PART IIITHE BAKING OF BERTRAM BY LOVE
CHAPTER I_Mrs. Stayne-Brooker Again_
Luckily for himself, Second-Lieutenant Bertram Greene was quiteunconscious when he was lifted from his camp-bed into a stretcher by themyrmidons of Mr. Chatterji and dispatched, carriage paid, to M’paga.What might happen to him there was no concern of Mr. Chatterji’s—whichwas the important point so far as that gentleman was concerned.
Unconscious he remained as the four Kavirondo porters, the stretcher ontheir heads, jogged along the jungle path in the wake of Ali and thethree other porters who bore his baggage. Behind the stretcher-bearerstrotted four more of their brethren who would relieve them of theirburden at regular intervals.
Ali was in command, and was also in a hurry, for various reasons,including prowling enemy patrols and his master’s dire need of help. Heaccordingly set a good pace and kept the “low niggers” of his party to itby fabulous promises, hideous threats, and even more by the charm ofsong—part song in fact. Lifting up his powerful voice he delivered indeep diapason a mighty
“_Ah-Nah-Nee-Nee_! _Ah-Nah-Nee-Nee_!”
to which all the congregation responded
“_Umba Jo-eel_! _Umba Jo-eel_”
as is meet and right to do.
And when, after a few hundred thousand repetitions of this, in stropheand antistrophe, there seemed a possibility that restless and volatileminds desiring change might seek some new thing, Ali sang
“_Hay-Ah-Mon-Nee_! _Hay-Ah-Mon-Nee_!”
which is quite different, and the jogging, sweating congregation, withdeep earnestness and conviction, took up the response:
“_Tunk-Tunk-Tunk-Tunk_!”
and all fear of the boredom of monotony was gone—especially as, after acouple of hours of this, you could go back to the former soulful andheartsome Threnody, and begin again. But if they got no forrader withthe concert they steadily got forrader with the journey, as their lopingjog-trot ate up the miles.
And, in time to their regular foot-fall and chanting, the insensible headof the white man rolled from side to side unceasingly. . . .
Unconscious he still was when the little party entered the Base Camp, andPrivate Henry Hall remarked to Private John Jones:
“That there bloke’s gone West all right but ’e ain’t gone long. . . .You can see ’e’s dead becos ’is ’ead’s a waggling and you can see ’eain’t bin dead _long_ becos ’is ’ead’s a waggling. . . .”
And Private John Jones, addressing the speaker as Mister Bloomin’-WellSherlock ’Olmes, desired that he would cease to chew the fat.
Steering his little convoy to the tent over which the Red Cross flew, Alihanded over his master and the cleft stick holding Major Mallery’sletter, to Captain Merstyn, R.A.M.C., and then stood by for orders.
It appeared that the _Barjordan_ was off M’paga, that a consignment ofsick and wounded was just going on board, and that Second-LieutenantGreene could go with them. . . .
That night Bertram was conveyed out to sea in a dhow (towed by apetrol-launch from the _Barjordan_), taken on board that ship, and putcomfortably to bed. The next night he was in hospital at Mombasa and hadmet Mrs. Stayne-Brooker.
* * * * *
As, thanks to excellent nursing, he very slowly returned to health andstrength, Bertram began to take an increasing interest in the verycharming and very beautiful woman whom he had once seen and admired atthe Club, who daily took his temperature, brought his meals, administeredhis medicine, kept his official chart, shook up his pillows, put coolinghands upon his forehead, found him books to read, talked to him at times,attended the doctor on his daily visits, and superintended the brieflabours of the Swahili youth who was ward-boy and house-maid on thatfloor of the hospital.
Before long, the events of the day were this lady’s visits, and, onwaking, he would calculate the number of hours until she would enter hisroom and brighten it with her presence. He had never seen so sweet,kind, and gentle a face. It was beautiful too, even apart from itssweetness, kindness and gentleness. He was very thankful when he foundhimself no longer too weak to turn his head and follow her with his eyes,as she moved about the room. It was indescribably delightful to have awoman, and such a woman, about one’s sick bed—after negro servants,Indian orderlies, _shenzi_ stretcher-bearers, and Bengali doctors. Howhis heart swelled with gratitude as she laid her cool hand on hisforehead, or raised his head and gave him a cooling drink. . . . But howsad she looked! . . . He hated to see her putting up themosquito-curtains that covered the big frame-work, like the skeleton of aroom, in which his bed stood, and which, at night, formed amosquito-proof room-within-a-room, and provided space for his bedsidechair, table and electric-lamp, as well as for the doctor and nurse, ifnecessary.
One morning he sat up and said:
“_Please_ let me do that, Sister—I hate to see you working for me—thoughI love to see _you_ . . .” and then had been gently pushed back on to hispillow as, with a laugh, Mrs. Stayne-Brooker said:
“That’s what I’m here for—to work I mean,” and patted his wasted hand.(He _was_ such a dear boy, and so appreciative of what one could do forhim. It made one’s heart ache to see him such a wasted skeleton.)
The time came when he could sit in a long chair with leg-rest arms, andread a book; but he found that most of his time was spent in thinking ofthe Sister and in the joys of retrospection and anticipation. He had toput aside, quite resolutely, all thought of the day when he would bedeclared fit for duty and be “returned to store.” Think of a _banda_ atButindi and of this white room with its beautiful outlook across thestrait to the palm-feathered shore; think of Ali as one’s cup-bearer andof this sweet angelic Englishwoman. . . . Better not think of it at all.. . .
It was quite a little shock to him, one day, to notice that she wore awedding-ring. . . . He had never thought of that. . . . He feltsomething quite like a little twinge of jealousy. . . . He was sure theman must be a splendid fellow though, or she would never have marriedhim. . . . How old would she be? It was no business of his, and it wasnot quite gentlemanly to speculate on such a subject—but somehow he hadnot thought of her as “an old married woman.” Not that married women arenecessarily older than unmarried women. . . . A silly expression—“old”married women. He had imagined her to be about his own generation so tospeak. Possibly a _little_ older than himself—in years—but years don’tmake age really. . . . Fancy her being married! Well, well, well! . . .But what did that matter—she was just as much the charming and beautifulwoman for whom he would have laid down his life in sheer gratitude. . . .
* * * * *
A man gets like this after fever. He is off his balance, weak,neurasthenic, and devoid of the sense of proportion. He waxessentimental, and is to be forgiven.
* * * * *
But there is not even this excuse for Mrs. Stayne-Brooker.
* * * * *
She began by rather boring her daughter, Eva, about her new patient—hisextreme gratitude, his charming ways and thoughts, his true gentleness ofnature, his delightful views, the _niceness_ of his mind, thelikeableness of him. . . . She wondered aloud as to whether he had amother—she must be a very nice woman. She wondered in silence as towhether he had a wife—she must be a very happy woman. . . . How old washe? . . . It was so hard to tell with these poor fellows, brought in sowasted with fever and dysentery; and rank wasn’t much guide to agenowadays. He _might_ be. . . . Well—he’d be up and gone before long,and she’d never see him again, so what was the good of wondering. . . .And she continued to wonder. . . . And then, from rather boring MissStayne-Brooker with talk about Lieutenant Greene she went to the extreme,and never mentioned him at all.
For, one day, with an actual gasp of horrified amazement, she found thatshe had suddenly realised that possibly the poets and novelists were notso wrong as she had believed, and that t
here _might_ be such a thing asthe Love—they hymned and described—and that Peace and Happiness might beits inseparable companions. . . . She would read her Browning, Herrick,Swinburne, Rosetti again, her Dante, her Mistral, and some of those playsand poems of Love that the world called wonderful, beautiful, true, forshe had an idea that she might see glimmerings of wonder, beauty andtruth in them—_now_. . . .
But then—how absurd!—at _her_ age. Of course she would not read themagain! At _her_ age! . . .
And proceeded to do so at _her_ Dangerous Age. . . .
Strange that _his_ name should be Green or Greene—he was the fifth personof that name whom she had met since she left Major Walsingham Greene,eighteen years ago. . . .
Cupid in Africa Page 24
