Page:Once a Week Volume 7.djvu/224

216 ever-present sorrow. Whether the fever—it was not brain fever, though bordering closely upon it—was the result of his state of mind, more than of the sun-stroke, might be a question. Nobody knew anything of that state of mind, and the sun-stroke got all the blame—save, perhaps, from Lionel himself. He may have doubted.

One day Jan called in to see him. It was in August. Several weeks had elapsed since the commencement of his illness, and he was so far recovered as to be removed by day to a sitting-room on a level with his chamber. A wondrously pretty sitting-room over Lady Verner’s drawing-room, but not so large as that, and called “Miss Decima’s room.” The walls were panelled in medallions, white and delicate blue, the curtains were of blue satin and lace, the furniture blue. In each medallion hung an exquisite painting in water colours, framed—Decima’s doing. Lady Verner was one who liked at times to be alone, and then Decima would sit in this room, and feel more at home than in any room in the house. When Lionel began to recover, the room was given over to him. Here he lay on the sofa; or lounged in an easy chair; or stood at the window, his hands clasping hold of some support, and his legs as tottering as were poor old Matthew Frost’s. Sometimes Lady Verner would be his companion, sometimes he would be consigned to Decima and Lucy Tempest. Lucy was pleased to take her share of helping the time to pass; would read to him, or talk to him; or sit down on her low stool on the hearthrug and only look at him, waiting until he should want something done. Dangerous moments, Miss Lucy! Unless your heart shall be cased in adamant, you can scarcely be with that attractive man—ten times more attractive now, in his sickness—and not get your wings singed.

Jan came in one day when Lionel was sitting on the sofa, having propped the cushion up at the back of his head. Decima was winding some silk, and Lucy was holding the skein for her. Lucy wore a summer dress of white muslin, a blue sprig raised upon it in tambour-stitch, with blue and white ribbons at its waist and neck. Very pretty, very simple it looked, but wonderfully according with Lucy Tempest. Jan looked round, saw a tolerably strong table, and took up his seat upon it.”it. [sic]

“How d’ye get on, Lionel?” asked he.

It was Dr. West who attended Lionel, and Jan was tenacious of interfering with the doctor’s proper patients—or, rather, the doctor was tenacious of his doing it—therefore Jan’s visits were entirely unprofessional.

“I don’t get on at all—as it seems to me,” replied Lionel. “I’m sure I am weaker than I was a week ago.”

“I daresay,” said Jan.

“You daresay!” echoed Lionel. “When a man has turned the point of an illness, he expects to get stronger, instead of weaker.”

“That depends,” said Jan. “I beg your pardon, Miss Lucy; that’s my foot caught in your dress, isn’t it?”

Lucy turned to disentangle her dress from Jan’s great feet.

“You should not sway your feet about so, Jan,” said she, pleasantly.

“It hasn’t hurt it, has it?” asked Jan.

“Oh, no. Is there another skein to hold, Decima?”

Decima replied in the negative. She rose, put the paper of silk upon the table, and then turned to Jan.

“I and mamma had quite a contention yesterday,” she said to him. “I say that Lionel is not being treated properly.”

“That’s just my opinion,” laconically replied Jan. “Only West flares up so, if his treatment is called in question. I’d get him well in half the time.”

Lionel wearily changed his position on the sofa. The getting well, or the keeping ill, did not appear to interest him greatly.

“Let’s look at his medicine, Decima,” continued Jan. “I have not seen what has come round lately.”

Decima left the room and brought back a bottle with some medicine in it.

“There’s only one dose left,” she remarked to Jan.

Jan took the cork out and smelt it; then he tasted it, apparently with great gusto, like anybody else might taste port wine; while Lucy watched him, drawing her lips away from her pretty teeth in distaste at the proceeding.

“Psha!” cried Jan.

“Is it not proper medicine for him?” asked Decima.

“It’s as innocent as water,” said Jan. “It’ll do him neither good nor harm.”

And finally Jan poured the lot down his own throat.

Lucy shuddered.

“Oh, Jan, how could you take it?”

“It won’t hurt me,” said literal Jan.

“But it must be so nasty! I never could have believed any one would willingly drink medicine. It is bad enough to do it when compelled by sickness.”

“Law!” returned Jan. “If you call this nasty, Miss Lucy, you should taste some of our physic. The smell would about knock you down.”

“I think nothing is worse than the smell of drugs,” resumed Lucy. “The other day, when Lady Verner called in at your surgery to speak to you, and took me with her, I was glad to get into the open air again.”

“Don’t you ever marry a doctor, then, Miss Lucy.”

“I am not going to marry one,” returned Lucy.

“Well, you need not look so fierce,” cried Jan. “I didn’t ask you.” Lucy laughed.

“Did I look fierce, Jan? I suppose I was thinking of the drugs. I’d never never be a surgeon, of all things in the world.”

“If every body was of your mind, Miss Lucy, how would people get doctored?”

“Very true,” answered Lucy. “But I don’t envy them.”

“The doctors or the people?” asked Jan.

“I meant the doctors. But I envy the patients