The Hippodrome Part 16

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 Arith.e.l.li'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, Arith.e.l.li turned from side to side and moaned with closed eyes. A seller of fruit pa.s.sed, 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 Arith.e.l.li 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 a.s.sisting the revolutionaries.

Emile decided that he would write tomorrow, when he had acquired certain particulars as to the address he wanted.

Fatalite 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 Charite_ appealed to him as being quite out of the picture. Besides Arith.e.l.li 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 Arith.e.l.li'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 cla.s.s of human beings that calls itself "Society," and he knew its rules and ways as he despised its hypocrisies. He could look at Arith.e.l.li'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 s.e.x.

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 a.s.sist 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 a.s.sistance 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 pa.s.sed 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 Arith.e.l.li, 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 _cafes_, 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, ou 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 Arith.e.l.li 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."

Arith.e.l.li's ministering angels left in each other's company. Michael drifted back to his favourite _cafe_, 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 Arith.e.l.li 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 _employes_ 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 Arith.e.l.li'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 Arith.e.l.li--?"

CHAPTER XII

"I have something more to think of than Love. All the women in the world would not make me waste an hour."

SAYING OF NAPOLEON.