"AT LAST!"
"Hush. Don't talk yet. It's too soon."
A cool hand was laid upon my forehead, while another smoothed the
pillows. Bending over me was the face that had been with me in the life
for months--in imagination through all the unnameable horrors of my
delirium. The large eyes were infinitely tender now, the serene face
soft and pitiful.
"It was only my delirium then? It was not true, not real?"
But as I gasped out the question, for I was very weak, my glance lighted
on the black heaviness of Beryl's attire. Then I knew that it was true.
"Don't talk any more or you will never get well. And you have got to
get well."
"And then you will leave me. I don't want to get well."
"I haven't left you all these weeks, Kenrick, so am not likely to begin
now," she answered. "But if you don't obey orders I will. So be
quiet."
This was irrefutable; besides, there was that in the sight of her, in
her words, in her tones, which shed over me a kind of drowsy peace. I
lay still, content to watch her as she sat by my bed doing some
needlework, not forgetting every now and then, with watchful care, to
brush away the flies that threatened to disturb me. Strange to say, I
seemed to feel no curiosity as to the extent of my injuries, or as to
what had happened, or even where I was. Her presence was
all-sufficient, and soon I dropped off to sleep again.
I pass over the days of convalescence, the recollection of which is
somewhat confused. Beryl was seldom absent from my bedside, and I
retain a sort of consciousness of others stealing in to look at me. But
on such occasions I feigned sleep. I didn't want to see anybody else--
anybody but her.
One morning I opened my eyes, feeling strangely well. The object of my
unvarying first glance was not there. Her accustomed seat was occupied
by Brian.
"Feel better, old chap?" he said, coming over to me. "That's right.
Pentridge said you'd take a sudden turn."
"Pentridge? Oh, he's been herding me then? But--Brian--where am I?"
For almost for the first time I realised the strangeness of my
surroundings.
"Why, you're where you've been the last few weeks--at Fort Lamport--in
the new cottage hospital. Pentridge wanted to turn out of his house,
and put us all in there, but he'd only just got into it himself, and
it's all at sixes and sevens."
The mention of Pentridge seemed to bring back all the old bitterness,
and I lay still, not caring to talk any more. But Brian was not of the
same mind.
"Do you know, Kenrick, again you have been a sort of Providence to us,"
he said. "But for you, Beryl would have been killed stone dead--if you
hadn't stopped that kerrie. Nothing could have saved her. I saw it."
"You saw it? No, I don't quite follow."
Then he told me what had happened. Old Dumela, fearful for our safety,
had warned the neighbours, and had in process of doing so met Brian
himself, returning home sooner than was expected. Further, by a piece
of great good fortune, a patrol of Mounted Police was making its round,
and, joining bands, they had come up in the very nick of time. There
would have been nothing left of either of us a minute later, he
declared. But that sudden move of mine had saved Beryl. I had received
the weapon intended for her.
Well, I knew this of course, but was not aware that she did. Now her
care for me stood explained. Its motive was gratitude, and I--well, I
had been allowing a sweet new hope to take possession of my mind while I
had been lying there, helpless and tended by her, the sight of her
gladdening my eyes.
Then Brian went on to tell me the sequel to that fearful night. No one
but myself had been seriously injured in the scrimmage. The quickness
and unexpected manner of the move made by Kuliso had saved the chief's
life, although by a hair's breadth, for the bullet from Beryl's pistol
had passed so close to his head as nearly to stun him by the concussion.
He had been arrested, but discharged on the insufficiency of evidence
connecting him with the murder; but his arrest had produced this amount
of good, that his people, anxious for the safety of their chief, had
given away the actual murderers, and these proved to be Sibuko, Maqala
and one other, who were now awaiting trial.
Not for nothing, then, had my suspicions been aroused by the sight of
these two scoundrels hanging about the place, and now I told Brian about
it. He sighed.
"Yes," he said. "It's the first and only time I knew the dear old dad
commit a serious error of judgment, and heavily he's paid for it. By
the way, the double funeral came off here--and was hugely attended. All
the world seemed to have rolled up. Do you know, Kenrick, I can hardly
stick it on the farm now. You've no idea what it's like without him."
He broke off. And then for some minutes we two grown men were simply
not able to speak.
"It's a fortunate thing Beryl did not succeed in shooting that villain
Kuliso," he said at last. "Not that he didn't richly deserve it, but--I
don't like to think what the result might have been. The law is a very
hard-and-fast customer to deal with."
"Yes. I pointed that out to her at the time. But what could I do?"
"Nothing--simply nothing. If I had been there I might have done very
much the same sort of thing as she did."
"What's this? Our patient seems to have taken a jump forward," said
Pentridge, entering at that moment. "Not been making him talk a lot,
have you, Brian?"
"No fear. I've been doing all the talking," was the answer. "Only
telling him about things."
"Let me congratulate you, Holt, on the abnormal thickness of your
skull," laughed Pentridge. "Otherwise a shattered egg-shell would have
been the word instead of a tidy bout of brain fever, not to mention a
well-delivered assegai jab beneath the fifth rib."
"You seem to have patched me up, though, to some purpose," I said. And
after a few cheery remarks he left me, with a parting injunction to
Brian not to let me talk.
But after that I made no more "jumps forward." On the contrary, I was
going back. I grew listless and seemed to feel no interest in anything,
and my prevailing thought was that it was a pity I had returned to life
at all. I even expostulated with Beryl for her attention to me.
Pentridge was puzzled.
"I can't make it out at all," I overheard him say one day during a
whispered conversation with Beryl. "We ought to have had him on his
legs again by now; but he seems determined to cheat me, and that in the
wrong direction. Has he anything on his mind, do you know, Miss
Matterson?"
"Well, in point of fact, I think he has," she answered with some
hesitation. "Of a business nature, he gave me to understand. Of
course, I am telling you this in strict confidence, and only then
because it might be a guide to you in the treatment of his case."
"Ah! Now I wonder if it would do him any good if he were allowed to see
his letters."
"It might."
"All right. Let him have them when he wakes. May do him good, and
nothing can do him more harm than brooding over an idea. Good-bye."
I lay with my eyes closed for some time after Pentridge had gone out,
thinking over the irony of the situation; for I called to mind our
conversation in the garden, and how the position was now exactly that
which I had laughingly conjured up. Then I pretended to wake.
"Would you like to see your letters, Kenrick? The doctor says you may
now."