Chapter Seven.
“Join your Ship at once.”
The morning broke warm and bright, but the gloom within the fine old manor-house deepened as the facts became more and more impressed on all these that the master would, if his life were spared, never again be the same.
Isabel came softly into the room twice during the night, so silently that Neil, as he sat watching, did not hear her till she touched his arm. She stayed with him for a time, and as they sat together in those solemn hours brother and sister seemed to be drawn more together than before. Not that there had ever been any gap between them, for Neil, partaking more of the nature of their dead mother than Alison, had always been the one to whom Isabel had clung, and whom she had gone to with her troubles when their father was in his sterner and most exacting moods.
Alison, too, came twice to see how the patient was; but here, somehow, his brother’s manner and words are jarred upon Neil, for there seemed a want of sympathy and a suggestion of Alison’s feeling free and independent, now that the autocrat of their house, hold had been cast down from his throne.
Just before morning, too, Aunt Anne had been in, ready to assert that she might just as well have sat up and kept her nephew company, for she had not slept a wink, her eyes stubbornly refusing to support her declaration, for they looked as if they had been tightly closed for hours.
As the morning progressed, and the injured man still lay in a stupor-like sleep, visitors and messengers arrived with inquiries about his state.
Beck was one of the first, and he came in the hope that Isabel would contrive to see him for a few minutes. He was not disappointed, for he had not been seated many minutes before Isabel came into the drawing room quite by accident, to fetch some work left on one of the chairs, and in an instant her hands were clasped in those of the young sailor.
“No, no!” she cried excitedly. “You know what papa said.”
“Yes,” he said earnestly; “and it would be cowardly and mean of me to take advantage of his lying there helpless. See, I will try and act like a gentleman,”—he dropped her hands—“I only want to tell you, Isabel, that, come what may, I shall keep to my course. Some day, when he is well again—”
“Then you think he will get well?” she cried eagerly.
“Yes; why not?” responded Beck. “I say, some day, when he is well again, he may alter and not be so set against me, and I am going to wait till then.”
“Yes,” she said with a sigh.
“I am not going to doubt you for a moment, Isabel. I don’t think, after all these years, you could turn from me; and when your father sees really what is for your happiness, he will, I believe, relent.”
Tom Beck had no opportunity to say more, for just then Aunt Anne bustled into the room.
“You, Mr Beck?” she said. “Why, I thought it was your father.”
“He is going to try and get across, by and by, in the invalid chair. He is not up yet, and honestly I do not think he is fit to leave his bed; but he says he must, and he will.”
“Poor man!” sighed Aunt Anne. “Oh, dear me, Mr Beck, what a deal of—Isabel, my dear, don’t wait.”
“No, Aunt,” said the girl quietly; and then, to herself, “Papa must have told Aunt Anne not to let me be along with Tom, or she would not have spoken like that.”
Then aloud—
“Good-bye, Mr Beck;” and she held out her hand, which was taken for a moment and then dropped, as she turned and left the room.
The vicar’s son had hardly left the house an hour when Sir Cheltnam rode over to make inquiries, and was leaving his card, when Alison came into the hall and went out on the steps to speak to him.
“Can’t ask you in,” said Alison. “The governor’s very bad.”
“Got a doctor down from London, haven’t you?”
“We’ve had one in consultation, but he has gone back.”
“But our doctor here is not attending him, for I met him, and he was asking about it, and thought it rather strange that he had not been sent for.”
“Humph! You see, my brother is attending him.”
“Oh!” ejaculated Sir Cheltnam. “Well, it’s no business of mine, but if anything happened to the old man it wouldn’t look well, and people would talk about it a good deal. I say, isn’t your brother rather disposed to ride the high horse?”
Alison winced.
“What do you mean?” he said rather roughly. “Oh, nothing much. A bit haughty with me, as if he did not approve of my pretensions. Coming the elder brother a bit, and I’m getting nervous as to what it is going to be now your father is down.”
“Oh, it is only Neil’s way,” said Alison sulkily. “And you don’t seem much better. If you came over to my place, I should ask you in, and call a man to take your horse.”
“How can I ask you in at a time like this?” said Alison apologetically.
“Easily enough, and take me into the drawing room. How is Isabel?”
“Broken-hearted, nearly. This came about directly after the governor had given Tom Beck his congé.”
“Then he had done that?”
“Yes; and the little girl’s a bit sore about it.”
“Cheerful for me!” said Sir Cheltnam.
“Bah! He’ll be off to sea directly, and she’ll soon forget him.”
“Then you think I had better not come in to-day? I’m off, then. Wish the old man better. I’ll come on again to-morrow to see how he is. I say, tell Isabel I called and was in great trouble, and that sort of thing.”
“Oh, yes; all right,” growled Alison.
“Pleasant sort of a brother-in-law in prospective,” said Sir Cheltnam to himself, as he cantered off.
“Takes it as a matter of course that he is to have her,” muttered Alison. “I’m not so sure.”
He bit one of his nails and watched the visitor till he was out of sight, and still stood at the foot of the steps frowning.
“Even he sees it,” he muttered. “I won’t stand any more of his arbitrary ways. He is only a year older than I am, and yet he is to lord it over me as if I were a child. Why should he take the lead in everything? Is he to do so always? Not if I know it. If all this means that a new king reigns in Hightoft, it is not going to be brother Neil.”
Almost in perfect ignorance of what was going on downstairs, Neil remained patiently watching by his father’s side. Aunt and sister had both begged him to go and lie down, insisting upon the fact that he would be quite helpless at night, and that it was his duty, so as to be ready to watch again, but he only smiled.
“My dear Aunt,” he said at last to that lady, who was greatly agitated in his behalf, “a doctor grows used to watching by his patient’s bedside, and gets little snatches of sleep which refresh him. Believe me, I am not a bit tired.”
At that moment Isabel entered the room with a telegram.
“For you, Neil, dear,” she said.
“It has been opened.”
“Yes, dear, Alison opened it. He said it must be for him.”
Neil frowned, but said no more, and taking out the telegram he read:
“The nurse leaves town this afternoon. Let a carriage meet her at the station.
“Hayle.”
“Hah!” he said, passing the letter to his aunt. “I am glad of that; it will set me free, and the help of a good nurse at a time like this is invaluable.”
“But shall we be able to trust her?” said Aunt Anne. “My experience of nurses is that they are dreadful women, who drink and go to sleep in sickrooms, and the patient cannot wake them, and dies for want of attention.”
“Oh, Aunt!” cried Isabel.
“I am assured that it is quite true, my dear,” said Aunt Anne, didactically.
“I think we have changed all that, Aunt, dear,” said Neil, smiling. “Sir Denton would not send down any woman who is not thoroughly trustworthy.”
Aunt Anne pursed up her lips, and tried to look wise and full of experience—a difficult task for a lady with her plump, dimpled countenance.
“Well, my dear,” she said, “I hope so; but it always seems to me that the selection of an attendant for a sick man is a lady’s duty, and I cannot believe in the choice made by a man, and such an old man too. But there, we shall see.”
“Yes, Aunt, dear,” said Neil, smiling, “we shall see.”
Aunt Anne was left in charge of the patient, very much to her satisfaction, so that Neil could go down with Isabel for a rest and a little fresh air.
As they reached the hall they met Alison, who came up directly.
“Oh, Neil,” he said, “I opened that telegram thinking it might be meant for me.”
“Yes,” said his brother. “I heard that you did.”
“Quite a mistake I hope you don’t mind.”
“I have other things to take my attention,” replied Neil. “Come, Isabel, let’s have a walk up and down in the fresh air. I can’t stay long.”
He led the way out on to the drive, and, after hesitating for a few moments, Alison followed, frowning, just as the sound of horses’ hoofs was heard, and Saxa and Dana Lydon rode up.
“Well, how’s the dad?” cried Saxa boisterously. “Going on all right? Glad of it. You boys are making too much fuss over it. Nature soon cures a fall. It isn’t like a disease, is it, Doctor?”
“It’s of no use to ask him,” said Dana merrily. “He’ll pull a professional face, and make the worst of it, and then by and by, rub his hands and say, ‘There; see what a clever fellow I am.’”
“Yes,” said Saxa maliciously, “when I could have set him right with some embrocation and a bit of flannel bandage.”
“Glad the old man’s better,” cried Dana. “Here, you people look white and worried. Order out the horses and come for an hour’s ride.”
“Would you like to go, Isabel?” asked Neil.
“I? Oh, no,” cried the girl hurriedly.
“What a baby you are, Bel!” said Saxa contemptuously. “You’ll come, Neil?”
“I should like a ride,” he replied, “but it is impossible to leave home.”
“Next time I ask you there will be a different answer,” said the girl sharply. “Don’t ask Alison, Dan,” she continued, turning to her sister. “He is going to be a good boy too, and stop and see his papa take his barley-water.”
“Is he?” said Alison gruffly. “Perhaps he was not going to wait to be asked. There is no occasion for me to hang about at home, Neil?”
“N-no, I think not. You can do nothing.”
“I’ll be ready in five minutes, then, girls.”
“Here, we’ll come round to the stables with you,” said Saxa. “I want to see The Don. Is he any the worse for his fall?”
She said this as she rode on beside Alison, her sister following, without any further notice of Neil and his sister, while the former stood looking after her, frowning.
“And I thought of marrying that hoyden!” he said to himself. “It is impossible. We have not a sympathy in common.”
Then the thought of his father’s expressed wishes came back, and of his lying there helpless. He had made no opposition when the matter had been spoken of last. How could he draw back now?
His heart sank low as he looked into the future with a kind of wonder as to what his future life would be bound up to a woman like that, and a feeling of anger rose within him at his weakness in letting the affair drift on so far.
“It is impossible,” he thought. “She does not care for me. It would be madness—a sin against her and against myself. Yes!” he said aloud with a start, for Isabel had laid her hand upon his arm.
“There is something the matter,” she said quickly.
Neil turned to hurry into the house, but his sister held him fast.
“No, no, dear. Tom is coming. Mr Beck must be worse.”
Neil looked in the direction taken by her eyes, and saw that the young lieutenant was striding rapidly toward them, coming by the short cut across the park, and now, seeing that he was observed, he waved his hand.
“Go in, Isabel,” said Neil quietly.
“Neil!”
“I wish it, my dear. After what has passed, you have no right to see him now.”
She gave him a tearful look, and went in with her head bent down to hide her face from anyone who might be at the windows.
The next minute the young sailor hurried up.
“You have sent her in, Neil,” he said reproachfully.
“Yes; why have you come back so soon? Anything wrong?”
“Yes,” said the young man hoarsely.
“Your father? I’ll come on.”
“No, no. Read that.”
He thrust a telegram into Neil’s hand, which read: “To join your ship at once. Imperative!”
“Yes; and I cannot go with matters like this,” cried Beck.
“But you must. Your position as an officer is at stake.”
“I can’t help it. Neil Elthorne, put yourself in my place. How can I go and leave Isabel at such a time?”
“What good could you do if you stayed?”
“It would help her. She would know I was near. I can’t go and leave her knowing what I do about that fellow Burwood.”
Neil looked at him fixedly for a few moments. “Don’t play the boy,” he said at last sternly.
“No; I am going to play the man,” cried Beck. “Isabel and I have been girl and boy together, and our affection has gradually strengthened till I know that she loves me as well as I love her.”
“Yes, perhaps so, my lad, but you heard her father’s decision, and you can do no more.”
“Yes; I heard his decision,” said the young sailor sturdily, “and I am not going to stand by and see her given up to that man! Why, Neil, it would kill her.”
“Look here, Tom, my good fellow, you must be sensible. It would be no kindness to my sister to let her feel that she had ruined your prospects.”
“It would not ruin my prospects,” said Beck sturdily. “I’m a good sailor, and if I lose my ship I can always get employment in the merchant service.”
“Of course you could, but neither Isabel nor I are going to let you degrade yourself. My father is dangerously ill, and nothing such as you fear can advance a step for months to come, so join your ship like a man, and show that you have faith in the girl you believe to love you.”
“If I only could think—” began Beck.
“Look here, Tom. I think you have some faith in me.”
“In you? My dear Neil,” cried the young sailor warmly, “if ever fellow looked upon another man as a brother, I do upon you. Why, you know that.”
“Yes, I know that,” said Neil, taking his arm and walking up and down the drive with him, “and I am going always to behave like a brother to you. Go and join your ship.”
“But Isabel?”
“Leave me to act for you over that matter as a brother would. For both your sakes I will do what is best.”
“But Burwood?”
“I don’t like Burwood, and I do like you,” said Neil, smiling. “Come, will not that satisfy you?”
“Almost. You will fight for me, then, Neil?”
“I don’t think that there will be any occasion to fight for you. I think time is on your side. Lieutenant Beck’s chance was very small with my father; but suppose one Captain Beck, a young officer who had distinguished himself by his seamanship in Her Majesty’s service, came and renewed his proposal for my sister’s hand, surely he would have a better chance of success.”
“Neil, old fellow,” cried Beck, facing round and grasping the young surgeon’s hand, “I don’t wonder that you are getting to be a big fellow at your hospital.”
“Nonsense! Who says I am?”
“Oh, I’ve heard. I wish I were as clever as you are. I came here feeling so bad that life didn’t seem worth living, and in a few minutes you’ve shown things to me in such a different light that—”
“You think it is worth living and sharing with someone else,” cried Neil.
“My dear old fellow,” cried the sailor, with tears in his eyes.
“And you will go off like a man and join your ship?”
“Yes,” cried Beck, grasping his friend’s hand, and speaking firmly, “like a man.”
“And you go at once?”
“Directly. Now take me in, and let me say good-bye to her.”
“No,” said Neil firmly.
“What? After my promise?”
“After your promise. I have a duty to my helpless father, Tom, my lad, and I should be playing a very dishonourable part if I took advantage of his position, knowing what I do of his wishes, to arrange a meeting between you and my sister. That was a love-sick boy speaking, not the Queen’s officer—the man whose honour is beyond reproach.”
“I suppose you are right,” said Beck, after a pause. “You know I am.”
“Let me see her for a moment, though.”
“No.”
“I know you are right—just to say ‘good-bye’ before you—just to touch her hand.”
“No, my lad. Say good-bye to me, and I’ll tell her you love her truly, and that you have gone off to your duty like a man—an officer and a gentleman. That you have exacted no promise from her, and that you have taken the advice of her brother—a man who loves you both and will help you to the end. There, I must go back to my father’s room. Good-bye.”
“O Neil,” groaned the young sailor; “this is all so hard and business-like. Everything goes easily for you. You don’t know what love is.”
A spasm contracted Neil’s features for a few moments, but he smiled sadly directly after.
“Perhaps not,” he said. “Who knows? There, business-like or not, you know I am doing my duty and you have to do yours. Come, sailor, I shall begin to quote Shakespeare to you. ‘Aboard, for shame; the wind sits in the shoulder of your sail, and you are staid for.’”
“But it is so hard, Neil.”
“Life’s duties are hard, man; but we men must do them at any cost. Come, good-bye, and old Shakespeare again—the end of the old man’s speech: ‘To thine own self be true’—and you will be true to the girl you wish to make your wife. Good-bye.”
Neil held out his hand, but it remained untouched for the full space of a minute before it was seized and crushed heavily between two nervous sets of fingers, while the young man’s eyes gazed fixedly in his. Then it was dashed aside. Beck swung himself round and dashed off across the park as hard as he could go, without trusting himself to look back.