A missionary possessing some small knowledge of medicine had been with them until midnight, and, having done his best, had gone away, leaving the child to the two women. Maurice had been in twice, clumsily, on tiptoe, to look with ill-concealed awe at the child, and to whisper hopes to Marie which displayed a ludicrous, if lamentable, ignorance of what he was talking about.
“Little chap’s better,” he said; “I’m sure of it. See, Marie, his eyes are brighter. Devilish hot, though, isn’t he—poor little soul?”
Then he stood about, awkwardly sympathetic.
“Anything I can do for you, Jocelyn?” he asked, and then departed, only too pleased to get away from the impending calamity.
Marie was not emotional. She seemed to have left all emotion behind, in some other phase of her life which was shut off from the present by a thick curtain. She was patient and calm, but she was not so clever with the child as was Jocelyn. Perhaps her greater experience acted as a handicap in her execution of those small offices to the sick which may be rendered useless at any moment. Perhaps she knew that Nestorius was wanted elsewhere. Or it may only have been that Jocelyn was able to soothe him sooner, because there is an unwritten law that those who love us best are not always the best nurses for us.
When, at last, sleep came to the child, it was in Jocelyn’s arms that he lay with that utter abandonment of pose which makes a sleeping infant and a sleeping kitten more graceful than any living thing. Marie leant over Nestorius until her dusky cheek almost touched Jocelyn’s fair English one.
“He is asleep,” she whispered.
And her great dark eyes probed Jocelyn’s face as if wondering whether her arms, bearing that burden, told her that this was the last sleep.
Jocelyn nodded gravely, and continued the gentle swaying motion affected by women under such circumstances.
Nestorius continued to sleep, and at last Marie, overcome by sleep herself, lay down on her bed.
Thus it came about that the dawn found Jocelyn moving softly in the room, with Nestorius asleep in her arms. A pink light came creeping through the trees, presently turning to a golden yellow, and, behold! it was light. It was a little cooler, for the sea-breeze had set in. The cool air from the surface of the water was rushing inland to supply the place of the heated atmosphere rising towards the sun. With the breeze came the increased murmur of the distant surf. The dull continuous sound seemed to live amidst the summits of the trees far above the low-built house. It rose and fell with a long-drawn, rhythmic swing. Already the sounds of life were mingling with it—the low of a cow—the crowing of the cocks—the hum of the noisier daylight insect-life.
Jocelyn moved to the window, and her heart suddenly leapt to her throat.
On the brown turf in front of the house were two men, stretched side by side, as if other hands had laid them there, dead. One man was much bigger than the other. He was of exceptional stature. Jocelyn recognised them almost immediately—Guy Oscard and Joseph. They had arrived during the night, and, not wishing to disturb the sleeping household, had lain them down in the front garden to sleep with a quiet conscience beneath the stars. The action was so startlingly characteristic, so suggestive of the primeval, simple man whom Oscard represented as one born out of time, that Jocelyn laughed suddenly.
While she was still at the window, Marie rose and came to her side. Nestorius was still sleeping. Following the direction of her mistress’s eyes, Marie saw the two men. Joseph was sleeping on his face, after the manner of Thomas Atkins all the world over. Guy Oscard lay on his side, with his head on his arm.
“That is so like Mr. Oscard,” said Marie, with her patient smile, “so like—so like. It could be no other man—to do a thing like that.”
Jocelyn gave Nestorius back to his mother, and the two women stood for a moment looking out at the sleepers, little knowing what the advent of these two men brought with it for one of them. Then the Englishwoman went to change her dress, awaking her brother as she passed his room.
It was not long before Maurice Gordon had hospitably awakened the travellers and brought them in to change their torn and ragged clothes for something more presentable. It would appear that Nestorius was not particular. He did not mind dying on the kitchen table if need be. His mother deposited him on this table on a pillow, while she prepared the breakfast with that patient resignation which seemed to emanate from having tasted of the worst that the world has to give.
Joseph was ready the first, and he promptly repaired to the kitchen, where he set to work to help Marie, with his customary energy.
It was Marie who first perceived a difference in Nestorius. His dusky little face was shining with a sudden, weakening perspiration, his limbs lay lifelessly, with a lack of their usual comfortable-looking grace.
“Go!” she said quickly. “Fetch Miss Gordon!”
Jocelyn came, and Maurice and Guy Oscard; for they had been together in the dining-room when Joseph delivered Marie’s message.
Nestorius was wide awake now. When he saw Oscard his small face suddenly expanded into a brilliant grin.
“Bad case!” he said.
It was rather startling, until Marie spoke.
“He thinks you are Mr. Meredith,” she said. “Mr. Meredith taught him to say ‘Bad case!’ ”
Nestorius looked from one to the other with gravely speculative eyes, which presently closed.
“He is dying—yes!” said the mother, looking at Jocelyn.
Oscard knew more of this matter than any of them. He
