less,” glancing involuntarily towards Lionel as she spoke.
Jan glanced at him too.
“Lionel, I’ll bring you round some better stuff than this,” said he. “What are you eating?”
“Nothing,” put in Decima. “Dr. West keeps him upon arrow root and beef-tea, and such things.”
“Slops,” said Jan, contemptuously. “Have a fowl cooked every day, Lionel, and eat it all if you like, bones and all: or a mutton-chop or two; or some good eels. And have the window open and sit at it; don’t lounge on that sofa, fancying you can’t leave it; and to-morrow or the next day, borrow Mrs. Verner’s carriage—”
“No, thank you,” interposed Lionel.
“Have a fly, then,” composedly went on Jan. “Rouse yourself, and eat and drink, and go into the air, and you’ll soon be as well as I am. It’s the stewing and fretting in-doors, fancying themselves ill, that keeps folks back.”
Something like a sickly smile crossed Lionel’s wan lips.
“Do you remember how you offended your mother, Jan, by telling her she only wanted to rouse herself?”
“Well,” said Jan, “it was the truth. West keeps his patients dilly-dallying on, when he might have them well in no time. If he says anything about them to me, I always tell him so; otherwise I don’t interfere: it’s no business of mine. But you are my brother, you know.”
“Don’t quarrel with West on my account, Jan. Only settle it amicably between you, what I am to do, and what I am to take. I don’t care.”
“Quarrel!” said Jan. “You never knew me to quarrel in your life. West can come and see you as usual, and charge you, if you please; and you can just pour his physic down the sink. I’ll send you some bark: but it’s not of much consequence whether you take it or not; it’s good kitchen physic you want now. Is there anything on your mind that’s keeping you back?” added plain Jan.
A streak of scarlet rose to Lionel’s white cheek.
“Anything on my mind, Jan! I do not understand you.”
“Look here,” said Jan. “If there is nothing, you ought to be better than this by now, in spite of old West. Well, what you have got to do is to rouse yourself, and believe you are well, instead of lying by, here. My mother was angry with me for telling her that, but didn’t she get well all one way after it. And look at the poor. They have their illnesses that bring ’em down to skeletons; but when did you ever find them lie by, after they got better? They can’t; they are obliged to go out and turn-to at work again; and the consequence is they are well in no time. You have your fowl to-day,” continued Jan, taking himself off the table to depart; “or a duck, if you fancy it’s more savoury; and if West comes in while you are eating it, tell him I ordered it. He can’t grumble at me for doctoring you.”
Decima left the room with Jan. Lucy Tempest went to the window, threw it open, drew an easy-chair with its cushions near to it, and then returned to the sofa.
“Will you come to the window?” said she to Lionel. “Jan said you were to, and I have put your chair ready.”
Lionel unclosed his eyelids. “I am better here, child, thank you.”
“But you heard what Jan said—that you were not going the right way to get well.”
“It does not much matter, Lucy, whether I get well, or whether I don’t,” he answered, wearily.
Lucy sat down; not on her favourite stool, but on a low chair, and fixed her eyes upon him gravely.
“Do you know what Mr. Cust would say to that?” she asked. “He would tell you that you were ungrateful to God. You are already half-way towards getting well.”
“I know, Lucy. But I am nearly tired of life.”
“It is only the very old who say that, or ought to say it. I am not sure that they ought—even if they were a hundred. But you are young. Stay! I will find it for you.”
He was searching about for his handkerchief. Lucy found it, fallen on the floor at the back of the sofa. She brought it round to him, and he gently laid hold of her hand as he took it.
“My little friend, you have yet to learn that things, not years, tire us of life.”
Lucy shook her head.
“No; I have not to learn it. I know it must be so. Will you please to come to the window?”
Lionel, partly because his tormentor—(may the word be used? he was sick, bodily and mentally, and would have lain still for ever)—was a young lady, partly to avoid the trouble of persisting in “No,” rose, and took his seat in the arm-chair.
“What an obstinate nurse you would make, Lucy! Is there anything else, pray, that you wish me to do?”
She did not smile in response to his smile; she looked very grave and serious.
“I would do all that Jan says, were I you,” was her answer. “I believe in Jan. He will get you well sooner than Dr. West.”
“Believe in Jan?” repeated Lionel, willing to be gay if he could. “Do you mean that Jan is Jan?”
“I mean that I have faith in Jan. I have none in Dr. West.”
“In his medical skill? Let me tell you, Lucy, he is a very clever man, in spite of what Jan may say.”
“I can’t tell anything about his skill. Until Jan spoke now I did not know but he was treating you rightly. But I have no faith in himself. I think a good, true, faithful-natured man should be depended on for cure, more certainly than one who is false-natured.”
“False-natured!” echoed Lionel. “Lucy, you should not so speak of Dr. West. You know nothing wrong of Dr. West. He is much esteemed among us at Deerham.”
“Of course I know nothing wrong of him,” returned Lucy with some slight surprise. “But when I look at people I always seem to know