"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 a
somewhat embarrassed laugh, flinging himself into an armchair.
"You know you are always welcome," says the professor gently, if
somewhat absently.
It is next morning, and he looks decidedly the worse for his
sleeplessness. His face seems really old, his eyes are sunk in his
head. The breakfast lying untouched upon the table tells its own
tale.
"Dissipation doesn't agree with you," says Hardinge with a faint
smile.
"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 your
sister's last evening. I was relieved, too--sometimes it is
necessary for a man to go out, and--and see how things are going on
with his own eyes."
"I wonder when that would be?" asks the professor indifferently.
"When a man is a guardian," replies Hardinge promptly, and with
evident 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 there
last night--you must have seen for yourself."
"Seen what?"
"Pshaw!" says Hardinge, throwing up his head, and flinging his
cigarette into the empty fireplace. "I saw you go into the
conservatory. You found her there, and--_him._ It is beginning to be
the chief topic of conversation amongst his friends just now. The
betting 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, almost
fiercely. "It is about her?"
"Your ward? Yes. Your brother it seems has made up his mind to
bestow upon her his hand, his few remaining acres, and," with a
sneer, "his spotless reputation."
_"Hardinge!"_ cries the professor, springing to his feet as if shot.
He is evidently violently agitated. His companion mistakes the
nature of his excitement.
"Forgive me!" says he quickly. "Of course _nothing_ can excuse my
speaking 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 for
her future happiness--the happiness of her whole _life,_ Curzon--and
if anything goes wrong with her----"
The professor puts up his hand as if to check him. He has grown
ashen-grey, and the other hand resting on the back of the chair is
visibly trembling.
"Nothing shall go wrong with her," says he, in a curious tone.
Hardinge regards him keenly. Is this pallor, this unmistakable
trepidation, caused only by his dislike to hear his brother's real
character exposed?
"Well, I have told you," says he coldly.
"It is a mistake," says the professor. "He would not dare to
approach a young, innocent girl. The most honorable proposal such a
man as he could make to her would be basely dishonorable."
"Ah! you see it in that light too," says Hardinge, with a touch of
relief. "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 manner
last night?"
Yes, the professor _had_ noticed something. Now there comes back to
him that tall figure stooping over Perpetua, the handsome, leering
face bent low--the girl's instinctive withdrawal.
"Something must be done," says he.
"Yes. And quickly. Young girls are sometimes dazzled by men of his
sort. And Per--Miss Wynter-- Look here, Curzon," breaking off
hurriedly. "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' to
him 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 to
making a way out of this difficulty."
"I have thought of one," says Hardinge boldly, yet with a quick
flush. "You are her guardian. Why not arrange another marriage for
her, before this affair with Sir Hastings goes too far?"
"There are two parties to a marriage," says the professor, his tone
always very low. "Who is it to whom you propose to marry Miss
Wynter?"
Hardinge, getting up, moves abruptly to the window and back again.
"You have known me a long time, Curzon," says he at last. "You--you
have been my friend. I have family--position--money--I----"
"I am to understand then, that _you_ are a candidate for the hand
of my ward," says the professor, slowly, so slowly that it might
suggest itself to a disinterested listener that he has great
difficulty in speaking at all.
"Yes," says Hardinge, very diffidently. He looks appealingly at the
professor. "I know perfectly well she might do a great deal better,"
says he, with a modesty that sits very charmingly upon him. "But if
it comes to a choice between me and your brother, I--I think I am
the better man. By Jove, Curzon," growing hot, "it's awfully rude of
me, I know, but it is so hard to remember that he _is_ your
brother."
But the professor does not seem offended. He seems, indeed, so
entirely unimpressed by Hardinge's last remark, that it may
reasonably be supposed he hasn't heard a word of it.
"And she?" says he. "Perpetua. Does she----" He hesitates, as if
finding it impossible to go on.
"Oh! I don't know," says the younger man, with a rather rueful
smile. "Sometimes I think she doesn't care for me more than she does
for the veriest stranger amongst her acquaintances, and
sometimes----" expressive pause.
"Yes? Sometimes?"
"She has seemed kind."
"Kind? How kind?"
"Well--friendly. More friendly than she is to others. Last night she
let me sit out three waltzes with her, and she only sat out one with
your brother."
"Is it?" asks the professor, in a dull, monotonous sort of way. "Is
it--I am not much in your or her world, you know--is it a very
marked thing for a girl to sit out three waltzes with one man?"
"Oh, no. Nothing very special. I have known girls do it often, but
she 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, why
aren't you of our world? It is your own fault surely; when one sees
your sister, your brother, and--and _this,"_ with a slight glance
round the dull little apartment, "one cannot help wondering why
you----"
"Let that go by," says the professor. "I have explained it before. I
deliberately chose my own way in life, and I want nothing more than
I have. You think, then, that last night Miss Wynter gave
you--encouragement?"
"Oh! hardly that. And yet--she certainly seemed to like--that is not
to _dislike_ my being with her; and once--well,"--confusedly--"that
was nothing."
"It must have been something."
"No, really; and I shouldn't have mentioned it either--not for a
moment."
The professor's face changes. The apathy that has lain upon it for
the past five minutes now gives way to a touch of fierce despair. He
turns aside, as if to hide the tell-tale features, and going to the
window, 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 the
girl is present before him, and now, here is her going. Had he--had
she--what _was_ it he meant? No wonder if her girlish fancy had
fixed itself on this tall, handsome, young man, with his kindly,
merry ways and honest meaning. Ah! that was what she meant perhaps
when 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 marry
Hardinge!
But to _know_ what Hardinge means! A torturing vision of a little
lovely figure, gowned all in white--of a little lovely face
uplifted--of another face down bent! No! a thousand times, no!
Hardinge would not speak of that--it would be too sacred; and yet
this 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 know
you scarcely relish your position; and you ought to know about it,
and perhaps you can give me your opinion, too, as to whether there
was anything in it, you know. The fact is, I,"--rather
shamefacedly--"asked her for a flower out of her bouquet, and she
gave it. That was all, and," hurriedly, "I don't really believe she
meant anything _by_ giving it, only," with a nervous laugh, "I keep
hoping she _did!"_
A long, long sigh comes through the professor's lips straight from
his 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 cause
rather than your brother's, will you not? This is an extraordinary
demand to make I know--but--I also know _you."_
"I would rather see her dead than married to my brother," says the
professor, 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 putting
it, isn't it? and it expresses all I mean. She reveres you, even
if----"
"If what?"
"She revolts from your power over her. She is high-spirited, you
know," 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--not
to-day, she is going to an afternoon at Lady Swanley's--but
to-morrow, and to--you know,"--nervously--"to make a formal proposal
to her."
The professor throws back his head and laughs aloud. Such a strange
laugh.
"I am to propose to her--I?" says he.
"For me, of course. It is very usual," says Hardinge. "And you are
her guardian, you know, and----"
"Why not propose to her yourself?" says the professor, turning
violently upon him. "Why give me this terrible task? Are you a
coward, that you shrink from learning your fate except at the hands
of another--another who----"
"To tell you the truth, that is it," interrupts Hardinge, simply. "I
don't wonder at your indignation, but the fact is, I love her so
much, 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. If
you were her father, I should be saying to you just what I am saying
now."
"True," says the professor. His head is lowered. "There, go," says
he, "I must think this over."
"But I may depend upon you"--anxiously--"you will do what you can
for me?"
"I shall do what I can for _her."_