“Bring your chair to the table,” said Marie, “and begin. You are hungry—yes?”
“Hungry ain’t quite the word.”
“You will have some mutton—yes? And Mr. Durnovo, where was he?”
Joseph bent over his plate, with elbows well out, wielding his knife and fork with a more obvious sense of enjoyment than usually obtains in the politer circles.
“Mr. Durnovo,” he said, with one quick glance towards her. “Oh, he was just behind Mr. Oscard. And he follows ’im, and we all shake hands just as if we was meeting in the Row, except that most of our hands was a bit grimy and sticky-like with blood and grease off’n the cartridges.”
“And,” said Marie, in an indirectly interrogative way, as she helped him to a piece of sweet potato, “you were glad to see them, Mr. Oscard and Mr. Durnovo—yes?”
“Glad ain’t quite the word,” replied Joseph, with his mouth full.
“And they were not hurt or—ill?”
“Oh, no!” returned Joseph, with another quick glance. “They were all right. But I don’t like sitting here and eatin’ while you don’t take bit or sup yourself. Won’t you chip in, Mistress Marie? Come now, do.”
With her deep, patient smile she obeyed him, eating little and carelessly, like a woman in some distress.
“When will they come down to Loango?” she asked suddenly, without looking at him.
“Ah! that I can’t tell you. We left quite in a hurry, as one may say, with nothin’ arranged. Truth is I think we all feared that the guv’nor had got his route. He looked very like peggin’ out, and that’s the truth. Howsomever, I hope for the best now.”
Marie said nothing, merely contenting herself with attending to his wants, which were numerous and frequent.
“That Godforsaken place, Msala,” said Joseph presently, “has been rather crumpled up by the enemy.”
“They have destroyed it—yes?”
“That is so. You’re right, they ’ave destroyed it.”
Marie gave a quick little sigh—one of those sighs which the worldly-wise recognise at once.
“You don’t seem over-pleased,” said Joseph.
“I was very happy there,” she answered.
Joseph leant back in his chair, fingering reflectively his beer-glass.
“I’m afraid, mistress,” he said half-shyly, “that your life can’t have been a very happy one. There’s some folk that is like that—through no fault of their own, too, so far as our mortal vision, so to speak, can reckon it up.”
“I have my troubles, like other people,” she answered softly.
Joseph inclined his head to one side and collected his breadcrumbs thoughtfully.
“Always seems to me,” he said, “that your married life can’t have been so happy-like as—well, as one might say, you deserved, missis. But then you’ve got them clever little kids. I do like them little kids wonderful. Not bein’ a marrying man myself, I don’t know much of such matters. But I’ve always understood that little ’uns—especially cunning little souls like yours—go a long way towards makin’ up a woman’s happiness.”
“Yes,” she murmured, with her slow smile.
“Been dead long—their pa?”
“He is not dead.”
“Oh—beg pardon.”
And Joseph drowned a very proper confusion in bitter beer.
“He has only ceased to care about me—or his children,” explained Marie.
Joseph shook his head; but whether denial of such a possibility was intended, or an expression of sympathy, he did not explain.
“I hope,” he said, with a somewhat laboured change of manner, “that the little ones are in good health.”
“Yes, thank you.”
Joseph pushed back his chair with considerable vigour, and passed the back of his hand convivially across his moustache.
“A square meal I call that,” he said, with a pleasant laugh, “and I thank you kindly.”
With a tact which is sometimes found wanting inside a better coat than he possessed, Joseph never again referred to that part of Marie’s life which seemed to hang like a shadow over her being. Instead, he set himself the task of driving away the dull sense of care which was hers, and he succeeded so well that Jack Meredith, lying between sleep and death in his bedroom, sometimes heard a new strange laugh.
By daybreak next morning Joseph was at sea again, steaming south in a coasting-boat towards St. Paul de Loanda. He sent off a telegram to Maurice Gordon in England, announcing the success of the Relief Expedition, and then proceeded to secure the entire services of a medical man. With this youthful disciple of Æsculapius he returned forthwith to Loango and settled down with characteristic energy to nurse his master.
Meredith’s progress was lamentably slow, but still it was progress, and in the right direction. The doctor, who was wise in the strange maladies of the West Coast, stayed for two days, and promised to return once a week. He left full instructions, and particularly impressed upon the two nurses the fact that the recovery would necessarily be so slow that their unpractised eyes could hardly expect to trace its progress.
It is just possible that Meredith could at this time have had no better nurse than Joseph. There was a military discipline about the man’s method which was worth more than much feminine persuasion.
“Beef tea, sir,” he would announce with a face of wood, for the sixth time in one day.
“What, again? No, hang it! I can’t.”
“Them’s my orders, sir,” was Joseph’s invariable reply, and he was usually in a position to produce documentary confirmation of his statement. The two men—master and servant—had grown so accustomed to the military discipline of a besieged garrison that it did not seem to occur to them to question the doctor’s orders.
Nestorius—small, stout, and silent—was a frequenter of the sickroom, by desire of the invalid. After laboriously toiling up the shallow stairs—a work entailing huge effort of limbs and chin—he would stump gravely into the room without any form of salutation. There are some great minds above such trifles. His examination of the patient was a matter of some minutes. Then he would say, “Bad case,” with the peculiar mechanical diction that was his—the words that Meredith had taught him on the evening of his arrival. After making his
