“Ye have given her up, I understand, Master William?”
“Master William” vouchsafed no reply. He deemed it a little piece of needless impertinence.
“Bad taste!” continued Lord Carrick. “If I were only twenty years younger, and she’d not turn up her nose at me for a big daft of an Irishman, you’d not get her, me lad. She’s the sweetest little thing I have come across this many a day.”
To which the Rev. William Yorke condescended no answer, unless a haughty gesture expressive of indignation might be called one, as he brushed past Lord Carrick into the breakfast-room.
At that very hour, and in a breakfast-room also—though all signs of the meal had long been removed—were Mr. Huntley and his daughter. The same praise, just bestowed by Lord Carrick upon Constance Channing, might with equal justice be given to Ellen Huntley. She was a lovely girl, three or four years older than Harry, with pretty features and soft dark eyes. What is more, she was a good girl—a noble, generous-hearted girl, although (you know no one is perfection) with a spice of self-will. For the latter quality I think Ellen was more indebted to circumstances than to Nature. Mrs. Huntley was dead, and a maiden sister of Mr. Huntley’s, older than himself, resided with them and ruled Ellen; ruled her with a tight hand; not a kind one, or a judicious one; and that had brought out Miss Ellen’s self-will. Miss Huntley was very starched, prim, and stiff—very unnatural, in short—and she wished to make Ellen the same. Ellen rebelled, for she much disliked everything artificial. She was truthful, honest, straightforward; not unlike the character of Tom Channing. Miss Huntley complained that she was too straightforward to be ladylike; Ellen said she was sure she should never be otherwise than straightforward, so it was of no use trying. Then Miss Huntley would take offence, and threaten Ellen with “altering her will,” and that would vex Ellen more than anything. Young ladies rarely care for money, especially when they have plenty of it; and Ellen Huntley would have that, from her father. “As if I cared for my aunt’s money!” she would say. “I wish she may not leave it to me.” And she was sincere in the wish. Their controversies frequently amused Mr. Huntley. Agreeing in heart and mind with his daughter, he would yet make a playful show of taking his sister’s part. Miss Huntley knew it to be show—done to laugh at her—and would grow as angry with him as she was with Ellen.
Mr. Huntley was not laughing, however, this morning. On the contrary, he appeared to be in a very serious, not to say solemn mood. He slowly paced the room, as was his custom when anything disturbed him, stopping at moments to reflect, buried in thought. Ellen sat at a table by the window, drawing. The house was Mr. Huntley’s own—a white villa with a sloping lawn in front. It was situated outside the town, on a gentle eminence, and commanded a view of the charming scenery for which the county was famous.
Ellen, who had glanced up two or three times, concerned to see the very stern, perplexed look on her father’s face, at length spoke, “Is anything the matter, papa?”
Mr. Huntley did not answer. He was standing close to the table then, apparently looking at Ellen, at her white morning dress and its blue ribbons: it, and she altogether, a fair picture. Probably he saw neither her nor her dress—he was too deeply absorbed.
“You are not ill, are you, papa?”
“Ill!” he answered, rousing himself. “No, Ellen, I am not ill.”