"Take it to thy breast;
Though thorns its stem invest,
Gather them, with the rest!"
"She is unbearable. _Unbearable!"_ returns Perpetua vehemently.
"When I came back from the concert to-night, she---- But I won't
speak of her. I _won't._ And, at all events, I have done with her; I
have left her. I have come"--with decision--"to stay with you!"
"Eh?" says the professor. It is a mere sound, but it expresses a
great deal.
"To stay with you. Yes," nodding her head, "it has come to that at
last. I warned you it _would._ I couldn't stay with her any longer.
I hate her! So I have come to stay with you--_for ever!"_
She has cuddled herself into an armchair, and, indeed, looks as if a
life-long residence in this room is the plan she has laid out for
herself.
"Good heavens! What can you mean?" asks the poor professor, who
should have sworn by the heathen gods, but in a weak moment falls
back upon the good old formula. He sinks upon the table next him,
and makes ruin of the notes he had been scribbling--the ink is still
wet--even whilst Hardinge was with him. Could he only have known it,
there are first proofs of them now upon his trousers.
"I have told you," says she. "Good gracious, what a funny room this
is! I told you she was abominable to me when I came home to-night.
She said dreadful things to me, and I don't care whether she is my
aunt or not, I shan't let her scold me for nothing; and--I'm afraid
I wasn't nice to her. I'm sorry for that, but--one isn't a bit of
stone, you know, and she said something--about my mother," her eyes
grow very brilliant here, "and when I walked up to her she
apologized for that, but afterwards she said something about poor,
_poor_ papa--and--well, that was the end. I told her--amongst _other
_things--that I thought she was 'too old to be alive,' and she
didn't seem to mind the 'other things' half as much as that, though
they were awful. At all events," with a little wave of her hands,
"she's lectured me now for good; I shall never see _her_ again! I've
run away to you! See?"
It must be acknowledged that the professor _doesn't_ see. He is
sitting on the edge of the table--dumb.
"Oh! I'm so _glad_ I've left her," says Perpetua, with indeed
heartfelt delight in look and tone. "But--do you know--I'm hungry.
You--you couldn't let me make you a cup of tea, could you? I'm
dreadfully thirsty! What's that in your glass?"
"Nothing," says the professor hastily. He removes the half-finished
tumbler of whisky and soda, and places it in the open cupboard.
"It looked like _something,"_ says she. "But what about tea?"
"I'll see what I can do," says he, beginning to busy himself amongst
many small contrivances in the same cupboard. It has gone to his
heart to hear that she is hungry and thirsty, but even in the midst
of his preparations for her comfort, a feeling of rage takes
possession of him.
He pulls his head out of the cupboard and turns to her.
"You must be _mad!"_ says he.
"Mad? Why?" asks she.
"To come here. Here! And at this hour!"
"There was no other place: and I wasn't going to live under _her_
roof another second. I said to myself that she was my aunt, but you
were my guardian. Both of you have been told to look after me, and I
prefer to be looked after by you. It is so simple," says she, with a
suspicion of contempt in her tone, "that I wonder why you wonder at
it. As I preferred _you_--of course I have come to live with you."
"You _can't!"_ gasps the professor, "you must go back to Miss
Majendie at once!"
"To _her!_ I'm not going back," steadily. "And even if I would,"
triumphantly, "I couldn't. As she sleeps at the top of the house (to
get _air,_ she says), and so does her maid, you might ring until you
were black in the face, and she wouldn't hear you."
"Well! you can't stay here!" says the professor, getting off the
table and addressing her with a truly noble attempt at sternness.
"Why can't I?" There is some indignation in her tone. "There's lots
of room here, isn't there?"
"There is _no_ room!" says the professor. This is the literal truth.
"The house is full. And--and there are only men here."
"So much the better!" says Perpetua, with a little frown and a great
deal of meaning. "I'm tired of women--they're horrid. You're always
kind to me--at least," with a glance, "you always used to be, and
_you're _a man! Tell one of your servants to make me up a room
somewhere."
"There isn't one," says the professor.
"Oh! nonsense," says she, leaning back in her chair and yawning
softly. "I'm not so big that you can't put me away somewhere. _That
woman_ says I'm so small that I'll never be a grown-up girl, because
I can't grow up any more. Who'd live with a woman like that? And I
shall grow more, isn't it?"
"I daresay," says the professor vaguely. "But that is not the
question to be considered now. I must beg you to understand,
Perpetua, that your staying here is out of the question!"
"Out of the---- Oh! I _see,"_ cries she, springing to her feet and
turning a passionately reproachful face on his. "You mean that I
shall be in your way here!"
"No, _no_, NO!" cries he, just as impulsively, and decidedly very
foolishly; but the sight of her small mortified face has proved too
much for him, "Only----"
"Only?" echoes the spoiled child, with a loving smile--the child who
has been accustomed to have all things and all people give way to
her during her short life. "Only you are afraid _I_ shall not be
comfortable. But I shall. And I shall be a great comfort to you
too--a great _help._ I shall keep everything in order for you. Do
you remember the talk we had that last day you came to Aunt Jane's?
How I told you of the happy days we should have together, if we
_were_ together. Well, we are together now, aren't we? And when I'm
twenty-one, we'll move into a big, big house, and ask people to
dances and dinners and things. In the meantime----" she pauses and
glances leisurely around her. The glance is very comprehensive.
"To-morrow," says she with decision, "I shall settle this room!"
The professor's breath fails him. He grows pale. To "settle" his
room!
"Perpetua!" exclaims he, almost inarticulately, "you don't
understand."
"I do indeed," returns she brightly. "I've often settled papa's den.
What! do you think me only a silly useless creature? You shall see!
I'll settle _you_ too, by and by." She smiles at him gaily, with the
most charming innocence, but oh! what awful probabilities lie within
her words. _Settle him!_
"Do you know I've heard people talking about you at Mrs. Constans',"
says she. She smiles and nods at him. The professor groans. To be
talked about! To be discussed! To be held up to vulgar comment! He
writhes inwardly. The thought is actual torture to him.
"They said----"
_"What?"_ demands the professor, almost fiercely. How dare a feeble
feminine audience appreciate or condemn his honest efforts to
enlighten his small section of mankind!
"That you ought to be married," says Perpetua, sympathetically. "And
they said, too, that they supposed you wouldn't ever be now; but
that it was a great pity you hadn't a daughter. _I_ think that too.
Not about your having a wife. That doesn't matter, but I really
think you ought to have a daughter to look after you."
This extremely immoral advice she delivers with a beaming smile.
_"I'll_ be your daughter," says she.
The professor goes rigid with horror. What has he _done_ that the
Fates should so visit him?
"They said something else too," goes on Perpetua, this time rather
angrily. "They said you were so clever that you always looked
unkempt. That?" thoughtfully, "means that you didn't brush your hair
enough. Never mind, _I'll_ brush it for you."
"Look here!" says the professor furiously, subdued fury no doubt,
but very genuine. "You must go, you know. Go, _at once!_ D'ye see?
You can't stay in this house, d'ye _hear?_ I can't permit it. What
did your father mean by bringing you up like this!"
"Like what?" She is staring at him. She has leant forward as if
surprised--and with a sigh the professor acknowledges the
uselessness of a fight between them; right or wrong she is sure to
win. He is bound to go to the wall. She is looking not only
surprised, but unnerved. The ebullition of wrath on the part of her
mild guardian has been a slight shock to her.
"Tell me?" persists she.
"Tell you! what is there to tell you? I should think the veriest
infant would have known she oughtn't to come here."
"I should think an infant would know nothing," with dignity. "All
your scientific researches have left you, I'm afraid, very ignorant.
And I should think that the very first thing even an infant would
do, if she could walk, would be to go straight to her guardian when
in trouble."
"At this hour?"
"At any hour. What," throwing out her hands expressively, "is a
guardian _for,_ if it isn't to take care of people?"
The professor gives it up. The heat of battle has overcome him. With
a deep breath he drops into a chair, and begins to wonder how long
it will be before happy death will overtake him.
But in the meantime, whilst sitting on a milestone of life waiting
for that grim friend, what is to be done with her? If--Good heavens!
if anyone had seen her come in!
"Who opened the door for you?" demands he abruptly.
"A great big fat woman with a queer voice! Your Mrs. Mulcahy of
course. I remember your telling me about her."
Mrs. Mulcahy undoubtedly. Well, the professor wishes now he had told
his ward _more_ about her. Mrs. Mulcahy he can trust, but she--awful
thought-- will she trust him? What is she thinking now?
"I said, 'Is Mr. Curzon at home?' and she said, 'Well I niver!' So I
saw she was a kindly, foolish, poor creature with no sense, and I
ran past her, and up the stairs, and I looked into one room where
there were lights but you weren't there, and then I ran on again
until I saw the light under _your_ door, and, "brightening, "there
you were!"
Here _she_ is now, at all events, at half-past twelve at night!
"Wasn't it fortunate I found you?" says she. She is laughing a
little, and looking so content that the professor hasn't the heart
to contradict her--though where the fortune comes in----
"I'm starving," says she, gaily, "will that funny little kettle soon
boil?" The professor has lit a spirit-lamp with a view to giving her
some tea. "I haven't had anything to eat since dinner, and you know
she dines at an ungodly hour. Two o'clock! I didn't know I wanted
anything to eat until I escaped from her, but now that I have got
_you,"_ triumphantly, "I feel as hungry as ever I can be."
"There is nothing," says the professor, blankly. His heart seems to
stop beating. The most hospitable and kindly of men, it is terrible
to him to have to say this. Of course Mrs. Mulcahy--who, no doubt,
is still in the hall waiting for an explanation, could give him
something. But Mrs. Mulcahy can be unpleasant at times, and this is
safe to be a "time." Yet without her assistance he can think of no
means by which this pretty, slender, troublesome little ward of his
can be fed.
"Nothing!" repeats she faintly. "Oh, but surely in that cupboard
over there, where you put the glass, there is something; even bread
and butter I should like."
She gets up, and makes an impulsive step forward, and in doing so
brushes against a small ricketty table, that totters feebly for an
instant and then comes with a crash to the ground, flinging a whole
heap of gruesome dry bones at her very feet.
With a little cry of horror she recoils from them. Perhaps her
nerves are more out of order than she knows, perhaps the long fast
and long drive here, and her reception from her guardian at the end
of it--so different from what she had imagined--have all helped to
undo her. Whatever be the cause, she suddenly covers her face with
her hands and burst into tears.
"Take them away!" cries she frantically, and then--sobbing heavily
between her broken words--"Oh, I see how it is. You don't want me
here at all. You wish I hadn't come. And I have no one but you--and
poor papa said you would be good to me. But you are _sorry_ he made
you my guardian. You would be glad if I were _dead!_ When I come to
you in my trouble you tell me to go away again, and though I tell
you I am hungry, you won't give me even some bread and butter! Oh!"
passionately, "if _you_ came to _me_ starving, I'd give _you_
things, but--you----"
_"Stop!"_ cries the professor. He uplifts his hands, and, as though
in the act of tearing his hair, rushes from the room, and staggers
downstairs to those other apartments where Hardinge had elected to
sit, and see out the farce, comedy, or tragedy, whichever it may
prove, to its bitter end.
The professor bursts in like a maniac!