The Yellow Book Volume I Part 20

"I don't know if there is any, but the girl always has some." She spoke in a slow tone--insolent and fatigued.

A couple of bed-pillows were supporting her head, and a scarlet plush cloak, trimmed with white down, was covering her feet, as she lay curled on the sofa. The fire-light glinted on the metallic gold of her hair, which clashed with the black of her eyebrows; and the full, blue eyes, wide-set, contradicted the hard line of her vivid-red lips. She drummed her fingers on the sofa-edge, nervously.

"Never mind," said the bald man shortly, producing a notebook from his breast-pocket, and tearing a leaf from it.

He wrote, and the other two stayed silent; the man returned to the hearthrug, lifting his coat-tails under his arms; the girl went on drumming the sofa-edge.

"There," sliding back his chair, and looking from the one to the other, evidently uncertain which of the two he should address. "Here is the prescription. Get it made up to-night, a table-spoonful at a time, in a wine-gla.s.sful of water at lunch-time, at dinner-time and before going to bed. Go on with the port wine twice a day, and (to the girl, deliberately and distinctly) you _must_ keep quite quiet; avoid all sort of excitement--that is extremely important. Of course you must on no account go out at night. Go to bed early, take regular meals, and keep always warm."

"I say," broke in the girl, "tell us, it isn't bad--dangerous, I mean?"

"Dangerous!--no, not if you do what I tell you."

He glanced at his watch, and rose, b.u.t.toning his coat.

"Good-evening," he said gravely.

At first she paid no heed; she was vacantly staring before her: then, suddenly conscious that he was waiting, she looked up at him.

"Good-night, doctor."

She held out her hand, and he took it.

"I'll get all right, won't I?" she asked, still looking up at him.

"All right--of course you will--of course. But remember you must do what I tell you."

The other man handed him his hat and umbrella, opened the door for him, and it closed behind them.

The girl remained quiet, sharply blinking her eyes, her whole expression eager, intense.

A murmer of voices, a m.u.f.fled tread of footsteps descending the stairs--the gentle shutting of a door--stillness.

She raised herself on her elbow, listening; the cloak slipped noiselessly to the floor. Quickly her arm shot out to the bell-rope: she pulled it violently; waited, expectant; and pulled again.

A slatternly figure appeared--a woman of middle-age--her arms, bared to the elbows, smeared with dirt; a grimy ap.r.o.n over her knees.

"What's up?--I was smas.h.i.+n' coal," she explained.

"Come here," hoa.r.s.ely whispered the girl--"here--no--nearer--quite close. Where's he gone?"

"Gone? 'oo?"

"That man that was here."

"I s'ppose 'ee's in the downstairs room. I ain't 'eard the front door slam."

"And d.i.c.k, where's he?"

"They're both in there together, I s'ppose."

"I want you to go down--quietly--without making a noise--listen at the door--come up, and tell me what they're saying."

"What? down there?" jerking her thumb over her shoulder.

"Yes, of course--at once," answered the girl, impatiently.

"And if they catches me--a nice fool I looks. No, I'm jest blowed if I do!" she concluded. "Whatever's up?"

"You must," the girl broke out excitedly. "I tell you, you must."

"Must--must--an' if I do, what am I goin' to git out of it?" She paused, reflecting; then added: "Look 'ere--I tell yer what--I'll do it for half a quid, there?"

"Yes--yes--all right--only make haste."

"An' 'ow d' I know as I'll git it?" she objected doggedly. "It's a jolly risk, yer know."

The girl sprang up, flushed and feverish.

"Quick--or he'll be gone. I don't know where it is--but you shall have it--I promise--quick--please go--quick."

The other hesitated, her lips pressed together; turned, and went out.

And the girl, catching at her breath, clutched a chair.

A flame flickered up in the fire, buzzing spasmodically. A creak outside. She had come up. But the curtains did not move. Why didn't she come in? She was going past. The girl hastened across the room, the intensity of the impulse lending her strength.

"Come--come in," she gasped. "Quick--I'm slipping."

She struck at the wall; but with the flat of her hand, for there was no grip. The woman bursting in, caught her, and led her back to the sofa.

"There, there, dearie," tucking the cloak round her feet. "Lift up the piller, my 'ands are that mucky. Will yer 'ave anythin'?"

She shook her head. "It's gone," she muttered. "Now--tell me."

"Tell yer?--tell yer what! Why--why--there ain't jest nothin' to tell yer."

"What were they saying? Quick."

"I didn't 'ear nothin'. They was talking about some ballet-woman."

The girl began to cry, feebly, helplessly, like a child in pain.

"You might tell me, Liz. You might tell me. I've been a good sort to you."