The window at which she stood was in fact a glass door opening upon two steps, to which the peaceable old gentleman of sixty-two wonderingly drew near.
“Come in,” she exclaimed, beckoning again grimly, and superadding a fierce nod.
So up went the sash, and the little hatch which simulated a windowsill was pulled open by the old gentle man, who was vexed somewhat at the interruption.
She read this in his honest countenance, and said, as he entered —
“I don’t mean to detain you, Mr. Kincton Knox, I shan’t keep you more than five minutes away from your timber; but I think, for once, you may give that time to your family. It’s becoming a little too much for me, perfectly unaided as I’ve always been.”
“Well, I’m sorry you’re annoyed. Something has happened, I suppose. What do you wish me to do?” said that accommodating gentleman in the gray tweed and copious white waistcoat.
“I told you, Mr. Kincton Knox, if you remember, when your friend, Doctor Sprague, of whose character, recollect, I know nothing, except from your representations — I told you distinctly my impression when that gentleman was persuading you to accept the person who’s here in the capacity of tutor, under a feigned name. I then stated my conviction that there was danger in disguise. I declared myself unable to assign any creditable reason for such a step. Wiser people, however, thought differently — my scruples were overruled by you and your friend Doctor — Doctor — what’s his name?”
“Sprague — eh?” said her husband.
“Yes — Sprague. It is not the first time that my warning voice has been disregarded. It does not in this case signify much — fortunately very little; but it is not pleasant to have one’s house made a scene of duplicity to please Dr. Sprague, or to convenience some low young puppy.”
“I thought you said he was the son of my friend Maubray — Sir Richard, you know?”
“It signifies very little whose son he is; but he’s not — I simply conjectured he might, and certainly everything was, artfully or not I can’t say, laid in train to induce that belief on my part; but he’s not — I thought it best to clear it up. He says he’s some relation — goodness knows; but in point of everything else he’s a mere pretender — the merest adventurer, and the sooner we part with him the better.”
“And what do you wish me to do?” said Mr. Kincton Knox, with some little vehemence.
“I’ve given you my views,” replied the lady.
“Yes, but you like to do everything yourself, and you always say I’m wrong whatever I say or do? said the old gentleman, sonorously, flushing a little, and prodding the point of his stick on the floor.
“See the young man and dismiss him,” said his wife, peremptorily.
“Well, that’s easily done, of course. But what has he done? there ought to be a reason.”
“The reason is that I’m tired of disguises. We can’t go on in that absurd manner. It never was known at Kincton, and I— “
Suddenly Mrs. Kincton Knox paused in her sentence, and with a great rustling hurried to the study window, where she began to knock with a vehemence which alarmed her husband for the safety of his panes.
The object of the summons was Miss Clara in that exquisitely becoming black velvet cloak and little bonnet which was so nearly irresistible, all grace and radiance, and smiling — upon whom? Why, upon that odious tutor, to whom she was pointing out some of those flowers which she claimed to have planted and tended with her own fingers.
Her mother beckoned fiercely.
“Assist me, if you please, Mr. Kincton Knox; open this horrid window, no one else can.”
So it was opened, and she called rather huskily to Clara to come in.
“I want to say a word to you, please.”
And without condescending to perceive William Maubray, who had raised his hat, she said, with an appearance of excitement not of a pleasant kind, and in presence of which somehow the young lady’s heart sunk with a sudden misgiving —
“We’ll go up, my dear, to my room, I’ve a word to say, and I think Mr. Kincton Knox, as you ask me what you shall do, you may as well, in this instance, as usual, do nothing. I’ll write. I’ll do it myself. Come, Clara.”
So, suspending questions until the apartment up stairs was reached, the young lady, in silence and with a very grave face, accompanied her mother.
“Charming day — sweet day — we shall soon have the storms, though — they must come; we had them ten days earlier last year. Will you come with me to the Farm-road plantation, and give me your ideas about what I’m going to do?”
And the old gentleman came down the two steps from the glass door upon the closely-shorn grass, looking a little red, but smiling kindly, for he saw no reason for what his wife intended, and thought the young man was about to be treated unfairly, and felt a liking for him.
“No; she can’t come down again; I know her mother wants her, so you may as well come with me.”
So off they set together, and I dare say William liked that ramble better than he would have done the other. The old man was sociable, genial, and modest, and had taken rather late in life, tempted thereto, no doubt, by solitude, to his books, some of which, such as “Captain Lemuel Gulliver’s Travels,” were enigmatical, and William was able to throw some lights which were new to the elderly student, who conceived a large and honest admiration for his young friend, and would have liked to see a great deal more of him than he was quite sure Mrs. Kincton Knox would allow.
In the course of their walk, William Maubray observed that he seemed even more than usually kindly, and once or twice talked a little mysteriously of women’s caprices, and told him not to mind them; and told him also when he was at Oxford he had got once or twice a little dipped — young fellows always do — and he wanted to know — he was not, of course, to say a word about it — if fifty pounds would be of any use to him — he’d be so happy, and he could pay him any time, in ten years or twenty for that matter, for the old gentleman dimly intended to live on indefinitely.
But William did not need this kindly help, and when his pleasant ramble with the old man and his dogs was over, and he returned to the “schoolroom,” William found a note awaiting him on the table, in the large-hand of Mrs. Kincton Knox.
CHAPTER XLIV.
BACK TO CAMBRIDGE.
THE letter upon the table was thus: —
“ — October, — 1860.
“Mrs. Kincton Knox understanding from Mr. Herbert that he wishes to visit Cambridge upon business, begs to say that she will oppose no difficulty to his departing on tomorrow morning with that view; she begs also to mention that Mr. Kincton Knox will write by an early post to the Rev. Dr. Sprague upon the subject of Mr. Herbert’s engagement. A carriage will be at the door at eight o’clock, a m., to convey Mr. Herbert to the railway station.”
“What have I done? I’ve certainly offended her — she who wrote all those friendly little notes; I can’t think of anything, unless that boy Howard has been telling lies. She’ll give me an opportunity of explaining, I suppose and it will all be right; it can’t be much.”
Glad he was to get away even for two or three days to his old haunts, and to something like his old life. He made his preparations early for his next morning’s journey, and sate in the evening with his ingenious pupil, wondering whether a change of mood might not bring him a relenting note on the usual pink paper inviting him to visit them in the drawingroom, and debating whether it might not be a wholesome lesson to the capricious old lady to excuse himself, and so impose on her the onus of explanation.
“I say, old chap, listen. What do you think?” said Master Howard, who had been whistling, and on a sudden, being prompted to speak, poked the point of his pen uncomfortably into the back of William’s hand.
“Stop that, young un. I told you before you’re not to do that. What have you got to say? Come.”
“I say, I heard mamma, say to Clara this afternoon, that you aint to be trusted; and I told Clara I’d te
ll you, because she teased me; and mamma said you deceived papa. I heard every word.”
“She could not have said that, because I never did anything of the kind,” said William, flushing a little.
“Yes, but she did. I heard her, I’d swear; and Clara said, he’s a low person. I told her I’d tell you. She did, upon my word — a low person, and I said I’d tell you; and I’ll tell you ever so much more.”
“Not now, please, nor ever. I don’t want to hear that sort of thing, even if it was said. I’d rather not, unless it was said to myself.”
“And I heard Clara say, let him go about his business. I did, upon my honour.”
“I say, young un, this is one of your fibs to vex Miss Knox.”
Master Howard began to vociferate.
“Quiet, Sir! If your mamma had any complaint to make, she’d make it to me, I suppose; and if you say a word more on the subject, I’ll go in and mention the matter to your mamma,” said William, growing angry.
“Catch me telling you anything ever again, as long as I live, that’s all,” said Master Howard, and broke into mutterings; and then whistled a tune as loud as he could, with his hands in his pockets, and his heels on the table. But he did not succeed in disturbing William. Thoughts that are thoroughly unpleasant hold fast like bulldogs. It is only the pleasant ones that take wing at noise, like a flight of birds.
Away in due time went Master Howard — no sign appeared from the drawingroom — and William Maubray, who in his elevation and his fall had experienced for the second time something of the uncertainty of human affairs, went to his bed mortified and dismal, and feeling that, go where he would, repulse and insult awaited him.
His early breakfast despatched — William mounted the dog cart, which, in her official letter, Mrs. Kincton Knox had dignified with the title of carriage, and drove at a rapid pace away from Kincton, with a sense of relief and hope as the distance increased, and a rising confidence that somehow he was to see that abode of formality and caprice no more.
Doctor Sprague was now at Cambridge, and greeted him very kindly. He had not much news to tell. It was true Sir Richard Maubray was actually dead at Gliston, whence the body was to be removed that day to Wyndelston, where in about a week would be the funeral.
“No, William would not go — he was not recognised, it would not do — Sir Winston, as he now was, would take care to let him know he was not wanted.”
So said William in reply to the doctor’s question, and having related his experience of Kincton, Doctor Sprague told him frankly, that although Kincton Knox was a very good fellow, and very kind, though a little weak, you know, that he had always heard his wife was a particularly odious woman.
“Well, and what of Miss Perfect; any conciliatory symptoms in that quarter?” asked Doctor Sprague.
“Oh, none; she is very inflexible, Sir; her dislikes never change.”
While they were talking some letters arrived, one of which was actually from Kincton, and in the hand of its mistress.
“Hey? Haw! ha — ha! I protest, Maburay, the lady has cut you — read? and he threw the letter across the table to William.
CHAPTER XLV.
VIOLET DARKWELL AT GILROYD AGAIN.
“MRS. KINCTON KNOX” it said, “presents her compliments to the Rev. W. H. Sprague, and as Mr. Kincton Knox is suffering from gout in his hand, which though slight, prevents his writing, she is deputed to apprise him that the gentleman calling himself Mr. Herbert, who has been acting as tutor at Kincton, need not return to complete his engagement. Mr. Kincton Knox desires to remit to him, through your hands, the enclosed cheque, payable to you, and for the full amount of the term he was to have completed. Should the young man feel that, under the circumstances, he can have no right to retain the entire amount, he will be so good as to return that portion of the sum to which he feels himself unentitled. We wish to mention that we part with him not in consequence of any specific fault, so much as from a feeling, upon consideration, that we could no longer tolerate the practice of a concealment at Kincton, the character and nature of which — although we impute nothing — might not consist with our own ideas upon the subject.”
“She begins in the third person and ends in the first,” said Doctor Sprague, “otherwise it is a very fine performance. What am I to do about the check?”
“I will not touch a farthing,” said William.
“Tut, tut; I think you’ve a right to it all, out if you object, we’ll send them back all that represents the unexpired part of your engagement, but I’ll have no Quixotism, I’m half sorry, Maubray, we ever thought of tuitions: we must think of some other way. You’re quite right in resolving not to vex Miss Perfect more than you can help, I’m clear upon that; but I’ve been thinking of quite another thing — I have not time now to ten you all.” He glanced at his watch. “But you can speak French, and you would have to reside in Paris. I think it would answer you very nicely, and I think you ought to let Miss Perfect know something of your plans, considering all she has done. I’ll see you here again in an hour.”
And William took his leave.
That evening Miss Violet Darkwell arrived at Gilroyd. She did not think old “grannie” looking well — was it a sadness or a feebleness — there was something unusual in her look that troubled her. She thought her Violet looking quite beautiful — more so than ever — so perhaps she was. And she asked her all sorts of questions about all sorts of things, and how the Mainwarings had arranged the rooms, for Aunt Dinah had known the house long ago, and whether the paint had ever been taken off that covered the old oak wainscot in the parlour, and ever so many other particulars besides.
And at last she said —
“Great news Mr. Trevor tells me of William.” She had already resolved against opening the Trevor budget to its more interesting recesses. “William Maubray — he’s going to marry — to make a great match in some respects — money, beauty— “
“Oh!” said Violet with a smile.
“Yes; a Miss Kincton Knox. He has been residing in the house; an only daughter. Kincton is the place.” Something of this Violet had heard before she left Gilroyd, but not all; and Aunt Dinah went on —
“They are connected somehow with Mr. Trevor, whom I’ve grown to like extremely, and he saw William there; and from what he told me I look upon it as settled, and so in fact does he.”
“It’s very cold, isn’t it, tonight?” said Miss Violet “That’s all very nice — very well for William Maubray.”
“Very well; better, perhaps, than he deserves. Had I been, however, as we used to be, I should have endeavoured to postpone it, to induce the parties to defer it for a little — in fact for five years. I may say, indeed, I should have made a point of it; because I — I happen to know that his marrying within that time will be attended with the worst consequences.”
There was a silence.
“Very cold,” repeated Miss Violet, drawing a little nearer to the fire.
“It seems odd, as a mere matter of respect — that’s all, of course — he should not have written me a single line upon the subject,” said Miss Perfect grimly.
“Well, perhaps not very odd,” answered Miss Darkwell carelessly, yet somehow, ever so little, sadly. “I’m beginning to think it a worse world than I used to think it, and so hard to know anyone in it, except dear old grannie.”
And up got the girl, and threw her pretty arms round old Aunt Dinah’s neck, and kissed her.
“Little Vi, little Vi!” said Aunt Dinah, with a tender tremor in her voice, and she laughed a little.
“I think you are tired, darling. Your long drive,” she added.
“I believe I am, grannie. Shall I run away to my bed?”
“God bless you, darling!” said grannie, and rang the bell for old Winnie Dobbs, who appeared; and away, with a second goodnight, they went.
“Well, old Winnie Dobbs, great doings, I hear. Grannie says Mr. William’s to be married — a great lady, Miss Kincton Knox, she says — a
nd very pretty — quite a beauty, quite a belle.”
She was looking with a faint little smile down upon the trinkets she was laying upon the dressing-table, and she spoke in the tones in which people recall a very far-off remembrance.
“Well, she did tell me so, Miss Vi: and very glad I was, poor fellow; but very young. I that knew him when he was only the length o’ my arm — to think of him now. But very sensible — always was; a good head — wiser than many an older body.”
“You’ve never seen the lady?” said Vi.
“No; but Mr. Trevor’s groom was stopping there last summer for a week with Mr. Trevor, you know, and he did not much like the family — that’s the old lady — no one has a good word of her; and the young one, Miss Clara — do you like the name Clara, Miss?”
“Yes; a pretty name,. I think.”
“Well, they don’t say much about her; only she’s very distant like.”
“And she’s the lady?” asked Violet.
“Ah! that she is, Miss — the only daughter,”
“She’s tall?”
“Well, yes; he says she is.”
“Taller than I, I dare say?”
“Well, he did not say that; you’re a good height, you know yourself, Miss — a nice figure, yes indeed.”
“And what colour is her hair?” asked Vi.
“Light — light hair, he said.”
“Yes; he always liked light hair, I think,” she said, still with the same faint smile and in the same soft and saddened tones. Vi was arranging her own rich dark brown tresses at the glass.
“And blue eyes — large — something the colour o’ yours, he said, Miss; he used to take great notice to her, the groom — everything. She used to go out a ridin’. A hair-pin, Miss?”
“No, Winnie, thanks.”
“He says she’s a fine rider; showy, handsome, that sort, you know.”
“And when is it all to be?”
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 326