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.
On this particular morning he had been lying placidly enough, chatting with his son, while Nurse Elisia was in attendance, till Neil, feeling that the time had now come for his father to be prepared, let drop a few words about Sir Denton’s visit.
The change was almost startling. There was a wildly eager, excited look in his eyes, and suspicion in the tone of his voice, as he exclaimed:
“Coming down? Sir Denton? For what reason? Quick! Tell me why?”
He caught his son’s wrist, and his long thin fingers gripped it firmly as his troubled face, about which the grey hair was growing long since his illness, was turned searchingly to his son.
“Don’t take it like that, my dear father,” said Neil, smiling. “It is not the first time we have had him to see you.”
“No, no! I know all that; but why, why is he coming?”
“I asked him to come down, sir, that is all.”
“Ah! you asked him to come down. Why, why was I not told?”
“For the reason you are showing,” replied Neil quietly. “I was afraid that if you knew you might agitate yourself, and fill your brain with fancies about your state.”
“So would any sick man,” cried Elthorne sharply. “And that is not all. You are keeping a great deal from me in your false wisdom. But you cannot hide it from one who knows intuitively what changes take place in him. I can see and feel it all. I am worse.”
“My dear sir, no,” said Neil, smiling.
“Don’t contradict me, boy,” cried his father fiercely. “Surely I ought to know from my own sensations. I am far worse, and you have sent for Sir Denton because you have reached the end of your teachings, and feel helpless to do any more.”
“You do not give me much credit, father,” said Neil, smiling.
“Yes, yes, I do, boy, a great deal,” said the old man excitedly. “Then it has come to this at last.”
“My dear father, that is what I feared, or I should have spoken to you sooner. I assure you that you have no cause for alarm.”
“Words, words, words,” cried Mr Elthorne piteously. “The case is absolutely hopeless. You know it, and so you have sent for Sir Denton again.”
“My dear father,” began Neil, taking his hand. “Be silent sir,” cried the old man fiercely, “and let me speak.”
“Then, my dear patient,” said Neil, “I must insist upon your listening to me calmly and patiently;” but Mr Elthorne paid no heed and went on.
“I’m not going to blame you, boy, I suppose you have done your best, everything that you have been taught.”
Elisia glanced at Neil in spite of herself, and it was a commiserating look, but a feeling of elation ran through her as she saw his calm, patient, pitying look as she quitted the room.
“Indeed I have done everything possible, father,” he said quietly.
“Yes, yes; all you knew, boy; all you knew.”
“And I have been able to do more perhaps than a surgeon who visited you would have achieved, through always being on the spot.”
“But your knowledge is limited, of course, boy.”
“Yes, I am afraid so,” replied Neil sadly.
“I’m not blaming you. Very patient with me, my boy. So has she been. Nurse!” he called. “Nurse!”
He turned his head a little so as to look over the back of the couch, for he had not seen that they were alone; and then, as he strained his neck a little to fix his eyes upon the door which communicated with the dressing room, it was painful to see the state of utter helplessness to which the strong man had been reduced. He could move his hands and arms, but the complete want of power elsewhere was so apparent to himself now that he uttered a groan of despair, and looked back imploringly at his son.
“What had I done?” he muttered. “What had I done?”
“My dear father,” whispered Neil; but the old man turned from him again impatiently.
“Nurse,” he cried, “nurse!” and he beat, with a stick that was ready to his hand, impatiently upon the floor.
“I will go for her,” said Neil eagerly; but there was no need. Nurse Elisia had faithfully devoted herself to the service of her patient; his call had been heard, and she came in quickly and silently, to glide toward the couch, her eyes the while scanning the sufferer questioningly, as if asking what had occurred to cause the summons.
“There is nothing wrong, nurse,” Neil felt moved to say, as he saw the questioning look.
“What?” cried Mr Elthorne, turning his eyes fiercely upon his son. “There is, nurse, and that is why I summoned you. Look here, Neil; my body may be half dead, but my head is clear. I am not imbecile yet, and I will not be treated like a child. It is hard, very hard, that even one’s own son sinks his relationship in the professional man, and forgets that he is dealing with his father, who has become to him only a patient.”
“My dear father!” cried Neil, smiling, “are you not a little hard on me?”
“No, no!” cried the old man irritably. “You are deceiving me, for my good as you call it, and as you owned a little while back.”
“Indeed, no,” said Neil quietly. “I only owned to keeping back the fact that Sir Denton was coming down till the morning of his visit, so as to save you from brooding over it and getting anxious.”
“Well, what is that but deceiving me as I say, and treating me as a child?”
“Surely not, my dear father.”
“I say it is, and it is cruel. I want to trust you, but you all, even to Isabel, join in cheating me, for my good as you are pleased to call it.”
Neil glanced at the nurse, who met his eyes, but, quick as lightning the sick man raised his hand, half menacingly, at his son.
“Hah!” he cried, “don’t try to corrupt her, and induce her to join your conspiracy; I can read your looks—‘Don’t contradict him.’ She is honest; I can trust her. You will tell me the simple truth, nurse, will you not?” he said, holding one hand over the back of the couch toward her.
She stepped nearer, and took the extended hand. “Indeed, I will, sir,” she said gently; and then, with a smile, “unless, sir, I were forbidden.”
“What?” he cried, withdrawing his hand.
“There might be a crisis in your illness when your medical adviser felt it was absolutely necessary, for your own sake, to keep back something of your state.”
“Hah!” he cried bitterly, “all alike—all alike. I thought I could trust you.”
“You can trust me, sir, to be your faithful servant, who is striving to help your recovery.”
He looked at her with the lines about the corners of his eyes very deep, but her frank, ingenuous look disarmed him, his face softened, and he said gently: “Yes, I can trust you, nurse. God bless you for a good, patient soul. And now, tell me—there cannot be such a crisis as that of which you speak—surely I should feel something of it if impending—”
He did not finish his sentence but looked piteously up at the nurse, whose smile of encouragement chased his dark thoughts away again, and he once more raised his hand.
“Yes,” he said gently. “You will tell me the truth. Sir Denton is coming down—to see me—to-day. It means that, though I do not suffer more, I am much worse?”
“Indeed, no, sir; and you are agitating yourself without cause.”
“Agitating myself without cause,” he muttered softly as he glanced at his son, and then quickly back at the candid face bent over him, while Neil’s heart beat more heavily, and there was a dreamy sensation of intense joy at his heart as he saw how full of faith and trust his father seemed.
“You are steadily getting better, sir,” continued Elisia, and her soft, low voice was full of a tender sympathy for the broken man who clung to her hand.
“Is that the truth?” he said, very slowly and impressively. “Don’t you deceive me, it would be too cruel. You will tell me all?”
She bent down over him a little lower so that he could gaze full in her clear, frank eyes, and there was a curious sense of swelling in Neil’s breast, and a jealous pang of despair as he clutched the arm of the chair tightly and thought of Alison, while the silence in the room seemed to be prolonged.
It was Ralph Elthorne who broke that silence, and Neil started back to the present, for his imagination had been going rapidly astray.
“Yes,” he said quietly; “it is the truth.”
He paused again for a few moments.
“You need not tell me,” he continued, “but, answer this: and I shall quite recover—the use—of my limbs—and get about—again—as before?”
Nurse Elisia did not remove her eyes from those which gazed into hers with such fierce question; but her own grew cloudy and seemed to darken with sadness and pity for the suffering man.
“Answer me,” he said imperiously.
She turned quickly to Neil.
“No,” cried Mr Elthorne; “don’t ask him what you are to say. Speak out—the truth.”
She bent lower over him with her eyes brimming over now, a couple of drops falling upon the invalid’s breast as he clung spasmodically to her hand.
“You cannot lie,” he said hoarsely. “The truth—the truth?”
Again there was a painful silence, and Neil clasped his hands together as his arms rested upon his knees, and he closed his eyes and let his head sink down, listening intently for the sentence which Nurse Elisia had been called upon to deliver. And at last she spoke, her low, soft voice thrilling father and son: “God has spared your life,” she almost whispered, but every word was painfully audible, “and you retain the greatest gift to man—the full possession of your mental powers.”
“Yes, yes,” he whispered. “Go on—go on.”
“You will soon, now, be sufficiently strong to be out and about once more, but—”
“Go on,” he panted—“go on.”
“Forgive me, dear Mr Elthorne, for saying it. You force it from me.”
“Yes, yes; go on,” he panted—“the truth—the truth. I shall be out and about, but—”
“Never again as of old,” she continued; and low as her words were, they rang out to the ears of the listeners; “never again as of old.”
As she uttered this last word of what was almost as painful as a death sentence to such a man as Ralph Elthorne, a sob seemed to be torn from his breast, and Neil sprang up as if expectant of some fresh seizure. But his father made a sign which arrested him, and lay back gazing straight before him till many moments had elapsed. Then his lips parted, and they heard him say in a whisper:
“A helpless cripple—I? Yes, it is the truth—the truth.”