“Came to live at Twynham?” he ejaculated. “You don’t mean that Annis means to turn her off?”

“Oh, no! But one never knows what circumstances might arise to make her chaperonage unnecessary. Annis might be married, for instance.”

He laughed at this, and said, with comfortable conviction: “Not she! Why, she’s nine-and-twenty, and a confirmed old maid!”

She said nothing, but he apparently turned her words over in his mind, for he asked her, a few minutes later, if that fellow Carleton was still in Bath.

“He went to London some ten days ago,” she replied. “His niece, however, is still here, so I imagine he must mean to return.”

“Ay, you wrote to me that she was here, and I wish to my heart she were not! Mind you, she’s a taking little thing, and I don’t wish to say a word against her, but I’ve never approved of Annis’s conduct over that business, and I never shall!”

“Mr Carleton doesn’t approve of it either. He says Annis is not a fit person to take charge of Lucilla.”

“Damned impudence!” growled Sir Geoffrey, “Not but what she ain’t a fit person, and so I’ve said all along!”

“No, I am persuaded you are right,” she agreed. “But I fancy-indeed, I know—that Mr Carleton has every intention of removing her from Annis’s charge. That is why he has gone to London. You must not mention this, Geoffrey, for Lucilla knows nothing about it, and Annis told me in confidence.”

“You told me in the first letter you wrote after I left you here that you thought there was no danger of Annis’s losing her heart to him. The Lord only knows why so many women do lose their hearts to him, for a more disagreeable, top-lofty fellow I wish I may never meet!”

“I own I don’t like him, but I think he could make himself very agreeable to anyone he wished to please.”

“Good God, you don’t mean to tell me he’s been making up to Annis?” he exclaimed, in patent horror.

“You wouldn’t think so, but—I don’t know, Geoffrey! He doesn’t flirt with her, and he seems to say detestably uncivil things to her, but if he isn’t trying to fix his interests with her, I cannot help wondering why he has remained in Bath for so long.”

“Does she like him?” he demanded.

“I don’t know that either,” she confessed. “One wouldn’t think so, because they seem to rip up at each other every time they meet; but I have lately suspected that Annis is not as indifferent to him as she would have me believe.”

“You must be mistaken! Annis, of all people, to have a tendre for a fellow like Carleton? It isn’t possible! Why, they call him the rudest man in London! I am not surprised that he should be trying to attach her: he is notorious for his philandering, and I was very uneasy as soon as I discovered that Lucilla was his niece, for it seemed likely that he would come here, and Annis is a devilish goodlooking woman! But that she should be in love with him—no, no Amabel, you must be mistaken!”

“Perhaps I am, dearest. But if I am not—if she accepts an offer from him—we must learn to like him!”

“Like him?” echoed Sir Geoffrey, in a stupefied voice. “I can tell you this, Amabel: nothing will ever prevail upon me to consent to such a marriage!”

“But Geoffrey—!” she expostulated. “Your consent isn’t needed! Annis isn’t a minor! If she decides to marry Mr Carleton she will do so, and you will be obliged to accept him with a good grace—unless you wish to become estranged from her, which I am very sure you don’t.”

He looked to be somewhat disconcerted, but said: “If she chooses to marry Carleton, she will have to bear the consequences. But I shall warn her most solemnly that they may be more disagreeable than she foresees!”

“You will do as you think proper, dearest, but you must promise me that you won’t mention this matter to her until she herself speaks of it. Recollect that it is all conjecture at present! And on no account must you say anything to distress her! But when you see her you won’t wish to!”

He was not to see her, however, until the following day, a visit from Miss Farlow having left her with a headache, and a disinclination to receive any more visitors. Once the doctor had said that there was no longer any danger of infection to be feared, Lady Wychwood had found it to be impossible to exclude Miss Farlow from her room, for Annis had asked to see Lucilla, and Miss Farlow had, most unfortunately, encountered Lucilla coming out of the sickroom. A painful scene had been the outcome, for, accused of having gone slyly in to see Miss Wychwood when Jurby’s back had been turned, Lucilla said indignantly that she had done nothing of the sort: Miss Wychwood had asked for her, and as for Jurby’s back having been turned, Jurby had been in the room and was still there. This sent Miss Farlow scurrying away in search of Lady Wychwood, demanding hysterically to know why Lucilla had been permitted to see Miss Wychwood while she,her own cousin, was kept out. The end of it was that Lady Wychwood, feeling that there was a certain amount of justification for Miss Farlow’s threatened attack of the vapours, had said that no one was trying to keep her away from Annis: of course she might visit her! She added that she knew Maria might be trusted not to stay with her too long, or to talk too much. Miss Farlow, still convulsively sobbing, had replied that she hoped she knew better than to talk too much to persons in dear Annis’s tender condition. So too did Lady Wychwood, but she doubted it, and put an end to the visit twenty minutes after Miss Farlow had entered the room, by which time Annis looked as if she was in danger of suffering a relapse.

“I think I must turn you out now, Maria,” Lady Wychwood said, smiling kindly. “The doctor said only a quarter of an hour, you know!”

“Oh, yes, indeed! So right of him! Poor Annis is sadly pulled! I declare I was quite shocked to find her so pale and unlike herself, but, as I have been telling her, we shall soon have her to rights again. Now I shall leave her, and she must try to go to sleep, must she not? I will just draw the blinds across the window, for nothing is more disagreeable than having the light glaring at one. Not that it is not very pleasant to see the sun again after so many dull days, and they say that it is very beneficial, though I myself rather doubt that. I remember my dear mama saying that it was injurious to the female complexion, and she never went out into the open air without a veil over her face. Well, I must leave you now, dear Annis, but you may be sure I shall be always popping in to see how you go on!”

“Amabel,” said Miss Wychwood faintly, as Miss Farlow at last got herself out of the room, “if you love me, murder our dear cousin! The first thing she said when she came in was that she wasn’t going to talk to me, and she hasn’t ceased talking from that moment to this.”

“I am so sorry, dearest, but there was no way of keeping her out without giving grave offence,” responded Lady Wychwood, drawing the blinds back. “I shan’t let her visit you again today, so you may be easy.”

Miss Farlow succeeded in exasperating Sir Geoffrey at the dinnertable, first by uttering a series of singularly foolish observations, and then by trying to argue with Lady Wychwood. As dinner came to an end, she got up, saying: “Now you must excuse me, if you please! I am going up to sit with our dear invalid for a little while.”

“No, Maria,” said Lady Wychwood, “Annis is extremely tired, and must have no more visitors today.”

“Oh,” said Miss Farlow, with an angry little titter, “I do not rank myself as a visitor, Lady Wychwood! You have several times gone into Annis’s room, and some might think I had a better claim to do so, being a blood relation! Not that I mean to say that you are not a welcome visitor, for I am sure she must always be pleased to see you!”

Sir Geoffrey took instant umbrage at this, told her sharply that Lady Wychwood must be the only judge of who should, and who should not be permitted to visit Annis; and added, for good measure, that if she took his advice she would not allow her to go near Annis again, since he had no doubt that it was her ceaseless bibble-babbling that had tired her.

Realizing that she had gone too far, Miss Farlow hastened to say that she had no intention of casting the least slight on dear Lady Wychwood, but she was unable to resist the temptation to add, with another of her irritating titters: “But as for my visit having tired dear Annis, I venture to suggest that it was Lucilla who did the mischief! A great mistake, if I may say so, to have permitted her to visit—”

“Shall we go up to the drawing-room?” interposed Lady Wychwood, in a voice of quiet authority. “I think you are rather tired yourself, Maria. Perhaps you would prefer to retire to bed. We must not forget that it is only a very few days since you too were ill.”

Finally quelled, Miss Farlow did retire, but in so reluctant and lingering a way that she was still within tongue-shot when Sir Geoffrey said: “Well done, Amabel! Lord, what a gabster! Ay, and worse! The idea of her having the brass to say that it was Lucilla who exhausted Annis! A bigger piece of spite I never heard! More likely your visit did my sister a great deal of good, my dear!”

“Of course it did,” said Lady Wychwood. “Don’t look so downcast, child! You must surely be aware that poor Maria is eaten up with jealousy. And allowances must be made for people who are convalescent from the influenza: it often makes them cantankersome! Pray let us put her out of our minds! I was wondering whether it would entertain you to play a game of backgammon with Sir Geoffrey until Limbury brings in the tea-tray?”

But hardly had the board been set out than it had to be put away again, for a late caller arrived, in the person of Lord Beckenham. He had come to enquire after Miss Wychwood. He had only that very afternoon heard of her indisposition, for he had been obliged to visit the Metropolis at the beginning of the week. He explained at somewhat tedious length that he had stopped to eat his dinner at the Ship before continuing his journey, why he had done so, how he had come by the distressing news, and how he had been unable to wait until the next day before coming to discover how Miss Wychwood was going on. He did not know what she, and her ladyship, must have been thinking of him for not having called days ago.

He stayed to drink tea with them, and by the time he left Sir Geoffrey was heartily sick of him, and, having seen him off the premises, informed his wife that if he had to listen to any more forty-jawed persons that day he would go straight off to bed.

Chapter 15

Miss Wychwood, next morning, declared herself to be so much better as to be in a capital way. Jurby did not think that she looked to be in a capital way at all, and strenuously opposed her determination to get up. “I must get up!” said Miss Wychwood, rather crossly. “How am I ever to be myself again, if you keep me in bed, which of all things I most detest? Besides, my brother is coming to see me this morning, and I will not allow him to find me languishing in my bed, looking as if I were on the point of cocking up my toes!”

“We’ll see what the doctor says, miss!” said Jurby.

But when Dr Tidmarsh came to visit his patient, just as her almost untouched breakfast had been removed, he annoyed Jurby by saying that it would do Miss Wychwood good to leave her bed for an hour or two, and lie on the sofa. “I don’t think she should dress herself, but her pulse has been normal now since yesterday, and it won’t harm her to slip on a dressing-gown, and sit up for a little while.”

“Heaven bless you, doctor!” said Miss Wychwood.

“Ah, that sounds more like yourself, ma’am!” he said laughingly.

“Begging your pardon, sir,” said Jurby, “Miss Wychwood is not at all like herself! And it is my duty to inform you, sir, that she swallowed only three spoonfuls of the pork jelly she had for her dinner last night, and has had nothing for her breakfast but some tea, and a few scraps of toast!”

“Well, well, we must tempt her appetite, mustn’t we? I have no objection to her having a little chicken, say, or even a slice of boiled lamb, if she should fancy it.”

“The truth is that I don’t fancy anything,” confessed Annis. “I have quite lost my appetite! But I will try to eat some chicken, I promise!”

“That’s right!” he said. “Spoken like the sensible woman I know you to be, ma’am!”

Miss Wychwood might be a sensible woman, but the attack of influenza had left her feeling much more like one of the foolish, tearful creatures whom she profoundly despised, for ever lying on sofas, with smelling-salts clutched in their feeble hands, and always dependent on some stronger character to advise and support them. She had heard that influenza often left its victims subject to deep dejection, and she now knew that this was true. Never before had she been so blue-devilled that she felt it was a pity she had ever been born, or that it was too much trouble to try to rouse herself from her listless depression. She told herself that this contemptible state really did arise from her late illness; and that to lie in bed, with nothing better to do than to think how weak and miserable she felt, was merely to encourage her blue-devils. So she refused to yield to the temptation to remain in bed, but got up presently, found that her legs had become inexplicably wayward (“as though the bones had been taken out of them!” she told Jurby, trying to laugh), and was glad to accept the support of Jurby’s strong arm on her somewhat tottery progress to her dressing-table. A glance at her reflection in the mirror did nothing to improve her spirits. “Heavens, Jurby!” she exclaimed. “What a fright I am! I have a good mind to send you out to buy a pot of rouge for me!”