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.”
