The second doctor came, and his opinion was, on the whole, less
unsatisfactory. He allowed that there was reason for alarm, and that
some of the symptoms were perplexing, but with great care he thought it
possible that a day or two might bring improvement. Mrs Leslie also
arrived, and took prompt command, although she was careful to let her
hosts understand that she had left home at great inconvenience to
herself.
"Such nonsense!" said Lady Wilmot to Claudia. "The great inconvenience
means that she has been obliged to throw up one or two engagements. I'm
sure her husband, poor man, must be grateful to us for giving him a
little time in which he may call his soul his own."
Claudia looked white and worried. Her fears had returned upon her, and
she could not laugh lightly as Lady Wilmot seemed able to laugh, even
when things were at their worst. Imagination often paints in stronger
colours than reality; she had not seen Fenwick, and pictured him more
suffering than was the case. Besides, she had just heard that the
doctors could express no decided opinion for two or three days, a time
which to her restlessness seemed unendurable. She looked blankly at
Lady Wilmot, not at first realising who she was talking about.
"Oh, Mrs Leslie," she said at last, forcing back her attention, "isn't
she like her brother?"
"Dreadfully. But what in a man is a nice peremptory manner, is simply
odious in a woman. I wondered you didn't rend her when she talked to
you in that way, and asked all those questions. And I wished you hadn't
said that it was your fault."
"It was."
"It wasn't. It was the County Council's, or whoever it is who ought to
see after our roads. Arthur said so himself, and he wanted of all
things to know if you were hurt."
"He is very kind," said Claudia coldly. She hated herself for minding
anything at a time when anxiety held them all, but from behind Lady
Wilmot's good-natured consolations it appeared to her that she detected
a smile of triumph peeping out. "See what I told you!" it seemed to
say, "see what he has done, and deny now, if you dare, that he cares for
you!" With that "Claudia!" ringing in her ears, how could she deny it,
even to herself? If no other result came from the whirl of inward
questioning, it had no doubt the effect of fixing her thoughts very
closely upon Captain Fenwick.
Minutes--hours--crawled by. Claudia lived upon the crumbs which were
flung to her, not daring to ask for them in larger quantities. Charlie
Carter departed, and she missed him because, though casual in his
answers, he was sure to know what was going on in the house, and
sometimes imparted his knowledge. Then she fell to working feverishly
again, keeping out of doors half the day. But wherever she was, she
contrived with few and short intervals, to have the house in view, and
with the house, Fenwick's window. Sometimes a white-aproned figure--the
nurse--would stand there, looking out, and once when she drew down the
blind to shut out the glare, Claudia went through a sudden and agonising
dread. She stood staring, deaf to one of the workmen who had advanced
to inquire about a particular order, and watching the other windows to
see whether the too-significant sign were repeated in them. It was on
this day that when she came down to dinner she found that Fenwick had
been for some hours making steady improvement, and that all were
hopeful.
From this time, indeed, he improved steadily, and Lady Wilmot announced
with some glee that he was only anxious to get rid of Mrs Leslie.
"They're too much alike. They irritate each other."
"I would back Arthur's will against most people's," said Sir Peter
quietly.
"Oh yes, and generally she has to knock under, but now, now that he is
ill, she gets him at a disadvantage, and it is rather comic. However,
she goes to-morrow, and then, as soon as he can be moved into my
boudoir, we must all set to work to make it pleasant for him."
And she flung a queer look at Claudia.
Claudia herself, in spite of the comparative lifting of the load, was
finding the decisions of life not quite so simple a matter as she had
imagined. Fenwick was better, no doubt, but there was still talk which
made her uneasy. And though she would gladly have gone off, her work
was unfinished, and there seemed less excuse for a hurried departure
than before. The Wilmots might not unnaturally wonder why she went.
What could she say? What excuse could she offer? What excuse, at any
rate, which Lady Wilmot's sharp eyes would not see through? She must
wait, hoping earnestly that she might find an opportunity for leaving
before she was called upon to take her turn in amusing the invalid's
convalescence.
Meanwhile, when she glanced at Fenwick's window, which was often, she
pictured a much more dismal interior than facts warranted. If it had
not been that the monotony of illness must be always irksome to an
active man, Fenwick would have allowed that he was well off in a
pleasant room, with every luxury in papers, books, flowers, and a
cheerful selection of visitors to wile away the time.
"It's better, anyway, than grilling in India, with fever on you, the
temperature anything you like and a little more, and the punkah gone to
sleep," he admitted one day when Sir Peter had left his wife to the not
uncongenial task of raising her cousin's spirits, which happened to be
rather depressed.
"Thank you," she said politely.
"Well, isn't it?" he returned, glancing at her.
"I don't know. But I prefer gratitude not altogether expressed in
negatives."
"You know what I mean," he said rather sulkily. "How much longer am I
going to be tied by the leg?"
Lady Wilmot was a born matchmaker. Her eyes began to sparkle.
"Never mind. I'm certain she's thinking of you a great deal."
"That's nothing," he returned, in the same tone. "It's her way to take
things violently. But if I'm only a weight on her conscience, as soon
as I'm all right again, she'll fling me off."
His cousin buried her head cosily in a soft silk cushion.
"I wish you'd tell me seriously, Arthur, whether you really mean it?"
"Of course I do."
"You always say of course--each time."
"Well, this time I've broken my leg over it. I couldn't do more, could
I?"
"No-o-o," replied Lady Wilmot doubtfully.
"I know the symptoms, as you infer, and I assure you I never had them so
strongly before."
"You used to tell _me_ that."
"They weren't to compare. One lives and learns."
"You looked wretched enough," said Lady Wilmot, sitting up indignantly.
"I'm sure I never saw such a contrast as between you and Peter at the
wedding. Every one noticed it."
"It didn't last. Look at us now. Peter--Peter is getting--well, let us
call it broad I say, hands up! Don't pitch things at a man that's
down."
"I wonder your illness hasn't made you more truthful! What will you say
next about Peter?"
"I don't want to talk of him at all. He doesn't interest me."
"Shall I call the nurse?" inquired Lady Wilmot, rising with dignity.
"No, no; sit down, and tell me more about Claudia. It's awful to think
how much time I'm wasting."
His cousin settled herself once more against the cushion, took up one of
the pugs, and smiled in token of forgiveness.
"I'm not so sure," she said doubtfully.
"Pity?"
"And remorse. You see, Charlie Carter was for ever dinning into her
that it was all her fault."
"It wasn't, really," said Fenwick, hastily. "I can't exactly explain."
"Oh, I can! I've felt all along that she was trying to avoid a crisis.
You're so dreadfully impetuous."
"I like that! If I had only chosen to be impetuous, as you call it,
Peter would have been nowhere."
"Perhaps, if you're expecting me to help you, you'll condescend to talk
sense."
"Oh, you'll help; you're dying to be at it."
She vouchsafed no reply.
"I'll tell you one thing you can do," he said eagerly. "If you really
believe she's feeling a bit sentimental over my spill--"