'Till the secret be secret no more
In the light of one hour as it flies,
Be the hour as of suns that expire
Or suns that rise.'
It is quite a month later. August, hot and sunny, is reigning with
quite a mad merriment, making the most of the days that be, knowing
full well that the end of the summer is nigh. The air is stifling;
up from the warm earth comes the almost overpowering perfume of the
late flowers. Perpetua moving amongst the carnations and hollyhocks
in her soft white cambric frock, gathers a few of the former in a
languid manner to place in the bosom of her frock. There they rest,
a spot of blood color upon their white ground.
Lady Baring, on the death of her elder brother, had left town for
the seclusion of her country home, carrying Perpetua with her. She
had grown very fond of the girl, and the fancy she had formed
(before Sir Hastings' death) that Thaddeus was in love with the
young heiress, and that she would make him a suitable wife, had not
suffered in any way through the fact of Sir Thaddeus having now
become the head of the family.
Perpetua, having idly plucked a few last pansies, looked at them,
and as idly flung them away, goes on her listless way through the
gardens. A whole _long_ month, and not one word from him! Are his
social duties now so numerous that he has forgotten he has a ward?
"Well," emphatically, and with a vicious little tug at her big white
hat, _"some_ people have strange views about duty."
She has almost reached the summer-house, vine-clad, and temptingly
cool in all this heat, when a quick step behind her causes her to
turn.
"They told me you were here," says the professor, coming up with
her. He is so distinctly the professor still, in spite of his new
mourning, and the better cut of his clothes, and the general air of
having been severely looked after--that Perpetua feels at home with
him at once.
"I have been here for some time," says she calmly. "A whole month,
isn't it?"
"Yes, I know. Were you going into that green little place. It looks
cool."
It is cool, and particularly empty. One small seat occupies the back
of it, and nothing else at all, except the professor and his ward.
"Perpetua!" says he, turning to her. His tone is low, impassioned.
"I have come. I could not come sooner, and I _would_ not write. How
could I put it all on paper? You remember that last evening?"
"I remember," says she faintly.
"And all you said?"
"All _you_ said."
"I said nothing. I did not dare. _Then_ I was too poor a man, too
insignificant to dare to lay bare to you the thoughts, the fears,
the hopes that were killing me."
"Nothing!" echoes she. "Have you then forgotten?" She raises her
head, and casts at him a swift, but burning glance. _"Was_ it
nothing? You came to plead your friend's cause, I think. Surely that
was something? I thought it a great deal. And what was it you said
of Mr. Hardinge? Ah! I _have_ forgotten that, but I know how you
extolled him--praised him to the skies--recommended him to me as a
desirable suitor." She makes an impatient movement, as if to shake
something from her. "Why have you come to-day?" asks she. "To plead
his cause afresh?"
"Not his--to-day."
"Whose then? Another suitor, maybe? It seems I have more than even I
dreamt of."
"I do not know if you have dreamed of this one," says Curzon,
perplexed by her manner. Some hope had been in his heart in his
journey to her, but now it dies. There is little love truly in her
small, vivid face, her gleaming eyes, her parted, scornful lips.
"I am not given to dreams," says she, with a petulant shrug_. "I_
know what I mean always. And as I tell you, if you _have_ come here
to-day to lay before me, for my consideration, the name of another
of your friends who wishes to marry me, why I beg you to save me
from suitors. I can make my choice from many, and when I _do_ want
to marry, I shall choose for myself."
"Still--if you would permit me to name _this_ one," begins Curzon,
very humbly, "it can do you no harm to hear of him. And it all lies
in your own power. You can, if you will, say yes, or----". He
pauses. The pause is eloquent, and full of deep entreaty.
"Or no," supplies she calmly. "True! You," with a half defiant, half
saucy glance, "are beginning to learn that a guardian cannot control
one altogether."
"I don't think I ever controlled you, Perpetua."
"N--o! Perhaps not. But then you tried to. That's worse."
"Do you forbid me then to lay before you--this name--that I----?"
"I have told you," says she, "that I can find a name for myself."
"You forbid me to speak," says he slowly.
_"I_ forbid! A ward forbid her guardian! I should be afraid!" says
she, with an extremely naughty little glance at him.
"You trifle with me," says the professor slowly, a little sternly,
and with uncontrolled despair. "I thought--I believed--I was _mad
_enough to imagine, from your manner to me that last night we met,
that I was something more than a mere guardian to you."
"More than _that._ That seems to be a Herculean relation. What more
would you be?"
"I am no longer that, at all events."
"What!" cries she, flushing deeply. "You--you give me up----"
"It is you who give _me_ up."
"You say you will no longer be my guardian!" She seems struck with
amazement at this declaration on his part. She had not believed him
when he had before spoken of his intention of resigning. "But you
cannot," says she. "You have promised. Papa _said_ you were to take
care of me."
"Your father did not know."
"He _did._ He said you were the one man in all the world he could
trust."
"Impossible," says the professor. "A--lover--cannot be a guardian!"
His voice has sunk to a whisper. He turns away, and makes a step
towards the door.
"You are going," cries she, fighting with a desperate desire for
tears, that is still strongly allied to anger. "You would leave me.
You will be no longer my guardian. Ah! was I not right? Did I not
_tell_ you you were in a hurry to get rid of me?"
This most unfair accusation rouses the professor to extreme wrath.
He turns round and faces her like an enraged lion.
"You are a child," says he, in a tone sufficient to make any woman
resentful. "It is folly to argue with you."
"A child! What are you then?" cries she tremulously.
"A _fool!"_ furiously. "I was given my cue, I would not take it. You
told me that it was bad enough to be your ward, that you would not
on any account be closer to me. _That_ should have been clear to me,
yet, like an idiot, I hoped against hope. I took false courage from
each smile of yours, each glance, each word. There! Once I leave you
now, the chain between us will be broken, we shall never, with _my_
will, meet again. You say you have had suitors since you came down
here. You hinted to me that you could mention the name of him you
wished to marry. So be it. Mention it to Gwendoline--to any one you
like, but not to me."
He strides towards the doorway. He has almost turned the corner.
"Thaddeus!" cries a small, but frantic voice. If dying he would hear
that and turn. She is holding out her hands to him, the tears are
running down her lovely cheeks.
"It is to you--to _you_ I would tell his name," sobs she, as he
returns slowly, unwillingly, but _surely,_ to her. "To you alone."
"To me! Go on," says Curzon; "let me hear it. What is the name of
this man you want to marry?"
"Thaddeus Curzon!" says she, covering her face with her hands, and,
indeed, it is only when she feels his arms round her, and his heart
beating against hers, that she so far recovers herself as to be able
to add, "And a _hideous_ name it is, too!"
But this last little firework does no harm. Curzon is too
ecstatically happy to take notice of her small impertinence.
THE END.
Obvious typographical errors silently corrected by the
transcriber:
chapter 1: =leaving them all _planté la_ as it were,=
silently corrected as =leaving them all _planté là_ as it were,=
chapter 2: ='From grave to gay,= silently corrected as ="From
grave to gay,=
chapter 5: =don't you think she would let you take me to the theatre
some night? She has come nearer,= silently corrected as =don't you think
she would let you take me to the theatre some night?" She has come nearer,=
chapter 6: =She asked me to sit down--I obeyed her.= silently corrected
as =She asked me to sit down--I obeyed her."=
chapter 6:_ ="Won't she!"= _silently corrected as_ =Won't she!=_
chapter 7: =or condemn his honest efforts to enlighten his small section
of mankind!"= silently corrected as =or condemn his honest efforts to
enlighten his small section of mankind!=
chapter 7: =Of course Mrs: Mulcahy--who, no doubt,= silently corrected
as =Of course Mrs. Mulcahy--who, no doubt,=
chapter 8: ="How many to-morrows is she going to remain here?= silently
corrected as =How many to-morrows is she going to remain here?=
chapter 10: =His regret is evidently genuine, indeed. to Hardinge the
evening= silently corrected as =His regret is evidently genuine, indeed;
to Hardinge the evening=
chapter 10: ="Oh, you laugh at me." interrupts she= silently corrected
as ="Oh, you laugh at me," interrupts she=
chapter 12: =she had never seen him in ought but rather antiquated=
silently corrected as =she had never seen him in aught but rather
antiquated=
chapter 12: =says he. "It is an untimely remark. Miss Wynter's hitherto=
silently corrected as =says he. It is an untimely remark.
Miss Wynter's hitherto__=
chapter 12: =cries she. It isn't my fault=. Silently corrected as
=cries she. "It isn't my fault=.
chapter 12: =if one is foolish enough to listen," Curzon's face is
a little pale= silently corrected as =if one is foolish enough
to listen." Curzon's face is a little pale=
chapter 13: =caused only by his dislike to hear his brother's real
character exposed.= silently corrected as =caused only by his dislike
to hear his brother's real character exposed?=
chapter 13: =at the professor. I know perfectly well= silently
corrected as =at the professor. "I know perfectly well=
chapter 15: =Well. I shall not marry him= silently corrected as
=Well, I shall not marry him=