“Poor fellow!” said Neil to himself; “and the dad prefers that hunting, racing baronet to him for a son-in-law! Why it would break little Bel’s heart.”
He stood watching till Beck passed in among the trees, expecting to the last to see him turn and wave his hand.
“No; gone,” he said. “Well, I must fight their battle—when the time comes—but it is quite another battle now.”
As he thought this he heard the clattering of hoofs, and hastened his steps so as to get indoors before his brother rode out of the stable yard with the Lydon sisters, and a guilty feeling sent the blood into his pale cheeks. But he did not check his steps; he rather hastened them.
“They don’t want to see me again,” he muttered; and then, “Oh, what a miserable, contemptible coward I am; preaching to that young fellow about his duty, and here I am, the next minute, deceiving myself and utterly wanting in strength to do mine. I ought to go out and say good-bye to Saxa, and I will.”
He stopped and turned to go, but a hand was laid upon his arm, and, as he faced round, it was to see a little white appealing face turned up to his, and as he passed his arm round his sister’s waist the horses’ hoofs crushed the gravel by the door, passed on, and the sound grew more faint.
“Neil, dear; Tom has gone. Is his father very ill?”
These words brought the young surgeon back to the troubles of others in place of his own.
“No, dear; he is no worse. It was not that,” he said hastily.
“What was it, then? Oh, Neil, dear, you hurt me. You are keeping something back.”