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.”