"And if you dreamed how a friend's smile
And nearness soothe a heart that's sore,
You might be moved to stay awhile
Before my door."
"About?" begins the professor, and stammers, and ceases.
"Everything," says she, with a little nod. "It is impossible to talk
to Aunt Jane. She doesn't talk, she only argues, and always wrongly.
But you are different. I can see that. Now tell me,"--she leans even
more forward and looks intently at the professor, her pretty brows
wrinkled as if with extreme and troublous thought--"What are the
duties of a guardian?"
"Eh?" says the professor. He moves his glasses up to his forehead
and then pulls them down again. Did ever anxious student ask him
question so difficult of answer as this one--that this small maiden
has propounded?
"You can think it over," says she most graciously. "There is no
hurry, and I am quite aware that one isn't made a guardian _every_
day. Do you think you could make it out whilst I count forty?"
"I think I could make it out more quickly if you didn't count at
all," says the professor, who is growing warm. "The duties of a
guardian--are--er--to--er--to see that one's ward is comfortable
and happy."
"Then there is a great deal of duty for _you_ to do," says she
solemnly, letting her chin slip into the hollow of her hand.
"I know--I'm sure of it," says the professor with a sigh that might
be called a groan. "But your aunt, Miss Majendie--your mother's
sister--can----"
"I don't believe she is my mother's sister," says Miss Wynter
calmly. "I have seen my mother's picture. It is lovely! Aunt Jane
was a changeling--I'm sure of it. But never mind her. You were going
to say----?"
"That Miss Majendie, who is virtually your guardian--can explain it
all to you much better than I can."
"Aunt Jane is _not_ my guardian!" The mild look of enquiry changes
to one of light anger. The white brown contracts. "And certainly she
could never make one happy and comfortable. Well--what else?"
"She will look after----"
"I told you I don't care about Aunt Jane. Tell me what _you_ can
do----"
"See that your fortune is not----"
"I don't care about my fortune either," with a little petulant
gesture. "But I _do_ care about my happiness. Will you see to
_that?_"
"Of course," says the professor gravely.
"Then you will take me away from Aunt Jane!" The small vivacious
face is now all aglow. "I am not happy with Aunt Jane. I"--clasping
her hands, and letting a quick, vindictive fire light her eyes--"I
_hate_ Aunt Jane. She says things about poor papa that---- _Oh!_ how
I hate her!"
"But--you shouldn't--you really should not. I feel certain you ought
not," says the professor, growing vaguer every moment.
"Ought I not?" with a quick little laugh that is all anger and no
mirth. "I _do_ though, for all that! I"--pausing, and regarding him
with a somewhat tragic air that sits most funnily upon her--"am not
going to stay here much longer!"
_"What!"_ says the professor aghast. "But my dear---- Miss Wynter,
I'm afraid you _must."_
"Why? What is she to me?"
"Your aunt."
"That's nothing--nothing at all--even a _guardian_ is better than
that. And you are my guardian. Why," coming closer to him and
pressing five soft little fingers in an almost feverish fashion upon
his arm, "why can't _you_ take me away?"
_"I?"_
"Yes, yes, you." She comes even nearer to him, and the pressure of
the small fingers grows more eager--there is something in them that
might well be termed coaxing. _"Do,"_ says she.
"Oh! Impossible!" says the professor. The color mounts to his brow.
He almost _shakes_ off the little clinging fingers in his
astonishment and agitation. Has she no common sense--no knowledge of
the things that be?
She has drawn back from him and is regarding him somewhat strangely.
"Impossible to leave Aunt Jane?" questions she. It is evident she
has not altogether understood, and yet is feeling puzzled. "Well,"
defiantly, "we shall see!"
_"Why_ don't you like your Aunt Jane?" asks the professor
distractedly. He doesn't feel nearly as fond of his dead friend as
he did an hour ago.
"Because," lucidly, "she _is_ Aunt Jane. If she were _your_ Aunt
Jane you would know."
"But my dear----"
"I really wish," interrupts Miss Wynter petulantly, "you wouldn't
call me 'my dear.' Aunt Jane calls me that when she is going to say
something horrid to me. Papa----" she pauses suddenly, and tears
rush to her dark eyes.
"Yes. What of your father?" asks the professor hurriedly, the tears
raising terror in his soul.
"You knew him--speak to me of him," says she, a little tremulously.
"I knew him well indeed. He was very good to me when--when I was
younger. I was very fond of him."
"He was good to everyone," says Miss Wynter, staring hard at the
professor. It is occurring to her that this grave sedate man with
his glasses could never have been younger. He must always have been
older than the gay, handsome, _debonnaire_ father, who had been so
dear to her.
"What were you going to tell me about him?" asks the professor
gently.
"Only what he used to call me--_Doatie!_ I suppose," wistfully, "you
couldn't call me that?"
"I am afraid not," says the professor, coloring even deeper.
"I'm sorry," says she, her young mouth taking a sorrowful curve.
"But don't call me Miss Wynter, at all events, or 'my dear.' I do so
want someone to call me by my Christian name," says the poor child
sadly.
"Perpetua--is it not?" says the professor, ever so kindly.
"No--'Pet,'" corrects she. "It's shorter, you know, and far easier
to say."
"Oh!" says the professor. To him it seems very difficult to say. Is
it possible she is going to ask him to call her by that
familiar--almost affectionate--name? The girl must be mad.
"Yes--much easier," says Perpetua; "you will find that out, after a
bit, when you have got used to calling me by it. Are you going now,
Mr. Curzon? Going _so soon?_"
"I have classes," says the professor.
"Students?" says she. "You teach them? I wish I was a student. I
shouldn't have been given over to Aunt Jane then, or," with a rather
wilful laugh, "if I had been I should have led her, oh!"
rapturously, _"such a life!"_
It suggests itself to the professor that she is quite capable of
doing that now, though she is _not_ of the sex male.
"Good-bye," says he, holding out his hand.
"You will come soon again?" demands she, laying her own in it.
"Next week--perhaps."
"Not till then? I shall be dead then," says she, with a rather
mirthless laugh this time. "Do you know that you and Aunt Jane are
the only two people in all London whom I know?"
"That is terrible," says he, quite sincerely.
"Yes. Isn't it?"
"But soon you will know people. Your aunt has acquaintances.
They--surely they will call; they will see you--they----"
"Will take an overwhelming fancy to me? just as you have done," says
she, with a quick, rather curious light in her eyes, and a tilting
of her pretty chin. "There! _go,"_ says she, "I have some work to
do; and you have your classes. It would never do for you to miss
_them._ And as for next week!--make it next month! I wouldn't for
the world be a trouble to you in any way."
"I shall come next week," says the professor, troubled in somewise
by the meaning in her eyes. What is it? Simple loneliness, or misery
downright? How young she looks--what a child! That tragic air does
not belong to her of right. She should be all laughter, and
lightness, and mirth----
"As you will," says she; her tone has grown almost haughty; there is
a sense of remorse in his breast as he goes down the stairs. Has he
been kind to old Wynter's child? Has he been true to his trust?
There has been an expression that might almost be termed despair in
the young face as he left her. Her face, with that expression on it,
haunts him all down the road.
Yes. He will call next week. What day is this? Friday. And Friday
next he is bound to deliver a lecture somewhere--he is not sure
where, but certainly somewhere. Well, Saturday then he might call.
But that----
Why not call Thursday--or even Wednesday?
Wednesday let it be. He needn't call every week, but he had said
something about calling next week, and--she wouldn't care, of
course--but one should keep their word. What a strange little face
she has--and strange manners, and--not able to get on evidently with
her present surroundings.
What an old devil that aunt must be!