CHAPTER XLI.HOW THEY TALKEDAfter a few turns, and some little talk, Mrs. Kincton Knox said:—“I’m afraid, Mr. Herbert, like most of us, young as you are, you have your troubles. You will excuse an old woman, old enough to be your mother, and who likes you, who really feels a very deep interest in you, for saying so. I wish—I wish, in fact, there was a little more confidence, but all in good time. I said you were—you were—it’s perhaps impertinent of me to say I observed it, but my motive is not curiosity, nor, you will believe, unkind. I did see you were distressed this morning by the letter that reached you. I trust there was no illness, nor⸺”“No, nothing—that is, which I had not—which was not,” he replied. “Nothing very unexpected.”“For if there was any necessity, anywishto leave Kincton for a little, I should offer my poor services as a substitute with your pupil, if you would trust him to me.”Although her graciousness was oppressive, and her playfulness awful, there were welcome signs of sympathy in this speech, and William Maubray greeted them with something like confidence, and, said he:—“It’s awfully kind of you, Mrs. Kincton Knox, to think about me. I—I don’t know exactly what to say, except that I am very grateful, and—and it’s quite true, I’ve had a great deal of vexation and suffering—a kind of quarrel—a very bad quarrel, indeed, at home, as I call it, and—and some other things.”“Other things!—no doubt. There is one trouble to which the young are exposed, and from which old people are quite exempt. The course of true love, you know, as our great moralist says, never did run smooth.”Her prominent eyes were fixed with an awful archness upon Maubray, and conscious as he was, he blushed and paled under her gaze, and was dumb.“My maxim in all such cases is,never despair. When a young man is endowed, like you, with good looks, and refinement. You see I am talking to you almost as I would to a son, that darling boy of mine is such a link, and one grows so soon to know aguest, and those delightful evenings, and I think—Ithink, Mr. Herbert, I can see a little with my old eyes, and I’ve divined your secret.”“I may—that is, I think it may have been—afancy, just. I don’t know,” said William, very much put out.“ButIknow. You may be perfectly certain youarein love, if you aint quite certain that you arenot. Trust an old woman who has seen something of life—that is, of human nature,” insisted Mrs. Kincton Knox.“I—I don’t know, I did not know it myself until, I think, within the last few days. I dare say I’m a great fool. I’m sure I am, in fact, and I ought not to have allowed—but I really did not know.”He suspected that Trevor had told all he knew of hisstory, and that the women, with the sagacity of their sex, had divined the rest.“You see, Mr. Herbert, I have not guessed amiss. When I see a young person very much dejected anddistrait, I at once suspect aromance; and now let me say a word ofcomfort, derived from observation. As I said before—I’ve known such thingshappen—never despair. There is a spark of romance in our sex as well as in yours. I think Imaybe of use to you. I dare say things are not quite so desperate as they appear. But do trust me—do be frank.”“I will. I’ll tell you everything. I—I don’t know where to begin. But I’m so much obliged. I’ve no one to speak to, and⸺”At this moment the “darling boy” Howard bounced from behind a thick shrub, with a shriek which was echoed by his fond mother, who, if anything so dignified could jump,didjump, and even William’s manly heart made an uncomfortable bounce in his breast. At the same time Master Howard Seymour turned his ankle, and tumbled with a second horrid roar on the walk, from which his mother and his instructor lifted him, not much hurt, but bellowing in a fury, and requiring to be conducted for comfort to the house.“I shall call upon you again, Mr. Herbert, when my poor darling is better, and we can—there, there! my rosebud,” began Mrs. Kincton Knox, distracted between her curiosity and her compassion.“Shall I take him on my back?Get up.” And so, he took the urchin, who was hopping round them in circles with hideous uproar, in his arms, and bore him away beside his anxious parent towards the house, where having ministered to the sufferer, Mrs. Kincton Knox looked into the drawing-room, and found Miss Claraseated by the fire, with her slender feet as usual, on a boss, reading her novel.Mrs. Kincton Knox, stooping over her, kissed her, and Miss Clara, knowing that the unusual caress indicated something extraordinary, looked up with a dreary curiosity into her mother’s face. When they weretête-à-tête, these ladies did not trouble one another much with smiles or caresses. Still her mother was smiling with a mysterious triumph, and nodded encouragingly upon her.“Well?” asked Miss Clara.“I think you’ll find that I was right, and that somebody will ask you a question before long,” answered her mother, with an oracular smile.Miss Clara certainly did look a little interested at this intimation, and sat up with comparative energy, looking rather earnestly into her mother’s prominent, hard brown eyes.“He’s been talking very, I may say, frankly to me, and although we were interrupted by—an accident, yet there was no mistaking him. At least that’smyopinion.”And Mrs. Kincton Knox sat down, and with her imposing coiffure nodding over her daughter’s ear, recounted, with perhaps some little colouring, her interesting conversation with William Maubray. While this conference was proceeding, the door opened, and Mr. Kincton Knox, his gloves, white hat, and stick in his hand, walked in.It was one of Mrs. Kincton Knox’s unpublished theories that her husband’s presence in the drawing-room was a trespass, as that of a cow among the flower-beds under the window.As that portly figure in the gray woollen suit and whitewaistcoat entered mildly, the matron sat erect, and eyed him with a gaze of astonishment, which, however, was quite lost upon him, as he had not his spectacles on.“I hope, Mr. Kincton Knox, your shoes are not covered with mud?—unless you are prepared to buy another carpet,” she said, glancing at the clumsy articles in question.“Oh, dear! no—I haven’t been out—just going—but I want you and Clara to look over there,” and he pointed with his stick, at which Mrs. Kincton Knox winced with the ejaculation, “The China!”“You see those three trees,” he continued, approaching the window with his stick extended.“Yes, youneedn’tgo on;perfectly,” she answered.“Well, the one to the right is, in fact, I think it’s an ugly tree; I’ve been for a long time considering it. You see it there, Clara, on the rising ground, near the paling?”She did.“Well, I’m thinking of taking him down; what do you say?”“Dolower your stick, Mr. Kincton Knox,pray, we can see perfectly withoutbreakinganything,” expostulated his wife.“Well, what do you say?” he repeated, pointing with his hand instead.“Do you want my opinion as to what trees should come down?” said Mrs. Knox, with admirable perseverance. “I shall be happy to give it with respect toall—as to that particular tree it is so far away, I really don’t think the question worth debating.”“Take it down, papa,” said Miss Clara, who rather liked her father, and encouraged him when too much put down. “I really think you’re always right about trees, Ithink you’ve such wonderful taste, I do indeed, and judgment about all those things.”The old man gave her a hearty kiss on the cheek, and smiling ruddily, said—“Well, I think I ought; I’ve read something, andthoughtsomething on the subject, and asyoudon’t dissent, my dear, and Clara says it’s to come down—down it comes. She’s looking very pretty; egad she is—wonderfully pretty, she is, to-day.”“Folly!” exclaimed Miss Clara, pleased notwithstanding.“Other people think her good-looking too, I can tell you,” exclaimed her mother, whose thoughts were all in that channel, and who could not forbear saying something on the subject. “I think, even you, Mr. Kincton Knox, will see that I have done my duty by our child, and have been the means under Providence of promoting her happiness.”“And what is it?” said Mr. Kincton Knox, looking solemnly on his daughter.“I don’t know that there is anything at all,” replied she quietly.Mrs. Kincton Knox beckoned him imperiously, and they drew near the window, while the young lady resumed her novel.“He’s in love with her,” she murmured.“Who, my dear?”“Mr. Maubray.”“Oh! is he?—whatMr. Maubray?” inquired the old gentleman.“Winston Maubray—probablySirWinston Maubray, at this moment; his father, you know, is dying, if not dead.”“Sir Richard, you mean?”“Of course, I mean Sir Richard.”“Yes, he is; he wasn’t a bad fellow, poor Maubray. But it’s a long time—thirty—thirty-eightyears—yes—since we were at Oxford.”“And his son’s in the house.”“Here?”“Yes, this house,here.”“Very happy to see him, I’m sure, very happy—we’ll do all in our power,” said Mr. Kincton Knox, very much at sea as to the cause of his arrival.“You know Mr. Herbert?”“Yes.”“Well, that’s he—Mr. Herbert is Mr. Winston Maubray. If you were to stare till Doomsday it won’t change the fact; here he is, andhasbeen—and has confessed to me that he likes Clara. He’s very modest, almost shy, and without any kind of management on my part; had I stooped to that as other mothers do, she’d have been married, no doubt, long ago—simply placing them under the same roof, perceiving that he was a gentleman; ascertainingwhohewas, I left the rest to—to—you see, and the consequence is—as I’ve told you, and—andhumanlyspeaking—she’ll be Lady Maubray.”“Oh!” said Mr. Kincton Knox.“Perhaps you don’t like it?”“Oh! like it?—very well; but she’s very young—there’s no great hurry; I would nothurryher.”“Pooh!” exclaimed Mrs. Kincton Knox, turning abruptly away from her husband, one of whose teasing hallucinations was that Clara had hardly emerged from the nursery.
CHAPTER XLI.
HOW THEY TALKED
HOW THEY TALKED
HOW THEY TALKED
After a few turns, and some little talk, Mrs. Kincton Knox said:—
“I’m afraid, Mr. Herbert, like most of us, young as you are, you have your troubles. You will excuse an old woman, old enough to be your mother, and who likes you, who really feels a very deep interest in you, for saying so. I wish—I wish, in fact, there was a little more confidence, but all in good time. I said you were—you were—it’s perhaps impertinent of me to say I observed it, but my motive is not curiosity, nor, you will believe, unkind. I did see you were distressed this morning by the letter that reached you. I trust there was no illness, nor⸺”
“No, nothing—that is, which I had not—which was not,” he replied. “Nothing very unexpected.”
“For if there was any necessity, anywishto leave Kincton for a little, I should offer my poor services as a substitute with your pupil, if you would trust him to me.”
Although her graciousness was oppressive, and her playfulness awful, there were welcome signs of sympathy in this speech, and William Maubray greeted them with something like confidence, and, said he:—
“It’s awfully kind of you, Mrs. Kincton Knox, to think about me. I—I don’t know exactly what to say, except that I am very grateful, and—and it’s quite true, I’ve had a great deal of vexation and suffering—a kind of quarrel—a very bad quarrel, indeed, at home, as I call it, and—and some other things.”
“Other things!—no doubt. There is one trouble to which the young are exposed, and from which old people are quite exempt. The course of true love, you know, as our great moralist says, never did run smooth.”
Her prominent eyes were fixed with an awful archness upon Maubray, and conscious as he was, he blushed and paled under her gaze, and was dumb.
“My maxim in all such cases is,never despair. When a young man is endowed, like you, with good looks, and refinement. You see I am talking to you almost as I would to a son, that darling boy of mine is such a link, and one grows so soon to know aguest, and those delightful evenings, and I think—Ithink, Mr. Herbert, I can see a little with my old eyes, and I’ve divined your secret.”
“I may—that is, I think it may have been—afancy, just. I don’t know,” said William, very much put out.
“ButIknow. You may be perfectly certain youarein love, if you aint quite certain that you arenot. Trust an old woman who has seen something of life—that is, of human nature,” insisted Mrs. Kincton Knox.
“I—I don’t know, I did not know it myself until, I think, within the last few days. I dare say I’m a great fool. I’m sure I am, in fact, and I ought not to have allowed—but I really did not know.”
He suspected that Trevor had told all he knew of hisstory, and that the women, with the sagacity of their sex, had divined the rest.
“You see, Mr. Herbert, I have not guessed amiss. When I see a young person very much dejected anddistrait, I at once suspect aromance; and now let me say a word ofcomfort, derived from observation. As I said before—I’ve known such thingshappen—never despair. There is a spark of romance in our sex as well as in yours. I think Imaybe of use to you. I dare say things are not quite so desperate as they appear. But do trust me—do be frank.”
“I will. I’ll tell you everything. I—I don’t know where to begin. But I’m so much obliged. I’ve no one to speak to, and⸺”
At this moment the “darling boy” Howard bounced from behind a thick shrub, with a shriek which was echoed by his fond mother, who, if anything so dignified could jump,didjump, and even William’s manly heart made an uncomfortable bounce in his breast. At the same time Master Howard Seymour turned his ankle, and tumbled with a second horrid roar on the walk, from which his mother and his instructor lifted him, not much hurt, but bellowing in a fury, and requiring to be conducted for comfort to the house.
“I shall call upon you again, Mr. Herbert, when my poor darling is better, and we can—there, there! my rosebud,” began Mrs. Kincton Knox, distracted between her curiosity and her compassion.
“Shall I take him on my back?Get up.” And so, he took the urchin, who was hopping round them in circles with hideous uproar, in his arms, and bore him away beside his anxious parent towards the house, where having ministered to the sufferer, Mrs. Kincton Knox looked into the drawing-room, and found Miss Claraseated by the fire, with her slender feet as usual, on a boss, reading her novel.
Mrs. Kincton Knox, stooping over her, kissed her, and Miss Clara, knowing that the unusual caress indicated something extraordinary, looked up with a dreary curiosity into her mother’s face. When they weretête-à-tête, these ladies did not trouble one another much with smiles or caresses. Still her mother was smiling with a mysterious triumph, and nodded encouragingly upon her.
“Well?” asked Miss Clara.
“I think you’ll find that I was right, and that somebody will ask you a question before long,” answered her mother, with an oracular smile.
Miss Clara certainly did look a little interested at this intimation, and sat up with comparative energy, looking rather earnestly into her mother’s prominent, hard brown eyes.
“He’s been talking very, I may say, frankly to me, and although we were interrupted by—an accident, yet there was no mistaking him. At least that’smyopinion.”
And Mrs. Kincton Knox sat down, and with her imposing coiffure nodding over her daughter’s ear, recounted, with perhaps some little colouring, her interesting conversation with William Maubray. While this conference was proceeding, the door opened, and Mr. Kincton Knox, his gloves, white hat, and stick in his hand, walked in.
It was one of Mrs. Kincton Knox’s unpublished theories that her husband’s presence in the drawing-room was a trespass, as that of a cow among the flower-beds under the window.
As that portly figure in the gray woollen suit and whitewaistcoat entered mildly, the matron sat erect, and eyed him with a gaze of astonishment, which, however, was quite lost upon him, as he had not his spectacles on.
“I hope, Mr. Kincton Knox, your shoes are not covered with mud?—unless you are prepared to buy another carpet,” she said, glancing at the clumsy articles in question.
“Oh, dear! no—I haven’t been out—just going—but I want you and Clara to look over there,” and he pointed with his stick, at which Mrs. Kincton Knox winced with the ejaculation, “The China!”
“You see those three trees,” he continued, approaching the window with his stick extended.
“Yes, youneedn’tgo on;perfectly,” she answered.
“Well, the one to the right is, in fact, I think it’s an ugly tree; I’ve been for a long time considering it. You see it there, Clara, on the rising ground, near the paling?”
She did.
“Well, I’m thinking of taking him down; what do you say?”
“Dolower your stick, Mr. Kincton Knox,pray, we can see perfectly withoutbreakinganything,” expostulated his wife.
“Well, what do you say?” he repeated, pointing with his hand instead.
“Do you want my opinion as to what trees should come down?” said Mrs. Knox, with admirable perseverance. “I shall be happy to give it with respect toall—as to that particular tree it is so far away, I really don’t think the question worth debating.”
“Take it down, papa,” said Miss Clara, who rather liked her father, and encouraged him when too much put down. “I really think you’re always right about trees, Ithink you’ve such wonderful taste, I do indeed, and judgment about all those things.”
The old man gave her a hearty kiss on the cheek, and smiling ruddily, said—
“Well, I think I ought; I’ve read something, andthoughtsomething on the subject, and asyoudon’t dissent, my dear, and Clara says it’s to come down—down it comes. She’s looking very pretty; egad she is—wonderfully pretty, she is, to-day.”
“Folly!” exclaimed Miss Clara, pleased notwithstanding.
“Other people think her good-looking too, I can tell you,” exclaimed her mother, whose thoughts were all in that channel, and who could not forbear saying something on the subject. “I think, even you, Mr. Kincton Knox, will see that I have done my duty by our child, and have been the means under Providence of promoting her happiness.”
“And what is it?” said Mr. Kincton Knox, looking solemnly on his daughter.
“I don’t know that there is anything at all,” replied she quietly.
Mrs. Kincton Knox beckoned him imperiously, and they drew near the window, while the young lady resumed her novel.
“He’s in love with her,” she murmured.
“Who, my dear?”
“Mr. Maubray.”
“Oh! is he?—whatMr. Maubray?” inquired the old gentleman.
“Winston Maubray—probablySirWinston Maubray, at this moment; his father, you know, is dying, if not dead.”
“Sir Richard, you mean?”
“Of course, I mean Sir Richard.”
“Yes, he is; he wasn’t a bad fellow, poor Maubray. But it’s a long time—thirty—thirty-eightyears—yes—since we were at Oxford.”
“And his son’s in the house.”
“Here?”
“Yes, this house,here.”
“Very happy to see him, I’m sure, very happy—we’ll do all in our power,” said Mr. Kincton Knox, very much at sea as to the cause of his arrival.
“You know Mr. Herbert?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s he—Mr. Herbert is Mr. Winston Maubray. If you were to stare till Doomsday it won’t change the fact; here he is, andhasbeen—and has confessed to me that he likes Clara. He’s very modest, almost shy, and without any kind of management on my part; had I stooped to that as other mothers do, she’d have been married, no doubt, long ago—simply placing them under the same roof, perceiving that he was a gentleman; ascertainingwhohewas, I left the rest to—to—you see, and the consequence is—as I’ve told you, and—andhumanlyspeaking—she’ll be Lady Maubray.”
“Oh!” said Mr. Kincton Knox.
“Perhaps you don’t like it?”
“Oh! like it?—very well; but she’s very young—there’s no great hurry; I would nothurryher.”
“Pooh!” exclaimed Mrs. Kincton Knox, turning abruptly away from her husband, one of whose teasing hallucinations was that Clara had hardly emerged from the nursery.