"What are you going to do about sitting up?" said Alison in a whisper
about eleven o'clock that night. "He must not be left."
"Certainly not," said Neil, after a glance at the bed where his father
lay sleeping uneasily. "I am going to sit with him."
"That will not do," said Alison quietly. "_You_ are the doctor, and
must be rested and ready when wanted. You had better go to bed and I'll
sit up. Aunt Anne wants to, and so does Isabel, but the old lady is
hysterical and fit for nothing, and Isabel is too young."
"Of course," said Neil quietly. "But I have settled all that. I shall
sit up, and if there is any need I can call you directly."
Alison looked as if he were going to oppose the plan, but he said
nothing for the moment, only sat watching his brother and occasionally
turning to the bed as the injured man made an uneasy movement.
They were interrupted by a tap at the door, to which Alison replied,
coming back directly to whisper in his brother's ear.
"You had better go and talk to the old lady yourself," he said. "She
has come prepared to sit up." Neil went hastily to the door and passed
out on the landing, where his aunt was standing, dressed for the
occasion, and armed with night lights and other necessary appliances
used in an invalid's chamber.
"No, Aunt, dear," said Neil quickly. "Not necessary. I am going to sit
up."
"My dear boy, your brother said something of this kind to me," said the
lady querulously; "but pray don't you be obstinate. I really must sit
up with your father. It is my duty, and I will."
"It is your duty, Aunt, to obey the surgeon in attendance upon the
patient," said Neil firmly, but he winced a little at his aunt's next
words.
"So I would, my dear, if we had one here; but do you really think, Neil,
that you are able to deal with such a terrible case? Hadn't you better
have in the Moreby doctor, and hear what he says?"
"We have had Sir Denton Hayle to-day, and I have his instructions. Is
not that enough?"
"No, my dear, really I don't think it is. You see it isn't as if you
were a much older man and more experienced, and had been a surgeon ever
so long."
"There is no need for you to sit up, Aunt," said Neil quietly. "I can
quite understand your anxiety, but, believe me, I am doing my best."
"Oh, dear," sighed Aunt Anne. "You boys areas obstinate and as
determined as your poor father. Well, there, I cannot help myself," she
continued in a tone full of remonstrance. "No one can blame me, and I
am sure that I have done my duty."
"Yes, Aunt, dear, quite," said Neil soothingly. "Go and get a good
night's rest. I don't think there will be any need, but if it is
necessary I will have you called."
"Encouraging!" he said to himself as he returned to the sick room,
thinking that after all it was very natural on his aunt's part, for it
must seem to her only a short time since he was a boy at home, when,
upon the death of his mother, she had come to keep house.
Alison rose from a chair near the bed as he closed the door, and signed
to him to come to the other end of the room.
"I say," he whispered, "I don't like the governor's breathing. Just you
go and listen. Its catchy like and strange."
Neil crossed to the bed and bent down over the sleeping man, felt his
pulse, and came back.
"Quite natural," he said, "for a man in his condition. I detect nothing
strange."
Alison looked at him curiously, turned away, and walked softly up and
down the shaded room, to stop at last by his brother.
"I don't want to upset you," he said, "but I feel obliged to speak."
"Go on," said Neil, "but I know what you are going to say."
"Impossible!" said Alison, staring.
"By no means. You are uneasy, and think I am not capable of caring for
my father."
"Well, I can't help it, old fellow," said Alison. "I was thinking
something of the kind. You see a regular old country doctor--"
"Has not half the experience of a young man in a large hospital," said
Neil, interrupting him and speaking now in a quite confident manner.
"We have had many such cases as this, and I have helped to treat them."
"Yes, but--"
"Pray try and have a little confidence in me, old fellow. I am sure you
do not mean it, but you are making my task much harder."
"Oh, I don't want to do that, but you see I can't help looking at you as
my brother."
"Never cease to, pray. Now go and lie down for a few hours. Yes," he
continued, as Alison hesitated, "I wish it. I desire it. I will call
you about four."
"Oh, very well, if I must, I must," said Alison rather sulkily. Then,
as if ashamed of the tone he had taken, "All right. Be sure and call me
then." He crossed to the bed again, stood looking down at the sleeping
face, and returned.
"I say," he whispered, "what a change it seems! Only this morning
talking to us as he did, and now helpless like that."
"Yes; it is terrible how prostrate an accident renders a man."
"Did--did he say anything to you about--about marriage?"
Neil started and looked sharply at his brother, who had faltered as he
spoke.
"Yes, but there is no occasion to discuss that now."
"No, I suppose not, but he was wonderfully set upon our being regularly
engaged to those two girls. Don't seem natural for that sort of thing
to be settled for you downright without your being consulted. It's just
as if you were a royal personage."
"My dear Alison, is this a time for such a subject to be discussed?
Pray go now."
"Oh, very well--till four o'clock, then."
The young man left the room, and Neil sat down to think, after a closer
examination of his father's state. For Alison's words had started a
current of thought which soon startled him by its intensity, as it
raised up the calm, pale face of one who had constantly been at his side
in cases of emergency--one who was always tenderly sensitive and ready
to suffer with those who suffered, whose voice had a sweet, sympathetic
ring as she spoke words of encouragement or consolation to the
agony-wrung patient, but who could be firm as a rock at times, when a
sufferer's life depended upon the strength of mind and nerve of the
attendant.
Always that face, looking with calm, deep, thoughtful eyes into his, but
with no heightening of colour, no tremor in the sensitive nerves of the
smooth, high temples; and as he sat there thinking, she seemed to him
one whom no words of man, however earnest and impassioned, could stir,
certainly not such words as he could speak.
He started from his reverie, which had in spirit taken him back to the
hospital where the tall, graceful figure glided silently from bed to
bed, and the colour mounted quickly to his cheeks as a faint tapping
came at the door, and upon his opening it he started again, for there
was a figure, tall and slight, indistinctly seen in the darkness, as if
his thoughts had evoked the presence of her upon whom his mind had
dwelt.
"It is only I, Neil, dear," whispered a pleasant, silvery voice.
"Isabel? I thought you were in bed."
"How could you, Neil, dear!" she said reproachfully. "I could not go to
bed and sleep knowing you were sitting up with poor papa. How is he
now, dear?"
"Just the same, and must be for some time." Isabel sighed.
"Neil, dear," she whispered, "I've got a spirit-lamp and kettle in the
next room, and as soon as you like I'll make you some tea."
"Thank you, my dear. Leave it ready and I'll make some myself."
"No, no, Neil, dear," she said, clinging to him. "Don't send me away.
I could not sleep to-night."
"But you must, dear. I want you to be rested and strong, so as to come
and sit with him to-morrow while I have some sleep."
"Yes, dear, of course," she whispered, as she crept closer within the
protecting arm round her, and laid her head upon her brother's shoulder.
"Come, come," Neil whispered, as he stroked her soft hair, "you must not
fret and give way. Troubles come into every family, and we must learn
to bear them with fortitude."
"Yes, Neil, dear, and I am trying hard to bear this bravely."
She nestled to him more closely, and as he smoothed her hair again and
stroked her cheek, gazing down the while at its soft outline, he could
not help thinking how attractive in appearance she had grown. "There,"
he said at last. "Now you must go."
"Yes, dear, directly. But--Neil--"
"What is it?"
"May I talk to you?"
"Of course."
"But as I used when you were at home and I told you all my secrets?"
"I hope you will, Bel. Why shouldn't you trust your big brother?"
"Yes; why not?" she said eagerly. "And you will not think me a silly
girl nor forward?"
"I hope not."
"Nor that I should not have spoken to you at such a time?"
"Why, what is the terrible secret, then?" he whispered, as he kissed her
tenderly and made her throw her arms about his neck and utter a sob.
"Ah, I see; something about Beck."
She hid her face on his shoulder, and he felt her nod her head.
"He told me what you said to him, dear," she whispered. "It was very
dreadful at a time like this, but I could not help him speaking."
"Oh, he told you, eh?"
"Yes, dear, and he told me what papa said."
"Don't--don't talk about it, my child. It seems too terrible now."
"Yes, dear, it does," she said with a sob, "but the words would come.
Let me ask you one thing, Neil, dear, and then I will not say another
word. I wouldn't say this, only it is so very terrible to me, and it's
all so still and quiet here now in the middle of the night, and it seems
just the time for speaking."
"What is it, then?"
Isabel was silent for a few moments, and then, with her lips very close
to her brother's ear, she whispered:
"Neil, dear, do you feel sure that papa will get better?"
"Yes; I do not think there is any doubt about it."
Isabel uttered a sigh full of relief, and, leaving her brother, went
softly to the bedside to bend down and kiss the sufferer's brow. Then
returning, she nestled close up to her brother again.
He kissed her affectionately, and led her toward the door.
"There, good-night, now," he whispered, but she clung to him tightly,
and he took her head between his hands and gazed down into her shrinking
eyes.
"What is it, little one?" he said; and she feebly struggled with him, so
as to avert her face from his searching eyes, but she made no reply.
"Why, Isabel, darling, what is it? You have something you wish to say
to me?"
"Yes, Neil," she whispered, "but I hardly like to tell it."
"I thought you were always ready to tell me everything."
"Yes, dear," she said quickly now, and she looked up full in his face.
"Neil, do you know what dear papa wishes?"
"I have a suspicion."
"It was more than a suspicion with me, Neil. But, tell me, do you think
now that he will want me to listen to that dreadful Sir Cheltnam?"
"Let's wait and see, dear," said Neil quickly. "We must not meet
troubles half way. This is no time to think of such a matter as that."
"No; I felt that, dear, but I think so much about it that it would keep
coming up."
"Leave it now, and we will talk about it another time," said Neil
gently. "You can always come to me, Isabel, and I will try to be worthy
of your confidence."
"Yes, I know that, Neil," she said quickly; and after kissing him once
more she hurried out of the room, leaving her brother to his thoughts
and the long watch through the night.
And as he seated himself near the bed, where he could gaze at the stern,
deeply lined countenance upon the pillow, his memory went back to early
days, when he and his brother felt something akin to dread whenever
their father spoke. And from that starting point he went on through
boyhood up to manhood, right up to the present, when, after shaping the
lives of his children as far as had been possible, his father seemed
determined to carry out his plans for the future.
A slight movement on the part of the patient made Elthorne rise from his
seat, take the shaded lamp and go close to the bedside, but his father
slept heavily, and he returned to his seat to continue unravelling the
thread of his career.
A few months back his father's plans had seemed of no consequence to him
whatever. Half jokingly Mr Elthorne had thrown him and Saxa Lydon
together, and the bright, talkative girl, with her love of out door
life, had amused him. If he must marry, he thought it did not much
matter to him who the lady might be, so long as she was not exacting and
did not interfere with his studies. Saxa Lydon was not likely to want
him to take her into society. She was too fond of her horses and dogs,
and if it pleased his father, why, it would please him.
But then came the appointment of Nurse Elisia to Sir Denton's ward, and
by degrees a complete change had come over the spirit of his dream. At
first he had hardly noticed her save that she was a tall, graceful
woman, with a sweet, calm, saddened countenance which he felt would be
sympathetic to the patients; and, soon after, half wonderingly he had
noticed the intense devotion of this refined gentlewoman to the various
cases. Nothing was too horrible, nothing too awful. The most sordid
and repellent duties were unshrinkingly done, and in the darkest, most
wearisome watches of the night she was always at her post, patient and
wakeful, ready to tend, to humour, to relieve the poor sufferer whose
good fortune it had been to have her aid.
Then he had thought it no wonder that Sir Denton was loud in her praise,
and a certain intimacy of a friendly nature had sprung up between them,
during which he had soon discovered that their new nurse was no ordinary
woman, but who or what she was he had no idea, and it seemed was not
likely to know, for she never referred to her antecedents.
After a time he had often found himself after some painful episode at a
patient's bedside, wondering why Nurse Elisia was there. Everything
about her betokened the lady, and no ordinary lady, and Neil
unconsciously began building up romantic stories about her previous
life, in most of which he painted her as a woman who had passed through
some terrible ordeal, become disgusted with the world in which she had
lived, and had determined to devote herself to the duty of assuaging the
pangs of her suffering fellow-creatures.
Once he had turned the conversation in her direction when dining with
Sir Denton, but the old surgeon had quietly parried all inquiries, and
at the same time let him see that he was touching on delicate ground in
connection with one who was evidently his _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!"