CHAPTER XXVI.
WILLIAM MAUBRAY BEGINS TO EXCITE AN INTEREST
There was positively nothing to interest William Maubray in his pupil, and a great deal to irritate and disgust him. What can be more sterile than the nature of a selfish child spoiled by indulgence. It was one comfort, however, that he was not expected to accomplish a miracle, that is, to teach a boy who had the option of learning nothing, and often for two hours or more at a time he was relieved altogether of his company, when he went out to drive with Mrs. Kincton Knox, or to have a ride on his pony with the groom.
But the monotony and solitude grew dreadful. At breakfast he sat with, but not of, the party. Except, indeed, the kindly old gentleman, who lived in a monastic seclusion among his books and trees and flowers, and to whom William’s occasional company was a cheer and a happiness, no one at the breakfast table seemed, after the first slight and silent salutation was over, conscious of his presence.
Miss Clara and her mamma talked of matters that interested them—their neighbours, and the fashions and the peerage, and even the furniture, as if William were a picture, or nothing at all.
He could not fail, notwithstanding his exclusion, to perceive that Clara was handsome—very handsome, indeed—quite a brilliant blonde, and with that confident and haughty air of—was it fashion—was it blood—was it the habit of being adored with incense and all sorts of worship—he could not tell. He only knew that it became her, and helped to overpower him.
We are not to suppose that all this time female curiosity at Kincton slumbered and slept over such a problem as William Maubray. Treat him how they might in his presence, he was a topic both of interest and inquiry in his absence. The few letters that reached him afforded no clue; they were addressed with uniform exactitude to “W. Herbert, Esq.” The books he had brought with him to Kincton contributed no light; for William had not inscribed his name in his books. Miss Clara’s maid, who was intensely interested in the investigation, brought a pocket-handkerchief of the tutor’s to her young mistress’s room, where both she and her mamma conned over the initials “W. M.” in a small but florid arabesque in the corner. It was, no doubt, a condescension such as William ought to have been proud of.
“There’s five on ’em so, Miss—the rest unmarked, and nothing else marked, except three old shirts.”
“Why, you goose, what can I care?” laughed Miss Clara. “I’m not his nurse, or his seamstress. Take it away this moment. What a pretty discussion!”