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
itself in 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 a threadbare 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 of year. 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 is _Herbert_. 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.
“The _name, 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 was _his_ not _my_ particular 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
know something—we have endeavoured to overcome our objection.”
“I understood there was _no_ objection,” 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 and then for idleness or inattention, you will find his
progress far from satisfactory.”
“That is a question quite for _them_,” 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, heard confidentially of possible canings,
and viewed William Maubray with a sheepish kind of malevolence.
------------------------------------------------------------------------