CHAPTER XXV.W. MAUBRAY ARRIVESWhen, a few days later, Maubray, who was a shy man, stepped down from his fly, as the vehicle which conveyed him from the neighbouring railway station, though it more resembled a snail, was called, and found himself under the cold, gray, Ionic colonnade which received people at Kincton, with a dismal and exclusive hospitality, his heart sank, a chilly shadow descended upon him, and in the silent panic of the moment he felt tempted to re-enter the vehicle, return to Dr. Sprague, and confess that he wanted nerve to fulfil his engagement.William was conducted through the hall, up the great stairs, over a sombre lobby and up a second and narrower stair, to a gallery cold and dim, from which his room door opened. Upon this floor the quietude of desertion reigned. He looked from his low window into a small courtyard, formed on three sides by the house itself, and on the fourth by a rear of the offices, behind which a thick mass of autumnal foliage showed itselfin the distance. The circumscribed view was dreary and formal. How different from homely, genial old Gilroyd! But that was a dream, and this reality; and so his toilet proceeded rapidly, and he descended, looking by no means like athreadbare dominie, but handsome and presentable, and with the refinement of his good birth and breeding in his features.“Can I see Mr. Kincton Knox?” inquired William of the servant in the hall.“I’ll inquire, Sir,” and William was left in that tessellated and pillared apartment, while the servant entered his master’s study, and speedily returning, informed him with a superciliousness which was new to William, and decidedly uncomfortable, that he might enter.It was a handsome study, stored with handsome books and sundry busts, one of the deceased Horace Kincton Knox, in porphyry, received William on a pedestal near the door, and looked alarmingly like a case of small-pox.The present master of Kincton, portly, handsome, though threescore years had not passed over him in vain, with a bald forehead, and a sort of simple dignity, as William fancied, rose smiling, and came to meet him with his hand extended, and with a cordial glow about him, as though he had known him for years.“You are very welcome, Sir—very happy to see you—very happy to make your acquaintance; and how is my good friend, Sprague? a very old friend of mine, though we have dropped out of sight a good deal; and I correspond very little, so we lose sight of one another; but he’s well, and doing well too? I’m very happy to see you.”There was something homely and reassuring in this kind old man, which was very pleasant to William.“Doctor Sprague was very well when I left him, and gave me this note, Sir, for you,” replied William, presenting it to his host, who took it, and glanced at it as they stood on the hearthrug together; and as he read it, he observed:“Very cold the weather is, very cold—at this time ofyear. You’ve had a cold drive. Not had luncheon yet? Two o’clock, you know: yes, about a quarter to two now, in a quarter of an hour.”He had by this time laid Doctor Sprague’s note on the table.“And the little boy, Sir, where is he?” suggested William.“Oh, oh! little Howard! I suppose we shall see him at lunch.”“I should wish very much to hear any directions or suggestions, and to know something as to what he has been doing,” said William.“Very true—very right, Mr.—Mr.,” and old Kincton Knox groped towards the note, intending to refresh his memory.“Herbert,” interposed William, colouring a little. “Doctor Sprague made a point of the name, and I believe, Sir, wrote particularly about it.”“Quite so—very right, Sir. It isHerbert. I quite approve—quite, Sir; and about the boy. The fact is, Mr. Herbert, I leave him very much to his mother. She can tell you much more what he has been doing—very young, you know, still—and—she’ll tell you all about him; and I hope you will be happy, I’m sure; and don’t fail to tell the people whatever you want, you know; I live very much to myself—quiet room this—fond of books, I suppose? Well, I shall be always very happy to see you here; in fact it will be a great pleasure. We may as well sit down, do, pray; for you know ladies don’t care very much for this sort of reading;” and he waved his short white hand towards the bookcases; “and sometimes one feels a little lonely; and Sprague tells me you have a turn for reading.”The door opened, and a servant announced that Mrs.Kincton Knox wished to see Mr. Herbert in the school-room.“Ho!” exclaimed the master of Kincton, with a grave countenance and a promptitude which savoured of discipline. “Well, at lunch I shall see you, Mr. Herbert; we’ll meet in ten minutes or so; and, Edward, you’ll show Mr.—a—Herbert to the school-room.”Across the hall was he conducted, to a room in which were some sporting prints and two dingy oil paintings of “sometime,” favourite hunters who sniffed and heard their last of field and bugle a century ago. There were also some guns and fishing rods; and, through this to the school-room, where Mrs. Kincton Knox, in purple silk, with a turban on her head, loomed awfully before him as he entered, and made him a slight and rustling courtesy, which rather warned him off than greeted him.“Mr.—a—a—Herbert?” said the lady of the prominent black eyes, with a lofty inquiry.“I—a—Doctor Sprague—told me he had written very fully about the—the,” stammered William, who began to feel like a concealed ticket-of-leave man.“Thename, yes” said Mrs. Kincton Knox, looking steadily on him, and then ensued a silence.“He informed me that having explained the circumstances fully, and also that it washisnotmyparticular wish, you had seen no difficulty in it,” said William.“Difficulty—none—there can be no difficulty when there’s no constraint,” replied Mrs. Kincton Knox, laying down a metaphysical axiom, as she sometimes did, which William could not quite clearly understand; “and although I have always maintained the position that where there’s mystery there is guilt; yet feeling a confidence in Doctor Sprague’s character and profession—of both of which Mr. Kincton Knox happened to knowsomething—we have endeavoured to overcome our objection.”“I understood there wasnoobjection,” interposed William, flushing.“Pray allow me. An objection satisfied is not necessarily an objection foregone; in this case, however, you are at liberty to treat it in that light. We waive our objection, and we have every reasonable confidence that we shall not have occasion to repent having done so.”This was spoken graciously and condescendingly, for she thought that a person who looked so decidedly like a gentleman would rather conduce to the dignity of the Kincton “household.” But it did not seem to strike the young man at all in that light.“You are about, Mr.—a—Sir, to undertake the charge of my precious child—sensitive, delicate—too delicate and too impressionable to have permitted his making all the progress I could have wished in the rudiments—you understand—of future education and accomplishment; a little wild, but full of affection, and of natural docility—but still unused—from the causes I have mentioned—to restraint or coercion. Your duty will therefore be a delicate one. I need not say that nothing of the nature of punishment will be permitted or endured. You will bear in mind the illustration of the sacred writer—the sun and the tempest, and the traveler’s cloak.” At this point William coughed slightly into his handkerchief. “Mild influences, in my mind, effect more than ever was accomplished by harshness; and such is the system under which our precious Howard must learn. Am I understood?”“Quite,” said William. “I should not myself undertake the task of punishing any child; but I am afraid, unless the parents are prepared to pull him up now andthen for idleness or inattention, you will find his progress far from satisfactory.”“That is a question quite forthem,” said Mrs. Kincton Knox, in her queenlike way.William bowed.“What I want chiefly in a person—in a gentleman in your capacity—is that he shall begin to—my precious child shall begin to associate with a superior mind, and imbibe rather by contact than task-work. Do I make myself clear? The—a—the—you know, of course, the kind of thing.”William did not apprehend quite so clearly the nature of his duties as he would have wished, but said nothing.“You and he will breakfast with us at half-past nine. I regret I cannot ask you to lunch. But you and Howard will dine at three o’clock in this room, and have tea and any little thing that Mrs. Ridgeway, the housekeeper, may send you at six. The boy goes to his bed at half-past nine, and I conclude you already know your own room.”“And where is my pupil?” inquired William.Mrs. Kincton Knox rang the bell. “He shall be with you presently, Mr.Herbert, and you will please to bear in mind that the dear boy’s health is just at present our first object, and that he must not be pressed to study more than he wishes.”Master Howard Seymour Knox entered, eyeing the tutor suspiciously and loweringly. He had, perhaps, heardconfidentially of possible canings, and viewed William Maubray with a sheepish kind of malevolence.
CHAPTER XXV.
W. MAUBRAY ARRIVES
W. MAUBRAY ARRIVES
W. MAUBRAY ARRIVES
When, a few days later, Maubray, who was a shy man, stepped down from his fly, as the vehicle which conveyed him from the neighbouring railway station, though it more resembled a snail, was called, and found himself under the cold, gray, Ionic colonnade which received people at Kincton, with a dismal and exclusive hospitality, his heart sank, a chilly shadow descended upon him, and in the silent panic of the moment he felt tempted to re-enter the vehicle, return to Dr. Sprague, and confess that he wanted nerve to fulfil his engagement.
William was conducted through the hall, up the great stairs, over a sombre lobby and up a second and narrower stair, to a gallery cold and dim, from which his room door opened. Upon this floor the quietude of desertion reigned. He looked from his low window into a small courtyard, formed on three sides by the house itself, and on the fourth by a rear of the offices, behind which a thick mass of autumnal foliage showed itselfin the distance. The circumscribed view was dreary and formal. How different from homely, genial old Gilroyd! But that was a dream, and this reality; and so his toilet proceeded rapidly, and he descended, looking by no means like athreadbare dominie, but handsome and presentable, and with the refinement of his good birth and breeding in his features.
“Can I see Mr. Kincton Knox?” inquired William of the servant in the hall.
“I’ll inquire, Sir,” and William was left in that tessellated and pillared apartment, while the servant entered his master’s study, and speedily returning, informed him with a superciliousness which was new to William, and decidedly uncomfortable, that he might enter.
It was a handsome study, stored with handsome books and sundry busts, one of the deceased Horace Kincton Knox, in porphyry, received William on a pedestal near the door, and looked alarmingly like a case of small-pox.
The present master of Kincton, portly, handsome, though threescore years had not passed over him in vain, with a bald forehead, and a sort of simple dignity, as William fancied, rose smiling, and came to meet him with his hand extended, and with a cordial glow about him, as though he had known him for years.
“You are very welcome, Sir—very happy to see you—very happy to make your acquaintance; and how is my good friend, Sprague? a very old friend of mine, though we have dropped out of sight a good deal; and I correspond very little, so we lose sight of one another; but he’s well, and doing well too? I’m very happy to see you.”
There was something homely and reassuring in this kind old man, which was very pleasant to William.
“Doctor Sprague was very well when I left him, and gave me this note, Sir, for you,” replied William, presenting it to his host, who took it, and glanced at it as they stood on the hearthrug together; and as he read it, he observed:
“Very cold the weather is, very cold—at this time ofyear. You’ve had a cold drive. Not had luncheon yet? Two o’clock, you know: yes, about a quarter to two now, in a quarter of an hour.”
He had by this time laid Doctor Sprague’s note on the table.
“And the little boy, Sir, where is he?” suggested William.
“Oh, oh! little Howard! I suppose we shall see him at lunch.”
“I should wish very much to hear any directions or suggestions, and to know something as to what he has been doing,” said William.
“Very true—very right, Mr.—Mr.,” and old Kincton Knox groped towards the note, intending to refresh his memory.
“Herbert,” interposed William, colouring a little. “Doctor Sprague made a point of the name, and I believe, Sir, wrote particularly about it.”
“Quite so—very right, Sir. It isHerbert. I quite approve—quite, Sir; and about the boy. The fact is, Mr. Herbert, I leave him very much to his mother. She can tell you much more what he has been doing—very young, you know, still—and—she’ll tell you all about him; and I hope you will be happy, I’m sure; and don’t fail to tell the people whatever you want, you know; I live very much to myself—quiet room this—fond of books, I suppose? Well, I shall be always very happy to see you here; in fact it will be a great pleasure. We may as well sit down, do, pray; for you know ladies don’t care very much for this sort of reading;” and he waved his short white hand towards the bookcases; “and sometimes one feels a little lonely; and Sprague tells me you have a turn for reading.”
The door opened, and a servant announced that Mrs.Kincton Knox wished to see Mr. Herbert in the school-room.
“Ho!” exclaimed the master of Kincton, with a grave countenance and a promptitude which savoured of discipline. “Well, at lunch I shall see you, Mr. Herbert; we’ll meet in ten minutes or so; and, Edward, you’ll show Mr.—a—Herbert to the school-room.”
Across the hall was he conducted, to a room in which were some sporting prints and two dingy oil paintings of “sometime,” favourite hunters who sniffed and heard their last of field and bugle a century ago. There were also some guns and fishing rods; and, through this to the school-room, where Mrs. Kincton Knox, in purple silk, with a turban on her head, loomed awfully before him as he entered, and made him a slight and rustling courtesy, which rather warned him off than greeted him.
“Mr.—a—a—Herbert?” said the lady of the prominent black eyes, with a lofty inquiry.
“I—a—Doctor Sprague—told me he had written very fully about the—the,” stammered William, who began to feel like a concealed ticket-of-leave man.
“Thename, yes” said Mrs. Kincton Knox, looking steadily on him, and then ensued a silence.
“He informed me that having explained the circumstances fully, and also that it washisnotmyparticular wish, you had seen no difficulty in it,” said William.
“Difficulty—none—there can be no difficulty when there’s no constraint,” replied Mrs. Kincton Knox, laying down a metaphysical axiom, as she sometimes did, which William could not quite clearly understand; “and although I have always maintained the position that where there’s mystery there is guilt; yet feeling a confidence in Doctor Sprague’s character and profession—of both of which Mr. Kincton Knox happened to knowsomething—we have endeavoured to overcome our objection.”
“I understood there wasnoobjection,” interposed William, flushing.
“Pray allow me. An objection satisfied is not necessarily an objection foregone; in this case, however, you are at liberty to treat it in that light. We waive our objection, and we have every reasonable confidence that we shall not have occasion to repent having done so.”
This was spoken graciously and condescendingly, for she thought that a person who looked so decidedly like a gentleman would rather conduce to the dignity of the Kincton “household.” But it did not seem to strike the young man at all in that light.
“You are about, Mr.—a—Sir, to undertake the charge of my precious child—sensitive, delicate—too delicate and too impressionable to have permitted his making all the progress I could have wished in the rudiments—you understand—of future education and accomplishment; a little wild, but full of affection, and of natural docility—but still unused—from the causes I have mentioned—to restraint or coercion. Your duty will therefore be a delicate one. I need not say that nothing of the nature of punishment will be permitted or endured. You will bear in mind the illustration of the sacred writer—the sun and the tempest, and the traveler’s cloak.” At this point William coughed slightly into his handkerchief. “Mild influences, in my mind, effect more than ever was accomplished by harshness; and such is the system under which our precious Howard must learn. Am I understood?”
“Quite,” said William. “I should not myself undertake the task of punishing any child; but I am afraid, unless the parents are prepared to pull him up now andthen for idleness or inattention, you will find his progress far from satisfactory.”
“That is a question quite forthem,” said Mrs. Kincton Knox, in her queenlike way.
William bowed.
“What I want chiefly in a person—in a gentleman in your capacity—is that he shall begin to—my precious child shall begin to associate with a superior mind, and imbibe rather by contact than task-work. Do I make myself clear? The—a—the—you know, of course, the kind of thing.”
William did not apprehend quite so clearly the nature of his duties as he would have wished, but said nothing.
“You and he will breakfast with us at half-past nine. I regret I cannot ask you to lunch. But you and Howard will dine at three o’clock in this room, and have tea and any little thing that Mrs. Ridgeway, the housekeeper, may send you at six. The boy goes to his bed at half-past nine, and I conclude you already know your own room.”
“And where is my pupil?” inquired William.
Mrs. Kincton Knox rang the bell. “He shall be with you presently, Mr.Herbert, and you will please to bear in mind that the dear boy’s health is just at present our first object, and that he must not be pressed to study more than he wishes.”
Master Howard Seymour Knox entered, eyeing the tutor suspiciously and loweringly. He had, perhaps, heardconfidentially of possible canings, and viewed William Maubray with a sheepish kind of malevolence.