"Now, by two-headed Janus,
Nature hath framed strange fellows in her time."
Hardinge is hardly gone, before another--a far heavier--step sounds
in the passage outside the professor's door. It is followed by a
knock, almost insolent in its loudness and sharpness.
"What a hole you do live in," says Sir Hastings, stepping into the
room, and picking his way through the books and furniture as if
afraid of being tainted by them. "Bless me! what strange beings you
scientists are. Rags and bones your surroundings, instead of good
flesh and blood. Well, Thaddeus--hardly expected to see _me_ here,
eh?"
"You want me?" says the professor. "Don't sit down there--those
notes are loose; sit here."
"Faith, you've guessed it, my dear fellow, I _do_ want you, and most
confoundedly badly this time. Your ward, now, Miss Wynter! Deuced
pretty little girl, isn't she, and good form too? Wonderfully
bred--considering."
"I don't suppose you have come here to talk about Miss Wynter's good
manners."
"By Jove! I have though. You see, Thaddeus, I've about come to the
length of my tether, and--er--I'm thinking of turning over a new
leaf--reforming, you know--settling down--going in for
dulness--domesticity, and all the other deuced lot of it."
"It is an excellent resolution, that might have been arrived at
years ago with greater merit," says the professor.
"A preacher and a scientist in one! Dear sir, you go beyond the
possible," says Sir Hastings, with a shrug. "But to business. See
here, Thaddeus. I have told you a little of my plans, now hear the
rest. I intend to marry--an heiress, _bien entendu_--and it seems to
me that your ward, Miss Wynter, will suit me well enough."
"And Miss Wynter, will you suit _her_ well enough?"
"A deuced sight too well, I should say. Why, the girl is of no
family to signify, whereas the Curzons---- It will a better match
for her than in her wildest dreams she could have hoped for."
"Perhaps, in her wildest dreams, she hoped for a good man, and one
who could honestly love her."
"Pouf! You are hardly up to date, my dear fellow. Girls, now-a-days,
are wise enough to know they can't have everything, and she will get
a good deal. Title, position---- I say, Thaddeus, what I want of you
is, to--er--to help me in this matter--to--crack me up a bit,
eh?--to--_you_ know."
The professor is silent, more through disgust than want of anything
to say. Staring at the man before him, he knows he is loathsome to
him--loathsome, and his own brother! This man, who with some of the
best blood of England in his veins, is so far, far below the
standard that marks the gentleman. Surely vice is degrading in more
ways than one. To the professor, Sir Hastings, with his handsome,
dissipated face, stands out, tawdry, hideous, vulgar--why, every
word he says is tinged with coarseness and yet, what a pretty boy he
used to be, with his soft, sunny hair and laughing eyes----
"You will help me, eh?" persists Sir Hastings, with his little dry
chronic cough, that seems to shake his whole frame.
"Impossible," says the professor, simply, coldly.
_"No?_ Why?"
The professor looks at him (a penetrating glance), but says nothing.
"Oh! damn it all!" says his brother, his brow darkening. "You had
_better,_ you know, if you want the old name kept above water much
longer."
"You mean----?" says the professor, turning a grave face to his.
"Nothing but what is honorable. I tell you I mean to turn over a new
leaf. 'Pon my word, I mean _that._ I'm sick of all this old racket,
it's killing me. And my title is as good a one as she can find
anywhere, and if I'm dipped--rather--her money would pull me
straight again, and----"
He pauses, struck by something in the Professor's face.
"You mean----?" says the latter again, even more slowly. His eyes
are beginning to light.
"Exactly what I have said," sullenly. "You have heard me."
"Yes, I _have_ heard you," cries the professor, flinging aside all
restraints and giving way to sudden violent passion--the more
violent, coming from one so usually calm and indifferent. "You have
come here to-day to try and get possession, not only of the fortune
of a young and innocent girl, but of her body and _soul_ as well!
And it is me, _me_ whom you ask to be a party to this shameful
transaction. Her dead father left her to my care, and am I to sell
her to you, that her money may redeem our name from the slough into
which _you_ have flung it? Is innocence to be sacrificed that vice
may ride abroad again? Look here," says the professor, his face
deadly white, "you have come to the wrong man. I shall warn Miss
Wynter against marriage with _you,_ as long as there is breath left
in my body."
Sir Hastings has risen too; _his_ face is dark red; the crimson
flood has reached his forehead and dyed it almost black. Now, at
this terrible moment, the likeness between the two brothers, so
different in spirit, can be seen; the flashing eyes, the scornful
lips, the deadly hatred. It is a shocking likeness, yet not to be
denied.
"What do _you_ mean, damn you?" says Sir Hastings; he sways a
little, as if his passion is overpowering him, and clutches feebly
at the edge of the table.__
"Exactly what _I_ have said," retorts the professor, fiercely.
"You refuse then to go with me in this matter?"
_"Finally._ Even if I would, I could not. I--have other views for
her."
"Indeed! Perhaps those other views include yourself. Are you
thinking of reserving the prize for your own special benefit? A
penniless guardian--a rich ward; as a situation, it is perfect;
full of possibilities."
"Take care," says the professor, advancing a step or two.
"Tut! Do you think I can't see through your game?" says Sir
Hastings, in his most offensive way, which is nasty indeed. "You
hope to keep me unmarried. You tell yourself, I can't live much
longer, at the pace I'm going. I know the old jargon--I have it by
heart--given a year at the most the title and the heiress will both
be yours! I can read you--I--" He breaks off to laugh sardonically,
and the cough catching him, shakes him horribly. "But, no, by
heaven!" cries he. "I'll destroy your hopes yet. I'll disappoint
you. I'll marry. I'm a young man yet--yet--with life--_long_ life
before me--life----"
A terrible change comes over his face, he reels backwards, only
saving himself by a blind clinging to a book-case on his right.
The professor rushes to him and places his arm round him. With his
foot he drags a chair nearer, into which Sir Hastings falls with a
heavy groan. It is only a momentary attack, however; in a little
while the leaden hue clears away, and, though still ghastly, his
face looks more natural.
"Brandy," gasps he faintly. The professor holds it to his lips, and
after a minute or two he revives sufficiently to be able to sit up
and look round him.
"Thought you had got rid of me for good and all," says he, with a
malicious grin, terrible to see on his white, drawn face. "But I'll
beat you yet! There!--Call my fellow--he's below. Can't get about
without a damned attendant in the morning, now. But I'll cure all
that. I'll see you dead before I go to my own grave. I----"
"Take your master to his carriage," says the professor to the man,
who is now on the threshold. The maunderings of Sir Hastings--still
hardly recovered from his late fit--strike horribly upon his ear,
rendering him almost faint.