Chapter Eleven.
Awkward Encounters.
“Oh, really, Sir Cheltnam, I would a great deal rather you waited till my brother is better,” said Aunt Anne, who seemed rather concerned about the sit of a couple of folds in her dress.
“Waited till he is better?” said the baronet, smiling.
“Well, you know what I mean. It is such an important thing that I really don’t like to interfere.”
“I would not ask you but I cannot ask Mr Elthorne. Wait? Oh, yes; I should be willing to wait, only, with all due respect to you, my dear Mrs Barnett, is it not rather indefinite?”
“Oh, dear me, I’m afraid so.”
“And time is going on. You see, I do not want to be exacting, but I should like to find rather a warmer welcome when I come, and to be asked more frequently. It is Mr Elthorne’s wishes.”
“Yes, yes, of course; I know that. But Isabel is very young.”
“It makes her the more attractive.”
“Well, I suppose so. There, Sir Cheltnam, I’m a plain woman, and I’ll speak out. I’m afraid she has been thinking a good deal about Mr Beck.”
“Of course; but that is all over now. Mr Elthorne did not approve of it, and when I spoke to him, he told me that it was one of the great desires of his heart. Then came that terrible accident, and since then, you see, I have been quite left out in the cold. Come, now, Mrs Barnett, I do not wish to puff myself, but you must own that I can offer her everything that will insure her a happy future.”
“Oh, yes; I know all that,” said Aunt Anne. “Then play the part of friend to us both.”
“What can I do?”
“A thousand things that a clever diplomatic woman, like yourself, can contrive admirably. Of course I know all about the Beck business, and what did I do? Show annoyance? Not a bit. I said, ‘It is a young girl’s first fancy, but one that she will soon forget. I’ll wait;’ and I have waited, but now it is time I was recognised a little by the young lady.”
“But her time is so taken up with attending to her father.”
“No, Mrs Barnett; I say little, but I see much. The nurse takes all that off her shoulders I believe.”
“Oh, yes, very attentive, and that sort of thing; but I shall be very glad when she is gone.”
“Naturally. But come, now—you will help me?”
“Well, well; I’ll do all I can.”
“I knew you would. Give me more of a carte blanche to come and go.”
“But you are here a great deal now.”
“Yes, as a formal visitor. Come, now, Mrs Barnett; if this were another establishment, and you a stranger and saw me here from time to time, would you ever imagine that dear Isabel and I were engaged?”
“Well—er—no.”
“Of course you would not. There, I need not say any more; I am quite satisfied. Is she with her father now?”
“No; I think she is down the garden.”
Sir Cheltnam smiled, bent forward, took and kissed the lady’s hand.
“Thank you,” he said, with a meaning smile; and he rose from the lounge in the drawing room where the above conversation had taken place, and turned toward the French window which opened out upon the lawn.
“No, no, really, Sir Cheltnam. I did not mean that.”
“My dear Mrs Barnett—”
“Oh, very well; I suppose it’s quite right. It was her father’s wish.”
“And yours, I am sure,” he said, nodding meaningly as he reached the window and passed out.
“I hope I’ve done right,” said Aunt Anne; “but Ralph is so strange, he may find fault. I’ll go up and talk to him, and gradually introduce the subject.”
Her countenance brightened, as she thought of this way out of a difficulty, and rising and smoothing her stiff silk dress, whose rustling she liked to hear, she went out into the hall, and began slowly to ascend the stairs.
“It is very trying to me,” she said to herself. “Isabel does not seem to care for him a bit; and as to the two Lydon girls, really if any gentleman had behaved so cavalierly to me as Neil and Alison do to them, I certainly should not have put up with it.” She paused for awhile rather breathlessly at the top of the stairs, and then went on to her brother’s room and turned the handle, but the door was evidently bolted inside.
For the moment she seemed surprised, but she went on toward the next door, that of the dressing room attached, but, as she reached it, this door was opened, and the nurse appeared, to step out into the corridor, and close the door behind her.
“Did you try the other door, ma’am?” she said softly.
“Yes; it is bolted. Never mind; I’ll go through here.”
“Not now, ma’am,” said the nurse quickly, and in a voice hardly above a whisper; but there was plenty of decision in her tones.
“Not now?” said Aunt Anne haughtily. “My good woman, what do you mean?”
“Mr Elthorne has dropped asleep, ma’am.”
“Well, I’ll go in and sit with him till he wakes.”
“Excuse me, madam,” said Nurse Elisia, barring the way; “he must not be disturbed.”
“My good woman!” cried Aunt Anne again, ruffling up at anyone daring to interfere with her in that house, “I am not going to disturb him. Surely I know perfectly how to behave to a sick person.”
“Of course, ma’am,” said the nurse quietly, “and I am sorry to have to interfere.”
“As you should be,” said Aunt Anne tartly. “Have the goodness to stand on one side.”
“I beg your pardon, madam,” said the nurse gently, “you are placing me in a very awkward position, and I grieve to oppose you in your wishes, but I must obey my instruction from Mr Neil Elthorne. They were that I was to particularly guard against the patient’s being disturbed when he was asleep.”
“And very proper instructions too; but say Mr Elthorne, Nurse Elisia, and not ‘the patient.’ This is not a hospital.”
The nurse bowed.
“I am sure my nephew did not intend that such instructions as these were to apply to me.”
“To everybody, madam. Sleep is of such vital importance to the—Mr Elthorne in his present state, and he has so much difficulty in obtaining rest, especially at night, that even an hour’s natural sleep is most desirable.”
“Well, of course, I understand all that,” said Aunt Anne, “and I shall take care that I do not make a sound.”
She stepped forward, but the nurse did not stir.
“Will you have the goodness to move,” said Aunt Anne, in the most frigid of tones.
“Pray forgive me, madam. I must carry out my orders.”
“I have told you, my good woman, that they do not apply to me. Will you be good enough to stand aside?”
A faint colour appeared in the nurse’s cheeks, but she did not move.
“Did you hear what I said?” cried Aunt Anne haughtily.
“Yes, madam, and again I ask your pardon,” said the nurse gently. “Excuse me, pray, but you are placing me in a very painful position.”
“Then stand aside,” said Aunt Anne, who was growing very red in the face, consequent on being opposed. “Do you hear me, woman?”
“Yes, madam, but I must obey Mr Elthorne. A nurse dare not depart from the doctor’s instructions. Even a slight lapse might mean a serious injury to the patient in her charge.”
“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.”