“Then, thou wilt hev to give up Elizabeth. Succession must go in her children and in her name.”
“Miss Hallam and you accepted me as Richard Fontaine. Have I not the right to expect that both she and you will keep your word with me?”
“Thou forgets, Richard. Her duty to her father and to her ancestors stands before thee. If thy duty to thine will not let thee give up thy name, hers may well be due to home and lands that hold her by a tenure o’ a thousand years. But neither Miss Hallam nor Hallam Hall need go a-begging, lad. I ask thy pardon for offering thee owt so worthless.”
“Dear uncle, do not be angry with me.”
“Ay, ay; it’s ‘dear uncle,’ and ‘dear father,’ but it’s also, ‘I’ll tak’ my own way’, wi’ both Antony and thee. I’m a varry unhappy old man. I am that!”
He walked angrily off, leaving Richard standing before the picture which so much resembled him. He turned quickly, and went in search of Elizabeth. She was sitting with Phyllis in the breakfast parlor. Phyllis, who was often inclined to a dreamy thoughtfulness, was so inclined at that hour, and she was answering Elizabeth’s remarks, far more curious of some mental vision than of the calm-browed woman, sitting opposite to her, sewing so industriously. Richard came in like a small tempest, and for once Elizabeth’s quiet, inquiring regard seemed to irritate him.
“Elizabeth;” and he took her work from her hand, and laid it on the table. “My dear love! does Phyllis know?”
“What, Richard?”
“About Antony and the Hallam estate?”
“No; I thought it best to let you tell her.”