CHAPTER XL.MRS. KINCTON KNOX PROPOSES A WALK WITH WILLIAMIn fact William Maubray had received a conceited and exulting letter from Trevor, written in the expansion of his triumph once more as the Lord of Revington, the representative of the historic Trevors, the man of traditions andprestige, before whom the world bowed down and displayed its treasures, and who being restored to reason and self-estimation by his conversation with Miss Perfect, knew well what a prize he was—what a sacrifice he was making, and yet bore and gave away all with a splendid magnanimity.So, as he says, “It is all virtually settled. I have talked fully with Miss Perfect, a very intelligent and superior woman, who looks upon the situation just as I could wish; and I have written announcing my intentions to her father, and under such auspices, and with the evidence I hope I have, of not being quite indifferent where I most wished to please, I almost venture to ask for your congratulations,” &c.“He is quite right, itisall over; she likes him, I saw that long ago; I fancied she would have been a little harder to please; they fall in love with any fellow that’s tall, and pink, and white, and dresses absurdly, and talkslike a fool, provided he has money—money—d⸺ money!”Such were the mutterings of William Maubray, as he leaned dismally on the window of the school-room, and looked out upon the sear and thinning foliage of the late autumn.“This is very important—this about unfortunate Sir Richard; his son will succeed immediately; but he seems a good deal, indeed very much agitated; however, it’s a great point in his favourotherwise.” So said Mrs. Kincton Knox to her daughter, so soon as being alone together they could safely talk over the missives of the breakfast table.“I rather think he has been summoned to the dying man, and he’ll go—hemust—and we shall never see more of him,” said Miss Clara, with superb indifference.“Yes, of course, itmayhave been, I was going to say so,” said her mother, who, however, had not seen that view. “I’ll make him come out and walk up and down the terrace with me a little, poor young man.”“You’ll do him no good by that,” said the young lady, with a sneer.“We’ll see that, Miss Kincton Knox; at all events, it will do no good sitting here, and sneering into the fire; please sit a little away and raise the hand screen, unless you reallywishto ruin your complexion.”“It can’t be of the least importance to anyone whether I do or not, certainly not tome,” said the young lady, who, however, took her advice peevishly.“You are one of those conceited young persons; pray allow me to speak, I’m your mother, and have a right I hope to speak inthis house—who fancy that no one can see anything butthey—I’m not disposed to flatter you; I never did flatter you; butI think the young man (her voice was lowered here)likesyou—Ido. I’msurehe does. It can’t possibly be for my sake that he likes coming every evening to read all that stuff for us. You make no allowance for the position he is in, his father dying, in the very crisis of a painful domestic quarrel; it must be most uncomfortable; and then he’s here in a position which precludes his uttering any sentiments except such as should be found on the lips of a resident teacher. I’ve frequently observed him on the point of speaking in his real character, and chilled in a moment by the recollection of the apparent distance between us; but I think I know something of countenance, and tones, and those indications of feeling, which are more and more significant than words.”Miss Clara made no sign by look, word or motion; and after a little pause her mamma went on sturdily.“Yes, I ought, at my time of life, and having been I may say a good deal admired in my day, andmarried, and not quite as Imighthave been perhaps, but still prettywell. I ought to know something more of such matters than mydaughter, I think, and I can’t be mistaken. I don’t saypassion, I say aliking—afancy, and that thereisI’ll stake my life. If you only take the trouble to think you’ll see. I hold it quite impossible that a young man should be as he is, alone for several weeks in a country-house with a person, I will say, of your advantages and attractions without some such feeling,im—possible.”Miss Kincton Knox looked indolently on her fair image in the mirror at the further end of the room.“In those rides he and Howard have taken with you, I venture to say he has said things whichIshould have understood had I been by.”“I told you he never said anything—anything particular—anything he might not have said to anyone else,” said the young lady, wearily. “He is evidently very shy, I allow.”“Very!extremelyshy,” acquiesced her mamma, eagerly; “and when all these things are considered, I don’t think in the time you could possibly have expected more.”“I never expected anything,” said Miss Clara, with another weary sneer.“Didn’t you? then I did,” answered the matron.Miss Clara simply yawned.“You are in one of your unfortunate tempers. Don’t you think, Miss Kincton Knox, even on the supposition that heisabout leaving our house, that you may as well command your spirit of opposition and ill temper, which has uniformly defeated every endeavour of mine to—be of use to you, and here you are at eight-and-twenty.” The young lady looked round alarmed, but there was no listener, “and you seem to havelearned nothing.”“I’ll write all round the country, and tell the people I’m eight-and-twenty or thirty, for anything I know, if you have no objection. I don’t see any harm it can do; telling truth perhaps mayn’t do one much good: but if I’ve learned nothing else, I’ve learned this at all events, that there’s absolutely no good in the other course.”“I don’t know what you mean bycourses. No one I hope has been committing any fraud in this house. If you please to tell people you are thirty, which is perfectly contrary to fact, you must only take the consequences. Your miserable temper, Clara, has been the ruin of you, and when I’m in my grave you’ll repent it.”So saying she left the room, and coming down in afew minutes in a black velvet garment, trimmed with ermine, and with a muff of the same judicial fur, she repaired to the school-room, where, much to William’s relief, she graciously begged a holiday for Howard, and then asked William with, at the end of her invitation, a great smile, which plainly said, “I know you can hardly believe your ears but it’s true notwithstanding,” to lend an old woman his arm in a walk up and down the terrace.William was of course at her service, though the honour was one which at that moment was almost oppressive.
CHAPTER XL.
MRS. KINCTON KNOX PROPOSES A WALK WITH WILLIAM
MRS. KINCTON KNOX PROPOSES A WALK WITH WILLIAM
MRS. KINCTON KNOX PROPOSES A WALK WITH WILLIAM
In fact William Maubray had received a conceited and exulting letter from Trevor, written in the expansion of his triumph once more as the Lord of Revington, the representative of the historic Trevors, the man of traditions andprestige, before whom the world bowed down and displayed its treasures, and who being restored to reason and self-estimation by his conversation with Miss Perfect, knew well what a prize he was—what a sacrifice he was making, and yet bore and gave away all with a splendid magnanimity.
So, as he says, “It is all virtually settled. I have talked fully with Miss Perfect, a very intelligent and superior woman, who looks upon the situation just as I could wish; and I have written announcing my intentions to her father, and under such auspices, and with the evidence I hope I have, of not being quite indifferent where I most wished to please, I almost venture to ask for your congratulations,” &c.
“He is quite right, itisall over; she likes him, I saw that long ago; I fancied she would have been a little harder to please; they fall in love with any fellow that’s tall, and pink, and white, and dresses absurdly, and talkslike a fool, provided he has money—money—d⸺ money!”
Such were the mutterings of William Maubray, as he leaned dismally on the window of the school-room, and looked out upon the sear and thinning foliage of the late autumn.
“This is very important—this about unfortunate Sir Richard; his son will succeed immediately; but he seems a good deal, indeed very much agitated; however, it’s a great point in his favourotherwise.” So said Mrs. Kincton Knox to her daughter, so soon as being alone together they could safely talk over the missives of the breakfast table.
“I rather think he has been summoned to the dying man, and he’ll go—hemust—and we shall never see more of him,” said Miss Clara, with superb indifference.
“Yes, of course, itmayhave been, I was going to say so,” said her mother, who, however, had not seen that view. “I’ll make him come out and walk up and down the terrace with me a little, poor young man.”
“You’ll do him no good by that,” said the young lady, with a sneer.
“We’ll see that, Miss Kincton Knox; at all events, it will do no good sitting here, and sneering into the fire; please sit a little away and raise the hand screen, unless you reallywishto ruin your complexion.”
“It can’t be of the least importance to anyone whether I do or not, certainly not tome,” said the young lady, who, however, took her advice peevishly.
“You are one of those conceited young persons; pray allow me to speak, I’m your mother, and have a right I hope to speak inthis house—who fancy that no one can see anything butthey—I’m not disposed to flatter you; I never did flatter you; butI think the young man (her voice was lowered here)likesyou—Ido. I’msurehe does. It can’t possibly be for my sake that he likes coming every evening to read all that stuff for us. You make no allowance for the position he is in, his father dying, in the very crisis of a painful domestic quarrel; it must be most uncomfortable; and then he’s here in a position which precludes his uttering any sentiments except such as should be found on the lips of a resident teacher. I’ve frequently observed him on the point of speaking in his real character, and chilled in a moment by the recollection of the apparent distance between us; but I think I know something of countenance, and tones, and those indications of feeling, which are more and more significant than words.”
Miss Clara made no sign by look, word or motion; and after a little pause her mamma went on sturdily.
“Yes, I ought, at my time of life, and having been I may say a good deal admired in my day, andmarried, and not quite as Imighthave been perhaps, but still prettywell. I ought to know something more of such matters than mydaughter, I think, and I can’t be mistaken. I don’t saypassion, I say aliking—afancy, and that thereisI’ll stake my life. If you only take the trouble to think you’ll see. I hold it quite impossible that a young man should be as he is, alone for several weeks in a country-house with a person, I will say, of your advantages and attractions without some such feeling,im—possible.”
Miss Kincton Knox looked indolently on her fair image in the mirror at the further end of the room.
“In those rides he and Howard have taken with you, I venture to say he has said things whichIshould have understood had I been by.”
“I told you he never said anything—anything particular—anything he might not have said to anyone else,” said the young lady, wearily. “He is evidently very shy, I allow.”
“Very!extremelyshy,” acquiesced her mamma, eagerly; “and when all these things are considered, I don’t think in the time you could possibly have expected more.”
“I never expected anything,” said Miss Clara, with another weary sneer.
“Didn’t you? then I did,” answered the matron.
Miss Clara simply yawned.
“You are in one of your unfortunate tempers. Don’t you think, Miss Kincton Knox, even on the supposition that heisabout leaving our house, that you may as well command your spirit of opposition and ill temper, which has uniformly defeated every endeavour of mine to—be of use to you, and here you are at eight-and-twenty.” The young lady looked round alarmed, but there was no listener, “and you seem to havelearned nothing.”
“I’ll write all round the country, and tell the people I’m eight-and-twenty or thirty, for anything I know, if you have no objection. I don’t see any harm it can do; telling truth perhaps mayn’t do one much good: but if I’ve learned nothing else, I’ve learned this at all events, that there’s absolutely no good in the other course.”
“I don’t know what you mean bycourses. No one I hope has been committing any fraud in this house. If you please to tell people you are thirty, which is perfectly contrary to fact, you must only take the consequences. Your miserable temper, Clara, has been the ruin of you, and when I’m in my grave you’ll repent it.”
So saying she left the room, and coming down in afew minutes in a black velvet garment, trimmed with ermine, and with a muff of the same judicial fur, she repaired to the school-room, where, much to William’s relief, she graciously begged a holiday for Howard, and then asked William with, at the end of her invitation, a great smile, which plainly said, “I know you can hardly believe your ears but it’s true notwithstanding,” to lend an old woman his arm in a walk up and down the terrace.
William was of course at her service, though the honour was one which at that moment was almost oppressive.