The Rain-Girl. Herbert George Jenkins
she repeated demurely with downcast eyes.
Beresford stared at her in astonishment, not quite sure whether or no she were serious.
"You see," she said, "I couldn't play anything else, and sometimes I wanted to remind myself of—of——" she broke off.
"You could have sung?" he suggested.
"Of course I could," she said quietly, "but you've never heard me sing, and now I must be going to bed," she said. "Perhaps——" she hesitated for a fraction of a second. "Perhaps I shall see you at breakfast."
"Thanks so much," he said eagerly. "I shall be up early," and in his mind he had come to the determination that his way should be her way if she would permit it.
"Good night," she said as she rose, and with a friendly smile walked towards the door.
"Good night, au revoir," he said meaningly, as he opened the door and she passed out with a nod and a smile.
"A concertina!" muttered Beresford, as he returned to his chair, "and what eyes."
He rang the bell, and when the waiter entered, ordered a double brandy. He felt chilled to the bone in spite of the fire. When the waiter returned he drank the brandy neat, shivering again violently.
"Oh, hang it!" he muttered angrily. "I'll go to bed."
Surely there never was so fantastic an ending to so fantastic a day. Wooing Pan with a concertina!
"She's mad," he muttered, "mad as a spinning dervish."
CHAPTER III LOST DAYS AND THE DOCTOR
IT was ridiculous to endeavour to force a side-of-beef through so small a door; but was it a side-of-beef? No, it was a bed. Why not take out a feather? Was it really a feather-bed? Why should a feather-bed wear a print-dress, a white apron, cuffs and a cap? Of course it was a woman. Beresford gazed fixedly at the figure in the doorway. Yes, it was unquestionably a woman; but why was she there, looking down critically at him lying in bed? Did she want him to get up? He closed his eyes wearily. His head felt very strange.
Presently he opened his eyes again. Yes; it certainly was a woman, and she was looking down at him.
"Who are you? Where am I?" he murmured as he gazed vacantly about the room. "What has happened?"
"Hush! you mustn't talk," was the response.
When he looked again there was only a white door with yellow mouldings occupying the space where the woman in the print-dress had stood. She herself had vanished. It was so stupid of her to run away when spoken to—so like a woman, too, to baulk a natural curiosity. What did it all mean? Why had he thought the woman a side-of-beef, then a feather-bed? What was she there for? Why did he appear to be floating about in space? Why did his whole body feel numbed, yet tingling?
Suddenly he remembered the previous day's adventures, the Rain-Girl, the dinner, Pan, and the concertina. He must get up at once, or she might be gone. He must see her again. He struggled into a sitting posture, then fell back suddenly. He had no strength. What did it all mean?
The door opened and the woman in the print-dress reappeared.
"Where's the Rain-Girl?" he demanded before she had time to close the door behind her, "and what's the time?"
"It's eleven o'clock, and you must lie still, or you'll become worse."
The woman's voice was soft and soothing. For some minutes he pondered deeply over the impenetrable mystery of her words. "Worse!" Had he been ill? It was absurd; yet why was he so weak? Eleven o'clock! Where has his shaving-water?
"What is the date?" he suddenly demanded.
"You must be quiet and not talk," was the reply.
"I must know the date," he insisted.
"It's the eighth of May, and you've been ill and must rest. You're very weak." The nurse bent over him and fussed about with the pillows.
"The eighth of May! Where's the Rain-Girl, Pan, the concertina?" he enquired faintly.
"Hush! I shall get into trouble with the doctor if I allow you to talk," she said. "You must sleep now, and we will talk when you are stronger."
"Nature discourages eccentricity, did you know that?" he muttered apathetically, as he closed his eyes.
The nurse regarded him curiously. He did not appear to be delirious; yet what he was saying was—— Sick-nursing, however, produces its own philosophy, and she settled herself down to read until the doctor should arrive.
A lengthy period of silence was broken by Beresford.
"Would you very much mind putting aside your book and answering a few questions?" he asked in a feeble voice.
With an air of professional resignation, she lowered the book on her lap.
"You really mustn't talk. If you do I shall have to go out of the room. Now you don't want me to get into trouble, do you?" Her tone was that one would adopt to a child.
Beresford lay still, trying to think; but his brain refused his will. The nurse had returned to her book and read steadily on, deliberately disregarding the two or three tentative efforts her patient made to attract her attention. His voice was very faint, and she pretended not to hear. The doctor had said he was not to talk, and she was too good a nurse to allow imagination to modify her instructions.
When the doctor arrived an hour later, he found his patient restless and irritable. Seeing this at a glance, he sat down by the bedside, placed a cool, strong hand upon his head, and began to talk. The effect was instantaneous. Beresford lay quiet, and the drawn lines of irritation upon his face relaxed.
"Had rather a bad time. Pneumonia brought on, or hastened, by that wetting you got. Delirious when they found you the next morning. Then we had to fight for you, and here after seven days you've come around. That was what you wanted to know, eh?"
Beresford smiled his thanks.
"And the Rain-Girl?" he questioned, "the girl who was here and played the concertina. Has she gone?"
The doctor smiled.
"I know, I saw her. Grey eyes and a manner half-demure, half-impertinent, wholly maddening. Yes, I met her on the road."
Beresford smiled appreciatively at the doctor's description.
"You're the best man's doctor I ever met," he said. "Do women like you?"
The doctor threw back his head and laughed loudly, causing the nurse, who had just left the room, to wonder if he were mad.
"I'm supposed to be a woman's doctor," he replied.
"Then you are in for a big success," said Beresford faintly. "Who are you?"
"Look here, you must let me talk. I'm James Tallis, practising at Print as a first step to Wimpole or Harley Streets. The girl went away, so don't worry about her. Such eyes ought to be gouged out by Act of Parliament. They were intolerable. Now I'm off. Don't fidget, don't worry, don't ask the nurse questions, and I'll try and tell you everything in time. I'll run in again to-morrow, and we'll have a longer talk. 'Bye."
Beresford stretched out his hand, which Tallis took, at the same time feeling his pulse.
"Don't give me drugs, just talk when you can," he said weakly. "Of course you're only a dream-doctor. If not you're mad." With that he lay back, tired with the effort of talking, and the doctor with another laugh left the room, whispered a few words to the nurse in the corridor, and whisked out of the hotel.
Was there