“Yes, I know,” cried Isabel hysterically; “but where is Neil? where is my brother? He promised so faithfully to stay—to keep by me—to—oh, nurse, nurse,” she sobbed, as she gave way now to a fit of weeping that was almost childlike in its intensity, “pray, pray go with me to my room.”
“Directly, dear; but try and be calm first. Think of the servants. For your father’s sake.”
“Yes; I’m better now,” sighed Isabel with childlike simplicity, as she turned to dart a defiant look at Sir Cheltnam, who had been fuming with rage and surprise at the interruption, and who had made several attempts to gain a hearing, but had been till now completely ignored.
As he saw Isabel’s eyes directed toward him at last, he took a step or two forward.
“You foolish girl,” he said, with a forced laugh; “how can you be so absurd? Here,” he continued; “you are the nurse, I suppose—Mr Elthorne’s attendant?”
A thrill ran through Elisia’s frame, and she started slightly, but she did not change her position—keeping her lips pressed on the girl’s soft hair, as she held her tightly to her breast.
“Do you hear, woman?” cried Sir Cheltnam. “I am speaking to you. How dare you force your way into the drawing room like this?”
She made no answer, but drew a long, deep breath, while Isabel clung more tightly.
“Don’t—don’t take any notice,” she whispered. “How dare he! He has no right to speak to you. Don’t—don’t leave me.”
A gentle pressure of the arm about her made Isabel utter a sigh of relief.