Part 15 (1/2)

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

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

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

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

”Then, you see, I want to talk.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

”Then you have lived here before?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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