MRS. KINCTON KNOX PROPOSES A WALK WITH WILLIAM
In fact William Maubray had received a conceited and exulting letter
from Trevor, written in the expansion of his triumph once more as the
Lord of Revington, the representative of the historic Trevors, the man
of traditions and _prestige_, before whom the world bowed down and
displayed its treasures, and who being restored to reason and
self-estimation by his conversation with Miss Perfect, knew well what a
prize he was—what a sacrifice he was making, and yet bore and gave away
all with a splendid magnanimity.
So, as he says, “It is all virtually settled. I have talked fully with
Miss Perfect, a very intelligent and superior woman, who looks upon the
situation just as I could wish; and I have written announcing my
intentions to her father, and under such auspices, and with the evidence
I hope I have, of not being quite indifferent where I most wished to
please, I almost venture to ask for your congratulations,” &c.
“He is quite right, it _is_ all over; she likes him, I saw that long
ago; I fancied she would have been a little harder to please; they fall
in love with any fellow that’s tall, and pink, and white, and dresses
absurdly, and talks like a fool, provided he has money—money—d⸺ money!”
Such were the mutterings of William Maubray, as he leaned dismally on
the window of the school-room, and looked out upon the sear and thinning
foliage of the late autumn.
“This is very important—this about unfortunate Sir Richard; his son will
succeed immediately; but he seems a good deal, indeed very much
agitated; however, it’s a great point in his favour _other_wise.” So
said Mrs. Kincton Knox to her daughter, so soon as being alone together
they could safely talk over the missives of the breakfast table.
“I rather think he has been summoned to the dying man, and he’ll go—he
_must_—and we shall never see more of him,” said Miss Clara, with superb
indifference.
“Yes, of course, it _may_ have been, I was going to say so,” said her
mother, who, however, had not seen that view. “I’ll make him come out
and walk up and down the terrace with me a little, poor young man.”
“You’ll do him no good by that,” said the young lady, with a sneer.
“We’ll see that, Miss Kincton Knox; at all events, it will do no good
sitting here, and sneering into the fire; please sit a little away and
raise the hand screen, unless you really _wish_ to ruin your
complexion.”
“It can’t be of the least importance to anyone whether I do or not,
certainly not to _me_,” said the young lady, who, however, took her
advice peevishly.
“You are one of those conceited young persons; pray allow me to speak,
I’m your mother, and have a right I hope to speak in _this house_—who
fancy that no one can see anything but _they_—I’m not disposed to
flatter you; I never did flatter you; but I think the young man (her
voice was lowered here) _likes_ you—I _do_. I’m _sure_ he does. It can’t
possibly be for my sake that he likes coming every evening to read all
that stuff for us. You make no allowance for the position he is in, his
father dying, in the very crisis of a painful domestic quarrel; it must
be most uncomfortable; and then he’s here in a position which precludes
his uttering any sentiments except such as should be found on the lips
of a resident teacher. I’ve frequently observed him on the point of
speaking in his real character, and chilled in a moment by the
recollection of the apparent distance between us; but I think I know
something of countenance, and tones, and those indications of feeling,
which are more and more significant than words.”
Miss Clara made no sign by look, word or motion; and after a little
pause her mamma went on sturdily.
“Yes, I ought, at my time of life, and having been I may say a good deal
admired in my day, and _married_, and not quite as I _might_ have been
perhaps, but still pretty _well_. I ought to know something more of such
matters than my _daughter_, I think, and I can’t be mistaken. I don’t
say _passion_, I say a _liking_—a _fancy_, and that there _is_ I’ll
stake my life. If you only take the trouble to think you’ll see. I hold
it quite impossible that a young man should be as he is, alone for
several weeks in a country-house with a person, I will say, of your
advantages and attractions without some such feeling, _im—possible_.”
Miss Kincton Knox looked indolently on her fair image in the mirror at
the further end of the room.
“In those rides he and Howard have taken with you, I venture to say he
has said things which _I_ should have understood had I been by.”
“I told you he never said anything—anything particular—anything he might
not have said to anyone else,” said the young lady, wearily. “He is
evidently very shy, I allow.”
“_Very_! _extremely_ shy,” acquiesced her mamma, eagerly; “and when all
these things are considered, I don’t think in the time you could
possibly have expected more.”
“I never expected anything,” said Miss Clara, with another weary sneer.
“Didn’t you? then I did,” answered the matron.
Miss Clara simply yawned.
“You are in one of your unfortunate tempers. Don’t you think, Miss
Kincton Knox, even on the supposition that he _is_ about leaving our
house, that you may as well command your spirit of opposition and ill
temper, which has uniformly defeated every endeavour of mine to—be of
use to you, and here you are at eight-and-twenty.” The young lady looked
round alarmed, but there was no listener, “and you seem to have _learned
nothing_.”
“I’ll write all round the country, and tell the people I’m
eight-and-twenty or thirty, for anything I know, if you have no
objection. I don’t see any harm it can do; telling truth perhaps mayn’t
do one much good: but if I’ve learned nothing else, I’ve learned this at
all events, that there’s absolutely no good in the other course.”
“I don’t know what you mean by _courses_. No one I hope has been
committing any fraud in this house. If you please to tell people you are
thirty, which is perfectly contrary to fact, you must only take the
consequences. Your miserable temper, Clara, has been the ruin of you,
and when I’m in my grave you’ll repent it.”
So saying she left the room, and coming down in a few minutes in a black
velvet garment, trimmed with ermine, and with a muff of the same
judicial fur, she repaired to the school-room, where, much to William’s
relief, she graciously begged a holiday for Howard, and then asked
William with, at the end of her invitation, a great smile, which plainly
said, “I know you can hardly believe your ears but it’s true
notwithstanding,” to lend an old woman his arm in a walk up and down the
terrace.
William was of course at her service, though the honour was one which at
that moment was almost oppressive.
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