Frederica

XXIII

The Marquis did not return to Monk’s Farm until shortly before six o’clock, by which time he had been refreshed by a long sleep, a complete change of raiment, and a tolerable dinner. After a brief conversation with both the Judbrooks, he went upstairs to the room in which Fells lay, and. entered it softly. The curtains had been drawn across the window, shutting out the westering sun, but he was immediately aware of a change. The room was redolent, not of the mustiness of disuse, but of lavender; and, as his eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, he saw that a truckle-bed had been set up, the heavy patchwork quilt removed from the four-poster, and a screen placed to shield from Felix the light that would later be cast by the oil-lamp which now stood upon the table. Felix was uneasily asleep, moaning a, little, and muttering; and Frederica was sitting in the armchair, which she had drawn up to the window. She rose when she saw who had entered the room, and came towards Ms lordship like a ghost, breathing: “Don’t wake him!”

She passed before him out of the room, and he drew the door to behind them both. He saw that she was looking pale, and very tired, and said: “He’s no better? I can see you’ve been having the devil of a time!”

She shook her head. “No. We can’t expect him to be better yet, you know. And at this hour a feverish person is always at his worst. But Dr Elcot has told me just what to do.”

“Are you satisfied with Elcot? If you would wish to have another doctor’s opinion, tell me! I’ll set out for London immediately, and bring Knighton here — or any other you choose to name!”

“Thank you — but no: I think Dr Elcot knows just what he is about.”

“Very well, then go down to the parlour now, to your dinner! You will offend Miss Judbrook if you don’t: she appears to have exerted herself to prepare an elegant repast for you, which is ready, and — so she tells me — rapidly spoiling. And let me inform you, my dear, that if you mean to say that you dare not leave Felix in my care you will offend me too!”

“I shan’t say that, at least! Dr Elcot told me how well you managed Felix, and how good you have been to him. The truth is that I am not at all hungry — but I know how stupid it would be to refuse my dinner, so I will go downstairs. If Felix should wake, and complain that he is thirsty, there is lemonade in the blue jug on the table.”

“Now, why the devil didn’t I think of lemonade, when he was so thirsty last night?” he exclaimed.

She smiled. “How should you? In any event, I don’t think Miss Judbrook has any lemons. I brought some from London — which reminds me that I shall need some more. Will you procure some for me in Hemel Hempstead tomorrow, cousin?”

“Yes, and anything else you need, but go down now!” She went obediently, returning half-an-hour later to find him supporting Felix with one arm, and trying, not very successfully, to turn the pillow with his other hand. She went at once to the rescue; and he said apologetically: “I fear I’m not yet very deedy! He has been turning his head continually, trying, I think, to find a cool spot. Frederica, are you sure you don’t wish another doctor to see him? I won’t disguise from you that he seems to me more feverish now than he was last night.”

She began to bathe Felix’s face and hands with a handkerchief soaked with lavender-water. “Dr Elcot warned me that he expected him to be worse before he is better. It will soon be time for his medicine again, and that will make him easier: you’ll see! At least — do you mean to go back to the Sun immediately, or would you wait for just twenty minutes? To hold him for me, while I give him the dose? When he is like this, quite out of his senses, it is very difficult for me to manage him without assistance.”

“I am entirely at your disposal, Frederica. Did you eat your dinner?”

“Yes, and drank the glass of wine you provided for me, cousin. Miss Judbrook told me that you brought over a bottle from the Sun. Thank you! It has made me feel as fresh as a nosegay!”

“I’m happy to hear it,” he said dryly. He moved away, but after watching her struggles to control Felix, and to keep his body covered, he came back again, saying: “Let me try what I can do! No, leave him to me! I succeeded last night, and may yet be able to do so.”

She yielded her place to him, and he sat down, possessing himself of Felix’s burning hand, and speaking to him in the compelling voice which he had previously used to such good effect. It did not this time recall Felix to his senses; but it seemed to Frederica that although there was no recognition in the fevered eyes the implacable voice at last penetrated the mists. Felix grew quieter, moaning, but no longer trying to fling himself about. He fought against the medicine, but Alverstoke held him clamped against his shoulder, and Frederica was quick to tilt the mixture down his throat when he opened his mouth to utter a wild, incoherent protest. He choked, coughed, and burst into spasmodic sobs, but gradually these ceased, and he sighed wearily. Alverstoke laid him down again, and said softly over his shoulder: “Go to bed, Frederica!”

She blinked, and whispered: “I shall lie down presently on the truckle-bed. Pray don’t — ”

“You will go to bed in your own room. I’ll wake you at midnight — before, if I should see any need! Oblige me by sending for Curry, and telling him to put the horses to then.”

“You cannot drive back to Hemel Hempstead at that hour!”

“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! 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 feverbroke. Suddenly I saw that he was sweating, and Iknew! Cousin,we’ve done the thing!”