“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, did jump, 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 drawingroom, and found Miss Clara seated 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 were tête-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’s my opinion.”
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 Kincton Knox’s unpublished theories that her husband’s presence in the drawingroom was a trespass, as that of a cow among the flowerbeds under the window.
As that portly figure in the gray woollen suit and white waistcoat 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, you needn’t go 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?”
“Do lower your stick, Mr. Kincton Knox, pray, we can see perfectly without breaking anything,” 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 to all — 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, I think 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, and thought something on the subject, and as you don’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, today,”
“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? — what Mr. Maubray?” inquired the old gentleman.
“Winston Maubray — probably Sir Winston 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-eight years — 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, and has been — 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; ascertaining who he was, I left the rest to — to — you see, and the consequence is — as I’ve told you, and — and humanly speaking — 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 not hurry her.”
“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 XLII.
CONFIDENCES.
MRS KINCTON KNOX, still in walking costume, entered the schoolroom, 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 moth”“
“Necessity is the mo” upon its succes
sive 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, it is better — 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; very kind 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 recollect now having heard something of his illness; but, dear! oh, dear! What a world it is.”
William could only bow, with his former seriousness. It was more than twenty years since his excellent father had deceased; and though he could 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, Miss Perfect,” said he.
“Miss Perfect, maternal aunt, 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 — I see?
“And what — you’ll do me the justice to believe, it aint curiosity but a higher motive that actuates me — what is the ground of 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, could be more absurd — you’re not fit of course, nor is it fit for you — there is no fitness whatever. There’s the Very Rev the Earl of Epsom, and the Rev. Sir James St. Leger, and many others I could name. Can anything be more ridiculous r 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 for me to say — but your reserve about your name — I suppose that is 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 my aunt’s prejudices, 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; no one 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 thinking not of your aunt, but of your poor father; 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 knew he was 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 — I couldn’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, I suppose; and, whether intentionally or by a slip, it is for you to determine; but I’m positive you did tell me that he’s dead; 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’s dying, at all events,” she added.
“That I 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, some of us very much, yet, of course, knowing all, we have no claim — no rightonly 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 —
“Who is Gilroyd?”
“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 wha
t right could a cousin pretend to exclude you from 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, your uncle, Sir Richard Maubray; of course — of course that would alter — I — I was 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 — to everybody. I endeavour to be so — I believe I have? 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 XLIII.
MR. KINCTON KNOX RECEIVES A SUMMONS.
MR. KINCTON KNOX, with a couple of dogs at his heels, was tranquilly consulting his chief commissioner of woods and forests, when he was summoned from his sylvan discourses by a loud tapping on his study window, within whose frame he saw, like a full-length portrait of Mrs. Siddons, on a signboard, if such a thing exists, the commanding figure of his wife, who was beckoning him imperiously.
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 325