Thank Heaven Fasting (21 page)

“But Frederica——”

“I'll look after Frederica,” said the doctor curtly, and seeming unaware that he was referring to the daughter of the house by her Christian name.

Almost immediately afterwards he went away.

“Would you really like to go away somewhere, Cecily? You've never been anywhere without Frederica, have you?”

“Never.”

“I don't suppose she'd—like it, would she? I mean, she's rather jealous of your having anything to do with anybody else.”

“Yes, I know.”

It was evident that Cecily, as usual, was either unwilling, or unable, to commit herself.

Monica did not repeat anything that Dr. Corderey had said at home. She thought about it very often, and could not decide whether she agreed with Dr. Corderey, or distrusted him as her mother would have done. The idea sometimes crossed her mind that, if he had been a gentleman—she meant, someone belonging to her own world—she might have fallen in love with him. Some thought of the kind went through Monica's mind with reference to every unmarried man that she ever met, but she was scarcely aware of it, any more than she realized that whenever she bowed to the new moon, or ate the first strawberry of the year, the automatic formula that sprang to her lips was always:
“I wish to be engaged to be married.”

No suggestion came from Belgrave Square, and Monica hoped that none might. She did not in the least want to go away into the country with Cecily Marlowe, and she was certain that they would not be allowed to go abroad together. And even if they were, nothing would happen. Cecily was not the kind of person with whom anything ever did happen.

Even now, Monica instinctively disassociated herself from Frederica and Cecily, when she thought in terms of romantic adventure. She could not believe herself to be as unattractive, as lacking in all magnetism, as she felt them to be.

Only sometimes, lying awake at night, she realized with terror that the years were slipping by—and no one had wanted to marry her.

“What ridiculous nonsense!” said Mrs. Ingram.

“What, mother?”

Even Vernon Ingram looked at his wife across the breakfast table and enquired also: “What is it, dear?”

“Poor Theodora Marlowe—as if she hadn't had worry enough over those two tiresome girls! Though it's absurd to
call them girls, I'm sure. She writes very amusingly—she's always amusing—but I can see she's vexed. Dr. Corderey, if you please, has taken upon himself to give her some extremely unnecessary, and rather impertinent, advice about Frederica and Cecily.”

“What advice?” asked Monica, remembering the little scene that she had witnessed in the Belgrave Square drawing-room.

“Some modern nonsense, darling, about nerves and fancies. He thinks it's very bad for them to be together all the time, as of course they are, and he wants Frederica to do a rest-cure, or something of the kind. He told Lady Marlowe that Cecily ought to be given a chance to get right away, on her own, and find something to do. As if there was anything she
could
do!”

“But, mother—they are rather odd, both of them. Perhaps it really would be a good thing—?''—

“The only thing that would do either of them any good would be to find a husband,” said Mrs. Ingram calmly. “And I don't suppose there's the slightest chance of that. I wish old Dr. Bruce had attended them himself, instead of sending this absurd young man. There's one thing, he'll never get sent for again. Lady Marlowe is very much annoyed with him.”

Monica could quite well believe it. She knew that Lady Marlowe was quite unaccustomed to criticism, and would resent it the more where her two unsatisfactory daughters were concerned.

She sent for Frederica and the hospital nurse to join her at Brighton, and ordered Cecily to return to Yorkshire.

“I can't have two unmarried daughters trailing about the Metropole Hotel after me,” wrote Lady Marlowe, very decidedly, to Mrs. Ingram. “Why on earth couldn't even
one
of them have been a son?”

Why indeed, wondered Monica. People were proud of their sons, whether they married or not. No woman minded being seen about with a son—far from it. But daughters, she
knew, were a very different thing. Even one daughter was bad enough.

After Frederica and the nurse had gone to Brighton and Cecily had returned, unprotesting, to Yorkshire and the company of the permanently resident ex-governess there, Monica's daily life went on, undisturbed by any event of importance.

Then, quite suddenly, there was an accident.

Monica's father, returning from the Club one evening as usual, was knocked down by a taxi in the street.

Vernon Ingram was brought home unconscious.

He lay in a darkened room, knowing nothing, and in a moment, as it seemed, the lives of all of them had altered.

Nothing was of importance now excepting the life that was threatened. Examination revealed internal injuries, and it was feared that they were grave.

Monica sat downstairs, and answered the telephone, and wrote notes, and occasionally saw some of the people who came daily to enquire.

Most of them were relations, elderly and depressing.

On the third afternoon Monica was by herself, oppressed and unhappy, and vaguely wishing that Carol Anderson would come.

A card was brought in to her and her spirit knew a moment's lightening. She took it up eagerly and read the name of Mr. Pelham.

“Mr. Pelham asked if you would see him for a few minutes, Miss.”

“Very well. Show him up.”

She was disappointed, but it would be a relief to talk to anybody.

Mr. Pelham's gravity was habitual, and it was only slightly deepened as he came into the room and limply shook Monica's hand.

“How is he?”

“The same, thank you. He's conscious now—more or less.
He was concussed, you know, as well as being hurt in—other ways.”

Monica had repeated these, and similar, phrases so often that she hardly felt as though she knew what she was saying.

“It must be a most anxious time for you. How is your mother?”

“She's wonderful,” Monica repeated mechanically. “She's with him now. Of course there's a nurse as well.”

“Of course.”

“Won't you sit down? I dare say mother will be down in a few minutes. I asked them to let her know you were here.”

“Thank you.”

Mr. Pelham sat down, with his habitual gesture of carefully pulling up the knees of his trousers.

“What exactly happened? It was a cab, wasn't it?”

“As far as we know——” began Monica.

She recapitulated the story of the accident. She had been asked the same questions, and had given the same replies, many times in the past three days.

“I see,” said Mr. Pelham at intervals, and “Really—yes—I suppose so,” in a concerned voice.

His prawn-like eyes were fixed, inexpressively, upon Monica's face, and from time to time he nodded as if to show that he was paying attention to all she said.

Monica, as a matter of fact, had no doubts at all of his attention. She knew that Mr. Pelham had an extremely and unusually retentive memory. He often surprised her by reminding her of quite trivial conversations that they had exchanged in the course of the years that they had known one another.

“These cases of concussion are most curious. I remember a cousin of mine, once——”

Monica listened, rather wearily. Almost everyone had had some similar instance, a case of concussion, about which to tell her. Mr. Pelham's cousin had fallen on the back of his head, skating at Prince's….

Monica, in her turn, said “Yes” and “I see.”

In spite of herself, her thoughts wandered.

Carol had telephoned enquiries twice, and on the last occasion she had spoken to him, and said that she would like to see him. He had promised to come that afternoon, and she hoped he would not arrive until Mr. Pelham had gone.

Mr. Pelham was in no haste to go. He was always apt to pay lengthy visits, and Monica had rashly admitted that she had nothing to do.

At last she felt obliged to offer him tea.

“Thank you—that's very kind of you. But I don't wish—I know you must have letters to write—or perhaps you're wanted upstairs?”

“No,” said Monica. “He doesn't really want anyone, you know. He's under morphia most of the time. To-morrow the doctors are hoping to make a more thorough examination, to see what can be done.”

“Ah yes. I see.”

Mr. Pelham looked graver than ever. He did not attempt to go away.

Just as tea was brought in, Carol Anderson came. His warm, long pressure of the hand brought a faint sensation of comfort to Monica. His questions were almost the same as those of Mr. Pelham, but he put them with an effect of urgency, and there was nothing inexpressive in the gaze that he fastened upon Monica whilst she replied.

“I'm so sorry for you,” he said gently. “It must be dreadful for you. Is there anything in the world that I can do to help you, Monica?”

There was nothing, and she said so. But his earnestness had comforted her. She felt that he cared deeply about what had happened, for her sake.

Mrs. Ingram came down to tea looking pale and exhausted. The same things were said, again and again, by them all. She repeated that there was little change in her husband's condition. The doctors were hoping to make a further examination next day.

“At least he's not in pain. That's my great comfort,” she kept on saying.

“It's wonderful what
can
be done nowadays,” Mr. Pelham reiterated with equal persistence.

Carol Anderson carried a cup of tea to Monica, and made her the object of his care, telling her gently in an undertone that she
must
eat something. His solicitiude touched her, and sent a thrill of happiness through her.

“You won't go just yet, will you?” she murmured, looking up at him.

She meant that she hoped he would outstay Mr. Pelham.

“Of course I'll stay, if you'll let me. I want to,” he replied gently.

Monica was almost ashamed of the quick response that his words, and still more his look, woke in her. She wanted to think only of her father, not of herself, nor even of Carol Anderson in relation to herself. But as long as he remained beside her, saying very little but every now and then looking at her anxiously and affectionately, she knew that she was happy.

She hoped urgently that when her mother made a move to return upstairs again, Mr. Pelham would go.

Mrs. Ingram however sat on in the corner of the sofa, finding relaxation in the change of atmosphere.

At last Mr. Pelham said, “Well——” in a tentative fashion, and sketched a movement towards rising.

“I suppose I ought to be going. Please let me know if there's any—any change. Perhaps you'll allow me to come round to-morrow?”

Mrs. Ingram assented. Monica was only intent on seeing him go away.

“Good-bye. I do so hope that you'll have better news in the morning.”

He had shaken hands—the moist limpness of his touch was always faintly distasteful to Monica—and her mother had signed to her to ring the bell, in order that the servants might know he was going.

“Good-bye—so kind of you to come.”

Mrs. Ingram did not sit down again when Mr. Pelham had made his exit. She remained as though uncertain, standing in the middle of the room.

“Shall I take your place for a little while, and send nurse downstairs?” Monica suggested.

She did not make the suggestion sincerely, for Mrs. Ingram was very jealous of her own supremacy in the sickroom, and did not allow Monica to share it.

“No, darling, no. Thank you. Dear father likes me to be there, when he comes to himself a little. I think I must go back now.”

She rustled slowly from the room.

For the first time in her life, perhaps, thought Monica, her mother seemed really unaware that she was leaving her alone in the room with an eligible young man.

“She's wonderful, isn't she,” said Carol respectfully.

He pushed an arm-chair closer to the fire.

“Sit down and rest, Monica. May I stay a few minutes longer?”

“Oh, please do.”

Monica's habitual self-consciousness was loosened, in the relaxed mood following on the shock of the accident, and she was neither startled nor alarmed when Carol Anderson drew a small chair very close to hers, and took her hand in his.

“I'm so awfully sorry for you, dear. I do so understand what you're going through. Quite apart from the fact that I've had a good deal of personal experience of illness and anxiety, I seem to know by intuition
exactly
what my friends feel, when they're in great trouble. It's a most extraordinary thing, Monica, but it's as if I could see inside their minds. For instance, I know exactly what your mother is experiencing, when she sits upstairs, watching him. I know what you're feeling now, perhaps almost better than you know yourself.”

Monica was accustomed to Carol's strange conviction of his own infallibility, and still stranger candour in proclaiming it. She was, in fact, deriving a warm and blessed sense of
comfort from the close hold of his hand over hers, and listening very little to what he was saying.

Presently she understood that he was telling her about the illness and death of a friend at Cambridge. It was Carol, it seemed, who had nursed him, remained with him to the end, and been the only person responsible for the trying formalities connected with sending the young man's body to his home in the North of Ireland.

“I was only twenty-one, actually, but I seemed able to do it all somehow. It had to be done, and I was the only person available, and so I simply went through with it. After it was all over I thought: Well, if I can do a thing like that I can do
anything.
It showed me my own strength, I suppose. That was lucky, perhaps, if I'd only known it.”