Chapter Twelve.

Chapter Twelve.Maria is Venomous.“Come in,” said Aunt Anne, in response to a knock, and Maria Bell entered, to stand for a moment watching while a few entries were made diligently in the housekeeping book. Then Aunt Anne raised her head and coughed, a signal which Maria knew of old as premonitor of a scolding, and, to ward it off, struck first.“Oh, much better, ma’am, thank you,” she said hastily; “and it’s very kind of you to ask. I’m getting as strong as I was before I went to the hospital, and I think the wine you gave me has done me a deal of good. I hope master’s much better this morning, ma’am.”“Yes; your master is much better, Maria.”“I’m very glad, ma’am, for more reasons than one.” Aunt Anne had made up and rehearsed a speech relative to the neglect of certain duties, now that Maria was back, and that though she had been ill, and allowances would be made and she would still be well cared for, she was not to expect that she was to lead a life of idleness, especially as there was now an invalid permanently in the house. But Maria’s manner and that addition or qualifying of her joy at her master’s improvement, quite drove the admonitory remarks out of her head by exciting curiosity.“Eh?” she exclaimed, “for more reasons than one, Maria? What do you mean by that?”“Oh, nothing, ma’am,” said the woman, tightening her lips, and taking up the hem of her apron to arrange in plaits.“Maria, you know, and have known for years, how I hate and detest mystery. I desire that you tell me what you mean.”“Nothing at all, ma’am, indeed. I really—that is—I am very glad that master is better—that’s all.”“That is not all, Maria. I despise hints, as you well know.”“Really, ma’am, there is nothing.”“Maria, you cannot deceive me. I can read you perfectly. You have some reason for that innuendo and after all I have done for you and that Mr Neil has done for you, I consider that you are acting very ungratefully by this reserve.”Maria began to cry.“It—it—it wasn’t from ungratefulness ma’am, I’m sure, for I’m bubbling over with gratitude to you and Mr Neil, and it was all on account of him that I spoke as I did.”“Now, Maria, what do you mean?” cried Aunt Anne, for the spark ignited upon her tinder-like nature was rapidly beginning to glow.“Please, please, don’t ask me, ma’am,” said Maria, with sobs. “I would not make mischief in a house for worlds.”“Nobody asks you to make mischief, Maria; but if you have seen peculations, or matters connected with the housekeeping going wrong during your master’s illness, it is your duty to speak.”“Yes, ma’am, but it wasn’t anything of that sort.”“Then what was it?” said Aunt Anne judicially. “And I’d be the last to speak, ma’am, knowing how valuable a character is to a poor person; and well I know how easy it is to make mistakes and be deceived, especially about such matters as that.”“Maria, I insist. Why do you wish your master to be better?”“Oh, of course, I want to see him quite well, ma’am, for though a bit ’arsh, a better master—”“What other reason, Maria?”“Well, ma’am, if I must speak, it is because I shall be glad when master’s down again, and nurse is gone.”“Nurse? Stop a moment. She attended you at the hospital?”“Oh, yes, ma’am,” said Maria, in a peculiar tone, which suggested neglect, ill-treatment, and all kinds of unfeminine behaviour; “she attended me. I was in her ward.”“Well?”“Oh, that’s all, ma’am.”“It is not all, Maria, and I desire that you speak.”“I don’t like to see a woman like that attending master.”“It was the doctor’s orders, Maria.”“So I s’pose, ma’am. I heard that Sir Denton sent her down. He thinks a deal of her. You see he’s a very old gentleman, ma’am, and she flatters him, and makes believe to be very attentive, and she was always just the same to Mr Neil, ma’am. I was a-lying there in pain and suffering and affliction sore, but I couldn’t help using my eyes, and I saw a great deal.”“Maria!”“Oh, it’s a fact, ma’am, and if I’d gone on as she did talking to the young doctors, I should never have expected to keep no place; but of course a head nurse is different to a hupper ’ousemaid.”“That will do, Maria,” said Aunt Anne. “I cannot listen to such scandalous tattle. I have no doubt about its being all imagination on your part.”“I only wish it was, ma’am, I’m sure.”“It’s only a temporary arrangement, of course; and now, I wanted to speak to you about several little pieces of neglect I have observed that must not occur again. I know you have been ill, but it is quite time that you were a little more attentive, especially as we are about to have company.”“Company, ma’am?”“Yes; the Miss Lydons will be here to dinner on Friday, and they will stay the night, so I desire that their rooms are properly prepared before they come, and of course, as they will not bring their maid you will wait upon them.”“Yes, ma’am; I’ll do my very best, and I hope—”“That will do, Maria.”“But there was one thing I should like to tell you, ma’am.”Aunt Anne was burning with curiosity, but she raised her hand.“Not another word, Maria. You know I never listen to the servants’ tattle. Now go about your work.”“I ’ate her,” muttered Maria, as soon as she was in the hall, which she crossed so as to get to the back stairs; “and if I haven’t put a spoke in her wheel this time my name isn’t what it is.”Maria tightened her lips as if to condense her spleen against the patient, long-suffering woman who had had the misfortune to incur her dislike.“A thing like her!” she continued muttering. “A beggarly nurse, with not so much as a box of her own to bring down when she comes into a gentleman’s house, and giving herself airs as if she was a lady. Oh, dear me, and indeed! Couldn’t stoop to talk to a poor girl as if she was a fellow-creature, at the hospital; and down here, lor’ bless us! anyone would think she was a duchess up in the skies instead of a common hospital nurse. Oh, I do ’ate pride, and if it wasn’t that it do have a fall there’d be no living with such people.”Maria was not very strong yet, and she stopped short—as she expressed it to herself, with her heart in her mouth—and turned red and then pale on hearing a faint rustle behind her, and the nurse’s low sympathetic voice accosting her.“Ah, Maria, are you better this morning?”“Oh, yes, thank you, ma’am, much better.”There was a tremendous emphasis on the “ma’am,” suggestive of keen and subtle sarcasm, and the revolt of honest humility against assumption.“I am very glad,” said the nurse gently. “Mrs Barnett said that there were several little things you might do now in Mr Elthorne’s room.”Maria’s face turned scarlet, and she faced round viciously.“Then it was you, was it, who complained to her that I didn’t do my work properly?”“I, my good girl?” said Nurse Elisia, smiling. “Oh, no.”“It must have been. Nobody else wouldn’t have been so mean as to go telling tales.”“You are making a great mistake, Maria,” said the nurse, with quiet dignity. “I certainly asked Mrs Barnett about a few things being done in your master’s room, and she referred me to you.”“I don’t want you to come here teaching me my work.”“Oh, no, I will not interfere, Maria,” said the nurse coldly; “but it is necessary that the room should be seen to.”“Thank you, ma’am; as if I didn’t know what a ’ousemaid’s work is. Oh, I haven’t patience with such mean, tale-bearing, stuck-up ways.”The nurse looked at her in a pained way, and for a few moments there was a slight flash of resentment in her face; but it died out directly, and she spoke very gently:“You are making a mistake, Maria.”“Don’t ‘Maria’ me, please—ma’am,” cried the housemaid; and that “ma’am” was tremendous.“Stop,” said the nurse, gently and firmly, and her eyes seemed to fascinate the woman, as a hand was laid upon her arm. “You have passed through a very trying ordeal lately, and it has affected your nervous system. You must not give way to an angry, hysterical fit like this. It is dangerous in your state.”“Oh, don’t you begin to ‘my lady’ it over me.” Nurse Elisia changed colour a little, and darted a penetrating look at the speaker, but her countenance resumed its old calm directly, and she went on firmly.“Take my advice, Maria; now do as I tell you. Never mind about the work—I will do what is necessary myself. Go up to your bedroom and lie down for an hour, till you have grown calm and cool.”“I shan’t,” cried Maria, with the passionate utterance of an angry child; “and I won’t stop in a house where—where,”—there was a hysterical outburst of sobbing here—“such goings on—and I’ll take my month.”“Let me take you up to your room.”“No, no! I won’t go. I—oh, oh, oh!”But the strong will prevailed over the weak, and Maria suffered herself to be led along the corridor till, a figure approaching at the end, she cried spitefully through her sobs: “Of course, I know. To get me out of the way. Oh, I’m not blind.”Nurse Elisia’s hand fell from the woman’s arm as if it had been a gymnotus, and there was an indignant look in her eyes as they met Neil Elthorne’s searchingly, in fear lest he had heard the malignant utterance.“What is the matter?” he said. “Why, Maria, I thought you were so much better.”“It is a little hysterical attack,” said the nurse quietly. “I was advising her to go and lie down, sir.”“Yes, of course,” said Neil quickly, as he caught the woman’s wrist. “Go and lie down at once. You must not give way to that sort of thing, Maria. You are not quite yourself yet.”“I—I’m better, now, sir,” she said, as she struggled for the mastery over herself. “No, thank you! I can go by myself.”“Oh, yes,” she muttered, as she glanced back on reaching the swing-door at the end of the corridor. “I’m not blind. A nice creature!—and him to go on like that. But I’ve not done yet.”

“Come in,” said Aunt Anne, in response to a knock, and Maria Bell entered, to stand for a moment watching while a few entries were made diligently in the housekeeping book. Then Aunt Anne raised her head and coughed, a signal which Maria knew of old as premonitor of a scolding, and, to ward it off, struck first.

“Oh, much better, ma’am, thank you,” she said hastily; “and it’s very kind of you to ask. I’m getting as strong as I was before I went to the hospital, and I think the wine you gave me has done me a deal of good. I hope master’s much better this morning, ma’am.”

“Yes; your master is much better, Maria.”

“I’m very glad, ma’am, for more reasons than one.” Aunt Anne had made up and rehearsed a speech relative to the neglect of certain duties, now that Maria was back, and that though she had been ill, and allowances would be made and she would still be well cared for, she was not to expect that she was to lead a life of idleness, especially as there was now an invalid permanently in the house. But Maria’s manner and that addition or qualifying of her joy at her master’s improvement, quite drove the admonitory remarks out of her head by exciting curiosity.

“Eh?” she exclaimed, “for more reasons than one, Maria? What do you mean by that?”

“Oh, nothing, ma’am,” said the woman, tightening her lips, and taking up the hem of her apron to arrange in plaits.

“Maria, you know, and have known for years, how I hate and detest mystery. I desire that you tell me what you mean.”

“Nothing at all, ma’am, indeed. I really—that is—I am very glad that master is better—that’s all.”

“That is not all, Maria. I despise hints, as you well know.”

“Really, ma’am, there is nothing.”

“Maria, you cannot deceive me. I can read you perfectly. You have some reason for that innuendo and after all I have done for you and that Mr Neil has done for you, I consider that you are acting very ungratefully by this reserve.”

Maria began to cry.

“It—it—it wasn’t from ungratefulness ma’am, I’m sure, for I’m bubbling over with gratitude to you and Mr Neil, and it was all on account of him that I spoke as I did.”

“Now, Maria, what do you mean?” cried Aunt Anne, for the spark ignited upon her tinder-like nature was rapidly beginning to glow.

“Please, please, don’t ask me, ma’am,” said Maria, with sobs. “I would not make mischief in a house for worlds.”

“Nobody asks you to make mischief, Maria; but if you have seen peculations, or matters connected with the housekeeping going wrong during your master’s illness, it is your duty to speak.”

“Yes, ma’am, but it wasn’t anything of that sort.”

“Then what was it?” said Aunt Anne judicially. “And I’d be the last to speak, ma’am, knowing how valuable a character is to a poor person; and well I know how easy it is to make mistakes and be deceived, especially about such matters as that.”

“Maria, I insist. Why do you wish your master to be better?”

“Oh, of course, I want to see him quite well, ma’am, for though a bit ’arsh, a better master—”

“What other reason, Maria?”

“Well, ma’am, if I must speak, it is because I shall be glad when master’s down again, and nurse is gone.”

“Nurse? Stop a moment. She attended you at the hospital?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am,” said Maria, in a peculiar tone, which suggested neglect, ill-treatment, and all kinds of unfeminine behaviour; “she attended me. I was in her ward.”

“Well?”

“Oh, that’s all, ma’am.”

“It is not all, Maria, and I desire that you speak.”

“I don’t like to see a woman like that attending master.”

“It was the doctor’s orders, Maria.”

“So I s’pose, ma’am. I heard that Sir Denton sent her down. He thinks a deal of her. You see he’s a very old gentleman, ma’am, and she flatters him, and makes believe to be very attentive, and she was always just the same to Mr Neil, ma’am. I was a-lying there in pain and suffering and affliction sore, but I couldn’t help using my eyes, and I saw a great deal.”

“Maria!”

“Oh, it’s a fact, ma’am, and if I’d gone on as she did talking to the young doctors, I should never have expected to keep no place; but of course a head nurse is different to a hupper ’ousemaid.”

“That will do, Maria,” said Aunt Anne. “I cannot listen to such scandalous tattle. I have no doubt about its being all imagination on your part.”

“I only wish it was, ma’am, I’m sure.”

“It’s only a temporary arrangement, of course; and now, I wanted to speak to you about several little pieces of neglect I have observed that must not occur again. I know you have been ill, but it is quite time that you were a little more attentive, especially as we are about to have company.”

“Company, ma’am?”

“Yes; the Miss Lydons will be here to dinner on Friday, and they will stay the night, so I desire that their rooms are properly prepared before they come, and of course, as they will not bring their maid you will wait upon them.”

“Yes, ma’am; I’ll do my very best, and I hope—”

“That will do, Maria.”

“But there was one thing I should like to tell you, ma’am.”

Aunt Anne was burning with curiosity, but she raised her hand.

“Not another word, Maria. You know I never listen to the servants’ tattle. Now go about your work.”

“I ’ate her,” muttered Maria, as soon as she was in the hall, which she crossed so as to get to the back stairs; “and if I haven’t put a spoke in her wheel this time my name isn’t what it is.”

Maria tightened her lips as if to condense her spleen against the patient, long-suffering woman who had had the misfortune to incur her dislike.

“A thing like her!” she continued muttering. “A beggarly nurse, with not so much as a box of her own to bring down when she comes into a gentleman’s house, and giving herself airs as if she was a lady. Oh, dear me, and indeed! Couldn’t stoop to talk to a poor girl as if she was a fellow-creature, at the hospital; and down here, lor’ bless us! anyone would think she was a duchess up in the skies instead of a common hospital nurse. Oh, I do ’ate pride, and if it wasn’t that it do have a fall there’d be no living with such people.”

Maria was not very strong yet, and she stopped short—as she expressed it to herself, with her heart in her mouth—and turned red and then pale on hearing a faint rustle behind her, and the nurse’s low sympathetic voice accosting her.

“Ah, Maria, are you better this morning?”

“Oh, yes, thank you, ma’am, much better.”

There was a tremendous emphasis on the “ma’am,” suggestive of keen and subtle sarcasm, and the revolt of honest humility against assumption.

“I am very glad,” said the nurse gently. “Mrs Barnett said that there were several little things you might do now in Mr Elthorne’s room.”

Maria’s face turned scarlet, and she faced round viciously.

“Then it was you, was it, who complained to her that I didn’t do my work properly?”

“I, my good girl?” said Nurse Elisia, smiling. “Oh, no.”

“It must have been. Nobody else wouldn’t have been so mean as to go telling tales.”

“You are making a great mistake, Maria,” said the nurse, with quiet dignity. “I certainly asked Mrs Barnett about a few things being done in your master’s room, and she referred me to you.”

“I don’t want you to come here teaching me my work.”

“Oh, no, I will not interfere, Maria,” said the nurse coldly; “but it is necessary that the room should be seen to.”

“Thank you, ma’am; as if I didn’t know what a ’ousemaid’s work is. Oh, I haven’t patience with such mean, tale-bearing, stuck-up ways.”

The nurse looked at her in a pained way, and for a few moments there was a slight flash of resentment in her face; but it died out directly, and she spoke very gently:

“You are making a mistake, Maria.”

“Don’t ‘Maria’ me, please—ma’am,” cried the housemaid; and that “ma’am” was tremendous.

“Stop,” said the nurse, gently and firmly, and her eyes seemed to fascinate the woman, as a hand was laid upon her arm. “You have passed through a very trying ordeal lately, and it has affected your nervous system. You must not give way to an angry, hysterical fit like this. It is dangerous in your state.”

“Oh, don’t you begin to ‘my lady’ it over me.” Nurse Elisia changed colour a little, and darted a penetrating look at the speaker, but her countenance resumed its old calm directly, and she went on firmly.

“Take my advice, Maria; now do as I tell you. Never mind about the work—I will do what is necessary myself. Go up to your bedroom and lie down for an hour, till you have grown calm and cool.”

“I shan’t,” cried Maria, with the passionate utterance of an angry child; “and I won’t stop in a house where—where,”—there was a hysterical outburst of sobbing here—“such goings on—and I’ll take my month.”

“Let me take you up to your room.”

“No, no! I won’t go. I—oh, oh, oh!”

But the strong will prevailed over the weak, and Maria suffered herself to be led along the corridor till, a figure approaching at the end, she cried spitefully through her sobs: “Of course, I know. To get me out of the way. Oh, I’m not blind.”

Nurse Elisia’s hand fell from the woman’s arm as if it had been a gymnotus, and there was an indignant look in her eyes as they met Neil Elthorne’s searchingly, in fear lest he had heard the malignant utterance.

“What is the matter?” he said. “Why, Maria, I thought you were so much better.”

“It is a little hysterical attack,” said the nurse quietly. “I was advising her to go and lie down, sir.”

“Yes, of course,” said Neil quickly, as he caught the woman’s wrist. “Go and lie down at once. You must not give way to that sort of thing, Maria. You are not quite yourself yet.”

“I—I’m better, now, sir,” she said, as she struggled for the mastery over herself. “No, thank you! I can go by myself.”

“Oh, yes,” she muttered, as she glanced back on reaching the swing-door at the end of the corridor. “I’m not blind. A nice creature!—and him to go on like that. But I’ve not done yet.”

Chapter Thirteen.Aunt Anne’s Resolutions.Aunt Anne would not, she said, listen to Maria’s tattle, but the woman’s words went home.“I suspected it,” she said to herself, “and go she shall before matters are worse. It is always the way with these quiet, artful women.”So she took up her pen to write to Sir Denton Hayle, but she did not begin, for it occurred to her that if she did write and ask him to recall the nurse, he would immediately communicate with Neil to ask for an explanation, and whether Nurse Elisia had neglected her duties.“And that’s the worst of it,” said Aunt Anne to herself, “she never has, but has done wonders for poor Ralph.”Then it occurred to her also that, though Neil was only her nephew, he was fast rising into the position of an eminent surgeon, and that in such a case as this she would not have dared to interfere if he had been someone else.“Oh, dear me!” she said pettishly, “it’s very dreadful. Women always were at the bottom of all the mischief in the world. I’ve suspected it; Neil has been so changed, and so has Alison. It seems monstrous, but as sure as I’m a living woman she has managed to attract them both, and it must be stopped or do one knows what mischief will happen. Why, those two might quarrel dreadfully, and then-Oh, dear me, I’m very glad Saxa and Dana are coming. They will be the real cure for the trouble after all.”She took up her pen again, but only to throw it back on to the silver tray.“No; I mustn’t write. Stop, I know; I’ll go in and sit with Ralph this afternoon, and quietly work round to the point of the nurse leaving now. Isabel and I could do everything he requires.”“No,” she cried, with her face full of perplexity, “he would only fly in a passion and abuse me for interfering, and insist upon keeping her twice as long, and if I told him what I thought about Neil and Alison it would enrage him so that he would have some terrible relapse. Oh, dear me! I don’t know what Nature could have been about to make a nurse with a face and a soft, cooing voice like that woman’s. Bless me!” she cried aloud. “Neil, you shouldn’t make me jump like that.”“Didn’t you hear me come in, Aunt?”“No, my dear, and I am so nervous. It came on when your father had his accident.”“Oh, that will soon go off. I’ve just had a message from Sir Denton.”“To say that we need not keep the nurse any longer, and that he wants her back at the hospital?”“No, Aunt, dear, in response to a letter of mine written days ago,” said Neil, looking at her curiously.“What about, then?”“To say that he is on his way down here to see my father again, and give me his opinion about the progress made.”“But, Neil, my dear, you should not ask people like that. The Lydon girls are coming, and I cannot ask one of them to give up her room, and I’m sure Sir Denton wouldn’t like mine, looking out toward the stables, though you can’t see them.”“Don’t trouble yourself, Aunt, dear. He will not stay. He will come down by one train, spend an hour here, and go back to town at once. I want his indorsement of my ideas respecting a change of treatment.”“Oh, if that is the case, then I need not worry.”“Not in the least, Aunt. Only see that the lunch is kept back.”“Of course, my dear. I am relieved. For it would have been awkward with those girls here.”“They are coming, then?” said Neil absently. “Why, you know they are coming, dear. Really, Neil, I shall be very glad when you are married—and Alison, too, if it comes to that.”Neil looked at her searchingly, but his aunt’s face was perfectly calm—placid to a degree—though all the while she was congratulating herself upon the subtlety and depth of her nature in introducing the subject so cleverly.“And why, pray?” he said coldly.“Because you want something else to think about besides cutting off people’s arms and legs. I declare you are quite growing into a dreamy, thoughtful old man. If I were Saxa Lydon I should take you to task finely about your carelessness and neglect. I declare I’ve felt quite ashamed of you.”He looked at her sadly.“I’m afraid I am anything but a model young man, Auntie.”“Indeed you are, sir, and it’s quite time you mended. I don’t know what your father will say to you when he gets better. It is one of his pet projects, you know. Fortunately, Saxa is not like most girls.”“No,” he said aloud, unintentionally. “Saxa is not like most girls.”“Then do, pray, make haste and get your father well and the nurse out of the house.”“Why are you in such a hurry to get the nurse out of the house, Aunt?”“My dear! What a question! I declare, Neil, you revel in sick rooms, and in having nurses near you. This is not a hospital. Of course I want to see the nurse gone, and your father about again.”Neil frowned, and his aunt saw it. She added hastily:“Not that I have a word to say against Nurse Elisia. I’m sure her attention to your poor father deserves all praise.”“God bless her! yes,” said Neil, in a low, grave tone. “She has saved his life.”“Oh, no, my dear; I am not going so far as that,” said Aunt Anne in alarm, so earnest was her nephew’s utterance. “Nurses are not doctors.”“But they often do far more for the patients, Aunt.”“Do they, my dear? Oh, well, I dare say you are right.”“Yes, I am right,” he said dreamily, and he turned and left the room, unaware of the fact that Aunt Anne was watching him intently.“Oh, dear me! Oh, dear me!” she said to herself, “what a tone of voice! He is thinking about her. There is no doubt about it, but he is sorry and repentant. I can read him like a book. Yes; he is sorry. My words brought him back to a sense of duty, and he will be as nice as can be to Saxa in future. I’m sure I could not have spoken better. It is a great advantage—experience, and a good knowledge of human nature. Now that boy—well, he always was the dearest and best of boys, and if he had been my own I couldn’t have thought more of him—that boy knows he has been doing wrong in letting himself be attracted by a pretty face, and my words have thoroughly brought him round. Maria was quite right, and I must talk to Alison too, and—yes, I will; I’ll manage to have a chat with Sir Denton and beg him as a great favour to let me finish nursing my brother. I will not say a word about the nurse. Dear me! what am I thinking about? I quite forgot to tell them we would lunch at half-past two.”Aunt Anne got up and rang the bell.

Aunt Anne would not, she said, listen to Maria’s tattle, but the woman’s words went home.

“I suspected it,” she said to herself, “and go she shall before matters are worse. It is always the way with these quiet, artful women.”

So she took up her pen to write to Sir Denton Hayle, but she did not begin, for it occurred to her that if she did write and ask him to recall the nurse, he would immediately communicate with Neil to ask for an explanation, and whether Nurse Elisia had neglected her duties.

“And that’s the worst of it,” said Aunt Anne to herself, “she never has, but has done wonders for poor Ralph.”

Then it occurred to her also that, though Neil was only her nephew, he was fast rising into the position of an eminent surgeon, and that in such a case as this she would not have dared to interfere if he had been someone else.

“Oh, dear me!” she said pettishly, “it’s very dreadful. Women always were at the bottom of all the mischief in the world. I’ve suspected it; Neil has been so changed, and so has Alison. It seems monstrous, but as sure as I’m a living woman she has managed to attract them both, and it must be stopped or do one knows what mischief will happen. Why, those two might quarrel dreadfully, and then-Oh, dear me, I’m very glad Saxa and Dana are coming. They will be the real cure for the trouble after all.”

She took up her pen again, but only to throw it back on to the silver tray.

“No; I mustn’t write. Stop, I know; I’ll go in and sit with Ralph this afternoon, and quietly work round to the point of the nurse leaving now. Isabel and I could do everything he requires.”

“No,” she cried, with her face full of perplexity, “he would only fly in a passion and abuse me for interfering, and insist upon keeping her twice as long, and if I told him what I thought about Neil and Alison it would enrage him so that he would have some terrible relapse. Oh, dear me! I don’t know what Nature could have been about to make a nurse with a face and a soft, cooing voice like that woman’s. Bless me!” she cried aloud. “Neil, you shouldn’t make me jump like that.”

“Didn’t you hear me come in, Aunt?”

“No, my dear, and I am so nervous. It came on when your father had his accident.”

“Oh, that will soon go off. I’ve just had a message from Sir Denton.”

“To say that we need not keep the nurse any longer, and that he wants her back at the hospital?”

“No, Aunt, dear, in response to a letter of mine written days ago,” said Neil, looking at her curiously.

“What about, then?”

“To say that he is on his way down here to see my father again, and give me his opinion about the progress made.”

“But, Neil, my dear, you should not ask people like that. The Lydon girls are coming, and I cannot ask one of them to give up her room, and I’m sure Sir Denton wouldn’t like mine, looking out toward the stables, though you can’t see them.”

“Don’t trouble yourself, Aunt, dear. He will not stay. He will come down by one train, spend an hour here, and go back to town at once. I want his indorsement of my ideas respecting a change of treatment.”

“Oh, if that is the case, then I need not worry.”

“Not in the least, Aunt. Only see that the lunch is kept back.”

“Of course, my dear. I am relieved. For it would have been awkward with those girls here.”

“They are coming, then?” said Neil absently. “Why, you know they are coming, dear. Really, Neil, I shall be very glad when you are married—and Alison, too, if it comes to that.”

Neil looked at her searchingly, but his aunt’s face was perfectly calm—placid to a degree—though all the while she was congratulating herself upon the subtlety and depth of her nature in introducing the subject so cleverly.

“And why, pray?” he said coldly.

“Because you want something else to think about besides cutting off people’s arms and legs. I declare you are quite growing into a dreamy, thoughtful old man. If I were Saxa Lydon I should take you to task finely about your carelessness and neglect. I declare I’ve felt quite ashamed of you.”

He looked at her sadly.

“I’m afraid I am anything but a model young man, Auntie.”

“Indeed you are, sir, and it’s quite time you mended. I don’t know what your father will say to you when he gets better. It is one of his pet projects, you know. Fortunately, Saxa is not like most girls.”

“No,” he said aloud, unintentionally. “Saxa is not like most girls.”

“Then do, pray, make haste and get your father well and the nurse out of the house.”

“Why are you in such a hurry to get the nurse out of the house, Aunt?”

“My dear! What a question! I declare, Neil, you revel in sick rooms, and in having nurses near you. This is not a hospital. Of course I want to see the nurse gone, and your father about again.”

Neil frowned, and his aunt saw it. She added hastily:

“Not that I have a word to say against Nurse Elisia. I’m sure her attention to your poor father deserves all praise.”

“God bless her! yes,” said Neil, in a low, grave tone. “She has saved his life.”

“Oh, no, my dear; I am not going so far as that,” said Aunt Anne in alarm, so earnest was her nephew’s utterance. “Nurses are not doctors.”

“But they often do far more for the patients, Aunt.”

“Do they, my dear? Oh, well, I dare say you are right.”

“Yes, I am right,” he said dreamily, and he turned and left the room, unaware of the fact that Aunt Anne was watching him intently.

“Oh, dear me! Oh, dear me!” she said to herself, “what a tone of voice! He is thinking about her. There is no doubt about it, but he is sorry and repentant. I can read him like a book. Yes; he is sorry. My words brought him back to a sense of duty, and he will be as nice as can be to Saxa in future. I’m sure I could not have spoken better. It is a great advantage—experience, and a good knowledge of human nature. Now that boy—well, he always was the dearest and best of boys, and if he had been my own I couldn’t have thought more of him—that boy knows he has been doing wrong in letting himself be attracted by a pretty face, and my words have thoroughly brought him round. Maria was quite right, and I must talk to Alison too, and—yes, I will; I’ll manage to have a chat with Sir Denton and beg him as a great favour to let me finish nursing my brother. I will not say a word about the nurse. Dear me! what am I thinking about? I quite forgot to tell them we would lunch at half-past two.”

Aunt Anne got up and rang the bell.

Chapter Fourteen.A Suspicious Patient.There is plenty of food for the student in the dispositions of the sick, and the way they bear their pains.Ralph Elthorne’s was an exceptional case, and his moods were many. The principal feeling with him, in the intervals when he was free from pain, was one of irritation against fate for selecting him to bear all this trouble and discomfort. Illness had been so rare with him that at times he found it hard to realise the fact that he was lying there, utterly helpless and forced to depend upon those about him for everything, the result being that he was about as petulant and restless a patient as could be well imagined. In addition, he grew day by day more and more suspicious, lying and watching every look and act of those about him, ready to distort the most trifling things, and fancy that they were all part and parcel of some deeply laid scheme which was to interfere with his peace of mind and tend to his utter dethronement from the old position he had held so long.On this particular morning he had been lying placidly enough, chatting with his son, while Nurse Elisia was in attendance, till Neil, feeling that the time had now come for his father to be prepared, let drop a few words about Sir Denton’s visit.The change was almost startling. There was a wildly eager, excited look in his eyes, and suspicion in the tone of his voice, as he exclaimed:“Coming down? Sir Denton? For what reason? Quick! Tell me why?”He caught his son’s wrist, and his long thin fingers gripped it firmly as his troubled face, about which the grey hair was growing long since his illness, was turned searchingly to his son.“Don’t take it like that, my dear father,” said Neil, smiling. “It is not the first time we have had him to see you.”“No, no! I know all that; but why, why is he coming?”“I asked him to come down, sir, that is all.”“Ah! you asked him to come down. Why, why was I not told?”“For the reason you are showing,” replied Neil quietly. “I was afraid that if you knew you might agitate yourself, and fill your brain with fancies about your state.”“So would any sick man,” cried Elthorne sharply. “And that is not all. You are keeping a great deal from me in your false wisdom. But you cannot hide it from one who knows intuitively what changes take place in him. I can see and feel it all. I am worse.”“My dear sir, no,” said Neil, smiling.“Don’t contradict me, boy,” cried his father fiercely. “Surely I ought to know from my own sensations. I am far worse, and you have sent for Sir Denton because you have reached the end of your teachings, and feel helpless to do any more.”“You do not give me much credit, father,” said Neil, smiling.“Yes, yes, I do, boy, a great deal,” said the old man excitedly. “Then it has come to this at last.”“My dear father, that is what I feared, or I should have spoken to you sooner. I assure you that you have no cause for alarm.”“Words, words, words,” cried Mr Elthorne piteously. “The case is absolutely hopeless. You know it, and so you have sent for Sir Denton again.”“My dear father,” began Neil, taking his hand. “Be silent sir,” cried the old man fiercely, “and let me speak.”“Then, my dear patient,” said Neil, “I must insist upon your listening to me calmly and patiently;” but Mr Elthorne paid no heed and went on.“I’m not going to blame you, boy, I suppose you have done your best, everything that you have been taught.”Elisia glanced at Neil in spite of herself, and it was a commiserating look, but a feeling of elation ran through her as she saw his calm, patient, pitying look as she quitted the room.“Indeed I have done everything possible, father,” he said quietly.“Yes, yes; all you knew, boy; all you knew.”“And I have been able to do more perhaps than a surgeon who visited you would have achieved, through always being on the spot.”“But your knowledge is limited, of course, boy.”“Yes, I am afraid so,” replied Neil sadly.“I’m not blaming you. Very patient with me, my boy. So has she been. Nurse!” he called. “Nurse!”He turned his head a little so as to look over the back of the couch, for he had not seen that they were alone; and then, as he strained his neck a little to fix his eyes upon the door which communicated with the dressing room, it was painful to see the state of utter helplessness to which the strong man had been reduced. He could move his hands and arms, but the complete want of power elsewhere was so apparent to himself now that he uttered a groan of despair, and looked back imploringly at his son.“What had I done?” he muttered. “What had I done?”“My dear father,” whispered Neil; but the old man turned from him again impatiently.“Nurse,” he cried, “nurse!” and he beat, with a stick that was ready to his hand, impatiently upon the floor.“I will go for her,” said Neil eagerly; but there was no need. Nurse Elisia had faithfully devoted herself to the service of her patient; his call had been heard, and she came in quickly and silently, to glide toward the couch, her eyes the while scanning the sufferer questioningly, as if asking what had occurred to cause the summons.“There is nothing wrong, nurse,” Neil felt moved to say, as he saw the questioning look.“What?” cried Mr Elthorne, turning his eyes fiercely upon his son. “There is, nurse, and that is why I summoned you. Look here, Neil; my body may be half dead, but my head is clear. I am not imbecile yet, and I will not be treated like a child. It is hard, very hard, that even one’s own son sinks his relationship in the professional man, and forgets that he is dealing with his father, who has become to him only a patient.”“My dear father!” cried Neil, smiling, “are you not a little hard on me?”“No, no!” cried the old man irritably. “You are deceiving me, for my good as you call it, and as you owned a little while back.”“Indeed, no,” said Neil quietly. “I only owned to keeping back the fact that Sir Denton was coming down till the morning of his visit, so as to save you from brooding over it and getting anxious.”“Well, what is that but deceiving me as I say, and treating me as a child?”“Surely not, my dear father.”“I say it is, and it is cruel. I want to trust you, but you all, even to Isabel, join in cheating me, for my good as you are pleased to call it.”Neil glanced at the nurse, who met his eyes, but, quick as lightning the sick man raised his hand, half menacingly, at his son.“Hah!” he cried, “don’t try to corrupt her, and induce her to join your conspiracy; I can read your looks—‘Don’t contradict him.’ She is honest; I can trust her. You will tell me the simple truth, nurse, will you not?” he said, holding one hand over the back of the couch toward her.She stepped nearer, and took the extended hand. “Indeed, I will, sir,” she said gently; and then, with a smile, “unless, sir, I were forbidden.”“What?” he cried, withdrawing his hand.“There might be a crisis in your illness when your medical adviser felt it was absolutely necessary, for your own sake, to keep back something of your state.”“Hah!” he cried bitterly, “all alike—all alike. I thought I could trust you.”“You can trust me, sir, to be your faithful servant, who is striving to help your recovery.”He looked at her with the lines about the corners of his eyes very deep, but her frank, ingenuous look disarmed him, his face softened, and he said gently: “Yes, I can trust you, nurse. God bless you for a good, patient soul. And now, tell me—there cannot be such a crisis as that of which you speak—surely I should feel something of it if impending—”He did not finish his sentence but looked piteously up at the nurse, whose smile of encouragement chased his dark thoughts away again, and he once more raised his hand.“Yes,” he said gently. “You will tell me the truth. Sir Denton is coming down—to see me—to-day. It means that, though I do not suffer more, I am much worse?”“Indeed, no, sir; and you are agitating yourself without cause.”“Agitating myself without cause,” he muttered softly as he glanced at his son, and then quickly back at the candid face bent over him, while Neil’s heart beat more heavily, and there was a dreamy sensation of intense joy at his heart as he saw how full of faith and trust his father seemed.“You are steadily getting better, sir,” continued Elisia, and her soft, low voice was full of a tender sympathy for the broken man who clung to her hand.“Is that the truth?” he said, very slowly and impressively. “Don’t you deceive me, it would be too cruel. You will tell me all?”She bent down over him a little lower so that he could gaze full in her clear, frank eyes, and there was a curious sense of swelling in Neil’s breast, and a jealous pang of despair as he clutched the arm of the chair tightly and thought of Alison, while the silence in the room seemed to be prolonged.It was Ralph Elthorne who broke that silence, and Neil started back to the present, for his imagination had been going rapidly astray.“Yes,” he said quietly; “it is the truth.”He paused again for a few moments.“You need not tell me,” he continued, “but, answer this: and I shall quite recover—the use—of my limbs—and get about—again—as before?”Nurse Elisia did not remove her eyes from those which gazed into hers with such fierce question; but her own grew cloudy and seemed to darken with sadness and pity for the suffering man.“Answer me,” he said imperiously.She turned quickly to Neil.“No,” cried Mr Elthorne; “don’t ask him what you are to say. Speak out—the truth.”She bent lower over him with her eyes brimming over now, a couple of drops falling upon the invalid’s breast as he clung spasmodically to her hand.“You cannot lie,” he said hoarsely. “The truth—the truth?”Again there was a painful silence, and Neil clasped his hands together as his arms rested upon his knees, and he closed his eyes and let his head sink down, listening intently for the sentence which Nurse Elisia had been called upon to deliver. And at last she spoke, her low, soft voice thrilling father and son: “God has spared your life,” she almost whispered, but every word was painfully audible, “and you retain the greatest gift to man—the full possession of your mental powers.”“Yes, yes,” he whispered. “Go on—go on.”“You will soon, now, be sufficiently strong to be out and about once more, but—”“Go on,” he panted—“go on.”“Forgive me, dear Mr Elthorne, for saying it. You force it from me.”“Yes, yes; go on,” he panted—“the truth—the truth. I shall be out and about, but—”“Never again as of old,” she continued; and low as her words were, they rang out to the ears of the listeners; “never again as of old.”As she uttered this last word of what was almost as painful as a death sentence to such a man as Ralph Elthorne, a sob seemed to be torn from his breast, and Neil sprang up as if expectant of some fresh seizure. But his father made a sign which arrested him, and lay back gazing straight before him till many moments had elapsed. Then his lips parted, and they heard him say in a whisper:“A helpless cripple—I? Yes, it is the truth—the truth.”

There is plenty of food for the student in the dispositions of the sick, and the way they bear their pains.

Ralph Elthorne’s was an exceptional case, and his moods were many. The principal feeling with him, in the intervals when he was free from pain, was one of irritation against fate for selecting him to bear all this trouble and discomfort. Illness had been so rare with him that at times he found it hard to realise the fact that he was lying there, utterly helpless and forced to depend upon those about him for everything, the result being that he was about as petulant and restless a patient as could be well imagined. In addition, he grew day by day more and more suspicious, lying and watching every look and act of those about him, ready to distort the most trifling things, and fancy that they were all part and parcel of some deeply laid scheme which was to interfere with his peace of mind and tend to his utter dethronement from the old position he had held so long.

On this particular morning he had been lying placidly enough, chatting with his son, while Nurse Elisia was in attendance, till Neil, feeling that the time had now come for his father to be prepared, let drop a few words about Sir Denton’s visit.

The change was almost startling. There was a wildly eager, excited look in his eyes, and suspicion in the tone of his voice, as he exclaimed:

“Coming down? Sir Denton? For what reason? Quick! Tell me why?”

He caught his son’s wrist, and his long thin fingers gripped it firmly as his troubled face, about which the grey hair was growing long since his illness, was turned searchingly to his son.

“Don’t take it like that, my dear father,” said Neil, smiling. “It is not the first time we have had him to see you.”

“No, no! I know all that; but why, why is he coming?”

“I asked him to come down, sir, that is all.”

“Ah! you asked him to come down. Why, why was I not told?”

“For the reason you are showing,” replied Neil quietly. “I was afraid that if you knew you might agitate yourself, and fill your brain with fancies about your state.”

“So would any sick man,” cried Elthorne sharply. “And that is not all. You are keeping a great deal from me in your false wisdom. But you cannot hide it from one who knows intuitively what changes take place in him. I can see and feel it all. I am worse.”

“My dear sir, no,” said Neil, smiling.

“Don’t contradict me, boy,” cried his father fiercely. “Surely I ought to know from my own sensations. I am far worse, and you have sent for Sir Denton because you have reached the end of your teachings, and feel helpless to do any more.”

“You do not give me much credit, father,” said Neil, smiling.

“Yes, yes, I do, boy, a great deal,” said the old man excitedly. “Then it has come to this at last.”

“My dear father, that is what I feared, or I should have spoken to you sooner. I assure you that you have no cause for alarm.”

“Words, words, words,” cried Mr Elthorne piteously. “The case is absolutely hopeless. You know it, and so you have sent for Sir Denton again.”

“My dear father,” began Neil, taking his hand. “Be silent sir,” cried the old man fiercely, “and let me speak.”

“Then, my dear patient,” said Neil, “I must insist upon your listening to me calmly and patiently;” but Mr Elthorne paid no heed and went on.

“I’m not going to blame you, boy, I suppose you have done your best, everything that you have been taught.”

Elisia glanced at Neil in spite of herself, and it was a commiserating look, but a feeling of elation ran through her as she saw his calm, patient, pitying look as she quitted the room.

“Indeed I have done everything possible, father,” he said quietly.

“Yes, yes; all you knew, boy; all you knew.”

“And I have been able to do more perhaps than a surgeon who visited you would have achieved, through always being on the spot.”

“But your knowledge is limited, of course, boy.”

“Yes, I am afraid so,” replied Neil sadly.

“I’m not blaming you. Very patient with me, my boy. So has she been. Nurse!” he called. “Nurse!”

He turned his head a little so as to look over the back of the couch, for he had not seen that they were alone; and then, as he strained his neck a little to fix his eyes upon the door which communicated with the dressing room, it was painful to see the state of utter helplessness to which the strong man had been reduced. He could move his hands and arms, but the complete want of power elsewhere was so apparent to himself now that he uttered a groan of despair, and looked back imploringly at his son.

“What had I done?” he muttered. “What had I done?”

“My dear father,” whispered Neil; but the old man turned from him again impatiently.

“Nurse,” he cried, “nurse!” and he beat, with a stick that was ready to his hand, impatiently upon the floor.

“I will go for her,” said Neil eagerly; but there was no need. Nurse Elisia had faithfully devoted herself to the service of her patient; his call had been heard, and she came in quickly and silently, to glide toward the couch, her eyes the while scanning the sufferer questioningly, as if asking what had occurred to cause the summons.

“There is nothing wrong, nurse,” Neil felt moved to say, as he saw the questioning look.

“What?” cried Mr Elthorne, turning his eyes fiercely upon his son. “There is, nurse, and that is why I summoned you. Look here, Neil; my body may be half dead, but my head is clear. I am not imbecile yet, and I will not be treated like a child. It is hard, very hard, that even one’s own son sinks his relationship in the professional man, and forgets that he is dealing with his father, who has become to him only a patient.”

“My dear father!” cried Neil, smiling, “are you not a little hard on me?”

“No, no!” cried the old man irritably. “You are deceiving me, for my good as you call it, and as you owned a little while back.”

“Indeed, no,” said Neil quietly. “I only owned to keeping back the fact that Sir Denton was coming down till the morning of his visit, so as to save you from brooding over it and getting anxious.”

“Well, what is that but deceiving me as I say, and treating me as a child?”

“Surely not, my dear father.”

“I say it is, and it is cruel. I want to trust you, but you all, even to Isabel, join in cheating me, for my good as you are pleased to call it.”

Neil glanced at the nurse, who met his eyes, but, quick as lightning the sick man raised his hand, half menacingly, at his son.

“Hah!” he cried, “don’t try to corrupt her, and induce her to join your conspiracy; I can read your looks—‘Don’t contradict him.’ She is honest; I can trust her. You will tell me the simple truth, nurse, will you not?” he said, holding one hand over the back of the couch toward her.

She stepped nearer, and took the extended hand. “Indeed, I will, sir,” she said gently; and then, with a smile, “unless, sir, I were forbidden.”

“What?” he cried, withdrawing his hand.

“There might be a crisis in your illness when your medical adviser felt it was absolutely necessary, for your own sake, to keep back something of your state.”

“Hah!” he cried bitterly, “all alike—all alike. I thought I could trust you.”

“You can trust me, sir, to be your faithful servant, who is striving to help your recovery.”

He looked at her with the lines about the corners of his eyes very deep, but her frank, ingenuous look disarmed him, his face softened, and he said gently: “Yes, I can trust you, nurse. God bless you for a good, patient soul. And now, tell me—there cannot be such a crisis as that of which you speak—surely I should feel something of it if impending—”

He did not finish his sentence but looked piteously up at the nurse, whose smile of encouragement chased his dark thoughts away again, and he once more raised his hand.

“Yes,” he said gently. “You will tell me the truth. Sir Denton is coming down—to see me—to-day. It means that, though I do not suffer more, I am much worse?”

“Indeed, no, sir; and you are agitating yourself without cause.”

“Agitating myself without cause,” he muttered softly as he glanced at his son, and then quickly back at the candid face bent over him, while Neil’s heart beat more heavily, and there was a dreamy sensation of intense joy at his heart as he saw how full of faith and trust his father seemed.

“You are steadily getting better, sir,” continued Elisia, and her soft, low voice was full of a tender sympathy for the broken man who clung to her hand.

“Is that the truth?” he said, very slowly and impressively. “Don’t you deceive me, it would be too cruel. You will tell me all?”

She bent down over him a little lower so that he could gaze full in her clear, frank eyes, and there was a curious sense of swelling in Neil’s breast, and a jealous pang of despair as he clutched the arm of the chair tightly and thought of Alison, while the silence in the room seemed to be prolonged.

It was Ralph Elthorne who broke that silence, and Neil started back to the present, for his imagination had been going rapidly astray.

“Yes,” he said quietly; “it is the truth.”

He paused again for a few moments.

“You need not tell me,” he continued, “but, answer this: and I shall quite recover—the use—of my limbs—and get about—again—as before?”

Nurse Elisia did not remove her eyes from those which gazed into hers with such fierce question; but her own grew cloudy and seemed to darken with sadness and pity for the suffering man.

“Answer me,” he said imperiously.

She turned quickly to Neil.

“No,” cried Mr Elthorne; “don’t ask him what you are to say. Speak out—the truth.”

She bent lower over him with her eyes brimming over now, a couple of drops falling upon the invalid’s breast as he clung spasmodically to her hand.

“You cannot lie,” he said hoarsely. “The truth—the truth?”

Again there was a painful silence, and Neil clasped his hands together as his arms rested upon his knees, and he closed his eyes and let his head sink down, listening intently for the sentence which Nurse Elisia had been called upon to deliver. And at last she spoke, her low, soft voice thrilling father and son: “God has spared your life,” she almost whispered, but every word was painfully audible, “and you retain the greatest gift to man—the full possession of your mental powers.”

“Yes, yes,” he whispered. “Go on—go on.”

“You will soon, now, be sufficiently strong to be out and about once more, but—”

“Go on,” he panted—“go on.”

“Forgive me, dear Mr Elthorne, for saying it. You force it from me.”

“Yes, yes; go on,” he panted—“the truth—the truth. I shall be out and about, but—”

“Never again as of old,” she continued; and low as her words were, they rang out to the ears of the listeners; “never again as of old.”

As she uttered this last word of what was almost as painful as a death sentence to such a man as Ralph Elthorne, a sob seemed to be torn from his breast, and Neil sprang up as if expectant of some fresh seizure. But his father made a sign which arrested him, and lay back gazing straight before him till many moments had elapsed. Then his lips parted, and they heard him say in a whisper:

“A helpless cripple—I? Yes, it is the truth—the truth.”

Chapter Fifteen.A Tempting Offer.“Never again as of old.”The words seemed to quiver in the silence of the sick chamber as Nurse Elisia uttered what, to the sufferer, sounded like a sentence, the more terrible as coming from one so grave, calm, and unimpassioned as the beautiful woman who stood before him; and as he lay, gazing wildly at the speaker, Neil saw his father’s eyelids tremble and then slowly drop over the dilated eyes, while his worn, thin, wrinkled face was contracted. But he opened his eyes again, and clung tightly to the nurse’s hand.“Yes,” he said firmly, “that is the truth. Thank you, nurse, thank you. God bless you for what you have done for a poor helpless cripple.”He drew her down toward him as he spoke till he could kiss her brow, and then, as she rose, he released her hand.“Thank you,” he said quietly; “thank you. Yes, that is the truth. But I shall be out again, Neil, weak in body, but not imbecile. I shall still be the Squire, boy. I am the Squire. Now, tell me: why is Sir Denton coming down?”“Simply for me to ask his opinion, father,” said Neil, seating himself again, and resisting the temptation to offer the nurse a chair. But before he could continue it seemed as if his thoughts had been communicated to the patient, who turned toward her.“Sit down, nurse,” he said. “I am wearing you out with attending on me.”“Indeed no, Mr Elthorne—” she began.“Sit down,” he cried imperiously, and she quietly obeyed.“Now go on, Neil.”“Of course I have studied your case very hard,” said the son, “and I have certain ideas that I should like to test. I believe they would strengthen you, but I will not do anything without getting my opinions endorsed by a man of greater experience.”“Humph! That’s sensible; eh, nurse?”She bowed gravely.“So I wrote to Sir Denton at length, telling him what I had arrived at, and asking him to come down the first free day he had, or, I should say, the first time he had a few hours, to see you, and give me his advice.”“Is that all?” said Mr Elthorne sharply.“Everything, father.”“Humph! Well, that’s right, my boy, quite right. Don’t experiment upon me,” he said, with a painful laugh. “After fighting through all this I can’t afford to go backward. Keep the experiment for some poor hospital patient.”The words jarred on Neil, and he glanced quickly at the nurse, to see that there was a pained look in her eyes, but it passed off as she saw that she was observed.“Well, when do you expect him?” said Mr Elthorne.“Almost directly, sir.”“And why was I not told?”“For fear of agitating you, and setting you brooding over it. Besides, I was not sure when he would come down.”“Humph! Well, don’t treat me as if I were a child, boy. I can think if I can’t walk. And I must be got out now. Has that chair come down?”“Yes.”“That’s right. I’ll be carried down on Friday when my girls come. If they call before then they are to be brought up. No, no; I know what you are going to say—that they will talk too much. It will do me good to hear Saxa’s chatter and Dana’s prattle. When did you see them last?”In spite of himself Neil glanced at the nurse as he answered:“I hardly know. On Sunday, I think.”“You hardly know! On Sunday, you think! My dear boy, what a dreamer you have become! Lucky for you that Saxa is what she is.”It was hard work for Neil to keep his eyes averted from the nurse. “What will she think?” he said to himself.The sound of wheels on the drive put an end to the conversation, Neil hurrying out to welcome the great surgeon, who declined all refreshment until after he had heard full particulars of the progress of the case and seen the patient.“I could not have done differently,” said Sir Denton at last. “You found Nurse Elisia invaluable, of course?”“Invaluable.”“Then now let us go up and see him.”Neil led the way to where Ralph Elthorne lay helpless, but with his eyes gazing keenly at him as they entered.“Ah, good-morning, Mr Elthorne,” cried Sir Denton cheerily. “Good-morning, nurse. Now, sir, you know why I have come?”“Yes, my son has told me,” replied the injured man, watching his visitor’s expression. “Well? Am I worse?”“No, sir; much better. There is no doubt of that. There is a vigour in your manner and speech that is most satisfactory.”“But I am always to be a helpless cripple?” said Elthorne bitterly.Sir Denton did not reply for a few moments, but sat gazing in the patient’s eyes.“You wish me to answer that question?” he said at last.“Of course.”“Then I will. I can answer a man of your strength of intellect, Mr Elthorne. Yes, sir. No surgical skill could restore you.”He stopped short and watched the patient intently. “That’s well,” he went on. “You bear the announcement manfully. Quite right, for your life has been saved, Mr Elthorne; and with the palliatives that mechanical skill can supply you with, you ought to and can enjoy many years of useful life. Your son has thoroughly explained to me his intentions regarding your future treatment, and I fully endorse his ideas. They will benefit you, but do not expect too much.”“Condemned to a life of helplessness!” muttered Elthorne in a low voice.“No, sir, you have your brain intact,” said Sir Denton. “Thank God for that.”“Yes,” said Elthorne, gripping the surgeon’s hand, “thank God for that. I will not repine, Sir Denton, for I can think, and will, and be obeyed. Do you hear, Neil? and be obeyed. The head is right.”“Yes, and the heart, Mr Elthorne. So no despair, sir. Meet your trouble like a man. You can be a successful general yet in the battle of life.”“Thank you, sir.”“My dear Mr Elthorne, I wish I could hold out hopes of an ultimate recovery of the use of your limbs, but, with a man like you, a frank, open statement is best. You know the worst, and you can get over the difficulties. I can say no more, unless I deliver a eulogy upon your son’s skill.”“Don’t do that,” said the invalid grimly; “he is conceited enough already.”“Then I will leave you now and ask for a little refreshment. I have had nothing but a cup of tea since my dinner last evening.”He rose, shook hands, and then turned to Nurse Elisia.“I miss you sadly, nurse, but I suppose you cannot be spared for the present.”“Spared?” cried Elthorne quickly. “No, no; certainly not.”“But I want her in my ward, Mr Elthorne,” said Sir Denton, smiling.“Yes, after a time. But not yet. I am so helpless at present.”“Well, well, we shall see,” said Sir Denton pleasantly. “It is mutually satisfactory. Nurse was suffering from our close London hospital air, and overworked. The change here has worked wonders. Good-bye, Mr Elthorne. I congratulate you upon the skill your son has shown.”He shook hands, and left patient and nurse together, descending with Neil to the drawing room, where Isabel, Alison, and Aunt Anne were waiting to hear his report.“Oh, I am glad,” cried Aunt Anne, wiping her eyes; and then: “You think he can do without the nurse now?”Alison gave her a furious look, which did not escape Neil.“Eh? Do without the nurse?” cried Sir Denton. “I did not say so. No, my dear madam, her attention is more necessary than ever, I am sorry to say.”Aunt Anne’s plump countenance bespoke her disappointment.“You are sorry to say?” she said.“Yes, my dear madam, for I want her back in town.”Lunch was at an end, and the carriage at the door. Sir Denton shook hands and went out into the hall with Neil, took up his hat, set it down again, looked at his watch, and replaced it.“About half an hour to spare, eh, Elthorne?”“Yes, quite.”“Take me down the garden, then, where I can see flowers growing. God bless them! I wish I were a gardener. I want to speak to you.”Neil led the way down a sunny walk, beneath an ancient red brick wall, the old surgeon looking sharply about him till they reached a sundial standing upon a moss-eaten stone. Here he paused and rested his elbow on the copper disk, like a modern figure of Time.“Neil Elthorne,” he said, “I like you.”Neil smiled.“The feeling is mutual, Sir Denton.”“I know it, my dear boy. You are my favourite pupil, and I want to see you rise. Now, do not be startled. I have been requested to select an able man who promises to be eminent to send out to Black Port.”“On the west coast of Africa?”“Yes. To establish a hospital there—a cosmopolitan hospital in which government is interested. It is a terrible place, but a medical man knows how to take care of himself. He would have to engage for five years; the pay is very high; and he would have to devote himself to his task, above all in trying to ameliorate—cure if he can, and I believe it possible—the local disease, which is increasing fast. I do not conceal from you that there will be risks; but the man who goes out there for a few years and works, will come back to be loaded with honours, and take a very high position in his profession. A knighthood will probably follow. If I were a young man I would go, but I must content myself at my age with my ward in London. Now, then, there is plenty of time for consideration, but I should like to go back with some idea. I have not spoken yet to a soul, and I need not tell you that it would be a wrench to part with you; but it is your opportunity, and, as I have your future success at heart, I want to see you rise. Will you go?”“I, Sir Denton? It is the opening for a physician.”“As much for a surgeon, my dear boy. He must be both. You are as good a surgeon as I am.”“Oh, Sir Denton!”“You need not exclaim. I am not blind. I have had vast experience, but I am getting old and weaker. You have all that my experience has taught you, and, in addition, youth and a thoughtful, originating brain. I tell you frankly, because you are not a weak fool who would be puffed up: long before you are my age you will stand far higher than I do. I don’t want to send you out there because I am jealous of you,” he added laughingly.“But I should not be equal to the task from the medical point of view.”“Nonsense, my lad! If I wanted medical help, I would far rather come to you for it than to any man in our hospital. Now, don’t decide rashly; take time to think it over. You would not have to go for two or three months. There, I need say no more save repeating this: it is a terrible place from a health point of view, but the man who goes will be able to do something to lessen the risks, and government will help him in his movements for sanitation. Now, I must be off. Pick me a few flowers. Aha! That is charming,” he cried, as he saw Isabel waiting with a bunch she had hastily cut in one of the houses. “Thank you, my dear child. Those shall stand in water in my room in memory of a delightful visit. I envy you your life in this charming old place. Good-bye.”He shook hands with Isabel again, and walked back to the carriage with Neil, who looked very thoughtful.“You can write and ask any questions,” said Sir Denton, “and in a week you will give me your decision.”“I will give it you now, Sir Denton,” said Neil gravely. “It is no.”“Are you sure?”“Quite.”“You will not alter your mind?”“No; I shall stay in England—with you.”“I am very sorry, Neil Elthorne, for some things—very glad for others. The first is for you—the latter for myself. Good-bye. Tell him to go fast.” The horses sprang off, and Neil stood thinking in the carriage drive.“A lady in the case,” said Sir Denton. “Well! it is human nature, and I am not sorry—for both their sakes. He loves her, and some day he will come and tell me.”At that moment Neil turned to re-enter the house, and his eyes lighted upon Nurse Elisia at the first-floor window watching the departing carriage. Their eyes met, and she drew back.Neil sighed, and then felt a spasm of pain shoot through him, for he saw that his brother was close at hand, and that he must have seen the direction of his eyes, for there was a frown upon his brow which was there still as he said roughly:“The old man’s gone, then. I suppose he’ll charge a pretty penny for coming down all this way?”Neil looked at him in surprise for the moment, but directly after he felt that his brother had merely spoken to conceal his thoughts, and he was thinking this as he replied:“Charge? No. I shall give him a check for the railway fare. He would look upon it as an insult if I offered him a fee.”

“Never again as of old.”

The words seemed to quiver in the silence of the sick chamber as Nurse Elisia uttered what, to the sufferer, sounded like a sentence, the more terrible as coming from one so grave, calm, and unimpassioned as the beautiful woman who stood before him; and as he lay, gazing wildly at the speaker, Neil saw his father’s eyelids tremble and then slowly drop over the dilated eyes, while his worn, thin, wrinkled face was contracted. But he opened his eyes again, and clung tightly to the nurse’s hand.

“Yes,” he said firmly, “that is the truth. Thank you, nurse, thank you. God bless you for what you have done for a poor helpless cripple.”

He drew her down toward him as he spoke till he could kiss her brow, and then, as she rose, he released her hand.

“Thank you,” he said quietly; “thank you. Yes, that is the truth. But I shall be out again, Neil, weak in body, but not imbecile. I shall still be the Squire, boy. I am the Squire. Now, tell me: why is Sir Denton coming down?”

“Simply for me to ask his opinion, father,” said Neil, seating himself again, and resisting the temptation to offer the nurse a chair. But before he could continue it seemed as if his thoughts had been communicated to the patient, who turned toward her.

“Sit down, nurse,” he said. “I am wearing you out with attending on me.”

“Indeed no, Mr Elthorne—” she began.

“Sit down,” he cried imperiously, and she quietly obeyed.

“Now go on, Neil.”

“Of course I have studied your case very hard,” said the son, “and I have certain ideas that I should like to test. I believe they would strengthen you, but I will not do anything without getting my opinions endorsed by a man of greater experience.”

“Humph! That’s sensible; eh, nurse?”

She bowed gravely.

“So I wrote to Sir Denton at length, telling him what I had arrived at, and asking him to come down the first free day he had, or, I should say, the first time he had a few hours, to see you, and give me his advice.”

“Is that all?” said Mr Elthorne sharply.

“Everything, father.”

“Humph! Well, that’s right, my boy, quite right. Don’t experiment upon me,” he said, with a painful laugh. “After fighting through all this I can’t afford to go backward. Keep the experiment for some poor hospital patient.”

The words jarred on Neil, and he glanced quickly at the nurse, to see that there was a pained look in her eyes, but it passed off as she saw that she was observed.

“Well, when do you expect him?” said Mr Elthorne.

“Almost directly, sir.”

“And why was I not told?”

“For fear of agitating you, and setting you brooding over it. Besides, I was not sure when he would come down.”

“Humph! Well, don’t treat me as if I were a child, boy. I can think if I can’t walk. And I must be got out now. Has that chair come down?”

“Yes.”

“That’s right. I’ll be carried down on Friday when my girls come. If they call before then they are to be brought up. No, no; I know what you are going to say—that they will talk too much. It will do me good to hear Saxa’s chatter and Dana’s prattle. When did you see them last?”

In spite of himself Neil glanced at the nurse as he answered:

“I hardly know. On Sunday, I think.”

“You hardly know! On Sunday, you think! My dear boy, what a dreamer you have become! Lucky for you that Saxa is what she is.”

It was hard work for Neil to keep his eyes averted from the nurse. “What will she think?” he said to himself.

The sound of wheels on the drive put an end to the conversation, Neil hurrying out to welcome the great surgeon, who declined all refreshment until after he had heard full particulars of the progress of the case and seen the patient.

“I could not have done differently,” said Sir Denton at last. “You found Nurse Elisia invaluable, of course?”

“Invaluable.”

“Then now let us go up and see him.”

Neil led the way to where Ralph Elthorne lay helpless, but with his eyes gazing keenly at him as they entered.

“Ah, good-morning, Mr Elthorne,” cried Sir Denton cheerily. “Good-morning, nurse. Now, sir, you know why I have come?”

“Yes, my son has told me,” replied the injured man, watching his visitor’s expression. “Well? Am I worse?”

“No, sir; much better. There is no doubt of that. There is a vigour in your manner and speech that is most satisfactory.”

“But I am always to be a helpless cripple?” said Elthorne bitterly.

Sir Denton did not reply for a few moments, but sat gazing in the patient’s eyes.

“You wish me to answer that question?” he said at last.

“Of course.”

“Then I will. I can answer a man of your strength of intellect, Mr Elthorne. Yes, sir. No surgical skill could restore you.”

He stopped short and watched the patient intently. “That’s well,” he went on. “You bear the announcement manfully. Quite right, for your life has been saved, Mr Elthorne; and with the palliatives that mechanical skill can supply you with, you ought to and can enjoy many years of useful life. Your son has thoroughly explained to me his intentions regarding your future treatment, and I fully endorse his ideas. They will benefit you, but do not expect too much.”

“Condemned to a life of helplessness!” muttered Elthorne in a low voice.

“No, sir, you have your brain intact,” said Sir Denton. “Thank God for that.”

“Yes,” said Elthorne, gripping the surgeon’s hand, “thank God for that. I will not repine, Sir Denton, for I can think, and will, and be obeyed. Do you hear, Neil? and be obeyed. The head is right.”

“Yes, and the heart, Mr Elthorne. So no despair, sir. Meet your trouble like a man. You can be a successful general yet in the battle of life.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“My dear Mr Elthorne, I wish I could hold out hopes of an ultimate recovery of the use of your limbs, but, with a man like you, a frank, open statement is best. You know the worst, and you can get over the difficulties. I can say no more, unless I deliver a eulogy upon your son’s skill.”

“Don’t do that,” said the invalid grimly; “he is conceited enough already.”

“Then I will leave you now and ask for a little refreshment. I have had nothing but a cup of tea since my dinner last evening.”

He rose, shook hands, and then turned to Nurse Elisia.

“I miss you sadly, nurse, but I suppose you cannot be spared for the present.”

“Spared?” cried Elthorne quickly. “No, no; certainly not.”

“But I want her in my ward, Mr Elthorne,” said Sir Denton, smiling.

“Yes, after a time. But not yet. I am so helpless at present.”

“Well, well, we shall see,” said Sir Denton pleasantly. “It is mutually satisfactory. Nurse was suffering from our close London hospital air, and overworked. The change here has worked wonders. Good-bye, Mr Elthorne. I congratulate you upon the skill your son has shown.”

He shook hands, and left patient and nurse together, descending with Neil to the drawing room, where Isabel, Alison, and Aunt Anne were waiting to hear his report.

“Oh, I am glad,” cried Aunt Anne, wiping her eyes; and then: “You think he can do without the nurse now?”

Alison gave her a furious look, which did not escape Neil.

“Eh? Do without the nurse?” cried Sir Denton. “I did not say so. No, my dear madam, her attention is more necessary than ever, I am sorry to say.”

Aunt Anne’s plump countenance bespoke her disappointment.

“You are sorry to say?” she said.

“Yes, my dear madam, for I want her back in town.”

Lunch was at an end, and the carriage at the door. Sir Denton shook hands and went out into the hall with Neil, took up his hat, set it down again, looked at his watch, and replaced it.

“About half an hour to spare, eh, Elthorne?”

“Yes, quite.”

“Take me down the garden, then, where I can see flowers growing. God bless them! I wish I were a gardener. I want to speak to you.”

Neil led the way down a sunny walk, beneath an ancient red brick wall, the old surgeon looking sharply about him till they reached a sundial standing upon a moss-eaten stone. Here he paused and rested his elbow on the copper disk, like a modern figure of Time.

“Neil Elthorne,” he said, “I like you.”

Neil smiled.

“The feeling is mutual, Sir Denton.”

“I know it, my dear boy. You are my favourite pupil, and I want to see you rise. Now, do not be startled. I have been requested to select an able man who promises to be eminent to send out to Black Port.”

“On the west coast of Africa?”

“Yes. To establish a hospital there—a cosmopolitan hospital in which government is interested. It is a terrible place, but a medical man knows how to take care of himself. He would have to engage for five years; the pay is very high; and he would have to devote himself to his task, above all in trying to ameliorate—cure if he can, and I believe it possible—the local disease, which is increasing fast. I do not conceal from you that there will be risks; but the man who goes out there for a few years and works, will come back to be loaded with honours, and take a very high position in his profession. A knighthood will probably follow. If I were a young man I would go, but I must content myself at my age with my ward in London. Now, then, there is plenty of time for consideration, but I should like to go back with some idea. I have not spoken yet to a soul, and I need not tell you that it would be a wrench to part with you; but it is your opportunity, and, as I have your future success at heart, I want to see you rise. Will you go?”

“I, Sir Denton? It is the opening for a physician.”

“As much for a surgeon, my dear boy. He must be both. You are as good a surgeon as I am.”

“Oh, Sir Denton!”

“You need not exclaim. I am not blind. I have had vast experience, but I am getting old and weaker. You have all that my experience has taught you, and, in addition, youth and a thoughtful, originating brain. I tell you frankly, because you are not a weak fool who would be puffed up: long before you are my age you will stand far higher than I do. I don’t want to send you out there because I am jealous of you,” he added laughingly.

“But I should not be equal to the task from the medical point of view.”

“Nonsense, my lad! If I wanted medical help, I would far rather come to you for it than to any man in our hospital. Now, don’t decide rashly; take time to think it over. You would not have to go for two or three months. There, I need say no more save repeating this: it is a terrible place from a health point of view, but the man who goes will be able to do something to lessen the risks, and government will help him in his movements for sanitation. Now, I must be off. Pick me a few flowers. Aha! That is charming,” he cried, as he saw Isabel waiting with a bunch she had hastily cut in one of the houses. “Thank you, my dear child. Those shall stand in water in my room in memory of a delightful visit. I envy you your life in this charming old place. Good-bye.”

He shook hands with Isabel again, and walked back to the carriage with Neil, who looked very thoughtful.

“You can write and ask any questions,” said Sir Denton, “and in a week you will give me your decision.”

“I will give it you now, Sir Denton,” said Neil gravely. “It is no.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite.”

“You will not alter your mind?”

“No; I shall stay in England—with you.”

“I am very sorry, Neil Elthorne, for some things—very glad for others. The first is for you—the latter for myself. Good-bye. Tell him to go fast.” The horses sprang off, and Neil stood thinking in the carriage drive.

“A lady in the case,” said Sir Denton. “Well! it is human nature, and I am not sorry—for both their sakes. He loves her, and some day he will come and tell me.”

At that moment Neil turned to re-enter the house, and his eyes lighted upon Nurse Elisia at the first-floor window watching the departing carriage. Their eyes met, and she drew back.

Neil sighed, and then felt a spasm of pain shoot through him, for he saw that his brother was close at hand, and that he must have seen the direction of his eyes, for there was a frown upon his brow which was there still as he said roughly:

“The old man’s gone, then. I suppose he’ll charge a pretty penny for coming down all this way?”

Neil looked at him in surprise for the moment, but directly after he felt that his brother had merely spoken to conceal his thoughts, and he was thinking this as he replied:

“Charge? No. I shall give him a check for the railway fare. He would look upon it as an insult if I offered him a fee.”

Chapter Sixteen.How Elisia became a Nurse.The bedroom was bright with flowers and the many touches given by a thoughtful woman’s hand, to which was due the sweet fragrance in the air.“But you are better to-day, sir?”“No, nurse, no. Perhaps better in body, but not in spirit. You cannot understand it. I seem to be a prisoner chained down. My body is here, and my mind is everywhere about the place with my old projects.”“Shall I read to you, sir?”“Read? Yes; I like to hear you read. You are a strange nurse, to be able to read with so much feeling. Get a book. Something good.”“What would you like to-day?”“Anything. Who’s that? Go and see. So tiresome, disturbing me like this.”Nurse Elisia went to answer the light tap at the door, and as she opened it Aunt Anne appeared, and was sweeping by her, when her brother cried, “Stop!”“But I have some business to transact with you, Ralph,” said the lady pleadingly.“I cannot help it. Go away now. I cannot be disturbed.”“Oh, very well, Ralph. I will come up again,” said Aunt Anne in an ill-used tone.“Wait till I send for you,” said her brother sourly.“It’s all that woman’s doing,” said Aunt Anne to herself, as she swept down the corridor. “Oh, if I could find some means of sending her away.”“It seems as if it were my fate to make enemies here,” said Nurse Elisia to herself, as she stood waiting with a book in her hand. “It is time I left, and yet life seems to have been growing sweeter in this quiet country home.”Her eyes were directed toward the window, by which a little bookcase had been placed; and, as she looked out on the beautiful garden, there was the faint dawn of a smile upon her lip, but it passed away directly, leaving the lips white and pinched, while a curiously haggard and strange look came into her face. She craned forward and gazed out intently; there was a cold dew upon her forehead, and the hand which took out her kerchief trembled violently.She drew back from the window, but, as if compelled by some emotion she still gazed out. Ralph Elthorne did not notice the change in the nurse’s aspect, but illness had made his hearing keen, and he said sharply:“Who is that coming up to the front?”“Miss Elthorne, sir.”“But I can hear two people.”“A gentleman is with her.”“What gentleman? what is he like?”There was a strange singing in Nurse Elisia’s ears, as, with her voice now perfectly calm, and her emotion nearly mastered, she described the appearance of the visitor so vividly that Elthorne said at once:“Oh, it’s Burwood.”She looked at him quickly, to see that he lay back with his eyes half closed, musing, with a satisfied expression upon his face, while her own grew wondering of aspect and strange.For her life at Hightoft had been so much confined to the sick chamber, that she knew very little of the neighbours. The Lydons had often been mentioned in her presence, and, from a hint or two let fall, she had gathered that Isabel was engaged to some baronet in the neighbourhood; but she had not heard his name, which came to her now as a surprise, while the fact of his being in company with the daughter of the house, and the satisfied look upon the father’s countenance, left no doubt in her mind that this was the suitor of his choice.The current of her thoughts was broken by her patient, who seemed to wake up from a doze.“Ah, you are there?” he said. “I must have dropped asleep, and was dreaming that you had gone out for your walk, and I could not make anybody hear. Have I been asleep long?”“Very few minutes, sir. In fact, I did not know you were asleep.”“Ah, one dreams a great deal in a very short time. You were going to read to me, weren’t you?”“Yes, sir. Shall I begin?”“You may as well, though I would as soon think.” There was a gentle tap at the door.“Come in. No; see who that is, nurse. Why am I to be so worried! I’m not ill now,” he cried peevishly.She crossed to the door and opened it, to find Isabel standing there, flushed and evidently agitated.“May I come in and sit with you a little while, papa?” she said.Elthorne shook his head.“No,” he cried shortly, “and I will not be interrupted so. Your aunt was here just now. Pray do not be so tiresome, my dear child. I will send for you if I want you. Why have you left Burwood?”A sob rose to Isabel’s throat, and as she saw the nurse standing there, book in hand, a feeling of dislike began to grow within her breast.For why should not this be her task? Why was this strange woman to be always preferred to her? It should have been her office to read to the sick man, and she would gladly have undertaken the duty.“I am very sorry I came, papa, but I see you so seldom,” she said softly. “Papa, dear, let me come and read to you.”“No, no,” cried Elthorne peevishly. “Nurse is going to read. Besides, you have company downstairs. Burwood has not gone?”“No, papa.”“And you come away and leave him? There, go down again, and do, pray, help your aunt to keep up some of the old traditions of the place. What will Burwood think?”Isabel gave a kind of gasp, her forehead wrinkled up, and the tears rose to her eyes, but at that moment she saw those of the nurse fixed upon her inquiringly, and in an instant she flushed up and darted a look full of resentment at “this woman,” who appeared to be gratifying a vulgar curiosity at her expense.“Did you hear me, Isabel?” cried her father, querulously. “Pray, go down. You fidget me. Go down to Burwood, and if he asks, tell him I am very much better, and that I shall be glad to see him soon.”“Yes, papa,” she said faintly; and turning back to the door, she had her hand upon it, when, moved by an affectionate impulse, she ran back quickly, bent down and kissed him.“Good girl!” he said. “Good girl! Now make haste down.”She glanced quickly at the nurse, and the resentful flush once more suffused her cheeks, for those eyes were still watching her, and this time there was a smile upon the slightly parted lips.The girl’s eyelids dropped a little and she replied with a fixed stare before once more reaching the door and passing out.“How dare she!” thought Isabel, trembling now with indignation. “She quite triumphs over one. Aunt is right; she is not nice. She seems to contrive to stand between me and papa. It is not prejudice, and I shall be very, very glad when she is gone.” The door had hardly closed upon her, when, in a fretful way, Ralph Elthorne exclaimed:“Now, go on; go on!”The nurse began reading directly, an Old World poem of chivalry, honour, and self-denial; and as the soft, rich, deep tones of her voice floated through the room, Ralph Elthorne’s head sank back, his eyes closed, and his breath came slowly and regularly.But the reader had grown interested in the words she read. The story of the poem seemed to fit with her own life of patient long-suffering and self-denial, and she read on, throwing more and more feeling into the writer’s lines. At last, in the culminating point of the story, her voice began to tremble, her eyes became dim, the book dropped into her lap, and a low faint sob escaped from her lips, as the pent up, long suppressed agony of her heart now broke its bounds, and, as her face went down into her hands, she had to fight hard to keep from bursting into a fit of hysterical weeping.For, only a short hour before, the deep wound of the past had suddenly been torn open, and memory had come with a rush of incidents to torture her with the recollections of the bygone, of the rude awakening from the golden dream of her girlhood’s first love to the fact that the man who had first made her heart increase its pulsations, the man she had believed in her bright, young imagination to be the soul of chivalrous honour, was a contemptible, low-mindedroué. How she had refused to believe it at first, and insisted to herself that all she had heard was base calumny; and she had gone on defending him with indignation till the cruel facts were forced upon her, and in one short minute she had turned from a trustful, passionate, loving girl, to the disillusioned woman, with no hope but to find some occupation which would deaden the misery of her heart.Since then her life had been one of patient self-denial, at first in toiling among the suffering in the sordid homes of misery in one of the worst parts of London. Here, while tending a woman dying of neglect and injuries inflicted by some inhuman brute, it had struck her that she might enlist the sympathies of the great surgeon whose name had long been familiar, and ask him to come and try to save the woman’s life.To think with her was to act, and she waited on him humbly and patiently, all the time trembling for the consequence to the injured woman left almost alone. But at last her turn came, and she was ushered into Sir Denton’s presence.He heard her patiently, and shook his head.“It is impossible, my dear young lady,” he said sharply. “I can but battle with a few of the atoms of misery in the vast sands of troubled life. From your description of the case, I fear I can do no good, and my time for seeing patients here at home is over, while a score of poor creatures are lying in agony at my hospital waiting their turn.”She looked at him despairingly, and he spoke more gently.“I admire and respect the grand self-denial of such ladies as yourself who devote themselves to these tasks, so do not think me unfeeling. It is that I can only attend a certain number of cases every day.”“But you would go to some wealthy patient,” she cried imploringly, “and I will pay you whatever fee you ask.”“You wrong me, my dear young lady,” he said gravely. “I would not go to-day to any wealthy or great patient for any sum that could be offered me. I take fees, but I hope my life is not so sordid as that.”“Forgive me,” she said hastily. “I beg your pardon.”“Yes,” he said, taking her hand to raise it reverently to his lips, “I forgive you, my child, and I will prove it by seeing the poor woman of whom you speak. Come.”He led her out to the carriage waiting to take him to the hospital, and a group of the wretched dwellers in the foul street soon after stood watching the great surgeon’s carriage, while he was in the bare upstairs room of the crowded house. He stayed an hour, and came again and again, till the day came when another carriage stopped at that door, and a hushed crowd of neighbours stood around, to see Nurse Elisia’s patient carried out, asleep.“If I only had come to you sooner!” she said.“I could have done no more,” replied Sir Denton. “Believe me, it is the simple truth. We can both honestly say that we have done everything that human brain and hands could do.”They were walking slowly away from the house where the woman had died.“And now I must speak to you about yourself.”“About myself?” she said wonderingly.“Yes; I ask you no questions about your friends, or your reasons for taking up the life to which you have devoted yourself; but I am interested in you and your future. Do you intend to go on attending the sick and suffering?”“Yes,” she said simply.“Good; but not like this. You are young and beautiful, and at all hours you are going about here alone.”“I have no fear,” she said, smiling. “The poor people here respect me.”“Yes; and, to the honour of rough manhood, I believe, my child, that there are hundreds who would raise a hand for your protection; but the time will come when you will meet with insult from some drink-maddened brute. You must give it up. Your presence is so much light in these homes of darkness, but—you have interested me, as I tell you.”She looked at him searchingly.He read her thoughts and smiled.“I am speaking as your grandfather might. Let me advise you, my child. This must not go on.”“I thank you,” she replied; “but I have devoted myself to this life, and I cannot turn back.”“I do not ask you to turn back,” he said. “You have devoted yourself to the sick and suffering. The duties can be as well performed where you will be safe, and treated with respect.”She looked at him doubtingly.“Let me counsel you,” he said. “Come.”“Where?” she asked, and he held out his hand. “You can trust me,” he said; and he led her to his carriage, and then through the ward of the hospital where he reigned supreme.It was a few days after a terrible accident at one of the hives of industry, and among other sufferers, some ten or a dozen poor work-girls lay, burned, maimed, and in agony, longingly gazing at the door to see the face of the grey-haired man on whose words they hung for life and strength.That day he came accompanied by his pale, sweet-faced young friend, in whose beautiful eyes the tears gathered as she went round with him from bed to bed, appalled by the amount of bodily and mental suffering gathered in that one narrow space.“Well?” he said, a couple of hours later. “Is it too dreadful, or will you help me here?”“Can I?” she said simply. “I am so ignorant and young.”“You possess that,” he said gravely, “which no education can impart. Your presence here will be sunshine through the clouds. I should shrink from asking you to come among these horrors, but you have, for some reasons of your own, taken up this self-denying life, and I tell you that you can do far more good to your suffering fellow-creatures here than by seeking out cases in those vile streets. You will be safe from insult and from imposition. We have no impostors here. What do you say?”She gave him her hand, and the next day Nurse Elisia came from her home—somewhere west, the other nurses said—and returned at night unquestioned, and after a week or two of jealousy and avoidance, as one different to themselves, the attendants one and all were won to respect and deference by acts, not words.

The bedroom was bright with flowers and the many touches given by a thoughtful woman’s hand, to which was due the sweet fragrance in the air.

“But you are better to-day, sir?”

“No, nurse, no. Perhaps better in body, but not in spirit. You cannot understand it. I seem to be a prisoner chained down. My body is here, and my mind is everywhere about the place with my old projects.”

“Shall I read to you, sir?”

“Read? Yes; I like to hear you read. You are a strange nurse, to be able to read with so much feeling. Get a book. Something good.”

“What would you like to-day?”

“Anything. Who’s that? Go and see. So tiresome, disturbing me like this.”

Nurse Elisia went to answer the light tap at the door, and as she opened it Aunt Anne appeared, and was sweeping by her, when her brother cried, “Stop!”

“But I have some business to transact with you, Ralph,” said the lady pleadingly.

“I cannot help it. Go away now. I cannot be disturbed.”

“Oh, very well, Ralph. I will come up again,” said Aunt Anne in an ill-used tone.

“Wait till I send for you,” said her brother sourly.

“It’s all that woman’s doing,” said Aunt Anne to herself, as she swept down the corridor. “Oh, if I could find some means of sending her away.”

“It seems as if it were my fate to make enemies here,” said Nurse Elisia to herself, as she stood waiting with a book in her hand. “It is time I left, and yet life seems to have been growing sweeter in this quiet country home.”

Her eyes were directed toward the window, by which a little bookcase had been placed; and, as she looked out on the beautiful garden, there was the faint dawn of a smile upon her lip, but it passed away directly, leaving the lips white and pinched, while a curiously haggard and strange look came into her face. She craned forward and gazed out intently; there was a cold dew upon her forehead, and the hand which took out her kerchief trembled violently.

She drew back from the window, but, as if compelled by some emotion she still gazed out. Ralph Elthorne did not notice the change in the nurse’s aspect, but illness had made his hearing keen, and he said sharply:

“Who is that coming up to the front?”

“Miss Elthorne, sir.”

“But I can hear two people.”

“A gentleman is with her.”

“What gentleman? what is he like?”

There was a strange singing in Nurse Elisia’s ears, as, with her voice now perfectly calm, and her emotion nearly mastered, she described the appearance of the visitor so vividly that Elthorne said at once:

“Oh, it’s Burwood.”

She looked at him quickly, to see that he lay back with his eyes half closed, musing, with a satisfied expression upon his face, while her own grew wondering of aspect and strange.

For her life at Hightoft had been so much confined to the sick chamber, that she knew very little of the neighbours. The Lydons had often been mentioned in her presence, and, from a hint or two let fall, she had gathered that Isabel was engaged to some baronet in the neighbourhood; but she had not heard his name, which came to her now as a surprise, while the fact of his being in company with the daughter of the house, and the satisfied look upon the father’s countenance, left no doubt in her mind that this was the suitor of his choice.

The current of her thoughts was broken by her patient, who seemed to wake up from a doze.

“Ah, you are there?” he said. “I must have dropped asleep, and was dreaming that you had gone out for your walk, and I could not make anybody hear. Have I been asleep long?”

“Very few minutes, sir. In fact, I did not know you were asleep.”

“Ah, one dreams a great deal in a very short time. You were going to read to me, weren’t you?”

“Yes, sir. Shall I begin?”

“You may as well, though I would as soon think.” There was a gentle tap at the door.

“Come in. No; see who that is, nurse. Why am I to be so worried! I’m not ill now,” he cried peevishly.

She crossed to the door and opened it, to find Isabel standing there, flushed and evidently agitated.

“May I come in and sit with you a little while, papa?” she said.

Elthorne shook his head.

“No,” he cried shortly, “and I will not be interrupted so. Your aunt was here just now. Pray do not be so tiresome, my dear child. I will send for you if I want you. Why have you left Burwood?”

A sob rose to Isabel’s throat, and as she saw the nurse standing there, book in hand, a feeling of dislike began to grow within her breast.

For why should not this be her task? Why was this strange woman to be always preferred to her? It should have been her office to read to the sick man, and she would gladly have undertaken the duty.

“I am very sorry I came, papa, but I see you so seldom,” she said softly. “Papa, dear, let me come and read to you.”

“No, no,” cried Elthorne peevishly. “Nurse is going to read. Besides, you have company downstairs. Burwood has not gone?”

“No, papa.”

“And you come away and leave him? There, go down again, and do, pray, help your aunt to keep up some of the old traditions of the place. What will Burwood think?”

Isabel gave a kind of gasp, her forehead wrinkled up, and the tears rose to her eyes, but at that moment she saw those of the nurse fixed upon her inquiringly, and in an instant she flushed up and darted a look full of resentment at “this woman,” who appeared to be gratifying a vulgar curiosity at her expense.

“Did you hear me, Isabel?” cried her father, querulously. “Pray, go down. You fidget me. Go down to Burwood, and if he asks, tell him I am very much better, and that I shall be glad to see him soon.”

“Yes, papa,” she said faintly; and turning back to the door, she had her hand upon it, when, moved by an affectionate impulse, she ran back quickly, bent down and kissed him.

“Good girl!” he said. “Good girl! Now make haste down.”

She glanced quickly at the nurse, and the resentful flush once more suffused her cheeks, for those eyes were still watching her, and this time there was a smile upon the slightly parted lips.

The girl’s eyelids dropped a little and she replied with a fixed stare before once more reaching the door and passing out.

“How dare she!” thought Isabel, trembling now with indignation. “She quite triumphs over one. Aunt is right; she is not nice. She seems to contrive to stand between me and papa. It is not prejudice, and I shall be very, very glad when she is gone.” The door had hardly closed upon her, when, in a fretful way, Ralph Elthorne exclaimed:

“Now, go on; go on!”

The nurse began reading directly, an Old World poem of chivalry, honour, and self-denial; and as the soft, rich, deep tones of her voice floated through the room, Ralph Elthorne’s head sank back, his eyes closed, and his breath came slowly and regularly.

But the reader had grown interested in the words she read. The story of the poem seemed to fit with her own life of patient long-suffering and self-denial, and she read on, throwing more and more feeling into the writer’s lines. At last, in the culminating point of the story, her voice began to tremble, her eyes became dim, the book dropped into her lap, and a low faint sob escaped from her lips, as the pent up, long suppressed agony of her heart now broke its bounds, and, as her face went down into her hands, she had to fight hard to keep from bursting into a fit of hysterical weeping.

For, only a short hour before, the deep wound of the past had suddenly been torn open, and memory had come with a rush of incidents to torture her with the recollections of the bygone, of the rude awakening from the golden dream of her girlhood’s first love to the fact that the man who had first made her heart increase its pulsations, the man she had believed in her bright, young imagination to be the soul of chivalrous honour, was a contemptible, low-mindedroué. How she had refused to believe it at first, and insisted to herself that all she had heard was base calumny; and she had gone on defending him with indignation till the cruel facts were forced upon her, and in one short minute she had turned from a trustful, passionate, loving girl, to the disillusioned woman, with no hope but to find some occupation which would deaden the misery of her heart.

Since then her life had been one of patient self-denial, at first in toiling among the suffering in the sordid homes of misery in one of the worst parts of London. Here, while tending a woman dying of neglect and injuries inflicted by some inhuman brute, it had struck her that she might enlist the sympathies of the great surgeon whose name had long been familiar, and ask him to come and try to save the woman’s life.

To think with her was to act, and she waited on him humbly and patiently, all the time trembling for the consequence to the injured woman left almost alone. But at last her turn came, and she was ushered into Sir Denton’s presence.

He heard her patiently, and shook his head.

“It is impossible, my dear young lady,” he said sharply. “I can but battle with a few of the atoms of misery in the vast sands of troubled life. From your description of the case, I fear I can do no good, and my time for seeing patients here at home is over, while a score of poor creatures are lying in agony at my hospital waiting their turn.”

She looked at him despairingly, and he spoke more gently.

“I admire and respect the grand self-denial of such ladies as yourself who devote themselves to these tasks, so do not think me unfeeling. It is that I can only attend a certain number of cases every day.”

“But you would go to some wealthy patient,” she cried imploringly, “and I will pay you whatever fee you ask.”

“You wrong me, my dear young lady,” he said gravely. “I would not go to-day to any wealthy or great patient for any sum that could be offered me. I take fees, but I hope my life is not so sordid as that.”

“Forgive me,” she said hastily. “I beg your pardon.”

“Yes,” he said, taking her hand to raise it reverently to his lips, “I forgive you, my child, and I will prove it by seeing the poor woman of whom you speak. Come.”

He led her out to the carriage waiting to take him to the hospital, and a group of the wretched dwellers in the foul street soon after stood watching the great surgeon’s carriage, while he was in the bare upstairs room of the crowded house. He stayed an hour, and came again and again, till the day came when another carriage stopped at that door, and a hushed crowd of neighbours stood around, to see Nurse Elisia’s patient carried out, asleep.

“If I only had come to you sooner!” she said.

“I could have done no more,” replied Sir Denton. “Believe me, it is the simple truth. We can both honestly say that we have done everything that human brain and hands could do.”

They were walking slowly away from the house where the woman had died.

“And now I must speak to you about yourself.”

“About myself?” she said wonderingly.

“Yes; I ask you no questions about your friends, or your reasons for taking up the life to which you have devoted yourself; but I am interested in you and your future. Do you intend to go on attending the sick and suffering?”

“Yes,” she said simply.

“Good; but not like this. You are young and beautiful, and at all hours you are going about here alone.”

“I have no fear,” she said, smiling. “The poor people here respect me.”

“Yes; and, to the honour of rough manhood, I believe, my child, that there are hundreds who would raise a hand for your protection; but the time will come when you will meet with insult from some drink-maddened brute. You must give it up. Your presence is so much light in these homes of darkness, but—you have interested me, as I tell you.”

She looked at him searchingly.

He read her thoughts and smiled.

“I am speaking as your grandfather might. Let me advise you, my child. This must not go on.”

“I thank you,” she replied; “but I have devoted myself to this life, and I cannot turn back.”

“I do not ask you to turn back,” he said. “You have devoted yourself to the sick and suffering. The duties can be as well performed where you will be safe, and treated with respect.”

She looked at him doubtingly.

“Let me counsel you,” he said. “Come.”

“Where?” she asked, and he held out his hand. “You can trust me,” he said; and he led her to his carriage, and then through the ward of the hospital where he reigned supreme.

It was a few days after a terrible accident at one of the hives of industry, and among other sufferers, some ten or a dozen poor work-girls lay, burned, maimed, and in agony, longingly gazing at the door to see the face of the grey-haired man on whose words they hung for life and strength.

That day he came accompanied by his pale, sweet-faced young friend, in whose beautiful eyes the tears gathered as she went round with him from bed to bed, appalled by the amount of bodily and mental suffering gathered in that one narrow space.

“Well?” he said, a couple of hours later. “Is it too dreadful, or will you help me here?”

“Can I?” she said simply. “I am so ignorant and young.”

“You possess that,” he said gravely, “which no education can impart. Your presence here will be sunshine through the clouds. I should shrink from asking you to come among these horrors, but you have, for some reasons of your own, taken up this self-denying life, and I tell you that you can do far more good to your suffering fellow-creatures here than by seeking out cases in those vile streets. You will be safe from insult and from imposition. We have no impostors here. What do you say?”

She gave him her hand, and the next day Nurse Elisia came from her home—somewhere west, the other nurses said—and returned at night unquestioned, and after a week or two of jealousy and avoidance, as one different to themselves, the attendants one and all were won to respect and deference by acts, not words.

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