The Net Part 36

"If you contemplate this--step," he inquired, dully, "why have you left the hospital?"

"I am not ready to take Orders. I have much to--overcome. Now I must prepare Oliveta to meet you, for she has not changed as I have, and there might be consequences."

"What consequences?"

"We wish to forget the past," she said, non-committally. When she returned from her errand she saw him outlined blackly against one of the long windows, his hands clasped behind his back, his head low as if in meditation. He seemed unable to throw off this spell of silence as they drove to the La Branche home, but listened contentedly to her voice, so like the low, soft music of a cello.

After he left her it was long before he tried to reduce his thoughts to order. He preferred to dwell indefinitely upon the amazing fact that he at last had found her, that he had actually seen and touched her. Finally, when he brought himself to face the truth in its entirety, he knew that he was deeply disappointed, and he felt that he ought to be hopeless. Yet hope was strong in him. It blazed through his very veins, he felt it thrill him magically.

When he fell asleep that night it was with a smile upon his lips, for hope had crystallized into a baseless but none the less a.s.sured belief that he would find a way to win her.

XVI

QUARANTINE

Blake arose like a boy on Christmas morning. He thrilled to an extravagant gladness. At breakfast the truth came to him--he was young! For the first time he realized that he had let himself grow up and lose his illusions; that he had become cynical, tired, prosaic, while all the time the flame of youth was merely smouldering. Old he was, but only as a stripling soldier is aged by battle; as for the real, rare joys of living and loving, he had never felt them. Myra Nell had appealed to his affection like a dear and clever child, and helped to keep some warmth in his heart. But this was magic. The sun had never been so bright, the air so sweet to his nostrils, the strength so vigorous in his limbs.

He had become so accustomed to the mysterious letters by this time that he had grown to look for them as a matter of course, and he was not disturbed when, on arriving at his office, he found one in his mail. Heretofore the writer had been positive in his statements, but now came the first hint of uncertainty.

"I cannot find Belisario Cardi," he wrote. "His hand is over all, and yet he is more intangible than mist. I am hedged about with difficulties and dangers which multiply as the days pa.s.s. I can do no more, hence the task devolves upon you. Be careful, for he is more desperate than ever. It is your life or his.

"ONE WHO KNOWS."

It was as daunting a message as he could have received--the withdrawal of a.s.sistance, the authoritative confirmation of his fears--yet Blake's spirit rose to meet the exigency with a new courage. It occurred to him that if Maruffi, or whoever the author was, had exhausted his usefulness, perhaps Vittoria could help. She had spent much time in her search for this very Cardi, and might have learned something of value concerning him. Oliveta, too, could be of a.s.sistance. He felt sure that the knowledge of his own peril would be enough to enlist their aid, and he gladly seized upon the thought that a common interest would draw him closer to the woman he loved.

He arrived at the La Branche house early that afternoon, and found young Rilleau sitting on a box beneath Myra Nell's window, with the girl herself embowered as before in a frame of roses.

"Any symptoms yet?" Norvin inquired, agreeably.

"Thousands! I'm slowly dying."

Lecompte nodded dolefully. "Look at her color."

"No doubt it's the glow from those red roses that I see in her cheeks."

"It's fever," Miss Warren exclaimed, indignantly. She took a hand-gla.s.s from her lap and regarded her vivid young features. "Smallpox attacks people differently. With me the first sign is fever." She had parted her abundant hair and swept it back from her brow in an attempt to make herself look ill, but with the sole effect of enhancing her appearance of abounding health. Madame la Branche's best black shawl was drawn about her plump and dimpled shoulders. a.s.suming a hollow tone, she inquired: "Do you see any other change in me?"

"Yes. And I rather like that way of doing your hair."

"Vittoria says I look like a picture of Sister Dolorosa, or something."

"Is Miss Fabrizi in?"

"In? How could she be out? Isn't she a dear, Norvin? I knew you'd meet some day."

"Does she play whist?"

"Of course not, silly. She's--nearly a nun. But we sat up in bed all night talking. Oh, it's a comfort to have some one with you at the last, some one in whom you can confide. I can't bear to--to soar aloft with so much on my conscience. I've confessed _everything_."

"What's to prevent her from catching the disease and soaring away with you?"

"She's a nurse. They're just like doctors, you know, they never catch anything. Is that hideous watchman still at his post?"

"Yes. Fast asleep, with his mouth open."

"I hope a fly crawls in," said the girl, vindictively; then, in an eager whisper: "Couldn't you manage to get past him? We'd have a lovely time here for a week."

Rilleau raised his voice in jealous protest.

"And leave me sitting on my throne? Never! I'm giving this box-party for you, Myra Nell."

"Oh, you could come, too."

"I respect the law," Norvin told her; but Lecompte continued to complain.

"I don't see what you're doing here at this time of day, anyhow, Blake, Have you no business responsibilities?"

"I'm a member of the Contagion Club; I've a right to be here."

"We were discussing rice, old shoes, and orange blossoms when you interrupted," the languid Mr. Rilleau continued. "Frankly, speaking as a friend, I don't see anything in your conversation so far to interest a sick lady. Why don't you talk to the yellow-haired nurse?"

"I intend to."

"Vittoria is back in the kitchen preparing my diet," said Myra Nell.

"She's making fudge, I believe. I--I seem to crave sweet things. Maybe it's another symptom."

"It must be," Blake acknowledged. "I'll ask her what she thinks of it." With a glance at the slumbering guard he vaulted the low fence and made his way around to the rear of the house.

He heard Vittoria singing as he came into the flower-garden, a low-pitched Sicilian love-song. He called to her, and she came to a window, smiling down at him, spotless and fresh in her stiff uniform.

"Do you know that you're trespa.s.sing and may get into trouble?" she queried.

"The watchman is asleep, and I had to speak to you."

"No wonder he sleeps. Myra Nell holds the poor fellow responsible for all her troubles, and those young men have nearly driven him insane."

"Is there any danger of smallpox, really?"

"Not the slightest. This quarantine is merely a matter of form. But that child--" She broke into a frank, sweet laugh. "She pretends to be horribly frightened. All the time she is acting--the little fraud!"

Norvin flushed a bit under her gaze.

"I had no chance to talk to you last night."