diff options
| -rw-r--r-- | .gitattributes | 3 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 19175-8.txt | 4358 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 19175-8.zip | bin | 0 -> 73500 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 19175-h.zip | bin | 0 -> 76922 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 19175-h/19175-h.htm | 4570 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 19175.txt | 4358 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 19175.zip | bin | 0 -> 73476 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | LICENSE.txt | 11 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | README.md | 2 |
9 files changed, 13302 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/19175-8.txt b/19175-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..adfb4d3 --- /dev/null +++ b/19175-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4358 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Little Rebel, by Margaret Wolfe 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 + A Novel + +Author: Margaret Wolfe Hungerford + +Release Date: September 4, 2006 [EBook #19175] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LITTLE REBEL *** + + + + +Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Mary Meehan and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by the Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions +(www.canadiana.org)) + + + + + + + + + + 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 the 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 +always 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 la_ +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 word'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 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 or 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 into the drawing-room of +the house where Miss Jane Majendie lives. + +His thoughts are still full of 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's 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 brow 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 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 now 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 are 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 had +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 Jane 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 sees 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"--scrutinizing 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 might please her to go." + +"The _real_ age of a man now-a-days, 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 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 Majendie'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 analyze _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 into a +violent range. 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, though 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, 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. Pleasure, 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!" said 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 all at once," says she lightly. "No +small amount." 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 he. + +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 take 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 forever 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 forever 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 forever," 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 soon 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 everywhere. 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?" said 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, do 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 standing +staring at her as if bewitched. His expression is half puzzled, half +amused. In _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. + +"Great heavens! What do 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 still +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, +shan't I?" + +"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. This +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 +this 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 rickety 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 +bursts 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 I am 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 for +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 pray 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_ 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 his 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 breast. 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 likes 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 a 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 your 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 greatest +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 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 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 I----?" + +"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, +rhymical, 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 gittering 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 eyes. + +"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 +spoilt 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 her +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 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 the 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 +longed, 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 ought 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 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 ever 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 she--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 a 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 be 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 soul, 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 I am 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 last 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 has +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 an 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 she, "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 your 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 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 yourself the trouble. Even +the country does not 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. + + + + + * * * * * + + +JELLY OF CUCUMBER AND ROSES. + +MADE BY W. A. DYER & CO., MONTREAL, is a delightfully fragrant Toilet +article. Removes freckles and sun-burn, and renders chapped and rough +skin, after one application, smooth and pleasant. No Toilet-table is +complete without a tube of Dyer's Jelly of Cucumber and Roses. Sold by +all Druggists. + +Agents for United States-- +CASWELL, MASSEY & CO., New York & Newport. + + + * * * * * + + +Teeth Like Pearls! + +Is a common expression. The way to obtain it, use Dyer's Arnicated Tooth +Paste, fragrant and delicious. Try it. Druggists keep it. + +W.A. DYER & CO., MONTREAL. + + + * * * * * + + +Burdock BLOOD BITTERS + +THE KEY TO HEALTH unlocks all the clogged secretions of the Stomach, +Liver, Bowels and Blood, carrying off all humors and impurities from the +entire system, correcting Acidity, and curing Biliousness, Dyspepsia, +Sick Headache, Constipation, Rheumatism, Dropsy, Dry Skin, Dizziness, +Jaundice, Heartburn, Nervous and General Debility, Salt Rheum, +Erysipelas, Scrofula, etc. It purifies and eradicates from the Blood all +poisonous humors, from a common Pimple to the worst Scrofulous Sore. + + + * * * * * + + +DYSPEPSINE! + +The Great American Remedy. + +FOR DYSPEPSIA + +In all Its forms, + +As Indigestion, Flatulency, Heartburn, Waterbrash, Sick-Headache, +Constipation, Biliousness, and all forms of Dyspepsia; regulating +the action of the stomach, and of the digestive organs. + +Sold by all druggist, 5Oc. a bottle. + +Sole Proprietor, WALLACE DAWSON. +MONTREAL, CAN., ROUSES POINT, N. Y. + + + * * * * * + + +DR. CHEVALLIER'S RED SPRUCE GUM PASTE, + +DR. NELSON'S PRESCRIPTION, +_GOUDRON de NORWEGE_, +ARE THE BEST REMEDIES +For COUGHS and COLDS. + +Insist upon getting one of them. +25c. each. + +For Sale by all Respectable Druggists. + +LAVIOLETTE & NELSON, Druggists, +_AGENTS OF FRENCH PATENTS._ 16O5 Notre Dame St. + + + * * * * * + + +Have you Teeth? + +--THEN PRESERVE THEM BY USING-- + +LYMAN'S CHERRY TOOTH PASTE. + +Whitens the teeth, sweetens the breath, prevents decay. + +In handsome Engraved Pots,--25 cents each. + +Trade Mark Secured. + +Lyman's +Royal Canadian Perfumes. + +The only CANADIAN PERFUMES on the English Market. + +Cerise. +English Violets. +Heliotrope. +Jockey Club. +Etc. + +Prairie Flowers. +Pond Lily +White Rose. +Ylang Ylang. +Etc. + + + * * * * * + + +ESTABLISHED 1852 + +LORGE & CO., + +HATTERS & FURRIERS. + +21 ST. LAWRENCE MAIN ST. 21 + +MONTREAL. + +Established 1866. + +L. J. A. SURVEYER, + +6 ST. LAWRENCE ST. + +(near Craig Street.) + +HOUSE FURNISHING HARDWARE, + +Brass, Vienna and Russian Coffee Machines, + +CARPET SWEEPERS, CURTAIN STRETCHERS, + +BEST ENGLISH CUTLERY, + +FRENCH MOULDS, &c., + +BUILDERS' HARDWARE, TOOLS, ETC. + + + * * * * * + + +COVERNTON'S SPECIALTIES + +GOOD MORNING! + +HAVE you used COVERNTON'S Celebrated FRAGRANT CARBOLIC TOOTH WASH, + +For Cleansing and Preserving the Teeth, Hardening the Gums, etc. Highly +recommended by the leading Dentists of the City. Price, 25c., 50c., and +$1.00 a bottle. + +COVERNTON'S SYRUP OF WILD CHERRY, + +For Coughs, Colds, Asthma, Bronchitis, etc. Price 25c. + +COVERNTON'S AROMATIC BLACKBERRY CARMINATIVE, + +For Diarrhea, Cholera Morbus, Dysentery, etc. Price 25c. + +COVERNTON'S NIPPLE OIL, + +For Cracked or Sore Nipples. Price 25c. + +GOOD EVENING! + +USE COVERNTON'S ALPINE CREAM + +for Chapped Hands, Sore Lips, Sunburn, Tan, Freckles, etc. A most +delightful preparation for the Toilet. Price 25c. + +C. J. COVERNTON & CO., + +Dispensing Chemists, +CORNER OF BLEURY AND DORCHESTER STREETS, +_Branch, 469 St. Lawrence Street,_ +MONTREAL. + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's A Little Rebel, by Margaret Wolfe Hungerford + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LITTLE REBEL *** + +***** This file should be named 19175-8.txt or 19175-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/9/1/7/19175/ + +Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Mary Meehan and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by the Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions +(www.canadiana.org)) + + +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. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +http://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" +or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +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 + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at http://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit http://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. +To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/19175-8.zip b/19175-8.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..3db0165 --- /dev/null +++ b/19175-8.zip diff --git a/19175-h.zip b/19175-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..4be4c7d --- /dev/null +++ b/19175-h.zip diff --git a/19175-h/19175-h.htm b/19175-h/19175-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4a7f34f --- /dev/null +++ b/19175-h/19175-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,4570 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Little Rebel, by The Duchess. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + p { margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; + } + hr { width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; + } + + table {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;} + + body{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + + .linenum {position: absolute; top: auto; left: 4%;} /* poetry number */ + .blockquot{margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 10%;} + .pagenum {position: absolute; left: 92%; font-size: smaller; text-align: right;} /* page numbers */ + .sidenote {width: 20%; padding-bottom: .5em; padding-top: .5em; + padding-left: .5em; padding-right: .5em; margin-left: 1em; + float: right; clear: right; margin-top: 1em; + font-size: smaller; background: #eeeeee; border: dashed 1px;} + + .bb {border-bottom: solid 2px;} + .bl {border-left: solid 2px;} + .bt {border-top: solid 2px;} + .br {border-right: solid 2px;} + .bbox {border: solid 2px;} + + .center {text-align: center;} + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + .u {text-decoration: underline;} + + .caption {font-weight: bold;} + + .figcenter {margin: auto; text-align: center;} + + .figleft {float: left; clear: left; margin-left: 0; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: + 1em; margin-right: 1em; padding: 0; text-align: center;} + + .figright {float: right; clear: right; margin-left: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em; + margin-top: 1em; margin-right: 0; padding: 0; text-align: center;} + + .footnotes {border: dashed 1px;} + .footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + .footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 84%; text-align: right;} + .fnanchor {vertical-align: super; font-size: .8em; text-decoration: none;} + + .poem {margin-left:10%; margin-right:10%; text-align: left;} + .poem br {display: none;} + .poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .poem span.i0 {display: block; margin-left: 0em;} + .poem span.i2 {display: block; margin-left: 2em;} + .poem span.i4 {display: block; margin-left: 4em;} + .poem span.i1 {display: block; margin-left: 1em;} + .poem span.i16 {display: block; margin-left: 16em;} + .poem span.i3 {display: block; margin-left: 3em;} + .poem span.i6 {display: block; margin-left: 6em;} + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Little Rebel, by Margaret Wolfe 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 + A Novel + +Author: Margaret Wolfe Hungerford + +Release Date: September 4, 2006 [EBook #19175] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LITTLE REBEL *** + + + + +Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Mary Meehan and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by the Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions +(www.canadiana.org)) + + + + + + +</pre> + + + + + +<h1>A LITTLE REBEL</h1> + +<h4>A NOVEL</h4> + +<h2>BY THE DUCHESS</h2> + +<h4><i>Author of "Her Last Throw," "April's Lady," "Faith and Unfaith," etc., +etc.</i></h4> + +<h4><span class="smcap">Montreal</span>:<br /> +JOHN LOVELL & SON,<br /> +23 <span class="smcap">St. Nicholas Street.</span></h4> + + +<h4>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.</h4> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> +<!-- Autogenerated TOC. Modify or delete as required. --> +<p> +<a href="#CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XII">CHAPTER XII.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">CHAPTER XIII.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">CHAPTER XIV.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XV">CHAPTER XV.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">CHAPTER XVI.</a><br /> +</p> +<!-- End Autogenerated TOC. --> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Perplex'd in the extreme."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"The memory of past favors is like a rainbow, bright, vivid and<br /></span> +<span class="i0">beautiful."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>little</i> 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.</p> + +<p>"A girl!" murmurs he in a feeble tone, falling back in his chair. And +then again, in a louder tone of dismay—"A <i>girl</i>!" He pauses again, and +now again gives way to the fear that is destroying him—"A <i>grown</i> +girl!"</p> + +<p>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—</p> + +<p>"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—"<i>this</i> 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 <i>have</i> 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.'"</p> + +<p>"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 the sugar-bowl. "What on earth am I to do +with a girl of seventeen? If it had been a boy! even <i>that</i> 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. <i>Poor</i> 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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"You will find her the dearest girl. Most loving, and tender-hearted; +and full of life and spirits."</p> + +<p>"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 +<i>looking</i> 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 <i>cut</i> her, and they'll cut me, and—what the <i>deuce</i> +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 <i>my</i> shoulders, I——Oh! <i>Poor</i> old Wynter!"</p> + +<p>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 +always 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>From Wynter's solicitor! It seems ridiculous that Wynter should have +<i>had</i> 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.</p> + +<p>Yes. It is all right! Why on earth hadn't he read it <i>first</i>? 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>He has only been appointed her guardian, it seems. Guardian of her +fortune, rather than of her.</p> + +<p>The old aunt will have the charge of her body, the—er—pleasure of her +society—<i>he</i>, of the estate only.</p> + +<p>Fancy Wynter, of all men, dying rich—actually <i>rich</i>. 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 <i>want</i>, 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 <i>measure</i> 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.</p> + +<p>Yet Wynter, the spendthrift, the erstwhile master of him who now could +be <i>his</i> 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!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>planté la</i> +as it were, and declared his intention of starting life anew and making +a pile for himself in some new world.</p> + +<p>Well! it had not been such a joke after all, if they had only known. +Wynter <i>had</i> made that mythical "pile," and had left his daughter an +heiress!</p> + +<p>Not only an heiress, but a gift to Miss Jane Majendie, of somewhere in +Bloomsbury.</p> + +<p>The professor's disturbed face grows calm again. It even occurs to him +that he has not eaten his breakfast. He so <i>often</i> 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.</p> + +<p>Sweet are the rebounds from jeopardy to joy! And he has so <i>much</i> 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 word's goods, that he need never give +her so much as a passing thought—dragged, <i>torn</i> as that thought would +be from his beloved studies.</p> + +<p>The aunt, of course, will see about her fortune. <i>He</i> has has only a +perfunctory duty—to see that the fortune is not squandered. But he is +safe there. Maiden ladies <i>never</i> squander! And the girl, being only +seventeen, can't possibly squander it herself for some time.</p> + +<p>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. <i>All</i> girls belong to the genus nuisance. And <i>this</i> +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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"A maid so sweet that her mere sight made glad men sorrowing."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p>Nevertheless the man in the bush doesn't get her.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"The golden sun, in splendor likest heav'n,"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>interesting</i>, 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"For you, me dear," says she, very kindly, handing the letter to the +professor.</p> + +<p>She is perhaps the one person of his acquaintance who has been able to +see through the professor's gravity and find him <i>young</i>.</p> + +<p>"Thank you," says he. He takes the letter indifferently, opens it +languidly, and——Well, there isn't much languor after the perusal of +it.</p> + +<p>The professor sits up; literally this time slang is unknown to him; and +re-reads it. <i>That girl has come!</i> 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, <i>here</i> she is at +last, descending upon him like a whirlwind.</p> + +<p>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 <i>has</i> come!</p> + +<p>The professor never swears, or he might now perhaps have given way to +reprehensible words.</p> + +<p>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 or 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.</p> + +<p>He pulls the bell. The landlady appears again.</p> + +<p>"I must go out," says the professor, staring a little helplessly at her.</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"No, Mrs. Mulcahy. I—I am going to see a young lady," says the +professor simply.</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"Clothes?" repeats the professor vaguely.</p> + +<p>"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 <i>in</i>ternally, at all events +<i>ex</i>ternally.</p> + +<p>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 <i>there</i>! Health unlimited; strength tremendous; and +noise—<i>much</i> noise.</p> + +<p>Yes, she is sure to be a <i>big</i> 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 <i>the</i> finest country on earth! A bouncing creature +who <i>never</i> sits down; to whom rest or calm is unknown, and whose +highest ambition will be to see the Tower and the wax-works.</p> + +<p>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 <i>one</i> pin to leave +her without it again.</p> + +<p>The professor is looking pale, but has on him all the air of one +prepared for <i>anything</i> as the maid shows him into the drawing-room of +the house where Miss Jane Majendie lives.</p> + +<p>His thoughts are still full of her niece. <i>Her</i> niece, poor woman, and +<i>his</i> ward—poor <i>man</i>! when the door opens and <i>some one</i> comes in.</p> + +<p><i>Some one!</i></p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>"It is you; Mr. Curzon, is it not?" says the vision.</p> + +<p>Her voice is sweet and clear, a little petulant perhaps, but still +<i>very</i> sweet. She is quite small—a <i>little</i> 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,</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Sweet as is the bramble-flower."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"Are you <i>sure</i>?" 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 <i>altogether</i> 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.</p> + +<p>"Have you come to see me or Aunt Jane?" asks she; "because Aunt Jane is +out—<i>I'm glad to say</i>"—this last pianissimo.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>Is <i>this</i> the big, strong, noisy girl of his imaginings? The bouncing +creature with untidy hair, and her clothes pitchforked on to her?</p> + +<p>"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</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"From grave to gay, from lively to severe."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>"Won't you sit down?" says his small hostess gently, touching a chair +near her with her slim fingers.</p> + +<p>"Thank you," says the professor, and then stops short.</p> + +<p>"You are——"</p> + +<p>"Your ward," says she, ever so gently still, yet emphatically. It is +plain that she is now on her very <i>best</i> behavior. She smiles up at him +in a very encouraging way. "And you are my guardian, aren't you?"</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"<i>Now</i> we can have a good talk," says she.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"And if you dreamed how a friend's smile<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And nearness soothe a heart that's sore,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You might be moved to stay awhile<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Before my door."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p>"About?" begins the professor, and stammers, and ceases.</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"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?</p> + +<p>"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 <i>every</i> day. Do you +think you could make it out whilst I count forty?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Then there is a great deal of duty for <i>you</i> to do," says she solemnly, +letting her chin slip into the hollow of her hand.</p> + +<p>"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——"</p> + +<p>"I don't believe she's 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——?"</p> + +<p>"That Miss Majendie, who is virtually your guardian—can explain it all +to you much better than I can."</p> + +<p>"Aunt Jane is <i>not</i> my guardian!" The mild look of enquiry changes to +one of light anger. The white brow contracts. "And certainly she could +never make one happy and comfortable. Well—what else?"</p> + +<p>"She will look after——"</p> + +<p>"I told you I don't care about Aunt Jane. Tell me what you can do——"</p> + +<p>"See that your fortune is not——"</p> + +<p>"I don't care about my fortune either," with a little gesture. "But I +<i>do</i> care about my happiness. Will you see to <i>that</i>?"</p> + +<p>"Of course," says the professor gravely.</p> + +<p>"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 <i>hate</i> Aunt +Jane. She says things about poor papa that——<i>Oh!</i> how I hate her!"</p> + +<p>"But—you shouldn't—you really should not. I feel certain you ought +not," says the professor, growing vaguer every moment.</p> + +<p>"Ought I not?" with a quick little laugh that is all anger and no mirth. +"I <i>do</i> 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!"</p> + +<p>"<i>What?</i>" says the professor aghast. "But my dear——Miss Wynter, I'm +afraid you <i>must</i>."</p> + +<p>"Why? What is she to me?"</p> + +<p>"Your aunt."</p> + +<p>"That's nothing—nothing at all—even a <i>guardian</i> 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 <i>you</i> take me away?"</p> + +<p><i>"I!"</i></p> + +<p>"Yes, yes, you." She comes even nearer to him, and the pressure of the +small fingers grows more eager—there is something in them now that +might well be termed coaxing. "<i>Do</i>," says she.</p> + +<p>"Oh! Impossible!" says the professor. The color mounts to his brow. He +almost <i>shakes</i> off the little clinging fingers in his astonishment and +agitation. Has she no common-sense—no knowledge of the things that be?</p> + +<p>She has drawn back from him and is regarding him somewhat strangely.</p> + +<p>"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!"</p> + +<p>"<i>Why</i> 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.</p> + +<p>"Because," lucidly, "she <i>is</i> Aunt Jane. If she were <i>your</i> Aunt Jane +you would know."</p> + +<p>"But my dear——"</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"Yes. What of your father?" asks the professor hurriedly, the tears +raising terror in his soul.</p> + +<p>"You knew him—speak to me of him," says she, a little tremulously.</p> + +<p>"I knew him well indeed. He was very good to me, when—when I was +younger. I was very fond of him."</p> + +<p>"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, <i>debonnaire</i> father, who had been so dear to +her.</p> + +<p>"What are you going to tell me about him?" asks the professor gently.</p> + +<p>"Only what he used to call me—<i>Doatie</i>! I suppose," wistfully, "you +couldn't call me that?"</p> + +<p>"I am afraid not," says the professor, coloring even deeper.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"Perpetua—is it not?" says the professor, ever so kindly.</p> + +<p>"No—'Pet,'" corrects she. "It's shorter, you know, and far easier to +say."</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"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 <i>so soon</i>?"</p> + +<p>"I have classes," says the professor.</p> + +<p>"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, +"<i>such a life</i>!"</p> + +<p>It suggests itself to the professor that she is quite capable of doing +that now, though she is <i>not</i> of the sex male.</p> + +<p>"Good-bye," says he, holding out his hand.</p> + +<p>"You will come soon again?" demands she, laying her own in it.</p> + +<p>"Next week—perhaps."</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"That is terrible," says he, quite sincerely.</p> + +<p>"Yes. Isn't it?"</p> + +<p>"But soon you will know people. Your aunt has acquaintances. +They—surely they will call; they will see you—they——"</p> + +<p>"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! <i>go</i>," says she, "I have some work to do; and +you have your classes. It would never do for you to miss <i>them</i>. And as +for next week!—make it next month! I wouldn't for the world be a +trouble to you in any way."</p> + +<p>"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——</p> + +<p>"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 had +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.</p> + +<p>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——</p> + +<p>Why not call Thursday—or even Wednesday?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>What an old devil that aunt must be.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Dear, if you knew what tears they shed,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Who live apart from home and friend,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To pass my house, by pity led,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Your steps would tend."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>After every visit to her house he has sworn to himself that "<i>this one</i>" +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 Jane Majendie.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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 <i>anyone</i> could influence a mind so distorted as hers."</p> + +<p>"What is it?" asks the professor nervously—of Perpetua, not of Miss +Majendie.</p> + +<p>"I'm dull," says Perpetua sullenly.</p> + +<p>The professor glances keenly at the girl's downcast face, and then at +Miss Majendie. The latter glance is a question.</p> + +<p>"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 <i>you</i> may be able to discover her meaning."</p> + +<p>"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 <i>this</i> particular +young woman looks a little unsafe at the present moment.</p> + +<p>"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. "<i>Take</i> me out," says she suddenly.</p> + +<p>"Perpetua!" exclaims Miss Majendie. "How unmaidenly! How immodest!"</p> + +<p>Perpetua looks at her with large, surprised eyes.</p> + +<p>"Why?" says she.</p> + +<p>"I really think," interrupts the professor hurriedly, who sees breakers +ahead, "if I were to take Perpetua for a walk—a drive—to—er—to some +place or other—it might destroy this <i>ennui</i> of which she complains. If +you will allow her to come out with me for an hour or so, I——"</p> + +<p>"If you are waiting for <i>my</i> 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.</p> + +<p>"But——"</p> + +<p>"There is no 'But,' sir. The subject doesn't admit of argument. In my +young days, and I should think"—scrutinizing him exhaustively through +her glasses—"<i>in yours</i>, it was not customary for a young <i>gentlewoman</i> +to go out walking, alone, with '<i>a man</i>'!!" If she had said with a +famished tiger, she couldn't have thrown more horror into her tone.</p> + +<p>The professor had shrunk a little from that classing of her age with +his, but has now found matter for hope in it.</p> + +<p>"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 might please her to go."</p> + +<p>"The <i>real</i> age of a man now-a-days, sir, is a thing impossible to +know," says Miss Majendie. "You wear glasses—a capital disguise! I mean +nothing offensive—<i>so far</i>—sir, but it behoves me to be careful, and +behind those glasses, who can tell what demon lurks? Nay! No offence! An +<i>innocent</i> man would <i>feel</i> no offence!"</p> + +<p>"Really, Miss Majendie!" begins the poor professor, who is as red as +though he were the guiltiest soul alive.</p> + +<p>"Let me proceed, sir. We were talking of the ages of men."</p> + +<p><i>"We?"</i></p> + +<p>"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 <i>everywhere</i>—in fact"—with awful meaning—"<i>any</i> +where!"</p> + +<p>"I assure you, madam," begins the professor, springing to his +feet—Perpetua puts out a white hand.</p> + +<p>"Ah! let her talk," says she. "<i>Then</i> you will understand."</p> + +<p>"But men's ages, sir, are a snare and a delusion!" continues Miss +Majendie, who has 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 <i>he</i> must be so and so, and <i>he</i> a few years younger, but +looks are vain, they tell us nothing. Some look old, because they <i>are</i> +old, some look old—through <i>vice</i>!"</p> + +<p>The professor makes an impatient gesture. But Miss Majendie is equal to +most things.</p> + +<p>"'Who excuses himself <i>accuses</i> himself,'" quotes she with terrible +readiness. "Why that gesture, Mr. Curzon? I made no mention of <i>your</i> +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 <i>faithful</i> guardian" (with +open doubt, as to this, expressed in eye and pointed finger), "should be +the first to applaud my caution."</p> + +<p>"You take an extreme view," begins the professor, a little feebly, +perhaps. That eye and that pointed finger have cowed him.</p> + +<p>"One's views <i>have</i> to be extreme in these days if one would continue in +the paths of virtue," said Miss Majendie. "<i>Your</i> views," with a +piercing and condemnatory glance, "are evidently <i>not</i> 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."</p> + +<p>"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 +<i>for him</i> that gleams in her large eyes perfects his rout. To say that +she was <i>right</i>!</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"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 <i>at all</i>." 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 <i>see</i> something," she cries, gazing +imploringly at Curzon.</p> + +<p>"To <i>see</i> 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."</p> + +<p>"Most interesting place," says the professor, <i>sotto voce</i>, with a wild +but mad hope of smoothing matters down for Perpetua's sake.</p> + +<p>If it <i>was</i> for Perpetua's sake, she proves herself singularly +ungrateful. She turns upon him a small vivid face, alight with +indignation.</p> + +<p>"You support her," cries she. "<i>You!</i> Well, I shall tell you! +I"—defiantly—"I don't want to go to churches at all. I want to go to +<i>theatres</i>! There!"</p> + +<p>There is an awful silence. Miss Majendie'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.</p> + +<p>"Go to your room! And pray—<i>pray</i> 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 <i>my</i> roof you +shall never go to a sinful place of amusement. I forbid you ever to +speak of theatres again."</p> + +<p>"I shall not be forbidden!" says Perpetua. She confronts her aunt with +flaming eyes and crimson cheeks. "I <i>do</i> want to go to the theatre, and +to balls, and dances, and <i>everything</i>. 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!"</p> + +<p>She stops as if exhausted, surprised perhaps at her own daring, and +there is silence for a moment, a <i>little</i> moment, and then Miss Majendie +looks at her.</p> + +<p>"'The gayest thing in all the world:' <i>and your father only four months +dead</i>!" says she, slowly, remorselessly.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>It was but a momentary glimpse into a heart, but it was terrible. The +professor turns upon Miss Majendie in great wrath.</p> + +<p>"That was cruel—uncalled for!" says he, a strange feeling in his heart +that he has not time to stop and analyze <i>then</i>. "How could you hurt her +so? Poor child! Poor girl! She <i>loved</i> him!"</p> + +<p>"Then let her show respect to his memory," says Miss Majendie +vindictively. She is unmoved—undaunted.</p> + +<p>"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 +<i>does</i> want is change, amusement. She is young. Youth must enjoy."</p> + +<p>"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 into a +violent range. That one should dare to question <i>her</i> actions! "Who are +<i>you</i>?" demands she fiercely, "that you should presume to dictate right +and wrong to <i>me</i>."</p> + +<p>"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, though brave enough in the usual ways, is +not brave where women are concerned.</p> + +<p>"Guardian or no guardian, I will thank you to remember you are in <i>my</i> +house!" cries Miss Majendie, in a shrill tone that runs through the +professor's head.</p> + +<p>"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, however—just +yet.</p> + +<p>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:—</p> + +<p>"Mr. Curzon," first, and then, as he turns in answer to the whisper, +"Sh—<i>Sh</i>!"</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"My love is like the sea,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">As changeful and as free;<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Sometimes she's angry, sometimes rough,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Yet oft she's smooth and calm enough—<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Ay, much too calm for me."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p>It is Perpetua. A sad-eyed, a tearful-eyed Perpetua, but a lovely +Perpetua for all that.</p> + +<p>"Well?" says he.</p> + +<p>"<i>Sh!</i>" says she again, shaking her head ominously, and putting her +forefinger against her lip. "Come in here," says she softly, under her +breath.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"I felt I <i>must</i> see you," says she, "to tell you—to ask you. To—Oh! +you <i>heard</i> what she said! Do—do <i>you</i> think——?"</p> + +<p>"Not at all, not at all," declares the professor hurriedly. +"Don't—<i>don't</i> cry, Perpetua! Look here," laying his hand nervously +upon her shoulder and giving her a little angry shake. "<i>Don't</i> cry! +Good heavens! Why should you mind that awful old woman?"</p> + +<p>Nevertheless, he had minded that awful old woman himself very +considerably.</p> + +<p>"But—it <i>is</i> soon, isn't it?" says she. "I know that myself, and yet—" +wistfully—"I can't help it. I <i>do</i> want to see things, and to amuse +myself."</p> + +<p>"Naturally," says the professor.</p> + +<p>"And it isn't that I <i>forget</i> him," says she in an eager, intense tone, +"I <i>never</i> forget him—never—never. Only I do want to laugh sometimes +and to be happy, and to see Mr. Irving as Charles I."</p> + +<p>The climax is irresistible. The professor is unable to suppress a smile.</p> + +<p>"I'm afraid, from what I have heard, <i>that</i> won't make you laugh," says +he.</p> + +<p>"It will make me cry then. It is all the same," declares she, +impartially. "I shall be enjoying myself, I shall be <i>seeing</i> things. +You—" doubtfully, and mindful of his last speech—"Haven't you seen +him?"</p> + +<p>"Not for a long time, I regret to say. I—I'm always so busy," says the +professor apologetically.</p> + +<p>"<i>Always</i> studying?" questions she.</p> + +<p>"For the most part," returns the professor, an odd sensation growing +within him that he is feeling ashamed of himself.</p> + +<p>"'All work and no play,'" begins Perpetua, and stops, and shakes her +charming head at him. "<i>You</i> will be a dull boy if you don't take care," +says she.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Well, <i>I</i> can't study," says she.</p> + +<p>"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. Pleasure, riches, rank, <i>all</i> sink to +insignificance beside it."</p> + +<p>"How do you know?" says she. "You haven't tried the others."</p> + +<p>"I know it, for all that. I <i>feel</i> 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——"</p> + +<p>"I couldn't read <i>your</i> books," says she; "and—you haven't any novels, +I suppose?"</p> + +<p>"No," says he. "But——"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Nonsense!" said the professor gruffly.</p> + +<p>"You mustn't think I'm afraid about <i>that</i>" says Perpetua demurely; "I'm +not. I know the same place could never contain Aunt Jane and me for +long, so <i>I'm</i> all right."</p> + +<p>The professor struggles with himself for a moment and then gives way to +mirth.</p> + +<p>"Ah! <i>now</i> 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 <i>quite</i> 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?"</p> + +<p>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 <i>sounds</i> like Sir Walter, and yet—The professor +hesitates and is lost.</p> + +<p>"Scott," says he, with as good an air as he can command.</p> + +<p>"Wrong," cries she, clapping her hands softly, noiselessly. "Oh! you +<i>ignorant</i> 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."</p> + +<p>She laughs gaily. It occurs to the professor, in a misty sort of way, +that her laugh, at all events, would do <i>anyone</i> good.</p> + +<p>She has been pulling a ring on and off her finger unconsciously, as if +thinking, but now looks up at him.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Not come again? Why?"</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"I took her part to <i>help</i> you;" says the professor, feeling absurdly +miserable.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"This is a bad school for you," says the professor hurriedly.</p> + +<p>"Yes? Then why don't you take me away from it?"</p> + +<p>"If I could——but——Well, I shall see," says he vaguely.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"You have <i>some</i> friends surely?" says he.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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 <i>here</i>, 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.</p> + +<p>"I hope she will remember. Oh! she <i>must</i>," 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."</p> + +<p>"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 <i>gentle</i>women in <i>our</i> time, Mr. Curzon, never, went +out walking, <i>alone</i>, with <i>A Man</i>!"</p> + +<p>The mimicry is perfect. The professor, after a faint struggle with his +dignity, joins in her naughty mirth, and both laugh together.</p> + +<p>"'<i>Our</i>' time! she thinks you are a hundred and fifty!" says Miss +Wynter.</p> + +<p>"Well, so I am, in a way," returns the professor, somewhat sadly.</p> + +<p>"No, you're not," says she. "<i>I</i> know better than that. I," patting his +arm reassuringly, "can guess your age better than she can. I can see <i>at +once</i>, 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."</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>"That is taking off a clear hundred all at once," says she lightly. "No +small amount." 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>I</i> were old, and then +I should be able to get away from Aunt Jane—without—without any +<i>trouble</i>."</p> + +<p>"I am afraid you are indeed very unhappy here," says the professor +gravely.</p> + +<p>"I <i>hate</i> the place," cries she with a frown. "I shan't be able to stay +here. Oh! <i>why</i> didn't poor papa send me to live with you?"</p> + +<p>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" <i>wasn't</i> an old man of fifty——The professor checks his +thoughts, they are growing too mixed.</p> + +<p>"We should have been <i>so</i> 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 <i>so</i> happy, and so should I. You would—wouldn't you?"</p> + +<p>The professor nods his head. The awful vista she has opened up to him +has completely deprived him of speech.</p> + +<p>"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 <i>care</i> of you, and made your tea for +you, just," sadly, "as I used to do for poor papa, and——"</p> + +<p>It is becoming too much for the professor.</p> + +<p>"It is late. I must go," says he.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>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 he.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Were you going to cut me?" cries she. "What luck to meet you here. I am +having such a <i>lovely</i> 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."</p> + +<p>She has poured it all out, all her good news in a breath, as though sure +of a sympathetic listener.</p> + +<p>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——?</p> + +<p>"It's <i>only</i> a concert," says she, flushing and hesitating. "Do you +think that one should not go to a concert when——"</p> + +<p>"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 <i>such</i> black, and her air! She looks quite the +little heiress, like a little queen indeed—radiant, lovely.</p> + +<p>"<i>Well</i>—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.</p> + +<p>"One cannot be in mourning always," says he slowly. His manner is still +unfortunate.</p> + +<p>"You evade the question," says she frowning. "But a concert <i>isn't</i> like +a ball, is it?"</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"You hesitate," says she, "you disapprove then. But," defiantly, "I +don't care—a concert is <i>not</i> like a ball."</p> + +<p>"No—I suppose not!"</p> + +<p>"I can see what you are thinking," returns she, struggling with her +mortification. "And it is very <i>hard</i> of you. Just because <i>you</i> don't +care to go anywhere, you think <i>I</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."</p> + +<p>The professor looks at her. His face is perplexed—distressed—and +something more, but she cannot read that.</p> + +<p>"Well, not quite perhaps," says she, relenting slightly. "But nearly. +And if you don't take 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!"</p> + +<p>"No. No. Thank Heaven!" says the professor, shocked. Perpetua stares at +him a moment and then breaks into a queer little laugh.</p> + +<p>"You evidently have no desire to be mixed up with <i>my</i> 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 <i>my</i> affair. But, about this +concert,"—she leans towards him, resting her hand on the edge of the +carriage. "Do you think one should go <i>nowhere</i> when wearing black?"</p> + +<p>"I think one should do just as one feels," says the professor nervously.</p> + +<p>"I wonder if one should <i>say</i> just what one feels," says she. She draws +back haughtily, then wrath gets the better of dignity, and she breaks +out again. "What a <i>horrid</i> answer! <i>You</i> are unfeeling if you like!"</p> + +<p>"<i>I</i> am?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes! You would deny me this small gratification, you would lock me +up forever with Aunt Jane, you would debar me from everything! Oh!" her +lips trembling, "how I wish—I <i>wish</i>—guardians had never been +invented."</p> + +<p>The professor almost begins to wish the same. Almost—perhaps not quite! +That accusation about wishing to keep her locked up forever 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?</p> + +<p>"You have misunderstood me," says he calmly, gravely. "Far from wishing +you to deny yourself this concert, I am glad—glad from my <i>heart</i>—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."</p> + +<p>"No, I shall not stay there forever," says she slowly. "And so—you +really think——" she is looking very earnestly at him.</p> + +<p>"I do, indeed. Go out—go everywhere—enjoy yourself, child, while you +can."</p> + +<p>He lifts his hat and walks away.</p> + +<p>"Who was that, dear?" asks Mrs. Constans, a pretty pale woman, rushing +out of the shop and into the carriage.</p> + +<p>"My guardian—Mr. Curzon."</p> + +<p>"Ah!" glancing carelessly after the professor's retreating figure. "A +youngish man?"</p> + +<p>"No, old," says Perpetua, "at least I think—do you know," laughing, +"when he's <i>gone</i> I sometimes think of him as being pretty young, but +when he is <i>with</i> me, he is old—old and grave!"</p> + +<p>"As a guardian should be, with such a pretty ward," says Mrs. Constans, +smiling. "His back looks young, however."</p> + +<p>"And his laugh <i>sounds</i> young."</p> + +<p>"Ah! he can laugh then?"</p> + +<p>"Very seldom. Too seldom. But when he does, it is a nice laugh. But he +wears spectacles, you know—and—well—oh, yes, he <i>is</i> old, distinctly +old!"</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI</h2> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"He is happy whose circumstances suit his temper; but he is more +excellent who can suit his temper to any circumstances."</p></div> + +<p><br /></p> + + +<p>"The idea of <i>your</i> 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.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"You have grasped one great truth if you never grasp another!" says Mr. +Hardinge, who has now recovered. "Catch <i>me</i> marrying."</p> + +<p>"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——"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Would that be nonsense?" says the professor, with a faint smile.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Can you ask?" says he. "Go on, Curzon. What is she like?"</p> + +<p>"It wouldn't interest you," says the professor.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>The professor moves uneasily.</p> + +<p>"May I ask how you knew I <i>had</i> a ward?"</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"'How's the professor?'" said I.</p> + +<p>"'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!'</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"'Arrah! git out wid ye!' says she, 'ye scamp o' the world. 'Tis a +<i>ward</i> the masther has taken an' nothin' more.'</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"'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.</p> + +<p>"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——"</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"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——"</p> + +<p>"<i>She</i> cannot," says the professor, with anxious haste. "She knows +nobody in town."</p> + +<p>"Nobody?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Perpetua! Is that her name? What a peculiar one? Perpetua——"</p> + +<p>"Miss Wynter," sharply.</p> + +<p>"Perpetua—Miss Wynter! Exactly so! It sounds like—Dorothea—Lady +Highflown! Well, <i>your</i> Lady Highflown doesn't seem to have many friends +here. What a pity you can't send her back to Australia!"</p> + +<p>The professor is silent.</p> + +<p>"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——"</p> + +<p>"I did not say she had a temper."</p> + +<p>Hardinge has risen to get himself some whisky and soda, but pauses to +pat the professor affectionately on the back.</p> + +<p>"Of <i>course</i> 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 soon 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."</p> + +<p>"She would behave herself, as you call it," says the professor angrily, +"any and everywhere. She is a lady. She has been well brought up. I am +her guardian, she will do nothing without <i>my</i> permission!"</p> + +<p><i>"Won't she!"</i></p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"What's that?" said Hardinge. "Everett" (the man in the rooms below,) +"is out, I know."</p> + +<p>"It's coming here," says the professor.</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>The professor has risen to his feet. His face is deadly white. Mr. +Hardinge has risen too.</p> + +<p>"Perpetua!" says the professor; it would be impossible to describe his +tone.</p> + +<p>"I've come!" says Perpetua, advancing into the room. "I have done with +Aunt Jane, <i>for ever</i>," casting wide her pretty naked arms, "and I have +come to you!"</p> + +<p>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, do 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>The professor turns to Hardinge. That young man, who had risen with the +intention of leaving the room on Perpetua's entrance, is now standing +staring at her as if bewitched. His expression is half puzzled, half +amused. In <i>this</i> the professor's troublesome ward? This lovely, +graceful——</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>Meantime the professor is staring at Perpetua.</p> + +<p>"What has happened?" says he.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Take it to thy breast;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though thorns its stem invest,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Gather them, with the rest!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><br /></p> + + +<p>"She is unbearable. <i>Unbearable!</i>" returns Perpetua vehemently. "When I +came back from the concert to-night, she——But I won't speak of her. I +<i>won't</i>. And, at all events, I have done with her; I have left her. I +have come"—with decision—"to stay with you!"</p> + +<p>"Eh?" says the professor. It is a mere sound, but it expresses a great +deal.</p> + +<p>"To stay with you. Yes," nodding her head, "it has come to that at last. +I warned you it <i>would</i>. I couldn't stay with her any longer. I hate +her! So I have come to stay with you—<i>for ever</i>!"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Great heavens! What do 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.</p> + +<p>"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, <i>poor</i> papa—and ... well, that was the end. +I told her—amongst <i>other</i> 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 <i>her</i> +again! I've run away to you! See?"</p> + +<p>It must be acknowledged that the professor <i>doesn't</i> see. He is still +sitting on the edge of the table—dumb.</p> + +<p>"Oh! I'm so <i>glad</i> 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?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing," says the professor hastily. He removes the half-finished +tumbler of whisky and soda, and places it in the open cupboard.</p> + +<p>"It looked like <i>something</i>," says she. "But what about tea?"</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>He pulls his head out of the cupboard and turns to her.</p> + +<p>"You must be <i>mad</i>!" says he.</p> + +<p>"Mad? Why?" asks she.</p> + +<p>"To come here. Here! And at this hour!"</p> + +<p>"There was no other place; and I wasn't going to live under <i>her</i> 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 <i>you</i>—of course I have come to live with you."</p> + +<p>"You <i>can't</i>!" gasps the professor, "you must go back to Miss Majendie +at once!"</p> + +<p>"To <i>her</i>! 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 +<i>air</i>, she says), and so does her maid, you might ring until you were +black in the face, and she wouldn't hear you."</p> + +<p>"Well! you can't stay here!" says the professor, getting off the table +and addressing her with a truly noble attempt at sternness.</p> + +<p>"Why can't I?" There is some indignation in her tone. "There's lots of +room here, isn't there?"</p> + +<p>"There is <i>no</i> room!" says the professor. This is the literal truth. +"The house is full. And—and there are only men here."</p> + +<p>"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 <i>you're</i> a +man! Tell one of your servants to make me up a room somewhere."</p> + +<p>"There isn't one," says the professor.</p> + +<p>"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. <i>That woman</i> 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, +shan't I?"</p> + +<p>"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!"</p> + +<p>"Out of the——Oh! I <i>see</i>" cries she, springing to her feet and turning +a passionately reproachful face on his. "You mean that I shall be in +your way here!"</p> + +<p>"No, <i>no</i>, <span class="smcap">no</span>!" cries he, just as impulsively, and decidedly +very foolishly; but the sight of her small mortified face has proved too +much for him. "Only——"</p> + +<p>"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>I</i> shall not be comfortable. But I +shall. And I shall be a great comfort to you too—a great <i>help</i>. 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 <i>were</i> 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!"</p> + +<p>The professor's breath fails him. He grows pale. To "settle" his room!</p> + +<p>"Perpetua!" exclaims he, almost inarticulately, "you don't understand."</p> + +<p>"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 <i>you</i> too, by and by." She smiles at him gaily, with the most +charming innocence, but oh! what awful probabilities lie within her +words. <i>Settle him!</i></p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"They said——"</p> + +<p>"<i>What?</i>" demands the professor, almost fiercely. How dare a feeble +feminine audience appreciate or condemn his honest efforts to enlighten +his small section of mankind!</p> + +<p>"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>I</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."</p> + +<p>This extremely immoral advice she delivers with a beaming smile.</p> + +<p>"<i>I'll</i> be your daughter," says she.</p> + +<p>The professor goes rigid with horror. What has he <i>done</i> that the Fates +should so visit him?</p> + +<p>"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>I'll</i> brush it for you."</p> + +<p>"Look here!" says the professor furiously, subdued fury no doubt, but +very genuine. "You must go, you know. Go, <i>at once</i>! D'ye see? You can't +stay in this house, d'ye <i>hear</i>? I can't permit it. What did your father +mean by bringing you up like this!"</p> + +<p>"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. This +ebullition of wrath on the part of her mild guardian has been a slight +shock to her.</p> + +<p>"Tell me?" persists she.</p> + +<p>"Tell you! what is there to tell you? I should think the veriest infant +would have known she oughtn't to come here."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"At this hour?"</p> + +<p>"At any hour. What," throwing out her hands expressively, "is a guardian +<i>for</i>, if it isn't to take care of people?"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>"Who opened the door for you?" demands he abruptly.</p> + +<p>"A great big fat woman with a queer voice! Your Mrs. Mulcahy of course. +I remember your telling me about her."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Mulcahy undoubtedly. Well, the professor wishes now he had told +this ward <i>more</i> about her. Mrs. Mulcahy he can trust, but she—awful +thought—will she trust him? What is she thinking now?</p> + +<p>"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 <i>your</i> door, and," brightening, "there you were!"</p> + +<p>Here <i>she</i> is now at all events, at half-past twelve at night!</p> + +<p>"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——</p> + +<p>"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 <i>you</i>," +triumphantly, "I feel as hungry as ever I can be."</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>She gets up, and makes an impulsive step forward, and in doing so +brushes against a small rickety 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.</p> + +<p>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 +bursts into tears.</p> + +<p>"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 <i>sorry</i> he made you my +guardian. You would be glad if I were <i>dead</i>! 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 +<i>you</i> came to <i>me</i> starving, I'd give <i>you</i> things, but—you——"</p> + +<p>"<i>Stop!</i>" 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.</p> + +<p>The professor bursts in like a maniac!</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII.</h2> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"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."</p></div> + +<p><br /></p> + + +<p>"She's upstairs still," cries he in a frenzied tone. "She says she has +come <i>for ever</i>. That she will not go away. She doesn't understand. +Great Heaven! What I am to do?"</p> + +<p>"She?" says Hardinge, who really in turn grows petrified for the +moment—<i>only</i> for the moment.</p> + +<p>"That girl! My ward! All women are <i>demons</i>!" says the professor +bitterly, with tragic force. He pauses as if exhausted.</p> + +<p>"<i>Your</i> demon is a pretty specimen of her kind," says Hardinge, a little +frivolously under the circumstances it must be confessed. "Where is she +now?"</p> + +<p>"Upstairs!" with a groan. "She says she's <i>hungry</i>, and I haven't a +thing in the house! For goodness sake think of something, Hardinge."</p> + +<p>"Mrs. Mulcahy!" suggests Hardinge, in anything but a hopeful tone.</p> + +<p>"Yes—ye-es," says the professor. "You—<i>you</i> wouldn't ask her for +something, would you, Hardinge?"</p> + +<p>"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. +<i>Here we are!</i>" 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, <i>not</i> 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. <i>No.</i> +Sherry-Woine!"</p> + +<p>"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!"</p> + +<p>He marches out of the room and upstairs, leaving Hardinge, let us hope, +a pray 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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>Bed</i> 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.</p> + +<p>Whilst the professor is writhing in spirit over this ungetoutable fact, +he becomes aware of a resounding knock at his door. Paralyzed, he gazes +in the direction of the sound. It <i>can't</i> 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 breast. It is—it <i>must</i> +be—the Mulcahy!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"May I ask, Mr. Curzon," says she, with great dignity and more temper, +"what may be the meanin' of all this?"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Oh! it is all right <i>now</i>, 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 <i>horrid</i>! +I <i>should</i> have told you about how it was when I came, but I wanted so +much to see my guardian, and tell <i>him</i> all about it, that I forgot to +be nice to anybody. See?"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"I'm afraid he didn't <i>want</i> me here," Perpetua is saying, in a low +distressed little voice—"I'm sorry I came now—but, you don't <i>know</i> +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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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 likes 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!"</p> + +<p>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. <i>What</i> 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 <i>one</i> 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!"</p> + +<p>How many to-morrows is she going to remain here? Oh! Impossible! Not an +<i>hour</i> must be wasted. By the morning light something must be put on +foot to save the girl from her own foolhardiness, nay ignorance!</p> + +<p>Once again, sunk in the meshes of depression, the persecuted professor +descends to the room where Hardinge awaits him.</p> + +<p>"Anything new?" demands the latter, springing to his feet.</p> + +<p>"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!"</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"Eh?" says the professor. "She was visible of course. She was kinder +than I expected."</p> + +<p>"So, I see. She might so easily have made it your lip—or your +nose—or——"</p> + +<p>"<i>What</i> 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!"</p> + +<p>This is extremely rude, but Hardinge takes no notice of it.</p> + +<p>"I tell you she was kind—kinder than one would expect," says the +professor, rapping his knuckles on the table.</p> + +<p>"Oh! I see. She? Miss Wynter?"</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"Oh, well, <i>that's</i> all right," says Hardinge. "Sit down, old chap, and +let's talk it over."</p> + +<p>"It is <i>not</i> 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 <i>you</i> could, +do you, Hardinge?"</p> + +<p>"No, I don't, indeed," says Hardinge, in a hurry. "What on earth has +brought her here at all?"</p> + +<p>"To <i>stay</i>. Haven't I told you? To stay for ever. She says"—with a +groan—"she is going to settle me! To—to <i>brush my hair</i>! To—make my +tea. She says I'm her guardian, and insists on living with me. She +doesn't understand! Hardinge," desperately, "what <i>am</i> I to do?"</p> + +<p>"Marry her!" suggests Hardinge, who I regret to say is choking with +laughter.</p> + +<p>"That is a <i>jest</i>!" 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 a way, letting his arms fall over the sides of it. As a +type of utter despair he is a distinguished specimen.</p> + +<p>"Why don't you take her home again, back to the old aunt?" says +Hardinge, moved by his misery.</p> + +<p>"I can't. She tells me it would be useless, that the house is locked up, +and—and besides, Hardinge, her aunt—after <i>this</i>, you know—would +be——"</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"If she saw you now she might understand," says Hardinge—for, indeed, +the professor without his glasses loses thirty per cent. of old Time.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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 <i>not</i> +agree with him.</p> + +<p>"It looks like it," said Hardinge, who is rather enjoying himself. "By +Jove! what a thing to happen to <i>you</i>, Curzon, of all men in the world. +What are you going to do, eh?"</p> + +<p>"It isn't so much that," says the professor faintly. "It is what is +<i>she</i> going to do?"</p> + +<p>"<i>Next!</i>" 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——"</p> + +<p>The professor gets up suddenly.</p> + +<p>"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——"</p> + +<p>"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 <i>is</i> 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?"</p> + +<p>"She doesn't seem to like aunts" says the professor, with deep +dejection.</p> + +<p>"Small blame to her," says, Hardinge, smoking vigorously. "<i>I've</i> an +aunt—but 'that's another story!' Well—haven't you a cousin then?—or +something?"</p> + +<p>"I have a sister," says the professor slowly.</p> + +<p>"Married?"</p> + +<p>"A widow."</p> + +<p>("Fusty old person, out somewhere in the wilds of Finchley," says +Hardinge to himself. "Poor little girl—she won't fancy that either!")</p> + +<p>"Why not send her to your sister then?" says he aloud.</p> + +<p>"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——"</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"My sister is the Countess of Baring," says he gently.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Lady Baring!—<i>your</i> sister!" says he.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Your face, my Thane, is as a book, where men<br /></span> +<span class="i0">May read strange matters."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"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 <i>happy</i> 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."</p> + +<p>"You seem surprised again," says the professor, somewhat satirically.</p> + +<p>"I confess it," says Hardinge.</p> + +<p>"I can't see why you should be."</p> + +<p>"<i>I</i> do," says Hardinge drily. "That you," slowly, "<i>you</i> should be Sir +Hastings' brother! Why——"</p> + +<p>"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 greatest +troubles, that I always know what people are going to say when they +mention him. Let him alone, Hardinge."</p> + +<p>"Oh! <i>I'll</i> let him alone," says Hardinge, with a gesture of disgust. +There is a pause.</p> + +<p>"You know my sister, then?" says the professor presently.</p> + +<p>"Yes. She is very charming. How is it I have never seen you there?"</p> + +<p>"At her house?"</p> + +<p>"At her receptions?"</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Yes?" says the professor, as if asking for an explanation of the joke.</p> + +<p>"Oh! nothing—nothing. Only—you are such a queer fellow!" says +Hardinge, sitting up again to look at him. "You are a <i>rara avis</i>, 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."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Oh, come! cheer up," says Hardinge, "your pretty ward will be all +right. If Lady Baring takes her in hand, she——"</p> + +<p>"Ah! But will she?" says the professor. "Will she like Per——Miss +Wynter?"</p> + +<p>"Sure to," said Hardinge, with quite a touch of enthusiasm. "'To see her +is to love her, and love but'——"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"By Jove! you don't say so! What?" demands Mr. Hardinge, growing +earnest.</p> + +<p>"Will Miss Wynter like <i>her</i>?" says the professor. "That is the real +point."</p> + +<p>"Oh! I see!" says Hardinge thoughtfully.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>The professor, filled with hope, hies back to his rooms, calls for Mrs. +Mulcahy, tells her he is going to take his ward 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 <i>best</i> +suit, and——"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Mulcahy came generously to the rescue.</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"I am," says the professor.</p> + +<p>"Oh no, sir; the likes was never known. 'Tis the the father or one of +his belongings as gives away the bride, <i>niver</i> the husband to be, 'an +if ye <i>have</i> 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 <i>this</i>, that if ye don't behave dacent to her, ye'll have to answer +to Mrs. Mulcahy for that same."</p> + +<p>"What d'ye mean, woman?" roars the professor, indignantly. "Do you +imagine that I——?"</p> + +<p>"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——"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Mad!" repeats Mrs. Mulcahy furiously. "Who's mad? Faix," preparing to +leave the room, "'tis yerself was born widout a grain o' sinse!"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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! <i>His</i> 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.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"The sun is all about the world we see,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The breath and strength of very Spring; and we<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Live, love, and feed on our own hearts."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p>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, +rhymical, 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 gittering 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.</p> + +<p>It is broken, however.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"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 <i>did</i>!"</p> + +<p>"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?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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——"</p> + +<p>"Oh, no!" says Hardinge. "<i>All!</i> 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."</p> + +<p>"I should have if I danced," says she, "and I couldn't bear the after +reproach, so I don't do it."</p> + +<p>"And yet—yet you would <i>like</i> to dance?"</p> + +<p>"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 <i>this</i>," says she, +"that I wish the band would not play such nice waltzes!"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Shall I order them to stop?" asks Hardinge, laughing still, yet with +something in his gaze that tells her he <i>would</i> forbid them to play if +he could, if only to humor her.</p> + +<p>"No!" says she, "and after all,"—philosophically—"enjoyment is only a +name."</p> + +<p>"That's all!" says Hardinge, smiling. "But a very good one."</p> + +<p>"Let us forget it," with a little sigh, "and talk of something else, +something pleasanter."</p> + +<p>"Than enjoyment?"</p> + +<p>She gives way to his mood and laughs afresh.</p> + +<p>"Ah! you have me there!" says she.</p> + +<p>"I have not, indeed," he returns, quietly and with meaning. "Neither +there, nor anywhere."</p> + +<p>He gets up suddenly, and going to her, bends over the chair on which she +is sitting.</p> + +<p>"We were talking of what?" asks she, with admirable courage, "of names, +was it not? An endless subject. <i>My</i> name now? An absurd one surely. +Perpetua! I don't like Perpetua, do you?" She is evidently talking at +random.</p> + +<p>"I do indeed!" says Hardinge, promptly and fervently. His tone +accentuates his meaning.</p> + +<p>"Oh, but so harsh, so unusual!"</p> + +<p>"Unusual! That in itself constitutes a charm."</p> + +<p>"I was going to add, however—disagreeable."</p> + +<p>"Not that—never that," Says Hardinge.</p> + +<p>"You mean to say you really <i>like</i> Perpetua?" her large soft eyes +opening with amazement.</p> + +<p>"It is a poor word," says he, his tone now very low. "If I dared say +that I <i>adored</i> 'Perpetua,' I should be——"</p> + +<p>"Oh, you laugh at me," interrupts she with a little impatient gesture, +"you <i>know</i> how crude, how strange, how——"</p> + +<p>"I don't indeed. Why should you malign yourself like that? +You—<i>you</i>—who are——"</p> + +<p>He stops short, driven to silence by a look in the girl's eyes.</p> + +<p>"What have <i>I</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 <i>name</i>. 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."</p> + +<p>Hardinge, at this point, valiantly refrains from a threadbare quotation. +Perhaps he is too far crushed to be able to remember it.</p> + +<p>"Still it is charming," says he, somewhat confusedly.</p> + +<p>"It is absurd," says Perpetua coldly. There is evidently no pity in her. +And alas! when we think what <i>that</i> sweet feeling is akin to, on the +highest authority, one's hopes for Hardinge fall low. He loses his head +a little.</p> + +<p>"Not so absurd as your guardian's, however," says he, feeling the +necessity for saying something without the power to manufacture it.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Curzon's? What is his name?" asks she, rising out of her lounging +position and looking, for the first time, interested.</p> + +<p>"Thaddeus."</p> + +<p>Perpetua, after a prolonged stare, laughs a little.</p> + +<p>"What a name!" says she. "Worse than mine. And yet," still laughing, "it +suits him, I think."</p> + +<p>Hardinge laughs with her. Not <i>at</i> his friend, but <i>with</i> 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.</p> + +<p>"He is an awfully good old fellow," says he, throwing a sop to his +Cerberus.</p> + +<p>"Is he?" says Perpetua, as if even <i>more</i> 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.</p> + +<p>"You don't like him?" hazards he. "After all, I suppose it is hardly +natural that a ward <i>should</i> like her guardian."</p> + +<p>"Yes? And <i>why</i>?" asks Perpetua, still smiling, still apparently amused.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Would he?"</p> + +<p>"Well, I imagine so. It is traditionary. And you?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know about <i>other</i> people," says Miss Wynter, calmly, "I know +only this, that nobody ever yet controlled <i>me</i>, and I don't suppose now +that anybody ever will."</p> + +<p>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 <i>hates</i> him," decides he.)</p> + +<p>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 +spoilt child, and a beauty into the bargain.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"Don't you?" She draws back from him and looks up. "You think I shall +lead him a very bad life?"</p> + +<p>"Well, as <i>he</i> would regard it. Not as I should," with a sudden, +impassioned glance.</p> + +<p>Miss Wynter puts that glance behind her, and perhaps there is +something—something a little dangerous in the soft, <i>soft</i> look she now +turns upon him.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"Hardly that. But——"</p> + +<p>"Go on."</p> + +<p>"There was a little word or two, you know," laughing.</p> + +<p>"A hint?" laughing too, but how strangely! "Yes? And——?"</p> + +<p>"Oh! a <i>mere</i> 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?"</p> + +<p>"He could study me!" says she. "I should be a fresh specimen."</p> + +<p>"A <i>rara avis</i>, indeed! but not such as the professor's soul covets. No, +believe me, you are as dust before the wind in his learned eye."</p> + +<p>"You think then—that I—am a trouble to him?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Yet <i>I</i> am a discovery," persists she, looking at him with anxious +eyes, and leaning forward, whilst her fan falls idly on her knees.</p> + +<p>"Ah! But so unpardonably <i>recent</i>!" returns he with a smile.</p> + +<p>"True!" says she. She gives him one swift brilliant glance, and then +suddenly grows restless. "How <i>warm</i> it is!" she says fretfully. "I +wish——"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"But all was false and hollow; though his tongue<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dropped manna, and could make the worse appear<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The better reason, to perplex and dash<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Maturest counsels."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p>"Shall I take you to Lady Baring?" says Hardinge, quickly, rising and +bending as if to offer her his arm.</p> + +<p>"No, thank you," coldly.</p> + +<p>"I think," anxiously, "you once told me you did not care for Sir——"</p> + +<p>"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 <i>is</i> +my guardian's brother!—my guardian who would so gladly get rid of me." +There is bitterness on the young, red mouth.</p> + +<p>"You should not look at it in that light."</p> + +<p>"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 +<i>her</i>, have you? Ah!" with a sudden lovely smile, "you, Sir Hastings?"</p> + +<p>"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——"</p> + +<p>"No, no," says she, still with her most charming air. "I am not dancing +to-night. I shall not dance this year."</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"With pleasure," says she to Sir Hastings, smiling at him almost across +Hardinge's outstretched hand. The latter draws back.</p> + +<p>"You dismiss me?" says he, with a careful smile. He bows to her—he is +gone.</p> + +<p>"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! <i>Such</i> a mistake!"</p> + +<p>"I don't think that," says Perpetua. "To be earnest! One <i>should</i> be +earnest."</p> + +<p>"Should one?" Sir Hastings looks delighted expectation. "Tell me about +it," says he.</p> + +<p>"There is nothing to tell," says Perpetua, a little petulantly perhaps. +This tall, thin man! what a <i>bore</i> he is! And yet, the other—Mr. +Hardinge—well <i>he</i> was worse; he was a <i>fool</i>, anyway; he didn't +understand the professor one bit! "I like Mr. Hardinge," says she +suddenly.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>Involuntarily she recoils.</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"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 her +thoughtful eyes.</p> + +<p>To turn the conversation into another channel seems desirable to him.</p> + +<p>"I hope you are happy here with my sister," says he, in his anything but +everyday tone.</p> + +<p>"Quite happy, thank you. But I should have been happier still, I think, +if I had been allowed to stay with your brother."</p> + +<p>Sir Hastings drops his glasses. Good heavens! what kind of a girl is +this!</p> + +<p>"To stay with my brother! To <i>stay</i>," stammers he.</p> + +<p>"Yes. He <i>is</i> 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 tell her something to ease this +chagrin at her heart.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"You mean——?"</p> + +<p>"That he detests the best part of life—that he has deliberately turned +his back on all that makes our existence here worth the having. I should +call him a fool, but that one so dislikes having an imbecile in one's +family."</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"Women!" returns he, slowly, undauntedly, in spite of the innocence, the +serenity, that shines in the young and exquisite face before him.</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>"I understand," says she sorrowfully. "He will not care—<i>ever</i>. I shall +be always a trouble to him. He——"</p> + +<p>"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 +<i>he</i> cannot appreciate you, others can—<i>I</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.</p> + +<p>"Yes?" says she; and then suddenly, as if not caring for the answer she +has demanded. "You mean that he——You, <i>too</i>, think that he dislikes +me?" There is woe in the pale, small, lovely face.</p> + +<p>"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 <i>my</i> 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?</p> + +<p>"You were saying?" says she dreamily.</p> + +<p>"That the charm you possess, though of no value in the eyes of your +guardian, is, to <i>me</i>, indescribably attractive. In fact—I——"</p> + +<p>A second pause, meant to be even more effective.</p> + +<p>Perpetua turns her gaze more directly upon him. It occurs to her that he +is singularly dull, poor man.</p> + +<p>"Go on," says she. She nods her head at him with much encouragement.</p> + +<p>Her encouragement falls short. Sir Hastings, who had looked for girlish +confusion, is somewhat disconcerted by this open patronage.</p> + +<p>"May I?" says he—"You <i>permit</i> me then to tell you what I have so +longed, feared to disclose. I"—dramatically—"<i>love you</i>!"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>A curious light comes into Sir Hastings' eyes. This little Australian +girl, is she <i>laughing</i> at him? But the fact is that Perpetua is hardly +thinking of him at all, or merely as a shadow to her thoughts. Who <i>is</i> +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.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Love, like a June rose,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Buds and sweetly blows—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But tears its leaves disclose,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And among thorns it grows."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><br /></p> + + +<p>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 <i>now</i>!</p> + +<p>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 <i>all</i> new—or some sweet, +fresher memory of a picture well beloved?</p> + +<p>Then he had seen his brother!—Hastings—the disgrace, the +<i>roué</i> ... and bending over <i>her</i>!... There had been that little +movement, and the girl's calm drawing back, and——</p> + +<p>The professor's step forward at that moment had betrayed him to +Perpetua.</p> + +<p>She rises now, letting her fan fall without thought to the ground.</p> + +<p>"You!" cries she, in a little, soft, quick way. "<i>You!</i>" Indeed it seems +to her impossible that it can be he.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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 ought 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 <i>young</i>. Where are the glasses that until now hid his eyes? +Where is that old, old coat?</p> + +<p>"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 <i>might</i> be afraid of Sir +Hastings, but of Mr. Curzon, no!</p> + +<p>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 <i>wanted</i> 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:</p> + +<p>"You are tired?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," says Perpetua.</p> + +<p>"Shall I take you to Gwendoline?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," says Perpetua again.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"She will come with me," says the professor, with cold decision.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"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!"</p> + +<p>This astounding advice receives but little favor at Miss Wynter's hands.</p> + +<p>"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 <i>Guardian</i>!!" She puts a very big capital to +the last word.</p> + +<p>"I don't want to send you to bed," says the professor simply. "Though I +think little girls like you——"</p> + +<p>"I am not a little girl," indignantly.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"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>I</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 <i>hate</i> me."</p> + +<p>"That I—hate you!" The professor's voice is cold and shocked.</p> + +<p>"Yes. It is true. You need not deny it. You <i>know</i> 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.</p> + +<p>"Who told you that I hated you?" asks the professor in a peremptory sort +of way.</p> + +<p>"No," says she, shaking her head, "I shall not tell you that, but I have +heard it all the same."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Why should I not listen? It is true, is it not?"</p> + +<p>She looks up at him. She seems tremulously anxious for the answer.</p> + +<p>"You want me to deny it then?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, no, <i>no</i>!" she throws out one hand with a little gesture of mingled +anger and regret. "Do you think I want you to <i>lie</i> 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 <i>am</i> a +trouble, I suppose, and all troubles are hateful. I"—holding out her +hand—"shall take your advice, I think, and go to bed."</p> + +<p>"It was bad advice," says Curzon, taking the hand and holding it. "Stay +up, enjoy yourself, dance——"</p> + +<p>"Oh! I am not dancing," says she as if offended.</p> + +<p>"Why not?" eagerly, "Better dance than sleep at your age. You—you +mistook me. Why go so soon?"</p> + +<p>She looks at him with a little whimsical expression.</p> + +<p>"I shall not know you <i>at all</i>, 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.</p> + +<p>"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!"</p> + +<p>Perpetua rubs her fan up and down against her cheek for a little bit.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"You mean?" asks the professor anxiously.</p> + +<p>"Nothing—nothing at all. Good-night. Good-night, <i>indeed</i>."</p> + +<p>"Must you go? Is enjoyment nothing to you?"</p> + +<p>"Ah! you have killed all that for me," says she. This parting shaft she +hurls at him—<i>malice prepense</i>. 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.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Through thick and thin, both over bank and bush,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In hopes her to attain by hook or crook.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><br /></p> + + +<p>"You will begin to think me a fixture," says Hardinge with a somewhat +embarrassed laugh, flinging himself into an armchair.</p> + +<p>"You know you are always welcome," says the professor gently, if +somewhat absently.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Dissipation doesn't agree with you," says Hardinge with a faint smile.</p> + +<p>"No. I shall give it up," returns Curzon, his laugh a trifle grim.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"I wonder when that would be?" asks the professor indifferently.</p> + +<p>"When a man is a guardian," replies Hardinge promptly, and with evident +meaning.</p> + +<p>The professor glances quickly at him.</p> + +<p>"You mean——?" says he.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Seen what?"</p> + +<p>"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—<i>him</i>. It is beginning to be the chief topic of +conversation amongst his friends just now. The betting is already pretty +free."</p> + +<p>"Go on," says the professor.</p> + +<p>"I needn't go on. You know it now, if you didn't before."</p> + +<p>"It is you who know it—not I. <i>Say it!</i>" says the professor, almost +fiercely. "It is about her?"</p> + +<p>"Your ward? Yes. Your brother it seems has made his mind to bestow upon +her his hand, his few remaining acres, and," with a sneer, "his spotless +reputation."</p> + +<p>"<i>Hardinge!</i>" cries the professor, springing to his feet as if shot. He +is evidently violently agitated. His companion mistakes the nature of +his excitement.</p> + +<p>"Forgive me!" says he quickly. "Of course <i>nothing</i> 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 <i>life</i>, Curzon—and if anything +goes wrong with her——"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Nothing shall go wrong with her," says he, in a curious tone.</p> + +<p>Hardinge regards him keenly. Is this pallor, this unmistakable +trepidation, caused only by his dislike to hear his brother's real +character exposed.</p> + +<p>"Well, I have told you," says he coldly.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>Yes, the professor <i>had</i> 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.</p> + +<p>"Something must be done," says he.</p> + +<p>"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 <i>your</i> affair, you know. You are her guardian. You should see +to it."</p> + +<p>"I could speak to her."</p> + +<p>"That would be fatal. She is just the sort of girl to say 'Yes' to him +because she was told to say 'No.'"</p> + +<p>"You seem to have studied her," says the professor quietly.</p> + +<p>"Well, I confess I have seen a good deal of her of late."</p> + +<p>"And to some purpose. Your knowledge of her should lead you to making a +way out of this difficulty."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>Hardinge, getting up, moves abruptly to the window and back again.</p> + +<p>"You have known me a long time, Curzon," says he at last. "You—you have +been my friend. I have family—position—money—I——"</p> + +<p>"I am to understand, then, that <i>you</i> 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.</p> + +<p>"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 <i>is</i> your brother."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"And she?" says he. "Perpetua. Does she——" He hesitates as if finding +it impossible to go on.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"Yes? Sometimes?"</p> + +<p>"She has seemed kind."</p> + +<p>"Kind? How kind?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, no. Nothing very special. I have known girls do it often, but she +is not like other girls, is she?"</p> + +<p>The professor waves this question aside.</p> + +<p>"Keep to the point," says he.</p> + +<p>"Well, <i>she</i> 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 <i>this</i>," with a slight glance round the +dull little apartment, "one cannot help wondering why you——"</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"Oh! hardly that. And yet—she certainly seemed to like—that is not to +<i>dislike</i> my being with her: and once—well,"—confusedly—"that was +nothing."</p> + +<p>"It must have been something."</p> + +<p>"No, really; and I shouldn't have mentioned it either—not for a +moment."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>What was it—<i>what</i>? Shall he ever 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 she—had she—what +<i>was</i> 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 <i>long</i>." Yes, she had meant +that; that she was going to marry Hardinge!</p> + +<p>But to <i>know</i> 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——</p> + +<p>"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 <i>by</i> giving it, only," with a +nervous laugh, "I keep hoping she <i>did</i>!"</p> + +<p>A long, long sigh comes through the professor's lips straight from his +heart. Only a flower she gave him! Well——</p> + +<p>"What do <i>you</i> think?" asks Hardinge after a long pause.</p> + +<p>"It is a matter on which I could not think."</p> + +<p>"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 <i>you</i>."</p> + +<p>"I would rather see her dead than married to my brother," says the +professor, slowly, distinctly.</p> + +<p>"And——?" questions Hardinge.</p> + +<p>The professor hesitates a moment, and then:</p> + +<p>"What do you want me to do?" asks he.</p> + +<p>"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——"</p> + +<p>"If what?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>The professor throws back his head and laughs aloud. Such a strange +laugh.</p> + +<p>"I am to propose to her—I?" says he.</p> + +<p>"For me, of course. It is very usual," says Hardinge. "And you are her +guardian, you know, and——"</p> + +<p>"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——"</p> + +<p>"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 <i>will</i> 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."</p> + +<p>"True," says the professor. His head is lowered. "There, go," says he, +"I must think this over."</p> + +<p>"But I may depend upon you"—anxiously—"you will do what you can for +me?"</p> + +<p>"I shall do what I can for <i>her</i>."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Now, by a two-headed Janus,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nature hath framed strange fellows in her time."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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 <i>me</i> here, eh?"</p> + +<p>"You want me?" says the professor. "Don't sit down there—those notes +are loose; sit here."</p> + +<p>"Faith, you've guessed it, my dear fellow, I <i>do</i> 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."</p> + +<p>"I don't suppose you have come here to talk about Miss Wynter's good +manners."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"It is an excellent resolution, that might have been arrived at years +ago with greater merit," says the professor.</p> + +<p>"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, <i>bien entendu</i>—and it seems to me that +your ward, Miss Wynter, will suit me well enough."</p> + +<p>"And Miss Wynter, will you suit <i>her</i> well enough?"</p> + +<p>"A deuced sight too well, I should say. Why, the girl is of no family to +signify, whereas the Curzons——It will be a better match for her than +in her wildest dreams she could have hoped for."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps, in her wildest dreams, she hoped for a good man, and one who +could honestly love her."</p> + +<p>"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—<i>you</i> +know."</p> + +<p>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——</p> + +<p>"You will help me, eh?" persists Sir Hastings, with his little dry +chronic cough, that seems to shake his whole frame.</p> + +<p>"Impossible," says the professor, simply, coldly.</p> + +<p>"<i>No?</i> Why?"</p> + +<p>The professor looks at him (a penetrating glance), but says nothing.</p> + +<p>"Oh! damn it all!" says his brother, his brow darkening. "You had +<i>better</i>, you know, if you want the old name kept above water much +longer."</p> + +<p>"You mean——?" says the professor, turning a grave face to his.</p> + +<p>"Nothing but what is honorable. I tell you I mean to turn over a new +leaf. 'Pon my soul, I mean <i>that</i>. 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——"</p> + +<p>He pauses, struck by something in the professor's face.</p> + +<p>"You mean——?" says the latter again, even more slowly. His eyes are +beginning to light.</p> + +<p>"Exactly what I have said," sullenly. "You have heard me."</p> + +<p>"Yes, I <i>have</i> 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 <i>soul</i> as well! And it is me, <i>me</i> +whom you ask to be a party to this shameful transaction. Her dead father +left her to my care, and I am to sell her to you, that her money may +redeem our name from the slough into which <i>you</i> 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 <i>you</i>, as long as +there is breath left in my body."</p> + +<p>Sir Hastings has risen too; <i>his</i> 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.</p> + +<p>"What do <i>you</i> 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.</p> + +<p>"Exactly what <i>I</i> have said," retorts the professor, fiercely.</p> + +<p>"You refuse then to go with me in this matter?"</p> + +<p>"<i>Finally.</i> Even if I would, I could not. I—have other views for her."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Take care," says the professor, advancing a step or two.</p> + +<p>"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—<i>long</i> life before me—life——"</p> + +<p>A terrible change comes over his face, he reels backwards, only saving +himself by a blind clinging to a book-case on his right.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"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——"</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">My love is like the sky,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As distant and as high;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Perchance she's fair and kind and bright,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Perchance she's stormy—tearful quite—<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Alas! I scarce know why."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 last night's +party nor to-day's afternoon have had power to dim her beauty. Sleep had +visited <i>her</i> last night, at all events.</p> + +<p>She springs out of her chair, and throws her book on the table near her.</p> + +<p>"Why, you are the very last person I expected," says she.</p> + +<p>"No doubt," says the professor. Who was the <i>first</i> person she has +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."</p> + +<p>"Not a mummy, I trust," says she, a little flippantly.</p> + +<p>"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——"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"What's the matter with Mr. Hardinge," asks Perpetua, "that he can't +come here himself? Nothing serious, I hope?"</p> + +<p>"I am your guardian," says the professor—unfortunately, with all the +air of one profoundly sorry for the fact declared, "and he wishes <i>me</i> +to tell you that he—is desirous of marrying you."</p> + +<p>Perpetua stares at him. Whatever bitter thoughts are in her mind, she +conceals them.</p> + +<p>"He is a most thoughtful young man," says she, blandly. "And—and you're +another."</p> + +<p>"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 +<i>certain</i>, 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——"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"You must place great confidence in princes!" says she. "Even '<i>without</i> +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?"</p> + +<p>"I should hope——" begins the professor.</p> + +<p>"You needn't. It has nothing to do with it, nothing <i>at all</i>. 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."</p> + +<p>"I am afraid I have damaged my mission," says the professor, who has +never once looked at her since his first swift glance.</p> + +<p>"<i>Your</i> mission?"</p> + +<p>"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——"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"I would give a flower to <i>anyone</i>!" 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?</p> + +<p>"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 +<i>feel</i>—compelled him to do it, together with his honest diffidence +about your affection for him. Do not let pride stand in the way of——"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Are you sure?" persists he. "Afterwards you may regret——"</p> + +<p>"Oh, no!" says she, shaking her head. "<i>Mr. Hardinge</i> will not be the +one to cause me regret."</p> + +<p>"Still think——"</p> + +<p>"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 <i>rid</i> of me. You are <i>tired</i> of me. You +always thought me heartless, about my poor father even, and unloving, +and—hateful, and——"</p> + +<p>"Not heartless; what have I done, Perpetua, that you should say that?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing. That is what I <i>detest</i> about you. If you said outright what +you were thinking of me, I could bear it better."</p> + +<p>"But my thoughts of you. They are——" He pauses. What <i>are</i> 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.</p> + +<p>"They are <i>not</i>!" 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 <i>anyone</i> to gain position."</p> + +<p>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 an intense grief.</p> + +<p>"I do not," says the professor, who is trembling too, but whose +utterance is firm. "Whatever my thoughts are, <i>your</i> reading of them is +entirely wrong."</p> + +<p>"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 <i>you</i>. I needn't either. There +is somebody else who wants to marry me besides your—<i>your</i> candidate!" +with an indignant glance. "I have had a letter from Sir Hastings this +afternoon. And," rebelliously, "I haven't answered it yet."</p> + +<p>"Then you shall answer it now," says the professor. "And you shall say +'no' to him."</p> + +<p>"Why? Because you order me?"</p> + +<p>"Partly because of that. Partly because I trust to your own instincts to +see the wisdom of so doing."</p> + +<p>"Ah! you beg the question," says she, "but I'm not so sure I shall obey +you for all that."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Happy! <i>You</i> think of my happiness?"</p> + +<p>"Of what else?" A strange yearning look comes into his eyes. "God knows +it is <i>all</i> I think of," says he.</p> + +<p>"And so you would marry me to Mr. Hardinge?"</p> + +<p>"Hardinge is a good man, and he loves you."</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"That is in your own hands," says the professor. "But I shall have +something to say about the other proposal you speak of."</p> + +<p>"Do you think I want to marry your brother?" says she. "I tell you no, +no, <i>no</i>! A thousand times no! The very fact that he <i>is</i> your brother +would prevent me. To be your 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."</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"Decision?" stammers she.</p> + +<p>"Not to marry my brother."</p> + +<p>"Not to be more to you, you mean!"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"You are right," gravely. "I deny nothing. I wish with all my soul I had +never heard your name. I confess you troubled me. I go beyond even +<i>that</i>, 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 <i>her</i> heart."</p> + +<p>"Do you mean," says the girl, "that I have broken yours? <i>Yours?</i> 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.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Yet poor men have them," says the girl in a little low stifled tone. +"And—and girls have them too!"</p> + +<p>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 <i>they</i> meant! And yet to listen to her—to believe—he, her +guardian, a poor man, and she an heiress! Oh! no. Impossible.</p> + +<p>"So much the worse for the poor men," says he deliberately.</p> + +<p>There is no mistaking his meaning. Perpetua makes a little rapid +movement towards him—an almost imperceptible one. <i>Did</i> 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.</p> + +<p>"It is late," says Perpetua a moment afterwards. "I must go and dress +for dinner." <i>Her</i> eyes are down now. She looks pale and shamed.</p> + +<p>"You have nothing to say, then?" asks the professor, compelling himself +to the question.</p> + +<p>"About what?"</p> + +<p>"Hardinge."</p> + +<p>The girl turns a white face to his.</p> + +<p>"Will you then <i>compel</i> 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.</p> + +<p>At this moment the door is thrown suddenly open, and a man—evidently a +professional man—advances into the room.</p> + +<p>"Sir Thaddeus," begins he, in a slow, measured way.</p> + +<p>The professor stops dead short. Even Perpetua looks amazed.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVI" id="CHAPTER_XVI"></a>CHAPTER XVI.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Till the secret be secret no more<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the light of one hour as it flies,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Be the hour as of suns that expire<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Or suns that rise."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>long</i> 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, "<i>some</i> people have +strange views about duty."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"I have been here for some time," says she calmly. "A whole month, isn't +it?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I know. Were you going into that green little place. It looks +cool."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Perpetua!" says he, turning to her. His tone is low, impassioned. "I +have come. I could not come sooner, and I <i>would</i> not write. How could I +put it all on paper? You remember that last evening?"</p> + +<p>"I remember," says she faintly.</p> + +<p>"And all you said?"</p> + +<p>"All <i>you</i> said."</p> + +<p>"I said nothing. I did not dare. <i>Then</i> 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."</p> + +<p>"Nothing!" echoes she. "Have you then forgotten?" She raises her head, +and casts at him a swift, but burning glance. "<i>Was</i> 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 +<i>have</i> 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?"</p> + +<p>"Not his—to-day."</p> + +<p>"Whose then? Another suitor, maybe? It seems I have more than even I +dreamt of."</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"I am not given to dreams," says she, with a petulant shrug, "<i>I</i> know +what I mean always. And as I tell you, if you <i>have</i> 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 yourself the trouble. Even +the country does not save me from suitors. I can make my choice from +many, and when I <i>do</i> want to marry, I shall choose for myself."</p> + +<p>"Still—if you would permit me to name <i>this</i> 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.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"I don't think I ever controlled you, Perpetua."</p> + +<p>"N—o! Perhaps not. But then you tried to. That's worse."</p> + +<p>"Do you forbid me then to lay before you—this name—that I——?"</p> + +<p>"I have told you," says she, "that I can find a name for myself."</p> + +<p>"You forbid me to speak," says he slowly.</p> + +<p>"<i>I</i> forbid! A ward forbid her guardian! I should be afraid!" says she, +with an extremely naughty little glance at him.</p> + +<p>"You trifle with me," says the professor slowly, a little sternly, and +with uncontrolled despair. "I thought—I believed—I was <i>mad</i> enough to +imagine, from your manner to me that last night we met, that I was +something more than a mere guardian to you."</p> + +<p>"More than <i>that</i>. That seems to be a Herculean relation. What more +would you be?"</p> + +<p>"I am no longer that, at all events."</p> + +<p>"What!" cries she, flushing deeply. "You—you give me up——"</p> + +<p>"It is you who give <i>me</i> up."</p> + +<p>"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 <i>said</i> you were to take care of me."</p> + +<p>"Your father did not know."</p> + +<p>"He <i>did</i>. He said you were the one man in all the world he could +trust."</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"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 <i>tell</i> you you +were in a hurry to get rid of me?"</p> + +<p>This most unfair accusation rouses the professor to extreme wrath. He +turns round and faces her like an enraged lion.</p> + +<p>"You are a child," says he, in a tone sufficient to make any woman +resentful. "It is folly to argue with you."</p> + +<p>"A child! What are you then?" cries she tremulously.</p> + +<p>"A <i>fool</i>!" 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. <i>That</i> 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 <i>my</i> 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."</p> + +<p>He strides towards the doorway. He has almost turned the corner.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"It is to you—to <i>you</i> I would tell his name," sobs she, as he returns +slowly, unwillingly, but <i>surely</i>, to her. "To you alone."</p> + +<p>"To me! Go on," says Curzon; "let me hear it. What is the name of this +man you want to marry?"</p> + +<p>"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 <i>hideous</i> name it is, too!"</p> + +<p>But this last little firework does no harm. Curzon is too ecstatically +happy to take notice of her small impertinence.</p> + +<p>THE END.</p> + + + + + + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>JELLY OF CUCUMBER AND ROSES.</h2> + +<p>MADE BY W. A. DYER & CO., MONTREAL, is a delightfully +fragrant Toilet article. Removes freckles and sun-burn, +and renders chapped and rough skin, after +one application, smooth and pleasant. No Toilet-table is +complete without a tube of Dyer's Jelly of Cucumber and +Roses. Sold by all Druggists.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Agents for United States—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">CASWELL, MASSEY & CO., New York & Newport.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>Teeth Like Pearls!</h2> + +<p>Is a common expression. The way to obtain it, use +Dyer's Arnicated Tooth Paste, fragrant and delicious. +Try it. Druggists keep it.</p> + +<p>W.A. DYER & CO., MONTREAL.</p> + + + + + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>Burdock BLOOD BITTERS</h2> + +<p>THE KEY TO HEALTH unlocks +all the clogged secretions of the Stomach, Liver, +Bowels and Blood, carrying off all humors and +impurities from the entire system, correcting Acidity, +and curing Biliousness, Dyspepsia, Sick Headache, +Constipation, Rheumatism, Dropsy, Dry +Skin, Dizziness, Jaundice, Heartburn, Nervous +and General Debility, Salt Rheum, Erysipelas, +Scrofula, etc. It purifies and eradicates from the +Blood all poisonous humors, from a common +Pimple to the worst Scrofulous Sore.</p> + + + + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>DYSPEPSINE!</h2> + +<p>The Great American Remedy.</p> + +<p>FOR DYSPEPSIA</p> + +<p>In all Its forms, +As Indigestion, Flatulency, Heartburn, +Waterbrash, Sick-Headache, Constipation, +Biliousness, and all forms of Dyspepsia; regulating +the action of the stomach, and of the digestive organs.</p> + +<p>Sold by all druggist, 5Oc. a bottle.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Sole Proprietor, WALLACE DAWSON.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">MONTREAL, CAN., ROUSES POINT, N. Y.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<hr style='width: 65%;' /> + + +<h2>DR. CHEVALLIER'S RED SPRUCE GUM PASTE,</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">DR. NELSON'S PRESCRIPTION,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>GOUDRON de NORWEGE</i>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">ARE THE BEST REMEDIES<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For COUGHS and COLDS.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Insist upon getting one of them.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">25c. each.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For Sale by all Respectable Druggists.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">LAVIOLETTE & NELSON, Druggists,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>AGENTS OF FRENCH PATENTS.</i> 16O5 Notre Dame St.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>Have you Teeth?</h2> + +<p>—THEN PRESERVE THEM BY USING—</p> + +<p>LYMAN'S +CHERRY +TOOTH PASTE.</p> + +<p>Whitens the teeth, sweetens the breath, prevents decay.</p> + +<p>In handsome Engraved Pots,—25 cents each.</p> + +<p>Trade Mark Secured.</p> + +<p>Lyman's +Royal Canadian Perfumes.</p> + +<p>The only CANADIAN PERFUMES on the +English Market.</p> + + +<p>Cerise.<br /> +English Violets.<br /> +Heliotrope.<br /> +Jockey Club.<br /> +Etc.</p> + +<p>Prairie Flowers.<br /> +Pond Lily<br /> +White Rose.<br /> +Ylang Ylang.<br /> +Etc.</p> + + + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<h2>LORGE & CO.,</h2> + +<p>ESTABLISHED 1852</p> + +<p>HATTERS & FURRIERS.</p> + +<p>21 ST. LAWRENCE MAIN ST. 21</p> + +<p>MONTREAL.</p> + +<p>Established 1866.</p> + +<p>L. J. A. SURVEYER,</p> + +<p>6 ST. LAWRENCE ST.</p> + +<p>(near Craig Street.)</p> + +<p>HOUSE FURNISHING HARDWARE,</p> + +<p>Brass, Vienna and Russian Coffee Machines,</p> + +<p>CARPET SWEEPERS, CURTAIN STRETCHERS,</p> + +<p>BEST ENGLISH CUTLERY,</p> + +<p>FRENCH MOULDS, &c.,</p> + +<p>BUILDERS' HARDWARE, TOOLS, ETC.</p> + + + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + + +<h2>COVERNTON'S SPECIALTIES</h2> + +<p>GOOD MORNING!</p> + +<p>HAVE you used <span class="smcap">Covernton's</span> Celebrated +FRAGRANT CARBOLIC TOOTH WASH,</p> + +<p>For Cleansing and Preserving the Teeth, Hardening the +Gums, etc. Highly recommended by the leading Dentists +of the City. Price, 25c., 50c., and $1.00 a bottle.</p> + +<p>COVERNTON'S SYRUP OF WILD CHERRY,</p> + +<p>For Coughs, Colds, Asthma, Bronchitis, etc. Price 25c.</p> + +<p>COVERNTON'S AROMATIC BLACKBERRY +CARMINATIVE,</p> + +<p>For Diarrhea, Cholera Morbus, Dysentery, etc. Price 25c.</p> + +<p>COVERNTON'S NIPPLE OIL,</p> + +<p>For Cracked or Sore Nipples. Price 25c.</p> + +<p>GOOD EVENING!</p> + +<p>USE +COVERNTON'S ALPINE CREAM</p> + +<p>for Chapped Hands, Sore Lips, Sunburn, Tan, Freckles, +etc. A most delightful preparation for the Toilet. Price 25c.</p> + +<p>C. J. COVERNTON & CO.,</p> + +<p>Dispensing Chemists, +CORNER OF BLEURY AND DORCHESTER STREETS, +<i>Branch, 469 St. Lawrence Street,</i> +MONTREAL.</p> + + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's A Little Rebel, by Margaret Wolfe Hungerford + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LITTLE REBEL *** + +***** This file should be named 19175-h.htm or 19175-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/9/1/7/19175/ + +Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Mary Meehan and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by the Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions +(www.canadiana.org)) + + +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. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +http://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" +or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +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 + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at http://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit http://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. +To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + + +</pre> + +</body> +</html> diff --git a/19175.txt b/19175.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4fa725b --- /dev/null +++ b/19175.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4358 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Little Rebel, by Margaret Wolfe 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 + A Novel + +Author: Margaret Wolfe Hungerford + +Release Date: September 4, 2006 [EBook #19175] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LITTLE REBEL *** + + + + +Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Mary Meehan and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by the Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions +(www.canadiana.org)) + + + + + + + + + + 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 the 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 +always 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 L80,000, 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 _plante la_ +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 word'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 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 or 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 into the drawing-room of +the house where Miss Jane Majendie lives. + +His thoughts are still full of 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's 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 brow 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 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 now 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 are 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 had +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 Jane 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 sees 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"--scrutinizing 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 might please her to go." + +"The _real_ age of a man now-a-days, 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 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 Majendie'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 analyze _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 into a +violent range. 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, though 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, 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. Pleasure, 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!" said 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 all at once," says she lightly. "No +small amount." 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 he. + +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 take 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 forever 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 forever 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 forever," 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 soon 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 everywhere. 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?" said 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, do 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 standing +staring at her as if bewitched. His expression is half puzzled, half +amused. In _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. + +"Great heavens! What do 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 still +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, +shan't I?" + +"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. This +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 +this 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 rickety 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 +bursts 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 I am 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 for +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 pray 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_ 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 his 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 breast. 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 likes 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 a 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 your 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 greatest +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 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 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 I----?" + +"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, +rhymical, 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 gittering 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 eyes. + +"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 +spoilt 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 her +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 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 the 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 +longed, 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 +_roue_ ... 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 ought 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 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 ever 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 she--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 a 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 be 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 soul, 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 I am 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 last 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 has +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 an 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 she, "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 your 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 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 yourself the trouble. Even +the country does not 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. + + + + + * * * * * + + +JELLY OF CUCUMBER AND ROSES. + +MADE BY W. A. DYER & CO., MONTREAL, is a delightfully fragrant Toilet +article. Removes freckles and sun-burn, and renders chapped and rough +skin, after one application, smooth and pleasant. No Toilet-table is +complete without a tube of Dyer's Jelly of Cucumber and Roses. Sold by +all Druggists. + +Agents for United States-- +CASWELL, MASSEY & CO., New York & Newport. + + + * * * * * + + +Teeth Like Pearls! + +Is a common expression. The way to obtain it, use Dyer's Arnicated Tooth +Paste, fragrant and delicious. Try it. Druggists keep it. + +W.A. DYER & CO., MONTREAL. + + + * * * * * + + +Burdock BLOOD BITTERS + +THE KEY TO HEALTH unlocks all the clogged secretions of the Stomach, +Liver, Bowels and Blood, carrying off all humors and impurities from the +entire system, correcting Acidity, and curing Biliousness, Dyspepsia, +Sick Headache, Constipation, Rheumatism, Dropsy, Dry Skin, Dizziness, +Jaundice, Heartburn, Nervous and General Debility, Salt Rheum, +Erysipelas, Scrofula, etc. It purifies and eradicates from the Blood all +poisonous humors, from a common Pimple to the worst Scrofulous Sore. + + + * * * * * + + +DYSPEPSINE! + +The Great American Remedy. + +FOR DYSPEPSIA + +In all Its forms, + +As Indigestion, Flatulency, Heartburn, Waterbrash, Sick-Headache, +Constipation, Biliousness, and all forms of Dyspepsia; regulating +the action of the stomach, and of the digestive organs. + +Sold by all druggist, 5Oc. a bottle. + +Sole Proprietor, WALLACE DAWSON. +MONTREAL, CAN., ROUSES POINT, N. Y. + + + * * * * * + + +DR. CHEVALLIER'S RED SPRUCE GUM PASTE, + +DR. NELSON'S PRESCRIPTION, +_GOUDRON de NORWEGE_, +ARE THE BEST REMEDIES +For COUGHS and COLDS. + +Insist upon getting one of them. +25c. each. + +For Sale by all Respectable Druggists. + +LAVIOLETTE & NELSON, Druggists, +_AGENTS OF FRENCH PATENTS._ 16O5 Notre Dame St. + + + * * * * * + + +Have you Teeth? + +--THEN PRESERVE THEM BY USING-- + +LYMAN'S CHERRY TOOTH PASTE. + +Whitens the teeth, sweetens the breath, prevents decay. + +In handsome Engraved Pots,--25 cents each. + +Trade Mark Secured. + +Lyman's +Royal Canadian Perfumes. + +The only CANADIAN PERFUMES on the English Market. + +Cerise. +English Violets. +Heliotrope. +Jockey Club. +Etc. + +Prairie Flowers. +Pond Lily +White Rose. +Ylang Ylang. +Etc. + + + * * * * * + + +ESTABLISHED 1852 + +LORGE & CO., + +HATTERS & FURRIERS. + +21 ST. LAWRENCE MAIN ST. 21 + +MONTREAL. + +Established 1866. + +L. J. A. SURVEYER, + +6 ST. LAWRENCE ST. + +(near Craig Street.) + +HOUSE FURNISHING HARDWARE, + +Brass, Vienna and Russian Coffee Machines, + +CARPET SWEEPERS, CURTAIN STRETCHERS, + +BEST ENGLISH CUTLERY, + +FRENCH MOULDS, &c., + +BUILDERS' HARDWARE, TOOLS, ETC. + + + * * * * * + + +COVERNTON'S SPECIALTIES + +GOOD MORNING! + +HAVE you used COVERNTON'S Celebrated FRAGRANT CARBOLIC TOOTH WASH, + +For Cleansing and Preserving the Teeth, Hardening the Gums, etc. Highly +recommended by the leading Dentists of the City. Price, 25c., 50c., and +$1.00 a bottle. + +COVERNTON'S SYRUP OF WILD CHERRY, + +For Coughs, Colds, Asthma, Bronchitis, etc. Price 25c. + +COVERNTON'S AROMATIC BLACKBERRY CARMINATIVE, + +For Diarrhea, Cholera Morbus, Dysentery, etc. Price 25c. + +COVERNTON'S NIPPLE OIL, + +For Cracked or Sore Nipples. Price 25c. + +GOOD EVENING! + +USE COVERNTON'S ALPINE CREAM + +for Chapped Hands, Sore Lips, Sunburn, Tan, Freckles, etc. A most +delightful preparation for the Toilet. Price 25c. + +C. J. COVERNTON & CO., + +Dispensing Chemists, +CORNER OF BLEURY AND DORCHESTER STREETS, +_Branch, 469 St. Lawrence Street,_ +MONTREAL. + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's A Little Rebel, by Margaret Wolfe Hungerford + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LITTLE REBEL *** + +***** This file should be named 19175.txt or 19175.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/9/1/7/19175/ + +Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Mary Meehan and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by the Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions +(www.canadiana.org)) + + +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. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +http://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" +or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +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 + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at http://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit http://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. +To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/19175.zip b/19175.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..8e834f0 --- /dev/null +++ b/19175.zip diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7a4cc45 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #19175 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/19175) |