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‘I shall do precisely that – and by the light of a full moon! Don’t stand there raising bird-witted objections! Of what use will you be tomorrow if you are three parts dead of fatigue?’
She was obliged to acknowledge the truth of this. Anxiety had made it impossible for her to sleep on the previous night; she had been up almost at dawn, with packing to do, and arrangements to make; she had travelled for some twenty-five miles; and had been in attendance on her patient for eight hours; and she was indeed exhausted. She smiled waveringly upon his lordship, said simply: ‘Thank you!’ and went out of the room.
When she came back, rather before midnight, she was looking very much better, but conscience-stricken. She said: ‘The most shocking thing! I must have been more tired than I knew: I forgot about the medicine! He should have had another dose at eleven, cousin!’
He smiled. ‘He did have it. Fortunately, you left Elcot’s instructions on the table, and I read them. Have you slept well?’
‘Oh, so well! Four hours, and I don’t think I even stirred! How has Felix been?’
‘Much the same. I’ll leave you now, and be with you again later in the morning. No need to tell you to stand buff! Goodnight, my child!’
She nodded gratefully, uttering no protest, either then, or when he returned, after breakfast, and informed her that hence-forward they would strictly divide the watches. Her commonsense told her that while Felix was critically ill it was beyond her power to bear the whole burden of nursing him; and while she was aware, in the recesses of her brain, that neither she nor Felix had the smallest claim upon the Marquis, it had begun to seem so natural to rely on his support that the thought only occurred to be dismissed. He was able to manage Felix as well as she could and sometimes better; and Felix was perfectly content to be left in his care. No other considerations mattered to her; if Alverstoke had announced his intention of returning to London she would have strained every nerve to induce him to remain. He did not do so, and she accepted his services almost as a matter of course.
The Marquis, well-aware that she had no thought for anyone but her abominable little brother, was wryly amused. He liked Felix, but it would have been idle to suppose that he liked the task of nursing him; and, if he had not fallen deeply and reluctantly in love with Felix’s sister, it would never have entered his head to have undertaken so arduous a duty. But it was not from a wish to advance himself in Frederica’s esteem that he remained in Hertfordshire, exerting himself so unusually: the only conscious thought in his mind was that she was in dire trouble, from which it was his privilege to extricate her. He had told Charles Trevor to cancel all his immediate engagements, if not without a certain amount of regret, at least without hesitation. For the first time in many years his fellow-members of the Jockey Club would look in vain for him at Ascot Races: it was a pity, but it couldn’t be helped. He had a horse running, too, but much pleasure would he have derived from watching it win, as he thought it well might, when he knew that Frederica was in trouble, and needed his support.
So the Marquis, who rarely put himself out for anyone, and whose whole life had been spent in opulent and leisured ease, entered upon the most strenuous and uncomfortable period of his career. He was obliged to put up at a modest and oldfashioned inn; he spent nearly all his waking hours attending to a sick schoolboy; and since his arrival at the farm was the signal for Frederica to retire to bed, the only conversations he held with her were brief, and were concerned only with their patient. In after years he was wont to say that he could not recall his sufferings without a shudder, but not one word of complaint did he utter at the time, and not for an instant did he lose his air of calm self-possession.
Jessamy arrived on the second day. His intention had been to have walked from Watford, across the fields, but the Marquis had sent Curry to meet the stage-coach, with the phaeton, so that he was not obliged to do this, which was perhaps just as well, since he had brought with him, in addition to a modest portmanteau, a large valise, crammed with books. He explained to Alverstoke, who was on duty at the time, that they included, besides those necessary for his studies, a number of books which he thought Felix would like to have read to him. ‘For that is something I can do,’ he said. ‘He likes to be read to when he’s ill, you know. So I brought all his old favourites, and also Waverley. Harry put me in mind of that: I’d forgotten that when Frederica read it aloud to the rest of us, in the evenings, Felix was always in bed and asleep, being much too young to enjoy it. He will now, though, don’t you think, sir?’
‘I’ve no doubt he will, but not just at present, I fear.’
Jessamy’s face clouded. ‘No. Curry has been telling me. Oh, thank you for sending him to meet me, cousin! Curry said that it is rheumatic fever, and that he’s very ill, and in great pain. Sir, he – isn’t going to die, is he?’
‘No, certainly not, but he’s in a bad way, and may be worse before he begins to mend. He’s sleeping at the moment, but he seldom sleeps for long at a time, so I must go back to his room. You may come with me, if you choose: you won’t disturb him if you talk quietly.’
‘Yes, please,’ Jessamy said. ‘I – would like to see him.’
‘Of course you would. But you mustn’t be surprised if he doesn’t know you when he wakes: he is not always himself, you see.’
Fortunately, since Jessamy was so much shocked by Felix’s appearance that he was quite unable to command his voice, and withdrew to a chair by the window to master his emotions, Felix did know him when he woke. He said fretfully: ‘I’m so hot! I’m so thirsty! Frederica!’
‘Well, that shall soon be mended,’ said Alverstoke, sliding an arm under his shoulders, and raising him. ‘Here’s your lemonade, and while you’re drinking it Jessamy will shake up your pillows, so that you may be comfortable again. You didn’t know Jessamy had come to see you, did you?’
‘Jessamy,’ said Felix vaguely.
But when he was laid down again, he looked round, and seeing his brother, managed to smile, and to say again, with definite pleasure: ‘Jessamy!’
Taking his hand, Jessamy said awkwardly: ‘That’s the barber, old chap!’
‘I wish I hadn’t done it!’
Felix said unhappily. ‘I didn’t know it would hurt so much. Are you very angry?’
‘No, no, I promise you I’m not!’
Felix sighed, and, as Alverstoke began to bathe his face, closed his eyes again.
Jessamy was so much relieved that Felix should have wakened in full possession of his senses that he began to feel more cheerful, and was able, when Felix dropped off again, to give Alverstoke an account of what had been happening in Upper Wimpole Street.
On the whole, the news seemed to be good; for although Charis cried whenever she thought of poor Felix, and Miss Winsham, always put out of temper by adversity, regarded the accident as a piece of mischievous spite designed by Felix expressly to add to the cares besetting her, and said, amongst a great many other things, that she had no patience with him, or with Frederica, whose fault it was, because she had spoilt him to death, Harry had returned from Wells on the previous evening, and had at once assumed control of the household. Jessamy thought his arrival an unmixed blessing, but as his first act had apparently been to quarrel with his aunt, to such purpose that she then and there packed her trunk, and removed to Harley Street, Alverstoke doubted whether Frederica would think so. But Jessamy said confidently: ‘Yes, she will, sir, for she knows that my aunt and Harry always rub against each other, and I shan’t scruple to tell her that Charis will go on better without her! She – she said such things – such uncharitable things! – as wholly overset Charis! You know, sir, Charis’s spirits require support! And Harry does support them! Why, she plucked up the moment he came into the room! And if he is to remain with her – which, I promise you, he means to do! – there can be no need for my aunt to be there.’
In answer to a dry enquiry, Jessamy said that however much at outs he might frequently be with his senior he had never doubted Harry’s devotion to his family. He adduced, in proof of this statement, that Harry, to his own certain knowledge, had told his friend, Peplow, that he must exclude him from all their engagements: even from the Ascot Races! Harry’s first impulse had been to post off to Hertfordshire immediately, but he had been persuaded to remain in London. ‘And I’m bound to own, sir,’ said Jessamy handsomely, ‘that it does him credit! For I quite thought he would take a huff when I reminded him that he was never of the least use when any of us have been ill!’
Not only had Harry accepted this stricture meekly: he had furnished Jessamy with the money to pay for his journey; charged him with a reassuring message for Frederica; joked Charis out of the dismals; and had even promised to take care of Lufra. ‘And he didn’t call Luff that misbegotten mongrel, either!’ said Jessamy.
‘That was indeed kind of him,’ responded Alverstoke gravely.
‘Yes. Well, he is kind! I mean, he never tries to bullock one, or comes the ugly if one provokes him, which I daresay most elder brothers would.’ He sighed, and added wistfully: ‘I wish I might have brought Luff here, but they wouldn’t have permitted me to do so, on the stage, would they?’
