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 newborn 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 tomorrow, 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,
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.
“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
