Nurse Elisia

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, no, sir; it is not that.”

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

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

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

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

“What is, my girl?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Always, dear,” said Saxa tenderly.

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Twenty One.

A Forced Confession

“No, no!” panted Elthorne, in a low, husky voice. “Stop! Don’t ring! Better – soon.”

He held up one hand firmly now, and Dana turned uneasily toward the other side of the couch.

“Let her call for help, dear,” whispered Saxa. “No,” said the stricken man feebly, as he battled hard to recover his equanimity; and the sisters trembled, repentant, over their work. “Water, please.” Dana flew to the side table, and the hand trembled so that the carafe clattered against the glass she filled, and the water splashed over the side and on her rich dress as she bore it to the couch.

“Take it, Saxa,” she whispered, and the kneeling girl held the glass to the invalid’s lips.

“Hah!” he sighed, after drinking a little, and signing to his ward to take back the vessel. “I can speak now.”

“No, no, dear; not now. We ought not to have spoken to you,” said Saxa, pressing her lips to his brow. “It was very thoughtless, but we were so angry and could not keep it back.”

He nodded, looked at her proudly, and drew her hand to his lips.

“Good girl!” he said. “I’m not angry; only weak. Hush! Wait a little.”

“Yes,” said Dana quickly. “We’ll go now, and write in a few days.”

“No. Wait,” said the old man in a low voice, but one full of decision. “I must clear all this up. You cannot go.”

They waited for some minutes before he spoke again, thinking the while of the terrible helplessness of the man who had for so many years ruled like a king in their district, and who, even now, was fighting hard to sway his social sceptre still.

“Hah!” he ejaculated at last. “Absurd to be so weak. Better now. It was sudden.”

“Daddy, dear,” said Saxa tenderly, “don’t revive it. Let it all wait.”

“No; not a minute,” he said with decision. “I’m strong again now.”

He stretched out a hand to each, and smiled at them in turn.

“There,” he said; “it’s quite a triumph for you girls to see how weak a man can be. Now, then; let’s clear all this up – this absurd nonsense about the boys.”

“You can’t bear it now, daddy,” said Saxa, with tears in her eyes.

“I can bear it, little woman. Now, come, my darlings, what silly jealous nonsense is this you have got in your pretty heads? But I’m glad – very glad. You can both be very soft and gentle, I see, when the proper time comes. But fie! Saxa. Shame! Dana. It is madness. Neil? The nurse? Why, my darling, I did not think you could be so fond of my great, solemn, dreamy boy. But – jealous – and of my good, patient, gentle attendant! Oh, tush! Nonsense!”

He laughed feebly, looking from one to the other, as if seeking for a confession that their charge was only the result of a little pique due to inattention on the part of his sons.

But Saxa and Dana remained by his couch, stern and hard of countenance; and as he watched the frowns gathering on their brows the feeble laugh died away, and his right hand began to tremble again.

“Speak,” he said at last, after a painful pause, and he fixed his eyes on the elder sister, whose voice sounded deep and sonorous as she said slowly:

“I’m sorry I spoke, dear,” she said. “It was in my passion.”

“And it is all folly,” said Elthorne hastily.

“No, daddy,” cried Saxa, with a flash of mortified pride in her eyes; “it is all too true.”

“What!” cried Elthorne, turning his eyes on Dana. “Yes,” said the latter, repeating her sister’s words; “it is all too true.”

“It has been going on for months past,” continued Saxa.

“At the hospital in London, dear,” added Dana, “as well as here.”

Ralph Elthorne drew in his breath with a sharp, hissing sound, and lay back staring straight before him, but the sisters, in their returning anger, paid no heed to the change in his countenance, as a spasm passed over it, but left him calm and firm again.

“I wouldn’t have believed it,” cried Saxa, “but I must – I must. It is true.”

“What? Neil? My boy Neil?” said Elthorne hoarsely. “My quiet, obedient, straightforward son, whose word every man trusts? And Nurse Elisia? I will not believe it.”

“Very well, daddy,” said Saxa gravely. “You will see.”

“Bah! Nonsense, girl. Someone has been poisoning your ears against as true and good a woman as ever breathed.”

Saxa rose slowly from her knees, and stood gazing frowningly down in his eyes, as the old man went on in stern tones of reproof.

“Shame on you, Saxa! My boy Neil is too noble and high-minded to even dream of such a thing. He – the great surgeon who is growing famous! Why, it would be a crime against you, and an insult to his father. My darling, you should not let such a degrading notion harbour in your brain.”

The girl’s stern look intensified.

“There, my child,” he continued, “I’ll speak gently to you. She is a dear good woman, this nurse, and of course poor Neil has been thrown with her a great deal – as doctor and nurse, of course. Come, my dear, let it go. I tell you, as his father, it is not true. And now you, Dana – have you caught the complaint? Has Al laughed and joked with one of the keepers’ daughters?”

“No, sir, but he has made and kept assignations with Nurse Elisia in the woods.”

“What? It is not true, girl. I could – no, no, I will not be angry. I must not; but I am angry with you, my dears, and yet I’m not, for I’m glad to see more depth in your affection for the boy than has been apparent on the surface. Tell me now: you have not accused them – made this silly, reckless charge?”

“It is of no use to beat about the bush, daddy,” said Saxa sadly. “We have not seen the boys; and we will not see them, dear. We are going back home at once.”

“You are not going back home at once,” cried their guardian, “and you are going to see them. Dana, ring the bell.”

“No, no, sir,” said Saxa, “there is no need to get up a scene. We’ll go away quietly at once.”

“Ring that bell!”

“But, daddy – dear guardian – Mr Elthorne!” cried Saxa imploringly.

“Ring that bell, I say,” cried Ralph Elthorne, with the veins starting in his temples and his face becoming purple. “Do you think I am going to lie here and let my two boys be maligned by that silly piece of scandal you hare-brained girls have got in your heads? My son Neil would not degrade himself like that. My boy Alison would not be such a scoundrel. Ring, I say, ring, and they shall confront you, both of them, and tell you it is a lie.”

“Very well,” cried Dana, and she gave the bell a sharp snatch.

“Who has told you this – one of the servants?” Before he could be answered the two doors of the room flew open, Nurse Elisia entering hurriedly by one, Neil by the other.

Neither spoke; they read the trouble at a glance.

“Where is Alison?” said Ralph Elthorne, speaking as if his son were a little boy about to be punished. “Fetch him here.”

“My dear father,” said Neil firmly, “you are exciting yourself. I must insist – ”

“Fetch Alison.”

The command was so fiercely given that, seeing it would be better to comply than oppose his father and, perhaps, bring on some terrible seizure, Neil frowned and withdrew, while his father turned to Nurse Elisia.

“Go to your room now,” he said. “I will speak to you presently. My sons first.”

“Mr Elthorne – for your own sake – pray be calm.”

“To your room,” he cried hoarsely. “Wait.” The nurse looked wildly from one sister to the other, and a pang of jealousy shot through them as they saw it was no common woman who had stepped between them and the smooth, even course of their fate. Then, after another imploring glance at Elthorne, she slowly left the room.

There was a deep silence, only broken by the heavy, stertorous breathing of the invalid, till steps were heard, the door was opened, and the brothers entered, Neil closing the door behind them.

“Come here,” said Elthorne, in an unnaturally calm voice, as if it were the father speaking to two erring boys.

The young men advanced, and, after a quick glance, Neil said firmly:

“As your medical attendant, sir, I must insist upon your being perfectly calm.”

“As your father, sir, I insist upon your waiting till I have spoken. I know my strength better than you can tell me.”

Neil made a deprecating sign, and moved to the other side of the couch, looking sorrowfully at Saxa, who met his eyes for a moment, and then scornfully averted her own.

“Now, Alison,” said Elthorne slowly, and in a voice that sounded wonderfully composed.

“Yes, sir, what is it?” replied Alison quietly, and at that moment the brothers’ eyes met and an angry look was directed at the elder.

“This, my son: you are engaged to marry Dana Lydon.”

“Am I?” said the young man scornfully, and he gazed at her now defiantly, while Neil’s heart sank in his breast with a terrible feeling of despair.

“Yes, sir, you are,” said his father firmly. “At my wish. It is an old engagement, and I have just heard a charge against you of insulting this lady by attempting to carry on a contemptible flirtation with a woman serving as a menial in this house. Tell Dana it is not true.”

There was no reply.

“Tell Dana Lydon, the lady to whom you are engaged, that it is not true.”

Still there was no reply.

“Do you hear me, sir?” thundered Ralph Elthorne, and Neil took a step forward in alarm, as he saw the change in his father’s countenance, but the old man fiercely motioned him back.

“I am not a boy,” said Alison haughtily, “and I reserve to myself the right to marry whom I please.”

“That is not an answer, sir,” cried Elthorne sharply. “I say, is the charge true?”

“Ask me when we are alone, sir. I refuse to be cross-examined and treated like a school-boy before the Misses Lydon.”

Ralph Elthorne’s brow grew black with rage, and Neil again pressed forward till his father motioned him back.

“Father! for Heaven’s sake, be calm,” he whispered.

“Silence, sir!” roared Elthorne, whose aspect now was startling to those who watched him and trembled for the end. “I am fighting, weak as I am, for the honour of my house – for the honour of my two sons, to prove to these ladies that they have been tricked and cheated by a contemptible, false report. This obstinate fool refuses to clear himself, but you, my boy – my eldest son – you are a gentleman. You will not let any weak vanity prevent you from speaking out and proving to Saxa here – your betrothed – that a miserable, lying scandal has been set afoot. That you are not one – you, the student and man of reputation – to degrade yourself by stooping to a pitiful intrigue which would disgrace you and me in the eyes of your betrothed. Come, let us end this painful scene. Speak out, and then take my child Saxa’s hand, and she shall humble herself to you and ask your pardon for doubting you, as I know she will.”

“Yes,” said Saxa, as he turned to her, and she fixed her eyes firmly upon Neil, “as I will directly, Neil Elthorne.”

“There,” said the father. “You hear, sir? Now, then, speak out and deny it.”

“Deny what?” said Neil slowly.

“That for a long time past you have been carrying on a contemptible flirtation – bah! the wretched word! – that you have been behaving toward Nurse Elisia as the man does to the woman he means to make his wife. I have told Saxa that it is not true.”

Neil remained motionless, forgetting his position on his intense dread regarding his father’s state.

“Come!” said the old man; “this needs no hesitation. Speak out.”

Still Neil remained silent, with something seeming to murmur in his ear: “Deny it. If you speak the truth you will kill him. He could not bear it. She does not love you – she cares for your brother. You must not own the truth and disgrace yourself forever in Saxa Lydon’s eyes.”

“Neil!”

He remained silent still, and the voice seemed to whisper again: “Deny it. The avowal will kill him. You know that in his state it would be his death. You must not – you cannot speak.”

“Once more I ask you, boy, to clear yourself before your betrothed. Tell her it is a lie.”

The change was so terrible in the old man’s face that Saxa uttered a low cry.

“No, no!” she said. “Neil! Look at him. Look!”

“Silence, girl,” cried the old man hoarsely, and with his face working.

“Father, for Heaven’s sake,” said Neil, bending over him; but the old man waved him back, and he shrank away, ignorant of the fact that Saxa’s cry had brought Nurse Elisia to the door, where she stood appalled at the old man’s aspect.

“Tell Saxa it is a lie.”

“I cannot, sir,” said Neil firmly. “You force from me the truth.”

“What!” panted Elthorne.

“It would be deceiving Saxa Lydon, and lying against Elisia, the woman I love hopelessly, but with all my heart.”

“You have killed him!”

Chapter Twenty Two.

“The Woman is a Witch.”

It was Saxa Lydon who said those words, for the old man’s face became suddenly convulsed; his head dropped back, and, as Neil sank on one knee and passed his arm beneath the neck, it turned sidewise, with the eyes seeming to gaze reproachfully into his, but there was neither sight nor understanding then.

The grey dawn was creeping into the room when Ralph Elthorne recovered consciousness, and looked up questioningly in his son’s face.

But he did not speak for a time, only let his eyes wander about the room, and they saw that he appeared to be noting who were present, his gaze resting long on both his sons, his daughter, sister, and the nurse.

At last he spoke.

“Isabel.”

She ran to his side, and sank upon her knees.

“The girls?” he said feebly. “Saxa – Dana?”

“They went home, papa, dear, about two,” whispered Isabel; “but don’t try to talk, now. Look at me, and I’ll try to understand what you mean.”

He took no notice of her prayer, but closed his eyes, and lay apparently thinking, his next words indicating that he recalled what had taken place.

“Yes,” he said gently; “they could not stay here. Tell Alison and your aunt to go and then you go too.”

Neil advanced just then to watch his father narrowly, but the old man made no sign of anger. He lay quite calm and still, as if utterly exhausted, but his son noted that he watched until Aunt Anne and Alison had gone, when he unclosed his eyes fully, and whispered to Isabel to leave.

“May I not stay, papa? I may be wanted.”

“No. You have been here all night. Kiss me and go – ”

Isabel bent down weeping, pressed her lips on her father’s brow, and then left the room, with Nurse Elisia and Neil both watching patiently as the stricken man’s eyes remained fast shut.

But he was quite conscious, for upon Neil approaching the couch after a time, his lips parted.

“I am not asleep,” he said, gently, “only very weak. You need not both stay.”

Neil looked at his father wonderingly, and with something of dread, the old man seemed so passionless and strange.

Just then the invalid opened his eyes and gazed full at his son.

“I know what I am saying,” he said quietly. “I recollect all that has passed, but I am too weak and helpless to speak much. Nurse!”

She went to his side.

“Let him stay with me. You can go for an hour or two. I am not going to die – yet.”

She looked at him keenly, and then at Neil, as if to question him, but she did not speak.

“The danger is past,” he said quietly. “You can safely go for a time.”

“Then set me free, sir,” she cried, quickly, her woman’s nature asserting itself now above the habit of the passionless trained nurse. “If there were danger, I would stay, but you say it is past; and it is impossible for me to stay here after what has happened.”

“There is no reason now, madam,” said Neil coldly. “I am doctor, and you are the nurse. You need not fear that I shall speak again. You cannot leave my father yet.”

She looked at him wildly, and then, growing momentarily less self-controlled, she avoided his eyes and turned to the invalid, bending down over him gently.

“Mr Elthorne,” she said; “you have heard your son’s words as regards your state. I cannot stay here now. Give me your permission to go.”

He looked at her sadly, and feebly shook his head.

“No, nurse,” he whispered huskily. “You cannot go. Not yet – not yet.”

She started, for he raised his hand, took hers and held it while he gazed half wonderingly in her face, as Neil, unable to conceal his feelings, hurried away to his own room.

“I am not fit to be left, nurse,” said Ralph Elthorne gently. “You know how ill and weak I am.”

A sob rose in her throat as she tried to be calm, while he gazed intently in her face, scanning each feature.

“So weak, so helpless,” he muttered, as if to himself, but she heard every word; “and I never thought of this, I never thought of this. Yes, Anne. You wish to see me?”

“Yes, dear,” said that lady, who had entered now unannounced even by a tap on the door. “Yes, Ralph. I want to speak to you very particularly.” He turned to Nurse Elisia, and spoke in an apologetic manner, and very feebly.

“Leave us, please, nurse,” he said. “I will talk to you later on.”

“No, sir,” she whispered. “Give me leave to go.”

“Not yet, not yet,” he replied. “I will lie here and think. It is all so sudden.” Then, with a sudden flash of his old manner, “No; you are not to go until I give you leave.”

She glanced at Aunt Anne, who had ignored her presence entirely, and then she went slowly to the room set apart for her use, asking herself how all this would end, and whether it would not be wiser to leave the house at once, and end the painful position in which she stood.

“Well, Anne, dear,” said Mr Elthorne feebly. “You want to speak to me?”

“Yes, Ralph, I must speak to you now.”

“Speak gently, then, dear; I am much weaker. Not so well to-day.”

“And never will be well again, Ralph, with the house in this state,” cried Aunt Anne, ruffling up, and speaking excitedly.

“What, what do you mean?” he faltered; and it was like the shadow of his former self speaking. “What do I mean, Ralph? I mean that the place has not been the same since that dreadful woman came.”

“You are wrong, my dear, you are wrong,” he said querulously. “So good and attentive to me. I should have been dead before now if it had not been for her.”

“Oh, my dear brother, how can you be so blindly prejudiced! Can you not see the woman’s cunning and artfulness?”

“No, Anne, no. She has been very good and kind.”

“Yes; that is it, Ralph dear, playing a part. She has won those two foolish boys to think of her only, and insult poor Saxa and Dana; and now she has ended by winning over poor Isabel, who is in a state of rebellion. I have had a terrible scene with her. She actually takes this dreadful woman’s part.”

“Poor little Isabel!” sighed the sick man.

“And she’s behaving shamefully to poor Sir Cheltnam.”

“Ah!”

“Yes; shamefully, Ralph, shamefully.”

“And you came to tell me that, my dear?” said Elthorne quietly.

“Yes, Ralph, and it has come to this.”

She stopped short, and dabbed her face with her handkerchief.

“Yes, my dear, it has come to this? Tell me. I am tired. I must sleep again.”

“That this woman, this nurse must leave the house at once.”

“Leave? Nurse Elisia leave?” said Elthorne with a faint smile. “No, my dear, you do not wish to kill me.”