Mrs. HUNGERFORD (Margaret Wolfe Hamilton) (1855?-1897), A little Rebel (1890) Lovell edition

A LITTLE REBEL

A NOVEL

BY

THE DUCHESS

_Author of "Her Last Throw, " "April's Lady, ""Faith and Unfaith, " etc. Etc. _

Montreal:

JOHN LOVELL & SON, 23 ST. NICHOLAS STREET. 

Entered according to Act of Parliament in the year 1891, by JohnLovell & Son, in the office of the Minister of Agriculture andStatistics at Ottawa. 

A LITTLE REBEL. 

CHAPTER I. 

"Perplex'd in the extreme. "

"The memory of past favors is like a rainbow, bright, vivid andbeautiful. "

The professor, sitting before his untasted breakfast, is looking thevery picture of dismay. Two letters lie before him; one is in hishand, 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--areall he has read; whereas he has read the other from start to finish, already three times. It is from the old friend himself, written aweek before his death, and very urgent and very pleading. Theprofessor has mastered its contents with ever-increasingconsternation. 

Indeed so great a revolution has it created in his mind, that hisface--(the index of that excellent part of him)--has, for themoment, undergone a complete change. Any ordinary acquaintance nowentering the professor's rooms (and those acquaintances might bewhittled down to quite a _little_ few), would hardly have known him. For the abstraction that, as a rule, characterizes his features--theway he has of looking at you, as if he doesn't see you, thatharasses the simple, and enrages the others--is all gone! Not atrace of it remains. It has given place to terror, open andunrestrained. 

"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 pausesagain, and now again gives way to the fear that is destroyinghim--"A _grown_ girl!"

After this, he seems too overcome to continue his reflections, sogoes back to the fatal letter. Every now and then a groan escapeshim, mingled with mournful remarks, and extracts from the sheet inhis hand--

"Poor old Wynter! Gone at last!" staring at the shaking signature atthe end of the letter that speaks so plainly of the coming icyclutch that should prevent the poor hand from forming ever againeven such sadly erratic characters as these. "At least, " glancing atthe half-read letter on the cloth--_"this_ tells me so. Hissolicitor's, I suppose. Though what Wynter could want with asolicitor---- Poor old fellow! He was often very good to me in theold 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 hethrew up his work here and went to Australia!. . . Ten years. The girlmust have been born before he went, "--glances at letter--"'Mychild, my beloved Perpetua, the one thing on earth I love, will beleft entirely alone. Her mother died nine years ago. She is onlyseventeen, and the world lies before her, and never a soul in it tocare how it goes with her. I entrust her to you--(a groan). To you Igive her. Knowing that if you are living, dear fellow, you will notdesert me in my great need, but will do what you can for my littleone. '"

"But what is that?" demands the professor, distractedly. He pusheshis spectacles up to the top of his head, and then drags them downagain, and casts them wildly into a sugar-bowl. "What on earth am Ito 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 knowWynter--he has died without a penny. He was bound to do that, as healways lived without one. _Poor_ old Wynter!"-- as if a littleashamed of himself. "I don't see how I can afford to put her out tonurse. " He pulls himself up with a start. "To nurse! a girl ofseventeen! She'll want to be going out to balls and things--at herage. "

As if smitten to the earth by this last awful idea, he picks hisglasses out of the sugar and goes back to the letter. 

"You will find her the dearest girl. Most loving, andtender-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 youngkangaroo, no doubt. What will the landlady say? I shall leave theserooms"--with a fond and lingering gaze round the dingy old apartmentthat hasn't an article in it worth ten sous--"and take a smallhouse--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 goodin _looking_ an old fogey, if you aren't one; it's no earthlyuse, "--standing before a glass and ruefully examining hiscountenance--"in looking fifty, if you are only thirty-four. It willbe a scandal, " says the professor mournfully. "They'll cut _her_, and they'll cut me, and--what the _deuce_ did Wynter mean by leavingme his daughter? A real live girl of seventeen! It'll be the deathof me, " says the professor, mopping his brow. "What"--wrathfully--"that determined spendthrift meant, byflinging 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 fatherwho was only too prone to quarrel with anyone who gave him thechance, seems but a poor thing. The professor's quarrel with hisfather had been caused by the young man's refusal to accept aGovernment appointment--obtained with some difficulty--for the veryinsufficient 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, havemade his mark in the world, if the world and its pleasures had notmade their mark on him. He had been young Curzon's coach at onetime, and finding the lad a kindred spirit, had opened out to himhis own large store of knowledge, and steeped him in that great seaof 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 thenarrow, 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 andbegins to read it. At the end of the second page, he starts, re-reads a sentence or two, and suddenly his face becomesilluminated. He throws up his head. He cackles a bit. He looks as ifhe wants to say something very badly--"Hurrah, " probably--only hehas forgotten how to do it, and finally goes back to the letteragain, and this time--the third time--finishes it. 

Yes. It is all right! Why on earth hadn't he read it _first?_ So thegirl is to be sent to live with her aunt after all--an oldlady--maiden lady. Evidently living somewhere in Bloomsbury. MissJane Majendie. Mother's sister evidently. Wynter's sisters wouldnever have been old maids, if they had resembled him, which probablythey did--if he had any. What a handsome fellow he was! and such agood-natured fellow too. 

The professor colors here in his queer sensitive way, and pushes hisspectacles up and down his nose, in another nervous fashion of his. After all, it was only this minute he had been accusing old Wynterof anything but good nature. Well! He had wronged him there. Heglances at the letter again. 

He has only been appointed her guardian, it seems. Guardian of herfortune, rather than of her. 

The old aunt will have the charge of her body, the--er--pleasure ofher society--_he, _ of the estate only. 

Fancy Wynter, of all men, dying rich--actually _rich_. The professorpulls his beard, and involuntarily glances round the somewhat meagreapartment, that not all his learning, not all his success in thescientific world--and it has been not unnoteworthy, so far--hasenabled him to improve upon. It has helped him to live, no doubt, and distinctly outside the line of _want, _ a thing to be gratefulfor, as his family having in a measure abandoned him, he, on hispart, had abandoned his family in a _measure_ also (and withreservations), and it would have been impossible to him, of all men, to confess himself beaten, and return to them for assistance of anykind. He could never have enacted the part of the prodigal son. Heknew this in earlier days, when husks were for the most part all hehad to sustain him. But the mind requires not even the materialhusk, it lives on better food than that, and in his case mind hadtriumphed over body, and borne it triumphantly to a safe, if not asyet to a victorious, goal. 

Yet Wynter, the spendthrift, the erstwhile master of him who nowcould be _his_ master, has died, leaving behind him a fortune. Whatwas the sum? He glances back to the sheet in his hand and verifieshis thought. Yes--eighty thousand pounds! A good fortune even inthese luxurious days. He has died worth £80, 000, of which hisdaughter is sole heiress!

Before the professor's eyes rises a vision of old Wynter. They usedto call him "old, " those boys who attended his classes, though hewas as light-hearted as the best of them, and as handsome as adissipated Apollo. They had all loved him, if they had not reveredhim, and, indeed, he had been generally regarded as a sort of livingand lasting joke amongst them. 

Curzon, holding the letter in his hand, and bringing back to hismemory the handsome face and devil-may-care expression of his tutor, remembers how the joke had widened, and reached its height when, atforty years of age, old Wynter had flung up his classes, leavingthem all _planté là_ as it were, and declared his intention ofstarting 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 onlyknown. Wynter _had_ made that mythical "pile, " and had left hisdaughter an heiress!

Not only an heiress, but a gift to Miss Jane Majendie, of somewherein Bloomsbury. 

The professor's disturbed face grows calm again. It even occurs tohim that he has not eaten his breakfast. He so _often_ remembersthis, that it does not trouble him. To pore over his books (that areoverflowing every table and chair in the uncomfortable room) untilhis eggs are India-rubber, and his rashers gutta-percha, is not afresh experience. But though this morning both eggs and rasher haveattained a high place in the leather department, he enters on hissorry repast with a glad heart. 

Sweet are the rebounds from jeopardy to joy! And he has so _much_ ofjoy! Not only has he been able to shake from his shoulders thatawful incubus--and ever-present ward--but he can be sure that theabsent ward is so well-off with regard to this world's goods, thathe need never give her so much as a passing thought--dragged, _torn_as that thought would be from his beloved studies. 

The aunt, of course, will see about her fortune. _He_ has only aperfunctory duty--to see that the fortune is not squandered. But heis safe there. Maiden ladies _never_ squander! And the girl, beingonly seventeen, can't possibly squander it herself for some time. 

Perhaps he ought to call on her, however. Yes, of course, he mustcall. It is the usual thing to call on one's ward. It will be aterrible business no doubt. _All_ girls belong to the genusnuisance. And _this_ girl will be at the head of her class no doubt. "Lively, spirited, " so far went the parent. A regular hoyden may beread between those kind parental lines. 

The poor professor feels hot again with nervous agitation as heimagines an interview between him and the wild, laughing, noisy, perhaps horsey (they all ride in Australia) young woman to whom heis bound to make his bow. 

How soon must this unpleasant interview take place? Once more helooks 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 "onview" at Bloomsbury! and it is now the 2nd of February. A respite!Perhaps, who knows? She may never arrive at Bloomsbury at all! Thereare young men in Australia, a hoyden, as far as the professor hasread (and that is saying a good deal), would just suit the man inthe 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 manyagonies on a certain raw February morning, and now it is the 30th ofMay, and a glorious finish too to that sweet month. 

Even into this dingy old room, where at a dingy old table theprofessor sits buried in piles of notes, and with sheets ofmanuscript knee-deep scattered around him, the warm glad sun isstealing; here and there, the little rays are darting, lighting up adusty corner here, a hidden heap of books there. It is, as yet, early in the afternoon, and the riotous beams, who are no respecterof persons, and who honor the righteous and the ungodly alike, areplaying merrily in this sombre chamber, given so entirely up toscience and its prosy ways, daring even now to dance lightly on theprofessor'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 thesmall room. Either that, or the incessant noises in the streetoutside, which have now been enriched by the strains of abroken-down street piano, causes him to lay aside his pen and leanback in a weary attitude in his chair. 

What a day it is! How warm! An hour ago he had delivered a brilliantlecture on the everlasting Mammoth (a fresh specimen just arrivedfrom Siberia), and is now paying the penalty of greatness. He haddone well--he knew that--he had been _interesting, _ that surest roadto public favor--he had been applauded to the echo; and now, worn-out, tired in mind and body, he is living over again his honestjoy in his success. 

In this life, however, it is not given us to be happy for long. Aknock at the professor's door brings him back to the present, andthe knowledge that the landlady--a stout, somewhat erratic person offifty--is standing on his threshold, a letter in her hand. 

"For you, me dear, " says she, very kindly, handing the letter to theprofessor. 

She is perhaps the one person of his acquaintance who has been ableto see through the professor's gravity and find him _young. _

"Thank you, " says he. He takes the letter indifferently, opens itlanguidly, and---- Well, there isn't much languor after the perusalof 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 ofit. He had almost forgotten her existence during these past tranquilmonths, 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 theunwelcome fact. The "line" is signed by "Jane Majendie, " thereforethere can be no doubt of the genuineness of the news contained init. Yes! that girl _has_ come!

The professor never swears, or he might now perhaps have given wayto reprehensible words. 

Instead of that, he pulls himself together, and determines onimmediate action. To call upon this ward of his is a thing that mustbe done sooner of later, then why not sooner? Why not at once? Themore unpleasant the duty, the more necessity to get it off one'smind without delay. 

He pulls the bell. The landlady appears again. 

"I must go out, " says the professor, staring a little helplessly ather. 

"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 rascallysthudents, I do thrust?"

"No, Mrs. Mulcahy. I--I am going to see a young lady, " says theprofessor simply. 

"The divil!" says Mrs. Mulcahy with a beaming smile. "Faix, that'sa 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 herfifty years and her too, too solid flesh, and presently returns withthe professor's best coat and a clothes brush that, from itsappearance, might reasonably be supposed to have been left behind byNoah when he stepped out of the Ark. With this latter (having putthe coat on him) she proceeds to belabor the professor with greatspirit, 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 thehansom that is taking him all too swiftly to his destination, hedwells with terror on the girl--the undesired ward--who has beenthrust upon him. He has quite made up his mind about her. AnAustralian 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 senseof the fitness of things, and a settled conviction that nothingcould shake, that "'Strailia" is _the_ finest country on earth! Abouncing creature who _never_ sits down; to whom rest or calm isunknown, and whose highest ambition will be to see the Tower and thewax-works. 

Her hair is sure to be untidy; hanging probably in straight, blacklocks over her forehead, and her frock will look as if it had beenpitchforked 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 oneprepared for _anything_ as the maid shows him in the drawing-room ofthe house where Miss Jane Majendie lives. 

His thoughts are still full her niece. _Her_ niece, poor woman, and_his_ ward--poor _man!_ when the door opens and _some one_ comes in. 

_Some one!_

The professor gets slowly on to his feet, and stares at theadvancing apparition. Is it child or woman, this fair vision? A hardquestion to answer! It is quite easy to read, however, that "someone" 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 deepmourning. There is something pathetic about the dense blacksurrounding such a radiant face, and such a childish figure. Hereyes are fixed on the professor, and there is evident anxiety intheir hazel depths; her soft lips are parted; she seems hesitatingas if not knowing whether she shall smile or sigh. She has raisedboth her hands as if unconsciously, and is holding them claspedagainst her breast. The pretty fingers are covered with costlyrings. Altogether she makes a picture--this little girl, with herbrilliant 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 meanscertain of the fact. He is so vague about it, indeed, that "someone's" dark eyes take a mischievous gleam. 

"Are you _sure?"_ says she, and looks up at him suddenly, a littlesideways perhaps, as if half frightened, and gives way to a naughtysort of little laugh. It rings through the room, this laugh, and hasthe effect of frightening her _altogether_ this time. She checksherself, and looks first down at the carpet with the big roses onit, where one little foot is wriggling in a rather nervous way, andthen up again at the professor, as if to see if he is thinking badthings of her. She sighs softly. 

"Have you come to see me or Aunt Jane?" asks she; "because Aunt Janeis out--_I'm glad to say"_--this last pianissimo. 

"To see you, " says the professor, absently. He is thinking! He hastaken her hand, and held it, and dropped it again, all in a state ofhigh bewilderment. 

"Is _this_ the big, strong, noisy girl of his imaginings? Thebouncing creature with untidy hair, and her clothes pitchforked onto 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 suddenshyness. After many days the professor grows accustomed to thesesudden transitions that are so puzzling yet so enchanting, theserapid, inconsequent, but always lovely changes

 "From grave to gay, from lively to severe. "

"Won't you sit down?" says his small hostess, gently, touching achair 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 isplain that she is now on her very _best_ behavior. She smiles up athim in a very encouraging way. "And you are my guardian, aren'tyou?"

"Yes, " says the professor, without enthusiasm. He has seatedhimself, not on the chair she has pointed out to him, but on a verydistant lounge. He is conscious of a feeling of growing terror. Thislovely child has created it, yet why, or how? Was ever guardianmastered by a ward before? A desire to escape is filling him, but hehas 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 asdistantly as possible, but even this poor subterfuge fails him. MissWynter, picking up a milking-stool, advances leisurely towards him, and seating herself upon it just in front of him, crosses her handsover her knees and looks expectantly up at him with a charmingsmile. 

"_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 talkto 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 evenmore forward and looks intently at the professor, her pretty browswrinkled as if with extreme and troublous thought--"What are theduties of a guardian?"

"Eh?" says the professor. He moves his glasses up to his foreheadand then pulls them down again. Did ever anxious student ask himquestion so difficult of answer as this one--that this small maidenhas propounded?

"You can think it over, " says she most graciously. "There is nohurry, 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 atall, " says the professor, who is growing warm. "The duties of aguardian--are--er--to--er--to see that one's ward is comfortableand happy. "

"Then there is a great deal of duty for _you_ to do, " says shesolemnly, letting her chin slip into the hollow of her hand. 

"I know--I'm sure of it, " says the professor with a sigh that mightbe called a groan. "But your aunt, Miss Majendie--your mother'ssister--can----"

"I don't believe she is my mother's sister, " says Miss Wyntercalmly. "I have seen my mother's picture. It is lovely! Aunt Janewas a changeling--I'm sure of it. But never mind her. You were goingto say----?"

"That Miss Majendie, who is virtually your guardian--can explain itall to you much better than I can. "

"Aunt Jane is _not_ my guardian!" The mild look of enquiry changesto one of light anger. The white brown contracts. "And certainly shecould 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_ cando----"

"See that your fortune is not----"

"I don't care about my fortune either, " with a little petulantgesture. "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 vivaciousface is now all aglow. "I am not happy with Aunt Jane. I"--claspingher hands, and letting a quick, vindictive fire light her eyes--"I_hate_ Aunt Jane. She says things about poor papa that---- _Oh!_ howI hate her!"

"But--you shouldn't--you really should not. I feel certain you oughtnot, " says the professor, growing vaguer every moment. 

"Ought I not?" with a quick little laugh that is all anger and nomirth. "I _do_ though, for all that! I"--pausing, and regarding himwith a somewhat tragic air that sits most funnily upon her--"am notgoing 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 thanthat. And you are my guardian. Why, " coming closer to him andpressing five soft little fingers in an almost feverish fashion uponhis arm, "why can't _you_ take me away?"

_"I?"_

"Yes, yes, you. " She comes even nearer to him, and the pressure ofthe small fingers grows more eager--there is something in them thatmight 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 hisastonishment and agitation. Has she no common sense--no knowledge ofthe 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 shehas not altogether understood, and yet is feeling puzzled. "Well, "defiantly, "we shall see!"

_"Why_ don't you like your Aunt Jane?" asks the professordistractedly. He doesn't feel nearly as fond of his dead friend ashe did an hour ago. 

"Because, " lucidly, "she _is_ Aunt Jane. If she were _your_ AuntJane you would know. "

"But my dear----"

"I really wish, " interrupts Miss Wynter petulantly, "you wouldn'tcall me 'my dear. ' Aunt Jane calls me that when she is going to saysomething horrid to me. Papa----" she pauses suddenly, and tearsrush to her dark eyes. 

"Yes. What of your father?" asks the professor hurriedly, the tearsraising 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 wasyounger. I was very fond of him. "

"He was good to everyone, " says Miss Wynter, staring hard at theprofessor. It is occurring to her that this grave sedate man withhis glasses could never have been younger. He must always have beenolder than the gay, handsome, _debonnaire_ father, who had been sodear to her. 

"What were you going to tell me about him?" asks the professorgently. 

"Only what he used to call me--_Doatie!_ I suppose, " wistfully, "youcouldn'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 sowant someone to call me by my Christian name, " says the poor childsadly. 

"Perpetua--is it not?" says the professor, ever so kindly. 

"No--'Pet, '" corrects she. "It's shorter, you know, and far easierto say. "

"Oh!" says the professor. To him it seems very difficult to say. Isit possible she is going to ask him to call her by thatfamiliar--almost affectionate--name? The girl must be mad. 

"Yes--much easier, " says Perpetua; "you will find that out, after abit, 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. Ishouldn't have been given over to Aunt Jane then, or, " with a ratherwilful 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 ofdoing 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 rathermirthless laugh this time. "Do you know that you and Aunt Jane arethe 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, " saysshe, with a quick, rather curious light in her eyes, and a tiltingof her pretty chin. "There! _go, "_ says she, "I have some work todo; 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 forthe world be a trouble to you in any way. "

"I shall come next week, " says the professor, troubled in somewiseby the meaning in her eyes. What is it? Simple loneliness, or miserydownright? How young she looks--what a child! That tragic air doesnot belong to her of right. She should be all laughter, andlightness, and mirth----

"As you will, " says she; her tone has grown almost haughty; there isa sense of remorse in his breast as he goes down the stairs. Has hebeen kind to old Wynter's child? Has he been true to his trust?There has been an expression that might almost be termed despair inthe 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 Fridaynext he is bound to deliver a lecture somewhere--he is not surewhere, 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 saidsomething about calling next week, and--she wouldn't care, ofcourse--but one should keep their word. What a strange little faceshe has--and strange manners, and--not able to get on evidently withher 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 requiresno spoon to sup with her, as Miss Majendie's invitations to supper, or indeed to luncheon, breakfast or dinner, are so few and rare thatit 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 wardregularly every week, has learned to know and (I regret to say) toloathe that estimable spinster christened Jane Majendie. 

After every visit to her house he has sworn to himself that _"thisone"_ shall be his last, and every Wednesday following he has goneagain. Indeed, to-day being Wednesday in the heart of June, he maybe seen sitting bolt upright in a hansom on his way to the unlovelyhouse that holds Miss Majendie. 

As he enters the dismal drawing-room, where he finds Miss Majendieand 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 faceone thunder-cloud. Miss Majendie, sitting on the hardest chair thishideous room contains, is smiling. A terrible sign. The professorpales before it. 

"I am glad to see you, Mr. Curzon, " says Miss Majendie, rising andextending a bony hand. "As Perpetua's guardian, you may perhaps havesome influence over her. I say 'perhaps' advisedly, as I scarcelydare to hope _anyone_ could influence a mind so distorted as hers. "

"What is it?" asks the professor nervously--of Perpetua, not of MissMajendie. 

"I'm dull, " says Perpetua sullenly. 

The professor glances keenly at the girl's downcast face, and thenat Miss Majendie. The latter glance is a question. 

"You hear her, " says Miss Majendie coldly--she draws her shawl roundher meagre shoulders, and a breath through her lean nostrils thatmay be heard. "Perhaps _you_ may be able to discover her meaning. "

"What is it?" asks the professor, turning to the girl, his toneanxious, uncertain. Young women with "wrongs" are unknown to him, asare all other sorts of young women for the matter of that. And_this_ particular young woman looks a little unsafe at the presentmoment. 

"I have told you! I am tired of this life. I am dull--stupid. I wantto go out. " Her lovely eyes are flashing, her face is white--herlips 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 seebreakers ahead, "if I were to take Perpetua for a walk--adrive--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 mefor an hour or so, I----"

"If you are waiting for _my_ sanction, Mr. Curzon, to thatextraordinary proposal, you will wait some time, " says Miss Majendieslowly, frigidly. She draws the shawl still closer, and sniffsagain. 

"But----"

"There is no 'But, ' sir. The subject doesn't admit of argument. Inmy young days, and I should think"--scrutinising him exhaustivelythrough her glasses--_"in yours_, it was not customary for a young_gentlewoman _to go out walking, alone, with _'a man'!!"_ If shehad said with a famished tiger, she couldn't have thrown more horrorinto her tone. 

The professor had shrunk a little from that classing of her age withhis, but has now found matter for hope in it. 

"Still--my age--as you suggest--so far exceeds Perpetua's--I amindeed so much older than she is, that I might be allowed to escorther wherever it may please her to go. "

"The _real_ age of a man nowadays, sir, is a thing impossible toknow, " says Miss Majendie. "You wear glasses--a capital disguise! Imean nothing offensive--_so far_--sir, but it behoves me to becareful, 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 asthough 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 mucholder than my niece, Miss Wynter, you could therefore escort herhere and there--in fact _everywhere_--in fact"--with awfulmeaning--_"any_ where!"

"I assure you, madam, " begins the professor, springing to hisfeet--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 MissMajendie, who has now mounted her hobby, and will ride it to thedeath. "Who can tell the age of any man in this degenerate age? Welook at their faces, and say _he_ must be so and so, and _he_ a fewyears younger, but looks are vain, they tell us nothing. Some lookold, because they _are_ old, some look old--through _vice!"_

The professor makes an impatient gesture. But Miss Majendie is equalto most things. 

"'Who excuses himself _accuses_ himself, '" quotes she withterrible readiness. "Why that gesture, Mr. Curzon? I made no mentionof _your_ name. And indeed, I trust your age would place you outsideof any such suspicion, still, I am bound to be careful where myniece's interests are concerned. You, as her guardian if a_faithful_ guardian" (with open doubt as to this, expressed in eyeand 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 wouldcontinue 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 atan end. I shall not permit my niece, with my permission, to walkwith 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. Goodheavens! What an awful old woman! And to think that this poor childis under her care. He happens at this moment to look at the poorchild, and the scorn _for him_ that gleams in her large eyesperfects his rout. To say that she was _right!_

"If Perpetua wishes to go for a walk, " says Miss Majendie, breakingthrough a mist of angry feeling that is only half on the surface, "Iam here to accompany her. "

"I don't want to go for a walk--with you, " says Perpetua, rudely itmust 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 voicechokes a little, and then suddenly she breaks into a small passionof vehemence. "I want to go somewhere, to _see_ something, " shecries, gazing imploringly at Curzon. 

"To _see_ something!" says her aunt, "why it was only last Sunday Itook you to Westminster Abbey, where you saw the grandest edifice inall the world. "

"Most interesting place, " says the professor, _sotto voce, _ with awild but mad hope of smoothing matters down for Perpetua's sake. 

If it _was_ for Perpetua's sake, she proves herself singularlyungrateful. She turns upon him a small vivid face, alight withindignation. 

"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 goto _theatres!_ There!"

There is an awful silence. Miss Marjorie's face is a picture! If thegirl had said she wanted to go to the devil instead of to thetheatre, she could hardly have looked more horrified. She takes astep 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. Andremember, this is the last word upon this subject. As long as youare under _my_ roof you shall never go to a sinful place ofamusement. I forbid you ever to speak of theatres again. "

"I shall not be forbidden!" says Perpetua. She confronts her aunt withflaming eyes and crimson cheeks. "I _do_ want to go to the theatre, and to balls, and dances, and _everything_. I"--passionately, andwith a most cruel, despairing longing in her young voice, "want todance, to laugh, to sing, to amuse myself--to be the gayest thing inall the world!"

She stops as if exhausted, surprised perhaps at her own daring, andthere is silence for a moment, a _little_ moment, and then MissMajendie looks at her. 

"'The gayest thing in all the world!' _and your father only fourmonths dead!"_ says she, slowly, remorselessly. 

All in a moment, as it were, the little crimson angry face growswhite--white as death itself. The professor, shocked beyond words, stands staring, and marking the sad changes in it. Perpetua istrembling from head to foot. A frightened look has come into herbeautiful eyes--her breath comes quickly. She is as a thing atbay--hopeless, horrified. Her lips part as if she would saysomething. But no words come. She casts one anguished glance at theprofessor, 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 hisheart that he has not time to stop and analyse _then_. "How couldyou hurt her so? Poor child! Poor girl! She _loved_ him!"

"Then let her show respect to his memory, " says Miss Majendievindictively. She is unmoved--undaunted. 

"She was not wanting in respect. " His tone is hurried. This womanwith the remorseless eye is too much for the gentle professor. "Allshe _does_ want is change, amusement. She is young. Youth mustenjoy. "

"In moderation--and in proper ways, " says Miss Majendie stonily. "Inmoderation, " she repeats mechanically, almost unconsciously. Andthen suddenly her wrath gets the better of her, and she breaks outin a violent rage. That one should dare to question _her_ actions!"Who are _you?"_ demands she fiercely, "that you should presume todictate right and wrong to _me. "_

"I am Miss Wynter's guardian, " says the professor, who begins to seevisions--and all the lower regions let loose at once. Could anoriginal Fury look more horrible than this old woman, with her greynodding head, and blind vindictive passion. He hears his voicefaltering, and knows that he is edging towards the door. After all, what can the bravest man do with an angry old woman, except to getaway from her as quickly as possible? And the professor, throughbrave enough in the usual ways, is not brave where women areconcerned. 

"Guardian or no guardian, I will thank you to remember you are in_my_ house!" cries Miss Majendie, in a shrill tone that runs throughthe professor's head. 

"Certainly. Certainly, " says he, confusedly, and then he slips outof the room, and having felt the door close behind him, runstumultuously down the staircase. For years he has not gone down anystaircase so swiftly. A vague, if unacknowledged, feeling that he isliterally making his escape from a vital danger, is lending wings tohis feet. Before him lies the hall-door, and that way safety lies, safety from that old gaunt, irate figure upstairs. He is not allowedto reach it, however--just yet. 

A door on the right side of the hall is opened cautiously; a shapelylittle head is as cautiously pushed through it, and two anxious redlips 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 lovelyPerpetua for all that. 

"Well?" says he. 

_"Sh!"_ says she again, shaking her head ominously, and putting herforefinger against her lip. "Come in here, " says she softly, underher breath. 

"Here, " when he does come in, is a most untidy place, made up of allthings heterogeneous. Now that he is nearer to her, he can see thatshe has been crying vehemently, and that the tears still stand thickwithin 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 nervouslyupon 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 veryconsiderably. 

"But--it _is_ soon, isn't it?" says she. "I know that myself, andyet--" wistfully--"I can't help it. I _do_ want to see things, andto amuse myself. "

"Naturally, " says the professor. 

"And it isn't that I _forget_ him, " says she in an eager, intensetone, "I _never_ forget him--never--never. Only I do want to laughsometimes and to be happy, and to see Mr. Irving as Charles I. "

The climax is irresistible. The professor is unable to suppress asmile. 

"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'tyou seen him?"

"Not for a long time, I regret to say. I--I'm always so busy, " saysthe professor apologetically. 

_"Always_ studying?" questions she. 

"For the most part, " returns the professor, an odd sensation growingwithin him that he is feeling ashamed of himself. 

"'All work and no play, '" begins Perpetua, and stops, and shakesher charming head at him. _"You_ will be a dull boy if you don'ttake care, " says she. 

A ghost of a little smile warms her sad lips as she says this, andlights 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 ownground; and here he has a pupil to his hand--a strange, anenigmatical, but a lovely one. "Believe me knowledge is the one goodthing that life contains worth having. Pleasures, riches, rank, _all_ sink to insignificance beside it. "

"How do you know?" says she. "You haven't tried the others. "

"I know it, for all that. I _feel_ it. Get knowledge--such knowledgeas the short span of life allotted to us will allow you to get. Ican lend you some books, easy ones at first, and----"

"I couldn't read _your_ books, " says she; "and--you haven't anynovels, I suppose?"

"No, " says he. "But----"

"I don't care for any books but novels, " says she, sighing. "Haveyou read 'Alas?' I never have anything to read here, because AuntJane says novels are of the devil, and that if I read them I shallgo to hell. "

"Nonsense!" says the professor gruffly. 

"You mustn't think I'm afraid about _that, "_ says Perpetua demurely;"I'm not. I know the same place could never contain Aunt Jane and mefor long, so _I'm_ all right. "

The professor struggles with himself for a moment and then gives wayto mirth. 

"Ah! _now_ you are on my side, " cries his ward exultantly. She tucksher arm into his. "And as for all that talk about 'knowledge'--don'tbother me about that any more. It's a little rude of you, do youknow? One would think I was a dunce--that I knew nothing--whereas, Iassure you, " throwing out her other hand, "I know _quite_ as much asmost girls, and a great deal more than many. I daresay, " putting herhead to one side, and examining him thoughtfully, "I know more thanyou do, if it comes to that. I don't believe you know this momentwho wrote 'The Master of Ballantrae. ' Come now, who was it?"

She leans back from him, gazing at him mischievously, as ifanticipating his defeat. As for the professor, he grows red--hedraws his brows together. Truly this is a most impertinent pupil!'The Master of Ballantrae. ' It _sounds_ like Sir Walter, andyet--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 goodand teach you a great deal more than any of your musty tomes. "

She laughs gaily. It occurs to the professor, in a misty sort ofway, that her laugh, at all events, would do _anyone_ good. 

She has been pulling a ring on and off her finger unconsciously, asif thinking, but now looks up at him. 

"If you spoke to her again, when she was in a better temper, don'tyou think she would let you take me to the theatre some night?" Shehas come nearer, and has laid a light, appealing little hand uponhis arm. 

"I am sure it would be useless, " says he, taking off his glasses andputting them on again in an anxious fashion. They are both speakingin whispers, and the professor is conscious of feeling a strangesort of pleasure in the thought that he is sharing a secret withher. "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 asecond's pause, gives way and laughs "consumedly, " as they wouldhave said long, long years before her pretty features saw the light. 

"Ah! yes, " murmurs she. "How she did frighten you. She brought youto your knees--you actually"--this with keen reproach--"took herpart against me. "

"I took her part to _help_ you, " says the professor, feelingabsurdly miserable. 

"Yes, " sighing, "I daresay. But though I know I should have sufferedfor it afterwards, it would have done me a world of good to hearsomebody 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 isquite ordinary; it never suggests itself to the professor that thereis 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 wouldtake 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 sadagain. The white brow is puckered, the soft lips droop. No, shecannot stay _here, _ that is certain--and yet it was her father'swish, and who is he, the professor, that he should pretend to knowhow girls should be treated? What if he should make a mistake? Andyet again, should a little brilliant face like that know sadness? Itis a problem difficult to solve. All the professor's learning failshim now. 

"I hope she will remember. Oh! she _must, _" declares he, gazing atPerpetua. "You know I would do what I could for you, but youraunt--you heard her--she would not let you go anywhere with me. "

"True, " says Perpetua. Here she moves back, and folds her armsstiffly across her bosom, and pokes out her chin, in an aggressivefashion, that creates a likeness on the spot, in spite of theyouthful 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 withhis dignity, joins in her naughty mirth, and both laugh together. 

_"'Our'_ time! she thinks you are a hundred and fifty!" says MissWynter. 

"Well, so I am, in a way, " returns the professor, somewhat sadly. 

"No, you're not, " says she. _"I_ know better than that, I" pattinghis arm reassuringly, "can guess your age better than she can. I cansee _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 morethan fifty. "

The professor says nothing. He is staring at her. He is beginning tofeel a little forlorn. He has forgotten youth for many days, hasyouth in revenge forgotten him?

"That is taking off a clear hundred at once, " says she lightly. "Nosmall account. " Here, as if noticing his silence, she looks quicklyat him, and perhaps something in his face strikes her, because shegoes on hurriedly. "Oh! and what is age after all? I wish _I_ wereold, and then I should be able to get away from AuntJane--without--without any _trouble. "_

"I am afraid you are indeed very unhappy here, " says the professorgravely. 

"I _hate_ the place, " cries she with a frown. "I shan't be able tostay here. Oh! _why_ didn't poor papa send me to live with you?"

Why indeed? That is exactly what the professor finds greatdifficulty in explaining to her. An "old man" of "fifty" might veryeasily 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 toneregretful. "We could have gone everywhere together, you and I. Ishould have taken you to the theatre, to balls, to concerts, toafternoons. You would have been _so_ happy, and so should I. Youwould--wouldn't you?"

The professor nods his head. The awful vista she has opened up tohim has completely deprived him of speech. 

"Ah! yes, " sighs she, taking that deceitful nod in perfect goodfaith. "And you would have been good to me too, and let me look inat the shop windows. I should have taken such _care_ of you, andmade 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 itsheight, and some stray wave of life casting the professor into afashionable thoroughfare, he there finds her. 

Marching along, as usual, with his head in the air, and his thoughtsin the ages when dates were unknown, a soft, eager voice calling hisname brings him back to the fact that he is walking up Bond Street. 

In a carriage, exceedingly well appointed, and with her facewreathed in smiles, and one hand impulsively extended, sitsPerpetua. Evidently the owner of the carriage is in the shop makingpurchases, 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 withher, and I am to dine with her, and go with her to a concert in theevening. "

She has poured it all out, all her good news in a breath, as thoughsure of a sympathetic listener. 

He is too good a listener. He is listening so hard, he is looking sointensely, that he forgets to speak, and Perpetua's sudden gaietyforsakes her. Is he angry? Does he think----?

"It's _only_ a concert, " says she, flushing and hesitating. "Do youthink that one should not go to a concert when----"

"Yes?" questions the professor abstractedly, as she comes to a fullstop. He has never seen her dressed like this before. She is all inblack to be sure, but _such_ black, and her air! She looks quite thelittle 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 toher eyes. They seem to hurt the professor. 

"One cannot be in mourning always, " says he slowly. His manner isstill 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 littleknowledge of either for years, and whose unlucky answer arisessolely from inability to give her an honest reply. 

"You hesitate, " says she, "you disapprove then. But, " defiantly, "Idon't care--a concert is _not_ like a ball. "

"No--I suppose not. "

"I can see what you are thinking, " returns she, struggling with hermortification. "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--andsomething more, but she cannot read that. 

"Well, not quite perhaps, " says she, relenting slightly. "Butnearly. And if you don't care you will grow like her. I hate peoplewho lecture me, and besides, I don't see why a guardian shouldcontrol 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 staresat 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 wantyou to have anything to do with it. That's _my_ affair. But, aboutthis concert, "--she leans towards him, resting her hand on the edgeof the carriage. "Do you think one should go _nowhere_ when wearingblack?"

"I think one should do just as one feels, " says the professornervously. 

"I wonder if one should _say_ just what one feels, " says she. Shedraws back haughtily, then wrath gets the better of dignity, and shebreaks out again. "What a _horrid_ answer! _You_ are unfeeling ifyou like!"

"_I_ am?"

"Yes, yes! You would deny me this small gratification, you wouldlock me up for ever with Aunt Jane, you would debar me fromeverything! Oh!" her lips trembling, "how I wish--I_wish--_guardians had never been invented. "

The professor almost begins to wish the same. Almost--perhaps notquite! That accusation about wishing to keep her locked up for everwith 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 escapefor her from the home she so detests! But, after all, how could sheknow that?

"You have misunderstood me, " says he calmly, gravely. "Far fromwishing you to deny yourself this concert, I am glad--glad from my_heart_--that you are going to it--that some small pleasure hasfallen into your life. Your aunt's home is an unhappy one for you, Iknow, but you should remember that even if--if you have got to staywith her until you become your own mistress, still that will not beforever. "

"No, I shall not stay there for ever, " says she slowly. "And so--youreally think----" she is looking very earnestly at him. 

"I do, indeed. Go out--go everywhere--enjoy yourself, child, whileyou 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 prettyyoung, 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. Buthe 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 moreexcellent who can suit his temper to any circumstances. "

"The idea of _your_ having a ward! I could quite as soon imagineyour having a wife, " says Hardinge. He knocks the ash off his cigar, and after meditating for a moment, leans back in his chair and givesway to irrepressible mirth. 

"I don't see why I shouldn't have a wife as well as another, " saysthe 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!" saysMr. Hardinge, who has now recovered. "Catch _me_ marrying. "

"It's unlucky to talk like that, " says the professor. "It looks asthough your time were near. In Sophocles' time there was a manwho----"

"Oh, bother Sophocles, you know I never let you talk anything butwholesome nonsense when I drop in for a smoke with you, " says theyounger 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 thrownwide open to let in any chance gust of air that Heaven in its mercymay send them. It is night, and very late at night too--the clockindeed is on the stroke of twelve. It seems a long, long time to theprofessor since the afternoon--the afternoon of this very day--whenhe had seen Perpetua sitting in that open carriage. He had only beenhalf glad when Harold Hardinge--a young man, and yet, strange tosay, his most intimate friend--had dropped in to smoke a pipe withhim. Hardinge was fonder of the professor than he knew, and wasdrawn to him by curious intricate webs. The professor suited him, and he suited the professor, though in truth Hardinge was nothingmore than a gay young society man, with just the average amount ofbrains, but not an ounce beyond that. 

A tall, handsome young man, with fair brown hair and hazel eyes, adark moustache and a happy manner, Mr. Hardinge laughs his waythrough 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 keepan 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 findyou absent and Mrs. Mulcahy in possession, pretending to dust thefurniture. 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 distractedover a young lady that his own mother wouldn't know him!'

"I acknowledge I blushed. I went even so far as to make a fewpantomimic gestures suggestive of the horror I was experiencing, andfinally I covered my face with my handkerchief. I regret to say thatMrs. 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 itbadly, and what the doctor thought of you. But she wouldn't listento me. 

"'Look here, Misther Hardinge, ' said she. 'I've come to theconclusion that wards is bad for the professor. I haven't seen theyoung lady, I confess, but I'm cock-sure that she's got the divil'sown temper!'" Hardinge pauses, and turns to the professor--"Hasshe?" says he. 

"N--o, " says the professor--a little frowning lovely crimson facerises before him--and then a laughing one. "No, " says he moreboldly, "she is a little impulsive, perhaps, but----"

"Just so. Just so, " says Mr. Hardinge pleasantly, and then, after akindly survey of his companion's features, "She is rather a troubleto you, old man, isn't she?"

"She? No, " says the professor again, more quickly this time. "It isonly this--she doesn't seem to get on with the aunt to whom her poorfather sent her--he is dead--and I have to look out for some oneelse 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 curlupwards slowly, thoughtfully. "Impulsive people have a trick ofbeing impatient--of acting for themselves----"

_"She_ cannot, " says the professor, with anxious haste. "She knowsnobody in town. "

"Nobody?"

"Except me, and a woman who is a friend of her aunt's. If she wereto 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--LadyHighflown! Well, _your_ Lady Highflown doesn't seem to have manyfriends 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 thefreedom 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 pausesto pat the professor affectionately on the back. 

"Of _course_ not! Don't I know you? You would die first! She mightworry your life out, and still you would rise up to defend her atevery corner. You should get her a satisfactory home as son as youcan--it would ease your mind; and, after all, as she knows no onehere, she is bound to behave herself until you can come to herhelp. "

"She would behave herself, as you call it, " says the professorangrily, "any and every where. She is a lady. She has been wellbrought 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 thismoment. It is a most peculiar sound, as it were the rattle of beadsagainst wood. 

"What's that?" says Hardinge. "Everett" (the man in the rooms below)"is out, I know. "

"It's coming here, " says the professor. 

It is, indeed! The door is opened in a tumultuous fashion, there isa rustle of silken skirts, and there--there, where the gas-lightfalls 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 describehis tone. 

"I've come!" says Perpetua, advancing into the room. "I have donewith Aunt Jane _for ever, "_ casting wide her pretty naked arms, "andI have come to you!"

As if in confirmation of this decision, she flings from her on to adistant chair the white opera cloak around her, and stands revealedas charming a thing as ever eye fell upon. She is all in black, butblack that sparkles and trembles and shines with every movement. Sheseems, indeed, to be hung in jet, and out of all this sombregleaming her white neck rises, pure and fresh and sweet as a littlechild's. Her long slight arms are devoid of gloves--she hadforgotten them, no doubt, but her slender fingers are covered withrings, and round her neck a diamond necklace clings as if in lovewith its resting place. 

Diamonds indeed are everywhere. In her hair, in her breast, on herneck, her fingers. Her father, when luck came to him, had found hisgreatest joy in decking with these gems the delight of his heart. 

The professor turns to Hardinge. That young man, who had risen withthe intention of leaving the room on Perpetua's entrance, is nowstaring at her as if bewitched. His expression is half puzzled, halfamused. Is _this_ the professor's troublesome ward? This lovely, graceful----

"Leave us!" says the professor sharply. Hardinge, with a profoundbow, quits the room, but not the house. It would be impossible to gowithout hearing the termination of this exciting episode. Everett'srooms being providentially empty, he steps into them, and, havingturned 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'tspeak of her. I _won't. _ And, at all events, I have done with her; Ihave left her. I have come"--with decision--"to stay with you!"

"Eh?" says the professor. It is a mere sound, but it expresses agreat deal. 

"To stay with you. Yes, " nodding her head, "it has come to that atlast. 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 alife-long residence in this room is the plan she has laid out forherself. 

"Good heavens! What can you mean?" asks the poor professor, whoshould have sworn by the heathen gods, but in a weak moment fallsback 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 stillwet--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 thisis! 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 myaunt or not, I shan't let her scold me for nothing; and--I'm afraidI wasn't nice to her. I'm sorry for that, but--one isn't a bit ofstone, you know, and she said something--about my mother, " her eyesgrow very brilliant here, "and when I walked up to her sheapologized 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 shedidn't seem to mind the 'other things' half as much as that, thoughthey 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'verun away to you! See?"

It must be acknowledged that the professor _doesn't_ see. He issitting on the edge of the table--dumb. 

"Oh! I'm so _glad_ I've left her, " says Perpetua, with indeedheartfelt 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'mdreadfully thirsty! What's that in your glass?"

"Nothing, " says the professor hastily. He removes the half-finishedtumbler 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 amongstmany small contrivances in the same cupboard. It has gone to hisheart to hear that she is hungry and thirsty, but even in the midstof his preparations for her comfort, a feeling of rage takespossession 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 youwere my guardian. Both of you have been told to look after me, and Iprefer to be looked after by you. It is so simple, " says she, with asuspicion of contempt in her tone, "that I wonder why you wonder atit. As I preferred _you_--of course I have come to live with you. "

"You _can't!"_ gasps the professor, "you must go back to MissMajendie 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 (toget _air, _ she says), and so does her maid, you might ring until youwere black in the face, and she wouldn't hear you. "

"Well! you can't stay here!" says the professor, getting off thetable and addressing her with a truly noble attempt at sternness. 

"Why can't I?" There is some indignation in her tone. "There's lotsof 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 greatdeal of meaning. "I'm tired of women--they're horrid. You're alwayskind 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 roomsomewhere. "

"There isn't one, " says the professor. 

"Oh! nonsense, " says she, leaning back in her chair and yawningsoftly. "I'm not so big that you can't put me away somewhere. _Thatwoman_ says I'm so small that I'll never be a grown-up girl, becauseI can't grow up any more. Who'd live with a woman like that? And Ishall grow more, isn't it?"

"I daresay, " says the professor vaguely. "But that is not thequestion 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 andturning a passionately reproachful face on his. "You mean that Ishall be in your way here!"

"No, _no_, NO!" cries he, just as impulsively, and decidedly veryfoolishly; but the sight of her small mortified face has proved toomuch for him, "Only----"

"Only?" echoes the spoiled child, with a loving smile--the child whohas been accustomed to have all things and all people give way toher during her short life. "Only you are afraid _I_ shall not becomfortable. But I shall. And I shall be a great comfort to youtoo--a great _help. _ I shall keep everything in order for you. Doyou 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'mtwenty-one, we'll move into a big, big house, and ask people todances and dinners and things. In the meantime----" she pauses andglances 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" hisroom!

"Perpetua!" exclaims he, almost inarticulately, "you don'tunderstand. "

"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 themost charming innocence, but oh! what awful probabilities lie withinher 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 betalked about! To be discussed! To be held up to vulgar comment! Hewrithes inwardly. The thought is actual torture to him. 

"They said----"

_"What?"_ demands the professor, almost fiercely. How dare a feeblefeminine audience appreciate or condemn his honest efforts toenlighten his small section of mankind!

"That you ought to be married, " says Perpetua, sympathetically. "Andthey said, too, that they supposed you wouldn't ever be now; butthat 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 reallythink 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 theFates should so visit him?

"They said something else too, " goes on Perpetua, this time ratherangrily. "They said you were so clever that you always lookedunkempt. That?" thoughtfully, "means that you didn't brush your hairenough. 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. Whatdid your father mean by bringing you up like this!"

"Like what?" She is staring at him. She has leant forward as ifsurprised--and with a sigh the professor acknowledges theuselessness of a fight between them; right or wrong she is sure towin. He is bound to go to the wall. She is looking not onlysurprised, but unnerved. The ebullition of wrath on the part of hermild guardian has been a slight shock to her. 

"Tell me?" persists she. 

"Tell you! what is there to tell you? I should think the veriestinfant would have known she oughtn't to come here. "

"I should think an infant would know nothing, " with dignity. "Allyour scientific researches have left you, I'm afraid, very ignorant. And I should think that the very first thing even an infant woulddo, if she could walk, would be to go straight to her guardian whenin trouble. "

"At this hour?"

"At any hour. What, " throwing out her hands expressively, "is aguardian _for, _ if it isn't to take care of people?"

The professor gives it up. The heat of battle has overcome him. Witha deep breath he drops into a chair, and begins to wonder how longit will be before happy death will overtake him. 

But in the meantime, whilst sitting on a milestone of life waitingfor 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 ofcourse. I remember your telling me about her. "

Mrs. Mulcahy undoubtedly. Well, the professor wishes now he had toldhis ward _more_ about her. Mrs. Mulcahy he can trust, but she--awfulthought-- will she trust him? What is she thinking now?

"I said, 'Is Mr. Curzon at home?' and she said, 'Well I niver!' So Isaw she was a kindly, foolish, poor creature with no sense, and Iran past her, and up the stairs, and I looked into one room wherethere were lights but you weren't there, and then I ran on againuntil I saw the light under _your_ door, and, "brightening, "thereyou 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 alittle, and looking so content that the professor hasn't the heartto contradict her--though where the fortune comes in----

"I'm starving, " says she, gaily, "will that funny little kettle soonboil?" The professor has lit a spirit-lamp with a view to giving hersome tea. "I haven't had anything to eat since dinner, and you knowshe dines at an ungodly hour. Two o'clock! I didn't know I wantedanything 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 tostop beating. The most hospitable and kindly of men, it is terribleto him to have to say this. Of course Mrs. Mulcahy--who, no doubt, is still in the hall waiting for an explanation, could give himsomething. But Mrs. Mulcahy can be unpleasant at times, and this issafe to be a "time. " Yet without her assistance he can think of nomeans by which this pretty, slender, troublesome little ward of hiscan be fed. 

"Nothing!" repeats she faintly. "Oh, but surely in that cupboardover there, where you put the glass, there is something; even breadand butter I should like. "

She gets up, and makes an impulsive step forward, and in doing sobrushes against a small ricketty table, that totters feebly for aninstant and then comes with a crash to the ground, flinging a wholeheap of gruesome dry bones at her very feet. 

With a little cry of horror she recoils from them. Perhaps hernerves are more out of order than she knows, perhaps the long fastand long drive here, and her reception from her guardian at the endof it--so different from what she had imagined--have all helped toundo her. Whatever be the cause, she suddenly covers her face withher hands and burst into tears. 

"Take them away!" cries she frantically, and then--sobbing heavilybetween her broken words--"Oh, I see how it is. You don't want mehere at all. You wish I hadn't come. And I have no one but you--andpoor papa said you would be good to me. But you are _sorry_ he madeyou my guardian. You would be glad if I were _dead!_ When I come toyou in my trouble you tell me to go away again, and though I tellyou 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 thoughin the act of tearing his hair, rushes from the room, and staggersdownstairs to those other apartments where Hardinge had elected tosit, and see out the farce, comedy, or tragedy, whichever it mayprove, 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 wellfor his defence against injury and violence as for his repose. "

"She's upstairs still, " cries he in a frenzied tone. "She says shehas come _for ever. _ That she will not go away. She doesn'tunderstand. Great Heaven! what am I to do?"

"She?" says Hardinge, who really in turn grows petrified for themoment--_only _for the moment. 

"That girl! My ward! All women are _demons!"_ says the professorbitterly, with tragic force. He pauses as if exhausted. 

_"Your_ demon is a pretty specimen of her kind, " says Hardinge, alittle 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 athing 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 hersomething, would you, Hardinge?"

"Not for a good deal, " says Hardinge, promptly. "I say, " rising, andgoing towards Everett's cupboard, "Everett's a Sybarite, you know, of the worst kind--sure to find something here, and we can square itwith him afterwards. Beauty in distress, you know, appeals to allhearts. _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!--aboutto 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, ingreat wrath. "And let me tell you, Hardinge, that there areoccasions when one's high spirits can degenerate into offensivenessand vulgarity!"

He marches out of the room and upstairs, leaving Hardinge, let ushope, a prey to remorse. It is true, at least of that young man, that he covers his face with his hands and sways from side to side, as if overcome by some secret emotion. Grief--no doubt. 

Perpetua is graciously pleased to accept the frugal meal theprofessor brings her. She even goes so far as to ask him to share itwith her--which invitation he declines. He is indeed sick atheart--not for himself--(the professor doesn't often think ofhimself)--but for her. And where is she to sleep? To turn her outnow would be impossible! After all, it was a puerile trifling withthe Inevitable, to shirk asking Mrs. Mulcahy for something to eatfor his self-imposed guest--because the question of _Bed_ is stillto come! Mrs. Mulcahy, terrible, as she undoubtedly can be, is yetthe only woman in the house, and it is imperative that Perpetuashould be given up to her protection. 

Whilst the professor is writhing in spirit over this ungetoutablefact, he becomes aware of a resounding knock at the door. Paralyzed, he gazes in the direction of the sound. It _can't_ be Hardinge, hewould never knock like that! The knock in itself, indeed, is of suchforce and volume as to strike terror into the bravest heart. Itis--it _must_ be--the Mulcahy!

And Mrs. Mulcahy it is! Without waiting for an answer, that virtuousIrishwoman, clad in righteous indignation and a snuff-colored gown, marches into the room. 

"May I ask, Mr. Curzon, " says she, with great dignity and moretemper, "what may be the meanin' of all this?"

The professor's tongue cleaves to the roof of his mouth, butPerpetua's tongue remains normal. She jumps up, and runs to Mrs. Mulcahy with a beaming face. She has had something to eat, and isonce again her own buoyant, wayward, light-hearted little self. 

"Oh! it is all right _now, _ Mrs. Mulcahy, " cries she, whilst theprofessor grows cold with horror at this audacious advance upon themilitant Mulcahy. "But do you know, he said first he hadn't anythingto give me, and I was starving. No, you mustn't scold him--he didn'tmean anything. I suppose you have heard how unhappy I was with AuntJane?--he's told you, I daresay, "--with a little flinging of herhand towards the trembling professor--"because Iknow"--prettily--"he is very fond of you--he often speaks to meabout you. Oh! Aunt Jane is _horrid!_ I _should_ have told you abouthow it was when I came, but I wanted so much to see my guardian, andtell _him_ all about it, that I forgot to be nice to anybody. See?"

There is a little silence. The professor, who is looking as guiltyas 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, hefinds that Perpetua has gone over to where Mrs. Mulcahy is standing, and is talking still to that good Irishwoman. It is a whispered talkthis time, and the few words of it that he catches go to his veryheart. 

"I'm afraid he didn't _want_ me here, " Perpetua is saying, in a lowdistressed little voice--"I'm sorry I came now--but, you don't_know_ how cruel Aunt Jane was to me, Mrs. Mulcahy, you don'tindeed! She--she said such unkind things about--about----" Perpetuabreaks down again--struggles with herself valiantly, and finallybursts out crying. "I'm tired, I'm sleepy, " sobs she miserably. 

Need I say what follows? The professor, stung to the quick by thoseforlorn sobs, lifts his eyes, and--behold! he sees Perpetua gatheredto the ample bosom of the formidable, kindly Mulcahy. 

"Come wid me, me lamb, " says that excellent woman. "Bad scran to theone that made yer purty heart sore. Lave her to me now, MistherCurzon, dear, an' I'll take a mother's care of her. " (This in anaside to the astounded professor. ) "There now, alanna! Take couragenow! Sure 'tis to the right shop ye've come, anyway, for 'tisdaughthers I have meself, me dear--fine, sthrappin' girls as couldput you in their pockits. Ye poor little crather! Oh! Murther! Whocould harm the like of ye? Faix, I hope that ould divil of an aunto' yours won't darken these doors, or she'll git what she won't likefrom Biddy Mulcahy. There now! There now! 'Tis into yer bed I'lltuck 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 neverthought so much moral support could be got out of a landlady--butMrs. Mulcahy has certainly tided him safely over _one_ of hisdifficulties. Still, those that remain are formidable enough toquell 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! Notan _hour_ must be wasted. By the morning light something must be puton foot to save the girl from her own foolhardiness, nay ignorance!

Once again, sunk in the meshes of depression, the persecutedprofessor 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, thatHardinge may be forgiven for saying to himself, "She has assaultedhim!"

"I'm glad it isn't visible, " says he, staring at the professor'snose, and then at his eye. Both are the usual size. 

"Eh?" says the professor. "She was visible of course. She was kinderthan I expected. "

"So, I see. She might so easily have made it your lip--or yournose--or----"

_"What_ is there in Everett's cupboard besides the beer?" demandsthe professor angrily. "For Heaven's sake! attend to me, and don'tsit 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 theprofessor, rapping his knuckles on the table. 

"Oh! I see. She? Miss Wynter?"

"No--Mrs. Mulcahy!" roars the professor frantically. "Where's yourhead, man? Mrs. Mulcahy came into the room, and took Miss Wynterinto her charge in the--er--the most wonderful way, and carried heroff 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. Hereshe is, and here she apparently means to stay. The poor childdoesn't understand. She thinks I'm older than Methusaleh, and thatshe can live here with me. I can't explain it to her--you--don'tthink _you_ could, do you, Hardinge?"

"No, I don't, indeed, " says Hardinge, in a hurry. "What on earth hasbrought her here at all?"

"To _stay. _ Haven't I told you? To stay for ever. She says"--with agroan--"she is going to settle me! To--to _brush my hair!_ To--makemy 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 withlaughter. 

"That is a _jest!"_ says the professor haughtily. This unusual tonefrom the professor strikes surprise to the soul of Hardinge. Helooks at him. But the professor's new humor is short-lived. He sinksupon a chair in a tired sort of way, letting his arms fall over thesides of it. As a type of utter despair he is a distinguishedspecimen. 

"Why don't you take her home again, back to the old aunt?" saysHardinge, moved by his misery. 

"I can't. She tells me it would be useless, that the house is lockedup, and--and besides, Hardinge, her aunt--after _this, _ you know--would be----"

"Naturally, " says Hardinge, after which he falls back upon hiscigar. "Light your pipe, " says he, "and we'll think it over. " Theprofessor lights it, and both men draw nearer to each other. 

"I'm afraid she won't go back to her aunt any way, " says theprofessor, as a beginning to the "thinking it over. " He pushes hisglasses 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 backto the question. I say she will never go back to her aunt. "

He looks anxiously at Hardinge. One can see that he would part witha 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 theworld. 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 cleverfellow who would answer that, straight off. I say, Curzon, what apretty 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--thathas 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, anirrepressible stare at the professor. It is a prolonged stare. He isvery fond of Curzon, though knowing absolutely nothing about himbeyond the fact that he is eminently likeable; and it now strikeshim as strange that this silent, awkward, ill-dressed, clever manshould be the one to teach him how to behave himself. Who _is_Curzon? Given a better tailor, and a worse brain, he might be areasonable-looking fellow enough, and not so old either--forty, perhaps--perhaps less. "Have you no relation to whom you could sendher?" he says at length, that sudden curiosity as to who Curzon maybe prompting the question. "Some old lady? An aunt, for example?"

"She doesn't seem to like aunts, " says the professor, with deepdejection. 

"Small blame to her, " says Hardinge, smoking vigorously. _"I've_ anaunt--but 'that's another story!' Well--haven't you a cousinthen?--or something?"

"I have a sister, " says the professor slowly. 

"Married?"

"A widow. "

("Fusty old person, out somewhere in the wilds of Finchley, " saysHardinge to himself. "Poor little girl--she won't fancy thateither!")

"Why not send her to you sister then?" says he aloud. 

"I'm not sure that she would like to have her, " says the professor, with hesitation. "I confess I have been thinking it over for somedays, but----"

"But perhaps the fact of your ward's being an heiress----" beginsHardinge--throwing out a suggestion as it were--but is checked bysomething 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 hismind, and his second that he himself has accomplished that deed. Heleans across the table. Surprise has deprived him of his usual goodmanners. 

"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 professorcalmly--is there a faint suspicion of hauteur in his tone? "As weare on the subject of myself, I may as well tell you that my brotheris Sir Hastings Curzon, of whom"--he turns back as if to take upsome imaginary article from the floor--"you may have heard. "

"Sir Hastings!" Mr. Hardinge leans back in his chair and gives wayto thought. This quiet, hard-working student--this man whom he hadcounted as a nobody--the brother of that disreputable HastingsCurzon! "As good as got the baronetcy, " says he still thinking. "Atthe rate Sir Hastings is going he can't possibly last for anothertwelvemonth, and here is this fellow living in these dismal lodgingswith twenty thousand a year before his eyes. A lucky thing for himthat the estates are so strictly entailed. Good heavens! to think ofa man with all that almost in his grasp being _happy_ in a coat thatmust have been built in the Ark, and caring for nothing on earth butthe intestines of frogs and such-like abominations. "

"You seem surprised again, " says the professor, somewhatsatirically. 

"I confess it, " says Hardinge. 

"I can't see why you should be. "

_"I_ do, " says Hardinge drily. "That you, " slowly, _"you_ should beSir Hastings' brother! Why----"

"No more!" interrupts the professor sharply. He lifts his hand. "Notanother word. I know what you are going to say. It is one of mygreat troubles, that I always know what people are going to say whenthey mention him. Let him alone, Hardinge. "

"Oh! _I'll_ let him alone, " says Hardinge, with a gesture ofdisgust. 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. Fashionablesociety 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 willunderstand, she and I; capital friends, though sometimes, " with asigh, "she--she seems to disapprove of my mode of living. But we geton very well on the whole. She is a very good girl, " says theprofessor kindly, who always thinks of Lady Baring as a little girlin short frocks in her nursery--the nursery he had occupied withher. 

To hear the beautiful, courted, haughty Lady Baring, who has thebest 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 thejoke. 

"Oh! nothing--nothing. Only--you _are_ such a queer fellow!" saysHardinge, 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 peoplewho don't know their own worth. I don't believe, Curzon, though Ishould live to be a thousand, that I shall ever look upon your likeagain. "

"And so you laugh. Well, no doubt it is a pleasant reflection, " saysthe professor dismally. "I begin to wish now I had never seenmyself. "

"Oh, come! cheer up, " says Hardinge, "your pretty ward will be allright. If Lady Baring takes her in hand, she----"

"Ah! But will she?" says the professor. "Will she like Per---- MissWynter?"

"Sure to, " said Hardinge, with quite a touch of enthusiasm. "'Tosee her is to love her, and love but'----"

"That is of no consequence where anyone is concerned except LadyBaring, " says the professor, with a little twist in his chair, "andmy sister has not seen her as yet. And besides, that is not the onlyquestion--a greater one remains. "

"By Jove! you don't say so! What?" demands Mr. Hardinge, growingearnest. 

"Will Miss Wynter like _her?"_ says the professor. "That is the realpoint. "

"Oh! I see!" says Hardinge thoughtfully. 

The next day, however, proves the professor's fears vain in bothquarters. An early visit to Lady Baring, and an anxious appeal, brings out all that delightful woman's best qualities. Onestipulation alone she makes, that she may see the young heiressbefore finally committing herself to chaperone her safely throughthe remainder of the season. 

The professor, filled with hope, hies back to his rooms, calls forMrs. Mulcahy, tells her he is going to take his ward out for adrive, and gives that worthy and now intensely interested landladyfull 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 oftenwished it before, Mr. Curzon, an' I'm thinkin' that 'twill be themakin' of ye; an' a handsome, purty little crathur she is an' nomistake. An' who is to give away the poor dear, sir, askin' yerpardon?"

"I am, " says the professor. 

"Oh no, sir; the likes was never known. 'Tis the father or one ofhis 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 toact for ye in this matther. Faix I don't disguise from ye, MistherCurzon, dear, that I feels like a mother to that purty child thismoment, 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 youimagine that _--_--?"

"No. I'd belave nothin' bad o' ye, " says Mrs. Mulcahy solemnly. "I've cared ye these six years, an' niver a fault to find. But thatchild beyant, whin ye take her away to make her yer wife----"

"You must be mad, " says the professor, a strange, curious pangcontracting his heart. "I am not taking her away to---- I--I amtaking her to my sister, who will receive her as a guest. "

"Mad!" repeats Mrs. Mulcahy furiously. "Who's mad? Faix, " preparingto leave the room, "'tis yerself was born widout a grain o' sinse!"

The meeting between Lady Baring and Perpetua is eminentlysatisfactory. The latter, looking lovely, but a little frightened, so takes Lady Baring's artistic soul by storm, that that great ladythen and there accepts the situation, and asks Perpetua if she willcome to her for a week or so. Perpetua, charmed in turn by LadyBaring's grace and beauty and pretty ways, receives the invitationwith pleasure, little dreaming that she is there "on view, " as itwere, and that the invitation is to be prolonged indefinitely--thatis, till either she or her hostess tire one of the other. 

The professor's heart sinks a little as he sees his sister rise andloosen the laces round the girl's pretty, slender throat, beggingher to begin to feel at home at once. Alas! He has deliberatelygiven up his ward! _His_ ward! Is she any longer his? Has not thegreat world claimed her now, and presently will she not belong toit? So lovely, so sweet she is, will not all men run to snatch theprize?--a prize, bejewelled too, not only by Nature, but by thatgross material charm that men call wealth. Well, well, he has donehis 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 fromthe many flowers fill the air. From beyond--somewhere--(there is adelicious drowsy uncertainty about the where)--comes the sound ofmusic, soft, rhythmical, and sweet. Perhaps it is from one of therooms outside--dimly seen through the green foliage--where thelights are more brilliant, and forms are moving. But just in herethere is no music save the tinkling drip, drip of the littlefountain that plays idly amongst the ferns. 

Lady Baring is at home to-night, and in the big, bare rooms outsidedancing is going on, and in the smaller rooms, tiny tragedies andcomedies are being enacted by amateurs, who, oh, wondrous tale! doknow their parts and speak them, albeit no stage "proper" has beenprepared for them. Perhaps that is why stage-fright is not forthem--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 girlgowned all in white, with snowy arms and neck, and diamondsglittering in the soft masses of her waving hair. A happy littlegirl, to judge by the soft smile upon her lovely lips, and the gleamin her dark eyes. Leaning back in her seat in the dim, cool recessesof the conservatory, amongst the flowers and the greeneries, shelooks like a little nymph in love with the silence and the sense ofrest that the hour holds. 

It is broken, however. 

"I am so sorry you are not dancing, " says her companion, leaningtowards her. His regret is evidently genuine, indeed; to Hardingethe evening is an ill-spent one that precludes his dancing withPerpetua 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 anevident sense of shame. "But I don't dance now, because--it isselfish, isn't it?--because I should be so unhappy afterwards if I_did!"_

"A perfect reason, " says Hardinge very earnestly. He is stillleaning towards her, his elbows on his knees, his eyes on hers. Itis 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, faircreature, with the eyes, and the hair, and the lips that belong toher?

He has taken possession of her fan, and gently, lovingly, as thoughindeed it is part of her, is holding it, raising it sometimes tosweep the feathers of it across his lips. 

"Do you think so?" says she, as if a little puzzled. "Well, Iconfess I don't like the moments when I hate myself. We all hateourselves sometimes, don't we?" looking at him as if doubtfully, "oris it only I myself, who----"

"Oh, no!" says Hardinge. _"All!_ All of us detest ourselves now andagain, or at least we think we do. It comes to the same thing, butyou--you have no cause. "

"I should have if I danced, " says she, "and I couldn't bear theafter 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 witheyes 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, butsoftly, and as if afraid of being heard, and as if too a littleashamed of herself. Her color rises, a delicate warm color thatrenders her absolutely adorable. 

"Shall I order them to stop?" asks Hardinge, laughing still, yetwith something in his gaze that tells her he _would_ forbid them toplay if he could, if only to humor her. 

"No!" says she, "and, after all, "--philosophically--"enjoyment isonly 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. "Neitherthere, nor anywhere. "

He gets up suddenly, and going to her, bends over the chair on whichshe is sitting. 

"We were talking of what?" asks she, with admirable courage, "ofnames, was it not? An endless subject. _My_ name now? An absurd onesurely. Perpetua! I don't like Perpetua, do you?" She is evidentlytalking at random. 

"I do indeed!" says Hardinge, promptly and fervently. His toneaccentuates 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 eyesopening with amazement. 

"It is a poor word, " says he, his tone now very low. "If I dared saythat I _adored_ 'Perpetua, ' I should be----"

"Oh, you laugh at me, " interrupts she with a little impatientgesture, "you _know_ how crude, how strange, how----"

"I don't, indeed. Why should you malign yourself like that?You--_you--_who are----"

He stops short, driven to silence by a look in the girl's eye. 

"What have _I_ to do with it? I did not christen myself, " says she. There is perhaps a suspicion of hauteur in her tone. "I am talkingto you about my _name. _ You understand that, don't you?"--thehauteur increasing. "Do you know, of late I have often wished I wassomebody else, because then I should have had a different one. "

Hardinge, at this point, valiantly refrains from a threadbarequotation. 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 inher. And alas! when we think what _that_ sweet feeling is akin to, on the highest authority, one's hopes for Hardinge fall low. Heloses his head a little. 

"Not so absurd as your guardian's, however, " says he, feeling thenecessity for saying something without the power to manufacture it. 

"Mr. Curzon's? What is his name?" asks she, rising out of herlounging 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. Itseems clear to him that Perpetua is making gentle fun of herguardian, and though his conscience smites him for encouraging herin her naughtiness, still he cannot refrain. 

"He is an awfully good old fellow, " says he, throwing a sop to hisCerberus. 

"Is he?" says Perpetua, as if even _more_ amused. She looks up athim, and then down again, and trifles with the fan she has takenback from him, and finally laughs again; something in her laugh thistime, however, puzzles him. 

"You don't like him?" hazards he. "After all, I suppose it is hardlynatural that a ward _should_ like her guardian. "

"Yes? And _why?"_ asks Perpetua, still smiling, still apparentlyamused. 

"For one thing, the sense of restraint that belongs to the relationsbetween them. A guardian, you know, would be able to control one ina measure. "

"Would he?"

"Well, I imagine so. It is traditionary. And you?"

"I don't know about _other_ people, " says Miss Wynter, calmly, "Iknow only this, that nobody ever yet controlled _me, _ and I don'tsuppose now that anybody ever will. "

As she says this she looks at him with the prettiest smile; it is amixture of amusement and defiance. Hardinge, gazing at her, drawsconclusions. ("Perfectly _hates_ him, " decides he. )

It seems to him a shame, and a pity too, but after all, old Curzonwas hardly meant by Nature to do the paternal to a strange anddistinctly spoiled child, and a beauty into the bargain. 

"I don't think your guardian will have a good time, " says he, bending over her confidentially, on the strength of this decision ofhis. 

"Don't you?" She draws back from him and looks up. "You think Ishall 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 issomething--something a little dangerous in the soft, _soft_ lookshe now turns upon him. 

"He thinks so, too, of course?" says she, ever so gently. Her toneis half a question, half an assertion. It is manifestly unfair, thewhole thing. Hardinge, believing in her tone, her smile, falls intothe trap. Mindful of that night when the professor in despair at heruntimely descent upon him, had said many things unmeant, he answersher. 

"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. Isuppose you know you have the best man in all the world for yourguardian? But it was a little unkind of your people, was it not, togive you into the keeping of a confirmed bookworm--a savant--withscarcely 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 hasno room in his daily thoughts, I verily believe, for anything beyondhis beloved books, and notes, and discoveries. "

"Yet _I_ am a discovery, " persists she, looking at him with anxiouseyes, 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 thensuddenly grows restless. "How _warm_ it is!" she says fretfully. "Iwish----"

What she was going to say, will never now be known. The approach ofa tall, gaunt figure through the hanging oriental curtains at theend of the conservatory checks her speech. Sir Hastings Curzon isindeed taller than most men, and is, besides, a man hardly to bemistaken again when once seen. Perpetua has seen him very frequentlyof 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, risingand bending as if to offer her his arm. 

"No, thank you, " coldly. 

"I think, " anxiously, "you once told me you did not care forSir----"

"Did I? It seems quite terrible the amount of things I have toldeverybody. " There is a distinct flash in her lovely eyes now, andher small hand has tightened round her fan. "Sometimes--I talkfolly! As a fact" (with a touch of defiance), "I like Sir Hastings, although he _is_ my guardian's brother!--my guardian who would sogladly 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 thatyou were the one to show me how to regard it. Besides, you forgetSir Hastings is Lady Baring's brother too, and--you haven't anythingto 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 upto her. "So much I have seen. Too warm? Eh? You show reason, Ithink. And yet, if I might dare to hope that you would give me thiswaltz----"

"No, no, " says she, still with her most charming air. "I am notdancing to-night. I shall not dance this year. "

"That is a Median law, no doubt, " says he. "If you will not dancewith me, then may I hope that you will give me the few too shortmoments that this waltz may contain?"

Hardinge makes a vague movement but an impetuous one. If the girlhad realized the fact of his love for her, she might have beentouched and influenced by it, but as it is she feels only a sense ofanger towards him. Anger unplaced, undefined, yet neverthelessintense. 

"With pleasure, " says she to Sir Hastings, smiling at him almostacross Hardinge's outstretched hand. The latter draws back. 

"You dismiss me?" says he, with a careful smile. He bows to her--heis gone. 

"A well-meaning young man, " says Sir Hastings, following Hardinge'sretreating figure with a delightfully lenient smile. "Good-lookingtoo; but earnest. Have you noticed it? Entirely well-bred, but justa 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 meabout it, " says he. 

"There is nothing to tell, " says Perpetua, a little petulantlyperhaps. This tall, thin man! what a _bore_ he is! And yet, theother--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, areyou not? That is what makes you so lovely. You could be good to evena scapegrace, eh? A poor, sad outcast like me?" He laughs and leanstowards her, his handsome, dissipated, abominable face close tohers. 

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 areoutcasts. And bad people, " slowly, "are not known, are they?"

"Certainly not, " says he, disconcerted. This little girl from a farland is proving herself too much for him. And it is not her wordsthat disconcert him so much as the straight, clear, open glance fromthe thoughtful eyes. 

To turn the conversation into another channel seems desirable tohim. 

"I hope you are happy here with my sister, " says he, in his anythingbut everyday tone. 

"Quite happy, thank you. But I should have been happier still, Ithink, if I had been allowed to stay with your brother. "

Sir Hastings drops his glasses. Good heavens! what kind of a girl isthis!

"To stay with my brother! To _stay, "_ stammers he. 

"Yes. He _is_ your brother, isn't he? The professor, I mean. Ishould quite have enjoyed living with him, but he wouldn't hear ofit. He--he doesn't like me, I'm afraid?" Perpetua looks at himanxiously. A little hope that he will contradict Hardinge'sstatement animates her mind. To feel herself a burden to herguardian--to anyone--she, who in the old home had been nothing lessthan an idol! Surely Sir Hastings, his own brother, will saysomething, will say something, will tell her something to ease thischagrin at her heart. 

"Who told you that?" asks Sir Hastings. "Did he himself? I shouldn'tput it beyond him. He is a misogynist; a mere bookworm! Of noaccount. Do not waste a thought on him. "

"You mean----"

"That he detests the best part of life--that he has deliberatelyturned his back on all that makes our existence here worth having. Ishould call him a fool, but that one so dislikes having an imbecilein one's family. "

"The best part of life! You say he has turned his back on that. " Shelets her hands fall upon her knees, and turns a frowning, perplexed, but always lovely face to his. "What is it, " asks she, "that bestpart?"

"Women!" returns he, slowly, undauntedly, in spite of the innocence, the serenity, that shines in the young and exquisite face beforehim. 

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, ahindrance to him!

"I understand, " says she sorrowfully. "He will not care--_ever. _ Ishall be always a trouble to him. He----"

"Why think of him?" says Sir Hastings contemptuously. He leanstowards her; fired by her beauty, that is now enhanced by the regretthat lies upon her pretty lips, he determines on pushing his causeat once. "If _he_ cannot appreciate you, others can--_I_ can. I----"He pauses; for the first time in his life, on such an occasion asthis, he is conscious of a feeling of awkwardness. To tell a womanhe loves her has been the simplest thing in the world hitherto, butnow, when at last he is in earnest--when poverty has driven him toseek marriage with an heiress as a cure for all his ills--he findshimself tongue-tied; and not only by the importance of thesituation, so far as money goes, but by the clear, calm, waitingeyes of Perpetua. 

"Yes?" says she; and then suddenly, as if not caring for the answershe has demanded, "You mean that he---- You _too_ think that hedislikes 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 ifhe had taken a rooted aversion to you, and taken it badly too! MissWynter! it quite distresses me to think that it should be _my_brother, of all men, who has failed to see your charm. A charmthat----" He pauses effectively, to let his really fine eyes havesome play. The conservatory is sufficiently dark to disguise theravages that dissipation has made upon his handsome features. He cansee that Perpetua is regarding him earnestly, and with evidentinterest. Already he regards his cause as won. It is plain that thegirl is attracted by his face, as indeed she is! She is at thismoment 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 yourguardian, 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 herthat 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 forgirlish confusion, is somewhat disconcerted by this open patronage. 

"May I" says he--"You _permit_ me then to tell you what I have solong feared to disclose. I"--dramatically--_"love you!"_

He is standing over her, his hand on the back of her chair, waitingfor the swift blush, the tremor, the usual signs that follow on oneof his declarations. Alas! there is no blush now, no tremor, no signat all. 

"That is very good of you, " says Perpetua, in an even tone. Shemoves a little away from him, but otherwise shows no emotionwhatever. "The more so, in that it must be so difficult for you tolove a person in fourteen days! Ah! that is kind, indeed. "

A curious light comes into Sir Hastings' eyes. This littleAustralian girl, is she _laughing_ at him? But the fact is thatPerpetua is hardly thinking of him at all, or merely as a shadow toher thoughts. Who _is_ he like? that is the burden of her inwardsong. At this moment she knows. She lifts her head to see theprofessor standing in the curtained doorway down below. Ah! yes, that is it! And, indeed, the resemblance between the two brothers iswonderfully strong at this instant! In the eyes of both a quick fireis 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 minutebefore Perpetua had seen him. Spell-bound he had stood there, gazingat the girl as if bewitched. Up to this he had seen her only inblack--black always--severe, cold--but _now!_

It is to him as though he had seen her for the first time. Thegraceful curves of her neck, her snowy arms, the dead white of thegown against the whiter glory of the soft bosom, the large, darkeyes 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, andthe girl's calm drawing back, and----

The professor's step forward at that moment had betrayed him toPerpetua. 

She rises now, letting her fan fall without thought to the ground. 

"You!" cries she, in a little, soft, quick way. _"You!"_ Indeed itseems to her impossible that it can be he. 

She almost runs to him. If she had quite understood Sir Hastings isimpossible to know, for no one has ever asked her since, butcertainly the advent of her guardian is a relief to her. 

"You!" she says again, as if only half believing. Her gaze growsbewildered. If he had never seen her in anything but black before, she had never seen him in aught but rather antiquated morningclothes. Is this really the professor? Her eyes ask the questionanxiously. This tall, aristocratic, perfectly appointed man; thisman who looks positively _young_. Where are the glasses that untilnow 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 isangry with him, in a measure, but not afraid. One _might_ be afraidof Sir Hastings, but of Mr. Curzon, no!

The professor had seen the glad rush of the girl towards him, and aterrible pang of delight had run through all his veins--to befollowed by a reaction. She had come to him because she _wanted_him, because he might be of use to her, not because-- What hadHastings been saying to her? His wrathful eyes are on his brotherrather 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, comingindolently 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 hisshoulders. Perpetua makes him a little bow, and follows theprofessor out of the conservatory. 

"If you are tired, " says the professor, somewhat curtly, and withoutlooking at her, "I should think the best thing you could do would beto go to bed!"

This astounding advice receives but little favor at Miss Wynter'shands. 

"I am tired of your brother, " says she promptly. "He is as tiresomea creation as I know--but not of your sister's party; and--I'm tooold to be sent to bed, even by a _Guardian!!"_ She puts a very bigcapital 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 untimelyremark. Miss Wynter's hitherto ill-subdued anger now bursts intoflame. 

"I can't help it if I'm not big, " cries she. "It isn't my fault. Ican't help it either that papa sent me to you. _I_ didn't want to goto 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 eitherthat 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 peremptorysort of way. 

"No, " says she, shaking her head, "I shall not tell you that, but Ihave 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 beentalking 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 ofmingled 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 mostsad smiles because of the youth and sweetness of it, "I do not blameyou. I _am_ a trouble, I suppose, and all troubles are hateful. I"--holding out her hand--"shall take your advice, I think, and goto 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--youmistook 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 veryappearance to-night is strange to me, and now your sentiments! No, Ishall not be swayed by you. Good-night, good-bye!" She smiles at himin the same sorrowful little way, and takes a step or two forward. 

"Perpetua, " says the professor sternly, "before you go, you mustlisten to me. You said just now you would not hear me lie toyou--you shall hear only the truth. Whoever told you that I hatedyou is the most unmitigated liar on record!"

Perpetua rubs her fan up and down against her cheek for a littlebit. 

"Well--I'm glad you don't hate me, " says she, "but still I'm aworry. 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 shaftshe hurls at him--_malice prepense_. It is effectual. By it shemurders sleep as thoroughly as ever did Macbeth. The professorspends 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 asomewhat embarrassed laugh, flinging himself into an armchair. 

"You know you are always welcome, " says the professor gently, ifsomewhat absently. 

It is next morning, and he looks decidedly the worse for hissleeplessness. His face seems really old, his eyes are sunk in hishead. The breakfast lying untouched upon the table tells its owntale. 

"Dissipation doesn't agree with you, " says Hardinge with a faintsmile. 

"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 yoursister's last evening. I was relieved, too--sometimes it isnecessary for a man to go out, and--and see how things are going onwith his own eyes. "

"I wonder when that would be?" asks the professor indifferently. 

"When a man is a guardian, " replies Hardinge promptly, and withevident 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 therelast night--you must have seen for yourself. "

"Seen what?"

"Pshaw!" says Hardinge, throwing up his head, and flinging hiscigarette into the empty fireplace. "I saw you go into theconservatory. You found her there, and--_him. _ It is beginning to bethe chief topic of conversation amongst his friends just now. Thebetting 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, almostfiercely. "It is about her?"

"Your ward? Yes. Your brother it seems has made up his mind tobestow upon her his hand, his few remaining acres, and, " with asneer, "his spotless reputation. "

_"Hardinge!"_ cries the professor, springing to his feet as if shot. He is evidently violently agitated. His companion mistakes thenature of his excitement. 

"Forgive me!" says he quickly. "Of course _nothing_ can excuse myspeaking 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 forher future happiness--the happiness of her whole _life, _ Curzon--andif anything goes wrong with her----"

The professor puts up his hand as if to check him. He has grownashen-grey, and the other hand resting on the back of the chair isvisibly trembling. 

"Nothing shall go wrong with her, " says he, in a curious tone. 

Hardinge regards him keenly. Is this pallor, this unmistakabletrepidation, caused only by his dislike to hear his brother's realcharacter exposed?

"Well, I have told you, " says he coldly. 

"It is a mistake, " says the professor. "He would not dare toapproach a young, innocent girl. The most honorable proposal such aman as he could make to her would be basely dishonorable. "

"Ah! you see it in that light too, " says Hardinge, with a touch ofrelief. "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 mannerlast night?"

Yes, the professor _had_ noticed something. Now there comes back tohim that tall figure stooping over Perpetua, the handsome, leeringface bent low--the girl's instinctive withdrawal. 

"Something must be done, " says he. 

"Yes. And quickly. Young girls are sometimes dazzled by men of hissort. And Per--Miss Wynter-- Look here, Curzon, " breaking offhurriedly. "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' tohim 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 tomaking a way out of this difficulty. "

"I have thought of one, " says Hardinge boldly, yet with a quickflush. "You are her guardian. Why not arrange another marriage forher, before this affair with Sir Hastings goes too far?"

"There are two parties to a marriage, " says the professor, his tonealways very low. "Who is it to whom you propose to marry MissWynter?"

Hardinge, getting up, moves abruptly to the window and back again. 

"You have known me a long time, Curzon, " says he at last. "You--youhave been my friend. I have family--position--money--I----"

"I am to understand then, that _you_ are a candidate for the handof my ward, " says the professor, slowly, so slowly that it mightsuggest itself to a disinterested listener that he has greatdifficulty in speaking at all. 

"Yes, " says Hardinge, very diffidently. He looks appealingly at theprofessor. "I know perfectly well she might do a great deal better, "says he, with a modesty that sits very charmingly upon him. "But ifit comes to a choice between me and your brother, I--I think I amthe better man. By Jove, Curzon, " growing hot, "it's awfully rude ofme, I know, but it is so hard to remember that he _is_ yourbrother. "

But the professor does not seem offended. He seems, indeed, soentirely unimpressed by Hardinge's last remark, that it mayreasonably be supposed he hasn't heard a word of it. 

"And she?" says he. "Perpetua. Does she----" He hesitates, as iffinding it impossible to go on. 

"Oh! I don't know, " says the younger man, with a rather ruefulsmile. "Sometimes I think she doesn't care for me more than she doesfor the veriest stranger amongst her acquaintances, andsometimes----" expressive pause. 

"Yes? Sometimes?"

"She has seemed kind. "

"Kind? How kind?"

"Well--friendly. More friendly than she is to others. Last night shelet me sit out three waltzes with her, and she only sat out one withyour brother. "

"Is it?" asks the professor, in a dull, monotonous sort of way. "Isit--I am not much in your or her world, you know--is it a verymarked thing for a girl to sit out three waltzes with one man?"

"Oh, no. Nothing very special. I have known girls do it often, butshe 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, whyaren't you of our world? It is your own fault surely; when one seesyour sister, your brother, and--and _this, "_ with a slight glanceround the dull little apartment, "one cannot help wondering whyyou----"

"Let that go by, " says the professor. "I have explained it before. Ideliberately chose my own way in life, and I want nothing more thanI have. You think, then, that last night Miss Wynter gaveyou--encouragement?"

"Oh! hardly that. And yet--she certainly seemed to like--that is notto _dislike_ my being with her; and once--well, "--confusedly--"thatwas nothing. "

"It must have been something. "

"No, really; and I shouldn't have mentioned it either--not for amoment. "

The professor's face changes. The apathy that has lain upon it forthe past five minutes now gives way to a touch of fierce despair. Heturns aside, as if to hide the tell-tale features, and going to thewindow, gazes sightlessly on the hot, sunny street below. 

What was it--_what?_ Shall he never have the courage to find out?And is this to be the end of it all? In a flash the coming of thegirl is present before him, and now, here is her going. Had he--hadshe--what _was_ it he meant? No wonder if her girlish fancy hadfixed itself on this tall, handsome, young man, with his kindly, merry ways and honest meaning. Ah! that was what she meant perhapswhen 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 marryHardinge!

But to _know_ what Hardinge means! A torturing vision of a littlelovely figure, gowned all in white--of a little lovely faceuplifted--of another face down bent! No! a thousand times, no!Hardinge would not speak of that--it would be too sacred; and yetthis 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 knowyou scarcely relish your position; and you ought to know about it, and perhaps you can give me your opinion, too, as to whether therewas anything in it, you know. The fact is, I, "--rathershamefacedly--"asked her for a flower out of her bouquet, and shegave it. That was all, and, " hurriedly, "I don't really believe shemeant anything _by_ giving it, only, " with a nervous laugh, "I keephoping she _did!"_

A long, long sigh comes through the professor's lips straight fromhis 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 causerather than your brother's, will you not? This is an extraordinarydemand to make I know--but--I also know _you. "_

"I would rather see her dead than married to my brother, " says theprofessor, 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 puttingit, isn't it? and it expresses all I mean. She reveres you, evenif----"

"If what?"

"She revolts from your power over her. She is high-spirited, youknow, " 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--notto-day, she is going to an afternoon at Lady Swanley's--butto-morrow, and to--you know, "--nervously--"to make a formal proposalto her. "

The professor throws back his head and laughs aloud. Such a strangelaugh. 

"I am to propose to her--I?" says he. 

"For me, of course. It is very usual, " says Hardinge. "And you areher guardian, you know, and----"

"Why not propose to her yourself?" says the professor, turningviolently upon him. "Why give me this terrible task? Are you acoward, that you shrink from learning your fate except at the handsof another--another who----"

"To tell you the truth, that is it, " interrupts Hardinge, simply. "Idon't wonder at your indignation, but the fact is, I love her somuch, 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. Ifyou were her father, I should be saying to you just what I am sayingnow. "

"True, " says the professor. His head is lowered. "There, go, " sayshe, "I must think this over. "

"But I may depend upon you"--anxiously--"you will do what you canfor me?"

"I shall do what I can for _her. "_

CHAPTER XIV. 

 "Now, by two-headed Janus, Nature hath framed strange fellows in her time. "

Hardinge is hardly gone, before another--a far heavier--step soundsin the passage outside the professor's door. It is followed by aknock, almost insolent in its loudness and sharpness. 

"What a hole you do live in, " says Sir Hastings, stepping into theroom, and picking his way through the books and furniture as ifafraid of being tainted by them. "Bless me! what strange beings youscientists are. Rags and bones your surroundings, instead of goodflesh and blood. Well, Thaddeus--hardly expected to see _me_ here, eh?"

"You want me?" says the professor. "Don't sit down there--thosenotes are loose; sit here. "

"Faith, you've guessed it, my dear fellow, I _do_ want you, and mostconfoundedly badly this time. Your ward, now, Miss Wynter! Deucedpretty little girl, isn't she, and good form too? Wonderfullybred--considering. "

"I don't suppose you have come here to talk about Miss Wynter's goodmanners. "

"By Jove! I have though. You see, Thaddeus, I've about come to thelength of my tether, and--er--I'm thinking of turning over a newleaf--reforming, you know--settling down--going in fordulness--domesticity, and all the other deuced lot of it. "

"It is an excellent resolution, that might have been arrived atyears ago with greater merit, " says the professor. 

"A preacher and a scientist in one! Dear sir, you go beyond thepossible, " says Sir Hastings, with a shrug. "But to business. Seehere, Thaddeus. I have told you a little of my plans, now hear therest. I intend to marry--an heiress, _bien entendu_--and it seems tome 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 nofamily to signify, whereas the Curzons---- It will a better matchfor her than in her wildest dreams she could have hoped for. "

"Perhaps, in her wildest dreams, she hoped for a good man, and onewho 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 geta good deal. Title, position---- I say, Thaddeus, what I want of youis, 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 anythingto say. Staring at the man before him, he knows he is loathsome tohim--loathsome, and his own brother! This man, who with some of thebest blood of England in his veins, is so far, far below thestandard that marks the gentleman. Surely vice is degrading in moreways than one. To the professor, Sir Hastings, with his handsome, dissipated face, stands out, tawdry, hideous, vulgar--why, everyword he says is tinged with coarseness and yet, what a pretty boy heused to be, with his soft, sunny hair and laughing eyes----

"You will help me, eh?" persists Sir Hastings, with his little drychronic 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 muchlonger. "

"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 newleaf. 'Pon my word, I mean _that. _ I'm sick of all this old racket, it's killing me. And my title is as good a one as she can findanywhere, and if I'm dipped--rather--her money would pull mestraight again, and----"

He pauses, struck by something in the Professor's face. 

"You mean----?" says the latter again, even more slowly. His eyesare beginning to light. 

"Exactly what I have said, " sullenly. "You have heard me. "

"Yes, I _have_ heard you, " cries the professor, flinging aside allrestraints and giving way to sudden violent passion--the moreviolent, coming from one so usually calm and indifferent. "You havecome here to-day to try and get possession, not only of the fortuneof 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 shamefultransaction. Her dead father left her to my care, and am I to sellher to you, that her money may redeem our name from the slough intowhich _you_ have flung it? Is innocence to be sacrificed that vicemay ride abroad again? Look here, " says the professor, his facedeadly white, "you have come to the wrong man. I shall warn MissWynter against marriage with _you, _ as long as there is breath leftin my body. "

Sir Hastings has risen too; _his_ face is dark red; the crimsonflood has reached his forehead and dyed it almost black. Now, atthis terrible moment, the likeness between the two brothers, sodifferent in spirit, can be seen; the flashing eyes, the scornfullips, the deadly hatred. It is a shocking likeness, yet not to bedenied. 

"What do _you_ mean, damn you?" says Sir Hastings; he sways alittle, as if his passion is overpowering him, and clutches feeblyat 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 forher. "

"Indeed! Perhaps those other views include yourself. Are youthinking of reserving the prize for your own special benefit? Apenniless 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 SirHastings, in his most offensive way, which is nasty indeed. "Youhope to keep me unmarried. You tell yourself, I can't live muchlonger, at the pace I'm going. I know the old jargon--I have it byheart--given a year at the most the title and the heiress will bothbe yours! I can read you--I--" He breaks off to laugh sardonically, and the cough catching him, shakes him horribly. "But, no, byheaven!" cries he. "I'll destroy your hopes yet. I'll disappointyou. I'll marry. I'm a young man yet--yet--with life--_long_ lifebefore me--life----"

A terrible change comes over his face, he reels backwards, onlysaving himself by a blind clinging to a book-case on his right. 

The professor rushes to him and places his arm round him. With hisfoot he drags a chair nearer, into which Sir Hastings falls with aheavy groan. It is only a momentary attack, however; in a littlewhile the leaden hue clears away, and, though still ghastly, hisface looks more natural. 

"Brandy, " gasps he faintly. The professor holds it to his lips, andafter a minute or two he revives sufficiently to be able to sit upand look round him. 

"Thought you had got rid of me for good and all, " says he, with amalicious grin, terrible to see on his white, drawn face. "But I'llbeat you yet! There!--Call my fellow--he's below. Can't get aboutwithout a damned attendant in the morning, now. But I'll cure allthat. 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--stillhardly 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. Itseemed to him that it would be impossible to go through anothersleepless night, with this raging doubt, this cruel uncertainty inhis heart. 

He finds her in the library, the soft light of the dying eveningfalling on her little slender figure. She is sitting in a bigarmchair, all in black--as he best knows her--with a book upon herknee. She looks charming, and fresh as a new-born flower. Evidentlyneither lest night's party nor to-day's afternoon have had power todim her beauty. Sleep had visited _her_ last night, at all events. 

She springs out of her chair, and throws her book on the table nearher. 

"Why, you are the very last person I expected, " says she. 

"No doubt, " says the professor. Who was the _first_ person she hadexpected? And will Hardinge be here presently to plead his cause inperson? "But it was imperative I should come. There is something Ihave 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 youdislike the idea, still, it was your poor father's wish that Ishould, in a measure, regulate your life until your coming of age. Iam here to-day to let you know--that--Mr. Hardinge has requested meto tell you that he----"

The professor pauses, feeling that he is failing miserably. He, thefluent speaker at lectures, and on public platforms, is now bereftof the power to explain one small situation. 

"What's the matter with Mr. Hardinge, " asks Perpetua, "that he can'tcome here himself? Nothing serious, I hope?"

"I am your guardian, " says the professor--unfortunately, with allthe air of one profoundly sorry for the fact declared, "and hewishes _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--andyou'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, Iwish you to know that--that I--have known him for years, and that heis in my opinion a strictly honorable, kind-hearted man. He is ofgood family. He has money. He will probably succeed to abaronetcy--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 ofmirth. It is mirth of the very angriest, but it checks him the moreeffectually because of that. 

"You must place great confidence in princes!" says she. "Even_'without _the title, he is worthy of esteem. '" She copies himaudaciously. "What has a title got to do with esteem?--and what hasesteem got to do with love?"

"I should hope----" begins the professor. 

"You needn't. It has nothing to do with it, nothing _at all. _ Goback and tell Mr. Hardinge so; and tell him, too, that when next hegoes a-wooing, he had better do it in person. "

"I am afraid I have damaged my mission, " says the professor, who hasnever once looked at her since his first swift glance. 

_"Your_ mission?"

"Yes. It was mere nervousness that prevented him coming to you firsthimself. He said he had little to go on, and he said something abouta flower that you gave him----"

Perpetua makes a rapid movement toward a side table, takes a flowerfrom a bouquet there, and throws it at the professor. There is noexcuse to be made for her beyond the fact that her heart feelsbreaking, and people with broken hearts do strange things every day. 

"I would give a flower to _anyone!"_ says she in a quick scornfulfashion. The professor catches the ungraciously given gift, toyswith 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 himbecause he came first to me. It was a sense of duty--I know, I_feel_--compelled him to do it, together with his honest diffidenceabout your affection for him. Do not let pride stand in the wayof----"

"Nonsense!" says Perpetua, with a rapid movement of her hand. "Pridehas no part in it. I do not care for Mr. Hardinge--I shall not marryhim. "

A little mist seems to gather before the professor's eyes. Hisglasses seem in the way, he drops them, and now stands gazing ather, as if disbelieving his senses. In fact he does disbelieve inthem. 

"Are you sure?" persists he. "Afterwards you may regret----"

"Oh, no!" says she, shaking her head. _"Mr. Hardinge_ will not bethe one to cause me regret. "

"Still, think----"

"Think! Do you imagine I have not been thinking?" cries she, withsudden passion. "Do you imagine I do not know why you plead hiscause so eloquently? You want to get _rid_ of me. You are _tired_ ofme. You always thought me heartless, about my poor father even, andunloving, and--hateful, and----"

"Not heartless; what have I done, Perpetua, that you should saythat?"

"Nothing. That is what I _detest_ about you. If you said outrightwhat 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 arealways 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 atoken of his guilt towards her. 

"They are _not!"_ says she, with a little stamp of her foot thatmakes 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. Shetrembles, pales, and finally bursts into a passion of tears thathave no anger in them, only intense grief. 

"I do not, " says the professor, who is trembling too, but whoseutterance is firm. "Whatever my thoughts are, _your_ reading of themis entirely wrong. "

"Well, at all events you can't deny one thing, " says she checkingher sobs, and gazing at him again with undying enmity. "You want toget rid of me, you are determined to marry me to some one, so as toget me out of your way. But I shan't marry to please _you. _ Ineedn't either. There is somebody else who wants to marry me besidesyour--_your_ candidate!" with an indignant glance. "I have had aletter from Sir Hastings this afternoon. And, " rebelliously, "Ihaven't answered it yet. "

"Then you shall answer it now, " says the professor. "And you shallsay 'no' to him. "

"Why? Because you order me?"

"Partly because of that. Partly because I trust to your owninstincts to see the wisdom of so doing. "

"Ah! you beg the question, " says he, "but I'm not so sure I shallobey you for all that. "

"Perpetua! Do not speak to me like that, I implore you, " says theprofessor, very pale. "Do you think I am not saying all this foryour good? Sir Hastings--he is my brother--it is hard for me toexplain 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. "Godknows 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 girlbitterly. She turns abruptly away, and struggles with herself for amoment, then looks back at him. "Well, I shall not marry him, " saysshe. 

"That is in your own hands, " says the professor. "But I shall havesomething to say about the other proposal you speak of. "

"Do you think I want to marry your brother?" says she. "I tell youno, no, _no!_ A thousand times no! The very fact that he _is_ yourbrother would prevent me. To be you ward is bad enough, to be yoursister-in-law would be insufferable. For all the world I would notbe more to you than I am now. "

"It is a wise decision, " says the professor icily. He feels smittento his very heart's core. Had he ever dreamed of a nearer, dearertie 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, drivenbeyond his self-control. "You are a mere child, a baby, you speakat random. "

"What!" cries she, flashing round at him, "will you deny that I havebeen a trouble to you, that you would have been thankful had younever heard my name?"

"You are right, " gravely. "I deny nothing. I wish with all my soul Ihad never heard your name. I confess you have troubled me. I gobeyond even _that, _ I declare that you have been my undoing! Andnow, let us make an end of it. I am a poor man and a busy one, thistask your father laid upon my shoulders is too heavy for me. I shallresign my guardianship; Gwendoline--Lady Baring--will accept theposition. 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, andtroublesome, but troublesome people do not break one's heart. Whathave I done then that yours should be broken?" She has moved closerto him. Her eyes are gazing with passionate question into his. 

"Do not think of that, " says the professor, unsteadily. "Do not letthat trouble you. As I just now told you, I am a poor man, and poormen cannot afford such luxuries as hearts. "

"Yet poor men have them, " says the girl in a little low stifledtone. "And--and girls have them too!"

There is a long, long silence. To Curzon it seems as if the wholeworld has undergone a strange, wild upheaval. What had shemeant--what? Her words! Her words meant something, but her looks, her eyes, oh, how much more _they_ meant! And yet to listen toher--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 rapidmovement towards him--an almost imperceptible one. _Did_ she raiseher hands as if to hold them out to him? If so, it is so slight agesture as scarcely to be remembered afterwards, and at all events, the professor takes no notice of it, presumably, therefore, he doesnot see it. 

"It is late, " says Perpetua a moment afterwards. "I must go anddress for dinner. " _Her_ eyes are down now. She looks pale andshamed. 

"You have nothing to say, then?" asks the professor, compellinghimself to the question. 

"About what?"

"Hardinge. "

The girl turns a white face to his. 

"Will you then _compel_ me to marry him?" says she. "AmI"--faintly--"nothing to you? Nothing----" She seems to fade backfrom him in the growing uncertainty of the light into the shadow ofthe corner beyond. Curzon makes a step towards her. 

At this moment the door is thrown suddenly open, and aman--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 manin black. "They told me I should find you here. I have to tell you, Sir Thaddeus, that your brother, the late lamented Sir Hastings, isdead. " 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 withquite a mad merriment, making the most of the days that be, knowingfull well that the end of the summer is nigh. The air is stifling;up from the warm earth comes the almost overpowering perfume of thelate flowers. Perpetua moving amongst the carnations and hollyhocksin her soft white cambric frock, gathers a few of the former in alanguid 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 forthe seclusion of her country home, carrying Perpetua with her. Shehad grown very fond of the girl, and the fancy she had formed(before Sir Hastings' death) that Thaddeus was in love with theyoung heiress, and that she would make him a suitable wife, had notsuffered in any way through the fact of Sir Thaddeus having nowbecome 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 thegardens. A whole _long_ month, and not one word from him! Are hissocial duties now so numerous that he has forgotten he has a ward?"Well, " emphatically, and with a vicious little tug at her big whitehat, _"some_ people have strange views about duty. "

She has almost reached the summer-house, vine-clad, and temptinglycool in all this heat, when a quick step behind her causes her toturn. 

"They told me you were here, " says the professor, coming up withher. He is so distinctly the professor still, in spite of his newmourning, and the better cut of his clothes, and the general air ofhaving been severely looked after--that Perpetua feels at home withhim 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 lookscool. "

It is cool, and particularly empty. One small seat occupies the backof 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. Howcould 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, tooinsignificant 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 herhead, and casts at him a swift, but burning glance. _"Was_ itnothing? You came to plead your friend's cause, I think. Surely thatwas something? I thought it a great deal. And what was it you saidof Mr. Hardinge? Ah! I _have_ forgotten that, but I know how youextolled him--praised him to the skies--recommended him to me as adesirable suitor. " She makes an impatient movement, as if to shakesomething from her. "Why have you come to-day?" asks she. "To pleadhis cause afresh?"

"Not his--to-day. "

"Whose then? Another suitor, maybe? It seems I have more than even Idreamt 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 hisjourney to her, but now it dies. There is little love truly in hersmall, 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 hereto-day to lay before me, for my consideration, the name of anotherof your friends who wishes to marry me, why I beg you to save mefrom suitors. I can make my choice from many, and when I _do_ wantto 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 liesin your own power. You can, if you will, say yes, or----". Hepauses. The pause is eloquent, and full of deep entreaty. 

"Or no, " supplies she calmly. "True! You, " with a half defiant, halfsaucy glance, "are beginning to learn that a guardian cannot controlone 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!" saysshe, 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 morewould 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 withamazement at this declaration on his part. She had not believed himwhen he had before spoken of his intention of resigning. "But youcannot, " says she. "You have promised. Papa _said_ you were to takecare of me. "

"Your father did not know. "

"He _did. _ He said you were the one man in all the world he couldtrust. "

"Impossible, " says the professor. "A--lover--cannot be a guardian!"His voice has sunk to a whisper. He turns away, and makes a steptowards the door. 

"You are going, " cries she, fighting with a desperate desire fortears, 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 womanresentful. "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. Youtold me that it was bad enough to be your ward, that you would noton 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 fromeach smile of yours, each glance, each word. There! Once I leave younow, the chain between us will be broken, we shall never, with _my_will, meet again. You say you have had suitors since you came downhere. You hinted to me that you could mention the name of him youwished to marry. So be it. Mention it to Gwendoline--to any one youlike, 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 hearthat and turn. She is holding out her hands to him, the tears arerunning down her lovely cheeks. 

"It is to you--to _you_ I would tell his name, " sobs she, as hereturns slowly, unwillingly, but _surely, _ to her. "To you alone. "

"To me! Go on, " says Curzon; "let me hear it. What is the name ofthis 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 heartbeating against hers, that she so far recovers herself as to be ableto add, "And a _hideous_ name it is, too!"

But this last little firework does no harm. Curzon is tooecstatically happy to take notice of her small impertinence. 

THE END. 

Obvious typographical errors silently corrected by thetranscriber:

chapter 1: =leaving them all _planté la_ as it were, =silently corrected as =leaving them all _planté là_ as it were, =

chapter 2: ='From grave to gay, = silently corrected as ="Fromgrave to gay, =

chapter 5: =don't you think she would let you take me to the theatresome night? She has come nearer, = silently corrected as =don't you thinkshe would let you take me to the theatre some night?" She has come nearer, =

chapter 6: =She asked me to sit down--I obeyed her. = silently correctedas =She asked me to sit down--I obeyed her. "=

chapter 6:_ ="Won't she!"= _silently corrected as_ =Won't she!=_

chapter 7: =or condemn his honest efforts to enlighten his small sectionof mankind!"= silently corrected as =or condemn his honest efforts toenlighten his small section of mankind!=

chapter 7: =Of course Mrs: Mulcahy--who, no doubt, = silently correctedas =Of course Mrs. Mulcahy--who, no doubt, =

chapter 8: ="How many to-morrows is she going to remain here?= silentlycorrected as =How many to-morrows is she going to remain here?=

chapter 10: =His regret is evidently genuine, indeed. To Hardinge theevening= silently corrected as =His regret is evidently genuine, indeed;to Hardinge the evening=

chapter 10: ="Oh, you laugh at me. " interrupts she= silently correctedas ="Oh, you laugh at me, " interrupts she=

chapter 12: =she had never seen him in ought but rather antiquated=silently corrected as =she had never seen him in aught but ratherantiquated=

chapter 12: =says he. "It is an untimely remark. Miss Wynter's hitherto=silently corrected as =says he. It is an untimely remark. Miss Wynter's hitherto__=

chapter 12: =cries she. It isn't my fault=. Silently corrected as=cries she. "It isn't my fault=. 

chapter 12: =if one is foolish enough to listen, " Curzon's face isa little pale= silently corrected as =if one is foolish enoughto listen. " Curzon's face is a little pale=

chapter 13: =caused only by his dislike to hear his brother's realcharacter exposed. = silently corrected as =caused only by his disliketo hear his brother's real character exposed?=

chapter 13: =at the professor. I know perfectly well= silentlycorrected as =at the professor. "I know perfectly well=

chapter 15: =Well. I shall not marry him= silently corrected as=Well, I shall not marry him=