Chapter Twenty Six.
Neil Breaks his Promise.
“Just going down to dinner?” said Ralph Elthorne, as his son came into his room the same evening. “That’s right, Neil. It looks like old times. It does me good. Wait a bit, and I’ll join you—as of old. Not quite,” he added, and his lip quivered—“not quite, my boy. But I can be carried down, and I shall not be an invalid.”
“No, sir,” said Neil, “no invalid, and you will soon forget your lameness.”
“Yes, yes, Neil, I shall try hard to do that. There, I will not keep you. I’m getting independent, you see. Ask nurse to come and sit with me as you go out.”
There was no need, for as Neil rose to go down, the nurse entered, book in hand, but drew back till the young surgeon had left the room to go thoughtfully downstairs, for he was forcing himself to think out what it would be best to do respecting his sister. He shrank from disturbing his father’s mind, now that he was so much better and free from disturbing elements. A subject like that might bring on a fresh attack, or at least retard his progress, and by the time Neil had reached the drawing room he had planned that he would speak firmly to Burwood; but he paused at the door, for he foresaw that such a proceeding would very likely drive the baronet to speak to his father, when the agitation would only be coming from another source.
“Bel must fight her own battle,” he said to himself. “A woman ought to be able to cool a lover’s courage. There the matter must wait. Like many more of the kind, give it time and it will settle itself.”
He entered the room, to find the objects of his thoughts all there and waiting his coming. Aunt Anne was radiant, and Burwood, who was chatting with Alison upon the everlasting theme of the horse, came and shook hands in the warmest manner.
“I can’t quarrel with him,” thought Neil. “It must be done by diplomacy or scheming.”
The dinner was announced directly after, and as Neil took in his sister, she pressed his arm.
“Please, please, dear, don’t let me be out of your sight all the evening,” she whispered.
“Impossible to do that, little one,” he said quietly. “You ladies will leave the room, you see. Suppose I keep Burwood in sight all the evening, will not that do as well?”
“Oh, yes,” she whispered eagerly. “Of course.” The dinner passed off wonderfully well, everyone seeming to be on the qui vive to keep off anything likely to trench upon the past and the troubles in the house. Aunt Anne did scarcely anything but beam; Sir Cheltnam related anecdotes; and Alison entered into conversation with his brother.
In due time the ladies rose, and the three men were left together over their wine, when the conversation went on as easily as if there had been no undercurrent of thought in either breast.
“It will be easy enough to keep them apart,” thought Neil, as he sipped his coffee. “When we go into the drawing room Bel shall sing some of the old ballads.”
A calm feeling of restfulness had come over Neil Elthorne, and it was as if his efforts at self-mastery were already bearing fruit, when after a quick glance had passed between Burwood and Alison, the latter rose, went to the window, and looked out, taking the opportunity to glance at his watch.
“Very dark,” he said. “Nasty drive back for you, Burwood. Want your lamps.”
“Oh, the mare would find her way home if it were ten times as dark,” said Burwood laughingly. “I think I could get safely back without reins. She always turns aside if we meet anything.”
“Nothing like a good, well-broken horse,” said Alison, looking furtively at his watch. “What do you say to joining them in the drawing room?”
“By all means,” cried Burwood, rising.
At that moment the butler entered, and went straight to Neil’s chair.
“Beg pardon, sir,” he whispered. “You are wanted in master’s room.”
Neil started to his feet, and turned to their guest. “You’ll excuse me for a few minutes?” he said hurriedly.
“Doctors need no excuse,” replied the baronet, and Neil hurried out and upstairs to his father’s room, expecting and dreading some fresh seizure, but, to his surprise, he found his senior lying back calmly on his couch, ready to salute him with a smile.
“I was afraid you were unwell,” cried Neil.
“No, my boy, no; I’ve been lying very comfortably. In less pain than usual.”
“But you are alone.”
“Yes. Nurse has just gone. You might have met her on the stairs. A message came for her—from Isabel, I suppose. I don’t mind. I told her not to hurry; I want to inure myself to being more alone.”
“And you wanted me, sir?”
“Yes, my boy,” said Elthorne. “Not particularly; but I knew that you had been seated over your wine for some time, and I thought you would not mind coming up to me for a little while. I get very dull sometimes, my dear boy. You do not mind?”
“No, sir, of course not.”
“Well, don’t look at me like that, Neil. It is the doctor examining me to see how I am. I want you to look like my son.”
Neil smiled.
“Ah, that’s better. Sit down close up here for a while. Burwood and Alison will have a cigar together, and not miss you.”
“Oh, no,” said Neil rather bitterly. “They do not care much for my society.”
“Why not?” cried his father sharply. “You are an able, cultured man—a clever surgeon.”
“But not a veterinary surgeon, father,” said Neil, smiling.
Ralph Elthorne nodded and smiled.
“No,” he said; “you are right. They do seem to think of nothing but horses. I was the same once, I’m afraid, my boy. Perhaps I shall think a good deal of horses still; but,” he continued sadly, “from a very different point of view to that of the past.”
“Never mind the past, father,” said Neil quickly. “Think of the future.”
“A poor future for me, Neil,” said Elthorne, shaking his head.
“By no means, my dear father. There is nothing to prevent your living another fifteen or twenty years.”
“Like this?” replied Elthorne despairingly, as he glanced down at his helpless limbs.
“Like this, sir. You are a wealthy man, and can soften the hardships of your state in a hundred ways.”
“Ah, well, we shall see, my boy, we shall see.”
“Have you been reading?” asked Neil, glancing at a book on the little table by the side of the couch.
“No. Nurse Elisia was reading to me when Maria brought her a message.”
“Shall I go on reading where she left off?” said Neil, taking up the book and feeling a kind of pleasure in holding the little volume so lately in her hands.
“No, no, I am tired of poetry and history. What are you writing now?”
“Only some notes on a case that is taking up a good deal of attention just now.”
“Ah!” said the elder man eagerly. “I should like to hear that.”
“It is very dry and tedious, I’m afraid; only of interest to the professional man.”
“But I take an interest in such things now. Will you read it to me, Neil?”
“Of course, sir. I’ll fetch it,” said Neil, smiling at his father’s eagerness about matters that he would be unable to comprehend.
“That’s right, my boy. But you are sure that you will not think it a trouble?”
“My dear father,” cried Neil, taking his hand, “I wish you would try to understand me better. I’m afraid you do not.”
“Yes, yes, my boy. I do understand you, indeed I do. Don’t think because I have lain here, querulous and complaining, that I have been blind as well as helpless. God bless you, my boy, for all you have done!”
“Only my duty, sir,” said Neil gravely, “and I only wish that—”
He stopped short.
“Yes—yes—what?” said his father eagerly.
“That I could have followed out your wishes in another way.”
He rose and went out of the room, leaving the helpless man gazing sadly after him.
“The tyrant’s reign is over,” he said sadly, “and I must be resigned to all that comes.”
Neil went hurriedly down to the library, to stop short as he reached the door, for there was the low murmur of a man’s voice within, speaking in appealing tones.
“Poor Bel!” muttered Neil, as the recollection of all that had passed that day came back, and his promise—entirely forgotten—to keep Burwood with him, came like a flash.
It was only a dozen steps to the dining room, and he hurried there to throw open the door, and, as he feared, find it empty.
Angry with himself for his carelessness, though hardly at the moment seeing how he could have acted differently, he hurried back to the library, entered suddenly, and then stopped, as if paralysed by the pang which shot through him.
For he had entered angrily, feeling ready to interrupt a tête-à-tête, which Burwood must have contrived to obtain with his sister; and he found himself in presence of Alison, who was tightly holding Nurse Elisia’s hands, which she now seemed to wrest away, as she turned suddenly, looked wildly in Neil’s face, rushed by him, and hurried out of the room.
“Well?” said Alison, as soon as he could recover from the startling effect of his brother’s interruption. “You might have knocked.”
Neil made no reply, but stood there pressing his nails into the palms of his hands, as he fought hard to keep down the sensation of mad, jealous hatred gathering in his breast. Then, turning upon his heel, he staggered more than walked out of the room, across the hall and upstairs to his father’s chamber, but only to pause at the door.
“I have no right—I have no right,” he said; and going down once more, forgetful of everything but his own agony of spirit, he took his hat from the stand, passed out through the hall door, and walked swiftly away into the black darkness of the night—onward at a rapidly increasing pace—onward—anywhere so that he might find rest. For the feeling was strong upon him that he and his brother must not meet while this mad sensation of passion was surging in his breast.