CHAPTER XXII.AN ADVERTISEMENTChill was the night. The slight motion of the air was against them, and made a cutting breeze as they drove on. The gentleman who sat beside him in a huge cloak and fur cap, with several yards of cashmere swathing his throat and chin and chops, was taciturn, except when he offered William a cigar.The cold, dark, and solitude helped his depression—and longing to see Dr. Sprague, to whom, in his helplessness, he looked for practical counsel. The way seemed more than usually long. There was one conclusion clearly fixed in the chaos of his thoughts. He had done with dependence. No matter to what level it might reduce him, he would earn his own bread. He was leaving Gilroyd Hall behind him, and all its dreams, to be dreamed no more. Perhaps there was in the surrounding gloom that romantic vista, which youth in its irrepressible hopefulness will open for itself. And William Maubray in the filmy perspective saw a shadow of himself as he would be a few years hence—wealthy, famous, the outcast restored, with the lawn and the chestnuts about him, and pretty old Gilroyd spreading its faint crimson gables and glittering window-frames behind, and old AuntDinah, and another form in the foreground, all smiles and tears, and welcome.Poor fellow! He knows not how few succeed—how long it takes to make a fortune—how the process transforms, and how seldom that kind of gilding touches any but white heads, and when the sun is near its setting, and all the old things past or passing away.In the morning William Maubray presented himself before Dr. Sprague, who asked him briskly—“How is Miss Perfect?”“Quite well, Sir, thank you; but—but something very serious has happened—very serious Sir, and I am very anxious to ask your advice.”“Eh!” said the doctor; “wait a moment,” and he quaffed what remained of his cup of tea, for William had surprised him at breakfast. “Hey?—nothing very bad, I hope?” and the doctor put on his spectacles and looked in William’s face, as a physician does into that of a patient, to read something of his case in his countenance.So William reported the great debate, and alas! the division on the question of holy orders, to all which the good little man listened, leaning back in his chair, with leg crossed and his chin raised.“You’re in the right, Sir,” he said, so soon as he had heard the young man out—“perfectly. What do you wish me to do? I’ll write to Miss Perfect if you wish it.”“Very kind of you, Sir; but I’d rather not, on that subject, at least till I’m quite out of the way. I should not wish her to suppose that I could seek to return to my oldposition of obligation. I must never cost her a farthing more.”So William explained his feelings fully and very candidly,and Doctor Sprague listened, and looked pleased though grave; and, said he—“You haven’t been writing for any of the magazines, or that sort of thing?”No, he had no resource of that kind. He had a good deal of loose manuscript, he confessed with a blush, but he had no introduction.“Well, no,” said Doctor Sprague, “you’d probably have a long wait, too long for your purpose. You have, you know, a trifle of your own, about twenty-three pounds a year, isn’t it?” and he looked in the direction of his desk, where the memorandum was; “something thereabout, that I received for you. There’s a money order for eleven pounds and something in my desk since yesterday.”“Don’t you think, Sir, that I should apply that little annuity to pay back all I can to my aunt, who has been so good to me?”“Tut-tut, your aunt would not accept a guinea, and would mistake your motive; don’t talk of any such thing. Her past affection is a matter of kindly recollection. You could not reduce it to money—no, no; but on the whole I think you have resolved wisely. You must undertake, for a little, something in the way of tuition; I don’t mean here. You’re hardly well enough up in the business for that; but we’ll find out somethinghere,” and he tapped theTimes, which lay open on the table beside him, “I dare say, to suit you—not a school, that would not do either—a tutor in a country house. You need not stay away more than six months, and you’ll have something to go on with then; and in the meantime you can send your manuscripts round, and try if you can’t get into some of theperiodicals.”“It is very odd, Sir, but some months since I spokeof such a plan when I was at Gilroyd, and my aunt was positively horrified; she isfull of fancies, you know, and she told me that none of my family had ever done anything of the kind.”“I don’t know aboutthat; but I’ve done it, I can tell you, and better men than I,” said the doctor.“I only mean that she made such a point of it; she would think I had done it expressly to vex her, or she might come wherever I was, and try to make me leave it.”“So she might,” said the cleric, and laughed a little to himself, for he knew her, and fancied a scene, “but what can you do? I think youmust, in fact, and the best way will be to tell her nothing about it. She has cut you, you know, for the present, and you need not, if you think it would vex her, go in your own name, do you see? We’ll call you Mr. Herbert, you’re descended maternally, you know, from Herberts; now—not for a moment, now, just hear me out: there shall be no deception, of course.I’lltell them that for certain family reasons I have advised you to take that measure. I’ll take it all on myself, and say all I think of you, and know of you, and I saw, just now, in this very paper, something that I think would answer very nicely. Yes, yes, I’ll make it all quite straight and easy. But you must do as I say.”The kind little gentleman was thinking that eccentric and fierce Miss Perfect might never forgive his engaging himself as a tutor, without at least that disguise, and he looked forward as he murmuredvarium et mutabile semper, to a much earlierredintegratio amoristhan William dreamed of.“It’s unlucky her having made a point of it. But what is the poor fellow to do? She must not, however,be offended more than we can help and that will show a wish, as far as was practicable, to consult her feelings.”Doctor Sprague looked along a column in theTimes, and said he, after his scrutiny—“I think there’s just one of these you’ll like—say which you prefer, and I’ll tell you if it’s the one I think.”So William conned over the advertisements, and, in Aunt Dinah’s phrase, put on his considering cap, and having pondered a good while, “This one, I think?” he half decided and half inquired.“The very thing!” said Dr. Sprague, cheerily. “One boy—country-house—just the thing; he’ll be in his bed early, you know, and you can take your books and write away till twelve at night; and now you had better drop them a line—or stay, I’ll do it; you can’t sign your name, you know.”So, communications being opened, in a day or two it turned out that Doctor Sprague knew the gentleman who advertised. It was a very old and long interrupted acquaintance.“He’s a quiet, kind fellow, and Kincton Hall, they say, a pretty place and old. I’ll write to Knox.”The Knoxes of Kincton Hall William had heard Trevor occasionally mention, but tried in vain to recollect what he used to say of them; six months, however, was no great venture, and the experiment could hardly break down very badly in that time.“Maubray, your cousin, has quarrelled with his father, you heard?”“No.”“Oh, yes, just about the time when you left this—a few days ago. Young Maubray has some little property from his mother, and chooses to take his own way; andSir Richard was here with me yesterday, very angry and violent, poor man, and vows” (the doctor would not say “swears” which would have described the procedure more accurately) “he’ll cut him off with a shilling; but that’s all moonshine. The estates are under settlement, and the young fellow knows it, and that’s at the bottom of his independence; and he’s gone abroad, I believe, to amuse himself: and he has been no credit to his college, from all I hear.”
CHAPTER XXII.
AN ADVERTISEMENT
AN ADVERTISEMENT
AN ADVERTISEMENT
Chill was the night. The slight motion of the air was against them, and made a cutting breeze as they drove on. The gentleman who sat beside him in a huge cloak and fur cap, with several yards of cashmere swathing his throat and chin and chops, was taciturn, except when he offered William a cigar.
The cold, dark, and solitude helped his depression—and longing to see Dr. Sprague, to whom, in his helplessness, he looked for practical counsel. The way seemed more than usually long. There was one conclusion clearly fixed in the chaos of his thoughts. He had done with dependence. No matter to what level it might reduce him, he would earn his own bread. He was leaving Gilroyd Hall behind him, and all its dreams, to be dreamed no more. Perhaps there was in the surrounding gloom that romantic vista, which youth in its irrepressible hopefulness will open for itself. And William Maubray in the filmy perspective saw a shadow of himself as he would be a few years hence—wealthy, famous, the outcast restored, with the lawn and the chestnuts about him, and pretty old Gilroyd spreading its faint crimson gables and glittering window-frames behind, and old AuntDinah, and another form in the foreground, all smiles and tears, and welcome.
Poor fellow! He knows not how few succeed—how long it takes to make a fortune—how the process transforms, and how seldom that kind of gilding touches any but white heads, and when the sun is near its setting, and all the old things past or passing away.
In the morning William Maubray presented himself before Dr. Sprague, who asked him briskly—“How is Miss Perfect?”
“Quite well, Sir, thank you; but—but something very serious has happened—very serious Sir, and I am very anxious to ask your advice.”
“Eh!” said the doctor; “wait a moment,” and he quaffed what remained of his cup of tea, for William had surprised him at breakfast. “Hey?—nothing very bad, I hope?” and the doctor put on his spectacles and looked in William’s face, as a physician does into that of a patient, to read something of his case in his countenance.
So William reported the great debate, and alas! the division on the question of holy orders, to all which the good little man listened, leaning back in his chair, with leg crossed and his chin raised.
“You’re in the right, Sir,” he said, so soon as he had heard the young man out—“perfectly. What do you wish me to do? I’ll write to Miss Perfect if you wish it.”
“Very kind of you, Sir; but I’d rather not, on that subject, at least till I’m quite out of the way. I should not wish her to suppose that I could seek to return to my oldposition of obligation. I must never cost her a farthing more.”
So William explained his feelings fully and very candidly,and Doctor Sprague listened, and looked pleased though grave; and, said he—
“You haven’t been writing for any of the magazines, or that sort of thing?”
No, he had no resource of that kind. He had a good deal of loose manuscript, he confessed with a blush, but he had no introduction.
“Well, no,” said Doctor Sprague, “you’d probably have a long wait, too long for your purpose. You have, you know, a trifle of your own, about twenty-three pounds a year, isn’t it?” and he looked in the direction of his desk, where the memorandum was; “something thereabout, that I received for you. There’s a money order for eleven pounds and something in my desk since yesterday.”
“Don’t you think, Sir, that I should apply that little annuity to pay back all I can to my aunt, who has been so good to me?”
“Tut-tut, your aunt would not accept a guinea, and would mistake your motive; don’t talk of any such thing. Her past affection is a matter of kindly recollection. You could not reduce it to money—no, no; but on the whole I think you have resolved wisely. You must undertake, for a little, something in the way of tuition; I don’t mean here. You’re hardly well enough up in the business for that; but we’ll find out somethinghere,” and he tapped theTimes, which lay open on the table beside him, “I dare say, to suit you—not a school, that would not do either—a tutor in a country house. You need not stay away more than six months, and you’ll have something to go on with then; and in the meantime you can send your manuscripts round, and try if you can’t get into some of theperiodicals.”
“It is very odd, Sir, but some months since I spokeof such a plan when I was at Gilroyd, and my aunt was positively horrified; she isfull of fancies, you know, and she told me that none of my family had ever done anything of the kind.”
“I don’t know aboutthat; but I’ve done it, I can tell you, and better men than I,” said the doctor.
“I only mean that she made such a point of it; she would think I had done it expressly to vex her, or she might come wherever I was, and try to make me leave it.”
“So she might,” said the cleric, and laughed a little to himself, for he knew her, and fancied a scene, “but what can you do? I think youmust, in fact, and the best way will be to tell her nothing about it. She has cut you, you know, for the present, and you need not, if you think it would vex her, go in your own name, do you see? We’ll call you Mr. Herbert, you’re descended maternally, you know, from Herberts; now—not for a moment, now, just hear me out: there shall be no deception, of course.I’lltell them that for certain family reasons I have advised you to take that measure. I’ll take it all on myself, and say all I think of you, and know of you, and I saw, just now, in this very paper, something that I think would answer very nicely. Yes, yes, I’ll make it all quite straight and easy. But you must do as I say.”
The kind little gentleman was thinking that eccentric and fierce Miss Perfect might never forgive his engaging himself as a tutor, without at least that disguise, and he looked forward as he murmuredvarium et mutabile semper, to a much earlierredintegratio amoristhan William dreamed of.
“It’s unlucky her having made a point of it. But what is the poor fellow to do? She must not, however,be offended more than we can help and that will show a wish, as far as was practicable, to consult her feelings.”
Doctor Sprague looked along a column in theTimes, and said he, after his scrutiny—
“I think there’s just one of these you’ll like—say which you prefer, and I’ll tell you if it’s the one I think.”
So William conned over the advertisements, and, in Aunt Dinah’s phrase, put on his considering cap, and having pondered a good while, “This one, I think?” he half decided and half inquired.
“The very thing!” said Dr. Sprague, cheerily. “One boy—country-house—just the thing; he’ll be in his bed early, you know, and you can take your books and write away till twelve at night; and now you had better drop them a line—or stay, I’ll do it; you can’t sign your name, you know.”
So, communications being opened, in a day or two it turned out that Doctor Sprague knew the gentleman who advertised. It was a very old and long interrupted acquaintance.
“He’s a quiet, kind fellow, and Kincton Hall, they say, a pretty place and old. I’ll write to Knox.”
The Knoxes of Kincton Hall William had heard Trevor occasionally mention, but tried in vain to recollect what he used to say of them; six months, however, was no great venture, and the experiment could hardly break down very badly in that time.
“Maubray, your cousin, has quarrelled with his father, you heard?”
“No.”
“Oh, yes, just about the time when you left this—a few days ago. Young Maubray has some little property from his mother, and chooses to take his own way; andSir Richard was here with me yesterday, very angry and violent, poor man, and vows” (the doctor would not say “swears” which would have described the procedure more accurately) “he’ll cut him off with a shilling; but that’s all moonshine. The estates are under settlement, and the young fellow knows it, and that’s at the bottom of his independence; and he’s gone abroad, I believe, to amuse himself: and he has been no credit to his college, from all I hear.”