"Poor Bel!" muttered Neil, as the recollection of all that had passed that day came back, and his promise--entirely forgotten--to keep Burwood with him, came like a flash. It was only a dozen steps to the dining room, and he hurried there to throw open the door, and, as he feared, find it empty. Angry with himself for his carelessness, though hardly at the moment seeing how he could have acted differently, he hurried back to the library, entered suddenly, and then stopped, as if paralysed by the pang which shot through him. For he had entered angrily, feeling ready to interrupt a _tete-a-tete_, which Burwood must have contrived to obtain with his sister; and he found himself in presence of Alison, who was tightly holding Nurse Elisia's hands, which she now seemed to wrest away, as she turned suddenly, looked wildly in Neil's face, rushed by him, and hurried out of the room. "Well?" said Alison, as soon as he could recover from the startling effect of his brother's interruption. "You might have knocked." Neil made no reply, but stood there pressing his nails into the palms of his hands, as he fought hard to keep down the sensation of mad, jealous hatred gathering in his breast. Then, turning upon his heel, he staggered more than walked out of the room, across the hall and upstairs to his father's chamber, but only to pause at the door. "I have no right--I have no right," he said; and going down once more, forgetful of everything but his own agony of spirit, he took his hat from the stand, passed out through the hall door, and walked swiftly away into the black darkness of the night--onward at a rapidly increasing pace--onward--anywhere so that he might find rest. For the feeling was strong upon him that he and his brother must not meet while this mad sensation of passion was surging in his breast. CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. MARIA'S DECEPTIVE MESSAGE. "Don't read any more, my dear," said Ralph Elthorne gently. Nurse Elisia looked up from her book and found that the patient was gazing at her. "Ah," he said, with a faint smile on his pinched lips, "I said `my dear.' Yes; not the way to address one's nurse. It was to the sweet, gentle woman who has tended me with all the patient affection of a daughter." "Oh, Mr Elthorne!" she cried, her eyes brimming with tears, "I have only tried to do my duty as your attendant." "And you have done much more," he said, as he still gazed at her thoughtfully. "You have set me thinking a great deal, my child--a great deal, and--no, you must not talk of leaving here again for a long time-- a very long time." She shook her head. "I have duties in London, sir, which call me away." "And a duty here which keeps you," he said, smiling. "You would not be so hard-hearted as to leave such a broken old fellow as I am--helpless." "But you will not be so helpless soon, sir."