Роберт Чамберс - The Dark Star

"Yess, yess; it iss not grave. Pooh! It is notting. He slip and knock his head. Maybe too much tchampagne. He sleep, and by and by he feel better. It iss not advisable to make a fuss. So! We are not longer needed, steward. I return to my room."

And, nodding pleasantly, the bearded man hobbled out on his crutches and entered his own stateroom across the passage.

"Steward," said the nurse pleasantly, "you may leave the wireless telegram with me. When Mr. Neeland wakes I'll read it to him―"

"Give that telegram to me !" burst out a ghostly voice from the curtained room behind her.

Every atom of colour left her face, and she stood there as though stiffened into marble. The steward stared at her. Still staring, he passed gingerly in front of her and entered the curtained room.

Neeland was lying on his bed as white as death; but his eyes fluttered open in a dazed way:

"Steward," he whispered.

"Yes, sir, Mr. Neeland."

"My—box." His eyes closed.

"Box, sir?"

"Where—is—it?"

"Which box, sir? Is it this one here on the floor?"—lifting the olive–wood box in its case. The key was in the lock; the other keys hung from it, dangling on a steel ring.

The nurse stepped calmly into the room.

"Steward," she said in her low, pleasant voice, "the sedative I gave him has probably confused his mind a little―"

"Put that box—under—my head," interrupted Neeland's voice like a groan.

"I tell you," whispered the nurse, "he doesn't know what he is saying."

"I got to obey him, ma'am―"

"I forbid you―"

"Steward!" gasped Neeland.

"Sir?"

"My box. I—want it."

"Certainly, sir―"

"Here, beside my—pillow."

"Yes, sir." He laid the box beside the sick man.

"Is it locked, steward?"

"Key sticking in it, sir. Yes, it's locked, sir."

"Open."

The nurse, calm, pale, tight–lipped, stood by the curtain looking at the bed over which the steward leaned, opening the box.

"'Ere you are, sir," he said, lifting the cover. "I say, nurse, give 'im a lift, won't you?"

The nurse coolly stepped to the bedside, stooped, raised the head and shoulders of the prostrate man. After a moment his eyes unclosed; he looked at the contents of the box with a perceptible effort.

"Lock it, steward. Place it beside me…. Next the wall…. So…. Place the keys in my pocket…. Thank you…. I had a—pistol."

"Sir?"

"A pistol. Where is it?"

The steward's roving glance fell finally upon the washbasin. He walked over, picked up the automatic, and, with an indescribable glance at the nurse, laid it across Neeland's up–turned palm.

The young man's fingers fumbled it, closed over the handle; and a ghost of a smile touched his ashen face.

"Do you feel better, sir?"

"I'm tired…. Yes, I feel—better."

"Can I do anything for you, Mr. Neeland?"

"Stay outside—my door."

"Do you wish the doctor, sir?"

"No…. No!…Don't call him; do you hear?"

"I won't call him, sir."

"No, don't call him."

"No, sir…. Mr. Neeland, there is a—a trained nurse here. You will not want her, will you, sir?"

Again the shadow of a smile crept over Neeland's face.

"Did she come for—her handkerchief?"

There was a silence; the steward looked steadily at the nurse; the nurse's dark eyes were fixed on the man lying there before her.

"You shan't be wanting her any more, shall you, sir?" repeated the steward, not shifting his gaze.

"Yes; I think I shall want her—for a little while."…Neeland slowly opened his eyes, smiled up at the motionless nurse: "How are you, Scheherazade?" he said weakly. And, to the steward, with an effort: "Miss White and I are—old friends…. However—kindly remain outside—my door…. And throw what remains of my dinner—out of—the port…. And be ready—at all times—to look after the—gentleman on crutches…. I'm—fond of him…. Thank you, steward."

Long after the steward had closed the stateroom door, Ilse Dumont stood beside Neeland's bed without stirring. Once or twice he opened his eyes and looked at her humorously. After a while he said:

"Please be seated, Scheherazade."

She calmly seated herself on the edge of his couch.

"Horrid soup," he murmured. "You should attend a cooking school, my dear."

She regarded him absently, as though other matters absorbed her.

"Yes," he repeated, "as a cook you're a failure, Scheherazade. That broth which you seasoned for me has done funny things to my eyes, too. But they're recovering. I see much better already. My vision is becoming sufficiently clear to observe how pretty you are in your nurse's cap and apron."

A slow colour came into her face and he saw her eyebrows bend inward as though she were annoyed.

"You are pretty, Scheherazade," he repeated. "You know you are, don't you? But you're a poor cook and a rotten shot. You can't be perfection, you know. Cheer up!"

She ignored the suggestion, her dark eyes brooding and remote again; and he lay watching her with placid interest in which no rancour remained. He was feeling decidedly better every minute now. He lifted the automatic pistol and shoved it under his pillow, then cautiously flexed his fingers, his arms, and finally his knees, with increasing pleasure and content.

"Such dreadful soup," he said. "But I'm a lot better, thank you. Was it to have been murder this time, too, Scheherazade? Would the entire cupful have made a pretty angel of me? Oh, fie! Naughty Scheherazade!"

She remained mute.

"Didn't you mean manslaughter with intent to exterminate?" he insisted, watching her.

Perhaps she was thinking of her blond and bearded companion, and the open port, for she made no reply.

"Why didn't you let him heave me out?" inquired Neeland. "Why did you object?"

At that she reddened to the roots of her hair, understanding that what she feared had been true—that Neeland, while physically helpless, had retained sufficient consciousness to be aware of what was happening to him and to understand at least a part of the conversation.

"What was the stuff with which you flavoured that soup, Scheherazade?"

He was merely baiting her; he did not expect any reply; but, to his surprise, she answered him:

"Threlanium—Speyer's solution is what I used," she said with a sort of listless effrontery.

"Don't know it. Don't like it, either. Prefer other condiments."

He lifted himself on one elbow, remained propped so, tore open his wireless telegram, and, after a while, contrived to read it:

"James Neeland, "S. S. Volhynia.

"Spies aboard. Be careful. If trouble threatens captain has instructions British Government to protect you and order arrests on your complaint.

"Naïa."

With a smile that was almost a grin, Neeland handed the telegram to Ilse Dumont.

"Scheherazade," he said, "you'll be a good little girl, now, won't you? Because it would be a shocking thing for you and your friend across the way to land in England wearing funny bangles on your wrists and keeping step with each other, wouldn't it?"

She continued to hold the slip of paper and stare at it long after she had finished reading it and the words became a series of parallel blurs.

"Scheherazade," he said lightly, "what on earth am I going to do with you?"

"I suppose you will lodge a charge with the captain against me," she replied in even tones.

"Why not? You deserve it, don't you? You and your humorous friend with the yellow beard?"

She looked at him with a vague smile.

"What can you prove?" said she.

"Perfectly true, dear child. Nothing. I don't want to prove anything, either."