"The house of everyone is to him as his castle and fortress, as well
for his defence against injury and violence as for his repose."
"She's upstairs still," cries he in a frenzied tone. "She says she
has come _for ever._ That she will not go away. She doesn't
understand. Great Heaven! what am I to do?"
"She?" says Hardinge, who really in turn grows petrified for the
moment--_only _for the moment.
"That girl! My ward! All women are _demons!"_ says the professor
bitterly, with tragic force. He pauses as if exhausted.
_"Your_ demon is a pretty specimen of her kind," says Hardinge, a
little frivolously under the circumstances it must be confessed.
"Where is she now?"
"Upstairs!" with a groan. "She says she's _hungry,_ and I haven't a
thing in the house! For goodness sake think of something, Hardinge."
"Mrs. Mulcahy!" suggests Hardinge, in anything but a hopeful tone.
"Yes--ye-es," says the professor. "You--_you _wouldn't ask her
something, would you, Hardinge?"
"Not for a good deal," says Hardinge, promptly. "I say," rising, and
going towards Everett's cupboard, "Everett's a Sybarite, you know,
of the worst kind--sure to find something here, and we can square it
with him afterwards. Beauty in distress, you know, appeals to all
hearts. _Here we are!"_ holding out at arm's length a pasty. "A
'weal and ammer!' Take it! The guilt be on my head!
Bread--butter--pickled onions! Oh, _not_ pickled onions, I think.
Really, I had no idea even Everett had fallen so low. Cheese!--about
to proceed on a walking tour! The young lady wouldn't care for that,
thanks. Beer! No. _No_. Sherry-Woine!"
"Give me that pie, and the bread and butter," says the professor, in
great wrath. "And let me tell you, Hardinge, that there are
occasions when one's high spirits can degenerate into offensiveness
and vulgarity!"
He marches out of the room and upstairs, leaving Hardinge, let us
hope, a 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 the
professor brings her. She even goes so far as to ask him to share it
with her--which invitation he declines. He is indeed sick at
heart--not for himself--(the professor doesn't often think of
himself)--but for her. And where is she to sleep? To turn her out
now would be impossible! After all, it was a puerile trifling with
the Inevitable, to shirk asking Mrs. Mulcahy for something to eat
for his self-imposed guest--because the question of _Bed_ is still
to come! Mrs. Mulcahy, terrible, as she undoubtedly can be, is yet
the only woman in the house, and it is imperative that Perpetua
should be given up to her protection.
Whilst the professor is writhing in spirit over this ungetoutable
fact, he becomes aware of a resounding knock at the door. Paralyzed,
he gazes in the direction of the sound. It _can't_ be Hardinge, he
would never knock like that! The knock in itself, indeed, is of such
force and volume as to strike terror into the bravest heart. It
is--it _must_ be--the Mulcahy!
And Mrs. Mulcahy it is! Without waiting for an answer, that virtuous
Irishwoman, clad in righteous indignation and a snuff-colored gown,
marches into the room.
"May I ask, Mr. Curzon," says she, with great dignity and more
temper, "what may be the meanin' of all this?"
The professor's tongue cleaves to the roof of his mouth, but
Perpetua's tongue remains normal. She jumps up, and runs to Mrs.
Mulcahy with a beaming face. She has had something to eat, and is
once again her own buoyant, wayward, light-hearted little self.
"Oh! it is all right _now,_ Mrs. Mulcahy," cries she, whilst the
professor grows cold with horror at this audacious advance upon the
militant Mulcahy. "But do you know, he said first he hadn't anything
to give me, and I was starving. No, you mustn't scold him--he didn't
mean anything. I suppose you have heard how unhappy I was with Aunt
Jane?--he's told you, I daresay,"--with a little flinging of her
hand towards the trembling professor--"because I
know"--prettily--"he is very fond of you--he often speaks to me
about you. Oh! Aunt Jane is _horrid!_ I _should_ have told you about
how it was when I came, but I wanted so much to see my guardian, and
tell _him_ all about it, that I forgot to be nice to anybody. See?"
There is a little silence. The professor, who is looking as guilty
as if the whole ten commandments have been broken by him at once,
waits, shivering, for the outburst that is so sure to come.
It doesn't come, however! When the mists clear away a little, he
finds that Perpetua has gone over to where Mrs. Mulcahy is standing,
and is talking still to that good Irishwoman. It is a whispered talk
this time, and the few words of it that he catches go to his very
heart.
"I'm afraid he didn't _want_ me here," Perpetua is saying, in a low
distressed little voice--"I'm sorry I came now--but, you don't
_know_ how cruel Aunt Jane was to me, Mrs. Mulcahy, you don't
indeed! She--she said such unkind things about--about----" Perpetua
breaks down again--struggles with herself valiantly, and finally
bursts out crying. "I'm tired, I'm sleepy," sobs she miserably.
Need I say what follows? The professor, stung to the quick by those
forlorn sobs, lifts his eyes, and--behold! he sees Perpetua gathered
to the ample bosom of the formidable, kindly Mulcahy.
"Come wid me, me lamb," says that excellent woman. "Bad scran to the
one that made yer purty heart sore. Lave her to me now, Misther
Curzon, dear, an' I'll take a mother's care of her." (This in an
aside to the astounded professor.) "There now, alanna! Take courage
now! Sure 'tis to the right shop ye've come, anyway, for 'tis
daughthers I have meself, me dear--fine, sthrappin' girls as could
put you in their pockits. Ye poor little crather! Oh! Murther! Who
could harm the like of ye? Faix, I hope that ould divil of an aunt
o' yours won't darken these doors, or she'll git what she won't like
from Biddy Mulcahy. There now! There now! 'Tis into yer bed I'll
tuck ye meself, for 'tis worn-out ye are--God help ye!"
She is gone, taking Perpetua with her. The professor rubs his eyes,
and then suddenly an overwhelming sense of gratitude towards Mrs.
Mulcahy takes possession of him. _What_ a woman! He had never
thought so much moral support could be got out of a landlady--but
Mrs. Mulcahy has certainly tided him safely over _one_ of his
difficulties. Still, those that remain are formidable enough to
quell any foolish present attempts at relief of mind. "To-morrow,
and to-morrow, and to-morrow!"
How many to-morrows is she going to remain here? Oh! Impossible! Not
an _hour_ must be wasted. By the morning light something must be put
on foot to save the girl from her own foolhardiness, nay ignorance!
Once again, sunk in the meshes of depression, the persecuted
professor descends to the room where Hardinge awaits him.
"Anything new?" demands the latter, springing to his feet.
"Yes! Mrs. Mulcahy came up." The professor's face is so gloomy, that
Hardinge may be forgiven for saying to himself, "She has assaulted
him!"
"I'm glad it isn't visible," says he, staring at the professor's
nose, and then at his eye. Both are the usual size.
"Eh?" says the professor. "She was visible of course. She was kinder
than I expected."
"So, I see. She might so easily have made it your lip--or your
nose--or----"
_"What_ is there in Everett's cupboard besides the beer?" demands
the professor angrily. "For Heaven's sake! attend to me, and don't
sit there grinning like a first-class chimpanzee!"
This is extremely rude, but Hardinge takes no notice of it.
"I tell you she was kind--kinder than one would expect," says the
professor, rapping his knuckles on the table.
"Oh! I see. She? Miss Wynter?"
"No--Mrs. Mulcahy!" roars the professor frantically. "Where's your
head, man? Mrs. Mulcahy came into the room, and took Miss Wynter
into her charge in the--er--the most wonderful way, and carried her
off to bed." The professor mops his brow.
"Oh, well, _that's_ all right," says Hardinge. "Sit down, old chap,
and let's talk it over."
"It is _not_ all right," says the professor. "It is all wrong. Here
she is, and here she apparently means to stay. The poor child
doesn't understand. She thinks I'm older than Methusaleh, and that
she can live here with me. I can't explain it to her--you--don't
think _you_ could, do you, Hardinge?"
"No, I don't, indeed," says Hardinge, in a hurry. "What on earth has
brought her here at all?"
"To _stay._ Haven't I told you? To stay for ever. She says"--with a
groan--"she is going to settle me! To--to _brush my hair!_ To--make
my tea. She says I'm her guardian, and insists on living with me.
She doesn't understand! Hardinge," desperately, "what _am_ I to do?"
"Marry her!" suggests Hardinge, who, I regret to say is choking with
laughter.
"That is a _jest!"_ says the professor haughtily. This unusual tone
from the professor strikes surprise to the soul of Hardinge. He
looks at him. But the professor's new humor is short-lived. He sinks
upon a chair in a tired sort of way, letting his arms fall over the
sides of it. As a type of utter despair he is a distinguished
specimen.
"Why don't you take her home again, back to the old aunt?" says
Hardinge, moved by his misery.
"I can't. She tells me it would be useless, that the house is locked
up, and--and besides, Hardinge, her aunt--after _this,_ you know--
would be----"
"Naturally," says Hardinge, after which he falls back upon his
cigar. "Light your pipe," says he, "and we'll think it over." The
professor lights it, and both men draw nearer to each other.
"I'm afraid she won't go back to her aunt any way," says the
professor, as a beginning to the "thinking it over." He pushes his
glasses up to his forehead, and finally discards them altogether,
flinging them on the table near.
"If she saw you now she might understand," says Hardinge--for,
indeed, the professor without his glasses loses thirty per cent.
of old Time.
"She wouldn't," says the professor. "And never mind that. Come back
to the question. I say she will never go back to her aunt."
He looks anxiously at Hardinge. One can see that he would part with
a good deal of honest coin of the realm, if his companion would only
_not_ agree with him.
"It looks like it," said Hardinge, who is rather enjoying himself.
"By Jove! what a thing to happen to _you,_ Curzon, of all men in the
world. What are you going to do, eh?"
"It isn't so much that," says the professor faintly. "It is what is
_she_ going to do?"
_"Next!"_ supplements Hardinge. "Quite so! It would be a clever
fellow who would answer that, straight off. I say, Curzon, what a
pretty girl she is, though. Pretty isn't the word. Lovely, I----"
The professor gets up suddenly.
"Not that," says he, raising his hand in his gentle fashion--that
has now something of haste in it. "It--I--you know what I mean,
Hardinge. To discuss her--herself, I mean--and here----"
"Yes. You are right," says Hardinge slowly, with, however, an
irrepressible stare at the professor. It is a prolonged stare. He is
very fond of Curzon, though knowing absolutely nothing about him
beyond the fact that he is eminently likeable; and it now strikes
him as strange that this silent, awkward, ill-dressed, clever man
should be the one to teach him how to behave himself. Who _is_
Curzon? Given a better tailor, and a worse brain, he might be a
reasonable-looking fellow enough, and not so old either--forty,
perhaps--perhaps less. "Have you no relation to whom you could send
her?" he says at length, that sudden curiosity as to who Curzon may
be prompting the question. "Some old lady? An aunt, for example?"
"She doesn't seem to like aunts," says the professor, with deep
dejection.
"Small blame to her," says Hardinge, smoking vigorously. _"I've_ an
aunt--but 'that's another story!' Well--haven't you a cousin
then?--or something?"
"I have a sister," says the professor slowly.
"Married?"
"A widow."
("Fusty old person, out somewhere in the wilds of Finchley," says
Hardinge to himself. "Poor little girl--she won't fancy that
either!")
"Why not send her to 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 some
days, but----"
"But perhaps the fact of your ward's being an heiress----" begins
Hardinge--throwing out a suggestion as it were--but is checked by
something in the professor's face.
"My sister is the Countess of Baring," says he gently.
Hardinge's first thought is that the professor has gone out of his
mind, and his second that he himself has accomplished that deed. He
leans across the table. Surprise has deprived him of his usual good
manners.
"Lady Baring!--_your _sister!" says he.