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<h3>Chapter Twenty Six.</h3> <h4>Capel’s Nurses.</h4> “This is your doing, Dr Heston,” said Mr Girtle, returning to the dining-room, indignantly, with a card in his hand. He had been seated at lunch with the doctor, Katrine, and Artis, when Preenham had entered the room, to say that a gentleman wished to see him on important business. “I dare say it is,” said the doctor, “but what have I done?” “We—the family—had decided to refrain from communication with the police, so as not to draw attention to the peculiar circumstances that have taken place in this house, and I agreed somewhat unwillingly, knowing Mr Capel’s feelings as to what has gone before.” “Well,” said the doctor, coolly, for the old man seemed to have lost his self-control. “No, sir, it is not well. Someone has communicated with the police.” He held out the card in his hand, and Katrine winced, while Artis gave her an uneasy look. “No work of mine, my dear sir; my hands are too full of my patient. Surely he does not say—” “No, no,” said Mr Girtle, hurriedly. “I have not seen him yet. I was so angry that I returned at once. I really beg your pardon, but all this trouble has rather taken me off my balance.” He nodded, and left the room, and Katrine glanced at the doctor. “Over-work and anxiety, my dear madam,” he said. “I shall have to give him a little advice. Now, if you will excuse me, I’ll go up-stairs.” “But doctor,” cried Katrine; “is Mr Capel really better?” “It is hardly just to call him better while this delirium continues; but you know what Sir Ronald said.” He went out of the dining-room, and ascended the stairs, leaving Katrine with Artis. “Where are you going?” said the latter. “Up to Capel’s room.” “What, again?” “Yes,” she said, “again.” “But what have you found out?” “Wait and see.” “Wait and see? I’m sick of it all,” he cried, angrily. “I feel as if I were buried alive, and to make matters worse, you’re always away. Look here, I don’t like your going and nursing that fellow.” “You stupid boy!” she said softly; and she turned upon him a look that made him catch her in his arms and press his lips to hers. For a few moments she made no resistance, but seemed to be returning his caress. Then, with an angry wrench, she extricated herself from his grasp. “How dare you!” she cried. “How dare? Oh, come, that’s good.” “You are acting like a fool!” She sailed out of the room just as Preenham opened the door, and as he drew back for her to pass, Artis threw himself into a chair, while Katrine slowly ascended the stairs, listening intently to the low murmur of voices in the library. A few minutes before, the quiet, grave-looking professional nurse had ascended to the sick room from the housekeeper’s room, where she had just partaken of her dinner, and found, as she entered, silently, Lydia on her knees by the bedside, with a straight bar of light from the window throwing her into bold relief against the dark curtains. The nurse advanced softly, and glanced at Capel, who seemed to be sleeping easily, and then lightly touched Lydia on the shoulder. “Asleep, miss?” she said. Lydia raised her white face, haggard and livid with sleeplessness and anxiety. “No,” she said softly, as she let herself sink into the low chair at the bed’s head. “No, not asleep.” “But you are quite done up, miss,” said the nurse. “Now, pray do go and lie down for a few hours. He is better, I’m sure of it. I do know, indeed. I’ve seen so much of this sort of thing. I was in the French hospitals all through the war.” “But, are you sure?” “I’m quite certain, miss. Now, you can’t go on like this. You must have rest. Take my advice, and go and have a good sleep, and then you can come and watch again.” “But if—” “If anything happens, miss, I’ll call you.” “You promise me?” “Faithfully, miss. There, trust to me.” Lydia had risen, and she tottered as she took a step or two, when the nurse caught her in her arms, and the poor girl’s strength gave way entirely now. The nurse’s confident words that Capel was getting better, robbed her of the last bond of self-control, and, as the woman tenderly supported her, and whispered a few soothing words, Lydia’s head went down on the nurse’s breast, and she burst into a low, passionate fit of hysterical tears. “There, you’ll be better now,” whispered the nurse, as Lydia raised her piteous white face. “Now go and have a few hours’ sleep.” Lydia nodded, recovered her self-command, and went to the bed, bent over and gazed earnestly in the patient’s face, and then left the room. “Poor dear!” said the nurse, after a glance at the patient, “how she does love him! Ah, miss, how you made me jump!” “Did I, nurse?” said Katrine. “I was obliged to come in gently. How is he?” “Better, miss, I think.” “That’s well. You look very tired, nurse.” “Me, miss? Oh, dear, no.” “But your strength ought to be saved for nights. I can’t watch at night—I get too sleepy; but I can now, and I’ll take your place.” “Do you really wish it, miss?” “Yes. Please,” said Katrine, firmly; and the woman quietly left the room, to take no walk, but to go up to the chamber set apart for her use, and, from long habit in catching rest when it could be found, she threw herself upon her bed, and was soon breathing heavily—fast asleep. In the adjoining room lay Lydia, with her eyes closed, hour after hour, but painfully awake. No sleep would come to her weary brain, which seemed to grow more terribly active as the time rolled on. She told herself that her love for Capel was madness. Then hope tortured her with the idea that he might turn to her, while her indignant maiden nature bade her forget him and show more pride. “But he is poor,” Hope seemed to say; “his fortune is gone, and you are comparatively wealthy. Wait, and he will love you yet.” There was a hopeful smile dawning upon her lips, as she softly left her room, and went down the stairs, with a feeling of restful content in her breast, and then her heart seemed to stand still, and a horrible feeling of self-reproach attacked her as she felt that she had left her post just as some terrible crisis had been about to happen. For there, at the door where she had crouched in agony, waiting to know the great physician’s verdict, now stood Gerard Artis, gazing in as he held it partly open. Lydia was as if turned to stone for the moment. Then the reaction came, and she quickly ran to the door, to lay her hand upon Artis’s shoulder. He turned upon her a face distorted with jealous rage, and then his countenance changed, and, indulging in a malicious laugh, he drew on one side, holding the curtain back, and pointed mockingly to the scene within. <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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