Chapter Seventeen.

Chapter Seventeen.“You Insult Me!”And now Nurse Elisia sat in Ralph Elthorne’s chamber, her face buried in her hands, the memories of her past life rushing back and a sense of misery and despair increasing, so that she felt that the time had come when she must rise and flee from a place which had suddenly become insupportable to her.Then a change came over her. There was a feeling of passionate resentment, and a desire to do battle against the one who had wrecked her life.“Shall I stand by and see another’s life destroyed as mine has been?”But her own misery and despair drove these thoughts away, and her spirit was sinking lower and lower as the complications of her position seemed to increase.“I cannot stay here,” she said to herself. “It is impossible. I have no part or parcel with these people. I have done my duty, and I must go.”Suddenly she started as if she had been stung, for her hand had been taken, and Neil Elthorne was bending over her.“For Heaven’s sake,” he whispered, “don’t! I cannot bear to see you suffer. Tell me, why are you in such grief?”“Mr Elthorne!” she cried in a low voice, as she glanced toward where the patient lay asleep.“Yes; Neil Elthorne,” he said huskily. “I cannot bear to see you in such distress. I have fought with it; I have struggled and suffered for months and months now. I felt that it was a kind of madness and that it was folly and presumption to think as I did of one who seemed never even to give me a thought. I came down here. It was to flee from you, and try to forget you, but fate brought you here, and I have had to go on from day to day fighting this bitter fight.”“Mr Elthorne—your father—are you mad?”“Yes,” he said excitedly. “Mad; and you have made me so. I know that I am not worthy of you, but listen; give me some hope. Elisia, have pity on me—I love you.”“No, no; hush, hush!” she whispered excitedly. “It is impossible; it is not true.”“It is not impossible, and it is true,” he said. “You must have known this for long enough. You must have seen the cruel struggle I have had. Are you so cold and heartless that you turn from me like this?”“Mr Elthorne!” she cried indignantly; “you take advantage of my helplessness here. I ought to look for your respect and protection as a gentleman, and you speak to me like this—here, with your poor father in this state.”“Don’t reproach me,” he pleaded. “Have I ever failed in respect and reverence for you from the day we met till now?—You are silent. You know I have not. You know how my love for you has grown day by day as we have worked together yonder—here. You know how I have fought against it till now, when I see you suffering, and I can bear no more.”“You insult me!” she said indignantly.“It is no insult for a man to offer the woman he loves his name, and the devotion of his life,” he said proudly. “Am I such a frivolous boy that you speak to me as you do, treating me as if it were some pitiful declaration from one who has uttered the same words to a dozen women? I am a student; my life has been devoted to my profession, and I swear to you that I never gave more than a passing thought to love until you awoke the passion in my breast—and for what? To tell me, when the truth will out, that I insult you! I—I who would die to save you pain—who would suffer anything for your sake—who would make it the one aim of my life to bring happiness to yours. And you tell me I insult you!”“Yes; it is an insult to take advantage of my position here, sir, at such a time as this. You forget yourself. I am the hospital nurse attending your father. You are the surgeon whose duty is, not only to your patient, but also to me.”“It is no insult,” he said warmly. “It is the honest outspoken word of the man who asks you to be his wife.”“Mr Elthorne,” she said coldly, “it is impossible.”“Why? Can you not give me some hope? I will wait patiently, as Jacob waited for Rachel.”“I tell you, sir, it is impossible, and you force me to quit this house at once.”“No, no; for pity’s sake don’t say that,” he cried, catching her hand, but she drew it away, and stood back with her eyes flashing.“How dare you!” she cried angrily. “You force me to speak, sir. Once more I tell you it is an infamy—an insult.”“Infamy! Insult!” he said bitterly.“Yes. Do you suppose I am ignorant of your position here? You ask me to be your wife when in a few more hours the lady to whom you are betrothed will be staying in the house.”He drew back, looking ghastly, just as there was a soft tap at the dressing room door, and Maria appeared, looking sharply from one to the other.“I have brought up master’s lunch,” she said. “Shall I bring it in here?”“No; I will come and see to it first,” said the nurse quickly; and she went into the little room, while Neil walked across to his father’s couch and stood looking down at the worn, thin face as the old man still slept on.“An insult!” he thought—“the lady to whom I am betrothed!”He looked round wildly, and a sense of despair that was almost insupportable attacked him as he fully realised his position and the justice of the words which had stung him to the heart.“But there is something more,” he said to himself, as, with nerves jarred and his feelings lacerated by disappointment, unworthy thoughts now crept in—“there is something more.” And throwing himself into a chair, he sat gazing down at the carpet, recalling bit by bit every look and word of his brother, beginning with the scene upon the staircase on the night of Elisia’s first arrival.They were thoughts which grew more and more unworthy—thoughts which began to rankle in and venom his nature, as he formed mental pictures of his brother being received with smiles and kindly words.“I would rather see her dead,” he muttered fiercely; and at that moment the object of his thoughts entered from the dressing room, bearing the little tray with his father’s lunch.Their eyes met, and as he gazed in the pure, sweet face, the harsh unworthy thoughts passed away, to give place to a sense of misery, hopelessness, and despondency, which humbled him before her to the dust.“And I dared to think all that!” he said to himself, as he rose and drew back from the couch to give place for her to approach.At that moment the passion within him burned as strongly, but it was softened and subdued by the better feelings—the tender love which prevailed.“Forgive me,” he said deprecatingly. “I was nearly mad.”She made no reply, but stood by the couch half turned from him, and he could see that her lips were working.“Can you not hear my words?” he continued humbly. “What more can I say? It was the truth.”She turned to him proudly.“Mr Elthorne,” she said, “I ask you, as a gentleman, to end this scene. If you have any respect for my position here, pray go.”He stood looking at her for a few moments, then turned and left the room without a word, giddy with emotion, crushed by a terrible feeling of despair which drove him to his own room.Here the bitter thoughts came back.Alison had been impressed from the first, and he was always seeking for opportunities to speak to her. That, then, was the reason, he told himself. She had twitted him with his engagement, but she would not have cast him off for that; and in this spirit a couple of hours went by, during which he paced the room.Unable to bear the turmoil in his brain, toward the middle of the afternoon he went down and determined on trying to calm the irritation of his nerves by a long walk.Crossing the garden, he reached the park, and was hesitating as to the direction he should take. Then, in a motiveless way, he went on to a plantation through which a path led toward a beautiful woodland hollow, which was his father’s pride as being the loveliest bit of the park scenery.Here, just as he reached the edge of the plantation, he caught sight of a figure walking rather quickly toward the woodland, and in a moment he was all excitement again.“It was the time,” he said to himself. “I was mad to speak to her at such an inopportune moment. She will listen to me now. For she is all that is gentle and sympathetic at heart.”His steps grew faster, and he was just about to turn to his right, so as to cut off a good corner, and meet the object of his thoughts about a quarter of a mile beyond where she was walking, when he caught sight of his brother going in the same direction as himself, but from another point, and he stopped short with the old sinking sense of misery coming back, and with it the host of bitter fancies.For there could be no doubt about it, he thought, and not a single loyal honest idea came to his help. She was going toward the woodland, perhaps by appointment, and if not, Alison had seen her, and was hurrying his steps so as to overtake her as soon as she was out of sight.A curious kind of mental blindness came over Neil Elthorne, and he stopped short in the shelter of the trees, gazing straight before him, till the figure of his brother disappeared just at the spot which Nurse Elisia had passed a few minutes before.He might have said to himself that there was nothing unusual in the nurse taking that part of the park for the daily walk upon which he had himself insisted, but upon which he had never intruded. And again it might have been accidental that his brother was going in that direction. But, no; the woman he had idolised so long in silence had rejected him coldly, and twitted him with his position. Alison loved her he was sure, and he had gone to meet her. At that hour he was sure of this being the case, and he stood thinking.Alison was as much engaged as he. Would she listen to him, and would she pass over it in the younger, more manly looking brother?Human nature is strangely full of weakness as well as strength; and as these thoughts crowded through Neil Elthorne’s brain, it was of the woman he was thinking, not of Nurse Elisia, toward whom for the past two years he had looked up, almost with veneration as well as love. It was the weak woman, not the self-denying, unwearied, patient being who glided from bedside to bedside, assuaging pain and whispering hope and calming words.Nurse Elisia with her saint-like face was no longer in his thoughts. They were filled by the beautiful woman who preferred his brother to him, and, with a hoarse cry of rage and despair, he strode away, his hands clenched, his brow rugged, and the veins in his temples swollen and throbbing.For he was realising for the first time in his life the true meaning of the words “jealous hate”; but through it all there was a glimmering of satisfaction that he was not about to meet his brother on his way, and he shuddered as he thought that sooner or later they must encounter after all.

And now Nurse Elisia sat in Ralph Elthorne’s chamber, her face buried in her hands, the memories of her past life rushing back and a sense of misery and despair increasing, so that she felt that the time had come when she must rise and flee from a place which had suddenly become insupportable to her.

Then a change came over her. There was a feeling of passionate resentment, and a desire to do battle against the one who had wrecked her life.

“Shall I stand by and see another’s life destroyed as mine has been?”

But her own misery and despair drove these thoughts away, and her spirit was sinking lower and lower as the complications of her position seemed to increase.

“I cannot stay here,” she said to herself. “It is impossible. I have no part or parcel with these people. I have done my duty, and I must go.”

Suddenly she started as if she had been stung, for her hand had been taken, and Neil Elthorne was bending over her.

“For Heaven’s sake,” he whispered, “don’t! I cannot bear to see you suffer. Tell me, why are you in such grief?”

“Mr Elthorne!” she cried in a low voice, as she glanced toward where the patient lay asleep.

“Yes; Neil Elthorne,” he said huskily. “I cannot bear to see you in such distress. I have fought with it; I have struggled and suffered for months and months now. I felt that it was a kind of madness and that it was folly and presumption to think as I did of one who seemed never even to give me a thought. I came down here. It was to flee from you, and try to forget you, but fate brought you here, and I have had to go on from day to day fighting this bitter fight.”

“Mr Elthorne—your father—are you mad?”

“Yes,” he said excitedly. “Mad; and you have made me so. I know that I am not worthy of you, but listen; give me some hope. Elisia, have pity on me—I love you.”

“No, no; hush, hush!” she whispered excitedly. “It is impossible; it is not true.”

“It is not impossible, and it is true,” he said. “You must have known this for long enough. You must have seen the cruel struggle I have had. Are you so cold and heartless that you turn from me like this?”

“Mr Elthorne!” she cried indignantly; “you take advantage of my helplessness here. I ought to look for your respect and protection as a gentleman, and you speak to me like this—here, with your poor father in this state.”

“Don’t reproach me,” he pleaded. “Have I ever failed in respect and reverence for you from the day we met till now?—You are silent. You know I have not. You know how my love for you has grown day by day as we have worked together yonder—here. You know how I have fought against it till now, when I see you suffering, and I can bear no more.”

“You insult me!” she said indignantly.

“It is no insult for a man to offer the woman he loves his name, and the devotion of his life,” he said proudly. “Am I such a frivolous boy that you speak to me as you do, treating me as if it were some pitiful declaration from one who has uttered the same words to a dozen women? I am a student; my life has been devoted to my profession, and I swear to you that I never gave more than a passing thought to love until you awoke the passion in my breast—and for what? To tell me, when the truth will out, that I insult you! I—I who would die to save you pain—who would suffer anything for your sake—who would make it the one aim of my life to bring happiness to yours. And you tell me I insult you!”

“Yes; it is an insult to take advantage of my position here, sir, at such a time as this. You forget yourself. I am the hospital nurse attending your father. You are the surgeon whose duty is, not only to your patient, but also to me.”

“It is no insult,” he said warmly. “It is the honest outspoken word of the man who asks you to be his wife.”

“Mr Elthorne,” she said coldly, “it is impossible.”

“Why? Can you not give me some hope? I will wait patiently, as Jacob waited for Rachel.”

“I tell you, sir, it is impossible, and you force me to quit this house at once.”

“No, no; for pity’s sake don’t say that,” he cried, catching her hand, but she drew it away, and stood back with her eyes flashing.

“How dare you!” she cried angrily. “You force me to speak, sir. Once more I tell you it is an infamy—an insult.”

“Infamy! Insult!” he said bitterly.

“Yes. Do you suppose I am ignorant of your position here? You ask me to be your wife when in a few more hours the lady to whom you are betrothed will be staying in the house.”

He drew back, looking ghastly, just as there was a soft tap at the dressing room door, and Maria appeared, looking sharply from one to the other.

“I have brought up master’s lunch,” she said. “Shall I bring it in here?”

“No; I will come and see to it first,” said the nurse quickly; and she went into the little room, while Neil walked across to his father’s couch and stood looking down at the worn, thin face as the old man still slept on.

“An insult!” he thought—“the lady to whom I am betrothed!”

He looked round wildly, and a sense of despair that was almost insupportable attacked him as he fully realised his position and the justice of the words which had stung him to the heart.

“But there is something more,” he said to himself, as, with nerves jarred and his feelings lacerated by disappointment, unworthy thoughts now crept in—“there is something more.” And throwing himself into a chair, he sat gazing down at the carpet, recalling bit by bit every look and word of his brother, beginning with the scene upon the staircase on the night of Elisia’s first arrival.

They were thoughts which grew more and more unworthy—thoughts which began to rankle in and venom his nature, as he formed mental pictures of his brother being received with smiles and kindly words.

“I would rather see her dead,” he muttered fiercely; and at that moment the object of his thoughts entered from the dressing room, bearing the little tray with his father’s lunch.

Their eyes met, and as he gazed in the pure, sweet face, the harsh unworthy thoughts passed away, to give place to a sense of misery, hopelessness, and despondency, which humbled him before her to the dust.

“And I dared to think all that!” he said to himself, as he rose and drew back from the couch to give place for her to approach.

At that moment the passion within him burned as strongly, but it was softened and subdued by the better feelings—the tender love which prevailed.

“Forgive me,” he said deprecatingly. “I was nearly mad.”

She made no reply, but stood by the couch half turned from him, and he could see that her lips were working.

“Can you not hear my words?” he continued humbly. “What more can I say? It was the truth.”

She turned to him proudly.

“Mr Elthorne,” she said, “I ask you, as a gentleman, to end this scene. If you have any respect for my position here, pray go.”

He stood looking at her for a few moments, then turned and left the room without a word, giddy with emotion, crushed by a terrible feeling of despair which drove him to his own room.

Here the bitter thoughts came back.

Alison had been impressed from the first, and he was always seeking for opportunities to speak to her. That, then, was the reason, he told himself. She had twitted him with his engagement, but she would not have cast him off for that; and in this spirit a couple of hours went by, during which he paced the room.

Unable to bear the turmoil in his brain, toward the middle of the afternoon he went down and determined on trying to calm the irritation of his nerves by a long walk.

Crossing the garden, he reached the park, and was hesitating as to the direction he should take. Then, in a motiveless way, he went on to a plantation through which a path led toward a beautiful woodland hollow, which was his father’s pride as being the loveliest bit of the park scenery.

Here, just as he reached the edge of the plantation, he caught sight of a figure walking rather quickly toward the woodland, and in a moment he was all excitement again.

“It was the time,” he said to himself. “I was mad to speak to her at such an inopportune moment. She will listen to me now. For she is all that is gentle and sympathetic at heart.”

His steps grew faster, and he was just about to turn to his right, so as to cut off a good corner, and meet the object of his thoughts about a quarter of a mile beyond where she was walking, when he caught sight of his brother going in the same direction as himself, but from another point, and he stopped short with the old sinking sense of misery coming back, and with it the host of bitter fancies.

For there could be no doubt about it, he thought, and not a single loyal honest idea came to his help. She was going toward the woodland, perhaps by appointment, and if not, Alison had seen her, and was hurrying his steps so as to overtake her as soon as she was out of sight.

A curious kind of mental blindness came over Neil Elthorne, and he stopped short in the shelter of the trees, gazing straight before him, till the figure of his brother disappeared just at the spot which Nurse Elisia had passed a few minutes before.

He might have said to himself that there was nothing unusual in the nurse taking that part of the park for the daily walk upon which he had himself insisted, but upon which he had never intruded. And again it might have been accidental that his brother was going in that direction. But, no; the woman he had idolised so long in silence had rejected him coldly, and twitted him with his position. Alison loved her he was sure, and he had gone to meet her. At that hour he was sure of this being the case, and he stood thinking.

Alison was as much engaged as he. Would she listen to him, and would she pass over it in the younger, more manly looking brother?

Human nature is strangely full of weakness as well as strength; and as these thoughts crowded through Neil Elthorne’s brain, it was of the woman he was thinking, not of Nurse Elisia, toward whom for the past two years he had looked up, almost with veneration as well as love. It was the weak woman, not the self-denying, unwearied, patient being who glided from bedside to bedside, assuaging pain and whispering hope and calming words.

Nurse Elisia with her saint-like face was no longer in his thoughts. They were filled by the beautiful woman who preferred his brother to him, and, with a hoarse cry of rage and despair, he strode away, his hands clenched, his brow rugged, and the veins in his temples swollen and throbbing.

For he was realising for the first time in his life the true meaning of the words “jealous hate”; but through it all there was a glimmering of satisfaction that he was not about to meet his brother on his way, and he shuddered as he thought that sooner or later they must encounter after all.

Chapter Eighteen.A Sore Little Heart.Neil Elthorne was in his father’s room when Nurse Elisia returned from her walk, looking agitated and strange. He had found the old man fretful and impatient, full of complaints about the way in which he was neglected by those who ought, he said, to respect and love him all the more for his illness.“You all have an idea that I am weak and helpless,” he cried; “but it is a mistake. I am a little weak, but quite able to manage the affairs of my house.”“Of course you are, sir,” said Neil.Elthorne turned upon him fiercely.“Don’t speak to me again like that, sir,” he cried. “Do you think I want to be humoured like a child?”Neil made no reply, but let his father finish his complaint, knowing that he would drop asleep afterward, and awaken refreshed and forgetful of all he had said.He was sleeping peacefully as a child when the nurse entered the room, to stop near the door as she saw that Neil was present.“Has Mr Elthorne wanted me, sir?” she said, ignoring the scene which had taken place a short time before.“No; and if he had,” replied Neil bitterly, “He would have been quite willing to wait until you had kept your appointment.”The words seemed to come in spite of Neil’s efforts to stay them; and as he finished the blood tingled in his cheeks, and he mentally writhed as he saw the look of calm, cold contempt directed at him.“It was Mr Elthorne’s wish, and your own, that I should go for a walk, sir,” she said gravely.“To meet my brother?”She gazed at him half sorrowfully.“I certainly did meet your brother, sir,” she said; and then stopped short as if scorning to offer any explanation to him, while he stood with his teeth set, wishing that he could have bitten off his tongue before he had stooped to make himself so contemptible and petty in her eyes.There was a pause for a few moments, and then the nurse spoke.“Mr Elthorne,” she said, “will you be good enough to set me free? Another nurse could do my duties, and I wish now to return to the hospital.”“Return? You know it is impossible,” he said. “The consequences to my father would be most serious. You know that as well as I.”She turned to the patient, and looked at him sadly for a few moments.“You need not be afraid,” he said coldly. “I shall not address you again. It was a mad dream, and is at an end. I have been awakened at last.”He left the room, feeling as if he could hardly contain his anger as he asked himself whether other men could be as weak, and if this was all the strength of mind and dignity he had achieved by his years of patient study.“I spoke to her like some spiteful schoolgirl,” he muttered, as he reached the library, and then threw himself into a chair. “What must she have thought? How could I lower myself so in her eyes?”He had hardly left his father’s room when there was a quick, soft tap at the door, and as the nurse rose to open it, Isabel appeared.Her eyes were red as if she had been weeping lately, and she made a few hurried steps toward the couch, and then turned angrily upon the nurse, as a hand was laid upon her arm.“How dare you?” she cried. “I must and I will speak to papa.”“I dare,” said Nurse Elisia, smiling, “because he must not be awakened suddenly.”“You always say that,” cried Isabel; but she lowered her voice. “I must—I will speak to him now.”“Hush, my child!” whispered Nurse Elisia; “you are angry and hysterical from some trouble. Do not blame me, dear. You know it is my duty to watch over him and save him from every shock.”“But you try to keep us apart. You try to be mistress here in everything. You try to—”“No, no, no,” said Nurse Elisia gently, as she passed her arm about the excited girl’s waist, and drew her toward the other door, while Isabel struggled to free herself, but only faintly, and as if a stronger will was mastering hers.“Come with me to my room,” was whispered in her ear, and then, sobbing weakly, she suffered herself to be led through the other door into the little place devoted to the nurse, where she sank into an easy-chair, covered her face with her hands, and sobbed as if her heart would break.Nurse Elisia stood gazing down at her pityingly for a few moments, and then sank upon her knees and drew the half resisting little figure toward her, as it was evident that poor Isabel was fighting hard to keep from bursting out into a paroxysm of hysterical cries.“My poor motherless child!” she whispered; “what have I done that you should insist upon treating me as your enemy?”“Always—if I wish to go to papa—” panted Isabel with childish vehemence.“No, no, no, my darling,” whispered the nurse, as if she were trying to soothe some passionate child. “If you think a moment you will see that I only obey my orders. It is to give him perfect rest that nature may strengthen and restore him to you, his child. Come, come, tell me—what is the great trouble? You cannot understand, but I want to be your friend.”“You—you!” cried Isabel, looking up angrily, as she wrested herself away, and her eyes flashed; but as she gazed on the patient face so close to hers, and saw that the beautiful eyes which looked pityingly in hers were also clouded with tears, her mood changed, and she flung her arms about the nurse’s neck, and buried her face in her breast.“I am so wretched—so unhappy!” she cried.“Yes, yes, as if I could not see and feel it,” whispered Elisia. “There, there,” she continued, as she drew the yielding form closer to her breast, and smoothed and caressed the soft, fair hair, till Isabel’s sobs grew fewer, and she looked up half wonderingly, and then clung to her more tightly as Elisia bent down and kissed her lovingly.“There,” she whispered, “was that the kiss of an enemy?”“No, no, no,” cried Isabel. “I did not mean it. I tried not to say it, but you seem to—seem to—oh, pray don’t think of what I said!”“I shall not. I did not mind, for I felt that some day you would know the truth. How could you think that I would be anyone’s enemy! It is my misfortune that I am not liked. I have tried to satisfy your aunt, but she resents my presence here.”“Yes,” said Isabel naïvely, as she clung more closely to her comforter. “She thinks you are taking her place, and that—”She stopped short.“Yes, dear,” said her companion gently; “and—what?”“I cannot tell you.”“Then I will tell you, dear,” said Elisia sadly. “She thinks that I am a deceitful, scheming woman, who tries to lead your brothers astray from the path your father has mapped out for them.”“Yes,” said Isabel faintly. “How did you know?”Elisia smiled.“Because I am a woman who has seen much of the world, though I am not so very much older than you. Isabel dear,” she whispered, as she held the girl’s cheek close to her own, which now burned, “I want you to trust me. I want you to believe me when I tell you that it is not true.”“I do believe you,” cried Isabel ingenuously, as she turned and kissed her. “Indeed—indeed I do.”“I know it, and I feel as if you would always have liked me, only there has been this baseless misunderstanding. Now that is all past, dear, and you are going to trust me. Tell me what is the trouble.” Isabel shook her head.“There is no need. Forgive me if I trespass on delicate ground, dear, and say that it is because this little heart is very sore.”Isabel tried to escape, but very feebly, and the sore little heart began to throb as she was held firmly to another which beat more rapidly than was its wont.“I cannot help understanding a good deal,” was whispered to her gently. “I have not sought to know, but it has come to me. Come, dear, be frank, and let me help you as one who loves you. Yes,” she continued, as she saw the wondering look directed at her; “the little heart is sore because of tender little passages with one who is now crossing the seas.”“Oh!” sighed Isabel, who fluttered a little as if to escape.“Yes; that is so,” whispered the nurse; “and now, with poor papa’s wishes to back it up, there has come temptation in the way.”“Temptation?”“Yes, dear, with a title and wealth; and is the heart core because it is yielding to circumstances, and trying to forget the absent one who will not be forgotten?”“Yes,” sighed Isabel, “and it is so hard.”“Harder for him to return, and see the girl he loved my Lady Burwood.”“But he shall not,” cried Isabel passionately. “I would sooner die!”“Ah!”A long drawn, catching sigh, but not of agony, for there was a restful satisfaction in its tone, and for a few minutes there was utter silence in the room.“Then you do not care for Sir Cheltnam’s tender words?” said Elisia at last.“No, no! I hate him!” cried the girl. “He knows so well about poor Tom, and he laughs at it all, and says it was a boy and girl love, and that this is my father’s wish.”“Yes?”“And no matter what I say, or how I behave, he persecutes me with his addresses. It is dreadful. Poor papa has promised him that I shall be his wife, and he treats me as if I were his own—as if he were my master—till I feel as if I wish I were dead.”“So as to break the poor trusting sailor’s heart?”“No, no, no,” cried Isabel piteously; “don’t, don’t say that.”“Then never say those foolish, wicked words again, dear.”“But I am so wretched,” sighed Isabel. “I have wanted again and again to see and talk to papa—to beg him to speak to Sir Cheltnam, and tell him that I have tried so hard to do what he wishes, but that I cannot—indeed, I cannot—though he has set his mind upon it all just as he has upon my brothers marrying Saxa and Dana Lydon and—and,” she cried passionately, “they don’t care for them a bit.” There was another long pause, during which Isabel wept bitterly.“What shall I do?” she cried at last, gazing piteously in the other’s face.“Wait, dear.”“But Sir Cheltnam?”“You must try and avoid him till your father has recovered his strength, and can bear to hear adverse matters.”“But if I saw him, and spoke to him gently, and appealed to him?”“In his condition anything like opposition might bring on a serious attack, dear. Even trifles make him so angry that your brother fears he may sometime have a fit. He is in a very precarious state, Isabel, and a serious matter like this might—I hardly dare tell you what might happen. Come; you said you would trust me. I will help you.”“But Sir Cheltnam? My aunt thinks she is doing right, and encourages him to come and torture me. What shall I do?”“Wait and trust to me?”“But it so hard.”“Hush! There is someone in the next room.” Elisia rose, and entered the bedchamber.“Oh, you are there,” said Aunt Anne shortly. “I am quite sure that my poor brother ought not to be left alone so long.”“I was in the next room, madam, and if he had spoken a word I should have heard him directly,” said the nurse softly.“It does not seem like it, for I have been here some time.”“Excuse me, Mrs Barnett, Mr Elthorne must not be awakened suddenly.”“What do you mean?”“Speak lower, if you please, ma’am.”“Really!” cried Aunt Anne, “this is growing insufferable! My good woman, you quite forget your position here. Are you aware that I am your senior by many years, and have had great experience in a sick room?”“Possibly, madam. I am not doubting what you say. I am only going by the instructions I received from Sir Denton Hayle. Mr Elthorne must be saved from everything likely to produce a nervous shock.” Aunt Anne looked her up and down with indignant scorn, and then marched—it could hardly be called walking, the movement was so mechanical and studied—straight to the door, and went out without a word.“Poor woman!” said Nurse Elisia, softly; “and yet she is a sweet, amiable lady at heart.”She went back to the dressing room to tell Isabel that her aunt had gone, but the room was empty.

Neil Elthorne was in his father’s room when Nurse Elisia returned from her walk, looking agitated and strange. He had found the old man fretful and impatient, full of complaints about the way in which he was neglected by those who ought, he said, to respect and love him all the more for his illness.

“You all have an idea that I am weak and helpless,” he cried; “but it is a mistake. I am a little weak, but quite able to manage the affairs of my house.”

“Of course you are, sir,” said Neil.

Elthorne turned upon him fiercely.

“Don’t speak to me again like that, sir,” he cried. “Do you think I want to be humoured like a child?”

Neil made no reply, but let his father finish his complaint, knowing that he would drop asleep afterward, and awaken refreshed and forgetful of all he had said.

He was sleeping peacefully as a child when the nurse entered the room, to stop near the door as she saw that Neil was present.

“Has Mr Elthorne wanted me, sir?” she said, ignoring the scene which had taken place a short time before.

“No; and if he had,” replied Neil bitterly, “He would have been quite willing to wait until you had kept your appointment.”

The words seemed to come in spite of Neil’s efforts to stay them; and as he finished the blood tingled in his cheeks, and he mentally writhed as he saw the look of calm, cold contempt directed at him.

“It was Mr Elthorne’s wish, and your own, that I should go for a walk, sir,” she said gravely.

“To meet my brother?”

She gazed at him half sorrowfully.

“I certainly did meet your brother, sir,” she said; and then stopped short as if scorning to offer any explanation to him, while he stood with his teeth set, wishing that he could have bitten off his tongue before he had stooped to make himself so contemptible and petty in her eyes.

There was a pause for a few moments, and then the nurse spoke.

“Mr Elthorne,” she said, “will you be good enough to set me free? Another nurse could do my duties, and I wish now to return to the hospital.”

“Return? You know it is impossible,” he said. “The consequences to my father would be most serious. You know that as well as I.”

She turned to the patient, and looked at him sadly for a few moments.

“You need not be afraid,” he said coldly. “I shall not address you again. It was a mad dream, and is at an end. I have been awakened at last.”

He left the room, feeling as if he could hardly contain his anger as he asked himself whether other men could be as weak, and if this was all the strength of mind and dignity he had achieved by his years of patient study.

“I spoke to her like some spiteful schoolgirl,” he muttered, as he reached the library, and then threw himself into a chair. “What must she have thought? How could I lower myself so in her eyes?”

He had hardly left his father’s room when there was a quick, soft tap at the door, and as the nurse rose to open it, Isabel appeared.

Her eyes were red as if she had been weeping lately, and she made a few hurried steps toward the couch, and then turned angrily upon the nurse, as a hand was laid upon her arm.

“How dare you?” she cried. “I must and I will speak to papa.”

“I dare,” said Nurse Elisia, smiling, “because he must not be awakened suddenly.”

“You always say that,” cried Isabel; but she lowered her voice. “I must—I will speak to him now.”

“Hush, my child!” whispered Nurse Elisia; “you are angry and hysterical from some trouble. Do not blame me, dear. You know it is my duty to watch over him and save him from every shock.”

“But you try to keep us apart. You try to be mistress here in everything. You try to—”

“No, no, no,” said Nurse Elisia gently, as she passed her arm about the excited girl’s waist, and drew her toward the other door, while Isabel struggled to free herself, but only faintly, and as if a stronger will was mastering hers.

“Come with me to my room,” was whispered in her ear, and then, sobbing weakly, she suffered herself to be led through the other door into the little place devoted to the nurse, where she sank into an easy-chair, covered her face with her hands, and sobbed as if her heart would break.

Nurse Elisia stood gazing down at her pityingly for a few moments, and then sank upon her knees and drew the half resisting little figure toward her, as it was evident that poor Isabel was fighting hard to keep from bursting out into a paroxysm of hysterical cries.

“My poor motherless child!” she whispered; “what have I done that you should insist upon treating me as your enemy?”

“Always—if I wish to go to papa—” panted Isabel with childish vehemence.

“No, no, no, my darling,” whispered the nurse, as if she were trying to soothe some passionate child. “If you think a moment you will see that I only obey my orders. It is to give him perfect rest that nature may strengthen and restore him to you, his child. Come, come, tell me—what is the great trouble? You cannot understand, but I want to be your friend.”

“You—you!” cried Isabel, looking up angrily, as she wrested herself away, and her eyes flashed; but as she gazed on the patient face so close to hers, and saw that the beautiful eyes which looked pityingly in hers were also clouded with tears, her mood changed, and she flung her arms about the nurse’s neck, and buried her face in her breast.

“I am so wretched—so unhappy!” she cried.

“Yes, yes, as if I could not see and feel it,” whispered Elisia. “There, there,” she continued, as she drew the yielding form closer to her breast, and smoothed and caressed the soft, fair hair, till Isabel’s sobs grew fewer, and she looked up half wonderingly, and then clung to her more tightly as Elisia bent down and kissed her lovingly.

“There,” she whispered, “was that the kiss of an enemy?”

“No, no, no,” cried Isabel. “I did not mean it. I tried not to say it, but you seem to—seem to—oh, pray don’t think of what I said!”

“I shall not. I did not mind, for I felt that some day you would know the truth. How could you think that I would be anyone’s enemy! It is my misfortune that I am not liked. I have tried to satisfy your aunt, but she resents my presence here.”

“Yes,” said Isabel naïvely, as she clung more closely to her comforter. “She thinks you are taking her place, and that—”

She stopped short.

“Yes, dear,” said her companion gently; “and—what?”

“I cannot tell you.”

“Then I will tell you, dear,” said Elisia sadly. “She thinks that I am a deceitful, scheming woman, who tries to lead your brothers astray from the path your father has mapped out for them.”

“Yes,” said Isabel faintly. “How did you know?”

Elisia smiled.

“Because I am a woman who has seen much of the world, though I am not so very much older than you. Isabel dear,” she whispered, as she held the girl’s cheek close to her own, which now burned, “I want you to trust me. I want you to believe me when I tell you that it is not true.”

“I do believe you,” cried Isabel ingenuously, as she turned and kissed her. “Indeed—indeed I do.”

“I know it, and I feel as if you would always have liked me, only there has been this baseless misunderstanding. Now that is all past, dear, and you are going to trust me. Tell me what is the trouble.” Isabel shook her head.

“There is no need. Forgive me if I trespass on delicate ground, dear, and say that it is because this little heart is very sore.”

Isabel tried to escape, but very feebly, and the sore little heart began to throb as she was held firmly to another which beat more rapidly than was its wont.

“I cannot help understanding a good deal,” was whispered to her gently. “I have not sought to know, but it has come to me. Come, dear, be frank, and let me help you as one who loves you. Yes,” she continued, as she saw the wondering look directed at her; “the little heart is sore because of tender little passages with one who is now crossing the seas.”

“Oh!” sighed Isabel, who fluttered a little as if to escape.

“Yes; that is so,” whispered the nurse; “and now, with poor papa’s wishes to back it up, there has come temptation in the way.”

“Temptation?”

“Yes, dear, with a title and wealth; and is the heart core because it is yielding to circumstances, and trying to forget the absent one who will not be forgotten?”

“Yes,” sighed Isabel, “and it is so hard.”

“Harder for him to return, and see the girl he loved my Lady Burwood.”

“But he shall not,” cried Isabel passionately. “I would sooner die!”

“Ah!”

A long drawn, catching sigh, but not of agony, for there was a restful satisfaction in its tone, and for a few minutes there was utter silence in the room.

“Then you do not care for Sir Cheltnam’s tender words?” said Elisia at last.

“No, no! I hate him!” cried the girl. “He knows so well about poor Tom, and he laughs at it all, and says it was a boy and girl love, and that this is my father’s wish.”

“Yes?”

“And no matter what I say, or how I behave, he persecutes me with his addresses. It is dreadful. Poor papa has promised him that I shall be his wife, and he treats me as if I were his own—as if he were my master—till I feel as if I wish I were dead.”

“So as to break the poor trusting sailor’s heart?”

“No, no, no,” cried Isabel piteously; “don’t, don’t say that.”

“Then never say those foolish, wicked words again, dear.”

“But I am so wretched,” sighed Isabel. “I have wanted again and again to see and talk to papa—to beg him to speak to Sir Cheltnam, and tell him that I have tried so hard to do what he wishes, but that I cannot—indeed, I cannot—though he has set his mind upon it all just as he has upon my brothers marrying Saxa and Dana Lydon and—and,” she cried passionately, “they don’t care for them a bit.” There was another long pause, during which Isabel wept bitterly.

“What shall I do?” she cried at last, gazing piteously in the other’s face.

“Wait, dear.”

“But Sir Cheltnam?”

“You must try and avoid him till your father has recovered his strength, and can bear to hear adverse matters.”

“But if I saw him, and spoke to him gently, and appealed to him?”

“In his condition anything like opposition might bring on a serious attack, dear. Even trifles make him so angry that your brother fears he may sometime have a fit. He is in a very precarious state, Isabel, and a serious matter like this might—I hardly dare tell you what might happen. Come; you said you would trust me. I will help you.”

“But Sir Cheltnam? My aunt thinks she is doing right, and encourages him to come and torture me. What shall I do?”

“Wait and trust to me?”

“But it so hard.”

“Hush! There is someone in the next room.” Elisia rose, and entered the bedchamber.

“Oh, you are there,” said Aunt Anne shortly. “I am quite sure that my poor brother ought not to be left alone so long.”

“I was in the next room, madam, and if he had spoken a word I should have heard him directly,” said the nurse softly.

“It does not seem like it, for I have been here some time.”

“Excuse me, Mrs Barnett, Mr Elthorne must not be awakened suddenly.”

“What do you mean?”

“Speak lower, if you please, ma’am.”

“Really!” cried Aunt Anne, “this is growing insufferable! My good woman, you quite forget your position here. Are you aware that I am your senior by many years, and have had great experience in a sick room?”

“Possibly, madam. I am not doubting what you say. I am only going by the instructions I received from Sir Denton Hayle. Mr Elthorne must be saved from everything likely to produce a nervous shock.” Aunt Anne looked her up and down with indignant scorn, and then marched—it could hardly be called walking, the movement was so mechanical and studied—straight to the door, and went out without a word.

“Poor woman!” said Nurse Elisia, softly; “and yet she is a sweet, amiable lady at heart.”

She went back to the dressing room to tell Isabel that her aunt had gone, but the room was empty.

Chapter Nineteen.Maria Causes Trouble.“For two pins I’d have our things packed up and go back at once, Dan; that I would,” cried Saxa Lydon, as she stood before the long cheval glass in the best bedroom at the Elthornes’. “Here, you, give me that pin off the dressing table.”The first words were in a low tone to her sister, the latter to Maria Bell, who was playing the part of lady’s maid to the two visitors dressing for dinner; but from a keen interest in the state of affairs, Maria’s ears were preternaturally sharp, and she heard the first words as well.A handsome diamond pin was fetched and handed to the speaker, who thrust it into the knot of abundant hair, where it glistened like so much dew.“The place doesn’t seem the same,” said Dana, who had finished dressing and lay back in a chair, arranging and rearranging the folds of her dress.“Hold your tongue,” whispered her sister. “We don’t want everyone to know.”She looked significantly at the maid, who, with a most discreet air, ignored everything and went on folding and hanging up dresses in the wardrobe.“I don’t care who hears!” said Dana. “I’m sick of it. I wouldn’t have come if it hadn’t been for the poor old man.”“Nor I,” said Saxa, whose anger was getting the better of her discretion. “Anyone would think we were perfect strangers; why, Burwood is ten times as attentive.”“To you,” said Dana spitefully.“No, he is not; it is to you. If I were you, I’d give Master Alison such a lesson to-night! I’d flirt with Burwood till I made him half mad with jealousy.”“That’s the advice I was thinking of giving you,” said Dana with a sneer. “He is always at your heels, or wanting to help you mount or dismount.”“Oh, come, I like that,” said Saxa, whose face was now scarlet, and she frowned as she gazed at her sister’s reflection in the glass instead of at her own and the bracelets she was attaching to her well-shaped arms. “He was riding by your side all day yesterday.”“Look here,” said Dana coldly, “if you want to quarrel send away the maid. I don’t want Burwood. You can have him.”“Thank you. But you might tell the truth.”“Don’t be a fool!” said Dana, and then, hurriedly, “Hush! don’t let’s quarrel here. But it’s too bad; anyone would think we were nobody at all, and that the boys were not at home.”“Don’t be a fool yourself,” whispered Saxa, leaning forward and offering a cut glass bottle. Then, aloud, “Scent?” and again, in a low voice, “That minx’s ears are like a fox’s.”“Thanks,” said Dana, taking the bottle and using it liberally. “Here, what’s-your-name? Maria, have a drop of scent?”“Oh, thank you, miss,” cried the maid eagerly. “No; don’t take it now,” said Saxa, replacing the scent on the table. “You may empty the bottle when you pack up our things to-morrow.”“Oh, thank you, Miss Lydon.”“Got quite well and strong again?”“Yes, miss, quite, thank you.”“It was this nurse who attended you, wasn’t it—at the hospital?”“Yes, miss,” said Maria, tightening her lips and looking vicious.“Hallo!” said Dana, laughing boisterously. “Look at her, Saxa. I say, used she to drink your port wine and eat your new laid eggs?”“Oh, I don’t know what she did, miss,” said Maria, in a tone of voice which seemed to say, “Ask me a little more.”“There, I’m nearly ready,” said Saxa, examining herself in the glass. “I suppose the dinner bell will go directly. Maria doesn’t like nurse. She’s too much of the fine madam—eh, ’Ria?”“Yes, miss, a deal too much for me.”“Never mind; she made a better job of you than of the old man. He gets well very slowly.”“Perhaps nurse knows when she is in a comfortable place, and doesn’t want to go back to London,” said Maria tartly.“Very likely,” said Saxa coolly. “No love lost between you two, I see.”“No, Miss Lydon, indeed there is not.”“Pity,” said Saxa laconically. “Servants ought to be very happy together.”“I don’t look upon Nurse Elisia as a fellow-servant, miss, and I’m sure she doesn’t as to me.”“Likely enough. Thinks she is too pretty. There, ’Ria, shall I do?” and Saxa spread out her dress, and swept across the room and back.“Well done, female peacock!” cried Dana sneeringly.“You look lovely, miss,” cried Maria. “Pretty?” she continued. “Her pretty? P-f-f! Why, she’s nothing to you two young ladies, only I suppose some people think differently.”“Eh?” said Dana sharply. “What do you mean by that?”“Oh, nothing, miss; only I do say it’s a pity some people think so much of white faced nurses.”“’Ria has a sweetheart, and he has been making eyes at the nurse and wishing he was an interesting invalid,” said Saxa merrily.“Oh, no indeed, miss,” cried Maria viciously; “but if I had, it isn’t me as would have such goings on.”“Ah, well, it isn’t my business,” said Saxa carelessly. “Somebody has been paying her attentions then, I suppose; and nurses like them as other people do.”Maria tightened her lips and said nothing, but Dana looked flushed and excited.“Look here,” she said sharply, as if she were speaking to one of her grooms, “what does all this mean?”“Oh, nothing, miss; it isn’t for me to say, only I don’t like to see such goings on.”“What goings on?”“Oh, nothing, miss.”“But—”“Let her alone, Dana. What is it to you?”“But I want to know,” cried Dana sharply, for a faint suspicion had been in her brain for some weeks past consequent upon a sudden change she had noted in Alison; and this suspicion, increased by the maid’s words, was rapidly growing into a certainty.“Well, want to know,” said her sister. “I say, why doesn’t that dinner bell ring? I’m hungry.”“Look here, Maria; I’ve always been kind to you when I’ve come here,” said Dana excitedly.“Yes, miss, always,” said Maria.“And I always will be, and so will my sister.”“That means half a sovereign, ’Ria,” said Saxa merrily. “Don’t you let her put you off with a paltry half crown.”“Then tell me what you mean.”“Oh, I couldn’t, miss; I couldn’t, indeed.”“Then there is something,” said Dana, “and—you shall tell me,” she cried fiercely, as, in an Amazonlike fashion, she gripped the woman’s arm. “Now then, you tell me. It’s something about the nurse and—”“Miss Dana, please don’t. I’m so weak still,” pleaded Maria.“There, you as good as owned to it. What is it?”“It’s nothing, miss. I only sus— fancied something.”“Then speak out,” cried Dana, sharply. “I will know before you go out of this room. Then it was them I saw across the park,” she exclaimed excitedly.Maria’s eyes twinkled.“You were thinking something about Mr Alison?”“O Dan, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!” cried Saxa.“Ought I? Never mind. It was what I suspected, but I wouldn’t let myself believe it. Now, Maria, you speak out. I will know now.”“I dursn’t, miss.”“You tell me directly, or it will be the worse for you and for him.”“I’m sure I don’t know nothing, miss,” said Maria, whimpering, “and you are hurting my arm.”“And I’m sure you do,” cried Dana, loosening her grip and tearing off her glove. “There,” she said, taking off a ring set with good-sized pearls, “tell me everything and I’ll give you that.”Maria turned pale with excitement, and her right hand opened and shut.“I dursn’t, miss,” she whispered hoarsely. “It’s more than my place is worth.”“If anything comes of what you tell you shall be maid to us, so speak out honestly. There, take the ring.”“Dana, I’m ashamed of you,” whispered Saxa, as Maria’s fingers closed upon the valuable jewel. “It’s disgraceful.”“I don’t care. He’s playing fast and loose with me, and I’m not going to put up with it, so I tell you. Now then, I’ll speak plainly, Maria, and you’ve got to speak plainly, too. Mr Alison has been making up to that nurse!”“You won’t tell on me, miss?” whispered Maria, in whose palm the ring seemed to burn as if the chaste, pale pearls were fiery rubies.“No; I’ll hold you safe.”“Then it is true, miss. He’s always after her, and has been ever since she came.”“You lying hussy!” cried Saxa hotly. “If I were my sister I’d lash you with my riding whip—I mean shake you till you went down on your knees and owned it was out of spite.”“Lying hussy, am I?” cried Maria viciously, “when every word’s true, and that isn’t all, miss; Mr Neil’s as bad or worse.”There was a sharp sound in the room, for Saxa had flashed up with rage and struck the woman sharply across the mouth with the back of her hand.“A lie!” she cried. “Mr Neil Elthorne would not degrade himself by noticing such a woman.”“A lie, is it?” cried Maria, with her hand to her lips. “Then you shall have it now without paying me for it. It’s a lie, I suppose, that he was going on with her all the time I was in hospital, and when he was down here and obliged to stay because of poor master’s hurt—plotted and planned to get her down here, too? That’s a lie, I suppose, miss? I’m not blind. I’ve seen a deal too much, and if that woman isn’t soon turned out of the house I’m not going to stop.”“It—is—not—true,” cried Saxa hoarsely.“And poor dear master lying there all helpless, and being cheated by ’em both. It’s shameful; and how you young ladies can put up with it—”“It can’t be true,” said Saxa furiously.“Very well, miss, you know best,” said Maria; “but I’m not going to stay here to be knocked about by the best lady as was ever born.”“Stop!” cried Saxa fiercely; and she caught the malignant woman’s arm as she was making for the door. “I—I beg your pardon. Tell me, is all this true?”“Yes, miss, it’s true enough,” said Maria, beginning to sob; and then, as her arm was loosened, she made for the door, trembling and frightened at what she had said in her bitter dislike to the woman who had almost saved her life.“You had better go,” said Dana, who was startled at the change which had come over her sister’s face.Maria waited for no more, but, repentant in her alarm, hurried out of the room, leaving the sisters alone.Just then the great bell in the turret over the hall began to clang out its summons for dinner.

“For two pins I’d have our things packed up and go back at once, Dan; that I would,” cried Saxa Lydon, as she stood before the long cheval glass in the best bedroom at the Elthornes’. “Here, you, give me that pin off the dressing table.”

The first words were in a low tone to her sister, the latter to Maria Bell, who was playing the part of lady’s maid to the two visitors dressing for dinner; but from a keen interest in the state of affairs, Maria’s ears were preternaturally sharp, and she heard the first words as well.

A handsome diamond pin was fetched and handed to the speaker, who thrust it into the knot of abundant hair, where it glistened like so much dew.

“The place doesn’t seem the same,” said Dana, who had finished dressing and lay back in a chair, arranging and rearranging the folds of her dress.

“Hold your tongue,” whispered her sister. “We don’t want everyone to know.”

She looked significantly at the maid, who, with a most discreet air, ignored everything and went on folding and hanging up dresses in the wardrobe.

“I don’t care who hears!” said Dana. “I’m sick of it. I wouldn’t have come if it hadn’t been for the poor old man.”

“Nor I,” said Saxa, whose anger was getting the better of her discretion. “Anyone would think we were perfect strangers; why, Burwood is ten times as attentive.”

“To you,” said Dana spitefully.

“No, he is not; it is to you. If I were you, I’d give Master Alison such a lesson to-night! I’d flirt with Burwood till I made him half mad with jealousy.”

“That’s the advice I was thinking of giving you,” said Dana with a sneer. “He is always at your heels, or wanting to help you mount or dismount.”

“Oh, come, I like that,” said Saxa, whose face was now scarlet, and she frowned as she gazed at her sister’s reflection in the glass instead of at her own and the bracelets she was attaching to her well-shaped arms. “He was riding by your side all day yesterday.”

“Look here,” said Dana coldly, “if you want to quarrel send away the maid. I don’t want Burwood. You can have him.”

“Thank you. But you might tell the truth.”

“Don’t be a fool!” said Dana, and then, hurriedly, “Hush! don’t let’s quarrel here. But it’s too bad; anyone would think we were nobody at all, and that the boys were not at home.”

“Don’t be a fool yourself,” whispered Saxa, leaning forward and offering a cut glass bottle. Then, aloud, “Scent?” and again, in a low voice, “That minx’s ears are like a fox’s.”

“Thanks,” said Dana, taking the bottle and using it liberally. “Here, what’s-your-name? Maria, have a drop of scent?”

“Oh, thank you, miss,” cried the maid eagerly. “No; don’t take it now,” said Saxa, replacing the scent on the table. “You may empty the bottle when you pack up our things to-morrow.”

“Oh, thank you, Miss Lydon.”

“Got quite well and strong again?”

“Yes, miss, quite, thank you.”

“It was this nurse who attended you, wasn’t it—at the hospital?”

“Yes, miss,” said Maria, tightening her lips and looking vicious.

“Hallo!” said Dana, laughing boisterously. “Look at her, Saxa. I say, used she to drink your port wine and eat your new laid eggs?”

“Oh, I don’t know what she did, miss,” said Maria, in a tone of voice which seemed to say, “Ask me a little more.”

“There, I’m nearly ready,” said Saxa, examining herself in the glass. “I suppose the dinner bell will go directly. Maria doesn’t like nurse. She’s too much of the fine madam—eh, ’Ria?”

“Yes, miss, a deal too much for me.”

“Never mind; she made a better job of you than of the old man. He gets well very slowly.”

“Perhaps nurse knows when she is in a comfortable place, and doesn’t want to go back to London,” said Maria tartly.

“Very likely,” said Saxa coolly. “No love lost between you two, I see.”

“No, Miss Lydon, indeed there is not.”

“Pity,” said Saxa laconically. “Servants ought to be very happy together.”

“I don’t look upon Nurse Elisia as a fellow-servant, miss, and I’m sure she doesn’t as to me.”

“Likely enough. Thinks she is too pretty. There, ’Ria, shall I do?” and Saxa spread out her dress, and swept across the room and back.

“Well done, female peacock!” cried Dana sneeringly.

“You look lovely, miss,” cried Maria. “Pretty?” she continued. “Her pretty? P-f-f! Why, she’s nothing to you two young ladies, only I suppose some people think differently.”

“Eh?” said Dana sharply. “What do you mean by that?”

“Oh, nothing, miss; only I do say it’s a pity some people think so much of white faced nurses.”

“’Ria has a sweetheart, and he has been making eyes at the nurse and wishing he was an interesting invalid,” said Saxa merrily.

“Oh, no indeed, miss,” cried Maria viciously; “but if I had, it isn’t me as would have such goings on.”

“Ah, well, it isn’t my business,” said Saxa carelessly. “Somebody has been paying her attentions then, I suppose; and nurses like them as other people do.”

Maria tightened her lips and said nothing, but Dana looked flushed and excited.

“Look here,” she said sharply, as if she were speaking to one of her grooms, “what does all this mean?”

“Oh, nothing, miss; it isn’t for me to say, only I don’t like to see such goings on.”

“What goings on?”

“Oh, nothing, miss.”

“But—”

“Let her alone, Dana. What is it to you?”

“But I want to know,” cried Dana sharply, for a faint suspicion had been in her brain for some weeks past consequent upon a sudden change she had noted in Alison; and this suspicion, increased by the maid’s words, was rapidly growing into a certainty.

“Well, want to know,” said her sister. “I say, why doesn’t that dinner bell ring? I’m hungry.”

“Look here, Maria; I’ve always been kind to you when I’ve come here,” said Dana excitedly.

“Yes, miss, always,” said Maria.

“And I always will be, and so will my sister.”

“That means half a sovereign, ’Ria,” said Saxa merrily. “Don’t you let her put you off with a paltry half crown.”

“Then tell me what you mean.”

“Oh, I couldn’t, miss; I couldn’t, indeed.”

“Then there is something,” said Dana, “and—you shall tell me,” she cried fiercely, as, in an Amazonlike fashion, she gripped the woman’s arm. “Now then, you tell me. It’s something about the nurse and—”

“Miss Dana, please don’t. I’m so weak still,” pleaded Maria.

“There, you as good as owned to it. What is it?”

“It’s nothing, miss. I only sus— fancied something.”

“Then speak out,” cried Dana, sharply. “I will know before you go out of this room. Then it was them I saw across the park,” she exclaimed excitedly.

Maria’s eyes twinkled.

“You were thinking something about Mr Alison?”

“O Dan, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!” cried Saxa.

“Ought I? Never mind. It was what I suspected, but I wouldn’t let myself believe it. Now, Maria, you speak out. I will know now.”

“I dursn’t, miss.”

“You tell me directly, or it will be the worse for you and for him.”

“I’m sure I don’t know nothing, miss,” said Maria, whimpering, “and you are hurting my arm.”

“And I’m sure you do,” cried Dana, loosening her grip and tearing off her glove. “There,” she said, taking off a ring set with good-sized pearls, “tell me everything and I’ll give you that.”

Maria turned pale with excitement, and her right hand opened and shut.

“I dursn’t, miss,” she whispered hoarsely. “It’s more than my place is worth.”

“If anything comes of what you tell you shall be maid to us, so speak out honestly. There, take the ring.”

“Dana, I’m ashamed of you,” whispered Saxa, as Maria’s fingers closed upon the valuable jewel. “It’s disgraceful.”

“I don’t care. He’s playing fast and loose with me, and I’m not going to put up with it, so I tell you. Now then, I’ll speak plainly, Maria, and you’ve got to speak plainly, too. Mr Alison has been making up to that nurse!”

“You won’t tell on me, miss?” whispered Maria, in whose palm the ring seemed to burn as if the chaste, pale pearls were fiery rubies.

“No; I’ll hold you safe.”

“Then it is true, miss. He’s always after her, and has been ever since she came.”

“You lying hussy!” cried Saxa hotly. “If I were my sister I’d lash you with my riding whip—I mean shake you till you went down on your knees and owned it was out of spite.”

“Lying hussy, am I?” cried Maria viciously, “when every word’s true, and that isn’t all, miss; Mr Neil’s as bad or worse.”

There was a sharp sound in the room, for Saxa had flashed up with rage and struck the woman sharply across the mouth with the back of her hand.

“A lie!” she cried. “Mr Neil Elthorne would not degrade himself by noticing such a woman.”

“A lie, is it?” cried Maria, with her hand to her lips. “Then you shall have it now without paying me for it. It’s a lie, I suppose, that he was going on with her all the time I was in hospital, and when he was down here and obliged to stay because of poor master’s hurt—plotted and planned to get her down here, too? That’s a lie, I suppose, miss? I’m not blind. I’ve seen a deal too much, and if that woman isn’t soon turned out of the house I’m not going to stop.”

“It—is—not—true,” cried Saxa hoarsely.

“And poor dear master lying there all helpless, and being cheated by ’em both. It’s shameful; and how you young ladies can put up with it—”

“It can’t be true,” said Saxa furiously.

“Very well, miss, you know best,” said Maria; “but I’m not going to stay here to be knocked about by the best lady as was ever born.”

“Stop!” cried Saxa fiercely; and she caught the malignant woman’s arm as she was making for the door. “I—I beg your pardon. Tell me, is all this true?”

“Yes, miss, it’s true enough,” said Maria, beginning to sob; and then, as her arm was loosened, she made for the door, trembling and frightened at what she had said in her bitter dislike to the woman who had almost saved her life.

“You had better go,” said Dana, who was startled at the change which had come over her sister’s face.

Maria waited for no more, but, repentant in her alarm, hurried out of the room, leaving the sisters alone.

Just then the great bell in the turret over the hall began to clang out its summons for dinner.

Chapter Twenty.“Very Bad News.”“Saxa! What is it? I say, don’t stand looking in that stony way,” cried Dana, seizing and shaking her sister by the shoulder.“Don’t, Dan,” she said in a low, hoarse voice. “But you look so strange.”“Yes; I’ve come a cropper,” said Saxa, with a hard, set look in her handsome face. “Is—is it all true?”“Yes,” said Dana fiercely. “I can think of a dozen things now which go to prove it. I’ve had a faint suspicion for some time.”“I hadn’t,” said Saxa in the same low tone. “I did not think he cared much for me, but I thought him too much of a gentleman, and too loyal.”“They have both neglected us shamefully.”“Yes, sis, they have,” continued Saxa slowly, “but I didn’t mind so very much. I never cared for him a deal. I never felt that it was what people called love, but one has gone on for years with the idea that one was to marry Neil Elthorne, and I feel now as if I had come down heavily all at once, horse and all.”“Yes; they’ve fooled us both,” cried Dana, and there was a deep silence in the house now, for the dinner bell had ceased to clang. “What are you going to do? We can’t go in to dinner now.”“Do?”“Yes, we can’t pass this over in silence.”“No,” said Saxa slowly, and as if she were thinking out her words before she spoke them. “I’m going in to poor old daddy to tell him how we’ve been thrown off the scent.”“It will half kill him.”“No, it will rouse him, I say. He shall know everything we have heard, and then we shall have the truth from those boys. Oh, if I had only known before!”She drew herself up—pale now—with wounded pride, and the agony of spirit which made her speak through her set teeth.There was a sharp tapping at the door. “May I come in?” cried a familiar girlish voice.“Yes,” said Dana; and Isabel came quickly into the room.“Come, you two,” she cried. “We’re waiting dinner. Oh, I see,” she added merrily; “dress. Saxa! Dana! what is the matter? Have you had bad news?”“Yes, baby dear,” said Saxa solemnly; “very, very bad news.”“Oh!” cried the girl wildly, as she turned ghastly pale. “News! Tom’s ship?”She reeled and would have fallen, but Saxa caught her, and kissed her affectionately.“No, no, little one,” she cried hastily. “It isn’t that.”“Ah!” gasped Isabel, “I thought— Then you two are in trouble.”“Yes, dear. Who is with daddy?”“With papa? Only the nurse.”“Go and send her away, little one. We must go in and speak to him quite alone.”“Then it is some great trouble.”“Yes, dear. You will know quite soon enough. Now go.”Isabel, who had looked upon them both as elder sisters, whom she must obey, almost from a child, left the room without a word.“Will it be best to go to him, Saxa?” said Dana hoarsely.“Yes; we may be girls who have been laughed at through the country for our love of horses and the hunt,” said Saxa firmly, “but we have always been ladies, and we will show these men that we are not to be treated as if we were already their wives and slaves.”“Papa is quite alone now, Saxa,” said Isabel, reappearing at the door. “O Saxa, dear—Dana—can’t I do anything for you?”“No, dear,” said the elder sister gravely, “it is not your fault.”“Nurse said you must please not say anything to agitate papa,” said Isabel gently.Saxa looked at her half pityingly, and then went slowly out, followed by her sister.“Nurse!” she muttered in a contemptuous whisper, as she went along the corridor to Mr Elthorne’s door. “O Dan, quick; let’s take the leap, and have it over, for, after all, it can’t be true.”She turned the handle of the door, and a cry of welcome arose from the couch.“Ah, my bonnie Dianas,” cried the old man; “this is good of you to come and see me before you go down. Why, how bright and handsome you both look.”Saxa went straight up to the couch, took the two hands extended to her, and bent down and kissed the sufferer; and for the first time now the hardness of her task became plain, and she began to shrink from hurting the poor weak invalid, lying so helpless there.“Dana, my pet,” he said, kissing the younger sister in turn; and then excitedly: “Why your hands are damp and cold. What is it? There is something wrong.”They looked at each other as if to say—“You tell him.”Ralph Elthorne saw it, and his facial muscles twitched, and an angry look came into his eyes, but he passed it off with a forced smile.“Now, now,” he cried; “none of that, my dears. It’s nothing. We’ve had many a run together, and I’ve only had a fall. Don’t you two begin any of that nonsense. I was a bit hurt, but I’m Ralph Elthorne still: daddy to you, my darlings, in name only yet, but it’s going to be real before long, you know. I’m not ill, only a bit crippled for the present. I’m not an invalid, my dears, so out with it—what is it?”There were words in his little speech which made their task more difficult still, and they glanced at each other again.“Come, Saxa,” he cried—“come, Dana, let’s have it. You don’t want to make me angry?”“No, no,” cried Saxa, and she sank upon her knees by him, and laid her head upon his shoulder.“Then speak out. There’s something serious on the way. Ah, I see! Isabel! She has not gone—absurd! She was here just now.”“No, no, sir; it is not that.”“Hah!” he ejaculated. “She would not dare. Well, then, what is it? You, Dana, speak, my child.”Dana was silent, and he turned angrily upon Saxa. “You are the elder girl. Tell me at once. I know: it is something about one of the boys.”“He must know, Dan; speak out,” said Saxa firmly.“Why do you put it on my shoulders?” cried Dana angrily. “Very well, then, if I must. Daddy, it isn’t my fault, but that’s all over now.”“What is, my girl?”“All that with Alison; and we’ve come to say good-bye. We are going back home.”“What?” he cried. “Nonsense! rubbish! Some silly lovers’ tiff. What has he said to you? Bah, my pretty one! Go down and box his ugly ears, and make him beg your pardon; you can do it, I know.”“And is Saxa to do the same?” she said bitterly. “What! you are not in trouble, too, with Neil?” Saxa was silent.Ralph Elthorne made an effort to raise himself, but his head fell back heavily, and he uttered a low moan at his helplessness and wiped his face.“Look here,” he said in a low trembling voice; “I know you two girls love me, and always have, since you were little bits of things, and it all increased when your poor dying father and mother begged me to act as your guardian. Come, now; I’ve done my duty to you both.”“Always, dear,” said Saxa tenderly.“Then now, both of you do your duty by me. You, Saxa, my child, speak. You came here to stay for a day or two. I wished it so that you and the boys might see more of each other. I see; you have quarrelled.”“Not yet,” said the girl firmly. “There is no need to quarrel; all that is at an end.”“What?”“Yes, at an end, guardian,” said Dana. “If Alison prefers another woman to me, he may have her.”“Alison? Another woman? Has he dared to trifle with you? to oppose my wishes? No; it is a mistake. And you, Saxa, my girl—what is wrong with you?”“I say the same as my sister, sir. If Neil Elthorne prefers to marry your nurse, let him; everything between us is at an end.”Ralph Elthorne’s jaw dropped, and he looked helplessly, vacantly, from one to the other. Then, raising his hands wildly, he seemed to be fighting for his breath, his convulsed features horrifying the two girls, who were strong-minded in their way, and accustomed enough to scenes of human suffering to look on unmoved, as a rule. But the aspect of their guardian startled them; the callousness produced by their rough, outdoor education dropped away, and they were gentle women once again in the presence of the old man’s agony.“I’ll ring for help,” panted Dana, and in her confusion she ran to the wrong end of the room to find the bell pull, while Saxa threw herself on her knees by the couch, and caught one of the fluttering hands.“Oh, daddy! dear old daddy!” she cried, “what have we done?” Then excitedly, “Dan, we were selfish fools to speak. Dear, dear old guardy—we’ve killed you!”

“Saxa! What is it? I say, don’t stand looking in that stony way,” cried Dana, seizing and shaking her sister by the shoulder.

“Don’t, Dan,” she said in a low, hoarse voice. “But you look so strange.”

“Yes; I’ve come a cropper,” said Saxa, with a hard, set look in her handsome face. “Is—is it all true?”

“Yes,” said Dana fiercely. “I can think of a dozen things now which go to prove it. I’ve had a faint suspicion for some time.”

“I hadn’t,” said Saxa in the same low tone. “I did not think he cared much for me, but I thought him too much of a gentleman, and too loyal.”

“They have both neglected us shamefully.”

“Yes, sis, they have,” continued Saxa slowly, “but I didn’t mind so very much. I never cared for him a deal. I never felt that it was what people called love, but one has gone on for years with the idea that one was to marry Neil Elthorne, and I feel now as if I had come down heavily all at once, horse and all.”

“Yes; they’ve fooled us both,” cried Dana, and there was a deep silence in the house now, for the dinner bell had ceased to clang. “What are you going to do? We can’t go in to dinner now.”

“Do?”

“Yes, we can’t pass this over in silence.”

“No,” said Saxa slowly, and as if she were thinking out her words before she spoke them. “I’m going in to poor old daddy to tell him how we’ve been thrown off the scent.”

“It will half kill him.”

“No, it will rouse him, I say. He shall know everything we have heard, and then we shall have the truth from those boys. Oh, if I had only known before!”

She drew herself up—pale now—with wounded pride, and the agony of spirit which made her speak through her set teeth.

There was a sharp tapping at the door. “May I come in?” cried a familiar girlish voice.

“Yes,” said Dana; and Isabel came quickly into the room.

“Come, you two,” she cried. “We’re waiting dinner. Oh, I see,” she added merrily; “dress. Saxa! Dana! what is the matter? Have you had bad news?”

“Yes, baby dear,” said Saxa solemnly; “very, very bad news.”

“Oh!” cried the girl wildly, as she turned ghastly pale. “News! Tom’s ship?”

She reeled and would have fallen, but Saxa caught her, and kissed her affectionately.

“No, no, little one,” she cried hastily. “It isn’t that.”

“Ah!” gasped Isabel, “I thought— Then you two are in trouble.”

“Yes, dear. Who is with daddy?”

“With papa? Only the nurse.”

“Go and send her away, little one. We must go in and speak to him quite alone.”

“Then it is some great trouble.”

“Yes, dear. You will know quite soon enough. Now go.”

Isabel, who had looked upon them both as elder sisters, whom she must obey, almost from a child, left the room without a word.

“Will it be best to go to him, Saxa?” said Dana hoarsely.

“Yes; we may be girls who have been laughed at through the country for our love of horses and the hunt,” said Saxa firmly, “but we have always been ladies, and we will show these men that we are not to be treated as if we were already their wives and slaves.”

“Papa is quite alone now, Saxa,” said Isabel, reappearing at the door. “O Saxa, dear—Dana—can’t I do anything for you?”

“No, dear,” said the elder sister gravely, “it is not your fault.”

“Nurse said you must please not say anything to agitate papa,” said Isabel gently.

Saxa looked at her half pityingly, and then went slowly out, followed by her sister.

“Nurse!” she muttered in a contemptuous whisper, as she went along the corridor to Mr Elthorne’s door. “O Dan, quick; let’s take the leap, and have it over, for, after all, it can’t be true.”

She turned the handle of the door, and a cry of welcome arose from the couch.

“Ah, my bonnie Dianas,” cried the old man; “this is good of you to come and see me before you go down. Why, how bright and handsome you both look.”

Saxa went straight up to the couch, took the two hands extended to her, and bent down and kissed the sufferer; and for the first time now the hardness of her task became plain, and she began to shrink from hurting the poor weak invalid, lying so helpless there.

“Dana, my pet,” he said, kissing the younger sister in turn; and then excitedly: “Why your hands are damp and cold. What is it? There is something wrong.”

They looked at each other as if to say—“You tell him.”

Ralph Elthorne saw it, and his facial muscles twitched, and an angry look came into his eyes, but he passed it off with a forced smile.

“Now, now,” he cried; “none of that, my dears. It’s nothing. We’ve had many a run together, and I’ve only had a fall. Don’t you two begin any of that nonsense. I was a bit hurt, but I’m Ralph Elthorne still: daddy to you, my darlings, in name only yet, but it’s going to be real before long, you know. I’m not ill, only a bit crippled for the present. I’m not an invalid, my dears, so out with it—what is it?”

There were words in his little speech which made their task more difficult still, and they glanced at each other again.

“Come, Saxa,” he cried—“come, Dana, let’s have it. You don’t want to make me angry?”

“No, no,” cried Saxa, and she sank upon her knees by him, and laid her head upon his shoulder.

“Then speak out. There’s something serious on the way. Ah, I see! Isabel! She has not gone—absurd! She was here just now.”

“No, no, sir; it is not that.”

“Hah!” he ejaculated. “She would not dare. Well, then, what is it? You, Dana, speak, my child.”

Dana was silent, and he turned angrily upon Saxa. “You are the elder girl. Tell me at once. I know: it is something about one of the boys.”

“He must know, Dan; speak out,” said Saxa firmly.

“Why do you put it on my shoulders?” cried Dana angrily. “Very well, then, if I must. Daddy, it isn’t my fault, but that’s all over now.”

“What is, my girl?”

“All that with Alison; and we’ve come to say good-bye. We are going back home.”

“What?” he cried. “Nonsense! rubbish! Some silly lovers’ tiff. What has he said to you? Bah, my pretty one! Go down and box his ugly ears, and make him beg your pardon; you can do it, I know.”

“And is Saxa to do the same?” she said bitterly. “What! you are not in trouble, too, with Neil?” Saxa was silent.

Ralph Elthorne made an effort to raise himself, but his head fell back heavily, and he uttered a low moan at his helplessness and wiped his face.

“Look here,” he said in a low trembling voice; “I know you two girls love me, and always have, since you were little bits of things, and it all increased when your poor dying father and mother begged me to act as your guardian. Come, now; I’ve done my duty to you both.”

“Always, dear,” said Saxa tenderly.

“Then now, both of you do your duty by me. You, Saxa, my child, speak. You came here to stay for a day or two. I wished it so that you and the boys might see more of each other. I see; you have quarrelled.”

“Not yet,” said the girl firmly. “There is no need to quarrel; all that is at an end.”

“What?”

“Yes, at an end, guardian,” said Dana. “If Alison prefers another woman to me, he may have her.”

“Alison? Another woman? Has he dared to trifle with you? to oppose my wishes? No; it is a mistake. And you, Saxa, my girl—what is wrong with you?”

“I say the same as my sister, sir. If Neil Elthorne prefers to marry your nurse, let him; everything between us is at an end.”

Ralph Elthorne’s jaw dropped, and he looked helplessly, vacantly, from one to the other. Then, raising his hands wildly, he seemed to be fighting for his breath, his convulsed features horrifying the two girls, who were strong-minded in their way, and accustomed enough to scenes of human suffering to look on unmoved, as a rule. But the aspect of their guardian startled them; the callousness produced by their rough, outdoor education dropped away, and they were gentle women once again in the presence of the old man’s agony.

“I’ll ring for help,” panted Dana, and in her confusion she ran to the wrong end of the room to find the bell pull, while Saxa threw herself on her knees by the couch, and caught one of the fluttering hands.

“Oh, daddy! dear old daddy!” she cried, “what have we done?” Then excitedly, “Dan, we were selfish fools to speak. Dear, dear old guardy—we’ve killed you!”

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