So, as he says, “It is all virtually settled. I have talked fully with Miss Perfect, a very intelligent and superior woman, who looks upon the situation just as I could wish; and I have written announcing my intentions to her father, and under such auspices, and with the evidence I hope I have, of not being quite indifferent where I most wished to please, I almost venture to ask for your congratulations,” &c.
“He is quite right, it is all over; she likes him, I saw that long ago; I fancied she would have been a little harder to please; they fall in love with any fellow that’s tall, and pink, and white, and dresses absurdly, and talks like a fool, provided he has money—money—d⸺ money!”
Such were the mutterings of William Maubray, as he leaned dismally on the window of the school-room, and looked out upon the sear and thinning foliage of the late autumn.
“This is very important—this about unfortunate Sir Richard; his son will succeed immediately; but he seems a good deal, indeed very much agitated; however, it’s a great point in his favour otherwise.” So said Mrs. Kincton Knox to her daughter, so soon as being alone together they could safely talk over the missives of the breakfast table.
“I rather think he has been summoned to the dying man, and he’ll go—he must—and we shall never see more of him,” said Miss Clara, with superb indifference.
“Yes, of course, it may have been, I was going to say so,” said her mother, who, however, had not seen that view. “I’ll make him come out and walk up and down the terrace with me a little, poor young man.”
“You’ll do him no good by that,” said the young lady, with a sneer.
“We’ll see that, Miss Kincton Knox; at all events, it will do no good sitting here, and sneering into the fire; please sit a little away and raise the hand screen, unless you really wish to ruin your complexion.”
“It can’t be of the least importance to anyone whether I do or not, certainly not to me,” said the young lady, who, however, took her advice peevishly.
“You are one of those conceited young persons; pray allow me to speak, I’m your mother, and have a right I hope to speak in this house—who fancy that no one can see anything but they—I’m not disposed to flatter you; I never did flatter you; but I think the young man (her voice was lowered here) likes you—I do. I’m sure he does. It can’t possibly be for my sake that he likes coming every evening to read all that stuff for us. You make no allowance for the position he is in, his father dying, in the very crisis of a painful domestic quarrel; it must be most uncomfortable; and then he’s here in a position which precludes his uttering any sentiments except such as should be found on the lips of a resident teacher. I’ve frequently observed him on the point of speaking in his real character, and chilled in a moment by the recollection of the apparent distance between us; but I think I know something of countenance, and tones, and those indications of feeling, which are more and more significant than words.”