Nurse Elisia Part 59

"Yes: my work was ended. There was no need for me to stay."

Again there was a pause which neither seemed to possess the power to break, and the indignant feeling rose hotter in Neil's breast. For a moment he felt that he must turn and quit the room, but the anger pa.s.sed off, and he stood firm, grasping the edge of the mantelpiece, and mentally calling himself coward and utterly wanting in nerve.

"My brother's betrothed," he muttered; "my brother's betrothed!" and he tried to picture her before him as something holy--as the woman who was soon to occupy the position of sister, with all that had pa.s.sed between them forgotten--dead forever.

And that terrible silence continued till there was the sound of a carriage approaching, reaching the house, and causing a faint rattling of one of the windows, after which it pa.s.sed on with a strange, hollow, metallic sound, which died away gradually, when the silence seemed to have grown ten times more painful, and the failing fire fell together with a musical tinkle. Then a few glowing cinders dropped through the grating, and as Neil watched them where they lay on the grey hearth, he saw them gradually turn black, and compared them to the pa.s.sion in his breast.

"Like the glowing ashes of my poor love," he thought, as the painful silence continued, for still neither felt that it was possible to speak.

"If Sir Denton would only come and end this madness!" thought Elisia.

"If this agony would only end, I could go back to my poor sufferers--and oblivion."

The clock on the mantel suddenly gave one stroke to indicate the half hour, and the clear, sharp ring of its silvery toned bell vibrated through the room, its tones seeming as if they would never cease. Then all was silence once again, till, making an effort, the trembling woman spoke in a low, pained voice, which she strove hard to render firm: "Sir Denton tells me, Mr Elthorne--"

She stopped, for a deep breath escaped from Neil's breast, sounding like a faint groan of relief.

"I beg your pardon," he said coldly.

"Sir Denton tells me," she said again, but more firmly, for his tone irritated her over-strung nerves, "that you have accepted an appointment to go out to one of the most unhealthy places on the West Coast."

The spell was broken, and he could speak out now firmly and well.

"Yes," he said, with a feeling of eager joy that they were off dangerous ground. "I suppose the place is unhealthy, for the suffering there is terrible. It has been full of horrors, but I hope to change all that."

"And the risk--to your life?"

He laughed--harshly, it sounded to her--and she shrank away at his next words, but still clutched the marble mantelpiece.

"This from you?" he said; and she thought it was meant as a reproach, but his next words gave her confidence. "Why, you would go into any plague-stricken place without shrinking, or realising the danger."

"Yes," she said softly, "if it were necessary. I hope so."

"Well, then, why should I hesitate? I hope I shall not suffer. It would be a pity," he continued, quite calmly now, and his words seemed unimpa.s.sioned and dreamy in their simplicity. "If I died, I suppose it would be a loss to the poor people out there, whom I hope to save. They might have a difficulty in getting another man."

"Yes," she said, with a shudder. "Sir Denton tells me that he has had great trouble in filling the appointment."

"I suppose so. Yes: he told me."

There was another pause.

"Ought you to go?" she said at last, and her voice was not so firm.

"Certainly," he replied rather bitterly. "I have nothing to lose except my life."

"You have those at home who love you--sister, father."

"Poor little Isabel! Yes, but she has one who loves her. My father is sure to yield to circ.u.mstances there. It is of him I think most. I shall ask you to be kind to him, as you always have been. He will grow more exacting, I fear, as the years roll on; but you will see him occasionally. He likes you; his liking will grow into love, and he will take your advice. Will you do this for me?"

She made no reply, and as silence was gathering round them again, he hastened to break it and fight back the thoughts that would arise.

"I shall be grateful for anything you in your experience can do for him to make life pa.s.s more easily; and you will help and counsel my little sister, too. She must not marry a fox hunting squire."

Still no answer, and he went on hurriedly.

"I shall not go down again. I start so very soon. It would only be painful to them; and I shall be very busy making preparations till the s.h.i.+p sails."

She stood there, clinging to the cold stone, and he went on in the same hurried way.

"It is a grand work, and Heaven knows I wish I were more capable. There will be so much to do. I shall have to start a hospital, even in the humblest way at first, and let it grow by degrees. There will be a great deal of prejudice, too, to overcome, but it will be satisfactory to master all these difficulties one by one. And I will!" he cried with energy. "Yes: Sir Denton is right," he added enthusiastically; "it will be a grand work, and I long to get there and begin."

"And you will go without fear," she said, as if she were speaking a solemn truth.

"I hope so," he said humbly; "but man is very weak. There, I am going, weak or strong, and I think you know me enough to believe that I shall do my best."

"Yes, I know that," she said gravely, and her voice was very low and sweet.

"Thank you. It encourages me," he said cheerfully. "You will give me your prayers for my success, I know."

"Indeed, yes," she said, as she looked up at him, and he saw her eyes were wet with tears.

"Don't--don't do that," he said huskily. "It is nothing to grieve for.

I only say, forgive me for all the mistaken past, and--"

His emotion choked him for the moment, but he struggled bravely to go on:

"And I pray G.o.d to bless you in your future, and make you very happy, dear. It is your brother speaking to his sister, and my words now are an honest and self-denying as ever man spoke."

"I know it," she said, with quivering lips, and her sweet voice thrilled him and made him falter; but he fought on. "I have known for long that you could speak nothing but the honest truth."

"Thank you," he said quickly; "thank you. You and I have worked together long now, and have had some triumphs of which we might boast.

Where _is_ Sir Denton? He ought to come, and we could chat over all of my projects. I shall write to you, of course, and tell you all I am doing, and you can give me a word or two of advice, perhaps. Why, nurse--I beg your pardon--Lady Cicely--your name sounds strange to me, I have so lately heard it from Sir Denton--how grateful we all ought to be for your devotion to our good cause. Forgive me for speaking so."

She seemed plunged in thought, and not to hear his words, and he started, as she spoke now in alow, soft, dreamy way, as if uttering the thoughts that had occupied her for the past few minutes.

"You are going out possibly to your death, Neil Elthorne," she said.

"That is the worst that can happen."

"No," she said softly, "not the worst. You are going yonder to fight with disease, forsaking all who love you, offering up your own life as a sacrifice, that yonder poor stricken creatures may live."

"Heaven only knows," he said solemnly.

"You are going alone, to face the horrors of a pestilence without the help such as you find here."

"Yes, but I shall soon get a.s.sistance, and till then I must do my best."

She looked across at him where he stood, and again that dim room was silent, so that the slightest sound would have been a relief.

"Are you fixed upon going?" she said at last; and then she started, for his voice rang out now strongly. "Yes," he cried, "I must."