"Thank you, ma'am; as if I didn't know what a 'ousemaid's work is. Oh, I haven't patience with such mean, tale-bearing, stuck-up ways."

The nurse looked at her in a pained way, and for a few moments there was a slight flash of resentment in her face; but it died out directly, and she spoke very gently:

"You are making a mistake, Maria."

"Don't `Maria' me, please--ma'am," cried the housemaid; and that "ma'am"

was tremendous.

"Stop," said the nurse, gently and firmly, and her eyes seemed to fascinate the woman, as a hand was laid upon her arm. "You have pa.s.sed through a very trying ordeal lately, and it has affected your nervous system. You must not give way to an angry, hysterical fit like this.

It is dangerous in your state."

"Oh, don't you begin to `my lady' it over me." Nurse Elisia changed colour a little, and darted a penetrating look at the speaker, but her countenance resumed its old calm directly, and she went on firmly.

"Take my advice, Maria; now do as I tell you. Never mind about the work--I will do what is necessary myself. Go up to your bedroom and lie down for an hour, till you have grown calm and cool."

"I shan't," cried Maria, with the pa.s.sionate utterance of an angry child; "and I won't stop in a house where--where,"--there was a hysterical outburst of sobbing here--"such goings on--and I'll take my month."

"Let me take you up to your room."

"No, no! I won't go. I--oh, oh, oh!"

But the strong will prevailed over the weak, and Maria suffered herself to be led along the corridor till, a figure approaching at the end, she cried spitefully through her sobs: "Of course, I know. To get me out of the way. Oh, I'm not blind."

Nurse Elisia's hand fell from the woman's arm as if it had been a gymnotus, and there was an indignant look in her eyes as they met Neil Elthorne's searchingly, in fear lest he had heard the malignant utterance.

"What is the matter?" he said. "Why, Maria, I thought you were so much better."

"It is a little hysterical attack," said the nurse quietly. "I was advising her to go and lie down, sir."

"Yes, of course," said Neil quickly, as he caught the woman's wrist.

"Go and lie down at once. You must not give way to that sort of thing, Maria. You are not quite yourself yet."

"I--I'm better, now, sir," she said, as she struggled for the mastery over herself. "No, thank you! I can go by myself."

"Oh, yes," she muttered, as she glanced back on reaching the swing-door at the end of the corridor. "I'm not blind. A nice creature!--and him to go on like that. But I've not done yet."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

AUNT ANNE'S RESOLUTIONS.

Aunt Anne would not, she said, listen to Maria's tattle, but the woman's words went home.

"I suspected it," she said to herself, "and go she shall before matters are worse. It is always the way with these quiet, artful women."

So she took up her pen to write to Sir Denton Hayle, but she did not begin, for it occurred to her that if she did write and ask him to recall the nurse, he would immediately communicate with Neil to ask for an explanation, and whether Nurse Elisia had neglected her duties.

"And that's the worst of it," said Aunt Anne to herself, "she never has, but has done wonders for poor Ralph."

Then it occurred to her also that, though Neil was only her nephew, he was fast rising into the position of an eminent surgeon, and that in such a case as this she would not have dared to interfere if he had been someone else.

"Oh, dear me!" she said pettishly, "it's very dreadful. Women always were at the bottom of all the mischief in the world. I've suspected it; Neil has been so changed, and so has Alison. It seems monstrous, but as sure as I'm a living woman she has managed to attract them both, and it must be stopped or do one knows what mischief will happen. Why, those two might quarrel dreadfully, and then-Oh, dear me, I'm very glad Saxa and Dana are coming. They will be the real cure for the trouble after all."

She took up her pen again, but only to throw it back on to the silver tray.

"No; I mustn't write. Stop, I know; I'll go in and sit with Ralph this afternoon, and quietly work round to the point of the nurse leaving now.

Isabel and I could do everything he requires."

"No," she cried, with her face full of perplexity, "he would only fly in a pa.s.sion and abuse me for interfering, and insist upon keeping her twice as long, and if I told him what I thought about Neil and Alison it would enrage him so that he would have some terrible relapse. Oh, dear me! I don't know what Nature could have been about to make a nurse with a face and a soft, cooing voice like that woman's. Bless me!" she cried aloud. "Neil, you shouldn't make me jump like that."

"Didn't you hear me come in, Aunt?"

"No, my dear, and I am so nervous. It came on when your father had his accident."

"Oh, that will soon go off. I've just had a message from Sir Denton."

"To say that we need not keep the nurse any longer, and that he wants her back at the hospital?"

"No, Aunt, dear, in response to a letter of mine written days ago," said Neil, looking at her curiously.

"What about, then?"

"To say that he is on his way down here to see my father again, and give me his opinion about the progress made."

"But, Neil, my dear, you should not ask people like that. The Lydon girls are coming, and I cannot ask one of them to give up her room, and I'm sure Sir Denton wouldn't like mine, looking out toward the stables, though you can't see them."

"Don't trouble yourself, Aunt, dear. He will not stay. He will come down by one train, spend an hour here, and go back to town at once. I want his indors.e.m.e.nt of my ideas respecting a change of treatment."

"Oh, if that is the case, then I need not worry."

"Not in the least, Aunt. Only see that the lunch is kept back."

"Of course, my dear. I am relieved. For it would have been awkward with those girls here."

"They are coming, then?" said Neil absently. "Why, you know they are coming, dear. Really, Neil, I shall be very glad when you are married-- and Alison, too, if it comes to that."

Neil looked at her searchingly, but his aunt's face was perfectly calm-- placid to a degree--though all the while she was congratulating herself upon the subtlety and depth of her nature in introducing the subject so cleverly.

"And why, pray?" he said coldly.

"Because you want something else to think about besides cutting off people's arms and legs. I declare you are quite growing into a dreamy, thoughtful old man. If I were Saxa Lydon I should take you to task finely about your carelessness and neglect. I declare I've felt quite ashamed of you."

He looked at her sadly.

"I'm afraid I am anything but a model young man, Auntie."

"Indeed you are, sir, and it's quite time you mended. I don't know what your father will say to you when he gets better. It is one of his pet projects, you know. Fortunately, Saxa is not like most girls."

"No," he said aloud, unintentionally. "Saxa is not like most girls."