A low sigh escaped from Neil’s breast.
“For I said to myself: the old man will see her and learn her value, and the sweetness of her nature. He will be ready to open his arms to her, and call her daughter when the son has spoken to her; and I thought I was doing right to you both. Neil, my lad, you ought to have had more confidential moments with me, and told me that you already loved. I had no right to know, my dear boy, but it would have saved much pain. I love Lady Cicely very dearly—as much as if she were my own flesh and blood.”
Neil looked up at the old man wonderingly, but he was gazing down at his hat.
“Yes, bless her!” he continued, repeating his words, “as if she were my own flesh and blood; and this misfortune—I can call it nothing else—hurts me very much, and I am certain it will grieve her terribly, for she loves you, my boy, I am sure.”
“My dear Sir Denton—Lady Cicely?” cried Neil, looking at him as if doubting his sanity. “Whom do you mean?”
“Oh! I had forgotten. Of course you do not know—Lady Cicely, the late Duke of Atheldene’s daughter—Nurse Elisia—my dear young friend, who gave up her life of luxury and ease to devote herself as you have seen.”
“Sir Denton!”
“Yes, my dear boy, it is so. Don’t look at me as if you thought I were wandering. That was my castle in the air, Neil Elthorne, and I am deeply grieved for both your sakes. Ah, how easily we clever men, as we think ourselves, are deceived. But, as your old friend, my boy, may I ask—some lady—in your neighbourhood—an attachment, perhaps, of many years?”
Neil looked at him wildly and his lips were quivering with the agony still so new.
“I beg your pardon, my dear boy,” said Sir Denton softly. “I ought not to have laid my hand so roughly on the wound. Forgive me.”