Part 58 (1/2)

”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 pa.s.sara 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 sh.o.r.es--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 sh.o.r.es--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 s.h.i.+p 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.