he door of the farmhouse opened on to an unevenly flagged passage, at the end of which a flight of worn oak stairs rose to the upper floor. Jessamy, hesitating after his impetuous entrance, found himself confronted by an angular woman, whose sharp-featured countenance wore all the signs of chronic ill-temper. In answer to her angry enquiry, he stammered: “I beg pardon! It’s my brother! The—the boy who was carried in here!”

This reply, far from mollifying her, had much the same effect as a match applied to a train of gunpowder. Her eyes snapped, her colour rose, and she said: “Oh, he is, is he? Then I’m mightily glad to see you, young sir, and I trust you’ve come to take him away! This house isn’t a hospital, nor a public inn neither, and I’ve got too much to do already without looking after sick boys, let me tell you! What’s more, I’m not a nurse, and I won’t take the responsibility, say what you like!”

At this point, in what threatened to be a lengthy diatribe, she stopped, and her jaw dropped. Alverstoke was standing on the threshold. At all times an imposing figure, he was, on this occasion, a startling one, for although he wore a long driving-coat of white drab, with a number of shoulder-capes, it was unbuttoned, and revealed the exquisite attire he habitually wore in London, which included an extremely elegant waistcoat, the palest of pantaloons, and highly polished Hessian boots. In Bond Street he would have been complete to a shade; in a country village he looked quite out of place; but Miss Judbrook was almost as much impressed as she was astonished.

He said, pleasantly, but with a faint touch of hauteur: “Why should you, indeed? I fancy you must be Miss Judbrook: I am Lord Alverstoke. I should like to see the doctor, if you please.”

Miss Judbrook was so much overcome that she dropped a slight curtsy, and said: “Yes, my lord!” However, she was a redoubtable woman, and she made a swift recovery. “I hope I’m not an unfeeling woman, my lord, nor one as doesn’t know her duty, but it’s none of my business to be nursing boys which fall out of balloons, and I can’t and I won’t undertake it, as Judbrook should have known, instead of having him brought here without a word to me, let alone calling Betty out of the dairy to sit with him! I’m not going to do her work, so he needn’t think it! I’m sure I’m very sorry for the young gentleman, but as for having him laid up here, as bad as he is, and having to be sat with, and waited on hand and foot, I haven’t the time nor the patience to do it, which I told Dr Elcot to his head. And if Mrs Hucknall sets foot inside this house I leave it, and that’s flat!”

“Yes, well, all these matters can no doubt be arranged—when I have had word with the doctor!” said Alverstoke.

Miss Judbrook sniffed resentfully, but his evident boredom disconcerted her. She said, rather more mildly: “I’m sure I hope so, my lord! The doctor’s in my parlour—mussing it up with his splints and his bandages, and bowls of water, and I don’t know what more beside! This way!”

She opened a door on the left of the passage, saying: “This is my Lord Alverstoke, wanting to see you, doctor, and the little boy’s brother. And I’ll be obliged to you not to slop any more water on to my new carpet!”

“Oh, go away, woman, go away!” said the doctor testily.

Contrary to Jessamy’s eager expectation, the doctor and the second of the two aeronauts were the only people in the room. The aeronaut, his brow adorned with sticking-plaster, was sitting in a chair by the table, while the doctor was bandaging his splinted forearm.

“Felix?” Jessamy blurted out. “My brother?”

The doctor paused in his task to direct a penetrating glance at him from under his bushy brows. “His brother, are you? Well, there’s no need for you to be in a stew: he hasn’t managed to kill himself!” He transferred his gaze to Alverstoke, and favoured him with a nod. “Good-day to you, my lord. Are you related to the boy?”

“Cousin, and—er—guardian!” said Alverstoke.

The doctor, continuing his work, said: “Then you’ll give me leave to tell you, my lord, that you’re a mighty careless guardian!”

“So, indeed, it would appear,” agreed Alverstoke. “How badly is the boy hurt?”

“Early days to tell you that. He suffered a severe concussion, cut his face open, and sprained a wrist, but there are no bones broken, barring a couple of ribs. Badly bruised, of course. He came round half-an-hour ago. Complained of headache. Which might mean—”

“That would be the altitude!” said his present patient. “Many people suffer from acute headache when—”

“I’m not an ignoramus!” growled the doctor. “Keep still!”

“Is he—has he—injured his brain?” asked Jessamy, as though he dreaded to hear the answer.

The doctor shot another of his piercing looks at him. “No reason to think so. He wasn’t himself—couldn’t expect him to be—but he knew what had happened to him, I think. Sang out that he couldn’t, and some gabble about falling.”

Again the aeronaut intervened, addressing himself to Alverstoke. “I thought he was safe, my lord! Everything was going well till we started the descent! That was when we veered. You see, when you drop down close to the earth—”

“Yes, I understand that you frequently meet winds that were not encountered at higher altitudes,” interrupted Alverstoke. “Also that you were blown amongst trees. Never mind why! just tell me, if you please, what happened when you became entangled with—an elm tree, wasn’t it?”

“Yes—that is, it may have been an elm, my lord! I don’t know anything about trees. When Mr Oulton saw that we weren’t going to clear it, which we should have done, if the valve hadn’t stuck, when he tried to close it, he shouted to me to grab hold of a branch, and climb out of the boat on to it. ‘You first, Beenish, and lend the boy a hand!’ he told me. Which I did, and it was easy enough, and there wasn’t much danger either, as long as the weight was taken out of the boat, so that it wouldn’t break through the branches, and crash down on to the ground. The valve being open, and the gas escaping pretty fast, there was no fear the balloon would rise again, you understand. And the little chap wasn’t a scrap afraid! That I’ll swear to! Cool as a cucumber, he was, and thinking of nothing but ways of controlling balloons! ‘Don’t be in a worry about me!’ he said. ‘I shall do!’ Which I never doubted, my lord! There was Mr Oulton, helping him to climb out of the boat, and I was just thinking he wouldn’t want me to lend him a hand when he suddenly seemed to lose his head. At least—I don’t know, but I can’t think what else it could have been, for it looked to me as if he had hold of the branch all right and tight, though it all happened so quickly, of course, that I can’t be sure of that. All I do know is that he cried out: ‘I can’t!’ and—and fell! My lore], I swear I did my best! I tried to grab hold of him, but I lost my balance, and the next thing was that 7 fell out of the tree!”

Jessamy, who had been listening to him in gathering incredulity, exclaimed: “Felix? Why, he climbs like a cat!”

“Young man,” said the doctor, “if you don’t know why your brother couldn’t grasp the branch I can tell you! His hands were numb with cold, that’s why!”

“O my God!” uttered Beenish. “He never said—”

“Don’t suppose he knew it. Knew they were frozen. Didn’t know he couldn’t use ‘em. Only a boy—excited too!”

Beenish, looking at the Marquis, was plainly torn between a feeling of guilt and a desire to exculpate himself from blame. He said: “My lord, it wasn’t our fault! Maybe I should have sent him about his business, but he wasn’t doing any harm, and as Mr Oulton said himself, he’s such an intelligent little fellow—not like most of his age, only wanting to see the balloon go up for the marvel of it, and not caring for what makes it rise, or—”

“Pray don’t think I blame you!” said the Marquis. “If anyone is to blame it is I, for he was in my charge.”

“Not your blame! Mine—mine!” Jessamy said, in a stifled voice.

“The thing was, my lord, we never suspected what he meant to do! But I can’t deny I did say we should be happy to take him up with us, never dreaming—He begged us to, you see, and Mr Oulton answered him a bit sharply, telling him he was much too young, and—well, he looked so hurt—if your lordship knows what I mean?—”

“I know exactly what you mean,” said the Marquis grimly.

“Well, that’s how it was, my lord! I told him we couldn’t take him without his father’s consent—and Mr Oulton bore me out! Yes, and it was him which said if we took up a boy which was under age, without his Pa’s consent, we should be clapped into jail, not me!” A reminiscent grin stole over Mr Beenish’s face. “And damme if the little rogue didn’t throw it up at him, when we’d hauled him into the boat! ‘It’s all hollow!’ he told Mr Oulton, game as a pebble! ‘You won’t be clapped into jail,’ he said, ‘because I haven’t got a father!’ “ A chuckle escaped him. “Pluck to the backbone!” he said. “His nerves won’t ever lose their steel! When I saw him clinging to that rope, and the balloon rising fast, as they do, my lord, I thought he was bound to take fright, and do something silly, and much good it was for us to shout to him to hold tight! But he did, and we got him in, like you saw. Ay, and he enjoyed every minute of the flight, even though the teeth were chattering in his head!” A groan from Jessamy made him turn his head. “We did the best we could, sir, but there wasn’t much we could do.”

“No, I know. And you saved him. I—I am very grateful. Sir, where is he? Can I see him?”

“Oh, yes, you can see him!” replied the doctor. “He’s upstairs, snugly tucked into bed: first door to the right of the stairs. You go and sit with him, and tell the girl I left there that she can go back to the dairy. He’s sound asleep, and don’t you dare try to rouse him! And don’t fall into despair because his head’s bound up! I’ve had to put a couple of stitches in his face!”

“No,” said Jessamy humbly. “If he wakes shall I call you?”

“He won’t wake: I’ve drugged him, for I want him to sleep for as long as possible. Off with you!” He watched Jessamy hurry out of the room, grimaced at Alverstoke, and adjusted the sling he had knotted round Beenish’s neck. “I’ve done with you now,” he said. “Let it be a lesson to you! If the Almighty had meant men to fly He’d have provided us with wings! You’d best sit still for a while.”

“Oh, this is nothing!” Beenish said cheerfully. “I’m in a capital way, doctor—thanking you for what you’ve done! I only wish the little fellow hadn’t had the worst of it. I’ll be off now to see if they’ve rescued the balloon.”

“More guts than brains!” said the doctor, as the door shut, behind Beenish. “Balloons—! What next, pray?”

“Felix might furnish you with the answer: I can’t,” replied Alverstoke, stripping off his driving-coat, and casting it over a chair. “Now, doctor, if you please! How seriously is that boy hurt?”

The doctor, packing the instruments of his trade into his bag, said gruffly: “Ask me tomorrow, my lord. I wasn’t shamming it when I told you it was early days yet. Not but what I would have done so, while that brother of his was here! I know his kind, and I don’t want him on my hands as well. More nerves than flesh! Well, the other one—what do you call him? Felix?—ay, well, he’s broken no bones but what I told you, and you’ve no need to trouble yourself over a couple of ribs. He’s suffered a severe shock, however—which is why I’ve given him pretty well as much laudanum as he can hold! In general, I don’t do so—don’t believe in it!—but in such cases as this it’s of the first importance to keep the patient quiet. I don’t set much store by the headpains, but there’s no knowing yet, and if you’re thinking of removing him from here, my lord, you’ll do it against my advice!”

“Rest assured, doctor, that I have no such intention!”

“Good! But, unless I’m much mistaken, the boy will need careful nursing, and there’s the rub. Judbrook is a decent fellow, but that sister of his can’t be depended on,, and the devil of it is I can’t send in a nurse. There’s only one hereabouts, and she has a cross-birth on her hands—”

“If,” interrupted his lordship, “you are referring to a Mrs Hucknall, we need not waste our time in discussing her merits! Miss Judbrook has already informed me that when Mrs Hucknall enters the house,she will leave it. Let me reassure you on one point at least! Tomorrow, either Felix’s aunt, or, more probably, his sister, Miss Merriville, will come here to nurse him. Now tell me, without roundaboutation, what it is that you fear!”

Dr Elcot, strapping his bag, did not answer for a moment. He was frowning heavily, and at last said: “That boy, my lord, was cold to the marrow!”

“My guardianship is of very recent date, but I have it, on the authority of Miss Merriville, that Felix is subject to some chest-complaint, which she called bronchitis.”

The doctor snorted. “Oh, yes! A new word for an old complaint! If nothing worse than that befalls him, he may think himself fortunate! I’m saying no more until I know more, my lord. We shall see! Polly Judbrook is a cross-grained spinster, but at least she had enough sense to wrap the boy up in blankets, and to put a hot brick to his feet. He’s a stout-looking lad, too—an excellent constitution, I should suppose!” He added brusquely: “Send for one of your London practitioners, if you choose, my lord: I’ve no objection! He can tell you no more, at this present, than I can, and he wouldn’t give you any other directions. Keep the boy warm, and quiet, let him drink as much barley-water as he likes—I’ve told Polly to make some, and she’ll do it, never fear—and if he should be feverish, give him a saline draught! I’ll make one up, and send my man over with it. No hot wine, mind, or any other old woman’s remedy!” He paused, and eyed the Marquis doubtfully. “I take it your lordship means to remain with him?”

“Naturally! But as I have little or no experience of illness, and have never before attempted to nurse a sick person, I shall be obliged to you, doctor, if you will tell me exactly what I am to expect, and to do; and where, in case of need, you are to be found.”

“Anyone here could tell you that; and if there were to be any alarming change in the boy’s condition Jud-brook would send one of his lads to fetch me. I might come, too,” he said, with a flash of mordant humour, “for you look to me like a rational man, my lord: not one to fly into a great fuss because a sick boy might become a trifle delirious when the drug wears off. His case isn’t desperate. I’ll visit him in the morning.”

When the doctor had gone away, the Marquis spent several minutes considering his situation. It was certainly unusual; and while he was prepared to deal with it without losing either his head or his sangfroid, he could have wished, glancing at the few scribbled reminders the doctor had given him, that these instructions had been rather more extensive. He looked a little ruefully at the paper, before folding it, and slipping it into his pocketbook, and going out to find Curry.

“Properly in the briars we are, my lord!” said Curry. “They tell me—Betty, and the old griffin—that Master Felix is going to cut his stick, but I hope and trust that ain’t so?”

“No, I think not. Curry, I’m going to send you back to London.”

“You are, my lord?” Curry said, staring at him.

“Yes, and as soon as possible,” said Alverstoke, drawing out his watch. “You should be there well before midnight: change horses as often as you think desirable! You are going to take Mr Jessamy with you: he can do no good here, and Miss Merriville might well believe that matters are far more serious than they are if neither he nor I returned to London tonight. He may even be of assistance to her, and can at all events bear her company tomorrow, when I am very sure she will come to nurse Master Felix.”

“If he don’t throw her into gloom,” said Curry. “He was fretting like a fly in a tar-box all the way here, my lord!”

“He was indeed! But, unless I am much mistaken in him, he won’t do so when he feels himself to be responsible for her. You’ll drive back to Watford in the phaeton, and leave it there. The rest of the journey by post: you can take this!”

Accepting the roll of bills, Curry demurred a little. “You might need ‘em, my lord!”

“Not immediately. You will bring me a fresh supply tomorrow: Mr Trevor will attend to that. When you reach Upper Wimpole Street, try for a word with Miss Merriville! Inform her that my travelling-carriage will take her up tomorrow at whatever hour she may appoint, but don’t allow her to set out tonight! I think she has too much sense to do so. When you have arranged matters with her, go on to Alverstoke House, and give Mr Trevor the letter I am about to write to him. He’ll do the rest. You will escort Miss Merriville here—or possibly Miss Winsham—tomorrow, as far as to Watford, where you may pick up the grays, and my phaeton, and bring them to me here. And understand this, Curry! I am putting you in command of this journey, and if Miss Merriville should talk of hiring a postchaise, or some such thing, you will tell her that my orders are that she is to travel in my carriage—which will certainly be needed when it becomes possible to remove Master Felix from this place. Now try if you can procure a pen, some ink, and some writing-paper from that extremely disobliging woman, and bring them to me in the parlour! It might be as well to puff off my consequence, perhaps!”

“Oh, I’ve done that, my lord!” returned Curry, grinning at him. “A regular brimstone, she is! But I said to her: ‘What his lordship wants,’ I said, ‘he’ll pay for—handsome!’ which made her change her note, my lord!”

“I’m happy to hear it. Tell her to hire a woman from the village—as many women as she wants—and hang it up to me! Where’s her brother? Have you seen him?”

“Not yet, I haven’t, my lord. He went off with some of his lads to help get that balloon packed up, and loaded on to his wagon—which is another thing Miss Brimstone don’t like!”

“You astonish me!” said his lordship.

The writing-materials which Curry presently brought to him in the parlour left much to be desired, the ink being muddy, the pen in urgent need of repair, and the paper both dog-cared and a trifle grimy. His lordship made the best of them, but revolted against a selection of coloured wafers, merely folding the note he had written to Charles Trevor. He might be forced to write with a spluttering pen on dirty paper, but for no consideration would he seal his letter with a wafer of virulent pink, green, or blue.

Handing his missive to Curry, he was about to go upstairs when he was delayed by the arrival on the scene of Mr Oulton, accompanied by the farmer. He was obliged to listen to Oulton’s explanations, accusations, and excuses with what patience he could muster; but he found Judbrook to be a man of few words and simple goodwill. Judbrook said: “You’ve only to tell me what you want, my lord, and F1J see you get it. My sister has her crotchets, but it’s me as is master here, never you fear!”

Felix had been carried up to a large, low-pitched room, and was lying in a four-poster bed, hung with crimson curtains, and covered with a patchwork quilt. He was heavily asleep, breathing stertorously, his head bandaged, and looking so small and broken that Alverstoke’s anger melted, and he was aware only of pity. He stood watching Felix for a moment, and then turned his head to find that Jessamy’s eyes were fixed on his face, a painful question in them. As he met them, he realized suddenly that there was more than a question in them: there was trust as well. This queer boy, who was sometimes so much older than his years, not only trusted him, but was depending on him too, confident that he, who had all his life evaded irksome responsibilities, had seldom exerted himself on another’s behalf, and knew nothing about sickrooms, was competent to take charge of Felix, himself, the doctor, and even the hostile Miss Judbrook. It was the height of absurdity, but his lordship was not much amused: he thought Jessamy’s faith in him rendered him almost as pathetic a figure as his brother. If the boy only knew how little he wanted to accept the charge laid upon him, and how uneasily aware of his unfitness for it he was—! As well that he didn’t know it, perhaps!

He smiled at Jessamy, and said, m a lowered voice: “We might have guessed he would come off with nothing worse than a couple of broken ribs, and a cut face, might we not? Little devil!”

There was a lightening of anxiety, but Jessamy said: “The doctor said it was too early to be sure. He looks dreadfully bad—and the way he’s breathing....”

“Merely because he’s heavily drugged,” said Alverstoke.

“Oh! Are you sure, sir?”

“Yes,” Alverstoke replied, salving his conscience with the reflection that truth was of less importance than the need to allay Jessamy’s fears. “As for what the doctor said, he shares your own apprehension. It would be marvellous indeed, you know, if Felix didn’t contract a very severe cold after having been exposed, as he was. Therefore, my child, the most immediate need is to fetch his sister. She will know just what to do for him.”

“Yes—oh, yes! I have been wishing that she was here! She always knows! But how—”

“I am going to send you back to London to bring her here tomorrow,” Alverstoke said.

Jessamy recoiled. “Oh, no! No, no, I won’t leave him! How could you think—”

“I am thinking of Frederica, not of you, Jessamy.”

“Yes, yes, but—cannot you go, sir, and leave me to take care of Felix? It ought to be me!”

“You are mistaken: he was in my charge, and mine must be the responsibility of taking care of him.” He saw that Jessamy was looking stubborn, and added quizzically: “Do you think you could do that better than I could—and shall?”

“No! I didn’t mean that! You’ll know just what to do, if he wakes, and grows restless, and—and he’ll mind you better. But—Oh, couldn’t Curry go, sir?”

“Curry is going. He is putting the horses to now. You will dine at Watford, and go on post from there.”

“Dine! I couldn’t swallow a mouthful! And why must I go as well as Curry?”

“Hush! not so loud! You are going to be of help to Frederica, and to reassure her. Don’t fly into one of your ways! Consider instead how uneasy she must be if neither you nor I returned to London tonight! Curry could never convince her that Felix’s case was not desperate. She won’t think it extraordinary that I have stayed with Felix, I assure you; but if you stay too she will imagine him to be at death’s door—as well she might! As for not dining, you have eaten nothing since breakfast, and it would not be very helpful of you to arrive in Upper Wimpole Street in a fainting condition. And, really, my dear boy, to starve yourself because Felix has knocked himself up would be just a trifle melodramatic, don’t you think?”

A burning flush rose in Jessamy’s thin cheeks; he hung his head, muttering: “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to fall into a—a distempered freak! If you think it’s my duty to go, I will.”

“Well, I do think it. She may need you. There will be arrangements to be made, I daresay a score of things to be done. She may even wish you to remain in London, to be with Charis, for she certainly won’t care to leave her alone, and as far as I can discover, your aunt spends her whole time in Harley Street.”

“And Harry has gone off with his bacon-brained friend to Wells, for the races!” said Jessamy bitterly. “Just when he is most needed!”

“He can scarcely be blamed for not having foreseen that he would be needed. You mustn’t think I don’t value Harry, but I can’t but feel that if I stood in Frederica’s shoes I should look to you for support rather than to him.”

The flush rose again, but this time from gratification. “Th-thank you!” Jessamy stammered. “I don’t think—But I’ll do my best! And if Frederica does wish me to stay with Charis I—I will!” He drew a breath, and said heroically: “In fact, I’ll offer to!” Doubt shook him, and his anxious look returned. “Only—Sir, will you, if you please, tell me exactly what I must do? I mean, about postchaises, and hiring the boys, and how much it will cost? And—and I’m afraid I haven’t enough blunt for my journey!”

“Curry will take care of that, and there will be no need for you to hire a chaise for Frederica: she will come here in my travelling-carriage, which will remain here until Felix can be taken home. It will be far more comfortable for him, you know, than a chaise.”

“Yes, indeed it will be!” Jessamy said, raising eyes brimming with gratitude to his face. “Thank you! You—you think of everything, sir! I’m so very much obliged to you! I’ll do exactly what you tell me to!”

Alverstoke’s smile was a little twisted, but he only said: “Curry will tell you what my orders are. Go down to him now: it’s time you were gone.”

Jessamy nodded, but lingered for a moment, looking down at Felix. He turned away, biting his lips. “Yes, sir. I—I know he’ll be safe with you, of course! It’s only that—You won’t leave him, will you? Oh, no! I beg pardon! I know you won’t!”

“You may be very sure I won’t,” Alverstoke replied, gently pushing him towards the door. “Though I may be strongly tempted to do so when he wakes up, and tries to tell me how one might propel a balloon by the use of steam!”

Jessamy laughed rather shakily, gripped his hand for an instant, and went quickly away.

The Marquis shut the door, and, after glancing at Felix, walked over to the leaded casement. Curry had brought the phaeton up to the house; and in another minute Jessamy emerged, climbed into it, and Curry gave the horses the office. The Marquis watched until the phaeton was out of sight; then turned, and went back to the four-poster, looking down at Felix.

It was hardly surprising, he thought, that the boy’s appearance should have dismayed his brother. It was not the bandage round his head which was alarming, or his stertorous breathing, but his immobility, and the position in which he lay, which was on his back, perfectly straight, and with the bedclothes drawn up under his chin. No doubt the doctor had settled him in this position; perhaps the broken ribs made it uncomfortable for him to lie on his side; but it made him look almost as if he had been laid out for burial. The Marquis saw this, but his mind was neither fanciful nor ill-regulated, and he was easily able to maintain his calm. He had formed a good opinion of Dr Elcot, and was content to abide by his pronouncements. Elcot plainly felt uneasy about possible developments, but he did not expect any great change to take place immediately; and he certainly did not consider Felix to be in danger. The Marquis felt that what lay before him was not anxiety but tedium. Hours of it, too! he thought, consulting his watch. And with nothing whatsoever to do, if Felix continued to sleep soundly, but to try to keep awake. Probably the armchair would help him to do that: it looked to be hard and unaccommodating. He remembered that he was engaged to join a convivial party at the Castle Inn that evening. He smiled crookedly, contrasting that engagement with his present situation. It was to be hoped that Charles Trevor would recall this, and make his excuses for him. He would, of course: he never forgot things like that. He would be waiting up for news, too, for Eliza would have told him what had happened, and he would guess that his services might be needed. A most reliable secretary, Charles: he would miss him damnably, but he would have to let him go. Which reminded him that he must bring him to the notice of one of the coming men of affairs.

So his lordship sat down in the armchair, to occupy his mind with consideration of this question