Nurse Elisia

Chapter Two.

Nurse Elisia

The roar of the big road sounded plainly, but it was far enough off for it to be subdued into a mellow hum, suggestive to the country sufferer lying in the narrow bed with its clean linen and neat blue checked hangings by the open window, of bees swarming, and a threshing machine at work in the farm beyond the park.

And yet it was London, for the windows were coated with a sooty layer outside, and the sun shone as if Nature were afraid its beams would be too strong for Londoners’ eyes, to which it came as in an eclipse through smoked glass, and a murky haze full of germs and motes was interposed between the dwellers in the city and the blue sky above.

The ward was long and clean, and every bed was occupied. The air was fairly fresh and pleasant, though dashed with the odour of antiseptics. But there was none of the faint medicinal effluvia of the sick wards, for this was surgical – the special empire of the celebrated Sir Denton Hayle, well known in his profession as the most skillful and daring operator this generation has seen. There were those who shrugged their shoulders and said he had murdered many a patient, and it was true that a percentage – thanks to his skill, a very small percentage – of his sufferers had died; but, on the other hand, he could point to those whom he had saved from an apparently inevitable early death, brought on by one of the evils of poor human nature which had heretofore set medical and surgical skill at defiance.

Maria Bellows, in other respects a stout, hearty, country lass, had been one of these sufferers, and the provincial doctors called in to Hightoft by Aunt Anne to see the upper housemaid, had shaken their heads and said there was only one thing that would save her, and that was to go up to the great East Central Hospital and place herself in the hands of Sir Denton Hayle.

Then, during one of his visits home, Aunt Anne insisted upon Neil Elthorne seeing the woman. Mr Elthorne said it was absurd, but he was quiet afterward when he heard that his son had also declared that the only thing that could save the patient’s life was for her to come up to the hospital in town. Furthermore, he said that he would speak to the illustrious chief under whom he studied, and see that every arrangement was made for her reception.

Maria went up, and now lay by the open window thinking of the country, of how long it would be before the doctors made her well again and sent her back to her situation. Then she wondered how Miss Isabel was, and Mr Alison, and how soon there would be weddings at the house. For it was an open secret among the servants at Hightoft that “Master’s” sons were to marry the Misses Lydon, and that Miss Isabel would become Lady Burwood.

“I shall be glad to get back,” she said at last with a sigh. “I always thought London was a gay place, but – ugh! – it is dull.”

“Dull lying here, my poor girl,” said a sweet voice, and she turned sharply and uttered a cry of pain with the effort.

In an instant busy hands were about her, changing her position and wiping the agony-engendered perspiration from her brow before assisting her to drink a little water.

“I am sorry I startled you.”

Maria looked half angrily in the beautiful face bent over her, with its clearly cut, aristocratic features and large eyes, which gazed searchingly into her own. For it was a countenance that attracted attention with its saddened, pitying look, heightened by the smooth white cap and stiffened quaint linen “bib and tucker,” as our mothers termed the old puritan-like costume, the whole being strongly suggestive of the portrait of some lady of the Pilgrim Father days.

“You came so quiet, you quite frightened me,” said the woman.

“Your nerves are over-strung,” was the reply. “I ought to have known better.”

There was something so sweet and soothing in the deep musical tones of the soft voice that it had its effect upon the patient directly, and she lay back with a sigh.

“It don’t matter, nurse,” she said, “but do make haste and get me well.”

“Indeed, we are trying very hard. But you are mending fast. Sir Denton will be here soon to see you again.”

“Yes,” said the woman, with her brow growing rugged and a petulance of manner, “to hurt me again, horrid. He’ll kill me before he has done.”

“You do not think so, Maria,” said the nurse gently, as she laid her cool white hand upon the patient’s brow. “He is as tender and gentle as a woman, and he takes great interest in your case.”

“But, I say, they won’t take me into the theatre again, will they? Oh, I say, what a shame to call that horrid place a theatre!”

“No; that is all over now, and you have nothing to do now but get well and go back to the country.”

“But it takes so long, and it was so horrid with all those doctors and people, and the chloroform, and stuff, and – ”

“Do you not think it would be better,” said the nurse gently, “if, instead of looking at what has passed in that spirit, you were to try and remember it only with gratitude, and think that a month back you were in a very dangerous state, while now you are rapidly getting well?”

“I don’t know,” said the woman querulously. “It’s very horrid lying here listening to other people complaining and saying how bad they are, and no one near who knows you.”

“Come, come,” said the nurse gently, “you are hot and tired. I have brought you some flowers and fruit. There!”

She placed a bunch of roses in the patient’s hand, and placed a bunch of large grapes before her on the bed.

“Thanky,” said the woman, ungraciously, as she sniffed at the flowers. “But they’re not very fresh.”

“No,” said the nurse, smiling; “but you must recollect that they had to be cut in the country and sent up by rail. Try a few of the grapes.”

She held up a little tray, and the patient picked one or two grapes off the bunch with an indifferent air.

“Not much of grapes,” she said. “You should see them in the vineries at Hightoft. Much nicer than these poor tasteless things.”

“I am sorry they’re not better, Maria,” said the nurse with a pitying smile. “They were the best I could get. You must remember we are in London.”

“Oh, yes; it isn’t your fault, nurse. You can’t help it.”

“Eat a few more.”

“No; I don’t want ’em. I say, how long will the doctor be? I want to know if I mayn’t get up.”

“I can tell you that, Maria. Not yet. Try and be patient and trust to us.”

“Oh, very well,” said the girl petulantly; “but it’s horrid lying here so long.”

“Do you think you could read a little if I brought you a book?”

“No. It only makes me tired. I hate reading.”

“Hush! Here is Mr Elthorne.”

As she spoke a tall, keen-looking, youngish man approached the bed. He was handsome and with a strong resemblance to his father; but his high forehead wore a peculiarly thoughtful, intent look, and there were the lines in his face made by constant devotion to some study, and a something in his eyes which suggested that he was thinking deeply of an object which had eluded his mental grasp.

“Good-morning,” he said quietly. “How is your patient?”

“A little nervous and restless, sir. Ought she not to have change?”

“Yes,” said the young surgeon, taking the patient’s hand and watching her intently. “As soon as we can move her, but we must hasten slowly. You will be glad to get back – home, Maria?”

“Oh, yes, sir, please, sir. I am so tired of being here.”

“I suppose so,” said the young surgeon. “Naturally;” and he turned to the nurse with a slight shrug of his shoulders.

“It is so sad and painful, sir,” she said gravely. “Poor thing! I am sure she has tried to be very patient.”

“Well, we will hear what Sir Denton says.”

Neil Elthorne went across the ward to another bed, and Maria uttered a little laugh.

“What amuses you?”

“Oh, nothing, nurse; I was only thinking. Of course I want to get home again. Anybody would.”

“Well, be patient. You are getting better, and you must think of health and strength, and the bright country life, where you will have fresh flowers and better fruit, and be among your friends.”

The nurse smiled, and then placed a little bottle of lavender water in her patient’s hand.

“To sprinkle about you when you feel faint,” she said.

“Thanky,” said the woman, in a tone of voice which robbed the word of thankfulness; and the nurse went across to where the young surgeon was busy with another patient.

“And she knows I don’t like lavender water,” grumbled the woman. “Always trying to play the fine lady nurse, and showing off, and I don’t believe she’s a lady at all. A real lady would have brought Padchouly or Odyklone. Think I don’t know. Flowers and grapes only cheap rubbish. Can’t afford better, I suppose.”

She lay back watching the actions of nurse and surgeon the while, and commenting thereon.

“She’s an artful one, she is, with all her demure looks and mincing ways. I’m not blind. Only come here because she can wear them play-acting clothes and show off. I haven’t patience with her. Lady nurse, indeed. No more a lady than I am. Yes, of course. Look at that. But it won’t do, madam. He’s engaged, and if I see much more of it I’ll tell the old doctor – see if I don’t. You’re not going to trap our Master Neil, and so I tell you. I should like to set Miss Saxa at her. My word, she’d startle my lady. Well, now; look at that!”

There was not much to see, only that Neil Elthorne had spoken as they were leaving the other patient’s bedside, and the nurse had turned to look at him as if half startled, and then turned away and came back seeming slightly disturbed. But by the time she had reached the first patient’s bedside her face was perfectly calm again, and an unbiased observer would have said that it was very beautiful in its gentle, resigned expression.

“Let me sprinkle a little of the scent for you,” she said.

“Oh, very well. If you like,” said Maria ungraciously. Then quickly, and with a flash of suspicion in her eyes, “I say, why do you look at me like that? You don’t think I shall die, do you?”

“Oh, no,” said the nurse, smiling, “indeed no. You will get better and go.”

“But lots of them do die, don’t they?”

“Some do, unfortunately; but why should you think of that?”

“You’ve seen lots die, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” said the nurse gravely; “in spite of all our efforts; and I have seen many grow strong and well, thanks to the skill of Sir Denton Hayle and Mr Elthorne.”

“We always call him Mr Neil at home; master’s Mr Elthorne.”

“And go away at last, cured,” continued the nurse, not heeding the interruption, “thankful for Heaven’s mercy and full of gratitude to those who have tended them.”

“So am I,” said Maria, shortly. “You think I’m not, but I am.”

“Hush! Do not talk. You are getting flushed and excited. Here is Sir Denton.”

“That’s right,” muttered Maria, as the nurse left the bedside to go toward a slight little white-haired gentleman, closely shaven, and whose lips were closely compressed, as, with his large, deeply-set eyes he gave a quick glance round the ward, which became perfectly still as he approached.

“Good-morning,” he said. “Come, my child, this will not do. Too pale! Too much application. The nurse will have to be nursed if we go on like this.”

“Oh, no, I am quite well, Sir Denton,” she said, smiling, with quite an affectionate look in her face.

“Then I am an ignorant old pretender, my child,” he said gravely. “Well, Elthorne, anything special to report?”

“Number forty-four, here, not quite so well as I should like to see her. Been a little feverish in the night, has she not, nurse?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the nurse; “but if I might say so – .”

“Of course, of course,” said Sir Denton, “a little irritable.”

“I think it is more that she is fretting to get away from here, than from any fresh complication.”

“Let’s see,” said the keen-looking old surgeon, turning at once to the bed, where Maria had lain watching them and trying to catch their words. “Well,” he said aloud, as he seated himself and made his rapid examination, “flowers and fruit, and a clear eye and a clean tongue. Healthy look, too, about your skin, and the colour coming back. Why, you may get up – yes, for an hour or two, say the day after to-morrow, and in another week or two we will send you back home cured. What do you say to that?”

“Thanky, sir.”

“Strange woman, that,” said Sir Denton, an hour later, when he was leaving the ward. “I believe that when she was made, all the atoms or particles which go to form the virtue known as gratitude were left out. What do you say, nurse?”

“The poor woman has suffered a great deal.”

“Yes, but she might have shown some little thankfulness to you for what you have done.”

“I, Sir Denton?” said the nurse deprecatingly. “Yes, my child, you. What I have done would have been useless without your help. But there, it is waste of words to praise you, for you are a dreadful sceptic. By the way, Elthorne, there is nothing to prevent you from taking a week’s run. You ought to have it now.”

“I don’t like to leave till that woman is perfectly safe from a relapse.”

“Well, she is now, so go. It will suit me better than if you wait to go later on. Nurse Elisia and I will see to her. I suppose you will trust us?”

“What a question!” said the young surgeon. “Well, under those circumstances I will go for a few days – say four.”

“Take a fortnight, man.”

“No; the time I said. I should not go down only my people consider that I am neglecting them. I shall be back at the end of four days.”

He glanced sharply at the nurse as he spoke, and she met his eyes in the most calm, unmoved way.

“You may depend upon my taking every care of the patient, Mr Elthorne,” she said quietly.

“Thank you; I am sure you will,” he said with his brow wrinkling a little. But he mastered himself the next minute, as he gave a few directions concerning other patients in the ward.

“Tut, man! that will do,” said Sir Denton, impatiently. “The conceit of you young fellows is dreadful. Do you think there will be screens drawn round all the beds just because you are out of the way? We’ll try and keep your patients alive.”

Neil laughed good-humouredly.

“I have perfect faith in nurse,” he said apologetically. “Forgive me for being anxious about my ward.”

“Partly humbug, my dear boy,” said the great surgeon to himself. “But there, I don’t blame him.” Then aloud: “My dear Elthorne, seriously, I think change is necessary sometimes, and take my word for it, as an old experienced man, when I say that a holiday is no waste of time. You will come back clearer-headed, and with your nerves toned up. When you come back I shall myself take a few days’ rest, and I can do so with the pleasant feeling of confidence that everything here in my ward will go on exactly as I could wish – thanks to you both.”

“Thanks to your teachings,” said Neil.

“Well, perhaps I have done my best. You are wanted there.”

One of the dressers had come up and was waiting to speak, and Neil went off with him directly to the other end of the ward.

“He will be a great man one of these days, nurse,” said the old surgeon quietly. “His heart is in his work, and he is having chances far beyond any that came to my lot when I was young. We have made such vast strides during the past five and twenty years. And now, my child, a word or two with you.”

“With me, Sir Denton?” said the nurse, with the blood flushing up at once into her pale cheeks.

“Yes,” he said, watching her keenly. “Proof positive. The colour flooded your face directly I spoke. You are as nervous as if you had been ill.”

“Oh, I am quite well, Sir Denton,” she said hastily.

“No, you are not, my child. You are over-strung. You have been working too hard, and you are on the point of breaking down. Your life is too valuable to us all here for your health to be trifled with.”

“Indeed, I – ”

“Know nothing about it,” said the old man decisively. “I do, and I know that your heart is so much in your work that you would go on till you dropped. You must have change from the air of this place.”

“Really, Sir Denton, I am – ”

“Going to do exactly as I bid you, nurse; and I wish that you would look upon me as a very old friend, and not merely as a crotchety surgeon, who worries and bullies the nurses about his patients.”

“Indeed, you have always been most kind and considerate to me, Sir Denton.”

“Have I? I thought I was very inconsiderate sometimes, and found a great deal of fault.”

“You have just given me proof of the interest you take in me, Sir Denton.”

“Ah, well, we all try to do our best. Then, as your friend, I shall insist upon your taking a month.”

“A month, Sir Denton?”

“Yes; it is quite necessary; and you, too, will come back like a lioness refreshed, ready to battle with our troubles here. Look, that woman wants you,” he continued, nodding toward Maria’s bed. “Don’t spoil her too much. She’s an ungrateful baggage. I’ve noticed her. Behaves to you as if you were her servant.”

“Oh, I do not mind,” said the nurse, smiling. “That’s right. Neither do I, for we’ve made a splendid cure of it, nurse. It’s a perfect triumph for science. I shall have to read a paper upon her case at the Institution. Morning. I shall insist upon your going away soon.”

Sir Denton went out of the ward in a quick, energetic way, and Nurse Elisia crossed to Maria’s bed. “Did you want me?” she said gently.

“Yes, of course I did. It’s too bad for you to stop away talking to the doctor so long.”

“Sir Denton was giving me instructions partly,” said the nurse.

“Yes, partly,” said the woman maliciously. “Things go on at hospitals that wouldn’t be allowed in a gentleman’s house, I can tell you.”

The nurse’s eyes flashed, but her voice was unchanged as she said quietly:

“What did you wish me to do for you?”

“Oh, you needn’t turn it off. I’m not blind. I’ve seen and noticed a deal while I’ve been lying here. Isn’t it time I had my meat jelly?”

“No,” said the nurse quietly. “I should have brought it to you if it had been time.”

“I don’t know so much about that. Never mind. I shall soon be fit to go, and precious glad of it.”

“Yes, it will be a great relief for you to get away.”

“And so Mr Neil’s going for a holiday down home. I suppose he can’t stop away any longer without running down to see his sweetheart. Shouldn’t wonder if he got married before he comes back.”

She gazed in the nurse’s face with eyes full of low-class cunning, expecting to see there a peculiar shrinking – the wincing of one found out. But the countenance into which she gazed was perfectly calm and unruffled.

“Can I do anything more for you?”

“No; not now. Thank ye,” said the woman ungraciously; “I’m going to have a nap.”

“Do,” said the nurse, rearranging the pillow. “If you do not find that it interferes with your night’s rest, sleep as much as you can. It gives nature a better opportunity to build up your strength again.”

“Yes; but I’m not blind,” said Maria to herself, as she saw the nurse go and bend over another patient, and try to alleviate her sufferings. “I’ve been long enough in the world to know what’s what. I’ve seen too much here. She’s a nasty, artful one. She’s playing the fine lady, and mincing and using big words, and trying to lead Mr Neil on till he is getting ever so stupid over her, and then she looks up at him as meek and innocent as a lamb, and as much as to say: ‘Oh, my! what do you mean?’ Wait till I get home again, and master shall know all about it, and if he don’t put a stop to it pretty sharp, my name isn’t Maria. Such impudence! A common hospital nurse trying to lead him on. Ugh! I hate the smooth, whitefaced thing, dressed up in her starchy cap and collar and cuffs, and making believe to be so superior. Oh, how I should like to see Miss Saxa have a turn at her. I’ll tell her; that I will. I haven’t patience with the creature; and as for Mr Neil, he ought to be ashamed of himself.”

Nurse Elisia was having her fit of musing about the same time, and her face for the moment looked troubled and strange.

Chapter Three.

Neil at Home

“Morning, Elthorne. Had breakfast?”

“No,” said Alison, as he patted the neck of Sir Cheltnam’s horse, just reined up in front of the house. “No one down yet but the gov’nor and Isabel.”

“Isabel?” said the baronet eagerly. “Where is she?”

“Garden, I think. No, no. Don’t go after her. You’ll only scare her away. If you want that to come off, you must be careful. There, walk your horse round and come in to breakfast.”

“Had it.”

“Then come and have another. We shan’t start for our ride these two hours.”

“Oh, hang it! Mr Elthorne said he wanted me to see him put his horse through his paces. He’s not quite satisfied with his deal.”

“Yes, and ride alongside of Isabel.”

“Humph – perhaps.”

“And look here, young man, if you don’t wish to develop a row you had better be a little more attentive.”

“I should be attentive enough, but your sister seems to prefer the attentions of the parson’s boy.”

“What, Beck? Oh, he’s nobody. Besides, he’ll be off to sea directly, and you’ll be married and have a family before he comes back. That is, if – ”

“If? What do you mean?”

“The governor has not thrown you over, and Neil has not knocked your head off.”

“Propound, O, Sphinx. Read me the riddle.”

“I mean that if the governor sees you so attentive to Saxa, he’ll cry off, and if Neil notices it he will pitch into you. I should if I saw you hanging after Dana as you do after her sister.”

“Rubbish, man! A few civil words to a lady who rides well.”

“Sort of civil words the dad does not understand in his quiet, old-fashioned way. I suppose it is to be Isabel, is it not?”

“Of course; that is understood.”

“Very well, then, behave yourself, and don’t let Neil see anything, for he is as hot and peppery as – ”

“You are.”

“If you like. He’s down, you know.”

“Who is? Your brother?”

“Yes. Came down by the mail, and got in here by three this morning, I suppose. I have not seen him yet.”

“Well, I like that,” said Sir Cheltnam.

“Like what?”

“Your lecturing me about being inattentive to your sister. Here’s the blue-jacket again.”

“What nonsense! He has always been like one of us. We were schoolboys together, and he has come here, as Neil and I used to go to the vicarage, just as if it was our own home.”

“Oh, all right. I should not have said a word but for the wigging I had.”

“Good-morning,” cried the young lieutenant, walking his horse up to where they stood. “Neil down yet?”

“No,” replied Alison. “Yes, he is. That’s being a doctor. I believe these fellows can do without sleep. You knew he had come, then?”

“Yes; heard it from the postman. Ah, Neil, old fellow!”

The young doctor came up looking rather pale, but in no wise like one who had been travelling all night, and shook hands warmly with all, supplementing the grasp of his hand with a clap on the young sailor’s shoulder of a very warm and friendly nature.

“You are here early, Burwood,” he said.

“Yes. Mr Elthorne planned one of his rides yesterday; weather’s so fine. On the make-your-hay-while-the-sun-shines principle. He wants me to try his new horse for him.”

Five minutes later the young men had paired off and were strolling down the garden, waiting for the breakfast bell, which was always rung as soon as the head of the family came down.

“I’m so glad you’ve come down, Neil,” said Beck eagerly.

“Why?”

“I wanted a chat with you before I sail. I did think of coming to the hospital, but I don’t believe I could have said what I wanted there.”

Neil fixed his eyes upon his companion.

“What is it?” he said. “You don’t want to borrow money?”

“Oh, hang it, no!”

“What is it, then?”

The young man was silent, and began to break the twigs of the shrubs they were passing.

“Don’t do that, boy, unless you want to make my father wroth.”

“No, of course not,” said Beck. “How absurd!”

“Well, what’s the matter? You’re just off to sea, I believe.”

“Yes. Long voyage,” said the young man huskily. “Go on; I’m all attention.”

Tom Beck did not go on, but stood examining his right hand, and frowning.

“What’s the matter with your hand?”

“Oh, nothing. Miss Lydon’s horse gave it a nip the other day.”

“Humph! Vicious brute. Those girls are more like rough riders than ladies.”

Beck looked at him curiously, while the young doctor flushed under the scrutiny, and said hastily:

“Well, boy, what is it? Isabel?”

“Yes,” cried Beck, snatching at the words. “You see I may be gone for two years, and I wanted – and I thought that – ”

“Thought what? Is she very hard to please?”

“Heaven bless her! no,” cried the young sailor eagerly. “There, I can speak to you, Neil. You have always been to me like a big brother. And you know that I care for her.”

“Well, I suppose I have thought so, my lad. What’s the matter?”

“That’s the matter,” said the sailor, giving his head a side nod in the direction of Sir Cheltnam, who was crossing the lawn.

“Humph! Burwood? You think so?”

“He comes here a good deal, and I can’t help being fidgety. It’s the going away, you see. Can you help me?”

“No,” said Neil. “You must help yourself. Have you spoken to my father?”

“No.”

“Why not? ‘Faint heart never won fair lady,’ boy. Go and speak to him like a man.”

“All very well for an argumentative, scientific fellow like you. I can’t talk; you can.”

“Nonsense!”

“I know. I’m only a quiet, thoughtful sailor, and I tell you frankly, old fellow, I felt so miserable one day about your sister that I thought the best way out of it all would be to go and drown myself.”

“And did you?”

“No, Irishman, I did not; but, ’pon my word, seeing how Burwood is encouraged here, I have been really disposed, not to drown myself, but my sorrows – in drink.”

“And did you?” said Neil, mockingly.

“No,” replied Beck dryly. “It was no good to try; they all know how to swim.”

“Humph!” ejaculated Neil laughing. “You’re a queer fellow, Beck. So you think you love my sister?”

“Neil, old fellow, I swear – ”

“No rhapsodies, please. Be matter of fact. I don’t believe it’s love; it’s liver. Better let me prescribe for you.”

“Yes, do, old chap. Tell me what to do.”

“Go straight to my father and tell him in a frank, manly way that you care for Isabel, and as you are going away for so long, you would like to be engaged.”

“Neil, old fellow, I feel as if I dare not.”

“Nonsense! You, a sailor, who faces storms?”

“Yes, but your father’s a regular typhoon. I say, though, wouldn’t it be premature?”

“Of course not.”

“You would go – really?”

“If I cared for the lady, certainly,” said Neil, laughing at the combination of frank, manly daring and shrinking bashfulness before him. “It is not capital punishment if you fail.”

“No,” said Beck thoughtfully, “it isn’t. I’ve no cause to be afraid, have I?”

“Not a bit.”

“Then hang it all, I will the first moment I can get your father alone.”

“Bravo, brave man!” cried Neil merrily.

“Ah, it’s all very well for you to laugh, old fellow. You don’t know how bad it is. But I say, Neil, you wouldn’t mind, would you?”

“My dear Tom,” said Neil, clapping him warmly on the shoulder, “it seems to me something like sacrilege for a man to come here to the old home, and to want to rob us of my darling, innocent little sister; but if it is to be I do not know a man to whom I would sooner see her given than you.”

“Thank you,” cried the young sailor warmly, and his voice sounding a little husky from the emotion he felt. “Thank you, Neil, old fellow, you seem more than ever like a big brother to me now.”

“Here is my father,” said Neil, quickly. “Wait your opportunity, and get it over.”

For at that instant Mr Elthorne appeared at the door, looking the

beau-idéal

 of a tall, middle-aged country gentleman, with many years of hearty, vigorous life before him.

“Morning, Beck,” he cried. “Ah, Neil, my boy, glad to see you down already. Why, you ought to have had a few hours’ more rest.”

“I’m accustomed to short and broken nights,” said the young man, warmly returning the grasp of his father’s hand. “How well you look, sir!”

“Sorry I can’t return the compliment, my boy. You look, white and careworn. Never mind; we’ll soon blow the London smoke out of you. Can you manage a ride after breakfast?”

“Yes, and enjoy it.”

“That’s right. The Lydon girls are coming over, and we’ll mount you on the old cob. By the way, I thought I heard Burwood’s voice.”

“He is down the garden with Alison,” said Neil.

“That’s right. I asked him to come over to breakfast. He is going to try my new purchase for me. But it’s of no use to talk horseflesh to you. Well, my dear?”

This to Isabel, who came running out, looking very innocent and girlish.

“Good-morning, papa,” she cried, kissing him. “I did not know you were down. Good-morning, Mr Beck,” she continued shyly, as she let her hand rest in his for a moment, and then turned to her brother to kiss him affectionately. “I’m so glad you’ve come, dear Neil.”

“Let’s have breakfast, Isabel. Aunt’s not down, I suppose?”

“Oh, yes, papa, and waiting for us.”

“Wonderful!” said Mr Elthorne grimly. “Run down the garden, Isabel, and fetch Alison and Sir Cheltnam in to breakfast. Will you have a cup of coffee, Beck?” he continued rather coldly.

“Thank you, sir, I have breakfasted, but – ”

“Oh, he can manage another,” said Neil laughingly. “Come along, Tom;” and then to himself: “Poor boy! It will be no, for certain.”

Mr Elthorne took no further notice of