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diff --git a/old/16186.txt b/old/16186.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 118e9bd..0000000 --- a/old/16186.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,4421 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Little Rebel, by Mrs. Hungerford - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - -Title: A Little Rebel - -Author: Mrs. Hungerford - -Release Date: July 2, 2005 [EBook #16186] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LITTLE REBEL *** - - - - -Produced by Daniel Fromont <daniel.fromont@cnc.fr> -April 2005 -2005 is the 150th anniversary of Mrs. Hungerford's birthday. - - - - -Mrs. HUNGERFORD (Margaret Wolfe Hamilton) (1855?-1897), - -A little Rebel (1890) Lovell edition - - - - -A LITTLE REBEL - - - -A NOVEL - - - - - -BY - -THE DUCHESS - -_Author of "Her Last Throw," "April's Lady," -"Faith and Unfaith," etc. etc._ - - - - - -Montreal: - -JOHN LOVELL & SON, - -23 ST. NICHOLAS STREET. - - - - - - - -Entered according to Act of Parliament in the year 1891, by John -Lovell & Son, in the office of the Minister of Agriculture and -Statistics at Ottawa. - - - - - - - -A LITTLE REBEL. - - - -CHAPTER I. - - - -"Perplex'd in the extreme." - -"The memory of past favors is like a rainbow, bright, vivid and -beautiful." - - - -The professor, sitting before his untasted breakfast, is looking the -very picture of dismay. Two letters lie before him; one is in his -hand, the other is on the table-cloth. Both are open; but of one, -the opening lines--that tell of the death of his old friend--are -all he has read; whereas he has read the other from start to finish, -already three times. It is from the old friend himself, written a -week before his death, and very urgent and very pleading. The -professor has mastered its contents with ever-increasing -consternation. - -Indeed so great a revolution has it created in his mind, that his -face--(the index of that excellent part of him)--has, for the -moment, undergone a complete change. Any ordinary acquaintance now -entering the professor's rooms (and those acquaintances might be -whittled down to quite a _little_ few), would hardly have known him. -For the abstraction that, as a rule, characterizes his features--the -way he has of looking at you, as if he doesn't see you, that -harasses the simple, and enrages the others--is all gone! Not a -trace of it remains. It has given place to terror, open and -unrestrained. - -"A girl!" murmurs he in a feeble tone, falling back in his chair. -And then again, in a louder tone of dismay--"A _girl!"_ He pauses -again, and now again gives way to the fear that is destroying -him--"A _grown_ girl!" - -After this, he seems too overcome to continue his reflections, so -goes back to the fatal letter. Every now and then a groan escapes -him, mingled with mournful remarks, and extracts from the sheet in -his hand-- - -"Poor old Wynter! Gone at last!" staring at the shaking signature at -the end of the letter that speaks so plainly of the coming icy -clutch that should prevent the poor hand from forming ever again -even such sadly erratic characters as these. "At least," glancing at -the half-read letter on the cloth--_"this_ tells me so. His -solicitor's, I suppose. Though what Wynter could want with a -solicitor---- Poor old fellow! He was often very good to me in the -old days. I don't believe I should have done even as much as I -_have_ done, without him... It must be fully ten years since he -threw up his work here and went to Australia!... ten years. The girl -must have been born before he went,"--glances at letter--"'My -child, my beloved Perpetua, the one thing on earth I love, will be -left entirely alone. Her mother died nine years ago. She is only -seventeen, and the world lies before her, and never a soul in it to -care how it goes with her. I entrust her to you--(a groan). To you I -give her. Knowing that if you are living, dear fellow, you will not -desert me in my great need, but will do what you can for my little -one.'" - -"But what is that?" demands the professor, distractedly. He pushes -his spectacles up to the top of his head, and then drags them down -again, and casts them wildly into a sugar-bowl. "What on earth am I -to do with a girl of seventeen? If it had been a boy! even _that -_would have been bad enough--but a girl! And, of course--I know -Wynter--he has died without a penny. He was bound to do that, as he -always lived without one. _Poor_ old Wynter!"-- as if a little -ashamed of himself. "I don't see how I can afford to put her out to -nurse." He pulls himself up with a start. "To nurse! a girl of -seventeen! She'll want to be going out to balls and things--at her -age." - -As if smitten to the earth by this last awful idea, he picks his -glasses out of the sugar and goes back to the letter. - -"You will find her the dearest girl. Most loving, and -tender-hearted; and full of life and spirits." - -"Good heavens!" says the professor. He puts down the letter again, -and begins to pace the room. "'Life and spirits.' A sort of young -kangaroo, no doubt. What will the landlady say? I shall leave these -rooms"--with a fond and lingering gaze round the dingy old apartment -that hasn't an article in it worth ten sous--"and take a small -house--somewhere--and-- But--er---- It won't be respectable, I think. -I--I've heard things said about--er--things like that. It's no good -in _looking_ an old fogey, if you aren't one; it's no earthly -use,"--standing before a glass and ruefully examining his -countenance--"in looking fifty, if you are only thirty-four. It will -be a scandal," says the professor mournfully. "They'll cut _her_, -and they'll cut me, and--what the _deuce_ did Wynter mean by leaving -me his daughter? A real live girl of seventeen! It'll be the death -of me," says the professor, mopping his brow. -"What"--wrathfully--"that determined spendthrift meant, by -flinging his family on _my_ shoulders, I---- Oh! _Poor_ old Wynter!" - -Here he grows remorseful again. Abuse a man dead and gone, and one, -too, who had been good to him in many ways when he, the professor, -was younger than he is now, and had just quarrelled with a father -who was only too prone to quarrel with anyone who gave him the -chance, seems but a poor thing. The professor's quarrel with his -father had been caused by the young man's refusal to accept a -Government appointment--obtained with some difficulty--for the very -insufficient and, as it seemed to his father, iniquitous reason, -that he had made up his mind to devote his life to science. Wynter, -too, was a scientist of no mean order, and would, probably, have -made his mark in the world, if the world and its pleasures had not -made their mark on him. He had been young Curzon's coach at one -time, and finding the lad a kindred spirit, had opened out to him -his own large store of knowledge, and steeped him in that great sea -of which no man yet has drank enough--for all begin, and leave it, -athirst. - -Poor Wynter! The professor, turning in his stride up and down the -narrow, uncomfortable room, one of the many that lie off the Strand, -finds his eyes resting on that other letter--carelessly opened, -barely begun. - -From Wynter's solicitor! It seems ridiculous that Wynter should have -_had_ a solicitor. With a sigh, he takes it up, opens it out and -begins to read it. At the end of the second page, he starts, -re-reads a sentence or two, and suddenly his face becomes -illuminated. He throws up his head. He cackles a bit. He looks as if -he wants to say something very badly--"Hurrah," probably--only he -has forgotten how to do it, and finally goes back to the letter -again, and this time--the third time--finishes it. - -Yes. It is all right! Why on earth hadn't he read it _first?_ So the -girl is to be sent to live with her aunt after all--an old -lady--maiden lady. Evidently living somewhere in Bloomsbury. Miss -Jane Majendie. Mother's sister evidently. Wynter's sisters would -never have been old maids, if they had resembled him, which probably -they did--if he had any. What a handsome fellow he was! and such a -good-natured fellow too. - -The professor colors here in his queer sensitive way, and pushes his -spectacles up and down his nose, in another nervous fashion of his. -After all, it was only this minute he had been accusing old Wynter -of anything but good nature. Well! He had wronged him there. He -glances at the letter again. - -He has only been appointed her guardian, it seems. Guardian of her -fortune, rather than of her. - -The old aunt will have the charge of her body, the--er--pleasure of -her society--_he,_ of the estate only. - -Fancy Wynter, of all men, dying rich--actually _rich_. The professor -pulls his beard, and involuntarily glances round the somewhat meagre -apartment, that not all his learning, not all his success in the -scientific world--and it has been not unnoteworthy, so far--has -enabled him to improve upon. It has helped him to live, no doubt, -and distinctly outside the line of _want,_ a thing to be grateful -for, as his family having in a measure abandoned him, he, on his -part, had abandoned his family in a _measure_ also (and with -reservations), and it would have been impossible to him, of all men, -to confess himself beaten, and return to them for assistance of any -kind. He could never have enacted the part of the prodigal son. He -knew this in earlier days, when husks were for the most part all he -had to sustain him. But the mind requires not even the material -husk, it lives on better food than that, and in his case mind had -triumphed over body, and borne it triumphantly to a safe, if not as -yet to a victorious, goal. - -Yet Wynter, the spendthrift, the erstwhile master of him who now -could be _his_ master, has died, leaving behind him a fortune. What -was the sum? He glances back to the sheet in his hand and verifies -his thought. Yes--eighty thousand pounds! A good fortune even in -these luxurious days. He has died worth £80,000, of which his -daughter is sole heiress! - -Before the professor's eyes rises a vision of old Wynter. They used -to call him "old," those boys who attended his classes, though he -was as light-hearted as the best of them, and as handsome as a -dissipated Apollo. They had all loved him, if they had not revered -him, and, indeed, he had been generally regarded as a sort of living -and lasting joke amongst them. - -Curzon, holding the letter in his hand, and bringing back to his -memory the handsome face and devil-may-care expression of his tutor, -remembers how the joke had widened, and reached its height when, at -forty years of age, old Wynter had flung up his classes, leaving -them all _planté là_ as it were, and declared his intention of -starting life anew and making a pile for himself in some new world. - -Well! it had not been such a joke after all, if they had only -known. Wynter _had_ made that mythical "pile," and had left his -daughter an heiress! - -Not only an heiress, but a gift to Miss Jane Majendie, of somewhere -in Bloomsbury. - -The professor's disturbed face grows calm again. It even occurs to -him that he has not eaten his breakfast. He so _often_ remembers -this, that it does not trouble him. To pore over his books (that are -overflowing every table and chair in the uncomfortable room) until -his eggs are India-rubber, and his rashers gutta-percha, is not a -fresh experience. But though this morning both eggs and rasher have -attained a high place in the leather department, he enters on his -sorry repast with a glad heart. - -Sweet are the rebounds from jeopardy to joy! And he has so _much_ of -joy! Not only has he been able to shake from his shoulders that -awful incubus--and ever-present ward--but he can be sure that the -absent ward is so well-off with regard to this world's goods, that -he need never give her so much as a passing thought--dragged, _torn_ -as that thought would be from his beloved studies. - -The aunt, of course, will see about her fortune. _He_ has only a -perfunctory duty--to see that the fortune is not squandered. But he -is safe there. Maiden ladies _never_ squander! And the girl, being -only seventeen, can't possibly squander it herself for some time. - -Perhaps he ought to call on her, however. Yes, of course, he must -call. It is the usual thing to call on one's ward. It will be a -terrible business no doubt. _All_ girls belong to the genus -nuisance. And _this_ girl will be at the head of her class no doubt. -"Lively, spirited," so far went the parent. A regular hoyden may be -read between those kind parental lines. - -The poor professor feels hot again with nervous agitation as he -imagines an interview between him and the wild, laughing, noisy, -perhaps horsey (they all ride in Australia) young woman to whom he -is bound to make his bow. - -How soon must this unpleasant interview take place? Once more he -looks back to the solicitor's letter. Ah! On Jan. 3rd her father, -poor old Wynter, had died, and on the 26th of May, she is to be "on -view" at Bloomsbury! and it is now the 2nd of February. A respite! -Perhaps, who knows? She may never arrive at Bloomsbury at all! There -are young men in Australia, a hoyden, as far as the professor has -read (and that is saying a good deal), would just suit the man in -the bush. - - - -CHAPTER II. - - - -"A maid so sweet that her mere sight made glad men sorrowing." - - - -Nevertheless the man in the bush doesn't get her. - -Time has run on a little bit since the professor suffered many -agonies on a certain raw February morning, and now it is the 30th of -May, and a glorious finish too to that sweet month. - -Even into this dingy old room, where at a dingy old table the -professor sits buried in piles of notes, and with sheets of -manuscript knee-deep scattered around him, the warm glad sun is -stealing; here and there, the little rays are darting, lighting up a -dusty corner here, a hidden heap of books there. It is, as yet, -early in the afternoon, and the riotous beams, who are no respecter -of persons, and who honor the righteous and the ungodly alike, are -playing merrily in this sombre chamber, given so entirely up to -science and its prosy ways, daring even now to dance lightly on the -professor's head, which has begun to grow a little bald. - - "The golden sun, in splendor likest heav'n," - -is proving perhaps a little too much for the tired brain in the -small room. Either that, or the incessant noises in the street -outside, which have now been enriched by the strains of a -broken-down street piano, causes him to lay aside his pen and lean -back in a weary attitude in his chair. - -What a day it is! How warm! An hour ago he had delivered a brilliant -lecture on the everlasting Mammoth (a fresh specimen just arrived -from Siberia), and is now paying the penalty of greatness. He had -done well--he knew that--he had been _interesting,_ that surest road -to public favor--he had been applauded to the echo; and now, -worn-out, tired in mind and body, he is living over again his honest -joy in his success. - -In this life, however, it is not given us to be happy for long. A -knock at the professor's door brings him back to the present, and -the knowledge that the landlady--a stout, somewhat erratic person of -fifty--is standing on his threshold, a letter in her hand. - -"For you, me dear," says she, very kindly, handing the letter to the -professor. - -She is perhaps the one person of his acquaintance who has been able -to see through the professor's gravity and find him _young._ - -"Thank you," says he. He takes the letter indifferently, opens it -languidly, and---- Well, there isn't much languor after the perusal -of it. - -The professor sits up; literally this time slang is unknown to him; -and re-reads it. _That girl has come!_ There can't be any doubt of -it. He had almost forgotten her existence during these past tranquil -months, when no word or hint about her reached him, but now, _here_ -she is at last, descending upon him like a whirlwind. - -A line in a stiff, uncompromising hand apprises the professor of the -unwelcome fact. The "line" is signed by "Jane Majendie," therefore -there can be no doubt of the genuineness of the news contained in -it. Yes! that girl _has_ come! - -The professor never swears, or he might now perhaps have given way -to reprehensible words. - -Instead of that, he pulls himself together, and determines on -immediate action. To call upon this ward of his is a thing that must -be done sooner of later, then why not sooner? Why not at once? The -more unpleasant the duty, the more necessity to get it off one's -mind without delay. - -He pulls the bell. The landlady appears again. - -"I must go out," says the professor, staring a little helplessly at -her. - -"An' a good thing too," says she. "A saint's day ye might call it, -wid the sun. An' where to, sir, dear? Not to thim rascally -sthudents, I do thrust?" - -"No, Mrs. Mulcahy. I--I am going to see a young lady," says the -professor simply. - -"The divil!" says Mrs. Mulcahy with a beaming smile. "Faix, that's -a turn the right way anyhow. But have ye thought o' yer clothes, -me dear?" - -"Clothes?" repeats the professor vaguely. - -"Arrah, wait," says she, and runs away lightly, in spite of her -fifty years and her too, too solid flesh, and presently returns with -the professor's best coat and a clothes brush that, from its -appearance, might reasonably be supposed to have been left behind by -Noah when he stepped out of the Ark. With this latter (having put -the coat on him) she proceeds to belabor the professor with great -spirit, and presently sends him forth shining--if not _in_ternally, -at all events _ex_ternally. - -In truth the professor's mood is not a happy one. Sitting in the -hansom that is taking him all too swiftly to his destination, he -dwells with terror on the girl--the undesired ward--who has been -thrust upon him. He has quite made up his mind about her. An -Australian girl! One knows what to expect _there!_ Health unlimited; -strength tremendous; and noise--_much_ noise. - -Yes, she is sure to be a _big_ girl. A girl with branching limbs, -and a laugh you could hear a mile off. A young woman with no sense -of the fitness of things, and a settled conviction that nothing -could shake, that "'Strailia" is _the_ finest country on earth! A -bouncing creature who _never_ sits down; to whom rest or calm is -unknown, and whose highest ambition will be to see the Tower and the -wax-works. - -Her hair is sure to be untidy; hanging probably in straight, black -locks over her forehead, and her frock will look as if it had been -pitchforked on to her, and requires only the insubordination of -_one_ pin to leave her without it again. - -The professor is looking pale, but has on him all the air of one -prepared for _anything_ as the maid shows him in the drawing-room of -the house where Miss Jane Majendie lives. - -His thoughts are still full her niece. _Her_ niece, poor woman, and -_his_ ward--poor _man!_ when the door opens and _some one_ comes in. - -_Some one!_ - -The professor gets slowly on to his feet, and stares at the -advancing apparition. Is it child or woman, this fair vision? A hard -question to answer! It is quite easy to read, however, that "some -one" is very lovely! - -"It is you, Mr. Curzon, is it not?" says the vision. - -Her voice is sweet and clear, a little petulant perhaps, but still -_very_ sweet. She is quite small--a _little_ girl--and clad in deep -mourning. There is something pathetic about the dense black -surrounding such a radiant face, and such a childish figure. Her -eyes are fixed on the professor, and there is evident anxiety in -their hazel depths; her soft lips are parted; she seems hesitating -as if not knowing whether she shall smile or sigh. She has raised -both her hands as if unconsciously, and is holding them clasped -against her breast. The pretty fingers are covered with costly -rings. Altogether she makes a picture--this little girl, with her -brilliant eyes, and mutinous mouth, and soft black clinging gown. -Dainty-sweet she looks, - - "Sweet as is the bramble-flower." - -"Yes," says the professor, in a hesitating way, as if by no means -certain of the fact. He is so vague about it, indeed, that "some -one's" dark eyes take a mischievous gleam. - -"Are you _sure?"_ says she, and looks up at him suddenly, a little -sideways perhaps, as if half frightened, and gives way to a naughty -sort of little laugh. It rings through the room, this laugh, and has -the effect of frightening her _altogether_ this time. She checks -herself, and looks first down at the carpet with the big roses on -it, where one little foot is wriggling in a rather nervous way, and -then up again at the professor, as if to see if he is thinking bad -things of her. She sighs softly. - -"Have you come to see me or Aunt Jane?" asks she; "because Aunt Jane -is out--_I'm glad to say"_--this last pianissimo. - -"To see you," says the professor, absently. He is thinking! He has -taken her hand, and held it, and dropped it again, all in a state of -high bewilderment. - -"Is _this_ the big, strong, noisy girl of his imaginings? The -bouncing creature with untidy hair, and her clothes pitchforked on -to her?" - -"Well--I hoped so," says she, a little wistfully as it seems to him, -every trace of late sauciness now gone, and with it the sudden -shyness. After many days the professor grows accustomed to these -sudden transitions that are so puzzling yet so enchanting, these -rapid, inconsequent, but always lovely changes - - "From grave to gay, from lively to severe." - -"Won't you sit down?" says his small hostess, gently, touching a -chair near her with her slim fingers. - -"Thank you," says the professor, and then stops short. - -"You are----" - -"Your ward," says she, ever so gently still, yet emphatically. It is -plain that she is now on her very _best_ behavior. She smiles up at -him in a very encouraging way. "And you are my guardian, aren't -you?" - -"Yes," says the professor, without enthusiasm. He has seated -himself, not on the chair she has pointed out to him, but on a very -distant lounge. He is conscious of a feeling of growing terror. This -lovely child has created it, yet why, or how? Was ever guardian -mastered by a ward before? A desire to escape is filling him, but he -has got to do his duty to his dead friend, and this is part of it. - -He has retired to the far-off lounge with a view to doing it as -distantly as possible, but even this poor subterfuge fails him. Miss -Wynter, picking up a milking-stool, advances leisurely towards him, -and seating herself upon it just in front of him, crosses her hands -over her knees and looks expectantly up at him with a charming -smile. - -"_Now_ we can have a good talk," says she. - - - -CHAPTER III. - - - - "And if you dreamed how a friend's smile - And nearness soothe a heart that's sore, - You might be moved to stay awhile - Before my door." - - - -"About?" begins the professor, and stammers, and ceases. - -"Everything," says she, with a little nod. "It is impossible to talk -to Aunt Jane. She doesn't talk, she only argues, and always wrongly. -But you are different. I can see that. Now tell me,"--she leans even -more forward and looks intently at the professor, her pretty brows -wrinkled as if with extreme and troublous thought--"What are the -duties of a guardian?" - -"Eh?" says the professor. He moves his glasses up to his forehead -and then pulls them down again. Did ever anxious student ask him -question so difficult of answer as this one--that this small maiden -has propounded? - -"You can think it over," says she most graciously. "There is no -hurry, and I am quite aware that one isn't made a guardian _every_ -day. Do you think you could make it out whilst I count forty?" - -"I think I could make it out more quickly if you didn't count at -all," says the professor, who is growing warm. "The duties of a -guardian--are--er--to--er--to see that one's ward is comfortable -and happy." - -"Then there is a great deal of duty for _you_ to do," says she -solemnly, letting her chin slip into the hollow of her hand. - -"I know--I'm sure of it," says the professor with a sigh that might -be called a groan. "But your aunt, Miss Majendie--your mother's -sister--can----" - -"I don't believe she is my mother's sister," says Miss Wynter -calmly. "I have seen my mother's picture. It is lovely! Aunt Jane -was a changeling--I'm sure of it. But never mind her. You were going -to say----?" - -"That Miss Majendie, who is virtually your guardian--can explain it -all to you much better than I can." - -"Aunt Jane is _not_ my guardian!" The mild look of enquiry changes -to one of light anger. The white brown contracts. "And certainly she -could never make one happy and comfortable. Well--what else?" - -"She will look after----" - -"I told you I don't care about Aunt Jane. Tell me what _you_ can -do----" - -"See that your fortune is not----" - -"I don't care about my fortune either," with a little petulant -gesture. "But I _do_ care about my happiness. Will you see to -_that?_" - -"Of course," says the professor gravely. - -"Then you will take me away from Aunt Jane!" The small vivacious -face is now all aglow. "I am not happy with Aunt Jane. I"--clasping -her hands, and letting a quick, vindictive fire light her eyes--"I -_hate_ Aunt Jane. She says things about poor papa that---- _Oh!_ how -I hate her!" - -"But--you shouldn't--you really should not. I feel certain you ought -not," says the professor, growing vaguer every moment. - -"Ought I not?" with a quick little laugh that is all anger and no -mirth. "I _do_ though, for all that! I"--pausing, and regarding him -with a somewhat tragic air that sits most funnily upon her--"am not -going to stay here much longer!" - -_"What!"_ says the professor aghast. "But my dear---- Miss Wynter, -I'm afraid you _must."_ - -"Why? What is she to me?" - -"Your aunt." - -"That's nothing--nothing at all--even a _guardian_ is better than -that. And you are my guardian. Why," coming closer to him and -pressing five soft little fingers in an almost feverish fashion upon -his arm, "why can't _you_ take me away?" - -_"I?"_ - -"Yes, yes, you." She comes even nearer to him, and the pressure of -the small fingers grows more eager--there is something in them that -might well be termed coaxing. _"Do,"_ says she. - -"Oh! Impossible!" says the professor. The color mounts to his brow. -He almost _shakes_ off the little clinging fingers in his -astonishment and agitation. Has she no common sense--no knowledge of -the things that be? - -She has drawn back from him and is regarding him somewhat strangely. - -"Impossible to leave Aunt Jane?" questions she. It is evident she -has not altogether understood, and yet is feeling puzzled. "Well," -defiantly, "we shall see!" - -_"Why_ don't you like your Aunt Jane?" asks the professor -distractedly. He doesn't feel nearly as fond of his dead friend as -he did an hour ago. - -"Because," lucidly, "she _is_ Aunt Jane. If she were _your_ Aunt -Jane you would know." - -"But my dear----" - -"I really wish," interrupts Miss Wynter petulantly, "you wouldn't -call me 'my dear.' Aunt Jane calls me that when she is going to say -something horrid to me. Papa----" she pauses suddenly, and tears -rush to her dark eyes. - -"Yes. What of your father?" asks the professor hurriedly, the tears -raising terror in his soul. - -"You knew him--speak to me of him," says she, a little tremulously. - -"I knew him well indeed. He was very good to me when--when I was -younger. I was very fond of him." - -"He was good to everyone," says Miss Wynter, staring hard at the -professor. It is occurring to her that this grave sedate man with -his glasses could never have been younger. He must always have been -older than the gay, handsome, _debonnaire_ father, who had been so -dear to her. - -"What were you going to tell me about him?" asks the professor -gently. - -"Only what he used to call me--_Doatie!_ I suppose," wistfully, "you -couldn't call me that?" - -"I am afraid not," says the professor, coloring even deeper. - -"I'm sorry," says she, her young mouth taking a sorrowful curve. -"But don't call me Miss Wynter, at all events, or 'my dear.' I do so -want someone to call me by my Christian name," says the poor child -sadly. - -"Perpetua--is it not?" says the professor, ever so kindly. - -"No--'Pet,'" corrects she. "It's shorter, you know, and far easier -to say." - -"Oh!" says the professor. To him it seems very difficult to say. Is -it possible she is going to ask him to call her by that -familiar--almost affectionate--name? The girl must be mad. - -"Yes--much easier," says Perpetua; "you will find that out, after a -bit, when you have got used to calling me by it. Are you going now, -Mr. Curzon? Going _so soon?_" - -"I have classes," says the professor. - -"Students?" says she. "You teach them? I wish I was a student. I -shouldn't have been given over to Aunt Jane then, or," with a rather -wilful laugh, "if I had been I should have led her, oh!" -rapturously, _"such a life!"_ - -It suggests itself to the professor that she is quite capable of -doing that now, though she is _not_ of the sex male. - -"Good-bye," says he, holding out his hand. - -"You will come soon again?" demands she, laying her own in it. - -"Next week--perhaps." - -"Not till then? I shall be dead then," says she, with a rather -mirthless laugh this time. "Do you know that you and Aunt Jane are -the only two people in all London whom I know?" - -"That is terrible," says he, quite sincerely. - -"Yes. Isn't it?" - -"But soon you will know people. Your aunt has acquaintances. -They--surely they will call; they will see you--they----" - -"Will take an overwhelming fancy to me? just as you have done," says -she, with a quick, rather curious light in her eyes, and a tilting -of her pretty chin. "There! _go,"_ says she, "I have some work to -do; and you have your classes. It would never do for you to miss -_them._ And as for next week!--make it next month! I wouldn't for -the world be a trouble to you in any way." - -"I shall come next week," says the professor, troubled in somewise -by the meaning in her eyes. What is it? Simple loneliness, or misery -downright? How young she looks--what a child! That tragic air does -not belong to her of right. She should be all laughter, and -lightness, and mirth---- - -"As you will," says she; her tone has grown almost haughty; there is -a sense of remorse in his breast as he goes down the stairs. Has he -been kind to old Wynter's child? Has he been true to his trust? -There has been an expression that might almost be termed despair in -the young face as he left her. Her face, with that expression on it, -haunts him all down the road. - -Yes. He will call next week. What day is this? Friday. And Friday -next he is bound to deliver a lecture somewhere--he is not sure -where, but certainly somewhere. Well, Saturday then he might call. -But that---- - -Why not call Thursday--or even Wednesday? - -Wednesday let it be. He needn't call every week, but he had said -something about calling next week, and--she wouldn't care, of -course--but one should keep their word. What a strange little face -she has--and strange manners, and--not able to get on evidently with -her present surroundings. - -What an old devil that aunt must be! - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - - - "Dear, if you knew what tears they shed, - Who live apart from home and friend, - To pass my house, by pity led, - Your steps would tend." - - -He makes the acquaintance of the latter very shortly. But requires -no spoon to sup with her, as Miss Majendie's invitations to supper, -or indeed to luncheon, breakfast or dinner, are so few and rare that -it might be rash for a hungry man to count on them. - -The professor, who has felt it to be his duty to call on his ward -regularly every week, has learned to know and (I regret to say) to -loathe that estimable spinster christened Jane Majendie. - -After every visit to her house he has sworn to himself that _"this -one"_ shall be his last, and every Wednesday following he has gone -again. Indeed, to-day being Wednesday in the heart of June, he may -be seen sitting bolt upright in a hansom on his way to the unlovely -house that holds Miss Majendie. - -As he enters the dismal drawing-room, where he finds Miss Majendie -and her niece, it becomes plain, even to his inexperienced brain, -that there has just been a row on, somewhere. - -Perpetua is sitting on a distant lounge, her small vivacious face -one thunder-cloud. Miss Majendie, sitting on the hardest chair this -hideous room contains, is smiling. A terrible sign. The professor -pales before it. - -"I am glad to see you, Mr. Curzon," says Miss Majendie, rising and -extending a bony hand. "As Perpetua's guardian, you may perhaps have -some influence over her. I say 'perhaps' advisedly, as I scarcely -dare to hope _anyone_ could influence a mind so distorted as hers." - -"What is it?" asks the professor nervously--of Perpetua, not of Miss -Majendie. - -"I'm dull," says Perpetua sullenly. - -The professor glances keenly at the girl's downcast face, and then -at Miss Majendie. The latter glance is a question. - -"You hear her," says Miss Majendie coldly--she draws her shawl round -her meagre shoulders, and a breath through her lean nostrils that -may be heard. "Perhaps _you_ may be able to discover her meaning." - -"What is it?" asks the professor, turning to the girl, his tone -anxious, uncertain. Young women with "wrongs" are unknown to him, as -are all other sorts of young women for the matter of that. And -_this_ particular young woman looks a little unsafe at the present -moment. - -"I have told you! I am tired of this life. I am dull--stupid. I want -to go out." Her lovely eyes are flashing, her face is white--her -lips trembling. _"Take_ me out," says she suddenly. - -"Perpetua!" exclaims Miss Majendie. "How unmaidenly! How immodest!" - -Perpetua looks at her with large, surprised eyes. - -"Why," says she. - -"I really think," interrupts the professor hurriedly, who see -breakers ahead, "if I were to take Perpetua for a walk--a -drive--to--er--to some place or other--it might destroy this _ennui_ -of which she complains. If you will allow her to come out with me -for an hour or so, I----" - -"If you are waiting for _my_ sanction, Mr. Curzon, to that -extraordinary proposal, you will wait some time," says Miss Majendie -slowly, frigidly. She draws the shawl still closer, and sniffs -again. - -"But----" - -"There is no 'But,' sir. The subject doesn't admit of argument. In -my young days, and I should think"--scrutinising him exhaustively -through her glasses--_"in yours_, it was not customary for a young -_gentlewoman _to go out walking, alone, with _'a man'!!"_ If she -had said with a famished tiger, she couldn't have thrown more horror -into her tone. - -The professor had shrunk a little from that classing of her age with -his, but has now found matter for hope in it. - -"Still--my age--as you suggest--so far exceeds Perpetua's--I am -indeed so much older than she is, that I might be allowed to escort -her wherever it may please her to go." - -"The _real_ age of a man nowadays, sir, is a thing impossible to -know," says Miss Majendie. "You wear glasses--a capital disguise! I -mean nothing offensive--_so far_--sir, but it behoves me to be -careful, and behind those glasses, who can tell what demon lurks? -Nay! No offence! An _innocent_ man would _feel_ no offence!" - -"Really, Miss Majendie!" begins the poor professor, who is as red as -though he were the guiltiest soul alive. - -"Let me proceed, sir. We were talking of the ages of men." - -_"We?"_ - -"Certainly! It was you who suggested the idea that, being so much -older than my niece, Miss Wynter, you could therefore escort her -here and there--in fact _everywhere_--in fact"--with awful -meaning--_"any_ where!" - -"I assure you, madam," begins the professor, springing to his -feet--Perpetua puts out a white hand. - -"Ah! let her talk," says she. _"Then_ you will understand." - -"But men's ages, sir, are a snare and a delusion!" continues Miss -Majendie, who has now mounted her hobby, and will ride it to the -death. "Who can tell the age of any man in this degenerate age? We -look at their faces, and say _he_ must be so and so, and _he_ a few -years younger, but looks are vain, they tell us nothing. Some look -old, because they _are_ old, some look old--through _vice!"_ - -The professor makes an impatient gesture. But Miss Majendie is equal -to most things. - -"'Who excuses himself _accuses_ himself,'" quotes she with -terrible readiness. "Why that gesture, Mr. Curzon? I made no mention -of _your_ name. And indeed, I trust your age would place you outside -of any such suspicion, still, I am bound to be careful where my -niece's interests are concerned. You, as her guardian if a -_faithful_ guardian" (with open doubt as to this, expressed in eye -and pointed finger), "should be the first to applaud my caution." - -"You take an extreme view," begins the professor, a little feebly, -perhaps. That eye and that pointed finger have cowed him. - -"One's views _have_ to be extreme in these days if one would -continue in the paths of virtue," said Miss Majendie. _"Your_ -views," with a piercing and condemnatory glance, "are evidently -_not_ extreme. One word for all, Mr. Curzon, and this argument is at -an end. I shall not permit my niece, with my permission, to walk -with you or any other man whilst under my protection." - -"I daresay you are right--no doubt--no doubt" mumbles the professor, -incoherently, now thoroughly frightened and demoralized. Good -heavens! What an awful old woman! And to think that this poor child -is under her care. He happens at this moment to look at the poor -child, and the scorn _for him_ that gleams in her large eyes -perfects his rout. To say that she was _right!_ - -"If Perpetua wishes to go for a walk," says Miss Majendie, breaking -through a mist of angry feeling that is only half on the surface, "I -am here to accompany her." - -"I don't want to go for a walk--with you," says Perpetua, rudely it -must be confessed, though her tone is low and studiously reserved. -"I don't want to go for a walk _at all."_ She pauses, and her voice -chokes a little, and then suddenly she breaks into a small passion -of vehemence. "I want to go somewhere, to _see_ something," she -cries, gazing imploringly at Curzon. - -"To _see_ something!" says her aunt, "why it was only last Sunday I -took you to Westminster Abbey, where you saw the grandest edifice in -all the world." - -"Most interesting place," says the professor, _sotto voce,_ with a -wild but mad hope of smoothing matters down for Perpetua's sake. - -If it _was_ for Perpetua's sake, she proves herself singularly -ungrateful. She turns upon him a small vivid face, alight with -indignation. - -"You support her," cries she. _"You!_ Well, I shall tell you! -I"--defiantly--"I don't want to go to churches at all. I want to go -to _theatres!_ There!" - -There is an awful silence. Miss Marjorie's face is a picture! If the -girl had said she wanted to go to the devil instead of to the -theatre, she could hardly have looked more horrified. She takes a -step forward, closer to Perpetua. - -"Go to your room! And pray--_pray_ for a purer mind!" says she. -"This is hereditary, all this! Only prayer can cast it out. And -remember, this is the last word upon this subject. As long as you -are under _my_ roof you shall never go to a sinful place of -amusement. I forbid you ever to speak of theatres again." - -"I shall not be forbidden!" says Perpetua. She confronts her aunt with -flaming eyes and crimson cheeks. "I _do_ want to go to the theatre, -and to balls, and dances, and _everything_. I"--passionately, and -with a most cruel, despairing longing in her young voice, "want to -dance, to laugh, to sing, to amuse myself--to be the gayest thing in -all the world!" - -She stops as if exhausted, surprised perhaps at her own daring, and -there is silence for a moment, a _little_ moment, and then Miss -Majendie looks at her. - -"'The gayest thing in all the world!' _and your father only four -months dead!"_ says she, slowly, remorselessly. - -All in a moment, as it were, the little crimson angry face grows -white--white as death itself. The professor, shocked beyond words, -stands staring, and marking the sad changes in it. Perpetua is -trembling from head to foot. A frightened look has come into her -beautiful eyes--her breath comes quickly. She is as a thing at -bay--hopeless, horrified. Her lips part as if she would say -something. But no words come. She casts one anguished glance at the -professor, and rushes from the room. - -It was but a momentary glimpse into a heart, but it was terrible. -The professor turns upon Miss Majendie in great wrath. - -"That was cruel--uncalled for!" says he, a strange feeling in his -heart that he has not time to stop and analyse _then_. "How could -you hurt her so? Poor child! Poor girl! She _loved_ him!" - -"Then let her show respect to his memory," says Miss Majendie -vindictively. She is unmoved--undaunted. - -"She was not wanting in respect." His tone is hurried. This woman -with the remorseless eye is too much for the gentle professor. "All -she _does_ want is change, amusement. She is young. Youth must -enjoy." - -"In moderation--and in proper ways," says Miss Majendie stonily. "In -moderation," she repeats mechanically, almost unconsciously. And -then suddenly her wrath gets the better of her, and she breaks out -in a violent rage. That one should dare to question _her_ actions! -"Who are _you?"_ demands she fiercely, "that you should presume to -dictate right and wrong to _me."_ - -"I am Miss Wynter's guardian," says the professor, who begins to see -visions--and all the lower regions let loose at once. Could an -original Fury look more horrible than this old woman, with her grey -nodding head, and blind vindictive passion. He hears his voice -faltering, and knows that he is edging towards the door. After all, -what can the bravest man do with an angry old woman, except to get -away from her as quickly as possible? And the professor, through -brave enough in the usual ways, is not brave where women are -concerned. - -"Guardian or no guardian, I will thank you to remember you are in -_my_ house!" cries Miss Majendie, in a shrill tone that runs through -the professor's head. - -"Certainly. Certainly," says he, confusedly, and then he slips out -of the room, and having felt the door close behind him, runs -tumultuously down the staircase. For years he has not gone down any -staircase so swiftly. A vague, if unacknowledged, feeling that he is -literally making his escape from a vital danger, is lending wings to -his feet. Before him lies the hall-door, and that way safety lies, -safety from that old gaunt, irate figure upstairs. He is not allowed -to reach it, however--just yet. - -A door on the right side of the hall is opened cautiously; a shapely -little head is as cautiously pushed through it, and two anxious red -lips whisper:-- - -"Mr. Curzon," first, and then, as he turns in answer to the whisper, -"Sh--_Sh!"_ - - - -CHAPTER V. - - - - "My love is like the sea, - As changeful and as free; - Sometimes she's angry, sometimes rough, - Yet oft she's smooth and calm enough-- - Ay, much too calm for me." - - - -It is Perpetua. A sad-eyed, a tearful-eyed Perpetua, but a lovely -Perpetua for all that. - -"Well?" says he. - -_"Sh!"_ says she again, shaking her head ominously, and putting her -forefinger against her lip. "Come in here," says she softly, under -her breath. - -"Here," when he does come in, is a most untidy place, made up of all -things heterogeneous. Now that he is nearer to her, he can see that -she has been crying vehemently, and that the tears still stand thick -within her eyes. - -"I felt I _must_ see you," says she, "to tell you--to ask you. -To--Oh! you _heard_ what she said! Do--do _you_ think----?" - -"Not at all, not at all," declares the professor hurriedly. -"Don't--_don't_ cry, Perpetua! Look here," laying his hand nervously -upon her shoulder and giving her a little angry shake. _"Don't_ cry! -Good heavens! Why should you mind that awful old woman?" - -Nevertheless, he had minded that awful old woman himself very -considerably. - -"But--it _is_ soon, isn't it?" says she. "I know that myself, and -yet--" wistfully--"I can't help it. I _do_ want to see things, and -to amuse myself." - -"Naturally," says the professor. - -"And it isn't that I _forget_ him," says she in an eager, intense -tone, "I _never_ forget him--never--never. Only I do want to laugh -sometimes and to be happy, and to see Mr. Irving as Charles I." - -The climax is irresistible. The professor is unable to suppress a -smile. - -"I'm afraid, from what I have heard, _that_ won't make you laugh," -says he. - -"It will make me cry then. It is all the same," declares she, -impartially. "I shall be enjoying myself, I shall be _seeing_ -things. You--" doubtfully, and mindful of his last speech--"Haven't -you seen him?" - -"Not for a long time, I regret to say. I--I'm always so busy," says -the professor apologetically. - -_"Always_ studying?" questions she. - -"For the most part," returns the professor, an odd sensation growing -within him that he is feeling ashamed of himself. - -"'All work and no play,'" begins Perpetua, and stops, and shakes -her charming head at him. _"You_ will be a dull boy if you don't -take care," says she. - -A ghost of a little smile warms her sad lips as she says this, and -lights up her shining eyes like a ray of sunlight. Then it fades, -and she grows sorrowful again. - -"Well, _I_ can't study," says she. - -"Why not?" demands the professor quickly. Here he is on his own -ground; and here he has a pupil to his hand--a strange, an -enigmatical, but a lovely one. "Believe me knowledge is the one good -thing that life contains worth having. Pleasures, riches, rank, -_all_ sink to insignificance beside it." - -"How do you know?" says she. "You haven't tried the others." - -"I know it, for all that. I _feel_ it. Get knowledge--such knowledge -as the short span of life allotted to us will allow you to get. I -can lend you some books, easy ones at first, and----" - -"I couldn't read _your_ books," says she; "and--you haven't any -novels, I suppose?" - -"No," says he. "But----" - -"I don't care for any books but novels," says she, sighing. "Have -you read 'Alas?' I never have anything to read here, because Aunt -Jane says novels are of the devil, and that if I read them I shall -go to hell." - -"Nonsense!" says the professor gruffly. - -"You mustn't think I'm afraid about _that,"_ says Perpetua demurely; -"I'm not. I know the same place could never contain Aunt Jane and me -for long, so _I'm_ all right." - -The professor struggles with himself for a moment and then gives way -to mirth. - -"Ah! _now_ you are on my side," cries his ward exultantly. She tucks -her arm into his. "And as for all that talk about 'knowledge'--don't -bother me about that any more. It's a little rude of you, do you -know? One would think I was a dunce--that I knew nothing--whereas, I -assure you," throwing out her other hand, "I know _quite_ as much as -most girls, and a great deal more than many. I daresay," putting her -head to one side, and examining him thoughtfully, "I know more than -you do, if it comes to that. I don't believe you know this moment -who wrote 'The Master of Ballantrae.' Come now, who was it?" - -She leans back from him, gazing at him mischievously, as if -anticipating his defeat. As for the professor, he grows red--he -draws his brows together. Truly this is a most impertinent pupil! -'The Master of Ballantrae.' It _sounds_ like Sir Walter, and -yet--The professor hesitates and is lost. - -"Scott," says he, with as good an air as he can command. - -"Wrong," cries she, clapping her hands softly, noiselessly. "Oh! you -_ignorant _man! Go buy that book at once. It will do you more good -and teach you a great deal more than any of your musty tomes." - -She laughs gaily. It occurs to the professor, in a misty sort of -way, that her laugh, at all events, would do _anyone_ good. - -She has been pulling a ring on and off her finger unconsciously, as -if thinking, but now looks up at him. - -"If you spoke to her again, when she was in a better temper, don't -you think she would let you take me to the theatre some night?" She -has come nearer, and has laid a light, appealing little hand upon -his arm. - -"I am sure it would be useless," says he, taking off his glasses and -putting them on again in an anxious fashion. They are both speaking -in whispers, and the professor is conscious of feeling a strange -sort of pleasure in the thought that he is sharing a secret with -her. "Besides," says he, "I couldn't very well come here again." - -"Not come again? Why?" - -"I'd be afraid," returns he simply. Whereon Miss Wynter, after a -second's pause, gives way and laughs "consumedly," as they would -have said long, long years before her pretty features saw the light. - -"Ah! yes," murmurs she. "How she did frighten you. She brought you -to your knees--you actually"--this with keen reproach--"took her -part against me." - -"I took her part to _help_ you," says the professor, feeling -absurdly miserable. - -"Yes," sighing, "I daresay. But though I know I should have suffered -for it afterwards, it would have done me a world of good to hear -somebody tell her his real opinion of her for once. I should like," -calmly, "to see her writhe; she makes me writhe very often." - -"This is a bad school for you," says the professor hurriedly. - -"Yes? Then why don't you take me away from it?" - -"If I could----but---- Well, I shall see," says he vaguely. - -"You will have to be very quick about it," says she. Her tone is -quite ordinary; it never suggests itself to the professor that there -is meaning beneath it. - -"You have _some_ friends surely?" says he. - -"There is a Mrs. Constans who comes here sometimes to see Aunt Jane. -She is a young woman, and her mother was a friend of Aunt Jane's, -which accounts for it, I suppose. She seems kind. She said she would -take me to a concert soon, but she has not been here for many days. -I daresay she has forgotten all about it by this time." - -She sighs. The charming face so near the professor's is looking sad -again. The white brow is puckered, the soft lips droop. No, she -cannot stay _here,_ that is certain--and yet it was her father's -wish, and who is he, the professor, that he should pretend to know -how girls should be treated? What if he should make a mistake? And -yet again, should a little brilliant face like that know sadness? It -is a problem difficult to solve. All the professor's learning fails -him now. - -"I hope she will remember. Oh! she _must,_" declares he, gazing at -Perpetua. "You know I would do what I could for you, but your -aunt--you heard her--she would not let you go anywhere with me." - -"True," says Perpetua. Here she moves back, and folds her arms -stiffly across her bosom, and pokes out her chin, in an aggressive -fashion, that creates a likeness on the spot, in spite of the -youthful eyes, and brow, and hair. "'Young _gentle_women in _our_ -time, Mr. Curzon, never went out walking, _alone,_ with _A Man!'"_ - -The mimicry is perfect. The professor, after a faint struggle with -his dignity, joins in her naughty mirth, and both laugh together. - -_"'Our'_ time! she thinks you are a hundred and fifty!" says Miss -Wynter. - -"Well, so I am, in a way," returns the professor, somewhat sadly. - -"No, you're not," says she. _"I_ know better than that, I" patting -his arm reassuringly, "can guess your age better than she can. I can -see _at once,_ that you are not a day older than poor, darling papa. -In fact you may be younger. I am perfectly certain you are not more -than fifty." - -The professor says nothing. He is staring at her. He is beginning to -feel a little forlorn. He has forgotten youth for many days, has -youth in revenge forgotten him? - -"That is taking off a clear hundred at once," says she lightly. "No -small account." Here, as if noticing his silence, she looks quickly -at him, and perhaps something in his face strikes her, because she -goes on hurriedly. "Oh! and what is age after all? I wish _I_ were -old, and then I should be able to get away from Aunt -Jane--without--without any _trouble."_ - -"I am afraid you are indeed very unhappy here," says the professor -gravely. - -"I _hate_ the place," cries she with a frown. "I shan't be able to -stay here. Oh! _why_ didn't poor papa send me to live with you?" - -Why indeed? That is exactly what the professor finds great -difficulty in explaining to her. An "old man" of "fifty" might very -easily give a home to a young girl, without comment from the world. -But then if an "old man of fifty" _wasn't_ an old man of fifty---- -The professor checks his thoughts, they are growing too mixed. - -"We should have been _so_ happy," Perpetua is going on, her tone -regretful. "We could have gone everywhere together, you and I. I -should have taken you to the theatre, to balls, to concerts, to -afternoons. You would have been _so_ happy, and so should I. You -would--wouldn't you?" - -The professor nods his head. The awful vista she has opened up to -him has completely deprived him of speech. - -"Ah! yes," sighs she, taking that deceitful nod in perfect good -faith. "And you would have been good to me too, and let me look in -at the shop windows. I should have taken such _care_ of you, and -made your tea for you, just" sadly, "as I used to do for poor papa, -and----" - -It is becoming too much for the professor. - -"It is late. I must go," says he. - -It is a week later when he meets her again. The season is now at its -height, and some stray wave of life casting the professor into a -fashionable thoroughfare, he there finds her. - -Marching along, as usual, with his head in the air, and his thoughts -in the ages when dates were unknown, a soft, eager voice calling his -name brings him back to the fact that he is walking up Bond Street. - -In a carriage, exceedingly well appointed, and with her face -wreathed in smiles, and one hand impulsively extended, sits -Perpetua. Evidently the owner of the carriage is in the shop making -purchases, whilst Perpetua sits without, awaiting her. - -"Were you going to cut me?" cries she. "What luck to meet you here. -I am having such a _lovely_ day. Mrs. Constans has taken me out with -her, and I am to dine with her, and go with her to a concert in the -evening." - -She has poured it all out, all her good news in a breath, as though -sure of a sympathetic listener. - -He is too good a listener. He is listening so hard, he is looking so -intensely, that he forgets to speak, and Perpetua's sudden gaiety -forsakes her. Is he angry? Does he think----? - -"It's _only_ a concert," says she, flushing and hesitating. "Do you -think that one should not go to a concert when----" - -"Yes?" questions the professor abstractedly, as she comes to a full -stop. He has never seen her dressed like this before. She is all in -black to be sure, but _such_ black, and her air! She looks quite the -little heiress, like a little queen indeed--radiant, lovely. - -_"Well_--when one is in mourning," says she somewhat impatiently, -the color once again dyeing her cheek. Quick tears have sprung to -her eyes. They seem to hurt the professor. - -"One cannot be in mourning always," says he slowly. His manner is -still unfortunate. - -"You evade the question," says she frowning. "But a concert _isn't_ -like a ball, is it?" - -"I don't know," says the professor, who indeed has had little -knowledge of either for years, and whose unlucky answer arises -solely from inability to give her an honest reply. - -"You hesitate," says she, "you disapprove then. But," defiantly, "I -don't care--a concert is _not_ like a ball." - -"No--I suppose not." - -"I can see what you are thinking," returns she, struggling with her -mortification. "And it is very _hard_ of you. Just because _you_ -don't care to go anywhere, you think I oughtn't to care either. -That is what is so selfish about people who are old. You," wilfully, -"are just as bad as Aunt Jane." - -The professor looks at her. His face is perplexed--distressed--and -something more, but she cannot read that. - -"Well, not quite perhaps," says she, relenting slightly. "But -nearly. And if you don't care you will grow like her. I hate people -who lecture me, and besides, I don't see why a guardian should -control one's whole life, and thought, and action. A guardian," -resentfully, "isn't one's conscience!" - -"No. No. Thank Heaven!" says the professor, shocked. Perpetua stares -at him a moment and then breaks into a queer little laugh. - -"You evidently have no desire to be mixed up with _my_ conscience," -says she, a little angry in spite of her mirth. "Well, I don't want -you to have anything to do with it. That's _my_ affair. But, about -this concert,"--she leans towards him, resting her hand on the edge -of the carriage. "Do you think one should go _nowhere_ when wearing -black?" - -"I think one should do just as one feels," says the professor -nervously. - -"I wonder if one should _say_ just what one feels," says she. She -draws back haughtily, then wrath gets the better of dignity, and she -breaks out again. "What a _horrid_ answer! _You_ are unfeeling if -you like!" - -"_I_ am?" - -"Yes, yes! You would deny me this small gratification, you would -lock me up for ever with Aunt Jane, you would debar me from -everything! Oh!" her lips trembling, "how I wish--I -_wish--_guardians had never been invented." - -The professor almost begins to wish the same. Almost--perhaps not -quite! That accusation about wishing to keep her locked up for ever -with Miss Majendie is so manifestly unjust that he takes it hardly. -Has he not spent all this past week striving to open a way of escape -for her from the home she so detests! But, after all, how could she -know that? - -"You have misunderstood me," says he calmly, gravely. "Far from -wishing you to deny yourself this concert, I am glad--glad from my -_heart_--that you are going to it--that some small pleasure has -fallen into your life. Your aunt's home is an unhappy one for you, I -know, but you should remember that even if--if you have got to stay -with her until you become your own mistress, still that will not be -forever." - -"No, I shall not stay there for ever," says she slowly. "And so--you -really think----" she is looking very earnestly at him. - -"I do, indeed. Go out--go everywhere--enjoy yourself, child, while -you can." - -He lifts his hat and walks away. - -"Who was that, dear?" asks Mrs. Constans, a pretty pale woman, -rushing out of the shop and into the carriage. - -"My guardian--Mr. Curzon." - -"Ah!" glancing carelessly after the professor's retreating figure. -"A youngish man?" - -"No, old," says Perpetua, "at least, I think--do you know," -laughing, "when he's _gone_ I sometimes think of him as being pretty -young, but when he is _with_ me, he is old--old and grave!" - -"As a guardian should be, with such a pretty ward," says Mrs. -Constans, smiling. "His back looks young, however." - -"And his laugh _sounds_ young." - -"Ah! he can laugh then?" - -"Very seldom. Too seldom. But when he does, it is a nice laugh. But -he wears spectacles, you know--and--well--oh, yes, he _is_ old, -distinctly old!" - - - -CHAPTER VI. - - - -"He is happy whose circumstances suit his temper; but he is more -excellent who can suit his temper to any circumstances." - - - -"The idea of _your_ having a ward! I could quite as soon imagine -your having a wife," says Hardinge. He knocks the ash off his cigar, -and after meditating for a moment, leans back in his chair and gives -way to irrepressible mirth. - -"I don't see why I shouldn't have a wife as well as another," says -the professor, idly tapping his forefinger on the table near him. -"She would bore me. But a great many fellows are bored." - -"You have grasped one great truth if you never grasp another!" says -Mr. Hardinge, who has now recovered. "Catch _me_ marrying." - -"It's unlucky to talk like that," says the professor. "It looks as -though your time were near. In Sophocles' time there was a man -who----" - -"Oh, bother Sophocles, you know I never let you talk anything but -wholesome nonsense when I drop in for a smoke with you," says the -younger man. "You began very well, with that superstition of yours, -but I won't have it spoiled by erudition. Tell me about your ward." - -"Would that be nonsense?" says the professor, with a faint smile. - -They are sitting in the professor's room with the windows thrown -wide open to let in any chance gust of air that Heaven in its mercy -may send them. It is night, and very late at night too--the clock -indeed is on the stroke of twelve. It seems a long, long time to the -professor since the afternoon--the afternoon of this very day--when -he had seen Perpetua sitting in that open carriage. He had only been -half glad when Harold Hardinge--a young man, and yet, strange to -say, his most intimate friend--had dropped in to smoke a pipe with -him. Hardinge was fonder of the professor than he knew, and was -drawn to him by curious intricate webs. The professor suited him, -and he suited the professor, though in truth Hardinge was nothing -more than a gay young society man, with just the average amount of -brains, but not an ounce beyond that. - -A tall, handsome young man, with fair brown hair and hazel eyes, a -dark moustache and a happy manner, Mr. Hardinge laughs his way -through life, without money, or love, or any other troubles. - -"Can you ask?" says he. "Go on, Curzon. What is she like?" - -"It wouldn't interest you," says the professor. - -"I beg your pardon, it is profoundly interesting; I've got to keep -an eye on you, or else in a weak moment you will let her marry you." - -The professor moves uneasily. - -"May I ask how you knew I _had_ a ward?" - -"That should go without telling. I arrived here to-night, to find -you absent and Mrs. Mulcahy in possession, pretending to dust the -furniture. She asked me to sit down--I obeyed her." - -"'How's the professor?'" said I. - -"'Me dear!' said she, 'that's a bad story. He's that distracted -over a young lady that his own mother wouldn't know him!' - -"I acknowledge I blushed. I went even so far as to make a few -pantomimic gestures suggestive of the horror I was experiencing, and -finally I covered my face with my handkerchief. I regret to say that -Mrs. Mulcahy took my modesty in bad part. - -"'Arrah! git out wid ye!' says she, 'ye scamp o' the world. 'Tis a -_ward _the masther has taken an' nothin' more.' - -"I said I thought it was quite enough, and asked if you had taken it -badly, and what the doctor thought of you. But she wouldn't listen -to me. - -"'Look here, Misther Hardinge,' said she. 'I've come to the -conclusion that wards is bad for the professor. I haven't seen the -young lady, I confess, but I'm cock-sure that she's got the divil's -own temper!'" Hardinge pauses, and turns to the professor--"Has -she?" says he. - -"N--o," says the professor--a little frowning lovely crimson face -rises before him--and then a laughing one. "No," says he more -boldly, "she is a little impulsive, perhaps, but----" - -"Just so. Just so," says Mr. Hardinge pleasantly, and then, after a -kindly survey of his companion's features, "She is rather a trouble -to you, old man, isn't she?" - -"She? No," says the professor again, more quickly this time. "It is -only this--she doesn't seem to get on with the aunt to whom her poor -father sent her--he is dead--and I have to look out for some one -else to take care of her, until she comes of age." - -"I see. I should think you would have to hurry up a bit," says Mr. -Hardinge, taking his cigar from his lips, and letting the smoke curl -upwards slowly, thoughtfully. "Impulsive people have a trick of -being impatient--of acting for themselves----" - -_"She_ cannot," says the professor, with anxious haste. "She knows -nobody in town." - -"Nobody?" - -"Except me, and a woman who is a friend of her aunt's. If she were -to go to her, she would be taken back again. Perpetua knows that." - -"Perpetua! Is that her name? What a peculiar one? Perpetua----" - -"Miss Wynter," sharply. - -"Perpetua--Miss Wynter! Exactly so! It sounds like--Dorothea--Lady -Highflown! Well, _your_ Lady Highflown doesn't seem to have many -friends here. What a pity you can't send her back to Australia!" - -The professor is silent. - -"It would suit all sides. I daresay the poor girl is pining for the -freedom of her old home. And, I must say, it is hard lines for you. -A girl with a temper, to be----" - -"I did not say she had a temper." - -Hardinge has risen to get himself some whisky and soda, but pauses -to pat the professor affectionately on the back. - -"Of _course_ not! Don't I know you? You would die first! She might -worry your life out, and still you would rise up to defend her at -every corner. You should get her a satisfactory home as son as you -can--it would ease your mind; and, after all, as she knows no one -here, she is bound to behave herself until you can come to her -help." - -"She would behave herself, as you call it," says the professor -angrily, "any and every where. She is a lady. She has been well -brought up. I am her guardian, she will do nothing without _my_ -permission!" - -_Won't she!_ - -A sound, outside the door, strikes on the ears of both men at this -moment. It is a most peculiar sound, as it were the rattle of beads -against wood. - -"What's that?" says Hardinge. "Everett" (the man in the rooms below) -"is out, I know." - -"It's coming here," says the professor. - -It is, indeed! The door is opened in a tumultuous fashion, there is -a rustle of silken skirts, and there--there, where the gas-light -falls full on her from both room and landing--stands Perpetua! - -The professor has risen to his feet. His face is deadly white. Mr. -Hardinge has risen too. - -"Perpetua!" says the professor; it would be impossible to describe -his tone. - -"I've come!" says Perpetua, advancing into the room. "I have done -with Aunt Jane _for ever,"_ casting wide her pretty naked arms, "and -I have come to you!" - -As if in confirmation of this decision, she flings from her on to a -distant chair the white opera cloak around her, and stands revealed -as charming a thing as ever eye fell upon. She is all in black, but -black that sparkles and trembles and shines with every movement. She -seems, indeed, to be hung in jet, and out of all this sombre -gleaming her white neck rises, pure and fresh and sweet as a little -child's. Her long slight arms are devoid of gloves--she had -forgotten them, no doubt, but her slender fingers are covered with -rings, and round her neck a diamond necklace clings as if in love -with its resting place. - -Diamonds indeed are everywhere. In her hair, in her breast, on her -neck, her fingers. Her father, when luck came to him, had found his -greatest joy in decking with these gems the delight of his heart. - -The professor turns to Hardinge. That young man, who had risen with -the intention of leaving the room on Perpetua's entrance, is now -staring at her as if bewitched. His expression is half puzzled, half -amused. Is _this_ the professor's troublesome ward? This lovely, -graceful---- - -"Leave us!" says the professor sharply. Hardinge, with a profound -bow, quits the room, but not the house. It would be impossible to go -without hearing the termination of this exciting episode. Everett's -rooms being providentially empty, he steps into them, and, having -turned up the gas, drops into a chair and gives way to mirth. - -Meantime the professor is staring at Perpetua. - -"What has happened?" says he. - - - -CHAPTER VII. - - - - "Take it to thy breast; - Though thorns its stem invest, - Gather them, with the rest!" - - - -"She is unbearable. _Unbearable!"_ returns Perpetua vehemently. -"When I came back from the concert to-night, she---- But I won't -speak of her. I _won't._ And, at all events, I have done with her; I -have left her. I have come"--with decision--"to stay with you!" - -"Eh?" says the professor. It is a mere sound, but it expresses a -great deal. - -"To stay with you. Yes," nodding her head, "it has come to that at -last. I warned you it _would._ I couldn't stay with her any longer. -I hate her! So I have come to stay with you--_for ever!"_ - -She has cuddled herself into an armchair, and, indeed, looks as if a -life-long residence in this room is the plan she has laid out for -herself. - -"Good heavens! What can you mean?" asks the poor professor, who -should have sworn by the heathen gods, but in a weak moment falls -back upon the good old formula. He sinks upon the table next him, -and makes ruin of the notes he had been scribbling--the ink is still -wet--even whilst Hardinge was with him. Could he only have known it, -there are first proofs of them now upon his trousers. - -"I have told you," says she. "Good gracious, what a funny room this -is! I told you she was abominable to me when I came home to-night. -She said dreadful things to me, and I don't care whether she is my -aunt or not, I shan't let her scold me for nothing; and--I'm afraid -I wasn't nice to her. I'm sorry for that, but--one isn't a bit of -stone, you know, and she said something--about my mother," her eyes -grow very brilliant here, "and when I walked up to her she -apologized for that, but afterwards she said something about poor, -_poor_ papa--and--well, that was the end. I told her--amongst _other -_things--that I thought she was 'too old to be alive,' and she -didn't seem to mind the 'other things' half as much as that, though -they were awful. At all events," with a little wave of her hands, -"she's lectured me now for good; I shall never see _her_ again! I've -run away to you! See?" - -It must be acknowledged that the professor _doesn't_ see. He is -sitting on the edge of the table--dumb. - -"Oh! I'm so _glad_ I've left her," says Perpetua, with indeed -heartfelt delight in look and tone. "But--do you know--I'm hungry. -You--you couldn't let me make you a cup of tea, could you? I'm -dreadfully thirsty! What's that in your glass?" - -"Nothing," says the professor hastily. He removes the half-finished -tumbler of whisky and soda, and places it in the open cupboard. - -"It looked like _something,"_ says she. "But what about tea?" - -"I'll see what I can do," says he, beginning to busy himself amongst -many small contrivances in the same cupboard. It has gone to his -heart to hear that she is hungry and thirsty, but even in the midst -of his preparations for her comfort, a feeling of rage takes -possession of him. - -He pulls his head out of the cupboard and turns to her. - -"You must be _mad!"_ says he. - -"Mad? Why?" asks she. - -"To come here. Here! And at this hour!" - -"There was no other place: and I wasn't going to live under _her_ -roof another second. I said to myself that she was my aunt, but you -were my guardian. Both of you have been told to look after me, and I -prefer to be looked after by you. It is so simple," says she, with a -suspicion of contempt in her tone, "that I wonder why you wonder at -it. As I preferred _you_--of course I have come to live with you." - -"You _can't!"_ gasps the professor, "you must go back to Miss -Majendie at once!" - -"To _her!_ I'm not going back," steadily. "And even if I would," -triumphantly, "I couldn't. As she sleeps at the top of the house (to -get _air,_ she says), and so does her maid, you might ring until you -were black in the face, and she wouldn't hear you." - -"Well! you can't stay here!" says the professor, getting off the -table and addressing her with a truly noble attempt at sternness. - -"Why can't I?" There is some indignation in her tone. "There's lots -of room here, isn't there?" - -"There is _no_ room!" says the professor. This is the literal truth. -"The house is full. And--and there are only men here." - -"So much the better!" says Perpetua, with a little frown and a great -deal of meaning. "I'm tired of women--they're horrid. You're always -kind to me--at least," with a glance, "you always used to be, and -_you're _a man! Tell one of your servants to make me up a room -somewhere." - -"There isn't one," says the professor. - -"Oh! nonsense," says she, leaning back in her chair and yawning -softly. "I'm not so big that you can't put me away somewhere. _That -woman_ says I'm so small that I'll never be a grown-up girl, because -I can't grow up any more. Who'd live with a woman like that? And I -shall grow more, isn't it?" - -"I daresay," says the professor vaguely. "But that is not the -question to be considered now. I must beg you to understand, -Perpetua, that your staying here is out of the question!" - -"Out of the---- Oh! I _see,"_ cries she, springing to her feet and -turning a passionately reproachful face on his. "You mean that I -shall be in your way here!" - -"No, _no_, NO!" cries he, just as impulsively, and decidedly very -foolishly; but the sight of her small mortified face has proved too -much for him, "Only----" - -"Only?" echoes the spoiled child, with a loving smile--the child who -has been accustomed to have all things and all people give way to -her during her short life. "Only you are afraid _I_ shall not be -comfortable. But I shall. And I shall be a great comfort to you -too--a great _help._ I shall keep everything in order for you. Do -you remember the talk we had that last day you came to Aunt Jane's? -How I told you of the happy days we should have together, if we -_were_ together. Well, we are together now, aren't we? And when I'm -twenty-one, we'll move into a big, big house, and ask people to -dances and dinners and things. In the meantime----" she pauses and -glances leisurely around her. The glance is very comprehensive. -"To-morrow," says she with decision, "I shall settle this room!" - -The professor's breath fails him. He grows pale. To "settle" his -room! - -"Perpetua!" exclaims he, almost inarticulately, "you don't -understand." - -"I do indeed," returns she brightly. "I've often settled papa's den. -What! do you think me only a silly useless creature? You shall see! -I'll settle _you_ too, by and by." She smiles at him gaily, with the -most charming innocence, but oh! what awful probabilities lie within -her words. _Settle him!_ - -"Do you know I've heard people talking about you at Mrs. Constans'," -says she. She smiles and nods at him. The professor groans. To be -talked about! To be discussed! To be held up to vulgar comment! He -writhes inwardly. The thought is actual torture to him. - -"They said----" - -_"What?"_ demands the professor, almost fiercely. How dare a feeble -feminine audience appreciate or condemn his honest efforts to -enlighten his small section of mankind! - -"That you ought to be married," says Perpetua, sympathetically. "And -they said, too, that they supposed you wouldn't ever be now; but -that it was a great pity you hadn't a daughter. _I_ think that too. -Not about your having a wife. That doesn't matter, but I really -think you ought to have a daughter to look after you." - -This extremely immoral advice she delivers with a beaming smile. - -_"I'll_ be your daughter," says she. - -The professor goes rigid with horror. What has he _done_ that the -Fates should so visit him? - -"They said something else too," goes on Perpetua, this time rather -angrily. "They said you were so clever that you always looked -unkempt. That?" thoughtfully, "means that you didn't brush your hair -enough. Never mind, _I'll_ brush it for you." - -"Look here!" says the professor furiously, subdued fury no doubt, -but very genuine. "You must go, you know. Go, _at once!_ D'ye see? -You can't stay in this house, d'ye _hear?_ I can't permit it. What -did your father mean by bringing you up like this!" - -"Like what?" She is staring at him. She has leant forward as if -surprised--and with a sigh the professor acknowledges the -uselessness of a fight between them; right or wrong she is sure to -win. He is bound to go to the wall. She is looking not only -surprised, but unnerved. The ebullition of wrath on the part of her -mild guardian has been a slight shock to her. - -"Tell me?" persists she. - -"Tell you! what is there to tell you? I should think the veriest -infant would have known she oughtn't to come here." - -"I should think an infant would know nothing," with dignity. "All -your scientific researches have left you, I'm afraid, very ignorant. -And I should think that the very first thing even an infant would -do, if she could walk, would be to go straight to her guardian when -in trouble." - -"At this hour?" - -"At any hour. What," throwing out her hands expressively, "is a -guardian _for,_ if it isn't to take care of people?" - -The professor gives it up. The heat of battle has overcome him. With -a deep breath he drops into a chair, and begins to wonder how long -it will be before happy death will overtake him. - -But in the meantime, whilst sitting on a milestone of life waiting -for that grim friend, what is to be done with her? If--Good heavens! -if anyone had seen her come in! - -"Who opened the door for you?" demands he abruptly. - -"A great big fat woman with a queer voice! Your Mrs. Mulcahy of -course. I remember your telling me about her." - -Mrs. Mulcahy undoubtedly. Well, the professor wishes now he had told -his ward _more_ about her. Mrs. Mulcahy he can trust, but she--awful -thought-- will she trust him? What is she thinking now? - -"I said, 'Is Mr. Curzon at home?' and she said, 'Well I niver!' So I -saw she was a kindly, foolish, poor creature with no sense, and I -ran past her, and up the stairs, and I looked into one room where -there were lights but you weren't there, and then I ran on again -until I saw the light under _your_ door, and, "brightening, "there -you were!" - -Here _she_ is now, at all events, at half-past twelve at night! - -"Wasn't it fortunate I found you?" says she. She is laughing a -little, and looking so content that the professor hasn't the heart -to contradict her--though where the fortune comes in---- - -"I'm starving," says she, gaily, "will that funny little kettle soon -boil?" The professor has lit a spirit-lamp with a view to giving her -some tea. "I haven't had anything to eat since dinner, and you know -she dines at an ungodly hour. Two o'clock! I didn't know I wanted -anything to eat until I escaped from her, but now that I have got -_you,"_ triumphantly, "I feel as hungry as ever I can be." - -"There is nothing," says the professor, blankly. His heart seems to -stop beating. The most hospitable and kindly of men, it is terrible -to him to have to say this. Of course Mrs. Mulcahy--who, no doubt, -is still in the hall waiting for an explanation, could give him -something. But Mrs. Mulcahy can be unpleasant at times, and this is -safe to be a "time." Yet without her assistance he can think of no -means by which this pretty, slender, troublesome little ward of his -can be fed. - -"Nothing!" repeats she faintly. "Oh, but surely in that cupboard -over there, where you put the glass, there is something; even bread -and butter I should like." - -She gets up, and makes an impulsive step forward, and in doing so -brushes against a small ricketty table, that totters feebly for an -instant and then comes with a crash to the ground, flinging a whole -heap of gruesome dry bones at her very feet. - -With a little cry of horror she recoils from them. Perhaps her -nerves are more out of order than she knows, perhaps the long fast -and long drive here, and her reception from her guardian at the end -of it--so different from what she had imagined--have all helped to -undo her. Whatever be the cause, she suddenly covers her face with -her hands and burst into tears. - -"Take them away!" cries she frantically, and then--sobbing heavily -between her broken words--"Oh, I see how it is. You don't want me -here at all. You wish I hadn't come. And I have no one but you--and -poor papa said you would be good to me. But you are _sorry_ he made -you my guardian. You would be glad if I were _dead!_ When I come to -you in my trouble you tell me to go away again, and though I tell -you I am hungry, you won't give me even some bread and butter! Oh!" -passionately, "if _you_ came to _me_ starving, I'd give _you_ -things, but--you----" - -_"Stop!"_ cries the professor. He uplifts his hands, and, as though -in the act of tearing his hair, rushes from the room, and staggers -downstairs to those other apartments where Hardinge had elected to -sit, and see out the farce, comedy, or tragedy, whichever it may -prove, to its bitter end. - -The professor bursts in like a maniac! - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - - - -"The house of everyone is to him as his castle and fortress, as well -for his defence against injury and violence as for his repose." - - - -"She's upstairs still," cries he in a frenzied tone. "She says she -has come _for ever._ That she will not go away. She doesn't -understand. Great Heaven! what am I to do?" - -"She?" says Hardinge, who really in turn grows petrified for the -moment--_only _for the moment. - -"That girl! My ward! All women are _demons!"_ says the professor -bitterly, with tragic force. He pauses as if exhausted. - -_"Your_ demon is a pretty specimen of her kind," says Hardinge, a -little frivolously under the circumstances it must be confessed. -"Where is she now?" - -"Upstairs!" with a groan. "She says she's _hungry,_ and I haven't a -thing in the house! For goodness sake think of something, Hardinge." - -"Mrs. Mulcahy!" suggests Hardinge, in anything but a hopeful tone. - -"Yes--ye-es," says the professor. "You--_you _wouldn't ask her -something, would you, Hardinge?" - -"Not for a good deal," says Hardinge, promptly. "I say," rising, and -going towards Everett's cupboard, "Everett's a Sybarite, you know, -of the worst kind--sure to find something here, and we can square it -with him afterwards. Beauty in distress, you know, appeals to all -hearts. _Here we are!"_ holding out at arm's length a pasty. "A -'weal and ammer!' Take it! The guilt be on my head! -Bread--butter--pickled onions! Oh, _not_ pickled onions, I think. -Really, I had no idea even Everett had fallen so low. Cheese!--about -to proceed on a walking tour! The young lady wouldn't care for that, -thanks. Beer! No. _No_. Sherry-Woine!" - -"Give me that pie, and the bread and butter," says the professor, in -great wrath. "And let me tell you, Hardinge, that there are -occasions when one's high spirits can degenerate into offensiveness -and vulgarity!" - -He marches out of the room and upstairs, leaving Hardinge, let us -hope, a prey to remorse. It is true, at least of that young man, -that he covers his face with his hands and sways from side to side, -as if overcome by some secret emotion. Grief--no doubt. - -Perpetua is graciously pleased to accept the frugal meal the -professor brings her. She even goes so far as to ask him to share it -with her--which invitation he declines. He is indeed sick at -heart--not for himself--(the professor doesn't often think of -himself)--but for her. And where is she to sleep? To turn her out -now would be impossible! After all, it was a puerile trifling with -the Inevitable, to shirk asking Mrs. Mulcahy for something to eat -for his self-imposed guest--because the question of _Bed_ is still -to come! Mrs. Mulcahy, terrible, as she undoubtedly can be, is yet -the only woman in the house, and it is imperative that Perpetua -should be given up to her protection. - -Whilst the professor is writhing in spirit over this ungetoutable -fact, he becomes aware of a resounding knock at the door. Paralyzed, -he gazes in the direction of the sound. It _can't_ be Hardinge, he -would never knock like that! The knock in itself, indeed, is of such -force and volume as to strike terror into the bravest heart. It -is--it _must_ be--the Mulcahy! - -And Mrs. Mulcahy it is! Without waiting for an answer, that virtuous -Irishwoman, clad in righteous indignation and a snuff-colored gown, -marches into the room. - -"May I ask, Mr. Curzon," says she, with great dignity and more -temper, "what may be the meanin' of all this?" - -The professor's tongue cleaves to the roof of his mouth, but -Perpetua's tongue remains normal. She jumps up, and runs to Mrs. -Mulcahy with a beaming face. She has had something to eat, and is -once again her own buoyant, wayward, light-hearted little self. - -"Oh! it is all right _now,_ Mrs. Mulcahy," cries she, whilst the -professor grows cold with horror at this audacious advance upon the -militant Mulcahy. "But do you know, he said first he hadn't anything -to give me, and I was starving. No, you mustn't scold him--he didn't -mean anything. I suppose you have heard how unhappy I was with Aunt -Jane?--he's told you, I daresay,"--with a little flinging of her -hand towards the trembling professor--"because I -know"--prettily--"he is very fond of you--he often speaks to me -about you. Oh! Aunt Jane is _horrid!_ I _should_ have told you about -how it was when I came, but I wanted so much to see my guardian, and -tell _him_ all about it, that I forgot to be nice to anybody. See?" - -There is a little silence. The professor, who is looking as guilty -as if the whole ten commandments have been broken by him at once, -waits, shivering, for the outburst that is so sure to come. - -It doesn't come, however! When the mists clear away a little, he -finds that Perpetua has gone over to where Mrs. Mulcahy is standing, -and is talking still to that good Irishwoman. It is a whispered talk -this time, and the few words of it that he catches go to his very -heart. - -"I'm afraid he didn't _want_ me here," Perpetua is saying, in a low -distressed little voice--"I'm sorry I came now--but, you don't -_know_ how cruel Aunt Jane was to me, Mrs. Mulcahy, you don't -indeed! She--she said such unkind things about--about----" Perpetua -breaks down again--struggles with herself valiantly, and finally -bursts out crying. "I'm tired, I'm sleepy," sobs she miserably. - -Need I say what follows? The professor, stung to the quick by those -forlorn sobs, lifts his eyes, and--behold! he sees Perpetua gathered -to the ample bosom of the formidable, kindly Mulcahy. - -"Come wid me, me lamb," says that excellent woman. "Bad scran to the -one that made yer purty heart sore. Lave her to me now, Misther -Curzon, dear, an' I'll take a mother's care of her." (This in an -aside to the astounded professor.) "There now, alanna! Take courage -now! Sure 'tis to the right shop ye've come, anyway, for 'tis -daughthers I have meself, me dear--fine, sthrappin' girls as could -put you in their pockits. Ye poor little crather! Oh! Murther! Who -could harm the like of ye? Faix, I hope that ould divil of an aunt -o' yours won't darken these doors, or she'll git what she won't like -from Biddy Mulcahy. There now! There now! 'Tis into yer bed I'll -tuck ye meself, for 'tis worn-out ye are--God help ye!" - -She is gone, taking Perpetua with her. The professor rubs his eyes, -and then suddenly an overwhelming sense of gratitude towards Mrs. -Mulcahy takes possession of him. _What_ a woman! He had never -thought so much moral support could be got out of a landlady--but -Mrs. Mulcahy has certainly tided him safely over _one_ of his -difficulties. Still, those that remain are formidable enough to -quell any foolish present attempts at relief of mind. "To-morrow, -and to-morrow, and to-morrow!" - -How many to-morrows is she going to remain here? Oh! Impossible! Not -an _hour_ must be wasted. By the morning light something must be put -on foot to save the girl from her own foolhardiness, nay ignorance! - -Once again, sunk in the meshes of depression, the persecuted -professor descends to the room where Hardinge awaits him. - -"Anything new?" demands the latter, springing to his feet. - -"Yes! Mrs. Mulcahy came up." The professor's face is so gloomy, that -Hardinge may be forgiven for saying to himself, "She has assaulted -him!" - -"I'm glad it isn't visible," says he, staring at the professor's -nose, and then at his eye. Both are the usual size. - -"Eh?" says the professor. "She was visible of course. She was kinder -than I expected." - -"So, I see. She might so easily have made it your lip--or your -nose--or----" - -_"What_ is there in Everett's cupboard besides the beer?" demands -the professor angrily. "For Heaven's sake! attend to me, and don't -sit there grinning like a first-class chimpanzee!" - -This is extremely rude, but Hardinge takes no notice of it. - -"I tell you she was kind--kinder than one would expect," says the -professor, rapping his knuckles on the table. - -"Oh! I see. She? Miss Wynter?" - -"No--Mrs. Mulcahy!" roars the professor frantically. "Where's your -head, man? Mrs. Mulcahy came into the room, and took Miss Wynter -into her charge in the--er--the most wonderful way, and carried her -off to bed." The professor mops his brow. - -"Oh, well, _that's_ all right," says Hardinge. "Sit down, old chap, -and let's talk it over." - -"It is _not_ all right," says the professor. "It is all wrong. Here -she is, and here she apparently means to stay. The poor child -doesn't understand. She thinks I'm older than Methusaleh, and that -she can live here with me. I can't explain it to her--you--don't -think _you_ could, do you, Hardinge?" - -"No, I don't, indeed," says Hardinge, in a hurry. "What on earth has -brought her here at all?" - -"To _stay._ Haven't I told you? To stay for ever. She says"--with a -groan--"she is going to settle me! To--to _brush my hair!_ To--make -my tea. She says I'm her guardian, and insists on living with me. -She doesn't understand! Hardinge," desperately, "what _am_ I to do?" - -"Marry her!" suggests Hardinge, who, I regret to say is choking with -laughter. - -"That is a _jest!"_ says the professor haughtily. This unusual tone -from the professor strikes surprise to the soul of Hardinge. He -looks at him. But the professor's new humor is short-lived. He sinks -upon a chair in a tired sort of way, letting his arms fall over the -sides of it. As a type of utter despair he is a distinguished -specimen. - -"Why don't you take her home again, back to the old aunt?" says -Hardinge, moved by his misery. - -"I can't. She tells me it would be useless, that the house is locked -up, and--and besides, Hardinge, her aunt--after _this,_ you know-- -would be----" - -"Naturally," says Hardinge, after which he falls back upon his -cigar. "Light your pipe," says he, "and we'll think it over." The -professor lights it, and both men draw nearer to each other. - -"I'm afraid she won't go back to her aunt any way," says the -professor, as a beginning to the "thinking it over." He pushes his -glasses up to his forehead, and finally discards them altogether, -flinging them on the table near. - -"If she saw you now she might understand," says Hardinge--for, -indeed, the professor without his glasses loses thirty per cent. -of old Time. - -"She wouldn't," says the professor. "And never mind that. Come back -to the question. I say she will never go back to her aunt." - -He looks anxiously at Hardinge. One can see that he would part with -a good deal of honest coin of the realm, if his companion would only -_not_ agree with him. - -"It looks like it," said Hardinge, who is rather enjoying himself. -"By Jove! what a thing to happen to _you,_ Curzon, of all men in the -world. What are you going to do, eh?" - -"It isn't so much that," says the professor faintly. "It is what is -_she_ going to do?" - -_"Next!"_ supplements Hardinge. "Quite so! It would be a clever -fellow who would answer that, straight off. I say, Curzon, what a -pretty girl she is, though. Pretty isn't the word. Lovely, I----" - -The professor gets up suddenly. - -"Not that," says he, raising his hand in his gentle fashion--that -has now something of haste in it. "It--I--you know what I mean, -Hardinge. To discuss her--herself, I mean--and here----" - -"Yes. You are right," says Hardinge slowly, with, however, an -irrepressible stare at the professor. It is a prolonged stare. He is -very fond of Curzon, though knowing absolutely nothing about him -beyond the fact that he is eminently likeable; and it now strikes -him as strange that this silent, awkward, ill-dressed, clever man -should be the one to teach him how to behave himself. Who _is_ -Curzon? Given a better tailor, and a worse brain, he might be a -reasonable-looking fellow enough, and not so old either--forty, -perhaps--perhaps less. "Have you no relation to whom you could send -her?" he says at length, that sudden curiosity as to who Curzon may -be prompting the question. "Some old lady? An aunt, for example?" - -"She doesn't seem to like aunts," says the professor, with deep -dejection. - -"Small blame to her," says Hardinge, smoking vigorously. _"I've_ an -aunt--but 'that's another story!' Well--haven't you a cousin -then?--or something?" - -"I have a sister," says the professor slowly. - -"Married?" - -"A widow." - -("Fusty old person, out somewhere in the wilds of Finchley," says -Hardinge to himself. "Poor little girl--she won't fancy that -either!") - -"Why not send her to you sister then?" says he aloud. - -"I'm not sure that she would like to have her," says the professor, -with hesitation. "I confess I have been thinking it over for some -days, but----" - -"But perhaps the fact of your ward's being an heiress----" begins -Hardinge--throwing out a suggestion as it were--but is checked by -something in the professor's face. - -"My sister is the Countess of Baring," says he gently. - -Hardinge's first thought is that the professor has gone out of his -mind, and his second that he himself has accomplished that deed. He -leans across the table. Surprise has deprived him of his usual good -manners. - -"Lady Baring!--_your _sister!" says he. - - - -CHAPTER IX. - - - - "Your face, my Thane, is as a book, where men - May read strange matters." - - - -"I see no reason why she shouldn't be," says the professor -calmly--is there a faint suspicion of hauteur in his tone? "As we -are on the subject of myself, I may as well tell you that my brother -is Sir Hastings Curzon, of whom"--he turns back as if to take up -some imaginary article from the floor--"you may have heard." - -"Sir Hastings!" Mr. Hardinge leans back in his chair and gives way -to thought. This quiet, hard-working student--this man whom he had -counted as a nobody--the brother of that disreputable Hastings -Curzon! "As good as got the baronetcy," says he still thinking. "At -the rate Sir Hastings is going he can't possibly last for another -twelvemonth, and here is this fellow living in these dismal lodgings -with twenty thousand a year before his eyes. A lucky thing for him -that the estates are so strictly entailed. Good heavens! to think of -a man with all that almost in his grasp being _happy_ in a coat that -must have been built in the Ark, and caring for nothing on earth but -the intestines of frogs and such-like abominations." - -"You seem surprised again," says the professor, somewhat -satirically. - -"I confess it," says Hardinge. - -"I can't see why you should be." - -_"I_ do," says Hardinge drily. "That you," slowly, _"you_ should be -Sir Hastings' brother! Why----" - -"No more!" interrupts the professor sharply. He lifts his hand. "Not -another word. I know what you are going to say. It is one of my -great troubles, that I always know what people are going to say when -they mention him. Let him alone, Hardinge." - -"Oh! _I'll_ let him alone," says Hardinge, with a gesture of -disgust. There is a pause. - -"You know my sister, then?" says the professor presently. - -"Yes. She is very charming. How is it I have never seen you there?" - -"At her house?" - -"At her receptions?" - -"I have no taste for that sort of thing, and no time. Fashionable -society bores me. I go and see Gwen on off days and early hours, -when I am sure that I shall find her alone. We are friends, you will -understand, she and I; capital friends, though sometimes," with a -sigh, "she--she seems to disapprove of my mode of living. But we get -on very well on the whole. She is a very good girl," says the -professor kindly, who always thinks of Lady Baring as a little girl -in short frocks in her nursery--the nursery he had occupied with -her. - -To hear the beautiful, courted, haughty Lady Baring, who has the -best of London at her feet, called "a good girl," so tickles Mr. -Hardinge, that he leans back in his chair and bursts out laughing. - -"Yes?" says the professor, as if asking for an explanation of the -joke. - -"Oh! nothing--nothing. Only--you _are_ such a queer fellow!" says -Hardinge, sitting up again to look at him. "You are a _rara avis,_ -do you know? No, of course you don't! You are one of the few people -who don't know their own worth. I don't believe, Curzon, though I -should live to be a thousand, that I shall ever look upon your like -again." - -"And so you laugh. Well, no doubt it is a pleasant reflection," says -the professor dismally. "I begin to wish now I had never seen -myself." - -"Oh, come! cheer up," says Hardinge, "your pretty ward will be all -right. If Lady Baring takes her in hand, she----" - -"Ah! But will she?" says the professor. "Will she like Per---- Miss -Wynter?" - -"Sure to," said Hardinge, with quite a touch of enthusiasm. "'To -see her is to love her, and love but'----" - -"That is of no consequence where anyone is concerned except Lady -Baring," says the professor, with a little twist in his chair, "and -my sister has not seen her as yet. And besides, that is not the only -question--a greater one remains." - -"By Jove! you don't say so! What?" demands Mr. Hardinge, growing -earnest. - -"Will Miss Wynter like _her?"_ says the professor. "That is the real -point." - -"Oh! I see!" says Hardinge thoughtfully. - -The next day, however, proves the professor's fears vain in both -quarters. An early visit to Lady Baring, and an anxious appeal, -brings out all that delightful woman's best qualities. One -stipulation alone she makes, that she may see the young heiress -before finally committing herself to chaperone her safely through -the remainder of the season. - -The professor, filled with hope, hies back to his rooms, calls for -Mrs. Mulcahy, tells her he is going to take his ward out for a -drive, and gives that worthy and now intensely interested landlady -full directions to see that Miss Wynter looks--"er--nice! you know, -Mrs. Mulcahy, her _best_ suit, and----" - -Mrs. Mulcahy came generously to the rescue. - -"Her best frock, sir, I suppose, an' her Sunday bonnet. I've often -wished it before, Mr. Curzon, an' I'm thinkin' that 'twill be the -makin' of ye; an' a handsome, purty little crathur she is an' no -mistake. An' who is to give away the poor dear, sir, askin' yer -pardon?" - -"I am," says the professor. - -"Oh no, sir; the likes was never known. 'Tis the father or one of -his belongings as gives away the bride, _niver_ the husband to be, -an' if ye _have_ nobody, sir, you two, why I'm sure I'd be proud to -act for ye in this matther. Faix I don't disguise from ye, Misther -Curzon, dear, that I feels like a mother to that purty child this -moment, an' I tell ye _this,_ that if ye don't behave dacent to her, -ye'll have to answer to Mrs. Mulcahy for that same." - -"What d'ye mean, woman?" roars the professor, indignantly. "Do you -imagine that _--_--?" - -"No. I'd belave nothin' bad o' ye," says Mrs. Mulcahy solemnly. -"I've cared ye these six years, an' niver a fault to find. But that -child beyant, whin ye take her away to make her yer wife----" - -"You must be mad," says the professor, a strange, curious pang -contracting his heart. "I am not taking her away to---- I--I am -taking her to my sister, who will receive her as a guest." - -"Mad!" repeats Mrs. Mulcahy furiously. "Who's mad? Faix," preparing -to leave the room, "'tis yerself was born widout a grain o' sinse!" - -The meeting between Lady Baring and Perpetua is eminently -satisfactory. The latter, looking lovely, but a little frightened, -so takes Lady Baring's artistic soul by storm, that that great lady -then and there accepts the situation, and asks Perpetua if she will -come to her for a week or so. Perpetua, charmed in turn by Lady -Baring's grace and beauty and pretty ways, receives the invitation -with pleasure, little dreaming that she is there "on view," as it -were, and that the invitation is to be prolonged indefinitely--that -is, till either she or her hostess tire one of the other. - -The professor's heart sinks a little as he sees his sister rise and -loosen the laces round the girl's pretty, slender throat, begging -her to begin to feel at home at once. Alas! He has deliberately -given up his ward! _His_ ward! Is she any longer his? Has not the -great world claimed her now, and presently will she not belong to -it? So lovely, so sweet she is, will not all men run to snatch the -prize?--a prize, bejewelled too, not only by Nature, but by that -gross material charm that men call wealth. Well, well, he has done -his best for her. There was, indeed, nothing else left to do. - - - -CHAPTER X. - - - - "The sun is all about the world we see, - The breath and strength of very Spring; and we - Live, love, and feed on our own hearts." - - - -The lights are burning low in the conservatory, soft perfumes from -the many flowers fill the air. From beyond--somewhere--(there is a -delicious drowsy uncertainty about the where)--comes the sound of -music, soft, rhythmical, and sweet. Perhaps it is from one of the -rooms outside--dimly seen through the green foliage--where the -lights are more brilliant, and forms are moving. But just in here -there is no music save the tinkling drip, drip of the little -fountain that plays idly amongst the ferns. - -Lady Baring is at home to-night, and in the big, bare rooms outside -dancing is going on, and in the smaller rooms, tiny tragedies and -comedies are being enacted by amateurs, who, oh, wondrous tale! do -know their parts and speak them, albeit no stage "proper" has been -prepared for them. Perhaps that is why stage-fright is not for -them--a stage as big as "all the world" leaves actors very free. - -But in here--here, with the dainty flowers and dripping fountains, -there is surely no thought of comedy or tragedy. Only a little girl -gowned all in white, with snowy arms and neck, and diamonds -glittering in the soft masses of her waving hair. A happy little -girl, to judge by the soft smile upon her lovely lips, and the gleam -in her dark eyes. Leaning back in her seat in the dim, cool recesses -of the conservatory, amongst the flowers and the greeneries, she -looks like a little nymph in love with the silence and the sense of -rest that the hour holds. - -It is broken, however. - -"I am so sorry you are not dancing," says her companion, leaning -towards her. His regret is evidently genuine, indeed; to Hardinge -the evening is an ill-spent one that precludes his dancing with -Perpetua Wynter. - -"Yes?" she looks up at him from her low lounge amongst the palms. -"Well, so am I, do you know!" telling the truth openly, yet with an -evident sense of shame. "But I don't dance now, because--it is -selfish, isn't it?--because I should be so unhappy afterwards if I -_did!"_ - -"A perfect reason," says Hardinge very earnestly. He is still -leaning towards her, his elbows on his knees, his eyes on hers. It -is an intent gaze that seldom wanders, and in truth why should it? -Where is any other thing as good to look at as this small, fair -creature, with the eyes, and the hair, and the lips that belong to -her? - -He has taken possession of her fan, and gently, lovingly, as though -indeed it is part of her, is holding it, raising it sometimes to -sweep the feathers of it across his lips. - -"Do you think so?" says she, as if a little puzzled. "Well, I -confess I don't like the moments when I hate myself. We all hate -ourselves sometimes, don't we?" looking at him as if doubtfully, "or -is it only I myself, who----" - -"Oh, no!" says Hardinge. _"All!_ All of us detest ourselves now and -again, or at least we think we do. It comes to the same thing, but -you--you have no cause." - -"I should have if I danced," says she, "and I couldn't bear the -after reproach, so I don't do it." - -"And yet--yet you would _like_ to dance?" - -"I don't know----" She hesitates, and suddenly looks up at him with -eyes as full of sorrow as of mirth. "At all events I know _this,"_ -says she, "that I wish the band would not play such nice waltzes!" - -Hardinge gives way to laughter, and presently she laughs too, but -softly, and as if afraid of being heard, and as if too a little -ashamed of herself. Her color rises, a delicate warm color that -renders her absolutely adorable. - -"Shall I order them to stop?" asks Hardinge, laughing still, yet -with something in his gaze that tells her he _would_ forbid them to -play if he could, if only to humor her. - -"No!" says she, "and, after all,"--philosophically--"enjoyment is -only a name." - -"That's all!" says Hardinge, smiling. "But a very good one." - -"Let us forget it," with a little sigh, "and talk of something else, -something pleasanter." - -"Than enjoyment?" - -She gives way to his mood and laughs afresh. - -"Ah! you have me there!" says she. - -"I have not, indeed," he returns quietly, and with meaning. "Neither -there, nor anywhere." - -He gets up suddenly, and going to her, bends over the chair on which -she is sitting. - -"We were talking of what?" asks she, with admirable courage, "of -names, was it not? An endless subject. _My_ name now? An absurd one -surely. Perpetua! I don't like Perpetua, do you?" She is evidently -talking at random. - -"I do indeed!" says Hardinge, promptly and fervently. His tone -accentuates his meaning. - -"Oh, but so harsh, so unusual!" - -"Unusual! That in itself constitutes a charm." - -"I was going to add, however--disagreeable." - -"Not that--never that," says Hardinge. - -"You mean to say you really _like_ Perpetua?" her large soft eyes -opening with amazement. - -"It is a poor word," says he, his tone now very low. "If I dared say -that I _adored_ 'Perpetua,' I should be----" - -"Oh, you laugh at me," interrupts she with a little impatient -gesture, "you _know_ how crude, how strange, how----" - -"I don't, indeed. Why should you malign yourself like that? -You--_you--_who are----" - -He stops short, driven to silence by a look in the girl's eye. - -"What have _I_ to do with it? I did not christen myself," says she. -There is perhaps a suspicion of hauteur in her tone. "I am talking -to you about my _name._ You understand that, don't you?"--the -hauteur increasing. "Do you know, of late I have often wished I was -somebody else, because then I should have had a different one." - -Hardinge, at this point, valiantly refrains from a threadbare -quotation. Perhaps he is too far crushed to be able to remember it. - -"Still it is charming," says he, somewhat confusedly. - -"It is absurd," says Perpetua coldly. There is evidently no pity in -her. And alas! when we think what _that_ sweet feeling is akin to, -on the highest authority, one's hopes for Hardinge fall low. He -loses his head a little. - -"Not so absurd as your guardian's, however," says he, feeling the -necessity for saying something without the power to manufacture it. - -"Mr. Curzon's? What is his name?" asks she, rising out of her -lounging position and looking, for the first time, interested. - -"Thaddeus." - -Perpetua, after a prolonged stare, laughs a little. - -"What a name!" says she. "Worse than mine. And yet," still laughing, -"it suits him, I think." - -Hardinge laughs with her. Not _at_ his friend, but _with_ her. It -seems clear to him that Perpetua is making gentle fun of her -guardian, and though his conscience smites him for encouraging her -in her naughtiness, still he cannot refrain. - -"He is an awfully good old fellow," says he, throwing a sop to his -Cerberus. - -"Is he?" says Perpetua, as if even _more_ amused. She looks up at -him, and then down again, and trifles with the fan she has taken -back from him, and finally laughs again; something in her laugh this -time, however, puzzles him. - -"You don't like him?" hazards he. "After all, I suppose it is hardly -natural that a ward _should_ like her guardian." - -"Yes? And _why?"_ asks Perpetua, still smiling, still apparently -amused. - -"For one thing, the sense of restraint that belongs to the relations -between them. A guardian, you know, would be able to control one in -a measure." - -"Would he?" - -"Well, I imagine so. It is traditionary. And you?" - -"I don't know about _other_ people," says Miss Wynter, calmly, "I -know only this, that nobody ever yet controlled _me,_ and I don't -suppose now that anybody ever will." - -As she says this she looks at him with the prettiest smile; it is a -mixture of amusement and defiance. Hardinge, gazing at her, draws -conclusions. ("Perfectly _hates_ him," decides he.) - -It seems to him a shame, and a pity too, but after all, old Curzon -was hardly meant by Nature to do the paternal to a strange and -distinctly spoiled child, and a beauty into the bargain. - -"I don't think your guardian will have a good time," says he, -bending over her confidentially, on the strength of this decision of -his. - -"Don't you?" She draws back from him and looks up. "You think I -shall lead him a very bad life?" - -"Well, as _he_ would regard it. Not as I should," with a sudden, -impassioned glance. - -Miss Wynter puts that glance behind her, and perhaps there is -something--something a little dangerous in the soft, _soft_ look -she now turns upon him. - -"He thinks so, too, of course?" says she, ever so gently. Her tone -is half a question, half an assertion. It is manifestly unfair, the -whole thing. Hardinge, believing in her tone, her smile, falls into -the trap. Mindful of that night when the professor in despair at her -untimely descent upon him, had said many things unmeant, he answers -her. - -"Hardly that. But----" - -"Go on." - -"There was a little word or two, you know," laughing. - -"A hint?" laughing too, but how strangely! "Yes? And----?" - -"Oh! a _mere_ hint! The professor is too loyal to go beyond that. I -suppose you know you have the best man in all the world for your -guardian? But it was a little unkind of your people, was it not, to -give you into the keeping of a confirmed bookworm--a savant--with -scarcely a thought beyond his studies?" - -"He could study me!" says she. "I should be a fresh specimen." - -"A _rara avis_, indeed! but not such as the professor's soul covets. -No, believe me, you are as dust before the wind in his learned eye." - -"You think then--that I--am a trouble to him?" - -"It is inconceivable," says he, with a shrug of apology, "but he has -no room in his daily thoughts, I verily believe, for anything beyond -his beloved books, and notes, and discoveries." - -"Yet _I_ am a discovery," persists she, looking at him with anxious -eyes, and leaning forward, whilst her fan falls idly on her knees. - -"Ah! But so unpardonably _recent!"_ returns he with a smile. - -"True!" says she. She gives him one swift brilliant glance, and then -suddenly grows restless. "How _warm_ it is!" she says fretfully. "I -wish----" - -What she was going to say, will never now be known. The approach of -a tall, gaunt figure through the hanging oriental curtains at the -end of the conservatory checks her speech. Sir Hastings Curzon is -indeed taller than most men, and is, besides, a man hardly to be -mistaken again when once seen. Perpetua has seen him very frequently -of late. - - - -CHAPTER XI. - - - - "But all was false and hollow; though his tongue - Dropped manna, and could make the worse appear - The better reason, to perplex and dash - Maturest counsels." - - - -"Shall I take you to Lady Baring?" says Hardinge, quickly, rising -and bending as if to offer her his arm. - -"No, thank you," coldly. - -"I think," anxiously, "you once told me you did not care for -Sir----" - -"Did I? It seems quite terrible the amount of things I have told -everybody." There is a distinct flash in her lovely eyes now, and -her small hand has tightened round her fan. "Sometimes--I talk -folly! As a fact" (with a touch of defiance), "I like Sir Hastings, -although he _is_ my guardian's brother!--my guardian who would so -gladly get rid of me." There is bitterness on the young, red mouth. - -"You should not look at it in that light." - -"Should I not? You should be the last to say that, seeing that -you were the one to show me how to regard it. Besides, you forget -Sir Hastings is Lady Baring's brother too, and--you haven't anything -to say against _her,_ have you? Ah!" with a sudden lovely smile, -"you, Sir Hastings?" - -"You are not dancing," says the tall, gaunt man, who has now come up -to her. "So much I have seen. Too warm? Eh? You show reason, I -think. And yet, if I might dare to hope that you would give me this -waltz----" - -"No, no," says she, still with her most charming air. "I am not -dancing to-night. I shall not dance this year." - -"That is a Median law, no doubt," says he. "If you will not dance -with me, then may I hope that you will give me the few too short -moments that this waltz may contain?" - -Hardinge makes a vague movement but an impetuous one. If the girl -had realized the fact of his love for her, she might have been -touched and influenced by it, but as it is she feels only a sense of -anger towards him. Anger unplaced, undefined, yet nevertheless -intense. - -"With pleasure," says she to Sir Hastings, smiling at him almost -across Hardinge's outstretched hand. The latter draws back. - -"You dismiss me?" says he, with a careful smile. He bows to her--he -is gone. - -"A well-meaning young man," says Sir Hastings, following Hardinge's -retreating figure with a delightfully lenient smile. "Good-looking -too; but earnest. Have you noticed it? Entirely well-bred, but just -a little earnest! _Such_ a mistake!" - -"I don't think that," says Perpetua. "To be earnest! One _should_ -be earnest." - -"Should one?" Sir Hastings looks delighted expectation. "Tell me -about it," says he. - -"There is nothing to tell," says Perpetua, a little petulantly -perhaps. This tall, thin man! what a _bore_ he is! And yet, the -other--Mr. Hardinge--well _he_ was worse; he was a _fool,_ anyway; -he didn't understand the professor one bit! "I like Mr. Hardinge," -says she suddenly. - -"Happy Hardinge! But little girls like you are good to everyone, are -you not? That is what makes you so lovely. You could be good to even -a scapegrace, eh? A poor, sad outcast like me?" He laughs and leans -towards her, his handsome, dissipated, abominable face close to -hers. - -Involuntarily she recoils. - -"I hope everyone is good to you," says she. "Why should they not be? -And why do you call yourself an outcast? Only bad people are -outcasts. And bad people," slowly, "are not known, are they?" - -"Certainly not," says he, disconcerted. This little girl from a far -land is proving herself too much for him. And it is not her words -that disconcert him so much as the straight, clear, open glance from -the thoughtful eyes. - -To turn the conversation into another channel seems desirable to -him. - -"I hope you are happy here with my sister," says he, in his anything -but everyday tone. - -"Quite happy, thank you. But I should have been happier still, I -think, if I had been allowed to stay with your brother." - -Sir Hastings drops his glasses. Good heavens! what kind of a girl is -this! - -"To stay with my brother! To _stay,"_ stammers he. - -"Yes. He _is_ your brother, isn't he? The professor, I mean. I -should quite have enjoyed living with him, but he wouldn't hear of -it. He--he doesn't like me, I'm afraid?" Perpetua looks at him -anxiously. A little hope that he will contradict Hardinge's -statement animates her mind. To feel herself a burden to her -guardian--to anyone--she, who in the old home had been nothing less -than an idol! Surely Sir Hastings, his own brother, will say -something, will say something, will tell her something to ease this -chagrin at her heart. - -"Who told you that?" asks Sir Hastings. "Did he himself? I shouldn't -put it beyond him. He is a misogynist; a mere bookworm! Of no -account. Do not waste a thought on him." - -"You mean----" - -"That he detests the best part of life--that he has deliberately -turned his back on all that makes our existence here worth having. I -should call him a fool, but that one so dislikes having an imbecile -in one's family." - -"The best part of life! You say he has turned his back on that." She -lets her hands fall upon her knees, and turns a frowning, perplexed, -but always lovely face to his. "What is it," asks she, "that best -part?" - -"Women!" returns he, slowly, undauntedly, in spite of the innocence, -the serenity, that shines in the young and exquisite face before -him. - -Her eyes do not fall before his. She is plainly thinking. Yes; Mr. -Hardinge was right, he will never like her. She is only a stay, a -hindrance to him! - -"I understand," says she sorrowfully. "He will not care--_ever._ I -shall be always a trouble to him. He----" - -"Why think of him?" says Sir Hastings contemptuously. He leans -towards her; fired by her beauty, that is now enhanced by the regret -that lies upon her pretty lips, he determines on pushing his cause -at once. "If _he_ cannot appreciate you, others can--_I_ can. I----" -He pauses; for the first time in his life, on such an occasion as -this, he is conscious of a feeling of awkwardness. To tell a woman -he loves her has been the simplest thing in the world hitherto, but -now, when at last he is in earnest--when poverty has driven him to -seek marriage with an heiress as a cure for all his ills--he finds -himself tongue-tied; and not only by the importance of the -situation, so far as money goes, but by the clear, calm, waiting -eyes of Perpetua. - -"Yes?" says she; and then suddenly, as if not caring for the answer -she has demanded, "You mean that he---- You _too_ think that he -dislikes me?" There is woe in the pale, small, lovely face. - -"Very probably. He was always eccentric. Perfect nuisance at home. -None of us could understand him. I shouldn't in the least wonder if -he had taken a rooted aversion to you, and taken it badly too! Miss -Wynter! it quite distresses me to think that it should be _my -_brother, of all men, who has failed to see your charm. A charm -that----" He pauses effectively, to let his really fine eyes have -some play. The conservatory is sufficiently dark to disguise the -ravages that dissipation has made upon his handsome features. He can -see that Perpetua is regarding him earnestly, and with evident -interest. Already he regards his cause as won. It is plain that the -girl is attracted by his face, as indeed she is! She is at this -moment asking herself, who is it he is like? - -"You were saying?" says she dreamily. - -"That the charm you possess, though of no value in the eyes of your -guardian, is, to _me,_ indescribably attractive. In fact--I----" - -A second pause, meant to be even more effective. - -Perpetua turns her gaze more directly upon him. It occurs to her -that he is singularly dull, poor man. - -"Go on," says she. She nods her head at him with much encouragement. - -Her encouragement falls short. Sir Hastings, who had looked for -girlish confusion, is somewhat disconcerted by this open patronage. - -"May I" says he--"You _permit_ me then to tell you what I have so -long feared to disclose. I"--dramatically--_"love you!"_ - -He is standing over her, his hand on the back of her chair, waiting -for the swift blush, the tremor, the usual signs that follow on one -of his declarations. Alas! there is no blush now, no tremor, no sign -at all. - -"That is very good of you," says Perpetua, in an even tone. She -moves a little away from him, but otherwise shows no emotion -whatever. "The more so, in that it must be so difficult for you to -love a person in fourteen days! Ah! that is kind, indeed." - -A curious light comes into Sir Hastings' eyes. This little -Australian girl, is she _laughing_ at him? But the fact is that -Perpetua is hardly thinking of him at all, or merely as a shadow to -her thoughts. Who _is_ he like? that is the burden of her inward -song. At this moment she knows. She lifts her head to see the -professor standing in the curtained doorway down below. Ah! yes, -that is it! And, indeed, the resemblance between the two brothers is -wonderfully strong at this instant! In the eyes of both a quick fire -is kindled. - - - -CHAPTER XII. - - - - "Love, like a June rose, - Buds and sweetly blows-- - But tears its leaves disclose, - And among thorns it grows." - - - -The professor had been standing inside the curtain for a full minute -before Perpetua had seen him. Spell-bound he had stood there, gazing -at the girl as if bewitched. Up to this he had seen her only in -black--black always--severe, cold--but _now!_ - -It is to him as though he had seen her for the first time. The -graceful curves of her neck, her snowy arms, the dead white of the -gown against the whiter glory of the soft bosom, the large, dark -eyes so full of feeling, the little dainty head! Are they _all_ -new--or some sweet, fresher memory of a picture well beloved? - -Then he had seen his brother!--Hastings--the disgrace, the _roué_-- -and bending over _her!..._ There had been that little movement, and -the girl's calm drawing back, and---- - -The professor's step forward at that moment had betrayed him to -Perpetua. - -She rises now, letting her fan fall without thought to the ground. - -"You!" cries she, in a little, soft, quick way. _"You!"_ Indeed it -seems to her impossible that it can be he. - -She almost runs to him. If she had quite understood Sir Hastings is -impossible to know, for no one has ever asked her since, but -certainly the advent of her guardian is a relief to her. - -"You!" she says again, as if only half believing. Her gaze grows -bewildered. If he had never seen her in anything but black before, -she had never seen him in aught but rather antiquated morning -clothes. Is this really the professor? Her eyes ask the question -anxiously. This tall, aristocratic, perfectly appointed man; this -man who looks positively _young_. Where are the glasses that until -now hid his eyes? Where is that old, old coat? - -"Yes." Yes, the professor certainly and as disagreeable as possible. -His eyes are still aflame; but Perpetua is not afraid of him. She is -angry with him, in a measure, but not afraid. One _might_ be afraid -of Sir Hastings, but of Mr. Curzon, no! - -The professor had seen the glad rush of the girl towards him, and a -terrible pang of delight had run through all his veins--to be -followed by a reaction. She had come to him because she _wanted_ -him, because he might be of use to her, not because-- What had -Hastings been saying to her? His wrathful eyes are on his brother -rather than on her when he says: - -"You are tired?" - -"Yes," says Perpetua. - -"Shall I take you to Gwendoline?" - -"Yes," says Perpetua again. - -"Miss Wynter is in my care at present," says Sir Hastings, coming -indolently forward. "Shall I take you to Lady Baring?" asks he, -addressing Perpetua with a suave smile. - -"She will come with me," says the professor, with cold decision. - -"A command!" says Sir Hastings, laughing lightly. "See what it is, -Miss Wynter, to have a hard-hearted guardian." He shrugs his -shoulders. Perpetua makes him a little bow, and follows the -professor out of the conservatory. - -"If you are tired," says the professor, somewhat curtly, and without -looking at her, "I should think the best thing you could do would be -to go to bed!" - -This astounding advice receives but little favor at Miss Wynter's -hands. - -"I am tired of your brother," says she promptly. "He is as tiresome -a creation as I know--but not of your sister's party; and--I'm too -old to be sent to bed, even by a _Guardian!!"_ She puts a very big -capital to the last word. - -"I don't want to send you to bed," says the professor simply. -"Though I think little girls like you----" - -"I am not a little girl," indignantly. - -"Certainly you are not a big one," says he. It is an untimely -remark. Miss Wynter's hitherto ill-subdued anger now bursts into -flame. - -"I can't help it if I'm not big," cries she. "It isn't my fault. I -can't help it either that papa sent me to you. _I_ didn't want to go -to you. It wasn't my fault that I was thrown upon your hands. -And--and"--her voice begins to tremble--"it isn't my fault either -that you _hate_ me." - -"That I--hate you!" The professor's voice is cold and shocked. - -"Yes. It is true. You need not deny it. You _know_ you hate me." -They are now in an angle of the hall where few people come and go, -and are, for the moment, virtually alone. - -"Who told you that I hated you?" asks the professor in a peremptory -sort of way. - -"No," says she, shaking her head, "I shall not tell you that, but I -have heard it all the same." - -"One hears a great many things if one is foolish enough to listen." -Curzon's face is a little pale now. "And--I can guess who has been -talking to you." - -"Why should I not listen? It is true, is it not?" - -She looks up at him. She seems tremulously anxious for the answer. - -"You want me to deny it then?" - -"Oh no, _no!"_ she throws out one hand with a little gesture of -mingled anger and regret. "Do you think I want you to _lie_ to me? -There I am wrong. After all," with a half smile, sadder than most -sad smiles because of the youth and sweetness of it, "I do not blame -you. I _am_ a trouble, I suppose, and all troubles are hateful. -I"--holding out her hand--"shall take your advice, I think, and go -to bed." - -"It was bad advice," says Curzon, taking the hand and holding it. -"Stay up, enjoy yourself, dance----" - -"Oh! I am not dancing," says she as if offended. - -"Why not?" eagerly. "Better dance than sleep at your age. You--you -mistook me. Why go so soon?" - -She looks at him with a little whimsical expression. - -"I shall not know you _at all_, presently," says she. "Your very -appearance to-night is strange to me, and now your sentiments! No, I -shall not be swayed by you. Good-night, good-bye!" She smiles at him -in the same sorrowful little way, and takes a step or two forward. - -"Perpetua," says the professor sternly, "before you go, you must -listen to me. You said just now you would not hear me lie to -you--you shall hear only the truth. Whoever told you that I hated -you is the most unmitigated liar on record!" - -Perpetua rubs her fan up and down against her cheek for a little -bit. - -"Well--I'm glad you don't hate me," says she, "but still I'm a -worry. Never mind,"--sighing--"I daresay I shan't be so for long." - -"You mean?" asks the professor anxiously. - -"Nothing--nothing at all. Good-night. Good-night _indeed."_ - -"Must you go? Is enjoyment nothing to you?" - -"Ah! you have killed all that for me," says she. This parting shaft -she hurls at him--_malice prepense_. It is effectual. By it she -murders sleep as thoroughly as ever did Macbeth. The professor -spends the remainder of the night pacing up and down his rooms. - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - - - - "Through thick and thin, both over bank and bush, - In hopes her to attain by hook or crook." - - - -"You will begin to think me a fixture," says Hardinge, with a -somewhat embarrassed laugh, flinging himself into an armchair. - -"You know you are always welcome," says the professor gently, if -somewhat absently. - -It is next morning, and he looks decidedly the worse for his -sleeplessness. His face seems really old, his eyes are sunk in his -head. The breakfast lying untouched upon the table tells its own -tale. - -"Dissipation doesn't agree with you," says Hardinge with a faint -smile. - -"No. I shall give it up," returns Curzon, his laugh a trifle grim. - -"I was never more surprised in my life than when I saw you at your -sister's last evening. I was relieved, too--sometimes it is -necessary for a man to go out, and--and see how things are going on -with his own eyes." - -"I wonder when that would be?" asks the professor indifferently. - -"When a man is a guardian," replies Hardinge promptly, and with -evident meaning. - -The professor glances quickly at him. - -"You mean----?" says he. - -"Oh! yes, of course I mean something," says Hardinge impatiently. -"But I don't suppose you want me to explain myself. You were there -last night--you must have seen for yourself." - -"Seen what?" - -"Pshaw!" says Hardinge, throwing up his head, and flinging his -cigarette into the empty fireplace. "I saw you go into the -conservatory. You found her there, and--_him._ It is beginning to be -the chief topic of conversation amongst his friends just now. The -betting is already pretty free." - -"Go on," says the professor. - -"I needn't go on. You know it now, if you didn't before." - -"It is you who know it--not I. _Say it!"_ says the professor, almost -fiercely. "It is about her?" - -"Your ward? Yes. Your brother it seems has made up his mind to -bestow upon her his hand, his few remaining acres, and," with a -sneer, "his spotless reputation." - -_"Hardinge!"_ cries the professor, springing to his feet as if shot. -He is evidently violently agitated. His companion mistakes the -nature of his excitement. - -"Forgive me!" says he quickly. "Of course _nothing_ can excuse my -speaking of him like that--to you. But I feel you ought to be told. -Miss Wynter is in your care, you are in a measure responsible for -her future happiness--the happiness of her whole _life,_ Curzon--and -if anything goes wrong with her----" - -The professor puts up his hand as if to check him. He has grown -ashen-grey, and the other hand resting on the back of the chair is -visibly trembling. - -"Nothing shall go wrong with her," says he, in a curious tone. - -Hardinge regards him keenly. Is this pallor, this unmistakable -trepidation, caused only by his dislike to hear his brother's real -character exposed? - -"Well, I have told you," says he coldly. - -"It is a mistake," says the professor. "He would not dare to -approach a young, innocent girl. The most honorable proposal such a -man as he could make to her would be basely dishonorable." - -"Ah! you see it in that light too," says Hardinge, with a touch of -relief. "My dear fellow, it is hard for me to discuss him with you, -but yet I fear it must be done. Did you notice nothing in his manner -last night?" - -Yes, the professor _had_ noticed something. Now there comes back to -him that tall figure stooping over Perpetua, the handsome, leering -face bent low--the girl's instinctive withdrawal. - -"Something must be done," says he. - -"Yes. And quickly. Young girls are sometimes dazzled by men of his -sort. And Per--Miss Wynter-- Look here, Curzon," breaking off -hurriedly. "This is _your_ affair, you know. You are her guardian. -You should see to it." - -"I could speak to her." - -"That would be fatal. She is just the sort of girl to say 'Yes' to -him because she was told to say 'No.'" - -"You seem to have studied her," says the professor quietly. - -"Well, I confess I have seen a good deal of her of late." - -"And to some purpose. Your knowledge of her should lead you to -making a way out of this difficulty." - -"I have thought of one," says Hardinge boldly, yet with a quick -flush. "You are her guardian. Why not arrange another marriage for -her, before this affair with Sir Hastings goes too far?" - -"There are two parties to a marriage," says the professor, his tone -always very low. "Who is it to whom you propose to marry Miss -Wynter?" - -Hardinge, getting up, moves abruptly to the window and back again. - -"You have known me a long time, Curzon," says he at last. "You--you -have been my friend. I have family--position--money--I----" - -"I am to understand then, that _you_ are a candidate for the hand -of my ward," says the professor, slowly, so slowly that it might -suggest itself to a disinterested listener that he has great -difficulty in speaking at all. - -"Yes," says Hardinge, very diffidently. He looks appealingly at the -professor. "I know perfectly well she might do a great deal better," -says he, with a modesty that sits very charmingly upon him. "But if -it comes to a choice between me and your brother, I--I think I am -the better man. By Jove, Curzon," growing hot, "it's awfully rude of -me, I know, but it is so hard to remember that he _is_ your -brother." - -But the professor does not seem offended. He seems, indeed, so -entirely unimpressed by Hardinge's last remark, that it may -reasonably be supposed he hasn't heard a word of it. - -"And she?" says he. "Perpetua. Does she----" He hesitates, as if -finding it impossible to go on. - -"Oh! I don't know," says the younger man, with a rather rueful -smile. "Sometimes I think she doesn't care for me more than she does -for the veriest stranger amongst her acquaintances, and -sometimes----" expressive pause. - -"Yes? Sometimes?" - -"She has seemed kind." - -"Kind? How kind?" - -"Well--friendly. More friendly than she is to others. Last night she -let me sit out three waltzes with her, and she only sat out one with -your brother." - -"Is it?" asks the professor, in a dull, monotonous sort of way. "Is -it--I am not much in your or her world, you know--is it a very -marked thing for a girl to sit out three waltzes with one man?" - -"Oh, no. Nothing very special. I have known girls do it often, but -she is not like other girls, is she?" - -The professor waves this question aside. - -"Keep to the point," says he. - -"Well, _she_ is the point, isn't she? And look here, Curzon, why -aren't you of our world? It is your own fault surely; when one sees -your sister, your brother, and--and _this,"_ with a slight glance -round the dull little apartment, "one cannot help wondering why -you----" - -"Let that go by," says the professor. "I have explained it before. I -deliberately chose my own way in life, and I want nothing more than -I have. You think, then, that last night Miss Wynter gave -you--encouragement?" - -"Oh! hardly that. And yet--she certainly seemed to like--that is not -to _dislike_ my being with her; and once--well,"--confusedly--"that -was nothing." - -"It must have been something." - -"No, really; and I shouldn't have mentioned it either--not for a -moment." - -The professor's face changes. The apathy that has lain upon it for -the past five minutes now gives way to a touch of fierce despair. He -turns aside, as if to hide the tell-tale features, and going to the -window, gazes sightlessly on the hot, sunny street below. - -What was it--_what?_ Shall he never have the courage to find out? -And is this to be the end of it all? In a flash the coming of the -girl is present before him, and now, here is her going. Had he--had -she--what _was_ it he meant? No wonder if her girlish fancy had -fixed itself on this tall, handsome, young man, with his kindly, -merry ways and honest meaning. Ah! that was what she meant perhaps -when last night she had told him "she would not be a worry to him -_long!"_ Yes, she had meant that; that she was going to marry -Hardinge! - -But to _know_ what Hardinge means! A torturing vision of a little -lovely figure, gowned all in white--of a little lovely face -uplifted--of another face down bent! No! a thousand times, no! -Hardinge would not speak of that--it would be too sacred; and yet -this awful doubt---- - -"Look here. I'll tell you," says Hardinge's voice at this moment. -"After all, you are her guardian--her father almost--though I know -you scarcely relish your position; and you ought to know about it, -and perhaps you can give me your opinion, too, as to whether there -was anything in it, you know. The fact is, I,"--rather -shamefacedly--"asked her for a flower out of her bouquet, and she -gave it. That was all, and," hurriedly, "I don't really believe she -meant anything _by_ giving it, only," with a nervous laugh, "I keep -hoping she _did!"_ - -A long, long sigh comes through the professor's lips straight from -his heart. Only a flower she gave him! Well---- - -"What do _you_ think?" asks Hardinge after a long pause. - -"It is a matter on which I could not think." - -"But there is this," says Hardinge. "You will forward my cause -rather than your brother's, will you not? This is an extraordinary -demand to make I know--but--I also know _you."_ - -"I would rather see her dead than married to my brother," says the -professor, slowly, distinctly. - -"And----?" questions Hardinge. - -The professor hesitates a moment, and then: - -"What do you want me to do?" asks he. - -"Do? 'Say a good word for me' to her; that is the old way of putting -it, isn't it? and it expresses all I mean. She reveres you, even -if----" - -"If what?" - -"She revolts from your power over her. She is high-spirited, you -know," says Hardinge. "That is one of her charms, in my opinion. -What I want you to do, Curzon, is to--to see her at once--not -to-day, she is going to an afternoon at Lady Swanley's--but -to-morrow, and to--you know,"--nervously--"to make a formal proposal -to her." - -The professor throws back his head and laughs aloud. Such a strange -laugh. - -"I am to propose to her--I?" says he. - -"For me, of course. It is very usual," says Hardinge. "And you are -her guardian, you know, and----" - -"Why not propose to her yourself?" says the professor, turning -violently upon him. "Why give me this terrible task? Are you a -coward, that you shrink from learning your fate except at the hands -of another--another who----" - -"To tell you the truth, that is it," interrupts Hardinge, simply. "I -don't wonder at your indignation, but the fact is, I love her so -much, that I fear to put it to the touch myself. You _will_ help me, -won't you? You see, you stand in the place of her father, Curzon. If -you were her father, I should be saying to you just what I am saying -now." - -"True," says the professor. His head is lowered. "There, go," says -he, "I must think this over." - -"But I may depend upon you"--anxiously--"you will do what you can -for me?" - -"I shall do what I can for _her."_ - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - - - - "Now, by two-headed Janus, - Nature hath framed strange fellows in her time." - - - -Hardinge is hardly gone, before another--a far heavier--step sounds -in the passage outside the professor's door. It is followed by a -knock, almost insolent in its loudness and sharpness. - -"What a hole you do live in," says Sir Hastings, stepping into the -room, and picking his way through the books and furniture as if -afraid of being tainted by them. "Bless me! what strange beings you -scientists are. Rags and bones your surroundings, instead of good -flesh and blood. Well, Thaddeus--hardly expected to see _me_ here, -eh?" - -"You want me?" says the professor. "Don't sit down there--those -notes are loose; sit here." - -"Faith, you've guessed it, my dear fellow, I _do_ want you, and most -confoundedly badly this time. Your ward, now, Miss Wynter! Deuced -pretty little girl, isn't she, and good form too? Wonderfully -bred--considering." - -"I don't suppose you have come here to talk about Miss Wynter's good -manners." - -"By Jove! I have though. You see, Thaddeus, I've about come to the -length of my tether, and--er--I'm thinking of turning over a new -leaf--reforming, you know--settling down--going in for -dulness--domesticity, and all the other deuced lot of it." - -"It is an excellent resolution, that might have been arrived at -years ago with greater merit," says the professor. - -"A preacher and a scientist in one! Dear sir, you go beyond the -possible," says Sir Hastings, with a shrug. "But to business. See -here, Thaddeus. I have told you a little of my plans, now hear the -rest. I intend to marry--an heiress, _bien entendu_--and it seems to -me that your ward, Miss Wynter, will suit me well enough." - -"And Miss Wynter, will you suit _her_ well enough?" - -"A deuced sight too well, I should say. Why, the girl is of no -family to signify, whereas the Curzons---- It will a better match -for her than in her wildest dreams she could have hoped for." - -"Perhaps, in her wildest dreams, she hoped for a good man, and one -who could honestly love her." - -"Pouf! You are hardly up to date, my dear fellow. Girls, now-a-days, -are wise enough to know they can't have everything, and she will get -a good deal. Title, position---- I say, Thaddeus, what I want of you -is, to--er--to help me in this matter--to--crack me up a bit, -eh?--to--_you_ know." - -The professor is silent, more through disgust than want of anything -to say. Staring at the man before him, he knows he is loathsome to -him--loathsome, and his own brother! This man, who with some of the -best blood of England in his veins, is so far, far below the -standard that marks the gentleman. Surely vice is degrading in more -ways than one. To the professor, Sir Hastings, with his handsome, -dissipated face, stands out, tawdry, hideous, vulgar--why, every -word he says is tinged with coarseness and yet, what a pretty boy he -used to be, with his soft, sunny hair and laughing eyes---- - -"You will help me, eh?" persists Sir Hastings, with his little dry -chronic cough, that seems to shake his whole frame. - -"Impossible," says the professor, simply, coldly. - -_"No?_ Why?" - -The professor looks at him (a penetrating glance), but says nothing. - -"Oh! damn it all!" says his brother, his brow darkening. "You had -_better,_ you know, if you want the old name kept above water much -longer." - -"You mean----?" says the professor, turning a grave face to his. - -"Nothing but what is honorable. I tell you I mean to turn over a new -leaf. 'Pon my word, I mean _that._ I'm sick of all this old racket, -it's killing me. And my title is as good a one as she can find -anywhere, and if I'm dipped--rather--her money would pull me -straight again, and----" - -He pauses, struck by something in the Professor's face. - -"You mean----?" says the latter again, even more slowly. His eyes -are beginning to light. - -"Exactly what I have said," sullenly. "You have heard me." - -"Yes, I _have_ heard you," cries the professor, flinging aside all -restraints and giving way to sudden violent passion--the more -violent, coming from one so usually calm and indifferent. "You have -come here to-day to try and get possession, not only of the fortune -of a young and innocent girl, but of her body and _soul_ as well! -And it is me, _me_ whom you ask to be a party to this shameful -transaction. Her dead father left her to my care, and am I to sell -her to you, that her money may redeem our name from the slough into -which _you_ have flung it? Is innocence to be sacrificed that vice -may ride abroad again? Look here," says the professor, his face -deadly white, "you have come to the wrong man. I shall warn Miss -Wynter against marriage with _you,_ as long as there is breath left -in my body." - -Sir Hastings has risen too; _his_ face is dark red; the crimson -flood has reached his forehead and dyed it almost black. Now, at -this terrible moment, the likeness between the two brothers, so -different in spirit, can be seen; the flashing eyes, the scornful -lips, the deadly hatred. It is a shocking likeness, yet not to be -denied. - -"What do _you_ mean, damn you?" says Sir Hastings; he sways a -little, as if his passion is overpowering him, and clutches feebly -at the edge of the table.__ - -"Exactly what _I_ have said," retorts the professor, fiercely. - -"You refuse then to go with me in this matter?" - -_"Finally._ Even if I would, I could not. I--have other views for -her." - -"Indeed! Perhaps those other views include yourself. Are you -thinking of reserving the prize for your own special benefit? A -penniless guardian--a rich ward; as a situation, it is perfect; -full of possibilities." - -"Take care," says the professor, advancing a step or two. - -"Tut! Do you think I can't see through your game?" says Sir -Hastings, in his most offensive way, which is nasty indeed. "You -hope to keep me unmarried. You tell yourself, I can't live much -longer, at the pace I'm going. I know the old jargon--I have it by -heart--given a year at the most the title and the heiress will both -be yours! I can read you--I--" He breaks off to laugh sardonically, -and the cough catching him, shakes him horribly. "But, no, by -heaven!" cries he. "I'll destroy your hopes yet. I'll disappoint -you. I'll marry. I'm a young man yet--yet--with life--_long_ life -before me--life----" - -A terrible change comes over his face, he reels backwards, only -saving himself by a blind clinging to a book-case on his right. - -The professor rushes to him and places his arm round him. With his -foot he drags a chair nearer, into which Sir Hastings falls with a -heavy groan. It is only a momentary attack, however; in a little -while the leaden hue clears away, and, though still ghastly, his -face looks more natural. - -"Brandy," gasps he faintly. The professor holds it to his lips, and -after a minute or two he revives sufficiently to be able to sit up -and look round him. - -"Thought you had got rid of me for good and all," says he, with a -malicious grin, terrible to see on his white, drawn face. "But I'll -beat you yet! There!--Call my fellow--he's below. Can't get about -without a damned attendant in the morning, now. But I'll cure all -that. I'll see you dead before I go to my own grave. I----" - -"Take your master to his carriage," says the professor to the man, -who is now on the threshold. The maunderings of Sir Hastings--still -hardly recovered from his late fit--strike horribly upon his ear, -rendering him almost faint. - - - -CHAPTER XV. - - - - "My love is like the sky, - As distant and as high; - Perchance she's fair and kind and bright, - Perchance she's stormy--tearful quite-- - Alas! I scarce know why." - - - -It is late in the day when the professor enters Lady Baring's house. -He had determined not to wait till the morrow to see Perpetua. It -seemed to him that it would be impossible to go through another -sleepless night, with this raging doubt, this cruel uncertainty in -his heart. - -He finds her in the library, the soft light of the dying evening -falling on her little slender figure. She is sitting in a big -armchair, all in black--as he best knows her--with a book upon her -knee. She looks charming, and fresh as a new-born flower. Evidently -neither lest night's party nor to-day's afternoon have had power to -dim her beauty. Sleep had visited _her_ last night, at all events. - -She springs out of her chair, and throws her book on the table near -her. - -"Why, you are the very last person I expected," says she. - -"No doubt," says the professor. Who was the _first_ person she had -expected? And will Hardinge be here presently to plead his cause in -person? "But it was imperative I should come. There is something I -have to tell you--to lay before you." - -"Not a mummy, I trust," says she, a little flippantly. - -"A proposal," says the professor, coldly. "Much as I know you -dislike the idea, still, it was your poor father's wish that I -should, in a measure, regulate your life until your coming of age. I -am here to-day to let you know--that--Mr. Hardinge has requested me -to tell you that he----" - -The professor pauses, feeling that he is failing miserably. He, the -fluent speaker at lectures, and on public platforms, is now bereft -of the power to explain one small situation. - -"What's the matter with Mr. Hardinge," asks Perpetua, "that he can't -come here himself? Nothing serious, I hope?" - -"I am your guardian," says the professor--unfortunately, with all -the air of one profoundly sorry for the fact declared, "and he -wishes _me_ to tell you that he--is desirous of marrying you." - -Perpetua stares at him. Whatever bitter thoughts are in her mind, -she conceals them. - -"He is a most thoughtful young man," says she, blandly. "And--and -you're another." - -"I hope I am thoughtful, if I am not young," says the professor, -with dignity. Her manner puzzles him. "With regard to Hardinge, I -wish you to know that--that I--have known him for years, and that he -is in my opinion a strictly honorable, kind-hearted man. He is of -good family. He has money. He will probably succeed to a -baronetcy--though this is not _certain,_ as his uncle is, -comparatively speaking, young still. But even without the title, -Hardinge is a man worthy of any woman's esteem, and confidence, -and----" - -He is interrupted by Miss Wynter's giving way to a sudden burst of -mirth. It is mirth of the very angriest, but it checks him the more -effectually because of that. - -"You must place great confidence in princes!" says she. "Even -_'without _the title, he is worthy of esteem.'" She copies him -audaciously. "What has a title got to do with esteem?--and what has -esteem got to do with love?" - -"I should hope----" begins the professor. - -"You needn't. It has nothing to do with it, nothing _at all._ Go -back and tell Mr. Hardinge so; and tell him, too, that when next he -goes a-wooing, he had better do it in person." - -"I am afraid I have damaged my mission," says the professor, who has -never once looked at her since his first swift glance. - -_"Your_ mission?" - -"Yes. It was mere nervousness that prevented him coming to you first -himself. He said he had little to go on, and he said something about -a flower that you gave him----" - -Perpetua makes a rapid movement toward a side table, takes a flower -from a bouquet there, and throws it at the professor. There is no -excuse to be made for her beyond the fact that her heart feels -breaking, and people with broken hearts do strange things every day. - -"I would give a flower to _anyone!"_ says she in a quick scornful -fashion. The professor catches the ungraciously given gift, toys -with it, and--keeps it. Is that small action of his unseen? - -"I hope," he says in a dull way, "that you are not angry with him -because he came first to me. It was a sense of duty--I know, I -_feel_--compelled him to do it, together with his honest diffidence -about your affection for him. Do not let pride stand in the way -of----" - -"Nonsense!" says Perpetua, with a rapid movement of her hand. "Pride -has no part in it. I do not care for Mr. Hardinge--I shall not marry -him." - -A little mist seems to gather before the professor's eyes. His -glasses seem in the way, he drops them, and now stands gazing at -her, as if disbelieving his senses. In fact he does disbelieve in -them. - -"Are you sure?" persists he. "Afterwards you may regret----" - -"Oh, no!" says she, shaking her head. _"Mr. Hardinge_ will not be -the one to cause me regret." - -"Still, think----" - -"Think! Do you imagine I have not been thinking?" cries she, with -sudden passion. "Do you imagine I do not know why you plead his -cause so eloquently? You want to get _rid_ of me. You are _tired_ of -me. You always thought me heartless, about my poor father even, and -unloving, and--hateful, and----" - -"Not heartless; what have I done, Perpetua, that you should say -that?" - -"Nothing. That is what I _detest_ about you. If you said outright -what you were thinking of me, I could bear it better." - -"But my thoughts of you. They are----" He pauses. What _are_ they? -What are his thoughts of her at all hours, all seasons? "They are -always kind," says he, lamely, in a low tone, looking at the carpet. -That downward glance condemns him in her eyes--to her it is but a -token of his guilt towards her. - -"They are _not!"_ says she, with a little stamp of her foot that -makes the professor jump. "You think of me as a cruel, wicked, -worldly girl, who would marry _anyone_ to gain position." - -Here her fury dies away. It is overcome by something stronger. She -trembles, pales, and finally bursts into a passion of tears that -have no anger in them, only intense grief. - -"I do not," says the professor, who is trembling too, but whose -utterance is firm. "Whatever my thoughts are, _your_ reading of them -is entirely wrong." - -"Well, at all events you can't deny one thing," says she checking -her sobs, and gazing at him again with undying enmity. "You want to -get rid of me, you are determined to marry me to some one, so as to -get me out of your way. But I shan't marry to please _you._ I -needn't either. There is somebody else who wants to marry me besides -your--_your_ candidate!" with an indignant glance. "I have had a -letter from Sir Hastings this afternoon. And," rebelliously, "I -haven't answered it yet." - -"Then you shall answer it now," says the professor. "And you shall -say 'no' to him." - -"Why? Because you order me?" - -"Partly because of that. Partly because I trust to your own -instincts to see the wisdom of so doing." - -"Ah! you beg the question," says he, "but I'm not so sure I shall -obey you for all that." - -"Perpetua! Do not speak to me like that, I implore you," says the -professor, very pale. "Do you think I am not saying all this for -your good? Sir Hastings--he is my brother--it is hard for me to -explain myself, but he will not make you happy." - -"Happy! _You_ think of my happiness?" - -"Of what else?" A strange yearning look comes into his eyes. "God -knows it is _all_ I think of," says he. - -"And so you would marry me to Mr. Hardinge?" - -"Hardinge is a good man, and--he loves you." - -"If so, he is the only one on earth who does," cries the girl -bitterly. She turns abruptly away, and struggles with herself for a -moment, then looks back at him. "Well, I shall not marry him," says -she. - -"That is in your own hands," says the professor. "But I shall have -something to say about the other proposal you speak of." - -"Do you think I want to marry your brother?" says she. "I tell you -no, no, _no!_ A thousand times no! The very fact that he _is_ your -brother would prevent me. To be you ward is bad enough, to be your -sister-in-law would be insufferable. For all the world I would not -be more to you than I am now." - -"It is a wise decision," says the professor icily. He feels smitten -to his very heart's core. Had he ever dreamed of a nearer, dearer -tie between them?--if so the dream is broken now. - -"Decision?" stammers she. - -"Not to marry my brother." - -"Not to be more to you, you mean!" - -"You don't know what you are saying," says the professor, driven -beyond his self-control. "You are a mere child, a baby, you speak -at random." - -"What!" cries she, flashing round at him, "will you deny that I have -been a trouble to you, that you would have been thankful had you -never heard my name?" - -"You are right," gravely. "I deny nothing. I wish with all my soul I -had never heard your name. I confess you have troubled me. I go -beyond even _that,_ I declare that you have been my undoing! And -now, let us make an end of it. I am a poor man and a busy one, this -task your father laid upon my shoulders is too heavy for me. I shall -resign my guardianship; Gwendoline--Lady Baring--will accept the -position. She likes you, and--you will find it hard to break _her_ -heart." - -"Do you mean," says the girl, "that I have broken yours? _Yours?_ -Have I been so bad as that? Yours? I have been wilful, I know, and -troublesome, but troublesome people do not break one's heart. What -have I done then that yours should be broken?" She has moved closer -to him. Her eyes are gazing with passionate question into his. - -"Do not think of that," says the professor, unsteadily. "Do not let -that trouble you. As I just now told you, I am a poor man, and poor -men cannot afford such luxuries as hearts." - -"Yet poor men have them," says the girl in a little low stifled -tone. "And--and girls have them too!" - -There is a long, long silence. To Curzon it seems as if the whole -world has undergone a strange, wild upheaval. What had she -meant--what? Her words! Her words meant something, but her looks, -her eyes, oh, how much more _they_ meant! And yet to listen to -her--to believe--he, her guardian, a poor man, and she an heiress! -Oh! no. Impossible. - -"So much the worse for the poor men," says he deliberately. - -There is no mistaking his meaning. Perpetua makes a little rapid -movement towards him--an almost imperceptible one. _Did_ she raise -her hands as if to hold them out to him? If so, it is so slight a -gesture as scarcely to be remembered afterwards, and at all events, -the professor takes no notice of it, presumably, therefore, he does -not see it. - -"It is late," says Perpetua a moment afterwards. "I must go and -dress for dinner." _Her_ eyes are down now. She looks pale and -shamed. - -"You have nothing to say, then?" asks the professor, compelling -himself to the question. - -"About what?" - -"Hardinge." - -The girl turns a white face to his. - -"Will you then _compel_ me to marry him?" says she. "Am -I"--faintly--"nothing to you? Nothing----" She seems to fade back -from him in the growing uncertainty of the light into the shadow of -the corner beyond. Curzon makes a step towards her. - -At this moment the door is thrown suddenly open, and a -man--evidently a professional man--advances into the room. - -"Sir Thaddeus," begins he, in a slow, measured way. - -The professor stops dead short. Even Perpetua looks amazed. - -"I regret to be the messenger of bad news, sir," says the solemn man -in black. "They told me I should find you here. I have to tell you, -Sir Thaddeus, that your brother, the late lamented Sir Hastings, is -dead." The solemn man spread his hands abroad. - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - - - - 'Till the secret be secret no more - In the light of one hour as it flies, - Be the hour as of suns that expire - Or suns that rise.' - - - -It is quite a month later. August, hot and sunny, is reigning with -quite a mad merriment, making the most of the days that be, knowing -full well that the end of the summer is nigh. The air is stifling; -up from the warm earth comes the almost overpowering perfume of the -late flowers. Perpetua moving amongst the carnations and hollyhocks -in her soft white cambric frock, gathers a few of the former in a -languid manner to place in the bosom of her frock. There they rest, -a spot of blood color upon their white ground. - -Lady Baring, on the death of her elder brother, had left town for -the seclusion of her country home, carrying Perpetua with her. She -had grown very fond of the girl, and the fancy she had formed -(before Sir Hastings' death) that Thaddeus was in love with the -young heiress, and that she would make him a suitable wife, had not -suffered in any way through the fact of Sir Thaddeus having now -become the head of the family. - -Perpetua, having idly plucked a few last pansies, looked at them, -and as idly flung them away, goes on her listless way through the -gardens. A whole _long_ month, and not one word from him! Are his -social duties now so numerous that he has forgotten he has a ward? -"Well," emphatically, and with a vicious little tug at her big white -hat, _"some_ people have strange views about duty." - -She has almost reached the summer-house, vine-clad, and temptingly -cool in all this heat, when a quick step behind her causes her to -turn. - -"They told me you were here," says the professor, coming up with -her. He is so distinctly the professor still, in spite of his new -mourning, and the better cut of his clothes, and the general air of -having been severely looked after--that Perpetua feels at home with -him at once. - -"I have been here for some time," says she calmly. "A whole month, -isn't it?" - -"Yes, I know. Were you going into that green little place. It looks -cool." - -It is cool, and particularly empty. One small seat occupies the back -of it, and nothing else at all, except the professor and his ward. - -"Perpetua!" says he, turning to her. His tone is low, impassioned. -"I have come. I could not come sooner, and I _would_ not write. How -could I put it all on paper? You remember that last evening?" - -"I remember," says she faintly. - -"And all you said?" - -"All _you_ said." - -"I said nothing. I did not dare. _Then_ I was too poor a man, too -insignificant to dare to lay bare to you the thoughts, the fears, -the hopes that were killing me." - -"Nothing!" echoes she. "Have you then forgotten?" She raises her -head, and casts at him a swift, but burning glance. _"Was_ it -nothing? You came to plead your friend's cause, I think. Surely that -was something? I thought it a great deal. And what was it you said -of Mr. Hardinge? Ah! I _have_ forgotten that, but I know how you -extolled him--praised him to the skies--recommended him to me as a -desirable suitor." She makes an impatient movement, as if to shake -something from her. "Why have you come to-day?" asks she. "To plead -his cause afresh?" - -"Not his--to-day." - -"Whose then? Another suitor, maybe? It seems I have more than even I -dreamt of." - -"I do not know if you have dreamed of this one," says Curzon, -perplexed by her manner. Some hope had been in his heart in his -journey to her, but now it dies. There is little love truly in her -small, vivid face, her gleaming eyes, her parted, scornful lips. - -"I am not given to dreams," says she, with a petulant shrug_. "I_ -know what I mean always. And as I tell you, if you _have_ come here -to-day to lay before me, for my consideration, the name of another -of your friends who wishes to marry me, why I beg you to save me -from suitors. I can make my choice from many, and when I _do_ want -to marry, I shall choose for myself." - -"Still--if you would permit me to name _this_ one," begins Curzon, -very humbly, "it can do you no harm to hear of him. And it all lies -in your own power. You can, if you will, say yes, or----". He -pauses. The pause is eloquent, and full of deep entreaty. - -"Or no," supplies she calmly. "True! You," with a half defiant, half -saucy glance, "are beginning to learn that a guardian cannot control -one altogether." - -"I don't think I ever controlled you, Perpetua." - -"N--o! Perhaps not. But then you tried to. That's worse." - -"Do you forbid me then to lay before you--this name--that I----?" - -"I have told you," says she, "that I can find a name for myself." - -"You forbid me to speak," says he slowly. - -_"I_ forbid! A ward forbid her guardian! I should be afraid!" says -she, with an extremely naughty little glance at him. - -"You trifle with me," says the professor slowly, a little sternly, -and with uncontrolled despair. "I thought--I believed--I was _mad -_enough to imagine, from your manner to me that last night we met, -that I was something more than a mere guardian to you." - -"More than _that._ That seems to be a Herculean relation. What more -would you be?" - -"I am no longer that, at all events." - -"What!" cries she, flushing deeply. "You--you give me up----" - -"It is you who give _me_ up." - -"You say you will no longer be my guardian!" She seems struck with -amazement at this declaration on his part. She had not believed him -when he had before spoken of his intention of resigning. "But you -cannot," says she. "You have promised. Papa _said_ you were to take -care of me." - -"Your father did not know." - -"He _did._ He said you were the one man in all the world he could -trust." - -"Impossible," says the professor. "A--lover--cannot be a guardian!" -His voice has sunk to a whisper. He turns away, and makes a step -towards the door. - -"You are going," cries she, fighting with a desperate desire for -tears, that is still strongly allied to anger. "You would leave me. -You will be no longer my guardian. Ah! was I not right? Did I not -_tell_ you you were in a hurry to get rid of me?" - -This most unfair accusation rouses the professor to extreme wrath. -He turns round and faces her like an enraged lion. - -"You are a child," says he, in a tone sufficient to make any woman -resentful. "It is folly to argue with you." - -"A child! What are you then?" cries she tremulously. - -"A _fool!"_ furiously. "I was given my cue, I would not take it. You -told me that it was bad enough to be your ward, that you would not -on any account be closer to me. _That_ should have been clear to me, -yet, like an idiot, I hoped against hope. I took false courage from -each smile of yours, each glance, each word. There! Once I leave you -now, the chain between us will be broken, we shall never, with _my_ -will, meet again. You say you have had suitors since you came down -here. You hinted to me that you could mention the name of him you -wished to marry. So be it. Mention it to Gwendoline--to any one you -like, but not to me." - -He strides towards the doorway. He has almost turned the corner. - -"Thaddeus!" cries a small, but frantic voice. If dying he would hear -that and turn. She is holding out her hands to him, the tears are -running down her lovely cheeks. - -"It is to you--to _you_ I would tell his name," sobs she, as he -returns slowly, unwillingly, but _surely,_ to her. "To you alone." - -"To me! Go on," says Curzon; "let me hear it. What is the name of -this man you want to marry?" - -"Thaddeus Curzon!" says she, covering her face with her hands, and, -indeed, it is only when she feels his arms round her, and his heart -beating against hers, that she so far recovers herself as to be able -to add, "And a _hideous_ name it is, too!" - -But this last little firework does no harm. Curzon is too -ecstatically happy to take notice of her small impertinence. - - - -THE END. - - - - - -Obvious typographical errors silently corrected by the -transcriber: - -chapter 1: =leaving them all _planté la_ as it were,= -silently corrected as =leaving them all _planté là_ as it were,= - -chapter 2: ='From grave to gay,= silently corrected as ="From -grave to gay,= - -chapter 5: =don't you think she would let you take me to the theatre -some night? She has come nearer,= silently corrected as =don't you think -she would let you take me to the theatre some night?" She has come nearer,= - -chapter 6: =She asked me to sit down--I obeyed her.= silently corrected -as =She asked me to sit down--I obeyed her."= - -chapter 6:_ ="Won't she!"= _silently corrected as_ =Won't she!=_ - -chapter 7: =or condemn his honest efforts to enlighten his small section -of mankind!"= silently corrected as =or condemn his honest efforts to -enlighten his small section of mankind!= - -chapter 7: =Of course Mrs: Mulcahy--who, no doubt,= silently corrected -as =Of course Mrs. Mulcahy--who, no doubt,= - -chapter 8: ="How many to-morrows is she going to remain here?= silently -corrected as =How many to-morrows is she going to remain here?= - -chapter 10: =His regret is evidently genuine, indeed. to Hardinge the -evening= silently corrected as =His regret is evidently genuine, indeed; -to Hardinge the evening= - -chapter 10: ="Oh, you laugh at me." interrupts she= silently corrected -as ="Oh, you laugh at me," interrupts she= - -chapter 12: =she had never seen him in ought but rather antiquated= -silently corrected as =she had never seen him in aught but rather -antiquated= - -chapter 12: =says he. "It is an untimely remark. Miss Wynter's hitherto= -silently corrected as =says he. It is an untimely remark. -Miss Wynter's hitherto__= - -chapter 12: =cries she. It isn't my fault=. Silently corrected as -=cries she. "It isn't my fault=. - -chapter 12: =if one is foolish enough to listen," Curzon's face is -a little pale= silently corrected as =if one is foolish enough -to listen." Curzon's face is a little pale= - -chapter 13: =caused only by his dislike to hear his brother's real -character exposed.= silently corrected as =caused only by his dislike -to hear his brother's real character exposed?= - -chapter 13: =at the professor. I know perfectly well= silently -corrected as =at the professor. "I know perfectly well= - -chapter 15: =Well. I shall not marry him= silently corrected as -=Well, I shall not marry him= - - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A Little Rebel, by Mrs. Hungerford - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LITTLE REBEL *** - -***** This file should be named 16186.txt or 16186.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - https://www.gutenberg.org/1/6/1/8/16186/ - -Produced by Daniel Fromont <daniel.fromont@cnc.fr> -April 2005 -2005 is the 150th anniversary of Mrs. Hungerford's birthday. - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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