And so the dreary day crept on with a strange silence pervading the place where all, as a rule, was bustle and activity. Alison softly paced the hall hour after hour, waiting patiently for news of which Aunt Anne was the bearer.
But she had little to communicate, and night was coming on fast when the sound of carriage wheels was heard, and a fly from the station drove up to the door, out of which stepped the famous London surgeon, who had arrived quite a couple of hours sooner than had been expected.
Neil hurried out, leaving Aunt Anne to take his place while he welcomed the visitor.
“Thank you,” he said simply, as he grasped the old man’s hand.
“I came down at once. How is he?”
Neil shook this head, and led the way at once into the room where Mr Elthorne lay with his eyes tightly closed; but he opened them at once as Sir Denton approached, showing that he had been keenly conscious of every sound.
Aunt Anne rose from his side, bent down again to kiss him, and then hurried out of the room to hide her tears, leaving the great surgeon to decide upon what her brother’s future was to be.
Isabel and Alison were outside, and the three waited together anxiously for the great man’s verdict, and all oppressed by the strange sensation produced by the sudden shock which had fallen upon the family. Everything seemed strange, and the very silence to be charged with portents.
Alison strode up and down the room, while his sister crouched by Aunt Anne’s side, holding her hands tightly, and starting at every sharp turn her brother made.
It seemed an age before they heard the opening of a door and steps in the hall; and as Isabel started up, listening excitedly, Neil appeared, looking white and anxious.
“Go to my father, Aunt,” he said, and then drew back to lead Sir Denton into a little room much affected by the young man, half study, half museum, where the surgeon sank into a chair and leaned back gazing at the worn, troubled face before him, as if waiting for his companion to speak.
“Well, sir?” he said at last, for Sir Denton remained silent.
“Well, Elthorne,” said Sir Denton gravely.
“Don’t trifle with me. I am in agony.”
“Naturally, my dear fellow, and I am not trifling with you. I only shrank from giving you pain.”
“Then you think – ” began Neil.
“No; I am sure, Elthorne. My dear boy, you have not worked with me for years without being able to come to a decision at once upon such a case as this. I can quite understand your feelings. In your horror and despair you mistrusted yourself, or tried to mistrust yourself, hoping, I presume, that you might be wrong, and sent at once for me. Is it not so?”
Neil bowed his head; and then quickly, as drowning men catch at straws, he said:
“But, Sir Denton, do you feel absolutely certain?”
“My dear Elthorne, would to Heaven I could say that there is a doubt. There is none. You know there is none.”
Neil uttered a low groan.
“It comes hard from one who feels toward you as I do, my dear brother,” said the old man gently; “but we doctors and surgeons can have no concealment from each other. Your examination must have shown you that the spine is hopelessly injured.”
“Yes, yes,” groaned Neil; “but I clung to the hope that I might be wrong. Then you can give me no hope?”
“Yes, I can do that. With careful nursing you may save his life, and he may have many years before him. There will be little physical suffering, and fortunately for him, being a wealthy man, he can palliate much of this by attendants and the many contrivances our mechanicians have invented for the benefit of the injured. It is a terrible case, but nothing compared to what it would be if some poor breadwinner had suddenly been stricken down – a case such as we have seen hundreds of times. Your father has everything to soften the hardship, and, above all, the love of his children.”
“Then you feel that nothing more can be done?”
“Frankly, nothing. It is the greatest kindness to tell you so, Elthorne. As you well know, the treatment is of the simplest. Time, and a thoroughly good, trustworthy nurse. There is the prescription that forty years of earnest study have taught me to offer you.”
“Yes,” said Neil, after a pause, “I felt all this – thanks to your teachings. Poor old father!” he continued as if to himself; “so full of vitality, so determined and energetic, so full of plans, and in an instant all at an end.”
“Oh, no,” said Sir Denton. “You must look at the brighter side of the accident, my dear fellow. He will – I am speaking plainly – he will be utterly paralysed in his lower limbs, but in all probability the mental faculties will be sharpened, and from what I have seen of your father I should say he will be more energetic and active than ever.”
“Thank you,” said Neil warmly; “thank you – ”
“Now go and break the bad news to your people at once, and all of you face the worst. You are spared a great deal. You know as well as I do that his accident might have meant a few hours’ hopeless struggle against death and then the end.”
“Yes, yes,” said Neil. “You are right, and I will try – we will all try – to face the trouble as we should. But you will stay the night and see him in the morning.”
“No, I can do no good. You will act in everything exactly as I should, and there are others waiting in agony for my return.”
“But – ”
“You know in your heart what I say is just, my dear Elthorne. Come, pupil, your old master trusts you,” said the surgeon, taking his hand. “Forget for the time being that the patient is a relative; sink everything in the scientific aspects of the case; do your duty, and trust yourself. Now, God bless you, and good-bye.”
He grasped the young surgeon’s hands warmly and turned to go, but stopped short.
“I shall get someone to come and lend me a hand, so that you can stay down here as long as is necessary, but you will be able to come up for a day or two at the end of a week. Of course the first thing is to send you down an efficient nurse. Everything will depend upon her, as you know.”
“Yes,” said Neil huskily, and he walked out into the hall.
“I will not ask to see your sister or your aunt, Elthorne. My kindest regards, and I hope to renew my friendship with them at some happier time.”
He stepped into the waiting fly and looked at his watch.
“Tell him to drive fast, and I shall just catch the last up-train. Good-bye.”
The wheels grated on the gravel drive, and the sounds were dying away as Neil turned to find that the drawing-room door had opened.
Isabel ran to him and threw her arms about his neck, trying vainly to speak, as he held her to his breast, while her eyes looked imploringly into his.
“What does he say, Neil?” said Alison huskily. “Tell us the worst.”
“The worst,” replied Neil gloomily.
“Then he will die?” cried Alison excitedly.
“No, no.”
“But he has gone so soon. Don’t keep it back, man. He said he could do nothing?”
“He said that with care our father will live, but – ”
He stopped short for a few moments and a sigh that was almost a groan escaped him.
“The poor old dad. Al,” he said softly, “I am afraid he will be a hopeless cripple if the knowledge of his state does not kill him right off.”
“What’s that? What’s the matter?” cried Alison sharply, as the door opened and the