Nurse Elisia Part 17

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

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

"I thought you were always ready to tell me everything."

"Yes, dear," she said quickly now, and she looked up full in his face.

"Neil, do you know what dear papa wishes?"

"I have a suspicion."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It was quite time I left the hospital," he thought. "The work there has weakened my nerves, and made me ready to think like this--caused this susceptible state. Quite time I left. It is a kind of disease, and I am glad I am away before I committed myself to some folly. I should look well--I, a man with an advancing reputation--if I were to be questioned by Sir Denton upon what I meant by forgetting myself, and degrading myself by making advances toward one of the nurses. It would come before the governors of the hospital, and I should be asked to resign. I must be worse than I thought. Too much strain. Incipient nerve attacks previous to something more terrible. There," he muttered, as he returned to and resumed his seat, "one never knows what is best for one's self. It was right that I should come away from the hospital, and I am here. Bah! ready in my selfishness to think I am of so much consequence that my poor father was called upon to suffer like this to save me from a folly. Yes; there is no doubt about it," he added, after a pause, during which he sat in the semi-darkness of the bedroom gazing straight before him into the gloom; "I have been too much on the strain.

A month or two in this pure air will set me up again, and I shall go back ready to look her calmly in the face as of old, and treat her as what she is--a hospital nurse. You shall not have cause to blush for your son, father," he said in a low whisper as he leaned toward the bed and gently took the old man's hand. "You will have enough to bear without meeting with rebellion against your wishes."

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

"It will be a question of time and careful nursing," he said, softly.

"There must be no mental trouble to hinder his progress. We must not let him feel his weakness and want of power, or he will suffer horribly.

Only a few hours since, and so strong and well; but by management we can keep off a good deal, and we will. My poor old dad!"

CHAPTER SEVEN.

"JOIN YOUR SHIP AT ONCE."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes," she said with a sigh.

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

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

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

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

"Poor man!" sighed Aunt Anne. "Oh, dear me, Mr Beck, what a deal of-- Isabel, my dear, don't wait."

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

Then aloud--

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

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

"Can't ask you in," said Alison. "The governor's very bad."

"Got a doctor down from London, haven't you?"