“There, my child,” he continued, “I’ll speak gently to you. She is a dear good woman, this nurse, and of course poor Neil has been thrown with her a great deal—as doctor and nurse, of course. Come, my dear, let it go. I tell you, as his father, it is not true. And now you, Dana—have you caught the complaint? Has Al laughed and joked with one of the keepers’ daughters?”
“No, sir, but he has made and kept assignations with Nurse Elisia in the woods.”
“What? It is not true, girl. I could—no, no, I will not be angry. I must not; but I am angry with you, my dears, and yet I’m not, for I’m glad to see more depth in your affection for the boy than has been apparent on the surface. Tell me now: you have not accused them—made this silly, reckless charge?”
“It is of no use to beat about the bush, daddy,” said Saxa sadly. “We have not seen the boys; and we will not see them, dear. We are going back home at once.”
“You are not going back home at once,” cried their guardian, “and you are going to see them. Dana, ring the bell.”
“No, no, sir,” said Saxa, “there is no need to get up a scene. We’ll go away quietly at once.”
“Ring that bell!”
“But, daddy—dear guardian—Mr Elthorne!” cried Saxa imploringly.
“Ring that bell, I say,” cried Ralph Elthorne, with the veins starting in his temples and his face becoming purple. “Do you think I am going to lie here and let my two boys be maligned by that silly piece of scandal you hare-brained girls have got in your heads? My son Neil would not degrade himself like that. My boy Alison would not be such a scoundrel. Ring, I say, ring, and they shall confront you, both of them, and tell you it is a lie.”
“Very well,” cried Dana, and she gave the bell a sharp snatch.