. As it caught his eye a half-suppressed exclamation
escaped him, and, oblivious of the girl's presence, he drew the card out
and read the writing on the back; and then, glancing out through the
open window, he thought of how he had first seen it.
As Miss Grace looked at him, she saw that his brown sunburnt face looked
a little lined and careworn. Under the dark moustache the mouth drooped
rather sadly at the corners, and the eyes were large and sad too just
now. She watched him for a little while, and then, interrupting his
thought, said gently:
"Well, Mr Ansley, I am waiting to hear the incident of which I was the
unconscious heroine."
"A thousand pardons. It was thinking of that very incident that made me
forget your question. It cannot be an accident that those two cards are
in the same frame. Of course, you must know the history?"
"Of course, _I_ do; but surely you cannot; why, the Christmas card it is
impossible that you could have seen."
"No, not impossible, Miss Hardy. It was I who brought it to your father
the night he found the diamonds!"
The girl stood before him, hands clasped, and amazed. Wonderingly she
looked at him, and the more she looked the more she wondered. How
utterly different from what she had fancied! In her mind's eye she had
seen a tall, awkward youth, loose-jointed and rough, silent and stupid,
and here was the real Simon Pure, tall and slight, certainly, but supple
and well-knit, quiet and courteous.
"Well, this is wonderful!" she exclaimed at last in helpless amazement;
and then her face flushed with generous enthusiasm. "Oh, Mr Ansley,
you don't know what pleasure, what happiness this will be to my father!
You don't know how he has longed to find you. This will be the happiest
Christmas he has ever spent."
"Do you really think he will be glad to see me?"
"Oh, you don't know him if you can ask such a question. But why did you
never come to us before?"
"Because I never wanted his help before, and I could not have refused
it. He is the only man in this world from whom I would ask help, and I
have come to ask it now. It is no trifle. It will be the hardest task
he has ever had."
"Whatever it is, Mr Ansley, if he can do it he will. I would pledge my
life on that. He owes you much, and I owe you what I can perhaps never
in all my life repay. At least, you will let us be your friends."
She extended both hands to him as she spoke. The soft firm touch of the
girl's hands sent a pleasant tingle through him. It was genuine. It
made him feel that this time he had fallen amongst friends. A feeling
that he had never known in his life came over him, the feeling that
there was a home where he would be always welcome, and that there were
two people who would always be genuinely glad to see him.
The first surprise over, she made him recount most minutely every detail
of that Christmas night. He told how the letter had been entrusted to
him for delivery by the tipsy digger, and every little incident up to
the finding of the diamonds.
"When we found the tin full," he said, "we were so excited that we
thought very little of the boys. We searched them one by one and passed
them behind us. I had passed the last, when I turned and found your
father standing by me looking helpless and dazed, instead of guarding
the door, as I thought he was doing. I looked round, and saw that the
boys had bolted, so I took the packets we had found on them and put them
down on the piece of oilskin with the tin. I thought it best then to
leave him to himself, and as he stooped slowly to pick up the diamonds I
stepped out of the hut and went home. I should have seen him the next
day, I am certain, but when I got home I found my father and a digging
friend mad with excitement about a new find some thirty miles off. We
started for the place that night, and did not return for some months."
"But how was it you did not meet him even then?"
Ansley laughed, as he answered hesitatingly:
"Well, Miss Hardy, the fact is, I did often meet him; but I was a
youngster then--very foolish, and sensitive, and proud in my silly
boyish way, and though I knew well and often heard that he wanted to
find me, I could not bring myself to go up to him and say, `I am the man
who saved your fortune for you.' It seemed to me I might as well have
said, `What do you mean to pay me?' I could not do it. And though I
knew, too, that he could not possibly recognise me from the very
imperfect view he had of me in the dark little tent, yet when I met him
in camp I used to turn away from him and feel hurt and sick and sore
that he did not know me. Then a little later, as you know, he left
Kimberley, and was away for a long, long time, and so it has been during
twelve years. He has been much away, and so have I, and although I have
often seen him, we have never actually met. Once in London I would have
spoken to him. I was then, as I thought, a rich man, and I could afford
to speak without fear of being misunderstood, but I missed him. I wish
to God I had not, Miss Gracie; I wish I had met you both then. Nothing
has gone well with me since. Bad luck has followed me and all connected
with me since then. It is the last and worst stroke that has brought me
here." He looked into the lustrous eyes and sympathetic face of the
girl, and added, half playfully, half sadly: "I wish I had met you
before; I believe you would have changed my luck. Do you know, I think
you are one of those who bring good luck. You have a good influence--I
can feel it."
"If I have,"--and the girl laughed brightly--"_I_ mean to exert it from
this very moment. Firstly, then, you must get out of the blues.
Secondly, you must make up your mind to stay till my father returns; and
thirdly, you will have to submit with the best grace possible to the
infliction of my company while I show you the sights and do the honours
of our home."
Whatever sacrifice of personal feelings Ansley may have made in the
cause of gallantry was borne with Spartan fortitude and concealed with
admirable skill; in fact, a casual observer would have been inclined to
think that he rather liked it.
If he was not very talkative and lively, he made up for it by being an
admirable listener--one of those listeners whose very look is full of
quiet and intense appreciation of all that is said. She was content to
play the cicerone, and it pleased him too, and so the morning passed.
She took him through the grounds, idling along amongst the summerhouses
and trellised rose-walks, telling him of their life there, of their
plans, of her own life during the years that had passed since he first
heard of her--in feet, all the reminiscences which form the heart and
charm of the meeting, whether of old friends, or of the friends of old
friends, or of those who have a common bond of sympathy wrought in a
distant country or in a troublous time.
Luncheon over, Miss Grace may have thought she had answered the calls of
hospitality, or she may have been tired of his company, or she may have
thought that the change could do him good--it is hard to say. But, any
way, she handed her guest over to the tender mercies of Whitton, and for
the rest of the afternoon, instead of her talk and her company, Ansley
had to put up with the agent and his dissertations on farm prospects for
the coming season.
At about sundown, returning with Whitton from an inspection of the
stables, Ansley saw with no little relief and satisfaction a slim figure
in a grey dress moving about the lawn; and, leaving the estimable but
prosy Whitton with the flimsiest of apologies, he joined his hostess.
"Really, Miss Hardy," he said, coming up to her, "I began to think you
had vanished like the `baseless fabric.' I was afraid you were going to
leave me with Whitton for the evening as well."
"Did you not enjoy his company, Mr Ansley? I think him so entertaining
and instructive," she added demurely.
"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
passion 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 cushioned 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 scraps of conversation, but more often the long silences of
content. The girl lay back in the cushioned 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
shining 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 shipped 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, 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!"
"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
passing 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."
Suddenly a sense of danger came upon him, and, looking up quickly, he
fancied he saw a man's head duck behind the ridge of hill. Reining up
his horse instantly, he waited for a moment or so, watching intently and
warily the while. Then, turning his horse's head, he rode towards
another elevation, still watching the spot where the head had
disappeared.
As he turned four horsemen dashed out, and scattering wide apart, rode
towards him. With a muttered curse he tightened the rein and galloped
off in an opposite direction. The man's face, soft and gentle as a
woman's a moment before, grew hard and colourless; his mouth was set,
and his eyes had a bright and wicked gleam in them.
Riding at their best over the rough ground, Ansley kept his lead easily;
but Hardy drew away from the others, and they, seeing the chase tend
towards the river, took a cut down to the nearest crossing, hoping to
cut the pursued man off on the other bank, or take him while swimming
the river, as he would have to do further down.
Seeing that Hardy was alone, Ansley slackened his pace till only thirty
yards divided them, then, raising his open hand, called to him by name
to stop. The answer was a revolver shot, closely followed by a second
one, one of which whistled unpleasantly close. Seeing the man with whom
he had to deal, Ansley let his horse go, and heading for the deepest
part of the river, soon had a lead of several hundred yards. Plunging
into the river, he swam his horse across, and as he neared the other
side, Hardy, who had ridden his best in the last bit, came up to the
bank and again fired at him. The bullet splashed far behind him, and,
looking round, he saw Hardy force his horse into the stream to follow
him.
As he reached the bank Ansley slipped off and loosened the girths, then
turned and watched his pursuer. The look on his face was not good to
see: the expression was vindictive and cruel, for the man's spirit was
bitter with rancour. This was the sorest blow of all, that the man who
owed him all he had--ay, even his life most likely!--should go out of
his way to hunt him down and shoot him like a dog. As he watched, a
gleam of light shot into his eyes and a smile flashed across his face,
for Hardy's horse began to fail, and once or twice it stopped. The
third time it reared up as it felt the spurs again, and Hardy, to save
himself, swung off and tried to seize the pommel of the saddle; but the
frightened, tired horse swayed round and, striking out wildly with his
front feet, brought one down with a crash on Hardy's bare grey head. He
was but twenty yards from the bank; he made one weak effort to swim--a
white upturned face showed for a moment and then disappeared.
Ansley stood perfectly still, the same smile still curling the corners
of his mouth as he watched his pursuer go down. As the water closed
over the pale set face, there came to him the faint, trembling sound of
a whispered "Good-night!" A run, a spring, a few quick strokes, and he
had the drowning man by the collar and was dragging him out. A minute
later he stretched him out on the bank, and waited for the effects of
the blow to pass off.
"My God!" he thought, "what a demon I have become! _Her_ father and
_my_ friend, and I would have let him die because unknowingly he injured
me. I _would_ have done it, too, but for her!"
Hardy lay against a grassy bank, and at the first sign of returning
consciousness Ansley leaned over him, chafing his hands and watching his
eyes for a sign of recognition.
"Where am I?" he asked faintly. "Ah, I see--I know!" And as he became
stronger, he said: "Ah, I have you; you are my prisoner." He made a
feeble effort to grasp Ansley's throat, but, looking up into his eyes,
he dropped back suddenly with a look of intense excitement, exclaiming
eagerly: "Man! Who are you? What is your name? Surely--surely you--
the diamonds, you know, that Christmas night! I know you! Now I know
you!" Ansley looked at him steadily, and answered: "Yes, Mr Hardy, I
am the man you have looked for. My name is George Ansley Norman. But
just lie quiet for a few minutes, and you'll be all right. And then
we'll get back to the house as soon as we can!"
Hardy closed his eyes and groaned aloud, but after a pause said
falteringly:
"Norman--but the convict--it _can't_ be true! my God! it _can't_ be
true!"
"It _is_ true, Hardy. I am the convict, but there was no crime.
Between man and man, and by the God above me, I am as innocent of it as
you are."
"My boy, I believe you, and thank God for it," said the old man
fervently, and the tears came into his eyes as he added brokenly: "And
to think that I tried to shoot you. _You_, my best of friends--how can
you forgive me!"
"Oh, that's all right now--you see, you didn't do it, so it doesn't
matter; besides, you did not know me, and how could you help it?"
While they were talking, on the same bank, a few yards off, the farmer
and the two detectives were crouching behind the bushes and creeping
closer up.
Hardy spoke again, and a painful flush suffused his face.
"It is the revolver you took from me that night. I have kept it ever
since. I might have shot you with it. Take it from me again, and keep
it, for my sake!"
He handed it up as he spoke, and Ansley took it, turned it round once or
twice, and stooped to help his friend to rise.
As he bent forward, a voice called out: "Shoot quick, before he kills
him!" Two revolver shots rang together, and with a half-stifled cry,
Ansley threw up his arms and dropped at Hardy's feet. A wild scream of
agony burst from Hardy, and, weak as he was, his arms were in an instant
round his friend.
"My God!" he cried wildly, "you have murdered him! Stand back I leave
him! Speak to me, my boy, speak! Where is it? Where are you hit?"
But Ansley shook his head; his face was drawn and pale, and there was a
look of intense suffering in his eyes. His voice quivered as he
whispered slowly:
"Home--old chap--home--home--your daughter. I want--to--speak--to--
her!"
So they carried him back as gently, as tenderly as they could--the man
they had hunted and shot down; they laid him on the bed he had that
morning risen from, and three of them left him. Whitton came in and
would have tried to stanch the wound, but Ansley shook his head. In
broken whispers he told Hardy how he had come to the house and waited
for him; how he had met Grace and told her all, excepting only his
identity. He asked him to go to her and tell her that, and ask her
would she come to him that he might see her once more.
The smile of welcome died on Grace's lips as she saw her father's face.
He told her all as best he could. There was no attempt at control--it
would have been useless. The sorrow-stricken old man, with sobs and
tears, tried to break it to her, but it required little telling.
Distracted with sorrow, remorse, and love for "his boy," as he called
him, he blamed himself for it. He lost all control of himself.
"My child! my child! three times I tried to shoot him. I would have
killed him; and yet I should have drowned, and he saved me--_he_ saved
me--the man I tried to shoot! He saved me--he was helping me, when--oh,
my God!--they shot him through the back. Come to him, my child. Gracie
darling, be brave and bear up. Oh, God! they have killed him!"
She went alone to where the dying man lay. Softly she entered, but he
heard her, and his eyes followed her as she walked to his side. In
silence she sat by him, taking his hand and stroking it gently. Slowly
he was bleeding to death, yet his eyes were bright as he looked at her.
He smiled at her and whispered huskily:
"I told you you were my good angel, and see, you have come to me. I
_cannot_ thank you enough. I asked for you because I want you to bid me
one more good-night--good-night for ever. I want to hear you say I am
your friend, of whom you are not ashamed. Can you say it, Gracie?"
The words, the look, were too much. The girl's pent-up grief burst out
in one heart-broken cry, and, falling on her knees, she kissed the hand
of the man whom rightly or wrongly she honoured above all men.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
This was their Christmas Day--twelve years since first their paths had
crossed--twelve circles in the web of life! They were three units
amongst the countless millions of the earth, and so, what of them? What
of sorrow? What of death? What of the wreck of new-born hopes? For to
the countless millions it is still A Merry Christmas!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The End.