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.”
XXVIII
A Slow Recovery
We dare not let our tears flow, lest, in truth,
They fall upon our work which must be done.
“They was just in time,” said Joseph pleasantly to Marie that same evening, when Jack Meredith had been made comfortable for the night, and there was time to spare for supper.
“Ah!” replied the woman, who was busy with the supper-table.
Joseph glanced at her keenly. The exclamation not only displayed a due interest, but contained many questions. He stretched out his legs and wagged his head sapiently.
“And no mistake!” he said. “They timed it almost to the minute. We had sort of beaten them back for the time bein’. Mr. Meredith had woke up sudden, as I told you, and came into the thick of the melee, as we say in the service. Then we heard the firin’ in the distance and the splat of Mr. Oscard’s Express rifle. I just turns, like this ’ere, my head over me shoulder, quite confidential, and I says, ‘Good Lord, I thank yer.’ I’m no hand at tracts and Bible-readin’s, but I’m not such a blamed fool, Mistress Marie, as to think that this ’ere rum-go of a world made itself. No, not quite. So I just put in a word, quiet-like, to the Creator.”
Marie was setting before him such luxuries as she could command. She nodded encouragingly.
“Go on,” she said. “Tell me!”
“Cheddar cheese,” he said parenthetically, with an appreciative sniff. “Haven’t seen a bit o’ that for a long time! Well, then, up comes Mr. Oscard as cool as a cowcumber, and Mr. Meredith he gives a sort of little laugh and says, ‘Open that gate.’ Quite quiet, yer know. No high falutin’ and potry and that. A few minutes before he had been fightin’ and cussin’ and shoutin’, just like any Johnny in the ranks. Then he calms down and wipes the blood off’n his hand on the side of his pants, and says, ‘Open that gate.’ That’s a
