WILLIAM MAUBRAY BEGINS TO EXCITE AN INTEREST
There was positively nothing to interest William Maubray in his pupil,
and a great deal to irritate and disgust him. What can be more sterile
than the nature of a selfish child spoiled by indulgence. It was one
comfort, however, that he was not expected to accomplish a miracle, that
is, to teach a boy who had the option of learning nothing, and often for
two hours or more at a time he was relieved altogether of his company,
when he went out to drive with Mrs. Kincton Knox, or to have a ride on
his pony with the groom.
But the monotony and solitude grew dreadful. At breakfast he sat with,
but not of, the party. Except, indeed, the kindly old gentleman, who
lived in a monastic seclusion among his books and trees and flowers, and
to whom William’s occasional company was a cheer and a happiness, no one
at the breakfast table seemed, after the first slight and silent
salutation was over, conscious of his presence.
Miss Clara and her mamma talked of matters that interested them—their
neighbours, and the fashions and the peerage, and even the furniture, as
if William were a picture, or nothing at all.
He could not fail, notwithstanding his exclusion, to perceive that Clara
was handsome—very handsome, indeed—quite a brilliant blonde, and with
that confident and haughty air of—was it fashion—was it blood—was it the
habit of being adored with incense and all sorts of worship—he could not
tell. He only knew that it became her, and helped to overpower him.
We are not to suppose that all this time female curiosity at Kincton
slumbered and slept over such a problem as William Maubray. Treat him
how they might in his presence, he was a topic both of interest and
inquiry in his absence. The few letters that reached him afforded no
clue; they were addressed with uniform exactitude to “W. Herbert, Esq.”
The books he had brought with him to Kincton contributed no light; for
William had not inscribed his name in his books. Miss Clara’s maid, who
was intensely interested in the investigation, brought a
pocket-handkerchief of the tutor’s to her young mistress’s room, where
both she and her mamma conned over the initials “W. M.” in a small but
florid arabesque in the corner. It was, no doubt, a condescension such
as William ought to have been proud of.
“There’s five on ’em so, Miss—the rest unmarked, and nothing else
marked, except three old shirts.”
“Why, you goose, what can I care?” laughed Miss Clara. “I’m not his
nurse, or his seamstress. Take it away this moment. What a pretty
discussion!”
This “W. M.,” however, was not without its interest, and two days later
the maid exhibited an old copy of Feltham’s “Resolves,” abstracted from
William’s little file of books, with “William Martin” neatly inscribed
on the fly-leaf, but in a hand so quaint and ancient, and with ink so
brown, that even Miss Clara “pooh-poohed” the discovery.
Now, the young lady could not help in some sort requiting William’s
secret estimate of her good looks. She thought the young tutor decidedly
handsome; in fact, there could be no question about it. He was well
formed too; and with that undefinable grace which people are apt to
refer to gentle blood. There was, moreover, a certain refinement and
sensitiveness in his countenance utterly incompatible with the idea of
vulgarity of any kind. Now, a tutor might be anything—a decayed nobleman
or a chandler’s son. Was not Louis Philippe an usher in a school? All
you were to assume was that he could teach Latin grammar, and was in
want of money.
There were some little signs of superfluity, too, in William’s
valuables. The butler, who was a native of Geneva, presuming on
William’s tutorship, had, on a fitting opportunity, begged leave to
inspect his watch, and appraised it at twenty guineas among his
fellow-servants. This and the massive gold chain, which also excited his
admiration, were gifts from Miss Perfect, as was also that glorious
dressing-case, presented on his attaining his twenty-first year,
resplendent with gold and mother-o’-pearl, and which the same competent
authority valued at seventy guineas at least. Now, those things, though
little, and some not at all seen outside the walls of his own little
bed-room, emitted, like the concealed relics of a saint, so to speak, a
glory and a fragrance which permeated the house. It was quite
impossible, then, that want of money had driven this Mr. Herbert, or
whoever he was, into his present position.
On the plate on top of this resplendent dressing-case the maid, who,
fired by Monsieur Drouet’s report, had visited the treasure
clandestinely, were inscribed, as she reported to Miss Clare, the same
mysterious characters “W. M.”
“I like the old gentleman—kind old man. What wonderful things books are;
nourishment for all sorts and sizes of minds—poor old Mr. Kincton Knox.
How he reads and positively enjoys them. Yet the best things in them
might just as well never have been written or thought, for any real
perception he has of them! A kind man; I like him so much; I feel so
obliged to him. And what ill-bred, insupportable persons the ladies are;
that pompous, strong-willed, stupid old woman; her magnificence
positively stifles me; and the young lady, how disagreeably handsome she
is, and how impertinent. It must be a love of inflicting pain and
degradation—how cruel, how shabby, how low!”
Such was William’s review of the adult members of the family among whom
he had come to reside, as he lay down with his fair hair on the pillow,
and his sad eyes long open in the dark, looking at scenes and forms of
the past, crossed and troubled by coming sorrows and apprehensions.
The ice and snow spread crisp and hard, and the frosty sun has little
heat, but yet the thaw will come. And the radiance emitted by William’s
dressing-case, watch and other glories, began imperceptibly to tell upon
the frozen rigor of his first reception. There was a word now and then
about the weather, he was asked more graciously to take some more tea.
The ladies sometimes smiled when they thus invited him, and Miss Clara
began to take an interest in her brother, and even one day in her riding
habit, in which she looked particularly well, looked into the
school-room for a moment, just to give Howard a little box of bonbons
she had promised him before she went out.
“May I, Mr. Herbert?” asked Miss Clara, with that smile which no one
could resist.
“Certainly,” said William, bowing very low, and she thought there was
something haughty in his grave humility.
So she thanked him, smiling more, and made her present to Howard, who
broke out with—
“This aint the one you said. You’ve been and eat it, you greedy!”
“_Now!_” pleaded Miss Clara, whose fingers tingled to box his ears,
though she prolonged the word in her most coaxing tone, “Howard! Howard!
could you? your own poor Clara! You shall come up and have any two
others you like best, when I come back, if Mr. Herbert allows it,” and
with a smile, and a light kiss on the boy’s forehead, who plunged away
from her muttering, that brilliant vision vanished, leaving William
standing for a moment wondering, and thinking how graceful and pretty
she looked in that becoming get-up.
“Well,” thought William, that night compunctiously and pleased, “I
believe I have done them an injustice. I forgot that I was a total
stranger, and expected a reception different perhaps from what I was
entitled to. But this perhaps is better; people whose liking and
confidence move slowly, and whose friendship, bestowed gradually, is not
suddenly withdrawn.”
And so he went to sleep more happily.
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