Nurse Elisia

“Nurse Elisia!”

“No; don’t call me that again.”

“Not call you that? What does it all mean?”

“I cannot tell you now, dear. Think of me always as a very dear friend. I am worthy to be called so, and some day I will tell you all my past.”

“But – ”

“No, no; not now. Let us go up to your room.”

“Yes, before Aunt comes. I cannot meet her now.”

“No; and to-morrow, if your father can bear it, go to him and tell him what took place to-night – all that I have said. He can easily find out the truth, and he will not allow Sir Cheltnam Burwood to speak to you again.”

“You think so?” cried the girl excitedly.

“I know it, dear. Your father has been hard and obstinate of will, but he loves his children as an English gentleman should; and, as a man of honour, when he knows all, he will never sanction that man’s presence here.”

“And – when I tell him, you will speak? It is so terrible. He will want to know all the past.”

“No: I cannot be Sir Cheltnam Burwood’s accuser, even now.”

“You will not speak?”

“My mission is at an end, dear. It is impossible for me to stay. I shall not be here.”

Isabel looked up wonderingly, and then raised her face to kiss Elisia’s lips as she slowly clasped her neck.

The next moment she was passionately clasped to the nurse’s heart.

“God bless you, darling! Good-bye!” was sobbed in Isabel’s ear, and the next minute she was alone.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

Jumping at Conclusions

About half an hour after Isabel and Elisia had parted, Aunt Anne came down from her room. She had tapped gently at her brother’s door, which was opened by the nurse, who was as calm and self-possessed as ever.

“Mr Elthorne is asleep, madam,” she said.

“Ho!” ejaculated Aunt Anne, turning sharply round and continuing her way. “Ralph always is asleep when I want to see him. I wonder how the lovers have got on,” she added, as she reached the drawing-room door, and stood smiling on the mat before she entered and looked round.

“In the conservatory, I suppose,” she said playfully. “Oh, dear; it seems only yesterday when – ”

She went straight to the open French window, and peeped in among the exotics; then went to one end, then to the other, where the door stood wide open leading out on to the terrace and the lawn.

“Now that’s carrying matters too far,” she said to herself. “It is not etiquette. Isabel ought to have known better, and Sir Cheltnam should not have taken her. Ah, well, I suppose I must not be too strict at a time like this.”

She rang the bell for the tea urn, and the butler entered, red hot from an exciting conversation with his fellow-servants, who were in full debate.

“You had better tell the gentlemen tea is ready when you leave the room.”

“I beg pardon, ma’am?” said the butler, as he set down the hissing urn.

“I said tell the gentlemen that tea is ready.”

“The gentlemen, ma’am? They are both out.”

“Both out?”

“Yes, ma’am. Smith, the keeper, just looked in, and said he was on his rounds, and he met Mr Alison, ma’am, going toward Buckley village, and soon after he saw one of the watchers, and he had seen Mr Neil, ma’am, walking as fast as he could toward Pinkley Pound.”

“Dear me, how strange!” said Aunt Anne. “No, no, don’t shut the window: Sir Cheltnam and Miss Elthorne are just outside. I may as well let him see that I know it, and stop the servants’ talking,” thought Aunt Anne.

The butler stared.

“Well, what is it?”

“Beg pardon, ma’am. Sir Cheltnam went round to the stables, had his horse put to in the dogcart, and drove away more than half an hour ago.”

“What?”

“And Maria says that Miss Isabel’s locked up in her bedroom, and has been there ever so long.”

“That will do,” said Aunt Anne with asperity; and the butler left the room. “Oh, dear me!” she cried; “the foolish girl! There must have been quite a scene. She’s thinking still of that wretched sailor, and poor Ralph will be so angry when he knows. I suppose I must go and ask her to come down.”

She went to the bedroom door, but there was no response whatever for some time, and then only a brief intimation that her niece was not coming down that night.

“Well, I shall certainly give her a very severe talking to in the morning,” said Aunt Anne, as she sat over her solitary tea. “As self-willed as her father, every bit. Oh, dear me! how children are changed since I was young.”

Aunt Anne retired early. The butler did not, for it was his duty to sit up and admit the gentlemen.

Alison returned about half-past eleven, and went at once to his room, while the butler once more settled himself down in an easy-chair to wait, and went to sleep, awaking in the morning stiff and unrefreshed to find that his waiting up had been in vain.

A couple of hours later, when he took in the breakfast, he had two announcements to make; but he hesitated, as Isabel had just entered the room.

“You can speak out. What is it?” said Aunt Anne.

“Mr Neil hasn’t been back all night, ma’am.”

“What?”

“And – ”

The butler stopped.

“Well, speak, man; there is nothing wrong?” cried Aunt Anne.

“No, ma’am, I hope not,” said the butler; “but the nurse was down quite early, ma’am, dressed, and Smithers put the horse to in the light cart, and drove her over to the station to catch the early morning train.”

“Oh!” ejaculated Aunt Anne; and then, excitedly, “Was she alone?”

“I believe so, ma’am. Shall I ask?”

“No: there is no need. I thought it all along. Eloped. I knew it would be so.”

Isabel rose from her seat with flaming cheeks. “Shame!” she cried passionately. “This, before the servants! Neil is my brother. Nurse Elisia is my dear friend. It is not true!”

Chapter Thirty.

Sir Denton Astonished

Neil Elthorne could hardly recall the events of the next twenty-four hours. He had some dim recollection of walking blindly on and on, with his head throbbing from the mental fever within; of the wind beating against him, and the rain feeling cool to his heated brow; and at last seeing lights, entering a station, and listening to the dull, heavy rush of a coming train – sounds which seemed in accordance with the beating in his temples, and the dull, low roar in his brain.

Then he had faint memories of passing swiftly through the dark night, with the windows of the compartment in which he sat blurred by the rain, and, finally, of gliding into the great, blank, gloomy terminus, an hour before day-break, and staggering through it to where cabs were standing beneath the great glass arch. The rattle of the streets sounded faintly in his ears, and all appeared strange and terrible, as if he were in some fevered dream, from which he awoke at last on the couch in his own chambers in Farrow’s Inn, to find that it was night again, and that he must, like some wounded beast, have mechanically crept back to his lair, there to wait until strength returned or the end should come.

He rose mechanically, went out, and made his way to his club, where he was faintly conscious that the waiters who brought up his dinner exchanged glances, and gazed at him furtively. Someone came to him, too, and asked him if he were unwell, and then, still as if in a dream, he rode back to his chambers, and lay down again to sleep.

The long rest brought calm to his confused brain, and he rose late the next morning from what more resembled a stupor than a natural sleep.

But he could think and act now. The madness of his night at home came back to him clearly, and he sent a telegraphic message to his father, begging him not to be uneasy at his sudden departure, and another far longer to his sister asking her forgiveness; that he had been obliged to hurry away, and bidding her appeal to her father for help, as being the proper course.

“What will she think of me, poor child?” he said to himself, after he had dispatched his messages. “I must write to her. It was cruel, but I could not stay. I should have gone mad. Ah, well,” he muttered, after a time, “it is all over. Now for work.”

There was a peculiar set expression in his countenance as he dressed himself carefully – a very necessary preparation after many hours of neglect – and, taking a cab, had himself driven to Sir Denton Hayle’s, where he was obliged to wait for some time before he could obtain an interview, and then only for a few minutes.

Those were sufficient, though.

“Ah, Elthorne, back again? How is the father?”

“Much better.”

“That’s right. Then you have come back to work.”

Neil did not answer for a few moments.

“You asked me to take that post, Sir Denton,” he said at last.

“Yes, my dear boy, I did; but don’t say you have repented now it is too late.”

“Is it too late?” said Neil sadly.

“Yes: another appointment has been made, and the man sails in a week.”

“I am sorry,” said Neil slowly. “I have thought better of the offer now, and I was prepared to go.”

They parted, and he went back to his chambers to think, and form some plans for his future.

Two hours later he was surprised by the coming of Sir Denton, the old man looking flushed and excited as he entered the room.

“You, sir!”

“Yes, my boy. I have been and seen the man appointed, and he jumps at the chance of getting out of it. He says that he has the offer of a better thing, which is all nonsense. The fact is that he is afraid of the venture. Now there must be no trifling, Elthorne: it must be a frank, manly yes, or no. Stop; let me tell you again what it really means. Then you can say whether you will go. First, there is a great deal of risk.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“The coast is a deadly one for Europeans; the society is not all that could be desired; and the man who goes must be a bit of a hero in the strife.”

“Then you want a better man.”

“No: I want you. You are the man, but I cannot let you definitely say yes without letting you see all your risk.”

“Bah, Sir Denton!” cried Neil. “What has a doctor or a surgeon to do with risk? You would not say to a man, ‘Don’t go to that house to attend the husband or wife: it is a horribly infectious fever.’”

“No; certainly not.”

“Or, ‘That man who has been crushed by a fall of rock will bleed to death, if a surgeon does not risk his own life by going to his help: don’t go.’”

“No,” replied Sir Denton quietly; “the world treats us very coolly, and gives us very little credit for what we do.”

“The world saves all its honours for its soldiers,” said Neil, smiling.

“In uniform,” said Sir Denton, “and does not recognise the fact that we, too, are soldiers, fighting the invisible enemy, Death.”

“There, say no more, my dear old tutor,” cried Neil eagerly. “I have made up my mind to go, accepting all risks, and I hope I shall fulfill your wishes and prove worthy of your trust.”

“I have no fear of that, Elthorne, my dear boy. I know you too well. You will go, and your going will be the saving of thousands of lives in the future, while as to yourself, disease generally passes by the busy, active, and careful. You will go, then?”

“There is my hand.”

Sir Denton grasped the young surgeon’s hand warmly.

“God bless you, my boy, and your work!” he said, with his voice slightly husky. “But now tell me of yourself. This sudden change of front? The lady – she has refused you?”

Neil nodded and remained silent for a few moments. Then, turning, with a sad smile on his face:

“It was only a vain dream, my dear old friend. I loved, and forgot, in my blindness, that I was not a frank, handsome man of the world; that I was only a dull, thoughtful student, with few of the qualities that please women. She would have none of me, and perhaps she was wise.”

“No,” said Sir Denton sharply; “there was no wisdom in the woman who would refuse you. Some giddy, dress-loving, shallow creature, who – ”

Neil held up his hand.

“No,” he said fervently. “The wisest, sweetest, and most refined lady that ever breathed.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Sir Denton. “I was glad a few minutes ago, for I thought you had had an escape; that, like so many more able men, you had been dazzled by the outside of some bright, fashionable butterfly. Now I can condole with you. Then there must have been a reason – another was in the way?” Neil was silent.

“Ah, that is bad. Well, out of the bad good often comes, my dear boy. You see how fatherly I have grown toward you, Elthorne; and some day I may, after all, be able to congratulate you on a happy union.”

“Never, sir.”

“Who knows?” said the old surgeon, smiling. “Well, I am no matchmaker, only your old friend and master, and I speak very plainly to you. Do you know, Elthorne, that there is one woman in the world whom I have often thought should be your wife?”

Neil looked at him wildly.

“A refined, graceful lady, with a heart of gold, if you could win her. I have seen little things, too, at times, which have made me think that my hopes would bear fruit.”

Neil half turned away, and the old man sat tapping the top of his hat with the tips of his thin, white fingers, as he went on dreamily.

“I ought not to have given my mind to such matters, but the thoughts came unbidden, and I said to myself, it would be the perfection of a union; and, old bachelor as I am, I would have given her away as if she had been my own child.”

Neil’s head began to droop, but the old man’s mind was so deeply immersed in the subject nearest his heart that he did not see the change in his pupil’s face.

“Like the meddlesome old idiot I was, I snatched at the opportunity of bringing you together, and insisted upon her coming down to your father’s place to tend him.”

A low sigh escaped from Neil’s breast.

“For I said to myself: the old man will see her and learn her value, and the sweetness of her nature. He will be ready to open his arms to her, and call her daughter when the son has spoken to her; and I thought I was doing right to you both. Neil, my lad, you ought to have had more confidential moments with me, and told me that you already loved. I had no right to know, my dear boy, but it would have saved much pain. I love Lady Cicely very dearly – as much as if she were my own flesh and blood.”

Neil looked up at the old man wonderingly, but he was gazing down at his hat.

“Yes, bless her!” he continued, repeating his words, “as if she were my own flesh and blood; and this misfortune – I can call it nothing else – hurts me very much, and I am certain it will grieve her terribly, for she loves you, my boy, I am sure.”

“My dear Sir Denton – Lady Cicely?” cried Neil, looking at him as if doubting his sanity. “Whom do you mean?”

“Oh! I had forgotten. Of course you do not know – Lady Cicely, the late Duke of Atheldene’s daughter – Nurse Elisia – my dear young friend, who gave up her life of luxury and ease to devote herself as you have seen.”

“Sir Denton!”

“Yes, my dear boy, it is so. Don’t look at me as if you thought I were wandering. That was my castle in the air, Neil Elthorne, and I am deeply grieved for both your sakes. Ah, how easily we clever men, as we think ourselves, are deceived. But, as your old friend, my boy, may I ask – some lady – in your neighbourhood – an attachment, perhaps, of many years?”

Neil looked at him wildly and his lips were quivering with the agony still so new.

“I beg your pardon, my dear boy,” said Sir Denton softly. “I ought not to have laid my hand so roughly on the wound. Forgive me.”

Neil remained silent for a few minutes, and Sir Denton rose to go.

“There, then, my dear boy,” he said in a different tone, “I consider, then, that the appointment is settled and you will go?”

“Yes, Sir Denton. My preparations will be very few. I shall be ready to go by this vessel if the authorities are willing.”

“And God speed you in your work!”

“And God speed me in my work!” said Neil solemnly.

Sir Denton grasped the young surgeon’s hand, holding it firmly.

“Come and dine with me to-night, and we’ll have a long chat over it. I dare say I can give you a few useful hints. I must go to the hospital now. Good-bye for the present.”

But Neil held his hand firmly still.

“Wait a moment,” he said hoarsely. “You accuse me of want of confidence in you. I am not the kind of man who babbles about the strongest feeling of his nature.”

“No, no, my dear boy; forgive me. And I ought not to have torn open your wound again by my thoughtless question.”

“I will confide in you now, Sir Denton.”

“No, no, my dear boy. Leave it all unsaid.”

“No; there is no time like the present. You ought to know, and I can never revive the subject again. Possibly, in the future, the opportunity may never come.”

“What do you mean?”

“I am not blind to the risk of going to such a place. I don’t suppose I shall return.”

“My dear boy, if you are going to take that morbid view of the task,” cried Sir Denton, “you shall not go. But pish! you are low-spirited now from the refusal you have had. Work, man, work. Au revoir.”

“Sir Denton,” said Neil gravely, “you must know the truth now. In ignorance of her early life, I loved Nurse Elisia very dearly.”

“Then, my dear boy – ” cried the old man excitedly.

“Stop, sir; you were mistaken. I asked her to be my wife.”

“Mistaken? She refused you? Impossible!”

“No, sir; it is the simple fact.”

“But – you hinted, or I said – dear me, how confused I am – that the lady you proposed to, refused you – a prior attachment – another gentleman?”

“Yes; my own brother.”

Sir Denton stood gazing in Neil’s face for some moments before he spoke again, and then in a weary, helpless way he said sadly:

“And I have been studying human nature all through my long life, to find myself an ignorant pretender after all. Let me go and think. Refused you? – your brother? Ah, well – till to-night, my dear boy – and after all I thought – There, there, it is only the body I have been studying, not the soul. Bless my heart!” he muttered, as he went down to his carriage: “and I felt so sure. Ah, dear me – dear me! it takes a cleverer man than I to read a woman through and through.”

Chapter Thirty One.

The Clouds Dispelled

Neil Elthorne was more himself as a cab set him down at Sir Denton Hayle’s that evening, where the quiet, old-fashioned butler received him in a solemn, old-fashioned way, and ushered him at once into his master’s study, for, though there was a fire and lights in the great first-floor drawing room, they were only for form’s sake, when the old surgeon had company; and upon occasions like the present it was almost certain not to be used.

Sir Denton received his pupil as warmly as if he had been his son, and they were soon after seated face to face in the gloomy dining room, where the table was reduced to the smallest proportions to which it could be screwed.

It was a thoroughly good, old-fashioned dinner, at which the butler handed very old East India sherry, which was hardly touched; and, after clearing the cloth, left on the nearly black, highly polished table, three massive silver decanter stands, in which glowed, like liquid gems, port, claret, and burgundy.

These shared the fate of the sherry, and stood untouched, while, now that they were alone, the important subject of the appointment was discussed, and Sir Denton gave his views concerning the mission.

“Yes; it makes me wish I were thirty years younger, Neil,” said the old surgeon. “People talk about it as a forlorn hope, but I maintain that there is victory to be won, and I am sure that you will win it. People are dying off as we read of their dropping away during the plague. There must be a reason for this, and you are going to discover it, and put a stop to this terrible bill of mortality. Ah, I wish I were going with you to work hand in hand, advising and asking advice.”

“I wish you were going, sir,” said Neil quietly. “Too old – too old, my dear boy – much too old. Now tell me, where shall you attack the demon first?”

“Clean out his den,” said Neil, smiling.

“Good; of course. Sanitation. An Augean task, my young Hercules, but that is it. People will not believe it, but dirt is the nursery bed for most of the germs of disease; and the wonder to me is, not that so many people in our more crowded parts are smitten down, but how they manage to live. Now where you are going, that deadly fever runs riot. I do not believe it could ever exist if everything possible were done to cleanse the place.”

“I suppose not,” said Neil thoughtfully.

“It could not. I’ve been thinking it all over, my dear boy, and I have no fear whatever for you. Work will keep you healthy; and now I suppose you would like me to give you a couple of valuable recipes in which I have enormous faith.”

“By all means,” said Neil eagerly. “Will you write them down?”

“No: you can remember them. As to quantities, give them à discretion– extravagantly. Here they are: pure water and whitewash. They are death destroyers, my dear boy, and – bless me, I did not want to be disturbed this evening.”

The butler entered the room and went up behind his master’s chair.

“I am too much engaged to see anyone,” said the old man testily.

The butler said a few words in a low tone.

“Bless me! Oh, yes; of course. I’ll come directly. Will you excuse me for a few minutes, Elthorne? Pray help yourself to wine.”

“Certainly,” replied Neil, and the old man went hurriedly out of the room, leaving his guest to his thoughts, and he sat there with rugged brow thinking over the past and his future, and asking himself whether he, a surgeon, had done right in accepting the post.

His musings were long, for the few minutes extended into an hour, but; he did not notice the lapse of time. There was so much to think about. His father? Well, he could have done no more if he had stayed. His sister? That difficulty would settle itself, for, girl as she was, Isabel had plenty of their father’s will and determination; and he felt sure that she would never marry one man while she loved another.

His brother?

He drew his breath hard, and the struggle within him was long, but he mastered his feelings at last, and calmly and dispassionately reviewed the matter.

There was nothing unfair. His brother had not taken any mean advantage of him. He had been struck by the woman he loved at their first encounter, and what wonder? No: there had been nothing unfair. It had been a race between them, and his brother had won the prize.

His duty stood out plainly enough before him, but he was weak, and it was hard to do that duty. Some day – it would be years first in this case – he would look her in the face, and take her hand as his sister, and grasp his brother’s hand with all due warmth. But not yet – not yet. He must have time, and he felt that he would act wisely in going right away.

There was a sad pleasure in reviewing these events of the past, and there was a kind of solace in being alone there in that gloomy room, so shut in that the rattle of wheels in the square outside sounded subdued and calming to his weary spirit. He began thinking then once more of the future, of the great battle he had to fight.

“And I will fight manfully,” he said softly, as he sat gazing at the fire, “against self as well as against disease. And if I fall – well, better men die daily. I shall have done some good first, and I will fight to the last.”

His chin sank down upon his breast, and he sat there picturing in imagination the place to which he was going. How long he had been thinking thus he did not know, and he felt half resentful as Sir Denton’s hand was laid lightly on his shoulder.

“Asleep?”

“Oh, no: only thinking deeply.”

“Of – of – ” said the old man nervously.

“Of my work, sir? The great work to come? Yes.”

“That’s right – that’s right, my dear boy; but you have had no wine. I’m so sorry I was called away, but you will forgive me, I know.”

“Don’t name it, Sir Denton,” said Neil quietly. “I have had so much to think about that the time has not seemed long.”

“Indeed? It has to me. But fill your glass, my dear boy – a glass of port.”

Neil shook his head.

“Then I think,” said Sir Denton in a hurried, nervous way, “we will go up to the drawing room. It is getting late – the – er – the butler was waiting at the door as I came down – er – to clear away.”