Understanding this also, we stood aside, and rejoicing as the sick man,
benefiting by the comparative comfort and satisfied to have his own way,
seemed to improve. For three days he improved steadily, and then, after
standing still for another day slipped back inch by inch to weakness and
prostration, until the homestead, without coercion, was the only chance
for his life.
But there was a woman there; and as the mate went back to his pleading
the woman did what the world may consider a strange thing - but a man's
life depended on it - she sent a message out to the sick man, to say that
if he would come to the homestead she would not go to him until he asked
her.
He pondered over the message for a day, sceptical of a woman's word -
surely some woman had left that legacy in his heart - but eventually
decided he wouldn't risk it. Then the chief of the telegraph coming
in - a man widely experienced in fever - and urging one more attempt, the
Dandy volunteered to help us in our extremity, and, driving across to the
Warlochs in the chief's buggy worked one of his miracles; he spent only a
few minutes alone with the man (and the Dandy alone knows now what
passed), but within an hour the sick traveller was resting quietly
between clean sheets in the Dandy's bed. There were times when the
links in the chain seemed all blessing.
Waking warm and refreshed, the sick man faced the battle of life once
more, and the chief taking command, and the man quietly and hopefully
obeying orders, the woman found her promise easy to keep; but the mate's
hardest task had come, the task of waiting with folded hands. With the
same quiet steadfastness he braced himself for this task and when, after
weary hours, the chief pronounced "all well" and turned to him with an
encouraging "I think he'll pull through now, my man," the sturdy
shoulders that had borne so much drooped and quivered beneath the kindly
words, and with dimming eyes he gave in at last to the Maluka's
persuasions, and lay down and slept, sure of the Dandy's promise to wake
him at dawn.
At midnight the Maluka left the Quarters, and going back just before the
dawn to relieve the Dandy, found the sick man lying quietly-restful, with
one arm thrown lightly across his brow. He had spoken in his sleep a
short while before the Dandy said as the Maluka bent over him with a cup
of warm milk, but the cup was returned to the table untasted.
