Nurse Elisia

“I will take all the responsibility,” said Aunt Anne haughtily. “Have the goodness to allow me to pass.”

Nurse Elisia’s eyes dropped, and there was a faint twitching at the corners of her eyes, but she did not stir.

“Are you aware that the mistress of this household is speaking to you?”

“Hush, madam, pray!”

“Oh, it is insufferable,” cried Aunt Anne, whose anger was rising fast, when she saw a quick, eager look of satisfaction animate the pale set face before her, and at that moment a familiar voice said in a low tone:

“What is the matter, Aunt?”

“Ah, my dear,” she cried; “you are there. I am glad. I declare it is insufferable. I was going in to sit by your father and talk to him.”

“I told Mrs Barnett, sir, that Mr Elthorne was asleep.”

“Yes, my good woman,” said Aunt Anne, “and I told you I should go in and sit with him till he awoke. And, then, really it is insufferable for a hired servant to take so much upon herself.”

“As what, Aunt?” said Neil, in a low, stern voice, “as to refuse to allow you to go in?”

“Yes, my dear. I can put up with a great deal, but I think it is quite time that the nurse knew that this is not a hospital ward, and that she is not mistress here.”

“Nurse Elisia is quite aware of that,” said Neil coldly; and his lips quivered slightly, as he saw that in spite of her apparent immobility, she was watching him curiously as if wondering what he would say; but he went on in the same cold, passionless way, “It is not a question of mistress or hired servant, but of care of my patient’s progress toward recovery. I gave instructions that my father should never be in the slightest degree disturbed when he dropped into a natural sleep, and the nurse has done her duty and nothing more. Come away now, please, and you will see this in the proper light, if you will give it a moment’s thought.”

Aunt Anne gave her hands a kind of wave as if she were smoothing out a cloth over a table, and turning suddenly, walked with stately strides toward the head of the stairs, followed by her nephew, who did not even glance at Nurse Elisia, neither did he speak again till the drawing room was reached.

“The nurse was quite right, Aunt,” he said quietly. “You must see that an attendant who did not carry out one’s instructions to the letter would be untrustworthy.”

“Pray say no more about it, Neil,” she replied, with a great show of dignity. “I suppose I am growing old and useless. But there was a time when my opinion was of value in a sick chamber.”

“Yes, of course, my dear Aunt, but this is a case where the patient must be kept perfectly quiet.”

“Yes, that is it, Neil. You have become so absorbed in your studies as a surgeon that you seem to forget that my poor dear brother is your father.”

“Nonsense, Aunt, dear.”

“Oh, no, sir, it is the truth. I suppose I shall be looked upon as a patient next.”

“Yes; as my dear loving patient Aunt,” said Neil, smiling. “There, don’t take any more notice of it. Good-bye. Come, come, don’t look at me like that. It brings back one of your old scoldings when I was a boy.”

He kissed her and went out of the room.

“But I don’t like it,” said Aunt Anne, “and I am not one to be deceived. I disliked that woman from the hour she entered the house. I had my forebodings then, and they grow firmer every day. He took her part directly. Why, Isabel, my dear, I thought you were down the garden,” she cried, as her niece entered the room.

“I? No, Aunt. I just went to get a few flowers for papa, and I wanted to take them and arrange them in his room, but Nurse Elisia keeps watch there like a dragon, and would not let me go in.”

“Why, she would not even let me go in,” cried Aunt Anne with great emphasis on the first personal pronoun.

“Wouldn’t she, Aunt?”

“No, my dear, and I shall bless the day when that woman goes. She is not what she appears.”

“Isn’t she, Aunt?”

“No, my dear.”

“I’ve thought something of that kind,” said Isabel dreamily. “She seems so much of the lady, and as if she quite looked down upon me, as being superior to us.”

“Yes, my dear, and it makes my blood boil at times.”

“Oh, I don’t mean like that, Aunt, dear, for she is always gentle and kind and respectful too.”

“No, my dear, no,” cried Aunt Anne emphatically, “not to me. There, never mind that now, for I’ve something else to say. Did you see Sir Cheltnam down the garden?”

“Sir Cheltnam!” cried Isabel, changing colour. “Is he here?”

“Yes, my dear, and I told him you were down the garden.”

“Aunt! Oh, you should not have told him that. Is he there now?”

“I presume that he is, and really my dear child, I see no reason why you should be so disturbed. Of course a little maidenly diffidence is nice and becoming and – good gracious! child, don’t run away like that.”

But Isabel had reached the door and darted out, for, through the window came the faint crunch, crunch, of manly steps upon the gravel.

For, naturally enough, Sir Cheltnam’s quest had been in vain, as far as Isabel was concerned, but after looking about the lawn he had caught sight of someone seated beneath the drooping ash at one corner, and in the hope that it was she whom he sought, he had walked silently across the velvet grass to find that the heavy leafy screen was deceptive and that it was Alison leaning back in a garden-chair.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said, as he pulled aside the pendent boughs.

“Yes. Who did you think it was?” replied Alison surlily.

“Your sister. Is she always going to play hide-and-seek with me like this?”

“Like what? How should I know?”

“Look here, young fellow,” cried Sir Cheltnam; “what’s come to you these last three weeks?”

“Nothing.”

“Bah! I’m not blind. There’s something the matter. It isn’t filial affection and grief, because the old man’s getting better. It isn’t love, because the fair Dana is pining for you on horseback somewhere. There is only one other grief can befall a hale, hearty young man; so it’s money.”

“Nonsense!”

“Must be, and if so, my dear boy, come in a brotherly way to me for help, and it is yours, either with a check of my own or somebody else’s in the city.”

“It isn’t money,” said Alison shortly. “I’ve as much as I want.”

“My dear Alison Elthorne,” cried Sir Cheltnam, grasping his hand, “that will do. You must stop now. You can go no farther. A young man of your years, appearance, and pursuits who can say that he has as much money as he wants, is a paragon, a rara avis in terris, a perfect model.”

“Don’t fool.”

“I am not fooling, but speaking in sober earnest. My dear boy, you must be photographed, painted, modelled, sculptured, and, hang it all, my dear Alison, you will have to be put in Madame Tussaud’s.”

“Then it will be in the Chamber of Horrors for killing you,” said Alison fiercely. “I’m not in a humour to be played with, so leave off.”

“Then if it is not money, it’s love,” said Sir Cheltnam. “I’ve done, my dear boy; but tell me where your sister is.”

“I don’t know.”

“Or won’t know,” said Sir Cheltnam. “Never mind. You will be better soon, and then apologetic.” Alison made no answer, and Sir Cheltnam walked slowly away.

“Sulky cub!” he muttered. “What’s the matter with him? Quarrelled with Dana perhaps, and she is leading him a life. Well, she is quite capable of doing it, and her sister will keep a pretty tight curb on Neil. I shall have a nice set of brothers and sisters-in-law when it comes off. Well, I don’t know that it much matters. I am quite capable of keeping a watch over my own front door.”

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.”

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.

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.