MR. KINCTON KNOX RECEIVES A SUMMONS
Mr. Kincton Knox, with a couple of dogs at his heels, was tranquilly
consulting his chief commissioner of woods and forests, when he was
summoned from his sylvan discourses by a loud tapping on his study
window, within whose frame he saw, like a full-length portrait of Mrs.
Siddons, on a signboard, if such a thing exists, the commanding figure
of his wife, who was beckoning him imperiously.
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 window-sill
was pulled open by the old gentleman, 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 _rea_-son.”
“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 _no_thing. 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
“school-room,” William found a note awaiting him on the table, in the
large-hand of Mrs. Kincton Knox.
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