George Manville Fenn (continued 2)

“My dear father, pray be calm,” said Neil anxiously.

“Did you hear what I said, sir? Be calm! Am I not calm? There you are bringing out all your medical stock in trade—medical cant to bear.”

Neil looked at him anxiously, and saw that he was wild in his manner, and that there was a curiously excited glare in his eyes which troubled him a good deal, and affected his words as he replied.

“Now,” cried his father, “tell me at once, what did Sir Denton say?”

“That you must be kept perfectly quiet, sir, and be troubled by nothing exciting.”

“Why?” said Mr Elthorne sharply. “Did he say that my case was hopeless, and that I must die?”

“No; decidedly not. Nothing of the kind, sir. He told me that you only needed proper nursing to recover.”

“To recover my health?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And strength?” said Mr Elthorne, gazing at him searchingly.

Neil was silent.

“Why don’t you speak, boy?” said the old man sternly. “No; you need not speak. A man is a physician or a fool at forty. I am long past forty, and not quite a fool, boys, as you both know. He told you that I should be a hopeless cripple.”

“He told me, I repeat, that you must be kept perfectly quiet, father, and I must insist upon your now trying to help me by following out his wishes.”

“A cripple—a helpless cripple,” said the injured man, without paying the slightest heed to his son’s words, but speaking as if to someone he could see across the room. “I did not want telling that. A man knows. But what does it mean? Wreck? Utter helplessness? Being led about by the hand? No, no, no; not so bad as that. The brain is right. I am strong there. You boys are not going to usurp everything yet. Do you hear? I say you boys are—you boys—I say—the doctor—quick—the doctor—ah!”

His eyes glared wildly as the fit of excitement rapidly increased, till he almost raved like one in a fit of delirium, and every attempt to calm him by word or action on the part of his son only seemed to intensify his excitement, till a sudden spasm made his face twitch, and his head fell back with the angry light dying out of his eyes.

“Quick!” whispered Neil. “Run up to my room and bring down the little case on the drawers.”

He raised his father’s head as he spoke, and, after glancing at him in a frightened manner, Alison hurried out of the room.

An hour later Ralph Elthorne was lying perfectly insensible, with his son watching by his bedside. It was no new, thing to him this tending of a patient in a serious strait consequent upon an accident, but their relative positions robbed him of his customary sang-froid, and again and again he asked himself whether he had not done wrong in accepting so onerous a task, and whether Sir Denton had not placed too much confidence in his knowledge of the treatment such a case demanded. When such thoughts mastered him he was ready over and over again to send a fresh message to the great surgeon, and it was only by a strong effort that he mastered himself and maintained his calmness. For he knew in an ordinary way a doubt of his capacity would never enter his head; all he had to do, he told himself, was to strive as he would have striven for another.

“But he is my father,” he muttered, “and it is so hard to feel confidence when one knows that the patient mistrusts every word and act.”

Chapter Six.

Watching the Sufferer.

“What are you going to do about sitting up?” said Alison in a whisper about eleven o’clock that night. “He must not be left.”

“Certainly not,” said Neil, after a glance at the bed where his father lay sleeping uneasily. “I am going to sit with him.”

“That will not do,” said Alison quietly. “You are the doctor, and must be rested and ready when wanted. You had better go to bed and I’ll sit up. Aunt Anne wants to, and so does Isabel, but the old lady is hysterical and fit for nothing, and Isabel is too young.”

“Of course,” said Neil quietly. “But I have settled all that. I shall sit up, and if there is any need I can call you directly.”

Alison looked as if he were going to oppose the plan, but he said nothing for the moment, only sat watching his brother and occasionally turning to the bed as the injured man made an uneasy movement.

They were interrupted by a tap at the door, to which Alison replied, coming back directly to whisper in his brother’s ear.

“You had better go and talk to the old lady yourself,” he said. “She has come prepared to sit up.” Neil went hastily to the door and passed out on the landing, where his aunt was standing, dressed for the occasion, and armed with night lights and other necessary appliances used in an invalid’s chamber.

“No, Aunt, dear,” said Neil quickly. “Not necessary. I am going to sit up.”

“My dear boy, your brother said something of this kind to me,” said the lady querulously; “but pray don’t you be obstinate. I really must sit up with your father. It is my duty, and I will.”

“It is your duty, Aunt, to obey the surgeon in attendance upon the patient,” said Neil firmly, but he winced a little at his aunt’s next words.

“So I would, my dear, if we had one here; but do you really think, Neil, that you are able to deal with such a terrible case? Hadn’t you better have in the Moreby doctor, and hear what he says?”

“We have had Sir Denton Hayle to-day, and I have his instructions. Is not that enough?”

“No, my dear, really I don’t think it is. You see it isn’t as if you were a much older man and more experienced, and had been a surgeon ever so long.”

“There is no need for you to sit up, Aunt,” said Neil quietly. “I can quite understand your anxiety, but, believe me, I am doing my best.”

“Oh, dear,” sighed Aunt Anne. “You boys areas obstinate and as determined as your poor father. Well, there, I cannot help myself,” she continued in a tone full of remonstrance. “No one can blame me, and I am sure that I have done my duty.”

“Yes, Aunt, dear, quite,” said Neil soothingly. “Go and get a good night’s rest. I don’t think there will be any need, but if it is necessary I will have you called.”

“Encouraging!” he said to himself as he returned to the sick room, thinking that after all it was very natural on his aunt’s part, for it must seem to her only a short time since he was a boy at home, when, upon the death of his mother, she had come to keep house.

Alison rose from a chair near the bed as he closed the door, and signed to him to come to the other end of the room.

“I say,” he whispered, “I don’t like the governor’s breathing. Just you go and listen. Its catchy like and strange.”

Neil crossed to the bed and bent down over the sleeping man, felt his pulse, and came back.

“Quite natural,” he said, “for a man in his condition. I detect nothing strange.”

Alison looked at him curiously, turned away, and walked softly up and down the shaded room, to stop at last by his brother.

“I don’t want to upset you,” he said, “but I feel obliged to speak.”

“Go on,” said Neil, “but I know what you are going to say.”

“Impossible!” said Alison, staring.

“By no means. You are uneasy, and think I am not capable of caring for my father.”

“Well, I can’t help it, old fellow,” said Alison. “I was thinking something of the kind. You see a regular old country doctor—”

“Has not half the experience of a young man in a large hospital,” said Neil, interrupting him and speaking now in a quite confident manner. “We have had many such cases as this, and I have helped to treat them.”

“Yes, but—”

“Pray try and have a little confidence in me, old fellow. I am sure you do not mean it, but you are making my task much harder.”

“Oh, I don’t want to do that, but you see I can’t help looking at you as my brother.”

“Never cease to, pray. Now go and lie down for a few hours. Yes,” he continued, as Alison hesitated, “I wish it. I desire it. I will call you about four.”

“Oh, very well, if I must, I must,” said Alison rather sulkily. Then, as if ashamed of the tone he had taken, “All right. Be sure and call me then.” He crossed to the bed again, stood looking down at the sleeping face, and returned.

“I say,” he whispered, “what a change it seems! Only this morning talking to us as he did, and now helpless like that.”

“Yes; it is terrible how prostrate an accident renders a man.”

“Did—did he say anything to you about—about marriage?”

Neil started and looked sharply at his brother, who had faltered as he spoke.

“Yes, but there is no occasion to discuss that now.”

“No, I suppose not, but he was wonderfully set upon our being regularly engaged to those two girls. Don’t seem natural for that sort of thing to be settled for you downright without your being consulted. It’s just as if you were a royal personage.”

“My dear Alison, is this a time for such a subject to be discussed? Pray go now.”

“Oh, very well—till four o’clock, then.”

The young man left the room, and Neil sat down to think, after a closer examination of his father’s state. For Alison’s words had started a current of thought which soon startled him by its intensity, as it raised up the calm, pale face of one who had constantly been at his side in cases of emergency—one who was always tenderly sensitive and ready to suffer with those who suffered, whose voice had a sweet, sympathetic ring as she spoke words of encouragement or consolation to the agony-wrung patient, but who could be firm as a rock at times, when a sufferer’s life depended upon the strength of mind and nerve of the attendant.

Always that face, looking with calm, deep, thoughtful eyes into his, but with no heightening of colour, no tremor in the sensitive nerves of the smooth, high temples; and as he sat there thinking, she seemed to him one whom no words of man, however earnest and impassioned, could stir, certainly not such words as he could speak.

He started from his reverie, which had in spirit taken him back to the hospital where the tall, graceful figure glided silently from bed to bed, and the colour mounted quickly to his cheeks as a faint tapping came at the door, and upon his opening it he started again, for there was a figure, tall and slight, indistinctly seen in the darkness, as if his thoughts had evoked the presence of her upon whom his mind had dwelt.

“It is only I, Neil, dear,” whispered a pleasant, silvery voice.

“Isabel? I thought you were in bed.”

“How could you, Neil, dear!” she said reproachfully. “I could not go to bed and sleep knowing you were sitting up with poor papa. How is he now, dear?”

“Just the same, and must be for some time.” Isabel sighed.

“Neil, dear,” she whispered, “I’ve got a spirit-lamp and kettle in the next room, and as soon as you like I’ll make you some tea.”

“Thank you, my dear. Leave it ready and I’ll make some myself.”

“No, no, Neil, dear,” she said, clinging to him. “Don’t send me away. I could not sleep to-night.”

“But you must, dear. I want you to be rested and strong, so as to come and sit with him to-morrow while I have some sleep.”

“Yes, dear, of course,” she whispered, as she crept closer within the protecting arm round her, and laid her head upon her brother’s shoulder.

“Come, come,” Neil whispered, as he stroked her soft hair, “you must not fret and give way. Troubles come into every family, and we must learn to bear them with fortitude.”

“Yes, Neil, dear, and I am trying hard to bear this bravely.”

She nestled to him more closely, and as he smoothed her hair again and stroked her cheek, gazing down the while at its soft outline, he could not help thinking how attractive in appearance she had grown. “There,” he said at last. “Now you must go.”

“Yes, dear, directly. But—Neil—”

“What is it?”

“May I talk to you?”

“Of course.”

“But as I used when you were at home and I told you all my secrets?”

“I hope you will, Bel. Why shouldn’t you trust your big brother?”

“Yes; why not?” she said eagerly. “And you will not think me a silly girl nor forward?”

“I hope not.”

“Nor that I should not have spoken to you at such a time?”

“Why, what is the terrible secret, then?” he whispered, as he kissed her tenderly and made her throw her arms about his neck and utter a sob.

“Ah, I see; something about Beck.”

She hid her face on his shoulder, and he felt her nod her head.

“He told me what you said to him, dear,” she whispered. “It was very dreadful at a time like this, but I could not help him speaking.”

“Oh, he told you, eh?”

“Yes, dear, and he told me what papa said.”

“Don’t—don’t talk about it, my child. It seems too terrible now.”

“Yes, dear, it does,” she said with a sob, “but the words would come. Let me ask you one thing, Neil, dear, and then I will not say another word. I wouldn’t say this, only it is so very terrible to me, and it’s all so still and quiet here now in the middle of the night, and it seems just the time for speaking.”

“What is it, then?”

Isabel was silent for a few moments, and then, with her lips very close to her brother’s ear, she whispered:

“Neil, dear, do you feel sure that papa will get better?”

“Yes; I do not think there is any doubt about it.”

Isabel uttered a sigh full of relief, and, leaving her brother, went softly to the bedside to bend down and kiss the sufferer’s brow. Then returning, she nestled close up to her brother again.

He kissed her affectionately, and led her toward the door.

“There, good-night, now,” he whispered, but she clung to him tightly, and he took her head between his hands and gazed down into her shrinking eyes.

“What is it, little one?” he said; and she feebly struggled with him, so as to avert her face from his searching eyes, but she made no reply.

“Why, Isabel, darling, what is it? You have something you wish to say to me?”

“Yes, Neil,” she whispered, “but I hardly like to tell it.”

“I thought you were always ready to tell me everything.”

“Yes, dear,” she said quickly now, and she looked up full in his face. “Neil, do you know what dear papa wishes?”

“I have a suspicion.”

“It was more than a suspicion with me, Neil. But, tell me, do you think now that he will want me to listen to that dreadful Sir Cheltnam?”

“Let’s wait and see, dear,” said Neil quickly. “We must not meet troubles half way. This is no time to think of such a matter as that.”

“No; I felt that, dear, but I think so much about it that it would keep coming up.”

“Leave it now, and we will talk about it another time,” said Neil gently. “You can always come to me, Isabel, and I will try to be worthy of your confidence.”

“Yes, I know that, Neil,” she said quickly; and after kissing him once more she hurried out of the room, leaving her brother to his thoughts and the long watch through the night.

And as he seated himself near the bed, where he could gaze at the stern, deeply lined countenance upon the pillow, his memory went back to early days, when he and his brother felt something akin to dread whenever their father spoke. And from that starting point he went on through boyhood up to manhood, right up to the present, when, after shaping the lives of his children as far as had been possible, his father seemed determined to carry out his plans for the future.

A slight movement on the part of the patient made Elthorne rise from his seat, take the shaded lamp and go close to the bedside, but his father slept heavily, and he returned to his seat to continue unravelling the thread of his career.

A few months back his father’s plans had seemed of no consequence to him whatever. Half jokingly Mr Elthorne had thrown him and Saxa Lydon together, and the bright, talkative girl, with her love of out door life, had amused him. If he must marry, he thought it did not much matter to him who the lady might be, so long as she was not exacting and did not interfere with his studies. Saxa Lydon was not likely to want him to take her into society. She was too fond of her horses and dogs, and if it pleased his father, why, it would please him.

But then came the appointment of Nurse Elisia to Sir Denton’s ward, and by degrees a complete change had come over the spirit of his dream. At first he had hardly noticed her save that she was a tall, graceful woman, with a sweet, calm, saddened countenance which he felt would be sympathetic to the patients; and, soon after, half wonderingly he had noticed the intense devotion of this refined gentlewoman to the various cases. Nothing was too horrible, nothing too awful. The most sordid and repellent duties were unshrinkingly done, and in the darkest, most wearisome watches of the night she was always at her post, patient and wakeful, ready to tend, to humour, to relieve the poor sufferer whose good fortune it had been to have her aid.

Then he had thought it no wonder that Sir Denton was loud in her praise, and a certain intimacy of a friendly nature had sprung up between them, during which he had soon discovered that their new nurse was no ordinary woman, but who or what she was he had no idea, and it seemed was not likely to know, for she never referred to her antecedents.

After a time he had often found himself after some painful episode at a patient’s bedside, wondering why Nurse Elisia was there. Everything about her betokened the lady, and no ordinary lady, and Neil unconsciously began building up romantic stories about her previous life, in most of which he painted her as a woman who had passed through some terrible ordeal, become disgusted with the world in which she had lived, and had determined to devote herself to the duty of assuaging the pangs of her suffering fellow-creatures.

Once he had turned the conversation in her direction when dining with Sir Denton, but the old surgeon had quietly parried all inquiries, and at the same time let him see that he was touching on delicate ground in connection with one who was evidently his protégée. Naturally this increased the interest as time went on, and he found himself taking note of the bearing of the old man toward the nurse.

But he learned nothing by this. Perhaps there was a quiet, paternal manner visible at times on Sir Denton’s part, but on Nurse Elisia’s nothing but an intense look and a display of eagerness to grasp fully his instructions in regard to some dying creature whose life they were trying to save. Nothing more; and her bearing was the same to him, always calm and distant. If ever she was eager, it was in respect to a patient, and, his wishes carried out, she was either watching at some bedside or gliding patiently about the ward to smooth and turn a hot pillow here, gently move an aching head or injured limb there; and after many months Neil Elthorne found, to the disturbance of his mental balance, that he was constantly thinking of Nurse Elisia, while, save in connection with her duties and his instructions, she apparently never gave him a thought.

All these memories came back to Neil Elthorne as he sat that night by his father’s couch. They troubled and annoyed him, and he moved feverishly from time to time in his chair.

“It is absurd,” he said to himself. “One would think I was some romantic boy, ready to be attracted by the first beautiful face I see— Yes; she is beautiful, after all, and that simple white cap and plain black dress only enhance instead of hiding it. And she is a lady, I am sure. But what does it mean? A nurse; devoting herself to all those repulsive cases as if she were seeking by self-denial and punishment to make a kind of atonement for something which has gone before. What can have gone before? Who is she? Why is she there?”

His questioning thoughts became so unbearable that he rose from his seat, thrust off the soft slippers he was wearing, and began to pace the room.

“It was quite time I left the hospital,” he thought. “The work there has weakened my nerves, and made me ready to think like this—caused this susceptible state. Quite time I left. It is a kind of disease, and I am glad I am away before I committed myself to some folly. I should look well—I, a man with an advancing reputation—if I were to be questioned by Sir Denton upon what I meant by forgetting myself, and degrading myself by making advances toward one of the nurses. It would come before the governors of the hospital, and I should be asked to resign. I must be worse than I thought. Too much strain. Incipient nerve attacks previous to something more terrible. There,” he muttered, as he returned to and resumed his seat, “one never knows what is best for one’s self. It was right that I should come away from the hospital, and I am here. Bah! ready in my selfishness to think I am of so much consequence that my poor father was called upon to suffer like this to save me from a folly. Yes; there is no doubt about it,” he added, after a pause, during which he sat in the semi-darkness of the bedroom gazing straight before him into the gloom; “I have been too much on the strain. A month or two in this pure air will set me up again, and I shall go back ready to look her calmly in the face as of old, and treat her as what she is—a hospital nurse. You shall not have cause to blush for your son, father,” he said in a low whisper as he leaned toward the bed and gently took the old man’s hand. “You will have enough to bear without meeting with rebellion against your wishes.”

He raised the hand to his lips, and then tenderly laid it back on the coverlet, bent over the sufferer, and drew back with a sigh.

“It will be a question of time and careful nursing,” he said, softly. “There must be no mental trouble to hinder his progress. We must not let him feel his weakness and want of power, or he will suffer horribly. Only a few hours since, and so strong and well; but by management we can keep off a good deal, and we will. My poor old dad!”

Chapter Seven.

“Join your Ship at once.”

The morning broke warm and bright, but the gloom within the fine old manor-house deepened as the facts became more and more impressed on all these that the master would, if his life were spared, never again be the same.

Isabel came softly into the room twice during the night, so silently that Neil, as he sat watching, did not hear her till she touched his arm. She stayed with him for a time, and as they sat together in those solemn hours brother and sister seemed to be drawn more together than before. Not that there had ever been any gap between them, for Neil, partaking more of the nature of their dead mother than Alison, had always been the one to whom Isabel had clung, and whom she had gone to with her troubles when their father was in his sterner and most exacting moods.

Alison, too, came twice to see how the patient was; but here, somehow, his brother’s manner and words are jarred upon Neil, for there seemed a want of sympathy and a suggestion of Alison’s feeling free and independent, now that the autocrat of their house, hold had been cast down from his throne.

Just before morning, too, Aunt Anne had been in, ready to assert that she might just as well have sat up and kept her nephew company, for she had not slept a wink, her eyes stubbornly refusing to support her declaration, for they looked as if they had been tightly closed for hours.

As the morning progressed, and the injured man still lay in a stupor-like sleep, visitors and messengers arrived with inquiries about his state.

Beck was one of the first, and he came in the hope that Isabel would contrive to see him for a few minutes. He was not disappointed, for he had not been seated many minutes before Isabel came into the drawing room quite by accident, to fetch some work left on one of the chairs, and in an instant her hands were clasped in those of the young sailor.

“No, no!” she cried excitedly. “You know what papa said.”

“Yes,” he said earnestly; “and it would be cowardly and mean of me to take advantage of his lying there helpless. See, I will try and act like a gentleman,”—he dropped her hands—“I only want to tell you, Isabel, that, come what may, I shall keep to my course. Some day, when he is well again—”

“Then you think he will get well?” she cried eagerly.

“Yes; why not?” responded Beck. “I say, some day, when he is well again, he may alter and not be so set against me, and I am going to wait till then.”

“Yes,” she said with a sigh.

“I am not going to doubt you for a moment, Isabel. I don’t think, after all these years, you could turn from me; and when your father sees really what is for your happiness, he will, I believe, relent.”

Tom Beck had no opportunity to say more, for just then Aunt Anne bustled into the room.

“You, Mr Beck?” she said. “Why, I thought it was your father.”

“He is going to try and get across, by and by, in the invalid chair. He is not up yet, and honestly I do not think he is fit to leave his bed; but he says he must, and he will.”

“Poor man!” sighed Aunt Anne. “Oh, dear me, Mr Beck, what a deal of—Isabel, my dear, don’t wait.”

“No, Aunt,” said the girl quietly; and then, to herself, “Papa must have told Aunt Anne not to let me be along with Tom, or she would not have spoken like that.”

Then aloud—

“Good-bye, Mr Beck;” and she held out her hand, which was taken for a moment and then dropped, as she turned and left the room.

The vicar’s son had hardly left the house an hour when Sir Cheltnam rode over to make inquiries, and was leaving his card, when Alison came into the hall and went out on the steps to speak to him.

“Can’t ask you in,” said Alison. “The governor’s very bad.”

“Got a doctor down from London, haven’t you?”

“We’ve had one in consultation, but he has gone back.”

“But our doctor here is not attending him, for I met him, and he was asking about it, and thought it rather strange that he had not been sent for.”

“Humph! You see, my brother is attending him.”

“Oh!” ejaculated Sir Cheltnam. “Well, it’s no business of mine, but if anything happened to the old man it wouldn’t look well, and people would talk about it a good deal. I say, isn’t your brother rather disposed to ride the high horse?”

Alison winced.

“What do you mean?” he said rather roughly. “Oh, nothing much. A bit haughty with me, as if he did not approve of my pretensions. Coming the elder brother a bit, and I’m getting nervous as to what it is going to be now your father is down.”

“Oh, it is only Neil’s way,” said Alison sulkily. “And you don’t seem much better. If you came over to my place, I should ask you in, and call a man to take your horse.”

“How can I ask you in at a time like this?” said Alison apologetically.

“Easily enough, and take me into the drawing room. How is Isabel?”

“Broken-hearted, nearly. This came about directly after the governor had given Tom Beck his congé.”

“Then he had done that?”

“Yes; and the little girl’s a bit sore about it.”

“Cheerful for me!” said Sir Cheltnam.

“Bah! He’ll be off to sea directly, and she’ll soon forget him.”

“Then you think I had better not come in to-day? I’m off, then. Wish the old man better. I’ll come on again to-morrow to see how he is. I say, tell Isabel I called and was in great trouble, and that sort of thing.”

“Oh, yes; all right,” growled Alison.

“Pleasant sort of a brother-in-law in prospective,” said Sir Cheltnam to himself, as he cantered off.

“Takes it as a matter of course that he is to have her,” muttered Alison. “I’m not so sure.”

He bit one of his nails and watched the visitor till he was out of sight, and still stood at the foot of the steps frowning.

“Even he sees it,” he muttered. “I won’t stand any more of his arbitrary ways. He is only a year older than I am, and yet he is to lord it over me as if I were a child. Why should he take the lead in everything? Is he to do so always? Not if I know it. If all this means that a new king reigns in Hightoft, it is not going to be brother Neil.”

Almost in perfect ignorance of what was going on downstairs, Neil remained patiently watching by his father’s side. Aunt and sister had both begged him to go and lie down, insisting upon the fact that he would be quite helpless at night, and that it was his duty, so as to be ready to watch again, but he only smiled.

“My dear Aunt,” he said at last to that lady, who was greatly agitated in his behalf, “a doctor grows used to watching by his patient’s bedside, and gets little snatches of sleep which refresh him. Believe me, I am not a bit tired.”

At that moment Isabel entered the room with a telegram.

“For you, Neil, dear,” she said.

“It has been opened.”

“Yes, dear, Alison opened it. He said it must be for him.”

Neil frowned, but said no more, and taking out the telegram he read:

“The nurse leaves town this afternoon. Let a carriage meet her at the station.

“Hayle.”

“Hah!” he said, passing the letter to his aunt. “I am glad of that; it will set me free, and the help of a good nurse at a time like this is invaluable.”

“But shall we be able to trust her?” said Aunt Anne. “My experience of nurses is that they are dreadful women, who drink and go to sleep in sickrooms, and the patient cannot wake them, and dies for want of attention.”

“Oh, Aunt!” cried Isabel.

“I am assured that it is quite true, my dear,” said Aunt Anne, didactically.

“I think we have changed all that, Aunt, dear,” said Neil, smiling. “Sir Denton would not send down any woman who is not thoroughly trustworthy.”

Aunt Anne pursed up her lips, and tried to look wise and full of experience—a difficult task for a lady with her plump, dimpled countenance.

“Well, my dear,” she said, “I hope so; but it always seems to me that the selection of an attendant for a sick man is a lady’s duty, and I cannot believe in the choice made by a man, and such an old man too. But there, we shall see.”

“Yes, Aunt, dear,” said Neil, smiling, “we shall see.”

Aunt Anne was left in charge of the patient, very much to her satisfaction, so that Neil could go down with Isabel for a rest and a little fresh air.

As they reached the hall they met Alison, who came up directly.

“Oh, Neil,” he said, “I opened that telegram thinking it might be meant for me.”

“Yes,” said his brother. “I heard that you did.”

“Quite a mistake I hope you don’t mind.”

“I have other things to take my attention,” replied Neil. “Come, Isabel, let’s have a walk up and down in the fresh air. I can’t stay long.”

He led the way out on to the drive, and, after hesitating for a few moments, Alison followed, frowning, just as the sound of horses’ hoofs was heard, and Saxa and Dana Lydon rode up.

“Well, how’s the dad?” cried Saxa boisterously. “Going on all right? Glad of it. You boys are making too much fuss over it. Nature soon cures a fall. It isn’t like a disease, is it, Doctor?”

“It’s of no use to ask him,” said Dana merrily. “He’ll pull a professional face, and make the worst of it, and then by and by, rub his hands and say, ‘There; see what a clever fellow I am.’”

“Yes,” said Saxa maliciously, “when I could have set him right with some embrocation and a bit of flannel bandage.”

“Glad the old man’s better,” cried Dana. “Here, you people look white and worried. Order out the horses and come for an hour’s ride.”

“Would you like to go, Isabel?” asked Neil.

“I? Oh, no,” cried the girl hurriedly.

“What a baby you are, Bel!” said Saxa contemptuously. “You’ll come, Neil?”

“I should like a ride,” he replied, “but it is impossible to leave home.”

“Next time I ask you there will be a different answer,” said the girl sharply. “Don’t ask Alison, Dan,” she continued, turning to her sister. “He is going to be a good boy too, and stop and see his papa take his barley-water.”

“Is he?” said Alison gruffly. “Perhaps he was not going to wait to be asked. There is no occasion for me to hang about at home, Neil?”

“N-no, I think not. You can do nothing.”

“I’ll be ready in five minutes, then, girls.”

“Here, we’ll come round to the stables with you,” said Saxa. “I want to see The Don. Is he any the worse for his fall?”

She said this as she rode on beside Alison, her sister following, without any further notice of Neil and his sister, while the former stood looking after her, frowning.

“And I thought of marrying that hoyden!” he said to himself. “It is impossible. We have not a sympathy in common.”

Then the thought of his father’s expressed wishes came back, and of his lying there helpless. He had made no opposition when the matter had been spoken of last. How could he draw back now?

His heart sank low as he looked into the future with a kind of wonder as to what his future life would be bound up to a woman like that, and a feeling of anger rose within him at his weakness in letting the affair drift on so far.

“It is impossible,” he thought. “She does not care for me. It would be madness—a sin against her and against myself. Yes!” he said aloud with a start, for Isabel had laid her hand upon his arm.

“There is something the matter,” she said quickly.

Neil turned to hurry into the house, but his sister held him fast.

“No, no, dear. Tom is coming. Mr Beck must be worse.”

Neil looked in the direction taken by her eyes, and saw that the young lieutenant was striding rapidly toward them, coming by the short cut across the park, and now, seeing that he was observed, he waved his hand.

“Go in, Isabel,” said Neil quietly.

“Neil!”

“I wish it, my dear. After what has passed, you have no right to see him now.”

She gave him a tearful look, and went in with her head bent down to hide her face from anyone who might be at the windows.

The next minute the young sailor hurried up.

“You have sent her in, Neil,” he said reproachfully.

“Yes; why have you come back so soon? Anything wrong?”

“Yes,” said the young man hoarsely.

“Your father? I’ll come on.”

“No, no. Read that.”

He thrust a telegram into Neil’s hand, which read: “To join your ship at once. Imperative!”

“Yes; and I cannot go with matters like this,” cried Beck.

“But you must. Your position as an officer is at stake.”

“I can’t help it. Neil Elthorne, put yourself in my place. How can I go and leave Isabel at such a time?”

“What good could you do if you stayed?”

“It would help her. She would know I was near. I can’t go and leave her knowing what I do about that fellow Burwood.”

Neil looked at him fixedly for a few moments. “Don’t play the boy,” he said at last sternly.

“No; I am going to play the man,” cried Beck. “Isabel and I have been girl and boy together, and our affection has gradually strengthened till I know that she loves me as well as I love her.”

“Yes, perhaps so, my lad, but you heard her father’s decision, and you can do no more.”

“Yes; I heard his decision,” said the young sailor sturdily, “and I am not going to stand by and see her given up to that man! Why, Neil, it would kill her.”

“Look here, Tom, my good fellow, you must be sensible. It would be no kindness to my sister to let her feel that she had ruined your prospects.”

“It would not ruin my prospects,” said Beck sturdily. “I’m a good sailor, and if I lose my ship I can always get employment in the merchant service.”

“Of course you could, but neither Isabel nor I are going to let you degrade yourself. My father is dangerously ill, and nothing such as you fear can advance a step for months to come, so join your ship like a man, and show that you have faith in the girl you believe to love you.”

“If I only could think—” began Beck.

“Look here, Tom. I think you have some faith in me.”

“In you? My dear Neil,” cried the young sailor warmly, “if ever fellow looked upon another man as a brother, I do upon you. Why, you know that.”

“Yes, I know that,” said Neil, taking his arm and walking up and down the drive with him, “and I am going always to behave like a brother to you. Go and join your ship.”

“But Isabel?”

“Leave me to act for you over that matter as a brother would. For both your sakes I will do what is best.”

“But Burwood?”

“I don’t like Burwood, and I do like you,” said Neil, smiling. “Come, will not that satisfy you?”

“Almost. You will fight for me, then, Neil?”

“I don’t think that there will be any occasion to fight for you. I think time is on your side. Lieutenant Beck’s chance was very small with my father; but suppose one Captain Beck, a young officer who had distinguished himself by his seamanship in Her Majesty’s service, came and renewed his proposal for my sister’s hand, surely he would have a better chance of success.”

“Neil, old fellow,” cried Beck, facing round and grasping the young surgeon’s hand, “I don’t wonder that you are getting to be a big fellow at your hospital.”

“Nonsense! Who says I am?”

“Oh, I’ve heard. I wish I were as clever as you are. I came here feeling so bad that life didn’t seem worth living, and in a few minutes you’ve shown things to me in such a different light that—”

“You think it is worth living and sharing with someone else,” cried Neil.

“My dear old fellow,” cried the sailor, with tears in his eyes.

“And you will go off like a man and join your ship?”

“Yes,” cried Beck, grasping his friend’s hand, and speaking firmly, “like a man.”

“And you go at once?”

“Directly. Now take me in, and let me say good-bye to her.”

“No,” said Neil firmly.

“What? After my promise?”

“After your promise. I have a duty to my helpless father, Tom, my lad, and I should be playing a very dishonourable part if I took advantage of his position, knowing what I do of his wishes, to arrange a meeting between you and my sister. That was a love-sick boy speaking, not the Queen’s officer—the man whose honour is beyond reproach.”

“I suppose you are right,” said Beck, after a pause. “You know I am.”

“Let me see her for a moment, though.”

“No.”

“I know you are right—just to say ‘good-bye’ before you—just to touch her hand.”

“No, my lad. Say good-bye to me, and I’ll tell her you love her truly, and that you have gone off to your duty like a man—an officer and a gentleman. That you have exacted no promise from her, and that you have taken the advice of her brother—a man who loves you both and will help you to the end. There, I must go back to my father’s room. Good-bye.”

“O Neil,” groaned the young sailor; “this is all so hard and business-like. Everything goes easily for you. You don’t know what love is.”

A spasm contracted Neil’s features for a few moments, but he smiled sadly directly after.

“Perhaps not,” he said. “Who knows? There, business-like or not, you know I am doing my duty and you have to do yours. Come, sailor, I shall begin to quote Shakespeare to you. ‘Aboard, for shame; the wind sits in the shoulder of your sail, and you are staid for.’”

“But it is so hard, Neil.”

“Life’s duties are hard, man; but we men must do them at any cost. Come, good-bye, and old Shakespeare again—the end of the old man’s speech: ‘To thine own self be true’—and you will be true to the girl you wish to make your wife. Good-bye.”

Neil held out his hand, but it remained untouched for the full space of a minute before it was seized and crushed heavily between two nervous sets of fingers, while the young man’s eyes gazed fixedly in his. Then it was dashed aside. Beck swung himself round and dashed off across the park as hard as he could go, without trusting himself to look back.

Chapter Eight.

Conflicting Emotions.

“Poor fellow!” said Neil to himself; “and the dad prefers that hunting, racing baronet to him for a son-in-law! Why it would break little Bel’s heart.”

He stood watching till Beck passed in among the trees, expecting to the last to see him turn and wave his hand.

“No; gone,” he said. “Well, I must fight their battle—when the time comes—but it is quite another battle now.”

As he thought this he heard the clattering of hoofs, and hastened his steps so as to get indoors before his brother rode out of the stable yard with the Lydon sisters, and a guilty feeling sent the blood into his pale cheeks. But he did not check his steps; he rather hastened them.

“They don’t want to see me again,” he muttered; and then, “Oh, what a miserable, contemptible coward I am; preaching to that young fellow about his duty, and here I am, the next minute, deceiving myself and utterly wanting in strength to do mine. I ought to go out and say good-bye to Saxa, and I will.”

He stopped and turned to go, but a hand was laid upon his arm, and, as he faced round, it was to see a little white appealing face turned up to his, and as he passed his arm round his sister’s waist the horses’ hoofs crushed the gravel by the door, passed on, and the sound grew more faint.

“Neil, dear; Tom has gone. Is his father very ill?”

These words brought the young surgeon back to the troubles of others in place of his own.

“No, dear; he is no worse. It was not that,” he said hastily.

“What was it, then? Oh, Neil, dear, you hurt me. You are keeping something back.”

“I am not going to keep anything back, little sis,” he said tenderly. “Come in here.”

He led her into the drawing room and closed the door, while she clung to him, searching his eyes with her own wistful gaze, as her lips trembled.

“Now, dear, pray tell me. Why did Tom come?”

“He had bad news, dear.”

“About his ship?” cried the girl wildly.

“Yes.”

“O Neil! It was about going back to sea!”

Neil nodded, and drew her more closely to him, but she resisted. His embrace seemed to stifle her; she could hardly breathe.

“You are cruel to me,” she panted. “But I know,” she cried half hysterically; “he has to go soon.”

“He has to do his duty as a Queen’s officer, Isabel, dear, and you must be firm.”

“Yes, yes, dear, of course,” she cried, struggling hard the while to master her emotion. “I will, indeed, try—to be calm—and patient. But tell me; he has had a message about rejoining his ship?”

“Yes, dear.”

“And he is to go soon?”

Neil was silent.

“Neil, pray speak,” she sobbed.

“Yes, my child. He brought a telegram.”

“A despatch,” she said, correcting him.

“No, dear—a telegram.”

“Then—then—it means—something sudden—for them to telegraph. I can bear it, now, dear. How soon is he to go?”

“Isabel, my child, will you trust in me to help you to do what is best?” said Neil tenderly.

“Yes, Neil, dear; of course, I want to do what is right, and you will help me.”

“I will, dear, with all my strength. You know that Tom has his duty to do, like the rest of us, and you have yours to our poor father.”

“Yes, Neil, of course, and you know I try.”

“My darling, yes,” he cried, as he kissed the pale cheeks wet now with tears.

“Then tell me. I must know. When is Tom to go?”

“Isabel, your father forbade all engagement with him, and I have talked to Tom Beck as I thought was best for both of you. Come, you must act like a brave little woman and help me. We have both got our duty to do now at a very sad time. You will help me and try to be firm?”

“Yes—yes,” she whispered hoarsely, “but—but—Neil—tell me—when is he to go?”

“Isabel, dear, it was his duty as an officer and as an honourable man.”

“Yes,” she whispered in a strangely low tone. “Tom would do his duty always, I know—now—you are keeping something back. I can see it,” she cried, growing more excited and struggling in his arms. “I know now—and without bidding me good-bye. Neil, you have sent him away; he is gone!”

Neil bent his head sadly, and she literally snatched herself away.

“And you call yourself my brother!” she cried passionately. “You say you taught him his duty; and, after all he has said to me, to make him go without one word. Oh, it is cruel—it is cruel. What have I done that you should treat me so?”

“Isabel, dear, you promised me that you would be firm.”

“How can a woman be firm at a time like this? But I know; you could not be so cruel. He is coming back just to see me and say good-bye.”

“He has gone, Isabel.”

“Without a single word or look?”

She gazed at him as if dazed, and unable to believe his words. Then uttering a low, piteous cry, she sank helpless across his arms, her eyes closed, and for hours she lay for the most part unconscious, only awakening from time to time to burst into a passion of hysterical weeping as her senses returned.

“Duty is hard—very hard,” said Neil through his set teeth, as he divided his time between his father’s and his sister’s chambers, where Aunt Anne sat sobbing and bewailing their fate. Alison had returned at dusk, and partaken of the dinner alone, to go afterward to his little study, where he sat and scowled and smoked.

The carriage had been sent to the station in accordance with Sir Denton’s request, and then forgotten by all in the house, and the night was going on apace.

Neil had just left his sister’s room and gone back to his father’s to find him hot and feverish to an extent which rather troubled him, and once more made him long for the friendly counsel and advice of a colleague.

But his sound common sense gave him the help he needed, and after administering medicine he became satisfied with the result and sat by the bedside thinking of the stern duty he had to fulfill.

“I judge Saxa too hardly,” he said to himself. “I do not go the way to make her care for me, and it is no wonder that she should be piqued by my indifference. I’ll try and alter it, for all that other is a foolish dream, and due to my low nervous state. I’ll turn over a new leaf to-morrow, and see what can be done. It would help him in his recovery if he knew that his dearest wishes were bearing fruit; and if I satisfy him over that, he will yield to mine about poor little Isabel. She will not be so hard to-morrow when her sorrow is being softened down. For I did right, and I’ll do right about Saxa, poor girl! I was quite rude to her to-day. I’ll ride over to-morrow and fetch her to see him. He likes her as much as he does Isabel. There, I think I am getting things into train for the beginning of a new life, and— What is it?”

“The carriage back from the station, my dear,” whispered Aunt Anne. “The new nurse is in the hall. Will you come down and speak to her at once?”

“Yes, Aunt. Thank Heaven, she has come.”

He hurried out of the room and down the stairs to where, in the dim light, a tall cloaked figure stood by her humble-looking luggage. And as he went he had made up in his mind the words he would say to her about getting some refreshment at once and joining him in the sick chamber, where a bed had been made up in the dressing room for her use.

But Neil Elthorne did not speak the words he had meant to say, for, as the visitor turned at his step, he stopped short with the blood rushing to his brain, and a strange sensation of vertigo attacking him as he faltered out:

“Good Heavens! Nurse Elisia! Has he sent you?”

Chapter Nine.

Off to Hightoft.

“There, you are better now.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, indeed you are. This has nothing to do with the operation, I assure you.”

“Then, pray, what is it?” This question very sharply, and the patient moved in her bed in a way that showed very little feebleness.

“Simply hysteria.”

“What! Sterricks?”

“Yes, a form of hysterics.”

“There!” cried the patient, with a triumphant tone in her voice. “I knew you didn’t know nothing about it. I never had sterricks in my life.”

“Because you have always been a woman in a vigorous state of health. Latterly you have been brought down rather low.”

“’Taint that,” said the woman sharply, “it’s what’s done to me here, and the shameful neglect. It’s horrid; I’m half killed, and then Mr Neil goes away and leaves me to that horrible old man, and as soon as Mr Neil’s gone, the other leaves me to die.”

“I am afraid you are a very foolish woman,” said the nurse quietly. “I can assure you that you are getting well fast.”

“Oh, yes, I know. And you are as bad as they are. It’s shameful!”

“You have been working yourself up to think you are being neglected, but your troubles are imaginary.”

“Oh, yes, I know,” cried the woman angrily.

“Pray try and be reasonable,” said the nurse, speaking in a voice full of patient resignation.

“Go on, pray, ma’am. You’ve all got me down here and are trampling on me. I’m unreasonable now, am I?”

“I am afraid you are a little,” said the nurse, smiling as she rearranged the bedclothes. “Mr Elthorne went away because he was worn out with attending the poor people here, and Sir Denton was telegraphed for to attend some unfortunate gentleman who had met with an accident.”

“Then he oughtn’t to have gone,” cried the woman loudly.

“Pray, hush,” said the nurse. “You are hurting yourself and upsetting the other patients.”

“And I say he’d no right to go. My life’s as much consequence as anybody else’s life, and it’s a shameful piece of neglect. Oh, if I do live to get away from this ’ateful place, I’ll let some of you know. I’m to be left to die because the doctors are too idle to come and see me. If I’d only known, you’d never caught me here.”

“Hush, hush! Pray be quiet, dear. You are making yourself hot and feverish.”

The nurse laid her cool white hand upon the patient’s brow, but she resented it and thrust it away. “Let me be. I don’t want holding down. It’s shameful. It’s cruel. Oh, why did I come to this dreadful place? As for that Sir Denton, or whatever his name is—”

“What about him? Do you want me?” said the gentleman in question, who had come into the ward and up to the bed unnoticed. “How are you this morning?—Ah, better.”

“No, I’m not, I’m worse, and it’s shameful.”

“What is?” said the surgeon, smiling.

“For me to be neglected by the doctors and nurses as I am. It’s too bad, it is; and I might have died—no doctor, no nurse.”

“Ah, yes; it is very cruel,” said Sir Denton. “I have shamefully neglected my patients here, and as for the conduct of Nurse Elisia to you, it is almost criminal. You will have to go back home to your own people and be properly treated. Dreadful places, these hospitals are.”

Nurse Elisia looked up at the old surgeon with wondering eyes, as he took the woman’s own tone, but he smiled at her sadly.

“Come with me, I want to talk to you. Poor thing,” he said, as they walked away, “she is in the irritable, weary state of the convalescent. She is not answerable for what she says. Sorry I was obliged to go, but the case was urgent. Mr Elthorne’s father. A terrible accident. The spine injured, and paralysis of the lower part of the body.”

“Mr Elthorne’s father!” cried the nurse, turning pale. “How shocking!”

“Terrible. Mr Elthorne telegraphed for me. It was not necessary, for he was doing everything possible, and now it is a case of careful nursing to save the poor fellow’s life.”

“Nursing?”

“Yes. I have promised Mr Elthorne to send him down the most helpful, trustworthy nurse I knew, at once.”

“Sir Denton,” faltered the nurse, with a faint colour rising in her cheeks.

“It is an exceptional ease, my child, one which calls for all a nurse’s skill and tenderness with, perhaps, as much patience as I have seen you exercise toward that foolish woman. I am going to ask you to start at once for Hightoft, and take up this case.”

“Sir Denton!” she cried. “Oh! it is impossible.”

“Why?”

“My patients here.”

“Your place can be filled, just as it would be necessary to fill it if you were taken ill.”

“But I am not ill, Sir Denton, and I am needed here.”

“But you are needed there—at this gentleman’s house, where the services of a patient lady like yourself would be invaluable.”

“I could not go, Sir Denton; I beg you will not send me.”

“It is in a lovely part of the country. It is a charming place, and I can guarantee for you that the ladies will receive you as their equal—perhaps as their superior,” he added with a meaning smile, which made her look slightly resentful.

“Really, Sir Denton,” she began.

“Forgive me,” he said. “It was a slip. I have no wish to pry into your private life, Nurse Elisia. I am only thankful to have the help and co-operation of a refined woman in my sad cases here.”

“Thank you, Sir Denton, but you must excuse me from this.”

“I cannot,” he said firmly, “for I feel that it is your duty to go. I have no hesitation in saying that it is absolutely necessary for you to have a change, even if you do not have rest, but you will be able to combine both there.”

“Pray send someone else, Sir Denton.”

“I know nobody whom I could trust as I would you, Nurse Elisia,” he replied quietly, “and I am quite sure that there is no one in whom Mr Elthorne would have so much confidence.”

He noted the change in the nurse’s mobile countenance as he went on speaking in his quiet way, for she was evidently agitated and trying hard to conceal it.

“You see it would be so advantageous,” he continued. “After a few days you could set Mr Elthorne at liberty to come back here. Of course, as you know, the case is one which needs almost wholly a careful nurse’s skill. How soon will you be free to go?”

Like lightning the thoughts flashed through her brain of the position she would occupy. It was like throwing her constantly in Neil Elthorne’s society, and she shrank from the position almost with horror. For, of late there had been no disguising from herself the fact that the young surgeon had, in his quiet way, been more than courteous to her, and that his manner betokened a something, which on his side was fast ripening into admiration.

“It is impossible,” she thought. “It would be cruelty to him, for he is sincere and manly. No, I cannot go. It would be a crime. Sir Denton,” she said hastily, aloud. “You must excuse me from this duty. I cannot go.”

“No,” he said firmly, and he took her hand. “I cannot, I will not excuse you. Once more I tell you that you ought to go; it is your duty.”

“But why?” she cried, rather excitedly.

“Because you—evidently a lady of gentle birth—have set yourself the task of toiling for your suffering fellow-creatures. Here is one who may die if you do not go to his help.”

“But another would be as efficient.”

“I do not know one at the present moment whom I would trust as I would you; and in addition, the call comes at a time when it is imperative that you should have rest and change.”

“But,” she said, with a smile full of perplexity, “that would not be rest and change.”

“Can you not trust me to advise you for your good?” said Sir Denton gravely.

“Oh, yes, but—”

“That ‘but’ again. Come, nurse, I think you believe that I take great interest in you.”

“Oh, yes, Sir Denton,” she said eagerly.

“Then trust me in this. Take my advice. More—oblige me by going. I am surgeon here, and you are nurse, but it has seemed to me, for some time past, that we have had a closer intimacy—that of friends. Come, you will oblige me?”

“It is your wish then, that I should go?”

“Indeed, yes. When will you be ready to start?”

“At once.”

“That is good. Then I will telegraph down, so that a carriage may be in waiting for you at the station. I am sure that Mr Elthorne will see that you have every comfort and attention. Good-morning. Thanks.”

Nurse Elisia stood by the door of the ward, watching the retiring figure of the old surgeon as he passed down the corridor.

“Is it not weak to have given way?” she said to herself. “Perhaps not in such a case as this. Mr Elthorne will see that I have every comfort and attention,” she said softly. “Mr Elthorne must be taught that I am the hospital nurse, sent down there for a special purpose. Mr Elthorne is weak, and given to follies such as I should not have suspected in so wise and able a man.”

She stood hesitating for a few moments looking toward where Maria Bell lay, evidently watching her attentively, and her first impulse was to cross to the woman and to tell her that she would be handed over now to the charge of another nurse; but, reconsidering the matter, she decided merely to tell the next nurse in authority that she must take full charge of the ward, and going down to the matron, she stated that she would be absent for a time. That evening she was being hurried down by a fast train, to reach the station within a few minutes of the appointed time, and she had scarcely stepped on to the platform when a man’s voice made her start with dread lest it should be Neil.

“The nurse for Hightoft?” said the voice; and as she turned she found that it was only a servant.

“Yes, I am the nurse,” she replied.

“Well, here’s a carriage for you. Any luggage?”

The man’s voice was sharp, and wanting in respect, the ordering of the carriage for a long night drive having found little favour with coachman and footman.

“That little black bag, that is all,” said the nurse quietly.

“Don’t mean to stay long, then,” said the man with a laugh, as he took the little travelling bag, and swung it up on to the foot-board, while the nurse stood patiently waiting, and without resenting the man’s insolence and indifference as he entered into a conversation with the coachman before turning and, stepping back, stared hard at the calm, refined face dimly seen by the feeble station lamps.

“Will you have the goodness to open the carriage door?”

“Eh? Open the door? Of course. Just going to,” said the footman cavalierly, as he snatched open the door and rattled down the steps.

He held out his hand, but she stepped in without his assistance, the door was banged sharply to, and the handle took some time to turn, as the man stared in at the visitor, who quietly drew up the window and sank back in her seat.

“Gives herself airs, does she!” said the footman to himself. “How fond people who have never been in a carriage before are of making believe they are used to one. Can’t cheat me, my lady. Bet a shilling she has never been in anything better than a cab or a station-fly before in her life.”

“What are you grumbling about?” said the coachman, as his fellow-servant climbed up to his side.

“Nothing, only thinking aloud about her ladyship inside. Got in with a reg’lar toss of her head. There, hit ’em up, Tom, and let’s get back. I don’t want to be on this job all night.”

“Regular nurse, arn’t she?” said the coachman. “Horspittle?”

“Yes, I suppose so. Dressed up like a nun out for a holiday. Why couldn’t they have had a nurse out of the village, or your wife?”

“Ah! Why indeed?” said the coachman sourly. “’Fraid poor people should make a few shillings too much, I suppose. It’s just the same if one of the horses is bad; we must have the vet to see him, when I could put him right in a week. It’s having the name does it with some people. Horspittle nurse! A deal, I dare say, she knows.”

The ill-usage to which he and his fellow-servants were called upon to submit claimed both their tongues during the long, dark drive to Hightoft, while Nurse Elisia sat back in the carriage, dreamy and thoughtful, watching the lights of the lamps thrown upon hedgerow and tree as the good pair of horses trotted swiftly back.

It seemed a strange contrast to the glaring, shop-filled streets of sooty London, this long winding lane with only a long, low whitewashed cottage seen at intervals. So quiet and calm was it all that there appeared to be no reason for the rapid action of the nurse’s pulses as they sped onward. But the action was going on, and the occupant of the carriage felt a strange longing more than once to pull the check string, and bid the coachman stop and turn back. But she refrained and grew cooler as they progressed, forcing herself to keep on trying to make out the landscape, till, in due time, the lodge gates were passed, and the carriage drawn up at the entrance, where Nurse Elisia descended and stood beside her little bag till Neil descended and uttered the words expressing his astonishment at her presence there.

Chapter Ten.

Neil is Perplexed.

Neil Elthorne had hard work to control himself for, paradoxically, although Nurse Elisia was the most likely personage for Sir Denton to send down to attend his young friend’s father, it had never once occurred to him that she would be chosen.

“I am glad you have come,” he said quietly. “Ah, here is my aunt,” he continued, as that lady appeared. “Aunt, dear, this is Nurse Elisia, from the hospital. Will you see that she is shown to her room and has some refreshment before she comes upstairs?”

Isabel, looking very white and careworn, joined them as he spoke, unable to withdraw his eyes from the countenance which filled so large a portion of his meditative hours, but the nurse met his eyes calmly and turned and bowed to Aunt Anne and Isabel in turn, the former lady seeming quite taken back by the attendant’s appearance.

“I don’t like the look of her at all, Isabel, my dear,” she said, as soon as they were alone. “I expected she would look like a nurse, not be a tall body like that.”

“She seemed very nice, Aunt, dear,” said Isabel quietly, “and of course she will be a very skillful nurse. I thought she looked very tired, but her face seemed to me quite beautiful.”

“Good-looking, not beautiful, my dear, and that’s it. I always made a point of never having good-looking servants in the house, especially as there are young men about.”

“Aunt!”

“Oh, yes, you may say ‘Aunt,’ my dear, but you do not understand these things. Good-looking servants always know it, and give themselves airs.”

“But this lady is not a servant, Aunt.”

“Don’t talk nonsense, Isabel,” said Aunt Anne tartly. “She is a servant, and she is not a lady. I can’t help it, my dear; I don’t like her at all, and I hope she will prove to be so dissatisfied, when she finds what she has to do, that she will want to go back to town at once. There’s too much of the fine madam about her for me.”

“Sir Denton would not have sent down a person who was not quite suitable, Aunt,” said Isabel gravely. “If she nurses poor papa well that is all we want.”

“Yes, my dear, but will she? There, I can’t help it; I must speak plainly. I am the least suspicious woman in the world, but I do not like a surprise like this being sprung upon us.”

“A surprise, Aunt?”

“Yes. Why did not Neil tell us what sort of a person this woman was going to be. He knows her, of course. You heard him call her by name.”

“Aunt, dear, of what are you thinking?” cried Isabel wonderingly, and giving her aunt a strangely perplexed look.

“Oh, nothing, my dear. There, I suppose I must see to her having some tea when she comes down. She will have her meals with the servants of course.”

“Has Nurse Elisia come down yet?” said Neil, entering quickly.

“No, my dear,” said Aunt Anne, pinching her lips together.

“You have given orders for refreshments to be brought up to her?”

“Indeed no, my dear. I was just going to ring and tell them to get something ready in the servants’ hall.”

Neil’s countenance changed.

“No, no,” he said harshly.

“My dear Neil, she cannot have her meals with us.”

“I cannot see why not,” he replied sternly. “But she will not wish to leave her patient. Have one of the dressing rooms set apart entirely for her use, and all her meals can be taken to her upstairs.”

Isabel looked at her brother in surprise, his manner seemed so changed.

“Oh, very well, my dear,” said Aunt Anne in an ill-used tone as she rose to ring the bell, but was forestalled by her nephew. “I always thought when I came here that I was to take the entire management of this establishment, but your father always interfered, and now that he is helpless, I suppose you, as his eldest son—”

“Why, dear Aunt,” said Neil, “pray do not think that I wish to interfere, but you do not understand Nurse Elisia’s position. She is our principal lady nurse at the hospital, one in whom Sir Denton Hayle places every confidence, and whom he treats almost as a friend.”

“Oh, indeed!” said Aunt Anne. “I was not aware. Why did you not tell me before, my dear, who was coming down?”

“For the simple reason that I did not know, Aunt,” said Neil quietly.

The footman, who had been waiting, signified his presence by a faint cough, received his orders, and left the room.

About this time Alison, who had been seated alone in the little study, smoking and trying to read, suddenly threw the book one way, the end of his cigar another, and rose with a yawn.

“Tired out and sleepy,” he muttered. “Last night to make up for.”

He seated himself on the table, and began swinging one leg about.

“Wonder how the guv’nor is,” he said to himself, “and I wonder what he would say if he had seen us this afternoon. Those girls are giving themselves fine airs of their own. Miss Dana is siding with her sister, I suppose because Neil is so careless. I can’t help it. No fault of mine, and if she thinks I am going to be snubbed and treated just as she pleases, she is mistaken. The money’s all very well, but I’m not quite the easy-going fool she seems to think me. Hang me, if I go for a ride with them again till I’m treated better.”

He gave his leg a sharp slap as a sudden thought struck him.

“That’s it!” he cried. “I never thought of it before. It’s Master Burwood’s doing. That accounts for his being down home instead of in town. He wouldn’t hang about so much on account of our Isabel. The governor’s made all that too easy for him. And they knew it, and there’s a sort of an idea that it would be nice to be my lady. Would it? Well, I’m not so stupid as they think me, and people get checkmated sometimes in a way they little expect.”

He swung his leg about swiftly for a few moments, and then leaped off the table.

“I’m going to bed,” he muttered. “Just see how the governor is as I go by, and—” he yawned—“oh, dear me! how sleepy I am.”

He went out into the hall, and then, after pausing to listen to the murmur of voices in the drawing room, he shook one hand.

“Good-night, and bless you all,” he said softly. “That’s old Neil’s voice. Look out, my lad, or you will lose the volatile Saxa. I suppose Aunt is with the old man.”

He began to ascend the broad staircase very slowly, his steps being inaudible on the thick soft carpet, and he was about half way up when he became conscious of the soft rustle of a dress, and a faint glow of light passing along the gallery at the head of the stairs.

He stopped short on the landing, half startled as, in the centre of that glow, and gradually coming nearer, he saw, standing out plainly from the surrounding darkness, a clearly cut white face, that looked for the moment almost unearthly; but as it came nearer and approached the head of the stairs the half startled feeling gave way to wonder, and then to admiration.

“Who is she? What does it mean?” he thought as he noted the eyes glistening in the light shed by the candle, and the quaint white headdress, the only part of the costume seen, the black gown being as it were absorbed by the darkness of the great staircase and landing.

The figure came nearer and as she reached the top of the stairs began to descend, holding the candlestick so that it was between her and Alison, and hence she did not see him, where he stood on the landing half way down, till she was close upon him, when she stopped short and raised the light so that it fell upon his face, and they stood gazing at each other.

Nurse Elisia was the first to speak, just as she became conscious of Alison’s admiring look.

“I beg pardon,” she said, “would you kindly show me the way to the sick room.”

“The nurse? You?” cried Alison eagerly.

“Yes; I have just come down from town,” she said quietly.

“Yes, of course,” said Alison eagerly. “And you must be tired and faint. Had any dinner? Here, come with me, and I’ll show you the way to the dining room.”

Nurse Elisia hesitated, and at that moment the drawing-room door opened, shedding a flood of light upon the portion of the staircase where they stood, and Neil Elthorne was conscious of a keen pang which for the moment he could not have explained.

“Oh, there you are,” cried Alison sharply. “This lady does not know the way.”

Aunt Anne’s lips tightened again as she stepped forward majestically.

“Will you come this way, nurse, and I’ll show you my brother’s room,” she said; and her dress rustled loudly, as if partaking of its owner’s agitation, while she crossed the hall and began to ascend the stairs.

Nurse Elisia stood, candle in hand, waiting patiently and gazing at the plump elderly lady approaching her, in profound ignorance of the picturesque, striking aspect she presented as she held up the light whose rays illumined her features.

“I really don’t like her at all,” said Aunt Anne to herself, as her brow furrowed. “What a dreadful looking woman.” And the memory of certain words she had spoken to her niece only a short time back came vividly before her. “I would a great deal rather it had been one of those old-fashioned stout nurses who did not wear white starched caps and black dresses, just as if they were playing at being nurses. This way, please,” she continued aloud.

One minute the light shone strongly upon that white face; the next it seemed as if darkness had suddenly come over the scene and those in the hall were looking at two silhouettes moving up after a dull glow of light, to disappear through an archway; and then Neil Elthorne felt a pang of rage and misery shoot through him as, from the first landing of the broad staircase, he heard Alison exclaim aloud:

“By George!”

He descended then quickly to where Neil and Isabel were standing.

“I say,” he cried banteringly, “so that’s the modern style of nurse. Neil, old chap, is there any room for me to walk your hospital? I’m coming up to study medicine.”

Isabel looked curiously from one to the other in the semi-gloom; and, as she saw her elder brother’s face, a feeling of dislike to the newcomer which she could not have analysed arose within her, and she started as she heard the deep, hoarse tones in which Neil spoke.

“Is not this ribald style of talk out of place when our father is lying up yonder in so dangerous a state?”

“Oh, rubbish! He’s getting better. But I like your taste, I must say. Capital judge of nurses. Neil’s own selection, Bel.”

Neil turned upon him sharply, as if about to speak, but he compressed his lips and went to the foot of the stairs.

“Going up?” said Alison laughingly. “Come along, Isabel; we’ll go, too. I want another look at our new nurse.”

Neil made an angry gesture. “Isabel,” he said hoarsely, “take no notice of him. You had better not come up now.”

As he spoke he began to ascend, and Alison was silent till Neil reached the top.

“Was that the doctor talking, or brother Neil?” he said sarcastically; but there was no reply, for the young surgeon had gone on slowly toward his father’s chamber, with a strange, sickening feeling of misery and despair at his heart, as he felt that, in spite of all his resolutions, a bitter fight was commencing against fate, one which threatened to be complicated in a way that was horrible to contemplate. For his brother’s countenance, as he saw it for one brief moment when he was watching the figure on the stairs, had impressed him in a way which was startling, and as he reached the door, he stopped on the mat listening to a faint murmur, while his brow became furrowed and he muttered.

“Am I so helpless? Have I no will, and do I really love this woman after all?”

He paused, gazing back along the passage to where he could see the dim reflection of the lamp in the hall, and as he stood there, the faintly heard voice of Nurse Elisia came once more to his ear. He drew a long, deep breath, and then, half aloud:

“I had not calculated on this,” he thought. “I fled from the temptation, and it has followed me here. And she—she has never given me a second thought.” He turned the handle quickly, and entered the room.

“Ah, that is right, Neil,” said Aunt Anne. “Will you stay here while I take nurse to have some supper? She says she is not too tired to sit up to-night.”

“Absurd!” said Neil, in a low, harsh voice. “After this long journey? Nurse, you will go with Mrs Barnett, and have some refreshment; then get to bed, and come and relieve me about seven.”

“But, my dear Neil, you, too, want rest,” said Aunt Anne.

“Aunt, be good enough not to interfere,” replied Neil shortly. “Nurse Elisia, you heard my orders.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, very well, my dear,” said Aunt Anne, in an ill-used tone. “I suppose you know best. This way, nurse.”

Neil stood watching them as they left the room, and turned back toward the bed with a sigh of relief.

“I have not lost my strength of mind, then, after all,” he muttered, as he drew himself up. “I will master it.”

There was a faint glow in his pale cheeks as he spoke, but it died out at once, leaving him haggard-looking and careworn, and his face grew set and his eyes dark as he stood gazing straight before him, seeing neither the bed nor the wall beyond, but the scene upon the stairs of the pale, white face lit up by the caudle, while, a short distance below, stood Alison, gazing up from the darkness.

Neil shuddered, closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again they fell upon the sleeping figure before him. And as he looked down it was not with the eyes of man of science but of the son, thinking of his father’s plans. They had been children, and he had planned their education according to an eccentric whim of his own; youths, and he had principally chosen their career; they had reached manhood, and he had settled who were to be the companions of their lives. And as he thought, the faces of Saxa Lydon and her sister, followed by Sir Cheltnam Burwood, floated out of the mental mist, and complication after complication arose.

It was a dreary vigil, for Neil Elthorne was half worn out from broken nights and a long period of great anxiety, which had culminated in the arrival of the nurse; but not once through that long night did he feel the desire to sleep, and he could hardly realise the fact that it was morning, but stared and looked at her wildly when the door opened, and light shone in that was that of the morning sun, throwing up the pale, calm face of Nurse Elisia, who entered as if she were perfectly used to the place, and bearing for his special use a small tray, upon which were dry toast and tea.

Neil rose as she entered, with a whispered “Good-morning,” and he felt that he was trembling, and that he was only man, with all his weaknesses, in spite of his stubborn resolves. But he was himself again directly, as she spoke.

“The patient, sir,” she whispered; “has he passed a quiet night?”

“Yes, quite,” said Neil.

“May I open one of the windows—that farthest from the bed, sir? The room is oppressive and faint.”

“Yes, yes; of course;” he said hastily, and he hurried out of the room.

Chapter Eleven.

Awkward Encounters.

“Oh, really, Sir Cheltnam, I would a great deal rather you waited till my brother is better,” said Aunt Anne, who seemed rather concerned about the sit of a couple of folds in her dress.

“Waited till he is better?” said the baronet, smiling.

“Well, you know what I mean. It is such an important thing that I really don’t like to interfere.”

“I would not ask you but I cannot ask Mr Elthorne. Wait? Oh, yes; I should be willing to wait, only, with all due respect to you, my dear Mrs Barnett, is it not rather indefinite?”

“Oh, dear me, I’m afraid so.”

“And time is going on. You see, I do not want to be exacting, but I should like to find rather a warmer welcome when I come, and to be asked more frequently. It is Mr Elthorne’s wishes.”

“Yes, yes, of course; I know that. But Isabel is very young.”

“It makes her the more attractive.”

“Well, I suppose so. There, Sir Cheltnam, I’m a plain woman, and I’ll speak out. I’m afraid she has been thinking a good deal about Mr Beck.”

“Of course; but that is all over now. Mr Elthorne did not approve of it, and when I spoke to him, he told me that it was one of the great desires of his heart. Then came that terrible accident, and since then, you see, I have been quite left out in the cold. Come, now, Mrs Barnett, I do not wish to puff myself, but you must own that I can offer her everything that will insure her a happy future.”

“Oh, yes; I know all that,” said Aunt Anne. “Then play the part of friend to us both.”

“What can I do?”

“A thousand things that a clever diplomatic woman, like yourself, can contrive admirably. Of course I know all about the Beck business, and what did I do? Show annoyance? Not a bit. I said, ‘It is a young girl’s first fancy, but one that she will soon forget. I’ll wait;’ and I have waited, but now it is time I was recognised a little by the young lady.”

“But her time is so taken up with attending to her father.”

“No, Mrs Barnett; I say little, but I see much. The nurse takes all that off her shoulders I believe.”

“Oh, yes, very attentive, and that sort of thing; but I shall be very glad when she is gone.”

“Naturally. But come, now—you will help me?”

“Well, well; I’ll do all I can.”

“I knew you would. Give me more of a carte blanche to come and go.”

“But you are here a great deal now.”

“Yes, as a formal visitor. Come, now, Mrs Barnett; if this were another establishment, and you a stranger and saw me here from time to time, would you ever imagine that dear Isabel and I were engaged?”

“Well—er—no.”

“Of course you would not. There, I need not say any more; I am quite satisfied. Is she with her father now?”

“No; I think she is down the garden.”

Sir Cheltnam smiled, bent forward, took and kissed the lady’s hand.

“Thank you,” he said, with a meaning smile; and he rose from the lounge in the drawing room where the above conversation had taken place, and turned toward the French window which opened out upon the lawn.

“No, no, really, Sir Cheltnam. I did not mean that.”

“My dear Mrs Barnett—”

“Oh, very well; I suppose it’s quite right. It was her father’s wish.”

“And yours, I am sure,” he said, nodding meaningly as he reached the window and passed out.

“I hope I’ve done right,” said Aunt Anne; “but Ralph is so strange, he may find fault. I’ll go up and talk to him, and gradually introduce the subject.”

Her countenance brightened, as she thought of this way out of a difficulty, and rising and smoothing her stiff silk dress, whose rustling she liked to hear, she went out into the hall, and began slowly to ascend the stairs.

“It is very trying to me,” she said to herself. “Isabel does not seem to care for him a bit; and as to the two Lydon girls, really if any gentleman had behaved so cavalierly to me as Neil and Alison do to them, I certainly should not have put up with it.” She paused for awhile rather breathlessly at the top of the stairs, and then went on to her brother’s room and turned the handle, but the door was evidently bolted inside.

For the moment she seemed surprised, but she went on toward the next door, that of the dressing room attached, but, as she reached it, this door was opened, and the nurse appeared, to step out into the corridor, and close the door behind her.

“Did you try the other door, ma’am?” she said softly.

“Yes; it is bolted. Never mind; I’ll go through here.”

“Not now, ma’am,” said the nurse quickly, and in a voice hardly above a whisper; but there was plenty of decision in her tones.

“Not now?” said Aunt Anne haughtily. “My good woman, what do you mean?”

“Mr Elthorne has dropped asleep, ma’am.”

“Well, I’ll go in and sit with him till he wakes.”

“Excuse me, madam,” said Nurse Elisia, barring the way; “he must not be disturbed.”

“My good woman!” cried Aunt Anne again, ruffling up at anyone daring to interfere with her in that house, “I am not going to disturb him. Surely I know perfectly how to behave to a sick person.”

“Of course, ma’am,” said the nurse quietly, “and I am sorry to have to interfere.”

“As you should be,” said Aunt Anne tartly. “Have the goodness to stand on one side.”

“I beg your pardon, madam,” said the nurse gently, “you are placing me in a very awkward position, and I grieve to oppose you in your wishes, but I must obey my instruction from Mr Neil Elthorne. They were that I was to particularly guard against the patient’s being disturbed when he was asleep.”

“And very proper instructions too; but say Mr Elthorne, Nurse Elisia, and not ‘the patient.’ This is not a hospital.”

The nurse bowed.

“I am sure my nephew did not intend that such instructions as these were to apply to me.”

“To everybody, madam. Sleep is of such vital importance to the—Mr Elthorne in his present state, and he has so much difficulty in obtaining rest, especially at night, that even an hour’s natural sleep is most desirable.”

“Well, of course, I understand all that,” said Aunt Anne, “and I shall take care that I do not make a sound.”

She stepped forward, but the nurse did not stir.

“Will you have the goodness to move,” said Aunt Anne, in the most frigid of tones.

“Pray forgive me, madam. I must carry out my orders.”

“I have told you, my good woman, that they do not apply to me. Will you be good enough to stand aside?”

A faint colour appeared in the nurse’s cheeks, but she did not move.

“Did you hear what I said?” cried Aunt Anne haughtily.

“Yes, madam, and again I ask your pardon,” said the nurse gently. “Excuse me, pray, but you are placing me in a very painful position.”

“Then stand aside,” said Aunt Anne, who was growing very red in the face, consequent on being opposed. “Do you hear me, woman?”

“Yes, madam, but I must obey Mr Elthorne. A nurse dare not depart from the doctor’s instructions. Even a slight lapse might mean a serious injury to the patient in her charge.”

“I will take all the responsibility,” said Aunt Anne haughtily. “Have the goodness to allow me to pass.”

Nurse Elisia’s eyes dropped, and there was a faint twitching at the corners of her eyes, but she did not stir.

“Are you aware that the mistress of this household is speaking to you?”

“Hush, madam, pray!”

“Oh, it is insufferable,” cried Aunt Anne, whose anger was rising fast, when she saw a quick, eager look of satisfaction animate the pale set face before her, and at that moment a familiar voice said in a low tone:

“What is the matter, Aunt?”

“Ah, my dear,” she cried; “you are there. I am glad. I declare it is insufferable. I was going in to sit by your father and talk to him.”

“I told Mrs Barnett, sir, that Mr Elthorne was asleep.”

“Yes, my good woman,” said Aunt Anne, “and I told you I should go in and sit with him till he awoke. And, then, really it is insufferable for a hired servant to take so much upon herself.”

“As what, Aunt?” said Neil, in a low, stern voice, “as to refuse to allow you to go in?”

“Yes, my dear. I can put up with a great deal, but I think it is quite time that the nurse knew that this is not a hospital ward, and that she is not mistress here.”

“Nurse Elisia is quite aware of that,” said Neil coldly; and his lips quivered slightly, as he saw that in spite of her apparent immobility, she was watching him curiously as if wondering what he would say; but he went on in the same cold, passionless way, “It is not a question of mistress or hired servant, but of care of my patient’s progress toward recovery. I gave instructions that my father should never be in the slightest degree disturbed when he dropped into a natural sleep, and the nurse has done her duty and nothing more. Come away now, please, and you will see this in the proper light, if you will give it a moment’s thought.”

Aunt Anne gave her hands a kind of wave as if she were smoothing out a cloth over a table, and turning suddenly, walked with stately strides toward the head of the stairs, followed by her nephew, who did not even glance at Nurse Elisia, neither did he speak again till the drawing room was reached.

“The nurse was quite right, Aunt,” he said quietly. “You must see that an attendant who did not carry out one’s instructions to the letter would be untrustworthy.”

“Pray say no more about it, Neil,” she replied, with a great show of dignity. “I suppose I am growing old and useless. But there was a time when my opinion was of value in a sick chamber.”

“Yes, of course, my dear Aunt, but this is a case where the patient must be kept perfectly quiet.”

“Yes, that is it, Neil. You have become so absorbed in your studies as a surgeon that you seem to forget that my poor dear brother is your father.”

“Nonsense, Aunt, dear.”

“Oh, no, sir, it is the truth. I suppose I shall be looked upon as a patient next.”

“Yes; as my dear loving patient Aunt,” said Neil, smiling. “There, don’t take any more notice of it. Good-bye. Come, come, don’t look at me like that. It brings back one of your old scoldings when I was a boy.”

He kissed her and went out of the room.

“But I don’t like it,” said Aunt Anne, “and I am not one to be deceived. I disliked that woman from the hour she entered the house. I had my forebodings then, and they grow firmer every day. He took her part directly. Why, Isabel, my dear, I thought you were down the garden,” she cried, as her niece entered the room.

“I? No, Aunt. I just went to get a few flowers for papa, and I wanted to take them and arrange them in his room, but Nurse Elisia keeps watch there like a dragon, and would not let me go in.”

“Why, she would not even let me go in,” cried Aunt Anne with great emphasis on the first personal pronoun.

“Wouldn’t she, Aunt?”

“No, my dear, and I shall bless the day when that woman goes. She is not what she appears.”

“Isn’t she, Aunt?”

“No, my dear.”

“I’ve thought something of that kind,” said Isabel dreamily. “She seems so much of the lady, and as if she quite looked down upon me, as being superior to us.”

“Yes, my dear, and it makes my blood boil at times.”

“Oh, I don’t mean like that, Aunt, dear, for she is always gentle and kind and respectful too.”

“No, my dear, no,” cried Aunt Anne emphatically, “not to me. There, never mind that now, for I’ve something else to say. Did you see Sir Cheltnam down the garden?”

“Sir Cheltnam!” cried Isabel, changing colour. “Is he here?”

“Yes, my dear, and I told him you were down the garden.”

“Aunt! Oh, you should not have told him that. Is he there now?”

“I presume that he is, and really my dear child, I see no reason why you should be so disturbed. Of course a little maidenly diffidence is nice and becoming and—good gracious! child, don’t run away like that.”