A couple of hours later, when he took in the breakfast, he had two announcements to make; but he hesitated, as Isabel had just entered the room.

"You can speak out. What is it?" said Aunt Anne.

"Mr Neil hasn't been back all night, ma'am."

"What?"

"And--"

The butler stopped.

"Well, speak, man; there is nothing wrong?" cried Aunt Anne.

"No, ma'am, I hope not," said the butler; "but the nurse was down quite early, ma'am, dressed, and Smithers put the horse to in the light cart, and drove her over to the station to catch the early morning train."

"Oh!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Aunt Anne; and then, excitedly, "Was she alone?"

"I believe so, ma'am. Shall I ask?"

"No: there is no need. I thought it all along. Eloped. I knew it would be so."

Isabel rose from her seat with flaming cheeks. "Shame!" she cried pa.s.sionately. "This, before the servants! Neil is my brother. Nurse Elisia is my dear friend. It is not true!"

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 pa.s.sing 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 gla.s.s 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 pa.s.ses by the busy, active, and careful. You will go, then?"

"There is my hand."

Sir Denton grasped the young surgeon's hand warmly.

"G.o.d 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?"