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 Gliston, 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, Maburay, the lady has cut you — read? and he threw the letter across the table to William.