"I am tired of tears and laughter
And men that laugh and weep,
Of what may come hereafter
For men that sow and reap.
I am weary of days and hours,
Blown buds of barren flowers,
Desires and dreams and powers,
And everything but sleep."
SWINBURNE.
If anyone had told Arithelli that she was in for a sharp attack of
diphtheria, she would have felt surprised and not very much
enlightened. Her ignorance of everything connected with illness was
supreme, and since childhood she had had no recollection of medicine
and doctors. Her parents indulged in theories on the subject of
complaints, the principal one being a large disbelief in their
existence. To them anything unhealthy or ailing was an aversion, a
thing to be avoided rather than pitied.
For accidents, sprains and breakages their pharmacopoeia suggested and
did not go beyond two ideas,--salt and water and Nature.
The Oriental strain in her character helped her to endure where an
ordinary woman would have fussed, cried, or grumbled. At home if she
had had a fall or did not look her best she had been expected to
consider herself in disgrace, and to keep out of the way till such time
as she had completely recovered her looks and spirits.
When she returned to her lodgings, it did not occur to her to rouse the
landlady and demand remedies or attentions. The walk home had been a
nightmare, and now she had all she wanted--solitude and the blessed
darkness. She threw off her dress and boots, and walked the room hour
after hour. She still heard the brazen band, and saw the flaming
lights and her ears echoed to the dreadful sounds of hissing.
Sometimes she had drunk feverishly of the very doubtful water against
which Emile had so often cautioned her. When it was nearly dawn she
gave in, and lay huddled up on the bed, half-delirious with the pain
and feeling of suffocation.
Two streets away, and in a room more squalid than her own, Vardri was
also enduring his own private Purgatory. Hers was physical, his
mental. That was all the difference.
Long before half-past eight he was down at the stables and there
received the dismissal he had fully expected, being ordered off the
premises by the head groom, who had received directions the night
before to give Vardri a week's wages, and turn him out of the place
without delay. It was no use protesting. The Manager was not yet
visible, and even if he had been Vardri knew there was no appeal.
There had been complaints about his negligence more than once, and of
course he had been missed on the previous evening. None of the
"strappers" would have reported him, but one of the clowns, a Spaniard
with whom he had fought for ill-treating a horse, had seen him leaving
the vicinity of the dressing-rooms, and had carried the information to
headquarters.
The informer had chosen his time well, and had found the Manager raging
over Arithelli's mishap, and ready to dismiss anyone with or without
reason.
Vardri turned his back on the place whistling defiance, and with his
courage fallen below zero. He would have liked to say good-bye to the
horses, and to some of the men who were his friends. He had never
disliked the actual work, and it was at the Hippodrome that he had
first met Arithelli. Her misfortune and his had come together. At any
other time it would not have been quite so bad. A few months ago he
would not have cared whether he lost his place or not.
There had been nothing much in life then, and one could always find a
short way out of it _via_ the water or an overdose of something.
But now the world was changed, and he craved for Life and the fulness
of Life, for he had tasted happiness and stood for a moment in the
outer courts of the House of Love. He had no friends who could have
helped him, and no qualifications for earning his living at any other
trade or profession. He had begun life with a luxurious home, a
refined and useless education, and the mind of a dreamer, an idealist.
None of these things were valuable assets in his present career.
Like Arithelli he spoke several languages more or less fluently, and
like her again possessed both understanding and a love of horses, but
what avail were these things when he had neither money, references nor
influence, and as a further disadvantage he was known to be an
associate of the revolutionaries, and his tendency to consumption would
keep him out of many kinds of employment.
He turned over the few coins in his hand. Just enough to keep him for
a week and then--the deluge!
He waited, prowling up and down the street, impatiently until Emile
appeared in the distance.
A few minutes later, the two men were at the door of Arithelli's
lodgings. The landlady met them on the stairs, hag-like in the
disarray of the early morning, and evidently terrified out of such
humanity as she possessed by the fear of infection. She had gone up
with the early morning coffee and found Arithelli raving aloud and
tearing at her throat. Her first thought had been to turn the girl out
of doors, or, as she was obviously incapable of moving, to send for a
priest and a nursing sister, and have her taken to the public hospital.
A wholesome fear of Emile prevented her from giving utterance to these
charitable impulses.
She invoked every saint in the calendar, whose name she could remember,
and crossed herself with automaton-like energy.
She could not, she protested, be expected to nurse such a dangerous
case of fever as this undoubtedly was. There was her son, the adored
of her old age. _Santa Maria_! If he also were stricken!
Emile pushed her on one side. "I'll talk to you presently," he said in
her own dialect. "If you are going into hysterics with fright you'll
catch anything that is catching. If you behave sensibly you won't."
The window was fully open and the green shutters thrown back, and the
fierce sunlight streamed into Arithelli's room, which showed more than
its normal disorder. The tray with the _café complet_ was on the floor
where the landlady had left it on her hasty stampede downstairs,
half-a-dozen turquoise rings lay strewn over a little table, where they
had been thrown when they were dragged off, boys' clothes trailed over
the back of one chair, and a blue skirt over another. The only orderly
thing visible was the immaculate row of fine kid boots, long, narrow,
pearl-grey, tan and champagne-coloured.
Arithelli lay on the big bed under the faded canopy. She had wrapped
herself in a thin blue _peignoir_, and her face was half hidden in
tangled hair. The tumbled bed-clothes were pulled to one side and
dragging on the dusty boards. She was quite unconscious of anyone's
presence, and moaned softly in a strangled fashion.
The two men stood without speaking, and watched the writhing, restless
figure. Vardri turned away first with a smothered exclamation. Would
he always be obliged to see her tortured in some way or another? The
Fates were sending him more than any man could bear to look upon.
"What are you going to do?" he said roughly in French, "I can't stand
seeing this!"
Emile showed no signs of surprise at the other's manifest anxiety,
possibly because his own was as deep, though his method of expressing
it was different. He felt helpless, and, being a man, resented the
feeling, so by consequence his always rugged manner became even more
unpleasant than usual.
"Well," he rejoined, "what can you expect in this filthy place? This
street isn't so bad, but of course she has so often been down in those
slums in the Parelelo. The Calle de Pescadores alone is enough to give
anyone a fever. I think Sobrenski has made a point of sending her down
every poisonous street in the place. Ireland's a clean country, you
see, compared with this, so she hasn't much chance, and as she starves
herself half the time that won't make things any better."
"She must have some woman to look after her. I suppose the landlady
here will be no good?"
"Not unless you pay her.--Who's going to do that?"
"There's Estelle."
"Estelle!" Emile exploded a fierce Russian oath. "Do you want _more_
hysterics?" Vardri was tramping up and down the room with the
noiseless agility of an animal, his fingers mechanically at work at a
cigarette.
"She must have a doctor too. Isn't there an English doctor here?"
"Probably. Do you propose to pay him too?"
The dryly sarcastic voice, the practical question brought Vardri down
from the clouds to the hard facts of life. Illnesses and doctors were
expensive things. He had no money, and Emile very little.
"I'll get a _Soeur de Charité_ from one of the convents. She'll come
for nothing. Nursing is their work. I was--I mean I'm a Catholic.
She's a Catholic, too, isn't she?"
"No, she hates them. She was educated in a convent, where as far as I
can gather from her own account she acquired more learning than piety.
Under the present circumstances I can only suggest the horse-doctor."
"What's the use of--?"
"I believe he began by doctoring human beings, but like the rest of us
out here, he is a little under a cloud. He prefers animals now. They
don't tell tales. Human beings do. Besides, he's English, or rather,
Irish. Better go and tell him to come up. You know his rooms. Tell
him it's infectious, and he can bring up a few cigarettes for me if he
feels generous. Don't trouble about your _Soeur de Charité_. I'll see
that the woman here makes herself useful."
Vardri flung himself out of the room and down the rickety stairs at
breakneck speed, thankful beyond measure for the relief of action.
Emile subsided into a chair and smoked furiously and meditated upon the
untoward situation. Being of a practical turn of mind he began to make
calculations. Vardri had told him briefly of how Arithelli had failed
in the trick-riding, fallen off her horse, and been hissed out of the
ring. The loss of popularity might mean the end of her career. In any
case he could see she was desperately ill, and there was small chance
of her being about under three weeks, and even then she would not be
able to work at once. Meanwhile they had exactly two pounds a week to
live upon.
Truly women added to the complications of life! He might borrow money,
but that was a thing to be resorted to only in the last extremity.
Most of the members of his Circle were as poor as himself or poorer.
They were all bound together by the tie of brotherhood, and no one
would have grudged or refused a loan, but Emile scrupled to borrow from
those who were in greater privation than himself.
Sobrenski was fairly well off, but he lived like an ascetic and gave
everything to the Cause; besides, Sobrenski was out of the question.
To appeal to him on Arithelli's behalf would only be to give him a
chance for refusal and a jeer at female conspirators.
Her turquoise rings Emile collected from the table, and put them into
his pocket; her collar of turquoises he rescued from the floor, where
it had fallen when she took off her bodice. The jewels could all be
turned into the money they needed so badly. Of course she had not
saved a single _peseta_. Emile had the handling of her salary, and he
knew that anything left over from the expenses of food and lodging went
in clothes and her particular vanity, dainty boots.
She was lavishly generous to the Hippodrome staff, and there was always
a certain tribute claimed from all its adherents by the Cause.
He did not hunt further for valuables. If there was either money or
jewellery in Arithelli's possession it was sure to be found in quite a
conspicuous place.
The varied life of the city surged to and fro beneath the window, the
varied noises floated up into the room, and under the faded red brocade
curtains, Arithelli turned from side to side and moaned with closed
eyes. A seller of fruit passed, crying his wares.
Emile went down into the street and bought a couple of oranges, and
squeezed the juice into the cup that had been destined for the coffee.
He had not the least idea as to what particular malady Arithelli had
developed, but he knew that fever and delirium always went together,
and that with fever there is invariably thirst. He lifted her up and
pushed the pillow higher to relieve her breathing, but he could hardly
do more than moisten her parched and bitten lips. Then he "tidied" the
bed with masculine pulls and jerks till it was even more untidy than
before, and went back to his chair. There was nothing more to be done
for her in the way of alleviation till the doctor came.
He took up a book, and tried to shut his ears and distract his
thoughts. As he stared unseeingly at the printed pages, there suddenly
flashed into his brain the name of Count Vladimir, the owner of "_The
Witch_." Here was the very man to whom he could confidently apply for
help in the present difficulties, for the Russian had made it his
business in life to bestow his wealth in assisting the revolutionaries.
Emile decided that he would write tomorrow, when he had acquired
certain particulars as to the address he wanted.
Fatalité had done good work for the Cause, he argued, therefore let
those who supported the organisation keep her till she was able to work
again.
The next task he would have to undertake would be that of bullying or
bribing the landlady into a promise to undertake at least some of the
duties of a sick-room. The rest of the nursing he proposed to do
himself. He grinned as he lit another evil-smelling cigarette, at the
thought of Vardri's proposal.
He possessed an artistic sense of the fitness of things, and the
suggested _Soeur de Charité_ appealed to him as being quite out of the
picture. Besides Arithelli had no respect for priests or nuns; Emile
remembered her inimitable descriptions of the spying "Children of
Mary," and she should not be worried with either if he could help it.
Yes, certainly the incapable old landlady would be preferable to a
white-capped _religeuse_, for the latter, though not likely by virtue
of her training to be scared by the physical atmosphere, would
undoubtedly be appalled by the mental and moral one. Most likely she
would take advantage of Arithelli's weakness to persuade her of the
danger of her present way of living. The Church of Rome is never slow
at seizing the chance of making a convert, and the power of the Church
in Spain is a byword.
Though Emile had a profound scorn for conventions, he had at one time
had his place among that class of human beings that calls itself
"Society," and he knew its rules and ways as he despised its
hypocrisies. He could look at Arithelli's position quite judicially,
and as an outsider. The world, religious and otherwise, would
certainly not give her the benefit of the doubt.
She was young, she was possessed of a weird and haunting beauty, she
had no women friends, no relations, and no companions but a set of
law-breakers, all of whom were men. No one would believe that she was
untouched, unawakened, that she had been treated as a boy, and her
womanhood not so much respected as ignored. If anyone put the wrong
ideas into her head, Emile reflected, it was sure to be one of her own
sex.
Having matured his plans he descended to the kitchen regions,
manufacturing impressive threats _en route_.
Here an answer to his problem presented itself, or rather herself. The
landlady had a niece who came in daily to assist in household matters,
and take part in a duet of feminine gossip.
She was a solid young woman of unmoved countenance, who was quite
prepared to nurse the ten plagues of Egypt, providing she received
sufficient remuneration. She proposed to get married at the earliest
opportunity and what Emile offered her would be of great assistance in
providing her bridal finery.
The two came to an agreement rapidly, and Emile climbed the stairs
again, triumphant.
He began to feel anxious about the doctor. Two hours had passed and
there was no sight of him. He might be out, or he might be drunk.
Emile knew the little weakness of Michael Furness, and as Vardri had
not returned it meant that he was still searching.
At last the horse-doctor arrived, grunting and ruffling up his crest of
curly black hair. He had a large heart by way of counterbalance to his
many failings, and he was interested in Arithelli, for he had come
across her once or twice in the stables, and had heard various
picturesque stories of her exploits. He might have been a success in
his own profession, but for the two temptations that beset every
Irishman--whisky and horses.
He had left his practice in the city of Cork, as Emile had said,
somewhat under a cloud, and had given up whisky for the _absinthe_ of
the _cafés_, and had not regretted the exchange. He made his
examination quickly, handling the girl with a surprising skill and
deftness, in spite of his big clumsy-looking hands.
When he touched her she opened her eyes.
"_Mais, où suis je_?" she murmured, painfully dragging out the words.
Then followed Emile's name.
The doctor laid her back gently, and stood holding one of her wrists.
"She thinks it's you, Poleski! 'Tis diphtheria. A bad case, too.
Shall want some looking afther. Who's seeing to her?"
"I am," responded Emile, coolly.
"The divil ye are!" The Irishman's long upper lip twitched humorously.
"Well, treat her gintly then, me bhoy! You're wise to be smoking.
Less chance of infection. I'll keep you company." He produced a
couple of thin black cigars, and handed one to Emile.
"See, now," Michael Furness added seriously, "I may as well be telling
you the truth. Your little friend there hasn't a very big chance.
She's been going to bits for some time. If it hadn't been this it
would have been something else. She's got a grand physique, so there's
hope. If she's worse by to-morrow she ought to have an operation.
Only I can't undertake it, ye see. There's the trouble. My hand isn't
as steady as it was, and I haven't the instruments."
Emile nodded. He knew nothing of the operation of tracheotomy, and
though he spoke English well he found it difficult to follow Michael's
soft, thick, County Cork speech.
"She's a grand heap of a girl, isn't she?" continued that gentleman,
regarding Arithelli with kindly eyes. He had all the Celt's love of
romance, and the ingrained reverence of the Irish Catholic for women.
"This isn't the place for girls, at all, at all! And they tell me
she's from the old country. Will I be sending up one of the good
Sisthers to see after her, and put things to rights a bit?"
For the second time that day Emile ungratefully rejected the
ministrations of the Church. He knew that no one else in Spain ever
thought of employing anyone but the religious orders as nurses, but he
preferred to arrange things in his own way and said so.
"Ah, well then!" said Michael amiably, "give her something to drink if
she wants it. That's all. I'll look in again this evening. She'll
have taken a turn then one way or the other. It's a quick thing, this."
Arithelli's ministering angels left in each other's company. Michael
drifted back to his favourite _café_, while Emile betook himself to the
Hippodrome to wage war with that amiable functionary, the Manager. The
strife was both noisy and prolonged, and resulted in only a partial
victory for Emile. With many picturesque oaths the Manager accused
himself of folly unspeakable in not dismissing Arithelli at once.
She had a contract? Yes! But in it there was no allowance made for
incompetence and non-appearance. It only stipulated that she should be
paid for doing her work. She had not done it, and moreover she had
refused to practise. That he should be expected to continue to pay her
a salary even of the smallest description while she lay in bed was a
monstrous impertinence.
Would he not have the trouble and expense of getting another artiste to
fill her place? There must be an _equestrienne_ in the programme. If
she found herself taken back again to finish her time after this
illness or whatever it was, then she should be more than grateful, but
as for paying salaries to _employés_ who did not work, why, did people
consider him an imbecile?
Emile shrugged and sneered at intervals throughout this tirade. He had
wisely begun by asking more than he knew he was at all likely to get,
and was now obliged to be satisfied with the compromise.
Disappointment followed his search for the whereabouts of Count
Vladimir. The owner of "_The Witch_" was expected back in Barcelona in
a month or so, no one knew exactly when. Letters might be addressed
Poste Restante, Corfu, for he was cruising in his phantom craft through
those sapphire seas that lie round about the Ionian Islands.
There was nothing to do but to write and wait. One piece of ill-luck
was following close upon another, and Emile felt that he needed all the
consolations that his cynical philosophy could afford.
His anxiety on Arithelli's behalf was fast becoming an obsession. When
she had first come into his life he had wondered sometimes how she
would stand the late hours and all the hardships of a circus training,
but after her one outburst she had never complained again.
He thought the sea-trip had done her good. Of course she always looked
pale, but then that was her type.
He had also been impressed with the unwonted seriousness of Michael,
knowing that in spite of his erratic ways the doctor understood his
craft.
Emile's instinct prompted him vigorously to go back now and see how she
was getting on, but he dared not neglect the work of his Society.
There were letters to be written, arrangements to be made, all the
usual paraphernalia of intrigue to be kept going.
He returned to his own rooms and began to write savagely, using all his
will to expel from his brain the vision of the girl as he had seen her
last, semi-conscious, and yet with his name on her lips.
Michael had promised to see her again at six o'clock. It would be time
enough if he also went then. Besides, the Cause came first always, and
there were many women in the world. His pen tore fiercely over the
paper as something whispered: "Women? Yes. But another Arithelli--?"