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.
