For its own sake we love,...
... That which is best for it is best for us.
“Feel like gettin' up to breakfast, do you, sir?” said Joseph to his master a few days later. “Well, I am glad. Glad ain't quite the word, though!”
And he proceeded to perform the duties attendant on his master's wardrobe with a wise, deep-seated shake of the head. While setting the shaving necessaries in order on the dressing-table, he went further—he winked2 gravely at himself in the looking-glass.
“You've made wonderful progress the last few days, sir,” he remarked. “I always told Missis Marie that it would do you a lot of good to have Mr. Gordon to heart you up with his cheery ways—and Miss Gordon too, sir.”
“Yes, but they would not have been much good without all your care before they came. I had turned the corner a week ago—I felt it myself.”
Joseph grinned—an honest, open grin of self-satisfaction. He was not one of those persons who like their praise bestowed4 with subtlety5.
“Wonderful!” he repeated to himself as he went to the well in the garden for his master's bath-water. “Wonderful! but I don't understand things—not bein' a marryin' man.”
During the last few days Jack6's progress had been rapid enough even to satisfy Joseph. The doctor expressed himself fully7 reassured8, and even spoke9 of returning no more. But he repeated his wish that Jack should leave for England without delay.
“He is quite strong enough to be moved now,” he finished by saying. “There is no reason for further delay.”
“No,” answered Jocelyn, to whom the order was spoken. “No—none. We will see that he goes by the next boat.”
The doctor paused. He was a young man who took a strong—perhaps too strong—a personal interest in his patients. Jocelyn had walked with him as far as the gate, with only a parasol to protect her from the evening sun. They were old friends. The doctor's wife was one of Jocelyn's closest friends on the Coast.
“Do you know anything about Meredith's future movements?” he asked. “Does he intend to come out here again?”
“I could not tell you. I do not think they have settled yet. But I think that when he gets home he will probably stay there.”
“Best thing he can do—best thing he can do. It will never do for him to risk getting another taste of malaria—tell him so, will you? Good-bye.”
“Yes, I will tell him.”
And Jocelyn Gordon walked slowly back to tell the man she loved that he must go away from her and never come back. The last few days had been days of complete happiness. There is no doubt that women have the power of enjoying the present to a greater degree than men. They can live in the bliss11 of the present moment with eyes continually averted12 from the curtain of the near future which falls across that bliss and cuts it off. Men allow the presence of the curtain to mar3 the present brightness.
These days had been happier for Jocelyn than for Jack, because she was conscious of the fulness of every moment, while he was merely rejoicing in comfort after hardship, in pleasant society after loneliness. Even with the knowledge that it could not last, that beyond the near future lay a whole lifetime of complete solitude13 and that greatest of all miseries14, the desire of an obvious impossibility—even with this she was happier than he; because she loved him and she saw him daily getting stronger; because their relative positions brought out the best and the least romantic part of a woman's love—the subtle maternity15 of it. There is a fine romance in carrying our lady's kerchief in an inner pocket, but there is something higher and greater and much more durable16 in the darning of a sock; for within the handkerchief there is chiefly gratified vanity, while within the sock there is one of those small infantile boots which have but little meaning for us.
Jocelyn entered the drawing-room with a smile.
“He is very pleased,” she said. “He does not seem to want to see you any more, and he told me to be inhospitable.”
“As how?”
“He told me to turn you out. You are to leave by the next steamer.”
“This is no joking matter,” he said half seriously. “Am I really as well as that?”
“Yes.”
“The worst of it is that you seem rather pleased.”
“I am—at the thought that you are so much better.” She paused and turned quite away, busying herself with a pile of books and magazines. “The other,” she went on too indifferently, “was unfortunately to be foreseen. It is the necessary drawback.”
He rose suddenly and walked to the window.
“The grim old necessary drawback,” he said, without looking towards her.
There was a silence of some duration. Neither of them seemed to be able to find a method of breaking it without awkwardness. It was she who spoke at last.
“He also said,” she observed in a practical way, “that you must not come out to Africa again.”
He turned as if he had been stung.
“Did he make use of that particular word?” he asked.
“Which particular word?”
“Must.”
Jocelyn had not foreseen the possibility that the doctor was merely repeating to her what he had told Jack on a previous visit.
“No,” she answered. “I think he said 'better not.'”
“And you make it into 'must.'”
She laughed, with a sudden light-heartedness which remained unexplained.
“Because I know you both,” she answered. “For him 'better not' stands for 'must.' With you 'better not' means 'doesn't matter.'”
“'Better not' is so weak that if one pits duty against it it collapses18. I cannot leave Oscard in the lurch19, especially after his prompt action in coming to my relief.”
“Yes,” she replied guardedly. “I like Mr. Oscard's way of doing things.”
The matter of the telegram summoning Oscard had not yet been explained. She did not want to explain it at that moment; indeed, she hoped that the explanation would never be needed.
“However,” she added, “you will see when you get home.”
He laughed.
“The least pleasant part of it is,” he said, “your evident desire to see the last of me. Could you not disguise that a little—just for the sake of my feelings?”
“Book your passage by the next boat and I will promptly20 descend21 to the lowest depths of despair,” she replied lightly.
“This is hospitality indeed,” he said, moving towards the door.
Then suddenly he turned and looked at her gravely.
“I wonder,” he said slowly, “if you are doing this for a purpose. You said that you met my father—”
“Your father is not the man to ask any one's assistance in his own domestic affairs, and anything I attempted to do could only be looked upon as the most unwarrantable interference.”
“Yes,” said Meredith seriously. “I beg your pardon. You are right.”
He went to his own room and summoned Joseph.
“When is the next boat home?” he asked.
“Boat on Thursday, sir.”
“Just sit down,” he said. “I want to talk over this Simiacine business with you.”
Joseph squared his shoulders, and sat down with a face indicative of the gravest attention. Sitting thus he was no longer a servant, but a partner in the Simiacine. He even indulged in a sidelong jerk of the head, as if requesting the attention of some absent friend in a humble24 sphere of life to this glorious state of affairs.
“You know,” said Meredith, “Mr. Durnovo is more or less a blackguard.”
“Yes, sir,” he said, glancing up. “A blackguard—a damned blackguard,” he added unofficially under his breath.
“He wants continual watching and a special treatment. He requires someone constantly at his heels.”
“Yes, sir,” admitted Joseph, with some fervour.
“Now I am ordered home by the doctor,” went on Meredith. “I must go by the next boat, but I don't like to go and leave Mr. Oscard in the lurch, with no one to fall back upon but Durnovo—you understand.”
Joseph's face had assumed the habitual27 look of servitude—he was no longer a partner, but a mere10 retainer, with a half-comic resignation in his eyes.
“Yes, sir,” scratching the back of his neck. “I am afraid I understand. You want me to go back to that Platter—that God-forsaken Platter, as I may say.”
“Yes,” said Meredith. “That is about it. I would go myself—”
“God bless you! I know you would!” burst in Joseph. “You'd go like winkin'. There's no one knows that better nor me, sir; and what I says is—like master, like man. Game, sir—game it is! I'll go. I'm not the man to turn my back on a pal—a—a partner, sir, so to speak.”
“You see,” said Meredith, with the deep insight into men that made command so easy to him—“you see there is no one else. There is not another man in Africa who could do it.”
“That's true, sir.”
“And I think that Mr. Oscard will be looking for you.”
“And he won't need to look long, sir. But I should like to see you safe on board the boat. Then I'm ready to go.”
“Right. We can both leave by Thursday's boat, and we'll get the captain to drop you and your men at Lopez. We can get things ready by then, I think.”
“Easy, sir.”
The question thus settled, there seemed to be no necessity to prolong the interview. But Joseph did not move. Meredith waited patiently.
“I'll go up, sir, to the Platter,” said the servant at length, “and I'll place myself under Mr. Oscard's orders; but before I go I want to give you notice of resignation. I resigns my partnership28 in this 'ere Simiacine at six months from to-day. It's a bit too hot, sir, that's the truth. It's all very well for gentlemen like yourself and Mr. Oscard, with fortunes and fine houses, and, as sayin' goes, a wife apiece waiting for you at home—it's all very well for you to go about in this blamed country, with yer life in yer hand, and not a tight grip at that. But for a poor soldier-man like myself, what has smelt29 the regulation powder all 'is life and hasn't got nothing to love and no gal30 waiting for him at home—well, it isn't good enough. That's what I say, sir, with respects.”
He added the last two words by way of apology for having banged a very solid fist on the table. Meredith smiled.
“So you've had enough of it?” he said.
“Enough ain't quite the word, sir. Why, I'm wore to a shadow with the trouble and anxiety of getting you down here.”
“Fairly substantial shadow,” commented Meredith.
“May be, sir. But I've had enough of moneymakin'. It's too dear at the price. And if you'll let an old servant speak his mind it ain't fit for you, this 'ere kind of work. It's good enough for black-scum and for chocolate-birds like Durnovo; but this country's not built for honest white men—least of all for born and bred gentlemen.”
“Yes—that's all very well in theory, Joseph, and I'm much obliged to you for thinking of me. But you must remember that we live in an age where money sanctifies everything. Your hands can't get dirty if there is money inside them.”
Joseph laughed aloud.
“Ah, that's your way of speaking, sir, that's all. And I'm glad to hear it. You have not spoken like that for two months and more.”
“No—it is only my experience of the world.”
“Well, sir, talkin' of experience, I've had about enough, as I tell you, and I beg to place my resignation in your hands. I shall do the same by Mr. Oscard if I reach that Platter, God willin', as the sayin' is.”
“All right, Joseph.”
Still there was something left to say. Joseph paused and scratched the back of his neck pensively31 with one finger.
“Will you be writin' to Mr. Oscard, sir, for me to take?”
“Yes.”
“Then I should be obliged if you would mention the fact that I would rather not be left alone with that blackguard Durnovo, either up at the Platter or travelling down. That man's got on my nerves, sir; and I'm mortal afraid of doing him a injury. He's got a long neck—you've noticed that, perhaps. There was a little Gourkha man up in Cabul taught me a trick—it's as easy as killing32 a chicken—but you want a man wi' a long neck—just such a neck as Durnovo's.”
“But what harm has the man done you,” asked Meredith, “that you think so affectionately of his neck?”
“No harm, sir, but we're just like two cats on a wall, watchin' each other and hating each other like blue poison. There's more villainy at that man's back than you think for—mark my words.”
Joseph moved towards the door.
“Do you KNOW anything about him—anything shady?” cried Meredith after him.
“No, sir. I don't KNOW anything. But I suspects a whole box full. One of these days I'll find him out, and if I catch him fair there'll be a rough and tumble. It'll be a pretty fight, sir, for them that's sittin' in the front row.”
Joseph rubbed his hands slowly together and departed, leaving his master to begin a long letter to Guy Oscard.
And at the other end of the passage, in her room with the door locked, Jocelyn Gordon was sitting, hard-eyed, motionless. She had probably saved the life of Jack Meredith, and in doing so had only succeeded in sending him away from her.
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1
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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2
winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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3
mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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4
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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5
subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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6
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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7
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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8
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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9
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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10
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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11
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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12
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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13
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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14
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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15
maternity
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| n.母性，母道，妇产科病房；adj.孕妇的，母性的 | |
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16
durable
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| adj.持久的，耐久的 | |
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17
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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18
collapses
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| 折叠( collapse的第三人称单数 )； 倒塌； 崩溃； （尤指工作劳累后）坐下 | |
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19
lurch
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| n.突然向前或旁边倒；v.蹒跚而行 | |
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20
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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21
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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22
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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23
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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24
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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25
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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26
hitched
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| （免费）搭乘他人之车( hitch的过去式和过去分词 )； 搭便车； 攀上； 跃上 | |
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27
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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28
partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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29
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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30
gal
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| n.姑娘，少女 | |
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31
pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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32
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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