The Brave In Heart

by Mary Burchell

  At least it was withdrawn from her immediate vicinity, and, since she didn’t hear his voice any more, she became overwhelmed by the dreadful thought that she had offended him and he had gone away.

  This seemed not at all unreasonable to her in her fevered, half delirious state, and the magnitude of the disaster made her cry at last.

  “Please don’t go away,” she sobbed. “I’m sorry I was rude. Oh, please don’t go away.”

  And then his voice, almost beside her, said:

  “Don’t be a silly child. Of course, I’m not going away. Here, drink some of this, and let me have a look at the little girl.”

  Jessica found herself drinking scalding hot coffee from the cup of a thermos flask. And then her head was much clearer, although it still ached a great deal, and she was vaguely aware that she had been behaving in a strangely foolish way, but she thought she would be all right now.

  He had gently taken Judy’s weight from her aching arms and, by the light of the torch which she now saw was suspended round his neck, he made a cursory examination of the unconscious child.

  “How did you get here?” whispered Jessica hoarsely.

  “I came ahead of the others because my car is faster,” he explained briefly. “They’ll be here in a few minutes, with a sling to get Judy up to the top. Here, take my coat. Have you been sitting here without a coat?”

  “I put my raincoat round both of us, but it only covered part of me. Anyway, I’m not cold — I’m hot,” Jessica explained, and then began to shiver so violently that her teeth rattled in her head.

  Without any more argument, he slipped out of his heavy coat — momentarily she wondered how he had come so quickly down the cliff in it — and wrapped it round her. And, at the same time, voices and more lights overhead announced the arrival of the rest of the rescue party.

  Jessica was always very vague afterwards about the details of how she and Judy were hauled up the cliff side, and hurried down to the wailing ambulance in the main road far below. Judy, of course, was carried on a stretcher, and she thought that Ford Onderley half carried her most of the way. On the final stretch of the path he must have carried her, because she had no recollection whatever of walking it.

  Then she was bundled into his car and driven home at what seemed like nightmare speed, while he assured her that Judy would be taken straight to hospital and well cared for.

  “She’d rather come home.” sobbed Jessica, overcome by inexplicable tears. “Why don’t they bring her home and let me nurse her?”

  “You won’t be in any condition to nurse anyone for a while,” Ford Onderley told her firmly.

  This seemed a monstrous imposition to the half-delirious Jessica — that Ford Onderley should stand between her and Judy. And she said, with the conviction that the fact had been proved to her:

  “You’re a very hard man.”

  “Possibly.” he agreed equably. “And you’re a very sick girl, at the moment, my dear. So stop arguing, like a good child, and let someone else make the decisions just now.”

  She wanted to say that he had no right to make them, but the argument suddenly seemed pointless and quite unbearably difficult to continue, so she lapsed into silence, though she was aware that she muttered rather unintelligibly from time to time.

  After that, she was not aware of anything much, until she found she was in bed — which was an exquisite relief, only it didn’t appear to do much for the alternate shivering and burning which seemed to have returned with redoubled force, and still less for the inexplicable pains which were now in every limb.

  Jessica had the queer impression that days and nights ran into each other, without much real regard for time. And sometimes Mrs. Forrest was there, and sometimes Aunt Miriam, and — most often of all — a complete stranger in a nurse’s uniform.

  She knew, with a detached, impersonal awareness, that she was very ill, and at times she even remembered about the children and was worried. But she felt too physically weak to do anything about any problem, and an occasional muttered, “Is Judy all right?” was all that she could achieve.

  It was a soft, bright afternoon when at last she came to full consciousness again, and for a long while she lay there, just quietly enjoying the pale sunshine which shone in through the window opposite, and the first faint stirrings of returning health. She felt ridiculously and unutterably weak, but at least the pain was gone, and her skin felt cool and normal.

  For the first time, she was able to think back coherently to that scene on the cliff side, and to wonder with quickening anxiety what had happened to Judy and Tom — and herself.

  She wished fretfully that someone would come and tell her what she wanted to know. And then, as though in answer to her thought, there was a sound of the door opening and voices talking quietly.

  First came the voice which Jessica found she associated with the nurse, and it said:

  “Well, you can just peep at her. But I doubt if she will know you.”

  And then Mary — dear, thrice-welcome Mary! — replied, in an unusually subdued tone:

  “I won’t disturb her. I’ll just look at her.”

  “Oh, Mary darling, is that you?” Jessica spoke with more energy than she would have thought possible a moment ago. “Come in and talk to me!”

  There were pleased exclamations, and both the nurse and Mary — carrying pink roses and looking surprisingly as though she had tears in her eyes — came within Jessica’s range of vision.

  “That’s better!” declared the nurse with brisk cheerfulness, while Mary just bent down and kissed her, as though she found it rather difficult to say anything.

  “Only ten minutes,” warned the nurse. But Jessica held Mary’s hand tightly and said:

  “Sit down and tell me about everything. How is Judy?”

  “Getting on splendidly. The poor poppet had broken her leg, you know, and got a nasty knock on the head too, but she’s making an excellent recovery now.” Mary drew up a chair, and obviously meant to make the most of the ten minutes allowed her. “You must have kept her very well protected, Jess, for she hardly suffered from exposure at all,” she added, looking very kindly down at her friend.

  “I was terrified for her,” Jessica owned, “and I’m so relieved she’s getting on now. And Tom? My good reliable little Tom!”

  Mary smiled.

  “He didn’t suffer from anything worse than a bad cold. I had him home with me, and kept him in bed for the first week.”

  “The first — week?” Jessica repeated curiously. “How long is it since it happened then?”

  “Three weeks — going on for four,” Mary said, and an unwonted shade of anxiety crossed her face again.

  “Nearly four weeks?” Jessica looked astonished. “I can’t believe it! What on earth has been the matter with me, then?”

  There was the slightest hesitation, and then, because Mary knew her friend too well to suppose she would accept prevarication, she said as lightly as she could:

  “You’ve indulged in a nasty little bout of rheumatic fever, darling, and a nice fright you’ve given us all.”

  “Rheumatic fever! No wonder I feel so weak,” Jessica exclaimed.

  “Um-hm. It’s pretty weakening,” Mary agreed.

  “It’s a bit apt to leave one with a funny heart, too, isn’t it?” Jessica said, rather carefully avoiding Mary’s glance.

  “O-oh” — Mary seemed just as anxious to avoid Jessica’s eyes, for some reason — “not if one’s careful. You don’t need to start worrying about yourself, darling. You’re getting on splendidly now.”

  “I’m not worrying about myself,” Jessica explained slowly. “At least, not in the usual way, I mean. It’s only — so much depends on my being well and strong during the next year, Mary.”

  “Yes, I know, pet. But these things usually smooth themselves out. The great thing is not to worry, because that will only put back your full recovery.”

  “I know,” Jessica agreed, with a sigh. “I’ll
try not to worry.” Then, after a moment, she added: “Who’s running the house, Mary?”

  “Your Aunt Miriam is.”

  “Aunt Miriam! I say, that is good of her,” exclaimed Jessica, with a stab of genuine contrition for the little she had appreciated Aunt Miriam up to now.

  “Yes, I suppose it is.” Mary’s praise was more qualified. “But there isn’t very much to harass her, you know. Judy’s still in hospital, of course, and Tom is with me. So all Aunt Miriam has to do is run around after Linda and the nurse, and see they don’t sit down too often. She’s good at it,” Mary added reflectively.

  “Did Uncle Hector decide on a trained nurse when he arrived, the day after the accident?” Jessica enquired, trying to visualise the scene and failing.

  “No,” Mary said, a little dryly. “Ford Onderley decided on a trained nurse, long before Uncle Hector put in an appearance.”

  “Ford Onderley did!”

  “Um-hm. I can tell you, he looked around and gave orders as though The Mead belonged to him.”

  “Well, it does,” Jessica reminded Mary mildly.

  “Yes, of course, in a way. But I think the Forrests felt he threw his weight about a bit too much — taking charge of everything, including you.”

  “What do you mean? — including me.”

  “Well, he just carried you in, I understand, and right up to your bedroom, issuing his orders for doctors and nurses and peaches and brandy as he went, so to speak,” explained Mary, grinning rather teasingly.

  “Don’t be absurd.” Jessica laughed weakly.

  “Anyway, he then proceeded to carry out all his own orders. I will say that for him,” Mary conceded. “He phoned the doctor, and secured a nurse, on his own initiative, and then fetched peaches and brandy, or whatever it was, in unlimited supplies from Oak-lands. I believe there’s been a sort of pipeline of luxury supplies from Oaklands here, ever since,” Mary added thoughtfully.

  “Mary, how very kind of him! But he shouldn’t,” Jessica protested a little worriedly. “And it was frightfully nice of him to get a trained nurse, but she’s an expensive luxury, and he ought to have consulted Uncle Hector first. I’m sure he would have said Aunt Miriam preferred to look after me herself or something.”

  “I think that’s just what Uncle Hector did say,” Mary agreed.

  “What do you mean?” Jessica glanced at her quickly.

  “Well” — Mary bit her lip and laughed — “I’m not really supposed to tell you anything but sweet and soothing news, but I believe there were a few sharp words between Uncle Hector and the dictator of Oaklands, and Ford Onderley said he was underwriting the expenses of your illness, so Uncle Hector needn’t bother.”

  “Mary, he didn’t! What impertinence!”

  “Nice, convenient impertinence,” Mary pointed out reflectively.

  “But I couldn’t have him doing such a thing. I haven’t known the man more than a few weeks. And during most of those I’ve been unconscious,” Jessica added with an irrepressible gleam of humour.

  “Well, my pet, don’t worry about that either for the moment,” Mary advised her. “Just you get well, and then you can sort everything out for yourself — and you may find that I’ve got this story a bit wrong.”

  “I shouldn’t be surprised,” Jessica agreed. “How did you hear all this, anyway? Or have you just invented it?”

  “Really, Jess! From my best friend!” Mary laughed.

  “As a matter of fact, Mrs. Forrest gave me a rather lively account of what happened during the first few days.”

  “Oh, the Forrests!” Jessica suddenly remembered their position in the scheme of things. “What on earth has happened to them during all this?”

  “Well, they stayed on for the first few days, and then Mrs. Forrest said, very reasonably, that they were probably more in the way than of assistance, with illness in the house,” Mary explained. “So they went to an hotel at Keswick. They had friends there, hadn’t they?” Jessica nodded. “I think they’re returning to London shortly, but no doubt they will come over to see you before they finally go.”

  “Yes. I expect so.”

  Jessica suddenly felt inordinately tired again, and a good deal depressed. Where were all her nice plans now? Her ideal paying guests, who were to have made such a good beginning for her, had not been able to stay. And the flimsy foundations of her hopes were now exposed. Two or three weeks of illness — and a frighteningly weakening and disabling illness, at that — had been sufficient to put back, if not to destroy, all her hopeful planning.

  Mary evidently saw the change in expression, because she said quickly:

  “I expect we’ve talked long enough. I’ll have that nurse calling out for my blood if I don’t go soon, because I expect you tire rather easily just yet, dear.”

  Jessica nodded.

  “It’s not just being tired,” she said rather sadly. “I can’t help — worrying a bit, too.”

  “Oh, you mustn’t do that.” Mary exclaimed. “It’s the very last thing you should do! In fact, I had very strict instructions to see that you didn’t.”

  “From whom?” Jessica smiled faintly.

  “Your Ford Onderley, as a matter of fact.”

  “Mary! He’s not ‘my’ Ford Onderley. And, anyway, what has he got to do with it?”

  “In my view, rather little.” Mary admitted. “In his, quite a lot, I believe. I met him on my way here, and he stopped me and asked after you. When he heard I hoped to see you, he said I was to tell you most emphatically not to worry about anything. In fact, I’m afraid he added that he would see everything was all right, which I thought rather officious of him.”

  “Oh, Mary” — Jessica gave a doubtful little laugh and bit her lip — “I don’t know what to say about him. It is officious of him, in a way, of course, and I’m afraid he has a fixed belief that he’s entitled to interfere when and where he pleases. But he does mean it kindly, I’m sure. He may just have wanted me to know that I — that I needn’t worry about the rent and —”

  “Good heavens! I should hope you needn’t worry about the rent in the middle of a bad illness,” interrupted Mary indignantly.

  “No, no — I didn’t mean it that way. He made a wonderfully generous arrangement about the rent, so that I could start my paying-guest idea. Now, perhaps he’s thinking the same as I am, that — that it may not be possible to carry out the idea.” Jessica’s voice trembled slightly with distress and disappointment, in spite of herself, but she recovered her composure and added quickly. “At least, it may not be possible for some time. I dare say he was trying to convey the fact that, even in the changed circumstances, I needn’t worry.”

  “Possibly.” Mary looked amusedly sceptical. “Personally, I thought he was trying to convey the fact that as a despotic, if benevolent, landlord, he felt a personal responsibility for you, Judy, Tom and The Mead, generally.”

  Jessica laughed faintly and said, “I don’t know which is more absurd — you or he.”

  But, long after Mary had gone — driven out by a menacingly bright but very determined nurse — Jessica lay there and thought about Ford Onderley and his apparent determination to take a hand in her affairs.

  Well, Mary was right when she said that worrying would only retard her recovery, so she would try not to worry. And, curiously enough, in her endeavours to regard the future philosophically, Jessica found that she rested, with illogical relief, on the thought that Ford Onderley was there.

  After that, there were no more periods of wandering. Jessica found that she was aware — indeed, very sharply aware — of most things which were going on around her now. Not only the informative visits of Aunt Miriam and the uninformative comments of the nurse, but the familiar sounds from other parts of the house. Sounds for which she could either unhesitatingly supply the source, from old experience, or worry about because they indicated a new order of things with which it was going to be very difficult to cope.

  It was odd and disturbing, for instanc
e, to hear Uncle Hector clearing his throat portentously — which he frequently did — and to reflect that there he was in the house, the living embodiment of opposition to the kind of life she and the twins had hoped to have. But, think as she would, she could not formulate any useful arguments against his known views, and it was no good tiring herself in the attempt to do so just now.

  One afternoon Tom came to see her, and. if he displayed some degree of homesickness in the first shock of seeing her, it was perfectly obvious that he was extremely happy at the Skeltons’ house.

  “I say, you have been proved right about that walk, haven’t you?” said Tom, who was a literal-minded child and liked the odd ends of conversations and circumstances tied up neatly.

  “Have I?” Jessica smiled at him. “What walk do you mean?”

  “Oh, Jess!” He seemed astonished by her lack of comprehension. “Don’t you remember? You kept on saying it was silly of us to go right down to the tarn that afternoon, as we’d have difficulty getting back if it rained. And, my goodness, were you right!”

  Jessica laughed.

  “I’ll say I was.” she agreed. “But never mind now. I think that little burst of sunshine after lunch deceived us all. How is Judy?”

  “You are nice, the way you never nag and say, ‘I told you so,’” remarked Tom, taking first things first. “Judy’s fine now. They let me go to see her every day at the hospital, and they’re very jolly there and let me do one or two jobs. But they won’t let me go in and see an operation, and I think it’s rather mean of them, don’t you? Because I’ll never have such an opportunity again, and it’s all knowledge, isn’t it?”

  “I dare say it’s knowledge you can do without for the moment,” his sister told him firmly. “And stop being a gruesome child. Is Judy happy there?”

  “Yes, very. Oh, she gave me a note for you.” And Tom extracted from his pocket an envelope which showed some signs of wear and tear.

  It was written in pencil, in Judy’s very round handwriting, and informed Jessica — with a certain degree of originality in the spelling — that she was very well and would soon be “hopping about with a crutch.”