But Charley did not hear her words; for he was already half-way towards poor Ella, who seemed to shrink from him as he approached, and watched with a troubled breast the efforts he made upon her behalf.
“Now it’s my turn again,” said Hugh. “Now just give me your advice here, Vining. What ought I to do?”
Charley interrupted a remark he was making to Ella Bedford, and pointed out the most advantageous play, when Hugh Lingon raised his mallet, the blow fell, and—he missed.
“Now, did you ever see anything like that?” he exclaimed, appealing to the company.
“Yes, often!” laughed Charley.
“But what can be the reason?” exclaimed Lingon.
“Why, bai Jove! it’s because you’re such a muff, Lingon, bai Jove!” exclaimed Max.
“I am—I know I am!” said Lingon good-humouredly. “But, you know, I can’t help it—can’t indeed!”
The game went on with varying interest, Charley in the intervals trying to engage Ella in conversation; but only to find her retiring, almost distant, as from time to time she caught sight of a pair of fierce eyes bent upon her from beneath Laura’s frowning brows. But there was a sweetness of disposition beaming from Ella’s troubled countenance, and the tokens of a rare intellect in her few words—spoken to endeavour to direct him to seek for others with more conversational power, but with precisely the contrary effect—that seemed to rouse in Sir Philip Vining’s son feelings altogether new. He found himself dwelling upon every word, every sweet and musical tone, drinking in each troubled, trembling look, and listening with ill-concealed eagerness even for the words spoken to others.
“Bai Jove!” exclaimed Max at length, angrily to his sister, “what’s the matter with that Charley Vining?”