CHAPTER XLII.CONFIDENCESMrs. Kincton Knox, still in walking costume, entered the school-room, intending to invite the pseudo-tutor to continue his walk with her; and with one of her awful smiles she began:“I’ve come to claim your promise, Mr. Maubray.”The name had escaped her. It reverberated in her ear like a cannon-shot. Hardly less astounded stood our friend William before her. For a full minute she could not think of a presentable fib, and stared at him a good deal flushed, and dropped her huge, goggle eyes upon a “copy book” of Master Howard’s, which she raised and inspected with a sudden interest, and having read—“Necessity is the mo”“Necessity is the moth”“Necessity is the mother”“Necessity is the mo”upon its successive lines, she replaced it firmly, raised her head and said—“I have addressed you by the name of Maubray, which I’ve learned, just five minutes since, is your real name; but, should you prefer my employing that of Herbert—my using the other, indeed, was simply an accident; and,perhaps, itisbetter—I shall certainly do so. Your little confidence has interested me unaffectedly—very much, indeed—deeply interested me; the more particularly as Mr. Kincton Knox was once acquainted with a family of your name. Sir Richard Maubray, possibly a relation.”William, who was still a little confused, assented, and the lady, with growing confidence, proceeded:—“You mentioned some unhappy family discord; and it struck me—Mr. Kincton Knox, you know, and I—in fact, we have a good many friends, that possibly some—a—intervention⸺”“Oh! thanks;verykind of you; but I don’t know anyone likely to have much influence—except, perhaps, Mr. Wagget; and I was thinking of writing to him, although I hardly know him sufficiently.”“And, may I ask who Mr. Wagget is?” inquired the lady, who had intentions of taking the carriage of the affair.“The clergyman—a very good man, I believe.”“Oh! in attendance at the sick bed?” inquired the matron, with proper awe.“No—no; not that I know of; but a very old friend of my aunt’s.”“I see—I understand—and he and your aunt would unite their influence to reconcile you.”“Oh, my quarrel, as we’ve been calling it, is with my aunt.”“Oh! oh!—I see, and your father has taken it up?” suggested Mrs. Kincton Knox, promptly.“My father’s dead,” said William, with the gravity becoming such an announcement.“Oh! dear me!—I’m shocked to think I should—I beg your pardon. I ought to have anticipated. You have, I assure you, my deep sympathy—all our sympathies.I do recollectnowhaving heard something of his illness; but, dear! oh, dear!Whata world it is.”William could only bow, with his former seriousness. It was more than twenty years since his excellent father had deceased; and thoughhecould not remember, Mrs. Kincton Knox very well might, an event of that date. Still the fervour of her surprise and her sympathy were, considering all things, a little uncalled for.“The rupture, then, is with your aunt—dear me! you must have wonderful self-command, admirable—admirable, in so young a person.” A brief pause followed this oracular speech.“And your aunt is married?” inquired Mrs. Kincton Knox.“No, unmarried—in fact an old maid,” he replied.“Oh! yes, quite so. Then she’s Miss Maubray?” said the lady.“No, MissPerfect,” said he.“Miss Perfect,maternalaunt, it must be,” and Mrs. Kincton Knox paused, a little perplexed, for she did not recollect that name in that interesting page in the Peerage, which she had looked into more than once. She concluded, however, it must be so, and said, slowly, “I see—Isee.”“And what—you’ll do me the justice to believe, it aint curiosity but a higher motive that actuates me—what is thegroundof this unhappy dispute?”“She has set her heart on my going into the Church,” said William sadly, “and I’m not fit for it.”“Certainly,” exclaimed Mrs. Kincton Knox, “nothing, begging the old lady’s pardon,couldbe more absurd—you’renotfit of course, nor isitfit foryou—there isnofitnesswhatever. There’s the Very Rev. the Earl of Epsom, and the Rev. Sir James St. Leger, and manyothers I could name. Can anything be more ridiculous? They both have their estates and position to look after; and their ordination vow pledges them to give their entire thoughts to their holy calling. I and Mr. Kincton Knox have had many arguments upon the subject; as you see, I’m quite with you. Mr.—Mr.Herbert, you must allow me still to call you by that name—that dear old name. I was going to say⸺”William could only acquiesce—a little puzzled at her general exuberance; she seemed, in fact, quite tipsy with good nature. How little one can judge of character at first sight!“And, of course, it is not formeto say—but your reserve about your name—I supposethatis at an end. Since the melancholy termination of your hopes and fears—I mean there can hardly be—now that you apprise me of your domestic loss.”“It was entirely in deference to myaunt’sprejudices, that Doctor Sprague, in fact,” began William.“I know, an old friend of poor Sir Richard’s; but whatever else you do, I suppose we must make up our minds to lose you for a week or so; your absence would be of course remarked upon, in fact, those feelings never survive the grave, and there are sacrifices to decorum. Your friends, and you know there are those here who feel an interest;noone could advise your staying away.”“My aunt is not ill?” said William with a sudden and horrible misgiving, for the lady’s manner was unmistakably funereal.“Ill?—I haven’t heard. I have not the honour of knowing Miss Purity,” said Mrs. Kincton Knox.“Perfect,” interrupted William—“thank God! I mean that she’s not ill.”“I was thinkingnotof your aunt, but of your poorfather; there are things to be looked after; you are of age.”“Yes, three-and-twenty,” said William, with a coolness that under so sudden a bereavement was admirable.“Not quite that,two-and-twenty last May,” said the student of the Peerage.William knewhewas right, but the point, an odd one for Mrs. Kincton Knox to raise—was not worth disputing.“And, considering the circumstances under which, although you will not admit the estrangement, poor Sir Richard Maubray has been taken⸺”“Sir Richard! Is Sir Richard dead?” exclaimed William.“Dead! of course he is dead. Why you told me so yourself, this moment.”“I—Icouldn’t; I—I didn’t know—I—if I said anything like that, it was the merest slip.”“He’s either dead or alive, Sir, Isuppose; and, whether intentionally or by aslip, it is for you to determine; but I’m positive you did tell me that he’sdead; and if he be so, pray, as between friends,let there an end of concealments, which can have no object or effect but a few hours’ delay in making known a fact which must immediately appear in all the newspapers,” expostulated Mrs. Kincton Knox, as nearly offended as it was possible to be with so very eligible a young man, so opportunely placed, and in so docile a mood.“He’sdying, at all events,” she added.“ThatI know,” said William, with that coolness which had before struck Mrs. Kincton Knox, during this interview, as a new filial phenomenon.“And although we shall miss you,someof usverymuch, yet, of course, knowingall, we have no claim—noright—only you must pledge me your honour—you really must.” She was holding his hand and pressed it impressively between both hers, “that you won’t forget your Kincton friends—that so soon as you can, you will return, and give us at least those weeks on which we reckon.”“It is very kind—it’s very good of you. It is very odd, but I had such a wish to go, just for a day or two—only to see Dr. Sprague—and to consult him about writing to Gilroyd before finally determining on a course of life. I was thinking of—in fact going away and leaving England altogether.”Mrs. Kincton Knox stared, and at last asked—“WhoisGilroyd?”“My aunt’s house, a small place, Gilroyd Hall.”“I was merely thinking of your attending poor Sir Richard’s obsequies.”“The funeral? I—I should not like to attend it uninvited,” answered William. “I don’t know that I should be a welcome guest; in fact, I know I should not—young Maubray⸺”“Your brother?” inquired the lady, who did not remember any such incumbrance in the record she had consulted.“No, my cousin.”“Cousin?And what rightcoulda cousin pretend to excludeyoufrom your father’s funeral?” exclaimed Mrs. Kincton Knox, unfeignedly amazed.“I’m speaking of Sir Richard Maubray, my uncle. My father has been a long time dead—when I was a mere child.”“Oh, yes, of course—dead a long time,” repeated Mrs. Kincton Knox, slowly, as the horrible bewilderment in which she had been lost began to clear away. “Oh, yes, youruncle, Sir Richard Maubray; of course—of coursethat would alter—I—Iwas speaking of your father—I did not know you had lost him so long ago—it, of course, it’s quite another thing, and—a—and—you wish to go to Mrs. Purity?”“No—Perfect⸺not to go there—not to Gilroyd, only to Cambridge, to see Doctor Sprague.”“Very well—a—very well—I don’t see—I shall mention it to Mr. Kincton Knox; have you anything more to say to me, Mr.—Mr.—pray what am I to call you? Herbert, I suppose?”“Nothing, but to thank you—you’ve been so good, so very kind to me.”“I—I make it a rule to be kind to—a—toeverybody. Iendeavourto be so—I believe Ihave,” said the majestic lady with a dignity indescribably dry. “I shall mention your wish to Mr. Kincton Knox. Good-evening, Mr.—Mr. Herbert.”It seemed to our friend William, that the lady was very much offended with him; but what he had done to provoke her resentment he could not divine. He reproached himself after the door had closed, for not having asked her; but perhaps an opportunity would offer, or he might make one, he could not bear the idea of having wounded a heart which had shown such friendly leanings towards him.
CHAPTER XLII.
CONFIDENCES
CONFIDENCES
CONFIDENCES
Mrs. Kincton Knox, still in walking costume, entered the school-room, intending to invite the pseudo-tutor to continue his walk with her; and with one of her awful smiles she began:
“I’ve come to claim your promise, Mr. Maubray.”
The name had escaped her. It reverberated in her ear like a cannon-shot. Hardly less astounded stood our friend William before her. For a full minute she could not think of a presentable fib, and stared at him a good deal flushed, and dropped her huge, goggle eyes upon a “copy book” of Master Howard’s, which she raised and inspected with a sudden interest, and having read—
“Necessity is the mo”
“Necessity is the moth”
“Necessity is the mother”
“Necessity is the mo”
upon its successive lines, she replaced it firmly, raised her head and said—
“I have addressed you by the name of Maubray, which I’ve learned, just five minutes since, is your real name; but, should you prefer my employing that of Herbert—my using the other, indeed, was simply an accident; and,perhaps, itisbetter—I shall certainly do so. Your little confidence has interested me unaffectedly—very much, indeed—deeply interested me; the more particularly as Mr. Kincton Knox was once acquainted with a family of your name. Sir Richard Maubray, possibly a relation.”
William, who was still a little confused, assented, and the lady, with growing confidence, proceeded:—
“You mentioned some unhappy family discord; and it struck me—Mr. Kincton Knox, you know, and I—in fact, we have a good many friends, that possibly some—a—intervention⸺”
“Oh! thanks;verykind of you; but I don’t know anyone likely to have much influence—except, perhaps, Mr. Wagget; and I was thinking of writing to him, although I hardly know him sufficiently.”
“And, may I ask who Mr. Wagget is?” inquired the lady, who had intentions of taking the carriage of the affair.
“The clergyman—a very good man, I believe.”
“Oh! in attendance at the sick bed?” inquired the matron, with proper awe.
“No—no; not that I know of; but a very old friend of my aunt’s.”
“I see—I understand—and he and your aunt would unite their influence to reconcile you.”
“Oh, my quarrel, as we’ve been calling it, is with my aunt.”
“Oh! oh!—I see, and your father has taken it up?” suggested Mrs. Kincton Knox, promptly.
“My father’s dead,” said William, with the gravity becoming such an announcement.
“Oh! dear me!—I’m shocked to think I should—I beg your pardon. I ought to have anticipated. You have, I assure you, my deep sympathy—all our sympathies.I do recollectnowhaving heard something of his illness; but, dear! oh, dear!Whata world it is.”
William could only bow, with his former seriousness. It was more than twenty years since his excellent father had deceased; and thoughhecould not remember, Mrs. Kincton Knox very well might, an event of that date. Still the fervour of her surprise and her sympathy were, considering all things, a little uncalled for.
“The rupture, then, is with your aunt—dear me! you must have wonderful self-command, admirable—admirable, in so young a person.” A brief pause followed this oracular speech.
“And your aunt is married?” inquired Mrs. Kincton Knox.
“No, unmarried—in fact an old maid,” he replied.
“Oh! yes, quite so. Then she’s Miss Maubray?” said the lady.
“No, MissPerfect,” said he.
“Miss Perfect,maternalaunt, it must be,” and Mrs. Kincton Knox paused, a little perplexed, for she did not recollect that name in that interesting page in the Peerage, which she had looked into more than once. She concluded, however, it must be so, and said, slowly, “I see—Isee.”
“And what—you’ll do me the justice to believe, it aint curiosity but a higher motive that actuates me—what is thegroundof this unhappy dispute?”
“She has set her heart on my going into the Church,” said William sadly, “and I’m not fit for it.”
“Certainly,” exclaimed Mrs. Kincton Knox, “nothing, begging the old lady’s pardon,couldbe more absurd—you’renotfit of course, nor isitfit foryou—there isnofitnesswhatever. There’s the Very Rev. the Earl of Epsom, and the Rev. Sir James St. Leger, and manyothers I could name. Can anything be more ridiculous? They both have their estates and position to look after; and their ordination vow pledges them to give their entire thoughts to their holy calling. I and Mr. Kincton Knox have had many arguments upon the subject; as you see, I’m quite with you. Mr.—Mr.Herbert, you must allow me still to call you by that name—that dear old name. I was going to say⸺”
William could only acquiesce—a little puzzled at her general exuberance; she seemed, in fact, quite tipsy with good nature. How little one can judge of character at first sight!
“And, of course, it is not formeto say—but your reserve about your name—I supposethatis at an end. Since the melancholy termination of your hopes and fears—I mean there can hardly be—now that you apprise me of your domestic loss.”
“It was entirely in deference to myaunt’sprejudices, that Doctor Sprague, in fact,” began William.
“I know, an old friend of poor Sir Richard’s; but whatever else you do, I suppose we must make up our minds to lose you for a week or so; your absence would be of course remarked upon, in fact, those feelings never survive the grave, and there are sacrifices to decorum. Your friends, and you know there are those here who feel an interest;noone could advise your staying away.”
“My aunt is not ill?” said William with a sudden and horrible misgiving, for the lady’s manner was unmistakably funereal.
“Ill?—I haven’t heard. I have not the honour of knowing Miss Purity,” said Mrs. Kincton Knox.
“Perfect,” interrupted William—“thank God! I mean that she’s not ill.”
“I was thinkingnotof your aunt, but of your poorfather; there are things to be looked after; you are of age.”
“Yes, three-and-twenty,” said William, with a coolness that under so sudden a bereavement was admirable.
“Not quite that,two-and-twenty last May,” said the student of the Peerage.
William knewhewas right, but the point, an odd one for Mrs. Kincton Knox to raise—was not worth disputing.
“And, considering the circumstances under which, although you will not admit the estrangement, poor Sir Richard Maubray has been taken⸺”
“Sir Richard! Is Sir Richard dead?” exclaimed William.
“Dead! of course he is dead. Why you told me so yourself, this moment.”
“I—Icouldn’t; I—I didn’t know—I—if I said anything like that, it was the merest slip.”
“He’s either dead or alive, Sir, Isuppose; and, whether intentionally or by aslip, it is for you to determine; but I’m positive you did tell me that he’sdead; and if he be so, pray, as between friends,let there an end of concealments, which can have no object or effect but a few hours’ delay in making known a fact which must immediately appear in all the newspapers,” expostulated Mrs. Kincton Knox, as nearly offended as it was possible to be with so very eligible a young man, so opportunely placed, and in so docile a mood.
“He’sdying, at all events,” she added.
“ThatI know,” said William, with that coolness which had before struck Mrs. Kincton Knox, during this interview, as a new filial phenomenon.
“And although we shall miss you,someof usverymuch, yet, of course, knowingall, we have no claim—noright—only you must pledge me your honour—you really must.” She was holding his hand and pressed it impressively between both hers, “that you won’t forget your Kincton friends—that so soon as you can, you will return, and give us at least those weeks on which we reckon.”
“It is very kind—it’s very good of you. It is very odd, but I had such a wish to go, just for a day or two—only to see Dr. Sprague—and to consult him about writing to Gilroyd before finally determining on a course of life. I was thinking of—in fact going away and leaving England altogether.”
Mrs. Kincton Knox stared, and at last asked—
“WhoisGilroyd?”
“My aunt’s house, a small place, Gilroyd Hall.”
“I was merely thinking of your attending poor Sir Richard’s obsequies.”
“The funeral? I—I should not like to attend it uninvited,” answered William. “I don’t know that I should be a welcome guest; in fact, I know I should not—young Maubray⸺”
“Your brother?” inquired the lady, who did not remember any such incumbrance in the record she had consulted.
“No, my cousin.”
“Cousin?And what rightcoulda cousin pretend to excludeyoufrom your father’s funeral?” exclaimed Mrs. Kincton Knox, unfeignedly amazed.
“I’m speaking of Sir Richard Maubray, my uncle. My father has been a long time dead—when I was a mere child.”
“Oh, yes, of course—dead a long time,” repeated Mrs. Kincton Knox, slowly, as the horrible bewilderment in which she had been lost began to clear away. “Oh, yes, youruncle, Sir Richard Maubray; of course—of coursethat would alter—I—Iwas speaking of your father—I did not know you had lost him so long ago—it, of course, it’s quite another thing, and—a—and—you wish to go to Mrs. Purity?”
“No—Perfect⸺not to go there—not to Gilroyd, only to Cambridge, to see Doctor Sprague.”
“Very well—a—very well—I don’t see—I shall mention it to Mr. Kincton Knox; have you anything more to say to me, Mr.—Mr.—pray what am I to call you? Herbert, I suppose?”
“Nothing, but to thank you—you’ve been so good, so very kind to me.”
“I—I make it a rule to be kind to—a—toeverybody. Iendeavourto be so—I believe Ihave,” said the majestic lady with a dignity indescribably dry. “I shall mention your wish to Mr. Kincton Knox. Good-evening, Mr.—Mr. Herbert.”
It seemed to our friend William, that the lady was very much offended with him; but what he had done to provoke her resentment he could not divine. He reproached himself after the door had closed, for not having asked her; but perhaps an opportunity would offer, or he might make one, he could not bear the idea of having wounded a heart which had shown such friendly leanings towards him.