"I am tired of tears and laughter
And men that laugh and weep,
Of what may come hereafter
For men that sow and reap.
I am weary of days and hours,
Blown buds of barren flowers,
Desires and dreams and powers,
And everything but sleep."
SWINBURNE.

If anyone had told Arithelli that she was in for a sharp attack of diphtheria, she would have felt surprised and not very much enlightened. Her ignorance of everything connected with illness was supreme, and since childhood she had had no recollection of medicine and doctors. Her parents indulged in theories on the subject of complaints, the principal one being a large disbelief in their existence. To them anything unhealthy or ailing was an aversion, a thing to be avoided rather than pitied.

For accidents, sprains and breakages their pharmacopoeia suggested and did not go beyond two ideas,—salt and water and Nature.

The Oriental strain in her character helped her to endure where an ordinary woman would have fussed, cried, or grumbled. At home if she had had a fall or did not look her best she had been expected to consider herself in disgrace, and to keep out of the way till such time as she had completely recovered her looks and spirits.

When she returned to her lodgings, it did not occur to her to rouse the landlady and demand remedies or attentions. The walk home had been a nightmare, and now she had all she wanted—solitude and the blessed darkness. She threw off her dress and boots, and walked the room hour after hour. She still heard the brazen band, and saw the flaming lights and her ears echoed to the dreadful sounds of hissing. Sometimes she had drunk feverishly of the very doubtful water against which Emile had so often cautioned her. When it was nearly dawn she gave in, and lay huddled up on the bed, half-delirious with the pain and feeling of suffocation.

Two streets away, and in a room more squalid than her own, Vardri was also enduring his own private Purgatory. Hers was physical, his mental. That was all the difference.

Long before half-past eight he was down at the stables and there received the dismissal he had fully expected, being ordered off the premises by the head groom, who had received directions the night before to give Vardri a week's wages, and turn him out of the place without delay. It was no use protesting. The Manager was not yet visible, and even if he had been Vardri knew there was no appeal.

There had been complaints about his negligence more than once, and of course he had been missed on the previous evening. None of the "strappers" would have reported him, but one of the clowns, a Spaniard with whom he had fought for ill-treating a horse, had seen him leaving the vicinity of the dressing-rooms, and had carried the information to headquarters.

The informer had chosen his time well, and had found the Manager raging over Arithelli's mishap, and ready to dismiss anyone with or without reason.

Vardri turned his back on the place whistling defiance, and with his courage fallen below zero. He would have liked to say good-bye to the horses, and to some of the men who were his friends. He had never disliked the actual work, and it was at the Hippodrome that he had first met Arithelli. Her misfortune and his had come together. At any other time it would not have been quite so bad. A few months ago he would not have cared whether he lost his place or not.

There had been nothing much in life then, and one could always find a short way out of it via the water or an overdose of something.

But now the world was changed, and he craved for Life and the fulness of Life, for he had tasted happiness and stood for a moment in the outer courts of the House of Love. He had no friends who could have helped him, and no qualifications for earning his living at any other trade or profession. He had begun life with a luxurious home, a refined and useless education, and the mind of a dreamer, an idealist. None of these things were valuable assets in his present career.

Like Arithelli he spoke several languages more or less fluently, and like her again possessed both understanding and a love of horses, but what avail were these things when he had neither money, references nor influence, and as a further disadvantage he was known to be an associate of the revolutionaries, and his tendency to consumption would keep him out of many kinds of employment.

He turned over the few coins in his hand. Just enough to keep him for a week and then—the deluge!

He waited, prowling up and down the street, impatiently until Emile appeared in the distance.

A few minutes later, the two men were at the door of Arithelli's lodgings. The landlady met them on the stairs, hag-like in the disarray of the early morning, and evidently terrified out of such humanity as she possessed by the fear of infection. She had gone up with the early morning coffee and found Arithelli raving aloud and tearing at her throat. Her first thought had been to turn the girl out of doors, or, as she was obviously incapable of moving, to send for a priest and a nursing sister, and have her taken to the public hospital. A wholesome fear of Emile prevented her from giving utterance to these charitable impulses.

She invoked every saint in the calendar, whose name she could remember, and crossed herself with automaton-like energy.

She could not, she protested, be expected to nurse such a dangerous case of fever as this undoubtedly was. There was her son, the adored of her old age. Santa Maria! If he also were stricken!

Emile pushed her on one side. "I'll talk to you presently," he said in her own dialect. "If you are going into hysterics with fright you'll catch anything that is catching. If you behave sensibly you won't."

The window was fully open and the green shutters thrown back, and the fierce sunlight streamed into Arithelli's room, which showed more than its normal disorder. The tray with the cafÉ complet was on the floor where the landlady had left it on her hasty stampede downstairs, half-a-dozen turquoise rings lay strewn over a little table, where they had been thrown when they were dragged off, boys' clothes trailed over the back of one chair, and a blue skirt over another. The only orderly thing visible was the immaculate row of fine kid boots, long, narrow, pearl-grey, tan and champagne-coloured.

Arithelli lay on the big bed under the faded canopy. She had wrapped herself in a thin blue peignoir, and her face was half hidden in tangled hair. The tumbled bed-clothes were pulled to one side and dragging on the dusty boards. She was quite unconscious of anyone's presence, and moaned softly in a strangled fashion.

The two men stood without speaking, and watched the writhing, restless figure. Vardri turned away first with a smothered exclamation. Would he always be obliged to see her tortured in some way or another? The Fates were sending him more than any man could bear to look upon.

"What are you going to do?" he said roughly in French, "I can't stand seeing this!"

Emile showed no signs of surprise at the other's manifest anxiety, possibly because his own was as deep, though his method of expressing it was different. He felt helpless, and, being a man, resented the feeling, so by consequence his always rugged manner became even more unpleasant than usual.

"Well," he rejoined, "what can you expect in this filthy place? This street isn't so bad, but of course she has so often been down in those slums in the Parelelo. The Calle de Pescadores alone is enough to give anyone a fever. I think Sobrenski has made a point of sending her down every poisonous street in the place. Ireland's a clean country, you see, compared with this, so she hasn't much chance, and as she starves herself half the time that won't make things any better."

"She must have some woman to look after her. I suppose the landlady here will be no good?"

"Not unless you pay her.—Who's going to do that?"

"There's Estelle."

"Estelle!" Emile exploded a fierce Russian oath. "Do you want more hysterics?" Vardri was tramping up and down the room with the noiseless agility of an animal, his fingers mechanically at work at a cigarette.

"She must have a doctor too. Isn't there an English doctor here?"

"Probably. Do you propose to pay him too?"

The dryly sarcastic voice, the practical question brought Vardri down from the clouds to the hard facts of life. Illnesses and doctors were expensive things. He had no money, and Emile very little.

"I'll get a Soeur de CharitÉ from one of the convents. She'll come for nothing. Nursing is their work. I was—I mean I'm a Catholic. She's a Catholic, too, isn't she?"

"No, she hates them. She was educated in a convent, where as far as I can gather from her own account she acquired more learning than piety. Under the present circumstances I can only suggest the horse-doctor."

"What's the use of—?"

"I believe he began by doctoring human beings, but like the rest of us out here, he is a little under a cloud. He prefers animals now. They don't tell tales. Human beings do. Besides, he's English, or rather, Irish. Better go and tell him to come up. You know his rooms. Tell him it's infectious, and he can bring up a few cigarettes for me if he feels generous. Don't trouble about your Soeur de CharitÉ. I'll see that the woman here makes herself useful."

Vardri flung himself out of the room and down the rickety stairs at breakneck speed, thankful beyond measure for the relief of action.

Emile subsided into a chair and smoked furiously and meditated upon the untoward situation. Being of a practical turn of mind he began to make calculations. Vardri had told him briefly of how Arithelli had failed in the trick-riding, fallen off her horse, and been hissed out of the ring. The loss of popularity might mean the end of her career. In any case he could see she was desperately ill, and there was small chance of her being about under three weeks, and even then she would not be able to work at once. Meanwhile they had exactly two pounds a week to live upon.

Truly women added to the complications of life! He might borrow money, but that was a thing to be resorted to only in the last extremity. Most of the members of his Circle were as poor as himself or poorer. They were all bound together by the tie of brotherhood, and no one would have grudged or refused a loan, but Emile scrupled to borrow from those who were in greater privation than himself.

Sobrenski was fairly well off, but he lived like an ascetic and gave everything to the Cause; besides, Sobrenski was out of the question. To appeal to him on Arithelli's behalf would only be to give him a chance for refusal and a jeer at female conspirators.

Her turquoise rings Emile collected from the table, and put them into his pocket; her collar of turquoises he rescued from the floor, where it had fallen when she took off her bodice. The jewels could all be turned into the money they needed so badly. Of course she had not saved a single peseta. Emile had the handling of her salary, and he knew that anything left over from the expenses of food and lodging went in clothes and her particular vanity, dainty boots.

She was lavishly generous to the Hippodrome staff, and there was always a certain tribute claimed from all its adherents by the Cause.

He did not hunt further for valuables. If there was either money or jewellery in Arithelli's possession it was sure to be found in quite a conspicuous place.

The varied life of the city surged to and fro beneath the window, the varied noises floated up into the room, and under the faded red brocade curtains, Arithelli turned from side to side and moaned with closed eyes. A seller of fruit passed, crying his wares.

Emile went down into the street and bought a couple of oranges, and squeezed the juice into the cup that had been destined for the coffee.

He had not the least idea as to what particular malady Arithelli had developed, but he knew that fever and delirium always went together, and that with fever there is invariably thirst. He lifted her up and pushed the pillow higher to relieve her breathing, but he could hardly do more than moisten her parched and bitten lips. Then he "tidied" the bed with masculine pulls and jerks till it was even more untidy than before, and went back to his chair. There was nothing more to be done for her in the way of alleviation till the doctor came.

He took up a book, and tried to shut his ears and distract his thoughts. As he stared unseeingly at the printed pages, there suddenly flashed into his brain the name of Count Vladimir, the owner of "The Witch." Here was the very man to whom he could confidently apply for help in the present difficulties, for the Russian had made it his business in life to bestow his wealth in assisting the revolutionaries. Emile decided that he would write tomorrow, when he had acquired certain particulars as to the address he wanted.

FatalitÉ had done good work for the Cause, he argued, therefore let those who supported the organisation keep her till she was able to work again.

The next task he would have to undertake would be that of bullying or bribing the landlady into a promise to undertake at least some of the duties of a sick-room. The rest of the nursing he proposed to do himself. He grinned as he lit another evil-smelling cigarette, at the thought of Vardri's proposal.

He possessed an artistic sense of the fitness of things, and the suggested Soeur de CharitÉ appealed to him as being quite out of the picture. Besides Arithelli had no respect for priests or nuns; Emile remembered her inimitable descriptions of the spying "Children of Mary," and she should not be worried with either if he could help it.

Yes, certainly the incapable old landlady would be preferable to a white-capped religeuse, for the latter, though not likely by virtue of her training to be scared by the physical atmosphere, would undoubtedly be appalled by the mental and moral one. Most likely she would take advantage of Arithelli's weakness to persuade her of the danger of her present way of living. The Church of Rome is never slow at seizing the chance of making a convert, and the power of the Church in Spain is a byword.

Though Emile had a profound scorn for conventions, he had at one time had his place among that class of human beings that calls itself "Society," and he knew its rules and ways as he despised its hypocrisies. He could look at Arithelli's position quite judicially, and as an outsider. The world, religious and otherwise, would certainly not give her the benefit of the doubt.

She was young, she was possessed of a weird and haunting beauty, she had no women friends, no relations, and no companions but a set of law-breakers, all of whom were men. No one would believe that she was untouched, unawakened, that she had been treated as a boy, and her womanhood not so much respected as ignored. If anyone put the wrong ideas into her head, Emile reflected, it was sure to be one of her own sex.

Having matured his plans he descended to the kitchen regions, manufacturing impressive threats en route.

Here an answer to his problem presented itself, or rather herself. The landlady had a niece who came in daily to assist in household matters, and take part in a duet of feminine gossip.

She was a solid young woman of unmoved countenance, who was quite prepared to nurse the ten plagues of Egypt, providing she received sufficient remuneration. She proposed to get married at the earliest opportunity and what Emile offered her would be of great assistance in providing her bridal finery.

The two came to an agreement rapidly, and Emile climbed the stairs again, triumphant.

He began to feel anxious about the doctor. Two hours had passed and there was no sight of him. He might be out, or he might be drunk. Emile knew the little weakness of Michael Furness, and as Vardri had not returned it meant that he was still searching.

At last the horse-doctor arrived, grunting and ruffling up his crest of curly black hair. He had a large heart by way of counterbalance to his many failings, and he was interested in Arithelli, for he had come across her once or twice in the stables, and had heard various picturesque stories of her exploits. He might have been a success in his own profession, but for the two temptations that beset every Irishman—whisky and horses.

He had left his practice in the city of Cork, as Emile had said, somewhat under a cloud, and had given up whisky for the absinthe of the cafÉs, and had not regretted the exchange. He made his examination quickly, handling the girl with a surprising skill and deftness, in spite of his big clumsy-looking hands.

When he touched her she opened her eyes.

"Mais, oÙ suis je?" she murmured, painfully dragging out the words. Then followed Emile's name.

The doctor laid her back gently, and stood holding one of her wrists.
"She thinks it's you, Poleski! 'Tis diphtheria. A bad case, too.
Shall want some looking afther. Who's seeing to her?"

"I am," responded Emile, coolly.

"The divil ye are!" The Irishman's long upper lip twitched humorously.
"Well, treat her gintly then, me bhoy! You're wise to be smoking.
Less chance of infection. I'll keep you company." He produced a
couple of thin black cigars, and handed one to Emile.

"See, now," Michael Furness added seriously, "I may as well be telling you the truth. Your little friend there hasn't a very big chance. She's been going to bits for some time. If it hadn't been this it would have been something else. She's got a grand physique, so there's hope. If she's worse by to-morrow she ought to have an operation. Only I can't undertake it, ye see. There's the trouble. My hand isn't as steady as it was, and I haven't the instruments."

Emile nodded. He knew nothing of the operation of tracheotomy, and though he spoke English well he found it difficult to follow Michael's soft, thick, County Cork speech.

"She's a grand heap of a girl, isn't she?" continued that gentleman, regarding Arithelli with kindly eyes. He had all the Celt's love of romance, and the ingrained reverence of the Irish Catholic for women. "This isn't the place for girls, at all, at all! And they tell me she's from the old country. Will I be sending up one of the good Sisthers to see after her, and put things to rights a bit?"

For the second time that day Emile ungratefully rejected the ministrations of the Church. He knew that no one else in Spain ever thought of employing anyone but the religious orders as nurses, but he preferred to arrange things in his own way and said so.

"Ah, well then!" said Michael amiably, "give her something to drink if she wants it. That's all. I'll look in again this evening. She'll have taken a turn then one way or the other. It's a quick thing, this."

Arithelli's ministering angels left in each other's company. Michael drifted back to his favourite cafÉ, while Emile betook himself to the Hippodrome to wage war with that amiable functionary, the Manager. The strife was both noisy and prolonged, and resulted in only a partial victory for Emile. With many picturesque oaths the Manager accused himself of folly unspeakable in not dismissing Arithelli at once.

She had a contract? Yes! But in it there was no allowance made for incompetence and non-appearance. It only stipulated that she should be paid for doing her work. She had not done it, and moreover she had refused to practise. That he should be expected to continue to pay her a salary even of the smallest description while she lay in bed was a monstrous impertinence.

Would he not have the trouble and expense of getting another artiste to fill her place? There must be an equestrienne in the programme. If she found herself taken back again to finish her time after this illness or whatever it was, then she should be more than grateful, but as for paying salaries to employÉs who did not work, why, did people consider him an imbecile?

Emile shrugged and sneered at intervals throughout this tirade. He had wisely begun by asking more than he knew he was at all likely to get, and was now obliged to be satisfied with the compromise.

Disappointment followed his search for the whereabouts of Count Vladimir. The owner of "The Witch" was expected back in Barcelona in a month or so, no one knew exactly when. Letters might be addressed Poste Restante, Corfu, for he was cruising in his phantom craft through those sapphire seas that lie round about the Ionian Islands.

There was nothing to do but to write and wait. One piece of ill-luck was following close upon another, and Emile felt that he needed all the consolations that his cynical philosophy could afford.

His anxiety on Arithelli's behalf was fast becoming an obsession. When she had first come into his life he had wondered sometimes how she would stand the late hours and all the hardships of a circus training, but after her one outburst she had never complained again.

He thought the sea-trip had done her good. Of course she always looked pale, but then that was her type.

He had also been impressed with the unwonted seriousness of Michael, knowing that in spite of his erratic ways the doctor understood his craft.

Emile's instinct prompted him vigorously to go back now and see how she was getting on, but he dared not neglect the work of his Society. There were letters to be written, arrangements to be made, all the usual paraphernalia of intrigue to be kept going.

He returned to his own rooms and began to write savagely, using all his will to expel from his brain the vision of the girl as he had seen her last, semi-conscious, and yet with his name on her lips.

Michael had promised to see her again at six o'clock. It would be time enough if he also went then. Besides, the Cause came first always, and there were many women in the world. His pen tore fiercely over the paper as something whispered: "Women? Yes. But another Arithelli—?"