“And no matter what I say, or how I behave, he persecutes me with his addresses. It is dreadful. Poor papa has promised him that I shall be his wife, and he treats me as if I were his own—as if he were my master—till I feel as if I wish I were dead.”
“So as to break the poor trusting sailor’s heart?”
“No, no, no,” cried Isabel piteously; “don’t, don’t say that.”
“Then never say those foolish, wicked words again, dear.”
“But I am so wretched,” sighed Isabel. “I have wanted again and again to see and talk to papa—to beg him to speak to Sir Cheltnam, and tell him that I have tried so hard to do what he wishes, but that I cannot—indeed, I cannot—though he has set his mind upon it all just as he has upon my brothers marrying Saxa and Dana Lydon and—and,” she cried passionately, “they don’t care for them a bit.” There was another long pause, during which Isabel wept bitterly.
“What shall I do?” she cried at last, gazing piteously in the other’s face.
“Wait, dear.”
“But Sir Cheltnam?”
“You must try and avoid him till your father has recovered his strength, and can bear to hear adverse matters.”
“But if I saw him, and spoke to him gently, and appealed to him?”