Across the hall was he conducted, to a room in which were some sporting prints and two dingy oil paintings of “sometime,” favourite hunters who sniffed and heard their last of field and bugle a century ago. There were also some guns and fishing rods; and, through this to the school-room, where Mrs. Kincton Knox, in purple silk, with a turban on her head, loomed awfully before him as he entered, and made him a slight and rustling courtesy, which rather warned him off than greeted him.
“Mr.—a—a—Herbert?” said the lady of the prominent black eyes, with a lofty inquiry.
“I—a—Doctor Sprague—told me he had written very fully about the—the,” stammered William, who began to feel like a concealed ticket-of-leave man.
“The name, yes” said Mrs. Kincton Knox, looking steadily on him, and then ensued a silence.
“He informed me that having explained the circumstances fully, and also that it was his not my particular wish, you had seen no difficulty in it,” said William.
“Difficulty—none—there can be no difficulty when there’s no constraint,” replied Mrs. Kincton Knox, laying down a metaphysical axiom, as she sometimes did, which William could not quite clearly understand; “and although I have always maintained the position that where there’s mystery there is guilt; yet feeling a confidence in Doctor Sprague’s character and profession—of both of which Mr. Kincton Knox happened to know something—we have endeavoured to overcome our objection.”
“I understood there was no objection,” interposed William, flushing.
“Pray allow me. An objection satisfied is not necessarily an objection foregone; in this case, however, you are at liberty to treat it in that light. We waive our objection, and we have every reasonable confidence that we shall not have occasion to repent having done so.”
This was spoken graciously and condescendingly, for she thought that a person who looked so decidedly like a gentleman would rather conduce to the dignity of the Kincton “household.” But it did not seem to strike the young man at all in that light.
“You are about, Mr.—a—Sir, to undertake the charge of my precious child—sensitive, delicate—too delicate and too impressionable to have permitted his making all the progress I could have wished in the rudiments—you understand—of future education and accomplishment; a little wild, but full of affection, and of natural docility—but still unused—from the causes I have mentioned—to restraint or coercion. Your duty will therefore be a delicate one. I need not say that nothing of the nature of punishment will be permitted or endured. You will bear in mind the illustration of the sacred writer—the sun and the tempest, and the traveler’s cloak.” At this point William coughed slightly into his handkerchief. “Mild influences, in my mind, effect more than ever was accomplished by harshness; and such is the system under which our precious Howard must learn. Am I understood?”