Mr. Channing gave vent to a groan: a sharp attack of his malady pierced his frame just then. Certain reminiscences, caused by the question, may have helped its acuteness; but of that Mr. Huntley had no suspicion.
In the evening, when Mrs. Channing was sitting under the acacia trees, Mr. Huntley joined her, and she took the opportunity of alluding to the subject. “Do not mention it again in the presence of my husband,” she said: “talking of it can only bring it before his mind with more vivid force. Constance and Mr. Yorke have parted.”
Had Mrs. Channing told him the cathedral had parted, Mr. Huntley could not have felt more surprise. “Parted!” he ejaculated. “From what cause?”
“It occurred through this dreadful affair of Arthur’s. I fancy the fault was as much Constance’s as Mr. Yorke’s, but I do not know the exact particulars. He did not like it; he thought, I believe, that to marry a sister of Arthur’s would affect his own honour—or she thought it. Anyway, they parted.”
“Had William Yorke been engaged to my daughter, and given her up upon so shallow a plea, I should have been disposed to chastise him,” intemperately spoke Mr. Huntley, carried away by his strong feeling.
“But, I say I fancy that the giving up was on Constance’s side,” repeated Mrs. Channing. “She has a keen sense of honour, and she knows the pride of the Yorkes.”
“Pride, such as that, would be the better for being taken down a peg,” returned Mr. Huntley. “I am sorry for this. The accusation has indeed been productive of serious effects. Why did not Arthur go to William Yorke and avow his innocence, and tell him there was no cause for their parting? Did he not do so?”
Mrs. Channing shook her head only, by way of answer; and, as Mr. Huntley scrutinized her pale, sad countenance, he began to think there must be greater mystery about the affair than he had supposed. He said no more.
On the third day he quitted Borcette, having seen them, as he expressed it, fully installed, and pursued his route homewards, by way of Lille, Calais, and Dover. Mr. Huntley was no friend to long sea passages: people with well-filled purses seldom are so.