BACK TO CAMBRIDGE
The letter upon the table was thus:—
“⸻ October, ⸻ 1860.
“Mrs. Kincton Knox understanding from Mr. _Herbert_ that he wishes
to visit Cambridge upon business, begs to say that she will oppose
no difficulty to his departing on to-morrow morning with that view;
she begs also to mention that Mr. Kincton Knox will write by an
early post to the Rev. Dr. Sprague upon the subject of Mr. Herbert’s
engagement. A carriage will be at the door at eight o’clock, A.M.,
to convey Mr. Herbert to the railway station.”
“What _have_ I done? I’ve _certainly_ offended her—she who wrote all
those friendly little notes; I can’t think of anything, unless that boy
Howard has been telling lies. She’ll give me an opportunity of
explaining, I _suppose_, and it will all be right; it can’t be much.”
Glad he was to get away even for two or three days to his old haunts,
and to something like his old life. He made his preparations early for
his next morning’s journey, and sate in the evening with his ingenious
pupil, wondering whether a change of mood might not bring him a
relenting note on the usual pink paper inviting him to visit them in the
drawing-room, and debating whether it might not be a wholesome lesson to
the capricious old lady to excuse himself, and so impose on her the onus
of explanation.
“I say, old chap, listen. What do you think?” said Master Howard, who
had been whistling, and on a sudden, being prompted to speak, poked the
point of his pen uncomfortably into the back of William’s hand.
“Stop that, young un. I told you before you’re not to do that. What have
you got to say? Come.”
“I say, I heard mamma say to Clara this afternoon, that you aint to be
trusted; and I told Clara I’d tell you, because she teased me; and mamma
said you deceived papa. I heard every word.”
“She could not have said that, because I never did anything of the
kind,” said William, flushing a little.
“Yes, but she did. I heard her, I’d swear; and Clara said, he’s a low
person. I told her I’d tell you. She did, upon my word—a low person, and
I said I’d tell you; and I’ll tell you ever so much more.”
“Not now, please, nor ever. I don’t want to hear that sort of thing,
even if it _was_ said. I’d rather not, unless it was said to myself.”
“And I heard Clara say, let him go about his business. I did, upon my
honour.”
“I say, young un, this is one of your fibs to vex Miss Knox.”
Master Howard began to vociferate.
“Quiet, Sir! If your mamma had any complaint to make, she’d make it to
me, I suppose; and if you say a word more on the subject, I’ll go in and
mention the matter to your mamma,” said William, growing angry.
“Catch me telling you anything ever again, as long as I live, that’s
all,” said Master Howard, and broke into mutterings; and then whistled a
tune as loud as he could, with his hands in his pockets, and his heels
on the table. But he did not succeed in disturbing William. Thoughts
that are thoroughly unpleasant hold fast like bull-dogs. It is only the
pleasant ones that take wing at noise, like a flight of birds.
Away in due time went Master Howard—no sign appeared from the
drawing-room—and William Maubray, who in his elevation and his fall had
experienced for the second time something of the uncertainty of human
affairs, went to his bed mortified and dismal, and feeling that, go
where he would, repulse and insult awaited him.
His early breakfast despatched—William mounted the dog cart, which, in
her official letter, Mrs. Kincton Knox had dignified with the title of
carriage, and drove at a rapid pace away from Kincton, with a sense of
relief and hope as the distance increased, and a rising confidence that
somehow he was to see that abode of formality and caprice no more.
Doctor Sprague was now at Cambridge, and greeted him very kindly. He had
not much news to tell. It was true Sir Richard Maubray was actually dead
at Gilston, whence the body was to be removed that day to Wyndelston,
where in about a week would be the funeral.
“No, William would not go—he was not recognised, it would not do—Sir
Winston, as he now was, would take care to let him know he was not
wanted.”
So said William in reply to the doctor’s question, and having related
his experience of Kincton, Doctor Sprague told him frankly, that
although Kincton Knox was a very good fellow, and very kind, though a
little weak, you know, that he had always heard his wife was a
_particularly_ odious woman.
“Well, and what of Miss Perfect; any conciliatory symptoms in that
quarter?” asked Doctor Sprague.
“Oh, none; she is very inflexible, Sir; her dislikes never change.”
While they were talking some letters arrived, one of which was actually
from Kincton, and in the hand of its mistress.
“Hey? Haw! ha—ha! I protest, Maubray, the lady has cut you—_read_,” and
he threw the letter across the table to William.
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