“He is a good man, Mr. Huntingdon. I wish I could say half as much for you.”
“Oh, I forgot, you are a saint, too. I crave your pardon, dearest—but don’t call me Mr. Huntingdon; my name is Arthur.”
“I’ll call you nothing—for I’ll have nothing at all to do with you if you talk in that way any more. If you really mean to deceive my aunt as you say, you are very wicked; and if not, you are very wrong to jest on such a subject.”
“I stand corrected,” said he, concluding his laugh with a sorrowful sigh. “Now,” resumed he, after a momentary pause, “let us talk about something else. And come nearer to me, Helen, and take my arm; and then I’ll let you alone. I can’t be quiet while I see you walking there.”
I complied; but said we must soon return to the house.
“No one will be down to breakfast yet, for long enough,” he answered. “You spoke of your guardians just now, Helen, but is not your father still living?”
“Yes, but I always look upon my uncle and aunt as my guardians, for they are so in deed, though not in name. My father has entirely given me up to their care. I have never seen him since dear mamma died, when I was a very little girl, and my aunt, at her request, offered to take charge of me, and took me away to Staningley, where I have remained ever since; and I don’t think he would object to anything for me that she thought proper to sanction.”
“But would he sanction anything to which she thought proper to object?”
“No, I don’t think he cares enough about me.”
“He is very much to blame—but he doesn’t know what an angel he has for his daughter—which is all the better for me, as, if he did, he would not be willing to part with such a treasure.”