Chacun de vous peut-etre en son coeur solitaire
Sous des ris passagers etouffe un long regret.
“Good-bye to that damned old Platter--may it be for ever!” With this
valedictory remark Joseph shook his fist once more at the unmoved
mountain and resumed his march.
“William,” he continued gravely to a native porter who walked at his
side and knew no word of English, “there is some money that is not worth
the making.”
The man grinned from ear to ear and nodded with a vast appreciation of
what experience taught him to take as a joke.
“Remember that, my black diamond, and just mind the corner of your mouth
don't get hitched over yer ear,” said Joseph, patting him with friendly
cheerfulness.
Then he made his way forward to walk by the side of his master's litter
and encourage the carriers with that mixture of light badinage and heavy
swearing which composed his method of dealing with the natives.
Three days after the arrival of the rescuing force at the Plateau, Guy
Oscard had organised a retreating party, commanded by Joseph, to convey
Jack Meredith down to the coast. He knew enough of medicine to recognise
the fact that this was no passing indisposition, but a thorough
breakdown in health. The work and anxiety of the last year, added to the
strange disquieting breath of the Simiacine grove, had brought about
a serious collapse in the system which only months of rest and freedom
from care could repair.
Before the retreating column was ready to march it was discovered that
the hostile tribes had finally evacuated the country; which deliverance
was brought about not by Oscard's blood-stained track through the
forest, not by the desperate defence of the Plateau, but by the whisper
that Victor Durnovo was with them. Truly a man's reputation is a strange
thing.
And this man--the mighty warrior whose name was as good as an army
in Central Africa--went down on his knees one night to Guy Oscard,
imploring him to abandon the Simiacine Plateau, or at all events to
allow him to go down to Loango with Meredith and Joseph.
“No,” said Oscard; “Meredith held this place for us when he could have
left it safely. He has held it for a year. It is our turn now. We will
hold it for him. I am going to stay, and you have to stay with me.”
For Jack Meredith, life was at this time nothing but a constant,
never-ceasing fatigue. When Oscard helped him into the rough litter
they had constructed for his comfort, he laid his head on the pillow,
overcome with a dead sleep.
“Good-bye, old chap,” said Oscard, patting him on the shoulder.
“G'bye;” and Jack Meredith turned over on his side as if he were in bed,
drew up the blanket, and closed his eyes. He did not seem to know where
he was, and, what was worse, he did not seem to care. Oscard gave the
signal to the bearers, and the march began. There is something in the
spring of human muscles unlike any other motive power; the power of
thought may be felt even on the pole of a litter, and one thing that
modern invention can never equal is the comfort of being carried on the
human shoulder. The slow swinging movement came to be a part of Jack
Meredith's life--indeed, life itself seemed to be nothing but a huge
journey thus peacefully accomplished. Through the flapping curtains
an endless procession of trees passed before his half-closed eyes. The
unintelligible gabble of the light-hearted bearers of his litter was
all that reached his ears. And ever at his side was Joseph--cheerful,
indefatigable, resourceful. There was in his mind one of the
greatest happinesses of life--the sense of something satisfactorily
accomplished--the peacefulness that comes when the necessity for effort
is past and left behind--that lying down to rest which must surely be
something like Death in its kindest form.
The awe inspired by Victor Durnovo's name went before the little caravan
like a moral convoy and cleared their path. Thus guarded by the name of
a man whom he hated, Jack Meredith was enabled to pass through a savage
country literally cast upon a bed of sickness.
In due course the river was reached, and the gentle swing of the litter
was changed for the smoother motion of the canoe. And it was at this
period of the journey--in the forced restfulness of body entailed--that
Joseph's mind soared to higher things, and he determined to write a
letter to Sir John.
He was, he admitted even to himself, no great penman, and his epistolary
style tended, perhaps, more to the forcible than to the finished.
“Somethin',” he reflected, “that'll just curl his back hair for 'im;
that's what I'll write 'im.”
Msala had been devastated, and it was within the roofless walls of
Durnovo's house that Joseph finally wrote out laboriously the projected
capillary invigorator.
“HONOURED SIR” (he wrote),--“Trusting you will excuse the liberty, I
take up my pen to advise you respectfully”--while writing this word
Joseph closed his left eye--“that my master is taken seriously worse.
Having been on the sick-list now for a matter of five weeks, he just
lies on his bed as weak as a new-born babe, as the sayin' is, and
doesn't take no notice of nothing. I have succeeded in bringing him
down to the coast, which we hope to reach to-morrow, and when we get
to Loango--a poor sort of place--I shall at once obtain the best advice
obtainable--that is to be had. Howsoever, I may have to send for it; but
money being no object to either master or me, respectfully I beg to say
that every care will be took. Master having kind friends at Loango, I
have no anxiety as to the future, but, honoured sir, it has been a
near touch in the past--just touch and go, so to speak. Not being in
a position to form a estimate of what is the matter with master, I can
only respectfully mention that I take it to be a general kerlapse of
the system, brought on, no doubt, by too long a living in the unhealthy
platters of Central Africa. When I gets him to Loango I shall go
straight to the house of Mr. and Miss Gordon, where we stayed before,
and with no fear but what we will be received with every kindness and
the greatest hospitality. Thank God, honoured sir, I've kept my health
and strength wonderful, and am therefore more able to look after master.
When we reach Loango I shall ask Miss Gordon kindly to write to you,
sir, seeing as I have no great facility with my pen.--I am, honoured
sir, your respectful servant to command,
“JOSEPH ATKINSON,
“Late Corporal 217th Regt.”
There were one or two round splashes on the paper suggestive, perhaps,
of tears, but not indicative of those useless tributes. The truth was
that it was a hot evening, and Joseph had, as he confessed, but little
facility with the pen.
“There,” said the scribe, with a smile of intense satisfaction. “That
will give the old 'un beans. Not that I don't respect him--oh no.”
He paused, and gazed thoughtfully at the evening star.
“Strange thing--life,” he muttered, “uncommon strange. Perhaps the
old 'un is right; there's no knowin'. The ways o' Providence ARE
mysterious--onnecessarily mysterious to my thinkin'.”
And he shook his head at the evening star, as if he was not quite
pleased with it.
With a feeling of considerable satisfaction, Joseph approached the
Bungalow at Loango three days later. The short sea voyage had somewhat
revived Meredith, who had been desirous of walking up from the beach,
but after a short attempt had been compelled to enter the spring cart
which Joseph had secured.
Joseph walked by the side of this cart with an erect carriage, and a
suppressed importance suggestive of ambulance duty in the old days.
As the somewhat melancholy cortege approached the house, Meredith drew
back the dusky brown holland curtain and looked anxiously out. Nor
were Joseph's eyes devoid of expectation. He thought that Jocelyn would
presently emerge from the flower-hung trellis of the verandah; and he
had rehearsed over and over again a neat, respectful speech, explanatory
of his action in bringing a sick man to the house.
But the hanging fronds of flowers and leaf remained motionless, and the
cart drove, unchallenged, round to the principal door.
A black servant--a stranger--held the handle, and stood back invitingly.
Supported by Joseph's arm, Jack Meredith entered. The servant threw open
the drawing-room door; they passed in. The room was empty. On the
table lay two letters, one addressed to Guy Oscard, the other to Jack
Meredith. Meredith felt suddenly how weak he was, and sat wearily down
on the sofa.
“Give me that letter,” he said.
Joseph looked at him keenly. There was something forlorn and cold
about the room--about the whole house--with the silent, smiling, black
servants and the shaded windows.
Joseph handed the letter as desired, and then, with quick practised
hands, he poured a small quantity of brandy into the cup of his flask.
“Drink this first, sir,” he said.
Jack Meredith fumbled rather feebly at the letter. It was distinctly an
effort to him to tear the paper.
“MY DEAR MEREDITH” (he read),--“Just a line to tell you that the
Bungalow and its contents are at your service. Jocelyn and I are off
home for two months' change of air. I have been a bit seedy. I leave
this at the Bungalow, and we shall feel hurt if you do not make the
house your home whenever you happen to come down to Loango. I have left
a similar note for Oscard, in whose expedition to your relief I have all
faith.--Yours ever,
“MAURICE GORDON.”
“Here,” said Meredith to his servant, “you may as well read it for
yourself.”
He handed the letter to Joseph and leant back with a strange rapidity
of movement on the sofa. As he lay there with his eyes closed he looked
remarkably like a dead man.
While Joseph was reading the letter the sound of bare feet on the
cocoa-leaf matting made him turn round.
A small, rotund white figure of a child, clad in a cotton garment, stood
in the doorway, finger in mouth, gazing gravely at the two occupants of
the room.
“Nestorius!” exclaimed Joseph, “by all that's holy! Well, I AM glad to
see you, my son. Where's Mammy, eh?”
Nestorius turned gravely round and pointed a small dusky finger in the
direction of the servants' quarters. Then he replaced the finger between
his lips and came slowly forward to examine Meredith, who had opened his
eyes.
“Well, stout Nestorius. This is a bad case, is it not?” said the sick
man.
“Bad case,” repeated Nestorius mechanically.
At that moment Marie came into the room, dignified, gentle,
self-possessed.
“Ah, missis,” said Joseph, “I'm glad to see you. You're wanted badly,
and that's the truth. Mr. Meredith's not at all well.”
Marie bowed gravely. She went to Meredith's side, and looked at him with
a smile that was at once critical and encouraging. Nestorius holding on
to her skirts looked up to her face, and seeing the smile, smiled too.
He went further. He turned and smiled at Joseph as if to make things
pleasant all round.
Marie stooped over the sofa and her clever dusky fingers moved to the
cushions.
“You will be better in bed,” she said; “I will get Mr. Gordon's room
made ready for you--yes?”
There are occasions when the mere presence of a woman supplies a
distinct want. She need not be clever, or very capable; she need have
no great learning or experience. She merely has to be a woman--the more
womanly the better. There are times when a man may actually be afraid
for the want of a woman, but that is usually for the want of one
particular woman. There may be a distinct sense of fear--a fear of life
and its possibilities--which is nothing else than a want--the want of a
certain voice, the desire to be touched by a certain hand, the carping
necessity (which takes the physical form of a pressure deep down in the
throat) for the sympathy of that one person whose presence is different
from the presence of other people. And failing that particular woman
another can, in a certain degree, by her mere womanliness, stay the
pressure of the want.
This was what Marie did for Jack Meredith, by coming into the room and
bending over him and touching his cushions with a sort of deftness and
savoir-faire. He did not define his feelings--he was too weak for that;
but he had been conscious, for the first time in his life, of a distinct
sense of fear when he read Maurice Gordon's letter. Of course he had
thought of the possibility of death many times during the last five
weeks; but he had no intention of dying. He set the fact plainly before
himself that with care he might recover, but that at any moment some
symptom could declare itself which would mean death.
Both he and Joseph had, without making mention of it to each other,
counted entirely on finding the Gordons at home. It was more than a
disappointment--very much more for Jack Meredith. But in real life we
do not analyse our feelings as do men in books--more especially books
of the mawko-religious tenor written by ladies. Jack Meredith only knew
that he felt suddenly afraid of dying when he read Maurice Gordon's
letter, and that when the half-caste woman came into the room and gently
asserted her claim, as it were, to supreme authority in this situation,
the fear seemed to be allayed.
Joseph, with something bright glistening in his keen, quick eyes, stood
watching his face as if for a verdict.
“You are tired,” she said, “after your long journey.”
Then she turned to Joseph with that soft, natural way which seems to run
through the negro blood, however much it may be diluted.
“Help Mr. Meredith,” she said, “to Mr. Gordon's room. I will go at once
and see that the bed is prepared.”