"A maid so sweet that her mere sight made glad men sorrowing."
Nevertheless the man in the bush doesn't get her.
Time has run on a little bit since the professor suffered many
agonies on a certain raw February morning, and now it is the 30th of
May, and a glorious finish too to that sweet month.
Even into this dingy old room, where at a dingy old table the
professor sits buried in piles of notes, and with sheets of
manuscript knee-deep scattered around him, the warm glad sun is
stealing; here and there, the little rays are darting, lighting up a
dusty corner here, a hidden heap of books there. It is, as yet,
early in the afternoon, and the riotous beams, who are no respecter
of persons, and who honor the righteous and the ungodly alike, are
playing merrily in this sombre chamber, given so entirely up to
science and its prosy ways, daring even now to dance lightly on the
professor's head, which has begun to grow a little bald.
"The golden sun, in splendor likest heav'n,"
is proving perhaps a little too much for the tired brain in the
small room. Either that, or the incessant noises in the street
outside, which have now been enriched by the strains of a
broken-down street piano, causes him to lay aside his pen and lean
back in a weary attitude in his chair.
What a day it is! How warm! An hour ago he had delivered a brilliant
lecture on the everlasting Mammoth (a fresh specimen just arrived
from Siberia), and is now paying the penalty of greatness. He had
done well--he knew that--he had been _interesting,_ that surest road
to public favor--he had been applauded to the echo; and now,
worn-out, tired in mind and body, he is living over again his honest
joy in his success.
In this life, however, it is not given us to be happy for long. A
knock at the professor's door brings him back to the present, and
the knowledge that the landlady--a stout, somewhat erratic person of
fifty--is standing on his threshold, a letter in her hand.
"For you, me dear," says she, very kindly, handing the letter to the
professor.
She is perhaps the one person of his acquaintance who has been able
to see through the professor's gravity and find him _young._
"Thank you," says he. He takes the letter indifferently, opens it
languidly, and---- Well, there isn't much languor after the perusal
of it.
The professor sits up; literally this time slang is unknown to him;
and re-reads it. _That girl has come!_ There can't be any doubt of
it. He had almost forgotten her existence during these past tranquil
months, when no word or hint about her reached him, but now, _here_
she is at last, descending upon him like a whirlwind.
A line in a stiff, uncompromising hand apprises the professor of the
unwelcome fact. The "line" is signed by "Jane Majendie," therefore
there can be no doubt of the genuineness of the news contained in
it. Yes! that girl _has_ come!
The professor never swears, or he might now perhaps have given way
to reprehensible words.
Instead of that, he pulls himself together, and determines on
immediate action. To call upon this ward of his is a thing that must
be done sooner of later, then why not sooner? Why not at once? The
more unpleasant the duty, the more necessity to get it off one's
mind without delay.
He pulls the bell. The landlady appears again.
"I must go out," says the professor, staring a little helplessly at
her.
"An' a good thing too," says she. "A saint's day ye might call it,
wid the sun. An' where to, sir, dear? Not to thim rascally
sthudents, I do thrust?"
"No, Mrs. Mulcahy. I--I am going to see a young lady," says the
professor simply.
"The divil!" says Mrs. Mulcahy with a beaming smile. "Faix, that's
a turn the right way anyhow. But have ye thought o' yer clothes,
me dear?"
"Clothes?" repeats the professor vaguely.
"Arrah, wait," says she, and runs away lightly, in spite of her
fifty years and her too, too solid flesh, and presently returns with
the professor's best coat and a clothes brush that, from its
appearance, might reasonably be supposed to have been left behind by
Noah when he stepped out of the Ark. With this latter (having put
the coat on him) she proceeds to belabor the professor with great
spirit, and presently sends him forth shining--if not _in_ternally,
at all events _ex_ternally.
In truth the professor's mood is not a happy one. Sitting in the
hansom that is taking him all too swiftly to his destination, he
dwells with terror on the girl--the undesired ward--who has been
thrust upon him. He has quite made up his mind about her. An
Australian girl! One knows what to expect _there!_ Health unlimited;
strength tremendous; and noise--_much_ noise.
Yes, she is sure to be a _big_ girl. A girl with branching limbs,
and a laugh you could hear a mile off. A young woman with no sense
of the fitness of things, and a settled conviction that nothing
could shake, that "'Strailia" is _the_ finest country on earth! A
bouncing creature who _never_ sits down; to whom rest or calm is
unknown, and whose highest ambition will be to see the Tower and the
wax-works.
Her hair is sure to be untidy; hanging probably in straight, black
locks over her forehead, and her frock will look as if it had been
pitchforked on to her, and requires only the insubordination of
_one_ pin to leave her without it again.
The professor is looking pale, but has on him all the air of one
prepared for _anything_ as the maid shows him in the drawing-room of
the house where Miss Jane Majendie lives.
His thoughts are still full her niece. _Her_ niece, poor woman, and
_his_ ward--poor _man!_ when the door opens and _some one_ comes in.
_Some one!_
The professor gets slowly on to his feet, and stares at the
advancing apparition. Is it child or woman, this fair vision? A hard
question to answer! It is quite easy to read, however, that "some
one" is very lovely!
"It is you, Mr. Curzon, is it not?" says the vision.
Her voice is sweet and clear, a little petulant perhaps, but still
_very_ sweet. She is quite small--a _little_ girl--and clad in deep
mourning. There is something pathetic about the dense black
surrounding such a radiant face, and such a childish figure. Her
eyes are fixed on the professor, and there is evident anxiety in
their hazel depths; her soft lips are parted; she seems hesitating
as if not knowing whether she shall smile or sigh. She has raised
both her hands as if unconsciously, and is holding them clasped
against her breast. The pretty fingers are covered with costly
rings. Altogether she makes a picture--this little girl, with her
brilliant eyes, and mutinous mouth, and soft black clinging gown.
Dainty-sweet she looks,
"Sweet as is the bramble-flower."
"Yes," says the professor, in a hesitating way, as if by no means
certain of the fact. He is so vague about it, indeed, that "some
one's" dark eyes take a mischievous gleam.
"Are you _sure?"_ says she, and looks up at him suddenly, a little
sideways perhaps, as if half frightened, and gives way to a naughty
sort of little laugh. It rings through the room, this laugh, and has
the effect of frightening her _altogether_ this time. She checks
herself, and looks first down at the carpet with the big roses on
it, where one little foot is wriggling in a rather nervous way, and
then up again at the professor, as if to see if he is thinking bad
things of her. She sighs softly.
"Have you come to see me or Aunt Jane?" asks she; "because Aunt Jane
is out--_I'm glad to say"_--this last pianissimo.
"To see you," says the professor, absently. He is thinking! He has
taken her hand, and held it, and dropped it again, all in a state of
high bewilderment.
"Is _this_ the big, strong, noisy girl of his imaginings? The
bouncing creature with untidy hair, and her clothes pitchforked on
to her?"
"Well--I hoped so," says she, a little wistfully as it seems to him,
every trace of late sauciness now gone, and with it the sudden
shyness. After many days the professor grows accustomed to these
sudden transitions that are so puzzling yet so enchanting, these
rapid, inconsequent, but always lovely changes
"From grave to gay, from lively to severe."
"Won't you sit down?" says his small hostess, gently, touching a
chair near her with her slim fingers.
"Thank you," says the professor, and then stops short.
"You are----"
"Your ward," says she, ever so gently still, yet emphatically. It is
plain that she is now on her very _best_ behavior. She smiles up at
him in a very encouraging way. "And you are my guardian, aren't
you?"
"Yes," says the professor, without enthusiasm. He has seated
himself, not on the chair she has pointed out to him, but on a very
distant lounge. He is conscious of a feeling of growing terror. This
lovely child has created it, yet why, or how? Was ever guardian
mastered by a ward before? A desire to escape is filling him, but he
has got to do his duty to his dead friend, and this is part of it.
He has retired to the far-off lounge with a view to doing it as
distantly as possible, but even this poor subterfuge fails him. Miss
Wynter, picking up a milking-stool, advances leisurely towards him,
and seating herself upon it just in front of him, crosses her hands
over her knees and looks expectantly up at him with a charming
smile.
"_Now_ we can have a good talk," says she.