Brandon of the Engineers Part 15

"And yet you are surprised to see me now!"

"I can't have explained it properly. I didn't know you were Miss Kenwardine; but I felt I knew you and kept trying to remember, but I was feverish and my mind wouldn't take your image in. For all that, something told me it was really there already, and I'd be able to recognize it if I waited. It was like a photograph that wasn't developed."

"You're feverish now," Clare answered quietly. "I mustn't let you talk so much."

"You're as bad as Jake; he wouldn't answer my questions," d.i.c.k grumbled.

"Then, you see, I want to talk."

Clare laughed, as if she found it a relief to do so. "That doesn't matter if it will do you harm."

"I'll be very quiet," d.i.c.k pleaded. "I'll only speak a word or two now and then. But don't go away!"

Clare sat down, and after a few minutes d.i.c.k resumed: "You pa.s.sed my door to-day, and it's curious that I knew your step, though, if you can understand, without actually recognizing it. It was as if I was dreaming something that was real. The worst of being ill is that your brain gets working independently, bringing things up on its own account, without your telling it. Anyhow, I remembered the iron steps with the glow of the window through the curtain, and how you slipped--you wore little white shoes, and the moonlight shone through the branches on your dress."

He broke off and frowned, for a vague, unpleasant memory obtruded itself.

Something that had had disastrous consequences had happened in the quiet garden, but he could not remember what it was.

"Why did Lucille call you _ma mignonne_?" he asked. "Doesn't it mean a petted child?"

"Not always. She was my nurse when I was young."

"Then you have lived here before?"

"Not here, but in a country where there are people like Lucille, though it's long ago. But you mustn't speak another word. Go to sleep at once!"

"Then stay where I can see you and I'll try," d.i.c.k answered; and although he did not mean to do so, presently closed his eyes.

Clare waited until his quiet breathing showed that he was asleep, and then crossed the floor softly and stood looking down on him. There was light enough to see his face and it was worn and thin. His weakness moved her to pity, but there was something else. He had remembered that night in England, he knew her step and voice, and his rambling talk had caused her a thrill, for she remembered the night in England well. Brandon had shielded her from a man whom she had good ground for wishing to avoid. He had, no doubt, not quite understood the situation, but had seen that she needed help and chivalrously offered it. She knew he could be trusted and had without much hesitation made her unconventional request. He had then been marked by strong vitality and cheerful confidence, but he was ill and helpless now, and his weakness appealed to her as his vigor had not done. He was, in a way, dependent on her, and Clare felt glad this was so. She blushed as she smoothed the coverlet across his shoulders and then quietly stole away.

There was no sea breeze next morning and the sun shone through a yellow haze that seemed to intensify the heat. The white walls reflected a curious subdued light that was more trying to the eyes than the usual glare, and the beat of the surf was slow and languid. The air was still and heavy, and d.i.c.k's fever, which had been abating, recovered force. He was hot and irritable, and his restlessness did not vanish until Clare came in at noon.

"I've been watching for you since daybreak, and you might have come before," he said. "Lucille means well, but she's clumsy. She doesn't help one to be quiet as you do."

"You're not quiet," Clare answered in a reproving tone. "Lucille is a very good nurse; better than I am."

"Well," said d.i.c.k in a thoughtful tone, "perhaps she is, in a way. She never upsets the medicine on my pillow, as you did the last time. The nasty stuff got into my hair----"

Clare raised her hand in remonstrance. "You really mustn't talk."

"I'm going to talk," d.i.c.k answered defiantly. "It's bad for me to keep puzzling over things, and I mean to get them straight. Lucille's very patient, but she isn't soothing as you are. It rests one's eyes to look at you, but that's not altogether why I like you about. I expect it's because you knew I hadn't stolen those plans when everybody else thought I had. But then why did I tear your letter up?"

Clare made an abrupt movement. She knew he must be kept quiet and his brain was not working normally, but his statement was disturbing.

"You tore it up?" she asked, with some color in her face.

"Yes," said d.i.c.k in a puzzled voice, "I tore it all to bits. There was a reason, though I can't remember it. In fact, I can't remember anything to-day. But don't go off if I shut my eyes for a minute: it wouldn't be fair."

Clare turned her head, but except for this she did not move, and it was a relief when after a few disjointed remarks his voice died away. She was moved to pity, but for a few moments she had quivered in the grasp of another emotion. It was obvious that d.i.c.k did not altogether know what he was saying, but he had shown her plainly the place she had in his mind, and she knew she would not like to lose it.

Half an hour later Lucille came in quietly and Clare went away.

CHAPTER XI

CLARE GETS A SHOCK

For a week the stagnant heat brooded over Santa Brigida, sucking up the citizens' energy and leaving limp depression. Steaming showers that broke at intervals filled the air with an enervating damp, and the nights were worse than the days. No draught crept through the slits of windows into the darkened houses, and the musty smell that characterizes old Spanish cities gathered in the patios and sweltering rooms.

This reacted upon d.i.c.k, who had a bad relapse, and for some days caused his nurses grave anxiety. There was sickness in the town and the doctor could spare but little time to him, the nursing sister was occupied, and d.i.c.k was, for the most part, left to Clare and Lucille. They did what they could; the girl with pitiful tenderness, the mulatto woman with patience and some skill, but d.i.c.k did not know until afterwards that, in a measure, he owed his life to them. Youth, however, was on his side, the delirium left him, and after lying for a day or two in half-conscious stupor, he came back to his senses, weak but with unclouded mind. He knew he was getting better and his recovery would not be long, but his satisfaction was marred by keen bitterness. Clare had stolen his papers and ruined him.

Point by point he recalled his visit to Kenwardine's house, trying to find something that could be urged in the girl's defense and when he failed seeking excuses for her; but her guilt was obvious. He hated to own it, but the proof was overwhelming. She knew the power of her beauty and had treated him as a confiding fool. He was not revengeful and had been a fool, but it hurt him badly to realize that she was not what he had thought. He hardly spoke to Lucille, who came in now and then, and did not ask for Clare, as he had hitherto done. The girl did not know this because she was taking the rest she needed after a week of strain.

Jake was his first visitor next morning and d.i.c.k asked for a cigarette.

"I'm well enough to do what I like again," he said. "I expect you came here now and then."

"I did, but they would only let me see you once. I suppose you know you were very ill?"

"Yes; I feel like that. But I dare say you saw Kenwardine. It looks as if this is his house."

"It is. We brought you here because it's near the street where you got stabbed."

d.i.c.k said nothing for a minute, and then asked: "What's Kenwardine doing in Santa Brigida?"

"It's hard to say. Like other foreigners in the town, he's probably here for what he can get; looking for concessions or a trading monopoly of some kind."

"Ah!" said d.i.c.k. "I'm not sure. But do you like him?"

"Yes. He strikes me as a bit of an adventurer, but so are the rest of them, and he's none the worse for that. Trying to get ahead of dago politicians is a risky job."

"Is he running this place as a gambling house?"

"No," said Jake warmly; "that's much too strong. There is some card play evenings, and I've lost a few dollars myself, but the stakes are moderate and anything he makes on the bank wouldn't be worth while. He enjoys a game, that's all. So do other people; we're not all like you."

"Did you see Miss Kenwardine when you came for a game?"

"I did, but I want to point out that I came to see you. She walked through the patio, where we generally sat, and spoke to us pleasantly, but seldom stopped more than a minute. A matter of politeness, I imagine, and no doubt she'd sooner have stayed away."

"Kenwardine ought to keep her away. One wonders why he brought the girl to a place like this."

Jake frowned thoughtfully. "Perhaps your remark is justified, in a sense, but you mustn't carry the idea too far. He's not using his daughter as an attraction; it's unthinkable."

"That is so," agreed d.i.c.k.

"Well," said Jake, "I allow that our talking about it is in pretty bad taste, but my view is this: Somehow, I don't think Kenwardine has much money and he may feel he has to give the girl a chance."