“No. I shall never go back. I shall never get half a mile beyond this door again.”
“Nonsense,” said Joyce. “You ’ll pull round when the spring comes.”
“I have performed my allotted task. It was a severe portion and it has finished me off.”
“Look here, old man,” cried Joyce, “for God’s sake don’t talk like that. I can’t live in this accursed place by myself. You’ve been broken down by our hard times--but you ’ll get over it all, with this long rest.”
“I am going to a longer one, Joyce. I don’t mind going, you know. And then you ’ll be free of me. I am but a cumberer of the ground--I am of no use--I never have been of any use--I have been carrying water in a sieve all my life.”
He began to cough. Joyce put his arm around him for support, and tended him gently.
“You have a lot to do, old man,” he said soon after. “The foolscap has come, and a great jar of ink, and you can start copying out the manuscript to-morrow.”
“Now go to sleep. I ’ll sit by you, if you like,” said Joyce.
He moved the lamp to a ledge behind Noakes’s head, and sat down near by, with the budget of newspapers. Noakes composed himself to sleep. At last he spoke, without turning round.
“Then I promise,” said Joyce, humouring him. “Now I’m not going to talk to you any more.”
A few minutes later, his breathing told Joyce that he slept. The newspapers fell from Joyce’s hand, and he put his elbows on his knees and crouched over the smouldering logs. Noakes spoke truly. There was little chance of recovery. He would be left alone again soon. It would be very comfortless. The poor wreck who was dragging out his last days upon that wretched bed had been an unspeakable solace to him. Without his womanlike devotion he would have died of fever six months back on the Arato goldfield. Without the influence of his calm fatalism, he would have given up heart long ago. Without his steadfast purity of soul, he would have gone recklessly to the devil. The thought of losing him was a great pang.
He himself, too, was far from strong. The climate, the hard manual labour for which he was physically unfit were telling upon him heavily. He yearned for home, for civilised life, for the lost heritage of honour. Yvonne’s letter, telling of the little commonplaces of the lost sweet life of decent living, had revived the ever dormant longing. He began to dream of her, of that last day he had seen her, of her voice singing Gounod’s serenade.