Tears sprang into her eyes, and yet there was a smile there, too; she was not wholly frightened—perhaps she had known all along.

"Ah, and you don't understand yet, Maurice!" she said, and she frankly gave him her hand, and her eyes were kind even through her tears. "You don't understand what I have been saying to you, that a girl's ideal is one particular person—her ideal is the man or woman whom she admires and loves the most. Can you not guess?"

"Francie, you will be my wife?" he said to her, drawing her closer to him, his hands clasped round her head.

She did not answer. She was silent for a second or two. And then she said, with averted eyes,

"You spoke of gratitude, Maurice. I know who has the most reason to be grateful—and who will try the hardest to show it."

So that betrothal was completed; and when they passed out from the coppice into the whiter air, behold! the wild March skies had parted somewhat, and there was a shimmer of silver sunlight along the broad highway between the hedges. It was an auspicious omen—or, at least, their full hearts may have thought so; and then, again, there was a wedding chorus all around them from the birds—from the bright-eyed robin perched on the crimson bramble-spray; from the speckled thrush on the swaying elm; from the lark far-hovering over a field of young corn. But in their own happiness they had thought of others; Francie soon came back to Lionel again and his grievous misfortunes; and she was listening with meekness to this tall, clear-eyed man, who could now claim a certain gentle authority over her. They were a long time before they got to the doctor's house.

That same evening Miss Kate Burgoyne invited Lionel to come to her room for a cup of tea when he had dressed for the last act; and accordingly, when he was ready, he strolled along the corridor, rapped with his knuckles, and entered. It turned out that the prima-donna had other visitors: a young lady whom he had never seen before and Mr. Percival Miles. The young gentleman, in faultless evening dress, seemed a little surprised at the easy manner in which Lionel had lounged into the place; and perhaps Lionel was also a little surprised—for this was Mr. Miles's first appearance in the room; but each man merely nodded to the other, in a formal-acquaintance style, as they were in the habit of doing at the Garden Club. At the same moment Miss Burgoyne opened a portion of the curtain, so that she could address her guests.

"Mr. Moore, let me introduce you to my friend, Miss Ingram. Mr. Miles I think you know."

And Lionel was glad enough to turn to the young lady and enter into conversation with her, for the pale young man with the slight yellow moustache was defiantly silent, and had even something fierce about his demeanor. It was no business of Lionel's to provoke a quarrel with this truculent fire-eater, especially in Miss Burgoyne's room. To quarrel about Kate Burgoyne?—the irony of events could go no further than that.

And of course, as the most immediate topic, they spoke of the gale that had been blowing across London all the afternoon and evening; for the southerly winds that had prevailed in the morning had freshened up and increased in violence until a veritable hurricane was now raging, threatening roofs, chimneys, and lamp-posts, to say nothing of the whirled and driven and bewildered foot-passengers.

"I hear there has been a bad accident in Oxford Street," Lionel said to the young lady. "Some scaffolding has fallen—a lot of people hurt. I'm afraid there will be a sad tale to tell from the sea; even now, while we are secure in this big building, thinking only of amusement, I suppose there is many a ship laboring in the gale, or going headlong on to the rocks. Have you far to get home?" he asked.

"Oh, I am going home with Miss Burgoyne," the young lady answered.

But here Miss Burgoyne herself appeared, coming forth in the full splendor of Grace Mainwaring's bridal attire and with all her radiant witcheries of make-up, and the poor lad sitting there, who had never before been so near this vision of delight, seemed quite entranced by its (strictly speaking) superhuman loveliness. He could not take his eyes away from her. He did not think of joining in the conversation. He watched her at the mirror; he watched her making tea; he watched her munching a tiny piece of bread and butter (which was imprudent on her part, after the care she had bestowed on her lips); and always he was silent and spellbound. Miss Burgoyne, on the other hand, was talkative enough.

"Isn't it an awful night!" she exclaimed. "I thought the cab I came down in would be blown over. And they say it's getting worse and worse. I hear there has been a dreadful accident; some of the men were telling Jane about it; have you heard, Mr. Moore?—something about a scaffold. I suppose this theatre is safe enough; I don't feel any shaking. But I know I shall be so nervous going home to-night—I dread it already—"

"Miss Ingram says she is going home with you," Lionel pointed out, carelessly.

"But that is worse!" the prima-donna cried. "Two women are worse than one—they make each other nervous; no, what you want is a man's bluntness of perception—his indifference—and the sense of security you get from his being there. Two frightened women; how are they going to keep each other's courage up?"

It was clearly an invitation; almost a challenge. Lionel only said,

"Why, what have you to fear! The blowing over of a cab is about the last thing likely to happen. If you were walking along the pavement, you might be struck by a falling slate; but you are out in the middle of the road. If you go home in a four-wheeled cab, you will be as safe as you are at this minute in this room."

She turned away from him; at the same moment the pale young gentleman said, rather breathlessly,

"Miss Burgoyne, if you would permit me to accompany you and Miss Ingram home, I should esteem it a great honor—and—and pleasure."

She whipped round in an instant.

"Oh, thank you, Percy—Mr. Miles, I mean," she added, in pretty confusion. "That will be so kind of you. We shall be delighted, I'm sure—very kind of you indeed."

No more was said at the moment, for Miss Burgoyne had been called; and Lionel, as he wended his way to the wings, could only ask himself,

"What is she up to now? She calls me Mr. Moore before her friends, and him Percy, and she contrives to put him into the position of rescuing two distressed damsels. Well, what does it matter? I suppose women are like that."

But Mr. Percival Miles's accompanying those two young ladies through the storm did matter to him, in another way, and seriously. When, the performance being over, he got into evening dress and drove along in a hansom to the Garden Club, he found there two or three of the young gentlemen who were in the habit of lounging about the supper-room, glancing at illustrated papers or chewing toothpicks, until the time for poker had arrived.

"Johnny," he said to one of them, "somehow I feel awfully down in the mouth to-night."

"That's unusual with you, then," was the cheerful reply. "For you are the pluckiest loser I ever saw. But I must say your luck of late has been just something frightful."

"Well, I'm down altogether—in luck, in finances, and spirits; and I'm going to pull myself up a peg. Come and keep me company. I'm going to order a magnum of Perrier Jouet of '74, and I only want a glass or two; you must help me out, or some of those other fellows."

"That's a pretty piece of extravagance!" the other exclaimed. "A magnum—to get a couple of glasses out of it; like an otter taking a single bite from a salmon's shoulder. Never mind, old chap; I'm in. I hate champagne at this time of night; but I don't want you to kill yourself."

As they sat at supper, with this big bottle before them, Lionel said,

"It will be a bad thing for me if young Miles doesn't show up to-night."

"I should have thought it would have been an excellent thing for you if Miles had never entered this club," his companion observed.

"That's true," said Lionel, rather gloomily. "But my only chance now is to get some of my property back, and I can only get it back from him. You fellows are no use to me—not if I were winning all along the line."

"Look here, Moore," said the young man, in a more serious tone, "you may say it's none of my business; but the way you and that fellow Miles have been going on is perfectly awful. If the committee should hear about it, there will be a row, and no mistake!"

"My dear boy," Lionel protested, as he pushed the unnecessary bottle to his neighbor, "the committee have nothing to do with understandings that are settled outside the club. You don't see Miles or me handing checks for L200 or L300 across the table. How can the committee expel you for holding up three fingers or nodding your head?"

"Well, then, you'll excuse me saying it, but he's a young ass, to gamble in that fashion," Johnny remarked, bluntly. "What fun does he get out of it? And it's quite a new thing with him—that's the odd business. I know a man who was at Merton with him; and certainly Miles got into a devil of a scrape—which cut short his career there; but it had nothing to do with gambling. He never was that way inclined at all; it's a new development, since he joined this club. Well, I suppose he can do what he likes. The heir to a baronetcy and such a place as Petmansworth can get just as much as he wants from the Jews."

"My good man, he doesn't need to go to the Jews," said Lionel, with grim irony.

"Where does he get all that money from? Do you think his father is fool enough to encourage him in such extravagance? I should hope not! At the same time I wish I had a father tarred with something of that same brush."

"Where does he get all the money from? So far he has got it from me," Lionel said, with a bit of a shrug. "He doesn't need to go to his father, or to the Jews either, when he can plunder me. And such a run of luck as he has had is simply astounding—"

"It isn't luck at all," the other interrupted. "It's your play. You play too bold a game—too bold when you know he is going to play a bolder. Twice running he caught you last night bluffing on no hand at all; and I don't know what fabulous stakes were up—with your nods and signs. It's no use your trying to bluff that fellow. He won't be bluffed."

"The thing is as broad as it's long, man," Lionel said, impatiently. "If he is determined to see me every time, he must be caught when I have a good hand—it stands to reason. The only thing is that my luck has been so confoundedly bad of late."

"Yes; and when the luck's against you, you go betting on no hands at all—with Miles waiting for you!" his companion exclaimed. "All right; every man must play the game his own way. You don't seem to have found it profitable so far."

"Profitable!" Lionel said, with a dark look in his eyes. "I can tell you I am in a tight corner, and I reckoned on to-night to settle it one way or the other—not with you fellows, I can't get anything worth while out of you, but with Miles. And now he's gone away home with—"

He stopped in time; ladies' names are not mentioned in clubs—at least, not in such clubs as the Garden.

"The odd thing is," continued Johnny, as he lit a cigarette, and definitely refused to have any more of the wine, "the extremely odd thing is that he doesn't seem to care to win from the rest of us. He lets us share our modest little pots as if they weren't worth looking at. It's you he goes for, invariably."

"And he's gone for me to some purpose," Lionel said, morosely. "I'm just about broke—broke five or six times over, if it comes to that—and by that pennyworth of yellow ribbon!"

"You needn't call him names," said Johnny, as he lay back in his chair. "Upon my soul I think Miles is somebody in disguise—a priest—an Inquisitor—somebody with a mission—to punish the sin of gambling. What does he care about the game? Nothing—I'll swear it! He's only watching for you. He's an avenger. He has been sent by some superior power—"

"Then it must have been by the devil," said Lionel, with a sombre expression, "for he has got the devil's own luck at his back. Wait till I get four of a kind when he is betting on a full hand—and then you'll see his corpse laid out!" This was all he could say just then; for here was the young man himself, who must have come back from the Edgeware Road in a remarkably swift hansom.

Almost directly there was an adjournment to the card-room; and the players took their places.

"I propose we have in the joker,"[2] Lionel called aloud, as the cards were dealt for deal.

[Footnote 2: The joker is a fifty-third card, of any kind of device, which is added to the pack; the player to whom it is dealt can make it any card he chooses. For example, if the other four cards he holds are two queens and two sevens, he can make the joker card a third queen, and thus secure for himself a full hand.]

"I don't see the fun of it," objected the young man who had been Lionel's companion at the supper-table. "You never know where you are when the joker is in. What do you say, Miles?"

"Oh, have it in by all means," Percival Miles said, with his eyes fixed on the table.

And perhaps it was that Lionel was anxious and nervous (for much depended on the results of this night's play), but he seemed to feel that the pale young man who sat opposite him appeared to be even more cold and implacable in manner than was usual with him. He began to have superstitious fears—like most gamblers. That was an uncanny suggestion his recent companion had put into his head—that here was an avenger—a deputed instrument—an agent to inflict an awarded punishment. At the same time he tried to laugh at the notion. Punishment—from this stripling of a boy! It was a ludicrous idea, to be sure. When Lionel had in former days accepted his challenge to fight, it was with some kind of impatient resolve to teach him a wholesome lesson and brush him aside. And he had regarded his running after Miss Burgoyne with a sort of good-natured toleration and contempt; there were always those young fools in the wake of actresses. But that he, Lionel, should be afraid of this young idiot? What was there to be afraid of? He was no swashbuckler—this pallid youth with the thin lips, who concentrated all his attention on the cards, and had no word or jest for his neighbors. How could there be anything baleful in the expression of eyes that were curiously expressionless? It was a pretty face (Lionel had at one time thought), but now it seemed capable of a good deal of relentless determination. Lionel had heard of people shivering when brought into contact with the repellent atmosphere that appeared to surround a particular person; but what was there deadly about this young man?

The game at first was not very exciting, though now and again the joker played a merry trick, appearing in some unexpected place, and laying many a good hand low. Indeed, it almost seemed as if Lionel had resolved to recoup himself by steady play; and so far there had been no duel between him and young Miles. That was not distant, however. On this occasion Lionel, who was seated on the left of the dealer—in other words, he being age—when the cards were dealt found himself with two pairs in his hand, aces and queens. It was a pretty show. When the time came for him to declare his intention, he said,

"Well, I'm just going to make this another ten shillings to come in."

That frightened no one; they all came in; what caused them to halt and reflect was that, on Lionel being subsequently asked how many cards he wished to have, he said,

"None, thank you."

Not a syllable was uttered; there were surmises too occult for words. The player on Lionel's left bet an humble two shillings. The next player simply came in. So did the third—who was Mr. Percival Miles. Likewise the dealer; in fact, they were all prepared to pay that modest sum to inspect the age's hand. But Lionel wanted a higher price for that privilege.

"I'm coming in with the little two shillings," said he, "and I will raise you a sovereign."

That promptly sent out the player on his left; his neighbor also retired. Not so the pallid young man with the thin lips.

"And one better," he said, depositing another sovereign.

The dealer incontinently fled. There only remained Lionel and his enemy; and the position of affairs was this—that while Lionel had taken no additional cards, and was presumably in possession of a straight or a flush (unless he was bluffing), Miles had taken one card, and most likely had got two pairs (unless he was finessing). Two pairs against two pairs, then? But Lionel had aces and queens.

"And five better," Lionel said, watching his enemy.

"And five better," said the younger man, stolidly.

And now the onlookers altered their surmises. No one but a lunatic would challenge a player who had declined to take supplementary cards unless he himself had an exceptionally strong hand, or unless he was morally certain that his opponent was bluffing. Had Miles "filled," then, with his one card; and was a straight being played against a straight, or a flush against a flush? Or had the stolid young man started with fours? The subdued excitement with which this duel was now being regarded was enthralling; they forgot to protest against the wild raising of the bets; and when Lionel and his implacable foe, having exhausted all their money, had recourse of nods—merely marking their indebtedness to the pool on a bit of paper lying beside them—the others could only guess at the amount that was being played for. It was Lionel who gave in; clearly that insatiate bloodsucker was not to be shaken off.

"I call you."

"Three nines," was the answer, and Miles laid down on the table a pair of nines and the joker. The other two were worthless; clearly, he had taken the one card as a blind.

"That is good enough—take away the money," Lionel said, calmly; and the younger man, with quite as expressionless a face, raked over the pile of gold, bank-notes, and counters.

There was a general sense of relief; that strain had been too intense.

"Very magnificent, you know," said the player who was next to Lionel, as he placed his ante on the table, "but it isn't poker. I think if you fix a limit you should stick to it. Have your private bets if you like; but let us have a limit that allows everybody to see the fun."

"Oh, certainly, I agree to that," Lionel said, at once. "We will keep to the sovereign limit; and Mr. Miles and I will understand well enough what we are betting when we happen to play against each other."

Thereafter the game went more quietly, though Lionel was clearly playing with absolute carelessness; no doubt his companions understood that he could not hope to retrieve his losses in this moderate play. He seemed tired, too, and dispirited; frequently he threw up his cards without drawing—which was unusual with him.

"Have a drink, old man, to wake you up?" his neighbor said to him, about half-past two.

"No, thanks," he answered, listlessly looking on at the cards.

"A cigarette, then?"

"No, thanks. I think I must give up smoking altogether—my throat isn't quite right."

But an extraordinary stroke of good-luck aroused him. On looking at his cards he found he had been dealt four aces and a ten. Surely the hour of his revenge had sounded at last; for with such a hand he could easily frighten the others out, while he knew that Percival Miles would remain in, if he had anything at all. Accordingly, when it came to his turn he raised before the draw—raised the pool a sovereign; and this caused two of the players to retire, leaving himself, Miles, and the dealer. He took one card—to his astonishment and concealed delight he found it was the joker. Five aces!—surely on such a hand he might bet his furniture, his clothes, his last cigarette. Five aces!—it was nothing but brute force; all that was wanted was to pile on the money; he could well afford to be reckless this time. He saw that Miles also asked for one card, and that the dealer helped himself to two; but what the took was a matter of supreme indifference to him.

It was Percival Miles's turn to bet.

"I will bet a sovereign," said he.

"And I'll stay in with you," remarked the dealer, depositing the golden coin.

"One better," said Lionel.

"And one better," said Miles.

Here the dealer retired, so that these two were left in as before—well, not as before, for Lionel had five aces in his hand! And now they made no pretence of keeping to the limit that had been imposed; their bets were registered on the bit of paper which each had by him; and pertinaciously did these two gladiators hack and slash at each other. Lionel was quite reckless. His enemy had taken one card. Very well. Supposing he had "filled" a flush or a straight, so much the better. Supposing he also had got fours—that, too, was excellent well; for he could have nothing higher than four kings. Strictly speaking, there was only one hand that could beat Lionel's—a straight flush; but then a straight flush is an uncommonly rare thing; and, besides, the appearance of five aces in one's hand seems to convey a sense of quite unlimited power. That five aces are no better than four aces does not strike the possessor of them; he regards the goodly show—and strives to conceal his elation.

But even the onlookers, intensely interested as they were in this fell combat, began to grow afraid when they guessed at the sum that was now in the imaginary pool. The story might get about the club; the committee might shut up the card-room; there might be a talk of expulsion. As for Lionel, he kept saying to himself, "Well, this is a safe thing; and I could go on all night; but I won't take a brutal advantage. As soon as I think I have got back about what this young fellow has already taken from me since he came into the club, I will stop. I don't want to break him. I don't want to send him to the money-lenders."

As for the pale young man across the table, his demeanor was that of a perfect poker-player. The only thing that could be noticed was a slight contraction of his pupils, as if he were concentrating his eyes on the things immediately around him and trying to leave his face quite inscrutable. There was no eagerness in his betting—nor was there any affected resignation; it was entirely mechanical; like clock-work came the raised and raised bet.

"I call you," said Lionel, at last, amid a breathless silence.

Without a word Percival Miles laid his cards on the table, arranging them in sequence; they were five, six, seven, eight, and nine of clubs—not an imposing hand, certainly, but Lionel knew his doom was sealed. He rose from his chair, with a brief laugh that did not sound very natural.

"I think I know when I've had enough," he said. "Good-night!" And "Good-night!" came from one and all of them—though there was an ominous pause until the door was shut behind him.

He went down below, to the supper-room, which was all deserted now; he drew in a chair to a small writing-table and took a sheet of note-paper. On it he scrawled, with rather a feverish hand:

"As I understand it, I owe you L800 on this evening, with L300 from yesterday—L1100 in all. I will try to let you have it to-morrow. L.M."—and that he put in an envelope, which he addressed to "Percival Miles, Esq.," and sent up-stairs by one of the servants. Then he went and got his coat and hat, and left. It was raining hard, and there was a blustering wind, but he called no hansom; the wet and cold seemed grateful to him, for he was hot and excited. And then, somewhat blindly, and bare-throated, he passed through the streaming thoroughfares—caring little how long it took him to reach Piccadilly.



CHAPTER XXIII.

A MEMORABLE DAY.

"...But do you know, dear Maurice, that you propose marrying a beggar; and, more than that, a most unabashed beggar, as you will be saying to yourself presently? The fact is, immediately after you left this afternoon, the post brought me a letter from Sister Alexandra, who tells me that two of her small children, suffering from hip-disease, must be sent home, for the doctors say they are getting no better, and the beds in the ward are wanted. They are not fit to be sent home, she writes; then all the country holiday money collected last summer has been spent, and what is she to do? Well, I have told her to send them on to me, and I shall take my chance of finding the L5 that will be necessary. The fact is, I happen to know one of the poor little things—Grace Wilson her name is, the dearest little mite. But the truth is, dear Maurice, I haven't a penny? for I have overdrawn the small allowance that comes to me quarterly, and spent it all. Now don't be vexed that I ask you, so soon, for a little help; a sovereign will do, if Linn will give another; and Linn has always been very good to me in this way, though for some time back I have been ashamed to take anything from him. The doctor grumbles, but gives me five shillings whenever I ask him; Auntie will give me the same; and the rest I can get from our friends and acquaintances about here. Don't be impatient with me, dear Maurice; and some day I will take you down to Whitechapel and show you the very prettiest sight in the whole world—and that is Sister Alexandra with her fifty children...."

Maurice Mangan read this passage as he was driving in a hansom along Pall Mall, on his way to call on Lionel. The previous portion of the letter, which more intimately concerned herself and himself, he had read several times over before coming out, studying every phrase of it as if it were an individual treasure, and trying to listen for the sound of her voice in every sentence. And as for this more practical matter, why, although he was rather a poor man, he thought he was not going to allow Frances to wander about in search of grudging shillings and half-crowns so long as he himself could come to her aid; so at the foot of St. James Street he stopped the hansom, went into the telegraph-office, and sent off the following message: "Five pounds will reach you to-morrow morning. You cannot refuse my first gift in our new relationship.—Maurice." And thereafter he went on to Piccadilly—feeling richer, indeed, rather than poorer.

When he rang the bell at Lionel's lodgings, it was with no very clear idea of the message or counsel he was bringing with him; but the news he now received put all these things out of his head. The house-porter appeared, looking somewhat concerned.

"Yes, sir, Mr. Moore is up-stairs; but I'm afraid he's very unwell."

"What is the matter?" Maurice asked, instantly.

"He must have got wet coming home last night, sir; and he has caught a bad cold. I've just been for Dr. Whitsen, and he will be here at twelve."

"But Dr. Whitsen is a throat doctor."

"Yes, sir; but it is always his throat Mr. Moore is most anxious about; and when he found himself husky this morning, he would take nothing but a raw egg beaten up and a little port-wine negus; and now he won't speak—he will only write on a piece of paper. He is saving himself for the theatre to-night, sir, I think that is it; but would you like to go up and see him?"

"Oh, yes, I will go up and see him," Mangan said; and without more ado he ascended the stairs and made his way into Lionel's bedroom.

He found his friend under a perfect mountain of clothes that had been heaped upon him; and certainly he was not shivering now—on the contrary, his face was flushed and hot, and his eyes singularly bright and restless. As soon as Lionel saw who this new-comer was, he made a sign that a block of paper and a pencil lying on the table should be brought to him; and, turning slightly, he put the paper on the pillow and wrote:

"I'm nursing my voice—hope to be all right by night—are you busy to-day, Maurice?"

"No; there is no House on Saturday," Maurice made answer.

"I wish you would stay by me," Lionel wrote, with rather a shaky hand. "I'm in dreadful trouble. I undertook to pay Percival Miles L1100 and Lord Rockminster L300 to-day without fail; and I haven't a farthing, and don't know where to send or what to do."

"Oh, never mind about money!" Maurice said, almost impatiently, for there was something about the young man's appearance he did not at all like. "Why should you worry about that? The important business is for you to get well."

"I tell you I must pay Rockminster to-day," the trembling pencil scrawled. "He was the only one of them who stood my friend. I tell you I must pay him—if I have to get up and go out and seek for the money myself."

"Nonsense!" Mangan exclaimed. "What do people care about a day or two, when they hear you are ill? However, you needn't worry, Linn. As for that other sum you mention, well, that is beyond me—I couldn't lay my hands on it at once; but as for the three hundred pounds, I will lend you that—so set your mind at rest on that point."

"And you'll give it into Lord Rockminster's own hands—this day?"

"Surely it will be quite the same if I send the check by a commissionaire; he must get it sooner or later."

The earnest, restless eyes looked strangely supplicating.

"Into his own hands, Maurice!"

"Very well, very well," Mangan had just time to say, for here was the doctor.

Dr. Whitsen examined his patient with the customary professional calm and reticence; asked a few questions, which Lionel answered with such husky voice as was left him; and then he said,

"Yes, you have caught a severe chill, and your system is feverish generally; the throat is distinctly congested—"

"But to-night, doctor—the theatre—to-night!" Lionel broke in, excitedly. "Surely by eight o'clock—"

"Oh, quite impossible; not to be thought of," the doctor responded, with decision.

"Why can't you do something to tide me over, for the one night?" the young man said, with appealing and almost pathetic eyes. "I've never disappointed the public once before, never once; and if I could only get over to-night, there's the long rest to-morrow and Monday."

"Come, come," said the doctor, soothingly, "you must not excite yourself about a mere trifle. You know it is no uncommon thing, and the public don't resent it; they would be most unreasonable if they did. Singers are but mortal like themselves. No, no, you must put that out of your mind altogether."

Lionel turned to Maurice.

"Maurice," he said, in that husky voice, and yet with a curious, subdued eagerness, "telegraph to Lehmann at once—at once. Doyle is all right; he has sung the part often enough. And will you send a note to Doyle; he can go into my dressing-room and take any of my things he wants; Lingard has the keys. And a telegram to mother, in case she should see something in the newspapers; tell her there is nothing the matter—only a trifling cold—"

"Really, Mr. Moore," said the doctor, interposing, "you must have a little care; you must calm yourself. I am sure your friend will attend to all these matters for you, but in the meantime you must exercise the greatest self-control, or you may do your throat some serious injury. Why should you be disturbed by so common an incident in professional life? Your substitute will do well enough, and the public will greet you with all the greater favor on your return."

"It never happened before," the young man said, in lower tones. "I never had to give in before."

"Now tell me," Dr. Whitsen continued. "Dr. Ballardyce is your usual medical attendant, is he not?"

"I know him very well; he is an old friend of mine, but I've never had occasion to trouble him much," was the answer, given with some greater care and reserve.

"I will call on him as I go by, and if possible we will come down together in the afternoon," the doctor said; and then Maurice fetched him writing materials from the other room, and he sat down at the little table. Before he went, he gave some general directions; then the two friends were left alone.

Lionel took up the pencil again, and turned to the block of paper.

"The L300, Maurice," his trembling fingers scrawled, showing how his mind was still torturing itself with those obligations.

"Oh, that's all right," Maurice answered, lightly. "You give me Lord Rockminster's address, and I'll take the check to him myself as soon as the doctors have been here in the afternoon. Don't you worry about that, Linn, or about anything; for you know you mustn't increase that feverishness, or we shall have you a right-down, bona-fide patient on our hands; and then when will you get back to the theatre again? I am going out now to telegraph to Lehmann. But I don't think I need alarm the Winstead people; you see, they don't read the Sunday papers; and, indeed, if I send a note now to Francie, she will get it the first thing in the morning. Linn," he continued, after a moment's hesitation, "are you too much upset by your own affairs to listen to a bit of news? I came with the intention of telling you, but perhaps I'd better wait until you get over these present troubles."

Lionel looked at him, with those bright, restless eyes, for a second or two, as if to gather something from his expression; and then he wrote:

"Is it about Francie?"

Maurice nodded; it was enough. Lionel stretched out his hot hand and took that of his companion.

"I am glad," he said, in a low voice. And then, after a moment or two's thinking, he turned to his writing again: "Well, it is hard, Maurice. I have been looking forward to this for many a day, and have been wondering how I should congratulate you both. And I get the news now—when I'm ruined. I haven't enough money even to buy a wedding-present for Francie!"

"Do you think she will mind that?" Mangan said, cheerfully. "But I'm going to send her your good wishes, Linn—now, when I write. And look here, if she should come up to see you, or your father and mother—for it is quite possible the doctors may insist on your giving your voice a rest for a considerable while—well, if they should come up from Winstead, mind you say nothing about your monetary troubles. They needn't be mentioned to anybody, nor need they worry you; I dare say I shall be able to get something more done; it will be all right. Only, if the Winstead people should come up, don't you say anything to them about these monetary affairs, or connect me with them; for it might put me into an awkward position—you understand?"

And the last words Lionel wrote on the block of paper before Mangan went out to execute his various commissions were these:

"You are a good friend, Maurice."

When the doctors arrived in the afternoon, Mangan had come back. They found Lionel complaining of acute headache and a burning thirst; his skin hot and dry; pulse full and quick; also, he seemed drowsy and heavy, though his eyes retained their restless brightness. There could be no doubt, as they privately informed Maurice, he was in the first stages of a violent fever; and the best thing that could be done was to get in a professional nurse at once. Yes, Mr. Mangan might communicate with his friends; his father, being himself a doctor, would judge whether it were worth while coming up just then; but, of course, it would be inadvisable to have a lot of relations crowding the sick-room. Obviously, the immediate cause of the fever was the chill caught on the previous night, but there might have been predisposing causes; and everything calculated to excite the mind unduly was to be kept away from him. As for the throat, there were no dangerous symptoms as yet; the simple congestion would probably disappear, when the fever abated, with a return to health; but the people at the theatre might as well know that it would be a long time before Mr. Moore could return to his duties. Dr. Ballardyce would see at once about having a professional nurse sent; meanwhile, quiet, rest, and the absence of mental disturbance were the great things. And so the two augurs departed.

The moment that Mangan returned to Lionel's room, the latter glanced at him quickly and furtively.

"Are they gone, Maurice?" he whispered.

"Yes."

"And the check—for Lord Rockminster?"

"There it is, already drawn out," was the answer, as the slip of lilac paper was unfolded; "but I can't take it to him until the nurse comes—certainly not."

"She may be an hour, Maurice," Lionel said, restlessly. "I don't want anybody to wait on me. If you think it necessary, call up Mrs. Jenkins, and she can sit in the next room; the bell here is enough. Oh, my head!—my head!"—and he turned away, wearily.

Maurice saw well enough that he would never rest until this money was paid, so he called up the house-porter's wife and gave her some instructions, and forthwith set off for the address in Palace Gardens Terrace which Lionel had given him. When he arrived there, he was informed that his lordship was not at home. He pressed his inquiries; he said his business was of the utmost importance; and at last he elicited, after considerable waiting, that, though no one in the house could say whither Lord Rockminster had gone, it was understood that he was dining at the Universities Club that evening. With this information Mangan returned to Piccadilly. He found the nurse already arrived and installed. He pacified Lionel with the news; for, if he went along to the Universities Club at half-past eight, he must surely be able to place the money in Lord Rockminster's own hands.

"Maurice, you're awfully kind," his friend murmured. "And you've had nothing to eat all day. Tell Mrs. Jenkins to get you something—"

"Oh, that's all right," Mangan said, carelessly. "I'll just scribble a line to Francie, to tell her what the doctors have said; and I'll take that down to the post myself. Then I'll get something to eat and come back here; and at half-past eight I'm going along to Pall Mall, where I'm certain to catch Lord Rockminster—so that it's all quite right and straight, you see."

But, as it chanced, when he went along to the Universities that evening, he found he had missed his man—by only a minute or two. He was surprised and troubled; he knew how Lionel would fret. The hall-porter did not know whither Lord Rockminster had gone; that is to say, he almost certainly did know, but it was not his business to tell. Luckily, at this same moment, there was a young fellow leaving the club, and, as he was lighting his cigar, he heard Maurice's inquiries—and perhaps was rather struck by his appearance, which was certainly not that of a sheriff's officer.

"I think I can tell you where they have gone, sir," said the young man, good-naturedly. "Some of them had an early dinner to-night, to go up to the billiard handicap at the Palm-Tree; I fancy Lord Rockminster was of the party, and that you will find him there."

This information proved correct. Mangan went up to the Palm-Tree Club in St. James Street and sent in his card. Almost directly he was invited to step up-stairs to the billiard-room. Just as he entered the door, he saw Lord Rockminster leave the raised bench where he had been seated by the side of a very artificial-looking palm-tree stem, and the next moment the two men were face to face.

"How do you do, Mr. Mangan?" Lord Rockminster said, in his usual impassive way. "You remember I had the pleasure of meeting you at my sister's. What is the matter with your friend Mr. Moore?—I see by the evening paper he is not to appear to-night."

"He is far from well—a chill followed by a fever," Mangan answered. "I have just come from him, with a message for you."

"Oh, really," said the young nobleman. "Ah, I dare say I know; but I assure you it is quite unnecessary. Tell him not to mind. When a fellow's ill, why should he be troubled?"

Maurice had taken out his pocket-book, and was searching for the lilac slip.

"But here is the check, Lord Rockminster; and nothing would do him but that I must give it into your own hands."

"Oh, really."

Lord Rockminster took the check, and happened to glance at it.

"Ah, I see this is drawn out by yourself, Mr. Mangan," he said. "I presume—eh—that you have lent Mr. Moore the money?"

Maurice hesitated, but there was no prevarication handy.

"If you ask the question, it is so. However, I suppose it is all the same."

"All the same?—yes," Lord Rockminster said, slowly; "with only this difference, that before he owed me the money, and now he owes it to you. I don't see any necessity for that arrangement. I haven't asked him for it; I sha'n't ask him for it until he is quite ready and able to pay; why, therefore, should he borrow from you? Take back your check, Mr. Mangan; I understand what you were willing to do for your friend; I assure you it is quite uncalled for."

But Maurice refused. He explained all the circumstances of the case—Lionel's feverish condition, his fretting about the debt, the necessity for keeping his mind pacified, and so on; and at last Lord Rockminster said,

"Very well; you can tell him you have given me the check. At the same time you can't compel me to pay it into my bankers'; and I don't see why I should take three hundred pounds of your money when you don't owe me any. When Mr. Moore gets perfectly well again, you can tell him he still owes me three hundred pounds—and he can take his own time about paying it." And with that Maurice took his leave, Lord Rockminster going down the stair with him and out to the hall-door, where he bade him good-bye.

When he returned to Piccadilly, he said to the nurse,

"I suppose you can sleep at a moment's notice?"

"Pretty well, sir," she answered, with a demure professional smile.

"Then you'd better find out this room that Mrs. Jenkins has got for you, and lie down for a few hours. I sha'n't be leaving until after midnight—perhaps one or two o'clock. Then, when I go, you can have this sofa here; and I shall be back early in the morning, to give you another rest."

"Thank you, sir."

He went into the adjoining room.

"Headache any better, Linn, my boy?" he asked, stooping over the bed.

There was no answer for a second or two; then the eyes were opened, showing a drowsy, pained expression.

"Did you see him, Maurice?"

"Oh, yes, that's all settled," Mangan said, cheerfully. "I can't say there is much of the grasping creditor about your friend. I could hardly persuade him to take the check at all, after I had hunted him from place to place. What made you so desperately punctilious, Linn? You don't imagine he would have talked about it to any women-folk, even supposing you had not paid up? Is that it? No, no, you can't imagine he would do anything of that kind; I should call him a thoroughly good fellow, if one might be so familiar with his betters. However, I don't want you to say anything; you mustn't speak; I'm going to talk to you." He drew in a chair to the bedside and sat down. "Now I wish you to understand. You've got a mortal bad cold, which may develop into a fever; and you have a slightly congested throat; altogether you must consider yourself an invalid, old man; and it may be some time before you can get back to the theatre. Now the first thing for you is peace of mind; you're not to worry about anything; you've got to dismiss every possible care and vexation."

"It's all you know, Maurice," the sick man said, with a wearied sigh.

"Oh, I know more than you think. We'll just take one thing at a time. About this eleven hundred pounds for example. You are aware I am not, strictly speaking, a Croesus, yet I have made my little economies, and they are tied up in one or two fairly safe things. Well, now—Oh, be quiet, Linn, and let me have it out! Something happened to me yesterday that more than ever convinced me of the worthlessness of riches. You know the coppice that goes up from Winstead station. At the farther end there is a gate. At that gate yesterday I heard a dozen words—twenty or thirty, perhaps—that were of more value to me than Pactolus in full flood or all the money heaped up in Aladdin's cave. And now I am so puffed up with joy and pride that I am going still further to despise my wealth—my hoards and vast accumulations; and on Monday, if I can, I am going to get you that eleven hundred pounds, just as sure as ever was—"

"Maurice—you have to think of Francie," Lionel said, in his husky, low voice. And here Mangan paused for a second or two.

"Well," said he, more thoughtfully, "what happened yesterday certainly involves responsibilities; but these haven't been assumed yet; and the nearest duty is the one to be considered. I don't know whether I shall tell Francie; I may, or I may not; but I am certain that if I do she will approve—certain as that I am alive."

"I won't rob Francie," said Lionel, with a little moan of weariness or pain.

"You can't rob her of what she hasn't got," Mangan said, promptly. "I know this, that if Francie knew you were in these straits and worrying about it, she would instantly come up and offer you her own little money—which is not a very large fortune, as I understand; and I also know that you would refuse it."

"A dose of prussic acid first," Lionel murmured, to himself.

"Prussic acid!—Bosh!" said Maurice. "What is the use of talking rubbish! Well, I'm not going to let you talk at all. I'm going to read you the news out of the evening papers until you go to sleep."

When Dr. Ballardyce called next morning, he found that the fever had gained apace; all the symptoms were aggravated—the temperature, in especial, had seriously increased. The sick man lay drowsily indifferent, now and again moaning slightly; but sometimes he would waken up, and then there was a curiously anxious and restless look in his eyes. The nurse said she was afraid he had not been asleep at all, though occasionally he had appeared to be asleep. When the doctor left again, she was sent to bed, and Maurice Mangan took her place in the sitting-room.

That was an extraordinary Sunday, long to be remembered. Anything more hopelessly dismal than the outlook from those Piccadilly windows it was impossible to imagine. The gale of Friday had blown itself out in rain; and that had been followed by stagnant weather and a continuous drizzle; so that the trees in the Green Park opposite looked like black phantoms in the vague gray mist; while everything seemed wet and clammy and cold. Maurice paced up and down the room, his feet shod in noiseless slippers; or he gazed out on that melancholy spectacle until he thought of suicide; or again he would go into the adjoining apartment, to see how his friend was getting on or whether he wanted anything. But as the day wore on, matters became a little brisker; for there were numerous callers, and some of them waited to have a special message sent down to them; while others, knowing Mangan, and learning that he was in charge of the invalid, came up to have a word with himself. Baskets of flowers began to arrive, too; and these, of course, must have come from private conservatories. No one was allowed to enter the sick-room; but Maurice carried thither the news of all this kindly remembrance and sympathy, as something that might be grateful to his patient.

"You've got a tremendous number of friends, Linn, and no mistake," he said. "Many a great statesman or poet might envy you."

"I suppose it is in the papers?" Lionel asked, without raising his head.

"In one or two of the late editions last evening, and in most of to-day's papers; but to-morrow it will be all over the country. I have had several London correspondents here this afternoon."

"All over the country?" Lionel repeated, absently, and then he lay still for a second or two. "No use—no use!" he moaned, in so low a voice that Mangan could hardly hear. And then again he looked up wearily.

"Come here, Maurice. I want to—to ask you something. If—if I were to die—do you think—they would put it in any of the papers abroad?"

"Nonsense—what are you talking about?" Maurice exclaimed, in a simulated anger. "Talking of dying—because you've got a feverish cold; that's not like you, Linn! You're not going to frighten your people when they come up from Winstead, by talking like that?"

"Don't let them come up," was all he said, and shut his eyes again.

Among the callers that afternoon who, learning that Mr. Mangan was up-stairs, came personally to make inquiries, was Miss Burgoyne, who was accompanied by her brother.

"What is the matter?" she said, briefly, to Maurice. "One never can trust what is in the newspapers."

He told her.

"Serious?"

"That depends," he said, in a low voice, as they stood together at the window. "I hope not. But I suppose the fever will have to run its course."

"It will be some time before he can be back at the theatre?"

"It will be a very long time. There is some slight congestion of the throat as well. When he pulls through with the fever, he will most likely be sent abroad, for rest to his throat."

She considered for a second or two; then she said, with a matter-of-fact air:

"They needn't make a fuss about that. His throat will be all right. It is only repeated congestions that seriously affect the membrane; and he has been exceptionally lucky—or exceptionally strong, perhaps. Who is his doctor?"

"Dr. Ballardyce."

"Don't know him."

"Then there's Dr. Whitsen."

"Oh, that's all right—he'll do. It's the voice that's the important thing; the general system must take its chance. Well, tell him I'm very sorry. I suppose there's nothing one can send him?"

"Thank you, I don't think there is anything. Look at the flowers and grapes and things there—already—and this is Sunday."

She glanced at those gifts with open disdain.

"Very easy for rich folks to show their sympathy by sending an order to their head-gardener!"

"I will tell him that you called, and left kind messages for him."

"Yes, tell him that. And tell him Doyle does very well—fairly well—though he's as nervous as a pantomime-girl hoisted in a transformation-scene. If I were you," continued this extremely practical young lady, "I wouldn't tell any of the newspaper men that it may be a considerable time before Mr. Moore is back. Nobody likes to lose touch of the public more than he can help, you know; and if they're always expecting you back, that's something. Good-bye!"

Maurice accompanied her down-stairs and to the door; then he returned to the sitting-room and to his private meditations. For this brief interview had been of the keenest interest to him; he had studied every expression of her face, listened to every intonation of her voice; almost forced, in spite of himself, to admire her magnificent nerve. But now, of course, in recalling all these things, he was thinking of Francie; as a man invariably does when he places the one woman of the world on a pedestal, that all the rest of her sex may be compared with her; and even his extorted admiration of the prima-donna's coolness and self-possession and business-like tact did not prevent his rejoicing at the thought that Francie and Miss Burgoyne were poles asunder.

That evening Maurice was startled. He had gone very quietly into the sick-room, just to see how his patient was getting on, and found him breathing heavily and also restlessly muttering to himself. Perhaps even the slight noise of his entrance had attracted the notice of one abnormally sensitive; at all events, Lionel opened his eyes, which were no longer drowsy, but eager and excited, and said,

"Maurice, have you not sent for Nina yet?"

"For Nina?"

"Oh, yes, yes," Lionel went on, as quickly as his laboring breath would allow. "How can I go abroad without saying good-bye to Nina? Tell Jenkins to go down to Sloane Street at once—at once, Maurice—before she leaves for the theatre. I have been waiting for her all day—I heard the people coming up—one after another—but not Nina. And I cannot go without saying good-bye. I want to tell her something. She must make friends with Miss Burgoyne, now she has got into the theatre. Lehmann will give her a better part by and by—oh, yes, I'll see to that for Nina—and I must write to Pandiani, to tell him of her success—"

"Oh, but that's all settled, Linn," his friend broke in, perceiving the situation at once. "Now you just keep quiet, and it will be all perfectly arranged—perfectly. Of course I know you are glad your old friend and companion has got a place in the theatre."

"Yes, she was my friend—she was my friend once," he said, and he looked appealingly at Maurice? "but—but I sometimes think—sometimes it is my head—that there is something wrong. Can you tell me, Maurice? There is something—I don't know what—but it troubles me—I cannot tell what it is. When she was here to-day, she would not speak to me. She came and looked. She stood by the door there. She had on the black dress and the crimson bonnet—but she had forgotten her music. I thought, perhaps, she was going down to the theatre—but why wouldn't she speak to me, Maurice? She did not look angry—she looked like—like—oh, just like Nina—and I could not ask her why she would not say anything—my throat was so bad—"

"Yes, I know that, Linn," Maurice said, gently, "and that is why you mustn't talk any more now. You must lie still and rest, so that you may take your place in the theatre again—"

"But haven't they told you I am never going to the theatre again?" he said, eagerly. "Oh, no; as soon as I can I am going away abroad—I am going away all over the world—to find some one. You said she was my friend and my good comrade—do you think I could let her be away in some distant place, and all alone? I could not rest in my grave! It may be Malta, or Cairo, or Australia, or San Francisco; but that is what I am set on. I have thought of it so long that—that I think my head has got tired, and my heart a little bit broken, as they say, only I never believed in that. Never mind, Maurice, I am going away to find Nina—ah, that will be a surprise some day—a surprise just as when she first came here—into the room—in the black dress and the crimson bonnet—la cianciosella, she was going away again!—she was always so proud and easily offended—always the cianciosella!"

He turned a little, and moaned, and lay still; and Maurice, fearing that his presence would only add to this delirious excitement, was about to slip from the room, when his sick friend called him back.

"Maurice, don't forget this now! When she comes again, you must stand by her at the door there, and tell her not to be frightened: I am not so very ill. Tell Nina not to be frightened. She used not to be frightened. Ask her to remember the afternoons when I had the broken ankle—she and Sabetta Debernardi used to come nearly every day—and Sabetta brought her zither—and Nina and I played dominoes. Maurice, you never heard Nina sing to herself—just to herself, not thinking—and sometimes Sabetta would play a barcarola—oh, there was one that Nina used to sing sometimes—'Da la parte de Castelo—ziraremo mio tesoro—mio tesoro!—la passara el Bucintoro—per condur el Dose in mar'—I heard it last night again—but—but all stringed instruments—and the sound of wind and waves—it was so strange and terrible—when I was listening for Nina's voice. I think it was at Capri—along the shores—but it was night-time—and I could not hear Nina because of the wind and the waves. Oh, it was terrible, Maurice! The sea was roaring all round the shores—and it was so black—only I thought if the water were about to come up and drown me, it might—it might take me away somewhere—I don't know where—perhaps to the place where Nina's ship went down in the dark. Why did she go away, Maurice?—why did she go away from us all?—the poor cianciosella!"

These rambling, wearied, broken utterances were suddenly arrested: there was a tapping at the outer door—and Lionel turned frightened, anxious eyes on his friend.

"I'll go and see who it is," Mangan said, quietly. "Meanwhile you must lie perfectly quiet and still, Linn, and be sure that everything will come right."

In the next room, at the open door, he found the reporter of a daily newspaper which was in the habit of devoting a column every Monday morning to music and musicians. He was bidden to enter. He said he wished to have the last authentic news of the condition of the popular young baritone, for of course there would be some talk, especially in "the profession," about Mr. Moore's non-appearance on the preceding night.

"Well," said Maurice, in an undertone, "don't publish anything alarming, you know, for he has friends and relatives who are naturally anxious. The fever has increased somewhat; that is the usual thing; a nervous fever must run its course. And to-night he has been slightly delirious—"

"Oh, delirious?" said the reporter, with a quick look.

"Slightly—slightly—just wandering a little in his feverishness. I wouldn't make much of it. The public don't care for medical details. When the crisis of the fever comes, there will be something more definite to mention."

"If all goes well, when do you expect he will be able to return to the New Theatre?"

"That," said Maurice, remembering Miss Burgoyne's hint, "it is quite impossible to say."

"Thanks," said the reporter. "Good-night." And therewith Mangan returned to the sick-room.

He found that Lionel had forgotten all about having been startled into silence by the tapping at the outer door. His heated brain was busy with other bewildering possibilities now.

"Maurice—Maurice!" he said, eagerly. "It is near the time—quick, quick!—get me the box—behind the music—on the piano—"

"Look here, Linn," said his friend, with some affectation of asperity, "you must really calm yourself and be silent, or I shall have to go and sit in the other room. You are straining your throat every time you speak, and exciting yourself as well."

"Ah, and it is my last chance!" Lionel said, piteously, and with burning eyes. "If you only knew, Maurice, you would not refuse!"

"Well, tell me quietly what you want," Mangan said.

"The box—on the top of the piano," Lionel made answer, in a low voice, but his eyes were tremblingly anxious. "Quick, Maurice!"

Mangan went and without any difficulty found the box that held Nina's trinkets, and returned with it.

"Open it!" Lionel said, clearly striving to conceal his excitement. "Yes, yes—put those other things aside—yes, that is it—the two cups—take them separate; it isn't twelve yet, is it? No, no; there will be time; now put them on the table by the window there—yes, that is it—now pour some wine into them—never mind what, Maurice, only be quick!"

Well, he could not refuse this appeal; he thought that most likely the yielding to these incoherent wishes would prove the best means of pacifying the fevered mind; so he went into the next room and brought back some wine, and half filled the two tiny goblets.

"Now, wait, Maurice," Lionel said, slowly, and in a still lower voice, though his eyes were afire. "Wait and watch—closely, closely—don't breathe or speak. It is near twelve. Watch! Do not take your eyes off them; and at twelve o'clock, when you see one of the cups move, then you must seize it—seize it, and seize Nina's hand!—and hold her fast! Oh, I can tell you she will not leave us any more—not when I have spoken to her and told her how cruel it was of her to go away. I do not know where she is now; but at twelve, all of a sudden, there will be a kind of trembling of the air—that is Nina—for she has been here before; how long to twelve now, Maurice?" he asked, eagerly.

"Oh, it is a long time till twelve yet," his friend said. "I think, if I were you, I would try to sleep for an hour or two; and I'll go into the other room so as not to disturb you."

"No, no, Maurice," Lionel said, with panting vehemence. "You must not stir! It is quite near, I tell you—it is close on twelve—watch the cups, Maurice, and be ready to spring up and seize her hand and hold her fast. Quite near twelve—surely I hear something—it is something outside the window—like stringed instruments—and waves, dark waves—no, no! Maurice, Maurice! it is in the next room!—it is some one sobbing!—it is Nina!—Nina!"

He uttered a loud shriek and struggled wildly to raise himself; but Maurice, with gentle pressure and persuasive words, got him to lie still.

"It is past twelve now, Linn; and you see there has been nothing. We must wait; and some day we will find out all about Nina for you. Of course you would like to know about your old companion. Oh, we'll find her, rest assured!"

Lionel had turned away, and was lying moaning and muttering to himself. The only phrase his companion could make out was something about "a wide, wide sea—and all dark."

But Maurice, finding him now comparatively quiet, stealthily put back the various trinkets into the box and carried it into the other room. And then, hearing no further sound, he remained there—remained until the nurse came down to take his place.

He told her what had occurred; but she was familiar with these things, and doubtless knew much better than himself how to deal with such emergencies. At the street-door he paused to light his pipe—his first smoke that day, and surely well-earned. Then he went away through the dark thoroughfares down to Westminster, not without much pity and sadness in his mind, also perhaps with some curious speculations—as to the lot of poor, luckless mortals, their errors and redeeming virtues, and the vagrant and cruel buffetings of fate.



CHAPTER XXIV.

FRIENDS IN NEED.

On the Monday morning matters were so serious that Mangan telegraphed down to Winstead; but the old doctor and his wife and Francie were already on their way to town. When they arrived in Piccadilly, and went into the sick-room, Lionel did not know them; most likely he merely confused them with the crowding phantoms of his brain. He was now in a high state of fever, but the delirium was not violent; he lay murmuring and moaning, and it was only chance phrases they could catch—about some one being lost—and a wide and dark sea—and so forth. Sometimes he fancied that Nina was standing at the door, and he would appeal piteously to her, and then sink back with a sigh, as if convinced once more that it was only a vision. The Winstead people took apartments for themselves at a hotel in Half-Moon Street; but of course they spent nearly all their time in this sitting-room, where they could do little but listen to the reports of the doctors, and wait and hope.

In the afternoon Mangan said,

"Francie, you're not used to sitting in-doors all day; won't you come out for a little stroll in the Park over there?"

"And I'm sure you want a breath of fresh air as much as any one, Mr. Mangan," the old lady said. "What would my boy have done without you all this time?"

Francie at once and obediently put on her things, and she and Maurice went down-stairs and crossed the street and entered the Park, where they could walk up and down the unfrequented ways and talk as they pleased.

"I suppose you will be going down to the House of Commons almost directly?" she asked.

"Oh, no," he answered. "I've begged off. I could not think of getting to work while Linn is so ill as that."

"Do you know what I have been thinking all day, Maurice?" she said, gently. "When I saw you with the doctors, and when I heard of all you have done since Saturday morning—well, I could not help thinking that there must be something fine about Lionel to have secured him such a friend."

He looked at her with some surprise.

"But you have been his friend—all these years!" he said.

"Ah, that's different; we were brought up together. Tell me—the Nina he is always talking about—I suppose that is the Italian girl who was at the theatre, and whom he knew in Naples—he used to write home about her—"



"Yes," he said; "and it is only now I am beginning to understand something of the situation. I do believe mental distress has had as much to do with bringing on this fever as anything else; the chill may have been only an accident that developed it. I told you when I saw him, before he was struck down, how he seemed to be all at sixes and sevens with himself—everything wrong—worried, harassed, and sick of life, though he would hardly explain anything; he was always too proud to ask for pity. Well, now, I am piecing together a story, out of these incoherent appeals and recollections that come into his delirium; and if I am right, it is a sad enough one, for it seems to me so hopeless. I believe he was all the time in love with that Nina—Miss Ross—and did not know it; for their association, their companionship, was so constant, so like an intimate friendship. Then there seems to have been some misunderstanding, and she went away unexpectedly—there is a box of jewels and trinkets on the top of the piano, and I am certain these were what she sent back to him when she left. I don't think he has the slightest idea where she is; and that is troubling him more than anything else—"

"But, Maurice," said Francie, instantly, "could we not find out where she is?—surely she would come and see him and pacify his mind; it would just make all the difference! Surely we could find out where she is!"

Mangan hesitated; it was not the first time this idea had occurred to himself.

"I am afraid," said he, "that, even if we knew where she was, it would be rather awkward to approach her. There may have been something about her going away that prevented Linn from trying to find her out. For one thing, his engagement to Miss Burgoyne. I believe he blundered into that in a sort of reckless despair; but there it is; and there it is likely to be, unfortunately—"

"But surely, surely, Maurice," said Francie, "Miss Ross would not make that any obstacle if she knew that her coming would give peace and rest to one who is dangerously ill. Surely she would not think of such a thing at such a time—"

"And then again," he said, "the chances are all against our finding her, if she wishes to remain concealed, or even absent. Linn talks of Malta, of Australia, of San Francisco, and so on; but I don't believe he has the slightest idea where she is. No, I'm afraid it's no use thinking of it; the crisis of the fever will be here before any such thing could be tried."

Then he said, presently,

"I had a visit from Miss Burgoyne yesterday afternoon."

"I suppose she was terribly distressed," Francie said, naturally enough.

"Oh, no. On the contrary, she was remarkably cool and composed. I almost admired her self-possession. She does not think Lionel's throat will suffer; and no doubt she trusts to his sound constitution to pull him through the fever; so perhaps there is not much reason that she should betray any anxiety. Oh, yes, she was very brave about it—and—and business-like. At the same time I confess to a sort of prejudice in favor of feminine women. I think a little touch of femininity might improve Miss Burgoyne, for example. However, she knows she is in possession; and if Linn pulls through all right, there she is, waiting for him."

It seemed to Francie that her companion had managed to form a pretty strong dislike towards that young lady, considering how little he could possibly know of her.

"I suppose one ought not to contemplate such things," he continued, "but if Linn were to come out of the fever with the loss of his voice, I suspect he would have little trouble in freeing himself from that engagement with Miss Burgoyne."

"But surely a woman could not be so base as to keep a man to an unwilling engagement!" Francie protested, as she had protested before.

"I don't know about that," her companion said. "As I told you, Miss Burgoyne is a business-like person. Linn, with his handsome figure and his fine voice, with his popularity and social position, is a very desirable match for her; but Linn become a nobody—his voice gone—his social success along with it—would be something entirely different. At the same time, Dr. Whitsen agrees with her in thinking there won't be any permanent injury; it is the fever that is the serious thing."

They went back to the house; the reports were no better. And all that night Lionel's fevered imaginings did not cease. He was haunted now by visions of cruelties and sufferings being inflicted on some one he knew in a far-distant land; he pleaded with the torturers; he called for help; sometimes he said she was dead and released, and there was no more need for him to go away in a ship to seek for her. The wearied brain could get no rest at all. Daylight came, and still he lay there, moaning and murmuring to himself. But help was at hand.

Between ten and eleven, Dr. Ballardyce, who had paid his usual morning visit, was going away, and Maurice, as his custom was, went down-stairs with him to hear the last word. He said good-bye to the doctor and opened the door for him; and just as he did so he found before him a young woman who was about to ring the bell. She glanced up with frightened eyes; he was no less startled; and then, with a hurried "I beg your pardon," she turned to go away. But Maurice was by her side in a moment—bareheaded as he was.

"Miss Ross!" he exclaimed—for surely, surely, he could not have mistaken the pale olive face and the beautiful, soft, dark, lustrous eyes; nay, he made bold to put his hand on her arm, so determined was he to detain her.

"I—I only wished to hear how he was—but—but not that he should know," Nina said (she was all trembling, and her lips were pale).

"Oh, yes," Mangan said. "But you must not go away—I have something to tell you—come in-doors! You know he is seriously ill—you cannot refuse!"

There was but an intervening step or two; she timidly followed and entered the little hall; and he closed the door after them.

"Is he so very ill?" she said, in a low voice. "I saw it in the newspapers—I could not wait—but he is not to know that I came—"

"But—but I have something to say to you," he answered her, somewhat breathlessly, for he was uncertain what to do; he only knew that she must not go. "Yes, he is very ill—and distressed—his brain is excited—and we want to calm him. Surely you will come and speak to him—"

She shrank back involuntarily, and there was a pathetic fear in the large, timid eyes.

"Me? No—no!" she said. "Ah, no, I could not do that! Is he so very ill?"

Tears stood in the long, black lashes, and she turned her head away.

"But you don't understand," Maurice said, eagerly. "All the way through this illness, it is about you he has been grieving; you have never been out of his thoughts; and if you saw his distress, I know you would do anything in your power to quiet him a little. It is what his cousin said yesterday. 'If we could only find Miss Ross,' she said, 'that would be everything; that would bring him rest; he would be satisfied that she was well, and remembering him, and not gone away forever.' I never expected to see you; I thought it was useless trying to find you; but now—now—you cannot be so cruel as to refuse him this comfort! You would be sorry if you saw him. Perhaps he might not recognize you—probably not. But if you could persuade him that you really were in London—that you would come some other day soon to see him again—I know that would pacify him, just when peace of mind is all-important. Now, can you refuse?"

"No, no," Nina said, in a low voice; "you will do with me what you like. It is no matter—what it is to me. Do with me as you please." And then again she turned her large, dark eyes upon him, as if to make sure he was not deceiving her. "Did you say that—that he remembered me—that he had asked for me?"

"Remember you! If you only could have heard the piteous way he has talked of you—always and always—and of your going away. I have such a lot I could tell you! He had those loving-cups filled one night—there was some fancy in his head he could call you back—"

She was sobbing a little; but she bravely dried her tears, and said,

"Tell me what I am to do."

But that was precisely what he did not know himself—for a moment. He considered.

"Come up-stairs," he said. "His family are there. I will tell him a visitor has called to see him. He often thinks you are there, but that you won't speak to him. Well, you will just say a few words, to convince him, and as quietly as you can, and come out again. Perhaps he will take it all as a matter of course; and that will be well; and I will tell him you will come again, after he has had some sleep. Of course you must be very calm too; there must be no excitement."

"No, no," Nina murmured, in the same low voice, and she followed him up-stairs.

On entering the sitting-room she glanced apprehensively at those strangers; but Francie, divining in an instant who she was and why Maurice had brought her hither, immediately came to her and pressed her hand, in silence.

Maurice went into the sick-room.

"Linn," said he, cheerfully, "I've brought you a visitor; but she can't stay very long; she will come again some other time. You've always been asking about Miss Ross, and why she didn't come to see you; well, here she is!"

Lionel slowly opened his tired eyes and looked towards the door; but he seemed to take no interest in the girl who was standing there, pale, trembling, and quite forgetting all she had been enjoined to do. Lionel, with those restless, fatigued eyes, regarded her for but a second—then he turned away, shaking his head. He had seen that illusory phantom so often!

"Linn," said his friend, reproachfully, "when Miss Ross comes to see you, are you not going to say a word to her?"

It was Nina herself who interrupted him. She uttered a little cry of appeal and pity—"Leo!" She went quickly forward, and threw herself on her knees by the bedside, and seized his hand, and bathed it with her hot tears. "Leo, do you not know me! I am Nina! If you wish me to come back—see! see!—I am here! I kiss your hand—it is Nina!"

He looked at her strangely, and turned with bewildered eyes to Maurice.

"Maurice, is it twelve o'clock? Has she really come this time? Did you hear her speak just now? Is it Nina—at last! at last!"

With her head still bowed down, and her whole frame shaken with her sobbing, but still clasping his hand, she murmured to him some phrase—Maurice guessed it was in the familiar Neapolitan dialect; for Lionel presently said to her—slowly, because of his heavy breathing:

"Ah, you are still la cianciosella!—but you have come back—and not to go away. I have forgotten so many things. My head is not well. But wait a little while, Nina—wait a little while—"

"Oh, yes, Leo," she said, and she rose and dried her eyes, with her head turned aside somewhat. "I will wait until you have plenty of time to tell me. I shall come and see you whenever you want me."

She looked at Maurice humbly for directions; his eyes plainly said—yes, it was time she should withdraw. She went into the other room—rather blindly, as it seemed to her—and she sank into a chair, still trembling and exhausted; but Francie was by her side in a moment.

"Did he know you?" she asked in an undertone.

"Yes, I think," Nina answered. "But oh, he looks so strange—so different. He has suffered. It is terrible; but I am glad that I came—"

"It is so kind of you—for I see you are so tired!" said Francie, in her gentle way. "Perhaps you have been travelling?"

"Only last night—but I did not sleep any—"

"Shall I get you some tea?" was the next inquiry.

But here the old doctor, who had been stealthily moving about the room, interfered, and produced a biscuit-box and a decanter of port wine and a glass; while the old lady begged Miss Ross to take off her cloak and remain with them a little while. At this moment Mangan came out from the sick-room.

"Doctor," said he in a whisper, "you must go in presently; I think you'll see a difference. He is quite pleased and content—talking to himself a little, but not complaining any more. Twice he has said, 'Maurice, Nina has spoken at last.'"

There was a tinkle of a bell; Maurice answered it with the swiftness of a nurse in a hospital. He returned in a minute, looking a little puzzled.

"He wants to make quite sure you have been here," he said to Nina, in the same undertone; "and I told him you were in the next room, but that you were tired, and could not see him just now. No, I don't think it would do for you to go back at present—what do you say, doctor?—he seems so much more tranquil, and it would be a pity to run any risk. But if you could just let him know you were here—he might hear your talking to us—that would be no harm—"



"I know how to tell Leo that I am here," Nina said, simply; and she went to the piano and opened it. Then, with the most exquisite softness, she began to play some familiar Neapolitan airs—slowly and gently, so that they must have sounded in the sick-chamber like mere echoes of song coming from across wide waters. And would he not understand that it was Nina who was speaking to him; that she was only a few yards from him; and not the ghostly Nina who had so often come to the sick-room door and remained there strangely silent, but the wilful, gentle, capricious, warm-hearted cianciosella who had kissed his hand but a little while ago, and wept over it, amid her bitter sobs. These were love-songs for the most part that she was playing; but that was neither here nor there; the soft, rippling notes were more like the sound of a trickling waterfall in some still summer solitude. "Cannetella, oje Cannete!" "Chello che tu me dice, Nenna, non boglio fa." "Io te voglio bene assaje, e tu non pienz' a me!" He would know it was Nina who was playing for him—until slowly and more slowly, and gently and more gently, the velvet-soft notes gradually ceased, and at length there was silence.

Old Mrs. Moore went over to the girl and patted her affectionately on the shoulder and kissed her.

"Lionel has told us a great deal about you," the old lady said; "even when he was in Naples we seemed to know you quite well; and now I hope we shall be friends."

And Nina made answer, with downcast eyes:

"Whenever you wish it, madame, I shall be glad to come and play a little—if he cares to hear the Neapolitan airs that he used to know in former days."

Yes, there was no doubt that this opportune visit had made a great difference in Lionel's condition; for, though the fever did not abate—and could not be expected to abate until the crisis had been reached, there were no more of those agonized pleadings and murmurings that showed such deep distress of mind. Frequently, indeed, he seemed to know nothing of what had occurred; he would talk of Nina as being in Naples or as having gone down to the theatre; but all the same he was more tranquil. As for Nina, she said she would do just as they wished. She had arrived in London that morning, and had gone to Mrs. Grey's, in Sloane Street, and engaged a room. She could go down there now, and wait until she was sent for, if they thought it would please Lionel to know that one of his former companions had come to see him. She put it very prettily and modestly; it was only as an old ally and comrade of Lionel's that she was here; perhaps he might be glad to know of her presence. Or, if they thought that might disturb him, she would not come back at all; she would be content to hear, from time to time, how the fever was going on, if she might be permitted to call and ask the people below.

It was Maurice who answered her.

"If you don't mind, Miss Ross," said he, "I should like you to be here just as much as ever you found convenient. I keep telling Lionel you are in the next room; and that, at any moment he wants, you will play some of those Neapolitan airs for him; and he seems satisfied. It has been the worst part of his delirium that he fancied you were away in some distant place and were being cruelly ill-used, and he has excited himself dreadfully about it. Well, we don't want that to come back; and if at any moment I can say, 'But look!—here is Nina'—I beg your pardon!" said Mangan, blushing furiously, and looking as sheepish as a caught school-boy. "I mean if I could say to him, 'Look! here is Miss Ross, perfectly safe and well,' that would pacify him."

"And if you are fatigued after your journey," said Dr. Moore, who was a firm believer in the fine, old-fashioned fortifying theory, "we shall be having our midday meal by and by, in a room up-stairs, and I'm sure we'll make you heartily welcome."

"And I think, my dear," said the mother, rising from her chair and taking the girl kindly by the hand, "that if you and I and Francie were to go up there now we should be more out of the way; and there would be no chance of our talking being heard."

It was at this plain but substantial midday meal, served in an up-stairs room, that Nina incidentally told them something of her adventures and experiences during the past six months, though, of course, nothing was said about her reasons for leaving London. Maurice happened to inquire where it was that she had heard of Lionel's illness.

"In Glasgow," said Nina. "I saw about it in a newspaper yesterday; I came up by the train last night, because—because—" here some slight color appeared in the pale, clear complexion—"because if an old friend is very ill one wishes to be near." And perhaps it was to escape from this little embarrassment that she proceeded to say: "Oh, they are so kind, the Glasgow people; I have never seen such domesticity." She glanced at Maurice, as if to see whether the word was right; then she went on. "When I was engaged by the director of the Saturday Evening Concerts he told me that they had to change their singers frequently; that if I wished to remain in Glasgow or Edinburgh I must sing at private concerts and give lessons to have continual employment. And there was not much difficulty; oh, they are so enthusiastic, the Scotch people, about music!—to sing in the St. Andrew's Hall or the City Hall—and especially if you sing one of their own Scotch songs—the enthusiasm, the applause—it is like fire going through the nerves. Well, it is very pleasant, but it is not enough employment, even though I get one or two other engagements, like the Edinburgh Orchestral Festival. No, it is not enough; but then I began to sing at musical evenings, in the fashionable private houses, and also to give lessons in the daytime; and then it was I began to know the kindness of that people, their consideration, their benignitance to a stranger, their good-humor, and good wishes to you. Oh, a little brusque sometimes, the father of a family, perhaps; the lady of the house and her daughters—never! More than once a lady has said to me, 'What, are you all alone in this big town?—my daughters will call for you to-morrow and take you to the Botanic Gardens; and after you will come back to tea.' Or, again, they have shown me photographs of a beautiful large house—like a castle, almost—on the side of a hill, among trees; and they say, 'That is our house in the summer; it is by the sea; if you are here in the summer, you must come and stay with us, and you will play lawn-tennis with the girls and go boating with them and fishing all day; then every evening we will have a little concert—'"

"I beg your pardon," interposed the blunt-tongued doctor, "but do you call that Scotch hospitality, Miss Ross?—to invite a professional singer to their houses and get her services for nothing?"

"Ah, no, no, you mistake," said Nina, putting up the palm of her right hand for a second. "You mistake. I was offered terms as well—generous, oh, yes, very generous; but it was not that that impressed me—it was their kindness—their admitting me into their domesticity—I have found the mother as kind to me as to her own daughters. No airs of patronage; they did not say, 'You are a foreigner; we cannot trust you;' they said, 'You are alone; come into our family, and be friends with us.' But not at once; no, no; for at first I did not know any one—"

"I should think it would be easy for you to make friends anywhere," said Francie, in her gentle fashion.

They did not linger long over that meal; it was hardly a time for feasting; indeed, Maurice had gone down before the others, to hear the nurse's report. She had nothing to say; the sick-room had been so still, she had not even ventured in, hoping the patient was asleep.