CONFIDENCES
Mrs. Kincton Knox, still in walking costume, entered the school-room,
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=er=”
“Necessity is the mo”
upon its successive 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? 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 right—only 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 what 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 _every_body. 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.
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