She had been telling me some little thing about Mrs Mallandane, and I may have shown by my attention—perhaps even by questions—more interest than she expected or thought called for. There was quite a long silence, during which I felt that she was thinking of something concerning me. When she turned towards me her expression was one of almost tender consideration, and in the gentlest possible voice she said:
“It is good to be kind and generous, and to help those who need it; but when a man means to help a woman it should be clear to him from day to day, from hour to hour, not only how far he means to go, but also what she will understand.”
The words went home to me, and I suppose I showed it, for she added a little nervously:
“You must not mind that from me. ‘Faithful are the wounds of a friend.’”
“Taken as meant, Mrs Chauncey; and—thank you!” I meant it.
I made a careful and impartial examination of conscience that night when I had the silence and darkness to favour me; and although I honestly acquitted myself, there was just the faintest suggestion of the finding of the Irish jury: “We find the prisoner not guilty; but he’s not to do it again.” I told myself again that Mrs Chauncey was a “little brick” for her timely and well-judged warning; for I thought it was quite possible that I might have drifted on and “gone soft” before knowing it. I am satisfied that there was no cause for alarm, as the resolution to “ease up” cost me neither effort nor pang.
I abided fairly by the spirit of my unspoken pact. I changed my daily route to one that did not lead past Mrs Mallandane’s house. I ceased to talk of her; I even tried not to think of her. But just there I failed—for the effort to forget makes occasion to remember.
It was the tail end of summer. The heat was terrible, and in all the outlying parts—even in the lower portions of the camp—malarial fever was prevalent. The accounts from the line were particularly bad, nearly all the engineers, contractors, and sub-contractors being more or less laid up by attacks of the summer fiend. One of the engineers suffering from a mild attack was brought in, and, being at the hotel when he arrived, I heard accounts of what was going on. He told me that Cassidy had had attack after attack, but that he would neither lie up there nor come into hospital. It was work, work, work, with him, all day and night, except when he was looking after others—and, in truth, his camp was a kind of improvised hospital Cassidy, he said, with his superb strength and physique would not give in. He would not believe that fever could beat a man who was game, and he fought it.
There was no suitable conveyance to be got before night, so I arranged to start after dark, for I was determined to do something to repay the kindness I had had at Cassidy’s hands. I took a serious view of his case, for I knew how these things usually ended, and he was not going to die without an effort on my part to save him.