“‘Tis well, sir. Come away, Sheelah.”
“Oh! wait, dear—Och! I am too old,” said Sheelah, groaning as she rose slowly. “I’m too slow entirely for these quick passions.”
“Passions!” cried Dora, growing scarlet and pale in an instant: “what do you mean by passions, Sheelah?”
“I mean changes,” said Sheelah, “changes, dear. I am ready now—where’s my stick? Thank you, Master Harry. Only I say I can’t change my quarters and march so quick as you, dear.”
“Well, well, lean on me,” said Dora impatiently.
“Don’t hurry, poor Sheelah—no necessity to hurry away from me,” said Ormond, who had stood for a few moments like one transfixed. “‘Tis for me to go—and I will go as fast and as far as you please, Dora, away from you and for ever.”
“For ever!” said Dora: “what do you mean?”
“Away from the Black Islands? he can’t mean that,” said Sheelah.
“Why not?—Did not I leave Castle Hermitage at a moment’s warning?”
“Warning! Nonsense!” cried Dora: “lean on him, Sheelah—he has frightened you; lean on him, can’t you?—sure he’s better than your stick. Warning!—where did you find that pretty word? Is Harry Ormond then turned footman?”