“Kate,” he said, “you took no notice when I said Fred Huntley had gone away--so I suppose he told you why it was?”
“He never said a word to me of going away, papa,” faltered Kate.
“But you know the cause? and I hope it will be a warning to you,” said Mr Crediton. “I have seen this going on for some days, and I meant to have spoken to you. A girl in your position has no right to distinguish a man as you did poor Fred.”
“But, dear papa,” cried Kate, feeling very penitent yet very much flattered--as if somebody had paid her a very nice compliment, she said afterwards--“you cannot think it was my fault; I only talked to him like the rest. If I talked to him a little more, it was about--Mr Mitford. And he knew all the time. How was I to suppose it could come to any harm?”
“Don’t let me hear of any other man being taken in by your confounded confidences--about Mr Mitford,” said her father, with an amount of rudeness and contemptuous impatience, such as perhaps had never been shown to Kate before in all her life.
“Papa!” she cried, indignant, drawing herself up; but Mr Crediton only said “Pshaw!” and went off and left her standing by herself, not knowing whether to cry or to be very angry, in the great empty room. He was wroth, and he was disposed rather to heighten than to subdue the expression of it. He wanted her to feel the full weight of his displeasure, rather a little more than less. For Fred Huntley would have suited him well enough for a son-in-law, if it was necessary to have such an article. He had distinguished himself already, and was likely still more to distinguish himself. He was thought of by the borough authorities as the new Member for Camelford. He was very well off, and could do everything that was right and meet in the way of providing for his bride. He was in her own sphere. “Confound that Mitford!” Mr Crediton said to himself as he left his daughter. It was bad enough to contemplate the possibility of ever resigning his child to John’s keeping; but to throw aside a man he liked for him, exaggerated the offence. He went out, kicking Kate’s favourite Skye terrier on his way, as angry men are apt to do. “As if it was poor Muffy that had done it!” Kate said, with the tears springing to her eyes. When she was thus left she called her injured terrier to her, and hugged it, and had a good cry. “You did not do it, did you, Muffy?” she said. “Poor dear dog! what had you to do with it? If a man chooses to be silly, are we to be kicked for it, Muffy _mio_? Papa is a great bear, and everybody is as unkind as they can be; and oh, I am so sorry about poor Fred!”