Frederica (44 page)

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! Good-night, my child!”

She nodded gratefully, uttering no protest, either then, or when he returned, after breakfast, and informed her that henceforward 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?”

The Marquis, mentally rendering thanks to Providence for having refrained from adding the task of preserving Farmer Judbrook’s herd from Lufra’s onslaughts to his other duties, said, with as much sympathy as he could infuse into his voice: “No, I am afraid they wouldn’t. But you have the comfort of knowing that he will be well cared for while you are away.”

“Oh, yes!” said Jessamy naively. “Owen has promised me that he will feed him, and exercise him.”

If Frederica was not wholly pleased to know that her aunt had washed her hands of her young relations, she received the news philosophically, telling Alverstoke that perhaps it was just as well that she had retired to Harley Street. “For it is not at all helpful to be scolding all the tune, just as if any of this were poor Charis’s fault! She doesn’t mean everything she says, and I don’t doubt she will keep her eyes on things, even if she has taken up residence with my Aunt Amelia. Charis will be much happier with Harry, and I know he will take good care of her. The only thing is—”

She broke off, a worried frown in her eyes; and, after a moment, Alverstoke said: “What is the only thing, Frederica? My blockish young cousin?”

A tiny smile acknowledged that he had scored a hit, but she replied: “Whatever it is there’s nothing I can do about it, so it would be stupid to tease myself.”

He said no more, knowing that her thoughts were concentrated on Felix. Charis’s future was a matter of indifference to him, except as it affected her sister, so he was content to let the matter drop. He was much inclined to think that Endymion was indulging a fit of gallantry that would be as fleeting as it was violent; if the affair proved to be more serious than he supposed, and Frederica was troubled by it, he would intervene, and without compunction. His lordship, in fact, previously ruthless on his own behalf, was now prepared to sacrifice the entire human race to spare his Frederica one moment’s pain. Except, perhaps, the two youngest members of the family she loved so much: Jessamy, concealing his chagrin at being allowed so little share of the nursing, and humbly holding himself in readiness to fetch, carry, run errands, or to perform any task which was required of him; and Felix—little devil that he was!—who was depending on his strength, and could be quietened by his voice. No: he wasn’t prepared to sacrifice Jessamy or Felix: he had become attached to the infernal brats—though he was damned if he knew why.

During the next two days he had no leisure, much less inclination, to consider this problem. Fulfilling the doctor’s prophecy, Felix’s fever mounted; and although Alverstoke maintained his imperturbable demeanour he entertained the gravest fears. That Frederica shared them he knew, though she never spoke of them, or showed a sign of agitation. She was invincibly cheerful, and apparently tireless; but when he saw how strained her eyes were, and how drawn her face, he wondered how long it would be before she collapsed.

But in the early hours of the third day, when he entered the sickroom, he found it strangely quiet. So critical did he feel Felix’s condition to be that he had not left the farm that evening. He checked now upon the threshold, filled with foreboding. Felix was lying still, neither muttering, nor twitching; and Frederica was standing by the bed. She turned her head at the sound of the opening door; and Alverstoke, seeing that tears were rolling down her face, went quickly forward, saying involuntarily: “Oh, my poor girl—!”

Then he saw that she was smiling through her tears. She said simply: “He is asleep. The fever
broke. Suddenly I saw that he was sweating, and I
knew
!
Cousin
,
we’ve
done
the thing!”

XXIV

With Felix out of danger, and slowly winning back to strength, life at Monk’s Farm underwent several changes. It was no longer necessary to keep a constant watch over him; and although Frederica, sleeping on the truckle-bed in his room, might be obliged to get up three or four times during the night to attend to him, she no longer needed either relief or assistance; nor, during the day, was it imperative for her to remain always within call. He slept a great deal, and was docile when awake, too weak to display any of his customary recalcitrance: a circumstance which made Jessamy, permitted at last to share the task of nursing him, so uneasy that he sought counsel of the Marquis. “For I don’t wish to alarm Frederica, sir,” he explained. “Only it does seem to me very unlike him! I don’t mean because he does what you or Frederica bid him, because he would, of course. But he does what
I
say he must, and doesn’t even argue! You don’t think, do you sir, that his brain is affected?”

Preserving his countenance, the Marquis reassured him; but he was not wholly satisfied until the day when Felix had to be coaxed to swallow his medicine, and apostrophized him as the greatest beast in nature. “So now I
know
all’s right!” he told the Marquis radiantly. “I daresay he will soon be throwing the glass at me!”